"tablets" poems
Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!
Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour *****
I'm on a diet from death.
Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that's it!
My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to **** myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.
It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
12.3k
In our fast-paced world, many things have become easier:
communication, information, food preparation, even study.
We have the internet, smart phones, tablets, emails,
Google, Wikipedia, fast food, and instant coffee.
But have we ever stopped to observe just how
things being easy make them seem more trivial, too?
For the things we’re after, we no longer know
how to sweat, sacrifice, aspire, wait, persist, endure…
Maybe it’s made us cease to dream as well
as everything is merely ****** upon us to take.
We have lost the values that only hard work, toiling
and fighting through insurmountable odds can make.
And even then we never seem to have enough of what we desire,
not enough sleep, time, knowledge, money, or power;
We find no contentment in what we already possess
as our seconds, minutes and days are spent wanting more.
Perhaps we need to re-examine where we’re heading,
take instruction from the numerous generations past.
That it is only that which we strive for, that which we cherish
with all our hearts and everything we have, that can last.
*(c) emeraldine087
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
Aware the day was approaching, Little tugs reminding how Quickly time passes. And the knocks on the doors of his heart, opening ---One at a Time ! ! To reveal memories in Full Color of each eventful day, Clearly showing "ALL the Extra joys that encircled him, but never took the opportunity to be a Full Participant ! ! *ANNIVERSARY DAY *was presented , as if on a Silver Platter. Engraved with "All those things *Missed because of Prior committals . A stack of Priority signs, which offered choices and options, he " F A I L E D " to turn over and read the instructions. That, simply said "Choose carefully, because as time goes by,. You may overlook the options. AND, as more time goes by, Routines and Habits begin to replace the Presentations from the Silver Platter. MAN'S WEAKNESS, was the next sign offered up to him, NOT the weakness of knees, but thinking that empathy was understood, the reality was not the extending of empathy, but rather, to be a Part of that which is "GOING ON NOW" or that which was "GOING ON THEN ! ! ANNIVERSARY, carries with it the meaning of Commemoration. Which is a "CELEBRATION of our MEMORIES **. BUT, by leaving out a sharing of this event, it Dampens. This "Celebration" should be Shared , in a Loving, devoted, caring, joyful, HEARTS Goal as "ONE". On this Anniversary,,he Thanks GOD for lighting the pathways of understanding. This Anniversary he "Celebrates" with her with a humbled, clearer appreciation, and with a "REFRESHING LOVE". As he writes this on the Tablets of his heart, "SHE" is his " ANNIVERSARY " .
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
As I go to sleep
Dreams come knocking
My subconscious mind
In a rendezvous with me
Am I asleep?
The REM phase kicks in
What do I want to view?
I do not have a choice
I am just a spectator
For another movie
Do I know the cast or crew?
Is it a blockbuster or horror movie?
The conclusion is inconclusive
I may not be a protagonist
Maybe a figment of my imagination
Or, a vivid description of my days events
It requires psychoanalysis
My subconscious mind is in control
Why can’t I have control?
It’s not within my control
I am asleep and my mind is awake
Freud wrote extensively about it-
In the ‘Interpretation of Dreams’
But still, outside our realm of understanding
The symbols and motifs can give clue
Ancient cultures have recorded on clay tablets
But we may not be ever sure
Or maybe the soul is guided somewhere
Or it could be our inner desires
Maybe it’s an unknown world
Where we go out to venture
Let there be beautiful dreams
And dreams that inspire
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
A rapid flowing thought,
pampered easily into a worry.
Anxiety builds within moments - from shameful musing.
Bubbling champagne coursing through veins; hidden under ghostly white skin.
A simple life based off a well placed lie, unravels like a fraying quilt.
Could you forget as easily; as you could forgive?
Erasing a memory.
Cleaning the façade of our blood from the soaked table.
Tablets and tomb, both alike,
soaked in the redden water of my long forgotten innocence.
I am sorry for the lies I've told through our story.
I am sorry for my secrets kept, locked firmly, behind close doors.
But I am not sorry for loving you truly, body and soul.
So cast me out,
Send me away.
But know my leaving is nothing but me, showing my love for you.
All for the love of you.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
Numbing pain; headache tablets full in a mouth,
speedy replies, and local loves. I love the rush.
I broke my heart for a crush.
Reminder: life is a little too
rough.
But I'm acting tough, close to the lines of messing up.
Always about to cuss. I swore it was the last,
but that's just a whispering bluff.
Enough of myself, too full of
myself every time I
laugh.
I spend hours thinking about random stuff; to huff
and puff, and blow away my best love. And we
both love spending hours talking about
some random
stuff.
She's had enough, with pure innocence of a dove.
And I'm the one sinning on her behalf. She's the
better half; but still a kid at heart, acting
tough. She's a calf, domesticated from
her wild love from her
past.
We're tragically in love, not from above or succumbs;
pushing time into each other, as it will shove.
Holding necks with a love glove, it has me
so choked up. In the first line of
love being a
drug.
Jun 6, 2022
Jun 6, 2022 at 3:00 PM UTC
I miss my cargo green canvas backpack
Shredded with the mass of three
science textbooks: biology,
classical history, chemistry.
Not like backpack was meant for
several colossal three hundred page
hardcover books.
When it was empty,
it was light,
barely anything, tugging
on my shoulders;
but I insisted the friend come with me.
But I used backpack
for study,
drudgery,
play.
The linen wore
with every use.
It was my safety blanket,
under loose cloth
that contained
sacarine
orange glucose
tablets that I hoped
to never need
Inside the main large pocket,
there was a secret
zipper, within held
a pack of cigarettes,
an excuse,
to pardon myself into a realm of aloneness-
with little questions asked
There were strings that adjusted
its position on my back that
I would pull down,
using tension to fling myself
terminal to terminal
More than fifteen times, I lost
count, of my partner traversing
across oceans, gently cradling my laptop and phone-
my trusted links
with the outside world
Nervousness alleviated by the tassels
in my mouth, I bite and chew
on the cloth, but it holds steadfast
as I ponder how to approach
what's next,
the bittersweet coffee they fell into
rehydrates with my salivating mouth,
hungry for adventure
but a stomach empty
knots itself
anxious
for what's to come
My backpack weighs
on my shoulders, empty or full,
but it's trained my body
to carry the load thoughts in my
head bring upon me
But it yielded to what was to come,
the seams at the bottom gave out.
Backpack let me know: I needed to
learn to carry on
without reliance.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
me? these days?
i have to bribe bonsai tigers
to fall asleep by giving them
excess treats,
drink myself to a limit
and then take insomnia tablets,
glance at the stars
and gag up a bolshevik black hole,
think about russian
newly-wed millionaires
spending so mcuh the taxes go up,
testifying: well when the full circus
with elephants and missing acrobats
comes... and there's no french revolution
versace... we're in bigger crap
we thought we were...
so i took to peddling, keeping heart
rate with feeling rather than
a heart-rate keeper on the wrist known
as apple / iWank...
you'll never believe the amount
of creativity that comes from Onan...
it's like that story of onan and samson
like it's that story of cain and abel...
you'd have to be a mozart to find a creative
continuum in women rather than
beethoven in the hive of being deaf...
say rich and thus say spend...
say poor and thus say like a primate
with two flint stones... what the hell is this?!
japanese crow reduced their beak for
nut crushing purposes into a car tire.
FIRE! FIRE! PROMETHEUS!
so came the world favouring thought
from prometheus' liver
when in diaper-shelter postman pat delivery
by a stork... but each of us that got the slit
of liver never claimed origins in the apple
adam ******* out when eve forgot
that satan's singularity was expressed in
a pluralism: eat this apple, depilate,
and you and adam will be like the gods...
but then the metrosexual emerged
with shaved legs and a shaved chest...
down the drain that dream went:
as long as you eat the apple and know
you have hairy legs... i'm sure whatever you
say he will be ordained with pleasure to perform...
eve - i need a hammer
adam - here babe
eve - i need a nail
adam - here babe
eve - i need five planks of wood, four legs one like an abdomen
adam - here babe
eve - mash it up
adam - hey babe, what's that?
eve - a ****** table, tapestry for porcelain!
adam - woah! that's great!
eve to god - this adam is a ****** robot!
satan to eve - well... get ready for ******
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
God was tired that day
After all
Six days shalt thou labour
And on the seventh
Shalt thou rest
And he'd be slaving away
For eighteen days nonstop
Mainly because of the offer of
Double overtime
Had proven irresistible.
He'd written out these great rules
On how to live,
All eleven of them.
And God yelled out:
*"Oy Moses, you fat bearded ***
I got some tablets of stone for you
So move your ******* kosher ****
And Moses came out of the pub
And picked up the first ten
But, being a bit the worse for wear,
And nine sheets to the wind
With cut-price passover wine,
He never noticed the eleventh one:
*"Never accept a personal cheque
Without a bank guarantee card"*
Is what it said,
And you can't argue with that
No ******* way.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Not eating chocolate covered cherries and strawberries and lychees and onions and chillies and grapes and marshmallows and turtle meat and cake and shark bones and oysters and camel and beef and beef with dog food and rabbit fur and smarties and skittles and twine and rope and yak and buses and buffalo and authors and novels and chipping containers and bicylces and emus and penguins and polar bear slippers and darned socks and stewed lobster and Darwin Deez and get well cards and ibuprofen tablets is fine with me.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
my arms remember razor blades and spiked needles
and my veins ache to feel the warmth of her
swimming perfectly through my bloodstream
and engulfing my every fear, my every desire
until i am nothing but a pool of sticky tar
my nostrils burn without the powder
flying into my brain, and dripping down my throat
keeping me awake for days on end
and opening up my mind for my pen
shaking as i hold it to the paper; scribble
my tongue dwells on the bitter taste of hallucinogens
that made me dance in the coldest rain
and swim in the smallest pools of warm blood
that erupted from the belly of an orange tiger
who held my hand, and danced to the beats
my stomach remembers the feeling of pill bottles
emptied out; the tablets dissolved
coaxing me into warm slumbers, and forgetfulness
i miss the feeling of letting go
of love, of pain, of regret
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
the latest theories on the Neanderthal
is they died out due to homosexuality
& the earliest evidence of actual civil
order depicts women as priestesses &
queens & men, even kings as animals;
monsters & giants coexisting w/ teenagers
& old people in complex structures ruled
over by older priests, poets & a professional
warrior class; the king could be murdered
w/ impunity & the queen taken as consort
by the next king or murdered if she proves
too ambitious; & throughout all this, scribes
record the passage of time, the declaring of
laws, engagements in wars, rituals, persona,
comic tales & history; notable women have
a roster of their own, some written by ******
scribes party to their secret names & habits;
all known things; bathhouse elect, her scribe
observing her in the dressing mirror invents
the adventures of her reflection; a princess
never to grow old yet her father-husband is a
bearded elder; her older brother a warrior-prince
& future king; her younger brother/son is the
poet who must reveal what he knows, if only
b/c he'll burst if he has to **** his baby sister
in ritual Hieros gamos w/out telling everyone
exactly how he feels about it; but daring to speak
means being ****** burned at the stake, beheaded
& drawn & quartered, so he writes in secret
[chisels actually, so it's resemblance is mostly
related to relief sculpture
& engraving, but writing], passing
the linear tablets to the young priestess who buries
them beneath the temple floor for some future age
of mankind to discover anew & perhaps heed the
warnings of the coming chaos (the poet, a prophet
before there was such a thing); the ****** priestess
worships him w/ unrequited longing; her heart in
chaos, sharing the poet's vision; nature calls her
to her big brother like a woman loves a man & on
that day when they are to publicly mate the young
siblings are gone & are presumed eaten by the
unseen unseen like so many others before them
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
A vehement deity,
father of a carpenter,
and proprietor of creationism,
looked down upon his work,
both literally and figuratively.
When an ecosystem falls to the
egocentricity of man, a vessel
will be sought, and contained is
the righteousness of a mortal.
Serenity became inclination, and
with loss of the feminine beauty
came regret. For sin masqueraded
as black clouds, and whether
change occurs, torrential rain begets
growth in an environment. Wash over
the sins of the ****** what is current
can only be exposed as a fallacy when
revelation is prevalent,
and save for the innocent:
innocuous.
Even in Hell a cyprus tree would be
surrounded by wildflowers.
Noah knew not of damnation, and
with calloused hands raised to the sky,
a hammer came crashing down.
Not unlike stone tablets
etched with command,
the world lay on granite,
with a universal epitaph.
For Noah to ignore his destiny
would be blasphemous.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
while you were singing in the churchyard
i was sleeping in the ***** barn
beside a withered picture of an astronaut
and a long beard filled with street secrets
while you were burning up in sainthood
i was screaming into a melancholy leaf
wearing sweat on my miserable *****
and a liar's grin on my face
while you were murdering your wife
i was milking this dream for all the light
and i thanked god on bended knee
saying you're a turtle dove in an icebox
while you martyred yourself into the ocean
i carried you with me on my road to freedom
like an aligator stomped hard by a mockingbird
or a mermaid shot full of antibirth tablets
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
On the day Liz Taylor died,
CNN called Larry King
out of retirement to
eulogize her during
the mornings
breakfast segment.
Tears were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
TEPCO stated that one
of the Fukushima nuclear
reactors was on fire.
Tears of cataclysm
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
government officials warned
that Tokyo's water was
contaminated with
radiation and was not fit
for infants to drink.
Tears of anguish
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
the crew of the
USS Ronald Reagan
scrubbed the deck
clean of TEPCO
radiation.
Tears of worry
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
Oregonians rushed out to
buy potassium iodine
tablets to counteract
radiation poisoning.
Tears of affliction
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
NATO forces continued
to fire missiles and drop
bombs on Libya.
Tears of agony
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
a terrorist bomb exploded
in Jerusalem, killing one
and injuring many.
Tears of vengeance
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
the Syrian Army fired on
demonstrators
calling for reforms.
Tears of hostility
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
The USA Today reported
that during the past decade
the population of Detroit
declined by 25%.
Tears of loss
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
a dilapidated brownstone
in Philadelphia collapsed;
city officials expect
many more to occur.
Tears of distress
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
President Obama cut
short his Latin American
trip by skipping a tour of
Mayan ruins.
Tears of dismay
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died
the Dow Jones Industrial
Average closed
up 67.39 points.
Tears of joy
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
Elton John dedicated the song,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
to the memory of his departed friend.
Tears were shed.
You Tube Music Video:
Elton John,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
Lewes DE
3/23/11
jbm
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
STARRY STARRY NIGHT
She switched off the moon.
Plucked out the stars.
A little dog barked
as her scream scrawled:
“This time life has gone...too far.”
She took an overdose of sleeping tablets
in her big bright red car.
The day withers
that was once in bloom.
Petals fall
in an empty room.
The moon wept.
The stars cried.
Life was for living... Life lied.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
You took a ride
From a stranger
Driving a flower child van
And you never came back,
Lost in dead dreams,
Long gone ideals,
Wearing a
Psychedelic trip for a shirt
And dirt rubbed jeans teared knee to knee,
The wind blowing
And the radio playing some Dylan song,
Screaming and laughing,
The days were sand castles
On a beach being blown and
Losing shape, back to single grains,
And you promised that you'd never go back
But someplace in the back of your mind
You admitted to yourself that things
Like this, of smiles and bright eyes,
Never last, never last,
But that didn't stop you
And the highway stretched
And the clock ticked ticked
And the seconds were minutes
And the minutes hours,
A paper tablet for every normal thought
Worked like magic, medicine for the spirit,
Just like those that came before you,
All those people that smiled once,
Refusing to get behind a cubicle,
Refusing to wear a suit,
Refusing to get old,
You rode that van to the edge
(Of civilization) and watched the sun
Settle down up close, face to face,
And some time in between
It all stopped
And you were
Ancient history,
The psychedelic shirt lay in a chest,
The jeans in the back of a garbage truck,
The radio stopped playing Dylan,
The wind stopped blowing,
The castles were a hill of sand again,
Nobody screamed, nobody laughed,
you can try to run
But time always gets you,
No amount of pink and green tablets
Will save you
And peace will be but a teenage dream,
And the you that never came back
Did not come back,
But not because the van kept driving,
But because the van broke down forever,
Nothing lasts forever, nothing,
Especially you.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Instead of foraging around making connections
with cables and wireless systems that
bluetooth and sync their way
into our pocket technologies
and portable screens
(tablets of which we self-prescribe
and regulate through overdose
and comatose keenings of stillness
and waking dreams)
why, instead
don’t we fool around
making connections
with others of like mind and brainwaves
instead of radiowaves and
the mastered minds of computer waves
and lift an arm and
really wave
beyond our windows to
real people
in real time
rather than peeping
like a holographic Tom through
tabs and browsing windows,
multi-tasking time in a state of mime
like it’s about to expire
(like the wireless wires will break)
and all that we’ll have is
all we can physically take
from this moment awake we call ‘life’
– a mistake.
What else is left now
in this vegetative
one man one woman state
where we live to close our eyes
and shut our minds and wait for
the modem-router to re-dial and
get our avatar back online and
our friends back into our
multi-dimensional realer-than-time
time?
Pseudonyms solving identity changes
emerge without birth
with designer non-faces, as
now that we no longer need imperfection
or meaning or privacy
or even perception
we alter ourselves to impress our connections
with whom we connect without really connecting
by hiding as one almost nearing detection
and tip-toeing straight past
concern or reflection
(invisible firewalls at our protection)
our own walls around us
with keys we can capslock,
screening ourselves from unfriended friends,
and playfully sated by charm and ‘pretends’
that will mean next to nothing
when fantasy ends.
Where ARE the connections we make
in this digital age
that we rarely turn off since
the internet craze has become a new God
that we dial to be saved
as we sacrifice friends we once made
face to face
with those we are longing to meet
as we race across networks
with hunger and haste and
with spambots and data and viruses made
to detect and infect
and reject, just for starters,
and that’s not to mention
the ads and the logins and
passwords that lock us
from somewhere far yonder
that doesn’t exist
as we grow ever fonder
of pics and of pixels and
texts of expression
– the reality of which
we could lose in a second.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Boostin' and we're mobile
But we still don't see no bars
Laugh it off in the back of the car
Smoking cigars
Whole lotta trouble lately that's been creepin in my mind
Cash low ******* status when I get into a bind
Settle balances breaking tablets in half just to unwind
Knock over knock-offs inching my self from suicide
I told myself that I'd do this suppose it's do or die
Cause I'm cracking under pressure influenced youth who will ride
Down to make this money they don't want me to make
I'm prone to make mistakes taking steps that I hate
Toward the door with more in store than what they see on my plate
But how do they expect me to eat?
No one's feeding me grapes
Palm fronds fannin' my face
Can't relate
To the ******** they paint
Fade to gray
This has been a public broadcast
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mold of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,
Music and wine are one,
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of men and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
2.8k