"tactic" poems
.
***Ancient games
tell tales of dust. ||| A story drawn
from the lips of two poets.***
~~~~~
It's the wits that **** not Queens of ivory or ***ink. ***
Charged with coal strokes, scraping up the lies.
Pawns & Knights slip between the grasp of the sun, leaking into* lion jaws of Leo.
Shifting these granite plates, ignoring the Rooks common price of aslant.
Here we have slain kin, crescent traitors that backstab the night and battlefield.
Closed doors and trap floors, trade me a tie, swindling your tactic ruts.
Reality never got the noose around our necks, check turned into manslaughter, and kingdoms ripped asunder by the roar of Jupiter
Get up, get up, get away from these liars, they can't have your rank or your fire.
Peak a notion, this match is spared by a luft.
Toss away the pride buried 'neath your dusty skin, it don't matter no more if death has you by the lips.
Silence is a language too in our eyes of earth.
Take my hand, knott your soul into this downfall, and brace yourself for the wreckage in our bones.
The Sword of Sorrows will fall 'pon your shoulders, not to slay thee, but to dub thee a new day.
The drums of war will knit the lyrics in the sky,
singing:
"The mighty sharpen their fangs, the weak sharpen their wisdom"
~~~~~
I'm tired of your wishbones, and golden scales, give me the hard-earned truth.
Hot coals of honesty may you tread upon, shadow-bitten remorseful may you be, don't stray off the course of Ursa major.
The North star isn't the one I follow
It's the moon with all of it's phases,
Eclipsing and crescent, tipping the sky with it's beauty.
Now let this sink further than any soul has ever sunk,
no man could ever
*rule the moon.
~~~~~~
***Shoot on command,
C
h
e
c
k
m
a
t
e***
~~~~
You could drag me to hell and back and those words wouldn't mean anything.
Let this downfall become a downfell,
Because last I checked
"Wolves worship the moon"
and I have broke it's reflection in the water
*Just
by
throwing
s
t
o
n
e
s
.*
.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
i always find myself
laying my heart out to
the people who love stomping
on my heart for the pure fun of
watching blood pour out
but it wasn't always this way
it all started when my dad started
promising me security to constantly
watch him walk out the door
but every time that promise was
proposed, I always accepted it
even when I knew it was a **** lie
hopeful little me, how adorable
manipulation, that's what it is
finding reasons to get rid of me
i guess i do that too
but when it's consistently happening
to you with every new friendship
or relationship?
you find clarity and warmth
in the words
"i won't be leaving anytime soon"
and it becomes a twisted cycle
of just
constant
manipulation
the manipulated becomes the manipulator
when your newest begins the manipulation
tactic that you were taught at the age
of 5 when your dad said
"I'll be right back" and doesn't for days
that's when you're all ears to your newest victim who says
"it's so nice to find someone like you"
i wish you didn't say that
ever
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.
A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,
fights) and a **** sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the
community, the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the ****
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)
side by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.
Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat
of violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the
Congo!
When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.
This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That's a given--
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
Regarding King
the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South's violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be
overwhelmed by southern violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the
British. Or did he?
1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi
restrained but could release which the British feared, and
2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that
allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint
was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as
emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and
valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture).
What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with
community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the
common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with
otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is
forgoing deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune
violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Written December 1, 2015
"I feel like I'm having the same conversation with guys
Hi's turn into Bye's
lies in turn make me cry
How am I supposed to summarize all of this into one line?
I'm trying.
'Babe' and "Baby, you're the one'
But have you heard, that one means none when you're blind sided and reminded that there is other's who you'd rather be with?
And you realize, your words are myths, spitting out the syllables you just want me to hear
Pet names are nothing but music to our ears
The day-to-day conversations from dawn to dusk are intriguing
But when you really look deeply, they're just words with no meaning
A lonely tactic, a feen for something more
Until the conversation closes, for I was a bore
From here it's the same love story, the way it always tends to end
I'll get the last word, press send, and then pretend as if your lack of response doesn't hurt me,
although it's killing me inside
Then I wish upon 11:11 for you to at least come to a compromise
You'll come around the bend again, and I'll try and act strong
But strong just isn't strong enough, I've missed you way too long
The story then repeats itself, a fairy tale no one enjoys
Welcome to your 'happily ever after'
when talking to a **** boy."
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
"The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall." --Che Guevara
Shake the tree as hard as need be,
To make the apple fall,
Be it green, or red or yellow,
Be it ripe or still too green,
Succulent or rotten to the core,
Shake the tree and make it fall.
If shaking the tree does not suffice,
Plant a worm most carefully,
Let it eat the apple's heart,
Break its spirit as it feeds,
Sap its strength most thoroughly,
then just wait until it falls.
But if that tactic also fails, don't lose heart,
Rip out the tree's protective bark,
Salt its roots,
Strike it with chains,
Until no beauty remains,
And await the apple's fall.
And should the ****** tree still stand,
And the apple cling to life,
Take an axe,
Sharpen it well,
Chop at the tree, bring it down,
Force the apple to the ground.
And should the apple still cling,
To a branch devoid of life,
Douse the shattered, useless tree
With gasoline, light a match,
And burn apple, branch and tree,
All to gloriously fine ash.
Do this always in my name,
For "If you tremble with indignation at every injustice,
Then you are a comrade of mine."
Wear my face with pride over your heart,
Shake raised fists in indignation, scatter the ashes to the wind,
What does it matter that ashes can't be eaten, so long as we win!
If interested, you can hear my reading of this poem at https://open.spotify.com/episode/6MlOmVvH3n8QehG1dzH4Za?si=MWl_rE0YQLy3bQvS8dbtOA
Author's Note: No political philosophy has wreaked as much misery as Marxism in every country it has touched in the 20th and 21st centuries. Fascism and Marxism are two sides of the same totalitarian coin, and while we rightfully condemn fascists, somehow too many folks in the media, academia, and entertainment worlds continue to have a soft spot for Marxism and Marxists/Communists old and new. Here, I've taken two quotes attributed to Che Guevara whose life has been romanticized in books and movies, including the popular Motorcycle Diaries, that focus on the young revolutionary in a positive light as a freedom fighter. The real revolutionary was quite different--a hardened, cold-blooded murderer who executed countless people without mercy, due process, or regret, including fellow Marxist revolutionaries who disagreed with him. The end justified the means for him and for all Marxists--and their equally deranged polar opposites, fascists.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 6:02 PM UTC
i.
I’ve heard people say on various occasions “if it’s meant to be, it will happen.” I don’t buy it.
Lots of things never happened that should have.
ii.
Talking to Jimi was like having a conversation thru the plexi-glass of a prison visitation room.
They could see each other, they could almost touch each other, but a layer of bullet proof glass stood between them and true intimacy. Yet, there were times when the wall was more like the shell of a bubble—thin and pliable and sticking to her fingers when she pressed against it. And Jimi’s shape
would begin to take form with her touch, and the reality of his true self would show in defiance of his expectations.
iii.
Jimi just didn’t seem to get it. It was like he thought every word Mango uttered about her crushed spirit and just trying to survive was some sort of manipulation tactic.
“You don't act like you did before.” She said.
“I'm sorry for that, you never leave my mind though.”
“The things going on in your head don't talk to me or spend time with me or hold me....they just
stay with you and I am all alone.”
iv.
“Jimi, I can’t focus, I can’t concentrate on anything! The sound of my thoughts are so loud that reality is just background clamor and white noise!”
“I’m trying, I’m doing the best I can. What more do you want me to do?”
“Move out! Make the leap! If you’re not happy there, if you don’t want to be married to her you shouldn’t be there. If being with me isn’t enough motivation to leave, then leave because Lizi deserves more than a fake husband.”
“I’m **** I’m just a coward. I don’t like myself for what I’m doing.”
“The only one who can change how you feel about yourself is you.
Sitting around thinking about how ****** you are isn’t going to change a **** thing.”
“Neither is yelling at me.”
“Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”
v.
Something in their relationship had died. Not unlike the many times Mango’s heart had been broken and her hope had been lost. But it was harder for Jimi, taking that leap of love in the first place was
the most difficult thing he had ever done. And now, he had never experienced such intense levels of pain, he thought his heart would literally stop beating, and he would be swallowed up by the enormous cavity in his chest. Mango wanted to know if he could love her again, and he didn’t know, he honestly didn’t know. He wanted to, but now the part of him that feared he would not be enough for her had taken over, and his sense of fear and overwhelm was too much for him to bear.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
When you are feeling sad and lonely, seeking security,
Lust comes by and gives you a little taste of beautiful gifts
and it says to you,
"Come to me and I will make you feel warm and secure. I will insert butterflies into your stomach. You will smile for no reason and be happy all the time. You won't be able to sleep all night, but when you finally fall asleep, you will fall asleep happy."
You are overjoyed at what lust has to offer, and jump up and down in excitement as a little child would on Christmas Eve.
Suddenly you feel a little tug at your waist from behind.. It's Reality
You turn around and you ask Reality
"May I please go with Lust?"
Reality says with a smile on its face,
"Go on, have fun. But please be careful. Just know that I will always be here waiting for you at the end."
You think to yourself, what does Reality even mean?
You don't need it anymore.. you have Lust now
You're way too excited to embark on this new journey with Lust so you forget all about what Reality had to say
For a while, being with Lust is great
It gave you all the things that it said it would
You finally feel like you're happy and nothing could change that
Right at that moment when you felt like you were secure
Suddenly, things turned evil
Lust is not what you thought it was.
Lust was just a big tactic to take you away from you
Lust was an offering, a sacrifice, to lose your state of mind and routine of everyday life
The inevitable happens and
Just like that,
Lust leaves you
You cry helplessly
You get on your knees and beg lust to stay
That you will do anything, give it anything at all
Just for Lust to stay
But when Lust came to you, it didn't tell you one very important thing
Lust is a *****
Lust was not built for relationships
Lust cannot and will not stay
For anybody
Sure enough, Reality is there
It was waiting for you to come back
Beside Reality stands Life
You confront Reality and say that you're sorry for leaving
Life overhears your cry and says,
"Don't worry moon child, you will get over this because you are a strong individual. You were built for this. You were meant to be on this Earth to make mistakes and learn from them, and grow as a person. You were meant to feel happiness just as you were meant to feel sadness. This is a beautiful cycle. You will be okay again. Please remember to not forget to enjoy this journey. I love you."
© yungwifey
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT
[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]
We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push. You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.
Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.
The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit. The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half. Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.
The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.
The pray-ers drive on. The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.
The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses. Oh, that must have hurt!
But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.
This is a joy to see. The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise. But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
ask anyone i know:
i have a tendency to forget things.
i forgot moose's middle name
my password
what day i have to go to the dentist
what i did yesterday
if i ate this morning
what year i stopped talking to ryan
the words to my favorite moldy peaches song
the name of a childhood friend
the book that i was supposed to return
the movie i was supposed to bring
the cookies i was supposed to bake
the smile i was supposed to smile
the words i was supposed to say
but this is only lately.
i used to remember everything
i thought my tactic of not thinking about the bad things
made the bad things not real
but it only makes me
forgetful
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
. what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
presence...
the thief has a public of
the victim,
and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
a concept of:
not enough public...
thieves and magicians are
bedfellows...
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
fashion...
allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
are they... so much unlike
each other?
magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that **** could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE!
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
Bach...
i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
disorientated...
but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
played them the slayer oeuvre!
WEE-TARDS!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
(pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
hmm...
can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
1000 words to speak my mind
but amm'a sum it up
in 9
B- Beautiful
U-Utmost superficial
T-True
T-Tactic
E-Elegant
R-Reserved
F-Flirty
L-Laureate
Y-Yielding
...that is all you are to me. :-)
©The Unspoken
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
a mysterious lady told me i am a landlocked mermaid:emerged from the ocean with legs and a shine i can't lessen even though others might try to make me.
i now give much heed to mysterious ladies.
girls i grew up playing Nintendo with are having babies and starring in their own personal generic happily ever Mormon afters
and the guys are being shipped off straight from high school to preach a gospel they neither understand nor care about,
two years of being ***** and righteous and shrink-wrapped in guilt.
i think they are the landlocked ones
i am getting out of this ocean-less place with a tactic that goes a little something like
throwing a dart and chasing it with my eager feet wherever it may go.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 10:46 AM UTC
Two Syrian women on Friday were locked in a cage full of skeletons in punishment for violating Daesh’s strict dress code in the militant group’s stronghold of Raqqa.
The London-based Observatory for Human Rights said one of the women fainted in the cage and had to be transported to one of the hospitals in the northern province, which became Daesh’s headquarters in Syria after the group took the city in 2013.
A spokesman for the local-based activist group “Raqqa is being Slaughtered Silently” also reported Daesh’ latest scare tactic against women found to have flouted the draconian rules.
Daesh recently locked a 19-year old woman in a cage full of skeletons, driving her to the point of madness, according to Mohammed Al-Salih. The spokesman did not specify whether the incident was the same as the one reported by the UK-based monitor.
Salih also said that there were “similar cases of women locked in cages with skeletons or forced to sleep overnight in a cemetery” for not wearing what Daesh deems as appropriate. More serious violations are punished by the amputation of limbs, or execution.
Video reports as well as accounts of escapees show that Daesh forces women living in its areas — whether in Syria or Iraq — to don head-to-toe garbs.
Meanwhile, the Observatory said Daesh has recently stormed homes in Raqqa and arrested 10 men suspected of spying against the group.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:31 AM UTC
We try to grasp all that we can feel
Every grain of substance we can imagine
All the hesitant hands we couldn't deal
From our arduous compassion engines
How long can we believe until we kneel
To the unkempt veracity of religion
Or fade into a vengeful iconoclast
Cynically mocking the faithful breed
Of merry-go-bashers that attempt to cast
Their egotist ideals of what we all need
Fairy tale prophets that lived in the past
Getting off on their own selfish greed
The words of mankind have nothing to tell
Implicating a heaven is rhetoric at best
And, If i'm to live i'd rather go to hell
A tactic of fear sounds like a fitting nest
For someone who has already gaily fell
To a nihilist end that I should have guessed
I have opened my mind to one single thing
A universal truth that we all should know
That one simple rule is to believe in nothing
Is there any trace of deception in what I sow?
There is no wrong answer when you doubt everything
And, your deathbed will teach that there's nothing to know
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
People pacing, cattle station.
Racing to, the next location.
Jump on a crowded metal tube.
To get to work, your office cube.
You **** and moan, till you get home.
The box for your throne, is land on loan.
So set on containment and fitting in.
That we neglect our problems, with tonic and gin.
We drink to forget, all the things we regret.
We sit through each hour just to settle our debts.
See, life's not about living, not anymore.
It's about finding the time to settle our scores.
But time is running faster, than ever before.
Its nearly too late, just 12 years to the door.
We can't keep up, we thought we were winning.
But the reality is that the atmosphere's thinning.
It's getting harder to breath it's getting harder to see.
Extinction level event, that's all we'll ever be.
Each day we're alive is a day the earth's dying.
We need to take action, no point sitting here crying.
Stop single use plastics, that's the easiest tactic.
Stop clearing the forests, stop being dishonest.
The point that I'm making, that I'm hoping your taking.
Is get out of your head, less the earth gets put to bed.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Gauge Symmetry
It was an eminent arrival: to awake in a definite
location in time and space, involving the single
***** with more zeal than the rest. But where
am I really? Staring at these thorny lines engraved
in my palm during an hour I should be asleep.
I can’t help but think that the love of a life
should have spared me.
A caption below the photograph in the times reads
It’s an illustration of a tactic employed by Hezbollah
and Hamas to use their own civilians as human shields.
And somewhere else laying on rubble, once road, a blood
smeared newspaper ruffles in the breeze, then violently
unfolds from a burst of wind, never to be read, a stray dog
licking a wound pauses and perks it’s ear.
Earlier, in the library I walked the spiral staircase
and traced my fingers down a dusty spine:
“How
we
became
Post-Human”.
It must have been an artificial insemination.
My skull throbs from an inoperable legion
of fractal thoughts which I developed upon listening
to the sounding tremble in Pathetique, too immature
to know the power of what it heard like that time
I foolishly laid my eyes on a carnivorous
tulip, it spat me out alive.
Moon is no comfort, only an aperture. The day
is overexposed and my eyelids clasp
down like a shutter, I try to fall asleep
to remember where I really am and where
I've always been.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 7:56 AM UTC
7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
She mulls over
a void dance tactic
Before proclaiming
Me damaged and telling me
You need to meet a nice girl
And stop with all these
Pornographic sycophants
I insist I'm not sure
The nice ones would deal with
The cacophonous buzz saw
Roar of my thoughts
And she says
What about me?
Write me a poem like you do
For all the other girls
and then I'll straddle you
And make the pain go away
And I reply
Okay, but I am not paying full price
for this session.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
When ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memories lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Beneath equatorial skies,
And the tactic used to keep me indoors
While the missionaries rested their eyes.
My mother was sick with malaria
The curse of the tropic zone,
And while my dad was away on the hunt
Their station became our home.
And after lunch when the sky was hot
And the morning’s work was done
They took my shoes away from me
To keep me out of the sun.
The veranda air was still as a grave,
Not a sound to could be heard outside
Save the click-click-click from the beetles
And the grasshoppers jumping to hide.
Or the scratching scaly slither,
Of a snake on the flowerbed verge,
Or the distant cry of the crested crane,
These are the sounds that merge.
The sight of the distant Koru hills
Shimmering in the haze
Beyond the frangipani trees
Return once more to my gaze,
And the prickly spiky Crown of Thorns
That lined the garden ways,
These are the sights that ribbon back
From my early Kenyan days.
The smell of the room was a mixture
Of scents on the garden air,
And creosote coming up through the floor
From the pilings under there,
And paraffin from the pressure lamps
Which hissed as they gave us light.
With the hint of oil of pyrethrum
Sprayed round the eves at night.
The step to my door should I venture
At noon was as hot as a stove,
The soil on the paths and driveway
Would burn if ever I strove.
And the thorns in the earth would pr ick me
As I cautiously picked my way through
To the shade of the frangipani tree,
From there I took in the view.
So, when ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memory lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Where the images I find,
Set smells and sights and sounds of
Africa sizzling in my mind.
Redding, California July 4th 2005 temperature 105° Fahrenheit
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
I remember the day you came into school with fresh slits on your wrists
You had written your world into your own flesh and skin.
Those lines created the pages by which I used to write down our story.
Those cuts displayed every flaw our relationship ever endured.
And I will always remember the day you kissed me
Telling me, begging me not to worry about you.
Telling me the drawings of blood were "nothing"
Telling me you loved me.
To this day, I am left overflowing with questions.
Did it hurt?
Did it make you feel free?
Did it make you feel alive?
Did it make you feel?
But more than anything, I want to know why you chose me.
And my god, I wish this was some poetic analogy for something beautifully tragic.
I wish this was some secret I was too afraid to utter.
But it's not.
And I wish that I had never seen such a horrific sight
Because those scars were not beautiful to me.
They weren't something to be romanticized
They weren't something to be loved.
Because every inch of your punctured skin was a nightmare for me.
I relive that moment every day of my life.
That image forever trapped within the confines of my skull.
And I will always remember the day you left me.
Again and again we fell together.
I held my pain in so deep it created canyons in the breaks on my heart.
But you.
You wore your pain like a badge of honor
You paraded your scars like they were trophies
But they were more than that.
They were a scare tactic that was suffocating me
A plot to force out every ounce of my love for you
A way to blackmail me into staying with you.
And my god I loved you.
And I could have loved you until the day I died.
But I couldn't see past it.
I Couldn't see past the traumatic illustration set before me
past the illustration that stopped my heart beating in my chest.
And I will never forget the day you walked up to me and showed me a display
Of my initials carved into the skin of your forearm.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
I'm sat here, alone.
with a full bottle of ***** and nothing to do, no one to see.
A raging ******* torrent of emotion that i can't ******* talk to anyone about.
Sure there's people out there, there's people i could go and meet and talk to,
None of them mean a ******* thing when all you can you is walk away.
I invested so much of my soul into trying to make this work,
and **** it, so what if things felt different after we'd been apart for many months,
isn't that normal?
Why am i being punished for my lack of money, my set of circumstances.
You know i really wanted to come down and see you?
But no, the ******* poor kid has no money, he has to sit at home, look after the house and take a ******* beating to the soul.
But no, there's no second chances here. You'll move on pretty ******* quick, i already know that.
I'll be the one picking up the pieces, while you **** around and have your fun.
I'll be the one who's stuck, well at least you don't have an anchor anymore.
how sad is it? that the only means of communication i have with you, is hoping you'll read this?
you probably won't, you're a 2 minute walk and a million ******* miles away from me.
Well **** this, I ****** up, I lost,
and once again my patience and love has not been rewarded.
I will never be rewarded, maybe i do what other guys do,
like a shark in the swimming pool, using any tactic to **** someone and run.
That just isn't me though, i'm not even equipped with the malice to let anyone know how i feel.
I FEEL LIKE ****
I don't want to think anymore.
I don't want to feel love anymore.
I don't want to be punished for loving.
Right now, i don't want to be conscious.
Now where's that ******* *****
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Announcing your arrival
in a high-pitch buzzing-tone.
As a tactic for survival,
you're seldom on your own.
Red lumps display where you have been.
Often felt, though rarely seen.
But if I catch a glimpse of you,
my little vampire chum,
I'll make sure you get what you're due,
and squash you with my thumb!
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
I had the most scary,
awful,
horrifying,
sickening dream last night.
It was a dream that my grandmother had passed away.
Died.
She was gone.
And I
wasn't
even
there for her.
I was told, no, informed,
through the most insensitive,
impersonal means possible.
A simple, three worded,
text message.
I don't remember how much I cried
in the dream.
Or if I really even shed a single tear.
All I know now, as I scribble down these
scattered thoughts
in a handwriting almost illegible,
an attempt to rid them from my mind,
is how I feel with my mind racing through the possibility of such an event.
My stomach hurts, every muscle in my being clenched in a
sudden stress,
a tactic to hold back that urge to purge myself
of all contents and feeling whatsoever.
Both hands are cramped as one braces me
against this abnormally warm and now uncomfortable bed,
the other struggling to write while my forearm
throbs with discomfort.
My breathing is off.
There is no normal steady rhythm to it;
rather a scattered pattern of inhales and exhales
both long and short,
often separated by uncharacteristic
pauses.
I've dealt with death before.
More than once,
many years ago.
(I'm still dealing with it.)
I understand that it is very much a part of life,
and the rest of us must continue on,
void of voice or choice.
It is the cruel awakening.
And my relief at waking to the most normal of texts
from dear old Dad
and the realization that my fear
had only occurred
in the depth of that unconscious realm
ruled by sleep...
I just cannot ever explain.
I can only remain horrified that I would dare endure
such a pain, even in imagination.
And yet,
as the day's busy agenda begins to take over all else
and I am only too eager
to push the dream away
and let it disappear into nothingness
as I mentally prepare for today and this week,
I've already decided...
I think I'll call Grandma today.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC