"triplicate" poems
It was great for a time
*** and wine
Wine and ***
Then commitment and open and shut curtains.
Special delivery of child made the bond complete
Six months down the line
Breast feeding was action watched from a distance
Intimacy was a tired look
The neighbours cat looked hot
Killed the lonely nights
Killed the commitment outright
Got to know the lawyer through rapid bank withdrawals
Weekly child visit watched over by Brutus
Bar visits watched over by the world's condemned
Special occasion became a twice yearly treat
Birthday and Christmas, bit of hate thrown sideways.
Then the new man.
Felt good for her.
Maybe some pressure off.
Maybe missed that lobotomy bar lecture.
Years dragged the hate forward.
Time moved on.
One day I wrote her a letter expressing my anger.
She wrote back in triplicate.
I wrote back in double triplicate.
She sent a thesis on men and *****
Suddenly without thinking, we had dialogue.
After a while, we moved on from the anger.
We became human again.
I actually liked writing her letters and receiving them.
We never got back together.
But the letters kept us close.
Sometimes there would be a kiss at the end.
The little bit of love I probably never deserved.
I would mention it to her in my next letter.
Even an *** deserves a solitary kiss now and again.
The bar room lawyers would probably agree.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
butterflies on a beautiful boy
cling with insect intensity
they wear candy pink lipstick
he has his face reddened
with blusher
his hair is depicted in triplicate
on the cubical doors of toilets
black painted cubical doors
that possess an objective scrutiny
of an immediacy that suggests
a knowledge of expendable names
of disinterested inspection
names that are deletable with time
all that is left is a screaming solar plexus
he waits like an animated aura
a haloed head of violet rings him
as he leans against the toilet wall
with beautiful blonde ambition
the butterflies cling with insect intensity
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
fight the horde.../...I can't beleive it...
we're overrun.../...what do they WANT?!...
a teammate falls.../...the world's gone TO hell...
he won't make it.../...their drive is to EAT...
they chomp away.../...obi wan isn't YOUR only hope...
out of ammo.../...can't stop it!...
fangs tear in.../...she'll never know...
they'll never stop.../...my last breath...
...i think...
stand up soldier!.../...i can't think straight...
the hive mind speaks!.../... BRAINS are for the living...
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
past wavering lights
B. Serrano and Bagong Ilog
love struck us down — sees no votive
clearing of the fog or a word sharper than any blade wrought from frays.
i have a photograph of you
somewhere in the ken of my silence
and on it paints lightsome hue
and sometimes pale when it rains.
KM 24 on a blue alloy and underneath,
a Baguio — some memories we keep
almost left by the last carriage homeward
from too much fire in our hands
only tremors could extinguish both
striking a balance and counterbalance;
the frequency of the electric and the
immense decibel of lions drowning
the disquiet. some places or some
looking back makes you want
to lose yourself in slight wonder and when
a memory comes back with the dreary
weight of its forgetfulness,
we fall asleep traipsing the steeples
of our dreams of each other
all-telling, still dizzy with the pirouette
of some distant longing bracing
the fall, triggering our darkness
and shooting out
ourselves, small,
love striking us down. arraying a triplicate
of hazy trails forking all roads
and we cannot find each other again;
throwing stones rippling
multiplied waves by the sea arriving
at separate mornings beneath
our feet,
bends on the bludgeoned curves
of love and hate ascertaining something
so unsure as a door agape and swiveling
in tense wind, tender is the night
and love continues
to smite us down, locking in, predatory precision,
running away, and away, and away
from the ache of it all.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
The staff, who are stuffed full of paper,
stapled, on white,
are to be circulated with minutes,
full of minutiae,
but only the chosen staff will receive such chaff,
intricate, in triplicate,
and the others will have to wait for memoranda,
definitely not grander,
on subjection, objection and rejection
for the weary and unwary.
The brochure on staff conduct
will be grosser,
and superannuation won't be super.
There will be no more staff resolutions,
no revolutions,
so that managers can preserve the status quo
and hasten slow.
Talent is banned,
promotion is underhand,
ass-kissing is in,
no sin,
and perks,
no jerks,
are for the executive few.
***** you.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
Tossing the pigskin
Burrowing and displaying the Ostrich effect
All applause for the chairman of the board of trustees
And all the spiddle on his back up shirt
Mortify them
An incomplete pass
Rally the troops
For unfinished business
Shift gears
Reread the post script
"P.S. The unzipped flies of store owners trying to replicate the success of their fathers. Piddle about, play with implements of torture, instruments of destruction. Wander in the wilderness, grunt and sigh as your civilized brain rattles. Make way for Plan B, and fill out the forms in triplicate. Fumbling at the controls, emergency landing. The gear shift and crankshaft have given out. Listen to the titillating chatter of the disappointed passengers who all longed for the window seat.
Always your's
Edmund Balthazar "
Take two
I could slap you
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
I've killed you a thousand times
For your wanting, your needing
Your selfish crimes
Play me a tune,
Pick a key that transcends time
With a beat that will tear the stitching
Connecting your heart to mine
I never doubted, from the moment of bloom
That my time with you would bring us anything
Short of matching keys to a padded room
You are the darkness and I am the light-
What a cruel joke the Master played
To have given us equal might
You push and I'll pull
Eventually we will get it right...
For the one thousand and first time
Your blood will be mine tonight!
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
I have been searching for this concept for eternity
Wandering through my trepidations
Looking through my misconceptions
It’s an idea deemed unattainable
Yet, as the fool I was
I continued to search
Perhaps spoken of in terms of verse
Perhaps in aspects more visual
Perhaps even in the ideas withheld
It can be summed in the way of a single word
A simple piece of diction, entranced in its triplicate of syllables:
Perfection
It seemed a goal attainable through precision
Taking away the negatives and mistakes
As if in the search for the smallest piece of consciousness
Ah the years I worked and struggled
Such time devoted to becoming as far away from my roots
But never did I realize where it lay
I had toiled away at my inner persona
Struck off those close
Refused to accept any mistakes, no matter the severity or relevance
But never did I realize perfection lay in a place so oxymoronic
Secluded in a place I had long since thought irrelevant
Hidden in its insecurity and utter depression
It lay in you
I almost laugh at it now
You, the embodiment of everything I didn’t want to be
Mistake-ridden, clumsy, needy
Forever looking to others to accomplish anything
But never leaving me, no matter how much I pushed you away
I couldn’t comprehend you
A person I saw as the Yin to my Yang
Forever polarized but inseparable
I was involved so heavily in this needless search
That I didn’t see you
Despite everything you did to let me
I hope you are at peace now
Resting with that curve of the bottom lip you always expressed towards me
Looking at me with those forever twinkling eyes
I had wrestled my entire life with a concept I thought so far
But now you’ve gone, and left me with my answer
Perfection lays in no distant star, or even a mindscape attained with an eternity of sacrifice
It lay in you
The most perfect imperfection
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)
A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…
Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.
Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)
God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
A corner of a room is a misguided place to cower in.
Bad move!
Especially after you have just had chicken chow mein styled into your hair.
You sit.
Transfixed.
You watch.
Catatonic.
Prawn ***** glisten like diamonds in the snow as they slide effortlessly down the peeling wallpaper.
Baby screams.
Baby screams relentlessly.
The stench of cheap beer perfumes the stagnant air.
You think to yourself
"Is this it?"
Then you remember
You remember ….
What the hell was her name?
It’s on the tip of your tongue ….
BANG !!!
Tina Smitherson
*Once!
Just once ….*
The one and only time he raised his hand.
She was gone.
Didn’t even look back.
And her so quiet and all ….
Oh ….how we tormented her.
Oh …. how we teased her.
**BOO !!!
BOO !!!
BOO !!!**
Away she ran like a frightened little mouse.
No friends.
No life.
Nothing.
A bona fide geek.
And yet ….
And yet … only once.
How was that possible?
Night turns to day.
You look around the room.
*Chaos.
Filth.
Emptiness.*
Taunt at you manically …. in triplicate.
Baby sleeps peacefully in her makeshift cot.
Bruises red and angry.
*Maybe today ….
Maybe ….*
Then you reach down into your darkest resolve and open the cupboard beneath the sink.
Bin bags.
Detergent.
Dish cloths.
Dustpan and brush.
“I wonder what Tina Smitherson is doing at this precise moment in time?”
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 11:18 PM UTC
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to, I had to do it, you made me, made me want you, need you, it wasn’t my fault, he just, wouldn’t let me have what I need.
There she is my angel, my sweet, sweet woman. I wouldn’t hurt her you know, I’d never hurt her, I’d **** anyone that tried to hurt her, I swear it, I’d have their throats within my grasp and I’d squeeze, more and more, tighter and tighter. Until every inch of hurt they caused her was paid back, in triplicate.
I’m sorry!
*NO! Why, why did you do it? Why do that to him, he didn’t do anything. He didn’t touch you, he told you to go away, he told you to leave us alone, you should have, you should have just went away, far away.
There he is, he’s really creepy, I mean seriously, he just stands there, staring at me. What does he want? Well, I guess that’s a stupid question really, it’s obvious. But why is it, when he stands there staring, he looks angry and sad all at once?*
I’m sorry! Why!?
**He’ll pay for that, I’ll make him pay. He shouldn’t have tried messing with me, he shouldn’t have touched me, and he shouldn’t have grabbed that knife. It was his mistake messing with people who he should fear, he’ll realise that soon enough.
I swear if he doesn’t stop looking at us I’ll **** him. He’s just stood there, fists clenched, staring at her, she’s not his and I make sure to remind him of that every day. She’s my girlfriend, and they both know it, I make sure of that, I make sure there’s no question of what is mine.**
I’m sorry! Why!? He’ll pay!
** *You’re under arrest; you do not have to say anything… You made quite a mess in there kid, I don’t remember the last time I saw something that bad outside of the cinema. Tell me son, what drove you to do it? Why would someone as hopeful as you ruin your life by ending another’s? Straight A’s, plenty of social groups, hell you could have been anything you wanted to be, but. You chose ****** Sweet Jesus, I’ve seen nothing like it in my life. They say it was only that lad, poor boy doesn’t realise what’s gonna happen. They’ll see him hung for this, that fella he killed, son of one of the richest families I know. Looks like a blind fit of rage, if we can get a reason, it could save that kids life.* **
I’m sorry! Why!? He’ll pay!
** You’re under arrest. **
We gather here, to bury he who killed another.
They destroyed his home, they broke his heart, and they eviscerated his body.
Justice served. In triplicate.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
I can't write.../...what's wrong with me?
not even in spotlight.../...is this how it's going to be?
the words aren't there.../...HAVE i gone insane?
i've searched everywhere.../...i've probed my brain...
they've gone away from me.../...WRITERS can look through the mist
they're missing can't you see?.../...can't they see what they've missed?
nothing can inspire my pen.../...theres no inspiration in my BLOCK...
it happens to me now and then.../...HELP!!! i'm stuck like a rock...
oh well, i can't seem to write.../...ME? hell, i dont want to try anymore...
logging off... goodnight.../...PLEASE... lock up as you exit the door.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
father was visited one night by his terrible stomach long enough for it to mumble no one has to know I’m here. his brothers were all red sheep. his daughter from his first two marriages has since gone on to assess accident vehicles. when I was a boy I’d tell her one breast didn’t like the other. she’d cry. twirl a baton. her baby brother would call to her from the front lawn and I’d have to go under her bed for the window ladder because she was wearing a skirt. her mother was said to be able to floss with cobwebs. her mother entered my thoughts with video game controllers that had taken the brunt of nosebleeds. everyone was soft or painting books in an after hours library. afflicted with hush, my father ventures wholeheartedly into the phrase *it’s all ***** in a sandbox* while aware of the baton as anomaly. poems provide the mediocre privacy of poems.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
I push the release.../...it didnt work...
drop the shiny mag.../...you did this to me...
WANT more bullets.../...i bleed for YOU...
metal on metal.../...i drop TO the floor...
new mag in.../...you KNOW what you did...
pull the slide back.../...THERES no beat in my heart...
round jumps into place.../...NOTHING left to live for...
click. off goes the safety.../...this feels so WRONG...
raise the barrel.../...toy WITH my heart...
pull the trigger.../...goodbye world, from ME...
click.../...dammit...
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
full moon out.../...I'M feeling weak...
bring me in.../...NOT this again...
bash my skull.../...WHO are YOU?...
knock me out.../...i can't THINK straight...
drag me in.../...I can't help it...
chain me up.../...AM i to blame?...
lock the door.../...DON'T let me out...
let me suffer.../...i really HATE this...
hope i die.../...wake ME when the slaughter ends...
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
Fatherless Father/Son-less Son/Holy-less Spirit.
Reflection/Refraction/Projection.
In triplicate.
Unofficially, Officially Signed.
Apertures and rooms...
capstone penetrated base,
base penetrated capstone.
Still life.
~
(is perfect)
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
i found myself today walking in triplicate
two legs, three steps, then repeat
walking to the sounds of crickets chirping to remain on beat
the moonlight beckoning tribute
so i leaped upon the nearest street lamp
spun round with a joyous energy
with dismount, a bow of the head, and all crickets went mute
yet i still skipped in time with the thump of my heartbeat
the dance was not yet complete
for in following your heart
the faster it would go
the quicker the tempo
and soon you'd trip
fall and beg the moon for forgiveness
and only then would she let the sun rise
to shed light on the beauty you had just created
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
grumble grumble
mutter mumble
coffee stumble
back upstairs
power shower
five to the hour
stubble trouble
need a shave
The mirror talks to me
she says
'look at what you see'
I see
me in
duplicate
triplicate
quadrupled
and the glass shows every line and all the time in front, behind me and in passing where they'll find me one day glued into the wallpaper
a shape
a shadow lifting in the settings of a garden where a Rose that blooms is watching me go by.
but I'm shaved and feel quite sane now, this is how my mind can wander through the Monday morning ritual
I have bacon in the frying pan and baked beans on the plate
though I'm late and Kate can eat them, Kate's the cat and she quite likes men
I'm not sure that she likes me though I am late
so that's debatable.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
Heading into Bethlehem . . .
Three Wise Men,
In search of a stable.
Heading out of Bethlehem . . .
Three Wise Turkeys,
While they were - still able.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
shells sang subtle songs
as wishes walked upon land
sinking beneath waves
but wishes are three
neither more than triplicate
yearning happiness
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
It used to be much easier to tell a story
Linear
A protagonist
An antagonist
A beginning and an end
Two hours
Back to reality
We began to tell our stories in triplicate
Two hours
Wait
Two hours
Wait
Two hours
Conclusion
Now it takes a lifetime to tell a story
Three hours
Wait
Three hours
Wait
Three more hours
Wait wait
Six or seven stretched across a decade
Everything is an epic now
Bright and loud and larger than life
Spinning them out with such carelessness
Undermining the meaning
Money in the pockets
When all I want is a warm quiet room
And a good book
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
Collections Of A Scattered Mind
Awoke in daylight barely on the edge of twilight, before feet hit the floor suddenly forced to count the score
Days without sleep the price now obvious but steep, began routine while slowly realizing a change has been made
Too often has been played off bright blush part of the bluff, I know now was simply hiding what was truly in store
First signs slowly coming out, so used to vertigo the floor was tilted and I did not know, morning mingling familiar cranium tingling, hints come in pieces slowly showing how the body or mind has decayed
Morning motions coming around unaware if something was lost so often surprised when it is found, done many times before at least the countdown not starting from a floor
Flowing moments floating on an edge felt deeply as if a member of a secret club, many others search for hidden clues and wonder if their dues have been paid
Begin a checklist while lost in the foggy mist, reflections come as voids or in triplicate listless and lost, images mixed liked work socks in the top drawer
Views narrow but as my mind widens come in bursts that truly hurt, not a major concern as I have learned, still checking the list for new issues to be displayed
Realize as I analyze simple motions become a hard notion, thickness of time part of the illness mind and body wading through waters waiting to come ashore
My mind like a broken chain, scattered links come together slowly form bringing strength, as it grows longer my brain is stronger, only time ends this mindless charade
Making better connection with what is now a concoction or collection of my scattered mind, my brain is empty waiting for the river of knowledge to refill the reservoir
Now aware this day will be played but on ever changing stage, not to regress like taking a familiar test, best to take things light without fright as my mind brings down another barricade
R.C.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 3:06 PM UTC
Though the world spins faster and faster,
Though my heart beats rhythmically out of time
The lights of the world fade around me
A shadow of regret concealed in a shade of unknowing emotion
Creeps into the unmarked bowels of my soul.
I grow cold in a beautiful crystallized entity of who I was
Lost with no chance if return,
Forgotten not by others but my myself
Hands on the map
But my compass is severed in triplicate
I am ice.
Deadly, cold,
Yet I encase a wonder that is truly only marveled by life itself
For I wipe out the old and sacrifice my own life to bring back joy to the world
I am ice known by all but forever alone
Across an inhospitable landscape I glide
Taken all that defy me to hell
Where the shall not parish in fire
But in the glow of my crystallizing stare
Tortured for eternity
I make myself know
To those who fear my wrath
The set of the alarms
For they foresee my coming
Only because I let them
I let them fear me
It give me strength to control
Causes me isolation from the world
Where I feel safe in my castle of cold
Blocked out from the misery of life
I am ice
Frigid, Rough
Yet upon my surface a softness is found
Protecting the nurturing core within the call my soul
I am ice destroyer and protector
I put on the show
I play a grand and epic façade
But when I melt away I am gone
Only a memory of my once great beauty is left
A sick reminder that everything lovely must die
I am not ice, I am merely snow
Weak and malleable to the hands of man
Eventual I disappear and water remains
Only to evaporate under the light of the sun.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
I'm tired, so tired
They look into my eyes and some
turn away
some hold their gaze.
What do they see I wonder,
what would they say
if walls between crumbled?
I'm weary of the game,
weary of throwing up my soul
in dark alleys so that the yellow men
won't know that I'm considering their offer.
Cicero was right though, **** him
all is indeed vanity and it is my lot
my cursed blessing to be able to see
through the tides of ******** nearly
hitting the high water mark.
It's an old game we play,
I the Jackal, and they the fat takers
those peddlers of ease, the green frog skin men
the flimsy platters of slot machine tokens,
the pale promise of pleasures unending
if only I sign on the dotted line,
in triplicate and also a thumbprint
and also we'll need your social plus two pieces of mail.
Whenever I get a bit too far gone they're around,
pushing their world with far better skill than
the very many dealers I've bought release from,
and yet the ultimate deal remains the same:
give us your identity, your fire, and in return
you need not suffer any longer.
It's a decent offer I guess, but they push a bit
just a bit too hard to play it off,
they always show their hand too soon and I know
that for some reason they want me more than
I want the release they have on display.
Sorry boys, I'm not the guy you're looking for.
I do have my moments, I'm a deeply broken
scarred and horribly imperfect person
not above taking bribes or stealing to survive,
lustful, greedy and wroth.
For all that you misjudge me,
thinking perhaps hatred of those who've
cut me so deeply could be useful,
failing that, hatred of myself would
perhaps be more beneficial to your plan.
Go ahead then, cut me away, turn my love to ash,
pull my once bright courage down into
the slime that brought down my grandfathers.
Do what you will and I will indeed despair,
indeed I despair even now, loveless and alone
exiled or freed I know not which.
In the end it doesn't matter,
for you are just as berift as I my enemy,
and we'll meet face to face one day
upon the shore of a distant sea
or perhaps in the darkest heart of
the great river which helped birth us.
Do your worst,
but understand
that which you do unto me
you do unto yourself
poor beloved shadow of mine.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 2:47 AM UTC