"vandal" poems
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
7.9k
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Graffiti
A tagger
A vandal
A villan
A hero
Graffiti writers channel there emotions through a can of spray paint, and then after they are done, they melt back into the city... just another face. Before you know you were even hit, He is probably at home sleeping
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
She was vengeful.
But against whom could she retribute her vengeance?
The rich guy who ***** her and ruined her life?
The police for harassing her in the name of interrogation?
Lawyers who tormented her and ***** her all over again with the twenty questions?
The inconsiderate jury who were bent on paying their children's school fees?
The lab assistant for lying to the jury that she had absolutely no sign of being ***** and she was making this up only because she got pregnant in the act?
The parents and teachers of the evil vandal who made him that way?
The media who were more interested in making it to the front page rather than sympathizing with her?
The government for taking safety precautions so lightly?
Neighbours who looked her down with contempt?
Or herself for not being strong enough to protect herself.
Whom could she blame?
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Nationality shipping ******
Strategy damage fragments
***** puke ***** fraction
Biological ***** disobedience
Fannie pictorial laundries
****** manhood caliphate
Woodworks Biebers frites
****** vandal’s fakes
Utmost openly grim
******* ************
Piled dish cell
Discuss **** ******
Jihad imbeciles reincarnation
Fear fears America
Watching emptiness falling
Dinner screaming nonsense
Deadly velvet laughs
Banality quack leprosy
Games flood biting
Tv nation ******
Swallowed road poets
Animal replied stories
Creature’s terminal idea
Explodes gloom stare
Selling young crack
Game scratch *******
Confuse spill scream
Genitals China responsibility
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
only the children of the vandal.
iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
to our locomotives.
iv.
the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v.
somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
yet i am
not coming home.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
Across this Height from the Land of Swell Tea
The Second Great Angel offers her Palm
Waving, for Frustration to leave me be
And guide the Wildman to induce his Calm
No affront passed for Virtue to behave
When some cry the Vandal for no reason
He comes to charge; But out defends the Knave,
Jousting him off for another Good Season
In you the Friendly Pearl forms; And no doubt,
This lingering Fever affects most Girls
But like your Seven stood still on a Cloud,
Yet keeps the Spell for Good Passion to burn.
Lucky Dear Dame, such Title you will bear
Enjoy your Earnings; Your Man is now there.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:57 AM UTC
In a beautiful garden
sits a pretty flower
surrounded by plant life
it's filled with music
it dances and grows
as chlorophyll flows
But a vandal comes
and digs up theflower
grabs it carelessly
ripping out good roots
soon the flower
lies alone on the street
the music, the life
everything, everyone
is gone
The flower is left alone with itself
the flower hates itself
it's ugly, its wrong, its
just not perfect
and noone tells it otherwise
there is noone else
as it fills with black hate
it ripps off its petals
and plucks out it's seeds
it starts to die
it does not look like it will last til dawn
But it does
and as soon as sunrise
a wise old woman
out for her walk
stumbles upon this
pile of sadness
she gently lifts up the flower
being careful not to rip the leaves
or break the stem
she cradles it in her wrinkly arms
and takes it to her house
she waters it
and watches it
and everday she sings to the flower
day by day she always persists
and sure enough, that flower
grows new petals
and strengthens it's stem
life flowing though it
so lyrical now
it recognises the beauty
that has always been there
One day, the woman
returns the flower to the garden
and the flower dances and sings
and worries no more
because it feels beautiful
on its own
and doesnt need the other flowers
she sings for herself
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
When I am dead, and doctors know not why,
And my friends’ curiosity
Will have me cut up to survey each part,—
When they shall find your picture in my heart,
You think a sudden damp of love
Will through all their senses move,
And work on them as me, and so prefer
Your ****** to the name of massacre.
Poor victories! But if you dare be brave,
And pleasure in your conquest have,
First **** th’ enormous giant, your Disdain,
And let th’ enchantress Honour next be slain,
And like a Goth and Vandal rise,
Deface records and histories
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,
And, without such advantage, **** me then.
For I could muster up as well as you
My giants, and my witches too,
Which are vast Constancy and Secretness;
But these I neither look for nor profess.
**** me as woman, let me die
As a mere man; do you but try
Your passive valour, and you shall find then,
Naked you have odds enough of any man.
2.7k
Frail demeanor of library index cards
packed with Dewey’s decimals
stared upon so many times
some of you stigmatized with graffiti
“Read This” and “Don’t Read This”
as if the vandal knows
I wish to ****** each one of you
good precise direction you give
care in punctilious hand print
of maimed athenaeum tenders
all with long stretched noses
bridging reading spectacles
eyeing out naughty gigglers
stigmatized themselves by
rolled up quaffs
with pushed in pencils
or retractable ballpoint pens
writing implements held so delicately
while you were ascribed
O index cards of my shielded youth
how you protected me, informed me
Guided me on treasure hunts
where my imaginings still take me
away, in isles of knowledge
information coded in numbers and letters
Yours is the power
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
It's the night before
Christmas,
all is quiet and still,
a knock on my door
harsh as winter's chill.
No one is really there
I know,
just wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air
with nowhere to go.
I look at the door
handle,
***** and rusty brown,
like a window decor,
stopping no thief or vandal.
There's room here somewhere
I know,
for wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air,
with nowhere to go.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 6:39 AM UTC
A maniac is inside our gates
putting more words to eat on our plates
vandal of what we hold so dear
who the hell let him in here
i would put my house up for sale
but i refuse to let reality prevail
i surround myself with words of peace
with the neighbor, who's house is on lease
a new resident is on our block
it's time to change and re-key the lock
we need to keep the others out
they're not about what we're about
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 10:34 AM UTC
A tyrant king, a
Vandal’s scream
Of moor & rock
And fair I sing;
Life’s to its
Test, guer-
don of unrest,
&strife; believed!
Milked out
like utter red; lipids
****** hard
at birth: semi-
born: made
three legion’s ****
careful; cuz fate’s,
Allectus, mean.
Made in sheaths
An aural memor-
y lock, a- nswer ur
calling; tricky to
be bad &get; a-
way w/it! Caraus-
ius’s on guard
duty; he’s in.
Fog in chan-
nel; no lights:
Bware! Usurp-
ing cou- ntry,
mauling& killing men
To ob- tain
Power; @any
risk in Britain.
gold insignias!
shine ur lite!
greed can’t
pay—poenas dat!
Ascle-
piod-
otus
hears:
He, Allectus does a-
way w/.
Besei-
ge in London—rime
the trea-
sure al-
located;
Vain he found, good.
Crack souls’ ice;
To ruin comes
conceit, comes
that rip- ped part.
Ah, to p’wer& knifes
Like wo- rds...
P’wer slashes
Carves, &impales;.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
Poetry with rhyme its what I do
Master of the old creator of the new
One with the flow my powers are true
Wizard of the word I can dazzle you...
Tingle when we Tango
Mingle then I'll mangle
Tagging hearts hmm I'm a Vandal
Hold to trust like a handle
Bad I own tell tales unknown
Heads explode minds are blown
Methodical turn every stone
Spiritually twisted I have grown
Feeding..Forcing..running its course in
Married today tomorrow divorcing
A solider must **** with no remorsing?
Fight silly wars governments are forcing
Like Cattle hear the rattle of the bell
Set on a path straight to hell
Barbeque babies whatever they can sell
Sad are the tales we never tell
Witness to the scene of a crime
Watch we do with eyes of blind
Searching for saviors to save our mind
Spoken in the language of Poetry with Rhyme...
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
Great flood vandal
Pillager of awareness
Refuse to let go
Washed away
Cleansed
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
i live
for messages strangers leave
on sidewalks
bridges
trees
i love
hearts carved into wood
names and dates
that may no longer mean anything
we leave a little piece of our souls
everywhere we go
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
each tempered by slivered moments:
slovenly on the floor lay tethered,
both, separate,
honest light.
when it is time that you do not
see anymore, the shadow of my passing,
when the twilight gives rise,
a felled star in the world,
when damp kisses are beleaguered
by the driest of lips,
out of merely, a wide-eyed vainglory,
there will be nothing that all my songs
send a dancing, tiptoeing light
careful to arrive at one day
when you face is held with utmost care
and my hands not its owner,
but a handful of names.
when it comes that we are two fish
struggling in a current's dream —
not a single twitch is born. you will slip
past the interstice of love's net
and i cannot see you anymore in the
depthless blue.
the intelligence of stone tells me
nothing but silence, hemmed in
to a great monolith of daylight.
i exaggerate, the sinking of ships
and amble blindly with the whole of
my motion, like flotsam weary of its
preordainment. portraits sow themselves
battles, cleaving them minutely against
the simmer of quiet. when it is time
to let you go, i will watch you leap forth
into the ripe air like a child seeking
home, reiterates in flight a height
i cannot reach for.
when it is time all of this,
mote it be, clenches in thinned streaks
of turpentine, all of my walls will be clear
and not a sign of your colour
will scream pain like a tortured vandal.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
mime,give me flowers in the dark
paint me a picture of gods
make me someone holy
when im dead i hope you cauterize the hole in your chest
sorry about the mess we left,sorry about the apple tree,sorry about the taste in your mouth
i hope its not too bitter for you
is this the part where i apologize for ripped sheets on a bed that never belonged to me in the first place?
sorry,sweetheart,sorry that i wasnt the right narcissistic ***** for you
is this the part where you mutilate a french love song?i hope it all works out for you
i hope you find an ax buried in the coffin underneath the apple tree
i hope you use it to demolish my house,i hope you find my corpse
and i hope you cauterize the hole in your chest
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
I dropped her off on the other side of the city
Lights blur past my window
And I lose focus
A different kind of space travel
I don’t know why I drove here instead
The house on Ellen
I had always imagined it as a sad thing
Keeping the shape of comfort
Waiting lonely for me to come back to it
The shattered window
And the holed walls
The singed edge crop-circle in the living room carpet
I broke in
The place smelled new
Like fresh paint
And good credit
I am not a vandal
But these places don’t feel like home
Unless something has been broken
Tonight
It was just a lock
My tires hugged the road like it didn’t want me to be there
Like hydroplaning without the rain
And every red light turned green
Just after I hit the breaks
Like a bully placing a hand on my chest and then saying
“Nah, I’m just ******* with you. Keep on going.”
There’s this place I sleep most nights
Only
I am still in the parking lot writing this
And I don’t want to go upstairs yet
By my parking place
Frogs ribbit
They sound content
Though they live along the water drainage line that seems like a stream
Only there are more flies and crickets to eat here
Home is a funny place
So I have decided this
Not that I believe in God but
I’ve decided
His hands are as big as the world
So big it is easy to feel like no one is holding you
Even when you're being hurled a million miles an hour
And maybe that is why I feel I have no home
I mean
Hold me like you are small too
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC