"vandals" poems
"Do you know who the prime minister of Canada is?"
"Hmmm isn't it Tim Horton?"
Sweating, shivering, and shoveling snow,
Looking up with relief as the flakes begin to slow.
Starting our mornings with pancakes drizzled in gooey sweet syrup
And greasy, cheesy, poutine being our last meal we eat up.
We hike up a green lush mountain just to see the view
And shoot down the slopes of silvery snow and feel as if we flew.
The rascally beavers are our vandals, the loons are our song,
The cougars reminding us that we are strong.
We are Canadian, eh?
But would we really want it any other way?
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
Halfway between Malta and Saco,
Highway 2 stops a minute
To look back...
Beside the road
A little shrine waits
The traveler:
A stone, naturally shaped
To form a sleeping buffalo,
But etched with lines to emphasize
The dozing buff's back and sides
And drowsing head.
Nearby, a 1920s entrepreneur
Saw money to be made...
Set up a happenstance hotel
Beside the hot and sulf'rus spring,
And "Sleeping Buffalo" was born
To "heal" and to amuse
Odd tourists in their wandering.
Not much has changed...
The old buff sleeps,
But now inside a little pen
To keep the tourist vandals
Safely from his way.
The old resort is open still...
Same rusty pipes and yellowed walls
And rusty water
Warm enough to stain
Unlucky bathing suits.
(The smell's enough to force
The bather to the bath as medicine....)
On my way to other places
I have stopped along the road
To meditate beside the old stone bull...
I understand, a little,
Now that I am growing old,
Tobacco offerings left
Beside the sleeping stone.
Though not a Pagan,
I can feel the distant Ways
Before our Western ways
Made tourists of us all.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
A waste paper bin
Left in the corner.
Containing little folded up letters,
Discarded as the heart was.
A gang of stupid teenage vandals having a laugh,
Disregarded what they had done.
Disposed of the butts irresponsible after having their smokes,
In the bin.
Not doused.
The silly lads.
Wandered away.
They did not see the smouldering,
the burning in that bin
The origami scraps,
Folded as swans,
Too charred to fly away.
Sadly written on the innards of the origami swans,
Words carried on love letters never to be seen again.
Their love was carried away on a puff of white smoke.
(c) Livvi
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Spt 5-- domestic dispute inv alcohol + firearms Hawkins Terr. area-- Spt 7-- burglary purses stolen from 3 cars Wipple St-- night of Spt 18-19-- vandals untied shoes of large statue Center Park-- Spt 20-- mugging homeless suspect young woman cheeseburger Rt 8--
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
Life it's just a boardgame
But it comes without instruction
There's happiness joy
Devastation corruption
Good days sad days
Cruel ways crime that pays
Gotta learn the rules fast
Play the game
Make it last
If you wana be a winner
Got more chance as a sinner
The games hard can't be slow
You'll Learn more as you go
There's pleasure treasure
Love we can't measure
Politics religion
Prostitutes and virgins
Special occasions
No order in the nations
Good intentions
Wrong interpretations
Wrangles scandals
******** n vandals
Temptation resistance
Council tax insistence
Birthdays holidays
Cruel ways crime that pays
Gotta learn the rules fast
Play the game make it last !
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
It seems to me that the smaller the monument
the more likely it is to survive
over time
to be passed over by water
or vandals
but with brevity comes the issue of remembrance
Over my father and mother
and dog Chipper
lie several rocks
just rocks without any label or ornamentation
Which begs the question
is a monument a monument if it bears no explanation
and the monument's creators have passed
and with them the knowledge of why it was placed?
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Slap of leather magnified
Where Caesar’s legion marched
Setting sun of golden light
Though’ Roman tongues are parched.
Pewter helmets bronzely glow
Sweat cascades from dusty brow
Whilst o’er hill the Vandals mass
Salivating hot blood now.
Short swords cleat with marching rythm
Stabbing lances high and cold,
Metronome in stamping sandals
Onward now to victory’s fold.
Scarlet standards fly on high
The statement of intent is clear
Caesar’s men have promised now
To desiccate from ear to ear.
Grey ghost high above bears witness
Cadence of advancement grows,
Column strides in face of chaos
Lowered lance’s sharp steel shows.
Engagement in a stony basin
Flesh and blood, as one, combine,
Cut and slash in perfect order
Stab a *** and make him mine.
Darkness hides her chilling secret
Brooding silence stills the air,
Dawn’s first rays reveal the spectre
Carnage killed with none to spare.
Grey ghost’s hang in gaunt remembrance
Vespers ring in solemn tone,
Gone forever Caesar’s promise
Dead in vanquished blood and bone.
Marshalg
Inspired by Anselm’s “Broken Promise to Caesar.”
21 March 2013
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Happy Birthday Heather
I will not state your age
If people want to know it
They can go visit your page
You run a band of poets
A band of Lunatics at heart
But, you saw something in us
And you saw it from the start
We all write different styles
Some are funny, some morose
Some of us have stories
And sometimes, we get gross
But, Heather, you're our leader
And on behalf of all us vandals
Don't put the fire brigade to work
....so don't light your ****** candles!!!
Happy Birthday Hev! Best wishes
We share more than just a last name in my book.
All the love
Roger and Megan Turner
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
Well of course, Your Honour, I can explain,
why I urinated on the train.
You see the first toilet appeared to be locked,
and the other one of course was blocked.
Is it wrong? You could dispute,
Do you expect ‘Moi’ to ruin an Armani suit?
Clearly men of our position,
can appreciate my pleas of contrition?
What’s that you say? Inebriated?
A glass or two, it should be stated -
for the record, which should also note,
the tear in the sleeve of my cashmere coat,
caused by the vandals that restrained,
as I was wrongly cuffed and detained.
As a chap of substance before the court,
perhaps my innocence could be bought?
No, no, not a bribe of course,
more a donation of remorse.
It’s not as if the jury gives a ****
they obviously don’t realise who I am.
It is clearly just the wrong decision,
to send a man of breeding to a prison.
A witness says that I was ******
And that I tried to stand up but missed?
What slanderous lies of lesser classes,
perhaps I’d had three or four healthy glasses.
And reports of singing and standing on my seat,
are fabricated, nonsense and incomplete.
Cameras saw me strike the face -
of a man, with my leather briefcase?
Perhaps at this stage I should refrain,
and allow you to address this stain -
on my character which I’m sure you agree,
is beneath the contempt of someone like me.
Surely you can’t have confirmed my guilt?
What about the reputation I’ve built?
Before they take me, please pray tell,
will there be a servant in my cell?
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 9:32 AM UTC
Breaking things is vandalism,
And vandals deserve a 6×9×12 cell,
But what of sportspersons?
They keep breaking records,
Mostly someone else's records,
And sometimes their own.
Shouldn't they be jailed?
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
My days at Penlandia definitely reached its afterglow
Now it’s hard for me to find my rhythm
Hopefully, the soul of some of my poetry will find their mark
If not unto someone’s head, then to somebody’s heart
I hope my words are not just vandals on the wall
Nor merely a stain on the paper
I created them to touch, stab, **** and make love
To bring peace unto hell and create fire in the sky above
It’s up to your eyes now, my dearest readers to magnify
Hate my stuff or love them
What's the reason why I’m inches away on parking my pen?
Voices from the other side echoes within my ear again and again
That’s why I’m writing this poetry as if my last
But if one day you’ll see me deploying another poem
I hope you enjoy stories with an unexpected ending
Besides, even the afterglows have a little radiance remaining
Mysterious Aries
11/19/2015
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Stupid white girl.
We are not allowed to do anything.
We're prim and proper, white girls.
We are not allowed to fight back.
Put us in our place, white girls.
We are not allowed real work.
We still want our twenty three cents back.
The child of fair skin and blue eyes.
But with all my female privilege,
Came a nasty stamp on my body.
Like a watermark.
FEMALE.
I have heard that when a woman looks in the mirror, she sees a woman.
But when a man looks in the mirror, he sees a human.
Even with that watermark, our pale skin is used as a canvas.
And everyone else has been handed the tools to color in our curves.
Covering us in blue and black and purple and red.
Redrawing our minds so they cannot process the discrimination,
Painting over our tears so our feelings can be buried,
Manufacturing open legs when you want them,
Closed when you don't.
Erasing the lips we use to speak out,
Erasing the eyes we use to see all of this.
You think just because you held the brush,
Just because you created this monstrosity of a "masterpiece"
You get to claim ownership of this piece of artwork
That you blatantly disregard
Is my BODY.
The "fe" you tack onto "male"
Does not stand for Free Entry.
The "wo" you tack onto "man"
Does not stand for Wipe Out.
Women are barely able hold a pencil.
I was lucky to hold one long enough to draw myself
A conscience, a backbone, legs to stand on, and a mind.
We were only taught how to use the back end of that pencil
To erase our mouth and keep the secrets.
But these days the secrets are keeping themselves.
I will not be put in a glass case
You will not charge admission
To have people come and analyze me.
Buy me.
Give me value.
Categorize me.
Preserve me the way you created.
You are no artists.
You are vandals.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
Those cosmopolitan provincials sorts
the chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
them retro-grade grade-less sub-humans bottom feeders
who think Cardiff is in East Angular and Magaluf is Eden
and Higher Education begins in Borstal or a stint at HM Prisons
found by happenstance a tin of Caviar
something they'd never seen before
with the curiosity of practiced thieves
they proceeded to examine its worth
'its a tin of hair gel says one'
'No, no, no says another, I think its something you eat'
'it says Caviar Royal Beluga, observes another'
'throw it away, anything with a name like that is rubbish'
'Beluga...some foreign muck, it look dark and oily'
'yea mate, look like **** throw it away'
One of the dis-advantaged rabble with one O'level in Carpentry
took a closer look
'look he says, there's sticker on the bottom that reads
Caviar Royal Beluga – 1kg £3,780.00'
Hahahaha they all roared in ceaseless mirth, hahaha
'some joker is having a laugh, pull the other leg, fancy...
a tin of black gunge in some slimy stuff cost three grand,
must think people are born yesterday, Beluga..fuckoffluga'
And with that, they tossed the tin away and walked off
laughing like *********
Ignorance is a disease, ignorance is bliss
will vandals extol the sheer magnificence of a Constable
or see anything other than a chair in a Chippendale ribbonback chair,
will Barbarians shed a tear on hearing the sensuous notes of Chopin or shiver at the graceful notes of Debussy or melt in sheer
adoration as Tchaikovsky's romance soars in magical resonance.
Will cosmopolitan heathens gape in mesmerizing wonder on
seeing Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel and praise God for being alive
So who has great expectations of our dear cosmopolitan provincials sorts
those chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
for in disparaging excellence
and rubbishing the noble and the exceptional
they make us appreciate more that we are blessed
and privileged
and do not have
semolina for brains
hey!
who would like some caviar
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
I foster an incremental relation to the cosmos, enticed regularly by its indefiniteness and appeal.
Its evolutions, innate behaviors, and formidable sciences are recompense for earth’s meager discrepancies.
I often engage in the caprice to dismount much dissatisfaction by the constancy of riveting celestial events.
These beings possess no artificiality.
Its prophetic order, ornate and stupendous architectural facets have allowed a crescendo of dispositional hysteria.
Prosaic imprecations are deduced from its auxiliary wherewithal.
There is no contrition in immersing in enthrallment nor is there fickleness in trust.
Magnificent bodies orbit in finesse and probability, achieving universality and control.
Though these incitements are exponentially cheering, my origin is but connoted in despondency.
Usurpers and ill-suited vandals proliferated by the intemperance of the Ptolemaic discipline.
Rustics, miscreants and idle minds misdirected by less virtuous planetary derision.
My cognitive severity asserted by ominous consummation.
Oh how these preponderant truths confine me unfortunate.
Soliloquy is but an affliction amidst this era of anachronistic reign.
Grandiose passivity is intolerable at this time.
I plan to dichotomize my adamant fate from precepts and conditions anew.
The deposition of malfeasant kings will be sought.
Ploys I have already configured; propagation is near to instigation.
I will exhort my ascent to prime eminence.
The stars will sanction me to a rightful end.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
Your eyes touch the back of my mouth. Make it so hard to swallow.
I never breathed so evenly, my stomach feels so hallow.
I'll bury my face in your neck. Allow me to sink my tongue, and
Drown my teeth into your arms. Your breath fills my lungs.
Everything is easy now, since we simply let it be.
This is anything but sarcastic, the way our colors bleed.
I love your golden irises, I love your sepia skin.
Wrap yourself around my bones and melt into my ribs.
I feel like our arms glide through each other,
Like dancing lovers, after years of familiarization
Predictability in every step, but for once
Comforting to know what's going to come next.
Your hands hieroglyph the language of my fingernails
Decoding a sensation that belongs to something bigger than us,
And finally understanding that it's okay to touch that.
Contentment for war. Trading pity for empathy.
Trading sympathy for care.
You were always in the confines of my aching head,
Your name is in all my search-bars.
If I had the right fingers, I would create you in marble
I would design a statue and have it be gilded
In your honor. And if there was a temple for us,
It would be in the shape of a man, aimed at the earth.
He would be bowing to a large evergreen tree.
And our initials would be carved on the side.
Let's finally spraypaint our faces in underpasses
Eyes like this deserve to be gazed into.
Eyes like yours.
Deep breathing, my face in your chest.
Breastbone meeting skull
Dripping my lips onto your skin
Like candlewax.
If you kiss me with finality,
"I promise, darling, I'll kiss you back."
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 10:35 AM UTC
And this is desperation
it is muttering to a windowshade and dreaming
"always" "always" always
it is looking without seeing
when every side street and roadside looks like
the devil's territory
it is what you sound like when you speak
all your sentences backwards
it is listening to sad songs on airplanes
and pretending like nothing has ever changed before
it is staring at varicose veins
like vandals
underwater
it is building shelves for every little thing
so every bigger thing goes not astray
it is becoming a martyr
for the morningdew chills
it is watching as skyscrapers blur
Apr 23, 2011
Apr 23, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
I dreamt of travel disruption last night
and haven’t woken up since; know that though,
a whole ****** of crows hidden along
the hemline of a coat was not the
reason I was late, nor were black stamps spat
out through mirrored windows, panes unmoored from
frames in the wake of two late goodbyes: one
said at a check-in desk disguised as point
A; the second, central, wrapped around an
orbit of children where they now lay.
This news- again, it is news- is an air-
bag of ears, of interviews, listening
so we don't have to, colouring pallor
in post so the ghosts of aftermath do
not go unnoticed when we believe it
may not of have happened.
I'm going to buy out the sky right of
tragedy and skywrite,
vandals of companionship are not tolerated below this message, or above.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
I.
All I know exists between clenched fists.
My hands didn’t come this way.
Everything foreign rubs them raw,
no matter how gentle.
This is how my body looks out for me.
There used to be sand here.
I held on so tight, I lost it.
Now, the sand dwells with two-way mirrors
and fish who need fresh air.
II.
Most days, I’m best left alone.
The handy-woman loosens my screws,
and thinks she’s always right.
On the days I’m a fish out of water,
she sees me as a crying baby.
She must be hungry, and the airplane comes again.
She’s still crying, and the airplane comes again.
I am not enough, and the airplane comes again.
When my belly swells,
she paints a barcode on my arm,
tries to exchange me for store credit.
III.
All that matters escapes me.
I’ve learned more from the vandals
shooting blow darts at the moon
than I ever did out west.
Most days, I doubt that I’m still breathing.
My lungs are worms’ meat.
My lungs don’t know if they need water or air.
Thank God for shallow ends and seltzer.
IV.
These IOUs are legs
my brain can’t recognize.
I clamp them at the knees;
I pray for gangrene.
When the doctors drain the infection,
they say, this can’t be what you want.
This is how I look out for my body.
I’m still searching for a saw.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
Consigned **** crows these hours...
graffiti sputtered on the wall,
capturing the nervosity of its vandals.
The overpass' heavy respiration of
fugitive traffic kept on.
Incoming evening made senseless
overtures...to a time and place that
knows death grows more libidinous as
light dims.
The long way home knows a longer way--
as the black of rats mend distances...
everything seems close enough to bump
into.
To stub the mind's light against...
and against...the subconscious and its
raw maladjustment.
An arm lost to its length, a foot lost to
its step...ingested and digested by hours
that cannot fend for themselves.
So dreams improvise, as eyes close
by degrees...a tonic to what refuses
unveiling.
Almost as if one stood hushed in a
darkened hallway...staring at a skeleton
key in its lock for hours.
Unremitting flashes of lightning creating
the illusion of its turning...the door
opening.
Thus, the tension of what's done and
undone--the visiting hours of apprehension...
of which the consigned **** crows.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
Unfurl origami entries dated
March 8, June 2, countless undated of an
amygdala hijacked
that pitted Moira against Peirce,
rejecting my name of Kismet,
to watch Forer take his effect
(who now has spread his contagion),
babysitting Little Albert while
Watson scribbled notes in the lecture hall;
witness sagacity smeared all over skull walls,
spackled on cranial ceilings
as I stuck my head out onto subway platforms and
displayed out onto train tracks in my
mind's eye in favour of recalling
Christmas festivities with sisters dolled up in
grandeur hospital ball gowns as
subjects were consoled in camps and
I slept in fields
screaming anything audible to
no one,
listening to track 2 on a
continuous loop,
sitting on flagpoles and lamp posts
as vandals smashed and grabbed,
cackles echoing in alleyways...
now before I vanish right before
your very eyes
tell me,
why
am
I
here
?
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
I know her by name.
I know her by face.
Only, I don't even
know her at all.
I think I've seen her
once,
and for once
I wasn't disappointed.
We are so much alike
only she has brighter eyes.
We are so much alike;
So, I figured
from black and white
I could be pastel--
faded bright.
We are so much alike
only she drinks psalms
like the preacher's wine.
Before I abandoned religion
I used to kneel
and break bread every Sunday, too.
So, I figured
I could still be as holy
if I clapped my hands together
and whispered litanies
on candles burning outside chapels—
faded light.
We are so much alike
in the way we love
books and music,
anything aesthetic.
But, I am wrapped in tin foil
and she dons silk and laces.
Same filling,
different faces.
And kid, I wouldn't blame you
for craving
the same flavor
in different packaging.
We are so much alike
only, compared to her
porcelain China doll skin,
I am a witch's voodoo,
covered in pins and needles
piercing rough skin,
a cheap imitation—
a fake.
We are so much alike
only I'm lying
when I say we are
because she is pastel
paint in coffee shops
and I am crayola
vandals on the sidewalk.
And let's admit pretty
isn't anything I would
ever be.
It makes me sick.
Because I'm not like her.
I'm never going to be just
pretty;
Pity, that's all they ever want us to be.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
you are everything,
you are everyone,
you are every cliche
...you are the sun
you are oxygen,
you are in the trees,
you are orange leaves,
you are cool autumn breeze
that spreads across my spine,
you are forgotten dreams,
you are a glass of wine,
you are what reminds,
you are fine lines,
you are the key,
you are a plus sign,
you are what girls try
to become,
you are the why,
you are the sum,
you are bassdrums,
you are a symphony,
you are the child too naive
to realize that he's on stage,
you are every page,
you are every book,
you are the librarian's glasses,
you are classes,
that i may or may not have took,
you are the stun experienced
when things fall into place,
you are every race,
you are the taste,
of fresh produce,
you are abuse,
escapen,
you are an excuse,
shaken,
you are the noose,
breakin',
you are the clues,
finally taken,
you are a puzzle with pieces
all aligned,
you are dominos lined up
right before they fall,
you are every hall,
you are each phone call,
you are the brick wall
that kids throw tennis ***** against,
you are consequence,
you are every scent,
you are fresh cement,
waiting to be written on,
you are every song,
you are every play,
you are Broadway,
you are the crowds,
you are everything i say,
you are SCREAMING LOUD
in unallowed places,
you are familiar faces,
you are a smile after braces,
you are untied laces,
you are jumping over cracks,
you are warm candle wax,
you are dark moments
lightened by humour,
you are rumours
being shattered,
you are fish,
beer battered,
you are wishes,
when they matter,
you are the everafter,
you are the former,
and the latter,
you are the feet in the swimming pool
of those who cant swim,
you are slim jims,
you are macho man randy savage,
you are a test above average,
you are an ebay feedback rating,
you are ice skating,
on frozen lakes,
you are every birthday cake,
and every candle,
you are frosted milkshakes,
you are socks with sandals,
you are being outside the norm,
you are insightful vandals,
you are anarchy, restrained,
you are villains, reformed,
you are emcees without champagne,
you are Dylan on tour,
you are looking down,
before you let go,
you are a star's glow,
you are a peep show,
you are every mystery,
you are pot-pourri,
you are the guarantees
that are actually kept,
you are the moment
you forget why you wept,
you are the fizzy beverage
that makes one reminisce
or accept,
you are the first kiss,
you are the final step,
you are the trace of the past
that one must chase,
you are realizing that
time's too fast,
to replace,
you are the sun,
shining down into an unseen place,
you are cliches,
you are warmth and grace,
you are everyone,
that has ever graced,
this time and space,
here and above,
you are everything...
...you are love.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 7:02 PM UTC