"vehicle" poems
the infant
would get
so angry
siblings
would blow
on its face
it would start
breathing
and a biblical
sigh
would usher
itself
into the nursery
of the infant’s
mind
where
vehicle
to a mother’s
heist
a child
of present
fathers
would happily
****
on whoever
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.
At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)
A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.
I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.
However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.
A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.
To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!
Purcy Flaherty.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
A new day, press play, a challenge for one.
Solo for I, never won.
Spawned like magic, 100 people? That’s tragic.
Less would I prefer,
From the bus, I jump and glide
From the wailing heights, I go to a bush and hide.
Found a camp, a player I’ve tramped,
One closer to being a champ.
Many people less, beginning to stress,
Loot everywhere, what a mess!
In this battle, I thought I would be fine,
But in the distance, I saw a white line,
With the numbers of sixty-nine,
A soccer skin! A soccer skin! Oh God, oh why?
Building fast as the speed of light,
All I knew that it could be a hard fight.
Because, with death in my mind, I didn’t know what to do,
Thoughts boggled up, like the texture of goo.
I placed a trap on the wall of wood,
I waited suddenly, wondering when they would,
Yes! I caught them with my trap!
One closer to being a champ.
Found a vehicle of an interesting shape,
Bouncy like a ball, all around, on the landscape,
A Baller! Yes! Now I’m glad,
But no need to use it, I got a launchpad!
However, I could bounce around, Boom! Bam! and Pow!
Then I could tell them, “who’s laughing now?”
However now, I’m in the final two,
I shot his build down, if only he knew,
Now it is over, show off with a ramp,
Now I’ve become the champ.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 8:26 PM UTC
midnights still find me retracing the moments
that led to our thousand lakeside kisses;
they were secrets left in a summer dream.
each second — a bowline knot
leading straight to our
late night drives
and vehicle breakdowns
and last minute goodbyes
at the break of dawn.
midnights still find me sleeping
next to a shoebox of the books you left;
i still hear your voice
when i read the lines
of your favorite paragraphs
the clock hands, mocking,
leading me through a maze of
memories and parking lot conversations.
midnights still find me rewriting histories
with resin-pressed flowers,
maybe the petals will point to where
i started losing you —
and maybe it's in every direction.
the black, bold numbers have become my crumbs
leading to road trips and
to all the bus stops we missed,
kissing;
now i still miss my stop
without your lips next to mine.
and midnights still find me
writing poems like these
but clearly,
you're too far off
for these words to reach.
and now, midnights still find me wanting you back.
and 'til now, midnights still find you gone.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 7:52 AM UTC
I was on my way to a party
Dressed in heels and a crop top
When I entered the corner store
To purchase some snacks
And on my way to the cashier
A man standing in an aisle
Browsing through peanuts
Glanced up and stopped mid-search
When I clicked past him
And proceeded to uncomfortably stare
I walked into the gas station
Wearing dark wash jeans and a v-neck
With my best friend at 2 AM
When two drunken men stumbled in
And began eyeing us up and smirking
My friend leaned in to me and whispered,
"I'm really scared."
Overhearing her, one man elbowed the other
And with a smile on his face taunted,
"Oh no, we're scaring them."
I was at the laundry mat one night
Wearing shorts and a baggy shirt
When a middle aged man across the room
Kept gawking at me from over the washers
Uneasy, I went outside to smoke
To which he stood at the window
And kept a close eye on me
I called a friend and stayed on the phone
Because I was afraid to go back
And get my clothes alone
I stepped out of my vehicle
In my sweatpants and flipflops
To grab some cigarettes quick
When a white bearded man
Was already at my heels
"Hey, how're you honey?"
I quickly replied, "fine".
And hurried into the store
Without looking back
It seems like every time I leave the house
It doesn't matter what I'm wearing
It could be "provocative" or a burlap sack
I always end up feeling threatened
Heartbeat in my ears
Cold sweat on my back
So don't blame it on my outfit
Don't blame it on my actions
Because I'm not asking for it
I just want to be left alone
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "शिव स्वरूपं" published in pratilipi on (Dec. 2017) Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2P4j7vE
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
That face of Lord Shiva is most beautiful in which he holds Ganga in his hairs
The Moon feels blessed by beautifying the head of Shiva as a glittering crown
The Serpants also became jewellery by themselves and decorated his blue neck
Shiva holds the trident on one hand and plays the Damroo from the other one
He has seated himself on a mat of Tiger Skin and rubbed pyre ash on his body
He has left elephant and the horses and decided to travel on an old Bull Nandi
By such an amazing face form, he is always ready for the welfare of devotees
The cruel and wicked have always been afraid of his eldritch face and form.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Shiva (See Line 1): A God (The Destroyer) in Hindu Mythology
Ganga (See Line 1): The Holy river whose flow and speed is controlled by the coiled hairs (Jatas) of Lord Shiiva
Damroo(See Line 4): A sort of musical instrument ( Pellet Drum )
Nandi((See Line 6)): A bull in Indian mythology who is the vehicle of Lord Shiva
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
It is five twenty three
When my world stopped.
I was walking on that corridor
While you were waiting at the corner
Your eyes fixed on something I didn't know
Yet when you hear these footsteps
You began to meet my eye
My heart was beating wildly on and on and on.
I was too terrified,
Terrified to let those gazes go
I was calm on the outside
But too weak that I might be dead in the inside
Why I was this so connected to you?
I know you
I know your name
I know where you lived
I know your favorite color
I know how those little eyes shines when you smile
But no
We haven't talked before
And we didn't do until now.
As you continue looking at my scared big eyes
I started to turn away
And regret all the stupid things I made
From the moment I sat next to you on that public vehicle
Until now that you are there,
There that I don't know where.
I regret being a stranger to you from the beginning till the end.
That's all I am to you:
A stranger you are sitting next to,
Seeing on the hallway,
Giving promoting cards to,
And an audience from the crowd.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
He smelled like my Dad
Or like Old Spice and Zest
He smelled like a person working on cars
Or of the outdoors
He smelled like fresh milled wood
Or like a shirt worn with sweat
He smelled like our living room
Or like our dog named Stanley
He smelled like green trees
Or like a tavern where an un-known band plays
He smelled like an antique dresser
Or like a vintage vehicle
He smelled like warm buttered toast
Or like fresh brewed coffee
Although his smell's been gone for ages
I can still remember the way he smelled
Sometimes I can still smell him
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
My eyes
Have seen in these fifteen years of mine
More horrors than many in a hundred see.
I have seen grief, and bitterness, and pain.
You have given that to me.
That has been your gift.
My heart
Beats at ten thousand times its normal pace
For fear when I see you walk into the room
I know what’s coming next-
Onto the streets,
And into a stranger’s unforgiving arms.
My skin,
Littered with bruises you left,
Is a canvas for the horrifying picture
You wish to paint me into-
One where you are the puppet master
And I your marionette.
But I am only a child,
Not a vehicle for your twisted pleasure.
My body
Will not pay your bills.
Not after you left me with a child.
I wear loose clothes to hide her- it’s a girl, I think.
And I won’t let you take her away.
My feet
Will carry me far away from here,
As soon as I’ve scrounged up
Enough spare quarters, caught on the ***** concrete
You force me into walking every night,
I'll catch a bus or two away from here.
My dreams
Will not be broken.
I am strong.
On Thursday night, I’ll fly away from here.
And you’ll forget me
I mean nothing to you.
My captor,
Puppet master,
Force of evil,
You’ll find another.
I wish her fast escape.
I will be free.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
My dear,
We have
Lost your image!
Display your vivacity!
Unable to recall your voice!
Speak loudly,
Through dancing with wind!
Forget your fragrance!
Spread it through wave!
Unable to recall your colour !
Delighted with your blossoming flower!
******
She replies.......
How can I?
Your bulldozer relics us!
How can I?
Your buildings stifle us!
How can I ?
Burning fuel of your vehicle and machine,
Intimidated us!
How I can
You called us ****
How can I ....................?
*****
My dear
Our imp dominates us!
Please salvage us!
****
My dear
Please extend your hand
To clutch and revive us.........
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
I was waiting for him on the escalator on one side of the road
My Heart pumped at the highest rate when all at once realized abode.
Saw him looking generously dashing riding a scooter
He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans and his hair were messy but modish.
And here I was standing in my usual tank top and jeans,
hair tied in a messy ponytail
just then He saw me, waved And parked his vehicle near my usual bus stop
I walked to his way with my bag full of books.
We sat on the bench and started random talks about everything except what we thought about.
He then started using his phone and I was beginning to feel ignored. He on a spur of moment stopped and stared me and mentioned about our chats and phone calls
"How it started"
"How it became more Frank and comfortable"
"How good friends we became online but never met in real life" strange isn't it?
Then I told him I have to leave and the 'awkward silent moment' and he finally spoke "yeah"
We shook our hand and he refused to let me go
So I smiled and left his hand and eye contact and stood in the row
The bus started moving and I saw him standing there only, shrugging his shoulder and leaving that place.
That was my first and last with him or anyone!!
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
Butte Magic of Ignorance
Butte Magic
Is the same as no-Butte
All one light
Old Rough Roads
One High Iron
Mainway
Denver is the same
'The guy I was with his uncle was
the govornor of Wyoming'
'Course he paid me back'
Ten Days
Two Weeks
Stock and Joint
'Was an old crook anyway'
The same voice on the same ship
The Supreme Vehicle
S.S. Excalibur
Maynard
Mainline
Mountain
Merudvhaga
Mersion of Missy
4.7k
In a fit of pique truths were written.
In a moment of reflection all was deleted.
Platitudes were written back instead.
Who am I to speak of the dead?
A wife was ungrateful with truth.
Did a pen pal want
what the sacred vows of marriage
Make unacceptable realities?
For whom would I have written? Who would it have pleased?
Staring at a fresh e-mail in humbled wonderment
that someone would give decent pretense to care
I -safely back from war- now ask: what do you want to know?
Do you really want to know?
Is it my place to tell
of seeing a man's insides
on the outside
of a vehicle who's occupants he unwittingly saved
by stepping on the landmine instead?
The mine splattered the survivors' vehicle in red.
Is it my place to tell
Of listening to the medic's confession?
Hearing him speak of tasting the blood in the air
like pennies on his tongue.
There's a tale I haven't heard sung!
I met my Shadow
I embraced him so deeply that I
As I had existed before
Ceased to be.
The naive child thinking it was Light
The Predatory Survivor others (cowards!) may judge as Dark
Were forged together
Stronger perhaps
Time will tell
As the alloy of two selves is unified by a personal hell
Cheering at outgoing steel rain
Laughing after the whizzing of bullets is a memory
Running, racing to donate more blood
Mourning the fallen while bathed in the dim red glow of chem lights
Watching honored corpses loaded in near darkness for their last helicopter flights
Is this what you wanted to hear?
Perhaps you knew.
Perhaps you imagined you knew.
Regardless
For your consideration
Thank you
For your innocent
Well-intentioned
Beautifully petty
Gloriously naive
And honest letters
Thank you.
Truly
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
Crush a bit, little bit, roll it up, take a hit
Feeling lit, feeling light, 2 AM, summer night
Hands on the wheel, uhh, **** that
Life for me is just **** and brews
See the hoes flock to you when your name is Q
Am I over-faded? Hell yeah it's true
Turn a beat on, ain't no limit to what I can do
See this Top Dawg in heat, but I'm a **** the world
I'mma be on tunes 'til God re-furls
You sat me down, I'm still tryna get higher
You looked at me stupid when I twisted the fire
Meanwhile my ***** drunk as ****
A ***** ****** up, we all ****** up
You done ****** up, I brought more blunts
Smoke back to up, you ****** know what's up
Too **** high, can't stand myself
I love drunk driving, man I'm something else
Heat on my side, you're more than welcome to melt
I'm 'bout to finish a pound, you're more welcome to help
**** and brews, **** and brews
Life for me is just **** and brews
I ****** her once, then I could **** her twice
Yeah, you heard me right, I might **** tonight
Wait hold up, back in this mothafuckin' ***** once again
It's the pretty ********** with a 40 ounce of brew
My ***** Q and we drunker than a *****
We gettin' millis ********** yeah, uh
***** **** and brews, unbelieveable
Got a freak or two, in my vehicle
Got the purple drink, got the yellow drink
Then we mix it up, call it Pikachu
With a little bit of crack, little bit of dope
Little bit of smoke, little coke
Little **** when they on them pills
Little bit of E, little bit of shrooms
Little bit of deuce, what it do, hand on the wheels
And I keep the illest, trillest ******* while I'm swaggin' it
Crush a bit, little bit, that's my pursuit of happiness
If I ****** her once, then I could **** her twice
If I ****** her twice, I might change her life
If I change her life she might hit my ****
We could have a some and we could round it off with three
Her, Mary, and me, I'll keep it strictly G
My philosophy upon living right
***** **** and brews, and head every night
Hope the ***** nice, cause I'mma fight the *****
Beat it down and **** I be clowning with
Black Hippy crew, how swag am I
Be the reason why, she wanna drown my ****
But I soon realized, she was super dry
No paper planes, the Vegas will fly
Don't act surprised, too much Loc inside
Let's get stupid high, to where I can't reply
Love smokin' dope, I won't compromise
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Hormones raging...for what I'm told not to engage in, even if we're engaged, if it's not official than its still revealed as...fornication. There's a disturbing underestimation of the result given for this particular sinful demonstration, society has taught us that we test the car before we drive it, but the 1st issue with this analogy told is that we're comparing human sin to...driving a vehicle? But if we're going to establish analogies on this subject , then, well, why don’t we also consider these: do we begin eating Thanksgiving dinner before were done saying grace? Do they hand out diplomas and degrees for classes you haven't passed yet? Do they give Super Bowl trophies to teams expected to win? So how do we justify receiving the prize of an unmet process? Far too many have allowed marriage to become an afterthought or not even a passing idea our better judgment caught because man had rather receive a temporary pleasure that sin conceives birthed in disobedience, deceptive grip around your conscience until your choked by the demands of a lustful flesh that wants to be fed in continual expedience. Or...Maybe, I’m just being a hater, fighting not to be twistedly envious and curious of a world that I’m forbidden to embrace. Or Maybe I’m fighting...the temptation and frustration of being a single man patiently searching for that good thing and the favor my Father blesses along with her. Maybe I’m fighting...not to nosedive into the bottomless trap laid for human souls, lured in by lack, of self-control. It troubles me in just how simple... he brags and boasts then plots and plans his next victim in the desecration of his and her Creator’s Temple. But It’s not all his fault, because it was up to her to give him the key to this priceless location better known as her body.
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...
I built everything —
it was so clear.
Even though —
it was chaos.
People were worried.
But it was simple.
It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.
Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.
I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.
It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.
Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.
I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?
My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
Two times in four years
We allowed ourselves to be wild.
We found a dark room and four years later
a backseat in an even
Darker vehicle.
The second time was the best
Because I felt twice as bad by the end
But twice as satisfied.
I fell in lust for one hot week
And because of this,
The only fault is my own.
But it still hurts
Worse than losing someone that I
Have l loved every day forever
When I think of your red hair spilling like wine
In some bed
With someone else.
At least you let me have a taste.
I guess I should be grateful.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Be the witness
But not the identity
Mind is a box
Filled with confusion
Heart is the thing
That drives us
Thoughts try to take
Control over it
But body as a vehicle
Must be under the
Control of heart
Witness the truth
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
i hydroplaned into a head on collision
how did i lose control?
i'm just a passenger
in a vehicle with a mind of its own
time may heal the damage
but never the memory
fate chose my destination
i just wanted to go home.
-S.L.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
I wish I could love my life and love myself
a little bit more,
fall on my hands and knees at every chance
and praise the life I lead.
I wish I didn't hate myself quite as much
and I wish I didn't recoil at the idea of my life,
the Grimm's fairy tale where Hansel and Gretel got eaten,
Rapunzel never threw down her hair
and Snow White was never kissed by Prince Charming.
The hatred burns hotter when I think of myself,
poor little rich girl,
sat in luxury in front of a warm fire,
belly full,
as thousands of kids in Africa bloat to death with paper thin limbs,
families in the Middle East are massacred and scattered across their countries barren landscapes,
innocent, too soon nearly corpses whither away in hospital beds,
sinking their teeth into whatever life they have left, clinging on.
I'm stable on the mountainside.
My family have never even seen a gun.
I haven't missed a meal in my entire nineteen years.
What the hell do I have to complain about?
My unhappiness disgusts me nearly as much as I disgust myself.
Sitting on a damp bus,
watching beads of rain rush down the dusty windows in diagonals,
like meteors crashing into Earth,
I curse.
I curse the vehicle,
I curse the safe home it's taking me back to,
the three course meal it's taking me from.
It's ******* sick.
I wish I could smile and mean it.
I wish I could love and not hate.
I wish I could love myself.
I'm so sorry for not being able to fully appreciate my life,
for taking it for granted,
for sounding like a spoiled brat.
You probably hate me as much as I hate myself.
I.
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
*******
I.
That's a vowel I'm going to try and use less of
(at least after this poem),
I promise.
Oh the irony.
I am not looking for sympathy.
I am not looking to be compared to a dying child on the street.
I am not asking for a single kind word.
I just ask for a bit of forgiveness.
I don't blame you if you can't seem to find any.
Just know I'm sorry
and I'm going to try.
Now.
*A
E
-
O*
U
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC