"weaponized" poems
could it be a ********
like cotton buds
from the ***** flower
a witched river
under dark clouds
of brooms that don't fly anymore
maybe in need of an upgrade
perhaps a spell of weaponized winds
with insinuated floating ghouls
shaking their lopsided claws
under blood orchards
and diagrams of grief
as they follow their noses
looking for *****
******* the scent of vivacious
zyzzyva
loving oozing laughter
thirsty skin
needles too
**** heroine stuck on toe picket fences
mimicry of ducks blood butter
like a crime scene of kisses that went to far
eggs and runny yokes left puddled on a thigh
the ****** burps Pans milkshake
*** legacy legs
lookin for love
auto asphyxiated in a closet fringy and hanging with a hardon
lost eyes and drool
somewhere in Thailand
after spicy noodle soup
and a Tsingtao
hurt me
hurt you
i'm an evil boweval
a Zyzzyva come to love you
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
My minds weaponized thoughts will be my downfall and suicide.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
there was no poem neath my pillow
no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch
nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child
two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces
thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them
*the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity*
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
A loose handed emblem,
of folded thoughts,
Loss is weaponized in enchanted red,
Wrongs corrected stemming from the
blissful bare signed gawky individuals.
Homage backtracked and renounced
Barely earnest calls for a curious fathom-ability
Heaven bound birdlike shadows,
Bright light gagged and janky,
Found little finger blood tacked to the earth.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
First I fell for your eyes
With hazel specks and inviting guise
Then I fell for your laugh
Uneven and hearty and somewhat shy.
Soon I fell for your hands
Then your lips, your brain, and incredible drive—
Your truths, your dreams, your curious smile
Your biggest regrets and most convincing lies.
And now I’ve fallen for you.
And all at once it feels jeopardized—
I fear to confess
Those 3 little words that
Historically have been so weaponized.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
March in the streets
But I urge you beware
They’ll still butcher the sheep
With the arms that they bear
Private properteers part with
No slave cropper’s share
So this Northern aggression's
Like Freeman’s red scare
All the colors of wind
Through the head-shavers’ hair
The Guevara adventures
These pigs wouldn’t D.A.R.E.
The Arabian knights
In the grand wizard’s lair
The denaturalized dreamer’s
Recurring nightmare
Of the Stalingrad ghost
Still witch-hunting like Blair
The projects to the precincts’
New modern welfare
The post-trauma disorderly’s
Empty screen stare
The savages they thought
Were waaaaayyyy over there
The debt clock ticky tock
In the heart of Times Square
The 1st world problem-children
Who commonwealth care
Because some barely EAT
And we’ve so much to spare
But these cowherds still like their calves
Medium rare
And the bulls try to sell you
Their laissez-faire snare
Till your trapped in a minimum cage’s
Last prayer
And the only escape
Is upgraded software
Like automaton autobahn’s
In disrepair
In this fascist facade’s
Fragrant breath of fresh air
Just as toxic as stocks
Of the mock billionaire
So I shock ‘em like Tesla’s
Bolt-action Voltaire
And I leave it to you
To go **** it out there
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
Warning!
Don’t read this poem!
It is disgusting!
Hide the kids!
-
Lady of the drains, children of the ****
Have been taking your **** for far too long.
Her once white bridal dress is now brown,
Stained by the **** and **** you flushed down.
Death came from every open window.
Unexpected rain fell down to the streets.
You waited for the weather to carry it all down,
For Venus to take it and cleanse it all underground.
This is how the world ends!
Engulfed by your own tithes and offerings!
The prisoner of Cloaca Maxima!
Is sending every prayer back to the sender!
We are the **** and **** you thought you flushed away!
We are coming back up to drown you today!
Out of all the ways to go this had to be it!
Drowned in your own **** and ****
You caged Venus below your cities,
Punished her with your iniquities.
You thought we were gone when you pulled the handle down,
But we are coming back up and bringing a **** storm
Venus gave us a conscious,
She weaponized us.
All little things add up over time,
Surely you were prepared for this?!
Like the bud of a tossed away cigarette.
You didn’t think much of us then.
The bud hatched open a forest fire.
You are thinking alot about us now.
Trying to build an ark when the flood has already come.
You never learned to swim so you are going drown.
Next time you shouldn’t leave your armbands at home!
You plastic wrap your stink hole,
Hoping not to add more to us.
Your chocolate starfish bursts open,
You’re gonna add more to us.
It all has to come out eventually!
We're coming out of every faucet, pipe, plug hole, shower head and toilet!
***** rising up around you,
Surrounding you,
Covering over you,
Suffocating you!
Out of all the ways to go this had to be it!
Drowned in your own **** and ****
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 8:03 PM UTC
I never learned to weep
But ground my eyes down
On the griststone of a mill
Turned sadness into powder
Then choked on my own weaponized sorrow.
Mar 31, 2023
Mar 31, 2023 at 8:13 PM UTC
oh better not say that
mind of hell
tongue of heaven
better not think depraved
veiled demon, licking ******** for car payments
God watches
what will people think
am i good person
birthday face
shut eyed stiff
not dangerous, like a gun in the face
did i say the right thing,
cypher of morality
the knot of good, a slow strangle
a frightened worm
wont risk tears
eeek
here come the scissors
technology brains wired like weaponized monkeys
eater of crumbs
heatless heart ransomed for the ******* rent
can i evaporate
like a dead cat in a black box
better then tripping all over my self
strings attached with hooks
on shunted limbs
a relic of modernism,
office life
talking scapegoats hissing
always haunted by what's missing
guts spilling through clutched fingers
apologizing to a faceless crowd of sea shells
and bagged heads
minds like the small screens
sitting all day
frenetic fingers and burning eyes
exhaling only
there's a part of me thats been crying since birth
be careful
what you do
in the land of the free and the brave
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
weaponized microspace;
insects dying off from
mysterious diseases;
whole species of birds
disappear mysteriously;
insects replaced by
nanodrones & genetically
altered clones; & drones
AI self-propelled
cameras & bombs:
Nicolás Maduro knows
first hand & will surely
testify to all of this
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
Drinking like savannah beasts at rivers edge she
is left to ferment
lethal like wine in an hourglass
she denies death and is weaponized
she defies god and is made a woman
she aims and in doing perfect harm is made
stricken with regret your running target stems
consequences whose stomach is filled by feather
memorials bound by leather turmoil
Shells in my face says Henry the eighth and Rome
will burn gladly on
a nest of Palestinian violins
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
Mercury drips
from cold fingertips
Into cracked teacups
arrayed on a child's play table
"Where is my Alice?"
Chuckling bends the edge of the silence
Chemical cocktails sprayed
Weaponized aerosols
designed to cloud minds
bring dark knights crashing to their knees
Short sickly man
with a blood red head of hair
Stares oh so sweetly
at his darling sweetie
********* the straight edge
concealed in his pocket
Wonderland gang strikes
devices devised for controlling minds
activated
chips in cowls, linked to size eleven hats
Denigration of children's tales
although Lewis Carrol was a ********* they say
either way there is no avoiding
the madness of the hatter.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 5:15 PM UTC
You release your words
Deliberately;
Measuring each syllable,
Carrying all the consonants,
Gathering up the vowels,
And waiting for the light
Before you cross.
Certain words put a curve
To the shape of your mouth
And your eyes, confidence.
My words are forced unwilling
out the door; each one
pushing on the one ahead,
an unbalanced mass;
tipping forward until they fall
Out in a rush, elbows out,
Knees weaponized;
Falling over each other, still
breathlessly barrelling on.
NCL September 2019
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:56 PM UTC
My worst fear realized
Beyond scared & paralyzed
the moment I recognized
the signs in the fading eyes
of a lover as she re-lives the lies
& cries herself to sleep with sorrowful lullabies
Ones only heard by the clouds and the stars they pass by in the night skies
The ones just as lonely and as distant as a sunrise
on the moons romanticized dark sides
mingling with the anticipated replies to the backlog of "why's"
that don't even bother with fly-bys
Somewhere out past where hope dies
Where both love and hate are lobotomized
then cannibalized
even weaponized
for passion triggered crimes
leaving no one surprised
Where the only allies one finds
arrive in disguise
as the best of times
as the worst of times
building up to a multitude of inevitable good-byes
How was I to vocalize
a mess of this size
when I don't have the ability to visualize
even loosing such a prize...
©2024
Feb 21, 2024
Feb 21, 2024 at 12:06 AM UTC
Stare at the universe for a little while, you’ll see
Something resembling you and me: a quite sobbing vacuity
Draining all pellucid stars of luster and bravery.
I won’t be home for the rest of my life, hard as it is to take in,
Something went missing in what never was
That all the timbers strip away at the passing years
In anger and patience that slapped me in the face
When I said I’d never be happy again. My pockets are full
Of icy penance for crimes distance and apathy revealed.
Shimmer do the walks ways in the missing parts of the night sky
Shaped, somehow, by you and every blazing heart
Is a comet to earth: ******* vibrantly a poorly strung bandage.
And every light to cross the concourse of hopeless prophesy
And my constructs of relative suffering, an oil-light suicide.
History is always-already the behest of malignancy, but it’s sweet
The protection as I’ve weaponized every interaction to be,
We could have been cause-and-effect and danced like
Idols, gods, and fools in the sky of our experience, but
The God of Small Things, I, bear down on dis-eases rejection.
Like surgery, the tiny cells bereft of the cause of blood, the cause
Of complaint, can do nothing but new hearts reject.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
Racist in a cab,
deputized,
weaponized,
Heading for the wealth
of the Tulsa Wall Street,
His hateful hands cannot
drown God in an pond,
but they've often
lynched his sons.
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 9:38 AM UTC
We hobble along with outrage fatigue
And watch as nothing ever exhausts
Our Machiavellian leaders' use
Of the media to win at all costs.
False story lines prevail.
To hell with accuracy and precision.
Sowing distrust of higher learning
Solidifies their paranoid vision.
Watch how their destructive disdain
For expertise gains vitality
As people's opinions and feelings stomp
On any form of objective reality.
Watch as they rewrite history;
Notice how data can be erased
As they become suspicious of much
Information that's science-based.
Language becomes weaponized:
Hyperbole, salacious lies,
And slippery superlatives
Celebrate truth's demise.
Party loyalty: that is key.
All that matters is the sale.
Hijacking democracy
Becomes the goal: the holy grail.
Mobilized by grievance, they
Inflame fear and anger. They hope
That we will find scapegoats to blame
When we are at the end of our rope.
A general illiteracy
On issues that affect our lives
Keeps us all in doubt while they
Create fake news and sharpen their knives.
Ah, how they want you to fear
Government, which is ironic,
For they themselves are government.
Look at their smiles, cold and sardonic.
Give equal weight to both
Sides of arguments, they say.
That's how they can justify
Bigotry and lead us astray.
While extremist views go mainstream,
Blurred lines make life hazy.
Keep watering narcissism,
And you will see it grow like crazy.
Their careful manipulation of language
Proves how much their rhetoric's swollen.
The people find it hard to accept
That basic freedoms are being stolen.
As we lament the death of truth
And wonder how it came to pass,
Before we cast blame we must
Peer into the looking glass.
-by Bob B (9-28-18)
°Inspired by "The Death of Truth" by Michiko Kakutani
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
The things you swept beneath the rug
The skeletons in your closet
Draped in dusty yesterdays
Reek of rotten some days
That must've found a place
The things you swept beneath the rug
All covered in deceit
She saw tomorrow in your eyes
As you hummed her yesterday lulla-byes
The skeletons in your closet
Some were people you used to be
When weaponized words wore
Bitter scars
And you forgot how anyone elses world could seem
The skeletons in your closet
With names like punkin and sweet
Filled your bed
As you hoped for empty eyes
Have you found now how people cant fill you up
With Houdini escapist stays
In life
The things you sweep beneath the rug
The skeletons in your closet
Things a cruel conscience won't set free
Do they find you when we're weak?
In a nighttime reminiscent mind
When you'll admit that your heart does beat
Things I knew you swept beneath the rug
But I never thought one of them would be me
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
There's a difference in these woods,
drifting between grey, scabby bark,
sifting into the moist, wormy soil,
beckoning for purpose,
breaking into the sound of a
becoming yet battered nature.
The footprints can be light, thorough --
almost a trait granted by the torture of eternity.
With head-weaves buoyant above tree-leaves,
a hyper-vigilance stemmed from the abuse
of a darkly philosophy weaponized;
an extension of the elbows, forearms, wrists
of huntsmen seeking inferno.
A hollow is an ideal resting place,
beyond the greased veins of trees,
fingertips delving into clustered black,
grasping an illusory livelihood,
only to imprison itself,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.
When love enters the picture,
it's best to fade into the skyline,
becoming a blue phantom,
hiding behind q-tip clouds,
balanced feebly, anxiously,
unable to realize
how easy you can be seen.
How easy it is to underestimate
your own significance.
You can drag a razor horizontally,
thinking the ink of space
will pour through, staining yourself,
watching yourself disappear,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.
-
I dance with her, a light caramel mutt,
in a purgatory of racial tension,
between black and white,
living in the grey area of society,
not knowing that it's okay --
and she is like me,
I've just realized.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
The soil and sand remember
how the cities wept,
the towers bowing and breaking,
collapsing with the weight
of the blame they kept within;
the coastal causeway meanders
down a bone-dry path
to nowhere,
passing nothing in particular
but some stilted shacks
in the former fens;
and my own familiar forest,
where I trapped a fox
and made a friend,
was caught off guard by
a flash of light, and some
freakish violent wind;
and now I sit on a stump,
glowing green with
weaponized dust,
to scan this new Sahara
for some sign of life—
some vindication, or some
hope—
but alas,
it’s now past midnight,
and we are all just
silhouettes.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
The thing is, the lesson is, I survived.
Never mind the rust or the abandonment
or the sabotage or the self sabotage,
or the wandering in the wilderness,
bars and hitchhiking in the night,
the wrong turns and the right turns unrecognized,
or the helpers and healers, the jacklegs,
quacks, shamen and priests.
Never mind the things that came undone,
and the constant rearranging of fate
or God’s insistence in letting me stew
in my own juices. Never mind
the arrows or thorns or innocent bystanders
content to watch me bleed, those who
see me as entertainment or suspect.
Never mind the constant need for maintenance,
the broken parts, the ones I could fix
and the ones I could not,
the depression, the fear, the fight,
the checkered past, a perfect target
for any who care to shoot.
Never mind all of it. The parts that recovered
and the parts that never will.
The blood shed! So much of it.
So many tears. So much lostness,
darkness and fire. The wars. The surety
that you were never made for the world you live in,
the anger
I felt, uncomfortable with it every time it rises, and
the anger
aimed at me, a thing more comfortable to you,
more familiar,
but no less weaponized,
Never mind all of it.
I survived.
I found love. I gave love.
Some things I did, mattered.
At times, there is joy.
Don’t tell me there is no God.
I know better.
I survived.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 9:09 AM UTC
It's loud.
Violet, Blue, and Green lights
scatter across the floor,
across a canvas of house music,
echoing back into itself.
She crawls towards me,
wearing only poorly inked tattoos
and the lights that kiss us all.
I touch myself,
wishing it was her.
- I leave the room,
the music fading away,
like retreating from
sound-carrying-birds -
The smoke that comes from the cigarette
forms a skeletal web, reaching for the moon.
With rain slapping the dark brick walls,
hugging and creating an alley reminiscent
of a salivating, crooked-cement mouth,
I stand drenched in silver forgotten.
I drop the cigarette in a petrol-colored puddle,
watching it sink, become hard to distinguish,
and fade away.
- I reenter the room,
the song has changed
and is more mechanical. -
It's loud.
The lights are now
Bubblegum, Aqua, and Tangerine.
She lays supine, watching dollars
drift down, slowly, almost frozen.
Then the splitting of the air.
Fat-Man's body does a half-spin
as I lodge a bullet into his obese shoulder.
The music still blares, almost meaning more, now.
Regrouping himself, Fat-Man is weaponized,
drawing a greasy, inky blaster, desperate to spit.
A supernova erupts and quickly disappears--
like the aftermath of blowing birthday candles--
as his black speckled, crewcut scalp peels back,
letting fragments of chalky skull and pink penne
***** out of his square, boxed head.
Blood appears black under these lights
and instantly whips across
Samantha's still supine body.
The remaining people in the room
scatter like light exposed roaches.
Haunted, she is a toppled statue.
My steps move with the rhythm of the song.
Fat-Man's leather jacket
holds more meat than some mouths.
I plant my hand inside all pockets, find $6,480
in greasy, bloodier-than-usual presidents,
and move towards her, with the music.
Crouching beside her, I wipe the blood.
I clean her pale, tense torso
and help her up.
On two painted feet, she looks detached.
Silence exists, now, despite the music,
while she studies me with the same brown eyes.
Her lips quiver, she remembers
and wraps me with much thinner arms
that used to exist in nothing but memory.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
there’s a living reality of
fallibly hopeful distraction—
sheltered squatters—
residing above a room where
everything important is angry,
not easily suffocated.
the warm polyester of a busy mind
is sick with monotonous fear
that the residents below
will expand their decay,
raging in a panic until the walls collapse
and the nails in the floorboards are
upturned and weaponized;
a clever, persistent enemy.
this unbearably,
infallibly hopeless
struggle.
there are paintings on the walls
and books on the shelf,
plants on the windowsill in the late afternoon.
i’m worried these will die too.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:23 PM UTC
the immersion in media
i feel weaponized
part of an inhuman condition
a heated communal militia head space
gilded with fear but splintered of opinions
sperming in a holding pattern
like fish in a overpopulated aquarium
we're stunning ourselves on the sides
batting at it to for an expansion
frenzy of communication
but other life continues
seemingly untainted
indifferent
certainly
see !
the
birds
aviate
and i feel
there is reassurance
the worlds life will outlast us
what's the worst that we could do ?
we'll not be taking it to our grave ;
a pharaoh tombed with ornamental company
Aug 25, 2022
Aug 25, 2022 at 12:28 PM UTC