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Prose Poetry Angst Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Angst

These Prose Poetry Angst poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Angst. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Angst poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stoned

In seeming innocence you lie upon the warm ochre
about the edges of the dust-strewn street,
a remnants of larger issues, crushed to just the right size by a killing blow.
Before the mob merged, before cat calls raised the hairs on the back of her neck,
she had been of a favorite pet, a cherished wife.  
A mother now lays dead, brought down by the bloodlust of the men around her.
Today, the stones are coated rust-red with the blood as the of women of Iraq 
are laid low by their husbands, sons, and fathers. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful people

People make me smile the way 
their eyes shine when they talk 
about something they love 
when they feed me food. Or tell 
me how much they love me 
when I look into someone's 
eyes and see it I see that look 
in their eyes I see love in them 
When I see someone laugh and 
have fun in what they do 
The way they cry for there lost 
ones
When they give me a smile and 
tell me how beautiful I am 
People are beautiful well some 
are and I wish someday I can 
find someone who will look at 
me and say "you have that look 
in your eye"    what look?
"Happiness" 
I want to find someone so 
beautiful in the inside I can't 
stay away they amaze me with 
what they say an do how they 
will dance in the rain and know 
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a 
rainy day and just talk about 
the stars 
I want someone beautiful


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Frozen Ground

I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your  limp laughter and scared stares. 

I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.

 I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
 the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined 
by my appalling appearance.

"How dare you be here!  What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie,  you slob,  just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer 
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped 
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to 
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."

The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley 
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously  from the bows of bastard 
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger 
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground. 
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run 
differently.

I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and 
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more. 
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and 
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

a fair day

It was a fair day for silence.

The sun had risen up courtly, almost mechanically,
Like a marionette on the strings of a puppeteer.
With the sun came Heat, wrathful to have been woken at such an hour.
As if avenging its early rise, 
Heat caused oppression, 
Discomfort and confusion 
Upon the innocent day.

It was a fair day for exclusion.

Only one was oblivious to the relentless heat,
He sat there motionless, lifeless and corpse-like.
They would glance at him nonchalantly.
He was just a piece of the scenery, 
Always had been there, 
Always would be there, 
Invisible.

It was a fair day for neglect.

Some say once he had been aware,
But life had hollowed him out, 
Left him a shell, 
Unmoving, 
Unblinking.
The day progressed, the light dimmed, 
It was as if fate and destiny had led him to this moment.
If anyone had cared to look, they may have noticed a glint in his eye.
He liked the sunset.

It was a fair day for an end.

The sun slowly made its way back home.
Heat gradually left, bored with the sun’s absence.
Silence was once more.
The sun closed its eyes. 
The moon began its regime over the obeying night sky.

It was a fair day for sweet nothing.

He still sat there, 
But no one knew.
So was he still alive, 
If no one saw him die?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Accepting Pain.

She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....

maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....

“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
patient tone.


She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....

“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”

And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....

I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...


“Your angst belongs in a museum.”



I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.


“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....


“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blackbird

Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage 
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding 
Left to survive on meager crumbs 
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free 
From the physical and emotional restrictions 
Placed upon me by my keeper
 
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems 
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity 
To feed its selfish need for control 
Through its twisted concept 
Of love and adoration 
I am looked upon as a possession 
Other than the living, breathing individual 
That I long to be 

So now I sit upon my proverbial perch 
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence 
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces 
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations 
Which I once thought gave my life purpose 

Memories which were bright and alive 
Full of promise and hope but have faded away 
Into a past that is now grey and bleak 
Devoid of anything worth remembering 
My footfalls echo in the silence 
Giving testament that these memories 
Have been empty and forgotten long ago 

My only hopes now are that my keeper 
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence 
And obvious disdain and release me 
Whether through life or by death 
At this point either would be welcome 

How I long for the freedom 
And comfort of the clear blue sky 
The ability to soar like a bird 
High above the reaches 
Of those who only want to keep me 
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon 
Where I know my future waits 
And new memories and dreams can be made.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To weather the storm

Storms above me, storms below, Storms of violence, Storms of sadness, Storms of anger Storms of people laughing, mocking my existence Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights of hope and friendship echoes Through the storms The storms surround me night and day No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see No mercy found, twix’t night and day But for the brief repast The gift night brings To weather the storms I travel unseen, unheard Past those who give the storm its powers To the places in my dreams Where night and day are side by side And Wolves gather below the moons Midday and night, to sing Their songs of peace Of legends from long ago Of loyalty to their pack And the fight to survive. To weather the storms I look to the wolves As a cub, to the mother The strong live to be the hunters Whilst the weak become the prey The storm takes all Partial to none it hunts One by one, boat by boat, all fall to the storm Human, Animal, Angel, Demon, the storm resides in us all waiting to take hold to drag us to its depths when hope is gone darkness rules until the Light is found hope is gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

With You

I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in 
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows, 	
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into 	
long piles beneath your feet.

I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the 
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked 
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)

Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before; 
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were 
scorch marks on the sheets.

We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing 
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the 
feeling of skin on skin.

Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my 
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.

You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and 
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that 
never passed.

But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted 
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pawns

We the old and broken, have become the pawns
in the grand game of politics. We are as in the game 
of chess of the lowest esteem, expendable 
if not worse unwanted, a barganing chip.
For three years we haven't even received 
a cost of living increasee
while their income they have 
increased handsomely.

They have as they so often do broken
their promise to us. Social security was a
promise made by them, that we paid
for when we were able to work, 
extracted from every pay check we earned.
Those  revenues where to be put in a trust
for us to draw from when the time came
that we had need of them. However our 
government for decades have used those 
funds as they pleased, for things other than 
what they were intended for. Why am I not surprised? 
because our so called public servants have 
broken  countless promises and in the process 
lined their pockets from the spoils of their deceptions. 
The Bill of Rights and the Constitution
they have shredded and the first casulity 
was the truth, now we are the second. 
Most of our fatrhers fought and many died to
defend the rights that they have cast into the 
the trash heap.  Our national debt is now beyond
any hope of us ever repaying, robbing the young of
any hope of a future or even a job, taxes they will have
to pay tremendous to pay for there folly. China Told 
President Obama, We're not going to lend you any more,
sure can't say I blame them, probably never pay back what
we already borrowed form them. England is burning because
of the same folly of the politicians, won't be surprised
if the same thing takes place here. People with no hope
and no future what do they expect. They'll go on filling their
pockets with the taxes we all pay, the don't care it's all
well and fine for them. Will give themselves another big
pay increse next year, you just wait and see. Like mother
Hubbard everyone elses cubbard is bare, no bone for
the doggies anymore. They have destroyed everything
 Along with, "One nation under God". This once upon a time
good nation has quite literally gone to the "Dogs".  The only
Thing that I can say is that I wouldn't have said before,
I'm ashamed of what this nation has became.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ID

I have a secret place to go whenever I feel the need.  It is a place that is visceral,
dark, and so unforgiving that the joy of being there sometimes makes me want  to stay
longer than a moment.  There, I am like a beast uncaged, running free, and devouring all
that I see.  When the beast runs, there is no stopping it.  There is no leash or muzzle to
keep it at bay.  There is no place that it  cannot go, and its desire for retribution is
like an insatiable hunger in its belly.  The beast there is ever hungry.  "Where is this
place?" you may wonder.  I always try to remember to take the key with me.  For it is the
barren, lonely, and impassable door you cannot reach...it is the Id within me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandad's Missing

There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
A hollow cavern 
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mort De La Mort, The Death Of Death

There is something intoxicating about the absolute stillness of night
I am most at home, at ease, the tell-tale heart of a vampire
Indeed, I have never been anything but, born into this life a demon
Spawned into this life by hate and resentment

I have fed upon everyone I have ever known, everyone I can ever remember
All that was human in those around me, seldom have I not destroyed

I have been merciless, I have been death

 

Tonight, the hunter becomes the hunted and who would have known it
Magnificent a creature, a natural born killer, meeting her bloody demise

What was a heart of stone has now started beating to the sound of human dreams

I can only thirst for one thing, with satisfaction impossible elsewhere

Him, my reaper donned in perfect flesh
A powerful being that has broken me so entirely, I have been forced into mortality
I am a mere shadow of the monster I used to be

 

The tragedy that is seeing life with the hearts eyes, I offer myself to him completely.

I will not move, I will not run and I will not hide

Tear me to pieces like I have torn all I have ever encountered, I yearn for it

Every cell in my body begs for our final dance, the Waltz to my own demise
Now, to look upon you would be worth a thousand deaths, and I invite them all
Find me, take me, end me.
I will rest in the memory of your flawless face for eternity, as hell welcomes me with
open arms.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Prose

A happy little girl. Bright colors and sunshine. She grows older and enters middle 
school. She is teased constantly. Not the right hair. Not the right clothes. It hurts, 
oh God it hurts. She forgoes colors. Black and gray are good enough. She gets older 
and older still. High school; a new place, new adventure. Dare she hope...new 
friends? Foolish, foolish girl. New friends? New enemies...new pain. Dyed hair...what 
color? Black. Black hair, black clothes...black heart. Poetry, music, the only escape. 
Dark, Pain, Despair...Destroyed. Heart bleeding and inside she's screaming. but no 
one sees. No one hears. Alone...so alone. Who would understand? No one. Dying 
inside. Drowning in pain bottled up. Invisible. Misunderstood. Who is she? Who is 
she!?! Screaming, bleeding, dying. What a waste. That's what she is, a waste of 
space, a waste of breath. Better off without her. The world's better off. Despised, 
Destroyed...Death.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MegOHBlister

MegOHBlister
They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of 
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not 
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three 
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in 
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double 
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could 
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the 
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet 
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were 
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the 
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there 
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this 
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us 
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now. 
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his 
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled 
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the 
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo. 
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He 
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others 
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the 
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they 
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is 
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found 
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of 
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son. 
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to 
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the 
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bleed

I see my life on the edge of a sword
And yet, I walk willingly.
With each step I take,
It cuts deeper into my flesh.
The blood pours out of my soul,
And I scream.
Yet I feel some relief,
As I walk to my destiny,
Not wavering,
Not tripping,
Not stopping.
Closer to Me,
This is all I ever hope to be.

Does my heart not bleed enough?
Does my soul not suffer enough,
That you have to cause me pain?
More grief,
More sorrow….
So much pain,
So much, so much.
Tired, weary
Trudging through.
Is this the light,
Where I see you?
Is it just an illusion?
Why are you playing games with me?
Am I not of you?
Deep in your soul, does it not hurt you to hurt me?

The sword cuts into my flesh,
Deeper and deeper,
As I walk forward to you.
Yet walking back looks harder.
This double serrated edge.
My feet are cut,
My soles are bare.
My soul is bare.

I have nothing left,
You deserted me there.
You opened up my heart,
And you planted seeds of hope and of sorrow
And you let them grow.
Now the wretched thorns of the beautiful blooms,
Prevent me from ever reaching,
The sweet nectar that I desire.

Why, why, why?
What made you lie?
What made you think it was okay…
To hurt me?
To lie to me?
To betray me?
When all I wanted was someone who loves me.
What did you gain,
From all my tears and pain?
From all my grief and sorrow?
If only things were different tomorrow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Angry

I have the fury of hell trapped inside. I’m so angry that words can’t express how I 
feel. Nothing in life could have ever told me that these emotions existed. I’m mad at 
you, at everything you ever stood for. At the very fact that you were so charming 
and happy in life only to die and leave me alone like you did. Angry at the fact that 
your death could have been prevented, Drinking and Driving - were you just stupid; 
careless. Did you think that you would never die? That you were immortal and could 
defy even God. Well you weren’t, I guess you know that now. I still can’t believe 
that your life could be wasted because you were too arrogant to wait till you got 
home. You should've waited...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lawyer Envy

(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)

He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
State secrets
Private tales
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game

He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
But had 
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him

He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
Was over
And the jury voted for him
Again
That you realized he was a back stabber

He pulled it off with such panache
And charm
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood

I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nothing But Chalk

She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in 
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life 
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY 
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from 
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a 
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads, 
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep, 
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly 
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the 
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming 
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will 
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back, 
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start 
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not 
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared 
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as 
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her 
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class 
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats 
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been 
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler. 
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t 
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and 
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many 
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the 
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard, 
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress 
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees 
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the 
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PATIENCE

I hate waiting.
I don't like going
anywhere either.

Patience is a
virtue that some
one else got;
cause it's all
lost on me.

Smiling is a googly 
face on a cardboard
with raised eyebrows
so it looks like we
might all be smiling.

Foolish fools is a form
to flee.  Something we
don't want to be;  like
a bedbug or a dying elm
tree sign this here we
don't want to stop what
nature has started or was
that something humans 
have done?  Oh it's so
insipid.  Maybe it was 
the sun.  Who's talking
here anyway, I'm still
waiting.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A MIND IN THE NIGHT

I stood in the middle of the ocean's palm and travelled along its' finger lines.
These blue waves have stolen the infinity of sky, reflecting my fate signs.
In my heart there is a blank, as I am left alone struggling with a sea unknown.
If you could show me your eyes, I would place your hopes in stars to find height.
Instead, I am burned in fires shaken, in sweaty dreams that end with the first light.
In other words I search for promises, changing places and opening new doors.
Yet, this sea of rain rushes into my expectations, driving me to the same shores.
And I am wondering if life owes us our prayers, our tears, our sentiments of glory.
If not, then we are condemned to expect a fate, a Spring belated to show a fake story.
When nights exceed the dead ends I set, moon is risen laughing at my mortality.
In the cold breeze I face my humanity, fighting in a battle uneven and unfair.
As time passes through my windows, I betray my existence behind curtains flopped.
Eyes of solitude I can't forget visit me between Heaven's and Hell's Gates blocked.
I set fire to my pain and from the ashes I give birth to a fate, in which you are not in.
The greatest dreams I left behind, a compromise I signed and gained the right of sin.
Uncovered distances, chaos in my heart rhyme
For the losses I won't accept as my fear prime.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rambling of a Faith Poet

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm 
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Exclusion

Waking to murmurs	
Hum of smooth white noise 
Or waves slapping rocks

Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops	
.  		
Walk to the kitchen, 
my feet soft and bare 
on tiles cracked, and 

wish the sea
surrounded
so sinking

floats


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wedding Ring

Wedding Ring
Why did you take my wedding ring?  Did taking it give you a zing? Did hurting me give you a 
double ring in your b b thing? Did the carats make your heart sing? 

Did you think your new lady would like my ring?  Wouldn’t it sting her to know whose thing 
that was first darling?  

That hurt more than anything.  Why did you take my ring?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

before the party

A tight fist of emotion sprouts flames in my chest
and I fan the flames with a chilled smile
chiseled like the block of ice 
stored in the freezer for the party.

I have stood empty as a discarded seashell, perhaps a clam's shell,
whose pearl should sparkle like the sun spattered sea, that is its home.

But it gleams like the moonlight 
castings its light across surfaces- changing them to white or silver, 
like the tops of carved glaciers, drifting as they change the shape of the earth. 

Too heavy am I to walk on these surfaces, 
even if it is frozen.

Seabirds wind up and spin lazily, 
calling the wind for their flight- or at least to float momentarily, 
like my spirit, needing so much to be released


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Juliet's Plea

~“Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here
Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven and may look on her,
But Romeo may not."
- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 3.3

Juliet's Plea

Dost thou deem, heav'n only rises with the corpse
upon the last sweet breathe of virgin light
as face dost pale to pearl and roses leave my lips tonight
Romeo, my living eyes knew naught your purpose.

In sooth, I thought thee dead on that black night
and so, no other earthly joy could stay my heart
but heav'ns had we all, before this sorry plight
pray pardon love, I would nay have thee depart.

Abide, abide my love, my Romeo, alas...
by your leave, I hold St. Peter’s gate op’ for thee
And verily, I wait for time is naught in death 
and thee, my love, my Lord, are all to me. 

*Their love and their deaths were a scandel.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"V~O~V"

"V~O~V"


IF I WERE GRANTED FORTUNE N' FAME...
THOSE WHO CONSIDER ME LIABILITY,WOULD ACKNOWLEDGE ME LOVED
TH' SPILLING OF MY BLOOD,MIGHT EVEN BRING A STITCH OF COMPASSION
I'D NEVER BE ALONE,'LESS I REQUESTED ME LET BE


COMPANY DOES NOT LOVE MISERY,SO NOW I'M KEPT AT A DISTANCE
ALL I EVER WANTED OUT OF LIFE,WAS TO RECIEVE AS MUCH CARE AS I GIVE
BUT MOOT IS TH' FACT,THEY WANT ME OUT OF MIND N' VIEW
LITTLE IT IS KNOWN,OF TH' AFFLICTIONS I MUST ENDURE...FOR THEM


IF I WROUGHT MIRACLES AT WILL,TH' MEEK WOULD 'DEED RULE
SINS OF TH' SHAMELESS,WOULD ALL BE MADE KNOWN
A SILVER'D SCREEN OF TH' SKIES,WOULD DISPLAY THEIR DESECRATIONS
VICTIMS OF THEIR TRESSPASSES,WOULD DECIDE OF THEIR FATES


FAR FROM BEING PERFECT,I TOO...WOULD BE ASHAMED
BUT FOR SCARLET OF PAST BREACHINGS,I WOULD BEG FOR TH' BLANCHING
NEVER THAN LESS...THEIR WILL WOULD BE DONE
FOR FUTILE IS FORGIVENESS,IF NOT TRULY...


...IT IS WON



~AZAZA~'09


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Natural starting points

Natural starting -Point 



 The subject of a poem is the idea or thing that the poem concerning or represents
 I review about 15 poem this morning.. and the feeling I got from them, the writer attitude
 toward the subject matter.
 
As a reviewer I cannot praise all the poems that I review. however, I can only encourage them to thrive ... some had a bit or irony , the tone were playful and some of them were some serious submits

Poetry Soup is a wonderful site...
let encourage each other to aim higher..

one love annie L


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WHY

I looked into the eyes of a dying child 
And asked her if there was anything I could do
Anything that may lessen the pain
Anything that would make her forget
She said, “ Sing for me, Oh! stranger
Sing in that beautiful voice of yours
Sing till I pass away in peace
Sing for me, Oh! Please do.”
I sang in a voice trembling with fear
Laden with sadness and pain
I sang about God, his glory
About God’s ways of which we know nothing
As the song ended, she smiled that little sad smile
And asked in a voice ever so frail
“ If there is a God, then why am I here
Have I lived my life? Answer me this
What are his plans, so grand, that don’t let me live
Is my death part of a greater truth?”
Saying this she closed her little eyes
Squeezed my hand with her tiny hands
And let out her last little breath
And looked radiant even in death. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fallen from Grace

Fallen from grace, 
no longer do I sit high upon the pedestal that you had once put me 
No longer am I seen as idol or mentor
Nor wanted as provider or protector 
But now looked upon as an outcast and banished from your heart. 

Betrayed by the one who now blinds you 
With a veil of lies and deceit that weighs on your young fragile heart 
With heavy words of animosity and abhorrence
 
You have been trapped in a malevolent web of hatred and retribution 
Used as an unwitting pawn in a game of emotional chess. 

Your words of respect and adoration 
Have been replaced by venomous accusations of brutality and oppression 
Taught to you by the on who now holds the chains that bind your heart. 

But I will not be vanquished or deterred 
By these attempts to falsify or dilute my love for you 
I will be strong in my resolve and true to myself
 
I will not let these misguided asseveration's destroy my confidence 
In knowing that my spirit is pure and that one day 
You will be able to break free from your restraints 
And uncover your eyes so you can distinguish the truth from the lies. 

To understand the choices that need to be made in life 
Through your own mistakes and life experiences 

Until that day comes I shall be waiting, 
Ready to stand next to you as opposed to being on that pedestal 
And walk down a new road with you as your friend and equal.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Family Meeting

The dreaded day of the family meeting arrived
Elder planning, liquidating assets and dispersing 84 years of belongings

Excuses, postponing, manipulations, whining and reasonings--
Valid each and present

Partners in crime, codependent family structure with high disfunctional
communicaton skills, L-O-V-E spelled out many times like the sword of truth
and breastplate of righteousness. 

Words were pitched and hurled then stroked like a fine persian cat with silken fur.
At the end of the day, with the word pile left in the floor like discarded dung; I 
tucked my tail and departed. I hope against all odds that tomorrow will be a better 
day and the grim reality of lost freedom will be swallowed with honey and accepted. 
Instead of preparing for battle with gloves and sword. Until the stretched car takes 
you away, be peaceful my love, L-O-V-E, spelled with emphasis on the OH OH.
My freedom is going quickly, along with my parents freedoms to chose and plan, 

I will become responsible to see they get a bath, meals, medical care and to the 

store. Will I have time for me?

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord my words to sweep
Away from the bitter heep
I pray the lord my heart to keep!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Are Animals

fighting back instinct for modern civilization

denying truth for some desperate stab

at feeling special; above and beyond

making ourselves jealous

insecure

imaginatively punishing others for doing

what we are also doing ourselves

and despite our best efforts

and through all of our confusion

and even for being brutally, fervently

faithful 

(because it's 'the done thing')

human x is to human y

as sperm is to egg

we are animals

 

rthom10


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Mirrored Mind

Little escapes a mirrored mind
Questions, thoughts, and lingering doubts
All twisted and mangled together at one time
Never finding an escape out.

Memories of times good brings smiles
Followed quickly by sodden pain
Memories of all those many miles
So much lost, yet so much gained

A life of intrigue and madness
Fun and chaotic hell
Tears of joy and of sadness
Finally extroverted 
Then deeper in your shell

All of this jumbled together
Will it end…NEVER
Your mirrored mind 
Will forever lead in this game
As it slowly and methodically 
Drives you insane.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Listen Kristin

Just go to search. memb er poetry. "Bad Day at the Eye Doctor's" and it will pop 
up.
This is a true tale, and one of my dumbest stunts.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damp Enthusiasm Of A Work Horse

They caught us young,
Doing just about nothing,
Minutes after the schooling hour,
As though naivety was born of middle age,
Bronzed by the sun and the glee,
Of the summer reign,
Pouring down the clarity of havened silk,
Across unsoiled pores,
That now hang like bags,
Of black ash from my cheekbones,

The damp enthusiasm of a work horse,
And the eggs it's laying,
Repetitive in the strain of syndrome,
As Cycles Repeat,
Those with all my money,
Have heavenly retreats,

I'm worshiping the deutschmark,
Whilst sipping from my lord's cup,
Winter brings it fragrant skylarks,
So charming and not so corrupt,

Older now but still with spirit,
Vodka being the main ghost,
That haunts and rots at the belly,
Such is the modern dieting tool,
Of the calorie dispensed,
Some days this tie feels like a noose,
We all take turns in hanging from.


Also Published in The Synthesist, Issue 3 (PS Avalon Publishing)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thinking

If I were To walk the edge of the moon and 
bark like a loon
Or be angry at the blazing day and shun the 
night as I lay;
I would feel glory so sincere for what I revere
reverencial fear from bullets of thoughts so clear
Amidst the wasted youth of candy coated truth
Lies the callous disregard of the heinous and marred bloodied and scarred
But I maintain
Strain to maintain on an sland of insane...
Then I awoke..as if a stranger spoke~

Shalom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your mesmerizing memories

Oh love do you really exist?
I cried when your call came to me 
and left me sleepless in the twilight.

Your mesmerizing memories did fly as a crow
going away from home, spreading pity
of pathetic loneliness in ghastly forests
that glow in pallid colors,and a vapor cloud
devoured the gray trunks,the desiccated stems,
the rotting roots, and the lifeless land.
The pale plains did drive them insane.
This lifeless land did harbour many
ghosts in its hollows, who haunted
many travelers. Nightmares did rule
the day.Who are you to be happy?
Only sadness is allowed to be happy,
not you. A reaper stalks this realm
in search of victims. Try not to
hide for he shall find you quicker
if you try, for he senses your desperation
dripping from your temple.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The dying in belonging

Kisses on the broken ground
tears that annoy...
bringing the inward heat outward into the busted scene

Innocent eyes become possessive eyes now
...as they look down on you
...upon you

I don't feel anything towards this sort of thing
The cold is a safe retreat from all of the needing

Shut me away
away from your gaze
away from your hands
away from your wet
away from your words
away from your feelings

It's all well, but it well never be my problem

Is it true what they say in my silence?
...that romantics die once they've met romance?

Belonging to nothing
fade, fade like the sun on the overcast heart


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life or Death

I sit here pondering my death. 
As I look upon the remnants of my tattered remains for signs of my so called life, I come to the conclusion that to do this, I must first accept the fact that I even had a life. 
But how can one have lived without the rhythmic beating of a heart, or the spiritual foundation of a soul to support ones wants and desires, or the will that encourages the thoughts and dreams of existence. 

How could the emptiness that was inside me have housed such a wonder? 
How is it possible the weakness I felt could ever have held such a power within? 
Is it possible I had reached the pinnacle of my suffering and committed emotional suicide?

Is it possible my demise was due to the ravenous wants and needs of man, disguised as passion and love which lured me into my willingness to give all that I had so freely, to satisfy a gluttonous appetite that consumed everything in its path including the memory of who and what I was?

But to acknowledge this would be to admit I gave my precious gift of life in exchange for a lie wrapped in the promise of everlasting happiness and love.

I sit here and ponder my death but I do not mourn. 
For I have only lost the vessel which held my true spirit, the one which now looks for the light and the chance to be reborn. 

A new being of strength and wisdom who realizes the mistake made in that other form, but will now hold dear all that is to come and all that will be. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Anarchy Minute

Words of contempt for my miserable,
 a sedated daze for our visceral, 
day is dead 
set and burn


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Want To Be

To want to be

is the answer

to the questions

of what's the use

and what's the point

of living

 

I want to be

 

Do You?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

EmergencyResetButton

I need to purge my blood of these shivers, smoke-filled bubbles burst in blood capillaries, an embolysym of you, an embolysym of truth. So much disease carried through an artificial vein.A wire mesh heart that surrounds the tissue, and cuts, and scrapes and tears the flesh thats pulsing there. My iron lung feed me unwell. A binge on sickness that I cannot take back. And with words settling back on the heels of my fingertips, Im ready to be ill. Emesis of b***s***, of treachery. Of indecency, of dishonesty, of facelessness, of cowardice. Will anyone ever read this and understand how a broken heart heals? The maliciousness of untrust and the misuse of of courtesy have eaten away at my regenerated liver. My borrowed kidney is rejected on the operating table and I am drained of all my poisoned blood. So give me a heart outside of my body, a big plasticine box with rubber tubing. And let my eyes see the you drain out of me and the blood of unknown angels be filtered in. I wanna watch every drop be filtered from my collapsing veins, I wanna deflate every organ inside and empty every nerve synapse of memory.I want a restart button and I want a renewable source of energy. I dont want your weak blood in me anymore. I dont needd your tiny bits of protein, your half-formed enzymes. I want  anything else. An artificial sense of safety within my reach. So split me down the middle, no anesthesia, the scalpel working inch by bleeding inch. and seperate me from you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heat

The sky was red and orange and the
heat's handiwork permeated the day 
whether indoors or out. The only baking
happening during this summer was the 
baking of me and my spouse. The temperatures
had driven away every sense of hunger... Food 
for both of us had lost all interest.
 
What to make for dinner with no sauces 
or condiments, impossible, I thought. 
“Perhaps I'll just make some ice cream,” 
I joked ...“or buy some and we'll just live 
on it, ” replied my spouse. Reality was we
were both reduced to cold sandwiches.

It was even too hot to make love. We
agreed that with no air conditioning, 
“Love” was for the more privileged. We 
had only one small fan above the bed that
had little affect especially in the depths 
of passion... even simple hugs were 
becoming annoying. We both pledged
to try and stay in a good mood 
until October.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Make A Choice

I guess you thought I was playing 
Or throwing one of my passing fits 
But when I told you I’m done with this life of her 
I meant it, time to call it quits 
  
We have yet to finish talking 
About that night at the show 
Of you and her and you know what 
Yet you expect a sure just go? 
  
Make a choice. 
That has not changed. 
I can leave out that door 
Just as easy as I came. 
  
We’ve been living on thin ice of late 
Skating so carefully around 
Stand up to her for me or let me go 
I’ll not compete 
Not anymore. 
I feel the ice breaking 
  
I’m going to drown.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Room

they have me
in this room
with the floor on the ceiling
and my face on the wall
those grey men with the funny eyes say
"mister thomas you will cave; 
don't fight yourself"
they have me
i have this room
what's this "fair" deal
this pay-off

r.thomas '10


Details | Prose Poetry | |

lie with me

lie with me 
speak with me in twisted tongues 
be my hidden breath 
awaken my souls quieted song 
longing to be sung

lie with me 
in undressed eden's peace 
in lasting moments 
under shaded palms of a summers eve
through silent early hours of wispy flakes 
in the still of winters sleep

lie with me 
wrapped in dawns brilliant ray's 
warming skin under augusts burning fire 
lost in the ache of your wanting gaze 
we unite pressed together 
heated in desire 

lie with me 
for this last escaping breath 
in this final moment 
lie with me 
set my heart to rest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Selected (part 1)

I awake
  in a thick cropse of trees,
meandering brook splashing nearby,
sunlight stabbing
   through the canopy
in thick rods filled with dust particles.

Cracking my neck
      I rise,
my skin 
   feels like its cracking off
and as I place my hands
upon a nearby boulder
    I notice
        I’m coated
in a brick red substance
   that’s flaking off.
       My mind screams blood
and something stirs within.

Pictures
   of last nights escapades
  flash and swirl,
     and under it all
the taste clinging to my mouth
   becomes familiar,
slightly acidic
       with undertones of metal
quite distinct
  and memory rousing…..

Flash….
   body on fire
as I’m thrashing on the floor,
  I feel the plates in my skull shift
at this point
its just another sensation.
       Pores separate
to let coarse hair
 encompass my body,
   sickle like blades
extend through my fingers.
My mind drifts
   sinking into 
a lone spot in my head
  becoming a spectator
      in my own body.

Instinct takes the wheel
leading me through
  the night enshrouded forest
I feel a rumble
   building in my throat
and as the crescendo erupts
the symbiot realizes
    what the prey will be,
  something from the past 
stirs in my little nest.

Feelings inspire rage,
    rage leaps from the trenches
 with one solemn goal
to feast on that soul
      whom marred my being,
thought to be buried 
      in the cemetery 
          of my brain.
My beast digs for the location….
    spots….
destinations,
    frequencies,
the place to sink my teeth in.

Along a small stretch of road
  a little darker than the rest
I pick up 
   on the desired scent,
it grabs at me
    trying to draw me in.
I snap at the scent
        it won’t control me,
but it will be snuffed out.

I head into
    a standing of scrub pine
on the left side of the house
my target standing out
   like I can see through the house,
sitting there watching TV,
      quite unknowing,
            just how I like it.

Crouching down
    I dig my rear claws in
then burst forth
        like being shot out of a cannon,
drawing towards
the side of the house
  I cross my arms before me
        claws extended.
As I strike the wall
it explodes,
  beams shredding 
like their made of cloth,
               - the easy way in.

I feel the floor shake
    from the growl I release
then brush
  my shoulders free of debris
         picking a large splinter
out of my fine coat.
He’s still frozen in his seat
    covered in rubble.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lobbyist

I was born a lobbyist using my first
words to legislate a pair of dirty diapers
with my mother. The more I screamed 
the sooner she took care of me. My salary
has grown now from a three dollar 
allowance to a starting salary of 
$500,000 per year. Some lobbyists are 
volunteers...God love 'em.
My very pseudo-American work demands
that I present petitions to the government 
or contact members of congress to voice my
opinion which they already know, can be 
bought and sold for the right price. But I 
really spend most of my days in the office 
playing on the computer then going out for 
cocktails with prospective clients.

My job requires more than just persuading
legislators it requires research and analysis
which is always easier to let my paralegal
do. She is much better at it than I. I do 
occasionally attend a congressional hearing
and educate government officials on good 
stock tips and what their catching in Lake Erie.
I don't try to change public opinion anymore 
because I've learned that it doesn't really matter 
what people think its money that counts. Aside
from representing all American institution and
interest groups we appreciate a good paramour
even though we're all married.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brave Soldier

Eleven years ago, my father died.
Divorced from my mother when I was two, 
he was a stranger to me most of my life.
I had no tears as the Marine handed me the flag.
He said, "This is a gift from the President of the
United States in honor of the service that your father
gave to his country". 

Five years ago, as my mother died,
I touched her face and held her hand -
something she never allowed when we were children.
I told her everything was all right
and she could let go.
My eyes were dry, she had no funeral.

Later that year,
my husband packed his suitcase.
He told me of his plans
to find his "spiritual path", and left.
I said nothing and went inside.

But last night, my sweet little Aussie
stumbled and fell, unable to move.
With wide eyes slightly opaque,
her dear face grey around the muzzle,
she told me, its time.

This sweet companion,
faithful and brave, has only asked
for my presence in her life.

This morning, I awoke,
and I cried a  child,
with my mouth open,
eyes streaming,
nose running.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HOMELESS MAN

He waits by the fire
But he cannot get warm
He sleeps outdoors
With the mangy dogs
And loose women of the night
Who've fallen off the radar.
The shelter won't let him in
He too crazy
And his family don't care
He wants a bus pass to the skies
Though he compromises and dies


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Truth

I woke up not feeling myself
Although it’s how I know
That this day is like any other
It’s still impossible to asunder

Drugs, death, it’s just a game
Even my name

We fight
There’s no light 
I have no sight 

How can I be released?
All I want is peace…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thirteenth Fable

 Thirteenth Fable 
Thirteenth Fable 
 
Superstition 
 
Fables of CharlaX 
 
There is far too many to make a short list there is superstitions eye remember 
when eye was just a kid. The many things my girlfriends had to tell me things 
they ruined life at such an early age there is the BROKEN MIRROR that brings 
the SEVEN YEARS bad luck? The black cat crossing my path. The ladder that 
was never under the beam do not step under that in a funk of disbelief eye did all 
them things and now eye am homeless could it be that eye am superstitious or 
just unlucky in my life but then eye have met my violet flower my only one and only 
new life partner she is such a wonderful person not a superstitious reason in her 
curtain eye am certain of that now? The cat was never black enough to scare me 
but there was that just one time? It ran of course because my petting would have 
kept it from the dinner the mouse tail sticking out of a very black and ebon mouth. 
No bad luck can come to me AH HA eye cried its nothing. Then eye ran a little up 
the hill to home. And almost strangeld self eye ran full tilt boogie into the wire 
clothes line nearly taking off my head and losing all the dread of dying for there it 
nearly was. That was back in 1961 the time is not important there was never any 
time for love. Some things eye can remember but choose not to keep at all. Do 
not mop the floor under my feet is one. 
Do not make such sweeps under my feet and yes we did we told the girls to put 
the feet up so we must seep there anyway do you want me to get fired from such 
an important job as this one? 
They screamed and left the diner sure that bad luck was to come upon them oh 
gentle reader ewe don't laugh Erline never sweeps behind the counter. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

You

you tore me to shreds
with idiot lies and rumours
try me again
one word is enough
i won't wait around you'll see
bad decision
one more time
i'm done for
but do you think you do me favours? 
do you think you mend me?
consider me before
you tear me 

r.thomas '10


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How to Order a Pizza In Dutchess County

First, be aware, all close by 6pm.
NYC, this aint.....
Second, call up.....
Specify delivery.....
Detail requests....
"How much are beers?
"$2.50 each..."
"Okay- I'll take 4 beers and a slice.
What's that come to?"
"$26.50"
"Huh?"
"$26.50"

"Hold on, 4 beers, each $2.50,
that's $10., right?"
"Yeah."
A slice is $16.50?"
"No, you have to add sales tax,
Oil surcharge, delivery fee, employee
dependent's education fund,
wear and tear on the tires,
and telephone imformation fee."
"sorry, you're right, that should be $29.50."
"huh?"
"Additional questions are $2.50 each...."

"Nevermind." click.

"Hello, Chinese Jade Restaurant..."
"Hi, any MSG?"
"No, we don't go to Madison Square Gardens"

From now on, english muffins and liverwurst!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A great artist is always before her time or behind it

As she clutched the embroidered paper, she wept, observing her tears sprinkle as they percussed the paper. Watching her droplets marinate, she was reminded of a certain pebble she tossed across the waters upon a heavenly cloud as a child, glancing at it in its attempts to clutch the current as it shimmered across the creek. Brushing the wandering dew from her cheeks, she peered sullenly towards the window as the snow danced in its patter against the mirrored pane. Bravely, she stood, aware of her head as it lowered in overcast almost to its own accord. As she grasped the stool beside her, she hurried, wearily, and approached the window and forcefully opened it. As she liberated the air, she sympathised with the tender wind that kissed her cheeks as it lost its direction. Befallen, she succumbed to the tearful weight her eyes whimpered and gracefully fell upon her bed, clutching the silken overlays as she swooned like an osprey with an artistic temperament.  Hiding herself between two pillows in a divine light, she glanced up to the tapestries as they moved gleefully to the melody of the moonlight's breeze and the howls of forsaken souls lost in the lands afore. As she focussed on the symmetrical elegance and the rich refinement of tragedy, only then did she realise that art was the only way to run away without leaving her home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lifeless hiring centers

Lifeless hiring centers
look upon papers and not people
Hated for not having a coin,
who you are is ignored. 
Your family hates you for being poor
rather than loving who you are.
The soul despised society does oppress.

People's eyes blinded by greed does bind them in endless slavery.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Immortal Snare

The clock stopped ticking,
my ears are ringing 
Tale, tale signs that something is wrong here 
Everything looks normal,  
nothing out of place 
Then I looked in the mantel mirror 
And seen that horrid face. 
Not the reflection of a man, 
or anything I've ever seen 
His eyes were so hypnotic 
They seemed to lock onto me. 
He only spoke two words 
but they were loud and clear 
They will haunt my soul all my days 
He looked at me and said “Just You”
with a blackened tooth grin               
He wants me as his princes 
His spoils of war so to speak 
To make me his blushing human bride 
And the queen of all lost souls 
This was way more than I could bear 
I tried to say no 
Each one bringing a crushing blow 
Rebuffing his every attempt 
each time his anger grew 
And my will was becoming spent. 
With my final exhausted breaths 
I begged NO let me go 
And he laughs and swore to kill all I love unless I stayed 
I gave myself over 
so that no one feels the pain of this immortal snare 
So to save all else I gave in 
I miss who I use to be 
once so happy and care free 
Now on fear and hatred is how I feed 
  
I gave myself over so that no one feels the pain of this immortal snare


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost

Flashes of memories and thoughts
 whirl around in my head 
until I can't take it anymore
I don’t know what's worse; 
memories of us together 
or the reality of him being dead

Laying together in a pile of leaves
walking in the rain 
making a mess instead of making cookies
long talks deep into the night
feeling wanted and knowing that I mattered
 
Lying alone in the park
 crying in the shower
not eating for long stretches of time
cutting myself off from family and friends
feeling lost and empty inside.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE ON DEATH LINE

I have not eaten today,
But my heart is filled
Not hungry of affection.
I had a fill of you last night
A fill of you for a life time

All around us are walking corpses
Corpses of political disregard
Humans of no nations
Even when they are bona-fide citizens
Your blood and mine flows in them

The government abhors the poor
Feeds them with empty promises
Shoves them through the door
They pay the bills
For social amenities they can’t find
Pay taxes for their castles 
Government built in the air
But we know their ancestors
Filthy dogs eating from the king’s crumbs
No; Lets not unknot the knot
Soon a messiah might heed us

In heaven’s book of life,
I heard the poor names are there
In here’s book of life
It is deleted.
Thus, in your head,
Lays your kingdom and glory 
Get rich or die trying
Or; be their poor and keep sulking.

Well, like them I saw… 
I have not eaten
Flesh gone weak to skeleton
Nevertheless, 
The solitude of love within
Keeps me living; I am breathing
But I am moving,
Towards your direction
I see your beam

I feel new
When I see you
From my heart 
Seeps through the rays of the sun
Its fun; this love on death line
We survived the genocide
We survived the war
We survived love
We survived us
I love you too.

This poem is dedicated to the abused tribes of Rwanda and Nigeria during their respective civil wars resulting in near human annihilation. Though time has passed, we still feel your pains chilling our bones. The survivors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Self Divulgence

Your smiling face warms me
like a dagger to the chest,
  so familiar,
       so secure.

The sight of you 
is awe inspiring,
   stealing my breath
like a baseball bat to the gut
which I would rather take
than having 
  these memories of you.

Your scent
     floats on the breeze to me,
wafting about,
   burning my nostrils
and numbing feeling
as if I was scorched by flame, 
    skin sloughing off
all crispy and blackened.

Would it heal me
I would drink down
   every last drop of your blood
but I know 
  that would just
put the last nail in my coffin.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rationale Of An Animalistic Mind

I’ve been good for too long,
   my finger 
have become permanently curved
and I growl
     with every other breath
so in order to gain control
I release the beast.

Running into a field
   I tear out of my shirt
as my bones begin to shift
      locking into a sleeker,
   primal form
reawakening the wolf,
 and as my jaws extend
I raise my head to the moon
    and howl
        at the sight
of my aluminous friend.

I slide to a stop
as the last of my fur
finishes extending 
through my pores,
sit and cock my head
  as I listen,
catching a rustle
off to the right in the near woods.

Instinct decides
to head towards it
and I begin at a ground eating pace.
I can taste its scent in the air,
         rabbit.
Reaching the edge of the forest
  I delve in full tilt,
      mere inches from the trees,
so close
   I can feel their presence
on my skin.
There it is
   bolting across the path,
I snap my jaws
  catching its right hind leg
and swing my head up
lofting my prey into the air.

Back legs sliding 
as I turn around,
dirt and rocks
spraying away from me
I leap,
   its still trying to run in the air,
             futile.
I feel my mouth encircle it
and clamp down.
As my teeth meet
  I feel the head pop off
then I come skidding to a stop,
   splattered blood
dripping from my muzzle,
breath coming in pants.
I hunker down
to my feast,
desire sated for now,
   next time
I’ll have to find
                larger prey.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreaming

The top was down, and we cruised against the wind. Red hair whipped in every direction, and 
stung each cheek with a snap that cracked against the skin.  It was the first day of Spring, it 
seemed. The sun was out and the air was warm. We drove fast, and I looked up to see the 
palm trees that stood tall. 

Breathe in, Breathe out. 

I felt life today. It was insane to feel so free. The music that played overfilled me with soul
and I stopped to think that maybe I am a little crazy.

Have others felt this way? 

It was a peaceful moment, and I was comfortable accepting that maybe I was a little 
different.

That is what made me an artist- I have an abstract perception on how I view the world...

But if you have seen what I have seen, if you have dreamed what I have dreamed,
you will know nothing is ever as it really seems to be.

All the palm trees, the warm sun and the flowing hair.. is nothing more than a single moment 
of time.  It cease to exist now, and I am crazy to believe that it IS real after it passed

when it really is nothing but a memory.

A memory.

Nothing but a memory.

And I am crazy to re-live it and believe its still real. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

lost in lust

A soft kiss shared
Senses heighten
Arms wrapped
Legs snared
Skin tightens
Joining bodies
Blending souls 
Two become one 
Passionate sighs
Then the words uttered
"I KNOW"
Heart skips, flutters
Fear sets in
The words tear into the mind
Rip into the conscience
Left with the smell of deceit
The reek of a liars lust
Ideas flow with unwanted freedom
Ending in the icy waters of mistrust
Ideas pushed away in the name of pleasure
Impulse takes over
Passion increases
HOT-PRIMAL
So right     so wrong
Bodies in  constant satisfying motion
Flowing in rhythm 
Finding an unknown harmony
 In an endless instant
The peak is reached
Two final words uttered
"IT'S OVER"
Everything known dissolves


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ink Stains

Taste the ink
that runs from my veins,
    through my pen,
       staining this page
as I set
my endarkened imprint on society,
the signature
           of a melancholy soul.

I spread my mists of verse
across this parchment
to tickle the emotions
of the masses,
   awakening them
from the doldrums of routine,
     encroaching
 their own hidden thought
like I had clawed them
out of their heads.

Those destructive intentions,
    severing flesh,
        splattering blood
and little morsels of meat,
       creating impressionistic art
  on the walls
       of their safe little dwellings.

Hellonic landscapes,
    reddish smoke
  seeping from fissures
in a volatile ground,
twisted trees
  barely seven feet tall
hanging on
    like a gnarled old man
on life support
    sparsely scattered 
about the sandstone bluffs,
spiraling dust devils
   dancing about
       spitting dirt
in the air
   as if it offended them,
leaving dull tan voids
    in the sky
distorting the crimson hue
that clings above
  the deteriorating,
        jagged spikes
that scratch 
    at heaven’s gates,
  holding back 
the water laden clouds
that have been trying to cry
       on this parched earth
             for eons.

The instigation
    of my imagination
 is a mere speckle
in the nuances of the night,
         a slight glitter
    that my cataclysmic mind
    (a)
  preys upon.
These stanzas
    have been developing 
since time itself,
I just snatch them out of the air
    like an Archer fish
launching a stream of water
  to score my next meal,
laying them to bed
         as I see fit,
tucking them in with punctuation
and my unexplainable determination
         to release expression.

Taste what flows
  from my quill,
    it might entice you
to be the next scribe.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In One Peace

I am afraid I am in too deep
You have taken off my head
And now you ask me for my heart
Are we connected 
By more than my imagination 
As I sit contemplating
I am searching for a direction 
Who what when where
How do I get out of here 
In one peace 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Out Of Luck And Orey-Eyed

I 

Eton,
Oxford,
The Norfolk Broads,
Contemporary Elements
Housing nothing but lords,

The Shipyard,
The Docklands,
The Camber Sand Seeds,
Displaying The Weather,
The Nation And Its Needs,

II

Proud animal etheromane,
Hosting cubes of etiquette as well as¦
¦the likes of hapless gunsels,
In their trophy room you can have the wine,
Or the gin,
With tip of the hat,
To the butler and his liquor,
Fingered are the triggers,

III

Evening on primrose hill,
Animals during daytime,
Now alone without wills,
Scratching loves letter,
Into amber clad tree trunks,
Flayed out and splayed out,
And spayed to be thinner.

Also published in First Offence (Online Magazine), 2006


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On the Importance of the Dorsal Fin

Lacking a dorsal fin, the human being
is ill-suited to his very constitution,
relying rather on ambition and threads of fantasy to
carry him to places a fish cares not to see


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bloody Cobblestones (part 2)

I draw out my soul,
   stretching shadows,
encasing us in fog
and dispersing myself within.
Left forearm and claw forming
I gouge the chest,
blood splattering the stone walls,
slowly
   I bring my face out
     and lick the flesh
from my sickle like blades
then slam my head into his
as my right hand
forms behind the left kidney,
the momentum
    sends the carcass into a spin
and as shrieks
   of pain escape his lips
I drive my teeth 
   into the skin on his chest
ripping it from the bones,
wale assault my ears
   causing shivers.

Drawing back
I enjoy the quivering a moment
then palm strike
   into the sternum,
shards of calcium
flying into my snout
while blood slides down my neck
finally driving 
   my thirst into a frenzy,
my teeth shred the heart
   as I remove it
from its resting place
and I spit it on the ground
as he lays down for the last time.

I slide back beneath the red oak.
             Taste my reach. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Cheat

Even in the dark, it doesn't feel right. 
Even in the silence, I know it isn't you. 
But I'm young, and I'm scared, 
And he gets me through. 
The first was lips, 
Just a sweet, common meeting. 
Only, I can't call myself his anymore.
It was a moment, short and fleeting, 
But I won't belong to him ever again. 
Three rotations around the star, He is all I know, so I let it be. 
He promised it was friendship, and he wanted nothing more. 
Then why is this happening to me? 
The drink swims in my brain, 
Watching the waves lap at the shore, 
And I can't remember a damn thing, 
I don't remember a thing more. 
Scared. I was scared. 
So, silent I was. 
My heart was hidden, lies were snared. 
I made the dark vacuum seem like a torrent of sound. 
When his ideas of happily ever after fell through, 
He ran with one last plan. 
He ran squealing like a pig to you, 
And I almost lost everything I wanted. 
I let the lies break, 
I let the tears fall, 
Because although seventeen, 
I felt so very small. 
I promised, I swore, 
And to that I've kept true. I
I've never again 
Cheated on you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RELIGION AGAINST MAN

He hated his brother
Because he practiced another
Men of same wombs
On each other, inflict wounds
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw; eye sores
Men beheaded… burned
Women disemboweled
Bombed
Drug traffickers and the mafia
Show more angels heart
Men obsessed with religion
No place free of them
Hold this illusion
Four virgins and a mansion
For just one man in heaven
So die a martyr
And make it even
In the beginning, was this so?
When men die, do they go?
PLEASE: give me no fairy answer
Except self proven ponder

On the other side
I heard Christ died
Men turned it merchandise
One name, many voices
As the voices, so the vices
Repent. Be baptized
Or die ostracized
Yet in sex, their leaders
Abuse youths and feeders
Adultery in the upper chambers
Sucked the poor dry
So the rich benefits and not die
Name not names
Lest you give them more fame
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw…eye sores
Grieve not alone in chest
It’s same in north; south; east; west

I heard God has his own powers
And he for himself mighty might
So why do for him men fight?
I heard also, the goat can bite
When pushed to the wall
Be that so,
Then there is:
The goat-
The applied force-
And the wall.
Who is the Goat? Man
Who is the force applied?
Circumstances against man
And who is the wall?
Religions against man


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Common Sense on A Shelf

As the crimson color fades away,

I think about all the hardships from every day.

I am the only one that truly knows about my pain,

The pain I face each day, that never seems to go away.

I do not ever regret any of the damage I did to myself,

But I do regret leaving my common sense to gather dust on the shelf.

I knew that what I was doing was not okay,

But I insisted on continuing every day.

The starving,

The cutting,

The fasting,

The binging,

I wish I could restart from the beginning.

I watched me destroy myself,

Because I left my common sense on a shelf.

I continued to watch my life pass me by, 

As everything around me began to die.

I clearly remember losing every single friend,

Because they could not stand being there from beginning to end.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Something about that emo kid

Dear make-up-wearing-emo-kid,

I hope you're having fun. I hope your life is good.
I wish you well, but I'm curious, do you wish the
same for me? I mean, you don't even talk to me
anymore. When you do talk to me, it's to question
me about my sexuality, what clothing I'm wearing
at the moment, basically anything relating to sex.
So, it's hard to tell you apart from those perverted
old creeps you might see on TV, looking up the
skirts of MILF's as they stroll on by.

Dear skinny-confused-emo-kid,
It's not about looks. It's about what's inside.
It's not about sex, it's about the love in a relationship.
It's not about having to lie to me and make me feel
like you love me, because there are millions of girls out there.
I'm not the only one to chase. I'm sure there are lots of other
girls who would just love to let you chase their skirts and
hear you lie to them repeatedly. I'm just sick of it all.
I don't need you, and you sure as hell don't need me.

Dear traitor,
You built me up,
you broke me down.
You got what you wanted.
I hope you're happy.
Wipe the smirk off your face,
I don't care that you've succeeded in making me fall for you
I don't care that you're freaking gorgeous.
I don't care.
I am not your toy.
I am not your slave.
And I am most definitely not your 'baby girl'.
Just because you have my heart doesn't mean that you can control me.
I'm not yours.
I'm my own person.
I'm me.

And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

But never mind that now, I must go. Mother is calling me to come to supper. Until next
time, you traitor.

Sincerely,
A-broken-hearten-clown.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ANNIHILATION

So you wanna annihilate me…
Perform your version of genocide on me
You wanna silence me….
Deny me freedom
From my birthright of royalty
Like Malcolm you wanna assassinate
My very existence from your cerebral cortex
Damaging your membrane with
Overloads of insane cruel intentions
Plotting my demise
Setting Snares Traps
Hoping I will DIE
But as a famous poet once stated
STILL I RISE!!!!!!!!!!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Opression

Present, in this bed I lay, and
tonight, they will order me to pray.
Within these four walls that contain my madness,
only god and repentance will absolve me of my sadness,
for I had once dared leave the solitude of my mind.
How can I pray when my hands you bind?
No longer a free being am I, in this world.
I can no longer shout, so how will I be heard?
Yesterday, my spirit and I were defeated, and
tomorrow I fear this will all be repeated.
Haven't you heard a word that I say?
How will I get better, bound, gagged and unable to pray?
Why in your faces, does my agony bring you gladness?
Am I onto a secret, therefore deemed made of badness?
The only thing you have ever inclined,
is that no free thinking man will be left unrefined.
All will be plucked, one by one from the herd,
and if non-compliant, forever be labeled absurd.
Like sinners, and the insane, they will be treated,
and if not changed, they will be deleted.
Well then, a martyr in this life I will now play, for
your disgrace I will not now, I will not ever obey.

-May god have mercy on your souls.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lithium, Lithium

My torment contains their solution,
I never wanted your pollution.
Why must I force myself to decompose?
You're nothing but a thorn without the Rose.
How can they tell me, this is existence?
Why must you fight, my every resistance?
Don't you understand? I'm in love with my despair!
It is my reason for enduring, it is my light, it is my air.
I fear I cannot fight this war much longer.
Every day you grow strong and stronger.
Why is no one helping, can't anybody see?
Slowly, but surely, you're destroying me.
However, surrender, I never will.
This is one soldier you'll have to kill,
A life with you I refuse to share,
My only love, is my darling despair.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Faceless Dolls

No reason and no rhyme
Couldn't find the time
To fix this mess we've made
Another plan imperfectly laid
Too destructive for your own good
I'd save you, if I could
Too busy drowning in my lies
Can't you see I'm no prize
Too busy drowning in the past
Far too long these memories last
What a shame, what a crime
Couldn't find the time


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Another Miserable Love Letter

Dear Victory Girl from the bay or [dock]

I knew you'd be beautiful

for the sake of the decline...let hedonism take its toll...
Just so I Can Forget

How do you smile like that?

I'm bleeding gallons thinking of your face.

My most sincere pains,shames,claims,and thought about pet names, lie with you

signed-

Unused,and abused


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On Verge

Have you ever jumped in and out of your skin?
Found yourself on top of a hill with no shade to stand under, the skin around your lips and eyes starts to crack and peel.  Don’t you wish for one moment you could simply have a hand to cover the glare and give you a screen, to sooth them for just one instant and feel a breath of relief.

Have you ever bled without pain?
You are soiled red but the gates of pain are simply numb. You simply watch the drops stain. If only a hand could compress the hurt and brake the flow of this rouge river game.

Have you ever spat words of scorn? Only to discover it was a feeble attempt that bounced the daggers back at your wall of ice. They simply echo back, the acid splatters in your face. You regret what you said; you wish you were dead.

Have you ever defied your own line of fire? You’ve broken down your walls of guard and allowed trespassers to rape your morals. If only a hand could pull you back and tug you in, the rules you made would still be in.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Selected (part 2)

I feel my muscles
   cord up with tension ,
  can almost hear them creak
in the strain.
Lumbering over
  I lean in close,
he seems
    on the verge of passing out
face white as paste
and he flinches as my breath 
  smacks him in the face.

I reach down 
    and shove a claw
into his right leg,
that gets his blood flowing again
and his scream intoxifies me,
I snap my teeth
             into his shoulder
and fling him against the wall.
He hit the floor
  and I leap upon him,
sinking in my claws,
      locking his corpse beneath me.
Lashing at him 
 with my paws
I dig into his chest
    tearing away
       the flesh
   and snapping 
the ribs like twigs…….
     I pause…
to watch the heart
       throb and convulse.

Blood dripping 
from my now matted fur
         I begin
by biting off his right arm
then grabbing hold 
           of the wrist
I tear off the bicep
with my jaws
mashing it with my molars,
   and as it slides 
down my throat,
Always watching 
            his expression,
       I shiver.
With heart rate speeding
  I rip away
the chunky part
      of the right thigh,
pin it to the floor
  then devour it
      resting my torso
upon his.

I eat
  into the left leg
hunkering down,
     guarding my prey,
there is so much blood
I can feel the hair
   on my snout
     weighed down
       like when you walk
in a heavy rain.

I stop long after
   the heart 
      became still,
push my bloated body
off the remains
and lope away,
  almost drunkenly.
And if
   there was some one there,
they’d see
      the grin of satisfaction
           upon my face,
and me 
licking the juicy chunks 
from my snout
    as I depart.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Regrets at being shorted in life

Regrets at being shorted in life


Here I am at me place of work.

What the fork.

Eight dollars an hour.

And I watch the three lousy  towers.

Eight dollars an hour. 

And me life runneth sour.

Hourly patrols I walketh up and down.

And dreameth all around.

Me sparest minutes are behold.

As I pen me thoughts, in me own little world.

Such as life's been a waste.

Such as life's gone by in haste.

Never married, never had a child.

Sadness carried, sadness runneth wild.

Life would have been filled with so much vigor.

If only me was endowed a lot bigger.

At 54 years old.

Hopelessness is on hold.

Room with mom.

Go out with Tom.

She does me clothes.

He does me toes.


However this Spartan night.

Everything has gone alright.

No whistles blown.

No flashlight shown.

No questioned looks.

No encountering crooks.




The 10 to 6 is almost through.

The crack of dawn is coming into view.

Off to the horizons early birds take to the skies.

On clockwork, too, tenants begin to rise.



For me…me day is soon in the books.

Its pages filled with ashamed looks.

Mindful of a seeded start and an unharvest finale.

And an end like no other, without a tally.

Me cry will forever be harboring about being distorted.

And innately shorted. 


Odd, me guess is mankind.

Where being long and esteemed is divine.

Soon this shift will come shortly to an end.

Soon, too, with a sigh… this life at being predisposed.  

If only people knew.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Starlet

Sky blue starlet
darting through the night,
 inking herself
on the clouds as they swirl
   and pass,
           wind by wind.

The coupling of her hair
and her neck
    lap,
like the shore
    and the tide
  leading somewhere and nowhere
retracting,
  but  always progressing
    just a little more,
one step back,
      two steps forward,
biting and clawing ,
beating suppression
   with progression.

The taking of one more ounce of flesh
    (a requirement, desire),
prolonging 
   the last second
before sticking the ice pick in,
     right behind 
the ear 
              all the way in,
   piercing the brain stem,
allowing one drop of blood 
        to escape.
Gazing into those marvelous,
   scorching blue orbs
while the life drains away
   and the light in them
is snuffed out
   like a candle
tossed into a chasm,
falling forever,
    dropping through darkness.

Cradling the head 
   I lower my corpse
to the ground,
I can still feel 
    the warmth in the flesh
as it leaks away
   like the blood 
from the newly create puncture.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

some other thinking not mine

some other thinking not mine
some other thinking not mine
sure they mean well they tell
they hoist the boom and bring it down on you
explaining to you just what you have to do
as iff the gospel is given unto men in paychecks
the  20 dollar bill is lord and master now to them
wear the gun invisible on your belt hide the bullits  from the gun stock they make welts upon your sacrilege form the lines pay the penalty of time
bark your orders from the grave no one listens to your grace whiskey laced sermon now you see them now you do not see them shine on harvest moon of time is coming time is nigh near the starting near the ending of the time
judge me quickly judge me not guilty not thet eye did never sin but the sin must be forgiven men  who  who died and gave us the keys find the lord of all religion please do not call me the hooty owl again Roman Legions beck and call master of them all  is money rolled money counted money paid and money kept from the destruction of the mention of the men who have no money all the poor poor men please who who not the hooty owl again doh ray me la teeh doh teeh doh hooty owl hooty owl teeh doh money not mine thinking some other


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soliloquies

In the smoke of cannabis induced haze
Whispers of ogres & imps of bygone age
Laughter echoes,
Fallen angels by the side
Of friends left behind…
And of memories washed ashore

A few tokes one too many
Broken blinds of my windows
Someone is peeping in now
Its just light…
Darkness seemed comforting
Of the many nights of insomnia
Some dreams are best seen awake

Stoned! But respite is none
Lines don’t rhyme… am I the one?
Who is crying?
Tears are just, wasted stains
Melancholy is a form of pastime
Nostalgia a derivative of self


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Martyr and the Warrior

A journey together,
Storms to weather;
Companions unlikely joined
Despite their task
     on this path which many ask,
“Why the battle?”
“Why the pain?”
“Does not God care?”

Martyr whispers gently,
“Surrender to Love’s grander plan.”
Warrior shouts the battle cry,
“Persevere, victory’s at hand!”

Martyr teaches mercy, grace and love
     to tame the tyrant within.
Warrior teaches perseverance, courage and strength;
     the tyrant to overcome.

Companions unlikely joined
For this journey long
Companions to aide
Along this path long laid.
Healing the prize
Despite surprise.
Lessons to be learned;
Trust to be earned,
     to heed the other’s voice 
     and make the wiser choice.
This battle within needs each
For which to teach;
As guides along the way.

Martyr entreats Warrior,
“Surrender to Love’s call,
For grace and mercy extended to all.”
Warrior enjoins Martyr,
“Be strong, be courageous,
Honesty within
To conquer every sin!”

Warrior needs Martyr 
to tame the tyrant within.
Martyr needs Warrior
To defeat the tyrant;
For victory to win!

The journey for this tyrant within,
Beckons Love’s call;
Grace and mercy to all.
Healing within and without;
Love’s nature calls out;
Surrender control;
Be courageous! Be strong
     to right each wrong;
Start within.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

my blood boils

My blood boils
Everything around me is evaporating
In my anger
I see my only hope
Disappear 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

violent skin art

the back-door window has laughed at misery
broken
deformed
my hands excited the center
a catastrophic introduction
together they depart
the perimeter remains behind and above
a complete separation
sever
abandon direct
we are one
memories are scars
to be fragmented is natural
organization is forced
the back-door window
now paralytic
disarranged
chaos
so mathematical
so perfectly dispersed
waste
garbage
art

Listen to this as a song!
http://www.soundclick.com/bands/page_songInfo.cfm?bandID=41813&songID=8892751

_


Details | Prose Poetry | |

hurt

 
so someone badgered you threw their words at you they splintered like sticks they broke the skin like stones you swallowed your heart you lost the movement of your watch i'm sorry they attacked you unprovoked later i'll remind you bruises heal but for now show me where it hurts think of my sincere concern as that kiss your mom use to place there later i'll remind you some people are unfair because they are and that's that block them out there are others who are kind who have words that penetrate the thickest of skulls who inject love like a vaccine who prevent the black plague hate from spreading but for now it’s about you you feel alone you feel no one understands you feel abandoned and you feel just plain bad really bad i understand the puncture a rhinos horn leaves unaware of the harm they left because their hide is thick there are those of us who are like you sensitive we've read your tears we've watched you all these years and we are pleased to be in your company so take the time you need to heal and don't forget we are here


Details | Prose Poetry | |

She has no idea

She wrote it on his skin, 
and he hoped that
it would sink in.
It was just a phone number,
but he thought of it as coordinates,
that once he left the bar,
the darkness,
he would find something,
something worth leaving for.
He remembered the way she 
smiled as she wrote,
the way her nails carved into
his hate of that place;
That the fact that she was there,
made up for the dirty glasses
and watered down drinks,
the stale smoke,
and the crooked toothed lounge singer.
He got to his car,
and warmed up 
the heart of a new journey.
Lit a cigarette with the lighter
she left, before kissing the 
neck of his shadow,
whispering to the wounds
he was so used to drowning in.
As he exhaled the first puff,
he watched his tachometer 
steadily rise, red, angry 
revolutions, memories, 
nightmares...regret
swelled against the 
windshield, blurry. 
"She has no idea
                            what she is in for.." 
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cantilever

There is a vortex in every locomotive
that is at once inert and in moto perpetuo
Beneath that vortex lies a feeling, a veritable
epicenter of grief from which springs the only
real compliment to sentient life and to which
our species has attached the name of suffering.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Impact

The hardest thing in life

Is seperatung love from spite ;

Separating the truth, 

Even when you think it sounds right.


If you don't know your enemy,

there's no way you can fight-

And Sometimes the greatest hints are slight ;

As I recall them- 

Laying down at night .


There Is no remorce in self advocacy, 

And no shame in doubting their accuracy;

The intent of others is incalculable,

And you will feel their wrath;

Life is our hourglass- 

So who cares if your an outcast? 


Make the contrast-

Because their *****is all stagecraft; 

Shoot a counterblast,

Stay steadfast- 

And make damn sure it has an impact. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lies

I wake up in the morning, The smell of your perfume lingering on my skin, I roll over to see if your body still lay there, & I realize everything I loved vanished. I just have these images and scents stuck in my head, I have everything you ever gave me packed away, I look through it again and again each day. Trying to piece the puzzle together, & figure out why we drifted apart. I want to know if you still think about me like I think about you, I want to know if you still have the things I made and gave to you. I just wish I could stop smelling you, Stop thinking about you, Just everything about you brings me to my knees, & I am begging you please, Please just let me forget you. I wake up the next morning and realize, Everything about you was lies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Single Beacon

a single beacon stood
illuminating with a billion lux
everything to be
'til the linear track we call time
came into flux
against hopeful humans clinging
to some stupendous belief
contrived from shapes on the ground.
but the light fell away;
some argued against truth
but there was nothing to be won;
there was nothing to be seen
the patterns of light and its absence
were fragile and faltering
'we believed in shadows ?' they cried
and their anguish was real.

 

 

 

rthom 10

.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Scam

Scam
WLM
Wildncrazy555
July 31, 2011

Been caught in a scam
Should I have just ran
Try to be good
For God as we should
Always to get bit
Just take another hit
Never knowing why
But continue to try
To live with the strife
Just wanted a wife
Will we ever just fit in the groove
Or should we just move
On the Golden list
I do not jist
Or just change my name
To fit and stay in the game
Never, never win
So I will just give in


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Twisted Karma

Fate has led my heart to find
A love that was never destined to last
I wonder if this is the punishment I deserve
For my cruel and heartless past
Karma has twisted my dreams so fast
And threw my love in the trash

A life-altering war rages on
That split our apartment in two 
Some nights I lay against the wall
That separates me from you.
Tormented by this endless pursuit
That rips my heart through and through

An intrinsic insanity leads me on
I imagine you on the other side
Strumming your fingers across the wall
While my child grows inside
Looking up through tear soaked eyes
To where our memories lie
A sense of longing derives
Inside your wicked lies

I’m wallowing in broken dreams
And taunted by the burdens I choose
I once believed this was my ‘happy ever after’
Now I’m waiting for fairy tales to come true
Hoping that I’m done paying dues
And maybe someday you will choose
To stop treating me like you do
We’ll get back to being me and you
Settle down and say ‘I do”

But there you go
Out the door into his arms
You chose his dim-witted presence
Over my witty charm
To0 blind to see the harm
In trading that broken home for ours?

Spare his feelings to obliterate mine
You say you feel obligated to be with him
When you’re not lying in my arms
A broken faith in you snaps from within
This could possibly be the end?
Our bond is a broken glass we can’t mend
No longer my friend

I love you
Who am I to you?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Are You Knocking- Do You Hear The Wind Sing Your Name

I seem to have lived my life in thrice written scrolls
    flowing throughout the eternal winds 
in bits and pieces of torn paper

I’ve searched my heart for you my love
    I’ve sent your name to the stars -
sending it throughout the Universe…
    floating across the essence of time

I seek my heart’s desire…
    Bidding him to send the mysteries of his soul
I search and search - oh, there must be more
    Is that you knocking at my door?

Why is love so hidden?
    We think it has arrived, only to find…
it was not for ourheart - our soul

In my dreams - you’ve come a thousand times
    Your spirit sings
I’m aroused by the gentleness of your touch
    I feel the passion of your caress
My heart keeps searching 
    My soul yearns for the sweet taste of your kiss

Where are you my love...
    There must be more
Is that you knocking at my door?

You sleep in the recesses of my mind - my heart
    Come fill the emptiness within - 
draw me into your warm embrace 

I’ll wait a lifetime ...
    for there must be more 
“Shh”…
    Is that you knocking at my door?

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bloody Cobblestones (part 1)

My mind awakens
to this extravagant pull
  like being jerked
when standing to close
to a jet engine starting.
I feel my top rise,
   mind diving
      for the feel of the wolf
arising from its cage,
   surfing on a wave of adrenaline.

Shaking off the lethargy 
of my hibernation,
hunger stands up
   snapping at its chains,
my thoughts
traveling inches
   over the turbulent ocean
snatching tastes of scents,
      ever drawing closer
to the reason
of this rude awakening.

Every second
   another part of me
coalesces into 
    the true extension
of my morbid being.

A spark of direction
pops into my brain
and I step onto the light killing shadow
of a red oak
becoming a part of the darkness.
The glint of lights
    and the glitter of the waves
exist and de-exist 
as I pass.

Reforming in the endarkened corner
of a garden near a park,
    tiny shrubs
      entwined in vines.
Shift,
   behind an evergreen
      across the park,
Push,
   in a bookstore
      aisle three
         narrow but sleek,
Stab,
   behind my prey
      walking unsuspectingly.

Standing
   from the shadow
of the street sign in front of him
I ensnare my fingers
 around his throat
   drawing him
into the ebony silk
             that is me.
Slash,
   he slams
into a cobblestone wall
in a slim alley I’ve chosen.
Right foot sliding
I drop into a crouch,
   left finger blades
 tearing through
the flesh behind the right knee-cap
then flinging it,
 spraying a crimson trail
and hobbling my prize.
I slam myself against the wall,
staggering into its shadow
   then reforming,
      drawing him in close.
Bringing my head near his ear
  I crack my throat,
educating him to my primal cause,
  “All humans are hardwired
     to savage
ANY which cause harm
to a loved one.
Too bad for you”,
   then for emphasis
I rip off the funnel shaped appendage,
spitting it in his face.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In this world of mine



The rain keeps coming, 
Masking tears of despair, and rivers of agony
Seem in no hurry to crest
In this orb that is my world, I stand in frozen animation
As I listen to the venom of tangled tongues and crooked lips
Then hear the critique of the man in the street
I stop to analyze and find that nothing is said, just a horde 
Of ghastly lies
My heart grows heavy, and my chest tightens.
As anger builds, my lungs feel the fire of the now forsaking 
Breath, 
The pain is real, 
And I contemplate my fate

In this world of mine   

The sun is sad and the moon weeps, 
And the walls inch closer. 
As my neck plays a melody of twisting knots,  my shoulders 
Feel as if stomped by the passion of a flamenco dance. 
As my temples lament the torment of this harrowing crescendo.
From a place called malice and rage, hate and contempt
Send bouquets, 
But in the glory of this floral splendor, lies deceit, 
The bewitching fragrance of the day. 
And serpents of a human Ilk, their minds filled with disdain and 
Spite, come to feed upon my life, 
As their minions nibble, 
I question my sanity

In this world of mine

Is the theatre of suffering,
Where shadows of rage cloak, a dominion of corruption,
And evil keeps a watchful eye, 
And vultures with hearts bitter and cold, stalk, 
As if waiting for a carrion to be born, that a feast may begin. 
And in this presence of immorality,
Void is the integrity of soul. 
As I listen to the wind, I hear the voice of purpose, 
And in the verses of the night, Is the message of the day
And the lessons taught, 
Are real 

In this world of mine

As this deluge of decadence baths a candid soul, 
I strive to be freed, from the afflictions
Of being.  
And amid the craving for contentment, I beg, 
For deliverance, 
And rest my fate at the foot of the mountain, for there
Lies truth.  
In my meditation, eager I am to see behind the light
And reconnect with the presence within,
For it is there that I hear the sunshine in your voice,
And see the laughter in your eyes.
It is there that courage is present, and I am fraught with the 
Effervescence of your smile, 
And your face is vibrant
And passion enriches me, 
And I, am reborn

In this world of mine


Earl S. Jackson

July 2014
Copyright © 2014 Earl S. Jackson, all rights reserved.





 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

You've got skeletons in your closet I've got hearts

No one does it better than I.
Be they outgoing or a touch shy.
And to sit and think about it now,
And I tend to really wonder how
I got in the business of stealing hearts.

Whispers of a life draw them in.
Sweet smiles and laughter keep them pinned.
And in an instant, I think we could be.
And then I remember we're dealing with me.
Trapping souls forever is a tricky art.

I've never set out to hurt a soul,
But when I leave, they're never whole.
And I sulk for two or three.
And then I move, 'cause I'm me.
In the end, I break them apart.

Falling in love is never my plan.
But then again, such a dashing man.
And I guess I have a charming way.
And I guess I make them want to stay.
Is there ever an end to what I start?

I've never asked for all these hearts.
I was searching for the missing parts.
And then I wake up one day and see.
And then realize it's not meant to be.
When composing love, I'm your Mozart.

I'll come into your life, and make you fall.
I'll take your heart, I'll take it all.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

what fools are we

To delay the inevitable 
We attempt to engineer longevity
Unable to bear the burden
Of a transient
uncontrollable existence
We make ourselves gods over nature 

We will live
Then die
and be forgotten
A cycle that will never 
Outlive nature or time 
 
Our advancement has been rapid
Our hopes have been triumphed
By our energetic abilities
We can we feel conquer all 

Self-grandeur
Soldered to a psyche that
Seeks out any weaknesses to destroy
Makes man bold
He traduces all
Never understanding the unique balance
That is life

Our anxiety regarding our significance
Harangues our thoughts
We seek out answers on earth
And from the galaxy
We cannot rest until we
Know how time began

Must we be so selfish
Treating our brother and the environment
With no love
Condemning all with a granite heart?
Must we pretend
That we are self-created
That we sprung from the big bang?

To be occasional masters of our world
Is a responsibility we must
Not take lightly
Each stake holder has his role to play
In shaping our world

Time may be our friend 
And our understanding may become complete
But will we find what we seek?



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Karma Twisted

Who am I to you?

I love you
No longer my fried
Our bond is a broken glass we can’t mend
This could possibly be the end
A broken faith in you snaps from within
When you’re not lying in my arms
You say you feel obligated to be there with him
Spare his feelings to obliterate mine

In trading that broken home for ours
Too blind to see the harm
You overlooked my witty charm
Favoring his dim-witted presence
Out the door into his arms
There you go

We can settle down and say ‘I do’
We’ll get back to being me and you
You’ll stop treating me like you do
And someday you will choose
Making me pay my dues
Now I’m waiting for fairy tales to come true
Dreams of ‘Happy Ever After’
I’m taunted by the burdens I choose
And wallowing in broken dreams

Inside your wicked lies
A sense of longing derives
To where our memories lie
Looking up through tear soaked eyes
While my child grows inside
Strumming your fingers across the wall
I imagine you on the other side
And intrinsic insanity leads me on

It rips my heart through and through
Tormented by this endless pursuit
Separating me and you
At night I lay against the wall
Our apartment split in two
By a life-altering war raging on

My love was thrown in the trash
Karma has twisted my dreams so fast
For my cruel and heartless past
I wonder if this is the punishment I deserve
A love that was never destined to last
Fate led my heart here

I love you
Who am I to you?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forgotten Fairytale

I caught a glimpse of you 
    when you didn’t know I was looking 
 Trying to rediscover what I'd forgotten about you 
                About us
         Why I'd once loved you... 
              In that other time
 
You were standing naked in front of the mirror 
         Your auburn hair glistening on your wet, mortal body
  You had just stepped out of your morning shower 
       humming the customary tune you do so well 

I stood quietly in the hall...
watching you shave your golden, red beard 
       while you hummed... 
  keeping the rhythm with your foot 

It was intoxicating, observing your routine 
    without you knowing I was there 
  I'd watched your morning ritual a thousand times 
                 You - always aware when I was looking 
 In the past   
    In that other time
 
      Somehow... 
  watching you more with my heart, than with my eyes 
              made me melancholy 
  Missing those feelings I'd once felt for you 
             For us... 
       So deep within my heart...
   For awhile back then
    
Did we ever really love? 
  Was it kismet? 
       Was it fate?    
         The question sits on unspoken lips 

I sighed... 
     Missing us, missing you
  Back then... 
        In another time     

When our melody began 
   you sang the notes to my heart so well 
       so tender 
  We soared on the music 
         our mouths relishing the kiss
      In our moments back then   
 
     For a time...        
We were us, you and I 
    Tracing our love with thirsy lips 
  hungry bodies 

I stood there looking at you for quite some time... 
        Pausing at the door before I left
                    Knowing... 
 I might never open that door again                 

    I turned back once more before turning to go 
       making sure to remember just why I was leaving 

     But now... 
        Every time I see a man shaving
   I find myself thinking of you

         Goodbye my love
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damage Will Always Be There

The Damage Will Always Be There


I cried,I bleed,And now my heart longer beats the same way it did before I meet you.My heart feel broken,i feel like a rag doll played with over and over again only to be thrown away.I miss your love but now your gone and my hearts ache the most it has ever.There are time's I wonder if  I have been lying to myself,I must be because my heart should fee lighter it should feel like a free winged bird but it not.The damage the cuts the sores they shall be with my from happy time to sad time because you put them there.You who I looked up to you never promised I know but it aches from every thought of you.How come how come I must be alone in this world? It sound selfish but I only want you back to be here beside me and tell me you love me and I'm doing a great job with everything.Why does it hurt to think of you?why does it pain me to want to be lose to anyone?why does everyone leave me behind when I need them the most?why am I so closed up with a stone wall full of hate surrounding my heart?I know it shouldn't be there but do you? In time the cut will heal and the sores shall vanish.But what about the feelings and the damage inflicted upon them will never leave.Yes it sounds so cliche yes you've heard it all before.But really and this is know this is said this is everything I know.The damage is there no matter how much it seems to have healed.

For my grandmother who i lost now 5 years ago Granny i miss you i wish you would have fought for us a little longer then you did.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

I am not related to tomorrows,
Severed from them
I am  related  to my yesterdays
The suffered realites
Do not trust the future.
Passing through the endless period of grimness, 
I have owned them. Absence of miseries
Is not the culmination of the anguish.
Painful past, More known, more intimate is acceptable 
I am afraid of the future, 
The unknown tomorrow.













Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Chill of Your Touch

I feel a chill in your kiss...
like the cold, February wind that rushes through my veins 
Oh, how I long for the soft tenderness of your caress
which has now become strangely vacant
Your warm embrace seems to have lost its fire
and you no longer stroke my face while I sleep
 

Suddenly...
The warmth is gone from your touch
I swallow the pain down inside
not wanting to notice our bridge may be burning
Why can't you just say it-instead of pulling away?
Do the risks seem too high to take a chance? 


The painful words in my soul bring tears to my eyes
We used to find love in quiet, hidden places
You without pity -  I without shame
Who has taken my place...
Entered my space?
How could I have known you'd tire of me so?


Will you no longer stand by my side?
Together...
we could make things right 
But...
your silence is so deafening 


Raindrops pour their waters
washing away my hopes, singing a melancholy song
of lost hope -  of disappearing dreams
I lift my face to the darkened sky
feeling the rain slide down my cheeks
Staring into emptiness
as my heart cries out in silent pain 
blinding me from the light 
 

I feel so lost without you
But then I realize...
You never really found me
 

Now my heart says...
Where do I go from here?
Oh God...
Tell me -  where do I go from here

_________________________________________________________________________


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Between Heaven and Hell

What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
In between this heaven and this hell
Believing in God more than what the people tell
What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
Under the sun
Never ending Corruption
In between this heaven and this hell

Between zero year and the end times
I've bidden my time
Smoke and mirrors
A day further
Time goes on
That  light on the horizon
Is just a mirage
Just the glare off a shiny nickel in the dirt
Nothing but Despair
The entire world 
In a state of dis-repair
We march on further
Into the abyss

A day further
Time goes on 
So what shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
In between this heaven and this hell
Believing in God more than what the people tell
What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
Under the sun
Never ending Corruption
In between this heaven and this hell


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I've Gone, So What Remains

Call it what you will.
You can try and lie.
But green as the ocean.
I see it in your eyes.

The way that you look,
Let your gaze fall upon me,
It's not even a challenge
To look and then see.

When the door closed,
I wasn't coming back.
Pray all you might,
Love is your lack.

My soul is sold.
My heart's anew.
And the owner
Just isn't you.

It hurts to see
The way you hurt
And I know you'll feel
Until six feet in dirt.

I think it's time
We stop playing games.
Because our hearts
Don't beat the same.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

i comeforth

From watered womb burst 
From poppied fields sprung 
I Comeforth 
With Penance scarred skin 
Fines of blood given 
My keeping bondage loosened 
I Comeforth 
Standing attentive in destiny's battle 
Fighting fates torrential onslaught 
I Comeforth 
With armored soft and wounded heart 
A soldiers eye for dying 
I Comeforth 
In the spring of new growth 
Reticent tears of rebirth 
I Cry 
As I 
Comeforth


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blemished Record

This blemished record
Uncalled for and unjust accusations
When did you become a pompous lord?
Rise much higher
And you'll burn in the sun
Screaming my denial
Alone and unheard
Underhanded games were always your style
Can't even say a word
Is it that easy to look down on me;
Your forgotten prodigy


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BITTER SISTER

Bitter Sister:

Don't want to leave
like this
want to pick you up
in my arms 
kiss you and tell
you - I have 
stored away and
protected,
this love I have for
you.

Don't want to feel
like this,
Like the only way
into your 
heart is when it's
vulnerable.   
Making it seem as if
I hate you

When I just don't 
want you to hate me.
Never could 
I even dislike
you,snide remarks, 
resentments
I have endured-
Because I hoped,
and took the shots. 

Realizing that my 
defense was strong
my retaliation could

kick you into
eternal
wickedness.
I surrendered 
I Love you 
too much, to let 
you continue hurting

yourself, to hurt
me.

You won't see me
again
As I aggravate 
your condition on
sight.
Transposing
your guilty,trading 
places with
innocence.
as I remind you of
your 
well held onto
condition.

The truth is I want
to 
hold you and tell
you
It's fine-
I want to clear your
eyes.
let you see that 
the love is here 
It cannot be
released. 
I cannot complete 
the task;until you
ask.










Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mirror

unhappy with the reflection
mirror a double edged weapon
wielded with an arm of hate
disappointment cuts like a blade
curse that mirror
she stabs in my heart
not me
that's not me
image reflecting is not mine
her mistakes are her own
bless this child
i must
must protect this life
growing within
her mistakes are her own


Details | Prose Poetry | |

midnights call


 The thickened veil of  midnights fall
The Silent dance of shadows
Within my desiring flesh is called
Of lovers heat
And draped off tongues
A Fired song of want
Through swollen lips 
 is sung

Time trickles down in steady ticks
Across her pale chilled skin
 Our souls explode in great display
As Burning life and dawns rebirth Begin

We Fall together as autumns death
Pooled by  tides Of flowing breaths
We then Awake in our cages 
strung by fear
The call of midnights Passion blinds
Through this wilderness of life
Midnights call is all I hear


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Adulteress's missing thread

missing threads
----------------
She looks outside. The pale moonlight has fallen across the tributary, illusory moonshine,
like an intimate emission, now that the urgency is gone, meaningless. 
She looks inside. The sprawled bed sheet of flesh shines in luminous darkness which she
thinks she is. 
Remember the worth and compare with leaving behind the cords, one son and a lethargic
clergy who divides his self between interpreting the God and being her husband. 
She remembers the cats, the weekend cooking classes and small garden of oriental roses.
The pale moon is always hiding behind the clouds when you need it. The clarity is a burnt
out butt of the cigarette learning to jump overboard. She waves away the smoke. She looks,
once more, inside and outside.  
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Weeping Night

I am crying here, weeping in the night:
thirsting through this silent agony,
heart so empty and torn.

This desire so severed,
a surreal emptiness,
hurled away;

yet I wish for
your warmth so alive.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thousand Island Stressing

Whilst Perusing Your C.V.
My Lover,
And I Am Seriously Stressed,
With A Little Bother,
Before We Get Married,
I Must Procure,
All Absent Signatures,
From Your Sex Register,

On My Travels,
I Heard Nothing But Bad Words,
About You're Stretching Self,

The Thousand Men Who Have Been Between Your Legs,
Are Complaining,

So Have Been Contacted,
With A Questionnaire,
Grading You Sweetly,
On Your Actions,
And Positions,

Most Will Give You,
Ten Out Of Ten,
But Some Of them,
Will Want Their Money Back,
And Semen Also,

But That Semen Has Grown Up,
Have Lives,
And Bank Accounts Of Their Own,
So Will Have To Cough Up,
In Your Honour,

So Don't Expect A Christmas Card,
This Year.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Existential Framework

The buxom rube has a cardboard heart,
Soaked by the paradise elements,
It seeks nothing than to catch a bad odour,
In its mottled hem,
Sewn out to buyers adrift,
On stock market reveries,

Alistair raised the price by four percent,
Asked Roger what would he do in this situation,
Over tennis and hard badminton graft,
The sipping of earl grey followed,
Then he slipped those old fingers,
Between the gap in his fly,
"The price of this information¦
¦has its place in the sexual domain.
Fearful of this up and coming sexual wraith,
Shut his eyes and ran out of the room,
Knocking over rich couples,
Snacking on granny apples,
In the process,
From behind the shimmer,
False teeth conspire against,
The inflow of fluoride,

"I can't believe he expected that of me!!
Alistair shrieked at his model wife,
Kim's badly modelled blonde hair,
Expired a straw hat look,
Blue stoves harbour lunch,
For the rich never snack,
Ovens in paradise have this elegant scheme,

Nature greatest defence,
Whispers through the mouths of sparrows,
A singular note,
Broken into pieces of plenty,
The smashing of the tongue against,
Its frequency,
Align the marrow of your bones,
And deep look out from pores,
That stretch from tip to balls,
Before your father gets home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Because she still clung to his promises

The girl was legend

All empty eyes & purple painted smiles. Every sweet white inch of her. And everyone knew 
her name

She danced in satin skirts that only moved when she took them off. She was everything 
delicate, everything demure. She was beautiful even when she wasnt

She watched the world with terror filled saucer eyes & the world looked right back with eyes 
that were unmistakably green

It was clear glass, they envied her & she wondered why

She knew they hung up her picture, plastered her to walls&books&frames that made her 
their prisoner. They stared at her when they were alone & forged a kind of intimacy she 
could thrive on

But it was temporary & in the morning she was left to sing her own self to sleep since no one 
cared enough to do it for her

The people that loved her, that glimpsed the real her when she uncovered it, all those people 
left her at the end & she saw what they'd done

They'd led her down the wrong track but they peppered it with glitter & held her just right so 
she was blind to every bit of it

She was the diamond dying in the night, she was the candied rose melting in the morning 
dew. They lured her with promises of love & took her innocence before she even knew it was 
there

She hated them but started to love them almost obsessively. The love hate became another 
prison & she thought she was free because she always got nine seconds of pleasure before 
the sun rose

Back bars catered to her kind & she walked in just to stand there & let their hands go places 
she'd never gone herself. It felt like the past & she convinced herself it was right

One night she walked in, skirt past the legal limit & eyes bright like they used to be. It was a 
shock-making moment, she hadnt looked so sweet in oh so many years & they were afraid 
to touch her

She'd been their girl forever, passed around & used like an old movie that cant be rewound. 
They knew every mark on her body, every scar where they signed her, a kind of "I was 
here" of the human body. They couldnt recognize her. It was the first time she walked out 
alone. Faintly she hoped to be pressed against a wall & killed but it didnt happen

She kept turning around haunted by phantom-feels & ghost-touches. Her body just wanted to 
suffer. It was instinct & who was she to fight it?

Every step was agony. She walked so carefully as though she was afraid of falling in a river 
of her own dark thoughts

But it was hopeless, darkness followed her wherever she went


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

Come to me with the Shadows of Doves and spilt papers.

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

Like God puffing Life and kisses up from the End of the Bed.

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

I Want the sight of your Teeth biting down into your Wrists, 

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.

…

Death is in the Folding of Sheets.

… 

The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.

…

I Don’t Want to Accept That.

But… 

Tomorrows been coming just the Same.

…

Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

How much of the darkness of my Soul, I Would Give,

To have you Back.


You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

Now… there are no freshly Cut Lawns… no sky above…

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…


Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.


Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.


From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

And as much as I’d like to regret It. 

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.





-thend-


Details | Prose Poetry | |

APOLOGY TO ELIOT

Let us go to certain half-desserted restaurant
Where cheese is spread on the table like an elkmilksheet  
Steaks are burnt, curries are bland, puddings are mulberry mist
Let us go to certain half-deserted street
Where women come and go like milkrunners
Wenches in hand the spanners span the Einstein's space
( Here I am dizzy,I am confused, should it be my space?)
They are savvy nuts pulling legs of navvies 
They are all dancing quirks and frizzling squidface
I am Nero, I am nerd, I like to fly like a booming bird
But hey see all bullshit I am bamboozled in a brown pit
I am cheated, I am a cheat
I am timid, I browbeat
Let us go to certain half-deserted street
Kiss her kill her miss her mess her give Sue a treat
I am not fit.
I have heard bunkers singing
Weapons roar, F-16 kinking
Tattered cops and freaks swinging
Cows are mooing churchbells ringing.
Children laughing, couples blinking
Midsummer snow snowstars twinkling.
Churchbells ringing........................
Shanti Shanti Shanti.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

May Soon Be

Used to drive by in my car
Shake my head, look the other way
Used to think get a job
And get off the street
And now, it’s a place
I may soon be
Used to walk on by
Or cross to the other side
Thinking they had no pride
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
Heard all the stories
Of rich men falling
Being lost and forgotten
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
Used to scoff at their college education
The thought they ever had a mansion
Business suits and cars
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
I’m not there yet
But I can see it near
I see those storm clouds
Searching for me
I can see my efforts
Being for naught
And soon being caught
I can see losing the choice
Of what to keep
Being in far too deep
And looking through the car window
From the other side
Funny how perspective changes
Depending on where you stand
How quickly you begin to understand
When it’s a place
You may soon be


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Corris Of A Putain

Fellatio, A Putain’s Breath Neglected
“Every Man For Myself…”
Bwchio, Where The Putainfeistr Harbour A Negligent Edge…
…Removing The Condoms From Bookshelves

Get Laid
Get AI.D’S
Lose Weight
Get On The Cover Of A Teenage Magazine

Prophylactic Snap, Corris Flows Like The Taf
“Chlamydia has its shine…”
Burtons Corner, He/She Can Work Out The Price…
…Include V.A.T. In The Scold

Get Laid
Get AI.D’S
Lose Weight
Get On The Cover Of A Teenage Magazine

Above The Post Office There Hangs A Shrine,
Neither Floral or Confectionary In Intent,
The Water Is Always Yellow,

H.I.V. Is Dripping From The Best Part Of Me…
Dripping From The Only Part I Ever Learned To Love…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

Come to me with the Shadows of Doves and spilt papers.

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

Like God puffing Life and kisses up from the End of the Bed.

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

I Want the sight of your Teeth biting down into your Wrists, 

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.

…

Death is in the Folding of Sheets.

… 

The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.

…

I Don’t Want to Accept That.

But… 

Tomorrows been coming just the Same.

…

Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

How much of the darkness of my Soul, I Would Give,

To have you Back.


You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

Now… there are no freshly Cut Lawns… no sky above…

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…


Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.


Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.


From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

And as much as I’d like to regret It. 

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.





-thend-


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hey What Is Happening How was your Day

I have always hated that question. I feel intimidated and ill at ease—paranoid—guilty. I want to say, “Well I saved a young woman from a rapist, a number of rapists, a rapture of rapists. I solved a great problem and now all is well.” I want to say,” My period won’t stop and I’m cramping like a mother ****er.” I can’t say, “Well I walked my dog, Zelda. Conan had to stay home because he misbehaves.” I can’t say, “Later I read a Dean Koontz novel then I took a nap.” I can’t say that. Instead I simper and say small things like, “You know it was cool and all.” 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

May Never


I may never have really seen you 
but I do not allow this thought to be blue.

Nor I have never watched you from afar
yet this distance is infinity.

Though we have never slain the
satin sheets of lover's passion.

The longing scares my heart
for the here and after.

I may never see a sheepish grin
as romance kindles our fires.

I will always watch for the hearts
desires along the way.

If fate was the one to decide then
for us it may never be...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Liars Pen

Plagiarism is the great liars tool to rejoice in others work with a liars pen,
They live a liar’s life and disguise their stupidity with a liar’s conscience,
We should pity the liar’s theft as the lying thief has no words of his own,
He revels in stupidity because he knows there are many words unguarded,

To surf the great networks of knowledge seeing how other people write,
The liar wants recognition but he knows his words are as impotent as he,
So he searches in the deep dark archives hoping he will not be caught,
Liars have a disease as does a sociopath he cares for no one but his ego.

Writers and the men of knowledge have integrity they respect, respect,
A liar is an outcast from this world because truth is the key for the door,
To smile into writers face then steal his jewels when no one’s around,
Liars feed from the gutter as their soft minds cannot raise any higher.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

left where i lie

left where i lie 
A life on the fringes 
appointed an outcast 
left there to die 
a man without meaning 
alone 
left out of gods design 
flesh wrapped bones 
without soul 
without heart 
ripped ravaged flesh 
torn to pieces 
torn apart 
unable to feel 
unable to cry 
peace traded for pain 
soul swapped for sin 
I wither and die 
so just step around 
just walk away 
i just want to be 
LEFT WHERE I LIE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hunger Knows Caution

The forest was so still and my heart calm.
The frogs in the pond croak welcoming in the morning air.
A fog sweet, wet, hazy-grey blankets us cloaking my spotted hide,
muting the mornings’ echo.

Though mother has left, she, dearest Hunger has not.
Deep in my entrails, the two-legged hunters so desire;
she, Hunger stirs, twisting a preemptive knife of warning.

Only small buds rise on my head where antlers will be by fall.
Death waits breathless on the breeze.
Hunger, dearest Hunger
knows Death.

Father was lost to Death on a bright fall morn.
My ears turn, a branch crumbles beneath the weight of ...
Hunger knows Caution and tosses her head within my tender hide.
My fur rises at her discomfort. She is not satisfied.
Yet, I would flee, holding her close to my heart.
I leap away from the clearing over a fallen log
shaped like a bobcats tail curling.

The forest of conifers is dense and deep.
The weak morning sun does not enter and Hunger approves of the privacy.
Sometimes, I wonder, as I eat the sweet stalks of wild onions
without mother or father; would I be here in this majesty, 
without my dearest, without Hunger.
Would the hunter hunt me without his Hunger?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Merthyr Tydfil

In Merthyr Tydfil...

...We Work¦

The Constituents Of Labour And Duress,
Honing Skills Years Taken,
Unpaid For Only Spoken,
From The Framework Of Hope,
Statutory Or Otherwise,
Persuaded Into Work,
Under The Minimum Of Wages,
Regardless Of Education, Choice Or Whim.

¦Breed¦

For Sixteen Years Her Mother Spoke Constant,
Only Thirteen Years Her Elder,
About The Witches Assessment,
That Could Take Rest,
At The Axis Of This Town,
Where The Good Sign On In Droves,
To An Explanation Quarry,
And Their Causes,
To The Frowns Of The Bureaucrats,
The Price You Pay,
For Shearing Against The Grain.

¦And Drink¦

The Bottom Of This Bottle,
Has Been Poured Into A Pint Glass,
It Fits¦And There's A Math In That,
So Here Is Where We Croak On,
About The Potential Of The Valley,
And The Future Of A People,
Whose Only Simple Crime Is That,
They Were Not Born In England,
From 1500bc Onwards,
Have Only Connections To Themselves,
To Family,
To Friends,
And Everyone Else's Lover.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LONELY CHILD IN THE GETTO

its sad some look bad
eys low no place to go
so many poor
begging door to door
you can see there' know smile
oh
THAT WE KNOW
LONELY CHILD IN THE GETTO


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is Cruel

Life is Cruel
WLM
April 6, 2011


Always things to face
Will we ever finish the race
Is it meant for me
Or will it ever be
The continuing strife
Always screwing up my life
It seems that I try and try again
But I never know where to begin
The problems that I face
Daily they put me in my place
 I thought of my friends
Will they be there at the end
I wish for their support
Or will I be treated like a dork
I really need them as such 
If they really knew how much
Not saying that I was wrong
With or without them I will be strong


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mother

Mother shot father and I don’t see
How this came to be
Mother shot father and I can't hear
The sound of gunfire ringing in my ear

In my room I sit 
A cigarette in my hand, asking to be lit
Mother shot father and I don’t know why
I can't seem to find the tears to cry

Mother shot father
Bam bam bam
Mother shot father
Bam bam bam

A bullet straight to the head
And now daddy is dead
Two more shots, just to be sure
Its all a blur

Mother shot father 
And then mother shot mother 
Here I sit, in my room alone
The words in my head an endless drone

Mother shot father
Mother shot mother
If I shoot myself 
Will all the blame lie with mother?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Inferno

INFERNO.


Beside a lonely hamlet a dog is barking, chained to a post in a barren field. It is an evening time. The sky is red, strewn with streaks of blood of the dying day. The dog lets out a howl, born out of despair and futility of his life.

 He hates his owner for enslaving him. He hates the flesh, which he has to devour each day to appease his hunger. He hates killings of other creatures to satisfy his lust for flesh, only just to perpetuate his existence. He hates his futile barking all day along.

A dark wind rose within his bowls and slowly winded up his belly like a python; crushing his entrails, passing through his heart and reaching his throat. He lets out another howl of anguish. The sound reverberated among the hills and other small creatures shared that anguish.

He was beyond hope from human kind. Beyond his bestial nature, he longed for some sort of comfort, for a little warmth .He searched for small kindness or tenderness but alas he could not find any. Tears began to roll down from his muddy eyes across his cheeks. He prayed to divinity for his release, for some light relief in order to give some meaning to his wretched existence.

Crying, exhausted, he fell asleep.

In his sleep he felt that divinity have touched him but he could not comprehend it fully. It was too complex for his canine brain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Been Nobody For Years...And Tonight It Shows

There's an aging diabetic,
And he's waiting by the shore,
And all you find,
In racial crimes,
Is a handkerchief?
By the door,

I
...Dead Revlon
"Dead Revlon!
Oh!
Some girls are known,
To Swing Both Ways,

He treats his penis like a relic,
As he waits now for his whore,
And all he finds,
On his pot bellied time,
Is a handkerchief,
By the door,

II
...Dead Revlon
"Dead Revlon!
Oh!
Some girls are known,
To Swing Both Ways,

Been nobody for years,
And tonight it shows,
Been spoilt,
So I've never been grateful,
And mother,
Is the only one who knows,

III
...Dead Revlon
"Dead Revlon!
Oh!
Some girls are known,
To Swing Both Ways.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

topple

we god pole people remember jake godbold
but what good does it do?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One For Love

Your sweet breath escapes you and engulfs my soul 
Through words spoken as though from some celestial being 
Warm emotion floods me, floods my very fibrous core 
Love I feel is not a mere four letter 

Word that reluctantly man takes for granted, but more a 
Monument to the jubilous fire you set my soul alight with 
Speak, I cannot, the true magnitude of shear bliss 
Endured by my mortal flesh. With the slightest brush 
Of your angelic fingers. None can know or fathom 
what true insurmountable beauty lies within 
green fields of yet discovered highland plains laden with 
flowers and sweet honey aroma blows within. Feeble 
in my attempts to profess my own meek emotions 
turmoil of my own past colliding with the yet to be. I destroy 
myself knowing such turmoil I cause in an entity 
none like yourself. Meager apology and material possessions 
offer no hint of emotion of love and remorse contained 
My, love, our love, will endure of that much I am sure. Open my mind 
My only wish, to show you things I need you to see. I have known 
No strength such as yours you take for granted. Times as this 
I've never known but with you only would I have it to spend. Forget 
Not the who I was, the who I am, and the who I will be. 
My love, our love will endure of that much I am sure 
 
Monotony & Mundane remain the same 
caught in this slippery pretty net 
we're all falling in and around our own whirlpools 
our upward spiral climbs too high - the higher up the further down 
Fly the same play the same one with the other 
floating always floating 
This sea we've created weaved in the merciless 
fabric of the time we all flock to certain death 
holding the hands of our clocks & wondering why 
our own bleed. double edged is the face of 
a sundial. With each shadow flicker anguish & 
joy death & life exist permanently & are lost forgotten 
by time held by life lost by eternity. 
Let's all rally hand in hand while the band 
plays on 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Little Boy

Wolf! The little boy cried
No one listened and he died
How could we miss
Such a dark abyss?

Sharp teeth
Hidden behind the mask of a sheep
"Daddy why must you hurt me so?
How could they not know?"

Every night while we slept
That little boy wept
"Stop Daddy, why must you hurt me?
Why can't they see?"

He called Wolf, no one would look
Such horrors can only exist in a book
We were oh so wrong
And now he is gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home

Dark grey body is on a wire strung 
across the street. Yellow house- sunshine- faces the house painted 
the color of summer leaves.   

A wood cross is on top of an ivory cone.
It is thrust into bandaged heavens, 
and towers behind the stone library 
slanted on the hill. 

Windows are smudged charcoal squares, eyes. 
The glass door, reflecting obese woman 
with hands choreographed 
by the weavers dance, opens, closes. 

Steps are peeling, and as soft as a blue sky.
Rainbow cotton is beginning to warm her fingers.
Although feet pound, and their hollow sound echoes as if trod in a newly built house.


Dove still sits alone.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

August Eighth

Chapter One 
Boy into the West 

Dawn upon my cloak 
Urged and so converged were the guns 
Seeding myself with the rest 

I broke in the eye of the Sun 
Settling my mind on the heartless rapist. Time 
Rasterize the faces 

So thumb through the annals 
Purged and so emerged fleshy etchings of this child
Breast wheels churn uncertainly 

Moistened embers dance to the deafening drum 
Tidal ducts offer piquant waters of the Pacific coffer 
I arrive on the sands 

Chapter Two 
Hole in the Wall 

Deserted in this mind 
Hover in and now behind 
Stare blank up through the ceiling stucco 

Gathering in the stench of ghastly breath of wine 
The New Year clothes itself topside 
Unfashionable walls crush youthful spirit I drink alone, until morning 

Demons of mine in lethargy 
Gnawed and sluggish slivers bond my illness
Horizons of hues of shapes the girl knowing 

Waking sweat cools slyly treats itself to my tongue 
Warmth of girl takes my breath save the end of I prepare 
God, are you there? 

Chapter Three
Erosion 

All in the deflection 
Though his reflection isn't mine 
Blood in kind of brotherly loving spiteful me 
We close our doors of aid restraining love I have

For angry boys reject the angry drudge 
Slave to a toilsome loving grudge 
It is raining erosion 

Blinding contortion 
Why in my hands I can't see you yet 
My rock there I can’t see her stand 

These matters wash away too comfortably 
I the destined rock 
To erode on as grain of sand 

Chapter Four 
Facing the Crow 

Give to the death 
Long confronting his road 
Gurge open those words she once clung on 

Hung from the rope he dove to the end 
I die decay per diem death 
Metaling her heart on his mindless last breath 

I survive only by his hand... 

T.R.Sevrens


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Venus Of Willendorf

She embraces courtship at my flank,
With sails so broad she could never become seaworthy,
I step aboard her with a tepid scrutiny,
Tapping my feet starboard at her rim,
Positioned to the waning amber consume,
And lose both legs to the knee,
In the clasp of her soft amber mesh,

But in my sweat fed panic,
I'm feeling profound motions on glass,
Swaying in my own oceans for all to sea,
And not needing a ship,
I like my girls with a bit of weight,
I am the whale hunter,

Should the deck of a ship be over grown¦
¦with pubes?
"Forget the oars we need a comb!
Alistair pours out his dues,
And my first mate and I roll around in our aisles,
"Two days till Friday and twos up, come this way!
My best and first mate will holler abound,
"Only Twos up?!?!! What of the crew? I lapse and refrain,
"She will hold I think¦but only her burden,
We roll around in the aisles once more,
But with rum and harpoons at our fingers,
And grease to manoeuvre the waves,
On this girl of a ship,
I like my girls with a bit of weight,
I am the whale hunter,

So waking up fully on this peaceful sea,
I realise the act and succession taken place in the fore,
She lies there so sturdy with cabin fever wrecked,
A hole is her bow gushing against the shore,
Canon pockets shot and empty,
Only a small black hole will subside,
Rum bottles smashed and hollow,
The ships parrot dead,
"What have you to say to me? I ask,
And she says¦
"We're not ugly anymore.
¦On a sigh¦
"I smashed all the mirrors in the house.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

If Wishes Were Horses

I say goodbye a lot—not in an “I’ll see you later” or “until next time” sort of way—but in a “goodbye for good” and “never speak to you again” sort of way. I’ve always been all right with it, accepted it, and embraced it, even. You know, people come and go; they serve their purpose and even though sometimes it’s worth it, they go away. I’m guilty of it myself. Just leave. Get out. Go. Don’t stay. I’ve said goodbye so many times to so many people in so many ways, but you posed a problem that my brain, mind, soul, body can’t escape. I just want to be back inside your arms, your bed, your life, your heart, you. Instead, I ran off, 9 thousand miles away to wake up as you go to bed, to play in a giant sandbox. I do not want to stay here; June cannot come quickly enough. March, April, May—three more months of this living in your tomorrow, you in my yesterday. I miss you. I fear you. I long for you with intensity as deep, as overwhelming, as powerful and dominating as the sky’s infinity. I love you. I want you. I yearn for you in every single way; the tears I’ve bled for you are insurmountable. I wish for Home; I wish for the West. Even greater than my desperation for friends, family, familiar faces, familiar places, is my ache to have you near; if wishes were horses, and if horses had wings, I’d have one to take me there.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Live Act

Some day, when this yellow sun is dying in
a crimson sky and a tangle of phosphorescent,
all-consuming vegetation covers up the earth's
shame and ruin, the robots will keep some poets
in concrete cages, just in case they need a new
idea.

And then the robots will drag one of the weak,
timid creatures out into the spotlight and watch
it trying to stay alive in the depleted air for just
one more precious minute of what the poet calls
'consciousness'.

And then, when the life-force bursts like a beautiful
bubble out of the poet's open mouth and it bows its 
head in death, grinning like a fool, the entire audience
will stand up and applaud like a lot of automatons on
holiday.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Arbitrage

Pronounce.

The salt frost across your plate has its reasons,
Equity, ignorance, fundamentalism, feminism¦
¦and cost,

Utter.

Equity in the building of bridges,
Ignorance of the meal at hand,
Fundamentalism in the notion of paradise,
Feminism in its look¦
¦and cost,

Explain.

Cost in the sour look on the plates face,
White and male,
With the grease from the bacon¦
¦On its face,

Divulge.

From the curve of its lips,
To the bald shine on its head,
Dirt wailing against your walls¦
¦but,

Spoke.

With soap in the basin,
And calm in the seas,
Regret will always last longer than triumph¦
¦and bloats the face with ease.


Soon to be published in Decanto Magazine, August Issue 2007 (Up and coming 
magazine) (Masque Publishing)

Also Published in The Journal 17 (ISSN 1466-5220)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WHY COMPLAIN

thing go wrong
still go on
fine a way
it just another day
stop this pain
WHY COMPLAIN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

doomed

Doomed 
After the bombing dead children everywhere
like a doll factory had exploded, strewn limbs  
warm spaghetti on the parade of inhumanity.
From Joan Rivers to Kissinger a chorus as old as
humanity sought heaven “We don´t care you
 brought it on yourself by defying us.”

 Down a sand dune a decapitated head rolled
the bloodied head of innocence and a chorus of 
young men in black with scarf hiding their faces;
“It is your fault you brought it on yourself, and we 
do not care and we will never die.” 

White cumulous clouds on a blue sky see it all and 
will when asked do humanity deserve to exist?
 Shivering we wait for the answer we know will be 
what we deserve to hear.   

  
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fields Forever

Until the end, I fight 
I fight until the light is no more 
and the perilous night does begin 
& when my day is gone & future masked 
I climb my mountain with head hanging low 
Low for now, I killed and desecrated all held sacred 
Slain the last foe & as the day breaks again 
I gaze at fields of red fury 
Fury misunderstood all dead to understand 
Mountains ahead and behind, in this valley of 
Presence. Engulfed by injustice and punished 
In personal strife, I cry, 
not out but in I cry to hear 
inside, inside where I've tried to hide 
and defend on this field of red 
with no more to hide & more to 
hide from. I perch on this mountain I've made 
& expose myself to all, with none to tell 
I'm free, lost to live, lost to die 
Never to love, never to fly. Only wallow for 
It turns to night and shadows comfort me my friends 
Till the end 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When my heart is like an island

Whores that have no hymns hum with their thighs,
And the bees toil for honey smell like the skies,
The hornets need no introduction,

Your taste is better than the gardens growth,
You silly girl,
So make sure you're clean the next time round,
Cause there'll be no second chance if you aren't,
There are rules you know.

A God's heart reversed he sees himself in the mirror,
In the sunlight's grasp the ocean seem to shimmer,
And Judas plucks up the courage to dance.

A lover's letter flows benign, 

In a guttural sway,
I sincerely doubt,
She loved you anyway,
Within the milk,
Flowing like the kisses,
Heaven is here.

I wear the flag on my heart as I burn my way through Europe,
You think you are strong,
When my heart is like an island.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

poetry prose : within me -hope you enjoy

Inside I slumbered within the fancy of time in my ancient youth, living in but a fantasy
my soul left my body like old, decaying slippers, into the protected chasms of my mind

From a far: my eyes like telescope lenses searching the universe that lied outside my world
when would time move again like a locomotive on the time-line of my life

Where do I begin but at the end, when I met the love of my life, seems but a flash ago
Words sent on quantum strings like paper-cup phones, my rapid-eye movement became to 
slow

Never did I phantom that once I found the other piece of my heart that too many other 
pieces would be missing
Waking up to a world that had pass me by, I have no clue what to do

I arrived at the station of my body, feeling the numbness subside to depression
Feeling the flood of emotions kept in a bottle tossed into the waves of time, come back to 
me once again

Now I stare into my loves eyes, upon the bed: insomnia to my dreams
With nostalgia of my hide-a-way from life, wishing I could offer more to my love than a world 
built on fantasy: a poof of smoke


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Staring into a Log Fire

One winter evening things played heavily my mind did I had courage to face these sad reminders,
Staring into a blazing fire I saw many things I saw mostly sad things hardly any happy memories,
Dream faces from shadows look accusingly it breaks my heart to be reminded how little I ever did,
Hypnotized into another world I dared to think of some of my blackest thoughts rods of pain hurt me,
Sitting in my chair cut off from the world sparks crack bringing me back to my bleak cold misery,
Ghosts cross the threshold of my memories using a hidden doorway very deep within my sad heart,
Drawing the heavy black curtains together shut out the twilight gloom to sit cut off from everything
Shut out the darkness as night descends it frightens me and reminds me of my nasty selfishness
Then I close the heavy doors and lock them tightly then it's silence the fire my conscience and me
Do I dare to have a rendezvous with long gone absent friends do I dare to let go and feel any emotions.
Or do I carry on with my wasted life leaving a footprint of disappointment and failure not ever caring.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Only Fools Tell the Truth

When I was a child I spoke as a child my intelligence was distorted and disjointed,
I spoke about anything that came into my head and spoke it loud little did I care,
Taught by a wise old grandfather who would tell me, better to be a fool than a thief,
Truthful myself, I never expect deceit form others, tell me a story and I will believe.

As I grew older my trustfulness of human nature was hidden guilelessness of thought.
These days I am never deceived because I suspect of all hypocrisy in all that I meet,
I have a stake in the general universal in life and have a cut-throat part to play,
There are those in this world who are out of place in it they overpay and trust many.

These good people are treated with laughter and a supreme contempt in this mad world,
How can some be ridiculed and what supreme contempt is able to conceive towards them,
We pity all men that will believe anything, these men can be turned round any finger,
This too pliable disposition may have arrived from an over pitched standard of honesty.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When You Push You Fall

Overstepping boundaries,
clinging onto an empty marriage,
carrying the family alone.
Husband fighting war with 
General dreams, of glory, in his head.
Carrying myself alone.
Knowing alone is lonely, lonelier every day.

We are carrying bodies, buddies and homeboys home to their families.
Poor mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers,
longing for a glimpse of their boy or girl, dead to this world.
They grow lonely, lonelier day by day and night by night.
Carrying on, pushing harder and harder
to make it through with all their fight.
Smiling the smile, greeting the greetings, and saying I'm okay.

Falling apart from the very start, 
until you push too hard and the wound is now a scar,
and you say I can't go on 
and the loneliness is gone.
You are gone when you push, you fall.

Take it easy, easier everyday.
Company comes by and then they go away.
Easy, easier, easily they say it takes time and the pain will not stay,
so they say, so they say.

Please I cry to the wind and the sea I want to play, I want to play..with my love.
Too many soldiers died today, died today, died today.
When I push I fall, when we push we fall, when they push they fall.
We all fall down.
Marla Stone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr. Belvedere Doesn't Live Here............

Parents are so busy and pre-occupied with their 
own lives,
They never flinch when the doorbell rings twice,
They yell for the children to open the door,
Chastising them forevermore.......
Yet, parents get upset when the children disappear,
When they vanish into thin air,
They blame everyone except themselves
for not doing their due diligence,
If parents really cared they wouldn't
throw their children to the wolves,
Who knows what lurks behind the doors,
Sometimes vagrants, up to no good!
If parents aren't able to handle their tasks
and have responsibilty for the kids,
They should seek a Mr. Belvedere
whose only task would be to bow and scrape,
and opening the doors so the children won't vanish
or escape.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fortress Of Ambiguity

Align yourself with the parabola,
Of a contending fluctuating space,
Time out of life in the soil matriarch,
Fingers stabbed through rings,
For royalty sakes it a hate name,

Nail torn back to the quick,
Along the rings of Saturn,
A forever free fall in space,
Arriving at no destination,
Like the meteor flung forth,
Outcast of a dying star, 

Just because you birth name,
Could not be present on the list,
Pre-owners of the club denied you access,
A bouncer,
Just staff,
Held your shoulders back and down,
The owner,
A leviathan,
Told you exactly where to stick it,

You offer your mouth as the prize,
Put what ever you want it in,
Like a stuck Hoover,
Forever in the loop,
But he just puts a coin in there,
All wet the metal collide,
Alkaline the destroyer,
Expects you to dance like a carnival monkey,
With no grinder present,
For the turning of the wheel,

Crucial the events that bind us,
On this descending parabola,
Bump and grind,
The simple of osmosis effects,
Displayed through your groin,
As you grunt like an animal,

Bring up the black stuff,
Of bowels and throats,
Mesh it with the backbone,
As it can be redeemed as tough.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rotten and Forgotten

“The C-nt has been disconnected.”
Inspector Michaels concurred,
The grey monotony of the pad,
Grizzling its information,
Beyond binary,

“Removed with what?”
She had asked
“Apple corer.”
“Rather crude.”
Michaels steeped the lenses to the edge of,
Bushed flared nostrils,
“The C-nt was rather small.”

She huffed,
“Then where is the juice?”
Michaels held the finger east,
“Check the yogurt pots on the window…”

Further huffing,
Revealed a collection like no other,
Balanced upon the sill window,
Four pots,
Clean sides,
No spillage,
Neatly packed with C-nt lactate,

“The smell…”
As she turned her head,
He laughed and added…
“Reminds you of home?”
She huffed,
Adjusting pad on her thighs.

He had been there,
Left a root scraping,
Worth aborting during springtime,
Still,
He made her smile.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bazaar Fledgling

I ' My Little John 

At home he feels no worship,
There are three children
One wife,
Always bearing a kettle,
Or cutlery,
And a whole host of bills,
Taking down the working wage,
Of his working day,
But keeping their heads above water.

II ' Prostitution Constitution 

It has not been an innovative Year,
Christmas lacked an Eve,
My birthday was just another date,
Because in the finance devoid,
They are not significantly celebrating,

This Valentines Day has a dissimilar node,
A financed chord from my little John,
He says love lashed at his reins,
And not petty cash in hotel alcoves,
Our bedroom fr-antics,
Have caused him vast sentiment

And he cannot realise from his list,
Has he adoration to bear,
Or merely,
Capital shifting hands.

III ' Six Aching Ends

Cannot leave my wife,
Cannot leave my children,
Cannot tell my mother,
Cannot leave my life,
Father would be proud,
But then he is not around,

One side shuts off the other sides passing,
Hope lies in itself something to aim for,
To pass the years so fairly.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Damsel Fly

"You're flailing away these years.
Revealed as a potent clarity,
"From top hats to turn coats and back again!
Never an answer truer at that,
Absent fathers live longer,
Like the stress of coupling,
Strung along the shopping centre,
Your mothers hand in mine,

In an age of consent immobilised,
Wincing extremes smeared to a factory floor,
Pebble dash the edges,
And wait for a real,
Damaging exertion,

Cop your favourite feel,
Dilapidated rhythms,
Concrete along the passing place,
"You ask me for a postcard whenever I leave!

She bears those teeth and bacteria rejoice,
Legions as a queue,
Confetti in your honour,
And a carriage for your guts,
We spun back the skin coat,
And left you for dead in the valley,

Rejoice!
For heaven has an answer as clear as¦
¦no,
Simple and effective,
Harnessing an impact as dear as a¦
¦fist,
"You ask me for a postcard whenever I leave!

Freedom outside of a repeated rejoice!

"You ask me for a postcard whenever I leave!

To be published in Decanto (Masque Publishing) October 07 issue


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Weeds

Eating the weeds from the grass you slept in last night.
Don't look down or you'll fall from the moon.

Can you pick yourself up?
can you make it home?
Jump, and hope god will save you.

No faith.

No G.O.D

Just you

Bruised and rotting
You make it seem easy

Dream in the fields of all those yesterdays
and pick the weeds for the hope of  tom marrow


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hard Reflections

Living today in the wake of yesterdays yesteryears, 
following the footsteps not walked for a while. 
Finding hope in the pages of time unwritten fearful 
that hope is all for nothing 
Offended by all of the offenders that crowd my sullen day 

All along the way I know in advance 
that the way I've lived most is 
the last way to live, 
knowing the way is hard to find when the 
days amount to nothing. Production slows 
as the motion becomes all to apparent, 
apparently just going through the motions. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Glass Temple

Glass temples of hope allow a permeable ruse,
That flusters up the slightest of breezes,
And folds its out mesh whilst being burnt,
By the arid sun drenched landscape,
That harbours true intents by peoples,
Not yet taught that other than,
The hut making capabilities,
Involved,

We ask the question that contain multiples,
As random as your Friday night partners,
And all we can possibly reply,
Is in two tone monochrome speech patterns,
That bounce upon the cave walls,
Between the oxen being slayed,
For finger paint is an asset,
For the five to seven year old,

Cast out the sails on that brisk Sunday morning,
The morning you left for university,
And the challenges that await,
Between the pound a pints,
The random's legs that part,
The Saturday job at the take away,
And tax relief in droves,

Monday brings work in the form of a handshake,
And all we ask is that you part your grip,
On your ideals for a second,
To write the words,
Gain the wage,
Put that spear down for a minute,
All we ask is that you pay your way,
You attitude and contempt is loved,
As is your gaggle of loan repayments,

Age like the wage is dependant on,
Simple tasks performed by intellects,
Books on the borrow,
Whinging about the government,
But not enough to opt out.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Long Gaze

Resting my eyes i sat a while
lids locked. muscles sliding to rest
toes & feet washed rough on stony traverse
boil to a constant roll...burning breath in exhausted lungs
tome creaks by & calm trickles
eroding the barren skin
turning the serene oasis

light gently slices away
falling softly piece by piece
to the empty ground beneath my feet

lull to the dead beat stand still
the fast tempo kinetic air inside
pounding life force
choking for a sideways glance unattended



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Call From Hell

                  
          
          
             
         
       I stood in the check out line of a grocery store. Thinking of last nights events that still 
shakes me to the core....

       I felt I was being buried alive in a dark tomb.  I awoke with a start with a pounding 
heart and looked about the room.  Beads of perspiration trickled down my chest.  My eyes 
bulged like a man possessed.  I felt sick like I was going to vomit.  The nightmare frightened 
me more than I like to admit.  
       A strong sense of deja vu I couldn't quite understand.  I was startled by the ring of my 
cellphone on the nightstand.
       The static was drowning out the callers voice and what he was tryng to say.  The in and 
out of the voice sounded so far away.  I listened closely trying to hear and understand what 
he was saying, for it was clearly a man.
       He was asking me for help because he could not escape the place he was in.  He said 
the place was so hot the flames were burning off his skin!  I was about to hang up because 
obviously this guy was ill;  But within the next minute I would get an eternal chill.
       A frightening look could be seen in my eyes!  I felt the hair on the back of my neck 
rise.  He kept repeating my name like he knew me personally.  I then recognized his voice 
immediately!
       "Oh my this can't be so!"  It was the voice of my late friend who died three years ago!!!



Written for "A Rambling Poet's contest "Act 1, Scene 1"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Apricot Death Amniotica

Sour tentacles,
Steeped within the history of the cock,
Strands of the pulp dangle,
Displaying an oak like nation of tales,
Octopus arms lash wildly for leverage,
Like roots deeply wrapped around the testicles,
Sweet white ink pasteurised by the rot,
Sealed inside the bag for days,
Where cells can split more than once,

Your anus bears a thorax,
Hulked massive,
And whiffing of the colonic brown,
Its heart beats near your scrotum,
Sending shivers to the tip of…
…the manliness of natures,
You prod it,
It answers back,
By wrenching your testicles from their perch,

The doctor explains fascinated,
Tapping an ink housing,
Against his lip,
His desk,
And the monthly journals,
“That it has no known origin…
…That it has spliced with your scrotum…
…and that it defecates through your anus…”

You ask about the blockage,
That you haven’t passed brown notions,
In many days,
The fear and panic of your belly within cramp,
He just fills out a prescription…
…of bait hooks and calamari.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tu Animam Tuam Perisse

The utterances were trophies; the claims fell upon opened ears, and the whispers danced hand in hand with blasphemies voiced from the heart, and I saw in the mouth of a lioness dead men formed in ranks, like soldiers unprepared to die, and their shields were made of shames, and their swords were made of lies.  When those lies cut the flesh, the victims did not bleed, but instead gave way to sin, harming those who were cut from the same cloth as they, and those holy kings said to the masses, hoc est opus dei [this is God’s work].  I sought to answer the question of why pain was inevitable, and why skies must shatter, and why visions must cloud as the Tempest gathered her cloak about her ethereal form and lent to the Earth her wrath and her tears, and I questioned the meaning of it all, soiling myself in woes as I witnessed the angels fall.  No words came to mind, no answers, no dreams beyond nightmares of running through unknown districts, in the night, from something sight could not quite make whole; no words save tu animam tuam perisse; you have forfeited your soul.

© 2012, Ryan Anthony Summers

From "The Grey Muse" ( http://www.amazon.com/The-Grey-Muse-ebook/dp/B006YDMR1C/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1326920167&sr=8-3 ).


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Divine Intervention

Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
The birds would start chirping when she walked past
Her mother’s daughter they all said
A mirror image
 
And suddenly she was shocked by love
5 years old being undressed like a doll
Caressed and bathed so lovingly
Such gentle touches
That no one suspected
 
Mother found a new piece to her heart
Wedding bells chimed
And a new father was born
5 years old she was…just 5
 
This beautiful little girl found love in her “new” father’s arms
He held her close, sometimes too close
But no one suspected
She didn’t know this love was pain wearing a mask
She learned that love was…
Shielded from the eyes of her mother
Night visits to her room from her father
Year after year
For 15 years this was the love she knew
 
She felt invaded, alone and abused
She told her mother
About her new father…the man her mother loved
She didn’t acknowledge, wouldn’t bring herself to see
What the water so clearly replayed in her view
The mother knew, just knew
That her husband would, couldn’t ever
Never…bring pain to his daughter, never
 
Little girl, what does it feel like to be loved?
It feels warm, and wrong but gentle
Strong hands unclothing you
Caressing your body as if you are a grown woman
With a glorified body to worshipped and pillaged over
Little girl, what does pain feel like?
Closed doors…darkness…my father…naked
Hopeless
 
Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
Pain paraded as love
Molestation masked for discipline
When your daughter cries out
When she cowers in corners
And doesn’t trust the dark
When she says love is just another word
Just another synonym to let him abuse her
Trust what she has to say…
 
I was that beautiful little girl and now I am a woman plagued with fears
Some nightmares you cannot outrun
And some memories only God can wipe away
The blood of all my pain is on my mother’s hands
"I forgive you"
Beautiful they say…
It’s a mask for something more


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Skid Kids

Skid Row is littered with drunks and junkies 
and paranoid-schizophrenics who refuse their 
medications so they scrounge and sleep in dirty
clothes  on the dirty ground and in old cardboard 
boxes. There are young children living in those 
hotels on Wall and 5th streets as ten inch rats go 
scampering up and down the stairs. 

Mothers hooking on crack or heroin passed out 
during the day while the fathers run out to score. 
The children run wild in the filthy hotel and or outside 
on Skid Row streets, no one ever thinking that they
attend school. The ones who do make it to school 
finally have learning disabilities from being 
“smack” babies. It's an impossible task to
manage Skid Row.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Anger

Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rumbled, rain lashed and all was dark,
A terrible storm but the heat is not cooled and hot fetid air remained stale,
Thunder was my loss, and heat was my anger, of a very dear lifelong friend,
The rain was my tears falling from swollen eyes I stood alone in my darkness.

Heavy steel black clouds scudded across skies and viciously poured cold rain
Air became rancid and a new wave of anger etched into my dark heart and soul
A loss too hard to face as the thunder cracked my mind was in a place so dark,
By a quiet garden where bodies lay I cannot remember any happiness of my past.

No more happy greetings no more joy in thinking no more joy in anything at all,
A wasted friend in a wasted world a dark frightening place to live in all alone,
Trying to sleep through nights sliding hours the longest night hours ever known,
Thinking of meadows, beautiful boiling streams my darkest thoughts always return.

Walking together down long winding paths but now I cannot see any beauty anymore,
Those happy times we had no longer exists, as happiness is an emotion for fools,
There is a flaming coal inside my head it has scorched and burned sweet memories,
All that is left is hatred anger and revenge with wretched pictures from the past.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Clandestine Escape

My Clandestine Escape

Candle, burning before me now,
Separating me from the darkness in this room in which I sit;
The flame atop your waxen column melts your existence, slowly, steadily.
Your now liquefying composition dribbles silently down your side.
Your lifespan is limited by time, flame, wick, and wax.
Smaller, still smaller, as the minutes pass, you grow.
A breeze or draft from a place unknown
Causes your brilliance to flicker, 
Thus casting shadows of you and I dancing madly about the room.
Inanimate, such is reality, I know you are,
Yet your personification has become my companion,
Guiding me down this neverending pathway to my escape from that within.
A teardrop trickles down my cheek, as your flame, now shrinking, grows dimmer, as it dies.
Now, only a hardening puddle remains before my ponderous gaze.
Darkness, total darkness, now surrounds my thirsting soul.

Thomas Cusick


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Moon's House

My eyes, that which has betrayed me the most, look up toward you, my shining moon, in the
sky. Frozen in place, I look to you for guidance, finding your arms held out to me in that
cruel gesture. I will not take it, for your fingers will never close around my shaking
ones, and I will never find your smile as kind as I did the first time. 
	It is like looking at the sun, only to find it harsher with each dimming glance until I
am blind. 

How hard it is, to stand within the moving tides that pull towards you, all running to
your hand and falling through the gaps between, returning to itself as whole as it will
ever be, save for the drops that lovingly slide down your wrists. 

	With locked gazes, I can not help but wonder who you are looking at, if it is to me or
the ones around me, I will never know, but for now, I will follow the sinking waters to
your grasp, but I shall keep my hand reached towards the burning sun, and I will take
neither. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Many Things

I can do a lot of things and do them well, always have. 
This what I have been asked I fear I cannot do . . . 
What’s more important in this is how I no longer wish to. 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
These are my feelings and they run deeply across my soul. 
Woe to me I say because I know its over and drawing near. 
There lies before me a future full of agony of longing unrelenting. 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
There is one thing left for me to do and I cannot. 
Will I continue on I have been asked, 
Continue going I’m asked and I cannot do it anymore! 
I can’t keep going for much longer, if at all . . . 
How long am I supposed to go without hope, without anything at all . . ? 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
This what I have been asked to do I cannot do . . .
Will you understand when I’m gone and I know you wouldn’t 
For the blame you would place across your shoulders and why . ? 
It’s my life, this is my life and that’s the joke . . right? 
Yeah, as if this is living, as if this is even a pale reflection of life at all!! 
I don’t want this life anymore, I’m sick of it . . . 
No more do I pray for happiness that will never come, 
Instead I pray to close my eyes and never awaken again. 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
Please God spare me from growing older, from living at all, 
Please take my soul for I am done with this life without . . . 
Just let me sleep forever, for there is nothing left for me . . . 
Life is empty, meaningless, hollow and all faded away, 
There is no colour left in my eyes anymore, ever again! 
Just agony, just agony . . . 
God won’t give me this prayer I know, instead 
God will grant me an eternity of suffering, 
For she’s never done anything to answer my prayers before. 
Save fill my life with pain, suffering 
And horrible oceans of misery that I drown in every waking moment of this . . . 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
I cannot live without . . . I just can’t . . . I . . .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Global Warming Goblins

 



 The Global Warming Goblins 
 were gruesome 
sneaky creatures
and there are movies 
featured with these 
creatures
they 'd often spread
gruesome tales 
just to scare
they didn't care
like tales of dying whales...
and dying polar bears...
They'd pretend
to like nature .
They'd pretend 
to like humans
Yet, the gruesome
sneaky goblins
blamed them for the strife
they set out to hurt humans 
for the rest of their life.

Crunch! Gobble! Crunch!

"The earth will melt-they'd shout!"
And many more lies spread about!

"The earth will burn!"
"The  earth won't turn!"      

      Lies, Lies, Lies !

" Serve us or lose your  head!"
"For if you don't, you will dread.!"

 Crunch! Gobble ! Crunch!   


Copyright  McCuen  2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Thought of the Day= to all soupers

thanks for well wishes...I will see this thru...(like I got a choice)....always a 
joker...not so easy still up and in pain...vicodin like an M&M...I cant read 
individuals now, but that will come...Soup is where I am, and where I'm headed.  
You guys know the score...Truth and perception...light and dark...Tom and 
Rosie...some things just dont end...and she is my life saver, and my son any you 
guys...so much wiser than me in so many ways...dont have to say a word...there 
is a song about the sun and the moon...there is Bonnie and Clude...There is 
scotch and water...and there is rosie and Tom, though I haven't kissed her in 
eons..doesnt matter...no words needed...all the stuff I ever tried to say she knew 
from the minute we met...I have one last word tonight without sounding pompous 
and petulant---------...A fly and a fly swatter and  a hammer... A 20 cent fly swatter 
killes a fly effectively...rather easily.....a $200 hammer killes a fly as dead...but 
much harder...much more effort and focus to accomplish same thing...a dead 
fly...is a dead fly, but your efforts are unequal.  Morale- (buy bug spray!...opps, 
sorry....) bad word, you get what you give, and them some...one kind word to one 
person can avoid a war.  so choose your words carefully, they live on beyond your 
wildset dreams...as your actions do...easy..but Americans live in their own world, 
no more valid than another...yetmwe will die for a thing nebulous in conception.  
Poets are the lead troops...hate the analogy..but go with a sharp sword, if you 
must...God, under any  name, will handle the rest......see ya tomorrow...rose will 
post any news...she is incredible...as are you...I would dread to have her as my 
enemy. I.S.Y.N.....dreams from another part of the world...Tom TTT 1-4-3 
Rose, let the poets figure that one out.  goodnight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled

Breaking into abandoned psychiactric centers isn’t as fun as it seems. 
Oh, some nights have I had. 

I don’t feel too well. 

I just need to let everything pour out. To come out onto the screen and paper and wall and floor and everywhere I 
can transfer it to. 

Once again I am sitting here alone while my roommates have all gone out to drink. Drink. Drink. College. College. 
Are my children going to be disappointed to hear I wasn’t the party girl? Will they be sad that I don’t have repulsive 
stories of vomiting and one night stands? Why do we do this? 

Is that it? To tell our kids - to create a person - to create a personality - to construct a mask.These masks are not 
colourful or flashy or expensive. These masks are plain white plaster. Whitewashed wisdom. Everyone wears this 
mask. No defining characteristics. You can’t really tell if the person next to you is your closest friend or a complete 
stranger

Here I sit with my eyes closed. This entire time. I did all those things and pushed myself further and further into a 
sedated state that I can hardly remember. 

Suffering is the best thing for an artist. Every artist was an addict. An addict of some sort. Some sort. Some sort of an 
addict. Maybe that’s what I need - maybe that’s why I still do this - maybe that’s why I stay home when everyone isout 
having a “good ol’ college time.” 

Not a recluse. I swear. 

He can’t hear me but I can hear the sludge of sounds though the telephone. I’m sitting up so as not to let my thoughts 
become sluggish although they do such a thing on their own. My entire body has been injected with a cloud. It is 
floating through every extremity, every vein, every cell. I lay limp and wonder how it’s possible to even do this. To 
function at all. 

My stomach feels empty but I know what it holds. The imagine in my mind of my insides housing some bodily fluid 
and a plethora of dissolving pills. Plethora may be an understatement. Dissolving and fizzing and melting and the 
thought of that the thought of that the thought of that... that makes me sick. 

Dissolving in cold stagnant water. Sitting sedating. Satisfied, thouhg? I don’t know how I got here. I’ve been sitting 
here the entire time but what happened between when I first took seat and this very moment.

All of you. Take off your masks.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Seeded into Two

LOVE SEEDED INTO TWO
Love seeded into two
Turning away from sullen blue.
Time Capsules, souls search, 
for treasures and purpose, purpose.
Sullen bellows of gusty winds, there
treads the daughter of mortal sin,
as she grins and picks her victim the truth surfaces.
Abuse, slander, scandal and divorce of principles,
she settles down to a poor man's life.
Creation solely, only, for you going forward to another life.
We are allowed more than one, more than one.
So the sun comes out and smiles and shines brightly
from without and within. There is no sin.
There's reality of pain and the heart wearing thin.
Sink or swim to the shore or out another open, closed door
wondering how you tripped to the floor.
Scams, revelations, points you made in school, 
staring at statues of the immortal fathers, 
you play piano on the stool.
Crazy aspirations, 
pains pass you… asking why there is  
death and loss
accumulated. 
You will tear them from your heart 
as the years go by.
Dreams of money, power, fame and sex, 
writing out those bills and checks.  
Mundane paper-work, 
knowledge from a book, 
turning trash into treasure, 
while making it rhyme.  
Playing the lover, the playmate, the grocer and, the cook may spoil.  
Oh the turmoil when we go blind, 
we die, 
we love, 
we toil, only in the human time. 
And then God reaches in and spins the records to the tune of you, 
where love is love 
and truth is true.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cocaine

What have I gotten myself into?
There’s never enough cash to buy enough.
     And when there is,
        There’s never enough to buy.
“What’s with all the nose bleeds?”
God I hate awkward questions.
“Don’t worry, just allergies.”
That excuse never works in winter. 
	But I sure do love snow.
Pure, crisp white snow.
Each flake like it’s sent from Heaven.
City streets covered in it,
That’s a real winter wonderland.
As for now you only find it in small patches.
Tiny pieces of paradise most forget to look for.
The really special ones come from far off lands.
Places where people live free and it snows all year long.
	I know some who’ve sold everything just to get their hands on it.
I’ve seen rich old men who set it in bowls on their coffee tables.
They know their bodies can’t handle the cold.
But at that age, who really cares? 
	“Your sure looking thin these days.”
 “Thanks, I’m on this new diet plan, it keeps me energized 
       and helps me lose weight.”
           “Really? You’ve gotta let me know what it is.”
“Sorry I can’t, it’s a secret…”
	I think I know what God feels like.
I know you can do anything is an indescribable feeling.
It’s like you’re on top of Everest,
  With all the surrounding snow covered peaks in view.
But of course you eventually plummet down to the bottom of the ocean,
  Where you’ll sleep through the next few days.
	“You keep scratching your neck, are you okay?”
“Ya, I got bit by a spider or something.”
	I swear I’m gonna scratch my skin right off.
It’s those damn parasites in my veins that cause the itching.
Maybe I should rip them out…I bet it’d go away then.
	This is taking over my life.
I want to stop. But I cant.
Once you start there’s no going back.
That’s just the way it works.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Comment to Willy-fred

thanks, dude- yes 100% right-- did you ever get totally shattered by someone you 
love??  Remember how the music in the background took on a whole 'nother 
significance??  A totally new, far more aware, state of being-yet, of course, not 
necessarily a better one....thanks for the comment- send me your email address, 
so we don't have to converse this way.  Mine Quasarttt228@aol.com   Regards, 
tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

problems

solve em.dissolve em.we walled em off and called em
the f.b.i. done cleared my eye
and the floor be done be crawled em
lawed em,in 54
saw em,when we wore
baldin,and the moores
taller than they were
shot em
to a store


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rip Rippy

It was long ago,
Whilst I was still going to college,
Way back during the dawn of mankind,
Still living with my first wife, with my parents,
And my beloved mutt-dog, Rippy...
A smallish, black dog,
Long a part of the family,
He loved cheese, like all Bells,
And hated harmonicas, I guess,
As he would howl when my father played...
But we didn't know that then,
We thought the cutie was merely singing along...
Well, Rippy was in the habit of being let out,
On his own, as we had a big yard,
And always came back without incident...
Until one winter's day, when he never returned...
All hearts were broken,
But none more than mine...
I went out after a snow storm tapered off,
Found his frozen carcass in a street nearby,
And buried him, not an easy task,
In the frozen back yard ground...
Set up a cross,
Although he never admitted to a religion...
And sadly resumed my routine...

Two days later, I came home from C.C.N.Y.,
One afternoon, via bus and subway...
When I came in the door,
My young first wife, Ann, and my mother,
Greeted me with mysterious, mischievous smiles...
They told me to close my eyes,
They would take me inside my parents'
Sealed close bedroom, for a surprise...
Great mystery was evident,
And it was evident they were enjoying
My perplexed looks...

Well, I did as told,
They took me into my parents bedroom,
I was told to open my eyes,
I did, and there on the bed,
Was my beloved Rippy!!
I was delighted, of course,
But wondering if this was some evil magic,
As I had buried him some days prior,
But no, it was Rip, and he was find,
Just a bit skinnier than usual.

So, who had I buried?
To this day I don't know,
But what are the odds,
A dog of similar shape and size,
Should appear dead, frozen,
Directly across the street?

Was his whitish frozen hue
The reason I was fooled?
I don't know,
But I was so overjoyed,
To have my favorite dog of all times, back...

When he ultimately did die...
My wife was gone from the scene,
And my dog died in my arms...
And if I live to be 600,
And have 100 dogs more
Before I die,
I will always miss my Rippy most,
So deeply did he I adore.

For Rhoda, who is about to lose a favored cat,
whose posted picture proved that
that particular cat was gorgeous
beyond normal expectations.   tom bell


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On Life (for Rene Bennett)

"Loneliness has never earned a day's pay.
     What I've learned, first of all, is that loneliness chooses it's own weapons.  It 
hasno distinguishing marks, and comes in no colors at all.  Sometimes, it will 
creep up on you, and at other times, it will take a poke at you and stalk off.  In 
either case, you're left by yourself, holding your stomach, winding itself into 
corkscrews.
     If happiness is circular, as some people claim, then loneliness is trapezoidal.  
With those two parallel lines that never meet and are permanently boxed in.  Only 
the lonely could identify with the quixotic quadrilateral.
     One more thing; loneliness is sexless and ageless.  It affects everyone.  Like 
the panhandler said; "People are crazy.  They won't even listen to me.  They just 
walk away."  So I gave him a quarter, and he added it to his handful of change.  
Change, but no change.  Everything remains the same when you're alone.  As 
you're standing in someone else's pouring rain, it will hit you: the elemental 
distraction at the base of your life is yourself......"  written when I was twenty years 
old


Details | Prose Poetry | |

plenty of tokens

the broken arrow
the oh,dare,oh,care
sariavo
their people too
god remebers you
covets your fame
your name
and game
same as me
aboslutely


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Transitions

The natural flow
Of each life into the next world,
Hard to grasp at times,
Cruel, heartless, yet natural??

Mark Trotiner, musician,
Friend, teacher to me
Lighter of rooms on entry,
Suffering misunderstandings,
As we all do,
Blessed with lovely daughters,
Meaning the world to him,
Borderline genius,
I would venture to say...

I trust God has accepted him
With the love he warrants,
I will walk a little sader,
From this day on,
For I have lost a friend,
One who helped me through hard times,
One who held my respect,,
No easy chore, believe me
He's playing with the greats now,
To his family, my condolences,
I too weep tonight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Valentine's Day Birthday

My sweet Ruby's birthday,
Naturally on Valentine's day,
In her honor, the NY city of Beacon
Will close their schools!
Ain't that a kick?
Though, sadly, 
She seems to be "missing in action" lately,
Many wonder why,
She is so loved on this site,
Many of us cry....
So come back home,
To the five and dime,
We'll even through in some 
Jimmy Dean sausages!!!

Or, as Kenny Roger's first song went,
"Ruby, don't take your poems to town!"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Open Letter to all my Poetry Soup Pals

This community should only control Congress, the sh_t would stop flyin, the 
politicos stop lyin'.....You guys are great...
To Wilfredo Derequito; thanks, buddy, you're right, I am too old- but I'm still one 
dam_ good rockin' musician!!  Besides, have you seen a recent picture of Mick 
Jagger?  I seen mummies that looked younger. And, I sympathize (along with the 
devil)...how you got to that 19th Nervous Breakdown....I mean, all those years of 
un-Derequito'd love, gotta take it's toll...ha,ha.  Best regards, buddy,....tom

and to Shar...you are so sweet a person, but I gotta admit I got back 100 times 
the love and satisfaction from my Dad...he even taught me to love music of the 
30's and 40's, and he often jammed with my band (harmonica- he was the best!!)
He was not only my father, but my best friend, my bar-buddy, my assistant cook,
and my confidant....( I am an excellent cook...)...he brought me more joy than I can 
relate....I was the lucky one.... which made losing him (a year long struggle that 
greatly tested my ability to "hang-in there")

and to Chrisy...hi sweetie, so glad to hear from you...God Bless

Later, dudes and dudettes......tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Made Of Misery

Shuffling along
with the rest of the herd,
noticing the nuances
of the livestock,
slowly feeling 
the numbing pulse,
       shake through my body,
twisting my soul
to match the cull.

It almost
    slips past
         my senses,
the slow.
       draining
             of my.....self,
but I do catch it
and release my horde
from my abyss.
Scorching the landscape
back to the ash encrusted ravines
       and jagged,
               crumbling cliffs
that fit
         my troops.

Misery is
leading my minions
on the siege of this
          blissful mosaic,
scattering the enemy forces,
like pigeons on the sidewalk
as a child runs through
their flock.

The skies are splattered
with blood,
as the orangeness of
desolation sets in.
Then as the scene
reaches epic beauty,
a casym splits my battlefield,
like a black bolt of lightening
running across the ground,
festering with unrefuted dispair,
causing a shockwave
                        of immobility
to pass through both ranks,
turning the battleground
into a garden of terracotta
soldiers.

Some shatter,
like a ceramic vase,
as the dispair settles
back into the earth,
leaving my castle,
              under reconstruction,
untouched.
For the brick of depression
I've used to rebuild my walls
are impenetrable to the likes 
                       of this.