Best Annihilations Poems
There is Nothing to Say About It
There is nothing to say about it
No words to describe it at all
There are no words at all to describe
the mass slaughter of innocents,
the relentless malignant progressions of
the evil black-moving cloud of terminations,
the toxic metastasizing ooze of outright annihilations,
the blood-gurgling regurgitations, and
the blood-spurting decapitations.
There is nothing to say about it.
Nothing to say at all.
No words to describe
the hopeless piercing cries of the infidels
the whimpering terrified pleadings of the condemned
the silent gasping inhalations of the dying
There is nothing to say about it.
No words to describe it at all!
My heart at 62 years has not seen anything like this at all!
Never anything like this at all!
I have not seen this outrageous slaughter before at all!
There is nothing to say, except…
These are the days!
The days of this unkind hour;
the days before the great onslaught!
Before this massive earthly descent to the lowest places,
the smelly dank places,
the rotting miasma of the dead places.
There are no words to describe it!
There is nothing to say at all!
iPhone Maniacs
crankshaft tendencies secure a brace of sly meatballs
truth daggers entice the worm girls with petite pastas
creature lilacs uproot themselves for pink dippity-do gels
white nylon ghost legs roam outer space in latex leotards
metacarpal syringes find porous outcries in the gloaming
crankshaft tendencies welcome the tilted exonerations
iPhone maniacs fondle frothing bananas mindlessly now
demon spiders ooze inside the crawlspaces wanting meat
cross-eyed priestesses suck on wax candles in the vestibule
black-robed choirs sing hangover music to the dribbling
rock music annihilations played by stoned dudes in shades
temples and taverns shake as the truth daggers hit earth
now the worm girls are dancing with the iPhone maniacs
all man are born equal
Its how god wants us to be
and live in peace and harmony
for the goodness of humanity
Adam and eve are our parents
And we are their children
So why are their so many wars
That seem to have no end
We know there’re only one god
And he loves all of us
and yes we see people suffering
but in god works we have to trust
we see the holocaust in Europe
the genocides in Africa
the inhumane captivity of Palestine
and mass murders in south America
and although our tears falls
like the rain from the skies
every time we see bombs falls
and parents holds their dead and cries
how did this world become so
why do people hate each other
if Adam and eve is our parents
are you not sister and I’m your brother
today I’m preparing for thanks giving
last week I celebrated dewali
then will come seven nights of Hanukkah
the same time I light my Christmas tree
then for holy month Ramadan
I keep fast for all most everyday
And give donations to the mosque
For the poor who comes to pray
Will our world ever change
Its what we hear all the time
When its full of hypocrites governments
Committing Genocides and hate crimes
But we all are so helpless
While we stands aside and look
But it’s the prophesies being fulfill
That is written in the holy book
But these things will come to past
Children having children
False prophets using Jesus name
Men marrying men
people flying like birds in the sky
weapons of mass destructions
man bringing this world
on the brink of annihilations
some times I feel to stop writing
and close my eyes to what’s around me
but then I think of those without voice
that world forgets so easily
so if I throw away my pens
Comes like I turn my back their problems
Although I cant lead them out the dark
I can shed some light on them
Quantum Glyphs
A particle’s not a particle,
a wave is not a wave.
It’s more or less equations,
of the way that they behave.
The particles aren't our focus,
of the why and for the how.
No... everything’s the Field,
that describes the then and now.
A beauty of probabilities,
a guess where they may be.
Real or just imagined,
for particle velocity.
The jump, the spike, a double jet,
to calculate creations.
How intricate the formulas,
of mutual annihilations.
But it’s not a vacuum of particles,
that hoover up the Field!
It’s the undulating Field itself,
in the blanket of the yield.
The surf is up, the trough is down,
the pattern’s on the Wall.
They shoot the curl, or wipe it out,
the field’s in caterwaul.
Then we draw analogies,
of what it must be like.
But something from the nothing...
classic logic takes a hike.
We try to tell what’s happening,
with speech not adequate.
Some forbid the lexicon,
of the maths in duplicate.
Yet it seems, to quantify,
in a language of it’s own.
And we can hear it chatter,
though its meaning’s not full blown.
We know Hadrons are the nouns,
and the Leptons are the verbs.
The Bosons are the adjectives,
and the Field is all the words.
The particles aren't our focus,
No... it’s to the Field we truck.
Wading in our Wellington’s,
in the fog and quantum muck.
A particle’s not a particle,
a wave is not a wave.
It’s more or less equations,
of the way that they behave.
By -Edlynn Nau
©March 1, 2019
If you’ve ever studied Quantum Mechanics, or tried to understand reality from the subatomic level, or follow new particles found at CERN, then you understand that analogies are about impossible for a science that just isn’t classical. This was meant to be fun and underscore the difficulty of the English language in not being able to translate the maths.
only things grown in the ground remain
but mismatched without the hand of man
see that they dodge beautiful
their languishing longitudinal vegetable bodies
never suffer fracture the stems with fruits
and their armor and weapons, bark and branches
trees
no, I didn't think our past was decent
humans
if you ask me about those days of debauchery
we were building ourselves up like the men we now are
with wars and ironworks asps vertices vortices cusps
and it was discovered that it is easy to be reborn another
improvement is advisable
there is only one exit after a wall called brain
then the field we learned to cultivate
now this is what we are having mastered cultivation
homunculi like scattered tares sprouting without end
the power of some being the downfall of others
history built with annihilations
and then the progress
the home appliances
microwave TV freezer wire and electricity
then bytes and bits
now nanoeverything
tomorrow AI and nothing more.
Sweet, Sweet Descendings
The meandering river slinks silently
In reluctant afterthought;
A flat stone shines in the sun’s presence,
Gripped for flight, flies forward;
Water clouds dance in the rapids,
Celebrated with flames, and
The crying colors of terminations,
With the motion and swiftness of forethought,
Redacted and clothed in a mist;
As spiral complacencies nudge me from behind,
They seek to know my name.
They seek to harness the ghost prayers of a thousand decades,
As deities, in splendorous romancing,
With lips pursed for the joining of sparks,
Deliver the nudge and mouth the name,
All in sweet whispering buds,
As spreading flower petals lacerate the lacrimonious;
Falling, descending, down, down-
I see the green annihilations in the stars,
As the heavens, wet with anticipation,
In minds all enclosed in folds,
The whimpering few cry at twilight,
Trampling flowers and crusty coals.
Sweet sweet descendings,
Past the laughing ghosts of 1952,
They slice as a cleaver finds the core,
Divided, oh meandering slough,
The dance alights on an afterthought,
Redacted from behind, harnessed for years,
Sweet buds in green summer heat,
Petals and ghosts slice through,
The harrowing stars.
Machines With Madmen Groaning
Machines with madmen groaning above me at 10 thousand feet,
Grumbling and growling like maniac sky monsters slurping on bloody prey,
Those steel dragons of yore spewing fire and corpses into the excesses,
Like Rodan and Godzilla maiming each other in the frozen spasming countrysides,
Giant crazed beasts reciprocating the deafening overtures of contrived violences,
Contrived annihilations, a few math equations, and we have the Beast rising from the sea.
Here, pour me a glass of your backwashed spittle as it internalizes with basically nothing.
It’s time to find the time to describe a time when clocks will rage on like crazed moon dancers,
When the girls on the boulevard were cool and accessible in their cruising flirtations.
When tanned nomads inside their cool cars found gliding nirvanas, and a bra strap,
Amidst the midnight milkshakes and the incredible nude conversations in the backseats of time.
Machines with motorized redundancies tap into the central eye where speed finds inertness.
Life can be found below the stage on the Thames, river of history, by the Black Friars on Coffee Street.
Incense-filled rooms lie mysteriously down a long gloomy walkway around the opaque tree line.
Ghosts of codgers and spillmen greet the toothless ladies with bloody knees and rotting finery,.
A young bard shakes the hands of broggers and yeomen with dripping quills and pig’s blood.
Grind on young thespians! Read your antique lines, not forgetting your monologues dedicated to fear.
Grant that the music of the spheres above captures the relative major, with silent egresses to be heard.
“Sweet, Sweet Descending’s”
The meandering river slinks silently
In reluctant afterthought;
A flat stone shines in the sun’s presence,
Gripped for flight, flies forward;
Water clouds dance in the rapids,
Celebrated with flames, and
The crying colors of terminations,
With the motion and swiftness of forethought,
Redacted and clothed in a mist;
As spiral complacencies nudge me from behind,
They seek to know my name..
They seek to harness the ghost prayers of a thousand decades,
As deities, in splendorous romancing,
With lips pursed for the joining of sparks,
Deliver the nudge and mouth the name,
All in sweet whispering buds,
As spreading flower petals lacerate the lacrimonious;
Falling, descending, down, down-
I see the green annihilations in the stars,
As the heavens, wet with anticipation,
In minds all enclosed in folds,
The whimpering few cry at twilight,
Trampling flowers and crusty coals.
Sweet sweet descendings,
Past the laughing ghosts of 1952,
They slice as a cleaver finds the core,
Divided, oh meandering slough,
The dance alights on an afterthought,
Redacted from behind, harnessed for years,
Sweet buds in green summer heat,
Petals and ghosts slice through,
The harrowing stars.
11/12/17
Moore/Foss
I can bring you a holy war.
Of souls and sour things…
I feel your slings and arrows of poison sight!
I dealt with your Hypocrisy your lies, your bitter night.
I simmer in your black bile of self-loathings
and
small Petty aspersions
and
Other annihilations!
I can bring the rain, the rage the righteous holy war of faith and abandoned grace!
In your ignorance and hysteria, they’re abject hypocrisy, I boil in brazen apathy and sour thoughts…
I can bring your whole-e-war
to your Door steps
to your living room
to your sycophantic neurotic soul.
You fester with black bile of Lies, hypocrisy
At its finest a testament to your Atrocities
As you think you’re aristocracy.
See!
See the harrow narrowed duplicity or poison animosity,
I bring you holy war and holocaustic ash.
Bombastic.
Fantastic.
Annihilatistic, dead?
A jihad of the soul and flesh.
A holy war.
Feel the coming rage,
in an age, at the brake of day.
I will rule my inner dominions.
I can bring you your holy war
of wars
the war of souls and flesh…
The war of machines and man made of history
Of souls and sour things blackened to ash
Holocaustic aftermaths…
I feel your slings and arrows of poisonous second sight in profane fluids; blood n sack cloth and lashes as lies; damnation crimson crime,
Feel the ruination of lies and ash in night!
I dealt with your superiority, your fictions
your scalding eyes, and ragged lips, stained,
And heavy thighs under raven eyes…
I simmer in your black bile of loathing and small Petty aspersions burning away in nihilistic ash.
Seagulls swoop in from a rumored coast,
tropical storms rock small pebbles in Ohio.
It is the season to be watching other's
batten down and endeavor not to drown.
Of course the odd hurricane
may pounce upon us
but by and large we are indifferent.
There is much talk of foreign wars
in Midwest bistro's,
but we suffer only from the daily news.
Atomic annihilations
are not any part of our conversations,
though we do dig deep shelters
in our restless dreams.
The seagulls are getting fat
from the rinds & crumbs
of our bacon sandwiches;
they may never fly away now.
The leaves will fall this Autumn
but nothing much is in a hurry
so no worry.
In the world of today everything’s painted grey
Our past had been behind us, oh but no not today
Do this, do that, it’s what they say
Right up front the past lives painfully displayed
It has begun, the segregation of you and me
We are pulled apart by those who deem
Our separation, we’re pulled apart like thread from the strings
Their whispers on air, our pasts declared
A denial to our future, what fruit does this bare
Our future is dark, stocked full of hate
Sorrow and Regret, the only things we ever create
In the world of today, is it joy that’s been made
Happiness for the destruction, the annihilations we’ve displayed
The pain you’ve created, the destroyer of all
To hate, to fear which one belongs
Your past is not the only to whom matter
Your interpretation of lives past, brought down, shattered
lives destroyed in just a day
When someone says “The Past Must Pay”
It’s brought before us tattered, dismayed
The past is behind us that’s where it should stay
Our future could be bright, but everyone beware
Love and sensitivity, our evidence, our burden to bear-
03/08/2021
Shame and years of tears have hardened like
asylum bread and now the children want
to know of your intricacies Mrs. Billingsfesh.
Along the hallways of this home for wayward
children, how fast will you run?
The children believe you will be possessed of
a sleek agility that is rare for an orphanage
custodian of your seasoned years.
Within the dormitories of this home for wayward
children, where will you hide?
The children believe you will have an
uncanny knack of concealing yourself in
the darkest and trickiest of places. Mostly.
Throughout the corridors of this home for
wayward children, how loudly will you scream?
The children believe you will sear your throat and
burst the blood vessels in your eyes with the
tremendous bluster of your lungs.
Against the doors of this home for wayward
children, how hard will you beat your little fists?
The children believe you will fracture knuckles
and drive splinters beneath your fingernails in
your feeble attempt at escape.
Below the vaulted ceilings of this home for
wayward children, how many atrocities will you
discover as you barrel from room to room?
The children believe you will come upon every
single one of their merry little annihilations.
Soaking, ruined and still. So very still.
Upon the cold, stale air of this home for wayward
children, how long will the perfume of your burning
skin linger?
The children believe that you will burn so brightly,
and for so long that your charred and smokey fumes
will coat these dead, stone walls for eternity.
We have gathered our numbers Mr. Billingsfesh and
the only thing that is left for you to do, is run.
Down the halls, through the dormitories and out
into the exquisite, white winter night.