Best Ops Poems
Special Ops!
My heart needs a tourniquet
For all the holes you burned in it...
So the bleeding stops!
You'll rue the day for this offense
And suffer without recompense...
My job's Special Ops!
deborah burch©
5/01/2012
The truth of their own beholder. There is none in him in their golden deceit Retreating into their cycloptic gland the apple of their eye Discordia. the age of the bewildered beliefs off their rails of the reality tunnels Truly a crazy train to avoid the truth by division creating endless tunnels of dystopia The unapologetic of their own heresies Blacks smiths of the ancient psyops Bring back the out cast of their own makings whether swinging in Jung's jungle tuning into Leary's leery lyre Blavatsky blatant blasts Freud's fairest fraud wanton Anton's or Crowley's unreality. All are like Dionysus genetic cupboards perception pills. The altered states of discontentment crossing wires in their twisted hannibal codex.Cybernetics new captain of trans humanism still shrugging the world off their shoulders for the evil that they perceive into an atlas of chaos with quasi- motto ringing bells for their Franken-design. Their upside down stairways leading to the stagnant light of a cracked door a vultured eye absinthe. To get over their guilt of their own law do what thou wilt assuming that their conscience are not defiled and all the while they are searingly beguiled The truth is is is the Truth the absolute. Lies lies lies prowl around in hooded greys propagandist of the endless mazes. Lighting false fires of the Prometheus blaze hissing asps of the doubled tongue setting their own world on fire. Like the orange clock work of the Georgia guide stones. The meth wine of the undivine with nobody to come only a desire to go. But....
I am nearing the end of my journey
The path that I walk is almost done,
Over my shoulder are friends now gone?
In front of me a life, underpinned by yesterday’s fear
For I am in a world where no one belongs
Tomorrow I look through the sight for one more time
My finger, no more the killer and my shoulder
Never to feel the recoil of tracers sent
I have spent too much time bringing Peace to others
It is time for peace to find me.
This letter I write to you,
for you have been my rock, and my friend through this ordeal
Your love has been the oasis that protects the candle that is my life
Whose flickering light is fragile, refusing to be extinguished
For it is entwined in my love for you, nourished by your letters
Without which, I would not care for fates demise,
On lonely patrols I am comforted by the beauty of this river, which reminds me of you
For you are my river and I am the salmon, happy to wallow in waters so blue
I traverse the waterfall that is your spirit
My strength though faltering, can still conquer these shallows of misfortune
And my courage is strong, as is my love for you
For I can still face the bears that seek to destroy us,
This old warrior has spent too much time in wars arena,
A soldier’s death I will not seek here, for my end is to be with you
To die in your arms, held safe in the spring waters that is your soul.
I am leaving this place, where friends gave so much,
Where sacrifice, and loss dwell,
Where silent widows weep.
Fate has decided, I’m coming home, coming home to a peaceful life,
To live again with you, in freedom, my beautiful wife.
Black Ops
Tex Lester and his sidekick Lumpy Bascom
wiggled down the arroyo on their bellies
to better observe a latifundista trouble spot
too hot to touch so they tap danced instead
Lumpy grabbed the walkie talkie and said
hey my turn to change the channels
Tex said OK Lumpy said here goes
your eyelids are turning transparent
every lock has a key but some are kinda rusty
it was an irreducible problem
on a sliding scale as usual
nothing so precious as a mind
overcoming its own psychosis
nothing so dangerous so revealing
what makes potential seem immediate
who can have infinite protection
working yourself to exhaustion can help
if you are an original sin Catholic
it has been 7 seconds since my last confession
contusions from the infant cradle
held to the sky in blessing
but the fields always droop and wither
and we always have the rest of our lives
the latifundista was under attack
by an army of particulars
bringing the guilty to the book
when they go apoplectic it usually means
there's a turd in the butter dish
at this point grab life by the ass
a balm for the paranoid shakes
or life's analog of the Virgin Mary
offering her writhing body to lepers
entering heaven in her bent Bentley
while the rebels arouse themselves
as her personal representative
no keener mortal praise exists
except by her blind biographers
and their company of war chariots
our task is to mend civilization
without getting our balls shot off
but at my age it's an empty threat
funny you don't see many
geriatric suicide bombers
a relic from grandma's day
where tradition was not the joke
it is today unless it is a
tradition of mockery
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/nhfk6dr
When posing for a photo-op
do not suck a lollipop
I know someone who did that too ~
stuck his tongue out, orange and blue
It’s that certain time of day
When you can’t tell grey from green.
I slip through cracks unguarded;
Claim my coup de main unseen.
I’m no flash, but all drive
As I haunt the shadow docket
With the secrets of Masada
Neatly folded in my pocket.
I leave a gaping nighttime hole
In the peaceful daytime sky.
I exist to torment princes
Who have made sad mothers cry.
But lion tipping esoteric elite's lobby and label their fables the lesser so called called sheep chattel cattle the disease When they are the emblematic symbolic manifestations of their own problematic rhetoric of old runes. The destiny of their own self ruin One day they run out of ruins and peace to negate a face worse than death. They will be forced into the truth as they debate away their day of grace The fate of the dead they chose darkness instead of light they will not see life choosing to ride a long black express In which themselves cannot express for their agenda is secret While they speak evil of the true God trying to turn His truth into a lie carrying a frieght of eternal wieght across a bridge they cannot back track into an infernal fire where they can mire in eternal pain The truth they will know then but it will be to late in the form of godliness without power shall they consider as seconds become hours hours hours! Why it is not still called today? Why is it they have passed their day of grace? * 2 Corinthians 6:2 (For he saith, I have heard thee in a time accepted, and in the day of salvation have I succoured thee: behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.)Hebrews 4:7 Again, he limiteth a certain day, saying in David, To day, after so long a time; as it is said, To day if ye will hear his voice, harden not your hearts
You clean, you shop, you stir, you chop;
You add marshmallows to the top.
You cannot stop or all will flop;
The doorbell rings – you smile and hop.
The sweat you mop or oven prop;
With guests, the anecdotes you swap.
A drink you cop but dare not drop
A morsel of your festive crop.
From shop to chop to hop to mop,
The day will pass – and then you’ll plop!
*Happy Thanksgiving Day!