lies beget more lies
leaves truth flyblown full of holes
maggoty in fall
Categories:
flyblown, truth,
Form: Haiku
From dense sleep we emerge.
Realizing our coat,
we seek to cast off this Nessus.
We drank the Jonestown Kool-Aid
and now it’s too late.
We never noticed the circling
vultures despotic descent on the capital.
We never contested the contagion,
the invective infections of the tyrant.
Everywhere we witness the carnage,
the flyblown bodies we covered,
the reeking pestilence of our infiltrated discourse,
the spewing sewers of vituperation.
While all the sinkholes break open
our dual justice system a slapstick,
our public coffers are looted,
our privatized schools divested.
Trauma’s children seek asylum in cages.
Trauma’s vigilantes terrorize our borders.
This is the moribund city of rot.
This is the counterfeit city of lies.
This is our cloaked city
cast by an infantile overlord.
This is our tomb city of palls.
Published in The Opiate Mag. 06/2019
Categories:
flyblown, allegory, america, analogy, corruption,
Form: Political Verse
I owe so many.
And they've become overweight.
I can't carry them any longer.
Whenever I returned home
In the dead of midnight,
The debt I owe mother,
Who waited up without eating.
When I lay in drunken stupor at the wayside,
The obligation I owe the mongrel
Who licked away sweat from my flyblown face.
The due I owe the neighborhood
For not beating me black and blue
For the peeks I took as she bathed
When Memchoubi was a virgin.
And although I spent the night at Chandramikhi's
The burden I owe my wife
When she pretended that she didn't know
Even as I lied.
The debt I owe to my son
For simply yielding to my deceit
Because it wasn't enough for a bottle
When he longed for a toy train.
And when I returned
After a long spell,
The debt I owe
The fields and hills I'd forgotten
For telling me I've reached home.
How will I pay my debts to all
For loving me in excess?
Mulling over this, I'm also searching
For a deep rooted tree
To crucify myself.
Categories:
flyblown, addiction, animal, anxiety, appreciation,
Form: ABC
Sip the slide of spilled champagne
Feel it glide through every vein
Scented by the rose red lips
Aghast beheld by rapture's grip
Scars reflect in mannequin eyes
Silent screams and splintered sighs
Famished with a tongue that's tied
Stuck in place; nowhere to hide
Love stained sheets stacked layers deep
With every page left incomplete
Flyblown how it always goes
The suffocating ties of a forgive me rose
Prolonged tones kept secret deep
Ache your dreams in twilight sleep
Failed your heart of required rest
The heat runs steep within your breast
Ignoring signs that divulge in play
Mocking ignorance still kept at bay
Ingest the cup of a costly regret
Mouth his name in one last breath
Or carve the dread you often apprise
And sip the slide of sweet red wine
Categories:
flyblown, emotions, first love, goodbye,
Form: Couplet
Can one count the pieces of a broken heart?
Can a flag half staff proudly wave?
Will kites still rise in staccato weather,
or partial freedom be less than a slave?
Explain this measure of a hearts half beat
wind that blows yet never reaches the trees
the disfigured countenance of a dreamers disgrace
how half body dreams cry imbalance in between
Tarnished stains of unpolished silver
flyblown details of a life unabridged
groping for a fortress forged by slivers
unfit by the stages between and betwixt
shifting weight from east to west
dodging shadows of intent and neglect
standing at the post where the middle never met
like a chromosome missing beholding whats left
Oh to be pregnant with hope
then giving birth to a portion revoked
How does one survive the division
of two halves opposing a whole
What brightness can a light once shining
affect through half of a soul?
and where is the joy in knowing
without two halves you'll never be whole?
A heart scattered in fractions
equations refusing an algorithms find
These are the conundrums which riddle
and the factors left baffling the span of time
Categories:
flyblown, conflict, emotions, hope, math,
Form: Rhyme
I am from those moments
George Ella Lyon
I am Made of This
I am from the isolation of pioneer spirits-
an ancient beekeeper- a vintage lacemaker
I am from a land of dancing brolgas -
and Rainbow Serpents
I am from agapanthus and flyblown windows-
I am from sunlight bathing shadows
the fluid drain of time- crisp July mornings
I am from the veins in leaves -
butterfly wings
I am from the sudden clutch-
of sad departings
I am from threadbare curtains-
the crystal charity of others
I am from pure grief-
all this
and the breath of stolen dreams
written 5/10/2009
Read Notes about this poem above
101 in a ROW contest -4
Contest Judged: 7/27/2016 9:30:00 PM
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A
6th Place
Categories:
flyblown, absence, child, family, girl,
Form: Bio
Just dehydrate a dead dingo's donger,
till it isn't any longer,
grind it down till he is feeling speyed,
Porkupine is great, on the Aboriginal plate,
a favourite meal, they might relate,
op rum is stronger without battery acid is stronger,
if ya get a splash, the right water bottle mate,
Avrodisiac is stronger, out past Linger Longa,
sprinkled on the Emu on ya plate,
move a bull camel off camp,
with just a touch of cramp,
Old Croc will come by to draw me pay...
Emu will not get flyblown if you hang it in the open air, most meat will blow, in Aus...
cook it with corn meat ...tastes the same...
Don Johnson
Categories:
flyblown, adventure,
Form: Ballad
Squatter Jack
have you lived awhile in west Queensland,
out in the red soil dust,
where the crows will pick your eyes out and,
bore water is a must,
have you seen a thin and starving cow,
not a blade of grass to eat,
the timber`s gone no Mulga now......(13% protein in leaves)
just the deadly summer heat,
the squatter flogged his paddocks out,
too many cattle there,
he thought good seasons were about,
but we know they are rare,
so now he tears his hair out,
and cries poor bloody me.
we`ll have to subsidise the lout
when he whines so publicly
the old cow bogged in the dam today
and there she`ll likely lie
the crows will take her eyes away
before she gets to die
scrub Mulga`s tucker in a drought (Mulga tree)
on the bushy limbs they`ll thrive
where some mugs had it bulldozed out
no cattle left alive
then the rain it comes after years of drought
and the grass is green and sweet
they`ll forget the bad times have no doubt
till dead cows are flyblown meat.
by D H Johnson.
Categories:
flyblown, adventure
Form: Rhyme
The past that haunts the future hangs flyblown,
Still the fraying lariat chokes a larynx dead,
And silences the words, still born, unknown
To ears that should have caught the sentence said.
Or some guillotine to hack Medusa's head,
And sink so deep the corpse of cruel dreams,
For what was done played havoc as it spread
A virus to infect the virgin screams.
It is this, the fusion of a plague of sin,
In tandem with the rationale of blame;
To come to terms and pluck the violin
And apprehend the bestial hound of shame.
For then, and only then, sweet love inflame
And exorcise the taint from out the mind;
Time for dirty deeds to cease to claim
Dominion of the heart of one so kind.
Categories:
flyblown, introspection, life, loss, lost
Form: Verse
Farewell to the order, cried in depth,
A surface skimmed flat stone,
For sure the past drinks slower breath,
Cold-cocked and slow deflating;
When the tyres kiss the steely rims
And wrecks replete with rusted hubs
Drop over distant hills.
Only backfires and laughs remote,
Crackled, reticent, teary mist
Calls some faraway vagabond chord
Resonance flecked with Autumn frost;
For futures crook a tapered claw
Towards the sun or flyblown lamp
With essays in cement.
Farewell to the friends, going to ground
In some blue remembered bar room
Or vaulted in a rift in time;
Fifty frames a second played
Circuitous peepshows in the mind,
As silver nitrate lightening flashed
Glimpsed meanings of a life...
Categories:
flyblown, history, life, nostalgia, autumn,
Form: Blank verse