Long Murderous Poems
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My heart submitted to no one,
A completion of self with another was a fight to shame a proud mother
And still as the waves crash against the rocks,
You sway against me, push upon me- rough and waylay
My rough edges are flattened by the fire of your foam
Intriguing droplets- molecules of mental, murderous muse
I scream inside, delighted--affrighted, by your hearteous sight
Numbing the tingles that used to tantalize my mind
And still, I held on to what I was made for
To push away, to shy away, to stay...and to adore
A companion with no dominion upon a wafted shore
The sun often beats heavily on me when your tides are low
It is as if the love you so passionately offer is all for show
Only to descend into the sands of "NEVER LEAVE ME ALONE"
I bid a strong goodbye to the hardened, rough surface of my bind
It is time you see my smoother sides-- where the sun sets straight behind
For though you were rough against me and over me still...
Your calmer tides have scorched my pride and mellow-drained my will
My heart submitted to no one
Not even to God
Still in past tense do I blame the one and only sun
The sun that beat on me day by day with passion in its rays
Sets behind and still I'm blind to the hope of better days...
Another Senseless Killing...
IOWA CITY, Iowa
(killingly, jarringly inexplicable,
horribly, gruesomely, and forlornly),
the found exhumed decayed corpse
belonging to young
vibrant coed twenty year old
college student Mollie Tibbetts
perhaps a spurned, snubbed,
or scorned love seriously gone wrong,
she who disappeared
from her small hometown
in central Iowa sad swan song
now plays, where every
last drop of sorrow rung,
now weeping family, friends,
relatives, et cetera subjected wrack
with lifelong emotional pain,
which searing inescapable
grief twill unrelentingly track
ferociously, fiercely, and figuratively,
doth disallow recourse
to duck away
from heart wrenching quack
king unbearably, terribly, and scathingly
will fully bill leave ably
beak homing a folly,
mockery, and travesty,
sans time heals
all wounds (truly "FAKE"),
nonetheless psyche riving tragic
(irrevocable loss) doth pack,
a punch greater then any
all star olympic pugilist
straight to the ab
domain of opponent, where
rumor mongers mill and blab
how this, that, or
another potential suspect,...
whence tissues dab
corners of crying eyes,
an endless stream
of tears merge with gab
bulling utter dis belief
questioning the supposed all
mighty, or at a loss
to do nothing but bawl (at Baal)
into the fox sized rabbit hole
trying with futility
to block (even crawl
ling into every
rabbit hole) no bastion
against implacable
maddening crowded
house alive with murderous frenzy,
and a dialect (non
tickling) gentle Iowan drawl,
while once again this
affected soddenly wet soul
cannot process any (defying) logic,
asper the impossibly steep toll
the purposelessness killing,
a lovely gal (same age
as my youngest daughter),
whose missed presence,
(albeit her - slain
Mollie Tibbetts – permanent absence)
now created an expansive
infinite black sink hole.
The sound of the guns going off in the streets are now recognizable ...we no longer get shaken by the blood spilling of our people the number goes up daily. Why do we believe life has no meaning? when they take the life of our children it's clear they don't care about the future of this nation.
How did the guns get on the streets... the monster of crime is now out of control, police and government can't find a clue to the problem or they don't have the will because the corruption is in the system.
I hear Marley’s cry "how many more will have to suffer, how many more will have to die” in our murderous streets, the river of blood runs freely. How can the colour of our politics orange or green take the life of our people. We need to grow up wiser knowing our life is a prize worth keeping.
Rise- up my country men we can't continue to look the other way while our women and children are dying ...Rise- up ...it's time for a revolution on crime...Rise -up we need to fight back and take back our nation for the good of our children.
The Stone Pulpit
Norway has many fjords and dramatic mountains
The water in the fjord is deep blue and clear as
a baby's tears that mirror a part of a mountainside
where a big rock has a flat top, attracting tourists
because it looks like a pulpit
Many visitors enjoy the thrill of sitting on the edge
of the pulpit, and deep down there is the blue sea
For a depressed person, it would be easy to let go
I would have thought the murderous edges would
be fenced to stop such a suicidal attempt
I wrote about the danger, only to be censored by
Facebook, which is monitoring my post
I was also advised to seek help for my fascination
of people whose problem I can only imagine
Their cries for help all go unheard
Society ignores them as being just strange birds
Because powerful men want to play with toys
Weapons of death are obtained by messed-up boys
We’re saddened by the stories on the evening news
Yet, gun control we refuse to choose
Lobbyists’ pockets are lined with blood-stained cash
Another SWAT team scrambles in a mad response dash
So macho men can go out and kill yet another deer
And false security be allowed in the house
School boys can go on a rampage near
And arguments lead to a cold dead spouse
The only civilized nation with no gun control
Has the highest rate of murderous crime
Each unnecessary death blackens our collective soul
As we close our eyes yet another time
My heart of stone quenches its thirst in the bowels of misery.
Since the cradle, I have dragged my coffin through Lucifer's nightmares.
I carry the hunger of a vampire, like those gangsters scarred by the flames of hell.
I bear the pedigree of a fugitive criminal wandering through the garbage heaps of the slaveholding Republic of Enlightenment.
To serve as a house ***** is a curse with murderous consequences.
I am at war, like all those workers who know they are being violated by bloodthirsty predators on the crumbling sidewalks of poverty.
My veins are tattooed with the barbed wire of a century that sells its children by the weight of cemeteries.
I chew fragments of hope like shards of glass lodged in the throat of my soul's streetlamps.
Their palaces stand upon the bent spines of crowds reduced to the hunger-stricken silence born of capitalism's savagery.
My existence resembles a sentence carved into the granite of a sleepless court.
Their flattery carries the scent of flowers laid upon the coffins of the people's truths.
I walk among the ruins of my past with the fury of a survivor condemned to be reborn beneath winter's rubble.
Their traps howl like shrouds above the morbid banquets where merchants of darkness feast.
I exorcise millennial curses upon walls of blasphemy, so that the hatred of my oppressors may become the drug that fuels my determination.
I possess the strength of a traumatized survivor rowing against the current across an ocean of poisoned certainties.
Their moralistic platitudes hand out cardboard halos to executioners disguised as the owners of historical truth.
Their handshakes conceal a contract written in the cold ink of willing chains.
They build cathedrals of numbers upon the bones of the relentlessly exploited innocent.
Their clocks devour time like starving vultures circling above miserable wages.
I have seen children learn resignation before they could even write the wishes of their own destiny.
Their demons recite accursed psalms to broken souls kneeling before the altar of the fleeting.
Their praises are nothing but polished helmets worn smooth by the habit of commanding the silence of cemeteries.
I would rather stand in poverty than feast in the kitchens of voluntary submission.
My conscience sings songs of liberation that the sufferings bound to the color of my skin consecrate with fierce joy.
There are “functional psychopaths” among us,
different from their murderous counterparts
who use their detached, unflinching and charismatic personalities
to succeed in mainstream society,
and in some fields of work most shockingly
the more psychopathic individuals are more likely to succeed.
We all possess psychopathic tendencies.
It's a scale along which we all sit within varying degrees.
The brilliant neurosurgeon who lacks empathy
has more in common with a Ted Bundy than we'd like to believe,
and that mugger in the parking lot lit very dimly
may well in fact have the same nerveless poise as a titan of industry.
Society as a whole is more psychopathic than it could ever be.
Fearless, confident, charming, ruthless, and focused are all qualities
that are tailor-made for success in the twenty-first century,
and all of the above mentioned qualities
are very dominant in every psychopath's personality.
It is our much maligned dark side that often reveals
the trump cards of success functional psychopaths conceal.
INEVITABILITY AND MORAL RELATIVITY
They say war is inevitable, and will always, with us, be;
But this audacious, mendacious attitude is not for you and me:-
Dropping Satanic murderous bombs on babes can’t germinate peace;
Such Sodomon and Germoria demonic skewing must now cease:-
What we must ensure to be inevitably true, is the falling eggs of peace
from above;
Dropping and bursting all over the earth below as they are released
from God's dove:-
Time is coming when mankind here on this weary earth will soon face
true inevitability,
And will then realize the consuming digestive neutralization of mendacious
moral relativity:-
Never really fit in always seemed to be the brunt of the joke
After years of abuse one day he just broke
As his inner light begins to fade away
Taking its place is darkness and its here to stay
Darkness consumes more of the person he used to be
Almost unrecognizable the monster now breaks free
As the voices of his abusers repeat in his mind
Now on a mission of revenge each one he will find
Hiding in the shadows a predator hunts his prey
Taking them down one at a time he’ll make them all pay
Sneaking up behind them without making a sound
Before the night was over they’ll all be in the ground
Finally his murderous revenge is complete
Now it’s the monster inside he has to defeat
It was a day like any other.
We didn't have a clue,
that before the morning ended,
life as we knew it would be through.
Terrorists hijacked airplanes,
and turned them into bombs;
crashing them full throttle,
into twin towers with aplomb.
Mesmerized, horrified we watched,
the sickening, fiery foray.
Then one by one the towers fell -
we shuddered in shocked dismay.
Thousands of lives were lost that day,
in the name of a foreign god.
The murderous cowards responsible,
killed innocents on American sod.
And when the smoke began to clear,
and the facts started coming out,
we rose up from our shock and grief,
to rally with an angry shout!
The United States of America,
Home of the brave, land of the free-
you can't expect to mess with us,
and get away scot-free.
We will fight to defend our country!
We will fight to avenge our loss!
The enemy will not prevail against us.
They picked the wrong country to cross.
On this solemn anniversary,
fifteen years have come and gone.
We're still fighting terror's war,
and we'll keep fighting till we've won.
9/11/16
Entered in Frank's Herrera's "Your Personal Best in 2016" contest