Long Mutilate Poems
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Me- Agent Covid-19
(1)
Halt! Wey you think you going
Eh, Grenadian?
You ain’t hearing
You ain’t listening
You can’t see
What! You doh fraid me
I should stop making all this fuss
Because am just a little virus!
Covid-19.
(2)
Can’t you see that I control things?
That I have everybody on a string?
Me- this little virus
Invisible as invisible can be
You better don’t mess with me
I am evident everywhere
I dominate the atmosphere.
Me- Covid-19.
(3)
I can attack your respiratory system
And turn your life into total mayhem
I move faster than lighting, faster than 5G
I will mutilate every cell in your body
Doctors are perplexed
Trying to fit me into a novel context
I can wipe out this generation clean
Me- Super Covid- 19.
(4)
So if you know what’s good for you
Go back and obey the curfew
Practice proper hygiene
Impose a self -quarantine
And if you playing more dread
Ah killing you dead, dead, dead!
It would be a sad conclusion
When my tentacles launch their mortal invasion
Me- Operation Covid-19.
(5)
I control world economics
I manipulate minds and politics
Crashing stock markets
Shutting down supermarkets
Even the churches
Everyone is in my clutches
I even closed international borders
Yes, I am proxy for the future ‘order’
Me - Commander- Covid-19.
(6)
Watch politicians fumbling
Educators scrambling
Investors crumbling
Bosses bawling
Doctors, everybody on their knees
Begging God, “Please
Stop this thing!”
Covid-19.
(7)
Look! Just retreat
Go home, take a sit
Ponder on my capabilities
Reflect on your responsibilities
I guarantee, you will see
That my assignment is not only calamity
And don’t catch a fit
When you realize my tremendous benefits
Me- Little Covid-19.
(8)
See! Workers smiling
People resting
Children happy
They now have a family
That’s why I leave them alone
And send their parents home
The air is more refreshing
As pollution level keeps dropping
Me- Covid-19
(9)
Note though, that ultimately
My presence is quite timely
To set the prophetic stage
For a One World Sage
So no one can take me down
Before my assignment is done
He that has an ear
Let him hear
Be very aware of the vaccine
Me- Agent Covid-19.
How much
can one give before they crumble under the
weight of what could have been and never will be?
How many times
can one tear themselves into tiny, bloody pieces, rip out their soul,
mutilate
themselves until nothing remains but a hopeless shell of a person? And
when one wants to claw out their own eyes because of that
burning itch under their skin and
tear out their own fingernails because they
can’t seem to clean the dirt out,
how long before their restraints snap?
How long before they fall apart?
You took my sanity, my freedom, my life.
I thought I was done but you just kept
taking
I used to want to kill you
in the most brutal way I could.
I would turn you inside out,
or feed you to the very snakes you so adore.
But I learned to love you, and you turned my hatred into
worship
I gave you everything I had to give and you tore it to shreds.
I was a guard dog fed on the scraps of your sick dreams,
who would kill for any morsel of
rotting food just to
survive
You made me care even though
I knew you never would.
All I ever wanted was to
survive
You were undefeatable, unkillable-my best chance at life.
Instead you left me
lifeless
I wasn’t a person,
I was a tool that you used until broken and beyond repair.
I’m a scrap of metal, a disfigured wrench, sitting stagnant in a dusty drawer.
I’m a broken quill screaming ‘Use me!’
to no ears,
for I have no mouth, no teeth, and no tongue.
You made sure I would be nothing without you;
like a dog, I would die without your scraps.
My love, this dependency you created,
it destroyed me.
You were defeated,
and I died in all ways but body.
You kept me locked in your little chest of stolen things,
that you kept hidden in your rotting heart.
Long ago did you take me, long ago did I stop trying to escape. I became the husk that I am now the moment I began loving you.
Nothing changed when you died but the possibility of ever finding the key to
let myself out.
I fear you’ve swallowed it.
There's little left in me, I'm a living corpse,
I smell of rot and stolen dreams.
What makes a human? Life, morality, emotion, or
regret?
My love, I’m afraid you’ve made a monster.
You see it in the old movies,
when Indians come into play,
somebody calls them,”savages,”
and it seems to fry people’s brains.
They flip out, demand censorship,
know nothing of real history,
can’t empathize with either side,
to see how that all came to be.
It’s obvious that most regret
how things happened in these past times,
and they’re not wrong to regret that,
it isn’t that hard to go find
broken treaties and agreements,
politicians playing their games,
most wish that things had gone better,
but history never can change.
Yet this does not change stubborn fact,
and looking back it is well seen
that some things the Indians did
were barbarous to the extreme.
Ritual torture was practiced
on captives by most of the tribes,
and done long before Columbus
ever had the new world in sight.
Like burning people at the stake,
or things that were much more foul,
like tying intestines to trees,
forcing souls to self-disembowel.
Making people run the gauntlet,
to be beaten by hard-swung staffs,
make it through and you might be safe,
if you didn’t…well, that was that.
Now by any modern standards
this is savage, that much is fact,
but honestly, were they alone
when you take the time to look back?
Europe had its iron maidens,
and the rack in medieval days,
and the Turks once were infamous
for leaving many captives flayed.
The Japanese in World War II
treated captives like they were trash,
Britain used to ‘blow out the guns,’
for your sake, please, don’t look up that.
Islamists rape and mutilate
in ways that would leave you disturbed,
and savage Chinese socialists
do awful things to the Uighurs.
But somehow, in this PC age,
we give the Indians a pass,
try to forget what they once did,
this really does strike me as bad.
No people should be above sin,
we see our mistakes from our scars,
to stay at peace none can forget,
must understand all that we are.
It’s important the we know this,
noble savage myths do no good,
especially since we’d forget
if there was a way that we could.
This evil lurks in all mankind,
and it should leave us all non-plussed,
Were the Indians savages? Yes…
but no more than the rest of us.
Of Pilgrims and Indians
By Elton Camp
In school we are taught a history filled with lies
In order that American history be well sanitized
The Pilgrims were a stern but gracious bunch
Who invited the Indians in to share their lunch
The Pilgrims were grateful to God to still be alive
And that with the Indian’s help, winter did survive
In their joy that they were still among the living,
Fed the savage natives at the first Thanksgiving
They thought themselves to be God’s chosen group
That those evil heathen it was God’s will they dupe
They were the new Canaanites in the promised land
Who, unless they converted, suffered a stern hand
In the name of Christ, they had every right to slaughter
Any the rebellious Indians: man, wife, son or daughter
The massacres of the Pequots are a very good example
Of what the Indians could expect was only a sample
Defenders of Pilgrims say that they were a hostile tribe
Murderous and far more vicious than one could describe
But, the Pequots were quite tranquil and living in peace
When Pilgrims hunted them like animals did that cease
It was in 1637, to the evil Pilgrim’s everlasting shame
Set a village on fire & shot those who escaped the flame
Before they set out with the intention to destroy a village
They prayed to their Lord to direct them in their pillage
To Indian captives, Pilgrims showed the extent of hate
To murder wasn’t enough, so they enjoyed to mutilate
So one Pequot man they literally tore limb-from-limb
Until Captain Underhill showed mercy and shot him
And by candid records written at that time, we’re told
Captives they decided not to kill, into slavery they sold
Other Indian tribes, to help, the Pilgrims did compel
And demanded body part of victims as success to tell
Some may teach we cannot know what motives they had
But their conduct speaks for itself and is so terribly bad
To viciously kill other people seemed to give them a thrill
Then they made it worse by claiming that it was God’ will
(The version of the Pilgrims we are taught is school is nearly a complete falsehood.
An example of spinning history. Sorry to crush any childhood delusions.)
What takes you so long to solve the crime when you have all the evidence that you can find, what take you so long to solve the crime when you saw the man rang the doorbell and sprayed bullets inside the house.
You heard screaming and shouting and saw everyone running about; you saw the young man jumped through the window and broke his nose when he fell on the garden floor. The other one escaped the shot but broke his legs when he fell on his back.
What takes you so long to solve the crime when you have the entire alibi that you can find. What take you so long to solve the crime when his motive is consistent with his action, the distance from where the gun was fired and the dimension from which the gun was held is far more revealing than the man that pulled the trigger.
Go back to the scene of the crime and take samples of the scalp from the tree and listen to the forensic scientist analysis and you can tell what was going on in the shooter's head before he shot the people dead.
What takes you so long to solve the crime when you know that the bison abducted the deer. There was no baby rabbit at the sreet corner, it was just a bison lurking around the back seat dressed up like a scavenger in frock waiting for the right time to mutilate its first-time customer.
Abduction or consent the bison and the deer almost ended up in hell , the wheels and turns, the twist and blows split its legs apart and plunge in its head into the dark. It gored the deer quite deep causing it to sprang to its feet and when the quota was met the bison ran away and the deer escaped.
What takes you so long to solve the crime when the evidence is wrapped in the woman sleeve? As if you didn’t know that the bison was part of the show.
When you are going on dare hunt, don’t drive alone, just take a public transportation into the town.
If your motives are right, you will get a message from the sky, which says do or die; you must take a ride at midnight to meet the saturated cloud before the next full moon, fasten your seat belt, I will be seeing you soon, what takes you so long to solve the crime.
With darkness scintillating in my soul,
And the seven of wands in my hold,
I take up the challenge upfront,
Paper planes ready to fold.
The sea washed away my sandcastles,
But isn’t history made of the remains?
Lies may plunge me and throttle,
But the truth isn’t out for a bargain.
With white, you pray and at black you fray,
Isn’t life just a folly gray?
You look at me like I’m your foe,
But I’m just the atoms’ play.
You rise to your mighty glory,
You take your sickle with unknown fury.
You mutilate every hope that hangs,
You bite through the soul with your fangs.
Scriptures say you are the Unridden,
Blame to none, for you are well hidden.
Sure you stay, though you are unbidden,
And you drive us to the forbidden.
I rip myself to pull you out,
I bleed through wounds as you guffaw me to doubt.
I shut my brain to shush you out,
I scream out loud as I hear you shout.
You show up at my doorstep,
I sigh, relieved, the doors are latched.
I turn around and I yelp,
You stand behind me- unattached.
I needed to propel you to defeat,
‘How’ stood upright with a question mark.
I sought The Charioteer and The Shepherd,
Even the desert wanderers of the Holy.
Energy drained and ghastly exhausted,
I look at your bloodshot eyes.
“What do you want from me?”
My voice echoes through the veined walls.
“Nothing is what I desire.
Nowhere is where I go.
No word is my hymn,
I’ve come here as your rhyme.”
Your eerie voice is not unknown,
The familiarity- I cannot fathom.
My pupils widen as I see your face,
Might be the devil, but you are my mirror image.
“I am you and you are me.
Same DNA, but I’m not your clone.
I’m the carrier of your loathing,
But I save you from heartbreak.”
“Fear me not, I do no harm.
I keep you human like you are meant to be.
I shall go but it shall take a penance,
Until then, let me be your ally.”
I rise up and drop my swords.
I step forward and extend my arms,
And I embrace you, my doer of the seven sins.
You might be my demon, but you’re still a part of me.
Anxieties wake us up when we are in affliction.
We will track down a creative wellspring of motivation.
Obsolete ideas have flourished in objection.
Is it true that we back to the hermit turtle? Rejection.
Because of this paradox, our minds have stalled.
The truth and wonder of life itself are fancied.
We mutilate the magnet field to be hindered,
to act dishonestly, dear ravisher jumbled.
The preliminary went further than our expected hopes.
At first, we knew about our focus shifts and goals.
We were furrowed to clean and dissipated as realizes.
The ambivalence arises from the rivalry always.
Intelligible attention to uncovering last movement trance,
To yield aid and backing to handle away extravagance.
A fresh start to restore faith and sense general enhance.
No one has the ways to fulfill one's need for obedience.
Which allows for further graceful independence.
We have lost everything that made us at peace.
While being extracted by fire and photos of reminiscence.
The absence of human agony illustrates perchance.
Our spirits need all those complex rituals to redeem.
Do with careful expulsion to disintegrate the debased dream.
And bestow the blessing of unhindered wisdom.
As we progress in serenity, we retreat from a problem.
This has nothing to do with any other person's perception.
But, It helps to revive the implicit flame of passion.
A vision of a tear, once again, saves a lost creation.
A positive outcome permits understanding the resolution.
At last, fresh and neglected facts facilitate the retry.
While it appears to be that enhancements were lengthy,
The status consistently turns into absoluteness, genuinely
Coasting tranquility and freely, at that point consistently.
The unexpected impediment fills as one's template.
On earth, we are doing our walks, as well as communicate.
The earth is moving, however, holding an enigmatic aspect.
To sustain and become much further fortunate.
Written April 12, 2021
Where are we headed Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
I am trying to relate to the strategy of rhyme,
Using words to titillate from the droll to the sublime.
Do I write "a rime that scintillates" to describe a ghost
Of frost? I consult the information highway hosts
Who assimilate rhyme-chimes on internet dot coms,
Those prime verse doctors granting aid so poems do not bomb.
I'll create a word-dance show to equate a tango's flow,
So solitude and fortitude and quietude must glow!
These multitudes of disciplines provost my attitude;
Will you, for faulty demeanor, please grant me latitude?
My aptitude to mutilate (a crime I must not boast.)
Is like a marmalade of brine upon my morning toast.
I ventilate and, then, deflate my inmost certitude;
This grime will grow in plenitude, a naughty turpitude.
I'd rather ev'ry word I post would jubilate the coasts,
Mime the scent of thyme about each lyrical outpost.
This roast of rhyme will blow ego and have me eating crow
If I don't quickly disappear, you know, vamoose and go.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, June 10, 2014
What does a young naïve Christian think
When a hooded desperado storms a prayer room,
His scary presence quiets the praying tongues ,
And his outlawed round replaces hope with doom?
He doesn’t think, instead he silently prays :
Father, forgive their misinformed cruel idiocy,
Teach these men that suicide is not an escape
From the punishment for their bloody idiosyncrasy.
What does an aging single mother think
When the hope of a graduate daughter or son
Turns out to be that unthinkable news of death,
The bullet-riddled corpse, the end of the rising sun?
She does not think, instead she miserably cries:
Father, blight their brows with sulfurs hot,
Numb their souls with the gall of unending pain,
And their hope for bliss in death reduce to naught.
What does the orphaned little boy or girl think
When the bright elder sibling they adore
Calls to say that she’s been forced to call
And say goodbye before the triggers go?
The orphaned boy or girl does not think, instead they howl:
Father, tell the murderous killers to spare my sister
For there is no-one else to wash my clothes
And none to help with the assignments and dinner.
And what does the heavenly merciful Creator think
When the roars of guns and the sobs of death
Force him to turn and cast his all-seeing eyes below
To behold such thick-skinned extermination of breath?
He does not think, instead he wonders:
What breed of men is this I accidentally made,
To wound and mutilate my innocent lambs,
Rejoicing as their lives sorrowfully fade?
(The massacre of well over 150 Garissa University College students by the Al-Shabaab militants on 2nd April 2015)
MALICE IN BLUNDERLAND
New born babies are being brutalized by a bastion of bastards and b*****s
S**t I couldn’t do that if I were offered untold riches
All the money in the world couldn’t motivate me to commit such an atrocity
As the blood of beautiful babies flow due to a self-serving monstrosity
I hear of all the babes who are stabbed, shot or beaten to death
The tiny ones who were only recently blessed by their birth’s first breath
But all too soon a baby’s blessing of breath becomes an acerbic curse
When heathens head a hoard of men to codify the madness of a monster or worse
The devil is their kin while hellish horror is their credo and misbegotten belief
Because too many babes are born to be baptized and bastardized by gargantuan grief
It’s a staggering and insipid account I hear far too often
With snapshots in living color of another corpse in a tiny coffin
Infants are instantaneously incinerated when insanity comes quite caustically to call
How the hell they can do it is, fortuitously for me, something I will never understand
As the unrighteous and unholy ogres who see babes as souls to murder, mutilate and maul
And is there anyone guarding and guiding this all?
Babes birthed by the grandiose and aggrandized are being brutally butchered
As some heinous individual ignores the severity of a parent’s needs
And thanks to the mortician that babe no longer bleeds
As these
Babes birthed by the grandiose and aggrandized babies are being butchered by brutal brutes
with despicable malice
While a mahogany and gold leafed casket becomes an innocent’s eternal chalice
© 2011.…..Phreepoetree ~free cee~!