Words like thorns, stuck deep, they choke,
A silent scream, a shattered spoke.
My shadow flees, won’t show its face,
Lost within its hollow space.
Time’s rusted blade, it carves with grace,
Slowly tracing my fragile base.
Hands of emptiness, cold and pale,
Cradle a doom that’s set to sail.
On edges sharp, where whispers race,
I hold the night’s forsaken grace.
Throat
The mass of
tissue in
the rear of my
throat sparkle in
humidity.
The roaches keep launching attacks
then scurrying back into Satan's dirty crack
covering their backs with the children of Gaza.
Launch then hide- launch then hide
when they lose ground,
they call for a ceasefire.
Understand, there can never be peace
when these hell hounds are unleashed.
Nobody in this three ringed regime
mentions the hostages anymore
nobody remembers October 7
or September 11
let alone the holocaust.
Short term memory problems
for those with long term limits.
Nobody dares to put the bullseye on Iran
who has the real blood on their hands.
Billions of U.S. dollars fund the attacks of these ogres
whose soul do they own....asking for a friend.
Lay waste to the Persian oilfields
parch their treasure chests
maybe then peace can prevail
then the Bedouins of heaven
and the children of Christ can rest.
I think we're heading down
the plutonium throat of Armageddon.
The knife is against your throat and I don't think I'd regret it
Stop picking at my skin
Pull your teeth out of my neck
Leave me somewhere between life and death
Pain and emotionless
Good to know I don't have to fix this
I know respect
Your blood will stain my hands and the collar of your top
I'll pick at the little meat on your bones and keep the rocks in your pockets
My knuckles cannot be whiter, permanent stains in my vision
Your face so far away or non existent I can't remember the shape of your eyes
Money sadly always plays a role in life.
It leaves scratches around my chest with a knife.
I see you having no more money while we all have five.
I am paying attention, near you I'll always thrive.
But I stop myself, I should never ever again arrive.
,,does someone have 20cents?", It's funny how everyone continues with their drive.
I reach for my wallet, and take out 1€, the stitches I made to close heart quarter of stitches still overbleed my lovely bluse with flowers, how didn't I notice?
Every step felt like the broken clock count them, s t t o p p i n g g g gg o n c e e e a w h i l EeE.
My eyes roll forced on the side.
,,Oh, we have it already don't worry"
Weird that now I liked the feeling of not helping,
and ecountered the boy who asked: ,,Can I have the 20cents?", with a pleasent smile.
In time dissolved silence we watch,
vibrant, throbbing jugular notch,
connecting head ovoid to heart,
gifts of silence, we best not botch.
All nodes entwine, none stand apart,
since bliss has been added to cart,
whence as we frolic in delight,
each life breath is a work of art.
Touched by spirit by day and night,
embarking on a wingless flight,
doing nothing, remaining still,
one with God, we garner clear sight.
Nectar flows, we drink to our fill,
sounds of silence within us trill,
brought forth by divine magnetism,
graced thus when we surrender will.
Can you forget that piece of cheese
that you inhaled? Oh, just a crumb it was.
But breathing while chewing, then choking!
Was it Cheddar, Cheshire?
Or that Limburger, Parmesan?
But, oh, that piece of cheese!
Not a morsel you'll forget,
or a temporary amnesia that will bring you peace.
A double Gloucester, some feta or mozzarella?
What about that Parmigiana-Reggiano?
Better, far better, not to inhale
a piece of cheese. It's peace you need.
(8 Jan 2024)
It croaks all day long
short bodied amphibian
that's stuck in my throat
Bhai shoru me tum meray mun me daltay thay,
Shayad yehi vajah say mera gala kharab rehta.
Note.Bhai throat fukiing is unkind please stop it.
Winds whirlpool wildly
Dry leaves surrender sadly
Autumn at his best
Winter waits
Each knows its cycle
Who leaves who, yet?
Who considers who?
Each chasing the other
Bend on destroying each...
Sun laughs
Moon laughs
Stars laugh
Each laughing at each other
Yet, doing the same...
13 July 2022
At the crossroad
Where I cried and rise to stardom
Unchained from within
And sing a song of freedom
There my seed would be, shouting "Father well done" !
At the crossroad
Where the scriptures were misinterpreted
And puzzle rearranged
There my people would be, dancing on their veiny drips
At the crossroad
Where the throat of the pen would not be stuck
and chest not tight
It teeth will be given it greatest bite
At the cross road
Where the pen will drip venomous ink
and cast silence to it earliest dark
There we would be, celebrating success
like yesterday's event
At the crossroad
Where my demise will be displayed
And wounds scraped open,
Where the titles of my pieces will be swept under the mud
There I would be, with a soured heart
repainting my darker past
BLAQ POET
PAKAMARA
Many years ago in the mid-70s
music was my idol especially concerts
Glasgow's Apollo was my regular venue
loved night's there fabulous to be a cert
The Queen of Punk in these times
Siouxsie and the Banshees was a doll
so had to book when Siouxsie was due
really excited when gig was near my call
But on the day Siouxsie took a sore throat
so the concert canceled was a real blight
look to hear 'Happy House' being 'Spellbound'
'Hong Kong Garden' took me 'Into the Light'
On the night traveled up to be let down
the gig was off so drove back home
halfway home the car broke down
left alone in the wilds, need to phone
I saw a house way out on its own uphill
went and asked to phone my dad, please
so he came up the A77 but drove past me
stunned I was left to look up at the trees
Thankfully dad realized having missed me
turn around and found me waiting on roadside
so towed my dead car all the way home
that night in my thoughts did always abide
(This is a true tale when in my mid-20s when a canceled concert by my fav punk band 'Siouxsie and the Bashees' left me stranded in the wild country in the evening but rescue came to pick me up.)
Mere catch in throat, not so mere, dear
It somewhat inhibits
Though God near and bliss throbs yet spear
Outdoor play prohibits
Thermometer in hand
We nod and understand
Such is lay of the land
Cough’s got our goat
Mere catch in throat
22-November-2021
Quietus
*Image of Hourglass Shattered Broken by Pixabay.
Scheherazade's throat vessels of time
snuffed clock prostrate hands
desert coarse sands moods travels
hollow cracked glass loafs
2021 July 03
*1st Place*
A Brian Strand July 13
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 July 12
It was as if a dead man had a hold of my throat.
Each of his fingers (he had but one hand),
was a bone handled butter knife
dull,
but together they clamped my breath like a vice.
"We’ve got to get you in ASAP,
You’re going to choke to death."
Death loosened its grip on me
as if hearing its name said out loud.
The Doctors office jumped sideways into
an erratic twilight zone, inflating and deflating
as I sat in a bleary bubble of shock.
Death squeezed harder
until I wheezed like a broken accordion.
"Look!"
I looked at the X-Ray, my larynx, and around it
woody vines, fibrous ropes clutching
a narrowing breathing tube. A Gordon’s knot.
I told the surgeon about the knot.
He nodded gravely and said,
"It wants to strangle you."
Is there a name for this condition?
"Yes, we call it:
‘Dead Man Strangling Syndrome,’
surgery is the only answer,
delicate, difficult, decidedly unconventional surgery,
that’s the only way forward.
First we need butter, lots of it, and an exorcist.
Are you a Catholic?"
Yes I was born in original sin
and a spreading guilt.
"Excellent" he said, rubbing his hands together,
"then we may have a chance."
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