Say it while you're here. Say it while you're here!
How high they build hospitals!
Towering, chemically distilled alters
that the dead worship away from.
Piling, corpses on corpses on
tumors, on hearses.
Coffins for sale! Coffins for sale!
How lovely they make the mortuary
bells toll! Resonant frequencies that
the living stumble into. Onto, around.
How deeply the gravediggers dig!
Shovel, on glass, on cement, on
brick. Crack! What a hideous sound!
How high the fragments soar! Look
at them go.
How low they go, for such low blows
Insurance cards, rip! Hospital beds. Tip!
There go the patients down the trash chute!
Head first, feet first… drained of blood.
How intelligent the thoughts of mad men be.
Label them! Banish them! Don't let them speak!
It's so easy to dismiss someone when they're
called derogatory things. How hypocrisy weighs
down the silver of their tongues!
How loud! How loud? Too loud.
How long you wait How long you smile
How long you are here doesn't matter to
any of them, any one. But it matters to me.
It matters to me dearly, my love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
There are those who take what they want.
Pez dispensers of pain and suffering
,, gleaning, never planting
Rapists of fresh air and confidence.
Staining the souls of everything.
Tumors in the marrow of society.
They are small glimpses into hell
professional complainers and oppressors
With bachelor's degrees in deflection and deceit.
PHD'S in the blame game.
Others only take what they need.
Giving the rest away to those in need,
Calm waters, splintering calibers of decay.
They are small windows into heaven.
Bachelor's degree in responsibility and reason.
PhDs in fathomless faith.
The well-meaning try to fix evil with bleeding hearts...
Evil thinks they're soft tools-plays them for fools.
To be used for evil endeavors.
If evil isn't acting out, it is plotting its next twisted step.
Fashioning chalk pentagrams, dreaming in hues of death.
Evil can never be fixed.
Evil must be minced into oblivion.
The trend is to coddle and pacify-
Until it festers from an irritating blemish to
incurable disease and endless menace.
they chain you up
strip you down
the lights never go off—
just the screams shift
to new throats.
the guards play blind,
or worse, they bet
on who breaks first.
some poor bastard
bleeds in the shower
and another one
learns not to cry too loud.
this place doesn’t correct—
it cultivates.
grows men like tumors
full of rage,
their names erased,
but not their pain.
you let them rot
in filth and fire,
then send them home—
like matchsticks
snapped and ready to burn,
now all they want is revenge.
I have too many regrets
they bloom like tumors
in the soft tissue of memory,
each one pulsing with
what I should have said
before silence set in
like rigor mortis.
I swallowed whole versions of myself
the reckless, the brave,
the boy who ran
before the door slammed shut.
Now I speak in echoes
of things I almost did.
I wear lives
that were never mine
borrowed skin
stitched with trembling hands.
Time doesn’t pass.
It repeats.
A loop of almosts,
a static scream
beneath my breath.
I reach for moments
already burning.
Beg the past
to hold still
while I cut it open
and try to crawl inside.
But every thread frays.
Every version unravels.
Every choice I didn’t make
drags a knife
through the one that did.
And what’s left?
This composite ghost.
This broken archive.
This aching
palimpsest of a person
who once believed
he had time.
Lately, I've cut away hectares of tumors.
That engulfed confidence, happiness, self-worth, and well-being.
With surgery, a bit of the good stuff was sacrificed:
A few shallow laughs, some adventure, and mostly harmless mischief.
The mirror is filled with scars of the heart, excoriations of spirit.
Along with other, yet-to-be-discovered damage.
Though somewhat deformed, I like my new look.
I feel tiredly refreshed.
The scalpels are dull and quiet for now.
There's work to be done.
Some of the newly homeless tumors are mentoring new ones.
I'm no fool and fully aware that I'm also a tumor to others.
bottles broken and empty
just like your promises
emphasis on empty
because that's all that you left me
so for me to fill your cup again, like the fool I am
would forever leave a stain on my honor as an honest man
like planting a seed in a puddle of boiling mud and bubbling concrete
I will no longer feed your hate for me
by being your tree
barren
so you shall receive
an empty plot of land
and eat the tumors we left behind,
blooming with asbestos
and bear the scars meant for me
We are the doomed generation
Addiction runs through our veins
The burden of being the generation to solve climate change
The tumors of self-loathing are embedded in our deepest parts
We are the doomed generation
We are the damned generation
The seas of doubt stir within
The line between good and evil thins
Evil wins out
We are the damned generation
We are the chosen generation
We were chosen for a reason
A compilation of all our predecessors
We are the chosen generation
Doomed, damned, and chosen to die
This is our generation
I remember
when I was a poor boy
and nobody loved me
mamma's tears felt like acid
burning holes in my heart -
I became breathless
triggers came without a guarantee
violence swept like an adversary
in silence i found my sanctuary
my bubble an escape from reality
grenades of my ancestors
detonated along my destiny
I burned in a bonfire of misery
papa's demons were too loud
so I hid my heart behind a shroud
as fatal tumors cursed my tongue
my sighs turned into a melancholic song
triggers came without a guarantee
violence swept like an adversary
in silence i found my sanctuary
my bubble an escape from reality
as the novelty of poison wore out
through the Devil's death i began to shout
his assassination set my soul free
childhood pain became my poetry
once I was a poor boy with silent ink,
but in adolescence I've learned to think
i used to wish I had never been born
but it's pointless living with bitter scorn
As withheld words escaped through winds of change
regretful tears from fears were blown out of range
"I have this spilling tea that would blend this conversation."
Does it speak beyond your intelligence and profession?
When words become bullets, that’s when you start pulling the trigger.
How can you murder names with joy and act like a winner?
Maybe noontime discussions are more absorbing when it’s all about rumors.
But gossips don’t make the truth, honey; They grow like tumors.
I heard you enjoy telling the mistakes of people. Can you please tell me what’s mine?
This cynical culture of yours fits your brand and design.
So I will never be adorned with your words of affirmation.
They are built with deception, jealousy, and false inspiration.
I’d rather be a mediocre who lost his gains over the years;
Not a sycophant who’s been pleasing others for leers.
The ironing on hold,
she donned a teddy for a span,
gazed at her reflection in the mirror
through puffy eyes
tucked beneath a coonskin cap,
hand-sewn in some god-forsaken sweatshop,
then grabbed the keys,
hopped into the Countryman
with a profound sense of gratefulness
for the surge of power as she punched the gas,
vanishing into infinity,
letters from her doctor,
confirming that the stromal tumors had returned,
streaming out the open window,
escaping the indignity
of being pulled from the wreckage
of the truck around the bend…
----------
A silly exercise, really: used the Poetry Soup random word generator to generate 10 nouns, and then tried to put something together using them in the order given...
ironing teddy span coonskin sweatshop countryman gratefulness vanishing letters stroma
Don’t do the rhyme if you ain’t got the time.
Nothing is worse than a half-finished verse.
If you want to complete her, you’ll need a good meter.
(‘Tis said that the bard brought the girls to the yard.)
Don’t use words in a poem if you don’t really know ‘em.
Great gasp! Bloody heck! Have you heard of spellcheck?
Your free verse is free… of all grammar, I see.
Watch those apostrophes to avoid apostasy.
Bad punctuation brings the downfall of nations.
Long lines are killable, so be watching the syllables.
If the subject is tumors, at least use some humor.
If it’s garbled and confused, don’t shoot the muse.
If poetry’s hard, well, don’t blame the bard.
If you’re not having fun, this career’s not the one.
You’re not making money? I’m not either, honey.
And listen here, Missy, that’s pithy, not pissy.
I’d have more retorts, but I’d best keep it short.
All words inward bound
left over words unwound
Turbulent times define out tumors
healing comes from within
from hours of reminiscent remorse
Liquidate passive unknowns, blend
promised posthumous predications
to wary rituals relinquished
Notoriety need not bless your ways.
Obscurity obeys submission
Obsession obliges oblivion
Truth tells all toiled tales
Be real in your fervor
Kind in your fever.
Life is patterns set in self
glorious in sentient settings
Pliable pauses refreshed
equal equalities existential
All love is universal coping
We can all be one with each other.
Normally, I'd never take a shot at someone who's dying
but what scum bag Putin's trying to sell, I'm not buying.
His doctors have said he's got three years max left to live
and for his evil deeds, I'm thinking God will not forgive.
On the verge of losing his sight, but he's long been blind
to the atrocities he's caused. A mad man, out of his mind.
Poor guy complains of headaches. Does he want our pity
after killing many Ukrainians and destroying city after city?
The Big C lives in his body, but his soul belongs to Satan.
Sold it when he got greedy and there's no sign of it abatin'.
Update to his health, reports he trembles. That's the rumors,
but I hope he shakes from the pains of malignant tumors.
I almost feel guilty by writing something so seemingly cruel
but this is acceptable when exposing the work of the ghoul.
Maybe his good friend, Trump, will fly over to hold his hand
and dance like a puppet for Putin at his dying wish command.
Lord lately from many voices you have heard Stepanie’s name
As soon as you walk in her room you can feel that prayer rain
In the prayer forecast we are expecting a hard rain of healing
And soon those tumors her joy they won't be stealing
So, friend and family keep those prayers coming at a constant flow
And send them straight to heaven to the man who runs the show
Lord in your hands Stephanie we will leave
And with your grace Im sure the power of healing she will receive
So, with our lord leading being our guide
Stephanie knows she has the best team on her side
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