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Antonio Ball Poem
Flowers are like people
when one withers, another blooms
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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Antonio Ball Poem
The slickness of a blade
pressing against a throat....
the cold steel meeting tender flesh
blood drips and a body tumbles
the taste.... the sight... the sound....
all quite euphoric.....
Ripped clothes, smashed items,
echo screams, and the raging fires that glow throughout the night
The beauty.... the savagery.... the destruction
all quite euphoric....
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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Antonio Ball Poem
The stench of piss, vomit, and feces
immediately hit my senses
as I step over dirty syringes
and white, powdered filled baggies
the imperfect combination
of junkie and overdose
the drool dripping out of their mouths
and the sight of eyeballs rolling
into the back of heads
I see the hookers who parade around
in their birthday suits
who's bodies resembled that
of a skeletal corpse, and of course
who can forget the music
that shakes the exterior
of a cracking foundation
half-dead bodies moving and grooving
to the sound of a repetitive beat
but the irony out of all this of course
is the transaction.....
the meeting between men
the sell of deadly prescriptions
and the lost of finances
only to repeat its licentious cycle again
but this is nothing.... it's actually quite normal
in the stomping grounds of the ghetto....
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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Antonio Ball Poem
Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface
the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
our intestines and the blankets
cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses
we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered
the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
in the form of gangrene, the rats
make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten
flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone
then comes the symphony of artillery
the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
the mighty foot soldiers, and
the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas
the trenches become our unwanted love
and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us
constantly by our commanders but on the contrary
these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
the illusion of life and the irony of war.....
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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Antonio Ball Poem
Our eyes sparked a flame that melted our hearts
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2016
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Antonio Ball Poem
It's 3 P.M, Sitting, staring at the reruns of Jeopardy and Seinfield
a microwave steak and some potatoes
sit gingerly on the tray, crunchy and frozen....
It's 5 P.M., a bottle of room temperature beer
cuddles itself around my hands
some potato chips spread across my lap.....
the television remote and I sit inches apart
yet, the separation feels like miles
It's 7 P.M., cold, rusty water pelts my naked flesh
the bath towels feel like steel wool
every little fiber, scratching and tearing at my skin
the soap is as tough as rubber......
It's 9 P.M, bed bugs have swarmed my mattress
scratching and biting, I smash one and a million more follow
some are flat and dry and some explode with leaking blood....
It's 11 P.M. I slip into my dungarees, there's a urine spot
in the middle of the seams.... my shovel is rusty....
the van leaks exhaust and it bleeds gasoline
It's 1 A.M., I gaze at the tombstones and they gaze back
a foggy midst looms from the hills, it's raining....
a flash of lighting strikes, bright as the sun itself
thunder rumbles the earth.....
It's 3 A.M., strolling by the red light district
a back alley blowjob, no condoms....
ten dollars for one hour, twenty for two
I only have five.....
It's 5 A.M. the sun begins to rise
beer bottles pilled at my door
saliva, drying at the seams of my mouth....
back into my bug infested abode.....
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2016
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Antonio Ball Poem
1.
The cold touch of steel masonry
it's violent barrage of iron shell
and the crashing thunder with raining shrapnel
2.
The rain, the mud, and bloody terrain
swiftly it crashes through the enemy lines
with it, a swarm of bayonets and steel helmets
3.
Piles of broken bone and empty artillery
raging inferno's and gray smog
bloody bodies and a white flag
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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Antonio Ball Poem
Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the penetration of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the bloody eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the thrust of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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Antonio Ball Poem
I open my package of
oatmeal raisin, chocolate chips cookies
I scraped away the sun dried devils
and devoured the chocolate chips of course
but something felt funny, so I forced
my finger down my throat and puked
up my lunch, the yellow,green concoction
contradicted the lead filled little bites of death
and I also spit up some blood as well
stomach pains and heart palpitations
were my best friends for the next 3 months
reminding me that if I ever buy cookies
online again make sure the package
doesn't say "from Russia with love..."
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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Antonio Ball Poem
The year was 1956
and I distinctly recall
my mother's lovely face
as she told me
Szererlek (I love you)
and as I seen her lovely smile
I remember her face
as she held back bittersweet tears
tying to hold the impression
that everything was alright and I
as a youth did not fully
comprehend the situation
going on at the time.......
I asked my mother
Anyu , miért sírsz ? (Mother, why are you crying?)
and she replied....
Ez semmi fiam , én rendben lesz
(It's nothing my son, I will be alright)
all while hearing the rough and
very bitter voice of my father say......
Nidia , te ribanc ! hol vagytok ?!
(Nidia, you whore! where are you?!)
all while she bitterly weeps
going to his side again, once more
in his violent tone he says......
Nidia , te kurva ! hol van az italom ?!
(Nidia, you ***** ! where is my drink?!)
all while she wept quietly
going to the refrigerator
and getting his stale
cognac and bitter wine
all while these two drinks
have not even gotten cold yet......
She serves him the drinks
he spits them out, get's up
and says.....
Te hülye kurva !, akkor soha semmit van!
(You stupid whore!, you could never do anything right!)
as again I see daddy, giving mommy
one of his usual love taps
a punch to the stomach
and a slap to the face
all to match the black eye
she has already received.....
It is 12:00 at night
I lay in my bed......
mommy kisses me goodnight
and she says in a soft, calming whisper
Ez semmi fiam , én rendben lesz
(It's nothing my son, I will be alright)
all while daddy was asleep
in the other room, knocked out from
having his usual
cocktail of painkillers,
stale cognac and bitter while
this time...... it was cold
Mommy tucks me in
kisses me on the forehead
cuts off my lights
and says.... jóéjt fiam (goodnight my son)
I..... still awake, and with
the inability to slumber
I sneak out my bedside
and witness in my mothers
hands, the Ak-47 assault rifle
that my father had stole
during the Hungarian revolution......
My father (who was knocked out)
was unaware of what was staring
at him in the face......
and my mother......
with her hand on the trigger
says in her melancholy voice......
ez a vég.....(this is the end.....)
and puts a bullet through his head.....
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
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