A Headstone Without a Brain

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I bought it first.

I carved my initials

Into my headstone

Spray painted phalluses

Pulped coconut pussy

Cracked against the corners

Of my tomb

my body will be inscribed

With a religious text of hate speech

A swastika crudely carved into

My brown skin

My corpse curled around

A cat of nine tails

 the lies of ape skulls

And science

The smell of decay in botanical gardens

Marching up white house stairs

Shaving my cheeks without a head

A Feminine Ball of Yarn

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*Written from a woman’s perspective.

 

Tufts of thread out of the palm of his hand. A spool of yarn slowly undone down curling dirt roads. Our steps are not our own as we’re dragged down the trail littered with pot holes, but we refuse to let the yarn hit the ground as we grow smaller and the man’s smiling face is far, his only sign a taut string following the curves in the horizon. I know I must be minuscule before I can gather myself to that smiling man for I am unwound. The strand frays and I struggle to stay inches above the cakes of mud.

Damned Potential

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*Trigger Warning* Depicted is the sight of a young woman being rundown.

 

 

And I can see the horror behind his eyes

the trauma to pursue

Forever fleeting confrontation

 

To watch a life fall from the sky

Fall and the leaves are muck in

The gutter, scum in the rivets

On the bottom of your shoe

But there was so much potential

In crimson torrents

Face down in the crosswalk

 

 

Pulling Up with a Finger on the Trigger

 

Police Brutality

And the sirens are blaring

ORWELLIAN MEN will wear your skin

And dance to Dolly Parton

The Ole Poke Salad Anny.

Their uniforms are blue

With bruises.

I don’t need divine kaleidoscope

To recognize the patterns.

I fired my hit man,

Instead I’ll try 911

The emergency lane has turned

To an ash tray at the bus stop,

An institution in waste management.

We keep our eyes up, holding

Our fear close

Like a handbag

Only briefly glancing

At the malnourished, mashings,

“justice” against the pavement.

Brushing lost

Cents under the rug, best hidden away from guests.

And the people search

for security in legislation:

To pray to vacant skies

Worse

To worship a vindictive God.

Surviving the Cold

Father’s burden. A Poem by Coyote Poetry My father taught me to appreciate laughter and woman. Father’s burden (My father  was a Ojibwa/Mexican man in 1950 USA. He never allowed anyone …

Source: Happy Father’s day

Powerful poem about fatherhood. I would highly recommend a read!

 

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The men that built this country

Rosebuds at the end of each barfly

The cold

Granting the fitness

Necessary for survival

The many miles

Across this country

Were planted

Under brown feet

Under the feet of an immigration

A union of the five corners

To break the back of each of our fathers

And oppress indiscriminately

The frostbite is inherited

Brittle bones

Weather worn

Losing toes to frigid time

The nails

In the hands

Of our many martyrs

Look so much

 like

Icicles

I Will Not Smile

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My father’s first poem in the last four to five years. I love it. It’s been a hoot to see where this writing is coming from. Thanks for the read, and thanks for the poem Dad!

 

By Ross Silver

 

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,

take your flowery high mindedness

take your justice fairness and kindness

And put it in a sack and drown it in the river

Celebrate cruelty, inequity, victimization, despair

Refute your hypocritical facade

Lay you bear and naked

for all to see

Your grim sadism

You will not fool me anymore

I will not smile today

 

Share a Shake before the End.

Hanging Smoker

To see the world through a haze of smoke

To see the dirt, the hate and the H

Under hungry, haggard finger nail

he’s choking (in) the street

he’s lying (in)to the street.

They stand around

Insectile, rolling withdrawal

Like the turtle crushed the world

Between his shell and the concrete

like a sigh, head hung low

deeply and profoundly insulted

your proudest, deceased relative

that’s all it was

but they hungered for it

clawing off his skin

decaying

tenderloin rack

stripped from the bone

penetrate, barbed cone

slurping marrow marshlands

just to prove

that it was the genes

that’s what made the addict

and that’s what made him weak.

Fingertips cutting off the circulation

one cigarette at a time.

Could I reach the page end?

before gnat beating

unconscious aortic corridor

gives out

To Choose Life

Times without number, taken in fluted reed Could be the dancer who Swore she would no, could not, hang up her shoes Neglect that spirit within who urged to move Still now, decades pass She has lost her edges, she is a filament of someone who Once danced in fury in all her youth and […]

via So quickly we forget the steps — thefeatheredsleep

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And he can’t tell if those are callouses at the end of her toes

Or bloated cherries, boils oozing puss

At the end of each of the fifths of her tapering feet.

He shames her from progress

As she grows strong

Towering over the people

The industries, infrastructures,

Sizing up sky scrapers,

 

He’s shrunk

Feels as a stain on the sidewalk

For the ego kept him strong

Termite infested crutches

Fire licking away at

The wood’s soft center

And he doesn’t have

A leg to stand on.

 

The footprints

Left across her malleable frame

We send Mother to the camps

Get her working in the lines,

Heaven knows if ma

Gets out of hand

Gaia will swallow us whole

 

They carve away

Beneath the surface

Rotting jack o lantern

Toss the slop in the trash

Her vital organs.

We’ve progressed

From butcher house cutting board

To scabbing through

demonstration

flanking Planned Parenthood

for the surrender

The only thing worse

To make the choice

“Life,”

Not death

Condemned

For loving the little she had

Perspectives of the Beast

 

I love the closing lines on this one, “Strong beating heart found to give chase Incisors laid, jugular vein, razor sharp.”

I loved the idea. The iconic image of London’s dogs of the wild. Maybe the real wolves run wall street.

Response Poetry:

And the rolling topography

With its subtle curves

Has become oppressive

Under the gaze of big brother.

The cold metallic wolves

Eating bit after bite

Of the earthen crust

Species of predators

Filed under Carhart, corporate affairs

To crucify the totems

We once worshiped

 

Watchful eyes roam landscapes dark Attentive ears tune into its mark A serious game played, hunting prey As hunger pains echo from the day The warning growl silences singing lark Strong beating heart found to give chase Incisors laid, jugular vein, razor sharp

via The Hunt — Exclusive Inflictions

Erotic Stomach Surgery

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Squeezing inches closer

A nice hazel

Cream cheese

Frosting

I can’t stand it

When the raspberry jelly

Sticks to my fingers

We’re scraping the jelly off

The table

Pureed to the center

Of my favorite syringe

Oozing belly button puss

On robust tum

and we never gave it

a name