Tagged: suffering

Accumulation

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Fish eyed

stoic reflections.

A little wired

Little crazy.

Wilted ass flower,

Chatted furs

manage to misunderstand.

They drugged Jesus,

The Son

Nauseous with nothing to nibble,

Nothing

 

Far from original sin

Smoking on senile hand rolled slugs

Racing past 

Settling insectile faces

Behind sterile windshield

I need these antithetics

To get through the day

 

The list travels through L.A.

And Tokyo

Coilng around the world

Knotted ball of twine

Each thread the next scroll

Of my prescription

Of prick the fingers,

Make him bleed,

painkillers

 

They whisper it,

Hiding behind sweaty palms

As I stumble to the curb

“DRUG ADDICT”

“HAGGARD DRUNK”

“RAPIST OF THE SOUL”

the roach that go away

 

The sky is stained with exhaust

The strip with buds

Accomplices

In my land

Two layers closer to hell.

Sedimentary Chest Cavity

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weeds, onion shoots
growing from the side
of abandoned dirt roads
careless carbon, without consciousness

not content nor contempt,
just being
energy in the atmosphere

always we press on
with the force, their breath
moving us through
eternity

the yoke splattered on my shirt
subtle reminders
that the soil and my soul
aren’t so damned different

and acidic pieces of death
in the air
passing through
keeps me moving
keeps me alive

the potholes 
keep me awake
on my long drive through Hell.

For the Future After the Split

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If you could hear my voice

You’d know

That every sentence

Is another line

In another stanza

About the dispersed

Flakes of beauty

In human suffering

For love is the

Past tense of hurt

And past was once present’s

Future,

And despite therapists,

Broken hearted epiphanies

It does get better.

Despite all of the self-inflicted pain

And the fallen heroes

Dying at their own hand

For the future after the split

The spilt blood is human

                                Is beautiful

It’s a shame, but the eggs

Are spawned and now

It’s time for mom to go.

Destruction is as unknown

As the phoenix from the ashes,

As the future of the plastic

People after the credits roll

Knotted Genes

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Have you ever been so ready

To die?

To unlatch the tumbler

And walk out into the night

To close your eyes

And feel their desperate hands

Run rampant

To pillage, raid, ravish

Why is it that only the corners

Are stained with blood?

Why is it that shadowed territories

Are endless black abysses;

A primitive trap to desire?

At a Moonless Night

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Howling at a moonless night

It’s so easy to translate my rejection

To your tragedy

I cry out in pain

To think of all of the

Crescent’s I serenade

With wailing nostalgia

With returning moments

When I have nothing else

When reality hurts too

Much to bare without

You

Howling to an empty night

I translate rejection to

Self-destruction

How to Rebel From those Convulsions

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I walk into class
Reeking of cigarettes
The cheap ones
I so poorly roll myself

I turn my back to the green world
Pleading for a spoon feeding
To see how much
Rat poison I can endure

They say it doesn’t kill you
It just makes you weak
Blunt

You can feel it hit
Like an I.V.
Electrical charges
Plugged into the outlet

They so easily find
Where the neck tapers
At the blind spot
On the back of my head

Initially it shocks
Tazes
Convulsions
Strapped to their hospital bed
Scalded, 3rd degree burns
For a reaction
As natural as death, blue skys, and insanity

I claw at the nurses
Her eye made a popping sound
When I dug my fingers in her skull
And pried it out

I gave mercy, I left the eye
She kept her dignity
It sits on her cheek
Functional

She sits, watching the children Scaring the children
Playing ball in the park
But their eyes haven’t receded either

They sit, plump on rosy cheeks
And like she once did
Before death
Before reanimation

She can see
Sometimes
A simple cleaning of the lens
Isn’t enough

* I do not condone violence against women and believe it should be punished to the fullest extent within and outside of the law. It’s not cool.

Writing My Ticket

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The Ouija board

Spells it out for me

“keep writing”

But always

I’ll choose to ignore the signs

Falling from my tower

Death still seems

Something miniscule

A woman pushing an

Infant in a stroller

On the far side of town

I want to see

Her walking away

But last week

She was on the

other side of the state

to see what’s in her carriage

the tree sap trickle

of a disparaging growth

into survival

snuffed out

among the leaves

Fear of Failure

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We nail the door shut

To blame it on something

In the constellations

We write an elegy

Not to mourn a loved one

But to pull over

Once the airbag is deployed

To pull the trigger

Instead of mortgaging

The next fix

Headless chickens run

With knees blown out

Looking for earth

Plummeting from the sky

 

It seems

We search harder for failure

Than success

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

 

What it’s like

For when we murder
We always keep it in the family
For friend, foe, or stranger we are all children of nature
Laying on the street side
I’ve been there too
Stiff with rigor mortis, crippled with rigor mortis
Left by a passive, inconsequential, negligent hand
I’ve bled, and have been carelessly thrown to the shoulder

The storm drains are more of my blood than they are rain
Rubbed into the pavement
a gritty slushy paste
Blood clots, and tangled nests of hair
The ones too focused on the mirror
To look back
They are the night drivers in my life too
Weary eyes
Careless flash of phone screen
And murderous trivialities
Rushing to dinner parties,
And horny house cats
Legs stretched out on the patio
Howling at the moon.

Surely someday
That domestic beauty
Will know just as well as the rest of us
What it’s like to be road kill.