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poetry

Greg, 19 february 2014

Hemorrhage

So the tables turn round and round
And a rhyme scheme begins to emerge
From the pits of desolate chaotic fear
Rampaging against
Against
Against….
…against…against
(Drifting to a hollow whisper)

The technology takes over
And implodes my attempt at making something sobering
To drag you down into the shit and the mud
That I revel in
I say that its my pain
But the game is all in my head

Swirling rushes of winds and hairy things
Running like the apostles against the horsemen
Of four opposing winds
Left dormant on the train tracks
To touch the little child
And never look back
Sneak attack
The ego that resides
In the meadows of poetized
Living, breathing butterflies
That have beauty so true
And appreciation so contrived
That I could find it dope sick
In the back alleys of a whore house in Japan
In the meddling pussies of the young girls
Who give their life into the hands
Of Western glory businessman
Who are rapists, but innocent all the same
I am condemning for the sake of easing
Some of my inner pain

Rush rush rush down the alley way street
To hear the beats
Of feet that tell stories
And the children come together
Holding hands in cold hands
The band erupts softly
To heed quiet the land
The sand that seeps softly
Between our tangled feet
Aghast at the shoreline
The whispering foresight
The languishing preparation
Of sad gypsy songs

Hear the cries to fall hollow
Bring light from beneath ground teeth

Sink the pail
Own the reliable serpent
To come up your leg into the sacred lick

Command Command Command
I am Afraid!!!

Relinquish the background hologram
And touch the penguin’s feet
Alone in the night
Speaking of fright
Lunging at light
To feel incomplete
Jack off the shadows that swallow your head
Rail the gears and break…
The rhymes are descending back into hell
Into chaos
And the meter breaks
CRACK

I want to write more
But I want to feel satisfied
And if I keep writing we will walk on forever
Like Da Vinci who could never smile inside
But to notice the gruesome frown that ripped at his soul
And in maniacle terror
And inward asceticism
Chased down the rabbit hole
To find nothing and no one
The sunstricken grief
Of a life incomplete

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Satish Verma, 19 february 2014

KISSING GODS

When we slept through our
naked loops, there was a silent call.
Moon was out walking on the street
peeping through the glass window,
the crossed legs.
Trees were meshed up in dark. Do you
know the impropriety of leaves, climbing
on each other? Dogs inbreeding? Incestuous in camera.
The elixir of life. Recycled urine. We
were not crying. It was the urgency
to die to challenge the infinity.
We get paralysed. Our legs will not
move on fallen skulls. Blood was everywhere.
The terrorists on terrace, negotiating for a massive
ransom. This interwar was wholesome. The
hysterical confusion breaks us apart
and morgue was full of kissing gods.

Satish Verma

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Greg, 18 february 2014

Run From the Name

The pace erupts to leave stagnant
The grayness that permeates
Turning shinning, soulful blackness
To bleak unfeeling

The shame that arises from unintended numbness
Like being raped into submission
By the suffocation howls
Of the lonely night
Grasping at the reach
The linked up end of the fence
To travel a road
That leads
Nowhere

Who can understand?
That a triviality blooms in the wake
Of a shadow half-elated
To try to remake
Itself into a soft melody
So self-aware it never feels
More than what it knows of
Half-convinced that it isn’t real

To deal
Shatter the image looking glass
So soft
In the laughter of yesterday’s joy
Together
Rip the arms from the fetus grasp
Holding to its mother tight

Masturbating
At the love that’s lost

The beaten trek that leads to the light
Untouched candle
Brimming with loathsome suffering
To touch softly
The relentless gaze of a holy shadow
A light that knows no love
A bond that creates a chain
To give away
All of his lonely pain
Into the falsified name
That leads astray
From the essence of him-self

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Len Gesinski, 18 february 2014

Crashing

(an eventual)Crashing

Just how many times
can you keep tempting fate?
that number, it’s your number
that which
comes around
eventually
then..only then
when
there is finally
no
turning back…no do overs…
at that point
at any point
if life is
in review
just before
decisions..deciding..decided?
to
step through
the gray
to the
inevitable
darkness
what is…were?
your greatest
regrets
pains
angsts
secrets..hidden
that
still haunt…pain
you
or have you
already
heard..felt..sensed
some inevitable calling?
deathwish
just what makes you tick?
can you see?
can you hear?...
can you feel?
anybody?
somebody?
something?
anything?
is there really
still…
no other way?
there is still time
a chance
your chance
want?
change of path
direction

choice…yours

(an eventual)Crashing©Leonard.C. Gesinski All Rights Reserved(02/18/2014)
http://leng64.wordpress.com/2014/02/18/an-eventualcrashing/

number of comments: 1 | rating: 6 | detail

Satish Verma, 18 february 2014

COMFORT IN HOBBLING HOME

Washed by tears, the flame kindled again.
Crimson magma was quick to engulf
the drops on forehead. Fired from close range
the bullets opened the bloodgates in quick succession.
It should not have happened!
Therefore the journey resumes outside the good
or the evil. The rdx bombs are found at
your doorsteps and you watch helplessly the
murder on dining table.
Are you safe in linens of truth? The lip
gloss of diplomacy will work? The sea
was turbulent and a hijacked trawler was left
on waves with the shot body of captain.
Your hands are trembling on the knobs without
doors. Through the death I perceive a
child crying in the arms of a sobbing galaxy.
There were needles on the road and our
soles were bleeding.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 17 february 2014

TOXIC

A toxic tongue laps the ocean
and fish goes to sleep at bottom.
I do not know from where to start.
A distraught candle flickers.
The blast victim was pregnant and
the foetal head got severed off in womb.

There were big holes in intelligence.
Raw fledgling. The evil existed
in every room. I was not able
to open a single door.

Because they were blind,
taking roots in soil of ancestral graves
on the name of god,
throwing blue stars
in the eyes of believers.

Satish Verma

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Kemms, 16 february 2014

Working One's Ass Off

Work a bit longer
Don't go home yet
There's nobody there
Nobody's waiting for you
We already have a lot
We even want more
So work a bit longer
For our economy

We'll pay you
Your hard work
Not nearly equal
To your effort
But work a bit longer
Nobody's waiting for you
As abundance's waiting for us
Only that matters

You have two jobs
And third and fourth sometimes
Not much free time
Not much money
It makes us happy
Loaded with plenty
You will always work
And never be happy

So work a bit longer
Marry the routine
Of endless torture
We'll pay you
With grey skin
Broken mind
Lonely nights
Only us matters ...

number of comments: 1 | rating: 3 | detail

Satish Verma, 16 february 2014

MY TABOO

Hollyhocks will not let me go;
hold my hands.
Shying away
they were turning to ashes.

In the night, wisteria
emanates a hungry cry.
Though wind had announced
sun has not kept the promise.

I gasp for the body silver
like ancient lust,
pure and paranoid –
asking for the head of a spider.

This non-violent resistance
seeks more space to pasteurize
the beautiful milk in gold containers.
A passion flower was going to melt.

Satish Verma

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jimmymac, 15 february 2014

5 Pointz

we wuz celebratin
40 years of Hip Hop
at 5 Pointz

dashing tags
reclaiming the
lost land

speaking for a
community of peeps
routed from their
last stand

making statements
about remembering

tellin stories
about ourselves

giving the drab
dead industrial
sarcophagi a
a face lift

freeing the
entombed
mummies
to let em
walk with
the living
again

seein things
in a new light

reciting our
biographies

writing an epic
autobiography

splashed across
3D murals

spoken in the
lexicon of
gobsmack
multicolored
neon graffiti

testifying to
the ages with
our urban
hieroglyphs

the symbols of
life in the hood
may history be our
witness to aromas
rising from cracked
pavements teaming
with bodegas,
public projects and
store front fantasies
played out in all its
grueling detail
on the corner of
walk don’t walk

them snaps
real down home
expressions
of real people

until some
capitalist
douchebag

his pockets filled
with low interest
money

whitewashed
it away

he thinks he
owns the
5 Pointz

he thinks
he can
erase our
memories
with a gallon of
Sherwin Williams

he thinks
he owns our
perdido
graffito

and is well
in his rights
to launder our
epiphanies over
with the bland
tag of privilege
he thinks his
dollar bills
can buy

we raised this
place from
the dead

that old warehouse
where men and women
once earned a paycheck
was murdered by
Michael Milken
and his posse of well
heeled predators
busy leveraging
livelihoods by
offshoring them
to Third World
plantations
transforming
the natives into
wage slaves
tagging this
strange alchemy
progress

now this
latest incarnation of
Morley’s Ghost stalking
Bloomberg’s Metropolis
haunts the neighborhoods
with a wrecking ball
of entitlement

razing our hood
to build soulless
high rises where
they'll warehouse
dead people
ginned up
on pilates,
chai tea and
elevating
themselves
through life
scoring the
latest fab
yoga gear
on the
urban outfitters
website

the frackers
are gobbling
the land

strip miners are
gnashing away
at the mountains

now the predators
are eating our art

always famished
never satiated
the beast gnaws
away at its
kill scattering
the bones of
of the living

but this
half assed
midnight
whitewash
will never stand

already images
of the holy ghosts
scrawled onto
the Wailing Walls
of 5 Pointz are
bleeding through
the veneer of a
landlords greed

and as the
future tenants
of the proposed
highrise columbarium
snooze away the night
dreaming of leading roles
in star studded schemes

we’ll be taggin
the streets
reciting our
righteous presence
until our last dying
aerosol breath
escapes our
paint stained
hands

Public Enemy:
Fight the Power

Oakland
11/20/13
jbm

http://nypost.com/2013/11/20/5-pointz-fans-try-to-retag-legendary-graffiti-building/

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jimmymac, 15 february 2014

Madiba

it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country

hard truths
boldly spoken
are received as a
wretched cacophony
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
intransigence

Madiba
once found no
personhood
in his homeland

his people driven
from their land
by Voortrekkers

snortling Boers
gobbling the land
uprooting native
people from villages
they had occupied
since the dawn
of time

spilling Zulu blood
into roiling rivers
of conquest

meeting peaceful
petitions of the
aggrieved with
Sharpsville bullets
splattering
the blood of
innocents onto
hardscrabble roads

redressing crimes
against the victims
by corralling them into
denuded Bantustans
where rivers do not
flow, grass never grows,
game cannot graze;
only the dust doth blow

riddling the captives
with torments of
Transvaal Apartheid,
mocking the speakers
of mother tongues with
the fained eloquence
of bastardized Afrikaans

the dominion of the
oppressors, sanctioned
and affirmed by exiling
a people from their land,
outlawing their language,
dividing the nations into
a fallacy of separate
destinies where a forgetful
history blessed with amnesia
will anoint the conquerors
with the spoils of abundance
stolen from the vanquished

Madiba spoke of these things
and was awarded a prison
cell for twenty seven years

but the hostages of
a conquerors justice
remained destined
to be freed by the arrival
of an accepted truth
set free by the very words
prophetically spoken

prisons cannot contain truth
steel bars cannot imprison
the idea of divine justice

it slips through the smallest openings
like a wafting fragrance of the first day of spring

it saws away at the rust strewn steel bars
like the surest movement of a master carpenter’s arm

it melts the thickest links of iron chains
in the fiery forges that burn in the hearts
of all freedom loving people

the truth of justice
is born and takes flight
on the wings of history
covering the globes
cardinal ordinates

nesting in the most
humble villages
and mean estates
on God’s good earth

truth and reconciliation
can never be separated
planted together to grow
healthy nations and
communities of
trust and restoration

Madiba, you always
found honor with
the salt of the earth
the children of light
who seek to dispel
the darkness of
acrimony and
domination

we continue to
walk your way
guided by your
prophetic visions
we take the first steps
asking liberators to join
with oppressors, pairing
in a magnanimous walk
along wholesome pathways
perceiving the buena vistas
of reconciled communities
firmly established
on foundations
of peace, equality
and justice for all citizens

I caught a fleeting glimpse of Madiba
as he rolled by in the Canyon of Heros
showered under a June blizzard of confetti
and a resounding acclimation of love.

I was a plebe inhabiting a lower floor
Broadway office, yet my station blessedly
brought me closer to Madiba. As he passed
I was moved by his miraculous smile and felt
the colossal reverberations of his waving arm
triumphantly hailing the sweet freedom of
liberation all hostages of feigned justice
exude in the vindication of divine justice
enraptured in the joy of affirmed truth.

Dearest Madiba
we are enriched
and blessed for
the time you walked
among us.

You fought
the good fight
my brother.

Rest easy
for we shall resume
the climb to
the next mountaintop.

Well done Madiba
Godspeed

Rolihlahla “Nelson” Mandela
7/18/18 - 12/5/13

Ladysmith Black Mombazo
How Long

Oakland
12/6/13
jbm

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10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Hemorrhage

KISSING GODS

Run From the Name

Crashing

COMFORT IN HOBBLING HOME

TOXIC

Working One's Ass Off

MY TABOO

5 Pointz

Madiba

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