Radiation Will Be The Judge To Which You Will Testify

Posts tagged “gun shot head

The Taste of Rage

I awake, reality institutes deceptive assault
daring me to stoke the flames,
staring at me begging for coal
daring me to fuel the fire

Reality spit at my face,
haphazard, decrepit strategy
as I tried to ignore the putrid stench

The world awoke, raining frozen hydrogen from above
enclosing the sun in cumulonimbus gloves,
foolish trick masquerading as a dove

Duality lit totality ablaze
Forever gazing through absent haze
Pleasure hazing monastic graves

Spastic legs, I walk, misconstrued
plastic dregs talk, confused
harassing pegs, they overlooked bombs’ fuse

Today, silence resounding calms
no vibrations from violent pounding palms
tomorrow more journey for floundering prawn

Day 3/Heartburn Reloaded

This is day 3, and while I have regained lost mental acuity, and calm
I have undergone the recurring problem of doubt, and hatred

She no longer gives thought, to my trials
She no longer cares, about my plight
Whether she ever did before, irrelevant
For the facts must be dealt with now

She said she was trying to stop talking,
while she talked more, like always
And claimed I was writing her novels

Here is my next novel to you, I call it: Brick Wall

For now that is what composes my heart,
my eyes wear blinders, where only your visage is absent
and the whole colorful world envelopes your empty space

I am a brick wall now, that you might forever regret
using your double-edged tongue to cut me lengthwise
and test my patience

How does it feel, running your hands along this mortar, where
my mouth once existed
do not you wish you could grasp the slender handle of a sledge hammer
break apart these walls, which your contemptuous hands dreamt of building
Now you may grumble in your own hostilities, loathing my attitude
Like I loathe your contemptuous being

Can you hear? The echoes?
Bouncing off my brick wall
Thank you for helping to build it


When she finally decides to throw me against a putrid gutter
I will have reaped what has been coming for years
Never did I feel that it belonged, two different puzzle pieces,
one, with razor sharp edges, which intersected and interjected the other, round and dull

My point of view barely extends beyond this second,
infinitely immersed in the only present visible
and all I can see is myself
cowering in a dark corner, where light cannot shower its contempt

I dive into a pool of my own thoughts, as always
remembering this was meant to be
I never deserved half an hour, much less a year
and now my faith dangles from the edge
and now my hatred spills across the floor into its own pool
forming my being

Soon, possibly sooner, I will finally reach that point,
where I always belonged, how it was always supposed to happen
sitting, again, alone, raped by my own self-composed silence
saturation in tacit lonliness
vapid voids which escape this
screaming defiance of truth

How much longer will this decrepit charade remain,
ignoring her heart and soul,
trying to exterminate my own in the process
leaving us both shattered

then, will I know true pain

Third Eye Declined

I am puzzled every day at the mendacity of status quo lifestyles
including my own

When faced with a choice, a dirt path in the woods, overwrought with undergrowth
which diverges into two completely separate paths,
one, encapsulating the current, destitute and failed incorporation of all that “reality” brings into your life

and the other path, which travels deeper into the forest of unknown,
a book with a thousand pages, all untouched by ink,
there lies the unbeaten path, at risk of disavowing every single piece of humanity, social stratification,

while a corporate dog eats all, the pattern’s amazing
back home,  they cling to it like an edge of the Grand Canyon
fingernail fractures soil, a last attempt at continuing this dance

storm forms
inflation captures, fiat enraptures
no patience left in depth,destroying the nexus of stress, bliss
how much can I, stress/this
brows are beaten, tear gas creeps through crowds/disperses the defeated
Escape to a search of beyond
beyond lies, cries, miserable subsistence colored ugly by lights neon
fright for eons

spite against dark, and all colors from there to white getting beyond
the last Act of this play,
where subtle apprehension dies

I never seem to coax my own courage from its slumber in caves
hiding under a box of lumber, 6 feet beneath the grave

Although so clearly I envision the mission
Envisage a reverence for nature, for our mother, for the atmosphere
Its so easy to escape it, I once saw a beaten pathway which curved up a mountain,
where I would build my encampment, sheltered from extremity
hiding from sweltering hegemony

There I would build a fire, and chop down a hundred trees,
erect palisade walls for protection, and fall back to ancestral speed
A human can survive in harsh wilderness owning little more than nothing
while here, having it all is never enough to thrive

When will I barricade myself out of a population of lost souls,
to discover my own?

How long must I be led astray from a path where the docent dwell
from a location of secret sanity, hidden in plain view

I always feel I am twelve steps behind progress,
twelve steps behind an infernal machine, tearing
limb from limb on a march for segregated happiness,
and false hope, while
only twelve miles away, sanctuary stagnates, awaiting my return

Why does fighting daily for survival appear such a liberty-stricken dream
while enough amenities to please royalty exist now,
to satiate the most greed-driven fiend

Randomized Curtailment of Will and Fortitude

thinking of blonde doors
standing ajar and whispering furtively
perspiration glistens from the frame which encases it

I gave away my attention span to a passerby
lending them the wealth of my, interdimensional deficit disorder

My words cut into my skin like a butcher knife,
exacting its revenge on a slaughtered mammal
attempting to paint meaning onto my life

I watch the strife of beggars
forgotten, destitute in a gutter
daydreaming of a no-cover triple keggar
poverty’s song is a butterfly’s wings that flutter

She looks into my eyes, I stutter
she disembarks from atop her heightened stature,
riding on a stallion of worth, cursing my rapscallion birth
no chance, the words hide for fear of dejection
sharp exhales I can only mutter

Like a fork cutting through butter,
my arms extend outward to attain,
the keys to this game’s basement,

so that i may plunder its knowledge and wealth
her heart took me forever asunder
thunder booms in the distance
screaming at me to stay off the shelf

War Haiku #16

bodies line deserts
saturating sandy soil
war whats it good for?

War Haiku #4011

Shrapnel tears his skin
Crushing cutaneous shells
tears raining back home

War Haiku #255
Appendages break
Plasma splashes on pavement
freedom forsaken

War Haiku#945
Desert sands grip hands
and rip technology’s greed
right from underneath

Optic Nerve

Sales, Men
To them, Sales/men
Stale Scent
Debt-to-income ratio Dent
Sins Fail,
No Grin
Haggling Skill not Frail
Not Opulent
No convents salivating
Over what I spent
How Dishonest
No bow, Salute
Cheap handshake
Words are sour
Fist Promise
Non-verbal glower
Fascists Islamic
Breeding fear, intervention
Compassionately comic
Disease Tonics
Ignorant  prima donna’s
Laughing as dance floor skeeve’s vomit
she must have had like six drinks
in a two-hour span
no water in between
don’t know what is this trick thinks
Doing her best
impression of glamor
Drinking AMF’s
Vision fucked up,
No stairs in this club
Stumbling around still and stammer
No affairs, or rotating ex-subs,
though weakness for women with fair hair,
Stares  still into the face of Hammer
Displacing shadows
Adjusting its’ contrast
Watching disgraced executives get tax bomb-blasted
Nationalization as an only choice?
Deaf from an earsplitting scream of greed
Inflationary economic stress
Fed Reserve heating up the presses, I smell Heist
Deficits spiked, few banks blessed
bailouts, TARP, turned out a losing roll on the dice
Climbing out of an impossible chasm
All the fat cats want their slice

Land of the Thieves, Home of the Slaves

To our beloved homeland,
two nations, two colors, under fraud
easily divisible, with media misery, 
and justice for few
Welcome to the land of the thieves, the home of the slaves,
where you are a criminal for keeping what you earn,
you are a criminal for speaking what you feel,
you commit crimes, if you, like castro,
refuse to tow our line
Welcome to the land of the blind, and the home of the graves,
where pretty faces litter shiny vision boxes like bloody graffitti
bloody thieves with red hands and full pockets, yours empty
they claim “god sent me”,
while your bread is stolen, accept it serf
Welcome to the land where others bleed, for our homes, depraved
Your domecile sitting atop skull dust and dried marrow,
no more pleasantries for the natives,
And what you own, is not really yours
and you are no one,
deserve no status,
if your afflattus reads: Ive tried, ive cried, ive strived, ive plied, ive belied, and i am nothing, but really poor
Welcome to the home of the moral diseased, singing the chorus of thieves, through loud speakers, to proud tweakers,
believing those with skin brown, are weaker,
while your commerciallay stained dreams are bleaker,
Welcome to the land of the imprisoned, and the home of the gracious,
you praise the lord in buildings, but turn your back on the salacious,
homeless heroes are dead, except to the cement and mice,
all because you spit on him, when he returned, forever spurned,
you’ll never learn, forever cemented to fiat vice
I don’t see freedom in bondage,
i don’t see treaties still true,
except that when you make colossal mistakes, you see it through
That is ultra-blindness, like a farmer left swineless
and the criminals that bond you remain falsley sheltered and spineless

Slammed into Reality

Nice to meet you, allow me to meet and greet you, 
in hard times like these, it does not appease, to tease,
charging massive amounts out of poor people for fees
the enemy is the fuckin disease, thieves, 
racoon’s in van heusen and sassoon,
you say im crass,
cuz i flash,
see a fat ass walk past,
subtle but brash,
throw a wad a cash, antithesis of a pastor,
causing subcutaneous skin friction, straight sin diction disaster,
stroking one harder than pompeii under plaster 

The Three-Legged Chair

I boarded a train, due south,
my only option to obtain the cerulean creation,
racing for fiat, in its earliest hour
A hundred miles of chain-linked fences,
holding the trespassers out,
protecting that which their masters hold dearest,
Walls that refuse neighbors comfort, scream with beauty,
as the gangsters and ghetto-dwellers that move at dusk,
create murals of the highest order,
or just for their own, selfish name-sake
The blinking arrows and bells sound,
a warning arm with danger smeared all over it,
extends to refuse rush-hour traffic repreive
Running at 50 knots, refusing wind drag
sitting there, lonely, filthy, banished,
the three-legged chair laughs at the foolishness of passer-bys,
the deadbeats that are barred from travel,
a putrid, rotted core  of the transportation nation,
Those left behind by the industrial revolution,
The pathetic white chair stands with one arm up, another broken off,
probably some homeless veteran that required a weapon,
and broke its leg in self defense
The chair sits and giggles at the stupidty of humanity,
opines about how we have yet to be domesticated,
No one argues that humans are above feral cats, and dubious k-9’s
but how long did it take for us, the supposed superiors, to domesticate them?
A hundred years?
                                   A thousand years?
                                                                     A dilapitated attempt, to protect us from our organic shells that scatter,
a futile action, wielding the power of a thousand fears,
We still maim without thought,
We steal without will,
We breath without payment,
and Kill with impunity
Look at the filthy animals walking upon two legs suffering atrophy
sullen with apathy,
spitting at eachother like rats in cages,
or beauracrats, with their privates stuck to pages,
Look at the blood running down your lip,
bitten off to avoid facing your tainted visage, 
Still trying to escape your fate,
The three-legged chair sits still next to the track,
flipping off anyone who dares to curse in its direction,
still more civilized than your whole stratusphere    

The Freedom of Shackles

My, what freedom explodes onto the burnt horizon,
when they pull you from your self-built dungeon of guilt,
and fasten you to the sky and the trees
As you dangle, you think over all the angles,
and how you’ll react,
when the draft is reinstituted by charlie rangel,
The liberty of movement was removed,
yet the stagnant hoardes smile at their own incompetance
and welcome more boots made from lime
Too long, the decrepit tugboat,
struggling to breath, locked within the bays
over where the ocean plays,
discards its music for new shores,
new lore,
the freedom of mandatory enslavement,
appearing to all as an open door