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Showing posts from October 4, 2009

THE HYDRA (The 21st Violent Verse)

Begin.

Imagine the grimness of an enormous cruelty
whose mammoth jaws reach through the sky
like a mechanical beast snapping aimlessly.
The sightless, unfeeling beast, gnashing at our
dismal hesitation, shrieking its steel claws
down into the bone dry world like Hydra.
A hideousness trying to slay our children,
inflame fear, crush our hearts and spirits…
What other horror could ever near such
implausible belief?

Pause and begin again.

Imagine waking to a kindness so colossal
that its head stood above the sun like a god,
a god that we worshipped and prayed for its
blessing, built garish houses for its worship
and approval, feverishly vowing to die for it,
a god we gladly give our souls to upon bent knees,
crying for it to spare us of our immense suffering…
What other wonder could ever near such
conceivable certainty?

Pause.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman


THE SCREECHING VIRTUES (The 22nd Violent Verse)

We know so little about ourselves,
what triggers our detonation,
leaves our mark upon flesh
shaping turncoats of love.
We can’t stay clean of our affliction,
our very presence is vulgar and empty.
The seven virtues tremble and screech
fleeing such redness, fearing infection.

Chastity hasn’t the appetite for our hunger.
Temperance hasn't control over our deeds.
Charity discerns we’re thieves of all things.
Diligence sees our work and staggers deep.
Patience shall not our turmoil stay again.
Kindness cannot penetrate our human boil.
Humility shall never defy our foul arrogance.

The deluded champions of this trampled story
suffer from humdrum sleep and idle dreams,
they’re us and we’re innocent until approved.
What are we to do with such dismal weakness,
the contemptible collapse of obligation and honor?

O! We know so little about anything worth saving!
All the progress we’ve made is a breach of love!
If we are to begin anew, we’ll need be born again,
hatched from agony’s egg with o…

ABANDONED INHALATION (The 24th Violent Verse)

Her thighs waited for hands to find their way
Along the pleasing path. (As she watched him, she
thought, "This will make everything alright again."
The naked stranger, her husband, moved toward her.)
She held her breath, readied her legs, waiting for him.
His rough hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her ass
To the edge, his unexpected finger plunged inside her,
Welcomed by her abandoned inhalation.

She watched him intently as he pushed inside.
His eyes were closed, legs crashing hard against her
As she felt the hotness rising up inside him. His eyes
Remained closed. She touched her breasts with one hand
And thrust the other down to discover her stiff wetness.
He groaned loudly and spilled his fury deep inside of her,
Then angrily shoved her legs from off of his shoulders
And, without a word, slammed the bathroom door.

She thrust both of her hands to her startled eyes,
Wincing as the tears flowed over last nights broken skin.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE TURNSTILE (The 23rd Violent Verse)

Perhaps we’re not who we thought
we’d be. Maybe we’re flawed, like
weakened trusses, collapsed, memorized
by rote, like a baby falling from our arms.

All the nattering of 2012 has found a home
in us, the end of days written in our heads.
Thoughts manifested with a plunging fury.
And how many of us recognize the history

of marching fanatics and obliteration’s debris?
Violence douses itself in our memories,
like the smell of our lovers sex and the thud
of the baby’s head smacking the ground.

Like torturers, proud; water and screams,
flag and country, domestic and foreign, while
faces puffed in shame allow the tyrant’s fist.
The source of our sadness jumps the turnstile
unnoticed as fresh bruises in a neighbor’s home.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman


WHAT WE NEED (The 25th Violent Verse)

What the heart needs of us is the silken freedom
of another’s spare anger,
and within them to pulse our courage above the
screeching and broken haze.
No ruffians to puncture our throbbing.
No violent blood spilled.
Peace.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE DESTRUCTION OF COURAGE (The 26th Violent Verse)

The imagery’s grown so stark
the tempo its fury,
violence, its stroke,
all quickened, loud.
We’ve left the injured bound
and buried, where screams
pierce like whispers.

Gone is our awareness,
emptied like God in our prayers.
Our courage to defeat it
hangs in the air like a paper kite
set aloft as if to stay;
sandcastles and daydreams have more
sky than our spirit.

We’ve built worlds in our thoughts
only to destroy forests and oceans
filled with our uncertain faces.
All the while our fists have been busy
finding flesh to unwrap.

O! These images weep!
What noises are we painting
that haven’t already failed
to pierce heaven?



© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

VIOLENCE SAID... (The 27th Violent Verse)

"Breaking a child is easier than it looks.
Their bones aren’t as weary,
Their breath uninfected,
Their eyes ready...
Their heart’s are strong,
but much easier to shatter.

Children still glow with possibility.
Their eyes still fill with wonder
Even when they’re breaking.
Their lips are still wet in youth
Not dried up and unpuckered.
Their feet are most ready to jump
Long before they’re branded.

A child continues to thrash after it’s done
And they deliver a most telling portrait
Of home and love, even when there is none."

O! I want to take all the children with me,
Cried humanity!
I’d hide them away from their use,
Clutch each one near to me and whisper,
“You’re the only heaven, the only worship I need…”


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman


THESE GLOBAL CHAINS (The 28th Violent Verse)

Writing about a violence that is so steady
as to become part of a daily tradition,
I can’t actually say with any certainty
that I know much of what I’m writing,

Like a fog lifting at the foot of the bed
where ghosts pace the wedding floor
and at last lie down next to the corpse
with a mind toward murdering love.

I am estranged from such things,
but only by the thinnest of threads,
all that’s needed for such detachment.
Surely it is in all of us, this devil-dog…

Men have always written of immense suffering,
But few have written about their own crime
and, if they have, it didn't change the future.
The truth slices into them in due course, I suppose.

For thousands of years an unspoken suffering,
huddled in smoky corners, bent in darkness,
struggling to stand and unfetter its chains
has tried to drive a stake between love and violence,

even you have lain down with your bones and
Tried to assemble a new man, new beast carved
from the same frame, the same ragged horror.
When her laughte…