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Love, peace and goodness to you, yours and the (H)eartH...
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 31, 2010
The wind, the wind, the wind; a bugle for the hours of our darkness puffing the moon to radiant madness like bloodshed leaking upon the soil.
We detect the method in our folly, but douse truth like a candle flame. We rigidly seek out bereavement to the tempest’s howling shame.
The wind, the wind, the wind weeping a blanket for such coldness, a mantle for our threadbare shoulders, its agony holding in our disgrace.
Costumes litter our doorways year round; masks of suffering to cover the mourning in our eyes, as phantoms to fold over our speech.
The wind, the wind, the wind; the sign language of exactness blowing from hand to fist, from our breath to bereavement.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 30, 2010
Blistered in the sand, the metal escapes within her face! Taken from the ground, lifted without consent! Has she misplaced her grin, her joyfulness released by hell’s hounds tilting down? Can we together lift her head high enough to glimpse the tree line, that frame of nature standing tall around her fallen and faceless people? Might we cut them down to erect more things; blade and teeth, gun and grenade and bombs, plunged from our backpacks of vigorous anger?
She wants to know why metal tastes bitter... like love breaking inside of revulsion.
She wants to know who she is, now that we've found her wanting, found her probing our reasons.
We don’t have the answers she seeks, we never had them, they've been bleeding out, a flood of questions, tiny tempests whirling beneath our feet and above our heads. We forget suffering out of our seeking joy like a lost child found unsafe inside of us, she seeks a reason to smile and walk lightly around the original graves.
Oh! Stand up and raise your hands in dissent! Rise up! Clack your teeth and stomp your feet, love is being smashed by the wickedness found in uncertainty, the frown upon our face, the days kissed in greed, perishing in solitary confinement, without breath, without eyes to guide us along the crag...
She only wants answers. Lets give her no cause to question her love or question our affection for her existence, for our kinship walking beneath the sun, for our crypts, our tombs filled with bones. How can we forgo our bond with her when metal’s nourishment bestows her grief and only seeks to wipe out the truth?
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 29, 2010
Mother Kills Baby for Interrupting Farmville
Oh! Let me take your arms and bring you away from this; your virulent rage.
Arkansas School Official Resigns Over "Gays Should Commit Suicide" Comments
Unfasten yourself from it and walk your goodness into the light.
Relatives Say Man Who Threatened Dem Senator Under Glenn Beck's Spell
Call it magic now, your vow with death. Name it after your first stillborn.
Peter King Claims American Muslims do not Cooperate to Combat Terrorism
Allow breath to enter the wailing chamber like a hungry jackal's scourge.
Steve King: Children Will be Raised in Warehouses if Conservatives Don't Defend Marriage
Let’s not write man off just yet, instead permit forgiveness to sway his union
111 Republican Incumbents and Candidates Want to Eliminate The Dept. of Education
Too late to think or learn. Give me your arms.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 28, 2010
Let go of your book before your veins dry up like the brittle limbs of ancient man. Prayers for your escape will be returned without breath, they will not persuade truth to shroud you from it. The love and goodness swim beneath the sagging skin around our eyes.
Pray that truth survives.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 27, 2010
This needs to be said, not withheld.
Humankind cannot avoid truth staring in his face like winter’s bitter wind. If he touches upon coldness, the torturous frost, he’ll know he’s gone too far in the labyrinth without end, without exit or love.
As the winter bares man’s likeness, his eyes begin to soften in the light; the scent, the taste, the touch, sound and flesh; rocket ships navigating truth like vultures circling providence.
Heed this; steadily we’ll end our vow to one another, we’ll end our love like winter’s almanac crashing through the ground, overlooking that we’ve been here before.
When found to be tall and foolish, our collusion carries the truth beneath its scrape and carts away our affection like garbage bins tipped in the wind, waste spills forth, shame steals our eyes and makes us long for tomorrow.
Oh! We must moisten our lips and speak of a certainty hidden away, that which can never be extinguished, for goodness ingests our bile as our kinship sings beneath the clouds and our instruction falls short of truth.
If we see, if we hear, if we feel, if we taste, if we touch, if we sense ourselves searching for identity, we need but remember- our hearts know what our eyes see, truth ascends our dreams, scales the walls built of our own hand.
This needs to be said, not withheld.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 26, 2010
Have we not found our way? When will our prayers fly away and bridge doubt with reflection glancing off love’s red casement?
Like our love is seizing goodness and certainty fluttering gladness as if humanity were reaching out, we’ll breathe.
They may bomb us with contempt and trip us with hateful limbs and turn our eyes in their deceit, we’ll breathe.
Our haste might madden men with little time for truth; men of convictions set like metronomes marking off days like doom.
Donning peace like housecoats we’ll breathe. Wearing hope like gas masks we’ll breathe. Wielding love like field guns we’ll breathe.
We are the rainforest, the rising skies, stunning creatures with varied throats. We are the seeds of one tree, the heart of one stone, the soul of the stirring air, we’ll breathe.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 25, 2010
Upon the last inhalations of clean air in a pale sunrise a dove cooed above the storm like a siren over the noise and smog, beyond the squalor, from street to broken street of the fire-walled capitals, a shrieking inferno of stanch boundaries, dreadfully difficult to imagine as backdrop for our blissful howl that trembles by the fire.
© 2010 by mark prime
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 24, 2010
I followed you.
Your footprints led me here, maps that moved ahead of the bullet, before the blade, the knuckle and the belt.
You are fading.
I followed you in the fog of affection, my tears washing away the blood printed by your feet.
Your heart thumped a prayer, a plea for now, for immediacy. You clasped your nameless hands and called for an end to the ache, an end to the widening bruise that stands inside you, boots of steel, fists of rage and your skin scraped away. At your grave I’ll lay a wreath of flowers made from my own flesh and vow to you, no more. An end to angers teeth upon your love, I pledge.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 23, 2010
You shoot me first. Then, I shoot you, and we fold into the sun.
Before we part, end our vow, pledge to love me evermore and now.
Shooting stars, gatekeepers, wink affection over our shroud. Promise us.
A steady aim, flames reach down with your blazing limbs; harmony.
Raise our song. Boost goodness to its original tallness; laughter’s soaring gaze.
You shoot me first. Then I shoot you, and we fold into the sun.
Ready, aim, then fire. See you on the other side of love.
Take aim, pull your trigger like a rabid dog in a fetid cage- boom boom.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 22, 2010
Veronica, our fruitless misery is disintegrating, it is ready to be woven into your goodness. Perched alongside our grief, your happiness, fluttering wings of heaven and ballet in the air, moves across our cruelty with a shrieking love. Lurking near the exit with your carry-on baggage, photos dangling, offspring in tow, crooning of now, of immediate love, of kinship, your violet-blue flowers beckoning.
O! Veronica, your mutiny is swift! Your tears at our death, man’s tattooed demise, absorb through our skin like a virus until they carry away our potent rage. Come love; let us bow at her feet, make an art of her devotion and joy so we might remember she weeps.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 21, 2010
In the beginning was great silence. And the silence was with all. And the silence was love. And the silence was vast. And the silence was gentle. And the silence was good. And the silence draped all things. Life emerged from the great silence and love coated eternity, affection exhaled its residue, the sound was noiseless, silence was worship.
And of the goodness, we waged battles in Eden and noise was king. A chasm filled with longing rose up to our cries of “why”. Man sought his demise in the darkness and filled his mind with noise.
Why did we leave ourselves quivering while the eagle lifted its cry and our child was born? Man unwrapped his jaws, shattering stillness with ownership.
Prophets of doom float near. Harbingers of the dark call our name. Where is love? Where is our affection, our hands of charity? In the buildings of our worship, under our idle feet, beneath our contempt, poking out its head like a newborn child searching for happiness, air?
Snuff out the indigenous and their medicines of love. Smother them in noise with the racket of thought. Squeeze the earth flat, paint over the sun with emotionless colors, hues bent amid sorrow, tears felled with uneasiness. And noise was born in us, in our pledge, our discontent buffeting kindness, levees weakened in the storm. In the end was noise and the noise was wanting, wanting of peace.
The lips flout words like hail. The mind holds out for breath. Our cries move the spirit nearer the gate. Grief lets slip our regret.
Social Change Now - Gandhi
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 20, 2010
I am walking the labyrinth. My destination, I know not. My journey moves me forward. I will not, shall not slide back. Behind me are my little deaths, shards of me, glimpses of self, hidden in the matrix; lattice of my existence. Behind me, years of suffering, not all mine, but of me. Ahead, i.e.d.’s I’ve buried deep, that I might remember. Turning back now would let slip a hypocrite and liar. I will march on, searching for truth, walking ever so lightly.
Words mean nothing, said the poet. Tongue’s too small, the battle’s coming, red and furious... I steady my legs.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 19, 2010
The shadows of our lives run through the seed, inside each of us, like blood, not separate, but whole.
Man's fists are but his sadness regretting its own ruination. Mankind's mouths are famished, seem powerless to feed.
So be it…
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 18, 2010
The vibrant chords that melt into masterpieces, streams of thought and fury, ruddy, telltale tributaries skulking across the roadway leaving ruts the size of hatred, a smallness lurking like tombs, hunting failure like a jackal, territorial predators cleaving away at goodness with rigid fierceness, a vendor- a sidewalk profiteer selling death as if it were Halloween chocolate steeped in glass, lucid temptation just below the surface prowling like a Hyena with its mortal slope and hurried pace crushing elephant bones, pressing the last of goodness, the serious weight of fear's beam; its hold on the self, its brilliance spent like tokens at the gate of misery, tumbling down the slots of sin into a grave noise without end.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 17, 2010
Folly holds the chaos in me. I’m a pale leaf falling in the autumn air, a child weeping, searching, calling for harmony... Love and Peace.
© 2010 by mark prime
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 16, 2010
I gulped down time with profound hunger. An urge for timelessness, no more clocks or tick tock, no more hours of dread and finality shining through the window like shadows recollecting the death in me; the mauling, the pale embrace, the faint breath, the last act of magic, blazing like a shooting star, rocketing across the firmament, entangled like a drunken lover.
O my love, miserable majesty, focusing upon deceit inside the bronze idols that stand ready to fold into the sun’s care; a bendable sorrow and revered truth, worshiping the earth’s breathing on the harsh roadway lined with snares that hide the potholes like an I.E.D. buried under my sovereign face. O love! Timeless garlands lingering near my ready grasp, an urgent wish upon my face without hands.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 15, 2010
A reality: The human race is from the same seed.
A question: What has happened to goodness in people?
A plea: We should treat everyone with kindness, it should not matter, the color of their skin.
A declaration: That is truth, nothing diminished, nothing beyond our solemn grasp.
A half-truth: People are just people, you can't change them.
A response: People might just be people, but people long for goodness, desire their kindness return like ancient voices in a canyon.
A prayer: We're tired of the "noise", the screech of “I”, the shriek of “me”. We, humanity, want nothing more than to live in peace, harmony, without our thoughtless mouths, without minds perched in anger.
A testimonial: We don't need our great noise making and selfish indifference, we never have.
A wish: We want goodness and to relish in the peace that will naturally follow so we can say, beyond dusk’s encampment, that we believe.
A question: How do you know this to be true?
Truth: I don’t.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 14, 2010
Let’s stop warring, people. In this life we’re all of one seed. We must prepare, plan to remember; truth’s fallen from our soul and we’ve got to put it all back again.
We need remember this; our time, so we might carry it around again, witness the semblance; our blueblood red exactness, our lofty call to come back to crimson remembrance.
When the Robin drafts its melody and we whistle away our connection, we've bitten into deception, planted a kernel of deceit without a second reflection.
Brothers and sisters, let’s not agonize upon the preciousness of our original connection. Let us pray we remember, let us pray we remember, let us pray we remember.
What will our chronicle say? That we knew, yet did nothing, knew, yet still fell into the noise, or, we returned smiling with truth?
It may feel like pain, ache lowdown, bruise the self to redness, tear away at our useless flesh, yet, its speech, echoes truth of which we cannot deny; no books or miracles to cast about, no man-made tales, no tired deceit folding the morning light, emptying harmony from all things, all creation, us, our connection.
Let us pray we remember.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 13, 2010
I had a reputation a long time ago, I stood up to violence, to myself.
Early on I was strong willed, unafraid to hurt another, bust down the door, carried to bad reputation, fast, strong, underscored in a way without me. Trolley tracks on the highway, across the street, barbed wire base, parking lot towers, shore patrol see me, stumbling hair lip, bloody, busted, black-eyed gusher, tears from four and twenty bucks.Strategic tallness, strong laughter, coolness, colors larger than me, beating me down.
Jokers off another ship, against the fence, leaning from going down, wailing on my ire, victimless crime, photo, rahhhhh! Captain says, serve and protect. Towering eyes, stop drop and run down the easement, ship's bugler summons me and you and the fenced in trolley getaway. Made it home late, made it to safety, Lucky Thirteen. Bordered by authority, flagship admiral returns to the scene of carnage.
She cries. Everyone cries ...up until the end.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 12, 2010
There are violent beings, shells packed with noisy flesh, their fist digging their way out of a plate of armor like a god wielding immense wrath, as if angry at its own design, or angry that something melded its light into darkness. There are beasts heaving fists as hands, there are words, cruel as time, red as fire; a spirit piloting a monster, the least of kindness, a betrayal of mankind rising from the human ashes.
The caskets coming home are painted in war colors and move across our high definition eyes like slow-motion murder, There are warriors as pale as shame, diluted by counterfeit demands; weaklings baptized in the steady stream of blood; Charon steering away from goodness, his craft heaving with the dead and the dying with their obolus, imagining they’re sailing to Eden.
We are imprisoned by noise like a miner without air, like a child smashed in front of us, like death gripping our hands, motionless and loveless as it moves our lips, forms our words and pierces the stillness. We seem powerless; string-puppets flinging rage and whispering like a dream. We know of our failing, know of our death, yet close our hands to make fists and thump upon death’s harp; a worn-out harmonica, reeds made of bones, the bleached frames as pale as hatred, the color of our maddened days.
Demise travels the world with its symphony, its song of loss, its loathing inhalation and exhalation of gloom. It is the harbinger of life and love twisting inward and piercing goodness like a filthy needle, wrapping its cloth around our throats. Despair waits on us, in our gait, our homes, our possessions, breathing a damp and dark sky inside of love, upon our smiles, within our hearts and souls, and our hands are feeble and knotted as they hurl themselves down like a god.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 11, 2010
▪ respect for the opponent/everyone involved-
▪ care for everyone involved-
▪ refusal to harm, damage or degrade people-
▪ if suffering is inevitable, willingness to take it on yourself rather than inflict it on others
▪ belief that everyone is capable of change-
▪ appeal to the opponents' humanity-
▪ recognition that no one has a monopoly of truth, so aims to bring together our 'truth' and the opponents' 'truth'-
▪ understanding that the means are the ends in the making, so the means have to be consistent with the end-
And I told them, since goodness flows from my pores through fiery passion and underneath the feet of humanity, I shall alter my course to tunnel out from failure, irrigating the roots of my blossoms.
All around me I remember, recall kinship, my connection with those I see. I did not expect adoration to be waiting ahead of me, I imagined signs in the shape of vipers, coiled around my trespasses, pale blue.
I do not expect. I pray for truth and strive for compassion in me first. Man will consider me to be of peace; a dangerous man, a free spirit, open arms, tender eyes, standing by. And I’ll say, I love, I love, I love! I’ll care for every person, every plant, every tree and blade of grass, every living thing, all breath and sacred ground. And if this worship grants air to only one, even if this, my love, carts agony and places a trap or casualty for me, then so be it.
Of this path I say to them, good. Let it be taken, let it be walked upon, traveled upon flesh back home, but, before I trek, before I walk next to even one, I must remember my tall devotion, my humanity and the globe’s monstrous pain, a looking glass that mirrors my face, the stage from which I view this world.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 10, 2010
On this day without hours brutality marches by on stilts, untouched, resilient and red, ignored, teetering, on and off the edge, permitted to smolder with the others; the warrior, the peacemaker, the carpenter and baker.
So much dread, so little time. So many players, so little dared. More occasion than we’ve tolerance, more lifespan than pale seconds... tick tock, tick tock… again. Dislodged bones rising in the winter air, weighted only by love’s lingering infection; cruelty.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 9, 2010
Violence is real. It is undulating near in search of love. It plans on stealing affection away, from child and mother, from father and brother. It hasn’t words to use or smiles to forge upon dull mugs, but wrinkles and rage to christen upon the veins of darkness; quick and painless, a rush of fists, a murder of rapid-fire crow cawing within.
Fingers know not what to say, mouths point back at wings and something stirs, rises and falls; cancer or perished love. It's made its way here, twisting laughter and breathing inside the down-turned mouths, hurried to save itself- easy target, just waiting to fall.
And all of a sudden the truth's unfastened like a cloud letting go its tether. Hearts beating like hope, fluttering stars, gloom pierced, loved with charity, grass and blooms, the buried dark, the whole.
Drink to the hue of truth, stumble down the burgeon of love, affection, longing, the vision in sight of the finish, wheeling stars, hearts free in the storm.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 8, 2010
Impermanence floats nearest to our breathing certainty.
The man moved his feet amid the clamor, looking for a place to lay his head. He was spat upon, like a warrior coming home, fitting in, following orders, wrapped in cloth the weight of trees; pine, oak, poplar and red mahogany.
(Gold Pieta corners, swing-bar handles, stained satin arms, adjustable bed, lugs and tips to match, other colors available upon request.)
Within our hurry we forget the tree yet we’re set to sink at last beneath its roots, below the white crepe and full roll, the middle with our head on a shirr pillow, never again to sense the looming decline.
Good is only temporary; evil is permanent. Violence is faith without belief, hope without hands, love without feet.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 7, 2010
Actually there are more ways than one to reach the heart.
One, we’ve made a catchphrase; the stomach. But this is the least of them. The starved still love, still need, still desire affection; a hand unfolded for them to take, an open smile to veil their throbbing like an umbrella on the beach that holds the searing sun at bay.
There are our hands that hold our ache, that grope at serious doubt, that let loose our caged hate like silos of grain. Hands that knowingly embrace friends, that high-five and remember routines formed at youth, our bond with one another, hands reaching for the most in man; his kinship.
Our shoulders and elbows bump one another on the sidewalk of busyness, of rage, love, hate, sorrow, joy and doubt. We move alone between one another like ice and fire, never to know if we belong, if our smiles are meant as banners of peace or signs of our horror, shivering from room to room like children in nightclothes on the eve of All Saints Day.
To reach the heart we must feel all of these things.To reach one another we must remember. We must recall our connection, our beginning, like children coming to us in fear. We must come to one another, congregate with each other like our life depended on it. Love is not a metaphor at our disposal, it’s our promise, our all-in-one, our self-help brochure given to us at birth.
Oh! Let us memorize this! Let our bodies remember that the stomach growls long after we’ve been fed.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 6, 2010
Where is the song, the verse to teach us truth, joy that is beautiful? Not the song that brings man to drop bombs and move others nearer their closing breath and leads us to murder, to cruelty, as if we hadn’t memorized our love, hadn’t perceived the sound of truth, witnessed the rage within us all.
Where is the song... sung without self, without our stroke; the howling refrain without interpretation?
We need remove our costume, take off the discordant uniform of flags, remove the banners we wear like smiles; panic pulled over our heads like a sweater, blind to what approaches below the fabric, beneath the fog of hatred worn in damp cellars packed with loathing. We need walk nearer the furtive truth; our oneness that looks with precision toward another.
We don’t love that other song, the opus of destruction; lethal and hollow, a watery echo we can’t afford to sing, not for another minute.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 5, 2010
How dare cruelty throttle laughter? Women withered inside the surrender beneath an oracle of klieg lights, beneath instruments of an unrequited rage with the stamp of coldness calling down.
How dare brutality hammer away at joy? Pitiful artists; blood for watercolor, suffering as the brushes stroke that marches across affection like death bearing shapeless and shivering claws.
How dare we do nothing but rewind, turn back our film to view such horror masquerading as grave confusion, a bitter love to be honored by man.
How dare such loathing not be seen for what it is; our most severe sickness wearing the disguise of truth; lies wrapped in fists and tongues pointing back at man, without words.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 4, 2010
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 3, 2010
I've nothing new to add to this; our story.
I've nothing crimson or unique,
nothing to bend in a new light.
I’ve just me, myself to lend, this skin;
my shell to wrap with a goodness,
not mine, but of me.
I’m moving under the beam of sun,
the joy raised up to the light,
a servant walking lightly,
careful of the burden in my gait,
in the silent request of my affections.
I’ve nothing new.
Nothing that’s crimson or unique,
nothing to bend in a new light.
Without the knowledge of that which truly matters,
how could I?
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 2, 2010
at green grass, old trees, red clay
and the turn of frost tiptoeing toward me,
and if I say I know,
if I believe I know
what comes next
near this flame,
I’ve purchased a vast untruth;
the crippled body of man’s wreckage;
lies, murder, rape; cruelty,
as if we’re undulating
with the engine of chance
on divine tracks of quietude and not those of ruin.
What does all this have to do with violence?
If I love, I sought love first,
you, only after my love was found.
Thinking of this might seem crazy
in a mad world of self;
a quaking of failure
that’s living upon our existence,
that’s worshipping upon our loving,
set to run aground
where joy waits upon our inheritance,
love upon truth.
Do you understand what I’m trying to say?
In my days,
in my time,
I will lift my love
and my affection will feed
upon the seeds of truth.
Posted by Mark R. Prime Violent Verse on Oct 1, 2010
Dearest justice, won’t you smile?
We’ve heard of your coming,
but need your breath within us now.
Now, before our faces turn from goodness,
forgo our account, our worship and love
and make a charade of your sun.
We’ve been looking for you,
for your sunrise in our cups,
entreating love’s gentle bloom to stand
with its silence, its softness beckoning,
asking that we open our steeled fist
that they might again become hands.
(The link below will bring you to all, present and 2009, violent verses)