Jaron

We are the children of everthing broken;
Bastardized, beating the mother's womb; taken
Screeching profanity; silently waiting;
Chaos, destruction, and dischord; elating
All these, soliciting more than these, killing
Everything possible, revelling in things
Totally broken. We terrorize all that
Terror can touch and we relish it, hold it
Closer than that which can save us from ourselves,
Carrying onto our personalized hell
Known to us only as heaven, with earthly
Compensates, comforts, endeavours that we
Thrive in and die in; so frequently outraged,
Taken by everything holding attention; the stage
That we held our great play on is broken,
Battered, and bludgeoned: its tenants have spoken,
Making destruction the fine art of all of
Connisseurs - tasters of life and of all of
Death and of life and humanity. Who takes?
Who gives this curse of our plague to let us break
All that's eternal? And who gives the right to
Flourish as parasites, sapping what is true?

Enter god...

Jaron

From the light into this darkness
In the streetlamp romantic affair
Lunatics let their banshee kiss
Ring through the blood and air

A bloodshot mist from the heart of this place
Lets junky eyes see clearer
As lines of coke line a junky face
With junky eyes are mirrors

Flying high on drugs and fury
Creased with hunger, sick with worry,
It's a junky's life and a junky's story
That light the city's alleys
In the bathrooms in the bars,
On every street, in every car,
On every corner - that's where they are.
This town's a junky's shooting gallery

The cops bust the children
In this copout war
While the junkies keep pumping
And line the pockets of whores
And the pimps are all jacking
When the junkies are done for
The addicts are screaming
And shooting more

Illuminescent mushroom clouds
Explode from the mouths scattered through the crowds
And as the cops beat them to the ground
The scream, "Let us speak or the stones will cry out!"

So they pop a cap in a policeman's ass
He cries for help, but the moment has passed
He lies on the pavement as he's kissing the ground
And he dies with dead junkies as a burial mound

In shark eating frenzy the cops open fire
Muzzel flashes marking the funeral pyre
Through the gunshot massacre that pierces their cries
The crowd never realized why they really died

The murder of a cop couldn't stop the floodtide from rising
Or the blood of a junky or the tears they were crying
'Cause when they beat on their chests and they paid with their lives
They never knew they were watching the return on the Junky Christ...

Esen

Totaly Hard and gripping ,
I really really like your poems , both of them.

"From the light into this darkness
In the streetlamp romantic affair
Lunatics let their banshee kiss
Ring through the blood and air"

Holy shit that kicks ass.

right on, I think you have true balls in your writing.

"Beating the mother s womb"-- Excellent.

I love to write about the mothers womb as well.

Thanks for sharing.

__________________
~Esen
What is everyone doing in my room?

J.R.V.A.

Nice work

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart

Jaron

This is a tale of the Marquis du Sade
Who, in place of a heart, had a rock
He had eight throbbing inches to the tip of his rod
Which his wife fondly thought as his cock

He would slide it right in her
With no foreplay at all
Oh, the pain that would sear through her guts!
Said she, "You'll tear up my innards!"
But the man would not stall
For his appetite sated with such

O, His facial contortions
As he came like a flood!
He would groan as he moaned all his breath.
With positions distorted
As her cunt dripped with blood
The Marquisse screamed, now ripped by his breadth

Then he'd take out a whip
How he laughed as he ripped
All the flesh from her pasty behind!
With his newfound erection
He'd take his selection
And fuck her in the hold in his mind!

He would fill her with semen
As the love throes subsided.
If she let out a peep or a sound
He'd scream, "Shut your mouth woman!"
And as such, so degraded,
She would weep silent tears to the ground

(When the Marquis DID catch her,
He would beat her for hours,
Screaming "There is no God! Only Hell!"
With painful discression,
She'd lower her expression
Thinking, "That's where I'll send you, as well")

Oh the tales we could tell of the rack and thumb screws,
And the victems he impaled right through!
(He would sharpen a stick
Like a huge wooden dick
And pin asses together in twos.)

But those little stories
So morbid and gorey,
I shall save for another respite.
Oh, the things we could tell
Of the man who brought hell
To the world. But no... wait 'til next night.

Jaron

Incidentally, thanks to Chauncey especially for taking the time to reply with specifics. As a question of curiousity, several of the people who I read the second one to (in real life) liked the second four stanzas better than the first four. How about yourself?

Oh, and kudos to JRVA, too :P

J.R.V.A.

Thank you. I really liked this....
All that's eternal? And who gives the right to
Flourish as parasites, sapping what is true?

Enter god...


Kinda like ending with a start..
I liked the first the best myself, The last is real good also, in a different kind of way.
I enjoy your writing, thanks

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart

Jaron

In a theater, there is a play
About how a man died the other day
On the taxpayers' dollars he lived his life
This is the story of a black sheep, and how he died

His name doesn't matter, but let's call him Michael
Like the archangel. But no, he had his disciples
A second redeemer but the world wasn't ripe
For his harvest, 'cause this was a different sort of Christ

Rolling dollars to snort drugs, like oxygen tubes up his nose
With his brains full of holes and his nostrils lined with coke
The air heavy with cigarettes, his eyes heavy with dope
This new Christ aspired to be a different sort of folk

He told men to rise up, he said "Lay down your burdens
On my back," for all the ones that were hurting
He would walk like he had the whole world on his shoulders
Stumbling the boardwalk as he screamed bloody murder

He was boozed up and coked up and shot up and stoned
As he stumbled on broadway, with the streets he called home
For fourty days and fourty nights they left him in a gutter
And all he said was, "Help me forgive them, father"

All the street sleepers sleeping down in Central Park,
And the strippers and whores, they all did their part
For their saviour, just 'cause he saw who they were
And he took all their beatings as he beared all their scars

When he died on a park bench, there was noone around
Noone was watching him cry blood to the ground
(He overdosed after he snorted a pound)
But when he died, the earth shuddered and God himself passed out

When Michael wept, the earth cried harder
And when he died the earth was murdered
The city died screaming, beating out bloody murder
And let earthquakes break hearts from the world's bleeding center

When Michael walked, the earth rose under
When Michael spoke, the clouds spoke thunder
When Michael wept, the earth cried harder
And when Michael died, the earth was poorer...



NOTE: In the second to last stanza, fourth line, "fucking" is there because it didn't feel right to break the rythem and I didn't know what else to put. Suggestions? ==> Changed to "bleeding"

Jaron

JRVA, thanks alot for your comments. I can't believe that I didn't notice them before, but this is what I get for being lazy and simply hitting the "Reply" button. Thanks for taking the time.

To people in general, "constructive criticism", especially telling me where I fucked things up, would be really helpful.

Thanks.

J.R.V.A.

Nice work...
Thank you also.

And let earthquakes break hearts from the world's fucking center.

How about Wretched? Burning? Firey? Tearstained?

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart

Jaron

My brother suggested something having to do with the heart. Perhaps "bloody" or "beating".

Hrm... "broken" might work. You think?

J.R.V.A.

Yea, broken, or throbbing, or molten, or ripped out. You choose...
Its your poem, and its good. Whatever you choose, I think it will be good. Thank you for sharing your stuff

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart

Jaron

Decided to go with "bloody", but might change it to "broken" depending on how many times I read it to myself (out loud) with either version.

As a little side note, have you tried reading my poems out loud to yourself? I really think you get alot more feeling for it, when you do that...

Jaron

I can't survive like normal people
With their goals, dreams, plans...
Instead, I traded myself for a girl
And by doing that, I'm damned.

I can't breathe the same damn air
That makes you smile.
I got to suck the city air
Thick with sweat, drugs, sex, and lies.

I can't watch the sunset
And think, "God, what a sight,"
But I stay up until the morning
When the city turns off its lights.

I got to feel the city's pulse.
I got to dance the city's beat.
I got to shiver a winter in a cardboard box
And I got to stip in the summer's heat.

I got to drink a piss poor beer
Still warm and flat and sweet,
'Cause there still ain't nothing that tastes like that
When you're still dripping from the heat.

I got to smoke another joint,
And I got to do another line
Someday, but I got an empty wallet
And if I don't, I don't got time.

The street lamps are the prettiest view
That I can think of around here,
And the prettiest smells are drugs and violence
Mixed with sweat, blood, cheap whiskey, and fear.

But I got to find a cardboard box,
Thick and soft and warm,
And get back to the city streets
That I think of as my home.

J.R.V.A.

Yea, I read them out loud to kinda hear the flow... And bleeding is a great word for that line, fits good.

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart

Jaron

This is a song that I wrote a couple years ago, and just found. It's the sort of poetry that I used to write, somewhat jolting and surreal... but here goes.

a thousand tears (in) green apple seas
he wept, he stumbled on his knees,
my son, my only son,
i love you / want you / need you just to be

a sacrifice to those i love /
i want / i need you just to be
the one, my lover and my friend,
cascading tears that never end

for where you are and what you've been,
parading free as i was then,
those whispered words you never heard
taught all i needed to be sure,

my friend, i love you, you're the one,
the world will never understand,
(the) parading masses (have) never been
in love / in darkness, on their knees

show where they are is, who you are,
turn from your past, get on your feet,
it's what you've always meant to me,
the world, a shining star is what you'll be,

when all goes dark, the way / the truth / my light,
(what) the stars in your eyes mean to me,
my way / my truth / my light,
it's what i've needed to be free...

how long will it take?
i'll never walk away.
how long will it take?

standing oceans sweeping still,
a martyr on a battered hill,
the soul of stone melts in your hands
with love and trust you've got until

you break me / make me, as i am
is everything you've asked for, all of me,
of tears and sorrows broken down,
i love you, it seems you'll always be

the one i love, you sacrificed
what you hold dear will not suffice
you wash the stains, the muddied soil,
the world surrounds you, mortal coils,

escape is never understood
until you've tasted bitter words
upon your lips, your lingering tongue
speaks words i hang onto,

every moment is with you
in dreams i've seen that will come true,
your lips linger light on mine,
my light, will you be mine?

how long will it take?
i'll never walk away.
how long will it take?

Jaron

He junky shuffles through a deck
Of cheap, dead stiff cards
Saying, "Step right up! It's just a dollar!"
And light a cheap cigar.

Fingers quicker than the blink of an eye,
He marks the ace of spades,
Saying, "Pick a card, any card!"
And makes his money for the day.

Jaron

It's a cigarette sparking on a wet summer street
And overhead, the skies are grey
With the storm clouds that pour off the dead summer heat
And show the dirty blue of the day

The houses are sleeping off a weekend of heaven
And dirty old men kiss their wives
As they hold close beside them; it's six, come seven
And they dead on the last day of their lives.

Upstairs, there's an old man watching T.V.
And masturbating into a sock.
It's the last time he'll get off, and then he'll be free
Of this world, come seven o'clock.

The weekend before,
He slept with a whore
Who gave him herpes and the time of his life,
But he'll never realize
By the time that he dies
That his last time out was last night.

Now he's sipping a shot of bourbon and coke.
He got drunk on it, and now he's hung over.
This time it's slowing his heart and he starts to choke,
Then his eyes close like zippers forever.

Next door there's a kid with a new motorbike
With muddied spokes and a leather seat
That he took out to race on this Saturday night
Doing ninety on the empty streets.

At two o'clock, he got back home
To a girlfriend who was fat as a whale,
And tonight as they're fucking, he'll let out a groan
And stop breathing, start twitching, go pale.

His girlfriend'll ask him, "So how did it feel?"
But his lips will have moved the last time,
And as blood flecks his spittle from internal injuries
The darkness will take over his mind.

His girlfriend'll scream, try to wake him up,
And when she can't she'll go crazy, start crying.
She's scramble frantically to call the cops
And turn back to a love that's dying.

And the embers die on the last cigarette
In my pocket, and I'm broke as a fuck,
And I'm all out of liquer, but there's this thing in my head
Like a tragedy of streetside luck.

Jaron

A little boy walks calmly through a fence
And gets on a bus that seems heaven sent.
Running from everything that hurts too deeply,
He leaves the gate open to a house that is sleeping.

His parents wake up, and their son never rises,
So they walk through the house, groggily finding
A still made bed that their son didn't sleep in
And a note on the pillow. His mother starts screaming.

"Dear mom and dad, I hate you for fighting.
I would have disappeared without ever writing,
But you'd call the cops and I would've been taken
To a center, and I would've been broken.
A year ago, I would have prayed instead
And asked got to make you both happy, but hell,
You've ruined my childhood, I've been scared for too long,
But thank you because your weakness has made me strong.
I'm going to somewhere to find other parents
Who don't fight so much. It's always apparent
That you hate each other and take it out on me
With daddy's belt and when mommy screams.
So I'm finding a place where I can be happy,
Where lions and lambs play and I can be free
Of your stupid rules, and I hate you so much.
Get divorced. Kill yourselves. Good luck."

"Love, Johnny"

J.R.V.A.

He junky shuffles through a deck
Of cheap, dead stiff cards
Saying, "Step right up! It's just a dollar!"
And light a cheap cigar.

Fingers quicker than the blink of an eye,
He marks the ace of spades,
Saying, "Pick a card, any card!"
And makes his money for the day.

Killer Dude

And that last poem is awesome

__________________
And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart

Jaron

Halfway down a junky face
Down the scar-street of his scores,
His junky hands caress his eyes
Which close forevermore

On an overdose of heroin,
There's a junky in a bathroom stall
Pining after razor needles
And groaning a junky's last call.

Jaron

Stilletto scars marked from knife fights
Over iron muscles mark his skin
With a razor slash (that took his left eye)
That stretches from his eyebrow down to his chin.

Pockmarks show the battlefields
And the warzone of his back
That used to be the bullet wounds
Straight through the gangster we called "Jack."

"Jack Frost," we called him in the day
(And by "day," of course I mean night.)
He said it was his cool head and colder heart
But we all knew it just sounded alright.

Jack carried switchblades
That you should shave with and spill the blood
Of a thousand different gangsters
But that was still never enough.

Blood thirsty and vicious
When he got this look in his eye
And flicked out his knives with a cool metal snick
And bared his teeth in a grimaced smile.

Now Jack was always an actor,
Flexing his muscles in an intimidating pose
And a steel look in his glassbead eye
In a terrifying show.

The snakes would bulge around his arms
Traced in yellow, black, and red
With the tattooed scales winding down his arms
Into a closed fist that was their head.

When Jack's fingers flew open
Into a fanged and gaping maw,
Cold poison seeped into the veins
Of the gangsters, running in fear and awe.

So whenever Jack walked into a fight,
All of us got behind him.
There was no chance in hell that we could ever lose.
He'd win the fight, no sweat, no trying.

Then one day he met his match
Against a Mexican high on coke
Who played Russian Roulette with tequila shots
And had a face like an angry joke.

The Mexican (whose name was "Pedro" or something)
Stood as tall as Jack Frost's nipples.
He was the skinniest esse North of the border,
Showing skin and bones where Jack's muscles rippled.

But god! he was quick with a broken bottle,
Shards of glass sticking from his hands
And the bottleneck jutting out sharp and strong
And slicked with blood over a Mexican tan.

So when Jack and Pedro started brawling,
The streets went quiet as a chapel,
The cars and brawlers shutting up for once
To watch the two fighters grapple.

Back and forth and in and out!
It looked like Jack and Pedro dancing
In a deadly way in a deathly ballroom
With the only sound as their sweaty panting.

An hour passed, and then another,
Before the night's first blood was spilled.
Jack slashed a line through Pedro's face
And then he went in for the kill.

Underhand and through the ribs,
The switchblades caught the 'spic,
But no - he grabbed Jack's hands and held them there
As blood oozed past, salty and thick.

His lungs hissing with escaping air,
His eyes bloodshot with futy,
He bared his teeth and burrowed in
Jack's throat, splashing blood and glory.

Thrashing nutcase from side to side,
Pedro ripped Jack's neck to shreds
And when Jack finally collapsed in his arms,
The two of them fell dead.

Suddenly, the night took life
And sirens split the air,
So we ran away from the policemen fury
And left Jack Frost lying there.

An ambulance drove him away
As we watched it from an alley,
And even though he six feet under,
Jack Frost lives forever in our memory.

Jaron

I am the shadows where lovers swoon
And innocents die. I am the gloom.
I am the darkness. I am the light.
I am the empty halls at night
Where demons thrash. I am your fright.
I am your fears. I am the loom
The fates weave on. I am your doom.

I am the heavens' deepest fires.
I am Hades' highest spires.
I am the sun. I am the moon.
I am your dreams as you retire.
I am your blanket, soft and warm,
Choking you as nightmares swarm.
I am the frantic lullaby
That guards your sleep and sings you through.

I am the scream upon your lips
As you awake. I am the drip
Of sweat onto your soaking sheets.
I am your fear. I am its' grip.
I am the silence in your screech.
I am what you cannot reach.
I am the razor dream that slips
And bleed on you while you still sleep.

I am the tower and the skies.
I am the fields where you will die.
I am the iron taste of air.
I am everything that you fear.