Why So Tight Lipped?
911,What's your emergency?
It'S Mark Tucker.She made me laugh again.
Are you serious?
How bad is it this time?
It was deadpan.
One joke after another.
It really hurts.
I tried not to SMILE.
But she was relentless.
She had you in stitches eh?
That's not funny.
ok,I'LL send help right away.
Ow,that hurts.She's gonna PAY for this.
Were almost done here Mr Tucker.
There how does that feel?
Just Joking.
Ok,now were gonna run a few tests.
Knock knock?
I'm sorry,i couldn't help myself.
Mr Tucker.Here's an hour of deadpan jokes.
I'LL be in the next room.
If you feel any discomfort wave to me.
An hour passes by.
Everything looks good Mr Tucker.
We'll have you hooked back up to the iv in no time.
Meals on wheels,get it!
I guess in your case Mr Tucker laughters not the best medicine.
Although one time i had a patient with severe constipation.
I gave him an audio of dark comedy.
He laughed so hard he shit himself.
It gives a new meaning to comedy relief.
Before you go Mr Tucker,please sign here.
This is for the cost FOR ambulance,emergency room visit,and THE STITCHES...
.
First Round on Me
Let's share scars
like shots,
each of us Picking
our own poison.
A necessary
evil
to kill the words
only we ourselves understand
before they sneak up throat
and give the deaf
The last words
of the day,
Words we will never recall.
I know your pain.
The anguish of
a story lost
syllables
that will circle
forever in the presence
of oblivion.
So I'll have Jim
And you have Jack,
And we will both
drown the demons
dripping from our pens,
like snakes stretching
after the frost.
Shadows that grow
beneath the best parts of it.
Don't worry my friend,
darkness will make
everything safe again.
So let's share scars.
Like shots.
And make everything
the same shade.
Till everything blurs,
Cheers.
First Time Lover, Long Time Listener.
I miss the void
that you have filled with the loveliness of your presence.
I miss the responsibility to loneliness
Versus the upkeep of
loyalty
and I miss the empty smirks and meaningless flirting
versus the threat of
lifelong ownership.
I’d miss you too, if you were
to fade.
But the void would welcome me with open arms and flowers
Just the same as you.
Hmm, interesting. Let me process. It's not that I don't believe you... But believing you doesn't come naturally.
It must be a hard wrap, being God. There's this delicate balance to keep. I guess it's like being a teacher. You want things to end up well, but you've placed the ball in their court. Independence is bittersweet.
Does it enrage you, seeing choices be made? Can you find ways, like the rest of us do, to look away from the violence, the narcissism, the cruelty?
If there's a reason for all this, I'd like to know.
When I Listen...
When I listen,
I can hear my heart beating against my chest.
The thumps echo loudly like a mountain effect,
but reverberations are in a space compressed
by my damaged heart and a life stressed
by disappointment, woes, and sundry tests.
When I listen,
I can hear myself breathe. I inhale
air that does not equal my exhale
because my lungs are now curtailed
like a leashed dog that no longer prevails
over a life full of pitfalls and travails.
When I really listen,
I can tell that my heartbeat is a shadow
and my breathing is way more shallow
compared to my youth when I had no
restrictions. But my life is not fallow,
because hope is my life’s ammo.
Cauterised
The soldier's breath was heavy
As the lids above his eyes
He sprawled beside the levee
With his mangled, bloody thighs
The bullets and the shouting
Were fading to the west
And silence was approaching
In the air and in his breast
The field was draped with remnants
The limbs and bones of boys
Those that breathed begged penance
Or screamed an awful noise
The air was thick with torment
The breeze, it stank of death
So many lay there dormant
They'd breathed their final breath
Our soldier groaned again
All shrapnel pocked and still
As blood ebbed from his vein
And on the earth did spill
As he prepared to die
On that lonely, foreign field
He contemplated why?
What result would his death yield?
Then suddenly a face
Appeared before his own
'We'll take you back to base'
it said. But he could only moan
The blessed blackness claimed him
As they moved him to the cot
That day he lost a limb
Which on that field would rot
His artery was oozing
A torn and bloody mess
There wasn't too much choosing
The surgeon did his best
The options were all dire
And time was growing thin
To seal the wound with fire
To cauterise the shin
The blade betwixt the flame
Til metal glowed white-hot
The surgeon took his aim
Then cleansed the crucial spot
The soldier whimpered weakly
As the fire seared his knee
The nurses watched on bleakly
Too much death they'd had to see
Perhaps that youth would die
Or maybe he would mend
But that shadow in his eye
Would be there 'til the end
War is what we make it
War is the deliberate choice against compromise. Hate at its great(est).
We the people with what power?
Power(less) to choose our paths,
our leaders.
A flawed system,
we are living towards our future ruins.
One by one all great civilizations fall and for too long we’ve turned a blind eye, ignoring the impending self destruction.
War is simple, stewardship is for the deserving.
The Irish Child
The Irish Child gathered rocks to fling at the English soldiers in the streets of Belfast.
Fire, from molotov cocktails made from bottles filled with petrol, launched at tanks rattling in the streets.
The Irish Child only knew war, not caring about political affiliations or even the reasons why.
Or even knowing anything about the conflict itself, only that his parent's were against the soldiers, and he would protect them with his life.
The Irish Child grew a scatterwag in the streets, banging bin lids in cobblestone street at the approach of soldiers.
Burning bottle, rock, glass, wood and finally bullet, though that was a game the adults played. The deadliest game of all.
Vale the Irish Child, weep the Irish child,
Cry for innocence, all for the Irish child.