?

Log in

No account? Create an account
About this Journal
Current Month
 12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930
Apr. 3rd, 2011 @ 11:57 pm Oops, my bad :(

Sorry about accidentally posting my poem to the communities that have nothing to do with poetry, or the form I was using.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Apr. 3rd, 2011 @ 11:54 pm 3 of 30

Sew it up - you're dragging your dress again.
Cinch it up - it's falling apart in the wrong places.
Draw it up - make your intentions plain.
Dry it up - martyrs have no production values.
Tear it up- they could never hold you to it.
Soak it up - you're a paper tiger now.
Live it up - somebody will buy it.
Shake it up - it's anybody's paradigm for the next 15 minutes.
Talk it up - TelePrompTers are cheap.
Lift it up - it's walking too fast for you to stand.
Even it up - it's too precious for them to keep.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Feb. 1st, 2011 @ 10:00 pm CHÉ CONFESSES

CHÉ CONFESSES

If they had only spoken of you in holier tones, but there was no sanctity in their inflections,
no blank stares, no empty eyes.

I never thought I'd pull the trigger
on an old man, but when his knees would not bend, I had to bend them for him. Old men are stubborn,

but the flesh complies, the blood obeys.
The young, they are easier to deal with; take a child, make him close his eyes, fill his hands with sweets,

and tell him who gave so generously.
Pups are so eager to please their masters.
It was a hectic year, everyone was issued a torn

parachute, on purpose, and there was no time to
think, only time to jump out of the plummeting wreck
that Bautista had made of our ship of state.

You don't know how it disgusted me to see these bourgeois clutching at their now worthless notes and crosses, like a Negro clutching for a needle and opiates,

which is why I made sure to bind and gag them before I put bullets in their brains! It was quite a productive day at the prison!

If they had only spoken with the gratitude of a starving child, I would have retaught them everything, these bitter clingers, these banana farmers,

these tobacco farmers, thinking they could own
things, when they could only be owned, these rope makers, killing themselves with the butt of my gun!

Copyright 2011 Bruce V. Bracken


Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Jan. 18th, 2011 @ 11:54 pm (no subject)
Current Location: US, Washington, Seattle, King, Denny Way, 1296
Current Mood: creative
Current Music: Nine Inch Nails mental loop

RED IN TWO PARTS

PART ONE: HAMMER

As the hammer forged her chains, she cried,
"Was I saved, only for the next rapist?"
In the factory, the workers fail
on command; their minds are not to function.

"Was I saved, only for the next rapist!?",
she raged to an unheeding wasteland.
On command, their minds are not to function.
Proletarian sweat dehydrates.

She raged to an unheeding wasteland,
"I am as yet undecapitated!
"Proletarian sweat dehydrates;
"Where is the river that will set me free?"

"I am as yet undecapitated.
"I will sing no love song of a slave!
"Where is the river that will set me free?
"Better to swim than drown in my blood!

"I will sing no love song of a slave!
"Carry me to a clean shore, far away.
"Better to swim, than drown in my blood,
to satisfy a new ancient god's thirst!"

PART TWO: SICKLE

When the sickle cut her throat, you could hear her sing,
in a voice that you can't distinguish from a scream.
1917 saw a new revolution.
The children were superb, star-bright and delicious.

in a voice that you can't distinguish from a scream,
the tanks rolled through the boulevards, bannered in red.
The children were superb, star-bright and delicious,
morsels, red in the teeth of the new workers' state.

The tanks rolled through the boulevards, bannered in red.
How our leader smiles down from the flags like a god.
Morsels, red in the teeth of the new workers' state,
happy and productive to enrich Mother's soil.

How our leader smiles down from the flags like a god,
who remembers the aroma of sacrifice.
Happy and productive to enrich Mother's soil
are the martyrs of the new ancient religion.

Copyright 2011 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Jan. 4th, 2011 @ 10:43 pm DIRTY MIRROR (BAD ATTENTION)

They run the strings thru the scalp.
That's how they build the new you.
See in the dirty mirror?
How youthful your crimson yarns.

That's how they build the new you,
for reality TV.
How youthful your crimson yarns,
queen of the cutting-room floor.

For reality TV,
how would you like your lips sewn,
Queen of the cutting-room floor?
We use the yellowest wire.

How would you like your lips sewn,
surgical action figure?
We use the yellowest wire,
perfect for bad attention.

Surgical action figure,
now with candy-pump action,
perfect for bad attention,
from stain-hungry side airbags.

Now with candy-pump action,
and the smear where your face was.
From stain-hungry side airbags,
we perp-walk treadmill lemmings.

On the smear where your face was,
everyone's a firebug.
We perp-walk treadmill lemmings;
autograph our eyes with shame.

Everyone's a firebug.
You know, it's fun when ants melt
under magnifying glass.
The bigger, the more you burn.

You know, it's fun when ants melt,
like Hollywood plastic drips.
The bigger, the more you burn,
like science fiction movies.

Like Hollywood plastic drips,
the flash is only lukewarm.
Like science fiction movies,
but with a low boiling point.

Copyright 2011 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Dec. 21st, 2010 @ 08:38 pm Spark-Eyed, a pantoum

SPARK-EYED

The birds are burning scarecrows.
The birds are making popcorn,
which they catch and eat, in flight.
They perch on licorice wires.

The birds are making popcorn.
They use their flame-thrower eyes.
They perch on licorice wires,
Mocking the blackened scarecrow.

They use their flame-thrower eyes
to signal the metal birds.
Mocking the blackened scarecrow.
He was once a flying man.

They signal the metal birds:
We are the jealous sky-gods.
He was once a flying man;
see how he meets the sky, now.

We are the jealous sky-gods.
We feed our young with black wires.
See how he meets the sky now,
my spark-eyed little darlings.

We feed our young with black wires.
The humans talk about it,
my spark-eyed little darlings.
Go, meet your congregations.

The humans talk about it,
into their empty tin cans.
Go, meet your congregations.
Make sure you take some popcorn.

Copyright 2010 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Nov. 27th, 2010 @ 06:21 pm MATTRESSES, A PANTOUM

MATTRESSES

Which card wins the horse
that carries the gambler?
The ace is marked down
for bargain-basement kings.

Dublin is getting
The tiger's root canal.
How do they build their
paper houses so tall?

The ace is marked down
for bargain-basement kings.
Hey, gingerbread man,
what's your cookie-cutter?

How do they build their
paper houses so tall?
I hear the windmills
are made in China now.

Hey, gingerbread man,
what's your cookie-cutter?
Somebody better
check your bags for the plates!

I hear the windmills
are made in China now.
The Akropolis
is made of cardboard now.

Somebody better
check your bags for the plates!
Government only
wants its monopoly.

The Akropolis
is made of cardboard now.
Here's the Molotov-
industrial complex.

Government only
wants its monopoly.
It's fascinating
to watch the paper burn!

Here's the Molotov-
industrial complex!
Now we'll see what that
ethanol is good for!

It's fascinating
to watch the paper burn!
Remember when a
mattress was for sleeping?

Now we'll see what that
ethanol is good for!
With enough kindling,
we'll cook that golden goose.

Copyright 2010 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Nov. 4th, 2010 @ 06:37 pm Answering the Nov. 30/30 challenge
Current Location: US, Washington, King, Seattle, S Mount Baker Blvd
Current Music: "Anxiety" (Get Nervous) by Pat Benatar

In answer to the November 30/30 challenge, my first poem of November:

"Equalization"

It sputters a short-circuit breath,
like half-life phosphorous decay.
We lobotomized Edison.
We only call zombies righteous.

Like half-life phosphorous decay,
The zip-glamour of body bags.
We only call zombies righteous,
then cannibalize the bright-eyed.

The zip-glamour of body bags.
O, praise the Equalization!
We cannibalize the bright-eyed,
to command the red metal strings.

O, praise the Equalization,
for the mud you Impart to us.
We command the red metal strings,
to give us the social magic.

For the mud you impart to us,
we open our mouths, supplicant.
To give us the social magic,
we manufacture the dissent.

We open our mouths, supplicant,
for bread and cheese to fall into.
We manufacture the dissent
for dull peacocks with cracked lenses.

For bread and cheese to fall into,
we're left holding Hallowe'en bags.
For dull peacocks with cracked lenses,
our Alpha starlings preen and strut.

We're left holding Hallowe'en bags.
O, praise the Equalization!
Our Alpha starlings preen and strut!
Amazing Grease, for squeaking wheels!

Copyright 2010 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken:
Oct. 18th, 2010 @ 03:12 pm SNEEZING BACKWARDS

SNEEZING BACKWARDS

I SNEEZED BACKWARDS, LIKE THE VACUUM OF SPACE,
LIKE THE LIGHTBULB THAT BURNS OUT IN YOUR HEAD
WHEN YOU SLAM IT TOO HARD AGAINST THE FLOOR.
THIS WAS HOW I TRIED TO DISPROVE MYSELF.

LIKE THE LIGHTBULB THAT BURNS OUT IN YOUR HEAD,
I TRIED TO DE-CONTROL MY SUBSTANCES.
THIS WAS HOW I TRIED TO DISPROVE MYSELF,
TO AVOID YOUR POP-PSYCH TOILET CLICHÉS.

I TRIED TO DE-CONTROL MY SUBSTANCES,
WORKED HARD TO BE YOUR BEST DROWNING VICTIM.
TO AVOID YOUR POP-PSYCH TOILET CLICHÉS,
I CAR-BOMBED MY SOUL IN YOUR SQUALOR CULT.

WORKED HARD TO BE YOUR BEST DROWNING VICTIM,
SO I COULD IMPRESS YOU WITH MY BLUE LIDS.
I CAR-BOMBED MY SOUL IN YOUR SQUALOR CULT.
DIDN'T I STICK OUT LIKE A GOOD MANDRILL?

I TRIED TO IMPRESS YOU WITH MY BLUE LIDS.
I WAS THE ONE THEY LEFT AT THE BOTTOM.
DIDN'T I STICK OUT LIKE A GOOD MANDRILL?
I WAS JUST THE FRESH MEAT FOR YOUR SANDWICH.

I WAS THE ONE THEY LEFT AT THE BOTTOM,
THE LATEST STANDARD-ISSUE POLOCK JOKE.
I WAS JUST THE FRESH MEAT FOR YOUR SANDWICH,
THE UNSUNG BOSTON WAITRESS' REQUIEM.

© 2010 BRUCE V. BRACKEN

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

About this Entry
sometimesiwishthaticoulddrive
brucevbracken:
Oct. 18th, 2010 @ 12:44 pm Manatee Moment

THIS IS THE MANATEE MOMENT.
LET ME FLOAT ON DIAGNOSES,
EIGHT HOURS IN YOUR DESPERATE PORT.
WHAT WAS MY HISTORY AGAIN?

LET ME FLOAT ON DIAGNOSES.
A HOLLOW LEG FOR AN OCEAN.
WHAT WAS MY HISTORY AGAIN?
A SALTWATER BIRTH OF NOTHING.

A HOLLOW LEG FOR AN OCEAN.
EIGHT HOURS AND NOTHING DELIVERED.
A SALTWATER BIRTH OF NOTHING,
LEGS SQUEEZED LIKE MAKING ORANGE JUICE.

EIGHT HOURS AND NOTHING DELIVERED,
THE CARGO THAT GOES UNLOADED.
LEGS SQUEEZED LIKE MAKING ORANGE JUICE,
BEACHED ON THE WAVES OF INNER TIDES.

THE CARGO THAT GOES UNLOADED,
WATERLOGGED ANTI-DÉNOUEMENTS,
BEACHED ON THE WAVES OF INNER TIDES.
I GAVE ORAL BIRTH THIS MORNING.

WATERLOGGED ANTI-DÉNOUEMENTS:
CLIMB THE STAIRS LIKE FISH GROWING LEGS.
I GAVE ORAL BIRTH THIS MORNING;
IT RESEMBLED FRESH ORANGE JUICE.

2010 Bruce V. Bracken

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

About this Entry
tofu
brucevbracken: