Quotes about shred, page 13
The best laidplans gang aft agley Storypoem
I planned her demise carefully
I was quite sure that it would be
accepted as an accident.
Which left me looking innocent.
I thought I had made no mistakes
but I made one that’s all it takes.
One single shred of evidence
destroyed my claim to innocence.
I should have sued for a divorce
that would have been the wisest course.
Though it would not have satisfied
the hatred festering inside
Caused by the mental cruelty
to which she had subjected me
So I devised the perfect plan
to rid myself of this woman.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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On The Impossibly
on the impossibly taut emphatically phallic
runic measuring tape of Time
two homo sacred Road Scholar 'toons
have been unwittingly mashing the plastic button of Infinity
till its bashed in skull relents and breaks free
of all the candy and confetti promised
by the eternal ages
(indeed that of a three foot plastic key ring tape measure could possibly hold)
with great euphoria these two predestined scholars skid back
to where their timepieces simply combust
rather artlessly
in the future mind you
they wept at the sight of God and two chained six eyed dogs
snap their hypodermic needles in
anticipation of devouring the meat thrown to them by Yahweh
the decider of Fate who in 7 days laid a massive cage
for the unevolutionized monkeys to procreate coagulate and masticate
every unterritorialized shred of chewed up sofa cushion they could get their thumbs on
and in so doing revealed a button that hurtled them into the 21 century as brain children of Satan pass the salt preparation H(ell) is not the cure all
pushing that plastic button gets them candy not confetti
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poem by Walter Burns
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An Argument Forgotten
Some memories need to be re-written to become clear
Because they are newly projected as the events disappear
Things that were said may not apply again in this time
Although the words spoken linger like a committed crime
Words spoken in anger and frustration cut like a knife
Inflicting deep wounds that break open and come to life
Words used as a weapon leave scars in places hidden
But I carry them around with me disguised as forbidden
There is this gutting feeling that burns and hurt my head
The things that were said were meant to destroy and shred
I am no longer free because the burden is heavy and cold
Feelings of despair inflict dark thumbprints like a mold
It is hard to surface after the disappointment moved in
I feel lost and heartbroken and nothing is as it has been
Dark shadows and fog weigh heavy on my recollection
And no excuse I make can erase the threatening infection
I feel every letter of each word that you screamed out loud
Bouncing off my conscience like a suffocating dust cloud
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poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Why Me
Why me? was the question running down my spine Why me? so i asked myself Why me? Why me? my heart was panting for an answer Why me? my brain could not find an answer at last it gave a reasonable one that made a lot of meaning I am left in a lonely world, to make me to reason that this world is not worth living Boko Haram sect became a terror Vampire they became over night sucking human blood at will killing innocent victims with out impunity The people turn to shred, through the bomb blast killing them for nothing No shelter to live for survival No food to eat for the day No water to sustain life in turbulence A country we see without a government When people are wiped out of existence, the government will rule the dust of the earth with a pity The government can only pity those that are dead and buried Their people suffer brain touch, heavy heart, crying eyes with out control They suffer without care from the government Why me? was my question do we call this a government The government that sleeps when the houses are on fire Fire the houses are burnt to black dust and crumbs as we touch it again and again Mend are threatening to carry firearms to fight the government that cannot run state affairs The government is sleeping while her house is on fire My country Nigeria is on fire, sitting on the keg of gun powder blasting in the air and we can do nothing
poem by Olayemi Ayo
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Seventh Street
Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,
Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.
Seventh Street is a bastrad of Prohibition and the War. A crude-boned, soft-skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer air, jazz songs and love, thrusting unconscious rhythms, black reddish blood into the white and whitewashed wood of Washington. Stale soggy wood of Washington. Wedges rust in soggy wood. . . Split it! In two! Again! Shred it! . . the sun. Wedges are brilliant in the sun; ribbons of wet wood dry and blow away. Black reddish blood. Pouring for crude-boned soft-skinned life, who set you flowing? Blood suckers of the War would spin in a frenzy of dizziness if they drank your blood. Prohibition would put a stop to it. Who set you flowing? White and whitewash disappear in blood. Who set you flowing? Flowing down the smooth asphalt of Seventh Street, in shanties, brick office buildings, theaters, drug stores, restaurants, and cabarets? Eddying on the corners? Swirling like a blood-red smoke up where the buzzards fly in heaven? God would not dare to suck black red blood. A Nigger God! He would duck his head in shame and call for the Judgement Day. Who set you flowing?
Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,
Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.
poem by Jean Toomer
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Renascence
World war had come - and gone. It seemed the end.
Spent, broken, by the last despair oppressed,
Unfitted to attack or yet defend,
The nations' panting remnants skulked to rest
A listless, brutish rest, where no hope gleamed,
Where earth's last glory had been thrown away
With all the splendid dreams man ever dreamed;
And his proud world a stricken shambles lay.
Grief only stayed. Great cities in the dust
Littered the path of ruin absolute,
Where sapient man, in that last mad bloodlust;
Surrendered all his birthright to the Brute;
And now the Brute triumphant claimed an earth
Where love or life or death mattered no more;
And faith and friendship, every shred of worth,
Dishonored utterly, were trampled o'er.
With a field where, lately, countless dead
Had lain till deeper, kindlier rest they found,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Soldiers Tale
The trembled hand
the twitching face.
A desperate draw on cigarette
looking for courage in a cordite breath.
Huddled in mud protected by
slime filled walls,
these walls of Jericho shake
crumbling into my fear.
My tomb beckons another inspection.
Buried alive under corrupted soil,
a land lords greeting from the
putrid remains of the tenants before.
Did Mother give birth to me for this?
The screams of the howitzer,
Marching in footsteps, stamping it's wrath,
for fear of the dead rising.
And we who are alive, that dare to look
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poem by Steven Cooke
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Fruits of Victory
These be the fruits, O man who would out-loom
The proudest Caesar of Rome's proudest story,
When legion after legion marched to doom
That one man might be clothed in briefest glory;
Torn bodies, bloody fields and the rank lees
Of Conquest's maddening draft, and so a nation,
Fat with much spoil and many victories,
Drifted into decay and desolation.
These be the fruits: Dead men who die in vain,
Maimed broken men, to living death surrendered,
A myriad stricken homes to mourn the slain
Men? Cannon-fodder to the War God tendered,
Deluded boys, primed with vainglorious dreams
Of flashing steel, romance - war's outworn story
Sent forth to gasp young lives out in foul streams
Of fetid gas - meet attributes of glory!
These be the fruits: This tortured shred of flesh,
Lately a youth, with youth's bright gifts scarce tasted
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude IV.
'A pleasant and a winsome tale,'
The Student said, 'though somewhat pale
And quiet in its coloring,
As if it caught its tone and air
From the gray suits that Quakers wear;
Yet worthy of some German bard,
Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard,
Who love of humble themes to sing,
In humble verse; but no more true
Than was the tale I told to you.'
The Theologian made reply,
And with some warmth, 'That I deny;
'T is no invention of my own,
But something well and widely known
To readers of a riper age,
Writ by the skilful hand that wrote
The Indian tale of Hobomok,
And Philothea's classic page.
I found it like a waif afloat
Or dulse uprooted from its rock,
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Epitaph In Form Of A Ballad Which Villon Made For Himself And His Comrades, Expecting To Be Hanged Along With Them
Men, brother men, that after us yet live,
Let not your hearts too hard against us be;
For if some pity of us poor men ye give,
The sooner God shall take of you pity.
Here are we five or six strung up, you see,
And here the flesh that all too well we fed
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,
And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;
Let no man laugh at us discomforted,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,
Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we
Were slain by law; ye know that all alive
Have not wit alway to walk righteously;
Make therefore intercession heartily
With him that of a virgin's womb was bred,
That his grace be not as a dry well-head
For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall;
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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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