Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
jhssn  Feb 2015
Anesthetic
jhssn Feb 2015
There was a girl.
A girl I once  knew
who never felt cold.
Never felt cold when
taking a shower in
freezing water.
Never felt cold
when she would stand
at the bus stop in 6
degree weather with barely
anything on. Never felt
the slightest bit of cold
even when she layed down
in the snow for 5 hours.
In fact, she loved the cold.
She embraced it; she loved how
cold the winter was in
Michigan. She loved feeling
the icy wind hit her face and
body when she wasn't wearing
much. She loved the
way it made her hands and face feel
anesthetic . It made her feel alive, refreshed
even, and
that’s all she ever craved for.
But she still never
felt how cold it actually was.
But why?
Why did she love
it that much?
Why couldn't she ever
feel frigid like everyone else?
Why love something,
something  you cant really feel?
Because even though she couldn't
feel how shivery cold
it was on the outside,
maybe that’s how her heart
was. Maybe that’s how
she felt on the inside.
**Numbing cold.
Madzq Aug 2014
Lovesick and you've got the cure.
Got all these symptoms. You know what for.
Don't be afraid of this contagious disease,
Just take my requisition form.

I've made room for you in my atria and ventricle.
You're the capillary to my arteriole and venule.
You're the amniotic fluid to the child in my heart.
I find you even in the interstitial parts.

Treatment like uours is like a centrifugAl force.
So be the **** stasis my heart is longing for.
Some homeostasis is what we need.
We will make compromises to succeed.

Lay me supine and you in prone.
Sensory neurons fire
Exocrine glands make to pressure
Spark endocrine glands to hear you moan.

Without your heart I'd be anemic.
Withiutbyour arms I'd be half a paraplegic.
Your kisses give me air, without them I'm cyatonic.
You're the fibrin in my veins, to my pain an anesthetic.

I'm ready for some long-term care and affection.
Got a chronic condition that needs your attention.
I k now I'm concluded, parts of me sclerosed.
Don't wait post mortem to know that you're the most.
I wrote this for my partner as a way to help me memories my medical terminology.
Chris Apr 2010
Such exquisite anesthetic the 
notes that decree the seconds
Shal­l never more be known, 
their remembrence like a flickering,
gent­le soothing, yearning that 
matches pleasure for sorrow
in such p­atient terms that each 
moment stands, breathes and 
steps slowly­ without a glance
t'ward another time when
unknown tears and smil­es
shall crown more glimpses
of the relentless serenade
This one's about a moment when I felt very happy but the music on the radio, which was amazingly beautiful, made me feel sad that I couldn't pause time.
The music was Eclogue Op.10. by Finzi.
Leah Rae  Sep 2012
Daddy Issues
Leah Rae Sep 2012
I Am The New Age Villain. No Masked Maccasurer, I Carry My Blades On The Inside.

More Terrifying Than Any Clown, Or Ghost Faced Monster With A Butcher Knife. I Am The Teenage Girl With Daddy Issues.

I Will Swallow Your Sons Whole. I Will Pull Them Under The Covers Until All They Can See Is Black And Blue. I Will Carve My Name Above Their Still Beating Heart, And Turn Them Ugly. I Am Their First And Last Love, Wrapped Up In Old Christmas Bows That My Mother Could Never Bring Herself To Get Rid Of.

With A Tongue Piercing And A Bad Tattoo Of A Rose On My Ankle, I've Got Problems With My Identity, Seems To Me I've Lost It On The Assembly Line Of  You What You're Supposed To See On  MTV , I've  Never Been Given Anything To Really Stand For.

So This Means I Fall In Love Easily.

I Fall Into Bed Easily, Between Layers Of Needing To Be Needed, And A Bottomless Appetite For Hands Across My Flesh. Bruises Make It That More Much Worth The While, Because Hours Later The Marks Will Still Be There To Remind Me Of Just How Badly You Never Wanted To Let Me Go.

He Places His Palm To My Chest, Mine To His, Says "Baby We're Making Love." But How Do You Make Love When You Hate Yourself?

I Have Learned The Hard Way That Your Mother Doesn't Want You To Bring Girls Like Me To Christmas Dinners. I've Felt My Stomach Curl Up Around My Insides, Chewing Me Apart, From The Inside Out, I Am Empty.

So I Beg Them To Fill Me.
Pour Promise Between My Sheets, And Breathe Into Me. I Am Broken.

I Know You're All Afraid Of Me, And Thats Why You Hate Me. I've Seen The Sneer Across Your Lips, Spark Starving And Growling. You Want To See Me Fail. You Probably Don't Know How Often I Cry Myself To Sleep At Night. I Was Bred, Not Built, I Am Human Too. But So Much Less Real Than You, Because This Hollowness Is Like A New Anesthetic.

But Like Every Good Comic, The Villain Was Not Always The Villain. Some Sick And Twisted Past Has Ripped Him Apart At The Seams, Left Him Begging Desperate, Lonely And Fragile, Chasing Down The Kind Of Sweet Revenge That Rots Your Teeth.

I Wasn't Always This Way. I Was Delivered Into The Mouth Of Temptation, And **** Did The Bite Hurt.

Like Any Good Story, It Had A Begging Middle, And End, But Not Necessarily In That Order, Because My Beginning Was My Mothers End, And My Father's Story Seemed To Happen Without My Existence. Without My Permission

Because He Walked Out. Like Backlit Silhouette Of Shadows Against My Bedroom Walls, He Was Always Leaving In My Dreams.

He Met A Girl With A College Degree, Called Her 'Babydoll' And 'Lover', And She Gave Him The Gift Of Three Sons, Who Search For The Thread Of Meaning In Their Father's Speech When He Kisses The Tops Of Their Heads At Night.

He Made This Way. He Tore Our The Seems Of My Storybook And Left Me Screaming In My Sleep. This Lost And Angry Abandonment Couldn't Rest Any Longer, I Now How Streets To Chase Away And Hours To Destroy, And This Would Be The Time For Our Rib cages to Meet, In Hot Heat, And Spark Into Something Bigger Than Me,
So Yes, Call Me Your Villain.

Because Like A Villain, I Am Chasing A Revenge Deep Into Myself, Down Highways Called Veins, Where I Once Wrote The  Word 'Happiness' In Blue Ink For An Older Me To Find Someday. I Am Waiting For A Redemption To Thread Its Fingers Into My Hair, And Tell Me I'm Literally Worth Fighting For. I Am Exhausted, Because I've Got Blooded Knuckles, And Broken Battle Hymns.

The Only Hero I'm Fighting Is Myself.
Will Rogers III May 2014
lack of feeling is what I am feeling
am I Luke Skywalker warm?
the beast inside desperately wants to cause chaos
To make a scene; a cry for help from deep within.

It's easy to find meaning in almost anything:
A leaf in the wind, a letter I need to send
my finger twitching, my bike needs fixing,
Crumpled foil on a plate, the class I need to take

My legs get tense
My hands get stressed.
My eyebrows are bent
My life is blessed?

I need local anesthetic
To numb my numbness.
Perhaps dialogue will encourage my indecision.
Perhaps Max won't burn after all.
[composed on February 16, 17 2014]
Inspiration from German short story "Local Anesthetic" by Gunter Grass
igriegazeta  Aug 2011
Untitled
igriegazeta Aug 2011
Ability looked at the cards
For mercy with a silver eye.

Survival was not self-immolation.

No matter. No spirit.
No silence. No echo.
No piety. No touch,


An anesthetic to minimize shame
Anesthetic for temptation.
Anesthetic for the terror of wild abandon.

Ability bled delicately, red to silver the moon's translation as cold as ever.

His dignity long misunderstood, vague until now. She his witness and detached accomplice.

Ability swallowed his bile and licked his lips as it stung his insides, appropriating the mannerism of the stone prince, vigilant of the ever presence. Stiff upper lip, a  gaze cold. Dead.
Ability was not born an orphan. He adapted this persona in memory of They who molested his sincerity and are still walking free among the living, feeding from the corals of truth. Innocence and good will as innate a pleasure principle as the ignorance that abounds would be unlearned in a meticulous exercise of freedom, keen conversation and select divulgation of self. No more would a vampire ravage his inner whole unless absolute expulsion was the contract. Giving himself to vice completely, void of distraction and sacrifice. No longer able to cope with his solitary confinement he tiij ti sealing every possible entry, every capillary that might one day offend. Today, dry of want, need, desire, in a perverted disillusion, content in the agony of unlearning helplessness the noble intention of needing nothing from anyone the prudence of minimal human contact the virtue of knowing god from man and the insistence of the free to differentiate the two.

Superiority was a given for Ability as innate as the goodwill, innocence, and ignorance that preceded his testimony to the moon. As indifferent to everyone else as mankind's general ignorance of god. As insignificant as god's indifference of man. As inconsequential as Ability and his devotion to man. A man. A priest.

Ability tended every nuisance. Choice. Taste. Expectation. Desire. He did not quite digest the simplicity of an ideal that was now the enemy- the ideal of taking humanity seriously. Ability, in wonderful lysergic incantation feared these suspicions to be true.  A belief no longer internalized by Ability the Free who now came to understand this bastion of truth: the longest repressed offense mechanism: mankind is alone and has only itself to blame.

Ability's innocent sincerity was ignored, forsaken by he who was dead inside. Ability would bury him as a god only to watch him resuscitate as a mortal. Only then would ability look him- the medic, priest, doctor- in the eye. After disavowing his first and second testament. Ability nailed to his forehead the very first commandment: that of self-preservation.

Ability was divorcing doctrine from totality. Romance from self. Wearing his best clothes, washing his face and feet for the volition to go it alone until death. Roaming strangely the terrain and rivers of Planet Earth, a planet who like himself was almost conquered by Cruel Mankind, Ability realized he had come before the Priest. Ability no longer imitated the passion of the Christ. He laid down his cross. He began his own manifest. For salvation, redemption, and freedom. No longer at the worship of his own tomb, he swallowed his own seed and took his life.
Tori Edwards Jun 2014
I will sit here
forever, me
Just wondering why
the blood in
cracked veins
Turns to ink droplets
and became words
on countless pages

This isn't pain
That was not love
Either way
we are F R E E
as animals

Is this an Ancient
Marmalade Sky
and Champagne Rivers
Where we will
float away to
something louder
Then a prayer

I am sewn back together
with no anesthetic
But my insides tucked up
Gloss and clouds
Our memories are worth
every penny

With colours and textures
we are floating away
Under Marmalade Skies
and
Champagne Rivers
WS Warner Feb 2012
Underneath the anger, there are tears. Beneath the fury, there is hurt, a river
of affliction - the day that possibility evaporated. I knew, the moment
it was gone. Telos obscured, like a mist, had left me.

Frost in February, morning at the local coffee house, perseverating, sedate
in privatized, cogitations - certainty dissolves into irony, the transient
collective with predictable cadence and singular objective. Borrowed
energies - preferred anesthetic in defiance of the placid, quotidian horror.

Angst wrapped in skin, clothed in remorse, like a muslin coat unable
to keep me warm, the palette of truculence, dislocated savant,
with guarded aversion - faces enucleating in tacit harmony, the muted tragedy
of the forgotten.

Yoked, the metaphorical satchel, freighted with the sentient debris, sifting
the fuckage, memoirs of failure, privation of venture and honor, objectified as
mere portent. [Existence] - the daily riot, becomes the necessary crucible.

Dissonance and detachment resonate the cultural banality, [being] displaced
by icon; [branding], ideas about ideas, life several times removed,
emblem over essence.

Existential renegade, exploiting the counter intuitive, the paradigmatic prodigal,
favor squandered, in the absonant passage, bearing fruit of the undone.

Bones of contention lament, interminably, like a false friend, present in absence,
perceived in the lack, subtraction, slip-stream - the disheveled
palaver of the broken.

Acutely self referential, misery enfleshed, its own reward, a post-war
discontent inhabiting sorrow, compressed and narrow, begetting
apathy in springtime.

Commodity of youth, the currency of beauty -permuted, commerce of the
ethereal and diaphanous. Human caprice, post-modern fog,
the flattened self,
the enemy of us is us, drowning in the decorum of narcissism.
the fattened calf,
immolating on the sword of autonomy.

Recycled grief, a recursive loop of gestating thoughts, marinating fluidly
within the interpretive grid. Confessional cyber community - exposed wounds
and concrete suffering, abstracted from virtual solidarity, refracted through a
reductive sentimentality, maybe they will ‘like’ it.

Iconoclast in exile, inhaling the incense of barrenness , surrounded by synoptic
drivel in understated - present tenses - alight in the now, axial axioms of the privileged,
who genuflect to the god of unfettered freedom.

Peripatetic intervals of isolation, self-imposed, hidden in a sanctuary of derision,
colliding with immutable otherness , the waters of chaos, calm.
The proleptic display, announcing eschatology. An ancient text written on the interior
expressed in myth and narrative the courier. The carnal and cerebral
arise, rightly flourishing.

Sense thresholds stirring, surprise and turbulence, reverberations of altered
domains merging - the temporal and ubiquity, the indissolubly resplendent
inversion - the invisible made visible. Opaque intrigues subsumed into the
balm of reconciliation - the first shall be last…

©2012 W.S. Warner
JJ Hutton  Feb 2013
brain death
JJ Hutton Feb 2013
the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection      he's going to die either way     what's it matter?
buzz of fly    crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry    pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger   lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up   so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly                       missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for

instantaneous brain death

hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later    this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late   most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said
Sabrina Aug 2012
Hearts sinking
This pain no longer a threat,
Only certain tragedy.
They say, "Risk it all."
To have your heart torn apart.
Surgery. No Anesthetic.
Mission:
Find the bleeding parts.
Abnormal.
Ice.
No warmth.
You find heat.
Give away pieces.
Turn to stone.
Then repeat.
Write lyrics like spreadsheets with number crunching
Calculate the isotopes
numerical accuracy in the vein of vain attempts to overcome
the show off tendencies of artist who exhibit flow to illicit
concern about existence beyond what they can see of pedagogical poetry
more concerned with numbers and patterns
who gives a **** what the stress is on the vowel in the third stanza  
lyrically despondent personal correspondents for a publication that says
more about what you know than what you feel
and who you are
computer says no, statistically impossible, synaptic haiku
five seven five
musical ronin
go go gadget of talent
extend-o-pole and flying nimbus as you train like son-goku
hyperbolic chamber where time is an illusion only to collapse
true Saiyans are warriors from the womb until death and after
over nine thousand and the scanner short circuits
write on the clouds with light so hot that it burns on thought
not contact
no constants, just variables, electron microscopes to try and hear the angels sing.
Large Hadrons small dreams, no love, just roman numerals
XIV, ***, Blood transfusions in the realm of “O Positive” and you're just a pessimist, negative Nancy at the end of evolution
Flesh and bone as a tent in your double helix of a genome,
flesh like clay in the hands of some master
but you know no master
no nations, under no gods but Darwin
all 23 chromosome pairs making 46 parts of your brain
screaming neurons fire
WRITE
WHAT
YOU
ARE
If you should so choose as to end not with a bang but a whimper
then your memory is forfeit
contribute in some meaningful semblance of sarcasm and sinsethesia with anesthetic medications of pop remedies and voided memories
of sinthesisia
Smell the colours and taste the sounds of pen on paper
when you never own a pen or a pad
just a bright white rectangle you stare at for hours on end
No thoughts just Digg and Reddit
your only contributions a thumbs up or a red thumbs down
like buttons
but no dislike, because if you've got nothing nice to say
then say nothing
unless you're outrage and full of spite
and morose
at the state of human nature
beauty and song thrown out in an effort to leave nobody behind
and so we have a generation coming in
at the age of 5, who are told new math
new science
wrote memorization of equations
no thought process, no argument about relation
theory of relativity, the genious mind just numbers and letters on a page with squiggles and lines that don't have to mean anything more than they mean on the book
we have a generation with no lust, no hope
Do they dream in black and white?
do they dream at all?
is the consequence of IQ tests and graded paper intelligence
the thirst for knowledge and creativity?
WE HAVE TO SCREAM
at the injustice
Burn it to the bricks and ashes
we hurl through the windows
in the streets and in the parks
car radios and clock towers sold
for cheap homemade *****
dance around the fire like the wild things are
LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN
but then we're still hollow
no happy medium, just excess
in the pursuit of Dionysus, trepination,
demon possession is illegal in the eyes of the police and federal law
spread your legs and lean against the car
as they frisk you and plant the seed
of doubt
in the cuffs of your jeans
You have the right to remain silent
but I hope you don't
refuse
question
resist
work in progress.
K D Kilker  Sep 2022
Anesthetic
K D Kilker Sep 2022
I want to feel the world
with cuts on my fingers
and kisses on my wrist.

I want to know who I
am when the numbness fades.

— The End —