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Emeka Mokeme  Apr 2019
APOPTOSIS
Emeka Mokeme Apr 2019
Our nation is
a living organism.
Alive with biochemical
pulsating cells.
Apoptosis,
a cell death
of our nation
are set and
already unwittingly
programmed.
Takes a
multicellular effect
if not checked.
Cell changes and
death is eminent.
Changes includes
blebbing,
cell shrinkage,
nuclear fragmentation,
chromatin condensation,
chromosomal
DNA fragmentation,
and global mRNA.
Apoptosis ,
a falling off occurs.
Our nation is
threatened and going
through same
process as above.
Our acts must
be put together.
There is a
suffocating,
crippling misery,
and destitution.
We are desperately
sliding both into
chaos and despondency.
We must get
out of this
cloud of frustration,
with a profound
physical presence of
sour people grieving
daily,
Don't let them
become too rotten
to infect everyone.
It may be
contagious.
All ships must
sail in one direction,
Or very soon
we all go down.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
****
Consume
Propagate
Transmutate
Apoptosis

"Thought,"

...is the perplexity of the five...

...in the  Animal Cell.
Myth

"Observable phenomena's effect on the human condition."


Mythology

"Utilizing knowledge acquired during human existence to better understand the inexplicable through language."


History

"The perception of past events or knowledge altered by the present human condition."


Technology

"Mankind's attempt to eradicate God and Nature in order to determine whether or not there is life after death."


APOPTOSIS

"Programmed Cell Death."
Scott Howard  Dec 2013
Apoptosis
Scott Howard Dec 2013
I have died many times. My body hung next to Jesus at Golgotha. I was once decapitated in the French Revolution. I’ve had my eyes gouged out at Gettysburg.

I have died many times. My chest was riddled with bullets on the beaches of Normandy. My lungs dissolved and I had a stroke in Auschwitz.  My skin baked, bubbled, and blistered from Hiroshima to Nagasaki.

I have died many times. I bled out from a ruptured heart during Columbine. On 9/11, my rib caged cracked and I even stopped breathing.

_____________________­

I have died too many times. I shot myself in the head last night. Dream-spells dripped out from the void and so I shot myself through the heart, stuck my fingers in the hole to see if it hurt and it stung a little.

I have died too many times.  I took an ax and split my head open; a flock of pigeons were pecking at my cortex. They flew out and church hymns rang from my cerebellum.

I have died too many times.  I lit a bonfire in my brain; the light burst from my eye sockets and now my head is a paper lantern. I clawed at my chest till I ripped my heartstrings; they sung happy birthdays in Arabic so I blew out the fire.

I have died too many times. I took a baseball bat and busted my face open; I was swinging for the fences and swallowed my teeth on accident.

I have died too many times.  I tore out my stomach, drank the acid, and ****** myself.  I tried pulling my lungs over my head just to suffocate.

I have died too many times.  When I discovered my spinal cord, I plucked it out, wrapped it around my neck, and hung myself from the tallest redwood I could find.
bucky  Jul 2014
apoptosis
bucky Jul 2014
Tell me about the garden again,
        tell me this is our last night on earth and you just want to know that it's real
                                tell me fairytales. Tell me
this is everything you've ever dreamed of
                 and more.
Kiss me with whiskey lips and cigarette teeth
                        kiss me like you'll never have a chance to kiss someone again. I want to feel you. I want to taste callous remarks
        on your tongue
                 give them to me, give me everything and then give me more. Sing to me
                                write me ten thousand sonnets and recite them
        ignite everything we've ever been.
                                                              This is your chance. Tell me about
                         the vines.
Tell me a thousand things, and more, and more. Drink me in, like this,
                sprawled out on your bed, laughing like it's the end of the world. We don't have much time.
                                       Let's end it all, hangman's rope and a burning will,
        or let's stay a little longer.
I want to hear your voice again. Tell me how we're ruined.
                Tell me how I'm ruining you,
                                        and how you love it.
Tell me about tomorrow.
                                                        It's the only one we have left.
the death of cells that occurs as a normal and controlled part of an organism's growth or development.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2020
As we flow imagining we motivate
our selves to go on,
crack the whip,
try oomph-ala
like… take and read the little book, or swallow
what you're told…

for any mind a thinking thing is companion,
welcome the strange
little light leading on,
for minded beings do not live by bread, alone.

Inside, we see alone.
Outside, I see all one. Am I enlightened,

I ask my closest confidant.
Ah, I utter

as a sigh, slack jawed awe, a we is made
right now --
me and thee, dear, dear reading being thinking

do you mind?
Did I capitalize on your confusion to stick
a point into a bubble you believed?

How would you know?
{1.
Omphalos is the hub of any bubble of being,
center of gravity, if I may
make that assertion
as certain as
may be in these days of knowledge expansion.
May is you word, now. You know.}
A stitch. Point of purpose, needles need thread, thread needs fiber, fibers must be spun. the point of a needle is for piercing, the eye is for sewing edge to edge, with thread. Nothing is simple.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2023
(written for and with apologies to Ken Pepiton)


(A-pop-TOH-sis) A type of cell death in which a series of molecular steps in a cell lead to its death. This is one method the body uses to get rid of unneeded or abnormal cells. Also called
programmed cell death.
~
Ken Pepiton  “I found a word, *
apoptosis*  and I used it on some old bubbles that claimed to hold true love. You might find it useful for other crazy-makers common to mortal moments”.

Sep 2020

<>

a rich commission this;
aged by being overlooked
for two years more,
reconciling it, if it were even possible
this mixed drink of crazy,
programmed cell death
&
old bubbles claiming true love holding!

flummoxed by the symmetry and the inherent
contradictory of these dual dueling notions,
struggle for a course of unification

<>
and then:

Having known and lost true love,
more than once,
recall too well,
months when my heart cells died daily by the billions,
years of paining bubbles bursting,
till the heart at last purified,
by the emptying of

mortal moments.

the desperation of a grown man wondering if
peace and satisfactions would elude him forever,
deluded by weight of iron alternating currents of
hopefulness § hopelessness,
a sharp pain
morphing way too slowly
into a
dull ache heartburn
so well.
that yet persists
as a just below the surface swelling in my memory
even now

crazy it made me,
no cure cute for this uncommon cooling
of heart and soul,
lines on my face
witness attest
to where tears and failings eroded skin
by marking lines on my face.

”I was unrecognizable to myself”*(1)

no joke this
craziness,
a grown man  despairing
like a teenager’s lament,
robbed worse by the adult knowledge of the scarcity
of finding
the only true treasure humans could actually
possess, keep and nurture…

yes, Ken,
I find these world of words
you gifted me
useful

useful in ways untold,
but take this telling,
this one here,
with grace given
and knowing
that it only took
from me
about 10 to the 11th power power(2)
of heart
cells

4:36pm
Wed Feb 1
2023
(1)lyric from  “Philadelphia” by Bruce Springsteen
(2) 10 to the 11th power, or  
100000000000 ce
las lost every day by the human body
Sibyl Jul 2016
She was buried in walls of pitch and snow,
shunned by the moon which she holds dear.
She stretches out her hand every night
to reach her innermost desires.
She stretches out and cry
for nights and nights, through sun and rain.
She stretches out and cry.

Words once trickled from her fingertips -
letters, of every shape and size,
dance eloquently on stone and sand.
They bathe in ethereal curiosity at dawn
and sanguine discovery at dusk.

Now nothing drips from her fingers, long and slim
but soot as dark as her gleaming eyes.
She smeared the walls with hatred and grief
and sorrow seeped from within its cracks.

Agitation wells from deep within her.
It overflows and spills into her cup of tea.
The bitterness that it brings
is rivaled only by her fear of staying alone.
There is no end to her suffering, and she knows
the walls she made were too steep and too high
and yet the moon expects such a fragile frame
to reach the pinnacle of this ordeal
and stares blatantly at her demise.

And so she rests under the shade
of mounds and mounds of pitch and snow.
She lays supine while cursing the sky,
bereft of words, letters, and ink,
with soot trickling from her eyes.
Lendon Partain Jan 2014
Crinkling anhydrous
I contort to shapes described by Pythagorus.
My shell collapses
Livings a burden heavy to break the camels back
Words for me are needles in needle stacks
You can't get out with out cutting your throat

Every time you leave I'm wringing my hands in my car
Every time I see men I reach towards the bar
For another beer

I'm sitting in my own belly full of bile and I need to ***** out these tears
And I need to cleanse my spirit
And I need to shine my gears

Cause I am rusting shut. My mouths left in the forest and the tin mans oilcan hands cut

Back in my truck I tuck and hide the thoughts yet want a concrete wall to spill my mind upon
And make a canvas out of the windshield of glass covered in grey mass

The endings more poetic then a **** with a crown extending.
refresh mesh Mar 2018
nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.

i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****.
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.

we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.

i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.
birth control, women's health, world war
spysgrandson Feb 2015
fifty trillion of them,
give or take an exponential few,
programmed to replicate, then die, ad infinitum
spawning perfect copies to ensure
molecular harmony

their perfection could not keep
their host from huffing on tar sticks,
gobbling bacon by the kilo, or worshiping the sun's crisping rays
until one of their eternal days, a perverse mutation occurred
one at first, then two, then four, then more
forgetting that all were once destined to die,
in a crimson clockwork fashion

apoptosis
the new invader would hear nothing
of this strange word, for it was the emperor of maladies,
its geometric procession a spinning spectacle to behold,
purloining space from the mortality hobbled trillions
evicted by cancer's kangaroo court

it will have its reign,
this galloping ghost maker, until
the host gives up the fight, and
that which fed its gluttony  
will starve it as blithely
as the body gave it
******* birth
inspired by my reading of the Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Emperor of All Maladies, A Biography of Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee
Duke Thompson  May 2015
dis
Duke Thompson May 2015
dis
I am Zen master's tea 1130 window sun
I am HanShan's eternal mountain gladness
I am Des Cartes mapping out antineuroses
I am Blue whale sinking beneath blue sea
I am Red archean hot volcanic fissure bed
I am Dead cell apoptosis disintegrated
K Marie  May 2015
Prions
K Marie May 2015
I never had much of an ability to be anything except an emotional disaster. I didn’t spend a lot of time outside of my head, and when I did it was usually to dive headfirst into the head of someone else. I spent the vast majority of my daily life in a broken-down shell of myself masquerading as someone that had their **** together. For some reason, people accepted the facade. That’s what they usually ended up liking.
    I always regarded myself as a disease. I had an incubation period that was relative to how long it took someone to get me to trust them. After that, the cells of my disease would rapidly multiply and explode, permeating the membranes of all of their senses and rationalities. My disease would break through the double-helix of their DNA and integrate itself in the fragile bridges of their nitrogenous bases, reflecting adenine for their thymine, cytosine for their guanine until finally the helix reunited, delicately interconnecting the chromosomes as I spilled out all the worst sides of myself.
    The infectious agents of my toxicity would then slowly descend the ladders of hydrogen bridges and filter back out through the phospholipid bilayer to swim freely into their bloodstream, swimming through their veins to seek out the nervous system. Freely hopping along synapses, my disease gently touches neurons and triggers proteins buried deep inside their nuclei, causing the slow degradation and eventual apoptosis, killing off the ability to recognize that I am not a normal person.
    The electrical impulses spread from axon to axon, igniting a ridiculous idea that I am no disease. The toxins follow the impulses, riding along the shockwaves. The toxins arrive in the mind and slide off the branches of electricity to hold fast to brain proteins, forcing them to take on the shape of the toxins and eroding holes in all the neural processing centers that govern reason and logic, robbing the person of the ability to detect all the red flags I wave frantically in front of their faces.
    The toxins slide into the erosions and stand upon the corpus callosum, the delicate connection between the cerebral hemispheres, and wonder at the magnitude of the destruction they cause. They take a running start and leap from hemisphere to hemisphere and back again, skipping between the associative areas and primary cortices so the immune system cannot ever catch them.
They settle in the prefrontal cortex, the seat of neural power, the orchestra of complex thought. The toxins settle deep into the gyri and sulci, wedge themselves into the folds of all the grey matter.
Once infection is over, once I have eroded the very cytoskeletons that hold their cells together, they breathe, “I love you.”

— The End —