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When Van Gogh cut off his ear
It was for reassurance that the rest of him could disappear

That illusion of ownership that nerves create
Should have faded with each baby tooth I lost
It didn't though, contrariwise I worried I would extend
Into roads or trees and then feel the tire's friction or the elm's blight

Empathy is a ***** of its own
I pray I never wake up with a Siamese twin
I'd have to care, lest we lapse into mutual sadomasochism
That hilarious territory of bored lovers

The Thalidomide kids might get a kick
out of feeling new arms attached to other people
but that's the exception that proves the rule

After the Vietnam war, some men believed Agent Orange
Had followed them home, alive in newly discovered nerves
Now what odd god must be behind that ****!

Mengele often awoke from dreams sweating and sure
That his patients would learn a trick to generate biological anesthetics
He needed the feedback of sound to really understand the human body
“Prayer or pleading” he used to say with a wink to his bartender after work

Sometimes I worry that my nervous system
Might have a Mengelian agenda of its own

That I am woven into a potential torture chamber seems clear
but then I remember that I can always pull the tooth or cut off the ear
Travis Green  Aug 2018
Shotgunned
Travis Green Aug 2018
An immense circle of thoughts was clouding
my brain in this room of reconfigured dimensions,
the spinning ceiling fan whirling into a windmill,
the ******* floors breaking into a wave of sharpened
metaphors, the expressionless curtains filled with fear
and crashing scenery, a dark hollow surface converging
in a rhythm of insane beats, imprisoned noted drumming,
disentangled sentences, shattering subjects, compressed
conjunctions and compounds accelerating into an eternity
of uncolored existences, as I stare at the isolated sky,
swollen stars diverging in a broken pattern of faded worlds,
the breathless moon sunken in a domain of interchangeable
languages, meaningless mazes, chopped consonants,
crumbling dreams, everything shifting in a sea of diminishing
whirlpools, while I drifted into a realm of uncaged thoughts,
a crushing cycle of unbalanced worlds, dizzy and senseless
paragraphs bleeding into timeless realities.  My eyes are
plummeting and shackled in drumbeating rhetoric, lost logos,
swallowed pathos, enveloped ethos, rainless cheeks, cloaked chests,
handcuffed arms, square root hips disassembling into deferred
depictions, distilled dreams, shadowed feet hardly more than a
poetic sound, a sore scrawled letter stretched in ragged angles,
stinging, helpless horizons.  I gazed at the shattered glass on
the kitchen floor, how its cracking vibration rumbled inside
my veins, how its impossible syllables blazed my soul,
the burning air around my inner being suffocating in Saturn,
vanishing in Venus, exploding on Earth, every ****** debris
splitting in horrid labyrinths, a screaming depth hidden in
disguise.  I glanced around at the broken wall where
my drunken dad fists where imprinted, the mangled wood
hanging in drugged vowels, the rotten symmetry disappearing
in chalky chambers, roughly lined hues declining without a trace,
as I reflected on the series of events that transpired, the way I
could hear the slamming door raging inside my vessel,
enflamed flaming verbs hovering in high rhymes,
hardened adjectives, destroyed derivatives, disintegrating
equations, the way his bladed feet dragged across the floor,
every reverberating step drowning the sunken space between us,
unwritten surroundings trapped in the atmosphere, confined in a
cloud of inconsolable galaxies, the raging fire stained ***** bottle
wedged between his grubby hands, as I could smell the reeking
breath sifting out of his mouth onto my monotonous flesh,
the same ruthless flow traveling in stuttering nouns, drowning
my heart in Neptune, while I listened to his blazing bloodshot
words, You are nothing without me!  You are worthless!  
You are just a filthy *****!  I wish you would die!  The rising
diction clenched every part of my frame, the way I could breathe
in the asphalt in his tasteless lips, a dying aroma that made me feel
like I was a featureless street seeping into underground dungeons, undone, a destroyed beauty shotgunned.
Deneka Raquel Jun 2014
I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.
I just express my emotions is what I'm trying to say. This poems sounds like I'm rambling..
Terry Jordan Oct 2018
I used to have 4 brothers
And loved them all the same
The eldest used us siblings
For where to lay the blame

Hoping reincarnation
Proves true after a while
Dan said his fondest wish was
Return an only child

Soon I arrived, his sister
Right after Dan turned 2
He fed me peanut butter
Until my face turned blue

Dan denied that he loved me
As kids did, once or twice
But he jumped in to save me
When I fell through the ice

Surviving eighteen months then
My baby crib moved on
I moved to the bottom bunk
My next brother was born

Named for our dad’s Commander
World War II not fearing
Ted was sent to Vietnam
Where he would lose his hearing

Neighbors once thought we were twins
Blond hair and Dad’s blue eyes
Family strife split us apart
Though close in age and size

He can’t hear but does read lips
That bomb, it took its toll
Seems no single moment’s joy
PTSD took hold

Next came Bill when I was 6
AKA “Sweet William”
Boundless joy and endless love
His broad smiles worth millions

When I loved chocolate ice-cream
That was his favorite, too
He is my son’s Godfather
His wise words helped me through

I have no clue what ended
Brotherly affection
Before 2 brothers died he
Cut off real connection

Sam was born prematurely
When I was twelve years old
Spent 5 months incubating
Before we took him home

Our father’s disappointment
Sam never went to college
Didn’t want to play football
Was seeking other knowledge

Sam learned how engines functioned
By disassembling cars
Made candles in the basement
An Eagle Scout-golf star

A heart of gold he suffered
Much doggerel and strife
Alcohol’s what dogged him till
Tragically took his life

Divided family members
I’m actor and spectator
Seeking to forge connections
Reunion instigator

Some gather for funerals
A wedding now and then
I mourn, alone, Dan and Sam
Lament what might have been

Hadn’t been able to finish this piece until I took a long vacation. I still have 2 living brothers, but neither responds to my overtures. One can't hear me, and the other is not speaking.  New Englanders are known for denial and take-it- to-the-grave-grudges.  I guess I really don't want to know why.
Third Eye Candy May 2014
the ghosts around your moist lips
clipping the sweet drench of our limp wish....
the spectral harlots of our far lit lamps
and the damp parlors of our damaged camps
pitched.
the pit of our peaches, fussing the cuff
of our sap. the honey bonds -
of our wayward damp
runes...  
that
we caste  to undo
any telling
of our demise, to save our precious
myth.
to keep our ruse
amused...

my darling... goodnight... though nothing is good
and we have only the night.... goodnight.

i will
trouble you no more
but labor to keep your sweet grief
mine.
to contend
with your unending medallions
of perfect regret, to pass your palm
with silver drek, the likes of which
your liking, may learn to kiss
with two lips
at dead
stop.

if this is the end
tremble and be
trembling.
our disassembling
locks
our open door
and nothing more than vanishing
remains, where our appearance
mocks the
same.

goodnight... though nothing is good, and the light is a darkness,
a trump of knives and a far thing,
up too close
to save a prayer for the plight of fools
and just too far
to pry our hands from live
grenades...

to live for.

but to die
yes.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
I sorta sleep in my underwear.

Another lie.

I sleep in the ****,
when I have the energy
to remove the day's toil off of my
skin, which is not so easy.

No special creme, cleanser.
too tired to tirade, living life,
fall in to bed worn,
shoes et. al., the ones that need soles.
you already knew that.

wake up in the dark.
start to disrobe,
and soon enough, *******,
another poem done.

the poem of course is me ****,
so you get to see what
is under what I wear.

So I sorta sleep in my under-what-I-wear,
is not exactly a lie,
just me dissembling^
and/or disassembling
another day in this life.
^ dissemble verb, dis·sem·bled, dis·sem·bling.
— verb (used with object)

to give a false or misleading appearance to; conceal the truth or real nature of: to dissemble one's incompetence in business.
to put on the appearance of; feign: to dissemble innocence.
Obsolete . to let pass unnoticed; ignore.

A humorous adjunct to this
Nat Lipstadt · Jun 15
How I Defrosted My Woman
Or
Nat Lipstadt · Sep 8
I don't sleep in p.j's
at first a few drops
becomes a raging torrent
bursting from my eyes
Senryu
listen to the man who saved the lives of seven men from an ammonia spill without the use of a respirator and pulled them to safety.
listen to the man who single handedly fixed an airplane and saved the airport millions of dollars in cost.
listen to the man with an eight and a half inch **** accompanied by the woman who keeps a ruler in her purse to measure it.
listen to the man who pull shotguns on the high school football team with his mole faced companion for beating up his little brother.
listen to the man who arc welded a kid into a locker for putting his hand down his sisters pants.
listen to the man who pulled the greatest senior prank ever by disassembling a Cadillac and re-assembling it in the school cafeteria overnight.
listen to the man who goes to the bar at seven in the morning and orders a root beer, only to be quickly rejected by the bartender.
listen to the man who beer bongs Dr. Peppers.
listen to the man who has diabetes and self regulates his blood sugar by drinking a six pack of Mountain Dew.
listen to the man who orders an extra large pizza to himself and throws his body over it when you get too close to him.
listen to the man who believes that cold ravioli in a can, not only tastes good but won't make you sick.
listen to the man that claims to be the best singer in the world.
listen to the man who disciplines his step son in the bathroom at the super bowl party.
listen to the man who will dunk a head of lettuce in a bowl of ranch and eat it whole.
listen to the man who eats green bell peppers like Granny Smith apples.
listen to the man who eats bagel sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
listen to the man who walks with his head down and as soon as he looks up his leg submerges into a latex trench.
listen to the man who grabs his fat wife by the dog collar and forces his tongue down her throat in public.
listen to the man who will ****, wipe his ***, not wash his hands and serve you taco dip with his **** fingers.
listen to the man who takes one sip of pbr and screams the he can't handle it.
listen to the man who gets pelted in the back with an ice ball and slowly looks back in disapproval.
listen to the man who won't tell perverted jokes with mixed company.
listen to the man with the wet noodle.
listen to the man who drives down the highway getting road head by his wife and finishes in her mouth right before they get to the toll booth attendant.
listen to the man who warns you that there's a homosexual in the room.
listen to the man that got revenge on an ex-lovers new squeeze by taking the lug nuts off his car and throwing them in the bottom of the pool on a cold November day.
listen to the man who gives himself a nickname that nobody will call him.
listen to the man who pulls away from work to eat a frozen dinner, only to get yell at by his trainer in mid indulgence.
listen to the man who bought a card and flowers for his wife after she found he had been a dating website and didn't get a single reply in the past three years.
listen to the man who has worked every job you every had and always has a story to one up yours.

they will all tell you the same thing:

      .....not now, Kelly might get jealous.
Fabricated stories by an ex coworker that inspired me to write this poem.
what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known
Amanda Kay Burke Jul 2021
Yes I am a beautiful disaster
In my wake leave a bittersweet taste
A special kind of love in soul
Most of it goes to waste

I long to stop disassembling
Pieces one by one
My demons have spoken
They warn I've just begun

Hiding in the silence
I am too afraid to share
Do not like the way opening up feels
Like winter branches laid bare

Pages of heart are torn
Many stained with tears
Can judge this book by it's cover
As dark as it appears

As whispers flow throughout mind
Uttered from lips of memories
Wishing my residual sorrow
Would be carried with the breeze

Suffering rising into air
Dispersing until completely gone
Hard as I try to blow them away
Miseries keep clutching on

My words lie at bottom of my lungs
Too tired to crawl out
They weigh down my shaky breath
Until every one turns to doubt

I retreat into the shadows
Cloaked in grey and black
Waiting for happiness to return
My colors may never come back
I am a cute wreck (my version of a hot mess)
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars

But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site

A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling

He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid

He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun

So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said

The End
Alexsandra Danae Jul 2013
ANGUISH,
a wicked, deafening drum
synced with the brutal,
monotonously thudding rhythm
of my own jaded,
bitter heart's sickly beat
each throb of my
pulse rips savagely
at my seams
the wretched sobbing
of a crumbling soul
trickles and weeps out from me
and darkly cloaked
within the furthest reaches
of my disassembling being
secrets spun into silky
spider web strands
ensnare any shreds of light
holding truth and hopes
captive until they can be
drained to lifeless husks
****** to infinite suffocation
struggling with an unconquerable  battle
a war, the likes of which
no human has ever,
even just once,
managed to have won
there's no cure,
no remedy to mend
what's broken, breaking,
shattering all around

I'M CRYING and begging at
an unseen God to come
come to my rescue
pleading for an intangible,
omniescent being to
destroy the tower built by
my own sinful nature
my own deceit
praying to a Creator
whose very existence I
still can't help but to
question and sink in doubts
but for that miniscule chance
He's real and might
maybe help me...
because the very reality
of such mercy and grace
could bring this
otherwise undefeatable
curse crashing down,
down, down, down...

THE DRUMMING,
banging out its mad rhythm
of anguish
changing, changing now
changing its infuriating tune...
with the final
dying grains of
my imagination,
I'll shove aside my
terror; my unholy fear
of the relentless
force of disappointment
I'll indubitably feel when
I reach my finishing line
clutching onto a
hideous fail
such an asinine act,
this allowing of a bitsy
fragment of hope
to creep and crawl
inside the walls
of my mind
but I've nothing more
left beyond this
bleak black floor
sagging beneath my feet
and a hope,
regardless how quiet,
no matter how
pitifully dim,
could quite easily be
the absolute  final
spark of light that
my eyes shall ever see...

— The End —