#culling
~
the Nth culling
~
she gentled sleeps besides the imperfect poet,
who has wandered the hallways since four am,
retuning his returning
to their temple bed,
to cull, pluck, her each precious breathing sound,
source material for his
Nth
love poem
smirking at his own
Nth foolishness,
weeping tears at the consequences
of human interactions,
he wonders,
why does he worry,
searching to distinguish
between the black and white of life,
hunting for meaningful words
*when all the while
he has the vein of her breathing to mine,
as if he were a
Ruth,
following behind
the harvest reapers,
culling a bounty of
dropped grains,
fallen unto him to
garner, imbibe and memorize*
those Nth breaths,
that last but seconds,
but here memorialized for
his own
all time
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
~thank u Jenny for the commission~
———
I Wish:(1)
it’s been a while since they culled the herds
in my neighborhood
on the posh posh Upper East Side,^
in fact, ole Natty,
had to look up culling to be sure he really remembered
its so practical meaning,
til J. refracts this titled phrase,
and here I am @4:10am,
culling sighs
again
not hard to guess,
I’m both a prodigious
sigher
and user of
four letter words
when a sigh just won’t do
writ a lot poem stuffing;
but truth be told
(which~when stated, means that nice person is likely lying)
you could take every turkey overcooked
on Thanksgiving day
stuff’em
with all the sigh-sins in/of my life
that I unbeknownst to me, Naturally,
were being kept in the storage closet,
until they flooded the basement,
and I was told, very poshly,
them or me,
had to
giddiup on outta here
but on a serious note,
(nah, never)
should we, us,
take a day to commemorate our
profusions of delusions,
teary eyed moments,
chest pained issuances
from a manipulative tv show,
or aa sad, sad, melancholy
mellow melodious, bellowing,
poem(?),
when contemplating the preponderance of things that
makes us think, of the abouts, which we can do nothing,
with copious exhalations a/k/a big big sighs,
another ingenious decision by our procreative semi~human designer,
so we could all claim,
we would all be very rich
in something…
and secretly we cull them sighs,
witch earns your an ascot scrip for anti depressant meds,
when the lover who-was-is not-now-anymore,
because humans get bored or some other reason stoopingly stupid,
“reason,”
when the ones who truly loved you no-matter-what
have to depart,
and them,
are always, well kept, neatly numbered,
in the right side of our brain^^,
in an area some call their treasury,
ready to be summoned either
on a quik calling up,
or a tortured slow volcanic upheaval,
when we recall too well
the most human side of being human,
and the sighs are just in waiting,
left wet in the tissues we’ve kept,
as commemorative
keepsakes
so,
indeed we do cull our tears,
they do not get gone with the wind,
in fact,
many come to reside here,
like the single,
accompanied by,
the-single-tear
I have just
shed, writ,
and will do so
again/again/again
<nml>
4:56am/Tue/11/11/25
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 3:36 PM UTC
People, we should all burn
We poison this world and each other
Simply because we are unhappy.
Yet we have the ***** to say
We're good people
While we hold blades
To the throats of those around us
The only cure to this disease
Is a culling.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
Listen to me,
My love,
listen to me.
The urgent call of your name rings through the air,
Like a warning bell being sound off.
Loathe the way you wash over my body,
Consuming the dark corners of self indulgence,
As if you know the culling sways my every move.
If you knew the damage,
The turmoil,
The rot in my brain,
That spreads the more I touch you,
The more I breathe you in,
Poison in the warning bells.
I sink lower into these depths,
How I will rise,
I do not know.
But it begins with engaging with my pain
As motive.
I begin here,
Forfeiting my life to the self indulgence I've denied myself.
Sep 29, 2020
Sep 29, 2020 at 10:27 PM UTC
An ashen late Autumn was upon us,
and in our best worn coats and sundries we--
held steadfast by a masthead of a rotting boat.
Wooden on a shore of the lake we adored.
We held still as soft deer galloped their lanks through strange
lands lifted from grounds with brick built upon brick,
wherein now were filled, not berries, but hunter's saltlick.
We ravaged a place we called our own,
We stole from the savages their home.
But we found a peace amongst their nerves,
and we were fearful of speed and we'd swerve,
if ever we found in our path one that deserved,
to have the freedom to rummage through roughage.
On this solemn lake-side we found pride in the soft light.
Because what the **** else can we do,
but to sit where once grass stood in dew,
and instead of plucking and mucking about,
no, in lieu, we sat and stared and remarked,
instead about how we've done damage we can't undo.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
[There Are] Things You Can Never Change
You make provision for; you train,
Prepare, do anything you can,
And still,
You have to deal with the moment:
Variations never-ending,
Ever modifying and evolving
Subject to the will
Of something your own will,
Will never understand.
(why do you think there are so many meanings to the word?)
Good luck, and blessings on us all.
May we cull the best from life in every world
That may/may not exist.
[There Are] Things You Can Never Change 11.25.2017
Definitely Didactic; Circling Round Reality;
Arlene Corwin
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC