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CK Baker Jan 2017
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen

peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack

folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
r Feb 2016
Lucy kissed a jawbone
bye beneath a diamond sky

2.8 million years
and a gazillion tears ago

That's a lot of sorrow

for a man
kinda like me.

http://www.theguardian.com/science/2015/mar/04/jaw-bone-discovery-in-ethiopia-is-oldest-ever-human-lineage-remai­ns
Thanks, Creek.
Austin Heath Jun 2014
Peak temperature water levels fake diagnoses white psychopaths starving hunger jingoism violence [systems that deprive us] guns entitlement shots fired accidents grief/mourning choking hazard corporate mascots corporate favoritism corporate bailouts corporate people ideology without monitor nationalism patriotism conservatives patriarchy ******-****-suicide victim silence lack of conviction religious ******* false history infant mortality job insecurity invisible hands trickle down economics union busters corporate police brutal police evil police secret police debt bankruptcy foreclosure homelessness lost confused prisoner criminal banker war preparations propaganda ballots commercials advertisements campaigns money power puppets figureheads armies genocides **** bomb gas fire no survival violence wealthy lawyers assassinations heart complications death sleep.
Just the thought of them makes your jawbone ache:
those turkey dinners, those holidays with
the air around the woodstove baked to a stupor,
and Aunt Lil's tablecloth stained by her girlhood's gravy.
A doggy wordless wisdom whimpers from
your uncles' collected eyes; their very jokes
creak with genetic sorrow, a strain
of common heritage that hurts the gut.

Sheer boredom and fascination! A spidering
of chromosomes webs even the infants in
and holds us fast around the spread
of rotting food, of too-sweet pie.
The cousins buzz, the nephews crawl;
to love one's self is to love them all.
Lily H Nov 2011
Our love is like a jawbone
On a frail patient
With cancer of the bone
On the outside, it seems normal
But underneath, the brittle sponge
Deteriorates to dust, until the whole thing
Separates, exposing the lie
No therapy can fix it

They say exercising helps
So we run our mouths
At each other till
Your well-aimed words
Shatter everything
Mote Dec 2022
winter has come to the snowglobe and i was not prepared. god was. they’re into this. this past that is not a past. wants to know if it puppies me. and it does. it fevers. i wake in the night and in the night i boil my jawbone. i am caught, no-handed, by god. it’s thrilling. god says keep your tongue where i can see it, so i stand. jawless. stemmed. dreamy. my tongue is wide open. god kisses it and cries. says your little soul. your little soul on fire. says tell me the story of the jawbone. tell me about the snow angels, and how ill you fell when you licked their heels-
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


I guess most of you will be born when
Taban Makitiyong Reneket lo Liyong is dead
When he will be already another ****** dead
Myself I am luck I have met relative of zinjathropus
I have shared a table and a roof
With Liyong the poetical witch of port Africa
Let me tell you how he is and what puzzles him;
He is black and short stumpy and weak
In his shadow of seventy years, a sagacious septuagenarian
He has **** eyes and his protruding nose is keen
On solving problems of an African girl child
He has read all the books in the world
Apart from the book of Amos in the evil Bible
He is ugly in the face and breathes cacophonously
In the left north with heavy sound
He is an aggressive eater with sharp appetites
Towards African herbs and turkana beef; goat meet
He is a sympathetic listener who gets
Inspiration by listening to the young
He loves all students with passion, but who knows
He loves poems and incantations
From the akuku culture in southern Sudan
Where he was born before becoming a temporary Ugandan
He is fond of taking knowledge upwards
The palm wine tree along the shores and coastlines
This is where he found the fellow son of zinjathropus
A palm wine Drinkard in the name of Amos Tutuola,

Taban wonders why Frantz Omar Fanon has
The un-even ribs on the sides
Taban wonders why there are no aged Chinese in the world
Why turkana women are the most beautiful in Africa
But they play like playing bush love where
But every time before you go off her top
The deadly desert scorpion bites you on the leg
Why The Babukusu of east Africa stopped their revolution
Why the books of Ali A Mazrui form a succinct tribe
Why the Masai chiefs eat as peasants beggingly look
Why there is oil in turkana area and no turkana man knows where oil is
Why Obama has not read his fixions and meditations, his youthful oeuvre
Why Wole Soyinka used to be jailed by foolish people in Nigeria
Why Achebe and Okigbo condemned Captain Elechi Amadi to detention
During the tribally secessionist Igbo war of Biafra
Why publishers in Kenya take bribes in kind
Especially whisky, pilsner, viceroy, smirnoff and freezing tusker
Why Pablo Neruda was not born in Congo
Why Jews are all over the world but none is seen
Why thirteen offenses against his enemies
Never shook the world like Das kapitel of Karl Marx
Why man cannot eat socialism but only bread and wine
Why Ramogi Acheing Oneko was not in Lodwar prison
Why Paul Ngei broke the leg of Jomo Kenyatta
When they were in detention at Lodwar
Why he missed by a whisker to betroth Grace Ogot
A Luo babie who leaves in the land without
Neither thunder nor promise of thunder
In the bossomy bossom of Bethwel Ogot
Whose foot prints on the sands of times
Hat to Sent Daniel arap Moi Home shout a lame poem;
Jogoo! Jogoo! Jogoo! Jogoo!
Why a short fat big headed man the poet in this poem
Asked him why he launched Christmas in Lodwar during December 2013
But not the intellectually logical So what and Show What
Why turkana men don’t put on *******
But still their ***** cannot make three percent in size
Of the size of the ***** of a Luhyia man Mr. Wanyama
Who hosted Taban during chrismas in Lodwar
Why his tribesmen will remove six front teeth
From his lower jawbone when he is dead.
Kristen Hain Sep 2015
Often times I’m staring
Awing in the curves of full blooming lips
Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss
The journey through the damp forest after warm rain
It is all awake alive and breathing clearly
Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves
I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me
Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up
Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup
Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil
The pools of honey drip further toward me
My feet find it impossible to remove themselves
So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm
Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes
Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way
Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown
You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry
Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times
Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders
Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin
Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down
It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept
Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces
Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings
Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings
Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch
You are the rain forest from sunrise
My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner
But I know such things and if they were to **** me,
I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok
With roots buried miles deep
Audrey Sep 2014
Even though your funeral was in the summer,
It felt like autumn the way the tears
Hung off Aunt Shelley's jawbone like cold raindrops
On the eaves of the old porch,
The way Grandpa's eyes were too red and wet and
A thousand years away,
The way Dad's sorrow poured out of folded arms and tight lips,
Soft like worn leather,
The way it rained too lightly to add any cliché dreariness.
I just couldn't think of that red granite box as you, even though I
Knew
It was the soft gray remains of your body.
Death is not like winter, cold and harsh
Death is autumn, life draining from bodies,
Life drip-dripping from stuttering lips and
Once-strong grips
Death is watching summers of laughter and hugs fade to
Hospital rooms and rain-grey skin and
Slow sad songs like wind in red-brown, dead-brown leaves
And feeling a slow, quiet loneliness invade your veins.
Your death was not cold, impersonal sterile white; it was the
Aching melancholy melody of removing
One shade of green
From a palette, not noticed in the painting at large
But felt  keenly in the way the artist's hand no longer
Cues that brushstroke.
Watching you die was watching all the green leach out of the leaves
And turn them briefly, painfully on fire,
Standing in a field of emerald grass and feeling it
Crinkle and turn yellow-orchre under cold fingers
Collapsing into mud.
Watching Death from the outside is the single
Most painful part of your painless process.
When you took your last breath, your features were a
Picture-perfect memory of peace, even as my face was a
Mask of confusion, my chest heaving with stale hospital air
The way yours would never again.
I wanted to run outside and imagine all the trees turning red-gold
In your honor, mimicking your final
Blaze of glory in that last smile.
Autumn came early that year, though no trees
Turned
Til October.
Even in the middle of spring I can smell the
Rain-woods-wind-wine scent of your autumn soul
And it makes me smile.
Paul Donnell Sep 2017
In his tower of fish bone and stench
the sea called and the sea wept
He looked upon the promise of chance

A ribcage still with breath
the bird inside whiskey wet
callin out to the sea
"ohhh why can't you love me"

The moon it rose the tide did too
he unhitched the drift wood canoe
and the current stole all uncertainty

he rowed on, lost sight of shore
surrounded by what he adored  
water still; he feels complete
his birdie sang it's masterpiece.

He broke his ribs and let it fly,
"no need for that when i've got whats mine"
he watched his heart catch a westward breeze.

The king of bones, bleached by the sun
stepped out his boat immersed in love
his soul transfixed upon her depth
he looked down deep and held his breath

Ohhh he never saw it coming


The storm came and sent him down
her leviathans ate his crown
***** picked and scraped what laid at bottom

Swept away and drowning now
Grabbed for his bird and tried to howl
his fingers met the broken ribs
"how could I have fallen for this?"

Ohh a jawbone fit for a crown
The king of bones, the ocean drowns

her relentless undertow
dragged him to the shore he knows
smashed against the rocks, cracked and broken

ohh a jawbone fit for a crown
The king of bones, the ocean drowns.

So now he walks filled with pain
his birdie drowned in the hurricane
oh he was left wonderin, what coulda been.

ohh a jawbone fir for a crown
the king of bones the ocean drowns..
I

All all and all the dry worlds lever,
Stage of the ice, the solid ocean,
All from the oil, the pound of lava.
City of spring, the governed flower,
Turns in the earth that turns the ashen
Towns around on a wheel of fire.

How now my flesh, my naked fellow,
Dug of the sea, the glanded morrow,
Worm in the scalp, the staked and fallow.
All all and all, the corpse's lover,
Skinny as sin, the foaming marrow,
All of the flesh, the dry worlds lever.

            II

Fear not the waking world, my mortal,
Fear not the flat, synthetic blood,
Nor the heart in the ribbing metal.
Fear not the tread, the seeded milling,
The trigger and scythe, the bridal blade,
Nor the flint in the lover's mauling.

Man of my flesh, the jawbone riven,
Know now the flesh's lock and vice,
And the cage for the scythe-eyed raver.
Know, O my bone, the jointed lever,
Fear not the screws that turn the voice,
And the face to the driven lover.

            III

All all and all the dry worlds couple,
Ghost with her ghost, contagious man
With the womb of his shapeless people.
All that shapes from the caul and suckle,
Stroke of mechanical flesh on mine,
Square in these worlds the mortal circle.

Flower, flower the people's fusion,
O light in zenith, the coupled bud,
And the flame in the flesh's vision.
Out of the sea, the drive of oil,
Socket and grave, the brassy blood,
Flower, flower, all all and all.
Rangzeb Hussain Jul 2010
VI

“Hearken, all ye there!”

Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis

It began, as these things tend to do, with a quartz encrusted howl,
Lamenting under the crystalline shadows of Leda’s heartrending growl,
Her ravished moon bled and sank into the vocal cords of guilt coated cowards,
“Come back, come back! Oh, frivolous sanity thou art truly unjust, most unkind!”
Right here in this lonely place did my Darling dear spill devotion onto spiced dust,
She swayed on the rickety ridge surveying her sapphire kingdom’s splintered trust,
There it lay glittering, her city of cities, nothing now but a jeweled corpse.

V

“Know ye not of the oft-told tale of the drinking-well at World’s End?”

Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco

My Lady who did fire the lyre of Orpheus, she weeps there in the misty chilled cold,
Wild it is, all about her the night wind nibbles at the skin clothing her fractured soul,
Cacophonic waves of regret silently scurry to labyrinths entombed with truths bold,
“Come back, come back! Oh, to my tempestuous ***** hasten with thy canticles!”
The symphonic fingers of fog pluck a requiem upon her autumn flavoured hair,
My Queen is attired for her banquet at tables far beyond Persephone’s desolate tears,
On the precipice her figure rises for the final faithful leap into Styx’s stratosphere.

IV

“Behold now the dread eyes of Hades, see how they hunger blood at the boil!”

Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro

Carnivorous tasted memory plagues the betrayed Minotaur’s desired deliriums,
On these haunted shores I clutched her close and eagerly inhaled love’s elusive serum,
Legend has it a suicide was here on this very cliff-top, ‘twas a true Roman centurion,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let us under Demeter’s enchanted orchards lie!”
My obsidian-eyed Beauty gathers her eggs and over the fearful edge she unfurls them,
Closer to the dead of Euphrates she steps, I to madness hurtle as one condemned,
Bind savage Cerberus for the solitary reign of the wolf is fate for all hanged men.

III

“Prometheus thou hast drunk Pandora’s poisons, what sayest now the Titans?”

Tres Tres Tres

Golden fleeced days into the fleshy ground of Morpheus’s realm did seep away,
How well spent they were not even immortal Calypso shall decipher nor say,
Would that mine myopic ears had been shorn and tossed into Pompeii’s crisp clay,
“Come back, come back! Oh, gentle Maid no more, I beg thee stay awhile yet!”
What was it? Was it me? No, no, it could not be me for I was Achilles buried asleep,
How little we then knew, we two did partake of the stinging, you the wasp I the bee,
Mayhap ‘twas this unlocked the plumed towers to thy curled universe tunneled deep?

II

“Therefore did the Serpent spake and pronounce a judgment most nefarious!”

Dos Dos

She thinks back, my Lady fairer than Medea, she remembers a time happier,
Really there was, hear yet my credo, once upon-a-time there was no doubting terror,
But then a thing did into our guarded haven breach and wreathe about my treasure,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let me slake my thirst with thy honeyed spirit!”
My flesh did crawl, my fangs grew sharp, my spittle ran down and my fur stood taut,
The jawbone stiffened and all the while I burnt like an infernal phoenix caught,
Oh, my sweetly crazed fruit, did I for real the horror upon you wrought?

I

“Would that thou didst offer me thy riches upon the hour of the violet twilight...”

Uno

Wolfsbane moon, high above it rose in that final cracking of sacramental bones,
My Lady much wrong did you I, forever for this will the beast in me atone,
Now, at this baleful hour has the wolf left you on the edge of an embryonic cyclone,
“And so to the Elysian Fields where insanity fertilizes the soul do I embark...”
You cross the Rubicon and glide into the obliterating arms of Plutonic eternity,
The wolf, me, is left clawing your hooded red robe with absolutely no certainty,
I see you sailing upon Neptune’s trident, forever adrift on oceans of eternal cruelty.

N

“Seekest thou sanctuary in the hinterlands where the man with one eye is King?”

Cero...

pretium libertas est nex**



©Rangzeb Hussain
Morgan Jan 2017
I can smell your laughter on my skin for days
And your smile lights my room long after you've gone

And I've been homesick every where
Since I turned seventeen
But I don't have that yearning lately,

You are lavender walls
And cherrywood floors

You are warm vanilla cuddles
And ruby red grapefruit kisses

And I am warm in the dead of winter,

And I am home inside of myself

And I've been trying to find the
Words to tell you,

That my heart skips rocks
Over the lake you've laid down

And I'm jumping in puddles
When you start to rain

I'm admitting things I've kept
A secret
From myself
With your soft hands
gently wrapped
Around my throat

I count my blessings
When the sunlight swallows my bedroom

I'm not a zombie
Rising from a coffin

I'm a kid
Excited to begin

Every day

I'm excited to begin

Please don't leave

I drop you off in your gravel driveway
And I feel whole the whole way home

Please don't leave

I touch your jawbone
And my teeth are
No longer daggers
Inside my gums

The letters that fall
From my tongue
Are rose petals,
Sugar,
Tea leafs,
Where they once were
Dust
And dirt
And blood

Please don't leave me
Spitting up charcoal again

I cough cocoa powder

I am getting younger every day

I cry maple syrup

I am getting safer every day

I bleed pomegranate

I am getting stronger every day

Please stay
leechyna Oct 2020
'''I thought naked beautiful woman in front of me makes me a good poet
Until I tried writing a poem in front of one
" hips seldomly hilly nor watery
Valley still waterrrrrry
Hey jawbone still showing her dimple
Why make her carry perfect melons God??🤤 "
I never held myself back anymore😂😂🤤🤤
I had to write a real poem with a real pen'''
JL May 2013
I have love for you
Rooted in my jawbone

Your secret perfume
Convection heat in a back seat

I want your thin fingers
Tangled in the web of my ribs

I want to lose you
In the honeycombed purple layers of my heart tissue

I will cradle your head on my sternum
Letting my lungs do the work

If only
Your elbows were not so sharp

Then I would crave the dig of your fingernails
Your pastures of hair
The butterfly tremble of your lips

Speechless- words no longer hold the weight
My tongue on the novel curves of your sigh
Tasting the twenty summers of your growth

Trembling due to lack of oxygen
Trembling at the onset of lust

The kneading want of knuckle bones
Drawing me ever closer to the colors of light

Static in the stereo of the
Cerebral cortex

Bunched nerves
Shocked into submission
By your bleached bone canines


Open and breathe
The quick pinch endocrine valves
Releasing steam


Drape me with your skin
Wrap me up in your pulsing warm veins

I bleed blue
On every day of the week

I am deafened
By the rage of your heartbeat

I am stricken dumb
The symphony of your eyelids
Swelling in my chest a familiar lust

The wind from your eyelashes
Could blow us out of this winter
And right into spring

All the days of the year
I bleed blue

The dedication of your palm
On my cheek
Warms me like a leaf in sunlight

Peel me layer from layer
You will find no lies in between the pages

I am your machine
Waiting to be properly lubricated
I cannot wait for our first day under the sun
I can't wait to get you out of the fluorescent lights
Of the Assembly line
We will journey together to forgotten realms
And sleep beneath the strange constellations
Andi Mar 2015
He looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world,
not like a piece of meat that is waiting to be devoured
more like he needed her like plants need sunlight
it almost seemed like she is oxygen and he needed her to be there and fill his lungs every time he took a breath
with every glance you could see the love in his eyes and the smile that played at his lips like he wanted to love her until the end of his life
and to be without her would be the end of his life
The way he looked at her said "I will never leave you"
like every moment with her could have been his last, and every moment without her was utter torture

She looked at him like he was the blood in her veins and every time she met his eyes it was the first time
like her love was unfathomable and without it she would not go on
She looked at him like she saw every moment they ever had together in the curve of his jawbone, every kiss they ever shared in the color of his lips, like all of the love in the world was resting on his brow

The prelude of their kiss, where their foreheads rested against each other and their noses touched seemed to be endless and peaceful as though nothing else existed

The moment they kissed looked like it lasted forever in their eyes, but felt so fleeting
like it kept them grounded and without it they would be 10 ft off the ground

"When I met Johnny, I was pure ******. He changed that. He was my first everything. My first real kiss. My first real boyfriend. My first fiancé. My first guy I had *** with. So he'll always be in my heart. Forever. Kind of funny that word." Winona Ryder
She sounded so nostalgic and soft, he meant the world to her
As though the world would be off centered without him

"I'd die for her. I love her so much. I don't know what I would do without her. She is going through a lot right now. I wish I could just kiss away the pain, make it go away, stop it, **** it! If she, you know, I don't know what I would do. I'd **** myself. I love that girl. I love her. I love her almost more than I love myself." Johnny Depp
He seemed so passionate, like without him he both couldn't and wouldn't want to go on
Like the world wouldn't stop, it would just cease to exist
"Believe me, this Winona Forever tattoo is not something I took lightly... Her eyes **** me."
I believe they did **** him, that just the thought of her cut him like glass
that every moment he spent with her made him love her so much it hurts

I want a love like Johnny and Winona
a love so strong that it'll leave me thinking about every kiss, every accidental brush of their arm against mine, every second since their eyes met mine. I want a love like music, a love that makes me feel like with it the world will slow to one beat per measure.
A love that feels like the ocean, they are the shore, and I am the seashells that get swept up in it
A love that is completely undeniable on every account

A love like Johnny and Winona
****** poetry I wrote at 3:00 am
Paul Donnell May 2017
A jawbone fit for a crown.
The teeth rattle in their roots as they, or I, maybe we, search for perspective.
A neat cut reveals pale skin too soft for the sun.
Beneath layers of the less understood bones protrude with the rising moon.
Taking sentiment with it.
Ribs played with hammer and claw.
A rending in pale soft light looks beautiful from the owls perch..
A mass left heaving and empty in a wheat field they or I maybe we see with closed eyes.

*Three of the hour.
A bleach white tower.
Of fish bone and stench.
An empty chalice enjoyed in a salt dried room.
A bleach white tower to keep away the moon.
A jawbone fit for a crown.
The King of Bones, the Ocean drowns.
I never quite understood the meaning of the word lonely.

the quiet of the word ghosting through my lungs
creating a safehouse in my skull
comforted by the spirit of liquor in these dry riverbeds for veins

This plastic sky is viewed from a colorblind childhood
sometimes there are no villains
the side walk chalk is a living outline,
decorated in ferocious shades of grey.

Loneliness isn't romantic,
there is no pride in being proud of your ghosts.
how ever friendly they may be
I am fluent in apologies

I am a crumpled paper pipe bomb,
Loneliness is a mother tongue
its salty words burn my jawbone,
its jaded point dug deep into my teeth

We can only tread water for so long
until we are swept under the tide
where the silence will break
the crown of our collarbones

The joke’s over,
we live to look regret in the face
loneliness, is a jagged edge of a word
its barbed wire cuts deeper than people ever could.
Kay Phase Nov 2012
fingertips
touching lips
tracing blue veins bulging
indulging
in elastic skin
absorbing the texture, the mixture
of delicacy and sin

caramel waves cascade
and invade
brows and lashes curling
swirling
through my fingers
they  l i n g e r
on cheeks
on weeks
of sideburns and stubble

white steel
feels
stronger than stone
bones
big and square, like mine
though they bite hard sometimes

lacking pad or pencil
or stencil
my hands can replicate
the contours of your jawbone

it is to your outline
design
my palms are aligned
this was mostly written about seven years ago and now contains a moderate amount of present day tweakage. this is my first post on hellopoetry - so please be kind [and honest]
~K
crowbarius Aug 2012
Daniel?

A piggish snort. Crusted eyes crack open like the wings of a beetle. Ragged nails scrape against the red-worn desert of an adolescent jawbone. A fishlipped yawn.

Ugh. What?

What did you call that plant thing again?

Jesus, James. Waxwood. It's a reddish bark. Oozes this cloudy stuff if you crush it.

Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry.

Ambient silence. Raindrops fill with rotting organic sediment and fall into the leaves around the
clapboard tollbooth. A zealous fist of ivy tightens its tattered fingers across rheumatic windowpanes.


Dan?

Mm?

Why don't you like to talk about Clifftown?

Ambient silence. Raindrops. Ivy.

I’ll tell you why I don’t like to talk about Clifftown.

Go on.

Sigh.

I was born there. Before all this happened, it was this small village where onions grew. Not many people lived there. There was... Christ. A church, a chemist, a library and a few houses. The biggest house was this tall yellow clapboard place, which was on the cliff by the sea. This kid who lived there. He wasn’t -

A thud as a gesticulating knuckle rasps against splintered pine.

-Ow, **** - didn’t look human. His head was big and soft like a berry, and his eyes were wide and wet and creepy, and he never spoke. It was like he was empty.

What’d you say his name was again?

Never did.

A dusty rubbing noise as the fluid is forced out of a cheekbone.

Leviticus Croker. He died when he fell from a low salt cliff into the sea or something. Can’t remember.

****. I’m sorry.

Don’t be. I hated him.

A lump of pressed asphalt sends a clouded multitude of motes spinning and passes screaming through the glass pane of the sunwards window. A chuckle.

That was a year ago. They had to blame somebody.

Oh. Right.

An eyelid raised in revelation traps a mote against the skin stretched taut across a young skull.

Right. ****.
david badgerow Mar 2014
my mother was a dental hygienist and dad thinks he's an architect
which means i'm used to sharpened stainless steel exploring the interior of my jawbone and lying to my father to let him keep believing he built me from the ground up.
Dre G Dec 2012
an old friend of mine
keeps paying me visits
in the early hours of the
morning when the dogs bark.

she is here now,
swirling her pale finger through
my hair, trampling mud through
my trembling synapses.

she traces over my scars, smiling
she reels the shrieks out of my trachea
she carefully collects the tears from
my jawbone and adds them to her murky hourglass.

i try to tell her i can't
play now, i have things to do,
but we both know that itself
is the reason for her visit.
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
I – the girl you observe
guilty pleasure

marching through molten black
torch ignited
orbiting phantasms in the aphotic
burning within
corruption incinerated upon ingestion

tucked behind your frame
nestling ear
lip grazing canal

zest to soliloquy
vivacious saccharine tone
ruminating in the lilt of your tongue
resting in gum scoop and jawbone (mandible) reserve

adroit pivot
humbled gaze
locked
exteroception engaged

hard swallow
pearls scooped catatonic
atop lingering breast ascension

prudent olfaction volatile
cribriform annihilation
ginger – basil - brine - ruminate

etch of lace
sailplaning flesh topographic
aureate sunlight cresting soma
intoned morning – essence of miasma
Claire Elizabeth Jul 2023
I’ve begun “The Wasting” once more.

That ragged uncovering of bones and peaks and ridges that crop up along my spine and shoulders.

My scapulas revealing themselves like the bed of a lake as the waters recede.

Indents beside and under my kneecaps, hollows that match the ones slowly sinking themselves back into my cheeks.

And the hipbones…the things I truly crave to see through the paper thin layer of my skin…

Those…I’d starve myself to waifish proportions just to graze my hands along the mountaintops of those things, those sharp little things.

I lose my hair and my colour and my shine just to dig my fingers into the hardness of my breastbone, just to know that my jawbone is an overhang, just to plunge headfirst into the thrill of being thin.

“The Wasting” and I are friends, and I want to drown in her.
Lucy Ryan Aug 2015
were you born drinking the sky
like the oceans split at your toes
when the gulls called morning?

with sleep-sunk eyes
trapped between fingers
to watch the moon bleed through

a starburst on your jawbone
cut from kissing lightning
and threading daisies through park swings

did you sleep on the soft sands
seaweed plaited through your hair
when the water called you home?

we raised you on thunderstorms
and you brought us summer rain
Jenny Nov 2013
Start by caaaaarefully removing your outermost layer of flesh - lather generously; rinse passionately; re-evaluate your life with a fine-toothed comb and carefully remove the parasites of your predetermined partiality
- String them up with clothespins to wither and flake in a badly scorched sky

- Acquire an ice pick of high quality, frosted on memories of all your ex-lovers and their numbing tongues. Begin to chisel at your own very delicate bone structure. Cease action only when the jawbone resembles the claws you disregarded in your 3 AM awakening punctured with crrreeeeaks and hazy in a soft red fog

- Dust your eyelid with arsenic until they're heavy enough to crush a small child. Tell a good joke, or two - which part of a vegetable are you not supposed to eat again? Might as well eat all of it, him, her, them - but not the wheelchair. In retrospect, pull all of your eyelashes out as well - no sense in prolonging the sought-after blackness

- Tie your lover's ruptured spleen around your waist to add a few pounds - god forbid you get too twiggy and crackle and fall into an inevitable pit of self-loathing. Stick straws through puke green nostrils and **** maggots out of gaping eye sockets. Line your lips in borrowed blood.

- Embroider your initials onto my skin and never forget where you came from.
Joshua Haines Jan 2018
These hearts have become racist
What used to be kind
And all hope to be seen
is wasted
On the stampeding blind

These teeth have become stained
What used to be white
Has been darkened by the
viscera of
those consumed by the night

These hands have become destroyers
Fingers that once saved
Equal and human;
Clean or depraved

These hands have become destroyers
I feel you chewing the limb that
used to be there
Your skin is under my nails
You're burning my fingertips
And pulling my teeth

You strangle me deep
among the sea of leaves
Flashing advertisements
in my eyes, Listening to
my every word. You tell
me I'm sacrificing for the
greater good. But I feel
submissive. I feel hateful.

You say Eve is the reason
for the downfall of mankind.
She is nothing but of rib and
even bone cracks. Saying this
as you dislodge my jawbone.
I try to argue with you, but
my language is gone.

You say that a dog is harmless
if surrounded by fence. That the
owner of the dog should pay for
the fence. That the ***** could ****
or produce pups that would ****.
I am still without words and losing
copious amounts of blood.

I am poor and no-one will acknowledge
my death. I am someone people will
forget died and will have to be reminded
years from now, during a cook-out or
amateur bowling tournament. My legacy
is that of failure and being obliterated,
justifiably so.

These people look to money,
to colors on fabric idols,
to pages in a book written by
share-croppers afraid of flooding.

Remove me, so, to remember me
for what potential may have existed.
Kindly ignore that I never resisted,
and that I, the apex of forevers, was
always ungrateful. That I conformed
and became deeply hateful.
Glenn McCrary Aug 2011
Unexpectedly he has been cracked



Squarely across his dainty skull



Inevitably to his knees he languishes



Supplemented by a concussion



Havoc is illicitly wreaked upon the delicacy



Of this young man's psyche



As another swift, sucker punch is executed



Stylishly into his jawbone



Followed by an unforeseen series



Of frenzied jabs to the nose



The anguish screams through the brooks



Of crimson oozing from his nostrils



While a dangerous haymaker



Shockingly arises from thin air



Sinking fiercely into his cornea



Rupturing the veins in his eyeball



A circular crown of black envelops



The entire surface of his left eye



Oh, the gruesome consequences of



Applauding the eminence of nonexistence



A truculent knockout that will truly



Abduct one into an eerie coma



And rightfully deliver them back to



The portion of reality where they belong
Q Mar 2013
I'm tired of hearing
About how we're all
Made of stardust

Stars, stars, stars
Like so many
Shakespearean sonnets

Maybe I want
The sliding plates of my wrist
To be made from the jawbone
Of a T-Rex

And the electrons in my brain
To have once sparked down
In a rainstorm
Over ancient China
The night the emperor died

And I wish I could go back
8 million years
To make sure that the charcoal
In your sketchbook
Is made from the roots
Of your favorite flowers
And press their petals
Into your chalk pastels

The steel second hand in the watch
Of the man in the elevator
Certainly isn't the dainty spun glass
Of a supernova
But rather the sliver of the sword
That my ancestor threw
At the feet of his
On the moors of Gaul
All those years ago
Its ancient ticking
Reminding me of debts unpaid
While the soles of his shoes
Are worked from the tar
That killed my wrist bones' sire
Eons past

We're not made of stardust,
We're made of each other,
Every atom accounted for
Between us
With nowhere to go
But on
And on
And on
Chasing each other through
Every metamorphosis
Until they've clashed and kissed
So many times
That we rip the cosmos in half
And catch fire in the debris

We're not made of stardust.
We're making it.
(1/16/13)
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.

The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity
and a tragedy. As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.

Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.

The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless

people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.

Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a warrior's jawbone or armor.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Robert Ronnow Mar 2016
Working over Birk’s Works and other tunes my saxophonist admires—
Cheesecake, Blackbird—for the theoretical, applied mathematics
inside an abstract, audial harmonization of the Big Bang and The Fall.

The derivative reveals the ***** of the tangent along the curve of
       spacetime.
Follow that rope back and forth from the known to the unknown, your
      mountain to their shore,
an umbilical cord between cities and stories, history and hope, divinity
       and mortality

                        *                        *    ­                    *

I never had anything wise or gentle to say to my parents.
About bladder function. They got the same treatment as every other
       soldier.
Which systems shut down first and how. The mail keeps coming even
      after you’ve stopped barking.

And what is man made of? Man. Tough it out, laugh about it. Take it out
on your spouse and sons. Democracy corrects itself
through constant criticism, neurotic carping, daily life as low intensity
      warfare. That’s how we show we care.

                        *                        *        ­                *

Will my letter to the editor be in the funny pages?
Will I even be able to read it?
Did I send it to the wrong address? I’ve seen my death face and it’s not
      pretty.

Maybe I can watch your varsity games from a viewfinder in the afterlife.
If I don’t finish The Iliad, maybe there’s a library there.
Maybe. Maybe is a long, long time.

                        *                        *        ­                *

Homer tries several ways to explain the slaughter:
by describing how a spear pierces a warrior’s jawbone or armor,
how Achilles’ and Agamemnon’s hissy fits contribute to the pain of being
      a soldier

and how the gods, esp. Zeus, are passionate, confused, obtuse.
A callow youth even as a man. He was afraid and therefore could not
      comfort or help.
Perhaps he has a question he’d like to ask but isn’t sure what it is or how
      to ask it.

                        *                        *          ­              *

The hero loses urinary control.
The virtuoso loses interest in her bow.
The expert neglects to do the research.

How do cancer cells and bacteria cooperate to ****
the host (you)? The way yr mum & pop
******* up. It’s unavoidable and it’s not your fault.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--with lines by Galway Kinnell, Billy Strayhorn, Philip Larkin
Third Eye Candy Nov 2012
my origami,
a thin line of sunshine and a private war.
the nucleus of an extinct thought, gathering believers
on the outskirts of nearby.

the wrong thing...
a more dead husk than a fresh ****
or a new joke.

[ my long night. the covetous murk of a bright lie. ]

my only calling,
the mute jawbone of an expert hermit.
determined to offend ought
but the sermon

as the enclave denies. the right thing.
a more rapturous con
than a new deal
or old smoke.

a song's blight. luxurious cirque...

denial
and out
lights.
Emily Clarke Nov 2012
when the sun is sulking
she swells like the moon,
a sylph bright
              and naked
crescent ribs blossoming in the doorway

a bruise like a kiss
on the hollow of her
hip

footprints spot the lawn, there is
earth on her feet when she wriggles
across the quilt to where I lay
she traces the line

of my jawbone to the place
my ear nestles into my hair and she strokes
the crook of my ear lobe

there is brine between her
collar bones and I drink it in-
the salty-tang

when we lay afterward, repose,
we are splendorous in our sweaty, cavernous bodies.

she rises to rinse off. her legs, like a just born fawn’s,
tremble with a new found glory and her hips are
tender, her thighs bruised raw.

my residue shines on the expanse
between her ribs and hips
and I feel strangely attached to her
in that moment, but then she returns to bed

and it has passed.
I mourn for it,

that nameless moment.
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
My brother, Sean,
Had a pitcher's arm,
His catcher said
It was his only charm.
He could aim
With radar sight,
Used speed and curves
To get three strikes.

One summer day
I stole his bike,
He spied me,
Eyed me in his sights.
His first pitch,
Like a guided missle
Whistled past my head;
Aimed for my jawbone,
Missed the strike zone,
I headed straight for home.

His second pitch,
A screaming fast ball,
Barely missed my pate,
I felt that I was safe.

His friends made fun
With a Ball two call,
Sean took aim
With his dropball;
He wound up
Then released.
He threw high,
And I cried:
Bring in the Relief.
His pitch lived up to its name,
It dropped,
I felt the batter's pain;
Sean had worked his charm again.
I wasn't talking,
I wasn't walking,
They called me Out
On the neighbour's lawn.
CR Mar 2013
One
the evening when you have-to-realize
your voice is steady soft but your eyes give you up and
he holds you closer (just because) because you let him, now
nothing-to-lose while you lose him, now
and your eyes give you up while your voice--
This Is What You Wanted.
and he touches your jawbone featherlight with strong hands
instead of talking

the last days the most beautiful, per always
and tears on call for a drop of coffee on your jeans
or nothing
or writing in your datebook with the pen that was his--
This Is What You Wanted
the room to move your elbows,
and level ground

and the scratch of his chin on your forehead for
not-quite-the-last-time
and remembering before you memorized his cheekbones
and fingertips and the song he didn’t know would make you sad
remembering when you shook hands and talked television, siblings, weather

you wake up for the new dawn and the
It Will Be Okay, but first, it won’t

in four, three, two

one
Amy Grindhouse Jan 2014
Abscess blockade burrowed
to the jawbone
dream ruptures
infectious screeches
threats of gangrene
mainlined syringe residue
drawn back-blow back-cross bow-shot across the bow
racing thought
restless night shade swollen eyes
mud caked dispossession
broken promise treatment
crack in
the pavement
things fall apart
lies upon lies upon lies
and
she says
'While I'm at it,
I don't really want to talk about it.
Can't I just use you,
to only tell me nice things? '

— The End —