"abortive" poems
"The thought of the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go."
The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man.
All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again.
The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra ********* lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers.
Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life..
Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake.
This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of it's unwanted face..
The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence.
"Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment.
This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
HE always gets the higher rank,
Not just HIM but any
Of the fall soldiers.
What do they fulfill,
That you are missing,
Are you troubled behind closed doors?
You have a youth of your very own,
Standing right here,
Tacitly craving just a loving expression.
You wound me when you advise tactfully,
that I should vacate,
So you and your vernal pibe,
Can take in abortive entertainment.
Little did I know,
Lounging in the same environs,
Was a taboo in the posh palace.
I would reflect,
Reimagine & rationalize.
If you neglect to
You may find a solitary soul.
My heart hopes for the highest,
But days past tell me otherwise.
Humans argue, fuss and struggle,
But those who,
Value and treat unconditional loves,
Warmheartedly get the real pleasure.
If I ride off from this declining,
Tormenting cliff, like a lost knight,
Know why.
&
When things get distressing,
Maybe then you will understand.
Love & Art,
Offspring
1991-20??
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
Attend my lays, ye ever honour’d nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev’ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
Harmonious lays the feather’d race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display
To shield your poet from the burning day:
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
The bow’rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my ***** rise.
See in the east th’ illustrious king of day!
His rising radiance drives the shades away—
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th’ abortive song.
2.3k
i glimpse the dawn
through alabaster-flaked rickety-pickets,
like the cavity-riddled ******* maw
of tom sawyer’s crooked-grinning demon
trying to reap its earthly exodus
and rail at the wind
for its squalling disposition.
i have a head full of grass,
and a trail of ants in staggered patrol
clambering in one ear
in hopes of alighting through the other;
their bodies breaching synaptic copulations
of thoughts and ideas assimilated in lucidity,
but turning, like the thrusting-seed of climactic joy,
only to find their first glimmer of stirring light
is merely a preamble to a yawning, abortive dark.
the sun is blinding,
and yet i stare onward - inward,
finding comfort in the dazzling blur,
like a drug redefining the transcendent pain,
and rending heart and brain to simple masses
without flex or flux to pierce the void
and conjure illusions wrought
of patch-worked memories and dreams
that i can no longer tell apart.
here i have come perchance to bleed
in pools to stain the shape of my words,
and your eyes to dance upon their drift,
like the mortician's arms embracing the husk
of cuckoldly bones and beguiling flesh.
here i have come to cackle at worms
that chew holes in the leaves strewn like a sheet,
to shadow the moment i stepped off of the page,
and splintered these whittled stilts
to tempt the proffered flames.
it is a moment lost in orbits spent,
revolutions spiraled, twisted and turned,
like bitter shells spat from that forgetful sea,
where i cast line after line of salty breath,
to avail the deep with my own sullied hook.
so here i lie with a head full of grass,
thoughts taking flight on thorax and gaster,
staring onward - inward, of the blinding sun,
to purge the umbrage of a threadbare soul,
and wander the void
perchance...
to bleed.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
He never showed up..!!
The special night got ruined,
Devastated..ohh..what he knew
The tenderness of a girl's heart..
That he simply shattered..
Into a thousand pieces and one
All those that had always belonged to him
Years of smiles turned into vacant expressions
Moments she cherished seemed nothing
but hollow promises and hurting kisses
But now the world had come to standstill
How easily do we trust jerks, she thought
Cried, lamented the entire way home,
Blamed her stupidity, her fate, her gods,
She felt so abortive, so worthless, so empty
Couldn't stand betrayal of the love she believed in
She had known the reality of life, the harsh way
The only little thing that remained unknown
Was the hospital where his heart kept beating..
Still kept beating..i..love..you..i..love..you...
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Flickering like a tentative alpenglow corraded from profaned time
A whisper jostles through a crowded rumpus prescient of teleology and design
Jolting with pangs of panic a screech emanates from the brontides of tomorrow
A chagrin outpaces the gingerly apprehension of a peevish sorrow
Among the ruffled plumes quaffed from pedigree and put to disuse
A banausic electricity galvanizes the ****** of the amalgamated acuity pinched from the sordid, the obtuse
Refracted like off a darkened moon that clenches the darkness in an abstruse tomb
Combs through sentience of Saturn presiding over ineluctable doom
A silence louder than a plangent ****** of phantasmagoria debased
A looming victor erodes with the putrefaction of sworn and utter distaste
How to obtrude on the evening with triaged fulmination
Is an affront to the rudders of a piecemeal civilization in tatters with exacting doddering calculation
Graveyards bustle with the eidolons of scurrilous spite
Congregating around a blackened epitaph on an alabaster palace gilded in the swanky pinnacle of light
Scuttling the outmoded flanks of an abortive war
Against a henchman of state too ostentatious to hardly ever ignore
We clamber with insistence hoping on fortuitous deliverance
Yet we are deranged of the clasped distance between the crevasse of the clerisy and the satisdiction of futures passed with meticulous diligence
Absconding with furtive furrows on a wizened guild an entrusted world we helped build
We witness the silence creep over us like a trepidation contained as lethal killers of the cartel willed
That which frightens a self-fulfillment is a fatalism gone awry
Someday soon omens excavated from immolated tombs will beseech a more universal backlash, an alienated sorrow that will one day cry
But until that fetched disaster occurs
Let us meditate only on the process of emanation among wayward words
That dance with a destiny that the hegemony of momentary circumstance much prefers
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
What is there to speak of
when identity includes
all things?
Generalities flowing
in breathless currents, drowning
these hollow perceptions
and empty comforts
in wondrous depth --
Who is this "myself" but
attachment to a cage, a cage
that scarcely contains the force
of conviction, the assault
of passion?
Time the river of blood
flows upstream to source
in a pregnant oblivion
obscuring abortive abstractions,
carelessly dreamt.
Something rages,
ever watchful. Whence
comes this terrible Eye? Whither
does it sleep, sparing
its awful gaze
and the hallucinations
of unceasing desire,
But in every bed?
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
I received a query that grasped my attention
A certain query that induced me to ponder
To recall the yesterdays and the yesternights
Why don’t you write as much, someone wonders
The curious fellow deems my works lovely
And went another mile to call me, the poet, just the same
Similarly, I pause to ask myself
Are lethargic hands and an uninspired heart to blame?
I say no and I disprove this idea
Never have I ceased to write all this time
I’ve adapted various methods and materials
I’ve learned that words and verses are not prime
Now, I deliver metaphors directly from my fingertips
My every touch is a verse, every breath is a poetic line
I carve words on wood, on the fleeting breeze, on warm skin
My works are now cherished moments I entwine
Threads out of smiles and laughter, I weave into blankets
The comfort i turn to in days with somber frigid weather
My lingering gazes are poems unconventionally spoken
To write about desire is abortive, to feel the burn is better
A moment with another is an extemporaneous collaboration
My friends and lover are writers in their own right
Whether amateur or sophisticated, they create poetry
I conceal pens and papers lest they flee in fright
So you see, I have never stopped composing
I've been writing in ways the eyes might not see
I’m a breathing vessel of born and unborn literary creations
A writer with a penchant for a form called free
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 4:24 AM UTC
It was and is
not easy for me
I beg don’t make it harder
You will not understand
and I can’t make you to feel
how it feels
when your body can’t hold your heart
How it feels
when you know in your veins
what you feel
but barricade between your body and mind
will not let you
feel your feelings
How it feels
when the world address you
Dude
and you afraid
the girl you are trying hard
to coffined in your heart
will show up
I wish I could show you
my pain filled abortive trials
to push hard
even the tiniest bulging meat on my body
deep inside into my skeleton
I wish I could show you
Pain of pretension
Pretension of walking straight
Pretension of speaking loud
Pretension of being brave
at the time of drooping in fear
that you will be identified
and termed as a queer
I wish I could make you realize
helplessness of being a public secret
anguish of dying out of respect
and living in agony
because your body
is not answerable to anatomy
When you all wanna prove your identity
I am begging you
please let mine go
because
my identity
can not be identified
by the tiny part between my legs
Please tell me
how long I need to beg
to find the place
where my body will not be dissected
to discover
my hearts gender
Please tell me
how long......?
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
So much for an omen
so much for heart to heart
A vision so abortive
blinded by eyes unable to sing out of mystery
Sometimes the mysteries
Anxiety
weight
mass
wait
as in anticipate
move
or be crushed
impending the
bloom
of a flower
already
to soon
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
Wooden mouths engraved with shadows of stillborns
Hairpins stir the wildfires that reside in my head
My spine is an abortive memoir that nobody wishes to read
Mists ablaze with unbound petals kissing the sea to sleep
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:44 AM UTC
TLACAELEL
The weeks since last we met found Hungry Prince
Of late locked in his tower, casting scrolls
Which chart the star-crossed charms of the occult.
And in the predawn darkness of his arts,
He broke through to a voice from the beyond
Which whispered that the throne of Mexico
Must soon come to be ruled by foreigners.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
And thus the emperor submits to trial,
And these, their wagers, are red herrings, then.
TLACAELEL
To spare us the demoralizing news.
The spirits’ hands will steer them to reveal
If this prognostication failed or not.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
The ***** in motion. Let the gods decide.
TLACAELEL
Motecuhzoma falls! The ball is down! The ball is down!
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Dust rises, and our lord is lost to view!
TLACAELEL
Three in a row! Were we left hanging, then,
For torturers to **** by small and small?
MOTECUHZOMA and HUNGRY PRINCE reappear.
MOTECUHZOMA [aside]
I’ve lost then, but the full significance
Of that word “lost” I’ve yet begun to know.
Gods need not lie, and here we have their words.
Well, let it come. [to Tlacaelel] Unseal the wagers, lord,
And read before these noble witnesses
The stakes we trusted to you at the serve.
TLACAELEL
First, the abortive fee for Hungry Prince:
King of Texcoco, had this victory
Been won by his imperial majesty,
And you had failed, your forfeiture had been . . .
[Opens the first wager.]
The loss of all your lands, your courts, your throne,
And all, for your opponent’s acquisition,
Decoronation to a common man,
And forced prostration to this gentleman.
HUNGRY PRINCE
A staggering ransom! I must thank the gods,
Not for their championing me, but truth.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
Rushing with the piece
Resting with the ease, of the meals
Hunger of the daydreams, and elation
Rush of blood to the body
Rushing into ravines into the edifice
Friable spice and the ravines, protean about my description
Repetition of the surreptitious, debate preaching
Pecunious, fidelity and high on life lying on my own
Each to his, one for his own, stress about the abortive
Imitative, about love being his stressful, hurtful for her
Free, and then shielding myself about it, hurting her
With defenses, maybe, going to cry broken fears through the ticking time
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
He relishes in the dark
And lives among the dead
His presence is enough to cause the living dread
The assassinator of souls
And demise of men
He will strike, but you'll never know when
The fear of many yet the prayer of some
Known as the grim reaper
He'll come back again
The graveyard is his home
The dead are his friends
But today he stands among the silence of the dead
And wonders what its like to meet an end
With that thought in mind
He lights up his cigarette
Exhales the noxious smoke
And inhales the toxins
Whats fatal to the mortals
Is abortive on him
His heart is dark and existence is grim
And that burning cigarette is all of what he has
So he finds pleasure in its poison
And hopes to be its prey
Although he's aware
He'll never see that day
But that glowing cigarette
keeps his demons away...
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC