"abscesses" poems
Born of fear, fueled by anger
This resentment I feel for you
Creates abscesses on my soul
Poison filled sacs of toxic hate which
Rise like bile in my gullet
To choke my spirit
Much like the dead alcoholic
Who's aspirated on
His own ***** and phlegm
A bloated purple carcass
Devoid of autonomy of spirit
Self-obsession robs me
Of conscious truth
Fear - that your indictments
Against me will be brought
Before the grand jury of
The universe and I will be found lacking
Resentment - at you for not becoming
A willing patron of
My brand of truth
Anger - at me for my own failings
Brought to light
Secrets I can no longer hide
While my defects are
Glaringly obvious to
One as enlightened as
You purport to be
Did not your path to
Spiritual perfection
Contain the blueprint to
Correct your vain sins of glory and
Indignant self-deception?
Is not your lofty status
Grand enough to look upon
My humiliated soul with
Something less than contempt?
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
How does it feel?
To be a girl,
And to bleed,
Whenever we create
Something beautiful.
The dunce cap
Fills the void;
Where the crown should be.
Life grew
And fed, from these *******
Now ripped apart,
Pieces of shame.
Judas’s Cradle,
Destroyed our flesh.
Left us humiliated,
Like Lady Godiva
Hours of ******
From impalement
In spite of Eve
Whom bit the apple.
Hot irons,
Through vitality’s tunnel
To fallow the holy book,
The Malleus Maleficarum.
Confession induced stoning
Drowning, burning
Just to be whipped like animals
For social bonding.
The battles of power
With the entertainment of ****
Still two Hundred years of
Forced sterilization.
A pear of anguish,
For the miscarriages
A coffin,
For the son.
Who can be civil?
When survival
Even today,
Is about exploitation.
A dowry for obstetric fistula,
In Pakistan.
Under the union of god’s will,
Of course.
The ****** test
Out lives the Bison,
Only still being bred
For the hunt
Mutilation for those,
In Southern Sahara.
Huge abscesses,
To cover the curse.
The breaking wheel
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
How shall my animal
Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,
Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,
Endure burial under the spelling wall,
The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,
Who should be furious,
Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,
Roaring, crawling, quarrel
With the outside weathers,
The natural circle of the discovered skies
Draw down to its weird eyes?
How shall it magnetize,
Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze
That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart
A brute land in the cool top of the country days
To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,
Love and labour and ****
In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout
The black, burst sea rejoice,
The bowels turn turtle,
Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle
The parched and raging voice?
Fishermen of mermen
Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin
With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,
Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound
Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,
Trace out a tentacle,
Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and ****
To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.
Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,
Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost
Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops
With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast.
1.8k
I'm sick of writing
self-righteous sadness
just to drain the abscesses
left putrefying small cavities
that sneaked past my demeanor
so cleverly, so cautiously
Sticky fingers are a hard thing to manage
when everything is crying out to be taken,
i suppose.
I mainly remember ***** smeared in shisha
on the door of a shed where we would go to get drunk
and listen to the two albums left on my rich kid phone
because it's the only music we had, and silence was just slightly too unbearable.
But **** I want to stop citing all these ******* sea wolf songs
before i lose the discography to my inner ocean
and have nothing left to sing my sails
away from here.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
*run the hands over every
tissued cell,
race the tongue upon and under every
unsealed pore
linger, tarry,
only if you must,
here, there and where
you stop only to drink
my body's must...
lid to lobe,
crevice to mound,
uncover the obvious,
reveal the infinitesimal,
finite the desire,
end at the beginning,
fire up the cool hearth,
emblazon the shields ofordinary,
exit and enter
simultaneously
refill the apertures
with~not~my
peptones, enzymes, amino acids,
replenish my
well
then drain
well
the abscesses and repair
the wearable wounds ,
reminder remains
of prior contests,
won and lost
make me better
than well
know before,
realize afterwards
that ceasing,
never and always,
is an always never*
for this route
forever changing,
for your hands and tongue
redraw me
every time
they run the course
every time,
ever and when you
exit and enter
always and ever
simultaneous,
the course of
my flesh
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
hard soft i'm large and groaning a fit of plastered excellence in my ambrosia fountain of giggling fornication this city is grandly exalting and flustering mightily incense of femmes du *** who art graciously ******* with a their boisterous choir of laughing *** or the men groping seriously their frail fair trackmarked beauty and they finger their air and lush and spit gratuitously their eyes upon their *******
and they like to laugh with their haughty whorish
breath a longing barely chained loosed slowly in splattering
abscesses of lust
; asinine men go and plead sourly your heads in thighs sweating
anorexic *** your Are
is
just
cosmic
lice
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
When I think of that matchless night
with your hideous face on the pillow
your disgusting body spread eagled on my bed
unwashed and rancid like stale fish stew
I recall nothing but putrid filth
and how the memory lingers on
of your staggering halitosis flavours
filthy foulness oozing from broken teeth
and gum abscesses so deep no tongue could
fully probe them without coming through
the other side covered in warm pus
and you left in the morning
leaving my sheets looking like
a patchwork quilt of many colours
after having elegantly wolfed down
a huge bacon and egg fry-up
accompanied by loud squelchy farts
presaging a dump in your knickers
and you never even suggested
we should have another date
so that old story about the ugly ones
being grateful is a load of *****
but I can't be too fussy really
now I'm pushing eighty-eight.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
i cannot rest towards sleep,
not insomnia nature,
but this mind's consistency
to intensively be critical
of cared units to measure.
continuing as each
tactile, contractile, dactyl pressing
against this chest contesting
examination against my inclination
to worry a hurried
yet impede succession
to assess these abscesses
within
weaving teaming thoughts
defensive to the x and o drawn
so that i may anticipate
tomorrow's entailed
beauty
wait, a change in tone
a drop in breath
rest, retired, and displaced
movement of consciousness
no longer anxious
gravity has provided
a pillowed valley
to allow this face
to rest this monocle
towards the dimly lit
neon green
pass the hour 4
am I divulging
my emotions
to conceived
mirror
dramatic animated images
alas spirits
lifted
time
remains
cycling
pedaling
from
unneeded
wakes
of waves
so
I may
dream
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
Honestly I feel as though this entire time I've been pacing back and forth, accruing images of two ice caps slowly breaking themselves apart into tiny fragments of burning pitch that hurls itself onwards into the night, leaving bleeding trails of light as reminders, notes with coffee stains on the edges, written late at night without much light except for what scraps pour out from under the door from the reading light. You want to breathe normally but the bag won't inflate and it's so hard to calm down when everyone else is shaking and crying and prostrating themselves as though they'll consecrate the middle aisle with their cheap pleas for salvation, for their young childrens' lives, and for all the time they wasted ******* quietly in the dark after the reading light went off and even though they had a headache. They sing a song of mutual slump, of tacit awareness of the grandiose ******** of 75 years spent in too quiet comfort concerned with small victories and unconcerned with massive regrets. Then daylight breaks and you have to look your coffee stains straight in the eye and pretend they're just blemishes when they're sores and wounds and abscesses. And before long the paper disintegrates into brown pulp and you hate that you hate yourself because surely someone is more ****** than you. But that's just one moment out of the day, and you live them endlessly, you love them endlessly, overthinking, underthinking, drinking till you can't feel your extremities and then toying with a knife because you know you couldn't otherwise. Then you nick your pinky and realize how ******* stupid you must look, trapped in your own kitchen hearing your wife down the hall resent you more and more, her distaste, stained the color of sea foam off the coast of Cyprus, her frown fixed forever forward toward your back, and her face makes you sigh, and it's the same sound as before, sure, but now you know what is happening when these tiny admissions of regret escape from anyone else's lips. Then the plane picks up out of its nosedive and people cry and hold each other and you feel more dead than if your body had just ended up tangled in the wreckage of a turbine engine, your intestines laced between the blades like the back of a corset that gets tighter and tighter until you can't feel it anymore because you're numb.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Just released from the sanitarium
Cold cruel empty world took me down
Malnourished, tooth abscesses'
Manic Depression
Isolation
Brought me to the brink a bad state of melancholy
I went to a hospital ER for help
They don't do dental work
Dentists are Satan in disguise
The AMA knows this and won't let them in their
Genuine Doctors' tribunals
I got released with the bogus diagnosis of ****** abuse
I told them I took the medicine cabinet drank a quart of ***** and that would be it.
THE END
You have heard of Catch 22 here's Catch 23
If your in the nut house for a failed attempted suicide
All you have to do to get out is say I don't feel suicidal any more.
That easy.
A foreshadow to this poem.
Industry took away my know how
I couldn't make my own shoes
I couldn't make a yoke to mount the ox I don't have
To plow the back 40 I'll never own
If my life depended on it
I can't build a house of logs
Would die quickly without central utilities
Food would vanish after days of no electricity
People protect there own and I'm a lone
So I pray I am not the first to go
I try to be a human being
The best was I can
Trying to see through the muck
With prayers, and great hopes
And Luck
I hope I can continue to be.
A human being
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
cankerous open mouths.
dead breath like exhaust.
this is your world,
you who would not have it.
pockmarked by age
and pockmarked by plague
and a palpitating heart.
repeating pleasure as if it were a litany.
a cowl to wrap yourself in
and create a new identity.
and it's the weight of your heart
that matters
no matter how small.
and with pooling abscesses
and with enough drained blood
you could fill a new world.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
Dread
Deep,
Deep,
Dread
Waiting to lift a rock
Under which I have left a Viper
Venom nonfatal
But abscesses and grows
Cultivates already infected,
decaying tissue
Weight my temple
Drop from a tower
Only the ground below and
On all sides
Dread, pass me by
Deaf, blind viper
Is this paranoia
No, I tremble legitimately
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
I have been ill the way the sun is ill
In the black empty of nowhere
With a thousand fragments floating,
(Adoring in rings and ovals)
And no light but its own
Lonesick stare reflected from a thousand
Dull copying fragments; and it presumes
It is the loneliest of the universe's
Togetherlonely children.
I have been ill the way chalk is ill
On the blackboard staring out at
Uncomprehending faces, and then
In one let'smoveon wipe
Cleared from existence;
And some did not finish their notes.
I am ill with the grandiose
Ill-used illness, swirling my tongue
Against my own abscesses
And crying oh God it hurts
When they might have healed
But for my own foolish
Probing painful wanting.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
Is there
a deeper Darkness
Or
Is there
a deeper Lightness
waiting?
Abscesses of our minds
not withstanding
What hole
thing
R u?
Wavering in the light
pixelated weak
R u carried
or do you stand?
Is there
an edge
to be had
Or is it
just an occupation
from which
to distract us
and see
tear filled acts
of confusion
celebrated
clearly we are
winning
our game
to be righteous
Which is
to lose
and somehow
win over time
Unerasable blues
and salt
seeds of continuous
self-doubt
Potato chips
to dark fasting
Crayons to an
iron radiator
Socks to a nebulae
clenched in birth
is a song
radiating
We are the deeper
folds
respected by fabric
aficionados
Creases in everything
shape themselves
on our tongues
in our emanations
We are the shore
climbing for awhile
to the land
then back to the sea
We are the circle
almost back
skip that illusion
lean into the swing
Break into another
beaker of stinking next
pour it on yourself
suffer early and often
this continuity
a lie in a lie
in a genre
you choose
for breakfast
crunchy
is how
you prefer
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
An auspicious Australian awaits a antique apperature. Alive and awestruck he answers an abnormal anomaly. The apperature abscesses an automaton and away an albatross alights to an aviary awakening an awesome antihero. The aura of amazing allegory alleviates any alarm. As the Australian is an abhorred analytical analogy.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
a pair of headphones with the mufflers missing
the wire that goes from said headphones to the computer
a ceramic pug in a red scarf containing tubes of paint
an ocarina that i picked up in a ghost town/tourist trap in california
a red cup for water during painting
a book called the artist's mentor
an adjustable lamp
wristbands a lover made for me
a book for savannah college of art and design featuring someone holding a large inflatable red ball on the cover
an incomplete abstract painting on canvas paper, slightly crumbled,
a box for the savannah college of art and design VR kit that they sent me
a book on writing
a book about color line and form in the visual arts
a red squishy ball inside a a fishnet containment, creating organic bulbous abscesses when squeezed
a book of poetry with a red cloth on the cover
a small packet of konpeito, a japanese sugar-based hard candy
a novelty necklace designed to resemble christmas lights, complete with glowing LEDs
a red colored pencil
a red marker
a red mechanical pencil
a gigantic anthology of american poetry i have yet to dive into
a packet of cherry jello
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 4:43 PM UTC
Doctor,
mask with a long bird's beak
looking like a horn,
checks out
what's hidden under
the grotesque version of
scales, that colorful and
wiggly fishes own
- abscesses.
A green-eyed girl
face still frozen
from the horror of the plague.
Doctor takes a deep breath
coveres the patient,
who sometimes was called -
he can't say it
but still feels the first time
when she was on his
protective lap and she cried
like the world was too
big to handle in the first day.
Now, The Doctor
feels the world is
too cruel to handle
in their last days.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
I've only imagined where I'd go were the skies to open up
Magical, and time to be metered
Only in metrical or musical
Timbre what bassoon might be heard when and if
Flutes bass drums human voices
Joined into that chorus of
Nature resounding unheard
On the distance in the forests
On sunrises in flowers
In the eyes of the forlorn
The starving bellies
Of the deserts
In that mass of culled voices
Written on papers buried
In libraries in educated
***** on leather desks in the
Remotest abscesses where the hurt cannot reach or on
Wool carpets decorated
Florals instead of the marvels God
Sent created made us in
Oh I cry loud
I cry at top of my lungs ability
Wake me up
Cry cry
Sound out
Poets
Those with more than
My abilities.
The time is
Now.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
You are the addiction all my favorite bands scream about
I want to go to rehab because of you and lie about getting better
I want your tongue to satiate my withdrawal
I want to pay for every moment I'm away from you
I am willing to beg
I want to believe you are running out
Every day
So I can scramble to see hold taste inject become you
Until my collapsed veins are the bleeding trenches on my back
And my abscesses are the hickies I'm not afraid to show anymore
I want my body to reflect you
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
Some days I am hideously alive
Decomposing memories
Deeply trenched in manipulation
****** noses and broken hearted…
dark circles and scabbed over
clotting and bruised
Festered wound pushing out poison.
Some days I am defective, calloused and weak
Some days I am gnawing and farel
Less human and more lizard
Puckered scars and blistered skin
Healing isn't always pretty
Some wounds get infected
Bones have to be reset…
Abscesses drained
I survived…
But I don't have the same skin
You wouldn't recognize me
I'm breathing
Some days that hurts
Nov 6, 2022
Nov 6, 2022 at 9:17 PM UTC
the good old nights^
roam the recesses and the abscess of
our too small apartment in the the very
large, very long, very inescapable wee wee
hours of the dark session of the day, lifting
my tablet to inscribe/ reorder/ recorder her/
this one more in my personal history, with
rant, word elixir, a note to our plural selves,
thinking of English gardens drinking up my
water freshly flowing and flying to you, via
nighty nite storm clouds, or your rural falls
and white clouds cumulus do not return, and I too,
as my mind ***** and slugs but all attempts to
pierce the walled in somber slumber FAIL.
The creative comes besty beast like when I am driven from my dreams to wakealate (dream+speculate with eyes open)
dream of our realities and the tv (she never
remembers to program to shut down), drones
on about some product with XL in the name
that will make the unsleeping walkers feel
so much-better.
but not, not us, for we turn exploratory and
listen to the humming, beeping, tiny little diodes
of Joseph’s colored coat, all the mini stimuli,
the lights that mark the modern blacker hours
of rhythm, even those who can’t dance, can sleep,
‘cept for me, for I am a tune disturbed, needful of
minding, all these a rhythm busters ghosting me,
as a prelude to a poem vision now freshly etched
on my mind and now upon your flesh, an animation,
of reanimated images of ancient statues, ancient
advertisements for fertility, the dream continuum
of our lives, beyond our clearly demarcated time
line, the human, gene based need to outlive our
bodies in-the bodies of our progeny are a recurring
motif…female fecundity, statues, many cracked or
missing limbs, come to life and move around, wailing
with grief and anger and hope and desire
alas, alas, another ole good time night ramble,
amidst familiar places and new abscesses,
and I wonder, how am I writing this when both
hands cover my face, and yet I still envision?
Tuesday Apr 16
3:08am
(the year escapes me,
for notions of big times
are measured in multiples
of I can’t remember)
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 12:47 PM UTC