"amputation" poems
people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?
the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.
and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.
it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.
your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.
i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.
“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
Most days I miss you in English
On the worst I miss you in French,
You are missing from me
I am lacking in you
a vital part
as essential as air
as bones
as blood,
A lost immune system
that can't keep illness at bay,
an amputation,
a lobotomy.
There is no single word
that covers a lack of you,
I miss you out of language
But French is the closest,
tu me manques.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 5:33 AM UTC
The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.
Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
A short direction
To avoid dejection,
By variations
In occupations,
And prolongation
Of relaxation,
And combinations
Of recreations,
And disputation
On the state of the nation
In adaptation
To your station,
By invitations
To friends and relations,
By evitation
Of amputation,
By permutation
In conversation,
And deep reflection
You'll avoid dejection.
Learn well your grammar,
And never stammer,
Write well and neatly,
And sing most sweetly,
Be enterprising,
Love early rising,
Go walk of six miles,
Have ready quick smiles,
With lightsome laughter,
Soft flowing after.
Drink tea, not coffee;
Never eat toffy.
Eat bread with butter.
Once more, don't stutter.
Don't waste your money,
Abstain from honey.
Shut doors behind you,
(Don't slam them, mind you.)
Drink beer, not porter.
Don't enter the water
Till to swim you are able.
Sit close to the table.
Take care of a candle.
Shut a door by the handle,
Don't push with your shoulder
Until you are older.
Lose not a button.
Refuse cold mutton.
Starve your canaries.
Believe in fairies.
If you are able,
Don't have a stable
With any mangers.
Be rude to strangers.
Moral: Behave.
4.9k
There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel-like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the **** knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they **** they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning thet butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the ***** of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.
2.9k
What happened a week ago
I’m still recovering
Some have told me I’m in mourning
when you lose something that was a part of you for so long
I feel like I’ve lost a limb or
a big chunk of my heart
what happened a week ago
friendships severed, felt like an amputation without the anesthesia
sawing and gnawing
whittle by whittle
the pain, never less than searing
what happened a week ago
I feel the phantom limb
I think it’s still there
I go to my inbox, check the chats, click one and
BOOM
shouting matches and f-bombs being dropped like the a-bomb on Hiroshima
my words, arrows dipped in poison
I flung everything I had
poured my chopped up heart onto a silver platter and let the blood drip drop for all to see
what happened a week ago
I said some things I shouldn’t have
I let my heart speak instead of my head
letting my anger and red flurries get the best of me
what happened a week ago
is an awful lot like what happened 11 years ago
I’m six years old
piecing together a puzzle of forgiveness
walking back to my room after a yelling match with my sister
I scribble I’m so sorry I got mad at you on the back of my homework
slide it under her door
and wait
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
When I first admitted
To loving you
A seed was planted in my being
It grew with every rain of love
It somehow became a part of me
And when you left
My body ached
You are like
A phantom limb
My body cannot
Accept your absence
Some nights
I feel it all again
I relive the moment
I did not give consent for
Such great a amputation
Though I knew the risks
Of keeping a dying limb
You cut yourself off
And months later I'm stuck
With my phantom pain
They took me to psych
Told me I'd gone insane
But after the sunshine of our love
what's there to expect
But cold weather and rain?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Dont come to me with these feelings that you fabricated, dont try and remind me of the times that you made me feel obligated, just dont come close when your feeling lost and conceded because one day I won't be here to take it. I just need time, something you could never give and its been a crime that I let you bite me in the back with teeth like some toothbrush shivs. This is just who I am, these words are the bones that make up a body which emotions flow through like blood, thoughts are the veins that make jet streams shooting out from the end of frayed tips of an amputation gone wrong. With my wounds I bring a flood and like a wolf you were instinctively drawn, the scent of a dying animal brought you close but then you chose to dispose instead of being exposed, you walked away and said sorry but now you come back talking about a decision you loath? Your a wound I was willing to close.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
Two Syrian women on Friday were locked in a cage full of skeletons in punishment for violating Daesh’s strict dress code in the militant group’s stronghold of Raqqa.
The London-based Observatory for Human Rights said one of the women fainted in the cage and had to be transported to one of the hospitals in the northern province, which became Daesh’s headquarters in Syria after the group took the city in 2013.
A spokesman for the local-based activist group “Raqqa is being Slaughtered Silently” also reported Daesh’ latest scare tactic against women found to have flouted the draconian rules.
Daesh recently locked a 19-year old woman in a cage full of skeletons, driving her to the point of madness, according to Mohammed Al-Salih. The spokesman did not specify whether the incident was the same as the one reported by the UK-based monitor.
Salih also said that there were “similar cases of women locked in cages with skeletons or forced to sleep overnight in a cemetery” for not wearing what Daesh deems as appropriate. More serious violations are punished by the amputation of limbs, or execution.
Video reports as well as accounts of escapees show that Daesh forces women living in its areas — whether in Syria or Iraq — to don head-to-toe garbs.
Meanwhile, the Observatory said Daesh has recently stormed homes in Raqqa and arrested 10 men suspected of spying against the group.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:31 AM UTC
I think we're going extinct
I hate to even blink
...
I remember when we were in sync
But things changed
We will act strange over change
Being caged and attached by chains is voguish
Are we hopeless?
Why can we polish our pinky rings
But leave rust on our linkage chains?
Our words don't bond anymore
Our words are shackles
Our words are like crooked spurs
And unbalanced saddles
Yeah It travels
But lies are to be told
Only to smear what we really withhold
I think that we're going extinct
I hate to blink
As my eye lids flicker
More and more existence spills from our mankind
Man-kind
We're turning into the kind of men
Who emotionally melts when we see celebrities
Where's our rectitude?
I think we're going extinct
I hate to blink
Where's my natural woman?
Every time I twitch
More and more she accepts the word *****
And in no time a guy can become exposed to her hips
Where's our morality?
Are we going to expire
All because we create our entire empire with desires?
Desires and thirst that require us to hurt
We smile and we smirk
We loath from good work
We poke at nerves
We drown our minds to swerve
We absorb potion
Only to tranquil our motion
We indulge in copulation
With a stranger
But somehow for consolation
...
We are endangered
We are a few more trends away from complete annihilation
Eradication
Liquidation
Obliteration
Cancellation
Our tendencies are cancerous and if we keep being patient
We will need medication
I don't feel any radiation
To not become subject to our decimation
I think we're going extinct
My instincts tell me that
Though we're a percentage and a contributor to this nation
We are approaching ruination
My instinct senses that I am one of the few who mentions devastation
And if I blink one more time
And if we keep wasting time
We'll be wastage
We
You and I
We'll be ejected from the race
And they'll use a prosthetic ethnic affiliation for our replacement
Can we come together with cooperation
Resisting this operation
May we all stand up
Before they go through with this amputation !
Blink
Lets see
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
At an angle of ninety degrees,
two trees share the same plot.
This one grazes the eaves,
seeking vain attention in the window glass.
The other, its grey ghost lazes
prostrate on the herb garden, reveling
in secrets of lemon balsm and thyme.
At night, the first becomes demonic,
obliterates the universe,
branches scraping the pane, scratching
like fingernails on slate,
its coppery leaves trying to get in.
Its partner slinks to earth,
seeking solace,
wringing conterminous roots till sunrise.
I've had my fill of these unrested moments
fighting the pillow, not settling.
There is no joy in seeking stolen stars.
My dilemma grows horns.
I half dream of ******
at least amputation.
But even the dimmest light shines in the dark -
I consider its tormented destiny.
At daybreak, like a ****** I scale its gnarled branches
ridiculously one-handed,
the other a keen-toothed weapon.
I am an agile goat shinning upwards
feeding on dreams of peace.
Lost in the sky, I become sap,
melt into its arms,
(a vertiginous release)
I become a curved branch.
(There's someone standing in my elbow!)
Leaves helix down, settling on autumn crocus.
“Look! Gold on gold!"
The grey ghost yawns, grows its shadow,
waves its arms demanding justice.
I wave back.
Suddenly terrified, I secrete an invisible scent.
The branches contract, tense as ligaments.
My heart plummets, rolls out recumbent,
presses heavily on the earth
listening to fleshy roots recede.
A few deft cuts......
Sun gutters through bereft spaces,
striking the window.
Both trees a shade lighter, a lighter shade.
Tonight I will dream under visible stars,
feel the moon's half-light slide over me.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
Please don't misunderstand me
I know this had to be done, things
were growing more rotten by the day
and sudden amputation was our only choice, but
I still feel you, like
fingers grazing skin, I feel you
like a heart that never left this chest
I still feel you, and
Though we had to cut away
the decayed flesh of what is
I am still trapped thinking about
what was, and what could have been
My heart is still full of tomorrows
and I need you to know
I will never love again, not the way I loved you
never that way
Each path before, led me to you
but somewhere along the way, we took a detour
and I can't stop thinking; Is this how it ends?
is this the way true love was meant to die?
Severed heart, bleeding out within my hand?
I'm only human, and there is a limit
to how much pain I can endure
and even though you're gone
I can still feel you beating in my chest
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Like the loss of a limb
or a missing *****
whether an arm, kidney
or half of a heart.
Every bone numbed,
laden with pins and needles,
every puppet-like move
languid, free of joy.
Hoping for a letter,
brandy to spike your mood,
but for now it’s Yeats on the moors
as you long for your wife.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
Bottled up like salad dressing.
Top on, sticky side down.
Put a little pressure on the pressing.
Call it depressing when you take the finger from the noun.
Wrap it around
in a figure eight turn.
Discern or nerves will churn.
Pain is the name of the burn
sensation.
Loosen it at the day's cessation
and keep it on for the duration.
The continuation of blood circulation
is key to the prevention of amputation.
Whether physically or metaphorically,
keeping an injury wrapped in a challis
is the best thing to keep a healthy tally.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
That side of me
Its ugly and disgraceful
Manipulative and jealous
Insecure and angry
Fragile and sharp
To bury this side
To smother it
To cut it into pieces would be a breath of fresh air
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
Roses are red,
Communism is also red,
Crimson like the tide,
Prickly like a pear,
Salty like lakes in Utah,
Fair like a figure skating judge during the 1998 Winter Olympics
Communism is like a warm Winter's breeze,
Like an honest politician,
Like a benign amputation,
Like a decently priced cup of coffee,
Good in theory, but seldom attained
Goodnight moon,
Hello baboon,
Farewell ballon,
I am the bafoon,
Is it too soon,
to lampoon,
to swoon,
to cocoon?
Let us fly,
high in the sky,
with some guy,
and just say bye,
to the tired old eye,
of my.
O'SIGH
Mormons are people,
Sew r da Jews,
Wat Hath we rot?
Too Soon?
Whitman
Shelley
Keats
Poe
Dickinson
Angelou
Eminem
Those giants of yesteryear
Praise be to the deity,
Of the ethereal plane,
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
in this city's jungle haze
the mortar shells bricked gallows' glaze
every pause for which a breath was shed
has returned now to this blankest page of night
the constant newborn night that wants your haloed angel dead
(above)
from the feline night returning
the baritone blues
stalk halo's yearning
every lissome hustler
knows the answer
cuz he's got it in his blood...
blowing silk cut smoke
before God's greatest flood
(below)
now sapped in amber's
wedded stasis
a knife edge wrought
keen for the basis
of a clean cut amputation
of ***** lustrous hesitation
(equals) (static)
in gutted hovels by the hour
archangels sing of
God's illuminations
and sweetest disavowal
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
Staring at faith
Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
The sound of deep
Calling to deep.
Repressed feelings buried by Time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten Grave:
"Here lies the child now grown.
His hopes and dreams
Dashed to pieces.
This is where the child died."
I often hear the Mystic Keeper
Calling from night
And tradition calling from Artificial light
As I run through scorched Barren
Fields of doubt,
Walking barefoot over these Coals
Crouching low
To hide my eyes
As I run
And as I hide
From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.
When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea.
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
Seeds of religious platitudes.
And then there is the ready Reflection
Of the looking glass
That often tricks the Beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
Hiding the crumbling
Cracks of age–
The threshold where
Sanity meets its end.
Isolation has become
A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
Into the heart of hearts.
Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional Prosthetics--
Phantom pain
When nothing is There.
But in the midst of these Devastations
I am learning to take--
Howbeit reluctantly--
The hand of trust and grace;
Allowing
Hope to build
A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
Than no control at all.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC
Please don't misunderstand me
I know this had to be done, things
were growing more rotten by the day
and sudden amputation was our only choice, but
I still feel you, like
fingers grazing skin, I feel you
like a heart that never left this chest
I still feel you, and
Though we had to cut away
the decayed flesh of what is
I am still trapped, thinking about
what was, and what could have been
My heart is still full of tomorrows
and I need you to know
I will never love again, not the way I loved you
never that way
Each path before, led me to you
but somewhere we took a detour
and I can't stop thinking; Is this the way it ends?
is this the way true love was meant to die?
Severed limb and bleeding heart?
I am only human, and there is a limit
to how much pain I can endure
and even though you're gone
I can still feel you beating in my chest
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
Do you remember the day you said goodbye?
Did you cry your most heartfelt cry, and how much did it hurt?
Did it feel like the heavens came crashing down
and on their way to oblivion, they collided with your heart
and stole it away from you?
Stole it away like that indian giving sun,
and however racist it may be,
it's true.
Goodbyes, if properly done, should hurt
You should feel the pain of amputation,
for although it's not external,
it's a part of you removed, but somehow existing on its own.
Goodbyes, if properly done,
should leave you empty.
Empty like that candy *****
after you finished cramming down your last savory bite.
Goodbyes, if properly done,
should leave you yearning for the future.
They should drive you to return
to that thing that you so foolishly left behind.
But, goodbyes, if properly done,
should inspire you to grow.
They should inspire you to create something new,
something fulfilling.
Goodbyes need to be cherished,
and although they arnt the same as a newborn baby,
fragile, innocent and naive,
you should treat them all the same.
Goodbyes are special, unique,
and even though it's redundant to say,
they are one of a kind.
Goodbye's, if properly done,
should not be done
at all.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 6:30 PM UTC
I live for two hours, five hours, bite to bleed.
A cryogenic coma until we begin.
Arguing in vain with the town around me,
over nothing able to be justified, and he and I don't care;
reveling in the confusion of the tri-city area—
drowning our egos and taking our time
until we truce with razor smiles; shift
to removing tongues with pliers in our words.
(living amputation and too much diet coke)
Shouted disclaimers spread to the rest of the state,
in case they never wondered how it feels
to watch a living heart exposed.
He gleamed gold with self-confidence as he cracked his knuckles.
"I'd like someone to hit me, y'know?"
Next to him, Tallahassee rolls her eyes, Tampa looks away.
(I catch his stare. Deo gratias. Deo gratias. Father, Son, and Violent Thoughts.)
Thank God, I whisper, and I am yelling.
He is split from throat to hip and I drain his open truth.
Speaker static shifts the room,
podium to floor.
This isn't over, he says, and we laugh
because nothing we ever say can be proven,
and we intend to prove it all.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Childhood is supposed to be a time of innocence,
a time when it is OK to be naive
So maybe I was duped into thinking
I was hearing sweet children's tales
and adorable nursery rhymes,
some sung in a song
Was I really?
Now I realize
they were all strangely
scary or violent in nature
Let me give you a rundown:
The mother sings to soothe her baby
Visions of its cradle resting on the treetops (Huh?)
A broken bough and it hits the pavement
Splat! Pleasant dreams!
Let's not forget the Pied Piper
He lured children in with his music
and they disappeared from town
A serial killer!
Jack and Jill needed water
They headed up the incline
but tumbled back down
They nearly ended up in the hospital!
Peter, Peter,
the guy who loved to eat pumpkins
stuffed his wife in a pumpkin's shell
Wife abuser!
The old woman who bore a ton of babies
found a home in some ***** old shoe
After she practically starved them
she gave them a whipping!
This is more sad than scary...
Another poor, old lady looks in her cupboard
seeking a meager bone for her dog
but had not one crumb to find (she probably ate his dog bones)
Ring around the rosie,
a possible urban legend,
had little tots falling to the ground and singing of ashes
as everyone around them died from the plague!
And when it rains it pours
A poor, old guy needs a nap
but gets a bump on the head
and remains unconscious!
London bridge was falling down
How come that happened?
Did someone blow it up?!
A destructive depiction!
How about that blackbird pie
Those birds were baked alive!
One bird got his revenge
and bit off someone's nose!
Three blind mice endured a needless amputation
Wasn't it bad enough they were visually impaired?
Now a farmer's wife had to chop off their tails!
Somebody tell me that one is uplifting!
The cobbler's bench was a scene of mayhem
The monkey tried to get that weasel
So he could crack his head like a coconut
Pop!
Who the hell thought this one up?
A nursery rhyme that will leave children crying!
A poor, little ladybug!
Her kids gone and her house on fire!
And they say that TV is full of bad messages?
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
Learning to let go
Of someone you long for
Is like an amputation
Of a part of your body
Or choosing little deaths
Every day
Learning to let go
Of someone you desire
Is as the loss of capability
Of your tastebuds
To taste food
Every day
Learning to let go
Of someone you want
Is the same as taking away
The Sun and Rain
To a growing flower
Every day
But
Learning to let go
Of someone you love
Is like the sight
Of a Rainbow after a storm
Bringing hope
Every day
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
Please dear stranger help me out.
I will **** steal, lie, and beg.
Please dear stranger I have no doubt,
Cut off my ******* leg.
I can't walk away from the pain,
That was manifested inside of me.
Only drugs and knifes to stab and drain,
Will help me be at peace.
Locked inside my favorite room,
Without the ability to do much.
I'm just sitting here hating you,
And that crap I had for lunch.
O goodie it's pill time,
Better limp my way on up.
My wound is crying slime,
I think it's about to erupt.
Spews blood makes it rain,
Can't feel my leg,
But I know it's in pain.
Please please cut it off I beg.
Cut off my ******* leg.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC