"amputees" poems
my darkest poems
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
a well of torments
soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
gorgeous
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling **** lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures
********
once
exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
putrefied
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils
because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment
while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas
out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
suicides
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us
humanity
muffled ticks
and splintered sticks
my poems let my demons out
yoo who its me
my name is spray snake z
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies
in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted
to be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold
bind it not
nor let it bind you*
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
*rocks don't care
all stubble and stones
a difficult geometry
so if they don't fit
they are hammered
and
crushed to rubble
jammed together to make virile walls
and if stabbed with swords
care not about
torn bellies and broken necks
soaking them crimson rust
or drowned nautilus
beneath the sea
humans
have futility in common with rocks
except that everything
girds and gnaws
at their belligerent sensitivity
all clouded soft towers
bi-pedal mortal spires
with tender flesh
beaten into place
lacerated
truncated amputees
to fit the outer life
of status and statues
a scandal to the inner coves of self
I'm envious of rocks
except for moments of
shifting watery kisses
clamorous for love
we remain
disfigured terrains
hunters of souls balmy unguents
while
fluctious immolating moons
unravel
in a hidden grieving
oh countenance of apathy
only to be more like you
a wilderness of stumps
and
dead rock gods
and our aspiration
indifference
our exit
the path of the renunciate
a penitence
feasting only on futility
and the vagaries of spirit*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Become medieval when the rain starts –
put coins in my corset, they are pure gold & evil
and show the men using my Thanatos drive:
I could not care if they want me,
I could not care if they hated me alive.
Rather the leaf upon dress-breasts much as
a muzzle, came from a box of cardboard slits
opening like lady-legs. I bribe the thrash with my
whispers & wheels, promise to soak up sky’s tears
but she certainly prefers the black ash haul.
I bring myself to the top of a volcano, its arc,
convinced that it cannot soot me,
not in the rain: such scorch is unreachable.
There is this protruding spiral in the center,
going dark, a pupil. It eats my hair-ribbon and I
sweat, but I am upon all terrains of the Earth
prepared to fall into a clutch, the gold stain my skin
before peeling by storms, how plague-like I seem.
Could be on my back when it implodes –
though my skirt would not appreciate the mess,
I think the idea fine. I am already pink, red’s better.
Wires and flushed cheeks will be what they find,
the men, knowing that I could not care.
And I did not; it was not less than a shot of
lightning stuck under a petticoat, frilled for nobody
but the volcano who turns ********* to embers.
the rain that beasts eyelashes to amputees.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
Is it odd that I hate tree stumps?
I mean, really, is it just me?
Is there something wrong with me?
I walk past them on the roadside
And something seems to break free.
I feel tense and taut;
A green branch pulled tight
On the saw edge of a gardener’s knife,
Peeling back one fibre at a time.
I can’t stop it to save my life.
It makes my skin crawl
To see the corpse left jutting up
Like the last tooth of a diseased crone,
Like a tag on the skin of the earth,
A drying scab to make the mother moan.
Couldn’t they just dig it up,
Or is that too much to ask?
Not enough to slay the ancient tree,
But to leave it lying on the ground;
Like leaving the foot of an amputee.
It makes me so mad
That I wonder I don’t complain,
But then I know a letter will be ignored,
As the death of such a mighty sentinel
Is a thing our conscience can afford.
It’s not like it was alive…
But the sarcasm doesn’t matter,
And the funny looks I get while I weep
Sink like the teeth of a saw,
Cutting through the body at my feet.
Am I the only one who hates tree stumps?
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
A smile is knowing
The dark crease of a well-arched spine
The dewy white lotus petals
The sad title of concubine
The blue glass so plainly beautiful
With its cold smooth sides
A blown vase that sits precious
Atop a dead deer's stretched hide
The hallowed slope of a portruding illiac
And the decadent crust of a sweet fruit pie
On a black vinyl stage floor
In a room filled with echoing cries
The reverberance loud and hollow
With ears ringing opened wide
The bends of her young tendons
In her ropey pale limbs
They flex and harshly twitch
How a scared and hooked fish swims
The cyclic orbits of planets and lifetimes
A ballerina's pirouette spins
Now the tarlatan and muslin gets torn to shreds
And the blinding stage lights quickly dim
The wet heat of a hungry tongue
Slaps upon her sweating skin
The audience simply does nothing
Just like the tall plant stalks of the green motel
Or the muddy vines in swamps in Rwanda
Or white wallpaper in the locked rooms of certain hells
The diseases that squirm in tainted waters
Of Liberia's ***** wells
The missing limbs of wartime amputees
Reflected in the golden glint of spent brass shells
Amidst the screams of
NO
STOP
NO
It yells the words
GO
GOD
GO
Through the grinning lips of the manifest destiny
And the arms of Khmer Rouge's killings
Its legs are formed from the many faces of lynch mobs
Its hands are hewn of American prison facilities and county jails
It's dripping deadly doses of fentanyl in local ****** shipments
And ****** dancers
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
I now know
Why little girls crying
Into teddies say they're
Dying.
Now I know that none of
My songs of heart-
Break were real. I had
No idea.
None.
It's like holding your breath
When you know that that car is
Not going to
Stop.
It's the chill down your neck when
You learn that somebody
Just like you
Passed away. Suddenly.
It's the feeling of knowing you're
Losing your grip on the roof of
A burning
Skyscraper. Air.
A soldier, a landmine.
Looking down to see
That your body
Is broken.
Broken.
I now know why country music
Is so close to God at all times.
Why amputees grieve over
Lost limbs.
Why girls cry and boys drink.
It's going to bed, certain that
The sun will not
Rise in the morning.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Welcome to the place you’ll find me sitting
helplessly trying to find a way out.
The place you’ll never want to visit again,
you’ll run, at full speed wishing you’d never
said it would be okay for me to
open up and let you see the insides of my
horribly damaged head,
and instead, never brought up the subject
but only find yourself back where you started in this maze
of desperate uncertainty,
because in this place lies carcasses of dreams
abandoned but never forgotten,
my knobby knees and shaking fingers
just haven’t yet found the strength
to put them back together again.
I've arranged them in patterns that resemble broken things
like china dolls with cracked smiles
and butterfly amputees, this is no picnic.
I am sorry for the horror you will see
in the depths of my cerebral cortex,
I never imagined you’d actually step inside,
and now here you are clawing your eyes out
right beside me screaming at the top
of hoarse lungs and pleading with sad eyes
now just barely bleeding, for a way out,
with a tone just below sad whisper I tell you
I’ve yet to find a ship off of the island of misfit toys,
and for now, you’re just as hopeless as you
found me to be in the beginning.
Just remember you provided the gun and ammunition,
I only loaded it, and gave you a taste for
the possibility of an ending.
I never tempted you with the idea of destruction,
only provided you with its breeding ground
and that's not something I can help or even change.
you've now seen the depths of hell
and men have said it leaves one blind
even if it does come in the shape and size of panic attacks
pain killers, *** and a heart rate that laughs at the word fast,
races beyond it, bearing sharp teeth and a smile,
swallows me up like the ever raging sea.
My body was not built for this type of misery,
my skin cracking and my kneecaps knocking
like a sort of secret police to tell me
that it's getting out of hand again.
Marionettes sewn straight into skin,
dancing just like all the other puppets
we live a life of lavish lamentation and hold up
bronze metals just for showing up and sticking around.
How much does life mean now?
Do not tell me I am not suffering because now
you have seen it and it will never leave your memory.
I bestow this upon you because you chose not to take me seriously.
This is a message from the island of misfit toys,
I may seem like I'm keeping it together just fine,
but beyond every door lies a secret,
beyond every shining light, a shadow
and beyond every smile, someone is broken.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
The buzz of the TV
Echoes off the drywall.
He lands on the floor like a stone.
Alone, he is left to crawl.
Skin becomes an ashtray,
A gray and ancient fossil.
Lifetimes are spent in bed.
Dead flies on the window seal.
Dreams are created
On ***** soaked mattresses.
He manages a single tear
With fear it will be his last.
Cast away from the herd,
Sheltered by the thickening trees,
His damaged soul must endure
A ***** among amputees.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
the white coat lords,
the army of nurses, the aides, didn't think
he understood their language
nor did they know
he had been a warrior in his homeland
and bore scars, inside, out
they paid little attention,
as he buffed lackadaisical linoleum, scrubbed porcelain *******
making them ethereally white
though the amputees,
the hobbled, the battle burned, would wake
to the sound of his labors:
his broom swaying to and fro,
a softer metronome for their ringing ears
a cadence of condolences
for their beating hearts
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
in no great haste to change the solemn art
that deals with those who cannot render ease
in modern terms we make a florid start
presenting our regards upon our knees
as if our thoughts were villain amputees
regarding with some horror how the strain
of vision reaching through this veil of rain
has no effect on motion nor on rate
all in the end must seep into the brain
where only losers claim to lead the state
both rich and poor rub shoulders in the mart
while finding nothing that could truly please
an honest mind or else a yearning heart
since all the market has is hopping fleas
and some lost objects baking in the breeze
there's not a single value to retain
and all our hope might just go down the drain
as laughing gargoyles seem to contemplate
you cannot speak except now to complain
where only losers claim to lead the state
no one today would ever give a ****
for decent laws or honest high decrees
the vultures wait until the wolves depart
then each devours the carrion that it sees
there's no means left the monster to appease
just throw another **** upon the wain
since we have read the signal very plain
the door is shut and rescue's come too late
all that is left is one more ugly stain
where only losers claim to lead the state
prince as you look out from the morning train
you'll see the same old shadow once again
don't think of it as duty nor as fate
that's just a path that leads you to more pain
where only losers claim to lead the state
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
On some verdant green hill far away in cute little Palestine of old
Before the Israelis marched in and bunged out the owners
Jesus was hanging about on the cross not feeling too happy
I suppose he was dying for you and me because his Dad was asleep
And he doesn't care if you are a ****** or a giant or a fatty or a fairy!
Yessir! He loves everyone unequivocally provided they praise him endlessly
And receive him in their souls and sing him a load of ****** hymns!
But if you don't receive the LORD and reject the words of the EVIL ONE
He (God) will crush you totally and utterly like a blue-tailed fly
Squatting on a well-used and ill-cleaned second-hand lavatory brush
Without any exception whatsoever even if you are an ugly fat dwarf
As He don't hold with no discrimination nor positive action no way!
So get down on your knees (a shorter journey for amputees with stumps)
And get praying to THE LORD without blinking twice. Yeeha! Amen!
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
When I was young, too young,
I stopped believing in beauty
and all the things that came with it
like hope and trust and
the magic of pixie dust.
I felt the light in my eyes
drain like sand through an hourglass
and no it’s not Days of our Lives
more like Nights Spent Slowly Dying
alone with only our ragged blankets
to keep us warm and breathing.
I got older, and I learned
how to get beauty back.
it wasn’t easy to rewire my brain after so much of it
had corroded and poisoned
but I did it. I learned to
look into a mirror and be okay
with what I saw looking back at me.
Now I’ve tried to share this power
with everyone I meet but it’s
really ******* hard to change
your own mind and trying to
change someone else’s is like
showering at someone’s house and you can’t figure out how the
**** their faucet works.
As I get happier
I run out of ways
to make other people happy
and I find myself choking
on words that mean **** all
to a depressed bulimic or
someone who can’t adjust to college life.
I can’t play therapist anymore.
But I’d cut out my eyes
for a blind man and
I’d give my limbs to amputees.
I’ll donate all my organs,
tear out my heart
and give it to someone
who’s had theirs broken
too many times before.
I would rip my self to pieces
just to save this world,
because how can I love myself
when the world can’t do the same?
What’s the point of being happy
in a world drowning in pain?
Maybe that is the point.
Maybe staying awake
in this sleepy universe
is the shot of espresso
it needs to wake the **** up
and finally smile a little.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
Phantom Itch
A Poem by Corset
Right there...
...and... not...
I've got that itch again,
the one
that Amputees
know so well...
He always loved the color of my eyes
after tears,
you would laugh at me and still
court the silence
process the cold
without me.
Sing off key
without fear...
brave the holidays
but still remember
you were once a part of me
Phantom Limb
that was loved.
A soul ache of compassion
the severed branch
untouchable,
the occupied
empty.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
Subconciously dreaming
Seeing him sigh
I awake to a start
From the stain of the morning
Throwing memories in my eyes
The death of a life
The lack of love in me
Feeling his knife
Now I'll never be more than one of his amputees.
Learning to listen
We prepare our ears
Can you hear shouting?
As they all yell
I wake to their cries
Acknowledging my own
Remembering my sadness
Do I feel tears?
Tied to our hope
We live for the alternative
Pretending to move
We stand starved and stubborn
Unwelcoming the change
Defying composure
And laying it all on the line
With the true self's exposure.
Left tortured, tempted by love
We fall for the forbidden
Massaging the pain
Living for the lies
Ignoring old warnings
Refusing to recognize
What was the demonstration of our demise.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 3:12 AM UTC
Halloween at Camp LeJuene
So those storage tanks
the ads of late-night-- all talkin' about
some thirty-five years a-leaking like...
some aplastic benzene-apocryphal river
Horror!
tastes like chemo Kool Aide
forever in the mouth
washing over parade route
seeping into boots and wombs
of cadets who can't hear the music
over a child's laughter-- ever
over failing livers
lined up like lawyers marching
onto glyphosate green
to Parkinsonian cheers
to Taps-solos echoeimg off the stone-
of mind and memory
Flags!
Flapping-angry!
“No (wo)man left behind
on the multiple ways to myeloma
Miscarriages
of justice!
A silence waiting
an eternity
of tiny infant cries
emptying....
into Love Canal
There will be...
NO JUSTICE!
Only billions set aside
for funeral-ic devastation
“Significant compensation”
--being read in a woman's face
in a woman's voice
“...suffering from any of these....
after drinking the water at Camp Le Juene”
at the hands-down
heads-turned
greased palms of
silence
being owned
by military-corpporate
“channels”
of secrecy
...of Pharma-to-government
medical-backwaters
laundered to-governments
of banana republics
Mercenery chemicals
Medicine with missile launchers
strewn
among military over-runs of...
…of high power rifles,
night goggles, and F-15s
What am I missing here?
...about the rubbery clots and myocarditis?
Has it finally come round to us?
How could I not see!
not recall?
How many years ago--
since I could hear?
the rapid fire!
“The toxic Leaks!”
“...suffered from any of these...”
...feeding tube terrors
Time's tumors
downgrade to errors
deferred...
Now beside the grief as amputees
--take the field of parade
While Misplaced Rage
pages through abortions of blame
in the chemical caldron
where they **** shower, and shave
...then towel-dry their babies
or not....
Where are the rapid-fire rats and bats
when we need 'em?
Semper Fi!
Nov 29, 2022
Nov 29, 2022 at 10:12 PM UTC
I went to Palm Beach carrying every shard of my soul today. It was empty, and it was going to storm. Not a soul but I. The waves brought in sting with each rolling army of sea foam, and I cried with the salt water of the Atlantic. That water roared with the screaming amputees that lay oozing in my heart. I thought about becoming one with the water; taking a deep breath of blue to end the pain. But I didn't. I let the shards of my spirit cut my palms as a buried them in the sand; I let the sharks smell my blood. I let the tide leave with my soul.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
There is no ceasefire, not in Gaza, not in Lebanon, not in Sudan,
but only genocide...
aggression...
war...
blood...
slaughter, and pain.
The West Bank continues to be under siege... met by tanks, death,
threats...
Families are met with bullets to their head.
The children are met with amputated limbs.
Children are left orphan... and forgotten.
Communities are met with too many martyrs to grieve...
Where is this ceasefire now?
There is bombardment in Yemen too, directed by the West like a true imperialist.
If one dare to rise up and resist, are met with an iron fist by the international colonizer community, given consent to **** with no impunity...
Dare the amputees speak....
Dare the bullet to the head speak...
Dare the orphan speak....
Dare the resistance speak of their own pain...
There is no ceasefire, but only genocide.
Where is this so-called ceasefire now?
Nowhere in sight....
Where is the anti-war movement?
Nowhere in sight.....
What happened to the anti-war movement?
Nowhere in sight….
Mar 17, 2025
Mar 17, 2025 at 8:07 AM UTC
I will show you the ***** parts of us,
and how unsafe their salt tastes,
mended, reckon bliss in this place –
no one kills what they never loved.
Because then it will not matter,
amputees are not fatal, but no one
has amputated their heart or head.
Each person, each piece is opaque –
but there is something to be seen
inside, the ***** parts we leave
wrestling with us when they speak.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
Sometimes amputees can still feel a body part that is no longer there. They call this phantom pain. They can feel an itch where theres nothing to scratch, pain where there's nothing to hurt, they can feel the tickle of sheets, stretching across what used to be a limb. I can still feel your body next to mine while I sleep but I pinch my arm to distract myself. Phantom pain: noun. A sensation of pain coming from a body part in which the nerves have been destroyed. The first time you left, you gave me your flannel. The sleeves flooded my arms and though I could not see them, I could still wiggle my fingertips. For the next five months, I would wrap it around my body as tight as I could in hopes that I would feel something. But my hands formed fists and for a moment, I forgot that they were there. The second time you left, you gave me your body. Told me that it was all mine, that you were sculpted just for me, that we were apart of God's masterpiece and NOTHING would wreck this beauty. You told me that we were going to glue this puzzle together and frame it. Hang it above our bed. Now I lay in bed and I can feel your body next to mine. The third time you left, you gave me a kiss....after kiss, after kiss, you kissed me from head to toe, from finger tip, to fingertip, you kissed me so much, I forgot the entire english language, so much that my lips turned blue, so much, they went numb, so much that when you were kissing her, I could still feel it. I could still taste your tongue, I could still feel the outline of your ribcage, I could still feel the warmth of your hand curled around mine, you cannot feel mine. You did not want this body, you did not want this hand, this ribcage, this tongue, this piece of the puzzle. Instead, you wanted a body that believed in what she could not see, one that you could lay next to, one that you could be sealed with. One that would fit in a **** box with you, one you could send off to heaven with free shipping, you wanted a body with scriptures tattooed across her *** because mailing costs one questionable ***** stamp. One that would pray with you while making love, a body that you don't have to repent for, a body that god would be proud of. I woke up this morning and next to me was an imprint of what I once believed in.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
How beautiful the children's feet,
Mothers at the border crossings,
The cellist in the war-torn streets,
Resplendent in the evening,
Who know that evil has a name,
A placid face, blue eyes of death,
Who murders with a toxic rain
That sears the skin, that takes the breath.
The earth grows dark with fallen leaves;
Blood brothers, elders, innocents.
Say nothing of the amputees,
The blinded and the minds that went
Beyond recovery. God's hooks
Were never meant for common folks.
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 5:14 PM UTC