"anaesthetic" poems
I know the toothless women
Who crumple on the streets
The rain bleeds through their cardboard,
The cold drips through their feet
I know the dying children
With anaesthetic arms
The angels crowd around them
With time that burns their palms
I've hugged the brainwashed gangsters
With money drenched in blood
I've heard their broken weeping
While digging up the mud
I've seen the starving faces
Of the tired girls at home
The broken, hectic psyches
That eat them to the bone
I know the burning poets
With a desperate thirst for life
The need for finding soulmates
That pierces like a knife
There's weary public servants
Who risk their lives for good
And prove compassion every day
Yet stay misunderstood
Human love is buried
Beneath the plastic weight
Of angry allegations
And a world that feeds off hate
These people may be messy,
But they're beautiful and real
With hidden dreams and secrets
And ability to feel
We have a place to run to
With lights of peach and gold
Where all the weight is lifted
And all our tales are told
We live in total freedom
So safe beneath the moon
And though it seems ambitious
Our dreams will save us soon
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
Though you've barely had a ramble
are no wayward canine daddy of note
that brief encounter in our brambles
has left the experts fearing a cancerous growth
So we starve you of your pine nuts and bacon rinds
so we can feed you anaesthetic
and betray you to the thief of time
only to make you, I imagine, feel pathetic
And you often so full of life's exasperate scurry
I worry
will the shine stray from your eyes
those hazel pools of so much of
my feeling mature, just for
pertaining to a creature's care
we all seem in too much of a hurry
to stifle what little spirit
that surrounds us
to wear
down on every minor aspect
of childish delight
in this silent sacrament
of the aging process
and with arguably years
of your fatherhood left
in the very ***** some dry eyed savant
decides it correct we should tamper with
Tomorrow I will snuggle you in favoured, bouncy eiderdowns
that will blanket your unknowing
and treat you as if
you were an eastering child
on cured hams and other saltiness
after you awaken
from those strangest enforcements of sleep
and through our eyes we will trade more secrets to keep
And we will hope, as we only can, that it was for the best
For you, Yorkshire's son, or Sheringham's
And consider with all of your
exhuming breath
That we meddled, stilling over life
To cheat a slightly delayed death.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
Cold.
I was waiting
but I’ve changed my mind.
The whole world fell away, left just me/us
and it felt OK.
All the stuff I thought mattered;
age-gap, gossip, housing, education-
when it was just me/us- it didn’t.
(she’s awake)
For a moment we were everything.
It was beautiful.
I love me/us- even with
complications pushing
into my mind,
cramming themselves
around me/us euphoria-
I’m not making an Angel today.
Going home.
(what’s she doing?)
Jelly legs aren’t working,
feel hot and slippery.
She’s holding me
down.
(Sshh- you’re fine, just a bit woozy)
I don’t believe in Angels.
Crap.
(it’s the anaesthetic, makes them cry)
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 3:44 PM UTC
Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.
They talk about it as if depression sweeps them in its arms that they are so used to it.
They talk about it, but never realise that they have mistaken their sadness for depression.
But don’t they know that depression is not sadness? Depression is not crying?
Depression is that shadow that only sticks to you when you are happy and in a bright place, and would refuse to let go of you until you are in the dark, embracing it.
Depression is that hard smack you get across the face when you are laughing with your friends, that leaves you in shock for a few seconds until you realise that no matter how hard you laugh and no matter how many happy tears you have shed, you are still empty. You are still a mess.
Depression is that anaesthetic you get when you are in pain, that leaves you in a ***** tub facing a hateful mirror eying that razor and begging God that you have the strength to feel, only to be able to move a limb and make your delicate skin meet the crude razor. But you still fail. Because you aren’t sad. You aren’t wretched. You are empty. You are numb.
Depression is that exhaustion that is in love with your body and jealous of your anxiety so it always picks a fight with it. When you are spending time with anxiety and trying your best to get your work done but feeling as if it is not good enough so you try and try, depression bursts in and pleads that you come with it. And you do. You go back to bed, wrap your cold blanket around you and trace the cracks in your gloomy ceiling, watching your life flash right in front of you and you can’t do anything about it.
Depression is that smile that is planted on your face when you have written a perfect ****** poem on your skin using your favourite razor, that makes you trace your shaking fingers over it feeling so proud of your poem. Feeling so proud because your blood that is seeping out is applauding you and telling you that you wrote a perfect piece.
Depression is getting into an argument with the one you love the most but once they reach the edge and start saying what is meant to be hurtful words, your only response is silence because you know your feelings are not valid and your words are full of ******** So you keep it in. You never open up and you never let them know how hurtful they could be.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC
it was that metallica in moscow
prompt that got me started,
obviously the real relationship ended
and the writing began;
but what can you do?
as a child i wanted to become a veterinarian,
but god, why a poet?
it’s usually those who wished otherwise
who become mozarts in the unwanted category
of being themselves... just so there’s some sort
of anaesthetic expressed by ease and fluidity,
and apathy, and automation;
writing doesn't have to be of a lofty/ aloof
ontological orientation... it just has to be basic,
and true... it has to have a quality
where truth translates itself as fiction...
and you begin lying to yourself on paper.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
If love is pain and pain is pleasure,
Then these bruises she shall use as,
your affection measure.
To visualise love,
To feel your feelings,
To sense it as her wounds are healing.
Seeing, hearing,
Following Your scent,
To know just what it represents.
She’ll take the leap,
relinquish control
As further she delves down your rabbit hole.
Enjoy the journey
but were’s the destination?
Your marks, your love? The correlation?!!
Some want to hurt,
some want to bleed.
To watch the inner anguish freed.
A world, a life,
A religious order?
His canes the relics to to this mental disorder.
See external pain,
is internal anaesthetic,
His marks she believes to be truly stigmatic.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
I SIT HERE DRENCHED IN THE
BLOOD OF ONE OF THE NATIVES.
WE CAPTURED THE LAND AND
HIS MIND WITH OUR ALTERED
EDUCATION, IT WORKED LIKE
AN ANAESTHETIC, OR BETTER,
A SEDATIVE. HE PONDERED ON
WHETHER OR NOT HE IS HUMAN
WHILE WE BEGAN PLOUGHING
HIS SOIL. HE AWOKE FROM HIS
DAYDREAM, TO OUR AMAZEMENT,
WE THOUGHT WE HAD HIM FOILED.
HE RALLIED HIS MEN, THEY DID NOT
HESITATE. I WILL GIVE IT TO THEM,
THEY ARE ARMOURED WITH THE BRAVERY
AND THE STRENGTH OF A THOUSAND APES.
BUT IT WAS TOO LATE, WE SLAUGHTERED
THEM FROM A DISTANCE, AND TOOK CONTROL
OF THEIR CHILDREN, WIVES AND MAIDS.
SPEAKING OF CHILDREN, HOW GOES OUR
SWEET DAUGHTER ROSE? I MISS HER
DEARLY AND I LOOK FORWARD TO
EMBRACING HER WITH FATHERLY
LOVE WHEN THIS WAR COMES TO A CLOSE.
UNTIL WE MEET,
__________
- t.m
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
“Here’s your morning PSA,
Laced with saccharine and anaesthetic,
Unfortunately the missiles are on their way,
So leave the sick and try not to panic,
Ignore the hysteria, and those calling your name,
Avert your eyes as the world sets aflame,
We apologise for keeping this from you,
Secret for all of these years,
But please keep in mind, though we’ll aim for your rescue,
Death is the least of your fears
This will be our last transition,
I’m afraid the president must catch his flight,
You may wait to hear from us but until then,
Goodbye, goodluck and goodnight.”
We were the PVC plastic barbie dolls,
Waiting to be burned alive,
Unlucky enough to live,
We woke up to an absence of we,
No Nevada left to test in,
So I’m a model mannequin,
Melt me down,
Tick-Tick-Tick,
The light was white and empty,
Tick-Tick-Tick,
My madness steeped in silence
Tick-Tick-Tickety,
Geiger is telling me to run,
Tickety-Tickety-Tickety,
But it’s no use now,
I threw up on Monday,
Tuesday, I choke back fallout,
Ignore the bubbles when it hits my skin,
On Wednesday, my gums blink bright red,
Thursday I know I am all alone because the wind has ceased to blow,
And Friday I realise I am not,
They came with rubber masks,
Silicone,
Respirators and coils of filters,
We both had big black eyes,
But neither of us saw people reflected in them,
I counted three,
Alpha, Beta, Gamma,
One smiles by exhaling clean air,
Reaches out a hand across the barren wasteland,
Fingers tipped with lead and tells me:
“There’s a prize for the last standing.”
I am not ionised,
So I bruise every time they touch me,
These guides through plagues of acid rain,
The graveyard of monuments stripped bare by a world of rot,
My hair falls out as I breathe dead air,
I don’t remember what PSA stands for,
I don’t remember my name,
I bleed sand and the echo of a failed civilisation,
But with heavy breathing and a muffled voice,
Gas masks filtering what used to keep me alive,
I wonder if there is anything behind those masks at all,
I know there is nothing behind mine,
None of us are human anymore,
And we haven’t been for quite some time,
Together, we watch the sky rain black ash.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.
Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.
My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.
When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.
Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.
I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
Clickety clack, clickety clack go the perfect white plastic teeth as they clip together
Reality bites like a pair of comedy dentures sprung from the pocket of a sad faced clown
Look again; are they plastic? Or are they waterloo teeth plucked from the warm corpse of a cold friend
Either way they are far too close to my face for this to be funny.
For redemption he squeezes his droopy flower between finger and thumb
But to no avail.....The comedy squirt is missing; it is as dry as the tears on his powder white cheek
Squeak, squeak, squeak goes the wheel on his unicycle as he painfully pedals away
But it is not he that failed you....No it is those that stole the part of you that used to be easily pleased
Like thieves in the night, feasting on your happiness and enjoying the thought of wonderful you falling from your erroneously perceived perch
Well let them take their pound of flesh, if they can rejoice in my pain it will only erode them from the inside out
I renounce such bitterness because before long I will find me again, I will be stronger and better
I will take flight and alight a pedestal far higher than the one they imagined I thought I was on
“Just words!” screams that child in my soul...Actions are stifled like the image of a five year old you with a cloth clasped to the face; breathing on the anaesthetic evil of life.
You want to help but you can only see him through the one way glass of time, what is done is done and can only be undone through reliving this terror and fixing the damage
His struggle is short lived and the monsters descend, dragging him by a foot naked and bruised, head banging the contours of this corridor of depravity
He cannot hear your screams but his fill your ears like the blood of a million paper cuts, not one measured but together a pain like no other
Where was his saviour? Or was he always considered as a low risk category a misconception of strength and need
Was his *** the white of his skin, the bread on his table, the money in his mothers pocket and the education he received render him ineligible for salvation
In short...“Yes”...he was expected to save himself and learn to save others...Those less fortunate.
Little do they know in some ways, once you’ve scratched the surface, they were far luckier
Their vices were less harmful than his own devices, as a little knowledge is dangerous
With great power comes great responsibility but some can be responsible for others without learning to take care of themselves.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
The vibrancy of youth now succumbs to the anaesthetic of indifference, like testicular feminisation of the masses.
I often contemplate the indifference of cacti in Arizona, where handle-bar moustaches curl with the worldly-wisdom of motorcycle gangs.
So, strip meat from the perimeter of the wishbone and feel the waves of nocturnal celebrations, as we slide into a deep winter slumber.
You will waken from a crisis of identity and be emancipated from stereotypical cavities where thorny plantations thrive amidst unforgiving terrains.
Snap it in half, and you will see mystical Arabian genie’s arise from magical carpets.
Oh, one more thing: I am not a detective.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
pain loves the present tense
it loves gravity so that the clouds
are turned into geological strata
sometimes I use my hands like an anaesthetic
between right and wrong the pain dillema:
to feel or not to feel (the unknown)
we discover clever remedies or illusions
quiet cannery in the storehouse of flesh
it comes in circles mixtures all kind of names
it has rythm texture electric blackness
each unshed tear an orb of contraction
compulsive excavation of the void inside
sometimes I feel I have canyons of salt in my heart
on the edges of safety so much to learn about terror
this pain is a blind Robinson on Hope island
(with his bare hands he sets pyres in his heart)
was it pain that invented this language, these holy wars?
love you, hate you, nonsense, can't stand it anymore
I know my father lied to me that he doesn't feel pain
bodies in pain can't dream the water slide of life
that might take us further away into the night of day
time to say thank you, say farewell,
love everything that simply is
it is time to
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 3:23 PM UTC
Mine became a life of chaos
Lived on the edge of a knife
Balanced for eternity
Caught between death and life
In the end the fear of living
Burned me to the very core
Without my anaesthetic
I knew I could take no more
There was no fight left in me
I had no heart that I could give
I had no way of surviving
It cost me too much to live
Into a well of silence
I breathed a desperate prayer
Uncertain of an answer
Or who might be out there
As I listened in confusion
The solution came to me
Live a life of honesty
The truth could set me free
So I stepped in the future
I discovered my true worth
And after the death of winter
Came spring my season of rebirth
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
What an intriguing opportunity a trip to Rose Cottage,
Sure sounds magical to me,
It's not a woodland haven or a diminutive house by the shore,
Came out from anaesthetist's trip,
I drifted, in and out,
A crazy dream it seemed,
Woke in rose pink room,
Thought I hadn't made it through,
For in the land of work,
A flip side of such a romantic image seen,
Rose Cottage, delightful though it sounds is life's penultimate stop called mortuary,
Before undertaking on one final trip,
Final destination, last stop guaranteed!
I wrote this as I left work after work and heard a porter discussing coming to take a patient to 'Rose Cottage'......It made me think....Hence writing this....and the anaesthetic bit is true...Freaked me out at the time!! Livvi **
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Like as a flamelet blanketed in smoke,
So through the anaesthetic shows my life;
So flashes and so fades my thought, at strife
With the strong stupor that I heave and choke
And sicken at, it is so foully sweet.
Faces look strange from space--and disappear.
Far voices, sudden loud, offend my ear--
And hush as sudden. Then my senses fleet:
All were a blank, save for this dull, new pain
That grinds my leg and foot; and brokenly
Time and the place glimpse on to me again;
And, unsurprised, out of uncertainty,
I wake--relapsing--somewhat faint and fain,
To an immense, complacent dreamery.
1.4k
i know what the problem with poetry is...
it’s like nick harper tuning the piano
or tenacious d playing the one note song...
it’s almost like
had i the grace (#d)
to fathom the craze (#d)
of each acknowledging stare (#a)
we shared: i guess i’d fare (#a)
much closer to the stardom (#b)
of what i can fathom (#b)...
lead
-ed
red
well fed...
ya ya yawn.
apart from the humanities subjecting an art via mutilating
the one original craft of spontaneity
with such excess of scalpel and anaesthetic
as “discovered” theory...
no expression of language has as many “grammatical”
words to define its learning / interpretation as poetry...
whatever verb has against pronouns to make us anonymous
by excluding a personal stance of nouns...
so has poet against verbs to make us anonymous
by excluding a metaphor personalised given the nouns.
well one note does sound “serene” giving the rhyme couplet
when in music just the same old repeat of the so called rhythm: of a church at 11pm, i.e.
poetry is ruined by rhyme... rhyme kills rhythm
of spontaneity... and i'd hate to make poetry
the ***** of predictability of £110 an hour £10 extra
for oral *** performed on her... enter the realm of rhyme
and you enter a cul de sac:
i was headbanging, unsure whether it was the music
that got me started or the echo of my head autographing
a brick wall as a way to find teeth in a woodpecker's beak.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
I wonder,
have you forgotten about me yet?
I'm not sure that I'll ever forget you
even though I'm wanting to, so badly
It seems my mind isn't ready to let me.
But I have to keep trying.
And it'll take a while for me to stop crying
but at least I won't be denying,
my longing for you
to still be in my life.
Yeah, we had strife
but somehow we managed and
right now I'm tired of standing
here without you beside me.
Please just pull the knife out of me
set me free from this agony, maybe
give me an anaesthetic to numb all
of this pain.
I'm waiting for Felicia Amnesia to
sink into my brain.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
I went into the garage
sat down at the workbench
laid out a clean sheet of Tyvek
and sterilized the long steel probe.
This wasn’t a snap decision;
I did months of research
got some tips from an ER nurse friend
knew the risk
but could not live this way anymore.
Numbed my right eye with ophthalmic anaesthetic
leaned over the mirror
and slowly pushed the needle
into the socket beside my nose.
It didn’t hurt
just pressure
like the blogs had said
and then
The world exploded in yellow stars
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
The winter used to feel long.
Ecstasy was a pill
on the tip of my tongue;
a common thread I missed.
I used to walk the streets
as if I did not deserve my shadow.
The imminent falling bomb
the only reason to exist.
Sobriety was a sleight of hand
hiding in plain sight.
Paradise were the moments
where I did not have to fight.
I used to sing for love
I would never get back again.
I used to talk to God
in the absence of a friend.
The winter used to feel long.
The summers were too brief.
Turned to every medicine
for transient relief.
I broke my back for a living.
Now I drink in the sun-glass shade.
No anaesthetic; no clouded mind.
I walk the river
a thousand miles
from all I left behind.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
You are carried in a basket,
Like a carcase from the shambles,
To the theatre, a cockpit
Where they stretch you on a table.
Then they bid you close your eyelids,
And they mask you with a napkin,
And the anaesthetic reaches
Hot and subtle through your being.
And you gasp and reel and shudder
In a rushing, swaying rapture,
While the voices at your elbow
Fade--receding--fainter--farther.
Lights about you shower and tumble,
And your blood seems crystallising--
Edged and vibrant, yet within you
Racked and hurried back and forward.
Then the lights grow fast and furious,
And you hear a noise of waters,
And you wrestle, blind and dizzy,
In an agony of effort,
Till a sudden lull accepts you,
And you sound an utter darkness . . .
And awaken . . . with a struggle . . .
On a hushed, attentive audience.
1.1k
I am feeling very ******* nervous at this moment
Cold sweat. Twisting gut.
It seems I’ve worked myself into a rut
And now I’m freaking out.
My face is tighter than it ought to be
A good lobotomy would calm me down.
A local anaesthetic would suffice;
I’d usher in the ice,
And let a needle perforate my cranium.
My nerves would lie prostrate.
I would be quite devoid of love or hate.
I’d cease to stab at mortal ties;
Cease to believe immoral lies
(And then the ice, the numbing ice
Would quicken my demise.)
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
I am already saddened at the severed tie of unanticipated disconnectedness.
Bonds of the soul are beyond the figment of our frail imaginations.
Black Sunday may give us what we call a “special deal”, but we have to pay greater homage to the powers that be – namely our ridiculous “White House”.
In the era of advancement and confusion of colour, I give thanks for your genuine being.
The forgotten will truly be remembered, and we will raise a final toast to the anaesthetic of contemporary propaganda.
Do you honestly think that you will be safe? Nobility does not reign in absolute finesse and the Fertility of the land is not without its benefits.
In my obscurity, I urge you to plough the fallowed ground in the spirit of the English countryside.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Lumpy, bumpy, feeling rather jumpy.
Nodule? Cyst? What have I missed?
Kindness pouring from soothing eyes - ladies in purple who have seen it all, beckoning sirens though to the hall.
Consultant - God, Guru, Man, Father, Lover, Philanderer, Tooth Fairy, Assassin
He checks like a 15 year old boy, passionless, conscientious, circling
Is this ok?
Lump - Yes. Bump - Yes. Am I going to jump? - Yes
Off to see the coolest man in the hospital - the Ultrasound guy
But first back to sit in cornrows with the ladies who coyly all dressed like me.
Russian roulette - someone will be upset.
Mamm-o-gram - scans your ***** like ham.
Kindness of the operator who's careers advisor could never have predicted this.
And then up and off to be seen by James Dean
James Dean with a wand and gel and a screen
And a squint then a glint - it might just be ok....?
90% its benign - oh mine the benign, fine, tine-y lump
But we had better double check.... with this massive needle
Please Mrs D please don't wheedle
Eyes shut tight anaesthetic mirroring a mastectomy....is it still there?
Then back to see my crew
Of ladies old and not so, a sea of tight smiles and frightened eyes
90% it's benign
90% it's benign
90% it's benign
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
The Anti-Monk
Resurrect a tribal passion, when the needle threads the skin after each wince the pain screams that this canvas is art happening. An art so ancient, an art so ancient; nuturing itself like a child alongside ourselves developing traditions that encompass every mountain on ourselves to only just a small patch of grassland on ourselves. The true tattooist's masochism has no bounds, well except maybe brands, a decision about your portrait of self only your choice will imagine. Paint my self reflection upon myself, the aethetics will please me.
Suppress a primal ugre, where the mind threads between the skin after calm the tranquility whispers that this temple is peaceful, still. A practice so ancient, a practice so ancient, festering itself like a ***** alongside ourselves deccelerating rituals that encompass every valley on ourselves to only just a summit of our plateau on ourselves. The true monk's bounds has no art, well except maybe botany, a decision about your portrait of self only your choice will imagine. Meditate my self reflection upon myself, the anaesthetic will soothe me.
An Anthesis and a Monk
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC