"anatomically" poems
A volley of gunfire
A stream of offensive epithets.
An amazed girl
And an enraged boy.
After every volley of gunfire,
There was a respawning individual.
Steam could be seen emanating from his ears
Anger radiated off of him.
The girl watched carefully
Taking note of every action.
The sounds of battle could be heard
And the boy kept getting aggressive.
Innovative and anatomically impossible suggestions were made
Names were called and yelled out
And the game continued
“I effing stuck him” was repeatedly yelled.
Finally, after a long rant,
The boy jumped with ecstasy
In the heat of the final battle, he won.
Now he wouldn’t have to fling his controller
The girl applauded him, thankful for the blessed silence.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Anatomically sound, befitting a king
swaying alertly in the waves, I sing.
Hearts, at sea, floundering and pounding
against the cavity of my chest, astounding.
V-Day arriving, and leaving without me
swimming with shellfish and sharks at sea.
Satisfying love’s unique quality,
and breathlessly waiting for me to be we.
Tortuously lying in the keel’s utter mist
waves exploding above, below and amidst.
contemplating all that I ever wished,
remembering when, at first we last kissed.
V-Day, a special enchanting display,
lovingly speeding, though slightly astray.
Wishing you love in a happiness way,
throughout a belated Valentine’s Day.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
"you are so comfortable"
but have the pelvic bones
that I knew not of
existing anatomically*
greeted your elastic skin?
hard bone on hardwood
friction on my outer flagella*
pangs in my pits
this continues to concave
an artificial frame;
deemed healthy
after an unsatisfied lifetime
I remain as so
I am a wire hanger
draping fabric
awkward angles
I beg your pardon
I am far from comfortable
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
Every inch of our ceiling
is bruised in memory,
watercoloured blues
fade into last Summer's browns.
It hurts.
Night brings the poetry
I'm still trying not to trip over,
the written and spoken wounds
that mark my body
still spell out your favourite weapons:
1) Ginsberg
2) Naivety
3) Perpetuated incompleteness.
I am anatomically structured for
falling apart with one cut heart string
at a time; a countdown only I control.
One only you tick for.
One day you'll learn
that the world is made from tissue paper,
and tears as easily as I.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
There's one cat who meows
in the alleyway but mimics
a fowl dog who ate
larval staged meat. There's
two headless horseman
racking leaves to find their heads
that teenagers rolled
down the country hills.
there's three furry bears
in a cave testing hardness and
softness while four bats
hang backwards to avoid the light. The
five cowgirls had six cowboy hats
each exactly. They're going to run
out if they keep throwing them at
groups of seven boys. Eight dentist chairs
were rolled onto stage so the
nine musketeers,
multiplied by three,
could get ten root canals.
The doctor said he could have
given eleven more of them
but he heard twelve whimpers
of pain and gave up. There were
thirteen bounced checks and fourteen wrinkled
foreheads who were lost in eternity
for fifteen years. Sixteen world banks
filed bankruptcy to drive dollars down.
Seventeen hands were squeezed
from an angel holding glowing
red lips. eighteen hearts and
brains switched spots
anatomically leaving nineteen
grown men sprawled on the
ground like they drank twenty
or so too many.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Anatomically sound, befitting a king
swaying alertly in the waves, I sing.
Hearts, at sea, floundering and pounding
against the cavity of my chest, astounding.
V-Day arriving, and leaving without me
swimming with shellfish and sharks at sea.
Satisfying love’s unique quality,
and breathlessly waiting for me to be we.
Tortuously lying in the keel’s utter mist
waves exploding above, below and amidst.
contemplating all that I ever wished,
remembering when, at first we last kissed.
V-Day, a special enchanting display,
lovingly speeding, though slightly astray.
Wishing you love in a happiness way,
throughout a belated Valentine’s Day.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 3:23 AM UTC
Her words were thrown in the air.
I stood there.
I walked home.
I unlocked the door.
I stripped off my damp coat, unstrung my scarf.
I collapse and sit on the cold, cold wood floors.
As I do so, that’s when my metaphorical heart splinters into the tiniest of pieces.
Anatomically real hearts don’t break, they cannot realistically do so.
Which is precisely why this is so ******* hard for it to heal back.
As you are fighting against a beautifully lucid and meticulously choreographed illusion.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Face like a road map. Pock marks like valleys and the little blue vein by your nose like a river rampantly running down through the mountain of your defined cheek bone. Face like a night sky. Freckles like one million diamonds flecked across a porcelain night sky. Two crystal clear blue eyes like full moons reflecting on an untouched lake in the middle of July. Face like a razor blade. The edges of your jaw line so straight and sharp and defined they cut through the flesh with the pointed tip of your chin. Cutting the pads of women's fingers as they trace the delicate lines leaving faint pink traces of their D-N-A. Face like a Brillo pad. Face like a baby bear cub. Fuzzy and innocent in its nature to be nurtured in the way of the world. Like the framed moment of a woolly caterpillar being cradled by a toddler in the backyard on a fall afternoon in a pile of leaves freshly raked. Face like an anatomically correct hear. That ruptures and burst with each glance at beauty only to reanimate itself for the very idea of said beauty being some sort of purity. Some sort of saving grace. Re-iginiting in crater of eye sockets like coals that become diamonds under the pressure to cry. Face. Face like hands that hold mine firmly. Face. Like. F-A-C-E. Face like my person.
*Prompt from poem by Dorianne Laux
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Hey you
You with the crinkling eyes and the dancing laugh
with the arms that ensare my waist to throw me against
pure emerald mountain sides dripping with late spring rains
the shucking of pine bark to twirl wooden towers down lilting slopes
and the gangly limbs reaching towards the sky
in an attempt to capture the clouds
for the sole reason of dancing through their
fluffiness
you with the pure soul and poise fit enough for the queen
if only you were anatomically different
you would rule this world better than she
honesty running through your laughing veins
as you summit mountain after mountain
pure glacial eyes darting to capture mine
mischievious depths speaking of hidden love
I know you
so well.
Even though our friendship has been
2 months 30 days long
I know you better than I know myself
My best best friend you called me
as true as these wild trilliums we run past in an attempt to throw
the other into the lake
the fires which serve as a competitive twinkle in your eyes
we are so free.
You who contains the most pure soul
pure intentions I have ever come across
You are so loved
You are so perfect in your innocence
In the wise notes held in your fingertips
you provide wings to leap with.
I know there are waves trapped in your veins
calling for your brilliant smile.
I know when your head rests against my chest
it is with the innocence of a child
You are my best friend
My comrade in arms
My birch gatherer.
and this love spreading through my limbs
for your tired head and tumbling curls
is hard to ignore.
I know you are being called away
a bright future awaits
a familial expectation to fufill
I'm just here to tell you I will be waiting
In these mountains, these peaks
roaming annd laughing and dancing
waiting for the day my best friend realizes
his happiness is more important than others expectations
and I will be here
as free as when you first found me
ready for our adventures to begin
Come fly with me.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
They say that a person's heart
is the same size as their fist
but when you said I love you it hit
harder than your hand ever did
and I may have two black eyes
but yours are the color of fresh cut grass
and your heart must beat faster
than a hummingbird's wings
because your fist moved like
the needle of a sewing machine on my skin
but I was the one stitching myself back up
and I am covered in bruises
shaped like the hand I used to hold
but they will never hurt as much as
the last time I felt your pulse
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
The way a child trusts so blindly, I will close my eyes and fall into your every word.
The sugary-sweet scratch of every consonant and the friction of each vowel.
I will trust you with no hesitation.
If I fall, I know that you will catch me.
The way a child clings to it's favorite blanket or stuffed toy,
I will hold onto you and never let go of the feeling you put in my heart.
The way a child finds no sorrow in it's days, I will too, look at the world in a sunlight so bright, there is no room for darkness.
When I am with you, I can know no sadness.
The way a child sleeps with a guardian teddy bear at it's side, to fight off every night terror, I will rest easy knowing you are beside me.
Your body pressed against mine, like perfect puzzle pieces.
The way a child day-dreams of anatomically incorrect hearts, and
cheek-kisses, I will dream of you and all of the butterflies you give me.
And the way a child believes from the bottom of their heart, that everything will be okay, I will give you my heart, and believe that you will not break it.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 12:08 AM UTC
I liked the way the bourbon on your lips
burned mine stop
I had to keep drinking stop
Sometimes I get drunk enough to
remember the smell of pomade,
the way the muscles in your back flow
across an anatomically perfect skeleton stop
I can hear you breathing through
your mouth, your heart
that always seemed to beat faster,
more sure than mine,
until it
stopped
altogether stop
Everything was
all together
until it
stopped stop
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
Anatomically
If you were to remove my tongue,
I would still have
The pen and the inkwell.
Ontologically
If you were to take out my tongue,
And the pen from my hand,
I would still think, feel, and live my poetry.
Ethically
If you were to tear out my heart,
What use would I have
For the pen and the inkwell?
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 6:36 AM UTC
Being an anomaly
I trace it anatomically
and source it as proximity
To asinine proclivity
...
The tendency
To actively
Reject the actuality
will be our fall collectively
Unless we drop passivity
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
You gave me your heart in a poetical way.
I figuratively hold this anatomically incorrect symbol in my hands…where do I put it?
For though it terrifies me, I know it is precious. I am worried of it…but I can still feel its warmth and I want to keep it close.
I cannot carry it. Absentminded as I am, I will place it somewhere and it will be gone forever.
I cannot keep it in my pocket. It will go through the wash and I will get it back shrunk and shriveled.
Maybe I will open a door in my breast and place it with my own heart…
But that is grotesque.
This perfectly symmetrical, immaculately red symbol cannot sit next to my own, lopsided, beating flesh!
The juxtaposition would unravel the facade and leave me with…what?
Nothing?
A puff of smoke?
A second heart, beating opposite my own, wearing me down?
Or would the disappeared symbol instead free its meaning throughout my body, disintegrating into tingles that run along my spine and down my arms and legs, that make me shiver imperceptibly as my motion is suddenly guarded, and yet pull up at the corners of my mouth, causing me wary warmth, this oxymoronic push-pull
- -
this feeling that makes me want to fight-or-flight to attack or recede inside myself that starts my adrenaline rushing from unwarranted panic yet also makes me want to freeze time as I close my eyes and smile slightly to bask in the redolent warmth to pull my extremities close in order to let them experience what starts in my chest and then stretch into a star for this feeling to extend its reach to my edges and further
- -
Then this symbol, this encasement of hard metaphor, becomes unwanted.
Its protection, previously so needed, becomes unbearable.
How can I hold it in my hands, in my pocket, coolly perfect, frozen in shape, knowing what it holds inside?
How can I not grit my teeth through the disquiet, the sweaty palms and surge in my gut, knowing the halcyon happiness that lays beyond?
I will not suffer this symbol to stay intact!
I will scratch lines in its colour!
I will peel its icy layers off one by one!
I will ****** it to the ground, and **** its sweet juices from the cracks!
I will descend upon it until it bursts, its shards transforming sweetly into its message.
Connotation broken into denotation, truth unobscured by this superfluous poetry.
This sensation, this meaning, this feeling, this actuality, this state, this phrase
- -
this i love you playing across my body running through my hair
- -
It simultaneously freezes and thaws me.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
From the tip of my toes
To the top of my head,
This world
Is suffocating me.
I'm up to my ankles with Jackals;
I'm up to my tibia with Libya;
I'm up to my knees with Refugees;
I'm up to my thighs with Counterspies;
I'm up to my crotch with Iraq;
I'm up to my groin with Muslims;
I'm up to my waist with the Displaced;
I'm up to my belly button with Christians;
I'm up to my hands with Iran and all ...stans;
I'm up to my rib cage with Renegades;
I'm up to my sides with Genocides;
I'm up to my chest with the Oppressed;
I'm up to my neck with Egypt;
I'm up to my nose with Jews;
I'm up to my cheeks with Sheiks;
I'm up to my Irises with Isis;
I'm up to my eyeballs with Jihads;
I'm up to my ears with Syria;
I'm up to my forehead with Baghdad;
I'm up to my cranium with North Koreans.
My Christmas Wish:
Is for them to do
The anatomically impossible:
***** Themselves.***
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Giddy with excitement,
she fumbles with her keys.
As the key slides home,
she grows weak in the knees.
She’s waited so long,
and it’s finally come.
She spent a small fortune,
and the thing weighs a ton.
She pushes in the package,
starting to sweat,
and suddenly realizes,
her ******* are wet.
She slides a finger inside her,
and lets out a moan,
trembling slightly,
all the way to the bone.
Gathering herself,
she locks the door tight,
and forces herself to calm down,
gathering all her might.
Getting down on her knees,
she opens the box,
brushing away the packing,
like styrofoam rocks.
When she sees his face,
she sits up *****
He is so lifelike,
and anatomically correct.
Reaching into the box,
she caresses his face.
He’s so beautifully sculpted,
not a thing out of place.
Then she runs her hands,
down his chest to his groin,
caressing his ****
feeling the warmth in her *****
It’s bigger than expected,
as long as her forearm.
The biggest she’s had,
but this raises no alarm.
Taking her time,
she arranges him on the bed.
Even laying a pillow,
under his head.
Running fingers through his hair,
she begins to undress.
Doing it slowly,
cause slowly is best.
He’s more than a doll,
more than plastic parts.
He will never hurt her,
or break her heart.
She crawls on all fours,
in between his thighs,
running her fingers over him,
as she stares into his eyes.
Then she fills her mouth,
******* gently at first,
and then she fills her throat,
trying to quench her thirst.
She’s dripping now,
so exquisitely wet,
and moaning deeply,
like a good little pet.
The doll lays still,
as she mounts it slow.
She’s lost in her pleasure,
as something brushes her toe.
She opens her eyes,
as a hand grabs her throat,
and another her breast,
her vision starting to float.
She struggles for air,
and feels a ****** as it moves,
and a soft moan escapes it,
as the blackness consumes.
Bucking and fighting,
she claws at its face,
but it simply slides deeper,
and quickens its pace.
She stares down into eyes,
that are filled with life,
and features so sharp,
as to be carved by a knife.
It’s beauty is gone,
simply melted away,
seeming to flow freely,
as if made from soft clay.
As her vision fades,
it moves inside her,
whispering “my princess”,
in a soft little purr.
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC
Drastic self-defence,
Drastic in my linguistic augments,
The evidence of my attempts at trying,
To see any future where I’m not dying,
And it makes no sense
Tactic for offense,
Offensive in sarcastic defiance,
Ambivalence on a course for further premonitions,
Static fragments of my continual refusal of any medicinal diminution,
Please help me make some sense
Psychopathic friends,
Systematic traffic hence,
Pensive head and that will drive you,
Insane and round the bend if only they all knew,
I can’t see any sense
Automatic ends,
Ammunition diplomatic,
Suspense in its unanimously tragic situation,
Fate’s unenthusiastic in its conflict upon two cognitive nations,
That makes no sense
Anatomically attic fenced,
Just a poetic way to represent,
One’s combative mental condition,
An addict and the opposite always on the right and the left warring in attrition,
If that makes any sense
Plastic ornaments,
Plastic bottles left to lament,
As the alcoholic labyrinth in my life that cannot be broken,
To help wash down writhing thoughts forced to remain unspoken,
And an I that makes no sense
Fix it no expense,
Fixed monthly recompense now,
I am a myth of someone, whom I do not know,
Sickly pretence took me down a road that I never wanted to go,
And now you say I’m finally making sense
Panic is absent,
Absent the magic,
In the pills that in basic blindness I routinely swallow,
Dynamic in the worn out tools that continue to carve once whole now hollow,
Does that make any sense?
Now I’m really not making sense, by finally making sense
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
I never thought the human heart was a beautiful thing until my youngest son did.
It has always seemed clumsy, relatively simple,and a somewhat gross *****
Muscle-ligament-electricity
I have always been bewitched by the brain and its nerves.
it's mystery, complexity and resilience.
He loves blood the way I love nerves,
he begs me to re read the heart and blood pages in his children anatomy books.
He knew all kinds of facts about blood and the heart at 2.
He never drew the traditional valentine days hearts he draws, to the best of his ability, anatomically correct hearts.
He loves it's rhythm ,
he loves it's simplicity,
and he finds it above all else, beautiful.
he loves it for its tangible nature,
the way it is reliably one way and one way only.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Two hands wrapped around my heart,
It's a death grip.
Two hands lunging for your throat
It's blood for blood, love for love.
911
What's the emergency.
I have an urgency
I need a needle sharp enough to slice
And the strongest rope that will suffice
To get these stitches in.
Gasping for breath but still breathing
My hearts still beating
From the bottom of my heart I can tell you
the pools of my love still ripple waves
The richest shades of red
Call it cardiac arrest.
If you really broke my heart; I'd be flatlining
Anatomically incapable of life; I'd be dead.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
I am anatomically correct
But atomically, a mess
I am chaotic and undressed
One hundred thousand bricks
Comprised of tiny pieces all compressed
I am a prison for little hollow ghosts
That push until pulled
While I am standing here still
And they climb to the top where they come to a stop
At a grave on a cemetery hill
She fills up the air
With soft falling notes
That burst from her eyes
And dance with the ghosts by the light that once burned
To the song of the Seraphim's sigh
Bring to me a pair of aces
Smiling faces and a cup of coffee
Empty spaces and her heart
Torn from the tearing
Of teeth gnashing, eyes glaring
As I stand here still playing my part
Her music my magic
A cage for the tragic
And the life I've been too scared to start
She used to sing to the storm
With her outstretched right arm
Lines forming from rain that would spill
Yearning to feel something other than real
The night she plunged into the cemetery hill
A call to order is sounded
The drummer pounds for attention
As I'm fixed on the light on the sea
The full moon's reflection is my insurrection
When still burns the fire
In her eyes, I aspire to be
Lifted into the air, without worry or care
Take these ghosts from my bonds and set free
For the chains of despair, when I was made to wear
Sank me into the depths of the sea
But I can now take to flight
On the might of the light
She burns brightly if only for me.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
He is a puppet of great calibre,
This suffices his description,
Both anatomically and morally.
Always moving at the Queen's command,
Feeding himself only with her fed words,
Doing not the right thing but her bidding.
Words like 'We strongly condemn,'
Or 'We will take appropriate measures,'
Sit elegantly on his lips all the time.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
I shrink and am in quantum and want them giants stood outside to go away,the shadows that they cast blot out the sun,this day is faded gray and I wait for the moon to rise so I can bay at it.
I sit in sepia feeling like weeping at the sadness that surrounds me,thoughts of several years gone by hound me and there is no rest,
so I continue to shrink into sub where quantum then becomes the giant,the hub,the wheel on which I spin and the pin is me.
Atomically and anatomically quite comically I raise a fist at all those times that we have missed like ships that pass,escaping gas reminds me that the meter's on the starboard side,where in the past I've tried to hold things in,
now I just let it out and if farting's what this life's about then why am I still here,is it growing that I fear and If I shrink so much I disappear,where will I be?
quantum says, mechanically,
well,
****** me I never thought of that.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC