"anatomies" poems
You have heard it said that
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
But truly I tell you that
I am that I am that I am that I am
Dripping with Jehovah and stardust we fell to earth
Pieces of atmosphere pieced together
And who can trace the mythology of our chemical compositions
Or rewrite the narrative of our anatomies?
I fell to earth soaked in Yahweh and covered in snakebites
Black holes where the fangs sunk into the astronomy of my freckled skin
All the galaxies of my body each with their own elliptical orbits
Connect the dots to form two wolves in my milky way
Romulus and Remus –
My ******* bear venom white as the purest lamb
Whisper astrology and
Remember the day we built Rome by stacking corpses
Remember the day when all the stars burned red for us
But that was millennia ago and
I’m not your Venus anymore –
I’m nobody’s ********* Venus anymore
It was the age of Pisces and we came out drenched in Messiah
You found me picking painted roses on asteroid planets
With a blonde-haired child and a fox
In the garden green snakes and white roses
Thorns and soft pink ribbon-tongues
Fangs and velvet petals
Two drops of blood in the white sand like Mary,
I bore a son and named him Ares
I named him Mars
I named him Set
Boys will be boys will be boys will be monsters, you know that
I am that I am that I am that I am.
Swim down deep enough into the black waters and you’ll reach the heavens
Keep drawing blood from thorn wounds and you’ll drag out the atmosphere
Stare out intently into the abyss and the abyss will stare back into you
These are the things we knew
When we reached the outer boundary of the cosmos
And realized how hydrogen is nothing but celestial amniotic fluid
We, motionless
Smothered by God and Carbon and perfume and poison
In this ****** we named universe
On this fetus we named Earth
I am that I am that I am that I am
Truly with you until the end of the age
Until the afterbirth of star matter gets tossed out with the baby and the bathwater.
You have heard it said
A rose called by any other name wouldn’t smell as sweet
But truly I tell you
A rose is only as beautiful and fragrant as its thorns are sharp
And if you want to know what fills the space between protons and electrons
The gaps between breaths
The light-years between planets
Then listen to the sound of your own heart beating
Counting down the gestation period of our own reality
I am that I am that I am that I am
I’m more than a Rose.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
The Great Outdoors
Doors open every which way
and it's impossible to escape you
since you are behind everyone of them.
The overflowing cascade
that is your hair
the splendor of the sun at noon
that is your smile
and the ever present flawless work of art
that is your body.
The gorgeous landscape of your chest
needless to say how much I love the view.
The great outdoors lives
and breathes within you.
Let me take you indoors
so I could breathe you at dawn
take off the weight of all those weary kisses
and slowly nourish me in your lips.
Let me spend an eternity
attached to your hips.
Let our anatomies condense into one another
creating record setting heat.
Let me taste the warmth of your mouth
and feel the cold of your feet.
Your implacable thighs,
your indomitable abdomen
the pearls of your eyes,
your button nose and pillow cheeks.
The softness of your hands
as your fingers run all over me.
The flirtatious ways of your walk
inhaling your fresh essence in the air
with your aura by my side
knocking down the door to my lair
and awake from my self-imposed hibernation
to dedicate this loving prose in ode
to Mother Nature's greatest creation.
Like an impatient Great White
I can still sense your flesh when I can't see
devouring everything in sight
and this hunger towards you it leads
because my waters are yours
I can smell your thick blood
algae, seaweed or other life forms
are not nearly enough
to keep me from craving you
and fulfilling this unfulfilling love
to find a way to repress
what my flinching body has become
from the Savannah to the Sahara
I can't suffice this longing
night, afternoon or morning
for your great outdoors.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:49 PM UTC
foam floral caps, work of wet hydrangea,
or pulse of caucasian lilacs in a sky-relieved frieze.
cambric pennons swag reconsidering
margins of wimpling burn,
wherein the stars…twiring stars,
the declining stars, moon and planets
turned--
purchase light with morning-hands:
green-bedizened;
amber trammeling bud.
absolve qualm suffusing tyre,
violet’s violent leniency--
and feel, o’bask! in velvet
flume of veins,
as beams of conspiracy raise
to post and lintel,
crutching a young god’s legs--
and feel, o’supplicate! bathe in
day’s anatomies,
til greave deposit in lacunary sleeves,
and a genuflecting sun bow eternally--
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
This not quite the underground, but still a strange corridor-
Scurrying in skirts and argyle and
Two-piece research paper suits.
They get together in the new Underground, they
Smoke old memories and sit in a stoner semicircle
To listen to old attendance records.
Humming the anecdotal lark, a man with a prim tie
Rises and steps into the middle to slam. Over the deafening
Hookah comes David Copperfield.
Hello Voltaire, have you brought your
Reading glasses? The secret anatomies
Held in the inked atomies
Are all we come for. Let us in on this electric
Canvas. Let us paint out plots of plots that
All of us have known,
Around and underneath, and speak out our
Crayon set opinions, to tell the dim-eyed boys and girls
About in detail later. Ooh, say eight o’clock?
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 3:18 PM UTC
Enslave me for I wish not be free
Do what you wish and ravage me
Relinquish my freedom my only treasure
I'll trade it all to drown in this pleasure
I succumb to all of your fantasies
Create art from lust with our anatomies
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
You told stories of the UV index when it resembled the color blue,
of animal anatomies, the size of Earth, forgetting your manners.
I told you a story of maggots swarming at the flesh of swine.
I told you a story of a violent child finding maturity, maybe.
I told you a story of the post-apocalyptic world while walking through a pond.
They all seemed appropriate at the time.
Then I hated you for the ***** that was on the rug you left me to
clean, from too much red and too many tears that you left me to appease.
We wrote and we compromised.
Looking back we never knew why.
I could hear you whisper when you thought I couldn’t.
We had wins and losses in the reds and whites.
You spoke like you knew the ins and outs of the alpha and the omega.
Your lucky number was nowhere near that number four
but both implied perfection. I was an unfortunate first.
I studied too hard for things that wouldn’t be graded,
like which strings pulled at what, and grassy trails promising return.
You complained about the snow,
so I removed myself quickly.
Everything you left me with would just have to suffice.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
I abandoned the thought
Of fleeting
When I came to my
Senses
All I could
Hear,
Feel,
Smell,
See,
Taste;
Was you
And the way you
Pulled me close
My nerves
Held on edge
Waiting for the right time
To devour
Your stimuli
And our anatomies
Collided
Into a single burst of
Entropy
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
The succulence of words
whispered, is like a breeze
swishing through luxuriant
blades of thick green grass
brushing against unadorned
anatomies dancing amidst
life's simple pleasures
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
A screen was posted on a wall, the corners of my mind
Were stretched so very thin indeed, reverberating time
And vapid personalities then danced upon the veil
Attempting to impose themselves as those who never fail
In perfect step with everything, their tendencies align
Allow for new anatomies to form upon their spine
Collect, repel, reorganize with regular delay
I cannot tell you what's become of every single day
To calculate would take too long, the change of pace too much
And I've become immune to what is parallel to touch
See, I have learned their song by now, I've memorized the beat
Its rhythm pulses fervidly, intensifies the heat
The space is filled with every breath of those who write the notes
A call to those who cannot keep the music in their throats
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
lay not in the grasses- for the listing of the world(s)
wash the backs of your knees
prethunderstorm, arm-deep into the buoyant ions
wet molars slipping backwards drying out
girls running track
(in and around buildings)
>throwing up everyday
acid backs of teeth decaying me.
like the mold on the white windowsill-
out in open airs
the film you think might be just
dirt.
like the unexplained black things under your fingernail anatomies
like grabbing the wrong towel
putting on a clean t-shirt
a necklace clasp caught in the back of your hair. cutting it
gentle and godless
head-damp in the big nowhere
like an out-patient gun waiting to send its children home
/
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
plum night
plum veil
plum skin taut under teeth,
snap-
flesh then nourishment,
consumed with red precision
besides the night inked sea.
Relinquishing the philosophies
and the heavy, coexisted before
in flaw, misguided and resistant,
now surely
melodic intertwined anatomies
crafting the mid-morning mosaic.
This manifest with
shifting shades:
festive touch
and horrific liberation;
indirect and permissible
eye.
unnerving
undeviating
unconditional
unraveling
plum.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
our skies appear to be so gloomy
like they're always going to turn into a storm
a storm that will swipe the hopeless thoughts away
i used to look at life differently
i used to not look at life at all
but now i see clearly
the splattered like paint that are our eyes and clouds
the merged shapes and lines that are our houses and anatomies
i know now that all this will pass by like a blur
like it always does
my father tries to spend as much time with my little brothers
when i refuse to, he says
when they've grown up, i'll miss their little selves
oh, i can't guarantee i will
but i do think that he does this
because i've grown up
and he's left to miss my little self
because the people i don't recognize at reunions always tell me how big i am now
and he smiles the same smile every time at them that they seem to understand
and then he shoots me a very different one i've yet to understand
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
this is now your
a
r
m
and all the fingers now mashed for
love is an ellipsis
and these are now her
l o i n s
and there
a flower untouched
by the somersault
of summer
and *** only a folly
of fools
there is only this.
poetry of the senses
that when we both
die, i have gone,
and she is still
alive.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Among the cool dew of black finitude,
Of deaths perpetual Being,
Stands Time beyond the cycle of life
Amidst the womb of mind.
Time, in life ever lived,
Flowed foundries of punctured flesh.
Atop thine headless stump sprung blood of bygone days.
Tis crimson life of Times design.
Thick, its breast, beyond the chisel of man
Of bronze it emits, by heaven’s design.
Below its supple ***** slick,
Its slender core, chiseled through watered sands
Of oceans shore.
Of its bow, betwixt thine thighs of withered age, its furry tongue
Of one, a youth day.
Below, it swings, a shriveled worm
Shooting blood, that once was *****
Withered, its **** in rot,
By impulsive defecation.
Down its dry shank of ruptured lobes,
Green slime it spurts through oozing sores.
Of Time in hand, now slipping away,
Beyond the flesh of warmth,
Now ****** and cold.
Brittle its skull below thy legs.
Lying alone, among the land,
Where worms now feast along the dirt.
Of anatomies time
Tis now to cease.
Where once a joy,
In perfection it was.
In reflection below, the crippling of man.
Now under thine feet it,
In agony it died.
The crown of man, now rot by life.
So, is the anatomy of Time.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:09 PM UTC
By Larry Ladd
Oh, I would have a lot of fun
If I were a number 1.
Still, I eat that second hero.
My profile is a number 0.
I cinch my belt to hide my weight.
I only look like a number 8.
At “Attention!” I straighten my spine.
I only manage a number 9.
They say “At ease.” I’m in a fix.
My **** drops down to a number 6.
Oh, I would have a lot of fun
If I were a number 1.
My ego wants to be a capital I,
But I guess I’m not that sort of guy.
My gut droops over my belt, you see,
So I look more like a capital P.
Say, I would not mind a capital R.
Then I could be an adult film star.
But that’s not likely, what’s to do?
**** I look like a capital Q.
So I’ll stay dressed because I know
I really am a capital O.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
It's a room of gold lights
he is drawing lush nectar
the fear is drawing his blood
the admiration is enslaving
the fingertips are tracing
every inch,
through the cloudy nights.
The ears are savouring
each whisper,
they are savouring anatomies
perhaps the creator's
greatest mights,
Perishment is consuming him
he desires yet he doesn't
for what good is fulfilment
if it didn't birth from yearning.
Jul 22, 2022
Jul 22, 2022 at 2:42 PM UTC
*with my discarded faith
faithful friends, will you confess
to which you would tear your shadow:
to know there never was a god
or to know your prayers transmit as white noise*
faithful i know they will remain
as for friends, well, i do not really know
so i never asked, nor ever will
still, it awes me of the human condition
to worship and seek portents of blessings
whose arrival the faithful rationalize
as happening on some holy time table and line
instead of the chance and probabilities
like let’s say of winning the lotto mega jackpot
i have read persons proclaim
after having missed the bus or plane
that afterwards fell to a ravine or mountain
of how divine was the intervention
i wanted to shake their hands
they must have been so special
to be saved, blessed and loved
while hundreds were ******
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
At the edge of the wood
And draw maps of what we believe
Our anatomies will look like
Before and after the war
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
without a muse i stand
staring below my well
with the coin in my hand
a gathering gravity of sweat
with parched throat and sun bitten skin
the waters stir a delicate invite:
to wash away the gathered dust and ashes,
dilute even minute traces of yesterdays
from soiling each new day,
immerse out the cold of last night
where, in her deep dark
i stripped and whipped passion
free of my longing and desires
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
synapse and nerves, signals
fire fingertips to claim
the points of a star
to burn with friction
between pen and paper
but since desire craves
no longer nor again
for warmth and affection,
slender fingers transform
into a fist trapping
black holes and deaths of suns
for the rhythm of wrist.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC