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"antibodies" poems
Emerging economies. What they’re emerging from I don’t know. My guess, the depths of hell. From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well. A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force. To be forever under the thumb of remorse. A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla. Shut up with all your platitudes. I see what’s really going on. Aha! You speak of sustainable development. Nice to know that you’ve led by example. Carried the mantle for all these years. Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing. But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak. You never have. You just do. Each day that goes by, you carry on anew. Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress, it seems the wolves are lurking. Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless. This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight. It’s scary to imagine such spite. Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared. You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war. And each time, you kept coming back for more. You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival. But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all. But what do I know? Maybe you’re more alive than ever. Doing what you do best but always more clever. That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure. A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger, So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.   Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical. Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical. Or maybe this is all just fake outrage. An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage. Or maybe, the term is out of date. Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate. In which case, this poem is at least ten years late. Or maybe there are too many maybes’. And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference. In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.
0
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
shlomotion
"Emerging Economies"
Emerging economies. What they’re emerging from I don’t know. My guess, the depths of hell. From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well. A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force. To be forever under the thumb of remorse. A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla. Shut up with all your platitudes. I see what’s really going on. Aha! You speak of sustainable development. Nice to know that you’ve led by example. Carried the mantle for all these years. Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing. But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak. You never have. You just do. Each day that goes by, you carry on anew. Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress, it seems the wolves are lurking. Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless. This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight. It’s scary to imagine such spite. Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared. You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war. And each time, you kept coming back for more. You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival. But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all. But what do I know? Maybe you’re more alive than ever. Doing what you do best but always more clever. That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure. A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger, So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.   Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical. Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical. Or maybe this is all just fake outrage. An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage. Or maybe, the term is out of date. Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate. In which case, this poem is at least ten years late. Or maybe there are too many maybes’. And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference. In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.
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42
When Ebola’s fever begins to rage, The prognosis isn’t nice, Monoclonal antibodies are needed from three mice. The mice must first become exposed to a weakened viral strain. Their antibodies harvested and combined with those of man. Strangely the proteins that we need are grown best in a **** A modified tobacco plant will do the job indeed. The serum, that derives from plants, had not had human trials. (but eight of ten young chimpanzees endorse what’s in that vial.) Our missionaries, sick unto death were clearly in no position to refuse to try the medicine that might provide remission. Their rebound was miraculous. To Atlanta now they fly. Man finds himself in debt to a mouse. “Good job, little guy!”
0
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
john-f-mccullagh
Of Men and Mice
When Ebola’s fever begins to rage, The prognosis isn’t nice, Monoclonal antibodies are needed from three mice. The mice must first become exposed to a weakened viral strain. Their antibodies harvested and combined with those of man. Strangely the proteins that we need are grown best in a **** A modified tobacco plant will do the job indeed. The serum, that derives from plants, had not had human trials. (but eight of ten young chimpanzees endorse what’s in that vial.) Our missionaries, sick unto death were clearly in no position to refuse to try the medicine that might provide remission. Their rebound was miraculous. To Atlanta now they fly. Man finds himself in debt to a mouse. “Good job, little guy!”
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24
Flood myself with poison my blood with love, alcohol, what ever drugs they give me. Produce antibodies, fall asleep. Awaken; groan. Roll over, smell you. Don't ever leave me. Two hours later, flood my bed with sighs, smell your smell, try not to care then cry.
0
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
molly-5
Sundays
Flood myself with poison my blood with love, alcohol, what ever drugs they give me. Produce antibodies, fall asleep. Awaken; groan. Roll over, smell you. Don't ever leave me. Two hours later, flood my bed with sighs, smell your smell, try not to care then cry.
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15
perpetuated indifference freedom and fleas cats in the trees loving the grass and twigs between my knees and toes and fragments in my hair my clothes and on a day such as forever I spoke to another terribly, not so good at words with others who say words back, pretty little polka dotted circles and nonsense like who are you kidding? Individuality is not a crime though faking it is, as if being unique is even unique but another copy of another a thought already thought shush up kiss like a real person not a slobbery monstrous adolescent, but like a man who knows or at least cares, but not about the earth crusts on my skin or the air in my finger nails it's all me and if they can't like it can't love it in any way that can be considered love or positive in any form or shape or sound or purpose then forget to forget because sometimes one is ****** up and enjoys a little game of brain bashing insecurity, until that day when one becomes self-actualized (oh please) and then real forget and freedom may happen. How boring.
0
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
matalie-niller
Antibodies
perpetuated indifference freedom and fleas cats in the trees loving the grass and twigs between my knees and toes and fragments in my hair my clothes and on a day such as forever I spoke to another terribly, not so good at words with others who say words back, pretty little polka dotted circles and nonsense like who are you kidding? Individuality is not a crime though faking it is, as if being unique is even unique but another copy of another a thought already thought shush up kiss like a real person not a slobbery monstrous adolescent, but like a man who knows or at least cares, but not about the earth crusts on my skin or the air in my finger nails it's all me and if they can't like it can't love it in any way that can be considered love or positive in any form or shape or sound or purpose then forget to forget because sometimes one is ****** up and enjoys a little game of brain bashing insecurity, until that day when one becomes self-actualized (oh please) and then real forget and freedom may happen. How boring.
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51
Lamentation; infelicity through neurotransmitters Passing fleetly; swift but disturbed Grids of brainwaves for the degraded Overhead LED view is negroided Chapter 1 Migraines; A klaxon that grains into migraine From there on out, strolling convulsion lane Deriving from deception; antibodies start to lead loosely Throe after throe I choose not to fuss Laceration in hemikrania is conversing with the rest of my body, Frequent as days turn nightly I host the severe megrimly Chapter 2 Vomiting; A horendous bile builds up in my throat Moaning like a ghoul; I banish the gloats Disgorging from nothing, Heaving and heaving the dry Although I force myself not, all the nosh turns into emit rye Vital fluid very crimson soon came From the cranium, I dislose, head pain Frequent as the waves harsh blows I host a ***** hose Chapter 3 Tumor; A neoplasm underneath I've found out Unvisible but there; my flesh will start swelling undoubt Below I feel like a mutant All putant and disformed Like globular liquids dripping from sewage waste As long as I can still haste Crescendo and surge won't ado Frequent as traffic builds a rush hour I host a cyst that is sour Chapter 4 Deaf; An absense of all frequencies I daze everso daily; Feeling like an earless statue; sound unaccompanied Missing the wind's howls that ululate, Clamors and bellows that spoliate I can't sight the same verbiage Without sonancy to inflicit, I see one big mirage Frequent as birth enfolds I host a soundless toll Chapter 5 Brain Cancer; A malignant fate told today Disease spreading like a machine, Programmed to enquire all it knows A gruesome and hateful dose; Withering casually away Grown apart of, I'm the prey As we hunt the beasts' An invisible naked eye is poaching Frequent as a house infested I host a cancerous clothing Chapter 6 Death; A termination soon to unfold I am as finished and ruined as story told Biological function ending Senescence through spending User maat I haven't seen all wanted Alas I am greatful for what has been daunted Frequent as a death anew I host a dissolution My evolution; through.
0
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
meb-1
Brain Cancer (For Chuck)
Lamentation; infelicity through neurotransmitters Passing fleetly; swift but disturbed Grids of brainwaves for the degraded Overhead LED view is negroided Chapter 1 Migraines; A klaxon that grains into migraine From there on out, strolling convulsion lane Deriving from deception; antibodies start to lead loosely Throe after throe I choose not to fuss Laceration in hemikrania is conversing with the rest of my body, Frequent as days turn nightly I host the severe megrimly Chapter 2 Vomiting; A horendous bile builds up in my throat Moaning like a ghoul; I banish the gloats Disgorging from nothing, Heaving and heaving the dry Although I force myself not, all the nosh turns into emit rye Vital fluid very crimson soon came From the cranium, I dislose, head pain Frequent as the waves harsh blows I host a ***** hose Chapter 3 Tumor; A neoplasm underneath I've found out Unvisible but there; my flesh will start swelling undoubt Below I feel like a mutant All putant and disformed Like globular liquids dripping from sewage waste As long as I can still haste Crescendo and surge won't ado Frequent as traffic builds a rush hour I host a cyst that is sour Chapter 4 Deaf; An absense of all frequencies I daze everso daily; Feeling like an earless statue; sound unaccompanied Missing the wind's howls that ululate, Clamors and bellows that spoliate I can't sight the same verbiage Without sonancy to inflicit, I see one big mirage Frequent as birth enfolds I host a soundless toll Chapter 5 Brain Cancer; A malignant fate told today Disease spreading like a machine, Programmed to enquire all it knows A gruesome and hateful dose; Withering casually away Grown apart of, I'm the prey As we hunt the beasts' An invisible naked eye is poaching Frequent as a house infested I host a cancerous clothing Chapter 6 Death; A termination soon to unfold I am as finished and ruined as story told Biological function ending Senescence through spending User maat I haven't seen all wanted Alas I am greatful for what has been daunted Frequent as a death anew I host a dissolution My evolution; through.
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62
The poster girl of well-thumbed submission, The American Nurses Association, A narrow mouthed river in Oregon, Charles Howard Hinton’s fourth dimension, A track from Pixies Bossanova, Antibodies, Anorexia Nervosa.
0
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
a-mareship
ana
The poster girl of well-thumbed submission, The American Nurses Association, A narrow mouthed river in Oregon, Charles Howard Hinton’s fourth dimension, A track from Pixies Bossanova, Antibodies, Anorexia Nervosa.
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7
I lived a childhood of dirt: my beginning and end, my friend, my frontier. Dirt was the reason why when other kids were always sick, my antibodies made me a demigoddess, a mud-pie, sand-cookie, dirt gourmet crunching lightly-rinsed carrots wiggled straight from the ground. It never hurt, never hurt at all. Warm dirt under my knees and hands, my nails blackened, feet buried like I could root myself in the soil -- I was lettuce with dirt at the center of each lacy skirt. Horseradish, deep in the ground and bitter, wanting to become something sweeter, a new tree or rosebush or better yet a veggie, like the wild dirt-skinned potatoes I dug up in the yard. But tubers don’t have moms who give ***** looks and shake their heads, examine your hair and your nails. She sighs at the dark stain of your feet, and banishes you to a white tub, where she scrubs the back of your neck, muttering “Dirt, dirt, dirt,” as if she doesn’t know what you are made of. So give me the dirt, because I know my onions. Always digging for gossip, flipping up the neighborhood skirt, curious whispers the way cornstalks share their childhood tales before being tilled down, becoming rich, dark dirt. Ashes to ashes, I recognize some for what they are, just fertilizer for the imaginations and vibrations of others. I may be half dirt but don’t treat me like it, full of grit and covered in sand from my hands to my elbows. But what I am won’t put up with your ******** Dirt is a mother, to feed and flourish, dirt is a woman much like me, and you will never know the dirt under my fingernails the same way I do.
0
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
kelly-oconnor-1
Ode to Dirt
I lived a childhood of dirt: my beginning and end, my friend, my frontier. Dirt was the reason why when other kids were always sick, my antibodies made me a demigoddess, a mud-pie, sand-cookie, dirt gourmet crunching lightly-rinsed carrots wiggled straight from the ground. It never hurt, never hurt at all. Warm dirt under my knees and hands, my nails blackened, feet buried like I could root myself in the soil -- I was lettuce with dirt at the center of each lacy skirt. Horseradish, deep in the ground and bitter, wanting to become something sweeter, a new tree or rosebush or better yet a veggie, like the wild dirt-skinned potatoes I dug up in the yard. But tubers don’t have moms who give ***** looks and shake their heads, examine your hair and your nails. She sighs at the dark stain of your feet, and banishes you to a white tub, where she scrubs the back of your neck, muttering “Dirt, dirt, dirt,” as if she doesn’t know what you are made of. So give me the dirt, because I know my onions. Always digging for gossip, flipping up the neighborhood skirt, curious whispers the way cornstalks share their childhood tales before being tilled down, becoming rich, dark dirt. Ashes to ashes, I recognize some for what they are, just fertilizer for the imaginations and vibrations of others. I may be half dirt but don’t treat me like it, full of grit and covered in sand from my hands to my elbows. But what I am won’t put up with your ******** Dirt is a mother, to feed and flourish, dirt is a woman much like me, and you will never know the dirt under my fingernails the same way I do.
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45
There's a dusty book on an old chestnut bookshelf, 'Love' scrawled across the spine in golden letters. Everyone has read it's secrets and taken them to heart. Everyone has tasted it's nectar and gotten drunk on its words. Everyone has prayed to its truths. Everyone has promised to abide. Verse I: She will love him. Verse II: He will love her. She-him, he-her. These pronouns are tattooed in my eye lids. These pronouns course through my veins. These pronouns are stuck in my throat. I'm choking on a normality I've been force fed, my insides burning with society's expectations. As I prayed every night for the man of my dreams. As I confessed ever boy I had ever kissed. As I looked at him and felt nothing. As I looked at her and felt everything. My fingers skimmed the pages of society's bible, the pages slicing apart my fingers and leaving blood in the margins. When my friends placed the rosary around their hands, and I placed my hands in hers. When I looked into the words being taken so blindly, and my body created antibodies for every lie I had contracted. And I stared into the verses, washing them away with angry tears. And I threw the book into the fire, watching as the flames made their final edits. And I looked into her eyes, and I tasted her lips. And I let everything about her become everything I know. I ignored the teachings I had once treasured and wrote a book for myself. I learned to be unfaithful, and put my faith in her.
0
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
miracles-by-the-hour
Unfaithful
There's a dusty book on an old chestnut bookshelf, 'Love' scrawled across the spine in golden letters. Everyone has read it's secrets and taken them to heart. Everyone has tasted it's nectar and gotten drunk on its words. Everyone has prayed to its truths. Everyone has promised to abide. Verse I: She will love him. Verse II: He will love her. She-him, he-her. These pronouns are tattooed in my eye lids. These pronouns course through my veins. These pronouns are stuck in my throat. I'm choking on a normality I've been force fed, my insides burning with society's expectations. As I prayed every night for the man of my dreams. As I confessed ever boy I had ever kissed. As I looked at him and felt nothing. As I looked at her and felt everything. My fingers skimmed the pages of society's bible, the pages slicing apart my fingers and leaving blood in the margins. When my friends placed the rosary around their hands, and I placed my hands in hers. When I looked into the words being taken so blindly, and my body created antibodies for every lie I had contracted. And I stared into the verses, washing them away with angry tears. And I threw the book into the fire, watching as the flames made their final edits. And I looked into her eyes, and I tasted her lips. And I let everything about her become everything I know. I ignored the teachings I had once treasured and wrote a book for myself. I learned to be unfaithful, and put my faith in her.
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30
The beat, the snare, the drum Starting in at the floor and flying to my brain **** all the people who say I’m numb I’m sane, oh so sane! My thinking, once a cloudy, congested, coagulate of incoherent thoughts, Now flows free from its once catastrophically, closed chasm, Bringing fourth meaningless, mindless motions and movements, Showing all, that you are who you are, don’t be afraid to fall. As the smoke clears, the crystallized casts of crushing vocals Radiate to my ears; all we hear is the hate, the hassle, the hustle The bustle. Look beyond what has spawned to see what you find fond. Blinded we remain; we fight, frightened and furious against this foe. Conformity hinders our ability to show individuality. They attack us With ambidexterity to keep us statues of our own subconscious design, Yet we continue to follow these wrongly deified prodigies. They’re using Us as antibodies to cleanse what are others conformities. Enlightened I will stay to ensure Elysium for my fellow enthusiasts. Free from these prodigies, my persistence will not fade To grey, black, white, withered, wretched wasted thoughts. My mind is free, my soul deep, this music is the up-beat.
0
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:03 AM UTC
garrett-glenn
Music and Government
The beat, the snare, the drum Starting in at the floor and flying to my brain **** all the people who say I’m numb I’m sane, oh so sane! My thinking, once a cloudy, congested, coagulate of incoherent thoughts, Now flows free from its once catastrophically, closed chasm, Bringing fourth meaningless, mindless motions and movements, Showing all, that you are who you are, don’t be afraid to fall. As the smoke clears, the crystallized casts of crushing vocals Radiate to my ears; all we hear is the hate, the hassle, the hustle The bustle. Look beyond what has spawned to see what you find fond. Blinded we remain; we fight, frightened and furious against this foe. Conformity hinders our ability to show individuality. They attack us With ambidexterity to keep us statues of our own subconscious design, Yet we continue to follow these wrongly deified prodigies. They’re using Us as antibodies to cleanse what are others conformities. Enlightened I will stay to ensure Elysium for my fellow enthusiasts. Free from these prodigies, my persistence will not fade To grey, black, white, withered, wretched wasted thoughts. My mind is free, my soul deep, this music is the up-beat.
Continue reading...
20
When last did you relish in your sadness. I mean felt it, till it consumed you. Used you, ruled you. I mean you let it take control and you bathed in it. You realised it then The uncontrollable wave of happiness that followed. Like a flurry of antibodies fighting, fighting your self inflicted illness. Moved you from stillness. People keep themselves distracted, they never really fully indulge in either. But what is life without indulgences. What is life without the extremes. What is life if its always imbetween. Life.
0
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
fredward
Underrated Sadness
When last did you relish in your sadness. I mean felt it, till it consumed you. Used you, ruled you. I mean you let it take control and you bathed in it. You realised it then The uncontrollable wave of happiness that followed. Like a flurry of antibodies fighting, fighting your self inflicted illness. Moved you from stillness. People keep themselves distracted, they never really fully indulge in either. But what is life without indulgences. What is life without the extremes. What is life if its always imbetween. Life.
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15
I guess what I'm trying to say, is I want to take a bite out of your soul like an apple. want to leave a bite mark in who you are, to give my antibodies to help fight infection, build a scab over the tooth mark want to regrow slightly darker scar tissue over the bite mark I left there. Leaving a little island on the orb. I guess what I'm saying is I want to mechanically be a part of you want to digest who you are to help fight diseases in my body. wanna take you like a vitamin   wake up every morning to take my daily dose like a nice clean bite out of an Apple. Wispy Orb of you. your essence then stick it right back in your chest. with a tiny little tooth mark indent left by my bite. ready to heal where I left it. I want you to take a bite right outta my soul too, want the nutrients of who we are to coarse through our bodies repair the bite marks. leave scars on us. Dark little landmarks so we never forget the bite. we both love kissing scars so much that why wouldn't we want our own personal landmarks i guess what I'm saying is, I'm allergic to apples. but i'm not allergic to people. If I run out of allergy pills and vitamins I might as well get my daily dose of happiness. i'll be ****** if you aren't my prescribed dose of happiness no doctor handed me papers or charged me a fee i don't have an insurance plan to help me pay for you. but at least I can't run out so i don't need to worry about faxing my doctor to renew my pharmacy pickup I guess what I'm trying to say is if my personality was an apple I would be allergic too it, but I'd let you take a bite. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I already have a scar for you, and you already kiss it.
0
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
GeekElement
I want to Bite your Soul like an apple
I guess what I'm trying to say, is I want to take a bite out of your soul like an apple. want to leave a bite mark in who you are, to give my antibodies to help fight infection, build a scab over the tooth mark want to regrow slightly darker scar tissue over the bite mark I left there. Leaving a little island on the orb. I guess what I'm saying is I want to mechanically be a part of you want to digest who you are to help fight diseases in my body. wanna take you like a vitamin   wake up every morning to take my daily dose like a nice clean bite out of an Apple. Wispy Orb of you. your essence then stick it right back in your chest. with a tiny little tooth mark indent left by my bite. ready to heal where I left it. I want you to take a bite right outta my soul too, want the nutrients of who we are to coarse through our bodies repair the bite marks. leave scars on us. Dark little landmarks so we never forget the bite. we both love kissing scars so much that why wouldn't we want our own personal landmarks i guess what I'm saying is, I'm allergic to apples. but i'm not allergic to people. If I run out of allergy pills and vitamins I might as well get my daily dose of happiness. i'll be ****** if you aren't my prescribed dose of happiness no doctor handed me papers or charged me a fee i don't have an insurance plan to help me pay for you. but at least I can't run out so i don't need to worry about faxing my doctor to renew my pharmacy pickup I guess what I'm trying to say is if my personality was an apple I would be allergic too it, but I'd let you take a bite. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I already have a scar for you, and you already kiss it.
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37
If you were water I would mix salts, antibodies, and lysosomes into you and put you into my tear ducts so that whenever I cry, you'll know it's always thanks to you.
0
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
treedee
Liquid
If you were water I would mix salts, antibodies, and lysosomes into you and put you into my tear ducts so that whenever I cry, you'll know it's always thanks to you.
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5
I have been craving that which I know will make me sick. Already, The mere thought has my stomach roiling, Insides twisting in displeasure, Heart pounding out its discomfort, Head aching in protest; My fever keeps climbing But I can't take a hint, For it seems there's no proper immune response For desire, No thorough little antibodies to drive the thought away, Just a full body reaction, A rebellion of the senses, Near anaphylaxis; It would seem that I'm allergic to you. But Benadryl and epinephrine are of no use to me Since it's this wanting that's the problem, Stumbling over myself just to see you smile, All the while tying my intestines into impossible knots. I know that you're no good for me, But like a dizzy, desperate ****** I can't cut myself off, Can't force myself to stop chasing you Though you cause my airways to constrict.
0
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
kassiani
Near Anaphylaxis
I have been craving that which I know will make me sick. Already, The mere thought has my stomach roiling, Insides twisting in displeasure, Heart pounding out its discomfort, Head aching in protest; My fever keeps climbing But I can't take a hint, For it seems there's no proper immune response For desire, No thorough little antibodies to drive the thought away, Just a full body reaction, A rebellion of the senses, Near anaphylaxis; It would seem that I'm allergic to you. But Benadryl and epinephrine are of no use to me Since it's this wanting that's the problem, Stumbling over myself just to see you smile, All the while tying my intestines into impossible knots. I know that you're no good for me, But like a dizzy, desperate ****** I can't cut myself off, Can't force myself to stop chasing you Though you cause my airways to constrict.
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24
Quiet, dawn, Covid. Biggest accomplishment yesterday: buying toilet paper. Thanking the young cashier for doing her job. Feeling a little sick, wearing my mask and gloves, Spring oblivious to the virus, an idiot like Millay said. At least we’re not beheading each other—yet. Symptoms mild so far. Today rest, no long walk, no knee bends. I think I’ve watched every possible movie and tv show and nothing’s left that doesn’t bore me. I could learn the calculus, chemistry or physics but will I and what for? Most poetry is chopped up prose. That’s harsh but true. But that’s because most days are prose or yesterday’s news. Win or lose sumthins gonna getcha. Drug cartel assassin, the blues. If not now, when? Some other Wednesday. Why wait? I wish I had some wisdom to translate. It’s living and helping others to live that counts, I guess. Cast a cold eye and guess, walk the extra mile, report from the besieged city, be wise or a **** I hope to get the antibodies the easy way, mild symptoms, no brush with death, don’t intubate. An existential bessemer process, strange quark, chances are I won’t be able to organize this day into an expressible state. A daily exchange with nature’s enough to alleviate my fear. When I thanked the cashier her smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds or the end of the pandemic, as if I had not wasted my life.
0
Sep 13, 2021
Sep 13, 2021 at 8:38 AM UTC
robert-ronnow
Covid Cashier
Quiet, dawn, Covid. Biggest accomplishment yesterday: buying toilet paper. Thanking the young cashier for doing her job. Feeling a little sick, wearing my mask and gloves, Spring oblivious to the virus, an idiot like Millay said. At least we’re not beheading each other—yet. Symptoms mild so far. Today rest, no long walk, no knee bends. I think I’ve watched every possible movie and tv show and nothing’s left that doesn’t bore me. I could learn the calculus, chemistry or physics but will I and what for? Most poetry is chopped up prose. That’s harsh but true. But that’s because most days are prose or yesterday’s news. Win or lose sumthins gonna getcha. Drug cartel assassin, the blues. If not now, when? Some other Wednesday. Why wait? I wish I had some wisdom to translate. It’s living and helping others to live that counts, I guess. Cast a cold eye and guess, walk the extra mile, report from the besieged city, be wise or a **** I hope to get the antibodies the easy way, mild symptoms, no brush with death, don’t intubate. An existential bessemer process, strange quark, chances are I won’t be able to organize this day into an expressible state. A daily exchange with nature’s enough to alleviate my fear. When I thanked the cashier her smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds or the end of the pandemic, as if I had not wasted my life.
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30
Little girl, stop shaking Your wounds are not the kind that will heal in time You have predator in your blood And abuser in your skin Your antibodies cannot save you When your body wages war against itself The **** it will not clot the way it is supposed to As you grow older, the features come in Your eyes look more and more Like your Pop Pop's Your face looks more and more Like your father's Your mouth tastes more and more Like your older cousin's After all, you would know What his skin tastes like You try to scrub it off Causing the wound to reopen Scrape the scab away But you, beautiful girl You are not your bloodline, your birthright You are not destined to be angry and cold Your sentence is not the dungeon Is not death Intelligent woman You will hold in your hand the power of ten thousand men You will wear the teeth from your ********* relative Like pearls around your neck You will paint your nails with the blood of your toxic family Your past will not mute your scream Your childhood will not filter your radiance You, warrior, will rise up to be queen.
0
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
jfrank0816
Queen
Little girl, stop shaking Your wounds are not the kind that will heal in time You have predator in your blood And abuser in your skin Your antibodies cannot save you When your body wages war against itself The **** it will not clot the way it is supposed to As you grow older, the features come in Your eyes look more and more Like your Pop Pop's Your face looks more and more Like your father's Your mouth tastes more and more Like your older cousin's After all, you would know What his skin tastes like You try to scrub it off Causing the wound to reopen Scrape the scab away But you, beautiful girl You are not your bloodline, your birthright You are not destined to be angry and cold Your sentence is not the dungeon Is not death Intelligent woman You will hold in your hand the power of ten thousand men You will wear the teeth from your ********* relative Like pearls around your neck You will paint your nails with the blood of your toxic family Your past will not mute your scream Your childhood will not filter your radiance You, warrior, will rise up to be queen.
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32
etchings are probably finer than carvings, i bet the latter are more country based, as in rural. wood blocks made from twenty years . he has done me a service, how to be happy . no need to buy and sell, we can look and enjoy.. the wax came later, as did the currant slice. neither resisted, the cake one pound ten pence. i placed the white paper bag in the village recycling. so very nice to me today too late, i have resigned. my self, my work is honest. i have turned it all upside down, and most of the crumbs are gone, with added blowings. verb verb: resist; 3rd person present: resists; past tense: resisted; past participle: resisted; gerund or present participle: resisting 1. withstand the action or effect of. “antibodies help us to resist infection” noun noun: resist; plural noun: resists 1. a resistant substance applied as a coating to protect a surface during a process, for example to prevent dye or glaze adhering. “new lithographic techniques require their own special resists” sbm.
0
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 2:28 AM UTC
sonja-benskin-mesher
.. resisted ..
etchings are probably finer than carvings, i bet the latter are more country based, as in rural. wood blocks made from twenty years . he has done me a service, how to be happy . no need to buy and sell, we can look and enjoy.. the wax came later, as did the currant slice. neither resisted, the cake one pound ten pence. i placed the white paper bag in the village recycling. so very nice to me today too late, i have resigned. my self, my work is honest. i have turned it all upside down, and most of the crumbs are gone, with added blowings. verb verb: resist; 3rd person present: resists; past tense: resisted; past participle: resisted; gerund or present participle: resisting 1. withstand the action or effect of. “antibodies help us to resist infection” noun noun: resist; plural noun: resists 1. a resistant substance applied as a coating to protect a surface during a process, for example to prevent dye or glaze adhering. “new lithographic techniques require their own special resists” sbm.
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21
You are a virus absorbed through the eyes and ears that attacks the soul. You are nothing more than your own vaccine and antibodies are rushing up to exterminate you.
0
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
victor-thorn
Antibodies
You are a virus absorbed through the eyes and ears that attacks the soul. You are nothing more than your own vaccine and antibodies are rushing up to exterminate you.
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4
I long to talk to a stranger and ask them: " Ever worry that, in your blood there are antibodies to make you nauseous towards every.single.person.you.get.close.to? That we are peering - naked, wet, shivering - into an unfathomable loneliness, balancing on our toes, inching, with our mistakes, ever closer to the most personal, most frightening, most loathsome loss we will ever experience? That you will never reveal yourself Never be vulnerable Never be loved or love the one person with the right size-of-wrench to fix you? Your infernal heat, to guard against probing hands, will scatter any hope that the right hands might intrude, and you will die inside, trembling, small, at the thought you will REMAIN ALONE FOREVER. " And then, grin, and pause, and they walk away from the unthinkable phrase that describes... All our bad or separate moments.
0
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:23 AM UTC
wade-redfearn
Antibodies
I long to talk to a stranger and ask them: " Ever worry that, in your blood there are antibodies to make you nauseous towards every.single.person.you.get.close.to? That we are peering - naked, wet, shivering - into an unfathomable loneliness, balancing on our toes, inching, with our mistakes, ever closer to the most personal, most frightening, most loathsome loss we will ever experience? That you will never reveal yourself Never be vulnerable Never be loved or love the one person with the right size-of-wrench to fix you? Your infernal heat, to guard against probing hands, will scatter any hope that the right hands might intrude, and you will die inside, trembling, small, at the thought you will REMAIN ALONE FOREVER. " And then, grin, and pause, and they walk away from the unthinkable phrase that describes... All our bad or separate moments.
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21
Two years in recovery; Emotions disregarded. While antibodies made homes I created something new inside. Have I forgotten how to feel? Three years in secrecy; I lived in ignorance While whispers lie caught in webs I discovered something new to hide. Choosing nonentity. A heart that is void. Backwards living, Forward talking, Influenced by all that is around To grasp the idea of truth. There is far more to all of this Than memories, and words.
0
May 29, 2010
May 29, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
kirsten-autra
Vibrations
Two years in recovery; Emotions disregarded. While antibodies made homes I created something new inside. Have I forgotten how to feel? Three years in secrecy; I lived in ignorance While whispers lie caught in webs I discovered something new to hide. Choosing nonentity. A heart that is void. Backwards living, Forward talking, Influenced by all that is around To grasp the idea of truth. There is far more to all of this Than memories, and words.
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16
Started like a zygote We got eyes, ears, nose and tongue And food from mother Which helped to form kidney, heart, liver and lung And we create our own antibodies Hair and eye brows starts growing And we build our own immuno system After nine months we are out Observing things around us Scanning each and every sound And finally taking first bath And recognizing our parents Wonderful isn't it
0
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
Babu-kandula
430. Nine months
Started like a zygote We got eyes, ears, nose and tongue And food from mother Which helped to form kidney, heart, liver and lung And we create our own antibodies Hair and eye brows starts growing And we build our own immuno system After nine months we are out Observing things around us Scanning each and every sound And finally taking first bath And recognizing our parents Wonderful isn't it
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13
she said: *you are a man knowing cruel, knowing hard, with strangest soft skin, a funny way of talking, lick my face with your words so I’ll learn, to be tough and tender too, this I want, wanted* he replied: **life gave me splinters, broken from rough edges, left under my exterior to fester, blister, and scar, life licked my face, taught me mean, and the words that came with that, were sand papered on my skin** she answered: *I’m not blind, I can feel, smell your contradictories, want your antibodies in my blood, survival skills, to be what I am not, and keep too, what I’ve got, to be infected and protected, knowing words defensive* he listened: **what you desire, is the health that comes after, after what you don’t understand, until you’ve loved, lost, been beaten down so that getting up is miraculous, this unteachable, this licking by words** she insisted: *your arrhythmic rhymes, skinflint perspectives, this is what I ask, what I need, what you can give, what is in your possess, what you need to unburden, making me better for making you lessened* he wept: and said nothing. for nothing taught appreciating silence and that, ***was the beginning, of what she wanted, of what he did not, of what he gives reluctantly*** 8:16AM Wed May 20 Isle of Mind
0
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC
fearfulpoet
lick a face with words
she said: *you are a man knowing cruel, knowing hard, with strangest soft skin, a funny way of talking, lick my face with your words so I’ll learn, to be tough and tender too, this I want, wanted* he replied: **life gave me splinters, broken from rough edges, left under my exterior to fester, blister, and scar, life licked my face, taught me mean, and the words that came with that, were sand papered on my skin** she answered: *I’m not blind, I can feel, smell your contradictories, want your antibodies in my blood, survival skills, to be what I am not, and keep too, what I’ve got, to be infected and protected, knowing words defensive* he listened: **what you desire, is the health that comes after, after what you don’t understand, until you’ve loved, lost, been beaten down so that getting up is miraculous, this unteachable, this licking by words** she insisted: *your arrhythmic rhymes, skinflint perspectives, this is what I ask, what I need, what you can give, what is in your possess, what you need to unburden, making me better for making you lessened* he wept: and said nothing. for nothing taught appreciating silence and that, ***was the beginning, of what she wanted, of what he did not, of what he gives reluctantly*** 8:16AM Wed May 20 Isle of Mind
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35
I’m not ready for the curtain call, I’m not ready for the curtain to fall You’re ready to go, I’m not ready to let you, So, I’m holding on to something I don’t know, Might be wrong but I don’t know what else to do I wish I could have been your antibodies, I wish I could have been the author of your story, I wish I could have been there to say I’m sorry, I wish I could have been your antibodies You’re ready to go it alone, I’m not ready to let you, Stone, I wish we were made of stone and bone, My living dead interlude that never moves I wish I could have been your antibodies, I wish I could have been the author of your story, I wish I could have been there to say I’m sorry, I wish I could have been your antibodies You danced naked, In a front of a crowd of empty faces, Wild and wasted, But you danced, And they faded, You are who you want, You are who you want us to want you to be, But now you’re leaving me, And I’m not ready, I’m not ready for the curtain call, I’m not ready for the curtain to fall I wish I could have been your antibodies, I wish I could have been the author of your story, I wish I could have been there to say I’m sorry, I wish I could have been your antibodies I wish I could have been your antibodies, but I can’t and I’m so sorry
0
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
bryn-dawes
Antibodies
I’m not ready for the curtain call, I’m not ready for the curtain to fall You’re ready to go, I’m not ready to let you, So, I’m holding on to something I don’t know, Might be wrong but I don’t know what else to do I wish I could have been your antibodies, I wish I could have been the author of your story, I wish I could have been there to say I’m sorry, I wish I could have been your antibodies You’re ready to go it alone, I’m not ready to let you, Stone, I wish we were made of stone and bone, My living dead interlude that never moves I wish I could have been your antibodies, I wish I could have been the author of your story, I wish I could have been there to say I’m sorry, I wish I could have been your antibodies You danced naked, In a front of a crowd of empty faces, Wild and wasted, But you danced, And they faded, You are who you want, You are who you want us to want you to be, But now you’re leaving me, And I’m not ready, I’m not ready for the curtain call, I’m not ready for the curtain to fall I wish I could have been your antibodies, I wish I could have been the author of your story, I wish I could have been there to say I’m sorry, I wish I could have been your antibodies I wish I could have been your antibodies, but I can’t and I’m so sorry
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34
You make up my anatomy You're the specks of color in the iris of my eyes They remember the way your smile looked Little microscopic pieces of you flow in my blood from when you were there before You're the bruises I used to find in a quick glance that I didn't know were there. Your scent is sewn in my brain and frequently makes spontaneous trips to my nose and causes me to grimace in nostalgia But mostly pain; You're the taste of blood in my mouth when I try to kiss someone else You tasted that way when we last kissed. You put your dagger in my heart when we were together and when you left You took it with you, leaving the gaping hole that is always hurting It's all that's left I wish the tiny microfibers would grow and repear the tear to how it was before you But it's too deep and still fresh even after two years, And my antibodies aren't strong enough to rid you out of my system.
0
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
lara-m
You are my anatomy.
You make up my anatomy You're the specks of color in the iris of my eyes They remember the way your smile looked Little microscopic pieces of you flow in my blood from when you were there before You're the bruises I used to find in a quick glance that I didn't know were there. Your scent is sewn in my brain and frequently makes spontaneous trips to my nose and causes me to grimace in nostalgia But mostly pain; You're the taste of blood in my mouth when I try to kiss someone else You tasted that way when we last kissed. You put your dagger in my heart when we were together and when you left You took it with you, leaving the gaping hole that is always hurting It's all that's left I wish the tiny microfibers would grow and repear the tear to how it was before you But it's too deep and still fresh even after two years, And my antibodies aren't strong enough to rid you out of my system.
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15
Hot dogs are know to eat apple sauce when uninvited apostrophies invade their canoes. The barking can be heard for centuries Several flying arbitrary algebra sharks scrape the bleeding jelly fish from the skies leaving only dead eyes and caramel drops This obviously leads to omnipotent marshmellows adorning the french quarter in sandwich bages Untied shoes always lead to this sort of indulgance. You know what i mean? So in closing Rewire your scathing antibodies before the devil unleashes his pink flamingos Corn flakes won't be on sale forever
0
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
brain-in-a-bottle
Making Sense
Hot dogs are know to eat apple sauce when uninvited apostrophies invade their canoes. The barking can be heard for centuries Several flying arbitrary algebra sharks scrape the bleeding jelly fish from the skies leaving only dead eyes and caramel drops This obviously leads to omnipotent marshmellows adorning the french quarter in sandwich bages Untied shoes always lead to this sort of indulgance. You know what i mean? So in closing Rewire your scathing antibodies before the devil unleashes his pink flamingos Corn flakes won't be on sale forever
Continue reading...
7