"arrhythmic" poems
i've spent my entire lifetime running
running away
running in circles
running myself into the ground
it isn't fun, anymore
my feet have gotten heavy
i remember that night you drove **** near 100 miles
so we could go to the park and play lava-monster
i didn't know the rules
you were patient
there
in the decaying fall air
with your news-boy cap pulled down over my eyes and my arms stretched out into the darkness
searching for you
i felt right
for the first time in my life i felt fine
i haven't feld good, since
i wish i knew then what i know now
that i may likely never see you again
that you were leaving
that you're a runner too
i guess it is true
you get what you give
my feet have become granite
stones not meant to be resurrected from the earth
my globe's nothing but a paper-weight, now
the atlas is never cracked
because i can't find you on a map
and your arms are the one place that i long to be
silly, really
the way the head and the heart are incapable of speaking to each other honestly
now and then
the wind rests
for just a moment
and through the dry wyoming air
i catch your scent trail
like a glimpse of heat-lightning in the far horizon
but just like you
it's gone in an off-set heartbeat
the tumble weeds sing your name as they slink across the plains
stirring my insomnia into a craze
that can only be calmed by night-sky air
i search for your face in the shadows of the moon
as my calls to you rise with my steam-heated breath
and disappear into the stars
i wonder if you lay awake all night
swearing that the constellations are all begining to align
with the sole purpose of pointing you towards me
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
4:21am
Tue
Aug 12
<*>
restless is the thinking brain,
rapid repeated beating
from an overheating sun
in a room of full-on dark,
difficult to weep,
harder to silent breathe,
one listens to his arrhythmic heart,
sending out messages incessantly & incomplete
every single sin ever committed
comes in with cheery face,
a greeting of, still here!
in this ,
our temporary final resting place
finish us off by completion,
makes us full of restitution,
by seeing to our undoing,
revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently
those old curses
we can only face
by turning our faces away,
drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit
though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away,
though relief can never be fully attained,
though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal,
though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal,
there is never a dot of period,
only a comma of pause, because,
there is no ending in completion
only in forgiving by your harshest critic,
yourself, yourself, our selving,
this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this,
this, the two-days of Tuesday,
to day
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
In my thoracic cavity is a clock
that rhythmically sounds tick, tock.
Pumping blood through my body
giving my hands an opportunity
to point out a good quality
And a fault.
It is good that you know I am with you
but a fault is found in this sad room
as sounds of this hospital's gloom
absorb into my aching brain
I almost miss your words full of pain
what you said will always stay.
"I think of days of old
days of gold
days that told
us to cling and hold
onto occasions
that you and I had.
Days I thought could not go bad
Days I thought could not go bad."
Your clock ticks, but it would not tock
arrhythmic palpitations hold your body in lock
arms turn into stiff, limp imitations of parts
your body can find out how to start
its own trip into that forlorn dark
with no comfort from a singing lark.
I'm no lark, I bring no comfort of dawn
but I'll stay up with you as you yawn.
Your soul's windows full of worry
build up this notion your light will go in a hurry.
I vow to you as your light grows old
that you and I had days of gold
that you and I had days of gold.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
Cascades were dripping outside of this moving vehicle
White noise, patternless and arrhythmic
like magnified sounds of nails on a concrete wall,
made by souls desperate to cleave their way to dryness
This public utility vehicle holds spirits successful in finding this temporary heaven
Weathered, soaked and almost drowned
like panting dogs that managed to swim ashore from a shipwreck
caused by the iceberg that is the eye of the storm
This safe haven holds champions in a world of misshapen men
A woman clutches tightly on a bag of lime and her ever waning youth
Tired, but not eager to face Death
still closing her windows to his cat burglars
that come faster than the downpour of Typhon's tears
A homeless child comfortably sleeps on the far end of this ride
His innocence tested by fate
Too experienced for someone his age
instead of just playing in the streets he calls home
The jeepney driver has eyes on the road painted by Van Gogh
Unabashed, industrious and assiduous
determined to serve,
provide for a family whose stomachs hunger not but they hunger for his return
This other dimension nurtures alien thoughts and parallel thinking among beat down men
I do not know them but I can hear the cries of their emotions,
their longing to be felt and empathized with
Their voiceless cries are guns with a silenced nozzle
shooting at anyone ignorant who curiously stare at this minefield of a passenger jeep
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
I want the hollow
Cheeks.
The full, adipose, smooth
Lips.
The white-boned,
Pearls she calls
Teeth.
I want the bright, clean,
Sun bleached
Hair.
The fine, sharpened,
Ready for scratching, Spotless
Nails.
The refined, sculpted,
Long, profiled
Nose.
I want gold to flake,
Off my ageing,
porous, dull,
Skin.
I want the protruding,
Famished, angled
Bones.
I want the pumping,
Arrhythmic
Heart.
The tired, hissing,
Tar coated, smoker’s
Lungs.
The round, fleshy,
Cellulite covered
***
The motherly, but
Childless plump
*******
I want the barren,
Bleeding, afflicted
******
I want the faint,
Wispy, high-pitched,
Call that she calls a
Voice.
The bruised, bulging,
Porcelain polished, etched
Knuckles.
The wide, protruding,
Ballooned up, dangling
Hips.
The numb, heavy, metal
Flavored, gum bleeding
Mouth.
I want the skewed,
Backwards, lost
Pedals she calls
Feet.
I want the hearing less,
Wax, pus covered,
Ears.
The lost dull, lifeless
Dumbed down, blue
Eyes.
I want to be her,
All of them, and none.
I want to be lost,
Unwilling, tame, voiceless,
Mindless, childless,
Sexless, man-less.
I want to be her, but I
Can’t.
I cannot because I am
Thought burdened, fat,
Violent, screaming,
Child laden, broken nosed,
Coarse.
I cannot because dirt
Flakes off my young
Skin.
Because my heart pumps,
Oxygenated blood,
At a steady, rhythmic
Beat.
My voice baritones,
Deep, bottomless,
Whispers.
I sit on flat, concave
Muscle.
My lungs breathe,
Strong, fresh, smog-less
Air.
Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden
Teeth.
Dark, musty, greased
Hair.
I want to be her,
But I won’t.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
My decisions are fallacious
My thoughts are surreptitious
My heartbeat arrhythmic
And my soul tormented
I help none
Speak not
And seek no intimacy
I am contemptible
Hated
Degenerate
Low
Lousy
And
I am nugatory
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
sugar is bad for you
especially sugary thoughts
you cannot afford
like June is majestic
undulating ozone
from cumulus bones
in its flesh of light blue
masquerading airborne
around the skin
that breathes with beats
progressively arrhythmic
high from the feeling
but beware
for June hides its predators
beneath those waves
elating charm, its Siren song;
Because deadlines,
blood thirsty words
like “expiration”,“elapsing”,
and “due in”,
lurk with sharpened teeth
stalking the smallest of joy-fish
And all of this contrast
is masked with such skill
it remains underrated,
only frustrating to Juners,
for they know its extremes
and how smiles
cover anxiety
***
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
Harsh unyielding sunset, buries me against the page.
I won't be lazing on a couch, left to rot and waste away.
Wormy plush Berber carpet soft against the afternoon.
Debts are pile high and the company picnic is this June.
The pages are vellum paper covered in ancient Egyptian script.
I've loved you methodically ever since we met inside that crypt.
The dregs brings me solemn hope that one day we'll breakthrough.
Works calling in on Sunday for some overtime that's overdue.
Its a 5 past 4 the glass lays arrhythmic, shattered at my feet.
We found each other down beside the casket of the diseased.
Heartfelt words never came out of a mouth that were so pure.
How could you take me for interesting, in life I'm just a bore.
Down. I've already ruined the letter meant from me to you.
Life is not a fairy tale to broker marriage for us two.
Bloodletting's an aphrodisiac to keep me at the brink.
Why'd I write this silly thing when I spilled my drink.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
Do what I say,
not what I've done.
What I did was past tense
to the prose I've become.
Words spoken
shed truth
on the bells rung.
Pronouns succumb
to life underneath.
What has the sun shone?
Same thing moon's shunned.
Twirling thumbs
and grinding teeth.
Prone anxiety
beneath a fleet
of coarse thread sheets.
Only fans speak,
oscillating on an
arrhythmic beat.
What are the limits of your speech?
English, French and Spanish
when haphazardly
conscious.
Noun (Verb + adjective) + predicate
is the constant
variable in
idioms.
It's an order of operations
within phrases
understood amongst
sages.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 5:01 AM UTC
These Nights with lights, Lightened from cigarette filled clouds to rainstorms.
We are drowning our Inhibition to exhibitions, of a shallow madness.
Within a matter of clearance
Of transverse sunrays:
We call this morning
A day past,
A night ruled with dreams.
Flooded with traffic afflicted
Souls searching beneath empty vessels of libations
Only to unearth realizations from lost sensations.
Vagabonds patrolling streets
apparently policing their worries,
from failed inquiries of maternally adopted creeds.
Divided vision escalated arrhythmic palpitation
Deviation from a gradual calm away from calamity
Expel, Exhort-Excise, the deep-veil
A rising dawn, polluted skies reflected in these eyes,
I stare at this street lamp, flickering at-us-all.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
The uncontrolled seasons of regurgitation
Kneeling to a devilish god
Sacred that shove
Utmost devotion to the abhorrent ritual
A cult of one
In the name my lord perfection : exquisitely emaciated
Romanticising arrhythmic heart beats
Glamourising protruding hip bones
Deeming them elegant
Poetising the lethargy
All the while being fully cognisant
Of simple truth
Perfection is six feet under
Lime coloured porcelain
Anxious ****** expression
The uncontrolled seasons of regurgitation
Will it ever end.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
I want to dig my fingers past the muscle
and pull out my heart
so that i don't have to bear
the arrhythmic beating.
the banging on the drums
that cuts at my veins
which stings my wrists
places that I've bled before
fresh wounds
pouring out sweet regret
alternative realities unexplored
I wish I could've loved you.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
Somewhere, it seems as if the hidden, almost Apocryphal-smelling locks of Life are starting to open again; hunger and greedy thirst are following in its wake. The human shadows, like walnut kernels, carefully peel the rarely revealed one-essence from the slave back, as if everyone is waiting for the deliberate fall of their unsuspecting victims. Like tiger claws, the scornful sins of rejections and unworthy attitudes bite a person one after another, with which he can hardly do anything.
Because the World would crush everyone sympathetically a little, if it did not watch in readiness forever, as if a buzzing ant swarm penetrated the networks of blood vessels unnoticed. Because sooner or later, the mere Soul also rebels against its servant, the gaping of its instincts becomes arrhythmic. Even now, in a dazed stupor, this city with the smell of Nineveh slumbers like a drunken beast, which - it may seem - denies itself a little in exchange for petty, flattering benefits at every age, its compromising actions come face to face with man, and everything reveals how much easier it would have been to act differently, in a different way.
- In the grimace-games of dimples, the age histories of wrinkles get stuck halfway, which tell of shipwrecked childhoods... Something still rings better in a holey bag, and something just rings like a sound; making a big deal has become fashionable, just like unadorned, provocative ****** so that the number of viewers always brings the daily quota profit, the grass of innocence, like some unknown marijuana derivative, always rots. It may seem impossible to walk the peaks of silence that have become songless.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 12:16 AM UTC
When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with slanted eyebrows and stiff, silent upper lips. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we’d never really had to do the holding before and, as far as we knew, this is how men mourn.
We dusted antique left-behinds with delicate, moth-wing hands that fluttered here and there and never stopped trembling -- dead giveaways that within the corridors of our arms our heartbeats went stampeding, arrhythmic. We couldn’t quite bend them into the proper shape for prayer, so instead we ran them, with touch somewhere between float and feel, along every ashtray and age-stained picture album. In that moment I think we each wished that memory read like braille, but no one ever said as much. Because this is how men mourn.
We honored our patriarch with whiskey, hidden away for what must have been twice my age, between the carved out pages of old stacked books.
We drank like secrets. His portrait played witness.
We promised between our teeth with tinged lips tight, keeping words in that might otherwise crumble us like great ancient empires.
We singed and smoldered in a burn that coated our throats, quelling a choke that kept climbing its way up from a chest that never quite stayed sunk. Boys grow up loving the clinking twist of unlocking deadbolts but men peek through keyholes. Because this is how men mourn. Silent and straight with head only slightly slanted.
But when my father betrayed his rigidity with words that clicked clean like unfastening locks, we traded this stale air in for wind laced with the electric taste of thunderstorms. We forgot how men mourn.
When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with lightning behind bleared eyes. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we have umpteen days left to dress in bittersweet vestiges and, as far as we know, this is how men live on.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
Where go thee traveler, trailing in broken shadows?
Just another poet wandering down a mischievous path of deceit and beguiles.
Who be thee? Another shattered soul sauntering in denial?
Carry a name I do not, but you may call me whatever comes to your thoughts.
Cassandra. Deliverer of delight and heavenly sight, but caustic to those who try to consume her with the allure of night.
Cursory charm, a daring attempt to overtake the apex of my harnessed heart.
My penchant roars with a persistence that never rests!
Audacious lips of mine will eclipse your eyes as deep as an ocean and dark as wine.
Let our shadows combine, our fate intertwine to capture a moment of the divine.
Arrhythmic and blind your love needs redesign!
Otherwise I'll become another infatuation lost in time.
Here I stand austere without effrontery to burden our affair. What is it you'll have me declare?
First follow me into the infinite abyss.
What after I plunge into the nebulous mist?
Our hands we'll share in the company of crescent stares
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
please
be tender with me
but don’t let me use you
that’s something I’ve gotten the hang of and readily available people
sometimes shouldn’t always be so
readily available ~
I know this because I’ve often been too readily available
and walked all over,
I think I still have the footprints on my little arrhythmic heart
to prove it —
oh
I’m pretty sure though,
you know,
that we all know what it’s like
to be the plant uprooted from the soil
for the selfish purposes of indoor decor:
it needs
and needs and needs
because self-sufficient roots were cut
and it pleads
and pleads and pleads
*please
be tender with me,
for I don’t know what I am doing here
let alone how to live here in this dark
****** pit you call a home — *
I’ve made a new home for myself
every day
because every day, I am not the same
it’s a constant struggle of
head vs. heart
and
holding back vs. art; &
if I’m going to be honest about one thing
it’s that
I’m completely alright … it’s just,
admitting that means
I’ve got to step into the light
and I’m just so attached to this little plant inside of me
that has been uprooted and abused,
I’m dwelling on mistakes and madness and using
a thousand nouns to fill me whole,
I completely forget that playing the victim makes me sick
and to grow,
all I need is water, love and sun for my soul.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
All of the Richmond Hipsters
and time killing smokers are killing me
The hobos with broken thumbs
They just barely catch the bus
Late nights under the eastern stars
The City of almost-angels
beards and gauges and butts
Tatted up art chicks with more skin than clothing
Invite me over your threshold
Make me some supper, the coffee is in the ***
River tides carrying away the used condoms of the confused
Liquor breath, joints and e-cigs
Poets, painters, photographers
The air reeks of art and death
fist meets face meets pavement meets God
The good times are killing you, and I’m showering until the water runs cold
cough up my phlegm, it tastes like love
grinding against a stranger’s *** all night long - like it was all we knew
We couldn’t feel so we tried to touch
we fell short and drank from the puddles with gasoline rainbows
The bricks and cobblestones all have names that I will never know
Does anybody ever actually listen?
Life versus fun versus life versus death versus boring
Stack them up like tetris
The sun is sick with stories, the moon full of lies
And all the graffiti in the world won’t change that
snow sun rain sun blank canvases
hear the thunder of arrhythmic heartbeats
sweat drips and it tastes like ****
Black eyes on Bowe, black eyes on Goshen
Mad houses filled with gifted pianists
Ghetto driven dreams of another shot
Play that same acoustic guitar tune I like so much
I lost my harmonica in a storm drain
I lost my Mind in Richmond
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
Last tendered lifeline sought as battered psyche under your bellowing wave rips
Final act of penance remitted from bleeding, parched lips
Hemorrhaging from bandaged sorrows that only strerile soul doth eclipse
A hollow stare from deserted strand harboring the wreckage of two, desolate ships
Posture now callous bearing the scars of your shallow, superficial preening grips
Disheveled hair, limp dividend declaring inferior complex that from each emotive strand drips
Pale, drawn face; vessel sunken from draining sinkholes as our relationship dips
Pensive smile revealing the fault line of each strained shock as chasm deeper slips
Shuttering ears filtering out the rehearsed, rhapsodic notes of your telepathic scripts
Token, parting gesture from arrhythmic heart erasing each beat as your radar blips
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC
I must fall alone on the harmful, wretched waste of everyday life, like a constantly shrinking, bloated, bloated dwarf; because not only the petty, predictable pair of opposites of goodness and evil has become a mysterious jungle - but the fist of bribery is hitting me in the head, since the star of the Universe that promises peace may not even be reachable. Like a shipwrecked ship, the petal-soul is constantly orphaned in it, which once wanted to trust in the One.
A flood of disastrous sins will trample me to the ground if I am not careful. Human-bloods struggling for ends are screaming and shouting around me, tearing apart the secret chalice of selfless helping intentions to their heart's content, dragon-angry crowds-herds are drunkenly going to each other's laps, or are fighting. Who is in the mood for what?! The eternal child, always curious and ready to play, who I cannot forget and would never intend to let go, is still bent over in me, still sheepish.
Is it necessary to crumble at the table of vigils, like millstones in the night burdened with nightmares?! I listen in silence to the beaks with iron hooks that cut life, in the mouths of half-darkness they were still forced to snap like cutting scissors; let the moonscape-loneliness be petty, let it be selfish, since they were at once primitive, unbridled restless wanderers, whom Zhivágoy winds, Jericho trumpets have torn, flayed, and whined enough.
Even a believer in rainbow-foamy promises, I can no longer be completely happy. On the thin, rabbit-tail-sized border of a passing minute and eternity, it would be good for the sick, arrhythmic heart to know and feel when the judgment of mortality is preparing for its last supper, the one-Someone might still know here on this earth!
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:45 AM UTC
I worry for
the man who
will one day
want to love me
I worry that he
will not know
that my love
burns like the sun
and rages
like a storm
out at sea
I worry that he
will not know
that my darkness
is only temporary
and that it comes
from living
in an ever consuming
pitch black night
it lasted decades
I worry that he
will not know
my spirit
cannot be broken
like an animal
that cannot be tamed
it lasts an eternity
I worry that he
will not hear
my arrhythmic heart
it may sound like
a whisper
but it bangs
and slams in
these ribs
like the percussions
in an orchestra
*it will play songs
just for him*
I worry that he
will not hear
me when I
cry out to him
for I am not
transparent
do not look through me or
past me I
am right here
before you
with
universes to give
I worry that he
will not feel
the moisture building
in my palms
when he grasps
my hands
out of fear
that he will
never
hold them again
*I will hold his
like others
hold a bible*
I worry that he
will not feel
my head
against his chest
like the
safe haven
I have
finally found
after all this time
I worry that he
will not see
the stars that
shine in my eyes
when I look
at his face
like the world's
most wonderous
landscape
*I've traveled so
long and so
far just to see it*
I worry that he
will not see
the way he
can make
every muscle in my body
fall into a
meditative state or
electrify with excitement
with his presence alone
I worry that the
man who will
one day
want to love me
will not appreciate
that I am
a complete human being
with or without him
that I am
divided between
biology and whimsy
that I am
both the
sadist and *********
that I am
broken but
the architect
and that
I do not fall
like an autum leaf
I fall
like an avalanche
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
Aristotle’s arrhythmic articulations
Appeared too apologetic for Aphrodite's amusements
Aroused by antisocial media’s alacritous abundance
Amidst arteriosclerosis and amphibiously obeisant Ophiuchus
Asclepius' ascendance was almost an abortion
Arrested by Apollo’s amorous attempts at aphrodisia
Ambidextrous Artemis’ androgynous appointments
Awakened ancient antipathies accentuating allopathic artifacts
Altercations arose among ambitious acolytes and Athena’s anorexic acidoses
Awkward Adonis actively agonized by alarming aneurysms
Allowed Antigone’s ambivalent armistice an aperture of acceptance
Appointing an ambiguously appealing additive to the Argonauts
An anaerobic Acropolis arose amidst ********** asphyxiations
As Amazonian armpit hair advocates approved artificial insemination
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
If music were Arrhythmic it would consider us
On tinsel wire lit into net to beads
Eternally reaping
The clink of solar windmills
Echoing, echoing until it becomes flesh,
Tired, ringing decibels
Filling with water and becoming eyes
So that Death is a character
Swimming just past the horizon;
Collisions become heartbeats
Become locomotive thoughts
Charging westerly winds
Until our faces hone, stormed
And born.
Only my soul is left to fall,
Cygnus x-1 in a pool,
My life a distant call
Catalogued by the stars,
Noted for declination; classified pulsar
My words are dust in another’s space
But they recall fire and I blazed;
Numerically, years;
Physically, rage
And the only thing that breathed were dreams
And they sail, eternally, past the rhyme (Time)
They’ll still float when I return to haunt you;
They cast no light but they guide and sigh.
Alive
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
I want to give you
A piece of me.
What would you like?
I want you to choose.
My eyes...?
No, too deficient, insufficient
And unseeing
With a tendency, recently, to flood.
My fingers...?
Tremblers now, them.
And the nails are bitten ragged, ******
I push my rings to my knuckles,
And bend, and flex the joints,
Deliberately creating callouses, enjoying the pain.
You don't want these masochistic digits.
My arrhythmic, angry heart?
I think not,
You've rejected that, already,
And I'm not prepared to offer it again,
Get away, that won't be yours,
Cast your greedy glance elsewhere...
And so, we're back to what you wanted all along.
Go ahead, take it,
The part you wanted, longer for, risked
your world, and mine, for.
I hope it's worth it,
But I think
It would have been a better prize
Along with all the rest.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Coldness lulls my
head
for an eternal
nights slumber. The arrhythmic
thumping of
my chest
dele-
teri
ous
l
y
shortens.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
My heart beats arrhythmic rythms
The dissonance spells love
in every language but ours
yet
one sugar buss will drive me through
the long night's laments
I know
It is better
This way
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC