"autopsied" poems
Sometimes,
I catch
myself Swaying,
like there is
an eternal metronome
that my spirit
hears.
Or,
A song that my
soul must keep
time with.
It beats to the art
that surrounds me.
Such a delicate balance,
between the cactus and
the sun.
Between the dog and
the bone.
When they autopsied the
Tin Man, there were
irises and orchids and
Neruda poems where
his heart should have
been.
Love is an overused
word,
but an underused
gift.
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 12:38 PM UTC
He’s disembodied
Lives solely in his head —
His dance is chalk against a board
His feet are autopsied and tagged “dead” —
Science is
His beacon
His faith
His love
His life.
But what good is just a mind full of formulas
When not mindful or exposed to other arts?
Appreciation stems from sentiment
Making subject hierarchy harassment.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
It is too easy.
Much, much too easy
This falling and rising we do.
It leaves me hollowed.
Empty, like an autopsied heart, chambers no longer pumping life’s blood;
Or like the distended belly of some pathetic half creature fevered with hunger.
Don’t you ever feel that way?
Or do you glutton yourself on the rolling and rocking,
Feasting on the tides until you are consumed by vomitous pleasure?
This falling and rising.
This rising and falling.
This and this and this.
I am so tired of it all.
No more bile drenched lust or hearts seized by rigor.
It is simply a strange and listless pantomime of a thing now
And much too easy
To hold any worth.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:29 PM UTC