"biohazard" poems
*one big tear in
the fabric of society,
the shut ins,
the outsiders,
the comic book geeks,
the gamers,
the carefree lovers,
the jokers,
they all want to fit in,
but why would you
want to be on the inside?
the biohazard *******
and ken dolls aren't cool,
they're cruel.*
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
I think the movies ruined my life
I think you ruined my life
I think im sick
I think you made me sick in the head when you left
I think im nuclear waste in a biohazard zone
I think my arms are going to fall off
I check for cancer every day in hopes I have it and
I won't have a reason to live or maybe something more along the lines of
an excuse to say I want to die because
I have this stupid body I'm stuck in
and all I've wanted to ever do was see my bones
I used to think I was in love with the female body but now
I know I'm just in love with my own
for the past three years I have been slaving to the whiteness of my bones
I have been trying to **** myself so I can be cut open
I've been looking at my blood like
I'll finally find the poison that is inside of me
I just need a culprit to blame for this disease that floats around in my skull and wakes up all the dreams I never wanted to see
I just need a reason
I talk like poetry and
I move like a mistake most people don’t understand me because
I speak in similes and metaphors
I speak like coffee is dripping out between my teeth
look I'm doing it here and I don’t know how to stop
I question like a demand and
I have no excuses for the way I move
Maybe I'm just ready to blow the twin towers down again
Maybe I'm ready to crash this body like an airplane
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
in my veins, these fiery flames, irritate like grains of forgotten names
call me insane, but at least I maintain composure and refrain from strangling myself deranged
even tho im convoluted, completely diluted and secluded from this polluted brainless blue ***
i can't shake these blunders of wonders that wake me from my slumbers and asunder like lightening after thunder
why is this society, full of variety, stuck on the wrong types of proprieties? to feed your satiety? to reach your notoriety?
continue to lie to me. stream the feed on live t.v. the glamour of no individuality. convincing there's something wrong with me.
straight faced frugality. absolutely no morality.
they feed on the weak. while they silently weep. "beauty doesn't come cheap, so take the leap! buy now and don't be unique!"
******* grotesque! I'd rather rip my heart outta my chest than ingest that wretched mess.
"beauty" is born not molded and formed from biohazard waste and paste. hows that plastic taste while you constantly baste your neighbors in hate.
I can't wait til the day you meet fate.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 6:34 AM UTC
You unwrapped my blind fold
I could only see this mess of deconstructed bones
The smog filled my bleeding nostrils
I gasped to know the truth of a world rotating in circumvention
Tangents of humiliation
A crab crawls back into its used receptacle
It does not have to face the uneven shadows
Fairy wings brittle and break
The ashes of frightened unicorns
Paths off way far into the emasculated jungle
Hidden silences wielded in your depth
Machines and paper plates
The trees of battered car horns and biohazard bags
The stereotypical infantile jungle world
Without the echoes of the children you never should have had
Mary prostitutes herself on the corner
The Holy Ghost burns unnoticed
Please let us go back to a time
When we could sit still without retrograding voices
Telling us to progress and revolve
We can no longer feel awesomed in the presence of a structural anomaly
One that had never lived or breathed
Or failed
We were on the verge of a revolution
Before they took our fairytales away
The myths were replaced with shear and utter disgust
For the entire human community
Let us retreat to the forest of Incas and attack dogs
For we can not have a revolution of one.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
the CIA will never make the money off ******
it made off *******
******* is for parties
dance clubs
good times in social settings
****** not so much
dark alleys with ***** dealers
selling black tar
to hopeless souls
Mexican mules with **** cavities
brimming
carrying kilos into Nogales
or maybe Calexico
bow legged and sweating
just 35 more trips and sweet little Consuela
can be an American
until Trump gets his wall –
article after article relaying tragedy
the poor, lost in addiction
desperately seeking a coping mechanism
something to stem the tide of despair
and general malaise
dead in their prime
over a twenty sack
and low self-worth….
many friends and family this same tale…
some folks heritage is in ranching,
thousands of head of cattle
driven across the open plains
grandfather to grandson,
uncle and cousin….
others,
political dynasty
papa congressman
and auntie judge
but not mine –
the crest of my tree looks like the biohazard symbol
as generations of drug addicts litter the undergrowth
their weight attempting to hold me
lock me into familial history
unfortunately or fortunately
my will, and recognition of god’s power
flowing within me, as it..
I am my own master
and free to fashion my branches
to whatever my liking desires –
undercover government agents line street corners
whispering illusionary tales of release
stories of becoming void of pain
parables relating a free mind
to personal freedom
through chemical alterations
I whisper back
“I bet my **** is delicious,
wanna taste?” –
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
I always swear work doesn’t affect me.
Trauma?! HA! Never.
And for the most part I am ok.
But suddenly I realized as I counted every single calorie; every single bite… scrubbed every surface and washed my hands far too many times..
The fear of gaining weight; of relying on everyone else to care for me…
Just might be coming from the living people whose bodies are actively rotting. Flesh and fluids dripping off the sides of my stretcher.
My ambulance regularly becoming a biohazard until I’ve scrubbed every inch.
Listening to the sounds of weeping patients on their way to the ER for the 5th time this month because no body cares about them.
It’s not death that scares me. Not loss of limbs or sight that worries me. It’s not having anyone who wants to love me. Not having anyone willing to speak for me when I am broken. It’s the idea my mind can be pristinely sharp but my body defeated and needing someone. But no body cares.
That possibility is petrifying.
-ARI
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 11:56 AM UTC
American
Whiteness
the greatest mental illness of all time
even before they were diagnosed
the world has become safer
because the world finally
has funded a wall around America
a padded room institution
where the dissociative disorder
can destroy itself
and not everyone else in the process
the casual crisis
is an emergency
whiteness the coup d’état
is wreaking havoc
on the human soul
domesticated whiteness
riskiest to do business with
spilling blood all around the world
quarantine the biohazard
whiteness on its journey of impunity
when my family was most vulnerable
to the morbid lust
of the mental illness of whiteness
we gently genocidally refer to as social construction
which is really the deconstruction
of the black human
and the origins of humanity
American
American built by the pieces of my family
glued and mortared by the blood and sweat
spilled from them
the most dangerous deconstruction site
in the world
biological warfare
spewing
leaking
uncontrollably
contaminating humanity
polluting its evolution
at war with symbiosis
for the purity of fascism sake
a coup d’état called American whiteness
which is also been a long
untreated dissociative disorder
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
My mom tried to sweep
clean the cigarette burns on the armrest,
and turned the plastic-cracked
lampshade away from rare houseguests.
The arrow-shaped gap melted
at the middle and leaked down
the shade like a stopped-
up gutter. Climbing out her bedroom
window, she knelt on the rotten
mint shingles and tossed matted
maple leaves as indiscriminately
as rock salt onto the glassy sidewalk
drinking in the overhead halo
of Penelec Electric and pine needles.
Needles—
The red biohazard suitcase
in the dining room is packed
full for distribution
in a Philadelphian switchyard.
City of Brotherly Burning Barrels
and railroad-tie benches—
but not for dressing up suburban
meditation gardens, or housing
yellow jackets and half-melted
Army men. For sitting, sleeping,
and supplying calf splinters
for small talk along the Schuylkill
River, watching the cell lights
of Eastern State get swallowed
whole by the systematic tall grass,
one by one, thanking some blessed
something for their freedom
in the boxcars, their *** and Lucifer
matches, and each other.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
The world is ending, the moon fell down
Left a crater in the hearts of children whose parents were now just simply gone,
Sent to the non-existent great beyond
Moneys as worthless as amateur songs,
In the end I guess the Earth won
I'm adamant to admit,
My brain's not a muscle, my mind is not strong
You risk a kiss through my face-mask
Meant to repel love and asbestos
Well if I catch your flu I fear my life is no longer
Your lifeless eyes are all I lust for
Happy
Biohazard
We're
Happy
Is it wrong I think this is romantic?
Everyone we know is dead my darling,
My heart's undead I'll admit, what if we both got bit and there was one vaccine?
Then there's NO vaccine.
We'll ramble on about everything we miss
Like electricity and Christmas
On the bright side, hen February comes to town,
I'll be the only Valentine you have around
Happy
Biohazard
We're happy
I like to forget this desert tan
Drying the sun straight from the land
I like to forget this worthless hand
Claimed by your hard, stung in the sand
I like to forget this broken heart,
I will not eat, my deaths not far
(Happy)
You won't admit that things are better
Packed up and living in this desert
Well I'm gonna miss you when you're gone, but I won't write any grieving songs
And I won't kiss the sky and hope you're there
But I'll hold your gun and live your piercing stare
i like to forget sometimes
That I'll miss you
And your technicolor pastimes.
We're happy.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
The moons are all neon
A biohazard still fabulous
The apocalypse is upon us
Let the population die
Together we'll grow extinct
Our species already endangered
The moons are still neon, my love
We'll dance to death in the burning lights
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
I deal
with the Jerusalem jeers
brambles and boot heels upon the chest
because I choose to be
inside the sardine can nest
practice altars and fears
I choose toy guns
rather than the illusions
of ice-sculptures and invalid-love
or winded wishes' ruse
wasted weddings' bruise
I choose (by God's whistling whim
and peanut gallery)
The art
the crooked
the crime
because it crickets inside
where the sigh and cry begins
where the biohazard happiness ends
Because I choose
this cypress curse
my quiet drums
my moving museums
for steady love's
rapture roulette
you can bet
I choose whom
and why, how, and when
just because I can.
I deal
because self pity
serves an empty meal.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
Hold on
Georgie.
Splashed brunette
with
white letters
Locked for decades within his head.
12 years old he is,
White washed with rage.
Just a little boy,
drowning with shame.
Georgie;
He's an angry boy
An anxious boy
An abused boy
A scared boy
A kind boy.
Above all, a lost boy.
His world torn apart.
Hold on
Georgie.
Four square walls and two locked windows.
Mattress on the floor; all he has left.
Left in the world because
"Georgie wrecks everything."
Staff, they come and go
shaking their heads
However Ruby has stayed.
"You're going to be happier there Georgie, happier than you have been in a long while."
she tells him.
How much he wants to believe her; believe she is not scared of him. Believe she still loves him.
There must be more to life than this
She thinks as she dances with shadows in dark.
Vio-let vio-lent dripped monsters slither skin
She must dismiss the heaviness standing upon her chest.
She must dismiss the violence.
Divorce: she's in the middle of the fights.
School: she's in the middle of chaos.
Teacher: she's in the middle of grief.
Friends: she's in the middle of finding herself.
Mother: she's in the middle of dancing words drenched in biohazard signs.
Father: she's in the middle of watching his bags packed, out the screen door, "I love you."
Georgie,
She wishes she could be,
cared for by Ruby
even when she is angry
arms wrapped tightly around.
Safety.
Surrounded by something other than this.
Escape this mess.
Escape herself.
Pretending to be someone else.
Screaming loudly "Save Me!"
He's an anrgy boy
She's an angry girl
An anxious boy
An anxious girl
An abused boy
An abused girl
A scared boy
A scared girl
A kind boy
A kind girl
Above all, a lost boy.
Above all, a lost girl.
His world torn apart.
Her world torn apart.
Hold on
Gerogie.
© Jo Tomso
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
basemented this liminal vivarium of cool moulded plastic
with mirrors standing in for windows
and a ring of branded restaurants taking refuge at the edges
all familiar no surprises
the staff set up
for the consumers morning
of slack mastication
(Local chain, national, international)
the old-timers glomming into clump
benign zombies
an arrangement of fellas with dissolving jaws
cudding over mammary notions
untailored in sacky pallid sultana skins
reform in a mumble
doing snailish pinball movements
crossing and recrossing floors
cleanly tiled for biohazard accidents
salivating about the savoury soft foods to come
the restaurants rattle-shake-raise their security blinds
also noted
a mixed bag of people projecting
into their smooth glowing slablets
making out like worldly fools
also present
cropped and groomed toy security
peering between the fronds of plastic foliage
offscreen
public bathrooms the first struggling **** of the day
also present
a bench of youngsters in bright blue screen matching pjs
the four employees of sanitation
drumming up for the shift
see also
vague happy lady in a garish sarong
importing her holiday religion
Apr 2, 2024
Apr 2, 2024 at 3:22 PM UTC
she doesn't seem to have
time for a sceptic like you, the
stomach for a shot like you,
respect for anyone who dresses
acts or howls like you do at the
darkness. for her the darkness is a
hiding place, not everyone can see
down here. for her, intelligence and in
tegrity are hushed while clutching a north
face who said it was ok to do so.
but jesus said forgive her.
and we're in boston so let's face
it, everyone loves a redhead. no
body notices the shards of rotting oak
creating a biohazard near her temples,
as long as the hair stays irish and that north
face matches the free candy they're
handing out uptown.
but jesus didn't wash his hands
before he ate candy. he didn't wash them
after he caressed the lepers, he held his
***** palms up to the pharisees and said
"this is what i've touched," then they told him
he better put on a north face, and secretly they
tried to read the future in his lifeline.
first grade playground, greece: rena is getting
chased again, because on this planet fat
shaming works fine if you're trying to make some
one cry. and i hopped that fence so fast, what
would jesus do? and i got her to the other side,
and i told my classmates to go away, but her skirt was
caught in the wire and they got her to cry anyway.
plus we must be lesbian lovers (why else
would i help her?) plus i'm gonna catch her fat
ness (how else could this virus be transferred?)
and jesus was a carpenter. and jesus was a jew.
and jesus ****** mary in the books that never
made it, the ones they still keep hidden at the north
face headquarters basement. and jesus saw rena
and she was so slow, but gentle. and he said "it is not
what she puts into her mouth that defileth her." and
jesus saw us eat together, with mud under our nails. and
jesus saw iscah's red tree filigree spiraling from her blank
brainwashed eyes, and he saw the north
face covering her true form, and he warned the
pharisees that her clean hands do not sanctify her,
the poison which escapes her mouth DOES defileth her
because it was born of a cardiac poison, the coat she wears
is the mark of the elders; and we shall wear what we want.
the pharisees, of course, urged him to buy a north face.
but jesus gave me these ***** palms instead, he flung them filthy
in front of the elders' faces as he commanded me to love them
as i would love myself. and i'm afraid to
but i'll try.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
The last letter you sent to me
simply read, "Z"
as if you wanted me to see
it was too hard
for you to
complete my name,
even after everything,
still, you can't even
press it with a Bic
into some Hammermill
So, what can't they see?
The last letter you sent to me
read like a eulogy
for the woman you were
The praise was put on pretty thick
By your description
anyone else would see
me as biohazard, medical waste,
another toxic taste,
highly addictive, overwhelming,
an overall detriment
to your mental health
So, what can't they see?
Lover from another over moment,
what can't they see?
Doesn't matter how I conduct myself,
certain ears listen to certain mouths
regardless of the content, or the timing
There's been a Jean-Claude in pink
since the beginning, sitting in the trees
taking notes, waiting for the moment
I reveal something petty and honest
in a rare moment of our honesty
Feel free to rake up my mistakes
If you want to do us both, anata,
we'll need a bigger ******* rake
So, what can't they see?
Lover from another over moment,
what can't they see?
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 4:53 PM UTC
red
.
.
is a safe color,
the color of warning and
sweet relief,
as
a man wrapped in
plastic comes to your door,
with gifts or a fire hose,
to take you away,
or
as you zip
yourself up
in a sleeping bad with
crossed
stitches.
orange is the color of fear,
of horror,
of how you bled through
my doorway when i turned
off
my lights,
plucking at my heart
when i was trying to
sleep,:
orange is the color of night
when you want it to end.
yellow are the edges of
a picture, of memories
upturned by bees, and flowers..,
and eyes that look up
out windows.
yellow stands next to brown
as my toes tickle wood
and im warmed by
the sun,
yellow are the walls of my kitchen.
green is a gray color;
a neutral that fuels fire
with
mint swirls that surround me,
as
i wish
to run into a forest, hoping
i could somehow
drown a swamp with your body,
or
eat alligators alive.
.
i swear that i
would.
blue is left the saddest color,
ripping stains through
the sky
and leaving oceans with no
islands,
.
blue is the feeling of nostalgia
as you pray to planets
you'll never reach,
wishing for a hole to crawl into,
and a zipper for your heart.
singing
is blue, and so is
night.
purple is a royal color,
the color of a dress behind glass,
as children's laughter
tinkles and a man folds up his
coat; leather.
purple is the color of cake, or
the toys in a baby's room
and
my sheets before i cry.
black is the aftershock of sleep,
and of beauty,
as you stare at the floor from
your place on the couch and
wonder why it hurts.
i look at the sky everyday.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
3/2/2016
It's March again
and I'm lost again
wondering about the Delaware
Feeling like a child
who got more than she could
bargained for
colds bitter
good, it was a short winter
I'll never be that wholehearted
girl again,
but it was a short winter
My writing is disgusting,
Only good when I'm suffering
and the thing is I'm suffering now
and I don't know why nothing is
coming out
The year is grey, egg washed and egg white,
Painted and glazed over with
typhoid
I don't walk anymore to the reserve
don't see a point in it
There's no motivation to
see the world
try to find beauty in things
I'm trying to find where
I went
and trying to find where
I put my sanity,
Left it in a biohazard box
picked it back up ungloved
I put my hiking boots up
feel bad for the unloved agronomias
and I think it always gets better
but since my poetry's getting worse
I can't say with certainty
my world won't either.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Perhaps it is easy
for those who have never been thrown in a tank and blasted
to say, “It is safe.”
But when you have seen them killed and buried in a
landfill under garbage bags labeld Biohazard;
when men, dressed in white, lock them up with their water-filled eyes; when you see her in the street wearing it which has caused torture/
And see the torture in their pores, pleasuring society, and see them
intoxicated in a garbage bag and crushed by machines in your mind;
when you have to take part of this torture, to earn a living, and see them sweating blood, and see them powdered up and powering down, and see their tortured lungs give up and collapse;
when you experience the torture first account, and notice no animal is
safe;
when they are deformed and become gruesome; when they are marked dead or eliminated
on the notepad in these men's pad folios
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
Our love for birds is conceptual.
Birds are majesty mangled in a biohazard.
For us, the trappings of The Church weigh long and heavy
While freedom seems easy for the winged diseases.
The other night
We planned to go out for a wine special at a cafe
When we found a pigeon stuck under the hood of the car,
Pressed up against the radiator.
She screamed and laughed and gripped my arm and said
“We have to get it out or it'll fry!”
So in the shadow-casting light of our screened-in porch,
She strapped a bike helmet to my face like a hockey goalie
To protect my eyes from getting pecked out.
Oven mitts, a jacket, and pants tucked into my boots.
Protections from the bird flu.
With my arms stretched out as far as they go,
I popped the hood
And released the bird
And ran back to the porch
And she yelped and cackled
As it rose up
Flapping furiously, free and frantic and faithfully gone into the warmest night we’ve had in months.
Just today
I encountered her, face to the window:
“A cardinal!”
Which is a bird (her favorite bird)
I only ever see walking on the ground, not flying.
Clean, balanced, thoughtful of each step.
I could have held it in the cup of my hands, put it right up to my face, and felt no fear at all.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
My mouth is wrapped
in razor wire.
The less said the better.
Whole worlds are
caught between my teeth.
My eyes are betwixt
and between
Amalthea and Io,
calves of twin mothers.
My nostrils breathe
Sulfur dioxide
whilst I learn to laugh out
the mist of meconium.
My earlobes hang with
kryptonite. My throat is strangled
with biohazard.
My hair straps your shoulders.
My trap is your belly.
My hands? They flutter
doves in a waterspout
leaves in the wind to catch
in their web of vain galaxies.
I long to say
just
three
words
But deserts live
under my tongue.
Drilling
for
crude
oil
u
t
t
e
r
a
n
c
e
s
It takes only a moment
to say goodbye
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
3/26/2021
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 1:18 PM UTC
I have this . . . Hunger
Hurricane Hips that interprets danger
and the wanton meanings of touch
I have this . . . odd guilt
that is relative to Red-Hot Religions
of sailors, muscles, showers of spit and ****
storms of guy-gravy
and then the little girl inside
that darling damnation
leaves me to these parched eyes
These panther's eager lips
that somehow rescue me
in reptilian offerings
spires and skies which carry me home
away, aware I am one of them
chestnuts and china
Buffalo and bride
all in one salted heavenly hell
I have this . . . hunger
a ***** for Jackal-harsh joys
but the lipstick love of men
like magnets to my madness
its ***** and biohazard truths
resounding in my pink poetry
designed by desires
and desperation both
an epic dirge, I think,
which will later play in a temple
a Red-Hot Religion
for all of us
lost in our lusts
and the god-awful truth of it...
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
If your hands are
***** then
You cannot open your eyes
For karma is a biohazard.
Guilt is contagious.
Think with clarity
And wash your hands
Ya filthy animals!!!
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 5:54 PM UTC
Press to exit
the door glowed green for the others
pink boiler biohazard suit
something I was made of once
swaying a net
something that became made of me
I peer respectively over the edge of the bowl
drooping on the wall to the left
speaker hits reverb
hanging in it’s sadness
there was a time I was afraid but not anymore
extinct to each other
they took her apart
the end of a new species
I am a body that shouldn’t be here anymore
last seen to slip through the crack in the door
you are giraffes in human skin
fitting our insides to our shirts like buttons
I went home in the human bodies
they took me with them under their skin
Jan 14, 2024
Jan 14, 2024 at 6:57 AM UTC