"carapace" poems
*Blue clouds gaze the wrapped sun
frozen kisses in my blood
travelling a thousand miles
to meet up with you.
There is none else walking
down this path where memories
wake up and dance
inside my armored heart.
I peeled off each kisses embrace
out of my parched lips.
I shook off the tree,
where your scent had blossomed.*
***Every step down this scarcely trodden path saw...
Each peel fall with helpless, damsel-like grace.
Brown leaves shone amber touched by fingers of the sun
Invasion of warmth through my greyed bony carapace.
Gentle tremors reverberate within with subtle anguish.
Sweet scented portal that took me back,
To the illusion of time where we once were...
In drunken stupor...laying under a star strewn canvas of black.
Senses that spoke of a great fantastical tale.
You are still here... In this cloying void with no one around...
Only that scent...your scent tugging on my core
Invisible tendrils berthing my feet back on ground.***
*Alone and wanting don't want to be anymore.
I want to feast my lungs on your skin once more.
I want to vibrate under your touch again,
In anguished anticipation and sweet pain.
I hurl your name to the echoing wind,
Blowing ferociously over the closed passage.
Only to find that I'm but elongating
the distance between our fading wishful stars.*
***Fading far only to find that I'm lost yet again,
Still harvesting a basket full of ripened hope.
Traversing planes with warped, slanted doorways,
Frantically seeking purchase on knobs with fevered gropes.
Heavy layered breaths inhaled too shallow...
Tracing missteps to decipher what it all meant.
When all is moot...weary, weathered and futile,
Forever I'll be bathing in the familiarity of your soothing, nectarous scent...***
Dajena M
ryn
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
I wandered slowly
Through sidewalk cracks and broken pavements
Finding my own piece of Gethsemane
So that people would know I exist
I was a ghost
To eyes that didn't even care to look
A boring book
To minds that didn't even bother to read
A blank canvas
To those who didn't even try to understand
That I was somebody
All of them only saw me as an empty bottle
Not knowing I just want to be filled with silence
Because silence is a beautiful symphony
And I am the conductor
I am a human being capable of owning a soul and
Live through a thousand lifetimes
I was never the boring book
In fact, I am the author
Writing my own story on Life's pages
I am an artist
A dreamer who can create masterpieces even on
A blank canvas such as myself
But most of all, I am an introvert
A carapace even I consider a home
Because it makes me who I am and
Not because of what you say I am
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
He stretches his neck towards his own sunshine,
exposing, proposing his eyes be dried,
needing only himself and his water’s tide
rocking him gently through his own night’s time.
And in and under his carapace
he stores the secrets of his ways,
saving them for another day
keeping content- though lone he lay.
Any sorrows he has stay buried, small in his shell;
there’s no one to listen so no one he tells.
He hides it all and hopes all will be well,
he hides it all, and all is well.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
Piggies dancing, floating along narrow passages towards what they hope is their ends. Their means have been stolen and packaged and sold by big suited, corporate, handy-handy machines. They eat piggies every day and love it, love it, love it down their gullet.
They are not worth a mention yet they get it, they want nothing but your attention, they don’t need it yet they get it. Their appetites are insatiable and contagious, they use it against us by showing us how we are nothing but what they are and we are fools enough to take it as Truth.
Shame.
We have shame because they debase us and hence debase themselves.
We have shame because we see their debasement and yet powerlessness is in our bones.
We have shame because all we want is not all we get and nowhere near all we deserve,
-it measures much lower.
It is irrelevant, it is biased, it is useless, IT is un-real-(UnRealistic, UnRelated, UnTrue)
Lie.
If my breath stinks or my hair is greasy or my cloths ***** my teeth yellowed, my feet smelly, my nails long, my social life quiet and solicitous- will you discern a negativity in my human-ness? We are no villains. We hate only those who would have us believe that we must hate ourselves and each other. They are no beasts like us. The animal within, encased by a carapace of Humanity glued and mortared by self-centered ideologies gets too thick and you must break it by looking at yourself. ******** and ******* and spitting and grunting and moaning in ecstasy and pain.
Repeat after me and say it loud with beastly yell “ I am a ********* beautiful Animal!”
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
*Morpheus has never been kind to me
His somniferous ways leave me wanting
Grasping at the cusp of a reality
As evanescent as the morning mist
That greets this reluctant gaze.
He exists to these sheathed
Bourbon eyes
Within the veiled carapace
Of the only form I've ever wanted more
Than necessity and air.
His torment lies
In false reunions, in joining and parting lips
In forest eyes that linger behind in my thoughts
Like the echo of a cannon
Long after it's wrought its own havoc.
Yes, that twisted Lothario
That Grecian sandman
Exists to overcharge the soul with
Hope so poisonous
Bodies and minds are wracked with it
Inspired by it
Haunted on into the waking world
Where he waits on the periphery
Eyes narrowed in the light
Of the waking world that renders him useless.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Dazed.
The stars never seemed so far away
Lying with hopelessness sleeping next to my pillow
In the arms of seclusion, still I lay
After a long night we formed a *********
No strength to pray
Withing my carapace
I inquire a reason
Of why I'm so numb
Where is my lighter?
Concealing my pain
Where is my grinder?
When life is like a sudden rush of fresh air to
A raging set of flames
Savagely searching for an euphoria
But it's the impossible to maintain
Longing for an escape
Only in sweet serenity
But when 5 fingers deadly hugs your heart
& wrings out your
Innocence, happiness, and tranquility
You are forced to watch them leak
Decrepit
Reaching for a lighter to blaze the leaf
Because in the sober mind
You Are Weak
No that is me.
So I begin to pollute my temple
Taking it all into my bloodstream
With the exhale of a breath
In the mist of a cloud
I release my exhaustion
My emotion and my temper
Enhancing my inner being suddenly,
I know with facts that I am steel
Making it through another dreadful night
My wounds are temporarily healed
But
When there was no soul to console
No arms to hold
No pen to make art
No illumination from the dark
Only the flame that I flick
Which forms so beautifully &
Dances in front of my eyes
Offended that beauty could destroy so ruthlessly
A killer in disguise
Or ruthlessly be destroyed
In this life full of void
Consumed by the misery of all the screams
All the noise
When the Sun's job is done, it hides from the World
Full of hatred and pity
Another night comes
Captive in these four walls
No where to run
Now I'm forced to look at how far I've come
I could have died in insanity
Arson my soul
Plead guilty of ******
A Killer Upfront
If I had not match all those nights with all those blunts
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Harbinger of light, I curled away
From chaste, un-daunting rays.
And cursed the sphere high in the sky
For showcasing my pain
You brought me terms and phrases
That withered on deaf ears
I longed to wrench them from my head
When ballads provoked tears
Your touch? It singed like acid
I yearned to shed this skin
Discard this haggard carapace;
Exhume the girl within.
Your gaze took me to pieces
And plucked a shattered shard
To hold before my wretched face;
Remind me what we are.
I’m stained with shadows where you’re light
And loud where you are soft.
I’m rough, disheveled and clumsy
My company’s high in cost.
I twist and draw away from you
I flee and weep and hide
Everything that makes you up,
Is who I am inside.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
She might laugh if she read this
at the flat little version of her
that lives in my mind.
She may laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but hear me out
it could be touching.
David Foster Wallace wrote:
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience
we do not have direct access
to anyone or anything’s pain but our own;
and even just the principles
by which we can infer that others experience pain
and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain
involve ******** philosophy—
metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”
*"[Lobsters] do have an exquisite tactile sense,
one facilitated by hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs
that protrude through their carapace.
Although encased
in what seems a solid, impenetrable armour,
the lobster can receive stimuli and impressions from without
as readily as if it possessed a soft and delicate skin.”*
and so
“We lift lobsters out of the bag
or whatever retail container they came home in
…whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen.
However stuporous the lobster is from the trip home, for instance,
it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water."*
As much as I cannot comprehend the pain
of the exquisitely tactile lobster
in a *** of boiling water,
I wonder if I could
walk a mile in a lobster’s 8 minuscule shoes
and I wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
with her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to be back at home with her father.
They might try to butter you up
or snap elastic bands
around your oversized claws
and use a wooden spoon
to try and nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but remember:
lobsters can live to be over 100 years old
and grow to over 20 pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and remember that they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae, characterized by five pairs of jointed legs, the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws.
And DFW famously said,
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
and he's not a lobster either
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
An irrefutable dream,
fulfilled tenfold in the illusion
made imperfect by dreamers' oblivion,
sought by the delver of selves.
Rejection of messengers,
the hive of deluded apathy
that saturates the air thick with the droning of silent hesitation
hexagonal compartmentalization,
sundering your cedar carapace,
which cancerous excess shatters,
and only cracks remain;
the afterthoughts of paradise
and undiscovered paths of depression,
an anxious exodus of life-force.
Part thine red sea,
lest plate tectonics make waves,
that cause molecules of hemoglobin to disperse in light,
the crimson tears of a soul,
sweeter than the lips coveted.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
We
cruised
above the Alps
as if we were twin tortoise
rolled over helpless upon our carapace
giggly 'n toasting the cloud cloaked upthrusts.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
I lie strategically in place
Innocent framework fused
With royal carapace
Frail and allknowing fingers clenched and intertwined,
Mimicking the honest silver circuit in the night sky
As candid as the shore
Each slumbered and delicate breath
Vitally delivered from those sublime lips
Both damp and potent
I get a candied wind of
An accidental consolation
To my crippling worry
Sorrowful, I am, my love
For eavesdropping, but
My reveries are your keepsakes
And I,
Watching you sleep, carefully
In A placid coma, caging waves of covenants
And exhaling tokens of a life once dreamt of
I envisage the unvarnished truth,
your marrow as my sustentation,
Your veins, My lifeline
Where each filament of platinum and sorrel remain entangled and sprawled in forever, impeccably
And how drawn out and vexing
My intervals of lingering for you
Have been
And then you leak a sigh in a dream
And exhale a veil of whispers
Directly to my ribcage
And I simper, cradling you tighter
So you can breathe my craving,
My contented tribute
To my one veritable sentiment.
And I seal it all in the midst,
Of a drifted and slumbered and deathless
Kiss.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
You will be argonaut
one more of the supernumerary
trodding upon the cindered ones
come before you
limbs wooden and somite
encircling a moon
tumescent and blue
in permafrost garrote
on constellations edge
tottering over synapse
mocking
like a mime on highwire
your guilt
lupine in its longing
sawtooth timberline in vivisect night
down promontory
to frozen wave
the broken spoke of your step
on sleetslick carapace
past the preterit
embalmed hide of the world
into the silent millstone
berserk
to return emptyhanded
and changed
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
What once was stoic
and only showed strength,
now slowly sinks and melts...
Like a castle of sand
on the shore,
fending off the teases
from the playful waves
of the rising tide - but failed.
What once was rock...
Now submits to forces
that meant to erode and break.
Pounding, battering and
eating into the outer carapace
I’ve prided for years.
What once was armour
I thought impervious
and would deflect,
now threatens to collapse into itself.
Like a weak submersible
made for the shallows
yet dove too deep,
anticipating the impending crush
at the end.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
I'll undress myself, undress all my coats,
undress all my fears, strip to my sheer.
I'll show you but will you want to see ?
what will your thoughts be to my naked, unadorned alive,
will you look around or will you hold your gaze,
as layer by layer i unfold myself,
strip myself down to my bare, undrunk skin,
will you still call me poetry as i take you on a tour of my anatomy,
will you explore all my fissures or stay gauging at the first shortfall,
will you understand the traces of my wounds,
the wounds not from battlefields but from gentle smudges of
unfinished love,
each covered with bandage, not healing just concealing,
trying to stop the pain from bleeding, covering my corpse in aches,
and so i keep my gaurd up, no strolling on passion boulevards,
for torment and agony were never printed on invitation cards,
but when the time comes and you compel me to,
i'll let my inner demons out for you,
and as i strip down to my sheer,
i wonder, will you peer or look away,
will your thoughts run astray,
will you love the bone and flesh just as much as,
you loved the carapace.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 12:46 PM UTC
Incontinence of Pseudo-emotion has engulfed us from the 3rd grade.
It festered dormant for a little under a decade before it’s vessel popped.
A pore filled with ***** media which dehumanizes and objectives human beings
While making a spectacle and esteem of being promiscuous.
All that Dirt
Lathered in an oil of misdirection. A misunderstanding of affection, empathy and apathy.
Those who contrive the most emotion are perceived as actually possessing the most emotion.
Nothing can be farther from the truth.
This is the death of morality. A birth of Nihilism.
The miasma of the rotting corpse of ethos and emotional connection.
Is one that sits in the stomach and contracts illness not curable due to our understanding.
We have been taught that promiscuity will bring us happiness, and yet it is the most depressing.
Without understanding of that we are incurable from this ugly affliction.
Momentary bursts of relief chafe the most sensitive areas of our skin. Without treatment.
We will be encased in our handmade carapace which will indefinitely block us from emotion.
Luckily someone invented lotion, soft tissues, and silicone.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC
Sadie was a doubtful one
Her mind was tightly shut
When faced with the fantastical
She’d fold her arms and tut
She pranced around her garden
With an playful evil aura
And dealt a merry flattening
To all that passed before her
Their bodies lay around her
And an imp of mischief found her
She loved to trap and poison
And wished she’d been a spider
When a fizzing overtook her
When a rumble grew inside her
When a shrinking and a shrivelling
Across her form did tickle
And soon did Sadie realise
That wishes can be fickle
Her legs and arms divided
Her eyeballs multiply did
So sorry Sadie scuttled
Alternating creep and crawl
She tippy-toe’d across the grass
And past her victims all
And sadness was upon her
And with mourning in her eyes
Her grief compounded hunger
And an appetite for flies
Her lengthy limbs belied her
Sorry Sadie was a spider
She loped along a lily
And her sorrow turned to guilt
Her carapace was aching
For the blood which she had spilt
She wept a web of anguish
With her sticky little tears
She wound a downward spiral
Like the falling of the years
Her malice had been stunted
Her fangs were dull and blunted
Sadie gained existence
On a web of worldly woes
She fed her tiny tummy
Where the buzz and flutter goes
And she learned the price of living
So she killed just what she ate
And she knew why killing needlessly
Was such an ugly trait
And with a human soul inside her
She chose to be a spider
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
The green combusts, the cherry sclerotized mask dances above
the invisible paper carapace.
Stuffed full with Rotten skunk innards and burning,
tongues of heat sweat away its crystalline hairs.
Aren is hunched and crooked, all teeth and lungs,
under the mixed halogens of suburban porchlight,
being bathed in bluescale waves from the
strobe of the neighbor's telescreen.
Ropes of smog pour from the slats between his picket fence ivories and get frayed.
I drink the filth, choking down the viscera of the vermin.
It doesn't seem to get easier.
Stumbling inside, my feet detach and I throw myself on the door
until I've locked out the sickly tide pool light of dawn,
and I'm rolling toward his bedroom.
Jolting and sputtering, and
grasping at the hands of the clock,
listening for the steady metronome to
count me through.
And then numbness.
I know the feeling, and next come the
pins, digging into my
fingertips and the pads of my
toes, and then I'm all body and silent prayers.
And I'm whispering sick thoughts to Aren -
*"Those adrenaline demons
will do me in,
and if only I could relax,
and my dear mother
used to have a stalker,
and I almost got run down
by a car on the highway when I was five,
and asthmatics are five times as likely to have a
generalized anxiety disorder."*
The adrenaline demons gather my tendons in pincushion palms,
tugging at the strings,
panicked arthritis and my fingers are
twitching and curling backwards
while I glare on with shallow breaths and cataracts.
The organs moan in the cavern of my body,
with thick wet air pouring from the opening.
I'm standing now,
a fetishized devil doll,
shaking out the pins
and the needles
and the sick splinters of glass
and the long holy skewers
and I'm breathing again
and I sit and
I breathe.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
the wind is drunk on its liquor
a subtle slurring
lilies stir on the lilt of its voice
as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite
as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat
mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes
I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold
where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos
I am withering
but the wind blows on
whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms
I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder
a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
I await such time,
my toes would dig.
And spear deep into the earth;
take root and keep me planted.
I await such time,
when my trunk -
my core would regain its strength.
So that I wouldn’t sway
too easily in the wind.
I await such time,
my bark would thicken -
like carapace upon the flesh.
So I may be protected
from scathing lashes
of ravenous tongues.
I await such time,
my branches would reach up
with unwavering conviction.
Knowing the clouds in the sky
would be the cushion and salve
to my gnarled digits.
And I await such time,
my leaves would finally sprout
and green.
Then they could rustle
and whisper the tales and hopes
of my past, present and future.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
O slimy tongue!
O patient tourist!
Your slow retreat has
left a lustrous spoor.
How admirable,
your bold simplicity—
no radiance to distract,
no carapace to fortify.
How you coil and flex,
a solitary finger
sliding across our
forgotten places.
How we yearn to
pet your soft tissue,
to feel its cool shiver,
the recoil of desiccation.
How honest the world
must be from below as
you devour the decayed,
savor that sour brutality.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
Streams— relay the slumber
Tributes to— the Waterfall's Sprite.
'Twas when— the compass— Dismantled
As the bedrocks gruel— Distort the ledge,
Confronted by— tidal waves;—
Imbued the Crush— of a Carapace
That let the Visions— Sprout;—
Abandoned— With the Barriers..
So long,— I do not know..
Sights— Times— are enclosing
Onto the lost,— And the Seafloor sinks
Slowly— Diminishing— The Sirens' Call..
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
On the outer
carapace of it,
all seems ok
I am held
together by
single dry thre
a ds
like wire
and strips of
sinews
they keep me
tightly-wrapped,
a package of
molten powders
secret dynamite
waiting to
e x p l o d e in
exotic ticks
of clockwork
but one scratch
beneath the surface
reveals my
inner truth:
How I wish,
by those
whorled and spiraled
powers above,
for the gently fluted
forces of my being
to be parted
like sacred seawater
with my psyche
f l o a t i n g
just beyond
the zing of
my brain,
no rational
understanding
required
yes. I long
to be ever-slowly
unraveled,
layer by layer
cell by cell
until all that is left
are the platelets
pulsating between
this heart
and yours
each beat
betraying an
acute intensity
of how
I felt it,
this tender
electricity
that crackled
through and
between
our bones
from the
very
beginning
of
our quiet blaze
our pinnacle
our quirky
metallic
textures
our breath
mingling over
airwaves
in heated
fluidity
hotly drenched
in the iridescent
dust of our
star-marked
time
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
Morpheus has never been
A kindly lover, nor precious friend
Yet in this stead, he strives to be
Replacement for reality.
Sominiferous ways that heat my blood;
Make my wilting spirits bud
Leave me wanting, never free
There on the cusp of reality.
Like morning mist, not half so pleasant
His remedies are evanescent
From where he lives behind my eyes
And plagues my shattered paradise.
He wears the exquisite carapace
For whom I yearn upon his face
And therein's where my torment lies
From golden skin and forest eyes-
From false reunions, makeshift bliss
From joining eyes and parting lips
Like cannon fire, the sound's refrain
Draw parallels to this cruel pain.
That Grecian Sandman, Morpheus
Lothario, for whom exists
To overchage the soul with hope
So poisonous, I gasp and choke-
Yet bodies, minds, and souls alike
Find inspiration from the strife
And haunted persons, like myself
Endure his falsehoods where we're held.
He haunts the dreamless, lucid world
Upon the cusp, the conscious swirl
His narrowed eyes, his blunted sight
Despise waking world of light.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC