"carpals" poems
Myths
They were not statues
and now you see what they see
looking back at you
Man
Her tongue, was so sharp
dissevers men from their ******
kisses them goodnight!
Our blind date went well
Next time leave my mask at home,
and her eyes attached.
Scratched, stained, double locked.
Basement corner, light bulb off.
Refrigerator.
Won't let him hurt you.
I promise, now go and hide,
Daddy is coming...
I don't remember,
I keep having these blackouts.
Sorry I hurt you.
Movie
Make-out Point, moonlight...
Turn their car radio on,
leave my hook behind.
50 ft. Woman,
dreams of a fifty foot world.
Curse my two left feet.
Empty, shiny man
His axe hacks you limb from limb
You hear a heartbeat
Wound too tight, tied down
Whisper lies, impale your skull
What is a real boy?
"Last person on earth,
dif'rent faces in mirror."
- Frankenstein's Monster
Miscellaneous
appeared as a zit
it grew, no concern for it
it spoke! holy ****
Lamprey fingertips
Coarse hair on infected tongue
Lotus seed ******
My beast sounds like love,
vanity to a monster,
hero to a ghost.
from Horrors Grotesque,
the existential monster
fears little carpals.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
an octagon tent
wide enough that chucking rollies
to the sand made impossible
sprawled layers
you turned to quote Dali
told me how pale blue washed with lucy
shimmered skyline into dimension
acryllic-smeared sass drips canvas
into murmurs circling dilation
dimethyltryptamine stains
painting dreams on my eyelids
with flowerbrushes and silk,
mushroom dust gathers in discarded hues
on your pallet, where the colors of your irises
dry into a nebula of night-blooming jasmine
the scent of how you move when you sleep
and sleeping is never so sweet
as dancing through lucidity
with you as my sheets.
and i've traced your thumbprint so often
i'm sure if it were stretched around a marble
like buffalo skin on spirit-caller drums,
a globe would be seen
in which Greenland is finally proportionate--
the map on my wall always bothers you,
but I do too, and everyone does,
urging me under the geography
etched into the sea of your surface
by the crucible of your purpose
and working me into
empty behind your right
below the 22
between i'ching
and the forty two names of god
clasping your fore in silver
copper wound around my finger
hamstrings woven like wire
kambaba jasper, two to share
you hang Tibetan tektites
to elevate space
meteorite fragments
lodged in your helix,
stardust blood,
mandala sand from your mother,
and our tendons wrappe
by dexterous carpals
make such a pretty pendant
of my heart,
for synesthesia mistakes not
and my addiction to the pen has eased
for you breathe murals
and syllables never could
match brushtrokes of carbon dioxide.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Carpals, knees, elbows
scuffed. Cement carpet
freshly sears the fabric
then cuts, but a bruise
silhouettes the tear:
start Saturday raw, soon
swells a red ruby gulp
charring to black coal.
By Monday it slips
into a nebula of purple
constellations, a drink
of red still remaining.
You'll wish it never
faded – a jaundice
dulling swims palely
like the fated colour
of that new bike.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
YES. my simple biceps are purring perfectly slick immobile death
rictus wearing skulls. i needle my flesh and ink it and make it pretty
the smiling violence of my triceps
bulge distended arcs of fists. ladling terrifically through stale
air mingling vibrant vibrations
calm tigers of effortless dream making darkness my arms dance and
jolt pleasurably and every body loves
the infliction of their splendid pain;they roar and combust
suddenly at the night crafting carpals imbued to my wrists
jouncing and blustery voices thrash from throats
they love it
they love it they love it
i
'll do it some more
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 2:56 PM UTC
The dry dock cruise ship shop
sits still, basking in the
air conditioning’s cool breeze chill.
Makeup stays clad to the skin
of the marionette workers, well presented,
ever so stick thin.
Perfume scents the room as if a wrist,
but no carpals I know have
their own stock list system.
The ugly sit in seats made for them,
wide berth for the wider *** of
greed not guilt.
John Lewis is no place to be at Christmas,
as the hounds of cosmetics
will pin you down,
deep into the laminated, pretty white
ground
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
wHat beckons is the silent Kingdom
a sanctum holy devoid. whose apt walls
are tawny bricks of quiet. the patrons
clamor somnambulant. and heaps of
proffered tongues litter the illucid
broken halls.
the forgetful powder piles neatly
limbs of gray on and about and
the pews drink the sun or the sky
is a plait of onyx feathers.
an arrhythmia of breathes struggle
daft lungs. the stillness beats. bleating
nothing lambs flocked in stupid silver.
the mouths are all corded sinew bound.
epitaphs scrawled untidy letters drench
cheeks apathetic. a corpse of hollow resonance.
step and stone; cadaverous hues, sallow indolent
light on every stanchion.
in
the cathedral, cloistered, is a stiff artery.
a heart stagnant veins. a king whose crown is
ash, a face whose efforts are unfleshed. no skin
has purchase. nor sight. empty hood scythe loaded
dreams the morphea plated scalp. a soft vesical
limpid chromatic fingernails scrabble festering
nodes.
he is waiting
in the comfort of his filth
lithe carpals flexing summons
to his cloak
the candles are making naked lips
kissing darkness; lovers uncut
bound fornicating. i sitting sat saturated
the valley fluxes.
and a tissue of blue decrepit
night dusting the sin of noise. a naked wind
so says
he
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
My capillaries believe that the frost is coming for them
-- my spine aching for the warmth
it has come accustomed to,
rather than the boreal brittleness underneath
that the cutlass attached to my feet
glided around in spheres.
It reminded me of the
moon’s orbit,
the shape of the planets
the ellipses of the galaxies
-- suddenly swirling,
breaking and reforming
the stars within them,
which I then noticed to be
the warmth of your
carpals and metacarpals
between mine,
filling up all the Thenar Space.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
This is my last ride
I pray thee,
If I go one more round
I could waste away with the tide
This is my last ride
I pray thee,
If I go one more round
My carpals would bruise from ice
This is my last ride
I pray thee.
My body craved...
Gone are the days of my pride
Now I'm saved
This is my last ride
I pray thee,
My muscle ache
This serves me no snort and pancake
All I have the devil has come to take
This is my last round
I will lavish no more Pound
My soul is saved, heaven bound
I hear heaven choir, glorious sound
OD
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
how my aching carpals howl stiff imposing glory
a to a page stark incredulity fouled
and blast a flock of stunning rabble
in vernacular du fulgurer
alighting ecstaticly ) a wasted improbable perfection
'pon your lush intricate handles
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 11:39 AM UTC
and dead is.
daed
si balmy june silver moon welt so ugly beautiful.
dead is sometimes always. always sometimes and dead is.
dead is smiling white cheek mucous coughing blond
darkness and.
;dead it's the livid miracle of carnal soil by bones
distinctly scented of muscles. it's dead is autumn dancing
a ragged yellow corpse crunching of the naked souls
**** hearts pounding, and dead. dead is grand
and purple flowers cramming flavor into the loose
pocket of wind and carpals unfleshed sodden clasping
dry mouths dusty nouns. and dead is music,
long and fat, grotesque hips chattering with taught lips
onyx saliva belching stupid oral.
and
de
ad
i
s.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 11:03 AM UTC
Love like a heart. Yes, the ***** It has equal distribution of blood, we can also call it “love”, around the body. It filters the love then reuses it; making sure it’s fresh and ready for another round and round. It doesn't discriminate in that sense. It is kept safe within a cage yet free to move around the body. The chambers keep the "love" and preserve it. Its chambers are with purpose. Love in its purest form has a purpose and preserves quality in a way.
Its tunnels are plenty in little things and large places. From carpals to kidneys. It has set its boundaries but is open to love others by moving around freely in a body ready to explore the world and appreciate things. If it needs help, it will be honest. It will be willing for a transplant. It doesn't go beyond what it can’t do. It is within the confines of skin, muscle and fats. If it breaks, it can be fixed and can recover. There is a chance at least. It beats to a rhythm that ideally sets the pace or speed of time in its lifespan. Action-driven, it never boasts. It stays humble by simply staying where love needs are greatest.
Don’t be a heart like the shape. Never like the shape. It’s two dimensional. It only breaks into two when it’s all over. It’s so cheap, it can be sold in cookie form. Paper hearts make perfect practice for your shredder. They are fragile. Drown it in water and it will never survive. It will be flashy and attractive at first but love is at its luxury and glitter doesn't make it truly shine.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
or-ange, mango,
banana too,
hell-bent on regretting you.
campfire-chair-sitting on hardwood floors
in a stranger's home, i think.
turn off the lights, it's raining.
i had some to drink (not enough)
but you had to drive
but so did i.
turn off the lights, it's raining
on the bannister,
your piano-key-fingers cascading over my
carpals, metacarpals, phalanges too.
topple me into a room
but today it's not for laundry,
‘cause the only thing that's getting washed away
is my record of not saying
i love you (in my head, because
strangers
don't say that to each other).
you lassoed me in and we fell
into the empty hangers that i pushed away from you;
shadows on a skeleton’s scapula.
tabloids never told me that three months’ salary couldn't
buy the rights to the song
of your heart beating darkly in your chest.
turn off the lights, it's raining
and you can't see the way i
feel you.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC