"cicatrix" poems
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .
A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float
Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.
Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high
Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will **** and eat.
8k
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song
here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
scattered and at long last, never collected
deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.
what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,
swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
“Tantusan mo!” to remember
where we last took off, like a heron,
or a bird, wary of distances.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
tie me down
crowing about a crown of flowers
curl my palm into the hollow of your cheek
(oh my god drown me)
and here we have the soldier
hands covered in blood and knives (and something
else;but
we don't talk about that)
look how the blind man cries tonight
see these bones on the grass
frost building in the cavity between your ribs and
your skin
SCREAMING ****** IN THE HALLWAY
(THIS IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN HEAR YOURSELF
THINK
THIS IS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE)
you, love, you, goldfinch
climbing windowsills
creep in the dead of night, cicatrix spiderwebs
here, here, here, in the small of your back
(can you feel me, here, crawling into your skin?can
you feel me sewing our palms together, goldfinch?)
"and the world will revel in wonder and delight--"
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
No one cares enough
to even glance at the way
she stands slumped,
incommodious. Wise,
little girl, that you show
no fear of those who try
to quibble you. They will try to be
however demanding they can.
They must be able to see
the cicatrix of distress they cause.
The withdraw of people eliminates
the blissful, mirthful way of life.
Do not bother to notice the
sorrow she carries from the lack
of shoulders to cry on.
The tear soaked pillows of late night
cry's so deep within the soul;
the muffled sobs of desperation from
the absence of an individual.
Life-long abstraction.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
*An interminable yearning of
solace finding.
A constant struggle of cicatrix hiding.
Euphoric trance, we hanker it all.
To breath beyond the limits of wall.
Wall that curbs our accord.
To hum the songs from one old record.
To aviate beyond the visible horizon.
To be souls of mirthful composition.
Exempting our cores of concealed desires.
To sway with adored one in bonfires.
To see the world engrossed in
love and peace.
Will only, then our souls
ensconce in ease*...
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Can you settle for more or less if today was your last day
And what would be your retort if you were denied another chance?
How life introduces sobriety and the impending inevitability
The interstice and it’s ingress that encloses before your eyes
The demanding pouring of importune time
That soothing allaying sighs that evoke incalculable alleviation
If someone were to impart as they closed their eyes
As they died with a commital of happenings with not enough time
As to burden you with the impression of only one chance
It would seem and with the impending inevitability
Of your death which would subito compromise the day
A bearding contrivance plight of obligations engagement and commital no alleviation
An abecedarian dossier concealed for a long time
All this time the inevitable coinciding incident only for your eyes
The emotional habituation was of quotidian rendition each day
Of how trivial things take us on a dance with only one life one chance
With your attention and awareness on the answer the inevitability
Of what you are becoming with each passing second for each
Thought which transpires and no alleviation
Is there an epoch a replicating limn a depiction of our linear time
As we perpetrate and pursue progressively for our alleviation
Engaged to staying the course the day
Stirring closing in on our deliberate objective determined chance
Which remained for a terse duration from the inevitability
In which at the atrium of this erstwhile portage of a duvet to belabor
To stifle firsthand with your eyes
The variant from this domicile from this residence on a day
Is the vagabond to perish in yonder with no alleviation
Once man was a brute dullard or a curmudgeon spinster at a time
Which offers a mute disconnection ragged miscreant the inevi
Naivety or absent mindedness to somnambulist and its silhouette
Notwithstanding change
The quagmire and it’s nightmare the ingrate delighted with coined
Shunned eyes
Reputation with a flagrant obscene defilement galvanizing
The alleviation
At the heart of this lies another chance
A precocious inevitability
A man who lies to die another day
The annihilation in desperate want for from those argent eyes
To the starving newfangled optimism which in its sheen
Shines sunshine dulling the ocular orbs of time
Forwithal in befuddlement remain here
The time if infringement to comprehend the volatile vertigo
And the inevitability
The harrowing of hell
Glance at the shinning suns in her eyes intention considers change
After you heal and left are the cicatrix
Will you plunge further for alleviation
Or on the intent of regression once again
From long ago to another distant day.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
Can I be every love song written?
Or a longing lost in your heart?
Sweet melodies and
Forgotten harmonies
Are the ampersands linking my soul with yours.
Sempiternal presence and wishes,
Have you found a rocondite?
You will never be able to catch a bolide,
Nor find Yoknapatawpha.
Yet why do I feel so close to you?
A la belle étoile,
Under the beautiful star,
Maybe I wish to be held
In honest, caring arms.
Serendip will come at last,
Cicatrix will fade away.
As I slowly saxify,
Will you ever realize
Now is too late?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
When you imagine
the straight red
lines you could
carve on your skin,
you do not see
how they will
fade to pink, then
silver-white
and still mark you
years later.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
its sad how teenagers feel alone
surrounded by others upset in their
room with their thoughts while from
good families and happy childhoods yet
mistreated by those who could not
understand them feeling no meaning for
their life no one to support them forgetting
to remind themselves scars will heal and
smiles will return and monsters inside will
disappear if i could tell them one thing it
would be you are never too broken sure
you have scars and fragile memories but
then again all great survivors do
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC
I wear my scars on my sleeve,
far away from my heart.
I give them no introduction, and in return,
hardly anyone comments.
Once, I was told that such marks are
something to hide
with neatly pressed skirts,
long sleeves, and dim lighting.
For some time, I made an effort,
then lost the shame-filled motivation.
They are rose-pink, criss-crossing,
haphazard badges of a life
lived free of convention,
every one a road sign that tells
just how far I've come-
beautiful if solemn reminders
of a former self.
They are small, puckered triumphs,
things to admire if only for their stability:
They do not grow in number.
I love their gaping mouths,
their age and soft surrender.
Infrequently, I examine each scar
with all the care and concentration
of a cynic in wonderland.
My fingers land on them like butterflies,
any pain has long since faded.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
A new blade of grass sprouts
among the snarl of weeds
—widow's weeds.
This mourning is young and soft.
Years will come
to make it old and brittle
—like wind against argil.
For now it's a tender creation,
open and pink.
Even the children
do not play as they once did
—no blowing big bubbles
or laughter filling the sky;
—no catching fun in a bottle
or chasing after the butterflies.
An infant shoot this is
—the fragile tendril of
what came before.
In the evening it bows its head,
screen of darkness
a consolation.
Daylight is far more dangerous,
for the cicatrix is stark, unguarded.
All alone it will linger
a naked residual,
a lament to the dagger, Quietus.
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 5:54 PM UTC
found,
one heart....
slightly scarred,
but willing to
give love another...
chance, a twirl, one more go
at letting the balloon float...
upon the winds of,
happenstance,
to find the fickle creature....
called love.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC
I remember telling you,
I’m bittersweet.
My delightful laugh,
A saccharine smile, unforgettable.
My painful cry, causing distress.
Leaving a cicatrix in your mind.
n.n
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
How do you repair the damage,
when you've re-open a scarred wound,
and find the trauma nested much deeper
than you originally imagined?
Jan 19, 2023
Jan 19, 2023 at 12:47 AM UTC
I lay here
A color filemot
A gamin
Resting
Until the next town
I'm not some gangrel
Just a gentleman of fortune
In an old man
I'm the flesh of cicatrix
And have a poor bordereau
Traveling through the cities
Looking low over the steering wheel
They say I'm ineffectual
Yet I'm industrial
With a full house
I was chased away
From the inerrable
Venal tribes
Because of my mouth
Every town
Another girl
From the vault of heaven
Drops down
And I leave the table
With a broken heart
For the last time
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
I tried
to get away
from the pain
that was so deep
within my old,
everlasting soul.
Oh, the extrinsic
pain along with
the interior agony
that this thing
people call love,
worst weakness
Too young to know
what's real-
they say.
They don't see
the cicatrix of
distress it causes.
So compelling,
yet so wicked.
The pull of the
tugging that makes me
believe it is worth it.
All lies.
Knowing the truth but
choosing the opposite;
knowledge can hurt,
oblviate obstacles,
knock down towers,
and open closed doors.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
I'm going a million miles an hour
While running out of breath.
I'm choking on air,
But there's no way to stop.
You tell me just slow down,
You tell me just hold on.
But I can't.
I'm scared.
I am use to feeling numb,
But now I feel it every day.
I use to be relaxed--
In a state of
Perceptual happiness.
A cosmic move caused all to fall.
The plastic mask that hid me
Cracked right down the middle.
Now I'm too tired to hide,
Even though I'm silent,
Even though I won't look your way,
Believe what I want to say,
Don't think to hard of my actions.
Say something.
I'm giving up.
My heart is still trying to pick up the
Splinters of that shattered mask.
The roses are crying out.
The wind blows stronger,
Wanting for the mask to disappear forever.
I'm too tired to fight with them.
Will the wind and roses win?
Or my hiding heart?
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC