"clot" poems
You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.
I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.
There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.
Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.
24.6k
Nature has divine qualities
Beyond national divides
So heart enfold immortal love
Where one sees mountain dance and move
In this do love has no color
Skin pigment shouldn't be honor
For all bears reddish clot
As we tread on earth path
So soil of time embraces our body
As the enlived soul transpired to the sky
All become one in a starky heaven
Where no divide and rule leaven
Only unending peace it brings
Shrinking hearts with joy and unending smiles
As they commune in glows of divine instinct
For the greatest commandment is love
As bird fly above
So cloud of hate gives love as chance
Embracing one with will of divine
So our earth become an undying paradise
written by
Martin Ijir
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
8k
There is a blood clot in the center of Imagination Street,
I can feel it.
It blocks the path that follows through Creative Avenue
where cars horn, roar and protest, curse and smother with
a simple look of “Move the **** on!”
And yet no paramedic can remove the jumper that
lays from austere insipid life.
It's a victim of routine they say, jumped from the nearest skyscraper
hoping to touch the sky but fell miserably on to the streets.
There is an aberration stretched over the streets, I can feel it
because it's me.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
And after that I am still a hollow where the
fairies hide from darkness and poisons. I
am still growing flowers out of my womb
and that is why they stink like ************
And after that your disbelief kills all my
sparky pixies and after that I cannot be
anything more than a hollow hollow. But
yeah I am still growing flowers out of my
wound and that is why I scream and cry
when you touch them.
And after that the stillness of the air inside
me and the remnant echo of morning songs
attract the darkness to come. And after that
I think she may feel lonely so I invite
poisons to also come along.
And after that I am still growing flowers
out of the wound on my womb. They still
stink like ************ and after that
vomitting feels like womanhood thing. And
after that my flowers are still immortal and
that is why sometimes you see blood clot
floating around the moon.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Web caught trembling prey, blistering sadness in a shallow grave
Repulsive, rotten ***** stench, locked box of putrid sorrow
Blood clot hidden trench, vile secretion burrow
Wolf-dressed goblin ***** muttering incantations
Teetering on a broken fence, seething hatred regurgitation
Greedy, evil, spineless, ***** Cunning, patient, *****
One head desire, two face succubus
Speech craft, forked tongue. Slithering witch, foul gargoyle
Rebuke the venomous. Castrate the young. Stoke the funeral pyre
Incubate the serpent fetus. Demon, devil, liar
Nevermore, sinister toil. Bone-covered soil
I smite her without a flicker of remorse
Death to the succubus. Death to Venus
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
The write was written
red ice
twice bitten
his soul a black clot
a faucet for a neck
she fell in a crepuscular fold
odor of tincture fuckubus
red mouth
a snarling kiss
a hot hiss chariot
a black bite
her womb spread wide
for a tongue that didn't end
nail polished *******
like torn cherries
soft gauze tourniquet
a slow yield
milk petals and rivulets
a ghastly confection
leaning over like a spilled ***
her gullet a metropolis of jewels
forced throat bound
on a black cross
she sailed on a magic carpet
like a vampires fizz cocktail
a red ice float
of starvation
his mind a dead sky
a pageant of coiled clouds
he held her down
she levitated
they were in love
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
You tie my gut in knots
Never expected this in my plot
Twisting my lochs with
Nervous fingers locking
Hands with you is magickal.
You tie my mind in knots
Its like a roller coaster lost
In space the comet's frost
Ignites a shower of colors
Cascading across your eyes...
You tie my heart in knots
I pray it doesn't clot my
Thoughts about our
Dreams about our
Kids about our
Means of getting by...
And I love having this in common with you.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, blood is shameless;]
impurity on the ***** red
I pure I shed
hunger I fed
so loose so tight on the lead
so irritating she bled
revolting when it messes with the head
doors closed sounds spread
again unlike the befores I said
polluted on garments I five the two
onto the further of the farthest of lives
I paint I skin
I smudge the thin in the thrill
till it comes to a ****
and a breathe is willed
for nails to blood
and fingers to clot
guilty shame not guilty shameless pleasures on the lots
I care I not
--------ravenfeels
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 5:00 PM UTC
Kepp working, stay on my grind. God, school and moneys only on my mind. Lovely women happen to come by and that's fine. Touch my paper and I will decline.
Stress build, heavy weight on my mind. Trying to walk with god and take life one day at a time. People take what they want and ask for more. I don't hustle because I am poor (I'm not), its in my blood (a clot).
Had my hustle ever reached my core, it would attack me and stop my beat. Soul song silenced for eternity for desiring to achieve greatness. Such a paradoxacal oximoron drifts throughout my body keeping me alive unbeknownced to my concienceness.
My kryptonite is infact what makes me a super solider. For ever I will fight waging a mental spiritual war. I pull the trigger at whatever stands in my way and eliminate the prey for I am the predator. In future roles will switch and I will hear the heavenly bell ring, such a divine pitch.
So for no I fight and fight I will. Untill the kryptonite reached my heart and it attacks me. My internal double edge sword. Hustle.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
she sat in the center of her home
becoming the heart of the halls
the blood drifting in and out of
the corridors,
the clot that stood still in the living room
unable to move to the next destination
stuck staring at the dusty painting
that haunted her tendency
to fix that which does not
need fixing,
humming the delicate tune
which ascended into the aorta
of her kitchen,
all the way
to the apex of her attic
and finally folding into itself
like the towels in her
chamber of cabinets,
before unraveling out
through the long vein
of her chimney,
the housewife who
makes a living
with sharpened bread knives
and turning scones into
christmas trees,
who croons ancient love songs
in her infinite spare time,
and i wonder as i
stare at her
from underneath my book
of russian poetry,
how she holds up
when the front door bursts opens
and nature sings
a solo to her heart.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
(I Could Not Knot a Knot.)
My tale is one of tortuous frustration,
when two ropes caused me aggravation,
and my every effort resulted in a situation
that left me in a state of angry indignation!
Oh, what a knotty problem I had got,
when I found I could not knot a needed knot!
Though needing help on how to knot a knot,
no one I knew, knew how to knot my needed knot!
I had two short ropes - which I’d a need to knot,
and which I’d knot together with a special knot,
but it never worked, for the knot did not knot,
and my knot came undone! I felt such a clot!
Firstly, I took the ropes, which I twisted tight
together, but still the end result, was not right,
for when I tugged, the knot, not only fell apart,
but showed no sign of a knot! Making a fresh start,
I took one rope, and placed it firmly under
the other. This was so easy, I did wonder
if my actions should have been reversed,
for it too fell apart! Oh, how I cursed!
Seems tying knots is not for faint hearts,
for any knot, that’s not knotted, soon parts
when it’s put to the test! That I’m not a knot
expert, you can tell. Truly, my forte is not
that of being very good at tying knots,
for I do not understand what knots
need, to keep them from falling apart!
Tying a knot right, right from the start,
is important, and that’s why my knot
was not reliable, but why I did not
understand. Yes, I’ve tied many knots.
but they’re knots known as Granny Knots.
Other knots are what folks call a Slip Knot.
Then there’s the Turk’s Head - a special knot,
as is the Cat’s Paw, Clove Hitch,and Bowline.
Truth to tell, - none of these resembles mine!
Then there’s a Timber Hitch, which is a knot
that truly puzzles me, and not an easy knot to knot!
There’s many other knots, that need the greatest skill,
such as the Hangman’s Knot - a knot that’s made to ****
Whilst the sheepshank? That’s a tricky one to see!
So many knots, but they’re not knots for me.
Methinks of all the knots, the one true knot for me,
is the “Lover’s Knot”, which I have tied successfully!
Rhymer. April 24th, 2018
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
I will drag my knife along your skin,
sharp blade down into your fragile, shaking canvas,
incising an increasing beat of whimpers and whines.
Please hold still. I promise this will hurt.
I will expose your clattering bones,
rip out your chattering teeth,
erase every impugned utterance
you muttered against me.
I will carve my letters slowly
on your unzipped frame,
sliding the burgundy blood across to
blot
clot
dot.
This is only preparation for what is about to follow.
I will puncture your throbbing organs,
slash your stretched cartilage
with an unwritten script.
Before I press further,
I’ll assure you, you are still alive.
I will twist each phrase,
haunt you to believe it is your fault,
force you to beg the slightest escape.
I will permanently etch my name
deep in the frozen chambers
of your quivering heart.
I will open up the blueprint as a demolition expert,
remove whole fractions of your fractured soul,
leave you a horrid wreck in the abyss
of a mess you just made.
You will not get rid of me,
though no trace of evidence is left behind.
My hands have been clean from the start.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
I gave my heart to a woman--
I gave it her, branch and root.
She bruised, she wrung, she tortured,
She cast it under foot.
Under her feet she cast it,
She trampled it where it fell,
She broke it all to pieces,
And each was a clot of hell.
There in the rain and the sunshine
They lay and smouldered long;
And each, when again she viewed them,
Had turned to a living song.
3.1k
I.
something within me,
maybe its my amigdala,
misses the oven-turned-gentrified clot,
that great collection of want,
of transient soles-souls.
I miss how we’re piled three stories high,
so close to each others’ mouths that we must
burrow in criss crossed, colliding tunnels
to our point b’s, our job sites,
our lovers’ houses.
maybe it is indeed part of our un-nature to do this,
to cling to one another even
as our unforgiving sungod bakes us whole,
cornish game hens on the el train,
hurdling 40 mph, to and from
our personal hovels, heavens
and bedsheets,
tethered to this place, possibly indentured,
definitely flawed,
where we revel under roofs to prove incredibleness
an virility.
II.
our eyes are not closed today.
they may not blink in unison
as mannequin lids do,
so effortlessly, plastic and mechanical,
but those, we are thankfully not.
for we are flesh,
and air, and miles of gastrointestinal turnpike, if unpinned,
would stretch from here to panama.
we are each of us
a viscous mound called
Sally, Bertram and Queen Mary.
We are the collision of milk flowing, divine,
a whirling dervish
in scalding darjeeling.
we are air,
gliding over enamel into the collective breath
to be devoured so sweetly by others,
as saintly man-scripted gelato,
dribbling down our chins in piazzas.
la dolce ************* vita.
III.
that’s the funny thing about living
in this size 2 world,
the ability to appear anywhere upon its face at a moment’s notice,
to be in front of any face when desired,
to live sans toll booth or customs desk,
to simply dust off our ability to fly
and tumble icarus-adolescent into the collision
between the two blue planes called sea and sky
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
Did you ever imagine your life to be , like a fish swimming around a fish bowl wanting to be free
One minute you are surrounded by family and friends, to swimming around a bowl that never ends.
The question haunts you every single day , why did my family just throw me away,
I always thought blood was thicker than water, now I don't believe.
Now I see blood can clot and family will deceive.
Like a fish swimming around a bowl with no end
I'm learning more each day nobody but you will always be there not family or a friend
No matter how many times a fish swims around his bowl it never finds it way
No matter how much you love and trust someone in your time of need they always go away
©kimmied1105
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
skin
a sheen of sweat
cries ring out
sheets
all tangled agony
***** foetid air
contract
cryout
subside
a birthing
no pink and downy babe is this
a mucus clot
a jellied mass
a river of blood and tears
a termination
of what wasn't quite
a tractor passes feeding out
calves for the slaughter
the sun shines
birds sing
all oblivious of anything
a death and life goes on
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
It's an animal beastly thing wrapped up warm in stigmas headlines daydreams sleepdreams ice cream headspin. pain.
Sirens call in my upper chest or my abdomen, maybe. a ****** sea. fish of mens' hooks eels and seaweed wound around aorta blood pumping mind squeezing toes cracking new blister dried fluid. cracks and flakes a flushing cycle, not over the **** yet.
salty eyes heavy chest silver parcels unending quest not shiny particles. Head spin crack of dawn hey look the moon is gone. observed the craters they were my neighbours a hole in my heart like the one......
Don't play mean i try and try green bean carrot pencil brush pen, still here? Run! too hard. Curdling scream turns sour on my tastebuds my tongue has been dissatisfied. Add it to the list! lately I know these things should not have been acknowledged. Bed. No. Kitchen work? Yes. Hurts me through and through and I know it's because it is me and it cannot be handled but it settled in the pit of my stomach and it made itself a happy home. I HATE IT.
BLOOD:
*juice
gore
cruor
claret
hemoglobin
sanguine fluid
clot
plasma
vital fluid*
why would I ever use blood?
Porous salt bruises help mind chooses slugs and moths but i want insects like ladybird bees. Keep me weak and feed me lies because not once did you see me you only looked right past me. how does it feel, little peach, to be dishing out bowls of dinky lies. i ate it you were trusted you were good there's just so many people coming.
when the moon rises and the sky twinkles lights about you its easy to be sad but its time for you to blossom
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
How meadows
cannot green or divide hills
How lakes
cannot ripple or remain flat
How tears
cannot dry in time for another
How wounds
cannot heal or blood clot
How truth
buries its lies in unmarked graves
How revenge
fears justice will turn its back
How reckoning
fails to pay its debts
How love
becomes hate by war
How children
are born old by poverty
How dignity
cannot calm itself
How eyes
see knowing their crime
How memories
only crack mirrors
How confessions
ask only for mercy
How shame
walks pretended of grace
How forgiveness
needed to tell the truth first
How black men
turn the other cheek
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
you made my blood clot,
so slowly and gently,
coagulating beneath your faint touch.
on flaxen sheets of rough cotton
I watched your plants
rolling their limbs out your open window.
they sprawled themselves, unravelling,
yearning for the gentle kiss
of the suns rays.
an almost ****** photosynthesis.
and for you I would sprawl myself out too,
and with the same eagerness
absorb every scent of yours into my flesh,
and drink desperately from your soul
like a cacti in its first summer shower
since '89.
and your final gasp,
with me, but a sponge
for your every metaphoric suppuration,
and literal secretion.
and you were transfixed there,
spurting auras of sin and love.
a final burst of ecstasy,
you soon became my anticoagulant.
you seeped into my bloodstream,
reversing this gentle coagulation.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
The curtain opens, and I am lit alone.
Chagrin is my monologue.
On opera balconies, giggling wraiths shield themselves from my humorless improvisation.
Served on a platter, I am on stage, eyes squeezing out precious salt, holding my hands over my red-tipped ears as they still roast from the taunts of my imagination's cruel gossips, who sit, deliberately carving into my breast, intending to cut out my breath. Jabbering, with ***** claws clasping at tarnished silverware.
I stammer and my throat begins to hang itself with a velvet string and cat-gut noose.
I sweat, clothed by the filth of makeup, menstrual blood, and leftover food stains. Palms held up, dramatically surrendering on the condition that mercy be extended, for they have seen my miserable condition and that it is me. The cloying stench of uncertainty and greasy hair envelops me.
I cannot kneel, for the coals on which I stand,
make me suffer more from the pressure.
No water in my heels to soothe this felon.
I cannot provoke or endure, my performance is to be left early. Hume would not grant me fame.
If you have a heart, do not waste ink or time or money on me. I am a clot of blood, clogged in the sink. I will die in a ***** bed and no one will care, not even myself.
I just wish it will be swift and fleeting if it is painful.
Hoping harder, I am not remembered as a miserable girl, the way I am.
So, sing violins, and let me swing for the cannibals.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
There in the vines
running down my spine,
are overgrown vistas,
and rooted enigmas
of the mind.
At my wrist —
the burning kissed;
pools in my palms;
red water of painful psalms
shrouded in mist.
Heme-less, desired;
nature, devoured;
draining forget-me-nots
won’t clot.
My nymph has retired.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Hot and licking.
Clot and pricking
Jubilantly unrehearsed.
But cools. Now a curse.
Waning the soul.
Draining the whole.
Too much a tax.
Is this. This raining wax.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC