"coagulation" poems
I am a miserable ****
Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
at grocery stores,
at parties.
I have no identity.
Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
to be loving,
to be trusting,
to be active,
to have no spine.
All I want is a bit of my own time.
A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
I was going somewhere?
I was unique?
I am the same miserable ****
As every other miserable ****
The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,
The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,
The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,
The girl sexting your boyfriend,
The boy sexing your girlfriend,
The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with
itself.
All different,
in exactly the same way.
Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable **** Traffic jam.
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 9:28 AM 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
Thunder in the stomp and lightning in the palms
Heavy and dense, the collision is coming on
Strong surges coursing through as the motions expand the mass
Intimidation in the fierce force of augmentation beyond grasp
Remaining in stance against the currents of evil
A Stone in the flow of truth's retrieval
Erosion spreading essence through the seasons of ice and fire
Smoothing into perfection's quest and desire
The master and student mindset sustaining technique's finesse
Following the steps into gathering change best
Replacing hollow space, the nothingness with breath
Then breaking through the base of still chakra's in the chest
Bring substance to the vortex, revolutionary spins
Balanced power, the coagulation over wounds begins
Leaping to light then back like a star to earth
Creating the weight that's needed for foundation and rebirth
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 2:50 PM UTC
"Don't leave out the graphic details."
Oh, trust me. I won't.
The gruesome, disturbing, intimacies.
The bone-chilling, hair-raising fragments.
It's almost too much to bear.
But not quite.
This vulgarity is just enough to keep them on the edge of their seats.
Every tiny, twisted moral of the story.
In between the cracks, find shining slivers of redemption.
Only to immediately cover them up with rotten deception.
Good, ***** flair. Scummy additions. Sick annotations.
Keep the masses rollin' in.
Complexity, concentration, then chaos when they want more fear.
The blood-curdling, stomach-churning truths.
The disgraceful, distasteful deductions.
We've come to the conclusion they crave this coagulation of ****
Dark disdain eating away at the corpse of wellness.
Vermin, pests, gnawing, slobbering.
Choking on the bones of prosperity.
The decomposition of this life is what they love.
Flies, gnats, swarm. Maggots clump.
Crack, rip, slurp, gag, choke, ******* die.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
Coagulation in the limbic system
The pineal gland commence emission
Insemination within the vision
Clouded by foreign dubbed derision
Fray the edges, fringe incision
Behold the schism, parabolic business
Subtitles for the learning minions
And it is booming like v twin pistons
Streamline slithering tunnel vision
Between the rock and hard resistance
Living the lie, we're deathly hidden
Not just fire but the end decision
Resulting is the pouring human
A sudden break elastic intrusion
The hour spawned upon confusion
Forever running through illusion
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
The coagulation of wealth in society
is like what would happen
if one particular ***** in the body
stashed all of the body's blood:
The whole body would inevitably starve, wither and die,
including the one greedy *****
which pooled all of the blood and ruined it
for the other 99% of the body.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
Maybe I just want a good nights sleep I don't need you to touch my face With your astronaut gloves covered in moondust I want to just take the night off and fall asleep in your bed Maybe I just want these bite marks healed My bones licked clean
Outside I hear you howl on the haunted moon Beneath the window someone sweeps with a straw broom The streets are full of walking skeletons Who smile at the streetlamps
Who is that outside Playing on my swingset Eating a candy apple Grass stains on the knees Soft hair and a cool breeze
Who was that boy? They found floating in the swimming hole Sometimes I dream it was me who died Or fell asleep on your garden swing As I waited for you Out buying groceries
I always wake up In this same bed With red rings around my eyes And an ache in my bones With new cuts on my hands A bitemark on my shoulder Is turning purple Every morning I wake up with new pain And although I can't remember what I did last night I think I deserve this
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
i
the neighbours like to shout
while the sun come´ s out
lily is off her pretty head
to the sky dangles thread
soft she spake no doubt
how did this come about
lifted shyly off her bed
and to an alien wed
(they resembled trout
that fetching pout..)
so i was duly bled
and impregnated
soon a mewling brat
star blown and stout
multi eye and headed
plasma fed..
saviour of the planet..!
born to poet..
born to lead
man is saved..!
ii
well the world is in a pretty
pickle
if waiting for her alien love
chile
the sun has gone in
awhile
the sunday sea continues
a smile
hovers upon her red
lip..
iii
lily a dream
cast her leaden
glance sky
wards..
lily takes from
her sleeve
her treasured
cards..
a **** on her
******
and she´ s set
on ward..!
the future
laid bare
a seer
a bird
a bard
her face
drops
bad..?
bad..
these strange
recollections
inducing
sad
reflections
caste one forth
to endless
circle-
mad..
nothing about
strange
that
but this
my god
free heart..
and the majestic
lady..
buttercups
to
her eyes
what is it..
nothing good
a wild wood
any black
blood
now this card
is usually benign
the goblets of
wine not poison
but swamp
and sunk
and choked
seems clear
not here
a hovel
and a grey
evoked
still trees and
stiller eye
there is dark
that walk
abroad
behind and
away soon
cries like
a unique
word
and yes
black coagulation
while meek
and there
struggle losing
purr
if we knew
the end
or even
this card
and this one
so little
cur
normally
a staunch
friend
souls want..!
you will get
what you deserve
this skull says
crafty devilry..!
another cooling goblet..
lily..a strong pull..
upon
the
pipe
of
love..
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
The abscission of inner voice comes,
storm from a vein of clouds,
cut that bleeds a profusion of thoughts.
She trails a finger through confusion,
seeks coagulation, anything that solidifies.
Free but lonely --- an epitaph signed
by empty arms from lip to heart,
extended to a faithless world.
Something more than silence ---
tears form a haptic prayer.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
A wound so deep that healing seems impossible, it would require lots of time and care if life can enable.
Nothing can't speed up this healing process, coagulation is so complex in this situation of nonsense.
Perhaps a paradox of this analogy, the sensitive mind that develops self reasoning without apology.
The need for new collagen forms increasing tensile, preventing the healing by living the pass that stays for awhile.
Deep'n with pain and inflammation, I can't stand the agony of this process I'm fill by intimidation.
Life is too short I'm living on the edge, a wound so deep, time to heal I come to acknowledge.
The intricate process of epidermis and dermis repairs a barrier against the external environment, a scar of memories remain has a reminder of the emotional pain, sorrow and torment.
The scar that's left behind will surely keep the pessimists at bay, subsequently time would pass and I must move toward peace and happiness that's the only way.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 4:12 AM UTC
After years pass
there are
fragments
of memory
that scab up
The coagulation
Transmorphs
Into a siren
Luring me
To pick them open
like a lock
Just to call them
home
once more
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 8:39 PM UTC
.death, the pristine cardinal of all, manner, of, encountered deeds.
death pardons,
the audacious,
born to be born
in order to die,
in order to
see it, swindle
the looming
fabric of...
what is, what isn't,
what is...
a coagulation
of the congested
expression
of the spiderweb.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
i have a cut on the bottom of my foot
how, i don’t know
when, i don’t know
it merely appeared one morning
i was drowning in cold sweat
i was choking in all that sunshine
and in my transparent
chimeric dream state
birds’ song and memory
became intertwined
i think i lit a fire the night before
i think i found a begging hand
and slammed it in the door
i think i still was guilty
and ridden with malaise
i think i hung my coat in smoke
beside my crafted blaze
to cover up the stench
of my last few days
so i awoke
with this cut, as i said
barely stitched together
by eager hands of fibroblasts
coagulation had amassed
futility in its efforts
for on discovering this cut
and the soreness that enveloped it
i crushed the meat
between my fingers
until the milk of infection
and blood of my veins
flooded in release of pain
broke the binding scabbing chain
and the fleshy chasm still remained
that day i spent repenting
or correcting, i should say
for as the morning trudged along
i found the casualties of my ways:
an opportunity slaughtered
that a coward wouldn’t save
a friend beneath a boulder
in the belly of a cave
and a innocent life
in that drowsy night
found my tires
as its grave
but with all the mistakes i’m sure i’ve made
with all the morals my moves degrade
with all the arrogance i parade
and all the faces of my charade
i know a hole of regret
where my heart should be put
yet i only wish i was not beset
by this cut upon my foot
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 10:11 PM UTC
sit down; Mexican standoff
side saddle head cocked
readily shot-stare asunder
to paper/pen & the
grinning wince.
employment; where are you
now? You, in current state
gaseous coagulation, you
neither “in the mix” or
ahead.
bullet point; list thoughts
& aspirations, where you
thought you ought to
wish you were here!ing
and not.
T&C; going forward agree
to meet the anticipated
expectations as if you
wore that crown to say
"you own you".
handshake; the formality
contracts its bindings,
and the paper witness
writ as statement that
we will
do this again sometime.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
my body was once a temple to Daphne consecrated,
got razed by your sinful touch,
an ingenue bearing the grudge.
ephemeral eudaemonia, sempiternally anesthetized.
crimson substance will gush out from my lips,
running down my ******* and hips
it will splatter my ankles and thighs,
retracing the marks of the night you eroticized.
same old scars were once covered with epidermis,
petrichor smell, decorated with the salt of my tears.
backsliders will cry at my vault, murderers won't go to court;
left with a soul reduced to the coagulation of common thought.
Jan 9, 2025
Jan 9, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
build me a city
and i will paint you in gold. when we stand on the towers
everything becomes a shooting star
a question not of if but when they will hit the ground
and not when but if they will crash before we do. there are
galaxies beyond the scope of what we think
is beautiful, what is human
and what is perfect.
build me a temple and i will
worship your gods. the land at our feet
is a coagulation of shimmering glass,
of lightning on beaches
paint me in prayer and i will walk with you to the ends of the oceans.
good night,
good morning,
paint me a village and i will build you a sunbeam
when the light hits your cheekbones
i call it home.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
I had been staring at corporate blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous sea horn. Many of my skins partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the sea horns. We would head into the night, deep into oblique dens of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our mental cognition.
With cascading light festering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable alleyways of dread, between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and cables transpiring towards opaque operating systems which would import and export our collected consciousness for the trade of gelatinous brain matter, had overcame us.
Sliding into abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge; subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation, allowing silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation.
Oct 25, 2024
Oct 25, 2024 at 6:18 AM UTC
coagulation of life muck
make her eyes bag
pockets hold cruel visions
memories she cannot empty
she zippers
her lids tightly
as he passes
all she can do is
wish unholy away
dilation inside behind
zippered eyes
makes all that mucky crust ooze
there are wells
of slippery situations
oily wells
gushers never to hurl
zipped away
under black mascara
life complexities
thickening
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
unwilling of compunction
not the demeanor saturated
in friendships coagulation
e'er the situation constant
doth prevail
retracted the hand
withdrawn
amiability not available
amity the linking of finger tips
across the vast expanse of the seas
so often we forget
our foreign brothers and sisters plight
and ne'er stretch out our arms
to ameliorate their difficulties of night
humanity
has lost
its ability
to give of affability
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
There's a number you can call
to listen in on all the sounds of unresolved love.
The sighs and gasps.
The beating of pulses in throbbing song.
The voices of the unwanted and desperate
crying out in passion
for just one touch.
There are radio waves reserved for the place where longing lingers -
for voices mangled by mad grips and furious fingers.
A flurry of sound that culminates into one palpitating heart.
A graveyard for romance that was doomed at the start.
It swells up inside your telephone.
A coagulation of feeling hopeless and alone.
Crawling ever toward an unobtainable ******
that will never come.
There's a number you can call,
but if I were you, I wouldn't dial it.
There's an insanity involved.
The effect of that collective sigh;
some people die for it.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Venus
Mars
and all the stars try to define my worth
I am not in alignment with a line
or a planet
no symbol accurately sticks to me
so I create my own
like I created my name
but I do not answer to it
My heart burns and drips
with ink and tar
and I tell myself that I am stuck
with their freedom
to submit or conform
to their standards or else
face the consequences
I am more than just stardust and recycled water
but I know that my blood is not my own
and the tears that I cry once belonged to someone else
I am made up of pieces that aren’t all the same
but they fit
I am a recycled coagulation of dreams and flesh
held together by the limits and bounds of the universe
bursting at the seams with thoughts and possibilities
inaccuracies and hypocrisy
and so still I wonder
what I am
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
Rhythmically reducing time
for you
for I.
Coagulation increasingly lessens the beat.
Off-written and wrecked,
We can’t turn home as
Junkies and
Dealers.
This home,
Washed out in familial gossip of relapse and resurge
After our firefights
Against venomous appetites.
Yet here we light this pipe, you and I,
With a reprise of shell-shocked war stories
Reanimating the grind
Of addiction’s battle.
Promise by the world,
A mind’s conviction and a 12-step program
Would naturally manifest in abstinent purity
And after,
Serenity.
Through the itch
Still
We are lumbering on, yet raging.
Violently insisting that these dreams are vouched for and
Stances held
Should leave our slicked soles immobile.
Smooth winds crinkling past twigs
And I with you, my dealer,
Am a lubricated branch on smooth-weathered granite grade.
In descent I tear at the throat with embarrassed tears.
Cries that only slicken the stone.
So of it, I swallow what will fill,
And beg you to do the same.
As fingernails rip from flesh
In grip of a still frame I can hear the 12-step program bid out again.
“Let there be sweat till the clouds run red.
Let trailing beads glisten while
I the blossom
Begin budding in the fall.”
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC