"convulses" poems
The Earth was ours.
We filled its fertile fields full of
Plants of our own choosing: our own design.
To provide for ourselves we drained the Earth
Because the Earth was ours.
We populated the islands that
The Earth had built for us from its own skin.
Like parasites we kept it alive for our needs
Because the Earth was ours.
Then one day the Earth spoke:
You who crawl over my face,
Unthinking for the blemishes you build.
You till my skin and plough my bones, you drink
My tears and feast on my flesh. Slowly, my fiery
Vengeance has brewed, bubbled upwards
And wrath shall be known.
It will begin as a rumbling.
You will think I tremble with terror at your might
But the movement of your monuments is more my
Laughter at your lowliness. The hallways of your houses
Will be hewn by themselves as my body convulses to be rid of the
Sickness of you. You will sound your two-tone Armageddon sirens
In vain as my thunderous thoughts tumble your towers
Fragment your foundations. Break your brick walls.
Stone on stone will spark, igniting infrastructure
And your cities will burn.
But it is just the beginning.
I will bury you.
I will bury you in the fire of my fury.
I will bury you in the ashes of my anger.
You will solidify, screaming, into silent stone.
You will choke, child-like, on my smoke.
You will die by my hand: your home.
And I will bury you.
And this to me is easy.
I am greater than all you build from
My body. So I use my body to wreak ruin:
Reduce your greatness to rubble and dust
Because the Earth was always mine.
I was always my own.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
It is difficult to be a man,
For I am not a typical one.
It is hard for me to go on,
There’s a secret that pulls me.
I loathe when my memories strike,
They hit emotionally with might.
I struggle so much to survive,
In a world so deaf towards my cries.
I look at a He and my heart convulses,
For I recall a He who gave me kisses.
I was young, forced and naïve,
I fought but He was much stronger.
Society might tell that I’m gay,
For I let a man violated me in a way.
But I’m not a ***** and I’m sure,
I play a role for which others envy.
When I was a teen I met her,
I admired her even if she’s older.
I was then shy and very timid,
With mental and emotional scars.
I thought of her as a dear friend,
Then she turned to be my worst fiend.
One instance she forced herself on me,
And used things that hurt me so.
A girl’s tactics differ from the stronger ***
Tears she used first and blackmail next.
She was cunning, sly and very clever,
She stole my pride and my dignity.
My fears now mixed with anger,
My determinations got bolder.
I still cry and sometimes get lonely,
Like any other victim I want to fight.
I can not shout to the whole nations,
For societies will scorn at my declamation.
Both sexes forgot that I have feelings too,
I am also made of flesh, bones and spirit.
I am not proud of what I become,
Within me clouding reasons try to calm.
My desire is to win this battle to the end,
I am capable of vulnerability like any human.
But where does my right begin?
This universe has compassion for women.
The likes of me are expected to be steel made,
Yet I have feelings too for I am just a man.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
When I am touching the soil or the floor or the mattress of my bed,
I am connected and solid on the ground -
I am part of something bigger.
Everything rolls and pulses and convulses and seizes underneath me
And nothing is still, but alive and rippling like water.
I am bound to the Earth,
And that makes me better
Than when I am afloat.
At those times,
I feel nothing but
Aching longing and a keening desire
To feel close to something else, be it breathing or beating
And the fact that I am really very alone
And rather more independent than I want to be
And that I can survive by myself
Makes me quite, quite scared.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Thousands of electric pulses
scattered in confusing patterns.
Imagination convulses,
tattered, mind under matter.
Enveloped by space and time,
pardoned by neither,
eloped by both.
Pacing.
Shooting from the hip,
mind's eye is blind fire,
pawing through the labyrinth,
waiting for the shift.
Hopeless.
Blunder.
Shocks.
Over.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Have you ever felt that your life is wrong?
Like you're suppose to be somewhere else?
Like while you're mopping the floor of your lowly dishwasher job your vision blurs and the world around you convulses turning the mop into a spear swirling the sea of bubbles into blood and the far off voice of your boss mutates into the sound of your fellow warrior?
Or maybe when you walk into rain and the soft sound of the droplets on your skin turn into the rhythmic music of things against armor.
And as you look to make sit you're not going crazy the roar of an engine turns into the bellowing of dragons, horses and more.
These flashbacks transport you to another time where the world is mystic,
The pavement transmutates into dirt as the air around swirls into sudden shrills of strengthening speeches spurring you soulfully into skillful battle.
And as you speed forward leading the charge
of your battalion of skilled men a thousand large,
The flashback stops and you're in your time,
No armor on you skin..
Or lives on the line..
But your heart is still racing,
And you remember their names,
Of the boys you were leading,
On to glory and fame,
So was it a dream?
Or a memory from the past?
Or maybe it was from your life last.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.
tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.
this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.
it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.
songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.
I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.
the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.
blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.
my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.
my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.
my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.
each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.
I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
he's terrified of her voice
that whips his eardrums like kashmir switches
and tickles his diaphragm until he convulses
in nervous laughter inside his head
the way it inquires broadly,
like an opera written in tornado sirens and megaphones
and the brightness of lighthouses,
for conversation he thought
had drowned long ago and only
reemerges as bubbles on the lake's surface
a boiling body popping deafeningly
with anxiety, and plumping
bravery pasta, which smells seductive,
which he loves...
he's just not hungry right now.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
I'm a deer in the headlights,
I'm pacing back and forth
I don't know whether to run
forward or step back
There is darkness where I came from
but I can't see ahead
I'm somewhere between
vibrant red and navy blue
My roommate is vomiting
in the bathroom.
I turn up the television,
and pretend not to hear her
I'm a deer in the headlights,
I can't see the face that sits
behind the steering wheel
I imagine she's soft and gentle,
she'll let me pass & I'll be safe
But what if she's sharp and angry,
she'll strike me down & I'll bleed out
My roommate convulses on
the cold tile floor,
There is sweat rolling off her
rib cage
I find her half conscious,
and I don't believe this is happening again
My back aches
but only in one place
I wonder if it's you,
griping me from behind,
trying desperately to pull me backward
Or maybe my back just aches,
and I think too much
I tried to make a friend again today,
and ended up naked & empty,
fumbling around his sheets,
trying to get out of my mind
I don't think I'm doing this right
cause I feel like a deer in the headlights,
and I miss my mother,
and I know she'd slap the cigarette
right out of my hand,
and then she'd kiss my forehead,
and I'd feel better
I'm tripping over gravel,
Pacing back and forth
The yellow light creates a straight line
And I keep following it to the same place
There's been a song stuck in
my head for three days
and 8 & a half hours,
I can't focus on anything else
I told a boy I hate
that I love him,
just because I like the
way it sounded as it rolled off my lips
And I knew I'd get high off the look in his eyes
Maybe that's my whole problem-
Start to finish,
Plain and simple,
I just wanna be liked
And I never have been
Can't tell if I'm useless
or too used-
Can I be both at the same time?
I'm a deer in the headlights,
trying to find my way back to my mother,
going blind from the colors
I'm a deer in the headlights...
Mom,
If you can hear me now,
I'm so sorry for who I am
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
Live
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
begins
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted's emotionally dead
terrified head.
A warder
grim-faced
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.
No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.
Bundy's body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
paroxysms
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.
The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
to reveal
appropriately
a beautiful woman.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Late at night I sat in the dark
Was about to face the bed
When I got a bad feeling
Something wasn't right
But I quenched the terror
And faced the bed
Just two hours gone by
I stare at the ceiling
No longer night
But not yet day
Sickness overwhelms me
As I stare at the ceiling
How can such a day improve
When nothing started right
But as day closes in
The darkness dissolves
Dare I get hopeful
When nothing started right
The dark winter not yet forgotten
A stream of light flows through
Lurking in the twilight
Awaiting it's return
Is the darkness of yesterday
But now light flows through
The dawn of day now passed
My restless leg bouncing
He educates the class
My head seems clear
Sickness long gone
As I feel my restless leg bouncing
Is my leg betraying me
Is it trying to escape
Find a place of true freedom
If such a place exists
What is it telling me
By trying to escape
It's been a while
Since I've felt this well
The sickness of morning gone
My head is clear, I'm calm
I'm focused, I'm at peace
I've never felt this well
Despite the rough beginning
Daybreak turned the tides
Winter cold still recides
But the sun is shining
Cascading light, beams of heat
The tides turned by daybreak
My leg convulses
What does it want
If I flex my muscles
I can keep control
Keep it from escaping
But is it what I want
Where would it venture
If I let it escape
Would I be welcome
As the partner in crime
Or would I weigh it down
If it escaped
I feel in doubt
Should I let it run
Should I make it stay
Remain in control
Or let it be free
Should I let it run
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
Honey take away the blade
From those innocent little wrists
You're far too precious
To hurt yourself like this.
Baby, take your fingers
From down your scarlet red throat,
You're far too beautiful,
To make yourself gag and joke.
Sweetheart, take away those pills,
From your desperate hands
You're far too gifted,
To slip through the sands
Of time.
Darling, take away the fist,
From your delicate head,
Your far too special,
Use a pillow instead.
My love, take away the bottle,
From those pursed lips,
you're far too magnificent,
To throw your life away, like this.
Angel, take all those self destructive thoughts,
Urges and impulses,
Those painful memories,
Those constraining convulses,
Of the past,
And throw them to one side,
hold yourself in your arms,
And allow yourself to cry.
You're worth so much more
Than to cause your self harm.
That's a promise from me,
You're life is far too treasured,
For you to drift away,
In history.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
it's an old tale around town
that if you pierce the ground
with a needle just right
all the spirits will escape
no one really believes it
but the lore's dramatic flare gives a sense of community
at the bus stop stand
twelve children with clay faces
day and night they stare straight ahead
and mumble the same word
over and over
Time passes by,
back bent and wretched
the dead grace of fallen kings
and eventually
the clay breaks,
the heads roll
a visiting CEO
stands to make a speech
but finds an emptiness
clawing at her throat
the clay breaks,
the silent tears
of the heart of a brooding teen
end their tenancy
and return to the ocean
a nightshift manager
swipes their card, closes the barbed gates,
fumbles rolling a cigarette
and draws in a sigh,
but the breath refuses to escape
the clay breaks,
a bluebird sings
but cannot recall the melody
petals clog the gutter
but the branches have long withered
people meet up and gather
to try to quell the empty pressure
they stand to chant the childrens' lost word
but everyone remembers it differently
time passes
routine remains
but there are waves in the waterways
and sometimes people on the surface streets
find themselves lost in the tide
time passes,
the dirt city convulses
under its silent weight
we gather a needle
and pierce the ground,
but nothing happens
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
swoosh and swirl i sway
the air convulses and contorts
pouring my limbs from one movement to the next
driving one mad with the slow moving power of the
strings
blow bubbles made of sand
and spill them upon the earth
with a sweet blowing breeze
similar to the chickens upon the ground
made of gold they eat gold
kernels
i am an axis of movement
a slowly rotating turnstile sparkling
in orange light drowning
time out of the hourglass
with the twitch of the inconsiderate wrist
bright red and gold the kernels fall into sifting
sand
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:04 PM UTC
Pinnated clouds
spread like wisteria
along the horizons
waning axis. Farmland
is smothered
in arbitrary
purple leaflets.
The
humic red fabric
of a fallow field
convulses
on my eye under the
discordant,
astral confetti.
A sombre greyness
reclined and presided
over all: joyous
summer rain-cloud
but for the early years
icy resolve.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
I can feel the tenderness of her skin through the knife, as if it were an extension of my sense of touch. My body nearly convulses. There's something incredibly faint, deep down, that screams to resist this uncontrollable pleasure. But I can already tell that I'm being pushed over the edge. I can't...I can't stop myself.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
The endorphins fill my broken mind,
the bleeding does not cease as the relief overwhelms,
my body convulses at the touch of the knife,
but the feeling is one of medication.
My mind is sick,
only to be healed by the small droplets falling from my wrists,
my pills a mixture of pain and happiness,
my heart beats loudly and my body feels weak
nothing will stop the feeling once it has started
no one will make me wish I had never pierced my flesh
my scars tell a tale of great frustration
years of being battered and left aside
My father non existent,
his replacement would make him choke,
without him I would not have spiralled
into this deep dark pit of depression,
he was abusive by nature but that's no excuse,
he ruined me for 16 years and im still ruined now,
left for dead on the side of the highway
a life saving operation I had rather left me dead,
Coming through the other side,
has yet to happen smoothly
and as I watch his evil eyes,
I collapse , never again to open my mouth
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Little winged one of murky wings
do flutter in origami folds. To glide
in endless times engulf that needing
of seeing where in twilight all is a
shadow and all is seen within the night.
Quiver unseen but felt unto the breeze,
a shudder unfolds on their shadow in
ease, you taste upon droplets of fear.
Little origami wings do grace into
the flightless moments their but unseen.
Your shadow convulses in its presence,
Knowing subconsciously what it needs.
But you are but connected separates that
Could not be further apart. Like a puddle
swimming, nearly drowning in your depth.
It unfolds into form, for unseen like an
extension not noticed by self, a shadow
not as should seen. tiredness as into shadows
Of lost moments its delves ever deep. unravelling
it seeds into the darkness a continuation breaths
It departs for a shadow replenishes and its parts
Now origami folds in need of shadow will dance
upon every motion to unfold and feed, the cycle
is ever in motion, for twilight is its birth and life
its nourished in obscurity forever to feed.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are sound
Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how crazy we would
Be without it
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 5:41 AM UTC
That earth spirit
black, dark, flame flickering at the end of the tunnel
i appreciate our ancestors who took care of the soles of their feet
that feet rooted to the earth
that spirit rooted within the body underneath the skin
the soul is not separate from the body
butoh cries out in the darkness for a dance
there is a silent scream
then a piercing sound, you see a Woman's body as she convulses on the ground
you notice the beautiful tendons and muscles in the back and thighs of this one male dancer
Ohno's hands are veiny and paper thin and utterly divine the way it ripples
butoh spirit to the ground and I find my journey for that way of life
starts with taking care of the soles of my feet
Duende and that color black
one step and you won't come back
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
My body heaves and convulses
while tears stream down my face
blurring my vision
like a camera lens in fog.
My mind was sick.
I had just watched the movie
The Pianist about the Holocaust.
The Holocaust was sick.
A man in a wheelchair fell
from a tenth story window,
dumped out by the SS.
Sickness.
My body was sick.
I could not speak.
I could barely cry for that matter.
All I could do was sob.
My spirit was sick.
I hadn't prayed in a whole month
and God and I were floating
farther and farther apart.
My soul was moved.
I heard the real star in The Pianist
Wladyslaw Szpilman play
Chopin's Nocturne in C# Minor.
(that is NOT a hashtag)
That was when I broke down.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Lucid, luminous and lingering,
A crystal Polythene bag prances
Through the unborn air.
It contorts and convulses;
A perpetual struggle.
The Earth's Wild breath plucks
The entity away from its playful frolic
In a daring
******
Altering the direction of odd exertion.
Entwining leaves round itself,
In a last hope of disguise.
Impenetrable hands
Catch
The gliding bag,
Propelling into the abyss.
Potent forces drag it further still,
Squirming like a forgotten child
Pleading
Yearning, to gain control.
Demanding gales ******
Choking the plastic vessel.
It gasps for air.
A fish awaiting its final breath.
Sailing the tumultuous breeze
Dismembered and
Swamped in the swarm,
Its handles now shattered.
A synthetic snow shower falls.
The bag is wrenched
Through the unforgiving sky,
Tumbling, abandoned.
It twists, spiralling,
Swamped in the ritual,
This new course of life.
The consumer controls,
Cash flashing in every corner,
Every crevice, no deviation.
It tears the gorge of the atmosphere
Knows nothing else,
A lone being,
Dragged around
Down to the dust of Earth.
Powerless in a turbulent tempest
The torment of growth.
This polythene material,
Diverged from being branded,
Swirling,
Becomes close,
With every violent fluctuation.
There is nothing inside this bag anymore;
Contents cannot aid its weakness.
When I was five years old,
I cut all my eyelashes off
In hope to gain more wishes.
Each member a companion to my eyes,
Longing to soar...
But fell to the ground.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
There is a fear that beckons heavy shivers,
Summons enveloping shutters,
Brings cold cringes and endless, eternal tears
Constrains me in the Stygian night
Convulses my chest without the pinpoint ray of light
Physically it cannot harm me,
Just detain in cold dark
Though attacking the innocent, malicious—and holy
Never has it fossilized anyone such as I
To be tossed without trying,
To fail without attempting,
To submit without fighting,
To die without living—
My gravest, deadliest, most harrowing fear
Is that I die without any acts at all.
Without friends, hope, or even soul
Just debilitating terror...
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Watery morning
sunlight
filters gently through
browning oak
leaves nevertheless
another Algiers
rush
hour grips
convulses
disgorges
one
rattling car
after the
other.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC