"cored" poems
the human soul is a treacherous place
he threw me here; my mission is to pretend..
pretend that the night has settled
pretend that this is the final stage
pretend that this is what it's meant to evolve into
pretend that i'm okay.
i watched the world give up on me
cored these lungs away.
cast me out to sea as if i were a mare human being
he took away what i thought wasn't much of a heart anyway.
heavenly to have a dark pit bestowed in me
heavenly to be carefree
but what am i supposed to do;
when the best part of me was always you?
-Inside H. Cranium
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, a hell in heaven:-\
is it the truth that we are miserable?
because my tears are dry and I'm tasting the hellish invisible
love---a feeling not for me to be soaring
hate---a being I am destined to be drowning
not of others yet nonexistent in my life but own
the numb and empty teared my veins into the cored bone
north kills south
east kills west
never had my archer aiming the unknown quest
am I a devil???
if I want to surf the hells
yearning a scar and pain just for a feel a meaning to my cells
-------ravenfeels
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 2:57 AM UTC
My hand glides across the page
Oblivious to what it's scrawling
Ink drags in streaks and curves
Without connection, without heart
Empty pages full of words
Words devoid of meaning
Hollow, cored, happily emotion-free
Unraveling
Undone
Scribbles to pictures
Doodles to dreams
The book is full of filled up pages
Vapid thoughts in black and white
There is the whole of who I've become
The nonsensical ramblings
of an underworked mind
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
fornicate
and lay back
asleep against the cold steel
heal your wounds with fire
limes are burning
lemons yearning
his fruit is turning into wine
mindless meditators
mediating madness
fundamentally flawed
raw and cored like apples
and hone(st)y
posthumously imbibed
nominal anomalies
rusted tire chains
as thunder complains
of its own ignominy
eyes awaken
lands are taken
and what's far worse
is that we have
all lost our voices
demanding silence
stem-cells signal sentences
denser than a dozen dollar bills
dancing on a pinhead
reprimand and then repeat again
the end is near
feet in fear move slowly
are you impressionable my dear
a glimpse of eternity
and your hair turned white as snow
suppress emotion
keep composure
learn to control
your own will
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
i cannot give you more than me
humble and hunkered down,
i'm just a mangled heart, split
down the middle and
viewing the world through this dichromatic lens
but also
in technicolor,
and you're wearing a dream coat,
so let's spatter every surface
with saturated pastels,
and i hope you can fold your angelwings around me
even though this is my self,
unmasked and to the marrow,
stripped and cored for you,
i am all that i am.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
leave me
let the quiet come here
allow my porous dreams a chance
to be cored no more
to be filled with sponge-bath waters
or come to me
with eyes ripened for a funeral
foam on your cheeks from jaunty phantoms
who lean down with a wayward kiss
from eternities bound to a melancholy
oblivion creeping in our stairwell
I crawl down the causeway a stranger
with a plea leashed to my wrist
a bargain on my mind
love is a harsh word
and I dare not speak it here
for fear of cataclysm
or lack thereof
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 12:29 PM UTC
Slowly unplugging dreams
Holding my breath
Uncomforted contentment beams
Calmed by screams
Cords of love and lust
I light the past to déjà vu
Cords of hatred and trust
I light the future for you
My fingertips burn with jealousy
Living celestial reverie
Success enveloped by a fallacy
I was suffocated at birth.
Dragged by the liberation
I was suffocated at birth.
Decorated with colorful lacerations
I was suffocated at birth.
With hard cored freedom and insulation
I was suffocated at birth.
Killed by supersonic maturation…
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC
I have no soul
I have been cored harshly like apples ready to be sauced
The only things in my life I willed to keep were stolen away
Too afraid to do it myself could Kevorkian help me out?
Oddly, after all the talking I've done, I've no fight left
Just tears of self-pity
Two innocent lives will relive the cycle of my life
Due to the meddling of a horrible girl
Too obsessed with her own gain to realize their loss
If there were a God, He would strike her dead
If I were God...
Those things are better left unsaid.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
Thanksgiving Menu Planning for Gaining and Losing
~~~
having shed thirty pounds plus,
another X more yet required,
to be forever properly de-cored,
a happy subtracted scoring
part too,
brought the curtain going down
on a seven year insanity,
paid off the forever divorcing *****
that weight worth more than a Venetian
pound of flesh
now finding myself
in a re-entry orbit,
though hardly gliding,
encased in a capsule,
friction glowing gold
the now never~ending
calorie counting and exercise rituals,
in every aspect of life,
all friendly devils of relentless,
demanding utter devotions,
all watching, wondering, watering, endlessly,
a new perennial flowering of a leaf,
all watchdogs of the truth serum called
what if?
what if
had I lived my prior
lazy loose life,
with the current rigor
of daily barefaced truth
I would never have made
choices that have redline scarred,
some made back in 1975,
into a forty year losing war,
spiral declination that permitted the
insidious, slo-mo of decay,
that could be, would be,
reversed only
by this recent heart
and soul surgery
*nowadays, menu plan my life's
every actionable choice,
limiting the sugared foolishness
from the decay
one can coat themselves in,
survival lies and refrigerator drugs,
until sleep~rest intervenes
what shall I eat,
what shall I choose,
what will be this day's life choices from the menu,
answering daily inquiries from
Oliver and Siri (1),
acknowledging that more-than-occasional slippage will occur,
but taking no true satisfaction
from the periodicself-cheating,
always
daily weigh myself
twice,
first my body,
then, my soul,
upon the rising,
upon the setting*
***to see quantifiable
what I have,
thankfully
yet to gain
by losing***
~~~
Thanksgiving Day
2015
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Forest of skin
no longer will I trace your topography
The petrichor
- gone -
exiled from capsuled prison
Your face lain peaceful beside me
Indifference will grow
cored apple - shriveled
Hopefully fertile for another
Silence and stranger
Two existences
Will again
Possess between one another
relationship - destruit - redefined
compost ready cores
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
am i solidly so-so sane
am i slightly in-all insane
a sweet and sour, salty, bitter stanza
anaphora, alliteration, rhyme and meter
spiced-up with macerated metaphors
slant rhymes stirred in a one cup measure
chopped, cut, creamed or cored
i guess i am...
a tablespoon of solidly so-so sane
a teaspoon of slightly in-all insane
a roast with a zest of relished craziness
a marinating mustard mix of uniqueness
i guess i am only simply me
an originally homemade recipe
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
As the night shifts, the glass prints
The universe retorts and restores
Connective strands pulls from dark
Exposed from the rumbled tosses
Mosses generate, diversified integration
Masses inaugurated in magical reality
Electrified from the syndical sorrows
Tarots of the forgiven, sad sung songs
The tree branches held strong as I slid
The town halls illuminated to capture
A magnificence of a nature umbilical
Enclosed in the warmth of the placenta
My centre cored on the base of the earth
A need to belong on grounded dense soil
Calm tornados and typhoons unheated
Treated in fountained grace of existence
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ'✿⊱╮
Golden, flaky, butter crust
Peeled bramley apples
Cored, sliced, sprinkle sugar, salt
Kiss of cinnamon
Flour and lemon
Flute edges
Bake!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 1:30 PM UTC
~~~
"all poetry is confessional, whether written in the first person or not. If nothing else, it is a homing device to our souls, telling any who read where we stand, what we see from our perspective and our poet's eye. When enough of us speak of what we perceive,
perhaps someday we'll understand that the tree, the snake, and the rope are indeed an elephant."
Joel Frye
perhaps
the essential modifier of our lives,
or as one of the greatest philosopher reprised,
Professor Alfred E. Doolittle,
"Oh, you can walk the straight and narrow;
But with a little bit of luck,
(perhaps)
you'll run amuck!"^
this thence,
one more mine true
confession,
so many discoursed, cursed
have seen the
roped wrapped tree
firmly snaking around its cored trunk,
issuing forced strangling sounds,
the musical product of its own
umbilical chord
still and yet,
the jungled elephants,
from my visionary,
remain ghostly hidden,
stolid solid doesn't not comport with the
hallucinogenic jive of running
amuck!
limitations shun my expectations,
abilities misrule hide my
hoped-for-destination of hopes,
my elephants,
still and yet,
elude the grasp of exhausted roving eyes
undeterred and reaffirmed,
until and then,
when the elephants come to me
on bended knee,
can understanding be
perhaps
pronounced,
as being blessed with best satisfaction,
with the finest of
illuminating,
most-happy-fella,
well known,
elephantine-humantine-pink
combine
phrases
A Happy Ending
After All
^My Fair Lady - With A Little Bit O' Luck Lyrics
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
The king is dead.
We fed him knives and liquor.
Anything to seal his fate.
That much quicker.
The king is rotted in the media.
The fly cored out his body with maggot young.
Bled the liquor out with a funnel and dug in the carcass;
For blood rusted cutlery.
Calm and focused.
I lose my love for his liege.
As he ***** all the women, made our children believe,
He's the answer to questions,
In the ether still linger.
I burn up the vapor, with his name ghostly whispered.
The empires dead, we are red in the face of the answer,
The king wasn't there, now his bodies a phantom.
And I’m not shoulder deep in his blood from shoveling
But shackling myself in a corpse wrapped for posthumous reverie.
The sovereign lives!
He is you, not me.
A shackled neck for every broken king.
Self ownership ends, with the plows yolked to every sheepish smile, pan the lens.
The brain flows top down in the system of men.
This grey matter cage is forced through the gin.
Our corporeal visage is saliva in the face of the Prometheans before us.
We are the ******** if we don't roll fates stone,
And our eyes aren't picked out.
We should burn in that fire that so melted the wings of Icarus.
I'd rather my entrails eternally settle everyday in the belly of a crow, than be a stone with rested moss shaping the kings carved throne.
Encrusted with Slave Carcasses.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
If you knock on our door
While me and my woman are making love,
Won't invite you in,
Even tho that delicious sin,
Crosses my mind frequently.
But this poem is my way of thanking you,
For a vision that makes life just a little
Spicier.
Do I fee guilty? Don't be silly
Desire is a compliment,
It forms deep deep, cored within
The prehistoric part of each of us.
But when it surfaces on the shallow pools
Of our eyes, it feels shallow, only because it's
Tired from its journey from the wellsprings.
But every pool has a distinct outlines,
Boundaries that cannot be exceeded.
My mind is not a pool.
Now, I am sated, but still hunger.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
Given the choice
I'd fall from the sky
and shatter the Earth.
If only my voice
could open your eyes,
deliver your birth.
When vict'ry brings pain
what have you gained,
what have you lost?
Does anyone stop
to see what we've got,
to think of the cost?
****** by a tree
seems funny to me,
that we would be spurned.
For wanting to know
why everything grows,
for wanting to learn.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 1:19 PM UTC
Mine own selfish cares distract.
Perhaps making me, too late
I hear, I see you are in a place,
where questioning is the new normal.
You know there here be,
legions, armies of people,
whom you have touched, cored.
I am one,, who has floated on your river,
And was bettered for its cleansing.
Whatever it takes,
whatever I have,
beseech you,
beseech me!
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
Death valley drone,
warm sun flesh draped over,
stiff, parched bone - joint torn,
cored roasted ligament on stifling plains.
Sun set delerium,
excitement, psychedelia in,
wild minds, winding, twisting ways,
flushed skin, bleached hair,
death wish depraved,
melancholy-mania taking hits,
under rapture days
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
How many ends in and of themselves
constitute a fill that is yours?
Abreacted claimant...many airs
light at the feet.
I Am with you, I Am you upon this
All-encompassed fold.
Our knees stupefied by weight...
gone weak--gone strong, time and
out of so again.
As a priest walking up the aisle,
censer oscillating the concrescence
of attending souls.
Sniffing for the emblazoned churchyard...
known paces out of doors--the sky
falling down and granting pace no more...
of we, figured in the delving core,
cored out...The Great Scattering.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
BALLEA PLAY
( for my fellow playmate of those days
my cousin Mary Francis Forde )
The cut corn
bound by twine or súgán.
into sheaves into stooks into stacks
stacks and stacks reeks and reeks of it
hay into haggard
and that was it
"cored" as they said.
And yes that was uncle's and dad's work
but a harvest indeed for us kids.
We took it from there
fodder yes but for us play.
Jumping from the far away top
falling through air
lots and lots of air
into more hay
hours and hours of horseplay
bungee jumping without the rope.
A mountain of hay to leap from
a mountain of hay to land in.
Shouting: "Stooks...shocks & ricks!"
New sounds we were only after learning.
Or places names that one could taste on the tongue:
"Killingly...Killingly...KILLINGLY!"
I still forever falling through the air
of that day....that free fall through the years
landing in today
the 30th day of my 60th year.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
To Tina. Like so much else...
Fresh from ambulance; you're open inside.
Already scheduled for struma surgery,
Now hospitalized with unrelated wounds.
Slight brave smile and whisper *I really thought it was enough
Already...*
I agree.
Fresh from surgery, brave but unsuccessful at concealing
Multible stabs with every movement
Yet in charge and control of your own, young life
With the unyielding authority of an assertive lil'-ol'-lady when
Demanding to work as if nothing.
Punctures still healing. The phone call comes.
I go to get you at work.
You wanted to work, but your legs don't work
So Alex and the girls close shop and cover you in a blanket of
Collegial Love.
Closed Due To Death in Family.
You haven't yet had time to feel fatherless,
All there is is shock and distance behind
A mask of masterly crafted concrete cored kevlar.
I carry your sorrow by our side to the taxi.
Slight brave smile and whimper *I really thought it was enough
Already...*
I agree.
This is a statue to your strength, young woman.
This is to record your struggles and blows so they may be held in
The eyes of contemporary poets and the
Cyberarcheologists of the future.
There's something behind your smile; bigger and braver and stronger
Than any man's testosteral ego.
It makes life.
It is a wing over everything.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Ice grips my heart.
I tell myself this every morning.
Blizzards deafen my mind,
I drive with the windows down at fifteen below.
Freezing me to solid stone,
Unreachable by human hands.
Beautiful on surface clear,
Deathly to those that dare come near.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
Best movements made are subtle.
Years, been record needle down.
Embrace the rubber ring
king of the loop.
Stuck in spin, too.
Spent, cored, spun,
inside the toilet.
Spent, cored, spun,
inside the toilet bowl.
A format, everlasting --
good!
A poet, ******* banality,
out of steam.
Cored, spun, and bored,
skimming porcelain.
Cored, spun, and bored,
kissing porcelain.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 8:50 PM UTC
I sat down by my father's grave (who is not dead yet),
and my mother's (who died 3 years ago),
and my aunt (who died two years ago-- alone),
and my great-grandparents (who died before I knew them).
I sat down with dry eyes by these graves all in a row
and contemplated the cold, impermanence of life.
My father maintains the graves.
He festoons them with colorful flowers for Memorial Day.
I think, how cliche to ornament with
silk flowers in a fake urn
on a lonesome line of graves.
But, moving the wire-cored foliage I see a singular
peacock feather hidden among the sanguine flowers
and realize this is the essence of my father
and that understanding
dampens my cheeks.
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 2:28 PM UTC