"corrosive" poems
They rest all over
whilst I was rooted to the ground,
the water acting like superglue
as my limbs stretched out.
Towards the clumps of land
rods of steal and wood weaved,
to connect and *****
that which we call humanity.
But there were abuse on the rods
formed by hands who'd calloused hearts,
poison coursing through their veins,
but not a single thought was given
for they were innocent in their brain.
Said limbs and rods spiraled out,
as nothing was left to chance,
intertwining everyone's destiny
in majestic flare and grace, grand
like a ballerina's dance.
But the poison was too corrosive,
the termites were too much,
as everything eroded, imploded,
crumbled and buried under
mounds of earth.
But today is different,
a new beginning, a new life.
As if the gods have willed
something better to arrive.
Indeed they came: Ports
forged from purity anew,
where fresh legs are delivered
and old legs whisked away.
For no matter how dark it
was, is, will be,
even during the night,
there always is and will be
a pip of light.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
The shades of gray are nearly infinite-
mirroring attitudes regarding our sin.
Degrees of separation give distinction
to human perception of ugliness within.
Living now in this ‘Age of Information’
has not made life much more palatable;
visible is God’s Truth and Satan’s lies,
as individuals determine what’s palpable.
Gobs of available data doesn’t translate
into experience and useful wisdom directly.
Real sapience, is shown by the Holy Spirit,
when the ideas of faith are under scrutiny.
Biblical principles enable all to overcome
corrosive powers of intellectual pollution;
however, personal change, only occurs when…
one has the mindset for a Heavenly solution!
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
1 Cor 2; Phil 4:4-8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
*she's a corrosive story
Hidden within a mirror
Never to be heard again
As I gulp down my favorite cheap *****
I wondered with amazement at my ignorance
And the vicious adage that crippled me
love is blind
You were a ruthless callous soul
and still
remnants of your cold heart still linger in my thoughts
loving you was devastating*
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
The door to your heart is a horrifying puzzle
Your Jigsaw pattern I can't put together
The pieces I hold don't correspond
So I take parts from you
Which is making me Leatherface
And giving you a flatter taste
And the ****** chain I saw placed
Was pressed to your door with haste
You're a killer doll like Chucky
How could I have been so unlucky?
I can't even cut through your curtains
I become a cold corpse before the movie can start
Like a careless Jamie Lee Curtis
How long can such a curted courtship last?
Before I contrive the courage to crush
The Killer Croc in your rib cage
But the corrosive corrections officer
That is your puzzle piece door
Impedes all progress to your horror heart
Because the improper placement of pieces
Will make me think you're The Witch
When you tell me Don't Breathe
As my theater's lights dim
I scramble for an exit
But my only escape from the cinema is through your door
I grow cynically situated to the pitch black pictures
How could I expect to solve the riddle
Now that I need to?
Doors that can't be opened are walls
Speaking softly turns to brawls
As your pieces scattered like change
Your door completely wrapped in chains
I feel stupid and ashamed
Your puzzled movie's to blame
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 4:16 AM UTC
Blame is a corrosive projection of Ego.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
I have been told that a love left untouched will never disappear; that because the corrosive oils from our fingertips have not dissolved its coloring, it will, theoretically, endure perpetually. This love, left in its shrink-wrap casing, looming over the heads of the meek and the caustic feels like a scarlet letter hidden behind the robe, a feeling so foul none are to know but, Oh, what if it begins to fester, there in the moist dark?
This worry had been sitting in my stomach, churning with the bile and swallowed blood, coming up acid in my throat; I could feel it radiating out. Thought: it must be nuclear, must be radioactive and glowing, eating through me one layer at a time, but love –this uranium longing– has a half-life.
When first the reaction began it boiled and popped like lye on skin, singed off my eyelids so I could not help but see it there. I found myself woozy from the fumes, a high I had never experienced before so I inhaled, let it torch my lungs and leave me gagging. My hair began to fall out. I was soggy from the chemotherapy, tried pumping this bitterness into my bloodstream to remove the evil that already existed there, unaware that they were the same entity. It could not survive on a diet of itself and obsession, and so it began waning.
An exponential decay, the intensity of this passion varying directly with the frequency of contact and inversely with time, yet it will never be gone, entirely. It will decrease incrementally every time I say good bye, every time I see scarred knuckles, every time I want and he does not. I have counted the days since the day I counted on him and he was accountable and the number is growing larger and getting more difficult to remember. I have scribbled it onto scraps of paper and it has only browned the edges, no longer burns all the way through, and this love –this radium affair– has been losing its toxicity.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
His fist scarred, beat-red fistful of intention
Rugged, crass unchiseled wonder wrapped in a gentle smile
A bear of a man, broad shouldered hulking bent
Stuffed-fluff heart tattooed with the echo of love
The times he grappled in sweaty- slick tangle of arms and drew blood blooming bright-crisp-apple-red upon white mat.
Beat, Beat, Beat, down
Tap, Tap, Tap, out
White knuckle-grasp uppercut
Full mount, disengage
Joint locked, feet hooked, Triangle hold
Submission.
The times he brought grown men to their knees, and humbled himself on his own
The times he never gave up and the times he gave in
To the fight
To the system
To the sweet draw of relief
The times he fought not for the thrill but to make it by
Rage hot-red facing the injustice of poverty
His steel spine riddled with the rust of life, the rust of reality
The corrosive sludge of hate, and words left unspoken.
Busted well-worn hands held soft smooth skin
Grooved fingers and velvet mouth
The scratch of bearded stubble, red-lined skin prickled with goose flesh, slick coated in sweat
A new fight, wrapped knuckles cushioned with the promise of forgiveness
Of acceptance a force to be reckoned with in her own right.
Broken hand, dreams stunted, depressed-mind-numbing
Lost in his own thought, out of the fight
Desperate to be back in the game mind and body
Envy-red, drawn to the fight of others
Soft smooth hands, short-small-painted nails calm bristled hair
Growling bear, baring teeth in silent-wounded pride
The time she bandaged pride, and encouraged humility
The times she scalded his senses the raw-red liquid fire of love
His shade in the heat of a red-blistered sun
Cooling, and igniting inspiration
The time she became a fight worth winning.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
I think I can relate you to vinegar.
Bitter, noxious, not very useful all alone.
I don't think I warned you,
but I'm a lot like bleach.
Caustic, corrosive, flammable,
and absolutely wonderful with the right material.
Now, put us together.
Were we both so stupid not to realise
that vinegar and bleach
make toxic chlorine gas?
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
Socrates consumed Hemlock,
Cleopatra embraced the Asp,
Alan Turing ate an apple laced with cyanide,
I, like those before me,
Have picked my poison;
An absinthe-eyed, quicksilver-tongued boy.
He was unsettled when I answered with the truth of his query,
Yes, he is poison,
I knowingly and willingly consume every drop of him,
Not all toxicity is solely adverse,
Radiation treats cancer,
Venom in low doses is an antidote,
Ethanol relaxes muscle and numbs the emotions.
He is my poison and my antidote,
He is the corrosive acid that dissolves gear-stopping rust,
I, in kind, am the poison apple of his eye,
Or so he says,
And so, we two, bask in the destruction of ourselves,
Consuming each other's pain, insecurity, madness, and lust,
Why is it that he, a poison, is the one I trust?
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Its lost in transient ideals
The vivid colours in changing scopes
- and the doors are all open
Its broken but fixable
Your system I mean
- Its corrosive
(Two men on a brick wall, blowing halted tunes through old whistles)
And the country is talking aloud
You can't complain that nobody listens
Wailing sirens in the dusk sky, saddened, non satiata
Will you trust these sounds at such volumes
It's deafening, the city when it cries
When she cries, when the city dies
When the government lies
When the government lies
- because they do lie
All of them
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
a thirst for the divine inspiration
which is probably hidden
in this coffee bean.
structure & form are reflective of
meaning & function,
so what does that make my body?
what does that make my face?
other people's opinions are always
teasing like they were brushes
and the strands of my hair were days
but the 80s are long gone and
i've got bigger dogs to wrestle.
if you compare a strong mule to a
peeping baby bird
you've wrapped up the history of thought
in two corrosive words.
i want fervently to have hope in my species.
but i walk a path that weaves tight
between compassion & contempt.
if structure &
form are reflective
of meaning & function,
then i am trickling down
with the fresh melted snow,
pouring myself in a muddy stream
filled with silver gold spirals that span
the visible spectrum, elongating & growing forever
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length—at length—after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
O spells more sure than e’er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—”not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
Not all the magic of our high renown—
Not all the wonder that encircles us—
Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
2.5k
#
You are in there, I am certain of it--
Behind the gear's finely-honed,
precision fit gear..
in to gear
in to gear
into gear..
And I wonder.. do you want out?
The machine on the outside, self-repairs
Any attempt towards dismantle from
the external, is futile..
But the internal, beautiful girl..
"I don't know what you mean, about 'machine'"
She is apprehensive, those beautiful
brown eyes, looking up at me..
"Look down, sweet girl"
Her thighs, fully parted, as I slide
in to her.. those amazing hips,
moving so perfectly with mine, extracting..
Milking from me, my warm pulsing *****
a deeply-penetrating lubricant, pulsed
deeply into the machine
As if to lubricate its gears..
As if..
But penetrating so deeply, as to now
permeate the insides of the
mechanization's innerworkings--
turning from lubricant, to that
of a corrosive nature..
Fully coating now, the inner you..
as it turns back now, into that
of a healing balm
Bringing to you a moment of Light
and internal clarity--
long enough for you to see
That the machine is made vulnerable
by the ever-changing qualities of
Love that found its way through
As the awakened parts within you, for the
first time.. understand
the machine's love-blocking, nature
And you begin to choose, mid-orgasm
the machine's dismantle, from the inside--
*'Little by little..
Line, upon line..
Block, upon block..
Precept, upon precept..'*
Until we have the chance, once again..
to do it all again
#
Aug 15, 2021
Aug 15, 2021 at 11:38 AM UTC
Addictive, flavorless
******* the life out of my persona
Truth?
Laughable, when all that's spewed out is lies
Tongue tied
Giving into the trust
You feel it
Coursing through veins
Corrosive
Burn my skin
I want to feel pain
Disintegrate
Bury me alive
Coughing, rotting
Worthless
I haven't had enough
Shock me
2000 bolts through my body
Until I'm ****** into reality
Until I feel something real
Why do you ignore it?
How much louder do I have to shriek
When will enough be enough?
Walk on the road
Cautious
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
A trilogy of love: bared, shared, pared
Lust's shallow wave: crests, cascades, crashes
Deeper, emotive swells: rise, rumble, release
Conflicting currents form rip tide: tugging, tossing, tearing
Amor's undulating rhythms pulsate
Low tide, latent fantasies surface ego to ingratiate
High tide, a endless churning of desires our longing cannot satiate
Libidinous breakers scour lecherous bottom; a brackish foam doth emanate
In the deeper recesses of our minds, a rational connection percolates
From the depths, a heart-felt ****** rises; a growing bond initiates
Two, constant minds mutually sharing space; each hope, dream resonates
Surface tension increases; two hearts mount each obstacle, common course navigates
Nearing balmy shore, strong winds of indifference blow
Into eroding channels untested lovers unwittingly row
Selfish goals drag the unstable pair into the undertow
Corrosive fears, unmitigated doubts sever trust placing love in escrow
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
every moment
is continually shedding itself;
sloughing off the skin of time,
dying, into the past,
to freshen in exposure,
this moment.
to live, really
to breathe, by
impermanence.
constantly transforming,
the body is never solid,
here, there, as atomic flashes,
electrons popping in and out
of existence,
an appearance made,
to depart, in a flicker.
all turns off, like this,
always, eventually,
momentarily.
threshed and stripping
bare chaos
voraciously burns,
returning through extinguish
on smokey black horizons.
sinking, into
tendrils weaving,
knitting by fray,
tapestries engendered
by enveloping decease.
you feel this
don’t you?
unconscious
as much of it may be.
it is the nearest of near,
and dearly intimate,
passions corrosive kiss,
oscillating, opening,
to retract, in flow,
pushing in
to pull away,
thanatos is eros
together, apart again,
together-apart,
here-going.
the heart is aware,
supremely aware of this happening,
even when the mind is fooled
by apparent stability,
and the soul surrenders to
it's inevitability,
even hungering for
divine destruction,
as basic an urge
as the creative impulse.
to be composed
is to be subject to decompose,
fertilizing compositions
in cosmic chasms.
our lungs darkly shining
with every fall of the chest
mirroring,
each breath
one breath closer
to the final breath,
each exhale
a letting go
of what can’t be held
forever,
the expelled
foreshadows annihilation,
on the fading road, towards
this mortal coils entropic end;
a preparation.
to live, surely, is to meet loss
over and over,
to love, fully, is to grieve
again and again,
there is a deep
melancholic knowing
that exists in all living things,
water drops
tears like rain,
leaves fall
like sighs,
everyone,
and everything
dies.
our melancholy
might be sacred
could we truly embrace,
and feel, this reality:
death is the ever present condition.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Love and Hate are two most curious things
The impulses, the thoughts, and the actions they bring
The absence of Love is the absence of Life,
cut from the collective like soft flesh with a knife
The presence of Hate is corrosive in time,
makes as much sense as a poem with rhyme
Hate and Love are companions - they go hand in hand
Through beaches and mountains - forest and sand
Hate is incorruptible but alas - Love is not the same
Something to remember while you're playing the game
Of romance and intrigue, truth and lies
Screams of passion and loathing tinged with sighs
Love is truth and Hatred - Deception
Ever has it been since the universe's conception
And when the game is over and the dust has cleared
You'll find nothing's been done to assuage what you feared
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 5:15 AM UTC
How stand thee tall, judgemental,now? How dost thou choose thy bread?
When all around thee, finger pointers, leer and shake their head.
Have you found a sphere of comfort here, whilst perched upon thy throne?
Has it ever really bothered you, that esconced, you're quite alone?
You live with dire restrictions, imposed so harshly by the Court
And as socially, classed an isolate, it affects you more than ought.
Though recompensed so generously you feel the pressure bound
Because each and every day your judgement rendered, must be sound.
Each utterance decreed by you must hold good Law intoned
Or the Brotherhood Knights Templar shall see you thoroughly dethroned.
A Pillar of Society, though one who stands forlorn
Is the Judge who'se daily client's words are negatively sworn.
The Judge who waits expectantly for that ray of light to shine
But is constantly bombarded by the tarnished shade of crime.
The loneliness is tangible and corrosive wear extreme
For the man who sits in judgement and who'se wisdom must be seen.
Marshalg
Pukehana
13 January 2014
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Let us converge on the greatest Garden and then turn to others of meaning and beauty we are so dutiful
To work with family but in the beginning not only clues but evidence shows our great need we need to
With draw walk the garden paths at evening time with our creator father how peace would flow into the
Deepest recesses of our being briars of discontent found today would be changed into focal points of
Clustered flowers to the eye they enthrall with softness their scent infill’s the empty vessel that was
Spilled or intentionally poured out for the help of others with the most soothing rush it flows over the
Whole of you bask in this released treasure and then lift your eyes from His gifts to His lips that are
Speaking to you never have you partaken or been to the inner and outer most part of yourself with total
Disclosure confusion pain and alienation lift as a soiled garment the refreshing sweeping breeze carries
Torment out to sea the moist outer banks flood in as a great mist you are at once bound and beaming
With the knowledge that you are a most valuable person He addresses yourself aberrations that
Demean your true worth so it lies in all men and women the tell tale accuser the discomfited not from
Friend’s family or stranger did not William say it so truly “to thine own self be true” we are most cruel to
Ourselves this trait is vanquished when we are in the very presence of all consuming love he looks inside
At every hurt you see through His eyes and there is no complaint or accusation just acceptance faraway
Longings surprisingly touch and fill attending sorrow that baffled with a consistency how it unerringly
always found the mark it never missed your heart now by the touch of His hand
On the side of your face an erasing a newness of promise was put in its place how your smile told an
Outward story of the final removal of trepidations that were corrosive and were clay like that stuck and
Clung to your soul creating a heaviness and depression now the freeing bouncy love dispels the darkest
Apparitions that are lies that fight your best and highest interest what was the word that said moving
Mountains yes the heights and lows are neutralized now joy peace is at flood stage all it took was a stroll
In the garden
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
an embrace without a lost paradise
your cabaret words like a trance
I walk through the corrosive noise
I find my way to your footsteps on narrow streets
you hardly look back at your traces when they erase your touch from the map of time
so painful the hands left alone
you are touched by a melancholy impossible for some mornings
I am touched by reverie, entropy and memory
next desire on display a stain or a broken destiny
the weight of our shadows unknown
a foreign tissue is carrying the profoundness of thoughts
bear with me this heart tarred with pain
a moon song be the night
when trees remember how deep their dreams run
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 6:21 PM UTC
My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant
chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting;
echoes of scarcely delayed feelings,
millimetrically placed and ready to be felt;
remnants of cromagnon desires,
keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame,
while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively,
with all its humiliating nerve.
Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike,
and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way,
no less conscious than our total unconsciousness.
Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance,
and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies,
without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead.
Thought’s true thought is to block awareness
by darkening the place where true awareness lies.
We think therefore we think:
to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists.
We conveniently overrate rationality
in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly,
leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate.
Life is Nature’s grunt or roar
(whatever and the same)
all just a sound, faint or not.
We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence,
and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.
As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers,
whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived:
violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed,
cities are wanted, planned and assembled,
while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar,
and true lives, true loves and true deities are born.
As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature)
and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling,
he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free.
Thought stands alongside feeling,
without communication nor vibration,
and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix,
directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding,
until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.
The world as we know it folds upon itself, layer by layer,
in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal.
The chasm separating man from himself contracts
(eventually to nil)
and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4).
As he falls, in mid-flight,
the ultimate metamorphosis occurs,
and an übermensch is born.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
Where were you, you little *******
Where were you hiding
As I turned out the lights last night?
Were you in the closet as I came into the bedroom?
Did you seep like a flood
Across the floor in the darkness
Rising up the leg of the bed
And into my ears like liquid toxic waste?
Were you under the pillow
And as my fingers slid under there
Between the crisp, smooth layers of white cotton?
Did you coil about my fingers
And up my arm
To spread over my scalp
All fuming-acid corrosive?
Were you in under the folds
Of the welcoming, white-striped comforter
As we turned in after a perfectly pleasant day?
Waiting, still, in the dark
As I pulled the blankets up taught?
And just below my chin
As the cold sheets around me warmed
To stop the just-into-bed shivers?
Did you crawl up then as I dozed
And twist around my throat
To tighten slowly until I awoke in your grip?
Where ever you were hiding,
You got the drop on me.
You turned the tiny dim lights
That peek into the room at night
Into piercing lasers.
You amplified the tiniest odours
Into dizzying, eye-watering stenches.
You traded the rising-sun's rays
As they finally pierced the curtains
After my hours of sleepless discomfort
For a blasts of neutron-bomb radiation.
Worst of all
You stole the cool, soothing side of the pillow
Every time I managed to find it
Giving me instead a sickly, warm bundle of gorse.
Where were you, you little *******
Where were you hiding?
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
~
Corrosive elevation
Metabolic creation
At the mouth of cough drop falls
Trails of caustic, nomadic influence:
Coffee lips
Decaffeinated tongue
Resealable groove
Reusable embryo
White hunter
Melt snow
Hang fire
Black crow
Mechanical peak
Summit on a stick
Chiseled grey
The smoke ascending
They call "day"
Lovely shade of sadness, this
Wandering endocarp
Hidden in caves, hollows, crags, cellars, and cisterns
It came naked
From out of the acrid woods
And said
"The locust are upon us..."
~
Apr 3, 2022
Apr 3, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
i.
a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.
she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.
another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow
ii.
on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and
i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because
i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off
azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well
those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that
sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.
iii.
death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream
but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.
iv.
when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.
v.
i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.
i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
and i am bitter.
vi.
i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.
i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.
i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.
i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.
vii.
ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest, and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC