"curdled" poems
Endless stains of blood
On white t-shirts
On nights that scatter blue trees over black earth
Alight by shooting stars
The mother tells her child
Unwilling to unlock the truth
The truth those stars
Don't grant your wishes
They grab them
With scarred scratching hands.
Alight,
The damp stitches in the soil
Cemetery symmetrical to hospital
Those shooting stars circling
Like a vulture
Speeds towards dead carcasses
Still, the murdering star will not cease
To break bones
That have already broken
To take lives
That have already been taken
To burn
What is already charred
Today
smells like burnt muddied skin
feels like gnawing on your own fingers for feast
sounds like tired, howling machines
spurring and sputtering, never-ending their onwards trek
Swallowing distances and with it, nameless faces
countless places
Today the earthquakes of death
Don't make the land shake anymore
For it has learned to cope
With the desolate cemeteries filled with mute bones
Today burns like gasoline
Looks like intestines decorating destroyed doorways
Today it rains curdled crimson
Tell me shooting star
If the child liked jam on his toast
Did he snore?
Did he like math? Or english?
Shooting star doesn't know and neither the bombs.
As bodies fall from trees
like rotten plums.
The world was born in blood
And has not ceased to suckle its wounds
Endless blood thirst, Endless war
But not endless skin to bleed.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:41 AM UTC
With her cowpoke
She went riding out with him
One dark and windy day.
The desert had forsaken their love and left their hearts astray.
As sharp as a cactus' spine, her lips did pine for days.
They sat around their victim's pyres tasting burnt bone, curdled blood.
She saw the mess of her cowpoke, blonde and brown beauties layed in the mud.
She asked why must these girls die
If their looks were truly good
He mumbled that his heart had been broken by the stormy flood.
So they swept across Arizona with it's bright windy haze
And withdrew their revolvers with eyes that met in gaze
They downed a couple of beers in the dusky saloon
Until right in front of them was the old rusty moon
Tonight she will riding out in the ****** lands
Where with her man she'll be soaking her rigid hands
In wine that oozes from the corpses in the sands
And in the sheets ridin' she'll take command.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
Soft curdled interior now at its eutectic
Holds a bifurcated square of gluten
Equally carbonized together
In an **** of ill-advised but sensual nutrition
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Cheer me up with a knitted cancer hat
and a joke about tomorrow's goal
being that of getting to the end,
safe and unharmed past the chemotherapy combat.
Clear me up with plastic pills that
sit on the tongue and slit the throat
and the surrounding gum,
all to get better and to get back on the feet.
Cheat me with wise words that you
pawned off of pages and curdled
website phrases that offer
nothing more than a little comfort for yourself.
Take me to where tracks lead to tracks that lead to douglas fir lined, dirtier farmyard tracks and let me breathe in that sap, that golden wood-coated scent that'll wrap itself around my nostrils and hat.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
I look at the stain
My period has left on my favorite *******
And hold them in my hand
As I contemplate what to do with them.
I can try to get the blood out
But the stain will still linger
A reminder that I am only human
And ************ is natural but -
“Dont talk about that,
Thats so nasty.
Maybe that's why
You've been such a *****
Typical FEMALES”
I am gross for being a woman?
Men worship my *****
But the moment I bleed
It's as disgusting as curdled milk.
Society wants to see me
As something unhuman
An object to worship
A ****** mindless creature
That does what she's told
A FEMALE.
But I am a WOMAN
I have ideas, morals, and input.
My thoughts and opinions that matter.
I can make jokes,
And drink beer,
And read,
And play video games,
And be a musician,
And speak my mind,
And bleed.
Like a FEMALE human.
Or,
Like a woman.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
The bad seed :: takes root :: roots extend :: in the head :: A constant branching :: budding bursting :: away :: and away :: and away :: roots branch and extend :: The Holy Schism :: Mother's breast :: bisected :: salt and milk :: curdle :: then settle :: into the nine creamy layers of Hell :: roots extend :: bury into Her pith :: bisected :: a honeysuckle rut :: Mother screams :: a poisonous :: foam :: spraying Her wither around :: killing :: the sacred cow :: :: :: there :: there She is :: the pretty blight :: the slit :: in the stem pursed tight :: down lower :: over two hills :: to a black and blue lagoon :: Mother in bloom :: Her putrid flower :: slaps open sloppy :: wide :: open :: for osmosis :: for curdled spore spew :: sucking flaccid :: with lips and teeth
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:55 PM UTC
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
"the words you found yourself exploring
are curdled old decayed & boring
i haven't heard one spoken sentence
but i enjoy the broken remnants
because then i can place & rearrange
the lame explanations on blank pages
replace the phrases i don't care for
erase the reason they were there for
display them as a euphemism
more mistakes to be forgiven
you're pathetic i'm the greatest
you're regretted i'm replaceless
i'm incredible you're a waste
i'm sensible you're outrageous"
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:29 PM UTC
Everyone dies
Story’s always the same
I just wish I could tell it
Some new, different way
To revivify life
With a vivid description
Instead of this atmosphere’s
Toxic constriction
Malnourishment kitchen
An infant mortality
Failure to listen
To self-absorbed, carbon-based
Standard emission
Way passed overfishin’
For likes on the social de-human condition
Automaton autobahn
Trickle down neocon
For-profit prison bomb
Boomin’ like radical
Islamic martyrdom
Unemployed masses
Of back of the classes
The masking of innocent
Voices in ashes
An **** of power
And greed wretches *****
Mother Earth out to fuel
Their big engines of war
An insatiable thirst for more
Curdled blood screams
As I rot to the Corps
Of America’s Dreams
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
on the canvas. I was
wet and dripping like a feral
kitten. My creator didn’t lay me
out in the sun. And so, my colors
run. The red and blues
look purple. The mother’s milk
curdled. Throwing me up as ***** And so,
I left a stain. Beaten by the brush
I lost my sense of touch. Now
I’m oily. I’m a spill in a broken
frame. I hang on the wall as
a flower. None admire me. But I haven’t
nerves to leave.
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 7:36 AM UTC
If you take away the ticker-tape barriers
and the scattered signs for luggage,
vending machines and airport
senior leadership teams,
all you’ll have is a hall of
travel.
Some seats remain
for the elderly to reside in,
they’re checking holiday books
and pamphlet guides.
Floor space has curdled
into a mess of white-deodorant-
stained teens who want a
good night’s sleep like
the marines across the way.
They, the marines, joke about
the weather, the women, the
watered down beverages from broken
vending machines and shit-cafe-
expensive-coffee down the strip.
De Gaulle is but a roof now:
drains and curving stretches of
eyebrow iron,
not the general France
once relied upon.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
what a lonely world
lost art drifting like continents
atlantis buried beneath
concrete towers of arrogant learning
like pools of curdled milk
spilled on the floor of eternity
i am learning slowly
how important it is to keep my head empty
and how to dive real deep
though we'd like to sweep this mess into a hat
the chances of defeat are pretty high
and you won't ever get to see me do that
just because we are innocent
doesn’t mean that we are weak
while some things are not worth speaking of
others remain ineffable
and perhaps you care to show me the difference
as i am an eye-witness to all the lies you’ve spread
bare legged angel **** me swiftly
and i’ll happily spend eternity
lying underneath these sticks and leaves
i see multi-colored petals everywhere
placed as silent offerings at your lotus feet
while others are prone in your presence
to throwing their weight around deferentially
the nourishing sound of your heart beating
is enough to satiate my each and every craving
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
<>
it’s not even 6am, restless night, or wrestled night, ain’t much difference, see the **** geese on the water’s edge, I dutifully slip out of bed, awakening no one, dutifully slide in to my slip-on sneakers, grab the white umbrella next to the front door, dutifully, steadily, my first chore of the day, walk deliberately (and carefully) to make them get them get heck away, into the sound, and to cease polluting the grass where children may play…
standing at the waters edge, task finished, the sky commands examination, there is within the cumulus textured, multi-pastel, thick curdled pastiche cloud banks, overhanging the world as far as one can see, a substantive hole appearing in the sky revealing a blue heaven….what one believes, prefers should be, but what is, in fact,
not a…given and we are a but, partly cloudy day, a partly clouded observant person…
this reminds me that there are holes in all places, everywhere, in my disturbed sleep, where I spend hours of triangulating in dreams, what I cannot pin down:
who I am, what I am, my purpose on earth, though I know where
I am, though not even, most critically, why I am…
is this a poem?
this thoughtful cursed query sits behind my eyes, frontally lobed, perpetually asking, judging me, these words, repetitiously heard,
one is not fooled,
it is a simple self-evaluation test, only an ask,
what are my justifications, ma raison d'être,
(reason for being) which is an amuse, for I discover
in French, ‘reason for being,’
is a feminine word,
(qui en Français,
c'est un mot féminin…)
and that makes me smile,
for I’m a woman-centric man
(I have no gender confusion,
this is not one of the holes
to which I refer)
perhaps it is, or, perhaps it is a rambunctious rambling of no worth, for no answers are obtained, given, deduced, and holes, skyward and inward are deep, none delimited by neither bottom or a top, just widening gaps and gapes in my existence…and answers are not
forthcoming…
<>
5:50am
Thursday July 18
Year Two Thousand and Twenty Four
Jul 18, 2024
Jul 18, 2024 at 6:51 AM UTC
A huge centipede crawls across the floor
He is black
and his legs are orange.
He is enormous
12 inches
Maybe more
And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by
And they smile and reach down and pat him.
They smile.
And he bites their hands.
Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures,
which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles.
The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins.
They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand.
From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain.
They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows.
A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud
and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh.
He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor.
She giggles in delight!
The centipede rips her limb from limb and
She giggles in delight!
Another wet thud.
She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one.
Fate!
Their lips meet
and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes.
They giggle in delight!
As the centipede rips them limb from limb.
You look like you're losing weight!
The centipede is finding it.
He eats all but their skulls,
shining in a thin layer of blood,
picked clean of flesh
Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips
Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor
until it hits against a white wall with a crack
and it splits.
Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede.
And with every wet thud on the floor
another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement.
The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room.
And soon there is one pugilist left
And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle
and yellow poisoned veins.
The centipede rears back
But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight
and its back snaps,
spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 9:45 PM UTC
i have seen people lose
their innocence, I have
seen them tie their feet
with vine and swallow
rocks with smiles on
their faces.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
She spent all her eyelashes
And birthday candles
And 1:11 “close your eyes and breathe slow” wishes
On one moment
One moment that sloshed around, losing its heat like a soup
Left out too long.
She spent all the soft breaths of dandelions
On one person who’s sleepy skin
Curdled
Under her wilting hands.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
782
There is an arid Pleasure—
As different from Joy—
As Frost is different from Dew—
Like element—are they—
Yet one—rejoices Flowers—
And one—the Flowers abhor—
The finest Honey—curdled—
Is worthless—to the Bee—
2k
Chorus, string Music Box, 8. Daud Mazmur
Why does yawning slap my face?
I don't wake Yawn's slumbering
while I work, except when tired. Mercy please.
Healing bones, working.Yawning.
Waiting and churning fear into butter.
And U? How long have U curdled
my milk? Soul food & Paneer satisfies.
Save me some of that satisfaction
leftover. When I wake, yawning,
dead tired, who hears my need for snacks?
I'm tired of sighing,
of sleeping in Noah's bed,
floating on crocodile tears.
I can't swim no more with these eyes.
They're too old, swollen from too many fights.
U go. A timeout for a few hours, while I rest the no.
I hear Yawn's snore,
I know the dinner's ready;
Enemies sit; I share the butter without shame,
and suddenly we are not disappointed.
We have guiltily repented.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
Blood in all the right places.
Your square ******* head
looks just the same,
a little older maybe,
some new lines around the edges.
Still the same crazy shine in your eyes.
Years later the same traces,
barely discernible
to the unknowing,
of earlier
disgusting
scenarios
being played out
in your living room.
I smell the rancid
sweat of old men.
I taste the curdled,
sour milk
of your breath,
recently begging for
alms.
I hear your hands
pleading whisper,
palms
being offered up
as your eyes
lower.
He owns you.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Pain reminds me I'm alive
Wish it would just let me die
Head spins violent ***** spouting
Evil eye pressure builds up pounding
Cracks streak my face from capillary fractures
I choke on three day old eggs and curdled milk
My teeth devolving in stomach acid
As bitter and stringent as anything I can think of
Still not done ********
Hemorrhoid blood dripping sticky
Toilet seat gripping
Not to mention the bathtub
Full of ***** needing washed out
At least my hair is clean...
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
here lies
our love
curdled
at the
bottom
of an
empty
coffee mug
(maybe one day
i'll get the nerve
to wash it out)
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers
And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces
And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched ***
His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth.
His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard
And his insults were sharp staccatos
And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk
And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread.
His eyebrows were gargoyle wings
And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass
He sang, and it was cough syrup
And his beard was a soiled litter box.
His fingers, dried seaweed
And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges.
His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun
His grin was a snagged zipper
And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September
And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes
And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss.
His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey.
His chest was the backside of a dung beetle.
His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog
And his knees were skulls
And his touch was a snug pressure cuff
And his compassion was a guillotine
And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
I'm troubled by a broken tune,
that can't keep time and loops too soon.
Like Christmas in the heart of June,
each summer's heat a curdled moon.
It's not that I keep glancing back,
or wander down well-trodden tracks,
I've raged against a wall of facts,
interrogating every crack.
Yet still I feel its tender bass
and scrawl each lyric on my face.
I've copied out each line to trace
the meaning of this groundhog chase.
No matter which new route I choose,
this labyrinth seems short of clues.
There are no shields or string to use,
just an ageing bard that strums the blues.
And now begins another dance,
the waltz of sighs and askew glance.
It's orchestra tuned up by chance,
with instruments of circumstance.
And so returns the song's refrain.
Its endless echo back again,
to score my steps while I remain,
a different man, who's still the same.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
I am the creamy glass of milk
you've stolen from the easterners gods you're hastily slurping down
"for my own good".
Willing myself to turn sour in your mouth.
Begging you to spit me out, because I'd rather be anywhere other than splashing around your rotten yellowed teeth.
Mindful of the approaching date you've slapped on my side,
robbing me of my cured potential, so rich and golden.
As I'm sliding down your throat I cheers to hoping I curdle your stomach, like you've curdled mine.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC