"deform" poems
Stars in the sky exploding
Space and time folding
Bombs going off as the galaxy rips
Flashing lights fight to eclipse
Visions full of fluorescence
At the sacrifice of a solar systems essence
Shooting stars cry across the skies
Puncturing planets as they pulverize
Swirls of liberation
Celestial bodies melting in devastation
Swarms collect and deform
Exploding into storms as they transform
The aura of the aurora bleeding like mascara
As if the planet is crying at the end of an era
Watching as black holes fight over vibrant sights
Pulling it apart as it ignites
What a wonderful curse
To befall the universe
It's so beautiful its cryptic
God bless a life so apocalyptic
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
Have you ever been angry?
So angry you've scared yourself.
Because for a second you saw that face staring back from within.
An immense depth fast approaching.
So absent of light the only reason you caught a glimpse was those eyes.
Beaming back at you with illumination so frightening your core began to shudder and rumble.
Crumbled down and watched this beast claw its way out.
Over rock and mortar. Through coarse cage of steel.
Those cold eyes staring down - helplessly watching.
This beast was once kept sealed.
Who gave it this key to destruction.
This shapeless fluid in motion soulless tragedy.
Black velvet drape dipped in fiery energy.
Pure hate which had been compressed for eternity.
Now concentrated and intent on wreaking havoc.
I sent my armies. I sent them all.
Countless deaths and yet I sent more.
Quick slaughter - not the painless type.
This beast they could not stall.
Thrashes of bodies. Clawed and torn.
Festering flesh flying from fallen.
Axe, Sword and Mace soaked,
dripping in warm fresh blood-pounding hate.
Shatters of armor and unrecognizable corpses.
What do I do?
It seeks me as a vessel - to be worn.
I can feel the hate changing me.
Quickly now or I'll soon deform.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
You've got lies
Like you've got acne
Raw and sour
They deform the skin of the room
Leave scars on its silence
Creep unbidden into pores
Brand themselves into reflections
Hung
Ugly as battle wounds
On the arpeggios of conversation
And you wear your lies
Like you wear acne
Smothered in pretty chemicals
You deliver them like scripted text
Into a world of disingenuity
The self-affected
One-trick-pony of your tongue
Plays them down with beauty
But fails to remove their aftertaste
So please,
Feel free to keep talking
But I thought you should know
That no one's listening any more
And we no longer believe in
Your cries of 'wolf'
Because we know that
No matter how you sing your lies
The world will not cease to orbit the sun
And then re-align itself to you
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
The sinful painter drapes his goddess warm,
Because she still is naked, being drest;
The godlike sculptor will not so deform
Beauty, which bones and flesh enough invest.
3.2k
my soul is stuck
in old, coastal towns;
a cup of strong coffee in hand;
i can drown in its taste
mixed with my heartbeat running amok.
the sound of the rain
threatens to deform the roof,
as if the midnight sky
was trying
to read her sadness out loud
to the unmarked graves
beyond my ribs;
as if the raindrops
were prison guards
chasing after my soul,
waiting to cage it
back in place.
the broken clock
tells me it's still midnight,
but for all i know,
it may yet be another
sleepless night kinda
monochromatic daybreak
and
i can no longer tell which is louder —
the storm inside my head
or outside.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
On the heap,
Thou dangle and screech
And bedeck, for I seemingly espouse.
The anecdotes and myths:
Engaged in a mutual pose.
There comes the hymn,
And the sway and the hum;
The abnormality and the deform
Halted on a single stance.
To dozen of the tokens
Whom I prejudged;
The prevalence of the chaos
That sleeps merely on my tongue.
To all the estrangements
From which I refrain,
Within the bawl of the tantrum, upon the hook of the day.
Farewell to all, farewell the haze
Farewell the cluster,
To the resolution found within a fane;
Where rituals confuse,
Where the practice becomes a fame.
There thou taketh solely,
A hymn and an interminable haze.
Whats the sense of the ovation
When no screen displays
A mourning motion
For which no motion craves?
I sigh, and mumble
To which mere consciences giveth
To me only, mine solely.
His to hear and his, keenly.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
I awoke alone,
after a horrid dream.
I turned to your face
to feel something comforting.
In the spot that graced your silhouette
were sheets weighted with regret.
My misdirected inflection
coupled with the misconception,
that 1+1=1 not 2 you see,
when the correct formula
is 1+1≥3
Fact is I lied.
When I pronounced "love"
with greater strength than "as long"
Fact is I lied.
When i said unconditional.
It is the beauty in song.
My regret lies in lack of earlier cognition.
This is not the first time this has happened.
Which means I never learned a lesson
inferring to my lack of a mission
or understanding,
in a man's mind muddled.
I took the position
of sitting down in the struggle.
My body fatigued, eyes bloodshot and wary
I refused to see your definition
of affection realized in the lines of the abstract.
Fact is I lied.
When I said forever;
Knowing I am temporary.
Fact is I lied.
I never finished my sentence.
A more complete thought is "one of many"
The complete truth is my love was uniform.
Designed to let any woman fill the mold.
I lacked passion.
Which gives direction in a sandstorm.
I gave up my attempts to understand why water is wet.
Returned to my dreadful fantasy
wherein my heart would contort and deform.
As I told the truth to you
in a Scarlett and Rhett fashion;
We caressed in a snowstorm.
The message cut deeper than I could ever myself.
Fact is I lied.
When I said I would be fine,smiled
and drank in the last light you would reflect.
Fact is I lied.
When I said it was me
It was the both of us I wished to confect.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
Memories of orange afternoon sun
Burning gold rays into mist
Such a sight of beauty beheld
Guns and bombs are hardly missed
There is such a gas that burns the lungs
My ears heard months before
But my body believed not in such hate
Before the burns of war
The roar of engines soared from above
A cry of warning before the storm
I had hardly a moment to breathe
The walls of my trench move, deform
Never before has my imagination torn
The edges of evils like these
And never before could I imagine death
Be carried on such a breeze
The moment I saw the hazy air
I jumped to my feet in shock
And out I surged from my home of mud
Choking, I could not walk
A man knows not panic
Until he cannot breathe
As a man cannot know war
Until bullets he lays underneath
To this day I remain unsure
If it was tears of poison or pain I wept
But I laid and watched my men retreat
In the moments before I slept
Memories of orange afternoon sun
Burning gold rays into mist
Such a sight of beauty beheld
Guns and bombs are hardly missed
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
A stiff wind broke the morning clouds. It was another gloomy sunrise, in a string of second-rate days. Kiera woke much like the sun, downtrodden and wishing to fall back down. She snapped down on the alarm, knocking it to the floor, and with two blinks was out again—back into a world she was beginning to recognise.
First the flooding darkness. Despite two weeks of this her body still rejected it. Her body hated it. Pathetic. Limbless shakes as the throbbing chill tore its way through her lungs, gripped her skin like sweat. She could smell the sharp stink of iron. When her vision came she saw her arms were covered in blood. A red too bright.
A figure she hadn’t noticed flickered out of her view. She turned her head sharply but saw no one.
Kiera realised she was walking. She held a square, brown-wrapped package, which would not stop squirming. As she struggled to keep hold of the ******* thing, ****** prints coated its sides. A postbox lay on the other side of the road—the same colour as the blood on her arms.
Kiera was furious. The ******* package would not stop squirming. She needed to reach the postbox before she dropped it. She was desperate—scared shitless. Why?
Kiera began to cross the road. Each step sent the package twitching, twisting. Her legs were bone thin. Her skin was shredding apart. Another flicker—edge of the vision phantom—appeared, but she barely noticed. The package was growing so heavy that her toes were breaking on the asphalt. She looked up and saw the postbox had receded. *How dare you? How ******* dare you, you piece of ****
She was on the wrong side. She had never left the sidewalk. How could she? She had no legs. Blood began to pour out of the postbox. It crossed the road, coating her torso, lapping the bottom of the package. The package stilled and began to deform in her hands. It was rotting.
Kiera had an urge to *****
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
That's where he's been hanging around lately.
I hear their coffee is decent.
Half and half, a spoonful of sugar, and a dash of shameful regret.
He orders his eggs over easy with a side of fresh apologies.
The scratchy booth seat squeaks merciless obscenities at him
as he shifts uncomfortably
because of his aching back and aching conscience.
If I were to pass by him at a diner, I doubt I would even recognize him.
Guilt tends to deform the appearance, and derange the soul.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
Don't eat those pomegranate seeds
Don't gloss those beautiful lips
With the sticky liquid of death
Heaven seems so far away
When you're stuck in hell
And the devil has an incessant need
To deform all things beautiful
And to separate you
From everyone you love
And the ashy snow will fall
Until you're with me again
Because all I have is memories
Of you dancing in the spring blooms
But now you're laying among asphodel
And I know it's hard to see the other side
Because depression has a relentless need
To touch all things pure
But I know
Spring will come again
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Broken trust spilled over a pile of ***** laundry
Memories deform as they enter the realm of imagination
The music still plays, even though the dancers are long gone
Curling away from the streak of light sneaking in through a crack in the curtains
Stupid we might be, stupid we shall stay
Believing in ourselves while living a lie
The clouds finally part
Close your eyes and look up at the skies
Yearning for a familiar warmth
Only to be smitten by the wrath of Helios
Wishing for an oasis, only to be graced with an unending mirage
Perched atop the pile sits a suit
Within the suit, a man
Years pass and yet he moves not
He hasn't blinked yet
Aged, has he not
He sees, yet registers nothing
His existence he cannot question himself
As there is no monologue
As the music refuses to fade
The tired feet, start tapping yet again
And then the wine begins to flow once more
***** eyes in the smoky room wander
As men and women transform into gods and soon into dust
Yet, the music plays on
Distant, but still there.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
friends of friends and an **** of mutuality
every one ripe for the ******* until we greedily
eat our own tails
I find myself running low on chemistry
with so little reaction left inside of me
the water around the plug hole no longer spins,
it only falls
architectural wounds
cannot heal beneath this razor’s murderous haste
while the cognisant weak and a capella apes deform
the silent comedy of a shared space
once straight tempers and scorpion kindness highball
an unhappy taste, leaving who to speak
for the ordinary host?
the functionaries’ short practice
infects the martyr’s hurried hair
between the principal route and the settling irons
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
Stick straight trees line hills, their arrangement phony
less than 5,000 feet in elevation but elevating humanity for over
sixty thousand.
For more than sixty thousand human beings,
think of fish stuck, are stampeded by shiny black
blocks of detonation.
Explosion for extraction, and teeny tiny port-o-potties
sit, enjoying relaxation where an ecosystem once
enjoyed rehabilitation after March.
We Marched on, up a gravel hill where wind
blew but we bolted our boots to the soil.
Sunglass-clad woman concealed her hurt eyes,
but her voice hurt enough to inspire a kind of
throat retching sensation.
***** up that black, ooey-gooey you old, weathered mountain top.
Explosives like a firm finger shoved down the throat
denote a rock spew; regurgitate and repeat a dozen times over.
Flatten and deform, never to reform
the water-giving, life-renewing, shady shelter, stable
stool, magic majesty of my mountain.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Don't you notice how when I hug you I hesitate to let go , this is because in that exact moment everything f
a
l
l
s
away and I am attached to you , like our emotional connection becomes visible and I do not let go because I do not want that integration to deform.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Wind is showing its strength outside.
Hither and thither blowing things away.
Humans and animals run for refuge.
Large trees wildly shake and sway.
Streets filled with rubble and grunge.
Grim warning is echoed with each gust.
Durability of properties and souls on test.
How long will they stand fierce ******
Here inside exists stillness and calm.
Outside irate wind continues to deform.
Though I am safe in this house firm;
But my frail soul is outside in the storm.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
a home of unrest survives in my old town where
madness seeps through jaundice colored halls,
lapping life from rotted brains.
grim photos of grandchildren
deform walls,
but old folks don’t remember.
they wear nametags.
who am i? residents wail
for mommy, their ’86 kitten,
a bus pass from chicago or
the wrong god.
her eyes are sallow.
tunnel vision, they say.
cloudy hues without purpose.
bags under gramma’s lids hang
like dead gangsters
and bifocals settle around her neck,
in case she gains a pang
of clarity.
Lovely Rita,
once a fat cook is now slender as a fang.
she forgets to eat.
my guttural granny, she stutters
incoherent, mostly.
but today, she babbles
an omen.
watch o u t
thing s are
g o nn a
h h h appen
she retreats,
deteriorating.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
~
As I walk in to the public
Stares reform, deform me
Part of me care, the other doesn’t
I can’t help who I am
My world is psychedelic
Twisted
Not right side up
But up side not right
Although my thoughts
Is like a grid
My mind crafted by genius
I don’t talk much
But I can draw
A masterpiece in seconds
My mind is photogenic
I remember everything
Gifted
Yet different
Misunderstood
Yet understood
I don’t understand the world
Like it’s supposed to be
My way is better [to me]
I have to be organized
I do things differently
It may be strange
But it helps me
Wielded . . .
I live in my own mind
My learning is slower
But sharper
I’m not cursed . . .
I may not be perfect
But I am who I am
Love me for that
And I shall love you back
Emotionally fragile
Yet agile
Autistic . . .
I’m still human
~
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Have you ever watched a storm,
And see it slowly take its pace.
See all the shapes deform,
The ruins of your beautiful place.
You asked me once if I was honest,
My eyes contained it all.
It's only you that matters, not the rest.
I drove towards you as if it was my call.
Losing you felt like being pricked by a thousand thorns,
I bled, I bled, I bled.
Nothing could cease my mourns,
Drowning in woe and dread.
My arms are wide open,
And eyes search lights looking for you in every rack.
longing to reach out to you and give you a pen,
So that you can give me my poetry back.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
emaciated faces placed hastily in waste filled space
graceless shapes, mass of flesh
lidless eyes scanning endlessly
searching for rest
impoverished waifs piled
on the mentally ill homeless
skin pressed together
inappropriately –
lost child wildly blinded, bound
gagged on diesel rags used to clean tools
torture implements rented on ebay
scented candles transmogrify blank surroundings
and color splashed lashes shine red in the afternoon
glistening –
fake baking ******* easily ballooned
ozone less atmosphere cooks plastic skin
releasing Botox and wheat germ
creating orange clouds engulfing tanning booths
light skinned pretenders swish across foray’s
looking both fabulous and abhorrent
frolicking –
camera angled babies
in thick foundation hide tears
so as to not disappoint
or fail in the eyes of the media sharks
fear and gun-rights send them into a frenzy
seeking to raise and destroy
everyone –
political ridicule in a public tribunal
grandfathered unborn wait to rule
wombs of power hold genes of control
eggs designed to tax
meeting ***** engineered to manipulate
deform –
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Do I still call out to the saints?
If my nightly prayers remained
Unanswered
For the longest time
For how I longed
To hold her hands
To gaze at her eyes
To be eternalized as one
But my delusions
Were always shattered by the faint of heart
That weighs, unsteadily heavy still
Cause everywhere I go
I’m confronted by my fears
And everyday I hoped
That even after all these years
That someday, you’ll be mine
I keep on formulating
Various questions in my mind
But I’m too scared to know,
Of the answers I will find
If ever, you replied
But I’ll find, the words, to say
I’ll find, the words, to say
Someday
Regrets come to play
At the form of actions undone
That up to this day, still religiously haunt me
As shadows of the past
Her, being a constant audience of one
In my theatric, electric dreams
Looking up to that fictional stage
With diamond eyes that seem to gleam
A bitter reminder of what could have been the sweetest tale ever told
Oh, what I’d give for her to be mine to hold
Keep your distance away from the bright burning lights
Give me a sign that you will be all right
Let me have this dance to show you the wrongs and rights
Although the lessons can't be fit into one night
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998.
Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.
The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,
and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.
What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.
Keywords/Tags: sunset, aging, death, grandfather, grandson, grandchild, family, grave, funeral, loss, twilight, night, transcendence, heaven
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 9:57 PM UTC