"desiccation" poems
My ***** Lover
Irrationality always wins
Chicago is aspirated beast
Braggart forced laugh
I had a vision but I have no vision
Dreamed I was making out with a woman
Who had long stretchy pink octopus tentacles
Sedulously legato ephemera
Growing from external rim of ******
Sobriquet inimical desiccation
One tentacle wrapped around and tickled
Diurnal nugatory verisimilitude
While other squeezed testicles
What was I talking about, oh yes
Everything got out of hand
Expect unthinkable gusting winds
To huff puff blow house down
Filthy rotten scoundrel but
Started out so sweet
Inchoate caliphate apocryphal
Wish I had her gift
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
what I got was
a january smile
from a milkblooded boy.
if only the pearl of your teeth were
white as my eyes
deertail flash in the dark
and nowhere else to hide but
five a.m. sheets and the smell of
sunrise mumbles
toofast weightloss:
a late spring heart
is drenched with its
ripeness but
rots if you leave it to
the bees
then the summer desiccation becomes
winter starvation—
in between, autumn comes to
stay. purples, mostly
maroons moth
-eaten by the greengrass deadweight of
so many depetalled flowers. Midnight never strikes
soon enough.
there have been no doves for
weeks &
maybe longer than
that i haven’t
kept count
on you to teach me where they go when
the seasons change
but given time and
tide rips the
stains from your whites
so i with
patience await the
first frosts;
you are never far behind the
snow.
meanwhile your
jewel-studded eyes & corsair heart
glint in the moonlit touchmenot of your
faraway skin
keep your hair
shirt on.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 3:20 AM UTC
If ever
there was a spark in mindless stupid
would it not be the ladies remarking
at scooped cut asphalt
jagged, freeing suffocated Terre?
the most fertile , the most thirsty.
Lush outside. inside the skin?
rancid repulsive desiccation,
a piquant impulse for escaping love.
Mouth's morning wift: gloomy, heavy, smoke.
Eyes: blurrr,
Memory: cashed
Framework: gaunt & yellow, a Purple cadaver among stern Circles, reflecting the Nausea of popularprice
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
O slimy tongue!
O patient tourist!
Your slow retreat has
left a lustrous spoor.
How admirable,
your bold simplicity—
no radiance to distract,
no carapace to fortify.
How you coil and flex,
a solitary finger
sliding across our
forgotten places.
How we yearn to
pet your soft tissue,
to feel its cool shiver,
the recoil of desiccation.
How honest the world
must be from below as
you devour the decayed,
savor that sour brutality.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
Earth
worms the color of
bruised tongues wriggle
out of sodden dirt and
splay themselves out on
gritty asphalt
To breathe.
We bite our tongues as the
sun returns to burn away the wet.
Bodies shrivel from the
desiccation until we can come out to
Air that smells like all that
rainwater and blood
evaporating to fill our lungs.
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 10:08 PM UTC
desiccation
takes time,
though when complete
things are less fetid and foul
it helps if left uncovered
for the sun’s pineapple golden rays
to do their job, for the elements
to commune with this immovable feast
for maggots to have their fill
rain doesn’t necessarily get in the way
of this inevitable decay, for the moisture
does not tarry, on hairless felled apes
children go more quickly than soldiers
(less bulk and not clad in such armor)
but the most Herculean eventually succumb
to songlike soft breezes
and chemistry’s melodic dance
slowly, slowly in the wind
listen, you will hear them
though they utter not a word
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
See this gray dust
Swirling
It is the ground bones of ancestors
They are in my nostrils
And on my tongue
They congregate in my ears
Where they chatter lightheartedly
And beat their drums
In rhythms syncopated
With my heartbeat
Oh yes, my blood recognizes that tattoo
They clump under my toenails
And collect in the creases
Of my withering skin
If I sit long enough in one spot
They will engulf me
Cover me in a fine quiet shroud
I shall succumb to their insistence
And surrender without fuss
Soon enough
Sun shall crack me open
Desiccation shall be my lot
My bones will give back the light
Insidious lichens shall colonise me
Insects explore my crevices
Corroded, scoured by indifferent winds
I shall slump with a final sigh
No body, aaaaah
Then
I too shall blow about
On the breeze
I shall be no more
Than an irritating speck
In the eye of a grand child
Carrying marigolds.
Tricia Lambert.
On November 2nd, Dia de los muertos, Mexicans honour their ancestors and recently dead, with elaborate shrines in homes and public places. Families visit cemeteries, taking food and flowers, noticeably marigolds, and the celebrations are loud and long.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 7:33 AM UTC
tired of keeping things alive
of water
of the color green
of what puts down roots and thirsts
and drinks what I can bring
and thirsts
or then the desiccation
the life that dried
awaiting me
tapped out
and where's the water
empty clouds huff and puff
the promise of rain that doesn't come
dance for the rain that doesn't come
but I will not bear the water
I will no longer keep things alive
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket’s lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.
For every person looking to preserve life,
There are four others looking to destroy it.
Though compassion is our signature tool,
Oh, only a handful of us ever employ it.
There is no neutrality when our conscious hearts fail.
If our better angels remain silent, our darker halves prevail.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
Festering in heat,
Moral fabric unweaves.
Desecration,
Denigration,
Desiccation,
The remains of a sacred bond left tattered by deceit.
The sound of a stained glass window shattered by thieves.
Oh, somewhere our better half grieves.
The enigmatic future inches nearer,
An ambiguous choice becomes clearer,
The sound of rattling, an empty heart,
Battling, an empty mind.
The sound of hurried footsteps…
And there are others not far behind.
The blind guiding and seeking the blind,
Oh, somewhere our better half searches to find…
A shelter from all of these two-ton war machines.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
The pain lingers,
Morality rests in tatters,
Miniature death-bringers,
The sound of a bigot’s daggers,
The sound of a depressed man’s gun facing backwards…
After he decides that nothing else matters.
Oh, somewhere our better half staggers.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
The temperature escalates,
Morality thrown out with the spoils,
The sound of tension as it elevates,
The sound of blood as it boils,
Oh, somewhere our better half recoils.
Because everyone has a two-ton war machine.
A guilty conscience, a burdened soul, a heavy heart,
And a two-ton war machine.
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC
Cast your ballot for your party's running mates
Strange bedfellows in Roman
**** compromising positions
Straining to see what once was
Their original clear-cut goal
(Even the hot sands of the
Sahara becomes cold at night).
Tarred and feathered goes the ideals
Run out of town on a rail of policy.
Politics of law
Politics of religion
Politics on every level
No real friend’s only polite interests.
Party politics in the bedroom
Workplace
And church
Spinning ethics and morals
To be fit for desiccation
By whatever spider desires
To make their web in
Palace royal
Church pious
Courtroom solemn
Family room secure
Where only a sort of twisted gestalt
Applies and the lesser of two evils is
Often greater than the sum of the
Two--the package being more
Important than the contents.
All that
Is important is the law of the jungle.
Tone-up poser muscles
Groom rhetorical fur
Sharpen intimidation fangs
Demagogic rule being the rule of thumb
Firmly planted where the sun never
Shines because truth is exposed
Only in the light. Plans made in the
Nether regions of base instincts
Where the true nature
Of we humans reluctantly steps
Out of its ancient cage nightly to
Prowl only to return by morning to
Have pure and honourable melodies
Sooth the savage breast.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
I have this cause so consuming . . .
like an overdose that's overwhelming
When salt water was as sweet as the memories that washed over my feet by the edge of high tide's completion
"Go find the door to your ambition
before it closes to the winds of desiccation"
The binding has cracked
the paper turned yellow
Touching , now brittled backed
So it has been written "finis" upon the last page of life
The words I collected like seashells
as the wrinkles of face grew to foretell
The foam and waves swept over my toes
as the sand was ****** away from beneath
They say the pain will go away .
then they wish you well ,
. . . turn . . . and walk away
I look back upon life as if it were a dream :
a scheme . . .
a scream . . .
and so naive
"I will check out the skies in Rome ,
I promise now when winter is gone"
I long for the hot sands of purification
Where the bleached bones
have reached end's destination
Somewhere next to a Coptic sea
where time falls short on eternity I will kneel to my desperation
In another year
it will be another day's difference in time ,
as another grain of sand falls it loosens its bind
"Won't you come and bring thirst's renewal of relief ?"
Don't leave me gazing . . .
searching for that distant smile . . . buried in my beliefs
If not . . . then
let me wish you well . . .
turn . . . and walk away
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 7:48 PM UTC
See this gray dust
swirling
It is the ground bones of ancestors
They are in my nostrils
and on my tongue
They congregate in my ears
where they chatter lightheartedly
and beat their drums
in rhythms syncopated
with my heartbeat
Oh yes, my blood recognizes that tattoo
They clump under my toenails
and collect in the creases
of my withering skin
If I sit long enough in one spot
they will engulf me
cover me in a fine quiet shroud
I shall succumb to their insistence
and surrender without fuss
Soon enough
sun shall crack me open
Desiccation shall be my lot
My bones will give back the light
Insidious lichens shall colonise me
Insects explore my crevices
Corroded scoured
by indifferent winds
I shall slump with a final sigh
No
body
Aaaaah
Then
I too shall blow about
on the breeze
I shall be no more
than an irritating speck
in the eye of a grandchild
carrying marigolds.
Tricia Lambert.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Her anger
Virulent as a southern storm in summer
Roars and rages invectives
Her eyes flashes of lightning
Swift daggers dispatching
Slivers of Shivers
Resonates unrequited love
Desiccation of hearts
Cold frigid and destroyed
A wasteland of memories
Strewn in mud
Irrevocable
Where love is void
Only an empty cavity of hope
Susceptible to
A masquerade
Of lies
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
In a dream I walked
through a small town in winter,
snow was drifted all around,
building after building was dark,
empty window shops, abandoned.
At the heart of a naked strip mall
there was a tiny boutique,
Chinatown style.
Cheap throw away electronics,
plywood guitars, plastic purses
fast-food clothing,
and wall to wall glass cases.
It strikes me now, it was not a shop
but a museum, filled with relics
of the oh-too-recent past.
Homemade cassette mix tapes,
with pink bedazzled stars,
and neat hand written script,
zip disk encylopedias,
mildewed black moleskines,
and much more, the mind
it could not take it all in.
I was wrenched from this museum,
back into the waking world
by a full bladder, and a cold crown.
I slipped on a cap, but I hold it in,
desperately I try to convey
the frozen tragedy I have witnessed,
with moist unblinking mind's eyes.
The shadowy windswept streets,
the random half broken neon signs,
the peeling sky blue painted storefront,
and the tiny boutique, a dream place,
that could only ever afford
to pay the rent
in the depths of my subconscious.
It strikes me, that I am blessed
to be a tail-end-member,
of Generation X, the last generation
that can remember the corpse
before it died, to have watched it die.
To have lived through this death,
to have watched the desiccation
and to have seen the dead body
***** by heartless robots,
to give birth to a Mummy Earth,
a world without a soul.
Soon I will be forced to go downstairs
and relieve myself,
on the ground outside
For now, I lie on my side,
thumb typing, shoulder aching,
from supporting my weight,
sore eyes assaulted
by the too-bright-white screen.
I lie here, trying to capture it;
the feeling of strangled despair.
Not for myself, but for the children
who have inherited a dead cyborg,
devoid of its humanity.
A corpse culture, with perfect teeth,
glistening hair, fair skin,
cloudy eyes, and the faint stench
of moldy leather and spoiled spices.
They do not know what it is like
to feel, to have beauty ripped
from their desperate dream hands,
like children dragged away
from their arrested mother.
They inhabit a foster home
for the spiritually bankrupt,
the true tragedy is
they don't know any better.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
Between tree line and snow line, the alpine plants survive.
Cold and desiccation are enemies, but there is no surrender.
Clonal propagation is adequate: *** is often dispensed with.
Between fame and indifference, the quiet people settle.
Ice is melted by family life.
Coupling does occur: but surreptitiously.
Between the eccentric and the outrageous, my love lives.
No-one is ever oblivious to her presence.
An immediate outflow of passion is always an option.
Time to go upstairs, dearest one.
Time for a re-enactment of the big bang.
Time to roar.
My! Where did you learn to do that, Cynthia?
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
your heart does not need to be torn; it just grows how it knows.
it's contracting
it's branching
it's intercalating
because it likes to hustle!
it's a very special muscle,
it's a mitochondrial tissue
with a workaholic issue.
Hey, don't let anyone hurt you
the way your first loves did.
strength does not come from malleability
it's noncompliance
it's resistance
it's defiance
you deserve better
You will obey,
but never learn.
You could do better
Hey, don't give anyone power
the way your governments did.
worth does not evolve from filth
it's reconstructed
it's degraded
it's consumed
like the vapor pressure pulling water into clouds,
your heart can absorb all it wants.
like the turgor pressure pulling life through a plant,
you'll be full enough to avoid wilting and desiccation.
Don't confuse sharp stabs of self loathing
With the heart's aching throb of emptiness.
Only one is flexion for glory, bending in hunger
The other is not love. It will snap you in half.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
Moths in great abundance - cavorting and obsessed -
Flit about the fluoro lights with single-mindedness;
They spiral in confusion as they misjudge the view,
Believing that their beacon lies as distant as the moon
They ride this fatal arc until their final destination;
With exhausted wings and will they then collapse in desiccation.
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 8:06 AM UTC
Something speaks to me beyond this reverie;
I've been along this path enough to know just what it means.
There's a jolting recognition -- more than curiosity --
and it's blooming like a lotus with fearsome symmetry.
I didn't mean all this disrespect
towards the open arms of sacredness--
I couldn't recognize your hand
behind the veiled disguise.
I know you're the epicenter of the confluence,
but when we flow together out of this sea
will it be in wretch'd despair, or in rapt ecstasy?
If I sit silently still long enough
I'll hear you clear beyond this clamor,
but everything grasps for fragments of attention
with tendrils curled symmetric, poised for desiccation.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
the bees are eating the sun
but something clings to the shoe.
not the usual something,
but the black iron fruit.
seems the long way 'round the sunshine
is straight thru.
i chum the waters of my desiccation to bribe sharks
as i clench my teeth on the grit.
you... well you are somewhere
being awesome
as i shrink to fit.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Never the light of the sun, for it has no passage here
peace lilies sing in static harmonies of all broken dreams
here the lord of all that is dark tends his disciples
touching them with his black painted nails
Poison Ivy surrounds the boarders
protecting this realms of their sweet lord
gardeners of hell's realms take up their duties
making death of maidens there a sweet ****** hobby
Bones are crushed hope is lost in this garden of shadows
no mercy and no retreat do the trees of despair sing
blood their sustenance and horrific prayers
sentinels without souls hold shield and sword in hand
There is no death, no gods here
just the master and his business
children hang from the highest trees
and all do spit blood to sustain the soil
Oh rich is the crimson wine of the dying
like the suffering of a hanged man
where the mandrake thrives
in the shadow of the black oak
Death has dominion in this garden
no fury is as deep or blind
for here no sunlight does shine
and the devil calls to his own here
Suffering is paramount here
shadows of the suffering scream
the blood flows most pro verdant
as the black showers of deaths oil
Sing do the trees of hardships flocks
as the children of eve swing from the trees
and all that thought good but selfish
are truly brought to their knees
There is no mercy in this garden
no sun will ever shine
not in the dark lords garden of shadows
the place of the divine
Slow comes death to the human kind
slow and painful and so desperate
watch the desiccation
of all of the human race
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
refuge my heart
the storm drives me
piercing
this world of love and pain
am I hungry enough
to thirst for truth
do her heartbeats still
reverberate within the walls of my soul
am I desiccated enough to
forget her
refuge my heart
Nov 21, 2021
Nov 21, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC