"disgorged" poems
Are you a tourist or
A volcanologist my dear?
With a painful joy
To a live volcano getting near,
Do you want to pay homage
To earth's nadir
Conscious that beneath a sea level
A sweltering heat you can bear?
Then to Erta Ale come you not why
Found under Ethiopia's sky?
With a style jumping high,
Hitting the ground
Beating drums, on their waists,
Sabres tied around
Afro men along with braided women,
With butter greased hair,
The latter ululating and clapping
In a row facing each other
Chant a love song
“My feeling for you is strong!”
The male herd camel,
While women babysit,prepare food
And make short huts
With tiny malleable wood.
Also dot the mirage-forming sand
Huts grand.
Are you a tourist my dear
Eager to see about
Out of the ordinary you heard
Say about multicolored magma
Volcano's dust,
Disgorged out of earth's crust?
Do you want to see a scenery
You have not seen
Since you were born,
How in a motley garment
Mother nature itself
Likes to adorn
Come then to Ethiopia,
Located in Africa's horn?
Visit Erta Ale ,
On earth
To run away from earth
Enjoying its hearth.
You will witness
The extraction of salt
In a volcano-formed fault.///
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly
~
light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements
this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here
it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?
through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation
at last I see you clearly
the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity
did you know your eyes are constant singers?
through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,
here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated
through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed
of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,
where is my shelter now?
5/13/17 6:49am
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
Set in stone, carved in fire
my mind was forged.
Resilient and strong too,
my thoughts are disgorged
and then set in glue.
An orb of knowledge is created
with its own imperfections.
As my own mind, incomplete,
provides its own reflections
about kinetic theory of heat.
It searches for more information
and more cultural cognition.
A permanent quest for exact facts,
an eternal run for completion,
trying not to keep the mind lax.
Then it realizes there is no end
for this life long pursuit.
The orb is broken and shattered,
fragments swallowed smooth.
Once again confused, scattered.
Unconditional elaboration
of the endless mind works.
The possible emancipation
of the free mind that lurks
away from the severed reality.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
a stumble, a tongue slip,
a body in bed facing away,
an unintended provocation
commences a collaboration
just another unrequited disaster,
marks me as a lowly private
in the disarmed ranks of
mutilated souls composing,
while decomposing,
sad love poems,
as if the world
needed another...
a turn away needs a turn to,
a cul-de-sac rejection
needs a turnabout,
a traffic circle pointless,
with one exit only,
road signed,
"exit to a collaboration of provocation"
thanks and thanks
a day together normative,
now marked by a
stinger singed in the early morn.
a physical no thanks,
her passing lane left turn signal
engaged
me too passing into this,
a disgorged rejection that
is to become this realized collaboration.
*only I wrote it and you
did not
read it
just provoked its creation,
our sad collaboration*
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
My mind is a stuffed disease
through clouded eyes and
my face feels faint and shallow.
Quiet hands and drooling lids;
slo
bb
er.
Broken confidence
through months of solitude
hidden feelings that showed their presence
between self doubt.
The way she smiles
or the way she looks at you
how every girl wants a boy to look at her.
I know she wants
me
to stretch hands;
titillating.
I swallow
nerves and puke.
Disgorged in my throat,
she sat.
Smiling up at me,
her face so hopeful,
her hands stretched
like mine once stretched to him.
Away she walks beyond my mind
frisking her feet,
nuzzled in.
I want to keep her.
Hold her against my chest
and live like primary school kids.
In single beds
with christian hands
looking for God
in paper notebooks.
That extended grip,
and I don’t know how to touch her
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
She sat by the mainstream area,
its ubiquity reminds her of such
hunkering for a man's silhouette,
stationed and immobile, beside her.
She spun her head, noticing
how candidly dull everything, and
everyone is. Yet, realizing among
it (and them) all, it was her--
the most unfortunate of all.
She felt the solitude, for herself.
Reckoning where to go, and
what to do. Whether to blame
herself, or to curse the world
for her miserable mishap.
She needed the prowess, so
she picked up that piece
of tissue paper to write on.
She poured out,
disgorged her thoughts. And,
on that moment, for once
at least, such miserable mishap
into a blessing in disguise
had transformed to.
She became a poet,
at least for once.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 4:19 AM UTC
my questioning,
directed at myself
and the answer simp,
not necessarily simpatico,
cause the answer is either
today, or never,
could be
both or n-either
yeah,
of that age,
when I awake
first two words are
******* again?
and
if I hurry,
one piecework,
one mo’ poem,
hurried,
may yet be
vented,
scurried,
aired out
or for
quick disposal
sad dispatch
one mo’
disgorged poem
within and withouted,
either side
of midnight
been gorging
on letters ever since
They fed me
sugared letters
& lemons
for breakfast
and the last twenty
sending them you
in a disembodied
softly softly
voice
no matter how
far your imaginary
ears are from me
Sunday AM 9:52 2/19/25
🥲
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 9:51 AM UTC
Disgorged grays work
their lathered sheen, heavy-handed
as the honks that lifeline thru
these late February trees.
Gotham speaking to its skull,
nevermind Hamlet.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
filthy whiskey
smoking asphalt alleyways
roaring ******* windowsills
shuddering stoops
midnight money
shaking subway traffic
neon red hotels
battered archangel blues
starving madness
sweet ecstatic ***
naked eyes lounging
********** harlequin ******
blemished evenings
hopeless
humorless
concrete amnesia
blind hungry dreams
jukebox consciousness
bald drunken incantations
suicide waitresses
the holy pavement angel
tenement jazz
weeping
dreaming
scribbling *****
screaming delight
sirens
sunrise
disgorged rivers
tender moans
pure unshaven salvation
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 8:07 AM UTC
Perused that which was written in blood, applying saliva to the fingers
Disgorged the writings of hunger unread
Those of tears got erased even before reading.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
“I am that of a rugged farmhand quite,
Adept to love cordially,
As that alone of a man and the sea,
Created in the depths of the ocean floor,
Envisioning you brought me to the earth,
Leaping bounds in wonder of the sunlight you bring,
As if on the back of a blackbird disgorged from his beak,
Adjacent the swampy sand shore with crushing waves,
Body of not a dowager but of a celestial woman,
I could survive this if this was not a delusion,
I could utilize my feelings as a weapon to elude her to me,
She will be in my arms I know when the time is right,
The hour of reprisal abates and I know I love this matron,
I will prevail in the elegance of this beautiful deity,
Darkness falling upon us as I thirst for immutable desire,
A silk white obis garb of roses beneath the garment,
Our voices assessing words and then our merriment of fervor,
As the ennui follows joy jaded our eyes vision of Passion”
By AG 04/26/2018 ©
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
~for all the old poets,
especially one so denominated, my old faithful friend…~
<>
the
THEY,
emboldened and italicized,
are whispering and whimpering,
even
whining
that I’ve gone
wimpy,
lost possess of mine
facilities and faculties,
no longer able and capable
to command, demand, in hand,
import
a decent poem
from & in the English language(s) to
purport,
lost my edges,
hide behind the hedges
of inconsequential ancestral
and incestual rhymes,
these
THEY
do oft appear as voices in my
now emptied and unemployed head,
but familiarity breeds contemporary
contretemps of contempt,
for they are remiss,
in dismiss when the eyelids
flutter,
the noble temporal lobes
mutter,
*’tis thy~thyme ole man,
for spillage of your*
FPOTD
(first poem of the day)
thus kneecapping the cancer
of a restless dark hour period
where failures and faults,
of lines
crossed and uncrossed,
bear you to pieces,
bare your lifetime
laundry list
of pulsing, palpable,
fulminating and always ruminating faults
of which penance cannot be bought
by the bags of pennies and sordid assorted coins
that THEY
will find in the back bottom of thine closets,
along with the manuscripts
of the discarded and forlorn,
unloved and unpublished poems that you chose
to have buried with you,
lest you think that
eternal rest
will best
them voices,
they will accompany you
to permafrost of forever dark,
their once and future demise,
a travesty of
justice…
enough.
lists of to do’s;
the exercise of delaying death
for one more day,
by trodding on the treadmill
that postpones the inevitable
that can
always tun longer and faster
and cannot be outdone, outrun,
but
this poem
disgorged and disbanded,
it’s bytes,
will not bite mark me
in the forever future
*their bytes are alive now,
free to be chomped and well chewed,
and once fully digested,
be return to our Mother
Earth*
where some disclaimed poems
go to be buried
within it’s eternity
Apr 21, 2024
Apr 21, 2024 at 10:16 AM UTC
The mourning by the sun for Venus has particular relevance
On a day when optical illusions earmark the transition
Of your face, from lover to something I am not sure to like
Thickened atmospheric eyes, now cold to the touch of mine
As they move to less pronounced planets, in the endless game of galaxies within galaxies
Tricks within tricks held within the circumference of your palm
which holds still the very sun in reverence
… And fear, of your fingers closing and snap!
Snuffing out the brilliance of the light.
And I stop and try to hold the cosmos steady in your wake
Before these eddies of instability wail and break all down
Hurricanes gathering, electrical storms cascade against black as meteors
follow paths of collision long since drawn in the dust of stars
Down we are to spiral as you become the supernova
Gorging on the **** that we left behind, dark matter seething
disrupting the peace of heavens vacuum as you ***** starlight and magnitude unconfined
The sheer brevity of the universe, whose expansive inertia is forced
to abandon apathy as its constellations are devoured and disgorged
Silent, my darling rips the stars from the sky, breaking fundamental laws of physics with energetic destruction
Radiant rays of glory emanating, mutating all ever known
As she spirals Saturn,
Seeking solstice in the free fall of dusty decimations as
the sun
falters.
Its brilliance diminished, total eclipse.
Bringing confusion to corneas
faced now with the explosive onslaught of love and dust
As the astronomical causation and implications of desertion
Rocks universal.
Apathetic atrophy to be favoured now over expansion
as the pieces begin to fall way. Such a day of great reverence,
it's relevance uncontested as time and what didn't come before
is forced from its final, infinite march to cease.
You face, from friend to foe, your name a once so simple,
celebrated noun transformed from the precedence of dawns chorus
to something I cannot force myself
to say aloud.
Black drops, bitter like a shroud
as the sun mourns for Venus, for Venus orbits another star now.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
let children make their own mistakes
remove the leash before it breaks
salivate in face of danger
take some candy from a stranger
test result disgorged your future
all over my sense of humor
existence not a tasty treat
there will be bitter in your sweet
power in constructive thinking
I think I'll stick to my drinking
ingesting poison with a smile
a tribute to my lifeless child
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
To write is to feel the world
in its essence
every fibre of meaning extracted
to dance across the page,
enveloping the reader
in a languid embrace.
To write is to find oneself
at the core of each word
jostled in turn
by swathes of meaning,
tumbling thought-streams,
sweet rhetoric of wonder.
To write is to walk naked
in the imagination
while closeted unseen,
revealing all for those
who perceive
in lines of poetry
sprouting seedlings of wisdom
disgorged to take flight.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC