"disinfected" poems
I scrubbed
And I disinfected
Leaving no stains
On me
On my past
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
The reason there aren't so many vampyres
around these days is they don't like TV hype
and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires
that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels
because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious
in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels.
Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions
and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture,
has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced
by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian
bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular,
or any other available vein again,
especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs
or only licked them after draining their last victim.
After all, vampyres were brought up in castles
when there weren't antiseptics for gargles
and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria
against such apocalyptic viral bacteria.
And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms
on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.
It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier
to die laughing than to go down with anemia.
Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule.
No-one likes being seen as the fool.
And the other reason vampyres are scarce now
is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims,
druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs,
psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears
out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.
But do you know something? Even though they were naughty,
I miss their occasional **** I know it was gory,
but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was ***** But when AIDs came along,
that was it. Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.
These are the facts.
So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.
Did a midnight flit,
and that's the end of my story.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
god stood by me, he hid in my pocket like a piece of amethyst
when i ran he turned into the forest to envelop me
his spirits became soft grasses, scented woods and colorful flower
The elderly woman in her garden in the early morning before the sun rises too high. She never sprays chemicals to get rid of the snails, instead she works and plants for and around them. This garden is to celebrate life, not to take it away. The wooden fence bordering her property is low and unoffensive enough to allow through woodland creatures who are never shooed away for taking a walk or a bite through the herbage. Perhaps she is atoning for a life of death and destruction. Or perhaps she is a saint.
They enjoyed things like making forts out of sticks and blankets and cardboard boxes and dressing up and going to the opera.
Memories, fresh like a wound.
Sometimes something so small. Going to the post office. A slideshow of post offices in my life. The disinfected paper smell, the lines of people waiting to mail a package, the solid colors of the interior, gray, black, white. A scrubby short haired black carpet, well worn.
I turned into a set of wings made out of crayon or colored pencil markings. As if pushed and pulled by the wind I stunned through the air, waving in the sunlight, pencil dashes of red and blue and purple. Like an animation from Reading Rainbow.
Thrown and tossed about like a lightweight wale in the sea. An enormous behemoth of grey and blue leaping like a kitten among the waves. It should be terrifying and would be if its teeth were any larger or sharper and if there was not such a happy gleam in its huge eye.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
Five times a day upon his coloured mat
he bends himself. The nurses come and go,
spectres in a slow procession that’s
caught in a loop, where only
the names change (ours too are abandoned for
the new ones we receive upon on arrival:
‘faking it’ or ‘non-cooperative’ or ‘terminal’ or
‘crash survival’).
It’s not their fault they eye him curiously.
They know he’s just a Turk. They’re different. He
gives not a sod
but prostrate on the disinfected floor
he offers, counting beads to keep the score,
his soul to God.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 4:18 PM UTC
They talk and bend,
They draw and write,
Harder and faster,
With ever clean hands,
Which might sometimes stoop to dirt,
Only to be disinfected after,
They peer down the microscope,
And examine the cells,
Each year the pictures are better,
But their eyes are darker,
They work,
To add that extra diamond,
And slave,
To remove that spot of rust,
But all their work,
Is like adding more water,
To a swimming pool of iron,
And their houses increase in space,
And their wives are wrapped in lace,
And their lives go to waste,
As they increase the yield,
They decrease the life,
And all that grow are empty supermodels,
Row by row,
Strong back, strong head,
Sword against the bugs,
And man falls with them,
Forgetting he is made,
Like the bugs himself,
Work,
Not to make the fields full,
But the heart,
Then the rust won’t matter,
And if pictures of cells are hazy,
Your eyes will be clear to understand
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
My uncle died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.
It made his brain dissolve itself in nine months.
I stood next to the once-stalwart man,
With mechanic's hands,
Lying in his hospice bed
That smelled like disinfected death.
During his short stay there I heard him say
"What's happened?"
In his faltered, degenerated state.
"What's happened?"
He repeated, as he saw his withered arms,
While wearing a diaper,
Gazing around with half-empty eyes,
Grasping for some shred of light
In his shattered ruin of a mind.
The life he once made for himself is gone,
And somewhere within himself he knew it.
Somewhere that held on until his final breath,
As he shrieked with pure fear
In his final sleep.
Overlooking the back parking lot of this hospice
A playground stands, built by hand.
The children probably look over here
And wonder what this place is,
What happens here.
I'd tell them that
These are things you don't need to know.
Now go stay outside and play
While the sun is still up.
Forrest Jorgensen ©
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
I see her lips curl in grimace
A purulence of old meat
Put off too many tomorrows
Air touched disinfected, rescented
An insult in time forgotten.
Suddenly recalled with that face
Appearing amidst the street
Girlish want of it since disposed,
Dead flesh wafts again, decayed, fetid
Memories of it since rotten
We look away and walk on
Dec 12, 2009
Dec 12, 2009 at 6:18 PM UTC
The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up
They looked upon the creature with a loathing undisguised
It wasn't disinfected and it wasn't sterilized
They said it was a microbe and a hotbed of disease
They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees
They froze it in a freezer that was cold as banished hope
And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap
In sulphurated hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears
They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears
They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand
And elected it a member of the fumigated band
There's not a micro-coccus in the garden where they play
They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day
And each imbibes his rations from a hygienic cup
The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
The halls, like a hospital - white, disinfected,
Always stay - on the left, don't brake routine,
Remain united - no indivuails,
School is a happy place.
The bullies walk tall,
The regular people, considered small,
The popular kids, rule the halls,
The regular people, forced to fall.
School is a happy place.
The teachers pets, the stuck up jocks,
If you're not one of them, you're not anyone,
Indiviuails, forced to be no-ones,
Outcasts, seen as freaks.
School, is a happy place.
Forced to "fit in" - conform,
Forced to turn a blind eye,
Educated to misery,
Fear, is a threat to happiness,
School, is not a happy place.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 3:55 AM UTC
She did it because she needed a distraction
A pain worse than the one she was feeling
Something she could see
Then control as she fixed it
Sliced her skin
And watched as her life wasted
Physical harm
Could be mended
It could be wiped
Disinfected
Plastered
And bandaged
She could at least watch it heal
Until the pain of her heart
The jumbled mess of her mind
Came forth once again
So she holds the blade
And worked on the distraction
Piercing skin demanding attention
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
the color red is said to be romantic,
but it is not romantic when it is coming from the body of your love.
blood is not a sign of forever,
bandages are not meant to be
stickers trying to hold a relationship together,
bandaids cannot heal bullet wounds,
and love cannot heal a broken jaw,
a jaw that was broken in the name of love,
love cannot heal bruises down my side,
a healthy relationship is not meant to be black and blue.
your hands caress my face,
but sometimes I can’t tell if it’s an open palm
or a balled fist against but cheek.
“I love you” can melt into “I love you, but another girl more”,
I am unable to tell whether our love is sinking
through poorly timed texts on your phone,
or swimming through the blood I shed
when you tell me not to leave you,
you say the shouting is because you love me,
the cursing,
the drinking,
the way you can throw punches better than you can throw a baseball,
but love is not meant to be black and blue.
and my crimson blood is not a blood sacrifice to your demons,
this love is parasitic.
you take my flesh, take my courage, my pride,
but I will not let you take my life, so try to threaten me not to go,
but I have to leave you.
because I love you.
love is not meant to be red, black, or blue,
love is meant to be white.
clean as the rubbing alcohol that disinfected my fist-inflicted wounds.
love doesn’t validate violence.
love is pure.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC
The 3 am foggy hospital scents got to know me better than you ever did
The uncomfortable disinfected couches
made me feel more at home
then you ever did
and the floor caught me better
than your arms
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
In the ring of memories, there is silence bribed silently: Behind its soul barricade, his life is squeezed out like a juicy lemon every day, but even then it is not broken, and he holds his faith hard! He is a self-contained, selfishly locked prisoner, yet he is forced to look down on this shaggy, swampy attitude that the vast majority has now established! They are convicted daily in public hearings; the ridiculous role of judge and accused is all measured on him!
You can't be a mortal and just be judged! He understood the bled pathos of human falls early on when he felt a lack of empathy! - Magnetic couscous loads are tested to attract soul-toxic Sisyphus; seven-test rocks, if pressed to the brim, not even the falling-star-eyes will cry. “Idiots disinfected with idiots are in vogue, while many are chasing the single-color rainbow for no purpose!
He wasted loyalty to sincere friendships and immortal Loves! He felt a lively, breathing body amid the petals-dismantling kisses superstitious of the Universe; a brain shaker that flowed out of open wounds sooner True! - In his own case, he never asked for apology or forgiveness; yet he could not serve with his life whose death they had already forgotten in his life!
There could be nothing to be ashamed of in the fall of Sisyphus! He died with dignity a billion times, and somehow, leaning on a stick like an aggastyan, he stood up slowly; carried the unquenchable Calvary in his shipwrecked heart! “He tried to stay clean inside so that people could say: he faced Cassandra’s ominous future many times! Living with one Spirit without deceit is a human task worthy of heart! "In our handshakes, the betrayal of Judas is secretly and insidiously being prepared!" As a final greeting, the Savior Angel also falls, falls on his face!
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 3:01 AM UTC
We curtseyed away and disinfected the air with our apologies
My Dad seethed;
opportunities lost of relieving the torment
It took hours
But we patched him back together
The only way we knew how..
With caution, and warmth shielding him.. bringing him home
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 3:35 AM UTC
You lead a life which happens to be fallacious
You live inside your head and happen to never travel far from it
In fact, you praise the open road
and travel, still you sit relapsing on
obscure memories that only ever bring you to the borders of insanity
No one could have dreamed this up but yourself
The world continues to rival and thrive
and wallow and rise from malign characters and sensibilities
Or that so you think
All you ever happen to do is not much but
Drive your self dry in misprinted thoughts and distract yourself from the evidential truth
Post-parched, you continue to further down a path which is only going to crackdown upon your world of disinfected affairs
Soon, will the sooted streets that chafed your unworn boots collude
And all that was ever known, even if it was but the faintest of an understanding as to how this time in space truly functions, Will soon perish in sanctuary
Soon will contemporaries all alike
Recede with tides anew
Soon will it onset the primitivism
Locked behind plywood doors
Soon will you know unfortunate
Tribulations beyond recovery
Soon will you be segregated from
Yourself, indeed
Indefinite suspension will bestow
a harrowing animation that will find
Itself repeating until you finally cross the
aforementioned border without any luck
Of returning home to the sheer bliss that
Was only good to you in youth
Fair enough in the last years adolescence
But unforgiving come the dawn of manhood
And soon on
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 6:56 AM UTC
It does not matter what you think
I do die disinfected of human beings
a regret of times gone so by
for mighty was the sword in my mind
Now we do what is asked
we surrender our noble swords
for we did mean to fight
on so many, on so many sides
Could we fall in ignorance
for we could not protect all
should not the manner of Earth
be given by the great stars of old
Some God's are pure infants
closed to the fabric of time
swaddled in comfort
in the future of baby stars
My Love for them
lord's of time
oh goodness no
they share a Holy Rhyme
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
~for her, one more time~
§§§
she tosses this dagger that instant pierces,
non-stop, the stabbing commencing unceasingly,
the nerve, what am I, plastic, disinfected, the spring
has come to where I live, or so I am told, but the
murderous questioning extracts it, leaving a **** spot
oh god who doesn’t answer me anymore,
offer me comfort, not mere insouciance,
provide a clue, if not an answer, and tell her
to stop asking this poseur, who freely admits
that every day he is fast moving closer to over
cause that the odds the punters provide
and in the city, in my urban garden,
the pigeons, the crows, the sparrows and starlings,
only offer cooing, cawing, and
a harsh, mocking, NYC accented cackling,
never a birdsong
*we will out live you-man,
with your batty viruses,
but they know better
than to ask,
what do you live by,
when all around me is
early blooming by decay masked,
that this spring brought too early quick,
while we were locked inside
our very own jails....*
§§§§§
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 10:33 AM UTC
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
I gave my sight to the sky
And watched the clouds collide
Saw the spinning universe as I never had before
And felt the world fall at my feet
I gave my breath to you
And said all things I should’ve
Shouted all the obscenities
And whispered all the sweet nothings
I gave my mind to you
And lost every inch of myself
Washed away every memory
And disinfected any individuality
I gave my body to the earth
And pushed my rotting flesh into the soil
Buried these withered bones in the clay
And felt the heat rise from its core
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
(-)
church of intermission. church of the rolled-away church my fever follows. church of it ain’t a baby until it spits. church of the lawnmower left running. of the space you give the grieving horse. church of you when you die in my sleep. of musical suicides. church of the disinfected high chair. of the false bruise. of how to become a balloon in the church of touch.
(-)
in the library’s dream, the abortion clinic is no bigger than a fingerprint.
(-)
this is me
praying
for a photo
of my father’s
last meal.
me
praying
to have
the allergic
reaction
my mother
faked.
for proof
of animal
suicide.
a mirror for my toys. dirt for my brother.
(-)
and we touch to abridge doom in the bed of a headless man. and we struggle to hear a father verbatim. and we ask in a fierce wind a phone booth to please be a fireplace. and a starfish consoles a handprint.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
the kitchen counter has been disinfected
we don't have interns here
they didn't clean it
because there is nothing to promise them
i am truly afraid to have children
not because i know they will grow up
it is because they will grow up
and
they will
hate me
but because it is too easy to see that
there is nothing left for them
its pathetic and easy to forget our victories
the value of the scent in your hair that soothes me
i ruin it, potentially
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
The same outcome time and time again
What happened next was yet to be the trademark of these nights
It was all going swimmingly
No tears, the fears all washed away
No fresh broken veins rising to the surface of my mother's face
No stutters in the risk of turning happy times to grave
All was fabulous, darling
Then the taxi driver came
Prompt, on time, pulled up to the line
Got out the car, held our door, greeted us
We hopped in and he softened the sounds of his zithers and drums and CRASSSHHHH
like that..
Father Jack was back
The Tasmanian whirlwind of Dad
His vomiting of ignorant bile
The tarnished look of shame
The spit escaping his furious tongue
Our blushed red cheeks and the look of fear in the rear view mirror
The want to float, erase, rewind the time to drumsticks and toothpicks digging out smart price nuts from our teeth
To fly to a time when Dad was 5 and be there
Not just fob him off to nearest kids home
'John, she's pregnant again, fetch your clothes'
... and nurture him, tell him he was loved and teach him right from wrong
Those rear view eyes, counting down the time
We cleaned up the aftermath, disinfected the air with our apologies and curtseyed away whilst he licked his wounds
Next gig pencilled in, St Patrick's Day.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 1:36 PM UTC
15% off all print books today on Lulu with coupon code of LULU15
some poems from some recent publications:
[untitled]
what seashell does for ocean
my pillow
will
for hunger.
oh dream,
insomnia’s
wiped out
city...
is this
a stone
or the mating
call
of grief?
~
[untitled]
the power
came back on
the boy
didn’t.
I had my chance
to believe
in god.
the beetle was on its back
and the woman
unable
to **** herself
ordered
online
a rowing
machine.
mother’s garden, father’s ladder.
a black cat
where nothing
grew.
~
[untitled]
church of intermission. church of the rolled-away church my fever follows. church of it ain’t a baby until it spits. church of the lawnmower left running. of the space you give the grieving horse. church of you when you die in my sleep. of musical suicides. church of the disinfected high chair. of the false bruise. of how to become a balloon in the church of touch.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC