"dislocated" poems
I remember...
I was sad because I could only afford four textbooks out of five
Until the best student dropped out of school due to lack of tuition
I was upset because I wasn't served dessert
Until I saw a starving man
I complained my car was manual transmission
Until I saw a guy wishing for a used bicycle
I always wished for a bigger bed
Until I saw a man sleeping on the street
I was demotivated because my job wasn't paying well
Until I saw unemployment rate in other countries
I was ****** with myself when I dislocated my ankle
Until I saw someone without legs
It's definitely good to admire better things but
Appreciate what you have
Because somebody wants just that!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
Peppermint creme-filled fingers
dabble nothing;
sleep through alarms and dislocated anger sockets
every morning.
And there are flyers littering my floor
speaking truths I never wanted
and never knew
through band names shock factoring
their ardent prisons.
Attention is a world currency,
just like ***
just like symmetry,
and the plates shift
while my plates sit
in the aluminum sink
in my kitchen.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Distressed, Dismayed
Disturbed, Disdain
Distant, Feeling Disconnected
Worlds Dislocated
Disgruntled, Disorganized,
Dismayed, Drained
Disarray Abounds
Dispersed into Nothingness
Dead, Ditto, Ditto
of Dance, Delight and Dreams
At the passing of my beloved
Death Draws Me In...
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 5:43 AM UTC
most girls are simply
peacocks
and cliffs, a pair of mountains
house their dangling
hips
but the snow
is kind of blue at midnight
most girls look sick
when eternal is just it
she she she
has a dislocated shoulder
she she she
is as empty inside
most girls are bright
but jump off from cliffs
sometimes
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
It is not my story to tell:
Languishing dreams in the midst of barbed wire fences,
Fearless laughter,
We add lemon, chile powder and salt to this border.
They carry these stories,
Heavy as a sack filled with indignities,
Weighty, like your grandmother’s advice,
Cumbersome, like this daily mental displacement.
I have not bought big things as of lately,
In my mind I plan my exits,
I constantly check my relocation fund,
“What if” is a constant in my lexicon.
I often break in tears at the sound of an immigrant story,
My emotions become gallons of water:
broken and splashed by the boots of immigration officers,
Little do they know, we are cacti:
Tough and our seeds also flourish post mortem.
I want to sing an immigrant song:
Less like butterflies who migrate,
But more like dislocated nations,
Collateral flesh, caught up in steel thorns.
Rest assured we will survive,
Like leaves of siempreviva,
Even after torn away from our stem,
We will grow our own roots:
Defiant, resilient, and with a stubborn willingness to belong.
We are you.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
DEEP WITHIN
I knew deep within my soul
if anyone had ever got close to me
they would get cast into darken dreams
they would have to see all that darkness
they would have to feel all that pain
from their own darken past,
The cuts that gets deeper as time goes on
they would feel the body aches
the dislocated of body parts
if they were smart
they would look the other way
not even walk my way to see if I was okay,
if they looked at me too closely
they would find I am somewhere else
my tears will roll down my face like a waterfall
but when the tears fall to the ground
they would make a big sound
like broken glass from the past
and when I was to talk
my voice would be sobbing with no words,
silence would be all they would hear
they would see something
was controlling me
taking over all my emotions
lighting up my breath
given extreme pain deep within
they will see they are going through
the same pain;
so, I know to keep all away from me
if I can but things are starting
to get way out of hand.
Poetic Judy Emery © 1980
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
Her hair, reminiscent of glass
Dusty perplexions, missing pearlescent marbles
She's a dream awaiting the arrival of the next writer
To speak of her story to the masqueraded creature
Posing as light to the dark universe she's encased in
She's the raging madness in her soul
Thrashing yet loving anyone who kisses her
Hidden love affairs, descending silhouettes
Leftover clothes tossed unruly; a decadent stench
Intrusive but polite to wilting foliage
Lip stains, droplets of blood, dislocated jaws
Time, unforgiving as always, punishes its victims
Misery coats her barely twinkling soul
The one who shatters her mirror
May forgive her to finally be free.
Jun 3, 2024
Jun 3, 2024 at 3:36 PM UTC
Fragmented pieces of scarlet memories,
trees of stout arms reaching.... affection the fruit it carries,
Mauvey plumes sprout this golden harvest of my imagination.
I'm drawn to taste commitment's nectar
Hear now the sitars melody, notes in Arial Black on Milky White,
I climbed the apple tree in this garden of light,
The colorful wind melodiously blowing a heretic hero's demise,
Though shaken my grasp prevailed the prize.
Alas through and through my vantage point reveals a view,
The floating dislocated memories on a river of silky love,
That rise and brush the teardrops from my cheeks,
Then spirit away like frightened doves.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
I see it for just a moment
A squishy mound of fur to the far right of the asphalt
This latest pile of dislocated mush is presented on a desert highway
A raccoon? No. Too small.
A coyote? Maybe. Who can tell?
That play-dough pile of crushed bones was not created outside the white lines where it now lays
Some chosen soul scraped and scooped the mystery meat to its resting place
Some jumpsuit wearing civilian is intimately aware with the parentage of the reassembled road victim
Do they have a moment of silence after the last shovel scrape?
Do they hold an internal roadside memorial?
What of the homicidal perpetrator behind his wheels?
He must know the identity of his victim
He must feel the agony of guilt
Or, is his only remorse in the quarters he must spend at the self-service carwash to remove the evidence?
Perhaps Road-Kill animals haunt their vehicle killers
Maybe their blood can never be truly washed from the ****** weapon’s shinny surface
Like spots on Lady Macbeth’s hands
Perhaps the killer’s dreams are frequented by unidentifiable ****** mounds with eyes that stare from unnatural places
After all
Justice must be had in one way or another
For the unrecognizable John Doe pile represents all those wild things that must chance to cross the hard, hot, lethal highway
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
At this deep pool
Where no light is reflected,
Where small birds come
Clinging to the vine
Amongst fallen logs and silences,
The crush of leaves and the rot of years.
At this dark edge
Where now unassailable trees tower
In a brief clearing,
At this still centre where the wreckage lies
Of river's breach and storm's rage.
Here at the heart.
Where once the workings of long-ago men,
The wild, roaring, toothless ones,
Desperate and dislocated,
Their fierce eyes blazing through dark,
And bodies by day burning through timber,
Cut sunlight in shadow
And nation in nature.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
Hahaha
Quincy Valero, once again on crutches
He always manages to do this to himself
This time he was in his required exercise class and dislocated his knee
I just laugh at this
When we were younger he got roaring drunk and began doing an inebriated salsa
"SALSA KING!"
We all chanted
All of a sudden one leg wen one way and one the other way
He screamed in pain
It was a hairline fracture
Another time he had a lovers quarrel with this girl he was seeing
They fought all the time
Like all the time
And one night in a furious rage
Quincy punched a wall and fractured his hand
A few weeks later I had a pool party
And Quincy had to wrap his damaged hand in a plastic bag and hold it at a 90 degree angle the whole time
He takes all these injuries to heart
He's the kind of guy who has always got to be moving
He's always gyrating, talking, laughing
And when he's even the tiniest bit immobile or disabled
He goes into a short period of depression and self pity
It's just funny to me because just when I think he'll be okay
Some how he manages to just get himself hurt
The clutz haha
Even now, I'm talking to him
He hurt his thumb the other night at a party he threw two days ago
LONG LIVE THE SALSA KING!
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
You’re all bones and no talk.
All dislocated ribs and shackled thoughts.
Contain them contain them, don’t you dare let them escape.
Hold on to what makes you broken, I’ve heard broken thoughts carry less weight.
So guard your bones that home your soul.
Sharpen your ribs and polish your throne.
Count the minutes and the hours and the seconds as they go.
You can’t expect royalty when you’re six feet below.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
I am the key to the lock in your house
You burned a hole in my heart
Where the arteries flow.
And the veins are
blocked
like gutter drains,
No one can pass -
through the Red Sea,
A no go area.
A hairline fracture into a million capillaries,
Split arteries to take each feeling individual to the tips of my skin.
Still covered beautiful
but a nails cuticles,
Impaled on a cross resembling a torso.
Hollow bones that play like xylophones
In the tombs of hidden organs that echo
&
resonate through the decay of a necrophiliacs playground.
Dislocated limbs swing round a rib cage,
Splinters shatter the skin revealing the droplets of blood that pour like rain and tears combined.
Twist past as they gloop through a cutlets spine.
Always on my mind,
always on my mind.
Cobwebs of memories,
Embedded in a decayed gut,
Dug up like skeletons in cemeteries to find the remedy or medicine to plug the bullet shaped holes you made in my heart.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
I count my steps,
my heart like some
mis-ticking pedometer
uneven and syncopated
disassociated and dislocated
with my head in the clouds
I found, retracing my steps,
my foot in my mouth
all the while we kissed.
No wonder, then
that you tasted like
the roads we traveled together,
each time more insipid than the last,
and each word I spoke
was muddled
dry and bland
or saturated and sticking
under fingernails
between your teeth
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated
the blade's removed yet its cold steel remains
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated
upon us both the crime's been perpetrated
and though the blade is marked with just his stains
that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated
his essence from my own's been dislocated
my life remains with only his remains
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated
my soul's been scraped, upon my thoughts' been grated
his blood powdered, mixed with my tears, i'm stained
that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated
and as grief's torments whip my heart striated
all joy swirls round and round a filthy drain
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated
i frame my memories,they're venerated
as cries repeat in minor key refrains
that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated
(C)2010, Christos Rigakos
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
I’ve always cried in secret.
Not by choice;
I just never seem to be noticed
when my heart breaks,
my body quakes,
my resolve is torn asunder.
I never receive the pity
I feel I deserve.
With a twisted face
and clenched fists
I try to hold back
unsightly sobs and gasps for air.
I’m never noticed,
but maybe it’s better that way.
Brokenness is ugly,
and my shards are jagged.
You’re no stranger to this.
They see Your Crown,
Your Side,
Your Hands and Feet.
But people forget
that You carried the Cross
that bore Your Body for hours on end.
They forget
that the Flesh was torn
and every step dug deeper
into Your Shoulder.
They whipped You,
they beat You,
they spat and ridiculed
But the pain of the Cross was constant.
There was no relief
from lifting and dragging
that torturous wood.
Dislocated and raw,
how can they not remember
the deepest Wound of all?
Is that why You gave me
my Wound, Lord?
Is it because I know
how it feels to have pain
not easily recognized?
Let me kiss your Wound, Lord.
Let me clean it and hold it
to my own.
Let me endure my pain
as You did:
with grace and compassion
with strength and integrity
Let me bear my Cross
as You bore Yours.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
it's always fun at carnivals.
pretty lights, cotton candy, fun games
it's a fountain of youth for everyone.
until
the lights shut down.
the cotton candy rots.
the games are already playing you.
and it gets worse.
the dark, cloudy sky chases you.
kids start crying all over the place.
rain is pouring down the carousel.
the carousel? The Carousel?
The Carousel, where you thought would be the safest ride.
where you carefully placed the secrets of your world.
where you wistfully pointed out your dreams.
where you stayed without feeling dizzy
when all you did was to go round and round and round
round and round
until
you started to get tired.
you saw the horses are not the real horses you always dreamed of riding.
you heard the music isn't pleasing anymore.
you heard cracks and gears being dislocated.
you can't see anything anymore.
your secrets have escaped instead of you.
you tried to escape this demeaning makeshift world of yours but to no luck.
you've seen the whole carnival now.
dreary, miserable, lonely.
the once colorful tents were now drenched in sorrowful monochrome.
mirrors are placed all over the gaming booths.
broken lights.
sad, sad music.
you thought The Carousel was the carnival itself.
i thought The Carousel was the carnival itself.
i made the greatest mistake of not tasting the cotton candy, not feeling the sun on my skin.
have the horses tricked me?
i've seen the whole carnival now.
it's not what it is years ago.
the gates are closed.
it's always fun at carnivals.
the fun never stops.
dim lights, rotten food, mind games.
everyone's favorite choice is escape.
i tried to.
i'm still trying to.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 10:59 AM UTC
Maybe I can just build you a house
And then sit beside it
Or inside it. Beside you.
I hung up the phone with the conviction of a man about to walk into his own triple ****** trial.
Your voice on the line sounded sympathetic, and yet, pitying. As if you were sorry for the fact that I was so in love with the way that voice sounded on its own.
I am creating stress, I am simply recycling old issues.
I miss you.
I will throw you out this window
And be sure that my fists are broken in your cheekbones,
Dislocated jaw will hang sideways
While our blood will mix into violet.
I'll tickle your ribs with a buck knife
And spit all my teeth into your eyes.
I genuinely hope that you don't die,
Your lesson is best learned alive.
If it wasn't for you, my fists wouldn't be vibrating
Teeth would be a good millimeter longer
Arms would be loose, migraine at rest
Furrowed brows under new context.
Please forgive my idiocy
For making this harder for you than it has to be.
But don't block yourself from your love for me.
Please don't force yourself to forget me.
Let what you feel be just what you feel.
The higher you build your walls
(or the less you pay attention to the workers)
The sooner my heart will bleed.
I'm ******* tired of being the one to get bruised
Just to turn around and smile through ****** gums
And act like things don't hurt.
I am on the frontburner.
**** it, this hurts so much. I love you too much.
I hate myself.
I don't.
I am so confused. I want you to be happy.
And I want you to want me near you.
Enjoy your friends.
I am with too many people too much.
I want to be alone.
I want to be with you.
This poem is ******* horrible.
I just miss you.
Sorry.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
Still water runs deep,
But the puddle remained,
Ripple less
To take turns to look in the reflection,
of the backrounds sound that reverberates across the landscapes.
Twisted invertebrates,
You still got my back?
We’re stuck in the mud,
up until our waist.
As the sunsets' behind,
I can’t look over,
my dislocated shoulder,
blades,
slice and sharpened,
by pebbles grains,
and then
skimmed across the puddles
so only ripples remain.
Though they soon disappear,
into the stagnant grasp
of fear and statuesque
placid, tranquil times.
In a hushed halycon,
hedonistic slices of life.
Still water runs deep,
but I drown in the shallow aqua,
in the afterlife of undulation.
The aftermath of the ripple effect.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
You're like
The city lights at night
A scratch in music
Exposed for too long
The coast line
A dislocated spine
Dream sequence on repeat
For years in the backseat
Slow guitar
And the North Star
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
i ring the door bell twice
the door opens
there is a boy maybe 4 5
he smiles at me
rustled ***** blonde hair
blue eyes shining seeing into me
knowing me in the basest truth
as only children can know
"Hi. Welcome. Hello."
all rapidly said so politely
i step inside
the house is not too large
not small by any means
this porridge is just right
he leads me in as one who
leads a child to
the den well furnished
the father sits in his chair
watching the boy gratefully
the boy buzzing with
the energy of new company
leaps onto the couch and
announces himself
"My name is Demetri. Nice to meet you.
Welcome to my home. What is your name?"
"Sam"
"Hey, Sam, nice to meet you, Sam."
he flips off the couch grandly
grabs my hand and shakes violently
"Nice to meet you, Sam. Im Demetri.
Welcome to my home. Please, please.
Sit, sit."
He pulls me to the couch
I sit so my arm is not dislocated
he lets go wrist hurting
not the strength of a
4 5 year old boy
a well developed boy well spoken
i look to his father who
watches son lost in amazement
proud as can be as should be
the boy is again in my ear
"What brought you here, Sam? Did you
want to see my house? Did you wanna
see my legos? I got a lot of them. I like
building spaceships. I wanna build a real one.
Hey Sam, you wanna build a spaceship."
no idea how to build a spaceship
"Im here to speak with your father, little guy."
"Really? About what? Huh? About what?
Do you bring things to people? Like presents?
Do you have a present? I think I know
what about. You have a present for my dad.
Is that it, Sam, do you have a present?"
im both annoyed and fascinated
simultaneously by the boy
annoyance why father
has not said something
leash this dog muzzle
however
fascination buzzing by simple fact
i did have something for his father
a present
for the father to keep forever
for the boy to find later
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 8:26 PM UTC
Assembling a bouquet of flowers on my path toward home,
an assortment of Hyacinth and Daffodil, Fern and Cherry Blossom
and some other flowery **** that I managed to conjure;
drunk, levee en masse du la fleur.
I felt pity in the bottom of my stomach
as I strode concrete turbulence across the road and
toward the McDonalds.
If I were a chicken it would have been
no wonder why I had
crossed the road
but
since I was a human being
my reasons, experiences, hair colour, blood alcohol content and steel-stomach absenteeism furled into a tightly wound knot-of-motif.
I stood
and stared
waiting to gain momentum.
Peering at the swaying, sobbing mob waiting impatiently
brazenly and vacantly
for their shot at luke-warm burger patty adorned with onion that looks like little baby teeth and cheese so processed it will never melt, I realized that
we both stood in ecstasy.
And I stood, swaying in the breeze as all good drunkards do, blankly and inquisitively; I began to wonder what it was that I was
witnessing.
Did I want to participate in mindless habitué? spend my money on
**** food that could
hardly be considered as such?
Stand in line, jaw hanging loose like a gorilla that had voluntarily dislocated his mandible so that he didn’t have to chew? wait for my shot at glory?
This is glory: the bars had all closed, and now there was no haven for the drunk ****** to congregate better than the local gut-fill station.
I took one final look at my squandered comrades, brains scrambled, disgusting.
I hate you ******* ******* it I hate you all.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 3:51 AM UTC
I am socially dislocated
My heart is devastated
Annexed from humanity
My mind is iridescent
Closing off my heart
And opening up my mind
To a new time,
That you’re no longer mine
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
You’re so prosthetic
Existence constructed through defiance
Meticulous hours exhausted in revision
Intrusion into my consciousness
Old assembly bones resonant atrocious melodies
Concrete block on my mentality
Socio-economic tailgate
Bright lights on the public eye
Interrogation
Irrigation of the mouth
Roughed up face
Dislocated jaw
Hostility unleashed
Speak the ******* truth
Departed mortality rate
Breaking in is half the fun
Grind you to a ****** mess
One half in the East River
The other in the Hudson
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 8:59 AM UTC