"dislocating" poems
You act callously crude
Like Cronenberg's brood
You keep the body horror
In the naughty drawer
I feel my body's poorer
So you convince me I'm rich
Then treat me like an itch
And scratch
To detach
You invited me to your chateau
Then left me on this plateau
For my beating heart exploded from my chest
Once I foolishly entered your nasty nest
There I lay
As immobile prey
My body was infected
By your touch
And my mind dissected
Way too much
You passionately present me with body horror
I really resent you for being a shoddy sawyer
Cutting me down but not completely
Your lackluster love travels obliquely
Dislocating my horrified heart
My rib cage begins to part
As my mangled love
Escapes with my blood
My fingers are breaking
Trying to carry the relationship
Happiness I'm faking
When you crack your elation whip
When I'm powerless to the *****
I become showerless in a hurry
And my skin starts to rot
While I lie on your cold cot
You're my unforgiving cop
And the horrors never stop
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
the night was already crazy-wild by the time
we arrived at Jarred's pool.
he had a big house but we never went in
4 teens, teen dream, a dream team;
but I knew deep down just what it was
we snuck out for.
a "transform-optional" rite, this hollow night.
but I still had doubts...
as Jarred offered me an aluminum can of something and I nervously said, "no thank you",
the moon had proudly jut out
he had a big house but we never went in.
I hadn't noticed, without the moonlight, just how
sharp Jarred's teeth and fingernails were.
canines, ivory & sporadic. looking at me
I hadn't noticed how reptilian our 2 friends were
The fangs and dislocating jaws, tendrils & scales.
Man-o-war for a head, giant earthworm for an arm
She looked scarier than he.
Those 2 went at each other in a murderous way
A blood sport of sorts. Confusing to me.
She spread her jaws wide - a parachute with teeth
And bit down hard between his legs.
Blood everywhere. Blood spattered on her face
She looked ****** god-awful by then.
The meat of his dead body then re-animated
And assimilated with hers. Anabiosis + Differentiate
Jarred, a werewolf or something like it, approached me.
He had a big house but we never went in.
we chatted poolside for a while
he'd go harmoniously from monster to human, human to monster.
Boiling cancerous growths under his fur
Grew angry eyes that glared at me.
clawhand on the back of my neck,
he went in for a kiss (or a bite)
with a puckered face and bared teeth.
This is it.
I finally felt a grossness so profound that I,
without thinking, jumped in the pool
to splish-splash, cool, to escape, whatever
I opened my eyes and just floated there for a bit.
hanging in the stillness
trying to forget those alien freaks
staring up at the moon
from the bottom of a pool.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
am I awake dreaming that I am asleep
or perhaps asleep dreaming that I am awake
yet I do dream. I dream of Brazil
where antique rages like great storms
announce themselves with a small breeze
that stands against rust in mighty waves
and stares at the bleak mid winter
eyes of oppression and by
crimson haste, dithers in despair
and watches the pages
that unleash such rages
become the cobalt colour of tombstones
who ***** themselves behind the eyes
in dramatic stages
yet is the announcement of all these
historic rages
that are outrageous
placed upon blank pages
that butchers compassion
which is almost infinitesimally brief
yet so poignant and dislocating
has a momentarily almost faint identity
that singles indefinable loss
that is expressed in all known language
and splinters the mind into dark deep waters
that the only thing that can be
trusted is this moment, this moment
is the realisation, so powerful
that one cannot do otherwise
but confront it and in so doing
feel the immense vibration of change
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
“If you can make it through the night, there’s a brighter day.” - Tupac Shakur
I see your tears crawling silently on the stairs of fear, alone
no one is near but your cries are heard young child. Emotion
black & blue from the punches of their laughs/the commotion
inside your mind baring scars from the lacerations
of loneliness you feel -- searching but finding no way to deal
with the internal pain that throws you up against
the wall of difference and trips you onto the curb
of your own self-expression.
I feel your heart calling out for someone to grab your fall;
someone just to see that you are someone other
than the names they call you and you are someone other
than the shouts of abuse that has you afraid to step out into a harsh
world and someone who sees that you are someone
other than the echoes of humiliation that threaten to tear
down the walls of your mental stability;
you just need someone to show you that
within you there is an ability to escape and fight back
with the force of just being you. Young child let your individuality shine
because every inch of your soul is someone proud and fine.
Walk strong because no matter how hard the world kicks you
your bones will not bruise. You will not limp
because your mind will not fracture through their attempts
to try dislocating your sense of self. There is always a better day
waiting to show you that you will be okay
and I know now your nights are long
as it is your fear that tomorrow will be cruel
but just remember you are filled with worth and a voice
born to be heard. Believe in you
because life is not a bully.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
we watched raccoons eat our piled-up three day old trash
through the rectangular kitchen window above the sink
angled light emptied through the screen
that we thanked God was there
unopened decks of Bicycle playing cards gripped
the dusted counter for fear of flowing
dislocating elbows away from our stomachs
baring four ivory wrists to the photon flood
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
drag me by my finger tips
scrape across the floor
dislocating, tearing, stretching,
disinigrating oh so slow.
mutilated piece by piece
you destroy my innocence
lost in this trembling sensation
my body does it quake.
grief occupies
my only space
disgrace is all
that fills me up.
deathly silence
stretches high
clinging tightly
in these lingering thoughts.
lead me on another path
distract so it cannot continue
now i know...it is you
my souls true obsession.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
most of my poems come spontaneous,
dare I say even easy, the composition,
tumbling rumbling usually no fumbling,
this one, the prep commences. a month priority plus, with wellsprings of considerations,
in advance…
*’tis Miz Patty’s day of birth,
ah, the feminine mystique
prevents me from revealing
her precessional numerical
decades of decadence,
but adoration of this Magi,
is not so constrained,
so bend my knee to the woman
who writes a
poem’s complexity
as if it were a fine
medieval tapestry,
colors aflaming,
workmanship intricate
intriguing, well deserving
of a place,
in the Metropolitan Museum Cloisters fortress,
that guards
the Hudson River’s Upper Valley’s
verdant stippled wider majesty,
near to where Washington’s
troops fled Manhattan heights
to safety in New Jersey, most
ignominiously
*I’m told that tears arose,
then fell, when first she
read this inattributed essay
on this jubilee day, a clarion
reminder note of her coronation,
to this great green planet,
Missoura Mama as she is
with great affection so known
throughout this glorious land*
*Ah, wax too eloquent,
never my style,
only my favorite sin,
when one begins
to pray tribute,
to a finer poet…and
mine own heroine*
*this aperture of insight,
this scrap of script,
why the papyrus turns
pinkish red, as she demurs
this ode of praise,
while the edges crisp
burnt, brown ~black
by the heat of her outraged
enraged protestation
of “way too much,”
a pretense commenced
by my opportuned
impermissioned reveling
revelation of this
datapoints accidental
dislocating disclosure
as is my sin actuelle,
go on too long says
my devil muse,
so a final thought*
*if this should somehow be,
the first poem you’ve recovered
in this land of words gone mad,
make to hers, and there spend
a day, a lifetime, in a lovely land,
where her words will slip through
your eyes and hands, like fine
grains of sand, each letter,
a pearl in
black and white*…
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 11:00 PM UTC
~~~
dislocation/punk'd
hey baby,
put one forward,
faking baby steps.
life is hard in different ways,
for so many of us, the days say,
each year of us, walks a unique maze,
hands on the wall, unavoidable tripping on
speed bumps that make one crazed
and that you even see
coming
but inevitable is the red,
swelling, bruises, cutting,
the side effects of what gets said,
the falling-downs of words that are
dislocating
things get said, and you get paid
in eerie and weary,
and the loss of balance,
as if you are just the warm water,
water that slips over the side,
not the body inside,
and when you slip up,
that wet, warm beat-up,
That empty feeling of being is
displacing
you know, well advanced,
that parts of you,
moving around inside,
sources of internal dizziness,
the curve ***** thrown in slow mo
that so mesmerize you
into watching but not swinging,
accepting that the arc,
provides burns skinning,
and you go down 'n out
striking
what ya gonna do?
dust off and upstanding accept,
that some pitches are just **** hard on us,
we the swingers, often miss the ball,
wide of the mark,
sometimes we just stand, mouth agape,
watching the ball coming right at us,
even foreseeing the incoming
paining
what hurts,
is not those rosy red ridge reminders,
the after party of being hit,
but that when getting punk'd,
chewed up, spit out,
you get used to it, and to survive,
to keep your wits,
you spend time convincing yourself,
that you don't even care,
but you find your thinking is all about
rhyming
so when poetry get complicated,
ya get back to where ya
once before where,
keeping it simple,
roses red, violets blue,
what ya gonna do,
but your sense of smell
shot to hell,
what the hell,
thinking just another wet plunking
thinking no big dealing
this one mo' punking,
there will be more
but wonder why
you can no longer make your
simple, confused words to be reduced
by right
rhyming
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
You can never skip an opportunity to call yourself that
Because you’re your ma’s son:
Didn’t get caught up in the tool shed
Got spiked through with the hooked art of repeating yourself instead
Should I feel insulted then
That these cracked, digited fringes
These rejects of your diminutive anatomy
Are how you love me?
You love me with the unvoiced, unexplained idiocy
Of fingers that make Mexican waves
To one particular song
And lure mine to come dancing too
You love me with the whorls where you keep your DNA
Counting the concaves in my skeleton:
Explore them, soothe them
Wonder if you made them
And I think you fear that
If you ceased to trace me as I grew –
A carpenter sifting through the age rings in my spine –
I’d only feel the dislocating vagueness
Of an absence too menial to be mourned.
“Cack-handed”
But I remember different:
I remember your hands like leather,
All heated and scratchy from your pockets,
Unhooking the problems from my mouth.
And how the weather’d teethed on them,
Gnawed away chunks down around the cuticles
Until they were dry and scarred like February –
February getting lost in its own bleak cavernousness
They stir the rag in the shoe polish,
And the burnt spoon in the bean tin.
I used to try to pinch them
But my nails were too soft
And your palms too crusted
But when they tell me “thick-skinned”
I shake my head and think
“No, beautifully cack-handed”
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
I'm laying in my brothers bed, I just needed a change of scenery. He's been dead since late September. No one even goes in his room. Like his bedroom is the coffin that we layed him to rest in.
No
No
No
This is the room we played games in, threw waterballoons & blasted trap music in. Where we climbed out your window into another universe. We dared to be stupid just because. He had thick brown hair, wide intimidating eyes. He would shove me off the bed, telling me to go die. Tell me one more time, I'll listen to your advice..
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
“The rest of us are compressed
Chest to chest, with whoever stands next.
Dislocating themselves from the mass, others
Take tricky routes,
With the idea that by veering off a little,
Round the swarming
Pack of people, that their own ‘terrible suffering’ would be
Put at bay.
“Why go through the mess and waste all that time,
when I can go around?”
They don’t wait for a minute, they push.
Push and push and
push.
They look full of silence and innocence as they slide aside,
But have the mind of a cheat who lives to attack the honest.
The crammed lot are still ‘suffering’.
We “fools” will soon form a mould for others to
Slot into place.
Though squeezed, we’ll remain fair.
Yet, there will be those
Who always go around,
As the deceptive route
Is the one encouraged now.”
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
It's been a while...
And time has become a ten-razor-clawed beast,
Ferociously dislocating the ball from it's chain.
Sharpening it's teeth on my ankles,
Ripping the false stability from under me...
There are not enough hours in a year
For you to fully comprehend how much I love you.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
anguish (as a species)
is a most fearsome animal
came to visit my abode
it is bigger than life and
at once too vibrant and too shrouded to define edges
save the glittering Chesire rictus that splits its skull
like broken mirrors
reflecting original sin as if you were the author
it characteristically blinds its victim
before inserting a single spine into the cardiac muscle
paralyzing both beat and brain
you may open your eyes once
(it will allow you that)
before the end
so you may appraise its shark-like maw
jaw dislocating wide wide wide
to afford room for your entirety
when it closes,
it is not like going to sleep.
it is no gentle light.
a worser fate, it lets you live
in the acid of its belly
peeling away your skin
pickling your eyes
until from yourself you can draw a sword
tear from the taut and distended skin of malice
and ******* forgive yourself.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 10:32 AM UTC
They tell me it's all going to be over soon, that everything we know and love, everyone we can fathom who fits into either of those two categories, the tiny thoughts that greet you at the dawn of the waking hours to the grandest of social constructs, regardless of size, shape or architecture, will soon fall, brick by brick into the sea.
A hundred years ago, I imagine a scaly sea bass fell from the heavens into the hands of a fisherman. He saw it as a sign of something so unholy and profane, he tossed it, almost dislocating his shoulder, into the sea, mumbling "back to god, you go."
and back to god we go.
how will you greet it.
who will you be with, that's more important.
Whose eyes are you going to stare into as some named storm churns up the country side, the cities, rivers and villages, making sweet love to the stone and steel we thought would always stand, east-coast-solid in the face of holy wrath.
the whole of our world will undulate, as if dancing as we will tonight, in a new year's celebration unlike any other.
5, 4, 3, 2,
and countless, so countless,
because numbers won't exists,
nor clocks,
or clothing,
or divisions.
after it is all gone, there will be nothing to separate us from what we desire so deeply, nothing to bind us in servitude to a world that made no sense, nothing to make sense of,
and that's when we'll know freedom,
the morning after the end of the world,
when we wake up in each others arms,
quietly humming,
sleeping in a few extra minutes before we rebuild ourselves again.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
It’s hard i guess, this time in your life. Everything is about being somewhere else and doing other things while your stuck in the same place doing the same thing again and again. It’s hurts; the yearning. The want for something- anything different than these sore joints and weak knees. All these growing pains to boot. I’ve been with Andy for nearly three months, we haven’t said I love you in the words that mean it. We say ‘I like you’ and ‘lets get a dog’, ‘I love your mum’ and ‘how do you want me to **** you’ and it starts to ache. My elbows crack before I can fully extend them and every morning when I wake up I have a glass of juice because I know milk will make me ill. They say I need to eat something but i’m full of all the cracking hip joints and dislocating shoulders that I find in every single waking day. I’m full from eating Andrews pain, it’s an every-day thing. His growing pains and mine are like siamese twins. I wake up in the morning, sometimes alone and it’s easier to do my day like that, without the wanting to return to a life where i’m in a place where he wants me to be, but I have to wake up, I have to put my brave face on and crawl through with my creaking ankles and cracking knuckles, all these growing pains building me into the adult that I never wanted to be. I guess I always wanted something better for myself, something different for myself. A lifestyle where the growing pains are still there but they’re stifled by my ever-growing creativity and my lust for life and living. This is what I was handed, to so many people it’s like a bunch of fancy desserts on a silver platter. To me it’s a mask I put on every day, I smile, a ‘thank you’ a ‘good morning’ as in-genuine as every single ‘it was nice to meet you’ at a party where you just had to stifle panic attacks all night. It wasn’t nice to meet you. bad morning. No thank you. I never anticipated it; this is the time in your life where no one around you hears your growing pains nobody hears a symphony because their own ****** racket is beating loud and clear like a drum ensemble in their ears. This is adult-hood, you’re on your own kid.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
She lay in her victorious gesture,
a breath of longing,
stutters dislocating his jaw.
Her illumination, a scent memory,
she was the most acute,
vigorous testimony
of truth,
of history,
his feeble heart
could dream.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
Why do cuss words come out,
Unrighteously in pain,
Our brain,
Triggering the thoughts...or emotions.
Dislocating your leg, chapped lips
broken heart.
Dead Sea ****** mask,
Keep the positive vibes flowing,
Over this cup I refuse to drink of,
This sorrow that holds on so strongly,
I'm an ant at a picnic of life,
Wasn't invited, wasn't invited, wasn't invited.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image
life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body
so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning
the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being
the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings
then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born
intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking
whille a distant star is crushing itself,
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay
perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies
Feb 14, 2025
Feb 14, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC
Grief is nothing until we reach it. Though we know, death is
always a definite, no matter what our inner world declares,
presents to us or it forms us. Dislocating us from the world
and providing less meaning, fading away, innocence loses
as the notion of expectations leaves us. Rendering to deal
with reality, alone.
(knowledge variable)
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
September 9th, 2001
Gary and I were skating at a hospital on top of a huge hill, overlooking a valley
An ambulance came and took out a dead woman
Gary asked me why she wasn't moving or blinking
They hadn't closed her eyes yet
She must have died on the way
A car full of family and friends came in with the ambulance
They were all crying and hugging each other
One woman screamed hysterically
And grabbed at the woman's body asking her to wake up
I had to tell Gary that her soul went to heaven
I didn't believe a word of it, but I knew it'd be easier for him to understand
Two days from now, at 9 a.m., the planes will hit the World Trade Center
Killing over 3, 000 people
I will tell Gary that there is no God, and all of this is meaningless
But today, there is a God, and He has a plan for him
He doesn't know it, but a year from now, our family will be torn apart
And I will move far away and won't see or talk to him for five years
And as we sit on the hood of our car, the sun goes down
And he asks me what I wanted all my life
I tell him, "I don't know"
On and on we run away
From the things we are afraid of
On and on we run away
From the things we are afraid of
On and on we run away
From the things we are afraid
I don't tell him about the dream I had the night before
Where I'm riding in a car full of strangers
And singing to some song I've never heard and smoking a cigarette
We swerve off the road and hit a tree
I go through the windshield and hit the edge of the fence
Dislocating my jaw and flipping me into a wall
Where my neck is broken, and my skull is fractured
I bleed to death in excruciating pain
I will have this dream periodically until I meet all of the strangers one by one
Introducing them all to each other until we are a close group of friends
I will set these events in motion and I will die
But today in the warm light of the sunset
I don't see it, I just see the sunset
I smile back and shake my head
I have absolutely no idea, I am afraid.
Feb 7, 2025
Feb 7, 2025 at 10:53 AM UTC