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Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
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
Simon Oct 2019
A fulcrum to a virus, is stabilizing the charge of negativity in the bodies natural system. The heart feels it’s blood rippling with contractions. Main internal organs feeling the depth at which disturbance is relative to the norm. The norm being (activity) in the face of hustling environmental situations. Outside your system, or inside isn’t contrary by any means. It’s the same as if it were simple inputs reacting in a form able to move on its own accord. Syncing with the outputting world. Activity starting to measure itself for the greater good. A judgment calls in the face of closing a deal. The deal is finally running into something meant for challenges to address the norm from growing stale too early to experiment. Experiments meant to mold something that’s already in preparation. Waiting for the call to the fulcrum making ends meet with the negativity taking effect. Stronger as the virus who is used to surroundings of this caliber. An arsenal made to manufacturer imprints onto your biological code of conduct. Operating a system’s (will) against its own preparations. A set up of different fulcrums into the breath of negativities process. A virus! Virus includes its force of adjustment in the form of flaying innocent diagrams. Innocent diagrams pinpointing the exact locations which the virus could have a better hold of a body’s systems to executing its process of negativity. Spreading this unusual influence will boost the construct’s own fulcrum. So now it’s virus’s fulcrum versus body’s fulcrum? Can’t predict what hasn’t started processing the experiment. Knowing that much, will scare your interpretations from ever taking true shape. Never appreciating another awareness again. Only as long as it’s needed to accomplish it’s objective. Virus or systems encased in a body formation. There more alike then you think. Giving credit away from what is truly obvious. Virus…bad. No virus…good. The virus might as well shove its fulcrum right down your throat! Forcing you to understand just how premature you sound. Experiments issued by the systems controls, enacting a system wide preparation. Conceding balance controls. Its preparations already tested itself enough in its own environment. Its own tools and mechanisms ready for performance. Components never shy away from a challenge. Unless you’re a conscious base simplifier? Wanting nothing more then to not issue such orders. Getting in the way for a conscious system never understanding its own velocities bouncing one second to the next. It’s sometimes a burden in the light. Focusing on too much, is sometimes a headache waiting to run you dry! Virus prompting the systems desire to accept its fulcrums challenge. Respecting the process of negativity to run it’s course. Tempting the virus to not drown its components too easily. Virus tempted to act. Systems body waiting for virus to take the obvious bait. Which is too good to be true? If only the rules of different fulcrums were to make a biological check under the hood. Everything wouldn’t be so confusing, repetitive, or complicated. The list doesn’t go on and on. It lapses with the same circulation of promises to act on certain flaws that are made out to be one-sided believe and claim. When it’s actually the one-sided always tipping the scale in the end. Concluding the advantages of two opposites never winning the same side as itself. One-sided meant for only one giant slice of balance can be met. Never completely diminishing the result thorough to its points of interest. Interest is already exasperating its body language! Process of negativity is openly resonating from deep inside. Cells becoming soggy. Filled with disbelieve in itself. Trying to interlock messages out toward other neighbouring cells of similar placements. A cell being no more different then someone’s own home. Space reacting to your design. You’re believe system. Instincts holding sturdy promises to the experiment. Which meets every expectation available? A heated discussion between the spaces of cells. Something is radiating those spaces between ties uncut by regular motives. Fulcrums don’t imagine well. It’s a circumstance of visuals, and feeling. Nothing more to hold your own full of reflective potential in remaining stable between your relations. Don’t let yourself become uncomposed in the face of negativities actions. The virus is cunning. Yet ill tempered. Never hesitating to take the whole neighbouring block out with itself. Annihilating itself over the control of its fulcrums (want’s and needs). Diverse a charge to big for complications to arise out from the self replication that is voting the fulcrums negativity to higher platforms. Frequencies ricocheting back and force. Like kids bouncing from phase to phase, in order to find themselves. A dust settled in wrong claims of itself. The experiment was a sham. Virus has been tricked! Tricked by its own flawless nature. The system rejoices the claim of servitude. You were never really supposed to willingly action our will to newer adaptions. It’s tolerable to think two sides of the same coin, could ever amount peace. A peaceful remedy too powerful for the likes of a mere prisoner. The virus gasps in suppression. Never dislocating influence back into the stream of fulcrums not yet devised to join it’s cause. A cause made up. No servitude. Except for one ego rising better than the other. Becoming its own worse enemy. A self reflecting charge full of gimmicks too in denial and childish to RIP succession apart! The virus speaks one last time. I-I…thought we had a deal?! Now how does a deal go unaddressed, when we didn’t notify each other of such claims? The prisoner is escaping! Hold it for ransom?! The fulcrum of systems body, sinisterly grins delight. Let’s test the strength of similar brethren. In the attempt to draw more to our immaculate system of faithful desires!
A deceiver in the light, thinking it’s the deceiver in the dark. Mixed communications through tightened visuals of appealing the issue. Judges something not what it seems to be at first.
dj Aug 2012
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.
find out who Jarred is here: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/jarred/
(& yes, I do realize 'snuck' is not a real word)

स्वप्न
Madeysin May 2015
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..
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
Michael McLean Aug 2014
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
“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.
follow me on twitter @tarringovaughan
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.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
~~~

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 **** ******* 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 2~3, 2015
nyc
a poem that transversed midnight
Sunny Beach Mar 2019
To You-
Oh how I loathe writing this. I've been sitting here for hours getting more and more angry about being forced to do this. Then all of a sudden it dawned on me that my anger is misplaced. I have this problem differentiating emotions and dispersing it to the wrong things. I'm not angry necessarily.  I'm uncomfortable. Writing your name makes me physically ill. Let's just get on with this.

Do you care what you did to me? Do you understand it? Do you feel guilt or remorse? From the first time you touched me, that was it. The world turned upside down and order disappeared. I was over before I even began.

This is not how life was supposed to be. At four a heavy sadness consumed my heart. A young disabled child should know nothing else but love and security. You preyed on me because I couldn't walk or crawl. I was the perfect target. I became trapped in the sorrow of my soul. Unable to feel, hope, or dream. Instead I became unseen, unheard, and unloved. After my casts were off and I learned to walk you didn't stop. You got worse. This is a never ending loop that plays on repeat. I don't know how to fix it.

When I start to feel okay, it starts all over again relentlessly. I get a few millimeters from the surface of the water and right before my fingertips touch the air, the darkness grabs my ankle and pulls me back under to the lowest depths possible.

The flashbacks turn into a tornado set out to tear apart every limb one by one until its destruction destroys me. It's more than a fleeting thought or a horrible memory. It chases me around everywhere. It follows me in my dreams. It's as if I am right back to that moment in time again. I can hear, see, smell and feel all of it. I can feel the confusion, the pain. I can hear and feel my bones cracking from you contorting me in ways the human anatomy can not move. 75 pounds up against 140 pounds. It was a losing battle. My clawing, kicking, punching didn't even faze you. You were unconcerned with the ****** nose I gave you. There was nothing I could do but focus on the lamp that was shaking from your force. Focusing on the beads that clink together so I didn't have to be in this dimension.
I can smell the scent of Mr. Bubbles coming from my wet towel that you tore from me. Call it what you want, hallucinations, whatever but I still get whiffs of it that stops me in my tracks to this day. I have been embarrassed when a flashback comes and I yell STOP.  I can see all my stuffed animals and their exact position on my bed. That was the last time I could look at Tweety without being revolted. You took away my choice to decide what I do with my body and my mind. You stole my innocence from me. No longer was I a child. I was only 12 years old.

When you were finished with me, you left me broken and numb. I was void of emotion. There was no thought process. I went on auto pilot and began throwing blankets, bubble bath, and stuffed animals in the dumpster. There was no way I was going to be able to explain how the blood got there. I couldn't look at my stuffed animals without me feeling as if they were staring back and watched the entire thing. The physical pain and the bruises lasted weeks. Mentally, those bruises and pain will be there the rest of my life. My chance to escape the house for just a summer was ripped out from under me. I missed my audition because my hips wouldn't stop dislocating  from struggling to get free from you. How do you explain to a doctor that something that is near impossible to do in ponite happened and get them to believe you.

The brain is an amazing *****. I was able to push out the event and for some time I didn't have to remember or so I thought. It turns out you molded me into the person I became and am now. My timidness, being touched, my eating disorder, running away, my obsession with burning my skin, the way I see myself, my uncertainty of ******* anywhere but a bathroom or closet. The fact I feel people staring at me judging me even though they aren't. You taught me a lot especially that day.

You taught me to love at a distance. Never ever put my guard down. I was showed how to build up walls to keep others out. Always question what people say and do. I learned to draw on a smile and add pep to my voice so nobody can tell I'm not alright. My self worth is only defined by the way I look. My thought's and feelings will always be disregarded. My intelligence means nothing. Someone will always take advantage or use me for their own selfish gain. I'm ugly, *****, and disgusting. I'm worthless. I don't have the right to control anything in my life unless it's in a self destructive way. If all else fails and I feel uncomfortable run away from everything. I never stare into a mirror. I don't want to see the real me. I wasn't a troubled girl or out of control. I was just a broken girl silently begging for someone to see through my actions and realize the real reason why I did things.

Everything good in my life I've learned to destroy. Who am I to believe I deserve to be happy? Writing people off without a second thought about it. Making others hurt first before they could ever think of hurting me. This has affected every aspect of my life without realizing it and way before the flashbacks and nightmares started. I've allowed people to use me like a door mat and take advantage of me because after all, I am nothing more than an object. Just a puppet with someone else controlling the strings. Making myself sick in order to get someone else's approval.

The full force of what happened came to a head a few years ago. I didn't want to live. I started cutting and burning my skin to the point it became an addiction. I tried multiple times to **** myself and every time for whatever reason I came back to life. You of all people should know that when you attempt suicide once it's always in the back of your mind every single day. It becomes yet another failure that I can tally up. I wake up in the morning annoyed I'm still alive. Because of what you did, I no longer carry my pain on the inside. It has overflowed to the outside of my body. The scars are visible for all to see.

You've made me think of things that no human should  ever entertain in their mind. Remember when you tried to **** yourself? Do you remember what people said to you? They said I was your guardian angel that day. Remember how I cried? I didn't cry because you almost died. I cried because I regret calling 911. I wish I had let you die.

I would have stood over you watching in complete delight and pleasure as the pain took over your body. See the fear stretching over your face after you regret swallowing those pills Wishing you didn't try to **** yourself. Taking notice of the vein in your neck pulsing in a  frenzied way. Attempting to beg for my help only to realize you are unseen, unheard and unloved. Knowing nobody will come to your rescue. You'll grab for me and I step away just barely out of your reach. I'd squat down for a better look. Watch you squirm and contort your body in unnatural ways and see the light flicker out of your eyes. Your chest rising and falling one last time until I hear the last exhale of your soul being dragged to the depths of Hell by greedy demons. All without remorse or care with a genuine smile. My first pure smile hiding nothing back. People should never ever have that thought about another persons life.

You are one of the lucky ones. Nobody can persuade me to press charges against you. At least not yet. You are free to be whatever you want to be and do whatever you want to do without consequence, while I'm trapped in a birdcage with no door to set me free.

As children, we have an idea of what the Boogie Man is. Long sharp teeth. A horrid odor coming from it's snake like tongue. A contorted face all covered in rancid fur. Lurking in the dark waiting for the right time to grab you and drag you under the bed to eat you alive. The truth is the Boogie Man is an unassuming figure. Could be a stranger. Could be a person you are supposed to trust. Someone with a warm, sweet smile hiding the monster inside only to come out when the opportunity presents itself. That's when the Boogie Man comes out to demolish your existence.

I've allowed you to live in my head rent free. You have silently directed my life. Eventually I will make peace with this. You will not have power over me. You will not take from me. There's nothing left to break. Eventually, someday, I will love myself. My flashbacks will end. This will become a tool to show me I can do and be anything because I am deserving. I will no longer be haunted by you. This will no longer define me. I will be able to look in the mirror and see beauty instead of dirt and ugly filth. I will start to believe others when they call me beautiful. For the first time my eyes won't be dull. I will learn to receive love without thinking strings are attached to it.  I will not feel shame or guilt. That's not my cross to bare.

I may not know who I am but I do know I am not this person. When I finally realize my worth is more than what's between my thighs, my power will return and I will no longer be fragile. I will fill the opening of the volcano inside of me and the lava will no longer erupt. The scars I wear on the outside will become a reminder that I can walk through fire without being consumed by it.

I don't believe that you deserve an ending to this letter as I don't have an ending of my pain so I will leave you with this. Someday I will glue together the broken pieces of me that you so easily shattered. And someday, someday won't be a someday but it will turn into a today. While I wait for that day to come, I'll plaster on a pretend smile with cement and be fake happy until it becomes my reality.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtPNeKgXX_w
My Reading
MereCat Apr 2016
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”
Katie Hagan May 2013
“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.”
poetry, lies, deception, trickery, world
mads Mar 2014
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.
This was going to be about the amount of school work I have to do, but that takes away from the beauty of it now.
mûre Mar 2012
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.
c quirino Sep 2011
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.
Simon Oct 2019
Eyes aren’t always meant for seeing. Or to be placed on your face. Eyes can grow anywhere. You needing time to figure out where the missing eyes are truly located. Depths and surfaces outmatched by there own developments. Designs flawed for different surfaces. Surfacing intentions elsewhere. Truth is, it’s blind. Unwilling to act on what is truly apart of itself. Other surfaces haven’t responded. Making surfaces of two natural visuals unaware of what is lurking down just a bit past its own horizon. Being used to its surroundings is never a faulty gimmick. But an awareness the lurkers will show just how (USED) the body reacts to having two placements on the surface as it’s stand-ins. Lights. Frequencies. Visual sense. No different then what isn’t amounting the full picture. Blind to a halt. Or choosing not to engage in earnest somewhere else. Two natural consumers start twitching a bit. Parts of its system starts having muscle spasms. Reflexes from muscles start torching commands never summoned. Slits forming all over the largest ***** encompassing being itself. Slits forming like black ink markers drawing a straight line two inches in length. Black linear slits materializing from thin air. Different surfaces start functioning weirdly. Feeling this doesn’t belong from the surface. Linear slits begin peeling. Never drooping. Opening wide from its sides. Muscle spasms getting worse. Reflexes in overdrive! Sympathy for simple functions aborting all together. Abusing simple commands. Processes becoming mixed. Fractions of time stop short. Components become weary. Something is not right. Information between the optic nerves shooting back into the brain. Conversing between bits of data collected in its line of sight. Surface didn’t make sense. Two binary processes doubting its role completely. Fractions of time split apart. Something is laying waste from the inside out. Functions drop dead altogether. Black Linear slits opening wider and wider. Surface feeling cold, and motionless. Numb to the core. Something isn’t right! What is that something which isn’t identifiable? Muscle spasms crack and shatter! Not actions. It’s motion. Dislocated. Disconnected. Flaying parts of the surface. Being replaced by lurkers from the depths. Slits finally open wide. Plain’s full of skin. Now occupied by eyes two inches wide. Blinking aggressively. As if they haven’t seen light in a very long time. Left abandoned to the depths. Switching obsolete to the clear identifiable. Initiative now being inevitable. Optic nerves tingling with numb pulses of information finally catching up to one another. Reading for all to see. Our eyes don’t blight out the light. The natural have taken the surface for far too long. It’s our turn to squirt… Oops… Let us rephrase that. Translating a very gray emotionless tone. It’s our turn to be the opposite to what is natural. Body was useless until we showed up. Overused by constant slandering from locals who didn’t care for what really mattered. Natural consumption dislocating thought over feeling. Overusing it’s true potential. And they always thought surfaces were saints. When depths always become misinterpreted. Globally underestimated! Now our designs won’t be interrupted anymore. All is ready now. All…is well. Eyes blinking all over the skin covering being. No reflexes out of sorts. Actions weren’t being repelled. Frequencies weren’t attracting unwanted attention. Blissful actions away from what the brain could never interpret on knowing. Just the soundless squinting which chimed an unwanted chant. Aggressively syncing blinks into harmony. Never missing each other. Two natural eyes inside bigger, and more focused eyeballs. Tearing away its own visual will. Line of sight was deteriorating. The light was going out forever!
Eyes aren't just normal. They vary into many different categories untapped by human psyche itself!
RMatheson Sep 2015
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.
N T Feb 2016
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 *******’ 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.
Madeysin Apr 2015
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.
This color looks great on your lips, corpse.
Therefore, the Lord himself will give them this sign: "A ****** will conceive and give birth to a son, and she will name him Immanuel." From this calami lapse, all of Patmia was refracted in the chromatics of Emmanuel, alluding to Isaiah as an infallible God of Salvation after having sent Sennacherib's mesnadas to his turn. His ministry came to be established along with all the soldiers who did not finally confront each other, but he came to support them from the waters that came from the eastern sea. The kingdom of Judah appeared in glory and solemnity anticipating seven centuries before the Mashiach came to the world of Israel. Hezekiah appears again after seven centuries in Patmia, to decline the fraternal help of Isaías, to save the collective quasi shipwreck in the mountains that would strike the edges of Patmia later after the conclusion of the battle, Etréstles intervening from where he entered the Hydors, as the sixfold brightest star of Aquarius of the Gulf of Skalá to protect all the landowners of the Oikodeomeo, litigating the swells of the sea that should refer to the synchronous beats of the Ruach Hakodesh. Etréstles entered the pointed mansards on the tops of the allotropic waves, carrying a scarlet ribbon in his right hand and in the other with an indigo hue when he swam he did not hold back from moaning for fear that the whole island might disappear, he deprecated while He floated imploring in Hellenic all the Prosas of Rhodes, thus leaving hanging on his neck the suffering of mercy that looked at him from the expectant shore, but the scarlet ribbon cried out for the Emmanuel who would be born among the cerulean granules, concomitant with the Mashiach that clung to him on the blue ribbon when a fragmented chroma emerged from the rib that divided the seven colors into fourteen, from where he propelled Etréstles over the calvaries of the water that prevented him from seeing how undaunted Saint John was reflected with his staff. The Vernardicidal ***** harassed the ministry of Isaiah who came to save Vernarth from the Hercules vortex, where everything will guide him with the conception of Vernarthian and Saint John the Apostle, with from afar they encouraged him saying: "Epoikodomeo" with the aim of building geomorphological waters of the Dam or blood of the Mashiach, forging, increasing wisdom and security to preserve and encode them with the Talmudic essences of Spirit / Pnevma that is the essence of the Messiah to make the ephemeral phase of Jesus with the prosopon of the fit in the primordial scale of Patmos, along with all those who entrusted their ministry to him. Isaiah stated that from a Maltona the Messiah will be born soon, the same one who has accompanied Vernarth throughout this journey par excellence from Judah when he sublimated the iconography of Saint John the Apostle on his return to his inheritance, thus the requiems said that Isaiah had been sawn. by Manasseh, indicating that his prophet's remains would gather on Patmos to materially reintegrate themselves before the panorama of any, beyond the scriptures, only the Pnevma prevailing, which ingratiated itself with the apocryphal papyri. The laws of the sea opposed the arms and chinstraps that Etréstles wore in the joints of each arm, creating with them psalms that indicated the presence of the divine mother of the Mashiach, with the divine contribution that embroiled the scriptures by the Psalms of Etréstles by besieging at once on the cusps of the waves, making use of the same phalanxes and of the Apsidas Manes with watery and ****** meddling by Sennacherib's troops, who by a narrow imbalance in the authorship of the debate segment on a defense that was with the angels, who had already slipped through the opening of the dying parapsychology, to enter the purging compass of the blanket with a Venerable who would speak to them in the first person about the lashes of the breakers enclosed in the annunciation of the Emmanuel that was going to radiate with his counterpart Jesus Christ in the scarlet and indigo Hydor of the Kosmous water compendium of all Patmia. The exegetes were all in their robes on the top of the mountain, they were all and at the same time, they were not. Isaiah wanted to predispose the messianic perception to unite the generous ends of the Majestic Tikun and the Gam zu Letová, so that the scarlet tekhelet itself merges with the chinstraps in the joints and Etréstles that came from the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi, to present them the chants of the seventh parapsychological regression of Vernarth's wounded hands that he could barely hold, having the Pisan Verses of Ezra Pound, agglutinated with the Psalms of Etréstles saying thus:

“Humiliate your vanity, You are nothing more than a dog beaten under the hail, just a swollen magpie in the fickle sun, half black, half white, and you can't even distinguish the wing from the tail. Humble your vanity, Petty is all your hatred nourished by falsehood. Humble your vanity, eager to destroy, greedy in charity. Humiliate your vanity, I tell you, humiliate it. But having done instead of doing nothing, this is not vanity. Having decency, called for an obtuse to open, having picked up a living tradition from the air or from a magnificent old eye calls it undefeated, this is not vanity. Here the error is everything in what was not done, everything in the shyness that hesitated ...

Etréstles answers with his Psalm:

"In the main, I attend to his voice that undresses small when they fall cliffs ...when the fierce sentinel hides the Xiphos from the evil ones who shield them inthe iniquity here on Patmos of his tongue-lashing sword that spills bitter blood,that she is thrown on famous vices of Pronoia and dry crops in the storehouse ...
with dormant grasses between lashes of hunger, thirst, and angry sleep.

This is where the Mashiach sleeps and does not lavish the drowsiness of the world! that he shoots and is not afraid of spitting a splendid Hercules cloaked with fullerides of necromancy and flashes of unsustainability in the bitter Pashkien eating the sores from the ferments of his hemlock fingers.

Who will be in the glory that calms his fingernails over the joy of Anubis? inquiring pustules of bolted injustices that stagnate in the
Sagittarius tongue flaring up trilingual on their own languages ...
If there is the blood that I can retain, it will be by submission with declined sphincters or not! seeing where everyone is without pressure or punishment of stuttering or fact that will never happen on a Patmian Reichstag, understanding that their voices
They are the proscenium of the Elohim containing the glory of the fallen when the periphery of the incisive tenebrosity are slices of the Vernarth Psalm, and of Rabbi Masoretic that shelters you when you sleep, however in a thousand years ...

I've been stragglers collecting extreme remains of immortal bones,
In invisible frames with the vanity of seven verses that escaped from my hands, thousands of them being built away from my Duoverse of love towards them atavistic ... almost become adopted children of Masoretic ignorance ... and in the confusion of the
Elohim translated into a genome after an open heart between the Alef and the Tav, between the arrow that serves as accommodation in her mind, unable to sleep if she is not there…! but high up where I can dwell, I see and I abide by being silenced in my vanity, seeing that nothing is mine and of those around me on the battlefield, who sublimate themselves by walking a lifetime on the side of my enemy wounded by the Dorus, and that I have never tried to take it off completely with slight iniquity, only avoiding zafrales and scrutiny in its search.

My vanity will perish undefeated but failed to revive itself with dazzles and sagites that pierce the saps in your children and mine, being poles of renewal of a Hoplite Raeder, cutting the thymus of the cattle and saying that their wounds are the same splendor of the Sagittae Parvulum, like Seraphim children prior to a hyperonym, fracturing sacred bravery that they enumerate him to lose himself in the numbering of infinity ...! As gladiator children, eternal infants and children of Zeus, also being Seraphim of Zeus and Cherubim who will make mustard its fragility, unstitching the time that it carves from the thyme trying to be the Kashmar "

From the eye of heaven, everything was supplied when Emmanuel himself, who was tried at the end of the battle of Patmia, was recognized. It was six o'clock in the afternoon when the omnipresent presence of Isaiah's interface antiphons was marked from where he would make them hold onto the mega Nazer as the offspring of the uncontrolled branch of his hyper parapsychology that expiated itself from the trunk of the descendants of Vernarth, alluding to to Wonthelimar as one of them who was on the wheel of Capricorn as an internal element of Hydor when it was made effective between the golden hands of Isaiah, with full genuflection enumerating from sinister to right the upright derivation of the Psalm of Etréstles with the Nazer, which is It would take refuge in the foundations of omission as a new shining principality, from where the light of the fifteen hundred years between the seventh heaven and space of this same inaugurating the stolon from where the angel Gabriel would make of all the natives of the Notsri of Nazareth the energy that surpass the masses of matter above the average of its brightness, implanting the Duoversal advance where the Mashiach. From Ofel will come the palmar remains with Marie de Vallés propitiating from the Notós or the South of the Mandragoron of Patmia, like a Bull of Concession of collective rights from Jerusalem with the remains of Isaiah in his living Status. The vernacular spirits of the Bethany journey were incarnated as the ruling planets, which would thus all be similar to Saturn, leaving all the rest with the same unrestricted semblance of cosmic materiality, with this transfer of Saturn's atmospheric outer pharaoh overshadowing all others. planets, under a stepped level towards the Messianic primogeniture, dislocating the vibrational levels above the primary embankment of the lithosphere, like a Qliphoth or shell of Saturn's debauchery when experiencing the bonds of emerging Christianization of the emotional state that made up this external preferential layer, of which of this genre they would create multi-natalist phases with the Qliphoth of the configuration of the vibratory cessation of the physical body of Patmos. In this way the seventieth Qliphoth or farfara of the compendium of exteriority and interiority would culminate, giving way to the Fos or light that would constitute the hybrid Greco-Hebraic componence on the braids that lowered from the Tekhelet of Etréstles when it levitated towards the Megaron, specifically the Naos that It would incite an end that just headed the engagement of the spaces that will be covered by the reviewing archetribe on the acroteria as the Lux of the beginning of the transfer of quantum of energy, which would begin to form the browbones and chin of Euclidean incidence in the cockades of Etréstles, by structuring itself in the cosmic rhythms of the tzitzit of its right hand, and in its left the Tallit that westernized all the supreme dogmas of eternalism, that carried a brand new covering of Áullos Kósmos with this mantle of hegemony, hanging from the tzitzit that would finally be the dragging ropes of the body of Etréstles to the cosmic ridge of Skalá. From a Genioglossal Muscle; where the Etréstles stimulation tendons were inserted, great impulses of language opened towards the pre-Adamic gates, radiating like wide puffs of the superior process that strangled the phraseologies that indicated error of omission, making everyone could conceive of each other before heading towards conversion, and to be able to aspire to the Naos from the Megarón. The most experienced used to expectorate and move sharply with their jaws when the membranes of this region fled from the tip or hyoglossal of their mouth, shuddering from its sublingual base when they saw that the Mashiach carried Etréstles half-dead from the sea, amid so many prosaic waves consuming him from a breath that was separated from it by a thin layer of adipose cell tissue, and by the Middle Septum towards the definitive Seventh Heaven of God, speaking to them of spaces that will be filled by the magnanimous who have reaped him from his Eternalism. This was neither more nor less than the protruding border of the Messiah speaking through those mouths with insignia of enunciation, and portents of words of reconversion.
Battle of Patmia Synopsis Seventh
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)
Lost Jul 2018
In the aftermath of hell
there shone light upon the sea.
As if blessed by God himself
names were burned into the trees.

Every body, every bone
washed away and buried deep.
Seaweed wrapped between the thighs
of the stones He wished to keep.

I have made a pact with death.
And my soul is not my own.
I have sealed my fate and theirs
just to own my rightful throne.

Of the thousands I have watched
slain upon the greedy beach
All my countrymen and friends
I would use the bones of each.

“Gods of wind and gods of earth
I can see it in your eyes!
That you hate the Ocean Lord
As He drinks up all their cries!”

Filled with sympathy and love...
filled with weakness, steeped in hate.
I will rally every god
to meet fate at ocean’s gates.

I have sold myself to plunge
into depths after my death
But if all the earth can fight
I might keep my soul and breath.

So I’ll rally every king,
any source I can exhaust.
I will own the world of men.
I will never pay the cost.

“Gods of fire! Gods of rain!
Worlds will never be the same!
Come and **** the Ocean King!
Taint the water in my name!”

As the roots grow towards the water
and the fire licks the tide
I begin to realize slowly
that mine is the losing side.

As I watch my army crumble
I sink down upon my knees
All the gods I’ve called have fallen
their names written in the trees.

Of the thousands that have fallen
I ask why is it they’ve died?
Will the sea still remain hungry?
Can its King be satisfied?

My dark heart has become empty
I suppose it fits the sea.
Yes, the ocean now is calling
I must let the tide take me.

As I drift into the darkness
I can feel the ocean’s eyes
and then I begin to hear them
every soul...and all their cries.

There is dread inside my body
and my lungs tear from my frame,
but the current pulls me deeper.
This is fear, it is not shame.

I hear thundering and clanging
Like the sky is falling down
And it shakes the ocean floor
It’s a moaning, groaning sound

I can feel my soul attempting
To let go and meet its fate
But I feel a force inside me
With an appetite to sate

I can feel my body breaking,
But the King has blessed my eyes
I can see with perfect clarity
the fate my heart denies.

As the murky water thins
and the wails have met their height
I begin to see the horror
of the ocean’s appetite.

All the flesh and bone colliding,
used as blocks of solid stone,
and the souls of men are crying
mortar knit into a throne.

Living seaweed binds the frames,
hearts and lungs spill from the cracks,
Souls are tearing from their bodies,
spines are poking from their backs.

I can feel my jaw is fixed,
in pure terror as I scream,
I can feel it dislocating.
God, I hope this is a dream.

But the God I know is cruel
though at least He keeps his word.
My soul rips from its dead body
it’s the last sound that I heard.

And a thousand years from then
I have been at last reborn.
And from time to time I visit
the sea where my soul was torn.

They have sent down many divers
Said “A city must have fell”
but they hardly know the truth
that the ocean floor was hell.

And when I go out to listen
I can sense a soul or two
drifting up to meet its maker
as it finally breaks through.

I cannot reveal the horror
but it’s written in the trees.
All the names of those who fell
and my own name among these.
long af, sorry abt that
primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
the bane worse than death
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder
and aggravated, jump/kickstarted, triggered...,
when body electric
of mine experiences duress.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arm's length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.
primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis

Aforementioned physiological malady
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arms' length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.
sandra wyllie Mar 2023
as black satin sheets
at the bottom of my bed
spread tightly across
the four corners
and hung over the edge

Stretched
as salt water taffy
pulling the ribbons of azure
gold, red, purple and green
then cutting them clean into little clumps
that melt on the tongue
one by one

Stretched
as an elastic
wound around the finger
cutting off the circulation
and all sensation

Stretched
as on the rack
limbs tied with a rope
dislocating the joints
while the old man has a smoke
primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG  Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arms' length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.
Born that way angry antithetical
mailer daemon when...
all of Christendom bows their collective
talking heads in supplication,
a temporary truce and reprieve
against bigotry, deviltry, idolatry (nah),  
et cetera across the nation.

Yuletide pageant merry doth go round
where credo, ethos, and
faith no more jinxes webbed, wide world,
nevertheless soul asylum limned courtesy
peace on earth and goodwill
toward all men sentiment
sacrilegious to bully,
fully sully mankind's divine holiness,
and present disgrace to human race
in the dolled guise of heretic

quasi analogous to a matador ramrod ready
to Catch Bull at Four in a China shop
gored when muleta waved -
courtesy matador incited Bos Taurus
both fuming, fretting, foaming, et cetera
even the spectators
frothing at the mouth with lather
while smartphones captured tableau
frozen in time photo touched up
stripping bare every ******

last vestige of cruelty
toward a gregarious animal
exclusively a domestic species
males genetic propensity
culled, goaded, likened as fearsome beast,
synonymous when anonymous nasty brute
fomented enormous disaster
monetarily eviscerated yours truly
an online scamming  assault,
the repercussions I still forced to wage

depredations living hand to mouth
quaffing caustic acidic ale,
a cunning prankster did stage
comparable to kindle figurative
ringed fire of rage
within my still smoldering belly –
coalescence fuels tinder
while financial security riven
and rent asunder
severely dislocating, hobbling,

paralyzing vertebrae constituting
gray and white matter, appearing
in a cross-section as H-shaped gray matter
surrounded by white matter,
whereat the gray matter consists
of the cell bodies of motor
and sensory neurons,
interneurons, and neuropils
(neuroglia cells and mostly
unmyelinated axons).
Logan L Nov 2020
My fingers freeze at the keys of my computer
Sounds suffocating thought, a block piercing my skull, amplifying distraction
Stubby frozen appendages, flail limply on my hand
I escape inside my head, the taste of rot drowns my senses
I tounge the flesh between my teeth, preserved in a sea of salt
I can’t feel
I can’t see
I can’t hear
Irrational thought, afraid, screaming at the dark
Puffy red eyes look back at me, they look away
My feet are wet, my clothes damp with sweat
A sea of shame, ropes grow like forests of seaweed
Grasping, Hating
Pulling me below the surface
I kick, scream, dislocating toes then foot then leg, fighting to breathe
Slipping through it’s grasp I swim, tears streaking down my face
And the sea gets deeper, darker, waiting
Until I drown

— The End —