"dislodged" poems
#*I would not know that wounded hearts will never bend
Except it's by the gentlest wind
Had You not blown Your love on me
I did not know that arrows sprung with poisoned darts
Could be dislodged from human hearts
Till You began to set me free
How should I know that crushing loss can by its pain
Yield intimacy's most treasured gain
Unless You gave Your Word to me?
I could not know that failures worse than greatest fears
Might actually bless through staining tears
This soul undone by Your decree
But now I know that Love's own touch
Brings untold joy which healeth much
From One Who cleaves so faithfully*#
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
An earth sized boulder
dislodged with the thunder
Unleashing catacombs
of terrestrial darkness
lay compressed beneath it
for a thousand years
The hidden ancients
heard its soul hold forth;
their rumbling silence
― laid bare ―
They heard its voice
rises up with the ears
of a new-born fawn
Beguiling roots,
solid as a rock,
hold together
like dark matter
A soul weight
beyond measure
shouldering the torn
of a divided heart
Heaviness ...
O' the heaviness ―
just a platitude for
what you feel
when it all comes
tumbling down
to the ground
Venerable
times immemorial:
an urging silence
pushing down
to the grave,
trying to unlearn
the things
never known
about the hearts
we leave behind
Jesse Stillwater
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
I can't say that I know what it's like
To lose someone
And it's not because I have never experienced death
My Great Aunt died of lung cancer
Though she never smoked
And was the nicest lady
With what I assumed
Was a New York accent
To ever be convinced that I loved
Her Spinach Frittata
And who indirectly
Made jokes about my insatiable desire
To consume the apple pie
She died on the tenth of october in the year two-thousand ten
(10/10/10)
And I remember my father calling me to the kitchen
To tell me the news
I cried a little
And went back to my room to write angry poetry
But ultimately I was just tired
And went to sleep
Without really adressing anything
At her funeral, I remember my cousin telling me
The story of how her (then) long-term boyfriend
Used wire cutters to remove his braces
A week before they were due to come off
They called me over to put a shovelful of dirt
Into the grave
And I did
Then ran back, jumping as I did (jumping as I did),
To my cousin
Because her candid attitude let me know that it was ok
Not to be somber
My dad's friend had a stroke which dislodged blood clots and sent him
Into a coma for a long time
And while we posed with him for Christmas pictures
(I hated posing, I hated the picture-taking, I hated smiling, it all felt wrong)
And my father promised that hypnosis was going to work
My dad's friend died
In a hospital bed
In his home
In a historical region of uptown Whittier
My dad lost his friend
My mom lost hers as well
When she stopped talking to his wife
Who had been her friend first
The cousin who was talking to me at the funeral
Lost her (then) boyfriend
When she woke up one morning
To find him dead with her
In bed
So I can't say that I know what it's like
Because I have lost people
I've seen death
And I dislike it
I dislike the thought that all my
Teachers will die before me
And I am sad thinking about those days
That I will be in the crowd
One of the Touched
I dislike that I don't know what it's like
Because I don't see it like the others
I try to remember beauty in their life
Beauty that they shared with me
Beauty that I will keep alive
Like the energy cell
The Doctor blew life into
To power the TARDIS
But if I can't find it
If there was nothing we shared
If there is nothing to tie me to them
I feel bad that someone else feels bad
I dislike their pain and
I wish I could give them a hug
And that the hug would fix everything
But it won't
And all I can do is think about
How much I ****
At comforting grievers
And how much I wish
I could be a better comforter
But I'm not
Because I don't do well with death
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
I saw it standing there
all alone on the side of the road
it had the number 5 on it
and nothing else
The black paint was chipped
faded from the sun’s beating
its wooden post strangled by weeds
a memorial no one sees
Years had passed, no letters writ
a flag permanently dislodged
dented seams, its door askew
rust giving way to time…
it had the number 5 on it
and nothing else
at all
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
I love you to the moon and back, yet on earth, I hate you back and forth.
I am happy with a suppressed sense of agony. So ecstatically vibrant, yet miserably tormented.
I live day to day, walking and “maturing”, yet move no further than beyond the grave of a past, long dead and gone.
I’m awake, don’t you see?
When I wake, I open my eyes in a helpless sleep. Outside my tiny being, I see nothing but me.
I call myself a mother, or a father, but never gave birth to a daughter.
We call ourselves a “family”, but exist so disconnected — wavering and dislodged, apart and separated. Smiling resentfully, painfully, excruciatingly.
All for the cameras of course.
I am respectful — to be respected! I shower in lies, and cover you too, so I need not see any offensive residue.
I am a strong person, cowering and contracted to the slightest sight of error.
No vulnerability.
I’m brave, don’t you see? A plastic rock, standing impervious to the sea.
I love you, I love you, I love you. But I don’t see you, nor hear you, don’t know you.
I understand you, of course, “I understand everything!!!!” But I don’t see you, nor hear you, don’t know you.
I know you, I know you, I know you. Yet I don’t see you, nor hear you, don’t know you.
You’re crazy, poor child! Why can’t you lie like we do!?
Why can’t you NOT feel like we do!?
Why can’t you NOT see as we do!?
Why can’t you just “forgive” and “accept”? Take it all, all our objects in their entirety and forget the emptiness of your soul. Sacrifice yourself, for you need not forget, we gave it ALL.
Don’t you know yet? This world is OURS to own. A “truth” to be known.
Your perception; a mere fallacy to be shown.
Don’t you know yet?
Everyone agrees.
We stand before an army of validation, against your small speck of reality.
All memory, all harmony, all said and done -- buried beneath.
We are the bringers of truth, the proclaimers of wisdom and sound guidance. And you, our poor child, just a little voice to be silenced.
A lost soul, drifting outside the “right” path.
Reach for our direction.
You’ll travel upon a dusty, well-trodden track, and with feet now imprinted with scars. Rest assured though, for we travelled there too; feet too ***** to bear and too numb to care.
Take our confident hands, our dearest child. We’ll lead you through a clear path with tainted feet.
You’ll fall and we’ll rise in disbelief.
You’ll scream and it’ll only echo our fears.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
Skin dislodged
A bone in the wrong place
Just the wrong size
Can't we see what's underneath?
Cold, empty air
Wind winds through the tunnels
And here and there and there
You can see the ****** funnels
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 9:17 PM UTC
she asked him: why did you leave Edinburgh? and he didn't reply, but upon thinking out his reply to a deaf ear: because i didn't come here for you; 'lona 'lona, whisper sometimes, and i'll give you a cat's whisker.
i was in venice,
yes,
i drank absinthe the wrong
way
on a beach,
spent three nights in a hostel
with a bunch of girls,
took a hebrew girl
for a taste of tourism,
listened to the shofar
before i entered a synagogue
outlet extension reading
the 613 commandments
on a computer screen...
venice's pavement traffic and eating
pistachio gelato,
nothing much,
i still preferred the Gothic distancing
of Edinburgh's nights
where i could be with cold-hands
and warm heart inviting;
basically i don't like tourist basins,
or tourist wombs for that matter...
am i looking at something predictable?
yes, i am, a billion other sperms
will see the same thing
and perhaps write about it to insinuate
poetic ambitions - too clogged up
your thinking is to redeem yourself
in poetry - you're hardly dislodged
for the art - get a guitar and couplet it
for a star-riddled pop music hit,
go on, on your way, elbow push through
the queue... go on, on your way...
oh wait, you need clapping to spur
you on?
here's my clapping onomatopoeia:
blah blah, blah blah, blah blah;
yes, i was in venice,
didn't really care to write much about it -
i actually didn't, just now,
a sobering memory,
not the type of memory that gets
you drunk...
well it's there, a bit like the Maldives,
and it drives the delusion
that global warming isn't creeping
about the place like Nosferatu.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
born of blood
from a thorn
of a beautiful flower
from the love
of the horned
adorned
in power
cowering
in the vicious
maliciousness
of the constituents
in the deliverance
to my ridiculousness
saw
twisted shapes
and contorting faces
heard
blurred words
displaced
in hateful slurs
of aggression
and i cannot count the cases
in my tasteless confessions
in my reluctant concessions
in my brutal perfection
of my obsessions
imposed against my will
you're supposed to feel
what they do
right?
opposed to killing
for the thrill
but it sometimes
just feels right
shanky gone unscrupulous
shivering
his shimmied
blood on the walls
stuttering stanleys
still silly stringing
calling for candy
but missed last call
and fell to the floor
as Bruno butchered the boar
in a deplorable fashion
a crime of passion
we were hungry
rubbing our tummies
for the honey
of bee hives
jive turkeys
turning to bunnys
for good times
but we were alive
while others were not
fraught with darkling majesty
sparkling at the seraded points
disjointed
in Freudian
ointments
self anointed
as god
standing over
some butchered
brod from abroad
wiping the fog
of dislodged
eye sockets
from my grog
how you get
from there to here
isn't really a fair mirror
on my intention
i meant to
suspend her
just enough
to face f--k
and with luck
strangle her
but she prayed to be ripped down
in her own way
my f--king way
stripped her
of dignity
wimpering
in little cute sounds
who am i?
but the guy
who spaced
hit her
too many times in the face
and replaced her
facelessness
with ***** toiletries
disappointingly
underwhelmed
still in search of a fairy
to take the helm
and ferry me
from this film
disparagingly
just spare me
the tragedy and grief
blaring from the TV
as i mock
their expressions
in my lessons
of humanity
before the flock
to shelter
my anxiety or not
gonna be
a real boy one day
and conform
to the
wayward ways
the way
of sheep
sleeping
soundly
in decay
blue fairy
gonna
marry me
one
day
be
real
one
day
one
day
1
d
a
y
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
Postpone your worries and follow me through my imagination,
Act upon your wrongs and fall for their sedations.
Progress runs behind protection, projected
As living when death's deeply invested.
Vibrant red always becomes so much deeper.
Everyone tells me I'll heal but I'm not a believer.
Relief is when I release it all completely,
Repeating history until it kills me.
Hover losses as shadows watch,
Oh the concern as all hope dislodged,
Evenings now tempt you to
Alleviate them for no longer,
Send me away from here forever.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 6:21 PM UTC
“Can you state your emergency?”
“There’s been a lung collision.”
He’s stealing your breath, darling I can’t feel your lungs
What an aberration, forced to bleed the river of an emotion
You were never taught to feel growing up
I think nobody told you how to feel a colour so hard
Crimson on your neck, on your chest
But I cannot find a wound
Your breath feels like knives
But it’s funny, you’re dying
You’re trying to tell me something
It sounds like the kind of thing you would say right at sunset
Slurring your sevens like you have mints on your tongue
But you are only gasping for air
Marble gazes
Your eyes are lolling back
They are the same eyes that have cut through me
The same eyes I’ve always thought were beautiful
When you were sad
You are weak and you are failing
Completely unlike the times
You would walk in like a sandstorm
No less powerful than a serpent
Beautiful
Now you are trying to speak
“Feels like a fishbone dislodged in my lungs”
And you laugh
You are laughing and you are dying
And this night still feels like day
I tried scraping out the difference
Between guilt and self-loathe
But the answer only lies on the blade of this knife
Maybe I could tell you I don’t know what I did with it
The reason we are not sure from which wound
This blood is seeping from
It wasn't just a lung collision
It was the explosion of a galaxy in your chest
When your ribs bent and cracked
Now they are broken, dust
You are breathing in rust
But it does not matter because you are dying
In the distance there is the sound of sirens
They are coming and they might be far too late.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
After piece by arcane piece is discarded
vulnerability divulging flaws and vindication with neon lights
incision at the fingertips
lies exposed where every finger nail is dislodged
peel back the once forgiving flesh
revealing the standard beauty for its depth
don't suppose those lines in my face
(the conniving spots
where make-up bleeds,
forgotten lies breed,
and fear have taken occupancy)
those lines don't really matter once you remove the mask
Underneath, muscle and connections vibrate
the drive
Red, raw, ugly and most important - authentic
A monster's face, the one that parallels
everyone else's
Tear away at it, pluck each strand of tissue
Play me a lullaby to sooth the screaming
Dust your fingers on the structure of my bones
carve your initials into the white
lay claim to your work, your art
slide any remaining pieces away into the abyss of trash
with the newspaper clippings and elmers glue
bleach away the remaining red
and finger paint your new canvas
A pristine prototype so rudiment
The birth of cool
and for the free
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
Feed to me a current so that I may have an adversary
It’ll help carry the bones home when our wars are done
Remembering how we’d dislodged our lives
Torn them clean from the earth
Stolen to ***** cairns too tall to climb
Even for nimble us
Allow me then to stack my bricks up against yours
Measure if you must
They can topple continuously
Mine were bound to from birth
Build with them a wall against which I can press
In my very own war
Crumble the pieces into a fine powder
To be blown out of hand and spun
into a wind-turned eye
Call it salt and litter our croplands with it
It is standard procedure
That nothing lives long enough to learn how to mock itself
Watch it slip from your hands
Watch the line slip from mine
No chance of less slack on my own volition
Better a contained current in some watery recess
Than a fought one upended in thundering torrents
Better to quell the urge to hurl oneself toward it
Than to hold taut a line tied to a drowning stone
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 12:59 AM UTC
*i wait all weak for the newspaper sections i read to arrive,
the magazines of sat. and sun.,
the style section, the culture section, and the news review,
things that matter to be honest.*
i wonder why people want brave ethnicity,
they want the long ships the arabs do
listening to viking metal,
the vikings want peace and quite,
but with global capitalism
and the defunct national socialism:
if only the jews weren't involved
the single pathology, all those able and nimble,
we get no ethnic bravery,
we only get citizens and astronauts,
the only exploration geography is empty and vast
space, and since we're using fossil fuels
we're exploring and destroying at the same time,
like the olden days: plunder and pillage mechanics,
but we're waiting for the other exploration
dynamic, where almost everyone is involved:
turn an autocrat to be paired with a tsunami
or an earthquake and you get panic,
pair the tsunami / earthquake with democracy
and you still get panic...
pair it to a theocracy and you get theories
like evolutionary history with the time scale all
too wobbly extending too far, people
think of gooey eggs easy in 5min,,
but monkey to man in 5 minutes - where's
the adaptability issue concerning?
the darwinian per se dislodges man's
adaptability concerns - historically it was going
to be either Stonehenge or the Giza pyramids,
darwinism dislodged man's adaptability
to future concerns by favouring debate of past truth
and whether mathematically speaking:
the geometric beginning of x, y, z, was
a will to live from the standpoint of (0, 0, 0),
denial of denial creates a propeller, kantian
given 0 = negation.
instead of being as darwin stressed evolutionary beings,
we've become historical beings,
with 24h news reels, with celebrity culture,
trying to piñata nazis... japan conquering with karaeoke
singing... loss of story telling...
with intellectuals trying to pinpoint and in an arena
of plagiarism agree a historical date
where dialectics is impossible... because something
is cited, circa, and the circa defines one person being
wrong and the other person being right...
evolutionary analysis made us so overcome by our history
we're trying to live a single day out,
but in 24h news reels no important historical event will take
place... i call it historical insomnia...
as a scot might say: eh maytee,
das est shovel of ***** (linguistic allegory: shy kite)!
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are sound
Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how crazy we would
Be without it
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 5:41 AM UTC
Austerity emblazoned in silk
fallen out of the ranks
in the popularity stakes
the iced tea on the hob
warmingingly out of character
Do you recall turning the page of irony
yellowed blotter, signature book
of those you'll never meet again
autographed in old inked scrawl
holed up with cobwebbed coats
Well, they don't bother you now
even though they stared you down
head hunted the perfect prefect of popularity
seeking you to check out the aged paper trail
their current capabilities warranting a slice
Settling, the nest felt comfy
nurturing, gifts placed at your feet
you dislodged the parrot from your shoulder
it left its calling card, a neat reminder,
chatted up colourful clowns in the corner
Squatting within a lurch of emotion
fried eyed, stop tap turned off
zero shifting into first place
cashing in their deposit too late
they paid in full willingly....it seemed
Steamrollered, you left the game
parked your plastic smile
scrubbed clean the mossy mess
sat back amongst daisy/buttercup armies
felt the hot poker of rejection, water.....devoured it
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_____________________
The original poem:
Share |
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 9:40 AM UTC
.
It has been found that given enough time
failure will find this destined loser
lurking in gallery tints
and water color fault lines
semi gloss replaced by flat
Painting abstract nothings
on a canvas made of words
Broken brushes stain the existing
balance with a voice that collects the remnants
speaking tarnished silver when silence should be golden
Pop art wastelands of dotted balloons
float above the ground where his face falls,
shamed and hidden, in plain sight
with eyes holding quarters of bygone years
melting clocks keep time with his idiocy
Impressionists laugh at his existence
in muted tone chuckles and turpentine snickers
Stretched on easels of dislodged glances
with splattered smocks tied in double knots
one size fits all
This palette of mixed memories
resting on mainstream notions, waits
for the end is sure to come
finding him alone with an empty imagination
and nothing but drop cloth dreams
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
his eye dislodged from his head
as he desperately plead
for me to stop
fleshless knuckles beautiful
beat my tears away
as it all spins around me
the memories of yesterday
the sadness of closure
even victory
a happiness defined by melancholy
and with my remembrance of yesterday
i will save tomorrow from today
and make a display of all they could have been
all that should have been
portrayed
as Dust in Wind
Particles In Sunlight
or blunt force trauma
Let em go
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC
(PARODY, SATIRE & TRIBUTE)
From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_______
The original poem:
Share |
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
the spaces between my ribs
ive reserved for you
please fill them with love
and bind me with your glue
the glue you made from blood
of past girls you robbed
when you promised them the world
and left them dislodged
the powder of my bones
chalked into the earth
writing your name in greys and whites
and weighing up our worth
now im just a shell
writing words to ghosts
these words that no one seems to hear
im your lifeless loveless hoax
...
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
All I have are memories and curiousities
which I try to satisfy hunting around the internet
and finding very little except what I already know and
was it a dream? NO a thousand times no
How do I KNOW?
My poems are the breadcrumbs to my dark memories of the place
A place without honesty a place where I struggled to find the appropriate
illusion or delusion or denial that seemed to work for those successful here
but could not stand it, bear it, do it
and some could, but it wasn't good for them either
"this program is working" "we are at the cutting edge of education"
"our leaders are smart" and I couldn't do it,
couldn't activate that switch which is so close to those switches I struggled so hard to turn off
"my family is happy" "if I am unhappy at home it is all my fault"
and to turn them back on, for they are all connected somehow, would be a kind of death
and I'm not adept enough, compartmentalized enough
not yet. I made many mistakes there,
leaning on the unstable which caused him pain
trying to get comfort from a stone, which dislodged him
but it's over now and today I have a scholarship and I have little notes on my work:
"nice job," "very thoughtful response" and I am that same person I was only a few weeks ago
that same person who wasn't a "good fit" who didn't get it,
who was causing problems with her quick mind and rebellious thoughts
but now its over and all the people I offended have moved on
and the dagger stuck in my belly has been removed and the bleeding
has stopped, and healing has begun
and someday I will make peace with all this
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
I. Supernova.
Once, in a raining wasteland of sulfur,
You greeted me where there was sky
And mourned for me where the sun first set.
Your veins in my veins.
Your bones in my bones.
Everything we once were
Nebulous and burning.
Dying and changing.
In your abrupt departure,
Collapsing stars expanded outward
Like the bloated fingers behind my eyes
Trying to crawl out of the graveyard inside of me.
Astronauts have long since forgotten this sojourn satellite.
And you've stop weeping for me eons ago.
Your knees in my sides.
Your lungs on my spine.
Matted and congealed.
Bulky and deformed.
Heat cracks open the splintered ribcages.
Flames lick at your irregular heartbeat,
And a black hole takes form.
Your memory tears me out of orbit.
So I scatter you like ashes across the cosmos.
II. Eulogy.
Somewhere far away,
A moon's glow caresses a frozen planet,
Singing this barren womb to sleep.
Cold blood pulses beneath the dead,
And every silvery melody
Calmed the torments inside.
Suddenly, the melody stopped!
My bones contorted in pain when the secrets
Of a dark universe awoke suddenly and angrily
To the sound of your breathing!
You still live somewhere.
Somewhere inside.
And all the gravity,
And all the gravity of that life!
A fallen lover,
Like a fallen star dislodged from the hole
In your heart.
And I bury everything we were again,
Because you are everything dead inside of me.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
you will never hear
a thumping drum of
a Kafkaesque mea culpa
of the first fist clenched
drumming against the chest...
thum' thum' thump,
boom boom, boom boom,
given that my index finger
on my right hand was dislodged
in order that i might not clench it
into a fist,
given the strong hand it once was,
given that,
i'd still gladly if not
ably punch you dead - indeed should
it take another dislocation i would see it:
a face ably punched dead, nonetheless...
question is, would i take more pleasure
anally defacing it rather than punching it?
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC