"dismembering" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
~
*Salvation comes with a price--
Pried open doors,
choir songs of fingerdust
resurrecting goldrush,
and a pretty little
cromulent called whitewash.
New century martyrs
have risen up to burn books,
and quotes,
and tongues,
and every contrariwise thought,
--is this intuition or inquisition?
What ascends is trapped within
tenebrific clouds,
returning to barren ground
when it rains unholy prayers.
They don't crusade for you or me.
They contest for dominion and mastery.
Those who believe are mooncalf.
This torchlight of intolerance
sends out skyrockets,
and away it goes!
trending on your homepage:
Past generations
burning at the stake,
at the hands of sinners clothed as saints,
in cathedral oblivion,
dismembering their future
in the blood of their own children.
Amen?*
~
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 10:18 AM UTC
nothing pushed my creativity
more than someone trying to
take my baby daughter from me
peaceful on the outside
kind
loving
focused
dedicated
to helping
I always wanted to save the world
now it is with unmatched
and inescapable vengeance
helping everyone
especially my students
with early childhood trauma
but deep down in my world of communication
expression
a whirlwind that no one really knows
but I must add
I now have absolutely no doubt
that the passion that has been
culminated in society
that I get to experience
comes from the shared experience
of children being taken into slavery
this is the destruction of the human origin
which we need to have a nice happy ending
we all come from Africa
not from slavery
and when I am a black man
all my lifetimes that have been
tortured and killed
for being accused of being angry
violent
******
by any means necessary
genocide of us
the only choice is creativity
and although this in itself
is also a threat
and will get me killed
atleast it does not satisfy
their lust for dismembering
my freedom
into their pickle jars
of liberty
for their children to save for their children
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
Naught the mages
Elm yellows plough
feigning eternities
dream of man;
the cradle of time
the realm of night,
Scathing Hekates
piacular restitution
heralded papally
upon Seven Hills
cradling Hades
tau cross-roads;
Eliciting with the iron
seminal sickle,
gifting the servants
of the servants of God
and slaves of slaves alike;
dismembering the boughs
of war- elsewhere,
Building broken bridges
Carving the lullabies
of humanity grafting
a sprig of Yggdrasil.
ELEETE J MUIR
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
#
Sadly true, and difficult.. all of it..
but you are the defiant-one--
Your greatest act of defiance
is to love deeply, the very one
that she so excelled at
in nearly completely dismembering.
We who care about you, cringe
at the thought of you even remotely
agreeing with the horrendous
message that she put into you.
No one that cares about you
agrees with that message..
including you.
She did her job well, gorgeous..
you are split almost into
two separate people--
the you who agrees with her
because of the guilt and shame
she put on you,
for going against her self-centered
view of the world
(and the all too vulnerable, little you)
But there is another part of you
that thrives through creativity..
almost as an advocate/encourager
of the misfits.. the downtrodden.
You are in essence, a comforter
of your own, broken
and dismembered self.
#
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
There was a time when
all times looked the same
passing through seamless
dawn of ageless drain
We sought, fought and
bought our freedom for an ageless price
At a pace that dares not to take away our
endangered race
But what have brought
this craze of dismembering
the maze we felt less safe in.
The incorruptible men who
once calmed the storm
are now cohorts of a demeaning plot.
Their role in a war of stakes
is a gusty grab for the frontline
as they tussle for the ratio of cake
a game they so delight in.
Exhausted in a place which
was once a timeless haven
as their dignity is torn in shreds.
All sorts of glory are lost
still no one feels this is a shared shame.
If only we knew the journey would abort halfway
but the signs were like flare from the start
as sides became drawn in clear spat.
Two hundred and more of our “prized cowries”
got snatched from our land and our leaders
cannot guard our streets because they say
the times are bad and the enemies are back.
Everything get soured and some of us are left behind
as limbs are severed high into the firmament of red horror
We go hash with our tag
twitting and chanting that they restore our girls
bring back our girls-we pray
bring back our girls- we chant
Bemused, the soldiers assure to search our lands
While Boko bomb us out from our very own sands
Tangled, mangled, limbs and bodies get buried in our time.
© Chijioke Izundu P
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Several moons before
when we were still strangers
under the darkest veil of the velvet curtain
we lay dormant beside each other
whispering words of white wash
under the cover of a deceiving peace
waiting for the next shell shock.
Dizziness would rise
quickly in as the water in the brain
fizzed like soda
bursting into effervescent bubbles
lining oozing cracks
smelling like petroleum.
And then we'd rise
from our self-made graves
sprinting across no-man's land
leaping over the gorge of death
playing with the volcanoes below
and dancing snipers.
Juggling that we'd be able to
sweep through the next jungle
burn its corpses
gorge on its juices
dismembering the world
and in its infanticide the clouds
would wail in their wake
spitting contempt on our rejoicing backs
while we danced our hollow victory
and onto the coming thunders.
Days and days passed and here we are
lying in graves dug for others
watching the star trails as they pass us by
oblivious in all eternity.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Dismembering your gift
I embark on a pursuit
To be you
I mimic you
And soon I am you
I hate you
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
The buzz of the knife is music in my ears
the same machine..i've used for years
i can't help myself...
god knows i tried
since i was sixteen...i have the devil inside...
as i carve yet another slice of this life
she is moving...why
because i eat them alive
the machine still buzzing and doing it's thing
i'm almost finished...dismembering this pretty little thing
she's quiet now...all is fine
i'm eating her tongue...with a glass of wine
the law knows to well...i am compelled...
i will not stop..... till i am shot
when they find these corpses of mine....
they know the world is no longer fine..
to leave my mark...i take the tongue
pickle it in brine......
would you like one...?
i don't seek contrite....i have no right
my hunger for flesh...is no longer a fight
i am normal as defined by me...not a cell in this world..
will i ever be...
i will end it first...by my own hand..
i am the king...of my land...will make my own stand
oh here's another..been waiting for her
i saw her talking to a friend at work...my mouth started watering
what a tasty treat indeed....i will have it for dinner..you wait and see
garlic and onions and...oh i can't wait
to have her tongue on my dinner plate....
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
Bleeding eclipse splatters anguish, scorching frozen terrain
Reservoir transmits despair, vaporizing humid remains
Noxious fumes plague ventilation, incinerating methane mutilates
Inhumane detonations ignite smog, dismembering shrapnel decimates
Bombardments stimulate hallucinations, assailants discharge magazines
Incendiaries barrage trenches, vulnerability flourishes disease
Artilleries eject carnage, atrocious quarantine impedes retreat
Projectiles massacre infantry, heinous airstrike parries deceit
Howitzer impersonates tempest, kamikaze technique revealed
Nautical battleships converge, perilous adversaries concealed
Submarines launch torpedoes, oblivious warships sealed doom
Submersed submersibles clash, claustrophobic vessels entomb
Drowning agony crushes depths, forsaken lagoon transforms necropolis
Aquatic daemons consume decrepit, infernal torment surrenders providence
Condemned mortals cauterize compassion, genocide exterminates consciousness
Snorkeling corpses mound topside, eradicated infestation forfeited holocaust
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
pick the words simply
pick the words gently
pick them wisely
I will not think about it
there is no way, really to tell those stories
of beatnik couples who lead their lives with shaved heads
chorus dancing on their shoulders
and the smell of faint jasmine coming from their beds
drenched couples dark eyes and long hair
family affairs and endless nights of dislodgement and despair
grunted, shrieked, rolled in the mud
screamed mercy as I gasped for air
the grass rubbed against each other, only but slightly
whispers purge through the willow
the soul is stretched on the ground in essence beneath the feet
a coffin is sorely hushed into the grave
mothers silent thoughts fill heavy in the wind
it was that silence that took that life
it was not the knife
or the blade
it was that silence
they laid on the field till hormones injected sounds
that clung to the ground
that composed the life of one being in two
mirror smiles, and souls sacred
sacrifice forbidden
the sacrifice will happen
we fool ourselves so our tears will hurt less
hands pressed against chest
why am I like this
who are we
this forest is stained with calmly matter
this forest is stained with saddened childhoods
stained with empty fathers and raging mothers
hearts are stained
lives are stained
ticking time bomb
drenched, wedding dress with immobility
drained, tuxedo with non sense
only to wake up 20 years later with
adultery splattered on your genitals
chaos imprinted on your fingers in every language
and then dismembering,
built with tyranny
falling apart limb by limb like a cremated body
seconds pass as if you were drowning
to come out of the water
is to risk everything
do you want to live
there is no excuse for your masquerade
your so called love parade, your color filled renegade
brittle bones sit staggered along the skin
of a youthful resident
who will cry no more at lucrative behavior
of taunt gestures and a underlying laughter
that only similar skin can touch
with its own experience and understanding
on that thing that sometimes looses its meaning
beneath conventional skies
I am a human, I am not a human
a soul love love
I witnessed that
suffocated between similar height
and jawline
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
Grat, smat, tack.
my windows are black.
and the raven (that raven)
comes insatiably back
and the windows and caskets
and smallish ash-baskets
(you'd better believe that they know what their task is)
are holding the pieces, the embers, the sound
and hollowing portions we make in the ground
are the sickly embrace;
a dismembering hug
of a small, hump-backed hobo
without heart or a lung.
and his eye-hollows burn
for to end Adam’s race
and so often I wonder
How the fleetest of foot
can’t find the footing
to escape.
have you ever wondered
"what if I died tomorrow"
the earth would still twirl
and seven billion of her people
would never stop to cry.
They didn't even know
that you were alive.
but that's fine.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
Silver slivers of solid liver and jam
Whiskers kiss past Turks or ham
Flavored paper for popular people
Begin please! Climb our church steeple
Forget it, I mean you no harm
If you can't be cute, then try for smarm
Tell me a secret you know about boys
Though you might not know any, you still have soft toys
Never, ever, always - tall days (in platform shoes!)
Hate, love, lust, rust and remembering
Silly games with guns and dismembering
Bombs that explode into strawberry stars
Sparkle and twinkle, and try to melt cars
Jelly beans, tangerines, chocolate and fries
Buttered toast fireworks in ovaltine skies
Capable people do commonplace things
while I write myself a pair of pink wings
to fly overhead of their sensible plans
and pelt them with pillows and empty food cans.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 7:27 PM UTC
Leathery skin
furling by
the hides
of ideas,
to impart
the coyest
We are searching for dismantled cameras
with the flashy leitmotif disabled
in a disbanded cinema
And in the dark you ovulated, murdered
under the thickness of rough tree bark
Haul trunks of
a honky-tonk
dismembering
remembrances
rows of seating
Squalling, beautiful voices
throaty, tonefully sinking
in tune with imaginary keys
located in grey, clinking
between stained ivory tiers
and scuffed ebony branches
rending the reddest of heart-drawls
then plucking each riveted contour
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Harbor the
murderous afflictions
dismembering
your heart,
make no effort
or attempt
to reassemble
any part,
but encompass
every severed
piece of it with a
masterful work of art
©
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
musing on memory and all that
re its capabilities, its utilities
and wondrous
abilities, to cover, recover, and
surprise surprise uncover the known
and unknown, what was, what is and
what there is to dis-cover, for memory
is a tricky ole ******* you recall what you never knew at all, forget the address where you lived twenty years ago, and don’t get me
started re telephone numbers
of
old lovers, who get got gone good away
and the combination of a subset of their
digits is likely to be on a discarded lottery
stub, that stubs your shoe too
cannot remember all the women I’ve ever kissed, but I remember the kiss, and that’s
a fair trade off
pretty bad at remembering, birthdays, anniversaries, but that’s because my electronics believe me of this obligation;
Not the obligation to buy a present,
On time, but the kindness keenness of
doing the action, is you an in Nate satisfaction, One gets, when crossing off a line item on your to do list
Sometimes the choices between remembering,
and being dismembering, when is definitely preferable to the other, and though you are not present, I hear your moaning softly
I know I know!
So take a moment to make sure all those critical dates to others, are in your calendar, electronic, and I recommend minimum one week ahead alerts; and one day before as a fail, safe
Do it now or fail to be safe
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
~
She loves me
~
She loves me not
~
She loves me
~
She loves me not
~
She loves me
~
**Oh my god!
Are you seriously
Dismembering
That poor
Defenceless
Flower???**
~
**I bet you do the same thing to spiders
YOU CREEP!**
~
She loves me not
~
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
A hand that was ****** by the untouchedness of her life.
A hand that had just too many crevices,
Because she never opened them.
She was always seen with clenched palms in the streets.
She sat in the dimmest corner, every day joining the dark a little more.
Her hands were moist, tender and almost a liquid,
With the years of the sweat that had finally copulated with the blood, flesh and the phalanges in her palms.
She really,
Never opened them!
She was born with a fist.
She never did any work with her hands.
She choose to be one of the sisters of the fist.
Practised by the moonshine to
Spread a tad bit more pleasure.
Or despair.
Or pitch dark moans of the holy communions.
She walked with the drunken sweaty silhouettes of the watchmen at night.
They never knew her by body.
They knew her as the torching darkness that gorged the light on their paths
In voluptuous silhouettes.
She curled next to them on their shabby beds through the night.
They never knew the stranger strangles of the nightmares they had …
Every night.
To them, dreams did not exist.
For all she did was to appear in them as a rage or vendetta,
Amidst a chore in the daylight.
They vent it all on the shiny awls to ******* the green meadows.
And then, go back to sleep,
To be in the shinier brace of an dismembering nightmare,
She copulated evermore.
They never knew they were pregnant with her potent ejaculations inside. Well, every man is if you ask me,
one of the ...
daughters of the Sisters of the Fist.
They never woke up to her.
They never found her on their bed.
Their streets.
Or on the semen-dried poles in their taverns.
But she always accompanied them.
Perhaps in the sudden whiff of a fragrant **** that lingered in their sweaty cribs in the morning.
Or in the whiff of the ***** from over their shoulders,
When they wrote a plagiarised letter to their new sweethearts.
No.
She appeared only when their nightmares resurfaced. In the broad daylight, between the walls, breathing through the claustrophobic walls that are one within her.
Whenever they shed the blood of another,
A burp of yesterday’s nightmare,
She appeared.
And faded.
But dissolved.
Sisters of the Fist are undying,
The daughters born to the dark,
Are the fists of the dark.
Since the beginning of mankind.
Till the end of another race.
To be the purpose.
To impregnate the bittersweet elixir of Evil,
To every living soul called a man.
If waking life is a death noose at the neck of a gurgling volcano,
then you might as well close your eyes and enjoy the evil delicacies that the sisters of the Fist will consume into you.
Yes, consume into you …
Till the day you die,
And become one among them.
On the day after your death.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
I am adrift in shadow when parted from you
existing in a non-life and a non-death
caught between dominions of light and dark
my soul, disincarnate, hangs suspended
impaled upon the sundering hook of an obscene
numinous dismembering of the essence that is Us
twisting and battered in an enervating wind which
moans and wails like the wretched, suffering ******
filling a haunted and dissonant land with anguish
at the midpoint between rivened you and I
all aspects of me are halved, dissipated
I must survive with half a feebly beating heart
inhale for but one struggling lung, choked with ash
seeing only half the sky, half the world
My scattered thoughts incomplete and disordered
I drag myself, mauled and maimed, towards
the next transcendent moment of palpability in Us
Khronos, laughing, mocks all my efforts
drags the hours just beyond my numb fingers
I can only touch you if I reach inside of me
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC
The nights are kind
For they let me drift off
Into a deep slumber
In pitiless daylight
I ponder on the not happened yet
The flood of thought
Deadens my soul
Envy taints it
I Linger in the shadows
Perpetuating the stain
Of my ascendants
Volition is an illusion
The silence of my own silence
savagely cuts like a warrior’s machete
Dismembering the remnants
of my authentic self
The design of my misfortune
Was perfectly orchestrated by the ingenuity of diablo
Distress inhabits the catacombs of my mind
Strangling on the lasso of consequence
Perpetually atoning for unknown sins
From another lifetime.
Thunderous footsteps of wolves
Gathering at my feet
Nourish my fear
The demons of recent past are screeching
Outside my door
That which plagues, devours
The blood I lost grew cold
As have I.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
I looked for you in every concivablele place.
I looked in the garden
Is he there?
I looked in the cracks in the bricks abandoned in the front lawn
When i ran out of earthly places to search i dove into my dream world, hoping to catch a glimpse of that person
Is he there?
I awoke to the sound of smashing glass.
Is he there?
Someone was dismembering the bricks,
tossing the combined shards of glass and brick into my roses,
my roses.
I looked up and saw the sun laughing.
He was never coming back.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
A torn shirt smeared in red
On the table calmly sleeps the dead
Strewn around are organs and the heart
Incredible to imagine them as the departed’s part!
Useless as they are now experimental blocks
Drained of life heedless to the clocks
No love no emotion in the cold dim room
Is living natural or more so is doom?
Reeking of the dead eerie scissors sweep
One by one they cut strong and deep
Dismembering the lover cutting through the brave
But no show of courage when the abode is grave!
Drying bloods of passion drip from the dead
The once living corpse on the table goes fade
With no words or voice feelings blown away
He could at last make the coroner’s day!
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
I haven't written at length for a long time now and my maelstorms are worse. I haven't written for my heart and the protest inside has reached a crescendo of violence. The dam is at its limit and I am the explosion waiting inside. My conductor has quit and the orchestra has lost its sanity, timbral destruction and cymbal apocalypse. I watch helplessly the drowning flutist and the bleeding pianist. Whale song rings in my ear all the time, and I am tired of this dismembering dissonance. My nostrils flare in the polluted river and the acid water has reached my lungs. They burn with the intensity of jealous stars and pull me in like black holes. Sometimes the heat is too much and the cold offers nightmarish dreams of death. So I bear the burden of two jackets soaked in ice water. My teeth, eyes and nails feel like they might fall into my food and I won't have the energy to even care for self-cannibalism. The church has fallen on our heads and my life is frothing at the mouth. The madness is finally settling in, violently setting up camp in my soul. My veins pulse rhythmically like the drums in a System of a Down song.
Father why have you forsaken me?
In your eyes forsaken me.
In your thoughts forsaken me.
In
your
heart
forsaken
me.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC