"dismemberment" poems
a passing balloon piece,
his, within in a message,
makes the imagery explode
with numerous contractions,
even confusions, and requires an
explaining explication and a fresh
application of sealant
men see the words ~ think war or football,
women think of the lyric, phrase in a sad
love ballad that means recall, and a
moistening tear drop that liquifies but doesn’t drop
but that word, pulverized, has an enormity
attached, that conjures destruction total,
s battlefield’s aftermath, tree stumps cut
down, synchronized with bodies in parts,
sole souls departing
without reasoning/justification
the lineage upon her face,
pulverized by sorrow and
no expectations for the morrow,
gaveled into existence,
by losses and carried
for a length of a term ill defined,
as “life”
with no hint of irony, for it’s not life
when it’s spent reminiscing remembering
the dismemberment of what was a
joy taken instantly and perpetually inexplicabe
the tragedies multicolored in black,
a solid stolid state that nary a meter,
talking centi’s here, pinch of breeze
and /or hurricane alters status quo,
both of us have long known that, but
we nonetheless pick up grains, single
alphabet scrambled pieces to put the
whole together again, but it’s a cause
hopeless cause we be
are
pulverized inside so
the chorded chore is
a double whammy
and still
and yet
we say
but,
for we cannot stop our fingers
from their appointed rounds
and we think in term not of hope
but a thought out louded,
the eternal question,
what if
we do not try?
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 10:18 AM UTC
They came one day from where I know not.
Unholy structures came to ground, certainly from another world.
They wasted nothing of their time to cast affliction upon us.
We ran away in terror in certain fear of our own lives.
Many were seized and thrown into confinement, others inspected and probed, many of us were taken away and subjected to internal examination even dismemberment, anatomical scrutiny.
We had become the source of food for our invaders.
Additional crafts came from the heavens joining their forbears.
Havoc was extreme as their weapons did their worst creating carnage in every different direction.
They lay waste to every surface and their vehicles cast out foul pollutants which poisoned the very air we breath.
Our world was quickly becoming an inhabitable, desolate disconsolate place and extinction our future.
Some of the braver of us tried to fight back but this alien nation had weapons and tools the like of nothing we had ever seen.
The lucky ones escaped into the nether regions and watched from afar as piece by burning piece their birthplaces were destroyed.
These Humans intend to colonise all that they see and our world will never be the same place again.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Black eyes, bruised wrists, mangled genitals.
Ribcage extruding; calling for love, lust, and cigarettes
Faces offensive; unmet eyes, and searing expressions.
Scars on arms; speaking louder than quiet voices
Staring blank; at bills yet paid
Thinking there is no way
Imaging the fall from your 3rd floor
Apartment
Weighing funeral costs over living expenses
Death would put you deeper in a hole
Not able to get out, saying how
Did I get here.
Looking up seeing the opening nearly
Closed; finger lye at the only opening left.
Hope.
Being crushed brutally, whilst you see it all
happen.
Blood rains on your pale face, craving
Sunlight.
Dismemberment of fingers, brings you into total darkness.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
I tilted my head . I wilted and was dead -
No longer entangled in this snare called life -
none the less remembered, respected
Dejected in my illusion -
Where i wander most often, unclaimed and disillusioned -
Whatever was I hoping for-
longing in which to see -
the distorted , unreported - dismemberment of ME -
Expectations are like curses, drowning and alienating ALL who dare to dream -
The Ideals of a stranger - I am now what I seem
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
The human soul, as vile as bile,
Savage Cruel disturbed infected and distort,
The human soul, obsessed with foul style,
Sinful confused mishandled and extort
Devoid of ethical human feelings,
Inflicted with raw sadistic hatred,
Grotesque depraved dismembered killings,
Ungodly occultism, unsacred
Sickness requires resolute treatment,
Stitches to repair ripped incisions,
Reducing the risk of dismemberment,
Catastrophe fractured by excision
Ceased decaying crippled in dreadful despair
Emerging from darkness, disturbed and aware.
William James
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
I'm sorting pictures in the archive box.
Shelved for that day that I kept putting off.
The job's to cull and have less stuff to store,
but spiders lurk and snakes are sliding out.
The photo shouts in raw dismemberment.
A howling wind, the prowl of packs of wolves.
I stare at trembling splinters held so close.
Her daytime Self looks like a sweet old dame.
I hear again the creak as floorboards pause;
my breath is held lest I miss steps that halt,
outside my door in seconds held at bay.
I see the handle
slowly...
lower..
down.
Her strides are swift and next, her perfume's here.
With broken breath, she yields to clawing drives
and throws my bedclothes off like spider webs.
My youth she steals as night groans on and on.
For merchants took her bloom on stormy sea.
I clutch my knife and picture stabbing her;
But I've no strength to do the deed - I'm five.
Her mouth is pushed on lips zipped up and cold.
The bed is torn in tangled bits of knots.
My legs are jammed together- ripped apart.
My pillow's wet as aunty takes her cut.
Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 8:36 PM UTC
Sinuses, you have won today,
but the night shall be mine,
for down my throat
I have poured the elixir of wonder
and shoved the grenade
of mucus dismemberment
and I have aerated my nostrils
with the flow of nase.
I may be pass through the night unknowingly,
but at least I know that you will not hinder me any longer.
No more will my brain try to escape its confounds,
no more shall my glasses feel like they are crushing my nose as a grape.
I shall sleep as you are conquered.
Yes, you may have won the day,
but I, I will have the night.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Hate was the darkness
tied in thick frayed ropes
smothered in kerosene
swung over the biggest branch
and wrapped around my throat
while strangers pulled and tightened it.
It was the match lit that **** fire.
Their rage burned my skin
while choking me out
like a sadistic wrestler.
It was branding
and dismemberment.
All those children remember it.
It was little trinkets of remembrance,
bits of flesh, and teeth
Any part they could take of me
before and after
I hung lifelessly
from the most convenient tree.
But if you think this is just
some case of dark skinned history
Then check the news
and you will see
they are still lynching me.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
We beat the paths that
are laid before us with
machetes and gunfire
Loving violently, loving
violence like Roman citizens
at a colosseum.Cringing
heroically at dismemberment
and pain.
And we're all just the same.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:32 AM UTC
*Cut me, leach this tumor within me
it has festered into a separate entity
with its own blood supply
grown overbearing in its voracity
taking up more space each day
edging me out of the picture entirely
seems as though it'll devour me whole
dismemberment appears imminent
I'm only afraid of what I'll find
a face similar to mine with two heads
a cancer of your caliber, eating me alive
cold, ruthless treachery of no denial
ancestral antecedent, I'd prefer it dead
set fire to your name in vain
demon feasting decades after
it will never surrender peaceably*
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
**Each day passing by in a wild-eyed dash
In truth my soul fell aside, but bluer birds still doth call
Missed that cardinal harken when I set down my last two cents
Kickers of tricks, scroll-ers of myth, bottlers of ships
Knew it all along, just couldn’t stiff the rest
Refuse to capitol, refuge atop the pious politic that steeps these hills
Is it not hard to tell? The meanings of what buys in bulk
The people is we, of what sells slicker than plot itself
A minority rule, hid reasons from majority fooled
That is working trade class, taught to chain drive
The gleaming sheen glowing green, crowning jewel¬¬¬ is as mist and steam, fleeting as the wash of this worlds seething seas
We, the misanthrope of being, bloom in the warmth of idea
Only to recede at the water mark high of each our lives
Authenticity bless the distant time, costless venture to each about die, salute through another caesars’ dilated eye a definition
Eons in annunciation; immortality flashing by
Reverence cannot lie, not long at least neathe a chipping patina
Gold leafed by the hand of man, coerced creations’ fondling finger tips strips thin, leaving us then to watch the weathering
Not a one may ever remember for too quickly or too timely
Arrives dismemberment, a cyclic certainty, often relegated falsely
As loss or gain, truly misspoken frames for reference
At any given attempt to render the language of tongues, oh speaker the son of the morning shamelessly ****** by predecessors increasingly lavish
Phonemic savage; life running rabid, splicing love over the atom
The simple one whom tends a patch of what he calls “cabbage”
Knowing always the wordless truth that is his field fallowing
Unconvinced by everyone, save himself if nothing else
Penitent candor dangle, frameless wonder can you hear the thunder?**
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
I forget that my brain does not do _________ when it should do _________ and I slip under the coat of choking mustard gas that ***** the moisture from my lungs and eyes. A mustard seed of effort, small and yellow, cracked with no seeming dreaming thing of an eye has fallen like Hansel's crumbs from my hand and is buried with all my ambitions and dead dogs in the cold ground.
I hope it grows a kingdom of heaven, but prayers are wasted when they come from the wonton--and wayward kin of sinners who lead false farces and bring gluttony to dinner. I waste and want and cannot speak the language of those around me while we all whine and dine and **** and cackle
oh god
trite ********
********
******** ******** ******** ********
I am not tired, I am bored, I am bored of lying and trying. Trying is the worst, and there is little reward for the cost of my dismemberment of ego.
Where is a pre-made empire for me when I need it? I should be handed down something, I cannot earn it on my own. I am a ruler, not a conquerer. I am a spectator, not an athlete. My narcissism cannot take the trying effort of building something of my own with feeble rewards and now I will die alone. Maybe. Maybe it's all hyperbolic.
I'm gonna say it. **** you, I'll say it.
**** it, how will I ever get out of this labyrinth?"
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
********** before the mirror of your soul
the tired throne of confusion
burns the illusion that we are all alone
what can compare to the hairs of the earth
is it a purse made from old shirts and words
as birds and feathers fled the forest's shelter
the burning embers head west
into the zone of the setting sun's dismemberment
are you perplexed or just scared sacred
death wasted on the fences
you shy away from sentences
that we both know
are just a little too close to home for comfort
i am a lonely poem portrayed
by an infinite number of frames of reference
so i claim my place in the heart of infinite wonder
as the thunder states your name
and screams your secrets into the stars
our hearts were always made from art
and we are being charged with negative ions
like the lions and dinosaurs that have come before us
our women lie freezing in the warmest of holes
so we comb the sand for diamonds
and try to make the land grow again
I am reprimanded for standing on one leg for too long
and begging you to come back home
if you glance towards me i’ll look away
as shade from a tree covers your face
was it a waste of speech
to try and crawl too deeply
into those feelings that you sought to deny
and what if we see each other again someday
will we wait for the other to acknowledge
that i was too much of a coward
to dance in the face of all that abstraction
at the edge of my comfort-zone
love falls into oblivion
a wastrel and a sparrow
as the cantankerous showers
start flowering in our folds
as growth is esteemed
so do we eventually redeem our own soul
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
Carve out a chunk,
the happiness hunk.
The one that stays clear
of all of the junk.
Without this fine piece,
one is never in least,
content with ones self.
A man without peace.
Take out the side,
with ego and pride.
That part is the worst,
Just set that aside.
Believe when they tell us,
it too, makes us jealous.
When envy is stricken,
a man over-zealous.
Cut out a slice,
and anger's the price.
Lets get rid of that,
it's not very nice.
See, this ones a cage,
where bad memories age,
and morph into new forms.
A man full of rage.
Punch out the holes,
that sadness controls.
It can be so hard,
when charred into souls.
Aside from the rest,
but, nested in best.
the sadness takes hold,
and a soul is depressed.
The thing that most feel,
has taken the wheel,
is fear in itself.
Although, its not real.
Fear is insane,
it confuses the brain,
into thinking its there.
A mans shadow of pain.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug), bolt upright, uplight, reattach yourself to the liquid of the music,
soothe the irritation, slowdown the shaking hand,
give god or his creatures, the nocturnes and sonatas,
a chance to restore the pounding of the chest to a leveling
equanimity
to no avail, the sleep angels have fled from the
forest fires in the chest, and the helicopters must quench
with the commence of dropping clouds of wet words,
when, when will I be released from a life that has no
easements
words, words, words but another drug, a habit that gives
everything but a temporary state, every poem nothing but
another her, another lady puncture in my restless body,
another juncture, where all your choices are the way of
error
the high will last, shorter each one, but the track will exist
for all the time, a token of human foolishness, the more is
the inevitability of the ending, writ, drawn a little closer,
and comes with a hand written spongy-apology begging for
existing
in his notes, motes, dust mites of titles, single verses,
elegies, essays half written, passing thots claiming to
want to be wannabes, this appears and it's a perfect
ending
there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable
man in his perfect certainty, never was, nevermore, n'ere will be never, and one poet walks a razor's edge, that is his three tenses struggling for mutual coexistence, one of
a calming beauty, a dark glory, a perfect closing, choosing
a final solution, a belief in relief, that simultaneously
engraves, erases, and
equates
another new poem fissures to the surface, and the palpable
is a magician's illusion, a trick, a feat of dismemberment,
an excise of a piece, a drink, a Tennessee whiskey of him,
an emission that never gains remission status, all this fakery,
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug),
excellent, worthless and self-
effacing
{|||}
3:48am-5:46am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC
*concerning anti-kantian lexicon completion to understand the notion of a priori (it's a niche interest... c. bukowski explains it better in the book tales of ordinary madness in the chapter titled **** and kant and a happy home... well, not really, if he knew german i’d say that he was truly defining a priori, learning a language rather than unconsciously acquiring one from the first word mama or whatever toddlers say first when they mastered the bladder and **** muscles, which are oddly designed to be consciously / forcefully trained because they're crafted as slacked... weird), let’s say that’s about as much relevant to me as is this scenario:*
an actress about to perform the monologue script
of not i, prior to performance and at the stage
of memorisation asks samuel (beckett): ‘what does this mean?
this one line? it’s bothersome for my conscience,
my sense of meaning and direction, what does it mean?’
then ol’ samuel tells her: ‘back up, bets and back up,
it’s the most self-conscious eventuality of all vague attempts
to stand outside of oneself within the scaffold of using
language - this dismemberment beginning with extracting
thought for the senses to see hear and feel, writing...
this morphing of the substance we consider thought without ethos, ethics,
choices, looking at the zeitgeist... but honestly?
i haven’t got the foggiest idea... i wrote it because i wrote it,
the desired intentions are reserved for those desiring to read it
and leave it.’
like the famous p.s. of human history written by moses on sinai,
the melting of ice enveloping britain and elsewhere up north,
formerly known as the ice age causing flooding elsewhere...
and that metaphor of: lions gazelles... two-by-two, two-by-two
being a metaphor for monogamy... whereas the harems of other
animals like walruses was obviously avoided
and gave us islamic polygamy (added to the fact
that people refer to themselves via the zodiac...
taurus... scorpio... capricorn... or the chinese calendar...
dragons tigers pigs rats and monkeys etc.);
otherwise known as hermeneutics - extraction of meaning
from very concise texts... very very concise texts
which, if taken literally... leave you as quickly as they came,
and make you specialise in geology or biology instead.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
I've always known
That I'd die in a car accident
Someway
Somehow,
And beneath the
Silent flicks of lightning
Stretching across
A plaster sealed sky,
The world stood still,
Molded out of clay
And gasping for air
Like a drizzled flower petal
Suspended in time,
For a moment so fleeting
It nearly escaped me,
I hoped some drunken
Speeding car
Would smash right into me,
For once not because of the
Complexity and dismemberment of it all,
But because I was okay with dying
In some moment where it all made sense.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 5:48 AM UTC
Take all that I own
The children of my thoughts
Severed from completion
Haunt me with your zombie right
You, walking dead, making
Hellish nightmare of my pride
Have the arms that bear my burden
And the ligaments that establish your being
And dial the number that numbs me mad
I have brought you upon myself, shackle of decaying flesh
And to sate my blood-lust
I ill take this hurt mass
And rip it from my flesh
In rose petal patterns
I will remove the excess limbs
Holding onto the past
And cleaver my ambitions for everything left
And in the mass of my meat and muscle
And the weight of every drop of blood I've bled
I will form a Lazarus start
Through the halls of beautiful dismemberment
Through the multitude of converging paths
I forge a new way
I forge my own way
(It is a strange night that the wind does not make a sound)
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
Hush!, he approaches,Rush!, here his coach is,Try to tame the loud thumps your frightened heart makes,Stop!, or he'll see you,Chop!, that's what he'll do,Dismemberment of you, and just a moment it takes. Come! let me show you,Run! this you must do,Evading the sharp strike from his long and shiny knife,Look!, keep your eyes peeled,Shook!, that's how you'll feel,If he ensnares you, he will bleed away at your life. Oops!, i've decieved you,Nice!, how i played you,Enticing you right into my masters eerie lair,Now!, you grow weaker,Vow!, i must seek her,I must satisfy his lust for more maidens so fair...
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 5:17 AM UTC
Betrayed, O to be betrayed,
A once betrothed and now misbehaved.
Misdeemed and misdeeds creeping upon me,
Fighting for friends now uncertainly,
Walking own a bent path,
Finding less and less are on task,
More would rather hang out back,
And what's a man to do in a world like that?
What started as a fellowship,
Now ends in dismemberment,
And the lonely feeling sinks in,
And the friends become foes, at the turn of a pen.
Setting my up for failure,
Jealous, or unsure,
I wish I cared anymore,
But that time has long since gone ashore...
And so as I look into the sea,
Something as dark, desolate, and as desperate as me.
I add a few more salty tears to its salty depths,
In hopes that this feeling of apathy will be ceased.
But I think a part of me knows,
Long before any more blows,
That this is the Real World,
And there is little time now for woe.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 3:10 AM UTC
I didn't know I'd end up here again, especially so quickly after crashing.
But yet again, my heart is an unexpected, fickle thing.
My hair is ***** just like my hands, for I have as much pain and blood on my fingertips as has been inflected upon my heart. Funny how a small little girl from Wonderland can cause so much pain. Innocence was once on my lips, but then the world killed my brother, and then the Jabberwocky came to play.
But where are my manners? Let me invite you to tea, buy you your last meal before I ravage your body with my teeth and claws and words and terrify you when my green eyes before blood-red with the splattering of you. I hate to make people forgettable, so trust me, it'll be a night to remember.
The demons inside come out to play at night, when my defenses are weak, talking of death so easily, when I know I don't have a heart for killing. I only have a heart for destruction and dismemberment of hearts and minds, not lives.
Grace was once so little and pure and kind, but the second blood red graced her sibling's lips, it was over. The monster had come to reside in her.
Red, green, the colors of my heart. Funnily enough, also the colors of Christmas. Didn't know generosity would share the same colors as my envious, greedy, ****** heart.
I am not a fan of myself in the darkness. Perhaps because I see in the nothing a reflection of my own shadows.
Go to bed, dear Grace, before the monster inside eats you. **** you, Jabberwocky, and all your tricks. No one comes back from Wonderland without a tad bit of baggage.
Don't beware the darkness, beware thyself.
Goodnight.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
Death and dismemberment
that's what they bring
while songs sung of heroes
are the tunes that we sing
Soldier on soldier
a body count is the score
but it's the folks who build weapons
who are winning the wars
It's all about money
satisfying their greed
the rich filling their storehouse
while they haven't the need
Today's wars they're for profit
of money, of land
and the worlds children keep dying
as we strike up the band
When will we stop
will it ever end
war, ****** for hire
was not meant as a friend
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
I am making a log pile
I choose a chainsaw carefully,
sixteen inch
I prime it,
push in three times
one
two
three
and pull
it roars and comes to life,
I find a tree,
dead and rotting,
poor thing
there is no time to think
so I start cutting
slice
slice
BOOM
it falls.
Next comes liming
small branches fly
time to log it
careful not to hit the ground
the chainsaws teeth chew through birch
it’s a clean dismemberment.
I stack the logs one by one,
building on what is already there
one on top of the other
sometimes they fall
and I have to rearrange
but I never give up
that log pile
isn’t a pile at all.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 6:06 AM UTC
"rope, love."
she ropes me up.
sinks full of cigarette blood,
I drink it up.
catch it in my glass as it drips from the pipes.
predators and prey and no other
way out,
every place I hide
gives me up
sacrifice your kids for
me
sacrifice your head, your soul
I’ll eat them alive
and bury them in my insides.
grandmother’s Lincoln
leaving tread on your face
your liquor in the backseat
and your Mexican boyfriend falling all
over my hipster cousin, calling her his *****
you lay on the bathroom floor
water races in the maze between the
tile
you’re in front of the door
I can’t get in.
cousin!
cousin!
let me in!
hard shove, pick up, not my cousin, my lover!
dismemberment on the bed
you crawl all over
twists and turns and this once small
bedroom is now a labyrinth.
the television blares mindlessly in the other room
skin tears and eyes fall from sockets and I step over
my dead relatives to cross the street.
I scream,
and I drink blood out of a champagne flute
while checking my nails
and scraping the flesh out from under them.
everything about me invites you in
and masochism drives me mad with want.
Ego gets the best of me
cleanse me
purge me
scour me
I’m begging
cleanse me!
cleanse me!
I will never leave you,
never leave me, lover
give me your blood,
your tongue,
your lips,
your fingers,
some skin from inside your thigh,
and haunt me in passion
until I resurrect you at last!
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 11:26 AM UTC