"disrupts" poems
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
435.8k
There are clouds of sound and noise
That utter thoughts in a muffled voice,
Gestures of hands simply won’t cast out
Cloudy skies in days of doubt.
Like strangers lost in a crowd
Whose cries are buried by the loud,
The loud din of helpless wanderers
Whose presence disrupts and disturbs.
All strangers left on their own,
Islands floating out in the fog;
Orphans with cruel fates to bemoan;
Fates that are swept under the rug.
And who's looking with interest, who reaches down with an arm,
Never so eager to help, neither too late nor too soon?
Who would make this world perhaps a little more warm
And freshen the skies of our cloudy afternoon?
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 2:18 AM UTC
Life is a lifelong
Balancing act
Time that's wasted
Never comes back
But hear my quandary
It's really quite queer
What happens when my job
Conflicts with my career?
What happens when my schooling
Disrupts my education?
When federal government policies
Keep me from graduation?
What happens when my GPA
Keeps me out of universities?
What happens when what I need to do
Conflicts with my responsibilities?
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
Evening light is gentle, slow
Caressing leaves, metal roofs, soil
Plants, flowers, pavements and gates
Clouds are the mothers - they shield us
Lest the sun shines too much.
Take a breath and look around;
The sweet and tranquil garden will take it away.
All colour blend in synchronised harmony;
Blues and browns, pinks and whites
Crossing into and over each other like
oil paints,
Warm, welcoming, beautiful.
It is soothing - the sound of nothing
That disrupts; razes; hates
Disturbs; curbs quiet insight;
One's imagination is the lone
source of maximum sound
That vibrates through the garden.
My grandfather, my grandmother's brother,
Smiles as though the sun shines through his teeth
Dresses in a pale blue shirt
Black shorts
Both well-worn
Ready to play
some basketball.
Oh, the joy, the fun
The refreshment arising from this game in a courtyard
In grandfather's garden
Among young trees, leaves and other green growth.
There stands a home by hand made
Basketball stand,
A concrete base with metal support hands
Floppy strings of hoop
To shoot the ball into.
The garden has been bathed, it is fresh
It is refreshed.
Grandfather demonstrates, I listen and follow,
To throw the ball into the hoop
With precision and care; throw some force
Into the air.
The ball dances around the circle
then drops to the concrete floor.
We take turns
As I throw and grandfather returns
9/10 of the time my aim's bad
but the ball grandfather throws, I actually catch!
(Or it will tumble on wet soil)
Exciting, the thumping
of rubber ball against ground;
Keen eyes and agile hands and feet
To catch the stray ball;
With swift movements the ball flies!
From sideways, afar and near,
Into the hoop successfully, finally.
Back into the house we go,
As the sun leaves for home.
The garden prepares for night;
So do grandfather and I;
Grandfather washes up; I talk to
Grandmother in the garden;
waiting for night, to
fall
fall
fall,
into infinite darkness -
poignant memories
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
We like to be in peace
Lies disrupts the timeline of human beasts
Sending you to decision making feats
Making you think of an unchangeable decision
Life is full of actions requiring a question
Answers and choices
Whichever path you choose might leave you exploited
Everybody has a weakness, which might lead to stress
Emotionless people take advantage of any weakness
How a friend can save a life
Your best friend can destroy your life
Even though police are on the frontline
Some can create the stealth crime
Leaving so many people blinded with a fine
Who is that voice we found solace to confide in
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
There’s a crack in my windshield growing bigger by the day
It’s like a manifestation of the words I want to say
Your calm demeanor disrupts my flow
There’s more to you; there’s more to know
Of all the people I never would have guessed
And I’ve never been good at the marshmallow test
This change of pace I don’t quite get
Please kind sir, are you in love with me yet?
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
two days
before we loaded the car
with what seemed like the entirety
of my heart and belongings
to move me across the state to attend college,
my baby brother found me on the kitchen floor,
crying
about the microwave.
well,
not just the microwave.
he found me in a crumpled up heap,
sobbing that this day
would be the last i had
to microwave things
in
this
particular
microwave.
i couldn’t justify my lament then.
my dad chalked it up to ***
my brother called me a drama queen,
and my mom told me i needed to eat less microwaveable things.
but i think i might’ve figured it out now.
five months later.
y’see, i grew up an ARMY brat.
attended five different elementary schools,
two separate middle schools,
one high school,
and two colleges.
i was never good at saying goodbye,
but i’m a pro at walking away.
i found out quickly
that while the faces and names
of my friends and classmates
change from state to state,
the character tropes
stay basically the same.
people and places become such replaceable things.
i worry,
a lot,
about being a replaceable thing.
there are talented people in this world.
people that can divine the past and future
from coffee grounds and tea leaves.
but can anyone here tell me what kinds of awful things my footsteps say about me?
there are boot marks,
with my name on them,
in places i know i should never have been.
and clumps of dirt stuck to my heels
that have been with me longer than some friends have.
i sat on the floor last night
while my love explained physics to me.
he told me
that gravity is a constant force,
and of course,
the earth’s gravity affects each and every one of us.
but our individual gravity affects the earth as well.
according to newton’s third law,
the earth pulls of me
with the same force that i pull on the earth.
my mass disrupts space time.
carl sagan once told me
through the clarifying prism of the television screen,
that we are all stardust,
collapsed suns
and black matter.
we belong to no place.
i belong to no place.
i belong to no place.
i don’t cry about the microwave anymore,
i don’t waste my tears on saying goodbye.
i know that every thing and every one has their time,
and sometimes that time is brief.
it’s a hard pill to swallow,
ultimately my favorite self descriptor is ‘infallible’.
but somedays, i fall
just to stand up and see:
the sun still rises,
the earth still turns,
the microwave still makes bomb-ass chicken nuggets,
and i am still here.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
The lonely notes flowing, falling, leap from
The thin and flitting fingers of the pianist,
The cup of melancholy, drained to the
dregs, bittersweet in that the love of happiness
and joy is tempered now, from longing for the
delicate and pensive feel, that comes from dipping into
the small and lonely pool of melancholy. Grief, a distant
specter, hovering in the fringe of chance, is nearer now,
melancholy, the doorway, slides open on silent hinges,
and admits the crushing tide. High, high, and faster still,
the pianist falls, slowly down and up again, grief, the storm,
disrupts the flow of sound and silence, and incorporates itself
into the threading melody, and so erodes the shores of joy and laughter,
the violet waves of gentle melancholy, laced with the thinnest threads of
blackest grief, sighing on, erasing so, youth and joy and light and life.
The melody falters, stills. The pianist alone, playing for an empty quiet,
rises, pauses, his fingers brushing, the cold steel of empty death, smooth beneath his touch. He grasps it, lifts it to face him, hands steady, gaze unfaltering. The man is still, pianists fingers gripping that instrument of death, and time passes, unheeded, ignored. In a motion refined to elegance by the passage of time and repetition, the pianist places that cold instrument of steel and intent gently, down upon the polished black. He straitens, slowly, and settling his black overcoat close around him, he turns, walks quietly to a closed and silent door, lifts the latch, and into a swirling night of snow and light, walks out, and closes the door behind him with a soft and quiet click. And all is silent.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
Midsummer flutters in on butterfly wings.
Softly landing on the corolla leading to the petals.
Slow motion has been initiated by summer,
people, air, insects and life has slowed.
Summer doesn't rush, summer doesn't push.
Summer lazes in a haze of shimmering heat.
Only tempers get short during long summer nights.
Humid hate filled anger disrupts the slow tempo,
only to quickly dampen in the humid stultifying night heat.
Honeysuckle, jasmine, water lilies and evening primrose,
come out and soothe the moonlit summer night.
A breeze rises and soothes the weary mind.
Summer night blooms, in more ways than one,
moonlight shimmers like gossamer threads
down onto the flower beds, the flower's
fragrance fills the air, soothing, calming,
softly, sweetly filling summertime with cruel kindness.
Cruelty of heat the kindness of sweet flowers.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Oh how the twang of man’s harp
Disrupts my precious sleep.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
It’s never put at rest,
“Control yourself,” I thought.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
My rage grew deep,
I could hear them laugh at me, already an outcast in this young world.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Somehow, almost as if I were possessed,
I began to **** them one by one.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Night by night the casualties grew,
I couldn’t control myself, it’s a demon’s curse.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
I kept killing them,
Until the final night.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
The young hero pulled out my arm
And raised it up in a bitter-sweet victory.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Away I ran into my lair
What have I done?
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Was this the pain I inflicted on man?
The pain was throbbing and strong, like no pain I had ever felt.
Finally the world went black.
The twang was gone.
At peace I will lay forever.
I hope mother won’t make the same mistake.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Cigarettes and coffee and you.
If I had to name three things I couldn't live without,
I guess those would be the things. But it’s not an addiction,
per say. I only like cigarettes when your callused fingers
offer them to me,
your wordless expression showing concern and contentess.
I blow away our pain and worries and pass it on for later,
thinking I’ll make some coffee again today.
For both of us like I usually do.
Coconut milk in yours and creamer in mine, right?
My toes are suddenly cold
I dip them in these tender aqua waters,
juxtaposing itself with the Tampa humidity
that laces my cup. I can't tell if
you resting your arms around my waist
brings a fire within me
or if it gives me chills.
I start swaying to some synonymous tune
that happens to play in both of our heads at this moment,
even though the only music is
the wind whistling
through the shells and stems of the palm leaves.
My lips are, coffee and cigarette and you stained.
The painful heat always disrupts this heavenly time for us.
So we’ll meet here, same time tomorrow.
I wouldn't want to live without it.
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 4:49 PM UTC
And so this story goes forever
Being held to the ground for being clever
I don't know what these ******* even teach you
But you can't stand for yourself (it's true)
The world emanates the fear of our souls
Expressing what we feel disrupts their goal
Stricken to the bone, we tear our flesh
To show our opinion in a scarring mesh
They make us cover it all or be removed
For professionalism is dictated by what they approve
Hold your head high while you ******* can
Bills are passed to begin the eternal ban
Stripped of our freedoms
Naked and exposed
To invasion of comfort and artistry
I say **** you
And **** them too
For they have nothing to say against our cries of injustice
They know what they do is an expression of narcous
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
Just beneath the road insensate,
in the little creek that crawls through town,
the rains brought him.
Iron-blue, patient, slender, high sits his head –
a lance, now raised – now half-tilt as he sights his prey – raised again
as a drifting leaf disrupts his aim.
Upstream he prowls, that his prey sees
him not.
He stalks with long, slow strides, his legs thin and
graceful not to disturb the quiet current of the water and
give himself away to senseless quarry. Few call him spindly,
I imagine. Not I.
By the shore, fish-bones, whole
but for the flesh,
sink into the mud.
A thoughtless dart, a flash, a writhing
beast falls still on his speartip.
What am I, then, that
he flies when I draw close?
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
With wings like barn doors, perched upon the tower and scathing
The king fell, the Earth moved and let him drift slowly to death
Bukowski on the bedpost sang rosy melodies through tin can headphones
and the daffodils of a thousand fields wilted at the news of her death
Needles fall from the junky's arms, a rain drop escapes
Coca-Cola bottles strewn on a green carpet, smooth under foot
and the festival casualties drift aimlessly to their scorching cars
Pills fall from pockets as a forlorn criminal collects coins
The clouds disperse from the estate, reggae disrupts cats making love
Bass that resonates, crumbling cars and the warring between neighbours
Lay with her as the coffin descends, gun crime statistics
Spinoza makes accusations from beyond, ethical misappropriation
Stop talking, for your voice could make an angel weep
but the children still scream, running, frenzied on the lava streets
Cracking bull whips at the backs of a slave, ********** passion, weeping
and the sun sets in the East, proverbial middle finger to the populace
Franzen now teaches me how to live such a lonesome life
While the night holds me like a mother once would
Until I pass,
and the arms of Susanna Blamire beckon
Hold me close
I'm scared
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Fragmented dreams and bleak realities
are all that is left of me
downplaying the past
while running from beyond
the abyss of my demise grows with passing time
Winding down and building up
the excitement of my downfall erupts
spewing all over
my soul does explode
all I ever wanted was to write a story that had never been told
My pain disrupts what I once called happiness
how could I ever become this undone
without a purpose
without a plan
my future fades
as the lights dim and my body takes a bow
I would like to thank you all
for the wondrous joy
the laughter and the beauty that was in store
never could I have imagined
that life was this sweet
maybe next time the bitterness will take a retreat
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
A flash of light blinds me
A loud sound disrupts the silence
A shiver runs through my spine
Sudden coldness engulfs me
The feeling reminds me of you
The warm embrace I once felt
The comforting whispers I once heard
The loving gaze I once felt
You're like the rain
So sudden, I wasn't ready
So comforting yet so frightening
And just like the rain,
You vanished so suddenly
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 4:39 AM UTC
Snow falls quickly and harshly to the ground.
Sort of how your fist grazed my face earlier.
I place a cigarette up to my lips and take a deep inhale,
Instantly the nicotine begins to course through my veins
I’m praying to the gods that this love doesn’t fail.
As I feel the memories escaping my brain.
The mirror last night told me that you were lying.
So, I smashed it into a million pieces, falling to the floor.
The entire process was almost strangely gratifying.
The glass is stained with a dark reddish hue.
It’s my blood that protects our apartment.
Because I know your girlfriends certainly will, not.
I’m seeking those beautiful nights
With your arms lovingly wrapped around my waist
Instead of your forceful hands throwing me onto the bed.
Loneliness stings more than your foolish ways.
I repeat this over and over again.
The shadows of our love hang heavy and low.
As if it has already evaporated from this moment.
You have pushed me to the breaking point.
To an alleyway outside in the cold.
Where I give in and take puffs of a single cigarette
The choking and coughing feels so far from elegant
But by this point I don’t give a ****
I need something to cope with the pain
Something to erase your name
Anything to get you out of my brain.
The smoke that falls out of my mouth
Peacefully disrupts the cold bitter attitudes.
I spend this time kissing a final farewell
To the innocence that used to exist.
My heart aches wholly for the girl that
Used to believe in a love like this.
I know you are cheating, lying, behind my back
But instead of screaming and crying.
I take a deep breath.
You never deserved the love I so freely gave to you.
So, I try to walk away. But it’s no use.
I’m called again to your side, to your bed.
Without a single breath, you lie to me as if I mean nothing.
As if I’m worth nothing.
I’m starting to believe, and to fall again.
Who is going to pick up the broken pieces of my heart?
I dream of the day that your door slams
A day where we no longer exist.
Where the fire that burned for so long has finally been extinguished
As I throw the stub of my cigarette to the floor
I dream of the day that I grow a semblance of a backbone.
The world around me blurs into vision that hazy and blue
I just want to leave and to experience life on my own.
But maybe leaving you is a fate that’s too good to be true.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 5:22 AM UTC
If I were an idiot yoke I'd scramble it up
and then I'd add some chopped-up ham
then pour into a frying pan
I'd pour into a frying pan
I'd pour into a frying pan
I'd pour into a frying pan
scambled eggs and chopped-up ham
But, not from a can of spam
no, not from a can of spam
no, not from a can of spam
I'd have my eggs and chopped-up ham
but not any spam from a can
Then I'd have my eggs with ham
and maybe a little bit of spray from pam
but, not any can of spam
no, not any can of spam
not any can of spam
just my eggs with ham
Breakfast would be grand old man
Eggs with some chopped-up ham
and a little bit of spray from pam
but, not any can of spam
no, not any can of spam
not any can of spam
no, not any can of spam
just my eggs and ham
and a little bit of pam
but not any spam
for we don't like spam
in this merry ol' land
not even in a can
do we want this spam
not any kind of spam
when the man sends the spam
it disrupts the land
and how can a man
be happy in a land
where he's always getting spammed
he can't
SO
P L E A S E E L I O T
not any can of spam
ever again
the end
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
I found a spoon in my garden.
Could you even call this a garden?
The planters are all full of
pine needles and stagnancy.
Even the bench I'm sitting on
is rotting and covered in ants.
Anyway this spoon was barely visible
among the dead leaves and dog ****
Not rusty, save for the edges that had been
knicked by a lawn mower at some time
and then bent perfectly
down the
middle.
A memory of playing superheroes
disrupts my study.
Someone was trying to prove their
strength by bending it
"with their mind".
Eventually we tired of our
mind's lack of capabilities
and used brute force to
bend the dreaded spoon
but the celebration was nonetheless
sweet after being able to bend
our mother's cutlery.
Back then the garden was tended.
My mother put us to work
and my
"secret garden" was born partly
out of my imagination and
a lack of reality.
My mother called one plant
"lamb's ear" and I didn't
argue because it was the softest
thing I had ever felt or ever will feel.
Did she make that name up?
Surely, she wouldn't lie to me.
And now that lamb's ear, like
everything else is covered in
a thick, itchy layer of pine straw
and stagnancy. To let the plants
even begin to heal from their
prolonged exposure to cold,
mistifying darkness I would have
to scratch through the
allergy-inducing tentacles.
Push them out of the way.
Dig up the dead, dry earth,
plant new seeds and tend to them
arduously--all while wondering
why couldn't my family just
take care of what they had?
but then I notice this spoon.
I've gotten carried away again
and now I forgot to write about
what I meant to write about in
the first place.
It's not healthy to let things rust.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
*Today, yes today.
I found something new about you,*
Those philosophical thoughts of yours keep
repeating the same chains-rhymes, that circulate
in the air - showing me
that you are that worth;
to keep, to treasure for.
When those sparks of fire arises,
Let me be the water,
To be the tranquility of yours, to deliquesce you.
When those 'non compos mentis' thoughts of yours emerge,
Let me be the scholar,
To figure them, to decipher them for you.
However, the truth is my love,
Even after breaking those codes,
Smashing those unbreakable walls and barriers
of yours;
I will never fully understand you,
as you yourself don't.
The thoughts of me not having you;
disrupts the sea within me,
destroys the fort within me,
Sayang (read:love),
those inequalities of ours should not be
the river that separates two lands,
the wall that separates two nations,
the line that separates between black and white (even the grey exists)
Promise me that you will
bare with me, will you?
Even promises are meant to be broken.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
*is
perfection..
owner to owner
perfection is passed..
each owner nods
to this idol
with awestruck glee..
but perfection
interferes and disrupts
even poisoned once
an intimate encounter..
forgotten in this
and other tales
is human waking
shifting and reaching
of shadow and spirit...*
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
well sprung, no ear for tounge ol major tong, for again you were wrong in the face of all signs and even your endless need to over complicate anything, even what you do as instructed and still you bust it.
One day major tong, we will finger out that issue of never knowing why nothing works in the head much any more, but smile son, you have the heart of a whale.
So wheels and reels, stealing yet another no place to roam, for a home he races, with all the means and graces, yet when it is on the line and the rhythm is in time something disrupts the coming part of a party home to come.
I pray that simple is my means and muddy not my crazed ways, for she surly grows tired of me and my dashed and slayed attempts at making my way. So I blind melon a river for a whole soak in the bones that friend of fullness in shape that sin of the wave, maybe I can roll away and smile at the end of the day, maybe she may as well.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
I’ll light another cigarette
As the Roman candles burn,
Lace the atmosphere with lamented regret
And tear it away before it slips into the chain of deterioration.
I’ll cut out my tongue
While there’s something left to say
I’ll retain the mystery
Whilst the rest is lost to history.
With adoration as a breaking point
I’ll feel each part of me disjoint
Under the pressure.
I’m just another guilted plague-
Haunting the crypts of nature
When the morality bomb drops
I’ll collect the shards
Use poetry as a Perspex,
Desire as a casket
I’ll build wordless pyres
Under motionless fires
And choke the concordance
With a suffocating breath of ecstasy
Until my lungs are transplanted with ivy
Disrupts the chemistry
As hydrogen tears through me
And we burn under element number one.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC