"emaciated" poems
Emaciated bones
Shivering in shrunken clothes.
Wrinkled faces,tired eyes
Watching the sun is their only prize.
Tears burn their cut up skin
Work injures up their shins.
They cannot speak for they weep for their farmlands
They are so used to work,even with their old hands.
They are dying,dying like flies
Because they are poor and these are their lives
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
You've read my rant from yesterday
About those Christmas Letters
But one thing just disturbs me
Those Ugly Christmas Sweaters!!!
You know the ones we love to hate
They're all so scratchy and they itch
You can barely get the **** thing on
And to remove it...it's a *****
Pictures of things Christmassy
Like a reindeer all in red
Mine looks like an emaciated cow
with a candelabra on his head
Snowflakes, trees and Norway Spruce
and colours....oh my lord
They can take them back to Norway
and throw them in the fjord!!!
My nan made one for me one year
It was silver with some blue
Turns out she used old brillo pads
Because she liked the soapy hue
They itch and scratch and don't fit right
They are a cancer to my eyes
I had one in green and red
With one sleeve down past my thighs
I thought it was a jumpsuit
The kind the paratroopers wear
The pattern pages stuck together
And that sleeve....went down to there!!!
We all have one hidden away
In a box, 'neath lock and key
In a place so nicely hidden
One we've had since we were three
We never plan to wear one more
We all know that we once did
but, if we had to wear one out
We're gonna buy one for our kids!!!
If you need to get assistance
go to uglysweaters dot o- r- g
They can help you with your wardrobe
Tell them you heard of them from me.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Injustice!
Posted by Olivia Kent on June 4, 2013 at 3:11pm
View Blog
Suffer not thy children,
In a waiter service world of injustice,
Nothingness in a world of tragic poverty,
In a drizzle of tears,
The children drown
Emaciated children,
Not smiling as they die,
In world of war-craft,
Dying,
A little more each day,
Not smiling as they should,
Punished,
Living in a punitive world of cruelty,
Where craft of war is rife,
Screams,
Imagined in heads of strangers,
Insanity,
Piercing with horror,
Ears sickened,
By violent imagery envisaged,
Emaciated child,
*** bellied,
Gaunt,
Virtually lifeless,
Dead before death,
Snatches,
Life blood vanished,
Without request!
There is no youthful exuberance on this face,
Overjoyed,
Delighted,
I don't live in this place!
Copywrite Livvi Kent 04/06/2013
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
. @
@ @
@ @
@ @
@ @
@ @ @ @ @ @
america, americultus, americate, dubiously **********
::: our gold-flecked bodies.
blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go.
washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time.
teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust.
they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly.
jellyfish flashlight shrine.
we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery,
and feed foxes lizards face first :::
us lost ghouls on school-nights.
flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles.
::: that hot eternal light.
that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body.
then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air.
& we, as notes, we notes harp like light
to dust.
our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes,
with those multi-speckled strands
infinitesimally drunk :::
seed from my ****
pearled halo: smoke above my head.
::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long ****
of existence.
boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them.
like caterpillars on silky thin treadways,
with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we
exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we
curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we
flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we
dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.
we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim.
::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway
bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration.
we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles]
the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs.
they say things.
cherry blossom tree tips in the dark.
tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce.
he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::
tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
“every time i feel my stomach convulse it’s a new wave of tears
take vitamins, she says
you should just eat, she says
you got skinnier, another says
“eat! eat! haven’t you been eating!? and this bandaid! quit cutting yourself, kalena”
and for a moment i think it’s truth
i think it’s honest
i shout “i do eat! they’re just cat scratches”
and if she would have lifted up that bandaid
she would have learned it was honest
it was truth
but it was melted away flesh that she would have found, not torn
but melted
and in the highlight of this moment i see all of my dreams come true
finally, someone notices!
finally, someone cares!
but yet she’s willing to stop eating. to make sure that i do.
my little thing. an entire 98 pounds, not by choice.
so unhealthy, so sick. all the time. so **** tired.
she would stop eating for me.
and though it doesn’t help, the thought is comforting. it should be disturbing.
it is. in the way that if she stopped eating…
she would lose weight.
and then i would fight harder and harder until my rib bones were sticking out so far they were larger than my chest.
emaciated.
bony fingers that boys don’t want to hold and girls don’t want to kiss.
hair that slides out with the slightest tug.
no one wants that.
except me, of course.
i want that.
i want to weigh 85 pounds.
i want to die.
i want to be so high on the emptiness that i die.
i faint. and they cannot wake me up.
eternal sleep. forever peace. and the best part of all?
I would be horrifically tiny in even the smallest coffin. “
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
I sat in history class
Must have been
My senior
Or junior year
On the screen
Came horrible things
Emaciated
Decimated
Human beings
Numbers tattooed
Bodies burnt
Gas chambers
Stories so cruel
Years after we read
Anne Frank’s diary
But no one really had a clue
The pictures
Were part of a documentary
Made to remind us
Of human insanity
Skin and bones
Broken men
Barely left standing
Human suffering
I couldn’t help but cry
But behind me no one else did
And then I couldn’t help but wonder why
No one else felt the same sadness in it
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
i want to see my bones
and i want you to feel them
please, please. tell me i’m skinny,
i need you; i need you asking about the weight i’m losing
that i need to be losing
skinny and you’ll love me
you’ll love me if i’m skinny
please, wait and i’ll be skinny
i’m trying. i’m trying so hard.
***** covered hands
blood dripping from my nose
shaking
please, can’t you see that i’m trying?
don’t give up. not yet.
please, don’t give up on me yet.
i promise i’ll be thinner than her
thinner than everyone
please, wait. wait for me. i promise i’ll be skinny.
i promise.
i’m too fat for love
and i know what you think about me
because i think the same! i can see the rolls
i can feel the weight
i promise i’ll be skinny.
give me time. give me time.
all i need is time.
emaciated.
i want my bones to show.
i want to be used as a skeleton in a science class
i want everyone to see it
i want to show how skinny i can get
i promise i’ll be skinny
please, dont judge me for my extra pounds
they’ll be gone soon
i promise they’ll be gone soon
can’t you see i want this?
i’ve never wanted anything more
my hands are *****
blood, ***** sweat, tears.
my stomach is empty
always.
can’t you smell my breath?
my clothes?
my hair?
the scent of ***** lingers
i’m ruining my insides
so you can see my bones
please, see me.
please, can’t you see me?
you won’t look because of the fat
and i’m sorry for the sight you have to see
i promise you’ll soon be able to rub
your bones against my bones
i need my bones to show.
i need them to cut skin.
i need my bones to show.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
Heart weak
Body emaciated
Can't stop
Need to feel numb
Need to feel empty
Empty and numb
Is what i crave
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
We fed ourselves on New Year's well
Gifts were exchanged over the song The First Noel
The evening before Christmas drinks were had
Many fooling themselves that they are glad
Throughout the cheer, men, women, and children in Yemen forgotten
Leftover turkeys and roasts would be hurriedly eaten even if found rotten
Starvation has Yemeni bodies eating themselves
Have you seen photos of their emaciated figures on newspapers' shelves
Pregnant women and newborn babies with dead husbands and dead fathers
How do they care for themselves when in the grand scheme of things no one bothers
Saudi military should go **** on themselves
Murderous cowards that they are playing with Santa's elves
Women in Yemen being ***** and domestic violence bring me to tears
Would they get away with their satanic work if the U.S. wasn't kissing their filthy rears
Seriously dangerous diseases running rampant
Yemenis beautiful skin no longer so lambent
So few of us care enough to choke up for our Ahmeds and for our Imans
I ask infuriatingly will it take a whole country's destruction to rise for Yemen's Marwans
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.
Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;
could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.
"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
Hold it!
whole ***
whale fitting
room
bowing walls
expanding spandex
seams stretched out of shape
lurid –
disturbed images play across the screen
biggest loser season MCMXVII
American dream with heavy cream
and spleenwiches
cleaning the crumbs,
bums long for an extra morsel
gnawing on dorsal fins
grinning, toothless, at least they have their figures
that figures says the emaciated diet queen
leave it to the homeless to be the only group
worthy of the runway –
starvation date
only the grumbling cuts the uncomfortable silence
empty bellies howl for nourishment
instead are fed meds and red licorice
which is immediately vomited
for fear of caloric inconsistency –
breathing adds blubber
to thighs and midriffs
marital spiff over the last cookie
sugar substitutes
substituting themselves for love and compassion
lashing out at the one above
fat girls with teary eyes cry
for just five more pounds
the dress fit in 1978 –
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
They took you from the hospital
They didn’t know why you had died
They wanted to do an autopsy
It took 3 weeks
We couldn’t see your body
It wasn’t fit they said
And eventually we got
A Report
Brain - 2 and a half pounds
Body - healthy, unmarked - not emaciated
No needle marks on the arms
Liver - taken for analysis
Traces of Tuinal and Physeptone
They cut, weighed and analysed you
But couldn’t find the reason
Why you had died
Drowning on your own *****
In a mental hospital
My mother took you to her hometown for burial
To the cemetery hedge where you were conceived
Later she told me that whenever you cried
She shoved a dummy covered in malt into your mouth
And then she would leave you
Her bundle of idle words, looks and *****
Poor Dorothy looking for escape
The war child who knew no softness or comfort
Poor John a quick coupling in the dark beneath the cemetery hedge
Begotten from chocolate, stockings and a Burslem teapot
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
He declared himself a refugee, and ran away from his country
Running away from hunger and poverty, to the overseas,
He roams foreign countries from one place to another,
Chewing foreign fortunes of historical efforts,
Of blood and sweat shed by the fore(wo)men of those countries,
He is prostrate and defenseless to foreign languages,
Begging for sympathy to be made a citizen in Europe,
His rapacious appetite wedding his tongue,
Swallowing saliva on sight of European fortune,
Feating into mad appetite for sweat of others proceeds.
He burned the bridges on the way back to his home
Lest he be told the piffling of going back to his emaciated mother,
He changed his names to become a foreign native
Out of laziness not to fight for political and social change,
An imperative need of his motherland and fatherland,
Blind cowardice made him to over measure homespun folly
In the patriotic spirit of verve-less readiness
To die for political goodness of his motherland,
A (de)patriotic syndrome to only which
Hugo Garcia Manriquez sang a limerick
The best of all poems in his time of solitude;
(The fear of representation, of going back
to representation, that is,
to animosity)
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
There are more and more misfortunes in the world
Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions,
But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons
Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus
Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya,
I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage,
As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence,
**** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me
Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men,
I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease
But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies
My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them,
I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility
Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm!
Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom,
They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels,
I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity
Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love,
But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind,
They they nonchalantly pass on my **** *****
Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands
Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food,
Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat
The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity,
Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers
Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women,
Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow,
I thought my education will attract them to me,
To love me with those romantic University kisses,
But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion
They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil,
Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies
Of the forsaken African daughters,
Take me out of this ****** desert
Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar,
Take me to the equator line and give me a husband,
My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children
Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God,
Take me out of this ****** desert,
Where no man treats a modern woman,
Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream.
Because I have known from today;
It is accurse to be a woman in Africa
It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts
It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert
It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert,
O! Help me God.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
~
*Ragged mist of stalled horizon,
from dry dock
to disadvantage point
second hand shops
of sackcloth and ash,
they contain multitudes
treading the outside edge
of perception,
rehearsing disaster
in fistfuls of earth,
and the immaterial:
the stuff of pure shadow
a bevy of dead buildings
resemble a fallen actress
in the throes of dance,
with emaciated figurines leaning
forward in the temple,
listening for clues
too far to whisper
work will never resume
on the tower,
and it will remain painfully scanty,
a place to bury strangers
or raise up cholera
the third world summer
sun on sacred walls,
red before orange,
let the rays burn away our sins,
we contain multitudes
but one step inside doesn't mean
we understand anything*
~
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
Nobility divine fills gaps of transcendence,
Soars to and from the throne heavenly,
Exalts morals near the king of ascendance,
Patrolling the good, and sons of the seventy.
A duty forgotten, replaced with dependence,
On prayers rarely heard, and logic of a herd -
Divinity is far in absence; man in attendance,
The book is a third, and teachings are blurred.
Andeliviuan corruption supposedly erased:
The creation rotten of Sariel, wanders gaily.
The holy and fallen angel’s doing embraced,
By the clay beings caressing evil like a frailly.
By God not, who from heaven him displaced.
Yet, the legacy of the wrong stands humanly,
In Thailand, America, Palestine, and all graced -
A grace of sinfulness celestial and worldly.
Religion is the poor’s only ultimate truth,
the rich’s side hustle, and the rulers’ tool;
It is the loss of power that defiles the sooth,
The one the poor has not, but does the fool.
Robbers’ servants, bread crumbs consumers,
Toothless **** dogs, emaciated lost tramps,
Little blind pawns, vultures’ puppets, tumours,
And wrenches they are, the upper hand’s lambs.
If only Raguel’s judgements fall upon man,
Raphael’s punishment beautifies this existence,
Gabriel’s wrath makes not all humans ane,
And Michael saves us, the Sarahs, in assistance.
In the heart deepened with old repression,
That mounts with plenitude of filtered feels,
Resides a universe yearning for expression,
In a meat clay who feeds on calories of meals.
Man, in the genesis, in the light, in the dark,
In prosperity, in turmoil, triumphed with vices;
vileness, abuse, wreckage is our sole mark,
On this planet whose population is in slices.
Oct 21, 2022
Oct 21, 2022 at 5:18 AM UTC
driven at night ive seen sights that make life look less like leisure,
and more like self harm for group super pleasure,
your not at the edge of this,
unless you get that sub-dom affection looking like special effects,
I accelerate slow, park, put on the the light, around a quarter to four.
she tapped her nail , amplified by the glass,
a note smeared the window misting, she stared over my coffee flask, intimately into my cocked submission,
her emaciated wrist has this diamond bracelet, it's shaking, as she points directions beyond restaurants and offices,
one too many cocktails slipped by this ruling consciousness,
now she invites in my taunts of a 30ish nihilist, "shh, just drive us".
snorting coke off the plastic payment dish,
using the twenty shes paying me with,
hooked up to my rhythm,
nobody is left not menaced, in a rolling evolution into avarice,
isn't the skyline marvelous,
the ad-hoc sprawl, minerals raw,
rear view see her chewing her face off,
directions useless, i'll let you out here, I believe you,
wave the fair, but leave the door, i need the air.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
tepid waters do not lie
gale is to cyclone
as rain to thundercloud
no amount of counter-spin
will make them anything other
than atmospheric unrest
El Niño, La Niña
how to read
the unsettled waters
upwelling from the deep
what should feed us
leaves us starving, weak
orcas encircle their kin
emaciated mother, tiny calf
dying from ocean’s lack
while we look on and moan
all the power to change
if we only cared to own it
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
The first time i went to church
I was terrified
It was an old church
and bore the cracks
and tombstones to show it
I was terrified because
I was convinced
that Jesus was trapped in the attic
chained to the rafters
malnourished and wild eyed
scruffy and emaciated
our lord and savior
a sunken eyed chattering skeleton
and I didn't know why
they kept him up there
feeding him our sins
while preaching their love
like scorpions
as the herd grows larger
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
"Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords,
resigned to **** and to die." – Jorge Louis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
stoic labyrinthine sparrow-bone;
there is a slalom down your gullet,
bayonet curled around your neck,
you have a beak, you are lusty-smooth,
have rubble for skin, an emaciated infinity:
everything is fractal so eat your words
they are you are your rusty toenails
every footstep is a holocaust there’s
genocide under your neurons,
watch them flex and shiver.
you have soft plastic lips,
there is a vacuum in your gullet,
a box cutter carving
through your adam’s apple:
epileptics are just indecisive,
when they seize hold their tongues
they are their words you are a god
are oppenheimer and shiva,
pick favorites it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter
flex and shimmer we are just neurons
flatlines are not ghoulish nooses,
paraplegics are just cowards,
move with conviction each step
is a genocide, you have wooden
teeth and woolen wings,
thrashes are a velveteen sunset
an edible fog, your stomach
is a stomach do not eat the fog
just know that someday it will **** you
softly and swiftly.
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter:
infinity is not recursive
alive is not our default state
once is the only route
blood makes the blade holy
if you cut me i will bleed,
i won't blame you just know
you were only ever
that very moment.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
Siddhartha sat steady on a the hearth of an apartment, eyes closed
mouth closed, mind open and enchanted
Zen-man lingers in a dark park starting,
to realise indiscretions of his past lives avatar
(but don't for a second believe the lies you've been fed by the brother of your brother and the father's of the jingoist mafia because eyes blink often and the accumulative effect is a life of temporary blindness and in that blindness it's not possible to be enlightened)
Your mantras are a lie but the belief remains still
and so rolling over wild green hills in some Welsh country village it dawns on the spirits of the ether that humanity is struggling
to find absolution of even the most relative peace
- but so, and Siddhartha still sits, cross-legged and barely breathing
Emaciated; fast, faster
Losing her nerve
Zen-man died a few months back but you always live again and so a beetle on a hot car hood scampers in some intrinsic folly, semi-aware of being something or being at all
Towards the walls of weather-beaten towns the levee finally bursts and all life ends -
until a gathering mist pulls absurd faces in the simpatico rays of a third-eye sun over the bayou of some forgotten rock in the cosmos
and the ethereal temptress of existence rolls the next dice on a green matted board
and our unified oneness speaks a solitudinal greeting to the sky.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
//-Bleeding out underneath my clothing, and yet I regret nothing.
Peeling back the cloth as it sticks to emaciated skin,
See the flesh resist,
and i cannot help comply.
*Jan-12-14
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
by the lake at sunrise
a strange dedication hangs in the air
concealed in threads of mist
that hang here, ghostly blankets
suspended by invisible strings
there is a silence without end every where
amorphous, it is as if the very elements themselves
hold their breath, poised
waiting for something to happen
while a silvery unexplained light
floats like mercury
on the lurid waters of the lake
the world looks on
in hideous and embarrassed silence
as I taste the lamentations of past times
a discord of sympathies swirl about
i cry out strange words
like making a wish in Latin
i am carried in a high altitude of color
through a French Pantheon of poems
and by the lakeside emaciated figures
form a density of mood
dripping in emotional subtlety
which cannot be properly named
my eyes gaze out upon the lake
in a vocabulary of incoherent signs
images that have no articulation
like that of a rancid stain
of ***** on a curved floor
that compares effects of sensitivity
to neurotic symbols
that rest uneasily on the walls
of hospital waiting rooms
a poetic syntax of sonorous symbolism
sensuously slashed
like a very, very sad crossword
I am high by the lakeside at sunrise
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC