"excise" poems
a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get
if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess
lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
Dusk!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,
These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*
Fibrous wings furred like a moth,
Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.
Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,
Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.
Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.
No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.
Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;
Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.
Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;
Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.
They live in darkness, centipedes do too,
Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.
Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,
Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.
Wind turbines endanger bats,
Like fans endanger lightning bugs.
Only one percent of bats are vampiric,
Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.
Dawn!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
Investment Principles:
Staying the course,
your owned love
will not fail you
~~~~
Staying the course means going against your own emotions at times.
when weeping is easier than squaring the jaw, gritting teeth
Staying the course means thinking and acting for the long term even when it doesn’t feel right in the short-term.
*lost loving, when the other walks away, and being brave is
the only path, brace, and excise that stooped shoulder, stand straight!*
Staying the course means preparing not predicting.
*predict only that hope is eternal, perpetual and maybe, just,
around the corner*
Stay the course means doing nothing when that’s what your plan calls for.
~~~
steady the breathing,
ok, now! wipe the tears,
be resolved that once tasted,
love, is human, though inimitable,
and your sunrises will return inevitable
and the return on investment unbelievable
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 8:30 AM UTC
~~~
*a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart,
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy get, easy spent
if only,
how I wish,
could harvest my best,
and with golden cutlery,
excise
the single flawless poem
that I know is in my possess
lay down this hand, so weary,
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that when my casket lowered,
two hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best,
to ease the rest,
a papered poem record to join his whited ash,
his flawless poem,*
his very best
*now eternal,
at long last*
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
this is a poem about happiness.
this is also a poem about how great life is, see? here's a metaphor
comparing nature to the faultless
form of a pedastalized lover,
here's a description of the
effect of changes in air pressure
and localized temperature
fluctuations
on physical matter in a given area.
here's a bland truism that
anybody can relate to.
here's a couple rhyming stanzas
about the ethereal shifting of
connecting threads which
cause all life to dance upon
the cosmic stage like food poisoned marionettes.
here's an ode to the wrinkles of
my ******** and
the bits of fuzz that occasionally
find their home in my *****
here's a sonette to the drop outs
doing better than me
here's a dirge for the businessman
that hangs himself
and a jubilee for his widow
who earns nothing off his death
because he left his entire estate
to his catamite.
I'm writing a symphony in color,
notes of fermenting wood
dogshit and coffin dust.
the violas swoop and drone
the piccolos trill fast enough
to excise your gastrointestinal system
the barotone sax wheezes
and the timpani drum rumbles
(the flutes sit motionless because
**** flutes)
the pianists fingers are bleeding
hes banging with stumps now
his face contorted in ecstatic glee
as if the face of god has parted
the clouds just to scrape his gums
clean with his dietous ****
and lo faint is the whisper
which climbs and slithers
between the
false,
bash upon life with both hands.
here is life here is death
let me show your life
let me breathe your wretching
like squandered
like roots in the soil,
paint your everlasting cave drawing
in the face of your kitchen
and dance around a fire
let the embers lick your heels
til pagan viciousness overtakes
your quivering form.
gasp it in
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
if my pen were a surgeon's blade,
cutting edge,
razor-made
to excise secrets suppressed
in closets of guilt
or shame;
like the married bishop
with the mega-church and
tera-ego,
trading ****** fluids
with choir boys
in the 9th grade
on wednesdays,
after bible study...
like the senator
with two right feet
preaching chastity
while playing footsie
with perfect strangers
on public seat # 2...
like the donald's high-ranking apprentice
who pulled the plug on mc
as he slept
then wept like boehner
all the way
to morgan stanley and
dean witter,
allegedly...
like the mayor out west
with pinocchio's nose
and jefferson's zest
for extra-marital ***
lies
and belligerence...
like the late king
of pop
who so hated
his beautiful black skin,
he beached it white
then paid m. lester
of similar hue
a loot times two
to weave a blanket,
conceive a prince
and deliver a french city,
allegedly;
I would be a lyrical surgeon
with a passion
for incisive prose,
spilling truths hidden,
whole and half
with the cutting edge
of a poet's pen
~ P (#Pablo#ls)
(8/14/2013)
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
Left to surmise
My surprise
Bouquet of Roses
Love devise
Soul remise
Two single Roses
Your device
My demise
Dozen throned Roses
Your disguise
Heart excise
Petal felled Roses
Anger arise
Hate comprise
Black-tipped Roses
Left to surmise
My surprise
Bouquet of Roses
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 6:42 AM UTC
"This s.o.b. has got Tourette's.
Who knows what he might say? We'd better
Get him under before he rises.
Sterilize something fast!"
I'm awake for the time being. When sleep comes
I shall play the perfect display of my bacillus. Reposing
On the white table like a necrotic pieta. Off to my
Left I can hear those touchstones spinning in fine sockets,
Sterilizing my hands by binding my feet. Soon I will be
A paragon of grunting celluloid, clutched at by
Heated hearts to wrinkle and shear.
I can already taste the cleanser.
Rubber foam, steel clamp and tongue depressor.
Excise the black portions with a serrated life,
You might as well. Because it doesn't matter
How much morphine sits in the delirium drip.
I'm still alive: the crush and blink in Boris Karloff eyes.
When I gather up my self in the morning.
I will be instructed to take all Ten a day
And check in regularly. Despite the cold,
Despite the heat, the embryo has quite failed.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 10:34 AM UTC
Sunrise nearing its death,
the end of today
complementing the beauty of a pen stroke,
harsh scratching alleviating indelible ideas
showing selves in hues painting our last moments
allowing me to trace timelines
in the contoured caresses
of this silent instrument played
to blend melody with beginnings,
each progression scaling further along
the passing hours left settling
to minutes from now,
purpose elaborated in contrasting
blues and oranges and purples
composing the elegance of utility,
colors not enough to excise the excesses
of depicting days in dimensions,
of simplifying it to degrees of time.
Laying alongside this current
to shape clouds
and animate constellations,
my faux-corpse stares again into
the memory held in galaxies
only glimpsed at twilight.
Sharp cuts of consonants
and vowels' smoothed corners
try to rid me of
stream of conscious thinking loosed,
the inner struggle hoping for reprieve
from that constant combative nature
of inward disagreement
and dialectic digression
deflecting the question of
what if we'd only spoke
instead of being lost
to foreign type-faces designed by
some soul never to see
the dying day my way.
If only we'd spoke,
I would have had the chance
to stumble on a goodbye.
Rather we are left
to flourishes of unfamiliar weapons
sitting askew on these pages,
the balance shifted due to
us degrading to another's personality,
and writing out those lines
we couldn't come to say.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
These Nights with lights, Lightened from cigarette filled clouds to rainstorms.
We are drowning our Inhibition to exhibitions, of a shallow madness.
Within a matter of clearance
Of transverse sunrays:
We call this morning
A day past,
A night ruled with dreams.
Flooded with traffic afflicted
Souls searching beneath empty vessels of libations
Only to unearth realizations from lost sensations.
Vagabonds patrolling streets
apparently policing their worries,
from failed inquiries of maternally adopted creeds.
Divided vision escalated arrhythmic palpitation
Deviation from a gradual calm away from calamity
Expel, Exhort-Excise, the deep-veil
A rising dawn, polluted skies reflected in these eyes,
I stare at this street lamp, flickering at-us-all.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
earn me
entice me
ensure me
enlighten me
enlist me
entertain me
effectuate me
envelope me
entrap me
enthrall me
enrapture me
enslave me
edify me
elate me
evolve me
elicit me
expand me
entrust me
employ me
equalize me
envy me
excise me
exhaust me
extinguish me
erode me
erase me
evict me
estrange me
exhume me
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 6:43 AM UTC
sand sand sand sand sand sand
i think my mind is disintegrating
i might
**** myself
it probably began before i was born
in the beginning there was nothing
and the world was perfect
then i came into the world
and read lots of articles at university
because
i wanted a good grade
but the world began to fuzz at its edges
i’d drift back to the flat
and stare at all the objects in my room
unable to understand them
most of the time i hate myself
it’s one of the few emotions
i have left
i had this 4500 word assignment
but every time i went to type it up
my words came out, out of order
a string of unrecognisable
broken symbols
a mangled image of my own
stupid head
i came to the conclusion
i was
having a mental breakdown
the other month i
sat in the city mall
and
stared at all the passing people
in their most mundane moments
and thought
this is the rest of my life
this stupid, pointless repetition
i watched people rise on an escalator
faces fixed blankly on
the space in front of them
as if they weren’t there at all
i watched seagulls poke at one another
and squawk into the ground
and thought
there is more life in them
than us
i didn’t want to be a **** up again
i would try to read over
what’d i’d written
for hours on end
until i was shaking, on the edge of tears
unable to understand why this was happening to me
i’d lie in bed
and think about the infinite worthless stretch of my life
feeling only an untraceable anxiety
deep in the pit of
my flesh
for the longest time
i thought all this anxiety and fear
came from without
that if i learned about existence enough
i could
excise all the bad parts out
but something in my head broke
something i couldn’t
control
maybe some part of me wanted this to happen
so i’d have a reason
to die.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
easily,
with an optimism misguided,
that both volume and quality
of what lay within was
infinite,
a beaker that could never
be drained, nor overflow,
brimming and believed,
in the always
of a
next poem!
know better,
known worse,
and the only poems that are birthed,
all flawed, lesser,
the curse of worse,
time wrenching
the best words away,
alas!
spend, spent, sent…
it was writ as a hope,
now, a false prophecy
and woe
misbegotten
<>>
Jan. 13, 2014
a flawless poem
*if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get*
*if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess*
*lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,*
his flawless poem,
at long last
Jan 14, 2024
Jan 14, 2024 at 9:55 AM UTC
<>>
Jan. 13, 2014
<>
*a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get
if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know is in my possess
lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that when my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his dust
with ash,
his flawless poem,*
at longest last
Apr 23, 2024
Apr 23, 2024 at 7:54 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
They call me Jack! A Jack the Lad
a man who likes to go out late.
I must confess that I'm a cad
and often seen in Aldegate.
Whitechapel and Spittlefield
are other locations I frequent.
Tis where I often draw my yield
and nay for that I'll not lament.
Inspired by my ill repute,
repugnant chanting of my name,
I'll seek and find a **********
commencing to secure my fame.
Reference books cannot advise
what two skilled hands can show.
Exacting cuts when I excise,
instructing where my blade doth flow.
My first, Miss Nichols, I recall,
whom blinded by the lure of coin,
into my clutches she did fall
and she, I did indeed refine.
Chapman then I did impress
with incision so demanding.
Nothing taken to excess
an ***** now made outstanding.
Stride and Eddowes in one night
but fortune demanded I should race.
Though well presented to the light,
embarrassment is my disgrace.
My final lady played the game,
Miss Kelly whom at my insistence.
She alone recoiled my fame,
my very own Piece de Resistance.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
what can i do when there are hands
hands all over my body that
are disembodied reminders of that
night
when kristallnacht fingers slashed my
tender soul to childhood ribbons
penetrated me in my flowering womanhood
and stamped my forehead with
that bloodstained W
and you still see me as that
*****
that infant abandoned
at the red brick fire station
safe haven laws
but i didn't even go to a hospital
when sanguine shame
seeped from my cursed hole
that secret between my legs
and i wished they'd unraveled my entrails
disemboweled me rather than
stabbing me with their flesh
samurai swords of virility and
i wish they'd killed me like
a stuck pig and maybe
placed an apple in my mouth
to silence me instead of
asphyxiating with their hands
that i now can't escape
their sensational escapades
across the plains of this body
that i am forced to
inhabit and traverse the
Serengeti wasteland where i
beg for predators to once more make
me feel like i have no control
and maybe **** me in the end
because those hands
when they first touched me
i would have hacked them off
with a butter knife
some dull rusted blade
but they disengage already
they follow me as if
superglued to the hole which
for them was the complete
embodiment of myself
just a cavernous nothingness for them to inhabit
with their manhood
shooting pain to complete my
empty soul
and fill it with seething shame
and a layer of dirt to
close me up and
forever taint the white sheets
with blood stains absent
and are you still a ****** if
they took you by force and
you never wanted it but
didn't fight back
they are inside me
forever
and they wake me in the
dark of midnight whisperings
they wake me when
you turn over in your slumber
to wrap me in your arms and
you are greeted by shoves
and tears
when will i not whimper
because you aren't them but
those hands
in the darkness
i can't tell the difference between
those hands
and my own
and yours
and i want to be ripped apart
torn open and laid bare
excise them from my secret place
from that place in my brain
from which my nightmares seep
and those hands
hold me down to relive their
searching violation
in bold technicolor revelations
that i'll always be that girl
the drunk *****
the dumb *****
the ***** who deserves to
relive that night to no relief
world without end
you must see a dumb *****
you must see the marks of
their handprints
all over my body
you must be disgusted
but i'll take your *****
and consume it in your absence
just to be closer to you than
those hands.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
Y’all ever had a bad date?
Man, that’s some ****
Y’all ever fall in love on a bad date?
Man, that is some ****
Y’all ever fall back out of love?
Ever watch it as it leaves her
eyes? Falling out through fumbling
lies ‘til you realize that deep
down, she never loved you to
begin with.
Ever sit across the table while
she struggles to find the words
to destroy you? And just to
save her from that struggle,
give her the words to excise your
heart? The only words you had
left. And then you watch her
march away victorious, handbag
in one hand and your heart in the
other.
Ever give yourself so completely
that she contains you? That
when she walks away, she hasn’t
left anybody? They say one is
the loneliest number, but sometimes
2-1 is zero. So I sit
here, a body without a soul,
a crying shell of what used to
be a person. And I ask myself,
Who Am I?
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Oh! a cry so plain it
Scarcely leaves our lips.
We begin plotting lines
To sad refrain. Excise
All rights to light and life,
Still,
Quietly laying bare our
Failed plans, our lost paths;
Our mortal enemy, our
Only friend. She who
Dances outside the realm
Of our gaze, who plays
Silent melodies on broken
Keys, songs we know but are
Disallowed to sing.
She cares not
For lament or plea, she
Who fuels our fire;
She, misery.
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 4:20 PM UTC
why is there trash in the Whitehouse
this question
the American people ponder
Obama garbage is polluting the residence
and yet he can't be removed
there must be a cleaning contractor
somewhere in the Congress or Senate
who has the wear with all
with a thorough broom
to excise the filth
that is inhabiting the place
action is needed on the clean up front
to rid the Whitehouse
of this most ugly affront
if he stays around
too much longer
Pennsylvania Avenue
will stink
worse
than a pellet of dog pooh
the American people
deserve a fresh smell
in the Whitehouse
the delightful bouquet
of a Republican resident
will make for a nicely perfumed incumbent
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
Excuse me while I insert
This logical probe through the frontal lobe
Of my emotional epicenter
This is a latency test....
Ratings of my muse
Are falling like waistlines at the mall
From the best of rhymes
Tacitly turned on wheels of subtlety,
To the jest of all time,
A lyrical mockumentary,
Starring Miss Pellings
And her first cousin Cliche
Excuse me while I excise
The phobias, limits and lies
Polluting my paradigm of choice,
Diluting the core of my creativity,
Muting the "i" in my voice
This latency test is now complete...
Welcome to my new Literary Bar
Raised beyond the average line;
The stars of our poetic destiny await....
~ P
(#latencytest)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
I understand why they talk about a fine line.
It hurts my heart to look at you,
A physical pain
Manifesting in palpitations.
The western way to deal with pain
is to excise what hurts, what has malfunctioned,
What has gone bad within us.
In order to excise you,
I must force myself to hate you.
The alternative damages me.
I have to cut you out.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:02 AM UTC
so it is.
the things you love, you worship,
quiet-like burn you,
returning your favor
with fever.
was innocent, naive.
didn't know the sun could
blister hearts,
you babe,
were my sun,
centric universed.
your hurt,
gift packaged,
disguised as warmth,
went
way way past dumbfounded
surficial flesh.
doc pronounces.
time will heal you,
begging for magic pills
shamelessly.
surgery, I need surgery,
blood transfusion,
excise this poison,
**** it out.
nope, dope,
use your pretty words,
like aloe,
to salve and soothe,
stay away from the
sun of love.
from each poisoning,
traces accumulates,
blisters burst,
love becomes
untreatable, untenable
the danger is not realizing
that in eight minutes,
she, sun goddess,
can travel 93 million light year miles,
leaving you gasping,
eight plodding human years later.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
the perfect poem A flawless poem
eats its siblings
did not know this. a flawless poem
chose to disbelieve. if such there were,
will always be
overconfident. the next one
three years back,
wrote a piece, my poor soul,
called it "flawless," my rag tag heart,
sensing, knowing, has no censor,
that was an, so careless,reckless,
unobtainable condition. as if words were but
frivolous treasures
loved it so, easy spent, easy get
pinned to my chest,
funny, loved me back, if only, how I wish
if ever such thing could harvest my best
could ever be. with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
sumbitch. I know in my possess
knew it but didn't. lay down this hand
so weary
accept there was, from cupping tears,
any itch that couldn't be satisfied at king last
be scratched so much so
into oblivion. that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned
three years back, clutching his best
on top of the world, easing his rest,
chose not to believe a paper record
that life is cyclical, to join his ash,
and i would always. his flawless poem,
have in my posses, at long last
more and more.
perfect poems. 11/13/14
now my poems,
flawed.
like me.
4/8/16
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
stem cell words
from the cellular wall of the
poem birth canal
narrows, twists,
even double helix's,
doc-prof diagnosis
with perfect, absolute uncertainty,
denotes the presence of
stem cell words
*"all your writes,
gestating make-believe,
word smythe
premium cocktail concoctions,
gospel soul post-viewed
rocked and roiled
still and always,
unflinchingly personal
singing and simulcast
the unique
internal combustion,
that removes the pollution,
of your
unflinchingly personal..."*
mother necessity
delivery of a
Caesarian cut-them-out
says me
cut, excise them,
take them,
them newborn-baby stones
give them
a good home,
my DNA upon them,
my only Jacob blessing,
that they get
goodly tented taken
let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever they
write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
they will be,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name....
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC