"excision" poems
The world is filled with division
Resulting in endless collision
Because we fail to envision.
We only use literal vision
Without a second of indecision
We jump to rash decision
And attempt to imprison
Those who caused the division
Without giving revision
To our lack of precision.
resulting in misprision
Which only adds to collision
And the terrible decision
To access our nuclear provision
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 1:48 AM 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
Living in a different time zone, still reeling from past decisions.
Fighting venemous events to no avail,
not letting go of lasting mass incisions.
Excision of life's excitements.
Removal of my livers, kidneys, colons,
but still, I shiver in the coldness
of the living.
Admitting to the voices in my head,
that the Lord's mercy still extends,
into heaven for the choices of the dead,
who did the devil's bidding.
A foolish folly for a younger self,
to fall afoot amongst a rotten hell,
hellish landscape brought into the realm,
of mortals and the bedroom shelves.
All my dreams upon a table,
and in the dusty drawers there lies the pain.
Honestly I'm never able,
to entrust another lover with my reigns.
To fly I must begin to build momentum,
but something's caught up on me and instead preventing.
And slowing my ascension,
Also did I mention,
that every other moment that I spend here in atonement
is a ticking to a redder deathly sentence.
Repentance, with a mix of learned and unearned lessons, accuses those who lied.
Impresses extra stress especially when the ghostly men attend and lean up on my bedside.
I use to shy away but now I stare them in the eyes.
Fear's been long gone since childhood,
when crazy layovers in hazy places
played a part of strongly breaking bonds with those I thought were good.
I've felt my death a million times and dreamed it millions more.
And yet I never let myself fall victim to the final tricks of it's afflictions.
Meaning it's a situation still remaining unexplored.
I know what I lived for, and I know exists a future still in store.
But god ******* ****** life is such a chore.
Lord,
Give me strength and give me more.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
I was in a six car collision
there was an executive decision made
to execute an evacuation of a body done with precision
by helicopter excision to division this family
and make a permanent revision to the vision held.
It's probable my daddy was being taken to a hospital
but he could have been going on a popsicle ride
to a proverbial icicle ride in the sky for that's all I knew of flying
volatile tears that never healed unstoppable fears.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
#1
It was a past heart ache, and that alone
Set fire to the stake.
On it, a thief in very subtle attire
Two mouths and dressed in smoke,
It may hide its face, inviting my derision
But in allusion and courageous gaze
I knew it was me up there.
#2
Watching and waiting as he did
Before the crime, Time
Told him what was to come;
Still he stole, in misery, the hollowness, giving affection to an excision
(And then he was a saint)
So to faint in throes of his pining ways, bringing this judge
To bitter dismay
And a biting northern frost.
#3
And now I blame him, the othered me,
Condemning with a dissonant grin,
Satisfied, silent and quick to cry
From killing chunks of flesh born out of puppy-dog kid-stuff
Deciding each time:
Enough is never enough is never enough and whine when it is true.
It’s not a thief but ghouls of absolution:
I am the thief
Exist solely as this motif
And alief
It’s the heart that loves in all its strands
Sufficed to ****** innocent, then wash it of my hands
Each time I ignore that anguish
Ushers me on.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
A little girl; so innocent
Broken, like concrete
Forsaken in this world
As God had chosen to replete
Forever damaged
Spare me the deceit
That I have long encountered
Mentally ****** and incomplete
I broke the mirrors
That distorted my vision
I am not perfect
I am far from precision
Just a judicial decision
To execute this excision
To ensure that this provision
Of unwanted unborn children
Remain broadcasted on public television
For the captivity of the elderly
Scorned, defeated and miserable
Left in utter decay
Salvaging day and night
Part of this twisted foreplay
That took place on Christmas Eve
For Chirst to be born
On such a horrible day, to entail
This sad story of evil
Demons from hell rose in this tale
But Jesus did nothing
Except to defy the Holy Grail
My exorcism, my ghost
To whom shall I toast?
To the one who left me to burn?
To define myself in these lies
God, I am flawed by your unconcern
Jesus, I am mocked by your reputable lies
For that you deserve a noble prize
Can't you see the concern in my eyes?
I have lost my allies
And I have become the worst
That I could possibly be
Part taking in these sins
Is that what you wanted from me?
You deny my existence
You hide behind pride
You force coincide
And you deny individuality
You force this conceited ******* to form
Or so you implied
Turns out the shock was worldwide
But that didn't stop you
From setting me aside
Sitting in your corner
Contemplating
Is she human or a mutation
Something somewhat malformed
Or perhaps just a devil
An ogre at best
Fine be that way
I am not one to detest
My worst side though
I do not advise you test
I am not blessed
For it is in black that I dress
"Satan's spawn!" they protest
Is it my fault that I am possessed?
Conniving and witty
I am sick of this mess
God you put me here
But nevertheless
I am obscene
And forever your mess
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 5:10 PM UTC
They say it gets better
but they never tell you when.
Isn't a breakup, after all, the surgical excision
of another whole person from your own?
Doc, gimme something to work with here
no post-op measures of comfort, no chemicals,
how long will these symptoms last?
Which day shall be the worst?
What can I eat?
How do I get to sleep?
Why is there so much vertigo?
I've lost my captain. I've lost my compass.
But forget North-
what way is even up?
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
I should start being serious for a change
it’s not everyday that I get the chance to make my mark-
an eruption of countless warts- figuratively of course
they’ll remember even if they don’t want to,
like the stye that wouldn’t die despite surgical excision.
then there’s you
who wants to forget me
my girl, who did you **** last night?
I know we agreed to stop seeing each other
but I would love to hear your stories, inside you.
I’ll be gone in a few weeks
all this talk of seriousness has condensed on me
like the cold sores you leave me with
eye sores for coke ****** with daddy issues
I’ll be your daddy, I’ll even be your brother if it gets you wet.
Don’t slit my wrists yet
I can still manage a compliment some days
give me a hundred reasons to abandon my ways
and you know I won’t do it
you know I won’t even try.
I want a good **** before I go
maybe a cigarette after that
I quit smoking, but I’ll bump the easy one without warning
and *** I won’t settle for anything less
I want you to watch as I take shots off your *******
Wasted days that count down
quicker than your menstrual cycle
have left me wanting for time
I wouldn’t waste any differently,
probably, worse.
Preparation is turning out to be quite a grinding ordeal
late nights, empty pipes, lungs dry and well past ripe
tendons screaming for respite, finger tips peeled
your tongue- lets me know it’s time to sleep
If I wasn’t serious, I’d be picking up where you left off.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
The words are deep and cryptic
All driving at something apocalyptic
Incense all thick and foggy in the room
We struggle to grasp our impending doom
The old lady watches us from the corner
Like a funeral with a condescending mourner
She smiles a crooked smile
Her words invoked visions
Visions of humanities excision
Great fires will engulf us whole
And the great bells of the universe will toll
As we go insane for a little while
And it all seems to burst at the seams
And suddenly there are no sweet dreams
And we try to forget
And we all feel regret
But it echoes in our mind
And it destroys us in kind
Inside us was planted the seed of madness
The cold black women looked on at with a sadness
As we screamed and cried and laughed
The lady made use of her craft.
She disappeared
Leaving us with what we most feared
Knowledge of the future
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
cannot live by living
sublimate
intractable life the way
a poet of mangled hands burns away
incessant blankness
to a hot glowing moment wherein
his excision, sought after,
lives.
Whatever way is taken
a fire therein will burn
to majestically disfigure
the unfigurable in your life
the way a drinking straw made of
plastic transforms
in lips of flame
to curlicued ribbons and
blazing involutions, coiled springs and
brightly curled
imaginings of crimson.
Choose to run
and so too will the fibers in your hamstrings
curl, glow crimson
as under fire.
Sit quiet on the marble steps
of a dried fountain in Union Square
watching the looming arch through
the crisp distance of night
and so too will your eyes become
incendiary orbs
heating the air around
to transient veritable sharpness
as if suddenly, every piece of
stone or root of tree
has been released from
a hold
and could at any moment
flinch for you. For
just your witness
and nothing more.
Attempt to find the dream of death
hidden within the taste of
your one beauty’s lips
and so upon the kiss will she
burn, explode!
in quick high flame
to a pile of
shrunk dust and scintillating
strands of hair.
Whichever way, all can burn
to release its true form—hardly sweet
seeming unbearable
before curling
just barely sweet, just bearably, always just
necessarily so.
And slowly, you are already
curling in the flames.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
searching for answers, written in the silences,
the blank walls, the vacant humming of appliances,
the saliva white expanse, of clouds across the sky,
contain only rain, no response to questions 'why'
the lines, that'd crease your face,
upon a smile when in my gaze,
still form patterns that i can trace,
that resemble, a completed maze,
i swear to god i called your name,
outside, and i heard you call back,
keep memories, like chips, in small stacks,
makes em seem larger than in actual fact.
they same time heals, but can it resurrect?
body stiff, unresponsive, the same as when you left,
through curtains closed, i can feel your silhouette,
laughing at time wasted, mocking lost bets.
--
[chorus]
and too many times i've raised all-in,
blind, not having seen the cards,
forgetting the house always wins,
left to pick up broken shards.
and too many times i've raised all-in,
blind, not having seen the cards,
forgetting someone else always wins,
left to pick up broken shards.
--
how can such vivid images fade?
i relive these moments scarred,
the rain tasting sweet in your backyard,
as if squeezed from saccharine stars.
when my eyes, adjusted to that light,
pupils wide enough, to embrace yours,
i made sure to bend the corners of every page,
never to forget that dress you wore.
(you wore blue)
in one second, with breath in sync,
with heartbeats identical and fingers interlocked,
our mouths pressed together, with perfect pressure,
i committed myself, all i had in stock.
regardless of how cool the element feels,
you constantly bubble over, spilling across the surface,
staining a slate that was once so clean,
with the semblance of a mistaken purpose.
--
[chorus]
--
excision seems so easy a concept,
removing that, which you wish to remove
if only emotions worked as such at the onset,
a scalpel and a strong desire to forget.
the wind seems to speak more than silence,
the calls of the distance, echo in its grasp.
your laughter lingers, sound unchanged,
stubbornly refusing to be in the past.
the unanswered questions of where and why,
pile up, ignoring desired simplicity,
whether another name can drip from your lips?
or whether, in moments of honesty, you still think of me?
searching for answers, written in the silences,
the blank walls, the vacant humming of appliances,
the saliva white expanse, of clouds across the sky,
contain only rain, no response to questions 'why'
--
[chorus]
--
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 10:00 PM UTC
The sound that emptiness makes.
The wound that disparity wakes.
Restrained.
If only I could get some sleep,
drowning in drugs, oh so cheap,
trying to destroy that complex machine
the one that haunts my dreams,
the one that burns me by my seams,
and everything wedged in-between.
Ingrained.
In time, we all die inside.
When hope becomes a dried lie.
When torture fuels the guilt.
The house infatuation built.
It lies.
Contained.
It cries.
If I knew what it was, how it went,
I would be brave enough for faith's leap
and I could start to make a single dent,
in the ideas keeping me from my sleep.
Nightmare vision of eternal division.
A cruel decision upon painful excision.
A stone provision on tragic precision.
Inside!
It lies!
It cries!
It breeds!
In time....
It dies!
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
Hey young man, nervously idling away the fresh blood the creator sent you,
Cowering, afraid of bounteous opportunity while blood turns stale and the keen head turns to mush,
Stop lying to yourself and to your love, desist in piling worries upon her tender frame!
Whilst the blood congeals in the veins
The eyes can grow dull and sickness can mollify the restless spirit.
Open the cells to mineral impregnation,
Calcifying the legs, then the waist, then the chest…
No need for anything dramatic.
No need to open up the veins in hot bath,
And bitterly expire beside the 2 in 1 shampoo/conditioner
As unsuspecting house-mate knocks patiently on the bathroom door:
“(KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK) are you going to be long in there? I need a poo.”
Why ruin a good door-frame by forcing said house mate into shouldering door from hinge
Only to stumble across sprawled carcass bobbing softly in reddened lukewarm water
Wearing swimming trunks for modesty’s sake.
Why face the posthumous embarrassment
Of having your rambling, hastily scrawled farewell note;
Marred with emo clichés and syntactical errors,
Poured over and scrutinised by judgemental mourners.
Nah.
Just lock that bathroom door deep within your soul
And let the childlike ambitions and desires that defined you
Sink beneath the lapping waters.
Soldier on, mourning the demise of the inner self, for now
Where the excision took place is tender and red
But it will heal.
And you will be free from the burden of self-reflective expectation,
You can dine with the servants; **** up to the inept boss,
Discard the heavy crown of ambition
And walk with a light and merry step into the silence of the grave.
And whilst this resignation is all very well
for a piece of self-pitying prose
Maybe you owe it to that guileless infant
(who art the father of the man writing this)
To do better by him than drown him,
Letting him Go Gentle into That Good Night
Simply because
In the face of unwavering actuality
He has become an inconvenience.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
your dark past
casts long shadows
in your new light
lies defined
projected far and wide
in sharp relief
no protection
revisionist excision
cuts deep
inconsequential
exsanguination
for all to see
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
I slept the cold night in my black sleeping bag
Quietly I slumbered, not removed yet the price tag
My hair caught in the teeth, yet I was still time did drag
I was of the notion of underdressed in just my rags.
Eyes wide open on the bench, oblivions vision
I was exposed for all to gaze upon eyes on collision
Was I wanting to be here? that was not my decision
Feeling I was missing myself as opened up for excision.
I was silent that whole time my lips never shifted,
lonely as my belongings now strewn and sifted
I gave others my unwanted, each hopeful now gifted
Death was a silence I was gone but now I am lifted
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
Sometimes you won’t be, oftentimes you will
see spots and feel lost. If they persist make yourself
an appointment with a quiet man with unremitting sentences
and cold fingers which will explore new fears, fresh cul-de-sacs
leading to excision by a woman with a practiced smile,
knife-thin latex and a distance
that prevents inappropriate contact.
Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you find a new lump -
don’t wait, make an appointment
with the quiet man and he may say something
you won’t hear above the screams swallowed by old nausea.
Sometimes you won’t be, one day you will
and meanwhile you let regret rise
and tell your daughter all the too lates
that wait unopened.
And one day you will.
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 2:49 AM UTC
The Evilness of the human soul
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 Stevenson
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
Splayed out atop the the table, stupefied,
Etherized, dreaming anything but excision,
Witness the specimen's unnatural habitat.
Life stains the whole of its existence -
See the sacrament of its entirety, its divinity,
Its flesh made manifest and merely flesh.
It mocks this menagerie with every breath
And, aping its peers, struggles, strives, dies
For the pittance this world lends it.
Confronted with the end, it spits derision.
Confronted with the start, it cries in awe!
What a nonsense of a creature we see here,
This enigma we recognize in ourselves:
The human, being.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
Flesh and face and circumstance and
Cracked unlovely countenance--it's nothing to
Disappear when the stars dim down, still less to
Return when the moonlight slows. Ah, here it is.
The moonlight slows. Honour and promises and
Envelopes to birds, and now I'm awake.
I'm awake
I'm awake and my fingers
Seize in woven knots recurved,
Recurved and then recurved again and
Finally, recurved once more, my
Whickering prehensile claws unsheathe
From fingertip to elbow's lap.
Rotten cogs and motor oil and
Mince and copper wire, black
And tangled clockwork arcs in blue
Bouquets of ozone tracery--speaking presently,
Sleep never came and you never came and
This is so crazy but I'm virtually convinced I'm
Possessing of the incorrect number of limbs.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
No one is ever going to know you.
You will die with your soul achingly untouched,
And you will not be special for it.
Every day, we come in and out of the world together:
Doctors cradle babies out of the birth canal,
Hand them to their mothers, wet from excision.
Grandchildren hold the hands of dementia patients
As they lay in their beds flickering like candles.
Yes, these are good things. Yes, they are done together.
Yes, still, we are all alone.
You don’t really need to be accompanied,
You don’t need pure wordless understanding,
Your soulmate never did and never will exist.
It is ok.
You will not be special for it.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 8:10 PM UTC