"exhume" poems
have you ever believed
in something so blindly
so genuinely
that the moment you realize
it isn't true, something inside you
changes forever?
i wanna tell you a story, see
seldom do i ever
go swimming in drinks
deep enough to drown in
but when i do
i speak in tongues
about things that none
of my memories
are allowed to talk about
like that christmas
at the isthmus
where my girlfriend
plucked a conch shell
whiter than gods teeth
out of the sand
held it to her ear
and stopped time
that day she was a shade of blue
the could've made the ocean sick
see, she loved to play jokes
when she held
the sea shell to her ear
she gasped, called my name
and said "i want you to hear this"
i said "yeah, right, everybody knows it's just the same old sea"
she replied "no. not this one. this one is special. listen. theres music in this one"
she handed me the shell
like a promise she couldn't keep
and i held it to my ear
with all the potential
of seeing shore
after being stranded
at sea for years
only to hear
a tired dirge of silence
spill from its emptiness
i guess she didn't know
how desperately
i wanted to hear it too
because ever since
something inside me snapped
now sand pours out
of every post card i open
i hear seagulls
in telephone static
sometimes i have dreams
where i bury my hands
in every beach
i've ever been on
and exhume this graveyard of noise
every time i try to sleep
i spit up fishhooks
and i guess i'm obsessed
but maybe
if i hold my ear
to enough vacant things
then i could have back
the time stolen from me
since it happened
maybe they would get it
if they knew what i wanted
when i blow out birthday candles
maybe they'll find me
face down in a wishing well
i watch eternal sunshine
of the spotless mind every day
pretending i can forget too
because this sea sickness
has followed me for years
because yesterday
i walked into a music shop
and all the pianos broke
but the only thing
i can think to say is
*do you know how bad
a memory has to be
that you fantasize
about forgetting it?*
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
A hippodrome as smoke adjourn
those can wrap Havanas blunt
while Manila fish for sordino
they reek of harvest yet exhume Moro
then San Mateo shall not a maraschino bane
whether they've sought bastion in Italy then
once their hopes shall keep ships ahoy
and Sabatini sing San Marino here
that sandcastle star await his lover in
"The Sea Hawk" a fine costume whence sail
those Antilles with a conquistador as buttress
in this play they call Those Philippines alas meet
El Duarte in a duet with his song set aflame with
great sleeves in such kleptocracy worldwide again.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 8:35 AM UTC
Muse the Bobbie, Learned and Scrolling Mentor
For screening this Curtain to show our Task
Basic Words you exhume; Trust, a favour
Later allow us with some Sticks to bask
It takes much swallow to go back to School
And strip us bare with Her Majesty's Words
This how you Speak - With a Rod and a Fool
But then, who cares? Forgans are for the Birds
Now all it takes to supple your behalf
Modelled by the Mad Agent done and pleased
We empty our Fillers; and bid Avast!
Upon Graduation your Skills we take heed.
Thank you so much again, Mentor availed
Success is Reward; Laziness is Failed.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
.
•unchain me from unrest•
shovel me out of the dirt•
une- arth
my conge- sted chest•
let my secrets blurt•
let them
spill.....•
just for
the wor-
ld to see
•..string
me up...
..against
my will
•harvest
the fruits
of the bi-
tter tree•
let eyes
see what
will show
•...let feet
be caught
in stubbo-
rn mud...•
let prying minds be baffled.....by
what they would come to know
•...let wanting hearts choke...on
the dirges of my stale blood....•
now dig me up quickly•'cause
it's been far too long..... and i
have been readied•exhume
all of me completely•for
no longer should i
remain as........
buried•
.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
Loving and talking to you is like loving and talking to a blackhole—
useless!
Every breath is a hot mess of wasted gasses.
Every wail is a vain attempt to be heard.
You devour everything
and let go of nothing.
I’ve tried leaving it alone.
I’ve tried letting you go.
But this grudge of mine draws me in,
a will to exhume those white skeletons
in your black closet of a heart.
Pointless;
but I’m caught in your arms
that pull me in to the point of singularity.
I know you’ll rip and tear me to shreds
and then tear those shreds to dust
and dust to particles.
My ghost won’t even be able to escape.
. . . Stay away. . .
. . . Stay away. . .
Maybe someday I’ll watch the massive riptide turn
and become a warm star I wish longingly to orbit.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
she smells (nameless and shameless)
*a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters
the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:
she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,*
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
You had not joined me
My totem-journey to the wellspring of the Colorado
to seek the source of things uncontained
the stars washed over me with asphyxiation
the breathless gasp of space
--In the deserts;
Rocklands--
the emerald barrel cactus
is watered as the earth
and the passerby
Cheyenne
cut into the crust
to sip the wine-flesh
to be drunk
and exhume the inhibitions of living
Forbidden berries
in the garden of quills, spear thistles
trust upon the air to protect her children
a good, silent mother
does not refuse
the gift of deflowering
as she is stripped
of her sharpness
and laundered
bestowed in salted bison skin of a war-chief's pouch.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
Harbinger of light, I curled away
From chaste, un-daunting rays.
And cursed the sphere high in the sky
For showcasing my pain
You brought me terms and phrases
That withered on deaf ears
I longed to wrench them from my head
When ballads provoked tears
Your touch? It singed like acid
I yearned to shed this skin
Discard this haggard carapace;
Exhume the girl within.
Your gaze took me to pieces
And plucked a shattered shard
To hold before my wretched face;
Remind me what we are.
I’m stained with shadows where you’re light
And loud where you are soft.
I’m rough, disheveled and clumsy
My company’s high in cost.
I twist and draw away from you
I flee and weep and hide
Everything that makes you up,
Is who I am inside.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
A mansion reeking of mystery and ***
Unlike your parties, the brain is the hex
Who's got the most phantastic story
Stitch the real hunters with unreal quarries
By candlelight she writes in her mind
Death-obsessed, web-like bind
Study the corpse, exhume the dead
Fresher the better, revive the head
Harvest the organs, strike a chord
Of nerve tissue and spinal cords
Touch your jutting collar bone
Think there's no place like home
Electric frogs and pinwheel rats
What do you think about that
Run from the monster disfigured
It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger
Go worship all your seraphim
Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him
Where have you gone Prometheus
Were you our guest or just an atheist
Yeah, wonders come in clear handcuffs
You're only safe anonymous
Oh, it's dead and it's jiving in no man's hands
Oh, it's alive and it's lying in no man's land
Electric frogs and pinwheel rats
What do you think about that
Run from the monster disfigured
It's trying to hug you like a gun hugs a trigger
Go worship all your seraphim
Yeah, it's a freak, but you made him
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
I tried to tint my hair red to light this night
But it is dull and stringing out amidst my plant-stained fingers
I tried to dissolve away the lines upon my skin to glow with luminosity
But they are wedged deep and have left gouges of pin-pricks behind
I tried to exhume the dead and the dry from my face to better breathe
But instead it filmed over stinging and suffocates
I tried to forget you in order to be free of this
But I am not cleaned of you so easily.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
Exhume the bodies of your past lives,
Consume their essence for your nourishment.
Their knowledge, another state of mind,
Shall be reincarnated through you.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
You can identify your own flaws by scrutinizing strangers.
I watched a woman
from across a platform
at the subway station:
Straight, dishwater-blonde hair
glimmering in the subterranean fluorescence;
striking posture—
a dancer's figure—
and a thrifty ensemble that bespoke good taste
in spite of budgetary constrictions.
She pulled a circular compact from her purse
the way people in films exhume a pack of cigarettes.
Then, in deliberate fashion,
she removed a pill and swallowed it.
Birth control is like receiving a governor's pardon
in the process of planning a crime.
I resent her having that kind of indemnity.
I pass judgment on assumptions of character,
high on the blissful soapbox of bigotry.
As that pill crested the ridges of her teeth
and met the soft tissue of her tongue, then esophagus,
my mind conjured a phantasmagoria of lewd images
on the surrounding subway walls--
more a reflection of my character
than hers.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******** emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
scratched walls,
horrifying screams,
of dreams,
electric chair stupor,
in the boudoir,
breathing lunar air,
it’s a psychotic affair.
dilated pupil,
the brain was being a cupel,
men in white coats,
injecting drugs,
in bodies like slugs.
soaked bodies in bath tub,
gazing on the ceiling reading what’s written up.
loonies conspiring against the medic,
through the power of psychedelic.
eyeing each doctor from the corner of their eye,
sitting on their chairs high.
burning with desire,
cold as a wire.
the breakout began at noon,
headed by a loon.
followed by a goon,
in the end of june.
the loons,
wanted to escape to the desert dunes,
running away from the chemical fumes,
dodging exhume.
electrocuted,
injected,
infected,
discarded and rejected.
the loons had taken over,
the goons had won.
they were stun.
terrible turn of events,
it was all in their mind tents,
still sulking on the beds and their wheel chairs,
dreaming of the answers of their prayers.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
it's funny the things you forget
when asked for an 'interesting fact' --
you sleep on them for days
and exhume them from the ground
because they matter! so deeply!!
there's no metaphor that does them justice!!
it's poetry because it isn't!!!
i don't know my siblings.
my parents sleep in my dead grandad's bed
and i received his cupboards:
yeah, we're pretty much begging to be haunted.
let's be positive, it'd be nice to see him again.
thanks to reinforced childhood superstition,
i still pick up pennies from the ground
(yup, even with my germ phobia).
i used to write to the tooth fairy!
she warned me about gum disease.
her name was tiffy, but it turned out to
just be mum writing with her left hand.
as an internet-addicted hermit,
little me hated going abroad
since the only friends i felt i had were online.
there's thus a list of places to someday re-visit -
rotterdam is one.
i'd like to be somebody's muse.
if my life plan fails,
i want to work in a funeral parlour:
it feels as though i'd do it justice.
watching the same film more than once
just isn't something i do -- except grease --
exceptions can be made when it's on TV.
i mean, c'mon, it's grease.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
A stubborn heart is deadly. It has the ability to short circuit the brain, exhaust all the sanity in you, crush your spirits, exhume every bit of sanity from the deepest recesses of your body. It can wipe out dreams of fairy tale endings, change your views on life and love --- turning you into this most cynical person alive. You tend to expect more...to your utmost disappointment in the end.Nevertheless, it brings about an exhilarating kind of joy that makes your being come alive. It brings that ultimate enjoyment of loving without hesitating to give your all. Bottomline, it feels good. It feels **** good.Oh if only the latter would happen more often --- forever if possible. Wishful thinking, yes. In the meantime, I'll just nurse this stubborn heart. Might be all it takes to disarm that stubborn man in his own makeshift loveless world. - Feb 25, 2010...for a dear friend
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 5:24 PM UTC
I am damaged goods
A corruption of heart
Up from abyssal depths,
Down to desolate clouds.
The fragment lying between
I am not the incessant air,
A rage of non awakening.
Culmination of all fears.
No words do then, describe
me; I do not conform to rules.
Exception I am; ambiguous
A regular consonantal fool ?
Decreed to consume it all
I carry a ravenous thirst.
Unchecked; I grow fervor
A demon, I am accursed.
Where, then, do I find home
Where does my soul belong ?
Whom shall I call my tribe
Then; what do I, thus long ?
I am damaged goods, get ye'
I do not conform to codes.
I belong to the nether realm
Let me lie, in my .. abode.
Do not then, exhume me,
I have chosen to slither in. And,
Lie dormant in the underground.
Where exist I may, in quiet
Lie hidden away, from the
carnal realm, I want none of it.
A monster of my own making,
A necromancer of the Undead.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 2:54 PM UTC
#ክብረ ነገሥት
*Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic,
forgive us. The wicked wax demonic.
Golden vessels fill with foulness
man is bankrupt, sold and soulless
Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian.
Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.*
Tested with questions, her spirit once gone,
occultic suggestions postponed her dawn.
(Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold
paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold.
Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner
You think He intends to have Satan the winner?)
Her ruins now surveyed by satellite
beheld on the screens of the Canaanite:
canals to expose, southern deserts to cross,
Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss),
the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast,
treasures of darkness presented, now past
have us checking those texts that worldlings despise
as we wait under dread Luciferian skies.
Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll;
let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl !
(or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven
till ganja’s infinitude totals seven…)
Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib.
decode the encryption on Adam’s rib
unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine—
Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene!
Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty
(our Biblical transcendental duty).
The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it?
Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it.
from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready:
Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady.
For after explosions there’s mess to clean up,
and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
prepare for the high gates to fall.
for the great bowl of us
to submerge under stolen soul waves
& atomic guts.
the seven year tribes; or
fissure of statehoods and broods and brother against brother.
end drenched in whisky blood,
& desperado cheese.
fungus.
[the rebellion kids] with their drums and sling-shots,
get their throats cut in the open street sweet heat
& blitzkrieg.
all first-born hearts plucked
from atop the great pyramid, preserved, and in
frosted time-capsules.
yet the leopards remain healthy.
while cities plunge into putrefaction &/or
radioactive ****
from **** to corner to tomahawk
in skull death note.
beaten back to the parking-lot of a best western;
in the battle of sacramento;
is an ammo-less infantry drummer,
& a bleeding medic.
they laugh and snap morphine tips
in the revelry of their final formations.
moon crescent
slows and all the woods liven with flocks of small children.
they live on plant sugars, wild
mushroom and boiled water.
they hide in caves of ancient etch;
old time-gone man & woman & buffalo.
they hunt owls with homemade crossbows
& cook the meat on holy spits.
grinding the little bones
into tincture rubbed beneath their eyes.
this, to exhume an astral essence.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC
The Muted Commoner
You don't see them,
......Just past them......
Speak but unheard,
perforce, thus, muted,
against their will
blogs bread unread uneaten,
poem orphans better than us,
vine ripened unto death
Truly dare you say I/you the better?
Shamed heat, you spit,
outed, no penance offered,
non granted,
the forgivers are muted too
**so this be your charge,
so this be your salvation:**
free the mutes from the trance -
exhume, exhort find them
in the back pages, then
acknowledge that we are all
Muted Commoners.
find the poem unread,
revive it with a read, a heart,
and then you can speak your
Peace.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
What is a woman?
She is too much
.
Too much joy, like her heart is a bird which beats wildly against the cage of her chest,
(the cage Adam gave her, keeping her together)
Too much pain to contain alone, a tether
To the hands of those who might abuse her
.
Too unrestrained in love that it spills into the world freely, unknowing of the price
Too free in this jealous world, that seeks to condemn what it cannot consume,
Ex lovers, or demons she dare not exhume
.
Too much place in her skin, too much shine in each tress
Too much space in her limbs, so she must become less
So much beauty and life, to love and to touch
She knows what she wants, a little too much
.
Too tender to be broken, so she must become tough
And what is a man,
But not enough
Oct 27, 2022
Oct 27, 2022 at 1:28 AM UTC
The wood was beneath, warped
With age, as the worms crept
Falling into the gapping chasm
Of petrified air. Ingested upon
Shattered bone, was the ragged
Wanting beneath.
The stone was polished, kept
As if newly left. Never was
Their needing for never were
Clothes tattered, they dined
Upon pigeon heart and entails
Of pedigree cat.
The Woman, of both below and
Above, vested wording to the
Ever breaking of parched skin and
Bone.
Those of wood and worm, clawing
Ascending through dirt, what was
Left of flesh pealed upon roots and
Stone, now only ragged cloth and
***** bone.
Why must we of the earth suffer,
The indignity of dirt while those
Above treated differently, we are
the same are we not, death is
Universal rot.
Then those of marble spoke up,
You are not like us for we are of
Death but we are of flesh,
Parched but whole, we are of
The clean, while you are of
Earth festering and rot.
"Silence"
"Still your airless voices"
"Each has a valid point"
"But my children of decay let me explain"
My children of earth you exhume
Yourselves each day, this shows
Strength for the journey you take,
Hardening you resolve.
You are neither filth or below,
Your strength is what others
Should look up to, you are pure
Of the mortal coils of flesh you
Are flawless in death.
My children of stone, what can
Be said, you cling to life, but
That time has pasted, you
Linger upon flesh that is but
a moment from dust.
Time in earth has made your
Brothers and Sisters strong,
While yours are weakened
The weaknesses of above, my
Commands are simple their
Must never be two, death is
Singular we decay as one.
What was pasted, those of marble
Stripped of parched decadence,
They were now pure as those below.
Feast as others on that which crawls
Nourished by mother earth.
The woman of bone, wood and stone,
Was a fair keeper and the only
Marble that graced was that which
Named those who slept below,
They were pure of mortal coils
They where the dead of bone.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
Le malheur se cache derrière milles profils ténébreux,
Et attend que le match insignifiant de vermine,
Infirme mon idée tordue de l'être amoureux.
Le malheur séduit au lit par ses promesses d'ivresse sauvage,
Qu'attendez-vous pour m'écrire,
Et m'aplatir dans ma désolante dignité au passage?
Le malheur s'invite seul à mes soupers assourdissants de vide,
Et exhume les faux espoirs assommés
De mensonges médiocres; alors je me les imagine...
**** de moi, et moi, **** de leurs pensées,
Entre les espérances dupées et celles perforées d'épines,
Le malheur me couve, le malheur se rend légitime.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 3:56 PM UTC
Appended streams exhume the dreams that surface in conscious guide,
As photon beams augment the seams transmitters must abide.
The quantum strings of knotted ties,
Entangling's of worlds collide,
A vortex of spiraled rings,
In scattered sets convergent glide,
The convex spacial vacuuming's, synaptic points electrified,
A hex, insatiable, stochastically adjoins frequencies over-amplified, as complex oracle valuations weight choices to decide.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
Can you tell me where the light
will take you?
tunnel vision blocks the roads I've known
Careless wreckage stems in
all directions
breaking points exhume from seeds I've sewn
butterflies were born in
dreams that danced inside your eyes
your promises were flights of fancy
words that left me...
....paralyzed
If I knew how many nights would hold me
memories would all be cast from grace
Timeless wonder left from all
misfortune
wouldn't stoke the flame of love replaced
ecstasy was found in
fires forged inside our eyes
our promises were fevered frenzy
a wish that left us...
...hypnotized
But energy is flowing in me, harder,
I know the sun still sets in paradise
Dreams that haunt the dead will break the martyr
And regret will only leave me paralyzed.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:32 AM UTC