"femurs" poems
Fat;
Bubbly lipids gathering and stacking in a fashioned order.
Fat;
It was not so "fashionista" when she gained and gained.
Skinny;
She was lost, had no where to run but to the pantry.
Skinny;
Bones showing, skin glimmering in the sunlight.
Fat;
Sticking to her bones as paper sticks to glue.
Fat;
Poking and Prodding at the blubbery material that sits upon her femurs.
Unhappy;
She will always be.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
Owl slept in the tree’s hollow
but the silly Grasshopper
on the branch outside
made incessant noise
‘Kind Sir,’ said Owl,
‘would you stop singing
and allow me to sleep?
I’m nocturnal
and sleep by day
and so I need some quiet now.’
Grasshopper
looked proud
and rubbed its hind femurs
against its fore-wings
and it said:
‘Ah, Sir Owl -
Eminent Naturalists have come
to record me make my most melodious songs
and they kept away, if you must know,
from your uncouth hooting!
So I will continue singing
and you may live in envy if you like.’
‘Oh it is most true,’
said Owl.
‘You sing most wonderfully
and I but screech.
But come in and I have
a potion
that the Goddess of Song
has just given me
that will soften my hooting
and bring your song to perfection.
You already sing like a sensation,
O Highly Sought-After Grasshopper –
you’ll be even more appreciated after….’
And straight Grasshopper
with a magnificent leap
jumped to Owl’s home;
and straight Owl ate the singing insect
and indeed Grasshopper
was even more appreciated after….
And it is whispered in the forests
Owl’s hooting improved
due to a certain potion
Owl had acquired
from the Goddess of Song
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
Schwinny, Baby,
You were supposed to be
my
Bicycle.
So I don't ask for anthing special.
No dark Harley divas
To whisk me off into the sunset.
But I thought we were at least
On the same road together.
So please.
Don't go droaning on how
Life got too complicated.
I mean,
You've got one flimsy gear.
And don't go moaning how
The road got too bumpy.
I mean,
You went blind bonzai batshit
over burnt black tar pavement.
You just
Let go.
Threw away your
Chain of reasoning
Faster than I could brace for impact.
So am I bleeding?
Yeah, I'm bleeding.
And the worst part is,
I still need you!
No, No, no.
Not like Pom Pom pammy
Needs her purple-plated pogo stick
Nor like Princess Paris
And her prissy pink prom queen limo,
No.
I mean I need I need you like
Alibaba needs his golden cherub camel,
Like Ben Hur his crimson-fury chariot.
Because work is 37. Blocks. Away.
And it starts in 16 minutes.
And the bus is really unreliable.
So we ride again,
Guts against the wind.
But now I've got all ten fingers and toes
Crossed,
Two by two,
And point in fact,
Racing down Guadalupe with
Forked Philanges
Gets really hairy.
But your suicidal tendancies simply scare me.
Your thirst to incur first degree burns,
Fractured femurs,
And flayed skin whittles my patience
To tire track thin!
Think I'll
Roll my dice with a Segway.
She'd be a quaint, play it safe kind of girl.
Type to show off
To a Mom and Dad
Reveling in rosemary jubilation.
Aw, son.
We knew you'd land a keeper. That's my boy.
But in ten days tops,
I'd begin to miss your fiery imbalanced breath.
I'd yearn for your bipolar 180 turns that
Make my heart skip that terrible, syncopated beat.
So let's just say,
I'll give it one more shot.
But ***** just promise you'll stick around a little longer.
It's storming outside and
We both got a few blocks to go.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
*there is a tourniquet on his tongue.
he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-
emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.
within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.
there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking
seamlessly.*
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
Shot in the head?
Shot
gun
In the passenger seat?
Shot 72 times...
through the windshield?
Shot of bad ****** >l--
Best friend shot?
Wife? Husband?
Brother or sister shot?
like Marley
or tupac?
Mom or dad?
Suicide shot ¿
SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!
too many and not enough
To drown.
A shot of grace
(
Shot-up Into the sky )
BIG-BANG-BACK-BOOM
shot from the living room
Exploding into fires. §
'''A million-billion bright stars'''
Too many fluorescent nights
And shiny cars
=π
° °
We need more
•••Blood-moon-shots•••
A wake-you-up call
Red sea midnights
And Icarus falls
|
|
|
|
Shoot us down
Collapsing legs ¥
And a broken crown
#Please crush these bones#
Shatter femurs
Splatter marrow
'
'''
'''*'''
'''
'
Crack Tuberosities
And break me
A crashing drone
\\
' \\ '
' ¿'
Before an invisible king
Sending me back
To his throne
Someday
You might answer me
So I pray
Don't you abandon me.
Shoot up shots
of saint brokenhearted brokenness
And see
What no-one else sees
A Sea
Of saltwater tears
Drown away
All our fears
Shoot me please
•
• •
•Blast aw • a • y •
All the fears
Dream of:
An infinite sway
Into the infinite place
I can be
A galaxy---or some other cool face
Of astronomical astronomy
Perhaps a nebulosity
A sign
Or constellation
Advertising
Across a blood-moon-sky
The end of time
COMING SOON!
| |
A hidden message...
I look to the east
--->
Your face from the sky
**Saying:
Hear you me?
Someday soon
You'll be
Here
With
Me ax.**
©Pax 2013
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 6:01 AM UTC
Vibrations reverberating from my front door to my mid-core,
your pupils focus and lock me down
in your heavenly pond,
shining, glistening.
Your iris like quicksand,
a non-fatal variety.
Leave the world and lead me,
to the underworld where we shall behold eachother,
none others.
Electricity shoots through my femurs to my toes, back out and down my crown.
I'm at peace,
locked tight in your gaze.
Never release me.
To speak of such a thing,
nonsensical,
so silly..
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
You gave me a red rose
To symbolize your love for me.
You gave me a black rose
To symbolize that you are leaving me.
You went onto someone else
And left me in the past.
So, I am angry and coming for your
Head.
You were not my first mistake,
But you will be my last.
Many people have done this to me.
Now they are skulls locked in my closet.
Their skeletons grew
Because of the roses that were tossed in.
Their skeletons kept
As a reminder to everyone.
And up their femurs
Came the vines.
Round their ankles
Slept tired time.
In their sockets
Napped with hate,
And in the ribcages
Snored the love.
And as I threw
More roses in,
I wondered if loving the bones
Was a sin.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
The land was a body. Aching bones of mountains limned with boreal forest
veined with iron.
Men dwelt on the body. Erecting altars, howling and dancing round fires
their patriarchal beards knotted and waving
Men killed on the body. Waving crude axes like ancient trailblazers of war
Would wave mammoth club-like femurs
Bodies slay different bodies so they may die somewhere on this body
That heaves with the rock
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
So this is Christmas
and what have you done?
John purrs the question
through tiny
crackling speakers
begging responsibility
from the irresponsible at best,
begging for peace
and a season of rest.
I lost a war, John;
I tripped on hope and arrogance
and earned forty six new badges
of valor;
I fell from the rafters of a fantasy bridge
to the cold reality beneath
and I broke bones--
ribs and femurs,
radii and hum'rouses.
I have met Marc Antonys and Brutuses,
Pagliachis and Heathcliffs,
and met them in myself.
I have sobbed into futons
ripe with nachos and socks
and I curled in another's arms
wishing they were yours.
I have loved and lost
and saw God in a graveyard;
come down from dopamine dreams
to black widows in my sheets.
I have tried and failed and given up,
found the one mistake
I'll always make
and the one perfume I'll always hate.
I lost a war
I never had the guts to fight.
So this is Christmas, John,
and I'm still a mess.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The strips of flesh and ribbons of guts.
All the residual chunks of the screamers;
All the bits of the ******** and *****
They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The memories of all that they said.
They crushed all the hopes of the dreamers,
So who cares that they ended up dead?
They flap in the breeze just like streamers:
The lingering shreds of remorse.
A legacy built atop skulls, ribs, and femurs;
A mission of evil I've come to enforce.
I, like mankind, have lost all control.
I now side with the sinners and schemers.
You ask of the tattered remains of my soul?
Why, they flap in the breeze just like streamers.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
---
dead upon dead
to the left and the right
no fire to warm us
no more spark
no more light
the even' has come
the desert dry night
the only thing living
is the burgeoning kite
the only ruler
is a king with no crown
the lowly court jester
wears a red mask'd frown
some courtiers have starv'd
some courtiers have drowned
but as for the people
there's no one around
pile upon pile
of mouldering bones
some make up spires
some make up thrones
femurs the mortar
skulls are the stones
some lattice triangles
some steepled in cones
if you're in this city
you're truly alone
a skeleton rides
on a decaying horse
it has no conscience
it has no remorse
it needs no permission
but uses no force
where is this city?
why it's
YOUR TOWN Of COURSE.
soulsurvivor
(c) 6/3/2015
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
chaotic impulses lead to irregular rhythm
your sun dances over head and
aching skeletons rattle their bones,
drinking bottomless cups of sand
swept up with the dry wind into their eyes
and garments that rot and rag about their femurs
as they smile dangerously and wink
chaotic impulses lead to irregular rhythm
a small brook turns into a fierce demon
sweeping eddies full of names into its depths
and the meek grizzlies paw at
the rotting bits of fish left on the shore
who gulp in deadly heaps of air
for their water-ridden lungs
chaotic impulses lead to irregular rhythm
leaving an abandoned shock of metal
as a refuge for the lonely
and frostbitten potatoes are the only accompaniment
to twenty five pounds of rice and a lean frame
hiding huddled in a mass of snow
lay all of the accused
chaotic impulses lead to irregular rhythm
as thick steel drives through flesh and boe
grinding rubber against gravel; metal against metal
and screeching high-siren pitches nonstop day and night
boring into your skull with the urgency and ceaselessness of a hungry wolf
who scares off the weak and the poor, the hungry and the searching;
who became
one
chaotic impulses lead to irregular rhythm
and those strange and lonely souls scared off by
the fierceness and emptiness of corporations and concrete artists
flee into the fierce emptiness of the wilds instead
sparing one hardship for the other
searching for a fullfilment not found in a box
and an empty space that can only be filled by invisible wings
chaotic impulses lead to irregular rhythm
a frantic dance in a great big monastery
the lunatic portrays a Zen within his twitch
to layer understanding beneath Zen beneath lunacy
with his mad fervor he becomes great
and understands real truth - in his own way -
and then dies
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
You make my bones stutter
Collarbones tripping
Femurs choking
A catch on each shifting syllable
A creak in my heart for every beat
Every vertebrae nervous
Even my knee caps stammer
You walk by slow and languid
Easy as the tide
My body as tight and jerky as a
Scared rabbit
Yours as lose and winsome as
Chimney smoke
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
What do I want now?
Desires come knocking,
door to door
vacuum-cleaner salesmen
pondering if I could
spend a dime of
my time deciding
whether or not to
allow my miles of
scroll and scripture to
get tangled together
with those of another
(again)
as I switch between playing
the role of the
consumer and the
mother
(again)
What do I want now?
Can I look to the stars
or consult the seeing cards?
I can't help but
sprint down the
slippery summer streets,
calling out the songs of
Renaissance bards when the
universe is singing our praises and
we're singing them back, oh
cut me some slack and
I'll cut you a track of
my latest attack on
society's lack of wanting to
wait and see what blooms in
the forest of discarded facts,
figures, and old slacks worn
by the dead while they
bury my head underground with
feet dangling in the air.
What do I want now?
Will the willpower to
state with a proud (and
preferably legs-spread-
shoulders-back-
neck-straight) stance that
just maybe I might be
better off with bug bites and
a bitter taste in my mouth when-
ever I see couples kissing than a
stinking fascination with the
feeling of fingertips on femurs and
eyelids fluttering in
metronome timed fervor.
What do I want now?
For lady luck to walk in
disguised as a molten lava
poltergeist with electric sides
pulling me in, my
north to her south,
to whisper, "Don't forget:
permission permanently granted to
project that voice and
protect that mouth."
What do I want now?
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Pleasantly i was presently an obese mote laughing in the chattering
orifice of this emerald ciTy amongst the hollow discharged oblong
fingers vomited of the silky concrete mounds dangerously apathetic
the fat grunt of youth grand and evilly blanketing the hard arteries speaking
slowly feet. about the whim of the hard towers skirting angelic ***** lilt
and milk there ******* of ****** mucous to drag masculine colours to their
heed. how drunk they were of lacy cotton fringes and damp skin collecting
dew drops hard lovely thighs flatulently billowing from their savage femurs
the cool common sky is generally heavy with gray makeup and tears softly
epic wails of wet teeth. they bite and nibble the brim of my umbrella. and moaning
******* capricious men proffer and spit elocutions electricly open hands
palming digital cracking whispering clouds of text. rapid eyelids turgid was grinning specifically at I "how about a light" "sorry I don't smoke"
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
i,m electric. its, the pisshard light
crapping ugly vowels off the bulbs
on the stree tonthestreet spitting webs
of iridescent ridiculous tubercular scarlet
folds of loose legs
akimbo receptive culling frilly cotton
nets
about their thighs. their thighs crying
white dark femurs
blasting hot
on my i's. on my eyes. on my
punch heavy brooding crumble
slashing the serious night air nightmare
night blaring
neon daughters
dna
in little flecks
some cordial bums; laugh ******** nonsense
birds. they're a bottle away. a bottle away
a oblivion. sip sip. drink your soul away
and rude the clean folks
passing on the asphalt rivers
veining in the cold hot bright darkness
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 12:52 PM UTC
she kneels in a fire place
******* off a midnight entity
of deformed shadows
and hinged erections
rickety tickety tin
sang clutching muffin
in Neolithic fires
caressing
tinker toy femurs *** deep
a dark heaven chants
**** ghosts and gorgons
while sea witches and dwindling waves
like goat steps
edge twilight princess
Zex depraved lord
and lick my lips
crucify her spread wide
coiling vacant maidens
yielding angel hemic tides
in rituals of **********
skinned on scarlet pavement
as she is dragged
on her knees
where moaning thighs perch
on nailed sticks
like white picket fences
and invisible doors burn
she communes with oracles of lust
that incinerate rafts of solitude
windows slam shut
like shuddering robes of thunder
and a headless god
pours her glistening tears
over his arterial bludgeon
resurrection of eros
in the Golgotha
of swarming incubi
she called to hell
i am prey
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
The stakes are higher than some of my
worst friends on herbal fire
because every time I toss a buck to
Luck,
that homeward bound ****
who sits outside my door
and whistles at golden ******
I lose even more
of my soul
from which I shovel the monetary coal
that stokes my furnace
and keeps me humble,
earnest,
and whole.
I want to let the ***** man in
so I can hear him confess his sin
and let him attempt to begin
a transformation
into a muse
that I can use
to write my information.
I wish I could write
of ice cube light
but all that comes to wish me good night
are the kisses of blurred sight
pecked by the fright
born of hesitant insight.
A kiss.
A kiss.
More so a bite.
Beggar,I beg of you
if you are true;
Whisper to my hands
the plans
you can have them to do.
Because I'm tired
of being a liar
who screams on soap mausoleums
and puts exhibits in false museums
of how his heart
goes into his art
but all he really adds is the ****
part of the flesh
stolen from the mouth of Descartes.
Were that Luck were behind
every inky tittle and line
I wouldn't have to waste all this time
trying to weave together this rhyme.
I want to be my muse.
For now, though,
she'll have to do.
V^V^V^V^V^V^V
She knows better than I.
She does, she does, she does.
She knows better than I.
And she,
my muse,
makes me want to die.
She does, she does, she does.
I give her my eye and
never
ever
does she return my sky-blue eye.
"You don't even want it!"
I cry.
I cry with my one eye.
Screaming and tears.
Screaming tears.
Tears scream, you know.
I like to put on little shows
with my lil' screamers
and charge love
and harlequin femurs.
Exchange for tickets.
Exchange for a show.
And I cry like a proper ringleader.
There's no business like show business.
There's no business I know.
A quality show
Would be my muse killing me slow.
Maybe with her poetry.
Maybe with her face.
Maybe with a knife
keeping sickly pace
with the beating
of the heart
of a headcase.
Or maybe with outer space
like rumors of second base
with black lace
cast off
with grace.
I want the world out of my headspace.
There's no room for her there.
She knows she can fit.
She does, she does, she does.
But I keep forgetting.
I do, I do, I do.
I hope she kills me slowly
before I do,
I do, I do.
I do.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
with fingers for lips
he slipped underneath
deboning human skin
strung up my ribs on the ceiling
under which we dangled
femurs and phalanges
on super strings
chiming 3-part harmonics
on black galactic wind
him, me, Everything
tender clinks silencing
floored motionless flesh
I was not bones, nor skin
but oms inciting orbital dance
spinning with him invisibly
with heartlids pinned back
pounding the key of eternity
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
the clavicle is my favorite bone
the clavicle is the greatest bone
turn off the tv // get off your phone
the clavicle is my favorite bone
femurs & fibulas // forget the rest
the clavicle is above your chest
the clavicle really is the best
the clavicle is my favorite bone
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
these caravan walls
crave flesh,
eat residents
and bury their femurs
in dandelions
growing up
from the front steps.
a boy
makes it past
the threshold,
but a man remembers
the blue eyes
and brown soil
where he planted
a garden.
some weeds
will never die,
and what he learned
of the world
is already wilting
in his glove-box.
most weeks
hope drives off
in semi-trucks,
leaving an americano
growing colder,
on counters
in cups
between hungry walls
made in the u.s.a.,
and ever blacker.
mzf
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
7 days for 1nce a month you're vermillion
taste like in the middle of copper thighs
2 lips magneticly parted
by 2 lips 1 tongue
and weeks a year you're like iron
and salt and copper reddish between
hunks of femurs pours a 12 times
dear, the crawling vapid sweet acidity
of 7 mouthfuls of queer drink surge
delightfully opaque crimson gallons of
you
r clefted
love h
eap
is
the best kind of drowned
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 4:08 AM UTC
it's in (behind (and flittering)) the palisade of your *******
and empire of crimson beats 10,000 times more magnificent
than any razor of dawn slashing nights enormous throat
the precious pumping of its chambers sweltering majestic pulses
and from the ***** of your love comes galloping your aromatic
flavors. a tongue of passionate lilies bubbling incandescent. and
the habitual crescent of your lips. it,s loved more astutely by no other
save this I. dithering about the delicious hillocks bounding from
your ivory femurs. a blossom in the courtyard of your hips. more caressed
than
. i
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 3:41 PM UTC
i'm warmly lost in the absence of that aspiring red light,
as your heartbeat is still a stabbing pain in the side of my gelatin femurs,
losing visions of the rigidity necessary to live this life of ambivalent autonomy.
--
steel strings and fibers of teeth eating this flesh like a false promise of love,
i am a windowsill covered by a nebulous, translucent shade,
clothespins existing simply to taper my eyes from the pain.
the stars take no mention of this cynical cycle of self-doubt,
for they're lighting our hearts long after they've burnt out.
and your hazel kitchen recipes are hanging over the paint-chipped railing,
giving meaning to this heart,
a blood-stained peach in constant mourning.
break this furtive glass,
there is no light pointing home,
directionless map
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC