"fissuring" poems
Nerves fulminate, fissuring skin
As bones crackle, to weary tear,
Volcanic face, pooling hot tears,
Gaia weeps, her world despairs,
All of land's flora, and all of seas,
Erupt, displeasure at man's villainy.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
It's a wet gray cloudy traveling day
These are the days that I fear,
these are the days that I live for.
Because the fear can't last, the planes
don't crash, & the clouds are pure up top.
It's a wet gray cloudy traveling day.
These are the days that I pray.
It's the neatest writing I've ever done,
it's the neatest end that we've come from.
And the skies keep fissuring.
The world keeps turning, skies
don't keep on burning, 'cept at the 838 mile-per-hour
my mind goes to freeze the sun in my eyes.
It blinds.
It's a wet gray cloudy traveling day.
These are the days that I pray.
It's the neatest writing I've ever done,
it's the neatest end that we've come from.
And the skies keep feeling fractal.
These are the days that I pray.
When the streetlights don't go out &
the skies change gray, I beg.
Because weather like this is for change.
When rain & sky never have a say
everything is here on the ground, I say!
It's a wet gray cloudy traveling day.
These are the days that I pray.
It's the neatest writing I've ever done,
it's the neatest end that we've come from.
And the skies keep flashing flat.
It's the neatest writing I've ever done.
It's the neatest end that we've come from.
The light stays simple, the lives end late,
but the clouds don't have a say.
Because they're the days I fear to move
& do & be. Be neat.
It's a wet gray cloudy traveling day.
These are the days that I pray.
It's the neatest writing I've ever done,
it's the neatest end that we've come from.
And the skies keep feeling frail.
It's a wet gray cloudy traveling day.
These are the days that I pray.
It's the neatest writing I've ever done,
it's the neatest end that we've come from.
But the skies keep turning.
But the skies keep turning.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
Is the lawn, which scrapes the horizon
And the hose waters where it may
Fissuring long the earth where morning glory rises
To strangle the gutters and ravage the fences
Alone there is a woman in the doorway
With blue eyes long since grayed
Her fairness speckled with brutish black and blue
For her husband is drunk
And when he is he does what he pleases
She screams, “You have no right”
He replies, “That my dear is why I strike with my left”
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:17 AM UTC
Learn to walk with cotton savants
Or lend them all that moonstruck leer
It's love-
fissuring,
surging,
-blotting the lions and olive-skinned tiers.
it doesn't need the faintest trace of us.
and we couldn't be more lucky.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
Some blows dealt deathly, from Life,
Those deep stabs, painful, thanks to Love!,
The cruel hardening strokes, of a stoic Time,
And the cold, corroding airs of a world unkind,
Thus is a molten lava flowing, of my Humanity,
To a rock hardest turned, in a death solid!
Yet is there something, fluttering at the Core,
An embryo pulsating, fissuring out totally blind,
Of a sadness moist, joys unshed, cracking the Shell,
Hellbent so on living, Giving, against odds all driven!
Now I Am a wonder rock,growing a pink flower pretty!
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:22 AM UTC
Yellow
fissuring undulations
breaking through
inky navy-
street lights casting reflections on
the lake out the window.
Flecks of neon
marking locations
where the party is still raging,
where people are still
chasing the world of delirium
and ***
breaking over distant trees.
This is the place where America's
rich come to die
after a lifetime
of toil
chasing the American dream.
And I suppose that means the American dream
is here in Florida,
where sweat never dries
and mosquitoes never sleep,
where retired bankers
and ******* dealers
can finally get their slice of the pie-
separated from the suburbs by twelve foot tall hedges
and automatic gates.
The young don't care here-
they're too preoccupied
with The Chase
and neither do the Old-
because they're tired out
from a lifetime of being young.
This is the place
where America comes
to roll over
and spend its final hours
alone,
bitter,
and wealthy,
taking naps in the sun-
having more than earned
a little rest.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
the ultimate graciousness that is of you. Back from California, my witching ground, the place I still eschew from the pyre- you came back to me. And even as we spoke during your adventures, and even though I read of your exploration. The last day of your trip I could just tell how something was hurting you, how had you let this state inundate you with its adulterous poppies.
And after you arrived, the kisses and the kissing, the touching, and your cheek to mine, we caught the truth staring each other in the eyes. And you lost it. Eyes swollen, lips trembling, so I layed with you, touching your hands, your face, I combed my fingers through your hair, until we both could take a breath.
You told me everything. A boy you thought you would never meet, a kiss you thought you would never draw. I became so sad I could barely lapse a sentence from my mouth, as I watched you get sniffly and sadder. Black eye liner pouring down into my pillow. But there was no blame, shame, or guilt that you should have. We all have our libations. You and I both are perfectly imperfect, and so human that we have the liability of spotting enamoring, harmonic beauty in the souls of others. I just begged you to stop scorning yourself. You looked at me to scold or scorn you, ask you to leave or retreat, but I couldn't even break a whisper. You told me how such feelings still lasted, and how much mirth you received from touching tongues with this someone else I didn't know.
You are only guilty of being in love with me, kissing me on my hands, arms, lips, face, and legs. I insisted that we resolve this tonight so we don't ruin the today we have by dwelling on the past. You assured me that you wouldn't be moving permanently to California, I just kept insisting that you remain honest- and you were completely open every step of the way. I explained how I have committed similar acts and imbibed on prurient journeys of my own, offering to share, compare, and clear up the past by accepting our youths for what our youths are for.
I am the best version of me I can be, and there is no competition, should you wish to dance in the other room and tack down what we loved so immensely in each other, and then came downward-facing-dog, we were both only in underwear. It was that we couldn't say anything else with our mouths or our pens. You were never pretend for me.
The air is falling like a serpent fissuring on the cusp of a sneeze and blast of fire. We are the greatest and worst of ourselves.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
You're breaking this brittle heart of mine.
At the same time that it's hardening over.
I can see all these people clawing at my skin, wanting me to be okay.
All I can feel though is you, pummeling at my chest.
I'm just lying here and taking it, just like always.
I'm unable to push you away, completely.
I'm unable to allow you in, completely.
Cracking under the pressure, I'm fissuring into two people.
One that'll be okay, one that'll appease those begging me to.
But the other is gone, torn apart by your greed, your sadism, your hatred, and your confusion.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 11:22 AM UTC
Such fury with which our inner oceans are churned
By myriad lives unspent in the illusory realms of duty
Ancient whispers under fissuring heathen altars deafened
With one blurred arm in the locusts' swarm
We shudder to bury the Old Gods
Their reticence echoing volumes into this new Armageddon
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
Your vision is a trick, most knowledge is the mystery.
If ignorance is bliss, don't follow the epiphanies.
Blithering and ****** so hollow in the misery.
Apollo is positioning, & he's whispering this;
"I'm hollow and I'm fissuring."
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC
4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
The Headstone, worn out and fissuring at the edges, stands alone;
Etched deep into the charred rock was a name; one which is now gone.
I glance at the bloodstone, and wonder if they did atone;
Or did they stand stalwart in the mist, and fail to move on?
Did they suffer in silence as the fire cleansed the earth,
Of their meaningless existence? In the end, however, hard they tried,
They indeed did not matter; with no chance of a rebirth
The scorched corpse hovers above ground, yelling
“You are just a grain in the sands of time!
Just like me, desire and fulfillment will pass you by
As the colour which you were born with, leaves your eyes
So your prime shapes itself easily
Into the Fallen remnants of mine.”
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 3:15 PM UTC
4:11:11- 12:38p.m. Writing yourself around. Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs. Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it. Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns. You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered. The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment. or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses. Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon. Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its. So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC
so here i am, walking away from cadillacs and city lights, as if skipping through soundtracks and photographs. above, the clouds have worn their black veils and the rain, it has started mourning each car i pass by, each block, each step taken. it mourns all the sorrows i cannot poke, all the letters i cannot write, all the words i cannot say.
the rain, it mourns all those summer days of pure bliss, with the sunlight peacefully fissuring through the trees. oh how we kissed, all soiled jeans and grass on sundresses. sweaty palms, hands on thighs, all yours prayers left on my neck. the cigarettes and dogwoods forgotten on our periphery.
i love you, i love you, i love you. you were the first, the last, the always.
and yet, how did we ever become that sweet summer’s downfall? the cigarettes are now ashed under all these spent lights and faint sunset colors. these mint breaths and sun-warmed kisses, now just bruises on my lips — now just memories slowly flaking off my skin.
and i used to love you. stupid, stupid girl.
now the rain has washed all those fields and the sins they’d seen. it has washed my skin of the lingering cigarette smoke, of your kisses, of your touch, and i’m not sure if i ever wanna forget. but even the rain’s heartbreak leaves behind the serenity of the last raindrops. lush grasses. damp streets. that distinct, morning breeze. that subtle scent of petrichor. that quiet settling of the calm.
maybe that’s all i need to know.
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 6:40 AM UTC