"flaying" poems
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the colour of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the god that made him for the colour of his hair.
5.2k
Today is the day I determine how I plan to die:
I will lay in a field,
With flowers in my hair
And gold coins on my eyes.
He will stand over my corpse,
his hands flaying helplessly
to save my naked soul
(but he cannot breathe
Life into a body's that is
Already cold.)
I want children to pick out my teeth and
Then plant them in their backyards;
So when the luscious fruit
Is picked by their tender hands
Tears can fall for their dead muse
(making my insides taste even better)
They shall be blessed
With the gift of metaphors
And they shall be hated.
The ground shall attack them
As they speak of "anti-love"
Their feet will grow weary of
Constant thorns
And heavy thoughts
(They'll give up.)
My legacy will survive in
His hands.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
The needle-tip,
a bee sting
giving rise to a hive.
A sickening delirium
coursing mercurial under eyelids,
tapeworms and tendrils
weaving wildly:
teeming, churning tides breaking over
greedy teeth (a needy mouth
flaying flesh ferociously,
a fevered wolverine
whipping through a petting zoo).
Each agonizing second
slowly sliding by,
tacky molasses on cloth
covering a table in an innocuous
American home
bruises on mother's face
fade (eggplant to jaundice
to the crimson of the setting sun
dying behind the horizon
line {chopped across a counter-top
like a broken promise...}).
All the lives we compromise
trying to cage a swarm.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
I ask how she's been,
like a villain,
she says she can smile,
without me and for a while,
I'll believe,
but I'm running too,
to a place that is new,
where I can serenade girls that dont know what I say,
with poems of beauty and they will stay,
smiling and I'll kiss them,
she knows what I am saying,
but ignores the flaying,
of my muse and myself,
I guess it is for my own health,
I tell her that she is a badass,
along with all that I loved when a lass,
but she is my past,
and I am running to my future
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the color of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the color that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable color of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the color of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labor in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the color of his hair.
2.8k
The open way is coming
Try to tie
Your love with your family
Call your parents
Ask in truly
Phone your sons
Greeting your daughters
Make a beautiful kiss
Flaying over clouds
Chattering the fear
Improving our tie
That is a way
In addition to obey
Our Gods who can forgive
The faults and can give
Happiness clouds that will save
Our plants of life
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 3:42 PM UTC
Staccato's of clasping chains.. feverishly flaying your wrists...
As a rabid dog chewing off its own limbs to crawl away.
You hide in my shadow.. The only place where they cannot get you...
While your children burn...
A sour scent of ***** floods richly within these forsaken walls...
A tranquilizing melody of ****** gargling
I will mutilate the memory...
I will stain the status you built...
I will pluck your fruit and devour it with voracious appetite
Gnawing your rotting tongue bit by bit...
i drink sepsis that drips from the shank of your thighs..
My hunger everlasting...
Ravenously, depraved, my claws rend and maim your angelic wings...
A carpet of feathers gusts at your final gasp....
A cold lick on your eyeballs...
We drag you into our grave...
Rats...
Swarms of rats...
And i wear a crown baptized and blessed of your blood....
Adorned with warm and beating entrails of the defeated and the devoured...
Bricked in walls....
I can still hear you clawing during the most sleepless of sleeps...
And taste your rotting tongue...
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Leather
Soft Supple
Skinning Flaying Dipping
A luxury death
Skin
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Lanky,cranky,old and stiff and full of modern aches and pains which always seem to rain on me,
I wake to face a Wednesday which some would say's a bonus play for one armed bandits,I would say,
'Life wasn't meant to be like this,how I miss the salad days, when tossed in oil and mayonnaise,my joints were free,my bones were lean and green.
I have seen graffiti,written on the wall which mocks me,locks me,spray can flaying,prayers slashed across the stones
and my bones creak,wreak havoc with my stature.
It's natural,
or so I'm told
to ache somewhat when one gets old
I hold on to the thought that I still might
once more trip lightly, be more sprightly
instead of being so tightly wound
with legs bound up,
they're so unsightly,unseemly or so it seems to me
I do hope that it's salad for tea.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
(HORROR & FANTASY FICTION)
On a dark, damp night beside a country campfire,
tales of The Timberman are shared near the mire,
of Sadie's Swamp, where not so long ago,
The Timberman came and the death toll rose.
No one knows from whence The Timberman came,
but that it was on an October night in the rain,
with hate in his heart and a love of fear,
a taste for fresh flesh and a thirst for tears.
He comes brandishing an axe of the sharpest steel,
fells trees in his wake whilst seeking out his meals;
then stalking his way through the brush without stopping,
he seeks out his victims for his fatal chopping.
The Timberman's axe would arise and then fall,
shattering bone, splashing blood, flaying flesh and all,
hacking and striking to the shriek of their screams,
reveling in the flow of their blood-gore in streams.
Then, alas! -before the chase would begin,
there'd be nary a sound nor sight of him,
just the ****** remains of his brutal hunt:
hacked human bodies and scarred tree trunks.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
she sat quietly in a cafe
pale
freckled with only one arm
and a missing foot
always shaking invisibly
deformed
from the curse of desolation
facing downwards
she read the couplet
"her maiden voyage was a lonely one
and it lasted all the days of her life"
she wept silent tears
through interminable silent days
and starless nights
fearing her resemblance
to that ode of the forsaken
her countenance
a broken heart
i've come for you
i murmured
i'm a busted doll she said
see my pretty stumps
wheelchair
crutch
do you like them
strangely yes ...so very much
i wept softly
no one wants me
she whispered
i'm a blight of horror
a castaway to be avoided
my life a nightmare
of dark estrangement
a walking wound in tears
a torn doll
to crooked to be loved
looking into the depths of her soul
i called
i've always wanted a lopsided girl
with flaying stumps
and a brooding heart
to save
to love
to heal
to cuddle
and adore
to cry over
with wild warping hugs
always aching
for my darling
little *******
we kissed
wet mouthing clamors
lips and tongue
like oleo spread
i picked her up
and tangled her in my arms
as she thawed like heated oil
i ran off with her
tears streaming
and visited upon her
every kindness and pleasure of heaven
and it lasted all the days of her life
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
I have come to conclusion
over sunpierced crust
brittle as tobacco leaf
astride mottled nag
scraggling on loose gravel
sandsoaked
saltsteeped
leadheavy in lid
past dactyled tracks
parallel cobbled macadam
wavering shale
lockjawed lava rock
fractured cobalt
lone juniper
forgotten scrub
open boil of tar and pitch
halfburied bones of leviathan
still shifting in the clouded boom
of stone
through grapeshot hail
adobed pueblos
thatchskinned women
and straw men
all witches
flaying the gila
pestling scale with cornmeal
and fermented mescal
desert sangria
hallucinating sideways in the murk
where coyotes yip
and each star a conflagration
mirrored in the captive eyes
of floundered meteorites
at the terminus
where sun and moon merge
I know the question
and response
from where do you come
to where do you go
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC
Slack-jawed, wide-eyed
tongue-tied
and terrified
of what went left unsaid,
I froze,
a feature of the static night.
From Summer's boiling tension
to December's weary ice
we'd drive
and count the times
we thought we'd finally got it right.
But then
the weight of discount decades
wrapped our chests in dynamite--
criss-crossed trunks,
and slant-grinned garlands
blowing up the Christmas Tree.
Apologize later for ******* up the party;
we were gone already anyway
with frigid wind flaying fingertips and ears.
Back to the car.
One more drive.
One more night to half believe
we'll get it right this time.
But what's so new about a New Year?
Still can't swallow all this scary size.
Guess we'll always be here, shrugging
Slack-jawed, wide-eyed,
tongue-tied
and terrified.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
I’m the Red Velvet Devil camouflaged in a plastic cup
I don’t have you yet, Aah, but the hooks aren’t set
I’m cheaper than “junk” and it’s only thirteen bucks
Just give me a month and I’ll be all you have
Ooh, I got you now; you feel my cold fingers in your back
I’ve only just begun to rip your soul out – intact
It’s been one year and you are my infernal *****
I've eaten your smile, your kids, your girl, money and more
You’re a shadow of your walking skin suit and you’re not aware
That my barbed noose tightens every time you try to care
You no longer laugh as I grin back from my deep dark pit
Why don’t you die, Scott? It’s so much better than what you’ve got
Year number three and all you have is enemies
No one believes you and they certainly don’t care
Your whole life is a lie; your spine is a broken bone
I’m the Red Velvet Devil they call methadone
You’re my pitiful meat puppet and you no longer care
I’m so achingly happy; my cloven hooves click the air
My grip attached at your spine, with my rotting kiss you crumble inside
You don’t have anything, so get the gun or razor; I want to see you die
It’s the fourth and final year, I watch you as my demons near
They writhe and snap their hungry jaws and you cop your nod – insincere
Your pulse beats to my oily black heart inside
You’re a sorry, cheap trick that I’ve ***** many times
I see you stumble and cry as you rot inside- why?
You should be grateful; I’m the reason you dine with swine
“The sow is mine!” I rage to your empty God
The end is near so all you hear is the demons flaying you alive
No breath in your lungs, or blood in your heart
You’re numb as an ice storm as I’m tearing you apart
Your life is a lie; your spine is a broken bone
It’s sooo nice to meet you; I’m the Red Velvet Devil they call methadone
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
1
I look at
my shredded fingertips,
turning gray from Ernie Ball string,
from obsession playing the instrument.
I look at
the only evidence
of any of that
ecstatic crucible
into my hands,
the technicolor
of each pile
of felt-tip paintings,
the endless rows
of recording
that I can
only navigate
by seconds, and by minute,
and I am
deflated.
not a single
work
was finished.
again,
nothing
could be used.
2
I look at
the hours flaying me
on my acoustic guitar, and the days
trapped in each sheet of sketches
spent sleep deprived and starving,
alone, not bathing
or speaking; just
drawing. drawing until
the pain reached
too high a threshhold
to be able
to endure,
but i did again and again this
in between those great periods
of being an invalid,
in the hope of something
to be proud of.
I decide I'll go for a walk
to the 7/11.
I buy a 40 dollar bottle
of my favorite Whiskey,
of Jameson and
I get a pack,
not the usual kind, not my favorite--
Marlboro Red One-Hundreds,
but I get a pack
of Parliament Light One-Hundreds
this time.
I go home, and I drink.
half the bottle. light a cigarette, play
one of my favorites--
those songs
from the 1990's.
I sit down
on the floor of my bedroom and
I cut open
my arms
with a pencil.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
A sweet song from a proud siren
Summoned my diamond vision:
Time's great obsession for us all
To blossom into ice. The velvet wind
Was a lure from a deluxe lover,
A pentagram witch. Psychic lightning,
Flaying a knack for sly power,
Brought truth,like thunder,
To a gambler's fever. At twilight,
A storm carnival enchanted,
Enhanced the wayward perfection.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
i left her on the side of the road near the rookery in southern indiana. her body was still warm, not as warm as the time she told me she wished she had a thousand teeth but not yet as cold as the time she grew them all at once and stuck them in me. she taught me many things, like how to forget and how to see through the cataracts and necrosis. she kissed my face and told me i was beautiful and boiled me in a metal bin inside the barn and watched as my skin separated from my bones as easily as slicing butter. she assured me i looked prettier this way, all bones and flaying meat and a thousand little exposed teeth i had no idea were in me.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 2:03 AM UTC
I have been on a playground of coals,
They are charred with bone
I skip on and flesh parched
Every
Ride
Burns
Another part of my humanity away.
"I feel nothing"
As chains I swing upon
Eroding,
Flaying,
Splintered
Shards of bone, that which was
Mortality has no place.
Until the shell peels and
Only the shadow of me remains,
I was
Human,
Soul,
Flesh
That is all faded upon parched coals.
I was, but now I am only darkness,
After humanity and light is burned away.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
for Sally A Bayan
Once upon a time, a lovely young woman met a young man beside a pond. They both stood feeding the ducks absently, not really looking at each other. The young woman, in her eagerness to feel what she was feeding, stretched out her fingers to stroke the feathers of the nearest duck but it was further away than what she anticipated, and she fell into the pond. The young man reacted by casually removing his shoes and socks, rolling his pants legs and gingerly stepping his way into the pond to hold out his fingertips to grasp flaying hands and bring the young woman back to the grassy edge. Embarrassingly, she sputtered her thanks and asked if there was anything she could do for him, anything she said....
He asked if she could clean his pond stained clothes, she replied...
No, but if you don't mind the stains, they now match mine.
He looked away and muttered a goodbye.
The man on the other side of the pond watching her but couldn't get to her in time, whispered...
I would have thrown myself head first under you just so you remained without a stain, alas, I was too far away.
As he rounded the pond, and stood next to her, she repeated the same mistake and fell head first into the water, wanting to feel the softness of the duck but, this time, she added no new stains to her dress because two strong arms grabbed her as she fell a breath whispered in her ear...
Don't stain your pretty dress again trying to find softness, it's holding you, right here...
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
Grey days require colourful thinking
Bouncing energy is felt
as usual with most people's faces drawn in wonder
Why do we speak out of turn?
When those that know nothing are hungry for love
How many times do we waste our actions
We never think of where we are going
And if we might care for those that suffer
Though the lack of comfort is undisclosed
We should know what this leads to
Not pretty but to a crescent of shame
Not liking definite lessons of our pathetic existence.
Singeing ones hair on a dancing candle can mean only one thing
The flaying arms of outrageous and careless action
Spells veritable acquiescence in the days events
Notice your body
Watch the curves on the numbers on the weighing machine
Scales are for dragons, lizards and fish, not you
Don't be sure that tomorrow your heart won't be aching
For the fresh winds that drag you sideways into
A superfluous distant horizon and grateful solitude
In my life I've had stirring moments but
I realise that every time I wake
My greatest achievement is still to come
Nonetheless I am delighted that I have made it
Perhaps from which eventually all my life will be judged
No word remembered, no action recalled
But the marks I've made on my canvases will tell all
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
F-flippantly finding four friends of mine praying
I-in cages bound wrists floundered hopelessness
N-nevertheless, the day after was flaying
E-everything, it was changing, don’t worry, I’m fine.
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
She told me that she wanted to kiss me.
I’d swooned over her curves since a long-long time
Dreamt of the moment she was ready to say yes to my 2-year long request to share her warmth.
So, I jumped with joy, but was numb to say anything more.
I thought, she’d be different.
I thought, she’d know.
I thought she’d understood nothing more, yet nothing less
Than what I’d always said-
At the end of the day, leave me alone!
Like most people,
She too thought that this was merely ornamental.
And she said that I hated love because I’ve not been loved enough.
Gwaaah! Such lies.
Such coarse hopes people prison within and dream more about the torture.
But, there was a difference.
I was not one among them.
I had no rousing dreams.
I did not want any romance, I merely wanted her body.
No.
Co-existence without ***** was prettier.
Wetten.
****
*********
and Clean it off with a gush of the jet.
Like most liars, she too lied that she hated commitment.
And echoed with me.
Like more flimsy folks, she was flaying too.
She was not my falancho.
So when I finally told her that I didn’t have time for her.
It was with a heavy heart
because I had time for her body, but no time for her emotions. Or mine to be shared.
It’s a burden to even think that I may start it all over again.
So ….
When she told me that I will never see her again,
I was smiling inside.
And I silently told her,
**** Off!
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC