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My bones bubble with lava
red pustules absorbing the hot air an angry cloud full of
hail and snow and sleet
blockades my throat
I am all feelings and no action
all body but no voice
Wet and Wanting
All ears and no mouth
All tongue and teeth and spit
but no words
A violent storm with no landing zone

What am I to do with all this wreckage?
while you're
down there

I will
be here

trying
to see me
like I see you

eyeing the shine
not picking at
the cracks

filling them
with gold dust
lacquered soul

winking at flecks
in the fissures

I hope you find
what's calling you
to the bottom

and swim it to
the serifed shore

I'll help you
pick the seaweed
from your sunken shatters

and lick the grit
till I unlock
your lips


I am a fractured soul
A broken man
Fragmented
and destroyed
into tiny pieces

Left with sharp edges,
misshaped parts
and empty spaces

A jigsaw puzzle
I continuously work
A never ending project
attempting to reassemble

But like a shattered vase
glued back together,
it's not quite the same
What was pristine and beautiful
is now just something I resemble




Written: March 18, 2018

All Rights Reserved
Lost Nov 2018
I am a broken bone
Sitting in an old cast

It’s been years
But it never healed up

Jagged edges
Grind together
Underneath
This plaster wrap

I wonder when
Things will line up
**** is an axiom.
**** is our axiom.
Hence, **** your axioms;
We're gonna get ****** up.

When perception is refracted
laws and theories
become fractured.
We use it to our advantage.

Covet the strange days of adolescence.
Michael Marchese Mar 2018
She was sad, numb, cold, and just not into my
Not my vibe reality
The first other woman I told her I love
But her warmth, I’d console her
In my image mold her
Hatch ohhh, my evilest plans to control her
But never let go though
Keep letting her grow slow
Until she cared to join me in a stroll Through the time flow
PoserPersona Jul 2018
In the cusp of closing night, I look into your weary eyes;
once outshining city lights. I see no way to realize
the healing of this blight - I venture to make a phoenix cry.
Remedy of such mythos might, might just prove unjust lies.
Chance restoring your ere vacant sight - fighting soul’s primal guide.
As any chance to restore my bride, binds our fractured lives.

...No words to describe affliction already decided.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
To hell and back again on a floating wreckage of love.
Your voice calls like sirens from a far off shore,
inviting me to care once more in a land unknown;
to a paradise where only love can live again.

My heart is swept up in your whisper.
It carries my thoughts on a prayer of silent hope.
Your soft breeze caresses and warms my frozen heart,
lovingly holding and healing my broken soul.

This new wind has taken me to your shores
Like silk wrapping me in soft acceptance
bandaging my fractured existence,
I bask in the warmth of your sun.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
CK Baker Feb 13
Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cone set on a marbled tan scape
fanning sands sketch, ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray

Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
aching shrubs and crumbling spines

silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed at the whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm

Salt lake fractured with amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams, and valley grot
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
D Awanis Feb 2018
i.
Some say that before you breathe your last breath,
all your life will flash before your eyes
so tell me, what kind of life you'd want to have?

ii.
Some say that having your heart broken is like
having your flash ripped and your bones fractured
so tell me, will you regret to have fallen in the first place?

iii.
Some say that when you miss a dead person,
the Heavens will let your voice be heard
so tell me, what are the words you are going to say?
Andrew Nov 2017
I scoffed at my minor cough
Until I was immobile as a sloth
I had to press pause on my life's tale
After I became a beached whale
And my body turned frail
In my illness jail

My stoic resolve tested
My pain threshold crested
The way I act is antisocial
The way I feel is anti-hopeful
For I treat others poorly
When I'm hurting sorely

In sickness for health
I give away my wealth
To feel one hundred percent
That's the physician's intent
To make me experience drainage
But I need the healing medicine
So I can practice the discipline
Of removing my diseased shark's fin

Ramses II, known as Ramesses the Great
Had a permanently fractured finger
And his teeth were significantly rotten
The pharaoh's excruciating pain
Must have effected his reign
A massive amount of men slain
Is discomfort what's to blame?

When there's no pain relief
We give each other grief
And there's a lion with a thorn stuck in its paw
Eventually that simple thorn becomes a claw
okayindigo May 2014
On the floor of the river styx, frogs burrowing peer over muck duvets to watch me press like a violet between the cookbook pages of the water and the land. I went overboard-

I am addicted to the darkness between worlds.

Somewhere above me, I see the moon. She doesn’t try to warn me, she doesn’t bother reminding me that I can’t breathe. Heavy currents like snakes blur her face into fractured crystal tears that wash me over with sweet exasperation.

Sedated by the salt toward the other side, where the ferryman flips my coin and hums a tune without words about all rivers rushing toward the sea.

He doesn’t ask me why I chose this route, just grins a toothless grin
And winks
And tosses my coin into the water
without

So much

As a wish.
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and a beast crashed in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.




"FERMIN!"







































­












He leaps down steps
and explodes
as it rams her
to and fro,
bashing her head
against the wall
where horns sin
and horns gore
cement and brick.

He grips the tail
heaving its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine,

he slips and slides
in fractured glass
and finds a horn
and yanks the head;

is yanked instead,
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to shout and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer
fast and frantic
flying flustered
by the frenzy
finding the
pattering
of
pavement



petering



into





the











street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





His hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.
Men and women
fuss and frown,
always making sure.

"Podria haber sido peor"

Another story for the herd.
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Lily Peacock Jun 2017
These eyes of yours,
Coaxing me into warmth.
You gather around me,
Like moss on the bark of an old oak.
Palms pressed against the trunk of me,
You seal the gaps in my fractured heart.
Elizz Oct 2018
I messed up
I loved you I'm sorry
It wasn't a mistake
Confirming it for you
Would only force me to acknowledge its existence
I'm on my knees
I shed a few tears
They slide down my face
Off of my chin
And in between my splayed hands
Shards of glass kissing my palms
Blood and tears rejoicing
I dug this grave
I stand up
I drop myself into it
I smile
Heaving up my brown crumbled blanket
Over my waist
Up to my collarbone
And over my head
The dirt absorbing the blood from the hole in my chest
I heard glass shatter
I felt a crack
I've been here before
Heard that sound before
Looking over my shoulder it hits me
You'll be here but I won't take that up
Father time gave me a specific amount
I probably shouldn't have
I spent it with you
While planning things in the background
Ribbons and pretty flowers twine up through the dirt
I close my eyes
One last breath escapes
One last bitter smile
Resentment towards myself
My fears
My insecurities
Not to mention how stubborn I am
I'll look happy but when you exhume my grave
Knock on my chest
You'll find a resounding hollowness
Bestowed by my own actions
What pretty flowers for such a sorrowful soul
Sorry
KnudsonK Oct 2013
Crucified

My  spirit cries         
     in grief              
and in  dismay.    
 The   reality  of  
what  you purpousfully have done  to   me.
I  reflect upon
the intentional hurt and hate    
from you   to me
That's when I see...
Where you've gone out of your way
to make sure things were extra hard for me.
When your the one who is supposed to
Show me love Unconditionally .
I see where you
       shattered          
the  remains            
of   an already          
fractured heart . 
There is agony in every  salty tear,
That fills the open wounds
as they streams down from in sorrow.
                          The  shards of  malice         ­                for years            
piercing deep          
into my very soul      
and embeding          
their sharp.            
slivered tips            
just like the nails that          
penetrated the hands and feet of the "Son".
As you spew like lava the words
roll off your forked tongue.
Only after their  burden I carry the weight  'across'   a
rough and rugged path as they grows heavier  and bigger
I make my way to where finally, stripped of any last
shred of dignity, left hanging there up high upon your
wicked, evil, vengeful lies.
Am I....
I am THAT Iam
ConnectHook Sep 2015
ϖ↑∅⊕↓☺↨☼♀


The dawn is nigh at hand. The clouds
begin to lift above the grange.
Arise, O Phoebus, bless the crowds –
let poultry roam the range.

I’ll bind a broom of gathered hay
to sweep the hen-house free of hate.
Let roosters hail the crack of day
and chicks with ***** tempt fate.

A fractured self and a challenge hurled:
they left the shell – but found it rough
because our bigoted barnyard world
cannot get queer enough fast enough.

They flutter through the *******’s farm
subverting gender’s useless role.
We feel their pain, and mean no harm –
yet question this progressive goal.

They cluck a brand-new barnyard song:
Gender Identity Obsolete!
(As long as they claim God hatched them wrong,
biology signals their defeat.)

While poultry scratches rhymes for “hen”
and chicks are combing crests for *****
let’s ring the dinner bell and then
we’ll synchronize the global clocks.

Let Mankind’s unmanned race delight
at Jesus’ gender-free return.
Soon Africa shall see the light
and Araby’s sun more brightly burn.

Then dawn shall break o’er Russian plains
to liberate the Tartar races;
loose their limbs from Gender’s chains
to stride with polymorphous paces.

China too, and Southeast Asia
swift shall follow in their train
celebrating ***-aphasia
joining in the West’s refrain.

Hindu multitudes will rise
to vanquish gender, caste aside
and shake the slumber from their eyes
with metro-ambisexual pride.

Carib isles, with Latin kingdoms
From the tropics to the mountains
Shall announce they too are Wisdom’s,
drinking from de-gendered fountains.

Juveniles, raised to simply be
shall pioneer new modes of life;
explore horizons happily
set free from biologic strife.

Then shall our earth, in glad array
***** dirt upon Tradition’s tomb;
unshackled from that dark dismay
to grieve – but nevermore exhume.

Alas, the global dreams descend.
We’re back in the barnyard, gender-queer…
where hens have ***** and eggshells bend
transcending Nature’s reign of fear.

The henhouse still votes hetero –
their eggless chickens cluck for rights
biologists, ex utero
are born to further futile flights.

(Because I was almost one of them
I’ve earned the right to make fun of them.
Time alone will tell if the trend
remains coherent to the end.
)
His fingertips are doused in gasoline,
setting fire to everything he sees.
Each object he touches,
all the memories collected,
ash away and fall to crimes.
He's got eternal flames inside him,
and yet his eyes remain dimmed and submissive.
He's fragile and fractured,
and as his last heart string crackled,
you could see the hope unlit.
Fires and unsettling demons
are all he even seems to remember.
He might try and set his body ablaze,
to calmly dry off that crying pain,
sadly sticks and stones withhold his embers.
He won't die, but he can't learn,
the anguish manipulated to feed a burn.
His life was hanging in a balance of dry anger,
rather the deployment of washing hurt again,
he thought would dehydrate its annual return-
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