"gangrenous" poems
she was leaving
and got the gumption
to see me before she did
so we went to dinner
she sat, crumpled
at the edge of the booth
playing with her silverware
hands sweating
our knees barely touching
underneath the table
they shook like the day we met
they shook like floodgates
when the clouds get upset
her hair was drawn back
into an apology
and she didn't answer
when the waiter asked for drinks
she pans, tilts
looking for the restroom
but doesn't get up
covers her mouth
to hide her furled chin
i cut her a piece of bread
not sparingly
i didn't want to ruin the symbolism
of cutting a gangrenous thing
from ones self
she half wept out "tell me a joke"
i thought to say "look at us."
that's it. that's the joke.
the premise & the punch line
sharing some silence
here in this ominous moment
so thick with goodbye
you could touch it
i said "when they asked what the name was for the wait, i should've said "awkward, party of 2"
but that's not the joke
"knock knock"
she whispered "who's there?"
i sat for a moment and said
"so we've come full circle.. we're even in the same seats, from all those months ago"
her lips quivered
and she hid her mouth
"i just wanted to hear a joke"
she said
i came back with
"if i fell for you in a quiet restaurant & no one was around to hear it, does the laughter of children i drempt we'd have make a sound?"
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
They call it a 'Class War"
They call it a "War of Liberation"
whilst its just another instance of white oppression
Childish, immature, mean and nasty underachievers
like the kid on the beach who kicks over others sandcastle
because they are better than the ******* castle he made
Like that that uncool dumb teen who scatters the board game
because he's now seen that he is losing and cannot win at all
like those ugly pimpled friends who would play gooseberry
and cock-blockers because they can't get nice dates of their own
like that bitter mad one who will spill ink over your white top
or new Trainers because he or she has old and ***** ones
They are all from the world of the sicko psychos and damaged
talent-less mean, envious, sad pathetic people going nowhere
If I can't make it, why should others do and be winners
They all graduate to the divisive politics of the ****** losers
Power is stopping progress and advancement because they are down
Power is bringing achievers and enterprise down they can's gain
Power is sabotaging all that is good because they are bad in all
Measly fetid minds they plot and conspire in gangrenous network
dolts, scums, unwashed losers and rejects of society, bottom feeders
Come join the Party, our specialty is chaos and disruption of winners
The pathetic jokes of the white West, losers in their own backyards
picks on an African who came from disadvantages to better them
better educated, more intelligent, cool and stylish in every way
pack full of potential, going places they can never go or reach
Our sick, mean spirited under-achievers, expert losers and scums
crawled on the war-path, riddled with envy, sick with jealousy
ruin his progress, oppose and disrupt a black man who doubles
efforts to achieve, what if losers try is given to them on a plate
What here is done for the greater good, what here is honorable
celebrated victories for psychos, racist underachievers I think not
peoples power? more sick, tormented, jealous n envious chicanery
anarchy jealousy, anarchy shame, anarchy racists, anarchy liars
One Single Black achiever demonstrates the inherent strength
and grace of our all our Ancestors against sick, persistent white oppression. That's the story here.
If its a fair war, why hide and go underground, why fight *****
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
peril is not what i fear, i fear your death at such a scintilla of contentment
how can i love you for such distorted exaltation, if it is love at all
she has sunned only her heart, a weathered inamorata of gangrenous pallor
timid and stark naked in the swirling moonlight, blood viscous and ripe to drink, she speaks at last:
i cannot be your lover.
in retrospect, the affair was a whim; lithe but so bitter
love is not divine will, but tenacious valor
as i have learned
as anything
have i disrupted your cadence?
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
Life’s an upward struggle, and it makes it so much rougher
when the ladder you find yourself climbing is beset by lonely weather.
When every other rung is off doing other things,
the solitude and altitude bring to mind desolation
and the emptiness that brings.
No matter the genius emanating from ivory minds,
the smartest man among us often finds
that brilliance unfiltered clogs up the system,
when others must consume the lonely perfume
of conceits kept alone,
while the common thoughts stay collected
like so many sheep in a pen that’s separated
from self-same lonely thoughts,
that genius oft encounters,
left only amongst the happiness
that fills up life’s happy coffers.
So it goes that lofty ideals become frostbitten
by snowcapped mountains of emptiness.
Others seek the heights together only during pleasant weather,
while those who trounce through snow-packed trails
must brave the climes alone tempted only by fate,
to descend to summits more frequent
than the peaks of accomplishment.
Gangrenous lips cannot utter
the chilled revelations of those left above too long.
So it is left to those below,
not inferior from the altitude,
just more likely acclimated to the difficult, dull journey
of those who spare pristine slopes
for the sullied, muddied slush on the tourist trails below.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
Poets, like doctors, know the anatomy of suffering... tearing the paper with rusty carving knives...
We see scarlet scratches and eggplant colored bruises on every square inch of foolscap... we open scars with words... stainless steel scalpels which we never sanitize...
We perform open heart surgery with blunt instruments... We cauterize the wounds with coals of Fire...
We are civil war sawbones, removing the gangrenous leg to save the body... Carrying out our task with whiskey bottle anaesthesia.
So have a care... The Doctor Is In.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/30/2016
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
Evolution complete:
I am faceless.
That, once recognizable,
Is disfigured and ugly;
And exudes the smell
Of gangrenous life.
Eyes of strangers, friends,
Horrified by my transformation,
Look beyond, toward safety.
My stare will consume them,
And labor them,
Into my hollow.
It is my soul,
Pure and discontent,
That cries for emancipation
And deliverance.
It is the cyclones
Of failures echoing,
Again and again,
Abrading my use,
Paring my value.
The dust in my palms,
Is the former me;
And even the breaths
Of God
Cannot reconstitute
This undead.
I resign,
To the solitary
Choice
That remains:
To free the soul
From its heinous captor;
To bait tranquility
With selfless mercy
Until the final drop
Dries unnoticed.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
I see your ghost everywhere
The ghost of who you once were
Before all the **** went down in your brain
The beauty that flowed from you till you woke up from the dream that was your life
That dream shattered right out
Right out from under you
Made you want to forget
Forget who you were
All brought for nought
Fragments still rattle
Behind your eyes
Those candy rock promises someone whispered in the night
Lost that luster, didn't they?
Couldn't find the silver lining?
What was once radiant phosphorescence
Became gangrenous and insipid
Leaving a malodorous taste
Stagnant in your mouth
The feast turned to crumbs left for the rats under your skin
You become to stately for our unostentatious life
Now you've painted the Petunia's colors of your choice
Rearranged your furniture
To play at being all grown-up
Bit of turpentine blotted on the canvas might smear the lines
But that won't erase your past
Your fingerprints are etched into
Every discarded can of spray paint
Lips carved into the pores of to much skin
You'll slice them off to get rid of the feelling
Keep up your newly minted fascade
That caused you such strife
To grow in the petri dish
Under your mothers sink
While you tryed to burn your
Bridges to ashes
Ashes embedded forevermore under your fingernails
Now you linger in ghosts
Haunting cities you've never been to
Places you're naught to see
In them breathes a
Chilly air wishing to keep you alive
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
War; absolute
This will be my macadam into re-assemblage
For if I'm not on edge, I'm taking up too much precious space
What wickedness lies beneath the surface of the skin?
I should know this place better than anyone
But my landscape has become mercurial
Ever changing, impossible to map
I am forced to navigate its pitfalls in ever complicating ways
It has become a desolate place
I alone should rule here, my sovereignty unquestioned
Yet I've become content to be complacent, and have allowed a sickly intruder to slip past my walls
They infect, demoralize: turn my skin to stone
They must be expunged; cut out, snipped from the healthy flesh like a cancer
As one removes a gangrenous foot to save the leg
Though my tools at the moment are blunt, I sharpen them daily with the whetstone afforded to me
They will not continue to expel bile into the bloodstream for long
My strength returns by the hour
They know this, and they tremble
I am the goddess to whom this altar is devoted
I am righteous fury, come to cleanse this blight with holy fire and flood
The war drums sound as the gate is lifted
The iron bell tolls -- judgement day cometh
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
Faltering declarations of love
Floating like incense on our fingers
Like slime on moribund monuments
Like filth lingering on the dead
Like wasps on an infected wound
Like babies of bats
Kissing your gangrenous feet
Like hollowness of two hearts
Enclosed in a horrid infinity
Like lungs filled with black water
Like bones intertwined with each other
In a discomfort so immense
Like a cat choking on her mother's milk
Like a scar that heals and still exists
On our bodies like a curse
Like an air balloon that bursts in our chests
But doesn't **** us
And still the pain of our dying love
Is greater than all the ghastly metaphors
And we know we can't save it
So we have to let go of the dead fishes
We have to let go of the dead wishes
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
She was riding me with violence
Then there came this suspect silence,
Our bodies’ short alliance
Had came to a swift end.
Dismounting like a trooper,
She left me in a stupor…
To write on her computer?
I lay there in a daze!
She looked at me with eye of,
The deepest green, they’re kind of,
(you may have caused this rhyme love)
Like a gangrenous dove.
“I’ might continue later…”
I struggled not to hate her,
But it’s not her job to cater
To my seductive gait, or my deviant- like needs.
So I hatched a plan that just might,
Render my plight more trite,
And make my mind-set alright,
To continue through this day.
So I grabbed my **** with vehemence,
and pumped with such experience
that the ceiling’s coat of cream just
might vindicate my mind.
As it was dripping off the ceiling…
I began to get this feeling,
My intent had been revealing
To this cheeky penguin's view
As I looked over to guage her
reaction, I'd ought to savour,
but I was faced with a much stranger
Situation than I’d expect.
She was sitting with a smile...
The umbrella cocked awhile.
She must have seen through my quite vile,
Intentions straight away
She tilted her head slightly,
and with a wink, said quite politely -
"I guess you're done now Riley?
My plan...it worked a treat"
That’s why I like this woman,
She keeps me guessing more than,
a stockmarket versed in Russian,
or a way to end this poem.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
Watch out, the stove is hot.
White iron teeth that will bite your tongue,
split chapped lips,
then eat salt and vinegar crisps.
Sharp streaks of nerves,
grinning with missing incisors
drip in lines down your chin
of green and brown copper.
If I had a fish pond
to throw these dimes into,
I would never have to know
where they came from,
why they didn't fall out of
my coat with the turned up collar.
Unwashed wool wraps and rots
round warped shoulders,
gnarling strained fingers
between ball and socket joints.
Fussy tea cakes and strands of hair
relinquished to the wind
hobble up and down outdoor train stations,
old-fashioned floral prints swept aside,
a puppet show of sickly chicken legs
pocked, potholed and pickpocketed.
Lost in the war, between couch cushions,
baked into blackberry crumble
in go egg whites, out come memories
of snow that tightroped power lines,
good dogs that stayed,
coauthors of the oxford english dictionary.
Badly rolled cigarette smoke in the streets
writes gregorian poetry for darned socks
snagged on shoddy repair jobs,
splintered wooden bones.
Pour yourself a stiffer drink,
it’s going to be a gangrenous winter.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
She dropped out today.
Out of school, village housing, and our lives
and Mickey Mouse sat
on the edge of his bed,
a controller in his gloved hands.
They are swollen under there,
a gangrenous trap of envy and greed
and she saw those hands with the gloves off,
and as they slid down her face
I heard funeral bells from across campus
because she's gone now and there are too any girls like her
girls the school refused to help
because god forbid they help
if the **** rate on campus might go up
and Don't call it is what it is, Christine
There's nothing to be done, Kara
Just take it easy, he was just playing around
and we don't know what intentions she had with him anyway
Well it's good for them.
They don't have to deal with it anymore.
She dropped out today.
Out of school, village housing,
the side of the world, the cracks of the law,
the sound of clapping hands, grinning faces,
the coffee house music hour, the soaked sheets at the edges of time
and out of our lives
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Dear Father,
You had me convinced
that I was simply
the misstep in a
carefully lain plan:
a variable in some
grand, cosmic equation
or just the marriage
of ***** and regret…
to you, I felt like
the sticky, black
afterthought at the edge
of an addiction.
You beat me to a
gangrenous tinge
or until the bruises turned
a darkly, black burn.
You rendered me broken, addled;
our “good times”,
became dusty , old yesteryear
I had read cover-to-cover;
memorized, then forgot them
in one quick, embittered glance.
And now, you've vanished, a feather
in a magician‘s cap:
a soluble secret
exposed to a single tear.
As always, I guess I’ll
just pretend to be your daughter,
…and you’ll pretend, in return, that
I was never born.
Sincerely,
Your mistake.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
The glamorous are gangrenous thieves
Distracting whilst the govern steal Liberty
Popsicle mushrooms 5 o'clock news and beer
Lies clear as the Rays of Day's shine
served like cheap red wine with a side of fear.
Seize your own freedom Shun the sun
Abandoned Divine Dismay
Race the tick of the tock
Watch your sanity fray
Hop on one of the slimeways
ye 'ole snail
left trekked along
across the Highway
Humming it's long low slow song
sung, in rhythm with a thousand toothed tongue, out of tune
Forever dragging along the crazy round home of a loon.
The wild yonder awaits Tecciztecatl's return
Saliva soaked foot pushes off
this road of hellish burns
The blue openly longingly yearns
for that moment not too soon
as shade befell
the conscious snail fully aware wanes into it's cognitive shell
His cocooned spiraled tomb
Hung high again as the moon
Shedding light on the treacherous troubles we're in
until the sun comes back 'round to illume again
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
you took my ****** rags and smeared them with your spit-- taped naked pictures to the wall of that dungeon until all he could see was your body, and your body alone. you loaded the pistol and shot yourself in the foot, when I noticed the bleeding you said it was just a flesh-wound. he finally fizzled your toes from out of your shoe, a dark cinderella-meets-the-prince-in-the-dark, and I saw that the wound was so open and gangrenous that little spritz of dried blood had formed faces and tears on the soles of your torn-and-tumbled canvas shoes.
you tried to say sorry. you pleaded and pleaded and said you'd take pistol-to-head or pistol-to-heart to be rid of the pain of my gargled and gutted reaction. you cried and you cried, our hearts sunk to the bottom of plastic-now stomachs.. but forgiveness is no microwave. forgiveness is a ballpark in steep Illinois summer heat where you drink to stay hydrated, think to stay sane, and write to the titter of tears on your chest.
Now heal your wound, antibiotic the gangrene. Just better the soles of your feet.
I'm already walking and walking and walking 'til my face meets obliterate sun.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
The journey was harder than expected,
a struggle;
the sky spoke in dragon tongue,
and sand gnawed away at the skin,
grating to pulp those sensitive regions of the body.
Disaster struck on the third night in the desert;
a child
who’d been walking with the scouts,
and of whom every-one had been fond of,
slipped through a crevice in the mountain side.
They spent the better half of the early morning
picking
at the gangrenous green flesh
protruding from within fissure fangs,
swollen fingers of rot and despair that reeked of death.
Before they knew it, the dunes had shifted;
disgruntled
by their own negligence,
they packed up and loaded the camels.
The child’s parents remained and prayed for a miracle.
The caravan held two minutes’ silence.
The vultures
didn’t give a flying ****
skipped miraculous death rehearsal,
and hot-shadow-torpedoed mother, father, and trapped daughter.
The Sun oozed mustard-pus and black blood,
so perceived
by those who didn’t have time
to ****** their protective goggles and
Go!
The government troops had been onto them in a flash.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 6:25 PM UTC
*Lonesome and stressed
Derived
From pure hopelessness
A plague
Of misery and loss
This populous city
Is endemic at best
As if gangrenous
Hands would caress
The eyes of the unknowing
Whilst the eyes themselves
Pierce through hearts and minds
**...Everyone is welcome
Where no one is wanted...**
Man's guile swallows me
Like a plume of smoke
He's suffocating on diesel
She's getting high on two-stroke
Light headed and confused
Sickening and well, just samey
A commuter on life support
With a twisted ankle
A mother on the school run
With a ****** nose*
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
That classic cliche of a clock ticking too far
And a love that burns in the back of the mind
Scratching heat into the seams of social self control
But I'm strong enough to smile for the cameras
The tasty dabs of smiling sherbert keep me posted on the here and now
The all work and all play lifestyle brings smile from far and wide
I don't deserve forgiveness for the bitter taste in my mouth
I was the one that melted my key into the furnace
And I'm the one who can see the bridge behind him
Spit on me if you must, my love, my friends, my observant big brother
Pity is not for the imbalanced and favoured
I am strong, I am proud, and I am rolling sixes
Just allow me an occasion to mourn my mistakes
My hand feeling cold and singular again
My eyes dragging across the floor in retrospect
My lust seeping from under my fingernails with gangrenous inferiority
I want what I can't have, shouldn't have, not again
But that empowering sense of growth makes the counter productive
So appealing
Sometimes I can't take it
I would show you the nostalgic touches of the boy you've lost
And the inspiring intensity of the man I have become
Through every nerve and every word you would know why I love you
But..
Life is not that convenient
The imbalance is the nature of this evolving colossus encapsulating our species
I will learn to accept my loss
I will learn to love another
I will continue to develop my scripted status and materialistic hollows
Just know that I hate myself and you
For how much I miss you
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:14 PM UTC
It's not that
my heart
has been ripped
from my chest
leaving
a gaping hole.
My heart
remains
inside my ribcage
necrotic
gangrenous
rotten
infection spreading.
When I say
I run
until
my feet bleed
I am lying.
In truth
I continue running
long after mere blood
as every inch of skin
is scraped off the soles
then the flesh
until
I am running
on my bare bones
and my unceasing footfalls
grind them to dust.
I describe
the way I cut
into my skin
without mentioning
that I ran
out of space
on that surface
long ago.
Now my knives
dig deeper
severing tendons
and muscles
and when those are done
I start tearing
pieces
out of my flesh
so I resemble
a half-eaten
carcass.
The word "bleeding"
does not describe
the torrent
that pours from me
like ink from a broken pen
no
like water exploding
from a crack in a pipe
no
like a floodgate
opening
letting all the liquid out and leaving behind
a muddy landscape that eventually dries
becoming scored with spiderweb cracks.
It's not that
my bones
are breaking.
None of them
are whole
anymore
what's breaking now
are the pieces
smaller and smaller
they are sharp, tiny shards
piercing my dead heart
falling from my soleless feet, a trail behind me as I run
slicing into me from the inside as I assist them from without
swept along by the red flood
to lodge in my mind.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
I am a coward. It is my weakness, and in knowing this I should be made stronger. However, my weakness perpetuates my weakness. My meekness and desire for peace makes me **** near gutless.
I write to love. I write to dance. I write to feel. I write to live.
I could have sat with the gangrenous, seeing the sawing teeth shred skin to cut further in. I could have held the hand of the dying; saying soft soothing words while they were vomiting blood. I could have joined the ranks of the foreign legion, became a non-religious missionary. I bet my writing would have been improved and all my other talents better used.
As I said before I am a coward. My heart breaks easily from poetry, movies, songs, photos, and tv shows. Imagine how quickly I would crumbled faced with the real reality. If I could see the seething rage, feel the ****** stumps, clean the bandages, while listening to their horror stories how easily I would break. Worse than Humpty Dumpty with smaller bits that crack and split permanently deformed, spiritually desolated.
I can watch the wicked human show from a distance. I can immerse myself in the darkness, but there must be a quick escape. I have to have a switch to click and make the nightmares go away. If I stayed, my thought would stray to the razor blades or pill bottle ways.
I am a coward. I am sorry. So here the naked man is with all of his cowardice. I am sorry I could not be a better less bitter superman. All and all I am so terribly sorry for my weakness.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Splints are beginning to break,
wounds are seeping through the bandage,
sores have become infected,
scabs picked and pulsating--
Aspirin won't take away the throbbing pain,
nor will morphine numb the brain--
the leg below the ****** turniquet
grows gangrenous.
Maggots inching closer,
flies eagerly buzzing overhead,
divebombing into ruptured flesh
oozing blood and pus--
the body bag lingers menacingly
sporting its gaping maw,
hungry for mangled flesh
and broken bones.
Bloodshot eyes pleading,
crooked mouth on a broken jaw begging,
a sick contortion of a once beautiful body
****** forlornly on busy streets--
writhing in the weak mortal vessel that damns them.
---
How long?
How long has it been lying there?
Trying hopelessly to stand stumbling like an old dog
in its final moments of consciousness
before the impending ejection--
how many have passed it by
with a blind salute
and a knowing fake smile?
How long must this poor soul drudge through time
slowly draining its insides
and flesh feasted by the flies,
dragged along by marionette strings--
when will we see this creature,
in need of its good samaritan--
when will we stop the transient fix,
peel off the blood-soaked bandages,
and ultimately stare into the fissures
for a final, effective prognosis?
Look this ******* in the eye,
peruse its peeling sallow skin
hanging loose off cadaverous limbs--
lying,
gasping cries rendered soft moans,
lying in a cesspool of ****** fluids--
**** and **** and blood and pus
drowning within itself--
trace your fingers along the scars and wounds,
inhale the stink of death,
accept your incapacity to understand the weight of its history--
a great anguish heralded by generations afore.
Do not, then,
think it wise to abandon the poor wretch,
as your forefathers had done--
The Poison lies within you.
To heal, then--
is not a matter of medicine,
is not a matter of science,
is not a matter of faith--
it is a matter of action.
It is sick.
It is dying.
And it will take us all with it.
Would you die for its sins?
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
Ex-lover
We once swayed together
With no music
Now there’s another
Sweet love turned sour
Gangrenous odour
My intestines on fire
I try and extinguish with water
There’s only one survivor
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
Go on then and type type type away
into the gloom of a dying Eastern seaboard,
waiting and watching for a glimpse of that
rotting corpse you call a messiah,
yes the prophet of power reeking of
stale cigarette butts and old ******
Type type type the day away
buying your worthless flowers
and plastic ******* palm trees
as you shed pieces of your soul
like flakes of aluminum shavings
metal snowflakes trailing behind
your beat up industrial exterior.
Type type type through the sickle cell night
wallowing in the animal urge to
go dance naked round a roaring fire
and make sweet love to Anglo-Saxon girls
lost in moonlight on a bed of pine needles
only to realize that those dreams are just as
sallow and jaundiced as the *** on the
rusty iron corner that you know you
will someday be sacrificed to.
Type type type till the pink lips of sunrise
claw their way out of another shuddering dawn
to find you red eyed and drunk
screaming obscenities at the computer screen
and wondering how the dead certainty that
filled you with passion and verse the night before
could wither away into the hollow crevices
that forever wink up at you out of the
gangrenous ******* chest wound of American Dreams.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
He's always sorry when your gone.
Should've been permanent this time.
The marks lighten up on the outside but still phosphorescent and fresh to you and I.
"Things are going to be better this time." you force yourself to say. This wasn't the first time you've had this poison spill past your lips.
Eyes locked and shimmering.
You mutter something like "for the kids." as you leave.
It's spread like a gangrenous rot to them now.
Please be ok.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC