"gelatine" poems
eyes are
quite gelatine
mending bubbly detail
mocking up fact to suit user
/the ears ? crinkled dishes of pinkened veins
robbing blood to probe the gossip
/digits bud on the feed
in polyp growth
******
and ****** a
pepper mill from off the
coffee table/tongue leeches lips
retaining massaged notes from food oils past
/spatting nostrils puncture the air
punching out breath purling
inhale a stressed
report
Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 9:49 PM UTC
The water drowns the sky
Obscuring it's face
It's stagnant over time
God clad in lace.
These sentences I'm structuring
Are designed to make you weep
These brain cells that I'm rupturing
Causing anti peace leak.
I compose these rhyming insults
Backwards and inside out
Loathe the Newly found results
That are tested about me around town.
I'm regularly ready to rip off the head
Of the hydra that has spent
The last of it's heads
By sticking out it's neck
Hanging it over the guillotine
To stir in all the gelatine
with the sugar to sweeten up the mix
The lay people on the street are starting to see the fix
The fix we call life
With the knives,
And the scythes,
And the cries,
And the ties,
And the strife,
And to buy,
And to cry,
And to lie,
And to spy
Then to die.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
bitterness of iron:
remove the milk
in bate of oxen blood spills
a bovine scent coagulates --
two membranes,
five and nine in aluminium
warp the boiling point --
two hundred, ninety degrees Celsius,
left standing, half a day:
cardboard instruction sets carbon constriction
imprinting
burnt hair, burnt hooves --
the taste of not eating
a liver, raw --
Where is the nameless face
carrying cups of coffee, bought
on a journey
somewhere, and nowhere et al . . .
kindreds, wrapped in the smell of decay:
the uncured hide around his hips,
or was it his wrists, never touching?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
i never would've thought that seeing again those eyes that
i already
adore,
the heart would weep a little
and would languish,
and the stomach would rub its walls stressed that
the hands were shaking too.
there. thats how everything fleed inside my body,
like there's a competition between organs:
which one will break down first.
the lungs, they can not breathe anymore,
the brain, going into "freeze" mode,
the legs, suddenly not having any bones,
but a sort of gelatine that rather flows,
and flows,
and these eyes that want to wash my cheeks,
my sins.
*I think,
still,
that mum was right
when she said
that love is nothing but
chemistry and hormones...*
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
Behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
A painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
And now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
I have become the dead hour at Woolnoth
a sloth full of woe
and with nowhere to go
I go nowhere,see nothing.
Paradoxically
the deeper I sink
the higher I get.
I am set out on a table like gelatine,flowing slowly with nothing,is this a dream?
I need something soft on my skin
I need raindrops to stop me and let me get in
I need to touch and to feel that even I could begin,
but the clock strikes on dull,
I feel the stretching of sinews and I use up the 'tramadol'full already with 'aspirin' and 'panadol', and the mobile just lights up with the letters that spell out LOL.
it's the way not to start any day but the day never knew me.
I fly with the kites and am tangled in wires and the sloth only wants to settle,dreaming in spires, I aspire to be more than the dead hour.
I need to shower but the motivation eludes me and I sink further into the stink that I am become,
you can shun me I don't care.
I'm a slow learner on the back burner and I can't turn tin into gold,I need to be held,felled and falling into something more appealing instead of sinking into somnambulence and bouncing off the ceiling.
This is the state of play.
Nothing to do
everything to say
nothing to live for but sloths want much more ,as if there's a fire that burns deep inside them,ignites when they find they become men, and then there is Woolnoth,gothic and brooding.
Great poets don't die they live on and they lie in the beds between other poets heads and whisper,
do you hear them? the
ignition men
or do you hear the dull sound on the last stroke of nine?
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
No need to flick the **** out of this monster
standing on a podium above our heads
looking down in distaste at what we, the poor, can do
or not do! Fodder, we are, trampled into stacks, rolled
into wretched bales and stacked skyhigh
on machines that run through precision.
Once done, they stand above and lord
over their handiwork as we
the minions, muscled in on our lives
struggle to keep the factories going
feeding the fat bellies and guns
that will silence others across the thin divide
of territorial useless wars
Once in a while the fucktories will open
and spew many newborn into the guts
and glory for the motherland where birth
and bread are numbered and named with
berets and bonhomie, pretend play
at camaraderie. We perish unwept
at the crack of dawn and gunfire in long lines
on a battlefield where ideals are shouted
and gas chambers await dissent.
Driven like oxen to the national abbatoir
hair, teeth and nails collected, bones crushed
for gelatine soup and flesh shredded
for fertilisers to grow more cattle
to be fed more hay
to man the factories and fucktories
to make more children
to polish the forces
to line up and lament our lot
Switch off the power.
Switch off the power
Switch off the power
Switch off the power..........
Author Notes
The revolution takes a step back to WW11.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
I marry you in the playground.
This limitless concrete jungle, a place where wars break, houses are made and tea is served now hosts a grander event.
Spring blossoming hedgerows arch over head framing our glee, we stand together.
Resplendent in sweatshirt, Teflon and scuffed Clarks, your gingham has never looked so glorious, and I feel under-dressed and overwhelmed next to your face. The one that every mother could love.
Presided over by a select few and away from prying eyes, boisterous scuffles over footballs and teachers who just wouldn’t, couldn’t get our love.
Our diamonds and sapphires might be gelatine and e-numbers, but this commitment is delicious. As sweet and sticky as the hold you have over me.
I take your hand in mine and run for the boundaries.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
(I wrote you most days from the rainforest floor)
This is where the
moss was
and they were too
I am out of touch and missing all at once unable to get back to the surface
swimming next to a blue flame
glowing ectoplasm glitters
the tour guide is a woman’s voice under the stars and everything concave is inside out far away from what it once was,
uninverted
happy is the uncertain I looked for you in the chrysalis and you
were still wearing
your socks
when you disappeared
I found them in my drawer three days later tucked themselves in still covered in glitter from the caves
I had so many questions when I reached out my hands
stuck to the walls and swallowed my palm
silicone and retreating light
it wanted me to stay in a time I could only help but leave
the artists gold leafed my throat like it was delicate and
ready to go on stage wearing shoe covers walking and talking gently avoiding swimming their arms the foxgloves developed negatives backwards in gelatine over water
pasted down every darkness bright green lime green stinging immediately
nauseous turning to stone under the gaze of the walls.
Apr 30, 2024
Apr 30, 2024 at 7:08 AM UTC
i'd like to keep my feelings for you...
direct
but experience has told me oft
it ought be conducted otherwise
i am to understand that
expressions of feeling toward another
must contain Fluff and Padding
i am to understand
that when expressing romantic feeling
lies are expected
somehow
amongst this great dishonesty
i shall slip you the true code of my communication
relay that feeling
meshed into the fabrication
the falsehoods of the romance
can reveal honest belly
in the gelatine of the fiction
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 11:31 PM UTC