"glands" poems
Lovesick and you've got the cure.
Got all these symptoms. You know what for.
Don't be afraid of this contagious disease,
Just take my requisition form.
I've made room for you in my atria and ventricle.
You're the capillary to my arteriole and venule.
You're the amniotic fluid to the child in my heart.
I find you even in the interstitial parts.
Treatment like uours is like a centrifugAl force.
So be the **** stasis my heart is longing for.
Some homeostasis is what we need.
We will make compromises to succeed.
Lay me supine and you in prone.
Sensory neurons fire
Exocrine glands make to pressure
Spark endocrine glands to hear you moan.
Without your heart I'd be anemic.
Withiutbyour arms I'd be half a paraplegic.
Your kisses give me air, without them I'm cyatonic.
You're the fibrin in my veins, to my pain an anesthetic.
I'm ready for some long-term care and affection.
Got a chronic condition that needs your attention.
I k now I'm concluded, parts of me sclerosed.
Don't wait post mortem to know that you're the most.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Iron bench, open sore
dragon rock, three in score
flesh on body, tortured soul
arms high, in hell's hole
Corner bulb, neon light
drake hotel, second flight
jolly pop, rizla plus
open flame, behind the bus
Broken fixtures, tully hat
channel swimmer, at the bat
blind alley, words of cuss
dealer waving, in a fuss
Grim reaper, boys in blue
super bee, armored shrew
****** sips, swollen glands
potpourri, on demand
Black death, huddler's arch
beat the cold, and summer parch
toothless grin, ****** glare
obituary, to be shared
Dead of night, decontrol
cheeva tar, black coal
east central, chinatown
mr. freeze, is coming down
Foot soldier, skidder row
chicken feed, and white blow
silver spoon, casted hand
demons surface, on demand
Frantic sounds, below the glass
poison waiting, to be passed
crack pipes, over coat
bodies flat, begin to float
Gospel sounds, from union square
friends gather, deep in prayer
guardian angels, now deployed
thornton park, without a void
Covenant house, in holy charm
welcomes all, with open arms
salvation spreads, on chapel row
kindness that, cannot be sold
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
The parasympathetic nervous system
is responsible for regulations
unconsciously transpiring
within the organs and
the glands of
the body.
Such as:
urination, salivation, digestion, defecation, and
lacrimation
(noun. ‘the flow of tears’. Latin.
from lacrimare (‘weep’) and lacrima (‘tear’).
It’s why I cry
even when I don’t want to.
You are the parasympathetic nervous system.
The (ortho-)sympathetic nervous system
is responsible for the mobilization
of the fight-or-flight response
and constantly maintaining
homeostasis within
the body.
It acts
rapidly, enacting an attempt at stability and
the necessary and critical ability
to suddenly escape
on pulsing legs or
cling to survival through
brandishing adrenaline-doused knuckles
and dilated pupils.
It’s why you live
even when you don’t want to.
I am the sympathetic nervous system.
The parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems
are two of three essential nervous systems which
compose the autonomic nervous system
(a part of the peripheral
nervous system)
that manages
involuntary
functions of the body. Such as:
swallowing, perspiration, arousal, breathing, and
heart rate
(noun. ‘the speed of the heartbeat’.
usually expressed in beats per minute. mine speeds up when I see you).
Individually these two systems oppose
but compliment
each other like our hands do—
pressed together and omitting equal force;
veins meeting
at the fingertips and throbbing at the wrists
but running amuck on our respective digits otherwise.
You are the invariable and unspoken reminder to
breath,
love,
sweat,
and live.
I am the sudden snap of reality always aiming to save you
but grudgingly willing to fight you and
ready
to
leave.
From the deepest lower half of my brainstem
and from every nerve
in my cycling body,
I’m sorry.
From all of my chromaffin cells
and from the truest parts of submandibular ganglian,
I am sorry.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Awesome power is it natures wrath
To devastate all in its path
Twisters, winds driving rain
Leaves no place to look the same
In a way as it gathers pace
Never in a human place
Hidden killer out at sea
Land urge where it wants to be
Building strength, gathers speed
To destroy any breeds
The one i recall in this worlds arena
This phenomenon called Hurricane Katrina
Louisiana, New Orleans
Was subject by one so mean
Her awesome might hammers home
We are not on this world alone
The sights viewed all around the world
Natures torture from her living swirl
To consternate these Southern Lands
The rains and winds spew from her glands
The aftermath and splatter view
Killed so many, survivors few
City blocks submerged and broken
A legacy of natures token
New Orleans Jazz continues to play
Although nature won this day
Resilient folks, awesome place
Human nature won this race
Undercover we will rise
But in mother nature we will not despise
She gives us life, we share her hope
To view her strength, we can not gloat
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 4:46 PM UTC
Standing in the sand, smelling salty waters,
Of the Caribbean seas, through the cold vibrant breeze.
Watching all the tall, happy, swaying coco nut trees,
And when you sniffle a little of the bake and shark it makes you want to sneeze.
Then take a walk in our rivers and cook up a curry *** or stew,
With fish coo coo and a little calla-loo.
and you take a bite and you taste buds and glands spring water of the delicious flavors that makes you say mhmmm.
Afterwards you can visit the reefs and see the dancing colors of the under water reefs,
Of the Caribbean seas, where I'm from and would always love to be.
But tho forget, it's Carnival time so come in your costumes and with your coolers because you're coming out to fete,
And tho forget, when you step out on "D" road of jouvert morning until night listen to the Soca music,
And let it rap you up and run through your ears with melodies that will make you want to bep.
Oh yes the Caribbean dream, where every man's a king and every woman's a queen.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
******* mischief misconstrued by me?
Love,
Held together like glue by me
I built this with my own hands
Now watch me cackle with glee
As I hold you over a fire
Like a beloved pet bird!
Fry now absurd lust,
Burn now: we never held trust
I never liked the feel of your hand
Paper and sand,
Throbbing adrenal glands
Proclaiming my fall -
I loved you, is all
I ******* loved you like a saint
I burnt for you at the stake
If I could give you my organs I would
I'd surrender all but my soul if I could
Love love me darling
Love love me so
Bleed, bleed these seeds
Of desire that grow
Sustain me darling
Tell me I'm your girl
Need need you sweetheart
In this forsaken world
I offered my heart on a stick like a lollipop
Just one more year and we could open up shop
We'd have enough,
You'd make me yours
Then I'll do your washing and
I'll sweep all your floors
My heart beats darling
I wish for you now
Sow these seeds with your wicked plough
I NEED you handsome,
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take being milked down like a cow?
Cow, sow darling, I'd be them all
Every barnyard animal, I'd do a four legged crawl
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
If I lay down to the floor and pray without a priest,
Will you give me a thought,
Jot my name down at least?
If I was holy as Mary
Sweet as a bud
Would you love me then
Though I act like your ****
Would you kiss me dear, would you hold me near
This trash, abandoned receptacle,
This can, ******* hopeless: perpetual. . .
I'd do anything for you
Watch me moan, pine and weep
I'd be anything for you
Go without food, love, sleep
Go without a brain to sustain, and I'll sacrifice my time
I'll shut up to all men
I'd scrub holes for every dime
I'd be like your mother
Or hope to aspire
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take to being milked like a cow?
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one. She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks. Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom. Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance. She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer. When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance. She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life. While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant. She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar. The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left. And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
I’m tired of the way she treats his gifts,
He’ll give her a boat and away she drifts—
I can’t help I didn’t give her enough
Now he sees her lying to him—he’s calling her bluff.
He puts bracelets on her wrists
His charity persists,
He puts old hats on her head,
She’ll soon be overfed
His gifts can’t harbor the ship wreck
And look I’m sticking out my neck
Perhaps I can’t afford her
My broke *** just bores her.
Perhaps it’s more than that,
Perhaps it’s under the hat.
Perhaps her head is so done with me,
That the gifts he gives are guilt-free.
Perhaps I’m loosing sight,
Of the things they have so right,
Maybe they’re cleaning horse **** holding hands
Perhaps that’s what’s turning on her adrenal glands—
Gold digger, shallow to a point
Fishing for meaning, Heaven please anoint.
I think I get it, somewhere inside,
You pompous shallow ***** go run and hide.
Surf or skate, and fall and break
The waves will crush you over-take,
And when the good get’s going and I’m out of sight
You and He, will shrink into the night,
And in your heart, Gold digger
My purpose is always Bigger.
Because you love me without cash
But you treat me like your trash,
I’ll probably get in a car crash,
Running him over cause’ I’m just so brash.
This I will confess,
Your heads a ******* mess,
Unless you give up the gold,
Your heart and mine will grow even more cold.
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 8:02 AM UTC
Such dissatisfaction
For so little reason.
Much complaining & whining,
Crying & begging;
Pulling hair, tight fists
And gnashing teeth.
Consumer Zombies stagger
Into the Stop & Shop,
Shop & Go,
Buy More For Less-
Sale, Sale, Sale!
Salivating glands & bug eyes;
Our hands grab more than
Can possibly be seen.
Our skin stretches tight
As white elephants stampede.
Why can’t we all
Just Stop & think?
Take a drink of the cool morning
Air and buy in the sunrise?
© Lesley Wood
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 2:55 AM UTC
Face
up here
holds the
Eyes
and
Ears
What your talking to
are just fatty globules
mammary glands...
and as they stand
have no capability to make
decisions
Except nourishing Life
So...
Look up for two seconds
and face the hand
you're now talking to
The Deaf and Blind
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
Those clear liquid drops of fluid that roll down your cheek when you cry. Crying defies the scientific explanation. Tears are only supposed to lubricate the eyes. When tear glands overproduce tears at the behest of emotion...I think it's our way of releasing those emotions; sadness, grief, desperation, anger, shock, happiness, etc. Emotions are weird things. As humans, we have hearts and brains. But emotion also defies scientific explanation. Hearts are only supposed to pump blood, not feel emotion. I guess, in a way, humans defy scientific explanation. We cry, we have feelings. But it's beautiful. Tears fill our eyes until they're blurry and we can hardly see. Tears roll down our cheeks, the sides of our noses, into our slightly open lips, down our chins, and even along our necks. When eyes are full of tears and they glint in the light, it's almost inhumanly beautiful. But tears can also be ugly things. When you cry, tears clog your throat, your nose. You have to breathe in gasping breaths and you can't see because your eyes are too blurry. All you feel is the damp marks your tears left. When you look in a mirror, your eyes are blotchy and your nose is bright red. Your eyeballs are glassy and water marks your skin. After a good long cry, you grow tired and fall asleep. When you wake, your face feels like it has been scrubbed raw, but really it's just the tear tracks. It isn't the tears that are ugly, but the crying. Humans are complex beings. Everything about them is also complex. Sometimes, those complex things are beautiful. Like...Teardrops.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
If I was a provider of the content I like
Like I wanted to be I’d never have gotten that
Surgery that ****** up my mammary glands
I’d gush a milky **** for all audiences
Even the ones that knew me before I turned bad *****
And spoilt
Even my great aunt and grandma and mom
who have finally befriended me
on Facebook
The ***** in me covers up and cuts off these
Lady parts
But I heat up and cant hide
The spark in my eyes when I see a girl
Unafraid of her ******
Wearing lingerie on IG
Feminism to me is radical or bust
Is ********* your ****** ****** and
Taking lots of pictures as proof
Of your own ****** occurrence,
Reposting if I get taken down,
Moderator of my own **** self.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
"You're so beautiful,"
says
Mr. You-Deserve-Better.
His friend,
Joe I-Can-Be-Different,
nods in agreement.
I'm just Miss Single-20-Something
searching for companionship
finding nothing
but the company
of every one-track-minder
in the Greater Portland Area.
I've been promised the moon,
stars,
a few planets here
or there.
Receiving just grunted approvals
from two-pump chumps
with over-active sweat glands.
So excuse the skepticism
clouding my judgement
as I roll all man kind
into one conclusion:
You all bark like dogs.
If he acts like one,
and smells like one,
I'd say Bingo
is his
name-o.
Just save it.
This Jenny has been around the block.
Your flowers will die.
Your chocolates will go to my hips.
For now,
your name is Mud,
and you can call me Miss Independent.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:31 PM UTC
My fingertips will never let me forget the scent of stale cigarettes.
I was a fool in London. All the friends I made had better accents than me.
I dreamed of Bulgaria and Brazil.
I walked through mud. I waited for French tides.
I trudged in heavy water waders.
My hands built a house with stones older than the country on my passport.
The etching of cement on my boots still reminds me what we carried there.
We drove along tired volcanoes and craggy cliffs in the dark.
I never learned how to drive manual.
We flew further south. I dried out in the sun.
The glands of Spanish streets pulsated
citrus mist into the air, my lungs.
I never did remember the difference between limon and lime.
We stayed in a haunted castel but missed Halloween.
The upper peninsula, where Napoleon dreamed of a better dinner.
We moved to Shangri-La. Even in Eden, people still snore.
But there were cakes laced with flowers. And I was over the moon.
Then, a dreamscape. The closest to the Arctic I’ve ever been.
We ate deer for dinner. I baked Danish pies. I slept supine in a smoke-filled yurt. It was all peace. It was all over.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Walk fast with sparkling eyes
Focus to the subject with great desire
Don’t look back to stay on line
Stay calm to make it light
Chase still but stay hidden
Heart pumped fast, pause a little
Sweat glands working at the situation
Ignore for now and go with the mission
But when determined finger about to click
A pair of angry globular ***** meets
The lenses directly perceived
Subject caught me now I’m gonna melt
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
Sad to say
Hope wasn't enough,
there was a thousand words battling in her mind
but her tongue remained numb
Deep into the late night hours
She hugs her pillows
and paint them wet
Realizing her existence in this world is inane and all her ways are complexed
Yet,
She was forged this way
An unbalanced scale of life
She was forced to stay
Agony of her loneliness brought penetrating pain
She cried even through the sunshine
Lived depressed during the rain
Whips from life's battles instilled on her frame
Perfectly tattooed on her skin
Innocence robbed from her before the age of ten
Those hands exploring her body never got approved
Scars and words of abuse was all she was accustomed to
From minds of the ones she loved
Grew extreme curious
Too see what lies inside of a woman for deliverance
Nights she cried tears that refuse to come
Glands denying the tears and sufferings that attempted to form
Rejected
The torture and sorrow in the glass of her reflection
Taught her venom which she perpetually spat at the girl in the mirror
Her thoughts was her MRSA, constantly eating her away
Rug burns implanted on her knees from all the nights that she prayed
Her life felt more painful than being engulfed into flames
Disgust boiled in the bottom of her stomach, just from hearing her name
No one understood her pain
No one even knew
Of all the dirt and infidelity her poor soul was drug through
Knives met her hands
Many nights she felt tempted but was too weak to stand
She'd rather fall
Full possession of her extremities but,
She rather crawl
into a deep dark cave
Than to reside in this World and become its slave
She was just a little girl
Dwelling in purity
A lost wandering soul
No form of security
For those who are believers and have even only a mustard seed of faith
Please
Pretty please
Remember her in your hearts
When you go to God and pray
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Your Endocrine System plays
a major role in this day and time because these
Glands are your Energy transformers knows as the
“Seats of Light” also known to our Ancient African
Egyptian Ancestors as “Arushaat” and well known
today as Chakras. These Glands or Chakras known as
“Energy Seats” or “Wheels of Life”, is one of the
major ways this “BLACK LIGHT ENERGY” enters your
Body and then transduces this Light frequency and
vibration throughout your Whole Body System.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
/or my *** dealer.
man alight with gemstone glands &
sticky at the tips.
each finger
pressing wet pampas cure.
the touch and study of
high-fi royal matter. (rose galactic)
savannah, hand
& fleshing meat in the heat of mother cradle.
africa man, tell me how was it?
details: the nature of today
& of tomorrow,
of pleasure kid.
t-shirt, he
prepares an atomic roll of autumn magic and smile, friends
or simply just
a spliffy belief in holy hallelujah man.
wild this.
tree of knowledge of good and evil and all in between.
tree of
the modern mystic noon
& in it is energy/vision/like midnight
but throated in such
humming beautiful light.
the sky breathes endless love,
said sun and fun,
marooning us onto an all-day sigh.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
When she said, Don't talk to me,
She lost some of her voice.
Then I heard, Don't look for me,
She gave no other choice.
*Don't touch, I have no feelings,
You make my skin crawl,
Don't expect a pick up,
If you pick up to call*.
But I still smell her everywhere:
The shampoo used on her hair;
The bedsheets where we lay bare;
The fragrance of her festive tree;
Her aromatic herbal teas;
The lilies she could grow in sand,
Are sensational in my memory glands.
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
Wide, grey waters rolling in
Invisibly it flows
Like a spreading carpet over mud
Inexorably it grows.
Created by a lunar force
And global winds at play,
Twice each day the tides do surge
To crest and flow away.
Twice each day the tide rolls in
To cover shoals of sands
And beds of oysters, muddy brown
With squirting water glands.
And twice each day the seabirds flock
To alight on draining shores
To harvest succulents and *****
And other tasty mores.
Oyster pickers congregate
In flocks of white and black
Red beaks plunging deeply
In green pastures for a snack.
Amazingly, they all take flight
A thousand beating wings
Which heel about collectively
Inking out all skyward things.
A thousand, million wavelets play
Across the level span
Pursued by wind’s relentless glove
In a patterned, surging plan.
And each reflects a kiss of light,
Each wavelet in the run
Collectively illuminate
Like diamonds in the sun.
Above the waves the seagulls ply
In corridors of air
In squadron flights of symmetry
To weave and wheel with flair,
Their raucous calls at distance
The poetry of sound,
In tidal terms, a symphony
Of seaward things profound.
The haze at the horizon
Of salt spray in the air,
White ,crunchy shells on beaches,
Pohutukawa’s everywhere.
A feeling of things tidal
In a lazy, salty way,
And enjoying the quiet beauty
Of this lovely, coastal bay.
Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
4th March 2009
Nov 27, 2009
Nov 27, 2009 at 2:20 PM UTC
My animal awakens to dawns emergence
A languid stretch of sultry sleek limbs
As daybreak's ***** air delivers your delicious essence
Senses honed sharp to tease the beasts primitive chant
Through shafts of dusty light I gaze upon your lithe form
Morning glow whispers across male sinew
I smirk at how unaware you seem of my intent
As my wildness of greed growls impatient
My prey, I fear losing control with my desire for you
Reining in animal instincts scattering on a breeze
I stalk your sleepy, carefree movement
Footfalls soundless in the dawn
Voracious hunger claws at my belly
To feast upon your wholeness is needed like air
To glory in your taste of salty spice
My possession of you is not in question
Your strength is no match for my female stealth
As I choose to alert you to my presence
Run from me prey, just a few precious moments
Run, so I may relish this chase
My tasty morsel, your fearlessness puzzles me
The primal pumping of your pulse, your only tell
It's tribal cadence draws me still closer
I will have you beneath me on this misty morn
.
You'll know nothing of my bittersweet turmoil
The aching inferno ablaze in my *****
As your power over me lies in concealment
I am the mistress that controls your destiny
With regal grace I swiftly pounce
Pinning you to the cool earth
I nuzzle the masculine valleys before me
Pleased with the feast you present
.
Feral heat erupts as I scent the need you deny
Glands under my tongue weep yearning
Salivate for the ambrosia of your making
In ecstasy I'll feed to devour my craving
Dragging tongue along incisors edge
I revel one last moment in your heaving breaths
As passions bite pierces your throats hollow
My soul claims it's sensual prize
Submit to your goddess, my courageous warrior
Surrender your pride to my keeping
I possess you now, my beautiful prey
You belong to me...
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
Am I really someone special?
Of course you are
How do you know
You're special to me
What does that mean?
You make my heart beat
You make my pulse pulse
Isn't that special
That's just adrenocorticotropic
**** we're more than just cortisol
Are we though? What makes us more?
You can think to ask that question
So what who can't
You make my epinephrine spike babe
Thanks, my endocrine glands are addicted to you
Don't worry about it, we're just sacks of meat
Hehe flesh bags coursing with chemicals
Right, your thoughts are just electricity
You're a battery, a light bulb and a RC car
You're a self guided drone with no master
You're sweet, lets go recharge
Powering down the fleshy prison
See you in day 9101 of my imprisonment
See you in the fourth dimension
You're right see you there first
You are special
You too
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
Do you fancy
A lollipop feast
Salivary glands over productive
Just one day of sweetness
Wouldn’t ruin much perhaps
After party was tasteful
Lingering longer than it should
Picking up a lollipop after some time
Unwrapping took forever
Hesitated to shove right into
The colour appear rather surreal
Was it used to be?
Second thoughts always ****
Stood still with a unwrapped lollipop
Thinking if We should
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 11:37 PM UTC
Take my heart
Cardium carpal
Impossible to hold in both hands
In every glorious piece
Valve, ventricle, artery
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Not pink, not red but grey,
Grey matter, but no matter
Take care not to lack a hole by
Ebon ivory of your skeletal hands,
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Only bone grasping endocrine glands
Blood eagled atrium across your palms
Venae cavae hollowed hands.
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 6:10 PM UTC
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.
As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.
During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.
I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.
Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother."
She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.
st - 20 mar 14
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC