"gouges" poems
Darkness dredges deep into the soul,
tempest gouges out my stillness in manic vengeance,
lightning in fiery wrath
rips up the mind’s horizon.
Thunderous sky roars in scaring rage.
Panicked,
stars went hiding
in the pall of gloomy clouds.
My soul too blackens out,
O Shepherd,
where are you this night?
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:40 PM UTC
1
He'd love her
and then the coldness
of marriage took love
away from him
and the coldness turned into suspicion
and then into an obsession:
and she was an inconvenience
he murdered her a Friday
night
suffocated her with her pillows
it was easy;
like Othello did
but she was no Desdemona;
and he heard her whisper with her last breath:
"I'll have your eyes"
he cut her up in manageable parts,
and buried her below the floorboards
in the study
2
It is a year later
and he is at the computer
and far below lies parts of his wife
but now his wife is smiling
she's on screen
smiling like a Greek Goddess
and he sits transfixed
and she says:
*"You are Oedipus, darling -
I will have your eyes"*
She is smiling
He is willing
Beside the printer are paperclips
He undoes two
She beckons; she smiles
and she whispers
that same deathbed whisper:
"I'll have your eyes"
And he is Oedipus
Just paperclips will do
He gouges one eye out
And he gouges the other too
It is easy
She lies deep below
below the floorboards;
She need whisper no longer
And he is become Oedipus,
eyes gouged,
blind like the Greek Homer
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
Let me meet you in a marbled
field of
sand...
Though
you bewitch me with clifftops hooded in emerald grass ...
Though
your sheep bleat loudly the marvel of your serenity...
Though
you wait patiently beyond your lonely precipice,
I cannot endure the eons
raging against the cliffs of your security.
Every
passing year, the thunder of my broken waves
gouges deeper into your wounded coastline.
Every
rock torn from your embrace, resounds the pain of our growing rift
Every
crumbling cliffs edge dissolves the beauty I held in reverie...
I wound us in this way.
Let me meet you in a secluded
gentle
cove...
There,
upon quieted sands, my waves will softly stroke your skin.
There,
the lions will laugh in cacophonous delight at our simple joy.
There,
our worlds will dance as pebbles tumble into diamond crystals.
There, a child will listen woefully,
the sea song of our love.
With eyes in contented darkness,
With a soul filled, overflowing
With the power of bearing witness
to this daily wonder.
Each
breath brings her deeper into the burning core of her mind,
Each
thought sparks the flame brighter
Each
billowing blaze will enliven her roots, and
she will bloom.
Then,
her eyes will open to a shimmering world,
glistening through tears of quiet understanding.
Then,
breath will guide the salt of our dance into her veins
Then,
she will dance to the song of our world.
With arms wide as eyes,
she will embrace
this treasured moment
With the divinity of her mortality.
When the moment calms, she will walk solemnly through our shallows.
When my waves pull home at her ankles,
When the crystalline pebble shines brightly in her visage
she will reach with focused surrender through my water for a memento
of the love she feels so presently.
In our slow dance,
of Land and Sea,
our love bears its fruits in tiny treasures.
In her little pocket,
the diamond of our love
will travel further into your heart than my waves ever could.
In this way...
you and I grow fonder
with every passing day.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
I’m lying on my side, in bed,
thinking of you.
Spare a thought for me…
But I know you aren’t.
Beat the same tattoo on my skin,
with your invisible caresses, touches;
I’ll never know the patterns and marks are there,
until my fingers start tracing gouges and craters…
I’ll get to think of you every time I touch it,
only making it deeper when you don’t think back to me.
Don’t think about me.
Like I do for you.
I will have my one-sided love affair with your ghost.
Because you left it small and afraid,
in my care,
when you were with me.
As soon as your eyes began to know me.
As soon as your lips got their first prize of many.
It grew to such a true second you.
Because though I may still spare such
thousands of thoughts for you,
I know you removed yourself from thinking about me.
So how about I write this up, and
you can
think of me
now.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
I tried to tint my hair red to light this night
But it is dull and stringing out amidst my plant-stained fingers
I tried to dissolve away the lines upon my skin to glow with luminosity
But they are wedged deep and have left gouges of pin-pricks behind
I tried to exhume the dead and the dry from my face to better breathe
But instead it filmed over stinging and suffocates
I tried to forget you in order to be free of this
But I am not cleaned of you so easily.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
Like Oedipus I am losing my sight.
LIke Judas I have done my wrong.
Their punishment is over;
the shame and disgrace of it
are all used up.
But as for me,
look into my face
and you will know that crimes dropped upon me
as from a high building
and although I cannot speak of them
or explain the degrading details
I have remembered much
about Judas -
about Judas, the old and the famous -
that you overlooked.
The story of his life
is the story of mine.
I have one glass eye.
My nerves push against its painted surface
but the other one
waiting for judgement
continues to see . . .
Of course
the New Testament is very small.
Its mouth opens four times -
as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster,
yet somehow man-made
held together by pullies
like the stone jaw of a back-hoe.
It gouges out the Judaic ground,
taking its own backyard
like a ****** daughter.
And furthermore how did Judas come into it -
that Judas Iscariot,
belonging to the tribe of Reuben?
He should have tried to lift him up there!
His neck like an iron pole,
hard as Newcastle,
his heart as stiff as beeswax,
his legs swollen and unmarked,
his other limbs still growing.
All of it heavy!
That dead weight that would have been his fault
. He should have known!
In the first place who builds up such ugliness?
I think of this man saying . . .
Look! Here's the price to do it
plus the cost of the raw materials
and if it took him three or four days
to do it, then, they'd understand.
They figured it weighed enough
to support a man. They said,
fifteen stone is the approximate weight
of a thief.
Its ugliness is a matter of custom.
If there was a mistake made
then the Crucifix was constructed wrong . . .
not from the quality of the pine,
not from hanging a mirror,
not from dropping the studding or the drill
but from having an inspriation.
But Judas was not a genius
or under the auspices of an inspiration.
I don't know whether it was gold or silver.
I don't know why he betrayed him
other than his motives,
other than the avaricious and dishonest man.
And then there were the forbidden crimes,
those that were expressly foretold,
and then overlooked
and then forgotten
except by me . . .
Judas had a mother
just as I had a mother.
Oh! Honor and relish the facts!
Do not think of the intense sensation
I have as I tell you this
but think only . . .
Judas had a mother.
His mother had a dream.
Because of this dream
he was altogether managed by fate
and thus he ***** her.
As a crime we hear little of this.
Also he sold his God.
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***
:(
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
There is no cure for my self.
I will sit up nights
And read poetry aloud
And cry harsh tears as my words fall away into the darkness.
It is my nature.
A voice of sorrow lives in me
And it speaks, always.
It murmurs beneath everything like a brook.
It sweetens my days
And swallows my nights.
It is not without its merits
But it is
Painful.
I am a sad person
Always have been.
I ache, and always will.
Love soothes and frightens me
But beneath it grief runs steady
The only thing
That is always there
Heedless of any other turmoil.
It presses into me-
A small trickle, less than rainwater-
But it has carved me deep over years
Deep, deep,
It has cut caves into me.
It is the heart of me, the softness of the stone
It is my weakness and the source of my life
And I have hated it for as long as I have known it was there
But it
Doesn’t care:
It only knows how to continue
Not how to feel.
It doesn’t stop for love
Or for anger
Or for joy.
It gouges a path through all of them,
A deep, steady drumbeat
A persistent crawl
And I am witness to its slow erosion of me.
I watch with apprehension
An unwilling subject
A reluctant vessel-
For I know that as gentle as it seems
It has stripped away all this so far
And will go on
Until nothing remains.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
Bernie frames the TV
between his feet--
left hand remote,
beer bottle balanced
by his right—
clicks through half-time shows,
clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer,
a death-ray secret weapon,
clicks just to do it, an idiot’s
smile faint on his face.
he sees only noise
Emma tends her stamps,
perched on the plain board chair
she upholstered herself—
its arms worn, warm,
warmly welcoming—
her back to her husband,
her life as wife and mother
coming to a languid close.
she tastes some regret--
yet spicy with passion--
where life has had its way with her.
The rug’s bright stew of colors
can’t hide everything
children spilled
when they were young--
juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears;
little dreams,
tiny heartbreaks,
minor crises
ground into the weave;
all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs,
blood and sweat and nightmares congealed
into solemn patina--
I see protects it from time.
These solid objects—
stout, no-nonsense chair
wearing gouges, marks,
discolorations of use
and years like badges;
fat, chunky, cigarette-burned
BarcaLounger, drunk
from drink spilled
on every surface,
handle supple
as a young girl’s wrist,
swirling a territorial aura
around its microscopic
sphere of the universe;
and the rug…
unassuming, proletarian,
handmade and honest,
each scrap of fabric
chosen by the weaver’s hand,
now useful again,
reveling in redemption—
these solid objects
invade,
infuse,
invigorate
otherwise empty space,
squeeze meaning from the world
around them,
same as the hand of the artist
sculpts love from her heart
to give them life.
The children have moved away
Old friends are dying every day
Stamps no longer can be licked
There is no way to interdict
The Jets are losing again
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
If you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss will also gaze into you. I know this to be true, even if the abyss is not necessarily anything outside myself. The abyss is simply, The Abyss. It is not within me or without me, it is just being. And I do gaze into it. I don't really take this to mean that I will become like my hates or enemies, as I believe that I have always been what I hate- my own worst enemy. I take this to say that The Abyss, for however long I look into it, also looks into me. It leaves marks on my soul; deep gouges made with stained black talons. The Abyss is many things, and also nothing at the same time. It is darkness, that is a given, it is also The End. It is The Apocalypse, it is The End of Time. The Abyss is the complete-stop-of-everything. Some people even believe that the surging water-deep of a literal abyss is Hell itself, though I think I know better. The Abyss is not Hell, because when your soul is released from your vessel, and you of course have committed sin, you do not go to The Abyss. Your soul does not forever reside in the Nothingness of The Abyss, your soul does not belong to it unless it belongs to you. Even so, after looking into The Abyss for a long period of time, it is hard to shake the feeling of its eyes on you. It can linger for days, and the restless, dreamless state that those eyes leave you in is hard to leave behind. As someone who is constantly staring into The Abyss, I find that it never quite leaves me. It's almost as if The Abyss has left some part of it inside me, within my very being. I can't hope to root it out without never seeing into The Abyss ever again, and I don't imagine that will happen any time soon. The Abyss has been a... comfort to me. The promise of Nothingness, of simply Not Being, has always appealed to me. This existence of mine has not been an easy one, but it has been growing on me. Even with the promise of Nothingness, I think that I will try and stay Existing for as long as I can. Existing has its perks of course. I get to think and feel and experience, and part of that Feeling is Love, which I believe may be the most important one of all. What is there, without Love?
That, I believe, is what The Abyss actually is. Lack of Love.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
Girls and ladies dream
Of and desire
A knight in shining armour,
Gallantry and bravery to
Sweep them from their feet
To a happily ever after,
But take it from
One who knows,
No knight that ever fought
For his lady
Had her back,
Has armour shining pure,
It takes sacrifice and
Mental melee - sometimes brutal
To maintain love in this desperate
War called life,
And no man did a hard day's work
Nor fought in war and
Came away unscathed and undirtied,
A true knight's armour,
Though burnished as best may be
And glittering in the sun
Has dents and gouges absent
In a woman's dreams,
Every mistake every failure
Shows in his history and
Cannot be polished out
But that he polishes what remains
Is testament to a true heart,
And a man worth keeping
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 4:54 PM UTC
Hold me closer as I slip from your enclosed embrace
I can't stand too close to you
The fire is all consuming now
You douse the flames with gas
The cooling water long gone
Your fingertips trail along my arms
Leaving gouges
Splinters of broken glass embedded deep within
Blood trails and drips
You are the cause of this.
My hair is gone from the constant tugging
Yanking the strands is a form of release
Release from this inside pain.
My heart melts
Drips from my finger tips down to those forgotten puddles at our feet
You splash in them without a care in the world.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
Jane holds the pencil in her hand
She uses it to get the thoughts out of her head
Now they won't come out
Time for a new tactic
She swings her clenched fist at her ear
The squelch is felt more than heard
Again and again she gouges the thoughts from her brain
Thoughts pool dark red in her lap
She finally shut them up
Eyes closed
Relaxed sigh
Alone in her head again
Jane fades out
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Send me a fire starter and foundation to cover the crispy skin of my forearm.
I am sorry, I couldn't help it, I was so cold and desperate for heat.
The firemen were too late. The steel walls surrounding me melted from
The heat and my every regret was spilled in front of me.
Underground tunnels make my black ink flow like the Nile,
Washing my pages with black and erasing my written labyrinth.
Send a raft so that I may not drown in my own madness. A signed envelope
With a perfect message.
Sleep when you write, you can dream that way, an exaggerated reality
That murders your sense, drags you into a dusty cupboard and gouges out your eyes and ears.
Three weeks later, a box shows up at your door.
You reach inside and feel everything, smell the rotting flesh. You can not hear or see anything
Because your parts used for perception are in your hand.
Happy Birthday!
From, your worst nightmare.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
Waters black; time
Leads to chaos.
Fallen soldiers and their
Rotten
Bullet wounds weep.
Salt cauterizes gouges in
The pretty skin of paper
Dolls trying desperately
To be strong.
Impossible dreams of returning
Scars
And keeping the glow.
Forgotten
The dye seeped through
The palms of everyone
Who touches me.
Nightmares drown
(The happiness)?
And fear is unfinished.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
The looking-glass self
Your stabs hit me exactly where you hope they would
with such ferocity that gouges out all vanity and conceit.
A knife ****** through the illusions of my bloated ego,
An ugly distortion of an inner image through a plastic glass
which finally crumpled with me looking at the looking-glass self.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
BRUSH
Brush free the carpet
of mud and fluff.
Let’s brush off the hurtful comment too,
that snide remark, those graceless words.
We’re cleaning yet collecting,
straightening up, taking out the dirt.
Repositioning dust. Always temporary,
never the same, brush, brush,
to and fro, again – again - again.
SCOOP
The ice cream tub has one
to make the portion fair
for that ever-observant,
pernickety child.
When walking the dog,
we scoop the ****
carrying the plastic bag
to the waiting wanting bin.
Yet the all-important wooden
scoop is made from a block
of a 2 by 3, with chisel, gouge
and a steady hand.
This farmer’s friend, this open spoon,
lives in darkness and under the lid
of the deep grain bin,
to feed white chickens.
POKE
Getting it out,
placing it right –
but much is trial & error.
If it won’t go in,
give it a poke . . .
and it might.
Nowadays it’s a software app
to help you cheat at on-line games
and , God forbid, an important tool
in the tattooist’s bag – the hand poke,
liner and shader with standard
8 – 32 thumb screws and
completely autoclave able.
CUT
Hogwimpering drunk
or ****** out of mind.
Seventies slang for
individual incapacitation.
A cut can hurt,
display the inner
through incision
in the outer.
Reveals, opens up,
allows a division from
one to another.
This cut of meat on the slab?
For you, madam?
I can cut it up
nice and small
for the baby to chew.
RAKE
Lying there in the long summer grass,
it needs standing up, its teeth cleaned.
When autumn comes it redeems itself,
clearing the path, letting the lawn breath.
In the hand of sculptor, ceramicist, modeller
it fashions variously, cuts, pulls away, gouges,
scrapes, a multi-purpose stick with two ends:
of wrapped wire, of ribboned steel.
LOOK
To make sure it’s right:
correct and straight,
balanced, in proportion.
The magnifier helps,
the camera too,
getting the angle,
the position , the light
gauged . . . with a little looking.
You have to look,
see?
HIT
Whatever needs placing firmly,
needs fixing permanently,
can do with a hit (or two).
A nail with a hammer,
a door with a foot,
it could be a winner,
and right on target,
strike out the opposition,
disable the enemy.
A killer noun.
I prefer the verb.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
Red spatter across green.
Ants sing.
Caterpillars pour eggnog.
A tree is raised.
Bug Christmas.
Strands of Brown tinsel lead up.
Carpeting a tan oval.
Over the ridge, and onto a bridge.
A deep, sunken hole on either side.
Devoid.
The crows have had their feast.
Lower.
Agape.
A cave lined with whitish stones.
Further, the slope continues down.
Two mirrored hills.
Gouges are ravines,
creating flowing rivers.
Down,
the red till it touches green.
Above,
the sky is mesmerizing,
drawing me in.
White clouds transform.
The sun is gone.
Blotted out, but no rain.
Deeper.
A nearing roar.
Below is celebration.
Above the blades,
severity.
Paralyzed.
You ran me over with a lawn mower
and so the lawn was painted christmas.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
Before we read or speak or rest further,
you owe promise to a favor–
I want you to walk directly out of your door
during the most lucid scene of day,
or the most haunting moment of inner-night
Walk until your feet come to a
sudden
instinctive
halt
Listen to clamor, or
whatever surrounds you
Lift all volumes of your
puja
quietude
as a psalm
Focus on humanities scrapings
or the long graceful stroke of
matriarchal firman in her most
peculiar
stage
of cankered innocence
Lecture the calamity of her fictionless plot and
digest what the spiritually deaf cannot, and allow it to
find what triggers you the hardest
what
gouges
the prompts threadbare
It may be the indifferent hiss of cars passing
and it may be the expression plastering the jaw
of all of that unprocessed energy
ambling
on
by
It may even be the weather spilt
from her majesties
archaic entrails
Something will eventually do you in
but it ultimately
takes practice at varying degrees
I've done it when I was awake
I've done it in dreams
Either way
there's more mirrored in fragmented cohesion
than it
quite often
seems
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
A fool once said
That “there is power and those too weak to seek it”
As he burned upon the pyre of his own foolishness
Blinded by willful ignorance as motherhood,
The primeval weapon of life,
Descended upon him like the sparrow pair
Drive down the hawk
And the mother car gouges
The human hand that grabs at her kittens.
Love carves open fools with
Its power stretching back
To when life first raged against the death
Daring to take the newborn future of the world.
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 7:03 PM UTC
In Memory of My Beginning
We of fitter gun were harassed in our youth by the file, the use of which is an art. It’s not just rubbing the file back and forth. Every stroke should count and move you one step closer to a smooth, polished finish without gouges or abrasion marks. Just like growing up really; like life. Hence:
At Arborfield, remember where we learned to use a file
On a wicked lump of mild steel they gave us for our own?
Reduce its size they told us, and that without a smile.
So we set-to with hands that ached, stiff fingers and a groan.
Two inches square it had to be within a 'thou' or two.
Push fitted through an aperture, eight differing ways all told.
And by miracle (craft) that metal was transformed by me and you
With a Four Inch smooth and lots of chalk, and even though now old
I recall as though I were still there, bent over at the bench, and still
Unsure of what my life might be, what even I should dare
With this feeler gauge and set square, scraper, tap and drill,
The which to shape this wicked lump into the perfect square.
The perfect square, what a hope; that shape for which we then aspired.
Compelled, it's true reluctantly at times but which by none the less
Were laid foundations for the lives we've subsequently had;
And the which by some admired.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
Every third day of the third week in July for the last six years
I would crawl out onto the hot, black shingled roof of our white and gray two story shuttered house
and I would try to count the stars in the southern sky
The course grains of each shingle would burn deep gouges into my knees and hands as if each shingle was punishing me for sitting on them.
But I hadn't a care in the world
For I had a reason and a purpose to be there
You see, that third day was my day, that third week was my week..
It was all mine...the day I would lose myself into the universe
As I nestled into my favorite spot, I leaned against the hard wood window frame, not caring for a second how I long i sat there. At that pristine moment, I just began to count the stars
Each single star I counted, whether it be faded as the night or bright as the day, was surrounded by complete darkness. A pitch black of nothing.
Those were the lonely stars I saw and I breathed once again.
Each single star i counted, was all alone and afraid in the vast deepness of space with nothing to embrace them except for my eyes and my casual memories and I breathed once again.
This is my healing place. My escape from the life threatening complexities that invaded my inner being. I witnessed the thousands of morsels of light in the southern sky as if they were tiny demons millions of light years away, haunting and watching over me each and every night. For they can no longer touch me or break me apart. They will become the broken.
I have found my place of solace on top of that hot, black shingled roof of our white and gray shuttered house. Many peaceful nights I counted the stars, only to lose to count after I reached one hundred. My eyes would glaze over with an undue purpose of peace and I breathed once again as I started to count the stars all over again.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC
if you looked at my shoulders and my wrists
and how broadly they are set
how far from delicate and fragile
or if you looked and the thickness of my waist
and the heft of my weight
i doubt you would expect me to be this breakable
i certainly didnt
the truth is i dont really know if i am
im too afraid to let anyone close enough to try
the last person who molded me in their hands like clay left gouges where my organs should be
and a dozen half moon scars on my arms
and i am afraid to let anyone touch me again
even if they claim its to smooth out my cracks and gashes
im trying to seal them up myself
but i cant reach them all
my arms are only so long and when i try to reach the deep ones
the shallow ones crack open again
i dont know if i was poured into the wrong mold
or just made of the wrong clay
maybe i just got broken and glued back together wrong
i wonder if any of my pieces went missing
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
Outside the door
of the butler Dudman
Polly sticks up
two fingers at him
and mouths a string
of four-letter words
she strides off
towards the kitchen
where Mrs Gripe
(the cook)
is waiting for her
Polly's thoughts
are on George(master)
and what Dudman said
about her not
having *** with him
when he comes home
from the place
he is resting
with shell-shock
from the War
or you will be fired
she hears Dudman's voice
in her ears
as she climbs down
the stairs and along
the passage way
she passes Susie
near the kitchen
entering the scullery
where have you been?
Susie says eyeing her
never you mind
Polly says
and enters the kitchen
where Gripe stands
hands on her hips
and gazing at her
where you been?
Been waiting for you
Gripe says coldly
Polly bites her tongue
and goes to the sink
and begins
to peel the potatoes
cat got your tongue?
I said where have you been?
Gripe says
Mr Dudman wanted
to see me about something
but I am here now
Polly says
Gripe stares at her
what about?
Gripe says
ask him
Polly says
peeling the potatoes
with viciousness
I am asking you
Gripe says
and I expect respect
not rudeness girl
Polly gouges out
a potatoes eye
and turns towards Gripe
about something I do
and mustn't do in future
and I am sorry
for being rude
Polly says
Gripe stares at her
and Polly stares back
about you
and Master George?
Gripe says
Polly reddens
and looks away
and nods
be discreet and careful
if Master George
wants you
Gripe says quietly
and turns away
and puts a big saucepan
on the stove
silence comes
and Polly peels on
and wonders what
George is doing now
and maybe
she thinks
Gripe isn't always
the big cow.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC