"gouging" poems
there are bones between my teeth
moonlight glimmering in my eyes
dried blood in my nails, in my hair
my head pounding (thump. thump. thump.)
you know they say blood is thicker than water but that just means blood is more likely to stick in my throat
coughing up family ties one by one
glistening red memories, leaving only a metallic aftertaste
sick nightmare fantasy of ripping open bodies
im the monster in your fairytale stories
lets do a bit of editing, perhaps?
lets shred the whole **** book, perhaps?
lets set fire to the town, perhaps?
im tired of pretending to be your precious child, perfect student, "the innocent one"
i want to paint obscene material in your blood (in the name of art, of course)
@god do you ever feel unreal? are you even real? am i?
no i have to be real, I can feel the blood dripping down my arm, the bones cracking in my spine
im real. im real. im real.
everything hurts!!!!! fuCK i cant wait to rip you all to shreds !!!!!!
T H I S I S N O T A D R E A M
walking on eggshells is far more difficult with digitigrade legs, im not gonna try to be nice anymore
i dont need to be nice anymore
why be nice when you can **** why just **** when you can slaughter?
nobody can stop me from lighting up the post office,
nobody can stop me from gouging out your eyes
im no god but im closer than you
im no angel but you might be soon
close your blinds, lock your doors
big bad wolf is back again
bigger, badder, better wolf
greater, darker, madder wolf
teeth like knives and claws like daggers
six golden eyes staring into your soul
oh right, thats me!
i m i n y o u r h o m e
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
I am a knight,
Yet, I carry no sword, nor ride a sturdy stead.
My domed armour, an architectural wonder,
Its smooth curvature, my only defence.
Fragile, I withstand great force.
Unyielding, I surrender under pressure
When struck, I succumb to my inevitable fate.
Helpless as the enemy raids my stronghold.
Fractured, blood oozes from my gouging wound.
Shattered, surrounded by the fragments of my doomed existence.
Discarded, I am left, forgotten.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
Golden hour daughter
Splitting eyes gouging light—
Harboring disfunction, not
Finding sensory stimulation
Beyond illusion— overactive/>
Am I a life force,
Or a chair for it to sit?
Stitching pixels to form—
A drive to keep an open
Ripped rib wind— about
My drouth stomach,
Itching, salivating…
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
away from the light we fly
with an innate attraction to darkness,
and when it hearkens,
we willingly follow,
covering our ears
gouging our eyes out
without thought
we wallow
in darkness
again
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
A trust indemnified by chance to breathe
Gouging ankles keep knots to wreath.
Caduceus' serpents hold fast to feet and leg
A pledge was brought and signed without need or beg.
Grace permeates the steps like **** in field
Almost manifest for outstretched hands to yield.
Benevolent after thoughts bring what share they can
Self-reverent past to wrought things that dare sway hand.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado
no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One
over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******
historian
the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better
take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler
though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed
the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser
noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive
it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say
this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen
3:59am
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
I am called a scrooge
as I dislike this greedy
grimy "holiday" of gorging
gratuitously on cookies dipped in mashed potatoes.
People grabbing & gouging
for electronic pop culture distractions
to celebrate the "birth" of a baby
from a lady who claimed to be a ******
Everyone expects something
to be given, pressure permeates
those souls who wait 'till last minutes eve
as laborers looking for reprieves of this
audacious onslaught of wild eyed drooling
consumers
while I shutter at home watching TV's screaming
*Why wait 'till the "holidays"
when you could have gotten that anytime?*
Kids with detailed lists of wants make parents
feel like **** if the money's not there--
traveling to visit relatives the family cares little about
while everyone sends fake happy cards espousing
happy scenes of fireside matching sweaters next to a
tree cut from outside brought in--
a metaphor for the biannual church families
dressed up to sing hymns and drink wine.
So you can call me a scrooge,
or even a grinch,
I don't really give a ****
cause I've been giving gifts
consistently loving thy fellow man.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 2:27 PM UTC
Words, words, worms! My mind is swarmed
With them. Ants file in through the sticky
Canals, chattering, stamping their little black feet.
They use me. I am their harboring medium,
A visitor in my own head.
Black, empty mouths flutter and dance and signal
Amongst themselves, crowding my skull,
A murmuration of phrases and guttural sounds.
I mustn't tell fully what they say.
They draw forth black and bubbling swamps,
Wicked crows, the yawping millions, pecking,
Pecking, gouging with yammering beaks
At every smooth, young innocent.
There is death in this tumult of words.
Let it not take me.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
A ******** enthusiast
Whose pessimism is intrinsic
And not fashioned
A frequenter the doldrums
With a penchant for exaggeration
A confused Scorpio
Plagued by ghosts of former selves
Meandering along a thorny path
Under darkened infinite skies
Waiting for the severed backbone
I Possess trailing behind
To latch on
And offer restoration and purpose
An eternal student
A slave to academia
With an insatiable hunger for knowledge
In the field of economics
Governed by perfectionism
That will be my demise
A feminist
A riot grrrl
With an acute fascination with morbidity
A worshipper of rock music
And Professional headbanger
An enlightened inner-directed soul
An awakened dreamer
Gouging out
The remaining fragments of delusion
From the eyes
Embracing realism
A sufferer
Aspiring to be human.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
For what reason do I bare these arms
if their flick does not fluster
and their embrace does not ease
For what reason do I glance with these eyes
if their concern does not comfort
and their ghost does not give
For what reason do I speak from these lips
if their sweetness does not soften
and their cool does not calm
If my touch leaves no fingerprints
when I press skin to the world
then what is the purpose of my effort?
Or perhaps I do leave marks
a stinging slap
a gouging gaze
a ravenous rip
Then my resolve is of hellish terms
and I am consumed by demons
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
it's not like one of those clean cuts, that leave behind nothing but a mere, white scar,
but rather that of a gouging wound; a piece of me,
no, no, an immense chunk of me, torn away.
twisted, strained, contorted, ripped,
until finally broken free
but wait, this isn't free
anything but free
like an eagle, destined to soar, held prisoner in a cage that's too small.
longing to be set free,
to fly
but simply
can't.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
Dear Me,
You ask only others if your work is good, you never actually trust in your own judgment. People have told you your writing is beautiful, so why don't you believe them? It must be the same reason you don't find yourself beautiful, because when you read your work or look in the mirror you wish it were different. For others to enjoy something even more the maker should be confident, so why aren't you? I hear you telling people who love you, you have no worth. I hear you telling yourself in the mirror you hate what you see. I hear you crying at night because of all the hate you hold for yourself. I hear you sitting in your bed gouging your heart out every night because you wish to be different. I've wrote to tell you to stop! When you do this you're hurting me the most, for I am the only one who's tortured by these sounds, for I am the only one forced to hear them everyday. Please stop, for you are killing me! I don't want to suffer anymore...... Please, I can't take this pain much longer. I know you're stronger than this! So please, please....... Please......just stop.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
Everytime you
Whispered
In her ear
The car swerved
Each time
You slid
Your fingers
Over her shoulder
I grew unnerved
You looked
At me
And said
Your fantasy
Was between us
I never hated you more than then
She sobbed
I cussed
I hope
Someday
You know how it feels
To want to
**** a man
And drive away
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 8:06 PM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
A few hole punchers
A bag full of oranges
A head perplexing
The king will always rule for himself
The sea turtles never lie
The miscommunication destroying chaos
“Here’s a glass of sweet tea”
Gouging out flashbacks
Purposely watching stains spread
Wishing I could count to one million
Sailing the Mediterranean Sea
Roaming The Great Plains
Soaring above The Troposphere
“I want to feel the black and white”
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
The penguins march
On a stretch of snowy starch
Ignoring the onlookers
But wolf whistling among the crowd, the hookers
The sounds clearly getting louder
Is that... is that gun powder?
Gouging out the eyes to block out the sight
Is definitely not the answer to your plight
The confetti flies upwards and away
To turn into a malleable *** of clay
Juggling the yard of goat string cheese
More after this message? Yes please!
Longing on the thought of belonging
As our not so miserable existence we seem to be prolonging
Your thoughts, i wish to sway
With my words, let me take you away
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
I'm fatally dancing advancing with and toward
a slow zoom through hallways to the dark room
trying to shorten my strides or grip the walls at my sides gouging
a fingernail fear of mortality that makes out the shape
of the cursive-signed names of everyone or thing ever in a
not-so clever attempt to accept the thief that's in and is the night
I breathe heavily and wide to prove that I'm alive until my ribs
touch the white-walls rubbing along in a washboard song
that peels paint like turpentine with a rank smell wafting
from the room at the end of the line and time knuckling under
the backs of my knees scraping off of the floorboards slouching across
the adjacent door frames where exit signs should read thee
forehead pulsating expelling sweat to absolve me and for moments
the room might shine and I am still
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
I regret (usually too late), the authority
Of the sitting government.
Any government.
Once in power (I regret that word)
The back room broking good ole boys
At the exit polls loose their senses,
Sight and hearing.
Feelings get hurt.
Taxes are wasted.
The trough gouging is too loud.
I resent lying.
I regret (mostly from the evidence),
The too full baskets of organized religion
Overflowing from indulgences;
The Roman fingers
Poaching coins for another memorial window;
The glass cathedrals
And get-a-way cars.
I resent hypocrisy.
I regret people don't arrive on time
(no matter the time);
Especially when outside anyplace waiting,
Perhaps a light for a smoke is needed,
Or there's inclement weather,
The nearby company is distasteful.
Waiting dinner.
Late children are the worse.
They cause worry.
I resent the selfishness of time.
I regret being diseased,
And hated for it.
When in remission I'm loved.
Active, not so much.
The know-its say it's a matter of will.
Like you can cure
Cancer or smallpox with thoughts.
The one symptom alone, hurt,
Would need temples of meditating chanters!
I resent condemnation.
I regret failed relationships:
Family, friends and women.
My thoughts are mine;
If I said everything
You'd have a different opinion
Of what I am.
So we don't
Because we can't
Say things: we would appear as socio-paths.
We think good and bad;
Therefore we're real.
A virtual humanity.
I resent blathering.
I regret an educational system
That believes in paradigm shifts;
Spouting new-age lingo:
If it's not broken, break it;
Selling out to athletics,
Or Mr., Ms and Mrs. know
All about education;
They went to school.
Bullies top the list.
I resent permissive parents.
Most of all,
I regret
My resentments.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
In my throat you have taken root-
The radical violates my lips
Gouging my smile until teeth are broken
Its humid tendrils drop black soil in the cavity of my lungs
The bark of the ***** startled the rabbit
All this reflected in the eye of a raven
Firstborn:
How have I known thee?
Surely it is not our first meeting you and I spring
Come and gone are the lifetimes
Past eternities we have known:
In which we ran naked through the orchards
Sleeping beneath a sky of stars innumerable
A sky still ****** of smoke
I walked in the cool evening
Two dogs at my heels
When we met
I was born and the words were dammed up
The flute of Pan was played as in moonlight we lay
Unafraid Spring and I
Who hath sculpted mountains?
Wind and water are the paint and brush
Stone and flame-Ice and sea
Lightning dancing cloud to cloud
Surely Thor's begun to weld
Upon the anvil of the sky
What is poetry to a flower
A single petal gives justice to a thousand lifetimes
Oh to be
In the vein of a leaf
Or the one running blue o'r your thin wrist
Be still and listen
For a night
For a day
God sings a song of Spring
Love not thyself
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
It all made sense now, the road map of my demise.
You could've **** me with your longing heart.
How could you let a broken painting get in the way?
How could you presume, a friendly rapport was feigned?
Why did you have to wait, till the dam can contain it no more?
I felt fate yanked my heart's strings, tangling it.
My brain, rupturing from the cruel deductions.
Tormented cranium—screws gouging out of it.
It all made sense now. Anger draws me towards retaliation. However, I choose not to bear arms; forgivness cries out.
I sever my hand against you, for I will not let this get in the way of our longing for each other.
I abhor hatred against you, because our sweet memories overwhelmed me; because I love you.
My exquisite geyserite, blossoming middlemist, and my Alma mater. I have never forgotten you, I never did—I never will.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
Do you remember every drive in the dark like I do
Or is it something you left behind like the leaves abandon trees
Couldn’t we have been more than another line in your notebook
Unless it was always the falling stars that held your attention
Mention of your name still carries weight but I’m not sure they see it
Even though I can’t keep my hands from shaking but I know I’m getting better
Not even the empty frames taste like the sadness
That you always said lingered in the back of your throat
Even when you were reaching for my hand
Verbs traced along bare skin and even then you said it persisted
Every word you spoke made the needles plunged into my skin seem more real
Ripping tearing slashing and gouging
You never seemed to notice the blood stains or maybe you thought they were yours
Countless times I tried to bring you back but I could never find the light in your eyes
Unfocused and without direction a magnet attracted to something other than the truth
Repulsed by your own touch but you never shied away from mine
Validation in all of it forms could never reach far enough at least not from my lips
Ebbing away like the tide and we all know I’m not strong enough to stop the moon
Often we sat in silence for hours when all words failed
For your own sanity this was all I could do and I still don’t know that it helped
How did I ever let things get so far out of hand anyway
Every second I spent trying to hold you close and keep you safe
Repulsed by everything I had to offer I guess I can only apologize
~W.C.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Caress my neck softly
Hold my body close to yours
Tempt these sweet chord progressions
Acoustic affection’d freestyle
Finger my frets with delicate touches
Mother of pearl inlays sweat
Bending vibrating strings
Crank my volume **** high
Sliding capos moan
Play lead in poetic rifts
Soundhole oozes sensual melodies
Gouging pickguard’s scars
Tune me in the key of your love
Strum me hard…
Let’s make beautiful music together
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC