"haemorrhage" poems
My duvet is a map,
It remembers all I’ve said,
And I’ve slept here and loved here and cried here,
All of my demons, awake in this bed
And I know I’m selfish, I’m unkind,
But I won’t apologise for half my crimes,
Because you’re closed up like a fist,
Ready to strike,
But I’d still lay with you here,
And we can set our fear alight,
I keep waiting for the bad news,
In every declaration,
And do the ghosts of your past,
Saturate our conversations?
I can’t hear you singing in the shower,
But I know the sounds of your heart,
You’ve grown entangled in my muscles,
And to tear you apart,
Would be a haemorrhage,
I would be bleeding soul for hours,
But take all you want from me,
Don’t ever give me flowers,
I can’t stand to watch them wither,
And I never say goodbye,
I'll tattoo a garden on my body,
And those will never die.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
I’m nervous, simply waiting for you to snap me
like a twig.
I’ve bundled my feelings, my loves and hates,
all those outspoken words
and all those silenced words,
into a little gift-wrapped, topped-with-a-bow
gift
for you.
You will accept it.
It is what comes after, when it reaches your nimble hands,
that frightens me.
You weave your skill so well,
like knitted discord inside, I can feel
when I reach in to see if I’m all still there.
Under many dark moons,
you leave your shadow to keep me company.
It walks beside me, keeping my head whirring on into the
small hours of the darkened dawn when
I see it
at the foot of my bed
watching me sleep.
You told it to crawl into all the tight spaces
inside me,
with me.
It reminds me of you, endlessly, always,
breathing your name as I surrender to closing my eyes,
vulnerable lying before your peering shadow,
it could stop me breathing in a heartbeat.
Only you, sweet devil, can keep me falling so hard
so fast,
shedding myself trailing from your bed to mine.
I linger in the smell of you wrapped around my clothes,
taken off in a hurry as your words,
sizzling spitfire,
hand-made cuts and invisible haemorrhage
shatter me to pieces
easy enough for you to pick and keep in
your bed until you are finally finished
with me.
All I feel is the burden of myself,
when I really have no burden to hold.
I’m a phone running out of battery when you need it most.
Filled with a frenzied panic, a slap of frustration passes your face
to use against me all that bottled irritation.
If I don’t touch you back you will
wield it against me,
blame for insensitivity, a slowly seeping coldness
I can fight off under your roaming form
in a shady light of fear.
Your emotional abuse is a character.
It has a body, limbs and hollow face and it can bruise me
with a single touch.
I never leave my body open with you.
And to what end do I let you paint me with your manipulations,
your scheming tactics
your irrevocable evidence I’m worth nothing more for you;
like a girl’s doll known to be too pretty,
putting sticky residue inside their goals at night.
So use me with your infamous fingers.
I dare you, do it.
Again.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:22 AM UTC
i do a really good imitation of a woodpecker with my hand clenched into a fist, knocking on my forehead, as if knocking on the forehead of others - i admit, i'm searching for an echo of the rat-tat-tat thumping drill for the cure of headaches.
when i inherit what i might inherit
i'll book a ticket to switzerland's auschwitz,
but drinking a bottle of whiskey
and a few beers each day... i'm praying to the gods:
gods! a heart attack! gods! a second haemorrhage!
gods! a heart attack! darwinism taught me
insignificance... so i countered...
well... an insignificant theory and practice...
like nietzsche said about the darwinists:
'imagine speaking for the entire human race!'
well, english journalists already do...
and i'm like hey hey hooray for iraq!
get blown up by a bomb i'd like my limbs back,
or at least the idea of having them once...
shiny happy people holding hands!
**** old age and grandchildren, there's no
accomplishment in that... fake teeth like
no teeth at all... apple goo pulp and then porridge...
what a great reward! ooh! ah! i'm all geared up
for that fear of death... no... i'm scared of being 100 years old;
i wouldn't be, had i been born a Galapagos turtle.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
The darkness it burnt upon my
Angel wings, they wilted, with
Each moment of this forsaken
Place, my soft skin did haemorrhage
Tainted with each breath every
Movement that I crawled upon
This acidic land corroded my light .
My white turned yellow, changed
From pure to black, I was in agony
As that which was white should
Never be turned to that. I was
Winged, not able to give motion
To the air, I was a ground dweller
As if wings were a weight a persecution
To the time of air, now dragging like
A weight a conscience upon my back.
I must have walked upon this scared
Land, I must have moved these once
Pure now tainted as dragged like sin
Behind my back.
I was before I fell, I contemplated
That which I had been and that
Which this land whispered to me
Become. The light was dulled, smothered
Like a wet blanket over a fire, Suffocated
What burnt bright, now I was being
Extinguished my dulled light.
I remembered I fell and my skin smelt
Sulphuric with a hint of light, I knew
I had bleed hatred behind me, I knew
That I had been left, abandoned to this
Isolation. My wings had regained there
Imagery, they were like crows feathers
Pure, dark, black as night.
I despised those above, their light, ignited
Hatred, deep within where something that
Beat but know was just black, I launched
Upon the breeze to take me vengeance
Upon that purity that glided, flowed.
I am that which will take those of higher
morals and bring them to the place of
Solitude, of loneliness, they will remember
The pain of those they had been left in the
Darkness, For light can only last so
Long before it becomes what was before.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
Every day is a concussion,
where I feel that
my thoughts are suffering
from blunt force trauma.
Slumped within the confines
of self..
Blood vessels burst in a rainbow
of fluctuation and I think
was it all worth it.
Should I have let that last thought
haemorrhage.
Instead of getting up again and again...
Realising that after the first reaction I should
have stayed down ,Succumbing to the
eventuality.
That I could be what I wanted, what I thought
I could become. I was like a flower,
Dying before it blossomed..
And all that was left
was dead memories
crushed before they could even show
there beauty.
Now just wilted dreams becoming nightmares.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC
Swapping astrology puzzle pieces
Stitching, patch working like cartoons writing typwriters
How many holes can I fit into my ear, can fix self brand new
I can sew
when is drunk wants the toilet to be a female therapist
done with psychologists
feel benzo anymore
taste narco anymore
Psychotropic **** arounds, ******* around with their sandy chalk trysyclo
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
A hundred people, having known our girl,
who knew her love, and loved her in return,
came to her funeral, and there were others,
too distant, too fragile,
or too old to understand,
who would have come as well.
You were not with us, families and friends,
to see her coffin go stately to the fire;
you were not there to see us spread her ashes
on hillside and seashore, say a last goodbye.
But you, who never knew of her in life,
you also wept when you heard of her sudden death
from haemorrhage in the brain,
aged thirty-six and pregnant,
as if the facts,
the words alone, were tragic. You were touched
by the death of one whom you had never known.
You shared our loss.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:07 AM UTC
familiar
there's no space like home
no company like a handmade family
no way of love like the handsome routine
no elbow room like the familiar
a spell of life til
an itch takes to the brain
and inches of ***** tape spool
ideas of wetter play
haemorrhage and pool
and it's jostled
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 10:12 PM UTC
Distant as the far-off maritime state,
undeniable as the endless mismatch
of rock turmoil in the centre of the Earth,
and as vital as the pound of flesh, pulp
and lung, tired bronchiole, wasted lyric,
and cancer's ever-present weight
upon your mind.
Familiar as your lover's intonation,
as she asks of the breadth of your love,
attractive as the modest celebrity,
with legs splayed in bronzed celebration
of this, her life's affirmation.
Bound as the pages of your old journal,
full of misdirected sorrow and old, old love.
Curtailed as the dance floors abandoned
at request of the lights, sugared, spilt drinks
to rot the wooden boarding, now devoted
to misery-cleaners and the bringers
of tomorrow.
Firewalled as the world is to debt.
Cardboard shop-fronts, straw-men hippies
and bent products, cash out at Christmas,
then a haemorrhage in the New Year of
old floods and foreclosures. Covered up
as is the rusted kettle to stifle flame.
Lost as flavour is to ketchup, as winter
is to hope of heat, to desire of spring
and the end of forever-night. Thin as
my wrists, as hands hold the banister,
gaining small balance in life's rare incline,
long stripped of exercise, of enterprise.
Unutterable as the soul-sounds
I feel when I pick up the guitar,
as unattainable in this life,
as is beauty once my knotted fingers
press consciously upon the strings.
A truth legacy found in blood and
distortion, found in intuitive drives,
warped by consumption. Dismissed
theory of Atlantean ties,
of old Babylon
and Reptilian lullabies.
Luring, luring, luring to distraction,
into the night and the plight,
into the absence of Arcturian light!
Keep close to me, please,
oh, feeble recollection,
please take me to truth,
in this, my meditation.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
there’s usually two ways of writing an abstract
like one might have written one for
a chemistry experiment, a debriefing, a plot
summary as you might have it, although
in philosophy it’s either geometric of algebraic,
to take into account a chance meeting between sartre (b)
and descartes (a) i can only utilise the algebraic
in a framework of a platonic schematic, i.e. dialogue,
and since dialogue then casually, in conversation, like so:
example no. 1 (exercise of good faith)
(a) i think i had
a brain haemorrhage
(b) i doubt it.
example no. 2 (exercise of bad faith)
(b) i had
a brain haemorrhage
(a) how do you know?
(i.e. i’ll deny this statement.)
it really is as simple as that, after all, all the ball of wool
untangling in the standard philosophy books is meddled at times,
it is hard to craft an entry of a decent dialogue without
the one-sided stance of monologues that fill the pages of books,
but take any major tenet of the two philosopher’s works
and set a scene of two buddies talking in a pub, and that’s you
having skipped the best 200 pages of untimely meditations
and about 400 pages of being and nothingness - not out of rudeness
but on the simple basis: **** i understood it!
so if anything can be relevant in modern philosophy, and that’s
modern from 17th century to the present era
it is only relevant when applying a platonic schematic,
because it has to be talked about, and when talked about
simplified, because why would anyone want to over-complicate
and apply an aristotelian schematic of inspection
by writing very crude philosophies by the simple process
of over-complicating the thinking process as that, which
does not necessarily need thought attached to it - like at present,
with western society debasing any original theology
by forcing all the ills of the world as the adequate justification...
the origin of this, you will find,
is not from the people who suffer as such,
but from people who are safe, healthy and satiated with
adequate materialism,
the kind to have a very english middle-class sentimentality
to care for whimsical sensibilities, prudences and etiquette in general,
that's how placebo atheism works, it's still a ****** theology,
the real atheists? hmm, guess... the list is pretty dramatic
in the way they approached coupling freedom and will
and others - that's why i prefer my invention of coupling
a placebo effect with atheism... rather than writing out
a theology of absence - look... here's a trick:
a theology of indefinite absence (a) / theology of definite absence (the),
and then the ism from empiricism.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
and why do you think
they shot the serial killer
in the back of the head?
you know, having experienced
a brain haemorrhage aged
21 i'd know... there's nothing
kafkaesque about it...
the slow bleeding out via a hole
in the cranium, you really
are a decapitated cockroach by
this point (living two weeks more
dying from starvation), but in
the serial killer's case also a little
bit fidgety...
oddly enough impairment of the brain
doesn't mean your heart stops
ticking... poor kurt cobain
with that shotgun wound of his...
i mean a stab to the heart is wildly anticipated,
but why would you shoot your brains
out, given that the ***** per se
is not an automaton pump, or a decipherer
of toxins (the liver)?
the brain is a puppeteer of bones.
it's the flow of the haemoglobin
that's kind, kind enough for you to be
conscious and decide your last thoughts
on the matter, auto-suggestive atheism
is what i call it... shoot the thing that's
functioning automatically - your
brain is a paradoxical dual carriage way,
it allows both science and mysticism
to reach the ultimate, reasonable parallel;
basically... don't mess with
the sponge soaking up the porridge;
asked politely, seneca slit his wrists
in a hot bath.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
Will they say I lived all my life
On suburban roads
Not of the city or of the country
But a place in between
Will they say I never took any risks,
Never had to hack my arm off in extremis
Never eating anybody's cousin in desperate straits?
Like millions I struggled from one pay day to another,
Trying to stop the haemorrhage of money through the bars and pubs of the town...
Trying to keep up, to keep the income over the outgoings.
I don't care what the Joneses do.
I long for the wild places without fences or walls,
Where the birds wheel and the wind blows lustily,
Where the sound of the sea is never far away
Where the shores rustle their greeting to the waves
And the driftwood tumbles up and down the beach.
I long to run without worrying I am going to break a knee or hip,
Long for those days when I didn't know what I had, who I was, what I was going to be.
"Youth is wasted on the young," said my grandmother, and I protested, but I didn't understand
Until now
How little I appreciated my youth while I had it.
Will they say I had talent but I
Frittered it away on unfinished projects
Neither brilliant nor awful, but somewhere
in between?
Will they say I never took any risks,
Never embroidered all my lovers or
Revealed my innermost self?
Like millions, I was always writing my book, a novel or
a handbook or an autobiography.
The truth is, I started too many times, and finished
Never.
I long for a place of my own, a library
A place to keep everything that means anything
A place to watch my family on the wall, laughing and smiling
While I write or sew or research or simply read
A place for being and a place for remembering and everything in its place.
I long to write without worrying about the consequences,
Long to say what I think
A place to scour the corners of my memory, to see the pattern of my life.
Will they say, they hadn't realized I was still alive?
Will they say, I never kept in contact, which is true
I have tested my ability to live without them all
And I can.
What will they say about the person I have become?
What can I say? I tolerated difference and saw none.
I loved the people I loved
Did the things that I did
And I am not sure what sort of future I made for myself, or what past.
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 7:10 AM UTC
My eyes bleed emotion
The blood is clear,
Like a cut I weep
Upon the surfaces
Of my face,
And leave a trail
Easy to follow upon
The floor, I am bleeding
Euphoria,
Despair,
Emotion,
It feels raw when
My emotions
Haemorrhage,
I can not stop, I feel
That I will never stop
Happiness,
Is as uncontrollable as
Sadness,
I feel drained
Upon my features
Muscles,
Mind,
Eyes,
Contracting, aching, yearning,
A mixture uncontrollable,
I bleed tears upon a tissue,
Softly wiped off my features
This is my
Agitation,
Affection,
Feelings,
Congealed in one place
"I bleed emotions from my eyes"
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
Sinister expectations were delivered in charcoal
script, it had coalesced in a quagmire of words
on the page. My thought lingered in onyx vapour.
Nightfall awakens my deranged scribing's, I hear the
voices crawling inside my veins controlling my fingers
progressions. Pretty little obscurity in my thoughts.
Midnight opens irrational rantings, I syringe the
bleeding ink that haemorrhage's from my pores.
Decayed ink frayed on the sides, my darkness in words.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
Poetry gushing out
From a severed artery
Everything is bleeding
Away from me.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
it was all oh so very sad,
a guy has a brain haemorrhage
gets diagnosed as a schizophrenic
starts saying things like:
i’m charles the third, i’m charles the third!
you know: ***** cut me through
ended up being a hyena on my mother’s
payroll of the united front of housewives...
and... as all tragedies assert... one whiskey later
i was dry on the wordplay, and to the tune of ‘ta da!’ wrote this.
now monkey get peanut and elephant get banana...
no for either? oh... eddy lizard then... keep ‘em
rattling phrased i: i’m a comedian funniest telling jokes
when telling them pretending to be an act’ ‘tore
slicing through canterbury with weak knees - but stiff lips mind you -
although i was wearing the iron curtain for a corset
and buzz wording a spider to an amalgam with
web and fly and juicy to then go further and
word it to an anagram with the otherwise aimed
for hope of storming in and saying... vietnam!
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
*ooh, watch out... Shaky Stevens is having a go: you spin me right round, baby right round, like a record baby round round - a quiet one in Soho; with your impressions to introduce me to **** apologies in me wedding dressed and savouring the happy-life affair - S & G bemused by Nietzschean decease of god and theatre, 80s pop and the death of opera: communist attack on the bourgeoisie will take anti ante-Marx approach; i quiet enjoy knowing what i know and leaving the rest to mascara and ***** scrutiny of exaggerated libido.*
i'll be laughing at you when you
conjure up cancer...
huh? why not?! you misdiagnosed me
as schizophrenic when i
suffered a brain haemorrhage -
troll anti-antonymous ahoy -
you clearly spelled out S U R V I V A L
O F T H E F I T T E S T.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
A sharp pure white light,
Just a bright white light,
When dying you see it...
But I have a sensible explanation,
You'd say 'Oh it was so obvious!'
When I tell 'It's due to haemorrhage in vision cortex of the brain.'
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
“I miss you,” she said, her voice laden with longing.
sifting through syllables and filtering fiction, she sought her belonging.
flesh and bones and layers of love between her palms,
emptied chests of memories and hand-written celebratory psalms.
they flew to the fire under her hand, listen as they crackle and burn –
mercilessly licked by the tongues of time, as hourglasses overturned.
piles of sand scattered on the ground, indents of fingertips lay –
echoes of a touch once lingered, but then lost their way.
a kiss shared here trapped in this corner, a smoldering gaze there.
a heart shattered upon this stone, a one last wistful stare.
and now added to the list of lost things, upon the floor is she;
eyes open wide, hazel and bright, though nothing more she sees.
the doctors came in a hurry, like vultures to their prey –
a blistering of white coats, sterile scents and gray.
her report was released a few days later, spat out by some machine;
the details told everything, the crime scene bleached and clean.
“a useless heart,” the report said, “was the cause of her
falling down to the ground, lifeless; broken and dead.”
“one missing finger where a ring had snapped off under duress,
a haemorrhage in the brain from sheer insurmountable stress,
four broken blood vessels leading to the heart.
curious is that the heart never worked from the start.”
“deceased is she: a shell, long gone and cast away.
date of death undetermined, it was certainly not today.
rotted away was the heart, long before she bled.
it had long stopped beating; she was already dead.”
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
Attuned to the ligaments of her passing mood
the contortionist shows her teeth to the dust,
In East London by Singapore, Hong Kong
all of those places-
Bow legs rip open the universe, in one
style, then, the practice meditates inside her again
Haemorrhage blue curtains warp into several layers of eyes
so that her knees dance up past her molasses joy
The tube-stations scream, the cadillacs sing,
the catacombs crack their knuckles and laugh
The chieftains know in time that all sand is red
as the sepulchres pass into and with her mouth
The Camden markets shake into hybrids of summer;
the neophyte ways that a bat breaks down a tree, eats its coal-
And I wish that people would stop hanging her,
like a dead man with bad breath from a branch
And using the symbol for their own gains, limiting fear
which numbers their tongue in fermenting numbers;
She is just one fly whizzing from one tree
to the next.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
I am trapped in the wreckage of my life,
Mangled thoughts ensnare me,
I haemorrhage in depression.
I drove through life not caring of the turns,
But when one is not observant,
Losing focus was always going to happen.
I was entangled in the ruins of what had become
Crippled in reflection of what was,
I was the catalyst of what I had become.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
Rhythmic incessant thuds,
Drum rolls of flowing blood.
They ringed in my ears,
Welcomed my deepest fears.
A fragility of the flesh,
Shredding open with each new lash.
A fortress of stones, bone-brittle,
Shattering like an overflooded skull.
Haemorrhage, haemorrhage
How they gush,
Bright red, lovesick
Always in a rush.
To think that each wall I built
Only heightened the fall.
Each scar was a sensation,
I know they watched in awe.
Of flesh and stone,
They contest my throne.
Non-consensual,
but eventual.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 7:58 AM UTC
crimson haemorrhage
life expelled torn asunder
skin flayed decaying
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Endurance through unknown chains
Wrapping themselves around each bone
Making any move beyond possible
A catastrophe to breathe,
In or out; no attempt!
Made by a swollen chest!
Your heart, about to explode
From the guilty pain
Caused by your brain
These chains clank and wriggle
Around your very throat..
Breeding warped words
Out of your mouth
Your damaged womb
Of priceless pleasure
Copulates with heavy burden
Passing onto old wounds
The emergence of haemorrhage
From lips that could smile in bliss
And kiss...
With no proof
That life exists
Beyond that shared moment
And you..
Still in self made chains
asking for some justice
None can give.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC
Lobotomizing my emotions
so not to fall on a sabre of
indecisions that haemorrhage
in my capacity to foresee.
I am a rendition of contorted
ambitions that I want to dissect
upon a realization that all is
not I wanted it to be.
Asphyxiate my breath, cull my
words so not to expel the true.
My reflection will be deducing all
that fell silent in vain before.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC