"hypertensive" poems - Hello Poetry

Sanguine Choleric Melancholic Phlegmatic Phlegmatic Melancholic Choleric Sanguine Blood oranges And hibiscus tea White wine Carcrash memory Hypertensive He straps me down on the table This is for my own good. Too much blood they say, Too much red wine too much liquid Too much My hand is swollen My stomach distended The vein in my forehead is bulging Too much blood A needle A leech A pen Blood oranges White wine A needle is a leech is a pen Is what the doctor ordered He straps me to the desk This is for my own good A cure Too much blood Too much tea Too many memories Too many thoughts Hypertensive Sanguine They say They hand me the scalpel And show me the line Too much I’ve had too too much red wine To be doing this A pen a leech a needle A bucket of blood A novel Sanguine Melancholic Choleric Phlegmatic This is the cure This is for my own good Too much much blood They hand me the pen I’ve had too too many Blood oranges To be doing this A scalpel is a pen Is a leech is a needle A bucket of blood is a novel (Bleeding is the cure) I bleed.

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Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC

ariel-evangeline-baptista

Dear Rilke, I must

Sanguine Choleric Melancholic Phlegmatic Phlegmatic Melancholic Choleric Sanguine Blood oranges And hibiscus tea White wine Carcrash memory Hypertensive He straps me down on the table This is for my own good. Too much blood they say, Too much red wine too much liquid Too much My hand is swollen My stomach distended The vein in my forehead is bulging Too much blood A needle A leech A pen Blood oranges White wine A needle is a leech is a pen Is what the doctor ordered He straps me to the desk This is for my own good A cure Too much blood Too much tea Too many memories Too many thoughts Hypertensive Sanguine They say They hand me the scalpel And show me the line Too much I’ve had too too much red wine To be doing this A pen a leech a needle A bucket of blood A novel Sanguine Melancholic Choleric Phlegmatic This is the cure This is for my own good Too much much blood They hand me the pen I’ve had too too many Blood oranges To be doing this A scalpel is a pen Is a leech is a needle A bucket of blood is a novel (Bleeding is the cure) I bleed.

63

It would be so good - just for a few moments - to wrap myself around the shell-solitude, which at the same time provides a mild consolation. Perhaps there would be less hypertensive pressure in the cages of my chest, which urges its infractuent volcanic eruptions. It would be good - at least just once - to see the One-Beloved building a sandcastle on the beach with the children. One should puppeteer into the silence of the inner Soul, whatever acquaintances or disguised friends say, so that the primordial vibration, which is at once related to and supportive of the Universe, can still maintain itself. An eternally thirsty, wounded desert-number would still say what I should hold back from time to time; "some" are chasing their fleeing dreams, while they are once again engaging in increasingly shallow, two-faced bargains. Nowadays, a person would do better not to open their beating heart to just anyone, and rather remain deliberately inaccessible, because the innermost dissolution can only truly happen if, squeezed out of Space and Time, the soul sheds its last, visceral earthly covering and recognizes its inner nature. It would be nice if a few caring helping hands could find owners for the objects that have become like dogs crouching in the doorways of downtown sikátor. Signs are scratched under the pores of the skin by the holy longings of loves believed to be immortal, the temporary intoxication-addictions of unearthly and cosmic floating between kisses, in which one would have to dissolve and be redeemed at the same time, so that a person can still feel after 40 that he has not been squeezed out. from the secret weddings of the spiral circles, and that he is not totally alone. In my vigils beyond dreams, the memories of happier idylls that have happened still accompany me honestly and faithfully.

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Sep 14, 2025

Sep 14, 2025 at 12:32 AM UTC

Tasi83

Spiral Circles Secret Wedding

It would be so good - just for a few moments - to wrap myself around the shell-solitude, which at the same time provides a mild consolation. Perhaps there would be less hypertensive pressure in the cages of my chest, which urges its infractuent volcanic eruptions. It would be good - at least just once - to see the One-Beloved building a sandcastle on the beach with the children. One should puppeteer into the silence of the inner Soul, whatever acquaintances or disguised friends say, so that the primordial vibration, which is at once related to and supportive of the Universe, can still maintain itself. An eternally thirsty, wounded desert-number would still say what I should hold back from time to time; "some" are chasing their fleeing dreams, while they are once again engaging in increasingly shallow, two-faced bargains. Nowadays, a person would do better not to open their beating heart to just anyone, and rather remain deliberately inaccessible, because the innermost dissolution can only truly happen if, squeezed out of Space and Time, the soul sheds its last, visceral earthly covering and recognizes its inner nature. It would be nice if a few caring helping hands could find owners for the objects that have become like dogs crouching in the doorways of downtown sikátor. Signs are scratched under the pores of the skin by the holy longings of loves believed to be immortal, the temporary intoxication-addictions of unearthly and cosmic floating between kisses, in which one would have to dissolve and be redeemed at the same time, so that a person can still feel after 40 that he has not been squeezed out. from the secret weddings of the spiral circles, and that he is not totally alone. In my vigils beyond dreams, the memories of happier idylls that have happened still accompany me honestly and faithfully.

4

I’ve tasted death at the bottom of a punch bowl synonymous with punch lines bruised knuckles and hypertensive wrists fingernails apologetic, but are never heard over the roar of a bright metallic crimson It reminds me hands are meant for building and destroying holding and letting go so tell me why you haven’t cut your fingers off why haven’t you drank the water in the cup that is either half full or half empty when millions are dying of thirst tell me how you’ve prayed to not become a statistic tell me just how much of one you’ve become there are no happy endings at the bottom of a scotch glass no "I love you" as you are huddled mumbling insanity to the stranger in the mirror tell me about the stranger in the mirror there is no solemnity in solitude only a feeling of the impending car crash of loneliness I am tired of tasting these jokes that never make me laugh but leave me bruised and remorseful I am tired of hearing these ambiguous uncertainties of yours I am tired of spiking my punch bowl and I hope you are aswell.

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Jan 29, 2015

Jan 29, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC

torak

Why I cut my tongue off

I’ve tasted death at the bottom of a punch bowl synonymous with punch lines bruised knuckles and hypertensive wrists fingernails apologetic, but are never heard over the roar of a bright metallic crimson It reminds me hands are meant for building and destroying holding and letting go so tell me why you haven’t cut your fingers off why haven’t you drank the water in the cup that is either half full or half empty when millions are dying of thirst tell me how you’ve prayed to not become a statistic tell me just how much of one you’ve become there are no happy endings at the bottom of a scotch glass no "I love you" as you are huddled mumbling insanity to the stranger in the mirror tell me about the stranger in the mirror there is no solemnity in solitude only a feeling of the impending car crash of loneliness I am tired of tasting these jokes that never make me laugh but leave me bruised and remorseful I am tired of hearing these ambiguous uncertainties of yours I am tired of spiking my punch bowl and I hope you are aswell.

22

Malicious hearts will hurt the empath As summer hurts the winter shore Eroding buffers until burnout Kind retreat, the only cure -- End-of-summer beach Seabirds’ shaky screech Grey gulls too full to cry Bin chooks too fat to fly Sorry shoreline Systems offline Foot pounded Rebounded Flattened… Shrub ripped Wing clipped Sand-sucked Grass plucked Party bruised Cocktail-cruised Cans on conches Fish unconscious Foam and flotsam Wave-blind coxon Soda can crab shacks Neon pink algae tracks Whelk shell graveyard Absent lifeguard **** platoons Naked dunes Cheapened Weakened Exposed… Tidal hangover Coastal leftover Erosion potluck Sitting sea-duck Strong incoming storm surge Winter solstice land purge Quick and shifty beach thieves Cyclone tempest mouth-breathes Recalcitrant brackish aggressor Intransigent briny transgressor Suspensions of sediments modified Walling and breakwaters compromised Over, back, and whitewash makers Bubble, rubble, boil and breakers Weathered, not weathering Tempered, not tempering More block than gavel More grave than gravel All prisoner no guard Grain short of a shard Receding sand-line drift Intensive shoreface-lift Patient unresponsive Highly hypertensive Code cerulean blue… Plant encouragement Shoreline nourishment Sand transplant Grass implant Healing hiatus to homeostasis Swell subsiding King Tide presiding Prince Neap succeeds Warm court accedes Managed realignment Sanctuary assignment Steadfast protections Timid reconnections Gentle, careful, soft, and slow… A new beach visitor dips their toe

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Oct 21, 2024

Oct 21, 2024 at 4:23 AM UTC

jill_1

I prefer the beach in springtime

Malicious hearts will hurt the empath As summer hurts the winter shore Eroding buffers until burnout Kind retreat, the only cure -- End-of-summer beach Seabirds’ shaky screech Grey gulls too full to cry Bin chooks too fat to fly Sorry shoreline Systems offline Foot pounded Rebounded Flattened… Shrub ripped Wing clipped Sand-sucked Grass plucked Party bruised Cocktail-cruised Cans on conches Fish unconscious Foam and flotsam Wave-blind coxon Soda can crab shacks Neon pink algae tracks Whelk shell graveyard Absent lifeguard **** platoons Naked dunes Cheapened Weakened Exposed… Tidal hangover Coastal leftover Erosion potluck Sitting sea-duck Strong incoming storm surge Winter solstice land purge Quick and shifty beach thieves Cyclone tempest mouth-breathes Recalcitrant brackish aggressor Intransigent briny transgressor Suspensions of sediments modified Walling and breakwaters compromised Over, back, and whitewash makers Bubble, rubble, boil and breakers Weathered, not weathering Tempered, not tempering More block than gavel More grave than gravel All prisoner no guard Grain short of a shard Receding sand-line drift Intensive shoreface-lift Patient unresponsive Highly hypertensive Code cerulean blue… Plant encouragement Shoreline nourishment Sand transplant Grass implant Healing hiatus to homeostasis Swell subsiding King Tide presiding Prince Neap succeeds Warm court accedes Managed realignment Sanctuary assignment Steadfast protections Timid reconnections Gentle, careful, soft, and slow… A new beach visitor dips their toe

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