"hypodermic" poems
A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the *** of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of ***** on a night
full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
armfuls of flowers in search of
your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
profile,
two heads held together at the bridge
of the nose by a nail of *****
smoke
in the long night's dreaming
& memory of water poured between
glasses
In my mailbox I find a letter from
a dead man & know that for every
shadow given
one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
of the deck severs the hand which
retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
sewn together peer over a black lace fan
in the ****** sunlight of a Spanish
morning without horses
The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
we ate government cheese
that came in a dull brown box
we were too young
to understand what welfare
and food stamps meant,
our empty bellies never protested
at the salty orange blocks
in front of the bodega,
we saw a woman introduce a hammer
to a drunk tyrant’s skull
his blood pooling on the streets
was too red for new eyes
we watched hypodermic needles
bloom on stoops
cling to life on curbs
the graffiti on abandoned buildings
was our Louvre, our Salon de Paris
sweltering streets our baseball diamonds
prostitutes, black or brown or both
mothered us between shifts
we grew up in projects,
that sheltered drab lives
and senseless brutalities
gunfire, sharp and immutable
punctured lullabies
we were small boys
watching life unfold
the way one stares at an accident
detached and mildly curious
eyeing cooly the despair
and impossible hopelessness
of growing up poor
in Brooklyn
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
I'm paying tribute to one of the finest Poets I know, Tony Hoagland. He recently passed away from Pancreatic Cancer at 64 years young. This is one my absolute favorites and I believe you'll love it also.
Romantic Moment
After the nature documentary we walk down,
into the plaza of art galleries and high end clothing stores
where the mock orange is fragrant in the summer night
and the smooth adobe walls glow fleshlike in the dark.
It is just our second date, and we sit down on a rock,
holding hands, not looking at each other,
and if I were a bull penguin right now I would lean over
and ***** softly into the mouth of my beloved
and if I were a peacock I’d flex my gluteal muscles to
***** and spread the quills of my cinemax tail.
If she were a female walkingstick bug she might
insert her hypodermic proboscis delicately into my neck
and inject me with a rich hormonal sedative
before attaching her egg sac to my thoracic undercarriage,
and if I were a young chimpanzee I would break off a nearby treelimb
and smash all the windows in the plaza jewelry stores.
And if she was a Brazilian leopardfrog she would wrap her impressive
tongue three times around my right thigh and
pummel me lightly against the surface of our pond
and I would know her feelings were sincere.
Instead we sit awhile in silence, until
she remarks that in the relative context of tortoises and iguanas,
human males seem to be actually rather expressive.
And I say that female crocodiles really don’t receive
enough credit for their gentleness.
Then she suggests that it is time for us to go
to get some ice cream cones and eat them.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
She Shoots Me Towards
the Reaches of the Atmosphere.
(narcotic)
She Bravely Descends Earthward
from the Divine Empyreal.
(superhero)
Not Unlike a Hypodermic Needle
Piercing My Median Cubital Vein,
(narcotic)
She Flashes into My Heart
in Scarcely Eight Seconds.
(superhero)
Besides Inducing Euphoria,
She Effectuates Toxicity;
(narcotic)
In Fewer than Ten Minutes,
She Targets My Defenses.
(superhero)
She not only Provokes Peak High,
(narcotic)
She Destroys a Lifetime of Yearning.
(superhero)
She is My ****** (narcotic)
She is My Heroine. (superhero)
~ The Sharpie Poet
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
God made me into a marionette
He pulled me from the dust
He scooped me out of coals.
He breathed life into my belly
and now they call me animated earth.
He carved my bones from alabaster stones
long buried under piles of pine needles and leaves
He sang songs of Light and Life
and put them in my ears
and taught me all the words
and cut me silver keys.
now i stand up tall
like the Lighthouse of Alexandria
or the Colossus of Rhodes
i take showers under jungle waterfalls
full of orchid petals
and with angel fish climbing up the rock walls.
my head and all my limbs are hanging by
golden silken strings and threads
and where I walk the moss and lichens grow.
He fashioned my eyes from glass
blown over the hot geysers
and sulfur springs
of thermopylae
and the salt basin dunes.
He plucked my pupils from the pregnant blackness
of the Void.
He struck them over steel and flint
and the sparks made it bright enough to see.
my heart is a time-piece
keeping minutes with its beats
like a great shadow cast behind a sphere.
the elements once kept me apart from me my identity,
I was a hungry ghost
walking around town like a hypodermic voodoo doll.
everytime I turned around
I tripped over another basket full of rattlesnakes
hissing from both ends.
I gave up and crossed my heart
and gave it over to the chemical egregore
hoping I would die while somehow staying alive
and learning how to fly away home-
so i could leave all the piles of ashes and teeth alone
and maybe plant a rose garden.
but God made of me a marionette
strung me up from strings of silken gold.
He breathes for me,
and dances me to the music of the spheres
and now the whole planet is a
Hanging Garden of the Fallen Babylon
and now I keep snakes
as exotic pets
and as company
when i’m lonely
and for afternoon tea.
May 21, 2022
May 21, 2022 at 5:16 PM UTC
Long before Horus' exposure on its trunk
and the nailing of Jesus upon its grain,
rings have been added within the Tree
while people proclaim to hold the key
of salvation: a continually borrowed mythology
swallowed; an extra-strength sleeping pill
pulling the masses into slumber,
and away from the awakened truth
that such supposed salvation
is an illusory ticket far too easy to obtain
for it to be real—
a discriminatory, fairy tale-damnation
that multiplies the divide
of "Us and Them."
Too many people hand out the easy tickets,
then cut and light the tree:
a hypodermic injection of selfish memories
mixed into the mortar of temples designated as sacred,
while dogmatic shears amputate roots from the sky.
Too many people preach
about a cheap, polystyrene heaven,
while only a few walk the narrow path
that leads towards the kingdom within,
and live the sacrifice because it feels right.
Again and again,
the ticket isn't so easy.
We must put aside our slumber-crutches,
stop watching the few carry the rest
upon their backs, until bones creak and groan
from the weight of people waiting for salvation
to be handed to them.
For 27 years, 46664 was etched into the bark
of a branch in the road.
When forked doors opened,
a living, breathing gospel
brought down fences,
and even then, the wood was made into crutches
for people to say,
*"M will fix it; M will do this, M will do that;
M will save us, just wait and see."*
M is finally free. Yes, he is free!
Free, but not lost to us;
he survives as spirit-seeds.
We must cease to lean upon crutches;
we must purge the pill from our blood
and awaken into gardeners who water the seeds
within the soil of our hearts,
before the vision withers completely,
and we remain only as husks
waiting to be hydrated by watering cans—
weakened hands and arms unable to lift their weight
held in our own hands all along,
held in our hands all along.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Beyond dilation scuttle eyed pin hole magnetic stigmata
I swear if you rub red the right way it scores points with the Almighty
Crystalized She used to run around with ***** fingers
She was made in a bathtub
Towhead floating face up
Like a deep breath doll laugh goodnight
I'm balanced hypodermic in the chamber
Reading from the black stenciled numbers 100cc
Here is the end's beginning
A brand new case of rigs
She's dancing on the counter
Dancing in my head
She's won't let me sleep
And my dreams become electric
25% oxygen not counting waste
Or the tingle on the back of my throat
25 seconds until we reach the half life Wear the dunce hat.
Bruised arms
and a 90% isopropyl bath
Two weeks non sleep
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
My metal detector doesn't work. I'm sorry my friend killed you, she has problems with her cerebral cortex. My metal detector broke, and I need to find the treasure buried by old ford himself; my ex said some meth-head said the devil was after him and he stumbled across the treasure covered in CD cases and hypodermic needles. They say he paid for a billboard over 75
Hey here, hey here it is baby
girl; blue shorts, bubble gum
in your hair? Here, here, here
and so I set out to find it. I don't care about my boyfriends other girlfriend; I'm hotter, I write poetry where the devil drinks what he siphones from gas tanks. My metal detector doesn't work. We only found out about the horseshoes in my ****** when he asked about insemination with his fathers ***** he always wanted a sister. I gave the horseshoe to my friend to hang above her front door in exchange for her twenty two year old metal detector. Nothing like the dentist bought me, but it worked. I found the treasure behind the VFW, stuffed into Kodak film bottles: maple leaves, water hemlock, and the keys to a ghost racecar.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
I punched the volume ****
like Tyson and Holyfield,
plunged us into silence,
our heads swimming in
phantom sounds.
The sun was a muffled glare,
but you squinted at me
and broke the silent virginity
with a cough.
The planet whirled
like an exotic dancer,
stars screamed how beautiful they are,
but were outmatched by our sun
just because of how
close it is.
The stars never go away.
Not really.
We just stop expecting them to be there.
We sat still.
And me, with all my
hypodermic words
unable to scratch the surface.
And you, with all your
delicate features
unable to soften the blow.
Because at night, we exchange
one star for millions,
though none of them
can keep us warm,
and all we want
is to see where we're going.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
****** ****** in a dish.
How many needles do you wish?
Intravenous, Intravenous, take a hit and walk on Venus.
Unethical. Impeccable. Makes a brick wall wreckable.
You and me and Nikki Sixx,
Take those hypodermic sticks.
Shove 'em in and hold on tight,
'Cause this is gonna be a messed up night!
Turn your brains to sugar jam, now let's all walk to Junkieland.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
There were four of them dressed in loud yellow t-shirts
and muffled white-washed jeans. Three carried rubber
ended stick-picks and sand crusted sky-blue buckets
for hypodermic needles and diapers and condoms.
The last of them, an older stocky gentleman with thick
red skin and no more than ten years left to live maneuvered
a grass-green, six-cylindered, diesel-powered tractor with
an old metallic rake attached to its bed across cold soft sand.
These four men are the edge-of-morning-heroes,
– they have to be the edge-of morning-heroes,
these four men, the beach combers.
My friends, have we appreciated the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?
It was because of them that I was there, because of them
that the great lake was enjoyable, swimmable, because of them
that my heart had become a poem whose first stanza opened
with a young man staring off into the open, ocean-blue horizon,
water birds skipping, circling open-winged with webbed
feet behind him, his brown legs nestled firmly in the swash,
where to the left of him, a couple, neck-deep, was making love
between the familiar crest and trough of a wave, making love
between the familiar beginning and end of something
– going deeper, under still as a plane hummed overhead.
My friends, will the future appreciate the fruit of their labor?
the outcome of their edge-of-morning-efforts?
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
lackluster endings bend kinks that crease
but they were
lost in the lust for scraped backs and knees,
and she would
never say no
long as he'd
never say please,
and they would
never mention scars,
or intentions,
or disease.
and with the ease at which the so called passion turned to hypodermic fashion,
he would leave only a note,
'be careful: needles in the trashcan."
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
It's funny that once ink is skinned
it's pretty difficult to take it out.
It becomes hypodermic and almost eternal.
Could it be the same case
for the those who hurt you
carve a part of their memory
deep deep inside your bones
and make a wreck of you?
I don't know,
all that I know is that I want to destroy
everything that reminds me of those.
-- Eleanor
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
The Warped Man
He opens his veins and lets invisible blood flow in.
The Warped Soil
From where his **** sinks into the earth like a clenched fist.
The Warped River.
A fake bloodstream. Dumpster of The Soil. Promises. Threats. Velocity. Value.
The Warped Sea
Born outwards, ejected from an invisible heaven. Poisoned by the soil it kisses. Pumped with hypodermic streams.
The Warped Sky
Looks to the sea and follows .
Once a mirror of our potential.
Now it gets ****** a heckles us.
The Warped Child
Mushroom jungle above him.
Dreams of the dust.
Exiled by everything.
Tell him what to breathe and he will inhale it.
The Moon
A silent prodigal lord.
It gave us light to obscure.
It gave us lakes to **** in.
It gave us maps to conquer.
And it once gave us dreams.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
train pace
quaint face
indecisive stutter
faint lace
embrace
cloaked behind the shutter
roving revolver revisions
inflict internally incubated incremental incidents
spit right in his ******* face
separation. moksha.
hypodermic hypocrisy
copper lined veins
keep pumping
filth =
into your eyes
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
mix some shakras up in a glass and
drink it down it's a celebration a time of
times the present lives among and within our
thoughts, groping for memories we call home time and
time again as light finds us stuck full of hypodermic nonsense
shrinking from shadows until we shake hands in a corner and they're not
so bad they're quite inviting and provide all the stuff we need when we need it
like an infinite knapsack of colloquialism forever surrounded by stars
jupi tear me down.
Jun 28, 2011
Jun 28, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
the depths of despair can be as deep .. as the ocean can be blue
but that's not as deep as the despair i feel when i'm lying here, missing you
blood stains on the ceiling .. hypodermic hell
desperate, broken, bleeding .. as i try to remember your smell
thoughts of how we used to be, flash across my mind
with each and every memory, chemicals unwind
but here i am, still breathing, the person that i used to be
and although i know i'm missing you, i cannot set you free
always and forever a place within my heart
you think you know the bitter end, but that's the place to start
(c) p skez and msrigs 22/08/2015
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
A doubt appeared
Crept into mind.
The doubt of malignant cancerous kind
That harried forth the snap decision.
And upon examination
Would force oneself to self derision.
She lay before me long and slender
I naked stood
Stood and if was tender
Could have kissed her **** and walked away
Should have dressed and walked from yesterday.
I begin to break.
Dissolve
Into dissolution of resolve.
I take her tight into my arms
Wrap my legs around her reedlike waste (sic)
And I could taste
Raw *****
From within
Within.
Within the hypodermic ******
John Smallshaw 2011.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 1:32 AM UTC
I had my own little circle of Hell.
Demons prodded me with needles.
****** souls invited me to their homes
filled with smoke and treason.
I was sitting in a burning throne of lies and addiction.
With piles of broken glass pieces and hypodermic syringes as a foot rest.
Then one day a hole opened in the sky above
and a single blue jay flew down
and rested upon my boot tip.
He said "Why do you choose to live here, so washed out and broken?"
"Because it is the only place I feel at home, Blue Jay" I replied.
"There is sunshine just beyond your fingertips!" He countered.
"The only light that beckons me is the hellfire surrounding us, bird" I retorted.
"Come with me" he sighed.
Suddenly the blue jay grew ten times his size and sprouted incredible wings.
He made me climb upon his back and soar out of the pit I had become so accustomed to.
"Look at what the sun has to offer," said the blue jay.
there were green fields and rushing rivers,
Playing children I had forgotten existed.
In my place, my personal hell,
I had forgotten about the sun.
the skies were smudged black
And the painted clouds rolled down in grey
Like oil on canvas.
When you're in hell, it's so easy to forget
About the world above.
Seeing past yourself and into the setting sun
Becomes an impossibility.
" Do you see?" said the bird.
"I do see, but what is it I am looking past?" Said I.
"The little things." blue jay replied.
"The little things that used to please you, before you became a monster."
"The rivers used to make you feel whole as you skipped stones across their uneven expanse.
The children reminded you of your innocence before you became what you are. The fields were your home, where you would catch sun and ponder things before you became this."
Suddenly all my cravings vanished.
The black cloud that hung over me stopped pouring rain
And started beaming light.
The portal from whence we came had closed.
I had come home.
The blue jay flew to the ground and let me off his back.
"Now you see," he said, "You see what you had been missing."
He shrank, and flew away into the trees
Leaving me at home,
in my fields,
again.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
You're the sin of me,
A claustrophobic situation
And I can't breathe.
I'm an epidermal hot mess,
With a side of downers
To suppress.
A hypodermic allergy.
Charge me with my felony.
Caused by this anorexic magazine.
I'm starving.
Brothers; Our own flesh.
Nail me to this cross
And watch me burn.
They want us to be self reliant,
And give us controlling rule.
Impossible standards
In a
Hypocritical disease head.
They give us psychotheism
But take away our earth.
We're supposed to be coexisting,
So give us equality in worth.
I am my own
Anarchist Antichrist
Feed me
To
The broken system.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
I lay there semi reclined
The sweat of terror soaking
My body
A piercing blinding light penetrating
My head
Burning, burning, no escape
Then out of the corner of my eye
I saw him
Masked, an evil maniac look in his eyes
My fist clenched in fear
Nails digging into the palms of my hands
I screamed as he raised the hypodermic
Checked the level of the contents
I screamed again
No
No
And then
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
He spoke
"Don't worry Mr Cole
One tiny injection then we'll soon have
That tooth out"
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
My veins are sewers beneath my skin.
There is a cage where my skull should be
And inside this cage which stands like the skeleton of an October tree
There are worms that are knotted together in a way that allows them to think as one.
My stomach is full of writhing parasitoid wasps
That move in a way that makes them apparent to the eye that looks for them.
Only three months past they were injected into my bloodstream inside a miniscule submersible
Capsule.
My skin is nothing but maggots.
My tongue flails beneath the weight of hypodermic needles that are invisible even to the eye that looks for them.
The opinions of the worms are made apparent through my tongue even as it sprawls beneath the needles.
My lungs are full of dust and the dust is full of nacre and the nacre is wrapped around gypsum and graphite Which are dust to the eye that does not know these words.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Hypodermic dilauded crushed on the spoon
Feels like doom
Besides all my calculations
Beneath the angry boy
God's toy
Piercing my skin
Lie back again
Lingering a taste on my tounge
I see her sleeping naked in her bedroom
As I float on a sea
Of memories and warmth
Visions of crumbling completely
Just a minute from perfect
Her legs and black high heels
My imagination
I hate it
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
That fuckin' got-damn screen door fell off the hinges. Sit there and smoke your cigarettes while I fix it.
Outside Texas was hotter than a hot greased griddle
You could feel the tinge of hot on everything
Until the sweat drips from every inch of your body
Privacy
Crushing a blue
On the back of a toilet
Numb Thumb Dumb
Metling and thawing of liquid gold
Rubbing
Slap Slap
Tying up the dinasour
Pulling so tight with my teeth
They want to come-out of my head
My second time
I have the shivers
Throb-Throb-Throb
Says the purple vein
Poking up to drink the elixer
Ecstacy dripping from the tip of a hypodermic catalyst
So god **** beautiful
Pierce me
Plunge me
**** my brain so hard
That I won't come back from the black
I floated up above myself
Watching the magic happen
Takin' it all in
**** oh ****
Oh ****
Take-sex
Multiply by
one million
to the tenth power
**** you
One perfect little hole
Poked inside out
I love to lick my blood clean
It's a tradition now
Beautiful metallic redness
Hugging my throat
**** you
Just **** you
I have nothing else to say
I wrote my suicide note in blue marker on a McDonalds napkin
I am going to start keeping it in my wallet
"Goodbye world, you dumb ******* ****
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC