"inoculation" poems
Pre
*City noise drowned by my ears.
Rays of sunlight passed through leaves.
As cool breeze blew my hair,
I realize, I really wasn't there.*
Peri
*Inoculation started with titanium tips;
I looked elsewhere and thought real deep.
Anesthesia sunk down in my cheeks.
My face feel numb with swollen lips.
I think my mind wandered far enough,
Little me saying "Hey, I'm tough."
But my tongue tasted blood and rust.
But hey, I still do give my trust.*
Post
*Continuously, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
While bringing it back, after taking the ivory.
The familiar scent of isopropyl filled the air.
He gave me a specimen of the ivory that I once took care.*
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Satan is a metaphor
for destructive manifestations
of cosmic Energies;
allowing Potential
to go horribly awry;
and, in that sense,
is very much real.
Lucifer is a metaphor
for a seeker and preacher
of deeper understanding;
informed dissent,
liberation via mass enlightenment;
and, in that sense,
is truly a Saint.
I find it rather funny,
the power Names hold
while it's also rather funny
how hollow Words really are,
that is, until someone
reads, listens, thinks, or speaks
using Language as we know it;
then the ancient Spells
come wholly into a Life
entirely unto their own:
It is within the Power of such Spells
to incite and to quell
grief, joy, confusion, insight
inoculation, ignorance,
inurement, indoctrination,
harmony, discord,
love, hate, disdain, respect
peace and war;
God as well as the Devil
lie dormant within our Actions and Words.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
there is a glacier
partially concealed
melting from a climactic
climate shift revealing a
reality congealed by revolt
rebels burdened with
a philosophy that
elevates humanity
insisting we will not grovel
before a vain messiah
espousing erroneous
iterations of ideology
will the human race permit
the iceberg to dissolve
as vapid reformist
rhetoric inundates our
political consciousness with
pragmatic progressivism
or will we rise in resistance
with the radicals
fists clenched in protest and
hands outstretched to one
another rather than
lifted high in praise to a savior as we
witness the glacier solidify once more
as CO2 perforates our atmosphere
with heady highs and noxious toxins
will we succumb like dumbfounded
addicts intoxicated by inoculation
consuming the opiated semantics
of charismatic personas or will we
challenge the corrupt
with our wits about us
facing the sobering corporate
corporeality with the pride
of lions facing a den of thieves
abandon the chosen champion
of the vanguard party
we stand hand-in-hand
7 billion
sisters and brothers
in an anthemic chorus of
solidarity that shakes the
bastions of the enthroned
with the resounding shouts of
perseverance in our
non-compliant defiance
our manifestos are written
in the blood sweat and tears
we've shed for this
dream deferred
and we will not be the
silent majority anymore
the masque of anarchy
is ours to share
will we wear its visage
or will hell freeze over
before we choose
freedom
over happiness
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
Hasina had gums of a prune colored play dough, much like the type which he used to mold and model into similar contraptions and cases. Contrasting with the teeth of a superb suburban plaster, the ***** contusion continued its conversation. Collecting admirers and adolescent adonis’ innocent of their sins. Since the inoculation, passed away, a pretense to nervousness approached the very essence of our chest; the bead of the brooch where we found the philtrum too close to the nose. Curling inside its own bare curves. A bed without sheet, hindered, harnessed, the horse dragged on.
We soon found that the things we feigned to hate would come close to fame, In a magazine cover sheet, handed in late.
Hasina, and her mother, certainly did not suppose that that beneath the floor boards, neither harm nor concern would be discovered. And neither was. With the way their will worked things became distributed. Disturbed guests of unwanted presents and gifts soon re-sent to other more malleable means of hospitality.
Hungered as the hundredth wolf come to late. He too howled, but not at the moon, or rather not its simulacrum of a glowing truth, its silver light, or any movements its clearly showed. Growing loose the tumor slipped out, slowly. And with a plop, pressed against the walls, The jaws dropped and the mason jar closed and posed on exhibition for lessons, and interests, obsessions, dreads, things grotesque pressed against the walls.
To be captured, resting above the skyscrapers. Where in the hours of dawn, space overlaps, a frowned pace of a clock grows fondly of the time that is lost and past.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 7:19 AM UTC
“How can I get you to go down on me,”
he asked, without preamble.
His voice, nervous,
laced with strength
hums through her form,
summoning
a tatting of ***
She moves her entire form
Across the room
pushing solar plexus
With index finger
The wingback chair collecting
His form – assuaging her intent.
Retreating nine steps
To gather
Her acumen in dripping her clothes off
Adroit pivot
portent gaze
locked
exteroception - engaged
His exhale
executed succinctly in shallow lung
puckered alveoli - clenched
resonates as her own.
Pearls scooped catatonic
atop lingering breast ascension - alone
Remain –
Summoning brine.
She tastes his pulse
Derma puckering sweat globules
Redolent aeriform vapor corpuscles
declaring his need.
Fingers supporting her upper weight
she glides - crawling
pressing half inch spurs into the carpet
Lackadaisical dactyl dance
Seizes
muscle calf to thigh
Invoking listless leg drape
Pausing
Warm breath – rendered
Upon knee cap parallel
Framing shoulders
Engorging - in aching silence
Pulse thick, wrought in shaft
Kneeling
Primed
Proud
She flicks the button
From slit fabric recess
Cupping palms under thigh,
She renders garment to puddle
half-in – half-out
whole
chthonic shaft to palette
Sliding exhale
to mound
lax jaw
focus
Iris entreats -
narrowed corneal withdrawal
Oblong lip array surrounds
Supping the creamy, coppery,
Smoky, saline inoculation.
Latent dribble invokes tongue
Furl about lip cusp
Absorbing globule
Into slaked smile.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Sensory deprivation douses my days
Neither perfume, nor pictures
to placate
No cadence of a voice contrasted
No distractions, now look away
Ban all Color
chromatic avian avoidance
But It only takes one slip
to oxygenate those sacred sepia images
You were the reason!
you eviscerated “grey”
the enormity of a
pixilated instant:::
the shadow of a look
Arise again, stand tall and seductive,
awaken a cleft heart again
but the pleas go unheard
and
callous knees make for hollowed souls
this crawl so familiar, hallowed, fetching... as I look now, upward at your
carnal,
cardiac,
catharsis
I find that familiar rush
The drilling down of blood :::
Presses through once indifferent veins (my lamentation inoculation... you are viral once more)
Imagined love had seemed so tame.
The cataclysm corners, hidden well in green eyes,
inauspicious,
until
it’s time (to strike)
tensions feast on the remaining light (dusk remains, night yields, but those eyes they’ll haunt forever).
When was the last time I grasped your fingers?
When jungle lust simplicity gave way to
the steady silent ether of complacency
I knew
I had
lost
her
Yet, I still reach for the smell of you on my hands. It’s no longer there. The cruelest of nostalgias to soothe my most masochistic of reliefs.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
The handwritten card reads,
'Help Me
suffering from Hepatitis C'
which to me is a cry
from the heart,
but he's just one of many
in the city,
doesn't anybody care?
the card could of course be a lie
and the man sitting there
could be
as healthy as you or as I
wonder why he wrote it?
while
I think inoculation,
half of the population have
never heard of hepatitis
the liver might as
well be something to eat
not a disease for someone to beat
I admire him however grim it may be
to sit and bare your medical history
begging for charity
it's certainly something you
don't see
every day.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
(This is the second installment of a two part piece. Please read first Cut Apart.)
He takes up a needle
Threaded with a glimmering strand of surety
Pierces my pink flesh, tender,
already thrumming with awareness
Following my self-otomy,
I would not have thought
to feel any more pain
But there it is
Slight, though
And a relief each time
he pulls the wounds closed
I observe the first sutures,
calmed by his confidence
Puncture,
pull,
puncture--
He hands me the needle
I can't expect someone else to do all the healing
I pull the thread taut
We alternate for a while,
him piercing, me nipping
And then, before I pinch another hurt closed,
I reach in to extract the dead bits of my soul,
blackened with disuse
Refuse now,
no need to carry these within me
Pull
I am now devoted to my task
Bruises fading already
Some gashes will forever remain a softer pink testament
to true traumas
But no more concern if I will heal properly,
no thought of chronic infection
I have been forced to analyze my frayed heartstrings
Some scars I bear, but as I am stitched up
I become my own inoculation
My soul's surgeon
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
there are some things that do not wash from skin.
even more that can stain a mind
beyond the finesse of chemical cocktails or fire to purify.
birth marks and blood omens and
calling cards of demonic henchmen.
harmless helicopter seeds shed
flakes into a ****** garden,
a second-hand inoculation, mute until retroactively
activated.
a forged acquiescence
to a sprouting voice of dissent:
"you?weren't you wise enough to know?
you, fortune-teller, mystic mistress, reader of skies, you
how did your intuition lead you blindfolded into a werewolf's den?
you, knowing the heart's riddled map of blood,
you, knowing the incessant looping of events,
you, knowing the enthralling
addiction of desire, shame on you, after all,
boys will be boys - don't pretend
you did not suspect it of your friends, too.
sayings are rooted in truth,
and themes on that mantra have been force-fed to you since age five, you swallowed
that pill dry (remember? throat surrendering its gag-reflex
like a good little girl, masking the strain) and its been re-administered
in endless refrain
as medicine, as supplication, as pledge, as training - don't you act surprised.
by the ripe and raw pulsation of twenty-two
you
have surely learned the golden rule:
your body
was not built
for you.
your skin,
your flesh,
your
body is:
a pilgrimage to grasp the heat of god,
a beacon on moonless nights,
a temple to spill hungry prayers upon,
an ancient altar of blood sacrifice.
honor your obligation, your tribute, your destiny.
submit to the iron-rod trademark upon your breast.
it will not wash clean, trust me, there are some things
that do not wash from skin."
even more that can claim a mind.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
Broken.
Batter.
Heart abused.
But what is this lightness in my shoes.
The waters of change washing great burdens away in floods of emotional inoculation.
This raging stream within my heart, so rarely changing course, embarking found a new port.
I dare choose a certain path, for when I do, my heart will show and break the walls I have built just.
Perpendicular lines in a certain arbitration make for brutal collaborations in the releasing of frustrations,
Where my neck is pleasantly pained, my back shows marks of her strain, of passions so uninterrupted.
The deep diffusion so rapidly placed, like the strongest engine turning, on the verge of breaking.
I feel the tension of need, so accurately placed, like the invariable pressure felt by a diamond in rock.
An embrace from the canines allows me to see, the limit of her threshold I am lust blind to see.
Not anger, but an ****** loss of time, dipping inside your soul with fingers of my mind so delicately.
Her pleasure is the focus of my passion.
Fully exhausted.
Loved.
Cherished.
It's a start...
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
unsuspecting,
another stroll in the park,
happy tottle caper
jump the village wall,
Never be sad little one
your horns will grow
so your life flows
but the day turns
to night this sable dark
you are placed on your sternum
to head an inoculation
comes death, you sleep
not knowing much
but a moments struggle
to live as such.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
Memories are made of scars
Woven into tapestries
Laid out in the darkest halls
Where schizophrenics roam
Voices sing of long-lost stars
Unique in their divinities
Written on the bathroom walls
Of rest stops long disowned
Twilight shines through broken panes
The hourglass remains the same
Forever on its side
Though time goes creeping on and on
There are no truths within a name
With violence breeding out the sane
Such darkness here resides
It must have been here all along
For the only lights remembered
Are the phantoms of dismay
The only satisfaction
Is it might not be a lie
The final dying embers
Are the fires that fuel decay
A comatose reaction
In a mind that never dies
Such dreams are never ending
Dying hearts cannot be stilled
The poison circulating
Now sustaining waking death
They rise in their descending
As in emptiness they’re filled
More intoxicating
With their every failing breath
On legs that quake and tremble
Come euphoria and pain
Such sweet inoculation
In the cure that is disease
Their bodies now a temple
To the rotting and insane
The grave’s ***********
To the soul upon its knees
Emptiness conscripted
On the question of forever
Eternity’s dark sermon
In the Chapel of Decay
Such madness now inflicted
In the Valley of the Never
Consuming the uncertain
As the lifeless lead the way
These freely bleeding masses
To a pulse remain enslaved
Vainly grasping endlessly
For lives they’ll never own
They sip from tainted glasses
On which failures are engraved
Harvesting so recklessly
The sorrows they disown
Finding false forgiveness
In their Mothers, Sons, and Gods
To ease their guilty consciences
So they can sin again
Blindly bearing witness
To their weakening facade
Giving darkness dominance
In times that soon will end
Forever so unknowing
That their lives are but pretend
So easily they free themselves
From any blame they earn
While every stone they’re throwing
Will betray them in the end
They’ll find that they themselves
All feed the fires in which they burn
While Death is biding time
From His throne He needn’t move
With the blind leading the blind
In the place where liars rule
How they suffer so sublime
Each one trying so to prove
They the only King to find
In this ****** Land of Fools
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
death
by socialization
call it government inoculation
degradation
Indoctrination
propaganda machines
curteousy of those in power
but existed long before
and was created, perpetuated, and spread
by the people
who create images, write rights
to ‘right’ the writs written
and adopted by politicians whose personality
was created and nurtured by you and I
and by them and us
we created politicians
bolstored their success
now we are reaping the
dissatisfaction of what we created
we ****** up
This is no longer an issue of partisan politics
we must all change our ways
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 11:30 AM UTC
I never thought it would be me,
had been assured by professionals
I did not possess the capacity,
that those who had committed wrong,
had in reality nothing to fear
but the lash of a sharp tongue.
One evening everything changed,
the magic which had kept me safe,
kept me out of touch with that portion
of my civility I feared an illusion,
simply evaporated.
When the police arrived,
everything was silent.
The corpses a few yards from me
would have no confessions,
could add nothing to unravel
the mystery.
It is often said, every man and woman
has a breaking point,
my immunity to this truest of tales
abandoned me as surely as protection
via inoculation, had failed under assault
by November's flu.
But now I had removed myself from
that controlled humanity
of whom I had always been so proud.
Fingers clenched my smoking gun
like they had never been apart
just a familiar hand in a fitted glove.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 6:37 AM UTC
It's always the words we don't think of
that we use later
when it's time to revise.
In your eyes I see truth
in your looks I see lies
it's the things that will trip you up later
when it comes time to do the revise.
We're being screened for the inoculation
the alarm will be sounded at dawn
it's always the words we don't think of
but
it's too late from the moment we're born.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
Immune
My mind is trained to treat you as a toxin
The occasional thought of you is fought off with resilience
My emotions become resistant to your presence
I am anti you
anti feeling down
anti feeling as if I'm not good enough
like I'm not worth your time
like i have to compete for your attention
Anti your smile
Anti your lies
Anti your rejection
I have become immune to your words
Immune to your touch
Immune to your actions
I am no longer affected
By your sweet words or your bitter actions
My mind is protected from your attack
And ones further after you
You have been an inoculation
A vaccine
A chance to avoid vulnerability
I am no longer susceptible
I am officially immune
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:20 PM UTC
There is romance found in ingratiation, in these chaste doilies, suffering implicitly beneath the burden of ***** bowls. Here’s one, illuminated as a pinball machine when you rattle that dung-brown stain about its shrivelled pupil. Above it, a cataract of steam squirms about in unalarming routine.
So many nights I adulterated merely for lack of better days were given credence by the gimpy sun, turned away with its blouse undone, and ****** back to the chalkboard. Somewhere along the past few days I must have become bedridden, indentured to prickly sponge baths by that ****** tongue.
How I’d like to stay sedated now. Another day of inoculation becomes an alibi for the adhesion of this numbness inducted to the soft-boiled meat of my temples, combing out my shoulder blades, running down my legs...
Stupidly, I almost feel a sense of superiority in not learning any faces among the indiscrete convoys of whitish heads popping in now and then, with the subordinate arousal of stiff knuckles, or other things compressed inward by their own come-hither fervor.
“You talk too much, you worry me to death…”
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC
Depression is a cancer
No cure, just treatment woe is me!
Maligns the most benign of cells
Denial chemotherapy
Inoculation wish you wells'
Feel better card futility
Smiling cashier drug store sells
But temporary remedy
Lamenting tumors only answer
Guilt to sing your threnody
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
Two, side-by-side,
Standing, silent,
Awaiting our decision.
We choose the smaller,
the younger one.
Hooray!
Excitement, commotion,
A readying of things.
Congratulatory words
alight upon us.
A marvelous choice,
You are perfectly suited,
the kids will adore him.
The gate unlatched,
whisked into another room.
A bathing, inoculation,
presented flawless.
A modest sum tendered,
a signature penned.
A dizzying,
back-seat free-for-all.
We speed away.
New family member,
new best friend.
Each of us curious.
How big will he grow?
What tricks will he learn?
Who will be his favorite?
The questions abound,
except for one:
What of the other?
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC