"internals" poems
Strange malaise,
One I can't place.
Struggling of late.
Discomforting state.
Persistent lethargy.
Sloth-like and heavy.
Burning internals.
Frequent intervals.
No temperature.
No warning lever.
Don't know what's wrong.
Been rather long.
Medicine trough
Can't rid me this cough.
Expulsion so violent,
Incessantly recurrent.
Over a fortnight
This ailment I fight.
Still hasn't eased.
Can't be appeased.
Development is seen.
Now spitting green.
Not just all
That joined this brawl.
It's just the coughing.
No injury I'm suffering,
I haven't bled...
But I see red...
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
You came, you saw, you conquered.
Ripped my flesh off to reveal my internals.
Walked out wordless;
left me to wonder...
What just happened?
Your memory is a stale reminder of how I will never find another
just quite you.
We were two halves of a broken heart,
but our torn and serrated edges willed us not to connect.
When you left, it
was tough.
Is tough.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
pale dead moon
them the words heard, cloud covered, make the few streaks visible
look like mocking smiles saying see we got your numbers,
play pale and dead you’re sure to win and add an over/under
and a trifecta guaranteed
everyone is willing to take and give you thanks
with a nice tap on the head which buys them
a grimace smile of 2 seconds recognition and
further confirms the crumbling internals
and unless you walk away,
into solitude and recall from
high school language class
répète après moi "c'est la vie,” repeat after me, that’s life
no, now,
pale dead moon,
that’s life
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
Newspapers are only covered in ***** print;
of despair and distress and danger playing master of our moves.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Paintings are for love songs left unsung;
they are the inner kept journals of unrequited dreams,
scrawls of abuse or lumps of hurt, growing like tumours.
You wouldn’t understand.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Music is only for the sunlit realm of lovers found;
of certainty and confidence and devotion above the sordid,
tangled affairs of wayward souls.
Living in a fantasy to escape the loneliness aching in soft spots inside.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Letters are lost in nostalgia;
a celebration to be had, words unspoken for decades,
births and deaths, reserved for life events detailed in the past.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
Movies are just reenactments of dreams;
stunning heroes, masters of skill, justice seekers,
adventures of awe, loves broken but patched together with stronger yarn.
A world of little lies to helps better cope with heartache and grief.
We can’t immortalise ourselves in something
when it runs the risk of breaking.
So I can’t talk to you through that.
But I can do something much harder
then writing or filming or singing or painting…
I can give it all up, over to you.
I can trace patterns across your shoulders as you wake,
our special language which tells you I love you, I’m trying to trust you.
I can write you little notes, decadent words and sultry ideas,
and make a trail for you to follow to me.
I can be vulnerable in your arms, more than skin and internals
and a framework of bones.
I can be more real with you than I have never known to be possible.
It’s not just me showing how much I need you by the length I hold your kiss,
or how long it takes for us to disentangle ourselves from sleep, how often
we see each other naked.
It’s more the heart I dare draw on your skin with my lips.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
I Jammed the pain inside, to wait for the defects to reside. Today strays and wanders away until it's stuffed down inside the void of discomfort. Let's roll our imagination onto light able paper, light it, and watch it burn..
See because that's what addiction does. It overrides your body latching on your inner artistry for its fuel. Pretty soon you become a machine, something mindless. Fasten your seatbelt because your on auto-pilot.
Now the transactions of your body really start to inaugurate. Your internals no longer has what it takes to fight, to resist, so now come the alterations.The tips of your fingers go hand in hand with the tip of your tongue. How your saliva's lust for substance dismantles the chemical compounds. Your taste buds loving that all too familiar feeling. Your greed full blood consuming every inch of it. As the destruction slowly trickles down your throat your anxious. Then the finale comes, the moment you've been waiting patiently for the manipulation and overhaul of your brain and your reality remodeled, your home.
In those seconds pain is never an option, never a thought. Your lost out at sea. But that's all it really is, seconds, minutes, sometimes hours, just a little more time to stick the dysphoria on the back burner. When in truth you've just deepened the scar and exposed it to infections. When it's gone your left with broken thoughts that feel unrepairable.
Addiction doesn't just come from pre-packaged materials, they come from every entity you wish that blocks the truth out. They come from unfulfillment , pain, and soak themselves until you are left with no control. You have to fight, fight for your life. Face the music
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
two summers ago,
I found myself under a cabbage leaf
curled beneath the sun.
circled in slumber,
like there was never an end to anything.
then, I grew wings
and left my warmth for speed
sacrificing my calm breeze for cold storms
and windy nights.
on my flight home,
I sit through red lights and
look for tear tracks on the
faces of strangers
kissing their cheeks with my eyes
and pretending I can see the salt.
because there is hope left in
loss, my friends.
sometimes, you just have to let
the best things fall.
(how do you think storks still fly?)
so, I spend rush hour
untying the cloth diapers from my ankles
and when the highway pulls
my hills away from me,
I send them flying out the window
like dead birds
knowing
I will never see the seeds
fertilized through their bones
praying God thinks this
is a gesture of my good will.
let us all pray that God notices
our empty hands when we give up
the deepest now for an uncertain future.
Personally, I am praying for a cardboard-box
collection of home movies documenting
the growth of all the people I left,
of all the places thrown behind me
like stale cigarette smoke,
the homes I have broken with
my ever moving feet, my restless
guilty wings.
I will project the shaky film
all over my internals until my
gut is soaked with light
and the last shocked thought
of my quickly fading mind
will be of the things I could have seen,
the memories I would have made
if I had not gone away so much.
If I had just stayed.
but the wind is a vicious thing,
especially the updrafts
especially the hot breath under wings
which gradually convinced me
that my home was a cold dead thing
that there was no life left in my town
that the only world worth seeing was
far far away.
I have burned the eyes
of bluegrass Beethovens dying
slowly on a stage just to prove
that I never needed a quiet place.
that I was above all the country songs
and overalls and camouflage,
but we all need to hide sometimes.
even from ourselves.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get O.J.T.?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all that mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 10:20 PM UTC
I remember how it felt and every dark and angry pain,
the feeling of tender soreness from every ache and throbbing sprain.
I remember ruptured internals and the fire of an appendix burst,
and the excruciating agony at every touch that was loudly cursed.
I remember the touch of many physical pains that left me feeling sore,
But nothing hurts so much as that last time you left my door.
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
a stray row of marigolds
defied autumns call
straggled along a fence
leading to a gate
where a burlesque woman
spoke gently to a cow.
the brazen marigold patch
clung cleverly to the winds shadow
and stayed put
until sons in seeds matured
and laughing at the woman
fenced in by the cow
split its pods
and withered as winter clutched
the surrounding grass verge
and neatly stapled fence
posts at internals
as sturdy as the seasons
the seeds burrowed deep
and waited for spring to pull
the tender hearts from the earth
learned from its parents.
spring will have a bigger clutch
of marigolds this coming sunshine.
Author Notes
so is life. clinging desperately to the fateful fence, braving all distractions.
the young and restless will inherit the earth.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11582732-marigolds-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.nLO2q91g.dpuf
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
i have mentioned i like morning ***
but i have forgotten to talk about *** late at night. after one am. when you’re drunk. when you’re sober. when all you can hear is the sighs of the mattress and the far distant squalls in the streets, the sirens mewling past as your cries muffle into blackness.
the later the better, for you tend to hold on tighter, curl your legs behind his knees until he buckles. your name from his lips sounds like rainstorms. it is when your inner demons are released.
when his fingers dig deeper, his teeth scrape harder. he pulls until your scalp is burning, throttles until nothing but spit emanates.
it is dangerous, it is lovely, it is living. you bite each other’s lips until you taste nothing but him, guzzling him until your internals are churning and gushing with him. you remember thinking how one drunken night at three am was enough.
but then he came again at four. then he came again at five.
and it was at seven in the morning when you were covered in his crux you couldn’t turn away. you wanted the morning *** you wanted the late night *** you wanted to be flooded and whisked until your
body was nothing but his
testimony.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Does it sting you?
The way I look at you
Because baby, you’re like alcohol
to my bleeding cuts
whenever you look at me
Do my kisses revive your being?
Because baby,
your kisses only **** me
as I inhale the traces
of nicotine in your breath
Do our songs make you yearn
for my fingertips
caressing your hands
as we drive into the night?
Because baby,
my internals screech
for your touch
Baby, I hate our songs
Do you feel yourself suffocating
every night?
As I step out
when you drop me off
Because baby,
I feel myself falling
out of your skyscrapers
and into the cold abyss
of black skies
Does the word goodbye
asphyxiate your lungs
as you enunciate it?
Because baby,
my lungs collapse
as my ribcage closes in
to hug them when
your hugs are no longer there
to contain me
Yes
I exaggerate
in the ways that I miss you
Yes
It hurts me
the way I love you
So let us say our goodbyes already
Baby please
just go
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
when for what
have you
stare
in
to
eyes
that are
what for when
ewe took my hand along yore swollen perambulations into nights devoid of air
ewe have never swallowed a trace of light that ewe cannot reflect upon as dust
entombed in heavens disassembled from unleavened brethren
there was always
a core to yore
whimsical strut
as if an avenue
could hold yore
internals eternal
those mettling metals we unleash upon with our ****** toes
galavanting
pearls asunder thunder’s weeping reigns of unsubstantiated all
never there was
a timid breath
ewe did not urn
as if spells of broken gesticulations could volley
a scant clue of what it was to become nothing
that type that trite time follows as we sear
magic into our concrete organs
as if all concrete weren’t asphalt awaiting coal
i succumbed upon your neck
and caught sinewy glimpses of your entanglements as if driven into shock
ewe never stopped smiling
and
in
me
ewe
never
will
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
We need to cancel out
what is not right,
fight bureaucracy
put frustrations aside.
we are machines,
emotions barred and hidden;
what holds us is our internals
life as it happens.
Never blame someone for you disposition
move your rocks and go ahead.
life as you know and understand
is a deep jungle,
tomorrow may surprise us
a never ending sequel.
direct your feelings
towards a path,
where you are the leader,
untie your own knot.
your losses are not world's stress
instead you're on your own,
be at your best,
lead your life as it grows.
attitude's essential,
either you get the green light,
or get stagnant,
draw your fate at your own hands
pick your pieces and fragments,
help yourself
True Friends are just hard to find.
Given, Reality kills
deep from the inside.
Uninvited,
but still fighting blind.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
the architecture: our design, our formulation
~
**we design as we go along.
plans develop themselves organically.
somehow, we formalize, organize spontaneity.
learning-as-we-go, ourselves teaching each other’s selfs.
celebrating, locating our tangent intersections,
plotting points on the X Y axes of us.
labelling our quadrants,
past, now, planned but yet-to-be,
the unknown unknowns,
all upon blue lined graph skins.
a formula of a celebrated curvature, two unknowns, solvable, we are quadratic.
the precise precious precarious solution,
a single square root,
that intuits the wee of our
innate
relationship.
our solution is annotated for all
mathematicians as the**
square root of us.
2/18/20
6:25am
somewhere in the internals
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
As the flames take my memory
I see beauty in its tyranny
I think about suicide
fire melting my skin
cooking my internals
cremating all my bones to dust
Until everything is dirt
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC
I think I could be a good writer
if I stopped and focused
for a period of time
if I could withdraw
from the streetlights
and the biting cold
that burns the veins
I try sometimes
to put out something
that someone may find
worthy of something
not sure what
but I try
and the words
sputter and choke
and all you see
on the page
is spittle
and small drawls
of a *****
waning man
who
not even twenty
can't keep to the course
he wants to walk
instead
dragged willingly off
by the women that
would eat his skin
and internals
laugh
in depravity
with teeth and tongue
much too sharp
I dont notice
another drink
another drink
I don't notice
all I see is legs
almighty
legs and
smiles that could
break satan's heart
another drink
another drink
I don't see anything
but the feeling
cuts through
the nothingness
of intoxication
and curls the neck
into tense relief
such leg
such smile
I am a sitting duck
ready and willing
such teeth
such tongue
they feast on me
like dogs to bone
can't focus
epic poems
escape
my tendered hands
inches from closure
as the teeth
and tongue
and leg and smile
pull me back
another drink
another drink
what was
I talking about
again?
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
Why even consider this a poem?
Unwrite it.
Take it back,
but it's too late.
Ink scribbled on rustic pages,
or pages made to look rustic.
Let's face it: you bought this notebook at a bookstore.
It's got to look special for all your elaborate gifts to the world.
You're that special snowflake, yeah?
Your writing against the world of oppressive darkness
surrounding your poor brain, boy.
Write your way out.
****** Toons the wall, and make sure your escape.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
A thud sound
Of me falling?
From the sky height
Into the deep sea.
This internal unfamiliar silence of the waters below,
Is eating me up.
Can you hear me?
I scream with my throat dry,
I dream with my hopes high,
The shallow waters Don’t echo my voice,
So I'm letting go a deeper dive.
This external familiar voice of everything above the sea –
my success or failure?
Makes me bury myself into the truth more deep
Makes me worried of the soul which never came to me
So, I shut my eyes
See a bright yellow light
Run toward it to seize a whole new sight
Calmness of the internals
Don't excite my bored old soul.
But I still am worried about my past above the sea.
A swish sound
Of me rising.
Back from the deep sea into the high sky
Never thought I will give up of being shy
With a motive to live,
With wings to fly,
With a hope to dream,
Which my failure had taught me.
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 1:35 AM UTC
In the hit of a personal edit where I bled a bit
put two slices of bread with it
and ate a cold memory
with a hot steaming cup full of misery
I sat down to tea.
Edits are necessary a suitable accessory
to the future we want to see
and if with ourselves we are cruel
and use the right kind of tool
we can dig out those bits
that would hide in the corners and throw fits at this unwanted intrusion
used as part of a twice weekly programme
to ram home the message that I am
a flawed human being
and this is just what I need to start freeing those things that are trapped on the inside where Krap seems to accumulate.
Mondays and Fridays are my days to clear out and scout out internals to rinse out the kernels and wash myself clean.
Like a scene from some film noir, one can only go so far 'til you hit a ground zero
become an edited hero.
Cheer oh,
I cheer when the cleansing is done and I'm clear again
able to peer again into what I would like and desire to hear again
in a page full of pain where the words hurt the same and the chapters make laughter at me
I am free to decide if the tide is against me or the winds blowing freely which very nearly would seal me into an epilogue
quite clearly the editors pen would be needed so I could be fed and reseeded with hope
and with the cogs of cognition would once again turn on the ignition
and fire up the engine
to begin.
In the restroom,the best room where the bridegroom bites his fingernails and his top hat and tails have turned tail and have run
the song is sung of the forlorn those that wish they'd been never born and the rest is pro forma
a bit Norma Jean another film noir scene
and it's time for my tea.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
The Fog n Funk is choking!
It’s so hot it’s burnin’ my internals!
The best ideas come out,
When your head is stuffed in a thought
I said a yeahhhhh… (4x)
Why not write it down??
The time to rake is beating away,
Upon the sun it get’s hooked everyday,
Realize that these petrified, antagonized,
World disappears,
Around the Outer Zone,
Falling on solid ground
I said a yeahhhhhh… (x2)
Get up and blow your head off!
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:30 PM UTC
Reduced to a single point
Within and without I know,
I am but one single speck.
I feel it now in my mind;
My thinking soul.
Not in conventional terms but,
Let my thinking heart guide thee
In understanding me.
Nothing forms
Like air let loose.
We drift, as infinitismal nothings,
Following from within like a painter's brush into reality-
Our own canvas are we.
Superceded by phantoms of ghosts
Ethereal blurs take their geometry,
Exist within A euclidity.
We weave ourselves in the hairs of our god's
Nebulous strands dreaming outwards from the thinking hearts,
The hearts that make us but we form-
This integration of it into nothing
Of nothing... to something.
Spontaneously alive
Digital sparks that programmed their own world's
Existing within limits self imposed.
We perceive from internals to externals
But accepting truths built falsely
They hold, like all Straw houses crumbling and shrinking,
Till they fade inwards, collapsing into reality the painters brush falters.
It cannot go on, it cannot paint finer than its hairs, only grander, out, bigger, falser.
Our eternity is merely a fraction of our own
It extends infinitely we cannot go...
With it.
Within these truths I find myself
With these fundamentals I paint myself into the world
With these dreamlike strands of hair I weave myself.
Into the fabric of your mind, you are part of this now!
You always were, and never will be.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
Something is off
Something is wrong
Inside my heart
Something is gone
I used to run perfectly
Not a single twitch
Then something broke it all
And now I'm missing ticks
What could have caused it?
What makes me malfunction?
Perhaps the answer lies inside
With this rusted wrench
I remember bits and pieces
I recall some events
But the main detail is
He was worth more than a few cents
Yes, it was the mechanic
The one supposed to fix
But instead he broke me apart
And now I barely tick
Many mechanics were supposed to fix my heart
But none have followed through
For a moment, however
My heart simply flew
Then the repair turns to destroy
As they tear out my wires
And for a moment
I wish to be set on fire
Now I sit alone
Hearing my internals fail
And now, in a moment
I shall die from the male
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Stranded I am by this self
Strolling down the shore with my two lone feet,
I count every detail that I see pass on the shore
As it is a companion I seek among every leaving wave.
I scan around me for a sign of friendship
In this crowded beach of families
I stare away from the embarrassment of sitting all alone and thinking aloud to the waves.
I speak to the clouds and
Every other dragonfly
The sticky hot air at the beach accompanies me
And asks me of my life and my dreams!
I wanted to be in this state of complete stillness
Of an unknown pleasure of having nothing to mend and no body to fend
I wanted to know whom I could meet as a prince charming while I was awaiting on a black horse
Awaiting the kindness and the warmth of a human touch
But wrath and pity knocks along.
Pleasing externals and so the internals can survive
Where I have no one to call but everything to hide
I sit under the blanket of the night longing for a night out
To a party or some gathering
but deep, deep, deep have I entered in this whirlpool of loneliness
where being me outside and being alone is gifted by some natural force
Where fear of attention combined with a knot of failure
where love cornered by being cheated upon is a fallacy of thought
where all the monsters are guardian of my heart
and where FAMILY is a feeling which I hear through some sounds in the empty DUST.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
Shoot
Aim at me
And litter me with stars
I feel like I
Need to be
Aerodynamic like cars
To go faster
As I wonder
Do astronomers dream of astronauts
It’s ringing
In my ears
Make mine a holy heart
Blow
Me away
Make things diff’rent than they seem
Push me past
The today
And help me see past the temporary
Of the seconds
Of the minutes
Of the hours I count on fingers and toes
Make this limbs
Stretch the distance
Break apart this hole
Pierce
Into me
Make me feel a heart forgotten
I feel I
Need to be
Torn into to get rid of the rotten
Through the muscle
Crack the bone
Let me be opened, inside out
Open lungs
Rush of blood
Let internals eternally pour out
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
"Call me" those 2 word message from you
Instantly thrills my internals
Gives me warm and slimy feels
Makes me nervous and move rushy
Upstairs to my four walled den
Lock the doors
Shot down all the entries, the light may come in
Hid myself in the dark, untie my pony
Tear out my jeans and shirt
"Dialing" and then we begin
Run your fingers and unlock the 2 cherries
at top of the 2 hills
Squeeze, then take sip on its juice
Crawl it down the cliff,
Dive in and explore its depth.
Your a haven whispering " baby"
Put me on top, " I'll do the ridin' baby"
Marking each other creatively
And gliding continuously.
Scream loudly " ohhh baby"
Spread willing widely
Entering back and forth wildly.
You're from the North
And I'm in the South
Too far from each other
But
We came together.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC