"lacerated" poems
I want to dip my tongue,
inside your flavor.
With no waver,
I savor your taste.
With a desires pace,
your liquids turned to paste,
a love potion laced with our grace.
Delicious lips glistening with ours juices.
A cocktail saturated with your nectar.
Our fountain we await,
satisfaction at a hieghted state.
I greet you with my pleasures
at an amazing pace, our lips embrace
lacerated by my tongue --
I trespass your pearly gates,
where your pleasure awaits,
I await - at the mercy of our warm embrace.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
*rocks don't care
all stubble and stones
a difficult geometry
so if they don't fit
they are hammered
and
crushed to rubble
jammed together to make virile walls
and if stabbed with swords
care not about
torn bellies and broken necks
soaking them crimson rust
or drowned nautilus
beneath the sea
humans
have futility in common with rocks
except that everything
girds and gnaws
at their belligerent sensitivity
all clouded soft towers
bi-pedal mortal spires
with tender flesh
beaten into place
lacerated
truncated amputees
to fit the outer life
of status and statues
a scandal to the inner coves of self
I'm envious of rocks
except for moments of
shifting watery kisses
clamorous for love
we remain
disfigured terrains
hunters of souls balmy unguents
while
fluctious immolating moons
unravel
in a hidden grieving
oh countenance of apathy
only to be more like you
a wilderness of stumps
and
dead rock gods
and our aspiration
indifference
our exit
the path of the renunciate
a penitence
feasting only on futility
and the vagaries of spirit*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your
hair, as her golden locks came slithering
down, a secret hidden.
Razor wire underneath, as it wrapped
around. Controlled from above, it cut
and shredded poor Flyn surrounded by
blonde blades, a smile from above.
A look of fear as her hair twisted tighter,
a thousand cuts, tortured by the girl in
the tower.
Never was it to keep love out, because all
that love has been a mirage of beauty,
hidden was her sin. She preferred to unleash
pain and death to those who thought she
was a prisoner within.
The girl in the tower not as fair as the tale
had once said. Hidden from those that she
wishes to do harm, the bushes fed by the
blood and bodies buried in shallow graves
around.
She was beauty that hid a darkness within,
her hair of blonde hiding death within,
nourished by the blood of those lacerated,
with the blades within.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel in a tower so high, to
keep you hidden from the world, for inside
the beauty is a secret, that is locked in this
tower, forever hidden protecting those from
the fairy tale lie.
.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
He was my most delicate flower
My favorite peony
Who seemed resilient of harsh summer showers
He held my aurora
He was my king, my aliferous deity
A dulcet fragrance is mixed with spring’s breeze
His kalon petals would balter
I whisper “I dream of living near the sea”
He'd grin
Knowing I’ll never turn out as I aspire to be
With more love than the last
Everyday I would greet him
Nurture him, tell him wild stories of my strange past
I thought too highly of him
I took my sharpest scissors
I lacerated his stem carefully
I killed him and pressed him
In an effort
To preserve my love of him
For eternity
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
To every single person
Who feels as though they are broken
Shattered, shards, scattered across
Corrupted pasts,
You will be okay.
I know there are scars deep within your soul,
Lacerated across your heart
And potentially upon your skin
I know there is regret, and blame,
Disappointment and shame
Burning fires within.
Let them go.
You are beautiful,
At 3 in the morning when you’re curled up
In your sheets, your pillow
Saturated in yesterdays regrets.
You have endured journeys
Others could never even fathom
You shall blaze trails others
Could never even imagine.
*Pain does not define you,
Society shall not confine you.*
Don’t you forget, lose sight of or regret
That just because you can’t see the stars
It doesn't mean they're not shining.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
In the dark of night, in the middle of a storm
A dish falls, shatters
A shriek tears the relative silence
Pale pink blood blossoms in the water
While rich red blood wells up in the hand
Tears falling like a blinding waterfall
Stabs and throbs of aching stinging searing pain
Blood and pain and tears fill the mind
A flash of white tissue beneath the torrents of red
Panting sobs and hyperventilation
Panicking as victim is rushed to the ER
Mother tries to comfort daughter with story of healed,
Previously lacerated toes
Two words blurted between gasps of pain: NOT HELPING
Arrive to an empty lobby, excepting a nurse and receptionist
Focus on nothing, only the hand
The possible tendon torn, the skin shredded, the blood spilt
Dishtowel now soaking red irony fluid instead of clear soapy
The story repeated 6, 7, 8 times
A nurse asks if I smoke or drink
A radiologist asks if there is any chance for pregnancy
And for a moment I am shocked out of my pain into pondering
The corruption of the modern generations,
Such that I am asked these questions
Any friend of mine would quickly tell that
No, I'm not that kind of teenager... but how many are?
Then I am whisked from the x-ray room
Off for stitches, they say my tendon is cut
That I need stitches
The fingers no longer gush, but that triviality is soon remedied
A doctor probes the wound for shards
Nurse flushes it clean with chlorohexadine
Both renew the flow
Doctor returns, stitches both fingers and chats away
Grand tally of five stitches, a splint, blankets of guaze,
And a roll of medical tape
Prescriptions for pain meds and antibiotics, both given
A scoffing glance, but instructions are followed
Forbidden from any activity with the right hand by my mother
I struggle even to write, simple chores soon a nuisance
First time the splint and stitches are gone,
Doctor number two declares my hand usable
First time the little finger bends, the half healed skin splits
So all for a plate, a hand was rendered more useless
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”
Jorge Luis Borges
I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.
You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.
Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.
The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.
Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.
I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.
I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.
White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.
And the same color of your so polish, european skin.
The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.
I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.
I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.
I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.
Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
His old age fell on years of abundant harvest.
There were no earthquakes, droughts or floods.
It seemed as if the turning of the seasons gained in constancy,
Stars waxed strong and the sun increased its might.
Even in remote provinces no war was waged.
Generations grew up friendly to fellow men.
The rational nature of man was not a subject of derision.
It was bitter to say farewell to the earth so renewed.
He was envious and ashamed of his doubt,
Content that his lacerated memory would vanish with him.
Two days after his death a hurricane razed the coasts.
Smoke came from volcanoes inactive for a hundred years.
Lava sprawled over forests, vineyards, and towns.
And war began with a battle on the islands.
3.1k
Those Chicago kids danced till' they were teary eyed in them **** crepe-soled shoes
He said to me, "Mamma I walked my little crepe-soled shoes into the heart of the South and said 'Hello World!'"
And God be ****** if he wasn't wearing crepe-soled shoes when we beat the man out of that ****** trash
His body lay there
lacerated and bruised like goin' ten rounds with Rocky Marciano. His face was like a sack of potatoes with holes in it. On his feet were spats, no, crepe-soled shoes.
Did you hear the news?
Black boy's struttin' his stuff in his new soul-shoes
As we lit his things on fire that ***** bastard's crepe-soled shoes just wouldn't burn but once they did, the flame would not go out
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:40 AM UTC
Dilapidated,
I hang on the precipice of perdition.
My lacerated synapses,
struggle to usurp the assailant
who created my beautiful crimson demise.
I'm weary of being ostensibly content,
with all of this malice and prating that enshrouds me.
Lets not mask this with useless euphemism.
I'll make this as equivocal as I can.
Its time for this dalliance to end.
Its time I end my diminutive existence.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
Lights dim,
Colour explodes,
For upon the stage there is magic
and in the orchestra pit there is music,
Young dancers robed in elegance
glide across the richly decorated stage,
And the night smiles by
with selection after selection
of sublime ballet confection,
The dancers dazzle and daze,
Their bodies hugging the music's enchanting embrace,
Upon their faces are the smiles of summer and golden radiance,
On their bare backs ripple muscles glowing with the sheen of sweat and glory,
Their breath comes in quick bursts as they fly through the air
and land as gently as a feather on the breath of a nightingale,
The girls are as bright as dawn's first light
and the men so supple and full of ecstatic zest,
These gifted artists were not from the snow-capped streets
of St. Petersburg
or from the steppes of the Bolshoi
nor were they from the giddy heights of the opera at Notre Dame de Paris
nor were they plucked from Covent Garden's glorious school of Royal Ballet,
No, it was none of those rigid and regimented corps de ballet,
For the vibrant and energetic dancers that mesmerised the audience
were living the pure joy of life,
These young men and women were from the poor villages and back streets of Cuba,
They brought the sun's warmth and delight,
They brought the lightning's energy and spark,
They brought the air of vitality and light,
They brought the moon's bewitching sophistication and surprise,
They brought the colour of life to their art,
This was a night of remembrance for the human soul,
What wondrous poetry in motion we can sprinkle and sparkle
if only we let our prejudices seep away,
Come, let go of the rat race sweat and pain,
Just ease back and let your mind be transported
to another time, another place, another type of magic,
Go enjoy a night at the ballet
and see human expression expressed through movement,
Witness tales of myth and wonder without a single word spoken,
One flick of the wrist
or the pointing of a finger
or even a tilted head
can say more and mean more than a hundred thousand spoken words,
Hearts full of love's deep lyrics told their tragic stories
through a mere touch or a caress,
Hearts were lacerated with a single swipe of a glance,
When two lover's shyly held hands and smiled
there was a thundering hush in the Hippodrome,
The lights changed from a cold blue to a pulsating red
and the orchestra showered the stage with glittering notes,
Drama, Music, Dance...
*This
was
Theatre.*
©Rangzeb Hussain
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 4:19 AM UTC
In the barren bowl
Of the local park
There is more brown
Than green
And naked trees
Rest like tired moths
Upon grass
That has been lacerated
By studded shoes
And knees and toes
And elbows
That have ploughed it
Bare.
The edges of the path
Look like eyebrows
Scant
Poorly plucked
And rats-tail
Mongrels
Scatter and shred
Across the carpet
Sodden
Sinewy.
Jarring teenage love
Letters
Sit upon February
The fourteenth
Like it is a mantelpiece of
Glass
Tip blue hair to grey sky
Beiged fingers
Intertwine
Black fingernails
Fumble
They watch their childhood haunts
Through the frosted panes
Of spectacle windows
And wonder why
Nostalgia dies so bitter
Today.
*Kiss my empty skin
Waiting.*
I find myself a love affair
In the sky
Clouds form a coastline
A single dribble of peach
Taints the ash
Like careless words
And I tilt my chin towards it
Already the spindle of my mind
Turns
And begins to weave
Gold from straw.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Sitting alone
Wrapped in darkness.
Its cold embrace
And emptiness,
Reminiscent of a life
That I once had.
Her touch,
A seductive slash
Upon my lacerated skin.
Her kiss,
A tantalizing poison
Upon my parched lips.
And yet as she turns her back
Is as the sun wanes
And the moon covets its light
With a foolish, jealous glow.
And even as twilight arrives
The moon still doesn't let go.
And as she walks away
With a flick of her sharp hair
And a roll of her dark eyes,
She leaves me a crooked smile
Which captivated
And I was mesmerized.
But suddenly,
Through the darkness
Appears a stunning bright lantern,
Breaking my trance
By beaming brilliant rays
And shining with compassion.
Sitting, no longer alone
I bask in the inspiring aura.
Warmth enriches my heart
With a revitalizing swell,
Reminiscent of a life
That I once had as well.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
dedicated banishment
self inflicted, echoing
physical displacement
from permanent coronary scarification
devouring accidentally my lacerated pulmonary edema
cauterizing weakness into cement
thermodynamically frozen muscles
umbrellas on parade in your city
netherworld for my regret
disreputable raincoats rubbery ebbing
against a tide of discontent
ringing out like let-downs
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Tattered fabric woven into your voice
Soft and refined,curled in the night
Unfolding the yarn, knitting into you
As dewdrops sculpt, a deep silence occurs
Etched and whirled, hazy and unknown
Bones unfurl in the wind
Lacerated with shame etched into your skin
Stains echo across your *******
Indignation embroidered deeply within
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
(Commemoration of Earth-Day, 22nd-04-09)
Earth hath
Been Weeping!
Nature lacerated & pleading?
Extinct species beseeching;
Antarctica mercilessly melting,
Noxious gaseous emissions heating.
Have you ever wondered?
“Of the Greek mythology!”
women warriors of Scythia astray burned off the
Right ***** to try
to habituate the bow and arrow in sly,
arsenals of terror abound harsh shear ploy!
Hitherto, the atrocious force upon Nature ne'er stops.
Wherefore-now the lost leaf of the conifers?
Searching for the nearest route to the Savannah Plains,
Waiting pro the long anticipated cascades of the tropical rains. Babylon wrests & clinches intimately thy adored hanging gardens that black slaves tend no more hasten. Euphrates in the Persian Gulf wanders uncertain; Everest looks down in pitiful scorn…
As it wobbly looses its molecular activity in pain.
Humanity squirms in an enamored Trance
to heave a foundation Of conscious Purpose
That Earth day waits Upon us
To elucidate a divine Hypothesis.
~~/|\~~
Namaste'
~~\|/~~
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 4:49 AM UTC
Exceptional grins of jagged pearly whites
adorn skeletal masks
suffocating your mangled breath
as curled fingertips scrape against dirt.
Flesh, charred and soiled
hangs brilliantly from serrated bark.
Bleached bone barbed at the spine
where charcoal dragons dig infected beaks to feast.
A single mountain of shadow stands
before lacerated skies
a portal of inviting mayhem and madness
concrete pathways twist to its starving mouth.
Horned beasts hobble on disfigured limbs
dragging their sins across heated ground.
Hungry for souls dipped in blood
the scent of rot disperses like fog.
Rickety witches stir boiling cauldrons
with ossified tendrils,
saliva oozes from cracked lips
as you're watched from a distance.
No escape from the blackened sludge
as it wraps on the nape of your neck,
gurgle out pitiful screams of fright,
welcome to halloween.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:29 AM UTC
sauntry and sultry,
a fraudulent check written
in a moment of disclarity.
if you've got a bridge to sell
I'm buying.
I've got stakes on this land,
broken with till,
seeded with pain,
nourished with blood,
razed, salted, travesty, and sown again.
a faulty playpen snaps shut on a toddler,
a man trips over his Pekingese
and puts his hand in his brand new
20% off buy two get one blendtec
brand blender,
showering his mother in law
with shards of wrist bone
and strips of lacerated flesh.
this is my foot.
these are my fingers, broken,
distal, intermediate, and proximal
phalanges.
these are the carpal and metacarpals.
I am a Spartan of a shitshack.
I was trained in the wicked art of
long arduous bowel movements.
squeeze one out for the ones you love.
in some small musty room
in new York city
there is a cocknballs paying $200
to get ****** on
by a wombwalker
and thinking about his ******
Pekingese.
you know its true.
don't try to think too hard about it
or you might lose an eye.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
And then he stepped into my mind.
His ephemeral arrival
Flirting with the departure of our time.
I could feel the rising tide,
Pull me in toward,
Atlantic suicide,
Planted and watered.
Peripheral with its crystallized hand.
Seductive with its transient satin touch.
I dressed my face with a painful smile
Lacerated like a mutilated porcupine.
And watched a rancid trace of gooey paste
Bleed through sticky crumbs of debris
Like cascading turpentine.
It consumed me whole.
I was swallowed overseas.
And then he strolled inside my brittle soul,
Bloodshot in disguise.
Impermanence
Beginning to realign,
Within the stitching of this blanket.
Suddenly,
I find it towering over me,
Saluting with protuberant glare.
My tugging devotion,
Had lead to a realization...
And then I stepped out of my mind.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
it ain’t got to be so complicated
knowledge should be available
free and running like water streams and ****
love should not be incarcerated
neither should dreams be lacerated
amongst barbed wire fences and ****
no body parts should feed the desert
no last breaths should be taken at the edge of dreams
why is it gotta be so **** complicated?
Filling out papers and ****
Singing hymns and chants to the empire
Why should some hide their red
While others call it patriotism?
Yet, the sinister of their practice is glorified and praised and ****
Praised like Jesus.. en el nombre de Cristo Jesus
A pregnant woman left to starve
While pedestrians watched
And children recorded
Children,
Children beaten by life
Children who beat other children unconscious
Drug dealing children
Prostitute children
Illegal alien children
Poor children
Poor colored children
Why has **** got to be so complicated?
We as a society feed off their flesh
Their voice, their fall from grace
We feast off their broken spirits
Cash checks over their corpses
And we demand more
What type of society are we
That we demand doom
While claiming privilege and ****
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:39 AM UTC
and these waves
of longing
are burning me
into stumbled
desert trances
as I crawl, parched
upon
earth that
sears and spears
my limbs
my inner organs,
once wet
with the fire
of my blood
now only
ashen embers
the very salt
of the sum of
my wounds
lacerated open -
barely held by
a secret tourniquet
wrapped tight, ******* me
in reverse tempest
and I clamor within my being
move in jolts,
like a voodoo dance
zombie girl
stuck in the hell
of no-woman's land
a landscape of spires
piercing me hot
making the sharpened path
dangerous for strangers
As for me,
I can only succumb to
their scalding roast
if I want to somehow
get out alive,
my skin charred
from that branding of insults
my heart scarred
from countless lashes
that your serpent's tongue
has inflicted upon me
This.
is not the pleasure
of being tethered
tender flesh teased
until writhing
This.
is not the grind
of earthen fire
and sky mixed
with underwater lava,
swarming cloistered whispers
into my brain temperatures
This.
is not the conflagration of
love seeds developing
into a ripe field
of the succulence of lustfruit
This.
Is just an
attempt
to wear down
the goddess in me
And to that
I say
No.
I turn the other cheek
to your barbed wire lies.
In the frequencies of the
next universe over,
an echo bursts into flames
rapidly oxidizing,
licking into
nourishment
the rebirth
of my
own
divinity
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
I slurp down
a salty golden liquid
full of lacerated noodles and flakes
which glisten in their own yellowed oil spill.
I tip the bowl to my mouth
and it fills my stomach from the bottom.
She's made it just for me,
just in time for my despair
although she didn't know that
when she made it.
I'm sick!
I tell her.
I was.
Fever, achy joints,
pits of nausea, and silicone pain,
the works.
I'm getting better.
there is just a dull ache left
but I am still sick
in the head.
A head where plays
a tug of war between
anguish with a goofy hat
and comedy with a noose.
My body gets dragged along with
my chemical eruptions
both biological
and habit-forming,
and my body grows tired.
The soup goes down quick;
the main course after leftovers from lunch.
And all of it fizzles in my belly.
A cigarette might help all of it a little.
Except for the despair.
The soup is for my despair.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations;
heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second,
filed and cast aside,
except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒
for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste,
for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears,
for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui,
all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes;
The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards,
exhausted, habituated, unquestioning
of the heaviness of such emptiness
within
their starving hearts
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
leave me
to precious illusions
moments of bliss
love imaged
momentarily eases the thirst
the dreaded melancholy
until
i am awaken
re-remembering the gnawing thirst
even at busy intervals
never a stranger
how i wish providence to come
and quite me of melancholy
impatient i am
resentful, for unwanted experience
that lacerated deep
weak and regretful
but always interchangeable
never constant
she has alluded me in youth
i wonder
in age
have i
atoned enough
will she finally find me worthy
uncertain of my fate
i drift
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC