"lancet" poems
The flesh may still be fine...
One must just pare bruised
And bad spots away,
As a razor once excised mine.
A blurred mind mused
At the slowness of life
When it oozed,
Crimson's contrast
On pale skin,
Like paint
Escaped my palette,
Or red roses on canvas,
Mute shouts of color
Wasted in slick puddles
On the floor.
Red too soon fades sepia;
Wounds become scars,
Their hardness protects,
Forever reminds.
Though grown timid
Of assaults from steel,
Old psyche still yields
To lancet's probing,
Words released fall,
Now as drops to paper.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
In the morgue, the aseptic light
Was flickering upon it;
The livid, bruised, black and blue
Lying body of Love.
-Honey, It's dead, you see!
-Yes, sweetheart, but how did we
Come to this?
-Pass me the lancet and
Then we'll see.
A sharp cut was made on
The right temporal lobe of the brain;
The synaptic membranes were
Damaged, the reciprocal nerve-racking
Jealousy had made the brain collapse.
A big incision was made upon
The ribs: into the lungs no more
The vital breath of Love, only water
And mud were clogging the alveoli.
Love had drowned in the sea of adultery.
The last deep cut was made upon
The heart: the still valves and
Ventricles hadn't pumped
Blood and passion for long.
So, there's nothing else to do,
My dead love!
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
I've always itched
For perfect mahogany
Chimera doubles.
Cavorting into her,
Psychologies
Fullest emptiness.
Drastic is the
...Vow...
One which
Most perceive.
I let it
Palpate
My sheathing...
And my entrails
Lay open...
As she played cello.
With intestines of mine,
Her smile planted
In mist.
Painted on sawmill
Hinges...
It began.
To sieve serrating
..Arms...
Back to my tissues
Within.
My bones; refused
Seeping aqueducts.
Only to quail from sin.
We wetted; our contour
Tongues on....
O-negative streams.
So animalistic,
I dwindled upon
Her lancet...
And we let our
Collage begin.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Birth is by two ways:
labour and lancet.
Nope,--three.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
Pierce not my skin,
Thou lancet of horror,
Which is terribly akin
To the blade of terror;
Touch nay me at all,
You dark being;
Mind, be not on call
At the bay of loony bin;
Mortality's debt is
Paid by death's acquisiton--
It's the end of business,
The final liquidation;
The assets of sanctity
Offset and save as well
Many a toxic liability
Of the soul from hell;
Weak, weary and bored
By unbroken quietus fear.
Life is unassured
By a doctor's gear.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
I'm seated across from my stomachache.
The diner mutates into a morgue.
The tables are gurneys with checkerboard shrouds.
Is this conversation - or autopsy?
I explore an intriguing potential corpse
-unflinching under my lancet eyes
-numb as my curious scalpel pries
as I try to dissect what this means to me.
It might mean a great deal
(perhaps too much).
With delicate pressure cracks appear
STOP!
Questions cause fragile things to break...
Relationships all die premature deaths.
I am maladroit when I handle hearts.
Then I wait for the last breath,
"Let's keep in touch,"
and watch as my wounded friend departs,
sanguine about the mess I've made
of my latest stab at intimacy
when I dropped my guard like a flensing blade
and opened myself up as well.
Mistake!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
I go to church each Sunday,
God warns ‘there’s much to fear,
the world is decomposing,
the final end is near’.
I go to church each Sunday
and taste the wine and bread,
though elsewhere on our globus
raw hunger reigns instead.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear preachers’ words rebuff
repentant pauper’s pleading
‘enough is not enough’.
I go to church each Sunday,
watch candles burning bright
although they don’t enlighten
the demons of the night.
I go to church each Sunday
to wash away my sin,
while prophets make their profits
with wars that do us in.
I go to church each Sunday,
think thoughts incessantly
of all our planet’s peoples
denied equality.
I go to church each Sunday,
sit peacefully in the nave
while folks afar seek, grieving,
throughout a boundless grave.
I go to church each Sunday
to view iconic forms
alive in lancet windows
that hide unholy storms.
I go to church each Sunday,
discharge the weekly tithe,
while others pay the piper
when Reaper whets his scythe.
I go to church each Sunday
regard the holy bell,
reflecting on the wastelands
where day and night they knell.
I go to church each Sunday,
hear persons of the cloth
disguise the hell hereafter
with wartime victory froth.
I go to church each Sunday,
half perched upon a pew;
with everything so hopeless,
what else can one but do?
I go to church each Sunday,
and gaze upon the steeple,
majestic as the rockets
that plunge on placid people.
I go to church each Sunday
to hear the choir’s song
keep time with banshees shrieking
within a world gone wrong.
I go to church each Sunday
(above, doves fly in flocks),
while far flung realms are flattened
beneath the wings of hawks.
I go to church each Sunday
and pray so oft for peace,
but still the death continues,
it never seems to cease.
I go to church each Sunday
to sing sad psalms of praise,
while distant drones are humming
o’er bodies burnt, ablaze.
I go to church each Sunday,
a quest to save my soul
’gainst warfare’s pride and plunder -
prayer never plays a role.
I go to church each Sunday
my errors to confess,
while countries keep on killing
and suffer no redress.
I go to church each Sunday
the future for to see -
a man-made Armageddon
that ends humanity.
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 12:55 PM UTC
Butchery of emotions
through a lancet of
eyes,
cost a lot; promise me
that you'll never
pay the cost!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC