"lesioned" poems
My bed is empty. I count the seconds down until you appear: 1...2...3 times you've asked me to leave you alone. Leave you alone? How can I let you be so cruel, so uncaring, and so completely and totally near to my voice. I can't. It's not who you are in this world-we call reality sets in and I grab my **** as the black of guilt sets in.
Black. Gray. White. What room am I in? There's ten feet of tile by ten feet heaven bound. The claw foot tub grips at the **** stained floor, fighting gravity's nagging whine. It's all too real. All too fictitiously crisp. All too false.
The ivory room slips into the field as the brown drains from the vomitorium. Bathhouses, **** me. Lesioned tricks, **** me. Loneliness, **** off-off to Cair Paravel.
I'm an ice cube in an ocean. Don’t drown, don't go, just come.
Rhythm stops and I study the damage. Laying alone on my bed, skin burning with the genocide of my seed spilt for you, I realize you are gone. With the revival of my senses I realize: You are a dream. A fabrication of lust and desire. But this moment, these feelings are ever changing. This moment is real. This time it's you. Tomorrow night: Tommy Anders, Brent Everett, Mr. Corrigan! Pornstars extraordinaire.
That's all I get nowadays.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
Plunged are the drifters, into cinders, born to ash, amassing, the blisters, of level headed listeners, in lesioned legions of the crass, who crashed in rash plagues, of pressed pariahs, burned in the churning melting pots of the bomb, and they sing the songs of the gone, while withdrawing, and unlearning the yearning to see, the unhealthy teething, of lost beings, gnawing on the beams, of lamp lit eloquence, fenced, behind closed doors, just living the dream, in blind sentiment to the cling, of the embarrassment in, smearing the sediment of the king, upon the all being, and all seeing, in the fleeting feeling of falling from the ceiling of his revealing thoughts, leering in the steering of the searing plot.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
The taking of Roses
their ovaries lesioned,
stamen's blanched
Is hubris now mordant ?
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
I was buried in a pleasant cemetery,
Beyond the walls of the city,
Near the banks of the Mississippi,
When my body was stolen from the Ground.
I died as I lived, languid and cold,
My corpse interred beneath stone too old,
My heart placid, as hard as gold,
When my body was stolen from the Ground.
At my funeral, you were first to attend,
The last to leave at the bitter end,
My lesioned heart you tried to mend,
When you stole my body from the Ground.
Warmth floods through glutted veins,
As you cleanse my soul of its pains,
I am bound to you, my love my chains,
When you stole my body from the Ground.
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 3:56 PM UTC
"He came from outer space to save the human race",
Black lips and painted face,
It was acquired taste,
You came so far,
You were not here long,
I still cry when I hear “The Cold Song”
A “Total Eclipse”
Life is not always fair,
But “Lightning Strikes”
And you were there,
Nomi,
Nomi,
What can we do?
Your name was a song,
But no one knew you…
And when you reached with lesioned
hands,
Friends backed up,
They did not understand,
You entertained,
We asked, what is it?
You said Nomi,
But no one would visit.
B L Costello © 2019
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 11:09 AM UTC