"liquidized" poems
we've been playing for months, yet
i am no longer the master of my own game.
i sit and wonder, "how did i get here?"
without ever truly questioning myself.
simply because i knew.
it is as though I am currently without a name.
considerably since "This" is no longer Me.
who I am, who That is,
I am no longer certain.
I have simply become a replica of Its impression on Self.
"tick tock, tick, tock."
the arrogance of time refuses to stop,
and "now" becomes a fleeting "then"
as My life slips through "Her"
into a dazed, drunken phase.
time only lingers in the present
for those who are truly Present.
Her time is lost, so what is My time
when the days blur together?
"Her" memory sanitized and wiped cleaned.
***** cleans wounds, right?
Dissociation to self, the insouciant desire to care.
an erratic, chaotic, tumultuous torrential downpour.
I'm theatrical sure, but passionately so.
"Passion," i'll drink to that.
"Pain" has me pouring another,
and another.
"Reward me," and we'll cheers to the clear liquid that
warms my throat with each increasing gulp.
"Relax." you worked hard, take one or two.
Six deep, Seven's the magic number,
plus, what's one more?
yet one will never be enough. "sleep or shoot."
don't forget to swallow.
you know you love it.
stop saying no when You can say "yes,"
and stop holding back, when I'm telling You "NO."
stop fighting...
...succumb to the misery.
besides, just one pour will make it all better.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 2:23 AM UTC
translucent jelly fish
in burgundy overcoats
trudged along the lane
today.
the clams cousin,
the barnacle,
collects rent
from the whale.
surface tension
molecular bonds
ebb and flow
liquidized energy;
ocean spray
returns to the sea,
you see.
and the sea ****
sees it all.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:06 AM UTC
I sliced through my ring finger
Stopping at the nerve in seventh
Seeing you is kinda like that sometimes
A not so good tingly nerve pain echoes through that hand
Going to that insignificant part that still cares
You were my first love how can I not
In faerie you've got to make due with what you have
I looked into iceberg blue eyes
Deep sea blue
From electrified gray
But only when there would be a storm a brew
Just my own tears I knew there wouldn't be any gentle voice
Laced with concern knew so well that there would just be an annoyed look
But now
I wake up to a deep forest green and a voice that's drowned in concern
Like tea steeped too long coating my worries into stardew for the sun to melt
Lulling me back to sleep a molten silver when you ask how my day was
A soft blue liquidized with worry when you heard me crying last night
It blended into a glowing cobalt after I told you it was stupid
I know that if you were here you would've tilted my chin up
And told me that nothing I could ever say would be stupid to you
And when I told you
You just told me that it was the sweetest thing ever
To know that I had a soft and caring heart
It shouldn't be
With years of crusted plaster over it
You seem to be taking a hammer and ice pick
Slowly cracking through those layers
Tender sunset kissed flesh beneath
A healthy heart
That isn't entirely shattered
I tried to keep it safe for as long as I could
I think
That it worked
Because the blood is still rushing
And I wake up to you
Asking me how I slept
And my heart speeds up
So I guess I did something right
In ending up on this twisted road to you
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
Braving lapses in neon dreams
You don’t like the look of air max 90’s
Besotted language intercepted not digested
The babble of youths who don’t talk correctly
Basking loosely in nonchalant demise
The **** on the floor, what a mess
Buttoned lips insinuating nothing decisive
You are hard eyed from men outside the pub, you look away at
Bluebottles lying inside neatly dead
Get me off this ******* bus.
Black lines, interrupting nothing deep
Why always black and never red
Broad landscapes intrude narrowness, delicately
But you close your eyes and hum the cure
Breaking laughter, ignorant nuisances drain
I wish they all were quiet and tame
Berating loud intuitive noises, djembe
Banging hands against the glass
Banging, lightning, ignored, deleted
There’s a fight going on, you will stay seated
Buried liquidized imagery, naturally dancing
The reflection of drama in a window behind you
Because listening is not done
You think about dinner and where you will buy it
Because light is no fun
You again close your eyes and think about home
Busy lovers inseparable never daring
You enjoy your thoughts
Being left in near darkness
You enjoy your thoughts
Watching interesting things happen
Eventually yelping even shouting trill howls
After the watch, offset retina kicks
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
I immerse myself in literary marvels and self-loathed poems
Any brilliance found in my work ,
Is in the space between words and the gaps between the lines.
Silence is golden.
I survive by breaking the golden rule...
...I want to take you everywhere I've been.
To have you look through these eyes,
The filtered images through liquidized eyes
Accompanied by ghastly thoughts.
Come onto this roller coaster ride.
Battle my demons.
Try to win...
How long can i endure?
I've buried them so many times.
The zombies and ghosts travel in my shadows,
Lightly and ever so softly
Pushing nails into my brain.
Showing me picture shows of beautiful stories.
Stories of love and companionship,
And spirit crushing images of a slow dissipation of lives...
---- Welcome to my dementia ---
...The outer limits of a young boys mind
A ****** in a devirginized world.
Dancing on forbidden ideas.
Lusting for a sense of belonging and genuine companionship.
A world of electric monologues and synthetic laughter.
The well has dried up and i thirst,
I thirst for sincerity.
Pull the trigger and land the bullet
Into the mental membrane.
Punch a hole right through it.
Become the catalyst for a revolution.
Let the light in to melt the wax exterior.
To enable a freedom long since forgotten.
Let them breath...
Let them breed.
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 2:36 PM UTC
…………………………………………………………
Red lip
Bled for a tip
$6.00 grip
Retained and placed at the hip
Felt the caustic eye
Depicting a senseless lie
Seemed like a simple guy
Dressed elegant in a suit and tie
……………………………………………………………
Liquidized assets in a fortune 5 hundred
Cauterized wounds for the plundered
Sipping on blueberry wine
Breaking bread, dinning on banned swine
Luxuries overgrow the jewelry box
Scotch overvalued, yet on the rocks
Locked safe, cold-clocked combination
Lost in a dream, trapped enumeration
Unwilling to sip soda as a pauper
Social stigmatisms holding him proper
The man bears arms
Coy as to avoid alarms
…………………………………………………………..
Muzzle lit
Puzzle refit
Hands up, dinners sit
$6.00’s retrieved after the handle hit
Red lips crashes to the floor
The well-earned man heads for the door
Attendants pause, awaiting more
Empty wallets, patrons left poor
…………………………………………………………….
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
To grow up fat is to go without
I do not gorge myself on compliments
But rather savor the taste of hearing my mother say
How only stick-thin people can wear bikinis
As if fat people have needles instead of skin
That stab those who stare at our bareness
As if it wasn't a reflection of her own self-image.
To grow up fat is to go without
I give my body
I leave no trace
When I was sexually assaulted by a date,
No one believed me.
Tell me I should be happy to have someone who wants me
Tell me I love the attention
Because when I stare into the water at my reflection
And see his hands covering my face
Still love the attention.
To grow up fat is to go without
The word ugly becomes my name
It is repeated so frequently that I forget my own
"Sarah"
I speak, and somehow it shocks them
A scapegoat like me can breathe intelligence
Can be brilliant, ambitious
To grow up fat is to go without
We, we are told we must venture to the land of milk and honey
As our words become bland
And our souls become sweet
Both liquidized into a seamless mold where we look thin
We go with our bodies wide open
As others feast on our flesh
****** and raw
All give, no take
Yet we continue to hear about our laziness.
To grow up fat is to go without
Because I binge on self-confidence
I get called a ***** and a ****
When I am starving, I am weak
But when I am not weak, I am arrogant
When I am not weak, I am nothing
The world fosters my dependence
For when I learn I no longer need to hide my body
I sabotage the machine.
To grow up fat is to go without
The expectation of being worthy
To grow up fat is to learn
How to find your worth alone.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
in previously dining with sultry, elegant fire*,
i was a gazelle with its neck bit to the bone-
breathing,
but not alive-
a fractured coffee table melted into a morbid pool of cheap, liquidized steel,
decimated via hazel iris communication and spilled wine.
my skin,
ablaze,
took the shape of your hip-bones,
outlined with red lace and childhood scurry-
a grey ghost changing weightless piano symphonies into expired canned goods,
dented to the severity of hairline fracture.
--
band aids eventually peel like browned, dampened leaves in the sorrowful days of autumn;
scar-ridden skin does not dance into the fading sun to never return,
but rather sits on skin like
wet newspaper
and whiskey breath;
it creeks a screech of attrition in your throat like an unhinged screen door,
the splinters down-pouring into esophageal tissue like ash.
re-dressing the wounds must not be a death sentence,
as the gauze is the clock-tower,
perched in the center of town,
striking noon.
it took far too many rotations around the axis to realize that a wounded, passionately bursting ***** behind a protruded rib-cage was not an expiring hourglass,
but that third degree burns could be the infinite list of ambiguous maps i've yet to navigate.
--
with the passage of ambivalent and nebulous suns,
i can now unravel the bloodied, endlessly flawed fabric to the newly optimistic idea of
her favorite peppermint tea,
her January habits of leaning on the sizzling pellet stove with sweatpants slightly too thin,
her perseverance of the books like a Nobel Prize winner.
but so help me,
if your are one more to pour gasoline on my dinner plate,
i will light the match myself before i allow you to complete the unfinished canvas of my curious skin.
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
In a chaotic
world of
media hungry
oil dumping
maniacs
We all seem to
build a
liquidized
bubble of opinions
that form
around our
bulbous heads
as infants
spewing knowledge
like an uncontrollable
spring
Our ideas
chopped down
Like oak trees
in a sparse
forest
No longer holding
that nostalgic
dream of
fighting dragons
Now only holding
what seems to
be a building
of self crippling
worthless merchandise
and rotting wood
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC