"livers" poems
Loneliness is a pain,
Not the pain of a knife cutting through skin, sinews, muscles,and drawing blood.
Not the pain of a tooth in your mouth throbbing and sending shocks of horrors through highways of swollen nerves..
Not a fatal pain of a dying cell being devoured by a cancerous growth that thrives on the death and the pain of the very cells that produces its been.
Not the pain of the prisoner s body been tortured by men who see no wrong or feel no shame as they insert sharp hot instruments into natural and man made orifices in their captives helpless, hopeless bodies.
Not the pain of age as the body's functions start their natural march towards unreliability , Hips, knees knuckles, elbows and all the other joints as they begin to slowly dry up and rub against each other like stones rolling down a hillside.
Not the pain of hearts slowing, livers hardening,lungs wheezing like ripped accordians bellows .
Not the pain of childbirth.
Not the pain of accidents that show no fairness to the person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Not the pain of self inflicted wounds that can fool you into thinking that that pain is the answer to your problems.
Not the pain of the young healthy times when the body, and mind could accept it and overcome it
Not the pain of hunger or thirst.
Loneliness is the pain of the soul .
Loneliness is the pain of dreams that are dreamt when your asleep and when you'r awake.
Loneliness is the pain of memories . Some half forgotten some that are so clear you could almost touch them.
Some you'd rather forget.
Some you would spend the rest of your life reliving over and over again.
Loneliness is the pain that at times can be part relieved momentarily through the bottom of a whiskey bottle or a point of a syringe filled with a concoction of juices from plants poisonous to both the body and the soul.
Loneliness can never be cured by earthly things. Loneliness is a pain that can only find peace through a kinderd spirit.
Pat Rooney 2013
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
the world sits on the wing of a dove
being swallowed whole by a fiery goddess
descended from heaven on a chariot of ivy
i am incarcerated by shaking flesh and itching cloth
the road before me is giant and knows no bounds
the graveyard is warm and wet with spirits and dew
and red clouds are born from fire in the dawn
there is an intelligent horse being ridden by a snarling insect
and this man has come to claim our souls
our sunset blood burns boils blisters until a million animals wounded
i'm still alive, transfigure me into a creator
choke up my nostrils with the scent of your ***
invade my lungs with the burn of your god
caress my toungue with the infinite promise
enter my brain from above, and regurgitate your anxiety on me
slimy worms devour a psychadelic tomato laughing
into transendency, an eyeless eel has dissappeared into a pocket
i speak from balconies, from terrible heights, from hastened windowsills
in a million desperate quarrelling cities
this is where i **** up illusion, i give up to despondency
i ring the great iron bell that resounds with corruption, with hatred, with hideous *** and admiration,
i scream and cavort on rooftops alone with a black & blue midnight
covered in electric lights and gunpowder tongues
here comes the disintegration of my mind
disgraced by the eye of the earth and spat into
a realm of salivating light
i am swimming through digested heartbreak and melancholy livers
sickened by madness and homemade bombs and ******
the rainclouds carry a truckload of babies' hearts
and it's raining eyes over the city now
the cry of the mind escapes from waving mouths in impotence
as millions of bacteria invade the brain
may these lines be answered by the bird of the sun
by the worm at my ear
by the sight of my skeleton
by the stench of ***** in the air
by the dead gong shivering through midnight
by the bleeding eye of abandoned dreams
by the prophets in proclamation
by the god of all my sorrows
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:55 PM UTC
Sitting in labyrinths of cobblestone intestines
I’m learning to eat the entrails of sacrifice
only domestic, never hunted.
pick up spoon. put down
put down. put-down.
pick up. um . spoon.
um… putdown.
there are motions for eating and I do them.
soothsayer, look down
pay attention to positions, shapes
knife. butter. um…
bread. no. breadth.
better. no. butter-better. focus.
knife. better. bread.
knife, knife of haruspex. knife breadth.
okay… deep breath.
I have divided the livers
and the watchers of victims.
I have written on
the anomalies in my bronze living,
what I should look for,
what they should allow for.
my protruding viscera,
my ancient autopsy of starving.
Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift. made me feel
gutted out like finished
ice-cream containers
but, starving made me
full of household gods.
made me divine. made sheeps fly.
made days disappear and made cold cold cold seem like
simmering. made staying out of sight a piece of cake.
cake. starving made me rich when I found little
boys betting quarters for eating bowels of
goats. made me small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents.
now, I listen to Memor, a man
who knows nothing of starving
talk about how starving I am.
tomorrow I have to advise
tomorrow I have to weigh
tomorrow I have to swallow
tomorrow I have to
tomorrow I have
tomorrow I am half
and starving made me whole.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
What Dr. Lector devours with fava beans, inside rots. Too much Chianti?
Not likely. Likely, not enough
but there has been much else. Still,
no amounts warranting any shy example of overload. Mild splurges,
done in high style equal
nothing in comparison to toxic
baths taken in industrial grindstone
mortors. And the payback?
Walking papers and abdominal lump.
Poke it and choke on acid reflux. Pop
more pills to keep it down. Downers
prescribed on more downers.
Feeling down? Have another downer.
What else can we do? Your MRI's
and ultrasound, unsound, do not
come with flag from foreign invader,
claiming this new territory for king.
So, blame it on the offal.
Blame it all on the offal for not
having guts and glory
to fight off its own infection.
And eat your chicken livers.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
When things were going great
we'd eat transcendental dinners,
we'd take livers
in rainbow saucers
and ladle them
in tartar sauce
until our mouths
were full of salt,
sometimes we'd go to Thai China
and make interstellar fighters
out of the wise guts
of
cream-colored Starships.
But the nights when we went
to Burger King were the greatest,
we'd have simple dinners:
99 cent burgers
and fries like elephant ears,
we'd sit in our booth
in the corner,
you farting ketchup
out of like
twenty packets
into a red **** pile,
and I farted
like
twenty farts
out of my ***
but I like
simple things;
they are natural
even if they don't sound
that way.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 12:27 AM UTC
"Clunton and Clunbury,
Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
Under the sun."
In valleys of springs and rivers,
By Ony and Teme and Clun,
The country for easy livers,
The quietest under the sun,
We still had sorrows to lighten,
One could not be always glad,
And lads knew trouble at Knighton
When I was a Knighton lad.
By bridges that Thames runs under,
In London, the town built ill,
'Tis sure small matter for wonder
If sorrow is with one still.
And if as a lad grows older
The troubles he bears are more,
He carries his griefs on a shoulder
That handselled them long before.
Where shall one halt to deliver
This luggage I'd lief set down?
Not Thames, not Teme is the river,
Nor London nor Knighton the town:
'Tis a long way further than Knighton,
A quieter place than Clun,
Where doomsday may thunder and lighten
And little 'twill matter to one.
2.8k
I call you an *****
An ***** player,
Player of hearts and eyes alike
Your fingers pressed to the porcelain
as if the weather depends on
whether or not the pipes pipe up
as if a heart does not beat without
your hands repairing the metal indents
An ***** donor,
Donor of drunken livers and stomachs full of barbed wire fencing
Your lips pointed upward once awakened from dissection
as if you could lacerate a human being from the inside
and go on being
as if keeping them in liquor-filled mason jars
will cradle their fear
An ***** system,
Without a skeleton or bandaids to piece yourself together
You bleed out and ignite a single flame
as if you could burn a house down
with all your leaving
as if you could survive a life spineless
not living but breathing
DDD
(11/10/2013)
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
Bookends with fatty livers and bad backs
squinting at instructions
for another **** fool distraction
and the laughing, thankfully
On the walk, bees, butterflies,
catkin reminders of time and loops
and irregular pooping
as constants
Thankfully, laughing
requires just enough muscles
from those that still work,
but I’ll feel it tomorrow
Mar 26, 2022
Mar 26, 2022 at 9:23 AM UTC
My secret wish
is just to dissolve
into my bed
to become one
with everything around
to become the fabric
of the universe
To become water
run through mountains
into green valleys
and join everyone
at the sea party
to raise up as clouds
and fall down as rain drops
To end the thirst
of one lonely human
to became his blood
to go through his lungs
through his heart
and livers
and to leave him again.
To leave the Earth
and go on a journey
that leads nowhere
into deep space
to watch it all from afar
watch it all end
and start all over again.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
a polish pork head terrine?
my ******* god...
how can the jews and the muslims
take to culinary criticism of
their own, respective gods?
ever watch the t.v. show
billions? where they're having
breadcrumbs fried pork
ears?
last time i heard...
the best pork is encapsulated
within the pig cranium....
all that excess cartilage?
yummy finger licking good...
seems funny though...
it's not exactly discussing bone marrow...
it's pork head...
all that excess cartilage...
and mingled with sweet & sour
gherkins...
just my idea of Anastasia...
a porky's head...
chicken hearts / chicken livers....
raw Baltic herrings?
who the, **** needs to glorify
american hamburgers...
if not some jerking-off
megalomaniac?
you eat, what is given,
you don't ask for nuances,
you don't make excuses...
you eat what is on the plate..
you **** the omnivore "gimmick"...
pork head flesh,
meat mixed with cartilage?
tasty as ****
so why would islam
or the partial strand of judaism
be so critical concerning the most
economic carnivore animal being
farmed, herded, industrialised?
the monotheistic celebration of god...
within the confines of a criticism,
so trivial would make a god laugh...
it would appear the dogma was written as a joke...
earthquake and hurricane
are o.k., but pork?
the ******* bubonic plague!
i love how "god" is celebrated,
but at the same time,
kept under a critical acclaim
of having one of his creations,
namely pork...
given a punching bag status of criticism...
since, what is so ******* pristine,
and spectacular, about chicken, lamb
or beef meat?
according to islam... mad cow disease
never happened.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
in winter we rubbed off our skin with bitter yellow soap
& danced across the murky floor of our brains.
ankle-deep in ambien, our toes scraped urchins & palms of anemone.
we built shelters in the living room
from moss-green blankets & coffee tables,
our fingers making furtive wishes in the quivering dark.
we picked small hairs & pennies out of the carpet.
when i grew hungry you offered me your left thigh
like an unwrapped christmas present.
under the aquatic quake of the fluorescent light
you fat seemed to boil
& your bed turned into a small, cold island.
we opened checking accounts under fake names
& you started to worry about your gently doming stomach.
when the mailman came, we cowered in the closet.
each year the temperature of our livers
rose a few degrees.
spring brought us flowers that smelled like DDT.
––Appears in the Spring 2013 issue of The Columbia Review.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Hand keys
To my heart
What a start
To another fatal
Chapter
After
The utter shatter
And the picking up again
Love’s abusive
Friend
Sadist archer
With fiery arrows
And a gate I can’t defend
Keys missing
This may be my
End
Before I’m even beginning
Key tucked safely
In your hands
And my stupid mind
Thinks I’m winning
Final inning
And I’m coming
Up
Short
No retort
Here I am again
The ubb
And dubb
Of a key
Made of me
I’m in love
I’m lacking
I pierce
Shattering
Smattering together
The same chorus
Forever
In offering of lovers
Like livers
That keep growing
Back
Back to the rock
And in offering
I lack
Maybe it’s me
But in order
To be free
I must offer my key
Heartbreaking and entering
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 7:54 AM UTC
Clunton and Clunbury,
Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
Under the sun.
In valleys of springs and rivers,
By Ony and Teme and Clun,
The country for easy livers,
The quietest under the sun,
We still had sorrows to lighten,
One could not be always glad,
And lads knew trouble at Knighton
When I was a Knighton lad.
By bridges that Thames runs under,
In London, the town built ill,
'Tis sure small matter for wonder
If sorrow is with one still.
And if as a lad grows older
The troubles he bears are more,
He carries his griefs on a shoulder
That handselled them long before.
Where shall one halt to deliver
This luggage I'd lief set down?
Not Thames, not Teme is the river,
Nor London nor Knighton the town:
'Tis a long way further than Knighton,
A quieter place than Clun,
Where doomsday may thunder and lighten
And little 'twill matter to one.
1.9k
Apon are arrival once at times seemed questionable
We were greated by none.
hawaii had spoiled us to all other airport experiences
Were else could a half hunover yet slighty buzzed madman
stumble from a plane to encounter a beautiful woman in a grass
and cocunut bra once even now made me thirst for for a pina collada.
But in in canada there was nothing to greet us there but cold
As we stumbbled around dressed like soon to be doomed criminals awaitting trial.
Cananda its slogan should have been.
Welcome to Cannada it's really ******* cold.
But we knew where to find warmth in this enviroment.
Or for that matter any enviroment.
For we were drunks or as i liked to think of it consistant drinkers
And on are journey into this land of freezing weather maple syrup
and ice hockey.
We had one true goal.
we had come to drink Cannada dry.
No bar would untouched No bottle would not know are name.
we would hit on many women.
Score with a few and say we had slept with many.
I was a religeous man and i need to get in touch with with the spirts
The spirts of Canadian mist Jim beam And my old stand by spirt Gin
It was a bold mission for which we had set forth.
Are livers were alredy beaten to almost a pulp but
we still somehow still walked and functioned in disquise of
semi normal human beings but nothing was further from the truth
we were writters was ment we were professional crazy people
On a mission to depleet this icey land of its alcohol
an drink canada dry
Oct 18, 2009
Oct 18, 2009 at 12:34 PM UTC
A new age beauty of
liquor filled livers and cigarette killers
quickly spread across the lands
in supernova outbursts of
dulled out color.
A new age attraction of
bones and bruises followed
in a broken down
dysfunction of order.
A new, "Hello, beautiful,"
quickly served out to those
unstable in a fine delicacy.
-s.r.b.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
The first great war took many people
But it was just a start for worse
It took the best of us, the livers
To revolution's ****** horse
This war erased aristocracy
This war had eat my own home land
Kurmysh was town at Sura river
Untill they came, soviet's undead
A part of us was pushed from home lands
Another part had shot in head
They called themselves a freedom bringers
But that was thing old Lenin said
While winners write the history
The truth becomes a mystery
Then bandits become heroes
And heroes gone to dust
And now, the robbers, killers
Are called a freedom givers
In part of lost empire
Ukraine, which now are sold
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
*What goes up,
must not come down*
What is free
shall be bound
What goes round
shall become flat
what is feared
will be my door mat
What is Earth
when Earth is Mars
and what is fear
when fearing cars?
Of what do I speak?
I am whispers of cold air,
that melt your face with my despair,
Of what do I speak?
I am harsh attitude,
that gives you pleasure, and fortitude.
Of what do I speak?
Do I speak of love? life? livers? long? low? lousy? loom? lay? like? lost? lovers? power? pain? physic? knowledge? wisdom? Cats?
Tacos?
....
Squirrels!?
****
Of What do I speak
that bemoans the winds so fair?
Of what Do i speak?
that will:
Trade a book for a worm
and a worm for a sock
and a sock for a bag
and a bag for a tong
and a tong for a toe
and a toe for a ***
and a *** for some snow
and some snow for a crow
and a crow for a stove
and a stove for a grove
and a grove for a brain
and a brain for some bronze
and some bronze for some books?
Of what do I speak?
That goes left
and ends up right?
Of what do I speak,
that has a creative light,
that all shun
and turn away from.
Of what do I speak,
?this like backwards speaks taht
Ro spahrep ekil ****
Of what do I speak?
That has a language of its own
of what do I speak?
That at the sight of your face moans
"For if your face is a face, then stop giving me that face!"
...
but enough games
Of What do I speak?
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 1:42 PM UTC
It was a rainy November night-
it always seemed to be.
There was nothing to do
but drink through our cheap red wine
until our words sloshed together.
Sure, it was slowly killing us,
slowly drowning our livers.
But there was something about the drinking
that made us feel more alive than
anything.
We worked until we had a few bucks,
the few bucks turned into a bottle.
There was never more money,
but there was never not enough.
It wasn't paycheck to paycheck
but bottle to bottle.
Eventually we'd sing Billy Joel
or the Beatles,
happy to have each other,
but even happier to have the wine.
The rain continued on,
the wine continued on,
and our lives-
well, they continued on, too.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Seven born to a home in the hills
Lost in the waste that time kills
Each segregated to a different day
Or so at least some say
Anthony couldn’t help but fall
Built too tall
As he hit his head upon a door
Running adjacent to the floor
Young Mr. Cooper took form
And quickly ran to his scholarly dorm
On the way he transgressed to
A fellow who
Used to dwell in the same domicile
Until he felt the environment was too vile
Fled the scene in the matter of a moment
Not knowing there wasn’t an opponent.
Reluctant to turn around
With no answer found
Another division began to develop
One, which was quick to envelope
Everything the boy thought
And freedom sought
The new guy Stephan sold the car
Got a job at a bar
Cleaning up there every morning
While other livers were still in mourning
He had to remove the lingering drunks
Still caught up in their mid life flunks
One always takes a swing
Ben Gunn wakes up feeling the sting
In panic he flees
Watching passing tress
Tracing the trail of something known
The place he called home.
Once in sight
This personality takes flight
Out steps Dewey Dell,
Who looks like a glimpse of hell
Takes a nap to restore
His body, which felt quite poor
He had expected to awaken
The boy was mistaken
Waking up on the cliff
Was a boy named Winston Smith
A devotee to a righteous cause
He just didn’t know what it was
Spent his days inside a pew
Surrounded by slim to few
As answers ceaselessly taunt
Halls made to haunt
Without hope he grew less attached
And quickly became Anthony Patch.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
You...
To me...
Are the essence,
of the earth mother...
As you watch over your pond,
with an easy, laidback, grace..
and help us see it grow and
chart it's every, every season.
Turtles, weeds and all...
I adore the fact, that you,
write love with an earthy lust
And you lust with an earthy abandon....
You have an intelligence,
That always expands my mind
All the way over there
on the other upside...
You and I share old friends
Writers of art,
livers of life.
those who mark....
and make the small moments large
Yet, I know you not...
but fervently wish
We could sit and pass time
Over tea or coffee..
You are one of many....
Who write voraciously
With life and passion in your pen
But so too,
You are one of the few
Who I go to read ....again and again.
So I thank you...
My very own female
Walden...
For the lessons
of the earth, life, loving
and humbly implore you
write again and again..
Til the world stops turning...
Then....just write it's begining again...
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Living in a different time zone, still reeling from past decisions.
Fighting venemous events to no avail,
not letting go of lasting mass incisions.
Excision of life's excitements.
Removal of my livers, kidneys, colons,
but still, I shiver in the coldness
of the living.
Admitting to the voices in my head,
that the Lord's mercy still extends,
into heaven for the choices of the dead,
who did the devil's bidding.
A foolish folly for a younger self,
to fall afoot amongst a rotten hell,
hellish landscape brought into the realm,
of mortals and the bedroom shelves.
All my dreams upon a table,
and in the dusty drawers there lies the pain.
Honestly I'm never able,
to entrust another lover with my reigns.
To fly I must begin to build momentum,
but something's caught up on me and instead preventing.
And slowing my ascension,
Also did I mention,
that every other moment that I spend here in atonement
is a ticking to a redder deathly sentence.
Repentance, with a mix of learned and unearned lessons, accuses those who lied.
Impresses extra stress especially when the ghostly men attend and lean up on my bedside.
I use to shy away but now I stare them in the eyes.
Fear's been long gone since childhood,
when crazy layovers in hazy places
played a part of strongly breaking bonds with those I thought were good.
I've felt my death a million times and dreamed it millions more.
And yet I never let myself fall victim to the final tricks of it's afflictions.
Meaning it's a situation still remaining unexplored.
I know what I lived for, and I know exists a future still in store.
But god ******* ****** life is such a chore.
Lord,
Give me strength and give me more.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
*where cello was semi-colon, where violins (always plural, no one's weeping or playing to beg) are colon, where Bach's (church pianos) organs / castrato livers kidneys hearts... where comma was the trebling silver triangles... where full-stop was the composer turning into a conductor, to detach himself from the act of composition and into a drama, a staged drama, a Sisyphus ram against the stable coordinate of perpetuated slam dunking bullseye for only a: knock knock. who's there? knock knock nowhere. nowhere where? here. where what? knock knock open the ******* door!*
i lived to the age of 70,
i loathed hating people,
and i loathed loving them
hence the reason i never married,
i could have lived alone
but the monetary system absolved that
wish...
tribalism would never give us
mozart's symphony no. 40 because
we would be exchanging favours
instead of monetary funds...
via solipsism and the ugly synonym autism...
****** instead of wives... well, there you go...
her eager libido explains much,
as a teenager ****** eager (rhyme rhyme rhyme)
explains her escapism into outliving man;
her satan's bargain truly did favour hair,
oh **** her, while he died a splendid death
aged approx. 30, she with a **** salute
saluted him: i'm worth 90 autumns!
yeah, 90 autumns and arthritis.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
I Eat
I eat fingers, I eat toes,
I will even eat a runny nose.
I eat arms, I eat legs,
I use blood in my scrambled eggs.
I eat eyes, I eat ears,
it goes down good with some cold beers.
I eat hair, I eat skin,
lots of good meat on a human shin.
I eat kidneys, I eat livers,
if you don't like it, cry me some rivers.
I eat guts, I eat brains,
Their already dead, so no one complains.
I eat ***** I eat *****
it tastes better than some milk and a cookie.
I eat veins, I eat a heart,
eating an *** always makes me ****
I eat **** I eat lips,
I will even eat artificial hips.
I eat moles, I eat warts,
I would even eat you stained shorts.
I eat appendix, I eat gall bladder,
on a rope or on a ladder.
I eat small and large intestines,
prison has taught me no lessons.
Some call me a ruthless cannibal,
I started as a child, when I ate then animal,
I'm like a zombie that isn't dead,
maybe its because I'm ******
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Ring the Bell for Old DePauw, Ha!
Here's to Cold DePauw
Here's to passing cars.
Here's to winter, Here's to bars.
Here's to frozen Noses, rigid Fingers
Sore Livers, rough Throats.
Here's to Shivers.
Remember the beginning
Remember waking up
Remember lost keys.
Remember yesterday,
A year ago?
Remember that longboard we found
Amongst the art.
Remember that sculpture,
And the moving stone.
Remember Heathrow.
Here's to dreaming.
Let there be Lighters!
And ashtrays!
Let there be fireworks
Keep the air and the friends in
Keep the door closed.
Keep it locked,
But let the noise out.
Keep the fan on.
Give me shelter
give me recollection,
give me choice
give me space.
We need more love
more canceled flights,
need more VHS,
more wine
more cheese,
we need more heartbreak,
more sweet dreams.
Let us keep pictures
Let us keep letters
Let us keep papers
Let us keep sweaters
And glitter,
Keep it all.
Let us keep it alive.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
Getting on
through a trying work hour in the night-time rush,
groped by strangers with dark eyes
the color of neglect and whiskey.
Men with knives under their sleeves,
calling you back and back again,
refills for their poison and pretzels for the table,
don't be a ***** darling.
I only want to feel those hands trembling
under mine.
All you ever knew were the bruises and the burns.
Gliding closer and closer to
your face, your hands,
inching towards the skin that gleams, exposed
and invokes the shame you feel from
fetid breath on your neck, these
animals with moldering livers.
but another round for the men in the grease and grime.
Green bottles and a smile that said
'I like the taste of your weakness,
You like the abuse.'
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC