"marrows" poems
1405
Bees are Black, with Gilt Surcingles—
Buccaneers of Buzz.
Ride abroad in ostentation
And subsist on Fuzz.
Fuzz ordained—not Fuzz contingent—
Marrows of the Hill.
Jugs—a Universe’s fracture
Could not jar or spill.
5.1k
Don't put the rope to your neck
It's ok to go berserk
Don't take the poison
This phase is just for a season
Don't pull the trigger
God is bigger
He will wipe away your sorrows
And give life to your marrows
Nov 6, 2021
Nov 6, 2021 at 6:09 PM UTC
Find me tearing violets, my love,
in a manic daze; I am running out of softness and daylight,
like winter’s cruel hours
“but I will crown your hair with these torn violet tiaras
and your soft throat, twine with woven garlands”
and I will dig into my tongue for the remaining metaphors
beneath the bourbon, until odes drench my lips,
I will stitch my wounds shut and ready for your apricot kisses —
I ache to be kissed away,
to waste away before your sun-speckled eyes
like a tiny fae in your flower basket, I ache to settle
in your dainty hands,
in lithe fingers lost in my wind-blown hair.
My November, my gentlest love,
how I breathe you in like my grandmother’s letters —
how you consume me
in curious ways
and for the first time, I am not afraid of the softness
buried and warm inside my bone marrows.
Tell me, darling, will you stay?
Will we stay
this time
for more than a kiss?
Will we linger longer
than silhouettes in a dream?
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 11:28 PM UTC
he is the guy who plants the rice corn and wheat
so each one of us has something to eat
at break of day he tills the many acres of land
for his harvest of food there is a great demand
he is the guy who milks the cows twice a day
to make the butter and cream for afternoon tea trays
shop sell these goods to people everywhere
his milking shed produces such fine fair
he is the guy who grows peaches and marrows
collecting them on tractors and in wheel barrows
he is dedicated to the pursuit of growing staples
which grace our kitchen and dining room tables
he is the guy that rarely gets much recognition
hard work he does and in all weather conditions
the man on the land provides our mouths with a feed
his vocation serves a community of need
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs- the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.
I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.
I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.
I’m staying here.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
When the struggles and grudges of life weakens me down to my bones and marrows,
And l have none to strengthen me;
The grace of praise l embrace will quicken and be my strength.
When the devil fires an arrow of sorrow towards me,
ln order to narrow my passion for the vision of my mission in life;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my shield.
When the challenges and pains of life groomed in fears,
Strains my heart to rain down tears;
And l have none to comfort me;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my comfort.
When life seems so tough and my challenges becomes too hot to bear,
And l have none to bear my burdens with me;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my refuge.
When my enemies channels their weapons of destruction and distraction towards me,
ln order for me to leave my dreams, visions and life ambitions unpushed,
The grace of praise l embrace will shield me and inspire me never to retire until l am discovered.
When l am frustrated, distressed and stressed in the battles of life,
And l have none to console or encourage me to move ahead;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my fortress and my solace.
When my feet becomes feeble in the faculty of life,
And l have none to uphold me to be strong;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my strength and shelter.
When temptation, trials and tribulation engulfs me like a mother hen engulfs her chicks,
And l have none to unveil me;
The grace of praise l embrace will unveil me and announce me to my world.
When l am battered, shattered and scattered in the battles of life,
And l have none to come to my rescue;
The grace of praise l embrace will gather me up and put me together.
When l kneel before the creator and maker of heaven and earth in prayer,
And l know not how to present my matters before him;
The grace of praise l embrace will speak on my behalf.
When l am knocked down on my feet by the struggles and battles of this life,
And l have none to raise me up;
The grace of praise l embrace will raise me up.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Cutting through devils flesh, bones and marrows,
Healing sorrow, it's wielders never cold or shallow,
All Divinity or Nature destroyed is healed and harrowed,
Behold, the gift of the Goddess: The Sword of Shadows.
Despite cold hearts making our world a burning hell,
Despite many angels, light bearing souls, who somehow fell,
Despite those taking pleasure from greed, envy and sin,
Warm Hearts realize The Goddess is indeed our kin,
Despite endless waves of lives and death,
Despite moments when even good has lost life and breath,
Despite the sinuous evil and creeping dark,
One receives his Sword when Healthy with Halo and Heart.
For a Sword Bold of times Old, your heart must stay warm,
Even when anger for a purge starts and your mind 's a storm,
May every plot against Humanity forever fold or foil,
A Sword waiting for you, end all turmoil.
With Knowledge gained either thought the art or craft,
Sword of Shadows, Avenging all pains, even future and past...
Only tears shed are that of Love and Joy, no remorse,
To allow our dear Goddess in our world, All rejoice.
A Sword of Shadows for Hearts Brave and True,
Our Goddess Loves all, and has Sword for you.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
If my blood could illustrate,
A picture to the world,
It will tell you the exact state,
How my heart pumps its hurt.
Each ventricle pumps emotions,
Pain, anger, hope,
Up to my brain,
And down to my toes.
Slithering through each artery and vein,
Blood carves my hearts pain,
In my head,
In my head.
Working through each capillary,
It forges anger and rage,
In my bones,
My aching bones.
After its done its work,
It fights back through each valve,
And pours back into the atriums,
Devoid of fury and pain.
It was used up,
Just like my tears,
My wasted energy for nothing,
It brought me no good.
Just more hurt.
And just slowly,
As the pain and anger dissipates from my system,
And fresh blood is packaged and sent,
From my bone marrows,
It brings along a slimmer of hope,
That this new cycle of blood would carry no more pain.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
*there is a tourniquet on his tongue.
he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-
emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.
within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.
there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking
seamlessly.*
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
the sol and solitude
scalpel~dissect layers of tissue,
marrows of nuclei separate,
the warming is discomforting
dismayed and dissuaded,
cannot be in two places,
either/or/or simultaneous,
my centerpiece is a-kilter
wavering and waving,
my balance is mis-weighted,
teetering and tottering, in a land
lightly and thickly discriminating
between bodies and disembodiment
I am neither
I am both,
therefore,
I am invisible
to eyes that are shut by
obstructions of
willful
blindness
Nov 26, 2023
Nov 26, 2023 at 8:39 AM UTC
In a tiny allotment right next to the zoo
A miniature jungle was planted and grew
The flora was dense and the air became hot
But confined to a tidy rectangular plot
An unthinkable duo of creatures converged
And it's said that a spanking new species emerged
For a curious beast was reportedly seen
Roaming and munching on anything green
Make haste! Away! It's the Buffagorilla!
A shredder of lettuce and cereal killer
With hooves at the front and hands at the rear
The Buffagorilla is near!
It shambles about at the darkest of hours
On hedges it crunches and bunches of flowers
On daffolil bulbs and petunia petals
With hearty aplomb on a cluster of nettles
Covertly perusing with maximum hush
It can wander through gardens disguised as a bush
No carrot or parsnip is safe in its bed
And the marrows are quaking in vegetable dread
Depart! Retreat! It's the Buffagorilla!
The broccoli butcher and vegetable killer
With ape like features and horns of a steer
The Buffagorilla is near!
So if you hear a mention of butternut theft
Or notice a garden, all bare and bereft
Insure your potatoes for damage and loss
Give the salad a purely precautionary toss
For a creature is roaming the byway and track
With its legs at the front and its arms at the back
And it might be your gooseberries or chervil he spies
So I beg you take heed as I once more advise
Be gone! Take flight! It's the Buffagorilla!
The strawberry napper and cucumber killer
Just hide in your cellar and steer well clear
The Buffagorilla is near!
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
i spent too many times trying not to love you, darling, but i know this now: loving you has always been in my very nature — repressed and buried in my bone marrows.
i'm sorry it took me so long to realize this, my love. i am coming home now. ❤️
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 10:50 AM UTC
i.
a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.
she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.
another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow
ii.
on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and
i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because
i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off
azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well
those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that
sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.
iii.
death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream
but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.
iv.
when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.
v.
i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.
i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
and i am bitter.
vi.
i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.
i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.
i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.
i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.
vii.
ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest, and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
In this cave I'm at home, I am dead to the bone,
my marrows unbloody and my skulls just a tome.
I sink i sink i sink and i sink.
In this muck I dissolve my speech.
Needing no one to breach,
my lair where I grieve. I don't want to leave.
In refuse, I breed.
I broke my own tarsals and I bust out my teeth,
so words cant seep, from a mouth with broken feet.
Tiptoeing to tympanums.
Entrails prolapse from orifices. Pressure delegates my new motions.
I now must hold my own esophagus in my palms.
I now must clutch my stomach from my navel.
I now have to hold all of me in, because no one else will/
can.
No longer under control of anything,
pressure grinds my teeth to nothing.
My organs are liquid metal molten bleeding Ebola,
every pore agony of the lurching of cells,
all at once committing secession ,
against the parts they connect too.
This is proof there is no god.
This is the cave of a sink of hate.
This is soul atrophy.
A trophy of losing your hope when rock bottom was the chasms final means of escape.
Lucifer leaps from my mouth to the sky.
To reign anew.
To destroy the sun,
and show a new light from the rest of the punches in the blanket of the universe,
that,
that blasted sky lamp has always threatened us away from.
we can see peace now.
We can finally be rid of that overbearing street post,
and see that it aimed to destroy us.
We sleep in the cave now.
You and I.
Agony together.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.
i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,
-
spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.
i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.
--
they are coming, the surgeons, you say.
they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****
to clean, to find, to **** to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to **** to **** to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****
to make me sick.
---
i may as well be sick.
----
i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.
silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.
-----
i was the faire semblant and
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.
euthanise me, i want
your ugly face
------
to be the last ugly face i see.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 5:56 AM UTC
You call, I come
- surrendering the fight-
how can one fathom life
so far from your thoughts
as pieces of the sun
- kisses wither in time-
and sieving memories soften
the fall
-you are my demise-
sweet harshness striking in calm
stripping marrows in early dawn
-yet you cannot will my will-
A paper weight holds
down the heart and all beneath
slowly dies
-petals arched in the sun-
And yet, you call, and I, well I
just want.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
Flesh, flesh and
bone
the grave digger
clawing away at
the dirt
a shovel first
then hands
years of nail
biting offers the
earth a home
under his skin,
I am not one
to sift
patiently waiting
for old coins
or gold
the broken skull
of a cat, a chipped
molar
that belonged to
a father, forgotten
in the yellowed papers
of time. Skin,
skin and bone
I died a year ago
hollow, rattling in
the fist of my
mother
white sheets that
wrapped my
limbs
are pulled tight,
a half ghost
human shaped
my mouth is wide
with the Earth,
taken in and
****** like a plum,
skin and flesh
swallowed
whole. There is
only bruised
fruit on the
funeral table. As
the grave digger
claws out my
hole. My first
fixed home,
a house of
soil and acidic
tears. Minerals
and salt
mixing like the
marrows of
lovers
buried in the
ground. I will
never leave
rotting, skeleton
shaking, the deep
breath before the
plunge. A war
lost, my final
hour and I am
home
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
I'm a killer, cold and wrathful
Silent sleeper, I've been inside your bedroom
I've murdered half the town
left you love notes on their headstones
I'll fill the graveyards until I have you.
Moonlight walking, I smell your softness
carnivorous and lusting to track you down among the pines.
I want you stuffed into my mouth
hold you down and tear you open, live inside you -
love, I'd never hurt you.
But I'll grind against your bones until our marrows mix
I will eat you slowly...
Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of out love... never so much blood
I wake in terror, blackbirds screaming
dark cathedrals spilling midnight on the altars
I'm your servant, my immortal
pale and perfect, such unholy heaving -
the statues close their eyes, the room is changing
break my skin and drain me.
Ancient language, speak through fingers
the awful edges where you end and I begin
inside your mouth I cannot see -
there's catastrophe in everything I'm touching
as I sweat I crush you.
And I hold your beating chambers until they beat no more
you die like angels sing...
Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of out love... never so much blood
You're a ghost love, nightgown flowing
your body blue and walking along the continental shelf
you are a dream among the sharks
beautiful and terrifying, lit and restless
we dance in dark suspension.
And you bury me in the ocean floor beneath you
where they'll never hear us scream
Oh, the horror of our love
never so much blood pulled through my veins.
Oh, the horror of out love... never so much blood
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
ix.
when you were eighteen
and i was fourteen
you handed me a blindfold
teethed with razors
because you say
truth is schizophrenic:
and angels are anemic
and my eyes are sweeter
than pomegranate
but your poison did not stop at
fairytale apples or lazarus
or hellish flowerets,
it re-mastered
left its tar around
your marrows.
iii.
when you were twenty
and i was sixteen
you gave me a Glasgow smile
on my tongue:
like the pale harlequin
so i could bleed solace
and sympathetical commiseration
through every word
when ever you needed me
wheil you emitted a rosary
that encircled
clavicles, threading it to a hole you manifested
inside my sternum
because you belived
a heart was not neccessary
if a doll could
love with fingers
*
now you are ten years old
and i am seven years older
you ask me to write a poem
about you and artistry
but i am waiting
for the aestheticist
beside the violet car
with one ear and
debauchery
licking my fingers
and biting off your nails.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
The lunar eye looks straight at her
From which level of Dante's of hell does this allegorical figure ascend?
She sings perfectly. Not a chord off scale, not a single octave too high or too low, minors, majors, sevens and suses, yet the distance between performance and performer grows like canyons in continental plates. How does she sing so beautifully? But yet, something is missing. A sorrow, a fury, a hate that burns for miles, and a love that wants nothing in return; eyes that properly protrudes the profound passion of human horror.
So she throws herself savagely at the world, to seek out life's horrors in the hollow souls of every unholy ghost in purified form, profound suffering and endless sickness. Birth, death, disease, loss, love and life itself, knowing that everything else is expendable, because what does not make us itch beneath our feet or stir turmoil in our minds is of no relevance.
The Duende will find his way inside her marrows. He will fester on her cords and well up her eyes with ecstatic enlightened tears of exploding color, because life came caterwauling, yet here she stands.
She breaks into song once more
The Devil burns inside her now.
And the well of her wisdom boils with the Sound and Fury of Humanity.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
Few lines Inspired by lyrics from Ludo & Imogen Heap.
What’s this?
You don’t understand?
Let me explain; let me fuel your mind…
Let the memories you so quickly shut out turn on the lights.
And as you sleep with soundless dreams
Do not underestimate me!
I will push and shove until I sink through your skin…. grinding against your bones until our marrows mix.
As you can see, I was not ready to let go.
You didn’t notice?
Yet you couldn’t wait to slip through the cracks of us.
I was so wrapped up in you, oh so much tighter than your drugs ever were and ever will be.
Trying to show you how much higher I could take you.
You always liked taking chances, take a chance on me!
No?
I guess second best is always okay.
I guess all my dreams that now sit at the bottom of that stupid tide pool, are there for an eternity of resting.
While the shattered pieces of us cut me with every “could have been”.
Have I hit the brain yet? How about the memories? CAN YOU HEAR ME?
It’s been a few minutes, it’s a miracle how you haven’t, with your hideous curse of soundless dreams and silent sleeps. Does it worry you, that late at night, when I get lonely I sink into your dreams?
LISTEN!
You’re always so perfect when you sleep.
Please, let me soak a little deeper in.
We all have something that digs at us, let me dig at you!
Just let me dig too deep and HAVE to stay in this memory.
THIS ONE. I found it!
You promised to never forget this moment.
It’s dusty…
You buried it.
You hid it, and me, beneath electric clouds and a wasteland of pain.
How could you?
How dare you?
Am I disturbing your slumber?
I’m twisting the very wires of your brainwork.
I will make you remember if I have to.
Don’t tempt me.
****
My new, significant other, has woken up in the bed beside my body.
I should get back.
Just know I’d rather swim in your worst nightmares then bathe in my most pleasant dreams… just to swim with you.
ILoveYou.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 2:18 PM UTC