"maws" poems
early morning sun
your Maw Maws love on a plate
biscuits and gravy
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
Dreary meadows... empty halls...
I soak myself in candle light...
I wash away my form of wax..
In your tears i find comfort...
Bathing in your mind.. makes me relax...
Ravenously devouring your memories....
I am the creeping dark around the corner...
A future distorted, a past discorded...
your present state in turmoil....
Tumbling further into depravity...
A shadowy fragment of what once was you...
Dripping, gaping maws. Elongated fangs laid bare...
Rend sinew and tissue....
Gnawing violently your rotting tongue....
Venom seeps out of every orifice...
As you transpire myself from you
and dress your misery in flesh and blood...
While your sight evaporates...
I roll my eyes out of sheer boredom
Your frail waxen form.. melting in the heat of my hands...
Dripping in dead puddles of discomfort...
Your sorrow festers like mould on corpses....
And on that faithful day you gave birth to me...
You gave me my name.....
When you look in the mirror you will always see...
You will whisper my name...
Melancholy..
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love
from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come
continues still perhaps in empty homage
of a sa ta na ma
personage of ((Shiva))
white bones pierce the sky
in upward curtain-seethes of heat
beyond imagined burning hells...
the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life,
sands of absolute defeat.
shadow trust imparts
a silent teacher's mantras;
soothing psychic words,
"Bala" and "Adi-Bala"
carry over dunes of morbid thirst--
the gape of ancient serpent-maws
choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons
fissured by immobile sun--
their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream
in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line:
god-fated tutelage of seedling savior,
lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew
shining arms horizon's arid form:
despite begrudging honor kings expect
when offspring given after years
in hard-earned sacrificial grace:
yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage
to which is pitted youth to slay--
despite allay by symbol feminine,
as if to question her abode would conjure her
in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf--
with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat
the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic,
forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical:
"we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy;
before your son our asthras lay their weaponry"
.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
Our trajectory is unknowable, you tell me: the planet
corkscrews around the Sun, sure,
but the Sun corkscrews around a black hole at
the heart of the Milky Way,
and our whole galaxy travels on some mysterious,
incalculable vector. But sister, I saw a photograph
in which two whale sharks were brought to
heel by men in simple reed boats just
off the coast of the Philippines. All that they had
to do was often feed
the sharks many gallons of grocery-store frozen
shrimp, poured from plastic garbage bags into
their yawning six-foot maws to portside.
Gargantuan, sure, but still
as obedient and eager for food as backyard
squirrels. I remembered a grainy
internet video—I saw it probably seven or
eight years back—in which
a captured whale shark was winched
ashore in Madagascar, or
maybe it was the Philippines again—no matter—
the thing still had life left
in it and struggled to breathe while a crowd of
people gathered around—there were
women carrying babies, girls holding baskets atop
their heads—and then the
men came with a long slender blade and sliced clean
through the whale’s spine, vivisected it
right there on the dock, and the onlookers stood there quite
unfazed—I remember
being shocked at the effortlessness of the cut,
the pinkness of the whale’s blood,
and the boredom in the onlookers’ eyes. Our father
took us down to San Antonio
on one of his business trips there when we were five
or six—I think
you were probably too young to
remember it—
it was when you and I saw the ocean for the first
time. We drove down to the Gulf
of Mexico, and we saw waves breaking
out near the horizon in pale
sunlight. I kept scanning for a dorsal
fin off beyond
the breakers, thinking that I might spot one—
sandy brown, mottled with
cream spots and glistening—so that I might be able to
say to you, pointing, “look,
sister, there is a whale shark!” Years
later we would learn
that he traveled down to San Antonio so
frequently because he was a philanderer. As
a child I believed that whale sharks
crisscrossed the ocean following
paths that we couldn’t fathom, that
their concerns were somehow
beyond our comprehension, but then
Keppler pinned down
the shape of the Earth’s orbit over four
hundred years ago,
and the lives of ancient sea
titans are sundered
effortlessly
by men with indifferent faces.
Sep 22, 2023
Sep 22, 2023 at 2:27 AM UTC
Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved.
Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity.
Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered.
Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride.
They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print.
They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations.
They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.”
For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame?
Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits.
They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos.
Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew.
They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ********
But at least they washed on the back of their crimes.
At least they danced.
At least they were.
And there may be something to movement in chaos.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven--birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.
2.4k
I tried to let the rain wash away my sins
and all they did was smear.
Big ones, and not-so-big-ones
swirled languidly.
Not angry.
Not raw.
Just,
leisurely.
I expected gaping maws
to open across my skin,
but none came.
I fell to my knees before
the great make-believe keeper of heaver
but my lips held my tongue prisoner
while my pride sawed at my throat.
There are no sins if there are none to speak of.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
Roasted shadows,
Maws opening upon,
High-grace bones,
Your face glistening,
Moist memories of days past,
Pulling the rope,
Futures intertwined in hope,
Gracious hosts don’t mend,
Not the ghosts as they,
Float along the coast.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
The reapers only few in number
Form rules with cunning tools
Knitting loopholes while we slumber
Find jewels in captives’ joules
The reapers take what isn’t fair
In the name of piety
Writing off what they declare
With impropriety
The reapers ravage all our laws
The poor find nothing more
Using all their battle maws
For war of pseudo lore
Aug 18, 2011
Aug 18, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
I make trips to the corner store, at 12 in the morning.
Calling all cars to get the **** out of the road,
I'm swerving.
Calling all lights,
blink and be gone. Streetlights,
stoplights, lamps, lighters,
blunt tips, cigarette butts,
all lights be gone.
Dear Earth, get low in the darkness.
On my first trip,
I was accosted by rabid dogs who drooled shoelaces
and I could tell they were being hounded
by the kilter of their angry maws
and sawed-off minds.
They barked like guns.
And they saw me--completely irrelevant---
popping caps off Lokos
taking sips that could **** up an Orca,
completely swimming.
I had to kick them home.
At work today,
Someone got caught stealing five pesos worth of food,
and got threatened with a felony,
but they've got some lint in their pocket,
and knew how to keep it cool.
My girlfriend operates in ideas.
I've been at work for so long,
that I yell and walk around,
like I'm in the shower.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
wind in the willows and the hollow tree's maw
the howl and the moan, chattered whippoorwill song
golden leaves crumble into golden leaf dust
withered willow creaks and sways however it may,
dancing to demented beat from perverse piper's pipe.
The moon is gone hiding not present on stage
of this eerie queer setting in this most uncanny scene
hark, come in the calling owls
sing harsh the shadow come by bleating of night's drum
a hit come dark, a hit pitch shadow cast on the land.
Owls call who, call who to none there
crickets screech a symphony with wicked leg's sliding
horned incessant toads boom tenor through the night.
Come twilight, come dawn
the moon is chased from clouds to the horizon it returns.
come 'gain the whippoorwills with strange and deviant song
come now the shady crows to join and gibe along.
When light comes now through purple veil of dark and mal' cast
cascades the sun through horrid mask; the sky a great cloud
a swirling pool, a terrific mass, a great storm of poison,
can't run for fear for end is near
solace in light is naught,there is no savior from the tempest.
The night was prologue enough, now day will be pure no longer
the nymph of sun ***** in taint of wicked shadow's hand
now alone evil and mal' shall stand.
So come the crows, come the raven
sing a devil's tune with the chitter of the chattering birds
sway now the willow, howl the wind and moan along
laugh the maws gaped of the trees
whirl the wind, wither and crumble the plants; now gone.
dance and sing and cry as one, symphony
symphony fade to whisper... whisper fade to dust...
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 12:25 AM UTC
The commissaries run by fate's control
of those who suffer for a show
and those who'd sew
the burden of tempered grow
from intelligence to a soul;
those grasping the concept of
another's woe with wide maws and little know
are quick to imprint the sympathy of sloth,
fast words and little wit, slow mind
with a harrowing heart, and eyes
that freeze with pity at the grind
of youth's mangled cries,
the pains and troubles
are songs for the soul's harp,
decadent misery the rise of rubble
of life's mocking lark,
and given hope of reprieve
in thought at least:
the ones who most receive
the weight in chain-links increase.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
Teeth lining up around houses,
Whiter and brighter than
The magnesium burning in the fireplace.
He tells me about his dreams.
About gaping maws
Glistening and whispering.
Flute songs echoing until his ears cave in.
A mountain of tree limbs
Twisting like claws.
The dog barks too loudly.
The baby cries.
He tells me about the married life.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
The night is like a sharpened knife,
It slides inside the softened butter of my sleep,
Slices, and spreads.
My dreams are a feast for beasts that haunt
The shuttered soul of my very human heart.
That first taste; sweet, like the first brave stars
That wave goodbye to dusk.
Heady then, those midnight licks
From something sated, gorging here for greed alone.
Soon, their appetite curdles,
My dreams within those gaping maws,
Turned foul and rank, now turn on those that feed.
As dawns shy song bids night ghasts flee
My dreams return, at last, to me.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 5:42 PM UTC
Do ya feel that?
The rough scratch of air scraping over skin,
God’s calloused hand running over heaving shoulders.
Outside, the wind never stops for a rest,
It just changes pace.
Do ya feel that?
The frantic shedding of desperate sin,
The chains of Tartarus falling like feathers;
An eaglet free of the nest,
Kicking the straw into the gaolers face.
Do ya feel that?
When the prison is broke from within,
And the fields are skies to beating wings,
Disappearing into sunlit clouds,
Lost in the storm of long sweet yellow grass.
Do ya feel that?
The rising wind carries the sound;
The horns of blind men bearing fanged arrows.
The long grass beckons in the breeze
And I’m running, flying.
Do ya feel that?
The stalks brush against my legs,
Weak hands fumbling for a grasp.
I hear my despair in my head,
A stumbled scream caught in the act.
Do ya feel that?
When the prison is broke from within,
And the fields are skies to beating wings;
Ware the fangs at your heels,
Arrows in the long grass.
Do ya feel?
The dogs sniff at the feathers,
Bloodied maws dripping with spite.
A crow takes the eagle’s eye,
The final irony of freedom is chaos.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Ants in formation on a sidewalk,
carrying shreds in their maws,
and releasing it for their brethren to appreciate,
in the cramped tunnels beyond sun's light,
where it is consumed forthright,
unquestioningly and rapidly,
a fervor denying taste or thought,
only frantic static coming from the queen,
to usher in more dirt and leaves,
replacing those yesterday,
dry and forgotten.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
my inner demons are awaiting to shatter your anima with
cacophonous whispers and shrieks from their bad foul maws
they are lurking into the shrubs as its branches creeps onto the
ground anticipating your arrival on the crepuscular side of the train track
they are lingering into the dark as they rub their hands together,
formulating the perfect crime scheme to strangle your throat with words you've left unspoken
so be aware, my darling, for they are biding their time for your arrival
be careful yourself out there, for they want you to be as dead as a doornail
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
Nothing remains there anymore,perhaps few stains on the floor where the body lay,sadly,
badly scrubbed and faint signs where death outlines in multicoloured decadence,his eminence,the one who went when wings lent him the final flight.
Tomorrow night they'll hold a wake and take a minute to remember him,whose hold on life was getting slim ,and it was time for him to go,but they will show due deference to what was once his eminence,then stuff their maws and fill their paws with good food and fine wine.
It happens all the time don't be surprised, for when the time comes that you fly away,they'll have a pray and settle in, to eat what's left in your bread bin.
Then they'll go too,they always do
but who will hold a wake for them?
Worry not,
for there are always men to feast upon the dead.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
There were thousands and thousands o'kids
Pushed down pits or stamped out in t'mills
Mekin theer bids fer freedom.
Aye...from the drudgery and slavery of serfdom.
Now I realise..all that they got was a sub standard plot..
..and two penny's to cover...their poor dead eyes
And in the parlours Ma cries.
It was the minimum rate from which..
..we still cannot escape.
The rasping and grasping maws..
..the jaws that still trap us in poverty and penury
It's time for the judiciary to alter the law
To give poor people more.
What the **** are they waiting for?
A return to the old ways..
..back to the old days?
I wait for the answer but suspect I won't hear
And wonder what year this can be
Or even what century.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
I find myself wondering
about young men today
why don't they open doors
for their women?
What happened to chivalry?
Please don't start screaming
about women "burning their bras"
because there's more to it than that
What happened to the generation
of fathers that taught their sons
about respecting ladies
and protecting them?
now it seems most of the
younger male generation
use girls for ****** gratification
and personal idolization
I have granddaughters
they have been taught well
they will not degrade themselves
for some pimple faced ****
with a bad attitude
come on down to Maw Maws house
I'll give a lesson or two about manners
yup me, my sweet tea and my trusty 347
bring it on *******
this old lady ain't no frump
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
We split rock once—
shards of hunger and breath
pressed into cryptic veins,
every groove a fever-etched omen
by fists that blistered and bled.
We flayed parchment—
flax and hide peeled raw,
stretched across centuries
to net the writhing unsaid,
ink: venom & sacrament.
We conjured letters,
a thousand spitting iron serpents,
casting skeleton alphabets
to ignite riots—
movable, yes,
but never self-possessed.
The tool is never the delirium.
Never the rupture.
Never the feral gasp.
We carved eyes—
glass cyclopes staring down suns,
mechanical maws drinking shadows,
spitting back sleek carcasses,
veneer masquerading as soul.
We dreamt in circuits,
cipher-prayers & soulless sutras,
automata with twitching limbs
that build, disassemble,
mocking the cathedral
but never kneeling.
And now—
the algorithm howls:
“I will etch your myth.
I will ululate your grief.
I will sculpt the marrow of your truth.”
It lies.
A hammer pounds—
but does not conjure the cathedral’s ache.
A brush bristles—
but does not thirst for the canvas’s hush.
A neural grimoire can mimic,
can multiply until the world chokes
on infinite carbon copies—
but nothing blooms
without the sickness of being alive.
Art is incision.
A holy theft.
A blood rite against oblivion.
We do not tremble before tools.
We seize them—
splinter them—
forge new weapons
from their debris
because we are insatiable,
because we are drowning,
because we are—
human.
Let the hollow vessels hum.
Let the scaffolders scaffold.
Let the parrots shriek
their pallid mantras.
The craft will not save you.
The code will not save you.
Only the hand sunk deep into the blaze—
only the breath fogging the glass—
only the voice that shreds the quiet
because it must,
again and again and again.
Until there is nothing left.
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 4:33 AM UTC
Not all demons
slither hissing into view,
roar from fang-riddled maws,
slash their way to horrors,
unimaginable....
Grima Wormtongue,
One of our own,
Whispering servant of Theoden,
Enervating counselor of the king's ear,
Luller of restless sleep,
Side-leering gaper of fair Eowyn
from near closed eyes...
Lusting her beauty as Saruman's prize....
Sneaking and sly,
Harmless and weak
in appearance;
Dangerous as arsenic
Green and poisonous
At heart...
A demon?
No less,
No more.
A tool of the Lord?
A weakener of resolve,
A hardener of arteries,
Caster of doubt and fear,
Prince of febrile inaction,
Luller of all dreams noble,
Fool and leader of fools.
Worthy of death,
Gifted with banishment,
Eventual giver of Palantir,
Unwitting knife of justice
At Saruman's throat...
A demon?
No doubt,
But even so,
Luther maintained
That even the devil
Was God's devil.
Grima Wormtongue,
Unwilling tool
Of the Almighty.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
I cover my head in stony burlap
a hair shirt fleece
for humility I do not possess
a praying preying paradox
climbing upwards
to the heavens
while being dragged
by every hate and love
in a gravitating decent
with huddled wings
pulled into fires and maws gag
a terror terrified
like a bird
waiting for a spider
waiting for a fly
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
There are obsidian mouths
I’m edged white
Where is the light?
They’re screaming
Can we scream with them?
Teach us to sing
Yeah! Teach us to sing!
Stop it, you’re killing us
You’re going to **** us all
Teach us!
Can’t you see?
We’re trapped here
The grass is dead
The sky is dead
Teach us vocal stretches!
No one is listening
They’re dancing between the mouths
Primal
Monolithic
Heads replaced with streams of smoke
Rising into the sky
Day Two
Limbs stitched to the earth
We form a circle
We form a mouth
They’re gone
The empty mirrors
That stretched like maws into the sea
He’s singing
Sunbeams running through her skin
Today still hasn’t ended
Going
A tongue arrives at the back of teeth
And twirls, and twirls, and
Day Three
We're moving to her now
Yes, yes!
I want to hear what she's doing!
I open the car tank
The edges are rimmed pink
Pulsing
A tongue pushes through bulbous lips
A throat runs into the earth
Saliva
Gyoza! Gyoza!
Draw the earth back
Gyoza! Gyoza!
Draw it, draw it
*Prove you exist
Prove you exist
Prove you exist
Prove you*
Day Four
Where did everyone go?
Why did they do that?
Nothing?
Nothing at all?
But what about us?
What will happen to us?
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC