"metacarpals" poems
i tried to overlook
but like seedlings, you germinated
roots around my phalanges (like a dandelion)
from where we last touched.
over time and frigid winter weather, the roots
spread. around my metacarpals, intertwined
between my ulna and radius, all the way up
to my humerus and scapula.
by the spring, flowers sprouted just above my
collarbones, embracing my mandible.
little wilted blue petals surrounding me in my bed
each sunrise, but by noon, new petals already have
attached themselves to the receptacle.
by summer, i pluck their petals for amusement. as
they drift away in the breeze i can't help but to
remember you. us. we. and another thing i haven't
determined is whether you have forgotten me
or not.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
You are
a brass framed
feather bed
in the middle of
a dilapidated forest
white
waxen
cadaverous
arms and metacarpals
outstretched
screeching praise to
Father Fumigated Sky
a tie dyed atmosphere
embodying the ambiance
of some apocalyptic rose garden
bled gold, wine,
& liquid ecstasy
and leaked through chemical clouds
or the coagulated tears of
God...
my strange,
creaky comfort.
may we
watch it all
crash down
in peace.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
sauntry and sultry,
a fraudulent check written
in a moment of disclarity.
if you've got a bridge to sell
I'm buying.
I've got stakes on this land,
broken with till,
seeded with pain,
nourished with blood,
razed, salted, travesty, and sown again.
a faulty playpen snaps shut on a toddler,
a man trips over his Pekingese
and puts his hand in his brand new
20% off buy two get one blendtec
brand blender,
showering his mother in law
with shards of wrist bone
and strips of lacerated flesh.
this is my foot.
these are my fingers, broken,
distal, intermediate, and proximal
phalanges.
these are the carpal and metacarpals.
I am a Spartan of a shitshack.
I was trained in the wicked art of
long arduous bowel movements.
squeeze one out for the ones you love.
in some small musty room
in new York city
there is a cocknballs paying $200
to get ****** on
by a wombwalker
and thinking about his ******
Pekingese.
you know its true.
don't try to think too hard about it
or you might lose an eye.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
In my room with a crack in the curtain
Hands glowing blue, I ask if you're certain
When the veins of the water enter my lungs
You leave me speechless with my neck well-hung
From the bakery, you bleed into me and
The painting on the wall of the ribs I wished to draw
Floating shamelessly by us as your *******
Become my chest cavity, obsessed pleasantly with your smell
And if today is the day you say you love me
You'll disappear into the hills forever
Your metacarpals smell of rosemary and honey
Sincerely breathed the throat until Spanish September!
Your eyes are penetrating, your torso radiating
Bed creaking and complaining by the weight of our backs
And the cracks in my voice give me no choice
But to ask you to sweat out all your noise!
Sometimes I wish you still spoke Deutsch
So we could get under the shower without getting moist
What do you think of when I swallow your thighs?
What do you see when I look into your eyes?
And if today is the day you say you love me
You'll disappear into the hills forever
Your metacarpals smell of rosemary and honey
Sincerely breathed the throat until Spanish September!
You are an unpronounceable vandalized symbol on the
Walls of the empty bathroom stall that is my bone marrow
Elements out the window to remove limitations
So the space between our lips is sub-atomically narrow.
When I wake in the morning to lavender conditioned locks
There are no movements, there are no clocks
And when I open my eyes and clear my throat twice
You roll over to soak your hands up into my sides
And if today is the day you say you love me
You'll disappear into the hills forever
Your metacarpals smell of rosemary and honey
Sincerely breathed the throat until Spanish September!
You are the destination to my mind's only track
And I'll always remember you even if you never love me back.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
Chronology Dynamo(Cogwheel Goddess)
Excogitation; twiddling my thumbs…
My eyes are glued to the soil beneath me; I shall sink into the mud.
The winds embrace my untimely surge of vain equations.
My metacarpals have contorted; supplication exhausts my soul.
“You my Goddess, who I look to for Time, yes Time and solace“.
“Thou shall not reveal to me vicissitudes of vernal decay”
“When shall the Great Harvest arrive?”
“I ask myself this oh Mother of Divine Infinity; Scythe of Era in the hands of thou.”
-When-
-When shall my flowering forth arrive from aegis wings?-
I sweat; I bleed; I murmur; I fade; I glow; “now what am I?”
Translucent in skin; hollow to the core; dying to warp through dimensions; lithe like a sylph.
Her diadem is one of metallic gears and bejeweled bolts; a Manufactured Diety of the Glorious Space and Time.
Her blade of mascara beautifies those who gaze upon her luminous needle lashes;
Her apparel that of disassembled clocks.
The sand of the hourglass composes her tears and blood; she bleeds out every second of wasted chronology.
Her corona is iridescent and she is one with The Universe.
“Ye shall not waste Time, yes, Time, for it is the essence to all things that are and all things that are not!”
She speaks to me as the nebulae around her glimmer, adorned with supernovae creating a phantasmagorical and celestial overload.
My eyes are clocked with sensory overload; so many colors and luminous neon lights.
“Before the collapse of Mother Earth; the Liminal Sphere, you must feed the Galaxies with the brilliance of your heart.”
-When the rivers of time run dry-
-Act-
-Do Not Wait…-
By Sanders M. Foulke III
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
The phalanges are connected
to the metacarpals,
the metacarpals are connected
to the ulna,
the ulna is connected
to the humerus…
and the heart
is connected
to pen and paper
in a way that defies
all logic
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
My capillaries believe that the frost is coming for them
-- my spine aching for the warmth
it has come accustomed to,
rather than the boreal brittleness underneath
that the cutlass attached to my feet
glided around in spheres.
It reminded me of the
moon’s orbit,
the shape of the planets
the ellipses of the galaxies
-- suddenly swirling,
breaking and reforming
the stars within them,
which I then noticed to be
the warmth of your
carpals and metacarpals
between mine,
filling up all the Thenar Space.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
Share,
Keep,
Metacarpals inside me,
Table topped,
G spot,
Phalanges exploring,
4D,
Expierence
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
My hands hunger,
Tired of holding themselves.
Of aching emptiness,
that permeates the metacarpals, the cuticles, and
especially the palms, where lines lie in wait
for another artist to trace them.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
splayed
with a deathmask as gaunt
as in life
metacarpals and phalanges,
liberated (in vain) of rubbery
connective tissues
ribs and spine,
so surprisingly human,
sunbleached
bones that may as well have been mine
but weren’t for whatever reason
(or no reason at all)
what karmic debt
could this poor specimen have possibly incurred
to be pinned, naked and fleshless, in a glass-paned box for all to see for all foreseeable eternity?
mayhap beauty is, itself
criminal
when it goes without a price tag.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Plunging a blade
Into my chest cavity
To see if I would feel
When my ribs
Fail to protect my heart
Letting go of the wheel
On the winding road
To see if it I would feel
The glass
Splitting into millions of pieces
As my skin synchronized
With it
And did the same
Punching the wall
With my anxious fist
To see if I would feel
The moment of impact
As all five proximal phalanges
Burst away from my metacarpals
Crying hysterically
At the extremes I would go through
Just to know if any of it is even real
To know fear
To know pain
To know sorrow
To know any sort of emotion at all
And most of all
To know if I am faking all of it
Feeling forever lost
Confused
Mistaken?
Lost.
Definitely lost.
Lost in this unfortunate existence
Constantly questioning if I feel
What I feel
And never gathering any useful information
Always just more questions
Filled with wonder
But never with the emotion
Letting me know how I feel about any of it.
Just empty.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
Death stands on the corner, picking pockets of the passers by.
Looking for discard sweets and transport tickets.
He's hungry.
Not collections.
He hasn't had a sweet for years.
He pinches a toffee encased in a cellophane wrapper.
You may just see him standing there, sickle leaned against the goth shop wall.
He is a bit cheesed off.
Begging for help.
Unwrapping it impossible.
Bony metacarpals no use.
All he can do when he opens it, is ****
The shop staff, all willing to help.
A little scared of death himself.
Looked into his hollow sockets.
Oh F**K
The goths loved death and so it was done.
Death had a toffee,
His wish was won!
(c) LIVVI
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
I'm a walking sin,
I play poker with the devil
Unaware
and oblivious to the faint, glowing
spell with a
galore effect.
I'm a walking sin,
with a heart so black
and a winning smile
to lure
little by little
anyone I could
twirl around
the pointy metacarpals
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
i used to write about being sad -
the things i know:
how my fingers constantly grasped for
metacarpals the never really
fit with in mine
and how only the fire
that i poured down my throat
made me utter the words,
"i love you".
now i struggle upon embracing
how the drowsy-eyed glances
turned into sacharine stares,
the whispers of "you could love me",
places on top of mountains,
and freckles that i can count;
every single one of them.
if they say,
"write about what you know",
then where do i even start
about all of the things i don't?
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
or-ange, mango,
banana too,
hell-bent on regretting you.
campfire-chair-sitting on hardwood floors
in a stranger's home, i think.
turn off the lights, it's raining.
i had some to drink (not enough)
but you had to drive
but so did i.
turn off the lights, it's raining
on the bannister,
your piano-key-fingers cascading over my
carpals, metacarpals, phalanges too.
topple me into a room
but today it's not for laundry,
‘cause the only thing that's getting washed away
is my record of not saying
i love you (in my head, because
strangers
don't say that to each other).
you lassoed me in and we fell
into the empty hangers that i pushed away from you;
shadows on a skeleton’s scapula.
tabloids never told me that three months’ salary couldn't
buy the rights to the song
of your heart beating darkly in your chest.
turn off the lights, it's raining
and you can't see the way i
feel you.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC
Farting felicity -
How long gone, now a
distant star in space-
as a gurgling brook of
heavenly murmurs, disquiet
thrumming combo, turned
crescent flesh, brutal and subdued until,
one socializes, recombines,
and altruism visits, presides, provides.
Carpi, digitorum, and flexors,
metacarpals, index, and fingertips
dangle a top for a gambler's game,
and, with it, the fate of outcome, and
woe for the long-begotten soul,
the soul drab in its rag, robe, and *****
whose wealth subtracts as it doth add,
and a wise fool realizes -
Time and grace,
Love and death,
departure and arrival,
is but ******
Nov 13, 2021
Nov 13, 2021 at 7:26 PM UTC