"mortem" poems
Lovesick and you've got the cure.
Got all these symptoms. You know what for.
Don't be afraid of this contagious disease,
Just take my requisition form.
I've made room for you in my atria and ventricle.
You're the capillary to my arteriole and venule.
You're the amniotic fluid to the child in my heart.
I find you even in the interstitial parts.
Treatment like uours is like a centrifugAl force.
So be the **** stasis my heart is longing for.
Some homeostasis is what we need.
We will make compromises to succeed.
Lay me supine and you in prone.
Sensory neurons fire
Exocrine glands make to pressure
Spark endocrine glands to hear you moan.
Without your heart I'd be anemic.
Withiutbyour arms I'd be half a paraplegic.
Your kisses give me air, without them I'm cyatonic.
You're the fibrin in my veins, to my pain an anesthetic.
I'm ready for some long-term care and affection.
Got a chronic condition that needs your attention.
I k now I'm concluded, parts of me sclerosed.
Don't wait post mortem to know that you're the most.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.
A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.
A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.
Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.
A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
you're like lavender hills
and tropical skies
the words between my lips
and the warmth between my thighs
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
The Crickets cackle “crisp,”
With an only interruption, being I,
Atop dust, whisper and
Desert highway.
I’d tell you if I were running,
But I’m not quite sure, not yet,
Leaving the Coyote to eat,
Respite, and devoured,
The singing Crickets,
A’howl later,
To deliver answers unimpeded.
I have a faint memory –
A snake’s grip promised, via hand and
Crystal contingency,
“Wiser,” once bestowed, the mystic;
An epic complete, atop 17 years of thunder,
Steel stained crimson,
Street stained whimper
And forever remaining,
“Under-construction.”
Symbolic a more relevant scaffold,
½ bamboo and the other steel, the tower,
Note ‘fore me, it’s only purpose –
Elsewhere, and anonymous,
While I tap my belly to some
Melody we’d once enjoyed;
Maybe something by, “Coltrane,”
Or maybe not; but music we’d both
Recognize and reminisce too.
It’s an awkward alchemy of sorts,
As the Crickets, post-mortem,
Persist if only to chirp, and the Coyote mulls.
When the dust continues to cake.
When the whisper finds newer ears.
When interrupt’s abrupt, erupts,
Pacifies and interrupts again;
My precious distraction –
An amnesia loyal in away from, “then.”
Somewhere beyond, “there,”
And onward, “anew.”
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Etymologically,
paradise
is inherited from the Latin
paradisus
and the Greek
paradeisos
and ultimately an ancient Iranian root --
pairi daêza.
In theory, paradise is a religious term. By that definition, paradise is a place in which existence is positive, harmonious and timeless. It is conceptually a counter-image of the miseries of human civilization; in paradise, there is only peace, prosperity, and happiness.
It’s absurd, though, how we provide ourselves with such a convenient idea, a carrot for all mankind to share in our relentless drive towards death. It’s absurd that we must rely on such nonsensical ideals to inspire us to adhere to literal, arbitrarily-dictated morals. “Thou shalt not do things we say you probably shouldn’t.
Except sometimes.”
“Actually, whenever, as long as you feel bad about it and spend a moment kneeling quietly and thinking something along the lines of ‘So, like, sorry -- my bad. It won’t happen again, unless it does.’”
The fundamental mistake here is attempting to delineate the existence of Man with an old book and relentless propaganda and childhood indoctrination and threats of post-mortem punishment, but more on topic -- why can’t one just live the right way without this kind of artificial motivation? It’s a juvenile concept that we’ve taken much too far. It marginalizes the human race -- “listen, Man, if you eat all your broccoli, then you can have dessert.” But what happens in this situation, when the dessert isn’t real?
What I mean to say is that maybe you should eat your broccoli because it’s healthy, and because, besides what society has attempted to instill in you, it might actually be tasty if you give it a chance.
Live for now. Care about people now. Because you don’t get anything afterwards; however cynical it may be, dessert is just a cold grave or a flame designed for whole incineration of your being. Paradise is now.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
I'd been trying to write a poem
Just one ******* poem
But he said
*Just **** around*
Swallow down a bowl full of squares
Let’s play games with each other’s minds
Spend a night lost in a house of cards
Where the joker cackles despite your begging
A reminder of what I could do without
Shouting at the world from the white pavilion
You suckers!
With your skirts hitched up and tongues hanging out
Gagging on a lover’s loneliness
All I see is your undergarments crying for attention
With a liquor solace barely down your throat
Eighteen silver blades
Smile at me with their perfect teeth
One to mark each year that past
A nineteenth will not be necessary
Ready to drag
Like the man trailing his head on a string
Across the surgeon’s winking knife
Tapping their toes on the bathroom counter
Anxious to mingle with my flesh
I’ve already scrubbed in
The survival rate looks dismal
The cotton reel loosens and my halo slips
Down - the noose around my neck
He sat across the room in plaid
Remarked upon the crosshatch of red
That drew the crooked red grin on the white of my thigh
Like loops of raspberry liquorice
Seeping out sticky tears
He misses handling the vegetables
Who ordered cocktails in lurid colours
Well, I’ve a mélange of my own
A collection of prescriptions from the doctor’s office
Stored in a heart shaped box
To swallow down like jelly beans
I’m waiting for that deadly sugar rush
Death’s been dancing on my doorstep
Absent minded as I sit at the dinner table
Head in hand, foot in grave
There’ll be no morning migraine
Perhaps a little mourning in the peripheral vision
Swept up from beneath the climbing frame
Under a soil blanket with a tomb stone mattress
Coughing up the sand in my throat
That I emptied from the egg-timer
Those darling quadrilateral crystals
Blissful in their ignorance
Disturbing my quiet complacency
Drowned in a glass of tomato juice
That I poured from my skull
Death holds my hand in the dark
And I whisper to pass on the message
Bury me with pyjama’s and a pillow
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 6:23 AM UTC
It is not my story to tell:
Languishing dreams in the midst of barbed wire fences,
Fearless laughter,
We add lemon, chile powder and salt to this border.
They carry these stories,
Heavy as a sack filled with indignities,
Weighty, like your grandmother’s advice,
Cumbersome, like this daily mental displacement.
I have not bought big things as of lately,
In my mind I plan my exits,
I constantly check my relocation fund,
“What if” is a constant in my lexicon.
I often break in tears at the sound of an immigrant story,
My emotions become gallons of water:
broken and splashed by the boots of immigration officers,
Little do they know, we are cacti:
Tough and our seeds also flourish post mortem.
I want to sing an immigrant song:
Less like butterflies who migrate,
But more like dislocated nations,
Collateral flesh, caught up in steel thorns.
Rest assured we will survive,
Like leaves of siempreviva,
Even after torn away from our stem,
We will grow our own roots:
Defiant, resilient, and with a stubborn willingness to belong.
We are you.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs
They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps
Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs
At least they have the address to the hut on my palms
That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks
The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.
Quick,
Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits
In black light's faked midnight perfumes
For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas
That might ask questions while telling us your tales
Or reluctantly whisper ****** things about Laqus
Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
You are
every fallen piece of skin
and strand of hair you
left behind, along with
the perfume that
I can't seem to wash
from my pillow.
I spilled your love into my
sink and tried to wash it with
formaldehyde,
I bartered your words away to
the 90% of the grey matter
I don't use,
I taught myself to pretend
every emotion in your eyes
were just a mirror of mine-
but, despite all of this,
I can never coax my
memories to reject you.
This body was never your temple.
It was never your kingdom.
It was your carpet,
which you burned with each
steely gaze and flaming word,
and which you trampled upon after
every storm.
You were every broken stone I
painted bone-white
after you hurled them into the heavens
only to watch them fall
again-
onto me.
Carving your name into my ribs,
you taught me to
sigh you into existence
each post-mortem night,
and I haven't found a room yet
where I can breathe without
inhaling you in
again.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
People of Wal-Mart:
what the **** is wrong with you?
You are reducing our lives
and prices in unison...
Today, in passing, i saw on T.V.
a special report: a year
after super-storm Sandy, New Jersey
still hasn't gotten its
sand dunes back.
This is news?
It took 5 years for the
Gulf Coast to begin recovering
from Hurricane Opal.
No national headlines about
Okaloosa Island a year later.
It was flat. It didn't
used to be.
A year after Hurricane Katrina,
all i heard was that Kanye West
thought President Bush didn't
care about black people. But
Wal-Mart helped with logistics
deliveries. Because Bush asked (kind of).
We basically lost a major city
that time.
Where was our airborne toxic event?
Our 15 minutes post mortem?
Thanks for helping, Wal-Mart.
But this is all your fault.
Because without cheaper stuff,
the People of Wal-Mart
would still be able to think.
They would know that
consumerism is great, but also
that it is an identity crisis.
A buzz in their heads.
Our nation fights wars
for capitalism,
but our soldiers fight
for their lives.
So i will see you on
Black Friday, Wal-Mart.
We are dying here in the
South, we have to save
a penny where ever we can.
And, People of Wal-Mart, don't forget:
No president cares about any individual.
The greater good prevails.
And **** your sand dunes, New Jersey.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
I need to write a poem about a ***** cell
something that illustrates
the magnitude
of existence, specifically
.5 our origin.
This poem should pluck heart strings,
our strum like violin (redundant?)
as that’s what good poems do,
and we are emotionally wired
from birth to death.
During conception
our parents were not thinking about us (though
God was, and his warmth
is warmer than the womb
or Sun) and that brings us to the pleasure
the stimuli integrated
within the net
mesh pocket of living organisms.
What strokes a heart? Not a violin,
no, empathy, understanding, the saliva
of love and lust and passion, so much to
discuss, so many images
to muster into paper.
Do you see the futility in this?
**** this poem,
this poem is not important.
You are the individual that rocked the chances of time and genetics!
You are the individual that mastered death with breath!
You are known before birth and post mortem,
as there is transcendence beyond
that ancient brain of yours, dear reader.
There were billions of potential combinations
of ***** and egg, and you
are the ***** fish caught,
and you
are the one bathed
and you
are one of ***** suds.
Your rituals of wallets and currency,
your miss-personifications of love,
all irrelevant.
You are only known whole-ly by God
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
What do you know about silence?
Silence on the other end of the phone.
No breathing.
No laughing.
No crying.
Silence.
The white noise of fear.
What do you know about helplessness?
Helplessness in your own eyes.
Nothing you can do.
Nothing you can say
Nothing but watching
Helplessness
The catylyst of fear
What do you know about loss?
Loss of you mind, your friend.
It's too late he's gone
It's too late he's forgotten
It's too late you're crying
The post-mortem of fear
What do you know about me?
Me and my tired eyes.
Numb is my mind
Numb are my fingers
Numb everywhere
The desolation of fear
The Suicide Diaries
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Did you read about the father
Who met the girl
With his daughter's eyes.
The gift of sight.
Post-mortem.
Then I read about the mother
Who gave her son a kidney.
The gift of ***
Pre-mortem.
Finally, I met a girl
Forty years ago
Still using my heart.
The gift of love.
Eternal.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
On the day
her body burned
she asked the
winds to be
her friends
and they
picked her
up and poured
her through
the fingers of
their hands
like a river
without ending
that won't
be tied or
bound, until
every trace of
dust embraced
the freedom it
had found.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Does this make me look
Deeper, more intellectual
Perhaps I'm a Sylvia Plath
Poems emerging out of me due
To the pigsty of a brain I've obtained
Or even I'm Emily Dickinson
I'll lock these god forsaken poems up
Only to be discovered after
I have died.
Having once again the chance to
Become immortal, post mortem
All due to the poems I thought
Were ****
I'll just keep writing.
I won't write for the sake of calling
Myself a Writer
But because I can forever exist, to forever be.
All of the personal pronouns constantly
Utilized in these writings evoke a
Feeling of self-hatred out of
My own narcissism,
What else did Emily Dickinson accomplish
That was impressive, before dying?
Simply she died, writing with until her old wrinkled hands
gave out
the pen fell.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
Can I just go on forever and never have to love?
Can I etch my eyes into the curves of my fingerprints?
When will my heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird?
When will I be enough for the ones that I touch?
Can I keep walking without a home?
I am overcome
with intense displays of emotion
sometimes,
In the pouring rain.
And I know it's in vain
But I carry on,
Oh, you know I carry on.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
There is no more straddling state lines for you.
You are no longer teetering on the edge of
life and death
because you are now deader than my father’s
dead bell heart. You are laying in a morgue and
I am sitting on a train, miles and miles from you. An
early bloomer, a preemie baby boy, you are
one day too soon.
I am watching the trees of Arkansas of Missouri of Illinois
pass me by, but you are being
whisked
and
twirled
and
whirled
through the stars.
(I am trying to imagine what it must feel like to
explode into a supernova, to
implode into a constellation.
I am trying to contemplate what it means to
reach
i n f i n i t y
and
n i h i l i t y
at the same time.)
Careening headfirst towards the midwest, I
am heading towards a home I no longer wish to go. I have
spent my night in a daze between
asleep and awake,
listening to a man snore and a baby cry, and nothing is stopping
me from thinking about the steps in post-mortem care. I have
seen dead bodies before. I have touched dead bodies before.
I do not want to come in contact with yours.
My problem is not that you finally finished your
transition from boy to skeleton,
my problem is that you did so without
asking your mother’s permission. I read the
Book of James the night before your surgery two years ago
and forgot it the very next day. There is nothing I want more
than to swim laps and crochet scarves and write bad poems and
become void of all the information that I currently hold.
I want to forget that I knew you.
I want to forget that I thought I loved you.
I want to forget my attachment to you so it won’t
hurt as bad now that you’re
( d e a d ) .
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
the post-mortem will say:
sudden cardiac arrest
(medicine cannot quantify
death by a broken heart).
i thought it was sweet,
the arrhythmia you gave me
(at least the butterflies
dissolved harmlessly in acid).
you knew me, invasively,
a mortician's secret autopsy
(you counting my scars, ribs,
was it more habit than desire?)
curiosity is what killed me;
mine and yours, ill-matched
(i would have preferred cruelty
to your cool detachment).
the post-mortem has found:
i died of natural causes
(which makes you, my heart-
breaker, a force of nature)
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC
I am on the highway
To hell's bells
And I'm pregnant
With devil's anger child
Taking a walk in solipsism park
Smoking some remedy
Breathing from asylum air
And where is he?
He is looking straight through me
And his soul is revealing
Its the cold fire
That is misleading
He is fighting in his sleep again
Hugging his skeletons again
Helpless child
Going for a rage war
Solus
Walking towards the kitchen
On this toes
Taking out all the knives
Counting them
And i know he likes numbers
He looks towards the sky
And the clouds confuses him
He pours out his blood
Drawing the letter A
Repeatedly
Not even obsessively
Justified in his judgement
Him and his vanity
In an alternate reality
Out of proportion
Full of distortion
This ******
And his bluejackets
Anchored me with his diaries
Walking on embers now
In a state of trance now
Makes me wonder
Are monsters born or created?
Mortem predestination
He keeps giving me this psychic vibe
From a foreign tribe
I can't just put a lid on it
I can't just turn my back on it
Run, everybody begged me
But with the beast clothed in human skin tonight
Outside the television Screen
We are wired the same tonight
Dancing to Electro Swing by his side
Tying his tie
And I like it
He reaches out for his wooden telegraph
Can't help but listen
To Maria
And all her chants
Makes him gaze into the same tall building
From that retro piano bench
He gets up
With his hands covered in blood
Summons me by the edge
Two A's drawn on a sketch
Standing by the line
The choice is all mine
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
Repeating with
The frequency
Of apologies,
"I'm not here,
This isn't happening,"
While my head
Spins, and my
Innards lurch
Like carnival
Ride children,
"I'm not here,
This isn't happening,"
The chaos,
The orderly
Passage of red
Faced spectators
Drifting through space,
Their classic attempts
To embrace and
Disengage,
Grinning at what
Can't be erased,
"I'm not here,
This isn't happening,"
Like the sound of
Hopes cast into
The depths of hell,
Glinting tokens
You can't see
Seconds after you
Drop them in,
I'm the air,
I'm the disillusionment
That lets you know
When to be scared,
The anvil in
Your gut telling you
To stop,
I am the sweat
That drips
Like morphine
Into post-mortem
Pathways through
A needle
That needs sharpening,
"I'm not here,
This isn't happening,"
This is just a test,
As they say,
It'll all be ok
Once some obese
***** wails,
The levees are stressed
And the horsemen
Idle and wait for the fail,
For the flood
Of repentance,
Of common
Indecency,
For the blood
From Ahab's whale
To initiate
The shackling
Of the sorrowfully
Undeclared,
"I'm not here,
This isn't happening."
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 12:33 AM UTC
Lost looking for something?
A friends idea of fun?
Just a little pick me up
To make the evening fun!
Something in tablet form
Or a cheeky little bag?
A quick sniff and it's In you
Or swallowed with your drink
You've no idea what you took
But now the ceilings pink
The room is spinning wildly
You eyes begin to blink
The sounds all become louder
The noise is just intense
What was the magic tablet
Your boyfriend made you take
Well paracetomol crushed
Mixed with kitchen cleaner
The high your now experiencing
Isn't getting better
Your organs all are poisoned
Beginning to shut down
The paramedics calls your name
But your answer won't come out
Tomorrow on the table your parents look at you
Before the post mortem looks inside too
Major ***** failure one after the other
Poisoned by a legal high
That didn't work for you
So read this and learn it isn't made up
I saw her in resus, when I was a young cop
He boyfriend went to prison he said he gave it her
So off you pop now have a drink
Dance and paint the town
But don't take any smarties
Offered by your chums!
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Startled myself just to find
Death resting inside my mind
A dream from where I never woke
Until I saw spirits shrouded in smoke
My lungs, inhaled cold fresh air
Exhaled mirages of silk grey hair
Caught a glimpse of loving eyes
Amidst the mist's amourous lies
Prompting me to flush with heat
And allow this weary heart to beat
Captured intensely by this sight
Even while it withers to white
Turns out this man is not as dead
As Death dreams discreetly in his head
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
it wasn't as though he shoulda seen it coming
(God knows he muddled through that one well enough)
and it wasn't as though he thought it in the bag
(the whole **** thing had always seemed ****** daunting)
but these now recurring tasks
and pop-up commitments
were wavering him
*a great big pain the ***
burdensome, machine like
lacking, of any particular meaning
now there was that element of perseverance
that he had read and lectured on (oh, how he had lectured on and on!)
but he was not fully accustomed
(having flown on a wing and a prayer)
to the shattered routines
and fallen plans
obligatory iterations
and post-mortem like sessions
(seemed easier to stack em up, and
shelve em in a somewhat manageable way)
but a rhythm evolved
in simple momentum, and truth
new plateaus, and revelations
transformative unfoldings
and cosmic events
(which appeared as gifts from above)
and they paved a path to growth
eyes opened, to the wonders of the world!
a grounding in an earthly connection
narratives reclaimed
adjustments made
faith, and fellowship
first steps, compromise
and gratitude
filling the center stage
(in kaleidoscope colour!)
in this glorious
and ever evolving
play of life
~
was it worth it old friend?
*you bet your *** it was!
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 10:52 AM UTC
In a window over Mortem Street,
I see the sun with a mouth pursed
In envy of the way that you go around
And glow all the time,
The smallish girl with
Ebony eyes and reddish lips
Which turn the head of every fool,
Myself a fool among them.
In a window over Mortem Street
You can see me here, too,
Looking out on the soft avenue
Made softer by you.
In that window over Mortem Street,
I watched the others smell the roses
And never smelled one.
You deserve every rose,
And maybe I could drop them by one day,
When maybe your glow is low enough
And I can catch your eye in the window.
And maybe Mortem Street
Won’t be so lonely anymore.
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 2:47 AM UTC