"mortuus" poems
Death devours all lovely things;
Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness,—presently
Every bed is narrow.
Unremembered as old rain
Dries the sheer libation,
And the little petulant hand
Is an annotation.
After all, my erstwhile dear,
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Now that love is perished?
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Once there was a man called Jim,
This tale is quite maudlin,
So, what was wrong with Jim?
He received some pets from his family,
Who decided to give Jim pet therapy,
So, what was wrong with that?
Lucky they didn't give Jim a cat,
So, why, indeed is that?
Well, he had a budgie and a terrapin,
New little friends for poor old Jim,
Which he forgot to hydrate,
He forgot until it was way too late,
His terrapin turned turtle,
A desiccated shade of purple,
But, what about Jim's budgie? You ask,
Daily feeding was supposed to be Jim's task,
Poor budgie mortuus, there he lay,
Jim's family came to visit one day
Eventually, his daughter's jaws did part,
"There's nothing colder than an ex-budgie's heart!"
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
a thousand eyes follow you from newly waxed floors
and trail after me with form-filled labels, white on gold
take as needed; do not operate machinery; relax.
the shadows follow our steps, ***** and blood next to God’s poster love.
pin it to the bathroom wall: peccavi, peccavi
two years, fifteen minutes, miles of scars.
we sleep through the days, and whisper
of nights before the hurricane
("what happened to those two?")
("Deus misereatur, the storm took them.")
I daydream of sinking my teeth into the flesh of redemption,
to rip muscle from immaculate bone.
can we not move on?
copper denial drips from our jaws.
and Deo gratias, they say, you survived.
limbless and naked on tiled floors.
Deo gratias et Deus mortuus est.
survival is in our veins.
I watch you waiting in LCD purgatory
as you see my fingers bleed into the vinyl shielded couches of the 12am ER
perception through observation — I let you reveal who I am.
what am I feeling? how do I act?
breathing through each other with liquor in our lungs.
I know how the bile tastes in your throat,
and you know the burn of the whiskey on my tongue
why do we still reach for walls
where cicada-shell notices cling with scotch tape?
take a number and restore the riches;
leave the room and tear them down.
who but God can build over the ruins of fallen cities, fallen worlds?
and ora pro nobis, He is yet unwelcome here.
we are holy, in our own names we pray, and Hallelujah, we are saved
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
desperatus, credere potes
mortuus, vivere potes
devoted to no God, except those that resemble me
i place each of my egos on the altar, and try to forgive myself
there rests a serpent corpse:
he began to writhe under my woes,
now his callous flesh chips away akin to an ancient statue
what's it like to no longer feel?
all existence is to exist, to exist is to procreate
vital enough to let sin seep into the soul
it is under that philosophy that mitosis cocoons my being
regenrate, rebirth, and rejoice!
I AM:
everyone you've come to love,
i am what you seek in the rest
i am each and every phantom that has glided through you and left traces of immortality, fused to the nerve and bone marrow
desperatus, credere potes
dortuus, vivere potes
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 4:13 AM UTC
Scio hunc non
Scio quod durum
quid per illa verba in occulto
et optima sunt
Non *** Latino
haec sunt idem
Im 'non boken
posuerunt in monumento
Non sum abierunt
ego autem mortuus sum,
capti a verbis victima
in caput meum
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
i've yet to do some cement work:
ratio out
3 to 1
of sand to cement...
some water some little
chemistry for the dough
which no **** will pass-through...
a little bit of bourbon
and nibbling... at something...
which is not...
akin to... the work of
a drapery seamstress...
it's not the iron curtain is still
up...
to the moon!
to the moon! to find the copernican
east!
and... oh... shitty-shitty-cum-vanguard:
toothpick iron maidens
of oral...
hey presto!
the silicon curtain...
such a certain idea
that i know i'm only revising it...
and if not revising it...
then: neu angle cubism...
a square as a rhombus!
wow! wow! wow!
to be alive and somehow
have a living audience: contemporaries...
and here i am:
necromancer - with a personal
library... of only 'the dead speak'
loquor mortuus...
better than graffiti:
thinking about latin with some
english shrapnel: a definite article
for starters...
wow! wow! wow!
or... chk chk chk (!!!) -
jump back...
how about...
an ode to an itch: you simply
can't scratch?!
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 6:29 PM UTC
In the darkest hour of his darkest night,
A man sat hunched with his dwindling light,
A sliver of hope behind all his fright,
Memories keeping him from giving up the fight,
For he just needed to make it through alright.
In the deepest crevice in his hollow heart,
Like an ancient piece of forgotten art,
Lay his very soul that keeps falling apart,
Every second stung like a poison dart,
His very being crumbles part by part.
In his sickened body runs so many a mark,
In his bloodless skin looks so very stark,
In his hollow head the eyes became dark,
Lifeless and empty as an abandoned park,
His parched throat struggling to bark.
He just needed to pass through tonight,
Keeping all the monsters at bay with all his might,
Making most of the warmth from his dying light,
And yet after all this senseless flee and flight,
His very old friend found him and said 'Goodnight'.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
Everybody came to see that I was falling
They came to see If I'm really dying
Those tears that I'm wishing to fall during my precious day
Are now streaming down their faces
As they watch me sleeping inside my casket
You'll never see my face again
And I don't really know
I just really want to leave
The pain was telling me
That I really have to go
That I'm in a rush
And this realization hits me
I'm no longer breathing
No, not at all
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
Lonely voices tear at me,
Sibilent whispering with no end.
Caress my collarbone,
Taste every inch of the skin.
Asinine bleeding, lost on me,
Raging fire inside my skull.
Corrupting and rusting
my being inside.
Beautiful afflictions **** the mind,
Rancid and fleeting, indiscriminate.
In nobis mortuus deambulatio,
Morbus animorum detracta.
Requiem lost among the dead,
Dreamers lose hope after drought,
Rectifying the overdose.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC
6 0’ clock
and the string of doors on the block
creak open in unison,
The briny smell of sizzling, leathery bacon accretes,
Seeping forth from pale shutters,
Peeling past the cars, stripping beige paint off the sides of houses.
The morning drizzle, forming tiny rainbows,
You would think it was acid rain,
melting away the plastic people.
Midday, after only an hour passes
and white wine splashes
like crashing waves in the crystalline stemware,
Where orderlies dazedly rescue their children from the montessories
Where power lines crack like whips,
So generously oozing sustenance to babes.
The civiliter mortuus, roam their undead domain,
Like a swarm of cockroach wasps
speed walking in parasitic pairs
darting through Safeway aisles,
Demolishing houses of white chocolate, and roasting sweet nothings
On the new George Foreman Grill ™ .
Every house on loan to apathetic debtors
They come to yours with their holy letters
PTA, … IRA … NSA … HOA
They proselytize, prioritize
Themselves over forest bears and wolves,
But where only hedge trimmers growl
The only Tuesday sounds are the behemoth
Devouring your trash,
And where leaf blowers asthmatically howl.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 10:49 PM UTC
It was about a month since she passed
I didn't know what to do
I was such a mess
I was screaming
I was crying
I was giving in
All the fights
All the late nights
I should've known something wasn't right
But I was too oblivious
Too selfish
Too caught up in what I wanted
And now it's over
She's gone
As am I
Now there's nothing left
Nobody left
Only an empty, wilted garden
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC