"mutating" poems
running
deliquescing into nature
i am engulfed in stillness
i encounter a deer as i round a corner
its chestnut eyes intensely sense
something wild within me
transfixed
we meld palpably
whispering our essence
myopic views warp into acute focus
golden flowers stretch and arch
and yawning into the sun
swell with bursts of luster
whilst violets polka dot the path
with lilac luminescence
dead tree trunks
mutating into masterpieces
yearn for new life
drawing in the squirrels
yellow-bellied birds
hover
sensing my motions
whilst woodland winds undulate
pine scented waves of sea salt oceans
my ears enchantingly enhanced
by bristling leaves caressing trees
as scintillating amber butterflies
dance in synch
with the clock tower’s
ancient chiming
a gust of wind
catches a patch of sand
and sends it quivering
fusing high in summer air
then falling soft as feathers
hidden fairies prance about
answering unheard questions
problems dissolve in emerald meadows
without a hint of striving
essays write themselves
upon my mind
poetry flows through me
wings of meadowlarks
trace my face with nuances
interlaced with connotations
rushing home
i write it down
then bowing i take credit
for what was etched upon my soul
by a sunbeam in the forest
©2016janetaylor
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
I’m working to unwrap you slowly
To form you up like a theory
To create a habitat for you in my head
My steps grow wider when I see you at the end
Lying, lounging, an old lion
Afternoon sun low and tired
Rays and shadows streak the road like enveloping arms
As I grow closer, you project even further away
I just long to reach you
Rest my head against your ***** and
Sleep against your softness like a pile of feathers
To rest at last.
But at times I think I’ll never reach you,
As I approach you reflect even further away
I wonder that this road is endless, thinning into the distance
The black wires radiate into the air above me
Mutating my simple DNA into something else entirely
A sole purpose survivor, a solider
The cause is more desperate now
They’re buzzing to each other above my head, talking about me
Their scrutiny banging between my ears
The dust becomes a new layer of me, with incredible thirst
Just fields of dehydrated dandelions, just nothing
They soak up the liquid from everything
With their chemical and electrical waves
The fields are screeching as they shrivel up, like dying children
Now it’s all yellow, beige, and far away
It’s all so tiny against the horizon,
For all I know, your silhouette has become a statue by now
Just this long stripe of dirt I treat like a passageway
Just a ladder to a final place of rest
I’m desperate for a stop in my trudging motion
But I know I can’t lie down in this unworthy sand.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
Her folly lies in her capacity to love dangerously,
For she loves in many faces, in many words and in many tongues.
She lives inside her love, mutating her heart ever so.
Relishing, perilously, in the daze of its endangerment.
And for the fragments of her heart she is so terribly loved in return.
But only for a moment.
For she holds too much insanity in her sorrowful bones.
It infests her blue veins and plays with her hair.
It kisses her in the darkness of hidden longing,
And traces her skin with wistful desire.
Her insanity holds her to the wall and caresses her neck.
Her insanity gives her a cigarette and watches her blue smoke dance with a smile in the early morning.
Her insanity laughs with her in a melancholy haze of youthful poverty.
Her insanity holds her in his arms.
Her insanity is inescapably wistful.
It finds her in the night,
In the secret carousels of woeful nostalgia.
Her insanity has destroyed her so, and has so wickedly masked it as bliss.
She is irrevocably doomed, for she will spend her days submerged in an ocean of faces;
Hoping, so beautifully desperately,
That she will find a piece of him inside them.
-
*"Can I stay here a little longer?
I'm so happy here."*
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
Stochastic perfection
Staccato smoothness
Screaming comfort
Mental duress
Gutter rat beauty
Sensory control
Primal sophistication
Mutating soul
Indecipherable pitch
Blinding vision
Deafening clarity
Reckless precision
Simplistic genius
Street-wise intellect
Monosyllabic truth
Politically incorrect
Emotional apocalypse
Raging articulation
Distorted calm
Dominating freedom
Numbingly sensitive
Inappropriate dignity
Contemplative explosion
Tempestuous tranquility
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
Trolling Amazon I found my inner Kurtz
Harrison foreswore my bear totem: darkness
Lady gal pal taught me soul-mating hurts
Martha Muffins vinyl v. Kirby’s Agatha Harkness
Saved my twins made them productive
Mutating FF X to Avengers indie 80s on me take
Man-starring all the boogie children say code this grandpa
Gaiman Miller Moore Morrison invade Waid
Wrightson Kaluta Jones Smith put bronze to paint
McKean Sienkiewicz Mack Maleev mimic The Studio
Now let’s gallery our portals strung from kid dimensions
Makers engaging history NOW NEW 52 intervals starstruck
Spread indie throughout known multiverse in craft crooks
While nursing nannies coddle light corners scuttling roaches
Bell & Schrödinger's cat transport trainspotting to a fine art
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
The color of death is not black, is not white.
Not red, not gold.
Think: ashen skin.
Think: where did the blood go?
Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again.
Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow.
That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
back and forth
in the bag hanging above the bed.
My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
Think: cells mutating.
Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long.
Goes three weeks long.
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
I’ve read the books.
I’ve heard the talks from morticians.
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
grey.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
my eyes feel heavier than usual
i start to wonder if some foreign
substance is crawling through my
endocrine system, mutating my thoughts
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
This has nothing to do with the Absolute -
this idea of God.
In childhood, God was the loving
Father in the sky -
Outsized, sporting a flowing white beard, and
ever attentive to my prayers.
Now, God is an abstract notion -
transcendent and immanent,
Infinite, eternal, and
difficult to embrace.
But all of this has nothing to do
with God -
All these continually mutating
mental constructs.
- fr
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
*There was a time,
A time so fair,
A zero despair,
Cuz She was fair,
Life as I knew it was drizzling daisies,
Bleeding me the feel like the crazies.
Perfect absolutes,
Chimerical dilutes.
Enchanting moments with ephemeral bliss,
Rapt me into blissful abyss.
Ambient lightnings,
Forming supernova sightings.
My soul trapped in her seductive high,
Unknowing of her destructive lies.
Little was I was aware of her two-tone design,
My ****** Valentine
An alter ego so divine.
Demon with deceitful frames,
Unravelling her intimacy games.
Her bloodless lips whispering in the corridors of time,
Deporting me into her hate grimes.
Mutating into odium of torrential far cry,
Lies sarcastrophic podium of her mislaid demise.
Gagged and bound as me you broke down
And I believed everything,
As my love for you was logic drowned
Round and round I emanated all the way down.
Still submerged in the swamp of dummy beliefs,
Hoping to heal with concealed appeals,
Squeals of her feels reveal choking ordeals,
Cuz it was a different belief in a veiled inception,
Infinitely drowning with these unconcealed dogmas,
Remembrance feels like a past from yesterday,
All I am choked with are these Interstellar beliefs,
Detonating memories,
At the haste of light,
Giving me an anguish fright from the down right,
Corroding my heart with those Sulphur memories we once called a lifetime.
Like those 4 years with 4 million considerations.
Still lost in her maze of psychopathic daze,
Downward spirals decayed & set ablaze.
Reveries of her infinite sentiment once called transcendences.
All that’s left now are your radioactive reminiscences,
Of a place once called Tomorrowland.*
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
dwelling in a bathtub full of ember
skin, transparent like a plastic raincoat
max' core is a cage, his mouth like a cave
tags are scratched into his hands
he is walking over liquid letters, since
doctors replaced his blood with milk
cats are drinking from his open wounds
max is asking the mirror:
who could i be?
who do i want to be?
what will i become?
who am i now?
his memories are windows
the head is mutating, it will explode
thoughts are gobbling thoughts
wishes **** other wishes
the young max longed to be old
the old max wants to be young
a life, hidden in a purple casket
secrets drive each of his moves
addicted to the white magic of death
self-destructive, not trustworthy
he exchanged his kids against trance
sirens are singing songs of oblivion
take him away from this journey
trapped is he in placelessness
he became the thing he dreaded
nightmares are haunting his dignity
will his actions turn into an epitaph?
a funeral, under the heaven of his skin
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 7:58 AM UTC
the aperture opens
low watt bulb hanging on a chain
rocks slowly in a perceptible breeze coming
from a hole in the wall
a dark odor permeates the room
time has been spent here
desperation has sweated its own flavor of fear in this room
laughter that had no joy has spent hours spilled on the floor
evil has romanced good and plundered its favors
on the stained mattress in the corner
left its once ****** form heaving with
the ****** taste of hedonistic self destruction
slow and pure
pleasured for her like a ribbed one
lubed with promises of a hot carnival of sated fantasy
the aperture closes slowly
the view fades into a single grey line
of wary perception
moments tick by
as the room changes faces
the aperture forced open by her deft fingers
spun monkeynuts she is seeking something to occupy her madness with
or she will end up like the rest in the mirror picking skin
'oh god, please don't let me be a skin picker'
she whispers over and over
as she prys and pulls at the thin metal covering
at the thin eyelid of perception
this perception chain
one moment of reality spawns the next
its clarity the passed on poisoned gene pool of all your yesterdays
the languid drifting from year to year
all the treasures gathered turned to dusty memory
all the lovers fled along the ever enduring wind of change
and as your days have burned slowly down
you begin to realize that each had its place in
the tapestry of your life
and here in this last room of your life
you come face to face with what you have created
and it is unrecognizable to your mind
the walls are covered by ever mutating versions
of a dope shooters regrets
of a spike house roll call of thouse who have cashed in
and are now remembered only by there survivors
i open my eye
and look about in the shadow
and leave you there
because you were never there
you discarded your real self in a spent ****** needle
in the alley behind our once happy home
along with the used ******
from your
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
GOING TASADAY
The Tasadays
(remnants of a Stone Age culture)
recently discovered in the Philippines
have no words
for war, hate or weapons
but favour
the communicative power
of skin
indulging in constant
warm enfolding embraces
loving touches.
So, this Tuesday
let's be Tasadays
hark back
to Stone Age practice
and indulge in
the process of osmosis
soaking each other up
skin to skin.
*******
Oh how I yearn for...hunger for this woman's skin...a touch mutating into a caresse...transforming into a kiss...a kiss becoming...!
We spend hours just holding each other...the skin of the other offering love comfort and security and sensuality. Ever since we met in Stratford and inadvertently our thighs touched when seated together...that one touch conveyed all that could be said for now and forever. In that one touch we had everything we needed to know about each other and the rest of our bodies just had to catch up!
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
My smile was once fueled by you.
The corners of my lips tightened,
descending into a stationary frown.
Butterflies mutating into ****** off wasps inside my gut.
They sting my stomach lining,
fill my veins with bitterness. (poison)
I am old now,
bones rotted to the core.
Invisible wrinkles layer my skin.
Baby come back and light up my world like a candle again.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
destruction
in the midst of destruction
there is a glimmer of creation
so small is that light
against a backdrop of darkness
darkness that wants to overcome
wants to obliterate
awareness is the key
awareness nurtures the seedling
enveloping it so its protected
growing in the awareness
is a Pandora's box of
hope
faith
serenity
sobriety
peace
contentedness
and other things of like kind
getting larger
healthier
mutating
into a grandiose idea
soon its a ball of light
if you take the ball and consume it
it will spread within you
giving you the power to overcome
the darkness
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Like an upside-down stage curtain, steam rises
over a half-empty cup of ginger tea,
obscuring the dreary view of yet another rainy day.
The woman leans closer to the window
(she’s certain there’ll be an oily stain where her nose
makes contact with the icy glass).
Raindrops are mutating over cracks in the window,
their shadows filling in the blank
blotches in her eyes, camouflaging the liver spots
(themselves otherworldly mutants)
over her hands— sewerage on plumbers’ gloves.
She drinks her tea and whimpers his name.
Scalpel-blade shivers creep over her back,
over the folds in her pantyhose;
chalk marks on the road become visible—
she remembers it like yesterday
when she cradled his broken body in her arms:
police car and ambulance sirens
conjured a dust devil that reeked of young death;
it clung to her designer clothes,
and complemented the purple stench of brake fluid,
petrol, and the god-awful breaths
of bystanders who’d gathered like a swarm of flies,
the soft susurrus of their conversations
intensifying till pencil-lipped, beast-like groans,
ready to feed on the hole in her soul,
salivating to take a bite of grief, and replace it with remorse;
she recalls the sound of her car keys
on the hot tar, which took a chomp out of her left knee,
and warm blood seeping into her every fibre.
Steam and chalk marks fade away into the past.
In front of the refrigerator,
on the grimy vinyl kitchen flooring, a ginger meows;
the woman ignores its pleas,
and reaches for the upside-down picture on the window sill.
A liver spot sprouts from her neck.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
And yet she moves, silently,
spinning and swirling endlessly
revolving, around a rousing star,
elegant ballet stealing radiance
indulging in warmth, in glacial
space unfathomable sphere
of incandescence, fluid rubicund
lava leisurely turning into blue
water, mystifying evolution
randomly combining hydrogen
and oxygen elements to unfold,
a liquid carpet englobing
all, to the mercy of a pale
faced moon, meticulously keeping
a distance so perfect and rare
to bear, mutating molecules
spontaneously deciding to form
cells, eager to evolve slowly
birthing life in its depths, breathing
to ensure, generous exchange
a fair give and take, a cycle where
harmonic balance is
the orchestrated oeuvre
of an omnificent composer
inventing notes of gravity,
creating abstruse species
out of fantasy, only to craft
itself a witness, capable
of understanding the amazing
wonders it ceaselessly unfurls.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
abuse is a picture that I am forced to paint
with colors I have never seen.
if I draw fists into open arms,
if I sketch an apology in between berating,
if I fill in every empty space with love,
no one will come running for
the child who cried help.
abuse is a phantom limb
still covered in bruises.
white coats and clipboards wonder
how it can still ache when it is no longer there,
infecting me with their doubts.
sometimes it feels heavier
than it did when it was a part of me.
depression eats at my weight until my skin is taut,
boarding up my eyes and locking my mouth.
blame has found solace in this blood,
guilt mutating my thoughts.
my potential used to live here,
but abuse has a reverse Midas touch
where everything that could have become gold
withers in its hands.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
His hand wrapped so fiercely around my heart,
a five fingers imprint.
To which will never go away.
Even if he wants to go,
the marks would still be there...
Mutating my heart until it ached.
That boy had left an everlasting impression on me,
I will never be the same.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
I look into the dark oblivion
That is my room
I stare blankly at the ceiling
The cold still darkness
Slowly becoming darker
I wait to dream
But I fear what it is
That I may dream of tonight
I begin to think
Of where my life has gone
Where it is that I stand
And I realize
I am standing in darkness
My evil pool of misery
My worst fears compiled and drowning me
Is it sad to be scared of my dreams
The dreams I dream are not dreams
They are nightmares
Simply put on steroids
And injected daily
Into the wasted remnants of my brain
Mutating into a monstrous demon
Vividly I watch as my limbs are torn from my body
My sanity has cursed me
With this image
In a flash
Quicker than lightning
The scenery changes
The world is dissolved
Eroding faster than nature intended
The sky opens up
Demons walk to the edge
I look down to where Hell once laid
And see the decaying and half-dead bodies
Of archangels and angels
Wings torn from their backs
And a sense of hope
Banished from my mind
I fear my soul is lost
I awaken in horror
Just as demonic eyes
Pear into my soul
Intentions for me clear as day
Is it sad to be afraid of my dreams
My dreams are inhuman
They are wretched wild things
No human shall endure
But maybe I am not human
Maybe I am a monster
A demon hidden under human flesh
Clawing at the surface
Begging to be free
Oh that would be a terrifying dream
To watch as my flesh
Ripped from inside
As scaly skin appears
With a burning amber color
Tampered with blood ruby eyes
Focused on engulfing the rest of the world
Infecting the planet
With more of its kind
Is it sad to be afraid of my dreams
If my dreams are real
With a slightly different wording
To exaggerate the fact
That killing me could end a lot of problems
Bringing a new sense of peace
With a demon gone
I am afraid of my dreams
Because I don’t have to be asleep
To have these dreams
Just looking at the window
Watching the world **** itself
This is a dream not so friendly
One you cannot awaken from
This sadly is our reality
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
*Spectral & Whites,
She shoots liquid kryptonite,
Forming civil twilights,
Lighting up satellites,
Effusive she moves in crowds,
Vetting the loud,
Entombing in her vortex clouds,
Fiction stitched exclusive to her shroud,
Translucent transcendence,
Sinking in ascendance,
Obscured abundance,
Her celestial dependence,
Mutating sacraments,
Dissolving electrolytic laments,
Decaying she resents,
Her serene blood stains,
Choking reckless intents,
Torrential far cry,
Of her desecrated lullabies,
Edging serrated highs,
Triggering sulphur lies,
Profanity in her transmits,
Photonic duality she emits,
Fluttering in trance,
Her psychopathic stance,
Initiating empathetic dance,
Seductive incandescence,
Buffering her schizophrenic vehemence,
Veiling the era of repentance,
By unveiling spiritual severance,
And pseudo sacrosanct irreverence,
The future’s here,
Nuclear souvenir,
She past my prime,
When the evidence realigned,
Confiscating her downtime,
She committed my crime,
Make amends… We are designed to be outlived….
03:22AM*
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
An integral trait
that protected and built
in her, withers.
Curses slowly slithers
off her tongue
leaving her soul stung,
for she swore never to say
on any day.
Reputation tarnished;
label faded;
mind polluted,
for she no longer felt demure
and pure.
Enticed by the modern world;
contamination injects,
mutating and leaving her
not able to recognize herself.
For now she stares in the
restroom mirror,
shedding tears
over her shedding skin.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 4:13 AM UTC
Can you not sense the undercurrent
an anger mutating over the nation.
That period before costs do excel
a deep dissatisfaction vented.
Massive job cuts told to restain
with warnings of future pain.
That inability to have any input
manipulated and being controlled.
Vote them in with their big promises
as politicians do what they want.
Despair as your finances disappear
truth a word you never hear.
This is a tale not only of one country
ever the widening divide.
The few continue reaping the rewards
the majority paying the cost.
The average guy is always bled dry
the wealthy staying that way being sly.
The undercurrent is beginning to vibrate
the population has had enough.
Those with plenty taking toomuch
from those with little to give.
The burden of debt has to be shared
or frustrations will be aired.
The Foureyed Poet.
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 9:29 AM UTC
sometimes I wonder if I have ever really seen your face
there’s nothing left to explain
to this day I don’t know
if you were ever real (there was
nothing to say
maybe I just don’t remember) sometimes
my hands (my lips) still imagine your skin
the plaster of your ceiling hangs like blood clots
in my veins (the color of the walls mutating
before my closed eyes
I have never felt closer to neverland)
I don’t talk about you
I never did
no one has ever looked at me that way again
(maybe it was something about talking
to the other side of the world
that made me into a moment instead of a past)
maybe the thing I’m most sorry for
is that I will never regret you
(your name still tastes like peppermint) it is summer now
and I still remember your hot phantom hands
on my frozen cheeks
(I remember your voice like dragonfly wings)
maybe that’s why when I remember your eyes
my blood is lighter than it has ever been
I can feel your smile like starlight in mine
you breathed into my lungs once
and you have been there ever since
you were not my north star (though maybe I was yours)
you were my ocean (and
to a child’s eye all the stars look the same anyway)
maybe the thing I’m most sorry for
is that I don’t miss you because
after all these years
your anthracite eyes are steam beneath my fingers
(there’s a kind of purity in dirt and
there’s a kind of innocence in you)
after all these years my footprints dot your foreign soil
(there’s a kind of hope in me)
because after all these years of swimming
of air that tasted different with every breath
of eyes blinking against the epileptic cosmos
(stars lips teeth hips)
after all these years of running
it was not even strange to be in love with you
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
You penned an unsealed note to yourself,
Its Writer, Verse and Address were as one -
A Wholly Poetic Trilogy.
You were brave:
Left your paper-lips wide open and
Let the letters leak;
Watched them run
Into the grooves of the creased spine
On the back of the pushed envelope you posted -
Wounded origami angel wings
Sprouting from the shoulders of your scripted self.
You feel you were delivered to your pretty little house face-down,
Desperate to fly but tied by glue to some side-table surface,
An ornamental cardboard carrier-cherub,
Smiling in the furnace,
But unable to breathe...
I read through the words you tattooed on to your feathers
Again and again,
From their bold beginnings
To their ruffled dead-ends...
...ends which say:
..."Stuck"...
Behind a parchment-brick wall...
That's why I've picked up my pen -
Cracked it open,
Moulded its cascading ink into a ladder,
So we can climb over
And look at what's on the other side
Of that stoney-faced page -
See, its edges came unstuck:
While you nested, and rested your eyes
Your vertebral quill was effortlessly flapping,
Whipping up a written wind with ease,
Like second nature,
A cathartic breeze
Mutating the rock you carved on
Back into a leaf once more,
And turning it over...
Letting it hover and settle anew.
Now it's a hive of technicolour graffiti,
Not a dead-end
But boundlessly alive -
It shines and thrives
With designs
Voluntarily plucked
From the lucky minds you've touched.
They bustle decoratively across its columns,
And among them is this reply:
You are now, always have been,
And always will be:
Not just the Writer, the Verse, and the Address...
...But all the happiness you inspire in others too...
Because of who you are in writing,
Because of who you are in life,
Because of you.
See, that Wholly Poetic Trilogy,
It needs its Fourth Wheel to become Holy,
To roll and rumble towards
And crash through
The gates of that pretty little cage.
So, mould your beautiful ink into a key -
It plays a minimalist melody,
A ringing note of ignition.
Push it,
Turn it...
And let's drive.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC