"narcosis" poems
you wanted me to see your gods but i am afraid of heights;
i wanted you to touch mine but you cannot swim
you washed your hair in salt by the shore, smiling
with your cracked-skin lips like a perfect line of stitches
holding my head in your wet wet hands,
and i hadn’t heart to tell you that to me you smelt like death
but i suppose you thought the same of i—
like seaweed in the sun, sand in all my joints; breathless
“i’ll get my sea legs some day,” you said,
sealed beneath a new spring moon
and i just, just hadn’t heart to tell you
how these things always tend to end
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
Rue the unlettered nugatory inequity
of insensate dishabille narcosis and
the insouciant clandestine ravish
perverse of durance's constraint.
AUSTRALIAS CODE GREY IS A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. PUT AN END TO FORCED INJECTIONS
AND THE UNCONSCIOUS UNCONSENTING SEXPLOITATION OF THE MENTALLY ILL!!!!.
NO FUNDING FOR MENTAL HEALTH AND THEIR ****** REGIME!!!
MENTAL HEALTH LAWS ARE MENTALLY ILL!!!
''the pride of women will never be laid in the dust"- Gaelic Proverb.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. LYING ******* ****** DOGS!!!
SAY NO TO BUTTOCKS INJECTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
The skin at the bed of her nails shone, tight.
Forever healing, windows that rattle
With the changing of her moods.
Love was a locket, an heirloom
That insisted its presence
Upon her bedside table.
She could turn out every light
And it would still be there.
Steady metronome,
Lifeless thud,
Invasive thought.
The carpet gathered artefacts from late night walks.
Bad habits clung to the walls.
No pillow talk, only muffled strings,
Failed symphonies,
Conversations three years old:
Memories that play Chinese whispers
Across the faces in the ceiling.
Irregularity of breath,
Sleep comes, clothed in Zopiclone;
A mind that never rests.
Narcosis in the morning,
Nausea over dried toast,
Sweet flamenco on the radio,
But there is nothing to calm her bones.
The red wine cast last night’s shadow,
Hollow in the eyes, first hit of daylight,
First hit of nicotine
To prove she is still alive.
Anxiety: the ball and chain,
Always dragging her behind.
Living as a ghost,
The people at the bus-stop stare,
The traffic, the signs, the passers-by,
The doldrums in the headlines,
The rain upon her window;
The heart attack and vine.
Prescription pills in the afternoon
To get her through the day,
Until she can get her fix,
Have her fill,
And finally hide away.
The high-street parade comes alive after dark,
Lanterns on the lake, the fish-bowl
Of a small town, familiar tongues that roll;
Memorised anecdotes across the ashtray,
The lipstick on her teeth.
Clumsy in victory, each stumble confined
To look as if she has walked through life
Without ever missing a stride.
There is nowhere to breathe
But in the solitude of her insanity.
She paints the walls
To the colours of her moods:
Grey in the long, long winter,
Blue in the onset of June.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
the social pace manic in its self-absortion, possession facing possession and what if
the world risks collapsing under the weight of its own irony:
a hedonic frame of mind so devoid of the ******* of life
the tyranny of desire is teaching **** to the naked eyes
a culture stops breathing if it can't let go of its desires to find them again
nothing to be destroyed cause everything is dismantling slowly
going right or left it's the same but not in any corner of the world
the leftovers of God, tautologies in a straightjacket,
cause one has meetings all day but no sleep all night
He/She/They colonize you with the scripture of profit
everything has its price on the expence of being enlivened
some don't have water, others too much of an illusion
some don't have peace, others have haute couture
some haven't eaten, others have molecular cuisine
some have the shelter of the sky, others listen to the echo of Big Bang
this logic of contrast is dreaming of the creativity of decay and
what if politics has become a narcosis, a drunkenness of words,
while the wisdom of trauma is hidden in billboards,
the text says Politics of Happiness or Diserotica
the depressive society fools itself with the financial ****** of disconnected bodies in search of the last noise of the day
the space of the mind broken by narrow horizons
the flesh and bone might turn into a virtual dimension
yet
the soul of the world flickers, it covers its solar plexus until we meet again as brothers and sisters of the trees
just because you feel good doesn't mean that
the world feels good too
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 4:42 AM UTC
we stopped believing the agora of the mind
our souls empty rooms colliding
full of amnesia on incessant roads
walls of flesh we were on the edge of terror,
steel confused with clarity
souls plucked like nails inside ruins
suffocated tales & archives of illusion
the shadow is closer to the center only
in the diaries of the blind
no hole of god is dead, we ***** fresh prophets
with inviolable gaze
for the sublime and holy in our sweat
believing is seeing the most lethal duel
the one and only the fake divine
who thinks alone on a road with no views
he planted spotlights in their eyes
for everybody to see only the world in his arms
hate kept in empty milk bottles
life is this schweitzer, passers-by were saying,
it has taste but only in foreign countries,
with their fists in pain caressing concrete asphalt turbines
as in quick sands no muscle was moving
carboard smiles unprotected against the evacuation of desire
wooden language didn't invent choice
no decomposition of the edges the totalitarian thought inside
the narcosis of time merciless
the clouds lost their sound we still don't look at each other
no hypothesis of sight no discharge for humiliation
wither souls made history grappling bending
twisting nonconsensual reality
no destiny for the allegory of truth
there are no angles of sight
facts become beasts
holy cannot be anybody's name
repelling of the heart beat
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 10:12 AM UTC
The background music loiters in the wind
Notes resting on molecules and floating towards me
Sounds of instruments strewn together
Eliciting movement, bodies close,
Liquid tension drips to the floor
I wish I could feel the movement
Lost in a body that has forgotten how
Embarrassment as I stand motionless
And the room moves around me
The music calls, it demands a narcosis
I am the only unbound to the spell
And my eyes dart away, abashed
A reverie finds itself creeping in my mind
Younger and lost in immortality
I once enjoyed the witches curse of youth
And moved like those before me
I walk away, unsure of my maturity
Should I grieve my missing youth
Or should I be grateful that the spell cannot bind me?
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
[personal definition based upon a study case of one]
1. Self-commitment to silence one’s heart; often described as ‘experiencing life holding your breath’ or ‘seeing the world as if you were on a river bottom’; main symptomes: being able to interact but refusing proximity .
2. Condition found after one’s sudden awaken from a long period of self inflicted cataleptic narcosis, by a singular human touch, and subsequently being unexpectedly left in the wide; main symptomes: non-stop spinning and sprinting in all directions; aphasia and forgetfulness of words; general deeply cultivated indifference beneath high level of external activity in order to endure the understanding of everything as delusional; slow return into narcotic catalepsis, mainly through smothering the heart beat.
Notes
1. Predisposition for the syndrome: perception of a flaw disabling wholeness; intrinsic tendance to flee from others when reality does not match one’s pre-vision; obsessive phobia of halves of nothing.
2. Treatment: unknown; progress shown under some conditions did not linger.
3. Survival rate: not appliable.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
monsoon casts a spell,
nature subdued hibernates;
but wild is the wind!
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
lay your hands
on my body
where you left
an indelible mark
where you sculpted and chiselled
this now inert
block
at night
i cannot wait
to fall into
the phantom arms of you
wispy limbs
given substance only
by memory
then
close my eyes
and have my mind
play reels of colourful dream
i drank in the night
the fermented fruit
of fantasy
i woke to the sight
of blinds guarding me
from the harshest of lights
sober
stale
reality
so i see
our words were vacant
our thoughts brimmed
our words
only
empty clauses
filled with pregnant pauses
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
in the cohort of her hands, a disorder
lost dignity wrapped in the red of need
reckless and arrogant as lilies
an abundance of periphery
wavers at the sea-black hand
of hands of time of hands
rune stones
black granite spattered in stars
a slutter of language
of words of wombs
necrotic we burst
a pause of however
a narcosis of want
meander of limbs
siphoning brine-white tide
colorless-the disorder
marquis of white shadow
on seal slick waves
and the lilies,
petal outward
and in the silence
there were unknown weeks
where the flowers foundered
other bodies
there is a form in the garden
still as clay
we reddened our mouths
and still like clay
slant of a neck untattered
partitioning cerebral sea
arcing back on itself
there was a benign negligence
in the want-of flowers of lilies
vague signs of amplitude
pachyderm and small
in the grooves of lack
malnourished, contrite hands
flushed blooms of pink paper along
pink walls-flush seas of lack
vague symbols of wood and
purulent understanding a
nest of roots
dipping towards the alkaline sea
we didn’t even begin to understand
the range of mourning
becoming us
smooth white shells of elegant
weakened at the hock
distempered by the recent winters
foundering in the vacant space
between us
I mule you
through the tapestries of my desert
and am still, here
where I don’t belong
here I am spread as an excess
as an unfortunate truth
glossed by negligent hands
anxious, with the possible morning
indistinct dwindling winter
curling pink paper
along the walls of black sea
earth-tide
small weakened arrangement of groundcover
jostling in the ferns of truth
we measured the years in numerals
as with skin, ardent and ruddy
palpable lost youth
the rare wood of mistake
loosened from sleep
in the morning we resemble damaged objects
prized for obedience
at odd angles of deformation to time
in the body, a funeral
still warm
skin and stone a slender neck of atonement
for the absence of home
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
the unbearable fear!
our white washed reality's
thin veneer
is pealing away
revealing the bloated
rotting carcass underneath
spewing dense shadows
& gnashing it's teeth
wailing helplessly the Word
the Word that man
has uttered throughout the ages
on various stages
& through the oppressing bars
of desolate cages
the very Word
that brought us forth from the dark
now haunts our dreams
only passing our lips
through midnight screams
with a jolt
we bolt upright
out of our narcosis
paralyzed by fear
how did we get here?
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 2:31 PM UTC
I want you to love me
like you loved me when we met.
After time and experience what's love
but a nebulous concept? I'm all yours.
Clutch my searing sparkle, while it's yours,
like your ardor is too voracious to contest.
I'm all yours. I want you to love me
as the moment's past, like you've
endeavored to make the moment last.
Had I ever adored
another sacred satellite
more, I would have left
but I'm permanently
pulsing in narcosis on the floor,
dead devoted, waiting for the wanton
conflagration to return.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
O’er the road that takes my soul
A flickered crow, blackened load
Levies against the way I go
“Turn back” he says
“Turn left” he says
“Turn right” he says
As I struggle
O’er the road that takes my soul
O’er the road that takes my soul
I keep a tired watch
On that flickered crow
Who’s insistence guides
The careless narcosis,
On this side
Where it grows
I touch, it bites
I know I’m wrong
It eats, I accept there’s no new heights
Just the road.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
rebars rust splitting concrete at irons cost
grey dust falls away from exaggerated wires
urban decay promoted by grandstanding
youth atop another. marker pen names .
inspired rap crap anonymity shouts
I woz here ( to those in the know)
sterile pens these days not even sniffable.
brains over and out on wifi . WAN faces
from vitreous messages blinking out
hate and spite for structures. Scenes
are augmented hunts of ghouls.
next addicts in line: petting in play
gyms on street corners. Cartoon
wars have no conflict?
clouds of vape a new narcosis .
in stupor we watch them
swallowing grey bytes flaked
off the cable networks of yuff.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
silence melts like caramel inside
like an empty-full touch
words travel without meaning
the city indulges its narcosis
all the dumping fights,
jouissance de vivre on the move
and he wants someone
to fill in the blanks:
oh, this is my skin
he carries his cotton touch
on forgotten routes
to vibrant roots
identities combine & depart
some are searching for new pronouns
the silence of silences rejuvenates the city
fresh dreams
new transactions
between truth and reality
and he wants -
fill himself in
and some wonder
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
i lit one cigarette;
a cryptic background music lulls me,
bringing me back where we first pledged our love.
love so pure and innocent, un-mired by any sensuous aspiration,
not wanting more, but just a gentle kiss from your loving lips,
and a warm embrace that seems to last a lifetime.
every trailing puff, from my dwindling stick, it beckons,
bringing out every single memory of you.
your smiles, your touch and your gentle gazes;
every single smoke brings out a bitter, yet sweet after-thought;
where we could be together, once again to renew our vows.
oh how delectable this narcosis is,
where you and i, once again become one, and me, once more,
reaching out to touch you, to kiss you, and smell your sweet perfume,
for you, my dear, are seared into my heart, never dying, never to disappear. oh how sweet it is, to be with you once again.
time is, but a hassle.
my pensive thoughts, like the cigarette i'm nurturing,
is slowly diminishing into nothing. all my wishes, and fancies, drifting
to another void.
i lit another cigarette.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Narcosis wafts on the air
Pollinating the senses
Spreading dust on the years
Softening corners and edges
Disguising shapes
Until there is no point anymore
Nothing clear to be seen
But something pierced the skin
Wrecked witless and reckless
I have walked here all my days
In this land of rant and cant
Home of the brave and me
And I, the sentimental fool
Would keep the dream alive
Of gentle Wodehouse summers
And a myth of Christmas snow
Victorian values
Daylight is brighter here
So bright it laughs for joy
Dapple-dancing and doting
With no thought of cloud or rain
Not one word of unpleasant truth
No hint of hypocrisy
Here in Narcosis England
Everything is fine
By Phil Roberts
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
We find with time that male superiority complex is declining in public media. Falling shortly behind the media is the change in government.
You see that countries, governments, even small parties are taking great strides to put women on the same pedestal as men.
But the media is right behind you
You become comfortably reassured by the hypnotic narcosis.
this just in
They declare culture is finally changing.
They report women are becoming equals.
They announce women finally are less ***** and more empowered. But where are these “facts” when I see with my own eyes.
When I hear with my own ears.
The masqueraded violence we try so hard to hide
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
the vaccine you want to hit my soul
you must know what it contains
otherwise you may have a headache..
dim environment
fon music fausto papetti
sterile lip
and sensitive fingers
necessary to you ..
"everything must be clear "
forget the stereotype
and experience the moment
just not rude
suddenly
growing
dependent region
and
team islands
please disinfect ..
narcosis
you should know i don't want
must be ******
target operation ...
such that
your article
the medical world should read
from the bottom to the top
when you are ready
Before hitting the scalpel
with your famous lipstick
tangled
patterned prisms
I suggest you draw
scalpel which hand
it doesn't matter
on places you visit
master surgeon
an experienced scissor
you can play the scalpel like
starting from my soul and into my body
cross-stitch example
When you cut out
head fall to the ground
never let
transplantation
to complete it
hot and dark
store in a place
after
you can sew the lips
and close the wound..
..
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
Every poet has their muse.....
Their destiny....
Their starfucked and always be..
Their never and forever thee...
Their darkness
And Their moonlight
HE
Their eternally
Their death of me
Their blood Red
Misery
Passion
And complexity
Their beat
Their heart
Their dedication
Their free
Their Narcosis
Magic and obsession
Perfection
Dreams
And Regretion
Their lust
Need
Wanting
And reflection
Their suicide
And submission
Their sleepless nights
And dreamless sleeps
Their ripped up letters
And crinkled sheets
Every poet their muse
Their want of We.....
Quotes and Prose
Forever,
HE
Every poet has their muse....
Ink blot hearts and poetry.....
Their midnight.....
MV
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
I lit one stick,
In the darkest of nights,
its acrid kisses bring out
hazy pictures of our distant memories.
In its trailing smoke, I reached for you,
in the darkness, I embraced your fairness.
In my mind, danced your songs,
as I breathed in its kisses.
Slowly, a sweet narcosis envelops me,
as my mind is filled with your every detail.
Forgetting all traces of a painful reality,
But behind all its sweetness, lurks the bitter truth;
You’re leagues away from my side.
My smoke slowly turns to ashes;
Along with it, our memories;
And all my desires, and wishes;
it burns away, towards the darkness.
I lit another stick...
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Narcosis wafts on the air
Pollinating the senses
Spreading dust on the years
Softening corners and edges
Disguising shapes
Until there is no point anymore
Nothing clear to be seen
But something pierced the skin
Wrecked witless and reckless
I have walked here all my days
In this land of rant and cant
Home of the brave and me
And I, the sentimental fool
Would keep the dream alive
Of gentle Wodehouse summers
And a myth of Christmas snow
Victorian values
Daylight is brighter here
So bright it laughs for joy
Dapple-dancing and doting
With no thought of cloud or rain
Not one word of unpleasant truth
No hint of hypocrisy
Here in Narcosis England
Everything is fine
By Phil Roberts
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
i hold in my hands all of the sea’s sadness,
press it against my chest;
drench my shirt and then my being
until i resemble its loneliness —
the very depth of it.
soon, the ocean floor will claim
my driftwood bones.
but there are no sunbursts or naive greek boys.
just surreal june midnights.
just water everywere —
nowhere.
i hold in my hands all of the sea
but there are no sunsets waiting
to sink down my spine —
just the cruel way that my skin goes on and on —
its flat, certain vastness
and this ironic drowning.
i hold in my hands all of the sea’s sadness —
press it against my chest;
drench my shirt and then my being
until its loneliness fills my lungs.
i come up for air but it’s just endless skin —
i close my eyes and dive again.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 3:18 AM UTC