"ossuary" poems
The photos were leaked today
They were of a **** woman with brown skin
Love making as she stared straight into the lenses
I was showed by a man who did not know how to react once I had been shown
My reaction was not shock
I merely stated "That's baad"
I did not know how to react to the staunch cyber-bully who was sure he was doing himself a justice by being so open about his anger at the naked, brown, humiliated, naked, shamed, beautiful
I am shamed by his shaming
I am naked by his **********
I am beautiful by myself sometimes
Sometimes I take the tape off my camera and position it near my bloom
I am not alone in this activity and yet I feel alone in an intimate situation, feel less alone, in a private situation.
Sometimes I work it so that every part of my dark lips are shadowed and my fingers seem to work for a living rather than play
My body is not a string
It is a temple of dark things
It is a ossuary filled with the dust of former lives
It is not to be dangled for cats for play
It has no puppet hands
Or puppet face
It smiles because it sees you smile
And she frowns when she sees you laugh
It is alive
The misfortune you hope her body will bring her is shame
I hope it will bring other people enlightenment
The fault is not in her
The fault is in the malicious, villainous, caricature of man who is hallow and made of maddening bells
Every time you disturb him he rings in announcement "This lady I had once an intimate relationship and she abused me. Here is her punishment."
We are all cavernous tunnels with lights to shoot out of the pins and needles sensational feelings we do not desire this but we must desire to be freed from being owned by this
We all think we're exempted from shame until we are ashamed
There are no exemptions, only more bells
They ring, until background noise renders them obsolete to us
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 10:43 AM UTC
You’re wishing plus wanting
to win the other side
remove your pride,
you untied tidal pool,
the wide subdivide of these paper pages.
Unrelenting numbers
remind you of the next stages,
taking you wildly to Namibia,
surrendering you to Zimbabwe,
the terminal station.
The narration vocalizes the translation of quotations,
your obligation to the violation of the rules, the regulations,
vulgarization of spoken word.
Pretty paintings plaster typecasts,
the pitter-patter of pity’s pretty ******
quickly shifting refurbished velvet sofas.
Overcast symphonies outlast
witty recast stanzas,
scores with notes naturally quote
verses romancing seltzer spines
noticing the negotiation of sore throats.
Oblivion’s oblivious to the people,
obnoxiously obscene with syncopated
saturation of public vital signs.
You’re the vain strain of virus
photocopying yourself within skin,
waste your sin on tattoos trapped on shins
safety pins selecting prints
pinning sets of twins to tanned wrappers
protecting official reports.
The ossuary welcomes records printed on thick paper
suspiciously missing skeleton swords.
Writing stories reversed while tipsy,
quickly preforming risky poetry smog,
sweetly omitting secret words,
trying to spell simply without the proper prologue.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Words…..because words are all I have……..:) Edgar
endearments generosity incantatory new sagacity surprise heresy dissipation violating abyss language warning culminates dalack obdurate serving waiter ossuary occurrences tortured beware silence calm bow physiognomy paucity occurrence exegeses transmogrification effectuation Adjunctive dairy tenure contention tenner reins happy indomitable, connoisseur artifice concatenation vivacity voluptuous solemnity enigmatic burdened glorious line huge……………………some I made myself…..:) Edgar
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
Sisters: my veins drain into the sand.
My grave exists on wood.
My eyes close.
The crows pick at my womb; my brain.
Each nail tattoos my blood
into my bones.
My dying started long ago;
it started in my youth,
when Teacher told us
boys pull our pigtails,
shove us down on playground pavement
to show their love.
It started in high school,
where bare shoulders blinded boys
from their books.
And now we are twenty.
Now men's fingers pull us into the dark.
Now the alley concrete burns.
Now a suit and tie
asks if his defendant
could see your breast and thigh.
One out of every three;
if we escape their claws
we do so narrowly.
If we flee when they call,
we risk the slice of a knife
or an exit wound
or an asphalt tomb.
Whistles peel at our skin,
the wolves to our moon.
My body is a temple.
I open my womb
to expel all who intrude:
wrinkled politicians with withered pens,
with legalese, God's pharmacists,
the filthy, forceful tongues of men
who chain my worth to fertility.
I drive them from my holy rooms
with whips of cords.
My body is limp on these boards.
My skin is an ossuary
for relics women will soon possess.
It is easy for me to die.
I bleed for my Chinese sisters,
slain before they speak;
for my Indian sisters,
doused with acid,
stolen while they sleep;
for my Saudi sisters,
given a warden,
kept from their own streets;
for my American sisters,
losing their bodies
to others’ strict beliefs.
I bleed, I bleed;
come, stand in the scarlet mud.
Come, bathe your feet,
wash your hands
in the dregs of my end;
come, purge unwanted seed.
Come, drink of my last breath,
women who wear veils,
women who sell ***
The crows circle,
the vultures too--
I smell of death.
I am not weak.
I will not forgive them;
they know just what they do.
Now, my slaughtered sisters.
Now, my survivors.
Set down your stones.
Take the nails from my feet,
plunder my bones.
Wear them as amulets.
In three days,
I will rise
and forge weapons from your cries.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
There is a terrible existence within me
A tortured skeleton, an ossuary of disturbance
It glamours at my skin, it listens, it listens
Where hunger speaks of canibalism
And scratches at the stone floor of my chest
In blurred echoes of a censorship
That erases occurrences on a Ducassian
Dissecting table with an infinite whisper
Of morbid intention in disordered silence
Shouts with immense calibrations
Its pale impatience, its pale impatience
In agonized incantatory obduration
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
Am I the Rat poet
From an ossuary of ages
Whose words scurry
Along blind tunnels
Am I the Rat poet
Locked in counterfeit cages
Whose letters wander in deficit
With a majestic malevolence
Am I the Rat poet
Exposing counterfeit confessions
Of plagued and decaying text
Who hears the sounds of burning books
Am I the Rat poet
Who writes what you despise
Yes, Yes, Yes
I am the Rat Poet
Can't you tell by my listening eyes
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
I'm reading the Codex Gigas,
one hundred and sixty pounds of flesh,
black hairy tongue,
penitent Battenti sponges staining the robe with blood,
stalking through Campania.
Crushed insect nests,
a shiver up the jaw from food not had in too long.
Squashing caterpillars,
the insides squirt from their ketchup-packet bodies
in a spray of slime-neon green.
Pheromone cream drips from your ***** I gag it down,
curdled milk-paste.
When pulling the dress down, one never knows
whether you will get a paper cut,
or a gaping jaw of hairy
life.
We all live like pigs, but need to clean up to appear to live
like everyone else appears to live when we visit them.
You rob me of myself; a teacher
walks into a food bank ashamed and finds his student working there.
My life experiences pile up like broken infant bones,
fragile phalanges of famine,
until all I add up to are decades of
Holodormo,
the Killing Hunger.
You hide in the sea,
I lick your left palm.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
baby Kiba...
lyricked Buckethead's melodies
now his own sings!
midst moon's blue eyed mist,
prized offering ossuary praised
head marbles, must play!
hear marvels, most ploy!
grow low growl
full moon flow
how wolves howl
night B day,
best friend, mans', worst fiend
day B night,
tree top trick
lobo pup limbo
like gulp lick
bold lackeys KFC lad(d)ies blood
from goblet bucket form,
foul drinks, still eager!
fool drains, seton eased!
the Buckethead effect...
the dog, as his pet
a bucketbot!
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 1:24 PM UTC
Knock well on wood as you enter but
Know knuckles lend their skin for flood
Of the risk of entrapment eternal?
Well, few find their bodies stuck and
What's worth its weight in blood
Splays on the lit altar face
It can be warm
Only if you touch
If you touch first
You speak your secret
Farewell
Read through the words you spent sinner our
Real lines lie under thinner lace
Your constant wore hiding the venom crawl
Held below bidding inlay here
Half craving finger's trace
Specters bid sweet interlace
It can be warm
Only if you touch
If you touch first
You speak your secret
Farewell
Empty ones warn walls
Before little embraces
Creating lethal snares
Come
Catching worlds unaware
Come
"Empty ones," All say
(Come speak your secrets)
"I'm fine."
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
_We burrow where they lie, our fallen brothers. Old sweats and fledgling crow bags, both. In death as in life, they have our back…and so we plough on into the abyss by the light of a caged phosphorus flare, hot metal spraying the midnight hour like some vengeful fay’s buckshot.
A human scaffold supports us for the distance of four miles. That’s Piccadilly to Hampstead; Circus to Heath. The length of a lifetime…of hundreds of lifetimes. In the winter when the rains come and the trenches run like a quartermaster’s latrine, the soil sloughs away to reveal the ossuary within. It is then that I, in my now customary delirium, imagine that I can reach out to shake their hand again._
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 3:11 PM UTC
Does memory deserve such a platter?
Cellophane instead of silver, but still
An impressive tower.
Such weight it bears—
Exhibit of blue curiosities
Resting on shoulders,
Original honeycombs.
The honeyeater feasts
On what has made a meal of me.
Grand rooms echo with silence.
Love turned to hate
So often without comment.
A history of broken hearts lies beneath
Street level. Away from sun’s glare
I buried them.
It is a tomb I walk in, tour guide
To myself. It is an ossuary hidden deep
Underground. It is the Catacombs of Paris.
Here moldering in the dark repose
A stack of secret skulls and bones—
Those gleeful arsonists.
In the end, even they succumbed
To the fires they set,
Burning down chapels without regret.
The city rumbles overhead, oblivious.
Everyone is absorbed with their own busyness.
No one pauses to wonder outside the still museum.
The cool façade belies the treasures hidden within.
They forget the history we share.
No visitor ascends the stair.
Inside, all is quiet.
The sole curator walks among the artifacts—
The rare objects, a Gordian knot,
The personas we once wore:
The naked emperor, the femme fatale,
The honeycunt.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:30 PM UTC
I
-dulcimer clatter opens the sun, first fruit-
timber fathoms/crystal veils
on all steps, crossing all human borders
untethering wood
from forest, until only the green element remains
to purify the soul
an alpine afterimage, shadow-display
(creature of Earth, moss-backed & yowling thru the chaotic sleep
of October, you see it's symbology in your tea, sharpening its
obsidian hands against the seastones,
imprinting loveliness into the rock, to be worn by tides,
replaced by death absolute)
The fabled Black Horse (shadow-self) waiting solitary at a
gas station, an imprisoned dreamer inside
its gaping jaw/saturnine, coldness
of daybreak, clouds at their Atelier, my head
feels a pressure, been awake too long,
breathing in through the nose/out through
mouth, monastery of the mind in need of clearing.
II
Soft/soft/skin/fury
embrace, catharsis, collision of
two individual energies
pent-up and cast/release
like a skeleton net::onfire
(kissed, consumed
elated, recurrance)
closeted eternities
cycling back into the
wind (hanging willow)
calling to the seeker, gold,
purification & lightness/mouthcurl washed in silence
(your own body, rising tide)
welcomed crucible of chilling air
& my black and
white vessel,
electricity spirit-
whispers
“valley swimmer, elude me”
FLASH OF LIGHT
III
…. The widewaking world
unspun-
theatric elucidation,
emergence of a great snake
a wisened flower, sprouted from exile
blissful rejuvination of
the ivory leaves, at once!
I wrap my throat in a Munich scarf
(pattern-blue)
walking upon the softness of
Grötzingen (angel's eyes speaking)
an orchard, where the last gardener's tireless
work lay like a dreaming ossuary
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
your ossuary stands
on the most prominent
of vivisected stems
the hem of intersected threads
the stead of temporary dreads
it is the contact between
the fruits of all your deeds
and the lives you've lead unseen
a riddle in the dreams you've left
beneath
below what ego buries deep
its verisimilitude in a lie
an exemplary visage
of the ties that bind
this place that we call
Setenance
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
The bones of our friendship accuse me,
brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness
their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting
into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection.
Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence
rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll
bones drumming for an audience of none,
echoing through the past,
oblivious to the cadence of the living.
There is no salvation from the wheel.
You turn and spin,
a constellation in my memories.
Rat-tat-tat
Amogasidi!
Do not be deterred.
Align the maze.
Open the door from Samsara!
Rat-tat-tat.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
i feel like a medley of bloods
of non-favorites and choices
left undecided, all corners and
edges--a heart beating in sheets
of rain where the freshet of my spirit
has ravaged the banks and driven
bones from this ossuary.
that leaves something to be said
about the state of greater things--
of the things i've left frozen that
melt in torrents and wash away
this facade of placidity, this
supposed contingency plan
swept away in a deluge of
all-the-things-i-had-going-for-me
and the worst of it is that i have
not yet been drained, I am still
raging, still raw and
r a g i n g
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
Passage
The bones of our friendship accuse me,
brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness
their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting
into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection.
Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence
rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll
bones drumming for an audience of none,
echoing through the past,
oblivious to the cadence of the living.
There is no salvation from the wheel.
You turn and spin,
a constellation in my memories.
Rat-tat-tat
Amogasidi!
Do not be deterred.
Align the maze.
Open the door from Samsara!
Rat-tat-tat.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Dream of liberated fields,
Producing penicillin
And choking life out of
The cholera of gunfire.
Don't fear words summoned
At the grave,
They describe places we only
Wish there'd been time to
Know more intimately.
This hour of reflection is then
Half the battle
--the battle no one wins.
"Soldier on, ossuary!
Soldier on!"
Perhaps, we've reached
The nadir of the Hopewell.
How could we not?
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
I've been unaware
holding this head under water
driven in by tiny bones
ossuary of the lines on your
face.
He's been stirring
water pours off as he rises
attracted by brittle bones
sarcophagi of dreams
broken.
Nov 21, 2021
Nov 21, 2021 at 1:53 PM UTC
We saved Satan’s jewelry in the ossuary
Skulls adorning the walls
Bones piled together without a cross or star
Their shadows braided by death
No longer living in mud stained fear
The end when a poets life begins,
where a hand reaching for God
is consumed by rhymes lost in time
is only remembered by those who march willingly;
to be scorned by those who would try again
to control the destiny of those who love their children
There is no applause in the gathering place
No conversation or last rites
Their once covered their faces of shock and
their glazed eyes that once pierced every conscience
stripped by time to feed the living
No one knows their names
or who ordered them to their death
But he shot those who would run
They lay in wait for someone to say,
“That is my friend”
But nobody came
Only their mothers know they never came home
And they wait hoping someone wiped their brow
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?
For I mingled grateful as the fountains
Borne through cracks from ocean waves,
And sought for Heaven amidst high mountains,
And spent my grief at familial graves,
And shared of myself, not a silent stone,
And kept thy faith in spite of all,
And for this and more, thou bade me alone,
Unanswering thy call?
Now, the fountains dried and the Earth may mourn
And the ocean flooded from salt-cracked skin,
And the flowers have choked to the strangling thorn,
And the ossuary opened, and beckoned me in,
And the sun has waned, and the clasp of night
Had me bound in a beam of the moon's device,
And these lips felt the kiss of the barrow wight
As thou denied me thrice.
A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:27 AM UTC