"oxidised" poems
*there is a tourniquet on his tongue.
he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-
emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.
within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.
there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking
seamlessly.*
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
The sun would always come out a little after
the mind massacre
- follow the monsters-
i fancy lying on the
hard floor
because it is the only place
where the train of vertebrates in
my spine
can set in its rails.
i am a void
bleeding out oxidised civilisation
-holes in my head-
in a world where colours
are just fabricated memoirs
of porcelain filmstrips.
i fear that i am becoming anorexic:
my brain is splattered onto
a tiny plate
-emaciated-
where i maliciously
pick out the
soft and pretty
bits.
My tongue is cancerous,
segregating words into
Pinks' and greys'.
my heart has malformed into
an ugly blister
-swollen-
milking saps
of dismal yesterdays.
i'm swimming
alone
in an acid bath
of bleach and ice.
can't find the light
-the light-
beneath the glass
-the night-
of the
-decaying-
chandelier.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 10:14 AM UTC
Dont overplay your hand,
I'm the type of Aries to
Throw caution to the flames.
Set a fire
And watch it burn
Watch as you learn
Yearn for the heat of my rage
Lust. My love oxidised you to rust.
I blush
I digress
And I rush.
If that's not living
When 100 I'm giving,
Then I'm already lost on forgiving.
When through dust I'm sieving,
Looking for Hope
And for my mind to cope,
Truly lost yet never got the scope.
Looking through a different lense,
Cleanse, forgive and love true friends.
Life's what you shape it,
And I will find form,
Lived in chaos:
Thought before the storm.
Though now no longer
Find myself torn,
In life anew I am reborn.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 3:58 AM UTC
i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.
i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,
-
spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.
i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.
--
they are coming, the surgeons, you say.
they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****
to clean, to find, to **** to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to **** to **** to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****
to make me sick.
---
i may as well be sick.
----
i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.
silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.
-----
i was the faire semblant and
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.
euthanise me, i want
your ugly face
------
to be the last ugly face i see.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 5:56 AM UTC
/ there's currently a historic heat-wave
happening in england...
indistinguishable
from, the perfumery akin to the:
inside(s) (of) a barkingside 25m
pool with a diving tower...
part of the higher education
of chemists
belongs to sniffing around,
esp. after having synthesißed
esters...
one one...
chlorine...
within the framework
of the current english heat-wave?
i'm picking up a scent of
chlorine...
it's a variant of
public swimming pools -
which utiliße chlorine
for minority report
advance: on employing hygiene...
but in the air?
i can sniff it out...
it has transpired, translated for me
to pick it up...
there's chlorine in the air,
notably, i'm guessing,
from the raised temp.,
you would know,
if you've been to a public swimming pool
that uses oxidised water
as a chlorine alternative -
O subscript 3,
the clarity of the air,
simultanoeusly begging a comparison
with the air inside a 4°C fridge environment...
well, there wouldn't be any "conspiracy"
surrounding the distinguishable signature
of a chanel no. 5 perfume...
so... i can tell you a scent of sulphur
is sulphur...
hence... hell yawned over england,
and from its gob, came the scent
of chlorine...
the second component of identifying
hell -
sulphur being the first...
chlorine? just shy of first, coming
in second.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
Terminate with Prejudice,
The word came from on high,
Synchronise the satellite
Above her in the sky.
Instruct the drone manoeuvres
To glide 10,000 feet
And fire the micro missile
Through the roof, but be discreet!
*A haze of gas like perfume,
A sneezing fit or two
And every living thing within
The building dies on cue.
No symptoms are detected,
No evidence is found,
The toxic gas is oxidised
Before the hour comes round.*
She lies in all her beauty,
Clear alabaster skin,
Green eyes stare to infinity
No heart, that beats, within.
Her searching words offended
The holders of the grail,
Who reached across the globe
To wield their deadly flail.
**This Brave, New, evil World
With technology to do
The bidding of the acolytes
Who transgress borders through,
Of every creed and every man,
Across the planet vast
To violate, at will,
All human values of the past.**
Marshalg
Revelations in a Scorching Sauna
26/11/2011
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
My thoughts are wilting upon the branches of
my reflections, each one a shade different from
the other that like shimmers of a sunset linger.
I wait for the instance when assumption is oxidised
and in heavy nothingness they fall wilted on my
mind, they are cushioned beneath so many more.
My minds creativity has descended and now rotting
in colourful expiration. And for now my thought don't
wave, till the next time buds of thought form and reform.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
It was a day where the sky cried for me
and I cried for me too
it was a day where I decided to ignore the cuts and bruises I gifted myself as a present and keep walking on the smashed tiles
I was desensitised to the ache but every slash that broke my skin seemed to give release
looking in the mirror, the eyes that blinked back carried no colour
the mirror cracked under the sting of my hateful gaze
and for some reason my knuckles bleed from this
drop …… drop
oxidised deep red stains followed me to the timber balcony
the wood absorbed every distress from me and the sky
the silence on my mind as the rain played with my face was disturbed by wondering of what it would be like on the other side of the world
where there was a small barrier between fire and eternal peace
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 8:47 AM UTC
Your words cut me like a knife
No. Not quite
Less like a knife
You are not precise
You hurl your words at me
Fast but no control
What is your aim?
To hurt
To motivate
Both
Do you even know?
Your words slice me like a saw
A blade oxidised into rust
Blunt
Your wound isn’t clean
It doesn’t leave a straight red line
Or a quick way to heal
Like a zip
Or a trail of blood
To show someone else my way
Your words tear my skin
An impossible jigsaw
An empty space
Your words leave a scar
Pink
Like my favourite colour of lipstick
But it is angry
It burns
It rips open
Again
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
Ancient wisdom
lies in
Bones
The StoneAge
didn't end
for lack
of stones
monster ~
monsters . .
everywhere
whisper
in a many ear
loud enough
to stoke our fears
playing games
of truth or dare
monsters
and
their
concubines
corrupt . .
before
we realize
monster ~
monsters . . .
telling truth
the many
branches
are the root
the leaves . .
that fall
aren’t
leaves
at all
but ~
the devil’s call
to sacred fruit
monster ~
monsters . . .
play
and
hide
at . . .
sleight
and
hopscotched
truth
in
dead of night
monster ~
monsters . . .
held ~
my breath
so I
can't breathe
and
blind ~
my eyes
that I
don't see
they
come
for
me
I'm alone . . !
all ~
the monsters
are at home
when:
every
blessing
is
a curse
every
word
becomes
a
verse
souls ~
have
fallen
where
they
stand
in . .
ashened
grey
of
no
man's
land
all my colours . .
deeper shades ~
of
sombre thought
and
darkened
days
intent . .
designed ~
just
to
survive
lies . .
contrived ~
to
multiply
atomized~
in
the atmosphere
as dust
oxidised~
in
the minds
of men
like rust
monster ~
monsters . .
promises . . . .
camouflaged truths ~
that’s
all
it
is . . .
The American Dream
ain’t
what
it seems
it's just . . . .
another
****** up ~
monster scheme . .
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the Writings of Mingoáo Inc. is the exclusive agent, publisher-distributor of the Writings of Mingoáo. No part of the Writings exhibited herein may be copied, transcribed, reproduced nor transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, not by carrier pigeon, pony express, smoke signal, slingshot, sled dog, not even by alien spacecraft, nor stored by any information storage and/or retrieval system, past, present or future, nor translated, without the expressed written consent of the Author and Publisher. ~ Not to be Copied, Forwarded, Distributed, Shared Nor Transferred.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 7:05 AM UTC