"perfusion" poems
Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.
Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.
Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?
Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.
What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
Why is it my mind gets wrapped
around my heart and squeezes it
seizes it and sends it into isolation
until it is languishing in its cell
to the point of desolation?
It's not that my mind is blind
going everywhere without care.
Fondness is in there -
a word my mind knows -
but it is consumed and subsumed
by the focus, fascination
and interest of the moment.
This sharpness of attention
dulls the part of me
that can get lost
in the sweet aroma,
white softness and brilliance
of a magnolia bloom.
But oh this moment of writing
and gazing on that bloom
expands the room of my heart
warms, softens, and awakens
the rush, the transfusion
the perfusion of grace.
In this writing,
this moment of pausing
I have again found
my heart
the ***** of my ground.
I hear the deeper sound
of violas and cellos
feel the embracing warmth
the ineffable touch
of emotion
I forgot to pack
for my trip
into the ineluctable grip
of technology.
“Technology’s Grip,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
The bright yellow-orange flame flairs in the air
as the people scream for help that never reaches them
they run for water and throw it into the flame
but the flame does not vanish
it increases as the wind blows increasing
oxygen to the flame.
The fire extinguisher on the wall is not working
the carbon dioxide inside has expired
the cries increase as people burn to the ground
and some have died due to poor tissue perfusion and fluid loss
I hear the cries of starved children in the third world country
but no one is helping them with food or clothes.
I hear the cries of those with AIDS in the hospital beds
begging for more medicine but no one is listening
it is as if they are talking to walls.
I hear the screams of prisoners being tortured
but no one is running to free them.
I hear angry shouts of those who protest against
nuclear proliferation and destruction of the planet’s ecological balance.
I hear endless pleas for justice and peace all over the world
it is a wild flame burning the whole country
and there is no consolation, light or hope.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
*You are this certain factor
In withdrawn I love you-s,
A constant, nonpareil kick in my blood,
My veins, knowing full well
These distentions, the holy perfusion,
A cardiomegaly which ever so sweeten
Like a plump fruit.
You accentuate all the divinities
I long longed for, slowly,
Infused within me.
Now this is love,
And love is nothing else...
...but you, but God.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
The Woman In Black
Here I lay asleep distressed in the cold of blackness and perfusion of sweat dripping from the crevasses of my body
All I felt was the presence unlike no other in my dream world, lying within my state of mind, sub consciousness levels start to arise as I see this woman rise from pits in black with no mortal eyes, my body starts to shake, head, hands, and feet felt like a quake of hell that's going on within this land of dreams
So lucid, so vile, yet warmth came to me from the sweetness of her hands and voice, underneath was a mask of corruption and deceit ready to devour the life I so wish to see and believe that just one day I'll awake from the world within which I sleep.
No more dreams of this woman in black as she comes to me disguised to be a helpful hand, at heart a witch a devil of sorts, she tries to make it all ok with sweet words of aroma to make my pain all go away, here I lay and dream rebuke her from the pits of my soul out of the depths of my body outwards into this alone and cold world.
She keeps herself at bay in garments of black with a countenance held up high as the look of her soulless face withers away, as she preys and waits for the next soul to take...™
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
keep these hands alive in your hands; that they walk and breathe; that their skin becomes downy in the spring, and from them spears love-roots of dark grass, filling over the hills and meeting with the excellent night their shining bodies.
live, love and smell the rich perfume of your lovers hips; meet and again touch with them your cheeks, and delight in them–the coil of their heap.
they are with your body, and to touch another's is a great privilege–and i know it.
wander and know the nape of them; laugh and extend your blood into their own.
invite their inspirations into your own breast, and make with it one respiration.
they are cool and wonderful between the ears; they are soft laughter and stupid giggling; they are the arcuate sleep of a rose thorn–deeply within your skin.
know and love them.
hold not back your laughter, nor praise, nor joy in their clutch.
touch, ramble, delight in the visceral perfusion of their mouth and kiss.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
my alive:
this awakeness seems to breathe
of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked
by peach parted
over pit stinging;
the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:
has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,
lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;
whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva
–throat can't
but to
unkeep
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
looms are soldiers
looms are warriors
moonlight daughters thread their sorrows
onto strings and other rings
the loom is music when you use it
i see patterns disappear
strip me from my comfort zone
and pour hot oil on my bones
soak me in the telephone’s ringtone
anger and humility
liquid dissolution
musical perfusion
excuse the intrusion by ladies
who wept for your breakfast
is this shadow
is this memory
what’s the point of breaking free of trance
if the delivery of abstraction
does not excuse the infractions
soma and sofas
morning *** in the dawn
swimming in suffering your heart is torn
from the pages of a book
so old and forlorn
that i hesitate to return it
for i am afraid of what may fall
from the spine to the floor
a thousand meters tall or more
measure them with your eyelids
a thousand kisses
in the blink of an eye
a single witness but no alibi
insipid swiftness
sweet and sour
shoulder the bow and arrow
and carry your laughter in quills of hemp
dimples fill our nap-sacks
masters of nothing
infinite becoming
en le jardin de miel
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
I can handle blood, okay?
Knuckles when my wraps are loose
Sucker punches to the nose
Scalpels, scissors, screws
When the first incision flows
What I can't handle
Is knowing that I could slip from your mind
Into a pile of spontaneous moments
A slew of songs and stars
A collection of couches and cars
I check my phone too often now
So do not disturb stays on
Because when I do it,
Your message lives in a paradox of quantum superposition
Both sent and unsent, simultaneously
I don't have to wait in pain for pings
To remind me that you care
You crush me with care
But I will have to leave
My land of delusion
State of confusion
Cut off the perfusion
And come to a conclusion
My conclusion is:
I hate that my heart hurts
I hate reality sinking in
I hate leaving behind sparkles
Why couldn't they just stay locked up
In my all-too-familiar bottle of prosecco?
Why did you have to shake it up
And leave shimmer all over me?
Why do you make me want to
Sacrifice precious sleep
For another chance to impress you
And make you want me again?
I'm now not-so-subtle
Which nauseates me more
Than waiting for the first cut
Because you made me care
What a concept!
I don't know if it's a nerve block or what
But I once was feeling stuck
And now I can breathe again
I don't even know what I leave you with
So I will start with words
And Christmas lights
I hope you hang up Christmas lights
I'll stay in my world of romanticism
While methodically trying to not seem crazy
I'm never like this
But there's just something about you
That has made me want to write poetry again.
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 12:41 AM UTC