"placebos" poems
I know it's out there somewhere
the elusive balm of sleep.
I've tried an evening toddy
and I'm running out of sheep.
Prescriptions drugs and sedatives
placebos, they must be.
Because my eyelids won't stay shut
there's far to much to see.
The REM my body craves
is like a hidden itch.
I know I need to scratch it
but can't FIND that son of a *****
And so I lie in darkness
and stare up at the fan.
I try to count rotations
while making up a plan.
The Sandman's on vacation.
I guess i'll read a book.
I listen to some sound effects
a breeze and babbling brook.
I may just have the answer.
A hammer is the cure.
But such a headache I would get!
That has no real allure.
Desperation beckons.
I'm teetering on the brink.
I'd give a lot for just a bit
( ten dollars for a wink?)
My eyes are red and swollen.
My jaw is sore and raw.
The yawns are coming faster now
there oughta be a law.
I'll see you in the morning.
Sweet dreams if sleep you can.
For me...I'll just go meditate
and watch that ceiling fan.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
illusions of
escape velocity
for us became
placebos like
a gentle darkness
gumshoes into
disarray.
© Ben Ditmars 2014
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
I wanted to eat you alive with my heart,
Disseminate my love for you,
soul coughing a Heimlich dance routine
that struggled to keep us one.
You were to busy ignoring the coward
that kept me alive
to see the bravery fighting chance
and drawing curtains against fate
There was feeling in these young bones
where the medicine was make believe,
all sugar coated fiery tales to drive us to the well,
wishers of hope forgot that love is an effort.
Liars will tell you that there is just one,
and that one and one is one, and I too,
will lie to you but only to keep the placebos
sweet jesus if you knew the truth.
There's a colourful cobweb
I tangled round us
And yeah, I'd take the floor away,
if it would keep you falling for me.
There is not a thing I wouldn't do
to keep the demons from your door
And the wolves in docile dream states
Nodding yes to your every request.
But Memory lane is no place to build a future,
Lets move past all the haunted houses
and build the home from more than cards
glued together with coffee stains.
Fits of laughter and pits of passion
litter landscapes of love in foreign places
where speaking in tongues
becomes common language.
Blissfully aware of our ignorance
We turned a blind eye to status chorus,
breathing freeform jazz into
independent harmonies,
Shards of Shotgun Showers
Add bass to blissful dreams,
A sense of the real, reeling us in,
A foundation shaken in eternal sin,
As the sax plays us out,
its a standing ovulation,
that keeps us on course,
encores are for failures, and things that... stop.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
Last night I was
experimenting empty body with twin bottle.
Spewing colors out of mouth,
like it's a god **** celebration.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every friend I've had to put in the ground.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every time I've wished I was one of them.
I was mumbling existence
until I became unconscious scientist,
collecting data,
hoping if i continue to announce births
that we'll all be born back to flesh
that feels like home, that sings
like porch light wind chimes
that stops the announcements of deaths.
Or at least, strings together
those who want to cut their ties.
Happy birthday.
Research shows my edges
were strung a little too tight,
holding needle in hand,
i plucked away the stitching
until I was all unraveled, stay spilling over
at the seam. Everything seems low.
6 feet under, making poppy flowers
out of freshly turned graves. Happy birthday.
My vice is bath tub overflowing with drunk bodies,
leaking love into the crevices of laughter.
Testing out the theory that arms
can be used as medicine.
Turning experimental phases
into investigations. You know,
people can be placebos too.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
~
*stationary now
duct tape loves
mouth and hands
inside removable interiors
heliocentric discontinuities:
the racket club
and the backstroke
the rabid club
and the hallucinogenic backchannels
swallowing too many placebos
on his balcony
facing away from the sun
blank diary entry
open on the table
'from despair to where?'
stationary in the trunk now
he says it will all
make sense soon*
~
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 7:44 PM UTC
Ginger twine wrapped tightly round his finger.
A slight smile across his even tighter lips.
Wound around his liquid thoughts
His twiney figers grasp the drinking glass
filled to the brim with sweet, sweet ice tea
Its rich brown shade mocking the color of the sky
It is here, in this place, where lemon lovers meet
You easily pinpoint the kind of souls they carry,
Simply by the shade of their sweet iced tea
And they carry that ginger twine, tightly wound
They carry that coil everywhere they go
Many ask if it is a symbol, or subliminally literal?
A invitation, or a silent and quiet warning?
But its just that ginger twine and sweet ice tea
I too, carry them everywhere with me
Golden in the sun, red in the mid-light
Circular and quite rough with deep rouge ridges
they're placebos of purpose simply right, simply true
If you wish to comprehend,shutdown all distraction
Then you will be here now and here you will stay
Humbly accept your ginger twine and ice tea
for that, my friend, is exactly happened to be me
and the way every sip slides down my thought
It tastes of determination, solitude, and hope
Oh how I love that ginger twine and sweet ice tea
Ginger twine wrapped tightly round her finger.
A slight smile across her even tighter lips.
Wound around her liquid thoughts
Her twiney figers grasp the drinking glass
filled to the brim with sweet, sweet ice tea
her rich brown shade mocking the color of the sky
Ginger Twine and Sweet Ice Tea
Wrapped tightly around me
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
I didn't come here for the overpriced beer, that's not gonna cure what ales me.
What ales me is here, hidden beneath the cure.
Inaccessible, leaving hope that makes it only more painful.
They don't know what to make of me, for I am not defined.
But it's their indifference that chisels away at parts of me until these parts are no longer mine.
I am not crazy, repeating these patterns.
Dropping placebos and falling victim to patterns.
The deafening music, sweating skin and the passion.
I watch the others take it in, it's my only distraction.
And she'll turn to me at the most awkward time, maybe buy me a drink or feed me a line.
And she knows she's just fishing to see if she's still got it. And when I force a half smile she knows for a second I bought it.
If I turn her away then I'm the **** and mistaken, I'm left with only myself to blame.
If I tell her we've never met that it's her that's mistaken, she'll have her confidence restored and her senses awaken.
She'll move on for the night and look to upgrade. I'll sit and try to explain away the trap that she laid.
It gets late enough that I can pretend that I tried, and I make as if I have a reservation with a cabbie outside.
We're all born alone. Everyone dies. But for a few seconds, a few get to lie.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Obsessed with a cure
Constantly distorting what occurs in nature
Refining it. Mixing it with chemical burn concoctions.
Covering every inch of green as far as you can see
Growth hormones.
Pesticides. Insecticides. Don't-care-if-the-bees-die-icides.
Anything that can be sprayed on a crop for higher yields
All they care about is production and profit
Hundreds of new factories every year
Pumping out quick acting gel tabs
Filling the cabinets with placebos
Close enough to the edge of science to not be considered god
A two billion dollar a year industry
To stay young
Be healthy
Not have to get off our fat, lazy, publicly ill-educated *****
To lose weight
Nothing worth having ever came easy
Your inability to learn from your mistakes takes over
Watching the inevitable if not medicated decline of society
DNA withering away to dust, until only shells are left
Gaudy and virile played out right before us like a badly made ****
Doesn't matter who is getting ******
You are still watching
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
the rain fell so i kept my head down
chance alone piqued my interest and
through water-logged glasses i saw
him sitting on the front steps of an
old Lutheran church built from stone
in 1886 if the proud sign on the front
lawn was to be believed
the oak doors were chained shut
it's been four years since i asked myself
what would Jesus do
instead i wondered
what she'd do in my shoes
so i offered him my last slice
of Karma Kollision and he said
god bless you and i replied
stay warm
this world is cold
placebos like religion
might work miracles for Atlanta's
rich white mannequins
but sugar pills can't fill
a broken man's empty stomach
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
It’s 1:21am on a Thursday night and there’s no rain
where there should be.
There’s no weeping over the seven-colored earths
and the erosion of the skin is building up.
I have a mouth full of stumbling words,
nervous and absurd,
like wax flowers and plastic china cups;
bottles of placebos.
I have masks on the walls
and body parts on the floor.
Dim light from violet lampshades painting worlds
with minimal effort, but with profound meanings
that pretentious collegiates speak over bearded elders
while stuck in fishbowl towns, separated from the oceans of
metropolitan beliefs.
*Pulling nail fibers from fingertips with crooked teeth,
a habitual ritual christened from a darker half.
Waves of feral multitude plunging the streets
As riots of people made of fire chant the names of fallen angels
And personified martyrs.*
Episode after episode of plot-thickening exposition,
the weight of which is but a feather to the pull of the moon.
To **** my privates to a saddened resolution that’s
sweeter than a mutual **** for the sake of love.
*Penetrating me with needles as thick as bones,
Brittle as sculpted phalluses made of teeth.
Drilled out from the cavities and clamped iron
that make me grind and ******
In my sleep
out of nightmarish extremity.
Or persistent calamity.*
She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Profuse silver-stained drooling
Ostracized from sane certainty
*The thunder of guttural bellowing
In the chasm of bed sheets,
where leather bound demons
split ***** hands under ice knifes
Muffled voices
And embryo faces
Tearing out primal smiles
Tied with black laces
In a public amphitheater.*
She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Second time I’m seeing it drool
With a last moment of certainty.
It’s 1:41 on a Friday morning and there’s rain.
Finally.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
I am a chameleon to you,
Or some kind of ghost,
My colors shift according to your proximity,
Or change depending on how lucky and bold I feel,
Placebos and foolish superstitions are usually my best hues,
But I still notice you in my little submarine with my peripheral spy glass,
That's right,
I'm a spy,
I know you wear cool and faded hooded sweaters and jeans in the winter that probably smell like closets and dead leaves,
And skirts that you picked from flower fields in the spring,
I know you have light allergies like mine,
As our sniffling during class seems to be contesting in some secret and unspoken competition with no rules,
Despite my quiet attention,
I feel as though you will never know these things,
All my attempts to tell you will be locked away by the pursuit of other men,
My own deep murky fears,
And the summers between us
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
I woke up this morning with the initiative to fall into the arms of a nervous lover;
The ideal lover.
I had the ambitions to succeed,
and I almost did.
I almost discovered that new light within me.
I had my coffee,
dark as usual;
Pretending I was drinking it with you.
I completed my homework,
because you know how much of a procrastinator I can be.
Actually, you don't.
Most would not be able to accept me at my worst,
for I have not yet learned to accept myself.
Some say I am a natural born intellect,
and I wish it were true.
I yearn for it to be true.
Placebos can be pretty convincing, you know?
Like what I form of myself when I am around you,
the kind of clay that can be formed and reformed into whatever you please.
I would gladly be anything you please.
When it comes matters of the heart,
I can be fairly childish.
You understand,
because you can be to.
You're nervous around me,
and I love that about you.
It is cute.
Yes, cute.
Intensity is not a necessity.
So, time is on our hands.
All we have is a looking glass,
darkened coffee and a looking glass.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
The cancer has spread too far,
the mass is too massive to be excised.
The chemo bag is secretly filled with carcinogens.
The pills they charge us a fortune for
are only placebos.
The last doctor died in 1963,
and the man in the white scrubs,
who rubs your hand, and says it will all be alright
is a card carrying servant
of the very cancer he professes to fight.
Nighty-Night little ones,
its time to turn out the light.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
I've been a feature here for four years now.
You're an armchair or a doormat
Once you've been around
awhile.
I wanted fresh breath and a brand new face.
Maybe a companion just to
take up space beside
my side.
But the "EXIT" light was on too long.
"Eventually, they heed it or they just become
fading notes in a song
that we forgot we sung."
Or at least that's what you told me...
Or at least that's what I'll write here...
And what about you...?
It's a tangling grid of street names I
keep
tangled on my tongue
3 inches under my eyes
(They ask directions).
An end result of a series of
hasty,
maybe-good decisions
I made 4 years ago.
(Seek validation).
And what about you...?
There's a comfort here we can't escape,
take two for granted
and call to cancel coffee dates.
There's an ease that breeds friendships like ours,
Convenient and seasonal;
Friendships that really aren't.
"Rose Park" names our neighborhood
A few blocks slant, we prob'ly shouldn't
talk today...
Similar coordinates
A useless map. Mistake by any
other name...
Second chances, we won't get them.
And I guess we don't deserve them.
The State's an acci-
dental sigh.
The town's a too-comfortable lie.
And you, I guess
are just another neighbor of mine.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
I tried for the rope of ignorance
to jettison seemly hope
but the four winds conspired
to drain any thought,
whose intention complexes
the placebos already prescribed.
My ex howlers on the phone
she's asking me to give it a rest.
Already I sense she's swallowed,
the part that cannot make amends.
The siphon of good sense
wears thin like a DJ's copy,
should I kneel down
whilst finding lost sense?
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
a rat burrows through my flesh, into my stomach, hiding next to my liver.
they stitch me back up,
send me home with a bottle of placebos.
home alone,
deep into the night,
i feel him crawling and scratching around,
rearranging things,
misplacing my bones and lungs in the process.
i can't exist
without you.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
favoring the limelight
but all bets are off tonight
build me a new empire
based on your words
be my mistake again
or prove me wrong
realize i am your loss
i am an improvement over your usual catch
unimpressive, bland
they'll design a lie, just to entice your eye
but i'm real
when will this end?
washing your placebos down
with a conviction that they work
is this the last cancelled reservation?
don't dial in till you know your line
play the boy for his voice
he'll decode in his sleep
preparing for the masses
to carry your message to all
till they become obsessed, too
our love for the heiress to my heart grows
complicated feelings that carry no reason
jealous eyes manipulate
corrupted and articulate demeanors that don't lack in style
exactly what she wants
she will have
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
I like my coffee black.
But only on weekdays. It starts my day the way I am supposed to act: strong. And bitter. Yeah. You heard me. Bitter is the new ambitious. Why would you want to sugarcoat anything? To make it delicious? Of course it tastes better. Fraud always tastes better.
I’d chug a whole mug of that liquefied energy. You know, ‘cause I’m tough. And it gets me going. If I were able to replace 2 or 3 hours of sleep with just another cup in the morning - I’d do it in a heartbeat - In a **** fast heartbeat - sped up by caffeine. Or placebos. Or whatever it is that makes me dive into this meaningless mess over and over again.
I thought it used to be the sun? Through a cracked open window.
I thought it used to be robins and sparrows? Soft and gentle, as they pursue what God wanted them to pursue: Singing.
Or at least passion, desire, initiative, thirst.
But I’m not thirsty.
If I was thirsty, I’d drink water.
I used to drink water.
Lots of water.
Now I’m having coffee. And I’m having it black. Now I’m floating along with the stream. Right away! Down the river, along with all those wooden rafts. Constructed in a split second. Only built to keep one man afloat. Tops.
Hey Daddy, look, I got a brand new sports-car. Steering a course that’s most likely headed nowhere.
Hey Mommy, look, I’m going nowhere. But I am going twice as fast.
Well what can I say?
I like my mornings rough.
And I like my cars fast.
And I like my days unremarkable.
I like my fingers desperately trying to cling to every tiny bit of freedom, as small as it may be.
And I like my art unrevealed.
I like my poems unread.
I like my voice unheard.
And I like my coffee black. I just like the taste of it.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
All alternative therapies
and all religious practices
may be placebos,
like we might as well
drink sugar water,
but we shouldn't forget
that a placebo
sometimes is a cure,
simply because we believe.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
Keep telling yourself you'll get better.
Keep telling yourself you'll change.
Get on your knees,
bow your head,
and
keep telling yourself you're forgiven.
You go take the pills for your migraines.
You don't know they're just sugar,
but they work anyway.
They're nothing substantial,
but you're not informed enough to
know.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
He stares at the wall like certainty,
placebos poisoning his ability to feel.
The little special places where she once crawled,
now burn marks of self harm.
His nails won't dig in far enough.
His life won't end quickly enough,
and so he sets his ritual, his belief,
his yearning for illumination onto the prayers he sends to her,
his goddess,
Death.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
I explored the
depths of hell, and
found it wanting,
wandering the streets,
looking for a utopia.
Not all that shines is
the sun.
Pictures can be
doctored, and when the
layers are peeled away
the purple horizon isn't
royal.
It's a ghastly negative,
with black and white
images that lack
love and depth.
All the potions are placebos.
It's temporary and tiring.
When I grew up,
I stopped playing with
toys, they break and
disappoint, and worse yet,
they leave me empty and hungry.
The sky-pilot found me
and I am full,
belly and soul.
Besides still waters,
green is my bed.
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
You raised me to rise above the
shallow pills that are sometimes
caught in the throat of life's dry moments.
But when we swallow to many placebos,
longevity is staled by us collecting
false remedies to our problems.
I'll never do as my friends did and choke
on every struggle, clearing my throat I never
took anything I just rose above life's problems
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
Loving you is like being lead to our bedroom with a trail of rose petals except the catch is they're all ******* dead and you're still not coming home. It's like looking out of the window in summer expecting to see everything in full bloom but the trees are lifeless and bare and the sky is grey and even the birds aren't singing anymore. It's like stepping outside on a summers day but never being able to feel the heat. It's taking an overdose only to find out all of the pills are placebos. It's waiting by the phone only to miss your call because I thought I saw you walking past the window and I wanted to see you one last time. It's putting your old shirt on only to find it doesn't smell like you anymore and it's pouring yourself a cup of tea only to find there isn't any milk left in the fridge. It's driving to your house only to find you don't live there anymore. It's sleeping on your side of the bed so it's warm when you come home only to wake up without you there. But worst of all, it's the feeling you get when you switch on the lights but are still stranded in the dark.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC