"platelets" poems
Time is whatever you manage to make,
Day in day out, we learn from that which takes it,
To silence the fears that make us,
Feel the hatred that takes us,
Continue, in vain,
Like gestures and coins,
Tossed in the great beyond,
Dimes and platelets of greener days,
Rendered the vision of maximum guilt,
Fortrusions for gone the desert a piece
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
i know what newton tells us
i know countries and continents and cities
i know the planets and their moons
but i did not know the galaxy of my body the planets that are my organs or the nebula of my mind
until you showed me
you taught me and showed me and led me with coarse hands and eyes deeper than any space i have ever traveled. you caught me in your gravity when you showed me ribosomes and platelets and when you traced my veins like they were a map you needed to follow without even knowing where it would take you. you told me the cosmos are forever but the body dies and that is far more beautiful than any atmosphere or supernova. i want to chart the stars on your skin with my mouth and i want to show you the taste of an atom and i want to teach you what overexposure to your radiation does to me but you are already laughing and telling me that something as small as you does not deserve the attention of the universe.
when i said i wish i had never met you
i told the truth
the universe was easier to comprehend
when it was only dead stars
instead of the way you look at me
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
*“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are*
strong at the broken places."
A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway
<>
struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend
understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
how,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever
cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me
getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”
I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
I
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
undeserving,
because of my
ancestry
And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!
But,
my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
eyes
are not lying,
but believed.
but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry
thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
this,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,
but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future
1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells
2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.
so here is our truth:
when,
***The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!***
our whole blood will replenish us
Nov 17, 2023
Nov 17, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
**Scattered Thunderstorms
The radar shows a band of multi-green storms,
Parallel running to the East Coast,
Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island.
Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location,
Instrumented, but not weather resistant,
Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session.
Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters,
(weirdly calm),
Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side
I am the only boat out, especially,
The only one going for sure aimlessly,
Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal,
So fools like me go out alone.
Scattered Thunderstorms,
Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice.
The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow,
Forming wondrous clots of sadness,
Running strong in the currents of my veins,
Downtempo'd, there is no relief for
Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms,
Have arrived much earlier today.
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?
The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!
It is so easy to feel ******
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.
Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day
Value you more than me, but you've worn me down
My blood streams your anguished distress,
I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating
Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms,
That now having reached, breached,
That now, having infected my heart which started
This day brow beaten,
First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked,
Now, I must shut me, batten me, down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
The color of death is not black, is not white.
Not red, not gold.
Think: ashen skin.
Think: where did the blood go?
Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again.
Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow.
That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
back and forth
in the bag hanging above the bed.
My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
Think: cells mutating.
Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long.
Goes three weeks long.
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
I’ve read the books.
I’ve heard the talks from morticians.
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
grey.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
market report: spinning on an axis of complexity
phrase captures and enraptures, buried deep in one of the
countless market reports that arrive every minute out of date by the time they press the end/send button but this rises
up from the forged gorge throat and all the rest falls away
spinning on an axis of complexity
sticks like Elmer's glue, white viscous, good for paper & skin,
cause you knew precision revision incision instantaneous,
they are intended for your eyes only, pasted to your eyes,
tinged tongue screaming you man, you poem
there is no
difference, for both at 1:55am
where time is sleep verboten,
when words are blood platelets in a mystery entitled
spinning on an axis of complexity
human must eat
human must work
human must love
human must sort the juggling orbs,
too much new information constant and brain incapacitated
*while falling-spinning
when eyes now fully glued shut by the
complexity of clashing algorithms
writing this market report on the state of me,
the passionate impartial analyst who boldly reveals, he proclaims
he owns stock in himself and issues a
sell recommendation*
the complexity-situation trending signals crash a-coming,
and at 1:59am after composing this hissy fit writ,
he downgrades the official outlook to sell and
lies down on the kitchen floor and laughs
with the angel dudes eating bagels and holding their sides,
cause they have been running a short position up in heaven
6/22/17 2:05am
nyc
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Do you ever realize that
This universe
Can be likened to blood?
Do you ever just sit down and realize,
That the stars in the skies
Are platelets rushing to form a clot
Around an ever expanding cut
Constantly pouring out blood?
The composition of the blood
Diffuses
And becomes that rich oxygenated red
That becomes dilutes with the air
Of our atmosphere
And the ruby red sunlight becomes
Lovely, lovely orange and yellow,
The kind that get you all mellow.
It also splits into the
Cold color of deoxygenated blood
Yes blue.
We watch it ooze
Slowly
Putting the vast expanse of the heavens
On display
After the day
Is done.
Then there is the plasma
Which scientists say is the
Fourth state of matter
But what does that even matter?
Do you ever realize that
This universe
Can be likened to blood?
Produced from an
Ever expanding wound
Like that of Christ whom
Was bruised for our sins.
Do you ever realize that
The universe that surrounds us
Could be
The blood of Christ
There to erase our sins?
That the more we do wrong,
The more blood he bleeds
Thus the more we see
The universe increase?
Do you ever realize that
The universe is constantly expanding
And will never stop?
I mean doesn’t that thought
Ever pop
Into your mind?
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
**** me harder, Álvarez!"*
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
*"Oh hell no ***** 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"*
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?
(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)
I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
On the outer
carapace of it,
all seems ok
I am held
together by
single dry thre
a ds
like wire
and strips of
sinews
they keep me
tightly-wrapped,
a package of
molten powders
secret dynamite
waiting to
e x p l o d e in
exotic ticks
of clockwork
but one scratch
beneath the surface
reveals my
inner truth:
How I wish,
by those
whorled and spiraled
powers above,
for the gently fluted
forces of my being
to be parted
like sacred seawater
with my psyche
f l o a t i n g
just beyond
the zing of
my brain,
no rational
understanding
required
yes. I long
to be ever-slowly
unraveled,
layer by layer
cell by cell
until all that is left
are the platelets
pulsating between
this heart
and yours
each beat
betraying an
acute intensity
of how
I felt it,
this tender
electricity
that crackled
through and
between
our bones
from the
very
beginning
of
our quiet blaze
our pinnacle
our quirky
metallic
textures
our breath
mingling over
airwaves
in heated
fluidity
hotly drenched
in the iridescent
dust of our
star-marked
time
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
Sometimes I imagine that you could use a flat blade knife and separate parts of my body.
Like an anatomical model, an arm in half, a wrist entirely off.
An outmoded coloured wax model. Perhaps, a very old one. A decorated one with human or horse hair, closed eyelids and uncomfortable lips, and like those ancient roman ones, thinning sheens of paint on top.
The blade would slip through neatly, perhaps catching friction as it passes the block of soap texture, and leaves grimy residue on the knife.
You can see the vessels.
They are not clean.
Like my soul there are very nearly translucent scrapes and patches of liquid. Some days the liquid spills out.
Some days I just want to clean out. I want to purge, but I know I will just melt and the mistakes will be just as visible. You will see the marks that look like mouse's claws or pincers where I have pulled apart the skin trying to work out what went wrong. Doing some kind of surgery. Inside tying double sided sticky tape and chips of plastic, driving them in deep and forgetting about them.
When you say those things I can't be big anymore. If I'm tired you make me cry. Salt crisps up my intestines.
You make me imagine what it would be like to plunge a knife into my stomach.
I bet it would be satisfying like the braking of chocolate. Cracking of value bars.
But I have to remember that you are the organs thrown out at the end of the day, sloshing around in the bucket and I deserve to be preserved and anything that had been cried over or crafted is better than a remote controlled car. Stop telling me that it's not.
It's not as if I'm trying to be a petal or a fragment of netting fallen off a ballerina's skirt.
I've chosen to hover above the blades. I am nothing so frivolous. Feeling at home in a web of metal coated in paisley oven gloves. I am safe here. In fact I'm glad that thick haze separates us. You will never be able to find somewhere so tranquil. It makes me happy that there is no possibility that we can meet in the middle. It just makes it easier to keep the space, without the concern of some congealing platelets tethering to a surface which was never there.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
You cannot just give up religion for lent,
and expect no consequences.
I am in every moment you discard.
You run on insistent consistency,
analytical calculations,
scraps of math equations
pieced together to
form your
functioning
But, you cannot rationalize away my
emotions.
My heart and my affection.
You cannot compartmentalize me,
shave off my soft curved edges
with a butter knife to fit the
labeled angular box you have created for yourself.
I still count even if you’re
making things even.
But I understand,
sometimes my hugs last 3
seconds too long.
--
Luke,
There is no picture
on a box to tell you what you’re
supposed to look like
when all this is over.
You might have built yourself,
but I was born.
I am more than a body.
I am your past,
your perspective
your platelets
your pacemaker
I will never truly
leave.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
I long for a means coalesce like particulates in suspension and not coagulate.
Into a monstrous scab.
I hate to make cheloid tissue of this deadly grouping.
Id **** to be whole by finding a pairing.
The obstruction to human progression,
The roadblock of progress,
We are merely all platelets in this wound.
These free thinkers are the only.
Thing. Holding in all of the blood of the truth in man's march.
The moon was the beginning the end is the sun.
To a fusion of the atom,
And the birth of our flux.
To the birth of our achievement,
When we let loose the wound.
When the inside has healed and we aren’t bandaging the fumes,
Of a gaseous existence to penetrate everyone’s lungs,
With the stillness of thinking and the spirit of calm.
Currently.
We wait in the basement.
Sitting for our,
Plan.
To strike.
We will strike the match that flames the fumes of human resistance and build a castle of knowledge, hope, science, and destroy the sinkholes for progress.
The things that deplete our resources,
And the fire in our eyes will stab into every bastilles walls.
Of evil.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
*Oh Sally,
on the day you "disturb me,"
the messiah will, must have come,
anything else, but a minor inconvenience,
a foolish distraction
Lola! Grandmother!
the things we say with out thinking,
quick retorts that boom an
instantaneous, say hey Willie Mays,
mutual concern cognitive proposition,
and you foresee the child conceived within*
"should be a poem in there somewhere"
*in the handed pen, drawing heated inspiration,
from the confluent patty platelets of the
shared single river
of heart lungs eyes flowing as one into this
busy subgle poetry pointer finger @ 4:18am
your secret safe well hid within this writ,
you, mother laureate to a thousand at minimum
so many secret lovers and children in your posses,
the eloquence of your kindness world renown
your behind the scenes presence,
I am smiling, stupified, amazed discerning,
and stand awed,
the global Amazon store of only good
so late nite/early morn the clarity rises with sun
so many secrets lay before me in plain sight - prior unrecognized,
what was obvious, delayed, as sometimes I hear,
messiahs are
one more, maybe two, perhaps as many/few as a minyan ten
of grandmother queens raising up the children,
poets all, such as yourself
then, Messiah will be choice-less, compulsed, compelled
to return and bless us all
course, even when that happens
you still won't be disturbing me,
for you will be right-sided beside him
but not to worry for at this continental crossover hour,
most are sleeping, others feeding the babes,
some returning from church or mosque,
no one looking here at ShePo,
a secret of glory disclosed,
revealed,
only you will see,
so as promised Lola,
your key to a certain stairway,
safe tween
just us three
no tears please,
for this but just,
a just confession, an overdue library book,
a poem resting on my night table
awaiting reading, composition, completing,
arrival?
and that's between
just us three*
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
oh good, the frenzy has subsided
and you've evaporated from my arteries
(you haven't)
i think the platelets gathered too quickly and their collective volume
overwhelmed the highways
So Now I Can't Feel a Thing
but do you remember
the park on the hill and the
shimmering fluorescence of forbidden waters?
because it was 2am i think
(neither of us understood what was happening)
but we flew to each other on wings of a craving
beating against the jurisdiction of two
opposing currents
Some loves never die, i think --
they seek refuge in the dusty caverns where
external tempests cannot harden them.
Other loves are preserved in the amber of summertime,
because it is better to die beautiful and intact, i think,
than to disintegrate into unmarked soil.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
It's like live how? like you make it
copy down the sad crown
ride the wheel you made it
the strong misguided hatred.
-eclipse-
Bathing naked
The flurried atom swarms and indulgent desires strip me of my latest confirmed identity.
thoughts and painted-eyes
Department earlobe tenants remorse filled by the
phantasmagoric patience and comfort of pain.
So plain and petty feels like I'm crying "lone wolf!" double knot shoe tie
finite coffer rusty nails-stick latent reparation clips of manta ray striking tail whips.
The core is stifled to trip and fall upon the wet autumn leaves, broken twigs, and an earthly wisdom. Carry us, oh misleading stranger to a different home with Velcro that sticks to platelets and crust that covers elbows.
Hatred is stronger for the long-suffering and confusion when what we need is light
The fierce reserve beckoned to fight after immobility subsides and clears clutter away from the self-loathing, shame, and spiritual fatigue.
Maybe today is the day. This spot is reserved anyway and the wolves seem hungry.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
It’s a large cavern. A gaping hole—
A black hole.
Slow and fast. Pain and numb. Yin and yang.
The blackened lung. The bust vessel. The mutated cells.
It’s everything and nothing at once.
What is the condition of my heart?
I couldn't begin to tell you.
It’s hope and
it’s anger and
it’s frustration and
it’s a corked bottle on high heat.
Lush leaves. Turquoise lagoon. Iron sky.
Everything looks like it's
filmed through a blue filter, Twilight style—
this is what my heart looks like.
Grey like brain. Serosanguineous like cerebrospinal fluid
collecting from a shunt to a bag from a cracked open skull.
Purple and green and yellow like bruises on
hands that don't have enough platelets to heal.
Teal like an N95 mask. Lilac like a casket spray.
Soft pink like the padding of a wood overcoat.
Grey. Grey. Grey.
This is what you will find if you crack my chest,
spread my diaphragm,
my sternum,
shuffle my lungs.
Sounds like asystole on the monitors, but still
somehow producing electrical currents.
The condition of my heart is cavernous.
A sunset on the east coast; a sunrise on the west.
Bittersweet.
Aug 30, 2021
Aug 30, 2021 at 4:36 PM UTC
Today I hoped to achieve something great,
Something many would consider a heroic trait,
Giving plasma to those in need,
With the hope that the doctor's treatments would succeed.
Taking me back after a two hour wait,
I realized there were things which they needed to set straight,
For while I appeared as well as could be,
There was my underlying problem of epilepsy.
I suspected beforehand what I was to be told,
All things considered I kept myself controlled,
For even though I'd have to wait 3 years,
I realized that I had no great fears.
As I refused to be distressed,
For I knew that I'd done my best,
I knew what seemed like a setback to some
Was still a chance of a lifetime to come.
So I'll continue to help those in anyway open to me,
Until that path can at last be seen,
My chance will come again someday,
So I refuse to let such enthusiasm fade away.
~What people think~
Sarah Gosa - I wondered while I was reading if it was the medication or the condition of epilepsy that kept you from being able to donate your plasma and what is the significance of three years. Enjoyed the voice of someone wanting to help out in their community. There are other ways to be of public service if this is not a good fit for you. It is defeating when we want to help but for some reason we can't. I had epilepsy as a child and have also donated my blood in the past so I could relate to the feelings in your poem. The last time I donated blood they separated the platelets out and pumped saline back into my veins, if I remember correctly. I hope you find an enjoyable way to spend your time. Thank you so much for sharing your poem with me.
Noble Knight - Epilepsy there is a subject I know to well grand poem amazing job
ALW89 - I really enjoyed this. Your tone went from excited to give yourself to others, then you showed your defeat. Seemingly having an illness like epilepsy can be an internal set back, since you appear well on the outside. Your writing showcased that and the poem ended with hope and put a nice spin on the defeat. Being in the medical profession I was really inspired by this.
Inspired me.
Feb 22, 2020
Feb 22, 2020 at 1:22 AM UTC
Dark, toned muscles awash in sweat
With beads of liquid maneuvering
Through the collection of dust
Creating paths that were inhuman at a glance
But in depth were signs of immeasurable power
The searching slice of the shovel, feeling for the loose stone
A bone perhaps, in the core of earthen veins
That solidify life, weaving it into the folds of eternity
Slowing the soul until only a small tempo in the symphony of time remains
Harbored forever in the memories of others
The smoke carried particles of dust
Dead skin that had parted from dying shells,
Empty of red and full of black
The pores of all eyes
Infected with the memory of sculpted dirt
He stands sentinel, over the man-made wound in the epidermal layer of green
Watching the sun fall behind a scattered horizon line
Creating calculated contouring by shadows
Between patches of light that illuminated the insignificant descent
Of helpless pebbles
An older, breathing soul stands and reads from a weighted tomb:
“The price of living is to face an end
But the privilege of life is worth the price itself”
Then the parcel is lowered
The dust swarming into places yet untouched
A tirade of platelets rains down
Stemming the flow between this life and the spinning of the Earth
Shrouding the parcel in spattered reds and browns
Protecting it from the wrongs
Sealing it in the stillness of simplicity
With a final look back
The gravedigger turns in the direction of the sun’s masked glow
Forging a path between the peaceful earthen tombs
Making his way towards family and home
Where life continues for the living
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
Through a split lip
red foam,
froghopper froth
fizzing, haemoglobin, half-life
sitting thickly-thick,
on a paving stone.
Looking like Clinton’s cards
think human hearts
are shaped like.
But mine’s an artichoke
a watery phloem thistle core
folded in fronds and furs,
bristles of cowlick baleen,
sailing, ship-lapped bark,
darkness and birdcages.
Mine’s a rigour-mortis pill bug
potato fly, oddball, ***** slug
an ammonite, a butterfly tongue,
a bending toe curled in ecstasy.
Exponential shell chambers and septums
ending alongside everything.
And the guts of my heart
incessantly churn mechanically,
maniacally and obliviously rhythmically
Keeping me malleable
soft,
moving,
un-enveloped by beetle wings.
Just like the platelets
of my hardening spit-heart
are, blackening blood,
amber caught bugs,
clay in mud,
elliptical,
eclipsing.
Nothing
like we think it is.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
I only caught glimpses of his eyes while he spoke
words, lacerating this pneuma
and stuffing superlatives in this innermost being.
the wisdom I believed I possessed tumbled like Jericho
and I could hear the audacious screams of the Israelites
like blood torrents in arteries.
it’s a shame, I thought. He had a good heart.
pomegranate pnumbras flicker like fire behind my eyelids
and it burns there, too.
can I leave?
a smooth muscle ***** pumps blood and serotonin through platelets back into arteries
and I hungrily drink this newfound oxygen.
and all around the splintered cage
I saw orange slice smiles and white yacht clouds drifting through a blue ocean.
but a quick slip up pulled me away
and the faceless effigy stood pristine with metaphorical eyes,
of which I only caught a glimpse.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
obdurate, ******
he fastened twine
tied to tarsals
around my
ventricles,
closed off
the vena cava
i am blue
in the breastbone
empty blood
can't reach
the lungs
but
i am equipped
with the tools
to deal with this
animal instinct
to fight off
infection
or to let it in
and cradle
me every
night at
2
when you
wake to
make sure
you haven't
missed
the tug at your toes
or
the platelets & plasma
or
a warm wavelength --
a chance to record a dream
you lost in rising
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
The pages on my heart
are empty
and the blood staining my soul
mirrors the countless stars—
Let’s make constellations
from my platelets.
As you push your way farther into the sheets
I will chase you down
in spite of my fear of small spaces
and of being enclosed in your eyelids—
I cannot stand to take myself away from you now
but it never existed,
this moment played on an endless loop in your head
repeating repeating
a lapse in consciousness—
You fall
but I can no longer
catch you.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
On the sandy shore of a distant memory, Euclid picked up a stick and began tracing the outline of some vague shape. At the first vertices he was interrupted by a hissing sound. Looking down in horror, what initially appeared a stick slowly coiled around his forearm and sank its teeth into his veins. As he watched the ocean spread its depths, he felt the sharp pain of platelets separating from plasma. Euclid walked into the gaping void and awaited reunion. Waves folding around him , his last sight was of a naked woman; she had the curves of a triangle.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC