"prescriptive" poems - Hello Poetry

He will not light long enough for the interpreter to gather the tatters of his speech. But the longer we listen the calmer he becomes. He shows me the place where his daughter has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks raising a skeletal pattern on his chest. He thinks he's been hit by the wind. He's worried it will become pneumonia. In Cambodia, he'd be given a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice, the right chants to say. But I know nothing of Chi, of Karma, and ask him to lift the back of his shirt, so I may listen to his breathing. Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned by the whirl of icons and script tattooed across his back, their teal green color the outline of a map which looks like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake, then a scroll of letters in a watery signature. I ask the interpreter what it means. It's a spell, asking his ancestors to protect him from evil spirits— she is tracing the lines with her fingers— and those who meet him for kindness. The old man waves his arms and a staccato of dipthongs and nasals fills the room. He believes these words will lead his spirit back to Cambodia after he dies. I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder. He takes full deep breaths and I listen, touching down with the stethoscope from his back to his front. He watches me with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict. His lungs are clear. You'll be fine, I tell him. It's not your time to die. His shoulders relax and he folds his hands above his head as if in blessing. Ar-kon, he says. All better now. by Peter Pereira .

0

Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC

st64

What's Written on the Body (Peter Pereira)

He will not light long enough for the interpreter to gather the tatters of his speech. But the longer we listen the calmer he becomes. He shows me the place where his daughter has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks raising a skeletal pattern on his chest. He thinks he's been hit by the wind. He's worried it will become pneumonia. In Cambodia, he'd be given a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice, the right chants to say. But I know nothing of Chi, of Karma, and ask him to lift the back of his shirt, so I may listen to his breathing. Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned by the whirl of icons and script tattooed across his back, their teal green color the outline of a map which looks like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake, then a scroll of letters in a watery signature. I ask the interpreter what it means. It's a spell, asking his ancestors to protect him from evil spirits— she is tracing the lines with her fingers— and those who meet him for kindness. The old man waves his arms and a staccato of dipthongs and nasals fills the room. He believes these words will lead his spirit back to Cambodia after he dies. I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder. He takes full deep breaths and I listen, touching down with the stethoscope from his back to his front. He watches me with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict. His lungs are clear. You'll be fine, I tell him. It's not your time to die. His shoulders relax and he folds his hands above his head as if in blessing. Ar-kon, he says. All better now. by Peter Pereira .

43

~for the one who will know it was written for her~ muddy verb and adjective, muddling and muddled have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe, one dancer, proscriptive, and her partner, prescriptive? the stage, of course, exactly the width of your head, from ear to shining ear this couple o’muses dance en concert, though their very natures are anti-logarithmic, the value of their exponential activity is a descriptive nomenclature I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn, mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games as is my wont wanted, everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am, doing ablutions, seeking absolution, pulling weeds from our respective gardens, answering old friends I have yet to meet, to whom I answer, “still here, though long time no see,” which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory, as the brain grasps well my Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif muddling and muddled, proscribed from getting on transport, to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive, as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess even though one of my many passport names, a requirement, to visit, this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates, permits me safe passage, over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea, to deliver this message, to you woman *I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever, absentia, dementia, both self-censure: here, then, my cadenza, dedicated solely soulfully for you, as the sabbath sun rises over the East River, saying, laughing unto me, “still here, though long time no see,” for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun, my son, yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me, warmly illuminating my muddled mind*

0

Mar 23, 2019

Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

still here (long time no see)

~for the one who will know it was written for her~ muddy verb and adjective, muddling and muddled have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe, one dancer, proscriptive, and her partner, prescriptive? the stage, of course, exactly the width of your head, from ear to shining ear this couple o’muses dance en concert, though their very natures are anti-logarithmic, the value of their exponential activity is a descriptive nomenclature I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn, mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games as is my wont wanted, everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am, doing ablutions, seeking absolution, pulling weeds from our respective gardens, answering old friends I have yet to meet, to whom I answer, “still here, though long time no see,” which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory, as the brain grasps well my Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif muddling and muddled, proscribed from getting on transport, to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive, as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess even though one of my many passport names, a requirement, to visit, this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates, permits me safe passage, over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea, to deliver this message, to you woman *I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever, absentia, dementia, both self-censure: here, then, my cadenza, dedicated solely soulfully for you, as the sabbath sun rises over the East River, saying, laughing unto me, “still here, though long time no see,” for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun, my son, yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me, warmly illuminating my muddled mind*

53

Electrodes to nodes and nothing bodes well electrickery and it trickles into me revolting and jolting and Frankensteinlike bolting me to the bed. The head this head will no longer be as free as the thought imagining in me while hot electrotomoty burns me to anonymity and it's a pity I can't be a less condusive entity but the powers that be seem to have it in for me and I am strapped to non lucidity in the name of all humanity don't put a shilling in the meter Later I meet myself in a shell of who I used to be in a picture painted hastily on a background which I cannot see and what was once no longer is or was it ever and did I once was clever too or were the words electricked through the nodes that boded ill? Will it stay or will it go somewhere out there do you know or are you waiting for the leads that lead you to electric feeds? Can someone bring me bread and water call my Mother call my daughter or like the lamb led to the slaughter will I bleed to death?

0

Jun 12, 2013

Jun 12, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Prescriptive remedy

Electrodes to nodes and nothing bodes well electrickery and it trickles into me revolting and jolting and Frankensteinlike bolting me to the bed. The head this head will no longer be as free as the thought imagining in me while hot electrotomoty burns me to anonymity and it's a pity I can't be a less condusive entity but the powers that be seem to have it in for me and I am strapped to non lucidity in the name of all humanity don't put a shilling in the meter Later I meet myself in a shell of who I used to be in a picture painted hastily on a background which I cannot see and what was once no longer is or was it ever and did I once was clever too or were the words electricked through the nodes that boded ill? Will it stay or will it go somewhere out there do you know or are you waiting for the leads that lead you to electric feeds? Can someone bring me bread and water call my Mother call my daughter or like the lamb led to the slaughter will I bleed to death?

33

mama warned me about becoming attached to ghosts, about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids, trailing their ruminant symbiology down labyrinthine tunnels till you're left, stranded in a nowhere from where you started and they fade away to nothing. ... I keep loosing sight in the lag that hesitant flickering pivoting between footsteps, those pauses of breath between paragraphs of the mold in the ceilings dictated speeches, the decade old dust encrusted spider-webs on the coffers abandoned superstructures, intricate semantic patterns, still present, present, but encapsulating nothing. (Educations warped my mind into prescriptive paradigms drugged up on science fiction alternate attritions of future presents) –// One day, the ocean promised to swallow the world, but failed to set a date; just a vague sense of inevitability. and everyone gets uncomfortable about the liminality, and there's a moment of rupturing unveiling the blanketing in the process of our mass comatose suicide, That no ones sure what to do with. And we collapse into the indecision of what to make of this wavering present loosing sight between barricades of candy bars and cheeseburger pies while the radio static sighs 'boys only want love if it's torture' (i find it a bit optimistic) //– I keep becoming waylaid in the lag the hesitant faltering between long warn down footprints travelling down some path set out by the last in no way definitive; but, at least, defined by the haphazard indentations left behind while sometimes there’s treasure in the depths that we climb it's never the kind that explains itself. (But still time turns and churns and burns while we frantically mine all the scattered urns.) –\\ The philosophers and neuroscientists keep working to find the foundations underlying why we think what we think, why we feel what we feel, they peel up the carpet and peer into what's beneath, but they just keep finding ripped up carpet and musk. \\– I keep searching for home in the lag, the tumbling bind of footfalls enshrined. but even if there's no way out of here, there's occasionally a whisper of camaraderie in the air (you never escape, no no, but sometimes the enclosure unfolds ) ... mama warned me about becoming attached to ghosts, about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids. but here in the dark, i'm not sure what else to follow.

0

May 19, 2015

May 19, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC

abloobloobloo

getting lost standing still

mama warned me about becoming attached to ghosts, about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids, trailing their ruminant symbiology down labyrinthine tunnels till you're left, stranded in a nowhere from where you started and they fade away to nothing. ... I keep loosing sight in the lag that hesitant flickering pivoting between footsteps, those pauses of breath between paragraphs of the mold in the ceilings dictated speeches, the decade old dust encrusted spider-webs on the coffers abandoned superstructures, intricate semantic patterns, still present, present, but encapsulating nothing. (Educations warped my mind into prescriptive paradigms drugged up on science fiction alternate attritions of future presents) –// One day, the ocean promised to swallow the world, but failed to set a date; just a vague sense of inevitability. and everyone gets uncomfortable about the liminality, and there's a moment of rupturing unveiling the blanketing in the process of our mass comatose suicide, That no ones sure what to do with. And we collapse into the indecision of what to make of this wavering present loosing sight between barricades of candy bars and cheeseburger pies while the radio static sighs 'boys only want love if it's torture' (i find it a bit optimistic) //– I keep becoming waylaid in the lag the hesitant faltering between long warn down footprints travelling down some path set out by the last in no way definitive; but, at least, defined by the haphazard indentations left behind while sometimes there’s treasure in the depths that we climb it's never the kind that explains itself. (But still time turns and churns and burns while we frantically mine all the scattered urns.) –\\ The philosophers and neuroscientists keep working to find the foundations underlying why we think what we think, why we feel what we feel, they peel up the carpet and peer into what's beneath, but they just keep finding ripped up carpet and musk. \\– I keep searching for home in the lag, the tumbling bind of footfalls enshrined. but even if there's no way out of here, there's occasionally a whisper of camaraderie in the air (you never escape, no no, but sometimes the enclosure unfolds ) ... mama warned me about becoming attached to ghosts, about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids. but here in the dark, i'm not sure what else to follow.

70

I am not exotic But I am ****** I’m not this flesh Or these bones This body is My home, My temple, For I am ****** Mother and Sacred Crone I am not exotic But I am ****** I am the fire Of Holy Desire I am kundalini Shakti Sacred Power Life Force Energy What you cannot See in thee You project Onto me I am not your Mother Wound Projection nor The cause of Your demonised ******** Open your eyes To the lies You cannot Cage me By category Tick me off your list Make me invisible Divisible by What is not true For I am Another you. Reclaim your Desire This Holy Fire This creative force You're not seeing Is what birthed you Into being Embrace your Passion Let your tongue Kiss the truth With compassion Proclaim your name Without shame You are not toxic You are ****** Let your desire Flower Own your Power! We need to change The conversation Between this nation Of women and men Generations of trauma Perpetuated In the name Of some sod They call their god Defy the lie Don’t comply With temptation They control Our needs To spark their Insatiable greed. Don’t cage Your longing To feed your Belonging This individualistic creed Consuming Subsuming To fill the void Left by the ban On Pan Earthy deemed ***** Horn scorned Turned into **** Scapegoated Emasculated Devil Demoted Goddess Demeaned Rise up Open your heart Resist the force Tearing communities apart Face your fear Shed those tears Cause a commotion Release that emotion Lets change the agenda That segregates Our genitals From gender Refrain Unchain Shiv Shakti Eros Aphrodite Mars and Venus Liberate your ***** Own your passion Penetrate compassion Don’t measure Your Pleasure By some prescriptive Fashion Embrace your Inner lover Honour our Earth Mother Stop blaming Shaming the other Let’s form a union Let love be the sacrament The Holy Communion For we are ****** We are the fire Of Holy Desire Let Compassion flower Let the power of love Banish the love of power

0

Nov 23, 2024

Nov 23, 2024 at 6:10 AM UTC

kamini-1

This Holy Re-loveution

I am not exotic But I am ****** I’m not this flesh Or these bones This body is My home, My temple, For I am ****** Mother and Sacred Crone I am not exotic But I am ****** I am the fire Of Holy Desire I am kundalini Shakti Sacred Power Life Force Energy What you cannot See in thee You project Onto me I am not your Mother Wound Projection nor The cause of Your demonised ******** Open your eyes To the lies You cannot Cage me By category Tick me off your list Make me invisible Divisible by What is not true For I am Another you. Reclaim your Desire This Holy Fire This creative force You're not seeing Is what birthed you Into being Embrace your Passion Let your tongue Kiss the truth With compassion Proclaim your name Without shame You are not toxic You are ****** Let your desire Flower Own your Power! We need to change The conversation Between this nation Of women and men Generations of trauma Perpetuated In the name Of some sod They call their god Defy the lie Don’t comply With temptation They control Our needs To spark their Insatiable greed. Don’t cage Your longing To feed your Belonging This individualistic creed Consuming Subsuming To fill the void Left by the ban On Pan Earthy deemed ***** Horn scorned Turned into **** Scapegoated Emasculated Devil Demoted Goddess Demeaned Rise up Open your heart Resist the force Tearing communities apart Face your fear Shed those tears Cause a commotion Release that emotion Lets change the agenda That segregates Our genitals From gender Refrain Unchain Shiv Shakti Eros Aphrodite Mars and Venus Liberate your ***** Own your passion Penetrate compassion Don’t measure Your Pleasure By some prescriptive Fashion Embrace your Inner lover Honour our Earth Mother Stop blaming Shaming the other Let’s form a union Let love be the sacrament The Holy Communion For we are ****** We are the fire Of Holy Desire Let Compassion flower Let the power of love Banish the love of power

136

Forcing imagination to reestablish itself, after prescriptive onslaught of docs, scientists, specialists and quacks, lacks for ease of descriptive purpose, genuine motivation. The pills, darling, the pills usurp rational outmode. This to counteract that, which causes symptomatic supersession of more to set aside a succession imposing supplant more supplements. I submit! This breaking down of the other and then an other in a pharmaceutical battery of which ***** next? Can common sense overrule? Overruled! As another script is scribbled, a blank gaze overcomes, and the drool drips and overruns.

0

Jan 2, 2016

Jan 2, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC

pj-poesy

Overprescribed

Forcing imagination to reestablish itself, after prescriptive onslaught of docs, scientists, specialists and quacks, lacks for ease of descriptive purpose, genuine motivation. The pills, darling, the pills usurp rational outmode. This to counteract that, which causes symptomatic supersession of more to set aside a succession imposing supplant more supplements. I submit! This breaking down of the other and then an other in a pharmaceutical battery of which ***** next? Can common sense overrule? Overruled! As another script is scribbled, a blank gaze overcomes, and the drool drips and overruns.

1

Affliction with mental illness beasts sans, depression, panic/ anxiety obsessive compulsive disorder didst for most of my lix splitting life zap psychological state plagued with sweaty palms, irritable bowel syndrome, mind chatter constantly doth yip and yap, whereby extensive stretches of time bore cerebral torture housing invisible mailer daemon nemesis wrap ping entire corporeal to suicidal ideations to escape once and for all asphyxiating, gamesomely hectoring imps, nauseating non-apparent trap regularly pitching emotional welfare to and fro, hither and yon, thence lashing out at self - summarized with the non medical term, yet descriptive word "snap" though a half dozen medications (listed as follows) alleviate sensation akin to feeling besieged, and pugilistic-ally rapped, yet (Quetiapine tab 300mg, Clomipramine cap 50mg, Fluoxetine cap 40mg, Fluoxetine cap 20mg, Busipirone tab 15mg, and Clonozepam tab 0.5mg) prior to prescriptive palliatives, aye experienced debilitating quality of life, thus I accept function-able, manageable unfortunate side effects such, viz thinning hair, necessity to take daily nap abdominal weight gain, where love handles replaced wash board stomach, adipose tissue not quite spilling o'er me lap so in summary burden of proof no longer tethers Sisyphean rolling rocks interestingly enough this figurative lid locks akin to sealing schizoid "Pandora box).

0

May 30, 2018

May 30, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Redoubtable Pestiferous Nemesis

Affliction with mental illness beasts sans, depression, panic/ anxiety obsessive compulsive disorder didst for most of my lix splitting life zap psychological state plagued with sweaty palms, irritable bowel syndrome, mind chatter constantly doth yip and yap, whereby extensive stretches of time bore cerebral torture housing invisible mailer daemon nemesis wrap ping entire corporeal to suicidal ideations to escape once and for all asphyxiating, gamesomely hectoring imps, nauseating non-apparent trap regularly pitching emotional welfare to and fro, hither and yon, thence lashing out at self - summarized with the non medical term, yet descriptive word "snap" though a half dozen medications (listed as follows) alleviate sensation akin to feeling besieged, and pugilistic-ally rapped, yet (Quetiapine tab 300mg, Clomipramine cap 50mg, Fluoxetine cap 40mg, Fluoxetine cap 20mg, Busipirone tab 15mg, and Clonozepam tab 0.5mg) prior to prescriptive palliatives, aye experienced debilitating quality of life, thus I accept function-able, manageable unfortunate side effects such, viz thinning hair, necessity to take daily nap abdominal weight gain, where love handles replaced wash board stomach, adipose tissue not quite spilling o'er me lap so in summary burden of proof no longer tethers Sisyphean rolling rocks interestingly enough this figurative lid locks akin to sealing schizoid "Pandora box).

46

the 102nd Iteration of Sonic Moses brings down the Sound from the mount. The Prescriptive is delivered in 2 second cuts to every Citizen of Nowhere. And in this bare proclamation every man sees his desire and his prejudice and it guides him and his screams and his traffic. I am told I do not feel pride in my home. sapphiral anubis is barking on TV again and it makes no difference how loud they warn against the bitch's blight: her pups bite themselves rabid to be like her. And everywhere the ill men are dying in style.

0

Oct 21, 2016

Oct 21, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC

demi-cybulski

The Good News, Every Half Hour

the 102nd Iteration of Sonic Moses brings down the Sound from the mount. The Prescriptive is delivered in 2 second cuts to every Citizen of Nowhere. And in this bare proclamation every man sees his desire and his prejudice and it guides him and his screams and his traffic. I am told I do not feel pride in my home. sapphiral anubis is barking on TV again and it makes no difference how loud they warn against the bitch's blight: her pups bite themselves rabid to be like her. And everywhere the ill men are dying in style.

2