"prolapse" poems
You are the systole to the diastole
Of my four-chambered cavity
You are the pulmonary rhythmic control
That fills air to my capillary.
You are the Pituitary Gland
That drowns my bloodstream in dopamine
You take my brain to a wonderland
Drunk and overdosed in Seratonin.
You are the only Mitochondrion
That powers all cellular activity
My Cytoplasms are in motion
For the sexiest Golgi Body.
You are the ultimate synapse
In my every granule of neuron
That gives an involuntary prolapse
To both my dendrite and axon.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
When his mother was dying we each said goodbye
I was moved to tears.
The funeral came and though I tried to remain stoic, English, I cried.
Then he died, pulled under by umbilical cords, tied by my bloodied hands.
When the service came I cried then too.
My parents told me not to cry, as though it was an admission of guilt.
Still I wept through the service, as though their sternly worded advice meant nothing.
I sat and felt several tides of sorrow wash over me.
I tried to clench my bowels when it came. Through the first I stayed strong, forcing the emotion down.
The second wave made my eyes water; and whilst a stray tear dribbled off my chin I remained strong, forcing the emotion back down my swollen throat to maintain composure.
The third wave came, and though I kicked and struggled to keep my head above the guilty waves I sank below
My weeping, scabbed face betrayed the guilt of a murderer and finally I let go
Allowing the full horror of what had transpired to engulf me.
I drowned, my face covered by my ***** jacket.
The priest offered for us to share a final moment with the victim before he was burnt to ashes
And I, like the guilty party sat stock still, paralysed by the truth; that I, at that young age, had killed
And whilst I swore that I would never **** again
I collapsed adrift on a bitter sea of tears,
Howling at the injustice that I had wrought.
Later, when composure had been regained I felt a stirring in those clenched bowels.
I sat down on the porcelain throne and proceeded to **** out a large and meaty ****
I strained, my eyes watered, and my **** tipped to the edge of prolapse.
Comforted, I wiped and then felt nothing.
With humility I knew, that I was not noble Simon Daedalus but lowly Leopold Bloom.
The same avenues corporeal brinkmanship that led me to that sad place
Had led me to safety.
It was at first a sad realisation
But I’m happier now.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
Peerless profundities profusely proffered,
Produce prolapse and propensities pro-fluent,
Presumption presides, practitioners pilfer,
Perception perfunctory, penance penurious.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 11:10 PM UTC
In this cave I'm at home, I am dead to the bone,
my marrows unbloody and my skulls just a tome.
I sink i sink i sink and i sink.
In this muck I dissolve my speech.
Needing no one to breach,
my lair where I grieve. I don't want to leave.
In refuse, I breed.
I broke my own tarsals and I bust out my teeth,
so words cant seep, from a mouth with broken feet.
Tiptoeing to tympanums.
Entrails prolapse from orifices. Pressure delegates my new motions.
I now must hold my own esophagus in my palms.
I now must clutch my stomach from my navel.
I now have to hold all of me in, because no one else will/
can.
No longer under control of anything,
pressure grinds my teeth to nothing.
My organs are liquid metal molten bleeding Ebola,
every pore agony of the lurching of cells,
all at once committing secession ,
against the parts they connect too.
This is proof there is no god.
This is the cave of a sink of hate.
This is soul atrophy.
A trophy of losing your hope when rock bottom was the chasms final means of escape.
Lucifer leaps from my mouth to the sky.
To reign anew.
To destroy the sun,
and show a new light from the rest of the punches in the blanket of the universe,
that,
that blasted sky lamp has always threatened us away from.
we can see peace now.
We can finally be rid of that overbearing street post,
and see that it aimed to destroy us.
We sleep in the cave now.
You and I.
Agony together.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
long after you’ve logged off,
the screen, now, just room temperature,
no longer warming plate hot, a good feeling lingers,
the glowing, slowing remains of our days first visitation,
reducing to a single dot, fading gunshot message, but unstated:
*”I was here, but moved on,
I am your first, yet you, are not mine...”*
the Dylanesque mystique, mystifying, mind-burring,
in the air hanging, those words sticky stuck in your craw,
ear worm ya, until, you utter rush, desperate to return,
shoot, what was that poem, its title, the author, ****
on what-was-that-poetry-site’s-name?
Hello Poetry! and now it’s too late, you’re not entranced,
no darling, you’re entrapped, fly glued to my sticky heart,
you, served raw, with the hook, line and sinker still attached,
you, my friend, are now my poet ****** my belonging, for
fourscore and evermore there is no cure, no cutoff, no resisting.
fresh meat for the poets beat, and you still have not even tasted
the salt water words, the rhymes that will tie up, and prolapse
your heart ******* in the love poems, ha, so when they ask what’s
the name of your new friend, the one that you are keeping so secret, tell them, shyly, bravely, whispering outstandingly, upright, shouting forthrightly: it’s me, Brandy Channing, and your soul is now mine to keep...for as long as deemed necessary to extract my ****** poems essence, so be my parasite and I will be you mistress, the mutual infection meaning but one thing! we, you and I, will live always apart, always together, yes darling, be distressed, you’re oh so blessed now, and
f o r e v e r....but tattoo these words upon your bicep lest one forget,
I am your first, you, are not mine
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
The clavicle of my thought
Corroding my innerds as though knowing me
Amputations avast my yearning body
Smother me with remorse
Burn thy soul with your ecombered hands
Take the life which was given to me without my consent
Undeserving to be in such place
The music notes of life
A wide spread torrent
Downpour on those who do not believe
Those who shan't believe
Those
Those are free
Jagged pulse
Viens caked
Flow has softened
Work has stopped
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
Four days ago
I was diagnosed with
Mitral Valve Prolapse,
Otherwise known as:
Click Murmur Syndrome.
Oh, life be clever,
that I must take my name
to heart.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
I’m blowing the whistle on they, those morally compromised fey
Who prey on the crowd all complaining aloud as collapsed mortgage fritters away.
Whilst the fat bankers dance a jig all the rip offs are ******* the pig
And at the end of the day, these protagonists say, “The Controllers here don’t give a fig!”
It’s the Federal Reserve that’s to blame and old Greenspan is floating in shame
‘Cos the system’s a sham and they don’t give a **** and nobody here’s naming a name.
Now the greed and the arrogance flows, how extensively, nobody knows
They all cover their bums and they snigger to chums as the de-frauded now come to blows.
For today’s finance, Government, sport and the God factory’s… all just a rort
On the verge of collapse or at least in prolapse, leaving truth and integrity…..BOUGHT!
M.
Auckland, 16 January 2016
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
All motivation stands on baseless fantasy to escape the thought that death is a better choice. Such a potent option has to be snuffed, it's a distraction from these goals that blow around in the air like brownian fluff.
All because we can't tell how fast we're losing time if we're sitting on where we are. There's a rift and it drives us apart.
People rush to negate you when you let these thoughts traipse through undiluted with diplomatic fear.
But they follow.
Wherever you are, near the base of your conscience.
Your constant companion and source of compassion.
I just can't seem to swallow anymore time.
Turned to signal lights towards an elusive mindset
Wanting to **** a tempest for a miles jog down godlike rain. Antagonizing no one just a prolapse of all other values simultaneously fighting modernity alighted.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
You are red flowers
you are the red leaf off the tree on the hard brown mulch
you are the red blood that flutters through the mitral valve prolapse
in my jackrabbit heart
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 8:49 AM UTC
My body know bullies:
Flames to my limbic brain!
I tense, clench, clutch;
Time and stomach prolapse…
(I'm being bullied;
This makes no sense—
Stay? Run? Respond?
How? Snarky? Politely?)
Retreat seems best.
Breathe, think, relax.
Talk it through with my wife.
Let the F-or-F response flush.
Rhetoric can be a fine-pointed toothpick for
Lifting lint from disagreement
Or a coarse cudgel
Driving points home.
My body knows bullies,
My intellect knows notions.
Trust your body.
Trust your brain.
I do.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC