"proprioception" poems
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?
the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.
i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.
there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.
all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.
we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Lying teeth
-
Creep
Dearer.
-
silence roars.
The closer it contracts,
further it draws away.
Astonished to find
You're still confined inside
Your mind.
Destroy the weaker
and hide behind reticulum.
In the realm
of a hollow crown
I absconded,
endeavoured to uncover.
I‘ve left myself behind,
an inch
beneath water
decorous
A wisp of smoke
as it climbs.
Carry your shame,
rise to the chime,
an unfamiliar invitation.
Bring your mind back around,
around to this
callous.
The room begins to gratify;
You tax,
obambulate,
depress.
diminished.
Penduluming
will never
mollify,
placate.
The moment you appreciate,
Passing.
-
Treasure motive
abhor being.
Be succinct.
Prove,
Demonstrate.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
It seemed so much as no new and uncommon thing
that what passes on as only a disappearance,
is but a temporary postponement of something
long withheld in feelingfulness, in treason of one’s
desire or simply, a hand which is there, or kept in a pocket
scouring for loose change, a hand which, somewhere,
is known in accurate proprioception: refusing to be held;
I swim against the current not
for the water behind your river
that dreams of fish
I wake not underneath the bowl
of moon slated by sensorial howl,
whose wounds are white like
a face once held in between palms
and sleep almost endlessly, together
with everything that twitches, slewing
to avoid collision, alliterates to blur meaning,
sways fervently to addle meeting
until we let loose a sigh, and unfasten ourselves,
dropping pace and both our eyes meet.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
Proprioception
Is the perception
Of your hand when it is out of view.
My proprioception
Is tuned to perfection
And I hope that the same's true for you!
Although I can't see
My hand behind me
I can give all my fingers a wiggle;
It may not seem much
Very different to touch,
But with touch someone lets out a giggle!
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
An uncanny and unfamiliar view: the sun gazing over the Sperrins.
Light granted sight and in the
smarting, sticky glow of day the range seemed endless.
Every peak,
protruding from plate like
vertebrae of the obscene Oilliphéist, aspired to pierce the clouds (had there been any) and
swelling like the ego of that Boeotian hunter, set Olympus and Rheasilvia to blushes.
An omnidirectional parsec of perpetual nihility that,
swallowing the senses,
renders proprioception void.
Everything suspended for a second or century under the watch of that inert sentinel, whose
magnitude mirrored the Cosmic Turtle.
Say some stray tenant of Mountsandel
had wandered through these ancient fields and looked, as I do, upon the eminence of this glen;
From now til then, this Precambrian master had aged but a second.
Words are feeble against this primordial Schist and cannot hope to evoke it.
But all perceived as hard then shifts; I see the hulk in its youth suffering
the divorce of Rodinia; drifting further from its peers – drowning.
Even now the car traced the scar carved in the little pinnacle.
Granted, it bore us tourists stoically on
Granite too pure for poetry.
Yet still I see, as clear as Sawel, the young stone struggling to breathe the noxious air;
Freezing and thawing with the trends of the earth and
Bearing it all alone.
No wonder it had become catatonic.
How fitting, that every traveller on their
commute between the Pillars of the North,
should be forced to stare
Eden
in the eyes and acknowledge
where
earth began.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
The best kind of poem
Cracks stone
Letting it bleed empathy
Attaching it to the ****** of the feeling
That the author loads into verse
I just smiled at a few lines of Bukowski
And then flipped around and
Wrote this ****
Losing any sense of literary proprioception with each word I type.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
A furious screaming came off the lakes
And drowned out a million curses
Hiding from the cold, as hands in their pockets:
Isolated and trembling.
Despite a proprioception lost,
One body, blue at the tips, curls closer
To the dikes of thickening blood,
That, neatly, remain outward, exposed.
Do we not huddle in coaches and spaces
When our passions’ armor cracks?
Do we not crave touch for lack of warmth
When the skies above are clear?
Do we not risk hypothermia
When we expose ourselves to another?
We are the organs of great cities,
As we are great cities of cells
Seeking outlet on natural course all rigid
Those unconscious fraternities
Ebb and grow as we, like lakes, turn to floes
By cruel chemical realities held to bodies are—
As hands of distant lovers are—
Seeking outlet, seeking tributary.
Stagnant, though, cities stand
As the thin-skinned tissues flow
Swelling at inlets, at terminus expand
To compensate, give room—
This winter of hearts only lengthens
And so bodies begin to quake
As our bedrock breaks through
Its torments cutting outward from the skin.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 12:18 PM UTC
i close my eyes and i am
adhered to the inner wall
of a black glass marble
spinning on its axis
diagonally
disorientation
no center, no point of reference
feel the things inside
an oddly heavy mass
sense its presence
as you watch the marble
spinning
ro ta ting within
s
p
i
n
n
i
n
g
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
Parietal, frontal,
Occipital, temporal,
I lobe your cortex cerebral
I'm the type of postcentral gyrus
That would love to be your primary somatosensory cortex
A cortical homunculus
Neurologicaly mapping the anatomical divisions of your body
I want to stimulate your sensory and motor
Then take over your proprioception
With love and affection
I felt an ****** in your basal ganglia
Amygdala! I couldn't believe it!
All I had to do was a lil trepanation to achieve it
I love your brain
Now I'm going to eat it
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 5:19 AM UTC