"prosthetics" poems
My name is Sara, a transgender chick
Wanted a ***** was given a ****
I hide it in knickers of satin and lace
before sitting down to make-up my face,
Next the prosthetics, I'm using two bits.
Stuck to my chest, they'll do as my ****
Now for my legs I'll put on false tan,
I wouldn't do this if I were a man
Alternative nights, a t-girl delights
to sit on her bed and pull on new tights.
I'll put on a dress, a cute one no less.
Then for my shoes, high heels I choose
A sandal style shoe as every girl knows
not only looks cute, they'll show painted toes
A bit of eyeliner, eyebrow definer,
lipstick and blush, I'm now looking lush.
I stand in the mirror all ready to go,
there's only one question I just have to know.
"Does my *** look big in this?"
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
Staring at faith
Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
The sound of deep
Calling to deep.
Repressed feelings buried by Time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten Grave:
"Here lies the child now grown.
His hopes and dreams
Dashed to pieces.
This is where the child died."
I often hear the Mystic Keeper
Calling from night
And tradition calling from Artificial light
As I run through scorched Barren
Fields of doubt,
Walking barefoot over these Coals
Crouching low
To hide my eyes
As I run
And as I hide
From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.
When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea.
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
Seeds of religious platitudes.
And then there is the ready Reflection
Of the looking glass
That often tricks the Beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
Hiding the crumbling
Cracks of age–
The threshold where
Sanity meets its end.
Isolation has become
A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
Into the heart of hearts.
Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional Prosthetics--
Phantom pain
When nothing is There.
But in the midst of these Devastations
I am learning to take--
Howbeit reluctantly--
The hand of trust and grace;
Allowing
Hope to build
A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
Than no control at all.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC
a cult novilist in Blackpool
watches Martina Navratilova
throw sugar lumps
at passers by
as captured teardrops
in a teaspoon
call, plead, for understanding
perhaps release
for they’re not the
obsessive prize
once hailed as trophy
but simply words in the air
that execute that which never comes
causing a retreat from an ordinance
of nothing
where time defiles itself
a red speckled jersey
whose arms, once occupied
are too small, limited
like abandoned prosthetics
leaving rotting flesh
to slowly scald the earth
with a vaporous experience
of emotional contrasts
like that of mesmerising serpents
whose visional embrace
stares deeply with such a charge
of ****** energy
that causes the air to weep
and poses the question
who shall give me leave
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
Tile floors.
Blood in the creases.
Plywood boards.
Arterial releases
I nail you to the ground,
This soul in you.
Phantom ghost of specter.
I will never leave you.
I will eat what you ****
And be your skin.
Parasitic symbiote of prosthetics,
Entangled by bailing wire to every bone,
Our union refines combine tarsals.
I am you like the liquor,
Like Jesus' nails.
We rob stores,
Skip stones,
In the alley.
Mirror eyes mark your stretch marks.
Deep scratches of size.
Your iris is mine.
Becoming you is my charge.
In your innards I gorge.
Metastasize.
I want to feast on your skin.
Eat your flesh till your thin.
In the raw.
Exploit all your ****
I want to haunt your house and lick your thighs when you sleep.
Press through your skin.
Bend it out with my lips.
This last invasion will curse you for life.
I'm a cancer forever.
Hiding in your basement.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Pick, tweeze, pull, pluck:
Glance in the mirror for my next tuck.
Here's a confession: it's a horrible obsession.
My beauty is no longer in my possession.
I'm manufactured; a walking billboard of cosmetics.
I'm but skin covered metal and prosthetics.
Try as I may, reality will never meet my ideal distortions.
I no longer know my natural proportions.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
In a little under a hundred years we've had so many wars.
Men, women and children sacrificed for someones cause.
And truly just what has been gained, versus what was lost?
Can we say that it was worth it, can we justify the cost?
In nineteen thirty nine we had the war to end all wars.
Since then there've been so many, like we've hardly even paused
And what is it we fight for? Do we fight for right or wrong?
Or do we fight to get resources that we feel to us belong?
Now sure there are some victims, of persecutions, genocides
but unless there's oil or riches there, the strongest close their eyes.
We forget that we're not perfect, but thanks to Gandhi and Dr King
We changed our stars from where you are, and now know everything.
I cannot help but wonder though, if they were alive today,
would they see us a failure, shake their heads and walk away?
In a little under a hundred years we've learned not much at all,
except in war lies profit, and to some it seems a ball.
Because if you have stuff we want, and wont do as we say,
then we just roll our armies in and blow you all away.
Or if you do things differently, even as we once did,
then we will "liberate" you, then sell you to the highest bid.
See we want you to be like us, cos were so freakin smart,
sure we got people starving but an unmade bed is art.
"My Bed" was bought by Charles Saatchi for £150,000 in 1999.
£150,000 would feed 3200 children in Ghana for a year.
£150,000 would provide over 6800 prosthetics for children who have lost limbs as a result of landmines or unexploded munitions.
In a little under a hundred years, it would seem we have learned nothing.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 1:00 PM UTC
once android prosthetics advance beyond brain capacity;
like any software, brains become obsolete; minds transfer
from android to android via electric wavelength impulse;
in this evolutionary step, mankind becomes one w/ that
background radiation which is the factual Heavenly City
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 3:57 AM UTC
I cant wait to show
My contempt of court
Contemplated much more
Thank lord
The latter was chosen
I swear to him
My swears wont be as
Offensive
As the unmentioned
Alternative
Of this present contemption
My hand told lies
Like prosthetics
As it handled the bible
Like an oath
It would take
If it weren’t for the one nation
Under god
Underdog
Dodging the law
Of the land
Biting the hand
That feeds him
Hunger strikes
Like a match
Thirsty for air
The explosion of emptiness
Fills the stomach
The feels
Become more ill with each filling
Like mercury deposits
Positioned
From molar drilling
A mouthful of ailments
Spewed across the room
For the judges consumption
But the cancerous banter
Spread like foreign bodies
And the jury took injury
The whole world
Agrees
You’re the most hated
Alive
The “not for long” followed
Like the gavel
As it swallowed the courtrooms
Silence
A sentence of death was relayed
Without a period
Of contemplation
As my great contempt
Of court
Is overshadowed
By the ******
Committed by a jury of my peers
Reenacting
The passion of Judas
While I’m crucified
In the name of my father
By men who shoot
The messenger
Remember me at my worst
And my best
Will always inspire
Death is not as bad
If you can give a few truths
Before you expire
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
It's there.
Some small
inconveinent
hindrance of curiosity
You see,
at night I like to lay
flat on my back
on the cement
and stare up at the night sky.
Make fun all you want
but this nonpareil view
of the stars
holds so much possibility,
so many endless and unexplainable
things
to ignore it is an insult to mankind
and your gift of consciousness!
So there I lay
trying to do my humanity
a favor
but my head
as oblong and mishapen as it were
with that flat spot
always rolls to the side
forcing a limited view
of the city!
Pfft! There is nothing to gain
from the working of other people!
I've tried building many
prosthetics for this problem,
Once,
I molded putty to my head
to make up for this tragic flaw
but it didn't work
and it looked terribly absurd.
So I suppose
as much as I imagine the universe
to be completely perfect,
the fact that earth is a part of it
makes it flawed
(which yes, I realize that includes myself)
Furthermore
as much as I like
to think of myself as perfect,
that flat spot will always be
the earth
of my head.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
A new land, a new plan
Freedom dawns upon man
He stands, right hand
Pressed on his chest to stress
The strength he dares to possess.
Through revolution and regicide
Through intolerance and genocide
A mile walked, ten miles left behind
Creating a beautiful painting
Drawn on the canvas of time.
His life benign, followed by crime
Because he’s unfit to limit himself
Another nail driven by itself
Into his coffin that’s been waiting on the shelf
Since he fell away from himself
Corrupt beyond any help
Another mile walked, this time
Only a foot, left behind.
So we can see truth to the prophecy
And the mad prophets cackling with glee
Another tragedy, yet another symphony
The imagery is really sickening me.
What is there to be
In this world, if not free
What is there to know
If it’s all just a rolling joke.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spoke
Who knows, I don’t.
But there’s no point in standing down
While my feet are still on the ground
My hearts beating now
My brain’s thinking loud
And my voice is proud.
Another free verse to vocalize
The fact that we’re all demoralized
By the lies, by the times, and the ties
That keep us all alive.
The mistress
She missed it
It’s the bullet
That kissed it
Bloodstained garments
That flaunt it
And a blood soaked flag
That haunts it
Silhouette of a cross
That watched it
Symbolic of a trust
And we lost it
He never wished it
And couldn’t have dished it
He always told it
But couldn’t have sold it
Again and again I hear the same words
Patriotism isn’t part of the verse
Fascism couldn’t have a bigger hearse
And capitalism couldn’t be a more deluding curse.
It’s diseased at its roots
We’re deceived by the loops
And twirls that make it spin
That make us forget our world.
And it hurts
Because these material prosthetics are all lies
Democracy is an illusion
And it seems these days, free speech is a crime.
You’d better get back in line
Listen to them preach the divine
Watch them drink all the wine
And then, let them hang us all out to dry.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
These dragging power lines shackle her
Shock until numb, and heart stops
After beating too fast and shattering into
Oblivion (that is, the rest of her perception)
The percolating *** holes *** shots about her
*** and shots and shots and cigs
Crimson twigs rooted under business standards
Loathes the world's beauty standards
... ********
These dragging snakes constrict her vision
Of a better place, of a better time
Stronger the vignette view, the stronger the
Struggle, to
Separate tar from her feet these streets bought her
Clipped her wings
Told her to grow up and forget to fly
(Though flying is her worst nightmare)
So she assembles wax imitations
And plans to amputate
I'd tell her to stop
But she'll say there's prosthetics
And I'd rather see her tango in the wind
Fall to her death
Then go cold with the arms of a mini golf champ
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
She was a trap built from
tigers and rusty pieces.
Feral, rotten, effective.
Eyes me like prey,
and I am.
I am falling slowly,
so slow they think I can fly
so slow they think I glide through
life and love with my feet on a
carpet of marbles and oil.
21st century type.
Sharp like a knife,
but not like a suit.
The music is so loud
it’s muffled.
It is smothered by itself.
I lost my wallet and limbs,
and they were replaced with
alcohol and prosthetics.
Gheists flooding
the contraption,
singing mantras
in tongues.
Now I seek a greater machine;
Skin carved from marble,
and lips from bleeding
citrus fruits,
acids becoming
nourishment.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
Bark like a dog that can’t bite
You’re a rerun, redundant
Idiot shouting at staples on trees
Guns to a pillowfight, pillows to a massacre
Why can’t you learn the perfect place to sit
Your eyes look handsome when your mouth is closed
Talk until your lungs become heavy with air
But know that not a soul listens to you freely
Your only audience is a captive one
We encourage you to try anyway
Someone out there must be into that sort of thing
Try drinking and feeling more and less
Be the coat hanger that everyone else loves
Talk to me, I want to know how you’re running
I don’t want to hear about your prosthetics
But the guy standing next to you sounds nice
Have you tried to end your life lately?
You might smile more if you think about it daily
We liked you more back when you were smaller
When you were close to the edge of that thought
When our clothes didn’t fit you
When we liked you even less
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 8:21 PM UTC
I recall many years ago...
An acquaintance who through misfortune and misadventure had severed three toes from his left foot. Although he eventually recovered and adjusted to this misfortune he always walked thereafter with a pronounced limp.
Several years after this incident he had the further bad luck to be involved in a cycling accident and this time he lost four toes from his right foot. Once again with the aide of professional help and prosthetics he was able to adjust.
Although he made physical adjustment he could never let go or refrain from telling of these two incidents on every possible occasion. In my mind it became his key to acceptance and seemed to be his way of gaining some sympathy for his hard done by life. I became aware and felt quite ashamed of my lack of empathy and was alarmed at just how irritated I could become whenever around him. I determined that I should seek help of my own... to discover why I felt irritated so irrationally.
I consulted with my GP and explained the circumstance in detail. I related how over the years the more I witnessed his actions and attitude the less restrained I could be in his presence. I would become both agitated and borderline aggressive when he would enter the room.
My GP listened and after brief pause to ponder upon the story I related to him he reassured me that my reactions were quite normal and were not as uncommon as I thought them to be.
I asked him if it were a defined medical condition and did I have need for concern.
He replied.... "you are quite simply lack toes intolerant"
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 12:00 AM UTC