"puncture" poems
He was the ocean; handsome, but yet, Impulsively damaged. He had a sandy heart to correspond his sandy eyes, the moon dismantled that omitted pride he carried at a dead weight; shoveling and reshaping it, so people would see a sandcastle statue assembled in strength. But his washed-up soul and unannounced insecurities were aware of its genuine purpose,
this beach alongside his pupils;
quicksand, he'll sink so slowly in. Waves in his hair like ripples on his cheeks, skipping stones land at his defeat, he left notes in bottles for you, sank multiple ships for you, because he hasn't the heart to say he's desiccating with the arrival of the stars.. Retracting scars are not too far from gasps for air, foaming words of crisis by writing in the sand, signaling a light as the last one in him died. You wouldn't understand, the calm before the storm, as valve after valve puncture him. So intoxicating as it drains him, and from within, he's drying out. Sunburns stain him, a smile restrains him,
in an inescapable drought--
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
Porous asphalt,
And bandaged, quilt
Homes puncture the
Neighborhood,
Which reads like a tattered
American flag; all
Coke Ads and weight loss
Billboards,
Half-burnt houses slant,
Like the hills of San Francisco—
Our own makeshift cable
Carts, limping up
And down the inclines.
We are slowly being burned
By our once golden sun—
Having been taught to
Bleach ourselves
Pale, tucked shamefully
In the shade.
Makeshift shanty towns
Which smell of mildew
And processed laundry soap,
Flimsy tin roofs
Tied with Kleenex and
Pizza Hut tarpaulins.
The fact that this neighborhood
Was christened "Freedom"
Strikes an empty pang.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
1736
Proud of my broken heart, since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night, since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
Thou can’st not boast, like Jesus, drunken without companion
Was the strong cup of anguish brewed for the Nazarene
Thou can’st not pierce tradition with the peerless puncture,
See! I usurped thy crucifix to honor mine!
10.6k
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within, lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
One word is all it takes
To explode a seemingly
Perfect output
Smashed! One nose
Dive after the other
Straight as a pole turned,
Askew with every turn.
A jab, a punch
as scraps appear.
A pinch and a puncture
Hurts like never before.
Until blood and matter
Sprayed on the cold asphalt
While everything occurs,
You watch. Soundlessly
It takes effect but you
Just watch it happen
You realize one singular,
Grand idea whilst pain climaxes
Life goes on.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
my blood turns black in every puncture,
steel goes in just, even faster,
i do not care how they see me,
i go to church even though you don't believe me,
i may be modified and full of carvings,
but my passion and care will never vanish
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
Nights like this remind me
That a void is inevitable.
Not only do we enter and leave alone,
We live alone.
Otherwise, our hedgehog spikes
Drive us further and further away
As we try desperately to connect
To the same people who puncture us
Who we also wound.
We love to love
And we hate to hurt
But we hurt those in love anyway.
A cruel world is this
Where we are always trying
To cling to somebody real,
Someone who doesn’t know that you see
A bit of yourself in them.
Is it worth burrowing close
When your spikes could come out at any time?
Perhaps, it is better to stay in the cold air
Safe from the inevitable *****
I choose to not decide.
Either way, there is longing.
So I might as well take a step back
And see what hedgehog dares to borrow
right next
to me.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
I’ll submit to your will,
make me swallow it all.
Spoil every inch of me,
slap me raw.
Fill me with your poison,
say you love me the most.
Don't throw me away,
hold me close.
Yank my hair back,
squeeze my throat.
Puncture me deep,
leave me soaked.
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 6:50 AM UTC
eyes are
quite gelatine
mending bubbly detail
mocking up fact to suit user
/the ears ? crinkled dishes of pinkened veins
robbing blood to probe the gossip
/digits bud on the feed
in polyp growth
******
and ****** a
pepper mill from off the
coffee table/tongue leeches lips
retaining massaged notes from food oils past
/spatting nostrils puncture the air
punching out breath purling
inhale a stressed
report
Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 9:49 PM UTC
Ash to mouth
divide north and south
east and west,
shout with class of Scout
let it out with griffin clout
we here we out , hear me out
— rhymes in time without
silent shrines to mime
cleared the crowd
covered eyes and mouth
over body desert shroud
if vengeance is your business
then from swords to plow
en lakesh
an eye for an eye binds
the all to be blind
but you can’t unsee the signs
no thoughts unclouded by loss
out the window I toss
mosaic fragments that cost
health and awesome sauce
Nazareth gutted commandments
by anarchy spelled
disaster after culture
massive ego it swell
up the road ahead a pit depress the juncture
so we spit the dirt divide just to touch the other
from pup to wolf so many bites, a pitted puncture
so much disfunct the fight till all be winded lungs sir
you can run
but from
gamma ray
you no hide
passed a black hole
wand inside
a body died
but it’s alright
(it’s heaven sight
till Zombie night )
animate dead necromantic black ring
the rhythm of life and death a chronic swing
the pendulum blade cross over cosmic skin
consciousness draw out from within
traced the win which wound round tat to skeleton
a dusty tome bound and crafted man
medicine subtracted by the head that spin
in the sky and its happening, blessen-ings
the miracle is mystery u cant guess it
talking 3 eye see
talking vip
climb high as canopy
walking so
my shadow lands under me.
ten toes touch to the dusty roads
when toads appear throats close
mighta had the Midas touch
still the golden one
was too much to flush
you might live in Laos
you my livid crowd
you might live it now
neva hit my limit how
cause you live in now
when you wake up proud
timid mind plowed
divid-dine fill the cloud
insta crowd wowed
this I vowed
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
*Though, should I
or have I begun?*
To feel the tussling
Of blurring bodies.
Transforming and dancing,
Through these very halls.
Where aching is thick,
and a embrace is a release.
*Should I begin?
How should I begin?*
Swallow the dagger,
stabbing from behind.
Let it sit deep in my stomach.
Push it further, where it can’t cut.
*Where will it end?
How will I begin?*
Under lock and key,
Just where I left it .
It escapes as it did just now,
conjuring a puncture to bone.
Blood flows,
Rushes out into the world.
*Is this a release?
How can I heal?*
Pouring out,
It tastes salty on the cheek
The color is dark,
cold to the touch.
Purging the night,
that stained blood black.
Sifting the chill,
of steel from bone.
Ringing out whats left of gore and fluid,
down the drain.
*I can begin now.
This is the end.*
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
Innocent Hyacinth tinted with mint
Tingèd grey hinged on stem singed
With chestnut leaves flowing, to me a fair hint
Of off-centred carousing, black eyes perusing
Wares of all sorts and stocks of all shares
The leading on of a pleasure most gracefully enthusing
Drops dews of all shades, of selfsame structure
And we full of rowdy Sedition;
But Wait! Recognition.
In my hopes and tired efforts, a puncture.
Music blaring loud, aftertaste of rejection
And full on full strand of all smoke addled people
Oh! How great Quasimodo I fell off my steeple
In the midst of the crowd, full dejection.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.
She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.
At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.
What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.
"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ****** and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! **** **** **** **** **** ****
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.
Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.
Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.
Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.
But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.
The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.
Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
And they sear me with words not for me, mental!
Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.
Jan 18, 2023
Jan 18, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
So This... “ Cancel Culture “...
Now Seems To Be Structured...
To... RESTRICT Numbers...
And Now Be The CONDUCTOR... !!!
of What Folks Say And What Gets Played...
Via TV Or Stage And WHO Gets Paid...
As If THEY Are Some SPECIAL Class...
Who Know How Far Free Speech Should Go... !?!
But It Seems As Though They’re A Little LATE... !!!
Where EXACTLY Were They When The... KKK...
Used To ****** Slaves Just Because of Their Race... !!!
Oh, Because These Days,
Things Have REALLY Changed...
Are These People INSANE...
And NOT Using Their Brains... ?!?
Because We STILL Have SLAVES... !!!
And Heads Who CLEARLY Want To DICTATE...
Are They Cancelling THEM...
Or Doing What THEY SAY... !?!
Or Just Causing PROBLEMS...
Over Gender And Race... ?!?
Well Some It Now Seems...
Who’ve Made BIG MONEY... !!!
Are UNCOMFORTABLE With...
Them... CANCELLING... !!!
When It Comes To Free Speech...
And Indeed The Arts Because of Policies...
That Seem To STINK Like FARTS... !!!
Have They Cancelled BOMBS...
Or RACIST... Sitcoms...
Oh Yes NOW They Have... !!!
AFTER These Shows Have...
Made PLENTY of CASH...
And Been Shown Across Lands...
... INTERNATIONALLY... !!!
On TV’s AND Indeed BIG SCREENS... !!!
REPEATEDLY For The World To See...
So Where Have They Been... ?!?
BEFORE Gender Themes...
And... INEQUALITIES...
Became The Very Fabric of SOCIETIES... ?!?
Where APPARENTLY...
... EVERYBODY Was FREE...
To Be Who They Wanna Be...
Well That’s A FALLACY...
That’s NOT REALITY... !!!
Just Like PIPE DREAMS... !!!
Oh But SUDDENLY... !!!
These New CANCEL POLICE...
Are CANCELLING...
And Now DAMAGING... !!!
The Careers of Those...
Who WON’T Be Controlled... !!!
Like Those Who Speak...
What They Want... FREELY... !!!
So They Can CANCEL ME... !!!
Cos That’s How I NOW BE... !!!
NOT Some HUMAN SHEEP...
For Them To Shepherd And Keep...
In Some PENITENTIARY...
Just Because of Free Speech...
That DOESN’T Tread... “ Lightly “...
Cos’ I ALREADY KNOW...
How... CANCELLING Goes... !!!
Because It’s Really Not New...
It’s What Censors Do... !!!
But Here’s Some TRUTH...
To UPSET Their Crews... !!!
It’s One Rule For THEM...
But NOT The Same For You... !!!
If You’re NOT ONE...
Who’ll Keep Your Mouth SHUT...
To APPEASE These Teams...
Who Now Want TOTAL CONTROL... !!!
That’s Just The Way That The Story Now Goes...
NO Bambi Or THUMPER To Be Some Foot Drummer... !!!
Just A Breed of Vultures...
Now Willing To PUNCTURE...
Careers Like BAD Plumbers... !!!
Whose Force Has A Cause...
Now Trying To ENFORCE..
What Should Be Put ASUNDER...
This... TRULY RIDICULOUS... !!!
..... “ Cancel Culture “..... !!!
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 2:41 AM UTC
Deep in the bottle,
where even the strongest minds fizzle,
perspective sways softly
and judgment is cutting
deep into submission
of stupor and stumble,
a profound lack of commitment
nodded off in the chair.
Wishing away
today and tomorrow,
but shadows can be patient
and wait for the dark.
The lump on the couch,
he bristles with anger,
fed whiskey and Winston’s
to dull those sharp cravings
for death ever-lasting,
for abyssal release.
You left the lump breathing,
withdrew your attention
to his core care and feeding;
you’ve taken to singing
serenades to the sleeping,
but memories keep bleeding,
that puncture your tincture;
for that lump is your fixture
of regret and remorse.
The lump does not whimper
until shadows are long,
the reruns on TV run into
the screaming of your song;
the drum solo hammers
on tomb-like front door;
a concert, just for husband and you;
the social worker’s knocking;
whatever will you do?
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
Somebody call Ben Affleck
We got phantoms in this *****
This endless haunted mansion
Their presence pervades
No company
In this lonely labyrinth
Only phantoms
The only figures resembling humanity
Are the corpses of those before
Who couldn't navigate this torturous structure
And of course, the masquerading phantoms
My soul they aim to puncture
I tried closing my eyes
But I just kept running into walls
I tried sleeping through it
But I just sank deeper into the basement
When I attempted to join the phantoms
You were there
You waited until I was hanging there
On the rope
And eviscerated everything
Lycanthrope
The rope in shreds
Your heart then fled
Leaving me alone again
Lying in my exhausted blood
The phantoms sensed my desperation
And took advantage of my disorientation
So I ran to the darkest recesses of the basement
To retrieve my blindfold and sledgehammer
But is my hammer powerful enough?
Will visual impairment abstain the trickery of ghosts?
I put Sisyphus to shame
With the determination I utilize to demolish these walls
But the phantoms are devious
They ***** new facades
Thicker, sturdier, with odder textures
I destroy them all the same
It just takes a bit more time
And time means nothing
To a man who's sole purpose is knocking down walls
And cowering from apparitions
Yet a man means nothing
To a time ruled by phantoms
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
I will drag my knife along your skin,
sharp blade down into your fragile, shaking canvas,
incising an increasing beat of whimpers and whines.
Please hold still. I promise this will hurt.
I will expose your clattering bones,
rip out your chattering teeth,
erase every impugned utterance
you muttered against me.
I will carve my letters slowly
on your unzipped frame,
sliding the burgundy blood across to
blot
clot
dot.
This is only preparation for what is about to follow.
I will puncture your throbbing organs,
slash your stretched cartilage
with an unwritten script.
Before I press further,
I’ll assure you, you are still alive.
I will twist each phrase,
haunt you to believe it is your fault,
force you to beg the slightest escape.
I will permanently etch my name
deep in the frozen chambers
of your quivering heart.
I will open up the blueprint as a demolition expert,
remove whole fractions of your fractured soul,
leave you a horrid wreck in the abyss
of a mess you just made.
You will not get rid of me,
though no trace of evidence is left behind.
My hands have been clean from the start.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
long white knives
that peirce through the
skin
of their prey
first they softly
puncture
thrickles of blood
dripping from the
fresh
pink
wound
then, they dig deeper
slowly
blood runs
faster
as the predator
***** it in
a maroon mess
finally
it lets go
and pulls the once
white teeth
now
decorated in royal red
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
The first puncture
Makes me beg for more and more
You literally give me colours
Everytime you get into this skin
They said that you are impenetrable
But this is me trying
To be skin deep with you
You should know by now that im restless and nothing's stopping me now
It's the small wounds and the colours
You touch me little by little
and drop by drop
It completes the art i want to have in me
I dont do tattoo baby
But i got your name inked all over my heart
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
We're all writers that don't know where our pen will take us,
Artists who's thoughts and emotions flow through our paintbrush,
A wall painted black, then white, then green, then multi-coloured,
It's changing,
Everything's changing,
Who are we fooling? Why pretend?
None of us are the same as we once were,
It's the demons inside of us that grow and mutate,
They puncture holes in our hearts and rip out our souls,
The deeper we sink, the more broken we see ourselves,
And the hate that we feel for our imperfections run harsh cuts into our skin,
Shivers across the lines of fields shaded red,
It's hard to keep the screams inside,
The rain behind our eyes remind me of shadows,
Pumping blood like butterflies in tunnels of glass,
The railroads to our hearts are barred with electrified wire,
Spinning webs of glutinous barriers,
Fleeting highs when fingertips touch love and trust,
Cut loose, like the strings of a puppet,
Trying to crawl back up the ladder of shattered china,
Back to that splintered paradise.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
Carefully the needle penetrates into my skin
With every new puncture the thread follows along
In and out again and again
Till it reaches the end and finally
A harsh pull, a few tugs
Then the string is snipped free at last
Its been completely sewn shut
Only after you closed me up
Did you ask me how my day was
How I was feeling
But what could I say
With my mouth sewn shut?
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.
Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.
Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
Nothing...had enchanted me more,
than that big yellow rose...
bright, stunning at the tip of its tall stem,
soft petals.....yet to fully unfurl,
its inner part...a soothing light shaded swirl...
i sniffed a bit of its fragrance,
and felt its softness...but,
i got pricked by a hidden thorn,
---
just a tiny puncture...yet,
my finger bled so much...
---
i walked on through the garden,
...with my pricked finger inside my mouth,
i was amazed by other flowers, more colorful ones,
but, the yellow, pink, red roses outshone them all...
with care this time, i touched a big pink,
slowly.........and, again, i didn't see,
another thorn was in the way
---
it was more painful
it bled even more...
---
i stood thinking, while bleeding...
its beauty, its silky feel...its
fragrance that lingers in the mind
would all be difficult to resist,
the pain from the thorns...harder to forget,
but, i'd still want to walk through this vast
garden....live this life...and seek those roses
feel them...be inspired...over and over
---
never mind the spikes!
never mind the pain!
---
love is beautiful like a rose
a rose is beautiful like genuine love,
there are thorns...hindrances and
hurdles, that come with its beauty....yet,
that wonderful feeling of loving,
and being loved, in return,
the wanting, the longing for it,
never dies...the fear of bleeding,
is ignored,
---
for, what is life without love?
and what is love without pain?
---
isn't love lovelier...more hopeful
the next time around?
---
a rose could never be a rose
without its many thorns...
---
Sally
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 11, 2018
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC