"putrescence" poems - Hello Poetry

"putrescence" poems

Bump bump bang bang the world goes numb. Numb from the cold. Hearts aren't for love anymore, just blood. Blue blood like the rest of us, we can't get enough oxygen to make it red. The drugs do it for us now, do everything. We barely have to think, we barely have to move. Drugs do our jobs, we used to joke, but our bodies are still there. We just aren't sure where exactly there is. It seemed like yesterday we were alive-- we think. We sort of remember warmth. We sort of remember laughing. We sort of remember nostalgia, a memory for years past and lessons learned from previous failures. We remember once when a man said he would do something and did it, gratis, out of the goodness of a loving heart. Hearts aren't for love anymore. Just blood that spills. We see it all the time now. We know what it looks like dried and cracked, stained on our clothes. We don't run from blood anymore because we understand that soon our blood will leave our hearts and stain our carpet or street. This does not scare us because we understand it as inevitable. We remember when death was frightening. We remember when blood was uncommon. We remember the sun. Clouds, gray and bleak, rain putrescence down every day on the homes that used to be warm. We sort of remember warmth. We remember feeling things, any things. Temperature, moisture, emotion. Love. We remember until the bump bump bang bang-

0

Apr 21, 2013

Apr 21, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC

Dystopia None Too Distant

Bump bump bang bang the world goes numb. Numb from the cold. Hearts aren't for love anymore, just blood. Blue blood like the rest of us, we can't get enough oxygen to make it red. The drugs do it for us now, do everything. We barely have to think, we barely have to move. Drugs do our jobs, we used to joke, but our bodies are still there. We just aren't sure where exactly there is. It seemed like yesterday we were alive-- we think. We sort of remember warmth. We sort of remember laughing. We sort of remember nostalgia, a memory for years past and lessons learned from previous failures. We remember once when a man said he would do something and did it, gratis, out of the goodness of a loving heart. Hearts aren't for love anymore. Just blood that spills. We see it all the time now. We know what it looks like dried and cracked, stained on our clothes. We don't run from blood anymore because we understand that soon our blood will leave our hearts and stain our carpet or street. This does not scare us because we understand it as inevitable. We remember when death was frightening. We remember when blood was uncommon. We remember the sun. Clouds, gray and bleak, rain putrescence down every day on the homes that used to be warm. We sort of remember warmth. We remember feeling things, any things. Temperature, moisture, emotion. Love. We remember until the bump bump bang bang-

Continue reading...

My love is the shape of canine teeth and claw marks I leave around your neck, the way I leave poems decaying in an unforgiving landfill — the gods have turned away in disgust as I sit and lick, like a rabid dog, the maggots chipping away from the inside — the entrails of my grief, all pulled out without mercy, without a deathbed confession, without a god to listen. I long for something else to unfold; something sacred and beautiful when you turn my body inside out, but lo. This is as deep and far as we go. Tell me, I beseech, does my filth look better inside out, uncovered, on display, penetrating your very skin? Take what you need, love, they are all yours — my sins, my wounds, my impiety in exchange for your darkened heart — I’ll spit it out and swallow it back down to my underbelly where no one can ever take it — not you, not the gods, not their fallen, forsaken angels. Forgive me — forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. Forgive my unforgiving hands, forgive my unforgiving poems if our sick, twisted, defilement is all they ever know.

0

Dec 13, 2022

Dec 13, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC

My love is the shape of canine teeth and claw marks I leave around your neck, the way I leave poems decaying in an unforgiving landfill — the gods have turned away in disgust as I sit and lick, like a rabid dog, the maggots chipping away from the inside — the entrails of my grief, all pulled out without mercy, without a deathbed confession, without a god to listen. I long for something else to unfold; something sacred and beautiful when you turn my body inside out, but lo. This is as deep and far as we go. Tell me, I beseech, does my filth look better inside out, uncovered, on display, penetrating your very skin? Take what you need, love, they are all yours — my sins, my wounds, my impiety in exchange for your darkened heart — I’ll spit it out and swallow it back down to my underbelly where no one can ever take it — not you, not the gods, not their fallen, forsaken angels. Forgive me — forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. Forgive my unforgiving hands, forgive my unforgiving poems if our sick, twisted, defilement is all they ever know.

Continue reading...

From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful. The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done For they are enduring and evergreen, quite a contradiction to someone always on the run Helianthus will burgeon from my corpse in the Autumn, cordial, acquiescent and jolly Luminous hues of gold, superiority in the form of a blooming seedling, free of worldly folly Irresistible to butterflies and feathered creatures, who shall evermore adore the perennial dolly Snowdrops with delicate pedicels will pepper the frost polishing over my long corroded flesh, An impeccable ability to synthesize with the world effortlessly, so that I may at last mesh Nevermore will I acquiesce to let the world negligently toss me about, instead the world will thresh Irises in the spring will be next to transcend, ripe with nonconformity rooting from their eccentric peridot petals For the world encompassing them may be wrapped in blissful ignorance, but they will forever hesitate to settle They realize that life is for naught, putrescence is inevitable, so why even make a vain attempt to mettle As sure as the sun will ascend, the summer will materialize, and the sun's glimmer will rage from dusk until dawn For the world will strive on, long after I am gone, and my effulgence on the Earth is perpetually withdrawn I am not fearful of death because in death there is ignorance and blissful uncertainty From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.

0

Feb 11, 2014

Feb 11, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC

Fear Not for Your Ephemeral Corpse

From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful. The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done For they are enduring and evergreen, quite a contradiction to someone always on the run Helianthus will burgeon from my corpse in the Autumn, cordial, acquiescent and jolly Luminous hues of gold, superiority in the form of a blooming seedling, free of worldly folly Irresistible to butterflies and feathered creatures, who shall evermore adore the perennial dolly Snowdrops with delicate pedicels will pepper the frost polishing over my long corroded flesh, An impeccable ability to synthesize with the world effortlessly, so that I may at last mesh Nevermore will I acquiesce to let the world negligently toss me about, instead the world will thresh Irises in the spring will be next to transcend, ripe with nonconformity rooting from their eccentric peridot petals For the world encompassing them may be wrapped in blissful ignorance, but they will forever hesitate to settle They realize that life is for naught, putrescence is inevitable, so why even make a vain attempt to mettle As sure as the sun will ascend, the summer will materialize, and the sun's glimmer will rage from dusk until dawn For the world will strive on, long after I am gone, and my effulgence on the Earth is perpetually withdrawn I am not fearful of death because in death there is ignorance and blissful uncertainty From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.

Continue reading...

Quiescence: The world yet to be; change is imminent. Excrescence: The world as holistic; change is traumatic. Juvenescence: The world as wondrous; change is fascinating. Adolescence: The world as oppressive; change is institutional. Tumescence: The world as idealized; change is self-discovery. Hyalescence: The world as conceived; change is forgotten. Obsolescence: The world as impossible; change is unimaginable. Senescence: The world as finite; change is death. Obmutescence: The world beyond conception; change is māyā. Latescence: The world as a memory; change is time. Putrescence: The world as continuous; change is nature. Rejuvenescence: The world in utero; change is birth.

0

Feb 27, 2014

Feb 27, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC

misadventuresofcrow

Quiescence: The world yet to be; change is imminent. Excrescence: The world as holistic; change is traumatic. Juvenescence: The world as wondrous; change is fascinating. Adolescence: The world as oppressive; change is institutional. Tumescence: The world as idealized; change is self-discovery. Hyalescence: The world as conceived; change is forgotten. Obsolescence: The world as impossible; change is unimaginable. Senescence: The world as finite; change is death. Obmutescence: The world beyond conception; change is māyā. Latescence: The world as a memory; change is time. Putrescence: The world as continuous; change is nature. Rejuvenescence: The world in utero; change is birth.

Continue reading...

Are you hungry like a wolf without a scent Lonely like a leaf on its great descent Stuck like a tree that's been forced to bend Stale like an orange left to putrescence

0

Dec 25, 2020

Dec 25, 2020 at 8:27 AM UTC

Are you hungry like a wolf without a scent Lonely like a leaf on its great descent Stuck like a tree that's been forced to bend Stale like an orange left to putrescence

Continue reading...

People are uncomfortable with truth. There is truth in silence and people are uncomfortable with silence. When asked how one is doing, the proper response is 'fine' or any indicator of greater ease. One is expected to participate in class activities, team building exercises, and other meticulous, tedious motions of repetition. One should shake hands, smile, participate in pagentry when only putrescence is felt. One should not look at walls, there is no social status in looking at walls. One should not have problems unless they are desirable. Anxiety, but too bad. Depression, but not too bad. One should appear clean and well slept, one should claim one received very little sleep, regardless of how much sleep one actually received. If one is female, one should show skin but not too much skin. If one is female, one should not resist ****** advances, yet one should not have multiple ****** partners. If one is male, one should be in fit condition, one should not cry, and one should not show interest in a member of the opposite gender except for those of a ****** nature. One should not acknowledge the existence of more than two genders, ****** orientations, or trains of thought. One should be socially and politically aware, but one should not raise their voice on these issues unless others of a high social status are. One should be happy, but not too happy.

0

Dec 8, 2014

Dec 8, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC

How To Be Popular

People are uncomfortable with truth. There is truth in silence and people are uncomfortable with silence. When asked how one is doing, the proper response is 'fine' or any indicator of greater ease. One is expected to participate in class activities, team building exercises, and other meticulous, tedious motions of repetition. One should shake hands, smile, participate in pagentry when only putrescence is felt. One should not look at walls, there is no social status in looking at walls. One should not have problems unless they are desirable. Anxiety, but too bad. Depression, but not too bad. One should appear clean and well slept, one should claim one received very little sleep, regardless of how much sleep one actually received. If one is female, one should show skin but not too much skin. If one is female, one should not resist ****** advances, yet one should not have multiple ****** partners. If one is male, one should be in fit condition, one should not cry, and one should not show interest in a member of the opposite gender except for those of a ****** nature. One should not acknowledge the existence of more than two genders, ****** orientations, or trains of thought. One should be socially and politically aware, but one should not raise their voice on these issues unless others of a high social status are. One should be happy, but not too happy.

Continue reading...

Alone in a forest of dying trees the scent of wet decomposing leaves Morose moose head Cut at the neck I can see your years like tree rings Body Split in two Down the center At the Great Divide Flies boil up from your flesh. You were fuzzy once. I can't hold my breath. Putrescence fills my lungs with rotting death and my stomach turns upside down. Stumbling to fresh air I trip over your grinning, toothless nearly human face, spurting seemingly ceaseless blood from its masticated mind. It is only attached to the torso. I can see where your legs should be and your are trying to drag yourself through the dirt towards me clawing with your twisted fingers. Trailing entrails, half emptied. Fully feeling. I'm lying in bed. Sunken eyes wide open. All I can smell is rotting flesh. I'm peeking down my hallway now, and I see many mangled hands, reaching from every doorway. Burned, bruised, and beaten. I sprint down the passage frantically throwing pentagrams like ninja stars through thresholds. I hear sizzling like morning roast drips onto coffee burners, and I explode into the kitchen. "Good morning! Coffee is ready," Mother greets me, smiling. The hallway is dead silent.

0

Oct 30, 2014

Oct 30, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC

Alone in a forest of dying trees the scent of wet decomposing leaves Morose moose head Cut at the neck I can see your years like tree rings Body Split in two Down the center At the Great Divide Flies boil up from your flesh. You were fuzzy once. I can't hold my breath. Putrescence fills my lungs with rotting death and my stomach turns upside down. Stumbling to fresh air I trip over your grinning, toothless nearly human face, spurting seemingly ceaseless blood from its masticated mind. It is only attached to the torso. I can see where your legs should be and your are trying to drag yourself through the dirt towards me clawing with your twisted fingers. Trailing entrails, half emptied. Fully feeling. I'm lying in bed. Sunken eyes wide open. All I can smell is rotting flesh. I'm peeking down my hallway now, and I see many mangled hands, reaching from every doorway. Burned, bruised, and beaten. I sprint down the passage frantically throwing pentagrams like ninja stars through thresholds. I hear sizzling like morning roast drips onto coffee burners, and I explode into the kitchen. "Good morning! Coffee is ready," Mother greets me, smiling. The hallway is dead silent.

Continue reading...

These are the stitches that fuse together wounds, made by words, made by mouths, which cannot perceive what truth is, why it is, where it lays it's hands in this putrescence we call home. I am full of sinister self, ego wars within, making my own Golden Goddess to worship. Praying for faith and still longing for pods of swine in this flesh. So where is the line in the sand? My queen dresses in the guise of rags which she prefers to a royal gown, and I in pauper's cloth am none to chide her choice. Streets are eroded and slow in the heat of a Texas Summer. Garbage piles up on all sides of the neon glow outside the dens of revel. A noxious scent rises from the guts of the downtown chaos. The last notes of the night become faint as the barkeep gives a last call and weary youth stumble home on rusty wheels and fresh memory. Still there is a hunger unsatisfied.

0

Jan 18, 2013

Jan 18, 2013 at 12:18 PM UTC

daniel-sandoval

These are the stitches that fuse together wounds, made by words, made by mouths, which cannot perceive what truth is, why it is, where it lays it's hands in this putrescence we call home. I am full of sinister self, ego wars within, making my own Golden Goddess to worship. Praying for faith and still longing for pods of swine in this flesh. So where is the line in the sand? My queen dresses in the guise of rags which she prefers to a royal gown, and I in pauper's cloth am none to chide her choice. Streets are eroded and slow in the heat of a Texas Summer. Garbage piles up on all sides of the neon glow outside the dens of revel. A noxious scent rises from the guts of the downtown chaos. The last notes of the night become faint as the barkeep gives a last call and weary youth stumble home on rusty wheels and fresh memory. Still there is a hunger unsatisfied.

Continue reading...

sleepless embraces silent defacing our wilted ends and tenderness. privately crying, quiet, applying blush on putrescence. murmurring, murmurring 'you are mine.' pining, dying, hushing lust. rabidly dabbling in fragile fantasies, huffing tar stuff borrowed from tomorrow! shush. please. these feeble obscenities eat me to sleep: you wear me down like a river but i don't get smoother i just get thinner

0

Oct 17, 2015

Oct 17, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC

the-knave-of-spades

sleepless embraces silent defacing our wilted ends and tenderness. privately crying, quiet, applying blush on putrescence. murmurring, murmurring 'you are mine.' pining, dying, hushing lust. rabidly dabbling in fragile fantasies, huffing tar stuff borrowed from tomorrow! shush. please. these feeble obscenities eat me to sleep: you wear me down like a river but i don't get smoother i just get thinner

Continue reading...

Cold settled in deep On him and their son, A poor fool, lost in his own world, Scarcely aware his mother was gone. The boy's father couldn't cope... Tried, but hope with her had died. Bankrupt faith, spent in futile prayer To cure the failing heart, Restore the lungs... A silent "NO" hung in the air, And she was gone. Her ashes flew home beside him. He went to pick up his son, Stopped for three fifths of Scotch... Proceeded to disappear, Proceeded to disappear, Proceeded to disappear. The house suffered under stench: Old ***** Excrement, ***** Spilled bottles, Cans scattered on the floor; Everywhere a sour putrescence. His son floated in and out of vision, Autism and inebriation: Two forms debilitation, No hope of equilibration. Neighbors made some calls... Social workers came, Took the son away. Death seemed a reasonable option. Leave the mess. Join his wife. End this ******* life.... Revolvers favor simplicity: Load the chambers, Snap the cylinder in place... Aim closely to remove his face. Muzzle up, Open mouth, Squeeze the hammer down... Only a clicking sound. Unusual, this... Aim at the ground, Squeeze off a round... Ears ringing from the sound. Raise the muzzle once again, Bite hard on steel, Squeeze the trigger down... Again, a clicking sound. Aim at the ground, Blam! Potent round... Set the revolver down. "Hello. 911. What is your emergency?" "Come get my gun; I'm trying to **** myself." Police arrive. He's still alive. Drunk and numb... They take his gun. Six weeks later, still in a haze, He's told his story. We are amazed, But still he's found no calm for grief. We struggle beside him, Waiting for some sign, Some reason why a gun Should fail to fire...twice. If you should read these words, my friends, Please speak a prayer for a lonely man. Ask for freedom from despair, For peace and letting go, For comfort and the hope of friends, For better ends. For better ends. For better ends.

0

Feb 7, 2018

Feb 7, 2018 at 11:55 AM UTC

She left him in the fall

Cold settled in deep On him and their son, A poor fool, lost in his own world, Scarcely aware his mother was gone. The boy's father couldn't cope... Tried, but hope with her had died. Bankrupt faith, spent in futile prayer To cure the failing heart, Restore the lungs... A silent "NO" hung in the air, And she was gone. Her ashes flew home beside him. He went to pick up his son, Stopped for three fifths of Scotch... Proceeded to disappear, Proceeded to disappear, Proceeded to disappear. The house suffered under stench: Old ***** Excrement, ***** Spilled bottles, Cans scattered on the floor; Everywhere a sour putrescence. His son floated in and out of vision, Autism and inebriation: Two forms debilitation, No hope of equilibration. Neighbors made some calls... Social workers came, Took the son away. Death seemed a reasonable option. Leave the mess. Join his wife. End this ******* life.... Revolvers favor simplicity: Load the chambers, Snap the cylinder in place... Aim closely to remove his face. Muzzle up, Open mouth, Squeeze the hammer down... Only a clicking sound. Unusual, this... Aim at the ground, Squeeze off a round... Ears ringing from the sound. Raise the muzzle once again, Bite hard on steel, Squeeze the trigger down... Again, a clicking sound. Aim at the ground, Blam! Potent round... Set the revolver down. "Hello. 911. What is your emergency?" "Come get my gun; I'm trying to **** myself." Police arrive. He's still alive. Drunk and numb... They take his gun. Six weeks later, still in a haze, He's told his story. We are amazed, But still he's found no calm for grief. We struggle beside him, Waiting for some sign, Some reason why a gun Should fail to fire...twice. If you should read these words, my friends, Please speak a prayer for a lonely man. Ask for freedom from despair, For peace and letting go, For comfort and the hope of friends, For better ends. For better ends. For better ends.

Continue reading...

putrescence bear the haunt of nothing all fingers and teeth down your neck sister mary without her veil narcogenic i’m worn through my nails i’m sick of everything.

0

Aug 18, 2017

Aug 18, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC

putrescence bear the haunt of nothing all fingers and teeth down your neck sister mary without her veil narcogenic i’m worn through my nails i’m sick of everything.

Continue reading...

I dare you to play my heartstrings, strong as spiderweb silk. Your presence runs through me like rusty barbed wire, a screaming putrescence. My heart corrodes and heals in waves, taking and giving. I let your name gather dust. I watch the crackled paint details peel, marred remnants deteriorate. I feel you forget me like a childhood memory. I release the heavy syllables of you into the sky, each sound and memory sailing like dandelion dust, waiting to land and grow in safer spaces.

0

Oct 27, 2014

Oct 27, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC

caitlin-cromley7

I dare you to play my heartstrings, strong as spiderweb silk. Your presence runs through me like rusty barbed wire, a screaming putrescence. My heart corrodes and heals in waves, taking and giving. I let your name gather dust. I watch the crackled paint details peel, marred remnants deteriorate. I feel you forget me like a childhood memory. I release the heavy syllables of you into the sky, each sound and memory sailing like dandelion dust, waiting to land and grow in safer spaces.

Continue reading...

Formless, hidden flagrance Bastardizations Subconscious invasions Derealization Murderous mindless mental gobbledygook Aloof, to bide inside and take a look Spurious flourish in acrid abhorrence Tis the demon Which lies within That tells me lies And promotes sin Trials of toilsome interims Stagnate and rot, in mine, chagrin Ineffectual ****** aggravations Sordid, torrid want, ablation Putrescence of evanescence Sorrowful warbles in gargling marbles Choking on hope, extinguishing flames of my name and making Prodding the prongs of the timeless song Rending and rendering nought to which I belong Seeing sights, in blindness bind, simulations of kindness, in emptiest minds I've seen it screaming, deadened in the dark It doth implore me, say'n only "Hark!" Tell me truly, what unruly things of which you speak Portent futures ever looming, bleak Unspeakable things I cannot be I will not be but me I am not apostate To lunacy

0

Jul 22, 2019

Jul 22, 2019 at 7:05 PM UTC

Lunatic Apostate

Formless, hidden flagrance Bastardizations Subconscious invasions Derealization Murderous mindless mental gobbledygook Aloof, to bide inside and take a look Spurious flourish in acrid abhorrence Tis the demon Which lies within That tells me lies And promotes sin Trials of toilsome interims Stagnate and rot, in mine, chagrin Ineffectual ****** aggravations Sordid, torrid want, ablation Putrescence of evanescence Sorrowful warbles in gargling marbles Choking on hope, extinguishing flames of my name and making Prodding the prongs of the timeless song Rending and rendering nought to which I belong Seeing sights, in blindness bind, simulations of kindness, in emptiest minds I've seen it screaming, deadened in the dark It doth implore me, say'n only "Hark!" Tell me truly, what unruly things of which you speak Portent futures ever looming, bleak Unspeakable things I cannot be I will not be but me I am not apostate To lunacy

Continue reading...

molasses with the stink of gangrene blisters from the wound; it will not run foul slow swelling putrescence of plasma and, past cells can only be lanced it will not run. congealed crust of scab and keratin strands is shield for eyes and, the point. it will not run.

0

Apr 21, 2016

Apr 21, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC

molasses with the stink of gangrene blisters from the wound; it will not run foul slow swelling putrescence of plasma and, past cells can only be lanced it will not run. congealed crust of scab and keratin strands is shield for eyes and, the point. it will not run.

Continue reading...

I feel like I'm a sailor I've been sailing these tsunamis Broke my bonds and bound the jailer I've faced the hoards and fared these armies Bared the wash and stayed the pull Made my peace amongst it all I walk on glass like penguins tread thin ice You're green like grass and greed has grabbed you by your vice I wont lie I've lost myself inside your eyes But the truth called out and sounded a sour note screaming through your lies. Then my ire desire it spawns into fire This pyre apocalyptic but something I sired Swallow it all then in the lava you're mired Ash in the wind your spirit is all but expired Now I've found myself plummeting to the ground Foundations built on lies quake till they all fall down My outlook was paper thin formed from adolescence weak putrescence I'll meet the ground and find innocence with rebirth creating harmony amongst dissonance. Existed in the air Resisted with the sea Persisted by the ground The fire was inside me.

0

Feb 9, 2020

Feb 9, 2020 at 5:42 PM UTC

harry-robertsag

I feel like I'm a sailor I've been sailing these tsunamis Broke my bonds and bound the jailer I've faced the hoards and fared these armies Bared the wash and stayed the pull Made my peace amongst it all I walk on glass like penguins tread thin ice You're green like grass and greed has grabbed you by your vice I wont lie I've lost myself inside your eyes But the truth called out and sounded a sour note screaming through your lies. Then my ire desire it spawns into fire This pyre apocalyptic but something I sired Swallow it all then in the lava you're mired Ash in the wind your spirit is all but expired Now I've found myself plummeting to the ground Foundations built on lies quake till they all fall down My outlook was paper thin formed from adolescence weak putrescence I'll meet the ground and find innocence with rebirth creating harmony amongst dissonance. Existed in the air Resisted with the sea Persisted by the ground The fire was inside me.

Continue reading...