"quartered" poems
please be impatient with me for I am Female, Age 19 Please be impatient with me. Three quarters woman in a body, a quartered quartet. The crying viola, off tempo, present but unavailable. The boys want me. The men, more, more. The women most of all. The American Girl dolls on the shelf dusty, witnesses to all my demander’s impatience to take, to own, possess & desire my poses all to pleasure them, wanting many morsos (small bites).
Then, when discarded, my body reeks of
con-f u s i o n. A perfect conjugation, an imperfect conjunction; Conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.
The dolls weep real tears in the city of my mind; flipping out, they too, are impatient with me, and flip me off for they have no good words to express their utter chagrin.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies
where in my soul can I find desires for sadists
Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade
borrowed his manuals and added even more pages
pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins
And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp
they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness
He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us
How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere
a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves
Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger
alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire
Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces
hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels
Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking
All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens
How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow
where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity
With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true
as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels
Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic
their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes
Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses
Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme
[email protected] rights reserved
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
the latest theories on the Neanderthal
is they died out due to homosexuality
& the earliest evidence of actual civil
order depicts women as priestesses &
queens & men, even kings as animals;
monsters & giants coexisting w/ teenagers
& old people in complex structures ruled
over by older priests, poets & a professional
warrior class; the king could be murdered
w/ impunity & the queen taken as consort
by the next king or murdered if she proves
too ambitious; & throughout all this, scribes
record the passage of time, the declaring of
laws, engagements in wars, rituals, persona,
comic tales & history; notable women have
a roster of their own, some written by ******
scribes party to their secret names & habits;
all known things; bathhouse elect, her scribe
observing her in the dressing mirror invents
the adventures of her reflection; a princess
never to grow old yet her father-husband is a
bearded elder; her older brother a warrior-prince
& future king; her younger brother/son is the
poet who must reveal what he knows, if only
b/c he'll burst if he has to **** his baby sister
in ritual Hieros gamos w/out telling everyone
exactly how he feels about it; but daring to speak
means being ****** burned at the stake, beheaded
& drawn & quartered, so he writes in secret
[chisels actually, so it's resemblance is mostly
related to relief sculpture
& engraving, but writing], passing
the linear tablets to the young priestess who buries
them beneath the temple floor for some future age
of mankind to discover anew & perhaps heed the
warnings of the coming chaos (the poet, a prophet
before there was such a thing); the ****** priestess
worships him w/ unrequited longing; her heart in
chaos, sharing the poet's vision; nature calls her
to her big brother like a woman loves a man & on
that day when they are to publicly mate the young
siblings are gone & are presumed eaten by the
unseen unseen like so many others before them
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
I
I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.
I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
II
But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.
We are the dark derniers let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp
And from the planted womb the man of straw.
We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the county gardens for a wreath.
In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ** the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry,
O see the poles of promise in the boys.
III
I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggots barren.
And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.
3.4k
Grinding....
Leaving it silenced, drawn and quartered
Clawing for the scraps left over
Predicament I found myself in
Or, towards the end of it
Slipping from the edges
Forager focused on finding any way back home
Sidetracked by some apparition left crying
Alone, in the corner
Grinding...
Paused, with rain drops weighted, heavy sense in the air
I can feel my lips turning blue and
Twitching
It's more literal than I would dare dream in a waking nightmare
The smell of every molecule tantamount to another realm
Hangs motionless in the air
The stone transposed becomes a rooftop asylum, overlooking such uncouth misanthropic parcels, self absorbed in this grotesque imagery, a veritable wall of self hate puzzle pieces
Grinding...
Low, on an almost ominous note, still grows colder in my ears
Blowing on winds filled with the spite and righteous
Anti holy
Fully rupturing sound of far off laughter of the
New root
My lips still moving
No sound produced
And my mind
Grinding...
I still pray to god for you
Beset on all sides by the same wickedness
Still afflicted by myself
Argue for arguments sake
****** up on the uptake
I thought that you might want it
I guess I forgot all the subtle ways
The fires spring to life at night
Arguably the wrong choice is
Looking at him
I try not to
Catch that glimpse in his eye
Already my mind races
And my bones are shivering
At the thought alone
Brickwork backing
Still swells maggots
And filing paperwork
For entrapment habits
Grinding
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
forget me not snot
shot through the top of a
hot box,
popping the rotting thoughts
up town and then down to drown
in the down town
clown-around facade parade
made to order for the
penniless quartered,
fast pace like a rocket ship
drag race,
dragging and driving,
on mars for cliff diving
writhing in the conniving
need for superior timing,
space, time and rhyming
shattering mirrors,
pushing lightyears into the ears
of the universe beast,
waiting for his feast of
treats and honeyed beef,
give the monster what he
wants or he'll take both you and me
forever deceased in the
crease of the time box
space case and
rhyme...
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
?????????
Time is not flying
the evening hours are so slow, inching by
and spent tossing and turning
my restless mind roams dark avenues
my restless feet roam the bed,
left...right...then back, over and over.
the bed, that was my hammock....no longer sways
a promise of peaceful slumber, flies away,
???????
new and strange images
start to trail me...they're heavy tassels,
tagging on the hemlines of my mind,
seeking to connect...to be known
???????
this late hour, i recall
a forked road, not far from a winding road,
from afar, a child admires a white castle
high as the clouds, its windows, foggy,
its high fence, mossy...on its front lawn
is a treehouse, perched...resting like a bird
inside a very old tree, leaning to its left side,
with a long set of steps...all painted white.
just below the white steps are gathered,
doyens of poetry...seated in their own chosen
corners...tacit, yet, empowered by their brilliant minds
the tips of their feathered pens, smoothly sliding on
paper......strange, that they're waving at me,
why, they could be dead!
???????
i must be dreaming...my muse is showing
me paths, i would think twice of treading
???????
a quartered moon selfishly glows
unsettles even more, my murky thoughts...
yet....my pressing thumb is on my journals
i must heed.........the need.
???????
"o' my elusive unknown poem,
kindly show me...lead me to your home
let my pen give light to your dim path
give second wind to my weary mind and heart,
deny, even a bit of a space......for wrath,
help me, push me...my efforts musn't cease
show me your face...we'll both have peace."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
~
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:32 AM UTC
Morning is a burnt thing
that wrings the dark from my dress,
a lilting blue on the lawn,
in that twilight, so heavy
with lures and the tiniest snails
leave ochre splinters in my palms,
a scar, where you wrote in my book,
the blood part of ruined pages, bone white
and virulent, you raise the urge to render
my wrists more fragile,
more fragile than this,
a restlessness as black as a raven
drifts through bits of paper, stray wings
come to worship the hour, vanishing
between nine and ten, Winter
is a tenderness as transparent as silk,
as fragile as poppies,
its ruthless baptism upon my body
filling with snow, my skin shimmers
like dusk, like wings
all night you held me,
steadied my heart in the heavy wind,
even when the wildflowers had sown
themselves into the shape of a grave,
the garden overgrown, my body
from a bone, and my soul
out of nothing, opening,
opening for yours,
I am sure, god has failed me,
and longing is just the heart
changing colors, all its chambers, churning
the slowly spoiling hour, all night
I ribbon and tendril,
as you make a cage of your fingers to keep out the light,
shut the latches of this cell,
shut your eyes, my lover,
for I am frayed, my belly blood dark
and grey, where it is all wearing at the ends,
a little gin poured upon the open sore
of this ache, as I am caged in glass,
shackled at my wrists, like pink clusters of wisteria (oh, pink)
upon the secret places of our skin,
fingertips press against me like a bell,
beneath the swell of *******
I keep the debris,
my poems to you are small,
quartered and hidden beneath the floorboards
of this room, the bed, the glass,
the pink (oh pink) wisteria in bloom,
morning, is a burnt thing,
spoiled like a jail of brick and mortar,
where I live on licorice,
and on the palest underside of the wrists,
the half beat,
I dont think, I have ever loved so gently,
in silence, unexpected,
midnight spooled in a clavicle,
for my skeleton is a fossil
you will find every night
in your flesh,
and my faith lies
in that single thing left
to us, a smoldering filigree of sorrow,
shaped like a moth,
and morning is our burning....
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
Merry Christmas, the voice greets me
humbug I mutter under breath
greed hatred jealousy
only things you live with.
Keep to yourself your mirth
I sullenly brood
such lies are too heavy for this earth
done this place no good.
Relations under cloud of doubt
each soul bears a grievous injury
merriment had long gone out
the greet is just empty.
It's a pity you still find it merry
with all the injustice inequity
men classified quartered
children for food bartered.
Merry doesn't the word stink
while some choose what to drink
fuss about the flavor to savor
many reach it by miles' labor.
Merry can't hide away the glum
of human habitats in dingy slums
strewn on pavements under open sky
breathing refuses left to die.
Still, Merry Christmas to you, says the voice
the time is to give and rejoice
the world though truly is what you say
haven’t You, I, We, made it that way?
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
“See herself..?”
‘Who..?’
“Herself.. there”
‘An’ about her?’
“..Cheating on himself..”
‘Sure she.. that one..’
“Fur coat.. no knickers..”
They scuttle out daily wagging their vicious tales,
Through dullness that dampens their every afternoon,
Ignored by their own; an’ threadbare reflection,
******* each spun yarn an’ sheet out to dry,
Stained with every listless memory an’ lonely evening,
Gossip-hungry, they covet the community swill,
Chomping through the random, unopposed untruths,
‘..husband slayer, heartless siren.. tis’ a mortal sin..’
They make no bones of any acquaintance of herself,
With monstrous-eyed chronicles of salacious green,
Such falsehood is kind to the envious an’ bias ears,
Which tolerate any brazen line to a choir of lewd hymns,
They harmonise each lustful lie; the prime accuser,
Conducts a murky symphony of ***** laundry aired live,
The jury silent, mocking whispered an’ ears into the wind,
As the accused sullen-faced an’ solitary suddenly appears.
Herself stands idly ignorant to the satirical sniggers,
The trial by jealously ends, they turn two faces an’ leave,
No fur, no knickers, no time to wish away the pain,
Curtains drawn, truth quartered - the washing hung
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Mine Filipino rose
For thee I shalt;
Be tossed inside the
The Brazen Bull;
Until mine inside's art crisp.
Be impaled
On wood;
Mine head planted on a stick.
Be crucified
Mine hand's nailed;
Thorn's upon mine top.
A Lead Sprinkler
To sprinkle lava;
In mine throat lost.
An Iron Maiden
To taketh the metal;
Inside mine liver.
Coffin Torture
To let the crow's;
Pecketh at the splinter's.
A thumbscrew
To snap me as twigs;
As mercy I yelleth.
Rope torture
To leaveth me exposed;
To hell and the element's.
The Guillotine
As mine head falleth;
Into oldened basket.
The Rack
As mine shoulder's wilt bust;
Twisting mine bracket's.
Tongue Tearer
To knot mine tongue;
And rip it at the seam's.
The Rat Torture
As mine interior wouldst be ripped;
Rat's burrowing inside me, scream's.
The chair of torture
As edge's impale mine spine;
Hellion seating.
Cement Shoes
In the bottom of the sea;
Wherein noone canst heareth me.
Crocodile Shears
To gut me as a fish;
Reptilian grip's.
The Breaking Wheel
Wherein mine limb's art tied up to spokes, hammered by devil's;
I crack, Snapple, pop, as mine bones elongate, mine blood chokes.
Sitting on the Spanish Donkey
Mine carrion torn in twain;
As heaven canst feeleth mine pain, for thee I'd screameth again.
Saw Torture
As tis the razor's edge wouldst goeth through mine abdomen;
Evil bastard's shalt cut me, as I'm praying amen, just to DIETH.
Hanged, Drawn, and Quartered
It sais it all in the verse;
For thee I'd haveth all this done mine queen, for thee to liveth.......
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
Himself it was who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down
In the country and the town,
With this prayer upon their neck,
"Judgment and a judge we seek."
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair,
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears,
Louder than with speech they pray,
What am I? companion; say.
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates,
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;—
Is to his friend a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared, repeats;
What himself confessed, records;
Sentences him in his words,
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine for ever ****** minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state,
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge
To those who gaze from the sea's edge.
It is there for benefit,
It is there for purging light,
There for purifying storms,
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tam, or isle forgot,
But justice journeying in the sphere
Daily stoops to harbor there.
1.7k
high finance and terror
you had half a job
the commissioner made a huge mistake
where words just disappear
oh do help the rich and well-connected
they need you
careful that your boss does not see you
favoriting my tweets
unstar! unstar! panic! panic!
social media illiteracy
bio: follow or **** off
**** the king of hearts
quadruple cheeseburger
acidic fruits
keep chugging
harm on y
a night of debauchery in the works
our minds refueled with petroleum
entropy hour with free golden shower
where truth gnaws at your legs
but you continue walking
human irrationality
gets beaten to a pulp
by bot rationality
how bland and discordant
getting them drawn and quartered
humanity can do without us
that **** poet saw the egg hatch into regrets
**** the only one who cares
manufacturing awkward silences
and making a killing
what the hell is anergy
miss world virginity 2012
what have we done
ghost eating humans or some **** like that
someone already thought of that
funny thing you wanted to say
your timeline can beat my timeline
mute only the users who make too much sense
the epitome of trying too hard
and then coronal mass ejection
all the over the place
you know this goes nowhere so you want out
no more outreach from this point on
shredded the flow chart
too much in the projects
exit stage down
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
I can smell **** history and love
filling these vibrant streets at 3am.
Our caramel coated porcelain skin,
glows wildly under street lamps.
I’ve been hung, drawn and quartered,
by expectations and false notions of me,
but I’m past all of that, for now anyway,
as we haunt borrowed corridors.
We drink in our surroundings while we
shed our mundane bourgeois stresses,
and silent chrome giants watch us dance
around still horses to absent music.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
It slips,
this new surrender,
past the rusted locks
and caution signs
and crumbling roads
of cul-de-sacs
and vacant lots
and open tracks
to freedom;
where conundrums play
and secrets huddle
and bodies lie
and youth decays,
retired past expired days
Engraved in time,
cocoons and shells
and nests are hung
and quartered for a chance at love;
the way ahead,
receding,
half behind
and part enslaved
(a mask of promise worn from birth to lucid grave)
And,
like an avalanche,
it falls in quick pursuit,
this multiverse of
filthy guise
– of liquid paths and dangerous eyes –
and ruby coloured blushing cheeks;
where every lover’s
heart of sponge or stone
descends to meet . . .
heating,
for another touch
beneath the fraying sheets
And all the while
in rush and glory,
time,
********** moments
as it passes, flies away –
manifest instead as flesh,
(again)
with wings that only beat
to re-transcend
and scar
and mend in
pounding,
swollen,
rhythms,
c
l
a
w
i
n
g
for the warmth of smothered distance:
roaring
for a welcome end
So,
spaced between
the tics
and tocs
of darting pain
and thrusting *****
of ***** aroused, abused, and shamed,
a silence, near, deploys again
the ever caged
and emptied song
and lusting shame
of mouths and tongues,
inclining, fast at last
to go
from whence it came
to soak the mind
and strip the soul
and blur the lines
of time and toll,
buried,
in surrender, whole
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
7 o'clock
a light summertime dream
just before dark
unfolding it's scheme
painted in sandals
clovered kissed toes
lovely green shamrocks
are standing in prose
a fierce looking cat
Amber eyes
silver fur
bunting her leg
and giving a purrrr
getting back home
nearly hour gone by
look to the tree
playing ball in the sky
it looks like the moon
nearly 3 quarter size
outlined in countries
is neatly disguised
it's actually a ball
playing with leaves
That thing called the moon
has some tricks up its sleeves
she saw it glide down
and bounce off of a cloud
tipping it's hat
and bowing to town
See you tomorrow
her group of new friends
this just the beginning
we're far from the end
No need for luck
with her beau in the sky
a 3 quartered boy
with love in his eyes
she bows to the moon
as her Gypsy skirt flows
silver cat walking
wherever she goes
shamrock tipped pom poms
will twinkle her toes
Another summer time walk
with his dearest of Maidens
her toes and her eyes
are moon dipped and ladden
Goodnight Moon.
Cherie Nolan© 2016
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
A fire set between Lovers, smoldering
Incinerating a hole through their pure
Intentions juxtaposed to coveting
Above all else: More
Not a solitude of atrophy sprouting
In the cracks, but a flowering of beauty
in this segmented, quartered tissue.
The glued on perfection of self control: Dissolved
Lust for this temple to crumble and
Reunite, lessen this Schism of
Lovers betrayed by Lovers
Strengthen our bonds: Repair
The poetry of this divide, ineffable
Solace flooding the fields and drowning
Compassion in silence, untold
Stories of the Abyss: Secrets
Flecks of gold in blue, rarity defined
By the lies between Lovers
Thoughts of Amber, silica resin
Trapping, binding the Chasm: Imprison
Imperial, consolidating facts surfacing
From overturned, plowed dirt
Covering Lovers graves, coffins
of sleeping Emotion: Un-Waking
Life from Lovers veins, to
Lovers heart.
Schism.
Divide.
It will forever separate us, Love.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
each day i reach your door
like a wet rag with a pulse.
heartbeat ticking,
hand hammering.
here’s your pills—
stabby, pretty, blue.
my fingerprints turn into bruises;
i forget my name.
shattered feet.
socks from last week.
air tastes like floor tiles.
i think the pill looked at me first.
you never ask what’s in it,
only if i still want you to take it.
your eyes orbit my pearl earring
like satellites.
bourgeois flaws taste better imported.
“jolie laide,”
tattooed where your heart should be.
you once told me:
i love ugly things, they last longer.
i mailed my neck to your *ancestors.
no return address,
no name, no guilt.*
pupil to pupil—
*will you know
you never knew.*
hope dies once
in a bag of *dollars,
hollow with pennies.*
you swallow orders like *gospel.
who gave you empty vessels?*
i bit the pill of idiots in half,
wore it as lipstick,
*kissed your ego
until it foamed.*
i leave the door ajar for ghosts;
they smelled like your cologne.
once,
you called me
your softest affair.
pill quartered.
earring taken.
no knocking.
goliath shadows hover,
even in the walls.
*this one licked the floor
where your heart used to be.*
your name clogs my throat
like i deepthroated grief.
i stitched my eye shut
to stop seeing you.
still,
visions came
through my teeth.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 1:30 PM UTC
for my first act,
my mind is drawn and quartered.
for my second act,
my body is crushed with heavy stones.
for my third act: i must sew my mouth shut
when all i want to do is rip my throat open from the force of my scream.
the pain of the needle grounds me
though it is not sterile, it is all i have.
my monstrous blood swiftly stains the thread, the stage,
and, less importantly, my clothes.
"my mother never taught me to sew," i say with a smile,
"but she did tell me that i talk too much."
when i am finished, i bow with a flourish,
to scattered applause.
the crowd has quickly become bored.
they have seen this tired performance before,
they crave something new.
they demand entertainment.
so, i will give them the show they want;
for my final act, i will disappear.
Oct 20, 2022
Oct 20, 2022 at 9:53 PM UTC
**** the witch
hogtied to this
thin-skinned wagon
packed with privilege
call me wicked
if it makes it easier
view my plight
as one of my own making
I should have done
as I was told
Brand me traitor
as dust obscures
this timeworn scene
I know what it means
to be a whole divided
drawn and quartered
dragged to all four corners
left for buzzards
along the walled
deserted borders
*scattered limbs
seeking unity
I reach for what’s mine
only to find
healing hands
too tightly praying
too busy manufacturing
high ground
in this time
of righteousness*
Label me other
as I diverge
light the skies
with fireworks red
belt patriot songs
I will not mouth
empty words
to an anthem
I no longer
believe in
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
The alcoholics return
To the chambers that offer oblivion
Their sliver of hope
Is drawn and quartered
While they rust away
In pockets of loneliness
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
anxiety guillotine, hanging
from a thread, suspended above
my sunburnt neck. i'm utterly spent.
another day, back bent in the stocks,
latched in for the Kafka-esque:
carnivalesque body-horror.
shovel white-hot daggers
beneath finger-nail keratin.
bite my tongue off with police-tape teeth.
sadist, savor my godless screams.
drawn and quartered. send my limbs
to the map's furthest corners.
horseflies' aborted eggs
nest amidst maggot-infested
intestines, dangerously dangling.
turn my frown upside down.
stick a razor-blade
in my mouth
and pull 'till i grin
like chelsea.
interned within an unmarked grave,
save for the cairn made from the same stones
i flung myself upon from a great height. a wave
dashed against the rocks, endlessly rebuffed—
the sea's clairvoyance couldn't budge the boulder.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
Merry Christmas, the voice greets me
humbug I mutter under breath
greed hatred jealousy
only things you live with.
Keep to yourself your mirth
I sullenly brood
*such lies are too heavy for this earth
done this place no good.*
Relations under cloud of doubt
each soul bears a grievous injury
merriment had long gone out
the greet is just empty.
It's a pity you still find it merry
with all the injustice inequity
man classified quartered
children for food bartered.
Merry doesn't the word stink
while some choose what to drink
fuss about the flavor to savor
many reach it by thirsty miles' labor.
Merry can't hide away the glum
of human habitats in dingy slums
strewn on pavements under open sky
breathing refuses left to rot and die.
Still, Merry Christmas to you, says the voice
*the time is to give and rejoice
the world though is truly what you say
You, I, We, have made it that way.*
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
the first rays
bleed through
our old quartered
window panes
--slightly yellowed with
old age and neglect--
it casts a golden light
across the room
falling on top of the bed
as we once did
young lovers eclipsed in
passion too strong to control
muscles tensed with love
as shadows roar like lions
in back arched ecstasy
across the canvas wall
there's no passion
anymore
only the golden
light from
the window
as it falls
on an old man
alone with his shadow
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Sharp, empty sky is a dread blue eye
looking at everything but you.
You feel like the only thing that exists, but really,
your'e the only thing here that doesn't.
The wind would rather talk to itself
than speak your breathless name.
You set out to build a fence
to prove to the dead sky that you exist
and oh, the building felt so good
that only once you'd finished the work
did you realize where you stood.
It is quiet on your side, a soundless expanse;
Are you proud, you languageless savage?
Does your silence feel like vindication?
Or does your heart start to tremble,
do your lungs start to burn,
when you look across the fenced and quartered plains
and see you've strung barbed wire across the only passage home?
There it broods familiar on the horizon, and must you stand removed
until it collapses, or will you ****** your pride to save it?
What's worse, being fenced in, or fenced out?
Terrified of both, terrified of it all, of the certainty and the uncertain,
of the loneliness and the companionship,
you set fire to the prairie, flee to the high mountains,
and hope that the sky sees you there.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC