"reanimated" poems
captive audience listening
to the hornets pouring out of me
i was running fingers
listlessly down your face
and dreaming of acid rain
—a picture in my head
that refused to die
ever mindful
of the bedroom door
hinging on your aches
and unborn eyes
the reanimated heart
chimed
with the twisted shape
of what awaits us all
a rising overture
from behind the veil
warm, wet handed
in a bath of blood
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
Who's that pale chick
Mumbling to herself about
Fictional schools of witchcraft and wizardry
And trolleys and snakes?
Oh that's just Christine
She's not that bad
If she tells you she's a
Reanimated corpse
Walking among the living by using brains as sustenance
Don't pay any attention.
She's probably just kidding.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
You grow wild yet reverential
Your bowed white heads
Gathered in prayer groups
Dotting the well-kept lawn of the dead.
Do the residents tend to you?
Do their icy-white greenfingers
- reanimated by the winter moon -
Awaken you with a deathly touch?
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 5:59 PM UTC
Even I, with scales on my eyes and large, heavy headphones pressed tightly against my ears, can see that this three week conversation has died out, although I have made every attempt to keep it burning.
Even I, with my nose bleeding, and my heart bleeding, and my soul dripping some strange, red liquid, know that this has run its course, which, coincidentally, was directly into an iceberg which I never saw. An iceburg that only exists in your eyes, yet this ship sailed, serene, into it, with no word of warning from your lips.
Even I, with guts spilled out, in the street, in front of your house, spelling your name, must aknowledge the fleeting nature of the situation. I guess.
Even I, with next to no knowledge of myself, know that I am lying.
But they are lies that I must eat with the eagerness of starving foxes - for that is what I am now. I am made of lies and paw-prints in the vacant lot, near the abandoned sugar factory, that place I still believe is haunted, to this day. Maybe it houses my ghosts.
But after my dinner of hollow lies, I am left famished still, even though I choked down one too many, coughing, and gasping for air, as if I were drowning in my own falsities. After my unsatisfying meal, I only want one dessert: A cigarette and an answer. But only one is possible, and I have already made my choice. The pull of Nicotine is much stronger than that of closure. So I don't really need it.
I am a blind man, who has wandered onto the train tracks, far outside of town, where the iron horses can really run. In the city (or something that may only resembe a city,) they prance. On display. "Look at my tall, graffitti-stained walls. See my beautiful face of cow-catcher grin and headlamp, cyclops eye."
I made my picnic on the tracks, thinking they were a bench. I guess that was a bad idea. And my reanimated corpse agrees, as it trusts that another train is still far away and stumbles about, picking up lost pieces.
I should build a house here. I really don't mind rebuilding, and the trainwrecks ain't so bad...
All in retrospect, friend.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
To become aware of the single moment that needs interpreting
To be jolted from sleep between sheets creased in the tribulations of dreamscapes
Clammy hand pressed to neck you remember yourself
And before it slips and crumbles spiraling up to the cosmos it is captured
Pinch your eyes together and draw the cool water from the well
A friend’s arm around your shoulder; a sweaty smile, meandering through
The crowds of faces, each one drab and still, motionless for you
Tendrils of tenderness wandering o’er a body consumed in secret greed and corrosion
And the cheeky faced attached returning curiosity masked in love
Flitting up and down the stem of the one you knew to be yours
Yearning for her to open her petals and reward arduous labor
The repose of correcting ages of missteps and the satisfaction of
Correctly placing lost experience
Enjoying the rhythm pounded out by drums of progress, and then pacing
To one all your own
Reasserting brutal individuality in spite of legions upon legions of conformity
Then ironically setting the trend
Once seized, every vague trapping melts down weary head, past hunched back
Beyond knees bend to reach toe tip
Revitalized by the comfortable shade of your whole self, the parts unwanted, unseen
Usurped, intangible, inconceivable, and most illustrated purely glow
A self if surely sacked, a reanimated soul now softly speaks, and sexuality is assured in
Each slow step
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow
In that field of green and yellow
He moves not but he knows you
A shield of reanimated rags and a hat of straw
Staked in the middle of whirling wheat land jigsaw
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow
Sunken, rigged mask in funny hue
Birds flapping far from the voodoo
He moves not but he knows you
In petulant summers, in the aloof snow
He stays still, beholding every secret through
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow
The sandman woos the town into a sleepy slew—
Wood limbs brought to life, twitch in vile brew
He moves not but he knows you
There in that calm caverns an Orwellian show
Of deeper ends that only some gods know
Beware, beware the eyes of the scarecrows
They move not but they see you
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
There was a hole in the ground
No bigger than my hand
And as I reached in
It began to expand
In the center of the garden
Of the Castle Winter Requiem
I took all that I could find there
Or at least, what was left of them
Alas I found the tomb
Temple Goddess of the Moon
She took the form of a sparrow
From war, bitten by an arrow
And she granted me the favor
If I would so boldly choose
To pick a life with her forever
Or have a chance at cutting loose
She reemerged into a body
Morphed into a woman, grey and proud
My obsession became a hobby
As she unraveled her silken shroud
Reanimated, afoot, and coming awfully close
Her inhuman face I’ll consume forever
and mine
She loved the most.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
And maybe I should be scared of passing cars,
strangers in the dark, but nothing scares me
like the black hole I carry around; the endless
static in my mind and the desire to completely fall;
I'm walking, I don't know why, and it's like I think
placing one foot in front of the other and covering
mile after stupid mile will make the darkness
fall away from me; as if I could ever outrun it.
The cold bites, I can't feel my hands, but that
aching pulse reminds me I still have blood flowing
through my veins, I am still alive however dead
I may feel. Clenching, curling my fingers until the nails
sink into dried skin, to stop myself beating my limbs,
longing to see bruises blossom; sprays of dark
flowers that again prove I am not merely a corpse
reanimated; endlessly pounding darkened pavements
as if I could tire myself enough to sleep easy;
more fear for the way I feel my mind splintering
than anything that might get me, nothing could
ever terrify more than the midnight delights,
and wishes of such a broken mind as mine.
Home holds no comfort, staying still only
makes me feel sick: I want to run away but I can't
think of anywhere safe, friendly; where could I
ever go? Take me somewhere new, I'd rather be out
of place somewhere I've never been; I long
To pack a bag, catch a train, to travel
under the rifts in the sky until I find somewhere
that doesn't make my stomach churn. Now
I find myself heading for home, my legs are lead
and the cold has infected me, but still it
is easier to take than the urge to run, to jump,
to fall, fail and let the world consume me.
They promised me a fight, I know: they said it
would get infinitely worse first, but nobody
understands the crushing waves, the hours
so forbidding and empty; the scent of
some impending doom on the rain-blushed wind.
How can I ever hope to walk far enough,
fast enough, to escape this hell on earth?
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Every night I die
And
Every morning I am born again
But after my shower
I am reanimated
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
Men are ******* each other over with no waiting,
Yet we still can pass proposition eight, the hating
Inspires new generations of children by baiting
Them with lies, telling them that it’s not too late
To save themselves from the others, standing on soap crates
Preaching God and the morals while the kid decorates
His pages with blood and his sorrows, writing straight
But thinking he thinks sideways, and the pressure’s too great
To overcome because the hate won’t let him live at a normal rate,
His heart beats on a different beat, not rap or country, but he creates
Music of the soul that transcends the forced ideals he ate
Directly from the mouth of the pressures, the hate,
And does not give up even in the most dire of straights
Not giving in to what some old man describes as a fate
Not of his own choosing, telling him who to date, don’t gyrate
Those hips it could be **** so he grows up under an ******
Of false appearances and flawed beliefs, never feeling he can escape
From the hate, isn’t it great, this world we so decorate
And doesn’t it frustrate that no one can relate
That he’s on a never ending track on a train full of freight
In order to power an engine of hate, sating
His thirst for individuality by the fires that proclamate
His burned identity and when given the chance to extricate
Himself from the chaos of the tracks, it just exacerbates
Everything around him, all the hate reanimated
To the point where eighteen is the same as eighty
All he needs is a bullet, a gun, and some potassium nitrate
To stop the violence and state as his own mandate
That he is free from the belated strangers berating
Him for eating off another man’s plate
****** over by the hate, but wait,
It’s too late.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 2:45 AM UTC
Beautiful girl,
Pieces sewn together;
A patchwork, reanimated corpse.
A makeshift heart,
Fulfilling its biological duties.
Her new brain confirmed she knew all.
You guard yourself.
You make haste.
You let them touch you,
But, never touch you.
You never give away more than you take.
She never questioned humanity,
Or the selfishness of life,
Until you.
You showed her each section was seamless;
Each idiosyncrasy part of an exquisite design.
That despite her making,
Of perfectly picked portions,
She was incomplete without you.
You were strength to her weakness,
Not loneliness.
She was humble, not callous.
She could give more than she ever could take;
And her heart did not just pump blood,
But love.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
I’d just finished my fall-term exams. I felt at once both played-out and relieved.
Ever felt like just falling over? Didn’t I deserve that small treat after what I’d achieved?
No doubt our floor was ***** but dust, in blonde hair, isn’t easily perceived.
I was lying, relaxed, on the cool common room floor in sedate prostration
when my boyfriend arrived. He was eager for some post-exam reunification
but I lacked the energy for synergy, the motivation for combination
or even flirtation. Which left him grumbling with male frustration.
He suggested, “Why don’t we go out for some libation?”
Oh, what a smooth-talker - that’s practically a direct quotation.
“Oh, sure,” I said, “ply me with ***** and into temptation!”
Side stepping that, he proclaimed, “It’s time to celebrate and the start of vacation!”
I held up my hands and he pulled me upright, “Ok.” I said in resigned assignation.
A shower and change of clothes soon had me refreshed and reanimated.
How sad I’d have been to miss the end of term conversations imbued by holiday decorations
and I offer this to you, my small, winter, college-based narration.
In the hope that you’ll be inspired, even if you’re tired, to celebrate your own holiday occasions.
Happy Holidays Everyone!
Dec 21, 2022
Dec 21, 2022 at 10:18 PM UTC
I can keep it all to myself
the things you said to me
the things you did
it's mine forever
it's mine alone
the things I wish I did
the things I wish I said
I should have put a bullet
in your pretty little head
I can keep it all to myself
the things I said to you
the things I did
the things I thought
it's mine forever
it's mine alone
Instagram was a graveyard
of memories that came to pass
until
my ex shared a picture of our son
on the backseat of his car
with their hands touching
whoever "he" is
I wonder if he knows
all the nasty **** you love to do
the ****** up thoughts you keep
the thoughts that keep you
so very far away from me
Now Instagram is a nightmare
a collage of everything
that makes me sick to breathe
it's where my dreams died
and reanimated
as someone else's
and that's ok because
in a way
they are still mine forever
his and mine alone
If we ever touched again
that would be
our very own cosmic Hiroshima **** up
I wonder how many souls we'd stamp out?
I wonder how many dreams would die?
mine are at the forefront of my mind
the dreams I had of us together
as the happiest three man band
the world has never seen
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 8:48 AM UTC
Vain I was, until I saw your eyes...
From the beginning, I felt like a reanimated corpse.
Empty I was, yet your charm filled my life,
like a blank canvas painted with colors.
I felt the rapture when I touched your face,
like launching a rusty old ship after years.
Waltzing I was, with the waves of love at a mild pace,
unaware this feeling could ever disappear.
The reflection of your eyes became my guiding star,
and your smile, my healing potion.
I was fully occupied by your affection;
your perfection was vast, alas I was no match for devotion.
Enthralled by this love, I felt delighted,
ready to be sunk by your mythical sirens.
And thus, I wished we would forever be undivided,
calm by your side, through storm, through silence.
...
You knew our love would not last, yet you spoke no sentence,
leaving me wandering, a displaced ghost.
Like a roaring sea, you shattered all I had,
leaving me to fade, my only plea to return to your peaceful coast.
Weak to resist the feelings rising inside,
whiplashed my soul as the waves do to the seashore on a stormy night...
Everyone has a star to brighten their dark nights;
yet mine was but an illusory illumination of a dead light.
What turned our love into misery? I have no wisdom.
All that remains is a fractured heart and a shattered soul.
Elation falls like leaves in autumn,
and I’ve accepted this blight, for I have no control.
You drowned me deep into your immeasurable black sea,
fading slowly, growing lifeless, growing cold.
Still, I admire and adore thee,
for I am no longer empty, I am full of perfect holes.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
Well now I'd sell my soul for a pound
Of words: all picked clean of ambiguity;
Rocks and detritus removed,
Preselected for clarity of meaning
Predestined for the musical familiarity
Measured out for rhyme and syncopation
Delivered by some gum chewing, ball-capped deviant
Nervously glancing up and down the street
As he slips me the stash, and I hand over the cash.
Yes, what a dream; instead of the frown
Then the squint; with a curse on the scribbled, marked through letters
Killing, resurrecting, then killing them all over again
Buried, dug up, and reanimated
Embalmed, only to be cast again on the bone pile
Trying to remove the threadbare impressions
With the worn out, gnawed upon pink eraser
Drooling, staring at the clock, eating more junk food
In between the hours of crisis and midnight
The only right answer being
To eradicate whatever I like
And leave alone whatever makes me uncomfortable
Impossible task: insipidity ruins the brilliance
The plot's flaccid and lacking moral filibuster
The characters weep and sing at the wrong times.
What kind of a racket
Doesn't even have a black market
To turn to when you're desperate,
And you've got to die
To have your name be remembered,
If indeed it ever would be.
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 1:26 PM UTC
Love's a funny thing
That makes your thoughts go fuzzy
Mine were short to begin with
And with you,
It's like I'm surrounded by
Lovely things
Things that used to seem bland
And useless
They become reanimated
With little traces of you
Everywhere I go,
I think.
You are my rock
Not to sound cheesy
You keep me going
I crave your company
Each simple thing I do
Will never be enough
Nothing will amount
To your perfection
And every single day
I try.
I'm no good a poems
I like to draw
But every sketch of you
Doesn't come close
To those eyes
Those lips
That neck
Your smile
But all the while
I draw.
I sit alone feeling lost
With no arms around me
No one to whisper in my ear
But I think of you
You're always in my thoughts
No matter where you go
I remember.
I'm sorry my poem to you isn't so grand
Nothing about me is
So it makes me wonder why
Someone so perfect as you
Would settle for the
Normal
That is me
I may never know.
But I do know
That
I love you.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
Ted Williamse's head sits frozen
In a cryo chamber in Arizona to be
Thawed and reanimated at a later date.
The splendid splinter. Set in eternal winter
After all said and done. Thumper.
THE INTERVIEW
Theodore, was that a curve or slider ?.
"Can't say for sure sport. I picked up the seams but it busted in
high and tight
Ted, what exactly was the plan ?
"Couldn't say for sure ace
I'm all in. they froze my head to a
cat food tin"
Ted When do you plan on coming back
"Well, I have no real timetable as such, you
know science moves forward in starts and lurches.
Reanimation and a cure would go real swell.
You know."
Well we all here are praying hard for a cure
You hang on in there. A century or so and your good as new.
By the way Ted ,who signed the papers?
" Couldn't rightly say chum but this meat locker
is sure for the birds"
All right buddy. Thaw
you later.
Well, keep your chin up Teddy and your powder dry
Just think good thoughts and the time will fly.
What's a hundred years to
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
Corrupted is flesh,
Reanimated, vacant frame,
Carnivorous Bite,
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
the dirt’s turned up, the body’s gone
and the makeshift cross is snapped in two
maybe you should’ve dug the hole a bit deeper
maybe you should’ve made it work
now everything is plastic-wrapped and vacuum-sealed
and all you can smell is germ-x and cheap soap
but it’s better than her perfume
you burned her clothes and lingerie in your backyard
along with her favorite books you didn’t read
— she never asked for anything to be returned
you forgot about her for a while
the words of her eulogy gave you closure
“it’s over”
entwined with clichés and ********
that fertilized your daffodils —
the flowers of new beginnings
but then you saw her corpse
reanimated with Another on her arm
and the laughter that plays in your head
when you can’t sleep at night
spilled from her undead lips
her memory flooded your mind
and gnawed your brain
as you returned to her upturned grave
delirious in a sleepwalk daze
plucking petals from a daffodil
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
Scientists have recently been reported to having tried and successfully reanimated human tissue
With the new millennium it is stated that millions will die of starvation
New drugs are in development that are said to cure all diseases even the common cold
Stem cell research is closer to creating the perfect clone
One by one civilians are being rounded up and made to perform in test experiments
The government has its eye in every third ratio of existence
One out of every ten doctors agree that the world will end soon
Further tests have confirmed that what we are witnessing here is
The sudden irrational decline of humankind
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 5:30 AM UTC
Just business
That's all it is
Y las puertas del infierno
Is who you working with
See that corpse
It's been reanimated
It's under my control
Young trucos the greatest
Money gangs
Are all around
So ah jacker get no sleep
That's how we get down
It's World War C
To pay for the sequel
Muthufuckers getting smoked
And that's what it equals
Estoy arriba
From that Cheech and Chong
Badass joint so I can work on my song
Top half black Chucks
And some black bandannas
My face like ah stoke
Got the black ski mask
Es como yo trabajo
Rappers getting guerra
Con palabra los mato
That's ah deadline
I'm ah make em me
If not they get found
******* dead in the street
I got weapons and tactics
I deploy on you
Situation getting happy
With that sinister crew
Out of the blue
Here come the Tommy guns
We're just getting started
But you've already done
I got weapons and tactics
Specialized
To hit you with ah bullet
in between your eyes
Bye Bye
It's not ah lullaby
It's ah walk by shooter
On the enemy side
Ese cut throat game
That we play
Vatos get cut almost everyday
Mis pensamientos
Son controlados por mi
Cause from the track come on
I'm all you see
I'm still here
After all these years
Won't think ah different knowledge
Cause you in my peers
That's why I feed
Ese on the weak
I tear em up to shreds
seven days ah week
So behind
The closed doors where I be
I plan murders on the enemy
All my tactics learned
I stuff em in ah truck
Then watch em burn
Gang banging .usica
Got you ducking vatos
limo cause I'll shoot at ya
Exhale beyond Aztec kingdom
I'm on another planet
Coming back to get ya
I got weapons and tactics
I deploy on you
Situation getting happy
With that sinister crew
Out of the blue
Here come the Tommy guns
We're just getting started
But you've already done
I got weapons and tactics
Specialized
To hit you with ah bullet
in between your eyes
Bye Bye
It's not ah lullaby
It's ah walk by shooter
On the enemy side
The pistol booming
I'm mind consuming
Sleep walking out your door
What the **** you doing!
Totalitarian this regime
I pulled up just to strangle the scene
I'm sixteen Ese from their ice
Cause I'm muthufucking tweaking for the rest Of the night all night You meet zombie naco
No vacation this Nal Cabo
I'm one In ah ******* million
So know it well
With who your dealing
I indoctrinate Then I elevate
Then I go around the corner and move some weight So what you got
I got more than you
More than all you muthufuckas posted up in your tomb I lay seize
To any domain
Either you get down or
your team get slay
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
I have alot of opinions, this particular one I am about to share with you today is a seemingly less popular idea amoung the masses.
Let's take it back to right after the first world war- soldiers coming back from battle were ailed physically, but what drove many of them sadly to the points of insanity and suicide were the things they had witnesses on the battlefield. Scenes of people infected with festering diseases that eventually took their lives, some with arms and legs completely taken off- still walking around in the shock of it all, and most of all- the death, the brains and blood and insides of what used to be living breathing people now splayed out across the landscape or piling up in the trenches. The mere thought of it is absolutely horrific.
Today, we can turn on our various screens and witness the horror in high definition, excruciating detail. Human being desimating human beings. Killing each other for fun, taking another life for fun.
I know I am mostly alone on this, every single man enjoys his brutally violent video games, gore movies and zombie thrillers are the biggest thing right now.
Personally, I feel its disgraceful. A total disrespect for the dead and human dignity. Think of your grandparents, your parents, all of your friends and family. Would you be so excited to see them fall victim in the zombie apocolapse? Already dead, reanimated, rotting corpses of your loved ones attempting to take your life. Would you be so thrilled to have them pinned at gunpoint, because to the shooter- its a game?
This numbed human experience is insane.
I don't believe in it, and I refuse to live by it.
Yes, I have been exposed to blood, guts, gore & war
But I certainly don't absorb it for fun, or as a silly past time.
These are peoples lives.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
I imagine myself crafting a story. You'll be a character, with a new name. A reanimated corpse perhaps, but it will have to do. This is my testimony to those moments that decayed long ago. I loved you once. Now your memory casts a shadow in my dreams. I see a familiar silhouette just around the corner. I reach out with a mirage of ***** fingers. My love is like an old crumpled photograph that has been flattened, and embedded to the inside of my eye lid. When I close my eyes I can almost make out the image. I tired to rip out the photo, to put it in a more appropriate place, but maybe such a photo album would be an embarrassment and I'm afraid that I'm not dexterous enough to perform such a surgery and remain intact. So, ink and paper will have to do. Maybe if I darken the page enough your ghost can find a home there. It's crowded in here. I'm not sure if I have enough space to house the two of us forever. I never asked for my mind to become a graveyard, after all.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:12 AM UTC
I watched her skin
Go from black and white
Then
Start filling out
With color again
Slowly saw the warmth
That had once withdrawn
Come creeping back in
And the pursed lips
Pointed with sorrows kiss
Turned inside out and up again
Refreshed like my favorite web page
Reanimated
Alive instead of stagnant
And black hair turned to brown
Her grey eyes turned to hazel explosions
And the walls came crumbling down
Without knowing
What the showing of such warmth did
I saw my skin start filling in to
I was not smiling
But there was life anew
Brewing and burning through
The dark illusions I was struggling with
I never got a chance to thank her for it
So this is it
A poem of gratitude
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Tomorrow is you, you, you day, doomsday, Tuesday, too-soon day,
But for now, we have headlight heartthumps and stars in your eyes.
We have oceans of asphalt where we sail in shopping cart man o’ wars.
We have frizzy hair where moonlight hides and kisses on our magenta lips.
Tomorrow is for you, by you, with a special guest appearance by you.
Teleprompter notebook clutched in non-regional fingers
as your throat flies over the early morning traffic for the eight am report.
Tomorrow is to die for, lie for, try for, because you need it, seed it, want to be it.
We have place, we have lace, fingers traced over the skin between the lines.
Tomorrow is lentil spectacles, vision impaired, nightmares in mirrors that are closer than they appear.
We have scarves, secret sensuality, subconsciousness, sovereign sometimes and their armies of selfish senses.
Tomorrow is springtime revolution, noodle-nooses and ready, aim, fire reanimated dreams.
We have the means, the torn seams along the moments when we know what we want.
We have what seems to be the day, the day, the holiday, the you-day.
Tomorrow is every day.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC