"recomposed" poems
Here God,
Everything is for you:
Here are my
Testicles, looking like smashed purple grapes,
Bruised, mashed, and crushed along with what
Is left of my once proud, now exploded, tattered *****
I have laid before you my
Disemboweled, bloodied and tangled intestines;
Blown into bits and pieces, here lays my torso along with
Shattered ribs, ruptured lungs, exposed internal organs:
Erupted heart; battered, split, spleen; torn, mangled liver;
Next to them, my legs, minus a few toes;
Arms with hands missing thumbs, fingers;
My head,
Less pieces of skull, cheek bones, nose, tongue, and teeth,
Is nearby;
Those puffy messes of glutinous, jellied, deflated ****** orbs are my eyes;
Over here, piles of chunks of obliterated pieces of flesh floating
On a thick soup of congealed blood, mixed and meshed with
Splintered, fractured, cracked bones; everything
Convoluted, disfigured, impossible to identify.
All of this is for you,
I am your martyr,
Your soldier,
Your obedient servant;
I blew myself up,
Along with many infidels including
Men and women,
Unborn babies and children,
Young boys and girls,
I tore their bodies to shreds,
Mangled and mutilated, they
Suffered deaths no nightmare could imagine.
I sacrificed myself for you,
Exemplifying piety and righteousness,
I await my reward,
Wait for you to put my pieces together again;
Been here for what seems an eternity and
You have not come near;
Not made me whole.
Where are you?
Are you not great?
Where are the young, innocent, ****** girls or
The boys with silky, pearl smooth skins;
Will I ever have an ******** again?
Uncomfortable, anxious, concerned I
Lay here on this sacred, hallowed ground,
Like a fleshy puzzle, scattered in jagged pieces,
Waiting to be solved;
Praying to be completed and recomposed.
Where are you God?
A virtuous, faithful, prostrated one waits;
I have much to show you.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.
Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.
Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).
I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.
A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.
Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.
Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.
We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.
My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.
He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.
It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,
How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,
For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:
The exact rock where his inexactness
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,
Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.
1.9k
(Ain’t “They” Great!)
Now watching 13 year old grandkid live-on-streaming-Internet,
playing Little League baseball in California, pleasantly surprised,
No, not by the amazing technology, or his super great play,
but the laugh-out-loud accommodation to the “au courant”
Game announcer, a soulless robot machine, stupid-smart, without exception, employs THEY pronoun for all, which after 10 seconds thot,
of serious reflection is a brilliant deflection, a solutionary salutation!
We come to see kids play ball, care not a whiff (double entendre),
re identity politicized insanity, machine makes everyone truly equal,
robbing stupids of a phony, proclamation of self-righteous “individuality”
God Bless No-Brainers!
Ain’t They Great!
~Postcript~
Introducing a newly Recomposed Natty:
still an OWG
(old white guy)
but now a Proudly, a gaily machine-made, in the USA
They.
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 10:46 AM UTC
is there hope between a stone
like the figurative speech of abstracton
those fragile metophers of life
an essesnce of fleeting moments of existence
like some iconic inventory of bourgious values
that reinscribe themselves
on the inside of your eyeballs
so when you close them
they become a cultural outpost
here where inventory shades into affermation
where poeple come, clamour
to claim it as thier own
where a thousand seductions become one illusion
your eyes closed peer
into and enchanted looking glass of stone
where brooding darkness
offers beauty and hope
but rules here are different
language, customs, values
are not what they seem
for if you look back
it is a piller of salt
who will turn into you
for this is a place of images
images built upon images
constructed upon layers
and layers of so much paint
and you ask yourself ( without much instistence)
is there hope between a stone
and in this brief moment of asking
you give a life time
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image
life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body
so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning
the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being
the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings
then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born
intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking
whille a distant star is crushing itself,
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay
perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies
Feb 14, 2025
Feb 14, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC
Today I am a bubble of oxygen
Surrounded by water
Today I am available
Actions are the water
Water is water
With the untouchable soon-to-be
Touched at my back
The untouchable only
In touch with me
Within touch
But I know I’m heading south when i am done
But I don’t get it sometime
I’ll get to it sometime
I spent the morning my morning looking into windows and listening to glass inside of her so still skipping past the cell would be towards unless ideas and stop the run going to be sick
Flattening in full anyway I recomposed in my absence night had fun already it had grown dark
Still so shut the blinds and render through the window that carry me through and less I do use to connect me to all who said Evers of still deadly between worlds
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
they float in rusty rouge waters
as fog steams upward, obscuring
various uncanned flotsam
white shapes of vocabular form
disperse into random orientations
entangled by processed seagreens
i saw the letter 'k' rise to the surface,
only to slip below again as other
consonants recomposed
with a single dip of my spoon,
seven of these lifted from
their salty wakes form
a simple line of
characters—
spelling
nothing...
"unremarkable soup"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 7:21 AM UTC