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RH 78 May 2015
The sweet hum of a beautiful melody.
The deep aroma of morning exhaust fumes.
The excited chatter in a foreign tone.
Clip clopping of high heeled shoes speeding up to catch a bus.
The homeless man wrapped in a rotten sleeping bag as close to rigormortis as a live man gets with his palm open but his eyes closed.
The twang of perfume mixed with cigarette smoke floating effortlessly up to the blue sky above.
Marvellous architectural wonders rising from the ground, their dominating shadows line the streets to serve as a reminder that our forefathers laid down the road we still walk today.
mike dm Jan 2017
Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Not anywhy. Not caring pennywise above my lotto-won unslant brow. I simply cannot who this town anymore.

Wut? It's not that i "jus can't;"
it's that.. well, it's that....

---- It all sidepath whirr spins too much, resulting in me being in it too kneedeeply, as my limbs brim over the finely-tuned ledge of what we think we can potentially know, where it grins up at the space stolid, like a thing imagined real - plus my poor machete has (in a torrid blink of the winkers) turned; or, more accurately, transmogrified into sudden feted befridged leftovers, which, aren't exactly untaciturn in their ways.

(understatement of the eon, iknowiknow)..

---- worse still, -forgotten- leftovers, hidden away in the crisper drawer under the rest of the things spoken for: half due to lazy; the other half, to the fact it won't slide nicely anymore :/

it, turning
and smirking.

Oh! the its
and things.

And those three anthropomorphic hands always pushing n prodding the fated its and things. It's all so.. meh.

So, of c, we decorate it w meta imps and wings above them. Methinks the neon signs of the new rind output axon doth protest too much.

Yet, the gray area is nigh.
Autocorrect, be ******.

Me: I, now, know your tricks. Your abstruse, purely theoretical storms which appeal with chartreuse arms elongated into lawnorder - I can see you've been drawn out. I can see around the bend. You don't scare me anymore with your elegant renderings. I am too much in the dying whitehot.

That voice inside: nothing

Me: ...

Chicken, *****.

Don't you see? It's all getting crunched down. God is in the box marked "fragile," sexting n taking dog selfies doing a Miley tongue wag in the ***** bathroom mirror w an awk ttfn postscript n kissy face discursive.

I won't flinch.

my pockets turned inside-out aboutfacedly, knowingly staring that stare right back up at me, reflexively, interrogating and adjudicating, highchaired n bewigged n gavel-swinging n self-righteous spittle-wingin n all - cuffs hugging the curly q sloughed off set-o-symbols once hung like rare priceless lace above that (over)hyped brand new skull muscle (geologically speaking, of c). but the ***** have all been given, and i, finally, with arms reaching forward and backward, am here.

the haste the haste
the grammar head at the wake
let rigormortis do it's worst,
because there is more behind its door

0100111101010000 bars
hug the star's start
stripping them away,

Denuded, they

corrall it
adn things

white-knuckled,
I grip these two
and win back
the abysmal.

I am OK with breaking down,
with being hurt. Vulnerable as ****.
These tears are me
and mine.
dead people understand me
i should visit a cemetry
'cause i think my time has run out on earth
i refuse to tip-toe through life to arrive safely at death
'cause all it takes is one shot
one syringe to induce a blood clot
i can see the needle from here, its quite appealing
or i could get up on the table and free fall from the ceiling
the pain will be temporary, permanent will be the horror
i hope my mom doesnt walk in on a corpse, i should warn her
its funny how the floor becomes a second home during rigormortis
the heart gives up, fingers tingling, this sight is gorgeous
no future in sight, look in my dead eyes, they're glistening
this should have never happend, pain is now an addiction
dead people understand me
i should visit a cemetry
Poem Written While Suicidal.
Seema Aug 2017
I was suffocating in my grave
So I sat up on my tombstone
All others seemed to be sleeping
Only I was sitting all alone

A soulless spirit of a dead
Is what I have become
After meeting with my death
I became useless and numb

My body lay covered in blood
And went unnoticed for hours
Till then rigormortis started
Wilting like the fallen flowers

I was stabbed multiple times
Before being thrown in the drain
Robbers snatched everything
And left me dead in the rain

It surely was not my death call,
To die early than my actual time
Now I dwell in this spirit form
Remembering the hideous crime...


©sim
God is watching!
Dishes Aug 2016
The total futility of life and its end  is unfightable,
The only perfect form is fluid,
Proper posture to avoid catastrophe is complete relaxation,
Be the corpse before rigormortis.
Graff1980 Oct 2016
Have you mastered the art of war?
You, artist of destruction,
poet of pain and devastation,

do you see these bodies
pierced by our technological evolution?
Skin polluted by metal
stretched, torn, and eviscerated.

Mass graves of stillness;

Parents who hope this
is just some nightmare.
Life relegated to rigormortis.
Bone thin, friendly corpses
that touch such fierce coldness.
Photos that beg in black and white
for the shutters to stop.
Instead, we shudder and start
to forget all those body parts.

No ticking clock, just silent hearts;

While you acquiesce
I sit in shadowy corners and obsess
over our well-equipped darkness
as each victim becomes a painting.

Some splatter art spreading
all the shades of red
that they know,
while others are punctured pointillism.

But each body was once someone.
Now they become a hollow chamber
in a soldier’s gun
as a wounded warrior scratches another notch
in their already razor scarred
memory.
Dishes Aug 2016
The total futility of life and its end  is unfightable,
The only perfect form is fluid,
Proper posture to avoid catastrophe is complete relaxation,
Be the corpse before rigormortis.
Andre Jun 2020
Trees in the summer bake
whilst humanity awaits for a tell-tale fate.
Conceiving a "meant to be" ideology
this lack of freedom haunts me.
Summer trees burn waiting for a winter sun to turn.
Summer winds bellow as a fate entitled Autumn brings leaves across a  Rigormortis totem.
Does a maple aspire strength to be an oak? rather esquire on the sweetness within.  As without a conscience such things might never be seen

— The End —