"scalps" poems
315
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on—
He stuns you by degrees—
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers—further heard—
Then nearer—Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten—
Your Brain—to bubble Cool—
Deals—One—imperial—Thunderbolt—
That scalps your naked Soul—
When Winds take Forests in the Paws—
The Universe—is still—
10.6k
I’m a Polyglot Polymath, Microphone’s a Polygraph,
Manners of a Sociopath-Rhymin’ keeps me on the path,
Else I’d be hackin you up like a cannibal,
Pullin the Chianti out-serve you up like Hannibal,
Words heavier than Elephants invading cross the alps,
Under Armour over Body Armour-waistline fulla scalps,
From the Belt o’ the Celt o’ the Schizophrenic Sandman,
You’re triple teamed by -EC- Raps new Xmen.
I broke me chains,some say I went insane,
But it’s simple,all I went and did was grow a brain.
be the Bane of your life,while Mal plays Dark Knight,
A rhyme Super Villain with a verse of Dark Light,
The searchlights on-watch the cockroach scatter,
We speak Dark Matter while your brain gets battered,
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
Mal and Sandman's Positively Mental Attitude.
It’s the original Irish OG rough rugged and ready,
Battling me is futile keep your hands steady,
I’m no pacifist,and if you take the ****
I’ll clap you with a fist like an obelisk,
That’s a grave warning,-global warming,
The Dragon of Eire ,skies look stormy…
Since cassettes and disks I’ve been spittin ****
That makes wannabee’s wanna slit their wrists,
The Sandman’s calling,come in and take a mauling,
Rappin since clappin one two and yes y’allin,
from New Aulins to saint Pauls my kin,
Are gathering for the quickenin,pulse races,air thickenin'
Highlander in a land cruiser,take your teeth out like a dentist
E.C’s BRUISER.
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
by Mal and Sandmans Positively Mental Attitude.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
314
Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling—
Sometimes—scalps a Tree—
Her Green People recollect it
When they do not die—
Fainter Leaves—to Further Seasons—
Dumbly testify—
We—who have the Souls—
Die oftener—Not so vitally—
2.7k
All-new
****** lands
(except for the natives)
dying to be properly deflowered and nailed and ******* and erroded
to make way for gun forts and gold mines
(they can be built!)
they're called Zale's and they love money
funny, not to all but to enough
call them crazy call them savage
but maybe they just love their homes
and don't own the kinds of weapons that make the loudest noise
but that **** the slowest and with least dignity.
Color-me a Cosmo girl
fit to be cover material, just look at my hair
look at Pocahontas, you know she was bald?
Hideous, un-English in every way
probably because she wasn't
but gotta give credite where credit is rejected, overdrawn
maybe never even earned just splurged and secreted
but wanna hear a secret?
The land belongs to nobody
not a soul not a body not a mind
they knew this but knew others were destroying it
that's why they were mad,
not because they were children who had their toys stolen
but because a living lifeless matter was being assaulted
catapulted into the future of steam engines and fried chicken
feathers blowing in the winds of convertables
they took scalps to maybe open the minds to the error of ways
not that one's head should be disassembled
but one can't seem so oblivious or wide eyed when shown the facts
of obvious emotional response
but we are young
dinosaurs were old and we have time to forget.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
How Brave you must be~the squaw exclaimed to the Chief. " Why, I am more than a Brave", the Chieftain quipped.! " Just look at my feathers and the scalps hanging by my side, do they not tell of My many Deeds ? Her reply was a simple ,, "YES, I can see how you have adorned yourself ! " He retorted ~ " And you certainly can't miss all the colors by which I have claimed MY-STATUS ! " The Squaw responded~ "YES, the HUES on you, certainly tell me who and what you are, now that I look closely ! " And he added~ "Look at the careful way in which I have displayed my Collection of SCALPS, Spaced ever so carefully around my waistband ! She questioned further, "Have you ,Oh Mighty Chief, Properly named each of the Scalps , SO YOU won't forget from whence they came ? ? "OH, My Goodness, YES, he answered. "I wouldn't ever want to forget where they came from, SO~I admire each and Call each of them, By Name~ Everyday. "SURELY" She continued, "YOU are much more than any other Chief, and by the way , DO you use Windex or Glass-Plus to clean your mirrors ? ? " HE exclaimed, "I, really don't know what cleaning agent my servant uses, to clean my many mirrors ! BUT, they certainly do shine, when I look into them ! The SQUAW queried~ " BUT what about your shoes, moccasins , if you would, WHAT~~ is that Green-Gooey Stuff all over them ? ? HE-Commented~ " I guess that when I take my mighty steps, toes and feet, IN THE WAY, Fall under the Prances that I make ! ! ? " Then,She asked~ "Do you do your War'Dances often, or just as you are called on, by your mighty warriors ? " AND,,this Brave-Chieftain PROCLAIMED~ "WHY, I"ll have you Know, I do all of these Prances and Dances ~BY MY OWN CHOICE, NO-ONE tells me when or what to do. Except my visits with the Prince of the Air !" The Squaw thanked him~turned~then turned back~Asking " Measured by~ Scalps~Prances and Dances ? ?
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:11 AM UTC
It is me and you,
shuffling in cool dirt above shards
of glass that wait
for naked toes to dance.
A lover’s trance
waltzes towards the edge
of dawn.
Summer never ends
when beating hearts
warm sheets on
cold nights.
Eyes my sea.
Hair my beach.
I stand **** and
unafraid of oceanic
monsters, hidden
deeper than can be explored.
Let us explore and defeat!
Live in paradise!
Swim naked every night
beneath gazing stars which
linger above sunburned scalps,
tender with exotic dreams:
Wish for this to remain
perfect
untouched
more pure than
elements on tables
reminding us we are only
recycled symbols.
Misstep,
draw blood,
warm the soil.
It stings.
I think of bumping into
jellyfish on our beach
and
how to get rid of them
without disturbing
everything else.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
Their violence. Their fire. Their beauty.
Their clenching, unclenching. Their bedlam.
Their silence.
Their toes squirming in their shoes. Their sobs. Their seventy-mile-an-hour fury.
Their eyes. Their glimmer. Their construction paper dreams.
Their insecurities. Their melanin.
Their rapture. Their forgiveness. Their twisted-up mouths.
Their screaming.
Their laughter. Their spoiled innocence. Their decent.
Their wilderness of wit. Their barbed future. Their ineloquence.
Their noise. Their stretching limbs.
Their vigor. Their hair spurting out of their scalps.
Their secrets echoing and singing through low-ceilinged halls. Their desire.
Their chipped orange fingernail polish. Their belly aches.
Their misspelled crayon messages. Their ghosts. Their audacity.
Their fear. Their braids. Their arms tight around each other.
Their torn jeans. Their longing.
Their possibility.
Their harpoon words. Their blood. Their bursting hearts.
Their walls. Their art.
Their endlessness.
Their airplane arms and their shrieking and their streaming outside into the yellow ache of a sinking sun.
Their rhythm. Their nonsense.
Their hands cupped around their mouths.
Their reverberation. Their chapped lips. Their love.
Them.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
I shaved my head
the dead protein I suffered small talk
to stripe and style and now it shines
just like the rest of theirs,
the scalps of would-be conquistadors,
made into saggy stocking caps.
I tattooed my neck
with a dotted line
and 'cut here' in cheerful Comic Sans.
They kept the bottom part.
I took my extra bits
and slid them across the table in case someone needed them.
They slid them back--
but my left kidney won Best in Show
And my right lung was an honorable mention.
I sewed the ribbons to my chest.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
thrice the bell is talking bronze skin over the
courtyard young cells.
soporific
wagging skirts, the measured abstraction of laughing
blond hair. by wet scalps busting through the air
impulsed to dry halls unloud
whispered learning. droll and fleet, a mouth boorishly
pouting a bed of weak ideal knowledge
to lay, to prone, in its verbal belly a thrashing distaste
they're
so
bored
gooutside
flat feeted lady's . the golden dead trees beckon
with gaunt branches failing drips
why am i?in this little box
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 1:26 PM UTC
Queue for a dance with
ink upon your wrist,
paper wrapped tight and
a waiting kiss.
Princes march to their kingdom come, on
their checkerboard, light board,
dance floor hum.
Princesses in timely masks
of nightmarish dreams
hide their real selves in
plain sight, with
handlebar hair
cut into wigs,
only hiding scalps of shame.
In head, in thought, I spoke 26 words,
7 points of punctuation and 6
saintly verbs:
*You left.
a dance too short,
touch of the ***
another ***** for the group,
feel of the ***
smile and forget,
forget she ever asked.*
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
winter lips
press into her memory
bones aching with the fever of remembrance
quiet words raise half lipped appeasement
mostly scarring scars scar her mind but occasionally words stir up like rosebuds of alphabet soup
spelling out novels of repeated notes
picture picture picture
click click click
half lipped winds
greased strands flap loose flap in the loose whipped winds
white comforter white blanket white snow white southern comfort white south
corporate and government city lights counting monies
greased oil slicked back hair scalps scalped dentists appropriating native american hunting tools
scalped girl appropriating brown skin
winter lips kiss kiss kiss
from root to tip toe down the hallway to scar thighs
thigh highs soft like southern comfort white south and the blood is red
but red blood cells are combatants of white blood cells like
winter lips are combatants of
her thoughts
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Meat for sale.
****** meat.
Face bled pale,
oh what a treat.
Pound of flesh.
Skin drying from a hook.
****** scalps top pretty dummies.
I am trying to read a taxidermy book.
Maybe stuffed bodies can make me some money.
Pound of flesh.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
i began collecting my hair in April
it sits on the tops of pillows
weaves itself onto scalps of my loves
sets itself on bathroom floors and
swirls onto the walls of showers
wraps itself around your tender parts
and leaves me pounds lighter.
i find it on this very page
soft and breakable and shines in lamplight
that is harsh
like how you pulled the strands
because i asked you to.
i shed so much because i secretly wish to vanish
and my vanity has not taken over
and my vapor sits still behind my gums
even when i am left alone
taking bristles to my head
to relax because
i have no one to play with me
and no one to look into
when the sky is a combination of both day and night.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
Dressed in the night the women gather
Riding the wakes across the waves of the sea
Kiss the ghost lips of those who lie lovely
Running their hands along the scalps of their sons
They have come to break worry
Silence an orbiting fear
Seal up the sliver in the sky
Where the nights slips through
See the old men in their taverns still trying to name all the stars
After those who tread dirt in the stillness of a tombstone sea
Trading eulogies with the last ministers of light
In the funereal home of the sun we have come to call sky
And still the women whispers secrets to their sisters
Lay down lullabies on the heads of their sleeping sons
And hang hymns on the hopes that their boys might return
From their pilgrimage into the paths of bullets
Through the blooming fields of mortar shells
And down into the tunnel throat of the dead
To meet the waiting darkness, run their thumbs
Along such casket skin until they cannot tell the difference
Between hells heavy requiems and the faint symphonies
Of their wives across the sea, singing as if it could save them
Singing as if their songs could rewind the hoc spit seconds
Between the open door to heaven and the bullets kicking in back windows
Harmonizing as if it could resurrect these boys as men
And though some may be swallowed
Learned to lie lifeless in swift lessons of lead
Their brothers will one day name stars after them
They’ll sit in those taverns, learn to call creation by a better name
A bastion of light for their buried boys
A crucible into which lives are poured
That burns down to widows and heroes alike
As old men they will trade eulogies in the early hours of light
And cry when they think of their sons in the same fields
As red rose pestles bloom from bullets
As the caskets get delivered home
And the women the wives will continue wait for them
As sea foam along a shore longing for the lights of their ships
As if they shined brighter then the sun
As if they had held back the night
Counting their blessings as the children
Who cling to their skirts like a song to their lips
Too tired to stand but they are waiting, waiting still
Singing out over the water to bear their men home
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
She takes the heart of Men
barley brave
slightly handsome and solemnly gay
the world is bare like the shaven private parts of **** stars
of
young women
young men
I am not the average white male
Kansas
Kansas
Chanting ridiculous church hymns
pray preach till we are dull
till the snow
till the rain
till the tornado is nothing
till the insects on the bathroom floor
are neither welcomed
or shouted at
but rather
acknowledged in a monk-like-state of unforgiving in-ability to think
The insects and the dishes and the plastic wrappers and the condoms and the heart beats that climb through broken television shop windows scratching their scalps with glass and tiny tear drop like rain drops from a cloud trickle like wet make up down faces
Folklore Folklore
Heavenly father
****** Texas Heat Indian Skin Father
oh Holy Father
Teaching the hairy poet the wooden antique poet the stolen gift from an Oklahoman fuel station poet
Oh How You Taught the poet
How to steal
How to envision the future
To trust the gut
To trust women too much
To wear nice clothes
To Drink cold night beer walking down a lightless road in a strange blue memory flash of either texas or Mars
Holy Father
Teacher
Monk
Addict
You had it right
You Coulda' been a great singer
or a poet or a dancer or a play writer or a guitar player or a piano builder
You had the self destruction well completed
You have me beat
Now I sit around listening to the scratched up Vinyls warping and turning like fine black women swing dancing
their dresses in a symmetrical spin
Now I sit around
Reading Rimbaud
analyzing the snow
digging up Deer bones and skulls
Now I sit around my pores ingesting the sounds of birds pianos and fast heart beats.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
an old melody
left hanging
long after the silent noise
swallows the air whole.
the warmth
of pomegranate tea
trickling downward
in an empty stomach.
the wrinkles on cold knuckles,
fresh linen sheets,
honey down my throat.
battle scars;
burgundy lightning striking it's way
up boney knees
from tumbling so **** hard
over the cracked sidewalk.
rain on Sunday.
flakes of frost
emerging from the clouds
finding their way to our scalps;
standing outside, pushed against
fuzzy fabrics
that rest over your chest
saying, 'oh, please
I'm in love
I'm in love.'
Copyright © 2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
“good morning” says no one as you smile your way out of sleep.
you’re the first to rise in your house.
you’ve always been the first to rise in any house.
with your routine glance outside you immediately resort to defeat.
the world has been primed in a hideous blend of grays and whites,
like the sun finally resolved to give up on revisiting new york for good.
you delicately trace the curvature of your neckline,
reminding yourself absently of ears and scalps
and how warm and strange you are to live.
you catch a glimpse of red cellophane on your floor.
but of course,
the drunken miracle purchase of the evening prior-
a cheap heart shaped box of chocolates.
it’s not february but you think you’re funny.
(somewhere in the back of your mind you relate nonchalant consumption
of russell stover chocolates to both a superiority of traditional love and
your general distaste for capitalist based holidays).
you eye all of the chocolates suspiciously as you lift the lid and pull the box onto your lap.
if only you could tell which one was caramel without having to eat all of the others.
you continually weigh your options until settling for a milk chocolatey looking one.
how much money did you spend last night?
rent’s in few days. you’re looking thin lately. you need to buy makeup remover.
what time is it?
you pull the wet half bitten chocolate from your mouth in disgust.
some strange pinkish orange cream is emerging from it,
which tastes like corn syrup and the inevitable death of our sugar freak youth.
god or the universe or some greater force suddenly tainted the grey clouds with a slight jaundiced haze.
yellow and gray.
it looked like someone rushed to finish a painting they already knew they hated.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
The wind doesn’t blow through their hair like it does the others.
It meanders through the curls of our melanated mothers.
It carries heavy accents infused with both love and suffering
over badly connected telephone lines
and the language barriers of anglocentric confines.
It navigates their thick 4c forests
as do the rigid combs they brandish to govern expanding crowns
that sit above scalps which resemble
the most polished oak.
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 5:18 PM UTC
If I can stop one heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain.
For the heart asks pleasure first
And then excuse from pain.
I like a look of agony because I know its true.
It says I am nobody, who are you?
Its says I am a poor torn heart,
A tattered heart.
Poor little heart! Did they forget thee?
Proud little heart! Did they forsake thee?
Frail little heart! I will not break thee.
Not with a club the heart is broken,
Nor with a stone-
Its love that deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
Whether shaken from scalps of clouds or sewn from water and chill,
These drops of frost have allowed for thoughts frozen in me still.
Clipped in form unlike the others, these bits of ice are shaven off the sky
And fall in suit only to the current with which it flies.
Yet these spurs, however unique or golden in design
Lose their beauty in a moment’s time.
Fluttering alone, they are constructed shards of glass
But among the thousands the first is as good as the last.
Pluck one out, hold it before your face
And peer at it close to admire the shape
Watch as its sparkle sputters and fades
And melts away without a trace.
Just so, the flakes of time in a close way do fall
And I, grasping one out to admire cannot hope to see them all.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
Sometimes, when love grows,
it does not run wild, like haphazard branches
of a tree you wanted to stand beside.
It does not unravel like a birthday present,
hidden deep under layers of suspense,
and adventure.
It does not swirl around the world like a rainbow,
celebrating first touches, accidental eye contacts,
and naked phone calls.
Sometimes, when love grows,
it grows like the lines of a poem which once marked
tombstones around your heart.
It sticks like a fresh bruise under your feet,
and makes you want to run,
behind butterflies and stars.
It grows like a seed in your throat,
every-time you gulp, it scalps a little skin,
and heart.
Sometimes, when love grows,
it outgrows you.
– Mayank Arora
II. Sometimes, love dies.
Sometimes, love dies like the falling autumn leaves
That swirl in a storm
And before you know it, the summer is over.
Sometimes, love dies like the ever widening spaces in midnight phone conversations,
Just like the crackle over the line swallows your soul,
Love swallows you whole.
It’s musty rankness creeps up on you in the middle of your third dance,
When your lipstick begins to fade and the cocktail has gone stale.
Love fails.
Sometimes love reeks of broken dreams
And heaving, bruised promises.
It stinks of the clamor for survival against all odds. Though it boasts of battle sores,
Sometimes, love loses the war.
Sometimes love dies,
Fading away faster than the colours of the polaroid
That made love grow in the first place.
Sometimes, love renders lovers faceless.
Sometimes, when love dies,
It ends the lies,
Just so you can live a little.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
I would like to say that i am one of those girls
who drink ***** shooters because ‘enough shots feels like love’
but sadly
i am one of those girls
who like to drink
whiskey
until my own miserable
lack of self worth and resentment slithers up out of my throat
but there are men who can smell
this on my skin
like a desperate pheromone calling
to them
saying ‘lovemeusememakemefeelworththy’
but i have a problem knowing the difference between
love and worth and the desperate scrambling of hands
on scalps and legs
because i love my ******* self
and have so much worth
that when men are repelled by my goddess
strength in my shoulders
and the fire on my tongue
i sink into this pit
and wonder why
i am not wanted
and the difference between worth
and being able to look into your own eyes
without seeing a monster
for ten seconds
is terrifying
and maybe that’s why i shatter mirrors
and carve tally marks into my own
leg
because the monster in me isn’t visible
on the outside
so i let her out and let her
cough and sputter
and cling to people
and let her whisper in their ears
all the words i hate to say
and when i drink
she comes out to play
but she still winks at me when i am sober
and like the gods of old i only exist
when i am being prayed to
but the faith in me is flickering out behind the eyes of men
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
speak
lie to me
the meterbox is leaking
black teeth stretch through bramble hearts
look
draw me an ocean
swirling
swirling
find space in spaces
and drown in them
there
the doresh haTorah
writes his code
stamps his envelops
enveloped in folds
suffocated in empty spaces
touch
clasp for her
radiant flesh
anchored in robes of sung feathers
blood pools at consecrated feet
a slave to the idea of sin
but always withering its invite
spit on your forgiveness
taste
a plum
solid but porous centre
fermenting mud
stinking bottleneck
smog your beaded eyes
gloss over and choke
hear
the unfathomable word
polysemous and locked
in hermetic seals
speak
shout
call to them
any direction will do
you know
you know what they say?
he'd beat his kids
**** his daughters
gnaw their scalps
but he can never remember where he put them
can never remember their faces
isn't that funny?
isn't it?
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
Nimble fingers break apart green stems
And I watch them as diligently as I watch him
Twirl ebony strands between his fingers
Nervously
Anxiously
Waiting.
I'm waiting for your call and he's waiting for his texts
And I'm questioning reality as my pink nicotine fingers type words
That stream from my broken mind
It hurts tonight.
Teeth tell stories and lies
And I realize I am unlovable.
Not because of you,
Or the others before
But because I am unloved by myself.
Skinny necks hold sturdy heads
Blonde hair covers red scalps
Scratched and torn apart from stress of deadlines and tests
He's not on your mind right now.
I take drags knowing they blacken my tongue
Making my words unrecognized even by myself
And I wonder where I am and when I should be home
We all want more
We need less
This world is something with answers that I feel should be left unsaid.
Stories told by tainted hearts
Questioning myself
Questioning my heart
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
blankets laid
like pastry
twirled and
crinkled
made to nestle
precious
heads
in bed of
curled and
covered comfort
buttered
wrapped up
little packages
alive and
breathing
heaving breaths
of depths
unknown to
waking worlds
through softened
lungs and throats
and mouths
and gooey
molten middles
with shield of
fragile sleep
held up
to barricade in
and barricade out
as steam floats
gentle warm
and wistful
blissful up
from tender
scalps
from dreams
in gold and
chocolate
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC