"scarabs" poems
superimposition of celestial ampersand:
a continuity of all things
stars hanging loose in the pupil
of this deadbeat word.
typhoons in a swirl of tempestuous ballet,
dogs shivering in the blue cold,
biting their canine integument the way
scarabs would, sinking in a temporal flotsam-way within tectonic display
of text
hectares of blank stares bringing
to life lysergic field of black birds.
and then some
equal number of evocativeness:
continuing on into the ground
are the bones warm in their compost.
the sudden fragrance of rat ****
appeals to the masses.
too much laughter in flooded thoroughfares pockmarked by
the vehement jam of staccato jackhammer.
choking us is today's headline
in supreme obbligato - its stench
reeks of libidinal perfume etched
in the flesh of the rigmarole.
one filthy day in Manila.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
those quiet
lonely nights
when long shadows crawl over defeated days
and the red orange sun drowns beneath dark waves
a resonant loneliness
washes over me
dulling love and light
and hope
like the slow deliberate movement of the clock in the kitchen, hands that mark the passing time between jade scarabs
like the soft lilt of a sparrow left outside my window, alone in the twilight
as a church bell doles its distress, slow and deep in the distance, breaking the still darkness with its lament
water cannot cover the spectre of memory
I pour another whisky
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
The soon to be beached meadows shimmers
as the heightened sun dehumidifies the outlying cornfields
evaporating the ground cover.
Scarabs appear postulating
the broken bonds of farmer
and nature.
In the combustible sands
Great things will be birthed.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
☆
*"Our sweet children, where have you been?
We're waiting for you outward the ingress,
Admitting : you nowhere were seen
As you are: each — an enraptured princess!"
☆
Vivacious shades on your ethno coat
Emphasise your femininity;
Bastet at heart — best childrens lifeboat!
Spacey gray cap: fairish and witty —
☆
It suits you — dear darling — shared hugs
Of wellcome! Lively, charming's your gaze
As young Notre~Dame; and blue scarabs
Are lit on your kind fortunate face.
☆
The theatre lady, the dreamer,
The writer, the thinker, you're teacher,
Performer, a woman, protector
Creator, great mother, old friend!*
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
i cracked the code. god'll forgive me. ' you ' shut up ! do not cross
where the scarabs calf their adders
be more black than the last
vast strip of night
across miles and miles
of wide expanse
be more
advanced and
water tight.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
Two scarabs, we …
hurtling through the universe.
On a collision course, I've yet to decide
is a blessing … or a curse.
You preferred Rubber
and I, the Revolver.
You, ever cryptic
and I, problem solver.
Between us …
so, so many syncronicites.
I … would try my best to be a rock.
You … relished in duplicities.
The essence of these …
born in your youth, a precious defense mechanism.
Still … I always admired your noble quest
for that ever elusive perfectionism.
Two Scarabs, we … both carved from precious stone.
Restless souls, forever seeking shelter.
Roaming through time … reckless … wild ...
our lives, whirling 'round … slippery … helter skelter.
But yours, made of of rubber …
mine, made of steel …
each with our reasons, bounced off of one another …
offering nothing for the other to feel.
I'll watch for you, while saying my prayers …
out there … on the sands.
Maybe next time, with the blessing of Ra, it won't fall away …
like these grains, slipping through our hands.
Two scarabs, we …
on an infinite collision course …
while forever hurtling through the universe.
A blessing that, this time … sad as it is …
somehow, came to feel like a curse.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
The bodies are buried
in the dank boiler room
of a building scabbed
with crimson windows.
Trimmed with gargoyles,
the superstructure rises
on cords of carbon steel.
Inside miraculous husks,
the elevators lift and fall,
lift and fall, without stopping.
Antiquated carriages
click like scarabs
on ropes and pulleys.
With interiors lit
by faint buttons,
the listless coffins
circulate our remains
behind gypsum walls.
When the elevator doors glide open,
an emerald chime sings your name.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Arab scarabs
wielding scabbards
staggered with hilts
laid waste to
idle Cherubs in
garments
embroidered
like quilts.
They're off kilter,
with no filter, and
wear stilts where
leaves wilt, sir
please lilt yr
tactless
anachronisms
through fractured
refractive prisms
to help the mind
unbind from
shop, office, and
factory prisons
Listen:
there's a
penitent androgyne,
speaking
sentence in pantomime
as though rhyme
were no longer
a kind of
berated
creative crime: But
who
the
hell
CARES?!?!?!?!
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
It’s
Not a token drawn around the neck, but
A
Jewel upon the finger that will forever dream
Sad
Memorys branded into the very tissues; a
Thing
Made to torment the mind until the day comes
When
Our earthly mother calls us.
The
Fruits of our nature dry a bond that's
Only
Broken by the lord himself. My cries, the
Sounds
of Hades in the pounding of my death
Are
scarabs that peel the skin away in
Footsteps
Treading across my soul, leaving scars
Of
Which I may never again love.
The
Thorns grow in craters of damages
One
Has, with no way back; leave
You
Without the means to help and cannot
Love
without something in return.
Walking
out will not chase me
away
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:08 PM UTC
Scarabs dance impositions across your navel,
flattening themselves out in honour of your belly,
as I am watching your pulse spell out cryptograms
just below your pink
hairless
skin.
I lap the insects up like a patient kitten, lingering too long
(just long enough)
as the tips of my fingers press down on your
pulsing
hieroglyphics.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Dark stormy unspeakables
form eclipses of the shining sun
and the sarcastic ecstasy of a drained emotional high, of cutting veins
while scathing shards of soul
are struggling against the unearthly cyclone,
in conjunction with dirt so mundane
form a manifesto of fire
to drag the heathen into hatred
scorch the earth to raise
a plagued farm of scuttling scarabs
beneath the morphing skin
of diseased brain matter
splattered on canvases.
The cosmic cantatas of hope's celestial voices
coldly calculate into oblivion
while hordes of thunderstorms
in calamitous cacophony
set fire to the wilderness
food to fuel the demons
that crawl into our eyes and retinas
moving our nerves like we're marionettes
severing the stockpiles of memories in our psyche
forcing forgetfulness and ignorance
upon our fretted, filtered minds
and make us fail to recollect
those sunny days
hiding behind the army of darkness
singing etudes to unknown questions
praying to the eternities
or maybe begging?
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Wisely invested in mammon, secure,
I repose in my splendor, moronic—
bejeweled with scarabs, jackals, and cats.
My dividends total pharaonic.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
They abound this season
Flapping their wings
Blocking the sunshine
Carrying bugles and ostrich feathers,
Through their yellow teeth
The heat of yerba mate radiates
They make no distinction between
The dignitary and the mobster
Between the esteemed and the rascal
Only scarabs pass them by without reckoning
We still hear the drums in all parts of the village;
Drums made in a country not far from ours.
We are in the presence of the Holy Matron
We sanctify
Dust has settled over her garb
Having buried the phoenix,
Her children have left their houses
And some lost their direction
We strayed from one another
And the paths of the honest
Were blurred
We had our fill of worries for a thousand years
Despite the limitation of time.
Here we are at the bottom of the riverbed
And cannot row our way back to the source spring
When the day is short
So is the night.
To you Lord is my hymn and plea:
Will there be salvation,
Will it rain
Will there be sunshine
And will the birds
Flutter their wings again?
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
day of the big extraction.
lower left molar
tooth number 18.
interesting chakra, that one.
sometimes a physical removal of energy is needed
to let the nadis breathe.
I got a double hernia repaired about a year ago.
anesthesia administered by St. Michael the Divine.
a whole granthi must have broken loose
while I was underneath the knife.
energetic knots all in a tangle in the sacral
burst into a cloud of scarabs and sanskaras
like a flock of a thousand white doves released
at a Louisiana Jazz Funeral.
the first time I sank into samadhi was late February 2021.
I was sitting in the lobby at Horizon Dental
third floor of the Guild building, Wyoming avenue, Scranton, PA.
I was sipping coffee I got from the 1st floor
from the
Heaven and Earth Cafe
when my -
eyes rolled up into my skull
when my -
heart buckled under the beauty
when my -
brain found its new home in a vat of warm static.
I felt like the Benedictine on the cross I got
from the christian trinket shop attached to the new cafe downstairs.
holy holy holy. glory be to god
this tooth has been giving me agita for two years
ever since the medicine
and the accident
and the hospital.
ever since I broke the Causal Egg.
novicaned
root canalled
capped with a cracked temporary
and now just a fractured stub of calcium
with three roots instead of two.
It only took a couple skillful shots to the face
before I couldn’t feel a thing.
except for twenty five minutes
of drilling
and cracking
and prying
and extracting the one thing that kept me grounded
when I was sitting in the common area of the 6th floor
of the CMC, Hill Section, Scranton, PA.
©️ Jordan Gee
Sep 9, 2022
Sep 9, 2022 at 12:30 PM UTC
In a land of lizards and beetles and sand
stand the ruined temples of the
third generation after the plague.
And once,
where the men made of gold
worshipped the Sun I am told
there was a terrible death laid upon them.
Those men from the mines
who mined gold for the men made of gold
were the only ones saved.
Slaves made from tin and from pewter weighed in with their wails
but the dark angel sails only
in one direction
that of destruction and
correction.
Now on the dune under the laugh of the moon
the scarabs and the lizards hold sway
and there is nothing in the way of each day
except ruins.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
Grunge Sponge
Bake Ache
Grand Starts
Great Hearts
Death Foust
Life Louse
Grasp Flap
Run High
Let's
Got Light
Get Right
Too Fight
Those Mites
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
In halls of dust-speckled relics
In labyrinths filled with prehistory
There is a room where scarabs still creep
Where the Great Pharaoh forever sleeps
Books of the Dead are affixed to the walls
Ankhs are clutched tightly by sculpted Gods
There is a room where mysticism yet seeps
Where the Great Pharaoh forever sleeps
Watchful falcons seem to soar overhead
The Sands of Time are forced to retread
There is a room where one body lays deep
Where the Great Pharaoh ends an eternal sleep
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
So, I’m no good at online dating / That is to say I do this to myself / After a couple days of messaging, a woman asks me to write her a poem / I see this as a good thing / We have a 97% match according to the algorithm / And she says she likes the beetles / And I say I don’t like typos / I tell her I will write her a poem / And I won’t give that poem to you because it was for her / I will tell you, it began with dung beetles / I waxed poetic about how they carry **** around for three things: / love / food / and a home. / Of course I don’t know that dung beetles experience romantic love / Or I don't know that / But I do know they stare at the stars / They are the only other animal on this planet we’ve found that does that / I wonder if they — too — get lost in fireflies / There is a place in Tennessee I haven’t been to yet / but my brother lives close by / and the fireflies there, they synchronize their lights while mating / I compare this to the planets lining up / How people assign such power and luck to small dots in the sky / How people assign luck to the dots on a lady bug’s back / How people assign luck to lady bugs / How lady bugs got their name and are perceived as a religious symbol / So are dung beetles / I’m sorry — they preferred the term scarabs / They used to push the sun across the sky / We used to give such power to such small things / And all they are doing is searching for is: / love / food / and a home. / The poem I send her is filled with Beatles references, too / Because I wanted her to know I actually knew what she was saying / Because all we need is love / Because all I really want to do is hold her hand / Because I'd just seen a face I can't forget / She doesn’t like the joke / Or the poem / Or me / Or I assume / because she never messages back / I still hope she finds those three things / Love / Food / and Home.
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 2:49 AM UTC
I open my lungs to the moist dirt between
sidewalk cracks.
Atoms severed from the whole transcend
previous existence, take flight and enter my
body evaporating through tunnels, sinus
storm-drains built beneath my bones.
Particles intertwine themselves around
rooted hair shafts, excite neurons
electrical synapses, the sinew of sense
and memory ingraining fleshy shores of
my brain with cartography not yet understood.
So I too one day amputate this existence, navigate
to the peel covering concrete entombed earth
becoming dust, mud levees holding back waters
swollen by the pull of moon, slow earth thrown
to the casket. The comital of broken deadfall
in winter buried in un-named forests turned
black earth, turned home to black shelled
scarabs, turned nest.
Let the earth do this turning lament for me
let me be food for hungry worm mouths
the secret held between the hands of mice
warm within their family den, to the beak of young
howls turned night hunters, let me feed their
wingspan, nourishing fascia, the miracle
consensus between hard muscle fiber and
soft feather wherein miracle of flight is born.
Let the earth kneed me into nucleus seed
from where its hands are born,
forms sinuses from hollowed trunks and
lines its bones with me
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:43 AM UTC
The People cry out
Who will save us?
We are buried alive with deception
Dwelling like beasts in spoils of luxury
Creeping around like blighted scarabs
growing ever stronger with rancid mouthfuls of cheat.
King of neither world
Hurler of hopes
Admonisher of dreams
Do not silence our awakening
You must save us!
I am Ha-ha
am I to be loved by you?
It is I alone who can strike
a single chord
[though strumming with puny hands I too have limits]
Like so many drops of sweat
trickling down your spine, I caress.
In my kingdom fear reigns
each of you
a harnesser of the means
know that I have not come to fulfill but to destroy
****** killing, stealing
Mankind will be churned underground to be reborn with burning flesh
consummate death
thy liberty is dead!
So decrees Ha-ha
The People whimper
do we even deserve you?
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 7:42 PM UTC
In the graveyard of dreams
fog whirls around your mutilated carcass
I have been in this state for too long
brittle nails & worn hair, my drawn-out smile
I open your grave to find Pandora's box
your words choke me
turning my teeth a deeper shade of red
scarabs escape
they bore into my face
infiltrate my deepest memories
I surrender
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
Ren - Name given at birth, person lived as long as name was spoken
Sheut- persons shadow or silhouette
Ka - Vessels carrying souls. In human consciousness, a pulsing spirit
We are seeds bred to become stars, when we have done on earth, we
own the capacity to reignite in heaven leaving behind our earthly shell.
Ba - Unique and individual as stars, our personality varies in grades of light
Jb – The Heart, home of human emotion. Center of thought, will, & intention
Heart scarabs & amulets were used for the physical heart
it kept the soul's mummified secrets
Akh – Immortal Self, contained an enlightened immortal being, in the after life
Sahu – The Judge & Spiritual Body, another aspect of the Akh
Deemed worthy of entering afterlife Sahu splits from other forms of the soul
it haunts those who have wronged other souls, & may appear in dreams, an appeasement to the living (this is where forgiveness helps )
Khat - Inherent decay, doppelgänger or double. Endowed with a person’s qualities and faults
Sekhem – considered a form of life energy of the soul. Present in the afterlife after judgement, it was passed on if the soul was considered worthy.
Mar 24, 2022
Mar 24, 2022 at 7:22 AM UTC
At the beach or the park it is appropriate to lie on the ground.
To sit still and do nothing but absorb the cries of gulls or the hum of an airplane or other distant sounds and smells and sensations.
But you can absorb those things standing up, and here on the ground
there is a world you can only explore if you put your eye up next to it.
At the beach it is not uncommon, when aimlessly watching people, to espy someone
(a child more often than not)
running their fingers through the sand,
transfixed in the singular feel of it and-if they are looking-
its infinite aesthetic.
Each grain is a world anew and you would not know it unless you
put your face right up to the ground and looked.
At the park it's much the same.
Two-inch fields of grass give away to dirt plateaus,
and it turns out there are a thousand little scarabs-
black & green & red jewels scurrying in the understory.
Twigs as big as logs lie haphazardly, and there a leaf is
wilting, wilting, wilting
for weeks or forever.
I knew a woman once who did not wait for the beach or the park.
In her observation of the ground she was infinitely delighted.
There was always something new or unexpected just waiting to be found if only the
right mind was there to appreciate it.
Tesoras she called them.
She would hold up a piece of dead grass as if it were a seashell pointing out a fold or dip that created a shadow just… so.
“Tesora”.
Now sometimes when the viscera of my mind have trouble digesting a certain memory
I lie on the floor and stare at the veneer of dust,
a tangle of hair,
or the husk of a stink bug and in my mind I see a leaf
wilting, wilting, wilting.
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 9:03 PM UTC