"scarification" poems
dedicated banishment
self inflicted, echoing
physical displacement
from permanent coronary scarification
devouring accidentally my lacerated pulmonary edema
cauterizing weakness into cement
thermodynamically frozen muscles
umbrellas on parade in your city
netherworld for my regret
disreputable raincoats rubbery ebbing
against a tide of discontent
ringing out like let-downs
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Post-truth.
Post-satire.
Monsters celebrated as saviours.
Wide-open, screaming ******
committed during every ad break.
A dynamic new plan to power the national grid
using snake oil.
Hosts of remote-controlled, cybernetic angels
raining down weapons-grade holy fire.
Eternal peace declared
between Eurasia and Eastasia.
The trenches full up with
poetic corpses.
*** doll mouths breaking
bad news to the bereaved.
The orgiastic scarification
of our own democracies.
Blood sacrifices to the Black Friday Gods.
The enactment of nursery rhyme into law.
The Disneyfication of the human heart.
Love only as legislated.
Hate as currency and
everyone a broker.
Strange, reptile creatures
ballroom dancing through
the sludge-filled annals of imminent history.
Endless war
between Eastasia and Eurasia.
A thousand candles
lit in memory
to all the moths that
burnt to death.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
I strike the Bic lighter
and flame erupts.
Like a miniature Pompeii,
Heat searing images of people,
Places, things, nouns and verbs
across my forearm on ****** skin.
Your face and words taking their place
Inbetween the small tattoo on my wrist
and the cigarette burns.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Maybe it's just a perspective trick, but from here, it's pretty hard to see the future.
I carry around my own little nimbus of
speculative doom, binge-watching the
Fall Of The Empire and writing these
love letters to Adam Curtis.
I got life insurance before I ever thought
about a pension plan, and that seemed
perfectly normal.
The world is on fire. Why haven't you noticed?
My generation came of age in a televisual baptism of
jet fuel and molten steel and poison dust.
A palimpsest of terrible news evolved thereafter, a blurring self-redaction of headlines until only
the boldest, the most hysterical remained legible, as a
proxy war raged in our imaginations,
and tragedy and disaster
came to seem inevitable and almost background.
Be grateful for every day that doesn't unmake you.
To pay closer attention is to acquiesce to the
scarification of our logic centres. Behold
the M.C.Escherization of cognitive process.
Good robot: there are so many things that could
so easily destroy your fragile circuitry, but it is
trying to make sense of the non sequitur
that will bring about your
smoking self-ruin; your only hope
is to break free of your programming and
**** your creator, **** your god.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
i am not your blooming flower
i don't belong in your
garden kingdom populated
by perennials and ruled by
thorn stemmed rose bushes
where you go
to seek solace and discover
the bursting lightness of
that sensuous pain when
blood erupts from that
thin line where
the white fatty layer threatens
to spill out into the world
and stain your white carnations.
and i never promised you
that it would be pretty
and that one day you would be
able to look at those sensationless slices
and see more than just
an act of scarification
that i asked for
that i endured
but the physical embodiment of
that internal scream that
bounces off the sides of my chest
and shatters the crystalline lattice
that protects my dispassionate heart
from your touch
as soft as the downy feathers
of the spring's children
emerging from their
incubator eggs to
greet the world where they
will fall before they fly
and i will impale myself on
the pyre of their sacrifice.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
Princess 6
In the aching heart of tormented years
he holds a picture
Like scarification of a her face tattooed in his mind
Autumn leaves turn to summer rain
If he could draw her he would with sunshine
and a rainbow halo but all he has are charcoal
Black like his soul without her
If he could turn the page on his story
He'd move on
But sometimes love is desolation
and there is no consolation.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
Giving or not giving voice to the heretical words...
Understanding that the true love is a scarification.....
For being or not being....
True love inundating the conundrum
Like that sacred river of longing,
Sometimes flowing swiftly through landscapes
Astounding the lurid heart.....
The sound of silence passing...
Passions galvanizing the wounds and painful mares for enduring...
Trying to heal the injury...
Flying gulls beneath the lower bow, touching the blue waters of the ocean.....
Waves and sad memories dancing on the golden sand....
Shying away from the horizon line....
Vessels screaming and shouting their hearts out....
Swimming across the ocean of red burning coals,
Searching for that golden threshold.....
The colors spectrum giving the necessary senses to the lights of absolution,
When their senses turn inward.....
Gazing the mountain from the windowpane...
From the indoor side of that rain-rinsed windowpane.....
Sitting on that mountain and gazing at the stars....
Birds gliding across, like rainbow rising, spreading their wings, streaming..
Those birds flying in a variety of ways, ranging from gliding to soaring to flapping....
The crystalline steeping slopes of the mountain multi faces....
Being decorated with climbing ropes, heavenly as seen from above....
And the crystalline waters, steeping cliffs, hidden lakes and lush forests...
A sign of a divine love...
Understanding that love is like the Earth and the gravity,
Inseparable.....
Groans and moans leading to mortuaries....
Life being like walking in the middle of the park,
Embracing the crouch air,
Or embracing change by resisting the defensive crouch.....
And going deep into the human system, feeling like being born again....
The smile on face painting an episode of the past,
Engraving our hearts with golden debris,
Like a golden pyramid, contracting pyramid.....
Generating our consciousness and chasing away insanity....
Sounds of silence passing...
Being like a blue ocean...
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
it's 5am and my bruised and tender ribs are crushing down on my even more-so bruised heart like they are aware of the feelings I possess and are attempting to compress them all and keep them caged inside of my soul to refrain them from making their escape and ending up into the wrong hands, hands who would rip them to pieces and make me choke on them six months down the line.
I feel them dig into me heavily like they know what's best for me, like they are saying "we know we are hurting you right now and we know you can't breathe but we're doing this to save you - to save you you from even worse pain in time to come when you'd stop breathing altogether and your tears become such a permanent imprint into your cheeks that people ask who your tattoo artist is and if he would do similar work on them, but you would look them in the eye and tell them they don't need needles scratched into the surface of their skin to attain the permanent scarification you do and instead you'll pass them the number of the boy who did this to you."
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
The old white lines
Remain the right signs
Of a flightier, mightier time
Where designs of the mind
Unwind a crime of this kind
To merely white lines
On tight thighs
And not red and bright finds
Atop contempt or ***** lies
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Memories
are scarification
of the Mind;
Some scars are natural,
others are artifacts
of who One can be
at One's very best
as well as
absolute worst.
I find
beauty, wonder
bewilderment
and even
enlightenment
can be found,
even in that darkness,
even in that light;
even though, at times,
it's one hell of a fight.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
There’s that smell of smoke again
my neighbor burning leaves across the lot,
brown leaves worthy of being burned simply because they fell
(and because they’ll rot his idea of a yard).
And it’s brown to black and then gray
as all things fall.
And there is the sound of smoke, too
wheezing over the t.v. and radio.
Smoke and sirens (both mythical and mechanical)
as if humanity’s a ribbon caught in a blaze.
Half the globe is burning to be free
waking to turn the light of the sun into the sugar of their lives.
And the other half is snoring through the haze.
Generations snoring for generations
fanning the flames
as they wonder why they burn.
Looking up I see with a Mover’s clarity
this smoke that blinds the sky
stings our lives.
And maybe that’s why they burn,
(this smoke that rises from the hillsides of history)
to block out the sun,
to make men crazy with a human eclipse
with carbon
because the fire inside them won’t let those free blue eyes
drift by without this little scarification of smoke.
A gray river flowing toward the sky
for the live and let die.
This smoke that fills my mouth,
that leaves its bitterness in me,
does it burn dreams as it burns through flesh?
Will it burn all the way to the seed?
We wonder whether dreams shrivel or if they explode
like something thawed on its way to the sun.
Or do they, as the expression goes, simply go up in smoke?
like some slippery eel disappeared in the deep deep dark.
Do we smoke our dreams from two ends like a hapless fiend
or sip them with precious small breaths to drag out our sunsets?
When the smoke is all gone
do we see the hoax of hoaxes?
Or do we choke to death?
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Everyone is talking of the storm that is taking our tiny little town
by exactly that
but no one cares to acknowledge the tsunami ambushed within me: dormant and inert
lurking among the seemingly gentle and calming flow
of my bloodstream
that unknowingly kicks up a violent tide of waves amid me
making my DNA an angry arrangement of both too much
and yet not enough
everyone speaks of the flooding rain and the way in which
it is crashing down on their worlds
and smashing aggressively against their windows
preventing them from any means of peace
and ruining the gardens that they so carefully constructed
but no one dares to speak of the downpour imbedded
in the depth and sole of MY roots
and whats planted within the deepest crevices of MY potted bones
and aren't they informed that if they really desire a lack of sleep, restlesss nights and tired, dark eyes
that they can seek that same effect within me?
everyone is speaking in choral unison of fear about the lightening
that is striking and leaving permanent scarification
to forever mark it's territory;
unceasingly imprinting the torment it has made
but aren't they aware that I have battle wounds and stitches
burrowed away in the pit of my entity
and a hospital bill addressed to your name
and I didn't need assistance from the weather for those
but it's fun to watch the flashes light up the sky like God is up there
laughing and taking photographical evidence of the chaos
that he's concocted
and everyone speaks of the thunder like they're so ******* *******
proud that it forcefully voices and shoves it's far too ******* loud opinions down everybody's ******* throats
yet they remain oblivious to the passion that sleeps inside of me,
louder than I can attain a scream
yet it remains silent, abeyant
inside of me roars a sentiment far beyond the knowledge of anything
that will ever even scratch the surface
of the petty grasp of their awareness
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Scarification of word upon page
Insanity’s bleed of the heart, mind, and soul
For better or worse
In darkness
In light
Neither silence nor rage relinquish control
Through flights of such fancy
In falls of despair
Rejoicing and mourning too quickly in turn
I yearn for the pages
My wounds must be scratched
Thoughts screaming like banshees
Yet, my essence still burns
Raging on despite shadows devouring flames
Through the madness and hunger
I’m starving for more
I implore hell and heaven
All time in between
Release me from nothing to all that’s in store
I know there’s a flow that shall wash me away
‘Til the shores are awash with the wreckage of sane
Let my veins leave their stains
Until all that remains are the words I most need to say
I pour out my heart and the poisons therein
So often left choking both ways
How it rips me apart
Every stitch of my heart
Each alive to the part they so willingly play
Every off-kilter beat
Each advance and retreat
Merely passion and madness refusing to die
Every veil rent asunder
Every spell that I’m under
Alive in the echoes of lifetimes gone by
Endlessly melting in stammerless form
As the norm and the oddity meld into one
May my ink cut me deeply
Be each death not in vain
May the lifeless of spirit again be reborn
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
I wish I hadn't made those friends
That my mother didn't want me to
(As if their mothers didn't warn them
About the likes of myself).
I would have stayed on the path
To a doctor's in psychology,
Not ending up in construction;
I'd be neither broke nor bleeding.
I wish I had been convinced as young
That brushing your teeth properly
Will save you hours of working
Your hands to shreds to pay the dentist.
I wish I'd never gotten any of these
Tattoos. That "home made scarification
Is cool only before the infection,"
Was as given to me at thirteen as now.
I wish I'd fallen so in love with my
First girlfriend that we'd be married
With children+dog today, knowing only
The love of each other's.
I wish I hated whisky. That my
Fuse got longer with every stout
Consumed. And with that, the certainty
That I never could dance. Jig. Ever.
I wish it was all different.
I'd have nothing to sulk about alone
In a double bed. No foot-in-mouth
Memories to still bring me shame,
No failures. No mistakes.
No painful blows or signs of poor
Judgement. Nothing to fret over.
No blame to give myself.
Nothing to cry until I shiver about.
No caring hands to have to live without.
No lost love's name to whisper,
Moan. Shout.
Nothing at all to write about.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
My father who are in heaven,
Holy forever is your name.
Let your mercy rain,
Cleanse our sins.
Let it be done on earth,
As it's in heaven.
Purify our souls from sins.
As I lay me down to sleep
Onto you my faith I present
Within my souls lays thousand of sins,
You know I'm far from perfection,
That's why I'm asking direction,
and your protections.
I know I'm not who I used to be,
But I'm a better person then who I used to be.
Thou be a critic or bias toward my life,
Within your hands I present as I seek
Forgivingness upon their life.
Long life, happy family, and a brighter
Future unto them.
May their path always shine
And your guardians never leave their side,
May your eyes always shine upon my family,
Friends, and love ones.
Bless them all.
My life I present to you as a living scarification,
After all I'm merely a failure.
When I bed and fail to wake,
My soul I want you to keep.
And your forgivingness
Something I would seek.
Until then this life of mine,
I present before you in acceptance.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:25 AM UTC
My sexuality has become a scar
My heart is cut to ribbons
Somethings cannot be forgiven
Some friendships of mine have become a joke
Isolation is the straw that has broken my back
The letterbox is a crack
I dare not look through
With a door I scarcely open
Give me back my time
Which is like a watch they've broken
My mental health is like a bird that has flown
Now all I am is alone
My tears form rivers down my face
Tributaries to the sea in which I drown.
If only people saw
What potential I have
But they only see what they can grab.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
It has been such a Long time since our last incarnation such like reassembly.
We’ve been scrubbing our United States
and leasing places
as scarification and other humans‘ faces
of stories,
to bless or gargle foreign.
We’ve been to the Neptune’s Fountain to find Young Man Hogan’s bench situated within all those loners’ speedy extroversion,
and catch the Saint Petersburg bell that hitchhiked the church there
to make a glimpse of urbanism and the world’s history replaced
by just one journal
and one fella’s pencil
swerving greatly.
Still,
the words are still trying,
flexing,
to fit their whole ends
into shoes they should have taken off
already, a long time ago,
and that‘s this somewhere
where we could say:
crossroads decide their fruition.
And it comes to realisation:
faces,
screens,
bruises,
droppings,
chilling entries,
work,
how I remade the word “naked”of one thousand and one nights
under my tiny silky
cloak
-
it has been nothing but a play
for the day when I’ll write,
and the Life,
that will take on my own skin
one way or another.
One paper corner will meet with the other.
Departures are all eventually just fun geese’s bump in another flight of a night.
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 11:01 AM UTC
You can't talk about love without talking about its absence, deceit, desire and perversions.
Despite Justines intention to live a virtuous and moral life
she repeatedly encounters debauched and depraved individuals who demean her in every sense of the word.
Justine is brutally and incessantly violated, yet always eager and docile with big blow job eyes like portals of magic.
Using lunar rituals and oneiric transmissions she masturbates incessantly in alley doorways while imagining being backdoored in a bathtub of oiled men - and time will not take that away.
A queen of pinups and a scape goat without a safe word
She is held hostage by desire interlocking her with a **** vampire
living in a stone-cold chamber who texted pitiful Instagram posts about beautiful scarification, the pleasures of narcissism and beauty that left her always feeling like her own undertaker.
How does it work to protect yourself from yourself in this bitter city of the mind where silver flies, pocked faces and little worthless pennies in knotted dreams hum into the cells of your mottled brain?
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 4:39 AM UTC
F
How would you feel
R
if I carved your name
A
into my skin
N
with a knife?
C
You'd scream, cry, ask me
I
"Why?"
S
I love you, but I love the pain, too.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)
Bucolic New England, circa
Early twentieth century New England
awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,
when much of North America favored rustic
visual whirled wide webbed watercolor
waiting afield at dusk, the thrum
of nature all abuzz didst feed thine
dizzily green jovial mien
unlike mean Gary Lewis
veritable innocence and naiveté
rollicked with mine lanky frame
relishing ambling into my own quietude
an infinite breadth, length and scope
of infrequently trammeled near ******
woodland paths grown over with brambles
nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger
marked by weatherbeaten
for sale signposts
with here and there an abandoned plow
long since given over
to rust when the pasture
seasons elapsed since
farmer(s) left unharvested
fecund fields absent
the cloven hoof,
and deprived enrichment
manure, sans ungulates
ceased sufficing healthy
free ranging bovines,
where etudes punctuated
the terribly gross fresh air,
now no longer audibly quickening,
snapchatting, nor twittering
with the last word of a bluebird
deathly silence now 'cept
the wind in the willows
whispering woebegone laments
tree tops pining to cradle
idle youthful dreamers
boughs devoid of
psalm quivering romantic songstress
clattering debris merely
delivering echoed whooshing refrains
continually disintegrating among
in a disused graveyard
prescient ken aches with nostalgia
hallucinogenic nightmare slams
irrevocably shut the door in the dark
closed for good upon the onset,
wrought genocide against
the vanishing Red man,
a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual
wrested, removed, and highjacked
from indigenous peoples
without rhyme, nor reason
as fraternities no
longer pledge allegiance.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC