"serrations" poems
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
blood and tears, a royal jelly
merciless kisses like blazing pyres
she cries through a night prayer
my push pin princess;
a crimson petal
nerves edge;
jutting ******* seeking cleavers kiss
to serve
to serve
to serve
smiling for a relish of wasps
she knows she is loved
a loved red faced surprise
**** mouth, red chirping sparrow
wax teeth melting
succubus, **** flower
gratefully crushed under foot
toes like musical notes
little pearl ruins
grave stones
whipped cream butter cookie in chains
stipule corridor
**** plume
serrations gush, a singing Dahlia
ripped rose, thorned and curt
plush flames
her skull a throat
her liturgy
weeping, licking gods bulging colossus
wakes her inside
giving her religion
sacrificed on a crucifix of *****
**** of heaven
a burning church possessed
drooling supplications
lustrous saliva web drapes trembling downward thighs
a glutinous chandelier
melts like silk around ankles
crystal silt on scorched heels
to serve
to serve
to serve
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
Serrations of chimneys
Stone-black perforate
Velvet-black dark.
A tree coils in core of darkness.
My swinging
Hands
Incise the night.
A man slips into a doorway,
Black hole in blackness, and drowns there.
A second man passing traces
The diagram of his steps
On invisible pavement. Rain
Draws black parallel threads
Through the hollow of air.
2k
You are hollow and sharp--
not exactly hollow, but full of holes
where your guts should be.
You are rust and cruelty,
all ancient bloodstains and missing
hunks of steel.
You are afraid of your angles
the wicked serrations of your tongue.
You lick your own wounds
to taste blood wondering if
it really tastes like you at all
or more like the leftover bits of flesh
still stuck between your crooked teeth.
But you don't frighten me, Bonesaw;
your razor blade arms are nothing but home.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
How deep does your happiness go
Through the skin you must burrow
With sharpest razors to make you bleed
Searching for the pleasure you so need
Satisfaction runs through your veins
Yet it's release leaves you drained
Your red water streams present euphoria
While the scars leave you in paranoia
Your arms speak volumes of desolation
Written with thirsty razor serrations
Whether frequent or far between
You seek bliss in its iron sheen
What a shame your happiest dreams
You believe lie at the end of the stream
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 9:42 PM UTC
the art of procrastination
is just that -
exactly what it says
on its faded, beaten label -
an art in itself;
a weathered process
that has divided humanity,
much like its more
celebrated
brethren - painting, dancing,
maybe even writing poetry.
the art of procrastination
makes no bones -
it is made of unequal
and ever-changing parts
of chaos and consistency,
passion and practice,
destruction and discipline,
all at once.
it is learning that
you can train yourself
to not feel fearful of
whatever doom is upon you,
but also struggling to stay
just barely afloat
when the tides of said doom
sweep you off your feet.
it is both vain strength
(to think you can outrun Time)
and smart cowardice
(to trust that you can hide from Time)
the art of procrastination
does not beat around the bush -
to master it,
you must walk on the serrations
of a double-edged dagger -
both balance
and falling beyond measure
can ruin the practice
of the oldest art
in all of existence.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 3:38 PM UTC
silence is a balloon in my hand. an erratic saxophone with notes as blue as doves
strangled in noxious space.
android Jesus, not quite the shadow, verily the toppled light
renaming things underneath its parasol – hundredfold of monikers
and a solitary weight of love.
this is where the blood starts to make sense in its cold shrill:
a dagger making its way towards my back. here are few routines of ablution;
a conflagration of bodies. razed sandalwood. first to go is gravity. last are the bodies
helium-gorged, afloat – there is an immense price for solace.
cyclic spectral cyclic spectral
there’s man in ox but never an ox in a man. can you feel the tenacious drone
of the oncoming storm? can you feel the Sun so sick of its diurnal labor?
can you feel the tantric *** of dew? its sensorial fissures?
butchered serrations of grass are like torrid piles of moist ***** ready for ******
again, here comes the quietus. on the loathsome table lies the shrapnel
of last night’s carnal invitation. a moth not named Marieta circumnavigates a bayonet
of elastic fire. here comes the marauder of quiet again,
in my hand, a round, red, silent balloon – I let it go, in such relentlessly hoodwinked
pursuit towards a god that may or may not know how
to dance underneath the bludgeoned beat.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
in me there is a grand heat
it's the purpose of my blood
hot stinking rivers
adolescent steam wafting
serenade a pile of burning ***
a word tremendously whispered
shatter my lips. savage Gravity my cells
scream for thee. (lay open the stuttering
of my heart and place in it your fluid
i'll **** every hesitation
and blast your skin with shimmering agile
pulsings of my lungs; emptied upon thee)
make me raw little knife. the serrations of your
nails dance and please my flesh. motes of fire
dimple the vassal of my will
how sharp thou are
please hurt me
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:19 PM UTC
The story is never written,
A narrative never told.
The old lined paper
Kempt by metal fingers,
A face wrinkled with use;
Scarred-- with gray tributes,
Slashed with gaudy limelight.
Serrations of effect,
Course by course
Delineation of subjects.
180 men strong -
standing at attention.
Hundreds of guns--
Straight and narrow:
Waiting for the charge,
Muzzle-flash discharge.
Three identical wounds,
Inflicted on the men;
Identity branded skin.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
“Transcendence is dead”,
He remarked,
with hollowed eyes enlarged
“There’s no exteriority to this existence,
no object not rooted to this mind,
no experience to reach to alleviate me from this pain”
Words uttered in vain sentiment,
like riches given by a desolate
“- and there’s no interiority
to this existence either,
no refuge untouched by extrinsic hands,
no truth untainted and grazed
by worldly sands,
etching indelible marks,
serrations upon the purity of what I envision, oppressive symmetry bounding my condition”
Echoes unbridled to the night made by folded wings
of the hungriest crows,
a reality smirking upon this man
encased in noxious snow
“-only immersion,
only implicit truth,
only sensation,
that’s all that’s left when flesh is torn,
arteries spilt,
and bones broken,
when my fantasies are the whispering
of the death of lives yet born ”
How unfortunate,
“I once remarked that
„abstract are the lines of my conscience„
how false I was,
there is no conscience,
there is no line, there is no territory,
no irreducible components of self,
no elements,
no world,
mere immersion, mere immersion, mere immersion, mere imm-“
How unfortunate,
“-ersion, my plane of immanence,
thought is not real,
only the image of thought,
people aren’t real,
only their representations,
this is not real,
only my description of it,
I’m sustained by this illusion and I am content,
for content is not real, only stationarity,
to suggest my autonomy
suggests a piece in a game,
an agent in a relation,
a designated power,
but power is not real,
only my laughter and spite,
only the former iterations of myself I
walk over
so I may tell myself I am content where I am,
consciousness is not real,
only the playthings of my inner demons,
and my unconscious is not real,
only the results of my outer events,
I am not real,
only the set of eyes that overlooks me”
How unfortunate,
a child who instead of a soul,
an unhealing wound,
but don’t feel upset for this child,
he is not real, only the representation of him, only a disembodied set of eyes describing his flesh left behind
|
Now I must close my eyes, this child of hollowed sight is beginning to cry, then so will I
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 7:01 PM UTC
I read but can't remember
the characters
and or
in what order.
BIOS,
that's who I am
clogged up with redirects
string code and spam.
A sometime module in
a bigger module
misunderstanding it
for a mid life crisis
But I'm bits and bytes and
hot serrations in
sweaty nights on cold glass
screens.
I post this in the hope that
out there
there is someone
to help me
cope,
Is there?
The logic gate
stops to wait
and then a green
light flashes go.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC