"sickbed" poems
Modern life is killing me
Yawn, yawn, block out the TV
Pictures of bears, wales and lion
Dial the number, save the newest extinction
Money wanted for the latest charity
Save the children, comes the plea
It’s all too much for the heart to take
So it’s numbed in ice, to prevent the break
I am now part of the world’s population
Where denial is guaranteed self-preservation
But here we go with another newsbreak
Money needed after a recent earthquake
So I will travel upon my merry way
Living in ignorance every day
Paddle in an ocean where plastic rules
Ignoring the singing of dolphin blues
Don’t want to hear about what’s at stake
I can’t make a change, put in the firebreak
But to the next generation, what can be said?
When they look at oceans a long time dead
And a lion’s roar can only be seen
In a cartoon film shown on the big screen
The only animals in the world are biped
Trying to survive on this floating sickbed
I am not one to name and shame
Or make judgement, place the blame
But don’t want to leave the world as I found it
Hand it on, like it’s a gambit
So I will make one change, I hereby claim
I leave it up to you to do the same
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
This end of the trail is where Christian values drive up social status,
Tell you your friends,
Who not to glance at.
I'm not one for all that purity,
And no one else in my shoes could deny the *** in the air.
Crisp and new,
Shining like the grass in the rain,
Remarkably less discussed.
I feel no need for forgiveness tonight,
Which makes me happier than usual...
Typically, I will count the days with
Input to the last time I felt like I had direction— spend an hour telling Rothko I almost relate.
I admire you, but tonight I hope you're miserable.
My bones went hollow, the mood went heavy,
And the bridge went to ruins...
Can't say I'm surprised.
I'll fall asleep with ambience tonight, and wake to all the correspondence I'm not waiting for,
But I'll be of use to you.
I'll be of use in the North,
So odd to imagine my purpose,
Replaced as I am
Or even just looked over.
It's a downpour,
Yet I'm having the strangest drought,
Feeling like I need more light and far less space,
Who now will be at my sickbed?
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
I feel like a sick lady waiting for well wishes from my sisses and mates. I’ve been a giver and a settler and in three weeks, I found myself hanging in between. And now here I am, in my sickbed crying for attention— living in this pocket-sized, time-filler, slick box for most of my days just prying on everybody else’s lives to check how incomparable it is to live a life less like mine.
Everyday at five, the sun sets, overshadowing the blue sky with soft transitions of reds and oranges. And just right before I knew it days, weeks have already gone by. I found myself with nothing but dull empathy and collective misery. I re-spiraled down to the mantle of my being until it hit me— attention is cheap, but intention is gold. And I have wasted so much time, so much time, chasing the idea of perfect romance from the most impossible people. It made me worry, too, on how bad I have been in making decisions just to curtly satisfy my longing for any human who can provide even the slightest damp on my cold skin.
I’m not trying to compose a self-help quotable narrative nor shit-shit essay about self-love. I have stripped off the idea of 1-2-3s, of healthy coping mechanisms, of capturing perfect moments from the most mediocre, mundane fragments of life during my trying times. These past few encounters have been merely playdates and guessing games where I’ve lost sight of innocence and sincerity, making it hard for me to differentiate temporariness with permanence. And knowing kindness with or without an agenda is like a cloud in my head. Therefore, throughout these years, the flowers I planted have slowly wilted under the shade of infinite uncertainties. I have lost the love I was willing to give, and I can’t help but think that romance is not for me. I’m tired of giving and losing; I have given up moving mountains and breaking walls just to find myself being stabbed for being too much. From this day on, I am going to be me, with me. A bloke. A woman—alone in a swarm of parasites and flock of birds. A strong, pragmatic, detached woman in this horrifying epic journey of self-salvation.
—Advent
3:27am
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
It hurts to love
To draw deep from the well
Of another’s spirit
To mix your own sweat with their
Sweetness
And taste
Something no one imagined
Together
Entwined
My hand still enthralled with yours
Even here
Even now
On this sickbed
I am nauseous with this viris:
The thought of losing you.
Soon I will be nothing but
bruises and holes
…
I ............. I...............I
am.......... am.......... am
sick......... sick......... sick
of.............with
fear......... fear
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 11:59 AM UTC
*don't harangue my life with care for pity at woman's idiocy, not having adopted Caesarian birth as universally adequate and prospering her, to instil this barbaric guilt in me wondering why women, of all mammals had no natural anaesthetic produced when giving birth... **** your little guilt-trip argument! Caesarian or no argument!*
to be robbed of a glorious death, and be given an
inglorious birth, esp. when women were given an ease
with a Caesarian birth diplomacy... what's there to retain for man?
ardency in labour? old age? i too was robbed of what
Caesar described as the ideal death: the sudden one...
am i to wait for my sickbed...
if i only chanced the thrill of life
within one sunset and sought no night
to encompass my life as worthy compensation
of nothing.
a life lived to the bell-tone of a replaced
uvula, no care for charity asserted...
in that one momentary exception of all life prior,
to have lived it, and hence entombed,
readied for the element acquiring me to
further its signature... as sustainable...
i'd rather die a painful death that live
a comfortable life: pain is eased with its short-lived
establishing awareness when the glory prior is "prolonged"
ascribed to the fates akin to Achilles... and indeed pain is
merely pain with its prolonging on the sickbed...
counter heroism, so defeatist;
how many times am i to be robbed? to thus experience
such shallows of thieves with cheap constantly
expedient thievery? i've had enough to concede to a juggle
of fates and fortunes! one smooth stroke of the ace
rather than the many axe-hackings of the neck
of ****** Mary. bothersome agitations via pride, honour
and braveness, only if they do not happen,
and should they, they'd be undertaken, but to no quest
of celebratory non-enactment, i.e.: farting rather than ********
prior: to be given a wave of the standard acupuncture
of infantry: as guarantee of mythology; and a nobleman
on his horse without a stirrup prior to the *** intervention.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
i sometimes wish i could age to be old and modestly rich, and see my own face in the girls i might care to swoop under my monetary belt in order to see rejection’s expression (pst! articles aren’t used when a meaning is duo possessive / either what you expect or what you don’t expect doesn’t matter) of my youth... a woman’s sex-drive gives her ample time to live longer than man.
it’s a ****** da vinci...
it’s so good
the only thing you
can do to it is.. graffiti it!
so you quote heath ledger
on the mona lisa:
'now i'm always smiling!'
he stole the fiction, heath ledger did,
he stole the fictive character
and committed suicide
because of it... heavy toll i say...
i sometimes wish more actors
took the character off the page
and into hades, as a way
to execute the relation of having
a father extinguished... that's classic that is.
me? ***** i think i got the
actor's part of christ... i.e. the antichrist...
and my crucifixion scene is in a sickbed...
and lasts too long like Tolstoy's war & peace
that no one reads...
and i sometimes get a sponge soaked with
wine given to me by a centurion,
or as i like to call it... some writing time
from the excesses of perspiration
doing the easiest of household activities
with the energy of someone aged 80;
no seriously, heath ledger stole the joker
from the realm of fiction and made it a reality
when hades dully acknowledged these
words to ring true:
telegram from the mediator of yhwh... heath ledger
is the joker... hades didn't reply and merely
gleed with awe like freshly oiled wooden flooring,
although a few dimples appeared on his face.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
When I heard today
Your passing away
Regretted I
Failed to pay
You a visit why?
Regretted I
Why, why, why, why
Failed to say goodbye
On your sickbed
Looking at your eye?
Regretted I
Told you not why
Your kindness and honesty
Were descriptions that defy?
Of course
I was submerged
In life's
Rest -not- knowing chores?
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
The extra,
Understudy,
Alternate.
I’m the topics not covered in health class,
The friend you only talk to once you’ve run out of options.
The opener for Duran Duran,
The new moon not seen,
The sexuality deemed “fake”,
That feeling you know but can’t name,
The secret you’re forced to keep hidden,
The rock in a sea of people terrified of change.
But Change is what you do,
And leave me,
Your sickbed shirts,
In a crate.
Me,
Your wooden pipe,
In the trash can.
You terrorist.
You Ziggy Stardust,
Landing on this rocky planet
Only long enough to make a mark,
And then changing,
Leaving me counting on the 3 hands I used to carry your baggage,
The number of things I did wrong.
If you were human,
I’d be a dog.
You’re the ocean.
I’m rock.
I’m the extra,
Understudy,
Alternate,
Unspeakable,
Acquaintance,
Lone wolf,
Phased rock,
Fake,
Forgotten,
Desperate,
Unchangeable,
Other.
“But that’s okay.
You’ll change.
It’s just a phase”
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
i always said
i would
never
do it.
i always said
i never
think
about it.
i have,
though.
does it
hurt?
who will
miss me?
what happens
after?
take back
please
to when my
life remained
free
and
blessed
fast forward
it to when
i lay in
sickbed
not knowing
when it is going
to come.
rewind to when
i was fresh,
innocent,
an angel.
and keep me
innocent,
fresh,
an angel.
save me
from the
gaping hole
that sparkles
with
black
because
this disease
has left me
dead.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
mind, taste sleep one last time
bitter chest and burning ribs
break your fingers tearing yourself open
one last time: let them drown you
bitter chest find bright wonder
tough years, broken people,
wrong friends with hate in their hands;
love them harder than you loathe yourself
remember what it felt like
the beautiful things left behind
eyes, look your last
time will show you the sickbed
where warm love points to the sky
asking for gods as her hands
lie clasped, cold and hardening
a good mind turned dark,
these chapped lips purse
and you kiss his body one last time
and when it rains, you swear
it rains blood—no more better days
heart once locked inside breaks free
seek out the white light
mind, taste sleep one last time
eyes, look your last
the beautiful things left behind
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 12:56 AM UTC
i like that expression,
a little time for myself,
it's not exactly
about being selfish,
a momentary trick of
faked disappearance,
when i say a little time for
myself, i mean it's
a time when i can be selfish
in my pain, i can appreciate it,
and i don't need to turn to
sainthood; like the concept
of the anti-crux with the anti-christ,
the anti-crux being a sickbed...
the slow digestion of either
body and its liver and kidneys,
but also the slow disintegration
of the mind and the representatives
of the body's organs akin: the faculties:
intellect or the brain, memory or the stomach,
imagination or the heart, arithmetic
or the bones -
we have provided splinters of what
ought to be abstracted,
pains and pleasures, whatever extreme is
forced upon us, we abstract it,
as is due in the encapsulating capacity
of our potential, if not will,
for in the capacity of expressing will
we follow through, wholly embracing...
but the power to a potential...
well... that's like almost ***********
but withdrawing from ***********
as an obstruction of giving life, a furthering,
rather keeping it all to yourself.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
This rainy morning you gave me a feel of your flowers
Thank you I want to give you a poem in return
Soaked in pleasant smell of the showers
I like your eyes going through these words from green fern
Thank you I want to give you a poem in return
As you sing in the fifth avenue pavement
I like your eyes going through these words from green fern
As the passer-by drops a dollar swayed by the moment
As you sing in the fifth avenue pavement
Raindrops dripping from your soft brown hair
As the passer-by drops a dollar swayed by the moment
You smile and feel you can now pay for the Medicare
Raindrops dripping from your soft brown hair
Your old mom is in her sickbed at your home
You smile and feel you can now pay for the Medicare
I have mentioned her in a stanza of my poem
Your old mom is in her sickbed at your home
Look the sky is clearing up and the blue returns
I have mentioned her in a stanza of my poem
Let us pray she gets well and you are in my arms
Look the sky is clearing up and the blue returns
Soaked in pleasant smell of the showers
Let us pray she gets well and you are in my arms
This rainy morning you gave me a feel of your flowers
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
*from out of this sickbed
i put my heart on the floor
take it break it smash it fake it
because i don't need it no more
it's heavy, locked and loaded
and doesn't belong to me
i'm tired of myself these days
waiting for angels to be free
they would like to walk with you
feeling sorry for the other side
i can still hear them fighting
playing seek and hide*
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Dig me down, deep.
Deeper...
fetter me, in shadows, and mosses
The way I was oft plagued,
in the skeletal recesses,
by darkness...
and sweet, green life, would sprout merrily,
in its wake.
Like a sickbed possession...
a pox-infected blanket,
wrap me in oilcloth, and set me afire.
Surrender my wounded devil,
to the trees...to the skies...
to the moon, and the stars.
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 1:42 AM UTC