"specimens" poems
look me in the eye and tell me that you love me
or was it all a sad story that you unconsciously believed
while you raided the fridge and fornicated wildly
too late is not really an acceptable position
and later on is usually an example of indecision
and sometimes specimens reject their predicaments
especially if they are eventually going to be your dinner
i am sure that i am here to usher in a new authority
resurrected like a phoenix i must be stronger than before
so even if forever is often equivalent to never
and september is the month of seven (or was it nine) serpents
that are to be reborn in the dawn of Time's obsidian
as our minds have spent oblivion in the forges
of turgidly engorged shores, torn from their former continents
as forms are always gripped in hands who choose intolerance
take administrators, lawyers, bureaucrats and clerks;
as examples of this; par excellence
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
I’m the excommunicated extra extraditing
your excess excrement, extricating specimens
of your essence getting especially excited
call me the exorcist enlightened,
a devil exercising a frightening
double existence.
Conscious constant resistance
from a heavy conscience that lives in
the conscientious angel hidden
deep within a very contentious prison of flesh
fresh from living a half-life, given a dark light,
splitting apart like I’m shining through a prism.
Divine intuition combined with true sinning.
Pinning down angelic powers devoured in hellish prowess,
Tyler’s now a super-villain.
I’m my own double, troubled my other
call me Jorge Dostoevsky a symbiotic brother.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC
when i was
thirteen
i remember whenever i went over
to a friend's house
who had a sort of get-together
with a whole ton of other kids
about once a month
i'd sit on the rug in their basement
with twenty other teenagers
looking at
socks.
there are ten kids
in my family
and two ****** parents
and we had a whole bathtub full of socks
and if you could find two that actually fit
you were golden
never mind matching
or nice and white...
and sitting
looking at all the other kids' socks
i felt like ****
they had the nicest
whitest
socks you ever saw
and mine were grey
worn
dilapidated
specimens
that i'd dug out from the very
bottom.
and somehow i decided
that this was a failure
on my mother's part
that she didn't keep our floors
clean enough
or she didn't wash my socks
right
and so i spent my thirteenth year
feeling like ****
over
socks
and today
i was folding some socks
(do you fold socks? i dunno how it works. whatever)
and i was looking at them
colorful
silly
but
grungy still
and the white ones
still grey
and i thought
well
i don't have a mother anymore
and my socks still aren't
white and
nice
i guess that's one less ****** thing
in my life
i don't have to blame her for
anymore
another nice thing
is that i don't give a ****
about socks
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
1465
Before you thought of Spring
Except as a Surmise
You see—God bless his suddenness—
A Fellow in the Skies
Of independent Hues
A little weather worn
Inspiriting habiliments
Of Indigo and Brown—
With specimens of Song
As if for you to choose—
Discretion in the interval
With gay delays he goes
To some superior Tree
Without a single Leaf
And shouts for joy to Nobody
But his seraphic self—
2.3k
Tapping relentlessly on the warm metal table-top
I wait. I watch my watch to time the waitress.
I hate this. No more to do
than to classify humans; ''advanced'' mammal zoo.
Specimen one: Green-Eyed Duckling.
Looking up at her mother goose you can see
she doesn't seem to be finding a mirror.
If you were to ask me; no difference. Imperfect reflection.
Best not tell her though.
Specimen two: Naive Kitten.
Instantly smitten, with just a little heavy petting
never second guessing a seemingly simple relationship.
Take. Fake. Take some more.
Once it gets real, its too close to home.
Specimens three and four: Sympathy for the Mantis.
There's simply no way he can escape. It's not in his nature
raised to obey. She, can't see herself in the mother-in-law
it would shatter her control complex. Her whole context.
Destined to be consumed, he bows his head.
Specimen five: The Lioness.
She lays like an aggressive doormat
don't get too close, she might bite. Or worse
she might claw the ''not'' off the welcome mat
let you in and then play victim.
Specimen six: The Dreaming Sloth.
Floating on a magic carpet; going with the breeze
distinct aroma. Extinct diplomas.
Wasted. Talents wasted in two relaxed limbs
halfway through life, waiting for it to begin.
"Your coffee sir" she smiles.
A new profile; specimen seven
classified unknown.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
I drew specimens carrying XY chromosomes as sharp, angular.
But really you're this
gorgeous, warm, breathing breadth of muscle,
tendons & bones.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
I ask myself a plethora of questions as I lay weeping on my bed in the pursuit of crying myself to sleep at night.
I ask myself how you're so untouched by the ordeal of my pain, by which you have inflicted upon me.
How is it that someone can mean so much to you, or at least act like they do, and then stab you in the back, heart and stomach; simultaneously? How is it that someone can neglect your feelings so quickly and selectively? How is it that someone can jeopardize all that you've had and been through just for one insignificant, worthless moment?
These are just a small selected amount of questions that penetrate my ill, mind.
But it's your fault. Entirely. And I will blame you for eternity, infinity and furthermore endlessly.
From young, innocent specimens we are persistently told that hurting other people is immoral, so why are certain beings so immune and untouched to the pain that they inflict? Why are certain beings so rash within their decisions and therefore their actions? But most of all... How is it fair that specific humans are so untouched by their barbaric and murderous actions?
You might be untouched by my affliction, but at least I am in touch with my morals.
Guilt will drown you but the current will move me on.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
The Lemur is enthroned on the heights of an island
In a luxurious villa, complete with a sauna and a pool
The Dormouse holds, modestly, a small pharmacy
Where people can buy necklaces, gemstones and pretty threads.
Every Monday morning the lemur fixes
His hair with a delicate ivory comb
Asks about the stock market in overflow
Swallowing a pure white powder in a row
His orange eyes threaten to explode
So he sits down, eats lobster and sated,
He doesn’t have a care in the world as descends the evening
His paw resting on a black jade cane stolen from the dormouse
Monday morning, the lemur, operational
Goes fast, pick and pickaxe at the mine
Extracting, sweaty, some beautiful spinel specimens
Hoping that one day at the Lemurian’s he would dine
For a trifle, the latter bought him
His most beautiful crystals and this without paying taxes
He became the leader of the island thanks to his kinsmen
The exotic animals knew something was wrong…
His only friends were the rich and the bohos
Under the yoke of this monkey, the island was a hellhole
Their chef was addicted to coconut powder
Whoever dared to say it was put in irons
When finally, an evening he overdosed
Nobody buried him among his friends
The Dormouse humbly undertook to do so
At the hole where he dug, he found a stone
The moral of the fable, listen to it then,
Who shows compassion exists with reason
Do not judge too fast, because we're leaving too early
Nature often rewards us in her own way.
September 11, 2019
Nancy, translated on November 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 9:40 AM UTC
There is much about you to remember
Am terrified I might forget
To me appears you already have
Realization that makes me upset
Nothing to stop image from fading
From brain a bit more each day
Picture your face so clearly now
Know time will steal it away
Writing all our memories
The best way to ensure
In some way I'll preserve you forever
The perfect specimens we were
You do not care
Freeze precious snapshots
Because to you they did not matter
If love was a delicate vase
You would purposefully topple it simply to see shatter
Sit down to rest tired feet
Exhausted from leading around in laps
Do not know you're giving me the runaround
You set fire to all the maps
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 2:07 PM UTC
alone, there are worse things,
like being an artist
trapped between microcosms,
unable to make eye contact,
or wasting away in suburbia,
stuck on photographs
of Venus and Cetacea,
or reading Bukowski to
a room full of preachers and
PTA goddesses,
or mourning the specimens
spread and pinned to a board.
yes, there are worse things
than alone; did I mention
slithering black nights
and the touch of bare skin
when you've forgotten
how to love?
it's too late to realize
such small truths,
we simply adjust.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
Heinous, immoral, sinful swine!
To what I am demanded to oblige,
This unravelled given flesh, falsely acclaimed.
By who, are we to bestow such honorarium upon specimens?
We, this, it... YES it! For no other alias be deft to pure ****
If it be for me, I'd not be so haste to shift to utter, cosmic vile!
And alas tis that which I am, and as all my fellow ethological, fleshy hominids.
I do not care for it.
And seek the purity of it, but such use may be eternally latent.
God!
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
he imagines
he has carpal tunnel
from channel surfing;
reruns,
his greatest
weapon against
insomnia
the ficus, the
philodendron
she left
(with half
the wedding
china)
are taking
an eternity
to die
a fortnight
without a teaspoon
of water would
wilt the most
hardy specimens
of their kingdom
perhaps she
bequeathed him
cacti in
disguise
he asks
if they are
what they
appear to be:
leafy indoor
greenery
or prickly
survivors
that grow
only where
all things
are venomous
or have thorns
they swear
they are not
botanical
imposters
liars
he turns up
the volume
on his flat screen
to drown out
the mendacity
of flora
the fauna,
after all,
were not
to be trusted
either
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 11:29 PM UTC
we are not butterflies
wings splayed flat across tables
like specimens. we are
not fluttering in the wind
like figurines. we are
life
and love, and hope and
faith floating eternally
in the distance, just
and beneath our grasp. past
the skies we fly still,
splayed across blue
like specimens. poised
to spring to life
like figurines. we
are beautiful. we
are strong. we
are feeble, and plastered,
and nailed half-folded
to surfaces that scrape against
our cheeks but still
we fly. still
we are not butterflies.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
the world over has many stands of trees
they are homes for birds and an assortment of other creatures
we need those trees as they are the lungs of the earth
plant one in your yard or in a public park
isn't it so nice to have a tree for shade
in the Borneo jungles there are many fine specimens
so too in Canada those beautiful maples
and a favorite tree in Australia is a gumtree
there are too many to list here
but please give the trees around you
a little thought to-day
for in this part of the world
it has been declared as Arbor day
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
Yellow specimens in a jar,
like plump yolks bulging
in a jelly like substance
They are so weird,
Give the jar a little wobble,
and they jiggle against each other,
they are so weird
I want to touch them.
They are egg yolks,
I've got egg on my hands,
the mystery has gone,
I liked them better before,
now they're slippy sliding between my fingers
and oozing to the floor
who put's eggs in a jar like this?
That is just weird.
I wonder if they will notice,
the two I took out;
one slipped from my fingers and
one I tasted just be sure.
better ***** the lid back on the jar and
Oh no! It slippy slid out of my goopy hands
and landed on the floor,
didn't smash, that's impressive,
there's still ******* eggs all over the place though.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Specimens of long pig struggle from their mound
Sky-splitting screams starkly resound
My veins circulate a steady stream of spite
For their mewling humbug has turned quite trite
It wasn’t too pleasant when the taunts started to singe
*When **** forced me into a balancing act across society’s fringe*
One by one, I separate my courses from the flock
Store their tender bits inside of Ma’s favored crock
I then engage in a vigorous process of toil
Lower frantic faces into water made to boil
Skin hastily detaches, tongues flop lopsided
Scalded fists clench and eyes bulge cross-sighted
I scurry on webs of scorn
Maim my prey with marks of malice
Eat torn hearts with mine retaining its layer of callous
These lesser swine are absorbed into my design
Their bodies gorged on with generous gouts of fine wine
“Oh, I do hope not to get too drunk”
-I think while chewing on an especially splendid chunk
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
walking moveable feast
talking nonsense;
to bugs too small to see-
under a microscope revealed
captured lab specimens;
just crawling around, all day
eating the tasty skin of Humans
hosts to a constant stream
of nibbling takeaway addicts
a walking moveable feast
talking nonsense.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
When you left my house
I almost offered you a receipt
Because you left me like
Tourists leave a hotel room
I look back now and
Know why I lost so much weight
I was trying to make more room for you
So that you could fill me with your love,
I thought
Really, I just made it that much easier
For you to rip my heart out
Without even rolling up your sleeves
It was that easy
“Going to stay with a friend”
Felt like you stole the kingdom’s
Jewels and left.
That’s why I stay up so late
I’ve realized that it’s always when I let you in
That you let yourself out the door
So I fall “in love” with
Grindr profiles that remind me of
Pieces of us that I’m still picking up
Sorting out which pieces go to which
Of our puzzles
I just wish I could tell myself
Apart from you
I’ve inhaled so much of you
Like the smoke that burnt
Every time we touched
It had to be that way
Because I was playing with fire
And I didn’t realize that
We may as well have been
Slow dancing in a burning room
I write letters to you that I’ll never mail
In secret languages, I tell you how stupid we both are
Knowing **** well that what I’m really saying is
That parts of me are still confused
Confused as to whether or not you actually
Ever loved me or if
I was more like the lab specimens
We hung out with
I want to be the fire that burns
Against the skin of lovers who speak in secret tongues
Not in notes I tear up in the dark
But in gasps and croaks
Instead of croaking
Like another dissection frog
You experimented with:
**Even though you earned an A for your work,
I failed you because you never appreciated the class**
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
Your careful hands levelled out the budding bloom, and set the staging pots aside the heat of noon, thoughtful timing shifted them from watery sheltered vase to rough garden ensembles, like that you shaped the ravenous growths again and again.
With careful fingers you massaged around the banks, no garden book to guide such terrifying specimens, you could not bring the scythes to taper off the exploding flanks, so you watched from further every night.
And so with time you peer with awe at the new garden features, puzzled by a wilting stem, delighted by a fanning brush, sometimes tracing natures path, other times your gaze will be lost. Your garden bright and overgrowing.
Open the door dear gardener for life has been unleashed, when the toil of daily demands has reached its peaks, remember your creation. Know that all the blooms that cheer the neighbours, would, with your hand - the Nation.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
The cast iron cot frame stood in the garden
At the top left and held the relics of blue
Unleaded paint used to cover a girlish pink
The mattress disintegrated it contained plants
Mother’s cuttings from an extensive garden.
The girl now eleven and very thin
Sat in a homemade embroidered skirt
And played with her unbraided hair
Her feet neatly together like a doll
A teenage doll from The Pedigree range.
The beginning of ******* were forming
And insecurities and dissatisfaction open
That day in the sun with cousin Hilary
Two different specimens of womanhood
I only really knew her a short time .
Love Mary ***
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 10:57 AM UTC
general t'so what the fuck's this meat made of?
the fluorescent room gleans
off the sheen of fake food,
***** this weak pay stub,
this buffet too
and living off food court food.
hors derves served to
a bunch of augustus gloops
who'll soon sport tubes.
I hope the line short fuses.
I'll be giggling,
at these wiggling
greedy,
feeding
frenzies
still feeling empty
with stomachs of drains
they feign being friendly
not a morsel of moral thought,
their brain's busy picking
food from the troth
pointing with pickeled pig feet
ruder than all hell
marvelously stinky
laid back in booths
soothing their sweet tooths
mouths oozing drool
drippin onto bibs
turning solids into goo
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
We are the coffee stains on waiting tables
That lie unattended in cafes
Of our own making
We are the imprints
Of a life lived haphazardly
Without any patterns to follow
We are…and are nothing more
Each day I immerse myself
In the torrent of a New York Sidewalk
Knowing that Life and death
Have never been closer
Than at this very moment
Each day I see people
Living lives of quiet desperation
Caged in suits of blue and black
Bought for 250 dollars
At Saks fifth avenue
Without looking at price tags
Because who argues
About the price of a straitjacket
I leave the crowds and walk down further
On a street that seems empty and yet full
There is a tree standing at the corner
Of two numbered avenues that
Are different ,yet the same
In the nightmarish way
That only cities can hope to achieve
It looks anaemic and withdrawn
Gnarled beyond recognition
Unnoticed , except by dogs
And posters for lost dogs
That offer paper rewards
For a live beating heart
It seems to cry, tearlessly
Soundlessly
At each nail that tears through its skin
Trying to find its pulse point
And silence it for good
There are brownstones lining
The street that I turn into
Brick mansions that should
In their ridges hold
Stories of wealth and joy
That surely follow
All green paper trails
But instead, house
(Like exotic museum specimens )
Cheating fathers and acrimonious mothers
Drugged out sons and prostitutional daughters
All by products of a generation that measures
***** into its morning cornflakes
And keeps itself alive
On a steady diet of Adderall
I come to the end of the street
And watch as the sun sinks down
Over a dead end world
Wondering if the night will hide
Or reveal all that lies hidden
Wondering if remembering
Buries or resurrects …
Or whether we are all graves
Postmarked optimistically “To Heaven “
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
it's a delicate thunder that warns from a distance
to choose a path of least resistance
to curb the urge of feigned persistence
enjoy...do not curse the rain
it's an essential darkness that clears the course
aligns the heart and mind...the force
connecting soul and Mother's source
awaken to your dreams
it's a Fatherly Sun that warms from afar
the perfect balance...the perfect star
we are specimens in a specimen jar
yet unique in all time and space
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC