"spliced" poems
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.
Good, and so you ought.
Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.
Billions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of implanted semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world;
know how dead inside I am.
You, yes, you:
Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind,
In here,
In hair,
Hear her:
har, har, har…
A box of lies...
A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.
The real thing, the men, the women, the children - their animals -
Made in the wild, wild desert,
In the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea;
Now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -
the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.
pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.
pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.
pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.
pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
There are so many sides to me...
A perplexing mixed identity...
A spliced yet whole menagerie...
Of characters...
To meet each one...is to be undone...
Touched...without flesh...
I am Vesuvius...just below the surface...
Molten malice merging...swirling...
The narrow Nile...
Meandering mildly...coaxing vexing perplexing...wildly...
A temptress...a child...a bitter diatribe...holding...no...unfolding...
This story...non-benign...
And this is where you come in...
Tumultuous tide...your raging winds...
A course-less calamity...to pursue...
That is not me...THAT...is you...
Unbridled...and unabashed...
Alas our toxic story line...how well embittered did entwine...our love...
Dangerous pursuit...then...you took root...
Off with the loot...
Of my misfortune...
I attempt to fold...
Forfeit my resentment...discontentment...
My own deliverance from you...
You disappear...no...transform
Retreat...from your chaotic norm...
Another type of magic trick...to capture my bewilderment....
Fully...
Fooly...
Folly...
Tears tremble on edge...carried swiftly from ledge...where they teeter...
Behind each one...is held an ocean...
A watery well...
Endless emotion...
Navigating features...dodging dignities plea...
WE...
Toss the currency of love into the depths...
Whisper wishes on the wind...
The downward dance...a wishes chance...
The murky bottom is but wishful thinking...
I should be rich off the wonder...
That put asunder...Our love...
I am Vesuvius...
Just below the surface...
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
When I sleep dreams please take head
I’m not accustomed to this speed
spliced with music art and ****
this rhyme a warning and a plead:
Many men look back at me
their eyes memorize silently
I trade in who I used to be
degenerating empathy.
Friends no more are there as well
waving constantly farewell
who they are now I can’t tell
heavy water stains still dwell.
Though no longer what you were
your name a prayer spoken unsure
Instills the fact there is no cure
clear direction- violent blur;
I am a man and I’m a boy
both utensil and a toy
immoral morals, high decoy
let flirt with death, young cold and coy..
So please I beg you, dreams of pain
let sleep consume me, peace sustain
let night air fill my broken brain
through the wind myself retrain
Let me wade in water deep,
let my faith forwardly leap
worry sow and disdaine reap
Troubled Poppies for Endless Sleep.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs sprayed all over the everywhereworld.
"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.
And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.
These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.
While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
The snowy lilies gird her pith - in wake;
bejewelled love reposed in truest sleep
as Floras' wreath outdone by sorrow's make,
then thought; what comfort worth are stems - to weep?
Could petals glint upon her sombre plume
and sorb bereaving rain - of mourning kin,
or priestly Latin's timbre out of gloom
and Schuberts' toned refrain - a lighter hymn.
Although, a striking; flowered plush pervades
as fragrance spliced with copal - yields in heart
and over each an ashing pyre cascades,
begotten times and seasons - death not part.
Embraced the blossoms, now upon her lay;
a sweeten lilly - kissed by loves defray.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
I convinced a man he could prune his own ****
That if he spliced it just so,
two little pink shafts would sprout in it's place.
Wriggle themselves growing into two separate fully functional phallus.
And I watched him.
As he reluctantly reached for the shears.
And went through the five stages of grieving.
"There's no way this will work.
**** you for telling me this secret!
can't I just take a pill to grow a second **** without having to cut this one off?
I don't think I can live without it..."
but just think, I reminded him.
after you do this.
You're gonna have TWO *****
"I'M GONNA HAVE TWO *****
TWO *****
And with almost no other thought, reasoning or belief.
He closed the shears
He opened his eyes.
His flaccid privilege laying there.
"When does the growing start?"
He asked me, pained.
His big brown eyes swelling.
"It doesn't."
"WHAT?"
"I lied to you, it doesn't grow back."
"It doesn't grow back? Not even one?
"Not one, not two,
no **** for you. I lied."
"Lied?"
"Lied."
it was easy,
to convince him.
Just had to promise he'd have two times the power in the long run.
If he risked it all right now.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 10:41 PM UTC
Autonomous talking faces
Blathering on & on about
Endless government *****
Like a perpetually new iPhone
There's an App for every view
Install. Use. Reboot.
Multi-dæmon robocop
Seduces his sci-fi fans
With tales of grandeur & success
A printer spliced with a vacuum
Pay it with ink; have it print what you want
It'll **** you good
And then
Late at night in the quiet of a Sunday moon
The zeitgeist peels off his human suit
Plugs itself into the wall
And has cybernetik ***
With its self-aware CPU.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
New mildew mania, oh man-of-war
Live by the letter, and **** for the car
The dreamers, constrained by the fog they can’t see
I uttered this song in Breakaway Alley
A wandering blonde in the restless air
Their kids, half-afraid that they’re halfway to nowhere
Think what you may, they are not in a trance
Wield what they say and you’ll find that you dance
Upon every row, lies a flag waving by
Apartment gravestones kissing up to the sky
Now, must we try so hard for fake jubilee?
The happy ones live in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is on the run
All the country crows, they’ve committed a crime
Each of their wings, flapping mad out of time
To fly with such freedom yet stay so cloudbound
Cacophonous sounds fighting for our own ground
The buds only look up for leviathans
To take them to the realm they misunderstand
To pity the fool that does not try to flee
We sit on our stools in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has emptied the guns
The youth do not stir at the visage of hell
There is no romance in the streets’ calling bells
And while we may treat such a threat to be shown
The dagger of a mind is dull while unknown
The ravaged pretender spoke of the Romans
His gauntlets of gold, earned from fate’s happenstance
To escape his blood, he would face down the sea
The velvet hands shook in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is due to be shunned
The eye of childhood feared the forgotten paint
They lay, unencumbered, on secular saints
The falsified folly in full leopard print
The troops in their trollies with pockets of lint
The radio is silent in time’s aging vice
We hear and don’t listen, bats spliced with mice
But maybe, you will see this sweet harmony
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has finally gone
When the baby screams for the first time, aged five
Will it lament the loss of its life?
When the kids rear for a solution wherever you go
How much will it take to say “God, I’ll never know”?
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
It’s not all you see, it’s not simply me
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
I scattered my wife
in an array of bedside ashtrays.
I wore my shoes out
trying to find a pure form of love.
When love found me,
it arrived late and carried a fee.
The ashes of my former life,
crawled, cradled and spliced.
Until the wife I burned through,
became bright, became beacon.
It didn't hit me until the third month
of "freedom".
I laughed while laying beside Miranda's
milky twin.
As the copy sputtered with barnacle conversation,
I walked free. I walked home.
I felt washed clean in a gleaming sea
of finding the past me.
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
Let me whisper to the sun
An arm, a pillow
A tale beyond my mind
Warm dust beneath
Macro image spliced about
No rules, too heavy
Lapping water and haze
Take me under to dream
Nowhere to go
Yet everywhere
© Cat
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
lonely chord tired guitar play
soul numb as callous fingers
heart hollow as sea rusted string
flat wrought steel,
peeled off tire
fire face melted
fleeting garish glimpse of starch shirt 60s
itchy lice life like gene spliced flight patterns
bioengineered space age
Han Solo with (hold) full o'Spice
Synthetic Cannabinoids sprayed on Marshmallow leaf ruin life
Chewie grab the bowcaster, ill grab the glock foe blaster
Smash, mash and crashed'er like Britons of Lancaster
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
Shroud, encompassing
The blanket over my head I am the twin of
The sleeping spring, hers is snow my sister
The one I actually like
The unending winter, blank white
Now I see why animals hibernate, in the winter there is
No color to paint your thoughts on The sky is spliced with the ground, blazing white unending no limit to ponder
No sky to ponder the limit of (lim as x approaches 2, calculus, my bane)
You tip-toe through pure white banks, your soul is ***** in comparison you are old ugly jiggly and soft in comparison
To sharp clear fractals, individuals sparkling even in the whitesky's frank stare whiteground whitesky white
I don't add up I don't add up I don't add up I don't add up
They say this is the longest winter ever recorded for Canada
People joke we're Canada we live in igloos anyways I can confirm
This is wrong; I have distinct memories of spider-holes in damp dead grass
Furious water rushing down rock blasted for a highway
Warm sun damp air damp grass rubber boots and most of all
Bluesky greenbrownground an imperfect world to wonder in
To not feel incomparable to
Mud as jiggly and soft as fat and muscle layered on bleach bones, bone marrow chunky porous redbrownred
No white to speak of, even my pale skin is pinkish dotted with islands of moles
When I wake up the blanket is a shroud over my head to block out the light and now I understand what I must do
Hibernate and forget like the bears I miss
Let the white light filter through colorful sheets I will feed off the blue light instead
Remember, it can't last forever somethings gotta give
Express sympathy for the car crashes and wait.
Patiently.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
They were broken children
Their scissored minds ran them
In spirals
Until they sat with crossed legs
And crossed lips
To press themselves flatter
They were cut-strings marionettes
Who danced
In an attempt to wring calories
From their balsa-wood bones
Which refused to give
And who pinned their painted smiles
A little tighter each morning
They were snapped-spines picture books
Who’d been warped too far by society
And had had their pages torn from the crease
So that words hung like razor blades
And spliced from each vertebrae
They took them to the circus
Where they were the **** of every joke
But when the clowns speared them with dripping eyes
And artificial mouths that were stretched over grimaces
Like the dust-jackets from different stories
They stared back glassily
Because how can you be afraid
Of the broken clockwork of your reflection?
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Righteous Isis,
priceless queen, rife with green
vines winding between her lungs,
around her tongue, crowned with beams
of the ancient sun, power of Ra
beneath her thumb, life-giving wife,
wild child of reptiles, pride of the Nile--
righteous Isis,
she who gives birth to heaven and earth,
sovereign sorceress, steward of words,
my ancestress, blessed with flesh, this
bright protectress, next to death with
theft of her name, maimed by insane fanatics
grasping semi-automatics aimed at
righteous Isis,
spliced into terrorist crisis
situations, sacred name on a
radical federation, used for devastation,
appropriation of my divine mother,
brothers-in-arms killing the culture
of their own nations, of past generations, of
righteous Isis,
torn from her temple by
scorned fundamentalists,
prayers to her used to take
insurgent censuses
now when i bow to my goddess,
my empress, the powers suspect I'm a member of
rightist ISIS,
who crosses off competition
with crucifixion,
lays foundations for jurisdiction
with immolation, with detonation,
decapitation of journalists, their
murderous fists taking nations,
rightist ISIS,
whose power rests on the shoulders of dread,
men obsessed with erasing the names
of every goddess we hold close, of every man
who knows Mohammed did not preach death,
of every Buddhist, every Jew, every pagan, every Hindu,
choking the breath from those who don’t believe what they do--
rightist ISIS,
you think you own the sun but not this one,
not this pristine queen who tears the thunder from the skies,
and she will strike you down with pestilent blight
she'll smite you with a blistering light,
she'll drown you and ignite the tide,
and you will die with the second rise of
righteous Isis,
whose hand rocked the cradle of civilization,
whose shrines make the sacral heart of nations,
whose each breath gives divine illumination,
who shakes off the wasted shame
and patiently waits as we chant her names--
all ten thousand in glorification.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
you know this isn't ******* fair. you leave me shaking like the earthquakes i told you to leave in your state but slowly drifted to mine. you make me terrified like i was that day, wondering if i should take cover and protect myself or just wait it out.
you said you miss the cute little flirting i always did. what i suppose made you love me. but you told me you got hurt too. i can almost promise you it never hurt you this bad. i wanted to choke you like you made me choke up when you said then, "you were always trying a little too hard to grow up, j." and you tell me now "you always were a little too naive." but you were a ******* coward. you always have been. you cut yourself on your back because the sight of your own spliced skin makes you ***** always taking the easy way out.
you drove away from the girl on the hill that night, that night she told you she was in love with you. and then you told me you loved me and then you went home and ****** your best friend. coward.
i told you i'd change coasts just to be with you and you never took me seriously. you were too busy staring at my smile. and you remember now that i said it but never remembered how serious i was then. you regret not ******* me that afternoon, when we laid awkwardly on your bed and i wanted so badly to touch you that it felt like my whole body, my every ******* neuron, was screaming to feel your hand under my own. but you stood up and walked away. coward.
you say i'm the one that's different, that i was the one who told you to never say you love me again. but i'm the one left texting you old songs in the middle of the night. i'm the one left counting hours back,
one
two
three,
always wondering what time it is there.
especially after you turned your computer towards me to show that you always had a clock in the corner with the time here.
i would have run away with you. i wanted to, no matter how ******* stupid i was. i would have married you. i would have done anything you asked. and we talk now and you told me it would have been hard to work out. you word it like it was my fault i was never yours. but weren't you the one who always whispered to me, "we'd never work out, i can't stand the distance"?
but here we are, three years and 2,450 miles apart and you remember trying to figure out how it'd work. like you still wonder. like you still feel your heart flutter every time you see a little redhead.
because you do.
and every time i see your flower, i double take. and every time i think of surfing you cross my mind. and every time i think of sunset beaches i remember your words. every time. i love you every time.
if you asked me to leave now, to see you. or asked to see me, i'd say no. because my heart is in a different place and we live in different times.
we belong in "what-ifs" and "remember-whens" because we crossed that line and i'm afraid it can't ever go back. i just can't do it. i just can't.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 1:30 AM UTC
Heart's cover sealed in burgeoning prime
Fading leaves folded in the book of time
Follicles of love blanched on the pages sublime
Billowy blades dulled with eroding sands that modulate and slime
Bleached, seamless threads spliced in the deep recesses of my mind
Glossy words overgrown, strangled with thistle and thyme
Each, dilated syllable devoid of reason and rhyme
Each segment underscored with a stagnating byline
Every, amorous allusion deconstructed; devoid of design
Each, sterile refrain resounds a doleful chime
Remaining, truncated edition a lapsing memory; requited pantomime
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
Shun individuality,
encourage conformity,
rejected, shunned; out of place.
Put on your mask,
lets stray outside...
into the slipstream of the mainstream,
and drown in the shallow waters.
Reveal Yourself,
ego dissolves when at peace like a Berroca.
Bring you back to life,
in a spliced moment of clarity.
The ego is society,
your face looks familiar,
but I can't put my finger on your name,
quietly,
we tip toe on the footsteps of the raconteurs,
and forget those that meant the most at moments.
Don't let the mask slip.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
Where is the sound
That once gave meaning
To my name.
It seems lost in the echoes
The sound of a
Crying shame.
I try to pinpoint the time
Channels I was
Passing through
When I could interpret pre-echo
When each syllable
Rang true
When my offspring was purer
Relative to
Innate impurities.
Girl, boy vastly interrupted.
So much for blood
As a surety.
Belly fire lessens with years.
Caution blows back
In the wind.
Flirting with status quo delusions.
Slogans & logos
Slowly rescind.
Pure thought tainted with church & state.
Leftist & Right Wing views
Scientifically spliced.
This new world creation seldom takes sides.
Calculates the outcome & always
Dresses nice.
I’m halfway there, queasy still
Rhetorical views beginning to
Make sense.
Cautious malaise on either side.
Starch chaffing neck
Outcome offense.
I occasionally hear my voice
That blew with caution
In the wind.
Volcano dormant still pushes the crust.
Delusions sicken me back
To the fringe.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
I have always hated the way you look at me.
With such distance and disgust,
Among colorless eyes.
I am doomed to my fate
The old views I cherish.
I am a child of wind and rain, not DNA.
My scientific lust spliced with my bioluminecent heart.
Nothing more than bones and bruises; trying to hide.
We are children of a past we don’t agree with.
It is a past we comprehend, we’ve lost our empathy.
Forgotten our lust for cruelty.
See it true, those of the past would not pity you.
Not one soul, fore none alive today could know,
The horror of swords, dirt, disease and patriotism.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
*Arcadia, or what is now spliced of aeons' great
Gates of gold that rust in hate
Islands on grim sulfur lakes;
I have no demeanors that wait
They've left and gone away
To the rise of demise and acid rain
Where epidermis boils
Quintessence abolished and spoiled;
Grand scent of desiccant
Miff's so indelicate
Caveats and feats of nothing; No rise
My apotheosis' hellish paradise*
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 4:48 AM UTC
Duped by Satan, the best man
About the commandments
Remind himself no longer can!
Getting inured to the situation
He is in, he committed a sin.
The pious cuckold put
A noose around his neck
Into his hands his shattered life to take.
Those, who backbiting him
Capitalizing on what he lack
Saw their crime stark
A sharp tongue could be
The worst weapon of attack.
Cane killed Abel with a stone
"Where is your brother?"
Asked him God anon
Cane got submerged
In sin's mud pool deeper
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
The act of killing a brother
With a stone
Might had gone,
But changing its form
It pokes its ugly face
In every place.
Inflicting on
A brother or neighbor harm
Such as putting those
Spliced in marriage asunder
Is no less than committing ******
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 4:57 AM UTC
Reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting
Tears blind eyes in corneas, splintering spliced sight
There is no world where I can't stop forgetting.
I have a picture of you, watching the sunrise
stratus clouds stretched along the gold blanket of sky
the waves before you striking the dock gently.
I can't find myself behind the camera,
Remembering my thoughts as I snapped
the shutter. I forget.
I go through my own ocean
where I am tossed between wanting to be shipwrecked for good
or rescued by you. I want to either let you go entirely,
or keep hanging on. But I am gripping a rope on its last thread.
I know you have already let go. I haven't. I don't think I will.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
it's hard not to bump into ghosts in
your house. you've been here
fifty years, or more, and there's
time caught in the marigold
wallpaper; minutes stuck between the
pages of the books you keep
but never read.
you're the unwilling curator
of your own museum-
you have stacks and stacks of
gardener's weekly,
- could build a fort out of them -
but instead sit in the middle looking
lost. you ask after people who've been
dead years, and perhaps it's because you've
seen them in the mirror.
(outside is the tree your
husband planted in the 60s,
spliced out of two and thus
unique. you stare at it sometimes,
and maybe you're wishing for
something-
or maybe it's just out of
habit).
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Between us lies
An empty space.
How could we know
How great the gulf would grow?
I carried the strain.
You would not share my burden,
Now find me
An unwilling host.
I have found a rare mutation
Spliced, we are perfection.
Uninfected, we evolve.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC