"sputum" poems
Communication technology recognition
Reformation in monopoly contortions
Feel the attuned tunes from satellites
Setting light like an antenna televised
Usher prolific hologram vised in vision
Bid manipulation bye to new world neon’s
Motivation from free thought movement
Commendations cemented in another time-zone
Complement to comment for extra terrestrials
Electrical vibrations moving from wired modems
Floating up above the skies, a heaven end
All life become a past tense lie, come lie
A dead fantasy for the oars ain’t tacky
The most surreal reality, the stability, an ability
Congeniality, this is an alien evasion, adaptability
Figure a boxer on the ring, trenching victory
An agility the accessibility to the victorious flag
Tracing admissible tunes, planking in a cool challenge
The heroic and not hectic hologram check the angiogram
Its not a diagram, but a radiant heart an earthy soul
Am a do anything, buffing myself to do anything
Ain’t a deal rocking the crowd in crazy clouds
Breaking the underground like a Fujita F Scale tornado
Ronaldo tormenting the ball in a field with F clef societal
Social control and orders, tormenting the ****** to extraordinaire, an extradite
Streaming live make you believe like you can live for real
Stratifications, ****** classes and sewn mobility
Chasing dreams in the winds deeply wheeled in a well
Be well as we sink so deep to seek and hold the dense
The essence of the whirlwind, it’s a seep through static
This rollercoaster an aspiration to inspire then perspire
Ever higher, from the root to crown charkra, a tantra
Annata,the ascending holographic magnetic hero
Tuning visions to dreamers and travellers
Hold my hand as we sink underneath the stratums
No sputum, just headphones.... a culture, it’s the new age soul
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
I'm staining your raiment with blood while rolling my tongue to create a sputum so that I can wipe off that blood from your raiment. But, you know what I don't want you to clean your shroud because it is a paradigm of our potential—blood. This blood is so potent that it will remind you of me because it is our dark side where we encapsulate. It is something which makes us distinct in our privy shell. Smears of this blood can create revolutions. You know how? Its redness denotes the umlauts of our love and its states depends upon the crests and troughs of our relationship. When we are reaching the crests, it gets brimmed with oxygen and give rise to a new life but the best part is that our troughs don't boost up the mortality rate, instead bring us back to the life. See, how such a small drop of red liquid is so significant for the two of us. It's because it's not a drop of 'liquid' but life. Blood is life, life is blood. We are blood, blood ARE us!
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
Yeah, I know all about your people
How they worship drunken image
How they've exalted you to the status
Of a hero, a legend
A mythological god
Bacchus best buddy
You keep good company
but swine follow you
Different as day and night
Yet they all clamor for a good seat
They fight and swing fists
For a place in the front row
For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces
a soothing balm
a gob of stench and sputum
They gather it up
They mix it with mud
Thicken it into gel
and bow down to a snot green idol
a pus dripping idol
They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain
The towering landfill where you've brought them
Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies
They wave your banner in the air
A colorful representation of the Beefeater
Proud of their devotion
Proud of their status as "The Chosen"
Not necessarily
Sure
Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES
You just seemed to be worth the trouble
Worth a laugh to watch you
To see you falling down
To hear your words of wisdom
(True wise words they are, too)
Slurred into gibberish
You are their man
Whose oracles remain silent
Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind
Whose glory and honor
Fall down
From your pulpit
In the center of a room full of people
99% of whom see YOU
Not as a profit
Not as a beatnik
Not as a poet
Not as a sage
Not as a seeker
Not as an asgst ridden agnostic
No idol
No god
99% know exactly
What you are
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
**** me harder, Álvarez!"*
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
*"Oh hell no ***** 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"*
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?
(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)
I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
faked botulism
and Beulah reds
Abyssinian horses
purportedly dead
all night blindness
that 'gravel' soothes
hovering indentions
southwestern barceuse
luminaries marked
tiny infantries swell
conically formed
so steady with shell
dihedral burns
for unlucky hands
swaying cognition
oh, little demands
sanctums ******
the sputum reigns
tenderness denied
a proper grave
you were ferried
holstered soul
lift your head
and let it go
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 5:20 AM UTC
The end begins,
not with the first stain
of red sputum on a white handkerchief.
Nor by fingers grown numb with
seizure from the heart’s decay.
But, with an act
that leaves a toy discarded
in the nursery of early choice,
reviving for abandoned deeds
the doppel-gangers of dead youths,
clothed with reproach and unfleshed
figments of the mind’s high hopes of
futures fenced in a child’s green field,
that now is hedged; and ploughed,
and grown bitter with a
named and known crop.
© James Rainsford 2010
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 12:38 PM UTC
Veins, veins,
length and breadth,
intertwined
beats to freedom
or desolation;
a terminus
lost on a circular.
An ebbing destination,
unchartered targets,
Follow the signs.
We are a one way street,
follow the signs
on software maps.
Stumped
by sequential lights
and us, caught
in a dragnet
within steely fish,
gasping for air,
choking on smoke,
bilious coughs,
hacking sputum,
gobbing phlegm globs
in interval gaps
within gridlocks;
nose to **** to
nose to ****
The rage, the stares
the shouts, the finger,
the Grrr’s, the Rrrr’s,
the honks, the blares,
the bumper to bumper
expletive shares.
The rolling down,
the alighting,
the threats,
the fighting.
The falling down,
the separation,
reseating,
the rolling,
the thunder,
the trudge,
the stops, the starts.
Follow the signs,
follow the signs.
Robotic conveyors
for humans,
mechanical
fossil fueled
chariots,
grumbling, grunting,
wheee-ing and
screeching,
and screaming
and spewing
and chuffing
and guffing
black plumes,
air tarred,
veins, veins
clogged and bogged,
viscous, molasses,
liquid black blob.
Road fogged,
numbers logged.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
slow crawl.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
follow the signs,
sprawl.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
She brushed out landscapes with her words
as deftly as any impressionist master
and speed-trekked us from where we sat
to scenes of transcendent beauty.
Each day I awaited her verbal canvases
with self-indulgent anticipation.
But one day all was all different.
What was this horrific account of
of unspeakable Afghan tragedy -
A wandering woman whose final defeat,
after all she loved had been butchered,
was hope beyond all recovery
dragging her feet through the dust?
I picked up my heart from out of the soil
to ask her, "were you there?"
She was - with a physician's bag
for Cindy is a doctor
who eschews a suburban clinic
to defy all danger
and be where life would fail
without her healing craft and care.
Dodging bullets, sputum and mortal threats,
Cindy fights life's most essential battles
and so uplifts the standard of our species.
The next day Cindy painted for us
a verdant mountain scene
whose whispering streams and fragrance
exceeded all I'd every witnessed.
I wonder where she is.
September, 2013
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Coughing up the phlegm
I've come to realize, this big surprise
no longer can I keep it to myself
Stuff like this can grow inside the body
and it's snotty
but you need to know the facts now for yourself.
and if the sputum's yellow,
be assured that it is viral
but can spiral
into something worse
a curse or so they say
so take the time to rest
and yes,
drink water and some juice
and for a boost,
vitamin C, 1000 mgs
just twice a day.
and by all means
take your cold to Walgreen, Eckerts, CVS, or Rite Aid,
where there's medicines that might aid and I might add
many brands that you can choose from~
Robitussin stops your fussin'
Advil Sinus for your highness,
by and far my favored Nyquil night-time
is the stuff I get my snooze from
if you've got a fever and it's green
you're infected, should be seen
do not delay if it is grey
or other colors of the day
because these bugs are nasty
downright mean!
cozy up with Vicks upon your chest
mentholatum tends to clear the passage best
a little dab will also do
beneath the nares it is true
external balms and lotions help you rest.
a clean humidifier by the bed
keeps the moisture in your tissues
and that said
keep a box of Kleenex near
the softest kind will feel most dear
and place your favorite pillow 'neath your head.
It's good to keep some chicken soup on hand
it's value has been known throughout the land
keep the heat on, be a ***** and
and crack the window just a pinch
and try to sleep as much as you can stand.
in time you will recover from this hell
your symptoms will subside and you can tell
but be sure to keep your guard up,
avoid crowds
and don't be hard up,
just insist they keep their distance,
and stay well!
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
I’m in a limbo. A state of equivocality. Everything hangs in the air, but I try to chart my daily course as I normally do. Times are tough. Uncertain, too. Notwithstanding, I’ve taken more than I can chew.
I’m in too deep. I’m in a dark place.
You see, I was the golden child. A beacon of light. Envy was nothing new to me. I rarely espoused it, but was the oft object of it. Little Miss Perfect – always so put together. Always has her things together. I have Midas Touch, they say. I’m on a plane higher than my peers – on a dais atop the average twenty-two year-old. I can do no wrong. Only upwards from here.
So they say.
So I thought.
Today, my days bleed into one another. Sunday? Monday? What difference does a name make? I run on two hours of sleep and three thirty-minute naps a day. I don’t wake up to my 5 AM alarm. Nor sleep through it. It throttles to life as I hurriedly read tomorrow’s later’s assigned readings. I might get some sleep in. I rarely do. Finish your readings. Finish your work. Finish your classes. Eat in between.
Objectively, I’m in a good place. Roof over my head. Food on my plate. More importantly, safe. No 40-degree thermometers and sputum litter around. This makes me feel worse. Ungrateful ***** Little Miss Drama Queen. A million would **** to be in your shoes.
I’m in a limbo – my brain encased in a cloud of humdrum trepidation. Filled to the brim with silent thumps of dread. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s not as if I did not try to do better to feel better. I do – I always do. My lists abound. #SelfCare’s always on top. Thump. Thump. Thump. They do little to quell my panic room of a mind.
Sometimes I wonder if this is how watercolor pigments feel. They are always so vivacious off of the manufacturing press. The reds are constantly vibrant and the blues are consistently resonant. But they fade when water comes into contact – even meshing into an ugly grey on the canvas when they touch the other diluted hues.
I’m in a limbo – no sense of past, present, and future. Everyday is a low frequency static hissing at my ears. Wonder child soddened by the somber. I’d build a rocket, they say. I’d own the world, they say.
All I am is tired nowadays.
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 5:25 AM UTC
Gunshot
Screaming
People fleeing
Viscera
Blood
Squirming flesh
Ashen face and wild eyes
Gasp!
And silence.
No surprise
Pump
Pump
Pump
Flex the arms
Expand and breathe
Pop
Crack
Break the ribs
Pop
Crack
Pump the chest
Spit and hack
Rescue Vac
Place and Squeeze
Hold the head and
Breathe
Breathe
Breathe
*****
Phlegm
Thick sputum
Dark veins
Pale skin
Fixed eyes
Flat line
Dead
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
Blue bird
Black flight
speckled sputum
late night
up
dovvn
Death's roller coaster
rides
eyes vvide open
a deep divide
flashes of childhood
Mother cries tonight
vvhen the ride ends?
only The Gate Keeper knovvs
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
The Sun fades.
Sun spots dimmed.
Freckles fading at the over-ripening
of the lea of cheek and breast. Rubicund.
She has drawn it, suckled and ******
drank the mad draught of sacchriferious redolence,
licked the stein with rushing tongue and now
alone stands still in space-fills,
formless in wade waters of light.
It fades.
And in the blanket blackout cacoethes,
phantoms and spectres expectorate pale puke,
lighter than air and leaden hearts beat to molten messes,
sparking rumitorium of fire, concupiscible
sputum spectacular sub-spectrum sun *****
hot spill-out wretched staccato jerks and stops,
red lightening,
angry light dancing to the difficult steps of a jittery birth.
She shines.
Eyes clenched like vengeance,
She shines.
Like a sick sun,
open mouthed and out of control.
She shines.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
i found
her alone
seated amid
sumptuous shelter
crafted of a most clement
terracotta watching
as those chaotic
worldspun towers
whirled around, piercing
through vehement welkin
then stretching down
to ground level.
they went
weaving through the coils
of an ethereal copper jungle
and gifting her skin
with bruises
as they
fled—
each one,
the sputum
of a septic recess
that was ceaseless
in its diction
of ruses
in her
head.
some
people
called her
the dark passenger,
yet she talked herself idyllic
using only stolen words.
*only
twenty
years old*?
what a mess!
several life events
had her under
duress
that augural
September day.
she was depressed
yet she was
pressing
answers
from the void
beneath the drop—
a top-to-bottom
nonsensical
blessing;
funneling logic
behind such curtains
had her stressing out daily.
she grew arrogant and twisted
with the shifting of seasons;
she grew humbled
and wary
for the worst
of reasons.
her life
had become
a shell in every sense,
but it made sense
in the utmost
of naïve and
senseless
respects
...
then
I opened
my mouth
to speak
again.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
They came to Auschwitz and Treblinka...
they tore down the walls that confined us.
How we wept with joy as the SS officers
were taken away - we spit in their path,
those of us still able to call up sputum
from lungs tortured with malnutrition
and iron beds that bore no blankets
for our bones.
My sleeves are covering the number
they burned into my arm, taking away
my humanity and rendering me nothing.
A young soldier takes my arm,
kisses the hated brand;
he has tears in his eyes as he
tells me he is from Texas...there are
no other words he can pull from his
young, shocked brain.
When you see this picture -
remember these words:
“All it takes for evil to flourish
is for good men to do nothing”.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
*diaphanous girl
a headless masquerade
her black lipstick and shivering pearls
giggle like earthquake chandeliers
festooned buttocks
curves a lyrical hell of desire
pocket eyes
dead suns
aloof
yield vacant split azure vault
a fetish horror
zoomorphic and decapitated
a thrilled non compos mentis
her mouth widens
like a line turning into a circle
turning into a jagged city
of twining red wet mayhem
fish head stare
and toothy kisses
on red abdomen posy hook
jutting her spine for sadistic fires
she rolls her velvet thighs
wriggling
a wrench
and twitch
a mad headless lunar sputnik
circumambulates spit tongue sputum
she is the eye in the sky of eternal night
her spirit impaled upon
torrential mountain libidos
impaled on a wild life park of *****
wet ********* a basket of skulls
she nestled
her depraved tilted crown
lilting onto the stained guillotine
saying come on
i can hardly wait to get started
make me the ghastly queen
goddess of the witching hour
bone blood
and black glitter dead of night
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 2:33 PM UTC
You weren't alone when you got the news
Modern medicines waiting room blues
A stethascope doesn't know the way your heart beats
And science never found a reason why
Suffer begin
Voice in the night
When words are unspoken
Hands from the sky
Are ripping me open
Suffer begin
You're in room nine the third door on the left
You've been through the test and never know to expect
Sputum cytology, x-rays, and biopsy
You've never needed lungs to breathe
Suffer begin
Words in the night
About a body that's broken
Hands from the sky
Are ripping me open
He is a friend of mine
Suffer begin
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
Living in Sweden, as I do, I’ve often noticed that some idioms seem to capture an essence, are more powerful in Swedish than in my own tongue English and vice versa. Therefore, I’ve begun to take the liberty of borrowing the occasional Swedish idiom for use in my poetry.
I Grund Och Botten (är vi lika)*
A Swedish idiom meaning At The Bottom Of Things (we are alike)
At the bottom of things: basically,
First and foremost and primarily
We are alike.
Our temperament, our gifts, our faults
May differ, and they do.
But you,
You are the same as me.
I is always you is we!
We are a race: a human race.
But should we race, erase the commonality
That binds us all? Of course not!
We are one in essence, which we got
At birth, perhaps before;
Sympathy, empathy, the virtues, vices;
All the aims a blend of spices
From self-sacrifice to merchandise;
Imprecise, but there at bottom
From the ******* to the sputum.
All your systems are but symptoms.
At their end a blend of like-ness and uniqueness,
And one race.
I Grund Och Botten 5.31.2018 Swedish Book; Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality; I Is Always You Is We; Arlene Nover Corwin
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
I am a sick *******
Sweet friend
Emotion fiend
Seeking stories
Wanting your
gorgeous pain
To hold
To harbor
The albatross
At the arbor
Flying to the dying ship
That weight around your neck
That anchors you to ****
That razor blade
You want to use to cut it
I am a vampire of sorrows
******* up injustice
Then spitting these flitting verses
Back out like sputum
So others can use them
To make us all more human
Though my wrists cramp with heartbreaks
I still write at night by lampshade
Sipping small vials of nightshade
Hoping to take your pain away
And plant posies with all that poison
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
Trinkets on shelves of maple , hand sewn sturdy lumber
from a mountain in Georgia . Foolish things brought great
memories , cheap truck stop bells and shells from
the Florida beaches .. Painted rocks brought indoors by grandchildren ,
old coloring books and matchstick houses , odd belongings ..
Carnival days have died , buried in some paupers grave .
She was a foolish Hen indeed , a ******* nellie that tooled
her marble headstone thirty years before it was needed ..
He died in his chair , long before anyone really took notice ,
adjusting his antenna with a remote control , refusing to budge , drowning in his own sputum ..
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
What Am I To You?
I guess I really am my fathers kid
A **** by heart
With my savage actions
And mindless sputum
What am I to you?
Certainly not the heavenly idea of a daughter
Or the respectable adult you wanted me to be
But just a disappointment and reason for your hostility
I'm your unwilling punching bag
Constantly beating me down to forget your insecurities
Thriving from the pain you cause
A waste container for your built up hatred
You love the feeling of being in control
Sicking your puppet on me
Rejoicing in the cries of terror and pain
Your cruelty is very becoming of you
What is your goal in all this?
Filling me with hatred for you
And keeping my mouth sewn shut so I can't release it
Are you waiting to see me explode?
You love making me angry
It gives you power and control
The power to destroy my life
And the control over my soul
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
it was the greatest sputum sample ever collected in this hospital
the guy wasn’t coughing, he wasn’t doing anything
except lay there like a dead fish
we’d smash the ezpap mask on his face to inflate his lungs
useless
the doctor asked me to get a sputum sample to see what was growing in there
"the guy does nothing," i said. "he doesn’t cough"
"can you NT suction him?"
push a plastic catheter up his nose, into his lungs
"that’s pretty invasive for a sputum sample"
"can you do it?"
"yeah i can… i never have for that, but i can…"
so i go in with his nurse and my student
i have the catheter ready, all lubed up
i’d want a lot of **** if it was my nose
but first i put a sample jar under his mouth
and say "look dude, i need you to spit in this cup"
i don’t know if he’s listening or what
"if you can’t do it i’m gonna go up your nose with a rubber hose
it doesn’t hurt exactly but you’re not gonna like it
but i won’t do it if you can spit in this cup"
his eyes are half open
he’s possibly considering it
"COME ON DUDE, SPIT IN THE CUP! HOCK A LOOGIE!"
then we hear a rumble
it’s like the awakening of a volcano
"DO IT! HOCK A LOOGIE!"
we hear it coming up the pipe
"YES! DO IT!"
it sounds substantial and it keeps coming
i open his mouth and holy mackerel
there’s a gallon of yellow mucus
it’s astronomical, a ******* tidal wave
i shake the cup under his mouth
"SPIT! DO IT!"
but he doesn’t spit
his mouth is full as a bucket
but it’s not going anywhere
"give me that yankeur," i say to the nurse
she gives me the stiff suction wand
i don’t even plug it into the vacuum
i just use it to scoop the phlegm from his mouth into the cup
"o my god," says my student
she’s getting an education today
i keep scooping, filling the cup
"wow," says the nurse
she’s seen a lot but she’s never seen **** like this
"ALRIGHT, DUDE," i say, capping the cup, laughing
it’s the greatest sputum sample in the history of the world
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 6:05 AM UTC
Calm wind brushes my cheeks in the brisk of dusk
It hounds for purpose as if to scathe my existence
My blood floods chambers with intent to survive
Along with every micro fire of every molecule of my reality
Froth coincides sputum as it cultivates amongst my gums
Pain radiates with every gasping breath of air
Thoughts of hurt and despair flood my mind
The easiest thing to do was quit
The hardest, move on
Firm everyday
Forever
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
Toxic oceans of molten acid,
Deserted lands, barren, acrid,
Volcanic sputum creeps o'er the land,
Scenes of beauty now vacant, bland,
Devoid of life, no animals motion,
The silence carries across the ocean,
This empty planet journeys on through space,
Destroyed of course, by Human Race,
These are not scenes of distant past,
It's the world of tomorrow now our die is cast,
We **** our planet of all resource,
"It is our right! We are man of course"
We have no care for this planet we blight,
Nor what we do for future's plight,
This incessant destruction, it can't go on,
It will bring the time when we are gone,
The planet itself, will find rebirth,
As she is strong, she's Planet Earth.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:06 AM UTC