Unfinished business lies here and there and everywhere
All it needs is a wet napkin/better communication/glue
We broke your pupil,
the black has leaked into your iris,
turning the blue to black into
one is now purple and bruised and
a small fissure of the black is escaping into the whites.
I'm be sure to staunch the bleeding with
some insulation or sawdust or my finger

I say, “I’m having a hard time with my PTSD,”
The words thick in my mouth like I am choking
Or somehow allergic to this admission,
Body, killing itself in an effort to expel the allergen.
I am stuck at a crime scene,
Whole body present for the ****** of me.
I am watching them examine my clothing,
Searching for motive and signs of a struggle,
Nobody staunching the bleeding.
I am a cadaver to them,
Mangled wreckage of what once was and could never be again.
I see the yellow ‘police line’ being rolled out over and over in my mind,
Wondering why the only one watching him break me
Was my teddy bear who’d been cast onto the floor
And the mattress on which I was the sin he committed.
Sometimes I wonder if the blood stained as it ran from me.
Did he think about the ****** when he washed the sheets,
Or was this just another day for him,
He who is lucky enough to inhabit a whole body?
What was it for him about the act of making ghosts,
Leaving me half dead every time,
How he choked the air from my body,
Just enough to separate my soul from my physical form
But never finished the job?
Now, I haunt this in-between space
A purgatory of murdered and broken pieces,
Parts too dissimilar to be reconstructed.
I wonder how they all used to fit into a whole
When their jagged edges now mar my skin,
Spilling blood that no longer runs red in my veins.
It’s blue like the sheets on his bed,
Steel gray for the threat of the sword he wedged under the mattress,
And purple like bite mark bruises up my thighs,
How he opened his mouth and somehow closed mine,
Stole the syllables off my freshly kissed lips,
The taste of morning breath and acid fear welded to my tongue.
I am left to carry my own dead body with hands that don’t feel fully mine.
They’ve left bruises of their own but none on his skin.
There’s no signs of an external struggle,
No blood stored under my fingernails,
Yet I wear the internal wounds like armor.
Closed doors don’t erase the existence of violence.
What happens in silence still leaves an echo,
Even if it’s only the drip of tears on the pillowcase.
I used to be lucky enough to inhabit a whole body,
But he struck me dead at the root of my innocence,
And now I am here telling you a ghost story.
When I say, “I am struggling with my PTSD,”
I mean I am a stuck at the crime scene of me,
But the police are not coming because I didn’t know to ask for them.
How do you tell someone that love left the bruises and you let him
Because your world was too cold to differentiate between being kept warm
And having someone light you on fire?
How do you report a ****** from beyond your own grave?
The “Police Line: Do Not Cross”
Tells me where not to touch,
What to leave alone less the remembering begin again.
It tells me not to let others too close to the scene of the crime,
Not to let them see the evidence locked in my mind.
I am so tired of carrying around my own dead body,
Trying to feel safe in the same place
I once wished he’d just killed me.
How do you escape the crime scene
When the scene of the crime is your own body?

It imprisons my heart
A piercing repetition of assault
Carved deeply into my soul

Barbed wire
It protects me
Allowing no one in
I am inapproachable
Metal soldiers
That guard me
Torture from within

I  do not associate myself
With emotion of ruin
As tiny drops of red flow
From my present and previous wounds

Though the bleeding persists
In my naivety insist
On staunching the wounds
Draining my life

Barbed wire

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), TammyM. Darby

Our hands are lovely together
Not because of their  staunching similarity
Or your smooth cracks
Or my chewed up nails
I don't mind the way
Yours move across my thigh
The temple of  God
And then find their way into truth and goodness
Like trunks of two elephants
And you whisper 'interception'
I giggle to myself
You're raising your eyebrows at me
And in that expression
I forget who we are
But what's beautiful about our hands
is the Cimmerian darkness that lies between our clasp
It masks the depravity
And feigns the glory
Guarding hell at the edges of earth
The record stops
I fall asleep in your lap
As you study my face
Caressing my hair
And holding our shadows all at once

Those dry little words
So neat upon their pages
Filled with blood and tears
Staunching my lettered bleeding
I wrap my lines and tighten

Electric green
From deep brown to electric green.
That one phrase in the wrong handwriting changed it all.
Tears trickled down a rock face in the rain
Finding every cave, every wrinkle, every crease,
Cascading.

Dragging with every drop rivulets of black,
Tracing and highlighting bone and skin,
Red darts added more colour,
Surrounding the red,
My eyes a bloodied battle field in the rain.
Streaming.

Nothing staunching, no control,
The loss never so keenly felt,
My heart searching for a way for it not to be
True is not one colour, it is shades of grey and light
And here is a secret. Death is none and all colours, it is heart wrenching, stomach twisting, mind bending,
Bleeding tears.

No one can see me
who I am
not really
but somehow
from so far away
you have
beyond just seen
you have looked into
those deep and mysterious places
with recognition

And I am but naked
under your gaze
I have been brought
to that slow
timeless place
where clocks stop
and the silken gauze of you
wisps around me
does its delicate inner weaving
healing my cuts, my burns
and staunching
the tears and
glass-cut
bleeding

My heart pounds
because I know
the truth
I know that
The best has come now
When has gone
The first fruited blush
Of youth
  
I know this
And I am constantly wrapped
In the tendrils of a decision
To be made
For my choice
Must be made with utmost care
And love

And I am both honored
and blessed
to fulfill
this higher quest
and waiting for the day
to take my heart out
from my chest
and follow it
to the heavens
where true fulfillment
does reside

and take you
in my arms
with honor
and silent pride

I can't take this **** nuh more
I haven't been healthy since
Nine ******* teen
Plus two years and I found the way to love myself
First step hit the corner for the bottom shelf
Second, retire to my tomb of a bedroom
ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
drinkin for two, staunching wounds
with alcohol
breathin in toxic air through filters
for my chemical fix
I can't stand that my lungs hurt, my heart burns
I exhale hard and
I see black tar pull away in smoke form
Knowing I'm black inside, too
What do I do but spark one more white tip

2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?

❖

Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.

❖



Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.

❖




quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.

---
❖

Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.

❖


a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esq­uire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebisc­ite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; sciente­r; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizop­hrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."

Some summers writhe beneath me,
the skin stretched across the petri
kept away in the ribcage, beating against the bars,
Wanting stars,
the ether burned off as sand staunching my toesteps
and Saturn rings tossed afar

Ancient drawings on the wall
come sentient in flickering firelight,
the bow draws and arrows fly in carvings,
taking down long extinct prey.

Imagination runs rampant,
inside of granite caves,
hearing ancient drums
bah ***, *** ***, bah ***.

Pebbles roll, jerking eyes
searching out the origin,
nothing moves in the night,
feet of the long dead perchance.

A howl, or a scream?
from the mouth of the cave
sends hair standing,
and triggers fight or flight feelings.

Temperatures drop undeterred
adding more wood to the fire,
the energy absorbed by phantoms
that move on the edges of vision.

Liquid shadows flow toward me
touching me, eyes turn obsidian
encased in burning fires
fading down.

Headdressed dark wrinkled men
wearing furs of different creatures
surround me in a circle
eyes glowing.

I hear nothing, but see afflictions,
dying peoples, falling trees,
rabid animals, and raging conflagrations,
followed by icy glaciers, creeping across the land.

A spear pierces my side drawing crimson,
several feather fletched arrows impact me,
phosphorescent blade, cuts into my carotid
discharging a torrent.

Soaked in sweat as daylight breaks,
a scream is coming from my throat,
as my hands reach, staunching wounds that are not there,
I search out understanding in the madness, as breathing slows.