"sterility" poems
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
everyone has that place their mind wanders to whenever boredom strikes, or whenever they become "zoned out"
mine?
my mind always imagines a ballerina in black, doing pirouette turns over and over again
it's especially vivid whenever i'm listening to music
over and over, round and round
i only realized this today, & it made me wonder why my mind always drifted there
i thought about it until i realized
how fitting
my conscious mind is always turning in circles
so of course my subconscious mind would, too
his hands on my body
the reeking smell of alcohol and coercion
my mother's lies
my brother's handshake with the grim reaper
the realization
the humiliation
the first time i told her i hated her
the sting of her palm against my face
my father's alcohol problem
i can't escape alcohol
my alcohol problem
the feel of the blade against my skin
the sterile smell of the crisis unit
everyone's willingness to condemn & forget
i don't forget
my body
his breath
her lies
death
humilation
the sting
the alcohol
the blood
the sterility
the pain
the pain
the pain
over and over, round and round
turning constant circles in my head
i fall down
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
Daughter of an American restaurateur,
She breathed in fashion's golden age,
On the ramp, she was hot like wildfire.
A playgirl, she likely broke a million hearts,
Prancing on a hundred beds in her life,
Of course sharing with hundreds her arts.
Also engaged in doing drugs just so often,
Not caring even a bit about the sterility,
Oh, how she shared syringes and needles.
Be successful - but never ever like her.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
Since I still appreciate you,
Let's find love while we may.
Because I know I'll hate you
When you are old and grey.
So say you love me here and now,
I'll make the most of that.
Say you love and trust me,
For I know you'll disgust me
When you're old and getting fat.
An awful debility,
A lessened utility,
A loss of mobility
Is a strong possibility.
In all probability
I'll lose my virility
And you your fertility
And desirability,
And this liability
Of total sterility
Will lead to hostility
And a sense of futility,
So let's act with agility
While we still have facility,
For we'll soon reach senility
And lose the ability.
Your teeth will start to go, dear,
Your waist will start to spread.
In twenty years or so, dear,
I'll wish that you were dead.
I'll never love you then at all
The way I do today.
So please remember,
When I leave in December,
I told you so in May.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 9:51 AM UTC
1697
They talk as slow as Legends grow
No mushroom is their mind
But foliage of sterility
Too stolid for the wind—
They laugh as wise as Plots of Wit
Predestined to unfold
The point with bland prevision
Portentously untold.
2.2k
Uncounted words on the page, attempting to mimic brilliance
Predictable as playing Russian roulette with an automatic
Forced sterility, impossible as drawing a straight line
The wrist won’t comply, simply cannot, no reason to attempt it
We fool ourselves with second hand ambition, discard our
own greatness
Quiet and sublime, carelessly letting our spark burn out
Do you remember what it was to be a child?
Nothing but used up memories with no sound
Black and white like some old movie, lips moving, no voice
Barefoot dreams are all that remain for me
Empty promises made to one’s self, surrendered so
easily
Nights of Bach on the radio, hiding behind closed doors and
cheap wine
Days of endless monotony, dark stairs and the smell of
scrubbed mildew
An afternoon spent in your arms, making love under the
pecan trees
I almost saw your yesterdays, beautiful creature, when I met your
eyes, laying there
A little girl, running with a sparkler in each hand, screaming her
defiance to the world
Holding onto what’s left of each other, two halves, trying to make a
whole
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 9:17 AM UTC
Invite me to a masquerade held in a large hall
Most guests would be in suits, those you can see
Almost all are dark males, all quite are tall
All can't dance , because all of them are me
Few in this hall are some of my peers
One of me in a mask basks in their wonder
To them this mask is wise,and one without fear
The face behind though is foolish a coward and a blunder
Few in this hall are some of my enemies
One of me in a mask delights in their distaste
To them this mask promises violence with energy
Behind is the face of exhaustion and no anger to trace
Few in this hall are some of my mentors
One of me in a mask indulges in their praise
To them this mask is one of potential and future
Beneath lies the face marred by failure and laze
Few in this hall are some past lovers
One of me in a mask savors their longing
To them this mask is a story with a knight and a tower
But beneath Is the face of a lier gifted with talking
Few in this hall are my fellow Christians
One of me in a mask flaunts his humility
To them this mask is of true religious commissions
The face behind long faced spiritual sterility
The last in this hall are my family
I face them with half a mask of strength
To them the strong half mask, and the true half face of apathy
The half mask hides a face exhausted with it's life's long length
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
Waiting from a long interlude of life
en route for heed the hymn of eternity,
Searching from a extended period
Au fait with a phizog of humanity,
Budge for makeover from sterility of life to nature’s tranquillity!
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
“The Unveiling”
A name so inconsistent for what it represents:
The pinch of the IV injection
The instant heaviness in my head
Wobbly knees
Being assisted to the “Treatment Room”
Its bitter sterility
Shedding my clothes
And all sense of control
The chill of the cold metal bed
The goose-bumps crawling over my skin
The stick of plastic beneath me
Luke-warm water
Slow pealing of ****** bandages
Sharp stings of pain
Quick to come again
And again
Soiled runoff dripping down my legs
Pop music playing over the speakers
The discomfort it caused me
Yellow curtains
The little boy on the other side
His screams filled with agony
Clenching a towel between my teeth
How it didn’t help either of us
Slowly examining the new skin
Black, blue, and bleeding
The smell of its rawness
Nausea
Hot tears on my cheeks
They burn
A team of doctors
Their impenetrable staring
Hearing them mumble, “It looks great.”
My disagreement
The gnawing desire to ask
Why
They give an utterly gut wrenching experience
Such a grandeur name
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
They said our 20s were supposed to be easy
They never said that i would have to
Count backwards from one hundred to
Curb a breakdown
They said sedation will calm you
Down
But no one ever considered
That my neuroticism is what gave
Me my power to write
No one prepared me for the nights
I dont remember
For the car accidents that happened
But never really happened
The accidents that only existed as scars
On my car
That my splintered mirrors
Only showed a fraction of my illness
I was never supposed to be the person
To leave the party early
Because there was an anomaly in the wallpaper
I was unable to ignore
No one prepares you for the enemies
You make of yourself
Or the holes in your memory
Where your dignity leaks out
I never knew I could tell the time
By counting my tears on my tile floor
And that springs of my
Bed would twang the sad anthem id never sing
Because i was bloated with
The probability that
My anxiety was
Scrawled on my skin
That my anguish was apparent
And my life floated in a glass
Half empty
And ever-transparent
I believed
No one would want to be with
Someone with so much baggage
I had to check in in order to get on a plane
Ive spent my 20s on the verge of
Implosion
I was never meant to
Crave sterility
And the absence of emotion
What if my mispoken words
Were perfectly aligned
With the trajectory of my life
And that I was meant to
Teach people
Through this story
That even the
“Wrong words come
Out right”
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
Have you ever seen anything so
barren as a neighborhood? I swear
even the nature there is sterile -
narrowed down to a few well-
behaved bushes, shaved into
submission, bereaved of freedom.
i miss the rebellion
of the trees
pushing defiantly even through
concrete to see the sky not silent
and fearful like these
things crowded and compliant with no
room to breathe freely
do they even seem
alive
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
Most women do not
cook and and clean house
in preparation
for violent invasion.
But you did,
the countertops ache for lack of dust,
the appliances self-conscious in their sterility.
More than sufficient-
for anybody but the figure on the doorstep;
who, using only a key
has already torn through
your first, only, and tastefully painted
line of defense;
has pulled pins from verbal grenades to throw upon
bursting into the kitchen,
where you waited
white tablecloth of surrender and
tea like a peace offering.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
Magenta sunrise.
Icy cold.
Dotted intimately with magnolia dots of sunlight.
Diamond studded.
Fresh is the air this morn.
It's bright.
It's clean.
Almost sterility.
Clean skies.
Let morning sky be not a portent.
Cold air.
Kiss me.
(C) Livvi
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
///
to what degree loveless *** makes
The boudoir seem to be a ********** room
Reveals the essence of the Man
//
( but of course --- some men --- and women ! --
Prefer the sterility of " mere function "
And the sense of safety thus provided )
••
••
Will we become robots before robots become man !
••
••
We die real easy unless we don't
//////
•
The prison walls are mere illusion
You can only hide for a little while
//////
I read the poem from a mother trying to save her children
()
Real feelings !!!
( coming from oh so very far away )
The boudoir walls are thick with lust
Nothing can penetrate
Till all walls just fade away
//
Our comments
GREAT READ , MOM !
KEEP FIGHTING !
sound as hollow as our hearts
|||||
in the ********** the untouched bodies weep
Hey YOU !
GET YOUR *** OVER HERE !
fills the empty spaces where no one is
//////
The homeless children stagger on
The childless mother moans
//
The world around us changing shapes
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
order is the comfort zone of the simple minded.
they were born into sterility,
administration, bureaucracy,
sign here, here and here.
now the formalities are out of the way,
you can raise the **** child.
but chaos, chaos comes naturally to me.
I sway in cyclonic winds,
with psychotic grins,
and blossom like weeds after
a sun-shower.
when the world around me slips
slowly into insanity,
I slip into my slippers,
take a shot of *****
and look out the window,
laughing all night long.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
on nights like this it's
old man Sanders across the hall
struggling with his sterility
and raising his wife's ******* son in silence
to be a man who will one day
manipulate a woman's emotions
in a train station at 4 a.m.
it's too early to be this drunk
yet i am
and
he is too
i can hear him shouting at
himself, his wife, and his half breed redheaded son
at the dinner table,
over something like Blondie in the background
and something about baseball in the morning.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
The bond of brickwork is vital to the structural integrity of delusional tradesmanship.
Idaho is a state to be reckoned with when the future of marital and maternal roles stand in juxtaposition with self-loathing.
Yet downtown Boise is a cultural centre of safety even though massacres occurred on the Oregon Trail.
I am now drawn to consider the simplicity of a cheese and pickle sandwich.
It is all in the shape and tactile quality of the word.
Teachers can be boring in their unconvincing sterility, so it all depends upon the type that we are talking about, doesn’t it?
Let us never forget, that we cannot build meaning upon the foundations of a vacuum.
It is incumbent upon us to hold hands as we traverse this challenging path where we seek to avoid psychological ****
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Wrap my slithering soul in layers of wanton and historical bark, where dendrochronology branches her gorgeously captivating system of vascular cambium and seals me within the vice of her vengeful caress.
History has truly borne witness to the brigand of robbers who interfered with travellers in the depths of the forest of aristocratic whoredom.
I am buried underneath chords of feminine expression, where the synthesis of bass, melody and harmony unite into an unspeakable realm which cannot be interrupted by parallel expressions of sterility.
Your carriage awaits, Madame.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
Here it is,
here's your plan
there's nothing beyond it,
it makes me sad to see you reach low like this
You want a fancy car
A fancy house
A fancy woman
(who only says
the right things,
quietly,
at the right times)
A large salary
No problems
Miniature models of yourself
well-behaved and clean
You want a stable, antiseptic love
Something static and sterile
Here's news,
If ever I was in tune with
Hermes and his speed and unashamedness,
(He was ever proud of being the God of Thieves)
His partnership with Iris as messengers
It is in speaking to you, now
My dream is not your 'American'
Because if it was,
It would be neat and profitable
Copyrighted to unnamed sources
I don't want that
I want, chiefly,
something frenetic,
Nothing tidy about it,
Cluttered with memories both wondrous and awful
A proudly imperfect man
To share flaws with
To say "You too? I thought I was the only one!"
Problems to muddle through
And be caught in
And solve, with a happy crow of triumph
A small garden, which I will probably end up killing anyway
Rambunctious, willful children
Who will not be afraid to challenge me
Whom I will teach to argue intelligently
Raised to be civil and
Above all, to be curious
I will not mind the mud
And the blood
And the pain
So much at the end
Because I will be able to die
Without shame for the life I lived
What I am trying to say,
with the hope you are not injured,
is that I don't want a part of your envisioned future
I don't want such sweet synthetic sterility
I supremely enjoy the whole of the mess
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC
Today I unpacked.
I unzipped the memories
And let them ease past
The edges of the suitcase.
I picked them up
Shook them out
Cradled them close
And took a carnal sniff
Of the rough cedar scent
Of heaven
And opportunities lived to the full.
Today I glow
With my secrets
Flickering like tea candles
In a dimly lit jazz bar
Inevitably
He lingers there
In the soft sultry light
There
And not there
The ghost of a person
Swaying to the music
And staring into my soul:
Too spectacular to be real.
He is the road less traveled
Winding and twisting his way through my head
So I can’t find where the stories begin
And he ends
I try to explain
But stories are shooting stars
Staring out bright and trailing off
As I realize I live in the present
While his memories spark and fizzle like pop rocks
Punching my taste buds with a shock of sweet.
He is:
A quest for a perfect seat in the coffee shop
Holding hands in a small theater
Stolen kisses on the sidewalk
Dances without music
A skyline in sunset
And a tearful goodbye
As I got on the train.
I said I was fine.
I lied.
Desperately holding myself together
I dragged my bag
Through a maze of stations
Past the cautious scrutiny of uniforms
And onto the sterility of the plane
Thank God for windows:
Loss is staring out them.
Leaving him behind
Pretending you’re not dying
As your seatmate politely ignores your sobs
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
it is no hidden truth:
writing about those teeth
and twisting schemes of
sadness in my dreams is somehow my dependent everything,
but patterned lists of the same words
in permutation
becomes tedium in waiting;
there's that illustrious want for novelty, no matter how safe the same may be,
and I still just write
about that exact ******* love
and ******** everybody else wants: so, am I this predictable? am I this formulaic?
probably.
so, how does one take some respite?
how does one choke back their routine penstrokes and fabricate
experiences they haven't yet or ever will gather,
when all they've held was in the ritual letting of ladders down ductile tunnel foundations,
the vestigial fathoms that remain floating around in
your eyes, your eyes! your eyes I
tear open and crawl in and curl up inside,
the feigned lust I set out to fake and then finally, silently, made
and now it's all the mistake of concrete stained with
letters heart letters on a date that lasts forever,
but your letters are tiny lies
and mine are misery
held in contemptible disguise and
how I slip just that **** easily into this lackluster story about
I, you,
people I never knew and
never know anybody.
and
*how the grass would have grown and grown if the lawn hadn't been cut down, and the patch of death in concentric center where outside, under the stars, I lay curled, foetal, and drained of bile; for now, in ascension of sterility I am feral once more, I am, at last, just a tremulous, pathetic and miniscule animal waiting to pass through the dirt. That moment hit me, like all stones in august. So I stood. So I ******* stood, threw off my dripping eyes, screaming at the moon 'til I spat blood and cursed life and I swore, I swore down to the skin of my teeth, I would conquer it until it conquered me, for, as far as the wild was concerned, my casualty was a drop of rain in an ocean. So I become the ocean. So I dig my palm into the earth and let dust ground the stray electricity. I no longer lie, I no longer bide time until it's too late.*
But I lied
and I do lie.
I waste abhorrent amounts of time.
I still just hang my head and leave things up to fate. It's always too late.
It's always too late.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
he sweeps me off my feet and lays me by a tombstone,
his volley of crows rain down like black-night javelins,
and i can't quite realize if i am to be shocked
or mesmerized.
the moon shines high in the heavens now,
and her eyes are stuck on me.
she can somehow bear the audacity to watch me
be taken by such a goes-around-comes-around
type of guy.
he smells of sterility and tears
and peace and closure
and happiness in relief;
like roses on blank stones
and lilting monologues.
i can only be struck dumb by the
compelling, coal nocturne
and my hourglass of a lover.
his dual-edged shadowing forms wings of blackened bone on my back,
and i can't bring myself to
turn the sands of times.
so i ask you now:
before you leave me alone in this world,
would you lay me to rest,
kiss me good night,
and tell me stories of what could have been?
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
Now listen here kid.
I've got one thing 'ta say t'ya.
Never, never ever step into the limelight.
It is dangerous and you are bound for failure.
Yer a shadow-kid, kid.
The light isn't where ya belong.
You stay here, with us
In the cold dark sterility.
Where the dogs are rabid
and their hair thrives only in patches.
You can try get a taste for tha light,
But in the end you'll come slinking back.
Doe-eyed and blinded,
embarrassed.
Yer a shadow-kid, kid.
The silence, the darkness.
Nothingness amidst everything.
Yer the one they try find,
but'cha gotta slip away,
slip, slip and slink and slide
back into the shadows,
until your skin is as
transparent as your soul.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
I am a rouge planet.
Without a sun around which to orbit.
To give me warmth and life.
Small and insignificant.
All alone in the empty sterility of space.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:37 AM UTC