"stiffens" poems
I.
the emperor
sleeps in a palace of porphyry
which was a million years building
he takes the air in a howdah
of jasper beneath saffron
umbrellas
upon an elephant
twelve foot high
behind whose ear
sits always a crowned
king twir-
ling an
ankus of
ebony
the fountains of the emperor’s
palace run sunlight and
moonlight and the emperor’s
elephant is a thousand years old
the harem of
the emperor
is carpeted with
gold cloth
from the
ceiling(one
diamond timid
with nesting incense)
fifty
marble
pillars
slipped from immeasurable
height,fall,fifty,silent
in the incense is tangled a cool moon
there are thrice-three-hundred
doors carven of chalcedony and
before every door a naked
****** watches
on their heads turbans of a hundred
colours
in their hands scimitars like windy torches
each
is
blacker than oblivion
the ladies
of the emperor’s
harem are queens
of all the earth and the rings
upon their hands are from mines
a mile deep
but the body of
the queen of queens is
more transparent
than water,she is softer than birds
2.
when the emperor is very
amorous he reclines upon
the couch of couches and
beckons with
the little
finger of his left
hand
then the
thrice-three-hundredth
door is opened by the tallest
****** and the queen
of queens comes
forth
ankles
musical with large pearls
kingdoms in her ears
at the feet of
the emperor a cithern-
player squats with
quiveringgold
body
behind
the emperor ten
elected warriors with
bodies of lazy jade
and twitching
eyelids
finger
their
unquiet
spears
the queen of queens is dancing
her subtle
body weaving
insinuating upon the gold cloth
incessantly creates patterns of sudden
lust
her
stealing body ex-
pending gathering pouring upon itself stiffenS
to a
white thorn
of desire
the taut neck of the citharede wags
in the dust the ghastly warriors
amber with lust breathe
together the emperor,exerting
himself among his pillows throws
jewels at the queen of queens and
white money upon her nakedness
he
nods
and all
depart through the bruised air aflutter with pearls
3.
they are
alone
he beckons,she rises she
stands
a moment
in the passion of the fifty
pillars
listening
while the queens of all the
earth writhe upon deep rugs
11.2k
the sounds are there, they come through walls
right around the corner
they're not visual, they're miserable and in need
they're equal opportunity exhibitionists
lovers of a family get together, taking everything in
parasitic and aware, destitute and stuck
but they're also there at the wrong time
the wrong time for the person who's alone
the wrong time for a person who's disconnected
because they want to be enjoying peace and quiet
alone
by themselves in an old house
with summer outside making its noises, crickets
trees rustling under a jeweled sky, the pinnacle of up high
breathing in the home air of cannibus, lotion and food
being disturbed is far from a thought, but unavoidable
simultaneously
because the house has a strange history
the basement floods, and the machinery kicks in
the mind ponders as the constellations wander
the nights grow and shrink, the body is dry, bone dry
the shower is turned on, soap, shampoo
lost in the mind on autopilot
until the spine stiffens
its without a doubt that I'm not alone now
a minute ago i was the master of this house
a minute ago I was naked in the hallway, smoking a cigar
now I've been usurped and I just want to barricade myself
in this house that I've live in for 15 years, now i beg for permission
to stay just one more night
I beg because how could I possibly fight
It's my conscious or the pontius pilate
I hope it's the former, because if not, blowout the pilot light
There's little hope for re-ignition or stellar recognition
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
The woman is perfected
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
6.4k
I feel at home in the liminal in the space inbetween,
between past, future, reality fantasy, this, that.
In the liminal, the past and future lap around me,
demanding waves that climb high and share their spray.
The salt water clings to my hair, stiffens it like straw
and I stay, ungrowing in the liminal.
I live between thresholds on the threshold
and sometimes the tension tugs and tears and rips
my fingernails, my hair my skin.
Thresholds are supposed to hurt, to push, to compel
but it’s where I rest and make my home.
The liminal does not rip me apart as it should.
It’s hollow in the liminal a void that digs my insides
out. It’s a cave in there walls of apathy and dread.
My mind grows in on itself and I live in it,
where it plays in the liminal.
It cannot survive beyond the threshold
so I stay in the house where the windows are
clear and the doors are unlocked. Nothing is
keeping me in but myself.
I feel at home in the liminal, where the tensions
hurt and erode but it’s safe here,
or safe enough in the space inbetween.
I fear the sea and the tides so I stay on the shore.
It hurts but not as much as it should.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
You sit in your chair, crazy lenses on your eyes
As you perfect your perfect human disguise,
Poking and prodding inside of my skull
With ice picks and drills, never anything dull.
My jaw is locked, and my tongue is now tied.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” you tell me. You lied.
I lay here, strapped down, for what feels like hours,
As your assistant sits in the corner and glowers,
And you slip me some music as if it’s all okay
As blood rushes and gushes out, clear as day.
The buzzing and shaking is all just too much,
And I can’t stop my body from quaking at your touch.
Quaking in fear that this will go horribly wrong,
For I have already been trapped here far too long.
A smile grows on your face as my heartbeat quickens,
And you laugh as it gets louder, and as my body stiffens.
Finally, days later, I’m released from your experiment,
Only to find out, in six months, I’ll be back again.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
A smooth breeze brushes my face
And stiffens my hands.
Light burns the underside of bridges,
While a lost train cries out,
Screeching in lonely desperation.
Joggers grate a sandy sidewalk
And clouds wait low in the distance;
Their coral hues almost blending
with the thick horizon.
Planes crawl, carried in the glacier of the sky.
All frozen into the portrait of today.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 9:45 PM UTC
337
I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost—
She—each year—leads her Daisies back—
Recording briefly—”Lost”—
But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And struggles in the lanes—
Her Heart misgives Her, for Her Vow—
And she pours soft Refrains
Into the lap of Adamant—
And spices—and the Dew—
That stiffens quietly to Quartz—
Upon her Amber Shoe—
2.1k
prepared for any kind of fight; rifle, helmet, knife, even glaring teeth
she comes at me like I'm a hive of bees
but who can blame her, after all, who's really adequately prepared to handle me
she only cuts shallow and jabs, never stabs for the heart
unlike me, she won't **** unsuited to play that part
she's a survivor, she heals, I'm a comet in it's one bright radiance before breaking apart
anxiety makes you shudder like a dump truck coming down a bumpy street
depression dictates who you call, when you work, what you eat
if you're not bipolar then i'm afraid the three of us will probably never meet
punching clinched fists through doors is a cheap circus trick
but taking out the anger is dangerous without something to hit
because it pours it up, tries to drink itself down, and drowns everything around it
my remorse stiffens me in bed next to her sleepless I wear the darkness, rigamortis and black suit
I feel my poison wilt her, bend her stems, dull her colors, shrink her roots
i have burned all the wood in her pile just getting started a fire the size of my selfish pursuits
carrying sandbags roped onto me one parent and sibling at a time
dragging the chains of days barely survived still hooked into my skin like the other memories of their kind
I stall her pace, hold her back, make her trudge uphill, I make her climb
but her undaunting patience somehow persists in her, in me: still, calm waters sublime
She comes at me like I'm a hive of bees prepared for any king of fight
only wanting to save me, to heal me, to give sleep back to my nights
bread for it, I show teeth and cut for blood and she continues to be the definition of grace in my life
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
Recently
it seems
every time we talk
our cacophonous
voices don't sing.
The harmony's off--
lost it's charming ring.
The tye-dye mind's eye melody
is mellowing into a gray spring.
And I'm wondering why?
But...
I think I know.
Only asked cause
I was hopin' you might hum some other musical notes,
ones that won't turn this song into a black swan dive
forced to call the huntin' dogs to track
back to a time where you and I laughed freely.
But there's this feeling
that this is how your other he must have felt
while you and me were undoing our belts--
yelling & screaming
as my parents were sleeping
upstairs above--
we played each other like saxophones
to this grand Nirvana relaxed crescendo!
But as this poem progresses
the tempo stiffens--
your voice lessens--
as the harmony's off-key
and the melody's riff softens.
It's not hitting me hard like a gong-
feels like two people singing
different lyrics into the same microphone.
Someone with synesthesia can see
our colorful speech atrophy
instead of pirouetting in turquoise dreams.
If that sounds harsh,
sorry, that's the reality I perceive--
we don't want each other to leave,
But our avoidance of labeling
what we are also established what we weren't
and now this playful...thing? we had
feels like a breaking carafe as it hits the floor.
I want to continue writing you more poems and songs
but it's hard when the harmony's off-key
and losing it's charm.
This new lentando^ tempo's like a left arm going numb.
I want to keep composing
but it feels like water
instead of kerosine pouring
on the fire that was inspiring
as this mournful melody dilates throughout my being.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
Crimson is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold,
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his
coffin a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows
and smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)
1.5k
It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant
Above a green and dreaming hill.
I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,
The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still.
It appears to me that I am one with these:
A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees.
It is noontime: all seems still
Upon this green and flowering hill.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere in the sky,
A cloud comes whirling, and flings
A lazily coiled vortex of shade on the hill.
It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings.
Amazing! Is there a change?
The hill seems somehow strange.
It is noontime. And in the tree
The leaves are delicately disturbed
Where the bird descends invisibly.
It is noontime. And in the pool
The sky is blue and cool.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere,
Something flings itself at the hill,
Tears with claws at the earth,
Lunges and hisses and softly recoils,
Crashing against the green.
The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened,
The grass-blades quiver, the bird is still;
The wall silently struggles against the sunlight;
A terror stiffens the hill.
The trees turn rigidly, to face
Something that circles with slow pace:
The blue pool seems to shrink
From something that slides above its brink.
What struggle is this, ferocious and still--
What war in sunlight on this hill?
What is it creeping to dart
Like a knife-blade at my heart?
It is noontime, Senlin says, and all is tranquil:
The brilliant sky burns over a greenbright earth.
The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented.
A bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow,
Phrases again his unremembering mirth,
His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth.
1.5k
There will be no better days
there were no bad days
there were just so many days
one after another and another and another
and there will be unendingly more
because this is never done…
…each day is a quantum string of moments
shimmering with meter, rhythm and rhyme
if you listen
moments make days of music...
…but not loud
more like angels whispering to each other
just out of earshot
there it is
behind the other sounds
traffic of door and automobile
the hiss that kills the middle ear
that makes hummingbirds hide…
…so just listen;
be present
and the leaves will shiver in delight
as the hawk cries
and cat stiffens
and you finish your latte
and the barrista smiles at you
and you…
…remember childhood’s pets
rain rivers on windowpanes
through which you sat and watched
cinemas of sunsets
with those sweet, few others
who understood this
with you…
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
puzzled by his brooding stare
my heartbeat quickens
static lingers in the air
my posture stiffens
I glance down at the table
then back at his eyes
to dancing fire— playful—
a sensual surprise
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
A smile that postered peace has cracks…
Cracks that were covered that start to appear in times of great test, revealing its uncertainty, vulnerability, venom towards the thing that makes it fear…
The smile is a signature of submission
A stamp of insecurity
Because to feel one must think, not temporarily fix,
And to truly fix, one must insist on feeling - everything…
A smile full of love, wisdom and youth never fails, but is thrown; blasted by veiled vast-disappointments, so that the face that holds it moistens with incredulity…
But a smile that has no truth -
When it starts to fray; stiffens easily - turns anodyne, bitter, frozen…
Until the corpse behind that smile becomes clearer - and dictates death with no mirror…
But beware… you can turn away all mirrors
Yet in the darkness they will linger, slither, shimmer, hunt you down…
There’s no escaping from the silent screams in your head, and eventually this realm of darkness will fully consume you - if you choose to take this path of lies, safety, silk teeth…etiquette… wrong rest.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:06 AM UTC
I get scared to go to sleep.
it means I’m leaving him.
even though it’s all temporary,
a fleeting darkness soon to pass,
I still seem to struggle with the idea.
when I close my eyes to rest,
anxiety stiffens my bones.
I crave his velvet voice,
rocking me to sleep. it eases me.
without his presence I cannot sleep,
it’s nearly impossible.
my soul has already connected to him,
it needs his reassurance and shelter,
to feel safe enough to fall to sleep.
it takes so much energy for me to on my own,
but with his voice it’s fast and it’s painless.
because I know he’s right there,
there to love and protect me,
soothe my anxious heart.
I need him to fall asleep,
because I’m scared to do it on my own.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 12:26 AM UTC
He sneaks into my mind in slumber,
emanating his fervor; awakening *****
to a frenzy, then whispering wet
licks against me, I whimper deep
within from his delicious torment;
labials unveil for tongued ecstasy.
Wallowing in my bedewed rose; he
breathes its ambrosia with tongue &
nose, stiffens each dip into garden
of Eden, he knew I'd buck and tremble
begging to feel him deeper; unearthing
sighs and whispers.
Touching me with promises; as I eye his
sinewy masculinity, entwined limb to limb
our desire erupts each plunge into
paradise, wet, each teased withdrawal,
inner muscles contract breathing him back
in, rising to meet and sheath his firmness
in unuttered realms of ecstasy.
I whisper, need to swallow his measure;
and sweet hotness trickles down throat,
********* my own wetness; he greedily suckles
one at a time savoring its aftertaste, tonguing
me to taste what he's enjoying, moving slowly
in and out.
And...
I shudder from the sheer feel deeply
embedded as his passion leaves me
softly broken.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
There's a better version of me,
up, ahead. And
he loves you in ways,
I can't figure ways,
how-to. Yeah,
you cried when he
left you.
And lonely,
you screamed.
"But if he'd come back, then,"
you think,
you'd believe it? The
roads don't just sparkle, every
time that you need it.
In the poem I write next,
we're both losing games.
I press up then, catch on,
turning to flames.
In a grand winning gesture
you burst
into diamonds,
before I can remind you
about asking Simon.
In the distance, outside the door to your
basement, a crowd la-las the
Star-Spangled Banner.
From the bulkhead and foundation,
from "the Hobbit door," but,
behind me,
the Anthem goes silent.
"Not home. Headed home. Stopped
here. On-my-way."
"Where would you rather be,
than right here, right now?"
Ralph Wilson died a rich man,
with a football stadium
by which to remember him.
"Well then trace your
depression to its sources."
I'm afraid I'll never own the franchise.
There's a father, presiding
over a service,
for both of us. It's the
same priest, at every
front of the room.
Our parents are crying, regardless.
I'd say somewhere, we sit,
together,
sipping on the universe. This one
or another.
If we don't, then they do.
And they're having the best time.
But in our past,
the same one we share now,
a version of you stiffens.
She glazes her eyes, sugary.
Holds out her palm, fingers to the sky.
And he matches her thumb first,
before the four digits.
Her face bursts, all rosy.
His turns away.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
Feeling a pressure on your chest.
On your heart.
As if someone is pushing in and they won't stop.
The pressure becomes more intense.
Your whole chest is hard.
It stiffens, it's tight.
The pressure deepens.
The hands that were once pressing down on you are now around your neck.
You're trying to breathe but every breath you take ***** the lightness out of you.
Breathing makes it worse.
It means you're here but just barely holding on.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
He feels something is wrong.
even while he sleeps
a distance he cannot cross
when his eyes are closed but open
when her body lies beside him
yet never within his reach.
He can feel her sadness through him,
while her silence grows heavy.
He doesn’t know what to do
with hands she will not hold,
with lips that turn away,
with a heart that stiffens at his touch.
At night he hears the whispers
when she thinks that he is dreaming,
her secret sighs when she believes he’s gone.
and the hidden lump beneath them.
As small as a secret, but sharp as a thorn,
a toy she turns to
where his love cannot follow.
Why not him?
Why not the man who longs
to give her everything?
He doesn’t understand.
why she cannot bear his touch.
She tends to herself in silence,
while he lies awake
pretending to sleep
aching over a love
and lust
he cannot mend.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 12:54 AM UTC
dismember
the jerking flesh of my heart
nervous excrement
the manner your head rattles
when i lunge at you
this room stiffens with ****
running our corpses thru the flame
the gummy dark muffle day-to-night
pinball wisdom of creatures
below the floor
cactus salad
me you and our malady
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 5:34 PM UTC
The day was ghostly pale on which this tragic tale unfolds
The wind blew icy gasps of breath on crimson leaves of gold
What eerie silence sings among the blackened air so weary
What anticipation grows in frozen ground so dreary
From a sky of slate grey wonder
No weeping rain to cry
On heart heavy fog did all time wait
For the little girl to die
The charcoal paint upon her eyes leaks down her face of white
Her heart pours pain from scarlet lips
It aches this mournful night
The time ticks by
Bleeds aches from mortal wounds inside
Until her eyes of blue run dry
Until at last her soul is bare
Exists no hopeful song to care
At last she sees through drowning eyes
The melody of doleful sighs
From somewhere screams a blade of magic
To end this life of love so tragic
At last she knows what she must do
To **** these withered pearls of rue
Upon an ancient oaken desk
A melancholy knife does rest
And through two bleeding eyes of grief
The metal cursed with blessed relief
Lays waiting like some treasured key
The one last chance to set her free
No longer the girl in candlelight dim
Would weep for her lost thoughts of him
No longer would she endure the pain
That worsened with each dying rain
No longer would she have to stay
To bear her heart for one more day
And never had she felt such bliss
When thinking what joy would be this
For the day was ghostly pale outside
And she was tired of having to hide
Then once more the clock did chime
She hears it for the one last time
For a moment it pounds inside her ears
She stiffens with her deadly fears
Her fingers wrap around the knife
The stone cold steel to take her life
She stabs it deep into her heart
The last pain felt from the world she’ll part
And then with shaking hands of bone
The young girl dies there, all alone.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
The woman is perfected
She wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a her Greek-necessity.
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare feet seem to be saying,
“We have come so far,
Now it’s over.”
Each new-born being coiled,
Black auras, black all over
One at each little pitcher of milk,
Once empty,
They’re poured out
With enough knowledge
From where they were fitted.
She has folded it back
Into her body as petals
Of a rose close
Her desire, her dream
They’re all in hand!
When the garden stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats
Of the night flower
She’ll remain awake.
The stars shall utter her name
Staring from her hood of victory
She’s used to this sort of thing
But it’s the grandest as of now.
(3/21/14 @xirlleelang)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
Time stirring in a sermon
stiffens slowly. The Sun
slips through the window’s edges,
softly shaping foreign faces, peacefully
broken away from the world by birds playing
tag in greening trees, draped with skirts
sewn from the Sun’s golden glow.
Images black
without the back of eyelids
dreaming beyond our benches.
Time set and solid, I get up
and leave 100 closed eyes behind
and walk into a church to see
the same Sun’s beams trapped
inside stain-glass. Frozen shards,
holding dust, warm each red pew.
I lay down in the emptiness
of the seats, the silence of the hymns,
absence of a pulpit,
and sleep.
May 2, 2011
May 2, 2011 at 10:45 PM UTC
Paper sharp cut,
Slices deep,
Painless initially,
Blood bright red,
Flows freely,
Stings like nettle,
Finger ******* sore,
Bitter metallic,
Tingles strangely,
Japan flag tissue,
Stiffens sore,
Memory tricks,
Taste pennies,
Flashes of childhood.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
The traveler swayed from side to side
His bounty slung heavy on his shoulder
His shadow long and eastward strewn
An ambiguous gait and pallor
His toes dragging to a straight-legged stomp
His head heavy in thought and thirst
He uncaps his flask to wet his mouth
Almost falling to the ground face first
His journey is long and his pace is quick
For a while he rests on a stone
He sets down his bag of merchandise
Unaware he’s no longer alone
A rustle in the bushes alerts his attention
He stiffens and draws his blade
An attack from the forest—a black hooded rogue
A battle for his life is waged
He dodges an arrow and avoids a knife
He lunges with his faithful steel
Slicing through air he draws first blood
And snickers with a menacing leer
A powerful kick sends him back
This carnage will end in the mud
A thunderous jump—ribs snap in their cage
Gasping through grimace and blood
His pace was quick but not quick enough
To escape from his earthly fate
For smite rained down like heaven’s hammer
And punished his life of hate
This ambush was long ago forecast
When his soul morphed into black
At first only slightly but then almost nightly
As he engorged his poisoned sack
Madness enveloped his meager soul
And gnarled evil on his face
The trophies he stole in a heap of haste
Stirred dangerous men to give chase
Now he gasped through spit and blood
Finally paying his overdue arrears
Falling from his clasp to the ground in a mess
Were hundreds of severed ears
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 5:15 PM UTC