"stigmata" poems
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.
In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta
Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
19.4k
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1
death dirges
Frogs in distance sing . . .
Foxes, herons, join in too,
. . . A round of croaking.
2
love gifts
Her gift of flowers . . .
Came at night without garden,
. . . Were picked in bedroom.
3
twins demure
Full moon and she . . .
Beauties without crescent smile,
. . . Naked in starlight.
4
light music
Before even sun . . .
Gleam opens to paint each day,
. . . Beauty in birdsong.
5
iridescent
After sun showers . . .
Sparkle of rainbow colours,
. . . Busy hummingbirds
6
chilling
Hollow sound through trees,
Naked and bare branches sway,
. . . Old winter creeping.
7
flirting
She wanted a child . . .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
. . . Clock set to maybe.
8
super villain
Truth once singular . . .
Mucked all up with politics,
. . . In cowl of falsehoods.
9
casualties
Blood spills in gardens . . .
Naïve worms torn from loose grounds,
. . . Red robins, green lawns.
10
stigmata
Each spring miracle . . .
Trees blessed by caterpillars gifts,
. . . Holey hands of leaves.
11
consecrations
Ripples lead to bows . . .
After fish breaks the water,
. . . A kingfisher dives.
12
constancy
Steadfast as always . . .
Wildflower in sun and rain,
. . . Showing true colours.
13
roommates
Chaste lovers wonder . . .
How bodies weather the cold,
. . . Never knowing touch.
14
swept away
Suddenly we kissed . . .
At beach as tides rolling in,
. . . Drowning by ocean.
15
seductress
Her red hair so long . . .
Brushing my face, hiding eyes,
. . . A kind entrapment.
.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
etched under my skin
flame roses blister
scars on the palms
of my hands bleed
stigmata thorns
my eyes freeze to crystal
the tears around my neck are
fashioned in lace black obsidian
my lips - the color of amber
and fire - are vows
never broken
my moons are scarlet
my stars are cold
my sun is silver
and beaten GOLD
soulsurvivor
9/16/2014
~~~
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
my eyes
tongues of desire
a soft gauze
upon drenched red silk
stigmata
a river of marrow
flower of blood
creel of moist honey
hold not yourself apart
I kiss your wound
bell moon
crescent ravine, dark tears
like a spay of stars
arched spine
your raised ****
like scrambled eggs
curves to the heavens
a steep canyon aching
weeps blue darkness
legs wide in souls shadowed grove
tattooed pistols and knives
pierced by my autograph
for every letter, scimitars plunge
jeweled ******** ringed
sweet tarnished petal
gashed mouth; flower de luce
memories that burn
blotted like an eye in ink
to fly winged *******
your face
hieroglyphic of weird
crimson smear; cackle
with feet below hell
wanting to live
like fire in the sky
hot witch riding a broom handle *****
scummed mouth
the world soul destroyed paradise
and your form
hideous kisses
falling red ribbons
i am puddled;
a runny yolk
shameless for your open hollows
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
Watch me as I unwrap... passionate,
In the drench of our rain.....
And night falls...
A silent murmur
Where the heart pauses,
A malachite shadow
Penetrates fire,
Burning
A flame's fierce lick
Beneath pulse...
Somewhere....
His smile touches
Warming the red sea of my heart
Pulsating ripples, spread
Soliloquies upon my skin
Orated in Southern sighs...
Slowly...
Desire engages,
******* hardening
Under tongue's brush;
Moist ripe, swollen folds
Tempt his lips to kiss my yielding
Where breath catches,
And I ... smolder within each touch...
Drenched..
My scent quivers languor,
Rhapsodic,
Drowning pools, orchid petaled
Finger parted... tender;
Under sweet seduction,
Stirring the supple bloom,
Tasting the restless currents
That throb through my milky sea...
Small moans...
Electric blue hangs the air..
Primal lust etching curves,
Tracing dewy flesh,
Heating
Skin on skin,
****** scent….arousing,
Tongue brushed hardness
Between dampened lips...
Hot....
The scorching sear... stigmata
Sin licks along thighs,
Essence, dripping,
S W E E T
Sensory overload,
Breaking my binds...
Feed...
My appetite,
I am.. lashes soft, licking thoughts
No words
No words...
Just....
Feed the need that overwhelms,
Grow inside me,
Fill me once again.......
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
I look at my hands as they shiver
All the cuts, scratches and scars
The dark freckle and small wound that make it seem as though I have stigmata
I've been crucified a time or two, but only in my head, no stakes through my hands
Looking at the mirror
Seeing my face
Seeing all the scars
But this time they don't mar my skin
I can see them on my tattered, stained soul
I can see it in my eyes
Other people see my eyes and it evokes a light feeling
All I can see is the dark hidden away
I wish I could see what they see instead
My laptop is open
I see people I like and love and hate posting about their lives
Making themselves seem significant
Despite the fact that they live ignorant lives
Living in the cloud city of dreams
Arguing over whose God is better
Arguing over whose politician will make the world a utopia
I suppose politicians are some people's real Gods
Posting about the latest trends
Trying to garner attention for nothing
As if a thousand "friends" liking a status really means anything at all
Work meeting this Sunday
I know what I'll see
Three idiots
Two bosses
One pseudo sister
One girl who shouldn't work there
One girl who should be mine, and everyone knows it
Two managers that I actually get along with
I'll see little notes scribbled with ******** compliments that everyone writes
"Great work on Sunday!"
"So glad you took care of that thing for me!"
Because apparently a thank you and a paycheck isn't good enough
They need to feed their egos
That's what matters to them
I look at my friends
Or the people who used to be called that
Now I talk to them once every few months
Plan to hang out every now and then
See them once a year
Normally on accident
They're total jerks anyways, so I don't mind
They're a living reminder that I need good people in my life
Good on ya, former friends
In my room I see my dog
The lazy ******* just sleeps on my bed
Halfway under my sheets
He's snoring
He's a good dog
I'll let him be
If only I could be like him
And sleep all day
Or like my former friends
And just not care
Or like that girl at work
And not realize we should be together
Or like the denizens of cloudville
And live an ignorant, happy life
But that would all be too easy
I like that I can see all these things
Things that they can't see
Except my empty bank account
I just won't look at that
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
Recently you descried that
The hands of mine were
Full of crimson scars,
Like the beads of a rosary.
”What are these wounds
On your palm?” you asked.
”Were they caused by
The elisabethian roses of your garden?”
I said nothing, just (but) smiled blushingly,
But then later, while you fell asleep,
I leaned closely and whispered
My secret in your ears:
„In fact, all of these are
Stigmata of our love.
But possessing them makes me happy;
I wear them proudly.”
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
All you'll ever be
Is something I've built you into
Dying for our sins
On your kitchen counter cross
Leaking liquor
Those stigmata wounds
Your shattered pulse melting into my hand
Your deafening presence
Best paired with silence
Begging, my eyes
Bring your pleas to the floor
With my knees
Marlboro lipstick
Just like arsenic
Lust laced with cyanide
Kiss me and you're crucified
Just like Christ
With your sinful, selfish sacrifice
All you'll ever be
Is something I've built you into
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
Beyond dilation scuttle eyed pin hole magnetic stigmata
I swear if you rub red the right way it scores points with the Almighty
Crystalized She used to run around with ***** fingers
She was made in a bathtub
Towhead floating face up
Like a deep breath doll laugh goodnight
I'm balanced hypodermic in the chamber
Reading from the black stenciled numbers 100cc
Here is the end's beginning
A brand new case of rigs
She's dancing on the counter
Dancing in my head
She's won't let me sleep
And my dreams become electric
25% oxygen not counting waste
Or the tingle on the back of my throat
25 seconds until we reach the half life Wear the dunce hat.
Bruised arms
and a 90% isopropyl bath
Two weeks non sleep
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
you're probably the reason i wake up unable to breathe thinking there are snakes slithering around in my bed, because you did the exact same. i'll never find the words to tell you just the way you shattered my stained glass, i went to dozens of cathedrals to try and beg you to fix my mosaics and give me forgiveness, but not even the hierarchy could help me now. I went from Nortre Dame all the way to St. Paul's trying to find peace but no glass will ever be the same as mine maybe a pastiche but I will never feel as if I am as beautiful as the Troyes, so I walk around with ****** palms grasping to the remaining pieces I have from that night. I'm gasping for air now, in hysteria I'm flipping through the pages of a poor mans good book trying to find the terms for repentance or contrition or whatever it could be named, I'm not sure because I've never pleaded like this before and I'll scream to the all the gods that might listen, I'll be ****** if Im going to go down like this. I found another chapel he's got mosaics like no other has ever seen, I'm looking into angelic hues of browns and blues and greens. I'm running through the backrooms trying to find an exit, I'm in a rut to get to a comforting haven. don't waste your time on me I scream. Ive been cast out of heaven for my sins and I'm paying for my crimes -my rosary has fallen to the ground. it's just us two now; I want to run, the apocalypse inside of me is tearing me apart. I've had a martyr in my bed and I remember the taste of his lips, now I recall how your mouth resembled that of a serpent and how it tasted -of venom. you lied while your head was between my thighs, oh the stigmata of a dismal life. I've found a new savior and I am more than what you've dictated to everyone else. I've undergone apostasy and devouted myself to a new God, I might even wear white with him.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
Deep ridge,
deplete elitists.
Gold flows, layers,
Dbridge,
enriched tone, gates golden,
heavenly.
San Francisco, incomplete,
switch robes.
Can't be beat, Klitchschos,
barking up the wrong tree,
rich tones.
Switch flows, risk it,
rich tea, gifted.
Unwritten, no gimmicks,
smooth months,
pale ale Guiness.
Wrap presents,
gift wrapped,
signed sealed delivered.
Dispatched,
Spit fires, spit facts,
die for the art.
Mismatched.
Calamity believe, nose dive.
Kamikaze.
No harder, fuel,
nose powder.
White knight in shing armour.
1688,
Spanish Armada.
Cut sharp like barber,
bananas,
permanent like markers,
malleable like lava,
pop like cava.
Polova.
Inscribe minds,
magna carter.
Magnificent bars,
gold tales told.
Slaves sold, reigns over.
Cold shoulder,
rainbow coloured mistakes,
shoulders shudder,
steer clear brother,
execute rudder.
Destitute,
Scuppered.
Destination under breath muttered.
Spread like wildfire,
butters, blindman, blackout,
blinds again, shutters.
Dunces, run ****
Jump **** loose lips,
loosing grip.
Tip of the iceberg.
Tip of the tongue,
no nice words.
Stigmata.
Godfather,
go harder for our forefathers.
The time is ours.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
Alas, awakened to the glorious smell
Of grieving petrichor and lichen
Intoxicating scents of spells,
Has left my thoughts forsaken.
Aggrieved, unclean,
I wash myself in the river,
Alone again, once with my mind,
The cold water does bring a quiver.
Rushing gently across its bend,
Its current does drag along
A heartache inside a massive depth,
A misery that floods it anon.
It seeks to help wash stains of past,
Blood from mistakes without thought,
Caressing my hands as I dip them in,
It cleans at the souls I’ve wrought.
I’ve brought spite to all I’ve been,
I bathe in hatred and stigmata,
Correctional growth of paradigmatic folly,
Proves equality to tumultuous fodder.
-
There has been death here,
Drowning and sickness,
Villainous nature subjugated
To corruption and bleakness.
Disparaging remarks whispered of men,
Bring to light lost life and love,
Discouraging thoughts of mine herein,
Anticlimactic and soulless above.
The trees began to whisper,
Moving slightly in the breeze,
I thought I would move quicker,
But something that couldn’t trapped me.
-
Bringing about a fallout cloud
That kept my mind thus smoked,
It is hard to cherish anything
That the water itself could soak.
-
I wanted to leave,
But I was locked in the wood,
I began to need it,
Like any Stockholm would
The treasure trove in which I was kept,
Was something of a fairy-tale
It hid monsters, death,
And only one nightingale.
Its swansong allowed me to sleep,
Gorgeous at night, it cast in weep,
A story of one so scared, The fear of bleeding out
One day upon the growing creep.
Vines and lies surrounded me,
Its whole existence was false,
Nothing could be this natural,
And the dead forest scoffed.
-
Could there be someone else here?
Doubtful, I began my search,
Through vasts I spied, time again,
But nothing upon this earth.
The forest fell in love with my heart,
Its emotions curious to her,
She tortured me with affection,
My reality was blurred.
I found my way across her floor,
Trekking miles to a never-end.,
Purgatory does not know this pain,
Hopeless abandon, fell unto myself to fend.
A trip, a fall, unique and random,
I impaled myself with a sharp cry,
A sharp palisade jutting out, I then whispered
“What if I don’t want to die?”
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
Little dormouse,
nun trying leather,
desperately cleans up her stigmata.
I hear you whisper prayers,
I see you twitch to stop yourself
to sign the cross
and I feel your foreign fear.
Little dormouse,
can you only muster
a half-riot, a part-furore?
Do you need a bit of blasphemy
to wash in dirtily
in order to be forgiven again?
And know, When you’re an angel,
floating up to live with the lullabyes,
will you grip your shoes
with your little toes?
Little dormouse,
moving your lips slow,
to look better to the snake.
To be new-born, translucent
In the half-light.
Such sanguine wine,
your flesh and your offer is.
The drugs and our pleasure
the pressure of our nature,
which we will not bow to.
Little dormouse
wants a bad habit,
not a good man.
Wants to understand,
things forbidden to think.
Wants an unhealthy metaphor,
not enough,
she wants to want more.
Under smiles,
there's proof the world is anything,
you’ll find whatever you look for,
but not the love.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:02 PM UTC
The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.
Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)
We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.
The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****
You will die.”
Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.
Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
Guilt.
the only one who is guilty of anything is me.
of being naïve.
your treason was so exposed.
post cards, emails, text messages.
written in my own blood.
reminding me of how faithless I have become.
it was always present,
uncontrollable,
my love for your stigmata.
enraptured me.
I took it as my own.
Sociopath, NARCISSIST, insecure...
your transference worked so well.
for someone so stupid
you always seemed smarter
more mature
.
I was the only one being stupid.
falling for those sweet,
made up lines.
that took me
hook and sinker.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
You: have the wounds everyone wants to kiss and love
You: recognize you're only important if you're pretty, dead, and or just so happen to " beautifully " borderline either at any given time.
you :let people satiate their misplaced guilt and empathy.
let them coin you a case of charity,
a stigmata ***********
Is it building or belittling to be someones muse?...
If your only inspirational because you're looked upon as broken or used?
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
The stigmata within our soul is clouding all judgement,
a blood red mist casts shadows on our clarity of thought,
the clash of apathetic steel resounds out as we battle with the demons within.
Yet Christ is nailed to all our souls,
his blood falls as acid rain, acrid, vile,
tainting our vision,
polluting our vestiture of lustful thought,
sanctimonious vibrations, sent to our darkest depths,
the spirit sighs under such lofty duress.
© H V Swan
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
your atheist heart at a revival tent. tentative.
van gogh gone. minivan extant. you move to idiot music and the outskirts
of once is enough. many, many times...
you bleed through your harp. you join the diaspora and flee belonging
in favour of a dry between. repetitive.
wheezing orchestral. your long strides clank. you farce and moan...
but Nothing is believable
Till Nothing Happens.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
etched
under my skin
flame roses
blister
scars
on the
palms of my
hands bleed
stigmata
thorns
my eyes
freeze to crystal
the tears around
my neck are
fashioned
in lace-black
obsidian
my lips
the color of amber
and fire
are vows
never
broken
my moons
are scarlet
my stars
are cold
my sun
is silver
and
*beaten
gold*
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Childhood trauma turns to teenage stigmata,
The **** hit the fan and I'm banned from nirvana.
Paradise is out of sight, that's the basic gist
Despite the broadcast of the sadist televangelists.
The fables of premium cable, channel six hundred sixty six.
Gone are Heaven and Hell to quell the existential fix.
There is no moral right, my solitary gaurantee
Bliss is a smoke and mirror trick, there'll always be a fee.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 2:41 PM UTC
Somewhere in all our minds,
At the end of a mile long staircase,
full of trips and hazards,
is a thirsty dog.
And I know he bit your wrists, boy,
but he only did it to lead you away
from the monsters on the landing,
From the growing growling,
Snapping and snarling,
So consider your stigmata,
dogmatic,
because holy or otherwise,
its easy to wonder why
old ghosts dont die,
when you wont let them rest.
So let him *****
your furniture,
he's wet from pulling you a shore.
For some,
treading water is the same as drowning.
And when you're taking on water,
All you can do is keep on paddling.
Its been sink or sin for a while now.
So keep an eye out for the light house,
because it's hard to see the friendly faces
In a sea of smiling sharks.
They circle in a pit of
unrequited doves,
bad choices,
terrible clichés,
and tenuous extended metaphors.
It doesn't matter though.
The defenders of Diogenes,
and his lonely bathtub,
were won over long ago,
when we were 'more' than
the some of our hearts,
all spring and itch,
getting started on the road.
So cast away the stop sign,
drink deep and celebrate,
the Doghouse is a good place to be,
but there's monsters on the landing.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
I could lay you down
and breathe your hands.
I could brush the dust
from your eyes.
And I could hold your moon in my palm;
A junkies palm,
the scarred hand of Judas.
But that would not make you happy.
You wish to hold me
within your glass house gaze
and to touch my soul
where hands have never dared.
The game will not be played
by your rules,
once the pawn is a queen.
In your palm you held the ace of Spades
but it was a losing hand
to your filthy heart.
And the dealer delt away
Whilst the jokers laughed and joked.
And they held their stigmata out
for the babes to see.
But they only saw flesh.
With a needle dipped in ink
she wrote me a stigma in italics.
I can still see it;
In the moving daylight,
In the roving daylight,
In the shadows of light
on a palm.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 2:29 AM UTC
I can't remember when you left,
It seems you were always leaving,
into the night, behind feathered trees,
and when the rain hit you,
you pretended you didn't feel anything
"I don't want to talk about my dad," you'd say
That unholy narcissist left bruises on you,
that you hid from us all
I wish you'd said your mother was a villain ,
who tried to send you to heaven,
but only succeeded in making you bleed;
a memory that resurfaced,
as the devil's stigmata,
on your wrists
You're the girl in a coma,
and have been since I met you,
who fell in love with her doctor,
the day she almost died
Her am I wondering,
are you alive?
Or are you a ghost,
haunting Christ Church,
continuing to do the only thing
that made you happy
I'm sorry you're gone,
your phone ringing out,
your profile a tombstone
I wish I could go,
go to your home
and ring your doorbell
without the fear of being told,
The girl in a coma has left,
not behind the trees,
into the dark,
but to the place her mother tried to send her,
not long after she took her first breath
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC