"straitjacket" poems
So I'm sure you wanna know how I crafted this bizarre flow so I'll sit you down and tutor you let's go
step 1 draw off of everything under the sun treat your words carefully like a loaded gun step 2 now that you know what your words can do put them into verse leave others in the back of a lyrical hearse
step 3 Is the most important to me personally I walked into an asylum to search for a straitjacket if you don't have punch lines you definitely can't dot hack code or slash it
step 4 is getting your foot into the door caught with the drum beat drops leave your audience sweating like a wet mop
well that's all the steps I'll add some more usually involving clever metaphors now then you know the score
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
your eyes hot like a bullet
mine engulfed by the equinox &
the silences I walked away from
we are two or more
two people who shout at each other letters
that have never touched any alphabet
who throw beautiful ideas to be caught by twilight
the hour is always unknown
as if we watch each other's destiny
what comes next only the oracle of Delphi knows
or the roots of entropy maybe
I keep some thoughts in the straitjacket
we guard bridges, ancient castles in the sky
we guard the world not to turn into a casket without music
who invented this question mark
that we owe each other happiness
I wonder if the trees have unspoken meanings
do they turn overnight into telescopes to quest
the loneliness of stars, as we do
I might turn into a shadow
blinded by darkness
we draw uncanny shapes,
everything a circle can endure
with our mouths full of pebbles
Feb 17, 2023
Feb 17, 2023 at 9:45 AM UTC
My emotions are attacking again
and this time I won't let them win
It's clear to God that the enemy
is waiting for me to sin.
Anger!
is the enemy's thrill for desire,
Depression!
it's the enemy's greatest obsession,
Fear!
is the music to the enemy's ears,
Pain!
is what brought up the enemy's gain.
I was ready to fight
but God refused
he grasped my hand so tight
that I couldn't move.
He grabbed my other arm
as he pulled me close to him
he told me to stop, yet
I wanted to hit the enemy
with every whim!
The Lord held me back
like an imate in a straitjacket
forbidding me to attack
or allowing me to get the first hit
He dragged me so far away
that the enemy sighed in a bore,
God whispered to me in my ear
he said: "Ignore!"
I kicked, screamed, plead
away from God to fight the enemy,
but it's no use after many attempts
he still won't let me leave.
"Ignore!"
he said as I began to cry
in a fearful dread
it's no use, so I gave up
and alow the enemy to
beat me up until I'm dead.
Few minutes later...
the enemy looked at me
very disgusted and confused
he screamed: "Get sad! Be angry!"
Silence
The enemy was fuming,
fire bursting out of his nose,
sweating through his forehead,
at this rate he was about to explode!
The enemy's heart gave out
he screamed again:
"Be angry...be upset! Do it now!"
Silence
His arms are disintegrating
His legs are inflated like a balloon
His mouth were turning to ash
He was doomed.
The enemy retreats
as I called him weak
it was funny to think
that I was like him,
because my silence
was surprisingly meek.
I have now learned
and understand that
it's better to say nothing
or lay a hand
on the enemy.
We should all ignore
for what the enemy
has in store because it
makes all the difference.
Therefore I will no longer
be his slave... no more.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
Yeah, so giddy I'll confess...
Light-years past crazy baby.
Constellations of bruises,
a silver sort of stench of starburst blood drops,
sickening rainbow... purple, green, yellow... of healing.
Anyone else would be too.
But its a gift really.
What hasn't killed me's
made me stronger, right?
Strong and brave enough
to grasp the icy tail of a
rushing shooting star
and hold on, sharp and cold and clean,
ever tighter while mountains and oceans fade.
The lunatic soul locked inside the body
constricts with each breath and beat.
Until it surrenders with unbearable brightness.
Supernova in a straitjacket.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
*His lips press against my neck
My hair stands on end and my fists clinch tight
His arms rap around my chest like a straitjacket
He is rough in all the right ways
He pushes me against the wall
His breath warms the back of my neck
I feel him slowly turn me around to face him
His soft hands wrap around my waist so gently
I look deep into his light brown eyes
His eyes pull me toward him like an inescapable gravitational field
The space between us grows ever smaller
My mind is racing at the speed of light
Our lips touch for the first time
My mind freezes
My body goes numb and is then filled with a warming since of passion and love
Are lips feel like two puzzle pieces that were made to fit together
I finally understand what the perfect kiss feels like
This perfect moment is stopped by a screeching noise followed by a bone shacking vibration
I wake up to my life and get ready for work* -Jeffrey Sutter
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
She played Juliet but refused to drink the poison dry.
Indulging her Irish-Boston cream pie.
Save the date for Dubai.
Wheels up in ten for the red-eye.
Dress code: Evening gown, straitjacket and tie.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
pistachio nuts - or the clams of the the forest,
not among the helter skelter
birch tree scouting and marking territory,
but among the aged oaks
and pristine scents of pines among
the fallen pine needles in zigzag promenade -
indeed pistachio nuts like shellfish,
slightly opened ergo healthy -
clams or mussels, once opened then
healthy for the palette - still a bewilderment
to care with a hydrochloric acid cauldron
that the stomach is -
that's the prior bewilderment, the other
being this madonna-whore complex
that Anaïs Nin represents -
i've eaten a prostitute's *** (her own
anatomical definition) - indeed smothered
in creams to ease a professional approach to
a lack of relationship stimulation -
science says that eating the female *** is
like downing a range of antibiotics -
i can imagine - why is she suddenly this hailed
saint of scissors applied to a middle-class
straitjacket? what the hell is going on?
ah... i know, the longer a feeble secret is allowed
to ferment, it goes from being vinegar
to being wine to being a fruity ***** -
well shiver me timbers!
ever walk into a brothel with 7 prostitutes waiting
their bus for £110 an hour and not feel
intimidated asking for a glass of water?
i have... they eye you like hyenas,
a true spirit of solidarity that feminism forgot,
7 prostitutes eyeing you, then you say
'can one of your pick me?'
'you can't say that, it's not allowed!'
'oh, aren't you a talker, you'll do.'
every single brothel i've been too always reminds
me of Jack Daniels - i don't know why,
the burnt auburn sweetness of charcoal or something,
add the skin creams on the ****** smeared
like an insomniac creating a synthetic approach
to sleep with amitriptyline (25mg) and alcohol
and you've just bought yourself a treasure island
crucifix.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
Welcome to her house of many bones
Step into one of life's great unknowns
With broken dreams and shattered heart
In this carnival of freaks she is apart
For the price of a ticket you can see
All the horror, and agony there could ever be
All we ask is to put down your stones
On the left is a kingless throne
No love was ever ment to stay
I don't know why, it's just that way
On your right is the dreams that's died
Where want and reality did collide
In the next room you will find
All the demons that are in her mind
Young man, please step back
These demons will, and do attack
On her arm's you'll see the scars
Made with their talon like sharpened claws
Please don't dottle, let's hurry along
This sad little journey we don't want to prolong
Up next you'll find
Human monsters of every kind
They all wear a clever disguise
You won't even see them unless your wise
Of the shadow men take no heed
Off the sorrow they just feed
The closets doors all are open wide
Not one skeleton does she hide
Please don't be scared, please don't shout
The are free to dance about
Last but not lest I want to show
What happens when the anguish grows
Tormented by years of unbridled strife
In the coffin lies her pitiful life
It's not her body, for she is the walking dead
Heart in taters, screams echoing in her head
Eyes opened wide with years of dread
The light and happiness are always there mocking
You'll find her over there in the corner rocking
Yes she had to be restrained
In the straitjacket she will remain
It's for your safety, not hers
For the pain she endures
Is not for weak amateurs
Exit on the right
Single file, please don't fight
Enjoy the rest of the attractions
We guarantee a hundred percent satisfaction
Unless in this carnival of woeful souls you are captured
Then your only hope will be the rapture
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
I am trapped in a straitjacket
Unable to move
I may as well be in a casket
Trying to remember how I got here
Everything is so unclear
I am blindfolded and everything starts to disappear
Out of control
Out of my mind
Out of a soul
I fight against the sleeves
Thrashing, resisting
Trying so hard to leave
Doctors whispering reassuringly
But the words don't reach me
No matter how kindly
In an asylum you don't pay rent
Because you are a slave against your will
Held there just for thinking something different
Not a single letter
No one wants to talk to the insane
No one even thinks you'll ever get better
Then you lose hope in your own recovery
No one else believes it, why should you?
You forget what it is to even be free.
Alone
Forgotten
Unknown
This straitjacket gets no easier to bear
I pull and pull
But it gets no better to wear
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
The fuzzy hug that never loosens its grasp
Clutching as a barbed wire hugs and puppies cuddle and love,
whiskers and noses nuzzling, the straitjacket loves your mind,
wishes it could just squeeze the nightmares out and streaming as juices from an orange,
but its might only pressurizes, the more you fight the more you hurt,
bruising our precious straitjacket heart, he’s here to help us
take the tasks of fettering hands
just to hug and coil about us
Learn to love them, the society blanket,
the crazy snuggler, the bunny constrictor
Crazy’s not useful and our little straitjacket cures our woes
strangling us within linen cotton folds
simmer our fires
breaking our bronc
hushing our tantrum cry
It’s the mother we Learn to love
Kin that keeps us in heavenly grip
The Straitjacket’s here for all our insanists
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:29 AM UTC
This afternoon, I smell like a hungry gardener
a green thumb with a wart attached:
both perfumes of a rose are discernible. The soil, the falsetto sweet
reaching up onto your nostril fur as monkey bars
until it can scatter seeds, some wild and collected by fruit.
Mother asks why my knees are shaded.
I have been on them, I say, breathing life into green berries.
Free them from that cage, their wire straitjacket
and breed breed breed:
this afternoon, everything I touch will stay alive, including me.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
I'm a prisoner of my own mind
My self doubt is my cell
And fear my straitjacket
But one that tightens the more I struggle
Struggle I do
until the fear grips me in it's icy fingers
and my cell crashes around
I can't breathe
Then I continue to breathe
But the icy feeling is there
the feeling of construction still heard
As reminder that
I'm a prisoner of my own mind
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
Wildflowers
Of sun soaked orange
And blood soil red
Pale sobbing violet
Dancing gently in cold breeze
Dancing gently in hell fire
They are no doubt alive
Statued in dirt
Reaching toward rain cloud
There is just nowhere else to go
There is nothing else to do
But dance during dog **** showers
But dance during petal wilting
But dance until root rot
Wildflowers
Screaming at the fire
Trembling in moonlight
They are no doubt alive
Forcing themselves to continue
While feeling as insane as
I
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
Welcome to her house of many bones
Step into one of life's great unknowns
With broken dreams and shattered heart
In this carnival of freaks she is apart
For the price of a ticket you can see
All the horror, and agony there could ever be
All we ask is to put down your stones
On the left is a kingless throne
No love was ever ment to stay
I don't know why, it's just that way
On your left is the dreams that's died
Where want and reality did collide
In the next room you will find
All the demons that are in her mind
Young man, please step back
These demons will, and do attack
On her arm's you'll see the scars
Made with their talon like sharpened claws
Please don't dottle, let's hurry along
This sad little journey we don't want to prolong
Up next you'll find
Human monsters of every kind
They all wear a clever disguise
You won't even see them unless your wise
Of the shadow men take no heed
Off the sorrow they just feed
The closets doors all are open wide
Not one skeleton does she hide
Please don't be scared, please don't shout
The are free to dance about
Last but not lest I want to show
What happens when the anguish grows
Tormented by years of unbridled strife
In the coffin lies her pitiful life
It's not her body, for she is the walking dead
Heart in taters, screams echoing in her head
Eyes opened wide with years of dread
The light and happiness are always there mocking
You'll find her over there in the corner rocking
Yes she had to be restrained
In the straitjacket she will remain
It's for your safety, not hers
For the pain she endures
Is not for weak amateurs
Exit on the right
Single file, please don't fight
Enjoy the rest of the attractions
We guarantee a hundred percent satisfaction
Unless in this carnival of woeful souls you are captured
Then your only hope will be the rapture
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
I'm here. These texts these sacred carnivorous words
this verbal membrane
(read carefully I summon you read twice!) :
curtain meninx electroshock therapy
blanket straitjacket
bed-sheet ***** placenta
I praise this osmotic verbal membrane
I give you I get undressed I curse myself
Ah! my repressed whorish pathos:
I give you lucidly
Any poetic art is written in ink
(I calmly assure in public)
in fact
in these mortal neurons
Darkness and dust
These texts these words I've picked from books and streets
Only this ultimate membrane
(precious like the *****
fragile like soap bubbles)
still separates me
from the psychic space where you've pushed me
as towards the springs of the Nile
from the psychic place whence I try - cautiously
painfully - to pull out:
my hands my paws my brain my heart
What is beyond? darkness and dust
What is left? a poetic art this darkness this dust
these cracking neurons
Marta Petreu
translated by Liviu Bleoca
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
I wander now
in the wilderness, in the woods
on deserted paths between villages
greeted by strangers
welcomed by humble folk
but welcomed at no Lord’s castle
rejected by Masters and Authorities
shunned by those in Position, in Step
ostracised and kept in the distance by Establishment
the lonely all-embracing tree
offers me shade
the narrow cave
accepts me in the night
a kind wife and her man
offer me part of the meal
they have prepared for their children
the Order harries me on
I have to keep moving
And nothing in my past
condemns me in the present
nor does it save me
All that I’ve learned
is become my burden
All that I’ve loved
I’ve grown to hate
Of my own life
I’ve made my straitjacket
and in my footsteps you read
The Sutra of the Outsider
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:43 AM UTC
I evoke that day in the park when
when you finally noticed my existence after months
of hoping.
Waiting. There you were, on the bench as
the snow began to fall, sipping that can of Coke
clenched in your hands.
You looked glum; mind you, I was too.
That navy coat you wore, your ginger hair stood out like
streams of fire.
It was just me and you, you and I. My phone
rang but I ignored it, prepared to walk
towards you.
I’d say hello if I could but for some reason
(I should ask you why) you stood up, my breath
hung in anticipation.
The scrunch scrunch scrunch of
fallen snow, I looked up, there you were, falling paper
surrounding the two of us.
An invisible straitjacket
tightened around me, my voice box left on vacation
and you said…
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 10:18 AM UTC
after enjoying another straitjacket breakfast
of foreign matter pulled through a straw
i seem to be tied up at the moment
nurse... hold all my calls
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
I was sick
I was so sick
I called you late,
'cause I was burning
And I thought
I might die
And I frightened myself to let you in
Your knock hurt my ears,
But so quiet you thought to knock again
Before you could,
I answered
Because there was fire in me
And you drank the sight of me
Bared to just a tanktop and my underwear
Dark rings under my eyes
Milky skin glowing phosphorescent in the dark
And for a second
I was afraid
That you would think badly of me
And refuse to come in
And say I can't help you
But then you hugged
(like you always do)
With your arms wrapped like a straitjacket
But pulled back in surprise
Because I was giving off so much heat
Then your eyes grew tight and worried
And you picked me up
bridal style
Suddenly my eyes ran
Rivering over my blazing cheeks
I swear the tears evaporated! I swear!
(I don't know what the tears were for
the wanting of you? - for so long you'd forgotten
or the relief? - that I would not die alone
or the pain? - for things I might never see)
And you set me down
Surrendered me to a long, soft floor
Pressed your cool hands to my forehead
And then to my back,
(I fancied they left blue shards of ice
Unmeltable in my white-hot skin
I almost lost my mind with pain)
And then you made the doctor come
(I don't remember this)
But my monsters had already arrived
Creeping through the darkness
I cried out, my voice
Startling you from your methodical
smoothing of my hair
I don't know if I'll make it
Maybe I won't get through this
Maybe this will be the last time
Maybe you'll be my last love
Maybe I'll have my last breath
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
Check me out this hospital of woe,
Just use your love as knits to sow,
My wounded heart punctured with hurt,
Clean me with empathy and wash off the dirt,
I'm not to fond with medicine or needles,
But I can shut off fear just to be there near you,
I know angels fly,
But you're too close to me,
And I haven't prayed that much,
For your kindness to pursue,
I heard from the radio,
God was missing an angel,
But ****** I bet my life,
That that angel was you,
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
In a city where it's all about control
The students and the teachers are the oppressed today
This entire school is just a straitjacket
Waiting to reach its fingers of conformity up and around our throats,
Waiting to twist all the differences out of us,
Waiting to write a curriculum, a test that can be taken,
One to measure our minds, our thoughts, our hearts
Don't those ******** know
It's not their job to compare us?
And besides, you can't gauge emotion
Or tell me that my heart is below average
You can't say to me that I'm not thinking properly.
**** you, there's no "right thought" I can have.
It's not a matter of how much I love or who.
You can't look at me once and say you know my soul.
But you would love that, wouldn't you? You'd love
To label everything, and neatly shelve it away,
In some great and empty vault, where you'll only constrain its potential.
By writing such a test you would be condemning all of us to eternal emptiness.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 9:37 PM UTC
We are the coffee stains on waiting tables
That lie unattended in cafes
Of our own making
We are the imprints
Of a life lived haphazardly
Without any patterns to follow
We are…and are nothing more
Each day I immerse myself
In the torrent of a New York Sidewalk
Knowing that Life and death
Have never been closer
Than at this very moment
Each day I see people
Living lives of quiet desperation
Caged in suits of blue and black
Bought for 250 dollars
At Saks fifth avenue
Without looking at price tags
Because who argues
About the price of a straitjacket
I leave the crowds and walk down further
On a street that seems empty and yet full
There is a tree standing at the corner
Of two numbered avenues that
Are different ,yet the same
In the nightmarish way
That only cities can hope to achieve
It looks anaemic and withdrawn
Gnarled beyond recognition
Unnoticed , except by dogs
And posters for lost dogs
That offer paper rewards
For a live beating heart
It seems to cry, tearlessly
Soundlessly
At each nail that tears through its skin
Trying to find its pulse point
And silence it for good
There are brownstones lining
The street that I turn into
Brick mansions that should
In their ridges hold
Stories of wealth and joy
That surely follow
All green paper trails
But instead, house
(Like exotic museum specimens )
Cheating fathers and acrimonious mothers
Drugged out sons and prostitutional daughters
All by products of a generation that measures
***** into its morning cornflakes
And keeps itself alive
On a steady diet of Adderall
I come to the end of the street
And watch as the sun sinks down
Over a dead end world
Wondering if the night will hide
Or reveal all that lies hidden
Wondering if remembering
Buries or resurrects …
Or whether we are all graves
Postmarked optimistically “To Heaven “
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
you,
platonic *********
entangled in your own
heartstrings
you wear your melancholy
like a willful
straitjacket
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 5:20 PM UTC
*it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.*
but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC