"subsisting" poems
So tired yet so awake
I sit at the edge of an ellipsis
crimping the charred innards of my tattered soul
to make a masterpiece of gore
and internal war.
over the years of self loathing
I finally love myself
but getting ****** up feels ****** perfect
and watching this world unfold anew with each hit
or shot
rocks my mind
unkind but exemplary in it's own fortitude
to prevail my own veils
aside they're cast and fumbled with
as thick smiles seed
and the pace is set for the evening
I can't help but think that leaving
could do me good
but who backs out before the last shot?
who leaves before the deafening toll of midnight?
Cinderella's umbrella of security
and purity
is at jeopardy
and with great haste she wastes away the good looks
for late night *****
and nicotine
forgetting to clean
her closet of supreme validity on
the functioning teen
trying not to be mean,
but completely obscene in gestures
with the barbie's manufacturers groping for caspers
in the utopian disasters of the girl they forged
many decades back, but lost track
of the track that played that summer night
in the moonlight of immaculate humor and love
above all the oozing essence that manifested
now tested, for virtual ******
your cerebellum will tellem the positive
credo
that we all know is hooked on the days drift wood with
byzantine benzodiazapines to guide her haunted spirit
till
the cracks turn to crevasses and prehistoric protons mate with electrons
in the vat that is abrewing to plot the lies
watch the skies fade to grey as it may
be about time for the ecliptic rhymes to find
reconciliation
in the bladed grains of mortality and sigh
for being high in this lowered juncture
of subsisting future
buys you time to mull over such a daydream
as your last breath
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
958
We met as Sparks—Diverging Flints
Sent various—scattered ways—
We parted as the Central Flint
Were cloven with an Adze—
Subsisting on the Light We bore
Before We felt the Dark—
A Flint unto this Day—perhaps—
But for that single Spark.
2.7k
1282
Art thou the thing I wanted?
Begone—my Tooth has grown—
Supply the minor Palate
That has not starved so long—
I tell thee while I waited
The mystery of Food
Increased till I abjured it
And dine without Like God—
—
Art thou the thing I wanted?
Begone—my Tooth has grown—
Affront a minor palate
Thou could’st not goad so long—
I tell thee while I waited—
The mystery of Food
Increased till I abjured it
Subsisting now like God—
2.5k
Advocate of the nonexistant
You are all bends encircling
Circuts of truth verses lies is removed
When diagram of entrails is eviscerated
Attestation that hinders, lingers beyond
Concealing, subsisting, not we
Nothings are baseless, breathing is useless
Repudiate this knowing at once
Doctrines and concepts have derrived
Theories are growing while eras moved on
Delusions set in when axiom gone
Delusions are not when one dies
Attestation that hinders, lingers afar
Concealing, subsisting, not I
Everything's baseless, breathing is useless
Repudiate this knowing at once
Prostulate the higher is there
We all crave desolate space
Subside from afar a seperate reaps
Subside from afar there is none
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.
Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.
Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.
His hope: intermittent.
To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.
He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.
He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.
He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.
He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.
Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.
Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)
"Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."
He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.
Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.
He has a special attitude towards terror.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
.
There’s an ancient duct tape patched
roller suitcase still up in the attic,
scarred by sky miles and undiscerning
indifference; it came to rest like a final breath
exhaled at the end of the long road ―
In the dusty rafters of silent repose
the death of an alter-ego comes to life
and jars and jogs the sleeping dogs
that lay benign as a pothole riddled road
Holding onto memories buried alive,
hidden away remembered ―
sans wings to fly away
laid bare unweighed with the weight
of everything else garnered and saved
subsisting in a shallow grave;
hoarded and hidden away breathing
locked up with the other baggage borne
behind tired eyes
Feeling the ache of blood stained knees
falling down sullied at the side of the road
Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories
linger; stuck to the grey bandage scars,
second guessing should have thrown out
with the permanently temporary
fading plasticized luggage name-tags
back when I was still close enough to care;
too many miles to reconsider ago
Some say: "it's the journey not the destination" .
Some day when its too late we'll know
Some day it will be too late to make amends
for everything i could not be ...
harlon rivers ... 07 06 2018
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
I buy the cheapest cigarettes
that I can find
sometimes subsisting solely
on my own fears
too busy counting
and alphabetizing
all of my past traumas
to get to work on time
I’m too young to
feel this old
I’m tired of being
so tired
I’m still waiting
for my life to start—
I’m dreaming of a day
that I can feel young—
as young as these
bones that creak under me
and this flesh that bulges and
sags
as young as these eyes
that do nothing but stretch
and dilate
I’m always so afraid
but I don’t see ghosts anymore
it’s trite to say that what I fear is myself
but I know, I know how evil I can be
and I’m afraid of everything
how do I keep going under
the weight of myself?
why do I try when all I do
is waste so rapidly away?
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC
My thoughts persist with the onset of sleep,
a swirling mist,
an ashen awareness of the futility of my hopes,
the dull ache of faltering inertia,
hidden between silver folds of liquid ego,
and in my dreams,
circumstance is as I wish it to be,
I am therefore I think,
painting my heart on my sleeve,
using abstractions familiar only to me,
fractal entities subsisting on synecdoche,
the mundane shattered in streets of my own memory,
the monotony brushed aside if only for awhile,
it is in this avenue that I thrive,
silver lined and gilded ideals,
a place where guile and truth intermix,
and it is reason and aesthetic rhythms that guide,
set in motion by the desires of my heart and mind,
in the calm embrace of the nether I am proud,
devoid of fear or avarice,
and all at once I am awake,
I am alone,
fretful,
lonely,
alive.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
they say home is where the heart is
well my heart sits inside this
war-torn body going through the motions
breathe in
breathe out
smile
suture together the gaping hole
that screams from the center of my mass
tugging on the ragged edges
trying to fold in on myself
my own ouroboros
subsisting off my own flesh
eating my muscles
a supernova collapsing with a crushing
blow that rattles my bones
and reverberates through my heart.
so this is home
the lodging where my
beaten soul and battered consciousness
have wiped away the dust
taken the sheets off the unused furniture
and curled up with their feet tucked up
underneath their body
paying no attention to the
leaky roof
pitter patter of water droplets
heavy with the chaos and ire
of the outside world
as they land definitively in pots and pans
littered throughout my body
lingering in my liver and
sopping up moisture that springs
traitorously into my eyes
burns straight through my retinas
and reminds me of my weakness.
how can i be my own big bad wolf?
alternating between a warm bed
and hearty meals that
bode a bountiful harvest
suddenly replaced by howling wind
and razor sharp rain drops
cutting into my skin
and i welcome it.
i let myself be cut to ribbons
until all that remains is
shredded flesh clinging precariously
to ivory bone
hanging by a thread
an elephant at the edge of a cliff
tail tied to a dandelion.
i relish the destruction
in razing my corporeal temple to the ground
reducing myself to ash
and scattering to every edge of the earth
until I burst forth from this atmosphere
this geological prison
my dermal incarceration
and fly as star stuff
to become a distant universe
for didn’t the liquid power of the stars
always run through my veins
an oil fire burning higher and higher
until the black acrid smoke
consumed the entire world
and absorbed the sun’s rays
to bring about a never-ending night.
close my eyes.
it doesn’t matter if it’s dark outside.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Shadows.
In all directions I look,
I am surrounded by shadows
that make it hard for me
to decipher the dissemblance
when my eyes are wide open
and when they are sealed shut.
Darkness hovers over me
like it is fused with the air I am breathing;
suffocating me and making me gasp
for the unseen
that is imperative to keep me subsisting.
It seems that my lungs
turn into two small plastic bags
that need to be refilled
every quarter of a second
regardless of how abysmal
I drag air into my system.
With each breath I take
paralleling each time that passes,
I drift farther and farther away into oblivion.
Maybe this is how it feels
to dispossess yourself
and let the phantom take over
what is left of you.
Maybe this is how it feels
to be lost and remain unsought.
Yet even with treacherous memory I now have,
there is still a fragment that fails to vanish.
It is the fragment that remembers
the glimmer that used to keep the darkness away.
The scintillation that awakened love, hope, and faith
that lounged within me.
The light.
My light.
You.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
annie has cut out herself.
(annie has cut a shape for herself out of a sheet of plywood)
annie shelters herself.
(annie is blocking her thoughts out by making use of her skinny forearms)
annie has lost her hands.
(annie is not simply an amputee, she’s also in a deep coma)
annie identifies herself with the ceiling.
(annie is out of the world of the living things)
annie doesn’t feel the rain.
(annie doesn’t feel anything anymore)
annie is under a scrap of cloth.
(annie only sees blots of dripping paint)
annie ended up in a gap.
(annie ended)
annie has stopped counting.
(annie has changed the order of the numbers, randomly)
annie has stopped subsisting.
(annie now needs a thinking subject, to think of herself)
annie doesn’t constitute a movement.
(annie moves by gracious permission of the force of inertia)
annie only perceives the force of gravity.
(annie adheres to the pavement)
annie can’t remember her latest smart thought.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
Chicago
city of working men
of bustling factories
and billowing smoke-stacks
tattooed with graffiti
filled with hearty, loud people
who are constantly going,
building, moving upwards
it is unlike Atlanta, my home,
because she is a conflicted soul,
subsisting for so long in tradition
and now she sits on the brink
of modernity, and cannot decide
to jump in
this city knows who he is
and though I might not know
who that is, I feel its confidence
in the noisy cabbies honking horns,
in the rickety trains on their tracks,
in the million different faces I’ve seen
already, I can see a bold identity
something I cannot claim,
and I will wander on without
forever
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
I am the empty space between the highways,
Abandoned strip of indirection,
Subsisting on passers-by's throw-away
food and emotions / Civic midsection /
I am a buffer / I lead nowhere and
no roads leads to me / I am the empty
nest of a bird long flown to the wetlands /
I am everyone's, cared for by the city,
I am where the bodies are buried
sometimes / I am where teenagers get high,
The lake of grass from which Charon ferries
you and your people to the other side,
I am where tall grasses sway at midnight,
Snowplowsand. Cars pass. Hourglass headlights.
Feb 2, 2021
Feb 2, 2021 at 8:08 PM UTC
.
*In an anthem of doubt
the wind song resonates
passionately through
natures’ cocooned embrace ,
heart’s echoes manifest
thrive and bear fruit.
unspoken hearts enflamed
in poetic supplications ,
soul rejuvenation ,
a flake of love sown
a spark of hope evident
a burning bonfire
metamorphosed ,
wildfire fanned by the muse
a shameless passion
insatiated thirst
unsatiated taste buds
a hungry heart craving ,
an unsatisfied desire
to be spellbound
the moment of love
at long last ,
imbibed in deepest
heart subsisting coddle ,
held like life sustaining breath
take me to your secret throne
lead me down
your garden pathway moans ,
where all your secrets will be known ,
let me taste the beauty
of your naked sacred stone ―
please don’t make me wait forever
longing to be warm
in the frigid cold aloneness
curling my back
to a fading memory
where you used to lie at dawn* ...
wild is the wind 11. 27. 2016
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
my darkness came again today
on silent wings, a bird of prey
razored talons slashed and tore
the pain I felt, I feel no more
another lie I tell myself
the darkness seems to stay inside
the light is gone, I can not hide
they push their pills, and words
words of hope, I sit with people
wounded, injured,
hear their stories and wonder why
I sound like I have such a great life
no ***** no drugs, no hurting others
but these walking wounded
are like my sisters, my brothers
I feel an impostor in their midst
what's been so bad that I'm like this
they send you home
load you up with pills
this is going to cure your ills
so I sit tired and numb and wonder
is this what life is become
devoid of feelings that are real
the blessing of the little pill
hollow and empty just like before
keep on existing, on nothing subsisting
pretend that everything is ok
Wishing you could go away
maybe never even have been
spare the ones you love the pain
instead you walk around the world
push in the pain, the agony
waiting to be set free
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
Us/you/I swaying on the spiralling
star-smudged staircase
that leads to the evanescent
crescendo of the sun.
Synchronously//Contemporaneously,
the moon subsisting in her shadow,
spills ashen white light ray
andlimn her initials,
across the somber sky.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
it's loneliness and misery
self-imposed solitude
in detox from gaiety
living my darkest mood
unleashing my angry self
in honesty all ****
subsisting in depression
hitting the hopeless bottom
being forgotten
by any I've known
being unforgiven
by any I've wronged
then
to draw her wondrous eyes
from the only face I see
letting myself rise
floating in our ecstasy
and to let the drawing burn
just to do it over again
if she asks me how much
if she asks me my plan
it's loneliness and misery
self-imposed solitude
...
Sam@072217
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
You know, there are a million (at least)
Kids who think they're unique and write about what they have
In their unoriginal, merely subsisting minds;
uneven, unfinished, thoughts on blue lines.
People just don't get that their lives are, well,
theirs. If they want, they can. Nobody else cares.
I'm sick and I'm tired
Fed up with this ****
Surviving on adrenaline,
Sleep and my wit.
I didn't sign up for this,
And when I came in,
I didn't like it,
Not one little bit.
Now I'm just sitting,
Waiting for something
I can't put my finger on,
Staring out the window
Tracing shapes in the
Lawn and I'm so sick and tired
I can't even rhyme
This entire little rant
Was just a waste of my time.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
Fiendish wires driven deep into the mind.
Subsisting on the chaos it compels unto others.
Craving lechery and deference.
When resisted the coils tighten.
Its weighted vines make it difficult to stand.
I know what it fears,
We are the same.
The threads are not mine.
If I controlled the them I'd do the same.
We are puppeteers.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:39 PM UTC
Death does not **** it self, but lives within itself
Subsisting on failed dreams and shattered hopes
Believing only in lost love and misguided deeds
Needing only to come knocking at hearts door
and bring the recipient to a different reality
For though who grieve the dead and dying they need only see what lay on the other side of deaths door
For those who believe, death dose not come to destroy family, friends or love, but to make stronger the ties that bind those hearts together for ever.
Death is never takin seriously until someone close to you dies. When someone commits SUICIDE where do they go? Why is it that even if you expect IT to happen sometime, it still hurts when IT does? Why is it that those closest to you seem to be the ones that DIE first? Who am I to turn to when there isnt anyone there ? One of my best friends KILLED himself today, I dont know how to handle IT. I know IT hurts inside like a piece of me was KILLED with him. I know that I feel guilty for thinking that he was a cowered for doing IT. I dont think I should, should I. I know he wouldnt have wanted me to cry for him but I still did. I was just thinking of him today too before I heard the NEWS. I'm still crying inside. YOU SUNOFABITCH WHY DID YOU DO IT?
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:28 AM UTC
incongruent
my heart and yours went,
with mine supposing importance
and yours subsisting in ignorance.
050915
for j.b.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
She glows red inside.
Until the mountain's roar begins.
The trees tremble beneath her sighs,
knowing the tide will soon rise
within her belly.
The core of all ideas of sin
subsisting only by whats within;
yet the cralwers and the stompers
the choppers and the bleeeders
the wanters the criers
the screamers and the needers
have the plastic vision
they make the skilless incision
into our lives
with old blunt knives.
Shes going to blow eventually
theres no stopping whats beneath
it will all melt suddenly.
It rumbles and it stores
waiting no more
no more
let it outpour
downpour
now
bow
down
to
her.
Anger.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
I was headed for more of the same
The same ways of relating
Providing and caretaking
As if I had a little sign
Above my eyes saying
“Pick me!
I’ll give such little trouble
I’ll do it for free!
You can reap the rewards and
Throw the crumbs towards me
I’ll eat them up hungrily!”
Never stopping
Until I found myself propping
My body up at the doctors office
Her telling me more of the same
That I have one more piece to
Break off and give
If I wanted to live
Even it felt then
That I gave up on myself
Such a small *****
With such a big task
Like my bones may as well be paper
My skin may as well be glass
But I had this overwhelming need
To make it all cease
How do I stop the drumming
How do I stop the marching
The flitting of sand from
One chamber to the next
The ways in which life seemed
To keep happening to me
Instead of being an active participant
I guess I lost myself in it
Unconsciously accepting more of the same
More of the same feels numb
More of the same is a lukewarm bath
A bland meal
Filling but unsatisfying
Predictable and plain
Doing what is expected makes people happy
No one has questions
But with the unexpected,
There are suspicions
Superstitions
What happened when I shattered my own mirror
On purpose because I couldn’t stand
Other peoples reflections staring back at me?
Seven years of bad luck and the
Undeniable deep knowing
That I needed to start again
Or really, for the first time
Walking under a ladder was waking up
Spilling salt meant tossing the rule book
I was handed, over my left shoulder
Not lifting a glass to toast to my ex husband
Before my first sip
Let me finally enjoy myself before
Anyone else was able to
Now I know the flavor I possess
And refuse to be diluted
Good on my own
But even better when shared
Not shamed
No I could never
Let life pass me by
Subsisting on
More of the same
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 12:58 PM UTC
A few more days
And we'll find ourselves
Sharing laughs once again
Lighting each other's cigarettes
Flipping each other the bird
Exchanging stupid grins
And holding hands
As we pontificate
And argue
And muse
On both the metaphysical and the mundane.
Looking at the same moon
Smoking when you smoke
Subsisting on digital hugs and kisses
(A sad parody of the real thing)
Pictures and memories
This is what we've been reduced to.
It's maddeningly frustrating
But I must endure.
(Something this old man is getting better at.)
It's not so bad
Anticipating your calls
To hear about the adventures of your day
About who you met up with
How many guys checked you out or hit on you
How many shots you polished off
And just to hear
The sound of your hello
Your **** you, dude*'s
And your refreshingly innocent giggles.
Not bad at all.
It's better than nothing
While I'm counting the days
I stretch my hours
And inch sleep back
With Sylvia Plath and writing these little poems
To meet you in those tiny windows
Crowded in
By our time zones and sleeping habits
Succumbing to slumber
Only to be prodded awake
By the wailing of the phone
And finally
Plucking it out of the darkness
Just to hear
A voice
Your voice
Mellowed by sleep
Your inhibitions crippled by alcohol
Whispering little morsels of affection
And singing out trembling yawns
Moments before sleep claimed you from me
And I'm alone again in the dark
But smiling this time.
Virtual hugs ****
You said.
This ******* distance
The longing
And all the
I miss you's
And image files
And sound bites
That mean the best
But don't do jack ****
To bring us an inch closer
I know.
Patience, my love.
Just a few more days.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC