"tachycardic" poems
Flies swarm when the floodlights come on.
They **** and they fight, live and die.
In the space of an hour
turf becomes a bed of glass wings-
none are left
straining for the light.
It looks like a mass suicide.
Eggs hatch in the sweat of night.
Tachycardic at birth,
one brief exultation
enough to still the lung,
nullify the heart.
Yawn out of existence,
bullfrogs croak miserably
as bodies fall from the sky.
You ask me why I cannot sleep-
I saw a thousand deaths tonight.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
Snared heart kept, imprisoned could be potential dying day,
Lips regaled in ischaemia, blue blood,flows.....cold,
Face scarlet,temperatures up, pyrexia rules, as she tries too cool,
Mouthing strange babble,
She's talking in tongues,
Beaded mask sparkling, droplets trickle,
Tachycardic, heart beats, trying not to escape this life desperately, Heart trying not to explode!
the forties....roaring!
She breathes, so fast... the forties....roaring!
It's tragic,like everything's trying to meet demand with supply........!
Inadequately,
Currently on remand, waiting for her sentence to be be passed,
Docs and nurses they rally, running with obs,
All taking their roles, while doing their jobs,
Mews activated, doc visits he's, anxious,
Iv antibiotics he orders,
In plastic sachet, hanging up high, hereby, lies the awaited decision, if she'll have the will to live, or will she die...
Hope not!
It's not in an instant, but, recovery apparent, as breathing slows below twelve,
Heart beat, it settles,
Her kidneys show function,
Her temperature chills slowly, 36.5, she's still alive,
Thank God,
She got off the train at sepsis junction!
Copyright Livvi Kent (RGN) 11 /04/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
kites flew in his mind
& kept his head in the clouds,
forcing me to send messages to the sky
in hope he doesn't take flight
with my world on his shoulders.
he was a traveler
intent on conquering every mountain
he could lay his hands on,
& leaving every atlas
to burn beneath his fingers;
like pain searing on a map of hurt
on his lover's skin -
directionless but in motion.
cigarettes were his staple diet
with beer to wash out
the bitter taste of a quick fix.
his smoke & ashes injected adrenaline
into my wasted body
& set my vision straight
when i was getting drunk off of him
on a monday, or tuesday
(or any day mid-week).
intoxication was a breath of fresh air
on nights when he wasn't -
the nights that i had promised myself
i wouldn't cave in to my
drunken wishes.
spirits gave me spirit
& silenced my thoughts
to allow my body to speak for me
in a language i knew
he would understand.
he kept me close by his side
as he slept through the nights
that the weather shared our bodies' passion,
his heart unable to translate
the song his bag of bones played
into tachycardic rhythm
to match my own.
his arms would curl around
every inch of my being,
holding every ounce of me
but without seeing
that imperial measurements
held little meaning to someone
who quantifies in metric.
last love,
i send messages to the sky
in hope you aren't
my last love.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
Athens, February the seventh of two thousand thirteen
A long day is perishing, its dawn was short, its rain perpetual and its air heavy,
And I think it is a shame that you are not here with me, now that I look my watch and its 6 o’clock in the afternoon.
I have the stark feeling that Athens was much,, much more yellow with you here,
now that in my magic eyes are candles, and in my head bells, and that I listen the tachycardic throb of this keyboard,
being punched with rugged fingers for almost 3 pages, now that I see the clock and its 7 already,
I pop my knuckles just to harvest some cassavas for you, and briefly, I found myself judicious.
Because, today as always, and also as ever, I think it is a shame that you are not here with me…
My left foot aches like hell and I think about which running shoes I will buy, then I cherish the time we bought your brown running shoes and then, wonder the ones I just picked will like you, because
Maybe, in that near and also far day of fall, I will be using them, when I met you again.
Maybe then I will watch into my cellphone and, being 8 p.m. already, you will say “Hello, my love” while walking toward me … and I will say “Hello, my heifer”… And we will stand right there, both of us… me, stained with the green sea color of your glaucomic eyes, and you, with the blue stain of my banished loneliness.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
You are gone.
My eyes are blind to your body.
My ears deafened to your voice,
I am senseless.
But refusing to accept
My eyes and ears strain to find you
In the darkness,
The silence.
Tears erupt from within me
As though my Jugular has been
Sliced by the shock
That should’ve saved you.
My shoulders begin to ache
As my hands grasp for you
And find nothing but air
Intangible molecules bouncing and colliding
To form matter that isn’t you.
Like a newborn chick I imprint on
Anything that moves
Hoping maybe it will be you
Or something, someone similar.
I am lost without a map
Left with nothing but time
Not enough to bring you back
Enough to think of you and
Too much to fill the hole in my heart.
A hole that has left me
Tachycardic and anoxic
Unable to take in a breath of life
Under the weight of guilt from
Stealing that which could’ve been yours—
Should be yours.
If only…
If only I had caught you
Before you fell.
If only…
If only we hadn’t fought.
But you left me.
You abandoned me.
Like a baby you didn’t want
A puppy that couldn’t be trained
Why?
I wanted to die
I tried to leave
But I failed,
Because you are gone
And I am not.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
Sleep abandonment.
Tachycardic nocturnal episodes
of complete emptiness.
Biographical disruption,
mind and body separation.
PTSD going down in flames,
in milligrams the memories
temporarily faint.
Open windows of spherical shape
leading her
to a paradoxical sleep.
The door is open,
to a blank world,
to a dreamless world
inside a dream.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
he can't write sober. the mind of a man who
drinks too much whiskey and touches girls without
blinking. whos body is cold no matter how large the fire in
front of him is. he just can't write sober. i feel like the girls he touches,
rough coarse hands on peach fuzz skin. tongues battling in
and out of holes in my cheeks. angry apathetic grunts and dissatisfied sighs. im afraid this is where my life is headed. i am afraid i am the girls he touches and bitterly touches and fiercely touches and
he can't write sober, but he doesn't always drink. sometimes
his hands shake too much to drink. sometimes he smokes,
sometimes he crushes up pills and snorts them. sometimes
he doesn't bother crushing them up at all, he downs a
stiff drink with three pink or white circles and he sits in a
chair in the living room until he can see his hands move
in front of him, until he can pick up a pencil without wanting
to snap it. he can't write sober, so he doesn't. so he waits
for his mind to come to a tachycardic rhythm and he writes.
and when he does, he writes and writes for days. he can't write
sober but when he's not sober he will write for miles, he will
tell you about why he touches girls like me with soft pink skin
that is fresh, that is easy to bite into, that is full of life and not
stained rough and harsh. he can't write sober, so when
hes not sober he will tell you her name. he will not be able to do anything but tell you her name, her name her name her name-
he gets stuck, when hes not sober. when hes nodding in and out
of consciousness. he gets stuck on her name. he gets stuck on how
she felt under his hands, they weren't rough and calloused when
she touched him. he gets stuck on how she smells, he tries to
speak it onto the page but he can't, not sober anyway. like lavender.
stuck on her name and the lavender, the pretty girls with short
hair that sort of look like her, her name, her name and the
lavender on her neck and her wrists. her pretty wrists. how she
left and she looked like a ballerina in a performance, grabbing her
coat and her hat to cover her ears. that short hair never covered her ears. she looked like a dancer. the lavender, her name and her name and her name like a dancer. holding out her hand for him,
her small pink hand, her fresh hand, and
he can't catch her sober. can't keep up with her movements sober.
can't smell her sober, can't say her name sober. but when hes not
sober, he can write it all down. nod in and out, the lavender, her
name, what was her name again? what did she smell like?
until he passes out in that chair, by that fire, i feel like the girls
he discards and the whiskey he drinks. he can't do any of it sober.
so he doesn't, he doesn't have to.
her name, drink.
lavender, drink.
like a ballerina, drink.
her name, drink. her name, drink. her name, drink.
her hands, drink. her ears, drink.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 9:46 AM UTC
can't quite remember but
sure it was sweet
on holiday
not sure if you meant it
spilled over cushions
drunk in...something
sympathetic reciprocity
horizontally tangled
post climactic tachycardic
my bad
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 9:19 PM UTC
Darker than the silt
That will grow on our graves
As they will lay along side
Giving new light to
A simply divine blooming moon
Resting softly in quiescent songs
Pale-lit sails and tender memoirs
Nights spent forlorn
Have no place in these sunrises
Palpitations I feel now
Flutter gentle as bats wings
Whom drinks the sweet nectar
Of fruits in hidden skies
Starred eyes gaze back at me
With the prowess's beauty
And defiance of a butterflies wings
Encumbering the air we breathe
Wrought from tachycardic passion
It will tip the scale
In favor of the doves feather
Home is not 4 walls and a roof
It is the day and the night
Of times spent whole
No longer scattered
Across dimensions
But trusted in your softened hands
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC