"tongueless" poems
SLOWLY the Moon her banderoles of light
Unfurls upon the sky; her fingers drip
Pale, silvery tides; her armoured warriors
Leave Day's bright tents of azure and of gold,
Wherein they hid them, and in silence flock
Upon the solemn battlefield of Night
To try great issues with the blind old king,
The Titan Darkness, who great Pharoah fought
With groping hands, and conquered for a span.
The starry hosts with silver lances *****
The scarlet fringes of the tents of Day,
And turn their crystal shields upon their *******
And point their radiant lances, and so wait
The stirring of the giant in his caves.
The solitary hills send long, sad sighs
As the blind Titan grasps their locks of pine
And trembling larch to drag him toward the sky,
That his wild-seeking hands may clutch the Moon
From her war-chariot, scythed and wheeled with light,
Crush bright-mailed stars, and so, a sightless king,
Reign in black desolation! Low-set vales
Weep under the black hollow of his foot,
While sobs the sea beneath his lashing hair
Of rolling mists, which, strong as iron cords,
Twine round tall masts and drag them to the reefs.
Swifter rolls up Astarte's light-scythed car;
Dense rise the jewelled lances, groves of light;
Red flouts Mars' banner in the voiceless war
(The mightiest combat is the tongueless one);
The silvery dartings of the lances *****
His fingers from the mountains, catch his locks
And toss them in black fragments to the winds,
Pierce the vast hollow of his misty foot,
Level their diamond tips against his breast,
And force him down to lair within his pit
And thro' its chinks ****** down his groping hands
To quicken Hell with horror-for the strength
That is not of the Heavens is of Hell.
8.3k
sad? melancholic? nostalgic?
eyes flit to a distant memory, a
different time ー
nostalgic? melancholic? sad?
where stories weave in and out of
a young mind ー
sad? melancholic? nostalgic?
once weighed down by heavy blocks of unmelted ice ー
nostalgic? melancholic? sad?
but are now buoyed by words, floating up freely to the surface ー
sad? melancholic? nostalgic?
bravery bubbles up on the inside,
shattering the ice coating your tongue ー
nostalgic? melancholic? sad?
the word house finally opens,
but nothing comes out.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC
The future has no mouth,
No tongue,
No teeth.
The Earth speaks, but it's easy not to hear.
Easier still,
when drowned by the rising noise
of trucks and drills,
destruction and greed.
And you want more,
And you want convenience.
you don't want hassle,
you don't want consequences,
of what you choose.
That's inconvenient.
You're busy,
you've got things to do,
you've got a job and a family,
and you don't care about much more than that.
Excepting, most notably, yourself.
So you turn the other way.
We sit on the ground before you,
we sing songs of generations before us
who tried to help the Earth too.
We sing the words of those who protected our lands,
before the coming of this new age
of willful ignorance.
And you walk past us,
and on top of us.
And you blame us for being in the way.
You yell at us to move,
you've got things to do!
Things to ignore!
It's easier not to know,
easier still not to change,
but the teethless, tongueless, mouthless future
continues to approach.
Melting, heating and shaking.
We must hear it,
before there is no-one left to hear.
I carry these bruises with pride.
I carry knowledge of my actions with pride.
I will do my best for the future,
I will not regret my caring.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
Put out my eyes, and I can see you still,
Slam my ears to, and I can hear you yet;
And without any feet can go to you;
And tongueless, I can conjure you at will.
Break off my arms, I shall take hold of you
And grasp you with my heart as with a hand;
Arrest my heart, my brain will beat as true;
And if you set this brain of mine afire,
Then on my blood-stream I yet will carry you.
4.1k
793
Grief is a Mouse—
And chooses Wainscot in the Breast
For His Shy House—
And baffles quest—
Grief is a Thief—quick startled—
****** His Ear—report to hear
Of that Vast Dark—
That swept His Being—back—
Grief is a Juggler—boldest at the Play—
Lest if He flinch—the eye that way
Pounce on His Bruises—One—say—or Three—
Grief is a Gourmand—spare His luxury—
Best Grief is Tongueless—before He’ll tell—
Burn Him in the Public Square—
His Ashes—will
Possibly—if they refuse—How then know—
Since a Rack couldn’t coax a syllable—now.
2.4k
There are men
with loud voices
I've been taught
to fear since birth.
If the intermittence
of skin flashing between
two articles of clothing is
where seduction occurs
then where is the
****** gaping cloth
of a yell?
Is it in the cavernous tongueless space
of parted lips: in some silent inky
strident echoing taste
or
in the tightness of vocal
chords pulled taut, the strain of
raised forehead and neck veins?
There's a weight in
my chest like a weight
in his bed, heavy and
unsatisfied and
thinly veiled.
I think somehow
the look on my face
must be a pleasing design:
a familiar retraceable
state: a reminder that
I don't mind him,
I know my place:
in a small, quiet space,
in his arms when its late,
on the drip of the spit on the tip of
his tongue: a flash of flesh over pale teeth:
a site of intermittence: in a hesitation
a fearful hesitation
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
This was the only face I was given
Are the edges frayed, are the bones brittle?
I cannot bring my eyes to your image
I am tongueless, dead
These are the hooks in my eyes
These are the anchors left when oceans dried
This is my blood, this is my flesh
I wasn’t molded to love, I was molded to live
Am I worthy?
Am I worthy?
Can I catch your attention?
If I crave just as selfishly
As the media art
Of ******* perfection?
Am I ugly?
Am I pretty?
Or am I faceless when you see me?
Am I faceless?
Am I faceless?
AM I FACELESS?
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
I am tongueless
Voiceless
Made dumb.
Devastating
Silence prevails
Distressing
Damage is done
****
**** you
Damning me
To silence
eternally.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
You say I love not, ‘cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can’t devise
Some sport to please those babies in your eyes;—
By love’s religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are never found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when love speechless is, she doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak but little, ‘cause I love so much.
1.3k
When Julia chid I stood as mute the while
As is the fish or tongueless crocodile.
Air coin’d to words my Julia could not hear,
But she could see each eye to stamp a tear;
By which mine angry mistress might descry
Tears are the noble language of the eye.
And when true love of words is destitute
The eyes by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.
1.3k
you're a houseplant
you're an object
it doesn't matter what you say
no one is listening anyway
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
i met a mongol once in amsterdam, we exchanged a tearful stare and said a melancholic hello, as if we were to be brother in cement or sandstone of what the sun rememebred and man forgot but nonetheless carved for enshadowed suave of the shadowing hand on hand upon handed down remnant of the handless kanji... the motherless thus tongueless river of sight utilising hand and hand as sophistication of spying thanks to the hands’ shadows: thus no shadow tongue unless that shadow be thought or the abstract off thought: pre-meditation and the subsequent minded courtsey as requested of the blank page or the buddha’s slitted eyes faking intoxication by western standards of that green plant the mongols despise: and western societies fare to tax and thus exploit.
and it would be easiest to withhold making talks
with the slavs
by compensation of the northern-most mosque
being established
as true progression...
but then having insulated the slavs
who are "primarily" plumbers and electricians
to make any dent in the politics of the other monotheists...
where the european excludes the european from europe
there you will see war as encouraging the asian
or the arab...
there you will see war, should a
european exclude european from europe
there you will see war
caucausian againts the rooster against the morn!
TAR TAR! TAR TAR! TAR! TAR!
(in japanese tora tora tora!)
because you did not cherish our shared values
thus become devalued therefore value your integral anti-economic
evaluations that have no place in my land
but concern of keeping brown in the noun and not in the verb
of racism and sun;
i've become a barabbas among you, you messiahs,
you messiah selfies and messiah implants,
what gave you the jews scorned has given
me you as the "jews" scorned in your disorientation
of the fathomed atom bomb already spoken of in
the book of the apocalypse....
but a man ejecting an european from europe
to fantacise a non-invoked colonialism will halve in carving
this world in half for multi-cultarism!
no pole ever spoke of colonialism to see you speak
of post-colonial re-colonialisation of remote areas so ardently cared for:
conquer... and subsequently fall: your sons the additive bullets:
я и pоссия demand: the caucaucus tribes to
fake unity with the danube fools of erected bohemia.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Tongueless
Breathless
Restless
In this
Lightless
Nightless day
There's numbness.
Fingerless,
Stifling coughing
Ageless, noiseless crying
Witless, Senseless
.Lost.
But not for
Lack of trying.
Listless.
Falling.
Deeply Sightless
Devoutly faithless
Evenly devoid
And purely dying.
For wet whimpers
Through thickest walls.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 11:12 PM UTC
A darkened path, a search for the night. A walk through the valley of hope, down the isle of wishes. I sort the source of his rage, the antecedents of his ways. His name, Father.
A mentor to some, a dementor to many. His rule of Iron, staunch in his antique ways. Sometimes I think him Gothic, clogged by wrath. Like a counter-fort of fire, albeit difficult to fathom, backbreaking to assimilate.
His ways full of thorns, his path curly in my eyes, straight in his words. His buffonious look, like cold water on a burning star. As a child I felt like a Marie, his transformations made me fiasco. Because in him I was born, soon after, born in me was his touch. My cries like that of a toothless dog, a tongueless convict.
But then I think myself a miniature of his. A live labyrinth built over the years. Analogous to his countenated nature.
I suppose I would strive to lacerate my soul
from his spell. To be at liberty with my spirit, because in me he lives. To be to my apprehended child the fore-bearer I never had.
----------
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:15 AM UTC
The roots of our ghosts lay in brittle earth
drinking up all that's left of a dry well
hungry, savage rainclouds
open-mouthed and empty
tongueless and sharp-toothed
the jagged claws of thirst
we can't swallow what's left of our conversations
your salt water lashes cling to each pause
the smallest ocean haunting me
storming a little
pouring deep into the spinal column
stripped bare like bark
peeling sheet after sheet
of collapsing microscopic webs
spiny snapped synapses I wish I could tear out violently
break, trash, ruin, I don't care
while caring so profoundly I can't breathe
I whisper car crash questions
and feel so far from myself
I can't even tell if I'm asking you anything
like thunder in the distance
lightning for a moment
each spark failing to jump the bridge for souls
a suicide note when we tangle ourselves
an EVP, "remember when **** was better—"
white noise between cracked lips
the loudest silence, too
what are we even listening for
this static electric current can't leap
from my mouth to yours with a kiss
even if our hands touched
even if you keep crying
even if there is nothing left
even if we planted ourselves right here
and we can't ever grow again
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
He sits staring at the empty wall in front of him.
His eyes, heavy and ringed with countless circles,
Gaze blankly ahead.
Not quite at anything, no not really,
For there is nothing to see.
No he looks through the wall,
through time itself,
Into the vast emptiness of eternity.
His long, broken fingernails,
caked in centuries of filth,
Scratch listlessly across the arms of his chair.
Droplets of thick drool,
reeking of decades of uncleanness,
Roll slowly down his chin onto his lap.
His hair, which had become a booming metropolis of every variety of insect life,
StIcks about this way and that
In harmonious unity with the unkempt nature of his eyebrows and beard.
A gaping hole, oozing with **** and blood,
The empty cavity in which his heart had once dwelt,
Replaced now by a war between worms and maggots.
These same creatures having claimed the lower part of his torso,
For the rest of his body had rotted away eons ago.
Flies pour out of his open mouth,
now toothless and tongueless,
It had long lost most of it's purpose.
On his forehead is burned the word "Knowledge",
A simple yet powerful word
Left there since the dawn of human understanding.
And so it is that as time drags on he let's his body decay
Let's it be devoured as here he remains....
In silence. .....
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
What a spiceless world.
One full of orange, then blue.
One full of purple, then brown.
To get through the waters of the womb, you need steel.
Where blood is flighty. And mud is shallow.
To love, you need to ****
To hate, you need to birth another.
A pool of men stronger and faster than a colony of ants.
Who are you, when you've lost all your feathers?
When the bridge above you has collapsed?
Who are you, once again, when all you've known has turned to order?
When there is a hierarchy? Where do you fit in?
To make wings, you need a brother and a hammer.
To fight those orderly ******** you need to call upon your own filth.
To waddle through your own **** your own **** you need to drink the elixir.
Not some shallow nectar from the gods. Who are they, anyway? Who, who are the gods to question the almighty? You were always better anyway.
Who upon this mound of dirt, **** ***** and mercury shall question the authenticity of your command, when they're all dead in the ground?
Will there be anyone?
Will it just be you?
You knock on the door of the rich man, but he does not answer. You paint his door red in your own blood and scream.
What has occurred here? A clash of babies dressed in stardust under a sky of light violet?
Maybe a marriage of scales and feathers disguised as ones you could care about?
You know nothing of this world, and that's how you always got by.
You dig through the pool of used needles, you drench yourself in others' diseases, you embrace a death of most painful circumstance and you cut off your limbs one by one.
Only then, at your final moments, tongueless, waddling your chunks of once arms, legs and wings around, drowning in your own ***** can you ask the most important question.
What if the world was the opposite?
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC
I think I will
Cut off my hands
They have not served me well
And must go.
I will gouge away my tongue
It ought to be removed
Before it does more damage
My traitorous thighs -
I will line the path you longed to trace with kisses
With tiny cuts instead
Small, but deep
I’ll make myself a freak.
Then I’ll take the knife to my *******
You always liked them best
So I will cut, swift and clean, discard them in a little heap, trash,
They deserve nothing better.
And now, I am a tongueless, sexless, bleeding horror
Dismembered, a series of parts
On display for you,
Come see.
Penetrate my gaping mouth,
Rub the moisture from my thighs,
Gather up my *******
Hold my hands
And own me, what you’ve made me
I’m all yours.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
Clacking belongs to hollow shells,
And echoes stilled, and tongueless bells.
Toys are made flimsier than tools,
And sloth is banished from the schools.
When clacking’s ceased, adults relax.
Childhood is hardship and attacks.
Sep 13, 2021
Sep 13, 2021 at 11:02 AM UTC
I think I forgot how to think
School makes me thoughtless
lifeless
tongueless
numb and faceless
legs tingling
do you think you can stand up?
I think I'm only made up of thoughts, is that possible?
I wish I'd done everything different.
I regret so much
If I had made better choices
my health wouldn't be as bad
can't they make a drug to make me human again
make me walk
fill my lungs
fill me with blood
deep, red and thick
energy like a kid
happiness like its my first day
no hesitation
legs tingling
I don't think I can stand up
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
There were sparks on her breath
Where the fire's caress had left her
tongueless,
the yolk of youth spat the
wrongness of existence.
Take the high road
***** resistance.
****** it's folds of fat.
The guilt of passivity sat
dead, and diseased, in
her throat
Invisible moat cutting into
face,
erase her social security
and the soft sand slopes of
unmarked dark purity.
The girl's existence fought
clarity
An apple lacking search
for sanity.
Once inside her mind, the girl
fought free:
she cupped the face of maturity
and licked his salty lips
her tongue scenting soulless spit
upon a torn pervaded face.
Ripping a loveless, humbled, embrace
into ashes, her
imagination cymbal clashes in
realities orchestra.
Shooting sighs worked up
her vertebra. Her lips, as
faithless as Cressida, lay
curled and cut forlorn
at her feet. Her tangled
continuation a
mangled, drawn out
defeat.
Life force-fed her a caps-locked
delete, a sunken voice sang of
soft sleep.
But the stump of a tongue
pressed
Repeat.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
Coastal seizures. So sand fills a sun-kissed cheek.
Boasted features, hands lull movement in hips so meek.
Thumbs peel lids to stretch the Sun into clefts that reflexes forget
Two fingers press against throats and ears to breaths.
Palms press ditches in chests to remind hearts of blood to teach.
Lungs keep secrets that tongueless kisses were made to reach.
Salt water rinses cheeks of death and cold stares
Paroxysms exhume life in the form of humid air.
Grief slowed as tides fell.
Teeth locked as cheeks swell.
Water took softly what it had let go
More than shook fondly but it had let grow.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
Taste it, put it in your mouth
handfuls of dirt, of silt, of ruined earth
Looking to the wild eyes any savage
with the will to utterly ravage
Tongueless non-sensory shedding
witless dilutes that dismember the well
All but forgotten would be a spring pure in splendor
just another dream briefly render
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:32 AM UTC
"You're a tongueless talker
You don't care what you say
You're a jaywalker and you just just walk away
And that's all you do
The clap of the fading out sound of your shoes"
- Elliott Smith's words (' Last Call' if you're interested). not my words . just the song in my head right now &how; I feel right now. RIP Elliott
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
I often feel frac/
tured
As though I’ve
f
a
l
l
e
n
Between
The
Cracks
Of
Memory-
Like a broken bottle
Left
Forlornly in a wood,
Or
A faded,
Sun-bleached
Photograph;
Decaying
In an empty house-
When you’ve withdrawn
Upon,
within,
around
Yourself, so much
That even the dust stagnates-
How can you expect
Anyone
To intrude
Into that self-imposed solitude?
Especially,
If you,
Yourself,
Have no clue how to break it?
The bell has lost it’s clapper,
A mallet without a gong,
Tongueless mouth gaping wide-
Emitting only a feeble moan,
Easily dismissed as the wind,
Whipping around the eaves,
and through the trees.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC