"unconsumed" poems
Thousands of grains of rice boiled and resting
on the lining of unconsumed human veal. No one can **** the dweeb
who suckered that one kid at the party out of drugs
with the help of the cutest girl there. He knew how to hurt
the best in the world with one word.
Sweet tea and *** goes much deeper than the ribs
and out the back door much faster than a deadbeat dad. The stomach
rumbles the world far worse than a string of serial rapists on trial.
World hunger is a yo-yo doing pendulum swings over summer BBQs
drinking and popping *** and candy from the local radio station.
“I'm sorry I felled you. I should have done better by you. I love you.”
Vague women with just five minute existences of commitments, those Senators of Love
vying for second and third terms
before they sink into those holes in South America you hear about
in the news.
Men know nothing but control. Women know nothing but control.
Numbers know nothing.
Collapsed tunnels in the mind of Prometheus
before calendars and Twitter and liquor
just the dark and blunt
objects
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
§
So many beautiful
Wasted words,
that die unconsumed
or else we eat our own meals
In shame,
or throw them out in disgust,
Why keep a log of failures
when the redundancy of its content
only illustrates our foolishness.
Worshipping *** and violence as dark gods
because we are all excitation driven animals.
We fail to comprehend the divinity of these acts.
A merging of twin energies, such as these
creates wild vortexs of contrary paradoxes,
overwhelming conundrums of need and desire.
We beg for destruction,
for we know that the longing can only be dulled,
the aching throb creeps along our day,
seeping in to enslave us in this cage.
In the horrific spiraling mania,
hands reach out, but loving arms are torn apart,
with declarations of desire and dedication
being shredded and scattered to whirlwind.
Long ago, I said this, with a foul mouth,
and you deserved so much better,
So I will say it again, so that perhaps this time
it will adhere to your mind, and fuse with your spine...
You are beautiful in the mirrors of my eyes,
and I carry your image stapled to my brain,
with the words
I love you,
carved into my frontal lobe
with a ceramic knife,
forged out of the powdered bones
of our failures.
Our victory lies
in knowing that our restless lips
await each other with all the patience they can muster
until I am able to touch you
and draw you to me,
so that I can pull forth
the divinity inside of you,
and merge it with mine
in a maelstrom of *** and violence.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
for a single day my heart
beat in time with yours,
its rhythm so familiar transformed
by the sweetness of your counterpoint
into a current electric
that arced between the nearness of our bodies,
delivering us unconsumed
though indelibly marked,
with the taste of salt lingering
on our tongues.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
Oh, that I were a wish
Whose well be barren.
This life’s unyielding pain,
Would have fared itself far greater than, Spring--
That blooms in December. A waterfall,
Whose stream never thickens. A bird,
Whose chirping be dated.
Oh yes! That I were a wishing well,
Whose penny be centless. A man,
Whose made-for match, never be fated.
A father.
A mother.
A fallen leaf.
An earthly womb,
unconsumed.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 3:49 PM UTC
When Rance drops Macy off back in town he asks Rance to come out that evening to a birthday party his band is playing." come on man. You know everyone and its Beckys party so you need to get out." when Rance arrives at the house he sees dozens of cars and lots of people he hasn't seen for awhile. Then he finds out its actually his going away party. ........NEXT MORNING....
----------------------- --------------------------------- -------------------
As for how my going away party went. It was a good one as far as I remember ; (never having had one before) anyway,everyone said it was.
There is a tendency to think that you don't matter. That your life is just that; your life, but then a wake- up call comes ringing, bringing life back into the limp sails , the floundering vessel that is you.
Rejuvenation is a very miraculous thing because it takes total exhaustion as a precursor to its acceptance. Unfortunately for those who do not receive the breath of life ,the hearty breeze ,the resuscitation- death is so often the results. This is why depression and death so often walk together; hand in hand, across the lonely ,forlorn desert of humanity, as if--somehow -- the afflicted were walking through a parallel universe , unable to interact with the entities that surrounds them. Ghosts and illusions are all they see ;for alone is alone , a choice not chosen but one forced upon --the unwilling, the unwielding-- the sacricial cannibal ; unwittingly eating themselves up until nothing is left unconsumed but the memory of someone that --they thought --they used to be.
In a way ; that was almost who I had become, before I ---almost by accident --came to my own going away party.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
7 Millions spots of you and I
roaming in jungles and desserts
of the partitioned portions
back at the bone of humanity
speaking in voices as one
rolling as the dense population
seeking liberty and autonomy
failing as the world erodes
indecisive about the notions
of diversity and adversity
speaking in voices as one
in a world of words and verbs
freed of greed and misconception
in a field of broken chains
where truths are a daily meal
void of captivity and blindness
mysterious and unconsumed
undiluted and undifferentiated
7 Millions spots of you and I
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC
anyhow
that was the day I gave up everything
one thousand hotel mirrors
well travelled.
train Milan, cheek-kissed Maria.
cognac. A man. Unconsumed.
Guylove dance, marketplace Castries.
Lord Jackson, Victor
Calypso kinging.
Anyhow
that was the day I gave up dancing
Jack lighthouse, broken glass,
spilled Guinness never forgiven.
Named my son for him.
Anyhow
that was the day I gave up talking
crew cut Poughkeepsie, émigré fashion
boarding cockle boat, Dunkirking
Queen Mary.
Nero sunsetting on piddling empire
wallmap fading red to wilted pink
scouring the bottom of titanic bucket,
glorious lido summer, dear Liza,
got a hole in it(torn piece of rubber
mnemonic for a mother)
anyhow
that was the day I gave up ***
now come the restoration of the king.
London shall rise again,
borne on tide of flying,
infinite darkness,
osmosis of light.
whisper saint Paulus,
de-clocked, unthroning,
myriad swimmers swarm
canal cut channel,
(furry animals cluster, cuddle
in unlikely couplings).
quavering timbers
blowing and swaying,
queen lay dying, long live the king.
anyhow
that was the day I gave up my mind
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
I have an apparition in mind
a spirit that wanders endlessly
he is luminous and beautiful
amongst a thousand ghosts
he shines a little brighter
he is like a star, unconsumed
i am the spectre he does not see
my eyes as deathlights blue
as i touch him he fades away
i try to speak his name
but no sound expells
from these shuddering lips
only ancient halitosis pours
from my heart of black sand
hidden from the moon's mockery
i exalt to a sickened limbo
i will become bitter and deranged
if you do not kiss me soon
i am the poltergeist inside
tearing at my own heartstrings
in the abscence of you
weaving precious dreams
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
autumn leaves
and nothingness
seasonal escapade
ache more for less
hills that whisper
junipers without whim
love without living
wounds without skin
mental imposter
corrupted serenity
flimsy enclosures
where art humanity
mountains that shake
hellebores without bloom
live without loving
oxygen unconsumed.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 2:01 AM UTC
my brain is buzzing
like a tiny coil, illuminating some brilliance
for the moment, it's electric
my eyes are wandering
not quite a magnet
unconsumed by any single attention span
my breath is swaying
like a calm sea at war with a small boat
through a telescope it's at ease
my senses are dancing
like a skilled set of feet
dangling in thin air at heights that are testing
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
In the neighbors garden grows
Buds of violet scented rose
Mixed, it’s essence, is sweet perfume
Flushed with nectar
Unconsumed
By the busy buzzing bees
That’s hive hangs low from a nearby tree
Dancing in between
The evergreen
A wonder in itself
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 11:12 PM UTC
In the middle of a clearing I am greeted by the damp grass, resting with a stagnancy never known to me before. The moss growing in between my fingernails and toes, embracing my once soft figure.
Welcoming to a new home, unconsumed by modern structures, the ants caressing in my loving arms, covering each blister. The amount of days I have laid here are past recall, but far more than the spiders held in each pocket.
The trees being the only witness to my presence, slightly shading me from rays of the sun that fixate so much on my inflated epidermis. The branches and leaves hiding, protecting me from the concrete and calls.
The shades of purples, blues, and yellows on my body complement the flowers blooming around my ears. My mouth slightly ajar, a surprised expression of not knowing how loud blossoms thrive in such silence.
The bees surrounding my cranium, whispering secrets that had never been told to any other humankind. I speak only in lavender, as my native tongue was dropped along the classified path I took.
The tall grass beginning to clasp around, tying me down as if begging to never let me leave. Slowly swallowing me whole, creating a barrier around my delicate frame, shielding from each rainfall and heatwave undoubtedly to come.
My eyes melt away, not needing the perception to see the world that was so harsh to me anymore, only needing to feel the sympathy it gives me now as it helps with this inevitable transformation.
Never have I felt an immense sensation of biophilia until it welcomed me with such vigor. The ground I stepped on from birth now providing solace that I could not sought for. The gravel and dirt giving vast compassion when I was unable to ask.
I’m ****** into the land, hidden from the roars of others I once knew. My ears plugged from a name now so foreign to me, to go back to a place that I will never remember, and that will soon forget about me too.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
Lullabies and sweet good nights
Amongst purple-painted walls.
A gentle touch, a simple clutch
Of a knitted bear
and down her head;
it f
a
l
l
s
To a pillow case where Memory stalls.
The world is dead,
And Dream, she calls.
The faded echoes of days past, days gone,
patrol the halls of a playful mind;
Wrought is it with marvels to find.
And shadows, impending and grim
Round every corner, hiding behind
The familiar image of daily doings.
It’s within our dreamings that we find them pursuing
Our lost hopes and hearts,
Where our troubles are brewing…
The father’s voice that lulls us to sleep,
Our terrors and triumphs, in our head, we do keep.
As we
s
l
i
p,
f
a
d
e
Into an abyss of bliss and blunder.
Fire or flood; our damnation has always made us wonder
Whether puffs of white contain any thunder.
Asunder and apart come Life’s fragile fabric.
Death’s threads unravel her, intertwined.
And inclined are we, to live then let die.
To smile then cry.
To let tears never run dry.
A mockery of our ends;
We pretend every night.
Unconsumed by the fright
That we may fade.
We trickle as sand
Down an hourglass,
Not knowing the hour, nor the day.
We fall to our pillows,
Encased in cocoons.
The butterflies emerge
Thanks to lullaby tunes
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:52 PM UTC
Of hushed giggles, the flowers had bloomed,
As a rainbow melted into clouds unconsumed.
Of thick blades, the grass had long grown,
As the heavenly sky carried it's sun all alone.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC
i don't know whose
firsthand reaction to the sight
of me crawling is worse
that of the man
that asks how i am
as he backtracks
in baby steps
or
those of the rest who
due to oversight
or indifference
are unconsumed
and unconcerned
by and with
futile breaths
nonetheless
but i sure as hell know
the answer
doesn’t matter
so long as i stay sat
writing rhyming rants
to hold my skull’s fracture captive
and perhaps
so i can have it massacred
alongside its inner cats
their joint force task of making contact
with my meek heart also known as
the meager muscle
plasma-mad
in vein
and
collapsed.
- end
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 6:37 AM UTC