"unhinging" poems
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
A snake doesn't just throw shade
We thrive in the shadows
Stalking our prey,
Think you've got what it takes
We'll swallow you whole.
I dare the kittens birdys & roadkill
To make a mistake
You really think your house spits
poison Better than a snake?
Our Partsel tongue is "forked for her pleasure"
Each time we seal a letter
witches get wetter
other houses cringe at our fame
cold blooded killers
don't buy it? Just wait.
Our Snakeoil salesman
Will Have you beggin' for change
You dare to stand against a python?
You don't even know code
I can't pull punches
if I don't have hands, Bro.
Like medusas hair dresser
Expect-to petrify
Better call Cobra
Get insurance for your life.
What's the matter
Gonna cry?
Because We can't.
Ask science.
I dare you to challenge
My Reptilian brethren
We're Unhinging our jaw
getting fed like it's league of legends.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
You can strikingly feel the magical migration of ions
Controlling the electricity you breathe
All the pleasant sensations of silken charges
Sharing in your sweet ecstasy
A very slight whisper of the purest sensitivity
Skillfully washes into your pores
Releasing a smooth rhythm of tempting delight
Promising your senses so much more
You yield in response to the rhythm of the migration
Cherishing sweetly the spellbinding sound
Of each breath as accepted by your willing spirit
Infused with the taste of the whispers you have found
Is this just a fantastic illusion, unhinging your mind
This migration you now find you embrace
You ask your spirit in a fit of rising rebellion
With a satisfied smile on your face
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 6:26 PM UTC
What is hoped trickling between
splintered crags of hard matter
as between slabs of sliced I
like water through the desert crust
the beginning-end fusioned whole?
it resplendent through the cracks?
What might be enough
for its time being
might be the first loosening
a knot’s dissolution
beginning
unwrapping light and breath
deep underground
after prying like suffocation
the thing loose, never budged,
still you yanked, pulled,
screamed, spumed, more than
frustration through your fingertips.
For the brain, don’t be fooled,
s’more the psychedelic fruit
than just saying apple computer
the pulpous embryo of imagination
feeding
what seed, sprouting tendrils,
protracts without desire
(but causing desire)
ever outward, growing, clasping,
(hinging on unhinging) meshing
an electric net
and collapsing a shock they say
until the taste of its taste
is so succulently pungent
that after hours of dull mumbling
its projection upon the mirrors
it bursts in puffs of screams
short tense contractions
[image fizzing, over-heating].
Like a cracked computer reading
an animal program: *Alpha Beast
of the Ill-Illusioned*. Or: *Runt Wolf
of Gaia, the Undarwinian Survivor*.
Software ones and zeros digitizing
the command:
Must do the act cannot be done.
Till it breaks. Unimagined.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Glance in,
peer out
Not even sufficient for a thought
to be worked out
another day, another damage
Acrylic may as well be water color
for all the gravity held
the mark, made by stroke
good intentions turned poor attempts
Corneas, retinas, pupils
eyes referred to as windows to the soul
while the body isn't treated
like a temple
not just anyone can attend mass
Stained glass into a ruined mirror
stared at
as unhinging as
seen through
if only the reflection
left the pane
to the window
Memories past
displayed in a museum
populace none
a b r o k e n exhibit,
for blinded eyes
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
No facade elaborate enough
To adequately conceal
The inner-conflict
In which I am embroiled
No crooning of comfort
Can delivery me peace
Or forestall my mind's
Eventual unhinging
No foxed, tattered pages
Of forlorn loveletters
Strewn with stark promises
Can resurrect my will
My compass confiscated
My map of reason
Torn and trampled upon
My future at the mercy of shadows
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Dreams of a lifetime that fade away in one day.
Dreams of a night that last a lifetime.
Between these extremes,
I saw a lifetime go away
While all my dreams turned into tears.
Everything that's left for me now
Is the shadow of our love
Hidden in our past
Because there is no sunshine.
The sun faded away...
With you, my dear.
Unhinging all my thoughts,
The shadow still come and haunt me.
The most beautiful of all the nightmares
To see the sunshine penetrates in your eyes
The look of an angel that disappears
When the moon is satisfied.
It's still night, my dear
Yet, I shall be dreaming
Beneath the shadow of the wind
That cannot take away this feeling...
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
ººº
*Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit,
according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world,
and not according to Christ.*
Colossians 2:4-8 (NKJV)
His Nietzschean trip moved from Comic toward Tragic:
Deleuze’s delusions flew out the fenêtre
Airborne and ****** on philosphy’s magic
(the nihilist suicide’s raison d’être…)
Propelled from the window, transcending the Ontic,
his organless body in textual flight,
a schiz-flow beyond on a voyage turned frantic.
His thought – a nomadic adornment for speed,
multiplicitly viewing a thousand plateaux
was a force for unhinging the doorways of light
and a plea for postmodern decoding indeed.
His frame soon encountered pure striated space
in the form of the pavement caressing his face.
He joins other smokers of Gallic tabac,
other esotericians of cognitive frenzy
(those mullahs of madness, those sultans of Whack…)
Sorely missed by his victims, disciples and friends
he is mourned, misinterpreted, copied, dismissed
– but for semioticians he heads up the list.
Another brave Frenchman, some guy named Debord
a bespectacled Marxist (who missed all the marks)
made the mediums’ message a radical bore
dialectically fading the lights into darks.
Indirectly disrupting pop-culture with Punk
and other anarchic phenomena-junk,
he too chose to leave with a nihilist bang –
while we whimper and suffer down here with the gang.
The old situationist’s last situation:
an agit-prop funeral short on elation…
So to French de-constructor-philosopher-ravers
and all who rejoice while society wavers
I offer these lines, like a quick coup-de-grace
and be warned – they’re now viewing the Good Lord en face.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Raises his arms to shelter himself
From the cloudless sky
He ticks off seconds with the twitch of his left knee
And the jump of his unhinging jaw
He falls
He falls nowhere
But flat, back, motionless in his seat
Hands cocooning head like a heavy day’s work
And then digging up and pressing down
Trying to rid himself of the sounds
Which splice him like glass shards
Or screaming shrapnel
And mutilate
His view of a pretty English station
And a blue steam engine
Beaming like the moon for which it was named
04:18 and he sets himself straight
Like ***** shoelaces
Or cards on the mantelpiece
Winds a bit of string
Around his wedding finger
And croons
As a man inside a toddler
Re-wired refrains
Lick his lips like soup stains
*Pack up your troubles…
Long way to Tipperary…
In your old kit bag…
I wonder who’s…
My heart’s right there…
Kissing her now…
Smile, smile, smile…*
And from my compartment
I watch him fade like
An ink blot from a pillow case
While a boy who looks a lot like him
Turns with purposeful avoidance
And takes the opposite view
Of a pretty English station
He soothes the angry creases
Of his forehead
Of his uniform
And smiles
Smiles
Smiles
And mutters to himself
And they said it would be over by Christmas
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Jogs his knees
With the obligatory poppy
His mum pushed into the zip of his winter coat
Drooping like a hangnail
He is busied and hassled
By the phone in his palm
It plays an odd kind of game
Where those who die
Are allowed to come back
And press Retry
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
It has not hit me yet. My heart, the clock, beats constant, unchanging.
Tick tick tick tick.
Just a shot, just a pinch opening up my insides to the world.
Letting my most sacred belongings be seen by this earth.
One little pinch and then the blood gets ****** out.
****** out of me as if a bloodthirsty animal has a straw.
The clock is breaking, its ticking inconsistent. No more tick ticks.
The little hands of the clock are scampering around trying to find their original rhythm. Is is proving impossible.
Run hands, run! Find that rhythm you so strive for!
Nope, it is gone, now the clock is unhinging. The hands are falling off, the numbers spinning out of control.
Nope, this clock is too far gone to be fixed.
Nope, this heart beats too fast, no magic tricks.
Nope, she can not be saved, let's find a new clock to fix.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:48 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
If I should die with a shunted echo hear me,
Lost fabled one, my paltry heart the snows,
The warmth rides of the chiding winter sun,
The melody and rustling in cantata leaves,
Whose strings of one, plaintive guitar, strung
By breaths birthing breaks, your tracing lips,
White birds, water wings miraculous, not so
Stunning as your steps float above the water,
I am nothing, less, you shine pure, most of all
More than any heart could tender, how could
An empty house, abridgment only, unhinging
Doors coursing reason hold the new day sun?
As flame was my doom, love hear my thesis—
Should I die, look for me in the loom chrysalis.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
The Sky is the Limit
When you “feel” a beat,
not one that is felt with your hands,
but a delicate crescendo that resonates in the streets.
It’s a whole sound, like DNA strands
vivid and teeming of livelihood or even timing;
yes, a beat to forget all of your problems and stress.
One that seemingly strips strife, increasing syntax and rhyming;
a beat that somehow serenades smoother than the rest.
That one, “The Sky is the Limit,” by Biggie or even Wayne
is the one I felt today, unhinging the helix
while simultaneously simmering the pain;
any hindrances had that could not be fixed.
But we all feel ‘em differently in a multitude of mixtures,
oh, it’s a human breed indeed
Especially because it is far from the perfect fixture.
But, sometimes, it is all that I need.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Beware for
the predator parades
hiding behind her facade
of
waxen words
lulling you
serenading you with the
toxic tonic of spoken and
unspoken lies
She lies in wait
waits in lies
to pounce and
pierce her venom
through your soul
She knows who she is
You've been touched by her
before
the Troll living under the bridge
in HePo land, amongst you all,
casting her spell
weaving her web
unhinging her jaw
looking for her next meal
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
Work with me
turn the key
that opens
the personality
hiding inside
so cleverly
Combine
with me
Dine
with me
Visit
another time
with me
The world
won’t wait
for us
to figure
this out
It’s moving on
spiraling off
to new space
matter dripping
from its face
atoms bursting
without a trace
And grace
was something
said at meals
back before
the blinders
were left behind
Unhinging the soul
releasing the mind
Now it’s time
to sing the song
of the ancients
Wake the dead
with life
Feed the hungry
with floral wisdom
It’s alive and well
inside us all
Embrace the walk
Abandon the crawl
There’s no points
for hiding under covers
Face the day
there is no other
way
No out
No magic pill
The thrill
is in the knowing
the awareness
**** fairness
Pay attention
you’re on a mission
and you’re failing
Failing to connect
to respect
your self
the hidden secret
behind this mystery
You are the answer
can’t you see
Destiny
is a button up shirt
and you missed a button
You always
feel you’re missing
something
because you are
needlessly
Now turn off your mind
and find
Everything
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
I can hear the floor boards whispering my name
It's a soft lament of every sad thought my brains ever created
I give in
I can hear you screaming in the other room
Asking me why I always do this
You're yelling
Telling me we have 90$ to our name so you're gunna go out and buy me something strong that'll make me forget
But with every line I only feel more inclined
To go back to the bathroom
And rest my ear against that linoleum floor
And hear everything sweet they ever said to me right before they left
Because I know it doesn't lie
And I know it'll swallow me whole
And maybe if I do it enough I won't feel so awful
For I'll get used to them loving me then slamming on the breaks and unhinging my seat beat just to watch me fly through the glass and lose sight of myself in the floating ash
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
Shadows
No longer mere figures following me
Developing minds of their own
They seek liberation from the commands of my feet
To fully manipulate me
Roads
Morphs into labyrinths before my eyes
Entrapping me into the darkness
Its unceasing modification disorients me severely
A thriving attempt to hold me captive
Stars
Lose their jaunty sparkle in the tenebrous sky
Turning into prying eyes whose gazes burn my skin
They observe me like a peculiar specimen
I am not alone
Songs
Begin to sound discordant to my ears
Reverberating vociferously across my room
Strident tunes thwack my skull mercilessly
Unable to think
Mind
Fails to function properly
Unhinging the helpless one
Its thoughts are chaotic, and in shambles
Another man is lost
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
even the dullest of knives
can **** —
a smile has fallen deep into
the silence.
wincing on and off
like terrible vertigo.
it is you lashing across
dispersing images
seeping like ruthless mileage
underneath the bone.
you come in the room
full of these hours splintered
an outpour with a foreboding,
like spindrift you wet my lips
sealed shut and silence
is all the language i understand.
what good is there that this hungry
cavalcade gapes its mouth
and metastasizes like an opulent
laugh as maniacal as drum-taps?
your are river with feet or pond
sprawling mad, enigmatical.
is this the clearing motes depart,
unhinging the crepuscular
and fade out, as a cat shrieks tumbling writhing fornication of metal and rust?
even sleep cannot manage such realness,
and the doubleness of its comatose
or say, a war in spite of its radical
artillery. between two cities lost,
its indefatigable exertion pullulates
to a hand, laying garlands
over the same blue lament of sky
and the unawakened orioles.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
So many, too many students had COVID two weeks ago. My parents were supposed to come for a visit, and midterms were on the horizon - so I decided to go ahead and get covid - to get it over with. I’ve been around a dozen people who later that day tested positive, but somehow I’ve never come down with it myself.
Peter caught it and was isolated in his suite (two of his suitemates had it). I went to see him, surreptitiously hoping he’d pass it on, but Lisa (the traitor) texted him and he Lysoled his entire suite and wouldn’t let me in - saying exposing me went against his “moral code.” rolling eyes
Now midterm season is on us and a lot of people I know are in crisis. That happens a lot in test times. This place is so cutthroat and competitive. You can get so deep in your own head that it becomes a ***** fish bowl of anxiety. The delightful cocktail of pandemic, WWIII and midterm stress gel, in some minds, to form a sweet, unhinging mix.
My major tests are over (good for me, yay for me!) but I’m not parking my study playlist just yet. I have a couple of papers due. While those don’t stress me like tests, they’ll keep me busy, like everyone else - there’s always a feeling of being behind it and frantically busy here.
We were trying to plan an actual, REAL spring break - that didn’t involve 11 hour layovers and 5 hour bus rides. Something NOT held in a parent’s apartment - someplace adult and private.
Then my Grandmère offered us an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris, saying I could bring three friends and stay at the Hotel de Crillon. A week in Paris with Lisa, Leong and Anna sounds delicious - of course, I told them how positively uncouth it would be to refuse - we’ll see.
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 12:04 PM UTC
Spoonfed a mouthful of soft poems,
the pangs of unthanked love numb your heart
to fortify against the abrupt attack of truth;
That one feels is a weakness,
or if he does speak of it is a fool!
This is but an unhinging maze
to soak the mind in waves of guilt and despair
stagnant as a melted nightmare...
And thus, the heart believes it
only to begin to freeze forever more.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
while you were eating
cherry pie that sunday
after i reached for your
hand and your fingers
didn't curl around mine--
i took to the trees behind the cabin
and stayed the mossy grove buried
in this golden scratch
the neighbor's conversation downwind
about the mountain lion they'd spotted
and the spiritual sort of fear I felt with
my eyes closed, the mechanical click
of my own heartbeat, how things
used to flow and now they only
swarmed,
always
swallowed.
i was singing songs to call you out,
like you did the first time, when you
came up around the hillside and
followed me a ways out--
softly at first and then no more,
replaced by the force that came
upon me, where suddenly I was
uprooting trees, picking the most
desolate, gnarled aspens--unhinging
their roots to press my heel into their
soft bases, hulking forward and watching
them stretch out and out and out--
I found old yarn and tied
it for later, to find, to untie
to hope for second chances
I left the copse and you were
eating cherry pie on the porch
rummaging through coolers
oil sloshing through your bones
dragon fire in your blood
hard-headed over puerile matters
over your time, over the weeks
staunchly grounded into your own
wild western ways,
The duck's back, the bear's pelt
You've been roaming alone in the forests
As the beasts do, the lost, the frightened,
Admiring the darkness of your own shadow
The way it draws and casts away,
Doubly conflicted of your nature that
Mostly takes and takes and takes
Bears and
Men and
You.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
Why does no one hear my cries,
Sees the truth behind the lies.
I'm screaming, yet no one knows
That the aching pain within me grows.
I want to show the world my pain,
To shock the masses, change the sames.
I want my voice to touch the stars,
But my words are silenced, I hide the scars.
My bed is my comfort, but everyone knows,
With a partner to move with, seeds of loneliness grows.
And while the pain is unhinging and turning my smile,
Maybe fake love will buy peace for a while.
For while the game when played is always a thrill,
You feel the ache after when everything is still.
I try and fake it, saying, "I'm fine."
There's a darkness where my heart used to shine.
I'm tired of "okay", I'm tired of "fine".
I just want someone to see the pain inside.
Someone to pull you from the fake " I love you"'s
Because, let's be honest, when are they ever true?
And though I'm searching for someone to set me free,
To break the chains and comfort my screams.
Maybe the person I've been searching for
Hasn't been hiding like before.
Maybe the person to help me through,
To hold my hand, is coming soon.
Perhaps the person to sing my song
Has been there for me all along.
Though I find it hard to believe,
I mean, no one else believes in me...
The person to help me, to let my voice free,
Is simple, unimpressive... Me.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 12:20 PM UTC
If I should die with a shunted echo hear me,
Lost fabled one, my paltry heart the snows,
The warmth rides of the chiding winter sun,
The melody and rustling in cantata leaves,
Whose strings of one, plaintive guitar, strung
By breaths birthing breaks, your tracing lips,
White birds, water wings miraculous, not so
Stunning as your steps float above the water,
I am nothing, less, you shine pure, most of all
More than any heart could tender, how could
An empty house, abridgment only, unhinging
Doors coursing reason hold the new day sun?
As flame was my doom, love hear my thesis—
Should I die, look for me in the loom chrysalis.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
He fondled the lines on my palm with tips of his fingers
Convinced the heavier with a gentle urge to seek out moonlight
Suggested to the thinner to inch upward as if it had lost its way
Pressing lips softly against skin unhinging secrets onto landscapes
that scream tears, whispering with gazing fingers, secrets unspoken.
Holding there the traces of his lips caught beneath a scar on my shoulder.
He steadies, pushing breath against body. Somehow, somewhere lost inside
And searches for me where he loves to hide.
Burning prints on skin as the rhythm of his words fill me.
The rough and the swollen seeking light and answers with skin.
A thumbnails half moon moves across my thigh quietly to his sense of Grace
and he is back inside waiting in the black that surround him warm and wet,
sweetly anchored as he softly strains for light—until…
a stretch of skin,
a pull of flesh
is known-
and bellies tremble beneath curious shapes into confused laughter and breath
His eyes are mine as I collapse and he finds he’s way inside…again
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
The blueness dies out my eyes tonight,
The red gold of my heart. O how still the light burns!
Your cloak of sadness encircles the long descent.
Your red lips seal your friend's unhinging.
Georg Trakl (1887-1914). 12/16/2015.
©2015 by Trevon S. Haywood
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC