"utero" poems
this is a medical emergency ossified
in utero part the hair to cover
pink earwax scar innervated this
cochlea this ******* that steals
the spotlight and rooster’s comb
braised sockets for teeth wired through
the rafters kissing corner braces
shallow chromium double-eye poke
like a pile of face bones stacked
paul bunyan forest slide and jump from
the peak to the pool shallow and
undisturbed to dunk your face and
see future pure voodoo spirit board
and voice box locked with tongue-ectomy
removal of cough through neck hole
cardboard cut stickers in half to
write ***** I’m done.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
I bleed letters, breathe words--
lived in utero with a pen.
Creative gypsies & outcasts
are brethren.
I will die
for their plaid sky brushstrokes
&/or verbal slip-bang poetry.
That's my religion.
Self-doubt is my sin.
I have a habit of overstaying my welcome,
another is coming on a little strong.
Communication is my mantra,
my philosophy is intelectual stimulation.
Putting up with ****
is second nature.
Spit in my face.
Call me names.
Don't give me that promotion.
I'll survive--
probably even laugh about it later...
But...
take advantage of me--
or those I hold close--
if I even see a glint
of the knife
you're going to put in my back
I promise--
I promise
the pain you will feel
leaves a scar much worse
than whatever could happen to me.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
The stench of burning flesh and *****
Imbuing the air
Carcasses of infant demons
Putrefying in the crater
Dissected impure angels hemorrhaging
Repugnancy dominates
Shrieking
Quivering
Floundering as they flutter their rotten wings
A profusion of worms
Falling from mouths like a cataract
Smoke coming out of their halos
No longer reigning
In this, their hades
Swollen with beasts in utero
Perpetuating abominations
Soon it will be their turn
To liquefy in the lava
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
My home is in a vintage tin
Belonged to your great grandma
With many other varied breeds
Our cousins sorted into jars
I'm often fastened up tight
In British stiff collared fashion
Occasionally burst off
When shirts are ripped open
In the haste of frisky passion
In my other guise
When I am tapped
I connect you worldwide
My neighbour form words and stories
Whilst I encrypt some code for spies.
Machinery, you really need me
To start and then to stop
To raise alarm bells
And when pressed call the cops
I'm a round reminder
Of how life began
Innie or outie and proud
Of how mum's body nurtured your
In utero life-span
Dangerous in the wrong hands
I must be closely guarded
For if you press me
World war three
Could easily be started
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Everyone,
To begin.
We have no choices,
Depending on gurgled voices
Recognized in utero.
Trust radar's not activated,
Despite the life experiences
Of our carriers.
White collars
Dig for gold
Wearing masks and gloves;
So we rely on eyes
Despite the hunger
Behind the disguise.
We are tied to swivel chairs
In block buildings
And asked to trust
As they notice the dirt
Beneath our nails
Ripe-red for pulling.
They want the correct answer,
Not the right one.
Love partnerships
Are unstable vessels
At best.
We secure trust
In disposable
Jilted pirate chests
Waiting for discovery
In teary depths.
We find refuge
In our children,
Though we notice
Eyes roll and shift
As we age and drift.
In whom do we trust?
In the unborn
Who will
Live by our words,
And define the world
We leave in trust.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
Solar flares, deep space chambermaid stabbing her
molten mop in contempt.
There are so many squares that field her space,
sifted afire.
Tearing out rays of her hair to be, and be
beautiful...to see her strands descending lit, the
stress level of an unforgettable goddess.
She yearns head-over-heels, burns out her core
with blinding reason.
Not once was she afforded a mirror to know her
space.
Wiry stick figures subsist under her--fatalistically
emotive.
Summed up, as water broken, transparent as the
life seen through.
What pagan rite has shimmied out her soul, what
serpent slid her warmth sane?
Do not site dawn or dusk, mistake her outer life
for an inner one!
Do not presume the burden of her focal point, her
light hangs overhead swaying interrogation.
Caught perfectly for Platonic cave or other...
in utero, her light a stillborn beauty--as alive as
ever once away from her.
She's up, burning...console her, her blood is boiling--
she wants to be accounted for, to outgrow that coo.
Only to surprise once and for all a stone's underbelly.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
Quiescence:
The world yet to be;
change is imminent.
Excrescence:
The world as holistic;
change is traumatic.
Juvenescence:
The world as wondrous;
change is fascinating.
Adolescence:
The world as oppressive;
change is institutional.
Tumescence:
The world as idealized;
change is self-discovery.
Hyalescence:
The world as conceived;
change is forgotten.
Obsolescence:
The world as impossible;
change is unimaginable.
Senescence:
The world as finite;
change is death.
Obmutescence:
The world beyond conception;
change is māyā.
Latescence:
The world as a memory;
change is time.
Putrescence:
The world as continuous;
change is nature.
Rejuvenescence:
The world in utero;
change is birth.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
Today will be retroactive; in penance to those times spent wondering.
The will they wont they has finally calmed.
We wont count today,
so I'm noting it now as an important moment left undiscovered and forgotten later.
Today something came into being that was already there.
The gestation cycle forgotten, we only count the time after birth.
Sometimes I like to think of myself as nine months older.
So, with that I say we were in womb before now.
Welcome to the world.
But for our own purposes we can count those months spent in utero.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Am I in utero,
Or is this purgatory?
Should I be comforted
by this sense of complacency,
reverberating through the sea
where my cortex leisurely floats?
Or should I be worried?
That I am becoming contented,
that this is dangerous to my existence
and the wholeness of my soul?
For I am a wild animal...
Aren’t I?
Sure, my teeth resemble no fang,
my nails have not torn lately torn into flesh,
But I need to drink in air that’s fresh,
I need to move,
I need to see,
I long to run,
I long for freedom, yes,
I must be free.
For I am a wild animal.
I hear the words in the primal cry of my mind internal,
And I know,
The truth lies in the latter.
I am suspended in an idle purgatory of my own making
I have tricked myself into a false sense of contentment
Comfort is my only organic enemy.
I must move,
I must see,
I must run,
I must have freedom,
I must be free.
I have been a netted fish,
a caged wolf,
a bear with foot in iron trap.
I am a wild animal;
I will kick and bite and claw,
I will fight relentless until
I am free.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
first breath,
Eyes wide open
take some time,
Enjoy the moment,
when you aren't born
because it's safe
inside the utero,
inside the mother
of all children -
and come along,
we're not alone,
we are together
see to eye, stay awake,
put the past behind
your shoulders,
as you are,
as you ought to be,
to say the words you
need to mean them,
& wipe the powder
off your nose,
& bring some light
to the windowless
houses
grey is a color. That's fine,
but how come we're not envolved,
I like that you don't like my favorite colors
because mine is already taken.
and he lives in a car, with a record out there,
crying and refusing to live in such human state,
such is his condition,
and he remembers Andy Wood,
but he doesn't care anymore,
because his life is better
without him.
and those who stay
will never understand
why the dragon spread his wings
& took all of them to far away
from this frail stage.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
FACT.
I "don't believe" in astrology.
FACT.
I am a drag queen.
FACT.
In utero I donated the left side of my brain to Steve Jobs.
I felt he had great potential.
You're welcome, Steve.
FACT.
Everything has a voice and a silly sound effect.
FACT.
Your negative attitude is poisoning the village water supply.
FACT.
New people scare me.
FACT.
Old people scare me more.
I just don't think I'd make a very good one.
FACT.
I want a small army of children.
I just never want one of those little aliens inside of me.
FACT.
You like me more now that I'm not who you told me to be.
FACT.
All of our favorite things should be memories masquerading as gifts and hand me downs.
FACT.
My thoughts like to fight each other with wooden swords.
"Knock it off! I'm on the telephone."
FACT.
My mother used to be a hummingbird.
I know this because of the speed at which she blinks when she's angry.
FACT.
He gave her a unicorn.
FACT.
I choose always to never believe what they tell me.
FACT.
You can't find the answers to your problems in a smart phone.
"Are you listening to me?"
FACT.
When I think about how many adults never stop letting others make their decisions for them.
It makes.
Me want.
To weep.
FACT.
A stranger can't see everything that makes you beautiful.
But it's as clear to me as neon.
Wrapped in glitter.
FACT.
There are never enough hours in the day.
"When's dinner?"
FACT.
You think.
You can't.
FACT.
You know.
You can.
FACT.
You'll never live in the now tomorrow.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 5:23 PM UTC
I look at my dad laying on his side:
a shoulder pinned to neck.
Opposite arm relaxed, open-palmed.
His heavy body leaned on a crusty elbow
and you’d think his eyes swelled in utero
because he’d just fetalconjured the invention
of the television and its screen.
My brain swims in a bone basin
and I’m human because I can’t stop moving.
As narration and pixels flash in the bedroom,
(this room could be a womblike calm),
my dad is beached, rejected by the waters he denies.
In and out of sleep, he snores awake.
Other times my mom wakes him and says
she hasn’t stopped all day.
Sometimes families do not know to build safe spaces.
My brain shudders when I’m ****** and
when I have to weigh my cargo.
Jun 4, 2020
Jun 4, 2020 at 11:06 PM UTC
I found you, in a stack of photos:
the 2D you, I can't touch, taste or smell
the first thing that came to mind was sharing a joint with you and spilling the chocolate ice cream cone on your skin-tight white shorts
and sneaking into the Woolworth bathroom, and our freaked frenzied scrubbing of fabric with nimble fingers and pink powdered hand soap
and how we couldn't stop laughing
until a woman older than time caught us
before we could consummate
which we did after running the entire
200 yards to my van, wet white shorts in your hand, with me looking over my shoulder for imagined narcs and other freedom snatchers
when we finished, we shared my last Winston, blowing smoke rings in the gathering gloom
your shorts were dry, and our high
had worn off--you didn't kiss me goodbye when I dropped you off
between your pad and mine,
I hit a black mongrel pup wandering on the dark asphalt
I scooped him off the road
with my hands; lifeless, light he was...
I found you, in that stack of ancient
photos--that was the day we conceived a son, one you had shredded in a doctor's office for $300 in illegal tender
I see the messy ice cream, your naked nineteen year old flesh, smoke rings disappearing, the poor mutt dying
though not for lack of trying, I can't see the child you had executed in utero--without trial, judge or jury, save an elusive dream
of freedom
Albuquerque, 1967
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
Tomame, de verdad
Dame tu mala semilla, dame toda tu malicia
Rasguños en la espalda, manos entrelazadas
Un solo aliento
Te he dicho que tu interior
tiene las paredes podridas?
aberrantes manchas
en los muros de tu utero
templo del sadismo
hostal del *******
cadenas que cuelgan
entra y
sale
como el empalamiento
y una cascada de sangre, yace de tu boca
una abrazadora euforia, grito de placer.
arbol envenenado.
oceano de personas sufriendo
estoy exhausto
ya solo me queda
exhalar este olvido
y fumar otro cigarro.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
Through the haze of memory
circular analog- closing in to center
cardboard jacket sound of childhood
visceral fun- flashbacks- trials at night
campfires- flashes from a country concert i am told i never attended
blue grass in the mountains. in utero
second sight memories- past flutterbyes
another pair of shoes for the spirit
birth the vessel of a star
fighting survive in insect humanity
dance of smile and jazz
i love the daytime
free of the moon's inertia
the tidal grip of weakness
cup of giving in
and a lady with a bow
a staff and a white bear
art is the dance of life
spilling out
truth in matter and motion
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
ad hominem in utero;;
stuck in a hole just out
of grasp, you are the
shell of the boy that
you've been-- i am the
shell of the kid she
knew for all those years
and im sick of textbook
readings and im sick of
wasting your time trying
to breathe when youre
still hooked to an inhaler
and i'm sick of wasting
my time because i spend it
doing math while you are
wasting away, somehow-
i wish you were here, oh,
it feels like i've been
asleep for years in this
pouring rain and it feels
like i am the setting sun
even as i pour cup after
cup of coffee; the doctor
said he saved me, but im
still dead, im sorry.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
A battle of chrome blacked armour,
minute monster,
prophet machinery, plated
wings unhinged gravitate - Inertia
blade to blade, slipping
into green and shadowy light - Lost
all enemies of creation
imagined into a thousand pieces.
Cells stripped once again
in orchestral signature, the dark noted
animated story - In utero
climbing umbilical
down
endless shock of violent *****
and vaginal beauty;
The sweet wet envelope to the world.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
I think anatomy,
Guts twist and I am
Alive.
I think ****** and
fruit from us
and fetus lust
and atoms combust.
I think in utero
and fetal growth.
You wish and wash your *****
down and on the drain
You gave all of your healing
all away again.
So tell me is this instinct
or conscious want for you.
Being caused to be create
a mixture of us two.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
That dark December night,
negatively charged magnetic eyelids forced open by a vibrating
assiduous humming brain
machine.
An untidy bed left warm, within the
smoking, choking exhaust fumes. An early morning engine roars.
I find that towering rock in eastern jagged-grin ridgeline.
Peering up from yawning limbs hung from red toothpicks,
frail clouds skirt that dark jutting face as stiff muscle tendon battles mud rock gravity staircase.
All alone, in echoey sloping vastness.
Lunge forward from tree line, sink down, old snow,
hunched old man drinks coffee says something…
Away from that wretched voice! I scramble
upward through white flakes, black boulders.
Wool gloves hinder grip, boots shove rogue rocks to space, hand slips, smash thumb,
eight now seven rocks until summit.
White washed walls of wild winter.
Silence.
In utero of a universe.
Four thousand feet above.
Fire.
Me, my despair, a stone palace, and trail mix. I brought hope.
You brought a shining red hope extinguisher then swung the emptied tank at my skull,
I am not impervious to pain like these rocks I hurl
at whirling gods they watch me
miss. Pebbles drop through glass table
swallowed by dark green limbs.
You do not know you could not know you cannot know it was right,
if you are Right, then I am Left
with aching expectations and a decomposing handful
sticky memories, remnants cannot be cast away, and
these blessed rocks are fond friends no longer call my own because
I’ll never look the same but they always will.
Step down from nowhere and retreat south, your footprints remain.
Darkened face, this line is named you and will stay there.
It is a cold winter rain
that taps my hunched shoulders
I have stopped answering.
You are in everything I see.
It is sickening because you own all and you will not let go but
you cannot own this next day.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
Her bronze foggy haunted light
was the splendor of a winter night.
Seen through a black lace of branches.
ornamented with the corpse's of berries.
Stirred my heart with the dark side of merry.
The sky was in a utero of magic
behind it's bedazzled dilated moon.
Fetal snowflakes will be born
in the infant hours, of a dead cold dawn.
Come silent storm,
I already am your willing pawn.
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 7:05 PM UTC
We danced, the cognate vessels
Nested in walls &
Cowered in blood
We buried love deep into
Beating flesh &
Writhed In Utero
We emptied veins of reason
Laid in torment &
Seceded in white gowns
We--Empiric experiments
We--Deficient devices
We--Thrashing threadbare
We--Womb
We--Woman
--
c
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
She hides from her mother
ignores her dad,
she dwells within loss
and all things sad
her stomach's sick in the morning
she doesn't know why,
oh, she locks herself away
to break down and cry
heart jitters -
throat chokes in a lump -
every time her mind strays
to thoughts of her body's little flat bump
knowing what it might be
paranoid about how much it shows,
fooling herself no one will notice
even if it grows -
alas her head swells
sick with clotted disdain
no she can't carry on -
can't carry on with the pain
so up she opens to her parents
tears flowing from both eyes
unmasking the secret
that for months she's disguised
distraught, weeping,
the sordid act now told,
her mother heartbroken
her father disgusted but bold
"There's only one thing to do,"
he muttered with a voice that was hoarse
and down the ****** route of abortion
did they both start to course
her mother weak, pleading,
begging her daughter to think again -
her father furious, saying don't be so stupid
she's only the age of ten
and so Alice had enough
buckled and snapped,
her lust for life
sorrows parasite finally sapped
off the city bridge, into the icy water
did she jump and dive -
now encapsulated within the womb of death,
that keeps both mother and child alive.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
Twas accursed destiny
since birth alack
nascent emasculation abominable barrack
emergent deus ex machina,
viz zit ting older sibling counterattack
thirteen plus chronological gap
eldest sister struck like diamondback
surrogate "mother" role
assumed tubby exact
protectorate pseudo fullback
against cruel beastie boys
bullying barbs
comeuppance giveback
pummeling spongiform
gray matter (yours truly)
fisticuffs she didst highjack
proxy mothering
kept corporeal essence intact
jilting nefarious nemesis aligned
(maligning) and stalking,
this fee-fi-fo-fum
ordinary bean sized Jack
are runt (arrant) cowardly
(non lion) nerdy lad owning a knack
courage lack this glum
older married chap doth adumbrate
satisfactory accomplishments lack
king, where crazy quilt aimless wandering
described purposeless multitrack
thus, sympathetic
to hue men/women nonblack
or decimated aborigines
once populating Australian outback
existential nihilism would,
undergirding hypothetical
unwritten paperback
with little need to prevaricate,
nor appear as quack
*** one measly **** sapiens,
who accrued millennial palimpsest zeitgeist
where, punctured
disequilibreated psyche dust rack
asper protean (in utero)
multitudinous setback
soundlessly resonating
with concussive thwack
as this rickety ship of state
(a haunted junk ket)
unwanted emotional ballast to unpack
asseveration, asper assiduously
preferably welcoming
dry suction no vac
jar this pawn (knight wannabe
in his bishop rick) torrid
me psychological wrack
king within (castle keep)
complex edifice shackled
in dungeon with repast constituting.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Like Daisies,
I shift,
un-turned eye's caress,
My utero stance,
I am amazed at all of the way's
A man can die,
Like pigeon breathe in the morning,
Outward and un-biased,
Spewing chunks of waves hit my surrendered vision,
Fortune is a calling for sparrow's nests,
Like Fame is a smell of cheese,
Both require youth and effigies of a tender tune,
One is requite,
Both are reprimanded,
Serving and Being,
Are benign,
In all area's divine,
Like solitude breakfast,
In place's unknown,
My title for this poem should be,
About the daisies, but I forget,
Why the solace was so low?
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC