"vertebrate" poems
Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts.
Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers.
A sweet thing for you!
A growing circle of six-legged empty.
Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton.
Oh, what a dreadful sight!
Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech.
Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones.
Not milky bones with calcium-love..
A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp.
Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes.
Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers.
Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more"
.......To the sun, the moon and the stars?
Every star mocks,
Every beam scoffs
and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes.
A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor.
Oh how we are dusty and unsure!
Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start.
Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people".
The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl.
Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Not a happy lass
Stubby little wings
Superfluous mass
Four long stringy legs
Twirly-whirly tongue
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Highly strung
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Fifty shades of fur
Quite the oddest vertebrate
To naturally occur
Burrows in the jungle
Terrified of heights
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Restless nights
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Slimy furry blob
Genetic Engineering
**** poor job
Moping on the seabed
Can’t fetch sticks
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Sink like bricks
Chameleon-Begonias
Origin unknown
Disappear rapidly
As soon as they are sown
Neither here or thereabouts
But somewhere in between
Chameleon-Begonias
Seldom Seen
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the hornèd gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney’s knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganised upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid siftings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
3k
my mother once told me
you're too nice
you told me
stand up
my father told me
grow a backbone
I can now assure you I am a vertebrate
that I can stand on my own two feet
I can face my foes with dignity
and here I am standing in front of you
Because my sister once told me
treat ***** like ***** treat you
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
Tribal maternal's terrace
***** by carnivorous shipmen
Earth over ran
By Marxist's and ditty wit's!!!
Hold thine lingo
Release thy spit
Oh vertebrate of underworld grief...
Tend to thine flock
Cut thine beef,
As in the cattle thou hath becometh...
For the serum doth runneth
Wherein thine swords becameth thy first choice....
Where is thy voice?
God of technology
Made science thy hobby
Made gentlewoman thy footstool......
As thou hath runneth a muck
And made thy queen thy second elect!!!!
For I just bet
That thineself shalt lose to all thy debts....
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Vertebrate beginnings,
I collate each chordates morphological traits
Striving to understand their profuse, evolutionary attributes.
Memorize the fusion of Latin and Greek roots
Interwoven just enough to complicate
Instead of differentiate inarticulate invertebrates.
Inhibitions confine to an educational institution
Discombobulated and ready to *******
graduate.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
daunt, spun fast in sleek
of a respiratory gleam
of a momentum moment
in fast vivid sink
**** the tremor
and squander
away, away
still the vertebrate
and drink in
the reverberate sensation
calm the stuttering lurk
behind puckered lemon lips
a resolute dynamic
an opaque concentration
soaking through fabrics hung high
so the pollen can pool
and coat the white
woven thread
with glitters of gold
sweet and waxy
relative and warm
the pollen traces
across the threads
of white woven morning
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
This darkness encompasses me
As it claws up my spine
Digging it's nails between each vertebrate
Until it can slither between my ribs
Moving so smoothly
Like a slow, deliberate dance
Stability and chaos
Intertwining, touching
Darkness against light
A beautiful poison
Ripping holes in my lungs
Like acid on skin it eats away
At the soft tissues
Holding myself together
Carefully destroying
The portions of myself
That try to keep living
As each inhale enters
My body grips the fresh air
Refusing to release it
As my emptiness is filled with air
Pushing out all feelings with
The warmth of blood
And keeping me calm with
The sweet promise of death
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 2:31 AM UTC
I am going to die
Someone tripped my breaker
I swim in the sparks
Thinner lines of longitude
Meet tangentially above
The third eye.
A veil is dropped and I
See the spinning mandala
Colors drip in lateral formations
Each line crosses
Infinitely deep in every direction
Bisecting me
Pay attention now
You are dying
You will tear through the veil
******* in the first breath
Cold air
The buzzing is around you
Warm glowing life forms
They sing songs!
Music of shape and color
Cyan and lilac notes
Fluttering from their bodies
Their songs spark and lightning
Through my body filling me with joysorrowlustpainguiltecstacy
Arcing off of my skin
Leaving long gaseous, crimson-green trails through the buzz of light
Watch me!
Look at this
Do you see what I can do?
Do you see, young one?
The souls gather around me
Whispering the secret of the ******
We laugh together at the simplicity of it all
They show me their playthings shaped
Totem poles of fractal colors impossibly
Spinning on a string of deoxyribonucleic acid
Quadruple helices infinitely intricate strands
Dripping diamonds in hues of color I cannot name
It didn't last long
Knowing the secret of it all
Go back now
To your bed
Back to your dimension
Don't try to remember us
We are multidimensional
Children casting tridemensional
Shadow puppets upon your dimly lit cave walls
Oh Demon! Oh archangel! Oh fairy! Ghost!
You foolish primate
Smearing your cave walls with words
Try to figure us out, shall you?
We are forgotten like a dream
Stop
Stop
Stop
The walls are alien
And the impossible
Shattered bloom on each surface
Sing and vibrate
It feels as If I have been here before. As if it has always been but I am allowed to see behind the curtain
Join the club
Join the club
We vibrate inside plant matter
Inside each atom we dance
Recreate us in your mind's eye dearest vertebrate
Watch us swim in and out of your memories
We have left our fingerprints upon the archaic machinery
Of your central nervous system
We are here
You are here
We are everywhere stop looking
We probe and poke at you
And sometimes we ancient-ones bend down and kiss you on the lips
You strange humans always exclaiming: Déjà vu
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
I watched a movie the other night and a scene reminded me of you ;
There was a lonely sailor on a fluke
That had a lantern on its far end.
The fluke was delving into a heavy night.
The mist veiled the sailor
Till he looked pious enough
To have the faith to fight the sea.
It reminded me of you,
Because when I observed you fading away
It was like observing parts of me
Sailing the same fluke I saw,
Leaving a fiery trail behind
So when I go back in memory
I could remember that those parts were once there.
They were parts of me,
Before the touch of his hand-
Caressing the bumps on your neck
Suffocated,
Till all you can breathe
Filled only the volume of his grip.
Before your glances became stares-
The myth says,
If you look medusa in the eyes
You will turn into stone
And so you did.
I watched him killing you
Slowly,
Dying,
Blacking out…
I extracted pieces of you from my veins;
It took me a while
To clean them
From tight corners in my vertebrate,
But you were doing the same;
You pegged two hooks
Onto your heart,
Attached to a rope that he pulled hard
Only to make sure
That every piece of me vanquishes.
But in the process you lost yourself
And so did I.
Every time I look at you
I try to scan for left overs of my past-
Instead I find his finger prints.
And every time I hear your voice
I think about the songs
That we never sang
But it would’ve been awesome if we did.
I met a sailor the other day
He was and old frail version of me
With tired eyes
That grew land marks on the way,
With a wrinkled face
Like dry land with no signs of water;
On his chest I saw two scars
That bend like a tiger’s claw
And curves like 2 poorly implanted hooks.
I asked him where have you been.
He answered,
“a true sailor always finds his way back home”
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Detox needed, salt enzymes, mother Apple cannot purge
Somewhere under the soul is hidden
Deep heavy air, speleothem drips, blind salamanders fish
White light is in the mind, refresh, delete, refresh
Delete
Hardrive needing replaced, mother board comes on like a crippled play thing
Eve is there, canines sunk in the mother apple
Pages sunk in
Sun's of God
Has now refurbished and has now encoded for the next restructure
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
I can sleep with you,
but I can’t be asleep with you.
I can drive you mad
bent over the headboard
of your expectations,
but I can’t meet them.
What you are looking for
does not hide between my legs
panting for salvation;
it hides trembling in the bend of an elbow,
tucked away in tracks that mark the spot.
Treasure coves lie in the hollowness
of my sunken eyes
and under the thickness
of my bitten tongue
until the only thing I can taste is
the bitterness of my laughter
like a hangover
from too much sweet talk the night before.
Some nights,
the holes in our conversations
"with the lights on"
leave me crucified between
two lines I should have never crossed to begin with.
Other nights,
I am stretched out across the entire room
and your eyes touch nothing
but the bathroom floor we grouted together
with our spines.
The backbone for this poem
isn’t your unattached vertebrate,
but the committed soft spot
behind my promising kneecaps
that give out each time
you ask me
when I’m coming to bed
because a mattress
may be the sole platform for this love,
but your sheets
can’t cover the indifference in my touch.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 1:14 PM UTC
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
PENECK Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees
Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganized upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;
The silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
The waiter brings in oranges
Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
The silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel née Rabinovitch
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
She and the lady in the cape
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Therefore the man with heavy eyes
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves the room and reappears
Outside the window, leaning in,
Branches of wistaria
Circumscribe a golden grin;
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the ****** wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
I’ll be flying smoke screens on Venus's ******
At the drop of the letter orange
an orangutans purse strings pulls at my wallet.
A corpse's spindle finger pointing me in a direction…
Trees bending shadows to blind the day.
A wind whispering to me in a human tone.
A madness telling me to leave it alone.
I’m so at home it’s unknown
and overly underwhelmed.
I’m grabbing at the helm,
but it was holding me afloat.
I pushed down so hard
by the time I pulled back
it broke under the pressure
of not understanding how to cope.
A final rope cutting me.
A blackened fuel from a golf swing
placing my humanity upon the desert’s green.
I could believe anything
if I will accept my own lies...
A twisted frame from a mangled mind.
It’s only just polished time
that gave us away...
A reflection show portraying all others
in directions we now sometimes go.
A final stroll down a scars
burrowed walkway
leading me back towards
the one remaining vertebrate…
An amphibian brain
in a leader of men.
I didn't even point it out,
all over again.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
have you ever felt
lost
in a deadly abyss of
thought?
it's emotionally
exhaustive
and socially
caustic
to be caught
thinking
thoughts
instead of
singing
songs.
with those
disturbing thoughts
come a lot of
perturbing feelings
and if you've ever
been unable
to explain or
detain
one of those feelings
just know that
you are not
alone.
not all of us can
assign a name
to an emotion
however benign
not all of us are so
well acquainted
with our own minds
that we can picture
the face in our brains
staring us down
but i'm daring you
the next time you
cannot justify
cannot simplify
or expedite
a feeling down
to a name
just don't
even
try.
place your finger
over that emotion
the way you would barre
your guitar strings
heart strings on
the second fret
gently
gently
run your other
hand down over
the sound hole
located somewhere
between your
stomach and
sorely neglected
central nervous system
and then pull
it back up
to play the
melody of your
most knotted
spinal chord
not too fast
not too loud
or if you find
it easier to see
the white notes laid out
unroll the shiny top
over your backbone
and press down
softly
softly
bending your fingers up
and down each
key of vertebrate
in an ascending or
descending scale
the length of which
depends upon
how tall you are.
slowly
slowly
forget
about
names
faces
sleepless nights
or how your insecurity
is still on par with
you at fourteen
when you first tried
to exploit it into music
but now you've found it best
just to tuck it behind your ears.
and learn
the cadence of
that feeling
explore each
note and tone
and play with
how it fits into
a song
surrounded by
other sounds.
you may never
play it again
you may play it
every day
for the rest of
your life
but all that is
irrelevant
in light of this
moment
a few seconds of
stilted peace and quiet.
listen to your
feelings
until your fingers
bleed
out the suppressed
emotions
society expects you
to ignore
play them like
you were in
an orchestra
and this was the
moment
of your solo
but don't
name
anything
unless you're
calling it cadd9
gsus4
em
or a7
and never
find yourself
or your
heart strings
afraid
of f#m
or even the darkest of
spinal chords
for i know that
everyone has cried
alone in the
dead of night
over the sound of
b flat.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
There's an igloo
glowing auburn-yellow from the inside
miles of empty snow and ice around
lead-blue sky bears down:
an endless weight squashing reality.
I'm trying to remember which muscles are required to make me stand.
I'm braiding the coarse-twine letters of your name into a gallows rope,
tie it around our necks,
place the knot correctly so the vertebrate split,
separate fragile cord that brings all life to the body,
same as the delicate thread that held us together.
Did it ever,
really?
I drip away from you
charred
marshmallow held over the flame
too long.
This ceremonial rattle shakes
full of seeds within dried husk
the sound tickles your eardrums
as you **** on the snow and ice
covered with its coat of
honey,
nectar,
black gall.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
A lack of traction
like wheels spinning in the mud.
A subtraction of reason;
Call it swimming in a flood
Your blood is red as mine.
We both count
One, two, three, four, five
Six, Seven, Eight, Nine.
So why must you separate us
like cartilage between vertebrate?
I only want to decorate your face
with smiles.
Is that too much to ask for?
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
I wanna fall in love with someone who plays
the blues like floss between his toes
baked under the sun, steps away from a lake
we called a sea anyway. We sat
their four days, the sand packed under
our breathing vertebrate
the sun never set; only dripped, dipped
its golden fingertips into pleased, green ripples.
He'd watch with me, his rolled up jeans,
pressed pink cheeks blowing against
that harmonica, fingers white, pressed.
I rest on my hands on wet sand, tiny grains
of sunny diamonds. I sang out
to the redheaded halcyon --
to his slender beak:
pierce my gentle heart!
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
to: the backbone
please stand up straight
love, the vertebrate
to: the hair
please stop being tangled
love, your comb
to: the hands
please stop popping your knuckles
love, your future arthritis
to: the feet
please be less clumsy
love, the scraped knees
to: the nose
please stop being stuffed up
love, the mouth
to: the eyelashes
please stop falling into us
love, the eyeballs
thank you for your consideration to these pressing problems.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Your bloodshot eyes
your heart wrenching cries
your terrified screams
your suicidal dreams
your uncontrollable gasps for air
your stringy, limp strands of hair
The arched movement of your vertebrate
The silent, lonely corners where you go to contemplate
Your weak and feeble stance
Your affectionate romance
Your odour of camouflaged sadness
Your fear of your own madness
Your electric shock waves making you jolt
Your denial of sugar and of salt
The panic rise in your brain you sense
The moment of relapse, for the pain to cease and the calm to commence.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
What I want starts with an intake of shared air, a leaning-in.
My spine a star-gaze arch - a neat reflection of yours.
A mouth-to-mouth silence broken, made whole - by small language
born of not knowing, and of knowing too well.
I want to trace symmetry in your neck, your back: Learn the shape
and position of vertebrate, of the discs in between -
Infuse them with an energy to resist time, to resist
history’s repetitions.
I want my weighted thoughts to wash through the
base of my skull into your cradle-hand,
Want to hear the rush of them down your arm, their echo
through the in-and-out spaces of lungs.
I want them to pour fully formed from your feet to the floor
- through nerves un-frayed and strong.
Remember: It’s a want my Love, not a need.
What I need is you here.
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 4:50 AM UTC
The eyes are a pair of globular organs of sight in the head of humans and vertebrate animals
Or are the eyes the window to the conscious soul?
They call me the Devil’s Advocate
Traditionally on the left side of your shoulder, purring that dead angels lie too
The lost pulse has been cause to abacinate
The light is blinding but you descry right through its laments, where the fleeting hope sings a tune that quavers as classical
The light is blinding but so is the crepuscular, encapsulated in a vessel of defeatism, powerless to shift my sole.
Your shut asymmetrical globes are created boundless by all existing matter that make them a home.
A Molotov cocktail in the shape of a hollow ***** reminiscent of wartimes and tearing without the gas
I choke on the smoke rings of the lit wick and I’m reminded that I hate going in circles and around
But they are also vessels of protection, a place for kumbaya’s around the fire where time is used to back-track
The deepest longings and recollection in my Purple Heart cannot be explained by how it beats 115,000 times each day
To hell with the sorry excuses and fleeting ideas of the Beaujolais
The soul is the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.
Let your spirit descend into you again, fill your body like the dripping of Adam’s Ale from broken pipes
Yes, they are cracked, but your chest is not a bird’s nest in December
They are reminiscent of, but are not the promises your teenage self-made to your mother, saying, “I’ll be home by eight”.
Press your hands to the aviary your beating heart has been trying to escape, touch it softly, and this will be the first time in years you've been kind to the keeper of the grey
Glaze into the looking glass and hold your fists back, let go of the sharpness of your words and risk forgetting yourself
End the match that pinpricked the flame of hatred, and bleed out the blue and black of yesterday.
They call me the Devil’s Advocate,
You hang from the trees, but I don’t believe in gravity.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
How could you love yourself that night
When garbage dumpsters lined with arsenic created fragments of lifeless skin,
As it held her in place while you shoved all your self-worth inside something so personal,
As each damaging push And release roared with a decaying boom that awakened sleepers from the metallic snare drum rolls,
As you crushed her ribs and memories that she clutched in her balled palms.
Her flower petal eyelashes wilted with tears,
Her fingers whitening from aching pain and struggles not quite powerful enough.
Her neck screaming as she bangs her head on the moldy sheet metal for distraction.
Her mouth sock-stuffed and muffled,
Saliva soaked and injected with the shrieks you refused to hear,
Because you pretend this is pleasant,
This was begged for.
When the heart strings turned to cage bars locking you deeper inside
Self achievement was smeared inside her like hot tar, tainting what forever was
Supposed to be hers.
You tossed her to malicious canines, while she folded over herself into a puddle of weak vertebrate.
So next time I see someone slouching,
I'll recognize it as your slimy mark left in a spinal cord-severing chop,
An inhuman knot tied shorter than the original nervous length,
And a marionette stance that walks in a crooked meter.
When I see a sweater, tattered and ragged with compostal decay
Lying shameful on the cold asphalt
With a print of moisture underneath
Too precisely shaped as a woman kneeling in her own agony,
I'll remember what I saw that evening and walked by
Too quickly to notice.
Next time my index finger will already be on the 9,
My thumb impatiently on the 1.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC