"vestigial" poems
His blue eyes are like glacial-lakes, wrapping around his heart till he's chilled to the bone from the cold.
A deadly place where treading is no longer permitted.
His eyes are transparent and distant as the impersonal clouds passing overhead.
Even as I stands before him, reflecting off him.
I am still merely a reflection.
He knows my face, I reason silently.
From the hills of my cheeks, down towards the valley separating my lips.
He should recognize it all.
Instead a blank expression greets me.
A look of cold, solid insouciance.
I'm immediately angry with myself for wanting to justify his indifference's.
A reflex I've never been able to expel.
The vestigial limb on a skeleton.
A party favor from another time forgotten for the newly discovered toy.
I twist in the fridged winds wrapping around him.
My force giving under the great pressure magnified by his powers.
I never wanted to dance upon his breeze.
This realization makes me burn hotter.
My anger brighter than the northern star.
I welcome it, my amounting rage.
I embraces it with a raging smile.
His glaciers may be cold, immovable at times.
A pretentious notion I might freeze.
For I am the sun swirling in nova's ring and cannot be affected by his black iced personality.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
As I watch you sleep, you wonder through vivid dreams,
This must be the reason for your kicking and muted screams.
As you slept, I held you so tightly, even though your naked body excites,
Which is a blessing on cold winter nights.
But as morning creeps in and the light starts to begin,
I create with a tiny lick, the most arousing sensation.
And as her vestigial legs slide so easily, I being the lovers embrace,
Bathing in her ocean of taste, great emotion fills her face.
"Oh, I am sorry sweetie, did I wake".... "oh no my dear, I did not want an oversight,
For a wish or a dream in the night, a touch so softly, there is no fight.
I figured I would stir you in the seeking of a snack,
But don't you worry a little bit, just relax and lay right back
For there is no greater act, then to lick our passionate parts so sweetly,
In between your thighs, while I drive my tongue so deeply.
But what I do with my tongue at midnight, when there is no one around to hear the yells,
I would go into more detail, but a gentlemen never tells!
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Souls search for corresponding measures with gossamer vines through ether
Trapped in corporeal form often drifting between the learner and the teacher
Passing the souls mate yet missing the eyes of fate’s tomorrow
Spending years or a lifetime without a match in loss and sorrow
Souls never lost or seen in a colored perfectionist spectacle
Yet still touch the heart and mind even though vestigial
We cannot find the split soul’s half with judgmental eyes
And if all we see is material, we may never hear a soul’s cries
For the one that makes us whole often wears a disguise
We are lucky enough to peer into the same blue skies
So when you find your souls match, you will know in an instant
You will feel like the sun, or at the very least like you just kissed it!
Walking you into a warmth that is rarely ever seen
You feel as though you lay on clouds, or lost in a pleasant dream
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
Cosmic kraken,
gelatinous tentacles that choke the ventricles..
air tainted by its pungent pores...
daylight darkens,
its presence hearkens,
for the light to shine no more...
Heart is hardened
vestigial veins with not blood but pain...
wrinkled cartilage writhes at lore..
of the divine despair
I now come to bear,
graces this unworthy *****
"I beg I pardon!
spare me the road to your celestial abode!"...
whispered screams that scrape throat raw...
silence snares...
at my futile affairs...
with the sadistic nexus between doors...
"Oh I cannot fathom
creature with unworldly features...
and blade fashioned from nebulous ore...
what terrors await...
and to permeate....
my flesh forevermore!"
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 11:39 AM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
A hollow ‘hello’ from Hell! Yes, from Hell.
Where do names come from? This Hell is
a sleepy fishing village and the best
spot that we’ve found on Hollow Head,
a Sleepy Hollows, so to speak.
We are in the ‘Bridegroom’, a little Bed
and Breakfast, run by a Rip Van Winkle
wise enough to know it was Empedocles
who jumped into Mount Etna. Empedocles!
Is my face red! Yet it will glorify
my pronoun to perfection—‘he jumps’. Yes,
both poetry and philosophy ought
to have the same antecedent. They forge
a world that’s capable of consciousness.
The self, per se, remains vestigial—
the voice of the volcano, not its source.
Your pronoun is the antecedent, not
your noun. Problematic resolved. Perhaps
I will go for a walk in Hell, perhaps
I will take the air, take the breezes.
A wonderful day in Hell! Ha-ha!
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Sorry it ended up like this.
Me out here, still wrapped up warm in my vestigial garment of flesh.
You in there, naked amongst your primitive ancestors like the youngest adult at a wedding, mingling awkwardly, embarrassed.
I wonder how you died. Your ribs look like they have been fixed back together after some kind of trauma.
A car crash maybe?
Maybe you struggled with long term illness, rotting before you ripened like a sickly bud in a wet spring.
However it happened your bronze plaque states it was untimely and therefore probably tragic. '(A young woman)' I read, not so much discovering but confirming what I already knew to be true when I first laid eyes first met yours across the crowded room.
You stand about as tall as me, your shining off white cheeks delicate as fine china. Staring out of you glass cabinet, you seem to beg not to be judged alongside your distant relatives, your slumping neighbors.
Fragile and sweet, you radiate a quiet dignity. It isn't hard to imagine the thin layer of blood, skin and fibrous tissue that it would take to make you beautiful again.
I plunge my hand through that glass portal, soft folds of meat transposed to brittle bone and back again, unifying you world with the mortal
It was obvious that you were beautiful, and involuntarily I envy the one who held you and kissed you last.
I wonder if anyone ever wrote a poem for you when you were alive.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
The bracing raindrops
dripping
onto the wooden trellis
then hitting the stone table
i happened to have just woke up
when dusk is brewing quietly
outside the windowpanes
vestigial sleepiness dissipating
just as gradually
the fluorescent light that's turned on
stings my sense of taste for a second
and i hear the sounds of a busy kitchen
the summer heat is gone for now
i kept myself occupied all afternoon
checking and reading on my phone
if time could stand still
I'd actually like it to stay
like this
people are in a smooth
peaceful mood
it seems
like they were years ago
it also seems perhaps
it will happen again
like years from now.
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 8:12 AM UTC
you're a vestigial appendage
like my appendix
you are there
but you don't do anything for me
you just are, there
i wouldn't die without you
you're not necessary, necessarily
i can't live without you
you're a part of me, partially
you're so significantly insignificant and essentially unessential
we are potentially going to have to end it
we have potential — "no" — lets end it
i'm so happy i never get to see you
i'm so unhappy you called
you're like a fantom vibrate
i can't believe you actually called
we're a vestigial appendage
like an internal hemorrhage
holding onto what's healthy and alive
dig it out like a cancer
bury it deep inside
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
the sea is cold,
but the sea contains the hottest blood of all.
killer transients.
people and whales.
he needed to see his son smile
& he did.
a blue-trucked boy, hometown hero.
he loved to fight
& he fought to love.
died in afghanistan for the pentagon boys.
blame them. bomb them.
submerge your vestigial limbs in days and home
& simple mammalian living.
wage and pray.
little hours.
little sweet nothings.
people and whales fall older.
think. write. ferment.
the good deep.
the hottest blood of all.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
Why is he Vaticanizing
when he could be catechizing ?
This silly man with a funny hat
this doddering puppet
with his dead Jesus on a stick
this irrelevant vestigial *****
this geriatric Marxist-Lite
outdated Liberationist
terminal Global Warmist;
no wonder the World
heeds his incoherent discourse.
No wonder they
listen to him
but hate the Truth.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
Somewhere at the watercourse-
Silvery brume.
Shining through, like pulsing light-
Golden iris are in bloom.
Tongues of brazen flame-
Snap their reflection against the lukewarm mirror-
This is where order looms.
Felicity-
Serenity-
Vestigial depression.
Second guesses-
Underwhelming quests in wrong directions.
Oh elixir. Oh watercourse-
Oh inanimate eloquence.
How you tempt me with your evocative consonance.
You remind me of a woman-
Her husband and her son-
To me you are a drifter-
You remind me of the sun-
You remind me of a king-
of a man with sore eyes-
Mourning late son.
In the mornings sun rise.
Watercourse watercourse-
Lazy eyed shadow.
Left handed perfectionist-
Seething pale shallow.
Watercourse watercourse-
Your body feeds the worms.
Your souls seams have torn.
Watercourse watercourse.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
The meltemi winds crackle the wild millet,
Graze-feed upon the stalks of Greek plains,
The pelican scoops up the honeyed Aegean,
Waves of sunlit anise and almond in refrain,
Vestigial as the sweet persimmon from Egypt,
The hammered warmth from the flat anvil of Africa,
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
*Orange Loom you leave again,
conflating royal blue and red,
calm and warm like an old friend,
but you were grey once.
Your yellow lilt is surely just a show;
an ephemeral, vestigial truth.
Is that you, brooding on the horizon,
pausing for your latest audience?
Your powerful symphony flirts
with your stagnant players;
a panoply of mountains
-expounding their own soliloquies-
and trees as straw-roofed bungalows.
The ocean floods your eloquence,
like an impending harbinger speech.
Your tame light evokes an urge,
something Great, magnificent and pure,
but you will return in time again.
Some will wait but all will learn;
your author's notes, or are they burned?*
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
The weather only makes it worse.
Cicadas sounding off at dusk.
The flowers blooming in reverse.
Your hand in mine.
Pour yourself another drink:
bourbon, two fingers.
Her hand in mine.
Our backyard has gone black,
the summer’s vestigial fireflies
devoured by limbs and leaves.
Lie on your back
and listen to me,
decode the blades
of grass that tickle
your ears and neck.
Love or silence.
Which is worse?
We pull at words
like dark threads,
composing curtains
for the windows
of a waiting hearse.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
there is a broken thing
reformed in amber
disarranging the spectrum
of sensical causal motion
nail biting following
migration patterns of neural
activity and we bless the few
who cut clean and learn early
those bespectacled masses
cannot intuit the limited scope
of aversion to blurry pink clouds
gussied up in peripheral vision the
pineal gland controls circadian
rhythms gushes dmt when
we die i wonder i
wonder what that (vestigial)
little pinecone knows
that we don’t
cased in spongy
grey matter and i don’t think
much of time as metaphor but
my watch strap broke
yesterday i hope
that is
important i do
nothing so simple or complex
as love but(i carry it in my heart)
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Souvenir/To Remember
Je me souviens innocence, but not what it feels like anymore.
Just that first french kiss, enough to do my childhood in.
Tu te souviens buying your first bra.
Unsure of whether to wear it or not.
Confused about the clasp and all its pregnant meaning.
Il se souvient collecting kisses blown from his mother.
Storing them in mason jars covered in stickers.
Elle se souvient picking watermelon from her daddy's garden.
Rolling them inside when they weighed more than her.
Nous nous souvenons keeping secrets from our loved ones.
Waiting for God to punish us.
Living with the guilt that followed.
Vous vous souvenez a time when the appendix was not just vestigial.
Remember a time when you did more than med school.
Ils se souviennent the night they met.
On a segregated 8th grade dance floor.
Their cheeks red from all that not asking.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
she takes a pull of
her Parliament,
face painted in
in fleeting ochre;
an ancient star dying
far from me.
"*i was alive once and i swore
i glimpsed the storm in
the laughter*"
we write each other's names
on our palms and lovingly watch
the ink fade as we drink from
them.
that was the plan.
plans end the same as the rest of it;
vestigial and resentful in their silence.
you said your grin was
that of a misfit.
i said your grin lent
dimensions the intent
to rip open.
i meant it,
but i said it just to see it.
"...reasons. things can have many..."
stealing smoke from a Parliament,
that old foolish ochre
skirmishes with night,
i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly
when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment
you howled at the moon with the
earth dangling from your neck.
"*the wild hunt was a horrible
film, but it was our horrible film*"
you didn't even notice me
dissolving into the monolith
and i admire the honesty of that.
we can speculate about what the
next life's masks conceal when
we get there.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
The fact that he only made you more lonely should have been a clue,
sweetheart.
Stop trying to configure yourself with someone else's body parts,
they won't fit right
leaving you with a phantom limb here
a vestigial ***** there.
You thought it was love because he paid for your meal
and called back when you slammed the phone down,
but this was just because he was even lonelier than you.
He has only ever loved one girl
the last time he saw her she was holding a gun to herself
appointing herself the victim.
She was a tragedy of the most catastrophic kind
and he wasn't ready to be a refugee just yet,
but he let you shelter him.
You became the glaring neon sign, flashing "loneliness"
You took the bait, and he kept reeling in the line,
but was disappointed with what he found at the end.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
i am a wandering comet
a long forgotten star
drifting listlessly through
some eldritch darkness
the stuff that dreams are made of
sustains my formless husk
as i drift and drift and drift and drift
towards that wyrd and faint light
i want you to call my name
i want you to say it!
but...
even if those words did expell
from those lips that i long to kiss
i would not know...
the void pilfers greedily all sound
no matter how powerfull the meaning behind them
there are endless stars and planets
in this symposium of emptiness
one day i will crash somewhere
and, it might not be on your planet...
it might not be where you are
will i live for eternity alone?
searching fervently in vain
through ancient smog and blackest rain
that melts my mortal coil
and tears away at my lungs
until i am truly but a husk
a vestigial being, devoid of light
please...
call for me
i am drifting away
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
jeudi, venus last
lago florentine porch shredded
from balcony of vestigial vista to plutonian shore
not of usual laconic luster
nor perennial, token blue sky
instead apparitions, or entities please here
abounded with vigor, though no it was sotto voce
machete was as is wet eh, cam--
bowie's older cousin to poorly kept hedge
emitted from the formerly symbiotic fence
as when Ozmandias took the Ra's blade;
through a gold medal and into the jugular
the echo of a dropped coin evolved brutal, hear
into the veins of those arms; severed
were my once impending solitudes,
my eyes
shifted quickly towards binoculars
only to find a wake of buzzards
where once only solemnic eagles balded
the paradox of heraldry diurnal yet carrionic
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
Of course human blood is sweet!
How else could they get us to eat meat?
We are carnivorous by design, &
Any feeble gesture of Vegan defiance,
Is seen as a threat to the species.
Vegetarians are mocked, marginalized,
Or made vestigial.
Of course human blood is salty!
Oozing red, warm and syrupy.
I am lion-hearted Mufasa,
Swaggering ‘cross the savannah,
Licking savory hemoglobin off my jowls,
My ***** swinging in the breeze.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC