"vivisected" poems - Hello Poetry

Our trajectory is unknowable, you tell me: the planet corkscrews around the Sun, sure, but the Sun corkscrews around a black hole at the heart of the Milky Way, and our whole galaxy travels on some mysterious, incalculable vector. But sister, I saw a photograph in which two whale sharks were brought to heel by men in simple reed boats just off the coast of the Philippines. All that they had to do was often feed the sharks many gallons of grocery-store frozen shrimp, poured from plastic garbage bags into their yawning six-foot maws to portside. Gargantuan, sure, but still as obedient and eager for food as backyard squirrels. I remembered a grainy internet video—I saw it probably seven or eight years back—in which a captured whale shark was winched ashore in Madagascar, or maybe it was the Philippines again—no matter— the thing still had life left in it and struggled to breathe while a crowd of people gathered around—there were women carrying babies, girls holding baskets atop their heads—and then the men came with a long slender blade and sliced clean through the whale’s spine, vivisected it right there on the dock, and the onlookers stood there quite unfazed—I remember being shocked at the effortlessness of the cut, the pinkness of the whale’s blood, and the boredom in the onlookers’ eyes. Our father took us down to San Antonio on one of his business trips there when we were five or six—I think you were probably too young to remember it— it was when you and I saw the ocean for the first time. We drove down to the Gulf of Mexico, and we saw waves breaking out near the horizon in pale sunlight. I kept scanning for a dorsal fin off beyond the breakers, thinking that I might spot one— sandy brown, mottled with cream spots and glistening—so that I might be able to say to you, pointing, “look, sister, there is a whale shark!” Years later we would learn that he traveled down to San Antonio so frequently because he was a philanderer. As a child I believed that whale sharks crisscrossed the ocean following paths that we couldn’t fathom, that their concerns were somehow beyond our comprehension, but then Keppler pinned down the shape of the Earth’s orbit over four hundred years ago, and the lives of ancient sea titans are sundered effortlessly by men with indifferent faces.

0

Sep 22, 2023

Sep 22, 2023 at 2:27 AM UTC

Ira-Desmond

By men with indifferent faces

Our trajectory is unknowable, you tell me: the planet corkscrews around the Sun, sure, but the Sun corkscrews around a black hole at the heart of the Milky Way, and our whole galaxy travels on some mysterious, incalculable vector. But sister, I saw a photograph in which two whale sharks were brought to heel by men in simple reed boats just off the coast of the Philippines. All that they had to do was often feed the sharks many gallons of grocery-store frozen shrimp, poured from plastic garbage bags into their yawning six-foot maws to portside. Gargantuan, sure, but still as obedient and eager for food as backyard squirrels. I remembered a grainy internet video—I saw it probably seven or eight years back—in which a captured whale shark was winched ashore in Madagascar, or maybe it was the Philippines again—no matter— the thing still had life left in it and struggled to breathe while a crowd of people gathered around—there were women carrying babies, girls holding baskets atop their heads—and then the men came with a long slender blade and sliced clean through the whale’s spine, vivisected it right there on the dock, and the onlookers stood there quite unfazed—I remember being shocked at the effortlessness of the cut, the pinkness of the whale’s blood, and the boredom in the onlookers’ eyes. Our father took us down to San Antonio on one of his business trips there when we were five or six—I think you were probably too young to remember it— it was when you and I saw the ocean for the first time. We drove down to the Gulf of Mexico, and we saw waves breaking out near the horizon in pale sunlight. I kept scanning for a dorsal fin off beyond the breakers, thinking that I might spot one— sandy brown, mottled with cream spots and glistening—so that I might be able to say to you, pointing, “look, sister, there is a whale shark!” Years later we would learn that he traveled down to San Antonio so frequently because he was a philanderer. As a child I believed that whale sharks crisscrossed the ocean following paths that we couldn’t fathom, that their concerns were somehow beyond our comprehension, but then Keppler pinned down the shape of the Earth’s orbit over four hundred years ago, and the lives of ancient sea titans are sundered effortlessly by men with indifferent faces.

64

We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones as a vivisection, on our love. there, she’s whispering into shells into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute. I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea always accompanied as I were with the shark-eye, death, of her looks. We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe, filled the place up with lit and lightless places, Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued. Spent hours inside, laying floorboards and then laying on them to stare at the sodium lights and discuss the inkblots on our eyes. We vivisected our lives, and splashed it on the walls and carved it into the carpets. We set alight to christmas trees when the kids were sleeping upstairs. We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror and answered the door. Valentines day was full of bone bouquets, the gripper rods grew through the carpet so on them we danced. I prayed for the first time in the first year and every one hit me subesquently like I was its anvil. I should have gone to war. Because it makes forever shorter things can only happen right now.  I watched everything in our domestica, like when the static moved off the television and played on the window gutting me of my escape. The smiles hung on our faces like lupus, We had people round, we cooked and coughed and choked And their faces peeked round from the doorframe and laughed. The domestica lives only to be a bit of fun, but in the very same span of time that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill and my children’s love for me and my dexterity. We’ve happened to the whole world too I promise you, my love, my little hospice fire, my flat tire at night at nowhere, the lie you recognise means it’s over, A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers, the brightest night when you’re hiding, your heart attack on holiday, your bloodstained bed sheet And sleep, whilst outside the sleet and snow makes every emergency harder to get to, and still the morning much more beautiful. I, you, we happened.

0

Jan 2, 2016

Jan 2, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC

harry-randle-marsh

Domestica

We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones as a vivisection, on our love. there, she’s whispering into shells into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute. I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea always accompanied as I were with the shark-eye, death, of her looks. We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe, filled the place up with lit and lightless places, Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued. Spent hours inside, laying floorboards and then laying on them to stare at the sodium lights and discuss the inkblots on our eyes. We vivisected our lives, and splashed it on the walls and carved it into the carpets. We set alight to christmas trees when the kids were sleeping upstairs. We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror and answered the door. Valentines day was full of bone bouquets, the gripper rods grew through the carpet so on them we danced. I prayed for the first time in the first year and every one hit me subesquently like I was its anvil. I should have gone to war. Because it makes forever shorter things can only happen right now.  I watched everything in our domestica, like when the static moved off the television and played on the window gutting me of my escape. The smiles hung on our faces like lupus, We had people round, we cooked and coughed and choked And their faces peeked round from the doorframe and laughed. The domestica lives only to be a bit of fun, but in the very same span of time that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill and my children’s love for me and my dexterity. We’ve happened to the whole world too I promise you, my love, my little hospice fire, my flat tire at night at nowhere, the lie you recognise means it’s over, A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers, the brightest night when you’re hiding, your heart attack on holiday, your bloodstained bed sheet And sleep, whilst outside the sleet and snow makes every emergency harder to get to, and still the morning much more beautiful. I, you, we happened.

61

man seeking woman. man seeking what never was. man seeking a face he recognized in the crowd. i was him. you were reaching out and i flinched. you offered, you vivisected yourself to prove devotion and bled—you didn't understand why i was bandaging and not climbing into your open heart. the crowd dispersed from the pews and i learned to love in bloodletting. we were bleeding for three years, taking our turns to patch and open wounds. anemic on idolatry, we bled on the altar we built. sacrificial lambs unto ourselves—at some point the ritual is more important than the outcome. you always tell me you're dying for my sins but i always seem to end up on the cross. man seeking the belief. man seeking the almost. man seeking the stability of a wound that never heals. man seeking what could've been, man seeking to reach out and grab hold and find warmth in skin instead of sacrifice.

0

May 12, 2021

May 12, 2021 at 1:08 AM UTC

dorian-green

MISSED CONNECTION

man seeking woman. man seeking what never was. man seeking a face he recognized in the crowd. i was him. you were reaching out and i flinched. you offered, you vivisected yourself to prove devotion and bled—you didn't understand why i was bandaging and not climbing into your open heart. the crowd dispersed from the pews and i learned to love in bloodletting. we were bleeding for three years, taking our turns to patch and open wounds. anemic on idolatry, we bled on the altar we built. sacrificial lambs unto ourselves—at some point the ritual is more important than the outcome. you always tell me you're dying for my sins but i always seem to end up on the cross. man seeking the belief. man seeking the almost. man seeking the stability of a wound that never heals. man seeking what could've been, man seeking to reach out and grab hold and find warmth in skin instead of sacrifice.

4

Thoughts like twisted metal Decayed and rust pitted Remnants from a forgotten world Where gild was the norm A world that has moved on But not forgotten the sickness which Lay beneath the veneer of normalcy So, what is normal? Worker Bee? Family man? Taxpayer? Citizen? Church goer? The artifacts of that lost civilization Tells us normal is chaos Normal is war Normal is stalking the hunted prey Normal is vivisected torsos and Entrails in my sand box The monster is alive and gnashing With ferocity against the Dovetailed timbers of His prison No need to do push-ups for this one He is insidious and ever lurking Bowie knife at the ready Slashing his own throat and Strengthend from every self ****** He waits and dreams Of devious schemes In which I give him back the key

0

Mar 8, 2015

Mar 8, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC

michael-j-daisey-jr

MERELY ARRESTED

Thoughts like twisted metal Decayed and rust pitted Remnants from a forgotten world Where gild was the norm A world that has moved on But not forgotten the sickness which Lay beneath the veneer of normalcy So, what is normal? Worker Bee? Family man? Taxpayer? Citizen? Church goer? The artifacts of that lost civilization Tells us normal is chaos Normal is war Normal is stalking the hunted prey Normal is vivisected torsos and Entrails in my sand box The monster is alive and gnashing With ferocity against the Dovetailed timbers of His prison No need to do push-ups for this one He is insidious and ever lurking Bowie knife at the ready Slashing his own throat and Strengthend from every self ****** He waits and dreams Of devious schemes In which I give him back the key

31

I have written nothing sketched a rough outline of your face a sombre detuning of sense and sensibility strewn upon the page over miles mulled and vivisected these the entropic shards of self

0

Feb 23, 2010

Feb 23, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC

caleb-jaren

Vivisection

I have written nothing sketched a rough outline of your face a sombre detuning of sense and sensibility strewn upon the page over miles mulled and vivisected these the entropic shards of self

8

your ossuary stands on the most prominent of vivisected stems the hem of intersected threads the stead of temporary dreads it is the contact between the fruits of all your deeds and the lives you've lead unseen a riddle in the dreams you've left beneath below what ego buries deep its verisimilitude in a lie an exemplary visage of the ties that bind this place that we call Setenance

0

Aug 6, 2014

Aug 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC

art-fredericks

body plot

your ossuary stands on the most prominent of vivisected stems the hem of intersected threads the stead of temporary dreads it is the contact between the fruits of all your deeds and the lives you've lead unseen a riddle in the dreams you've left beneath below what ego buries deep its verisimilitude in a lie an exemplary visage of the ties that bind this place that we call Setenance

16

I haven't changed, am still the kid you knew one heard by an entire world but understood by few Am still the guy that would go the extra mile crying on the inside yet donning a smile the lad that had no sense of style one whose number was never on your dial who never went a day without showing you some love albeit you thought you were far beyond what he did deserve that kid you only remembered in times of crisis who was your favorite after class tutor the one who always vivisected the impossible essays but who seemingly had more of a past but no future... who barely made it to second, let alone first class one you assured had nothing it takes to date any lass yet always had your back and handled you gingerly like Glass Am still that lad at whom you'd crazily hoot and smile nonchalantly cruising off while he went the foot... the kid obsessed with romance books only thing ached for beyond that being your charming looks the kid who whimpered at the mere mention of calculus whose sweaty limbs, touching, you thought was ridiculous Am still that kid that would never stop flirting one in whom you found a lot of pleasure hurting making jokes of how impotent it was having the hots for you, who was never man enough to you for the shorts with a brief height you found revolting whose flowery adorations you found insulting... that kid you often estranged Am still that kid, nothing's changed ..

0

Jun 16, 2017

Jun 16, 2017 at 7:02 PM UTC

ignatius-hosiana

Still

I haven't changed, am still the kid you knew one heard by an entire world but understood by few Am still the guy that would go the extra mile crying on the inside yet donning a smile the lad that had no sense of style one whose number was never on your dial who never went a day without showing you some love albeit you thought you were far beyond what he did deserve that kid you only remembered in times of crisis who was your favorite after class tutor the one who always vivisected the impossible essays but who seemingly had more of a past but no future... who barely made it to second, let alone first class one you assured had nothing it takes to date any lass yet always had your back and handled you gingerly like Glass Am still that lad at whom you'd crazily hoot and smile nonchalantly cruising off while he went the foot... the kid obsessed with romance books only thing ached for beyond that being your charming looks the kid who whimpered at the mere mention of calculus whose sweaty limbs, touching, you thought was ridiculous Am still that kid that would never stop flirting one in whom you found a lot of pleasure hurting making jokes of how impotent it was having the hots for you, who was never man enough to you for the shorts with a brief height you found revolting whose flowery adorations you found insulting... that kid you often estranged Am still that kid, nothing's changed ..

29

Orange dancing lady slippers perform uncoordinated reblooming of dormant orchids; warm and cordial in informal candor but agoraphobic from misfortune; mourning and remorseful over flowers wilting, mortal. Daybreak aurora portent of sunlight to come, but stuck northward, scorching corneas in torrid dysphoria. Organism born horticulturally disproportioned and poorly formed, origin in morbid horror; cerebral cortex its own torture, the mortician orphaning the organs from the corpus; stored in morgue, torched in crematorium, vivisected immemorial. Stems and tendrils incorrigible, disorganized into deplorable **** of tangled discord clumsily running its course, corsage and bouquet aborted in accord. Important shortage warrants foraging for resources hoarded by some abhorrent lord; crowning court this monarch's consort, sordid and immoral, keeping score like some sick and sadistic sport; reinforcing order of what's normal, stronghold cordoned to conform. Pollinating swarm of hornets, buzzing orchestra of wings in chorus quarreling with silence, their scorpion stings absorbed; stabbed, pierced, and gored. Like a tortoise slowly inching forward, torpid, morass forbids; roots exploring floorboards, divorcing into a gorge, fingers blindly implore contours of the walls searching for the door. But drawn and quartered, blossoms' florid and ornate frame contorted, warping its own portrait; assorted torment transforming efflorrescent, metamorphic. Dwarfing, enormous, and soaring towards orbit, forty story high arboreal forest flourishing before us; gorgeous morning glory, thorny laurel adorning. Forthwith, storming windows' glass, bastille, and castle supports; warring against fortress though swordless, never resorting to forfeit until entire territory terraformed into floral orchard- fragrant and vibrant aura rewarding victoriously.

0

Oct 26, 2024

Oct 26, 2024 at 7:02 AM UTC

CatDadJynx

Dormant Orchids (3rd draft)

Orange dancing lady slippers perform uncoordinated reblooming of dormant orchids; warm and cordial in informal candor but agoraphobic from misfortune; mourning and remorseful over flowers wilting, mortal. Daybreak aurora portent of sunlight to come, but stuck northward, scorching corneas in torrid dysphoria. Organism born horticulturally disproportioned and poorly formed, origin in morbid horror; cerebral cortex its own torture, the mortician orphaning the organs from the corpus; stored in morgue, torched in crematorium, vivisected immemorial. Stems and tendrils incorrigible, disorganized into deplorable **** of tangled discord clumsily running its course, corsage and bouquet aborted in accord. Important shortage warrants foraging for resources hoarded by some abhorrent lord; crowning court this monarch's consort, sordid and immoral, keeping score like some sick and sadistic sport; reinforcing order of what's normal, stronghold cordoned to conform. Pollinating swarm of hornets, buzzing orchestra of wings in chorus quarreling with silence, their scorpion stings absorbed; stabbed, pierced, and gored. Like a tortoise slowly inching forward, torpid, morass forbids; roots exploring floorboards, divorcing into a gorge, fingers blindly implore contours of the walls searching for the door. But drawn and quartered, blossoms' florid and ornate frame contorted, warping its own portrait; assorted torment transforming efflorrescent, metamorphic. Dwarfing, enormous, and soaring towards orbit, forty story high arboreal forest flourishing before us; gorgeous morning glory, thorny laurel adorning. Forthwith, storming windows' glass, bastille, and castle supports; warring against fortress though swordless, never resorting to forfeit until entire territory terraformed into floral orchard- fragrant and vibrant aura rewarding victoriously.

86

I think it was ‘96 or maybe ‘97. Ripping down the hill on an ATV. Salamander skin and bottle rocket shriek. The firecracker pop of teenage sheen. Tobacco barned and creek wetted. Take me to the forests of smoke bomb blue. Hands in the dirt and vivisected. Wrestle me into a knot. Two bodies of flint sparking up the dark. Double wide glances…I’m a garden tub believer. Toss me a towel and dissolve me into the ether.

0

Nov 13, 2022

Nov 13, 2022 at 12:39 PM UTC

sofolo

borderline

I think it was ‘96 or maybe ‘97. Ripping down the hill on an ATV. Salamander skin and bottle rocket shriek. The firecracker pop of teenage sheen. Tobacco barned and creek wetted. Take me to the forests of smoke bomb blue. Hands in the dirt and vivisected. Wrestle me into a knot. Two bodies of flint sparking up the dark. Double wide glances…I’m a garden tub believer. Toss me a towel and dissolve me into the ether.

1