"wheezes" poems
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
******
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old ***** petticoats) ----
To Paradise.
11k
I woke up to screams from a stolen razor. Where is it? It was a loud scream. The end comes swiftly, anyway,
and, if there are no razors around, it comes even faster.
At the top of the mountain, the anger flows to the valley, and there is no scream.
In the valley, we wait.
There is a pull from a cigarette.
Small talk that is not small talk.
A man wheezes
A woman wonders where she'll go tomorrow
it comes out as a laugh
and lightly in the background plays a song that can only be called the disease of the 80's.
We didn't need another.
But, thank you.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I look at the fractured streets
littered with broken promises
peeling billboards peddling luxury to the wrong audience
the contorted vertebrae of this country's spine
and I mourn
the death of the American Dream.
I see it lying at my feet with every step
like the broken-winged bird from childhood fables.
"Fix me," she wheezes.
I tried once, but it died in my hands.
Apparently,
"The Dream" used to be two cars
but now it's two good fists
the wisdom to know when enough is enough
and the strength to say it.
I was born too late to remember anything else.
Here lies the American Dream,
bruised and battered by those who vowed to protect her
doused in oil and set aflame
by misdirection
misdemeanors
and Miss Universe.
Here lies the American Dream
who was born from revolution
and died in its absence
who waited for a day that never came
who lived long enough to see the fruit of her labor
become a raisin in the sun.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
I woke up to screams from a stolen razor.
Where is it?
It was a loud scream.
The end comes swiftly,
anyway,
and,
if there are no razors around,
it comes even faster.
At the top of the mountain,
the anger flows to the valley,
and there is no scream.
In the valley, we wait.
There is a pull from a cigarette.
Small talk that is not small talk.
A man wheezes
A woman wonders where she'll go tomorrow
it comes out as a laugh
and lightly in the background plays a song that can only be called the disease of the 80's.
We didn't need another.
But, thank you.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
this is a poem about happiness.
this is also a poem about how great life is, see? here's a metaphor
comparing nature to the faultless
form of a pedastalized lover,
here's a description of the
effect of changes in air pressure
and localized temperature
fluctuations
on physical matter in a given area.
here's a bland truism that
anybody can relate to.
here's a couple rhyming stanzas
about the ethereal shifting of
connecting threads which
cause all life to dance upon
the cosmic stage like food poisoned marionettes.
here's an ode to the wrinkles of
my ******** and
the bits of fuzz that occasionally
find their home in my *****
here's a sonette to the drop outs
doing better than me
here's a dirge for the businessman
that hangs himself
and a jubilee for his widow
who earns nothing off his death
because he left his entire estate
to his catamite.
I'm writing a symphony in color,
notes of fermenting wood
dogshit and coffin dust.
the violas swoop and drone
the piccolos trill fast enough
to excise your gastrointestinal system
the barotone sax wheezes
and the timpani drum rumbles
(the flutes sit motionless because
**** flutes)
the pianists fingers are bleeding
hes banging with stumps now
his face contorted in ecstatic glee
as if the face of god has parted
the clouds just to scrape his gums
clean with his dietous ****
and lo faint is the whisper
which climbs and slithers
between the
false,
bash upon life with both hands.
here is life here is death
let me show your life
let me breathe your wretching
like squandered
like roots in the soil,
paint your everlasting cave drawing
in the face of your kitchen
and dance around a fire
let the embers lick your heels
til pagan viciousness overtakes
your quivering form.
gasp it in
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
Through the looking glass I peered, hoping,
Hoping to see another world.
Alice, oh Alice, how envy I you,
Dreaming, still dreaming,
But your dreams come true.
No one moved, not a single spoke, silence,
All around the world grew, or shrink it did.
It was you, Alice, you,
You were the one who grew.
Eat of that mushroom you did.
The caterpillar, smoking its pipe, wheezes,
In the garden, the flowers did sing.
You fell down the rabbit’s hole,
Not too long ago,
A new world you discovered.
The Cat, what was it called? Cheshire.
It’s wide grin, plump body.
Here, there, nowhere, it vanishes and reappears,
A cat without a grin, you’ve seen,
Not a grin, without the cat.
The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, seated,
Dormouse still sleeping.
Table long, tea cups and pots,
All set and ready,
Truly a Mad Tea-Party.
The Queen, oh, Her Majesty, Red hearts,
Loyal subjects pay their respects.
Golf, was it? No – croquet, you played.
Flamingos and hedgehogs,
Certainly a difficult game.
Painting the roses red, they were,
Red, red roses. The gardener,
He grew them all wrong: White roses from the trees,
Card soldiers, hard work.
Roused, awakened, your sister came, running,
A dream you thought.
It must have been, maybe,
The mushroom in your pocket, the white rabbit’s glove,
You know where you’ve been.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
Call delicate sirens of the working class!
half-bum minimum wage poverty line
subsidy sages hollow of materialism devils,
devoid of darkness internal fire strike rage
and hellion god bowels light flickering shallow men.
The rich men.
The truly poor men living in clouded manors on
Ignorance Avenue.
Delicate sirens not so poor after all,
not so empty or so full.
God is the prayer call
and siren droll
and *** roll-in-sleep afternoon shore-breeze faint of hope
approaching winter-fall showering divinity flowers the same material as Peter's scraggly beard while he coughs his angelic bronchitis wheezes, purifying the western air.
Peter is apostle
his snores are their own gospel
the doves in his dreams
will always be there.
The battle goes on
the bottle goes up
the rattle hollers out
the chatter not without.
Sirens call! Call with short breaths as
the world cyclones through universal woe.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
I see the commercials
for osteoarthritis.
And mentally curse this age of awareness
Where we, the audience
are forced to see our frail mortality . . .
One in three! ONE IN THREE!
Mocks the voice on T.V.
And suddenly my chest fills
with invisible cancers
cholesterol, and tumors
While diabetes races through my veines.
I stagger from the room.
Joints now rusted with a touch of arthritis.
My breath wheezes from the asthma
I never had until this moment.
My arteries harden like boa constrictors.
And I fall to the floor - breaking a hip as I go down.
My memory fades under Alzheimer's wrath.
While glaucoma darkens my vision.
And ravaging Obesity, consumes my soul.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
'Twas not normal,
To see children born without wings,
"O cruel sins!"
The brittle women sings.
Mother's hid their wingless children,
Tucked them away,
Ignored their wheezes from dusty, old corners,
Prayed to heaven for a growth spurt,
In the meanwhile,
Wondering how much it would hurt.
-Firefly
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
she sneezesas the breezes
carry the pollen to her nostrils
she is small
and somewhat frail
but when she sneezes
she creates more than breezes
she makes a gale
and the noise is like thunder
as her lungs do the rumba
all in order to expell
the pollen from her being
her eyes cross
and fixate
on an ephemeral state
in order to calibrate
the legnth of the ah
in her ah-choo
sometimes it is
large and elongated
sometimes small delicate statacco
and then again it may be somewhere
in between the two
and after she sneezes and gales
and wheezes...she seems stunned
by the fuss and disharmony
she created by nasal cacophony
and in her daze, the taps
her nose and says quite clearly
good old faithful....
.....thar she blows
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 8:04 AM UTC
An old woman sits down in the wheelchair.
A small child takes her first wavering step.
A million fireworks dance into the air, flash, ears hear songs of celebration, awe takes hold.
A million mortar shells leap into the air, flash, ears sing the ring of confusion, shock takes hold.
A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a child's shoe.
A man nearing the end of his time on earth stoops to tie a noose.
A woman in white walks down the aisle alongside the man she loves.
A woman in black walks down the aisle to the man she loved.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of cold medicine to an ill infant.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of pentobarbital to an ill canine.
A doctor readies a syringe to administer a dose of ****** into her own arm.
A father raises his hand.
. . .
A child receives a reassuring pat on the shoulder, his team having just won the tee-ball state championships.
A woman takes aim, her lens coming into focus on her subject.
. . .
A man that has been psychologically abusing her for several years collapses to the ground.
A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the skyscraper they have designed and built over the course of several years. This accomplishment towers above all else humankind has created.
A team of several hundred people stands back, looking in awe upon the mushroom cloud they have engineered and constructed over the course of several months. This weapon towers above all else humankind has created.
A million lives wink out.
A million eyes open for the first time.
A manuscript is penned, the author sets down his pen and takes a sip of tea.
A pile of books burns with black smoke, the cult sets down their torches and takes a deep breath before screaming.
The infant screams sharply after taking its first breath.
The old man wheezes after telling the last of his stories to his grandson.
"That's it, boy. That's everything I ever did."
A tear rolls down his cheek, the profundity of his statement dawning on him as the breaths become harder to take.
"That's everything I was to everyone I met."
Under every rock a thousand secrets shimmer.
Beneath every tree, a hundred promises have been made.
Some of them have been broken.
Remember the promises you made? You know the ones.
You can become the architect of someone's dreams or the shadowed figure in their nightmares.
You can put down the gun. You can pull the trigger.
You can.
A billion men and a billion women before you have lived out their lives, have wasted, have wanted, have sunk to the lowest depths and risen to the highest peaks. A million have set out to become the best at something, and a whole lot of them have succeeded.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day
Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat
A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest
With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists
His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips
Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness
His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop
Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life
The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
Babushka doll, you're an acid vase
Empty as church mornings
Devoid of all feelings;
You unravel your sullen smiles,
Ill-bred and unclean.
You are not complete.
You lost your babies.
Now you're alone.
Darling, darling, darling, how does it feel?
To feel the root of brute in the stubby heel,
Your silly scarves lost in the wheel.
Just peel off the cabbage roses
Petal by Petal,
Dismember yourself.
What a laugh!
The air has asthma,
The sun gives it T.B.
Oh dearie me!
It wheezes kisses heavier than a lecher.
Saboteur of my days,
Why must you hurt what you can?
Because you hate me, hate me.
You are an acid vase full of hate.
I can see your ruddy heart like an X-ray.
Unstick yourself from me.
I don't want you,
Your scarlet lips
Lake Baikal eyes,
or Eastern European knits.
The rings shed their gold.
Knock knock,
Dead at 30.
The last twist of the knife.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
The soft touch of morning
Rises to meet the late breaking day
Covered up and clouded, and looking lonely.
Dark birds and their shadows fly low, and South, in a hurry,
Sounds are loud and crack the mornings air, with their breaking,
And ice pops and water wheezes beneath the shallow pools,
With air moving quietly up and out,
And winters grass riffles, with the cold air moving in and around,
And the seed of this morning, that shall become the plant of the day,
Can see the sun, and feel its' warmth, even in the cold.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 9:19 PM UTC
Whisper silent screaming cries
Deep and hollow sunken eyes
Weakened pleas and quiet groans
Pale skin on brittle bones
He wheezes when he walks
And he wheezes when he talks
His muscles give and grind and creak
His strength is gone and he is weak
His hair is falling, growing thin
His smile gone a sorry grin
But deep inside, burning bright
His soul on fire lights the night
Once a man who made things move
One last thing that he must prove
Beside him sits his tearful wife
The only thing he loved in life
Before the reaper takes his share
He'll let her know how much he cares
His lungs expand in one last gasp
And in a voice horse and rasp
He said the most important thing
As true as when he gave the ring
The three words he never said enough
But meant more than the other stuff
I love you...
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 2:45 AM UTC
Harken unto thee all ye cubicled rats
Furrowed brows
And mortgage rows
A cocktail of sneezes, wheezes and white lights
Leave me the soil under my fingernails
The monsoon and the snakes,
Heavy lifting, creature coexisting
Just spare me from the circle-backs
And obituary emails.
The stale air, ergonomic chair.
Hallowed be the slow mornings
Birdsong breaking the dawn
A soul full of tea
Softly resting chin on knee
Save us from the flood of empty words
Of formality and forced smiles
The glorification of busy
Crumble the ancient hierarchy
Let us wander home.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 7:05 AM UTC
1am and the sun aint up
my writings gone and my head is stuffed
Mind is empty yet full of nothing
what with me!! yes eyes a puffing
The dead of the night feels so into me
all is quiet with nothing to see
the eerie silence creeps around as ants sound their armies chant
spiders wake and pace the floor
webs all spun for dinners door
2am and still I'm here
coffee's on awakens clear
still its racing all inside
madness calling ...all is fine
behind me a chair creaks its night time call
In house ghost welcomes all
sounds from above as sleep takes over
snores and wheezes battle Stevens
yet still near dawn I am awake
sounds of silence not for all
3am its snack eat time
snips of sugar dunked like wine
3 cup gone and I'm still buzzing
body calling sleep not coming
Birds now join my early day
different meanings all the same
songs in progress sounds so sweet
that'll stop me from a sleep
Yet the world awakes another morning
a life begun a day a dawning
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
Frozen stone walls,
cracked and aging.
Floors of dirt,
forever waiting.
Cold steel bars,
rusted and corroding.
Last bit of hope,
slowly fading.
They tell me hell is waiting for me,
they say that there's a welcoming party.
They laugh and they cry,
as they spit in my eyes,
whittling crosses out of wood,
they're what He despises.
I sit here, slowly dying,
waiting for death to set me free,
hanging noose waits in the gallows for me.
Day after day,
after day,
after day.
They cry and they die,
from unknown diseases.
Condemning each other,
when somebody wheezes.
Now He hates what he has created,
so he's trying to destroy the Earth to save it.
I'm not the villain,
I'm not here to sin,
I'm here to save what's left,
of his His once great creation.
I sit here, slowly dying,
waiting for death to set me free,
hanging noose waits in the gallows for me.
Day after day,
after day,
after day.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
To gather the peace
That swirls through the
Cedars in the yard
To put it in
With where I would
Store my record collection
If I were to have one
If the world still turned slow
To combine that bark stained whisper
With the notes that find my ears
When I can’t find my mind
To give you the music
That animates my thoughts
And the stillness that animates their origin
To acknowledge my weakness
For your smile and its sweetness
To gather and gift my secrets
To hope that it pleases
To sort through the meaningless
To make you laugh till your chest wheezes.
To walk further along if these blessings don’t meet us.
To keep pushing forward
With all I have left
To keep my soul’s doors unlocked
With no fear of theft
To accept you may listen to my music
And wish you were deaf
To prepare to gather up the chunks of silence
After you break it over my chest
To trust that chaos
Is not the rebellion
Of the cedars’ breath
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
So, you grew up,
leaving me Peter Panning for gold
amongst the grit of adulthood.
Your guitar gathers dignified dust,
while mine puffs and wheezes
yet another senile song,
an arthritic dog
treading painfully in step
with its selfish, thoughtless master.
I never envied you your brilliance
because it was shared, it was ours
but I've been toasting marshmallows on the embers
far too long.
And now your real life,
the one you've worked for, studied for,
sweated for
(and the one I've studiously ignored)
is to carry you over the sea
and away.
I have no doubt it is still your brilliance
that paves the trail,
But it's for others, now
and that is fine.
I am reconciled,
and full of hope for you and yours.
Let's see now:
G, B minor, C...
There's a song in here somewhere,
I know it.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
I wish I could cry quietly.
I wish I could cry in peace and no one would disturb me.
Instead I'm cursed by these gut-wrenching wheezes that leave me gasping for air.
I wish my cheeks didn't squeeze up when I cry.
I look like a clown, I feel like a fool.
I wish people would have the decency to leave me alone.
Instead I'm patted and pawed at like a family dog.
Poor thing. Is there anything I can do?
No. Get out.
No one knows how to cry quietly.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
When William walked
They stayed in pace
And when William stopped
They backed away
Williams women knew their place
They prepped the food
They cleaned his place
They shined his shoes
And shaved his face
But oh Williams worth
Was a wayward lot
Dampened darkly
Away and aloft
Sparkly hamperings
In the trunk of his car
Scampered starkly
Alone in the dark
So far far and away
They exclaim
Oh Billy!
Ol'Willy has his fame
Flames but to his back
As he walks away
Really just another *****
A wiley killer killen em
Wily nily willing or not
He's lovey dovey
Shovey punchy
Always feelin hot
When with his silly thoughts
He sees the holes in their knots
And gets off on their thoughts
For the love of the pop
The pop of the ma-gotts
Sopping mind rot
He gets it alot
And when he stops
He froths throbs
Weaves and bobs
Wheezes and sobs
Then sneezes and hes off
To either burn a stable
Or poison a troth
Severe a cable
Or just turn it all off
Offering lovelessness
Amidst pimps
For he is the way
The way of the worlds
Lawful in his lawlessness
He is the glint
Of the harbinger
The bringer of depth
The flint
Of the match maker
Closer to per-fect
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
Air pressure punches the inside of my ears
with a mechanical squeal,
brain flinches to bloodshot eyes.
Choke on this sluggish moment,
and drown in stale air caught
packed in a dense environment.
gasp
Air pumps come on-line.
A flood of oxygen rushes
into a deep breath.
Mind opens to wide eye accuracy.
Seven rows back a man wheezes.
His sad heartbeats struggle to pass.
He wont last long after we land.
Almost non-audible
anti-gravity magnets
confidently hum in rotation.
An effortless glide away from dock.
New tech has pollution in the past,
still the planet suffocates on its remains.
Floating machines filter toxic air
below
White flashes of air push us out to space.
Engines gurgle to life and guzzle
the deep frozen black atmosphere.
Stars stream together in flight.
Look back at the planet’s glow.
Lights flicker to fade through
the waves of a hungry acidic nebula.
Graveyard of the suns.
My shoulder tattoo from the old planet
glows through my sleeve.
Reflections ride across layers of glass.
She peeks at me through her curls
while I clean my weapon.
That wheezing man will be the first
to go.
© Henry Chambers
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
The testy toaster wheezes
a **** and frosty ******
"You sir can't taste
the sweet-meat of cause
if you won't stomach
its bland and crusty effect."
I'll come back to his riddle.
First, the percolator
keeps bubbling up
drips of bitter conversation
I've warned her nicely
to drop before.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 2:10 PM UTC