Corpse Conscious

Visceral reality

Blood, muscle, and flesh,

All elements of the body

So palpably aware.

A carnal revelation

In litanies of pain

Written by dissection

On cerebellum walls.

So pliable and weak,

So simple to restrain,

So sensitive to touch,

Manipulatable and soft.

Do bones of the starved

Congeal into demons

To slake their thirst

On our living blood?

Do hordes of average men

Yearn for satisfaction

In the sight and feel

Of our mangled forms?

Should I desire much

To be just a ghost,

An incorporeal dust

Just floating alone?

And how would that soothe

The screaming I hear

From a younger sibling

Whose cat ran away?

Thaw Me

Steam over snow

Melting away my dust

Vapor over crystal

I’m desperate to become,

Killing everyone

Fucking away the pain

Just won’t cut it

And I can’t even run,

Smile and a kiss

Without a worry for once

I’m still waiting

I’m still too numb,

Blood over snow

Lounging in my wreckage

Anger over fear

And the damage was done.

Not like this,

Not frozen in my hate,

Please, just a kiss,

I’ve waited for too long,

Please,

I’m so sorry,

I’m ready to move on.

 

A Poetry Poem

I wish I could express

In speech as I do in writing

How much I feel about you,

How heavily I care,

How deeply you affect me,

And everything that means.

Mind to mind,

Or empathy to recognition,

In terms of verbal exchange

Is apt to be uncomfortable.

You can read my poems

And feel me more fully

Than you ever could’ve felt me

Face-to-face.

Extrordinary circumstances

Might expose our true emotions,

But the mundanity of self-consciousness

Prevents a simple telling.

I can try,

And occasionally do well,

But I’ve little hope of equaling

The context of the written word.

I love you.

The Broken Heart Of A Thief

The thief’s heart broke

When sleight of hand failed

To hold onto his refuge

Inside another’s care.

Cold-empassioned power

Over objects he desired

Dissevered him form owning

Up to his affairs.

Compassion held at length,

Practiced sparingly at best,

Serves a frigid education

On attatchment’s frail grasp.

Cleverness and cunning

And other secrets of the craft

Stole nothing more than money,

Indifferent to the last.

Clasped in no one’s arms

And kissed by nothing’s lips

To procure another hour

In which to exist.

The theif consumed a fifth,

Broke the bottle, cut his flesh,

Threw himself through fire

Till he physically was numb,

But the bleeding never ceased

In the lovelessness of loss,

His temper always burning,

Wishing feeling would be done.

At length, despair entrenches,

Cruelly cradled in its womb

With his temper snuffed to ashes

And abrasions scabbed away.

To live or not to live,

To steal and not to give,

Decisions made in silence

Over living on this way.

Is it some force of fate

That the labor he hates

Is the credit he desires

Now that all else is dead?

He begs for bitter toil

As a mercy to his hate,

Hoping somehow to be healed

From his existential dread.

The thief turned to begger,

Not for money or relief,

But for service to another

For submission to defeat.

Humbled in desperation,

Pleading to be re-loved,

Bleating for a shelter

Possessed at someone’s feet.

The heart hurt more than hunger,

The misery worse than rage,

The spleandor of his plunder,

The thief, for love, would trade.

Maturity

Maturing day after day,

“Act your age” is just a phrase,

Natural action happens regardless

Of any percieved phase.

Growing is a pain,

Transition and change strain

Established habits so well

We almost break.

So laying awake,

Dreaming of a peaceful state

Like youth in love with death

For innocence’s sake.

The world shapes,

Hyperactivity anticipates,

The mind trys making sense

While feelings ache.

Some things fade

And sometimes we come late,

But forevermore ageing

The Act remains the same.

 

Pretty Little Flowers

You’re so vibrant

Or rather, that’s what I recall.

It feels vibrant to remember you,

At least.

It was cold

And we were both silent,

Shivering in worlds apart

It seemed.

Somehow, you bloomed

In January’s deadly quiet,

Drearily blanketed as you were,

I perceived.

Thoroughly naked,

Your boldness of spirit

Inspired many, though others thought

you diseased.

I must confess,

The winter left me frightened,

My calloused petals nearly scared

To breathe.

By spring

I hadn’t so much as sprouted,

Even as you were shimmering

In the eve.

You were vibrant.

Yes, I’m sure now you were.

Your vibrancy must have marked you

To those fiends.

I’d noted them,

The howling sons of tyrants

Braying their tempers vehemently

To their weeds.

Utter lust

To the point of carnal violence

Towards such saturated colors

As we.

I lay dormant,

But you swayed on defiant

To be ravaged so voraciously

By those things.

I heard it all.

I shuddered, but I was silent.

Now your swaying has all but stifled

With the breeze.

It’s winter again.

I’m cold and also still quite frightened,

But for our sakes, I promise I’ll finally bloom

Vibrantly in Spring.

 

A Whale’s Song

A resonating moan

From the impenetrable depths

Of frigid blind ocean

Calls warmly.

In submerged gloom,

Glutinous and suffocating,

It solemnly sings

Its name.

Weathered and ancient,

Surviving in such remoteness,

The Whale’s cry penetrates

Through dread.

Sinking in mystery

Closing in and around,

That mellifluent tone

Stilling hearts.

Gallons of pressure

Perpetually pushing down

Merely perpetuate flight

For this giant.

Further descending

Into darkness obscure,

A resonating wail

Sings hello.