Scab Monster

I wanted Vicious
but arrived before Savage

found it more appropriate
is that a problem? the choice
bisects the purpose's reason

I'm slicing off bits of my fingers
offering them up in their palms
I'm eating dried bits of my fingers

________


i have no ambition, it's disgusting.
I want to sit down at a table and instantly excel at something.
i seem destined to be an absolute failure.
i miss the easy life: round meals with meats and vegetables prepared by my mother: i never had to pay. sulking in my room when things didn't go my way. going out on the weekends for x and y and returning for a rent free soft bed.

i want to blame everyone for my problems.
but it's me. it's me. it's me. it's me!!!! I get it. I need a do over!
my childhood was a failure. i partied and thought a lot about how to have fun, never how i would get ahead in the future. now it's now and i'm done. I'm in limbo, nowhere. Utopia. What a fucking disaster. MoveOn.fuck

midnight-word experiment 1 & 2

the string — taught, fragile — & wrapped

fingers. Clocks lose harmony, rolling clouds

dampen the night sky,

blotter, beaten,

choke out contrast,

I fear,

this delicate tie may be the only universal

binding, no love

not desire

a simple existing

Without prescription,

the delicate timing of a knot's design &

binding  our fear —

The ascending sky, black scraping out along the wide white shapes, 

water-pigment floating &

We do not panic in the loss of our independence

Mimic beauty, our bodies riding side-by-side 

_____

Jagged and flat on the night

& cut into there

Look now! It's what

you expected not: All Breath

and Structure. Bound in dissimilarities 

sickness.  I've turn away

Scars what i reveal

there

at the site of this inspection

puckered

(where cut)

& bloody

(where stitched)

not yet healed

not yet

shattered or

I've found myself, cursed,

the discovery,

so vain

so insignificant

our tired pursuit

bowed in deference

addresses the devastation

affections drip from the opened body

a perfect meter

in violence & transit

a Storm for the Stars

my hand

across your lips

no one here

implying no one

to reaffirm life,

to vandalize our truth,

blithe, boost,

no gilded angel

at the gates of dawn.

emortualis

king-sized bed, question of comfort,
that kind of thing is no concern

_____

lists are metaphors for real conversation
non-random variables conjured in presence
curiosity, hopeful connections / expectation

bent for sound, unreal inside a crowd's eye
never meant for the smash of purpose

_____

ZZzonZzz i heare:

footsteps, at. my. back.
creak
ing door

ringing pinging
into the hallway
, onto convenience

tip plucking keys
smooththen sudden
Stop

warm buzz wait below
i follow it, head first.

abuse & leisure / ugly women

still no shoes, nor the virtue of shoes,
same piercing gravel road, neither
the purse to spy a map nor compass
but how i've bumped this great vacant villa

where lies an ottoman
for my abuse & leisure
beside that: a chair, a fireplace
for care, great care and staring

where i rest, my legs
forgiven and mind set
to share a burden of waking
one morning -- i wake unshod.

--

1
ugly women deserve
jealousy, eyes like slits
in a steam pipe, fat
with unchecked rage & hands
sublime, unclenched.

a black and white dress, petals
hung from a dim lamp; darting
two-thumbed jewel; scanning
the longest legs, not-your's hair
& unimagined fulfillment

if your face was more symmetrical
you'd be a poem or limerick, though
time to all false unveils, and in wind
embraces the gate into love & powder

2
our journey's race run
the blister feels earned
uneven, puppeted: I've come
to love your single swooping
uneven cheek, it's tenuous play

hands laid onto the war
pulling breath from my chest,
witnessing your name
returns a calm even strength.

Terpitude + M-W Poetry Project p1: Metaphor of Anemone / and Failures

Quick Explanation: I've been slacking with my writing recently. Between my job and 'extra curricular' activities, in a dark, dark corner somewhere I find a little solace and sneak away to write sometimes, but it's not enough. So I've designed a quick and simple writing exercise for myself ala college Sophomore-era creative writing classes: Merriam-Webster jets me a 'Word of the Day' email everyday, so I'll take that as an opportunity to provide myself with a promise of, at least, to have a puzzle-work ingredients for a poem everyday. However, if a poem takes more than a day to write I won't expect to abandon it simply because a new word arrives.

Cool, so here is today's coffer:







Merriam-Webster’s



Word of the Day



July 6



turpitude \TER-puh-tood\
noun
Meaning
: inherent baseness : depravity; also : a base act Example Sentence
The judge declared that the murders were the product of a gross moral turpitude.



Did you know?
"Turpitude" came to English from Latin by way of Middle French. The Latin word “turpitudo” comes from “turpis,” which means "vile" or "base." The word is often heard in the phrase "moral turpitude," an expression used in law to designate an act or behavior that gravely violates the sentiment or accepted standard of the community. A criminal offense that involves "moral turpitude" is considered wrong or evil by moral standards, in addition to being the violation of a statute.






Heaped upon muscular hooks mass the messes,


the pile washes with sea water, anemone


slowly creeps into blackness

blue at extremes, crawling further.


Biology's virtue sweeps away their sadness: Filtering the neurotoxin


Note to self: Refine around metaphor of Anemone/Turpitude



AUGUST 1 UPDATE:
Initial experiment was a complete failure. As with moth endeavours, as soon as the thing was begun I psyched myself out of the required work. This is the ultimate problem of my life. I could give it an easy label, "Fear of Success," but that feels... cheap. Easy. I keep finding myself suggesting a deeper investigation. A second look. Like those behind me who can separate fun and work and are constantly looking over my shoulder, complimenting and/or ridiculing. There is no difference. Is this a poem? Maybe, a little. Not really. Sometimes it's fun to just trail off and let the words pave the way. So that's that.

Watching Comedian earlier today led me to thoughts of how Life is just hard work. In the barrel some lives float to the top, others settle toward the bottom in the shift caused by the upward motion of those who succeed. Generally, it seems to me, I do not have the propulsion to succeed but have the desire for something greater. My failures of person constitute that sinking feeling. I'm forced to choose between easy and up.

Easy or Up?

Everyday is a sort of fork where any decision you make can greatly influence the rest of your life. In either way. Anyway.

I'm done beating the horse.

George (Autopilot)

something so lite so overwhelming
the rise
the sad
sand, sinking all
dog barks, a reminder
some live for questions and some
love livid reality, lapping at the marrow.

what a strange eastern european tradition,
lapping at the piddle marrow, when there's so much
meat circling the bone.

if unspoken, tradition
shutter a whispering
need, call it a habit.
and if you turn off a thing
never desired

something so lite
so overwhelming
the rise, the sad sand, the sinking
all dog barks, some live for questions
some love livid reality, lapping at the marrow.

(incomplete first draft)

Delta: Flight 80 (Unfinished: Will be led)

Punctured plane window,
A variant of any death,
The numbers fall away:

Now, in fear, she is equalized
Sound erased ­-- In sloppy strokes,
a child rubs the butt of his hand
Over half-dimmed pencil marks --

Now, placated and abundant:
Reference point a descent;
Reference point distant,
Controlled by a panicked calm

Punctured plane window,
The ice collects in rivulets
Around her eyes,
Nose, mouth and ears:

The child perched upon the branch
Smiles in spite of the bash
Pushed into to her, the love of her father
Don’t sit too close, never under the window,
Don’t offer, don’t give, don’t negotiate, and never winnow.

This time, reflected, never winnows
Blood pools at the puncture’s knees
Calls for immemorial, never screams
Violence and all her ungracious grabbing.

Lovely Rita

It's so easy to miss the off ramp,
drumming up the wheel
and screaming raw your lungs.

Calaca #2

down victor
victor drown
black town
scare kids
creeping around
blackout light
ride it out
drown victor
black town
underwater
underwater
underwater
eyeless vision
no never not not
no not never never
victimless revision
black town
down victor
drown town