We’re absorbed
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
tired brains monopolized
by the clutter of the meal tray,
numbed by hours of jiggling -
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
wedged into
a restricted boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
if an engine fails
few will find the strength to panic,
we’ll keep decanting small bottles
of vin de table,
studiously apply hard butter
to soft buns.
As the aircraft plummets earthward
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small, molded cruets,
glad to be occupied
and totally blanked out
to what comes next -
or whatever.
Enslaved World
Deleted God. Animated psychology.
I love God. I respect God. I want God.
No, no Foggy Psychology.
Life is God. I live for God.
Soul science in my life comes from God.
I don’t want English Psychology.
I want to delete, destroy the dark psychology.
We will do it, clear the world of these poisons.
No this psychology
No this aberrations
I am a human
I am a European
Foggy Psychology
Can’t drive my life
I love
God
Drives me
God
And I
Satan
People are
Anesthetized here
By psychology
Foggy
Enslaved
World
Time has passed
It was a painful bad time, but its memory has transformed someone’s life
Love has completely trampled him, but its power has ruined the heart
Poor poor man, his feelings were numbed and anesthetized by a hope
He doesn't need this hope anymore, his heart and soul have become…
… completely ruined, a longing desire, he loved this lady; sad desire
Oh, what did this phenomenon sight do to him? To a clean soul
The affection he felt extinguished the flame of his heart
Evil's love saw his pain, his lament, the suffering of his heart
Forget this love, my friend, time has passed
Time has passed, and it will never come back
– Said it Master
meet my muse Trixie.
I want to draw.
she wants to play in the Thesaurus.
Trixie is a freebooter, marauder, pirate, she plans to win.
I sketch a monkey, elephant and acrobat.
I am in circus mode.
Trixie slams her green eyes over the big book.
she is persnickety, determined, and forceful.
fat blue Thesaurus is a harpy; she flips open.
I stare at these words - deaden, anesthetized, stupefy.
write them down! Trixie demands.
she is more trouble than a gewgaw, trinket or knickknack.
I avert my eyes, not wanting to play with words
now drawing a circus tent, and a popcorn box.
red and white striped popcorn box has arms and legs.
he sticks out his tongue in maniacal cartoon laughter.
Trixie flips some pages of this dreaded book.
gleaming, sparkling, glistening stand out.
magnify, enlarge and amplify bite me on the left arm.
I am not writing right now! I tell her.
she sticks out her tongue.
eager to work on a magnum opus, creative masterpiece.
I can hardly work on the giraffe.
curious I am to read words where she is pointing
lionize, glorify, elevate
vanish, disappear, dissolve
I begin drawing a lion, trying to break my muse's spell.
meet my muse Trixie.
I want to draw.
she wants to play in the Thesaurus.
Trixie is a freebooter, marauder, pirate, she plans to win.
I sketch a monkey, elephant and acrobat.
I am in circus mode.
Trixie slams her green eyes over the big book.
she is persnickety, determined, and forceful.
fat blue Thesaurus is a harpy; she flips open.
I stare at these words - deaden, anesthetized, stupefy.
write them down! Trixie demands.
she is more trouble than a gewgaw, trinket or knickknack.
I avert my eyes, not wanting to play with words
now drawing a circus tent, and a popcorn box.
red and white striped popcorn box has arms and legs.
he sticks out his tongue in maniacal cartoon laughter.
Trixie flips some pages of this dreaded book.
gleaming, sparkling, glistening stand out.
magnify, enlarge and amplify bite me on the left arm.
I am not writing right now! I tell her.
she sticks out her tongue.
eager to work on a magnum opus, creative masterpiece.
I can hardly work on the giraffe.
curious I am to read words where she is pointing
lionize, glorify, elevate
vanish, disappear, dissolve
I begin drawing a lion, trying to break my muse's spell.
Crabs tip toe along the bottom
daintily picking at morsels
with their crushing claws.
This is an arena for carnivores,
creatures made for tearing flesh,
or picking carcasses clean
with a kiss.
Hinged mouths
engineered for swallowing whole
lay in wait in mud or stalk
weedy hideouts for prey.
Others prowl oceans
fitted with rows of serrated teeth
or have bellies as big as trucks
to house their kill.
Some have arms studded
with vacuum cups
that caress and hide
a deadly beak pouched
just below a brain.
No screams
can be heard here or, if let loose,
find a register in the human ear.
Pain is tapped out in tiny tremors
too subtle for our senses
to feel, death
signaled by a surface splash
or kept out of sight.
The suffering is seismic.
Blake's terrestrial tiger pales
to a pussy-cat compared
to the arrayed instruments
of slaughter that have
a home here. God must love
these killers to witness
the pain of their bite
or else floats anesthetized
in an infinite,
dreamless state.
At first you become aware
of the silence, the strange
quiet laying just beneath
a crust that cakes
the receptors of the soul.
Then slowly what surrounds
you begins to loosen.
Sounds filter through,
whisperings of movement
trickling out of the shadows,
part of song patched
onto a faint whoosh
of wings passing overhead
and the long notes
of the wind through wires
drawn out across time.
Something stirs, stretches
to unsheath nerves
anesthetized by sleep.
Beneath tall trees,
small fingers of light pick over
a scattering of dead leaves
as if looking for something
left there seasons ago.
Floating in vacuum,
morphine intravenous supplied,
pain deadened,
she lies dormant, oblivious to all,
thoughts suppressed,
unfeeling and benumbed
in the emergency cubicle.
Her husband holds her hand,
icy, like winter at its worst.
She moans, eyes flutter,
only to fall asleep again.
Anesthetized she finds rest.
Monitors bleep to rhythm,
steady as she goes just like
a sailing boat on rough seas.
She will survive.
Husband bewildered.
A human vegetable?
Oh no the expert says.
She will be fine.
The husband dials a number,
talks softly not to disturb.
There will be no divorce,
it's best that they give up
and do not meet again.
The woman on the bed groans.
Is that a smile on her lips?
We’re monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
absorbed by the clutter of the food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom, uncomfortably numb.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls, few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table,
butter buns.
As the aircraft plummets
and drops like a stone to certain death
we’ll still be struggling with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers, with small, molded cruets
oblivious now to anything less important.
Echoes from the past
Thunder from the tongue less cavern of the earth
To rouse my anesthetized sail from slumber,
Sutured wounds crack open, oozing fresh flood
As the pain of yesterday visit suddenly
-drawing rivulets from sunken eyes.
Blind eyes see shattered dreams in a shroud
Encircled by living dreams.
The bullet pierces my heart again and again
On its journey to vex my grieved soul.
My ravaged heart leaks out multitudinous emotions
Into a putrid flood.
He wanted to live and earn a living,
He wanted to earn a living and live;
But death riding on the shoulders of brigand said No!
Daily this bitter demise of blood
Lives on in my mind
An Oceanless Beach
What is it to see
but never emerge from the dark?
Children marvel at color,
movement,
perception,
not knowing
control mongers await them,
famished gluttons who relish
adults obviating consciousness.
Some risk pain,
while too few discover
healing is not a poultice
to cover a wound,
but an eardrum,
an eyelid
to remedy contrived storms,
blasts of empty oxygen
programmed to destroy
observation's eloquent gift,
the always present
sense of truth,
or not.
Risk awaits…
Perhaps muddied,
but nevertheless
always at the ready,
actuality's hardened muscles
ready to serve,
to discern platitudes from profundity.
How courageous
this willingness to risk,
knowing to cower
is to embrace that safe place,
ignorance's wanton indulgence,
an anesthetized existence
on an oceanless beach,
where colorless tears
become desolate in erosion’s sorrow.
Poor of the poor
anesthetized by myths,
amazed looks gifts
in services ...
They're equal to light flies
occupying spaces ...
Mirrored moral misery
spreads quickly ...
And the poor goons
admiring false stars ...
Truly the false hairs
heralds that enchant
so much ... they are not men ...
Resemble to
wolves or rats ...!
Corrode pale minds
of the unfortunate "ducks" ...!
We are monopolized
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery;
absorbed by the clutter
of the crowded food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting
small bottles of vin de table.
We must butter those buns.
As the aircraft plummets
earthward,
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small molded cruets.
Bits and pieces of your heart and soul
bits and pieces, fillet and sautéed
for the sad amusement of cruel men with mindless erections
Who snicker and grin
as they lay you down on a bed of nails
Naked and anesthetized
for the purpose of insensate insemination
s and feces, from hearts without soul
s and feces, from cruel little boys, masquerading as men,
with pointless erections, who grimace and sin,
As they fornicate and fail
Naked and cautertized from the meaning of erotic sensations
And that is: sweet tender love and kindness
approximating Divineness
Which the sad woman is so longing for
and the little boy is running from
Yesterday’s sweet corn
now rests among the shucked,
where norms’ victims lay.
Side-by-side in rusty silos,
awaiting the gristmill;
dull substance feeds the masses.
Look at us, Mr. Kipling.
What became of “The Man Who Would Be King”?
Laugh at us.
Anesthetized aspirations
embalmed by mediocrity,
hacks without hopes rest in a garden of low expectations.
Individuality sacrificed,
we are the dull fruit
carried in coffins created by conformity.
What is left to feed the next generation,
but the seeds of monotony
without a kernel of creativity?
*May 26, 2018
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.