Aortic Poems | Examples

Feral Thoughts

Protective barbed wire 
pricking with it’s touch;
Blood just rushed from
the lock on your heart;
Penalized necklace;

Scratches so deep,
there’s no way back;
Feral feelings,
aortic slice;

It’s heavy,
a burden 
in silence;

Let go,
embrace 

love.

A Theistic Cyborg, Part II

Little gods inside my heart 
     where pumping blood is an art. 

 With a mind of their own 
     doth these gods call me home. 

 Little gods with golden hair and a quantum halo 
     perform their task with utmost care as if they were from Cairo. 

 Confined within a job to do
     never resting, always true. 

 Little gods never skip a beat 
      yet one slips beneath his feet. 

 Oxygenating all my cells 
     Is he under the One God’s spell? 

 Then he squeezes up my aortic arch 
     and down through the arterial flow
           struggling against the downward stream . . . 

 He flies out into the world, out my finger’s cut 
     and screams -- 
                    “What the . . .”

Space II

S tars perfectly align [cohabitation]        
e ndless-spaces posing, [a-vast] cosmic, ecliptic, dance of 
  [c ast], at it's (station parting as chaotic entropy).

P ulling g a laxies together, a  [tapestry] in intrinsic entrance of (separate positions adorning culled existence).

A fter eons of celeStial [tide], weaving fate's intricate [thread of] abode to abide (stretching partition arearing capacities extension).

C osmic wonders emerge, in this theater that the universe has advanced as (spreading propellant aortic celled expanse) .

E nergy transfered, transposedly, written and read as (s-ystem p-artition a-spiring c-onnection e-xistensibly.)

Nightclubbing

They wait in the night-lit brightness.
I watch them from an over-magnified telescope;
youngsters and older
some dripping a scent of latent maturity,
a furtive effort to blend and not offend
the judges
who have sly thoughts
in their searchlights eyes.

The bling, the gewgaw glints,
the small of fake gold,
the shot passions of high skirts.

They form ordained disorderly lines
eager to bow before the bouncer,
to pour themselves
into the melee and scrum
the jumping pump of ecstasy.

Night life is wanting, is waiting,
it needs to club together,
to sweat the music,
to throb with the sound
of aortic rhythmic impulses,
to dance upon a crushed floor
breathlessly offering upwards
their erotic prayers,
on baited hooks of desire.

The young must,
they simply must,
and we trust they will be tired one day,
too tired, too busy, too distracted
as we are
to dance death away
while drugs snack on their meat.

You Are the Love

Across an azure sky
 i trailed lonely as clouds
Lost and broken
you unlocked my handcuffs
you are the love,you are the lover

In the ambiguity of reverberence and sonority
 my soul was asleep
 i awakened at the rhythms of your love
 you are the song,you are the singer

In the veils of darkness
  i wandered in the labyrinth of unknown streets
  your glowing face brighten up my path 
  you are the sun,you are the sunshine

In a bushy garden
 i was hidden behind thorns
  you extracted my nectar and pollens
 you are the honey,you are the honey bee

I was at the verge of cardiac arrest
you unclogged blockage of coronary arteries
and cured my traumatic aortic rupture
 You are the heart,you are the heart beat


13-01-2023 
© Muhammad Aamir khan

Not So Romantic Poem

Take a piece of my oversized pumping heart
Make aortic memories, oh so grand
Break not this adoring atrium to start
Quake from the rhythmic beat under your hand

Gain affection from each side ventricle
Plain adoration felt by thick blood flowing
Vein flutters, valves and arteries a-tickle
Rein it in, your romantic side is showing

Not Broken

I understand it feels broken
but only an aortic aneurysm,
or some other medical complication
can callout its appointed hour.

It is not defunct nor done for,
unless it has been ripped out of you
with a stone knife
by some blood-crazed Aztec priest
while you were still alive.
It was never a thing to be sacrificed.

It is not poisoned unless you poison it.
If it’s still beating
then it is still wired-up to your soul,
still the time bomb it was created to be,
still working for your eyes to open
to an even greater love and reality.

Your heart will break
when it forsakes you for a higher mission
until then -
take heart.

Rosa Canina

She has coughed red
aortic blooms on kitchen towels.

The blood has a black sheen,
a puddle full of storm-clouds.

I tug the fur around her throat
until she forgets.

Albert Einstein

Albert Einstein
Born - March 14,1879
Died - April 17,1955

Einstein died of an aortic aneurism at the age of 76 and the pathologist removed his brain to study it and find out what made him so intelligent.                              
His peers said he was a man of child like quality that made him totally unsophisticated and without worldliness.

Albert Einstein
His teachers thought his abilities limited,
But his genius went down in history,
And his brain, after death was exhibited.

Rosa Canina

She has coughed red
aortic blooms on kitchen towels.

The blood has a black sheen,
a puddle full of storm-clouds.

I tug the fur around her throat
until she forgets.

Albert Einstein

Albert Einstein
His teachers thought his abilities limited,
But his genius went down in history,
And his brain, after death, was exhibited.




Albert Einstein
Born: March 14,1879
Died: April 17,1955

Einstein died of an aortic aneurism at the age of 76 and the pathologist removed his brain to study it and find out what made him so intelligent.
His peers said he was a man with a child like quality that made him totally unsophisticated and without worldliness.


For Battle of the Clerihews by PD

Heart Wit Claim

I'm boring through your ventricles
I'm being terribly invasive
My quiet warm breath 
Keeping measure and pace
         To such meticulous work
Fills your four chambers
         You don't feel one thing
         You feel everything
So close, so intimate
         My eyelids flutter against your tricuspid valve
My whole body is fluttering now
         Because now
         With my lips brushing against your aortic rigatoni
         I am swimming inside your deepest being

Your heavy pumping heat
My legs now dangling out of your pulmonary noodle
I've become miniscule in this glorious museum
That keeps you alive
Forgive my exit now, my darling,
This time in your heart has changed me
You are the force which wobbles this reckoning world
This I realize

        Miraculously sliding up
        Your superior vena cava

*Matthew Caliri

Ode To Small Birds

A shiver of Appalachia
superfine sugar of maple
windblown through the spine
tingling in a burst of aortic air
Inhaled as though fresh but by
the mountains rendered spent
the slightest reminder of
organic perpetuation fiercely painful
and entirely disembodied, each moment
blanketed by eternity and the hereafter;
primordial yet ethereal, a shadowy glimmer
of final destiny.
(While) in the treetops, the heron and the wren
speak peacefully as they observe
the rising of the sun.

--
For Lydia Davis and Susan McKeown

Tide

Gemstones on a shoreline
maladjusted to the saltiness of fallen tears
basted in the din of sunbeam atoms colliding
the neap, a resting time from mortal waveforms
towed beneath the sanded plasma of sinking unblown glass
a final lash, a glinting sorrow, an eternal goodbye
so many facets unturned, a reminder of the emptiness
no shimmer on the barren plains of shore, a reflection
of the once and final aortic beat

Graffiti Prayers

iconoclastic, aortic valves..

 toppling through stone nerves
 seperate the steel brow, the cement 
tongue 
 and holy mother from her child.

 yet still the public squares give birth, 
 doing a little more with the willing. 

see the skinny ones wander. 

all those holy incarnate youth who 
highlignt 
the shadows at night with their dark 
hooded coats. 

 some have pockets filled with tin saviors, 
some condoms and  some ciggerett's.

 shake, shake, rattle and shake.

 robotic graffiti filled fist poured out like 
liquid
 prayers forgives a few of the more 
common spaces. 

 ugly bertha with her iron curtain veiled 
about
 her spray painted in rich angelic colors 
refuses
 to remain silent any longer.

  unvielling her aged face, revelling the 
gray mortered
  lines who crippeled so many. 

  ugly stomped out bertha crumbling 
naked into every public square.
 
she cry's a little from her unsentimental 
paved skin.

 all those sterile cinderblocks baptised 
and forgiven
 with the rattle of a tin can.
  
 tagged and made holy under the 
lamplights with shades of 
 citron and bright orange.

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