Peeling back a layer of skin
I’m a voodoo doll so put in the pins
Cut me wide open, come see where I’ve been
This corpse shows how to take one on the chin
Spiritually, I’m dead and that’s just as well
Maybe I’ll come back but only time will tell
Am I going to heaven? Will I go back to hell?
Have I been nursing a psychological spell?
I dance with the devil on all ten of my toes
My face won’t reflect what the autopsy shows
They pull on my petals like a delicate rose
They take life from me but that’s how it goes
The fact is that still waters run deep
I’ve never been one for someone to keep
A Pisces is not for the scared or the weak
So peel back the layers to see the real me
the deer died with her eyes open
which means she watched herself
become field
something permeable
I found her on the third day of autumn—
found autumn wearing her decaying hide
like a hand-me-down dress
the flies had already written their poems
in the metaphors of her throat:
small black punctuation, multiplying
I wanted to close her eyes
but my hands passed through
what I once believed was boundary
later the biologist told me
decomposition is just the body
finally telling the truth
about how many selves were always
inside you waiting to be released—
even the child who never grew old enough
to be revision
now when I say I, I mean the forty trillion
bacteria who call this dirt-body home
I mean the deer
the flies
I mean the light
that passed through her
and landed here
in this poem
which is just another way of being eaten
which is just another word for love
by the porous self
An autopsy of a black body
One who suffered greatly
The body pushed past its limits
To the point it had enough and quit
A scalpel to their chest
Slowly peeling the layers of flesh
Noticing the rot
Hit by the stench of trauma
The body dissected
The organs removed
Leaving the body an empty shell
Of a broken person
Beaten by an unjust system
There was no hope for the body to be saved
It was always going to give away
The person that had owned the body stood no chance
From the trauma to the head
Consumed by the complexities of PTSD
To the bruises on the legs
From a lifetime full of abuse
Carrying a body hated by society
It was like a troubled home
A place that was out of control
Where the quiet screams of abuse
Are trapped within the cracked walls
Bearing the weight of secrets untold
It was damaged beyond repair
No amount of glue could fix the damage of what was done
The body could heal
But the trauma couldn't be undone
The cause of death: racism
This is what happens when you live a life on the run from discrimination
Beaten by the harsh reality of hatred
Isolated by a world full of prejudice
Living in an abyss of hopelessness
our love was a corpse
left to rot in the gutter
festered wounds seeping rot
the stench of our decay
clings to our skin
i am the undertaker
burying the bones of our love
the memories haunt me
like ghosts in the morgue
silence suffocates
a veil that wraps around
our necks, squeezing tight
the truth of our demise
in this darkness, we find
the art of our pain
a canvas of shattered souls
where love once dwelled
now we're left to drown
in the void of our own making
the weight of our regret
crushing us, bone by bone
and when the darkness claims us
our own hands will be the ones
that bury us
they peel back my skin
like old wallpaper,
the stink rising
as the organs, bruised and bloated,
spill out like forgotten secrets.
the saw hums,
cutting through bone like butter,
the ribs cracking open
to a cold, fluorescent light
that never flinches.
the heart, heavy, useless now,
is weighed and tossed aside,
just another lump of meat
in a world that’s always hungry
for the next hollow thing.
looking down on what's left of me,
I turn in dicust
having to do this sll over again.
Staining the floor with her shards
and slicing the hands of the coroner
the broken doll rests in pieces.
Her etched face glances skywards
her beaded eyes trapped staring into the sun.
“Pushed too far,” the coroner says.
Porcelain women weep at the side of the autopsy table.
“Bury the fragments,” the coroner says, the coroner says.
His words move on
but the mourners never will.
He moves on to the next case
but the mourners never will.
He moves on.
But the mourners never will.
If death is considered doubtful then postmortem should be done.
If death is not doubtful but family is doubtful then for the satisfaction and removal of doubts autopsy should be done.
If there is any criminal act involved then justice is right of anyone dead or alive.
4.If post mortem is not allowed by family then there are many other tests which could be done Ultrasound, X Ray, Urine, Stool, Saliva, blood, DNA etc...
& death swallowed my grandmother when i was twelve.
there are some memories that hunt you while asleep
& some spill goosebumps on the fabric of your skin.
i lost count of the nights i pour tears out my eyes,
there were days i keep my fingers steady in the family gallery.
i listened to your voice breaking through the cracked walls,
you lit candles & placed them in the middle of your room,
& then drag silence in your chest &
spoke in tongues and scream at God to keep me safe.
when my scars developed into a city,
with dimmed lights & wrecked lanes,
you ironed smiles on your lips and still kiss me on the forehead.
how do i tell these stories of how your body spent days wearing off its texture from rotten scars?
the dark rooms here still hold your photograph,
the piano in the parlor eats dust
it must have thought about you & felt bored, too.
By: Aloysius S. Harmon is still struggling to beco
aloysius is a Liberian writer and a poet or sunflower.
This is what happens when blade meets flesh?
When your insides breathe more air than you...
Lately I've lost muse to write, love to praise and words of hope,
Instead my pen is but a riotous menace,
Bringing nothing but sirens and horses,
With no compassion nor sentimence.....
So I've been reciting the nicene Creed every morning,
Hail Mary every evening
And holy Communion on Sundays
I need a fresh start,
An autopsy....
To reveal the cause of this pale heart,
This must be what happens when the blade meets flesh,
But I'm a man of flight,
So I've been crafting odes in my dreams of which I never find time to write,
This is beyond sorcery
What hobby is this? Of which it beeseches my intellects deepest chambers and still sings of free will,
Enslaved by the chains I create with my wrist.
The Amourette Autopsy
In vesper’s curt caress there seems no bind
To daylight’s brim or morning’s dire decree-
Your vertigo embrace confounded vows,
Within a steel wheeled cauldron we stirred swamps
We hyperventilated hurricanes
Cajoled embraces, arrogated from
your groom and registry and welling eyes;
Celestial bliss, we buzzed God's prayer vault.
We even deemed the telescopic murk
a trough where genuflections might could reach;
You spun away to opium dens, supine,
I could not trace Icarian designs.
You tiptoed the obituary scene
Without your leaving even a toe’s wake-
But in your swirl you must have slipped but once
in its ambitious, enterprising ink.
Oh butterfly why you abjured your wings,
Regressed to the cocoon womb’s staid address?
I wish I could interrogate your wraith
by dream, concussion, disembodiment.
Enraptured by your sallow soft trained tress-
drapes gaped to manifest seraphic tones
of fairness, though distraught by varying hues
that sapience esteems the bends of life
Imam Hassan.
Bruce lee.
Eva braun.
Georgi markov.
Theodore romzha.
Valterovich litvinenko.
Mahendra Tripathi.
Yogendra sony.
Steve clayton.
Mary yoder.
Stacy robinson.
Note. It is to be said that harshad mehta was Poisoned in jail.
Fomented cycles
address only lonely lips
kiss free denials
"The Autopsy"
They wheeled his body into the room.
Covered with a clean white sheet.
The doctors were methodical,
yet at the same time quite discreet.
They studied it in sections, one area at a time.
and although their search was thorough,
there were a few things they could not find.
They couldn't find the memory of the one he loved so dear,
and they couldn't find the passion that he felt when she was near.
They couldn't find his pride, or the bounce within his step.
Though the smile he had when he saw her hasn't left him yet.
And they couldn't find the pleasure that he felt year after year.
And if they searched his entire body they would never find it there.
Yes the body was being studied to try and find a clue.
Why his life had ended early, why his life on earth was through.
The doctors with all their training didn't know where to start.
For they couldn't have known she left him .........
and he died from a broken heart.
>>
I paint pictures with Words
[email protected]
The Autopsy
This is a good day cold but with sunshine
and hard soil which with a mechanical digger
is easy to open for a newly dead
When a patient dies, he/she is sent down
to the doctor in the basement who do the autopsy
he speaks into a mike takes pictures writes a report.
The doctor in question is obese, smoke cigarettes
when on his breaks, is straight out of a crime novel
written by Mike Spillane
This is a good day with sunlight and hard soil but
there will be no funeral today.
I wonder what they'll learn of me
After a thorough autopsy,
Once my thoughts stop mattering,
And decay takes everything.
I wonder what or if they'll regret,
I wonder if they feel guilty yet.
How much is a human life,
What's the worth of writhing strife?
Can you put a price tag on them?
Can you pretend that we're all gems?
I wonder if my mind will travel,
Once I'm 6 feet beneath gravel,
I wonder if my energy,
Will disperse, unravel me.
I wonder if I'm wondering,
Or subconsciously planning
To have myself cease to exist,
But add my heart to the next list.
Drop me off inside a human,
That is friends with just a few men,
Take away all of my fires,
Let them bathe with my desires.
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