Best Dismembering Poems
Soozie was angry with her boyfriend, Bob
Tried dismembering him but botched the job
Disgruntled with all men
She vowed to try again
When she found him in bed with her friend, Rob
Soozie was livid! You should've seen her
She couldn't hide her savage demeaner
This time her plan would work
She would castrate the jerk
Missed again...charged with a misdawiener
Bob's thingy is the size of a pickle
When he goes potty, it's just a trickle
He screams her name..."SOOZIE!
You were such a floozie!
Then you became a witch, an ice cycle!"
"...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track." C. G. Jung
"The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal." Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends
those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate
then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes and opens again
and again
till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling all thought or is it mere doubt
the intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths
then the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussednesses
to this world
to words
to wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a world dying
dead
a tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what eyes make belief
even when words don’t mean what they see
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3, 1997[Revised May 2003] -from longhand notes: a binding of poems. 1997
A relay of moods dribbles on and on
when euphoric tunes kick in:
Jazz, R& B, slow funk, wild pop
igniting primal ecstasy, in the flesh...raw!
Live music leaves me breathless
as thuds of a drum, the intricate fondling
from saxophones blast these veins...
until intoxicated head convulses,
Pulse beat raised at 110, my torso
gyring in motions unknown—
the cortisol of anticipation surging
adrenaline doses gushing...just then,
Philip Bailey whams a falsetto,
higher than high in a climatic lift;
my whole body possessed without Reasons
on Fantasy’s electric stage—
Another grasp of dismembering reality lures
where smoky thirst begs for more notes;
an elevated zing which drugs my soul …
yet, nights ask for more live concerts.
4/17/2019
For Anthony Slausin: Your Amphetamine Contest
----------
Earth, Wind and Fire Live Performance
Manila, 2009
Lead Singer: Philip Bailey/ Songs: Reasons, Fantasy
Sample video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1FN6X_86NY
I see her in her pure white dress
She is attractive but far from virgin allure
She’s like a paper doll delicate and quick to burn
Quick to drown under the dark cloud’s waters
A witch child among all her sins
She hexes me until I feel disturbed and dismantled
Haunting me, calling me, I don’t want to get away
Going insane let me feel the pain I will not plead
I undress her, I can feel her soul is dead
Her body is raw and numb
Her body begins to curl from cunnilingus
My blood flows down her face, she does care
My blood flows down her arms, she doesn’t care
Underneath the demonisms I think I see a slither of a soul
Not so far from all that is from unearth
She wrecks my dismembering dreams
My heart begins to bleed for her
Starting solemn times
Stain my mind, pleasing my sick thoughts in my head
Undress her sickened mind
My heart utters gently: you are seven;
I am too. Yet, the bloom of womanhood
carries us now unto fields where
spiced pleasure and abandonment mingle…
I reminisce our childhood years, when as a girl,
we would look out the bay window
till late evening, awaiting Dad’s arrival.
How cold those months while we freeze
in longing, in tireless dismembering
from an absence you , I could not bear:
oh, we escape through storybooks, art-play,
even dialogues with a guardian-moon
allowing the release of damn cries, ‘ We don’t
need a soldier, we need a father!
Although the fear of sudden loss remains,
this navel spins in unified order; knowing
he loves us despite his passion for freedom.
It is about time we embrace a wholeness
ordained by healed seasons… then to dance
around the fire, under dusk’s awakened joy;
searching for the magic of stars…and treasure
each purpose of Dad’s cherished footprints.
..................
Laura Loo Contest: Any Poem Won in November ( not from mine)
Written 10/17/2017
Resubmitted: 12/3/2017
Contest: What Child Is This
Heart is where my home finds graceful relationship,
where my soul simply breathes
beneath my memories of becoming,
of being at my best,
sometimes my worst,
but always my most full, complete,
most abundantly contentious
and both loudly out
and quietly in
content.
Home unveils life's liturgy.
This home wherein I was conceived
and born
rebirths me each dawn
and decomposes all my dreams
where I grow up and out,
where siblings moved away
from whom I married,
from where I buried my grandparents,
and then my parents.
As my body houses identity
my home houses body.
While home and self-identity
I can distinguish,
one self from other,
this is never a benign
or wisely severe discrimination;
better as a distinction
without prospects today for contented difference;
dishearted separation.
My soul and mind and body fade and wilt
withdrawn by force and circumstance
from embryonic being.
To awaken or sleep away
in any profanely alien place,
without power or even hope to return
to more sacred memoried space,
fades my eyes and ears and nose,
my skin down to my spinal bones,
despair this senseless loss of sense
of life and breath and bread that once was mine
and could be mine to share again.
My home is where I live
my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life
flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly
on my backyard river of memory,
greeting ducks and swans
herons and eagles soaring by
to hunt this fertile rippling home with me
now fading into memory
as shades of sympathy
not entropy,
sad self-isolating apathy
from my heart's dismembering womb.
Lavish price for a new bodied home
invites sublimating new constructions
with best familiar practices and intents,
artifacts of golden memories from past days
and life
and loves
reframed by unfamiliar
but grace welcoming
trees
and birds
and a few persistent weeds.
BRIGHTNESS BEMUSED
Hindered and hampered by heartache
Splintered and splattered by the splendor of a seductress
Worn and torn by torment’s temper
I am a burning bridge banned from any buttress
Haunted and taunted by the vestiges of vagrant romance
Stranded and disbanded by a beauty born of galactic grace
Hurting and spurting the fluid of a life now meaningless
Lamenting a lust for loveliness laden in lingerie of lace
Tormented and fragmented by the fear of recollection
Remembering the dismembering of delight
Days bedazzled by a bed of buds and bemusement
Brightness that led to the bowels of a never ending night
© 2009…..free cee!
I've come to take a life,
and I'm searching for a certain Poetic Parasite.
Blood drips from my poetic knife,
and I'm placing him in the soup spotlight!
You know how I slice and dice,
So you can call me Michael Meyers!
Lay on my pentagram and be my sacrifice,
and feel my poetic fire!
I love how you run and hide,
chasing you on this site is such a thrill.
You better not commit suicide,
I want the satisfaction of this kill!
This site will be like Crystal Lake,
Dismembering this poet like Jason!
Talking about the Butterfly was your worst mistake -
So you better call a freemason!
You told me to burn in hell,
LOL, I'll gladly do so!
But I love having you under my spell,
So let me hit you with this TKO.
Stop cowering behind that woman's skirt.
Stick out your d#@n neck,
I swear it won't hurt,
Your head I've come to collect!
Look into my handsome face,
as I decapitate your head.
I'm placing it on my trophy case,
and this is gorier than "Night of the Living Dead!"
I want to eat out your heart,
kinda like Jeffery Dahmer!
I wanna blow your whole being apart -
So call me the una-bomber!
Remember when you called me a worm,
as you lay bleeding at my feet.
I've come to rid the soup of your germ -
So Trick - or - Treat!!!
Soup Family Happy Halloween - kids be safe!
The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights
The rain and a sigh
The silence before a daring drop
A calm utterance of hope whilst sharing a prayer
A well-timed gaze
An avid expectancy
Followed by a tickle of surprise
A thoughtful offering
No money can buy
The word “adore”
Amongst a woodland wild
A deep kiss in cold places
The heat between eager lips
Literatures of fondness
Dismembering time and space
A lingering tune
With a poignant resolve
A Heart's Deep Song
Grant me for sweet remembrance sake
Some golden gift that I may take
With me into that region
Awaiting me when love is gone,
The jewel that held thy fragrant hair
Against the winds of March; a share
Of lavender thy fringed lawn
Nestled among until dawn;
A broken bridge, a tattered string
Of thy deep lute's dismembering;
The many-beaded beryl zone
That thy still orisons hath known;
Or, that my heart may be at ease,
Tell me the bliss thy vision sees;
Sing me the secret of thy faith
That I may find thee beyond death.
R.J. Lindley,
April 17th, 1972
Note-
In youth I sought the winds that sing aloud
bringing in music of each new day
I was bold, hungry and quite proud
yet life's selfish yearnings got in my way
Looking back, great life was there to be had
if only my anger had not held sway
I was so wild, crazy and yes, a bit bad
for which truth and justice made me pay
Ah, but who hasn't regret about youthful misdeeds
about fine treasures so stupidly lost
I that happily sowed far too many dark seeds
sadly now reap, the inevitable high cost
When youth in folly thinks not but then leaps
should it shock, to find, Fate plays for keeps
Started as just a short note--turned into an unfinished poem.
My muse taunts me today... at her sweet pleasure..
... Is dead, no more moves to make, is a cold hearted killer and wants more, your child
died sooner, now this fellow and who is next? The man bends down to his victim and with
the saw starts dismembering the body in front of you, your adrenaline rushes quick and
your eyes wide open to how far can it go, legs, arms, head separated from the body, now
the man stands and walks to you, with no mercy draws a knife and stabs you in the stomach,
your world gives a quick flash back in all good moments and the reason why you live on,
your dead child and your soul companion, now you don't want to die without giving up a
fight, so on you struggle with death to not take your soul, bleeding deep the man sits
like a child in front of you, you raise your head to see clearly and another flashback
comes to your mind, the man you spilled the coffee early in the morning, the man who
walked away and didn't accepted your forgiveness, so on you cry with pain, a psychopath is
on your house and murdered your family and you are the target, so you gonna die, the man
stands and picks up the saw, grabs you by the neck with no mercy, choking you on, he raise
you high with demonic strength and with the saw starts cutting you in half but your not
dead yet, you scream silent with mouth covered and pain makes your eyes fade, half way
trough and your not dead yet, the man keeps back and forward and slices you in half, your
last exile for man kinds future, the man walks away, next morning police is there, murder
number 147 in 7 all that goes of year, so your name is on a list of cold cases, 10, 20,
30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, and keeps counting the years been stone cold case, so never you
will hear a word from justice...
Is this the world we live on?
TIBET
My country is my heart.
The land is my body.
People came with sharp machines.
Maiming my limbs,
Dismembering my insides.
Without permession,
Without pay.
My soul is forced out of my body.
My blood turns rancid, poisonous.
They gouge deep wounds over my body.
My tears are as rain.
I want to protect me.
I feel too weak.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
I, so powerless under Chinese violation.
I am in excruciating pain.
Can you hear my cry?
Silently,
In blackened sea.
Drifting through,
Miraculously.
Wandering,
Through open space.
Experiencing,
The endless haze.
Balancing,
Infinity.
Discovering,
Divinity.
Completely,
Surrounded.
Serenity,
I've found it.
Nostalgia,
Remembering.
Family,
Dismembering.
Memories,
Attachments.
Their faces,
Abandoned.
Identity,
Nationality.
Murdering,
Rationality.
Becoming,
Nothingness.
Remove from me,
I suffer less.
Barriers,
Obstruction.
Witnessing,
Destruction.
Vanquishing,
Factually.
Breathing in,
Apathy.
Disintegrate,
Eruption.
Integrate,
Reduction.
Understanding,
Perception.
Bathing in,
Deception.
Bondage,
Mortality.
Freedom,
Totality.
Enlightenment,
Discovery.
Acceptance,
Recovery.
Spiritually,
Flowering.
A black hole,
Devouring.
Eternity,
The open void.
Learn from thee,
Then destroy.
www.facebook.com/adistortedreality13
www.allpoetry.com/Disco_Bloodbath
On a wrinkled trajectory
the blood averts to abstract remission,
I am out of place in time and history.
Try to nudge the jumping ants
with their cyberweapons
ready to strike the antique nectaries
of judgements. The predators were
coming. Killing for long necks and
pinkish lips. You envision a period..
of dearth for visage, for phrases
of dead skins: I start dismembering
the past, contained in future.
This was a total disaster of unknowing,
adrift between the fingers;
sands of time, ungrained, unwatered.
SATISH VERMA