Cauterized Poems

Old Flame

Unexpectedly, I heard she was still alive.
She had been living (as a flame),
in a room
I had made for her in my mind.

I had kept her there tucked away,
sedated and forever young.
Now I hear she is alive, though a little arthritic,
and living in Sussex with four cats.

Of course, the affair must now cease.
The fantasy cauterized,
her body heat squeezed out of my bloodstream
like a spicy toothpaste.

I should hate for her to see me as I am now
besides my own youth has become a ghost to me,
but perhaps just one more time
I will enter that secret place
where I know
she waits for me, still smiling seductively.

of shuttered minds and darkened hearts

What foul wind has blown them shut
Let shadowed fingers seize a heart
Silence the drumming beat of truth
Closed the doors betwixt age and youth

How has the acrid stench of doubt
Cauterized once open minds
Denying all but what they fear
Rebut with silence all they hear

Then tout with words of dueling gods
The evils of each others words
Unleashing with vitriolic breath
A love of life now steeped in death

The Wizards world a dream uncertain
Controlled by those behind the curtain

Broken Warriors

Broken soldiers
Splintered dreams
Huddled
The horror of now
Haunted
By the horrors of then
Scarred, sutured,
But as yet
Un-cauterized
Wounds
Forever bleeding
Into their present

Sunset Over the Bay

It was as if all vengeance 
was set to touch down here 
upon the blazing waters
of the bay. The air turning
fiery red and a big sun burning 
through into the sealed
catacombs of the head.

But in truth all was passing
in an earthly quiet save
for the solitary cry of a gull
riding the last light home 
to roost and the sound
of water lapping the pier.
In another time everything
was cauterized 
by a smothering fear
and found no voice.
Demons carried 
a white hot cross.
The colors of a setting sun
gave to eyes a palette 
to paint the furnaces of hell.

Now - here in this light
and in these distances spanning
the bay's wide waters, 
small boats move 
and leave fiery wakes 
upon the mind that linger
for a while 
then heal to a reflective still.
The evening settles back,
as old men do,
into a deepening silence.

Proposals For Upgrading a Company

It was a dragging argument
For the need to funds augment:
Ten voices in Duke's Department,
Their owners in Fred's Apartment;
Not sure of Duke's contentment
With talks on firm's new investment:
Mention of fridge,no compartment...
All men shouting: poor comportment!
"This company is reputed,
   Even as it is refuted"
   Still motives being imputed;
   To staff's quest for The Computed..."

Demanding The Computerized;
Not having staff characterized,
A chapel for The Lutherized,
Sick bay for sores not cauterized,
Release of machines customized,
Ears for complaints though glottalized;
The work load of staff minimised...

"Profit shall still be maximised."

Audio-Wise  And Odd symphony
Staff's voiced thoughts on 'strong company'.

Old Flame

Not knowing she were alive or dead,
I kept her memory sedated
in the three-walled room.

Now I hear she is alive
(though a little arthritic),
and living in Sussex with four cats.

Of course the affair now must cease,
the fantasy cauterized.

I won’t, after all these years,
visit her.

I may write a letter,
with a promise to call one day,
but she will not be there anymore
and nor will I.

Sacrifice

beat, bellow and decay,
      is there nothing more,
cold liquid crimson,
      colorful tainting,
      fallen from within,
 
down dark corduroy,
      to the bridge's end,
      descending stairway,
      plunge into the abyss,
baptism by fire,
cauterized spirit,
fresh wounds pass away,
      clear the dross,
      to set the stage,
      away with held breathe,
 
how it kills us,
to learn, to listen,
      freedom within dependence,
the scent of melon,
the night fragrant,
      senses awakened,
      memories lead on,
through velvet poetry,
 
      softly sleep soothes,
      lines drawn with the shades,
      where sand buries lies,
these translucent chameleons,
      change like water,
      the cages weaken,
relinquish their quarry

Saturated In Solitude

SATURATED IN SOLITUDE

The sweat and toil of snowflakes fall like great big oaks.
Silent when no one’s around to hear, but I hear them call.
I sweep the bounty flakes with the soul of my boot. Folks
absent from this flight of serenity, solitude of downy strokes.
The tip of my tongue cleansed. Soap petals after the brawl.

Shivering satisfaction, saturation of snow queen’s court.
My hair ribboned in whitest white of purity and regal right.
Eyelashes gather wisdom’s chill, woolen hands wield forte
of legible knowledge. My sacred head cauterized in port.*
Saturated in solitude, my bruises and scars see the light.

4/16/2018
Laura Loo’s Rhyme Time 2

Fictional account
*port - sweet wine

Despair Trigger

I'm thinking I have a disease
Despair has gripped me by my feet
Dragged me down to the cold floor
And used me until I couldn't take it anymore

I found a cure to eternal life
Slower and longer than a rusty knife
But it hits me just the same
Cauterized with a smoky flame

My throat is burning
Fingers turning
Over a lighter and a smoke
And my brow is soaked

How long til something finally breaks?
How long until it's more than I can take?
I'm too exhausted to even talk
I'm being worn down like the smoothest rock

I try to strike the match again
Burned my fingers and my smoky brain
A sudden fear comes back to me
Won't you come help me lose my memory?

It's getting easier
To fail to please her,
My addiction to despair
Is stronger than for air

I'm a victim of my own design
I am my own executioner
I'm a victim of my own design
I am my own worst enemy

Broken Hearted

BROKEN HEARTED

I loved greatly a man 
Who loved me not 
I offered all I had to no avail

I fell head over heels
I acted foolishly 
And now I pay dearly 

To love and 
to not be loved in return
Is a grievous assault on my emotions 
My heart is mangled
My mind is in turmoil

I know not which way to go
Or what to do
A desolate man I am
For the love I craved
Was never given me 

A series of heartbreaks littered our tango
The fantasy in my mind blotted 
All but what I wished to hear 
See 
Or feel
I was as ignorant as I truly wanted to be 

My hopes have been cauterized from my psyche
Reality now inflicts severe trauma 
Maiming me 
I now see that my love has no reciprocity

Alone I am now
Still wishing you would come back to torment me
I crave any contact 
I can regain with you
How I wish I could banish my loneliness 
And find myself close to you 

A broken heart I will ever have 
I will pine to eternity 
For more than the friendship 
You never offered me

The Undiscovered Artist

striving endlessly to
preserve her/himself in
amber,
having spent no time to pop out
the biological pez that 99% of others do,
rather instead,
working to put more 
cultural seed out into the
world,
s/he would be at a loss,
the greatest that s/he had ever known,
if in fact,
s/he was found to be interesting
in the eyes of the easily pleased, neon,
five second exposure, 
that makes & breaks those who 
might’ve spent a lifetime 
creating a vast amount of precious
things,
which generations later
might be able to use
in order to stand on the proverbial giant’s
shoulders &
keep the wave splashing up against the
shore of
continuous
creativity---
the irony is that to be found is to be
decided upon, evaluated &
shelved, whilst one is still alive & 
breathing,
killing one’s greatest love so quick 
with the label of 
“style”---
as if reinvention & the fun that accompanies 
an artist doing so,
would be cauterized by the consuming
public.

Minus the Regenerative

the mirror takes no
prisoners, for it doth
reflect all the ugliness that
composes the present &
very real
you
that stares back,
smashing again & again
with fists full up to the brim
with conglomerated 
rage---
it grows back,
faster than the hydra,
whose tentacles lash back
in the face of all
uncompromising
&
stark
reality---
with the ambition of youth
burnt away,
barely noticeable in the
ashtray of one’s fading
existence
&
the future curling up ahead
in a brand new open
flame---
balancing on the high wire
like Kurtz’s snail
slinking along the
razorblade---
hating that so much is lost &
dreading that so much is left to
live,
with all the good memories
echoing like a searing pain that
cannot be cauterized,
yet cannot be followed up with
any newness 
whatsoever---
minus the regenerative power of
the broken mirror that
reveals all cruel deterioration,
Orwell’s laughing in his grave,
for the deserved image of
50 is driving rapidly like an 
oncoming train &
you better believe that 
there
are
no
brakes.

Scar Tissue Calligraphy

Counting crows crackle to be free
The cauterized blessing you sold to me
Hangs by the door nail in tombstone majesty

What did we say
When blackholes stripped breath away
Are the promises murdered in flight
Sharpening again in poise of night

Electronic souls dash and torn
The emblem of false exchange is born
When you gave what we agreed
Something missing in hearts seeking relief

Now the misused caliber rocks and treads
Calligraphy on the wall, stories we feed
When rumination pursues without ease
Or tear from history when we please

Trading Post

On this seashore djinn

Halcyon echoes ebb and flow

Cauterized banter scrapes by

As bath water bubbles march together

 

At the dock yard dalliance

Ruffled men shake their sails

Top hats and whales nailed down

Striking the flash iron for new waves

 

Dress up ladies dash their spice

Holding tongue for murmurs and rights

A fine detective ensemble segues

Family dinner bells and porch lights

 

We are all splashed around

Anchors down and cartons crashed

Searching for the right trade

To mingle and go on our way

You Must Set Yourself On Fire

A thousand midnights tread,
Highwire circus acts
Traversing the lavender Horizon-crease;

I memorize such sudden perforations,
Keep them under my swollen tongue
Only to purge them gracelessly
Back into your fist.
Replace my stumbling almost-words
With vastness:
A self-induced universe freckled by
Cauterized cigarette burn stars
And half empty beer cans.

I fill my lungs with feral smog,
You fill your head with smoke;
My nose trickles blood freely.

And if it was not for such ongoing facades--
Psuedointelect, rabid romances,
My world on unstable axis--
We might have,
By now,
Enshrined our Hearts in plaster molds,
Traded our eyes for seaglass pebbles.

The cherry blossoms have yet to bloom under
This hemisphere of the city:
Bare branches claw against dusk
and, in masochistic frost,

You burn your fingerprints into
My back.



"You Must Set Yourself on Fire"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith

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