Contort Poems | Examples

Jester

I ascend to the stage, 
I make sure not to stumble or trip.  
They cheer and they boast and they cackle.
They like this new persona. 
A beautifully doctored facade.
Would they like the girl behind the curtains?
They like my makeup and the pigment of my lipstick
Would they like my natural face?

Their teeth blind me
As i juggle my sanity 
Ensuring that the tears that drip
From those tortured balls later on 
Do not waterboard the floor
Their laughs distract me
As i contort my scar ridden limbs 
Into the position of their desires 
Ensuring that i do not break my weak bones

Who am I when the show ends?
Who am I when I take off my makeup?
Who am I when I am not performing?

The ringmaster wears darkness as a disguise 
He watches my every contortion, 
Judging my every breath.
If i drop a ball, if i break a bone -
He will punish me.

He has seen me behind the curtains
He has seen my face.
He is meant to love me.
But - he knows what they want.

I descend the stage
I stumble and i trip and i fall on my face
They cheer and they boast and they cackle
Do those fools think it is another persona?
Or is this my repugnant bona fide image?

Blood Eagle

You bind my hands,
Command me to kneel
For what you know are my final moments.
(Surely you know this will kill me)

You take your axe,
Split me down the middle-
Clean.
And I open.

You rip through my skin,
Tear through my fat,
Destroy my viscera.
Prying each rib open,
With the tip of your axe.

You contort my body into grotesque form,
I let you.
I can be whomever you need me to be.

You watch my heart,
Its movements now erratic,
In the wake of ruin.
The carrier of my pain, my thoughts,
My love.

Even still,
It bleeds for you,
It beats for you,
It burns for you.

My blood pools around your heels,
Staining your feet.
You step away,
Disgusted by the mess you made.

Glass

mother, I’ve been twitching in your sky with chains
masturbating to a blood shot stain 
you crawl like I want to
melt to bone and blue 
you float like angels do
when I touch for ecstasy and bleeding truth
if I ever lived
death wouldn’t sound like orgasms and light 

I wish warmth 
wouldn’t scream contort
when I lie in
glass

Blight

Blight,  

Growing,  

Toxic seeds  

Festering deep  

Within cracking souls,  

Shaded beneath blackthorn,  

Watered by innocent's tears,  

Blooming like demonic cancer,  

Thriving on infinite misery,  

Dissolving veils between conflicted worlds.  

Faltering, earth trembling, Demi-Gods raise  

The pyres of hellfire, hauntingly glow,  

Among backdrops festering hate.  

Eerie silhouettes reflect  

A macabre ballet—  

Twirl, twist, contort sin.  

Sulfuric rain  

Snuffing out  

Hope's rays.  

Blind.

Sky Veil Instinct

Written: March 27, 2025, for Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose

         ***********

Waves into twilight that is now absent.
From flowers clipped just before their ideal flight.  
Irony changes with the pulse and its might. 
Their immaculate poetics is transcendent.  

Her strands of talent are enduring mysteries. 
A tangible awareness during the night.  
Resilient stars, with every beat of a fight.
In an arena of naming, deeds have histories.  
 
The fighting instinct pushes across the sky's veil. 
My heart beats firm for a sight vivid and bright.
Dazzling light: There is hope in sight. 
Emotions contort, akin to an enigmatic tale.

The last dance

Night. Walk in, light the candle, watch as the flame dances across the wall.
Finally, it feels okay. 
Kneel by the side, hopefully by the side of the one who watches.
Tell me that, that it will be alright
…Or take me. 
The dancing ember looks me in the eye. He nods. 
What is it that you want, he asks.
I don’t know.

I watch the body contort, seeping across the table.
Watching the last dance, as the glow slows and twists in an almost agony.
Then laid to rest peacefully.
I can’t help but watch,
Thinking of my own misery. 
In the beginning, there was an end, Death. Please take me.

Who cares

Your tepid favour not really warming to the thought.
There's no alchemy with which to distil a retort.
Comfort is a stretch, lack the agility to contort.
Best I seem to manage is a tireless distraught.

I'm lonely, saves me being an affliction.
My discomfort puts others in an awkward position.
How timely, seemed an effortless decision.
Left me having trouble remedying this condition.

This bitter flavour, sick having to savour such rancid after-taste.
Try to draw conclusions from the mess I have retraced.
Pointless seeking why it's this position I've been placed.
Now all I'll be to you a gap in memory, erased.

Pause for thought

I can feel my tendons contort
The sickening crunch of bones breakage
The skin across my face pulling to a snout
My lips ripping apart as razored enamel
adorns a snap
Can’t stand
Beneath me legs bevel lowering me earthward

I can taste it’s iron on the back of my tongue
My stomach grimaces in tongues of twisters
Left need so far back
My ears ripping into points
Every rustle edible on the nights hum 

My screams no longer have a trace of humanity
Snarling spits and swirls of froth
Just highlights in the slit eyed shape I must become

Wabi-sabi

The beauty of the leaves embraced their difference
As they shriveled ‘neath the sap drained Maple
Celebrating their continuum in the soil
A sadness tinged the sun’s smile

The mindless flocks fled, as did my thoughts
In search of kinder climes devoid of tears
Guided through the present by the past
Sifting through the distant clouds of when

Gnarled trees contort ensnared in climbing vines
Age punished by the neediness of youth
Old men enshrined on crumbling park benches
Children chasing wingless butterflies

Soft lines embrace the aura of a face
Alone against the backdrop of its foes
Walking as the rain turns into mud
Its presence now become a distant stream

Equanimity

a surprise is sprung
of the nasty sort
but the beauty is
our heart does not contort

something has changed
a definitive shift
aided by bliss mists
we see consciousness lift

there’s nothing we did
save relinquishing identity
all that is, is grace
to grant heart serenity

Gnarled

Age gnarls, weather beats skin to flaky dryness. 
Wrinkles and lines, furrows, knots and blotches
Twist and contort the skin of babies and youths
to a knurled, rough, compliant easy to grip surface.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
Despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls and grumbles,
Can be gripped, manipulated and convinced to comply and yield.
For now there is little else to lose, little else to try anew.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to yield.

To Those Who Loved Me

To those who loved me,
Goodbye.

Let the rain wash away the residue of me,
When you think of all the things I did for you-
Don’t be sorry that you sucked me dry.

Let the wind blow away my memory,
When you turn to ask for an outrageous favor-
I’ll  be off putting the pieces of myself back together.

Let go of the ghost you thought you knew me as,
When your cup is empty and dry you’ll have to find someone else-
Someone else to give you life and love and passion.

Let yourself heal and not from anything I ever did to you,
When you cry those over played  tears they will echo-
Off the walls of the empty house instead of inside my  brain.

Let yourself contort me into any villainous shape you wish,
When peace finds me someday it won’t matter-
I am determined to decrown your opinions.

To those who loved me,
Goodbye.

And Then There's This

hmmm...

Hey guys, we need to rethink this.
We're about eight inches short
and I'm not flexible enough to contort
and steal that chunk of Swiss.

Through the Mind of Our Heart

Symbols metaphorical 
Depicting wisdom literal
If interpreted by our mind
Contort meaning assigned
By the seer who has so seen
The realms where he has been
Where he cajoles us to follow
Making joyous heart mellow
That silence may enliven
Wisdom to us so given

30-April-2023

Needs and Wants

I find myself surrounded and alone,
Writhing in agony yet to come.
Is it then, that the purpose of continuation, 
Is simply to find a purpose?
And if so, with this appalling revelation,
Does the purpose slip away?
Stranded and immovable, 
A cold vastness.
Desire, it seems, is unto itself,
Therefore finds itself unattainable. 
As if holding water in its palms,
Inevitably it will all spill away.
The tragedy is in the basic need,
For we must hold that water still.
I find myself surrounded and alone, 
Writhing in agony yet to come.
Still we will strive for dominance, 
For we are told we must.
A self-indulged conviction of the soul,
Yet knowing that lie, does not make it false.
A manifestation of the mind,
That yearns to prove its existence. 
As if all one must do is acknowledge, 
And then so reality will bend.
Perhaps though, this is the truth behind the truth,
To become the arcane master of oneself.
Perhaps we just have not learned to contort,
Our palms to finally hold that water in.
I find myself surrounded and alone, 
Writhing in agony yet to come.


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