The
Nights
Fury
Lacerates
Into tortured flesh
Fiery hailstones slowly embed
Underneath wailing dermis, sorrowfully bruising
A misplaced poet, madness gradually invading like rabies cultivating
Within tainted bloodstreams, forgotten faces liquify into frothing depraved moonbeams, psychedelic hallucinations corrupting
Underworld’s wolves broke their gate, snarling with labored breath, piercing of dawn welcomes a funeral of fireflies, eclipsed by a broken brain being delicately dissected by elongated canines feasting ravenously
I lean toward her~
this woman split into colors
a woman rendered in angles,
her face divided as if emotion
had been dissected
and pinned onto the canvas.
Her green fingernails startle me,
soft as bruised mint,
as though she once touched something tender
and the tenderness stained her.
She sits with that stillness
women learn too early~
the stillness of being looked at
instead of being seen.
Inside those mismatched eyes
I sense a private weather,
a quiet storm she never named.
She was a photographer
who could coax truth from shadows,
a surrealist who bent the world
until it revealed its hidden pulse.
Yet, here she is,
held in the gravity of Picasso’s gaze,
her own brilliance dimmed
to the outline of his muse.
And still~
there is something in her posture,
a hint of sorrow and a small, steady refusal.
As if beneath the fractured planes
she is gathering herself back,
piece by luminous piece,
her green nails glowing faintly
like the first signs of a woman
stepping out of someone else’s shadow
and into her own light.
you played me for a fool
used my feelings as the tool
to open my heart.
Once my heart was overflowing,
once my love was ever growing,
you showed me your true colors.
like a surgeon you took your time,
dissected every corner of my mind,
till I was lost in emotion.
my love was all a game to you,
but my feelings were true,
and now I'm paying the price
for falling so deeply in love with you.
they say what goes around
will eventually come around,
understand.
the unending pain I feel,
will soon be over and I'll heal.
understand.
but bad Karma will follow you
everywhere you go.
you played me for a fool,
used my feelings as the tool
to open my heart.
Deceiver.
My hands in the autoclave
It is no disaster
No mistake
Complete sterilization
Not quite yet cremation
Free of my predation
I crawl through a cavernous cave
Its wet walls perspiring
Nooks like glands
Gulleted by the monster
Steep feet without falter
Skull space I foster
I lay in a shallow grave
No need for depth
In this loamy cradle
No longer death I seek
But whatever keeps me weak
Hyphae drink the fluid I leak
Protected; not me, but you
Dissected; they bore me through
An ending to my disgrace
Put me in my place
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Suddenly, the scent of old glue
unseals memory: yearbook pages
sticking together. Forty-seven Augusts ago
Susan Alexander's laugh cracked
through algebra class; our fingers
brushed, passing Man From LaMancha lyrics
scribbled on notebook margins.
We dissected Austen heroines
during sleepovers, shared
popcorn at matinees, dreamt
in Technicolor futures.
Then silence. Decades folded
into drawers like unworn sweaters.
Facebook algorithms blinked, those strange
matchmakers, whispered: Berlin?
Dallas? Three winters have since melted
into midnight texts—her German syntax
knitting with my Texas drawl
across glowing screens. Old jokes
resurrected like vinyl records
scratched but still singing.
Distance shrinks to pixels;
the gift of friendship blooms anew~
upon digital soil.
* This poem was submitted to and published at Persimmon Tree, November 2025. This is my original poem.
Her latest lyrics, I've dissected.
It seems to me, I've been neglected.
Why? I've done nothing to cause a rift.
Yet, I'm not mentioned by Taylor Swift.
Dr j marion sims
The 'so-called' father of gynecology
Built of the lie of ethics
Built from harvested black bodies
No permission, just 'science'
An excuse just to abuse black women -
Treated as 'experiments'
To him we were never human beings
Just a new toy to play with
No anaesthesia, just pain
His work wasn't revolutionary - it was just inhumane
Does he really deserve the honour of being labelled as a 'father' -
When behind closed doors he abused his 'children' who gave him that name
Pushed them out of the door
Then slammed it in their face
No thank you, no gratitude, no rewards
Just a lifetime of scars and trauma
Treated like a disgrace
Treated the enslaved as if they weren't apart of the human race
They didn't just invade our lands -
They colonised our bodies
Dissected us like a scientific study
No consent, no permission
Just a scalpel to cut our skin
Not even out of curiosity
Just to beat the 'competition'
He was known as the father of gynecology
But in reality -
Many of us will see him as the father of stolen autonomy
Treating our bodies like property
Studying us as if he were learning archaeology
UN delegates walk out on Israel’s Prime Minister speech
They all walked out, feigning scorn
This is how decency gets mourned
That walk of shame, like the perps
The deaf and dumb, immoral twerps
The rotten body of UN
It shows it’s worth, I am no fan
Most sided strongly with Hamas
The slime that dreams of “Jews to gas”
The world’s a very cruel place
It wants a scum in Zion’s space
Condemning not kidnapped and killed
“The Palestine’s Sweethearts Guild”
Baptized by shame, for all to see
They wouldn’t listen to a plea
Well done Hamas, Iran, Qatar
This walk, both vile and bizarre
The evil spirits ran for cover
In hallways they preferred to hover
While facts dissected utter darkness
The uglies couldn't stand the starkness
Yet truth prevails, be it known
Israel wins, if all alone
No, never be no Palestine
An outcome to which resign
September 26, 2025
They split the land, but not the pulse.
Roots remember what maps forget.
Every severed line still hums
with breath, with blood, with return.
They drew the map with ash and absence—
not to guide, but to erase.
Districts split like broken ribs,
each line a scalpel,
each vote a ghost.
We watched the ink dry on democracy’s skin,
while they called it strategy.
But we know the truth:
this is not representation.
It is redaction.
They called it strategy,
but we saw the autopsy.
Each district dissected,
each breath rerouted.
We do not consent to silence.
We are the roots beneath the fracture,
the pulse that refuses to be redacted.
We rise, not from permission—
but from memory.
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
A mouthful
of hate
A bullhorn
of lies
Dissected
infected
With terminal
pride
Conscripting
the fledgling
Embedded
in brine
Indicted
convicted
True felons
— of time
(Dreamsleep: June, 2025)
I have often witnessed death
though not ever the last breath;
field mice frozen in a jar;
slaughtered lambs in abattoir,
dissected frogs in school labs,
cruel boiling of live crabs
for important luncheon meets.
Piglets torn from mother’s teats
roasted at a football game.
Hungry lions eat the lame
garden’s serpent kills the truth
mothers’s love that kills your youth;
little bug just stepped upon;
“don’t destroy my sweet salon.”
To embrace a death without;
that is just to be Boy Scout.
To embrace a death within;
to my father, was a sin.
I feel dissected and mutilated. Strung up on a cross and paraded through endless eyes.
Purim Theorem!
Rambam holds Hashem is math,
Hashem does not take a path,
Like “Squaring the Circle”,
Such is illogical,
Yet the Zohar differs on Hashem’s craft!
Witness the Aron anomaly,
Giving rise to a homily,
Finite length & width yet zero volume,
Boggling the mind, yielding it solemn,
Evoking Emunah more than normally!
Size yet no volume?
Anomaly! as in Shalom,
Moshe saw that the “Burning Bush”,
Was unconsumed, he didn’t silence: Hush!,
Risking ridicule, courage to be alone!
Moshe saw water & fire combine,
Hashem’s Shalom nonintuitively align,
Illogic surprise from mire,
Despair be gone! Lost? A Divine sign!
Purim, 339 Before Common Era,
Hashem again was a true “Chevra”,
Upending Haman’s goose,
In a long necked noose,
Saving the Yidden from an evil schema!
Arrogance vanquished,
Anomaly? Yes by logic languished,
Expect the unsuspected,
Human reason dissected,
Headstand of man anguished!
“Shemayim’s” Burning Bush is a hymn,
Let the “Olam” Hear Him,
Again no novelty,
“Chiddush” renewal, an end to “Evilty!”
All Adds Up to Purim Theorem!
Feelings
Raw, cold, and numb
Exposed on a frigid slab
Dissected, mourned and then entombed
Healing
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