Long Asphyxiated Poems
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crushed at rock bottom he gathered the fragments of descent
slow motion agony that started at a plateau of deluded deceit
free falling sadness spiraling out of control beyond fast repair
the black dog on his shoulder had survived the fall and barked
another round of sadness an insurmountable sorrow cheered on
‘you are useless and even void and oblivion are having a laugh’
a tunnel with no light and the canary asphyxiated in the mine shaft
another panic attack unable to ease the landing of a scarred mind
scared and confused he gathered the pieces and stabbing shards
with broken bones and un-abating accusations he collected his guilt
fears and shame about yet another defeat at the foundation of evil
demons and miserable clairvoyants spoke in bifurcated obsessions
possessed by the mother of all depressions he reached for a glimmer
of hope he searched for a message from science deities and reason
yet unable to guide his emotions all efforts crashed without rescue
the rope had twisted once more and he dangled helpless face down
just enough slack to disfigure his angry face that featured disgust
and yet as the blood flooded his brain he surrendered his objections
one final attempt and he severed the noose with the open fracture of
the razor sharp dislocation sticking out just below the palm of his hand
with a further snap of his wrist and life line he surrendered lost dreams
if life gave you hemlock but the vessel had cracked on the impact
of the smash and grab of lifeless cycle of disassociated insanity he
resolved to drink his own blood and call upon autoimmune response
after all the medication had been useless and hours on Freud’s couch
had only imprinted more festering pressure sores on purulent skin
cognitive explorations had only dragged him further down self-denial
religion mantras and science had failed to invoke sanity and healing
levitation would not emerge when he fell from the edge of madness
the cross lay in pieces and nails had lacerated his heart and resolve
just when he felt the pulse getting weaker and with delirious gaze
he succumbed to a last ditch attempt to reassemble a piece of his soul
wrote an ultimate will on the wall and vowed to hand over let go and live
15th June 2020
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
The Present:
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Form:
"This Naked Dance"
This naked dance
before the tenuous
judgement of sentences
the company of words
from all the silent voices
seated in the front rows
of this our dark audience
the jury of lost lovers
wanting their heroes
to hear songs stolen
delivered by angels
swallowed by demons
their notes played in
affidavits continuous
in the courts of denial
these habits contagious
lifted by suede fingertips
to Munch mouth
a cavernous silence
waiting for some
sound of contrition
from the you
without numbers
now free pool playing
piano keys
reversing the tune
of our journey
smyth sewing stitches
is your gaol
opening memories in
the industrial room
there are no windows
to see the blue sky
of you once were
some kind of happy
before the damage
I’ll walk through
all your mirrors
like a ghost
that haunts you forever
to find where
the heart of you split
and scattered
in the bleak corridors
of your prisons
forgiveness
comes and goes
in silent waves
back into the shores
and certainties of me
then is dragged out
tangled up to the mast with you
in the hangman’s rope
submerging
in the undertow
with the tide of our life
to where the things
with sharp teeth
wait for us
we are not fat enough
with life yet to be seen
as delicious
there is something missing
within us
we are standing still
we are asphyxiated
sucked to the sides of life we are
pilot fish in the corridors
of our phantom penitentiary
not prescient enough
to evolve fully our flavours
to become complete
so we continue to dance naked
in deeper waters
pushing envelopes
before the tenuous
judgement of sentences
the company of words
from all the silent voices
seated in the front rows
of this, our invisible
dark audience
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Come as You Are" / Emilie Simone (Nirvana cover)
https://youtu.be/3So59E6NxSg
**Content warning: depicts abuse (please skip to one of my more lightheaded poems if one needs to).
To you, your abuse began as a game or joke,
so insidious, so quietly inhumane,
a spontaneous, cautionary tale, and yet,
so quickly it transpired into something much more.
Church was unsafe, school was unsafe, and finally -
you made my last safety net, my home - a prison.
I had just turned five, the first time you wrapped your hands
around my throat, and thrust your thumbs through my windpipe.
The weight of both your knees crushed my infantile chest,
so I couldn't possibly, even gasp, for air.
I squirmed, a silent whimper, and tried to break free,
but I was only five, and you were thirty-eight.
Your whole body was like a boulder upon me.
My eyes weeped, and I tried to beg, but had no breath.
My small hands weren't enough to get you off my throat,
and in the end, despite my effort, I'd pass out.
And to you then, I was your lifeless figurine,
your sick play-thing, your ragdoll, your real-life puppet.
Then awake some moments later, gasping for air,
the nightmare continued, with hands around my neck,
until I was so asphyxiated - I shook.
As I lost air, I'd break out into a cold sweat,
my vision blurred and hazy, my voice laboured, coarse.
I would lay there confused, dazed, scared, broken, alone.
When I next awoke, oft a necktie held my hands,
and like clockwork, you'd seethe, spit condescending tones,
shout obscenities, lies, curses - unbeguiling.
Whilst your hands again, found themselves glued to my neck,
suffocating me over and over and over and o'er,
whilst all my dreary eyes, through tears, saw was 'father'.
And, as if my father had not yet been depraved,
he'd oft strip me, of all remaining dignity.
Then once his hours accomplished, his anger unleashed,
he'd leave me unconscious, half-naked, on the floor.
He'd wipe his bloody hands clean and feel 'job well done',
and ensure to lock the bolts on that bedroom door.
09.03.2024
It's a guy who grew up with good morals
People with the purest of souls
Raised to excel and exceed
Born to treat
Attentive and sensitive
They spent minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years
Time without boundaries
Listening to the problems and fears
Of the males but especially the females near
'cause those girls needed someone to listen to them
Someone to vent to, really
And yeah, sometimes it made the nice guy feel special
It feels good to be needed by someone you love
Or someone you can love
But the stars of fate and destiny above
Don't always align
Not for this type
And while the womenfolk prance and dance with their hairless monkey
They're mistreated, used, abused, consumed and refused
And the shes rush to the nice hes for that undying comfort
But the latter are getting restless
Their looks are ordinary, so how do they compete
With tall dark and handsome
When they're short, pale and human?
This guy's not a cheat
He's patient and his anger is merciful
He won't take advantage of womenfolk so vulnerable
Won't resort to objectify
But they're lumped with the jerks and shirts and together are vilified
So what does the nice guy do?
Contemplate.
He'll meditate
and say "hey,
Why are all my friendships one-sided?"
His empathy and reliable nature can't be appreciated
So it needs to be asphyxiated
Cut free, act differently
Take on a job, a car, a tattoo, a gym, an instrument
Designer clothes, cigarettes, cigars,
All what was feared and all that is sheer
********
Like a hundred dollar bill, given so much value
But simply a sensitive cheap piece of paper
Easily ripped and quickly gypped
And he leaves his morality
Cuts his vocabulary
4 word sentences, 3 syllabus max per word
To get out of nice guy playground and friend zone
But that's really just accepting the parasite
Letting it infect you
Taking your views to the termites
Yeah, you might get tail
Or you may completely fail
Though will you really let selfishness > goodness?
No,
I won't
Not on the long run, at least.
Just this one time.
...
Ironclad choke hold tightened
around pencil necked geek
stranglehold noose asphyxiated
courtesy mailer daemon freak
specifically America Online
server gremlin sought out meek
resplendently attired as Doctor sheikh
wordsmith scouted out as weak
cussed link within human league
surprisingly springing thru Lenovo
external screen, simulating sneak
issuing nary soundcloud when tweek
king "FAKE" childish
ploy regarding peek
a boo as preschool prankish charade,
emulating, feigning, gamboling as mystique.
Little did yours truly discern
unsavory fated deaf fete
incorporating cunning linguistic deceit,
whereat innocent naivete scourge did mete
undeserved pummeling thrashed thinker
savagely, sadistically, and sacrificially beat
mastah to bloody pulp frequent visitor
courtesy aforesaid web portal
unexpected encountering
heinous nemesis greet
ting this chap with
suspicious groovy and neat
out of vogue colloquialisms
circa nineteen seventies
dead giveaway handy dandy
blues clues poetic feet
toe tilly tubular (iambic pentameter)
maintaining quite exemplary
skill for Pete
sakes, blindsided,
hoodwinked, outsmarted...
mine acute intuitive
perception, albeit fleet
tin gully as laxative courses
thru lower gastrointestinal
tract analogous to
GoLytely/PEG Solution
preprepatory for gastroenterologist
to ass esse seat
of pants anatomy i.e.
derriere, whether polyps
populate and remove
if necessary tenamount
to separating chaff from wheat,
and if all's well that ends
well patient with sore tuckus,
nonetheless rearing
to experience healthy
gluteus maximus treat
ting him/herself to feast
like gourmand and eat...
dagnabbit blasting impish,
where dark shadows
house outer limits of twilight zone
pestiferous heterosexual binary
bugaboo with chutzpah
nabbed against gangland
style angry bird
twittering parakeet.
I was reading in a Southern Living magazine yesterday that one thing that all great
southern writers have in their books is a dead mule. The article cited several
examples and said that their research indicated that if you wanted to be counted in
amongst the great Southern writers and join them in their private Hereafter, you
had to ride in on a dead mule. I could not help myself and got paper and pen and
wrote the following.
Did you know there’s a Hereafter
Where Southern Writers dwell
And if you’re a Southern Writer
You’ll want in as well - - - but
To be a Southern Writer
There’s just one simple rule
Somewhere in your writings
You must include a mule
And not just any mule story
If you want your writing read
This mule must be dying
And ultimately dead
It doesn’t matter if you love them
Or hate them to their core
You’ve got to kill a mule
If your writing is to score
They’ve been killed by all your heroes
In Southern stories, books and plays
Killed off by great writers
In a multitude of ways
Faulkner drowned a good pair
In his book “As I Lay Dying”
They’ve been shot and stabbed and frozen
When the writers really trying
They’ve been chewed up by a rabid dog
Or left to die of thirst
They’ve been tethered to a railroad track
Or asphyxiated first
Now as a Southern Writer
I’m wondering just who’ll
Deny me my Hereafter
When they’ve read about my mule
So here is my story of an old Southern mule
Who rode Southern gents to an old Southern duel
When they turned and fired, there formed a blood pool
On the ground at the feet of this old Southern mule
And bubbling up through the blood and the drool
Came the very last gasp of this old Southern mule
Who gave up his life for an old writer’s tool
So that I could check off this Southern Writers rule
Anesthetized, day one, I become her bug caught in the web
Asphyxiated, entangled and cursed, numbed to feel no pain
It was a Wednesday if I remember when we wed
She grew a beard and punished me for breathing
I succumbed to her femininity, her tooth
It was a pretty one to chew with. That's the truth!
It was a Thursday in the second day of Lent
It took seconds for my bank account to empty
Her power of persuasion left me blank
A testament to her awesome empty nest to come
Three days into marriage we finally went to bed
Precious consumed my brain and everything within it
Who needs condoms when you have your condiments
Mustard , ketchup, cheese and crackers please
When you don't have long to live you snack instead
Day four, she put me on a lease to walk outdoors
Dogs and cats make better pets than spiders
Sentimental to the end she took my soul and sold it
I succumb to her because she is my wife
Not because she held a butcher knife
By day five she grew fat, sprang eight legs
Became a nag, that's only natural they say
I'm not afraid of anything that screams at me
Because she says so
I wish six days a week to be united
Or at least to live another day intact
It is not wise to question honey's facts
Seven days in love must be our lucky number
Marital bliss numbs me to my knees
I survived to kiss the bride another day
It must be time to say Good Bye.........
Eight days a week I feel the love inside
Eight legs wrapped around my spine
A tingling sensation, sentimental spider
Before I die, before you eat my mind again my love
The alimony check is on the table, post dated for your pleasure
Don't get pregnant. Use protection
For your convenience before I forget
I will always be your prey before your friend
I pray you don't get indigestion
No one is watching on but you,
Arrested in the familiar and unfamiliar images,
Getting to know the stranger you have been avoiding…
The one that no one understands but yourself…
Who knows how they appear to you?
But they do,
And your heart COLLIDES with several emotions,
Brewing in the soup of your every being,
Listening…tasting…smelling…feeling…seeing,
Crippled and yet whole with the picture before you…
You are seeing your favorite people and your enemies,
The LIES you have told…the ANGER you had with them…
The desire SPUES outwards…
You are now asphyxiated with happiness…
Your favorites are leading you on towards a beautiful, visual memory!
It is so simple,
And yet it is captured in complex detail on this projection in the sky…
SEE ME—cries your heart…shivering…SEE. ME.
The spine tingles to the haunting melody that the dialogue provides…
Your defenses are so low now that you are completely exposed to every memory you have locked up or sold…
They are coming back vividly—in silver and GOLD!
And the blasting fires of coldness can NEVER melt them down!
Softly,
You nod as the projection flickers,
As your all-too-familiars,
Your hobbies…favorite foods, people—falling down the skies like raindrops,
Flow straight into your cold exposure,
WARMING you—it feels so good…
You feel RIGHT…because you are…
Conclusions are merely introductions,
So put on the guts, the blood, the skin…
Underneath it all you are pure beauty within,
Designed to fulfill something greater than you can ever imagine,
Designed to master, though inclined to KILL…
Your purpose is never clearer,
When at the end of the movie—a revelation is forming…FORMING!
Your skull closes like two iron doors,
Closing in all of the closures…all of the unrevealed…
And looking forward—through emotions evermore,
ALWAYS looking forward,
And reflecting upon your new…
FRIEND.
I wandered the desert alone, oh, what a dream to remember!
'Twas a place of extremes. Gorgeous yet frightening. A swelteringly hot
Barren terra incognita that stretched far beyond the horizon.
I walked for miles and miles; feeling more lost by the hour,
I turned, following my footprints back to civilization.
But unbeknownst to me, a sandstorm roared, erasing footprints I made earlier.
Staggering, fighting my fatigued body and moribund spirit, I paused briefly,
Barely standing upright, with arms akimbo trying to catch my breath.
"Where am I?", I wondered in a panic. Sweat streaming down my
brow, I continued traversing the never-ending stretch of desolate wasteland.
The chances of finding my way out of this vast sea of sand, improbable.
"Is this how it all ends? How will I make it out here alive?"
I asked myself, drowning in an ocean of pessimism. Thoughts in my head
Dark and morbid. I'm lost. A nightmare come true! The chances for a rescue
In this unforgiving no man's land couldn't seem more unlikely.
An oasis, a needle in the haystack. I'm increasingly asphyxiated by thirst.
Before long, I chanced upon a tree trunk still standing tall, frozen in time.
I took shade on its shadow across the sand, defeated, begging God
For a quick end to my misery. Instead, heavens opened up, and down came
The rain. An augury of hope...my salvation! Oh, what a dream to remember!
Date written and posted: 10/02/2018