Long Autopsy Poems
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His name was Timothy Treadwell, aka The Grizzly man.
He was a naturalist who had a very strong love for the grizzly bears of our land.
He alone at times would chase off poachers to protect his animal kin.
How ironic that the very beast that he loved so much would one day come to kill him.
One day he got fed up with the people world and sought solace in the land of the bear.
It was just before hibernation time. The worst time to be there.
Any bears not hibernating weren't because they hadn't been fully fed.
That is why, he came to die when a hungry bear killed both he and his girlfriend dead.
Whereupon they'd ignore him in the past, now they had to satisfy their fast.
One bear crossed paths with he and she one night, and saw them both as a culinary delight.
His camera was rolling but the lense was covered, still one could hear very clearly the audio.
The bear attacked him first. He screamed out to Amy, "Amy, get out of here, go!"
She would not abandon her man. She grabbed a frying pan and beat it atop the bear's head.
That's when the grizzly bear turned on her and rendered poor Amy dead.
The bear was tracked and killed. An autopsy revealed Timothy and Amy's body parts.
If Timothy could know that this bear was killed it most certainly would have broken his heart.
I spoke with him once briefly and told him to be careful. "You do sometimes cross the line."
"I appreciate your concern," he replied, "but I know what I'm doing. Everything will be fine."
Many say he was crazy, and maybe perhaps he was losing his mind towards the end,
but I learned so much about grizzly bear behavior, that I'd have never known if not for him.
For my pals did led me thus;
For feel I need a touch
On earth I did been
On who Will I
be comfort
Sought
A lone
Tunnel
But
dim
Its
Led
Me
Still
Then I recall my Memory verse off from these locust years
Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher
of our faith; who for the joy that was
set before him endured the cross,
despising the shame, and is
set down at the right
hand of the
throne
of
God.
Then I made away my plight this crazy days like garment worn on me
Heb twelve thus:
For in needs no tunnels, no dark my shines even the streets are made of gold
Where God seats of the throne
And the angel cry holy holy to Him only
And the Lord Jesus seated at right hand side His majesty
For there all hope should stay cos its away the fake drains
Earth made.
For there neither buying nor selling so foreign exchanges
Neither schooling so no lecture goes thus
No social media, like fb no twitter, no LinkedIn all no pinging
Where peace meet the saint far on high
No elections so no rigging
No sickness no autopsy, no vaccine, no antidote
No colour so no race
That where my hope is
That where am looking
Looking up the heaven
Where the angels sing no blues, no jazz, no calypsos, no pop, no reggae, no afro beat
But holy songs forever truly pure quietness thereby.
This screwed up years mind only on high
Where worries are drain caked
This screwed up years
Were all troubles turn sorrow
5/23/2020
This fool doth not consider himself wise,
writing paltry poetry difficult
to read and/or actualize
methinks perusers of great literature
snub nose how I miserably advertise,
laughable attempt to aerobicise
fifty plus shades of gray matter
lobbying showy words agonize
zing effort perhaps best to cauterize
near petrified glob - boon
for scientists to analyze
baffling laboratory technicians
unusual crenulations
a profound surprise
pitiful peremptorily doth apologize
unlike verbalization feasible
after webbed whirled fist size
terra incognita reveals numbskull years
wrought yours truly to anesthetize
smelting, squelching,
and suppressing emotions
scored how tree rings annualize
environmental conditions definite
premature imp of the pervert
poe fella lifetime channels,
where bullies did antagonize
upon death requested autopsy authorize
zing eager scalpels to apprize
miniature dried river bed
formerly streams of consciousness
lake never seen before engendering
crowdsource to hypothesize
baffling every expert,
how terrible fate did baptize
ala lemony snicket series
of unfortunate events
multiplied power bajillion times
number only Google could surmise
obvious tell tale signs did brutalize
as if smacked upside the head
one unfortunate gladly apparently
suffered maelstroms of armageddon size
poet chars evidently
succeeded to burglarize
more successful than Watergate
psychological ploys hackers
noninvasively did cannibalize
(perhaps bored furloughed
government employees)
albeit noninvasively deeming
imposible to canonize
resultant cerebral corpus
understandably did capsize
entire body politik (Democrat)
faced, booked on hatred did demonize
verbal assaults indicate
suffering did caramelize
cerebrum, cerebellum and brainstem
resembling burnt offering
impossible to categorize
glommed hardened integument colleagues
hard pressed to characterize
highly rendered anomaly,
hence unfair to criticize
erratic schizoid personality disorder
quite evident amyloid plaques
did significantly crystalize
definitely explain aberrant quirks
resultant incessant emasculation
unquestionably led him to demoralize.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A penny face-up in the gutter—
Abraham’s copper gaze half-lidded with rain.
I pocket him like a secret,
like the first digit in an equation
no one taught me to how to solve.
The laundromat coughs up dimes~
silver cataracts rolled under dryers,
buried beneath lint and lost socks.
I tally them in my palm,
each one a tiny moon
pulled from the tide of neglect.
My grandmother saved buttons in a jar,
swore they were pirate treasure.
I collect coins instead~
nickels in parking lots,
quarters wedged between bus seats,
their edges bitten with teeth marks.
When the year ends,
I spill them all onto the kitchen table~
a metal harvest, a jingling autopsy.
Enough for a coffee,
a lottery ticket,
or the weight of knowing
that fortune isn’t a mountain
but the slow accumulation
of what everyone else
steps over.
“Objects of Affection”
Objects of affection
drop like white marbles
from the sky
we love to look
to our heaven
for all kinds
of angels
all’s fair in
love and war
when faith
and belief
in a stronger
unified existence
that type of love, denied
trust
walks out the door
along a fine sharp line
sucked into that endless place
where the black ball
is dropped,
compartmentalised
life interrupted
for the unheard
taken down
by the unnecessary
silent swift intervention,
interrogated, eviscerated,
true autopsy, denied
what is love
to the alienated
gone AWOL alien
true fabric
orchestrated
by the external
as something other,
superficial,
the internal, inconvenient,
briefly recognised
worthless feelings
buried deep, the complex
compartmentalised
non-copacetic;
by the artificial copacetic
written off blithely,
non-evolutionary
the revolution de-loused,
time spent of no importance,
touch and emotions
clinically extinct
love
unknown
life
unrecognised
of unknown origin
unidentified
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
The long life
The knowledge of living forever is already here
all one has to do is renew the old cells for new ones
once a year starting when forty or thereabout when
a person is self-sufficient.
It is also possible to renew cells so often on regress
to infancy and looked after by your son who is unable
to grasp he is changing his father’s nappy.
Longevity has its own risk of how to live you can alight
from the Garston, bus nr 9 and be knocked down
by a car, the autopsy will show the person was not forty
But 110.
The best way to get old is to kill someone in Oklahoma
get 200 years in a padded cell be fed by a slot in the wall
and when the conviction comes to an end
refuse to leave the prison, your home on earth.
The clinical sentence was pronounced,
perfumed with the devil’s royal scent ~
a relapse that smells
like an ethereal remedy
as every restless leaf abandons
its luscious green to the grave,
where her heartbeat
still sighs amidst the sleepless sunrise
beneath the loam,
where gloaming once, upon a blood moon,
homed the valiant vibratos
of her laughter,
yet if the only way to remember
is to remain unhealed,
as russet strings
of a violin ring through,
carrying sweet nightmares ~
held within the dusk
like beloved nightingales,
letting my inner calendar
return to circling the date
when she last breathed my name ~
O divine darkness,
let me fade until the face
of September’s stars wane
and phase the sorrow
into soundless torrents of
rehearsed requiems
until hurt sounds like a hypnotic hymn.
I swallowed, O Griefversary,
my penance through turning time,
the italicised letters
chronicling the chronic memoirs
while the tongue of trauma
prescribes crippling anxiety
into my thoughts,
I have long bottled
blurred hope
and summer sonatas,
with every memory crushed
like an autopsy listed as an accessory,
weaving words
borrowed from archived affections
as I leave line after line,
no longer aching
for the dark to understand that
my faith developed a stutter,
my pulse filed pleas for Prozac,
my ink confessed unseen panic,
my skin carried fingerprints
of midnight fears ~
and I still walk through
the black rose maze of memories,
around the season of
her irrevocable demise ~
September, the soulful wraith
of ghosts I love beyond death…
Tonight I have died,
As I silently screamed inside.
My well of tears has run dry,
And I no longer have the strength to cry.
I have killed the part of my heart I so freely gave you,
Now it the deepest pain I am going through.
The only part of my brain...
Where I have truly gone insane...
Misses you more than the flower misses the dew...
The part of my brain that stupidly misses you.
If I knew last night was the last time the words "I love you" would escape your lips,
I would have clung to them with a death grip.
Now as I sit here wondering what I did to destroy "us",
The wind begins to gust.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
I shall lay my head down and do what I must.
I must begin to let go of the awesome love I was just getting to know,
Before you decided to let go.
In your arms I felt safety like no other,
I was ceratin nothing could tear it assunder.
Why did I have to give you my heart so you could tear it into pieces small enough to
fit through a strainer,
What did I do to provoke the love god's anger.
I'm afraid that an autopsy would show,
Nothing but a black hole.
When I didn't hear from you it was like a knife to the heart,
Was that your plan from the start?
So tonight I died,
As I silently screamed inside.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
Remember that you were my most cherished Love.
MO:DPS
Like to think reality is simple,
one is born, lives, and dies;
nothing comes before nor after --
what one sees is all there is,
notion of spirit sure complicates
things...
And love should be simple
(so unlike love), better if
a mere chemical reaction
the concept of a heart that feels,
thinks outside its required beats
is mentally upsetting --
is spiritually suggestive...
I mean, the acceptance that thinking
is merely the process of cause-and-effect
plays mayhem with my personal
experiences, often befuddled by others --
Where are these stored illusions,
perhaps revealed when an autopsy
of the soul?
More rational for my senses:
reactions are from feelings;
a braining nothing alive without
a mind – life clearly connections
through an oblivious conduit body --
Atheism, an unsolvable mystery
There was a woman serial killer who had a heart of stone.
She was the worst person who her victims had ever known.
She killed her three husbands and seven kids.
It gives goosebumps to think about what she did.
This woman was very evil and sick.
She killed her victims with arsenic.
It was the 19th Century and people thought that women serial killers couldn't exist.
Every time she remarried, her husband became the next victim on her list.
Killing children is the worst thing that a person can do.
This evil woman was finally brought to justice in 1872.
After an autopsy was performed, she was convicted and sent to jail.
When she died six years later, this Psychopath went straight to Hell.
She died in May of 1878 at the age of fifty-four.
People were glad that she wasn't around anymore.
(This is a true story about Lydia Sherman who died 136 years ago today.)