Long Cartilage Poems
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Degenerative joint disease equals pain.
Cartilage wears away bone touches bone.
Each movement becomes a difficult strain.
From once silent lips now slow releases moans.
Comfort~freedom from pain now luxury.
Carefully words form a line on paper.
Depression could follow in a hurry.
No! Will not summit nor will I confer
to being trapped at home unadorned
with life, viewing humans and the wide world
from a window or a TV condemned
to no life~let new life be unfurled.
Life explored not sipped suckled but imbibed.
Pour life ~ fill me with what God has prescribed.
Contest:"Things That Suck"
Sponsor:Nancy Jones
In the beginning, there was salt.
It hung in the air like unfinished scripture,
gathered in the throat of the sea,
waited for a mouth dumb enough
to mistake thirst for an invitation.
Then butter,
smeared on the void like gossip,
greased the dark’s knuckles
like an understudy,
taught the abyss to melt.
The first sound was not speech—
it was a swallow,
a hush,
a crack of cartilage between molars.
We spoke in reductions.
Grammar dripped from the bones.
On the second day, teeth—
tiny altars lined with nerve—
ground memory into ashable pulp.
Pomegranates burst like promises.
Figs cloaked their apples in lace.
By the third, we named what softened.
We named what burned.
Built ziggurats from rind to rind.
Wrote psalms in onion skin.
The fourth hung hunger in the firmament—
a constellation shaped like mouths
mid-ask.
On the fifth, we forgot the recipe
and mourned it like a god.
By the sixth, we’d tongued every fruit
that offered a rumor of sugar.
We learned:
the mouth is a beast with no leash
and excellent taste.
And on the seventh, we lay full and feral,
belly to sky,
licking
the holy oil from our fingers.
my sunshine duncan
I fill my sunset
My hours
My centuries
Miss the late afternoon!
Vens smiling stars
And bringest moonlights January ...
Contemplate You on this side of late hours
And see you in the mirror of absence.
Beyond the infinity of my soul,
Build the bridge that leads me to you
And grab the hand
That makes me cross oceans of love!
On the edge of my way to thee,
And the pain of cartilage,
Stump up the serenity,
Your horizon we know of
And find cuddles,
Will fill empty
Wings of tenderness
Ingrained in the absence!
this is a piece written by my love ceizar
Tiny bones form a line, your life line can be used to define time, but the late night presses the back of your neck so forcefully that unfortunately the portions you bring arent enough endore the fortress designed to make you see the upside to your every growing timeline
See back to the spine, thin nerve swerve with the intent to connect you to the land you stand on, hoping no one knows your head is being stamped on the way you try open up the optics to get the blood pumping from worlds topics. Time is ticking and sands are pouring the beach front you see is just a hilarious illustration brought by stress and by noon youre awakened, the earth is still rotating so you might as well get on the band wagon, hopes theres room for your infrastructions.
You've made mistakes they caught you lacking so you turn the page theres no subtractions just and your existence froming all in your mind. Make no mistake youre feeling just fine, the only thing you need is your spine. No solid rod in your joints just human calcium and cartilage, youll be here just walking, just taking up mileage. Have you anything else to design, No you and your spine.
Fade-in to darkness
Blink slow, quicker ... eyes open
Still dark, but I can't go back to sleep again
I WON'T!
I feel like death ...
Exhausted, and such dysphoria
Oh, to go back into slumber and never wake again
Just to be free of this horrific feeling
But Life tugs ... just enough
Vague impressions of struggling
Gulping for breath ...
Heart beating through my chest to get air
Broken, fading memories of nightmares, deep
Dreams of drowning, being choked ...
Roped from a tree and swaying
Dangling feet twitching with my final gasps ...
Or sinking slowly ...
Tumbling into the abyss
Rays of sunlight light pillars
I grab for them, futile, as I swallow water
And fade into the cold depths ...
Or giant, sharp-nailed hands around my throat
Squeezing slowly as a sick grimace contorts and twists
Its cold breath spit in my face
Cartilage in my neck snapping, crunching
My breaths slowing ... gone.
Never exactly the same
But always the same outcome ...
NO AIR ... and struggle
Then waking to this depression and fatigue
So intense that I wish for my end
But responsibility forces me to rise ... again
And slowly ... slowly ... slowly ...
I feel a bit better
Say a prayer for the day
And hope that maybe ...
Maybe tonight ...
My apnea won't be quite as bad
Or the dreams ...
As terrifying.
* FIRST PLACE in the "Morning Ritual" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Sponsor. *
From marrow to vein the thin thread of memory drags another new malignancy out into the light.
I shall tuck it, as a gift, within Destot’s space and leave it to harden and calcify until it’s colour is pale and stony.
This new seed inside my hidden framework will soon germinate, but will never push out towards the dying constellations.
Instead, it will coil its way along ulna, humerus and clavicle and bind bad dreams into a hard, red jewel that will nestle between skull and vertebrae.
Cartilage grinds and sinew creaks as this bud of echoes sprouts and entwines
up through mandible and tooth.
Knife to neck, hand in pajamas, sodden mattress, accusations, laughter under dimming lights.
All of these petals are forever open and held aloft by invading stems that relentlessly offer up the blooms of another time.
I am encased, but the stories of my joints continue to thrive and search a path through my skeletal remorse.
And I will always stop to smell the flowers.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
It clicks like disapproval down the stairs,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
At seventeen, I ran until too late—
now cartilage remembers every dare.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
The doctor called it mild, then moderate,
prescribed his pills and physical repair,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
I miss the thoughtless body, its clean slate,
the kneeling, leaping, dancing unaware.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight.
Some mornings it predicts the weather’s state,
a creaking oracle that I can’t spare—
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
I’ll walk again, they say, but hesitate
means something now, and trust is what wears bare.
My left knee bends but will not bear my weight,
a hinge that’s learned to question and to wait.
6/11/16
Close to or far from the Euphrates
Don't play me
Or be Fugazi
I'll send you back to Hades
I don't care to listen to Jay-Z
But in the future, maybe
Shout out to Slim Shady
And Kevin Spacey
It's not crazy
If you want a mercedes
Don't be lazy
Get after it daily
And increase your income greatly
Respect the ladies
We all started out as babies
Crawling around near plants and daisies
While the weather was below and above the eighties
Grew
Into
Kids
Some lived
Near a bridge
Atop or at the bottom of a ridge
And others were in the fringe
Occasionally off the grid
Not everywhere you could swim
Some of the waters did
Contain squid
And other lifeforms that hid
Make a mistake and it just might not forgive
Whether it's the current ,a storm or something with fins
Cartilage not skin
Many revolts
And lives taken by guns some models were colt
Eventually became adults
Different pathways and results
On either side of the Gulf
Some liked their juice with or without pulp
While others got involved with the occult
Trying to hide their mistakes in mulch
At the bottom of a gulch
While there was thunder and lightning bolts
By: Dalton Ogletree
If stars could see the sun~
slurping the grunglethorp grains
from sweat-soaked streams,
purging puddles of blurmorgris,
you’d hear the phazephonyx symphony
of my intestines churning chyme
into acidic rhymes~
releasing piled pain upon
a peezling palette of biled ballads.
But why are the whistling whirls
tangled in throttled thickets,
weeping amidst the periwinkle werifesteria,
grooving to the garglesome wind
that suffocated the cartilage
within the dry throat of wilderness~
ready to lure purple, perplexed pupils
to the reeking ruins of once upon
a rosy rendezvous,
where picturesque polaroids
of thanatophobic thistles
fear the pungent aroma
of decayed desires~
drenched in the stale shadows
of whiskey specters,
cloaking wisteria wishes
fluffed with puffs of fluorescent fleur,
designing a sky dressed
in the darkest dews of rainbow rhinestones.
So let the grotesque seeds
of passion-fruit moon
embrace the fossilized fragrance
of fated flames,
flickering mercuric beams
splattering grubblortz
sherbet of seven stars,
for between the rising of blortmusk blurs
and setting of fermented fog
you will see the light~
awakening the parietal lobe
of cracked constellations,
merging rivers and lakes
like the calloused corpus callosum,
while mumbling gibberish in
sheer eloquence…
If to live,
I shall master the sticky sails
across saccharine deceit,
I will forever steer
letters glazed with remnants of pests
to land in a canvas of magnified grey matter,
an embodiment of an aesthetic disaster.
A stoic
shall wear
it like a smuggled soldier,
masquerading eclipsed heartbeats
with crystal-clear
carpe-diem calligraphies,
until the sun and moon forget
the putrid recipe
of a philosophical ponderer,
waltzing through
corridors of cathartic crumble,
frogs cradling crashed
comets dusted with cosmic chemicals
regurgitating unicorn droppings
and cavalry waste.
Yup, you red correctly,
this noggin must go
perhaps donated
to the Salvation Army, or Good Will
cuz, said atrophied cranial
horridly styled comfortably numb skull,
the source of immeasurable
beg hot ten woe, from dawn to dusk
nothing boot eve ville
hollow cavity mainly comprised
of wooly webbed weaving waste,
uber sawdust, sans Schuylkill
River effluvium and runoff rotten rill
hence, e'en a think tank
designated as Abby Normal
formerly atop a body named Phil
lip, or Wright winged Orville
one half brotherly duo,
the other sibling Wilbur,
whom both made a mill
yen legends getting airborne their lil
mechanical contraption
atop Kitty Hawk,
North Carolina with bi sic kill
mechanical aptitude,
when born aloft Kill Devil Hill
synonymous making fin hushed
blue prints emulating
flying fish, whose grill
like cartilage backbone
precursor to Evil
Knievel, who soared
on his motorcycle a devil
lush daring stuntman,
whose helmeted crown
full pursestrings muted cavil
ling critics with legitimate enterprise
earning gobs of legal tender,
whence aye aver
his mugshot ought to appear
on common denomination bill
and/or honoring throughout
the entire month of April.