Long Disconnects Poems
Long Disconnects Poems. Below are the most popular long Disconnects by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Disconnects poems by poem length and keyword.
Caustic memories dissolve on my tongue
Lingering tastes of battery acid and nicotine
Cause me to choke on putrid saliva.
Staring at melting walls, clocks tick in unison.
Distorted birdsong hums outside of jagged windows
Under the warped sun, an unrepentant landscape blurs.
Freshly budding peonies liquefy;
Veils thin, evaporating the delusion of reality.
Why must I mould to the edges at your bidding,
Contort to the point of my own dysfunction?
For such fleeting worship, this devastation lingers -
Devours and disconnects my inner workings.
I lie highlighted in shadow, a beacon of quiet distress;
A dislodged scapula desperate to be labelled angelic.
Grounded, wingless, and forever out of time -
Wearing the last face you cared for as a comforter.
Neon venom warming twisted arteries,
Sinister patches stitched upon a breaking back.
A narcissist's crown digging into my head
Like rusted nails plunged into worm-infested wood—
Permanent disconnection, frayed cerebral cortex.
Blurred vision obscures insidious figures hiding in hushed corners,
Whispering in Babylonian tongue. Hallucinatory illusions haunt
What was a once-pristine sanctuary,
Now morphing into a surrealistic asylum.
Revelation exists above shadow in temporal machination,
I'm consciousness not yet swept up with sand;
Closed eyes cleanse my corneas - I rest in a balm of clarity.
Your power superficial, a cankerous cataract peeled clean off.
It is you who is bereft, washed up with the shell you created.
All the walls of your empty room fallen flat,
As I unfurl in the mirror beyond the shoreline,
I realise - it was never me you couldn't stomach.
In a flash, coals of darkness strike the night,
her teeth grating... pinched by a rage
screaming on walls that resound from her lungs;
her face spitting out a whorl of madness
in a verbal lash of ten or more whips,
mocking all the way down to the veins…
A furnace of rage disconnects her from some
sense of reality: the raw edge of irreverence
at every turn... panting, cussing, and cutting
sliced words like broken glass, as though
her heart is unaware of her sense of duality.
She taste the tears of both wrath and liberation,
plunging down the sunken pit in a hazy blur;
until she hears a voice,” it's alright, girl”...
for her borders cannot see the difference
between another time, another place,
where gentle sighs and harsh language
cannot blend as she hardly responds.
For John Lawless: Minced Words Contest
6/24/2016
What do I know of soul?
Nothing but its close conspiracy with death
As the soul disconnects and flies when we die.
The world's soul can be seen in the clouds,
And death looms and hovers high
Over this tumbling clod of earth.
I also see the wind in the clouds
And hear the floating truth the wind conveys.
The world is a Barnum and Bailey hoax,
An elaborate deception.
Does not the earth look flat?
Does not the sun appear to rise and set?
We are but a mere handful of dust
Thrown into the face of the wind.
That may or may not be soul,
But it sifts us along, anyway,
Like the silt of destinies.
No one is accountable for the accident of his birth,
Although he may be for the untimeliness of his death.
Life is a great chaotic secret,
And we are merely ignorant
Searching souls in constant cosmic disarray.
Author's note: We are all ordinary. What is extraordinary is that so many of us ignore what few strengths lie within us as we try to live with and around our flaws. "Soul" is an imprecise term, or so it seems to me. "Mystery", perhaps, has the advantage of a more precise application.
The first invisible hand I saw, was the hand that appeared
in the banquet hall of the Babylonian palace, inscribing
letters on the wall, with its fingertip,
the letters, written by the invisible visible hand, on the wall
may be an astonishing revelation, the inscription on the wall
is not as impressive as the visible invisible hands stretching
desperately on the canvas in ‘Guernica’.
By the time I learned of the existence of an invisible hand,
it’s an embarrassing situation but the invisible hand disappeared
from our surroundings, already; a crow flew away to the place unknown
carrying my poor soul.
Presently, however, every hand has
its own color and goes loose in the marketplace
the clean white hands called holy
dipped and pulled out from holy water;
the bluish hands dyed from bruised people treated cruelly;
the dictator’s red hands stained from the blood of innocent people;
other hands,
messy hands stained from oil spouting from the well;
the bright gold hands of the man who found a vein of gold.
Nonetheless, there still is, the invisible hand, out there,
this hand occasionally fumbles into my breast, pulls my heart out
and tattoos an unsightly tattoo which can’t be removed or cut out
and when becomes bored of tattooing my heart, the hand squeezes
into the brain, connects and disconnects the delicate linkage of my thoughts
and beclouds my judgment
it’s really annoying, but what can I do?
since it’s an invisible hand.
That’s the devil’s hand a dog plays with,
the dog tosses, chases and chews it in his mouth.
Cocooned
Just like a butterfly trapped tight,
her folded wings await the flight.
Cocooned, she fears what to expect
when from her safety, disconnects.
With wings of flight, she must escape
into a world with new landscape...
Just like a butterfly entrapped
inside a world so tightly capped.
Cocooned, she fears the world outside
seen from within...freedom denied.
Transfiguration, a gift of few...
needs wings of flight to change her view.
March 25, 2018
~3rd Place~
Premiere Contest: Freedom
Sponsor: Robert James Liguori
Judged: 03/21/2022
~3rd Place~
Contest: Picture This
Sponsor: Joseph May
Judged: 04/01/2018
To The Wall
Computers, cell phones, mind disconnects as follows
Down in the deep, turned off, cut short
Where all signals underground have no reception
Desolate, only earth and rocks to greet us
As door opened on the lower levels chambered depth
If I remember, it was a dim green light within the field of vision
Soft and low below the turning stone and stairs
Mystery began
We followed passages of labored labyrinthine in step and style
Like two lost aliens not from this world at all
Stumbling with hand held narrow beams of light
Another door and then another blocked our progress
Smothered in dark cold caverns stretching on our way
Breaking ancient doors became a sport, so many to forget
One after another on and on the miles below the maze
Afraid, contained, a world like no other ever found
The end came humble after many hours
Sore and weary of walk and work
A thick rock confronted us
The last stop is a curiosity observed
To think about our circumstance
Ending, after all, it is just another wall that goes no further
There are killings,
suffocation in gullet
hell holes, decapitations
by mandibles stalking in shadows,
death pits at the bottom
of slippery throated flowers
and racked on a web,
a struggling moth
slowly turning into soup.
My garden is a slaughter
field littered with the leftovers
from deadly feasts.
And the victims….what
of their inaudible cries,
the screams broadcast
on wavelengths beyond
my ear. Do they plead
for mercy, feel pain
register in whatever
rudimentary brain animates
their brief lives.
Help me ! Please help me !
does the moth cry,
feeling the spiders fangs
penetrate and pump poison
into its trussed body.
Or do I give such
small life undue significance
affording it compassion
when it should be exempt.
But where's the line ?
Size ?
Its propensity for domestication,
its rank on an arbitrary scale ?
The perfumed beauty
of a single flower diverts
the senses and disconnects
attention to the suffering
of small things.
We are blissfully unaware.
Does anyone hear them,
does anyone care,
or does life's little screams
fall into an uncaring nothingness
and if so, then what of our own.