Long Larynx Poems
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A lady was kept in a bottle, a glass bottle, for being so beautiful. She was kept for a long time as a prisoner because the witch did it to her.
Anybody at the present time may not believe in witchcraft anymore. Not even in werewolves or transformation of any kind. But who can tell which is which if we only base everything on what human eyes can see?
The witch was jealous of the lady's beauty and so envious of her angelic voice. How the witch was able to lure the beautiful lady is by befriending her, then deceived her that her voice can sound more interesting by inserting a string in her pharynx. The witch insisted that through the throat, the voice box (larynx) can be smoothened to bring out the best in singing. The lady lost her voice and cannot speak to anyone anymore. She was embarrassed and got angry to herself for being fooled. She ran away from home and was so irate for what the witch has done to her. The worst of all, the glass bottle is the place where the beautiful lady ran to -- to escape her sadness and regret. All of these transpired because of the witch's selfishness and unkindness.
The memory of the beautiful lady with an angelic voice is now felt and represented by a pink flower in a glass bottle.
I want to run her thoughts
through a carwash, they are not dirty,
just old, the way a classic corvette
needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint
Not that I think of her as a car,
more an abandoned engine
that had been laid too long in a barn.
farm mice had learned to turn her ignition
without the need for any fresh oil.
Dinner together in a Texas Roadhouse.
The nasal song of a country boy
trapped in a ball-breaking melody.
I can’t hear her words,
she can’t hear mine…finally we’re communicating.
An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest.
I imagine I am roosting in her throat,
listening, not to her mind or mine,
but Brailing my way around her silence.
The streaks are good, throats become naked
as the food alone speaks to us.
Then here between her vocal folds
a little girl is weeping.
There in the craw-dark, a mother belittles and scolds.
An inner voice far from this moment speaks:
“My ears are too big. I will never be smart enough,
witty enough, thin enough, worthy of love.”
A broken echo intones. It is a recording.
The recounting has no motor, no apparatus,
just etched grooves scored into an ethereal larynx.
The server comes around. “How you’ll doing.”
She and the waitress look to me,
but I am still in the hollow of her throat
a space now witnessing
my own doleful litany of sad songs.
crown petals unfold for lofty Light
fontanelle gaping softly smile
Centre Point’s hole blazon mile
pineal connects as conical way
to galactic edenic binomial rays
loosens ovuliferous scales honed
thyroid equalises, tongue relaxes
cylinder opens larynx true blue
speech becomes intended hues
heart softens atria, ventricles
valves linking doors of paradise
protected golden it rhapsodises
coin-line verticle-horizontal spherical
solar plexus flowers monumental near
mystical super might no incidentals
feed flows smooth for tantric beats
sacral seat in creativity knowing heat
power is orange action satisfaction
rooted into Earth mooted primordial
authentic estate mirthful immemorial
aligned connection very refined
~~~~~~~~~~
It was as if a dead man had a hold of my throat.
Each of his fingers (he had but one hand),
was a bone handled butter knife
dull,
but together they clamped my breath like a vice.
"We’ve got to get you in ASAP,
You’re going to choke to death."
Death loosened its grip on me
as if hearing its name said out loud.
The Doctors office jumped sideways into
an erratic twilight zone, inflating and deflating
as I sat in a bleary bubble of shock.
Death squeezed harder
until I wheezed like a broken accordion.
"Look!"
I looked at the X-Ray, my larynx, and around it
woody vines, fibrous ropes clutching
a narrowing breathing tube. A Gordon’s knot.
I told the surgeon about the knot.
He nodded gravely and said,
"It wants to strangle you."
Is there a name for this condition?
"Yes, we call it:
‘Dead Man Strangling Syndrome,’
surgery is the only answer,
delicate, difficult, decidedly unconventional surgery,
that’s the only way forward.
First we need butter, lots of it, and an exorcist.
Are you a Catholic?"
Yes I was born in original sin
and a spreading guilt.
"Excellent" he said, rubbing his hands together,
"then we may have a chance."
Life has become an amorphous mass,
Sans shape, sans structure.
And my mind is in total discombobulation.
I feel I am like a scrap yard.
My world has lost its tint and throb.
Defeated and decimated,
I long for an about-turn,
To reach back from whence I started
To get out of this quagmire
To restore all that slipped through my fingers,
In the tangled labyrinthine paths of life!
How I wish to curl unobtrusive,
Into the womb that bore me once,
To be reborn once more as my old self
To enjoy the peace and bliss, now alien!
As trees bared by the winter blasts,
Stay in wait for the spring to arrive,
I await a new life, fresh and new.
Before that, I must rip loose,
And peel away the covert mask
Sticking tight to my concealed face
Though it may cause me to bleed.
Exhale the soot of hatred,
Polluting my larynx and lungs,
The time is up for me to leave the stage.
But before I make the final bow
I should fit into a new cast,
And become a man again!!
You ignite the
romance of my dreams.
I wish to encroach your
lips with my
tasty sandwich of perfected
rosemary teat.
I'll make your brain
immune to my soul
so you become out
of breath when far
from your source.
My toes will python
your emotions,
make you feel good with
motions that can't be
found in Neptune.
Oh! my Fairy prince,
should I Massage
those fire clay
masculinity and
blow your mind out of its organ?
I'm devoured by the
moans of your consistency.
Devoted to the strings of
your intentionality.
Should I delineate your
cubes of grip so it
illuminates the lines
of storytellers?
Or are you too shy to
tell the world that,
You're the heel of
my heart, the calf
of my stamina.
The spine of the moon
and the Larynx of the dark stars.
Honey!
I'll let you dance to the rhythm of Calla
Lily while I paint in the beams of Zinnias.
Disconsolate obsidian waves crash over crumbling dunes,
Sweeping afflicted grains of sand back into the depths,
Dragging my paralysed soul with them.
Engulfed in despondent riptides,
I gasp for oxygen amongst rippling currents,
As a fiery moon hangs precariously overhead.
Blood-red reflections illuminate the stark waters,
While calls of the lost sing to me,
Like sirens beckoning sailors to their doom—
Louder and louder, until it becomes unbearable.
Flaring arms fill with cortisol,
Burning, tangled within suffocating seaweed.
Farther I get pulled from the shore;
The horizon is growing fainter now with every somber beat of my heart.
Isolation shrouds the thickening atmosphere.
Saline leaks into my mouth, drying my tongue as I frantically spit it out.
Hysterical laughter escapes through lips without realisation.
Dehydration overcomes.
Sanity slips with each sip of water.
My larynx sharply tightens—
Barely a noise can be uttered.
Yet the siren calls of the irretrievable continue to crescendo,
Pulling me into an empty expanse, everlastingly.
Clean feet
I had a check-up about my diabetes, but first I had
to see the nurse who did the physical work testing this and that,
do you want to see my feet? No, she said it is not needed.
To think I had scrubbed my feet pink, between the toes too,
like cardinal waiting for the pope to kiss his feet.
The foot kissing is a ritual humiliation to keep the pope humble.
I noticed the nurse´s dress looked crumbled as she had slept
In her uniform, perhaps she had done a double shift,
she also had a restless leg. I found tense, and a prominent larynx, or maybe she needed a pee.
The doctor spoke to the computer everything was ok, liver
blood pressure, and so on, the doctor looked like a cute mouse a narrow face and small ears, her
hospital coat was starched.
I told her my feet were better. I said that hoping she would have a look, but no, she smiled politely
and wished me a good day.
When I was a young girl, they said I could have an empire
Careers and businesses, money and trophies, a family of my own
Lies twirled off the patriarchy's serpent tongue
For my womb became their personal storage space
I couldn't wear a dress too flowy or short
They worried my male peers would stare
Not even my favorite rugged dark jeans
Because XY chromosomes had their eyes on me
Like a stone wall only built halfway
Their promises felt atomless
We fired, but only grazed the target
And fortification didn't patch our wounds
Twisting, turning, my body was never mine
Just a vessel on their puppet strings
Only another human incubator
Because what if the kid's straight, White, or male?
I'm more than my fountain of fertility
I love and feel just like a man
But I'm given nothing to wipe my tears
Only the birth certificates of my hypothetical kids
Don't remember me for my body and face
Think of my fists raised in the air
Shouting until my larynx gives out
"I'm also a human!"
The night was young, ecosystem calm
Thoughts flooding my mind, I got drowned in them
Pin fall silence, I could hear my blood flow
On the spur of the moment came misdirection
Entered she, soaked in tears
Her eyes inflamed; larynx they were
Tears still cascading down her countenance
She wept profusely
She needed a shoulder to lean on, mine was uncommitted
I snuggled her to at least give her solace
Compassion was requisite
It cost nothing, so I offered her
Our proximity; not far from contact
Changed things drastically
Her warm tears gushed down my chest
Melting my heart, the throbbing irregular
Her light skin so enticing, pleasing to the touch
My hands got the pleasure
Racing all over her like a hasty warthog escaping death
Caged, I couldn’t escape the enticement and so…