Long Surgically Poems
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Metacarpals Phalanges and Sesamoids - Beauty Immortal
The hands, it's all about the hands for me
Streamline with creamy silk skin so fine
The elegance, the aesthetics, the peripheral view
The long slender phalanges, so ethereal
The disquiet beauty, the flowing artistically magnificent lines
So alluring it feels as though the hands can't be real.
Knowing deep inside my blackest of hearts
That those delicious beauties
So feminine and fragile, graceful, pristine, and agile
Could very well rip you apart
Deviant, sinister, lethal weapons, they could easily end your start
They masquerade as magic - mythical and superior
Far-advanced, emotively austere perfection
Of which all else is seen as inferior.
Hands of refinement that have been pampered, oiled, and manicured
These hands have created masterpieces, they have been held
They have been loved
And have always had a comfortable home
They are a blood moon in a deathly dark sky
The want I feel for them is all-consuming, a demonic obsession looming
Intombing comes to mind
Which is actually macabrely amusing
For a crypt of the finest design is where I house all mine.
Affirmation - yes indeed you understood correctly
That is what I did say
Trust and believe - I would not have them any other way
In my sanctuary of cool, and dimly lit, embraced by all of evil
And of the most impervious kind
My meticulously chosen, surgically removed pairs of hands
Are anything but bland
Individually glass-encased, labeled, and displayed
In the most iconic of ways.
This Otherworldly renowned domicile of hands
I am proud to say - is the only one in all of the lands
A kind of designer boutique of all hands unique
And definitely not to be confused with Trick-or-Treat or feet
Of the countless sets of hands in my collection
My most treasured pair that are there
Are those of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
How's that for dereliction of the Host?
I can't afford to flinch
in the presence of adversity
gotta remove any negativity
and I mean that literally, surgically
letting go of what's been disturbing me
before it kills me or makes
me lose my mind
it's clutch time
There's an audience watching
to see if I can beat the clock
shred the defense and still
take the shot
the game is on lock and key
ball and chain
gotta get your head right
strengthen your membrane
this world won't get the best of me
I promise that
freedom from white supremacy
is still on my mind
so I can't afford to slack
no matter what's going on in my personal life
I gotta stay focused by any means
so if that means blowing an L
**** gimme a light
There's a tug of war I'm in
I feel myself giving in
because the other side isn't
strong enough
wearing your heart on your sleeve
is overrated when it
seems like your efforts are never enough
A bridge from colloquial to courtly
fare
A span where idealism and fantasy
pair
A railway to the existential realm;
celestial lair
A conduit through which rational
discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate,
and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty;
sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter
the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on
civility and decorum
A literary organ; a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to
deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational
viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct;
extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring
wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure
gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which
concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by
an idiomatic core
The stars wink out over suburbia
another dawn has won over
a distant night.
The defeated and dead as always,
hidden between time zones,
a brief brutality too far away,
and not enough to smear backyards
and beer barns.
Upon my morning walk
I lift up my heart in song.
A soft breeze
drowns out the drone
of smart death,
the quieted blood of the gone,
leaving only
surgically dismembered voices
lilting sweetly
in this summer air,
If I look to the East
maybe a bird or two will arrive
bearing seeds of survival,
for now the pinpointed and targeted
tread no trace
thread no words.
After more nightly raids,
after the nocturnal flames,
the collateral and damaged
come to dream with us,
they come as the misplaced
and as our muted morning guests –
fortunately, we have
many soft and spare pillows.
If there be love,
let us marry our heads
to jagged stone —
surgically carving the hearts
hidden within our depths.
Let us sow what could’ve been,
take chance with all our vanities
before passion turns to consequence.
Let us dig our graves this very moment,
arrange the canvas bloom,
hasten the stones along our waists
and submerge our young —
a mercy we were never shown.
Delicately placing our lips
on the wielder of memory,
casting the seedlings
to the depths.
Let us bathe in boiling wax,
hardening our skin —
so that when it comes
we are already gone.
But if love not be…
then why need we suffer,
if passion and fire
never graced us
their wound?
If I rely on myself for truth, I waste my time,
for who am I, certainly not the Creator. —by poet
My truths are bubbly and smile
as light shines from my eyes and lips.
Like a blossom unfolding through the ages, after my spirit
was regenerated, through boundless weather, I hearken to God’s word.
My truth is found in careful study, each scripture verse.
God’s sword is sharp, surgically removes my sin and shame,
scolds me, builds me up, points the way to paradise.
In family and friends, I look for what is real,
stand back if I must to size up,
not for judgment, just for clarity.
My truth is found in peace and calm, humility, strife.
Experience rounds out my truths, for I’ve seen miracles happen.
I rely on Christ to brave
through the darkest night; and colors; and poetry.
I stand
Standing upon the emerald landscape
posture stiff and still
Eyes like black holes
devouring the space around me
Glass horse galloping, prisms
exploding through the plainlands
Time passes faster and faster
the clouds cocoon and bloom
into a wrinkled face,
nearing a necessary wail
I blink
A cliffside abbey, tourmaline waves
crash into the fissured face
Hung to the horizon, dangling
like a Christmas ornament above the sea
A gaggle of nuns gather to practice their vespers
clasping on their ash wood rosaries
The atmosphere arranges
in etudes as the cliffside ascends
I fall
Wading face up in a bog
a common frog hops along my halo
I saw a woman I once loved
wrapped in the storm clouds, gliding
There's a murmur in the shifting
leaves above me,
the purest peatland water slowly rises
as though I’m an egg to be pickled
Drowning in the songs of the ancient
the spectral, the still unknown
I sink
Suspended in the cloudy drink
a liquid haze
a glowing quilt finds itself
around my shoulder blades
Where I imagine wings
would be surgically stitched
Adrift in the murky space,
I am an audience to an Annunciation
of marbled crawdads birthing clones
of nature performing miracles
Now I finally find a restful peace
amongst the kaleidoscopic
I am an enemy combatant house detainee.
Surveillance cameras are placed in my apartment strategically
and a computer chip has been implanted in me surgically
which informs my government of my every locality.
It was decided not to incarcerate me.
I'm more useful working and contributing to the economy.
I've been judged a suspected enemy combatant because of what I believe
and my government sees that as a threat apparently.
What is this truth that I hold to be self evident?
My U S Constitution and Declaration of Independence.
*
The above is a fictionalized fantasy,
but is well on its way to becoming reality.
It is not one's right but one's duty to dissent
when one's government has been over run with corruption.
"You can't shout. You can't even cry.
The 7 Gentlemen are coming by.
Looking in windows. Knocking on doors.
They need to take seven and they might take yours.
You can't call to Mom. You can't say a word.
You're going to die screaming but you won't be heard."
The above is supposedly from some ancient fairy tale.
I've tried researching its origins but to no avail.
Has anyone heard the fairy tale titled The 7 Gentlemen?
If you have, I'd appreciate any information my friend.
PS
The "7 of what they need to take that might be yours" are human hearts.
As the story goes, supposedly 7 Gentlemen arrive in the dead of night in some rural out of
the way town. They open up a magic box that steals the voices of everyone in the
community while they sleep. For the 7 days thereafter the 7 Gentlemen search for victims.
When they find one, they surgically remove their heart while the victim is still alive. The
victim can't scream or call for help because the victim's voice is locked in the magic box
along with the others. After the Gentlemen have collected 7 hearts, well, to be honest I don't
know what the hell happens next or why in the bloody hell they need to harvest these darn
hearts for in the first place. Which is why I now find myself obsessively researching this
ancient fairy tale which may or may not actually exist.
Writing fiction
Has no restriction
Unlike the journal writer on the list
Asking ‘what is this’
Raising their fist
Not allowing anything to be missed
Dependent on a quote from someone else
Driving them insane straight to mental health
After a reporter decides they have the space and time
A source says ‘I decline’
Only to call right before deadline
Stating they are sorry
Forcing a whole rewrite to an inch and half story
An author on the other side
Has full control in this information ride
As a writer
A powerful imagination fighter
Creating interpretive setting is the plan
When distributing thoughts the reader will understand
Relaxing and reflect
If the subject matter is interesting and connects
Only fantasy characters get hurt
When throwing the dirt
Story telling made up
While drinking from a legendary bar fly cup
A message is told
Opening communication peacefully soothing the bold
Characters may lie, die, or cry
While others try, sigh, and inquire ‘why?’
These ideas give an author entertainment in their mind
No need to drop a nickel or dime
Encouraging them
To pick up a pen
And weave the scripture twine
Playing God surgically working on Frankenstein
Writing fiction
There is no restriction
Getting one’s way
Despite no pay
Saying it is okay
When tightening the noose
On the artist’s targeted guilty muse