Long Viscera Poems
Long Viscera Poems. Below are the most popular long Viscera by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Viscera poems by poem length and keyword.
EarthMother recirculates red
and dark blue blood,
through sacred veins
and springing arterials
of integrity's compassion
Healing
wounding segregated pathologies
of death avoidance
is not life gracefully danced
When we
together
see Alphas
StraightWhiteMale dominant
through every space
in timeless now
Circulating Anthropocene
patho-atheistic parching Earth
in Alpha taste
and RightWing touch
and LeftBrain see
Omega's green capital face
and organic viscera,
MeWe Janus de-polarized
feeling dizzy
with transgendered dissonance
Traumatized
by unsecretive eyes
for not-not shared objectives
With healthy words
usurped by straight
white anthro-engoddened men
no one dare name
or look upon
without shame,
monotheistic
punishing blame
Throughout our dynamic history
of multiculturally systemic
polytheistic
iconic
sacred becoming EarthTribes
continuously open
whole systemic filled
universal felt experience
Omega's tipping point
toward integral win/win
strategic green
bi-hemispherically balancing
co-messianic Spring i
New Year transitioning intelligence
Recirculating red
and dark blue blood,
through veins
and uprising Alpha arterials
of integrity's Omega
autumnal
replete compassion
Wintering climate
depleted dispassion
silently waiting
next season's green
return addiction,
summer's full climax
loving life
now sadly co-defeated.
The way this day carries on, one might think
it invalid, paralyzed from neck down,
wheelchair bound, unable to roll around
or speak more than “yes” or “no” via blink.
Or, maybe it wishes for not to sink,
but to shadow itself to a moonless sound,
to boil by the bay while gulls crack the ground,
dead from exhaustion, seared, and charbroiled pink.
But, seabird viscera sustains no Mute
so cowardly as to entrap His sun
which hangs suspended on enraptured thigh -
no, it’s the nightingales enchanting flute
that calls this day to be a darkened run,
that sours sweet the spineless song of lullaby.
Zombie-Let’s think about this logically you only have 2 choices
Number one I eat you or you run and are torn apart by a group of us
Hi I’m Brian…wait was formally Brian deceased
Victim-I could get away…Brian deceased
Zombie-well I was bit this morning in edgington park about 9-9.30 and that 3 miles away and we have already spread here
Victim-wait did you pass abbey nursery
Zombie-oh sorry that’s gone like Easter to us
You know you think you would feel bad
but that’s one of the things
first thing to go feeling who knew
Victim-I could kill you
Zombie-
What with your plastic spatula
yeah the brain thing is garbage
Turns out we don’t need it
See we can make it amicable for us both
One bite somewhere unnoticed
Then it’s you and me for all eternity
Victim-like friends but I would be dead
Zombie-All the movies are garbage
For instance I know everything every other zombie knows..their talents skills secrets
Victim-So how do we do this
Zombie-let’s go inside I can feel a horde close by
We sit you in your favourite chair
I take a nibble maybe a pinkie
Trust me if there was a group they would tear you inside out
Just your hand waving a spatula from a pile of viscera for the rest of time
oh, yes ...
yes, I have ...
I've had them ... those moments
the deep, desperate, rare moments ...
"straight-from-a-movie" moments
of romance and melancholy
where the violins and violas and
cellos pull on your heart ...
forlorn music reaching down into your viscera
to yank at your soul in tyranny ...
heart-wrenching moments of
exquisite agony -
where the core burns, the hairs all
stand, the eyes close, and you're lost
to the consequence ...
brief, beautiful, tender instances that
you hold for a lifetime -
that shine like jeweled beacons among
the mists of the mundane ...
oh, how blessed I've been ... and how cursed
for this gift of creativity that so
many envy, is but a facade for the dark, dire
truth of the sensitive spirit -
we feel deeper, look deeper, wish deeper, love
deeper, and hurt ... so much deeper ...
I am thankful for those moments, for
they are precious ...
but there is a dear and diabolical price to pay
and it comes without music
in the dead ...
of night.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Writing Challenge 1, August 2019 - Just Write" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart, Judge & Sponsor.
On days like this
I wish I was an Aztec.
Give me Nextlahualli
As a noble death.
I’d gladly part with
My possessions, and
Give my body in sacrifice
To the benefit of the gods.
Yes, it’s the Flower War,
A good death.
You don’t believe in that?
You don’t revere the gods?
Blasphemy!
Better to cut your tongue
In half in atonement than
Say that aloud.
I lie in a drugged stupor
As they ready the flint knife
Which my priest will use
To cut out my heart.
I feel greatly honored
A Flower War death is
Much more noble than
Dying in battle.
From forever land I watch
My discarded body get
Flung down the temple’s steps.
There is satisfaction in knowing
I have saved my community,
And my viscera will feed
The animals in the zoo.
Religion trumps spirituality
Every time!
I wish I was an Aztec.
Concerto D'amor
Whenever I'm with you,
Other things are amnesia.
Every single moment with you,
Suits decades in a catatonia.
If you were Bermuda triangle,
I'd often tread on the blast of shangri-la;
A picnic in the devil's triangle,
Run-of-the-mill than millenniums in ball park.
You're the Bermuda triangle.
I, being a wanderer.
The strong storm of South-America pulling me to you,
And down towards your smile I totter.
If you were an Iceberg,
I'd pull my Titanic towards you,
Rejoicing as you break me apart
Waters drowning the consciousness I'd built.
You're the iceberg;
Sybaritic, pudgy and turbingly symmetrical.
And I lost in the lust of the traverse,
With my patois feels your viscera.
Be whatever you choose:
A stark lasso repressing the rim of the sea?
But by bid can you loose,
Letting your waves gulp my plenary?
My heart through its mouth bleeds yearning,
Of how often for you I did fall.
Christ on a horse! I'm crazy 'bout you, honey!
This is my seven lives concerto d'amor.
19:05:01:16:48
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral piece. Concerto D'amor.
When I imagined what it would
be like to be a writer,
I saw myself hunched over a
typewriter with bourbon on the
rocks sweating a ring onto my desk.
I could smell the ink on my fingers
and feel the burn of alcohol in my gut
and hear the keys clapping, a standing ovation
for the poor sad boy who wrote wings onto
his back and flew away from the red mud county.
But it's quiet here.
I sit alone at my desk and I reach into my guts
and I grab fistfuls of blood and viscera
and the keys don't move
I choke up the rage my father left in me
and the keys don't move
I cut out the fear my mother so lovingly placed
and the keys don't move
I drag out every black eye, bloody nose, and split lip I ever earned, every fight I lost, every single argument I had, every sunset I was a brother beneath, every truck cab I ever fell in love in and
THE KEYS DO NOT MOVE
We set foot on dry grass at the cockcrow
of a nascent union.
Cheek to cheek as Cupid towers
over the rose inside my heart,
shooting arrows at a dyad draped in fire,
gliding through the tundras of charred weeds,
fin-like petals quake beneath our feet.
The sun unloads its savage heat in torrents,
thermal downpours drench the wedded seam,
blisters left on Sinai soul mate psyches,
rain shadow or bajada by the bye!
Aphrodite’s children from the pampas,
teether on phlogiston’s manic figment,
cauterized, rock-ribbed, raw emotion rivulets ablaze.
Firebrands of first flush in all but name.
Plumes of tropic passion wrap, us madagascan parrots,
trill and troll sidekicks one and all, showing off our feathers
high above the arid air. sweat soaked garments
reek of clammy cuddles, shredded, torn,
strung loosely round the limbs of new born flames.
Cindered patch exposed on lover’s skein without a balm.
Soaptree yucas proudly fence the rapids giddy gurgle.
Frothy sidemen serenade the cherry blossom sweethearts,
lilting love notes found in every strain.
Knotted woodlands understory,
nuptial suite propped up by swollen nodes.
Eternal palms outstretched,
love puppets on a compass point astride the boundless needle.
Viola viscera, songbird incarnate, bow to my enchanted fiddle.
Together forever, alone at last
I recall by chance the astuteness of rain
When the thin smoke from charged pulses of cold haze
Befriended the weeded way . . .
Leering further into the viscera of the village,
Clouds of old beginnings heaved potent sighs,
Loud, frenetic and full of powder.
I revelled in the warmth of acid lightning,
Quick to mirror the village in its own image.
The grey breath was intense,
Fusing teethed mirth with grim spheres.
Then came the vitrined harmony of fleeing spectres!
Tricks were revealed.
Tenebrous paths came to light.
And the rumps of sensuous fowls stood stark
Before the reality of weaned souls.
I recall lighting up a cigarette.
Adding to the atmospheric smoke,
I held on to the banter of coyness, flat,
Resolute, and with rummaged blessedness of initial stages
Blending well with the greed of May.
Still you sit, in the recesses of my dreams.
Tugging at the cracks, pulling on the seams.
You’d have though, that after all the sand that passed,
You’d have faded now. I’d stop looking back.
But eyes roam, haunting still the castle of dreams.
Tip-tapping down stone, barely touched. Unclean.
Your face beams. Guiding moonlight of wayward heart,
It’s quite dark now dear, my castle cracks apart.
You’re not here, I project your phantom resin.
Not you, I’m in love with a harsh lesson.
Something long since lost, at greatest of costs.
I lost me, somewhere outside the castle walls.
Yet still I wonder, these silent stone halls.
Can’t even destroy. I’m the architect.
Can’t move on, trapped in my own made monolith.
The worst gaol is this, labyrinth of time.
Castle stands, as shifting sands bow down to glass.
Obsidian walls, decked the halls with ass.
Lost color, the trail of the phantom Pixie.
Orpheus screams out, Zeus knows what about.
Hades laughs, that fairy-free world fades to grey.
You were never here. Alone here I lay.
Were we real? Or are these crimson hands of mine,
The death of a dream? Or the death of a lie?
Painted in, the fevered ramblings of a fool.
I built this tomb, crawl back into womb.
Gestate me, placate my tenacious memory.
A new me will crawl, through viscera and all.
Pixie’s dead. Blood born an amaygdala moo.
He lets out a scream, raging fire abyss.
Had to die, to let your phantom form mist.