It’s cold.
It’s cold in my lodes.
It’s cold in my cells.
It’s cold in my lobe.
My ears, blessed with plagued tint; your windmill of everlasting exasperation, pacifying the turmoil beneath my dermis.
Again, again, and again.
The recurring depiction inked onto the dip of my lips, the pink waning into the virtue of my ward.
The tears gash as I attempt to pelt away from the ceaseless predation I reluctantly melt into.
The eyes scan me head to toe; I remain a simple dispute to the contrary of my dearth.
The eyes strip me head to toe; I remain a simple fiction to the turpitude of their obscenity.
The eyes scourge me head to toe; I remain a simple anathema to the excretion of my blasphemy.
The exploited nudity travels beneath my tangible, under my demeaned stance of a humiliated vermin.
Nothing but a figurine carved into flesh.
Nothing but a mannequin scribed into skin.
Their degradation caresses the mortification of my fragility.
And the epithelium of my delicacy probes at me;
I’m not making it to 19.
The thunder screams outside my window.
The low, rumbling threats seem to decipher the knots of the obscured gag in my throat.
The white shocks my room with a stark, sudden white, coating the walls in a raging light.
I look out the window.
I ask him what’s wrong.
He screams again, louder this time.
The scream seems to coax itself onto the cracks of my skin, solving the puzzle of my silence.
The rumble tries to pulsate beneath the callouses of my skin, quieting the throb of my silence.
The white appears to alarm the calamity of my skin, triggering the mortification of my silence.
My silence.
That is all I find in the brown of my skin.
That is all I find in the amber of my eyes.
That is all I find in the silver of my rings.
A silence sculpted from an ignited plea for obliteration.
A journey rendered, framed, and set
as plaster comic book panels.
Flip through the Way of Sorrows.
Peruse condemnation to sepulchre.
No matter the church, I found and compared
each episode through ten-year-old eyes
that scrutinized every detail.
Digested the mechanics of suffering.
These fourteen were my first gallery.
A restated traffic jam of nudity and frozen
sadism that floated above me as priests spoke
of love, faith and doing unto others.
I recognized violence when I saw it, the cruel
slapstick in the mortification of the flesh.
Thorn in brow, nail in palm, scourge on back.
Gladiatorial voyeurism. Masked in reflection.
Many would have been filled with humiliation
At ruining their brother Bill’s graduation
Their mother’s face showed total mortification
Dad was used to bad behavior, from his relation.
Humiliation
‘tween the jaws of a sandwich
Mortification
Darling, please forgive me,
To my mortification
For taunting you each and every time.
Forgive me for the anguish,
For my sarcastic words that hurt.
Forgive me for my lies,
Forgive me for my actions.
For the promises that were false,
How distraught we looked.
How disappointed I made you be,
It's a scary shame that I wanna hide.
And every second of my life is in fear
Of losing your heart.
Please darling, forgive me,
I'll rectify my mistakes.
I'll rehabilitate my behaviors,
I'll treat you how you should be treated.
I will find path in maze we fell in,
You will be a princess again.
I stand to pull the storm to bring on the sun,
My heart is bleeding from inside.
On my knees pleading for your mercy,
Forgive this disloyal lover,
Forgive your inamorato.
A thread of regrets whips me,
I mean everything I say.
My soul is crying for you,
Please take me back,
Don't leave me alone.
A simple musing about a broken heart
There are no tomorrows when the day is long
and filled with sadness
there is only the slow counting of tears that fall never ending
onto the wet palms of lamination
where the weeping heart yearns for yesterday
that was lost to the empty heart of today
and causes time to be an unbearable purgatory
of tortuous emotions
that washed away the beauty
that once filled the eyes the heart the soul
this trinity lies in a state of mortification
and discontent
wanting to be buried in a ground of hopelessness
that comes with a broken heart
standing up in a class of fifty,
offering her answers, quite gently,
will the professor think she’s nifty,
or will he think of her differently,
she blushes, though she isn’t shifty,
discombobulation, incidentally,
answering, she mumbles – befuddled,
oh, no, her answers are muddled!
Walking home from class, gusts blow.
She feels her dress rise off her form,
Baring her rear, all red – she does glow,
Embarrassed as can be by the storm,
She hopes no one will see this show –
Oh, her cheeks do feel moderately warm,
Will anyone notice her mortification?
Her naked bottom brings quite a sensation.
when she reaches her destination, she finds,
not only was her bottom seen, but snapped,
by a sneaky camera, who always reminds –
those awkward moments, when unwrapped,
prompt the owner to turn shades of red in all kinds,
marking these days where there’s laughter to be kept,
so, at least, her embarrassment is a reflection,
often found in some comedian’s photo collection!
JUSTIFICATION
Oh, what a distressing frustrating situation,
I’ve suddenly lost all my poetic imagination,
Nothing tickles me pink, no stimulation,
I want to create a poem of deep inspiration,
Which will meet everyone’s expectation,
But my thoughts are edging towards nullification,
I want to scream out loud, a slow dilapidation,
I’m reaching an uncomfortable exasperation,
My muse, has succumbed to misinformation,
Intimidation, and deviant calculation,
Goodness gracious,
Heard word she wants my poetic elimination.
Someone is knocking at my door, to my jubilation,
There stands a muse, I welcome with elation,
She is well known for helping those
Experiencing mortification,
Such a refreshing sight, she must after
Careful deliberation,
Give one month’s notification,
Looking forward to her presence,
Such a welcome application,
She will help me with my recuperation.
Behold, a rhyme is forming, what scintillation,
Delivering both articulation and jollification,
My previous muse jumped from poet to poet,
Everyone realized, fickle her motivation,
But my new muse and I realized justification,
We Popped a bottle of champagne in celebration.
In the apathetic chest of grass
The open intercourse of autumn dew
Opening wings, the bees fly
With the beats of Rabindra Sangeet
Without moon in the neon lights
Fireflies sacrifice themselves happily
In the durable voices of Sarod
Say- Farewell marriage mortification!
Dull, silent torture cloister-
This mental disagreed matrimonial!
But let not be forbidden – the love,
Inamorata's smile, constant staring,
Let not be forbidden - the departure of the lover
And always happy memories of the old days
Yes, let be forbidden – noose of a lovelorn lover,
Loving moonlit tryst and the smiling of pity
-18.11.2020 Chittagong
Electoral mortification
The ego of one man
chaotically divided a nation.
Hypnotically humiliated
and brought its people into dissolute hatred,
plucking each other limits.
Dehumanized the intelligence of great minds.
This team of trumpers!
imperious loud mouths,
puissant leaches stumping on others,
with ominous filthy words.
Despicable regard for biblical equal.
Do not unto others what you would not do unto yourself.
Leave the hate,
it’s like a malignant tumor,
it consumes time to no avail.
Color is just a shade,
Blood in man is indeed unique,
whether it was brown skin Jesus, dark skin Moses you or me.
as it retains a unified bond beyond us.
Someday,
I may need you and you may need me
for something grater than -
this evil influence crawling into our lives.
Your cry and my cry the same, seeking comfort.
©Al Juman -The "said" Poet, 11/25/2019
MIDNIGHT’S BLUE DRESS
Midnight’s blue dress -
modem of her physique,
molded immodestly,
married to monumental
destiny of desires,
elongated as if clinging
to an Amazon warrior.
Blue dress props up
her spectacular breasts,
high and mighty, tinged
with reckless success.
Mortification of the madonna.
Fabrication fraught
with embellishments,
bells and whistles of gold
stitched like chains
into the hem she must wear
in eternity’s flamboyant furnace.
Ferociously blue, lips tremble
and pout, pretending to bleed.
The triple X dress sways
in ebb and flow of the mastery sea,
blowing holes in seasoned captains
who dread the siren’s revenge.
Presidents and dictators fall
at her knees, sliding their beggaries
over velvety weave, thoughtless
to her treachery - they make believe.
Midnight’s blue dress invitation
squashes them all, as
she looks on from the cliff
where eagles ogle their prey.
Ejaculators* best blindfolded as dusk calls.
12/28/2019
Blue Dress Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
*other than the obvious meaning - to utter suddenly and vehemently
I have no Lord!
I'm in no God!
Oh, I'm the punishment of the opened pains,
the cursed in the blessed world for the bragging
here in the inn of heart
the holy wine glass
filled with burning coal;
I drink it ravishingly as well as ravenously
I'm going to die
death kisses me mirthfully
I regain the life of humiliation
Oh, no mortification of thought
cuddling me
here I'm the me, Sin Refugee
wandering port to city
known to unknowingly
no home I make
on the dew of arum leaf
shining more than rising sun
but after a while much burn
I'm in the burned heart
burning odour I'm in the ghost
likely most living in death
-27/11/19 CTG, BD
Scripture commands mortification sin
but without divine enabling to perform
it seems such a battle to overcome this
our saviour takes us over the storm
This Jesus we need to cover us
from head to foot indeed all around
so Satan has no spot to attack
the Lord is in charge all over ground
Putting on Jesus as your Lord
united as one in Christ supreme
when starting on the victory trail
this Christ-likeness was just a dream
But being justified in Christ
classed as if we've never sinned
freed to live in Christ triumphant
filled with God's spirit mighty wind
The perfect divine covering
being safe and secure in Him
giving the flesh one answer no
so to be kept spiritually in trim
(Romans 13:14 "Put on the Lord Jesus Christ and make no provision for thé flesh and its lustful desires".)
Buttercup as an anemone, I see my bonbon
In the midst of a wharve spin,
Graciously thin languette,
Ecclesiastic, a true coquette,
Offered for a handful of sequin
On the 1000-thread linen, rests Evangeline!
Shine the uptown shrine with whispering vocal cords
As the frock is overcome with a slow descend,
Never mind the sallow ambience of
An ageing Jesuit mission, or thereof,
Words of prohibition annulled by disparlure:
Madame! – as they say, I don’t kiss-poor.
My appearance, utterance of faith,
Expected and grandiloquent,
Clasped the mortification with inflamed blood,
Yet budding desire, instantly prescribed,
Not to let it out of my sight.
But to greybeard wonderful torrents of luxury,
About to 5G live-stream this imperious rite
Will put a stop to any cavil,
A cue in hand to excite ’n’ appease the inner devil,
I abide the coming, Evangeline!
Cordial satisfaction, marvellous plantation of joy,
Memento mori, I must this very moment, I must die.
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