limbs made of fire

The tectonic plates are shifting,
so I know I am never standing still.

Some day I’ll slip on a wilted tulip
and spill a bottle of pills into the mouth of a crater.

The soil will go mental, run dry.
Its gritty texture will collide with the flesh of swine.
The ground no longer natural,
but wrought a toxic subhuman mind.

A giant of hatred confused by our lives,
picking at virtue with limbs made of fire.

11/10/09  first draft

I don’t feel much passion

These are shorter poems, so I will fit them all into a single post.  Thanks for reading.

I Don’t Feel Much Passion

I don’t feel much passion, maybe I don’t feel at all.
The physicians, the psychiatrists…

Do they really care  to retain sentiment,
or is their focus merely about bones and brains?

‘Cause if I got a soul, it has never been maintained
by x-rays and inquiries on what pills I’d like to take.

9/28/09

I Don’t Want to Be One of Those Bodies

I don’t want to be one of those bodies
coughing up cheek tar onto sidewalks,
or receding from the future for fear of the past.

The mouth of history’s traumas must be washed out with cold creek water.
Not to suffocate, but to cleanse.  Not to assimilate, but to set free.

Not Fascinated

Not fascinated by the buzzing of refrigeration machines,
sounds like the death of an imaginative dream.
Not supposed to be fascinated by life, it seems.
Just told to seep in the muck of mediocrity,
smile as if content with the idea of property.

Subdivisions, car washes, and a taxidermy.
Let us exchange individuality for irrelevant pleasantries.

This Stream

This stream has not polluted me, so I sprinkle a bit of rosemary in it.

Bless the water for being my mercenary.

A Celestial Drool

My poetry is a celestial drool, a tear dripping
from Lucifer’s eye onto a map of the world.

 

Gift-Wrapping Monoliths

Confidence has escaped you.
You have turned into a pantomime of sweat and wax,
whose smoked stained lips have caused his blood sugar to lapse.
You have no maintenance  of emotion, thus your flight will crash.
You are an aging scarecrow ravaged by a black crow.

Have you not measured the malignant growth
on your tenement walls?
Because it is seven tenths without God,
and three tenths without luck.
This ten by ten room you bask in,
its collections amount to emptiness.

You are not eclectic, you’re miniscule,
You are not real, in fact you act the fool.

Regurgitate passions as they take toll
on sweet mentalities you once held so close.
You could smell destiny, but the lash
of your tongue failed to lap it up.

Now you’re gift-wrapping monoliths
just to crush them into tablets.

Are you so convinced they will garner evolution
once you wake from narcosis?

written 6/9/2009
Noa See

 

 

Tug at the mercy

If your cauldron slides under the gates
and your coat gets caught on steel poles,
Tug at the mercy you will not receive
and scream primally at what strips you.
You’ll be left to hide from all that you’ve seen.

The world outside these gates is gangly and tall,
like a willow whipping at you until you fall
flat on your bruised bosom.

If you sit still long enough,
your skin will take the form
of a solitary cell without windows
to jump out of.
If you sulk and sigh all this time,
walls will weep fungi and beg you
to bash into the cancer that claims you
as a trophy for a timeline.

 

written 6/12/09
Noa See

You are a witness to everything 
except what you should see.
  If I provided you examples,    
  I’m not sure if you’d perceive them properly.

Do you think greed will prevent your death?
  A big old house not full of anything but unrest.
  A swimming pool only occupied by chlorine,
  and a slide to drown out what you are so biased
          to believe is unholy and unclean.

Don’t come running when the gun follows,
 when you exploit a good soul for the rights it should hold.

If you continue to steal from all that is uncommon to you,
  your buildings shall crumble and a sense of belonging
       is but one of the  million possessions you will lose.

 

Pawn off your nervous laughter

Pawn off your nervous laughter
for stale bread and global disaster.

From the five hundred square foot apartment
to the five star hotel catering to shoulders
fit for a most expensive garment,

We glare into an electronic tube.
We process most disturbing images there,
pixels of bodies turned blue.

Don’t turn to your friend to find out what you should do.
Just listen to the guy getting paid to feed out vague clues
on how to survive deadly floods, forced submission,
and your cat’s case of swine flu.

Hippy Dippy (Self Portrait)

Dippy  (slang) – not sensible; foolish

I don’t like statements that tell the reader what the passage they’re about to read is about.  However, this reeks of self-hatred and hatred of those who are similar to who the writer’s speaking to.  it’s not so much about me, or who i used to be, it’s simply the response to alternative lifestyles that fail to be alternative, moral, and productive.  and it’s a first draft.  I’m a slave to disclaimers.  I think I may have written this shitty poem when i realized that i fail to realize what Bob Dylan’s writing is about, hence references to him. i also have to say that i love marijuana, cigarettes, bob dylan, and potato chips.  thanks and no need to read the poem.

How often do you care
to dream of a beagle at your side
hunting down dinner for you every night?
Wouldn’t you like to linger
by the wild mountain side;
in a wigwam, in a trance,
not by a pulpit or a clamp?

You’ll never watch the river flow.
No point in trying to imitate stars
who set your black heart aglow.

Hippy dippy, lip to lip.
All you want is another hit.
Nothing valuable to hear or say.
Hippy dippy, lip to lip.
You can’t play this game of chess,
but you can light another cigarette.

Strategize your disguise
of pure love and authority’s demise
when all you really want is a fix,
everything given to you
as cheap as a bag of chips.

Hippy dippy, lip to lip.
All you want is another hit,
yet nothing valuable to hear or say.

Medusa was not mean,

“The use of incense to direct consciousness is an almost universal practice in all forms of religion and all systems of meditation.”

“Smells trigger off very basic, instinctual, pre-cultural impressions, and are therefore well suited for psychedelic programming.”

I will avenge myself.  Mister Zeus won’t be dragging
my skull down the amber stone paved roads.
My hair is going to slither through the cracks
in the ground.  I’ll be re-birthing out of the earth,
grow up out of the dirt as the highest mount.
(her thick dreaded twigs punch through paper-bag beliefs,
then purifies the grease cemented to our fingertips/
don’t martyr the liars and the thiefs who set fire to free
thought in the name of a world-wide colic fit)

Medusa was not mean,
but  rather persecuted for obscenities.

So pull in the sun
to smolder Zeus’ pompous arrogance.

Whose God is Whose?

Who would have guessed
I’d grow to be a body
infused by butter;
A stench collapsing each client
who dare purchase its naked product?

I suppose the best practice
is to linger in the salt,
turn to stone and wait patiently
for some sordid symbiotic bite
about to regret what it has taken.

Nothing is perfect, teeth are no exception
gums can bleed like rain.
rain can pour like tears
tears can drop like despair.

Despair is an everlasting machinery
a burner of ballrooms, waste of days,
the metal matter-of-fact.
I doubt reverence can toast
to a perspective so putrid, so flat
though, the reverent make money
all-important
while money makes the reverent
suboordinate
Tell me, whose God is whose?

-  Written in February of 2009

Chaos made a good man sell a heart of gold
to the pile of dirt who got paved over by a concrete road.
Goes to show we lose what we earn.

In the bedrock, in the cavern, in the tavern
every woman, every shaman, every honest man will be suffering
at the hand of a self-appointed master and his greedy kin
who don’t know when to thank the earth for what she crafts.

Their negligence will surely pin them perpetrators of a genocidal aftermath.

- First draft Written early autumn 2009.  grammatical errors are impertinent\\needs editing.