Jun 29
I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Chop it off of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun
No fun
And inward spikes along the skull
No fun
And many needles that can pull
Out from my gut. Many suture-making teeth
Unaligned and redefining what it is that makes me, me
I have tape on my body
Designating my body
All the parts of my body that don’t
Stay on for refrigeration
And I have no blood
No blood
And no communication, thus
No blood
May be injected and no blood will be discussed
No point along the flaccid rheme of plastic
Face-aphasia gleam. Like a scream of being me
And I no longer have a mouth
I have worms in my body
Reconquesting my body
From all the good that the doctor did
Before I am left on my own
And I have no fun
No fun
With a reverberating voice
Which plays off the worms in a delicate way
Who are symptomatic and symbiotic
And playing at taking my mind away
Reaching up in the way that makes me shake
Or forget for a second that the body is the face
And believe that scar tissue is a different thing who bleeds
I cast shadows of my body
Of my innards in my body
Separate that within me or just
Incise the brain’s connection
And I have no self
I have hitches in the heart of the body of my birth,
Burnt hairs in the heart. For something of that sort
Would recede in the stiff which retreat hundreds,
Thousands of wings just beneath my skin- Scalpel-
And receive them a light, receive them a glow. Set
Back the muscle, so receive them a hope in the light
And that leaves me far away, casting shadows at
Something new instead of something writhing apart,
But inside. Living, trying, inside-
I have nerves in positions
That would leave me in fission
Should they believe they are not me so
Fall insolubly throughout me
And I have no fun
No fun, under a winter’s slush, and a winter’s moon
Getting up to live in body unsucceeding on this earth
Getting off dusk’s transportation into an ocean current Oort
Sort of thing- sort of thing the brain thinks it must endure
Courted by endorphins into sirening, O doom
Dwells winged servants following a swell
Of themselves rides choruses, feeling the walls
Feeling the way this body grows a thousand smells
And stretches and oozes pus into the ocean current slush
I feel it all dry, form craters, stomach lumps
I have strung up scores of organs moving unconsenting while I sleep
I have unsent letters, and confessions, and an obsession with the Me
On tiny journal things, or stored in obscure folders, or in conversations,
Or lording o’re my brainpour down around my joints. More days sleep
Replaces personality; goring lovely caverns of flesh from my sides
And I have no fun
But silence. I have litres of melody hiding in the hippocampus
Sing-songy excuses for my pupalic inseparence
That turn into dry scatters- a bat’s ***** matter in a living cavern
My lungs and teeth shatter, and over sound gathers such
What makes a transforming music so more the flatter
And I have no voice any longer
I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Let me out of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun
Get them off of my body
Chop it off of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun
No fun
And inward spikes along the skull
No fun
And many needles that can pull
Out from my gut. Many suture-making teeth
Unaligned and redefining what it is that makes me, me
I have tape on my body
Designating my body
All the parts of my body that don’t
Stay on for refrigeration
And I have no blood
No blood
And no communication, thus
No blood
May be injected and no blood will be discussed
No point along the flaccid rheme of plastic
Face-aphasia gleam. Like a scream of being me
And I no longer have a mouth
I have worms in my body
Reconquesting my body
From all the good that the doctor did
Before I am left on my own
And I have no fun
No fun
With a reverberating voice
Which plays off the worms in a delicate way
Who are symptomatic and symbiotic
And playing at taking my mind away
Reaching up in the way that makes me shake
Or forget for a second that the body is the face
And believe that scar tissue is a different thing who bleeds
I cast shadows of my body
Of my innards in my body
Separate that within me or just
Incise the brain’s connection
And I have no self
I have hitches in the heart of the body of my birth,
Burnt hairs in the heart. For something of that sort
Would recede in the stiff which retreat hundreds,
Thousands of wings just beneath my skin- Scalpel-
And receive them a light, receive them a glow. Set
Back the muscle, so receive them a hope in the light
And that leaves me far away, casting shadows at
Something new instead of something writhing apart,
But inside. Living, trying, inside-
I have nerves in positions
That would leave me in fission
Should they believe they are not me so
Fall insolubly throughout me
And I have no fun
No fun, under a winter’s slush, and a winter’s moon
Getting up to live in body unsucceeding on this earth
Getting off dusk’s transportation into an ocean current Oort
Sort of thing- sort of thing the brain thinks it must endure
Courted by endorphins into sirening, O doom
Dwells winged servants following a swell
Of themselves rides choruses, feeling the walls
Feeling the way this body grows a thousand smells
And stretches and oozes pus into the ocean current slush
I feel it all dry, form craters, stomach lumps
I have strung up scores of organs moving unconsenting while I sleep
I have unsent letters, and confessions, and an obsession with the Me
On tiny journal things, or stored in obscure folders, or in conversations,
Or lording o’re my brainpour down around my joints. More days sleep
Replaces personality; goring lovely caverns of flesh from my sides
And I have no fun
But silence. I have litres of melody hiding in the hippocampus
Sing-songy excuses for my pupalic inseparence
That turn into dry scatters- a bat’s ***** matter in a living cavern
My lungs and teeth shatter, and over sound gathers such
What makes a transforming music so more the flatter
And I have no voice any longer
I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Let me out of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun
from april 5, 2022
poem from the past a day #41
both a fun and a not fun poem to read. it's loaded up like a burrito with ingredients that you don't love as much as others, but it's not spoiled.
the refrains "...and I have no fun" have restraint (like all of my refrains), but the bridges- the bulk- is all so indulgent with its dozens of words going around the mouth in pain. But, I can't help myself. I started writing poetry because I had words words words all through me, so I cannot deny my instinct to shed skin like No Fun.
I just feel like this is a poem with a central idea that could be done so much more elegantly. And- oh well- here is a poem.
And I have no fun.
poem from the past a day #41
both a fun and a not fun poem to read. it's loaded up like a burrito with ingredients that you don't love as much as others, but it's not spoiled.
the refrains "...and I have no fun" have restraint (like all of my refrains), but the bridges- the bulk- is all so indulgent with its dozens of words going around the mouth in pain. But, I can't help myself. I started writing poetry because I had words words words all through me, so I cannot deny my instinct to shed skin like No Fun.
I just feel like this is a poem with a central idea that could be done so much more elegantly. And- oh well- here is a poem.
And I have no fun.
