W(or)ds (wit)h(in) (word)s, [poet]ry [locks the mean]ing.

Like (a) c(ode) [in]to the [wild] gene[tics of emotion],

thought is [not] t[here.]

[Consciousness kills] the m[us]e[.]

T[rue songs spew] forth [like a dream] buzz

[straight from the] caterpillar’s [hook]ah.

Obt[use, non-Euclidian],

they come at us from unsafe [angles.]

Somew[here] in the riff-raff we get [the feel].

Like the tremor [of an orgasm],

a little bit of us [dies] on the page[.]

Scholars will [go back] and mush

the w[or]ds, squeeze out the p[u]l[p]

from the paper [and] re[live] our meal

as some un[digest]ible paste.

[But] they will not [know the taste,]

when the table is set [and] we [gorge]

[on the] steaming carc[ass.]



This post is in response to the dVerse open link night. A little outside of the theme I had meant for this blog, but then it is my blog and I make the rules. I hope you all enjoy the poem.



The murmur,

punctuated by the howl of gulls,

that is where peace resides—

beneath the soundscape

of violence

the weight of an entire ocean

brings to ground.

Signs of carnage litter the shore—

the flak of porcelain houses,

the occasional corpse,

waiting for the carrion birds.

And yet, there is forgotten

the shriek overhead

and the murmur beneath,

waiting to crash on my fragile home.