Kitten's Litter

wft?

 

Every f*cking day
they reinvent our execution.

I’m tired now,
just want to climb in bed,
squeeze you in a grip of a bulldog,
before we’re pried apart.

Next morning, our tissue may be sliced,
cold cuts, displayed on a chapped concrete.

Or blindfolded, the shots
will weave our body mesh,
and we might dye the white arena all in copper.

With branches snapped and severed roots,
we will betray each other.

 

Living in Jupiter now, eh? I here the revolution is hectic.


Must it always be a betrayal, this cycle of broken cycles? What, if anything, are we working towards, if not to change this state of affairs.

And yet there is no conscious collective, but only a collective unconscious, draped in the veils of illusory exclusivity.

Much Love

 

Deleted. Don't like it.

 

Gosh we would have a romp of a time
in our surreal mini series.

I go bonkers contemplating
of the how and why.

Don’t fret for our exposure, yet.

We contaminate each other,
through wires, glances and ESP.

So in the end, we may declare
our bedroom quarantined.

 

Lovin the kinkiness in your latest two... "circled round to rub your torso" - I liked that mucho! I didn't think "ogle" worked although it does fit the bill for ogle/angle play, I dunno, maybe I'm just prejudiced toward the word...

"Contagious" I thought was truly cool... again it probably has to do with my biased disposition toward all things telekinetic and technophonic... plus, this makes me think of bedroom "romp" without actually stating it, and that's why I say it's truly cool.

 

I don’t know you,
and you don’t know me,
maybe it’s better,
since anonymity relates.

but then again,
sometimes I wonder,
what is it that I lose,
when I don’t gain you.

when we walk by,
thinking the same,
and acting according
to tacit standards.

don’t ask questions,
when I know the answers.
and don’t reveal too much,
at once.

I have to feed us
small talk,
before awkward makes
me antsy.
so in that sense I’m selfish.

and my exclusive column of air
now exerts added pressure
on lungs and temples.

why can’t I be impulsive?
I fell out of habit to
blurt out, curse, indulge in antics,
when every word, gesture,
sideway glance is digested
across the room.

I don’t know you,
and you won’t know me.
leave an erasure mark
on each other’s palms.

and after I blink,
wait for my second to pass,
it’s funny,
but I feel amiss.

 

My bed is iron clad,
a patch of warmth underneath cobalt blue.

Why go anywhere else,
when I can hibernate in my cocoon.

Shrouded by sullen origami clouds,
the loaded wind shoots droplet shards,
my house bears its bones.

I notice waning light,
my ebbing outline,
emaciating with time.

I ruse the eye,
watch sunset glare omens.
I covet Novocain.

Why go anywhere at all,
when downcast and sprawled,
I’m laden by the rain.

Tonight, I choose to die alone.

 

Aroused is awesome, I especially loved the 1st and last 2 stanzas.

We'll Never Know is full of subtle nuances, you hint at the contours of your universe, while revealing the aspect of your essence that longs to reveal and hiding the rest.

Malaise is warm in its isolation. Makes be think of hot soup, tea or coffee to go along with the warm comforter and a good book or movie... perhaps another will arrive soon.

 

Kidder here. Wordsmith. Verbal mechanic. (And prick- but a helpful one.) Malaise. Hmmm. It has potential! Just be careful around some words that carry dual citizenship. (The little buggers don't know where they belong!) 'Turbid' is one and it won't fit with 'iron clad.' (Yah, I know some might say, I wanted it for 'contrast.' Don't.) Images draw their strength from an embellished unity. Turbid and iron clad are like oil and water. Same with 'sullen' and 'paper.' A marriage made in hell. The dominant impression in the poem is the heaviness or weight of death that's dispersed by the increasing lightness of nonbeing. You grow much stronger starting with 'I notice waning light...' You're much more in control and the images are cumulative and sustaining. Like that!

 

Appreciate the response!
But maybe I need to explain something here, I know, I know, you're going to say that I shouldn't have to, the poem should explain itself, but considering that some personal meanings might escape, I figure I might as well...
I didn't want -turbid- and -iron clad- for contarst, I might get rid of turbid, but iron clad is a must; I'm referring to the earth here, the brick colored soil.
Also I don't see how -sullen- and -paper clouds- is a marriage in hell. Sullen clouds describe a heavy, gloomy sky. Maybe you didn't fancy the -paper clouds- image, but again this has little to do with mechanics and more with preferences. I will probably replace paper with -origami-, maybe that will better portray the disattachment from reality caused by an illness and impending death.

Thanks for reading and taking the time to reply!

 

I liked Malaise the better of your latest two, due to my preference for abstract images, which you well know The opening lines are fantastic and it methodically winds out the emotion, reminding me of a Poe short story, where every word keeps with a particular intent. The only place I stumbled is "I covet for novocaine" - maybe remove the "for" to get more punch?

 

I’m piqued by all my politics,
what’s on the agenda,
who do I shell to smithereens,
why must I believe
exaggerated decibels
of common nonsense?

Plain courtesy won’t cut it,
crumple commentary,
con strangers with indecency.

I kick around gravel,
put on a pirate patch,
and stretch a Cheshire grin.

Chance, such a fickle lady,
plots arbitrary romance.
And only every now and then
she gets it right.

When I’m not present.

 

Eat,
my way,
through igloo blocks.

My goggles blur
and I’ve got raccoon eyes.

But pay no mind.
Mercilessly scrape
the skin.

After all, a slit is all I need,
to face helicopter wind,
so blades may brush my fur.

But with no forecasted warmth.
I quit prematurely,
as a frozen embryo.

 

Don’t stare,
face my facts.
Yes, I lied.
I fell short to reach you.

So feed me arsenic,
I have guilt abundance.

Look at me as whole,
not my fragmented, isolated features.

 

And only every now and then
she gets it right.

When I’m not present.

You're best when it's direct and simple, just like this. Irony wears a pauper's clothes.

 

I’ve conjured up a caravan of tiles,
constructed memory mosaics.
Skipped loops, grass cuts,
I formulated the conclusions.

I didn’t like them, still.
I had a difficulty adapting
and swapping lives, the worse for better.
So stone me, I wasn’t striding by your side.

And I careened instead,
deviated even from myself.

I didn’t know I was defective.

In need to be propped up
and cultivated by histrionic
youth.

My stomach grumbled,
nothing was cooking in the sack of bones,
dug in a habit rut and sinking.
Speak to me through megaphones,
say something, I will translate it.
I understand it.
More so than you intend.

There I was, improper
and unaware,
on a conveyer belt,
rigged by soiled, stout hands,
probed, pigeonholed and sanitized.

With no amends, rewind
or second thoughts.

 

It's an arresting collage of images. Not bad! But remember of any impression a poet might leave the greatest of all is certainty.

 

I tend to disagree, if I gave the reader complete certainty, spoon fed them the imagery, what would I leave to myself? I like poetry that shifts due to some personalized element and may be perceived differently from different sides, doesn't have to be totally obscure.
Thanks for commenting on the last two. I'm not sure I entirely like the latest, but they're a step forward.

 

Think of the great poems you've read. Didn't they all, in some way, make you say: Gosh he or she captured that! That's 'certainty.' Don't worry. I'm just here to try to make a difference. Sometimes I'm -certain- that I don't.