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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
May 21, 2016
biopsy by moondrums is a short yet strong poem that can be read multiple times to find multiple meanings.
Featured by TheMaidenInBlack
Literature Text
he works rhythmically
over the still girl on the table.
the surgeon’s incisions are steady,
practiced
as scalpel hews flesh from hip to hip
and near-tender, his hands and wrists
were it not for all the blood –
she wakes in fluorescence from
half-slumber
to the flutter of a phantom limb,
some precious unnamed thing
shorn from her
and discarded.
the amputation is final.
she often counts backwards
from ten, awaiting anesthesia
that does not come.
Literature
This is Irony
I count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,
and stillness in the words of dead poets.
We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.
I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.
A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
Literature
cynical: arsenical
splinter-thorn boy,
it will all start to
d i s i n t e g r a t e
beneath you
you are
the least beautiful way to unravel -
all maggot-rot, no
split-thread, no
ribbon-torn boy
an architect of
self-abuse;
a god of
ru(i)n(n)ing
[away] &
no:
there is nothing holy about you
Literature
psychosomatic serenade.
Schrodinger has been writing me
love letters, and he hasn’t. he
catcalls me from closed boxes
while I flip coins trying to figure
out what’s breathing, what isn’t.
your coffin, floating in earthen
rivers, hinges gleaming iridescent
as salmon scales, I am sitting here
guessing if the cat is dead or alive
in that imaginary vacuum, ignoring
Pavlov’s set ringtone on my phone -
the bells make me think of your
throat, how your Adam’s apple
rang when you swallowed down
another of my placebo promises.
I love, loved, you. and I didn’t.
Freud keeps dropping business
cards through the letterbox asking
my mother t
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Comments12
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Interesting, first I thought it was about a dead girl until it turned to talk about amputation.