#cadaver’s poems

[cadaverinaflowerfield]

[death-and-reaper]

Amo-te...

Não pela forma que tu danças com os meus anjos exteriores, mas pelo jeito que vosso nome ecoa e silencia meus demônios interiores, outrora inquietos. Em teus braços há o tal abrigo acolhedor, que dilacera todo o temor e preenche o espaço com amor, que imuniza-me da dor e ainda me presenteia com o sortilegio de chama-lo de meu eterno amor. Amo-te, além da vida, morte, tristeza, alegria, força, medo ou bravura; Amo-te, até que meu coração se rompa desse sentimento de tão pura doçura.

✥-------------------✥-------------------✥

I love you...

Not for the way you dance with my outer angels, but for the way your name echoes and silences my inner demons, once restless. In your arms there is such a welcoming shelter, which lacerates all fear and fills this space with love, which immunizes me from pain and even presents me with the lucky of calling you of my eternal love. I love you, beyond life, death, sadness, joy, strength, fear or bravery; I love you until my heart breaks from this feeling of such pure sweetness.

- Nyxx Addams.

[derangedrhythms]

He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.

Sylvia Plath, The Colossus & Other Poems; from ‘Two Views of a Cadaver Room’

[bunnyrexxx]

Me estoy desbordando, no encuentro una salida a estos sentimientos que no hacen más que corromper mis entrañas.

No veo salida dentro de esta oscuridad.

Hay algo en mí que está podrido, duele, supura, pero no logra curarse.

Me pregunto cuánto tiempo más estaré así.

Cuando pienso que estoy llegando a la luz de la vida, hay un inmenso espacio que me separa de ella. Doy vuelta atrás, no encuentro camino alguno.

[si-soy-algo-soy-violencia]

el otro día escribimos esto con un amigo, por si alguien quiere leer:

"

el corazón informático late lejos muy lejos 

teclas, teclas, teclas: los ojos aberrantes de un niño oculto en su conversación insomne. palabras caen en el zig-zag distractivo de una interfaz luminosa. 

digo luces, explotan mi pupila es comida de microbios quiero mi brazo alcanzar lejos está de nuevo que vuelva y me abrace otra vez.

un repiqueteo lento beso despacio mis venas que son cables leo recto miro fijo huelo la fragancia que descansa en el oído seco de la maquinaria. 

mi cuerpo magenta brilla, todo lo demás ¿qué importa? el acople huele a óxido un brazo plástico pide enardecido que le entreguen su orden mientras el aceite acalla las voces de los transeúntes y el eco de una mente motriz espera, otra vez, nuevamente, espera.  

¿adoro? no. adoramos esas ramificaciones eléctricas ¿quisieran ellas venir? un poco, algo no tanto, ¿no? ¿220? ¿si? la frecuencia no está bien, digo es algo monótona, ¿no? algo más que venga algo más!

dame, dame, un tiro de ese cobre, si la necesidad es ley, quiero tocar el fin de este deseo. 

algo que venga algo que surja algo que acrecente el ritmo." visiten su blog que escribe muy bien.

[prettycadavers]

tender is the flesh cruel is the soul

[noircartoons]

The mother of all women,

A poem by Ofélia SQ @abstract-mind

The mother of all women is the iron maiden. My father raised me well, his ritual to turn me from girl to woman was cheating on my mom and leaving us three behind. My sister raised me well, her ritual to turn me from a girl to woman was making me learn how to be the mother of my sister. The mother of all woman is the sacrificial lamb. One day, as my sister made dinner, her husband told me he was a wolf and i was but a small sheep, ready to be devoured. My mom begs me to not take testosterone, i'll turn me into a brute. I pull out a cigarette and let my body get hidden in the fog. The mother of all women is Medusa. When i came to the doctor to see if something was wrong with my spine over so much back pain, he told me i was only shy about my chest because i didn't want boys looking at it. I wondered if i tried hard enough, i could turn into Medusa. My mom laughed when he told jokes about my shyness and my body, and would later on pull my arm saying i embarassed her with my silent stare. My hand itched for a cigarette. When i'm tired of voices on my ears, i dream i'm alone at the beach, feeling the freezing water against my feet. Are you proud of me, mother? I've accepted the iron maiden. Am i a woman, now? I feel the nails penetrating my skin like worms pushing against the skin of a cadaver. Your living room has Jesus christ on a cross. Is he a woman? I throw my cigarette on the dumpster, watching the fire like it's golden colors will paint the blues around it. Is this dumpster a woman? My mother tells me, this is the way things are meant to be. This is the very nature of life. Gaia is the mother of all women. Industries throw oil on Gaia, and i wonder if she ever wished she was Medusa. I walk around the streets like i own them, my shadow is the only thing that follows me yet i still look at the glass windows in buildings just to make sure. My lipstick sits on my lips as if i had drank a wine glass of blood and meat. I do not wear red, so it will not be confused with exposed flesh. The mother of all women is a cadaver. What a futile understanding of gender does the people my age have. If men and women alike will not abidicate their beliefs that I am but a meal for worms to penetrate, I abidicate my womanhood. Apologies to all women who i have abandoned, the women whose mothers were forgiveness— my father and my mother taught me well.

[cadaverinaflowerfield]

[squidsandthings]

These gruesome scenes we share  are intimacy given rotten form of torn flesh, spilt blood, and tendons bitten. saliva streaks down our lord given bodies. joined by teeth and spit dripping down this skin into your  hands. Made to love, rip, and tear I offer unto you my unholiest slab of viscera and sweat bleeding warm sticky trust from each orifice you cut into my awaiting cadaver you’ve shorn of all hope of sanity. I know only you and your touch. I crave it. I crave your hands. Made to shred, slit, and stab Our floors, long since stained, groan under the weight of the bond we’ve sworn and sewed into blooming bruises we pressed into bloodied necks swarmed with devotion that fills every crevice of our yearning bodies. Bound by your hands. Made to mark, mar, and moan When the carnage you made of me is laid out bare as spoils for the worm you tenderly caress my open ribcage to pluck out my heart and hold it firm as you suture my gutted being into a complete existence as I lie gently in your hands. Made to hold, heal, and keep

wrote a poem about hands, love and guts.

[derangedrhythms]

[…] I write poems and they are about cadavers, suicides, Electra complexes, ouija boards, hermits […]

Sylvia Plath, The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume II: 1956–1963 ⁠— Ann Davidow-Goodman, 12th June 1959

[majestativa]

Her body black as clouds pierces darkness with its sheen, and Hara, a cadaver, is fallen at Her feet.

— Raghunath Ray, Singing to the Goddess: Poems to Kali and Uma, compiled by Rachel Fell McDermott, (2001)

[solarisgod]

A WEBWEAVE ON ASTEREUS STARWAKE'S DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER

[ UNKNOWN ] : DO YOU BELIEVE IN FATE ? [ ASTEREUS ] : NO , NONE OF US DO . WE ONLY EVER BELIEVE IN EACH OTHER . — Antineon Hieraeon , C.C.

Ars Poetica ? , Czesław Miłosz / blaclarck / Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head , Warsan Shire / Like the Singing Coming Off the Drums: Love Poems , Sonia Sanchez / Minotaur’s Love Song , Avni Vyas / Anonymous ask to Tumblr user f0rcee / Keep Going , Tumblr user yeehawpim / Cadaver, Speak , Marianne Boruch / Wishing for Birds , Elisabeth Hewer / Snow and Dirty Rain , Richard Siken

[soracities]

hi!! can you recommend some books by south Asian authors?

Exquisite Cadavers, Meena Kandasamy

The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy

Poppies in Translation, Sujata Bhatt

Interpreter of Maladies & In Other Words, Jhumpa Lahiri

The Veiled Suite, Agha Shahid Ali

Scary Monsters, Michelle de Kretser

We Sinful Women: Contemporary Urdu Poetry

Rebel's Silhouette: Selected Poems, Faiz Ahmad Faiz

Andal: The Autobiography of a Goddess

[iluveatingteeth]

"Do you know what a poem is, Ester?' 'No, what?' I would say. 'A piece of dust.' Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together."

Syvlia Plath, The Bell Jar

[cowboy-heart]

'i have something i need to get off my chest' - on dysphoria, cannibalism and idioms

(ID in read more)

[Image ID: an original poem titled: ‘I Have Something I Need To Get Off My Chest’

the last shingle fell as did I onward toward something something something.

I am loss I am anger I am clattering and shattering I can take a bit more of a battering. I want I want I want to be lost in an open mouth teeth clacks leave cracks in my hollow bones rearranged in the roll of a tongue until I’m something I can bare to look down at when I am bare. speak slowly or not at all speak too slow and you are not of mental capacity I am at capacity.

cough up all your soil the worms of your gut do not be too much do not be too desperate do not expect to get what you want my situation is dire –

I am reduced to my bones but it’s the flesh I give a damn about.

the body is yours as long as you don’t alter it those with glass bones should not throw rocks ignore the cobwebs in your joints creak along for the sake of others oh it’s just one of those days they’re all one of those days. we’re all just renters here live in but do not touch do not change live but do not own god forbid you want something else don’t we all?

enough enough I long to want. full to the brim unable to stomach another bite I want to be full of myself when the going gets stiff upper lip like those cadavers you will one day be we can tell we can always tell pick apart my rotten flesh and toss aside the sinews dig me up and desecrate my soul. I’ll cross that bridge when I burn find me in the ashes tackle the bullet right into your lungs more pain no gain. I’ll pull you apart by the skin with my teeth paddle up the creek of shit you spew. please god, break my leg, I’m in dire need of remoulding I’ll rejoice over spilt milk finally free. no no that’s not right remember remember collect the fragments and push onward towards pieces pieces pieces I don’t know what to say what was it you said ah yes! yes!

let’s call it a day try again tomorrow nothing a good night’s sleep won’t exacerbate.

end ID]

[scattering-poetry-like-ashes]

Nostalgia

Do you still visit our place in your mind?

The yew tree that paints shadows on the ground

where we buried the poems of us

that lingered between eros and agape

I feel you chuckle, why not just call it

love

that howls on and on and haunts me

it has the form of your face, I bet

it still sings the cadavers of lyrics vivaciously

I only  wanted you to know simply that

When I think of love I visit our place in the shadows of the yew tree