blood poems 2006

blood poems 2006

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• Laurie Corzett

  Dec 30, 2006

  In a Moment

   

  Who am I to become
  when my stories are obliterated?
  When I awaken
  naked and unarmed
  upon a shadowed
  rocky trail?
  It's not that I want swaddling cotton fantasies.
  I want the armor
  consistent with my role,
  both the lessons in the real and
  the comforting warm arms of happy home.

   

  It's more than I can bear.
  I crack wide open.
  The scenery means nothing,
  I hide inside my wound.
  There's nothing left to bind the bleeding.
  I am open to the world
  yet intently blind.
  I sit upon a hillside counting
  rainclouds
  waiting for the lightening to strike.

   

  (c) Feb. 5, 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

  Decorating
  
  Pretty little images
  But I don't reach the core
  of sadness
  of breaking shattered glass
  of bitter calloused weeping
  of dregs gone down the drain
  clogging arteries,
  eating memories,
  etching out rotten stench
  interring my intestinal walls.
  I would love to bleed for you.
  Watch the shattered glass
  graffiti my windpipe,
  excellent sprays of red
  eye-popping splendour.
  I would never want
  to deny you the thrill.
  My craggy dry old heart
  laughs in anticipation.
  Fresh wounds
  always look so fine.
  
  (c) Feb. 17, 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

  Nostalgia

   

  Once Life and I have divorced
  After the estate has been divided
  (I playing noble disdain
  have thrown it all to her)
  I shall find a villa upon a hill
  To paint my masterpiece
  Discarded bodily fluids
  Upon the walls.

   

  Murals carefully sprayed upon
  Bohemian brownstones
  Sauntering down the city street
  Aglow
  Lighting oily puddles,
  Intellectual cafes,
  Art houses,
  Freak show casas,
  Anointing the effervescent night
  Playing to the jaded,
  The amputeed,
  Outcast drifters.

   

  There is a sweetly drifting tune
  Meandering like wisteria
  Is it a dirge?
  A sassy New Orleans carriage ride?
  Is it the beating of my heart
  Spraying a trail of bleeding homage?
  It is a wedding march,
  Played slowly, out of time,
  Beat by beat, more slowly
  Rewinding.

   

  (c) Feb. 25, 2006

   

   

  Battle Fatigue

   

  Honoring righteous anger.
  Not mean little sprites,
  Chironic knights protecting me.
  Cradling me so sweetly.
  "Oh, no, dear, never forgive, never forget."
  Torture is no way to say you're sorry.
  
  Love whispered to me
  in dreamlike memory
  told me tales
  told me lies.
  I told myself those stories
  whispering in the night
  bereft of sleep.
  I told myself of soft surrender.
  Of gentle caressing days
  dappled in sunlight,
  lusty heat-soaked revelry
  sharing secrets
  so poignant, so intense.
  The anger
  burns me through
  each synapse,
  each myelin sheathe
  blood, guts, lungs, heart.
  Viral penetration, consuming
  strength, vitality, duration.
  I am languid and torn.
  From time to time I rally
  to fight my own tears,
  my own mind,
  my own field of battle.
  
  No one comes forth for me
  to offer my surrender.
  Battle weary,
  I can no longer breathe.
  The anger breathes for me.
  Gently wrapping me in
  blankets,
  singing me a battle song
  urging me to take respite
  as it soothingly scrapes off
  the scabs
  refreshing my wounds.
  
  (c) March 10, 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

  Penance

   

  For all the painful people
  wondering why god has forsaken
  hanging sorrows from a silent
  winter tree
  entreating penance.
  Still your blood does not flow
  pure.
  Never cleans the wounds.
  Festering.  Poisoning.
  How can there be clarity?
  Peace
  is only equated with
  silence.
  I can not reach you
  through your pain
  through my pain
  through the loud, piercing
  blows, the cacophony
  of cause and effect,
  ruined fields
  seeded with glass.
  Beautiful prismic spires grow here.
  Someday awed children will play,
  sing, tell tall tales in their splendor.
  All we can see
  is razorsharp teeth so tender
  to bleeding flesh.

   

  (c) March 18, 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

   

  Sister Scorpio

   

  Black as hate; white and bloodless
  shrieking Fury
  punishing Saint.
  Your patient, erratic torture
  has left me broken,
  bleeding torrents of pain
  unable to move
  forward,
  unable to sleep
  or engage in
  polite discourse.
  
  Yet you were never satisfied.
  It was not me you wished to sacrifice.
  I was merely inconvenient,
  or too convenient.
  Dressed in a goatsuit,
  queued up to be driven to slaughter,
  how could I expect compassion,
  fellow feeling?
  But it was the Executioner's blade
  I expected,
  not frenzied repetition of
  back stabbings, epithets,
  steel-wielding rage.

   

  We could have been sisters,
  giggling secrets in the schoolyard,
  smoking pcp in the girls' room,
  shooting up the classroom,
  dying in each other's arms.
  
  (c) March 26, 2006 Laurie Corzett

  
   

   

   

  Transformation

   

  Transformation is not about butterflies
  flitting about, capturing our awe.
  It is the heart of pain
  you cannot feel for me.
  Searing cauterization,
  what would be condemned
  as unethical treatment
  of secret wounds
  bound up in tattered consciousness.
  Bit by bit, then all at once
  losing the thread,
  spacing out the conversation
  not quite catching the gist of
  why I am here and now.
  Did it ever make sense?
  How could I believe my lies?
  That papier-mache world
  I gave my soul
  sucked dry
  in enduring service
  was never true.
  I would cry
  but that would be too easy.
  The pain would dribble down;
  fascinated by the rainbow glisten
  I would count my misfortunes
  watch them spin
  pennies falling into a rose-glass jar.
  Filled with resolve,
  I would go back out into the fray,
  fight another day, and another
  until by decimating degrees
  I might fall defeated, dead and gone.
  But death is only an act
  of transformation.
  The whole play depends upon
  the spinning out of the tale.
  First you love, then you lose,
  then you do hard labor
  stoking the fires of Hell,
  breaking the rocks of Eternity,
  cleaning the rotting sewers
  of collective untreated waste.
  Stench, pain, nausea
  beyond bearability
  wrenches, renders, discorporates
  transforms.
  Not like changing
  into a bright, enchanting costume.
  Changing utterly
  because no other choice
  exists.
  
  (c) March 30, 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

  heart breaks and bleeds
  scarlet ribbons
  dripping into vital organs
  coagulating breath, thought, awareness
  there is no promised land of peace
  no safe harbour free of misery
  no bed of fluffy clouds
  foretelling happy dreams
  pain radiates
  a dark sun
  blotting out any possibility
  of light-hearted healing
  while leaving a clear stain
  bloody trails
  pooling into dead ends.

   

  (c) April 21, 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

  Soldier's Veins

   

  "You have a soldier's veins."  The doctor chuckled as he explained the very good biological reason for my deeply recessed blood vessels, which always caused such a problem when medical professionals tried to take my vital fluid.  Apparently I was made to fight medieval wars.  The hard to reach veins, the slow metabolism keeping down the need for feeding, the ability to block out pain, hunger, thirst, discomfort of any kind, by focusing on the goal and getting there by any means necessary, good traits for those who must endure such hardships for a greater good, or simply to survive in battle.

   

  However, here I am, a 21st century city apartment dweller, fighting mostly in the arenas of traffic and office politics.  The old flight/fight adrenalin rush that wants me out there in the fray has to instead be pretty constantly quelled if I am to successfully fit in to modern civilization.  So, the fight naturally comes to be against myself.

   

  I am pretty well protected against the razor blade.  My overzealous gag reflex keeps out the obvious poisons.  I have found a way, though, through incremental poisoning of my soul with a fairly constant drip of despair.  Slowly, insidiously, it eats away at what had meant to be protected, dissolving those veins from within so that I may succumb to internal bleeding.

   

  (c) May 28, 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

   

  A Cure for Cancer

   

  Consider the single cell microorganism
  Motilely absorbing sustenance, senseless
  caught up
  in the acrobatics of immortality
  growing, dividing, growing, dividing
  accumulating ancestry
  without reflection.
  Life imitating life
  accumulating complexity, diversity,
  cells opening out from infinite regression
  demanding expanding territory,
  redefinition, delineation, demarcation.
  Cultivation of domestication implies
  devastation of the wild weed.
  Pruning the power of the divine monarch
  Poisoning the wellspring to discourage
  unfettered proliferation of perceived antagonists.
  If life is the disease,
  surely death is the cure.

   

  (c) June 9, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

   

   

  Dharmic Drama

   

  8 billion souls
  intermingling, interacting
  playing out roles
  through life ever-lasting
  each moving through dangers
  never dying 'til the end
  of their scripted scene
  then by any artful means
  dictated by dharmic drama

   

  in the endless essence
  in a crystal snowglobe
  glowing with stardust
  growing in pristine clarity
  allowing brief glimpses of serenity
  before again shaken into a confusion
  of fantasy snow confounding
  the grace of vision unbounding
  back you go, into the thickening crowd
  into material purgatory
  into malice and dread buzzing
  swooning to the stench
  of burning flesh
  was that me?
  flashing in and out of reality
  ghostly voices in and out of dream
  repeating:

   

  respect the fire that keeps you warm
  enjoy the calm
  enjoy the storm

   

  I enjoy the frenzy
  caught up in ecstatic dancing
  beating, faster, faster
  than my heart can be broken
  eternally bleeding internally
  onto the scripted page.

   

  (c) July 2006 Laurie Corzett

   

   

  
   

   

   

  hungry zeitgeist, part 1

   

  slivers, splinters, falling meaning
  catch it, send it spinning out into the stars
  bleeding rags catching fine red droplets
  shredded hands, hopes, hearts, dripping meaning
  I can't hold on, hold out, hold a good thought,
  dripping through agonized neurons,
  shattered mirrors
  unable to provide sustenance
  hold suction,
  bind the wound.
  embrace me
  hold so tight and tenderly
  as blood drips through your fingers
  touching my raw eroding senses
  with gentle rain, dripping,
  obscuring the view.
  I would curl up into destiny,
  locking my lacerations
  in dreams of false skins,
  tightening, holding fast to the edges.
  I would fall immortally into space,
  dripping inward.
  I would lock my dreams in pasteboard boxes,
  too tight for mortal breath.
  the words whirl around, whirl around, whirl
  like scattered bits of paper tears.
  I would hide in the deepest hold and
  keep to life slowly seeping through.
  but the hunger calls.
  it growls and jumps in fits to battle.
  
  (c) October 20, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

   

   

   

  Again, I Demand, "Merry Christmas"
  
  
  Merry Mass of Christ
  riven upon the four-fold way
  cut into deity and man
  on the crossroads
  at the witching hour.
  Sing praise of all things holy
  Make us see and feel the pain
  the horror of wrenching heart
  from soul.  Of blithely obliging
  demonic Angel Fate
  that each generation may descend
  into fiery pits of degradation
  reaching, reaching
  into and out of the story, the path.
  If Christ is love,
  if love is what we worship, eyes closed
  in holy communion,
  what keeps us riven
  on the crossroads?
  What keeps us from reaching out
  to bind each other's wounds?
  
  (c) December 10, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
   

   

   

   

  Pandora's Box

   

  Encapsulating
  bubbling up the molecules
  into fairy stories of creaky old goblins
  sorrowful witches, ancient deities
  with too much to prove,
  coalesced and coated with
  bitter medicine.
  Caught in an instant,
  latent pain layered in ages
  bubbling up corrosive through
  epithelial walls.
  They are calling me, again.
  I pretend not to hear, not to feel,
  not to want to believe.
  They call with raucous derision:
  "Dear Hope," they spittle,
  "a flying thing, a winged chariot
  pulled by clever orphaned doves."
  Thirst pulls me to my poisoned well.
  I dare not drink.  It will never kill me,
  but torture, weak and broken
  I will never be whole enough to
  move forward, to find sweeter remedies.
  Jagged mirrors encapsulate my heart.
  Viscous blood held captive loses oxygen.
  Blue and cold wintry depths
  I am held, hidden, a free-falling metal box
  cruel icy stinging denying the gift
  of sleep.

   

  (c) December 29, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

   

   

  Burnt Offering
  
  Killing me by degrees
  Each hour the executioner
  tears another piece from
  my life fabric.
  She aches for my heart
  tasting the sweetness
  of raw blood and pain.
  I have done the unforgivable.
  I have demanded my soul
  Uncleansed
  Unanointed for prayer.
  Hell is the mirror distorted
  refraction raising the temperature
  sucking oxygen into flame.
  
  (c) December 23, 2006 Laurie Corzett