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Posts Tagged ‘dark poetry’

I don’t like finding the dead bodies of insects

anywhere ‘round my house.

Don’t get me wrong, I smash and swat and kill

the little buggers when they trespass on my space.

They are disgusting after all, and especially to me;

when I consider how alien they seem,

but still share my ancestry.

 

How I hate thinking that they still foment

within their genetic recipe

the blueprints for my symmetry.

 

No, my distaste for finding the leftover husks

of dried out insects comes from the deep

realization that I share that fate with them.

 

That their grotesque beauty should be

so fragile in the end, and so easily extinguished,

left without ceremony, to be collected in a dustpan.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2016. All rights reserved.

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 worse than learning

what it is

is realizing it’s the stuff

that’s getting in the way

of actually being

in the world

completely,

and worst of all

is knowing

that it’s mostly

empty space

repelling through

its charges

our merging

into everything.

 

 Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2012. All rights reserved.

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… and I said send me a message

          or show me a sign

because my eyes are wide open

          but I am feeling so blind

I understand all the reasons

         and none of the rhyme

and I have changed with the seasons

         to mine the sublime

and while I long for discovery

         I’m growing shorter on time

I’m afraid all the answers

         don’t get along in my mind

as the more that I learn

         the less I can define

what you call angels and demons

         good deeds and crimes.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved. 

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What the doctor says to me

               in his soliloquy …

and in terms that are expressed

               really best by his eyes

and the puffing of his chest

              by the stance he finally

takes, breaking our distance

              and the way he holds

his clipboard as a shield

              against death; that’s

the way he says without a

              breath, “this is serious”.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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There are shows nowadays

          that let us ride along

safely from our homes

          with the kind of people

who cast an imprint on the flat world

          that you and I travel on.

My uncle, the sailor, for example,

          who got a tattoo in the Navy

before they became crackerjack stickers

          or cheap substitutes for personality

was one of those who marked the earth

          with his work and left behind a hurt

now that he’s gone past horizons

          we cannot yet get to;

and we are left at the pier, standing by an edge

          measuring the air with everyone around

until we are met with what we can recall –

which are all the pieces of the world

          he scraped off with his fingertips

and nails to bring home

          and mix with the salt of our meals.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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Every day the light

comes up at the top

of the world

.

the churn goes on

grinding down

and pushing out

as well

.

everything is going

on as before

according to

the same laws —

.

the furthest star

is twice as far today

than one we’ll see

tonight

.

the only thing

that’s changed

are the subtle

combinations —

.

the queerest force

called chance by most

who fail to comprehend

.

the only mark we leave

in time is what we do

while living.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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I don’t like cleaning –

and not just for the obvious reasons

like taking away from

all the nothing else I might be doing

.

it’s because cleaning reminds me

of how awfully endless the simplest

nastiest tiniest specks of the universe

are falling forever and finally landing

all over everything I own

.

even me, I am falling apart, all over

my apartment, flaking away little bits

of my skin, leaving my oils and my

stink like my cousins who live in the jungles

traces of hair and my preference for beer

.

and cleaning can take on a strength

all its own and possess me for stretches

where I’m looking for hours behind doors

meant to cover all the clutter that’s gathered

and quietly planning to take over my home

.

worst of all, cleaning can lead me,

and does now more than before,

to collections that have had real time

to marinate in the taste of forgotten

.

pictures and letters and buttons and

faded ribbons pinned to nothing

boxes that might have meant something

were I Pepys or Strong

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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