Somatic Ire

UK, 32, writer of poetry. He/him 🌈

[jonaswpoetry]

Insapient

I bear the sterile tongue jabbing

at my ear from its inner

wall — four words (more flavour-

—

less than stiff needle tips, and far

greater at sedating me for several

serene, subcutaneous, insapient

—

moments) lap as like some pack

of mutts so starved that even filth

will satisfy; never mind how teeth

—

become inevitably

entered to such

indiscriminate feasting

[jonaswpoetry]

Claustrophile

She could’ve taken me out

then & there, but

I am not the type, and

honestly, that’s alright with me.

So I’ll head off to the bar

that’s downstairs, to

kiss a friend goodbye, and

crawl away for the night, because

—

if there’s some gleam in my eye

that might’ve caught her own

it must be tricks of the light, so

we’re both better off alone.

I’ve wandered out & in to worlds

that’ll challenge my style, but

have never survived for more

than just a little while, ‘cos I’m

an overcome claustrophile.

—

He could’ve allowed me in

to the fold, but

I was easy prey, and

seriously, why not play with me?

So I’ll fall upon the block’s

stranglehold, to

expect a dropped blade, and

shed ‘sorry’s for the weight, because

—

each bitter breath I take

is of a better man’s air.

This body’s taking up space that

could’ve been yours, or theirs.

I’d walk continents for your love

while you’ll not give a mile.

I never asked for your judge-

ment, let alone a trial, yet I’m

your culpable claustrophile

—

I could’ve just given up

any time, but

I’m depended on, and

horribly, that’s what’s wrong with me.

So I’ll stand in search of suns that

never rise, to

welcome warm their bronze, and

spread thin my shadow’s song, because

—

what little colour’s in me

is just a shade with no hue.

Although riddled by answers, I

lack a damn thing to prove.

I have to suck it up each day

like gulping down bile, and

it’s been feeling this way

since I was juvenile, ‘cos I’m

a cursed, chronic claustrophile

[jonaswpoetry]

The Night Walker

Headless hunger now does demand

ascension from glory — towering

—

above, dark shoulders spread, and

become the night sky, a thousand

hands plunging through canopies

—

made decayed by pestilent hatred

exuded with fully remorseless rule

[jonaswpoetry]

Last night I was insanely hot and stupid but not in an ideal & preferable "himbo" kind of way, more like "this idiot's skin is suffocating him and he's knocked everything on his desk over"

[jonaswpoetry]

Lili Trifilio said that “birthdays just remind [her] [she’s] closer to dying”, but I find them as something quite contrary to that. For me, each birthday is a reminder that I’m further from when I should have died — whenever that might have been. It’s a day where I can’t help but think I’ve lived longer than expected, and far longer than should have persisted.

I’ve never planned an end, but I’ve been thinking about one for so long that it’s jarring to realise it still hasn’t happened. It’s unnerving. It’s a candle burnt out of wax & wick, yet still flickering on the kitchen table. It’s a mountain ground to sand still casting the shadow of its past body. It’s a winter breeze felt right through a summer-home’s walls, carrying the countless seeds I’d thrown away because, quite obviously, last spring would not be reaching me — except that it did. But the next one surely won’t be met; not, at least, until it has already passed me thoughtlessly by. Until another flower has both bloomed and begun to die. Until another storm has struck and then subsided. Until another sunset has left me cold, but still standing. Until another birthday. Another reminder. Yet more growth to the chasm between what is right and what is. It swallows me without ceremony, and spits me out without remorse. It says: what greater mistake could you make now than that already made — that of letting your mistakes continue? It says that each year I have cut a dead man’s hair. Opened eyes that could have shut long ago. Grabbed hands that would crush me if I were real. I have offered flesh and blood and faith daily, despite their irrevocable spoiling. I have sold away ten thousand smiles drawn tight by the pull of sod and breathless disintegration.

I have stayed too long. And I shall stay until I have not. But birthdays just remind me I’m further from when I should have died. Whenever that might have been.

[jonaswpoetry]

Disdainful ambivalence

I might survive the coming

dusk (and that which surely

—

follows) if you can keep me

sheltered from Her disdain-

ful ambivalence — it pulls

—

every beating heart beyond

endurance, into burial's cast

@nosebleedclub January Prompts 02. Desert sunset

[jonaswpoetry]

Into the warm

Mother, help settle me into

the warm, reluctant embrace

of somnolent silence — non-

—

consciousness — freedom

from frost-biting manacles

that still drag my haunted

—

bones & dreams onwards

through each day ever since

you conspired their creation

@nosebleedclub December Prompts 31. sleepy

[jonaswpoetry]

🌼~BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you’re supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you’re beautiful inside and out.~🌼

You're a sweetie, thank you 🥰

[jonaswpoetry]

From friction

Without need for spark'd flint

or accelerant, I once brought

forth firestorms from friction's

—

precise application, yet can now

barely muster a mere ember's

—

flicking warmth into this frigid

moment; frostbitten fingers

fumble the tasks of my survival

@nosebleedclub December Prompts 1. unprompted

[jonaswpoetry]

"How much I'd like to be the kind of creature whose very presence soothes," — Butter by Asako Yuzuki (translated by Polly Barton)

[jonaswpoetry]

Arrant

Yellow pigment licks the sculpture's

lips, his glazed satiation belying

its entire absence, for he does still

—

remain marble without meat, structurally

solid yet vitally hollow both, and ever

crumbled through eternity's hourglass

—

as if there might result some reformation

that could permit this arrant grey body

of massed dust to someday smile sincerely

@nosebleedclub October Prompts 11. restoration

[jonaswpoetry]

Sunrise

Like dirt-starved worms, desperate fingers

tickle at my scalp, finding faults: chipped nails

—

digging in to tender flesh until finally a wound

is made that may be exploited — pick, tug, and

widen it, excavate deeper, expand this skull's

—

newfound maw, before grabbing either jaw

tight, then tearing far the distance between

—

their bite. Thus, all voices

stop. Serenity's cock-crow goes

unheard across tomorrow's

—

brightest, warmest sunrise

[jonaswpoetry]

"Somedays the sun comes up in spite of me"

[jonaswpoetry]

Snuffed

His armchair is his, and not

a thing in this room mine. He’ll

stuff me in a chamber, then set

—

every pipedream alight — night

after soft-thumbed night; after nine-

teen years of soundly snuffed

—

hopes, I’m done smouldering

alone — I’d like a chance to burn

more than momentarily

—

bright, in my own home

@nosebleedclub Poetry Month Prompts 11. pipe tobacco

[jonaswpoetry]

Elevated arsonist

The arsonist is elevated: his roar

reaches far, and in-

cinerates every pathetic barricade

—

thrown up between selves — regurgitated

deflections bled dry, though not quite

'til death, 'ere left perfectly desiccated

—

for infernal tongues to feast upon

while fumes bring about moonfall: that fated

moment when post-dusk wanders alone

—

are realised as never having been

truly solitary — instead, my steps

were tracked — every single one

—

was seen, heard, or

even

felt by another being

[jonaswpoetry]

Birdsong and thrill

It’s a stupid thing

That I’ve done

And a stupid thing

That we do

Dancing all night long

To the beat of solitude

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

 -

It’s a stupid thing

That I’ve said

About the stupid things

That you do

A poison in your head

From words you misconstrue

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

 -

The midnight calls

And forlorn hopes

Have left us both

Up on the ropes

And if they give

What can I give?

To bring this back

What can I give?

 -

It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done

But it’s all been done

And there’s no coming back from

The grey skies I’ve known, when

 -

I’m the mundane in a vibrant world

The quiet through the birdsong and thrill

[jonaswpoetry]

Itch

You know that fly you'll try to catch, but at every chance, are too slow to react? I've a problem like that: an itch I just can't scratch

—

You know that song your soul appalled, with the viral chorus that can't not be caught? I've such infectious thoughts, as though my head is haunted

—

You know those paths once daily traipsed, that assured trod safety, but now frighten like strangers? I've forgotten all their faces — will my heart be next forsaken?

—

You know that joke that made you laugh, but now years after, you simply can't stand it? I've a whole life like that: I flinch at every flashback

@nosebleedclub January Prompts: Itch