nodus tollensthe rules of the bed are very simplenodus tollens by Phisisturae
- you are given a body and a window.
everything is made difficult
- but you get participation prizes.
the aim is to find yourself
- hint: look between your fingers.
A bad place.How much can you not say anythingA bad place. by Phisisturae
before grief becomes a paragraph?
Before paragraphs become holes
in you with blood exiting them -
when will the wounds form?
A body can grow around a splinter,
but planks don't apologise,
and dust squats in lungs apologising
until you are left with nothing but your age and air
- nothing should impede growth.
HeightsWithin my ribs a mountain stands, peeks andHeights by Phisisturae
squints at the outside. He knows he fills the cracks
in me. I mourn the days when I could breathe.
Some grand view will crown the heights and one day
I will see.
I've been writing poetry since I was twelve. My inspirations are Kipling, Belloc, Keats, Duffy, Dickinson, Big Poppa E and all those poets that got me into this shit in the first place on this wretched site (you know who you are.)
I largely do freeform poetry because I am lazy - from time to time my brain will occasionally remember how to do sonnets, villanelles and sestinas. My poetry springs from my head fully formed, largely. I also have two huge and scruffy scrapbooks of spontaneous poems that I will start to post when I have filled the "second volume". I have written an estimated five hundred poems.
I am working (slowly) on two anthologies that should make their way to kindle some time in the coming year. The first focusing on texture and animism, the second on wildflowers and weeds of the westcountry.
I also write stories, sketch, paint, make costumes and sew; you will see these creations very rarely when I judge them fit to share with the internet. They are largely hobbies and done just for fun.
I welcome critique on all my pieces - unless specified otherwise.
Comments give me life. Giving me a comment shines a light into my dark and miserable hovel of existence, which, as a poet, I am contractually obliged to keep desolate and dreary.
2 New Performance PoemsI performed these last night, heres the youtube link, I hope you guys enjoy them <3 I loved the response to the last one I shared with you guys, its a shame theres no more direct way to share these with you on here because I love sharing my writing with you guys and this is a newish medium for me and support in this area would be really appreciated. But anyway! Here it is <32 New Performance Poems by BloodshotInk
Poetry I think is rather special from poets who are doing rather special things.
Winter in my HemisphereWe’ll take the morning train to the shipyard.Winter in my Hemisphere by TheKerwinator
The clock will chime four times
and we’ll know that we’ve arrived.
We’ll sit upon the dock and
fold tugboats out of paper we’ve
cut from one another’s heart.
You’ll think the red blots wreck the snow;
I’ll think they’re Rorschach mementos
I can open in my head when
my thoughts burn away
You’ll like me running through ice barefoot;
if it makes you laugh,
I’ll welcome the tear of skin
and snow-glass stuck inside my
So I’ll bleed in the shipyard,
I’ll spill myself on the canvas;
though you may sigh, my
painting will make you feel
like we’ll be fine.
I’ll just pray it’ll be
good enough for you,
because my scissors are too rusty
to cut a new me from
Ode to Police RadioFor years I listenedOde to Police Radio by leesuhmarie
to the busy chatter, talk
of a Charlie, Oscar
David or Edward. Their names
echoed through a single speaker,
riddled with particles of dust
I never tried to clean.
A black metal box
whose dial never moved,
my father’s static lifeline
to a city outside of a country road.
It became my background
noise, a spoken coded broadcast
meant for special ears, not mine.
Still, I listened
to a dispatcher who skipped the obligatory
Hello, how are you doing, to police
who spoke of people and problems in names
and numbers, to emergency personnel
who rushed from place to place
without the chance to ever look back.
And I heard
the routine traffic stop, an 11-95
on a suspicious vehicle, the 242,
a home in violence, the peace
of a 10-15, apprehended,
the ambulance sent, 11-41,
for the panicky new mothers and fathers
and the child crawling toward the sound of
the 11-44, the call to hysterical families,
and the quiet body of a loved one.
And I watched
brian adam john 622
A collection of new folks who have joined in the last month or so whose work deserves showcasing. We should look after the new people in our community, no matter how long they've been poets outside of dA.
So in the space of two years all four of my grandparents died, one of which died in my own house in the room next to me, suffering horribly for a year whilst also bearing a deep resemblance to my own face. I also was in a terrible friendship group full of stupid unhealthy habits and drama for many years, whilst also being in an emotionally abusive relationship. I went to live with some people who I regarded as friends who were openly threatening, violent, volatile and loud - who made it clear they could be pushed to violence. And I recently received a letter from an ex long-term friend who proclaimed that they’d hated me for years and I went through the long petty process of untangling myself from them and their friends.
Now I am finally in a safe space and generally stable, I still find it hard to eat, sleep, approach people socially and have outbursts of emotion in public alone unprovoked (aka I started crying in the street today because I couldn’t afford street food and I was sad about my grandma who died a year or so ago). As a person who had a large and healthy libido I have completely lost it, I jump at loud noises and my mind is never too far away from the situations I went through when I am not occupied. I’ve experienced flashbacks with triggers and strong episodes of disassociation under great stress.
I think its fair to say I’ve been traumatised.</sub>
Its important for me to say that because I’ll often get frustrated because my anxiety should be mopped up by now and that coping techniques for people without these experiences often don’t work for me.
I have been traumatised, I went through a lot of shit, and I have been damaged emotionally. And that’s okay.
Its okay to be sad about my grandma a year after it happened, its okay to resent the person who sent me a grand letter of hatred and resentment, its okay to not sure how to feel about the emotional abuse, its okay to not be sure how small things like my ex friend’s abusive relationship and my shouty dad factor into things. Its understandable that I think about suicide a lot, less nowadays, but a lot.</sub>
Its okay to not be okay.
I am sorry I haven’t been on much these days and I am sorry if I am ratty, or sad or silent. I will be getting caught up with group responsibilities very soon, I promise. Communicating is very hard.
Hello - I’m Phis.|
I'm a poet of sorts, but I also love to get crafty now and again. I'm a uni student studying religion and creative writing, currently recovering from a severe anxiety disorder and chronic depression.
Mainly my poetry is about my mental health, my disabilities, my relationships, my pantheism, animism and witchery as well as other fun things like that. I aim to be an honest and enjoyable person to be around.
I try to comment on 5-50 poems a day, sometimes I just lurk because I have a lot of health issues which mean I can't do much more than stare at a screen some days.
Phisisturae is a nonsense word I made up because it looked very pretty. I've decided its an noun that describes the act of something very mundane catching your eye in a very extraordinary way, the profound appreciation of sundry objects and phenomena (Fih-cyst-tour-eye).
Down to the coreSo here I am,
praying to a lifeless figure to escape from its own religion.
Talking to the air as if it’s able to answer.
Pounding my fist onto my table, hoping it will calm me down.
And here I go,
back to the place where I belong.
To a world shielded in confusion and anger.
Founded on pillars of twisted truth and never ending distrust.
So there I went,
My head bowed down and my eyes half closed,
I took the stairs and soon I reached the top,
where I looked down on my empire of bewilderment.
I saw fear and anger, walk hand in hand.
I saw self-loathing and pride, unite right on the stand.
I saw my thoughts running in despair.
I felt the increasing darkness, tense in the air.
And while I slowly backed away,
from this confronting happening,
I think that, once again,
maybe all this is just in need of an ending.
Attempting to get back into the swing of university work by critiquing more work - bearing in mind I am only a student, I would love to critique more poetry and would relish the chance for people to send me things to critique!
Please don't hesitate to send me things to critique!