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Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

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Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Tue Dec 18, 2012 10:44 am

A Reflection on Rugs


It’s just a worn out, old rug
Harboring cartons of ash
It’s got these stains like bed sores
Wouldn’t sell at the thrift stores


So let’s leave it by the road
And pretend we won’t miss it
The flea market opens soon
We’ll have a Persian by noon


This time we’ll take care of it
It might last a while if we
Keep our vomit down at night
And hold our smokes real, real tight


We can put it where you like
By the door or in the den
We’ll vacuum it every day
While we sing that all’s okay



Back on the Wagon Again


I still wish for whiskey dreams
For liters of Jack and Jim
A spacebag straining its seams
Solo cups filled to the brim



I want to taste the Yukon
Toast with bottled royalty
I want to share my futon
And forgo all subtlety



I need that liquid courage
Not all Leos are lions
Because we’ve all got baggage
Not just bottles, but sirens



This mast won’t hold me for long
I can feel the bonds fraying
I still hear that sweet, sweet song
Sorry dear, I’m not staying



More to come in the future, possibly.
Last edited by CptxMorgan on Sat Jan 05, 2013 6:12 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Re: Captain's Log.

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Fri Dec 21, 2012 9:25 pm

Part I.


Blunted blades won’t cut the line
Dead end winds won’t catch the sails
Rotted cask won’t hold the wine
Floating fish won’t perk the reels

The water is the darkest
This coast has seen in ages
And the crew ain’t the bravest
But for their meager wages

Still the oars strike the water
Countless quills dipped in ink
Soaking up sea like blotters
Held by men waiting to sink

The horizon’s a painting
Yet once they draw near to it
They find themselves left wanting
Static sky o’er an endless pit

No miraculous muses
Nor a silky voiced siren
Too late to cut their losses
They’re halfway to the hieron

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Re: Captain's Log.

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Sat Jan 05, 2013 4:37 am

Can't Spell Narcissist Without Too Many I's


I am rusted, I have oxidated

far too much. I have

nothing left to love.

I spread tetanus

to everything I fuck

and everything I fuck up.

Everything I fucking touch

turns to rust. Midas II

I am not, I am just far,

far too long for this Earth.

I’ve known older souls, but

none colder than the one

that keeps me from my bed every

night.

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Re: Captain's Log.

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Sat Jan 05, 2013 5:53 pm

SSRI Dreams


Is this a family of cannibals
or am I simply that irrational?
I’ve exhumed the bones in the garden,
they’re still fresh, with forgotten marrow.

They cannot know, they musn’t know I’ve seen.
They’re family but they’ll still pick my corpse clean.
Thank every god I avoided that wine
that poured such a funny shade of sanguine.

The other guests seem so oblivious,
like drunken lemmings they couldn’t care less.
They pick at the roast like it’s their last meal.
Hell, they’re ravenous, the table’s a mess.

One just hopes to maintain their seclusion,
no food or drink until the conclusion.
It’s hardly becoming to eat an aunt,
during your first family reunion.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Sat Jan 05, 2013 7:55 pm

I no longer find solace in sleep
closed eyes refuse to bring peace.
Fever dreams are just meager, eager
attempts to impress a mind that’s far too
fevered to feel their duress. Counting on
counting sheep to deliver me from evil,
from the shaking and the wanting and
the drinking to forgetting. The dreams
I dream are more mundane than they
ought be allowed to be. No fever pitch,
no ancient lands or endless sands. Just
waking days, and reflections of the lethargy
and agony that await me when I awaken
to the clinging embrace of apathy. Apathy
that sticks like a ducttapeworm, adhesive
and hungry for hope and aspiration, leeching
any iota of motivation or inspiration leaving
only empty ruminations and a lack of worthy
relations. Nightmares don’t fair well in invoking
real fear, just an escape from real world/real fear
that leaves me pulling at my hair and pushing away
everything I hold dear. My dear I swear I’ll wake up
some day, some time, some where and I hope you’ll
be there, but I fear that I’ll be far worse for
the wear.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Sicariius on Tue Jan 08, 2013 5:07 am

I really dig these, man. You definitely have the prose for it, and I'm even tempted to record some speed reads. Bookmarking the page, look forward to more.
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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Tue Jan 08, 2013 5:07 am

i can still taste ketones

like the shared breath

after a way too long kiss


the tremors aren’t really there

really, they really aren’t there

i swear, so stop shaking


the palpitations aren’t

hiding in my heart, they’re

just pounding in my head


there’s no tracks to mark

but this is so, so much

more than skin deep


i never met werner

nor mr korasakoff

but sometimes i think i did


maybe i got their syndrome

maybe this is just some delusion

maybe i just forgot the rendezvous

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Thu Jan 10, 2013 2:26 am

My head is full of spiders,
wrapping warped webs around
every nook they come across.
I fucking hate spiders.

My mouth is full of snakes
that rattle and spit venom
whenever I let my lips part.
I swear it's not my fault.

My hands are full of worms
that won't stop slithering
and causing these tremors.
I fear they'll never stop.

My heart is full of spite,
organically manufactured
by yours truly.
No excuses there.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Fri Jan 11, 2013 1:56 pm

New England weather
breeds thick skin
and broken livers.

Haunted by the spirits
of folks who drank
too many damn spirits.

I can hear them here and there
humming hypnagogic hymns that
love to feed on my fickle fear.

Someday, I suppose I’ll enlist
with a half froze body
and a fifth in each fist.

But winter’s nearly over
and my liver’s still all here,
s’pose I can make it one more year.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Tue Jan 15, 2013 12:57 pm

I am broken,
every facet,
I am broken.

Shattered teeth,
bloody gums,
I am broken.

waning muscle,
worn out limbs,
I am broken.

Failing eyes,
faded vision,
I am broken.

Twisted gut,
full of bile,
I am broken.

Smoker's lungs,
like housefires,
I am broken.

Fragile mind,
oh so weak,
I am broken.

Cracked lips,
marred skin,
I am broken.

I am,
in need of repair,
inquire within.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Wed Jan 16, 2013 6:26 am

When the pen hits paper,
it's like spilling ink
as an emotional eunuch.
The tank's been empty
for as long as they can recall
and the only fuel for miles
is tainted and known to
cause combustion that leads
to thoughts of heavy hands
and a distaste for apartment walls.
Walls that they know don't deserve
the abuse they're apt to give and take.
Still they'd trade every knuckle
and every man-made mar in the plaster
to bring that lifeblood back
because frankly they're just
embarrassing themselves here.
Pouring hours into making 'work'
out of something that should be
anything but.

Nicotine and caffeine now
qualify as nutrition, feeding
a bloated brain craving any
stimulant it can wrap its
greedy, needy stem round.
Stubby, spiteful fingers
double as digits insisting
upon tapping away until their
prints find themselves etched
into ashy keys like crime scenes.
Queue investigation procedures:
The death of depth and breadth
and the emergence of an emptiness
that solemnly swears it's not the culprit.
Just a product, not a cause or
suspect. Simply another victim
that was content with its role
in the background, now the most
prominent player in the outfit.
Ill equipped to finger the first fiddle
in the one man show thrust upon it,
it's only a matter of time before
auto-cannibalism ensues, it swears.
Frankly, we think it's enjoying
the spotlight despite the camouflaged
flaws the stage light shines bright
upon like it's caught a thief in the night.
For now we won't take any action,
for an investigation will only serve
to exacerbate the frustration that
came with the drought and
the creative emaciation
that followed.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby lostamongtrees on Wed Jan 16, 2013 6:46 am

Your words are the sap of souls. A Reflection On Rugs wrung out my heart, leaving it cold and damp.

It's likely that the pain was the reason I couldn't stop reading them.

They are truly beautiful. Each of them is a unique adventure, peppered with statements that halt the eye and ignite the mind. You definitely have voice , and your flow is hypnotically human. I can't think of any other way to describe it. There's rhythm, but not a strict pattern. It's you in there, your spirit, come alive in your poems.

Keep writing.
tag me in the chat!

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Tue Jan 22, 2013 5:29 pm

I Sleep Like a Murder Victim


Twisted sheets and
streams of sweat
soak shirts and sweats,
it gets worse.

Blood trickles onto
patched pillows from
Saharan lips spread agape,
silently begging for an escape.

Every morning the
same query arises.
“Do I need new pills,
or some yellow tape?”



GAD


It’s like running into
a vast, greedy gale
zealously robbing you
of every stuttered breath.

Trapped in Toledo with
a single pissed off bull.
He’s pawing the dirt hard,
sporting a brand etched death.

Every hour spent alone
a year of solitude.
Writing comes easier,
that’s a lie, nothing does.

Footfalls feel like falling,
every step screams danger.
And whatever you do,
stay above the high-water mark.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Wed Jan 30, 2013 12:04 am

Atop a hill stands a prison.
Within this prison sits a cell
holding years of bad decisions
like remnants of a poisoned well.

Hemlock lurks within the faucet,
Belladonna stains every cup.
Scratched in the walls is a portrait
of a man who had given up.

"Attica! Attica! This is
a massacre." Read red stained walls.
"Attica! Attica! I swear
I surrender" Echoed the halls.

I have taken from me before,
and I have never given back.
I have worked these fingers damn sore
but in this cell I'm still a hack.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Tue Feb 05, 2013 7:33 am

Pest Control



Thirteen, I count. Thirteen
manic bugs dwelling skin deep
in my palms. With teeth like
pinpricks and space heaters
that gnash and gnaw 'neath
nicotine dyed callouses.

Six stay settled in my left,
six sit sedate within the right.
Til' that one nomadic bastard usurps
one or the other and rattles his
chains. Calling for change with
a vexing, villainous vitriol.

So I scratch and scratch
Sisyphus-esque. Trying to dig
those motherfuckers free. But
by the time the urge is quelled
and all is well, I feel just
a hint of an itch in my free palm.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Tue Feb 12, 2013 12:46 pm

Verbose as Vomit


Ink bleeds out,
spilling hemoglobin
upon every page, every
pale piece of parchment.
Placing a plague of
printed prose wherever
it pleases, free to prey
upon its peers praises.

Ash reigns down, usurper
that it is. Claiming the
surface of my desk as its
boon, a dowry born from the
marriage between me, my lungs
and the acceptance of smoke and
karmic inevitability.

Every snubbed butt adds to this
frail facade of ferocity and
fearlessness, though I fear its
fading. I don't want to die and
I need to separate myself from
my vices.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Fri Feb 15, 2013 10:28 pm

I awoke to a crew of carrion
cackling like half thawed ice
under the pressure of thousands
of eager footfalls marching toward me.

“Today is the day, today is the day.”
They hollered, cawed and called.
“Today is the day, today is the day.”
They gasped and sighed and bawled.

They sat like lapdogs around my bed,
with tongues like worms escaping their heads.
Their stare was fixed, reeking hunger.
Their shrieking ceased as they inched closer.

“Today is the day, today is the day.”
I whispered, accepting my fate.
“Today is the day, today is the day”
I wonder who’ll find my corpse in this state.

With nary a gasp, I sprang to my feet.
The raptors were gone, a sigh of relief.
Yet when I looked down, my heart did fall.
For there was my body, tears, rends and all.







Every word you type
or write or speak
just serves as a reminder
that you’re just another
promise I couldn’t keep.

Cause I told myself that
I’d keep my cool this time.
That I knew it wouldn’t work,
that I had this all worked out.
But here I am losing my mind.

Embracing drifts of snow that
stand tall as Jotun over me
til’ at least my limbs are numbed.
Just so I can feel that hint of fire
spread through me once I step inside.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Sun Feb 17, 2013 11:54 am

Sweat pours from
every little pore
like the blood from
a thousand little
stab wounds that
mar skin, both
thick and thin,
both clothed
and exposed and
cold all over.

But the air is
hungry tonight
and I fear it's
got you in its sights.

Get inside 'fore
the chill sets in,
before the cold
gets in-side and
all that sweat
turns to ice and
you're bit and
black and numb
from shoulder
to thumb.

No lack of
self worth is
worth wading
against winds
that'll seep
'neath your
skin, causing
joints to rust
and turning
marrow to dust.

I hope you see,
that's not sweat
kid. It's your
body bawling before
the abuse you've
thrust upon it.
Walking wildly
with these
winter nights.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Fri Feb 22, 2013 11:45 pm

I wish I could write you
into my existence, but I
fear a few frantic scratches
or tired taps couldn't do
justice to that subdued
euphoria our talks wrought.

You’d be mangled by the words
I tend to conjure up like some
pallid, tired sorcerer. Not that
I’d adore you any less, but
you surely wouldn’t deserve the
broken lives we’d lead.

So, it’s with every dewdrop of
empathy that I can wring from
this rotten, greyed matter
that I make this decision.
Without further ado,
I shall bother you no longer.




INTERMISSION AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, NOT REALLY, STILL SAPPY SHIT.







I am wrought of a single night,
of spite and one hundred proof
vials strewn under hotel lights.

The harvest reaped from a seed
full of broken homes and a stew
of mental disease and unfulfilled needs.

The result of momentously maligned
monogamy and an ancestry poxed
by the touch of liquid lycanthropy.

Still, no wounds bore as deep,
nor sting so sore as the scars
that I, myself have scored.

For there is no sting so sharp
as the sobering melodies that
my wasted memories sing to me.

Hymns of happy haplessness
and sappy sonnets serving to
remind, one does unto oneself.

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Re: Captain's Log. (All poetry posted open to criticism.)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby CptxMorgan on Fri Mar 01, 2013 1:49 am

If this were last year
I’d be forcing down
vodka clear and bourbon brown.
Spitting up neon green
as adders and mean and
cutting as their venom.

If this were last year
these thoughts would end
up in a bucket with the
remains of too many shots
and too many shot brain cells
coughed up like buckshot shells.

If this were last year
I’d still be full of sap
and wrath and my knuckles would
be leaking the solution
to the equation of fist plus wall
while I grinned at the aftermath.

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