We are sinners!
In the hands of an
Apathetic saint
He rolls his dice
And writes his notes
And squeezes our
Souls like his father
Squeezed, in one hand
A stress ball
He strolls down from
The mountain, and in
His other hand, he
Squeezes our fear,
Like his father
Squeezed a throat
In the other
He came from the mountain
And cast a bet against god
And his luck was found wanting
Life is the warm, hollow crackle of vinyl
Life is the sticky, soft moisture of the south
Life is the impact
Life is the fall
Life is the cracking
The pops
The crush and sputter
And gush and rush to
A futile surgeon
Who struggles against
Whiskey and god
To save a vinyl crackle
From the digitization
Of a soul
And he comes down from
The mountain to burn our
Churches and our schools
And our prisons and our
Libraries and our
Ill conceived notion
Of how to roam the palm
Of an angry god
Life is the second to last hurrah
Life is the moss on a rolling stone
Life is a masochistic sleeping dog
Life is a suicidal library in Alexandria
Life is a fire that saves genius
From knowledge
And history from truth
And spares all its fruit
For an ambivalent brute
Life is a mercenary sword
It's 30 silver coins
It's MIA fathers to little boys
And the pronunciation of Des Moines
Life is Faulkner written backwards
Its an internet poet trying to find the answers
Life is knowledge of good and evil
And the wasting of an education
To this day, we still live
in the country we were born,
passing the bottle
until dawn. Here, we hear
the clap of thunder.
Even if it rains, we’ll stay,
drinking oceans,
setting fire to our insides
under the sun.
When someone asks you how you are,
You simply say fine;
Though you could probably
Fill hours of time,
Telling them how not fine
You really are,
But telling him you are fine,
Has worked so far.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
A
palette of snow
immersed in cedar white
in frostbitten cold
the trodden roof caked
spies upon a beaten road
where warlords once clashed
and blood was once shed
and lives were exchanged
for honor and death and taxes
the gales hum a tune of timeless vows
The writer and the urge
To feel and purge
An illogical sequence
In sense
Daydreams about glory
The winds of his story
Solitude
Pen and paper, his only refuge.
the narrator yells from a black box action and the players run around like ants scurrying and i open my black eyelids into action and stir feebly on the bed because that is what I do before i wake up for real, the alarm clocks buzzing at me like angry bees.
i wriggle to that bedroom's doorway and look around in my underwear calmly
and know that right now will be the only time that everything is okay
like a bowl with cereal in it i make a bowl with cereal in it
it's sugar and i isolate
the taste
hold each sugar crystal in my head until it expands and deflates itself since the very act of tasting ruins it
synthesizers constantly run through my head luring me into trance so I don't have to think
the dawn is breaking outside and i can hear the ominous rumbling of my ride[s] in the background as i hurry, for I am always late
ignore the things that hurt and make a bow and put a ring on it
inhale the things that flirt and make a show and put a ring on it
ignore the self and contemplate
too late
always
too much
torture
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Echoes of the most sedantry saxophone seeps through the speakers in a sunnyside ghetto seducing a back slouched back already sedated by a mobile device
what's a cellular phone anyway?
cell is a building block of breathing
you'll have told me by then that this music is smothering
are you sure it was the jazz or just your mindstate?
since you were a lady of the strongest
convictions with your nomadic ways
etched in a stupendous stupor
when your family found you lifeless
in the closet with pills
and a bottle of vodka
a tune snuffed softly out in my head
Look at the faces of today's adolescents,
Warm smiles and grins, but lacking any presence
Any semblance of human emotion or essence
Just shells of people jacked on anti-depressants
Don the masks, dear father
Complete the tasks, don’t bother
Keep smiling, don’t falter
She’s just a teenage girl, please don’t fault her.
The Gospel of Galileo, by Amory McKeever (IcecreamMan80)
Oh my boundless church
stained glass that surrounds the Earth
my bible belt orbits a star
and from it's pulpit preaches far
to a congregation built of clouds
of noble gases that geyser out
into the open palms of my eyes
an unspoken psalm to sackcloth skies
adorned with miracles of flashing lights
which war like angels about to die
and in their clashing sparks do fly
each spark a seed that brings new life
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
He dosed off in the middle of the day,
in the woods, resting under the shade
of a tree. It was spring
and the rain cleared itself
from the mountains, overlooking
the steppes of rice grown
in the valley. He must have dreamed
of when he first arrived, how
his mother built their home
from the abandoned state, room
by room, replacing the wood
of each floorboard, repairing the holes
of every ceiling. How she was awed
to discover flowers etched
on their windows, the pillar
where the names of children
were inscribed along the notches.
When he dreams of her, of the time
she wrote his name onto the foundation,
he would remember the summer
she worked on the roof,
how it rained. How they gathered
what they could, to catch the water
falling from the ceiling, the way the wine
and iron bottles echoed, the thunder
rolling gently, lulling him
to sleep.
descent below
a setting horizon in the zenith
shows it's been too long
when there used to be a calling
where solitude
was once a fortitude
there used to be purpose
in his wrist and the writs
were beamed with wits
or so he would have liked to believe
that there was passion
to his craft but confessions from the past
led to concessions on the last
sunset;
the most distressing part of day
is the fading luminescence
when lampposts illuminate
their own isolation
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Like an exit light on an airplane
Like a stranded moth
To an old flame
An old man
Builds a pyramid of shame
It's the last great hurrah
Of the first losing cause
It's the death moans
Of the roadkill while
The highway groans;
Aghast with sixty
Years of it's gatewaydome
Like an exit light in a blackout
The interstate reads, in 12 point
Helvetica (except in milwaukee,
Where they use comic sans)-
A B A N D O N A L L H O P E
yewhoenterhere
Like a weatherman in Death Valley
Like scotch in a work mug
Like LSD in the water cooler
Like saying "it's a nice day"
And this is me signing off. Starting with PRC Round 218, Guilan will be hosting the contest. It's truly been a pleasure guys, and I look forward to staying involved.
In the midst of the rainforests
The strange stones
Guard the ancient grove
Of somber tones
When the bird begins to sing
Which secrets does it bring?
The hearts of beast and men
Are still silent
Until the end.
Uirapuru, Uirapuru
That I have not yet fallen apart
does not mean I was well made
That I do not cry out loud
does not prove my face is straight
all my survival demonstrates
is what it takes to make a heart
hammer forged and later lathed
turned a thousand times around
sanded down to its substrate
until an invulnerable surface found
one that can't be torn apart
can't be smashed and never fades
that's the manufacturing it takes
Then with that indestructible mound
attach to it every part of weak
glue every piece of sad and lame
and strap every ounce of liar and fake
bolt it all to that bedrock of plate
so I can pretend it's what I'm about
and masquerade as a sum of my parts
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
In the hands of an
Apathetic saint
He rolls his dice
And writes his notes
And squeezes our
Souls like his father
Squeezed, in one hand
A stress ball
He strolls down from
The mountain, and in
His other hand, he
Squeezes our fear,
Like his father
Squeezed a throat
In the other
He came from the mountain
And cast a bet against god
And his luck was found wanting
Life is the warm, hollow crackle of vinyl
Life is the sticky, soft moisture of the south
Life is the impact
Life is the fall
Life is the cracking
The pops
The crush and sputter
And gush and rush to
A futile surgeon
Who struggles against
Whiskey and god
To save a vinyl crackle
From the digitization
Of a soul
And he comes down from
The mountain to burn our
Churches and our schools
And our prisons and our
Libraries and our
Ill conceived notion
Of how to roam the palm
Of an angry god
Life is the second to last hurrah
Life is the moss on a rolling stone
Life is a masochistic sleeping dog
Life is a suicidal library in Alexandria
Life is a fire that saves genius
From knowledge
And history from truth
And spares all its fruit
For an ambivalent brute
Life is a mercenary sword
It's 30 silver coins
It's MIA fathers to little boys
And the pronunciation of Des Moines
Life is Faulkner written backwards
Its an internet poet trying to find the answers
Life is knowledge of good and evil
And the wasting of an education
Life is a good drink
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
I am not welcome here
at this place, the edge of two worlds,
both conspiring against me.
The wind blows
sending sand into my face,
onto my blanket, invading my space.
The tide erodes my tracks,
erases the past,
gone with no trace.
Even the sun
feigns a warm embrace
only to burn me.
I do not belong here.
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
you ****!
soliloquist soliloquize soliloquy
a sermon for those figurative shades and irrepressible haughtiness worn around its' person
or would personality be more technically correct?
it's pitiable; so contemptibly inadequate where attempts of mediocrity flourish under a nest of blind crows
since when was chain smoking in style? has robitussin always tasted so tart?
like a figurative comparison that can explain
a husk
an empty husk
with all bareness exposed
naked is the night of a palette called moon
that's been insistently taught to be a circumference of beauty
take two, director.
in the country we were born,
passing the bottle
until dawn. Here, we hear
the clap of thunder.
Even if it rains, we’ll stay,
drinking oceans,
setting fire to our insides
under the sun.
When someone asks you how you are,
You simply say fine;
Though you could probably
Fill hours of time,
Telling them how not fine
You really are,
But telling him you are fine,
Has worked so far.
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
little steps, taken literally
pastor's blood, and incongruity
prayers to Algernon, metaphysically
strange fruit swung from poppy trees
weightless/faceless/wrong/diseased
to be dead is just to breathe
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
A
palette of snow
immersed in cedar white
in frostbitten cold
the trodden roof caked
spies upon a beaten road
where warlords once clashed
and blood was once shed
and lives were exchanged
for honor and death and taxes
the gales hum a tune of timeless vows
The writer and the urge
To feel and purge
An illogical sequence
In sense
Daydreams about glory
The winds of his story
Solitude
Pen and paper, his only refuge.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Taquito burrito sharreef khalif
taco taco pretty guapo.
so I will love you
ever and ever.
Goodbye dear Chernobyl rain
and all of its grey fallout
farewell our old friend Ukraine
we will miss you no doubt
We know that we lost the war
Kalashnikov is rust and legend
we're not making tanks no more
but it's much worse than we imagined
Crocodiles took our future
but we let not a scream
We just inject a liquid suture
and escape into desomorphine
The crocodiles can smell our fear
and hide under the hopelessness
The crocodiles shed bogus tears
while they devour us en mass
by Amory McKeever (Icecreamman80)
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
the narrator yells from a black box action and the players run around like ants scurrying and i open my black eyelids into action and stir feebly on the bed because that is what I do before i wake up for real, the alarm clocks buzzing at me like angry bees.
i wriggle to that bedroom's doorway and look around in my underwear calmly
and know that right now will be the only time that everything is okay
like a bowl with cereal in it i make a bowl with cereal in it
it's sugar and i isolate
the taste
hold each sugar crystal in my head until it expands and deflates itself since the very act of tasting ruins it
synthesizers constantly run through my head luring me into trance so I don't have to think
the dawn is breaking outside and i can hear the ominous rumbling of my ride[s] in the background as i hurry, for I am always late
ignore the things that hurt and make a bow and put a ring on it
inhale the things that flirt and make a show and put a ring on it
ignore the self and contemplate
too late
always
too much
torture
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Echoes of the most sedantry saxophone seeps through the speakers in a sunnyside ghetto seducing a back slouched back already sedated by a mobile device
what's a cellular phone anyway?
cell is a building block of breathing
you'll have told me by then that this music is smothering
are you sure it was the jazz or just your mindstate?
since you were a lady of the strongest
convictions with your nomadic ways
etched in a stupendous stupor
when your family found you lifeless
in the closet with pills
and a bottle of vodka
a tune snuffed softly out in my head
Jazz hasn't sounded the same since.
Look at the faces of today's adolescents,
Warm smiles and grins, but lacking any presence
Any semblance of human emotion or essence
Just shells of people jacked on anti-depressants
Don the masks, dear father
Complete the tasks, don’t bother
Keep smiling, don’t falter
She’s just a teenage girl, please don’t fault her.
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
Oh my boundless church
stained glass that surrounds the Earth
my bible belt orbits a star
and from it's pulpit preaches far
to a congregation built of clouds
of noble gases that geyser out
into the open palms of my eyes
an unspoken psalm to sackcloth skies
adorned with miracles of flashing lights
which war like angels about to die
and in their clashing sparks do fly
each spark a seed that brings new life
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
He dosed off in the middle of the day,
in the woods, resting under the shade
of a tree. It was spring
and the rain cleared itself
from the mountains, overlooking
the steppes of rice grown
in the valley. He must have dreamed
of when he first arrived, how
his mother built their home
from the abandoned state, room
by room, replacing the wood
of each floorboard, repairing the holes
of every ceiling. How she was awed
to discover flowers etched
on their windows, the pillar
where the names of children
were inscribed along the notches.
When he dreams of her, of the time
she wrote his name onto the foundation,
he would remember the summer
she worked on the roof,
how it rained. How they gathered
what they could, to catch the water
falling from the ceiling, the way the wine
and iron bottles echoed, the thunder
rolling gently, lulling him
to sleep.
What he said
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
descent below
a setting horizon in the zenith
shows it's been too long
when there used to be a calling
where solitude
was once a fortitude
there used to be purpose
in his wrist and the writs
were beamed with wits
or so he would have liked to believe
that there was passion
to his craft but confessions from the past
led to concessions on the last
sunset;
the most distressing part of day
is the fading luminescence
when lampposts illuminate
their own isolation
i have not killed my
self yet, but that does not mean
i have to like it
"
(..]/0./0{}[2]]|_0\/||||..(
would {we second} had the ]end=+][
there was
#.,/``~[)(***
give |00k
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
\/\/0\/|_|>B
<#>3><3>/36><20........
IF
l][]\/3? ~./\[],-=-09
then ...
"
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Like a stranded moth
To an old flame
An old man
Builds a pyramid of shame
It's the last great hurrah
Of the first losing cause
It's the death moans
Of the roadkill while
The highway groans;
Aghast with sixty
Years of it's gatewaydome
Like an exit light in a blackout
The interstate reads, in 12 point
Helvetica (except in milwaukee,
Where they use comic sans)-
A B A N D O N A L L H O P E
yewhoenterhere
Like a weatherman in Death Valley
Like scotch in a work mug
Like LSD in the water cooler
Like saying "it's a nice day"
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
In the midst of the rainforests
The strange stones
Guard the ancient grove
Of somber tones
When the bird begins to sing
Which secrets does it bring?
The hearts of beast and men
Are still silent
Until the end.
Uirapuru, Uirapuru
Uirapuru song by Villa-Lobos
I think this fits nicely while reading the poem.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wgh8CzHPKok
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
That I have not yet fallen apart
does not mean I was well made
That I do not cry out loud
does not prove my face is straight
all my survival demonstrates
is what it takes to make a heart
hammer forged and later lathed
turned a thousand times around
sanded down to its substrate
until an invulnerable surface found
one that can't be torn apart
can't be smashed and never fades
that's the manufacturing it takes
Then with that indestructible mound
attach to it every part of weak
glue every piece of sad and lame
and strap every ounce of liar and fake
bolt it all to that bedrock of plate
so I can pretend it's what I'm about
and masquerade as a sum of my parts
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein