peel back your grinning face and be
my second life again
to be forbidden everything
to straddle and pretend
my heart is prone to failing
the blood reciprocates
replaces both its living
and its purities with fate
so dull to live forever
so right to live to die
a string, when cut, is severed
a dead light never lies
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
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
PRC
Oh, oh, oh what's that? some hater strapped with a gat?
I got mine too, yal better run before you poo
haters on my nuts like its a ****ty clutz
all I wanna do is smoke and drink till I'm a dope
Preve? I thought it was Perv-E cause all I see
is Talore's Galore going Blip Blip Blip
then I let one slip all the way into Kamotz' poem like blam
Danger! Wish I still had my Pager! Illustrade like WHAM
Spin Spin Spin like I'm Guilian
It makes my Ferocity Invalid! and make my **** all Chibi
Uh. Uh. Uh.
I reserve the right to edit this as more people enter the PRC.
my heart is made of glass
and my skin is made of foam
pressing harshly on the surface
bends and warps the bubbled dome
my veins are showing in my hands
a million trailing ampersands
and, and, and, and, and ...
I rest in a velvet coffin,
so I can ne'er be touched -
my heart so fragile whole,
though it lives - is that enough? -
dead from neglect or exposure,
what's the difference? Call my bluff -
and you'll discover what is what.
read into everything
eat sin, be maddening
I don't understand anything
I can't comprehend anything
my heart is made of glass
and my skin is made of foam
when you press upon the surface
it bends and warps the bubbled dome
streaming in and streaming out
both life's essence and it's drought
rotten brainpaths, rotted thought
like a hose hooked to a spout
of diseased emptiness. you see,
I suffer from that divide
that plagues all us lesser humans
who run from their own decisions,
that endless uncertainty.
rhyme, why rhyme, so prettily?
my veins are showing in my hands
a million trailing ampersands
I cannot stop the stream;
so let me be
and rest in a velvet coffin
so I can ne'er be touched
my heart so fragile whole,
though it's left, and that's enough;
dead from neglect or exposure,
what's the difference? Call my bluff,
and you'll discover what is what.
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
Because there's a hole there, through it now,
far enough to stare and not see
the end. It can be found at the turn,
at the thirty-five zone, but most would miss it
because they go at least fifty, if not more. But
if you went slow, pulled the brakes a little, you'll see
on the sod, a path of dead wood, crushed
and maimed, like leaves in a mortar, or a bushel
of sprouts, to indicate something had been
here. It had came, like a slug, leaving
the remains behind massively flat. It was
a bulldozer, I later learned, but before then
I imagined it was a behemoth, maybe
a European wyvern, shot down, wounded, forced to land
by the artillery of some army from some country.
It would be ancient. And it would have crawled, hiding—
Memory Sparks a silence in a world that never stops
to remember where rows of graves linger
to be touched by worn stone and worn hands
laughter sings a sweet reprieve beneath orange trees and desert sun
sings again a spray of salt, crusting between fingers and toes.
In Haifa, we smile beneath winter rains
and eat pita bread with humus by the temple of the Baha'i
Within the old house's cold stone walls
where sun cannot see,
chicken schnitzel cracks on an open pan
beside rice and matzo-ball soup.
Served from half a world away
to those too young to know the difference;
for those too young to know the distance
The desert heat bakes ibex hooves on the outskirts of Ein Gedi
while leopards watch with twitching tails
the sands polish marble to glass
beneath sun-crested clouds
we watch the waves roll in
under Mediterranean sunsets
and race between trees in the avocado groves
to skip stones on the shores of the Galilee
The city here is deafened by profound silence
It sits above us, moves between us; a hushed fog around us
We stand in mourning, stare unblinking at the wall
where paper prayers whisper dreams,
until forever-quiet ruins echo in dust
what once was there
We dreamed for two-thousand years
to stand in silence together
The few of us, alone
as we wandered through the desert
with a shield weighed on our backs
searching for our paradise
We are still here
still wandering this desert
still searching for our paradise
but we are not alone
I wish I could have known them,
they who faced the empty desert wastes
and saw a land of life.
From the ramparts of their tents,
with shovels and eucalyptus trees,
they raised a nation from the sand.
I see them in my dreams and call them heroes,
with all I am I keep their hope alive
I stand on the shoulders of these giants
On the back of the Leviathan
Between the horns of the Behemoth
In the fields below Megiddo
Beside the angel Micha'el
With our Shield raised high
Injection of medicine,
sore site, replaced with guise,
the get up was more than a face,
Trench coat and black gloves,
Dark,
He needs more medicine,
Medicine Man
Do you remember it?
The mall we used to spend our time together in, noses pressed against the glass so that they smudged the surface just barely enough to annoy people looking through, but not enough to get in trouble.
Yes, we spent time there under the window - and in the food court with its menagerie of chain-store restaurants and "Tom's Burgers", which was unabashedly horrible.
Do you remember? I bought you a burger, and I bought myself a Coke and a hot dog. We looked through the plexiglass safety rails at the escalators, moving continuously, and you spit out some of your burger on the ground.
Annoyed, I mushed it into the part at the bottom where the railing met the floor with my shoe, but there was air there instead of a clean join so the half-digested meat fell onto the floor below and landed with a wet slap on the ground. We looked at each other and smiled in that self-conscious way that two people smile when they have a secret they can't tell anybody else,
or when they've both gotten away with something, together.
And I remember walking with you into stores that seemed to contain many secrets,
secrets I wanted to learn but never did,
all of the stores the same.
But what I remember most of all is that, despite the name's best efforts; despite the mall's lake motif and cheery entranceway and greeters; and, finally, despite the masses of people who populated it,
there was no view of the lake.
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 lie, a fib, a twist of fate,
but perhaps, a chance, another date?
A smile, a laugh, a joyous look;
all my heart was all she took.
A sob, a cry, we start to argue:
she wins, I cry, it's nothing new.
A touch, a kiss, it starts again,
trapped within eternal sin.
A sob, a cry, a single tear;
what happened to her whom I hold dear?
Oh lovely one who I adore,
I'll love you forever more.
Here's a little something...well...let's just call it a bit of "experimental cubism."
eerT evilO (Olive Tree)
The sun catches its [eye/light] upon the silver sliver of (2)two-dimensional(D) [green/emerald/olive/jade/lime] fish:
float/flutter, shimmering amidst the (empty) b l u e where cloud-crested waves fall slowly upon each other and [—( disappear)—] beneath the horizon
tethered to one another between popcorn-flowered garlands that last for but a [moment/instant/breath/lifetime] Eaten/swallowed up/down {chew} by a salivating immortal movie-goer who has seen every movie and heard every conversation But still greedily he eats (eats3)
"It is Time"
The drops are ready. We {pluck} them one by one (2x2, 3x3, etc.) and (bas*fill*ket)s It is the smell of different days, of Shabbat at Saba and Saftah's, and wandering through uncle Etai's orchards. It is the smell of {laughter} and the metal {clang} of pots and pans
The fingers rise, older and wiser than the [stone/sand/dirt] they grow from. They clutch tightly around unseen treasure Skin is hard and dry, peeled back in parts where bone emerges. Stroked smooth by the desert's sand (brush)
Uncle removes the old man's finger and butchers it (we watch) He does not remove the skin, he enjoys the sound of its texture he cuts away the tethers and sets the fish free but they can no longer swim {staccato} silver pebbles {pizzicato} decrescendo into falling stars [Epsilon Pegasi, Zeta Aurigae, Gamma Andromedae] Drops ({drip}) golden tears for/on the sliced [bre/ad] of the finger The finger now a face now with hands
[T(cl)ock!]
"It is time"
The [finger/not a finger/menorah] Now two hands without itself (10 — 1 = 9), but one to remain
(alone)
(aloft) Poured over golden tears to last (9 — 1 =) 8 days/5,000 years Tears set to burn away the night To (scream) {DEFIANT!} from the window;
"We are still here!"
Standing beneath the Old man's hand Where fat drops ({drip}) golden tears Beneath the tethers Where green fish catch the sun
When you shine with all the flame of lightning,
there goes a spark that shoots upwards towards the stars.
Your power is undeniable; your force is crushing and raw.
The people cheer at your arrival and your flames.
In your eyes, there is an icy glow; fire reigns across seas,
and suddenly you are lost among the wounded and forgotten.
A warrior-princess, abandoned when the war has been won.
Your blood-stained blade breaks beneath your weight.
Opening your eyes, you can hear your soldiers leaving,
Those who could walk left. Those who couldn't stayed.
Among them, you - yourself. Their guiding light-
That they no longer needed to shine.
Your light blooms weakly within smoldering leaves of worn faith.
Twisted; corrupt.
Where shadows go, the goodness flees, following a darkened trail.
Forgotten; vile.
Your life drips from your fingers, sliding down a dirty shield.
And you are consumed within it, abandoned among the blackened spires.
"Generosity gives, gives, gives," you breathe, the glow in your eyes fading.
"Giving until itself cannot even stand, and withers in the flaring coals of..."
You suck in a deep, sharp breath like death, and you can feel your own blade-
piercing deep into your belly, "malicious... smoking greed."
I am still alive, I want to tell you. A spear is through my shoulder,
and one of my legs are broken from the weight of a mighty fallen horse.
I, a worthless, nameless soldier, am dangling my feet over the edge.
But I still want to be with you. You're still my shining light.
"Pride stands tall," you continue softly. Your voice is like sweet death,
and I close my eyes, smiling, "with a fiery face, as its existence burns
around it, and it is swallowed in the flames of its own expression.
Angry, and alone."
You're breathing the words of the Hymn of Vengeance, I realize.
And tears pierce the fog covering my deadening eyes. I still love you.
I still believe in you.
But I can't speak. Can't even breathe anymore.
"Grace walks upon the softened grass... the dew drops untouched-
upon the passing." Violent coughs stain the beautiful words.
"But then confidence falters, the fear revealed-" No, my lady, you could never know fear-
"-and the beauty is sent..." Your voice seems to fade, "toppling down..."
What if you just died? I realize in fear. What if you had just died,
And I wasn't there to hold your hand? My princess.
To show you that you weren't alone?
I heave myself upwards upon the heap of bodies that I once knew.
Towards you- your voice that once was.
You are still a beacon of light to my fading eyes,
I can see your trusty sword has betrayed you-
It's peaking through the armor covering your back.
Your dirty blonde hair is stained red to match the sun.
Stretching out my hand, I find yours, grasp it.
Your fingers are cold, but warmer than mine. Princess, I ache to say to you. My princess.
You don't react, and I believe you dead in quaking fear,
But then you blearily lift up your head to look at me.
My chest is hurting, but seeing the blood on your face hurts more.
I smile wearily at you. My beacon of light.
Your eyes, bright blue like the sea, are now dark and deep like the abyss.
We are both close to the end, but I can't stand you being like this.
As hard as I can, I squeeze your hand.
"Fate lounges upon its golden throne of skulls and sand... and bone," you breathe weakly to me,
looking into my eyes. I want to speak, to tell you what you mean to me.
But I can't. All of my energy is in the hand around yours. I can't let go.
Your voice is dead; my princess has given up. But at least I'll die with you. "And with a turn of its hand..."
Suddenly your hand is no longer in mine; you've pulled it away.
But only so you can reach over with a shaking, bruised and blackened arm,
And touch my cheek. You've been in my heart my entire life, I silently tell you,
As the bodies and the heat around me fades. You've never known me.
But I've always known you.
You're my princess.
"And with a turn of its hand..." Your fingers are soft upon my cheek.
The blood you smear on my face is delightfully cool in the black wind.
I can feel your breath fading, and I reach up and encase your hand in mine again.
I close my eyes,
"The hourglass breaks..."
and smile.
"And time is still again."
It is the stuff that the cashiers never talk about
casually. The mailmen who deliver your letters,
never deliver. Your neighbors look at you
strange. They think, "who is this person?
They are not the same. What has gotten
into them?" They wonder. It is
an odorless red triumph, sleeping furiously
at the window when it rains. Sometimes,
I eat this stuff for dinner
when I am alone. I smoke it
when I have the time. I drink it
when I go to work. It tastes of batteries,
left in the rain for two weeks, dried up
by the sun, out in your neighbor's lawn. It sits
in the belly, dreaming
of a violent type of silence. And
when it is done taking its course, I always let it out
in the bathroom of my favorite restaurant, making sure
they know what I hear. It is something to get used to,
like breathing. Enough of this
can make the old restless. But I am never restless.
I'm just not old.
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
Poet's just another
Word for narcissistic
Invented by the asinine
Painters and playwrights that
Have ADHD and a tragic
Lack of vanity
so they write songs for
the swans who will
never come home again-
And home is a prison for
the happy and the heavenly,
Meanwhile the hedonists and
Heathens hoard the education,
Nihilistic preachers of our
demolishing, abolishing the
truth and replacing it with
The word of an author.
You were always there,
still are, deep below.
In the heart
and very foundations
of the world.
Of my world.
Which was strange,
because you didn't belong there.
Because with your beard
you looked like Zeus or Odin.
Sky-Fathers belong
at the top of the world,
on mountains, seated
on Olympic thrones
or in Valhalla's halls.
Not a basement studio.
But it made sense,
because you chose to be there,
in the heart of the world,
with sound and strength
and fire.
And your cello
was your thunder, and your bow,
your thunderbolt,
and the music was the sound
that made all Creation burst
and bloom.
And set my eyes
wide, with awe.
And the basement,
became a temple,
became sacred.
And I learned that even gods,
Sky-Fathers,
All-Fathers,
worship, and whisper prayers,
and make offerings to things
that are not thoughts or words
or things at all,
in the early-morning before the sun,
at midnight to the moon.
Thunderbolt cracking
against thunder's strings.
The smell of amber,
and flash
of rosin dust
in the light.
Signups for PRC Round 177 are being extended for another week, as we received only three submissions. Signups for PRC Round 177 will be closed strictly on Sunday night, barring a continued lack of entrants.
Maybe my goal is just to be pretty -
To be loved, wanted, faultless and pithy.
I'd rather be stupid and blameless than smart
but wrong every time I **** something up.
Why not be fraudulent sans penalty;
You fake the anger. I'll fake the amity.
And maybe it's just a tad blasphemous,
But at least it's born out of avarice.
Why have goals when you switch from being right
to be louder and listened to, yet trite?
I am not living - just waiting until
I can stop dreaming and start being real.
So I'll dream 'til I find an idyll where
I find someone who loves me ... since I'm there.
I'm writing this curled up alone in my bed, (then)
Try to feel - my real self! - wand'ring still in my head -
Wish I'd love someone else,
Or at least love myself,
Or perhaps not be trapped in this Gyre of Nothing
But self-Doubt and Loathing,
Then Avarice, Apathy,
Madness and Blasphemy,
Brinksmanship, Leprosy,
Of All Senseless Tyrannies!
But instead
I propped my head up
on an elbow and read
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
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
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my second life again
to be forbidden everything
to straddle and pretend
my heart is prone to failing
the blood reciprocates
replaces both its living
and its purities with fate
so dull to live forever
so right to live to die
a string, when cut, is severed
a dead light never 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
Oh, oh, oh what's that? some hater strapped with a gat?
I got mine too, yal better run before you poo
haters on my nuts like its a ****ty clutz
all I wanna do is smoke and drink till I'm a dope
Preve? I thought it was Perv-E cause all I see
is Talore's Galore going Blip Blip Blip
then I let one slip all the way into Kamotz' poem like blam
Danger! Wish I still had my Pager! Illustrade like WHAM
Spin Spin Spin like I'm Guilian
It makes my Ferocity Invalid! and make my **** all Chibi
Uh. Uh. Uh.
I reserve the right to edit this as more people enter the PRC.
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
What you did and what you saw
It would be best to left unfinished
It often swings in threads of regret
Swaying aimlessly like a floating seed
Hesitation was your biggest flaw
It would be best to bury it indeed
Visiting your mind always uninvited
The weed that plagues the garden
Old news, bad news
The more you argue with your past
The more the chances of an heart-attack.
And here it ends
I will never regret it.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
my heart is made of glass
and my skin is made of foam
pressing harshly on the surface
bends and warps the bubbled dome
my veins are showing in my hands
a million trailing ampersands
and, and, and, and, and ...
I rest in a velvet coffin,
so I can ne'er be touched -
my heart so fragile whole,
though it lives - is that enough? -
dead from neglect or exposure,
what's the difference? Call my bluff -
and you'll discover what is what.
read into everything
eat sin, be maddening
I don't understand anything
I can't comprehend anything
my heart is made of glass
and my skin is made of foam
when you press upon the surface
it bends and warps the bubbled dome
streaming in and streaming out
both life's essence and it's drought
rotten brainpaths, rotted thought
like a hose hooked to a spout
of diseased emptiness. you see,
I suffer from that divide
that plagues all us lesser humans
who run from their own decisions,
that endless uncertainty.
rhyme, why rhyme, so prettily?
my veins are showing in my hands
a million trailing ampersands
I cannot stop the stream;
so let me be
and rest in a velvet coffin
so I can ne'er be touched
my heart so fragile whole,
though it's left, and that's enough;
dead from neglect or exposure,
what's the difference? Call my bluff,
and you'll discover what is what.
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 fleeting glance
A single thought
Your smile was there
If only for a moment
Then time went on
I worked, I slept, I played
But a seed was planted
Your smile lingered
With each new face
Season upon season
We spoke, we laughed, we thought
The roots took hold
That glance
That singular thought
Quickly set aside
Never disavowed
Unknowing for the longest time
Oblivious of this growing feeling
Faces in my life paled
Your eyes took over
Overwhelming and ever-present
I see me in you
Each story I tell
Each word you utter
Evermore and without fail
Kindred spirits, parallel lives
This feeling unyielding
Because there's a hole there, through it now,
far enough to stare and not see
the end. It can be found at the turn,
at the thirty-five zone, but most would miss it
because they go at least fifty, if not more. But
if you went slow, pulled the brakes a little, you'll see
on the sod, a path of dead wood, crushed
and maimed, like leaves in a mortar, or a bushel
of sprouts, to indicate something had been
here. It had came, like a slug, leaving
the remains behind massively flat. It was
a bulldozer, I later learned, but before then
I imagined it was a behemoth, maybe
a European wyvern, shot down, wounded, forced to land
by the artillery of some army from some country.
It would be ancient. And it would have crawled, hiding—
the sun sets too quickly
his pink afterglow
like fireworks
a memory
that may not have ever existed
Memory Sparks a silence in a world that never stops
to remember where rows of graves linger
to be touched by worn stone and worn hands
laughter sings a sweet reprieve beneath orange trees and desert sun
sings again a spray of salt, crusting between fingers and toes.
In Haifa, we smile beneath winter rains
and eat pita bread with humus by the temple of the Baha'i
Within the old house's cold stone walls
where sun cannot see,
chicken schnitzel cracks on an open pan
beside rice and matzo-ball soup.
Served from half a world away
to those too young to know the difference;
for those too young to know the distance
The desert heat bakes ibex hooves on the outskirts of Ein Gedi
while leopards watch with twitching tails
the sands polish marble to glass
beneath sun-crested clouds
we watch the waves roll in
under Mediterranean sunsets
and race between trees in the avocado groves
to skip stones on the shores of the Galilee
The city here is deafened by profound silence
It sits above us, moves between us; a hushed fog around us
We stand in mourning, stare unblinking at the wall
where paper prayers whisper dreams,
until forever-quiet ruins echo in dust
what once was there
We dreamed for two-thousand years
to stand in silence together
The few of us, alone
as we wandered through the desert
with a shield weighed on our backs
searching for our paradise
We are still here
still wandering this desert
still searching for our paradise
but we are not alone
I wish I could have known them,
they who faced the empty desert wastes
and saw a land of life.
From the ramparts of their tents,
with shovels and eucalyptus trees,
they raised a nation from the sand.
I see them in my dreams and call them heroes,
with all I am I keep their hope alive
I stand on the shoulders of these giants
On the back of the Leviathan
Between the horns of the Behemoth
In the fields below Megiddo
Beside the angel Micha'el
With our Shield raised high
Injection of medicine,
sore site, replaced with guise,
the get up was more than a face,
Trench coat and black gloves,
Dark,
He needs more medicine,
Medicine Man
Assassin
Thief
Killer
Lawyer
Priest
Doctor
and Retired
Chemical Engineer
who invented
and contracted Ebola+
I am the Left Hand Man
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
The heat
Of her hand
Pooled pale.
Blue light,
Water like bars,
And her:
Hips bucked,
Shoulders rolling
Against
The grain
Of the seat.
We smelled
Of sweat
And sour wine
And rain.
Inside,
Our stomachs
Roiled and purled.
Light panes
Swung over
The dash,
Hanged from
The streetlamps'
Gloaming.
when I think of you, I think of Lakeview Mall.
Do you remember it?
The mall we used to spend our time together in, noses pressed against the glass so that they smudged the surface just barely enough to annoy people looking through, but not enough to get in trouble.
Yes, we spent time there under the window - and in the food court with its menagerie of chain-store restaurants and "Tom's Burgers", which was unabashedly horrible.
Do you remember? I bought you a burger, and I bought myself a Coke and a hot dog. We looked through the plexiglass safety rails at the escalators, moving continuously, and you spit out some of your burger on the ground.
Annoyed, I mushed it into the part at the bottom where the railing met the floor with my shoe, but there was air there instead of a clean join so the half-digested meat fell onto the floor below and landed with a wet slap on the ground. We looked at each other and smiled in that self-conscious way that two people smile when they have a secret they can't tell anybody else,
or when they've both gotten away with something, together.
And I remember walking with you into stores that seemed to contain many secrets,
secrets I wanted to learn but never did,
all of the stores the same.
But what I remember most of all is that, despite the name's best efforts; despite the mall's lake motif and cheery entranceway and greeters; and, finally, despite the masses of people who populated it,
there was no view of the lake.
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
but perhaps, a chance, another date?
A smile, a laugh, a joyous look;
all my heart was all she took.
A sob, a cry, we start to argue:
she wins, I cry, it's nothing new.
A touch, a kiss, it starts again,
trapped within eternal sin.
A sob, a cry, a single tear;
what happened to her whom I hold dear?
Oh lovely one who I adore,
I'll love you forever more.
The sun catches its [eye/light] upon the silver sliver of (2)two-dimensional(D)
[green/emerald/olive/jade/lime] fish:
float/flutter, shimmering amidst the (empty) b l u e where cloud-crested waves fall slowly upon each other and [—( disappear)—] beneath the horizon
tethered to one another between popcorn-flowered garlands that last for but a [moment/instant/breath/lifetime] Eaten/swallowed up/down {chew} by a salivating immortal movie-goer who has seen every movie and heard every conversation
But still greedily he eats (eats3)
"It is Time"
The drops are ready. We {pluck} them one by one (2x2, 3x3, etc.) and (bas*fill*ket)s
It is the smell of different days, of Shabbat at Saba and Saftah's, and wandering through uncle Etai's orchards. It is the smell of {laughter} and the metal {clang} of pots and pans
The fingers rise, older and wiser than the [stone/sand/dirt] they grow from. They clutch tightly around unseen treasure
Skin is hard and dry, peeled back in parts where bone emerges. Stroked smooth by the desert's sand (brush)
Uncle removes the old man's finger and butchers it (we watch)
He does not remove the skin, he enjoys the sound of its texture
he cuts away the tethers and sets the fish free
but they can no longer swim
{staccato} silver pebbles {pizzicato} decrescendo into falling stars
[Epsilon Pegasi, Zeta Aurigae, Gamma Andromedae]
Drops ({drip}) golden tears for/on the sliced [bre/ad] of the finger
The finger now a face now with hands
[T(cl)ock!]
"It is time"
The [finger/not a finger/menorah]
Now two hands without itself (10 — 1 = 9), but one to remain
Poured over golden tears to last (9 — 1 =) 8 days/5,000 years
Tears set to burn away the night
To (scream) {DEFIANT!} from the window;
"We are still here!"
Standing beneath the Old man's hand
Where fat drops ({drip}) golden tears
Beneath the tethers
Where green fish catch the sun
When you shine with all the flame of lightning,
there goes a spark that shoots upwards towards the stars.
Your power is undeniable; your force is crushing and raw.
The people cheer at your arrival and your flames.
In your eyes, there is an icy glow; fire reigns across seas,
and suddenly you are lost among the wounded and forgotten.
A warrior-princess, abandoned when the war has been won.
Your blood-stained blade breaks beneath your weight.
Opening your eyes, you can hear your soldiers leaving,
Those who could walk left. Those who couldn't stayed.
Among them, you - yourself. Their guiding light-
That they no longer needed to shine.
Your light blooms weakly within smoldering leaves of worn faith.
Twisted; corrupt.
Where shadows go, the goodness flees, following a darkened trail.
Forgotten; vile.
Your life drips from your fingers, sliding down a dirty shield.
And you are consumed within it, abandoned among the blackened spires.
"Generosity gives, gives, gives," you breathe, the glow in your eyes fading.
"Giving until itself cannot even stand, and withers in the flaring coals of..."
You suck in a deep, sharp breath like death, and you can feel your own blade-
piercing deep into your belly, "malicious... smoking greed."
I am still alive, I want to tell you. A spear is through my shoulder,
and one of my legs are broken from the weight of a mighty fallen horse.
I, a worthless, nameless soldier, am dangling my feet over the edge.
But I still want to be with you.
You're still my shining light.
"Pride stands tall," you continue softly. Your voice is like sweet death,
and I close my eyes, smiling, "with a fiery face, as its existence burns
around it, and it is swallowed in the flames of its own expression.
Angry, and alone."
You're breathing the words of the Hymn of Vengeance, I realize.
And tears pierce the fog covering my deadening eyes.
I still love you.
I still believe in you.
But I can't speak. Can't even breathe anymore.
"Grace walks upon the softened grass... the dew drops untouched-
upon the passing." Violent coughs stain the beautiful words.
"But then confidence falters, the fear revealed-"
No, my lady, you could never know fear-
"-and the beauty is sent..." Your voice seems to fade, "toppling down..."
What if you just died? I realize in fear. What if you had just died,
And I wasn't there to hold your hand?
My princess.
To show you that you weren't alone?
I heave myself upwards upon the heap of bodies that I once knew.
Towards you- your voice that once was.
You are still a beacon of light to my fading eyes,
I can see your trusty sword has betrayed you-
It's peaking through the armor covering your back.
Your dirty blonde hair is stained red to match the sun.
Stretching out my hand, I find yours, grasp it.
Your fingers are cold, but warmer than mine.
Princess, I ache to say to you. My princess.
You don't react, and I believe you dead in quaking fear,
But then you blearily lift up your head to look at me.
My chest is hurting, but seeing the blood on your face hurts more.
I smile wearily at you. My beacon of light.
Your eyes, bright blue like the sea, are now dark and deep like the abyss.
We are both close to the end, but I can't stand you being like this.
As hard as I can, I squeeze your hand.
"Fate lounges upon its golden throne of skulls and sand... and bone," you breathe weakly to me,
looking into my eyes. I want to speak, to tell you what you mean to me.
But I can't. All of my energy is in the hand around yours. I can't let go.
Your voice is dead; my princess has given up. But at least I'll die with you. "And with a turn of its hand..."
Suddenly your hand is no longer in mine; you've pulled it away.
But only so you can reach over with a shaking, bruised and blackened arm,
And touch my cheek.
You've been in my heart my entire life, I silently tell you,
As the bodies and the heat around me fades. You've never known me.
But I've always known you.
You're my princess.
"And with a turn of its hand..." Your fingers are soft upon my cheek.
The blood you smear on my face is delightfully cool in the black wind.
I can feel your breath fading, and I reach up and encase your hand in mine again.
I close my eyes,
"The hourglass breaks..."
and smile.
"And time is still again."
~
It is the stuff that the cashiers never talk about
casually. The mailmen who deliver your letters,
never deliver. Your neighbors look at you
strange. They think, "who is this person?
They are not the same. What has gotten
into them?" They wonder. It is
an odorless red triumph, sleeping furiously
at the window when it rains. Sometimes,
I eat this stuff for dinner
when I am alone. I smoke it
when I have the time. I drink it
when I go to work. It tastes of batteries,
left in the rain for two weeks, dried up
by the sun, out in your neighbor's lawn. It sits
in the belly, dreaming
of a violent type of silence. And
when it is done taking its course, I always let it out
in the bathroom of my favorite restaurant, making sure
they know what I hear. It is something to get used to,
like breathing. Enough of this
can make the old restless. But I am never restless.
I'm just not old.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
an old man rests
in front of me
his ears
are veiny
and shine
like wax
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
Word for narcissistic
Invented by the asinine
Painters and playwrights that
Have ADHD and a tragic
Lack of vanity
so they write songs for
the swans who will
never come home again-
And home is a prison for
the happy and the heavenly,
Meanwhile the hedonists and
Heathens hoard the education,
Nihilistic preachers of our
demolishing, abolishing the
truth and replacing it with
The word of an author.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
You were always there,
still are, deep below.
In the heart
and very foundations
of the world.
Of my world.
Which was strange,
because you didn't belong there.
Because with your beard
you looked like Zeus or Odin.
Sky-Fathers belong
at the top of the world,
on mountains, seated
on Olympic thrones
or in Valhalla's halls.
Not a basement studio.
But it made sense,
because you chose to be there,
in the heart of the world,
with sound and strength
and fire.
And your cello
was your thunder, and your bow,
your thunderbolt,
and the music was the sound
that made all Creation burst
and bloom.
And set my eyes
wide, with awe.
And the basement,
became a temple,
became sacred.
And I learned that even gods,
Sky-Fathers,
All-Fathers,
worship, and whisper prayers,
and make offerings to things
that are not thoughts or words
or things at all,
in the early-morning before the sun,
at midnight to the moon.
Thunderbolt cracking
against thunder's strings.
The smell of amber,
and flash
of rosin dust
in the light.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Maybe my goal is just to be pretty -
To be loved, wanted, faultless and pithy.
I'd rather be stupid and blameless than smart
but wrong every time I **** something up.
Why not be fraudulent sans penalty;
You fake the anger. I'll fake the amity.
And maybe it's just a tad blasphemous,
But at least it's born out of avarice.
Why have goals when you switch from being right
to be louder and listened to, yet trite?
I am not living - just waiting until
I can stop dreaming and start being real.
So I'll dream 'til I find an idyll where
I find someone who loves me ... since I'm there.
I'm writing this curled up alone in my bed, (then)
Try to feel - my real self! - wand'ring still in my head -
Wish I'd love someone else,
Or at least love myself,
Or perhaps not be trapped in this Gyre of Nothing
But self-Doubt and Loathing,
Then Avarice, Apathy,
Madness and Blasphemy,
Brinksmanship, Leprosy,
Of All Senseless Tyrannies!
But instead
I propped my head up
on an elbow and read
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
'Til I wished I was dead:
Then I read more instead,
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