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Bryce Aug 2018
It is early.

and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime,

An angelic choir of vibratos
And tenor beaks
humming sweet
to the early tangerine crest of sun
slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks
to a newly brilliant horizon.

Sweeping the dredges of darkness away
as the stars fade
like coal dust
back again, packed into their cupboard of night
one by one,
lanterns snuffed and sent
into the vibrating blue
as if the whole sky should erupt into fire
azure, hallowed morning pyre

Encircled by the gradient hues
of coral pink and castille yellow
Mediterranean teal
A symphonic
cacophonic
**** of birth

Good Day, Sweet mother earth.

Squeezed through the valleys
canals
allies
every nook and forlorn cranny
kissed with her blissful photonic army
And the infantile creatures cry with glee.
The dewdrops clutch the blades
the tender palasade
of petals
remembering their darkened escapades
slipping tender rain
to feed the dirt,
the lonely detritus
elixirs of the lovely night.

And the world bursts into a veritable
kaleidoscope of life
With a trillion pairs of eyes
accessing the mother dream
Del Maximo Jun 2010
poetry is heart speaking
her deepest wisdom
or lightest whimsy
traditional form or free verse
let souls sing
sprinkle metaphor and simile
if you are a poet, write like one
words are music
let them breeze like a melody
color with mix-matched sensory
don’t stay inside the lines
see sounds with eyes closed
hear flickering of fireflies’ light
smell beauty in distant mountains
taste majesty of flowers’ bloom
touch forgiveness
bring personification to life
“she” is much sweeter than “it”
and a seat cushion may have a roundness to her
throw in some high speech
make someone grab a lexicon
delete those extra words
‘I’s and ‘the’s especially
alliteration can create cacophonic chorus
while similar sounds of assonance
tie hoards and scores of words together
although there are no rules
try your best to use poetry’s tools
with this above all else:
let your truth ring
let your insights and revelations
be a healing to self and reader
let experiences resonate in hearts
and harmonize voices
© June 7, 2010
Michael Frost May 2017
Your colored flags wave in the breeze, and with them flutters my
beating heart.

Your cacophonic symphony rings in my ears, and with it sing the
thoughts in my head.

Your smells tug me in every which direction, and flavors dance
upon my tongue.

Your trottoirs are filled with a million eyes — with men, women,
children of different creed and color. They are them, and I am I, and
together we stride forward.

Oh! What have you done with me, Atlanta?
I was only a lonely, aimless cloud drifting after your twinkling
lights.
C Jacobine Nov 2011
On the lawn in the court,
on the bench by the bush,
pipes are singing cacophonic rhythms.

Breezes, on becoming aware of said tune,
gather to dance
and trade their burden treasures

Once wearied by translucent celebration,
the breezes turn home
carrying echoes of song and gifts.

The piper stifles his tune
and leaves the court,
which returns to equilibrium
Rangzeb Hussain Jul 2010
VI

“Hearken, all ye there!”

Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis

It began, as these things tend to do, with a quartz encrusted howl,
Lamenting under the crystalline shadows of Leda’s heartrending growl,
Her ravished moon bled and sank into the vocal cords of guilt coated cowards,
“Come back, come back! Oh, frivolous sanity thou art truly unjust, most unkind!”
Right here in this lonely place did my Darling dear spill devotion onto spiced dust,
She swayed on the rickety ridge surveying her sapphire kingdom’s splintered trust,
There it lay glittering, her city of cities, nothing now but a jeweled corpse.

V

“Know ye not of the oft-told tale of the drinking-well at World’s End?”

Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco

My Lady who did fire the lyre of Orpheus, she weeps there in the misty chilled cold,
Wild it is, all about her the night wind nibbles at the skin clothing her fractured soul,
Cacophonic waves of regret silently scurry to labyrinths entombed with truths bold,
“Come back, come back! Oh, to my tempestuous ***** hasten with thy canticles!”
The symphonic fingers of fog pluck a requiem upon her autumn flavoured hair,
My Queen is attired for her banquet at tables far beyond Persephone’s desolate tears,
On the precipice her figure rises for the final faithful leap into Styx’s stratosphere.

IV

“Behold now the dread eyes of Hades, see how they hunger blood at the boil!”

Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro

Carnivorous tasted memory plagues the betrayed Minotaur’s desired deliriums,
On these haunted shores I clutched her close and eagerly inhaled love’s elusive serum,
Legend has it a suicide was here on this very cliff-top, ‘twas a true Roman centurion,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let us under Demeter’s enchanted orchards lie!”
My obsidian-eyed Beauty gathers her eggs and over the fearful edge she unfurls them,
Closer to the dead of Euphrates she steps, I to madness hurtle as one condemned,
Bind savage Cerberus for the solitary reign of the wolf is fate for all hanged men.

III

“Prometheus thou hast drunk Pandora’s poisons, what sayest now the Titans?”

Tres Tres Tres

Golden fleeced days into the fleshy ground of Morpheus’s realm did seep away,
How well spent they were not even immortal Calypso shall decipher nor say,
Would that mine myopic ears had been shorn and tossed into Pompeii’s crisp clay,
“Come back, come back! Oh, gentle Maid no more, I beg thee stay awhile yet!”
What was it? Was it me? No, no, it could not be me for I was Achilles buried asleep,
How little we then knew, we two did partake of the stinging, you the wasp I the bee,
Mayhap ‘twas this unlocked the plumed towers to thy curled universe tunneled deep?

II

“Therefore did the Serpent spake and pronounce a judgment most nefarious!”

Dos Dos

She thinks back, my Lady fairer than Medea, she remembers a time happier,
Really there was, hear yet my credo, once upon-a-time there was no doubting terror,
But then a thing did into our guarded haven breach and wreathe about my treasure,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let me slake my thirst with thy honeyed spirit!”
My flesh did crawl, my fangs grew sharp, my spittle ran down and my fur stood taut,
The jawbone stiffened and all the while I burnt like an infernal phoenix caught,
Oh, my sweetly crazed fruit, did I for real the horror upon you wrought?

I

“Would that thou didst offer me thy riches upon the hour of the violet twilight...”

Uno

Wolfsbane moon, high above it rose in that final cracking of sacramental bones,
My Lady much wrong did you I, forever for this will the beast in me atone,
Now, at this baleful hour has the wolf left you on the edge of an embryonic cyclone,
“And so to the Elysian Fields where insanity fertilizes the soul do I embark...”
You cross the Rubicon and glide into the obliterating arms of Plutonic eternity,
The wolf, me, is left clawing your hooded red robe with absolutely no certainty,
I see you sailing upon Neptune’s trident, forever adrift on oceans of eternal cruelty.

N

“Seekest thou sanctuary in the hinterlands where the man with one eye is King?”

Cero...

pretium libertas est nex**



©Rangzeb Hussain
vircapio gale Sep 2013
(history)

Quell the bard was silken-clad and ever young.
her flute connected earth and sky,
tamed lightning in the higher notes..
her ancient horse would winnie to her song
of endless breath she blew her story even into stone.
having borne the stigmas of a *****
her martial prowess struck,
trampled disrespect to cacophonic dust
while over hills and vales he carried her--
a love-sick equine heart at peace at last upon the road
between her thighs, commanded loyalty of beasts and men.
none claimed her for their own,
though some risked instant death to try

..stirge beaks tap on bones and rock
to seek corrupted blood of elven kings,
who having reigned and fallen
to a royal troglodyte of dragon times,
paint each eon with ambivalence...
i conjure what my heritage beholds
--reclusive double-tongue to hoard all words,
reinvent religions for a lark

what legend am i privy to the making of
that hasn't had its underwires stripped,
hung about a square in lewd display of Fact
to purge a sense of mystery awry?

i am alone within my fantasy.
its symbols still mythologize my i.
i will not bare it here, or anywhere--
concealment is its freedom, and its boon--
in which a frame of tenuous material appears

where antidote addictions cycle musically,
the timeline's summoning
a game of recompense, compensating wanderlust
won by whim and licorice for thought;
it finds familiarity untamed--
adolescent anchorage aweigh--
adventures into wildernesses lost




.
*stirge: a bird, bat or mosquito-like monster with a long proboscis which ***** blood from its prey
Sia Jane Nov 2014
It was in wander
for not lost was she.
It was in wonder
for without sin

she walked towards
the tree bearing
sweet fruit
enticing her forward

lust sent a lumber puncture
through her spine
upwards it shot to the
brain; cerebral forms

into a beating heart.
It excited her there was
such freedom found
in such innocence.

Pulsating quivers she waited
Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest

hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton hand sewn dress
virginal white
no womanhood in sight

Annabelle’s life, a melody of
melancholic cacophonic raspers
from asylums, former patients
of Briarcliff Manor

residing in her; only misery
innocent running’s from
grave dangers of
stark raving madness.

For, today
she wasn’t embroiled
as Arden’s pet
instead she was the little girl

so born to be before the woman
was stolen, bound by
a physicians sick
nightmarish re-enactments.

For, today
she was free
a starling, passionate
darling.

© Sia Jane
Briarcliff Manor is in Massachusetts and derelict.
In the 60's it was taken on by the church as an asylum.
In American Horror Show there is a season called Asylum.
In some cases the physician   -Arden, would carry out experiments.
Raspers were the zombie like "monsters."
Often innocence were committed and in the poem I am either talking about the girl who was before the Asylum or a dream/nightmare state she was in during the experiments.
Which is real?
Her being free and innocent or her being committed?
Eli Nash Apr 2014
Morbid hallways swathed in death,
smeared with blood soaked discontent,
wrought with cacophonic lament;
this is my asylum.

Eyeless gazes pierce the veil
that separates my mind from Hell.
Though, thin's the shroud that shan't prevail;
this is my asylum.

Lipless, toothless, ear to ear;
these wretched grins sinewed with fear.
Putrefaction rots their sneers;
this is my asylum.

This is where the dead don't die;
this hellion mire's where they abide
with fleshless hands stretched toward the sky;
this is my asylum.

Asphyxiation, let me breathe,
lest I join these mortuous fiends.
Purge my soul; I shall bequeath
myself to my asylum.
vermin Nov 2011
in a dark autumn forest, five creatures
strangely glow, cold peaked ears are blue,
rhythms of thudding, scudding boots
full of youth, synchronized they run,
outlined in neon, nearly covered in fur,
running amok in the hungry dark.

what do they search for in the dark?
all keening, these tempestuous creatures.
what propels them? what makes their fur
stand on end? faces an oxygen-less blue
as arms are locked and strong legs run
with the heavy monotony of feet in boots.

driven by laughter and labored breath, boots
thunder up dewy hills, disturbing the dark
loam underfoot, disheveled as the wind runs
through and into and throughout these creatures,
and the trees, and the strange aura of blue
surrounding a juggling man with hair like wolf fur.

he is levitating, has eyes like a burning fur-
nace, is manipulating boxes of light, wears boots
that make him seven feet tall, his is the blue
of martyrs, of imagination sacrificed to dark
forces, alight like clicking live wires the creatures
tumble on, finding a new reason to run

toward a long, narrow, white hallway they run
across an empty street, a nearby raccoon's fur
bristles as they break all boundaries, these creatures,
all sharp claws and fearless teeth and stomping boots,
assault the stillness of closed doors and early dark
morning eyes just beginning to distinguish the blue

of the sun's prologue, a deep and melancholy blue.
charging the hall doors, they dance and thump and run
down the shadowed interior, adjacent rooms dark
but for the lights of the lonely and static cat fur.
on wooden floors the cacophonic burst of boots
rumble like wild animal's hooves, here come the creatures!

and as the sun illumines dark corners in orange and blue,
through untidy mists these creatures continue to run,
all flailing limbs and matted fur and brawling boots.
Jade Sep 2018
The countenance of her throne
epitomizes the state of her soul,
and this countenance I shall describe
but only to who may tolerate the details
of its most uncanny existence.

A clique of stallions
gallop about in a nauseating blur,
their red eyes glowering under
the amber light descending from
an ominous sliver of moon,
its mere presence prompting on
the inversion of the stars
and the curled screeches of
the morbid beasts
whose fur hangs darker than
the trembling eye of Hell.

Atop one lacerated saddle
rides Her Majesty--
The Queen of the Circus,
deranged like the specimen
she keeps in her company.
And,
with every cacophonic rise
of the carousel,
she howls,
her ******* cries as primal as
the stallions' untamed whinnies.

She bites her lip until
she can taste blood
(and ***),
throws her hands to her temples
in ****** wistfulness--
pale limbs encompass teased hair
where decomposing acorns
(rotten kisses)
and bouquets of Nightshade
reside amongst the tangle
of Medusa-Esque curls,
amongst large, brown eyes
that sparkle gold under
the cursed heavens
which have been simultaneously
pleasured and scandalized
by the sight of her bare *******
clinging to sheer leotard,
by the sight of her body swaying
round the rusted poles that
have sunk themselves into the horses' skulls
like a ring sinks round
a glass bottle
or a lover's finger.  

Of course, Her Royal Darkness
is more than just a Circus Queen.
She, indeed, entertains
a grand variety of morbid hobbies;

She is a Fire Eater
{spitters are quitters};

Grave Digger
{she dances the Charleston atop
treasure chests of bones and
bones with carnival mobsters};

Crystal Ball Prodigy
{reading palm | l|i|n|e|s | like
p
o
e
t
r
y};

Ring Mistress
{**** or ****,
purr or bite--
what shall it be?};

Acrobat
{knees perched above shoulders,
a man's mouth between her legs};

Ventriloquist
{"I'll steal your breath away, darling."}


Why yes!

She is a Jaqueline of all trades.

"Pick a card! Any Card! ..."

"Is this your card? ..."

A heart is drawn,
cleaved between her teeth,
each pulse of vein
a magnificent drum beat
against her tongue.
With the blood of her prey--
juices as thickly sweet
as candy floss--
she marks her territory,
parades her ****--
a pink handprint
smeared across the hide
of each stallion.

"What dizzying artistry...
how lovely--
how...insane,"
she laughs,
each high pitched giggle
a homage to the maddening  musings
of her soul
(and her throne.)
Dhaara T Aug 2017
"I'm hurt and crumbling
Little by little
Each day"

"YOU are not hurt
Your expectations are
Your emotions are
Your tender little heart is
But YOU...are more than that"

"People hurt me
Especially the ones I like
Especially the ones I open my heart to"

"Because YOU let them. Love them, but remain detached"

"How do I connect if I remain detached?"

"Detachment
isn't disconnection, my child
It isn't holding a flower
and your nose
It is
escaping in the beauty of its fragrance
yet remaining grounded
knowing the fragrance is real
only because of perception
If you perceived it to be foul
It would be foul smell
but you perceive it as aromatic
So, so it is
Detachment is being aware
of perception
and reality
and the illusion of it all
It isn't disengaging
it is knowing
engagement
and of it
within
and without"
Jade Oct 2018
Ten
By my standards,
he is a ten.

I'm sure you're
laughing right now--
"ooohhhh, she think's
he's a TEN"--
but that's not
what I mean.

What I am trying to say is that,
on a scale from one to ten,
one being indicative of
experiencing little to no pain
and ten being indicative of
experiencing a pain whose presence
is capable of knocking the wind
straight out of me--
a pain that I do not
dare to fathom
for fear of prolonging it--
he was a hurricane.

My hurricane.

The eye of the storm,
his aloof ignorance
paralleled against the
violently cyclonic nature
of this heartache--
cacophonic in its impact
and blasphemous in
every context of the word
Love.

I don't think
getting caught in the rain
has ever hurt quite this much.

Yet,
I surrender to this hurt
the way the sea surrenders
to the Almighty Poseidon;
the way my feet surrender
to the rocks
tied round my ankles;
the way my soul surrenders
to its contusions
(so is a casualty
of a broken heart).

Still,
I imagine what it would be
like to kiss him
when I wake up in
the middle of the night,
lucid dreaming and
shivering against the bed sheets
(must be hypothermia,
I think;
the coldness of his
absence settling among the
loneliest parts of me).

I try to remind myself
that he was never
any happy ending of mine--
just an ending.
And something tells me
kissing him would feel
a little less
like thimbles
and a little more
like sewing needles.

After all,
he always did have
a way of silencing me,
my lips stitched together
into the most morbid
of embroideries.

Because god forbid
you dare question
a tempest--
even when he has
left you
to stew in your
own ruin--
for fear of provoking
his stormy wrath.

Part of me has
always been
afraid of him,
you know.  
Looking back now,
that should have been
my first indication
that I had been entertaining
an abusive relationship.

No,
he never laid a hand
on me.

But
I was terrified that
there would come a day
when he would eventually snap.

I can envision it--
ribs crack like lightning;
bruises congealing beneath
my eyes like grape jelly;
fingerprints seared
across my cheek;
my head held underwater
until I've stopped
breathing altogether.

Of course, there exists
more than one way
to destroy a person,
though he will claim
that he has done nothing
to wrong me.

Surely,
he would tell me that
I am just reading
too much into things.

S'pose it's your turn then,
darling.

Trace the brailed veins
of my shattered heart,
and feel all the ways
you have broken me so.

Let your eyes flit
across the expanse
of these water-logged stanzas--
and tell me,
does the poetry not speak
for itself?

Or does my drowning not suffice?
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal experience)
oh
most blessed silence
a gift of your departure

of course
it had to end


the mirror pool
now shattered
with the ripples of
your cacophonic dive

treasured respite
slips away

the horizon again
stained
with your shadow
ego controls you and suffocates the rest
color has fled the sky
blinded by the sharp, white sun
we drift until we land
among chalky ridges
devoid of leaf or claw

voices of reassurance
keep calling after us
yet here we have little
but ourselves to save us
stale water, stale air,
dry bread, what little there is

if we're lucky, we'll return
but for now, we revel
in the miracle that we are here
and look back upon our sullied asylum
stirring with cacophonic frenzy
distant, isolated and inaudible
Daniel A Russ Jul 2010
Peering up from the precipice, a cyclops! – a
Many-fanged and mono-eyed beast,
Flesh a sickly sea-shell and putrid yellow as a
Series of pustules pulse rivulets of green-black blood,
Staining scarred surfaces and shadowing engorged strength.

Reaffirmed grip on haft,
I plunge the sticked-spike a shade-shy of horizontal,
Missing the mark obvious but finding purchase,
Shattering clavicle and spraying sinew in a perverse sort
Of macabre rainbow arc, yet met with instant,
Abject terror: spear now not merely stuck but gripped
By mine beholden nemesis, and he shifts, twists the
Leverage and I, trained in the art of never-surrender-never,
Have not his primitive power to resist and thus fall,
Giving way to laws of momentum – and the world shudders.

Eyes-wide as fist-eclipses-sun, a quick scramble,
Desperate-probing-reflexive grab for the half-arm length stabber,
Unsheathe, roll, aim and ******:
A scoring glance, slicing more pox and pus than
Bone or gristle, but desired effect achieved:
Nemesis rails, howling, orb clenched and pointing skyward,
Arms guarding reflexive at bloodied torso, leaving precious,
Glorious goal unguarded:
A backwards roll, leaning into the earth like Atlas,
I push, spring, and the world gleams in high-contrast
Blood-red and silvered-steel-sword as I’m propelled skyward –
Blade-and-hand acting in concert, a conductor in a symphony
Of prospective gore seeking to punish the cyclopean’s dissonance,
I plunge deep, scoring a bassonic rumble from
His jugular and cacophonic crackings as his cerebral
Column gives way to the superior song.

His shuttered eye now open as he slumps, falling to the
Ground ilke a dead god, it develops a strange sort of calm,
As if he’s hearing his own song of slaying – but that
Sizzling, that pig-eating-slop sound, that wasn’t my song –
That must be his, and awareness dawns as adrenal sets –
Blinded by blood and battle, I’d neglected to heed
The refuse of the beast’s bilious eruptions,
Blown back from the force of my blade, and now, immersed
By the nauseating, liquid-green mass, I am devoured from
Without.

I lay now, eyes alternating skies, and weep that I
Am sapped entirely of strength enough for noble suicide:
I shall die here, propped astern like a failed Atlas, a
Boneless, gibbering mash of grit, guts, and warm, soupy glory,
muted and deafened to the howlsong from above of vultures.
M Annalise Aug 2010
There are one-hundred-and-seven-point-eight pounds of what I’m pretty sure could destroy you, if it really wanted to (and It does.  It does).  Because I know you don’t remember the magic like I do, of when my neck first stretched itself so that I could reach those newly-licked lips beneath the cataclysmic explosions in the sky above our heads – and it was we who were those fissions and fusions erupting in the night.  Eruptions so cacophonic to me and yet to everyone else they were so silent… unnoticed.  Perhaps they were to you as well, for you seem to have forgotten.  And now I do **** thee – your amnesiatic self and she – to take this cross from off my spine and find a hillside on which to burn (and do not doubt that the flaming match will be flung from my very own fingers).  And may your skin seethe in the hell you tossed me into with your lies and fickle promises and your strange interpretation of what love may be (is this what your sweet mother taught you?).  You were right when you said that love was in the fire shooting through the sky that night, and yet the only remainders are the fallen cinders resting in my hair today.  So here and now, my love, I grant you the distance that you so desperately needed to give reason to your pitiful excuse to break my heart.  For you I will build a boat out of fallen trees, and it will take me so far away (if only in my brain).  And I will sail away as you turn to ashen residue, and smile, for the sky will be marked by a peculiar clarity.
prose poem.
Filmore Townsend Mar 2014
patient waiting, time to
allow an ease from cacophonic
pupil dilation into a more
constrict perception of the
world around. rain falls
gentle, facilitating the
transfer, as low-fi ambiance
jams on. some thunder in
distance, paling in comparison
to the vocal sparks in the night.
flittering and wisp-like, urging
ever forward. urging:
         'Come out of this a mess,
                  or not at all.'
manifestations, much as Red-Eye,
enticing to come up and dance with
death. to keep the measure through
turn for turn and twist for twist.
know the hooded Death missed
time again, giving the
                '. . or not at all'
                         another chance
to strike true. another chance to
set the eyes out in feast, when
morality shall be felled and the
vocal sparks sublimate to ever
only being rare thunder in the
distance. with flash of luminescence,
storm never given chance to weather.
MGoering Jun 2012
§

If I could sing the sweetest melodies,
I would cut out my tongue, and give it to you
so music would follow you wherever you might go.
If my fingers could strum the air,
and draw forth streams of dazzling notes,
I would cut off my hands, and give them to you,
so I could play for you for eternity,
and stroke your cheek gently, and soothe you
when you are alone.
If my eyes could see into your inner essence,
and draw forth your inner beauty
in a chorus of magnificence
I would cut out my eyes and give them to you,
so I could look at you for eternity,
and unleash your inner light.
As the raucous cacophony
drowns out the dazzling sounds that swirl all around you
I would give my entire being
just to bring music to your life,
so that maybe your loneliness might fade,
as the silence is mastered
by the music of my love.

I wish that I could ****** the silent moments,
annihilate the cacophonic jeers.
But such things are beyond my grossly limited powers.
Until we are brought back together
and I might play for you and sing for you
all through the day,
until then my words will have to suffice.
Just know, that wherever you are
I am singing for you, even when
all you can hear is silence.
Believe me dear one,
your song is being sung
even now.
Max Goering June 2012
our daily information
defies all expectation

reporting in unnerving detail
how trains derail, tour buses fail
   to stay on roads without a rail
how terrorists attacked again
    when nobody expected them
what nonsense politicians spew
    unfortunately quite a few
how the economy keeps getting worse
    yet billionaires still fill their purse
pollution levels have ‘improved’
El Nino has the jet streams moved
millions of refugees are loose
    around the globe, few clothes, no shoes
armies and gangsters flex their muscles
cannot resist the deadly hustle

and for the icing on the cake
thousands of lives are now at stake
we learn  without too strong emotions
that a new virus was discovered
the waters of our rising oceans
     have by now covered
     a third of several island nation's land
no more idyllic beaches with white sand
    
all this mixed in
with those exciting human interest stories
about the latest dog show winners
some brilliant wunderkind beginners
major and minor worries
from  distant neighborhoods
commercials for the latest fads
and all the current healthy foods
self-advertising TV channel ads
who’s s great in sports
    and who of sorts

in short  
24/7 of much useless blather
that neither alters our lives
nor can we change its mostly dreary facts

yet we risk drowning  under this debris
    of cacophonic sound and image bites
unless we learn to
    set our marks
    clear our sights
    turn into info sharks
devouring just those bits
of almost hidden information
we can make sense of and digest
the clues to what is really going on
below the surface of our media-created ocean

it’s the commotions in the depths
    that teach us best
    give us a glimpse behind the curtains of stale words
    make us aware there’s little time for rest
Ignatius Hosiana Jun 2017
They said I could be anyone I wanted to but they were wrong
I wanted to be like your favorite song
to be a part of your magical fairytale,
your heart's charm and your soul's breathtaking Dale
I wanted to be a sunrise in your awakening
the floret that greets your smile while you reconcile
reality from the panoramic view of Wonderland
the first voice that seeks to know what Morpheus had to say
and the feet that shuffle right next to yours along the isle
as you walk into the much loathed cacophonic routines of everyday
I wanted to be the thoughts in your head as you
ply your trade from dawn to dusk
the inspiration that helps you crack every labyrinthine task,
like a lonesome butterfly dancing in elation
to relax your mind and mitigate any tension,
to help you endure racaous that comes with responsibility
and the arms that hold yours to congratulate you
upon getting through every other day,
I wanted to be the mouth that acknowledged your milestones
or the palms on the wheel driving you home
I wanted to be the shoulders you lean on
plus the arms you laugh and grieve in,
a place where your comfort does truly begin
I wanted to be your companion on this life long journey
many have deemed the rest of our lives
your blessing, alas! Your for better for worse...
I wanted to be your biggest fan as you concur the elements
to share with you proceeds from my dream tenements...
for thee so much I craved to be and tried to do more than just want
but the more I embraced desire the bigger and more excruciating her flames burnt
I said hello you said goodbye,
making me think "You can be anything" was merely a big fat lie...
Countless is the much I wanted to be, it's still haunting
that ultimately the best I could do was "wanting"...
Nothing more.
Sia Jane Oct 2014
It was in wander
   For not lost was she
It was in wonder
   For without sin she led,
The tree bearing sweet fruit
Enticing her
   Forward.
Lust sent a lumber puncture through
her spine.
   Upwards it shot
to the brain, cerebral forms
    into a red beating heart.
It excited her, the
Freedom found in such innocence
    pulsating quivers.
She waited
                  Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest.
Such tender collar
Bones, hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton,
hand sewn dress virginial
White.
Annabelle's life, a melody of
                   melancholic cacophonic
raspers,
from asylums.
Former patients; Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; misery.
Innocent runnings from grave
Dangers of,
                   stark raving madness.
For, today, she wasn't embroiled
                   as Arden's pet.
Instead she was the little girl so born
to be,
before the woman was stolen
bound by a physicians sick
nightmarish reenactments.
For, today she was
Free.
        a starling
                       passionate
                                         darling.

© Sia Jane
I am not sure how this started with such innocence into such darkness. Light and dark. Fear and joy. Extremes.
This was written out, usual way, pencil and paper, scribble until I run out of everything chasing in my mind and then type up.
I don't edit a lot of this very spontaneous work.
It is very cathartic.
Olga Valerevna Jun 2014
I'm testing out the boundaries of the pitches I can make
The cacophonic melodies are keeping me awake
And if I had control of what I ever heard before
The noise I hear today is never welcome anymore
My ear is now an oracle I cannot comprehend
The skin around a part of me I verily offend
Repeatedly defying every thought I ever had
I wonder if I'll realize the moment I go mad
snarkysparkles Oct 2015
Sunday is gloomy
But monday is something much worse
Monday I wake up and dreams turn to ashes
The spell you put on me
My dear is a curse

All the rosy pictures I drew in my head
Are bleeding out my eyes
And turning my world red

There is no yellow brick road
To bring me back home
I’m out in the fog and the mist all alone

Sunday is magic
Compared to the tragic
Transformation from night
Into day

The dark is a safety on which I rely
When the daylight reveals all the details in sharpness
That contrasts the dullness I feel when the lights are away
And I’m not awake

There’s nothing but a maze in the traffic
As I look out my window to peels from their horns
It’s a cacophonic orchestra funeral march
And it’s bidding me throw myself down
if    you sing a moment   of  transaction
   or  the sudden  influx  of  a face   conjured
    to so many an  enterprise offered  for

    protest.   A hand's  insisting  tremor
   an   emptying  from  over  and  over  an  indication
   of  askance.

   A  counterfeit  I  cannot   grieve over   and  over.
   Its   renown   a  nearest   position /
               a   silhouette   from a  smokestack
      about  to be   sensed    out from a   customary
                strangeness.

         stranded in    a   lilt   of  a  becoming  word
    or   question   subtitling  a  frantic    enemy

      you --  panicking  all   across, a retailed
          fugitive   thing. You can   become   a plaza

     if   not   sing  but   exist  in the   district
  from    a humdrum  projection   fated,  tagged
       with  a  purebred  amount.  You  can
 
   will   it   so  /unbecoming of/ a   plaza   minused from     and  adhered   to   as  cacophonic
           only   in   newsprint here is  your performance
    of    a numbered  caution. Permit  you  to  be

     nominal,   going   into   without  purpose

            you   can   become   a   plaza
     if        I     pose    need  from     (y)earning
samsa Nov 2020
it starts with the masses.
heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies
and from the amalgamate of ruined life
rise the silver, brilliant winged
filthy sog and bones sludging off
their unmatched, magnificent light

like shooting stars they ascend
to the enormous white clouds
garnered with the span of their great feathers
wearing masks of divine neutrality

and we

in the masses

stare so longingly at those divine heavens

some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings-
tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar-
flatter unsteadily up
groping desperately at the clouds
with bony, aching fingers
only to meet
solemn and unforgiving
stone

and pushed
back,
tossed

back

into the masses


and like comets, they
rain down

                                          the fall of the inadequate




crashing into the hideously wet festering:
into the decay of the mundane and ordinary


and thus the procession commences
great silver wings nailed with dignified
steel stakes
graceful hands and feet
mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron

we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary
we wail, we scream we cry
for the destiny of divinity
in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus
becomes
the great symphony
of the decaying and dying
bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy
we continue to beg and shout and call

the opera of roaring voices:


                                     the crucifixion of the prodigy



as we continue to decay
the weathering, spreading
and becoming, morphing into something no longer
recognizable


slowly we die off
each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments
in succumbing to mortality
the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy
until the echo of the last
haunted cry-

silences


hence closes

the fall of the inadequate

the crucifixion of the prodigy

and


                           the decay of the mundane and ordinary
on the destinies of the genius, not-yet-genius, and the ordinary man - and their inevitability.

currently trying to improve my amateur writing, please give constructive feedback if you feel compelled.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2015
Act one, scene one;
A date with drama
Has just begun.
Two youngsters
Hale of body
Ready to run.

Act two, scene one;
Excitement does not
Necessarily mean fun.
Too many secrets
Not enough revealed
By either one.

Act three scene one;
Good news can be
Bad news for some.
A lucky break
A chance to take
One could not shun.

Then comes intermission
Perhaps time for confession.
Sometimes no, sometimes yes
But maybe too much to confess.
Perhaps that’s how it goes
Maybe romance owes
Its success to mystery.
One chooses one’s own misery.

Act four scene four;
Being very careful
What you wish for
Seems obvious
When one looks back.
So very patrician.

Act five, scene one;
The denouement begun.
The finale can be dramatic
All cacophonic static
Or the lovers can walk off
Hand in hand in the sun.
Sean Hopps May 2017
Ever sick of the trifle of problems of life
And the dark of the con of the man;
When the noise is incessant and the colours fluorescent
And I hold nothing but my own hand.

Slay the dark! Slay the problems! And dim all the lights,
Please, I beg you, the ending is near!
I don't want to go out with my light still about,
Yes, the bane of my life is that fear.

The sun burns and blinds both the eyes on my back
Now I see in just one direction.
With perpetual silence and cacophonic sirens,
My senses impaired to perfection.

I wish I could smell the sweet scent of our lives
But there's only the blood in my nose.
The storms I endure makes hell look almost pure,
And the darkness won't come to a close...

We walk to the end, or the end comes to us,
The wise of us will know to run.
All the noise is incessant and the colours fluorescent
With perpetual silence with cacophonic sirens,
We are the dark of the sun.
ishaan khandpur Jan 2019
Forgive me
You've heard it enough.
Forgive me
Said more often than love.
Forgive me
Has lost its charm.
Forgive me
Your patience is done.

Forgive me
I've taken you for a ride
Forgive me
Our life's become mine.
Forgive me
For the promises I broke.
Forgive me
For ******* your soul.

Forgive me
For making you part of the crowd
Forgive me
For all the lost phone calls
Forgive me
For the insecurities that I create
Forgive me
For my cowardice ways.

Forgive me
That cacophonic chant.
Forgive me
You can't hear it anymore.
Forgive me
Love has lost it's hold
Forgive me
You said as you walked out the door.
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
Though he can't walk, he still wanders through the corridors of his memory. Peering through his framed lenses, he waits for the image focus.

A monument,
So resplendent!
The gleam of
That light ,white
brick, casting the
grainy shine
of a castle.

These bricks were laid, by family brought together
immersed in the collective, tangible suffering of the world.
Family brought together
by truth.  The human condition.

In a way it was beautiful,
mimicking the opening of a nightly
flower to the star’s light.

In a way it was sad
like the task of Sisyphus,
marching ever up the hill so hard.
  
However it came about, it forced a channel
of inspiring wisdom. As if intelligence dragged
it’s finger through the sand to create empty space
for the effervescence, paths for thoughts and reactions.

Life evolved, layering the infrastructure of free will,
driving it forth like an enraged charioteer, bouncing back and forth
between dissonant realization cacophonic syncopation
Trying absurdly to find the resonant tones.

The rest of the memory
Lucid now,
As if the dirt dropped so violently into my cup of water
Finally settled.

The memory stands propped, on the hobbled thing I call my mind.

We became vehement paradox
Warring day and night

as if we were a polar pair of docs.
We recklessly constructed infection

and remedy that we might
Try so sublimely to cleanse the setting horizon

of mosaic shadow mask grins,
clouds masking the task.

ending with such a blast, as wide as
the gaping maw of the endless

known only as desire.

These dusty eyelids watched the horizon lose it's light
and in perfect harmony become blind
to it's shadow. Remembering softly was my duty.

Dreaming was always a taste of what they call the little death.
Now that I have remembered, death whispers to me.

Beckoning as if an old friend, seeping through like
the floral aroma  good coffee.
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2020
My feet wandered into
the serene shoreline
while the strong waves
hushed my cacophonic mind —
I strummed my fingers and gripped
tightly of my conch.
While my lips brushed around
its spiral shell — as I whispered my wishes
and blow through,
suddenly an angel
flew by and swiveled —
his wings burning.

From the heavens, he falls
right through the deserted sea.
My naked feet began to push
its life towards him —
he lies on the sand and his wings burning through.
Silhouettes of him rang on my mind;
gashes of water fell
through my eyes —
and whilst even the silence
grieved for us.
His burning wings calmed the strong winds —
the winter sea began to calm its strident waves
as I let myself lie awake beside him.

I closed my eyes and the replicas
of myself flashed through like a
candescent wind —
and there I saw a woman
lying in the hospital bed.
The sun mirroring the artificial light
through the windowpane;
the man standing beside her
had his wings folded —
and his eyes cold as the winter
and the woman dying in her
tranquil sleep.

The trees had fallen its last leaves,
and the winter is coming at dawn.
The man covered my eyes and I was at the
winter sea again —
“Mona, you will die in winter.”

And I woke up.
It was September.
I hope you can give me feedback about this poem. You can comment!

P.S you can also criticize this!

SONG: Sea Change - Stephan Moccio
Mike Essig Sep 2015
Ignition, spark,
a turning key,
sets the writhing
serpent free.
Worlds spin,
words collide;
realities begin
to slide.
Markers
fall away,
lines implode;
unlikely voices
yawn in code.
The palette
melts to a
fluid smear
that  trickles
down a
thirsty ear.
Sounds skew,
scream, resonate
at an inaudibly
alarming rate.
Neither sense
of life nor joys,
only cacophonic noise.
The birds of touch
are flown away,
leaving vacuums
in the day.
The chain-mailed,
twisted, human heart,
tortured from
its fatal start.
Find the answer,
spin the wheel,
stop the madness,
cease to feel.
  - mce
rp
Marthin Sep 2018
The rain falls once again
I sit on a chair near the balcony
Opening the window
the strong scent of rain
drills through my nostrils,
The thoughts of cacophonic
sounds inside my head
looming suddenly disappears,
The rain still falls hard but gently
the sounds of it creates
a relaxing sound that you like to hear.

I open up a book of Coelho's,
Reading till page seventeen and
I closed the book and got up
Going to the kitchen I warm up
some black coffee to drink,
I picked up my favorite mug
and poured the steaming hot
coffee that just finished heating up,
I hold the mug feeling it's warmth
with both hands, holding it tight.

I walked back at the balcony
Sitting at the chair and placing the mug
I look at the view in front of me,
of how these tiny water droplets
stay still when falling down the air
and breaks after falling to the ground,
and I remembered, "Oh, that was me"
I take a sip off this piping hot coffee
I feel the warmth spreading
and glanced at the beyond and there
I became deathly still.
Senor Negativo Apr 2017
where there was shortage
there is surplus
whers there was famine
now there's feast.
Where there was doubt
now grows a burgeoning belief.

Regret is a pack of Coyotes;
A howling dirge of cacophonic noise.
But, relief, and repentance
they are a dampening field.
A wall at which every single mistake
and mispoken lie, is forced to yield.

I am led to wandering
and diverted like a river flow.
But no matter the barrier
or engineered feat
I am steady going
ever onward
towards the valley of belief.
And If you believe it
you will receive it
faith is only as strong
as the angle of descent.
I am steady going downward
and I know that at the bottom
I will find paradise.
Praise God.
Lucas Feb 2019
rectifying desires of ill-perceived intentions
because what the mind thinks it wants
is deception of pleasure
candy-coated poison
helping the vitriolic hard-pills-to-swallow go down

greens transform to intermittent reds
reflective plashes amplify a glossy atmosphere
as steamy plumes smudge colors
like the tears in my eyes
flares from passing lamplight:
an inconstant reminder bright spots of life
are just as transient and the darkest portions
losing myself between spaces separating drops on the windshield

my brain reverts to cruise-control
perhaps trapped between dreary thoughts
or weary from overexertion
hate what you are; hate what's becoming
harden your heart, grow up

there's an enveloping comfort of the dark
a cool relief from
life's limelight on total depravity
with my eyes closed, I can't see any of it
with cacophonic beats, I can't hear my thoughts
an addiction to instances untouched by time
Merry Jul 2020
“Oh, what a wonderful wedding,”
Croons my best friend from across the table
“Yes, what a wonderful wedding,”
Swoons her worst enemy, agreeing,
Then, in unison strains, they both nod, decisive,
“Oh, yes, but what a shame,”
I blink, intrigued by the news ‘bout to break,
All whilst stabbing a fork at cake.
“The pure bride in white is a *****.”
They say, voices cacophonic and melodic,
“Her husband isn’t the one,
The one she hasn’t met yet,”
I sit between them, innocent,
Now utterly unengaged to the conversation,
Eating fondant; confounded; I don’t even know
Who the pure ***** bride in white is
Don Bouchard Jan 2017
Tickling the back of the neck,
Disturbing the too still air,
Brooding in silence still
Here on the top of the hill.

Burgeoning, the approaching storm
Clouds, far, but nearing,
Climb the ladder-less sky
To the west, to the south.

Air here does not move,
Stands somber, waiting,
Breathing in to hold,
Tense, anticipating.

Flash erupts up and down,
Meets mid-sky, burning,
Clapping air moves
Instantaneous implosion.

Vacuum reverberates,
Ripples fists of vibration
Out and out and out....
Thunder pounds the chest.

White light blinds and burns
The startled inner eye;
Black and purple threads
Visible in lidded dark.

Air escapes the lungs'
Gasped shock surprise...
Too quick for flight,
Too soon for fear.

The ears reverberate ,
Hammered hard within,
Ringing cacophonic
In remembered din.

Knees jellied move and turn
To take my body from the hill.
Alive, and stunned, I lived to learn
Lightning's not my kind of thrill.

— The End —