The God of Death
I have a list
The job is mundane, same old, same old
Murderers, conceiters, haters, ....
No remorse even at the last breath
Today is a busy day
Lots of you to claim
First on my list is a thief
He stole children for a living
And sold them to the highest bidder
Sometimes, I think the Guy upstairs is so unfair
What’s wrong with taking a child
And selling her so she’ll get a better life
Not that I’m complaining
Contrary to popular belief
Hell is kind of empty
Most people in their last living moments
Say they’re sorry and zam! I lose!
This guy is different
Peter Hinckley the Child Snatcher
He doesn’t know he’s walking into a trap
And he’ll be shot dead by the cop hiding across the street
So, here I am, Ok, Now!!
“Gotcha, come with me, Peter Hinckley!
Welcome to Hell! Where it’s always breakfast in bed! Not!
My next is a woman, those are rare down there
Henrietta Bugglery – “Gosh, what a name!”
Her one and only sin – loving herself too much
Till she hated everyone else
It’s not her fault, I don’t think
She has it all but wisdom
So how can it be her fault
Well I suppose she could have been better to her children
But she hated them too apparently
Ahh humans, I’ll never get them, I suppose!
Henrietta was ready but she didn’t expect Me!
Not that I’m not pretty but I have to hide my face
Seeing me sometimes jolts them back to life!
“OK, Missy, let’s go!”
“What do you mean let’s go? Who are you? And where are we going?”
“Who are you?”
“ Darth Vader!”
(and they say i don’t have a sense of humor)
“You mean like from Star Wars?”
“Yes, exactly that – Let’s Go!”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!”
“Oh come on, don’t make me zap you there.
I like you all to arrive happily, after all the rest of eternity is a long time”
“Get lost! I’m not coming with you!!”
“Oh well, you leave me no choice!
Welcome to Hell!”
I lift my hand and she is stretched excruciatingly (it appears) into Hell
You’d think my work is easy
Actually, it’s not
Sometimes, I wish we had some of your high tech equipments down there
Then, I won’t have to do this myself
I could have me some robots who would never mess up
Or suddenly have a soft heart like in the case of ....
Oh shit, I’m saying too much!!
P.S. Don't worry, I'm probably not coming for you
P.S.S. I lie, a lot!
Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to a song in write.
Seen seldom to weigh words at play in search,
sewn expensive for time spent in trust and recite.
Penciling not for profit so rhythmic this may show.
Find in the presence to open and reflect our woes.
Only prescription for uncommon those in write.
A same those who compose.
This on display is the compromise
of sheltered dreams ~ and the soul,
of rhythm in gentle prose.
This is the allure of the jewel of life.
Sent as promise a same a wish.
Stem those genes and make heavy this vision ~
and prayers in might.
These are our rays made ink,
to weigh the pressures of waves
constant in cycle, to detract from nature’s
Heavenly sight. Lost we shall dream
and ever so patiently grow old but in heart live bold.
Rugs were in Persia mathematically
correct and with an Indian craft
colorful, Heaven sent. Only captured in
a metaphor this day, so men do master,
so simple this way. Simple this as to
measure the years past, shudder away
tears, for the river purifies our passions
commandeered. So culture our gardens
to prosper and replenish, in the green
untamed, and natural in wonder,
Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simple ~
ness of editing, not journeyed journals
to an ever-changing composition
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this
life. Sample the living, in books that
inspire. Dismal I think the desire to
purify a pen in this heavy practice, a
dance an art. Time lends a flavor,
marinating appealing to a fashion so
Always calm to prolong righteous
reason, modern making, yet captured
still as storytelling. Uncommon to cues,
but refreshing at leisure, is now a
computer who makes simple what once
was wasted time. Measures made in
this art are laborious, the passion is for
the pen, reel it in as your tool, rations
will in turn ~ give as a well to nature
and sow, the seed of the write.
Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of
detail, must reinvent and inscribe in
ink. The bank of intuition lay tender as
our diction. Replenish in the soil of our
native grounds to seed another tool, the
luxury of our lingo. For inspirations
may befriend or become uncharted if
left in the cold. Sold but without a
surrender to all integrity, we will call
for many souls to ship and receive what
Forefathers intended. In over our
heads, over watering our behaviors,
half unknowingly over diluting our
mental treasures, is this the liquor of
life, all too fancy in measure but it was
the tea of rebellion ~ and so I toast ~
to a drink tonight.
Inherent as memories of a generation
now surely within time, we will fill the
promise within crafted lines, and file
away ~ many promises ~ many
revisions, many times. In spoil we shall
not surrender our bounty of honesty and
wisdom, so gray in years we
mend. Dent our self-serving self ~
respect, make and justify the wheel in
role common. Like a beard in keep,
intention is relevant. Surely women
refine makeup as to show beauty in
character. Thus what we intend to
refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled and
celebrate the qualities of growing
old. Time is of new defining, for the
times are naturally at all times ~ in
ritual of change.
Memories to grace the gift of sight are
the shades to carry our reflections
away. One, who trusts and so cares, lay
in the daydream of light. In a wish sent
salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the
flavors of life will flower in springs
day. We hanger thus shelter, the rags
made clothes, best when leather to
weather firm and tight.
Regift the promise, to harness the wind
and make words potent as those before
did without regret. Today in general we
lean and conform on the fundamentals,
too disciplined, mirror of stale
literature. Similar to wood varnished
but without the stains of life. First
revision is not for giving, only what is
taken, luxury of time. Color your copies
of the wood you talk in and pencil in
your pressures to relieve the pain,
simple ~ ness and cold feet lay sold, as
buttered bread to fill. But imperfect, so
forthcoming, wills the literature of today
finding promise in ceremony by
charting drafts and revisions to send in
message to those young in read.
This voyage is regretfully gentle as our host
made monumental any verse, so breathe
within the soul and hearts of men, to
find new styles to milk the mind of
reason. Leafs from the tree of intuition
censure the picture, sell in the filter of
Freedoms fight, not first drafts ready
Battered but purely by pace and
meager beginnings, the wave of
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will saddle and shelter the idea
profound. Don’t toss away the raisin of
a pen in hand, for we lean to easily in
bits and bytes. Promise of Heaven’s
pennies falling in rhythm will sing
tonight. Majestic in find, common in ground,
gift a find, in leisure, in time. Gather
they guard and uphold the greater good,
not to entertain but inspire. Just as
ones soul is when right. Humbled in
behaviors so chips in clever may
fall. But poker face we have
become, once centered in earnest of
essays in rent, now owners of ideas
embellished ~ in verse ~ our native
treasures. Second, we charter the raft
of ideas in mend, to conceive works so
aspiring as the poets and linguists of
historic claim. So riddled ~ so
mastered. Surely a new discontent shall
offer, in a pebble of examples met, with
practice and structure our youth will
Demand must be patient, for
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will nurture and mother our future
Leaders to a discipline in their own
right. Never forget the days of past
generations for they marveled in the
arts ~ and in rain it falls in our hands ~
to luster and defend. Poetics are too
political if not in share. Protection of
this is how Freedom was rung. The
hungry will maintain its resolve and
rightfully so. Riddled as sow ~ these
lentils, this meal, these feathers, this ink
shall fuel the fire. A dance in the
pillows of night shall brush the painting
in the autumn of one’s days. Flaccid in
so many ways. Glorified by the shadows of protection,
but only one day is stored for this
intention. Freedom is in the work
engraved beside it, within it, sharing we
celebrate it, and our Brave provide
it. Celebration comes by way of duty
and hard work, and it rises high and
early in the dawn. Yes, on the Fourth
Day of July. Food and pleasures are
gifts for price paid by our Soldiers and
Agencies who protect and defend our
freedom and intelligence, and calmly
watch over it as we carry along. All
under the calm watch of Gods
umbrella. Future dreams are blessed a
same, for all under this Flag by notion
alone, seam and dress and hence sail
with solemn truth. Trusting the winds of
reason to keep us Forever Free and on
course to replenish the soil, for those
young in years. Students in the day
dream of life are in the send to allow
their pen to charter this peaceful but
daunting Nation to one of peace and
prosperity. Willingly and calm the Lion
stares afar from American shores,
Democratic in nature and always
reinventing in this idea we call ~ the
nearer to beauty
sunset like a whole in the sky
so many faces pass you by
coming and going
sinking and swelling
like the crash of the sea on the shore
noise is never telling you why
birds of the land
plants of the bird
a line drawn that is never satisfied going straight
change is always in our fate
the moments we have will fade faster than a thumb nail scratch
but the scab remains a while
reminding of what once was felt
what once remained
split ends tell of how the roots are never recovered given new location
the shadows are always there to prove real
that is the only proof we have sometimes
history sold for half of its face value
even if you heard it
it doesn't make it true
black and white overcomes you
we reach and reach for something higher and higher
the sky is so big and should tell us what we need to hear
but the sky has seen everything and can not be just what we want
it will be what it is and nothing more
we will interpret it how we will
look at the sea as if its never been touched by an oil spill
everything is ours and now we must decide
will we allow it to be us
because it has already allowed us to be it
There I was with my riches and gold
Which is all miles away now and probably all sold
Thieves which I never thought existed anymore
Taught me that there's a whole new world to explore
My faith in others was abused and put to the test
Oh how much I just want my heart to rest
Hopefully in the future I can have jewels again
And maybe that would heal just a bit of my pain
Dealing with loss is what most of my life has been
I'm just finger crossed I'll find my queen
Got to keep my chin up
And got to stay smart
Always be weary of the next flaming dart
So I've lost a lot of priceless things in my life
Don't mean I can't gain more
I'll just keep moving like the waves on the shore
Like my old mantra goes
Which keeps me calm and steady
Always whisper it into my mind
To keep my armed and ready;
(Always abide and flow with the tide
The tides will always turn
And I will forever learn)
A path of sadness which puts me down and low
But the sorrow which it's caused must of been a sow
So I carry on and take each day as it comes
Don't be so hard on myself or stay down in the slums
The more my roots(sadness) grow
The taller my branches(happiness) stretch
It's all been so bad so I'm expressing this sketch
What makes it worse is that they were gifts
Of good thoughts from them to me
But please let me put this all behind,
And live in ecstacy.
I give you a necklace, with is feel with so much sentimental feelings.
Except that don't represent, my love for you.
I give you a dream, not gave.
Sold it with truth of reality, of what I will do for you.
Except that don't represent, my admiration concerning you.
I can't begin to put in words or speak enough about my love.
You're my deepest fantasy.
You're my deepest love.
My inspiration like God above.
Yes, I'm confessing it.
Gonna keep on expressing it.
And you won't find me contesting it.
Let alone protest it.
Yes, I give you my love.
Its the only thing I want to give you constantly more of.
Cause you deserve so much more.
I'm so overjoyed to be the one you love.
For now and forever more.
Words, like I said can't express it.
Cause you deserve to feel it.
So every touch I give you.
Every kiss I give you.
Yes, feel it.
Everything I do.
Please feel it.
You deserve so much more.
the corpulent rosebushes stirred
As time dragged on I felt the slow meandering of oceanic, shattering vibrations
With flesh flayed and spattered out onto the gravelly pavement
Broken and blistered in the barren hovel that men and women call truth
With the weight of monastic guilt and filthy pretense on my shoulders
I broke the back of madness, for fear, for the fat opening of cuts
That bled, tearing, sutured, stained with bandaged innocence
As the daylight spiked into a heat of pain and flesh and disgust
What is the passing over of this viscous, liquid crutch that holds us
Like children, like adult impulse given name and a destination
At the cold, embittered heart of speech grown loud, or maybe else
The burning ambiguity that helps the cripples on the street shout their lies.
As the withering sun turned its head over onto the septic, selfish horizon
With its arms laid neatly beneath the seething mass of clouds and polluted sky
Airing out whatever pleasant theme the faceted, belligerent populace could bear
To hear, to cry for the bothersome, ponderous, dry gargling
Spat forth into the night, breathing copiously and heavier
Than the pulsating, writhing combines could bear
Than the onerous, apathetic will of the people, of the nations great could bear
I counted ten thousand, intent on meaning more than what they could see
Before their eyes, before their hearts gave into the grudging plod
And there I sat watching the flies consume garbage behind the malls
And behind the temples I watched naked skin flay its own fears into nothingness.
As our vicarious lovers lay weeping in the courts of law and trust
They made hovels into homes and called them theirs as they sat pouting hopeless
Weary and breathless in the cold darkness of lunacy and perjury, and there, nude
Skins to the smog and the cigarette smoke drafting in from every crack
In every window that creaked with the walls, snapping in the windy embrace of cold
Tethered by the limitlessness of love and light they were told were present
Even during their blackest horrors and their most terrible mistaken impulses
Painless and pining for the frosty winter to come faster than the glorious spring
So in the ice of new sprouts they could crash cars and explode in righteous faith
Though their pins poked and their shins snapped between metal and teething bones
They crept along silently through their insane, godly wanderings.
As the pointed, poisonous resin of transience slips carefully between our saintly ribs
And the tips of glass slide precariously into the first layers of tissue
Which our crusty exteriors of posturing have held so tight and delicate and close
This cursory affection that has been seamlessly mastered despite ages of turmoil
Becoming as effortless and useless as chipping stone from stone
Collecting the sharpened pieces in canvas bags and heaving them away
We should drop these sacks into chimneys, over jagged, abysmal cliffs
Build homes below the stacks and cracking boulders, an asylum, labyrinthine
Instead of row upon tortuous row of pre-fabrication and incorporated insatiability
Allow our smoke to gust freely in intricate tangles between the mineral fissures
Only in a place such as this might I feel peace despite the fleeting conditions of life.
As the foreign signs and roadmaps gave everyone their potent direction
Their fragrant possibility, their fragile and tenuous importance
I sat, tearful, milking the anger with which I strode across the boundaries
I sat and stared belligerently at the copulating majority as they bred
Incessantly and without modesty, pleasantly and engorged with joyous freedoms
Mounting their wreaths on certain dates and ignoring the rest of the year
That passes without trace or vitality or significance or longevity of moral thoughts
I crouched under the passive concrete bridge and held my yelling breaths in
And I was patient but for the roaring of automobiles and trailers that buzzed
And rang, and blasted my senses with tremors and asphalt, entombed
In their lacking permanence, I discovered my raining doubts and spilling pleasures.
As my weathered, watery heart decried its pathetic, lonely estate
I strode among blizzards and buildings covered in sheets of fabricated wind
Expanding my contempt and swelling tongue, speaking angers of lightness
And the numbness that held my mouth strictly in the presence of failure
I watched passively as the fires of lust and agony consumed my wearisome body
Singing high halleluiah, singing high harmony, singing sacred sanctimony
And brutal determination that washed into a bleak, starry expanse
Quivering with smoke and sparks and delirious infernal discharge
In the tempest of consummate greed, in the heaving breast of failure
I watched the contest of the complete and competitive oath-takers
Dream of catastrophe and bombs, of exploding cars and towers of envy toppling.
As the corpulent rosebushes stirred in the smog-coated breeze
Washing in from the tranquil sea and merging desperately with effluent waste
The spineless worms towed blissful dirt back and forth above the hill’d plains
Metal containers lifted by metal machines, metal chains, iron-clad, forlorn
And the flagrant, youthful howling of curled-back fathers and mothers and children
Who brought fortune and moonlit ruin to each narrow city street, draped in oil
In the shrines of a deadened, lifeless god, a dreary, worthless, loveless god
These disastrous familial groups vanished frantically into a hole in the floor
While their hallucinating, vicious god gazed down in scorn and tired pride
At most an empty husk, at least a long-lost and circular pattern of imagination
And I pushed and I shoved my way through the crowd to the roof, where I fell too.
As the giant mechanical politicians stir emotional discord and bleat “Pity!”
One hundred thousand citizens or more breed and scrape up wooden ladders
In a misguided attempt to climb higher than their brothers and sisters, graven
At the top of each rung is a mausoleum of clutching hands, separated from arms
And shoulders, and bodies, for the rest of these have fallen down, crippled
Sunken beneath the asphalt, beneath the concrete, beneath the dust and the soil
Sunken beneath the layers of bone, piled high from all those shrunken souls
Who called and who culled their meaning from worthlessness and vacant boxes
Wrapping paper, birthdays, blank celebrations and dinners that devoured their own
Trapped inside with fears of death, fears of dark, fears of living free and living fast
And I parried blow with blow, steaming and incensed, filled with rage and liberty.
As viral, pathogenic beliefs were bought and sold by street vendors, small carts
Colourful lips spoke precious lines and bright secrets that only the shadows knew
Off to the side, off in the corners of the alleyways where drunkards slept, cold
And where all the addicts never went; no coffee, acetaminophen, no pacifying falsehood
No peaceful, ignorant, heavenly comfort or wishful, fictitious promise to satisfy
The anxious ecstasy, the restless frenzy of reassurance at Death’s swift approach
For the graceful passing with which, as it hovered adrift, made cycles of life and time
O, reverent bereavement! O, demented mortality! Make martyrs of these shells
Drown these ashen sailors of distress and entomb these embracing liars in mud
Let the Reaper’s claw sow clarity among these belligerent, sadistic men and women
Whose methods and manners I so despise, whose covetous fingers I would break.
As the pillars of dogged temptation are driven deeply with nails into splendid coils
Of twine, of splinters, and of shavings, I pushed over those drowsy crosses
In favour of stony conception and hollow originality, and laid a formless foundation
To rally and to wrestle my deadly impulse, my ragged sense of purpose, into shape
To ravage my treacherous lack and instead exist in both logic and feeling
Rather than succumb to beaten, worn ideologies or gleaming interpretations
And so hopefully assume an overflowing of significance, far beyond capacity
If it is not too lost for us to regain our clutch on the spirit born in dead languages
Then I would nod my head and raise my brow, spitting at those drunk on perversion
Clenching until my knuckles turn white enough for me to strike, hard
And trembling with the stormy bolts of wrath, as they swirl frantically even now.
As the birds built weaving nests from scattered bits of the frames we left behind
And the isolated ribs, clipped fingers, and polished teeth from the lake’s bottom
Diving below the depths, swirling and grey, to break the surface anew
Sending spirals of ripples to collide, bursting and shifting, disturbing the surface
While howling dogs shook their throats and sent out mad wailing shrieks
Sleek black cats rubbed against the bark of drooping willows, dying slowly
And they too were all skin, all bone, all tiny, blistered tracks left in the dirt
All contorted and convoluted, their bodies bent, withered, blank, and blurred
A deliberate progression towards the valley’s edge where a bright demise awaits
In a capillary trail, a pulmonary divide, and the measured stalk of melancholy
That I caress and nurture, fervently holding an inferno for the end of cheerless days.
Went to the moon on a Monday.
When the moon was full.
So I could meet the man.
To eat his cheese and hear his sleaze
So I could watch the lunatics.
Down upon his mother earth.
Viewed only through his noble eyes.
Went while the world slept.
Soundly in the noiseless void
The place was cold.
The only satellite near.
I fancied a pint.
Was feeling rather dry.
However I was out of luck.
No-one on the moon sold beer.
He's just languishing.
Only drinking in the midnight skies.
Went to the moon on a Tuesday.
While his was just a half.
Tried to balance of the edge.
But all he did was laugh.
In darkness I did hide.
Lost somewhere went off wandering.
Walking lonely on the darker side.
Went to the moon on Wednesday.
Wednesday was wonderful.
Watched moonlight catch the sun.
In an aura,
An orange holy glow.
Went to the moon on Thursday.
Thought it would be so much fun.
Hiding in the moonlight away from midday sun.
Went to the moon on Friday.
Fancied being free.
Put my high heels on.
So I could just be me.
Kick up non-existent stones,
Have a magic float.
Gravity my missing friend.
Can never hold me down.
Went to the moon on Saturday.
Escaped the what's the matter day.
Never work on Saturday.
Danced on the moon on Sunday.
Partied on til Monday came.
Down to Earth as work's begun!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Outside, it's cold and dark.
Your smile was special, your own trademark.
I'm going numb, can't even walk.
All I hear is the clock. Tick tock.
These woods are lonely and cold.
Hard to be bold, when your soul you have sold.
These tears puddle, like an ocean.
Your love always unique, quite golden.
Reality is wrong.
Still need to stay strong.
Dreams are for real.
How does that make you feel?
This mountain called life is steep.
But I've got promises to keep.
I'll go out on a limb to say.
Life's a game no one learns to play.
Life is a never ending exam.
Never anytime to cram.
Darling, I'm afraid I've broken the coffee maker again.
Darling, I'm afraid that all the orange bottles are empty again.
Darling, I'm afraid that sometimes walls remind me
of either the ones you threw me against or the ones I put up around my heart
so that no one can love me ever again.
Darling, I'm afraid that I don't see stars in the sky anymore,
just a lot of eyes staring down at me,
scrutinizing me like interstellar councilmen,
knowing about every disgusting thing that I have done
when I thought it was just me and you and the peeling wallpaper.
Darling, I'm afraid that I am woven around your ribcage
like the beads of a rosary
are wrapped around the fingers of a sinner who has sold their soul
to the devil for forgiveness from God
one too many times.
Darling, I'm afraid I have to pause to talk about your fingers.
I am not wrapped around just one, but all of them.
I was hoping to bind you like a book so I could read you a little better,
but I'm afraid I've just entangled myself in a giant mess
and I'm afraid that you're a little too amused by my demise.
Darling, I'm afraid that guns shoot and so do stars,
I'm afraid that wishbones break and so do bones,
and I'm afraid that feathers float and so do bodies.
Darling, I'm afraid that I'm sorry that I cannot fix you,
because I don't think I can even fix myself.
Darling, I'm afraid I'm just
Life is not mine to give or take
Life is not mine to mold or make
Life is not mine to be bought or sold
Life is simply mine to have and to hold