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JP Goss Aug 2014
Deep beneath a pillowed sky, there
A restful restlessness abides
Nestled in a perennial hill
Whose sentinel trees raised their hands,
White with subtle deference,
They do not usher the world flowing ‘hind,
But show me an islet high above time.
I sat there in ponderance at the stagnation of clouds
Holding on one end a gold string of a kite
My thoughts tethered to those ghosts,
Those wights, sitting amongst me, those by-gone eras
And down, on me, some vague horror weighted
To them it was the Stones that made them feel dated
I thought I could feel slippage, some loss of traction
They? They bore a whole lifetime without
Satisfaction.
The breeze smells of gossip and Jaeger on their lips;
Everything is on point: dances, romances, localist quips.
Whoever would have guessed
Memories ablur could be the most vivid?
Such, I suppose, is an art form insipid.
I had to step away from this field of time
It had overtaken, that shadow of mine
All the trees now, bow and they bend
Prostrate, like a weeping willow.
When they step out into the world,
A bath of gold in the dusk of their lives
Shall fall before their feet, denude from their shadows
To run on ahead.
JP Goss Jul 2014
There is a wound that sits behind the eye
Triad tonality, a fearsome sigh
Plucks a ****** chord
Lyric’d by the word “why?”
Acid fingers grin in lust
Anticipating another ****** into the belly
Of time gone by
Hot skin taut and merely waiting
For suicides to release their hands
In the chain their concert makes
Eternities in some hellish waste lived in only seconds.
How strong the forces are!
So steep a severing blow!
Still fresh a carrion scar, festering miles still to go
To beset the pinkest eves
This blade of regret
Within a greater narrative,
Tiny little vignettes
Armed in fashion of drunken odes
Those promises sworn to keep
Accompanied by such pathos woes
Accoutered, finally, in weep.
Brandished when it’s not so fresh:
This minor paring of my flesh
Gleaming in the summer laughs
To caterwaul my gaff, or plural if you like
The humor undercuts enormity
Or screams on shafts in biting breezes
This lived-in clime
I, this prey, displeases.
Unsheathed, the memories, in jovial acts of war
Besiege, beleaguer, the since-immured
True blood and guts long-since obscured
By friendliness, camaraderie
Intentions jester-pure
Trick suppressing-shields raised, jaundiced wills will not deflect
No blade or arrow of regret.
JP Goss Jul 2014
The very sky fell to greet a wandering shade
Only by a falling light
His form and frame were made
Calling, with his silence
A Solsticine, on whom
None could find reliance.
What of this world walked with the fog
But he, small,
In mist, walks without his giant
At the fields of Arcad’
To golden plains
A Dasein, in which nothing is flawed
Standing at media
Fit for the amused, too tall to walk
On and on, on shoulders the sun takes its leave
Its rest.
To giants the day is drudgery, when one dawn falls
And moon, I, dreading it won’t find me
My idler goes in wistful mists
On to the breaking light
Onward to the reddened night
My idler goes in wistful mists
Silent, absolutely.
JP Goss Jun 2014
Everything that melts
into that which is tone and
It’s all perfect sin.
Experimental/drunk poetry #4
JP Goss Jun 2014
You
Literati
I want you to know
I’m writing to you drunk
With a sober mind that thinks in its own
One that is independent
One that is great and strong-willed
To know
You are not pursuing a life of greatness
Merely of pettiness
Of worthless endeavors that requisition an
Agenda of procreation
Of Darwinism
****,
I may be drunk or beneath the tyranny of the ALMIHGTY BEZOS
But I am consistent in my beliefs
And all destroyers of
Existence
And freedom are
Bound for
Destruction.
SO KEEP FIGHTING BECAUSE
i AM A BEING BORN OF REBELLION
AND SO ARE you.
Experimental/drunk poetry #3
JP Goss Jun 2014
The pen may hit the page
But for what gain?
Scribbles
Were they ever
Of worth?
The greatness
Is not in the state I’m found in
Kneeling
Without a place to call room
Or home
Something to call home
Just acreage to call roam
Or place to go, a bed to sleep
A ***** too distract like a chime
******* to sleep upon and lie to
Ears to
Tell sweet nothings to because my PATRIARCHICAL ****
May desire a sweet lie
And my spirit may desire a sweet lying to.
Experimental/drunk poetry #2
JP Goss Jun 2014
I can’t sit here and pretend I’m seeing a person
Who’s
Not you: the genuine spell, the real self-starter,
The Devil’s in my hands
In the drag, on my forked tongue
That’s full of emotion;
Do I play with his fire? Do I dance with his devils?
I’m putting my words through Hell, darling
To get to Paradise.
A lunch-moneyed fist pulls fame towards you
I walk
With something that’s significant of
Romantica
And so important in the first draft
So raw.
Experimental/drunk poetry #1
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