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Oculi Nov 2019
Birds of a feather
Do flock together
So I see a swan, ever so often
For I'm on my death bed

It is a resting place that I turn to every night
The next day waking in a bittersweet abyss
For I nary rest my mournful eye
And once I do, it still opens evermore

What is it to take a title?
I step on pedestals once and twice
On my hand, a mantle, a gauntlet
On my back, a cape, head, a crown

Who am I to assume the roles of the passed and the gone?
I step and step and step in their footsteps and live
Never have I drowned myself in bile
Or fastened a rope around my wounded neck
Never clipped my beautiful wings
I just burned the tips, to stay flightless
Took off the crown and weeped forever
While the idolized watch over me and hope I stand

Who are you, who were you, who will you be?
Am I as you describe, a knife in the dark?
I've been dreaming the words of a prophet
Because, honey, I am the wall, the bastion
And you are the sweet, piercing trumpet
Tear me down, so I can rise from the ashes
Never once will I die
I am immortal

I am a star whose beams shine bright black
My confusion reaches past these hospital windows
Woman, please help me in my woe
I'm new here, a stranger
I don't recognize this

I am a pestilence that strikes animals
Or a Dutch merchant
I am the star who burns like the brightest candle
I am the woman who walks on the edges of thorns
And dives deeper and deeper into despair
I am the homeless man who asks for money
In exchange for a poem from another homeless man
My knowledge is none and immeasurable

Dancing through streets of gray concrete
The rain knocks on my forehead and eyes
Are the empty chambers still full and free?
Are you happy to see me?
Or is that a gun in your pocket?

Sing swan songs, so the people may hear you
Let them know, may they cry in their darkest hour
While your heart rises above the ocean of blackness
They cry out for you, but it's too late. Always too late.
That was your last song, and it will never again be sung.

That was your last song, and it will never again be sung.

Birds of a feather
Do flock together
So I see a swan, ever so often
For I'm on my death bed

No, nurse, I do not want it
Bringing me medicine won't help
Do you not get it?
All my songs are my last song, I'm not leaving.
I wanted to write about identity. My country and its identity are synonymous with passing.
Oculi Oct 2019
While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The black tar envelops my unmanly sigh
A cigarette in the moon's light with a stranger
And the howling of an unsightly beast

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The fog obscures everything in sight
I'm questioning the night sky on its numbers
The forest looks in disgust and curiosity

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out
While plucking feathers, my ear drum pops
I say my goodbye and flap my bare wings

An ornate door leads to the mausoleum
A huge crack showing the entrance of grave robbers
The youths wander inside to belittle their ancestors
And my ballad softly floats above the ground

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The young man rests near his anvil
Opening his book of poetry on an empty page
Only to find the blood of the martyr seeping

While plucking my feathers
Will the youth remember my name?
Will I be forgotten as a nameless man?
Or will I be the poet of the next century?

Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!

But do not forget me and the steps which I took
Do not forget my babbling, my bish and my bosch
Do not forget my gifts, you, receiver of blessing
Pluck them rhythmically, slave, rhythmically

My feather falls, slowly to the ground
It is the last of its kind
And as my breaths draw to a close
The children laugh gleefully
Unknowing the end is near
Extinction on my name once and for all
Pluck my feathers no more, slave,
I've just blood to give.
Ars poetica.
Oculi Sep 2019
The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one

Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America

The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile

The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America

The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried

Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America

Purple
Yellow
Indigo
Green
Lime
Curmudgeon
Ocher
Bordeau­x
Magenta
Pink

Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?

Allah?
Krishnu?
Tezcatlipoca?
Zeus?

Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more

The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her

And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-****
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?

God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America

Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.
Oculi Sep 2019
A collection of donkeys
Reviewing the depth and girth of light
In a circular channel of platinum white
While the Cold War's puppet master smiles

What is in the creases of the temple?
Built upon the Aztec temptress's armpit
Discovered by the Spanish butcher
And burnt by the pale ghost

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

He asked me why my hair was soft
I severed my ear and lent it
The pianist, unsurprised, played on
With a pyrrhic victory among black and white

Plagiarism runs amok
It is my good friend, the light in the dark
The lightning coiling around my mind
A brilliant idea strikes the gutter

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

What's your answer?
Among the darkened rain clouds?
What's your answer?
Among ****** handles?
What's your answer?
Among the trumpets and horns?
What's your answer?
To the performance of a life?

Sing no more!
Silence!
This is my noblest music!
The buzzing of nothing!
Oculi Sep 2019
Vong, they call me
And call to me they do
The stitch, the incision
The lung of a fish
The bite of a tiger

Vong, they call me
Newer now than ever before
The ship sinking almost
My shoes fill with water
But to drown, never

Vong, they call me
Never knowing what made me so
It was somebody else!
All the holes, the drills
The incisions, the wounds

Vong, they call me
But am I Vong?
Or am I not?
Do I miss it?
My life as before?

Vong, they called me
But Quetzal I am
And bury Vong, I must
For he is filth, heresy
For he hurt me, and himself

And the sky turns blue
And the water blue
And Vong's face blue
But he will not drown
He asks for a space on my ship

His body torn in 17
His eyes curmudgeon
His limbs mismatched
His skin a darkened grey
I won't call him Vong

And sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Without arms, man the ship, protect your kin

Vong, become my brother
You've been through the sea
You've been through the sky
You've flown through the blood red Sun
But still you strive for the ship

Safety, oh you beautiful safety.
To lead a better life, inside the Sun
And wait for the fire to pass
Wait for the ship to rise
Wait, for your love shall be here

Vong, they call me.
But Quetzal I am.
Oculi Apr 2019
A horned individual looks at me
He calls to me, but he gets more and more distant by the second
I reach out and touch his hand
But it slips out of my grasp
He slowly becomes obscured as I see him grow from a simple child to an adult
Just like I have

He shouts towards me in a language I have not heard in years
I understand it
I look back and stop in place
I am now at a crossroad in my life
Do I take him back? Do I introduce him to the present?
Or do I let him rot in peace without me?
Oculi Apr 2019
A cape on my back
And a trigger next to my index finger
I look around at the world
It is a hell on Earth
The trees in bloom, the water azure
The sky cloudless, orange and purple

I look like I'm from the future
Maybe I'm from the future
Or maybe I really did come from Saturn
Since this is all so alien to me
Take me back to where we were
Take me, Ra. Take me, Jhonn.

But I'm here. I see the world
The old building blocks
The ferris wheel moved by radiation
I look at the gun in my hands
It's matte black. Brand new, like me.
Brand new, like the blood from the body on the ground.

Maybe this never happened,
I say to myself questioning the audience.
I look at the cubes. They are all different colors.
Some explode. Some expand.
Some implode. I feel at home with those.
This feels safe.

The world I came to is different.
This world is not a rhapsody.
This world is made of skin.
There's another body inside.
Like mine, but pitch black.
It is my shadow.

Suddenly I am at home again.
I feel the shadow pulling the Earth apart.
I feel my face. I'm dusty.
I report to the Mars of the World.
They tell me to head back in.
I resign myself to fate.

I look in the mirror one last time.
I see a woman.
I'm content.
I get in my bed, as I did yesterday.
The night shortly falls over me.
I crawl into the void, as I live and breathe.

I wake up in the different place again.
I look in the mirror.
It's a dusty, white face of no expression.
I put the cape back on and leave.
As I leave the zone beyond time, I remember again.
It is time to find something of value.

**** the objective.
I hear knocking on the door.
I open it. It's the courier.
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
"Are you ready?"

We leave for the yellow zones.
But I'm tired of the courier.
As the bullet exits his brain, I feel free.
So does his blood.
The desert around us stares at me.
The cubes cry out.

I'm in the green zone. I'm looking for the child.
He greets me with a smile.
"You have realized!"
"I am finally back.
I have killed the ones holding me back."
"Welcome back to reality. I love you, Mother."

The industrial zone around us starts feeling distorted.
The cubes lose their shapes and scream.
My son grabs my legs tight.
The trees are all dead. The sky is gray.
The water runs green, with purple bubbles.
I missed Saturn.
Kurosawa could dream.
Tarkovsky could dream.
Lynch could dream.
Why could I not?
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