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bellahinaPoems
oems (48) Ranked Links Gods and The Lesser Kind They say, come to the abyss, the Abbadon, the back of beyond a place that should be nameless where condominium men with cool blue eyes gyrate coiled bodies gesturing lambs and lions, seething mean stories sordid in their constitution, spitting bottle blades ****** but still shiny from sore mouths- and the girls, they laugh, They say, come to the abyss, the Abbadon, the back of beyond where their lips pale white, cuss the sun, defiant, longing for it to drop from a sullen sky and into the decaying harvest of their itching hands stained cherry wine, burning to kindle it firelight near train tracks and trees, the woods rubber band their veined branches, waiting for my sweating flesh to melt out by open flames, an accomplice to a crowd ignited, caught by a sickening kind of fearlessness, I don't feel good here in the beginning, boisterous, screaming leapfrogging steel rods with pupils the size of ponds while others are left lonesome, staring at the hypnotic wonder light that comes with a tremor through stale bones they never wanted those people always come back with their hands and fingers and fists and arms still alive ******* air with a frantic disillusion, digging for cheap thrilled pennies in their jeaned pockets just to watch a copper body tossed into affliction, hoping a God will come down with the feelings of gold instead, but I am out late at a blue hour there are no saints or deities when swallowed drunken, I will not worship in this kingdom, swollen bright, layered with gloss, the hemisphere of this realm is split in halves to be seen twice like duality, reminding me there aren't idols high enough to live in my heavens, nor darlings too sweet not to murder-- these prayers are damp and intimate. not meant for a drop of water over the complete sea or the illuminated commander of a tide, no for now I'm feeling human, which disturbs the transcendence of the grounded sort, now all I hear is a disembodied run run because the people here remind me that I will always search for something without knowing what it is, run because they are too close to who I am, all of us can be seen lynching limp smiles from the top of our scalps, left to sway halfheartedly in a grave gesture of love sent to the spirit of midnight who unravels freedoms and happy notions, injecting calm dreams into the arms of slumped and melancholy purple silhouettes -- a rush of warmth silent culture, shamed culture, believing they don't have **** to say, deadened people their backs are down hard, almost panting in language, with a heavy thumping protest of indecision, which in the end is a decision that will betray them, and I am no different than the last smacking their bodies smooth into rough, pulling on short toughs of grass grown in a clearing, happily burning greens because everybody's starving, I'll die feeding a plentiful hunger. when it's over, we are whaling Kerouac lullaby's a consumed and sallow generation, unknowingly gutted by a clawed sadness, heeding the suggestion of sedation to ensure survival-- ****** but pretty alive, fuck is the new love, is a numb love there's something terribly wrong here we must look gruesome to you, Visceral exteriors, nauseous, prodding the hot metal that fills the chasm of our teeth, crying a choppy metallic haunting shaking like factory machines and their overworked bodies heaving chained clunks through the throat wishing for goodness in between bile, to take up communion where open spaces are too cold and seeking an unholy embrace, otherwise ethereal, unafraid of sacrifice, I'll give you what's left of me-- you don't know what you've done, whenever we touch, it is always an absolution of life a forfeiture a creature to shoot and put down when perceived to be the lesser kind- angry and hostile in my own environment asking why small gods the size of bullets allow the fearful to be their messengers, who tell the people of neon to Pacific that runaway consciousness is a rebellion of truth yet, no answer will ready me, history says I can't keep straight, if ever you came looking for my life, I still wouldn't know the difference between living and dying-- the back of beyond is so far away and the Abbadon is a war that never ends.
0
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
Gods and the lesser kind
oems (48) Ranked Links Gods and The Lesser Kind They say, come to the abyss, the Abbadon, the back of beyond a place that should be nameless where condominium men with cool blue eyes gyrate coiled bodies gesturing lambs and lions, seething mean stories sordid in their constitution, spitting bottle blades ****** but still shiny from sore mouths- and the girls, they laugh, They say, come to the abyss, the Abbadon, the back of beyond where their lips pale white, cuss the sun, defiant, longing for it to drop from a sullen sky and into the decaying harvest of their itching hands stained cherry wine, burning to kindle it firelight near train tracks and trees, the woods rubber band their veined branches, waiting for my sweating flesh to melt out by open flames, an accomplice to a crowd ignited, caught by a sickening kind of fearlessness, I don't feel good here in the beginning, boisterous, screaming leapfrogging steel rods with pupils the size of ponds while others are left lonesome, staring at the hypnotic wonder light that comes with a tremor through stale bones they never wanted those people always come back with their hands and fingers and fists and arms still alive ******* air with a frantic disillusion, digging for cheap thrilled pennies in their jeaned pockets just to watch a copper body tossed into affliction, hoping a God will come down with the feelings of gold instead, but I am out late at a blue hour there are no saints or deities when swallowed drunken, I will not worship in this kingdom, swollen bright, layered with gloss, the hemisphere of this realm is split in halves to be seen twice like duality, reminding me there aren't idols high enough to live in my heavens, nor darlings too sweet not to murder-- these prayers are damp and intimate. not meant for a drop of water over the complete sea or the illuminated commander of a tide, no for now I'm feeling human, which disturbs the transcendence of the grounded sort, now all I hear is a disembodied run run because the people here remind me that I will always search for something without knowing what it is, run because they are too close to who I am, all of us can be seen lynching limp smiles from the top of our scalps, left to sway halfheartedly in a grave gesture of love sent to the spirit of midnight who unravels freedoms and happy notions, injecting calm dreams into the arms of slumped and melancholy purple silhouettes -- a rush of warmth silent culture, shamed culture, believing they don't have **** to say, deadened people their backs are down hard, almost panting in language, with a heavy thumping protest of indecision, which in the end is a decision that will betray them, and I am no different than the last smacking their bodies smooth into rough, pulling on short toughs of grass grown in a clearing, happily burning greens because everybody's starving, I'll die feeding a plentiful hunger. when it's over, we are whaling Kerouac lullaby's a consumed and sallow generation, unknowingly gutted by a clawed sadness, heeding the suggestion of sedation to ensure survival-- ****** but pretty alive, fuck is the new love, is a numb love there's something terribly wrong here we must look gruesome to you, Visceral exteriors, nauseous, prodding the hot metal that fills the chasm of our teeth, crying a choppy metallic haunting shaking like factory machines and their overworked bodies heaving chained clunks through the throat wishing for goodness in between bile, to take up communion where open spaces are too cold and seeking an unholy embrace, otherwise ethereal, unafraid of sacrifice, I'll give you what's left of me-- you don't know what you've done, whenever we touch, it is always an absolution of life a forfeiture a creature to shoot and put down when perceived to be the lesser kind- angry and hostile in my own environment asking why small gods the size of bullets allow the fearful to be their messengers, who tell the people of neon to Pacific that runaway consciousness is a rebellion of truth yet, no answer will ready me, history says I can't keep straight, if ever you came looking for my life, I still wouldn't know the difference between living and dying-- the back of beyond is so far away and the Abbadon is a war that never ends.
bellahina
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bellahina
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
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