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Pax  Apr 2018
dimlit star
Pax Apr 2018
You were the dimlit star
I am trying to reach.

You've lost much
of your glow
how I wish
my light would reach you, and
teach you
     that in life
you're ever so beautiful.

How the harsh words of the world
barricades you soft spoken heart
into stones.
thank you all in reading my lightly lit star in my so dim world.

ive secluded much of my world into the four corners of my home, hated to see how harsh can the world judge me. also hated this part of me, a coward. I needed to remind myself of this feeling to move forward even a little step will do.
Ady May 2013
The curtain of night descend upon the sky. It is aphonic, psychotic and dark.
Perpetually calling for daylight, but it is hours before the sun can, if, reply.
Those remote, desolate hours are intolerable, hurtful.
They bring the piercing screams of silence and poignancy.
My wasteland is inhabited with moribund trees in the middle of spring.
This world knows regrets and disingtegrating logic.
Although the constant clouds conceal my world, no sign of rain befalls the thirsty earth.
The trees curved to the scorched ground, seeking mercy, weary and restless of this static infertility.
The throats of the passing birds have dried, no song can brighten the sky.
Insipid and dimlit, not even the sun can filter through the clouds or the thickness of the fog.
Somewhere in this world my body awaits demise.
This decaying rationality bringing peril and incoherence, not a breeze or a murmur of rain,
to quench the aching and consuming thirst.
I beg in silence, but the words seem to hang confined in this inclemency, alone 'till my waking hour.
The curtain has not risen, the night still falls in place.
How long before I can succumb to oblivion and quiesce this raging, tormentig thoughts?
There is no answer to follow the question because I am this world's, this hell's, this limbo, wretched creator.
And so with cracked lips, with ragged breath and stinging chest I remain in the inside of this deserted, and cracked state of mind.
Take my hand - you've got to
feel fun time's heading
closer
Futuristic daydreams
are at hand -handy!
microchipped wild
boys and girls
on rent - hardly paid off -
dance! Roll the dice!
Flicker eyes!
Adrift on the dimlit
flourescent
effervescent
reflector rays°°°°you're
never lost or at loss;
Coloured circles glide
across the dancefloor__
bouncy boots swoon, high heels
crack, remastered barefoot Tribe~
Enjoys momentary revelations!
Latino lovers attracting
honey dew magnetic more-s
rain coats off - smiley coasts shine on~
those cunning shenanigan freckles
pressed redhair beauties against
needy torsos in ecco-leather jackets  
electrified silhouettes stunning
like elves un-fading beauty  
transforming tuxedos
of a tight
night; a jingle of
Prague crystals into
one dancing wave submerged
by the vicinity of hissing tongues  
-been- beaten by fierce kissing
in a stronghold ballroom
frenzy - polarized
beatings - hi-s and bye-s ; a
stroboscopic syncopation
ecstatic hips,  
space shuttle
trips
mingled nirvana at a+
futuristic dream
realm
Matt Bernstein May 2019
Exhaustion drip the night away,
bleeding the clock of every second.
Drifting on a raft of dimlit dreams,
down a river of wayward thoughts.
Stopping and starting.
A blurry room fades
to backlit black.

Float,
sink down with every breath
Joshua Vincens May 2015
I'm doin' it like I am left to write//
I'm doin it left cause left is right//
Ya lookin at me like I've lost my mind//
can't see me cause you are too blind//
This nation has the most//
with the saddest of folks//
dimlit they in status quo's//
I beast-in when I bring-in the madness at least//
Minds thinkin on their own u callin' em freaks//
Your mind is just weak I come here to unleash//
My demon in me fiendin' to feed on enemies//
It's the  World livin' in fear//
preventin curl-n can't hear//
ya should try to break ya mind//
lose-in reality in fact's you'll find//
my hope is open ya will-in time//
dis-covered collectives of anti-collective singular symmetry//
This you See the Light that LIT in darkness is the harmony//  
Mo-mentally perfection is a spiralling constant frequency//
Do not be Were-King become royalty with-in not knowing//
idk... kinda just positive thought vomitting
Rachel White Jan 2017
Saying goodbye to you is like getting hit by a train;
Not because it hurts, but because it could mean the end.
The mortality rate of being hit by a train is 90%,
So I've decided that the likelihood of never seeing you again is like that.
There's a chance that I may say goodbye, and that will be it,
But there's also a chance that I may say goodbye and will leave only with battle wounds.
My last kiss with you could be so painful that it will leave me with scars forever,
Or it could stop my heart in its tracks.
I could hear your voice whisper my name in the dimlit dorm room one last time,
And feel all of the bones break in my body,
Or my spinal cord could sever and leave me just like that.
Either way,
I think I still want to take my chances,
Because scars fade
And bones heal,
So there's a 10% chance that saying goodbye to you,
Will not be my last chance to say it.
The only way to get through everyday
without incinerating your soul
is by sending multitude of messenger pigeons
to drop millenial post cards
at fluctuating frequencies at the juncture
of the mail box of your heart;
as a wick to a flaming reminder.

Soul reads the post card sonourous,
sitting on a wooden stool with a gashed crack
running through the middle
beside the dimlit green forlorn bedside lamp.
Heart ardently listens while laying silently
beneath bereft layers of warmth.

It read  *"You can't be the only moon that revolves around the Sun/You can't be important to someone all the time."
Sid Lollan Sep 2017
this always happens:
sitting at tombstone
desk—blood clots from hours in this twobuck
torture-chair;
4AM? can barely read
my own thoughts,
neatly arranged,
painstakingly painted a
cross ether
glare of the computer screen.
Seven stanzas devolved
from the act
ual epiphany
of the p o e m;
chest tight,stomach churning acid from
cheap *** cheap cigarettes and cheap
grass rolled up in
99 cent Dutchmaster cigars—
Forgot to eat, forgot to hydrate, forgot to remember
the truth i was trying to forget
—forgot the point i was struggling to articulate;
Did i have a point?
I’m beginning to note tiny
Beings of Light
out’ve the corner of buzzing eyes,
all too familiar friends
friends of fiends, vampire junkies,
raving mad x-politicians,
and nocturnal suicide poets—
who after failing to get laid
in college bars
and drinking too much, too many boring conversations
with dull goons;
Get home, pour another glass,
cigarette      to dry lip     in perpetuum; beatiful Miles,
Porgy and Bess, sit down to
computer and write p o e t r y
not prose,
not prose—Man’s revelation of
histories to come, histories manifest.
not prose which brings Man’s higher-self
        into the great
        Universe-at-Large
but p o e t r y, pretentious,
narcissistic, self-important,
which alienates man from his tools of realities;
enemy of machine—but Man is machine;
no poetry is Man!
no poetry is animal,
primal, instinctive;

Well, **** me, half
way thru another cigar,
“maybe i’m not learned enough
to write a story, a **** good one at that…a novel
i’d say
-good luck you simple sloth…How
could you? just a regular self-loathing chimp
who writes — p o e t r y.”
really pondering
hard; thinking: i can’t be [that] dumb,
i'll admit what i don’t know,
(but Hell, least i’m smarter than the next guy, the
       next guy, the next guy…til the next guy makes
me a **** fool; time to relocate and read some books.)

return my eyes to the computer screen,
re read what,
an hour ago,
i was, prematurely awarding myself the pulitzer prize for
as i see it now: pure
*******.
Devil’s attorney
slinking on slouched and grim drunken shoulder,
“hmm…and you say this is your forte?…
I wouldn’t kid yourself…kid.”



Warnings
in grave visions
of a desperate worm of a man
hunched at resin-stained desktop, scribbling away
His fancifull abstractions, broken man— Mad
and scared; shriveled,
scarred by regret—
Thought he was a talker;
witty, true like Bukowski,
        or Heron;
Fresh,
inventive as cummings
        or essential as Pound.
Simple
and brilliantly smooth
        as W.C.A  or W.C.W.
elegant, smart
and far-reaching as Eliot,
        or the Old Romantics;
could have sworn his musings
Rapturous! no Thoreau, he,
        nor as damaged as Poe be
under the Impression
He could stitch his Soul
into the seams of American Divine, direct such
spirits into p o e t r y as ***** ol Ginsberg did
so bravely, beautifully
as
Wherefore art
thou loving father? in Heavens is Walt
Whitman—
He
sure was;
He
was sure,
******* sure he
possessed a nugget of gold, mined
          from inside each of these masterful
Mountains. panned entire sunsoaked cordillera;
yet
each night
would ‘finish’ a
p o e m,
clock out, tho
always would feel, incomplete,
nevermind how many p o e m s he wrote
hundreds, maybe thousands of
bottomless wells
        of words;
Great Idea! Necessary Idea,
take action, he, in prose,
a form of action the action of wit,
to give human
body to formless, ex-humed soul—
Give soul to formless body of philosophy by god!

alas,
the schmuck
never
witty never
potent enough to pen a real
mother-****** of a story,
certainly
never could imbue a plot
with significance, endow with subtext
or builda character out of his p o e t r y,
        Then give it the legs to run for two-
         hundred pages—
He had the ****, just
not the ***** of it-all…
toiled, silly
in his nebulous, castrated,
dimlit room—swelling
whiskey or gin
cigarette glued to his dry lips, attempting
to romance the grey gods so
that thay mey spit mustard-seed
onto humbled holy head—
pray that it may grow, Flower
to full Bloom
even without
ever learning
his Biology.
…never
realizing what he had there—right
in front of him. Poor *******.
-Dumb. he was.
Cursed to be a P O E T.
and doomed to fail as one.




I hate the sound of the Sunrise
when i’ve been up, writing all night; it’s
an alarm like bones in a blender
thru an endless
waking dreamscape;
Sitting, thinking loosely,
wildly, loose-
change two-cent thoughts—
This
this is when regulatory bodies
are disabled, de
funded; radioactive runoff (operational hazards)
contaminates
pure streams;
...random billboard pop
t-r-a-s-h drift in
and out of mind(probably from
        the endless drone of those same 3 chords in
any store or restaurant you enter. How about some Classical?
        Math: the food ain’t rot ‘em enough, let’s assault
   their other senses of taste. Quick. while
        we’ve got them swine trapped!)
politcal memes, halftruths and
newsday buzzwords flash, bright and
silly then recede into obscurity;
only to discover, the next morning,
their greasy finger-prints
given gimcrack shine to deeppurple dawn
Gibberish. trife piffle. bunkum and balderdash,
gobbledygook, mumbojumbo jackshit slangspit
hogwash, ** lotta raspyutintutyncomman nonsensses hoosis mut nowago sayawahhesay too dum for dada…
My
yawns
are now childish giggling;
My concentrated writings. none of it makes any sense to me.
Searching for a distraction
To regain my focus, composure…
biting
nails, tapping Art Blakey grooves on tired desk,
inspecting burning cigarette, forensically.
Oh—
look around for my cat, come here, co
me here kitty. (ah yea, comforted
by familiar purring, a hum from under the bed;

-Close my eyes,
to centralize
to meditate
to ***** out
inanimate,moving parts
to put finger
to pulse of programmed nub;
to create value
for a dying currency of language;
to whisper sweet nothings
in the ears of tender muses
and meaty hookers.
-At this juncture:
reconciled
where the finish line is
strung,
how it appears to me…only snag:
by the time i get here—none
of these
nothing have no meaning
writing,this,that? what? be
low my paygrade *******;
Let stew; sleepy,
delirious, suicidal, anxious, sorta
*****, deadly confident;
Let stew...
…then it hit me like a Point of Intoxication!
brilliantly constructed
Words,
words hanging,
hanging
like a,
Renaissance-style portrait
above a fireplace in an enlightened *****-den,
    -for a moment, seen clearly thru parting
    of deadeye yellowsmoke sea.
Maladroit,
hallucinatory, went to type,
thought better,
no doubt would ****** such
sudden genius,
fumbled for recorder, gotcha
click:
closed my eyes oncemore
to review this epiphany, to record it.
relayed, recited
like a prayer;
perfectly—this must be what the body
of Christ feels like…
when done, i, exhausted,
smiled like a son a *****
how fine
that P O E M is gonna look,
when written
down all nice and neatly.
it was close(but i knew i'd pull
something revelatory out’ve
my ***.)
satisfied,
if my pants weren’t dry
i'd swear i came.

...the following afternoon,
Upon waking, coffee, cigarette, news
in the background,
grab the recorder to listen to this opus;
well,



**** ME!
if
i didn’t make sure there was any space left
on the ****** thing!
bye bye my petty kubla khan
Smart Boy.

ah well...
it’s just
P O E T R Y ya know.
Sean Fitzpatrick Jul 2014
A poet is a wind child
who can only play with that favorite toy,
a crystal bead of sweat that
springs forth from the mind.

To accept another plaything
would be slumberous, shadowy surrender,
so poet: don't stray far from
the shade of an old Oak Tree.

For some sparrow hands which
are washed with clarity can unpen with a key,
A shy horse with a black coat
And a star upon his brow.

His muscles strong against
the dark night and pulsing roads and travelers not known,
his hooves will kick 'gainst the earth
for the reigns o' your own sweat.

It'll be a while now until
The day comes and with it your eyesight,
still wander on forth with a candlestick
as you do in infant fatigues.

There is family watching you
over the dimlit alleys of abandoned streets,
who await you willingly-
and for the ringing of horse bells.
Yuki  Apr 2019
.. home ... where?
Yuki Apr 2019
today, i went out as the sun was burning bright.
and then,

i  c a m e  h o m e  i n  r a i n and
    t h e  s u n  w a s  w h i t e.

today, i went out as the trees and flowers were in bloom. i went out into a world in vibarant colours.
and then,

i  c a m e  h o m e  i n  r a i n. with
   c o l o u r s  d r a i n e d,
      l e a v e s  f a l l i n g.  l i k e  a s h e s  and

i  entered  a  dimlit,   empty  house.
Amirraahh Mar 2021
Every word of every verse

To each unspoken sound mumbled in reverse

Are my lips ceased to a star’s curse

&

I fall within the shattered lilac hearts of the universe

.

As the lily white dusk narrows to the sorbet sky of musk

Will the elephant rise beneath his tusk as the lavender suns flicker to moon dust

.

With tears rolling down my cheek

I cannot speak

I’m still searching for the delicate word’s I seek

My tongue thickened to weak

.

I begin to kneel

To seal all that bleeds to heal

If only your soul could feel

Open your eyes when you know it’s real

As swept you are in the sparse of a lemon peel

.

Silhouettes of forgiveness shade the dimlit air

To find comfort in a shallow prayer

Hidden behind the screen of my hair

In the cosmic milky glare

I feel the softness of the doves feather’s rare

My heart is not spare

No solitaire

Whilst my soul suffers inside this nightmare

I suspend my heart in midair

.

A moment of sorrow

Follows the drowning rain to the yellow

You write poems of your heart’s wound’s in scars of all that's hollow

Will I find you by the sword of your hero?

Do heart’s remain broke until tomorrow?

Bury my soul within the yarrow

.

Ohhh, loosen my skin

Even lovers sin

Let the light in

As you hear the sweetness from the muazzin

The warmth of sunlight sinks there in

.

Breathing flowers in a winter rose devour

&

Moonlight drinks to the bleeding heart of the soundless little wallflower

Though it’s your soul that can be bitter, but ever so sweet yet sometimes sour

.

Will you miss me?

I ask thee gently…

With old memories

Lost to the stars eyes

Of ebony rise

.

Ohhh my beloved

Am I so unloved?

Look into my eyes & see that you are loved

.

Rest my heart in the clouded skies above

Until my love

Until my love

Until my love can feel my love

— The End —