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For Max

O cruel, drunken soul, darling tigress,
Come to my heart, you lethargic beast!
I long for my trembling hands to caress
Your thick and glossy fleece.

In your petticoats filled with your scent
To bury my poor, aching head,
Inhaling your flowery fragrance;
The sweetness of love now dead.

I wish to sleep, to dream perchance
As sweetly as death’s embrace,
Without remorse, my tongue will dance
On your coppery body and face.

To bury my sobbing for hours
Nothing equals your bed’s abyss,
On your lips lies oblivion’s power
And Lethe flows in your kiss.

Like one resigned to meet his end,
I’ll face my fate delighted;
Docile martyr, innocent condemned,
Whose fervour with pain is ignited.

I shall ****, to drown my malice,  
With nepenthe and hemlock blessed;
Placing my lips upon the chalice
Of your pointed, heartless breast.
zebra  Oct 2018
Canticle
zebra Oct 2018
I cover my head in stony burlap
a hair shirt fleece
for humility I do not possess
a praying preying paradox

climbing upwards
to the heavens
while being dragged
by every hate and love
in a gravitating decent
with huddled wings
pulled into fires and maws gag
a terror terrified

like a spider
waiting for a fly
waiting for a bird
Bison  Mar 2016
Sons
Bison Mar 2016
Writhing in our fevered sleep.
Sickness twisting our once golden fleece. Losing sight of what it means to believe in this American dream.
Have we become the ******* sons of liberty?
How can we hope to be free from war when there's no peace?
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
              …stirred her iron ***,

Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
             …home of death and rot,

Abigail Primpot sewed and stitched a lot.
She produced a sweater that shined like treasure,
                           …and no one else has ever seen much better!

Abigail Primpot learned to cook from old wives’ tales in an old dusty book.

Frog legs, bird gizzard, wolf’s bane, small lizard, one rotten apple and one sharp tooth, …cup of mead, some spices and a bottle of vermouth, a chant and a song and a wizard’s spell, …and a whirlpool in the cauldron that went to Hell! Abigail Primpot likes to stitch ‘cause she is a witch and though she was quite young; she lived with snakes, bees and scorpions and things that stung!

Abigail Primpot would become a Beast when she wrapped herself in her shining fleece!

Abigail Primpot,
              ...her home stunk of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot,
              ...sewed and stitched a lot,
Abigail Primpot,
              ...she had an iron ***,

Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot.
A children's rhyme. The beast, the golden fleece and webbing are all ancient mythological cosmogonical symbols of the rotating stars of heaven. New Mythology
Traveler  Dec 2015
BLEED ALONE
Traveler Dec 2015
Behind gothic eyes her shadows hide
Silence screams from deep inside
I try to ease her soul’s unrest
What went wrong I can only guess

Black and red yet dark as lies
Mascara runs, I know she cries
Cotton under a woolly fleece
She’s running from the dream police

Silver rings pierce her skin
But will she ever let me in …

Guitars distort an angry tune
A song of lovers surely doomed
Is she with me, she says yes
She says life's a ******* mess

I kiss her lace; she takes me home
Tonight she won’t bleed alone...
Traveler Tim
re to 03-19
bulletcookie Jul 2018
Heart, be still your desire
she does not know her wait
you delay in longing hours
in consummation of this fate

each and every loving gesture
days observed of them and one
seals in searing branded texture
of a wound that rivals sun

self inflicted desolation
looking for a golden fleece
through these trials and tribulations
steeled to wander for that kiss

-cec
Keith Collard Nov 2015
How can I be the closest to the Earth, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
why can you only see me during twilight, embracing a lover while all alone.

How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent my gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose,   I view  blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins, and the rolling triumph of my surface's relief is from breathless sandy ovation beneath, for before my baron plains were slain and put to sleep, they braved the great inferno winning solar armor in golden fleece, for who can brave my extremes,
When my axix turns from cold still darkness to fusion heat,

But now is my region of my silver repose,  no ovation no gold, just the stoic silver shadow from the starlight strobe, the shadows slant from every surface at the angle of an open volume being studied, until my dark volumes close due to starlight directly above me, then my clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power,  the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face, cold lifeless blood,  and on my stare, intense solar flare,  watching graves start to to die, with the sunset looming, to sustain life by joining the great inferno's confusion, and becoming shadows from stars in my silver musing,

I am the twilight messenger--from my hazy theater of gaseous metal--where the applause  can't bear to sit,  to the hall of my cold dark temple with long dead stars keeping it faintly lit,  to be mercurial is my theater caused by applause, my temple's pale light of long dead stars.  It is the sadness of a fire that will never start--my annual Parthenon in short lived geminid sparks.
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