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Umi  Mar 2018
Bloody Devotion
Umi Mar 2018
To its mistresses wish, the blade dances through till she has been pleased, leaving a mess by engraving the scars of death as a mark, Alike a shadow she does not crack, cavorting a masacre of cruelty,
Berserking she follows the orders, shedding blood in fountains of death and misery without chance for this rage to stop without order,
Emotionless, cold, time is for her to stop moving when her ****** devotion consumes her entirely, swaying in the dark, destroying,
Tortured with true or false everyone disappears, time flows again,
A phantom glides over the sea of blood, in a mist, scarlet red,
Observing this would cause a riot of emotions to rage in pure fury,
Her name already burnt away, as a new one was given to her after this rumpus had found its peak, leaving the mistress in bliss, joy,
Watching their attemps to flee as they reach their dying moments,
Until those who get to close have perished, nobody and nothing left,
Cricling karma surely will catch them, after this sacrifice is done,
Warm blood melts the left over snow, laughter echos and reverbrates through the unending seeming night, bells ring, it is only midnight.
In the end her loyalty and efforts, her energy and love for her mistress
Are but a ****** devotion

~ Umi
En la grana de un prado sanguíneo
o en un bosque de cabezas cercenadas,
la viuda reclama la carne
de un párvulo *******.

Allí donde entonan sus voces
un coro de lamentos disonantes.
Reniega de su apetito
la matriarca del barrio francés

Pues los gritos de Joliet
no inquietan su consciencia,
cosechan en cambio,
un jardín de culposos deleites

Placeres como solo admite,
la maquiavelia de una gioconda
que envuelta en lujosos atavíos
extiende sus garras al inocente
Ni hablar del perjurio voraz,
que oculta a la fantasía
la marea virgen del infortunio
y el propio siniestro.

La desesperación de una madre
que devora a sus hijos con el don de Saturno.

Para la que no hay erotismo
sino aquel que evoca
el rigor cadavérico.

Vapores que ascienden
desde el lecho en descomposición,
y alimentan su magia.

Celebran el cruento dolor del infante,
con la mirada de espanto
apenas visible en el carmesí
de sus finas pestañas

Porque es claro como la luna
y tan cierto como la muerte
que en la viuda no hay gozo,
sin el grito que desgarra la noche.

Sin la brea que desciende
sobre el horizonte,
y la angustia que acompaña
la pasión de la masacre.
... o mejor dicho, la viuda de Jacques Paris, Marie Laveau, la maga del Misisipi y su muñeca  Joliet, a quienes olvidara la historia por imitar a los titanes y consumir a sus hijos con el vigor de las masas famélicas
Aztec Warrior  Nov 2015
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015

Summer clouds,
billowing white, amidst
a blue ocean,
speak in the language of
rabbits, turtles, whales,
of knights and warriors.
Moving slowly
with majestic determination,
calling all to look,
and create
those night time lullabies
to help small children
and not fear
those monsters
in the closet,
under the bed,
or in the room
down the hall.

All too quickly
they learn the monsters
are real, alive and well;
are the ones sitting
on the edge of the bed
singing of woodland creatures,
pretending their sharpened teeth
don’t leave scars that
never ever heal.

As a young boy
I would watch those billowing
white clouds
and imagine knights and warriors
carrying sharpened,
double edged swords,
advancing on this ocean blue
as they headed to my best friends bedroom
to cut off the heads
of these monsters
and stop those sweet lullabies.

Today, summer clouds
hung, draping their whiteness
in such a way
I saw your face.
A tear streaked your cheek,
but the there was also a smile.
I remember you pitching fast *****
that hurt my catchers hand,
as batter after batter
swung and missed.
You were that good.
I remember us mixing a
toxic concoction
with my chemistry set
and killing a colony of ants.
It was a masacre.
That night we both had nightmares
of ant armies seeking revenge
and swore we would forever
protect all life
as penitence.
For a while
we were best friends.

And then
the monsters came.
You were 11,
in fifth grade when
you finally fought back.
After the monster attacked
your mother and sister,
you found your sword.
As in the epic tale of George the Dragon Slayer,
the battle was fierce;
blood everywhere;
but George,
the boy with the lightning fast ball;
the boy who apologized for killing ants;
did the bravest thing of all -
he slew the monster!

George -
you were my best friend
they took you away
and I have never seen you again.
I never got to tell you
I was so happy you won!
George -
you were my best friend
you taught me to be brave;
to stand against all monsters.

(Written using the pen name:
~~redzone 4.12.14
Posted using the pen name Aztec Warrior)

Note: The other day when it was so warm and spring-like, a memory from long ago floated around in my mind. His name was George S., and for two years, he was my best friend.
    I wanted you to meet him, and tried in a more poetic form to tell you some about him. He came from another country. He, his mother and sister had fled from his father who abused them. But he found them and for a short time things were ok, until the horrors began again.
    This poem is for all who know what abuse and oppression is and have survived because of your courage in battling these monsters. It is also for all those who in one way or another have not been able to do this, in spite of their heroic efforts. Our hearts are yours forever!
     George, where ever you are, THANK YOU. Cause at a very early age, you showed me what it means to be brave and to stand up against injustice and abuse.
Last night a poet asked me how I could be so sympathetic to those who have suffered abuse since I myself have never been abused. One of many reasons is because of George. We talked, he cried and I tried as best as an 11 year boy could to listen. He would never let me come into his house if his dad was home. In some ways I guess I was his release. But he was the brave one!!! I remember telling him he could stay at my house, but he said that he had to go home cause his sister and mother needed him. Ironic, cause that was the night he used his sword (a butchers knife he had hidden). That next morning when I stopped by his house to walk together to school, there was a cop car outside and told me George was taken away.
SerZatarra  May 2014
I Wished
SerZatarra May 2014
When I was little I was raised in Fantasy,
the works of Tolkien and Lewis swam all around me,
Dragons were just over the next hill,
orcs ready and waiting to ****,
I dug up my moms garden to find a gnome.
but since gnomes are ridiculous i replaced it with little fairy homes.
my mom came out upset not because of the flower masacre
but because I built those houses without including her.
So needless to say I believed in magic,
i even tried to learn some cards tricks,
but seeing how at the time i was as smooth as a jackhammer
lets just saying card magic was never something i mastered.
But wishes, to wish was a magic that i had learned much about,
for every night me and my mother would go out,
right as the moon kissed the horizon,
my mom saying keep your eyes open son,
for whom so ever see’s that first star,
will truly know what wishes are.
But you see, wishes are tricky
they can’t be to much and you can’t be to picky,
and heaven forbid you tell someone
cause welp, you’ve just gone and ruined all the fun.
But uh.. years pass by and life happened,
and I realized fantasy is kind of for mad men,
cause who could be worried about dragons,
when there’s a 6 foot bully bashing your head in,
when the orcs turn into men with guns,
you don’t think of anything.. but run.
And i realized that digging up a gnome,
is nothing compared to burying the nicest person you’ve ever known.
So needless to say, I forgot about magic.
hung my hat on the peg and realized my magic wand was just a stick,
The last wish i made was for my friend to come home,
He’s still in the ground 8 years later..
I never told anyone that wish..
Even more years pass, and I realize something.
Just because real life can get hard, that doesn’t mean that i need to stop fantasizing.
So now as I walk to class 8 years later I see a fairy dash behind a leaf,
I see the footprints of a goblin as it sneaks,
And it seems as if I’ve made a full recovery,
as if the troubles of my past no longer bother me,
And it’s true! …for the most part
I still don’t make wishes..
or well.. used to not.
Cause something happened that made me believe,
see this funny little girl came up to me,
she doesn’t really wear pants and doesn’t own a real pair of shoes,
but there was something in her eyes that just.. i couldn’t.. i can’t… words..
Now this girl, she makes a wish every 11:11,
something I hadn’t done since my friend went to heaven,
and so when she asked me what i wished for I always said nothing,
cause I couldn’t make myself wish for something that wasn’t coming,
but this girl, and her eyes, i needed help from something,
So that night as the moon rised in the sky i was running,
cause i had this feeling in my chest and my blood was pumping,
So as the stars kissed the sky I… I gave in.
I gathered my fairies, rounded up the hobbits, and called the dragons,
And since i know that telling a wish doesn’t make it not come true
I’ll tell you tonight,
I wished for you.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
god almighty, it really has become that,
constipated writers inc.,
you can see them bargain hunt
the next big word - big word among
very simple narrative, stands out
like a christmas tree in a forest
of anorexic pine - they've started the
conveyor belt of horse eye shutters
so they can be reined in on the basis of
some puppet voodoo via the hindu
muses of brahman, it's a 'down the line'
moment: a does what a can only do,
and b does what b can only do,
given c is the process by which
a does what a does prior to not doing it,
like b, which does what b does prior to not
doing it;
me? well i too wish i was an english literature
or a journalism university drop out,
the hard man, the one who left school
at 16 without any qualifications,
started a record company, signed mike
oldfield believing that tubular bells would
be the basis for the soundtrack to both
halloween and the exorcist
(1973, 1978 and 1974 respectively) -
but they're just coming out of these institutions
with institutional verse - they're bothered
and conscious of techniques, they know
why and when to use a metaphor,
they care about saying a maxim about a similie,
they do everything by the rubric as if poetry
was a multiplication table worth memorising,
they write about thirty words a piece
in order that someone might write a 10,000 word
essay playing surgeon on them, cutting them
up to such a bare minimum that you could
almost learn kabbalah inside-out -
but i did graduate with a chemistry degree
unfortunately, and that makes me no hard man,
but i did masacre a bottle of absinthe
at about ~96% in one night and got annoyed
at not being drunk enough - yeah... hard as
they come... nothing to be proud of in all
honesty... yes all that sugar on spoon, bit
of absinthe on sugar and inferno - then some
water to dilute the absinthe and make it
milky green (czech absinthe doesn't turn milky,
some additive is missing, i can't remember) because
i have this one point to make: over-analysing
poetic expression, being conscious of poetic
techniques, in general orthodoxy is so ******
tedious that you begin to put faith in free verse...
that splendour of spontaneity like fireworks set off
un-expectedly on guy fawkes night giving you a startle.

— The End —