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The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
Butterflies turn to moths in the drapery of your stomach.
They spread,
And the feast begins on the fabric lining the masonry of your summit.

Your satin sheets,
The place you come to cradle dreams.
Who knew,
Were vulnerable to these wing'd beasts.
Missing an ending tbh.
Terry O'Leary Dec 2016
My chamber teems with tensions, taut, that logic can’t withstand,
fragmenting mental masonry with memories unplanned,
as bitter tears from hazel eyes reduce the stone to sand.

Dim shadows cast by candles flit across the haunted room,
beleaguer apparitions, pale, that stalk me through the gloom,
usurping purloined purple forms forgotten ghosts assume.

The tick-tock clock of time rewinds within the mirrored hall
and pendula suspended, pause, while creatures creep and crawl
on images of effigies, through memories that maul.

The madness of the midnight mass! Perchance it interferes
with spiders spinning spiral threads which bridge the chandeliers
when weaving minds' discarded coils to silken souvenirs.

Reflections graced the vacant gaze of idols as they fled!
Their futile, feigned, far-flung farewells now hammer in my head,
marooned like frozen silhouettes in footprints of the dead.

My lovers smile through marbled masks before they turn their backs
(like furnace flames deserting ash or phantoms fleeing cracks)
with faded, painted, wrinkled faces nightmares carve in wax.

Sometimes a gust disturbs the dust and secrets reappear,
which dance in silver slippers through the dusk of yesteryear -
it's not the screams that drown my dreams, but whispers which I fear.

The hangman posts a letter home, his message indiscreet
about the vestal ****** in the café (where we meet
to savour tea and crumpets) down a one-way dead-end street.

The rapping and the tapping at my tattered, time-worn door
repeat reports of migrant myths, of tales of nevermore,
strung far across a sullen sea, most shipwrecked near the shore.

Forget-me-nots, enwrapped in rain the while a wan wind blows,
recall the faintly fickle fates this drifter undergoes –
alone, unknown with tracks interred in teardrop undertows.

My feet, no longer tied or tethered, traipse within a squall
pursuing profiles long forsaken, buried in the sprawl
of spectres spread amongst the dead, some tattooed to the wall.

At times, the belfry towers toll of anarchy and gin,
of smoke and mirrors, rolling dice and other things akin,
impaled on forks down byway roads, and things that might-have-been.

The skies outside, beyond the night with shutters shut and drawn,
begin to glow on shattered shapes escaping ’fore the dawn
as clouds undone beneath the sun release this captive pawn.
The Sphinx Sphanther, an ailuralien
from Slazenger 7, Ulthar System,
surveyed the vapid dullpink lunascape
of Smars. As he scanned yonder scanyons &
clabby tableland of Smartian terrain,
his 8ft henchbot, Ernie, numberwanged
'23467 097
11.' The Sphinx Sphanther's binary-brained
blabacus of a hotchbot robutler
doubled as personal security,
equipped w/ chainsawwindmillstars for hands.
But scant call for slicing 'n'dicing crowd
control here: Smars was desolate as smug
snow, too xeric to dessicater to
desertcraturf - in that, arid aphex
of its counterpart thru the quantumgate,
unsparticulate Mars. Sphinx had been there
too, long after the novalia cleared
by the Elon Muscovites for dometown
of New Creationham instead became
obumbrated by proxy war, a mauve
Somme for drones. The Zeta-Reticulan
barhover he'd met centuries later,
at Sagittarius Bolognaise, had
divulged he'd been staking out the Terrans
for millennia, concluding that quite
clearly they weren't Kardashev calibre:
' The Terran jackal apes could never build
fair Isratin on Mars's blank red slate,
but desecratered Earth 2.0
w/ telefactored lex talionis.
Palasraeli peace-world a daffy god's
dream.' But no roseplated, plaintive past
of lost races & their last, lost chances
would weigh on Sphinx Sphanther over 0-
g 'n' ts - least of all, kamikozmic
Terrans, ghosts of toddlers before his time.
Besides, he purrferred the splanetary
systems in his home universe, S-side
of the supersymmetrical stargate.
Even planet Smearth, whose gnomes salivate
for colloidal silver & often ate
salvers. But multiversally treasure-
hunting catman was not on Smars for smurrks,
nor to holoholo like a stalko
thru the pink pother, a fishbowlhead space-
*** w/ the best seat i.e. the worst seat
in a stadial sandstorm of foxglove
fog. In whirbles pulsive, Ernie's clicking
clock breath axlegroused, '23824
71719', as the Sphinx
Sphanther fremescently urged the servo-
droid to 'move your chrome cuirasse!' Which encased
Ernie's one lung of mesh & blexcroid heart,
repurposed by a gizmomancer from
silicone garage off Milkomeda
magic roundabout. Or was it spaceport
at the Smilkomeda?  Whichever,  the
Sphanther had long ago evolved beyond
flying saucers of cream. Caterpillar-
tracked calculator w/ a sporknose &
whisking shuriken fingers, Ernie creaked
futuristically behind its feline
master, as they descended in oblique
Indian file down scarp of Mountbattern
grink, for now the Sphinx Sphanther had bird's-eyed
some bearings. Manshaped moggy & lotto-
machine-A.I.'d adjutant had for days
yomped the candydross regolith of Smars,
a desert every bit as brass monkies
& indistinguishable in aspect
(save to areographers) as ginger
tundra of its supersymmetrical
sister sphere, yet pink as amassed honkies
(tho' ofays blushing ashen w/ gammon
guilt). A holo-map Ernie projected
from its cyflaptic eyezor had led them
this far, but now the Sphinx Sphanther relied
on the sort of stillicide scholarship
a cat gleens from spacerats (w/ translation
bracelet bangling his back, a caudal wire),
because Ernie's pirate-ninja meter
was in emergency credit. The pair
hinterlunged on thru tayammum douches
of inextinguishable pink, spinning
powders, smaze of Smartian haboob, until
Sphinx Sphanther sphied, sphorry, spied his wrecked grail.
'Initiating sleep sequence passout-
code: rats apollo defile robot tide,'
catman commanded his lollygagging
tincan manservant to take hard-earnied
standby. Then, before Ernie's spangbolts could
cease squeaking, before its hi-tec bits quit
bleeping &  the combined constadrone of   
mechanical chakras was susurrust
(engulfed by speckled banshee breaker of
nominal boughs, wolf sough of Smars booting
alien sandcastles), the Sphinx Sphanther
in his eagerness nearly lapsed into
quadrupedal ignominy, as he
raced towards the ruins, object of his
enantionautic planethopping
over 8 & 1/2 lifetimes. Not much
remained of whatever edifice had
once graced Smars, a primordial witness
wrought in masonry as lurid as some
Lovecraftchild of Liberace, its pink
pillars & pink hunky punks bubblegum
rubble now, vividness conspicuous
against the grink sands.These Smartian ruins
were only slightly less ancient than God
& his blue hypernovae toybox, or
Tohu wa-Bohu's pantherine absence
before that. The Temple of the Dark Lord,
Yod-Coalescence, indisputably
a stripling of deep architecture next
to the Sphinx Sphanther's incomparable find.
By the same token, the fabled Terran
city of Dubai would be an ugly
baby of steel & glass next to this site
of cosmic heritage, this exploded
damask rose of a UFOpolis,
stone petals shed by flower of dust. Engraved
on block immemorial, poking out
of a sandbank & imbued w/ forlorn
fascination for upright ****, such as
xoanon of Eve might hold for Conan
the Slybrarian, was maxim in long
dead tongue, the long dead sense of which rendered
it accidental koan, dumb poem
by anon culture that might as well be
entitled 'Sirenen Istigkeit'. Food
for thought anorexic Time, bulimic
Space inedibly graffitied on Smars:
'Nulla Dies Sine Linear B'.
Under cured Klyntar yurt later that night,
whilst Ernie hummed w/ Atari sheep sprites,
the Sphinx Sphanther dreamt of mighty works thru
the wringer of longslid signifiers:  

The barhover hovered above
membranous whatevers of mise-en-dream,
before the scene settled like anarchic snow.
Smickey Smouse was on a mauve rove
one smauve Tuesday. As Smickey
scanned yonder young scones,
young dust granted him edgehug.
Ernie said : Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
They certainly weren't in Snorwich, Snorfolk, anymore.
They hinterlunged on thru candybrass
of dross monkies, pinning spowders,
until Smickey Smouse smied, smorry, sphied
the Temple of the Dark Lord,
Pantherine Absence.
Smickey Smouse said: Wait there,
I'm just going for a quick Slazenger-7.
Ernie said: Skoda codas.
Elon Musk divulged he'd been
staking out the Terrans
for millennia & concluded they were in
emergency credit.
So they descended a serdab
poking into a sandbank,
its venom curd of darkness
further diagonally desecraterd
by Ernie's sadotronic **** attachment w/ knobs on,
thagomiser **** or Oumuamua
of steel & glass.
Its mace ***** drilled down
until Smickey, Ernie & Elon
were 3 spelunking sphinxes,
spelunking deeper into the recesses
of the alien sandcastle,
by the light of Ernie's eyeflaptic cyzors.
But you can't holoholo in a fishbowlobowlo,
lavalampadomancy of a daffy god's dream.
They longslod into the long dead clock breath
of Ozymandias' unconscious.
Should a cave-in cave in,
a hi-drama-gen bomb bomb,
quidzinc Ernie said: Inadjuvant Elon
Rifles should have hired
ghosts of toddlers  
for our pirate-ninja security.
Above them,
the embitteringly bitty yonder
stretched lone & level,
a ventriloquantum of solace on a grink brick
remained undiscovered & unsquandered,
waiting for a greater translator .
Ernie said: edit to bore life dollop a star.
Ernie said: Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
Brandon Conway Nov 2018
The gorgon's masonry casting châteaus
for the rich
turning hearts to pompous narcissist

once of legends and myths
has arisen once again
blue light and endless scroll

the gorgon's masonry casting shadows
for the everyman
turning hearts to pompous narcissist
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
    So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
    You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
I
Ancestral Houses
SURELY among a rich man s flowering lawns,
Amid the rustle of his planted hills,
Life overflows without ambitious pains;
And rains down life until the basin spills,
And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains
As though to choose whatever shape it wills
And never stoop to a mechanical
Or servile shape, at others' beck and call.
Mere dreams, mere dreams! Yet Homer had not Sung
Had he not found it certain beyond dreams
That out of life's own self-delight had sprung
The abounding glittering jet; though now it seems
As if some marvellous empty sea-shell flung
Out of the obscure dark of the rich streams,
And not a fountain, were the symbol which
Shadows the inherited glory of the rich.
Some violent bitter man, some powerful man
Called architect and artist in, that they,
Bitter and violent men, might rear in stone
The sweetness that all longed for night and day,
The gentleness none there had ever known;
But when the master's buried mice can play.
And maybe the great-grandson of that house,
For all its bronze and marble, 's but a mouse.
O what if gardens where the peacock strays
With delicate feet upon old terraces,
Or else all Juno from an urn displays
Before the indifferent garden deities;
O what if levelled lawns and gravelled ways
Where slippered Contemplation finds his ease
And Childhood a delight for every sense,
But take our greatness with our violence?
What if the glory of escutcheoned doors,
And buildings that a haughtier age designed,
The pacing to and fro on polished floors
Amid great chambers and long galleries, lined
With famous portraits of our ancestors;
What if those things the greatest of mankind
Consider most to magnify, or to bless,
But take our greatness with our bitterness?

II
My House
An ancient bridge, and a more ancient tower,
A farmhouse that is sheltered by its wall,
An acre of stony ground,
Where the symbolic rose can break in flower,
Old ragged elms, old thorns innumerable,
The sound of the rain or sound
Of every wind that blows;
The stilted water-hen
Crossing Stream again
Scared by the splashing of a dozen cows;
A winding stair, a chamber arched with stone,
A grey stone fireplace with an open hearth,
A candle and written page.
Il Penseroso's Platonist toiled on
In some like chamber, shadowing forth
How the daemonic rage
Imagined everything.
Benighted travellers
From markets and from fairs
Have seen his midnight candle glimmering.
Two men have founded here.  A man-at-arms
Gathered a score of horse and spent his days
In this tumultuous spot,
Where through long wars and sudden night alarms
His dwinding score and he seemed castaways
Forgetting and forgot;
And I, that after me
My ****** heirs may find,
To exalt a lonely mind,
Befitting emblems of adversity.

III
My Table
Two heavy trestles, and a board
Where Sato's gift, a changeless sword,
By pen and paper lies,
That it may moralise
My days out of their aimlessness.
A bit of an embroidered dress
Covers its wooden sheath.
Chaucer had not drawn breath
When it was forged.  In Sato's house,
Curved like new moon, moon-luminous
It lay five hundred years.
Yet if no change appears
No moon; only an aching heart
Conceives a changeless work of art.
Our learned men have urged
That when and where 'twas forged
A marvellous accomplishment,
In painting or in pottery, went
From father unto son
And through the centuries ran
And seemed unchanging like the sword.
Soul's beauty being most adored,
Men and their business took
Me soul's unchanging look;
For the most rich inheritor,
Knowing that none could pass Heaven's door,
That loved inferior art,
Had such an aching heart
That he, although a country's talk
For silken clothes and stately walk.
Had waking wits; it seemed
Juno's peacock screamed.

IV
My Descendants
Having inherited a vigorous mind
From my old fathers, I must nourish dreams
And leave a woman and a man behind
As vigorous of mind, and yet it seems
Life scarce can cast a fragrance on the wind,
Scarce spread a glory to the morning beams,
But the torn petals strew the garden plot;
And there's but common greenness after that.
And what if my descendants lose the flower
Through natural declension of the soul,
Through too much business with the passing hour,
Through too much play, or marriage with a fool?
May this laborious stair and this stark tower
Become a roofless min that the owl
May build in the cracked masonry and cry
Her desolation to the desolate sky.
The primum Mobile that fashioned us
Has made the very owls in circles move;
And I, that count myself most prosperous,
Seeing that love and friendship are enough,
For an old neighbour's friendship chose the house
And decked and altered it for a girl's love,
And know whatever flourish and decline
These stones remain their monument and mine.
V
The Road at My Door
An affable Irregular,
A heavily-built Falstaffian man,
Comes cracking jokes of civil war
As though to die by gunshot were
The finest play under the sun.
A brown Lieutenant and his men,
Half dressed in national uniform,
Stand at my door, and I complain
Of the foul weather, hail and rain,
A pear-tree broken by the storm.
I count those feathered ***** of soot
The moor-hen guides upon the stream.
To silence the envy in my thought;
And turn towards my chamber, caught
In the cold snows of a dream.

VI
The Stare's Nest by My Window
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the state.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned,
Yet no cleat fact to be discerned:
Come build in he empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war;
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare;
More Substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

VII
I see Phantoms of Hatred and of the Heart's
Fullness and of the Coming Emptiness
I climb to the tower-top and lean upon broken stone,
A mist that is like blown snow is sweeping over all,
Valley, river, and elms, under the light of a moon
That seems unlike itself, that seems unchangeable,
A glittering sword out of the east.  A puff of wind
And those white glimmering fragments of the mist
sweep by.
Frenzies bewilder, reveries perturb the mind;
Monstrous familiar images swim to the mind's eye.
"Vengeance upon the murderers,' the cry goes up,
"Vengeance for Jacques Molay.' In cloud-pale rags, or
in lace,
The rage-driven, rage-tormented, and rage-hungry troop,
Trooper belabouring trooper, biting at arm or at face,
Plunges towards nothing, arms and fingers spreading
wide
For the embrace of nothing; and I, my wits astray
Because of all that senseless tumult, all but cried
For vengeance on the murderers of Jacques Molay.
Their legs long, delicate and slender, aquamarine their
eyes,
Magical unicorns bear ladies on their backs.
The ladies close their musing eyes.  No prophecies,
Remembered out of Babylonian almanacs,
Have closed the ladies' eyes, their minds are but a pool
Where even longing drowns under its own excess;
Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full
Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.
The cloud-pale unicorns, the eyes of aquamarine,
The quivering half-closed eyelids, the rags of cloud or
of lace,
Or eyes that rage has brightened, arms it has made lean,
Give place to an indifferent multitude, give place
To brazen hawks.  Nor self-delighting reverie,
Nor hate of what's to come, nor pity for what's gone,
Nothing but grip of claw, and the eye's complacency,
The innumerable clanging wings that have put out the
moon.
I turn away and shut the door, and on the stair
Wonder how many times I could have proved my
worth
In something that all others understand or share;
But O! ambitious heart, had such a proof drawn forth
A company of friends, a conscience set at ease,
It had but made us pine the more.  The abstract joy,
The half-read wisdom of daemonic images,
Suffice the ageing man as once the growing boy.
David Barr Dec 2013
The psychologising of the masses is a contemporary pestilence where those who are metaphorically deceased by political wiles, form impetuous lines in the quest for an array of implanted micro-organisms.
Although I have never conversed with the ghosts of Tombstone, I have blown sand away from many obscured surfaces.
As bryophytes are damp botanical mats which cleave to the ancient and symbolic markers of death; so the writing is similarly attached and strewn across our grand societal walls.
That which was once concealed is now blatantly revealed.
Therefore, I appeal to the social construction of what is presumed to be reality: Can we please now unite and carve humanitarian lines into the stony face of our confabulated habitat?
Tommy Carroll Nov 2015
Not for me another love
like choking fear
It will not budge
I dare not blink
for it now seems
by choosing drink
I dwell in dreams

I grind to bits
my words and teeth
when searching through
my history:
to lift above
what lay beneath
all that broken masonry
Shane Leigh  Aug 2017
Plague
Shane Leigh Aug 2017
In dire times
we look to those who hold power:
Kings and Queens that long leave us bereft.
Cowering thieves that steal the silver
from peasants,
from nobility,
from those who claim good tidings and tranquility.

It awaits,
lurking -
patient -
in the crevices of the masonry;
What death has been brought here?
What suffering?
What pain?

It does away
with the faithful,
the forgiving,
the forgiven;
young, old, sickly, and power driven;
leaving eye-sight red,
skin singed like ash -
Burned.

Do not fear thy neighbors cough
for it be too late if you had heard;
fear the mask marked by plague,
walking amongst those who once passed.
Taking the guise of good nature
It steals,
It grasps life with cold fingers like twine -
and there be not left but twine.

Then there,
in the dark,
there is no warmth;
cold and calloused It leaves;
washing through the cities
as if all now was
Cleansed.

What now of said power of Majesty's grace?
There be no more cowards
to thieve in their place.
© Shane Leigh
I love all things medieval and Middle Age (mythology, the good, the bad, the gruesome); so, when I have inklings to write about them, I cannot stop myself from doing so (:
ONE by one lights of a skyscraper fling their checkering cross work on the velvet gown of night.
I believe the skyscraper loves night as a woman and brings her playthings she asks for, brings her a velvet gown,
And loves the white of her shoulders hidden under the dark feel of it all.
  
The masonry of steel looks to the night for somebody it loves,
He is a little dizzy and almost dances ... waiting ... dark ...
Tommy Carroll Oct 2015
Not for me another love
like choking fear
It will not budge
I dare not blink
for it now seems
by choosing drink
I dwell in dreams

I grind to bits
my words and teeth
when searching through
my history:
to lift above
what lay beneath
all that broken masonry
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

— The End —