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n-khrennikov Nov 2018
The sky in your eyes beautifies your soul
Relax the wings when you scream in the sound of your heart,
and I can hold it in your arms.

In your hair every anxiety is sleeping,
fear is extinguished when I touch and touch
Oh, on my fingers eager to travel
wildly, that calls me to appear.

And if I fall and fall on you,
I will become a storm on the shore,
scattered on the sand spread out
to burn your feet in silence.

I will become a sun, rain to ask you
clouds to drink and hide
the sweet tears that burn your belly
From the hills of life to death.

That, your eyes are a ticket for me
to participate in the places praised,
in the sky my wings spread out
and the only thing I ask, is to return to earth.
~ NK
Just one of the misfits
The mystics
The mythic
Enthusiasts  scripting
My own hieroglyphic
Codex to keep written
Just jot
A few thoughts
Down each day
To see how they all look
Rearranged on the page
And that even I can't
Comprehend of this message
Perhaps in the future
Invaluable lesson
Is gleamed
From what seems
To be power mad schemes
But this world I will leave
Having not conquered even
A parcel of land
For I already hold
The whole world in my hand
in this city there is intense
friendly, charming,
but nothing behind the eyes.
the mask of sanity


something terrible
comes a calling,
there was a ringing in my blood,
maybe I should go a-killing,
you look lovely choking
on your tongue,

you are evil.
in this town,
you must do evil
but softy,
-caress your lover
then stab the *****,

pain is intellectual,
the superior modus operandi
to happiness,
only evil is worth the time.

an accident happened,
the neighbour is dead,
let's go outside

all at once

and watch
and watch

you are stuck in the machinery,
in this city,
we watch as your body

into god.

in the city
there is eternal happiness,
serene, perfect bliss

your children grow like guileless
they drink in the
light of
your deformed god,

praise violence secretly,
praise despair
when mourning
for too much of it
and you might
as well swing from ropes,

in the city though,
the tourist comes
to see eden at last,
here the dallying,
here the breathing,
synchronized in our
never knowing of
war, famine,

we **** ourselves with smiles,

the joy
of successful sacrifice,

I cannot do it justice
this city,
this beauty
iridescent and benign,
the cup of elixir,
weeping mystics
bow in reverence,
pious housewives
turn to the saints
adorning the doors of our households,
and at night the
wife does not slam doors,
she opens them
and sits on her own accord,
and the husband does not drink
he eats the food of the lord,
and does not throw plates,
and the children are beautiful cherubs,
they sing of heaven,
and water the plants with their tears,

the table is ready,
let us feast upon the idiosyncrasy of our

in the city there
is but one flaw,
there is child who weeps for pain,
he is half starved,
***** matter covers him,
his gangly arms
ripping at the bread,
his eyes droop and
are shadowed by
he urinates upon himself,
and eats
at his hand
when dinner is not given,
he stares at walls,
and his skin is littered with lice,
absent mindedly he scratches
until blood is drawn
and licks it in thirst
- he was never taught

but the happiness
of the city depends upon the child,
the suffering of one
for the betterment of
a million others,
the experts say
it is illogical
to sacrifice all
for the improvement of
one, who
has no chance of
regular function,

he is but a child,
but he is the child of the city,
and his pain feeds
our happiness,
his gentle cries
for his mother
rest upon our dinner
and make us salivate,

he is our child,
nameless yes,
but he is so wonderfully delicious,
his flesh
squelching under
the brute force
of crowbars --our salvation,

but in this city
there is no guilt,
we fatten our children
for strong futures,
we do not shake our

for we love to shake our boy
when he cries,
and hit him and


as they beat him

such beauty
such beauty

tears spring to the eyes.

for we know the child
must be there,
the happiness that
radiates through the
depend upon his
jutting bones,
in his misery
lies the knowledge of our
the cures to our diseases,
the terrible
justice of our boon,

but some
when they are brought
to the room
of the boy,
simply look,
and go sit under a brook
for a minute
then they get up and


walk away

from this city of stardust
and fairytales,
and eternal sunshine,
where they go,
no one knows the better,
maybe someplace far
far more lovely,
maybe someplace wretched,
it is possible they cease to exist
for they never come back...

this city,
this city

is beautiful

but if I told you about it
you wouldn't believe me, would you?
Graff1980  Oct 2018
Untitled 14
Graff1980 Oct 2018
These marvelous mystics
work word magic,
in the realm of poetics.

Waves of sounds penetrate
the mental barriers
my peers have made.

They speak with silver spades,
digging up the beauty and wisdom,
bending, and breaking the light with
the weird wonder of their syllable prisms.

They crack the mental prisons
that embiggen
the cash flow of sexists and bigots.
They expose the spigot
that spews *******,
with chunks and bits
of acid spit and ****.

They turn the darkness
into lighted corners,
take the depression
and hopelessness
that was all consuming
and present you
with a new view.

They assimilate and share
information and inspiration.
With similes and metaphors,
they explore
all avenues to truth.
Though they soar
too close to the sun
they still manage
to bring back that blazing beauty
before their wax wings melt
and they sink into
the history of
salt water words.
Briscoe  Sep 1
Briscoe Sep 1
I see crystal spires of great conspiring myriads
Collapse to spheres.
A conscience of science fiction
Aroused as one sees tin men walk on streets.
The mystics and myths are.
The instincts and maths are.
Meandering meaningless tracks are.
Then to the sound of a distant locomotive
And endless opinions and motions
And loco motives
And motivations
And locked up forts fought for in ages past
And a lost train of thought.

Cars careen in between
Houses housing those who sleep.
The river in between
The Earth and the Earth
And over the Earth.
A tar road of glass,
Eroded by no cars.
Only the path of drowning men.

Dogs bark.
Logs covered with bark
Cover the park.
The night, the vast ocean of Jupiter
Poseidon, with pearls replaced by starlight.
'Tis, isn't it?
It is.
Las vivas sin sentido
Loss of vitals without sin.
"His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world." - T.S. Eliot Preludes
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