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Sarah Flynn Nov 2020
dystopian novels and
post-apocalyptic movies
somehow captivate
everyone that I know.

humans enjoy violence.
maybe it's the fear,
maybe it's the power,
maybe it's some sort
of adrenaline rush.
I don't know.

humans spend
so much time focusing
on the end of the world.
will it be zombies?
aliens? an outbreak
of some form of virus?
will we turn to anarchy
and cause our own demise?
again, I don't know.

I can't figure out why
this is so appealing.
I don't understand
other humans.

maybe my trauma
won't let me learn.

maybe my disconnect
comes from the horrors
I tried to leave in my past.

maybe I'm not interested
in the end of the world

because it feels like
my world ended
a very long time ago.
Hermes Varini Nov 2020
Airn an’ Thundir!
Ere ye sune an’ syne ***,
Wi’ verra Storne orra!
Frae my Burnan’ Rage o’er ye,
Downe, downe!
Moorlan fiery grass flyin’,
Dinna Daur!
To my Roaran’ Bellum
Not to baith listen!
Nor to set foot, again Ah say,
Wi’ thy ain dishonorable duds,
On noble Glamis’ Hal’,
Kingdom of Scotland,
Robert the Bruce,
Ironclad, her Ruler,
For, ne’er, ne’er Ah say,
Ah Unco Wadna!
Ah Unco Wadna!
Wi’ bleezan blade o’ war,
An’ verra, verra guid Targe,
Auldfarran, just twich ye,
Whene'er, an’ fore’er
Intae Red Hell steel-fechtin’.
This poem of mine refers to an ancient Highlander addressing his enemies before Glamis Castle, in Scotland. "Unco Wadna" means "I prodigiously would not", whereas "Airn an’ Thundir" "Iron and Thunder", the latter intended as a proper start, I reckon.
mark soltero Oct 2020
the storm has passed
but the aircrafts’ echos linger
a quiet sunrise will always cleanse the weak
will your problems seep into the broken earth?
squeezing between ages of the bones
no
because unlike them
you were chosen
so indebted you are
and pain will sow upon your heart from now on
Hermes Varini Oct 2020
Och! downe to howch,
Ye all swithe hame ***!
Waefu’, waefu’ Ah say,
Wi’ burr-thistle’s gowlin’ Storne
Frae my verra, verra Ah say,
Iron-Curse o’er ye.
A storm in medieval Scotland, before the dreary ruins of a forgotten tower.
Seranaea Jones Jul 2020
my footfalls translate to mileage in the
way that feathers can be lost to a given
amount of wing beats—

each iteration of propulsion will shed
bits of material,

and these are mixed into the sands that are
splashed across beaches, bleached and
eventually broken down into elemental shapes

one of those grains flew and landed on a
boardwalk and then another one
kicked it aside many years ago
by some distant shoreline,

they now lie together in my path—
why i know this is anyone's guess,
but surely the math is in my favor

needless to say, even if my remains withstand
the sands of time there wont be anyone
left to recognize me,

yet i am certain a piece of me will always
be a few steps ahead somewhere,

either washed there from a recent gale,
or maybe blown from the nostrils
of a passing sea gull...

"shoes and feathers"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
Hermes Varini Jul 2020
Skellums! Intae doomed countra
Ironclad ah dwell,
Claymore flashing in yon mirror,
And o'er the dreary muir.
There is a semiotic variant of this poem. It includes the image of a sword placed over a mirror as one with a medieval nasal helmet.
Hermes Varini Jul 2020
In the year 1332, at auld Dupplin Moor,
Wi' a shimmering Dagger of War,
Ah pierced the Looking Glass,
And amid so wild a Fire Mass,
Ironclad and devastating,
Mine awn Wraith cam.
Owre He beheld me!
His Claymore gleaming, unsheathed,
Into a darkness no one could see,
Ghaist, I winna yield to thee!
Across yon shield wa, quo' He,
In tyme of war ah threw myself,
Wi' gilded Targe and unforgiving Fury,
High flames falling athwart my iron wame,
While thoosan times boiling wapin fell
O'er that clan of skellums (Wundor Sceawian!)
Frae the white barbican, before the black well,
While thoosan times rising nae fellow-mortal
Amid thoosan deadly onslaughts
Ironclad frae the Fire;
But now man, to my warlike whisper do listen:
Ere the rust, in robes of Time,
Shall curse thy blade,
Airn fist ye maun ay wear,
To hold the Firestorm,
To avenge yon star shining still,
And auld Duntulm's stane,
Sae ah shall be strolling forth
In battle ahead of thee!
And when before Dirleton's Wa,
Wi' Colour of Hell reddening,
And next to auld South Ruin,
Yell warlike, enraged Wha Daur!
To thy enemies, and to thy consumed flesh
Doomed I say no longer
Within a forerunning Shade of Death;
And now advance! thy lane, and faithfu'
To thy auld Emblem of Steel,
Whar moorlan winds gaed,
Whar Immortality gleamingly dwells.
There is a semiotic version of this poem, which is written in a potent, altogether martial medieval Scottish tone. It contains my own image "Ghost of Iron". The main theme remains the speaking double, or alter ego, as generated from within a very mirror, and as leading the narrator to immortality. In this light, the underlying message can be looked upon as proving antithetical, although no doubt related to Edgar Allan Poe's own tale William Wilson. The title refers to Dirleton Castle, in Scotland.
Hermes Varini Jul 2020
Play mae, auld moorlan wise,
Wi' thy martial Steel Lyre,
The enraged Sound of the Thunder,
While ah shall be, again,
In nae unworthy mare,
Wi' Targe Shield and Dagger,
Rising nae fellow-mortal,
Amid thoosan deadly onslaughts,
Ironclad frae the Fire!
Another brief composition of mine, as glorifying the non-human voice of the thunder.
Hermes Varini Jul 2020
Thou, dishonorable Highlan' skellum,
Thy dreary whunstane shall not see again!
Nor thy unworthy Clan Banner,
Yet my Blade!
Yet my Blade!
Gleaming here, owre,
At auld Stirling Bridge,
Wi' fiery bluid imbued,
Graving still deep mirk stane,
Under yon Steel Glare
Ne'er to wane!
Another poem of mine, still in a medieval Scottish tone, and mentioning the great battle of Stirling Bridge in AD 1297. There is a semiotic variant of this martial-philosophical composition.
Hermes Varini Jul 2020
Once across a Caledonia dreary, whose Echo,
Amid the Jötnar, was MAN, I wandered hurt and weary,
Until yon Glare, with deadly Rage flaming,
Lo! I beheld, next to the Iron Gates
Of a long-forgotten Ruin named still
After incorruptible Titanium.

A noble, finely engraved feudal Vest,
Under a Luminary invisible, implacable,
Shone thither with a Glare fiercer, methought,
Than that of the rubies at warlike Valhalla,
Amid Walls time-eaten, kingly Banners, and proud Towers,
And dwelt there in melting Titanium.

Deep memories of martial Woe
Like an arrow piercing my *****, and aimed
Thro' the Night with lethal Glare,
No barrier was there to be found
Between my Past yielding and this conquering Robe
With Runes marked deep in Titanium.

Thus I remembered having once graved,
In revered silence and solitary anger,
Into the Glare, within the Hills, upon the Dust,
The Emblem of the OVERMAN,
Which thou may again now see gleaming,
With pride Superhuman, o'er this garb of Titanium.

My Enemy Wraith haunting me no more,
Into a most profane dying hour,
I walked forth, to wear of the Armour of the Glare the worth,
And felt, intensely, from the Zenith of a most fiery Heaven,
The Rays from the Stars imbuing my Very Gore
With blinding, rageful Titanium.

Hereupon, with Cuirass thus worn, I bethought me of boldly ascending,
With heavy Claymore drawn, in a Guard of the Hawk,
At Ultima Thule, of the Bluish Glare, the Hidden Rock,
And at its scorching Crest, with Blade o'er me flashing, widened my gathering Breast,
The Largest Mirror, the Highest Beacon, aye,
Before the wild Blaze molten down in Titanium.
Of this narrative-philosophical poem of mine, as focusing on the dichotomy between man and the antithetical Overman, a semiotic variant exists. The narrator meets at length with a surpassing mirroring force.
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