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Living moths festoon dark roominess,
whole wide Nitenidus outside black bathrooms,
cheeky creepy cockroaches cockbroach
meathook lapels of Night,
dapper carcass of the blackballed Day.
The Day is well ***,
w/ its blister of red butcherflies.
But yesterday & I
are not so different,
given the ***'s rush out of Existence,
the Country Club of Human Potential.

Give me Night's open plan, dark sky park
blueprint dapslashed in undertaker's bootpolish
over any day anyday.
Universal inkwell we wander into
like spiders in the Beano.
Starlight, millions of runt suns
levy obscure orients at inscrutable heights.
Unimaginable distance is relative,
all my imagination does is distance me.
But tonight I shall stitch my dead moth stichs
of dead moth schtick sewnonymously unto
the Norfolk Night.
My Rorschachwinged write-
up of crispers upon crispers of the critters
will wear you, Norfolk Night, breathlessly & blindly,
like you were a hooded overcoat
w/ no holes to facilitate
thumbtwiddling or gobsight.
By these dead moth odes, I become your host,
5'6 embodiment of a black sock
w/ all my mortal might.

Night, I wear your weary
spidery epaulettes, tramptuft
peek thru your sleepingbag shoulders
of middleaged soldiers' slow suicide
on civvy street (literally, concretely).
A couple of wraps of dead moths
in the breastpocket of Norwich Vice,
1 w/ the Omniscuzz,
heavybreathing slugs honking at slags.
& us angelheaded hipsters
gonna walk down Cattail Street
to Our Work on an alcourier
carrierbagtwizzle mission at 6am.
Lousy Prince Lice & his ex-insect entourage,
dead moth cortege & court of overcocky
carkroaches. What have I got riding
on a bonafide dead moth **** sock
of a mythopoeic deposit?

I am erring on inauthenticity,
as if Turin Cloth
a whimsical medieval weaver
imprinted w/ his soninlaw's
peasant chic, protoWoodstock likeness
to hock as roly helic.
I longago gotout of the bath.

But it's more complicated than that:
poets are undergrowth spirits
who find garments on the ground
that have never been worn.
Do not confuse this w/ chrysalises,
chrysalice's bulb of wings
is ball of collapsible coffinlids.

To inanely ingrain
a Top Of The Pops Of Dead Moths
upon the Night Whoise - how close
is my imagination to conquering infinity?
All the insects that will die tonight
in Norwich to be approximate, best I can get.
Insects, living, are never innocent
or heartening as fishful goblets at night,
dead moth olived bathwater I neck to nail
this noctuary pretensionproof.
What a dead moth & a Dark Poet
have in common is that they are not aloft.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
If this were to be the last of my odes,
Wait, an ode this isn’t for all of them,
Let me tell of this poet’s misfortunes
That has engulfed her to a requiem.

Everyone who sees her turns to sweetness,
Who wouldn’t turn down her cozy ambiance?
No wonder they turn to her blessedness,
Heart so crystal pure you won’t miss a chance.

She desires to fulfill her own heart song
And change from a sad and perilous past.
Alas, Fate is toying her all along,
Plummeting her to a prison aghast.

Now, she is but drowning in her own blood,
And all she can do is wait for Hades;
I see her soul being caught by the rod,
Gasping for her life, clasped into Eris.

Sadly, she falls to a tragic pure death,
Her carcass as feast for the dogs and worms.
Meanwhile, her soul is given for a breath
A dark ambrosia rejected like germs.

I can’t help but cry of how life fared her,
But no, pity isn’t to be given;
All the pangs of pain, she’s now the bearer,
Anon, the goddess of the forsaken.
Hope this won't be the last poem I post in my life. It's out of my depression, see.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
I know they know I have potential
To get to be celestial.
Alas, no one has ever seen it on
As if they see everything’s gone.

Bet you can call me a wandering soul,
Outlasted and luster has fell in a black hole;
It will never be in my universe,
A gift has made its reverse.

Woe to this shell of emptiness,
Never deserving for happiness;
Silent death will then rip my heart,
Too bad, I can no longer play a good part.

Soon, expiration date is coming away,
No one else can extend as much as they want my stay.
Perhaps departure will be a tumble,
For I will disintegrate like a bubble.

That misfortune’s like the dead star,
Brilliantly shiny from afar.
But looking closely away the moon,
Such sight not to swoon.
It's really the dark poet in me rolling in. Must be too depressed, that's why.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
People have already made me broken before,
But even with a changed life, why am I still toyed?
This is unfair, as if I am beloved no more;
Why deepen all the scars I openly avoid?

It appears that I am now but a lonely ghost
Among the sea of people I call my allies;
How unfortunate I become their feasted host,
Then they leave me after their belly satisfies.

Those of the past, they were like even till now,
Taking advantage of who I was and press on
That I am like this though so I’m not anyhow
And petty excuses make me ignore them on.

Yes, I sound like bashing the people of my past,
However, it’s not them in this literature;
The dark poet has made its feisty return aghast
And this is the speech of his revised picture.
And the dark poet in me is back.. with a vengeance.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
Little does he know,
Little does he notice;
A flower yet to sow,
Unwanted like jaundice.

When will my voice be heard?
When will I be out of soak?
It’s like saying to the Lord,
“If only I can touch his cloak.”

He merely sees me more
For he seeks me as company.
Spreading like sore
In my heart, it is him only.

I wish I could steal him away
So no one else can interfere.
Please, by my side he’ll stay,
Don’t take him as I fear.

How I dream he’d be in my arms,
Holding me so tight.
Alas, it’s just a dream that harms
My reality as it might.

Who does he seek for forever?
Oh, it’s not me, I bet.
Or if he does, I’ll savor
What Fate has made and set.

Alas, here’s my downfall,
Together with its pangs of pain.
Seems I’m not the apple the eye after all.
Okay, my heart is sealed again.
The inner voice in me says this to a certain.. never mind.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
Cascading gently,
But with rupture as it seems;
Innocent wind
Turns to a violent storm.

How can I handle
That ache inside?
Avoid it?
It’s very hard.

It devours you,
It burdens on the inside;
Once anger heightens,
It comes out.

Nothing can stop it,
Unless you try to control it;
A shadow of you,
Alter ego so dangerous.

Now, I've passed a whole new light,
Lifted trauma off sight;
All gone away with the past,
New moniker at last.

I have locked her far away,
Secluded as they say;
Together with the trauma,
Forever in coma.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
Discouraged hearts
Scowl their anger;
Out from the depths
To its summit.

Devouring my whole,
Piercing to the flesh;
Shameful of waiting,
Flow that pool of blood.

Smudged into the white,
Stains like blood;
Lying to the stale,
Lifeless at its root.

Why did you cast me out?
You hypocrite user!
Revenge isn’t my way,
But I know what I’ll do.

Rain on my parade,
It can’t stop me;
As long as the sun’s in its raid,
It’s how it will be.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
In that place dwell,
Memories that swell;
My sojourn, so to speak,
Now dead and bleak.

Where have the days gone?
They did nothing but fawn;
A good place, no more,
Severed like a sore.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
Isolated, trapped in a dark abyss,
Remained under her lulled admonition;
Never wished to depart, but to depress,
Grieve then be stiff, yielded in damnation.

Cut off away from the world’s speed of light,
Off she choked a too petty eulogy;
Swore never to venture off from its sight,
Deprive hope, ****** apathy with elegy.

The dark poet’s ode continues to cruise,
Spills & spreads to her frail soul like poison;
Intoxicate & numbs her as a bruise,
Nullifies every positive motion.

Go better off now, my little sweet one,
The world has just locked away your sunshine;
Forget about help, you’re banished & gone,
Sleep it all away, not one can outshine.
This poem was written when my "dark poet" self appeared.

— The End —