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liz Oct 2014
He has the face of an outmoded brick wall.

She never wears her heart on her sleeve.

He watches the world through
The eyes of a sailor
Anticipating for the storm
And always remaining anxious in the calm waters waiting for the waves.

She listens to what you say
Like the critic to your own novel.
Holding onto each word
And waiting for the slight chance
That you might go back on what you once believed.

He tastes what's around him in small portions.
Because if he ever got the opportunity to taste something so beautiful and unforgettable, his heart would be like pieces of sand on the floor in its absence.

She holds her nose in the smell of trouble as if hypocritical presnece is toxic.
Her lungs will fill up with the lies and ***** secrets of the world and turn them into tar.
She knows once she get that one sniff, she won't ever breathe the same again.

These are the Stone Poets.
The ones who have their eyes on everything.
From the way we blink to the techniques we use to tie our shoelaces, they have got our words and actions down to a personal science.

The Stone Poets are the poets that have to most heart in the words that they say, but you would never guess it was them if you somehow got the enchanting opportunity to look them in the eye.
L M C Sep 2014
a latticework of axioms
avoid the death instinct
and remain immortal

finding light in the
darkest nightmare
extracting the anti-venom
from every pitch black crevice

rejecting the perspective of Power
ejecting oneself from the
true void that is
a purely aesthetic way of life

spontaneous and
spirit enhancing
enchanting, fast-flowing turbulence of
artistic formulations
transforming barely lucid
fantastical frameworks into
newly virtuous neologisms

flirting with the idea of
creating something out of nothing
without intentions to destroy it

last minute decisions
preserving precision
keeping things afloat
despite the dimly lit overflow
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2014
Ruddy and worn,
Dusted by turf and salt,
Sun rose cheeked and blue
Clouded eye spurt in a gait
Ended by mute journeys and toil.
He breaks the long day with a shove
As the old pocked door is waiting to be
Opened.  At the crowning stand of the bar
He orders his Craic, some froth of tar, his black
Medicinal and when the tales of tall pints grow, sinking,
Live, flickering light slows and smoulders, shoulders with moist
Embers of smoke trailing by with an impromptu céilí and all is brilliant,
Blind, awful and right, cast in the sprite, spirited dance of the verbal swirlings.
"Craic", or "crack", is a term for news, gossip, fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation, particularly prominent in Ireland.  It is often used with the definite article – the craic. The word has an unusual history; the English crack was borrowed into Irish as craic in the mid-20th century and the Irish spelling was then reborrowed into English.  Under either spelling, the term has great cultural currency and significance in Ireland.

In modern usage, a céilidh or ceilidh ( pronounced: kay-lee ) is a traditional Gaelic social gathering, which usually involves playing Gaelic folk music and dancing. It originated in Ireland and Scotland, but is now common throughout the Irish and Scottish diasporas. In Irish it is spelt céilí.
Skye Childs Jul 2014
Once upon a golden day
They led me to where thy layst
In all thine splendour, fire and might
An angel did then cloud my sight
O enchantress, what sayst thou?
Your sight, it dost put a glamour on me
Behind thine eyes of ebony
What colors doth thou see?
Clench my throat in thy marble hand
Steal my soul
My heart
My mind
In thy cloak of conium and chamomile
What is they purpose? O sweet angel?
Inspired by the painting "Ethel Cushing" by Howard Gardiner Cushing, the song "Time Forgotten" by Brian Crain, and a certain high Sidhe known as the Leanansidhe
CA Guilfoyle Apr 2014
Your hypnotic eyes, faceted beguiling jewels
bright as a million stars, entrancing liquid silver pools
and I, just another one of love's dumbfounded fools

— The End —