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Aaron LaLux Sep 17
First 5 people that Comment and/or message me right now will get my new book THHT3: The Hollywood Hills Trilogy 3 for FREE right now. I will literally buy it for you from Amazon this very moment.

It's #3 worldwide right now, here's the link if you want to check it out: www.amazon.com/THH3-Hollywood-Trilogy-Lights-Shadows/dp/1950780023
The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.
Inspired by GY!BE's "Undoing a Luciferian Towers" and a girl I know, who is obsessed with Boris Vian and all things avant-garde.
Starry Aug 26
As the sun sets
The pillars of salt
Really do come to life
With a vengeance
As the women come back
From seeing the destruction of
***** and gamoro
death calls
every heartbeat by name
making each one the same

this is your life
this is your life
this is your life
this is your life

the metronome, calling me home, ticking away, fading the day
life can be so melodramatic
like watching static
with the volume on mute
and your mind on mute, numbed by the gentle static hiss of your own personal hell
and the waves that swell
the remains of life-forms onto endless beaches of time

all time is mine
all time is mind

i look out by night
at the vast ocean of Being
and the sand, as it slips in my hands
is not made for my counting
infinity is not comforting

i smell salt
sitting on the naked earth, i draw from a vast reservoir
a deep well
hoping that maybe if i bury my head
under the beachy sand
i will escape the tide by becoming one with the earth and the stars

i try to write perfect words
with the absurd feeling that if i get them right
they will work like a spell
that shatters reality itself
and places me somewhere else
where things were right the first time

after all, we cast reality with words
and all of our pictures come to life
and all of life is our pictures
and words are our entire reality
so we must not be saying the right words, thinking the right words
no one taught us the right words, we don’t have the faculty for those kinds of words

silence and sleep
thoughts of the deep
give no rest for me
they reek of the sleep i dread to sleep
i make noise so that the universe must keep listening
i banish sleep because a white gangrene is glistening
where the worm never dies
and the smokes always rise, blotting the skies

are we the children of Cain? cursed from the face of the earth
is it because of ****** in my heart
that i am marked to die?

we stand shivering outside, in chains and shackles, all in a line
with brothers and sisters in front and behind
and every so often (we never know when)
our captors pluck one of us out of the line
and none of us can stop it
and we are forced to watch it
while they stand our mothers and fathers against the wall
and open fire, but not at heart or head
on stomachs and bowels instead
so our loved ones expire slowly, writhing on the cold dirt
pleading eyes upturned
begging our love to save them
but we can only wait our own turn

it seems that no Mind would dream up such a dream
and give it as Life
to its very offspring

i tremble to blaspheme
but i am questioning
doubting

whether Love has ever tread these tangled paths at all
whether Life ever begot life
whether we are not in fact just the spectacular fireworks
of passion and sorrow
that the universe has cooked up with
its chemical sorceries

which paint once the sky
for an instant in time

Father! Father!
do you even remember the name that you gave me?
do you remember the night you pulled me violently from my resting place
where it was dark and warm and secure?
and you cast me into a cold, hollow womb that continually miscarries
and i was born in a tomb
too soon?

it was winter
do you remember?

the dying of embers
O, wanton December!
Who pierced me with sorrows
and gave me tommorows
but stole all my todays


i inquire into the science
of infinite gaps
of gaping synapse

i investigate the substance of Being
poking at it from every angle
demanding that it yeild fruits fit for our consumption
that it justify itself

must i remind you
that i never asked to be here
and i never consented
to this form or this figure
riddled with cancers

i am the eternal thought
thinking itself
watching with terrified attatchment
these bodies which i inhabit

my haunts, my accostomed places
my ethos, my habits
my character, a socially constructed facade
my self, ever putting itself
into the eyes of others, looking on itself
imagining itself playing the roles
of each of the other children in the schoolyard


but at last, the primitive state of nature overtakes me
i’m going to sleep now, do not awaken me
and when i awake, Love will wake again with me
and all the smoldering, dying wreckage of this day will forsake me

ah, i remember now, the sound of Love, walking in the cool of the garden
when each day seemed to stretch on forever
and the night was full of magic
the infinite gaps can only be scaled
in the space of one instant, no more and no less

working its way back through every other instant
time, since it is a function of mind, is also subject to language
i stand back from the bodies of the dead i inhabit
i am the universal singularity, the one thought
throbbing and pulsing in the ****** heights before explosive creation
i
howl
the body electric
and rise, ******* over Moloch
whose mind is pure machinery
and whose children drown in their insanity

with a cold and broken hallelujah
i hymn the blessed race immortal
and rend the fabric of reality from top to bottom
entering in the place most holy
and die, writhing on the warm, welcoming earth
the place of my birth
the place of my hearth, where the embers glow and spark

December has now heard a lark
Hades, required to return to her mother
the goddess he has stolen for a season
and the Bird rises wreathed
in flame from the ashes
baptizing the Forms of our collective unconscious
with the blessed and holy power of life

and coming to life, all of our pictures bring us to life with them!

*

one can not blaspheme what is not
for one can not think of it
look again at what Love gave us
in the space of an instant, which extends on forever
since time and space alike are a construct of our symbolic processes

i pull out my tabula rasa
i am written on the tabula rasa
all is white on the tabula rasa
all is white
all is white

the waves now are dragging me in
to the ocean without beginning or end
and the depths are alive with the wind
of warm currents and of births and of sand
and death would appear now a friend
leading me in by the hand
calling me into the land

Love is life
Love’s alive
Love is death

Death calls
Written ca. 2011
Stella Jul 21
My buckle was tightened,
My hair pulled back.
The counting lowered
To a slower track.
It spit,
It moaned,
Then took off towards the sun,
Bringing me unknowingly
To Florence's most gifted son.


Haphazardly it crashed,
By a tree with a sputter,
And a poor startled child
Who gave a choke and a stutter.
My blood rose,
I crawled out,
In robes that were so
Immaculately made
Like a goddess would sew.


So I journeyed with grace
Across the sun kissed land,
Towards a busy town
That sounded proud to stand.
Bickering,
Singing,
In a stench of waste and wine,
Conditions in which
My own people would wine.


In a market of sorts,
I met my friend Leonardo,
Who sought about
With his pet cat Lombardo.
Rags,
Candle sticks,
He would aimlessly buy,
We greeted with smiles
As we passed each other by.


“Sono Signor da Vinci.”
He said through his beard,
The richest voice
That I had heard.
I assisted,
And learned,
In his bizarre eye,
And found he had a far
Sharper brain than I.


The man insisted that he
Could soar without wings,
And each day took part
In the most peculiar things.
“It is finished!”
“It is ruined!”
His passions were so great,
I could feel his frustrations,
And hear his teeth grate.


Then once,
With no mind,
I grinned at his temper,
Which made him glare-
The strongest one I remember.
But, he paused, and said
“Mona Lisa, give another?”
And I smiled once more as he lead.


Now in museums,
People crowd by the wall,
They notice my face,
And they tremble and fall.
“Her eyes!”
“Her hair!”
I always draw in a line,
Of inquiring tourists
Who struggle to align.


Now try as I might,
Though I had upfront sight,
His brilliance was too complex to site
On paper,
In art,
His soul,
It dripped
From every pore
And sought to touch
The mind much more
Than any genius
Known before.
Chandler Ames May 18
it              doesn't      
      make                                sense      to
put                space          between       my
            words           so                       why
do                   we             live         this          
       way                instead        of

abiding, living together in community
Dear G-d
I want to be great
Your humble servant
please make me
Your shining example
in this wicked world
i want to be Your leader
To be on the top
To be at Your right hand
G-d, do You hear my prayer?
Why am I all the way




down here?
Candace Smith Apr 23
there’s a piece of you inside of me
I put it there for safe keeping
close to the beating pulse of my body
so I can still feel you when you’re not around

your presence envelopes me
your voice soothes me
your touch stimulates me

this piece I carry tightly kept
inside my breath
where no one can see

Sacred, where the she or him
Cannot take it from me
Solid, where the lack or not enough
Cannot waiver me

Protected in this quiet place
that may not actually exist
perhaps only in this prose

where letter meets paper
paper holds truth
truth is what I say
and I say this..

There will always be a piece of you inside of me
Forever.
From now
until the next life we meet.
Cole Maxwell Mar 31
The cold wind sings its lullaby
At 3 in the morning when no one can hear.
Untold sins bring up fear, a sigh
Released in the midst of sheer
Boldness. This coldness is clear,
Shoulders held up high,
This old soul smolders, endeared,
Behold the source of the flame, revered.
His own bones deteriorating from self hatred, he owns loanable favors.
Devoted to blatant peer pressure, mere pleasure.
He's caged in like a snake
Surrounded, for days, with four sides in a tank
Clouded by judgment as menacing as sharp fangs.
He wonders what may hide beyond the glass pane,
On this side of the storm, ignorance, like thunder, bangs and
Feeble minds plunder in pain as he gasps at the crass bane.
Alas, shame musters and he cries out in pain,
Flustered.
Disdain and frustration make him lose patience and thus, his veins rupture.
His name the grave mutters in vain,
It stutters insanely.
Utter fear engraves itself in the pavement,
Nothing contains it.
Lust favors reprehensible acts and calls them sensible,
Hence his demons savor his knack for evil’s principle.


Lack of remorse caters to the whim of the artist's reactive nature,
Lately, my fate has shown its true color,
Faded, it’s black,
Signed, the Plain painter.
Trapped in his drawings, his anger strapped like a weapon,
Regret has set in, like
Fangs and claws in your skin.
He questions plain and simple
Objectives he made in civil
Constraints,

His brain he fiddles with.
Lately it's made him lose a bit.
Sanity no longer placed in a state of complacent safety.
Erased from the face of history,
He faces the greatest mystery of faith:
How to catch a butterfly when the forceful wind’s against me?
Admittingly, since the distance presented its ill intentions,
I've witnessed the birth of innocence,
In this was, too, repentance.  
Forgiveness became a gift for me not,
But remains prolific and lame as it brings me pain.
These dreams rot,
Bereft of pristine thought.
Increasing in pressure, serene gestures
Spike at extreme measures, pleasing
A sea of  people just before they reach peak level
Of unequal treatment,
Leaving myself behind, so I Hyde
To appease Jekyll's.
Bereavement embezzles delicate meaning,
Eloquence seeping from my pores,
I'll admit treason,
Bring a stiff reason as to why this ship sinks and  
Reap the benefits for a quick season then right back to being cold.

Keep seeing ghosts but startled demons
Retreat with swift, keen intensity and
Quit seeking evil things to finish me.
Since she impeded with insistence
My fealty conceded, senseless.
Real to me was lethal vengeance,
Begging me to rescind interdependence
And purport to bequeath,
the reader,
Evil menace upheaved on the likes
Of people that deceive the needs of feeble grimace,
Steep and oblong is the course
he takes when absconding with illness,
Mental resilience, a reprobate uncommon
To deal with.
Pain reveals his main appeal,
And still they describe it as brilliance.
Chains of steel retain his will
So in ways he refrains from fulfillment.
Deals he's made with the demons he keeps
Rain shame down on this villain.
He channels wakes of chaos toward
The ones who forsake his plea
And help create his prison.
Envision now a spirit free,
But tortured by his angst,
His rhythm separated him from
The music written,
And shakes him in opposition;
Breaks him of his willful mission.
He hesitates to fill his needs,
Until he feeds the greed of millions,
Putrid schemes induce increasing
Feudal dreams of resilience.
This too precedes the illness.
Entropy must be a must, intensity
Proceeds to injure me with intense
Reprieve.
A fence between the mentally demented and a sense so keen
Is all that prevents the intelligent fiend
From relevant being in this
Hellish ravine
Filled to the rim with
Malevolent creeds and devilish seeds.
Prevalent deeds of ill means
Seem to instill an immense severance,
Leaning toward eloquence became the relevance seen around this decadent theme, yet,
The elephant in the room repels the elegant dream from being met.
Soon the bells will ring in hell
And too you'll sing of mere regret.
Those who read his tale of screams
Proceed to nail his coffin shut.
He's intrigued when awful things derail and
Sews the things he reaps.
He leaps, morose, to depths below,
Beneath the hell he knows and keeps.
Retreating poses questions close,
While silent rages creep.
His Queen, he hopes, will save him, though,
She'll only know to sleep.
Her beauty meets his eyes in peace,
But haunts him endlessly.

He wonders what she feels and thinks.
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