Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Only the moonslice
once a Pacman Bobbysands

In a wintervista, vitrified
from the outside.

Ectoentad encroached
the psychosocial frostbite,
the conveyorbelt of qualia
the pushupbra of propaganda,
bruited snooty God omnipresent daddy of all NIMBYs,
all that incoming removed distal news
kibed me into a thalidopus monk.

Zampa di elefante on the keyboard,
decayed beyond a criticalsituation.

Samsara spider, laughingbuddha abdomen
Doctoroctopus's docker's omelette ambertrapt.  

Octo-Atropos did achopof
mooredlimbs problimbs chitterlimbs, left an
acolousbido, anthropomorphic monocled *******
l/ Baronvonstrucker's dastardly costard,
an empirinik ball of no bearing.

Bittersweetly breathing Thing-
addams in pilliwinks,
nullified l/ a wiseman w/out Wikileaks.

Vitruvius De-
milo ,who struts l/ an armoire,
falls l/ a stone.

Petit legume puce w/ bourgeois bruises
in a black lagoon benefits backroom.

Analogue saprobe
21st Century Life firewalled
l/ Fritzl's tamagotchi.

Hamlet in his equivocastraitjacket,
yet also inarticulate.

I'm not going anywhere in this condition;
I can't stay l/ this.
Not even some strong stump of headless elanvital
am I. The point, the point is squeamish.
Coop Lee Oct 10
uncle c. knelt before the town shrine and prayed for forgiveness. drizzled hot poison into the ear of his own brother, our heavenly father, last seen eating tangelos nearly naked in the kitchen itching for tomorrow. dreamt of cruise ships and old timeshares. jupiter in alignment with his moons. fruit of the loom. the girl-next-door digs at her wrists with wire. the yellow of our touching lawns. she’ll later drown herself in the local swimming pool. her brother is away at war. her friends absent-eyed. her lover to be, or not to be, me, more or less, a ghost in my own shoes. my mother, mom, mommy lay spread and spoken for like cornucopia, spilling her own phantasms, or apparitions of fidelity. end scene. come the prodigal son: his fresh and gingered mustache. he spends hours in the video aisles running his fingers along the edges of dvd box plastics. the past-midnight blue hue of dream-o-vision, television, visionary vengeance, played like boots and buttons in an aspen grove. a memory of father and mother sweeping their feet through the leaves. he awakens to traveled college friends collapsed on his porch, palms etched in text. only a good pancake breakfast will awaken them, with eternal syrup and powdered sugar, to life and liberty. later he will let these friends die at sea, and the sea will be a large lake like the erie. crayola-hex: sweet green algae. and he will dig up the skull of a nanny buried in the backyard some sunday in the 90s, and speak to her, of her, almost laughing. he will return to the living room and hearth, back to the knit-sweater christmas party, neighbors a chorus of convenient fools, mon uncle, mon drunk, mon mother frothing at the seams. poison in her cup. knife pressed against his cheek. he will alter the dénouement, hijack the timeline, and instead of ****** his family in vengeful bliss, resolve to laze about on holiday with his feet up scanning through the vast satellite channel package. he is looking for something nostalgic, just for a bit longer, pondering his own prospected haves and have-nots. there on the sofa, scooping pie with his fingers.

returned scholar lost
in his own hometown
dreaming of movies
Maria Mitea Jul 18
Without saying a word Hamlet confronts
a new world of ignorance and defense,
that makes him contemplate the sense
of life and death ones again while shelving at
Value Village “Madness, deceive and revenge,
this is going on for too long,
there is nothing to live for …”
The monolog of “to be or not to be”
continues in my pocket …
as I pay four dollars at the cashier,
Hamlet rescued from obscurity
feels happy and safe for-once
Value Village it is a second hand store in Canada. Selling clothes and books, different things people don’t need anymore ...
Kaitlin Jun 17
And once,
Rue and columbine
(thoughts and remembrance)

Pretty flowers,
From me
(of me)

"Pretty Ophelia"
floating with flowers.
Pretty still,
Nothing more.
Was I never anything more?
She deserved so much better.
We feel ourselves rogue and peasant slaves -
In that is no disgust.
Collectively yet to have been stripped of
Our formalities, plunged into fiction, devoid of normality -
An undiscovered country, if you must.

We doze cosy in dreams of passion
Where space and silence nudges pens; they bleed.
Though liquidity stiffens
Flair and genius warm the air
Assuming a pleasing shape, indeed.

We weep under a broken voice
When seas of trouble rise to strike us down.
Remorseless - how can it pause to pick and choose?
Treacherous - anxiety bedevils our news
But temporary, false is its crown.

When we think or moan, twiddle thumbs or disengage,
There is nothing, not even tears, that dares to drown our stage.
King Arthur Apr 9
Ophelia was only remembered for being dead
Floating daintily in a river, surrounded by flowers
A spectacle for all eyes to see and drink up hungrily
But one day she’ll breathe again and rise up from her grave
White dress sodden, makeup askew, long hair soaked and tangled
And she will realize she she is and break free from that image
The one that held her dead for so long, drowned and lifeless
And for once in her life, her short-written life, she will breath with ease
badtaste Mar 6
In the last breaking hour
controlled under the iron-clutch of a dying kingdom
hear the laughter through the halls
as a new hysteria is swarming.
and the people call for a book to foretell the final chapter,
from the start to the end-to find a righteous answer.


Just as the eagle's feather falls
so do crowns from kings; caused of unseen catastrophes
this leaves the knowing left to uncover-
calamities hidden within ghostly visions-
sworn to loyalty of vengeance,
as fakers cry a false mourning.


A holocaust of happiness leaves the young prince with only questions
to live- to die- to love- to try, and seek his name a meaning
for those we lose we lose parts of ourselves
madness to some is just a gentler grieving.


So plunge your pen into the sky
and write the years as they come by
to time tragedies are just one blink shy of a happy ending.

. . .
emlyn lua Sep 2019
Denmark’s a prison
Where all are guards and all are inmates -
I must be the Queen
For I am held in chains,
Caught by the currents of my own thoughts;
Alas – I never learned to swim.
I am an echo chamber,
A thought is a ball kicked over and over and over and
Can I not pass law to cease this bruisement?
Goal! I speak,
And my thought is no longer contained within me
But in the world, circling the pates of the court.

Sweet, your lover calls you,
Even now;
As the battle with corruption corrupted you.
Justice, you promised me;
I no longer believe in justice.
I loved him, though his love was a leash;
You took from me my cage and now I cage myself.
Scheming and plotting against schemers and plotters –
No longer knowing ourselves as once we did,
No longer viewing the world as what it is –
If only I had seen!
You would not have abandoned me now.

You will not come again?
You will not come again.
The King is fallible,
The usurper of God is not omnipotent;
I see the traces of that which he strives to hide.
His mask is good, true, but –
A mask cannot hide all:
England is the trickster’s smiling blade,
I know so.
I mourn you, as I mourn all that I know:
This ends with the destruction of a nation.

I miss your presence beside me.
Your soft eyes, looking only at my face,
At my face only.
I was safe with you.
Hearts mirrored in forbidden affections;
Switch places with me,
Let us not be ****** for desire.
Marriage is man and wife, man and wife,
You saw the lies.

Kick, quick, pick the flowers,
One for each noble skeleton.
I show their secrets in petals and songs:
The language of the mad, the insane, the crazed fools –
Fool I am, I see all, hear all, know all.
Hang their weeds in the weep of the willow,
Cursed crowns of concealed corruption.

I reach –

A tear breaks –

And I am overwhelmed by swirling thoughts,
Sinking deeper into the abyss of my mind.
Smiling trickster, smiling blade – Pretty Ophelia!
A will not come again.
I will not come again.
No one will mourn me,
There will be no one to remember:
This ends with the destruction of a nation.
Alice Eagles Sep 2019
And in the morning I awoke,
sleep wearied
and bloated by experience,
to find all just as it had been but nothing the same...

The pale cast of nihilism
hung limp
over the morning's hillside
where an inconspicuous mist
had once resided.

Bless my mother's innocent
attempt to patch up my
Mind's muddied terror
with a strong tea
in her best china
by the bedside.

My boyhood mattress began
a demented laughing
in the face of brothers
with graves for beds
as I was, once again,
swamped with guilty memory
of the unheroic dead.

Those gentle youth
with minds full of
the names of wild flowers
and the rules of garden cricket
wrenched from the safe
musk of mothers
to the mud and
shrill choir of the shells.

The Air she would weep
for the loss of another pair of lungs she'd never inhabit again.
All the while, the Earth rejoiced
at the return of her creation.

That clay that once grew tall.
Outwards from the rib.
All for some fantasy and
trick of the flame.
Inspired by the haunting poetry of Owen and Sassoon and infused with imagery from Shakespeare's "Hamlet" to communicate the sense of an impossible and futile task resting on the young shoulders of WWI soldiers.
Next page