Man and his shoes

There is a man
At the water's edge
He glares savagely
Eyes raging
At the horizon

Unable to steady himself, his mind
Angry at his life
At his world
He spits virulent nonsense at the waves...
But they provide no relief

He hopes each cry will disperse
Each drop of venomous saliva will
wash away with the tide
He is infected with bitterness, but
a hundred moons and a thousand oceans couldn't save his retched soul

There are many watching, wondering, but he stands
alone
Only the gulls surround him
Waiting to feed from his bones
He's redolent of despair
And they smell his desperate heart

As he rocks his upper body
Back and forth, back and forth
The waves greet him mockingly
And swallow his shoes

You enchanted the moon, didn't you?

Or bribed her?  Maybe you promised her a star or two?

She hunts me with Orion's bow, pacing behind shadowed cloud,

My celestial stalker ridin' low, warily wrapped in misty shroud.

She whispers stark and yet, soft as a breeze on an April afternoon,

Press on now, my pet.  You've done so well, we'll sleep again soon,

But we've a fortnight to go if we're to come full circle by month's end.

So many dreams still to sow... To reap those lupine howls once again.

She waxes and I wane, she mystifies with madness then soothes me sane.

Serenity to insanity, delirious depravity to moon-magicked majesty,

A cosmic clockwork cycle muddling my mind with lunar gravity.

She pushes me to righteous malice and pulls me to solstice solace,

She masters tides in her caprice, what hope has a malcontent apprentice?

She is not a flower or a miracle,
But a human with a heart raw and soft.
She is prettier than any blossom,
spread across my garden,
For she never wilt nor held a thorn.

She dared and she cared.
Into her eyes that shone,
I couldn't gaze out for a second.
I could hear her heart,
Throbbing in lullabies,
A rhythm I found my comfort in.

Her smile could lit up my sky,
Illuminating the grey to blue.
If you read my breaths mumble,
You'd know it's the song of your name.

You will get
fvcking easily dameged
day by day
in your feelings.

Sometimes
people do not care about
who you are.

And sometimes
people care about you
because they have the same feeling with you.

They just want to know
what you feel
but they do not care
what you do after.

You just feel your feeling
by feeling your feeling
day by day
until you do not feel
again
and again
that you are feeling
every sadness
every madness
everything you feel
you are nothing
about you.

Sometimes
you want to die
but dying do not solve your problems.
Anxiety is like you feel dizzy
in your head when you do nothing
but the atmosphere like want to **** you
bit by bit and you feel in your lungs step by step.
Sometimes you feel nothing.
In feeling nothing
you feel you are real.
The real creature that is you.

You deserve to be happy
one day,
and when you get it,
there is nothing
to care again
about what you feel
in the past.

Trial i: Crimson


By: The Mad Poetess


Purpose:

I shall birth
a new colour.

Sprung from the womb
of passion & rage--

cacophonous.

The name of the labour:
The Crimsoning

after the spawn:

Crimson.

Hypothesis:

from the quill
baptized in crimson ink

to the torn parchment

poetry shall hail down

like a meteor shower.

Materials:

- Sewing needle
- Blood
- Berries harvested from the Belladonna plant (devil's cherry)
- Teardrops
- Artist's palette
- Inkwell
- Bunsen burner
- Quill pen
- Parchment


Procedure:

1. With the needle, ***** finger; remove needle at the first dewdrop of blood
2.  Crush and mix devil's cherries with teardrops upon artist's palette
3. Add dewdrop and rest of concoction on to palette and mix using whatever is convenient (fingers, paint brush, hair, etc)
4. Transfer Crimson to inkwell
5. Place in well above bunsen burner
6. Burn for 40 days and 40 nights until Crimson is matured
7. Dip quill into ink
5. Press quill to parchment
6. Write poetry


Observations:

The parchment kindles
beneath the ink

pages curl up
at the corners
like Medusa’s hissing serpents

every gawking
letter
a petrification of
what could have been

every lowercase t
crucified

every serif
a burning branch.

Is this the context
of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

To write poems about forest fires
and then

burn?

~

My poems and I:

on the cusp of extinction.

I throw my head back
at a ghastly angle

like the ancient
Ornithomimus.

We're all mad here
the day you accept the bier
the moment you accept the fear
you understand, we're all mad here

We're all sad here
all is sorrow, a single tear
there is no tomorrow,  no home pier
you understand, we're all sad here

We're all angry here
all is lost cause, so strange, so queer
all is far, yet so near
you understand, we're all angry here

As a white rabbit dashes by
As a time flashes by
Late, late, late
for nothing and everything, too late

you must mind your madness,
people would **** for a chaos like yours
guard it with a gladness
with the knowledge your brain could win wars