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Max Oct 10
I'll pray to the devil,

as I'm living in purgatory.
Burn
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.
Em MacKenzie Aug 23
I spotted a fortune teller at an old county fair
while knowing the answers I still looked for some there.
There was no love line or fate line she could’ve read,
I told her I bet there’s no sun line, life line or trace of a head.
She met my eyes with sadness written all over her face,
and told me out of all people that I was her worst case.
She traced the inside of my hand intently trying to see
then she asked me had I recently been burned severely.

In my death bed I’ve been waiting patiently for sleep
sadly I’m not the one it wishes to greet.
With past scars and present fresh wounds tunnelling down so deep,
loss of blood and mind so I’m left as just a sack of meat.

A loving caress to each feature
but succeed in only poking the bone,
and every single living creature
dies completely alone.
She was a rainbow and I; charcoal grey,
they all choose to go but claim they wish to stay.

The beeping bouncing off the wall
steady like sirens or alarms,
and at the end of it all
we all die in our own arms.
She was a rainbow and I; charcoal grey,
I still catch her glow but it’s fading away,
I know it could never last, but I still have to pray,
‘cause I am the past and she’s only in today.

I’ve acted strong and kept up this ruse,
atleast I can say I’ve always been brave,
but when I’m not digging up the past, ghosts or clues,
I’ve steadily been digging my own grave.

No lines, no ties, not a single strand.
I’ve got the palmist right in the palm of my hand.
Points to those who get the Donnie Darko and Sopranos references.
F A Pacelli Aug 14
there are days
gray monotone days
when i feel nothing
i want nothing
i love nothing
i hate nothing
i am nothing
my mind floats
between dream and reality
a foggy purgatory
of nothingness
this scares me
more than suffering
Poetria Jun 19
purgatory
is sick in sweetness,
a cannibal and a chewed up girl

there is no place for us except these stairs
you are a meadow and i am the sea;
purgatory
a hidden space, the outcast place

did i tell you that i love to go where they cannot find me?
did i tell you i have a habit of running, without my feet?
did i tell you about the holy events in my recurring dream?
that i am invisible, and you're looking at me?


a pirate of less wicked ways,
a sunrise for the dark, not day
and if we should die, here we will lay
for with me, in purgatory

you might choose to stay
now these butterflies are feasting
Am i blind? What is this? Why have the gods forsaken me? Wait, I see a light. Within the light I see only dark. Where am I? I wake. Thousands of shivers run down my spine as I rise up towards the source. I am alone. The light seems to be moving, does it want me to follow it? The ground beneath me is soft, almost sand like. I follow the light, why is it so dark?
It seems like hours have passed, but time is irrelevant in the eternal darkness, it seems. Even the source is dark, only less dark than it's surroundings. I tire. I reach toward the heavens in prayer, for that is all I have left. No answer. The light beckons. Millions of thoughts run through my mind. Am I dead? Is this limbo? Or purgatory? I shake. I do not even remember who I am. How did I get here? Weird, I don't feel like I'm dead. I still feel pain in my legs and my body from my journey. I pinch myself, what sort of horrible nightmare is this? The pinch hurts. I am sweating. Wake up! I shout, as I bang my head against my hands. It's no use. The only comfort I have, is the presence of this entity, that for some reason is leading me into what seems like oblivion. I become more and more weary of it, yet I'm drawn to it. It is my only hope. But first I must rest. Both my body and mind. Feels like most of the journey is ahead of me. I can't give up. Not now. I fear I will be consumed. It's as if something is watching me, I can almost hear it's breathing. The incessent silence feels louder and louder. It hurts no longer.
The very first thing I have ever written
smc Apr 26
acrid molecules
on eagle's wings
tabasco-rimmed lids
exposed
cinders soar drift swirl tumble

here is
sit stand pace writhe
sleep sinks

perched corpse
paint curls
lunchroom chair

purple red swish
twenty-five cent piece
clink whir thunk
vitreous spittle

orison
the
esprit de l’escalier
George Apr 18
He was a stranger.
He had my father's high forehead.
A nose occupying his face with confidence.
Fingers twitched in a certain way when he was uncertain.
There is a misguided vogue in the idea of purgatory.
Romanticised, as a rich tourist might after visiting a poor slum.
My conversation with this stranger,
met more to me than it ever will for him,
because of the unresolved,
which shall always and forever be.
Ken Pepiton Apr 16
Had me a purgatory day,
yesterday,

spewed my guts under the torturers
inquirical miracle twisted
all to hell, seeking truth

that fits the story the fire maker
said I knew.

Had me a purgatory day,
yesterday,
spilled my gut on youtube comments
no mind in a state of right useness

is ever going to believe,
believing being so

difficult,
these days. Those days

Had me a purgatory day,
yesterday.
A poem about ***** of various sorts.
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