Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
City of eternal wonders
An empire built,
fallen, re-animated
alive and never broken.
There lay ruins
old and modern,
monuments of marble
stumbled on by hoofs
and carriages shrieking
on the cobbled streets
poisoned by uncultured
But in the little streets
lay a calm
silence not many
can hear.
The beauty is underneath
hidden, not all will see.
It's heart keeps beating:
like fine wine,
it improves with time.
Shadowhollow Oct 5
Rome burned
In a red iridescence
The houses burned
As did the ruins
And everything seemed perfect
For Rome burned
In sunlight
And reminded us
of everything we were
And promised to us
Everything we will be
Bleeding poetry fills the pages like ancient Rome was filled with wine.
The flowing words never make sense, but at least they're mine.
Every line the same lie- Im fine.
How long until this kindom will surrender?

Like the Vesuvius hidden in Pompeï.
Like a volcano hidden far away.
When the volcano erupts, will you stay?
And let me hold you strong and tender?

In this kingdom of fire, let me protect you.
I will hold you, through and through.
Call me your percecutor, that will do.
Will you let me be your defender?

This world is dark and full of fire- I see.
But it can be beautiful if we want it to be.
And as long as you will fight the world with me-
One day, we might comprehender.
Just a lil something I wrote while I was bored in class.
The grammar is a mess, but I do not give a frick.
Chris Saitta Aug 7
Moon of Pythagorus, such proofless arithmetic derived,
No sigmoidal curves or cold calculus of the divine,
But pale barbarian, war-bringer of straight lines,
Your sea drifts commandeered like lit ash-spears in line,
Or the thrashing of wind-whipped rags of horses’ manes.
Moon of Pythagorus, the phantasms of your campfires
Of waiting armies flicker like fireflies along the stream.

Burn me, Moon, with your fire-tongued spears,
Your haunt of horses, unbridled and reared,
Burn an eye through my heart like the oculus of the Pantheon,
So I can see my pulse beat against the ash of naked footsteps
Of those who make false shrine to me.
Yes, Rome...
Chris Saitta Aug 3
Sunset is a washwoman's stream of rubia dyes
And the crushed scales from the Kermes insect,
While the loosened garments of life slide
Over the ancient liquidity of the hills rolling
As the mountains rolling as the seas rolling
As the clouds rolling as the graves rolling
Like eyes rolling back to sleep.

I am pressed for lullaby,
Not the pillow-clap of thunder or the ether songs of Persephone,
Biding by her asphodels with icen fingers from plum-colored hell.

But press my ear in my mother’s lap of ancient sun,
Of peplos and himation and stola,
And listen to the vines and bunched grapes
And all of heaven sink in its commodiousness.

Press my ear to the sun-fed heart that flows
To the furthest span of the cloth-seas of man and
The solemn songings of the ever-deepening sky.
My mother all along smoothing out the wrinkled sheet of sunlight.
The scales of the Kermes insect were used to make red dye in Ancient Greece and Rome.

Peplos and himation are Greek female clothing while stola is Roman.
Chris Saitta Jun 14
Fall to me, all you streets of Rome,
With your embrowned oils from torched walls and breccia of shadows,
The pizzicato of stairways and afternoon slowly closed
Like the thick, leathery-echo from this book of all roads.

Fallen, smoldering empire of storefronts and back-shop heirlooms,
Your lupine hills unbound with milk of cur in the wind and woods,
To your fallow fields rowed deep by a conquest of oars,
To the deepest silence and soot-muted oneness of Pompeii,
And a sky that is an ancient coin, without worth,
But still rubbed smooth at the edges by overfond lovers.
Yes, more Rome.

For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Don’t read this poem!
It is disgusting!
Hide the kids!


Lady of the drains, children of the ****,
Have been taking your **** for far too long.
Her once white bridal dress is now brown,
Stained by the **** and **** you flushed down.

Death came from every open window.
Unexpected rain fell down to the streets.
You waited for the weather to carry it all down,
For Venus to take it and cleanse it all underground.

This is how the world ends!
Engulfed by your own tithes and offerings!
The prisoner of Cloaca Maxima!
Is sending every prayer back to the sender!

We are the **** and **** you thought you flushed away!
We are coming back up to drown you today!
Out of all the ways to go this had to be it!
Drowned in your own **** and ****!

You caged Venus below your cities,
Punished her with your iniquities.
You thought we were gone when you pulled the handle down,
But we are coming back up and bringing a **** storm

Venus gave us a conscious,
She weaponized us.
All little things add up over time,
Surely you were prepared for this?!

Like the bud of a tossed away cigarette.
You didn’t think much of us then.
The bud hatched open a forest fire.
You are thinking alot about us now.

Trying to build an ark when the flood has already come.
You never learned to swim so you are going drown.
Next time you shouldn’t leave your armbands at home!

You plastic wrap your stink hole,
Hoping not to add more to us.
Your chocolate starfish bursts open,
You’re gonna add more to us.
It all has to come out eventually!

We're coming out of every faucet, pipe, plug hole, shower head and toilet!

***** rising up around you,
Surrounding you,
Covering over you,
Suffocating you!
Out of all the ways to go this had to be it!
Drowned in your own **** and ****!
Love it, or hate it. You have to admit is is a pile of ****.
Chris Saitta Jun 4
I make my grave in her dark treason of hair,
Fragrant master of soldiers and memories,
Bei capelli, conspiracy of internecine curls.
Her upbraidings strangle all my sweet nothings
To breathless wish of the emperor-purple of lips.

Flow then like black gloss of birds
And the brood hatchlings of shadow, exiled eastward,
Fled like a premonition of warmth somewhere far off,
While the wine-colored blood spills his heart into a throng of mouths.

Love, you are the hardest grave,
Were you ever just a kiss
Or always from daggers made?
Porcia or Portia was second wife to Marcus Junius Brutus.  She has been speculated to be one of the few who knew of the plot against Caesar.
"Bei capelli" is translated as "beautiful hair."
Chris Saitta Jun 2
Fall is an empty street in Rome,
Of byways of dry-leaf stone and moth-haunted hours,
Of market stalls with their over-haggled and fingered rinds,
And melons moiled over and palmed and bruised.
The light blows like once-told ripeness from the basket of fruit.
Next page