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Sharon Talbot Aug 2018
Green night in the middle of the day…
Fire rising to ****** the moon,
Uncle Sam’s praying in my room
And the 8-ball will not say

Why a woman holds a gun
To her husband’s sleeping head;
Does she play or just wish him dead?
An armadillo’s included for fun.

Uncle Sam’s lost his hat in the fire
Maybe that’s why he’s praying.
Not for the country he should be saving
While we are conquered by liars.

I’ve tried to make sense of this before:
Masked fiddlers strum in the conflagration,
Dead books, butterflies and chimps run the nation,
…there is luggage on the floor.

Should I run from the scene,
Or stay and try to fight?
I can’t read my books in the deepening night
And there’s a skull waiting just to scream.

The man sleeps on with a gun at his head
And I see another skull by his side.
It must be a sign saying: “run and hide”.
But why can’t I do it?
There’s no way to get through it,
But I must wake up and fight or I’m dead.

June 1, 2006
This is from a popular group's album cover, reminding me of one of those Dadaistic nightmares you have during a fever...or the state of the nation just before The Crash.
RBWhite Jul 2018
The Final Sacrifice begins,
Punctures of blood all over the seiling,
Eight mementos of her own pain crawl all over dark walls,
My Goddess is here,
And Her Demon too,
Pretty words leave a cave of skin damped skulls,
And she lays down now,
Ready for heavy blows,
Remembering the vows she wished she forgot long ago.
Spiders are a never ending inspiration...
Silverflame Jan 2018
meandering thoughts
a central, vicious star writes
whilst watching the skulls
in the eyes of the skull
long forgotten
left behind
in time
in the eyes of the skull
like an empty hour glass
bottom heavy with sand
as the hands chip away
as time passes by
as the spiders legs
weave its web
creating a symbol of death
but also... life
a pretty mirror
in which sits the grim reaper
his reflection
hidden in the strands
strands from which beads of life
do glisten
clinging dearly
and just like the web
reliant on a thread
life hangs delicately in the wind
like a basket full of flowers
in an abandoned back garden
the owners no longer exist...
and waiting
and waiting

awaiting its own destruction
a fleeting work of art
soon lost in the winds of time
and the forgotten skulls
sit laughing in the sand
a silent kind of laughter
only they understand
so laugh
while you can

says the sand
says the sand
while you can
while you can
while you can
For more poems head over to my website
rose Apr 2017
dried up skulls
with motionless eyes
pulled out of their sockets
lie about on forgotten land
as more are placed in
the jars, already filled with other
dusty, dirt covered eyeballs.
the strangely clean glass containers
in which the eyes are placed
stand on wood shelves,
              b e g g i n g,
to be set free
from the trap of the elderly,
blind man's clutches.
crystallaiz Jun 2016
it used to be daisies
under shining droplets of sun
transparent sadness
trapped in spiderwebs
now he's left on the
bleak balcony
with only his snapdragons
shaped like flower skulls
living for a tomorrow
no one believes in
sage short Nov 2015
Not easy to walk through a
meadow full of flowers
when they look dead
and it's as if you can see the
bones of the dead
reaching for the sunshine
that the daises aren't sharing
as I collapse towards the graves
part of me wishing to be a flower
and the other wishing I was
colds stone with some skull and bones
with my smile washed away
but roots of nature growing in me
my tears becoming lost in
the ground
because the flowers need it
but I need to stop feeling like
a dull piece of grass
I need to be a flower
but I'm just going to be
another sad story
lost in the dirt
that the flowers need to thrive
and another lost soul
will kick me around
but we all end the same
and we'll all breathe the same
dirt one day
and it won't be easy to walk through
a meadow full of flowers
when they look dead
I am simply a rough caretaker of my
Temple, vessle, canvas, corpse..
Whatever it may be
There is so much more than you can see
Too much if we were able to we'd be overwhelmed
Our eyes would probably burn out of our skulls
Because among the deamons we manage to see
Random, rough draft
frederick shiels May 2015
Maybe men labored under a yellow sky
bent under barley sheaves they’d cut,
returned behind limestone walls and leaned
to splash water on each other at the well.

You can see its crumbling curve today, in one
city as old when Cheops' pyramid was built
as pyramids are to us right now.  
Jericho, not so far away from Egypt and,

our archaeologists tell us, likely really didn’t hear
the blare of Joshua’s trumpets shuddering down
old Canaan-cursed by-Noah, coaxing walls
to shudder, teeter, list from Israelite raids.

You see one barley-bearer shaking dry,
descend  stair-tunnels to his flat to kneel
before his hungry daughter, hungry wife,
waiting for evening’s barley bread to cool.

He joins as they resume their business of the day
to gently set the cowrie eyes in Grandma’s face,
two priests removed the rest of her last year,
but left the precious head to decompose at home
scented in the wall with sweet Netufian herbs,

And now the family gathers near small fire,
desert nightbreeze filtering through the cracks
tenderly to soften Mother’s bony head
with daubs of plaster re-create her nose,

and gaping eye sockets, softening too
those black orbits with white plaster.
Slowly her death’s head touched tenderly
by younger finger tips becomes
something like a human head again,

If not quite living, cowrie shells complete
this vision of a vacant queenly stare
befits a family shrine. When things are done,
small granddaughter now squeals with delight
her own dark eyes reflect the fire-light.
shiels/18 may 2015
By about 7000 BC Jericho, based on a natural spring, had developed into a large settlement which may have contained as many as two thousand individuals, and was defended by a substantial wall. The dead were often buried beneath the floors of houses. In some instances the bodies were complete, but in others the skull was removed and treated separately, with the ****** features reconstructed in plaster. British Museum exhibit plate
AmateurPoet Apr 2015
Shadows, darkness
Ominous, tenebrous
Move with malicious smiles
Threatening to ooze over the tiles
And crawl up to your room
In the light of the moon
And grab you around the shoulder
And it'll grow bolder
Where there's an apparent lack of light
The shadows will squeeze you tight
And will make your goosebumps rise
In surprise
The temperature will dip
The candle wax will drip
The skulls will grin
And reveal your every sin
The shadows will have a dance
Across your ceiling and walls they'll prance
And when you finally wake
They'll let you be insane for their entertainment's sake
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