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ciannie Nov 2015
her dress is made of molten ore
silk against her springy skin
her eyes are pressured pebbles of summer core
nine hundred lives from wearing thin
the scarf she wound around her hips
softer than a lamb
the teeth behind upturned boat lips
smile graceful and pre-planned
she extends her long, slender wrist
coaxes us all into one mineral
a tender jewel, a pretty twist
worn until her funeral
ehh
Rob Kingston Oct 2015
Your words are the air that I breathe.
Each sentence, a fresh breeze traveling through my veins.

My love chamber pulsates with your dreams.
Each thump bequeaths a warm scene.

I see your image embedded in my mind,
your beauty clearly beyond sublime.

© Robert Kingston 9.9.15
Winter wizards dancing around my forthcoming saliva dripping tongue,
Desire for the frozen, dead landscape.
Like dreams that end and never start and like skies that are nothing and all at once...it dances around me forever and ever and the night is forever.
Yet, it ends when I look back upon it.
Yet, it ends when I look forward to it again.

The snow of melody falls and crashes.

The snow of love it burns and ashes.

The snow of life it lies and snatches.

The snow of faith it tries and thrashes.


Behold, the gate, in the northern light.

Behold, the wall, made of floating ice.

Behold, the shoes, covered in ice.

Behold, the pipe, wet with Christ.

Within I welcome crazy light,
Without I welcome sensible night.

Dancing and dancing, donning the cap of trees without leaves and horns from the graves before the seas.

Spinning the sun into suicide for a season.
Spinning the night into seeming forever season.

Spinning the story for the tale-born season.
Spinning the ice for this dead-earth season.

Ritual reborn, I call, into the night. (With thoughts, alone. No sprites of calling with my voice!)

Avast, and awaken in this frozen hill.

I await the spring, and until then....all is well in the endless white.

The endless white.

The endless white.
jonchius Sep 2015
resuming vogon poetry
altering website logos
pretending everyone cares
playing "east hastings"
asphyxiating well-nigh denouement
depicting twitter status
obfuscating coincident deletions

translating from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh
assuring Sḵwx̱wú7mesh exists
painting skwiḵw's mother?
decrying micropolitical maelstrom
imbibing fireball fountain
inundating lexical foofaraw

crafting poetic wonders
desiring other mediums
remaining practically invisible
ending internet-only depression

drafting noetic blunders
requesting astute clique
blazing perilous trail
aging ominous grisaille

depicting kmart realism
seeking darker groups
increasing pre-weekend laughter
appropriating communist symbols

making lone chuckle
offending worldwide communists
colonizing hello poetry
colonizing parallel universe

relaxing e-migration policies
пить чистую водку
photographing abduction scene
¿losing consistent format?

increasing bluebird insignia
avoiding frivolous legalities
striking astraphobic comments
assuming near-universal automation

lowering latent inhibition
traversing oneiric plane
laxwadding afebrile loodies
wallscaping pitchsourced chthonicities
closing one-star conveniences
sharing alien-looking alphabet
writing system downtimes
first week of September 2015
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Rebellion – for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know…

Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you –
and it meant a lot more in ’32.

You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics (moo ! ) now draggin’
(or herding) aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um –  make people think…”  Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus – tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I  seem to note, in your constant ******,
dearth of artistic ability.  Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad…

They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).

I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art?  NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: “thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God…”

You: Postmodern Art – **to the firing squad!
http://tinyurl.com/ogn6354

  ► ¡ BANG !
Shadow Paradox Aug 2015
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song

Sing…

Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes

Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds

The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide

Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull

Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall

I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity

Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull

Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide

Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams

Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song

Sing…

For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis

With glee…

I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Astral Jul 2015
The shadows dance their waltz with glee, among the floor of dead leaves and animal bones As the sun glistens among the tin hearts, and copper tears
PH Apr 2015
perpetual expeditions amidst this hazy twilight,
periwinkled vistas ensnaring me in

buzzzzzzzzzzzz
the sound penetrates my ear drum

black and yellow rabble-rouser
this rambunctious little menace

a pomegranate
eternally ripe, giving me life

gilled, scaled, underwater creature
emerging from the deep, boundless rift

two tantalizing tigers
troublesome, treacherous

and she laid there—
undisturbed, unaware

jabbed in her side by a M1903 Springfield
soothed state rattled, shattered

wincing from the poke of the blunt end of the gun
the sleeping lady slept no more

poor fellows,
how were they supposed to hold on to it without opposable thumbs?
  
the distressed damsel appeared grotesque,
flailing and fidgeting at the sight of her surroundings

surface rocking beneath my feat,
my trusty elephant’s weak ankles shattering my already shattered stability

i had no more time for such nonsenses
buzzing sounds burned deep into my psyche

the soft-spoken horizon called out to me
calling for me to continue on into the enigmatic expanse
Wuji Seshat Apr 2015
Man is the only being who knows he is alone

This morning, let me drink the silence
Let me swim in my own solitude
Being the profoundest condition
Of my humanity, you’d think

I should get to know her better
Intimacy and silence, that’s all
There every is, I cannot often
Penetrate another being with my love

Since surrender must occur mutually
And there are times my emotion
Does not require reciprocity
This morning, let me forget about altruism

For we all deserve the dream
Beyond myself, somewhere, I shall
Then wait for my own arrival
The slow enlightenment of lifetimes

Because two bodies, naked and entwined
Soul and body, mind and heart must somehow
Learn to live together and leap
Over time, we are not invulnerable

However in the silence of today
I realize there are no yesterdays, no names,
No you and I and no tomorrow
This morning, I want to give myself up
To something higher than I ever was.
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