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A Trojan horse. As Cleopatra in a carpet
Enters hidden on a breath
Incubus; droplet alien drawn in,
sets about its work; brooding job to do.

Awaken a little stiff, sweat and grog
A scratchy throat; a swollen lymph
Shower power, rinse and coffee makes well.
No. Twas not to be this false alarm, I’d grabbed.

Working fast now, growing, flooding
like snow melt hitting parched desert.
Seeping into cracks; changing blood-scapes.
Reprographic virus; dissociative – to thrive.

A false pardon was granted this morning
Cruel deception, such as played on Nick Bottom
teased mind into belief; a surge of relief,
Just early morning rust; blow away sleep dust.

I am sick of it now, the sickness; the bug.
My alien visitors; my too close encounter
making things smell wrong – like vinegar
and my nose pop as each side turns to unblock.

As big screen drama – epic plays out in my mind.
The white cells; the soldiers wiping out alien-kind
Dualling MacDuff and MacBeth in Dunsinane cell
Waging battle within me; my man-flu living ****.

©pofacedpoetry Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) all right’s reserved
Suffering, as only a man can! An epic battle against alien invaders - the flu'
Pearls keep descending from the sky
Rocks so taken over by the constant tedious attack of waves
with their greyish hue
and fierce fists
The abrupt slap of time
The thunder's wheezy cry
and the pending of a rusty boat say
the boatman's approach was due
but three hours have passed.
The bank is retired
and the moon burnt sands retreat
into the heart of ocean .
sharks feed on fresh flesh.
in awe of a blue tang's suicide note
My lover and I are sailing to the moon
to hunt down stars.
(In memory of my friend, "piano man" Frank Weiss.)
ALERT: might prove alarming
_

his infectious laughter
has become infected lunacy
his beautiful dreams
now nightmares

his rant can be heard
above the bustle
of the homeward privileged

coarse ramblings
from the rancid shadows
as fetid hands lift flame to spoon
and bring to boil
the milk of his deliverance

he slips cold steel
into the froth of sweet promise
still warm with transformation
to draw the nectar of nirvana
into his glassen'd vessel of escape

tied and tapped and ready
to impale his demons
with the dragon's dagger
as silver-white dreams
carry him away

gone
long before the battered vein
will coagulate

gone on his white horse
for his final ride

_


rob kistner © 1974
(revised © 2018)
Dedicated to a kind, gentle, and insanely talented keyboard wizard, and former bandmate. He'd have been 68-years-old today. He died at age 24. RIP Frank!
He just could not rise above his demons and regrettably was lost as a casualty of the late 60's early 70's rock and roll wars. He died on the streets. To this day he is fondly remembered and greatly missed by his family, friends, and former bandmates.

This was originally handwritten. I revised it in transcribing it to digital to post here
Imogen 4d
"... I am old now, as the poets warned.

The courtyard smiles still as in my youth,
Immune to the ravages of Time:

                     The pomegranate trees sway
                     In perpetual motion,
                     Lush, and beautiful like flute girls
                     Unfettered by "the weight of years"*;

                     Laughs in garlands of ivy
,
                     And now, as then,
                     Sweetens my tears with roses."
* = "the weight of years", a term I have encountered several times in translations of Euripides' work; the phrase resonates. :)
Christina O Oct 15
Faster than ever the world spins,
and I’m barely hanging on.  
The downfall of this very existence has shaken me to the core,
and all the things I wish I could say,
I can’t say.
Even if it doesn’t make sense,
this twisted thinking in my head.
I’d rather be alone buried in the lies
than have you by my side,
tears and all.
Because if goodbye comes too soon,
I don’t want you to remember me gasping for the very last breathe.
And if my hold on this world lets go,
just recall the beating of my heart when you and I were so in love.
Aaliyah Salia Oct 14
"Let not this world deceive you,
don't let it win,
don't make it your companion.
Don't drown in the fear it instills in your heart,
don't heed its sinful, yet captivating words.
Don't give in to its limitless beauty,
don't smile when it kisses your skin.
Don't let it force you to take a puff,
don't let it intoxicate you.
Don't let it order you,
don't let it make you dependent on it because eventually, it'll leave you.
Let not this world deceive you, my friend,
it might be kind-hearted, it might love you, but it'll also take you to **** with it.
It's a poison no one dares touch,
it's a prison no one dares enters."
What do you think of this world?
Apurwa Singh Oct 14
the wind is blowing and the doors
waiting to be opened,
the night's sitting in its full aura
owls as calm as the darkness surrounding them
tulips sleeping in the balcony
raindrops glistening over their petals
and i?
i'm the silence of the valleys
echoing my mother's laughter
on the loop,
i'm the distance between the syllables
of the poem that sings of miseries and the
coordinates of the point that
bring a smile to your face,
i'm the moment i spent with my father
staring at the universe, listening to him
articulating the secrets of the
life and feeling the desire with which he used
to plant seeds of his experience inside
me which i wish i
could see in their full-grown form but
i'm the space that breathes
between the vocables of
suicide letter and the quill which
bleeds heart on the parchment and questions,
"what would you do with a heart having mere windows and no doors?"
Alaska is a cold place, where I met my love
Though memory eludes me, know that,
The girl I met from a number of miles away
Whom I grew to love as we took turns shouting
She is as true as the piercing gale
She is as warm as she is pale

I let her go from a great height, into the depths of the Pacific
And watched her fall into the chasm
She did not fret or stare, but closed her palms 
I smiled and cried happiness until the sea was filled
She is as true as a dying mill
She is as warm as she is still

We are so cavalier, the world in a waltz 
As we shoot a parade of bullets in threes
These crimes! It is the blissful appeal of watching
Humanity itself die, for the sake of one human
She is as true as I
She is warm as we fly

We speak of stories as borealis enshrouds us
Her stories would have us freeze the world over
I gawked and adored her beautiful mind
But I would later be her fool 
She is as true as an aimed gun
She is as warm as she is undone

She did not keep up with her age too well
Our crusades had stalled her mind and then
I knew she would not stand for me to dream without her
We would not have the world to ourselves again
She is as true as our last winter stroll
She is as warm as the coldest atoll 

Alaska is a cold place, where I lost my love
Though memory erased her, I know this much
I would have frozen her in time
Just to rule the world a little while longer
I don't hold regret for the deaths we brought
I write her, holding the same thought
She used to drop a message once in a while
‘Howz you’ she asked me twice.
She used to tease me everytime we met
But now time is changed, we often talk

We shared a special friendship
We always felt a strong love
But maybe our destiny was upset
Now we just smile and wave.

Don’t know how to show that i love her
No idea how to stood up against her
I told her once i have feelings for you
‘I don’t want relationship’, those were words of her.

I was broken again, but not angry at her
Being alone was my fate and i accepted it
I wanted her to know that I will always love her
Though we can’t be together still i will wait for her.
This poem is about a guy and her special friend.As time passes , a strong connection grew. He brought up his heart to her but she don't want any relationship. Ever happened the same to you too?
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide ⚠
____________________
­The envelope
(delivered just this morning)
splits in his attempt
to tear away its wax seal
where her very breath still wanders.

Inside,
he finds a razor blade--
upon being removed
from its paper hostel,
it glints prismatically
in the Autumn sun--
and a neatly-pressed letter
accompanied by an overwhelming
medley of scents--
parchment;
mint lip balm;
*****;
it still smelled like her.

With butterflies rising like bile
up his throat,
he unfolds the letter,
reading over her
spidery handwriting
several times before
her words fully percolate:

"Do not return to sender--
she's already dead."
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