#byron
From creation’s fire—
flying higher and higher—
on currents of invention—
literary Lazarus in ascension—
firebird burning bright
across the endless night,
creating evermore—
a far-off, lonely shore.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 9:52 AM UTC
Oh, weep for Adonais—he's undead!
And hath been, lo! these interstitial years!
Yellow and black and pale and hectic red,
His cockney mood consumptively careers.
Upon a bubbling Hippocrene he's drunk
And dreaming, standing tiptoe on the brink
Of the wide world that sinks (Byron's a punk)
As love and fame to nothingness do sink.
An anguished autumn wind doth howl a HOWL
Of abject grief that sweeps the graveyard's stones.
The creeping moon observes the downy owl
That eats a mouse from tail to skull and bones.
Zombie Allan Poe, who's green and obscene,
Is sobbing, "Happy Birthday Halloween!"
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 12:59 PM UTC
The sunlight bounced of the windows in a way that not even me or Bryon could find a way to describe.
Nov 17, 2024
Nov 17, 2024 at 11:36 AM UTC
Caw , call , caul ,
the bird , mermaid birth ,
it reclined over the Childe's
face .
Striga and born with a shirt ,
carefully the child shifted it
to one side .
☆
An earthly lord ,
transcending a hero's
archetype .
Fly wastrel to enchanted
faerie kingdom ,
and watch a whole world
pass away .
Oct 22, 2024
Oct 22, 2024 at 7:39 AM UTC
i confess you like a sin
my friends are getting sick of it
and i'm quoting you like Byron
and i’m just getting sick
like a song in my head
if god existed
like a bruise on my neck
we would have discussed it
so I just quote you again
and it's still obsolete
cause Byron's got nothing
and I'm doomed to repeat it
Sep 2, 2024
Sep 2, 2024 at 2:29 AM UTC
~
*Ada's got a scheme
a flying machine
constructing wings of
paper, oilsilk, wires, and feathers
faster than light
in all kinds of weather
Ada's going to fly*
~
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 12:10 PM UTC
__|small gee for god; big bee for byron|__
Strikes a chord with you, does it?
This shambling poverty of thought,
Insta-rated and underwhelming;
Thank god for Byron.
__|keats versus shelley|__
Sparing no injury to his phthisicky frame,
Keats lies atop a make-believe of cherry trees
Searching among the clouds
For wealth, health and a Grecian urn,
While Shelley does Venice
And blows himself a hookah.
__|o poesy! for thee I grasp my pen|__
Panning the wayward sky for inspiration,
A hope, a word, a beginning;
A versification so ecstatic as to transfix the senses and pierce the heart,
A lightning phrase capable of uprooting all commonality,
As outrageous a miracle in the minds of men as crucified immortality.
__|requiem|__
Unlike the wilting rose which has no higher calling
Than to bloom and die upon the stem,
And having relinquished its last perfumed petal
Retreat from memory again,
I fear that I shall linger,
Tethered to this eternal moment
By shudd’ring will and breath combined,
A brighter shade of myself than what of me I have left behind.
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC
You wanted a love story, sweetheart—
well, I’m an unwritten tragedy;
hand me a skull and I’ll monologue
while Rome burns.
We’re two acts in and falling fast,
we’re half a city down and soon
there’ll be nothing but ashes.
You wanted a love song, baby—
I’ll sing to you in a minor key,
harmonies in the rain under neon stars,
screaming in tune with flowers in your lungs
and blood in your hair
and city lights and city lights and
city lights.
You wanted a love letter, honey—
“Dear Heartbreak,
I’ve got purple bruises on my chest
where my prose hits me. I’ve got
a mess of clichés and a dark and stormy night
and a pinch of melodrama,
no talent but I’m trying, honest.
I don’t suppose you could maybe
unravel me a little?
Cut me open like a knife through butter?
Maybe then I’ll bleed words;
maybe then the poems will spill out of me,
entrails unravelling.”
You wanted a love poem, darling—
meet me in your aspect and your eyes
at ten o’clock tonight. Rome’s burning, baby,
and all our lions are loose. No time for
sonnets; we’ll climb the Colosseum with
our flowers and our songs and
we’ll deny the gaudiness
of the day.
You wanted love, sweetheart—
I’ll give you everything I am:
a burnt-out city,
a soliloquy in G minor.
I’ll play til my fingers bleed,
sing til my voice gives out and
maybe—
maybe
it’ll do.
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 2:10 PM UTC
And did they hear, those on-looking distant
Rules, hear did they what was said to the world?
That story must be told by one “me,” can’t
Have a sonnet without that one letter mold—
First person voice, and make it beautiful,
Can’t have a sonnet that doesn’t love,
That doesn’t speak from a mouth of its own
That doesn’t rhyme, that does not resolve
Can’t call it a sonnet if it won’t grow old,
Not Shakespeare but Brooks, not Byron but Stein
And here— the words that did not do what they were told
And here— rules fall, away in line in line
But author? Who author, who inspire? Who make?
Un-sonnet, un-sung it, not claimed. Not take.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 9:58 AM UTC
Keats swooned over a world that never was, except in dreams, and I've no use for that.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXIII)
In lieu of aught we know: blue skies t'avail
Sans blot of clouds 'til puddles mirror thence
Heavn's eye...take up the chalice to drink hence
That fragrant draught which yields as if to scale
More heady visions than we've drunk, t'exhale
Like sailors on the faerie seas, pretense
Our dainty meat; as lovers swoon for sense
Oer plighted troth, not as we know; sans bail.
Go into raptures likeas Keats would stir
And Byron knew to write, as Shelley drew
Up in his Ode, faint cuz ye know in tour
What minstrels sang in ballads, weaving to
Effect those silken strands to snare souls fer
The Devil's heights. Cuz what we have won't do.
11Mar19c
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:24 AM UTC
A melancholic gaze
Upon my walks I have, born out of wanderlust,
Having thoughts and feelings 'bout dust
And Byron's ways,
The wind is in my raven hair,
A poet is my heart,
Between hope and despair
I classify my written art.
Many women and wine out of still skulls
I am a stranger to,
But not to skills
Of natures who're romantic as a hue.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
in this pestilence and heartache,
i doth lie here without remembering
an instance where i shall not stay
in this quietly bleeding prison
my hands have groped the air
for a phantom amongst the breeze
but there is no longer a soul to spare
when i am brought back to my knees.
i feel my prayers are but thrown
fruitless pleadings to the sky
my truths to bear, are mine alone
never will they be your plight
you hold your head to my chest
and we dream away the time
this prison feels like a prison less
when your heart is calling to mine
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
Let's rewrite a poem for you,
No apologias to Byron 102,
Oh bowls of spew, Oh bowls of spew,
Stale weeties they wouldn't waste on you,'
Where once I cooked bacon and eggs,
For privileges don't even beg,
On your blackmail, I renege,
Oh bowls of spew, oh bowls of spew,
More than your family would waste on you,
No apologias to Byron 102......
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 7:24 PM UTC
he walks in awe, and would curse my interest in night
of clear silence and sighs
at promiscuous men's obsession with purity
within his aspect and his eyes
he looks down to my ******* and I ask him why
to which he replies and typically denies
he caresses those who adore lust and then calls them 'whores' when they are no less
had they been tighter.. but he likes lace?
his hands stroke my raven tress
as he says I am not like the rest
he whispers that he will handle me best
but if I was not pure I know I would be in another place
I stroke his cheek and admire his brow
yet why does this man objectify me as eloquent
so soft? don't reply to my letter. so calm? you haven't met me properly, have you?
deceived by my smile but I am not deceived by yours, o' 'gent'
if only more had visited below
but then again, my heart would still be innocent!
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
Oh lord Byron you silly fool ,breaking all society's rules
Women come and women go
But you can't let the words go, they follow you everyday in your mind they run and play
Silly rhymes of love forlorn, men and women you did adore
Your lovely sister ,your true love,who are these people that they judge
Your exile they say is out of shame,but we both know your not to blame
For we are different a separate lot,we leave our mark, and then we're gone,leaving only our love forlorn
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
Look at the lovely Lord Byron
Sweet John Keats
And Percy Shelley
What an awesome group
Of poets
Bet they were really romantic
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
we were
in bed
that day
when
there was a midday twilight
a daze crept over us
delicate
as a fast fog
it was the feeling of floating
a barely waking ecstasy
an unreal ethereal delirium
i cant describe it
it was
something
like nothing
ive ever felt before
in the belly of our canopy bed
in that forbidden flat
on a forever day
we laughed as she
pressed her head up
& pitched the draped overlay
wearing it
like a puffy white sombrero
as the
sun
filtered through
the linen cube glowed
a yellow shade
the two of us
waiting weightless
in this unearthly space
a monster teepee on a cloud
a sailboat in the sand
it all could have been
a heavenesque hallucination
but
for the fact that
she asked if i felt it too
i said i did
after she confessed
she had no words
to describe it
it was sublime
too simple
true
& it left by night
as we tucked in to watch movies
a mini projector hovering
images pressed against an endless cinema screen
almost as radiant
as our re-animation
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
Oh? But what wandering eye?
You curse me so still?
I have given you my dignity, my chastity, my love and my hate.
Why must you demand?
These shackles you hold around my feet,
They are frigid, fickle... Frugal.
Surely I am not to blame! Surely, surely!
Oh, but wandering eye,
You have outlasted all, you have tainted all in your cruel excitement.
You are my well-lived enemy
Oh, but so fair, oh but so tall, and oh,
How you vitiate my love and loves!
Oh, how you have bound many before you!
What flickering excitement you bring, and what black ruin you warrant.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
When you walk by, my stomach tingles
My cheeks blush and turn soft pink
With you all day i'd like to mingle
But with you all day i can not interlink
Maybe one day your heart will jingle
And maybe, just maybe about me you'll think!
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
To You;
To you; possessed of such a tempting grace,
moving so sublimely through star-struck space;
Can I ask of you this quiet question-
Why do those sad tears frame that flawless face?
What’s the reason for that careless lesson
that laces your well-controlled complexion?
Have you, through some finally-found fancy
been shown the harsh meaning of rejection?
Maybe, you dreamt of a light romancing
Under the moons bright, fatal faerie-fire
Its sight telling tales of your desire,
Your sad love ethereal- Transient?
No? I didn’t think that the murky mire
That we call “Love” would have you trapped today-
To make such stories of these fallen fae,
As an excuse to perform worn word-play---
Or! Maybe, it’s some other telling tale
That put you into this unjust travail-
And left you with those mislaid streaks
Across a face falling pallid and pale.
Had your plans reached the goal- that high peak,
Then plunged; wasted - leaving you worn and weak
With no way out, no truly clear choices,
No way to gain the happiness you seek?
Did you want a house with joyful voices,
A backyard echoing lilting laughter?
Has some callous event foreclosed that chapter
Filling your soul with some private poison?
No, I don’t think that’s what I‘m after.
You’re not being held by some coarse constraint-
Nor your body filled with some tragic taint
that would leave you so faltering and faint.
Do you long for adventuresome release,
Your daily work having no such surcease-
And staring entranced-so at the stratus,
You dream of those mighty in name and deed?
Those stories, the ones that you always read-
Do they make you long for that single pleasure,
Proof of beauty and things unseen, proof of need-
Proof of some fantasy beyond measure?
The sacrosanct is in those clouds so rare.
Don’t lose faith in finding the forever,
And magic is there, suspended in air
As long as you don’t consider never.
Maybe, I could help in your endeavor,
Together, a meeting of star-bright minds-
Rhyme after rhyme, perhaps we will find
A path that will meld fantasy and time.
So Lady, giving thought where it’s due then,
I can only tell you this plight of Men
And be it my damning declaration,
I will never let you be hurt again!
You will never want for stone or station,
Nor need to seek some other relation.
If the dreary dusk deigned to mar your mood,
To make a Sun, I’d master creation!
To your beauty I would always allude,
(The runic tint to those even-ether eyes)
Only to the lay does the truth not soothe –
No comparison would bespeak of lies;
So Lady, let my love for you give rise,
To the dawning of our sublunary Sun!
For you; My suitors pledge that come what come,
On my honor, my life; Thy will be done!
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC