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for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence

Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up

We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~

I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes

I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply

The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain

And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~

She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~

Everything human
is leaving
her face

Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass

Stay!

My Wild Love!
~~~

I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~

In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!
Sharon Talbot Sep 2018
Age and Grace

Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.

Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.

The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..

She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.

She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.

Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Inspired in part by the opening scenes of Vanessa Redgrave in "Howard's End". Addendum: To get even more of the "feel" I had when writing this, try listening to Percy Grainger's "Bridal Lullaby", which plays during this scene:

https://open.spotify.com/track/33uOoJL9HiciylNG6hkDwI?si=WwNT_N5hQP2EclOvOpi5Og
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition

Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues  
  
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
a million ears listening
no one hears a thing
basest news a big surprise
ignominy is crowned king

a squander of treasure
best minds laid to waste
price of fear forever accrues
funds the purpose of the place

eyes of a diligent nation
brains filled with briny mush
ears clogged and waxen
expertise in smelling ****

central intel brainiacs
the heft of heavy dudes
a sordid nest of vipers
collecting despots dues


Music selection:
Radiohead,
Artificial Intelligence

Oakland
2/14/11
jbm
Sharon Talbot Oct 2021
Things sometimes fall apart
Among sisters and brothers,
No matter what they once were.
Childhood picnics and dreamy games,
Memories of trips with Dad,
Since Mom was tired of us.
We would climb Appalachian peaks
Or drive to look at the Mayflower.
Every summer there was a golden week
A lakeside cottage and all-day swims
In crystal water, becoming mermaids.
But time passes and bitterness accrues.
Imagined slights grow like slow tumors,
Never excised but nurtured by some.
I go to college and am freed
From the poison of ignorant rage,
From the creeping depression left
Like diesel fog on an endless floor.
Four or five years of delight pass
With only hints here or there
Of a sibling’s misery at home.
Of a once close sister, Maggie,
Who is ignored and never loved
By any man she pursues.
She blames me for it, for reasons
I have yet to fathom.
Of a brother, Francis, deluded, drugged,
Steals the family car in a rage
And drives to New York City.
Of Deirdre, the middle sister,
Whose friend who knows men who feed
On her ignorance and rebellion.
Only Susannah tries to rise above
The maelstrom of misery.
I send her to a school far away
And she sheds despair, at least.
Decades drawl, children are born to us,
While the bridge between us, obscured,
Sags and frays under weight of rancor.
Christmas dinners and birthday parties
Turn into chores, invitations kept as scores.
Petty grudges, like acid, sever the bridge
At last, all ties are abandoned.
When we are all grown and scattered,
No one speaking to anyone else,
Unaware, uncaring about the others.
Only Susannah visits me and smiles,
With no ulterior plan for insane revenge,
Or accusations for errant slights.
Her once dark hair is grizzled and wild
And her girlish skin now creased.
But her treacle eyes, “black aggies”,
I used to call them, still shine.
Only Susannah writes a letter,
Wishing us well and
Healing scars made by others,
Returning the word “family”.
To my basket of small treasures,
I carry with me
Into the twilight.
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition

Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues  
  
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Amalgamated anathema android sails.  (it's a wind up toy)  For though I would be the first to concede my gambits of alluvium aloof impunity sails, still immunity is Epicurean absurdity.
RyanMJenkins Jun 2014
Gaining wisdom,
Listening to Mos Def
Not to be boxed in by the quadrant of the bass clef,
Because I like the melodies of the treble.
If Eye am to live a life to be confined, then call me a rebel.

Letting out all that was repressed
Counting blessings instead of stresses
Picking up messes &
Preparing for the test
To invest in myself,
in you
~
Diving below the depths to see what's true~

The interest accrues
But there's no use -
in paying these taxes to factions
When they should be subtracted from the equation
For exacerbating trivial situations

til we see the answer is One

You have the control, a full mind\body/soul collaboration

Sort out ya chakras and rebuild your nation
Plant seeds and reverse the deforestation

Let creativity fill your wounds and be captivated by fascination

Follow your own soul
Guided by sensation
Close your eyes and breathe, if ya need, some quick elation
...Away from frustration or the contemplation on the
"right" choice.

Just share your innermost genuine voice,
Keep the soil moist,
& the stem strong in order to stay poised

Lose the armor
For you are formless
In a state of vulnerability,
We are never dormant
But rather, open to the occupants
that we can't even see
Let your heart explode with love and you'll know what it's like to be free.

Don't open up though, and we'll be doomed to repeat

Be not afraid to call upon the Youniverse
Disperse what you rehearsed
before your vessel is within another in the confines of a hearse.

Weird to hear, but we can't wait for one more day.
It could be anyone's last grain of sand,
So by all means,
Say what you have to say~

You have a gift,
& It's called the present
Living with the ability to lift,
and make others' lives pleasant.
Muster every ounce of love and drift,
Right into another's essence


You hold the power in your hands, reach out~
..You'll never go hungry..
*Giving vital lifeforce to those experiencing drought
vircapio gale Dec 2012
Either this town is without character, or my own lack thereof blinds
me to what style hums it into history. The brook's rapids are drowned
by the highway roar, central song that never passes through, spilling
over walls and roofs. A railroad collects rust between weeds, silent
authenticity. Impassive clouds remind me of other ways to witness.
And this is real, too; sadness accrues over store counters, fatigue
glowing in the pavement connecting all, cracked and rubble
facing skies a simulacrum grey. Inebriation, par for course,
a hidden semblance of a self-chosen haze within a haze.
Gravity, acoustic footfalls question my arrival here.

phosphene breath--
dark, dark mining town solstice
unearths inner rainbows
Nik Bland Oct 2018
I think I need a girlfriend
But maybe then I don’t
Suffice to say
That when the day
Comes I get what I want, I won’t

Waste a minute, waste a moment
A nanosecond or more
I’m by no means clingy
But the joy she’ll bring me
I’ll glady return in scores

I think I need a girlfriend
My hand is far too cold
It speaks to me
(Between *******)
And asks for another to hold

Was that too much information?
If it was, apologies are due
It’s just, you see
The overwhelming lonely
Like *****, sometimes accrues

I need to shut up if I want a girlfriend
My censorship is not the best
My intentions are pure
But my words get obscured
As soon as they leave my chest

Because... ugh... and also... grrr
And ****! And ****! And sigh
I just want... you know
So we can... smile?
And if someone would give it a try

Then I would love and cherish a girlfriend
Id wipe away the tears
From her, from me
And everything
And love her, far or near

I’m distant and I’m awkward
I’m clumsy and sometimes stupid
I’ve been the ****
Of love, a joke
And the victim of broken arrows from Cupid

I think I need a girlfriend
Who sees me for the poetry
Without a word spoke
Nor the ones that I wrote
Just one who accepts me for me
RJ Days Sep 2017
Tied to the tracks
you can hear the inevitable:
Whistle blows in the distance
and it must be getting closer;
but you've been lying here
for years.
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
Charity is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Your simple act of selflessness
Cannot be reduced.

Kindness is never wasted,
Even when refused;
To think we think of others first
Cannot be diffused.

Courtesy is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Shake a hand, open a door,
Say Please and Thank You.

Patience is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Bide your time contentedly
Dealing with the obtuse.

Faith is never wasted,
Even when refused;
Believe in what cannot be proved
Even if confused.

Hope is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It gives the taste of fine red wine
Brimming o'er the cruse.

Hate is never wasted,
I know you feel abused;
It's just a tact under attack
That haters like to use.

Love is never wasted,
Even when refused;
It's educed, then enfused,
And spreads as it accrues.
Sean C Johnson Feb 2013
Air thin and caustic
each gasp leaving me a step closer to nauseous
lips taste the reality bitter and noxious
feel every breath taken, leaves me chest riven with anxiety
killing this ache that eats away at the dreams that live inside of me
if eyes are the windows to the souls, these eyelids secure my privacy
smothering the hazel pools from basking in sun ray's, yet these makeshift curtains no match for a fire sky
heart strained reminded of dire times
where I combined
every ounce of energy I could muster into one effort
made my bets and held my breath awaiting my death's ledger
the hypoxic reality that ensued
haunted me with ghostly recollections of you
my restless mind ventured through memories plagued with stinging sensations of uncompromising resent
I factored in my all the time spent
as well as my mind's rent
that you owed, being its only tenant
yet now that all emotional debts seem square, I don't have the heart to spend it
perhaps I'll store it away in notebooks and old pictures, praying the balance accrues interest over time left untouched in this my personal account
in something other than your love and its varying amount
battered hands pain-stakingly surmount
the pile of photos and letters, written with a future in mind
eyes wide, allowed you views inside
air thin and caustic, the light draining from these windows that leave my eyes dull
remain motionless, praying on a change, searching for my revival...
worth lexis Jun 2012
Hibernating in the northern-most hills,
Beneath Winter’s canvas, the wind’s grim shrills,
‘Midst the caverned silence unsung by bird,
Lies man’s deep-buried soul, its pulse unheard.
Frost buries warmth no fire but man’s can lend.
Strong limbs bow low before a blizzard’s wind,
Their foliage taken, the bush is bare,
The woods wither because man does not dare.
If the hearts of man should wilt and then wane
Then Spring shall follow with guilt and disdain.
To Wake and Live, Sleep and Let Die: Choose!
Before, Like O’erspread snow, his death accrues.
     Awake the Savage! Where is Man’s hunger?
     Too long he slept, too long he has slumbered.
Part of my sonnet series:
Sharon Talbot Nov 2018
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.

Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.

The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..

She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.

She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.

Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Inspired in part by the opening scenes of Vanessa Redgrave in "Howard's End". Addendum: To get even more of the "feel" I had when writing this, try listening to Percy Grainger's "Bridal Lullaby", which plays during this scene:

https://open.spotify.com/track/33uOoJL9HiciylNG6hkDwI?si=WwNT_N5hQP2EclOvOpi5Og
Jeremy Betts Mar 18
I want too mean it when I say I'm working to improve
But I know I'm on borrowed time due too a marriot of conflicting issues
Turning greener pastures different shades of blues
Most of the root doesn't even originate from my property,
Still the hardest to remove
Doesn't help I'm held accountable for the damage my damage,
Caused by others mind you,
Always accrues
I think I've overpaid my dues

©2024
There is no hesitation in my love, never;
Each promise is true, even to a liar,
Even to the sun that hath no wings,
I writ my words and stand to their singing.

Shall I die again today, my love?
Shall I die to gain back my serenity;
For I hath loved too dearly, and awfully still,
That heart of thine tells not how I could feel.

Shall I die again in our young haven?
And its loveliness as our own Coventry,
When I daydreamed by her spacious boughs,
Pondering the promises of our sweet love.

Shall I die again by the flirtatious sunlight?
That no sight of mine shall float through the night,
No flame nor fire shall sign my presence,
My doleful glee, that thou hath forsaken.

Shall I die again for thee, my darling?
Hark! The flute that I left wants to sing,
That my poems are read by the dark angels,
That such ceased desires can be aroused.

Shall I die again for thee, and thy lover?
That thou shan’t see me again in November,
Nor breathe my hair every dusky evening,
Like thou didst on Saturday, several times before.

Shall I die at last, by the stricken sun?
For my love struck me as I passed by;
An affection I had so genially thought of,
A warmth that filled me with hysteria of love.

Shall I die today, by her deathly burns?
That thou and thy lover shall scream with delight,
And my fluent poetry is killed in cryptic joy,
Like the abstruse cold thou feel about me.

Or shall I die tonight, by the moonlight?
That all shall chant with blunt amusements,
That the moon sparkles in his summer movements,
That their heated love is spread on to the night.

Shall I die again today, in my solemn haste?
I hath some errands to run and waste,
For what is love without thee, here and there;
For love, without thee, shall be absent everywhere.

Shall I die again at dusk, tonight?
Then I shall see the ragged men and their souls,
Forsaken by the worlds so fishy and foul,
With no winds to attend and cherish their tombs.

Shall I die again then, by today’s twilight?
Then I might meet thee in an ethereal light,
Thou, bathed in fleeting shadows and lethal sight,
Thou, the son of evil floating at dark nights!

And shall I but dream of thee again, o evil!
Thou, who hath mastered my mind and my love,
That I hath been killed by thy rusted sentiments,
And the love I felt hath gone from me again.

Shall I dream again, o thou, o peril!
Shall I witness again such that forsook me,
Shall I be a drink within such tragedy,
Shall I writ, and bequeath my spoiled poetry.

To thee, who hath forgot, and shall have forgotten;
To thee, who accrues from hate,
To thee, who accurses fate,
To thee, who yearns for arrogant love.

To thee, the devil’s son, the rough prince;
To thee, who hath arrayed a tide of sins,
To thee, who loves in hate and hates love,
To thee, who loves in haste and hastens love.

To thee, for whom my love awoke;
To thee, to whom love is a joke,
To thee, to whom a heart is futile,
To thee, who smiles and jokes all the while.

To thee, for whom my love turned awake;
To thee, whom I awaited by the lake,
To thee, for whom I raised my tears,
To thee, by whom I erased my fears.

To thee, whom my desires found true;
To thee, by whom such wishes are never truer,
To thee, by whom visions are clear,
To thee, whom I wish was here.

To thee, whom I hath loved, and still do;
To thee, for whom love hath renewed,
To thee, for whom there shall be tomorrow,
To thee, for whom stands the here and now.

To thee, whom I dearly loved, and still do;
To thee, whom I am about to love now,
To thee, whose love was once so true,
To thee, to whom rage is not rue.

To thee, whom I loved dearly then;
To thee, whom I loved wholly and ardently;
To thee, for whom I drained my heart,
To thee, for whom I tainted my love.

To thee, for whom I could have died;
To thee, for whom the world hath lied,
To thee, my eyes and lips are able to say,
To thee, for whom I awoke silently today.

To thee, for whom I faint with delight;
To thee, for whom there is but no day and night,
To thee, for whom all the wrong seem right,
To thee, for whom fear is not fright.

To thee, for whom idleness is love;
To thee, by whom kisses are not enough,
To thee, who sees into the ****** my soul,
To thee, who listens into my heat, and cold.

To thee, on whom I hath laid my love;
To thee, in whom my past is asleep,
To thee, granted by the One above,
To thee, for none else is t’is love so deep.

To thee, to whom I hath pledged my soul;
To thee, for whom I shall still die,
To thee, who knows not buoyant death,
To thee, who knows only the youth of breath.

To thee, to whom merit shan’t be merit;
To thee, to whom greed is not foul,
To thee, to whom misery is a lie,
To thee, to whom joy is in flesh.

To thee, to whom love is a burden;
To thee, to whom love is a sin,
To thee, to whom scars are not mean,
To thee, to whom the grass is not green.

To thee, to whom words hath no name;
To thee, to whom life bears no song,
To thee, to whom love shall not stay the same,
To thee, to whom all the good might be wrong.

To thee, to whom swords bear no name;
To thee, for whom such stories are told,
To thee, for whom lovesick lines are writ,
To thee, for whom silent pages are read.

To thee, to whom sounds bear but rage;
To thee, to whom love dies by age.
To thee, to whom mortal is love,
To thee, to whom affection shall die.

To thee, to whom there is no avail;
To thee, to whom joy hath died,
To thee, to whom love is a fail,
To thee, to whom love is a lie.
vamsi sai mohan Aug 2014
She seldom said good night or did she reply,I didn't ask either,
She used to reply silence whenever I text her,(paraphrasing)
I created whatever I want from that silence,
I thought she is so magnanimous to provide such a nothingness to accumulate my thoughts,
But I don't know why they call it as a fantasy,anything that is created out of nothingness,
If this is a fantasy then the existence is a fantasy,as the existence is created out of nothingness,
I want her to be seen as a fictional figure rather than existential monument,
She never saw me with the eyes I saw her,
Perhaps I am talking about intention,
I think my love is unconditional and love is unconditional,
My feelings towards her doesn't have anything to do with her feelings towards me,
But sometimes it pangs me as how the flower feels when the bee sips the essence of it,
The flower accrues for over a period of time but the bee ***** out momentarily...
So did she **** out my love,
I love when she does that as the flower is indifferent to the suckling of bee,
Only her fragile silence invokes her virtual visage..
The visage with the black in her eyes,
The black which only eye-lids can shutter,
The moment she closes her eyes is the moment I see nothing,
The darting eyes,too irresistible to distract...
Ron Sanders Feb 2020
Black is the seed, and black, the fruit.

The blossom of light an affront:  wrought of nothing,
illuminating nothing, reverting to nothing, the blossom is—
Everything.
And a man contends, endures,
knowing, in his moment, that all that matters
matters not; that in the crowd
he is alone, that in the cosmos
he is lost, that in his writing
he is written. He is a coal, shot hot between voids.
Intense to evanescent,
each pass of a life has a spectrum.

Red is the womb.

Here, at riot’s eye, all bellows howl,
all fires bend to the harlot wind of becoming.
And the nub is a lump, and the lump accrues,
marbles dreamless, in liquor weightless, defining:
Liquid ruby, clinging vine, tallow flower in wine—
the little ogre, caught on a briar, kicks.
Comes a marvelous trophy, squirming and gory,
naked and pendent, blind and grotesque—
wound about the hollows and seams,
spat in a maelstrom:
one more shape in the window,
one more shadow exposed,
in the ****** triumph of light.

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
The boy has opened his eyes,
but the infant makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
The faces grin, closing in…grow enormous fingers
to point, to pinch—to peel back the veil
and make his eyes scream.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Little ember, ignite.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like oil on a rainy day,
the colors blend and wend their way
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is slurred,
the light, obscured,
and night
renewed.

Here on the lattice,
morning embroiders the tatters of night.
While tall beaded glasses
squeeze melody from melting ice,
the diced and slanting shafts of sun
checker the shadows with tangerine light.
On the sidewalks April’s children run,
but the eyes in the faces see
nephew on the august perch
of uncle’s wicker knee.
Graven in air, the faces shift,
their eyes a flickering stream.
Loosed features drift, expressions run
in subtle strokes of shade and sun.
The stream ***** him in:  swirls of abhorrence,
pools of disdain. Succumbing, drawn under,
he swallows his eyes. But the eyes in the faces remain
watching.

So scrawny it grieves, he eats too ****** much;
ever absent, he is always in the way.
Sickly, quiet, submissive, shy,
he hides when the faces quarrel,
cries when they crack his lie.
Craving love, he learns early to fast;
contriving a limp, he is weaned at last.
What hold wanders here—there are no bridges,
only walls. Every scribe is a master of cant.
The learned are jaundiced, the ignorant smug.
And those who would name his demons,
when maintaining “this will pass,”
fashion their webs of pap and straw.
This animal man is a thief.

Mother,
My world is a stranger.
My eyes are wounds on a mind that will not heal.
I saw more range, more warmth, more mother,
in the dance of sun on heather,
in a single kiss of dew.
Now your urn, blessed bowel, fouls the cedar
of father’s mantel, while he grows blacker,
blending bile with grief and gin.
Those lips that never tendered,
that heart I never knew—mother,
who were you?

Ubiquitous, the emerald **** lies splayed, exploding:
from her pores an eruption, on her belly a rank,
stinking moss. She bleeds life, vomits it,
into bud, into blade; sharing with a passing star
the silent scream of spring.
But here she dreams, perfumed,
a picture of grace, her verdure in groom.
Secluded, seduced, sedated. Churls put on her face
while zephyrs attend to the scent of her loom.
Time purls. The zephyrs flit sweetly,
chasing motes in fibers of light.
Playing tag in the sun, currents weave into one,
near a still-life of mourners and fatherless son.
The figures seem rooted, unreal.
As the gust musses trees, light leaps between leaves.
The greenery breathes. As if shaken,
the scene comes to life:  huddling in sync,
the faces incline, their eyes like slinking thieves.
The young man implodes. He reels.
The tension relents and he straightens. He wheels.
He limps off alone, wind hounding his heels,
the moment too eerie to bear. Sedans trickle by.
A raw widow grieves. But the faces continue to stare.
And the wind pirouettes, finds a wing,
has a plunge, brakes low on a rest,
makes a guarded descent. The breeze buffets markers,
losing vigor and bent, then slips thru the stones
toward the beckoning trees.
The draft riffles leaves, where its whisper is spent
and lost a sigh.

A stipend, a shack, a lessor in wait.
Such are the fruits of his father’s estate.
He breaks no bread, seeks no sweet;
strange dynamics govern his blood,
preclude his seed from the common fire.
Music of amity, refinement’s caress,
are brute concerns; abrasive, obscene.
In his quiet aching way he is whole.
Seasons burst and smolder, surrender and brood.
Their pageant revolves about him.
The years breathe, driving the crowd,
steeping its fevers in jasmine and sun.
Humanity brawls, exalting the flame.
But without him.
And he grays, sinking, certain his pain cannot,
could not possibly, be borne by another.
The silence condenses, sets.
At last even pain deserts him.
But near the brink he hears the nervous hum
of impermanence, feels the white pang of being’s wing
as day succumbs to the fist of night.
Dawn burns deeper, duller,
each beam towing a filament of dusk,
each round of the wheel a salvo
in the stunning of his eyes.

Now the years are mired in sameness.
The day wears on. Guests come unbidden:
Conscience, the despot. Sentiment, the leech.
Misgivings sojourn, transmigrate, return,
as Lonesomeness plumbs his moribund vein,
metastasizing.
Still he rooms with the wind, dies waking,
dreams sleepless. And it haunts him:
All this teeming while an instant, an irrelevancy,
a rube’s view of the pulse careening downstream,
working its rhyme into a billion like irrelevancies.
Here must be real, Now must be sound, and yet—
no sooner are the moments cast
than shape is shadow, and present, past.
Only the day wears on.
Blue is the evening begotten, the twilight of our lives.
Dark gathers, mooring its stain
where a dreamer weighs the deep,
his eyes in ruin, his color in vain.
Only ballast and mind, merely ego and rind,
growing blind as the day wears on.

Down this grim promenade,
a musty wind hustles gaunt silhouettes.
They are loth to be borne;
they are patiently measuring stones.
Eyes leap in their caverns, looks light and remain
on a smudge in the gloaming, a scarecrow with cane,
tapping out his tenure in a cold feeble rain.
And now the purple veins of near-night
thud sluggishly, almost grudgingly.
The black earth splits wetly, obscenely.
There:  something impatient stirs, exposed—
Limbless, sightless, the lamprey rises;
her breath unbearable, her length immeasurable,
her age—
impossible!
Preening *****, hypnotic.
In one vile kiss she is sieve and abyss.
Her bruised lips are splayed, her violet mouth, made,
and her churning, insatiable craw is
pitch.

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
Was he hurt? Can you hear me?
But the old man makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
the faces glare, stealing air…grow enormous fingers
to ****, to pin—to pull down the veil
and make his eyes seize.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Waning fire, grow bright.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like spectra from a dying sun,
the colors flare, are torn, are spun
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is hushed,
the blossom, crushed,
and night
renewed.

Thanks for reading Faces. NOW PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS, ABOUT THE FIRST HUMAN TO CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE PLANET. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com
How soulless are you people, anyway?
Joe Fitz Jul 2013
My shallow existence in this beautiful world
I shall now paint you a picture, with powerful words
Words that describe the joys of the birds
How they move threw the sky as if nothing accrues.
Brazing  bison that stroll threw the world in powerful herds
As the evolutionary pool is swiveled and swirled

I look into the sun and try to fight its powerful rays
My earth circles round it and brings me age by days
It lights my life, i sleep and wait for its return to light my way
It brings my garden to life to the vital part it  dose plays

I walk into the water, it sways me with calm
But without a alarm it can be viscous cause harm
I respect it. Its big and vast my plants weapon of arms
Can take human life no way to disarm

I lie down on the grass. To smell the flowers and bees
I breath in and get the scent of apples and trees
Trees are so green, cool wind of a breeze
Bees wisk round pollen,but no sign of a sneeze

Crisp white snow no foot print of mark
Bright white moon that guides the way threw the dark
It reveals a big brown oak with strong rich staggering bark
My natural beautiful world gives me hope for my hearts.
Stella Stardust Feb 2017
What I would say, if I dare
I'd say that life is to be lighter
Death a mere path to something else
That we do not know, et all

Pity on those who think,
But do not know.
Salt on those who know,
But do not think.

Find somewhere in between

Where buds can blossom
Without hesitation, and
Minds can shift -
Without resignation

Let harmony carry our thoughts.

Pursuasion is the worst of sins
For those who slickly speak
In tongues that whisper fictitious whims
Leading you to darkness.

Doubt idly leans on
Those who hang heads low
And talk of maybes and almosts
Without a chin to spare.

Pursue a path to growth.

The price of knowledge only accrues
Don't limit this power where-
In these small hours we can waste
Swaddled in naivety.

Shed upon our small existence
Humility and love
Openness and kindness
Who knows what is above?

Accept beliefs of others.


Let's live Life now,
it IS all we know
So let it be, as is
Dream, Create, Learn and Grow

Find something you can give.
Marchands de grec ! marchands de latin ! cuistres ! dogues !
Philistins ! magisters ! je vous hais, pédagogues !
Car, dans votre aplomb grave, infaillible, hébété,
Vous niez l'idéal, la grâce et la beauté !
Car vos textes, vos lois, vos règles sont fossiles !
Car, avec l'air profond, vous êtes imbéciles !
Car vous enseignez tout, et vous ignorez tout !
Car vous êtes mauvais et méchants ! - Mon sang bout
Rien qu'à songer au temps où, rêveuse bourrique,
Grand diable de seize ans, j'étais en rhétorique !
Que d'ennuis ! de fureurs ! de bêtises ! - gredins ! -
Que de froids châtiments et que de chocs soudains !
« Dimanche en retenue et cinq cents vers d'Horace ! »
Je regardais le monstre aux ongles noirs de crasse,
Et je balbutiais : « Monsieur... - Pas de raisons !
- Vingt fois l'ode à Plancus et l'épître aux Pisons ! »
Or j'avais justement, ce jour là, - douce idée.
Qui me faisait rêver d'Armide et d'Haydée, -
Un rendez-vous avec la fille du portier.
Grand Dieu ! perdre un tel jour ! le perdre tout entier !
Je devais, en parlant d'amour, extase pure !
En l'enivrant avec le ciel et la nature,
La mener, si le temps n'était pas trop mauvais,
Manger de la galette aux buttes Saint-Gervais !
Rêve heureux ! je voyais, dans ma colère bleue,
Tout cet Éden, congé, les lilas, la banlieue,
Et j'entendais, parmi le thym et le muguet,
Les vagues violons de la mère Saguet !
Ô douleur ! furieux, je montais à ma chambre,
Fournaise au mois de juin, et glacière en décembre ;
Et, là, je m'écriais :

« Horace ! ô bon garçon !
Qui vivais dans le calme et selon la raison,
Et qui t'allais poser, dans ta sagesse franche,
Sur tout, comme l'oiseau se pose sur la branche,
Sans peser, sans rester, ne demandant aux dieux
Que le temps de chanter ton chant libre et joyeux !
Tu marchais, écoutant le soir, sous les charmilles,
Les rires étouffés des folles jeunes filles,
Les doux chuchotements dans l'angle obscur du bois ;
Tu courtisais ta belle esclave quelquefois,
Myrtale aux blonds cheveux, qui s'irrite et se cabre
Comme la mer creusant les golfes de Calabre,
Ou bien tu t'accoudais à table, buvant sec
Ton vin que tu mettais toi-même en un *** grec.
Pégase te soufflait des vers de sa narine ;
Tu songeais ; tu faisais des odes à Barine,
À Mécène, à Virgile, à ton champ de Tibur,
À Chloë, qui passait le long de ton vieux mur,
Portant sur son beau front l'amphore délicate.
La nuit, lorsque Phœbé devient la sombre Hécate,
Les halliers s'emplissaient pour toi de visions ;
Tu voyais des lueurs, des formes, des rayons,
Cerbère se frotter, la queue entre les jambes,
À Bacchus, dieu des vins et père des ïambes ;
Silène digérer dans sa grotte, pensif ;
Et se glisser dans l'ombre, et s'enivrer, lascif,
Aux blanches nudités des nymphes peu vêtues,
La faune aux pieds de chèvre, aux oreilles pointues !
Horace, quand grisé d'un petit vin sabin,
Tu surprenais Glycère ou Lycoris au bain,
Qui t'eût dit, ô Flaccus ! quand tu peignais à Rome
Les jeunes chevaliers courant dans l'hippodrome,
Comme Molière a peint en France les marquis,
Que tu faisais ces vers charmants, profonds, exquis,
Pour servir, dans le siècle odieux où nous sommes,
D'instruments de torture à d'horribles bonshommes,
Mal peignés, mal vêtus, qui mâchent, lourds pédants,
Comme un singe une fleur, ton nom entre leurs dents !
Grimauds hideux qui n'ont, tant leur tête est vidée,
Jamais eu de maîtresse et jamais eu d'idée ! »

Puis j'ajoutais, farouche :

« Ô cancres ! qui mettez
Une soutane aux dieux de l'éther irrités,
Un béguin à Diane, et qui de vos tricornes
Coiffez sinistrement les olympiens mornes,
Eunuques, tourmenteurs, crétins, soyez maudits !
Car vous êtes les vieux, les noirs, les engourdis,
Car vous êtes l'hiver ; car vous êtes, ô cruches !
L'ours qui va dans les bois cherchant un arbre à ruches,
L'ombre, le plomb, la mort, la tombe, le néant !
Nul ne vit près de vous dressé sur son séant ;
Et vous pétrifiez d'une haleine sordide
Le jeune homme naïf, étincelant, splendide ;
Et vous vous approchez de l'aurore, endormeurs !
À Pindare serein plein d'épiques rumeurs,
À Sophocle, à Térence, à Plaute, à l'ambroisie,
Ô traîtres, vous mêlez l'antique hypocrisie,
Vos ténèbres, vos mœurs, vos jougs, vos exeats,
Et l'assoupissement des noirs couvents béats ;
Vos coups d'ongle rayant tous les sublimes livres,
Vos préjugés qui font vos yeux de brouillards ivres,
L'horreur de l'avenir, la haine du progrès ;
Et vous faites, sans peur, sans pitié, sans regrets,
À la jeunesse, aux cœurs vierges, à l'espérance,
Boire dans votre nuit ce vieil ***** rance !
Ô fermoirs de la bible humaine ! sacristains
De l'art, de la science, et des maîtres lointains,
Et de la vérité que l'homme aux cieux épèle,
Vous changez ce grand temple en petite chapelle !
Guichetiers de l'esprit, faquins dont le goût sûr
Mène en laisse le beau ; porte-clefs de l'azur,
Vous prenez Théocrite, Eschyle aux sacrés voiles,
Tibulle plein d'amour, Virgile plein d'étoiles ;
Vous faites de l'enfer avec ces paradis ! »

Et ma rage croissant, je reprenais :

« Maudits,
Ces monastères sourds ! bouges ! prisons haïes !
Oh ! comme on fit jadis au pédant de Veïes,
Culotte bas, vieux tigre ! Écoliers ! écoliers !
Accourez par essaims, par bandes, par milliers,
Du gamin de Paris au groeculus de Rome,
Et coupez du bois vert, et fouaillez-moi cet homme !
Jeunes bouches, mordez le metteur de bâillons !
Le mannequin sur qui l'on drape des haillons
À tout autant d'esprit que ce cuistre en son antre,
Et tout autant de cœur ; et l'un a dans le ventre
Du latin et du grec comme l'autre à du foin.
Ah ! je prends Phyllodoce et Xantis à témoin
Que je suis amoureux de leurs claires tuniques ;
Mais je hais l'affreux tas des vils pédants iniques !
Confier un enfant, je vous demande un peu,
À tous ces êtres noirs ! autant mettre, morbleu !
La mouche en pension chez une tarentule !
Ces moines, expliquer Platon, lire Catulle,
Tacite racontant le grand Agricola,
Lucrèce ! eux, déchiffrer Homère, ces gens-là !
Ces diacres ! ces bedeaux dont le groin renifle !
Crânes d'où sort la nuit, pattes d'où sort la gifle,
Vieux dadais à l'air rogue, au sourcil triomphant,
Qui ne savent pas même épeler un enfant !
Ils ignorent comment l'âme naît et veut croître.
Cela vous a Laharpe et Nonotte pour cloître !
Ils en sont à l'A, B, C, D, du cœur humain ;  
Ils sont l'horrible Hier qui veut tuer Demain ;
Ils offrent à l'aiglon leurs règles d'écrevisses.
Et puis ces noirs tessons ont une odeur de vices.
Ô vieux pots égueulés des soifs qu'on ne dit pas !
Le pluriel met une S à leurs meâs culpâs,
Les boucs mystérieux, en les voyants s'indignent,
Et, quand on dit : « Amour !  » terre et cieux ! ils se signent.
Leur vieux viscère mort insulte au cœur naissant.
Ils le prennent de haut avec l'adolescent,
Et ne tolèrent pas le jour entrant dans l'âme
Sous la forme pensée ou sous la forme femme.
Quand la muse apparaît, ces hurleurs de holà
Disent : « Qu'est-ce que c'est que cette folle-là ? »
Et, devant ses beautés, de ses rayons accrues,
Ils reprennent : « Couleurs dures, nuances crues ;
Vapeurs, illusions, rêves ; et quel travers
Avez-vous de fourrer l'arc-en-ciel dans vos vers ? »
Ils raillent les enfants, ils raillent les poètes ;
Ils font aux rossignols leurs gros yeux de chouettes :
L'enfant est l'ignorant, ils sont l'ignorantin ;
Ils raturent l'esprit, la splendeur, le matin ;
Ils sarclent l'idéal ainsi qu'un barbarisme,
Et ces culs de bouteille ont le dédain du prisme. »

Ainsi l'on m'entendait dans ma geôle crier.

Le monologue avait le temps de varier.
Et je m'exaspérais, faisant la faute énorme,
Ayant raison au fond, d'avoir tort dans la forme.
Après l'abbé Tuet, je maudissais Bezout ;
Car, outre les pensums où l'esprit se dissout,
J'étais alors en proie à la mathématique.
Temps sombre ! Enfant ému du frisson poétique,
Pauvre oiseau qui heurtais du crâne mes barreaux,
On me livrait tout vif aux chiffres, noirs bourreaux ;
On me faisait de force ingurgiter l'algèbre ;
On me liait au fond d'un Boisbertrand funèbre ;
On me tordait, depuis les ailes jusqu'au bec,
Sur l'affreux chevalet des X et des Y ;
Hélas ! on me fourrait sous les os maxillaires
Le théorème orné de tous ses corollaires ;
Et je me débattais, lugubre patient
Du diviseur prêtant main-forte au quotient.
De là mes cris.

Un jour, quand l'homme sera sage,
Lorsqu'on n'instruira plus les oiseaux par la cage,
Quand les sociétés difformes sentiront
Dans l'enfant mieux compris se redresser leur front,
Que, des libres essors ayant sondé les règles,
On connaîtra la loi de croissance des aigles,
Et que le plein midi rayonnera pour tous,
Savoir étant sublime, apprendre sera doux.
Alors, tout en laissant au sommet des études
Les grands livres latins et grecs, ces solitudes
Où l'éclair gronde, où luit la mer, où l'astre rit,
Et qu'emplissent les vents immenses de l'esprit,
C'est en les pénétrant d'explication tendre,
En les faisant aimer, qu'on les fera comprendre.
Homère emportera dans son vaste reflux
L'écolier ébloui ; l'enfant ne sera plus
Une bête de somme attelée à Virgile ;
Et l'on ne verra plus ce vif esprit agile
Devenir, sous le fouet d'un cuistre ou d'un abbé,
Le lourd cheval poussif du pensum embourbé.
Chaque village aura, dans un temple rustique,
Dans la lumière, au lieu du magister antique,
Trop noir pour que jamais le jour y pénétrât,
L'instituteur lucide et grave, magistrat
Du progrès, médecin de l'ignorance, et prêtre
De l'idée ; et dans l'ombre on verra disparaître
L'éternel écolier et l'éternel pédant.
L'aube vient en chantant, et non pas en grondant.
Nos fils riront de nous dans cette blanche sphère ;
Ils se demanderont ce que nous pouvions faire
Enseigner au moineau par le hibou hagard.
Alors, le jeune esprit et le jeune regard
Se lèveront avec une clarté sereine
Vers la science auguste, aimable et souveraine ;
Alors, plus de grimoire obscur, fade, étouffant ;
Le maître, doux apôtre incliné sur l'enfant,
Fera, lui versant Dieu, l'azur et l'harmonie,
Boire la petite âme à la coupe infinie.
Alors, tout sera vrai, lois, dogmes, droits, devoirs.
Tu laisseras passer dans tes jambages noirs
Une pure lueur, de jour en jour moins sombre,
Ô nature, alphabet des grandes lettres d'ombre !

Paris, mai 1831.
À Joseph, comte de S.
Cuncta supercilio.
HORACE.


Dans une grande fête, un jour, au Panthéon,
J'avais sept ans, je vis passer Napoléon.
Pour voir cette figure illustre et solennelle,
Je m'étais échappé de l'aile maternelle ;
Car il tenait déjà mon esprit inquiet.
Mais ma mère aux doux yeux, qui souvent s'effrayait
En m'entendant parler guerre, assauts et bataille,
Craignait pour moi la foule, à cause de ma taille.

Et ce qui me frappa, dans ma sainte terreur,
Quand au front du cortège apparut l'empereur,
Tandis que les enfants demandaient à leurs mères
Si c'est là ce héros dont on fait cent chimères,
Ce ne fut pas de voir tout ce peuple à grand bruit,
Le suivre comme on suit un phare dans la nuit
Et se montrer de ****, sur la tête suprême,
Ce chapeau tout usé plus beau qu'un diadème,
Ni, pressés sur ses pas, dix vassaux couronnés
Regarder en tremblant ses pieds éperonnés,
Ni ses vieux grenadiers, se faisant violence,
Des cris universels s'enivrer en silence ;
Non, tandis qu'à genoux la ville tout en feu,
Joyeuse comme on est lorsqu'on n'a qu'un seul vœu
Qu'on n'est qu'un même peuple et qu'ensemble on respire,
Chantait en chœur : VEILLONS AU SALUT DE L'EMPIRE !

Ce qui me frappa, dis-je, et me resta gravé,
Même après que le cri sur la route élevé
Se fut évanoui dans ma jeune mémoire,
Ce fut de voir, parmi ces fanfares de gloire,
Dans le bruit qu'il faisait, cet homme souverain
Passer muet et grave ainsi qu'un dieu d'airain.

Et le soir, curieux, je le dis à mon père,
Pendant qu'il défaisait son vêtement de guerre,
Et que je me jouais sur son dos indulgent
De l'épaulette d'or aux étoiles d'argent.
Mon père secoua la tête sans réponse.
Mais souvent une idée en notre esprit s'enfonce ;
Ce qui nous a frappés nous revient par moments,
Et l'enfance naïve a ses étonnements.

Le lendemain, pour voir le soleil qui s'incline,
J'avais suivi mon père en haut de la colline
Qui domine Paris du côté du levant,
Et nous allions tous deux, lui pensant, moi rêvant.
Cet homme en mon esprit restait comme un prodige,
Et, parlant à mon père : Ô mon père, lui dis-je,
Pourquoi notre empereur, cet envoyé de Dieu,
Lui qui fait tout mouvoir et qui met tout en feu,
A-t-il ce regard froid et cet air immobile ?
Mon père dans ses mains prit ma tête débile,
Et me montrant au **** l'horizon spacieux :
« Vois, mon fils, cette terre, immobile à tes yeux,
Plus que l'air, plus que l'onde et la flamme, est émue,
Car le germe de tout dans son ventre remue.
Dans ses flancs ténébreux, nuit et jour en rampant
Elle sent se plonger la racine, serpent
Qui s'abreuve aux ruisseaux des sèves toujours prêtes,
Et fouille et boit sans cesse avec ses mille têtes.
Mainte flamme y ruisselle, et tantôt lentement
Imbibe le cristal qui devient diamant,
Tantôt, dans quelque mine éblouissante et sombre,
Allume des monceaux d'escarboucles sans nombre,
Ou, s'échappant au jour, plus magnifique encor,
Au front du vieil Etna met une aigrette d'or.
Toujours l'intérieur de la terre travaille.
Son flanc universel incessamment tressaille.
Goutte à goutte, et sans bruit qui réponde à son bruit,
La source de tout fleuve y filtre dans la nuit.
Elle porte à la fois, sur sa face où nous sommes,
Les blés et les cités, les forêts et les hommes.
Vois, tout est vert au ****, tout rit, tout est vivant.
Elle livre le chêne et le brin d'herbe au vent.
Les fruits et les épis la couvrent à cette heure.
Eh bien ! déjà, tandis que ton regard l'effleure,
Dans son sein que n'épuise aucun enfantement,
Les futures moissons tremblent confusément.

« Ainsi travaille, enfant, l'âme active et féconde
Du poète qui crée et du soldat qui fonde.
Mais ils n'en font rien voir. De la flamme à pleins bords
Qui les brûle au dedans, rien ne luit au dehors.
Ainsi Napoléon, que l'éclat environne
Et qui fit tant de bruit en forgeant sa couronne,
Ce chef que tout célèbre et que pourtant tu vois,
Immobile et muet, passer sur le pavois,
Quand le peuple l'étreint, sent en lui ses pensées,
Qui l'étreignent aussi, se mouvoir plus pressées.

« Déjà peut-être en lui mille choses se font,
Et tout l'avenir germe en son cerveau profond.
Déjà, dans sa pensée immense et clairvoyante,
L'Europe ne fait plus qu'une France géante,
Berlin, Vienne, Madrid, Moscou, Londres, Milan,
Viennent rendre à Paris hommage une fois l'an,
Le Vatican n'est plus que le vassal du Louvre,
La terre à chaque instant sous les vieux trônes s'ouvre
Et de tous leurs débris sort pour le genre humain
Un autre Charlemagne, un autre globe en main.
Et, dans le même esprit où ce grand dessein roule,
Des bataillons futurs déjà marchent en foule,
Le conscrit résigné, sous un avis fréquent,
Se dresse, le tambour résonne au front du camp,
D'ouvriers et d'outils Cherbourg couvre sa grève,
Le vaisseau colossal sur le chantier s'élève,
L'obusier rouge encor sort du fourneau qui bout,
Une marine flotte, une armée est debout !
Car la guerre toujours l'illumine et l'enflamme,
Et peut-être déjà, dans la nuit de cette âme,
Sous ce crâne, où le monde en silence est couvé,
D'un second Austerlitz le soleil s'est levé ! »

Plus ****, une autre fois, je vis passer cet homme,
Plus grand dans son Paris que César dans sa Rome.
Des discours de mon père alors. je me souvins.
On l'entourait encor d'honneurs presque divins,
Et je lui retrouvai, rêveur à son passage,
Et la même pensée et le même visage.
Il méditait toujours son projet surhumain.
Cent aigles l'escortaient en empereur romain.
Ses régiments marchaient, enseignes déployées ;
Ses lourds canons, baissant leurs bouches essuyées,
Couraient, et, traversant la foule aux pas confus,
Avec un bruit d'airain sautaient sur leurs affûts.
Mais bientôt, au soleil, cette tête admirée
Disparut dans un flot de poussière dorée ;
Il passa. Cependant son nom sur la cité
Bondissait, des canons aux cloches rejeté ;
Son cortège emplissait de tumultes les rues ;
Et, par mille clameurs de sa présence accrues,
Par mille cris de joie et d'amour furieux,
Le peuple saluait ce passant glorieux.

Novembre 1830.
Too hot. Tousled paper-thin music. 23. Nothing else matters but the conscious: psychic, physical — I arrive, take space, therefore I am. Nothing hurts deeper. Stays. Dagger to gut. Always, the dogs are, always. Much harder for the soul to plead in front of inviting cathedrals. Fire in this side of the Earth. Running. Out of time. Running out of time.
                     Crossing criss-cross of cars.
    Curious cat gets run over, bones break,
    brains splatter, blood dries faster than
    water.
          Flattened by things: menials, stereo cool. Subcompact breathing space. Clinging on to dangerous playthings is
recherché to the average. Death is nice.
Twice of it, better. Breathe fast. Live faster—
Short moments believable. 23 ~ 55. An equivocal calling to mind. Gamblers here
have no parlay. It's senselessness against
another throb of it. Nothing accrues for
greater victories. Slam the ride, deface
the labyrinth. Take it. Ride fast. Do it slow. Pace is everything. The tempo is infinite,
dance wears away like chip on the old floor. Out of cigarettes.
         It is splendid enough to remember
the horses that jumped past
fences of pain than having to mount
   them in all separate mornings,    severances, all that.  There's no magic
in farewell. There's no lie in that.
I don't know why I wrote this.
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition

Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues  
  
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Amalgamated anathema android sails.  (it's a wind up toy)  For though I would be the first to concede my gambits of alluvium aloof impunity sails, still immunity is Epicurean absurdity.
Jonathan Benham Aug 2018
The dirt in line with your toes,
the grass in line with your ankles.
Your arms jump then freeze,
your fingers touching the grass.
Nothing has ever seemed so real.
But, it is only a moment.
You begin to dig and
you keep going, you don’t care.
You don’t care.

Pestilence growing in your nails,
refusing to see the grass, so flimsy,
now that you finally had the courage,
to hold on to the dream.
The dream that abates in line with the thought that follows-

Why god, did he do that to me?

Sweat accrues, and you wipe your face.
The dirt from your nails beseeches your face.
The clock is ticking.
You stare into the hole you are making.
And as you do,
you feel the grass beginning to grow once again.

Your fingers, greasy, yet you remain dedicated.
Dedicated to this craft!
Dedicated to this destiny!
But you can’t stop the grass, time is running thin,
the rain has begun.
You must finish.

You dig more and now, now,
finally, the water slips from your cheeks,
landing in the center of the hole.
Creatures,
with endless and dazzling tiny legs you dream of come out of the sides,
only to find that they, too, are merely experimenting.
Ripped grass tears through their bodies, and as your rip it out,
so do their screams. You hear them.
Begging just for one more breath,
before you crush them with your feet.
But the hole kept shrinking.
But their screams wouldn’t cease.
More kept coming from the ground.
Begging for peace.
You disrupted their lives, and so,
you must **** them all.
They simply needed a way out of this.
You thought you were doing them a favor.
You thought you were doing them a favor.

Your hands jump back to your face.
Their screams remained,
or was the memory just that vivid?



You’ve grown tired.
Leaving your motionless state
was enough.
You can’t do this anymore.

You made the wrong decision.
But, now, the disease has spread.
Running out of words to describe,
Is just the beginning.
You hear the screams returning.
Do you not deserve this?
You can’t move at all.
You feel, nothing, but,
regret.

More creatures escape,
and surround the murderer!
You beg, you beg, just for a response.
But they just stare.
Moving as eternity.
You beg for mercy.
But they have none to give.
And the rain becomes too much.
They drown one by one.

They scream standing.
You hear birds in the distance.
Finally, the rain has gone,
and, finally, you are
above the clouds watching peace take over.
this is my first piece of writing in months. My psych meds have really stifled my creativity as of late.
I get around to you
because
you asked me to,
then what did we do?

She accrues favours
like some get the gout.

Hurting is healing
she'll say,
and I guess that it's right
when we cry in the night
we can smile through the day

so it seems to be a half dream,
like it comes
in instalments

fulfilment's like that too.
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition

Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues  
  
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Existential exigence exodus.  Amalgamated anathema android sails.  (it's a wind up toy)  For though I would be the first to concede my gambits of alluvium aloof impunity sails, still immunity is Epicurean absurdity.
Yo plug me into ya speaker so the rhymes can make ya weaker
like racks of a sweeper Greet ya
with the atomic bars that reach higher than the stars
In the late night I'm top flight
A General Jesuit now matter how hard ya get
This is a bullet ya can't dodge I be on that super sonic
Hedge hog never was a dog but a God
Surviver of Maygog and Gog through the smog
Ya see my bullets waving but they ain't saying hi
Just ya soul inside of a shell soon to say bye
A verbal assassin I stay blastin' with lyrics Faster than
Bruce Lee check my flow philosophy Beat em so bad you can't even get an autopsy
These boys at best is carbon copy
None could stop me I'm a freight train
Gunnin' 100 miles and runnin' fools.be frontin'
But ain't no future in that my birth tells a story of it's own
Back when I was on the throne
Spiritually I'm in the house like Jerome
Kings and Queens we was over Rome black folks come home
Ya know they hate when we investigate our hidden tomes
Once I visited Pharoah tombs his spirit consumed
My mind body and soul now I'm on a new road
**** the glorious riches and flossin' jewels and chasin' broke *******
It's a plan attack I stay with about a fifty mill' stack
Underboss reclaiming my aristocrat stats
I'm a poetic terrorist sinister in the mist
Watch the gun spark from the clench of my wrist
I mix blood and bones like coke & lime like Rawls you'll never fine
Bars like mines once the sunshines that's the beginning of your decline slowly rewind
Back check your stats I'm All That
Like Kenan and Kel
I'll even make a Christian Bale I'm the Dark Knight
Shoot off roof tops in the dark nights
Alleys to driveways it don't matter what time of day
As long as it's gun play used to be a Runaway
Child cuz of The Temptations in face of trepidation
I got more plans than the Bush & **** Administration
I'm gathering hoods from USA to Haitan and Jamaican can't forget about the Cubans
Who this pursuin'? Past me
my lyrics Blow like Paul Rueben pure as Peruvian
Got multiple women from Dominican to Columbian so come again
My rhymes got ya in the groove again like boys ii men tryna find a road that doesn't end
Casted with sin luxury fliers got me chasin' material desires
Only to find myself left in the fire
Soon to burn as the pages of my mind turns
I'm tryna raise consciousness but some say it's too ludicrous
Quick to diss but can't diss this lyricist
Lunatic I got bundles of rhymes been penned in Eygyptian heiroglyphics
Hard for you to lift it
Cuz my flows too heavy to even hold on whale scales
I got more intell than Dell once I hear the sound of the bell
All casualities fail trapped inside of my lyrical cell
The black hebrew hittin' ya with my rhymin' jui-jitsu cold as the flu soon to sicken you
Like tumors I grew stay true leavin' fakers confused as my wisdom accrues
We sacrifice what’s valuable for less
Than it accrues in interest on your debt
Which will only double like the puddles
When tears from struggles and regret

Come to collect your self respect
if our soul was fashionable you can bet
Most people would strangle the life from it, just to wear it around their neck

under the impression our possessions worth the Misdirection from stressin
including the Indiscretions collectiin
Like it’s infection is a blessin

Ignoring what’s left in its lessons
like imperfections are progression
Lack of investment in self affection
leaves us detesting our Reflection

Masking insecurities with our *******
women with make up, no exemption
Our projected Self imagerys Placed above our spiritual growth, causin is the tension

The Self hatred, suicide, depression
We forgot who we were impressin
our vanity is insanity, and its calamity
is savagery but these obsessions

are Useless as thoughts and prayers
Or Facebook profile pics with frames
Showing support for tragic Terrorist attacks, or mass shootings that aim

at the innocent, but the truth is
Most don’t care, as much as they buzz
They do it to feel better about doing nothing, when even donating blood,

is doing more that fake Facebook posts
Of useless sympathy could ever
It’s just condescending well wishes
from fake *******, we all must endeavour

As if were all eating each other’s *******
Putting on fake fronts for other fakes
like a masquerade for *******,to dress like **** heads, for other ******* snakes

and it’s hilarious, but also nefarious,
just like your local politician
who’s poisonous like physicians,
sellin big pharmas drugs wit prescriptions

causing opioid epidemic, addiction
but cognitive dissonance is positioned
So whistle blowing, the little knowing
is labelled conspiracy theory so vision

Is lost when brainwash takes intuition
leaving thought useless like tuition
why invest in an education system
when our own government ****** isn’t

societys becoming economical prison
but we just allow the constant piracy
too self indulgent to protect our rights
to protest and fight, so our privacy

Like freedom of speech, gone entirely
before anyone starts their *******
too distracted by issues for division
media creating bias’ on our television

Instigating prevention of unity risen
til our power in numbers gives immunity
strategically calculated, and predicated
on us inadvertently granting impunity

to the rich and powerful when brutally
is gun smoke, and cut throat lunacy
expressed in attitude to our neighbours, how can strangers have a community?

narrow minded views cause collision
sexuality, race, and gender, opinions
arguing over the illusion of equality ignoring quality, still we argue religion

and beliefs, that make us see difference
Instead of what’s common, our positions
On protecting our family, our jobs,
the fundamentals in the life we are livin

too blind to see any of it clearly
Most of our control we lost when ignored
busy hating each other while the
real threats are laughing at how poor

and how stupid, petty, and ridiculous
do you think rich powerful men
Give a **** what god another rich man prays to, or if and when

He chooses to have ***, who he bends
Over and rams? Cuz really ...in truth
Sexuality is irrelevant in this case
Cuz we’re all about to get *******

but what the hell do I know? True.
I’m just a self righteous dude with words
but one day we’re gonna be like caged parrots who look up at other birds

Who fly free in the sky
and pity them for not having their own
little space like they do not recognizing freedom, thinking his cage is a home
J'étais monté plus haut que l'aigle et le nuage ;
Sous mes pieds s'étendait un vaste paysage,
Cerclé d'un double azur par le ciel et la mer ;
Et les crânes pelés des montagnes géantes
En foule jaillissaient des profondeurs béantes,
Comme de blancs écueils sortant du gouffre amer.

C'était un vaste amas d'éboulements énormes,
Des rochers grimaçant dans des poses difformes,
Des pics dont l'oeil à peine embrasse la hauteur,
Et, la neige faisant une écume à leur crête,
On eût dit une mer prise un jour de tempête,
Un chaos attendant le mot du Créateur.

Là dorment les débris des races disparues,
Le vieux monde noyé sous les ondes accrues,
Le Béhémôt biblique et le Léviathan.
Chaque mont de la chaîne, immense cimetière,
Cache un corps monstrueux dans son ventre de pierre,
Et ses blocs de granit sont des os de Titan !
Clocks is back, it's a flashback, memory for ya Kodiak, gods is back,
In the flesh, they laying a test, see the gases they let out, only the best,
Shots in the arm, tryna get us chipped and harm, it's the snake charm,
I know devils, come in the most beautiful form, eyes ahead of the storm,
Celebrity, ain't nothing but, trained monkeys entertained the lost society,
Why brothers like me, destined for the route of Kenndedy probably,
I need to be, cuz I done see to many, things past the light, of humanity,
All I get is images, of a baby, jesus holding thirty candles, from his cradle,
Saying I came to save you, from you, I'm thinking backwards,
What's really going on, I'm playing a book from Saw's will, eyes could ****,
Still blood on the seven hills, gold and silver coins to the crispy dollar bills,
Folks out here, living their lives, but many men short of wives,
See the purpose is too divide, men from women, women from men,
It's like we switching positions, headed back to where it all began,
Uh, psychos on rise, blunts to keep you high, frayed from reality skies,
Cant even question the whys, yall smoking synthetic, it's so pathetic,
And they dont even get it, I seen it all this is where it all, falls down,
Falls downs, times is ticking who yall gone listen, to these celebs??
Hmm they lost souls too, through and through, even the underground,
Still gettin records deals, its blood on the horns, just to get a meal, and still,
Everybody who claim they real, will be the first to get you killed,
See its flesh vs flesh, bones over bones, peep the rise of the clones,

,




Drop mystical flavors, I came as the red cloaked savior, lost my behavior, cuz it's no more sanity, in these times to be,
We in the last millenial see, birth of the Gen Z, got em confused about equality,
Boomers tryna reclaim, they youth back now the silent generation, off the rack,
I see through the eyes, a devils bezel, I stopped climbing levels,
Only to find out, I was a rebel, like my folks back in those days, let freedom take me away me,
I been *******, since I came out my mother's belly, cell therapy,
Was already, planted in me, see I was supposed to die as a baby,
But somehow I fought to be free, and live in this ****** up society,
I'm thinking why me, so many, trails I blaze just see a sight of morning haze,
Hendrix purple flows, through my veins with the bandana,tied at my crown,
Seems like I'm getting around, standing around, in a circle,
Look upon the shadows, sights of enduring battles, souls over the flesh,
Flesh will always loose, to the pain that it accrues, wages paid for dues,
You know the story, it either ends peacefully or gory, I feel for poor deeds,
Mic bleeds, once I lay out my creeds, Hampton soldier indeed,
Chickens dont soar with eagles, I break laws like the paralegal they evil,
Repent for my own sins, i stand against government, I'm for the people,
Gathering around me in a circle, hands pressed together,
Performed under the stressful weather, go getter, I'm knocking stellar,
Funky fella, I am dont give a ****, this suckas wanna see me cram,
My emotions, against the cemetery coasting, as my ghost floating,
Above the breeze, now I'm in another dimension, twilight zone,
Still holding strong, lifts off the ****, found my self, alone in the battlezone,
Michael John Oct 2021
doctor, i don´t like
you-
(it is nothing personnel
you understand
you are probably
a decent man
but it is the mountain
of bull-****
that accrues day
by day
that taint´s every
breath i breath
it is the hypocrisy
it is the mean way
it is the beady
little eye
it is the fatal
shrug
nothing´s torpid
hug
in a living hidden
with lie
silence omits
we forgotten
song gone
understanding
sympathy
empathy
peachy
why i don´t
like
it is not really
understanding
why..)

a man walks into
a bar
and slaughters
all
puts a disc on
and makes
breakfast..

— The End —