"animus" poems
The comic convention
has cardboard cutouts of
all of the main characters of
Harry Potter.
Harry,
Ron,
Hermione,
etc.
All motionless in a river of people,
glossy but worn down,
bathed in cold white halogen.
And one by one,
the cosplayers—
the Harrys
Rons
Hermiones,
etc.
Have their pictures taken
with the cutouts,
one cardboard cutout cut out
and replaced with a real human being.
Being human, we
crave companionship,
fear solitude,
crave solitude,
fear companionship.
We try to avoid becoming cardboard
cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes
a retreat into inanimacy
is what the animus needs.
The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line
each waiting to pose for a selfie. Each
politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them,
but not striking up a conversation.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Amongst the weak.
The strong will rise.
Bringing our blades of justice.
Assassins,
All in disguise.
We rise together.
Along the line of the crowd.
Were at the corner of our fate.
Destiny will take us all.
Blades thrusted forward,
Arrows blacken the skies.
We charge into battle.
We fight for our lives.
For Freedom,
For honor.
JUSTICE.
But for whom?
I fear not what we face.
We will rise together.
Assassins for one.
AND all.
Together we fight,
Against the Templars.
We may be an Animus,
But our hearts are true.
Abstergo Destroyed a brother.
Or maybe hundreds.
Tonight,
They die by our swords.
Our blades of honor.
Will create a world of War.
Beware the Assassins,
We've Come to ****
You will die,
Drowning in the seven seas.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
I work for the machine
that bashes bastardized beauty
into the face of the masses
The status quo
of oppressing the Goddess
to some golden ratio
of ***** perfection
"We set the standards, baby"
An arrogance of man,
A battle born in blood
objectifying some sacred symbol,
The cosmic ****
we all crawled out of
as star dust
The holy hole
to heaven on Earth
Gaia taken advantage of
Rejecting the gift of consciousness
We'll de-evolve
like past-life regressions
like we're so self-entitled to
come back around
Among the cosmos
cradled in the crescent
Deny yourself the mystique of the feminine
The clashing of the anima and animus
The syzergy of
the sun
the moon
and us
Call on your angels
And submit to the psychosis
My brothers,
These are our
sisters and mothers
They don't want to castrate
The ******* symbol
Destroy the alpha male
And the omega oppression
The beginning and the end of
**** shaming
I worked for the
misogyny machinery of Moloch
My heart no longer beats here
It just bleeds for her.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Mandatory ignorance
Enforced through early cognizance
Until we come to recompense
Serrated lines of quote "logic"
Complicit as an etiquette
Preemptive nondivergence threads
United though we bow our heads
Suspension stasis animus
Alarming lack of sapience
Vendetted waking populace
Intrinsics lost to "evidence"
Orphans to our mother Earth
Regressive ****** immigrants
Staggering seductions ways
Lethargic lecherous hedonist craze
Ambrosia brown to black tar goes
Vivacious love to skanky ***
Entropy or as that goes
Remorse I say might have some pros
Solemnly a lie you know
Empathy not lost on me
Retracting threats though not my thing
Epiphany perchance to sing
Nocturnal beasts of legend spring
Damnation comes to every fiend
Innocuous solutions seen
Perception slanted serpentine
Impressions sit supplanters quit
The jury rarely gives a ****
Yet here Im relating it
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
She danced
a symbolic grace
with a look of malice
written on her face
She cast a
lunatic eclipse
of my erratic soul
The Maiden
The Mother
The Crone
It was more than a phase
Just a glimpse into our story-lines
She was the moon
I was the son
The anima
The animus
star-crossed
in our own paths
in our own way
I crowned her in stars,
she shed the scales
from her eyes
and we met
in a fiery embrace
Heaven on Earth
aligned like syzygy,
but only for a moment
We destroyed each other,
Yet we were complete.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
A collaboration between SG Holter and Elisa Maria Argiro
Hesitating here, silent edge of this dark forest,
I look beyond me, warm in the white fog.
Seeing your heart, now residing deep within
the ancient wood, is to know it is blessed, loved.
*Silver tongue resting now in golden silence.
Palms of soul upon moss and brittle bark.
Animal song; scent of beasts approaching unafraid.
Fierce peace. The opposite of a machine.*
In the rising sap of silent trees around us,
our deeply beating pulses listen, dance,
smiling kisses at the shining stars, new planets.
Eyes open, anima and animus press tightly
And distance is no more.
*"What language is Yours,"
I ask the still growing giants of
Green.
"Silence and its sister tongues
Such as leaves dancing with the
Breeze," they reply within the
Gap between soft sounds and
Softer ones.
So we speak through breaths
Exchanged, of nothing.
Two souls afloat upon the stream
Of Union with All.
What is Cosmos,
But "home"?
Never a visitor.
Never a stranger.
Nowhere has anyone ever been
Lost, or
Away.*
Humming your essence into my veins,
in tune with the wordless languages
of green lives and wind, listening
among delicate flowers, sleeping here
on the forest floor, wakeful and awaiting
the next sound of your voiceless voice,
wind words blowing
through my long, curling hair,
feeling the intention of your
untouched touch,
at home, just being.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:48 PM UTC
Today I saw Picasso’s self-portraits only to realize that at 14 years of age, he painted a man 5 times as old as him, believing that it was how he looked like or at least how he sees himself. At 15, he painted a woman who, under any circumstances, does not look like him nor his mother. As he grew older, the paintings became more distorted or rather abstract and surreal that some even looked like there was more than just one person in the frame. His last painting, I assume, is a face but if you look closer you will realize that they are pieces from different puzzles, that somehow, although they fit together, they are not from just one thing – but aren’t we all are?
Picasso, consumed his days thoughtfully to paint such masterpiece that reflects who he is – that he is not just any other person, that he is not just one person. He is a combination of many, the past and present, his mother and his father, the anima and the animus – all these are parts of himself, who, when put together become the Picasso who he knows.
Picasso has mastered it ahead of us – that we are more than just a face, we are a parade of many and if we do not recognize it, we might end up painting faces we don’t know, becoming a stranger inside a home.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:52 AM UTC
I cannot sleep, thinking:
I cannot give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical love poems.
I can give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical life poems.
In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil mix.
A voyage endless.
We too, our voyage.
Endless. End less.
Examine the crevices and ravines that
are the map of your hands.
Your voyage's log, memory storage.
Indestructible.
In the clouds's moisture,
ever recycling, it is all kept, stored.
Your hands well recall
the very first caress,
the softness of the baby skin,
the sweet of the lips,
thirty some long years after.
Dare to dispute?
The original animus,
the anima and the persona combination
the byproduct of blood and tissue,
some call spirit,
some call soul,
is matter that cannot be
destroyed,
nor created.
It only voyages on,
the conservation of mass,
our body, our enlivement,
our spark.
In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil admix.
From this natural brew, renewal.
The voyage is the resurrection
Life ever after.
Life even before.
Life for ever
lasting.
Our voyage is without destination.
Our voyage is our destination.
Our voyage is our resurrection.
Endless. Perpetual.
Eternal.
5:46 AM
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
***** of echoes, the virile resonance quaking lust -
Throbbing caverns shudder to ****** inciting vestal musk
Entranced of nocturnal bedevilment - barefaced in galactic greens,
Spores ethereal yet concealed to the Queen
Sumptuous omphalos; her ecstatic womb engulfing the bloom,
Carnal reckonings devoid of Mosaic release as panting creatures swoon
Vigorous pollination morphing the nectarean sheath
Roused stamen shrivel in an animus induced retreat
Again we'll rise to salute our idol
In burning continuance:
Fertility extolled
With pleasure recompensed.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
floral effervescence
wafts around you
thy theo black temperament rose iq
ushers lulabies as playful amor kru
apollo is falling for the aquamarine
rays, reflecting the sea's craved ardour
and our love is like a cyclamen oleandro
the fascinating, dissolving, poisonous sleep
inwardly unaware of the whitest clouds oro
seducing the beauty of a ceruelan absolute ~
if i were the wave i would foam your dream
if you were a black panther i'd be your kaa
for a day to experience your mighty paws
to tremble like open window shutters, strickened
by the fire, by light, by thunderbolt's love flame
oh, come on, come on sweet man of the fantasia
i've got to tell you i ain't foolin' around those dim
alleys at nights like this; luscious calls lure hello
at least, hear my hearts deepest throbbings, hear
them, embrace them, conquer my world's cream
taste the strawberry sweeteness on a tip of me, u
trickle your tongue against my open buoyancy
write kaligrafic words of love's invisible tint
beautify the untouched pergament, maestro
write like there's no time nor tomorrow's no;
inaugure every christmas crickets flash mob
within you and awaken me from a slumber,
deeply rooted, lovely and mild as wood's chi
and I will cherish you, praise and love long
forgotten wild forest's animals as panacea
for the dissolving salt upon a love wound
which torchered your solitude for who's
pleasure, for what reason, for a slick slap
of an epic trustful faith as lux aeterna
crashing the myth of a love superior;
a desolation of waning touches soma
hiding its fragility in madmind's attempt
to overcome what's earth's given inferno;
to die in a lustful blazing heat of creatio
contemplating about heavenly key lock
how to forge a golden key to your anima,
gracefully giving a hand to her emperor
to dance on a verge of an existence' folie
to blossom upon hushed world's meridian
in dreamy space n' time, first darlin' flush
the prime animus dances, dares, waters~
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Zara, love of life,
Spake in curtled call
Allfather, lover of light,
To bestow those "ants of the earth"
And arch-bound as the sinew of bowstrings
Howling as the volley hertz roped
Along the celestial violin
Pluck souls from their bodies
In symphonic prediction
Ascende! On the wings of love's Valkyrie-- in her shining eyes will you greet the stars of the Otherworld!
___________________________
Cleaning hide chunks from Buffalo tusks
There is a stranger, who knocks upon my door
The fire is wide and welcoming,
Borea chides the earthenwork
Outside, the stranger calls
distant through the door.
____________________________________
A last heartsong,
The cup overflown with honey
A facsimile of symmetry
And not distinctly human
There was something to love in that,
Just the simple inclusion
Of all the other animus
Being formed in their conclusions
And following the arrowpoint
Floating by the bolt
What losses there to seek
Beyond a veiled humanity
We strike the fire one last time,
She to travel the mountain passes
Ashen eyes, holding viscous memories solidified
I to gather my quills
My thoughts and brush quickly the embers of love.
Into flame, carried deep into the hearts of the world and explored in violent disassociate
Particles red and hot
Then would Zara Spake again,
"with his eyes on the earth, will he never see but the stars."
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 12:42 PM UTC
vague games enable and our liturgies co-mingle in an inkling of the I.
your mind succumbs to the soul. the rabid rain is ironic and the font you spell ' god ' with
is all scrawl and scrumptious. you lump this dream into your dolphin of Delphi
and squeak cute symphonies of deep brood.
you choose your Oblivion.
and that's how Angels kiss. they force the Word through your Animus
and greet your weakness with squinty eyes and Lion's breath.
you're the next best thing since that one thing that had no soul for god to play with.
it never complained. you might look and you might not see
what you're not supposed too. but i know you'll be happy with lemon-drops
and long dark naps.
that's how we do,
like a crispy pillow is a cloud with a lobotomy
and all my barbed wire is wine.
Like i'm the king of unbearable sublime. you anoint the fallen. i spike the punch, judy. you sunshine.
eulogies wet the pavement. darth mauls
the halls of our peril
and the dry
sparrows
you had no love but you had a thing that went thump
when you met her. and some other cocka-mamy thing.
and your narrow view
of the wide ha ha and the mute " **** this "
and why not?
we're all caught in the same frame and the gorgons are massive. you have to elect a hero to laugh at Death with and might get a girl.
you're nothing at all and that infuriates the reality you were dreamt with. you have no kin, but your family hasn't been.... you were unhinged
from the stark grim and the tide pool. why do you think i say things that ain't been language but has always been lingua nova ?
why would i lie ? this is the scepter of the vengeful design and the glee demons of first love sipping from a chalice of lost love
with closed eyes. this is the pier and the ocean. the dime store Picasso hanging the velvet Elvis with the perfect circles
with the little
cube inside...
aching for flamingos.
or not.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
First see new photo, or else won't make sense.
Word is out
Animal kingdom on red alert,
No animus allowed near the chair,
Tween human and animal.
Good eats, good writes to be had,
Near that ye old adirondacke chair,
Where scribbles float in
L'air du temps,
Ripe for the plucking.
Arrived in the night dark,
Twelve eyes grinning, sheepish,
Wasn't tho no sheep, just a veritable
**** deer herd munching the shrubs,
Who when head lighted, indifferently said,
Yo ******* it is September, remember,
Get the fk off our lawn!
Argh.
Morning.
Coffee-armed. Tablet shotguned,
Went to write in the fall sun,
When to my shock n' awe,
A gaggle of geese, awaiting.
And I mean a good-god-damn giggling-gaggle, no sht!
Probably resetting, resettling, looking for forgiveness,
For ******** all over the hard scrabbled grass.
Well no atonement boys, Yom Kippur notwithstanding,
I ain't the forgiving type!
No, no poet!
We stand before you on the Jewish Judgement Day,
Decorously waiting, in a row,
Before the throne, tho honking a little rudely,
Impatient for inscribing in Natalino's
Hall of Fame, Book of Life for the coming year.
Harrumph.
Well, in that case,
(Ego melting secretly inside),
Here is a poem just for you.
Fly south safe,
Inscribed and sealed you will be,
In both the Book of Life and Prosperity,
But only if you, stay off my grass in perpetuity!
Done and off they flew,
Me smiling, proud of my new fame,
Until I found their presents
Under my flip flops.
******* deer.
******* rabbits.
******* geese.
I wish they were not such
Poetry fanatics.
Ok.
Forgiven.
10:11am Yom Kippur morning.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
**Intolerant feet of clay
shout out “Not Him!“
echoing, ignored
Life’s cathartic poetry
now mediates extrovert ideas
and introvert intuitions
Past’s flicker of persona masks
solicit with anima driven darker roles
remote and mysterious - not nice
Real now, not reflecting her animus
all becomes stilled and naked, to seek
that physical and spiritual soul mate
Jung’s bucket plumbs the black well
awash from hidden depths of creativity
and kindred ghost’s of spirituality
Change is loss then change - feeds
thy growth’s capacity for understanding
socket of creativity and enlightenment
Life’s tutored process of intelligence
responds elegantly to image and symbol
as a morality conducts the minds music
Babbling on to sip from the well
gains tested may then help others
Ghost glimpsed not genius or mad
spirituality and love held close**
.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 10:04 AM UTC
Anger builds, like a fire
Neglected flames only grow higher
In the heart, the intention burns
Making smoke with dark concerns
Undulating through and through
Scorching only, the inside of you
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
Ich hasse mich um dich zu lieben,
immernoch in so vieler Wegen;
nicht dass es eigentlich so schlecht ist,
nur dass du mir nicht mehr lecker bist,
jedoch, wegen Erinnerung,
hab ich keine Wahl doch zu schmecken.
Ich hatte gedacht du warst meine Anima.
Falsch gedacht.
Du hattest gesagt ich war deinen Animus.
Falsch gesagt.
Jetzt hasse ich mich um diese Restliebe;
Du wohnst noch in Gedanken und Träume..
Ein Paar sind ja süßlich,
doch sind andere bitter.
Wir sprechen mehr in Träume als in Realität,
auch in der Alpträume... als der Alpträume.
Ich würde gern dich nicht mehr lieben.
Wenn es nur so einfach wäre!
Jetzt hasse ich mich um diese Restliebe,
Krankheit, ob ich es je geschmeckt habe.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:37 AM UTC
HOW YOU SHOULD KNOW US
DEATH, DEFEAT, AND FEAR
We do not die.
We do not fear death.
Destroy the Body, and the Animus is cast into The Darkness.
But the Animus returns.
But we are not all brave.
We feel pain, and fear it.
We feel shame, and fear it.
We feel loss, and fear it.
We hate the Darkness, and fear it.
The Scamps have small thoughts, and cannot fear greatly.
The Vermai have no thoughts, and cannot fear.
The Dremora have deep thoughts, and must master fear to overcome it.
THE CLAN BOND
We are not born;
we have not fathers nor mothers, yet we have kin and clans.
The clan-form is strong. It shapes body and thought.
In the clan-form is strength an purpose
THE OATH BOND
We serve by choice.
We serve the strong, so that their strength might shield us.
Clans serve by long-practice, but practice may change.
Dremora have long served the dreamer but not always so.
Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared.
When oath-bonds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and loss, and Darkness, and great fear.
HOW WE THINK ABOUT MAN
Perhaps you find Scamps comic, and Vermai brutish.
How then do you imagine we view you humans?
You are the Prey, and we are the Huntsmen.
The Scamps are the Hounds, and the Vermai the Beaters.
Your flesh is sweet, and the chase is diverting.
As you may sometimes praise the fox or hare, admiring its cunning and speed, and lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh, so do we sometimes admire our prey, and secretly applaud when it cheats our snares or eludes pursuit.
But, like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up.
You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish.
You are always lost, late or soon.
Sometimes the prey turns upon us and bites.
It is a small thing.
When wounded or weary, we fly away to restore.
Sometimes a precious thing is lost, but that risk makes the chase all the sweeter.
MAN'S MYSTERY
Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.
This lies beyond our comprehension - why do you not despair?
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
Where were we when you quit the sound?
Caught in distance while you hung around
Encased inside of our own menial pursuit
Flaunting desperation as a constant survival
As you battled death in your combat boots
There is no glory with fate as your rival
What were you seeing in your distorted mind?
As you ate your last words and ecstaticly dined
At the chemical festival of illusions' absorbtion
How far did your gaze stroll onto the other side?
did you meet with an end or the start of damnation?
In which lonely drawer do your dreams now reside?
Where have the remnants of life made their grave?
Are they in the lingering regret that you've paved?
Through each flash of your face and casket sight
The delusional rebirth of your presence revealing;
Fragments of ended realities giving spark to night
Burning sigils into visions of a broken feeling
Flame lit sketches etched across a charred eulogy
Only a name remains lying in the wake of a memory
Pieces scattered amongst an unfitting resting place
Conflicting beauties molding a divine contrast
A devil laid to rest in the midst of holy space
One shade of diversity on a bland earthly cast
Echoes of descension from this dimming black sky
Adorning each reflection with your hollow eyes
Complexions left searching for an answer to hold
As to how lifes' vigor can so swiftly fall to decay
And,The aging of dignity resembling every tale told
Seems to shine a reality check on this tragic play
A nulling backdrop for this cemetary playground
Where the kings and queens become tediously crowned
With a sickly ailment that reaks of dalipidation
The stench of the end atop an eternal retrospect
Glaring back with the most sincere of validations
That the fallen live on as our recollections resurect
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
Flickering.
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
P.M.
“To lobby is to redeem,
Apparently(!)
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
A.M
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
Tick-tock(!)
Tick-tock.
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
Eleven
P.M.
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
(Regardless)
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
And
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
P.M,
Over another man’s bearing.”
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
My body once an ocean,
Water seeped through my pores,
Now a dry crustacean
Discontent shall be no more
My body a euphoric journey
In a wavely atomic state
In faithful hopes of good fate
No more cynicism, no more hate
No more No more,
I shall do without,
Without animus, without fear
And nor any further shedding of tear
My body a talkative spirit
Good spirit talk some more
Engage the well-winded conversation
But not end in confused frustration
My body animates love from
The surface of my Eyes
I do not wish for anymore Cries
Unneeded to despise
My body with yours
Perfection that pours
Connection that will ever last
Both in present and in past
You and me,
We equate you see,
Like two pods in a pea,
Or is it the other way around?
For beloved Eternity,
Our Universe smiles at each other,
In sane glee
Insane and happy
Our devotion cystic
The warmth holistic
We protect from Sadistic
Do you see? We click
My body once an ocean
Water seeped through my pores,
Now a dry crustacean
Discontent shall be no more
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
She was a barefoot singer
Her toes sliding
through the fine, cool earth
It was how she drew
from the spring of nature
She never could hit that high C
while wearing shoes
Their soles are blacker than ours
she used to say
Those ugly boots are cutting you off
she used to tell me
You'll never hit a high C
She sang and I played
I wore my shoes
And I let my hair grow long
My savage war paint
Smeared across my chest
under my shirt
Unknown to everyone but me
And her, she saw it too
We only played outside
The earth on her soles
The wind in my hair
The tortured animus of song
How those nights conspired against us
The natural warmth of audience and music
Our blighted bond, tenuous at best
Soared strong on those nights
A wind over the mountains
A wind that promised rain
Her voice was fragile
But also eerie in its gravitas
It commanded the respect
of the dead soldiers and sailors that came out for us
It made her younger
It declawed and dulled her fangs
I would sometimes cry
when she hit that high C
On our very last number
On the very last page
The fire would kick up
and my fingers would dance
And we both believed in the other
She in her naked earth
Me with my jaguar soul
Oh, how those nights
conspired against us
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
It's warm.
Like smoke,
Shapeless,
Pushing my sins through my pores
To be cleansed by the crying sky.
This feeling,
This reality
Is crumbling down
Around my feet....
With arms wide,
and skyward eyes
I look for the answers..
This rain...
It dwells inside the cave of my Self.
Past the Guardians
Past the ego, the shadow,
The Anima, the Animus,
This truth I hold now
It comes to me as
Red and floating, weightless
Wrapping around my conscience,
Lifting me up, to the heights of
This existence
To the levels of a higher sentient.
I am safe here.
With chills in my spine,
And closed, but wandering eyes,
I peer inside,
The only place I can really call home.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Fallacies are everywhere
In my palace, gasping for air
Doves fly rumors of dissidence
They have a certain dissonance
Still I can’t break the code
Camouflage cape, I need your abode
Gas mask for the May Queen
But we lost her after the parade scene
A stronger hammer for the Queen of Winter
In her fingers count the splinters
Fallacies are everywhere
In my palace, up the stairs
The doves only bring bad news
Words of sickness, animus and lewd
They have a certain confidence
I can’t make out the consonants
Camouflage cape, I need your abode
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
Born at the age of sixteen
To again experience the cusp of noon sun
At the bottom of orangeade syrup
Indelible on your tongue, permanent
In a mid-summer twilight
At the touch of sweat skin and wet ears
On maple arms and black foot night
Singing to the will o’ the wisp
(Leather bound a thought
They will read it, perhaps pay
And take pleasure in your hymn
As verse of summer knows the animus
Which lightens the load of e’ryone)
Ineffable are his hands on terra cotta walls
A hot whisper in the ear and cotton lips
Which press the skin on beachy nocturne
To the ocean, the unforgiving expanse
That vomits all my woes
Which I throw back into it
To again experience the cusp of heat
And boiling blood and salty extravagance
The emotion at an apogee
That makes the world a rumination of wonder
(Not to live without fault
But to thrive in its decadence)
The heat of twilight cakes my legs in shorts
On yellow sunspots, glowing in his amber eyes
Soon, to appear on the cusp of gothic moor
During the late ombre effect of dusky sky
When its nighttime cataract reveals, the moon
A pitted moonscape
The moor is silent and whispers to its dwellers
If I were to find him there, in the fresco
Etched into the crystal caverns of night
Would he respond in the marsh
With the crickets between the reeds
Or the owl on the ground mole
As the whispers of naiads?
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC