"antony" poems
Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.
That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.
Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
Better to be Pyramus and Thisbe
than god Apollo and Daphne?
As love oft triumphed by envy.
Oh to be Abelard and Heloise
or Juliet you and Romeo me!
Cleopatra, Marc Antony,
Orpheus, and Eurydice!
Martyrs to Cupid, were you wary
of the price to pay? Did you find peace
from Plato’s coined mental disease
in Pluto’s long halls of Hades
or the self induced daily shade of trees?
What of love dooming kin to Achilles?
When Dido and Aeneas meet
is her suicide guaranteed?
Pray tell us, can true love ever be free!
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 9:14 AM UTC
"Will you wait for me?" He asked
Hesitantly, she: "How long?"
Hope and doubt intense, he: "for 60 years",
"Don't be a stupid, no one wait for anyone, that long": She
"But you said we are the soul mates,
The only key that fitted the lock"
She was long gone; into a dot,
Midst the temple lamps, round the sanctum
************
Hurried, she sent the message of the night and switched off the phone
"Love you; Miss you, my battery dying; Will text you tomorrow"
Amar replied "Me too darling, missing you and love you crazily"
Akbar replied "Hug me close and sleep tight honey, dream only me"
Adil replied "Take care my love, good night and sweet dreams"
Antony was angry, "Why don't you keep the phone charged? Good night"; he was the hubby!
And the stupid opened the door, hugged her in
And whispered "come in, my soul mate
The only key that fitted the lock"
********
"Take me for a ride; I want to be a carefree pillion today,
Floating away with you..."
Holding him tight, legs across, she let her hair loose
“Fly the bumps, I want to fall all over you” she held him tightly
From the pillion of the bike, she longed to see all spectrums of life
"Faster you stupid, I don't want to spend a lifetime as a pillion"
Then one day, she climbed the hills, for good.
He wandered the plains for long
Within their own, they kept a grudge to themselves
For, not letting the lock and key to know
They only fitted each other
********
“I take you to be my wedded wife
For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer”
“I take you to be my wedded husband
For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer”
Until the God sets us apart
Honey turned the first leaf on- ‘Money!’
“My money is my money, and
Your Money is our money, Stupid!”
Then it was all about I, me and mine
Lock never knew there was a Key
And the Key went from the fights to flights and a final freeze
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don't mourn your luck that's failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive -- don't mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
And listen with deep emotion, but not
with whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen -- your final delectation -- to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.
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Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.
Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.
Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.
Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.
Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.
As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike. I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
O LOVE! O LOVE! WHY ARE YOU EVER DEVOID OF LOGIC?
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Mankind in its pathetic folly entice you in a dint of stupor
Knowing not your true colour and texture
Endeavoring to achieve glory in your mastery
With the so limited human capacity
In grey faith that you are a cradle of bliss
But O love! Why are you ever crooked?
Young men and women in strength of their sinews
Toil day and night in ******* of humanity
Praying and whining incantations with the hope for optimal love
Ornamenting their bodies with diamond and bronze
Fibre and silk ornamented to helm of providence
In the foolish quest for love equillibria
But in full stretch of your vice, you impish love
You catapult all away to the shifted goal posts
O love! O love! Why are you ever ruthless?
You hate the learned but you favour the strong
You hate professors but you favour the soldiers
You hate the rich but you favour the agile
You hate the lawyers but you favour the footballers
You hate the pastors but you favour the ruffian
You hate the whites but you favour the Negroes
You hate the groomed but you love the ragamuffin
You hate the chaste but you favour the mistress
O love! O love! Why are you ever illogical?
Love, I revere you for wickedness and irrationality
In all of your history you scored sum *** laude
In the duo as blend of your domain, Look;
You never dwell in a genuine companionship
You like where the couth will interject;
Amidst fornication between married and single ones
Amidst adultery in the triangle of foul compassion
Amidst miscegenation between black and white
Amidst infatuation between the whole and the lame
Amidst conjugal appetite between the old and the young
Amidst concupiscence between house master and houshelp
Amidst immorality of married master over the wallowing servant
Amidst libidos between literate teacher unto the peasant pupil
Amidst disordered passion among the sly lesbians
Amidst impious ********** among the suave gays
O love! O love! You are the most wicked force!
Love I am told; your colour is red
You may be red or you may not be red
But all in all, you deserve poetical veneration
For your herculean ability to bend the most wise;
In your force you made sagacious Shakespeare to bend
In your force you made Princes Diana to bend and bend
Bending downwardly stooping for Afawoyed the moor,
In your stupefying dint you made Napoleon de Bonaparte
To bend and bend downwardly stooping for Josephine
Josephine a famed she-Casanova in the gone Paris
Among the then humanity and the then animality,
In your impairing machinery you set sons on their fathers
In the roman empire of Antony and Ceaser
In the scramble for Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen
Beauty of her aquiline nose heavily hovered perhaps
In the eyes of the Roman beholders
The father and the son only to sent the empire
To the love forlorn smithereens!
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected]
when i start by name
perhaps in a flap of fault
exculpate my soul
for maximum rectitude
is the true fill of my heart
glory to the sons of Russia
Kudos to you all and your foremen;
Nikolai Gogol the master in the dead souls
Alexander Pushkin the effeminate poet
Vladimir Lenin who knew what was doable
Alexander sholenestysn the Siberian jail bird
who was on the poetic phone by five
Feodor Dostoyevsky the epileptic Karamazov
Maxim Gorky and Antony Chenkoy leave them alone
Ayn Rand the woman who shrug the atlas for we the living
Vladimir Nabokov the school master who asked for ***
from her student the adourous ******
Boris Pasternak the Muzhik like Leo Tolstoy
who wanted land beyond the horizon
for doctor Zhivago the **** peasant
or Vladimir Makayavosky who slapped the public
in the face of their capitalistic taste,
Glorified be you all you sons of Russia
your Muse is beautiful and erotically crazy
glory for your humour and your finer threads
with which you have woven for me my poems of dystopia
glory be to you all in the stark oblivion
of Leon Trotsky and his penman Leonid Brezhnev
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Love grows without ever meeting the lover;
Without meeting how can love be exchanged?
It happens in life though they meet too late!
Knowing each other's love amazement fills mind
And both wonder and feel much about fate's rule;
Being together at the end makes tragedy nothing!
Antony and Cleopatra's love story is history
Though goes on as in romantic love stories
Wonderfully weaved in literature by geniuses!
One world of love and peace she dreams about
Under the rule of one emperor and herself first;
Almost she tries to do it but fate makes it tragedy!
Dictatorship or democracy, one world is still a dream
In the hearts of great and noble personalities ever...!
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 11:04 AM UTC
The human definition of humanity is becoming a conundrum-filled calamity.
Vivid memories of eclectic booming sounds continue bursting around veterans as they lose sanity.
Mothers work through their pregnancies as their children are born into a materialistically filled world of profanity.
Has the wheel of morality begun an uncontrollable spin in our growing urbanity, or is because of the religious wars we fight, the likes of Christianity?
A travesty amongst us all, but this pain brings an unorthodox form of healing, as we learn from our mistakes and fantasy.
We ******** band together, with our thoughts in groups, to determine a path back towards our morality.
We fight with vigor such as if we were the Roman General Antony.
These fruitless and segmented fights can make the matters worse no matter the strategy.
We must all wake up at once from our mindless love of insanity, and finally, throw to the wayside this world's cruel vanity.
Who or what will ignite the single uniting thought to spread instantly throughout, the thought that will bring peace to our mind, sanity.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
David spied Bathsheba sitting in Uriah's bath
Up on a roof one night, before he fell into her arms...
Then bathing wouldn't cleanse Jehovah's wrath;
Bathsheba's man and baby came to harm.
Samson saw Delilah; they caused a perfect storm;
A plague of woe from love was roused,
'Til, blind and chained, the mighty man performed
The feat of strength that rattled down the house.
Antony and Cleopatra fell to each other's charm,
Just who it was who conquered whom is still unfixed.
We only know a serpent stung her in the arm,
And Tony died a lonely man, perplexed.
A flower stood alone out in a lonely glen....
"If love appears to you," Persephone would say,
"There may be thrill at first, dear friend.
Beware, beware! Hades must have his day."
"The course of love ne'er did run smooth,"
The Bard was wont to say, and fully I agree,
The human heart may promise love and truth,
Then wander off in quest of agony.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
Eyes of brown
Heart of gold
Sending love
I've been told.
Across the waves
between the vibes.
Written on paper
by the scribes.
Affairs of love in
history gone by.
Lover's seduced
by blink of eye.
Romeo and Juliet.
Cleopatra's Antony.
Guinevere and Lancelot.
And no less, you and me.
Loved and lusted
Sweet as wine.
Stories told
throughout time.
Love goes on
and on my dear.
Open your heart,
put away fear.
For love's soft vision
may well come.
When unsuspected,
heart strings thrum.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably,
Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face--
Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race,
Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea,
The brown eyes radiant with vivacity--
There shines a brilliant and romantic grace,
A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace
Of passion and impudence and energy.
Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck,
Most vain, most generous, sternly critical,
Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist:
A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck,
Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all,
And something of the Shorter-Catechist.
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Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says I’m sure you know.
Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard.
But I’m sure the little blighters
would get on fine with *Titus
Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.
The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love’s Labour might be Lost,
or it might be Tempest-tossed,
but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.
Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure)
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate;
all the Sonnets, and the ****
of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!)
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play.
I grew more and more excited –
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk.
I bought one chimp from the zoo -
didn't have the cash for two -
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy.
Now everyone who heard
of my project said, “Absurd!”
when I told them of my striking new departure.
“Get a chimpanzee to type
the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!”
Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Eyes of brown
Heart of gold
Sending love
I've been told.
Across the waves
between the vibes.
Written on paper
by the scribes.
Affairs of love in
history gone by.
Lover's seduced
by blink of eye.
Romeo and Juliet.
Cleopatra's Antony.
Guinevere and Lancelot.
And no less, you and me.
Loved and lusted
Sweet as wine.
Stories told
throughout time.
Love goes on
and on my dear.
Open your heart,
put away fear.
For love's soft vision
may well come.
When unsuspected,
your heart will thrum.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 12:00 AM UTC
Darling let's have a scandal
Won't you do it with me?
It may be hard to handle,
But I swear no one will see.
And if you like it, let's have fun
I'll give it, I promise.
I know you ain't a rich one
But love isn't pompous.
A little bit dangerous,
A little bit adventurous,
We won't have a huge show,
Just love me right Romeo.
Carry me gently
Like I'm a candle
And let's have a scandal
Scandal
Little scandal
Seeing you
And your hands in my hair
Makes me feel this's true
And happy ending's near.
But the sun is coming
And our time is ending
So you want this forbidden fruit
Go ahead and bite it
Since this meet-cute's
Time will meet its limit.
A little bit dangerous,
A little bit adventurous,
We won't have a huge show,
Just love me right Romeo.
Carry me gently
Like I'm a candle
And let's have a scandal
Scandal
Little scandal
A little bit dangerous,
A little bit adventurous,
We won't have a huge show,
Just love me right Romeo.
Carry me gently
Like I'm a candle
And let's have a scandal
Scandal
Little scandal
You can be my Antony
And I'll be your Cleo.
Our affair's ending
But memories don't have to though-
A little controversy
A little tale that's messy
Another Reynolds Pamphlet
That'll make me a reject
Still let's kiss tonight
Tomorrow will be our fight,
And let's have a scandal
Scandal
Little scandal
A little bit dangerous,
A little bit adventurous,
We won't have a huge show,
Just love me right Romeo.
Carry me gently
Like I'm a candle
And let's have a scandal
Scandal
Little scandal
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
You are my Dante, you are my Vergil, you are my Beatrice, you are my devil. You are the spineless and endless tortured souls of men and woman who form horizons that never seem to end. You are the hung bodies in the trees of death, you are Cleopatra and Antony. In that never ending tornado of lust, cursed to spin and spin, conjoined in cursed love. You are the undeserving unborn who are tortured before they've ever even breathed dear life.
And I, I am only another accursed undead.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
you make me nervous.
i love it.
you make me fidget with my pens.
it's because i want to write down everything you say.
last night you whispered sweet nothings in my ear.
i woke up mumbling them in my sleep.
our zodiac signs are incompatible.
but they don't compare to the stars in my eyes.
you walked in and found me crying at a broken dish.
then you bought me a whole set.
you always smell like coffee.
now i smile every time i drink a cup.
i tried to sleep you off.
and i dreamed about you the whole night.
we might very well be antony and cleopatra.
except we'll be more logical.
out of all the gin joints in all the world you walked into mine.
and i couldn't stop smiling.
i've read the notes you make in the margins of the books you read.
now i know all the unspoken ways that you love me.
we are like films from two different years: 1976 and 1993.
someone decided we were classics and the world fell in love with what we already knew.
i wish that you would let me down.
just so i could give up and start loving you again.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
**Alexander has
a thirst of land
Cleopatra has
a thirst of eyes
Socrates has
a thirst of understanding
Antony has
a thirst of love
Genghis Khan has
a thirst of terror
Napoleon has
a thirst of power
****** has
a thirst of leadership**
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 11:24 PM UTC
We've all heard the story about Bonnie and Clyde
How they met, eloped and died.
And we're tired of hearing
About Henry and Ann,
And their shameless lives
Back in Tudor England.
When their marriage broke,
Ann lost her head,
With one stroke.
I won't bother you with the story
Of Napoleon and Josephine,
And that messy business
With the guilotine.
You know Caesar and Cleo
Put on quite a show,
They had a long distance relationship
From Rome to Egypt.
But it ended badly.
She by a snake bite,
Him by Marc Antony.
These famous couples didn't tarry;
They were harried
Before they married;
They met and wed,
But were too soon dead.
Now Byron and Colleen
Met when teens,
Byron was sixteen,
Colleen just fifteen.
They lived together,
To begin,
He loved her,
She loved him.
This wasn't living
As they say, “In sin.”
No rings lingered
On wedding fingers:
No bands of gold
To wear 'til old.
No license, no Registrar,
No vows were spoken,
But their silent vows
Were never broken.
They didn't need
A wedding token.
The cost was never the issue here,
Although Byron always claims he's poor.
And thus they carried on.
Boy, did they carry on.
In a romantic spree.
First came Jordan,
Then Jamie.
And thus they passed
Their years together,
In seeming status quo;
A happy well-matched couple,
For all intents, and show.
They lived well,
Ate well too,
Dressed and drove,
Worked and strove
For friends and family.
And all along,
The two of them
Have been our pleasure
To know.
After all, they're behind
Their doors,
That's all we we need to know.
And thus, they carried on.
Boy, they carried on.
Years down the road
They honey-mooned,
And after this, they married;
Like Benjamin Button
All seems reversed.
Should they continue
This backward style,
Then in awhile,
Following this reception,
They'll probably meet
At their conception.
Should they continue
In this fashion,
Their marriage should end
With their parents' ******
This is
The Ballad of Byron nd Colleen,
and if truth be told,
You're still just teens.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
GEMINI:
The creases on your palms are
valleys full of quicksand; your hands
have sunken through my skin and
into my bones. You opened your fists in
mid-autumn and by mid-winter, our heart lines,
our lifelines, had fused. Dear Pollux, sometimes
I wonder how you could not know that
on those cold February nights, it is not
puffs of air that escape your Cupid’s bow, but rather
wisps of fetal star, swirling and curling up and up
into new constellations—ones depicting
Cleopatra and Antony
Paris and Helen
you and I.
The looking glass in my mother’s washroom no longer
displays emerald orbs; they have been melted down
from a solid to a liquid to a stacking, twirling vapor
that I can no longer see, nor feel. But the thing about you,
Dear Pollux, is that somehow, though it is beyond me how,
you have captured her scalloping memory and turned
everything to smoky quartz—
you reflect the placidity I hope she found.
The sinkhole in my abdomen that mother dearest created has
been gorged with your quicksand, and I am gluttonous for you. There’s
a part of me that thinks you to be the eighth wonder of the world
with your wide eyes and your slight dimples and your
ability to generate earthquakes in my bones with a
snap of your fingers. But Pollux, sweetheart, there’s a nagging
suspicion I have that deems you to be the eighth deadly sin—
your lips branding my neck;
your hands burrowing through the flesh of my hips;
the pearls you create from the grains of sand I carry.
I oftentimes wonder how you figured out the secret of
melting my amethyst crested core.
Your horoscope will tell you that you are wishy washy, but
I will tell you that you are dynamic and paramount. You
will be told that today “you must wrestle your past before
communicating with your future,” and I shall roll my eyes and
tell you that the only thing you must wrestle is my affection.
Your fate is not in the stars, Pollux, darling;
your fate has nothing to do with the Year of the Pig or
the Gemini constellation that is so ruled by Mercury—
the fortune tellers we made in elementary school were
accurate representations of coincidence.
You will find your destiny in
the palms of your hands and I will
find my destiny within you.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
The Asp quiverd in.anticipation.
A warm message bathed its silken skin and then
Quick as.a.hi cup.
Atrial seizures
Ventricle tickle and flicker.
Night rushed in.
To let oblivion win.
Asolution for sins.
Music.played.inner sanctum.
Antony sat in a wicker chair.
Waiting there just as before.
The mighty did tumble and fall
TO the potent small.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
Spewing seed and venom, life and death, lust and loathing, we were Marc Antony and Cleopatra
A serpent suicide and *** poisoned ******* and choking, then we patiently awaited our rapture
When I died I watched you follow, you said "my love I will join you soon."
From your effigy, a malignant magnetic energy floated above the room
We were toxic and intoxicated, dead but full of life
Darkness ensued all but a narrow slit, brimming with shimmering light
I grew to a boy then a man scolded by harsher truths
And then I met you, my Egyptian Queen, so beauteous and full of youth
You asked me for a cigarette, I only had a joint
We smoked and spoke like Nihilists and debated "What's the point?"
For years our love grew again, one day you said to me:
"The vanguard is at the gate and the walls are under siege"
But your battles were waged with ****** not Egypt's enemies
My response rang through history with war-torn lover's pleas
Maybe these lives were insufferable, maybe I hide from the truth
That my only respite was that every night I was coming home to you
Our apartment was just too quiet, soundless and without sentiment
Nothing remained of our candle but spilt wax and the scent of it
The bathroom door was locked, "Open the door, Let me in!"
Under the bathroom's flourescent lights that serpent bit again
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
you are my Brutus and I love
you more with each blade you slice into
me
23 stab wounds later and I am
made of wax
no longer bleeding or beating but
approaching thermosomatic phase transition when you
burn me alive
strike a match on my cheek light
a cigarette stub it out
my torso your ashtray, my heart a candle
lit vigil
burning low to ignite your frozen ire
I love you classical I love you Brutal I love you Antony
asleep in my tomb I love you buried under
municipal concrete I love you Amontillado I love you simultaneously
Héloïse and Abélard
I love you Delilah and I love you
you
let me count the ways
a six-sided die comes up 23
but my chest is already split open and you forgot
to feed the dog
give me public indecency and walk away
it's not your job to fix every schmuck who comes along
with a missing heart on your
beat
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
There was once a little girl, so innocent and pure, with long blond hair, tied up in pink ribbons.
Who rode her bike every Sunday afternoon, up and down her street.
It was spring and the blossoms were blooming and the lambs were bleating merrily.
There was once a teenage girl, abused and misunderstood, with long black hair, untied to cover her face.
Who sat on her porch every Sunday afternoon writing poems about abuse and misunderstanding, darkness even death.
It was autumn and the blossoms had withered and the lambs had all grown up.
There was once a young woman, unloved and wanting, with long red hair, tied up into a bun.
Who walked up and down streets every Sunday afternoon, looking for love in all the wrong places.
It was summer and new plants where spouting and the lambs that had grown up had their coats shorn.
There was once an old woman, alone and regretful, with hair as white as the snow that fell.
Who sat in her rocking chair every Sunday afternoon crying about matters of the past, about time left and time lost.
It was winter and the sprouts were sprinkled with white glistening snow and the lambs that had grown up and been shorn, had grown back their thick, woolly coats.
Once, there was a box.
Inside that box, was a little girl.
So innocent and pure.
Who used to ride bikes, write poems, looked for love in all the wrong places and sat in a rocking chair every Sunday afternoon.
This Sunday afternoon, there was a service.
A service in memory of little girl, who was once.
It is spring and the blossoms are blooming and the lambs are once again bleating merrily.
By Hannah Antony
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC