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RAJ NANDY Nov 2014
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF HISTORY IN VERSE : PART ONE
              BY RAJ NANDY
              INTRODUCTION
The very mention of History brings to mind
many civilizations, its wars, with endless
succession of ruling dynasties and kings;
Its many dates and events, which appear to be
rather dull and boring!
“If history were taught in the form of stories, it
would never be forgotten”, said Rudyard Kipling!
So if a good teacher of History narrates those
events like a story within a broad chronological
frame work,
While skillfully linking the present in light of the
past;
Mentioning both important and lesser known
interesting facts to arouse the interest of his
class; -
History would be better appreciated by us!
Perhaps in its narrowest sense, History may be
viewed only as a chronological succession of
dates and past events!
But let me assure you that History is a dynamic
linear progression, adapting and evolving with
changing times,
As present recedes into the past all the while!
These changes could be environmental, socio-
economic, or political changes faced by mankind.
But we remain as a living part of History all the
while!
Yet while we live through History, we fail to realize
the impact we make upon history and time;
And this is perhaps the very magic and enigma of
History,
Which occasionally lends it a touch of mystery!
Our family album is a record of our history we
create and leave behind at the micro level;
Just as past civilizations have left behind their imprints
in their architecture, statues, literature, and works
of art at the macro level !
History breathes and speaks to us from the distant
past,
If only we could pause to hear its unspoken words,
As the Romantic poet John Keats had once heard!
Keats’  “Ode on a Grecian Urn” composed during
early 19th century, -
Harks back to the Classical Age of Greek History!
Keats waxes eloquent in his description of pastoral
scenes painted on the urn which lies frozen in time;
While Keats leaves behind his exalted and eternal
aesthetic message - ‘Beauty is Truth and Truth
Beauty’, - which shall outlive our mortal time!
So it is with History, like the Grecian urn the past  
remains eternalized in time with its lessons and
stories;
While it beckons us to unravel her mysteries!
For the historian, the architect, the geologist,
the anthropologist, scholars and the artist,
‘’History is a continuous dialogue between
the present and the past’’;
As observed by the English historian and
diplomat EW Carr.
Even though we cannot change the past, we can
surely absorb the lessons it has left behind for us!
The Spanish born American philosopher George
Santayana had said; -
“Those who cannot remember the past are
condemned to repeat it!”
The Dutch philosopher Soren Kierkegaard had
once remarked; -
“Life must be lived forward, but it can only be
understood backward.”
So let us learn from past History to create a
better future for humanity.
For the past gives us a sense of belonging
and an identity;
Since our very roots lie enshrined in History!
By the time you complete reading my entire
composition,
I hope to convert you into a Lover of History
by broadening your perception!

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF HISTORY!
Ancient Greece, the cradle of Western Civilization
during the 6th century BC, -
Saw the birth of Philosophy!
Thales of Miletus, Anaximenes, and Anaximander,
from the Greek colony of Ionia on the west coast
of Asia Minor,  (now Turkey)
Broke the previous shackles of all mythical and
superstitious explanations.
With their questioning mind and rational thinking
they sought,  -
To seek the real behind the apparent, and substance
behind the shadow;
By seeking natural and logical reasons for explaining
natural phenomena, -
Free from all previous religious and mythical
interpretations!
Thus, these Milesian School of thinkers in their quest
for truth with their intellectual lust, -
Gave rise to ‘philosophia’, Greek word for ‘love
of truth’, an early birth!
Subsequently, this newly born Greek Philosophy with
its progressive thoughts inspired scientific methods
of inquiry;
Along with Logic, trial by Jury, and the very concept
of Democracy!
The Greeks also inspired Literature, History, Tragedy,
Comedy, the Olympic Games, Astronomy, and Geometry!
Around 500 BC the Greek written script had stabilized,
going from left to right;
And the first addition of vowel letters by the Greeks
to the adopted Phoenician consonants, can never
be denied!
The first two Greek letters ‘alpha’ and ‘beta’ which
gave the name to our Alphabets forms a part of
early History.
Now Herodotus, during the 5th century BC, had
inherited this intellectual Greek Legacy!

HERODOTUS – ‘THE FATHER OF HISTORY’
Herodotus is said to have been born in the ancient
Dorian Greek city of Halicarnassus in south-west
Asia Minor, which is now Turkey;
During the latter half of 5th century BC!
During his days, the city was under the rule of Persia;
Since the Persians had captured the Greek colonies
in Asia Minor!
Frequent revolts by these colonies against the
Persians with help from Athens,
Made the Persian King Darius, and later his son
Xerxes, - decide to invade Athens!
The Persians also wanted to extend their Empire
into Europe across the Bosporus Strait, -
Which divided Asia from Europe in those days!

In 490 BC, when the massive Persian army of King
Darius landed at Marathon as assured victors;
The Athenian running courier Pheidippides ran
150 miles in two days, to seek help from Sparta!
Again later, he ran 25 miles from the battlefield
near Marathon to Athens, to announce that the
Greeks became the final victors!
This historic run by Pheidippides gave rise to the
discipline of Marathon, in our Olympic Games
later on!
Such Marathon runs are now held in many cities
of the world annually,
Thus we remain connected with our past as you
can clearly see!
Years later in 425 BC, Herodotus narrated these
invasions in his famous narrative ‘Histories’.
Cicero the Roman scholar, philosopher and orator,
Had called Herodotus the ‘Father of History’ many
centuries later!
Very little is known about Herodotus’ early life,
But from historical evidence which survive,
We learn about his stay in Athens, and his many
wanderings;
Visiting Egypt, Libya, Syria, Babylon, Susa in Elam,
Lydia, and Phrygia;
Collecting information which he called ‘autopsies’
or ‘personal inquiries’, and hearing many stories;
Prior to composing his famous ‘Histories’!

“THE HISTORIES”: HERODOTUS (430-425BC)
This was written in prose in the Iconic dialect of
Classical Greek,
Covers the background, causes, and events of the
Greco-Persian Wars between 490 and 479 BC.  
Scholars divided the entire work into 9 Books, with
each dedicated to a Greek Muse, - those goddesses
of art and knowledge,
Thereby the Homeric tradition they did acknowledge!
For example, Book-I was dedicated to Calliope, the
Muse of Epic Poetry, and Book-II to Clio, the Muse
of History.
Herodotus begins his narration with these following
words;-
“Here is the account of the inquiry of Herodotus of
Halicarnassus in order that the deeds of men not be
erased by time, and that the great and miraculous
works – both of the Greeks and the barbarians not
go unrecorded.”
Now Herodotus with his lucid narrative style, had
pioneered the writing of History with a specific
framework of space and time!
His style got emulated by later writers of History,
Who improved their narration with better authentic
source and methodology;
Thereby giving birth to the subject of ‘Historiography’.
(Historiography = critical examination of source & selection
of authentic material, synthesis of particulars into a narrative
whole, which shall stand the test of critical methods.)

HERODOTUS’ ‘INQUIRY’ GAVE BIRTH TO ‘HISTORY’!
The ancient Greek word “historia” meant ‘knowledge
acquired by investigation or inquiry’’, and the Greek
‘histore’ meant ‘inquiry’.  
It was in this sense Aristotle later used it in his ‘’Inquires
on Animals’’- during the 4th Century BC;
And this mode of ‘inquiry’ later became ‘History’!
The term ‘History’ entered English language in 1390
as a “record of past incidents and story”.
However, the restriction to the meaning “record of
past events” only, came during the 15th century.
But the German word ‘Geschichte’ even to this day,
Means both history and story, without making
distinction in any way!
Since the story element remains inbuilt in all historical
narrations,
And also remains as a tribute to its author’s creation!
CONCLUDING PORTION WILL BE POSTED LATER AS
PART-TWO. Thanks, - RAJ NANDY.
**ALL COPY RIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR RAJ NANDY,
OF NEW DELHI
Friends, this is a short intro. to the subject of History in Verse, composed in a simplified form. The concluding portion will be posted later as Part Two. Hope you like the same! In case you like it, do recommend to your other friend! Thanks, -Raj
JM Romig Apr 2013
Autopoiesis.
Autocorrect: Autopsies?
Such a pessimist.
NaPoWriMo
Vamika Sinha Sep 2015
Do not abort words from love's womb;
she will choke herself
because she could not be a mother.
Stitch lips together. Let silence,
nothing,
be purity.

Words end.
They
are hot and furious, oozing
sores relishing in their own
blood.
Organisms,
dull black embryos, eyeless
until
roiled on red tongues;
spluttered, screamed, snaked
out into being.

They heal themselves to death by the hemlock of Time.
Dying is a definite thing - words are not
immortal, not greater than us.
Not love.

Autopsies reveal varied, unwanted truths:
either
heart splintered too swiftly
or
poison turned flesh to gore,
cell by cell.

Do not abort words from love's womb;
you are wrapping the umbilical cord
around your own neck.
Does love turn us into monsters?
Juliana Apr 2013
The day you leave daisies in my pocket
is the first time I wore proper pajamas.
Right-handed scissors paint
with matching lip gloss,
attempting to stick words together.
My hands lay limply next to a wine glass
containing nothing but grape juice,
unhappy compromises.

Everything felt pinched and blue.

Last night I decided to write stories on my skin
with little holes in the paper,
nineteen socks under my bed.
I tried to remember the rain,
why it was lovely.
I ended up with wet shoes,
the smell of deserted food court
and secrets billowing from cigarette stubs.

Arizona breezes
carry the taste of hushed whispers,
making phone calls in the place of poetry.
The idea of pheasants,
tiny wrists
black ink crisscrossing,
hurried ‘X’s overlapping.
Flowers grow from stagnant air

Minted antibiotic breaths.

Heart monitors printed in newspapers,
your armada of pre-sharpened pencils
accidentally drip into coffee mugs.
Autopsies knit together,
authors of the curve of your spine.
You keep myths in glass jars
with intricate wire lids.
Why do we question the recipe for battle scars?
Aoife Apr 2016
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now empty.

i packed everyone's bags,
gathered the last pushpins
from the wall in the kitchen,
and went on with my life.

i made sure to grab
the books we'd hidden in the attic
as well as the photo album
you'd stashed under the floorboards.

i opened the curtains
and then swept the floors.
i made our bed for the last time
and collected the closings
of the dust on the mantelpiece
that nobody ever cleaned.

i got two extra boxes
for all of the medication unfinished.
i marked them "fragile", for they were glass capsules
containing the substance needed to keep my daughter alive.
but her illness didn't **** her.

i was well aware of the dog's bed,
and it found a place
in the passenger seat of my suv.
his quiet whimpers and cries
were all i heard that evening
as i drove away from what once was my life.

when i finally got to my feet again,
i returned to making dinner for myself.
i only knew how to cook for seven,
and i found tranquility in washing things in sevens.
now i made food for one
and washed for one.

i accidentally brewed two coffees this morning,
in hopes you were still here to take it
and laugh at me for making it too strong,
but you're not.
i awoke at noon the day before and sobbed,
for i was used to being awoken by child's laughter
and small bodies climbing into our bed.

tomorrow, i will bring your briefcase to work
and leave it on your desk.
i'll collect it when i go to leave
and frown at the fact you never opened it.
i'll dispatch you three times in the field,
but you won't respond.

i used to see our wedding day,
but now i see your funeral.
i used to see our children's births;
but i've gotten used to their bodies in morgues.

your physical features
become the trauma described during your autopsies,
and our family photos
became the ones used in the funeral program.

the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now a house;

a house with things
that even i can't pack away.
• this is based loosely on a story i am currently working on. my fanfiction is https://www.fanfiction.net/~hotchnerjareau , so check it to keep up with my works!
Sand Aug 2013
The exorcist spat out unsatisfied souls,
Steadfastly chained to breathing bodies,
Convincing the living that,
The dead haunt us.

But, when I examine autopsies,
I observe granular goosebumps,
Rising from sunken skin,
Scientifically speaking,
Corpses confirm the opposite:
Life haunts death.
Lari writes Mar 2016
performing autopsies on our old conversations
dissecting every angle and standpoint
checking every pulse-point and spark of life in the words you once said to me
and while i know them to be poison laced, nothing seems amiss
Lakin Sep 2015
Do you still perform autopsies on our old conversations?

Or do you let their existence decay,

just like you did with your love for me?
It's been years now and I'm still praying he answers my questions.
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
I've got a case of something great
It keeps me bed-ridden and turns my hair grey
I can't tell you much, don't mean to be vague
But you best avoid me like the black plague

Black magic don't show up on autopsies
But I'm on to you like pods on peas
You serve shiny apples with insides of grease
But luck gave my lifeline a different disease

You may have your **** cult, your secrets, your juice
A Romeo's charm and a drug dealer's boost
The keys to the castle, the rich man's caboose
But down in the basement, you'd reach for the noose

In the woods, with the black doves and mourners
Would you still have the strength to scorn her?
Alone in the woods, with no sight of the border
Would you tough it out or be the sojourner?

You think you know black
But you don't know jack
You think you know white
But light is a different stripes

Her bare skin is painted on
Her carcass is so transparent
Traversing the cellar door
Her whimpers would outrun the roars
Simpleton Dec 2018
I lost you
And I'll regret it always
But sometimes when I catch myself thinking of you
I say that if these hands were to ever reach for you again
I'd cut them off
I'm done performing autopsies on conversations from a lifetime ago
I didn't bury you in the past
I expelled you
You don't hide in some corner
No
I polished my heart with all the good
You lost me
And I'll regret it always
Skaidrum Sep 2017
...
This morning:

The quiet bleeds when you're not looking.
i did not know that the quiet could bleed.

Depression enters my room,
the garden wails in protest, death kisses my stomach,
Sadness whispers that she will not take my chalk outline and teach it how to walk today.
Today the sun stops working.

My mother buries
whatever slowly died in me
under the duvet.

Last night:

i guess,
anything can be a gun
if the darkness surrounding it
is hungry enough

i don't know how i make it to his bathroom
in time, but i can already feel the autopsies
they will preform on me;

i tame ugly screams beneath it all,
tell myselff it's not suicide if
love hangs in my mouth.

The other day:

"i have no sympathy"
"if it's killing you, then why are you still with him"

This particular stain of anger never quite
reaches my reflection in the mirror.
But it sets my clothes on fire.
All the same,
i seethe endlessly; and slit the throat of forgiveness so
it is not an option i could consider.

My father wakes up inside of me sometimes;
i am not afraid to be
a weapon in which i was designed,
a nuclear war in which i will return home from.

A while ago:

"you need to figure things out between just the two of you, none of your girl friends should be threatening my baby boy"
"i would have married a man i didn't love..."

for the love of GOD---

To ALL the adults who have tasted false wisdom
and wish to share it with me;
do not speak to me as if you could translate my suffering
for me, you do not look like a ghost to me,
do not treat me like i do not know that trauma is a thief to my innocence, you do not look like a victim to me,
do not ******* tell me that i am to contain myself to your benefit, because you know nothing but the way my name tastes on your lips,

i will
paint targetson your back,
with your own words--
and i will feed you to
the bullet feast when you least
expect it.

Don't patronize me with your ignorance disguised as watercolors.

Later tonight:

A little like all at once,
all over the world,
i fall out of love with you.

i used to baptize myself in
the things my phoenix would whisper to me,
all his solids and shadows
oh, the world was so beautiful in his eyes.

And how i wish there was a softer metaphor
that could lower me into this grief,
cause isn't heaven heavy enough,
isn't this hurting plenty?

Now:

i don't know how to describe the aftermath
other than----

"there is just a lonely hum in my mind
where my name used to be.
"
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Brian Mangels Dec 2017
In the beginning people called you a brick. But you weren’t perturbed

You stripped off weight, revealed svelte contours. Emerged fit.

You added bling. Bells and whistles unimaginable

Not shallow though. Shrewd and calculated

You made yourself valuable. Desirable

Everyone wanted a piece of you. I wanted you.

I got you.

In turn you gifted me everything I wished for. Everything I’d need

You brought me knowledge, broadened my horizons. Exposed me to the world

Sometimes enlightening, sometimes shocking

There was nothing you wouldn’t reveal

You organised my life, gave me direction. Connected me

Provided for my base needs. Oh the sweet ***** ***

But you were aloof

For all that you offered, you were indifferent to the price

For the good there was bad. For freedom, I gave you control

The world cost me community. Truths cost innocence

Exposing, I was vulnerable. Revelations rent me disturbed

As my go-between none could see me but through you

You took my connections and reset them. Manipulated my self-esteem

Self-esteem I relied upon

With you as my medium, misunderstandings became commonplace

Relationships once solid showed cracks

With disconnect you scrutinised these divides, and made them gulfs

Analyses became autopsies, on associations seemingly dead

So be it. I’ve seen enough. I’m too far down this path

I wouldn’t know how to change it. How would I even attempt to?

But I knew once

Maybe the problem is you. Your heavy on me once more, like that brick

I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but there are some things you can’t

I must wrest back from you my connections with community

The bond with those important to me

You can have the world. It’s fame, flattery, insults and disgrace

I just want you to make a call

I gotta phone a friend
Sarah Sep 2015
Patio swinging, my legs
     up to push me
back and forth,
     a cover of sun-
  light dancing and
swooping in
  all of the arches
     the dips
        and the bows
the silent shapes
     of physical
       existence,

a jar of tea
in hand and a book
   of poems,
open like a corpse for
dissection, a body
to study, to poke,
   to pry to
              find
the way that
      insides make
       the outsides
       move along, shh
come along with me.

It's patio swinging in
   Oregon summer
where the mud wasps carry
   heavy,
    drooping legs like
     tired sunflowers who
     can't bear to see the sun
         overwhelm another Indian
                                                  sky

so hear, I lie,
where I'll always
lie
my bony legs pushing back the
patio swing
my doll hands performing
autopsies on
Ginsberg and Bukowksi
bathing in sunshine and
prosecting poetry
betterdays Sep 2014
i read today
that
sometimes
during
autopsies
they find ink
pooled
in the lymph
glands
of people
with
multiple
tattoos
and
i got
to
wondering
if they
opened
up
my
brain
would
it
be full
of the
ink
that
runs
through
my
veins
the ink
that
drips
and
seeps
into
my very
soul
aided
by
the word
i
inscribe
and
etch
upon
my
bones
the ink
that flows
in a
long
continious
scrawl
eminating
from
my
poets
pen ..
Megan Feb 2019
I still perform autopsies
on our dead conversations.
JP Goss Oct 2014
1
We read the Titans in a ***** binding, stitches
Crossing in inspiring genetic code and though
Sweet winds in Elysian plans blow, peppered
On the fertile mind, great poets sowed these realms of Hell
Petite scholars pass cursorily, in attempt or ignorance
This classroom won’t appreciate, for years behind, years until.

There was substance in their parting wrists, or ninth ring
Of some divorce in descending rings of darkness and liquor,
And binding chains clasped too numbed from vacillation
I find the journey down their spiral, sad but beautiful
Who wakes with them on either side: design, ebullient suicide?

They lie before me, still vivacious, I lay on looking
In their papery autopsies revealing nothing but scars,
Nothing but the inexplicable, the inescapable prophesy of war
So distant, papery, eternally recurrent and so beyond us men,

Did you sacrifice yourself for the poem, little shred of self
For the gleam of light of day in time of the beloved belated?
What caught your heart, the one you slain, that looks past us all
But moves beyond tears—something ungraspable you had to shed
Life to attain, whose mockery was impetus, just as it was bane.

Pray tell, does it hurt to, in time, become absurd?
A living contradiction, a multiplicity, tiny strings, and blood
Black as ink and nihilism, but swooning, structured, and romance
Pure dialectic, two bodies of verse coincide; a black hole
Dark and Worse. The ultimate catharsis of poetry, lived in every line.

#2
There were abysses in those falling leaves,
Fullness of a lighted walk, irreclaimable annihilations
And empty existences. Now, we write them
Write them down, on these falling loose leaf scraps.
But what has been, is smashed to bits, eventually withering
Eventually splits; yet, something of history is fed from their breast
And we know the miseries that were forewarned.
Ever shall we follow, now that you’re died and died ever on?

To Hell with Socrates; art’s no imposter, but the rudiments
In fact it rears us philosophers, asks and answers all questions
We’re all philosophers: we know what knowledge denies,
Laughs at, and awes: the sole thing nihil cannot belie
Therefore, the pantheonic blood is spilled and I
Drink headily. Draw the same course and dark spirit
That plucks the ferns pushed through the crack
From the grains of aged monuments, past frisson of
Repeated denouement and Time’s cynosure has lent.
The poets may suffer but know what we don’t
And die just to find the panaceaic solution to death
For they, they will never die, and we will pass, unleft.
Starry Aug 2019
Uh, yeah
Another one of those
(This is for my man the 14th
Dalai Lama)
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
What they don't know is
The *******, the drama (uh), the guns, the armor (what!)
The city, the farmer, the babies, the mama (what!)
The ghettos, the drugs (uh!), the children, the soldiers (Uh!)
The tears, the hugs, the love, the slugs (c'mon!)
The funerals, the wakes, the temples, the coffins (uh!)
The heartbroken mothers - it happens too often (why?)
The problems, the things we use to solve 'em (what!)
Mustang, Bhutan (uh!), Kathmandu , ottawa (c'mon!)
The hurt, the pain, the dirt, the rain (uh!)
The ****, the hate, the work, the gain (uh!)
The friends, the foes, the protests, the nazis (what!)
The autopsies, the shows, comes and it goes (c'mon!)
The racism, the envy, the phony, the friendly (uh-huh!)
The one that gave them the slugs, the one that put 'em in me (woo!)
The snakes, the grass too long to see (uh, uh!)
The lawnmower sittin' right next to the tree (c'mon!)
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
What we seeing is
The streets, the chinese, the uiygers, torture (uh-huh)
The options, get shot, go to jail, or getcha *** kicked (a'ight)
The human rights , the part they are of the puzzle (uh-huh)
The release, the warning, "Try not, to get in trouble." (****!)
The bullies, the odds (uh), guantanamo, yakuza (what!)
The new enemy, the prank, the ****, the airports (****!)
The cell, the airport security, the ride down south (uh-huh)
The greens, the boots, camp delta, the dogs  (uh!)
The fightin', the stabbin', the pullin', the grabbin' (what!)
The trade center, nobody knows what happened (what!)
The wars, revenge, the plots (uh!)
The sleep devipravtion, the one hour that's not (uh!)
The silence, the dark, the mind so fragile (a'ight!)
The wish that the streets of lhasa would have took you when they had you (****!)
The days, the months, the years, despair
One night on my knees, here it comes: om mani padme hum
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
This here is all about
My girlfriend, my parents (uh-huh), the life that I live (uh-huh)
Through the night I was his (uh-huh), it was right what I did (uh-huh)
My ups and downs (uh), my slips, my falls (uh)
My trials and tribulations (uh), my heart, my baoudings (uh)
My mother, my father - I love 'em, they annoy me (uh!)
Wish God, I didn't have 'em, but I'm glad that he made 'em (uh!)
The airplanes, the fire, the strays, the cats (what, what!)
The guns, knives and bats, every time we scrap
The hijacking, the kidnapping', the robbin', the stealin' (uh!)
The **** hit the ceilin', little girl with no feelin's (****)
The frustration, rage, trapped inside a cage
The beatings till the age I read (a'ight!)
Somebody stop me (please!), somebody come and get me (what!)
Little did I know that the Lord was ridin' with me
The dark, the light (uh), my heart (uh), the fight (uh)
The wrong (uh!), the right (uh!), it's gone (uh!), a'ight!
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
They don't know who we are
i was watching
Shane's funeral

beautiful
and deservingly so

and i wondered
who would come to my funeral???

(debt collectors
police
2 x-wives
DEA)
(surely
i'm heading to purgatory)

perhaps she'll come
the woman who wants to be a mortician
i meant her at the liquor store

i answered her ad
in the A.P. press,
it read, as follows:

Female, a young 60
likes UFO stories
and exorcisms
loves to watch autopsies,
has a potato chip
that looks like D. Trump!
(not for sale)
will be in front of BY-WAY Liquor store
7 a.m. Tuesday. Gladys.

and one thing
led to another
SO,
here i am
and the the smoke
from the camp
fire's
burning my eyes
i'm on my 18th can
of miller light
Gladys and me
are looking for
UFO s
zebra Feb 2021
earth wakes like a blinking marble
worm cake
ravine of ravenous hunger
breathing bowl of fruit
and black hole cauldron
of spit and sediment
where life grows like debt

disembodied skyward souls
who's haloed ground
a funeral coif
of etched intaglio grim headstones
that remain arcane symbols
of refuse underworlds
sunken under black beds
shaped like centuries of tragedy
in moldering graves
and dusty trailer park archaeologies

cosmologies eclipse
open pleasures and sultry winds
that form charades of architype golden eyes
impregnating us with dreams
like animated tarot cards
while body-caged man-o-spheres
on apocalyptic mountain sides
crawl and claw in endless nights to thrive
with every breath and squalid gasp
                                *
we propel ourselves through this life
by sacrificing the present for the future
in arduous labors of discord
and glowering autopsies
of smoke & blood
until we remain
unable to live with ourselves

i vaguely remember
traveling disembodied
like a new sun
past empty hulled tenements
where the living dead
perform soap opera cameos
as sliding doors
open and shut
like switchblades
on withered clanking subways
of shuffling bones
all the way to Hades

time bruised and beaten
bedlam of age
we each fall forgotten
grey as pulping zombies
shuttering downwards
from primordial nuclides
of contagion and death

gossiping Doppelgangers
on tesseract winds
witnessed energized prodigies
teaching the dead to construct dreams
with drum stick rhythms
and flutes of savage craving
in meta whirls
that mobilize astral spitfires
faster than tachyons
in a forever extravagant next world
monster infinity
Alaska Young Jul 2018
moments you shouldn't be visiting
quit tripping over them darling
i'm telling you, it's dangerous
it's like intentionally tripping again over the same rock
to willingly fall on the same spot you've been
it hurts
you already knew that
and it's ridiculous to be hurt by choice
it's crazy to made a mistake twice
so stop doing autopsies on memories
that died long ago
it's not worth it
The first siren of the day
passes me by on the way
to the second siren of the day,

this is not the place for quiet reflection.

they're now performing autopsies on countries!

All is lost
Venice is sunk
Rome has fallen
Nero is drunk,

no use in feeling sorry for ourselves
no one likes a
winner,
whiner,
two timer or a
three time loser,

Another siren
but who is it warning?
it's not even seven in
the morning,

this is not the place for quiet reflection.

— The End —