"blackly" poems
There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.
There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.
To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.
52.3k
There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of
feastings unhallowed and old.
There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sun's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance
round a Yule-altar fungous and white.
To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the thick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark,
from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.
And mayst thou to such deeds
Be an abbot and priest,
Singing cannibal greeds
At each devil-wrought feast,
And to all the incredulous world
shewing dimly the sign of the beast.
7.9k
Today, suddenly, I reached an absurd but unerring conclusion. In a moment of enlightenment, I realized that I'm nobody, absolutely nobody. When the lightning flashed, I saw that what I had thought to be a city was in fact a deserted plain and, in the same sinister light that revealed me to myself, there seemed to be no sky above it. I was robbed of any possibility of having existed before the world. If I was ever reincarnated, I must have done so without myself, without a self to reincarnate.
I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breathe life into me.
I'm always thinking, always feeling, but my thoughts lack all reason, my emotions all feeling. I'm falling through a trapdoor, through infinite, infinitous space, in a directionless, empty fall. My soul is a black maelstrom, a great madness spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast ocean around a hole in the void, and in the waters, more like whirlwinds than waters, float images of all I ever saw or heard in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of music and fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless whirlpool.
And I, I myself, am the centre that exists only because the geometry of the abyss demands it; I am the nothing around which all this spins, I exist so that it can spin, I am a centre that exists only because every circle has one. I, I myself, am the well in which the walls have fallen away to leave only viscous slime. I am the centre of everything surrounded by the great nothing.
And it is as if hell itself were laughing within me but, instead of the human touch of diabolical laughter, there's the mad croak of the dead universe, the circling cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds drifting blackly in the wind, misshapen, anachronistic, without the God who created it, without God himself who spins in the dark of darks, impossible, unique, everything.
If only I could think! If only I could feel!
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
In to the mystery of the night, i wander
the tangled tarantula garden
canopied with prophesies of light,
Lit windows are making
overtures to desires
night unleashes at these hours,
hear the buzz in the air
its time to make love,
darkness forgets hurt and embraces light.
i walk alone,
but an enchanting witch wait
for me somewhere in a garden bench,
to take me by my hand to her secret haunt
filled with thick smoke of ****
where she will remove the drapes
to let me see the truth.
On her quill and cactus bed,
she would make me understand,
how far is pleasure from pain
why darkness stalks light,
a jilted lover, walking a few steps behind,
I've heard her, once whisper
to wind in her husky voice
"A life written off by those
who measure out life with coffee spoons,
as spent in vein; this life of mine,
could have its secret treasures,
no charlatan could ever guess about
a serpent's diamonds
very few get to see,
its dangerous to pry, i forgive their ignorance"
Words induced by her dark power
has layers of meaning
but to many it was just meaningless jabbering,
just magic mushroom blabber
She nibbled and nicked my earlobes,
in between intoxicating purrs,
told me the meaning of caterwauls,
**"Its not pain, its not pain,
once you get in to the stream
you only want to drain,
in to the vast blue ocean"**
I recognize now, it's Walpurgis night,
as i walk in search of my witch,
i see dancers around bonfire,
revelers totally out of their minds,
carouse at the heart of the night.
And i see them all, witches in marine blue dresses,
enchantresses in blackly black,
coquettish red or groovy green,
I wait for her to appear,
the only one in resplendent white.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
bathing myself in this thirsting quench
and now I’ve come to see you
as a drug. a pill.
but not prescribed.
Staring blackly at me
on my bedside table
and it’s teasing me.
teasing me with the sugar cane
that erupts when it skims my tounge -
I drool.
alluring my own deception with your
succulent crescendo
that unravels it’s way down my whole
voice until there’s none left.
And its just the way it sets me so ablaze
that I cremate casually in your
immaculate ignite.
Knuckles clench to restrain that
sentiment that nostalgia
that world that lies behind your door I always see myself
linger through ghostly.
I’ve never been
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs ***** the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
3.1k
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Behind closed eyes
And shuttered dreams
And barred windows
I see the color green
For the sea I write
Behind iron bars
And deathly individuality
And ghostly thought
I see the color white
For the air I write
Behind four pointed snowflakes
And glistening ice pools
And a hatchet clinging to the
Frosted waves
I see the color red
For the fire I write
Behind the open air
And the dank walls
And the endless earth
I see the color of hope
Blackly shining
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
ivories that are made of letters
grey skin, blackred hair, word babies
gigantic mirror, blackly glowing
psychedelic nature like 1968
apartment in the projects
hallways full of dust and spiders
uncle is smoking the daylight away
his walls covered with bulletholes
red and tired eyes, no smiling
uncle's wife killed in a car crash
dead goons are torturing him now
the memory of her dead body, stuck
past encounters like smoke in the air
red frost covers uncle's body, glaciers
a button to turn back time, fantasies
melting hours for god's sacrifices
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 9:58 AM UTC
I just want them too truly
To know they are as and more
Dearly too when we are all as my
3 here re see Eve'd as I already knew
U had come too re a shore the lonely sailor
With One One Another Ahoy!!!
~The Promise Be Shore Surely!!!~~
~Love of my life baby girl V~~Star'Sis!!
Come Darling Coming!!!
Still and More
Shall be!!
Mote
IT
B
!
.
.
Air All Was As Crisp Still Clear
Moon o'V very bright fully too
Towards the Dead of Line's
'tween be of a day by
Tip Tipper of Nite
locally See Sea's
longitudinally
onward thee
tracking
surely
so..
x
\/
x
\/
x
\/
.
.
X
Then the waters did part as quick
As Glass Shattered into that house
Midwife Be Thy Holy Need
Pop Quickly Spotting
Pop On Top One
Pop on Top
too lil' me
seeing
see
E
Y
E
Then just as sudden as the quick
The winds did there kick kick blew
As Blackly Be But Stars
Dimmer Too For
This Moon Of
Wooing
Thee
BE
I
N
Too All Mighty's
So Whispy of Whispering's
Windy's Cloud's Streak
Speak's Th'Eye's Sky's
Here's Holy's
Hearing's
Love
Is
.
.
O
N
L
Y
By Moon So Overly Fleet Flew
Fastly Flying All Heavenly Hands
Took Competent Handling of All Decks
Twas not this no not the one for a mutiny
All the Blood Bearing Beings before had overly
So much of scutiny too Wards of The Captain Too
They felt as his captive's Too A Madness Of Missions
*more: Coming ha ha Guess Guess!! Bless Bless!
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
I departed poorly
with my blackly bitter summer,
And ordered life in bright colors.
It gave me autumn
dressed in blazing orange and red.
Delivered to me in dreamful
and magical tints of gold.
I didn’t even notice the autumn rain.
Smelling the fragrance of the breeze,
I heard beautiful music from the rustling leaves.
Now, my heart began beating a familiar rhyme.
Love will gather my wistful, unspoken thoughts,
With new songs of harmony
from these autumn leaves.
I still have a lot of these colors.
I still have a lot of LOVE to give.
I’ve known love like I’ve known fall for so long.
Sep 18, 2021
Sep 18, 2021 at 8:44 PM UTC
My life was steeped in darkness
Twisted trees blackly cracked the grey sky
I didn't know there could be such brightness
Until I found that place
That place of colour
And light
And fun
And love
I wanted it
I'd always wanted it
Without even knowing what I wanted
I tried to bring brightness to my twisted world
I strived for so long and so hard
But they couldn't understand
And the brightness was lost to all
Only then did I understand
I was the darkness
The darkness was me
And that was okay
Because the world needs darkness
But it also needs brightness
So I returned to darkness
And let the brightness shine without my corruption
But a little brightness shone in me
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
I could no longer see the sky, stars all blackly veiled, senses numbed
in the gathering storm, a smokey room void of living breath
choked the night air, gasping
consternation of a dark wilderness
a sad vanishing note, played
unrecognizable
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Something black somewhere in the vistas of his heart.
Tulips from Tates teazed Henry in the mood
to be a tulip and desire no more
but water, but light, but air.
Yet his nerves rattled blackly, unsubdued,
&suffocation; called, dream-whiskey'd pour
sirening. Rosy there
too fly my Phil&Ellen; roses, pal.
Flesh-coloured men&women; come&punt;
under my windows. I rave
or grunt against it, from a flowerless land.
For timeless hours wind most, or not at all. I wind
my clock before I shave.
Soon it will fall dark. Soon you'll see stars
you fevered after, child, man, & did nothing -
compass love to the pencil-torch!
As still as his cadaver, Henry mars
this surface of an earth or other, feet south
eyes bleared west, waking to march.
from The Dream Songs
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
He paints the insides of his nostrils
with whiteout and glue,
and takes a deep breath.
Scotty colors his teeth in with a sharpie
standing before the bathroom mirror,
he exhales and smiles blackly.
The whiteness of his eyes irritates him,
so he sprays them with double-you-dee-forty
and they roll in his head smoothly and reddened.
His beautiful hands catch his eye
and he grabs a thumbnail with his incisors,
pausing to glance into his intentions.
When Scott sees himself reflected,
his head jerks and the nail is ripped from his skin
as his pained grimace turns into an insane grin.
As he becomes beautiful again.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
Oh those bodies
on the museum walls
Tennessee Valley bodies and Los Alamos bodies
shining blackly like the stripe of a credit card.
The price of bread fixed at five cents
and we all eat it in slices.
Your name is your labour and
your labour your name.
I have disappeared into a country that doesn’t know me
and I am tearing it up with my teeth.
Oh those bodies
that were once slaves.
Were they pictured any other way
but in idyll or whipped dry?
The dusty Union regiments at Baton Rouge
have made a postcard of one scourged back;
they share it around and die for it.
I have a few postcards, too.
It is strange to see any man kneeling.
Oh those bodies
Cornbread bodies and bodies like a corn snake
crushed among the broad leaves of tobacco;
The ones in bone corsets and the ones
in reed baskets, floating downstream.
The ones in rosy marble and wrought bronze
the ones whose striped backs are coming out in wings
feathers pink and wet
like a new-hatched chick or a stillbirth.
Your body
is a tight machine of grief
packed into homespun like a fist
and relaxes in sepia as it never did in life,
a babe slung underarm and the food
only from cans; they keep the dust out.
Oh those bodies that tend the home, larder and ledger,
and reach for the high cabinets
and keep reaching.
The old voices are back at work.
I am not the one they are speaking to
but I hear them all the same.
They spread out a catalogue of wares
on a sisal blanket in the dark
and every price sounds fair, every garment lovely
unless you made it.
The country workman in bronze now and forever
with his rolled shirtsleeves; his body
raises a hammer and his bicep, mid-shiver
is always striking something, always building
Heaven, and Manhattan, from the foundations.
Stained glass his union flag
and Union Army blood he forgot or never knew.
The thin white arms of Andersonville,
meeting two generations hence, in his arms,
the dark scarred shoulders of the South.
Who brought forth upon the continent this new nation,
and who brought forth the ironclad Monitor
and who put into song the Maple Leaf Rag or Swanee River
and who put that soil there from which the cotton still grows
and who made your dress?
Who owes the debt and who records it?
You and I.
Oh those bodies swathed in light.
Oh those bodies becoming angels.
Bodies bound blackly
and bodies forgetting
which is what bodies do with injury:
they absorb, and they forget.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
Have you ever danced in the street?
Barefoot, in the moonlight,
And as you dance,
The stars are your spotlight.
The ground is cold and hard to touch,
But tonight is your last night.
So don't look back... or down
They are there, all around you.
Learn to trust in what cannot be seen
And you will see the imperceivable.
Blackly staring into at the unknown,
beings of past generations welcome,
Those who's Era is over.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
Single crow
Beach crow
Shimmer
Green
Rusted
Channel- marker
Crow
Among waves
Crow
As breeze ruffles
Your feathers
Blackly
Crow
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 5:11 AM UTC
Ear, to burrow in quaking chests,
pounding pink whilst sirens called and
loud whistles of graveyards
outkeep the unkempt—men, in their shawls
of brown hung thinly like spider-silk
or like apt shadows, swung deep
and knit their brow low.
Tongue, to pinching Khor,
dragged down winding crawling asphalt,
where men marched and limped on to
the serpents and salt-seas which lead them
guffawing, down and blackly sombre—
charred palate quelled creaking groans of iced-marrow;
but it bit back in fury and in mute litanies.
Nose, to pyre in cotton-burnt glory,
red-cent’s ****** odour sent all, sent many,
to swoon Mr. Moon from silver times
and to slice dawn thick with orange rind—
the kind that stung the flesh beneath
your bruised fingernails as a child, as you peeled.
Teeth, to grate and whitely brace
for cold and plunging lines that blighted
everything in vertigo’s favor. There was them,
there was me, and there was you—
but, skulls you see
were calcium's concern, as Earth, not the mother,
consumed all, and condensed became
life and breath
to
stone and mineral.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
If
When the purple clouds envelope the blue wide world
If everybody is just made
Of doll parts
And given plastic eyes
To look alive
If the snow falls blackly
And the trees turn their backs
Might as well go down in history
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 9:18 AM UTC