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Alexander Klein Oct 2013
I

In eras weird with old mythology,
As if asleep the fabled country lay:
Her wave-like hills and faerie forests dense,
Her thorny brambles budding curling claws,
And ivy circling all the woodsey way --
The far swan's cry came soft and woke them not.
Forlorn, that selfsame call upon the gates
Did break; those gates of Britain's long-lost keep.
She too slept fast, the weary weathered stones
Of fairest Caerleon. O pulsing stream,
Thou vein of life in woods a-slumber, Usk!
Alone are you in knowing castle's face,
From years of timeless burbling at her feet.
What tales are told by water over stone?
What lark or wren can sing of sadness come?
Aye, answers are the beach-wet sand, yet hark!
Rejoicings spilled, proud hails, from Caerleon:
They cheered the ****-frost's melting with the Spring;
The holy Gwyl Fair y Canhwyllau
Had come at last, in foliage of dawn.

Within, their goblets sailed, wassailed, and crashed
Like growling Jove, their boasts and toasts like wine --
They drank it spiced and over-strong. Indeed,
Some stretched exaggerations: 'twas Sir Bors,
That spotless sheet, who tried to contradict.
He quoted purifying texts and spurned
The wine that nature raised and crafted sweet.
Yet "Loosen up!" uproared the host to him.
"The time has come to celebrate," said Kay,
Beloved knight, step-brother to the King,
"Aloft thy wine, below thy gills! Drink! Laugh!
Your stomach is a falsehood-spewing fool,
It must be drowned for you to feel a lord.
I speak a sooth, you need wine's fleeting bliss!
Know thee that man's tomorrows bleed him dry:
A wade through death and depths as sure as pain
That shall tomorrow light your brow. Laugh! Drink!"
Bold cheering spread with Kay's advice, though yet
To no surprise Bors turned aside the drink,
Unblemished bore, so celebrates alone.
Weep not for him, for soon he'll find a cup
More suited to his strange of chaste and grace.
And none to waste: his share was drunk by all.

Engaged in feast Owain ap Urien,
Engaged in tale now Bedwyr and Kay,
And Lancelot made eyes at Gwenevere.
It was a feast of great success and joy
As fitting of the season's robust gleam,
Yet two there were with shallow-rooted smiles.
Prince Mordred one, though ever-somber he:
Accursed spawn with bone in place of heart
And dreaded incantations for his blood;
His brooding perched like crow on him. Alas:
The other joy-bled man had beard aflame,
A bear-skin drape, and crystal eyes, the Lord
He was of Caerleon and Mordred both.
'Twas not the gleam in lover's gaze that vexed
Though it was seen; he had no heart in him
To chain his Queen as if in dungeon steel,
For Arthur lived believing to be fair
Was paramount, to even paramour.
It wreaked its toll, yet caused small grief this day.
Not even serpent son gave cause to mourn
That greater was than missing nephew's spot
Among the feast. His chair was naked bare
Returned though he should be from faerie quest.
At Calan Gaeaf they expected him
When winter storms had racked their shoddy hall,
Yet since, the months had rolled to Gwyl Fair
The milder season come, but not his kin.
The image of his maiméd corpse did taunt
And haunt the agéd mind of Arthur, King,
His phantom nephew slain anon by knight
That of no flesh was made. In year that died
This green-mailed knight arrived a guest and called
Infernal challenge. Trick it seemed to them
And trick it was, for subsequent the blow,
This seaweed knight did lift his severed head
And from dead lips he cried "Well struck! Now come,
Fulfill me of my game. The year to come
Shall see thee in my home, and as agreed
My turn 'twil be to answer with my axe."

So rapt in recollecting, Arthur missed
The growing clamor that beset his hall.
His ******* cleared the grief from him with taunt,
To bring him into grief. "What say thee, Dad,"
Dripped venom from his mouth, "No love for us?
Your hail we called, but disapprove your eyes.
Methinks that far away thou seest a dream
That visits oft the elderly: a place
Thou knewst when in thy prime, with love
Now filled to burst. Yet fear us not, away!
To land of youth far more beloved than we
Whose happiness with thine own heart is twined."
"My fellow, soft!" the King began, distressed,
Yet Lancelot rose to his feet and spake
"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face!
Thou palest hide, thou Mordred, sit thee down!
This sniveling craven knight should be replaced."
A sounding of the table met his speech,
Again was hailed his toast, and Arthur glad,
Though burdened to his breaking point, and sad.

"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face,"
Had spake his bravest champion and friend
With no regard to Blackguard wrapped in stealth.
See how his roughspun fingers coil in hers
And how some sweetened whisper 'scapes her lips?
The beams of color-stainéd light slip down
To play upon their blissful sin almost
As if King Arthur's King approved on high.
Sovereignty is ruthless, Arthur thought,
Well-wishings of my God grow ever-faint.
I must believe in good though I am ill,
Just as I find my countrymen displeased
Though I did calculate my every breath
To see that it did stand with God's own will
To help my common people from their murk.
I fear I am not what I wished to be,
And now my only solace peaceful death.
If up to me, I'd wish it in my bed.

What horn's blare? Hark! King Arthur roused from thought.
Court gatekeeper Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr,
Dressed plain in brown, took down the horn from lips
And loud as elk called to the hall "Have cheer!
Sirs, drink another beer and wreath your brow
With springtime blooms, for lost knight fair is found!"
Old Arthur trusted not his feeble ears,
But came a hush and Lancelot confirmed:
"What **," he boomed, "our brother has returned!
'Tis grey Gawaine, aye, Gwalchmai! Drink his hail!"
The uproar was enourmous: "Gwalchmai! Cheers!"
Was like to wake the sleeping wilderness
That hung suspended in the myth and mist.

II

Astonishment had come like breaking wave
Upon the thirsty sands of monarch's face
So long consigned to reap the low-tide's grief.
When Arthur's ursine hand clenched round his cup
And hailed his nephew's presence with a roar
Long lost to hibernation's hoary spell,
The hearts that beat in armor under him
Did swell to find their lord with cheer at last;
The toast they drank so hearty as to give
Sweet Dionysus pause against excess.
Though only two there were who did not drink,
And one of these were Bors, a sadness fell
Once more as tangible as any wrong
That chose to haunt a hall. 'Twas Gwalchmai grey,
The conqueror now home from quest to rest
Who would not lift his eyes to meet the King's.

"Has cheer so fled from you? Your life remains!
What black has inked you in?" the King did ask,
And silence overtook the hall to hear.
How strongly then did Gwalchmai wish to leave,
To blend once more his form to root or branch
Or soaring river. Wind, the songbird's muse,
Had been his fast companion on the road,
For known to him were many things. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In young enchanted places of the world
Though all his magic helped him not at court:
His shyness was a leaf obscured by rain.
Yet even gods of silence know to speak
When words of pain encircle heavy hearts.
He let them fly, birds in the sky, he said
"I failed. My quest was long and arduous,
The seasons changed while I in heather lost,
The moon its phases shed as fen-frogs called,
I floated through the endless cloying mist
That flows, a ghostly sea wrapped round our isle.
The path had nearly drowned me when I found
The chapel green enough to spell my doom.
When entered I, methought "It cannot be!"
So kind and courteous a host met me
That would have been disgrace to call him green.
He feasted me, and warmed my wounded bones,
Yet I betrayed him in the end; I failed.
I stayed his guest, and friend, and swore to him
That for his hospitality I'd share
Each thing I won while underneath his roof.
And all was well -- I'd rest, he'd hunt -- until
His wife played hearts with me. I did refuse,
But by her final trick was tempted and --
So lost all knightly honor and renoun.
Her lusts I spurned three times, but on the third
She offered me that which my heart desired,
Instead of love she begged me take her boon:
A silken girdle sewn with charms, and green,
Deceit I should have seen. She said the spells
Would keep me safe from harm and spare my life...
When on my rugged journey all I'd feared
Was twisting face of death that loomed so near.
I could not help myself, it seemed so tame,
Yet when the time had come I could not share
That gift, or else expose the husband's wife.
Beneath my armor tied when left that place,
My secret wore me down upon the bog.
It seemed the mist grew thicker, wind grew swift,
I now know under spell was I, but then
It seemed some vengence coming to a head.
My tale grows long, and past the point am I.
The Green Knight and my host were one in fraud:
An airy insect's dream. His "wife," a witch,
Had formed him out of acrid moorland soil:
Homunculus to carry out her scheme.
The blow he owed me carried little force,
Though still this scratch is plain upon my nape.
And so you see my folly plain as oak:
For though I kept the life I feared to lose
My lie grows in me like a cancer bloom
That in the span of time shall **** me sure.
I failed; I'm gone; to revelry return."
The silence, vast again, gripped all the knights
And king too dry to cry, who drowned his heart.

III

"Is there some madness come to roost herein?
Thy folly is ridiculous," said Kay.
"I valued mine own life past honor's flame,
A sin of selfishness, and blame, and wrong.
What of the world, if all would act as such?"
A weeping noise he made, but choked it back
And turned to leave in shame, and might have done
Had not the stout Sir Kay gripped Gwalchmai's arm.
He raised it in the air and shouted thus:
"Percieve our stunning champion stands nigh!
Though of a frail ennobled heart, we know
Thou art absolved. This trinket given free
To aid in quest I wager was for thee.
And as for sacred broken vows, this man --
You said yourself -- was conjured from a bug.
You owe him no alleigance Gwalchmai, sit!
This serious you need to be for wine:
Come sit with brothers now! We drink to thee!"
"Dispel the failure all you can, it stays
As weighty on my brain. It was a sign
To signify the kind of soul I am,
To me it showed my grimy ills and plain
Did tell my shaping, shape, and shape-to-be."
King Arthur to this nephew spake: "My child,
Is there no antidote to questing's woes?
What has become of jousts and silver swords?"
The anguish in the old man's eyes so keen
To those who knew him. Gwalchmai did reply
"Your majesty, there's not a grief can ****
My bird-like love of questing through the trees,
For only questing can redeem my shape."
"Then let us have this quest!" cried Kay beside
Him at the table, deep in drink he swore.
"Come with me, brother-knight, to clear thy mood!
You do you wrong blaspheming at yourself."
The wine was quaffed by Gwalchmai, yet he said
"I first shall stay, I need to rest my ills."
"Your ills are that which keep you ill, good knight.
I bid you come and we shall quest as birds
Who savor springtime berries in the mist."
"I shall not go, I seek my quietude."
"In sunlight you and I must bask. Comply,
Or else I challenge you by burnished blade."
All eyes on Gwalchmai, under pressure cracked
Into a grin and downed his kykeon.
"In stubborness persisting, Kay, you've won,
A river such as I could not keep stead
Against a boulder. When shall we away?
When come the summer blossoms, fair and red?
Or else not til the saps have lost their leaves?
Departure yours to choose, my brother-knight."
Kay beat upon the table and their ears
When called triumphantly "This very day,
This very hour! To help those who need aid
On holy days shall surely fix your heart.
No time to wallow in the swamp that's gone,
We now away, to break our swords with day!"
"You mock me or you heard me not, Sir Kay,
I wish not to away, I wish to rest!"
The fairest Guenevere, like silver bells,
Chimed in "You must forgive your heart's despair,
Or emanations of its guilt will plague
Your mind. I have a lunar garden if
You wish to sit in soothing calm and think."
"My queen is holy," Gwalchmai spoke in grace,
But Kay had cut him off with "Hear her not!
She will ensorce your mind to not explore,
To sit and think and mold with lunacy;
Beneath the sun we'll tred. It's known on quests
I favor Bedwyr, 'tis true, yet you
My fairest Gwalchmai, keep your wits -- and arms --
Two things in need of we shall be.
I mean you no offense, dear Bedwyr,
But I and Gwalchmai share a severed soul
And shall succeed; two sides of selfsame coin.
So come my cousin grey, to right our wrongs
We must away, to break our swords and say
'My heart is glad I did not stay at home!'
Consume your drink! We go," he trumpet-called.
Thus Gwalchmai was convinced, and so was forced
To nod politely to his Queen and stand,
Declaring to the court "I shall away,
This gloomy mood is dried beneath the sun
Though dearly do I wish some lunar grace
To lose myself in mysteries anew.
To bear this flesh is weighty, yet I've found
The strain to be rewarding in its way.
Think nothing of my former woes, they've passed
Like summer storm or wisp of misty cloud."
The hall at large did drink his hail, and then
Did thrice more drink for quest to which they went.
And Mordred scowled and drank the foulest wine
For his monsoon and fog would last his life.

So summoned then Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr
To hearken unto birds, as was his gift.
He said to all, "I shall now call my friends
And see what worthy tales of quests they bring!"
"There may be naught on Gwyl Fair," said Bors,
"A holy day, all wove with peace. Nor Gods
Nor men would stir their strife this day of days."
"We all shall see," the gatekeeper replied.
Beside his King upon the dais came
And played a serenade upon his horn
That rang throughout the keep and lands beyond.
A time did pass with no response recieved --
Slain silent was the raptness of the court --
But then through open pain in stainéd glass
A thrush did bob and weave in melody,
On finger of the Queen he briefly perched
Before he flit away upon the air.
His song so sweet, but then - what fright! No more!
A hawk had entered, just the same, and swooped,
And now the thrush was silent in his claws.
The cabinet of augers all took note
And sketched their calculations into books,
Though none, in this, more wise than Gafaelfawr
To whom the hawk said "Hail, you man of rank
Who speaks the tongue of wing-in-air. Now hark!
'Twas not in hunger slew this thrush, but fear
That what I have to tell might go unheard.
My family, we roost near Cornwall's sea
And late, the noises off the coast grew strange
As if some evil kraken raged at love.
My chicks; my wife and I; we're simple hawks.
We eat and some of us are eaten, yet
Beware the thing that slouched from out the waves.
His shape is something like a boar, but huge,
He dwarfs his kin, and hill, and oak,
This hall is large, yet he'd be stuck inside.
He does not eat what he has killed, instead
He smears the bloodied flesh on stones and trees,
What man could face a fear that bears this face?
If you could hear the rutting squeals he makes!
I swear this sooth by wind and waving plumes:
You men who craft with metal, hark!
Destroy the beast!" And then he flew away
Still calling after him "Destroy the beast!"

The court at large had heard the warbling hawk
But did not know the tongue, so only watched
Glewlwyd's unease upon his face
Until with stiff and rasping voice relayed
The content of the predatory news.
Unease began to show among the knights,
For many there recalled a beast so shaped
And all the blood and guile he took to drown
The first time. Arthur, grim, forbade Sir Kay
And Gwalchmai face these perils by themselves,
But recommended regiment of steel
To bolster ranks against the fearsome boar.
"I know this foe from days of old," he said,
His years of rule etched rough across his face,
"And so do most of you, though many gone
And this monstrosity not even slain."
But Gwalchmai said "'Twas hard indeed to win
Those relics that he bore. Remember I
That Trwyth was the name he chose, and we
Shall best him fair. Though not for trinkets now,
But with the zeal of mother guarding young:
This foe, Twrch Trwyth shall not raze the land
Nor wage a war against some peaceful ilk
While rounded table can beco
Sa Sa Ra Nov 2012
I just knew I had to get there
try to begin again again yay
it was not conveniently along
the way to any ordinary business
else i had along to get on this day
but when i finally arrived i forgot
if it were the coffee or the chocolate
shop...20 oz got the mud and like me
just a single dark chocolate coconut turtle love
no trip to sip upon my way to self serve raw milk cows
and so return to head of the class or is it the line free pass
and refill...so coffee shop and coffee house does play; 'your troubles
are my troubles every dear sweet day'; sip sip 'how are you today', 'I don't believe' she said;
'but i have nothing else better to do myself' I'd say...we're acute of mars and where we are across
enchantments and beyond the covering of the bridge and bridges...wifi sure if you like so very need; 'email leave it here' she's owner 'there's the pad' 'but what?' oh silly me 'do I get' fearing junk and praying for the hand signed invite to the 'Caffeine Ball' in the tiny little town with two chocolate shops just in case you are northern or southward bound, you're 'Cafe Casual' or 'Belgium Tweaked', she the owner tickled me 'you get my email'!!!

...here and there it is the season of the witch; and here today it's black tight city in the pretty country sweet nitty gritty; soccer so too the day and I don't know the preppy privates or the awesome lovey local blessed pirates; moms and girls all a twirl and I'm just trying to empty this lovely cup; this sweater too is dark and fairly long but upon the tights its out of sight but upon any other else it's something else; here is mom silver lovely flows as she too can bounce about as if she's the star ready to run and play kick in the winning goal, saves the day again again again, and the line is steep and the shop full of eye candy take home treats; and too tights sporting is she though jumper; guess they don't got to be so long in seasonal dark bold yet subtly nifty blackish white grey shifty plaids with tinging blue line-ish sky-ish snuck sneakin' in and out and oh the kicker so very dainty being in defiance like of gravity as in light and loosely sweet, and the lucky man for the ring upon the left of hand, but it's all lovely to see the happy be and the treats she seeks to take home to for about that lucky other and at times we are other me's but there this time he is he; and I've got 6 oz to go before my free pass to head of the class upon the tip of the spear nothing to fear before the all waiting for the dearest of sweet service the all so love here; nah no Starbucks come close to dare about anywhere the near blessed be here, we all so are; our bubble ya, or so I am most likely blaspheming here for true I can repeat I am overly needy speaking for myself and so overly shameless about my overly humanness at the risk of judgement and inhumanity; so it is better to know thyself first and foremost;

6 oz and I'm still working hard sip or gulp b/s or bust but then silver soccer plaid treat tweaker; there we are; "I love the plaid" said I, "Oh why well thank you so much" "That's lovely" I am not used to compliments" she seemed so...well I'd love to know, "I saw the ring" I said "and that should be no penalty"

...but I am never prepared for the overly shocking and we lost ourselves beyond our paths crossing and out beyond the door; I imagine we are, she is routin' team and life the more for all; 
once upon a time
 I was overly dedicated to the loosing cause with all endearment and flattery in every way first thing in the morning and like every night tag team between raising angels and in defiance of everything I have ever heard they say about what you just can't get with a man; but then they forget to tell you if it just so happens; there may be better men you can steal from and who cares what if from other women other husbands and their retirement plans; while we're at it I don't worry 'bout that but blessed be I ain't no Mr Right even though overly right for much right right now, though nearest my age I wouldn't then stand a chance to be fooled by sweet angels but who rarely just don't get a **** thing not 'bout me my deep and long term needs and cares, not that any couldn't but I ain't spelling out those tales here now so well;
but hit me it did that goddess blessed soccer mom-ma
not used to compliments ripping me up still
and forever till we get the heck out of
our b/s self created living hell
which repeat repeat
our simple choosing
in the more willing
and overly
responsive
here we are
in the better
place for heaven
ain't that true as well...

I wish I could ask is anything real
but it's all true as well,
if we ever got real out
of here this way

look out we'd might
just miss all the
HELL
'O'!!!
Apollo’s wrath to man the dreadful spring
Of ills innum’rous, tuneful goddess, sing!
Thou who did’st first th’ ideal pencil give,
And taught’st the painter in his works to live,
Inspire with glowing energy of thought,
What Wilson painted, and what Ovid wrote.
Muse! lend thy aid, nor let me sue in vain,
Tho’ last and meanest of the rhyming train!
O guide my pen in lofty strains to show
The Phrygian queen, all beautiful in woe.
  ’Twas where Maeonia spreads her wide domain
Niobe dwelt, and held her potent reign:
See in her hand the regal sceptre shine,
The wealthy heir of Tantalus divine,
He most distinguish’d by Dodonean Jove,
To approach the tables of the gods above:
Her grandsire Atlas, who with mighty pains
Th’ ethereal axis on his neck sustains:
Her other grandsire on the throne on high
Rolls the loud-pealing thunder thro’ the sky.
  Her spouse, Amphion, who from Jove too springs,
Divinely taught to sweep the sounding strings.
  Seven sprightly sons the royal bed adorn,
Seven daughters beauteous as the op’ning morn,
As when Aurora fills the ravish’d sight,
And decks the orient realms with rosy light
From their bright eyes the living splendors play,
Nor can beholders bear the flashing ray.
  Wherever, Niobe, thou turn’st thine eyes,
New beauties kindle, and new joys arise!
But thou had’st far the happier mother prov’d,
If this fair offspring had been less belov’d:
What if their charms exceed Aurora’s teint.
No words could tell them, and no pencil paint,
Thy love too vehement hastens to destroy
Each blooming maid, and each celestial boy.
  Now Manto comes, endu’d with mighty skill,
The past to explore, the future to reveal.
Thro’ Thebes’ wide streets Tiresia’s daughter came,
Divine Latona’s mandate to proclaim:
The Theban maids to hear the orders ran,
When thus Maeonia’s prophetess began:
  “Go, Thebans! great Latona’s will obey,
“And pious tribute at her altars pay:
“With rights divine, the goddess be implor’d,
“Nor be her sacred offspring unador’d.”
Thus Manto spoke.  The Theban maids obey,
And pious tribute to the goddess pay.
The rich perfumes ascend in waving spires,
And altars blaze with consecrated fires;
The fair assembly moves with graceful air,
And leaves of laurel bind the flowing hair.
  Niobe comes with all her royal race,
With charms unnumber’d, and superior grace:
Her Phrygian garments of delightful hue,
Inwove with gold, refulgent to the view,
Beyond description beautiful she moves
Like heav’nly Venus, ’midst her smiles and loves:
She views around the supplicating train,
And shakes her graceful head with stern disdain,
Proudly she turns around her lofty eyes,
And thus reviles celestial deities:
“What madness drives the Theban ladies fair
“To give their incense to surrounding air?
“Say why this new sprung deity preferr’d?
“Why vainly fancy your petitions heard?
“Or say why Caeus offspring is obey’d,
“While to my goddesship no tribute’s paid?
“For me no altars blaze with living fires,
“No bullock bleeds, no frankincense transpires,
“Tho’ Cadmus’ palace, not unknown to fame,
“And Phrygian nations all revere my name.
“Where’er I turn my eyes vast wealth I find,
“Lo! here an empress with a goddess join’d.
“What, shall a Titaness be deify’d,
“To whom the spacious earth a couch deny’d!
“Nor heav’n, nor earth, nor sea receiv’d your queen,
“Till pitying Delos took the wand’rer in.
“Round me what a large progeny is spread!
“No frowns of fortune has my soul to dread.
“What if indignant she decrease my train
“More than Latona’s number will remain;
“Then hence, ye Theban dames, hence haste away,
“Nor longer off’rings to Latona pay;
“Regard the orders of Amphion’s spouse,
“And take the leaves of laurel from your brows.”
Niobe spoke.  The Theban maids obey’d,
Their brows unbound, and left the rights unpaid.
  The angry goddess heard, then silence broke
On Cynthus’ summit, and indignant spoke;
“Phoebus! behold, thy mother in disgrace,
“Who to no goddess yields the prior place
“Except to Juno’s self, who reigns above,
“The spouse and sister of the thund’ring Jove.
“Niobe, sprung from Tantalus, inspires
“Each Theban ***** with rebellious fires;
“No reason her imperious temper quells,
“But all her father in her tongue rebels;
“Wrap her own sons for her blaspheming breath,
“Apollo! wrap them in the shades of death.”
Latona ceas’d, and ardent thus replies
The God, whose glory decks th’ expanded skies.
  “Cease thy complaints, mine be the task assign’d
“To punish pride, and scourge the rebel mind.”
This Phoebe join’d.—They wing their instant flight;
Thebes trembled as th’ immortal pow’rs alight.
  With clouds incompass’d glorious Phoebus stands;
The feather’d vengeance quiv’ring in his hands.
     Near Cadmus’ walls a plain extended lay,
Where Thebes’ young princes pass’d in sport the day:
There the bold coursers bounded o’er the plains,
While their great masters held the golden reins.
Ismenus first the racing pastime led,
And rul’d the fury of his flying steed.
“Ah me,” he sudden cries, with shrieking breath,
While in his breast he feels the shaft of death;
He drops the bridle on his courser’s mane,
Before his eyes in shadows swims the plain,
He, the first-born of great Amphion’s bed,
Was struck the first, first mingled with the dead.
  Then didst thou, Sipylus, the language hear
Of fate portentous whistling in the air:
As when th’ impending storm the sailor sees
He spreads his canvas to the fav’ring breeze,
So to thine horse thou gav’st the golden reins,
Gav’st him to rush impetuous o’er the plains:
But ah! a fatal shaft from Phoebus’ hand
Smites thro’ thy neck, and sinks thee on the sand.
  Two other brothers were at wrestling found,
And in their pastime claspt each other round:
A shaft that instant from Apollo’s hand
Transfixt them both, and stretcht them on the sand:
Together they their cruel fate bemoan’d,
Together languish’d, and together groan’d:
Together too th’ unbodied spirits fled,
And sought the gloomy mansions of the dead.
Alphenor saw, and trembling at the view,
Beat his torn breast, that chang’d its snowy hue.
He flies to raise them in a kind embrace;
A brother’s fondness triumphs in his face:
Alphenor fails in this fraternal deed,
A dart dispatch’d him (so the fates decreed:)
Soon as the arrow left the deadly wound,
His issuing entrails smoak’d upon the ground.
  What woes on blooming Damasichon wait!
His sighs portend his near impending fate.
Just where the well-made leg begins to be,
And the soft sinews form the supple knee,
The youth sore wounded by the Delian god
Attempts t’ extract the crime-avenging rod,
But, whilst he strives the will of fate t’ avert,
Divine Apollo sends a second dart;
Swift thro’ his throat the feather’d mischief flies,
Bereft of sense, he drops his head, and dies.
  Young Ilioneus, the last, directs his pray’r,
And cries, “My life, ye gods celestial! spare.”
Apollo heard, and pity touch’d his heart,
But ah! too late, for he had sent the dart:
Thou too, O Ilioneus, art doom’d to fall,
The fates refuse that arrow to recal.
  On the swift wings of ever flying Fame
To Cadmus’ palace soon the tidings came:
Niobe heard, and with indignant eyes
She thus express’d her anger and surprise:
“Why is such privilege to them allow’d?
“Why thus insulted by the Delian god?
“Dwells there such mischief in the pow’rs above?
“Why sleeps the vengeance of immortal Jove?”
For now Amphion too, with grief oppress’d,
Had plung’d the deadly dagger in his breast.
Niobe now, less haughty than before,
With lofty head directs her steps no more
She, who late told her pedigree divine,
And drove the Thebans from Latona’s shrine,
How strangely chang’d!—yet beautiful in woe,
She weeps, nor weeps unpity’d by the foe.
On each pale corse the wretched mother spread
Lay overwhelm’d with grief, and kiss’d her dead,
Then rais’d her arms, and thus, in accents slow,
“Be sated cruel Goddess! with my woe;
“If I’ve offended, let these streaming eyes,
“And let this sev’nfold funeral suffice:
“Ah! take this wretched life you deign’d to save,
“With them I too am carried to the grave.
“Rejoice triumphant, my victorious foe,
“But show the cause from whence your triumphs flow?
“Tho’ I unhappy mourn these children slain,
“Yet greater numbers to my lot remain.”
She ceas’d, the bow string twang’d with awful sound,
Which struck with terror all th’ assembly round,
Except the queen, who stood unmov’d alone,
By her distresses more presumptuous grown.
Near the pale corses stood their sisters fair
In sable vestures and dishevell’d hair;
One, while she draws the fatal shaft away,
Faints, falls, and sickens at the light of day.
To sooth her mother, lo! another flies,
And blames the fury of inclement skies,
And, while her words a filial pity show,
Struck dumb—indignant seeks the shades below.
Now from the fatal place another flies,
Falls in her flight, and languishes, and dies.
Another on her sister drops in death;
A fifth in trembling terrors yields her breath;
While the sixth seeks some gloomy cave in vain,
Struck with the rest, and mingled with the slain.
  One only daughter lives, and she the least;
The queen close clasp’d the daughter to her breast:
“Ye heav’nly pow’rs, ah spare me one,” she cry’d,
“Ah! spare me one,” the vocal hills reply’d:
In vain she begs, the Fates her suit deny,
In her embrace she sees her daughter die.
   “The queen of all her family bereft,
“Without or husband, son, or daughter left,
“Grew stupid at the shock.  The passing air
“Made no impression on her stiff’ning hair.
“The blood forsook her face: amidst the flood
“Pour’d from her cheeks, quite fix’d her eye-*****
  “stood.
“Her tongue, her palate both obdurate grew,
“Her curdled veins no longer motion knew;
“The use of neck, and arms, and feet was gone,
“And ev’n her bowels hard’ned into stone:
“A marble statue now the queen appears,
“But from the marble steal the silent tears.”
zebra Oct 2018
Round about the couldron go:
In the poisones entrails throw.
Toad,that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Sweated venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first in the charmed ***.
Double,double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blindworm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing.
For charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double,double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and couldron bubble.

Scale of dragon,tooth of wolf,
Witch's mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd in the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat; andslips of yew
silver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by the drab,-
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For ingrediants of our cauldron.
Double,double toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
William Shakespeare
There once was a man whom the gods didn't love,
And a disagreeable man was he.
He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him,
And he cursed eternally.

He ****** the sun, and he ****** the stars,
And he blasted the winds in the sky.
He sent to Hell every green, growing thing,
And he raved at the birds as they fly.

His oaths were many, and his range was wide,
He swore in fancy ways;
But his meaning was plain: that no created thing
Was other than a hurt to his gaze.

He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill,
And windows toward the hill there were none,
And on the other side they were white-washed thick,
To keep out every spark of the sun.

When he went to market he walked all the way
Blaspheming at the path he trod.
He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to,
By all the names he knew of God.

For his heart was soured in his weary old hide,
And his hopes had curdled in his breast.
His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over
For the chinking money-bags she liked best.

The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin,
The deer had trampled on his corn,
His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought,
And his sheep had died unshorn.

His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose,
And his old horse perished of a colic.
In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes
By little, glutton mice on a frolic.

So he slowly lost all he ever had,
And the blood in his body dried.
Shrunken and mean he still lived on,
And cursed that future which had lied.

One day he was digging, a ***** or two,
As his aching back could lift,
When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench,
And to get it out he made great shift.

So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain,
And the veins in his forehead stood taut.
At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked,
He gathered up what he had sought.

A dim old vase of crusted glass,
Prismed while it lay buried deep.
Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck,
At the touch of the sun began to leap.

It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light;
Flashing like an opal-stone,
Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran,
Where at first there had seemed to be none.

It had handles on each side to bear it up,
And a belly for the gurgling wine.
Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide,
And its lip was curled and fine.

The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare
And the colours started up through the crust,
And he who had cursed at the yellow sun
Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust.

And he bore the flask to the brightest spot,
Where the shadow of the hill fell clear;
And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask,
And the sun shone without his sneer.

Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf,
But it was only grey in the gloom.
So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth,
And he went outside with a broom.

And he washed his windows just to let the sun
Lie upon his new-found vase;
And when evening came, he moved it down
And put it on a table near the place

Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door.
The old man forgot to swear,
Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size,
Dancing in the kitchen there.

He forgot to revile the sun next morning
When he found his vase afire in its light.
And he carried it out of the house that day,
And kept it close beside him until night.

And so it happened from day to day.
The old man fed his life
On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape.
And his soul forgot its former strife.

And the village-folk came and begged to see
The flagon which was dug from the ground.
And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy
At showing what he had found.

One day the master of the village school
Passed him as he stooped at toil,
Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side
Was the vase, on the turned-up soil.

'My friend,' said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind,
'That's a valuable thing you have there,
But it might get broken out of doors,
It should meet with the utmost care.

What are you doing with it out here?'
'Why, Sir,' said the poor old man,
'I like to have it about, do you see?
To be with it all I can.'

'You will smash it,' said the schoolmaster, sternly right,
'Mark my words and see!'
And he walked away, while the old man looked
At his treasure despondingly.

Then he smiled to himself, for it was his!
He had toiled for it, and now he cared.
Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues,
Which his own hard work had bared.

He would carry it round with him everywhere,
As it gave him joy to do.
A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row!
Who would dare to say so? Who?

Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way,
And he bent to his *** again. . . .
A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back,
And he lurched with a cry of pain.

For the blade of the *** crashed into glass,
And the vase fell to iridescent sherds.
The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs.
He did not curse, he had no words.

He gathered the fragments, one by one,
And his fingers were cut and torn.
Then he made a hole in the very place
Whence the beautiful vase had been borne.

He covered the hole, and he patted it down,
Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door.
He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows
That no beam of light should cross the floor.

He sat down in front of the empty hearth,
And he neither ate nor drank.
In three days they found him, dead and cold,
And they said: 'What a queer old crank!'
Izzy Stoner Jul 2013
What do you do at 3am when you're tired and bored and its raining?

Maybe this is punishment.
For eating those grapes before you paid for them in Sainsburys.
Or that time you forgot who Buzz Aldron was, or when you took pleasure at beating a five year old at Cluedo.
She started crying, and even then, you still
would not relinquish your title.
Maybe its for that time
You were accidentally racist  to the chinese guy taking your order.
Or when you forgot to buy your mum a birthday card, or when you made fun of your best friend for not being taller.
Or when you said, 'Maybe
selective breeding in humans,
Is not such a bad thing after all.'

Yes, Its definitely punishment for that.

But maybe its for all the litter you've dropped, inadvertently or on purpose.
Or for last week when you accidentally kicked the cat, or for stealing those library books,
For swearing at kids
and blaspheming at the dinner table,
Christ!
Maybe its for nicking your brothers chips, even when you're not really that hungry.
For halfhearted apologies handed out like office stationary, for scoffing at most modern art.
For not revising when you
Really, really should
...But telling your parents you are.

But even with all of this, isn't the punishment, just a little bit too harsh?

Well now you are sarcastic, and bitter and pessimistic at least 90% of the time.
And you do hide the fact that you quite like country music, and that you have a blanket with sleeves (and you genuinely use it) and that you're really rather patriotic at heart.
And you didn't say all that stuff when you should have.
And you said all that other stuff you didn't mean
And you spend far too much of your time
Invested in impressing the people you're never going to see again.

And you realize all of this... at three o'clock in the morning, alone but for the fading of the rain.

And you swear to yourself, with all the fervour of a tired insomniac. That tomorrow.
There. Will. Be. Change.
But in the cold, harsh light of nine o'clock the same day. Six hours after you fell asleep. You resign yourself to the fact that last nights punishments can all be absolved, by a nice warm cup of tea.
And despite what you say
at 3am when you're tired and bored,
listening to the sound of the rain.
You will always be a pessimistic idiot, with delusions of grandeur.
That watches too much American TV.
I am myself Feb 2012
You wake me up

Yelling and screaming

Clawing scratching

Demanding satisfaction

So stubborn full of your own desires

Pull me from slumber by the roots of my hair

Searching frantically for the fix you cannot find

Violence is the sign of a true addict

Cursing and blaspheming you tear into my skin

Failing to find it you resort to torture

Once I relent you greedily ****** up your coveted prize

Leave me

My usefulness has been outlived

Your claim to it is only that it is yours

Never thinking of the risks or problems it brings

So addicted you can't survive a day without it

Constantly craving

You forget the world

Come back to the living it isn't too late
barnoahMike Nov 2010
_I'LL NEVER FORGET  "THAT-NIGHT" It was 8;00PM, a Thunder and Lightening  storm had just begun  and what seemed like thousands of BB sized HAIL WERE  PELTING  the roof,  making it Hard to Hear the  Ringing Phone ! !     I Barked OUT a  "HELLO",,,the tearful,   hesitant voice on the OTHER END....CRIED OUT... " Come over  quickly"  She pleaded and  continued with  "IT'S LIKE DEMONS Have CONTROL OF HER ! ! !   ,and SHE KEEPS CRYING OUT ..  AUNT BEA,,, Aunt Bea... Over and over"_  .      This was going to require a SPECIAL-EXORCISM  I Stated... "I'm ON MY WAY" !             Upon my Arrival , I was greeted  by a trembling,sobbing  LaCretia,,claiming,  "HURRY  to the Library Room.,Rochelle is waiting ! !"         The repeating AUNT BEAS   were spoken as if Gargling...   "WHAT are her Symptoms "  I Queried ?    IN A VERY-SLOW  Determined Voice, LaCretia   detailed the following,,,,     "She has the BLUES,  She has the BLAHS,  She has BLEMISHES,   She has BOWEL Constriction,   She has been BLASPHEMING,  She has BUTTOCKS Wrinkles,   She has  BREAST quivers and has been having BELCHING FITS "! ! !     I THREW MYSELF ON THE FLOOR IN PRAYER...Asking for the strength to DEAL-WITH  these DEMONS...** A N D _Here's what CAME-OUT of  ROCHELLE,,,, (#1)=BREEZEWAY-LIPS= when encountering these rascals ,it's highly suggested  that  WE BE UNDER  Proper Cover..    (#2)= BISTRO-BREATH-LEADER= Demons that emit SPECIAL AROMATICS  into the air ,that keep screaming  ,,"IT'S TIME TO EAT"....(#3)=BEHEMOTH -TESTER=  Demon assigned to see how BIG OF A MONSTER  he can turn you in to ....( #4)=BRAZEN-FELLOWS=  Demon who attempts to Get "YOU" TO   **** INTO EVERYBODYS BUSINESS,  and ruin their whole day & night...! ! !      I   THEN SHOUTED OUT  TO *ROCHELLE *    " ARE there any more " B " DEMONS IN there ??"     Rochelle, collapsed to the floor,, I promptly RUBBED-IN  the BROWN SHOE POLISH  into the soles and heels of feet,, FOREVER-BLOCKING *" B " DEMONS ,  the ONLY-ENTRANCE to our BODIES ..__  Rochelle ,with a new found strength, lifted herself from the floor,  Gingerly grasped my hand,  Pulled me "VERY-CLOSE" .    KISSED   me with a FERVOR , THAT I   CAN "TASTE"     TO THIS very-day...     I bid LaCretia and Rochelle "GOOD-NIGHT",,   AND FOUND MYSELF "WHISTLING" and  "THINKING"  as I walked to my Vehicle.... "The Demons are increasing their activity ! !    I MUST  "BE-PREPARED" for the *NEXT-CALL*PERHAPS  FROM  *  Y O U * ??_
copyright 2010      by barnoahMike           Mike Ham
Sa Sa Ra Nov 2012
Oh but if Abraham father tri-covenant be
Zarathustra grandpa be uh ha Persia ******
hummm...deeply restructuring muchly rooted
of the far reaches and you a free to detail it fill it in
ridicule I'm no scholar not foot noting all detail here now
but of what Hinduism much come from be ya Krishna just so
seems so one like JC to me sure enough differing mission all together be
but here we are and I was talkin 'bout tri-Abrahamic and Grandpa then ******
Remember Moses how 'bout Joseph and sold into slavery; rainbow dreamer in life giving
colours yet till fully fulled out till fully white all over hmmmm....anywho way through Egypt the way;
picked up a few nifty tricks along this way; a little further down Sa Sa Ra town this wall as it is I did mention the roots of the ancients of Afu Ra Ka and the Kemetic's rooted of the Pharaohs there; The book of the Dead hmmmm.... remember where Joseph step-dad of Jesus and Mary and Baby J had fled; I've skipped a few steps but twasn't till Moses started with the books and recorded on pages though too they all could all recite the Torah so too well also; there were some mix ups and a lot of humanness they were not shy about admittance or of recordence of this; let me hit a few punch lines some we know and some um well idk likely not, others may seem strange so, well I will carry some load; some 'wild' Arabs were cut of from 'the promise and or the inheritance' this we all know to well and yet tho when Shaman Master J was a bit dejected by much authority of his own homeland (or more accurately by his Hebrew lineage)  he did say clear his love and message was for Gentiles too should have been inclusive of Arabs then however Rome kinda well we all too know how they needed to politicize that power and dogma and power and love askew ERGO MUHAMMAD!!!! Here is where I need the most help too!!! But I RA NI that's truly me my heart is there with all seven billion be!! I am about good news being good!!! That great big Architect Guy speaks with me; so whatever they say has to be for it is WRITTEN and is plan A no not by me here that way; moving it to plan b or xyz I don't really care; I've read enuf I see and hear differing things than any they about this stuff...J spoke the essence of The Book of the Dead for the Living; the silk road, the salt and gold and such treasure; what ya kidden me what the real **** going down that road was priceless wisdom being conveniently collected collated and studied; thee Essenes by the hmmm 'Dead' Sea in the desert what a ploy huh...raised in a vacuum how 'bout of all available assistance of all time and hearts and loving hands and care; plenty well mentioned lore and mention-able stories of how he got around to all the best mystery schools and pulled nifty loving care wherever he went and by a few other names in other locales; well when a kingdom falls you must blaspheme the beforehand Gods and false worship there so the holy ones who knew it's real worth and understood whom really did the blaspheming and cursing took it all underground worth more than a body and many bodies paid the price to save the surely hard earned...how 'bout OZ say WHAT ; now what this guy on he must do drugs to get this way and surely now but um nah sorry I'd love if I could but say I'm straight at least as wood and yes for a while my trade Ron the carpenter and you'd be surprised what she can tell ya about what seems and what is really straight and how humans as elements go are most like this hahaha and ya I wondered about hiding in plain sight until I figged what I'd do till I got over that **** messiah complex thang that I knew we've been through before and that twasn't going to be the or my thing and I did know too much 'bout heaven so I did need that roll through holy hell ya and Buddha named his son Ball and Chain my number one is 29.5 and it's time to introduce myself!!!;  but she-it say what ya want let me go on when Frank L Baum writer of OZ had a tale to tell; he one happened to be a Theosophist, look up if ya like need I am the type that still breathes ya and he was a bit onto a little about the gold and the big banker thang but that was more cover and decided to encrypt it (a deeper true message) for a more clever way to say and where it could and would grow well deep safely as a children's tale; into the collective consciousness; and he denied for most his life anything 'bout what what OZ really was but in the end, I don't have it here now and  maybe I'll dig it up  lata, but it was not hard for me to decipher, I'm many codes inside out and running backwards myself but it was a dig on Zarathustra or oft more better well known by the Greek as Zoroaster for turning creative and destructive forces into a war in heaven of good and evil and there their's just ain't no concept all the way down to Christianity that ain't got it's roots from there their's as much as JC did try to set things straight and say it is done and indeed it is and indeed we are the ones he one Masterful Initiator and when we do as he suggested then the Hebrew will say it's finally Messiah for all things indeed change with and about us; say again abc 123 not required; If I had a heart mind and brain like the Heart of God and Mind of Christ would I doubt once or think twice and rather be off to see the wizard or priest or pope; when truly only straight within you direct connect you your own wizardry connective-ness to all creation loving click click home home bad dream hypnotic spell be gone; but what about courage once you are realized, you do not doubt once or think twice with the true heart of 'God' and 'Mind Of Christ' and you just do and run into rather than from un hum see; but again not to far away from losing your life (re: the reality of and for Baum at the time) for telling such loving truths to Gods dear children; but here we are and here I am I Ra Ni and we are FREE!!
SO ON WITH ONE AND OFF WITH THEE OTHER FINALLY DISCOVER A WORLD WITH THE TRUTH ABOUT ONE AND EACH OF ONE ANOTHER!!!
We are Lions, Tigers and Bears, Hearts of God and Minds Of Christ;
work as you must, again know thyself inner earnest self honesty!!!
Out of the poisonous East,
Over a continent of blight,
Like a maleficent Influence released
From the most squalid cellarage of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the abominable--
The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light--
Comes slouching, sullen and obscene,
******* the skirts of the embittered night;
And in a cloud unclean
Of excremental humours, roused to strife
By the operation of some ruinous change,
Wherever his evil mandate run and range,
Into a dire intensity of life,
A craftsman at his bench, he settles down
To the grim job of throttling London Town.

So, by a jealous lightlessness beset
That might have oppressed the dragons of old time
Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime,
A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams,
Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet,
The afflicted City, prone from mark to mark
In shameful occultation, seems
A nightmare labyrinthine, dim and drifting,
With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting,
Rent in the stuff of a material dark,
Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale,
Shows like the *****'s living blotch of bale:
Uncoiling monstrous into street on street
Paven with perils, teeming with mischance,
Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread,
Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet
Somewhither in the hideousness ahead;
Working through wicked airs and deadly dews
That make the laden robber grin askance
At the good places in his black romance,
And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose
Go pinched and pined to bed
Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way
From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey.

Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows,
His green garlands and windy eyots forgot,
The old Father-River flows,
His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom,
As he came oozing from the Pit, and bore,
Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides,
Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot
In the squalor of the universal shore:
His voices sounding through the gruesome air
As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom
With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides:
The while his children, the brave ships,
No more adventurous and fair,
Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides,
But infamously enchanted,
Huddle together in the foul eclipse,
Or feel their course by inches desperately,
As through a tangle of alleys ******-haunted,
From sinister reach to reach out--out--to sea.

And Death the while--
Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile,
Death in his threadbare working trim--
Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland,
And with expert, inevitable hand
Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung,
Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart:
Thus signifying unto old and young,
However hard of mouth or wild of whim,
'Tis time--'tis time by his ancient watch--to part
From books and women and talk and drink and art.
And you go humbly after him
To a mean suburban lodging:  on the way
To what or where
Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say:
And you--how should you care
So long as, unreclaimed of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable,
Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down
To the black job of burking London Town?
Àŧùl Apr 2013
It positively affects my mood.

I become more independent of the society, I help people with their stuff and entertain them with my poems, stories, couplets, jokes, essays, songs & guitar.

I also take to first-hand social service whenever possible and I've also taught some underprivileged children & imparted elementary education to them.

I get my poetry ideas from this activity.

I think & feel differently about the world.

I look the others into their eyes with piercing confidence and I think you never had that confidence.

I feel stronger & more in control.

My appetite has greatly improved from being a poor eater in my childhood to a healthy eater in my adulthood.

My virility isn't affected at all and instead, I gain more stamina and manliness; my tool is strengthened.

My imagination power, IQ and hence smartness is also increased - believe me these have actually increased.

I cleared 9 & 10 examinations in my engineering degree two different times at one attempt each and my response time is greatly improved.

I become more confident.

My strength isn't reduced, but I go to the gym and I exercise as good as others.

My power & force are perfectly normal.

My eyes are shining bright, dark black in the middle of pure white.

I have never got any dark circles.

It takes me no more than 10 minutes to recover completely, it depends on the body about how it performs.

Over-use of anything - even oxygen as it oxidizes body & mind - is utterly harmful.

Quality has become thicker & brighter each day I exercise.

So keep hands on your tools than some ****** books blaspheming against the new-found rage.

Consult an expert instead of developing your own stories or believing the same old ****** stories.

Everything has a limit and within that limit, it is extremely enjoyable.

Just one last tip: Keep yourself humane with yourself & don't become a dumb & helpless addict to get embarrassed in front of your family one day.

Now if you feel that I'm spreading blasphemy & bad thoughts, you may please stop reading my poems instead of cursing me in vain.
Though not all people are known to have these positive effects of the new-age rage.
My HP Poem #157
© Atul Kaushal
crowbarius Aug 2012
God Almighty. It puts the fear in you.

Jesus Christ. Again?

Yes, again. Don’t be a ***.

Oh please.

Jesus.

A hanging silence.

You know William Paley?

No. Go on.

Oh. Paley’s Watch?

******* go, James.

Uh, Paley’s Watch is a theory that the universe is too complex to exist by chance, and therefore there must be a creator. I mean, just like the existence of a watch presupposes a watchmaker ‘cause it’s too complex to be there by chance.

And you eat that?

Yes, or something similar. What offends you so ******* much anyway? So I believe-

It’s defeatist. Jesus Christ, the only reason you and anyone else believes this dogshit is ‘cause you’re ******* terrified of dying, and the reason a ******* graveyard puts the fear into your thick skull is ‘cause you want to join them when you croak. That’s what it is, it’s ******* insurance.

Another silence.

Okay. Alright, fine, it’s insurance. But I am playing this insurance, see, into my benefit. I believe in the creator, and if it turns out he’s watching me he’ll put in the good word and I spend my afterlife in eternal sunshine, and if he’s a scam like you say it is I join you in blackness or hellfire. I win either way.

Oh, very faithful, doggy. Arf arf.

Oh, for the love-

What’s life worth if you’re so sure where you’re going? I reckon I’d rather drink and steal **** and burn in hellfire than **** away my life in the service of some shitbird in the sky who may or may not exist.
Jesus, mother-


Stop ******* blaspheming.

********, James.
In which James and the Nameless Companion debate the merits of religious servitude versus anarchic hedonism.
Largo e mesto

Out of the poisonous East,
Over a continent of blight,
Like a maleficent Influence released
From the most squalid cellerage of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the abominable--
The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light--
Comes slouching, sullen and obscene,
******* the skirts of the embittered night;
And in a cloud unclean
Of excremental humours, roused to strife
By the operation of some ruinous change,
Wherever his evil mandate run and range,
Into a dire intensity of life,
A craftsman at his bench, he settles down
To the grim job of throttling London Town.

So, by a jealous lightlessness beset
That might have oppressed the dragons of old time
Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime,
A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams,
Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet,
The afflicted City. prone from mark to mark
In shameful occultation, seems
A nightmare labryrinthine, dim and drifting,
With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting,
Rent in the stuff of a material dark,
Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale,
Shows like the *****'s living blotch of bale:
Uncoiling monstrous into street on street
Paven with perils, teeming with mischance,
Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread,
Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet
Somewhither in the hideousness ahead;
Working through wicked airs and deadly dews
That make the laden robber grin askance
At the good places in his black romance,
And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose
Go pinched and pined to bed
Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way
From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey.

Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows,
His green garlands and windy eyots forgot,
The old Father-River flows,
His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom,
Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides,
Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot
In the squalor of the universal shore:
His voices sounding through the gruesome air
As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom
With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides:
The while his children, the brave ships,
No more adventurous and fair,
Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides,
But infamously enchanted,
Huddle together in the foul eclipse,
Or feel their course by inches desperately,
As through a tangle of alleys ******-haunted,
From sinister reach to reach out -- out -- to sea.

And Death the while --
Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile,
Death in his threadbare working trim--
And with expert, inevitable hand
Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung,
Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart:
Thus signifying unto old and young,
However hard of mouth or wild of whim,
'Tis time -- 'tis time by his ancient watch -- to part
From books and women and talk and drink and art.
And you go humbly after him
To a mean suburban lodging: on the way
To what or where
Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say:
And you -- how should you care
So long as, unreclaimed of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable,
Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down
To the black job of burking London Town?
Adam Childs Sep 2015
Godless men wearing back
sit within blistering sun.
As they carrying their sacred book
soaked in an evil not from any GOD.  
And they some how get
**** **** ****
**** for God.
As they ironically tell the
world that it is
blaspheming.

Come and join us
or be buried alive.
Yes come and join us
Let us brutalize and castrate
your daughter your child.
And give your son a gun while
we go cut of some heads.
As we rip out your heart
with blood and violence.
And ask you to spit on all
love and humanity.
As you stand within your shaking bodies
you look into the eyes of your
wife and only see terror in
her heart.
You know that you must
RUN

Thousands of you are swept
like the dirt into the sea.
Mothers and Fathers crying as
children are lost and drowning.
Someones baby washed up like
drift wood or a log.
Cut all with razor wire
climbing caged out fences.
As a heart cry's I only want a
new family home I will polish
your shoes wash all your loos.
Please they scream we are only
human
Sorry I don't think anyone
is listening.  

Westerners wake up lounging
on their sofa belly's spilling
over their trouser.
Stomachs extended inflated
from just a little to much
extra seconds.
Looking on disconnected
at those who traveled risked
their lives even walked
a thousand miles.
And some how spill out with
their lager down their cheek
thieves  ****** and
lazy freeloaders.

And those who succeed to
find a new home some how
elegantly find a dignity
in being unwanted.
And those who failed their
perilous path trust in God
has left them homeless
As they find the west
also Godless.
As we with a cool glare tell
them go back to your guns
bombs your not welcome
here.
Stone face matter of fact
immigration explained
take your children back.
As we try to through them
back like babies into a dog
or snake pit.
SHAME ON US
for this frosty reception
and cloudy perception
I hold out hope for a
better conclusion.
Lexander J Jun 2016
By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.
Lexander J Jun 2016
By the time he got out of the front door the morning sun had fully risen. Surrounding it lay a sea of blue sky, light coloured and peppered here and there with trails of white left from distant airplanes. The birds sang in the trees, all in harmony, and a light breeze whispered, left over from the night before.

As he jumped into his car, a dusty red little Citroën, he realised that in his rushed efforts to get ready he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. A little while ago he'd seen a documentary based on people with abnormal deformities, and there had been an American 30-something year old with two right feet. Right now, looking at his shoes, he looked a little like him; all he needed now was a group of cameras and a well-spoken, polished presenter pretending to care but really just thinking about the paycheck at the end of night. He figured all TV presenters were pretentious, fixated on climbing up the great showbiz ladder rather than helping those in need.

He grabbed them off, scuffed black business shoes to match his tattered jeans and faded blue shirt, and swapped them over. Once both shoes were on correct, he lit up a smoke and set off down the road.

Ahead of him was Lancaster Road, a sprawling stretch of asphalt tarmac that served as the primary mode of navigation through Manchester. If you were to turn left it would take you all the way into the main city, and also a stodge of backed-up traffic, and, if you chose right, to the quiet town of Penitence which was where his works was based. Going right would technically be quicker, as the road to the left led to a series of zig zag-like curves where the road layout had been forced to compensate for the huge cliff several miles to the north. That being said, Will almost always chose left, as the dual carriageway that branched off Lancaster Road was always jammed up with traffic, comprising mainly of angry motorists and haulage lorries driving in from the east. Choosing right would easily add three quarters of an hour onto his journey, and quite frankly he'd rather stare at a wall than be surrounded by blaspheming mouths and ugly red faces.

This time however he went right, joining the steady stream of cars that were already beginning to slow down. There was no apparent reason for this, for over 4 years he must have consistently turned left every morning, but today his mind had thrown a curveball - albeit a stupid one. Already running late, it had chosen to go on the longest route possible.

Good work there mate, brilliant.


50mph - 45mph - 40mph

The speedometer slowly crept down, the shudder of the lower gears gradually increasing. Clouds had now gathered in the sky, not quite bloated nor dark enough to threaten rain but it was enough to dull the sunshine into a pale, white, glow. He was now going slow enough to see the bits of clutter and ******* - discarded newspapers, cans, broken bottles - littering the pavement. Then it suddenly gave way to a rudimentary dirt road and steel crash barriers as he approached the dual carriageway.

35mph - 30mph - 25mph

Sighing, he fumbled for the radio and flicked it on, momentarily averting his gaze from the road to the numbered buttons, tuning for a station.

--- Ssssshhhh ---

Nothing but static.

**** radio! If only I could -

When he glanced up his heart nearly stopped - directly ahead of him, on the highway, stood a man. He stood with his back toward Wills car, shoulders slumped, stock still.

What-?!

Will froze as the car lurched on, the distance between the bonnet and the mans body rapidly closing. No thought came into his brain, his legs distant from his body as if untethered.

Nothing but numbness.

The future series of events played like a stop motion video inside his mind; finding the brakes and jamming them down - only too little, too late. The old man would first lean as the bumper pressed into his lower back, then snap sickeningly in half, the momentum of the car causing his body to jackhammer up the bonnet and roll over the back of the car. There he would fall once again onto the road, spine splintered and blood soaking through his shirt into a puddle on the tarmac.

STOP! Will stop the **** car!!!

He smashed the brakes down and closed his eyes.

Although the first thing taught in driving lessons is to never close your eyes, particularly during an emergency stop, the overwhelming panic threw his nerves into a spasm, and in that split second everything he was told - brake hard, clutch down, don't let the car stall - was forgotten in an instant. He knew what he should do, knew that if the wheels were even slightly turned he could cause the car to skid, or worse, flip.

Brake down, clutch down, engine off, a mantra his instructor had once sang on one of his first lessons. Will had a feeling that if Ruth Carotene could see him, see this, now she'd have some sort of coronary, or maybe an aneurysm. She'd always been set in her ways of teaching, starting each lesson going through her seemingly endless list of checkpoints, and this right here smashed every single rule she'd taught him.
Break, clutch, engine off -
Eyes, open your eyes
He did, the windscreen before him doubling for a second. His heart was pounding away, nervous sweat lining his forehead and arms. The car had stopped, and in his dumb paralysis he hadn't the faintest idea how much it had skid. Safe to say it hadn't flipped over though, unless he was upside down and didn't realise it.
Nope, the sky is still above me, he observed, and it was then he also saw the fat bald-headed guy rapping his hands against the drivers side window. The world washed back slowly, the sun white and the air filled wit beeps and the Ssssshhhhhh static of the radio. He lowered the window, allowing the honking horns to fully enter and consume the inside of the car.
"What the hell are you playing at? I nearly ran into the back of you!" the bald guy barked at him, his pudgy face both pale and angry. Will glanced in the rear view mirror and saw about a dozen or so more cars behind him, scowling faces and gesturing hands sending out messages far from morning greetings or amicable hello's.
"Sorry... There was someone in the road," he croaked, pointing to the blank space in front. Empty, nothing there.
Can't be, he was right there! Stood right there! For a second he thought the figure had been an apparition, or maybe hadn't been there all along, merely a figment of his tired mind. That's when his gaze shifted to the opposite side of the road and the mis-shapen entity clambering over the crash barrier. Whoever it was, they had crossed the road while Will had been in his daze, and it was now he could fully see it in it's ghastly glory.
"I must be ****** blind 'cause to me there ain't nobody there -"
Grotesque was the only word he could think of to describe it. Under the pallid glow of the sun its skin glistened sick-white, partially covered by a tattered grey t-shirt that billowed in the wind like torn flags. It wore shorts, also grey, it's long stick-like legs poking out like splintered tooth picks. And it's face, oh God that face. He only caught a vague view as it glanced over its shoulder, but what he saw reminded him of the ghouls that would creep out of the crypts, the nightmarish beings that stalked late night TV shows such as the Twilight Zone seeking fresh flesh to feast on. But it was human alright - it's normal, albeit disintegrating, clothing the only sign of its former non-twisted self.
Oh God -
"Hey, are you even listening? There ain't no one there *******!"
Will faced the guy, now stood so close his flabby face nearly poked through the window, and then back to the crash barrier. The fiend was gone, much to his relief.
"Sorry it must have been a bird or something, I'm really really sorry mate I thought it was a man, or a kid."
"Yeah yeah whatever, just get going and get out of my way." With that he stormed off, only stopping briefly to exchange disapproving looks with the car behind him. He drove a black sports-like car, probably a Vauxhall, and Will briefly wondered how such a small car could carry an overweight ******* like that.
*******, he muttered to himself as he restarted the engine. Turns out he'd let the car stall as well.
Back to school I guess, what would dear old Ruth say?
Setting off was easy, the fat guy overtook him almost instantly, slamming his horn as he went, but looking over to where the misfit had been was not. He wanted to look, to check in case it hadn't really gone away and was instead lurking, contorting it's swollen lips into a grin.
Grinning at him.
"Gooood evening listeners, this is RADIO XFM!"
Halfway down the radio finally clicked on, interrupting his line of thought - quite mercifully, if he was being honest. The sight of that thing not only made him feel uneasy, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding as well. Like it was some sort of warning, a sign.
Of what?
[smashing glass smashing]
He didn't know, didn't dare to think, and as he cantered down the carriageway in the steady stream of traffic he sat silently, the radio singing out its tunes like an uninvited guest. It was an oldie that was on, maybe Boston or Bowie, he wasn't sure, but as it played on he sat in silence, the shadows in the car cutting harsh lines into his face.
spysgrandson Dec 2011
dance, blaspheming butterfly
against the black and ignorantly blessed sky
part of a simile from a longer poem I wrote a couple of years ago, "A Word"
Siya Mulge Sep 2020
Alone,
In this jar of darkness
Wind of poison
My lungs no longer care
From a lively spirit to only a bone
To exist,
I run out of reason
Belong I where?
I want to run,
Oh God
Lift me,
I want to run...

Sinking,
In the misery of my nightmares
Haunted by demons
Tied in chains
Eating me inside out, blaspheming
Feeling
Nothing but stark pain
An agony treason
Am I in so much vain?
I want to burn,
Oh Devil,
Stab me,
I want to burn...
spysgrandson Oct 2011
I looked
for symmetrical images on a page
to reveal the suffering sacraments of the sage
an easy path to some transcendent place
above this infinitely lonely space
I could find
a tasty recipe for baking one’s life
without really enduring the strife
that comes with every shuddering breath
as we allow ourselves to think of d_ _ _ _
I can write
this (w)holy horrifying WORD
that is really only heard
like the distant dance of a blaspheming butterfly
against a black and ignorantly blessed sky
I choose
to not scratch the letters nor utter the sound
of something so frighteningly profound
as the wretched writhing
of
nothing
Steven Hutchison Sep 2013
I can see the numbers rolling back behind your eyes.
Never know what the slots will bring.
When I told you I liked surprises
I didn't mean I'd like to find you spilling your mathematics
all over the bedroom sheets
counting how many times you could divide yourself
from yourself
and the languages spoken by mumbling mathematicians
always failing to find the difference
between their science and the love you needed.

I was 7 digits from talking you down.
You felt you were born 6 feet too high.
There are 5 times I can remember you laughing
the last of those was on the 4th of July.
     How can anyone believe they are free
     when we are bought at this calendar price?
You were laughing at the irony of the time it took you to say it.
Silly woman,
time is not made of numbers,
but of songs.

I replay that memory at least 3 times a night.
Your 2 shoes are the only music I'd still like to hear playing
I am currently discovering that 1 is not a lonely number.
I have spent cozy evenings
cuddled up with the burden you left behind.
It is colder than I remember you
and always seems to squeeze my neck
just a little too tight.
You wanted to become 0,
ignoring my side of this equation,
but before you left you swallowed my equilibrium whole.
I fell down bell curve cliffs
until my words themselves became improbabilities.
My love was more than average,
I mean...
I miss you.
I mean...
You're so **** stupid.
I mean...
I loved you.
I mean...
I love you.

If you and I are numbers
we are easily replaceable,
replicable as science has always wanted us to be.
I am telling you now
that no one else fits.
I should have told you that a few days ago
when I had more of you to stand by
than fragments of memories
each one passing, blaspheming your sum.
Vernarth says: “Nocturnal mutism, nocturnal stuttering, goes from the fragile phrasing, peripheral phrase, hovering last word, where my loudspeaker hits, dissonant Sagittarius, I must prepare my denarius, not but, beforehand, cheers of hope to Zion, who among the bush of the millionaire wind that travels from Pluto to Mercury, each day that we map ourselves, trying to be more earth than in its own flowering. Paradiso Omega, nap of the oldest dream, adobe path. My  to fly Anne genuflects her heart towards Mariah from Heaven, in the title of hundreds of throats and gargles of the pyogenic sediment rambling. Oh so long night!, so clear firmament born of the fallen ether of the great Heaven so clear and enlightening Compass 37 on the quilt of God, three by three towards one, linking above the easy pit and dreams, dying Paradiso, Agonizing Horcondising, a fragile mass disoriented, discouraged, with numeral letters and quadruple letters, stone after stone of forage falling on the cinnabar sky "

Joshua de Piedra from the high pinnacle exclaimed…: “Stone after stone in its correction is born of a new silence eternal bond. It eats it during the day, it eats at night, just like the galaxies licking the frivolous awakening from a starless night, but being the substance of stars liquefied with a whip. Pilgrimage or Path of the Cross, on the stony ground of Uncle Hugh's house, in the other similar, my Anne's house, further on in the hidden and clayey chaos, the last Indigenous in Western clothing, working and stuffing the wells with green size, distributing alms for his apprentices, I keep looking from the high hill earlier. Kaitelka the whale and a Dwarf Leviathan; steward of the unnameable, perhaps of an unknown Cyprian squirrel censoring Noah in his animals empowered to tell him about a magnificent episode.  Each species balancing its essence to make the most grandiloquent dossier in the world, to join them and value them towards the unknown peasant world. The big apple to go, with its tailcoat worms, well dressed and united by the march of the rock sentinel Evangelus. Kaitelca alpha and omega cetacean, fluffy with bast for all the most lost seas of the watery world. She so down cetacean, she throws herself into the sea in fears in this gloomy space, exhausted warehouse, lifesaver between lives of lives, like wishes without delay, to beat the divergent period, falling on the flat ceiling. Enter to sail through the mud of Iodine, of this great Parnassus of all iodine, the Messiah was squeezing his robe of love all over the upper margin of the face, Jesus light, loving great pilgrims who helped me to urbanize the skeleton of this great demolition, of a great geyser on its oceanic back, distributing gifts through the tangled brow of the Horcón and Cantillana massif.  Freshwater meringue, fluffy flowers, incense, fuchsias, and Calypso smoke migrating from house to house in Sudpichi.  Adelimpia, holding the cord of the axis of the fatigued planet, Queen Anne restored the acute respiratory meridians, which moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed, cursed globe moving to another galaxy towards its 9600 years of expansion. The stumbling of the sun's rays, crowded on the back of the Jacinta, which multiplied on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages of millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world. The world has no end, God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are ..., being less true. Rather, we are the waste of the almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of creation that was felt wandering, perhaps it was its breathing, of its lipped wise crater, in the most irresistible protoforms, devoutly preparing turgid liquids for driving through every dinner, without stars tasting their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick his honey-like him, we run out of a famished minute of life not lived”

Says the spirit Leiak:

“Without a doubt, without drooling, without Buddha… the tendrils of the universe flamed, like rolling pickets within his hearing sea ear.  Striped with wounded marks in zigzag, by the middle row between the unarmed infidels.  Filled with the greatest amazement, massacred with laughter riddled with the non-shining meteor. From temple to temple, without Buddha close to him, he continues lost on the path of valleys among several, by the waves of chimneys like the snout of a mastiff with typhus, infected badly that detonates a thousand times, circular or macrocosmic chemistry in submissive grounds, to drink, where no one is wrong. Pendency of the lymphatic jellyfish, among the meek otolith of Kaitelka, almost deaf, of so many prayers of impious savages to hunt her ..., she continues begging for mercy as a species, she shakes and shakes as if eliminating the supposed flea jellyfish in whirlwinds of babies in her ears of children's stories. Anne came out of her basket as if she had been picked up from the Nile, but in reality, she was close to Chocalan, Popeta, or Polulo, lit up like coal from a steppe oven. I continued walking shirtless on an insomniac night, waiting in the decimals of the full moon, some indebted Solaris of the evangelist, in a space that slowly locked the crooked tongue of sleep, locked by the treacherous luck of doubt. Plague and doubt, plague and nail, which opens the vast sea, unsanitary radio, from the messianic ****** of the muses to Botticelli blaspheming. Anne, a diva of the division of past lives, does not die in misapplication against all odds like a thousand sperms of an ensign, making her stipends simple, to buy sensitive chaste little flowers in suitcases of her super-saucy folds ..., there is no probing look similar to the ocean Cousteau's journey, through which the lost retina drains, lies the selective gaze, covered by the Guardian, who looks before the denigrated sap unfolds, which wears away scarlet fever, the gaze of substance, in front of thousands of sayings, plagiarizing Tramontane rumors "

Queen Anne rolls up her sleeves, collects ashes from the ill-fated victims sifted, by the tobacco, a very good service from the fumes of venerable lost in disbelief, this painting becomes vague and with a sordid diametric image and silent cataclysm. The confine of evil godson in a duo and verse of the Universe, of the concrete displaced with pieces of the tobacco, has been spoiled. Joshua de Piedra with filings in his stomach was with hundreds of particles tickling the metaverse on the beards of extraterrestrial comets. Heaven and Hell, interrupted sleep, fatal nap, draconian wind, Ultrasensitive Glory of austere forces, as long as you are alive, you are prey to it. Ignorance continues to spend the night in the empty vapors of the valley of chaos, duels of masses of sleeping consciences underlying the erosive *****, Queen Anne, is gathered at a gallop by Joshua de Piedra, blindfolds him so that he does not numb more body incense and set on a spring flower. By the knees, they are incinerated, but sometimes they are half-burned, burning like incense with Joshua in reversible adulation, of the rawest exquisiteness of essence of escapes of blossoming in chains, with the drama of carcinoma petals in anti-carcinoma times and of eternal life external. At the Post Office, the postman envelopes the new vignettes, new gardens of relevant highlights. The friend Joshua links the trough of flames escaping from his domain, at a faster pace for other readings, varying in shreds of first-time, delineating, and walking breaths that are lost in the misty vividness.

Says Leiak: “After making a round, Adelimpia with Hugh and Bernardolipo, restart their adventure, almost at the top of the Horcondising massif, collecting riches from between stranded galleys, and vaults dragged by the cataclysm towards this consistent mountainous ..., The amounts of coins from different origins were countless, from all those wealthy who stole from all their belongings, the tainted and intrepid wisdom, getting rid of everything before confronting the thunderous flashes of the Guardian, to subtract intelligent action from the oppressive limit in maintaining the Gnostic parallel. Adelimpia saw how the thousands of nausea cleaned themselves, before liquids and gastric ills, of which they are the bad residences, deciding to die acidly or spiritually towards an alkaline light.  Karmic oppression, anhydrous bubbles, carbonating every breathing capsule of compassionate life. Every day there is more foul-smelling hunger in men of acid rust, for the good spirits of the dipsomaniac in the diet of the most lost undefeated blind, a universal record of walking impoverished at the end of his objectivity. Adelimpia…., And Carmina; maiden of the extravagant silence is linked to the ox Xenon, master of his pumpkin ox, collects bubbling fragments from their stomachs of acid and fragmented, with unfortunate applicants to obtain him, all of them exalted before his prayers, as well as that fleece that the other possessed ox; Cricket that was grazing in the radiant spaces of the grasslands, ruminating lost ties for the good of all and being able to observe in the distance going beyond all sensitive imagination, being me Leiak, the spirit of Vernarth who looks over where he does not it does, sometimes incomprehensibly because of its purging. "

Joshua de Piedra says: “Horcondising, land of Spa, of beautification to correct your beautiful osteological inhabitant, your beautiful pro-lieutenant inhabitant, I believed that wealth would flow from my hands to finance my own poverty. Horcondising, is my nurse Luz, tracing with her blood the route of the Talami reign, everything continues without direction, the lustrín lost his paste of ruby cream and powders, of the conductor who governs their destinies in my hands ..., and it is required. Horcondising, badly and fearfully I say genuflected, here are my riches, but I swear by the most sacred, that I never thought I was so poor at the same time, in the presence of the almighty. Karmic planet, you come like bread and honey from a dazzled bee, you come to fill us with light through the horns of the cat, mounted on the back of the rooster, mounted on the roan bovine. Horcondising ... What a memory! When I was running fast through good waters and Sudpichi, I saw in line some swindlers in uncertain Faith, loudly dismantling the stunning consciousness of possessing without letting those who do not have know, and what it is to lack, what is the love of the slightest doubled second, until it brings honey and milk to the mouth of the beggar and with new clothes, around the circular saffron, the light of isolation and God's judgment on Hommo Sapiens. Baba, Vrja Ananda, I know that to ascend you have to put clean, white clothes on the wind, lavender with druid purple and stuffed on the petioles that fell on the stumpy back of the little elephant. I never got tired, I always laughed and the manly wind stretched my cheeks of purple roses, to laugh at the feminine world like a new man being born from the darkness of loneliness, in a new man, with a new life, in a deranged valley of Solitude, gaseous, ulcerative and asphaltic soil, of Horcondising, in the blaze of a fierce virtuous lantern ..., lying with its lost light on the rich and poor, entangled in resin from a hopper and a villain with feet tired from walking. As immeasurable to act I continue, although there is too much, among which nothing was ever forbidden from an ominous advance. But more awaits me, whoever wants numb oppressive anti-libertarian oppression, I will continue to ruin myself after this world, in the jaws of the rogue armchair of emptiness, with strong and pious prayer, strong and pious karmic augury to ruin the ruffian, that he holds and looks at you like a kitchen log in his dispensary. Karma comes to without and are, with are without are, with dream sounds, hallucinated sounds to realize the truth of accuracy. I have no vocabulary when I am hungry or thirsty for Faith or equanimity, but rather, more than all the power of the high massif to fall on the despotic ripper and cutthroat, accursed beings of the night darkness! I decree worse evil than all the bad curses to which it provokes by a glance, and stuns you like an ant in the fragrant countryside. Karma, baba nam kevalam, anti-karmic, to anyone who doubles your life, to **** you more than three times, without falling into the arms of Forgione or a Buddhist Monk tired of getting tired, self-love and improper Karma from now on everyone and all who with their deeds and gaze invade them with disloyal flatteries and evils, the true triumph of Truth and Equality so that it is equal to all resigned, looking less like the worldly offering of goodness, but rather bad at last of counts. Francesco, are you coming right...? Here I wait for you, low-cut I will also get in line to be supplanted. My story will be vital and oppressive, full of capital, anti-charitable because I have never been able to understand it. I know that powerful affiliations will come, and I will be in your lap, and all those who process your consummation and death will fall, a bad omen of their whim like any piece. Force the spirit that outside is evil, always yours, Master...! I am going, I am going, each one who looks at me as his prey will have to govern and feed him, for better or for worse, and otherwise, I will be eternally burned along with all his progeny in the Horcondising. "


So Joshua spoke when making a wooden whistle. He cut his index finger with transparent grease, and saw a viscous bleeding liquid fall into the constant complaint, from each head of frustrated saboteurs, and mercilessly squandered by those who aim at you every day to finish you and beg your entire eternal psychic substance, without Numbers or paternal letters, Vernarth and the Hexagonal Birthright, attended with great enthusiasm this regression, knowing that he was in their nation and domains where their mythological beings accompanied them beyond all vision. They all remain normal; doing everyday things, but Vernarth's voice accompanied them from an altar in a vivid voice and with great clarity in the voice that expressed their pilgrimage.

Vernath says with an infernal tone: “The Horcondising rack runs out of people benches, to attend to their requests the sky has become convex and unattended, to walk down the fragile plateau crouching down, weightless trees rub their bruised roots on the scrubbed Living spirits over each parlor, each present master along with his present consort seemed like perfect strangers, each separated by name in their new and uncertain divided destiny. All by putting the hand where the ulcer makes intermittent unhealthy purulence, on whether we are and correspond what we are or those who manage to have in this twisted life without a surplus, and what would it be if we had surplus ...? Rows of speakers and auditors are compressed, trying to want to be understood, but the words are keys and conclaves of high architecture sifted, of the wild despair in which we are beasts escaping from an eternal safari of thunder and cannon, vaping fumaroles of ancestry and drinking Bourbon to the thunder of the steely ***** on the orphanage of looming. Here Fray Andresito unfolds his body, you know it here is…! Right here he aimed at the weakest, the strongest, perhaps being a slave. What a difficult word to define... This cell without adjoining limits, called Atman, or female soul engendering another female soul, in the arms of the sorcerer, whose packaging and the serial knot would be made by a novice, who did not know if it was tightly closed, so as not to know if it would be fine in the future and reopen it with light in Gandhi's eyes, or by a child in care appointments without his arms to approach his mother cradle, perhaps being ivy or algae that sway his breaths vain…, from the flickering of the dotted throbbing of the Sun in flight through the lost night of the altarpiece, putting silicone because it comes out of the picture. Today a being was born in the arms of the almighty, a being anointed in the placenta of golden liquid and augrum, filling everyone and everyone leaving them speechless… ”.

Its ancestry of eternal way comes from mutual funds, equivalent prices in promoting values, on falls and rises, in franc growth, and various financial statements to beat dividends. The lines of people obediently migrated to the Horcondising, they never thought that they would be a great family, all in chains of multicolored and endless shapes, all in the high mountain at more than three thousand meters, and no higher, because in this Age again life, I cannot count more than thousands, in which the hundreds stay up late every day on this streetcar called the alliance. Branches of salty puree and ammonite soups with coriander, in the transversal valleys, to the southeast, with verve envelopes and their large moral excess on their backs and their hope of leaving all their treasures on the sidelines, before entering the muddy showers. when swarming with turbulent regrets and losing all ego money, highlighting a new epidermis, with an unprotected but opulent soul. Each being devoid of the word and thought, was trans walking through the heavenly ranks, with buzzing in their hearing aids attenuated and a smelly shanghai screeching, nothing would be left to pour into the channels near the almighty, the one who picked them up from the ground satin in some small sulfur coins and bleeding hollow, nothing will charge to their accounts or in their excess pride, only white skin in dark skin, and dark turning to dawn gray dermis, for exclusiveness, only lost in the jungle of ignorance shipwrecked tundra. Grandmother Adelimpia cleaned with sweepers and pine feather dusters, wormwood trunk and molle, and with the ceiling. My Anne, swept the flat floor with her wedding dress, years ago seasoned ..., Hugh and Bernardolipo laced some wines pigeonholed in the devil's segment, so as not to lose track of the high hill, which could be seen falling on the witnesses of the fallen Calvary Before the world ends for many, but not for the Huasos. The auction continued; Anne still had an end-of-the-world fever, with so many degrees…. Don't worry Anne, a Mapu aboriginal boy; the one with the sinister ..., brings a good herb to improve you, it is said that he comes from less to more, with his face like a beautiful farm landscape, stream water that quiets fevers and ills of charm. Have faith, says the elder Sylph Angelita Huenuman, reborn to Anne…: “The bark of that oak will be demolished and crumbled to cover you from evil and worse evil charm. Tomorrow on the high snow-covered peak, sweet cakes will fall steamed with berries and flavored almonds in your Word, which always deserves to smile to the limit, you are the omega star stele that will know how to smile, you will see it just like your Joshua de Piedra; which is an eternal incense of ruse, you will be dressed as a coco channel between aromas of eternity like spring light and first communion, between your snowy new garland of sap and in which you are always like a web-footed dreamy bird, moving away from the Aculeo lagoon, away from the giant hermit emerging from a nucleus of water and its pool, sobbing on each step of lake light of ascending sketch and of a lagoon avoiding new despised damage "
Alpha Day, Alpha Night, Omega Day Omega Night
David Adamson Jul 2015
He sat in dewy grass
Writing a pastoral dialog.
“And death is also here,” mused he.
“All art depends on gravity.”
He neatly ordered his pages.

She wove lilacs in her hair,
Standing on moss in the damp morning air.

He considered that God might be in all things.
Was he blaspheming by crushing the grass?
But of course Bentham’s calculus obviates sin.
He thoughtfully scratched his chin.

She approached him from behind,
Dismayed by the clutch of wildflowers
Someone had wrenched out by the roots and thrown away,
Yet suffused in the absolute peace of that day.

She touched his arm—a summons.
What was that sensation?
He was left without rational explanation.
Cody Edwards Dec 2010
It takes the sky to make me feel small anymore,
Ridicule from orange light
To make the ghost town fill the bluing coast.

Single silhouette, the wailing breath,
A trailer park becoming fast and
Coming near the closure of her home.

Drinking quickly stars,
The eating face of face-consumers
Touch the late-night masters, late at night-time shoppers:

Impartial is impervious, but he is much the more impious
After years blaspheming from rejections.
The magic circles spell out years

Of demons that have failed to come--
Have failed to wake the hands
And slap the machine like deviant memory can.

Hand into the cup into the hand:
Same business.
© Cody Edwards 2010
SG Holter Oct 2015
I have no room for new scars.
My heart is more glued seams than pieces of
Hope and muscle.

My smile is as pale as the back of a
Dalí painting; all canvas and
Dirt.

I have opened my arms for a hug and
Stood accused of impersonating Christ.
Meditation rendered me unsocial.

As misunderstood as Latin, yet
I yell at the walls of common reality with
The dead language of my innersoul,

Cursing and blaspheming for the attention
Of deities. Some may listen; not one needs
To reply.

All I want is to break down the wall
Between myself and any creator
Listening,

And say Thank You. The Love
Of my Life is
My life.

What I love the most about my
Life is  
It.
Martin Narrod Nov 2016
The title and body optional, they drag like loose map lines of a desiccate cactus, if its pins or thorns were the bones of the mule deer's alongside the highway where crimsony two-toned stretch marks were either allergic reactions or hives crawling across all of our limbs, and I aimed at ferocious. My polydactyl ferocity plagued by gorges, oxygen-loss, staying awake for the 36th or 37th hour until the stray humming between us is just another
Symptom of your childhood ploys to see Mercury ooze from your day away from school, out of the thermometer, droplets oozed out of your lips like trending sarcophagi-

The estranged catalyst carried with us through the archetypal and errant weapon-systems our brain stems plagued our visions with, mulish and recalcitrant undulates in a meteor shower of plashing death up I-89. We came for them.

Until the moon cleaved its feral African-eye, peddling its feline claws through every inch and synonym for itching skin could bear red too. Inside a grave, I was the color of fire. Inside a grave, you were the conflagration of histamines and cold orange hands, and we were left with our twisted interstices lashing into the pock-marked hide of the devil-skin rock torment,

And we prayed for the ghost moose, the albicant sinewy strands of disease
In an inarticulate heap of antagonist and agony. Blistery, curmudgeonly mumps, our cold lips braying for the plague, the bleeding from our eyes, nose, feet.
You say you'd take twos and threes of non-batted lashes, unsavory nomenclatures for names no one, not even a doctor in 1985 could mispronounce the diagnosis for, and for what, the cross'd black diamond thatchwork of icicles forming on our appendages, Earth words rocked in a cacophony of ungodliness and sorrowful malcontent. And for a moment of mute apathy, what use you and I would give shivers and trills for one another, what etherized and idyllic blaspheming poltergeist you could claw from my flesh, as I could claw it from yours.

To be free of this disease of winter,
Abolish it in a canonical ablasement of
Ferocity and suffering,

Where cleverly the ovivorous fold harmonizes,
Thwarting the immeasurable Gods to tailor a saw for your arms and my arms. Insects scuttling our carcass in lazy-fair, only to be haphazardly decaying in or without of the red flesh, belly up, without this systematic **** of skin tremors shot by the likes of a Peterbilt, cocked and bullied, readied to candy up another inane banter of horn-slivered antelopes dancing their ghost weevils up to an inexplainable and implacatable chivalry our
Carcasses lie, and our crimsony skins lay half-awake to die.
Itches itch unkown
Moonlight looked all around herself because she feels something is about to happen why else would she see an angel was sitting on a long park bench, with his head held down like it was praying, and what would he be praying about? then she gets images of things that were going on behind him. It was a green city park and tall trees scattered all around, and behind that images was a very big building of importance...and life was carrying on, but she felt something was very wrong, why else would she be seeing this? Then another angel pouring a bowl upon the city and soon everything became darken, and people and beast were screaming in so much pain of deep agony that they never felt before. In this darkness, she would hear people of all evil saying words that are blaspheming God's good name.
- Judy Emery © 2020 The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS POETIC LILLY EMERY
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
of the few that might quote,
  or least, the ones that might be quoted:
a reference of uno nacht -
there abiding, equal to Poseidon,
     a courteous signification of what zodiac
there is, among oyster clams and seashells,
there i stood and upon no words divine
felt to continuum necessity to riddle
man with Dante, but merely with, ape.
   there i stood:
tumbleweed at hand and two flits,
and there the cavern deity of human weakness,
   as pleb unto pleb... the jealous hands weaving
a Bulgarian acronym to what was once Greek
that became Cyrillic....
floundering under the guise of promise...
  noose abiding Hindenberg...
   never will you agitate the pleb...
    leave them like the priestly caste:
begrudging the slack on redneck culturalism -
                      then woe...
and of woe much is said that isn't done..
but then appropriated with the times,
a love affair chimes the culprit's chalice
as with all jades of resurrection,
three hyenas, and so too three Medusas,
and so top three sybils...
    in orchestra said as much
that only a man could have said them,
had he clothed himself in being one:
-  thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd...
leisure be! no claim of self-defence!
  but a claim instilled nonetheless -
      as anything concerning self-reliance!
woe to the wordings of man...
that she claim no crown above the peacock's
or the pigeon's coo, or the lion's roar,
or the nano-sound of an ant's architecture construct...
or the crow's croaking segment,
or the cackle of a magpie's segmentation...
o woe man.. for you are but nought disguised
and at times disguising such splendour...
that you make so little focus,
              and yet so much abhorrence...
that you may be crowned rex -
    but neither tyrannical nor tetra-sourced governing,
should a wind turn into tornado,
   or the earth into an earthquake...
the water into a tsunami...
            or a fire a wildfire spontaneity -
or the Zeusian bolt into insomnia and techno...
  cure all, and cure none at all..
    skylark Macbeth... at least you were not forsaken
to rest in a psychoanalytic deathbed with continual
resurrection to answer prayers,
    as might the necromancer of Endor embodied by
Freud... resurrect you to the suitor Hamlet...
  and how fortunate you are... for fortunate you are
mein herr...
                 or so act iv continues...
- thrice and once the hedge-pig whin'd (whined).
- harpier cries: 't is time, 't is time!
- round about the cauldron go;
    in the poison'd entrails throw -
  toad, that under cold stone
    days and nights have thirty-one
swelter'd venom, sleeping got,
    boil thou first i' the charmed ***,
- double, double, toil and trouble:
fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
  - fillet of a fenny snake,
in the cauldron boil and bake;
eye of newt, and toe of frog,
       wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
lizard's leg, and howlet's wing...
   and naught to recite the ancient Graeae
   conferring...
                   or what one called the splinter
eye, or what was shared among the three...
then repeat, the common incantation,
   and say: woe the moorish lad enthroned...
i have my prickly finger pointing toward
the heath... and thistle kissed, and the tartan
            as harmonious dressing toward
     a ******* of 70 years by all accounts
considered: a happy marriage.
                      oh no, don't teach me what i might
abhor... teach me music with your words!
          don't make words an act of polity and
of what goes around and never comes back
in terms of romancing truancy -
teach me logic, a logic that's hill-bred
   and goat-tango for a heart's hefty sum of
lost thought! teach me this! preach me this!
i have a second home, of what is nought
but the harrowing abyss: where i hear no Slavic
and i hear no Anglican, where i hear no Farsi
and i hear no Sanskrit... but the aim
of resurrecting a lingo of near dodo Celtic.
  no ethnicity is nation bound.
      then unto the Graeae once again
- scale of dragon, tooth of wolf;
witches' mummy; maw, and gulf,
or the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
root of hemlock, digg'd i' the dark;
liver of a blaspheming Jew;
      gall of goat, and slips op yew,
silver'd in the moon's eclipse;
nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips          -
and perhaps after such things were and had been said,
   i might too engage in a blasphemous benediction,
            cross-my-heart-and-sever-three-fingers
and out comes the Byzantine conscription -
rhyme a lot and rhyme what's willed -
      rhyme a dot and rhyme: standstill.
take to road and take to breath -
      take to sleep and take to craving earth -
  for no acrobats in the tomb -
     the Hindu acrobats remembering flame -
             in dust spoke of a whirlwind incantation -
and said: memorise me by allowing the billionth
man my own location...
      or as the Mandarin maxim suggested...
eat a dog, eat a cow, eat a horse, eat anything,
       and relegate all importance solely to plough...
aye Hibernian and you Lothian kin -
          tell them fables of the lost Loch Fin -
tell them things that will keep them grounded,
and not spread their arrogance
   to clap toward a tourism...
         well... one can only wish to revisit
the plagiarism of the Graeae... had but one
the pursuit of what was original, and what coupled us
to sin, in making us un-justify a god,
                       and justify our perpetuated ordeal.
Sheila Jacob Jul 2016
"The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me"   Sylvia Plath

Red is a restless diva
pacing in the wings,
making an entrance
as the carmine tulips
of a get-well bouquet.

Red is a strumpet
blaspheming the temple
where caring hands
smooth pristine
beach-white bedclothes.

Red is a snooper
******* her body's
fresh wound, wearing
her flowering heart
as a throbbing corsage.
Not a  new poem but recently  edited for the umpteenth time.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i

Beelzebub, oh Beelzebub, was thou so foolish to turneth from god
Thineself was the highest angel, leading now thy devilish flock;
What was thou thinking? Oh foolish one? To tryeth to be thy god
Thou tried to be the one who created thee, now kicked down here

ii

Lucifer oh Lucifer, thou was made in his image, not him thy own
Now thou hateth, now thou taketh, what thy greediness hath left;
Satan oh Satan thine blaspheming brute, where art thou now?
Art thou killing? Looting, and causing misery for the world's suit?

iii

Bearer of light, oh bearer of false light, I've seen thy face at night
Bearer of false promises that mankind follows, I canst waiteth to see thy works cast into the flame, and for thee again to be chained, with the rest of the hellion with thee in Hell's shallow.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
z Jan 2015
my house is a ship & it’s sinking.
there’s water in the cellar, it’s flooding
back into the bog where it came from,
back into the soil where t’was planted
and all the lovely things that happened inside
will soon be consumed, so join for the ride.
no one marks a house with a gravestone,
it’s just a bitterfield battlefield skeleton.
sh, you’re going to blow out our candles
with your coughing & your moaning.
and all the town came to watch us drowning
sputtering, blaspheming, and dying
on a place long ago they were divining
for bedrock by the hedgerows.
the photographers were solemn
beneath branches all but forgotten.
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
Words have a strange way of ignoring me
when I need them most.
They fade into the folds of blankness
blaspheming the truth of my reality.

Sheepishly I stare at the laptop screen,
hoping it would crack open
to gift me the word
that decodes the dilemma of my existence.
Civet Wright Mar 2017
Monday morning
Playing my guitar
With my vanity

I run myself a bath
For crossing the evening
To be with my royalty

I worship my feeling
By the glorifying me
Thanks for the to be or
Not to be

So I quaff my lover
As his Piteous Law
Of Bottomless Pit

Drawing a fresco
About the way a King
Blaspheming God
By his swearing *****
I have to confess to a hatred of my memories of metal insulator semicondoctor understood.
https://youtu.be/y9JdWzvjJtU
within twenty first century promotion
   sans scientific paradigm
dogmatically hefty, kinetically lofty,
   and poetically thoroughly, xyz beliefs misalign
wherein mechanistic Ptolemaic,

   static venerated yin yang benign
choreography describing elementary forces
   governing heavens inviting jinxed, kooky,
   loopy measures necessitating pacific rectification
   to guarantee spatial objects remain in line

which notions trotted out
   a cosmic deal with invisble ink
   omnipresent, omniscient omnipotent
   benevolent creator link
synonymously afffixed terrestrial
   firmament (planet Earth) nsync

   with bedrock of deified Gibraltor
until undisputed supposedly
   figuratively hermetically sealed
   fostered religious (church) fathers
   to do more than blink

when inquisitive minds (undaunted
   though invoked as heretical martyrs)
   blaspheming solidly entrenched
   blind faith functioning with charm
mingly quaint association with amulets, churinga,
   equisite fetishisms guiding humanity

   innumerable journeys kickstarting
   legendary modus operandi initially harm
   less lee sounding out,
   what manifested into a schismatic alarm
   regarding millennial questions
   underming liturgical moorings
   strong lance heaving arm

irrevocably toppled geocentric mindset,
   nonetheless this oblate spheroid dance
sing with the stars redoubled
   devout hangers-on fixed
   with barnacle cleaving devotion stalwart stance
Page Number Two:

populace behooved (as would be expected),
   when Douting Thomas' revolutionary screeds
   threatened (prior to unending)
   univeral schema just by chance
and despite proclamations pronounciations,
   and provocations roiling status quo
   hashtagged as evil rants

eventually zealous warfare between
   growing heliocentric individuals  
   with sacrilegiously blatantly deranged
fiendishly gnarly heathens –
   perhaps the Renaissance own Timothy Leary

the dawn of a quantifiable, explainable theory
(minus all those concentric embedded orbital paths)
   diktat preachers eventually became weary
to challenge recalcitrant (purported hell raisers)
   (****, I would have fit right in as a rebel rouser)
   whereby agents provocateurs spout vestigial claim
   to Gaea remaining front and center of galaxy
   on par clubbing with Mother Mary.
Josh Jul 2017
Your eyes could kindle ash to fire
Your touch revive a dying flower
Your smile is like the sun at noon
I cling to the very essence of you
I long for you like a wolf for the moon
Oh creature of heaven that you are, take me soon

Words are my stock and trade
Yet I have none when with you I am faced
I am not a hunter I have no thrill in chase
I am but a cat gazing upon you a queen
You, whom are perfect and must be a dream
Oh can you truly be, all that you seem

Angels weep as you pass by
God gave up creating
After seeing the glimmer in your eye
Israfel dedicates songs to you
Though he knows he is not your equal
Sings of you wildly well, from his lyre in the sky

On the mortal earth below
Mortals too seek to bestow
Upon you, tokens of their love
In spite of jealous god above
You are the person
Whom all love

When you walk, you draw all eyes
Birds fall down from the skies
Or hungry cats miss their mice
Fixed upon you, are their eyes
And upon the sight of you
Newborn babies cease to cry

I think that you shall live always
For with you, life
Wishes not to part ways
You could tame the sky or sea
For even nature's beauty
Cannot compete with thee

Forgive me, I have praised
Only your appearance
Though your soul, is thrice as lovely
Your voice, a gift to all who hear it
And your anger, although rare
I would doubtless fear it

And of course, in others
You provoke a host of feelings
Ecstasy and joy
Why to explain
Would simply be
Blaspheming

And so my dear
We are here
The end of my verse
I wish you well
And pray do tell
You liked what you read here
Another one from my self published book "ivory and gold" available on Amazon.
Hie did/do cha did cap cha a clue
you want me....... yes sigh dew
and will hew
a path in tandem with the help of uncle loo
on guard on mind our peas and queue
in an effort to earn my stripes for u
and even join tribe of village people per view
wing a Flintstone lifestyle where…whew
mebbe, many a close call chased by a giant beast,
   and saved
   by the released arrow whack,
   sans bulls eye thwack (no lion) respite of a Zulu.

---------- while ----------

Awaiting my modified sentence  -
A fictional injustice landing me in the slammer for fone he ears - with no penitence.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
No way to dodge fiat decreeing death sentence twill span
the rest o' me life, cuz such incarceration haint part o ma plan
for this abetting dodging, hedging rambling man
voicing objection - that thee trump petting don iz no fan
of mine, and who felt unready to kick the can
on account of violating what...freedom of speech ban
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Against abominable illegal mandate
with no way to commute death sentence this late
for simple act of voicing opinion against
   existence of heavenly gate
nor hellish underworld despite religious ******
decreeing penance as one articulate prelate
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Spurious pedagogical poetic rant,
ache kin to melting wax growing a candlewick
not the ravings of some half mad lunatic who doth tick
tock carefully plotting recitation that springs quick
from combined teachings of kant did *****
the mind of this jolly old Saint Nick
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Charges ******* up per this average don
purportedly blaspheming judeo-christian paradigm
as an atheist many beliefs outdated and fore gone
upending blind faith equated with hill of beans upon
which dogma erected epitomized by
complex edifices via grime
+ ****** tears and trifle pay for toiling for a bombastic scion
sweat shed by Polish slave labor
usurpation of freedom stripped analogous
to yearning Palestine yearning their own Zion
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Until outspoken persons risked life and limb
to invalidate existence of supreme deity
many still accredit with creating life proper and prim
whether for extra credit or perhaps on a whim
Adam from whose rib cage without anesthesia
but razor sharp knife sprung Eve
with a physique quite pleasing and trim
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
But rather than get lost in the Garden of Eden myth
final seconds countdown of existence tick away
while this keying nonchalant hammering word smith
doth not capitulate, aye deem heart of religion flimsy as pith
without intent to recant statements
   solely acceptable to b’ni brith
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Prompting last words of mine as oye vay
thing in the wind or house of cards vulnerable to blow away!

— The End —