"brays" poems - Hello Poetry

The first ones they killed were the poets. They crowned themselves, the sterile And sexless acorns who fell from the felled And split the air, writing with bark, Would have us not desire experience But describing trees. To the naked kings The word is a wonder, a tool to be used Like any other. With a forge, they called An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners Of the Gods. In high places they read Their grounded works, sogged with rain Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list And bludgeon us with their hammered similes, Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed, In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered, For they are no kin to the swan that glides And sometimes they remember that, The first ones they killed were the poets, When the sky is etherized, prose made Verse and their subjects yawn the great Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition, They man-scaped the garden, pulled out The weeds and by their words, they decreed That only grass should grow, in strident Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves. But their poems are only like poems. The naked kings are clothed in word only. In the thirsty kingdom, water spills Stagnant from the stein and the droplets Echo, "there's no there . . . there." Incestuously they christened Each other, one hundred years of virgins Making love with a dead word They know not of— Poet! Asters Among the daisies, yet on the fields Of praise, they shall deflower Themselves and though they strut And prance as stallions and mares, You will know them by their brays.

We trusted you with what we love and you broke it jammed a fat stick in its spokes, overwound the mechanism, twisted the arm at a funny angle til it snapped haphazardly snatched at the parts applied inappropriate glue, pointed to one or two others, then skulked away pretending to have never touched it, or even been there that day even broken its worth can still be seen with eyes that choose to, heard with ears not deaf from formless brays of sycophants who may or may not be in the mirror we will stickle it every little bit of it we will fix it like new new new

We trusted you with what we love and you broke it jammed a fat stick in its spokes, overwound the mechanism, twisted the arm at a funny angle til it snapped haphazardly snatched at the parts applied inappropriate glue, pointed to one or two others, then skulked away pretending to have never touched it, or even been there that day even broken its worth can still be seen with eyes that choose to, heard with ears not deaf from formless brays of sycophants who may or may not be in the mirror we will stickle it every little bit of it we will fix it like new new new

0

Feb 2, 2022

Feb 2, 2022 at 12:41 PM UTC

drunkenkind

Nice things

19

There's a tower in the east w'th a wall of gold. There's a beast in the tower whom guards his fold. The Miser brays at who goes near. When he gifts he dreads despair. Unfortunate you keep the gift. For the gift is cursed w'th miser's thirst.

0

Jun 5, 2015

Jun 5, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC

rraaccoonn

The Curse of The Miser's Thirst.

There's a tower in the east w'th a wall of gold. There's a beast in the tower whom guards his fold. The Miser brays at who goes near. When he gifts he dreads despair. Unfortunate you keep the gift. For the gift is cursed w'th miser's thirst.

6

The first ones they killed were the poets. They crowned themselves, the sterile And sexless acorns who fell from the felled And split the air, writing with bark, Would have us not desire experience But describing trees. To the naked kings The word is a wonder, a tool to be used Like any other. With a forge, they called An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners Of the Gods. In high places they read Their grounded works, sogged with rain Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list And bludgeon us with their hammered similes, Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed, In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered, For they are no kin to the swan that glides And sometimes they remember that, The first ones they killed were the poets, When the sky is etherized, prose made Verse and their subjects yawn the great Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition, They man-scaped the garden, pulled out The weeds and by their words, they decreed That only grass should grow, in strident Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves. But their poems are only like poems. The naked kings are clothed in word only. In the thirsty kingdom, water spills Stagnant from the stein and the droplets Echo, "there's no there . . . there." Incestuously they christened Each other, one hundred years of virgins Making love with a dead word They know not of— Poet! Asters Among the daisies, yet on the fields Of praise, they shall deflower Themselves and though they strut And prance as stallions and mares, You will know them by their brays.

0

Dec 29, 2014

Dec 29, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC

The first ones they killed were the poets. They crowned themselves, the sterile And sexless acorns who fell from the felled And split the air, writing with bark, Would have us not desire experience But describing trees. To the naked kings The word is a wonder, a tool to be used Like any other. With a forge, they called An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners Of the Gods. In high places they read Their grounded works, sogged with rain Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list And bludgeon us with their hammered similes, Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed, In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered, For they are no kin to the swan that glides And sometimes they remember that, The first ones they killed were the poets, When the sky is etherized, prose made Verse and their subjects yawn the great Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition, They man-scaped the garden, pulled out The weeds and by their words, they decreed That only grass should grow, in strident Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves. But their poems are only like poems. The naked kings are clothed in word only. In the thirsty kingdom, water spills Stagnant from the stein and the droplets Echo, "there's no there . . . there." Incestuously they christened Each other, one hundred years of virgins Making love with a dead word They know not of— Poet! Asters Among the daisies, yet on the fields Of praise, they shall deflower Themselves and though they strut And prance as stallions and mares, You will know them by their brays.

The first ones they killed were the poets. They crowned themselves, the sterile And sexless acorns who fell from the felled And split the air, writing with bark, Would have us not desire experience But describing trees. To the naked kings The word is a wonder, a tool to be used Like any other. With a forge, they called An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners Of the Gods. In high places they read Their grounded works, sogged with rain Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list And bludgeon us with their hammered similes, Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed, In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered, For they are no kin to the swan that glides And sometimes they remember that, The first ones they killed were the poets, When the sky is etherized, prose made Verse and their subjects yawn the great Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition, They man-scaped the garden, pulled out The weeds and by their words, they decreed That only grass should grow, in strident Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves. But their poems are only like poems. The naked kings are clothed in word only. In the thirsty kingdom, water spills Stagnant from the stein and the droplets Echo, "there's no there . . . there." Incestuously they christened Each other, one hundred years of virgins Making love with a dead word They know not of— Poet! Asters Among the daisies, yet on the fields Of praise, they shall deflower Themselves and though they strut And prance as stallions and mares, You will know them by their brays.

0

May 15, 2015

May 15, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC

The first ones they killed were the poets. They crowned themselves, the sterile And sexless acorns who fell from the felled And split the air, writing with bark, Would have us not desire experience But describing trees. To the naked kings The word is a wonder, a tool to be used Like any other. With a forge, they called An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners Of the Gods. In high places they read Their grounded works, sogged with rain Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list And bludgeon us with their hammered similes, Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed, In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered, For they are no kin to the swan that glides And sometimes they remember that, The first ones they killed were the poets, When the sky is etherized, prose made Verse and their subjects yawn the great Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition, They man-scaped the garden, pulled out The weeds and by their words, they decreed That only grass should grow, in strident Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves. But their poems are only like poems. The naked kings are clothed in word only. In the thirsty kingdom, water spills Stagnant from the stein and the droplets Echo, "there's no there . . . there." Incestuously they christened Each other, one hundred years of virgins Making love with a dead word They know not of— Poet! Asters Among the daisies, yet on the fields Of praise, they shall deflower Themselves and though they strut And prance as stallions and mares, You will know them by their brays.

Pink pill turns black on its tin-foil hammock, putrid cremation beneath a butane lighter. A choir of bullfrogs sing the advent of a wet summer, whilst trembling hands gather to capture the fumes through the paper vessel of a makeshift straw. She gathers spring flowers. Places them in a jewellery box alongside the ring he has never worn. Wide-eyed, she speaks in Thai on their sweet scent, amongst the burnt incense and his vacant, impatient stare. Tarried for the next hit of nicotine, for the self-immolation when he is left to sleep alone. Lungs tarred with amphetamine, she will return to her infant son as if nothing has happened whilst he wakes to a morning bed of ash. Mosquitoes fog the windowsill as they languish in off-hand, stubborn *** She falters to a ****** he keeps his cards to his chest. Dawn croaks its miserable head as he suffers a silence of symphonies with no words. No common tongue; heart brays over a pillowcase of pebbles and a mouth of sand. She paints her nails, smiles with professional assurance. She lives in a comfort he cannot understand.

Pink pill turns black on its tin-foil hammock, putrid cremation beneath a butane lighter. A choir of bullfrogs sing the advent of a wet summer, whilst trembling hands gather to capture the fumes through the paper vessel of a makeshift straw. She gathers spring flowers. Places them in a jewellery box alongside the ring he has never worn. Wide-eyed, she speaks in Thai on their sweet scent, amongst the burnt incense and his vacant, impatient stare. Tarried for the next hit of nicotine, for the self-immolation when he is left to sleep alone. Lungs tarred with amphetamine, she will return to her infant son as if nothing has happened whilst he wakes to a morning bed of ash. Mosquitoes fog the windowsill as they languish in off-hand, stubborn *** She falters to a ****** he keeps his cards to his chest. Dawn croaks its miserable head as he suffers a silence of symphonies with no words. No common tongue; heart brays over a pillowcase of pebbles and a mouth of sand. She paints her nails, smiles with professional assurance. She lives in a comfort he cannot understand.

0

Mar 17, 2017

Mar 17, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC

Edward-Coles

Blue Boy

41

The first ones they killed were the poets. They crowned themselves, the sterile And sexless acorns who fell from the felled And split the air, writing with bark, Would have us not desire experience But describing trees. To the naked kings The word is a wonder, a tool to be used Like any other. With a forge, they called An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners Of the Gods. In high places they read Their grounded works, sogged with rain Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list And bludgeon us with their hammered similes, Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed, In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered, For they are no kin to the swan that glides And sometimes they remember that, The first ones they killed were the poets, When the sky is etherized, prose made Verse and their subjects yawn the great Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition, They man-scaped the garden, pulled out The weeds and by their words, they decreed That only grass should grow, in strident Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves. But their poems are only like poems. The naked kings are clothed in word only. In the thirsty kingdom, water spills Stagnant from the stein and the droplets Echo, "there's no there . . . there." Incestuously they christened Each other, one hundred years of virgins Making love with a dead word They know not of— Poet! Asters Among the daisies, yet on the fields Of praise, they shall deflower Themselves and though they strut And prance as stallions and mares, You will know them by their brays.

0

May 12, 2014

May 12, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC

The first ones they killed were the poets. They crowned themselves, the sterile And sexless acorns who fell from the felled And split the air, writing with bark, Would have us not desire experience But describing trees. To the naked kings The word is a wonder, a tool to be used Like any other. With a forge, they called An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners Of the Gods. In high places they read Their grounded works, sogged with rain Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list And bludgeon us with their hammered similes, Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed, In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered, For they are no kin to the swan that glides And sometimes they remember that, The first ones they killed were the poets, When the sky is etherized, prose made Verse and their subjects yawn the great Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition, They man-scaped the garden, pulled out The weeds and by their words, they decreed That only grass should grow, in strident Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves. But their poems are only like poems. The naked kings are clothed in word only. In the thirsty kingdom, water spills Stagnant from the stein and the droplets Echo, "there's no there . . . there." Incestuously they christened Each other, one hundred years of virgins Making love with a dead word They know not of— Poet! Asters Among the daisies, yet on the fields Of praise, they shall deflower Themselves and though they strut And prance as stallions and mares, You will know them by their brays.