"cacophonous" poems
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
5.4k
I got an award
For being the stupidest young boy
With a wax soul
And impressionable.
I thought I'd find something
Nestled here amidst the trees
And I did,
But in no halls but the hall of god
Speaking to me
Dancing between the leaves
Singing with every whispered breeze
And yet when I stepped
Past the threshold and into the
"real world"
I was sold
A maniac of utter delinquency.
Everybody there
Waiting for their turn
Auditioning for the favor of hearts
They'll never win
Can't see
Laughing and wondering
Reading without comprehension
Sticking their *** in the face of the classics
Lap dogs licking the milk from
Professed *******
Thinking they'll be next
Its not resentment--
Is it fair to be bent
Towards dollars that've never been spent?
All those silly parks
Divided from the civilized lands
Frontiers of the past
Left to be little staging areas
For that invisible hand
Kids go on spring break
Take pictures between the towns
Maybe a stop along
On the way
To Vegas
Deep in the desert where it'd **** any other day
I cannot escape the unfathomable beauty of that place,
Living off the world in a way God said
To toil and love the pain
In a way nobody does
I am guilty of pride and
Stuffed like a pie full of anger
Cooking it into solid joy
And trying hard to scrape the cancerous crust away
All the dark sides we avoid
But screaming the heat away is good
Thermal induction is the name of the game
Entropic fizzlements like bubbles in the wind
Sublimating all that ever stood.
Yet soon enough I'll be born anew
And what I leave behind
Lifted up
Nautoloid shell
With a sparkling abalone interior
Someone will place on their shelf
And think,
"I wonder where that thing had been."
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
The wind diverges the horizon boughs
into view finders of royal blue.
The flicker of the blue beyond washes to
brown sticks fettered with dry leaves.
Oh what cadence ensues,
From a bent bough and a
Sifting wind?
If that limb but a will,
And that breeze but a pulse,
Harmony would hide in the
Heartbeat of an eternal summer.
Yet eternity suffers sterile sadness,
And cadence breeds a timid tempo
Of hollow trees against a grey sky.
So speak the world in discord,
Unveil blue skies from cacophonous trees of green,
And push the wind in hurricanes.
As wind and bough dance in perfect imbalance,
I admire the flicker of their countenance.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
i.
mist in solemnity
mutes the sounding
leather bells in silence
ii.
salt surges waste wantonly
gulls guttural in guises
of waifs
iii.
driftwood delivered dull of
deluged dilution
ochre offering to dune's
divestment
iii.
sea glass shivers into
shallow sandy pockets
scintillating color schemes
iiii.
conches lie abandoned
in stands of sea grasses
cacophonous quiet
v.
i am wide awake yet dreaming
sleepwalking
into the
waves
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/1/2016
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC
Snorers all
scattered world-wide
in offices and homes
in boardrooms
and bedrooms;
O Snorers all
loud and clear
low and shrill -
listen ye
to the loud wake-up call
as from Rip Van Winkle's Snore
stand up united
and drown the howl of protests
against snoring that is surely no less divine
than the Chorus of Angels in Heaven -
for the great God who made the Aurora
no doubt also conceived of the Divine Snore!
and so, stand up, ye sonorous Snorers!
unite! I call unto ye!
unite against the detractors
and the critics
and the complainants
and those of low culture
who cannot
lie still and listen to Snoring
as one rightly would at a concert hall
listening to the delightful play
of a quartet of violins
O how long will you take it lying down,
ye blessed Snorers of the World?
let the world know
the first divine music was indeed the Snore;
and the very height of human communication
is the unabashed snore
for all other modes of communication
lead to mis-communication
but the language of the snore is always exact and crisp!
the message of the Snore always precise!
the meaning always loud and clear!
and the very height of the snore
(let us declare to the world)
is the couple in bed
snoring away together
beside each other
making such divine music
making love with the rolling thunder of snores
so that one might say:
*do we have a couple of wild boars
copulating in the next room?*
stand up, O Snorers of the World -
and defy the mockers
and those who seek divorce
on grounds of insufferable Snoring;
stand up against those who sue
for loss of sleep from
friendly, neighborly Snorers;
stand up now
against these losers, these whingeing nags
uncouth and untutored
in the mysteries of the art of the Snore!
stand up and with one loud blast of
a universal Snore,
with one melodious Snore
let us
drown their dissenting voices,
their unprovoked cacophonous complaints!
stand up, Snorers young and old!
unite, Snorers black, white and gold!
defy the world! O ye Snorers
of quite nights and of lazy days:
let us overwhelm the world
with the pleasing symphony of Snores;
let us bless the ears of the world
with the dulcet streams of varied notes and arias!
stand up! unite! - O much-maligned Snorers of the World!
with one voice raised
in a triumphant Snore
let us declare:
*No longer will we be silent!
Our voices will be heard!*
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
I head outside for cold air and quiet, escaping too-loud laughter and the filth of drunkenness. As the porch door closes behind me the silence explodes, cacophonous, both ears simultaneously bursting with the high pitched squeal of the sudden nothingness. It surrounds me, vibrating my bones, frothing the marrow within, pressing my temples, heart quickening to steady the body against the assault of the stillness, the stagnation of the world around me. I don't know who I am. I am not -- not anyone. I am alone. I am what they want me to be. Seated cross-legged on cold concrete, the alcohol plays the stars across my eyes like a projector: they move this way and that across my field of vision, swaying, dancing. I feel myself floating, getting lost in my own mind again. I hate that feeling.
I put a cigarette out on my hand, pressing orange embers into soft flesh. I grit my teeth as the world rushes back. The voices bring me down. The clink of glass bottles brings me down. The searing smell of my skin brings me down. I light it again, pull a few deep drags, then stub it out again, this time inside my forearm. My eyes squeezed shut, I feel myself fall back into reality, like a soft bed, like my skin loosens just enough to let me breathe again. I land on both feet, quietly, softly. I stand up, bush myself off, and walk back inside.
I'll burn the whole pack tonight.
I kissed him on the cheek, secretly hoping he'd wake from his stupor and keep my company, but he was too far gone, lost hours ago to two or three too many shots taken in bad faith, but with good intentions. I left him on his couch. He'd be safe there. He needed his sleep.
Why couldn't I get as drunk as them, drunk enough to numb away the emotions, the longing? I was disappointed, but I wasn't surprised. I curled up on the couch alone, pulling my sleeves down to cover the blisters, already rising. If I could just sleep, I could forget. Everyone slept but me. I went out for another cigarette.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:13 AM UTC
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.
Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.
This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Veasna Ta Kvak recording
playback
over Chinatown cafe again
while recounting recent events
to journal pages
muddled from frequent
exchanges bag to bag
(Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most
recently)
blind fate
blind fate
shower me with Indian daisies
and photographs of Railway
New Delhi!
Hanoi Old Quarter/
Vietnam monsoon/
evening on balcony/
Darjeeling water boiled
and filtered anti-malaria
golden drink for honeylungs and
spring-soul morningtide
under moonlight canopy
of Avalokiteśvara
the fruitful
Bodhisattva!
English lessons
and future
hourless
comely chimera
in sleep phenomenon
Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW
(near Mata Anandamai Ghat)
speaking to Aghori
prophecy
Kala Bhairava
FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR
WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE?
the Ganges is full of lice and flowers
candlewax melted into holy water
sickness
equal to
harmony & jubilant
eyeclose and mouthcurl.
The future mysteries in
Mexico City poorboy
$2 mystic orb jade green
reflective underneath
dirt now in North American
bottom white four floor house
basement suite coffee table.
Visions indivisible
from the Viridian roundly haze
but surefire in their accuracy
I'm absolute
and universally formed
for the next few cacophonous
decades!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
Let me meet you in a marbled
field of
sand...
Though
you bewitch me with clifftops hooded in emerald grass ...
Though
your sheep bleat loudly the marvel of your serenity...
Though
you wait patiently beyond your lonely precipice,
I cannot endure the eons
raging against the cliffs of your security.
Every
passing year, the thunder of my broken waves
gouges deeper into your wounded coastline.
Every
rock torn from your embrace, resounds the pain of our growing rift
Every
crumbling cliffs edge dissolves the beauty I held in reverie...
I wound us in this way.
Let me meet you in a secluded
gentle
cove...
There,
upon quieted sands, my waves will softly stroke your skin.
There,
the lions will laugh in cacophonous delight at our simple joy.
There,
our worlds will dance as pebbles tumble into diamond crystals.
There, a child will listen woefully,
the sea song of our love.
With eyes in contented darkness,
With a soul filled, overflowing
With the power of bearing witness
to this daily wonder.
Each
breath brings her deeper into the burning core of her mind,
Each
thought sparks the flame brighter
Each
billowing blaze will enliven her roots, and
she will bloom.
Then,
her eyes will open to a shimmering world,
glistening through tears of quiet understanding.
Then,
breath will guide the salt of our dance into her veins
Then,
she will dance to the song of our world.
With arms wide as eyes,
she will embrace
this treasured moment
With the divinity of her mortality.
When the moment calms, she will walk solemnly through our shallows.
When my waves pull home at her ankles,
When the crystalline pebble shines brightly in her visage
she will reach with focused surrender through my water for a memento
of the love she feels so presently.
In our slow dance,
of Land and Sea,
our love bears its fruits in tiny treasures.
In her little pocket,
the diamond of our love
will travel further into your heart than my waves ever could.
In this way...
you and I grow fonder
with every passing day.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
It wasn't a guitar solo.
It was a guitar and me going
******* on each other;
if it seemed cacophonous
that's because it was
supposed to be.
One of us is going to destroy
the other eventually.
Am I supposed to love a guitar?
See, I wake up next to her,
and look into her eyes,
and it's only love I see.
Warm skin in sunshine beats
factory made in China.
The curves of her shoulders,
or the lines that form her smile,
versus the curves of it's body,
the blades that vibrate at every end.
I painted it yellow, but when I see her
I feel it. Warm.
Me and that instrument are enemies
till either of us dies.
No, I do not love an instrument.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Ha-Ha, Joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
dances a maniac tango, joking
in the midst of elemental chaos--
giggling at the lava, way hot
watching the castle's mortar dissolve, doting
the cacophonous crumbling symphony akin to Amadeus.
Ha-ha, joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
ignites a spliff with incandescent embers, smoking--
up under falling stars getting higher than the Himalayas
and more enlightened as the midnight parades off
into a translucent, steaming ashy bayou, hoping
there's a bite to eat before the heat waves doff
the darkness completely into blinding, hokey
sunbeams reflecting in snow, that cuckoo tune never lost,
Ha-ha, joker's laugh from that wildcard coyote.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
you cry like lost toys and dead pets
there's nothing you can do about it right now
you cry like a small animal with a broken spinal chord
you keep whimpering, but it can only heal in time
you cry like pressing the skin of your palms
into the membranes of your eyes
when everything in your head is so cacophonous
you want to rub away all the little things you absorb
want that your hands could throw out this migraine
like a candy wrapper on the sidewalk
and if you believe hard enough that it's gone
you'll never notice the sugar rush or the comedown
so you press your hands to your face
as hard as you can and try to pray like a religious person
but you were raised christian and american and
the ways of believing and hoping and loving that you knew as a child
seem insincere now, and hard to speak
the language is not truthful
everything is what they told you it was not
nothing is what they told you it was
or everything was always what it was
and you or i could've told them that
and you think that wrapper might eventually end up in a landfill
if you go throwing it carelessly around
and sadness taken with too much sugar can be a toxic combination
so maybe making the bad things go away
is harder than throwing away the wrapper and enjoying the rush
maybe the wrapper is somewhere else now you can't get to
where you can't hear it crinkle or see it shrivel,
but you can still relentlessly feel it
getting whittled away by time and weather
while steadily melting down bits of you
as you pass your heart around
gasping inside the icebox
until one day you look up and the sun is a bloodier color
and your lungs are full of ice like pins
freezing inside of you
and when seconds before you had oxygen
as you begin choking, you think it's amazing how long
it seems to have been
since you were alive
your knuckles are dry from holding on
to a rusty ladder wrung
even when you want to move so badly
and there's nowhere to climb
you refuse to jump
and you're still trying to figure out
how to fall correctly
to break the least amount of limbs
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
----
Sometimes they take over
The rhythms in your head
Nuances of rhyme schemes
The lines your muse has fed
You want to use a smaller word
Pontificate instead
It gallops through your consciousness
A wild horse - unlead!
The hooves go on like thunder
Upon the steed you ride
Tearing up the page
Pen in hand - astride
You are without a bridle
Legs grip the mustang's side
He has his own way
He is a beast with pride!
No - he has no stable
No - his blood flows wild!
Fed grass of the planes
He's restless as a child
A stallion - yes! A bucking bronc!
Unbroken - never mild!
Get into his rhetoric
He's always getting riled!
Write like you're a MUSTANG!
RIDE ON!!! You have no reins!
Get into his rhythm
The rhyme scheme is unstrained
Your footing is unsure
In uncertain terrains
Playing echo chamber music
Those cacophonous refrains
Bust that bronc!!! He's waiting -
Your own head unrestrained!!!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/19/2015
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
New mildew mania, oh man-of-war
Live by the letter, and **** for the car
The dreamers, constrained by the fog they can’t see
I uttered this song in Breakaway Alley
A wandering blonde in the restless air
Their kids, half-afraid that they’re halfway to nowhere
Think what you may, they are not in a trance
Wield what they say and you’ll find that you dance
Upon every row, lies a flag waving by
Apartment gravestones kissing up to the sky
Now, must we try so hard for fake jubilee?
The happy ones live in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is on the run
All the country crows, they’ve committed a crime
Each of their wings, flapping mad out of time
To fly with such freedom yet stay so cloudbound
Cacophonous sounds fighting for our own ground
The buds only look up for leviathans
To take them to the realm they misunderstand
To pity the fool that does not try to flee
We sit on our stools in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has emptied the guns
The youth do not stir at the visage of hell
There is no romance in the streets’ calling bells
And while we may treat such a threat to be shown
The dagger of a mind is dull while unknown
The ravaged pretender spoke of the Romans
His gauntlets of gold, earned from fate’s happenstance
To escape his blood, he would face down the sea
The velvet hands shook in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is due to be shunned
The eye of childhood feared the forgotten paint
They lay, unencumbered, on secular saints
The falsified folly in full leopard print
The troops in their trollies with pockets of lint
The radio is silent in time’s aging vice
We hear and don’t listen, bats spliced with mice
But maybe, you will see this sweet harmony
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has finally gone
When the baby screams for the first time, aged five
Will it lament the loss of its life?
When the kids rear for a solution wherever you go
How much will it take to say “God, I’ll never know”?
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
It’s not all you see, it’s not simply me
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
Up above the sky
A slower reality lies
No boundaries to share
Infinite time to spare
Birds flying
Under kaleidoscopic clouds
Separated from the cacophonous crowd
No memories to haunt
No tomorrow to be worried about
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
I think if I should be more aware
Of the peeling of a banana,
And all its slightly muffled, sticky sounds
I could call it music, and
Become, myself, a profound cataloger of all things noise.
For words are only structured noises,
We mold like clay. Well, why don’t we simply reign in
The noises that are already out there?
We’ll learn the nuances of a peeling banana,
Call them words: it is a banana saying, I’m peeling.
We’ll call them poems, call them song.
The sound of a cardboard coffee cup, for instance,
Gently returned to a desk after sipping
Multiplied by a classroom of
Caffeinated percussionists would be
Aptly called an avant-guard symphony! And I perhaps,
A modern-day maestro, conductor at the front of the room
Flapping my arms to the beat, up, down! Up-down! –Only pausing
To write down the tum-tum-tum, furiously capturing this rhythm
On paper for future readers to come.
But I fear, it is in this act of writing it down, that
The banana forgets how it sounds,
Or I forget to sound the banana, and
It all starts to become a sort of cacophonous din of
Slurping children, left by the wayside by the
Education system and adopted by Starbucks,
Who doesn’t serve this sort of poem.
So we must market this to the young folks;
It will be a movement of ultimate vintage-chic,
(Recalling the days of our wordless hairy brethren,
Who could only rely on grunts and noise)
To imagine Man without clothing is possible,
But Man without poetry is simply absurd.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 4:59 AM UTC
troglo-what?
look it up, those who
do not know the word
for
I am
a lover of words
obscure exotic esoteric poetic pedantic petty greasy slimy odoriferous clanking cacophonous melodious odious arcane archaic
all
a primal pleasure to hear,
to write, to read when perched
in the right order and place
to take flight and allow
me to soar above
or hide below
the massed multitudes of monkeys
who share my deoxyribonucleic acid
(and you thought
I would simply say,
DNA)
for they
find solace in the day
shared with simian soul mates
but I,
the true troglodyte of Texas
prefer the singular scent of words
on trackless trails
over the sound of lovers
and their breathless tales
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
parting clouds over the field of wheat
split the gray into a sea of golden rays
bright enough to leave even the blindest man at his feet
passing wind slithers by
carrying with it seeds and soft cries
tears from the protector of all the crop
the lonely scarecrow who stays planted
his tune the most melancholy of acoustics
a tranquil coffee shop
birds circle frightfully overhead
for they do not know their avoidance leaves the scarecrow all but dead
he who never meant any harm
but who's appearance raises cacophonous alarm
cursing the sky, the scarecrow shouts
yet, the scarecrow will soon get his wish
once his stump dries he will be free with the coming drought
so as the farmer prays for rain,
he questions God's whereabouts
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
The sinking has returned too fast.
I knew sanity wouldn't last -
but madness is here much too soon.
Electric amnesia returns to me.
Cacophonous thoughts breaking free
tear my feet from trembling ground.
My contradictory conscience
********** utter nonsense
across the face of my clean slate.
Peel back my shimmering rib cage,
see insomnia's grip of rage
still my dark heart into hurting.
Plunge me into freezing waters
where caught apathetic breath blurs
treading to sinking to drowning.
And I'm caught in the crawl spaces
between the in between places -
wretch to my opprobrious mind.
Not if but when sayeth the doc
to the tune of the ticking clock
willing me to wave the white flag
Madness is a graceless game.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
When I met you,
my heartbeat fret--
something was incongruous.
And once frantic words
careened out of your mouth--
I saw rapid fire machine gun
rubber bullets bouncing everywhere.
Neighborhood dogs desperately yipped
and barked and howled
as your attempts to weave a conspiracy laden
tragic web of a storybook life into a net
to trap those who will listen unravel
before me.
Storm clouds darken around you.
The cacophonous pandemonium of your voice
and slithering slender body
are fascinating to watch as headlights dance
by while you whirl in the middle of the road,
***** drink in one hand
a plucky smile--
your green eyes glow like melting peridot.
With a train wreck personality,
your frolfing at a busy intersection
influence over some is astonishing!
The next morning,
through a haze of listlessness,
I understand what you are;
Succubus.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
I am a musician.
I do not write.
I compose.
I can tell you the tempo of my heart
And how it shifts from adagio to allegro
When I see your face.
How the crescendo of your smile
Creates a symphony in my mind.
How the lilts of your voice are melodies
I will never forget.
I am a musician.
I am not a poet.
I cannot compare thee to a summer's day
But what I can do is compare you to a piece of complete harmony
And consonance.
I can tell you the names of the chords you strike through my veins
When you look me in the eyes.
I cannot turn words into poetry or love
But I can sing you love songs until my voice runs dry.
I am a musician.
I cannot write.
I can strum you like a guitar and make you hum.
I can make you sing sweet melodies when I run my fingers down your spine.
I can tell you how cacophonous my life is without you.
I can tell you how the melody in a monophonic composition feels
When you're gone.
I can feel the syncopation when we are in a fight.
I am a musician.
I am not a poet.
I cannot put into words how I feel about you.
But I can sure as hell try
In this word sonata of thoughts.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
Favorites, Reposts, Comments:
Currency of the cacophonous conumdrum carried onward in carnivals of catatonic cherubims trading virtual cadence for confidence and compliments.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
Today I walked to the park and back
And saw suburbia rearranged into dizzying distortions
All the trees had a purplish tint
And on the grass, I saw multicoloured light reflecting off the dew
When I got home
I attacked all the imagery with a dagger to reshape reality
And a blank mirror to recreate the world in my head.
The world that was quiet is humming again
I hear choirs of crickets and choral basslines
Cacophonous and ecstatic in the constant confusion
The dull concrete is shot open with marquee moonlight
Indulgence pouring out, free-flowing like communion
And painted onto canvases like rain on a car window
Daydreams and delusions are ice cream melting, sticky and sap-like on your chin
Clouds pixelate with diamond edges
Voices ring out in a flurry
And there isn't a soul in sight.
So I breathe in the air
And let all the sounds and smells and limitations of reality colour my imagination once again
Daydreamed delusions and nightmarish reality are one
Filaments in the vibrant violence
Until the summer fades away again.
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 7:25 AM UTC
Let me tell you something:
I have more to feel, and to express, and to share
Than these social peripheries will hold,
Let alone could let disperse amidst the insipid fog of this air.
See, it’s you who’ve all caught me in this ******* snare.
Thus, let it be known, to those who are so bold
So as to assess me falsely,
That there is far more to see
Than the sheer surface of me.
There is more passion
And far more complexity,
Than many care to realize.
And if you disagree,
Then let the forbidden sirens sing a cacophonous reprise
For my fellow misfits who follow their hearts, and their will to be free.
Our passions will surge like psychedelic smoke as we rise.
**** all the rest and their soul’s reciprocity.
It will be their demise.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC