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st64 Sep 2013
collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
by
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond



1.
little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

2.
once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
yet
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

3.
nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

4.
the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut
the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

5.
once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
and
not only by them


next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

6.
when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

7.
and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty





no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be



supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .





S T, 1 September
Happy Spring Day!
And . . . er . . . catch some sun-rays . . . while ye can :)



Sub – entry : 'empty chairs'

Songwriter: Don McLean


I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night
Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright
Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane
Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Moonlight used to bathe the contours of your face
While chestnut hair fell all around the pillow case
And the fragrance of your flowers rest beneath my head
A sympathy bouquet left with the love that's dead

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Never thought the words you said were true
Never thought you said just what you meant
Never knew how much I needed you
Never thought you'd leave, until you went

Morning comes and morning goes with no regret
And evening brings the memories I can't forget
Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs
And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwzHlyVRc9o
Bhaskar Dhakal Aug 2015
A horrific thunderbolt
hit me right at my chest.
Oh! what an assault.
A hundred carafes of poison
or
the thousand rounds of bullets
would have hurt less
than the pain it caused
when
you abandoned me.

But,
I tried to deal with it.
‘Move on’,
I urged my inner me.
‘I am not a loser.
Quitting is never an option’,
I tried to pacify the anguish.
It did not aid.
The palpable twinge
troubled more;
aww! my delicate heart.

To sweep away the woe,
I pact with the *****.
Alas!
Every sip of the nasty tipple
ousted heavy flood
from my shuddering eyes.
I could tell you , love,
that was quite a sight.

Still the heart pounding,
the excruciating truth,
still unsolved.
I banged my liquor’s glass
in sheer dismay.
Sane enough to halt
the bleeding from the wound,
I searched the bandage.
Sadly, the wound was in heart.


- Bhaskar Dhakal
http://bhaskardhakal.blogspot.com/2012/02/grievous-separation.html
À Monsieur Théodore de Banville.

I

Ainsi, toujours, vers l'azur noir
Où tremble la mer des topazes,
Fonctionneront dans ton soir
Les Lys, ces clystères d'extases !

À notre époque de sagous,
Quand les Plantes sont travailleuses,
Le Lys boira les bleus dégoûts
Dans tes Proses religieuses !

- Le lys de monsieur de Kerdrel,
Le Sonnet de mil huit cent trente,
Le Lys qu'on donne au Ménestrel
Avec l'oeillet et l'amarante !

Des lys ! Des lys ! On n'en voit pas !
Et dans ton Vers, tel que les manches
Des Pécheresses aux doux pas,
Toujours frissonnent ces fleurs blanches !

Toujours, Cher, quand tu prends un bain,
Ta chemise aux aisselles blondes
Se gonfle aux brises du matin
Sur les myosotis immondes !

L'amour ne passe à tes octrois
Que les Lilas, - ô balançoires !
Et les Violettes du Bois,
Crachats sucrés des Nymphes noires !...

II

Ô Poètes, quand vous auriez
Les Roses, les Roses soufflées,
Rouges sur tiges de lauriers,
Et de mille octaves enflées !

Quand Banville en ferait neiger,
Sanguinolentes, tournoyantes,
Pochant l'oeil fou de l'étranger
Aux lectures mal bienveillantes !

De vos forêts et de vos prés,
Ô très paisibles photographes !
La Flore est diverse à peu près
Comme des bouchons de carafes !

Toujours les végétaux Français,
Hargneux, phtisiques, ridicules,
Où le ventre des chiens bassets
Navigue en paix, aux crépuscules ;

Toujours, après d'affreux dessins
De Lotos bleus ou d'Hélianthes,
Estampes roses, sujets saints
Pour de jeunes communiantes !

L'Ode Açoka cadre avec la
Strophe en fenêtre de lorette ;
Et de lourds papillons d'éclat
Fientent sur la Pâquerette.

Vieilles verdures, vieux galons !
Ô croquignoles végétales !
Fleurs fantasques des vieux Salons !
- Aux hannetons, pas aux crotales,

Ces poupards végétaux en pleurs
Que Grandville eût mis aux lisières,
Et qu'allaitèrent de couleurs
De méchants astres à visières !

Oui, vos bavures de pipeaux
Font de précieuses glucoses !
- Tas d'oeufs frits dans de vieux chapeaux,
Lys, Açokas, Lilas et Roses !...

III

Ô blanc Chasseur, qui cours sans bas
À travers le Pâtis panique,
Ne peux-tu pas, ne dois-tu pas
Connaître un peu ta botanique ?

Tu ferais succéder, je crains,
Aux Grillons roux les Cantharides,
L'or des Rios au bleu des Rhins, -
Bref, aux Norwèges les Florides :

Mais, Cher, l'Art n'est plus, maintenant,
- C'est la vérité, - de permettre
À l'Eucalyptus étonnant
Des constrictors d'un hexamètre ;

Là !... Comme si les Acajous
Ne servaient, même en nos Guyanes,
Qu'aux cascades des sapajous,
Au lourd délire des lianes !

- En somme, une Fleur, Romarin
Ou Lys, vive ou morte, vaut-elle
Un excrément d'oiseau marin ?
Vaut-elle un seul pleur de chandelle ?

- Et j'ai dit ce que je voulais !
Toi, même assis là-bas, dans une
Cabane de bambous, - volets
Clos, tentures de perse brune, -

Tu torcherais des floraisons
Dignes d'Oises extravagantes !...
- Poète ! ce sont des raisons
Non moins risibles qu'arrogantes !...

IV

Dis, non les pampas printaniers
Noirs d'épouvantables révoltes,
Mais les tabacs, les cotonniers !
Dis les exotiques récoltes !

Dis, front blanc que Phébus tanna,
De combien de dollars se rente
Pedro Velasquez, Habana ;
Incague la mer de Sorrente

Où vont les Cygnes par milliers ;
Que tes strophes soient des réclames
Pour l'abatis des mangliers
Fouillés des Hydres et des lames !

Ton quatrain plonge aux bois sanglants
Et revient proposer aux Hommes
Divers sujets de sucres blancs,
De pectoraires et de gommes !

Sachons parToi si les blondeurs
Des Pics neigeux, vers les Tropiques,
Sont ou des insectes pondeurs
Ou des lichens microscopiques !

Trouve, ô Chasseur, nous le voulons,
Quelques garances parfumées
Que la Nature en pantalons
Fasse éclore ! - pour nos Armées !

Trouve, aux abords du Bois qui dort,
Les fleurs, pareilles à des mufles,
D'où bavent des pommades d'or
Sur les cheveux sombres des Buffles !

Trouve, aux prés fous, où sur le Bleu
Tremble l'argent des pubescences,
Des calices pleins d'Oeufs de feu
Qui cuisent parmi les essences !

Trouve des Chardons cotonneux
Dont dix ânes aux yeux de braises
Travaillent à filer les noeuds !
Trouve des Fleurs qui soient des chaises !

Oui, trouve au coeur des noirs filons
Des fleurs presque pierres, - fameuses ! -
Qui vers leurs durs ovaires blonds
Aient des amygdales gemmeuses !

Sers-nous, ô Farceur, tu le peux,
Sur un plat de vermeil splendide
Des ragoûts de Lys sirupeux
Mordant nos cuillers Alfénide !

V

Quelqu'un dira le grand Amour,
Voleur des sombres Indulgences :
Mais ni Renan, ni le chat Murr
N'ont vu les Bleus Thyrses immenses !

Toi, fais jouer dans nos torpeurs,
Par les parfums les hystéries ;
Exalte-nous vers les candeurs
Plus candides que les Maries...

Commerçant ! colon ! médium !
Ta Rime sourdra, rose ou blanche,
Comme un rayon de sodium,
Comme un caoutchouc qui s'épanche !

De tes noirs Poèmes, - Jongleur !
Blancs, verts, et rouges dioptriques,
Que s'évadent d'étranges fleurs
Et des papillons électriques !

Voilà ! c'est le Siècle d'enfer !
Et les poteaux télégraphiques
Vont orner, - lyre aux chants de fer,
Tes omoplates magnifiques !

Surtout, rime une version
Sur le mal des pommes de terre !
- Et, pour la composition
De poèmes pleins de mystère

Qu'on doive lire de Tréguier
À Paramaribo, rachète
Des Tomes de Monsieur Figuier,
- Illustrés ! - chez Monsieur Hachette !
Gillian Oct 2013
I am here today, but i may not be tomorrow - a hitchhiker i picked up somewhere between Bennington and Marlboro Vermont*


The library at Packer's Corners had
the smell of damp and old
as a lush august climbed the faded
wide wooden planks outside
and we schemed our
nightly dinner theatre performances.
The gang congregated disorderly
across the rocky garden before the (stage) barn,
plates and carafes of wine, rapt in the play.
Marti, a painter with knobby hands, salt and pepper hair,
the face of a sage and a speech impediment;
Veranda must have been a muse with her sharp
bohemian features and sleek black bob,
smelling of rosemary and musky Parisian perfume;
Oona, so young and stormy crashed about
those mountains in moods as protean
as Vermont weather and jeans
that were more holes than fabric;
Cootie, in his black goatee and the scent of
cooking oils under his mottled and freckled skin
would squint through the bugs and heat wave haze
to Marco on the pitcher's mound
scuffing his mortorcycle boots into the
sandy tan soil riddled with stones and
laughing with the reckless abandon that
waters the eyes with antifreeze for the soul
Kathryn Peak Jan 2012
men's feet striking
pavement in unison

understated night
sweeps stars

and city haze
across their eyes

breast pockets
carry scars of wounds past

they do not reach for them

their hands
delicate carafes

pour
into each other's
january 18, 2012

© kathryn peak
Olivia Kent Mar 2015
Daffodils kissed by raindrops ,and he's watching girls in crop tops, again.
They're younger than her, jealous be she at his sad fixations.
She doth concur that jealousy, be an involuntary sensation.
Could be repaired, if he showed her he cared.
He knows not how.
He cannot read her feelings like a book.
A tiny bit too young.
She is so precious, precocious at times.
You give her chocolates and she'll surely whine.
Rose red and white in carafes'.
Chasing tall women as leggy giraffes.
She's captured by the tiger's eye.
Waiting by the garden gate.
How much more must she wait,
For him to ascertain her pain.
Internal mental anguish, ripping apart.
The older gorgeous woman,whose young man stole her heart.
(c) LIVVI
Darren Nov 2014
Vagabond with an empty carboy
Searching through the murk of starlight
Drip the molten ice of winter harsh
And the blooms of his past repitoire
Engulfed inside the ethanol marsh

Conscripts fly through bus of steel
Tails of fire and smoky heal
Through the scar shred ****** sand
And rain a glass downpour
That licked a smile to open addiction

Barrel wash and nebulous hide
The screams in blur of addled mind
Red heat burn the hand with shrapnel
Bodies piled in empty screams
Weave through open mouths their spell

Rolls of tracks and wheeled anger
Windows filled by smiles and raining tears
Cobble graves for those who pass
And carafes for relinquished hands
That cannot escape the felt triggered blast

Flower fields like dispersed astral clouds
Colours sharp as bayonets downed
And rusted worn their armaments
Leave in beauty and fictioned dream
For those who died least be their penance

New asteroids collage in belts
Learn the easiness of their strikes
Have fury boiled by worldly ties
And over brims of forges rise
For they must learn their mental cries

Haggard ruins of their youthful posture
Scars and stains litter uniformed closure
The realities nothing can be described
So shall their children not expect
How holding embers in their grip will blind

Threats in words that once were death
Borders crossed without their step
History just words and relics for sons
And in the eyes blanked with the horror
Lest they be forgotten by any one

Soak whom dines on gangling relief
Desire the amnesiac amber thief
But teachers cannot misplace their sight
Have nothing left for meeting glance
Of a innocent smile asking their right

Stand tall with shaking wounded legs
Shell shocked craters as red pegs
In the global map always in shift
Have lessons for the ones whom wish
To know the proper and the wrong we missed

Dwarfs inside the void of matterless
Black blend into the snowy countenance
While burn the brightness of their parents
From ago before repeated actions
Watch fires live in vivid visions

See the tortured starving faces
Break into a knowing grin
As spectral shadows for the lush
To keep their finger always *****
To the evidence we left so much
Originally written on November 11, 2014.  Thirty fourth poem for the Hundred Theme Challenge by The-Poetry-Cafe on www.deviantart.com
My deviantart profile: http://monocephalized.deviantart.com
Sarah Jan 2017
It's a sound
It's black as the woods
It's unknown and
it burns my tongue.

I measure time
in concertos
&
carafes of coffee
Carafes of blood red wine decorate the table
The crowed softly mingle
Candle light delicately flickers
As you pass, you brush your hand along my thigh to lower back
A brief moment of eye contact
A mischievous smile
A bottom lip bite
Excitement extrudes
I’ve lost track of the people talking at me
I make my excuses
I follow
Into a dimly lit room
The heavy door shuts
Just us
A place where fireworks fly
SCHEDAR Jan 2021
warm
mediterranean
slapping seas
crash up against the asphalt wall
whipping red wine soaked
table cloths
tamed by wobbly carafes
spilling over the
winding bolognese stained cobblestone
Marvel at the windmills
beneath an animated sky
Time ceased to exist
as the two, were absorbed into
the surreal romance of their
first kiss...
À Monsieur Théodore de Banville.

I

Ainsi, toujours, vers l'azur noir
Où tremble la mer des topazes,
Fonctionneront dans ton soir
Les Lys, ces clystères d'extases !

À notre époque de sagous,
Quand les Plantes sont travailleuses,
Le Lys boira les bleus dégoûts
Dans tes Proses religieuses !

- Le lys de monsieur de Kerdrel,
Le Sonnet de mil huit cent trente,
Le Lys qu'on donne au Ménestrel
Avec l'oeillet et l'amarante !

Des lys ! Des lys ! On n'en voit pas !
Et dans ton Vers, tel que les manches
Des Pécheresses aux doux pas,
Toujours frissonnent ces fleurs blanches !

Toujours, Cher, quand tu prends un bain,
Ta chemise aux aisselles blondes
Se gonfle aux brises du matin
Sur les myosotis immondes !

L'amour ne passe à tes octrois
Que les Lilas, - ô balançoires !
Et les Violettes du Bois,
Crachats sucrés des Nymphes noires !...

II

Ô Poètes, quand vous auriez
Les Roses, les Roses soufflées,
Rouges sur tiges de lauriers,
Et de mille octaves enflées !

Quand Banville en ferait neiger,
Sanguinolentes, tournoyantes,
Pochant l'oeil fou de l'étranger
Aux lectures mal bienveillantes !

De vos forêts et de vos prés,
Ô très paisibles photographes !
La Flore est diverse à peu près
Comme des bouchons de carafes !

Toujours les végétaux Français,
Hargneux, phtisiques, ridicules,
Où le ventre des chiens bassets
Navigue en paix, aux crépuscules ;

Toujours, après d'affreux dessins
De Lotos bleus ou d'Hélianthes,
Estampes roses, sujets saints
Pour de jeunes communiantes !

L'Ode Açoka cadre avec la
Strophe en fenêtre de lorette ;
Et de lourds papillons d'éclat
Fientent sur la Pâquerette.

Vieilles verdures, vieux galons !
Ô croquignoles végétales !
Fleurs fantasques des vieux Salons !
- Aux hannetons, pas aux crotales,

Ces poupards végétaux en pleurs
Que Grandville eût mis aux lisières,
Et qu'allaitèrent de couleurs
De méchants astres à visières !

Oui, vos bavures de pipeaux
Font de précieuses glucoses !
- Tas d'oeufs frits dans de vieux chapeaux,
Lys, Açokas, Lilas et Roses !...

III

Ô blanc Chasseur, qui cours sans bas
À travers le Pâtis panique,
Ne peux-tu pas, ne dois-tu pas
Connaître un peu ta botanique ?

Tu ferais succéder, je crains,
Aux Grillons roux les Cantharides,
L'or des Rios au bleu des Rhins, -
Bref, aux Norwèges les Florides :

Mais, Cher, l'Art n'est plus, maintenant,
- C'est la vérité, - de permettre
À l'Eucalyptus étonnant
Des constrictors d'un hexamètre ;

Là !... Comme si les Acajous
Ne servaient, même en nos Guyanes,
Qu'aux cascades des sapajous,
Au lourd délire des lianes !

- En somme, une Fleur, Romarin
Ou Lys, vive ou morte, vaut-elle
Un excrément d'oiseau marin ?
Vaut-elle un seul pleur de chandelle ?

- Et j'ai dit ce que je voulais !
Toi, même assis là-bas, dans une
Cabane de bambous, - volets
Clos, tentures de perse brune, -

Tu torcherais des floraisons
Dignes d'Oises extravagantes !...
- Poète ! ce sont des raisons
Non moins risibles qu'arrogantes !...

IV

Dis, non les pampas printaniers
Noirs d'épouvantables révoltes,
Mais les tabacs, les cotonniers !
Dis les exotiques récoltes !

Dis, front blanc que Phébus tanna,
De combien de dollars se rente
Pedro Velasquez, Habana ;
Incague la mer de Sorrente

Où vont les Cygnes par milliers ;
Que tes strophes soient des réclames
Pour l'abatis des mangliers
Fouillés des Hydres et des lames !

Ton quatrain plonge aux bois sanglants
Et revient proposer aux Hommes
Divers sujets de sucres blancs,
De pectoraires et de gommes !

Sachons parToi si les blondeurs
Des Pics neigeux, vers les Tropiques,
Sont ou des insectes pondeurs
Ou des lichens microscopiques !

Trouve, ô Chasseur, nous le voulons,
Quelques garances parfumées
Que la Nature en pantalons
Fasse éclore ! - pour nos Armées !

Trouve, aux abords du Bois qui dort,
Les fleurs, pareilles à des mufles,
D'où bavent des pommades d'or
Sur les cheveux sombres des Buffles !

Trouve, aux prés fous, où sur le Bleu
Tremble l'argent des pubescences,
Des calices pleins d'Oeufs de feu
Qui cuisent parmi les essences !

Trouve des Chardons cotonneux
Dont dix ânes aux yeux de braises
Travaillent à filer les noeuds !
Trouve des Fleurs qui soient des chaises !

Oui, trouve au coeur des noirs filons
Des fleurs presque pierres, - fameuses ! -
Qui vers leurs durs ovaires blonds
Aient des amygdales gemmeuses !

Sers-nous, ô Farceur, tu le peux,
Sur un plat de vermeil splendide
Des ragoûts de Lys sirupeux
Mordant nos cuillers Alfénide !

V

Quelqu'un dira le grand Amour,
Voleur des sombres Indulgences :
Mais ni Renan, ni le chat Murr
N'ont vu les Bleus Thyrses immenses !

Toi, fais jouer dans nos torpeurs,
Par les parfums les hystéries ;
Exalte-nous vers les candeurs
Plus candides que les Maries...

Commerçant ! colon ! médium !
Ta Rime sourdra, rose ou blanche,
Comme un rayon de sodium,
Comme un caoutchouc qui s'épanche !

De tes noirs Poèmes, - Jongleur !
Blancs, verts, et rouges dioptriques,
Que s'évadent d'étranges fleurs
Et des papillons électriques !

Voilà ! c'est le Siècle d'enfer !
Et les poteaux télégraphiques
Vont orner, - lyre aux chants de fer,
Tes omoplates magnifiques !

Surtout, rime une version
Sur le mal des pommes de terre !
- Et, pour la composition
De poèmes pleins de mystère

Qu'on doive lire de Tréguier
À Paramaribo, rachète
Des Tomes de Monsieur Figuier,
- Illustrés ! - chez Monsieur Hachette !
Food lacking taste ,
bland piles of paste
Steaming mounds of dead -
animals and plants served -
on a porcelain platter
Painstakingly hand stitched serviettes , glowing candelabras and chandeliers
A fork for this , a spoon for that
Silver ladles and oak tables
Sharp knives , brass covers ,
spatulas and carafes
A prayer before the vanquished are -
consumed followed by the highly
choreographed dance of the plates
The dinner ballet begins
Utensils clinging , bowls clanging -
Ice cubes striking glass
The music of the feast , the consumption
of the beast
Blood collecting in the corners of -
the mouth
King Protein controls the conflagration -
of gluttony like the conductor leads -
his orchestra
Voracious ramblings
Pining for more and more* ....
Copyright February 3 , 2018 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Zachary William Jun 2018
This coffee shop
serves its tea
in small lightbulb
shaped carafes
and I appreciate that
because
all the best ideas
have been had
over a cup of tea
zebra Jan 2021
mountains of blue tunnels
run through arteries of rock
imperceptible blue ball in a black sea of pitchforks
float grizzled faced giants
built out of spectacular cataclysms
in pounded stumps
in eternal night
in intoxicating beauty
careen ragged Titans

their mouths
flaming windows and scorched thoraxes
with a thousand spinning eyes
burn flybys
deviant stone **** shaped meteors
cull  from an infinitude of minutiae
formed accretions   gutted pierced
pocked and blunt
******* the black mother
in a sea of the wicked gorgeous marble stars
those ancestral monsters of glory and hell

my refuge
a dancing mad woman
with lush lips like ***** flowers
thighs like oily carafes
her eyes grin spaceships
and swing ******* like hams

her mouth     her mouth
a gaggle of spruced ******
hungry hips sway
a belly  a belly dance of chimes and bells
the smoking heart trembles with art and love
the trembling mind burns with over spilling moons

bare feet tender still
like silk dances to the shake
of cymbals and drums
wandering resolute on broken roads
in rooms of mice
terrified of fate and broad thin skies
in the shapes of gorgons
that stare down    reflecting
that i may know myself and bare up
like puzzles that fit in pictures
of endless fragments
and legends of desire

oratory serpents
clatter in a persuasive dream
a paralyzed consciousness
reveal barbiturates with legs
in fur coats
that shed watery memories
caressing corralled limbs
that spin skulls and speak
in French kisses
and ****** tongues

the burning bush burns
in a global crisis
leaving a deserted Jesus
with nailed hands
clawing torments claw
though crossed planked halos
milled by innocents
and admonishments and laws
to **** with me
so I **** with it
while rafting angry gods and devils
encircle in a white faced sky
all vying for the top spot
while sledge hammering
power brokers and hells bankers
terrorize me?

before i die
my heart and torso a blood sabbath
i invoke voodoo like a witch
in dark woods dim din
trolling in a ditch, a twitch, a stitch
a spiraling babble of sonorous tongues
invocations that shiver the cosmos
and rip the vaults of heaven

only to cascade
with tears that fall
like descending venetian blinds
kissing Babylon's feet
in a turning spell on mythological firmaments
of circles within circles
burning incense
and ******* in her hair and spit
until she appears just so
eye to eye in a distant life
and i am born
in her sweet wet mouth
Michael Stefan Apr 2020
(continuation of my poem "Coriander and Ash")

Giant evening table
Bearing rotten fruit
Root vegetables
Take root
Anchored in oak

Tarnished silver plates
With bent utensil
Made to cut
Through meat-
Rife with gangrenous
Marbling

Carafes of red vinegar
In skeletal hands
Adorned with golden rings
Mirroring
Golden chalices
Absent of glimmering jewels

Stained napkins
Lay in laps
With chalice raised
To sallow lips
Dying collared dinner shirts
And yellowed evening blazers
Black in candlelight

— The End —