"cataclysm" poems
A populace filled with totalitarian tranquility
The supposition that the world is in a harmonic homeostasis
Blissful ignorance that leads to careless calamity
Amid the uproar of the most populated of places
Therein lies the seed of humanity’s deceptive destruction
A solitary host housing a virulent virus
Infectious disease that proceeds crisis and corruption
Hope only stands with the powerful and pious
Prognosis describes communicable cannibalism
Rabid outbursts show signs of voracious violence
The harrowing pandemic leads to ceaseless cataclysm
Cities and towns suspended in systemic silence
Habitations riddled with gratuitous gore
Hope fades in the wake of the crimson carnage
The pestilent hoard feeds to a glutton’s galore
The Author of humanity publishes the final page
The closing verse rains down a rapturous recompense
The high cost of a dense population paid at humanity’s existential expense
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *********
with a heart made of silver.
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:00 PM UTC
My back is tight, knotted
I'm not entirely sure why
But I would trap a dozen
Eskimos for a massage, honestly
Enter the sad realization that, despite
Bruno's good intentions, he is unable to
Fulfill this request with paws
Oh, but that's alright
It's one of those half-hearted dreams
That drifts along in wispy bits
Every now and again
To whisper and invoke a peace
Within the cataclysm, but don't dare
Turn around, or it will be
Gone
Like the ghostly fingers untying me
One loop at a time because
They've lost the scissors
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 5:42 PM UTC
And if you look
Hard enough
Into tomorrow
You will see the
Future,
I will create.
Not out of hope.
Not out of love.
But out of persistence
In failure
And the strength
Of disobedience.
I am not a ray of light.
I am
A
Cataclysm.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 1:34 AM UTC
"When a person is born it's a blessed time,
Albeit a person is in love it's a splendid era,
When that person perishes it is a bereaved era,
Albeit Love of two people expires it's a cataclysm,
Vestige as we used to sit there on the littoral,
As the dusk of the winds would blow the sand,
The sand pursues into your long black hair,
Visage your dark green eyes and a beauty of a smile,
All times I have enjoyed greatly also suffered greatly,
Times you loved me and alone on the shore,
It is an perpetual power that as my utopia,
Is me ichorous of our love moments together,
Afore us lies the port and a skimming ocean liner,
As we slowly see an alluvion gloom in the darkness,
Legions of souls drudged here in day and night,
Above gusting drifts the rainy constellation of stars,
As we gambol in our fervor of cognizance of love in our
Utopia Ichorous"
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/03/2018 © Posted HP/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
Flooded and doomed alone I stand
Helplessly watching my people fall out of my hand
I wish I could quaff down this copious water
And save them all from this clutter
It takes me back to the bloodshed
When innocent Kashmiris time and again bled
For a war that thrived for my land and soil
Helplessly watching it made my heart coil
I wish to break into a million pieces
When I watch these sorrowful bruised faces
But I am the king of the north
I need to stand tall and face the wrath.
But oh Allah, tell me why do my people suffer?
Can you give me the power to buffer?
I, Jammu & Kashmir plead you to glorify us all
We cannot take another fall
I dream of a day full of joy
Where guns are never replicated even as a toy
I dream of freedom from all bad omen
Please bless each animal, child, man and women.
The people of Pakistan and India are welcome on my land
Only with friendly non-armed hands.
You have no rights to claim me
I am the creator’s property, you shouldn't break me.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
Tech tonics and honesty following repeated offerings to beings I don't think, think that I belong anymore.
Not that it bothers me I'm used to feeding apologies to cretins who'd like to think they walk on water
I dropped the scene along with anyone I met that shed a tear or was met with fear at the thought of me in harm I think
I can't love again
And what's worse is that you couldn't care less
I'm not a monster, but you treated me just like the ones in your head, yet I told you things to doubt when you never should've
You had no business saying you loved me in the first
I fell after, I can't handle my emotions, thoughts, I've lost my confidence and I don't care enough to get it back.
Your now engaged to a guy you introduced me to. **** you.
I wish I could even hate you, but I only hate myself. WHY.
I wish for death, or destruction, or cataclysm, or flood, or plague
I'm an empty vessel, ready to become
Undone.
Hooray.
(Update I’m getting better)
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 2:13 AM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125
Allegro ma non troppo
The silence gives way gently
to quiet tremolos rustling
beneath the beckoning
call of distant horns.
A melodic cell, nascent in violins,
spirals down to the somber depths
of cello and contrabass.
A sudden cataclysm
shakes the hall like thunder
heralding our universal birth.
Gales of sonic force
splashed like turbulent waves
against the rocky shores.
Drifting sans glass or sextant
on a sea of expanding mystery,
we gaze to the heavens
in hopes for a glimpse
of our father’s aetherial dwelling.
Molto vivace
With hands intertwined,
we dance in a ring
to the capricious airs
of the laughing gods
with Zeus himself on timpani.
So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor
and fill your glass to the brim!
For today is yesterday’s morrow
and tomorrow’s history.
Adagio molto e cantabile
There is no greater and more healing light
than the candles that shine
in the eyes of a friend
or loving spouse -
tenderly lighting our paths
through the storms and fogs
that cloud our lives.
Peace abides in a friend's embrace.
An die Freude
Against raging storms of
strife and sorrow.
we hear a healing voice
A calm cello hymn -
that migrates up to higher cords
of violas and violins -
breaking into joyous song
sung by trumpets, winds and drums.
Casting all shrillness of discord aside,
a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode -
and sings of Elysium’s daughter.
Quartet and chorus enter in
proclaiming hope for the human family,
A tenor raises a stein to valor
in the company of his friends.
The quiet pulsing of horns and winds
ushers in torrents of ecstasy.
Arms clasped in communal embrace,
we gaze to heaven on bended knees
then rise with a majestic fugue
that illuminates our souls
like a blazing Alpine dawn.
In a cyclone of passion,
Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes
entreat us to restore
what custom has rent apart
that each of us may live our lives
as brothers in heavenly sanctuary.
May 25, 2007
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
On the day Liz Taylor died,
CNN called Larry King
out of retirement to
eulogize her during
the mornings
breakfast segment.
Tears were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
TEPCO stated that one
of the Fukushima nuclear
reactors was on fire.
Tears of cataclysm
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
government officials warned
that Tokyo's water was
contaminated with
radiation and was not fit
for infants to drink.
Tears of anguish
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
the crew of the
USS Ronald Reagan
scrubbed the deck
clean of TEPCO
radiation.
Tears of worry
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
Oregonians rushed out to
buy potassium iodine
tablets to counteract
radiation poisoning.
Tears of affliction
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
NATO forces continued
to fire missiles and drop
bombs on Libya.
Tears of agony
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
a terrorist bomb exploded
in Jerusalem, killing one
and injuring many.
Tears of vengeance
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
the Syrian Army fired on
demonstrators
calling for reforms.
Tears of hostility
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
The USA Today reported
that during the past decade
the population of Detroit
declined by 25%.
Tears of loss
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
a dilapidated brownstone
in Philadelphia collapsed;
city officials expect
many more to occur.
Tears of distress
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
President Obama cut
short his Latin American
trip by skipping a tour of
Mayan ruins.
Tears of dismay
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died
the Dow Jones Industrial
Average closed
up 67.39 points.
Tears of joy
were shed.
On the day Liz Taylor died,
Elton John dedicated the song,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
to the memory of his departed friend.
Tears were shed.
You Tube Music Video:
Elton John,
Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me
Lewes DE
3/23/11
jbm
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
An amorphous cave hides behind a cascading flow of crystalline blue, sparkling and shining like radiant glass.
Inside the incandescent cave, an effervescent and ephemeral scent of dulcet cinnamon coalesces into the air of the inside of this seemingly halcyon cave.
The feelings, the emotions, the sights, all too inexorable in it's ineffable reality. It calls out, with it's mellifluous and beautiful, languid and sirenic voice, incandescent with epiphany,
"Come child of man, meet me, greet me, welcome me, me as the idyllic felicity some dare to even dream of, and then let me embrace you and enrapture you and encompass you in my incorporeal and frozen, evanescent tranquility."
This ephemeral and serene cave now even murmurs and sings a tranquil symphony suffused with rhapsodic zeniths.
It... It truly was ephemeral...
A horrible shriek, a shrill and a repulsive and repugnant and rancid smell. A decrepit cacophony of hollow, anguished wailing and screaming. Pain at my soul, and a harsh, hoarse and coarse voice filled with slaughter and cataclysm. A grotesque, hirsute maladroit leech, visceral and shunned from everything and everyone, even the Earth itself...
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
H arrowing abundance rife with result
O ur minds narrowly try to cope
U nder pressure facades and near **** haute
R estricts the leisure of bare beauty
G rowing impatient by the cover of makeup
L oving imperfection is now a rare duty
A ttributes of wear benign hope and
S ecede scars born of cataclysm while
S carcely inhibiting a chance to forgive them
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
It was upon the whim of an ancient cataclysm,
That brought forth the faith of naturalism.
The praying of saints and sinners alike, whether in the grave or still full of life.
A judge of true light to be heralded as grand,
Receives the effort of an avenging plight.
Remember in darkness where the truth lies, as it lies in the beholder's eye.
Trick our souls into feeling the withering cause of death.
With one last stroke we shall take expel our breath.
Break down these barriers and how they exist,
Make all divinity crash down with it.
What gods may conquer, they shall never control.
For the armies of faith and secularism will be in turmoil.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:15 AM UTC
Faced with the change
And I smile
The world is going to hell
And I smile
Death and decay
Sokes my soal
And I smile
Smile
That's what they see
As I fold
Into demise
I am crippled
And I walk with out a limp
To make the univers happy
They see what they want
Never the war under the skin
The casualty's of my soal
It's Ignored
Never noteised
I am wounded
And still I'm stab
I been at the edge of the cataclysm
Holding every one back
Not wanting them to end
Even if I do
But at the edge of demise
For the first time I smile
Sincearly
And let the people
Who caused me pain
And those who have not
To parish in the chasm
And on that night I could not
Smile
The wars was over
The casualty's was counted
And I waited for the sun
To show my sins
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 11:18 AM UTC
we spill
out
into the dark
Sanguine moon
watching
your
guiding hands
and mine lead
so softly
to the lily-vellum of your thighs
then
a fuse-spark
a cataclysm of ruffled
skirt
hands on your apocalyptic hips
your lips are rhododendron honey
your lips are codeine
mellifluous and urgent
as the pressing heat of a black summer night.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
You sit daintily on her lap
And everything’s a frenzy
Not a sunset fiesta
But an angry cataclysm of molecules
Ricocheting into hysterical radioactivity
And I sit quietly
Warily
I watch mine become hers
During brief moments
Of searing mania and the pit
Of my core is unraveling
And my heart is two patters too quick
In the most sedated of ways
On days when the wrinkles of your hands
Match another’s
And when you are no longer my own.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
Clashing lights from the shadows;
Thundering in constant motion
Red swarms overtaking the blue nights,
A grand disturbance -
Raging through the cosmos
Shifting the course of this endless strife
(Wake up now,
We have misconstrued our fate)
Spiraling forth, into nebulous unknown
The force flows from within;
Embrace the cause -
To restore a balance lost aeons ago
Gears turning towards a lie
Deceived by peace
Crucial moments for the light;
Two tides collide
Detrimental,
Sacrifices,
Interstellar transmutation
Exiled till, the return of the progeny
Remnants of the order
Confined to, the corners of the galaxy
Strengthened, by the chosen one
Fallen hero;
Exalts into gradeur
Shining greater than the stars
Universal luminescence
Macrocosmic ~
As Above So Below
Frequencies resonating,
Constructing wretched Elysium
Eternal cataclysm,
Decimation
A massive surge of power;
Lost, following the stars of scripture
Kingdoms falling one by one ~
NOVUS ORDO
Symmetry unfolds
Visions pass
Fallacies expose
Divine excursion
Escape the stasis
Elevate, frame of mind
Amidst resistance;
Ignite lucidity
Harmony engulfs,
This fractured existence
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
stay
fight
cataclysm
summary
resistant
eyebrow
crackle
dinner
fishhook
blunt
tribute
margarine
widow
****
scar
glory
elephant
planet
swallow
forget
blanket
fear
smooth
black
vent
curvy
translation
smooth
warrant
concussion
fluid
red
airway
postmark
testament
carpet
denial
flex
touch
real
married
armchair
sink
ebb
soft
touché
foam
stone
float
torn
away
see
tremor
marrow
bright
side
god
deep
hurry
inject
wither
moon
noun
full
stop
wild
year
done
everyone
enough
disco
skin
same
dream
chest
roses
proof
tacit
dire
soul
posit
wide
shy
city
run
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
I look up at the chaos around me
and see.
I see people saying their last prayers,
Waiting for their fateful endings,
I hear the church bell toll in its last call,
I feel the suffocating heat from the burning buildings,
I smell the smoke from the ignited city,
I taste the desperation in the air and the bitterness of regrets.
But in the middle of this tumult,
One thing stands out;
One person.
A little boy stands there in a tan attire,
dark gray ash contrasting his almost-white hair
and tears stains on his ivory cheeks.
A grim expression marking his features,
He shakes as if freezing
and although the heat has almost become unbearable,
he stands in the middle of the flames
barefoot yet unharmed.
A scythe lays at his feet,
and a pale horse stands by his side,
making his small body look even smaller.
As if feeling my stare,
he locks eyes with me.
And as the world burns down,
the reflection of the cataclysm in his brown eyes
and the look of innocent incomprehension he wears
is the single most heartbreaking thing in the moment.
Suddenly, I do not care about the screams and cry of the despondent goners.
I do not feel the harsh scorch of the burnt remains under my bare feet.
I do not mind the tears welling up in my eyes due to the fumes.
They are but a distant reminder of the atrocity surrounding me.
I can only focus on the strange guilt reflected in his warm eyes.
From those same eyes, a tear rolls down his cheeks
And as it reaches his dimpled chin,
he raises a little hand to wipe it away
And then waves at me.
I do not wave back,
too stunned to move or react,
But I could tell he did not expect me to anyways.
With one last look,
he picks up the scythe with an unusual easiness
and turns to walk towards the flames,
the horse close behind him.
And soon, they are one with the flames.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
how long to live through the next thought
to have a brief encounter with time
an impossible time of intolerable anguish
where embarking upon a sentence
is a violent wrench from perceived notions
of reality, one that causes nerves
to flay upon my body with weal's of words
where vatic poetry is wrought in trembling rages
spilling, dripping upon the traumatised
parchment that is my pages
in de-congealing interrelated drops of image
that crack the pavements
in a visual vibrancy of taut creative tension
where these words keep their own company
and speak in interrogative tongues
causing a fragmentation of earthquake fissures
to radiate across my mind in a cataclysm
of universal poison that quiets and dissolves stability
and asks, no demands of me, what can you see?
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
All weapons of
the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
this pen I wield
The power to
articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
to detonate
The conflicts waged
gambling mankind
My perfect hand
is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
battlefront
With metaphors
of mindless drones
Like similes
to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
and IED's
Can't build bridges
like ABC's
Or tear them down
with death regimes
By rusting through
the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
verbal grenade
With ****** noun
scorched-earth tirade
On militant
cold-blood elite
King cobras know
I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
resolution
Winged raptor
devolution
Prehistoric
barbarism
Literacy
cataclysm
Stockpiling
extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
fallout stones
My Hiroshima
prose explodes
With nuclear
bushido codes
Released from my
katana's ward
To free my press
from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
imagery
And samurai
epigraphy
Expressions of
my ronin soul
Omitted by
the daimyo
Satsuma is my
poetry
My final draft's
Nagasaki
Ink cartridges
strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
or background check
And ****** every
live round free
Of innocent
blood elegy
And killing sprees
of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
black and blues
A Number 2
pencil dependent
Obsolete
lead-head amendment
Open carry
shoots a blank
Empty shell case
at my think tank
So grip this peace
then **** and pull it
**** my diction
write the bullet
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted
Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless
Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble
You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly
Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible
I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion
After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles
After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge
In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel
In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
[begin transmission]
Little mean marble,
the grasshopper lies heavy,
riding storms
and trailing winds,
eating dystopia
right out of the box
suns and daughters
of the cataclysm
sit about a space
cadet's campfire,
hints of alien sand
in their voices
it so oddly resembles
vast outland libretto,
that breathe of menace,
inside sojourners
holding tickets to ride
tramlines on shuttle days
swarming with
Walter Mitty groupies
and econowives,
transporting **** rapture,
and/or reproduction to worlds
of public domain
one day we'll settle here,
one day, with bowed heads,
we'll kiss the splendor
of its red ruination
[end transmission]
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 8:21 AM UTC
the polished hand of admirers heralding a new poem
they have come so often to rub their eyes on your ink-stained page
leaving behind papercuts of emotion with which they grieve
for the words you spread on their sweaty palms
the polished hand of admirers...
wet with anticipation of the latest beachside laughing clown
he is a walking breathing cataclysm written for her comforts
written in adoration's delight and true loves of her tender hand
she lay in amongst your pages on the bedspread
like a spilled wine **** to the tongue of sensibility
like a spilled wine that intoxicates and leaves
watch her swaying hips fade away into darkness
she will bounce and glide on another man's stripper pole
if you fail to call her back...
the polished hand of admirers heralding your waking thought
muted cheers as your pen makes wicked strokes on empty page
like a dancing blade carving your wooden words
till they sing like beauties breath on cold still air
till she is your warmth wrapped so delicately in your twisted bedsheets
she mutters a cough as she puts flame to cigarette
and smiles at your attentions
she is a living poem
that you write ink and page
the polished hand of admirers will never see
how pure simple ***** girl is so intoxicating
how lush and enticing her gyrating beneath you really is
the polished hand of admirers like you go to bed and sleep
while your dreams are of her dancing swift and sweet
theirs are the dreams of pens cutting on page
like a dancing blade carving wooden words
© 2016 mark john junor all rights reserved
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC