"clangor" poems
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
It was not a heart, beating.
That muted boom, that clangor
Far off, not blood in the ears
Drumming up and fever
To impose on the evening.
The noise came from outside:
A metal detonating
Native, evidently, to
These stilled suburbs nobody
Startled at it, though the sound
Shook the ground with its pounding.
It took a root at my coming
Till the thudding shource, exposed,
Counfounded in wept guesswork:
Framed in windows of Main Street's
Silver factory, immense
Hammers hoisted, wheels turning,
Stalled, let fall their vertical
Tonnage of metal and wood;
Stunned in marrow. Men in white
Undershirts circled, tending
Without stop those greased machines,
Tending, without stop, the blunt
Indefatigable fact.
8k
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
nestled in its comfortable corner of the marsh,
lays nine-thousand acres of soggy southern soil and sweetgrass.
here the hands of the clock carelessly play a lazy leapfrog
as tranquil transformations of pidgin make for musing murmurs.
the clangor of crickets lulling the weary ears to sleep,
as nocturnal creatures nimbly parade over placid, brackish water.
rotting wood stilts sink softly into the not-exactly-quicksand,
the last ferry makes a wake while winding to the next *******
father time is in no hurry here.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
Gira
la negra,
gira
la luna,
gira
la negra luna,
sobre sí propia,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita,
gira la negra luna de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-¡Bah! ¡Canciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Viva!
Oye el Viaje de Invierno, de Franz Schubert,
y el Rey de los Alisos,
y El Doble y Ganímedes y Ante el mar,
y de Schumann, Amores de un poeta,
y de Dupare, Invitación al viaje
y La vida anterior...,
y de Chopín, Preludios y Nocturnos:
tú, soñador romántico; tú, doliente elegíaco.
Oye la voz serena,
la voz profunda oye
de Bach -añosa encina,
inmensurable selva, órgano él mismo y templo
de la harmonía-:
tú, sereno y profundo.
Y de Mozart el diáfano y sortílego,
y de Haydn y Franck, la cortesana
y la mística voz, inconfundibles,
tú, gustador de lo pulcro y etéreo.
Los Cánticos y Danzas de la Muerte,
y Sin sol, de Musorgski,
tú, angustiado, febril, hiperestésico;
y Borís Godunov, Borís Godunov, oye,
(bárbara gesta, miedo, sangre, lujuria y fausto)
tú, Sátrapa en los sueños...
Y, catador sutil de quintaesencias,
gusta la mediatinta debussyana,
pesquisidora de inusados timbres
y lontanos acordes, 1
en un dorado ambiente de calígine.
Y, borracho de lumbres y colores,
Óye, de Rímski, Antar y Xeherazada
y el Gallo de oro -vértigo y lascivia-:
mas, si de ritmos ebrio, tú, frenético
danzarín, danza todas las furias de Stravínski
-del sabio y del bufón mezcladas dósis-:
fino humor ricos timbres, forma clara 2
(sobria, o en concertado cataclismo).
Y oye, en la noche, y en Tristán e Iseo,
la voz vigía de Brangane, plena
de lo fatal, o el corno quejumbroso;
si no los Funerales de Sigfrido;
o el Tránsito al Valhalla, milagroso tumulto.
Y tú, plasmado en bronce, los vastos himnos oye,
óye las soberanas sinfonías
con que la voz del Sordo el orbe nutre!
Las acendradas síntesis:
sonatas y quátuors, insólito prodigio, filtros puros:
la Misa en re, misterio panteísta,
denso peán a la Naturaleza!
Y el trágico clangor de Coriolano...:
oye la voz del Indomado Prometeo,
oye la voz del Sordo, oye la voz del Sordo!
Gira la negra luna,
gira
sobre sí propia,
gira la negra luna de ebonita,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-Bah! Ficciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Misma!
1.6k
Bells within
cause clangor,
drown
sounds that
currents make as
they boil past-
we go in
opposite.
White lie servants,
steering the wheel so
far south,
how could we not
go down?
No Captain to
guide.
And though this
vessel's shared,
We've proven only
mock shipmates.
Churning swifts keep all
aboard-
Ship clutch tenants
close.
All at once trapped
and
left behind.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Look through the fence, you see that beast there?
That tense lump of muscle and mange-ridden hair?
That's old Scrapyard Spike, and this is his lair;
Don't tread in his yard on adventure nor dare.
Old Scrapyard Spike, he's been a-weathered for years;
In his chain-link domain, rain-soaked despair.
Unfed in the morning, watered only with tears;
Unsheltered from squalls, corroded by glare.
Now poor Scrapyard Spike wasn't always so old,
When he was a puppy, they told him they loved him;
But when he grew up, he had to make friends with the cold,
For with the clink of a fence, he was thrown out on a whim
So Spike spent his days alone with his chain;
He sweltered at noon and slept wet with the rain;
And all those who passed him discounted his pain:
"He's just an old cur" was the daily refrain
And then one cold day, a girl found her way in;
Her flesh on her bones, blood coursing unspilled.
Old Spike smelled her first, his chain went a-slitherin'
And the lost child stood rooted, her every nerve chilled.
The silence of metal, broken plastic and glass,
The beast came a-running, his chain length a ploy;
And jaws opened wide as he lunged for the lass;
But when his head pressed her thigh, he whimpered with joy.
Old Spike raised the call with a manticore's thunder;
A summoning cast with his lungs' every strain.
She petted him gently, whose care she was under,
Though his poor heart convulsed as he looked back at his chain.
The clangor succeeded, a blue-clad protector
Saw the beast at her heel, and he drew as he lept;
An ounce of hot metal found Scrapyard Spike's skull,
And the last thing he heard was his friend as she wept.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
God granted me a gentle friend
to grieve my growing with me.
Of all the gifts in all the world,
He chose the best to give me.
God granted me a gentle friend
to cheer the changes coming;
to add the music to the words,
the chording with the strumming.
God granted me a gentle friend,
and when the doubts came creeping,
he sent me friends and friends again.
My heart was filled to weeping.
God granted me some gentle friends
who love me in my anger.
They hear the faith within the fire -
the care within the clangor.
God granted me some gentle friends
who show me they respect me.
They share the man they see in me;
I learn how to accept me.
God granted me some gentle friends,
each visit a thanks-giving.
Each friend a vision of Himself
to guide me in my living.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
There have been times I've been lost all alone
18 years old and without a home
I robbed and I stole, and I let it be known...
I'll slice your throat, and cut to the bone
swabbin' the deck and walkin' the plank
clangor and crash, clatter and clank
I had myself and the devil to thank
swillin' down whiskey, I drank and I drank
batten the hatches, there's rough seas ahead
sterns would be broke and sails would be shred
splatter his guts and off with his head
let dead men lie where they've made their bed
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
Uncaring minutes are but passersby
disregarding my wails.
They hear me; they offer no help.
Though, with only sixty seconds to exist,
why would they stop for me?
The hours pound against my skull with intent to smash their way in.
Such constant clangor resonates through my consciousness
disturbs my ego,
dislodges regrets,
the agitation seems to sieve out
tiny jealousies from among other thoughts.
The Days...
Oh those ********* Days.
They see me confused and seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
And here time really sets in.
The Months form gangs called 'Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled, and creaking,
I languish in fantasies of what's supposed to be,
oh, and the 'might-have-beens'.
Time makes things worse.
A dark shadow moves over me.
I look up as far as a heavy, beaten head will allow
only to see the massive, soul-crushing weight of the decades
seating their backside;
oppressively,
down to rest upon my twig-like spine.
Snap
And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low lying state on the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
swift inset of love's Sanskrit,
a thorn of contestations.
make cadence this sensorial music.
centrifugally waiting bodies
to cross Earths.
a plethora of annulments.
lion-telling Sun singes through intersections of infinities:
we cannot wait to quash
the morning, the scent of guava leaves
and the cerement of flour on chicken.
earth-hewn mounds of meat pressed
against beholden kitchen clangor.
declension of memory past wood
and pillars of home. lattices of light
forerunning fingers, let down the curtain.
wind swings with maddened turbine,
afternoons high with deadlock.
of all that is not here, the force
reawakens a long-stumped ******
beating us back to edges ruthless
with angels entirely curved, singled-out,
wings clipped, dancing at the tip
of the candleflame.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
Ceaseless now the charges
Come further upon the front
Crashing 'gainst the openings of each
Clangor and madness
Coalesce to form death
Dripping anew with sanguine libations
Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country
Dionysian warriors return,
Desire forming their mental undulations
Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes
Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the
Entirety of their selves.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
y speaking breath
l take
p timidly
e (yearning sweltering swelling fire
e and cut languidly
t the shape of subtle
s carnal clangor;into the passive
mound of my coffee hard
embolism) an anabolic
shriveling eruptioning
testosterone fountain
i,m not my own. at this quivering
plussing of my heady gobble
i,m
only stone softly
ungently
an engine
of pure
dirty
pumping
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
1.
I am optimistic enough this day clings to the highest mast,
is now born out of prophecy.
I pass by the old mirror: see myself: blear myself:
is blot to canvas, slit from the wrist of this home:
I witness how it is to sustain beatings.
2.
In the empty lot, age 9, we wrung frangipanis and ruined
the pedicle somehow a map of a history where this ground
shook that was once an old cathedral. We blew
bubbles out in the haziest of days, pallid and droopy
the clouds identify in their short collisions – the stream that was
the sky
the face of my mother when found news of my would-be death
1996, Kawasaki my mother's clutch on the soiled linen
beginning an autopsy
3.
I conjure a frayed upon image of death in its colloquial.
a fractal of mistakes taken as righting out. I sense prognostication
when potential for a satisfied framed encounter or out of luck that was
a night making all of this less than total.
I remember the discoloration of the many lights – the sky beginning an
erratum: this could have been your last – what is exacted here
like a tarot, the culprit a newfangled man in the rearview mirror.
4.
How can I forget you – all of you? You wear light like karsunsilyo.
You are all flowers I arrive at a contusion of gardens.
Rinse me with light – abandon me after.
5.
Made air staler. Dew my maiden when lit
from the matutinal – in tow, a bedraggled kite soaring in the heat
one distinct summer,
wish it pure that was I, almost touching the vermillion,
my faintest image of freedom was a bird trapped in between
the venetian.
6.
In a dream, I am pursued by a train in an alley – in the next scene,
I am being forced to take a plunge
into a chasm: the fall did not scare me – but my acquiescence
made me flinch: standing before space, anesthetizing
the skin so it made me more than metal, the clangor
suggests a tragedy. Awakened by violent nudges
from my mother: it was the New Year. Pyrotechnics paint the sky
over and over an ephemera in the bleak behemoth of this:
a makeshift home ruined by untranslatable music
the sound of rain at 11 in the afternoon and a nearby funeral.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
After the dazzle of day is gone,
Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars;
After the clangor of ***** majestic, or chorus, or perfect band,
Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
I remember being 5 years into this life of mine, one yet unfinished; and my big sister had a little friend. Her little friend brought into our little house a little keyboard. Our little house for our big family that we lived in for a little while, which had never contained within its walls a musical instrument of any kind or any size, until that day. The day that that little friend of my big sister brought in, her board of keys. I was fascinated with it immediately, but me being the youngest, I had to not so patiently wait my turn as each of my siblings toyed with the instrument of my fancy with horrid cacophonies coming from the holed up speaker beneath holes placed there for sound passage. I was a quiet mouse of a lad back then, but I wanted to scream at my lung tops, " For the love of all that is sacred! can you cease hitting those thingies little friend of big sister calls keys?" I was patient in those days of youth, but I have always been annoyed by clangor and repetition. Finally, after all others, I got my chance to have my hand on those plastic keys which beckoned me from the moment I saw them. Finally, I would discover something about myself, I did not yet know it, because I hadn't yet cracked my fingers nor stretched them as per the instructions of the little friend of my big sister. So I did so. I was ready. I was excited. I had no idea what a chord was! So, I hit one key that simply called my name with vibes. I hit that key. I recognized it! So I tried to mimic the song I recognized it from. It was a song that had just been playing on the radio earlier. I pressed another key which seemed logically the next progression to match sonically the song which had been playing earlier. When I had finished hitting the keys I had seemingly subconsciously selected, I had played the intro and main section of the popular at that time song "Lean On Me" without one mistake. The big father of the little friend of my big sister said, "You have perfect pitch hearing, that is a rare gift!" My family gave me three cheers... and I walked into a corner like I had done something wrong. I felt filled with Joy and empty inside at the same time. I felt guilty because the little friend of my big sister who had the big father, looked down at the floor with tears in her eyes... she said, "Daddy, I have taken lessons for years and have played much more difficult pieces than he did, and you never showed that kind of pride in me." I never touched another instrument until 13 or 14 years into this life of mine, one yet unfinished -and I pray that little friend with a big clueless father gained the attention she deserved more than I.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
The love I hold, tempered by my anger.
I see so much, and yet I cannot take.
Ears they burst from never ending clangor.
The smile I show is oh so very fake.
The care I clench forced me as a hermit.
Buried within this pristine outer shell.
Hatred abound, and the news confirm it.
Would not show my face till the devil fell.
For wishing someone would come to save me,
I love the world. Alas, I hate myself.
The world outside seems to be so crazy.
That’s why I leave the Bible on the shelf.
Oh, God! Oh, God! I pray for your guidance.
But I’ve become cozy with your silence.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his execratory eventuation evocative expletives, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 7:55 PM UTC
The rain was never so deafening. It always has been a melody to my ears. Its soothing cadence adorning the downpour. As every drop hits a note as all fall and sing a song.
But that afternoon was different. Each raindrop touched earth like a fallen angel, crashing. Plunging just too hard it brought no anthem but virulent clangor.
To my dismay, there was not a song anymore, but screams of grief.
Just too violent, it fell. Carving through land like how you carved the memory of you on me. And splashed into bits and gone like it was never there. But the remains of the earth never lie. Like the dark smears below my eyes.
The land, my love, eroded,
the rain left.
My heart, my love, broken,
Then you left.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his execratory eventuation evocative expletives, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shade in the shadow of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 12:33 AM UTC
The first pit is of meaningless
Corridors of faithlessness
Through lonely caverns wandering
A labyrinth of pondering
Then desire gathers squalls
Through restless halls and chamber walls
A tempest surge of carnal lust
Eroding true love's kiss to dust
I hunger for her poison bite
Insatiable my appetite
My penance now an icy rain
Frost-blighting teeth consume my pain
So I seek shelter from the cold
In hollow warmth of things I hold
Possessed by tangibility
Expended in a gilded sea
Poured as rivers fraught with anger
Selfish souls in warring clangor
Smote hath I, the ego lord
Now my wrath confronts the horde
As fires still rage disbelief
For lies that fuel my hellish grief
Let flames of truth incinerate
This cross of nails that seals my fate
An image dripping violent red
From severed head and children dead
So Christ's blood my sword will taste
Just one more body left disgraced
By holy water snake oils
Corrupted wretches reaping spoils
Countless lives they have destroyed
Such excess sin must share the void
But not with I, the pulse of Death
No treacheries could freeze my breath
Past Satan's frozen form descends
My consciousness to far worse ends
A tenth circle e'er to enclose
My wilting rose in starlit glows
No depths Dante would dare to go
Existence is my inferno
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
Torn, yet this stretch of night
Is not counterfeit to the eyes.
Purple heart bluffs, as ides
Of each month come hastily by.
Men of conquest, men of honor,
A call to glory is a call to clangor.
Yet still is the restless nightmare
Alive for the wounded warrior.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC