"colossi" poems
Gravel mounds in the mist
Are the mountain ranges of fantasy,
Spring green, eerie seen
Through commuter train windows.
Pitched roofs recede
Into infinite distance,
And junkyard parking lots are legion
In the gray suburban obscurity.
Factories and landfills loom,
Monuments and mausoleums,
The labor and the leavings
Of the little colossi.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
Glass is everywhere.
The empty road; between shrubs
And upturned wheelie bins.
It's in your hair, like dust
That sparkles slightly amidst the auburn highlights
And the blood from a **** above your
Left ear.
You can't hear so well,
All is ringing, squealing, high
And resonant above the sirens
And screams, the shop-keepers
Cursing the Gods, the
Church bells from another world
Calling out for dawn.
Oh! Take us away.
From these rivers of black,
These haggard drapes of
Bright lights and broken
Panes. This carpet
Made from discarded electrical goods,
Shoe boxes, wine bottles, and
Ash.
Who are they to do this?
To lay claim to all we have,
To lay waste to that
Which came before?
No fury from foreign lands, nor
Raging strife by nature's hands,
Has ever done what has been done.
The rain doesn't come;
Our summer is finally here,
And the skies are clear.
No clouds in sight, save for
Rolling colossi of acrid smoke. Flames
Pointing accusing fingers at an uncaring sky,
As England burns.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:36 PM UTC
Gild the marble as divine as ice,
Day's eye sinking below the horizon line,
Red dust drift among torrential specks,
Echoes boom from the valley pine.
Lay upon the crisp sunny hay,
Clean the grime from the sapphire quay,
Immerse 'tween the twilight breeze,
Asps should **** off, leave me in peace.
As synchrony reach cacophony,
Our destinies uncross, tis uncanny.
If true, a key unlocks powers of lore,
Against, the key forfeits my very soul.
Capture my seat of soft emotions,
Crush it against your decrepit merits weigh,
Scheme within your empty jeweled mansions,
Burn to ashes my undead void lest it decay.
All such entities loving their tragedies,
Ridiculous melodramatic melodies.
Slouch and wallow as monuments,
Imaginary quagmire of queer torments.
Swing the fury of Krato's strike,
Kneel in dust of ancient plights,
Hold thy loved ones above the light,
Spy the ragged truth outside insight.
Flood the starry gates: drown my pain,
From colossi reduced to ******** straits,
My mask cares less lest I am unpaid,
Friendship once did the beloved slay.
Tears trembles upon my eye.
Good-bye time, friend of mine.
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 6:26 PM UTC
She won't pick up a pen.
Words stand at the exit, shivering at the winter
Outside, unable to compare with the Elysium on the horizon.
So the story goes.
But the tapestries that sit at her fingertips are colossi,
Towering over the rest.
Those bottled-up words are dreams deferred,
Screaming and beating on the glass
To be recognized for what they are:
Prophets of the world that is,
Harbingers of the love that should be.
And still, she sits patiently with the world
Under her telescope, in her corner of the universe
While her heart beats, content to echo beauty onto others;
A Venus with the mirror to the world (brighter because of her).
She is Athena with a placid smile:
Inspiration at the snap of a finger,
Or a shoulder touch.
But she always hugs,
The brilliance in the eyes,
Happy to rest there.
I can only imagine if she wrote and freed her poet's eye.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
The King of Chalk dropped
His speech in a trail of ants
outside Juarez
This is the day to chase the kite
that smashed into a junkyard and got shot
knocked up and burned in her bed
I chased that red vulture onto hunting grounds
Crossed by jazz wires where oil soaked colossi
stood on each side of the dripping black strip
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 5:51 AM UTC
My hands can't make a fist
Like yours.
They tremble
Shaking off the stone
That the colossi painted
Over their slumber parties as kids
The cracks that divide my hands
From freedom.
My dry hands
Are dehydrated
From the lack of love
No moisture
My tears could only be used
To break through
The thoughts of hell
I cannot spare
To shed another.
Don't dare you touch my hands
Look closely
Those blue veins
Are memories
I avoid at school cafeterias
They hide
Under my callous hands
Which work to no goal
Only to dreams
Scattered on the ***** floor
Oh?
Your smile
Seemed to wake up my pores
And prove me wrong
By telling me
It’s going to be okay
Yes Yes
I can make a fist like that
But only if I'm holding your hand
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
the colossi of oblivion
roam interplanetary barrens--
wearing ashen garlands
that drip flame.
watching the flames float away, eaten by
the concept less crush of what ceases no end.
hopelessly lost to the relative,
their consciousness continually
expanding...in meditative blasts.
(shedding cherry blossoms, & babbling brooks)
Arthurian swords pulled out of
the stones of more advanced minds--
blindfolded initiations that wield
event horizons.
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 1:21 PM UTC
The eyes of God must look down in ecstasy
When He sees all He's made.
In the reaches beyond comprehension
His astral fingers stretch
Into the emptiness of wonders once born
And colossi long since dead
As the glowing limbs of seraphim
Stretch across the stars
Bringing light and wonder new to places oh so far.
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
The sky descends into horizon
This eve souls pass through the
membrane of ticking time
thin as a needle
kneeded through
ancient quilt sewn by
Archimedes
Plato
Blake
Oratio
Isis
those colossi greasing universe’s eternal
clock, to that recital played
unseen beyond vision
impalpable to senses
not yet sharpened by ascendance
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:45 AM UTC
making book covers
in the ****
my brother
my higher
brother
is on
about
some late
film
performance
by a woman
he says
has inspired him
to take a ****
on a baby
in a pick-up
truck
and to drive
the truck and to call his route
the border
of the last
miracle
or we can call it
something else
I don’t think
he knows
really
I am just
something saddened
by sorrow, a frog
aware
of caves, as if god’s
creatures
were a result
of god
imagining
what she’d not
seen
scatter...
longhand
the syringe
of poor
colossi,
wrists
both suicide
attempt
and apologue:
I love
brother
for how
he’d split
himself
into outside
time
and inside
time
that he might
tell
a door
*******
or a dreaming
hieroglyph
his tale
the band-aid
and the risen
ant
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
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~
these are from my collection, {MOON tattoo}:
[portion]
christ is a boy armless in christ. eats his corn
his teardrop
corn.
thinks he’s been given
by ************
the power
to spy
on a fish. thinks god
is part
food. hears
from a demon
touched
by snowfall
that the boat
is real
but first
starve a crow
that is blind.
~
[mud times]
satan began possessing squirrels
he did so
in the name
of footprints
my sister
the poor girl
was pregnant
with a people
person, she waited
with me
for my hands
to look
like mittens
~
[pinch]
mother
as she
unrolls
a tube
of toothpaste
talks
of a crack
in the lord
these empty
things
I’d rather
they not
look it
take your father’s
drag racing
or a fork
with you
when you bathe
I was scraped, she says
your cheek
to me
a wounded
dream...
it doesn’t last
the prophet’s
grief
~
[clearing]
god
my path
to meaning
nothing
-
she had a sock drawer and a pair of secret hands
the hardest time
with houses
-
what if the end stops coming
-
what if
from one cannibal to another
it is extra
this bone
from the horse
Moon
ate
~
[curio]
making book covers
in the ****
my brother
my higher
brother
is on
about
some late
film
performance
by a woman
he says
has inspired him
to take a ****
on a baby
in a pick-up
truck
and to drive
the truck and to call his route
the border
of the last
miracle
or we can call it
something else
I don’t think
he knows
really
I am just
something saddened
by sorrow, a frog
aware
of caves, as if god’s
creatures
were a result
of god
imagining
what she’d not
seen
scatter...
longhand
the syringe
of poor
colossi,
wrists
both suicide
attempt
and apologue:
I love
brother
for how
he’d split
himself
into outside
time
and inside
time
that he might
tell
a door
*******
or a dreaming
hieroglyph
his tale
the band-aid
and the risen
ant
~
[mesmeric]
the fish are biting and my father is wanted.
thunder the size of a seasick dog
has crushed
again
my sister’s
baby
for crushing
pills. for every
hunchback
goes
to heaven
there’s a shadow
passed out
in a dream.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC