"communions" poems
I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.
I like to think that someday you'll stop trying to wash my scriptures off your hands with holy water.
I like to think that I'm that old mattress you had when you were ten; you always said it held the same familiarity as falling in love with a stranger.
the mattress' holes from falling asleep with lit cigarettes match up perfectly with my alibi.
I'm not to be trusted. I'm an angry human.
I grew up with broken glass in my lungs and cracked ribs.
something inside me snaps even further when the sun shapes your body into a shadow on my bedroom wall.
I want to redefine the word 'fire' with your name, and light candles with you. I want to make my walls sweat. I want you to burn up my ****** clothes. I want you to set my books ablaze. I want you to realize the hardest part is never letting go, but forgetting you ever had a handle.
you can't be the flame and the wick.
you need to leave me to burn down, like the altar candles in the front of the sanctuary, for everyone to see.
sometimes I think god hates me; I'm just a pawn in his and satan's chess game.
small and insignificant in value - I almost want satan to win.
after all,
if you are fire,
hell will feel like home.
but then I remember that I'm tired of controlled burns and scrubbing your soot off of my hands.
so I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.
and I like to think that Saint Jude called me out of your blaze, and that I left you there with all of your confessions and your communions in your own personal hell.
either way, it's not my cross to bear anymore.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Clothed in lack of confidence;
he offers her his jacket.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
They don't know of our great affair
our communions of lust and passion
the hours we steal in a heartbeat
the savouring of every caress
Our love is in silence
that danger, that forbidden fruit
and we my love
consume each other as if starving
The burn I feel when I look at you
the secret of our desires
the hidden looks we give
so wanting to be bonded again
From the cinders of our dark life
I know a child will be born
with the passion of stardust
that falls upon our love
By Chritos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
Encyclopedic mainframes
Lap-top heads
Power-boxes for multitudinous outlets, plugs, chargers
Conduits manipulating
Fiber-optic arteries
Artificial energy
ZAP
Pale lights
Computers aglow in dark cloistered bedrooms
Powered pacemakers stalling at microwaves
Electrocuted blood - cookied fantasies
Ads proclaiming everything free!
Pharmaceutical elixirs for limpness, lumpiness, loneliness
Snake-oil for suffering
Nigerian kings, Syrian refugees
*********** clever memes, whimsical gifs, shocking news, witty banter
Socio-politic-religous-diatribes
Spewing on every thread
Existential *****
Aroma-less cuisines
Vacuumed vacations
Youtubed communions
Suicide selfies.
Crucifixdrones - pedolandia
Jdate.POF.AshleyMadison.Match. Eharmony.SpeedDate.OKcupid
CG. Missed encounters...
Serial killers,
Pixalated ******* vein-throbbed **** shots, cardboard gloryholes
Instagramed I
Inviolate I
Internet I
I I I
No sweaty arm pits, cottage cheese, gray nose hairs or belly fat
Computer [ScreenShot]
While behind, posters hang: The Doors, Tupac, NIN, The Smiths, Hendrix, Joy Division, Nirvana
HandshapedHeart.
2D souls
Text-dating
144 word manifestos
#revolutions
Archetype emoticons
Doodled centaurs
Caged in matrices
Transcendental notes
Need a hit
Of internet smack
A line, a pinch, a drag
A like, a comment, a kudos
A reply, a thumbs up, a share, a poke
One measly view
Baby, come on, give me a fix
Just one
Notification: ding-beep-buzzzz
I want to dissolve like alka-seltzer in tap water
Otherwise I'm a used-up toothpaste tube
Sitting in a dank medicine cabinet
If not, I am
A stick-figure created from matches
Drowning in a drum of gasoline
Not buried beneath pregnant soil
No. dumped into blue recycling bins.
[Ctrl +Alt+Delete]
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
What remains in the aftermath of love?
As streets are built without sidewalks
As neighborhoods no longer have use for streetlights
As parks and sunsets turn into myths
As the stories of lies and deceit become the only nursery rhymes we pass on
As *** becomes as mundane as eating bread
And ****** become larger and more frequent than church communions
As ***** become cheaper than blood
As faces become so interchangeable they're impossible to remember
And names turn into secrets
What remains?
When everywhere is no man's land
When childbearing is just a rare, yet escapable punishment from God
When children migrate in swarms between families like birds escaping winter
When love is just but a militarized weapon used for enslavement
When humanity is emancipated from their emotions
Shall we celebrate our independence by clearing our contacts list and changing numbers?
Shall we start each new year by picking a new stranger to stave off our hunger for the night
When we stone those who learned each other's middle names
When we lock away anyone greedy enough to keep someone to themselves
And the married are sent to live in the madhouse
When the war of love have ended
And no one's heart returns home
What remains?
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 7:55 AM UTC
A hand that was ****** by the untouchedness of her life.
A hand that had just too many crevices,
Because she never opened them.
She was always seen with clenched palms in the streets.
She sat in the dimmest corner, every day joining the dark a little more.
Her hands were moist, tender and almost a liquid,
With the years of the sweat that had finally copulated with the blood, flesh and the phalanges in her palms.
She really,
Never opened them!
She was born with a fist.
She never did any work with her hands.
She choose to be one of the sisters of the fist.
Practised by the moonshine to
Spread a tad bit more pleasure.
Or despair.
Or pitch dark moans of the holy communions.
She walked with the drunken sweaty silhouettes of the watchmen at night.
They never knew her by body.
They knew her as the torching darkness that gorged the light on their paths
In voluptuous silhouettes.
She curled next to them on their shabby beds through the night.
They never knew the stranger strangles of the nightmares they had …
Every night.
To them, dreams did not exist.
For all she did was to appear in them as a rage or vendetta,
Amidst a chore in the daylight.
They vent it all on the shiny awls to ******* the green meadows.
And then, go back to sleep,
To be in the shinier brace of an dismembering nightmare,
She copulated evermore.
They never knew they were pregnant with her potent ejaculations inside. Well, every man is if you ask me,
one of the ...
daughters of the Sisters of the Fist.
They never woke up to her.
They never found her on their bed.
Their streets.
Or on the semen-dried poles in their taverns.
But she always accompanied them.
Perhaps in the sudden whiff of a fragrant **** that lingered in their sweaty cribs in the morning.
Or in the whiff of the ***** from over their shoulders,
When they wrote a plagiarised letter to their new sweethearts.
No.
She appeared only when their nightmares resurfaced. In the broad daylight, between the walls, breathing through the claustrophobic walls that are one within her.
Whenever they shed the blood of another,
A burp of yesterday’s nightmare,
She appeared.
And faded.
But dissolved.
Sisters of the Fist are undying,
The daughters born to the dark,
Are the fists of the dark.
Since the beginning of mankind.
Till the end of another race.
To be the purpose.
To impregnate the bittersweet elixir of Evil,
To every living soul called a man.
If waking life is a death noose at the neck of a gurgling volcano,
then you might as well close your eyes and enjoy the evil delicacies that the sisters of the Fist will consume into you.
Yes, consume into you …
Till the day you die,
And become one among them.
On the day after your death.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.
Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.
Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.
Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.
Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.
Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.
Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.
**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.
Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.
Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
Holiest of communions with Earth our mother.
Earth, she spins as a dancer.
Man, the stupidest species gets not dizzy.
Holding tight.
Shortest days and darkest nights.
Urge towards sunshine.
Into the light.
Making love on warm dry grass in shades of pink.
Whole soul stroking.
Worldwide.
No divides.
Without boundaries.
More life foretold in a perfect prophecy.
Namaste .
Brothers,
Sisters.
Hailstones and thunder.
Awesome power natures' wonder.
Namaste.
(c)LIVVI
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
bathing
chandel eirs
exhausted by
nomads retreating within
the
paracosm of a Mountaintop
snow in your voice
a bell being sounded
bell(((((
)))))
receptive to the running water
a sauna made of afterflower
you have heard the gospel of lazy shoepolish/obsidian palms
and worried over
beaches that are really just an exte
nsion of the whole
jealous Pacific
flaura shyly stripped of glory
whisp ering
like a convent
about the mist applause
the python noise of
hot springs
where its inhabitants were born/why they release a certain
desperate O
to the mountaintop sleeping with spirited confidence
this palace of stone which relies
on no approval
not even the sky, or the early tangerine
dawn
not silence
or previous wars, these travellers seek to cocoon & spring forth as a
colossus
that no longer has the capibility for tears
where home becomes world
as rock communions with Yggdrasil
and the leviathan of time will
collapse
unceremoniously before the first leaf
of the newly formed valley has
ever heard
Autumn's seductions
ah, the golden migrant wreathed in
the liquid base of their worship
may oneday achieve
an
absolute renouncement of the soul
for a bluebird to be born
amid the
overgrowth
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
Mon hippocampe,
Donne-moi juste deux minutes
Le temps que je te vaccine
Religieusement
De ma machette
Le temps que je chante ma diane :
La la la la la la la la la lo lé lo la !
La la la la la la la la la lo lé lo la !
Je psalmodie
Un, deux,
Un, deux, trois...
Un, deux,
Un, deux, trois...
J'offre cette rumba à la santé de nos petites morts
De ces petites morts
Qui nous précèdent, nous suivent et nous hantent.
Au son des trois tambours de la rumba
Tu chantes faite bouteille de rhum
Et je te réponds en choeur cuillère et verre vide.
A la première reprise, chassée croisée,
Tu chantes le thème
A la deuxième reprise, mollets cambrés,
Je chante aussi couteau et toi assiette.
A la troisième reprise,
Moi, rayon de lune de lune,
Toi, croissant de soleil,
Frappons des mains à l'unisson
Communions avec nos morts sur l'aire de danse
Qu'ont foulée leurs chevaux de possession
Qui nous tiennent encore en bride
Et contiennent nos ombres.
Je me présente : Orphée
Je bombe le torse et je te dévisage
Tu te présentes : Eurydice
Tu te déhanches avec malice et tu me toises.
Un, deux,
Un, deux, trois...
Un, deux, trois,
Un, deux...
Mélangeons les syncopes,
Pervertissons la parade,
Convoquons un nouveau rituel,
Désarticulons la chorégraphie,
Nos corps interchangeables fusionnent
En une seule ombre :
Tu m'aguiches,
Je trémousse des épaules,
Tu m'habilles et déshabilles de tes passes,
Et je te chevauche de mon foulard écarlate en miroir inversé.
Viens en marchant
Dansons, marchons,
Suivons la clave
Vêtus de blanc
Gratifions nos petites morts d'une rumba
Plions, élevons, sautons, cabriolons
Retombons, tortillons, détortillons
Cambre le dos que je me déhanche !
Entre postures et figures
Improvisons, rusons, sautons-matons
Caracolons
Dans le chaud tempo
Des trois tambours de la rumba.
Et si je te vaccine
A l'improviste
Dérobe-toi, esquive-toi, nargue-moi
Pour que nos petites morts applaudissent à tout rompre
Leurs virtuoses
Et tortillent elles aussi du croupion .
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:49 PM UTC
Some ones party balloon
Escaped from a small hand
Clings to a branch
outside
my bedroom
Window
It leaving its party too soon
a shimmering mylar
rodent string tail
caught-
a runaway
panting
in a trap.
I want to
cut it down
and pick up the party
before all life
drains out -
slowly.
I can’t reach
though
like so many
plastic grocery bags
drifting waste
bobbing
above my grasp
artifacts of past
communions
floating by.
The shine of ‘Happy’
collapses time
Upside down
string flaccid
Winter
its only breath-
a shuddering in cold bursts
of grey.
Slowly
Spring green
molds over it
decay
I forget
As it eases into waves of softer air.
buds form
And robins pull worms
In its shade’s
exhausted judgement.
Summer breezes
bounce it’s flaked shine briefly
between
The flickering
Of leaves
“I’m still here”
it winks
Until
the Fall
sheds its cover
leaves float
down in spirals
revealing
shimmer- gone- grey
and dull.
life and air
No longer animate.
Spreading apart into
beautiful
diminishing
frail
shards
Nature takes its turn
small hands fashion
it into a squirrels nest
the moveable Birthday Party – long over.
It’s empty string dangles nothing to lift it.
A boy still searching the sky
to grab
for its return,
Sorry
but,
The squirrels
seem to be
Happy
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
I miss your kisses
I miss our communions
but I must watch the giants defeated
all of the soul taking mothers
She of many names told me to hold the line
and with tears of bitterness I did what she did command
because of her we lost the Landstrad
now I break the line of duty to fight hard
Don't touch me , don't you dare come near me
I am lost without my weaponry
back to the blood war, screaming a war song
for I have sheaved my sword for too long
Five Legions come with me
my sweet faithful
dead are we or soon to be
but we fight to the end
Stand fast my brothers and sisters
this time we had waited
we stood by and watched
for far too long
Christos Andreas Kourts aka NeonSolaris
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
worn tongues against sharp teeth I began
as did you with innocence a pacifier
a breath
inborn wisdom
truth perfect youth naked
whispering
into the breast
grew up with what we thought were taught
sins
felt the rippling like
the bubbles of a river
condemning us drowned
as worthless
bubbled to the top gasping for
hope peace
as did the communions
where
life is spared in dying gasps
peace on earth is shared
with a death
I found bitter tastes
remain
spit them out onto you.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
WORDDDDDDD
Wafer of Communions
Fleshy Desire
Salivating
Light as Flesh
MERGEEEEEEEEEE
Light On Prayer
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
tidings foreign and sails approachable, applicative
potentials are more erasable than realisable, ethical isolation
ennobled, heretically traumatised, an affirmation
of most vindictive anger and rage, indicative
of quietly replaced sensations equal to vengeance, prases explicative
in delivery, solely true and eminently imminent imagination
insignificant, reign and destruction, entrammelled selves' emanation
results in parateresiomania, a fatally communicative
process of natal convictions, extreme and flawless, communions
are impressed with prisoners' relevance, what affably
considered, what dogmatically initiated, means
represented disfigure unanswered replies, a perfect union's
lost goodness, damaged facades laughably
gorgeous, curious and serious, a community's machines
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 6:29 AM UTC
In the black holes where my mind goes
I have starring roles in dead end jobs,
it's a job though and it keeps me from self harming.
The scripts are ripped off from some sixties satire
as is the attire I tire of wearing,
But when the universe is bearing down on me
and what I see are
cataclysmic eruptions disrupting communions,
what real problems do I own?
not even my own
they're pawned to pay the rent.
On the other sides of the side I see
there are many,
many more like me
who look to see another side
when all they have to do is
collapse into a black hole,
take one of the many
dead end any job will do.
enjoy the ride
it's the only real thing left.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC