Obedient
Superfluous minced rubicund aqua Phoenician
Our orphanage spills blood from picnics
Menopause conniptions lipstick
Her sons learning curve
Popstar gentleman suicide
The preschoolers last taste of Apple juice
Enola gay is soaring above the vain
Potential future poets and mathematicians
Bright eyes and innocent giggles
The souls of peace
Molecules disintegrate of wondrous dreams

Sometimes I wonder
if aliens actually existed
and why they would be so twisted
as to want to construct
or rather instruct
making poor Egyptians
with no skin on their bones
into crazy conniptions
to build something out of nothing
into the shape of a well
…a pyramid
it drives me insane
all this intellectual debate
because sometimes
I’m only obsessed about my weight
and why I eat so very little yet still manage to gain
and other times I question my own sexuality
do I suffer some sort of schizophrenic duality
because the only thought on my brain
is how awesome it would be
for one night with J-Lo just her and me
but there are times
when my thoughts are flooded
with a torrent of grays
and I’m left in a haze
at the cruelty of Man
willing to **** a cat
for his own amusement
or spread lies
instead of self improvement
it’s weird that we engage in small talk
instead of taking stock
of all the good that we share
we squawk and we gawk
and it leaves us nothing but shell shocked
so I’ll go back to wondering about my UFO’s
and their platform to the stars
maybe you can look tonight
out into a black night sky
see a shooting star
and wonder if it was
simply a bright light
or an acquaintance of ours.

I stopped off at the bank to say
    'how are you' to the folks who try
   their hand at the day care of my
dollars and the quarters of my pay

I pushed back on a tall gray day,
   the clouds swirl by in  the lead gray sky
and I fly over the dry sand ox bow
that runs and twists in a necklace below

next,  by a purring Toyota, its light
glowing blank at a barn wall looking glass
Unclip and the gate still open in hind sight,
and I am through onto the grass

no paint, no sorrel no grizzled grey hinnie,
    I walk through the trees tracking the sandy scuff
    out and up and across the overlook bluff.
I hoot n call but never a whinny

There's a house there with a good wire fence
    The trail  turns east over the rough brush heath
and on and on and across to a fence,
   worn neatly down to a barbed wire wreath

and across more brush with a fresh hoof print
til the track grows faint but never a hint.
And I stoop where nobody sees me in repose
    thankful a handkerchief  wipes more than noses,

So back in a sweaty shirt
    to the tree line, and there are the horses
   fresh hoof tracks on the truck
where  donkey and  goat flirt.

    bowls of grain and sweet feed to make amend,
a handful of wafers to lighten the offering
And I brush off what  the fly spray left me
   of dead  on the back of my old friend

And I comb out his handsome mane,
   and pull out his short gold tail
and throw up the heavy brown saddle
and think again of my good fortune
the pretty leather saddle

This time though he stop
   and consider his options,
press on through the scary wind break
where turkeys are known to run in conniptions

    giving the evil eye to the pile of hay netting
    the field gate that groans  in the wind.
   landlord's engine spinning quietly
the lights burning where nobody looks

Just a word or two, and we are galloping back,
    easier to urge when returning to the friendly  herd,
And  off to the west where the house that's for sale is
and past the dead mans duck pond,
home is where the lunch is,
   and another perfect holiday.

Painted pictures, written scriptures,
Obsolete fixtures creating life long conniptions.
The way we role, the way we stroll,
Metaphorical visions of who want what.
Beginning to end, the end is my friend
Beginning again, until we descend.
Far away from those close to the road of destruction,
Completing vows which had begun all corruption,
We're starting over now a whole new rebellion,
Far from the crossing roads of all jurisdiction.
The time of night, the time of day.
The time of day will fade away.
Leaving metaphysical glory of assumption.

I’m smiling fictitiously, feigning functionality, I battle growing apathy, due to your incessant irrationality. Spewing hate filled bigotry, by angrily insulting me is no longer satisfactory, i've been growing rather weary of your paltry ****** misery. You act like you’re a victim, when you’re actually vindictive, yet everyone still beckons, to your pretentious petty whims.
Your consistent conniptions are causing great friction, you’re a deplorably toxic affliction that your friends have to endure. You don’t seek a cure, ignore the people who care, and never mature, but sure. We are what’s wrong.
Affecting everyone around you with your irritating ignorance, not noticing the damage that you make your friends experience. By acting solely on your selfishness, you’re becoming quite a hindrance.
Replace this self-annihilation with rehabilitation. You’re always seeking affirmation but go about it the wrong way, keep up this desolation and then no one’s going to stay for you. Because with enough persistent pressure, the strongest rock will become weathered, the bonds you’ve made will start to sever, you’re going to lose your friends forever.

The messages on the machine grow higher every minute
Kind and murderous regret seeps out of every ***** hole.
It was the love she wanted, something solid that could crumbled over.
Falling down to grounds untouched, none can build what they can’t reach.
The confusion that binds the air is untapped nitrogen, louder than
Ignition enticed passion with gratification marked on the words of a doubter.

The mailbox seems bigger every step out to out bind the air that cripples.
Bills collected and paid off prompt, aside from love threats from irate lover.
It was the love he wanted, something timid that would cross him over.
Break the will of destruction, **** it, feed it to make fool of the other side that was waiting
Behind the skin of the shadows breeds the intellect nigh cruel for a straitjacket cover.

The nails that tear off skin in nights of fighting with the grin of gleeful faces
And the tangling is a convincing dance, whether or not it’s consuming their sin.
Bare brinks of those fluorescent halos twisting about these sheets, writhing
For a broken whisper for when a truth is only wishful deceit- she wills to another
Lover, same faced and movements but calloused in the bodies of tormented temptation.

There was a time these words had meaning, over time they lose clarity and gain insight
To a negative double standing that bruises walls and flesh all the same.
They’ve lasted enough to know conniptions flared either silent or through second guessing
But see how nothing’s learned without pushing the limits of another youthful lesson.
She couldn’t listen to the sounds echoing outside this ‘precisionist’ prison holding in
So he wouldn’t utter truthful pieces she couldn’t see to break the shackles she had brought from the past.

© 2012

Put me in a jar
and In you'r eye I will break that glass.
Bring me to my bones
and I will trap in your laugh.

Give me a rode to spare
and I will show you real love.
Strap my joy in the pierce- of my wrist
and you will be left alone to sew in together the spill of my conniptions I left behind.

(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR)
© Copyright 2014 S.T. Parish Rebel of Eden

The quiet whispers taunt me.
In the night beneath the umbral waves
The humble haze still haunts me.
Through daunting ways these gauntly wraiths
Yet flaunt the ways they wont me
To nightly pangs of hunger,
Reins, and tormenting unending.
Belike the blaze of spectral flames
Will burn my soul as kindling
Til naught remains but rotted frames;
To this my will is dwindling.

The ghastly echoes call me.
From my slumber come the rumbling of
A hunger that befalls me.
Amidst the stomach grumbling come the
Numbing screams, appalling
Dreams, they seem to plead with me,
Indeed, beseech me, drawling
In tongues unknown to me. Their bleat
Is strangely so familiar.
But one would tone above the rest
That said: "Behold! A killer!"

Aloud phantasms sing
Their eerie verses full of curses.
Terse, yet maddening.
Severe at first, yes, but the worst,
Perverse, the last conceived
Verse that's heard as they rehearse
Coerce a lasting bleed
From eyes and ears and nose. Behold
Those bursts of plasm brings
The fiends that thirst as they traverse
Headfirst through fathomed greed.

My bonds begin to break.
As all these raunchy melodies
Beset me, here I shake.
Conniptions, fits, and predilection
Of sadistic traits.
No longer can they be restrained,
The bloodlust must be slaked.
Among the graves of wanton slaves
Where staunch stench radiates
I wake to see nightmarish scenes
So garishly ornate.

Hailed by an astral choir.
Their incantations of damnation
Hasten my desire
To sever, ****, obliterate,
And purge through blood and fire
The filth, the waste, that permeates
This place that earns my ire.
A desecrated wretch, her fated
Death be made entire.
Raze her face with razor blades,
Exsaguinate the liar.

The blood moon's macabre glow
Bids me to forbidden deeds
And beckons me below.
A severed head and crimson red
Flora form a show
With shredded flesh. Lecherousness
This foetid mess invokes.
I taste the blood...Oh, what a rush!
By lust I feel possessed!
The litanies have conjured me
To binge on blood and death.

This vessel filled with sanguine nectar
Placed before my tortured face.
"Drink, drink", growls the Collector,
"So the ritual is not debased."
With a quiet sigh I raise my eyes
To find there's no one in sight.
But the shrill cries still to my spine bring chills
From the vague memories of the night.

"Who speaks to me in this empty place?
And what causes me these conniptions?
What are these echoes, these screams that resonate
And what source has borne this addiction?"
There's no soul here to hear my words,
Yet imposing shadows loom in the light
Of strategically placed candles set about the oubliette,
Ready to begin a dark rite.

"The one who speaks is the one who hears,
Indistinguishable except by delusion.
You writhe for the memory as the fogginess clears
And reveals the true cause of pollution:
We, Dante! We are the ones who
Fill this cup to the brim!
You are the lure and I am the hunter
And blood is what cleanses their sin."

As the snarling, disembodied voice speaks
I become filled with lecherous dread.
"You're a monster, a devil, a hideous fiend!"
I scream to the voice in my head.
I regain my composure but suddenly looking over
A room full of familiar corpses,
Torn open, bled, all eyeless sockets,
Materialized by unspeakable forces.

The flickering light from the tiny dancing flames
Eerily animate the dead,
But the bodiless shadows that tower remain
Motionless as the voice again said:
"The one who speaks is the one who hears.
By indulgence you gain from their tears,
Their terror, their anguish, they strengthen you, tame this
Devilish gnawing you fear."

Five leering shadows, eighteen festering carcasses
Surround me in grim trepidation.
Why, why do I choose to take part in this
Unholiness in this dark wretched station?
I try to refuse but my failure amuses
The entity goading me on.
I embrace the chalice of blood and of malice
And drink to fulfill the liaison.

As the ambrosia from the chalice is swallowed
A drunkenness begins to befall me.
As I stand, the five shadows, my servants, they follow
But as if they aren't walking, but crawling.
Altogether the flames grow brighter and stronger
Until the room like a kiln now burns.
The desiccated bodies prostrate and offer
Themselves so the fire upturns.

In my blood-drunken haze my eyes are opened
To the creation of my own obsession.
The Collector, the Harvester, the Reaper, the Chosen
And the Hunter, they are all but reflections.
"The others are voiceless", said the one voice I hear,
"Only I can speak as you can.
And you, Dante, are a bloodfiend, a ghoul.
In only man's realm you feign human.

"We are all you, all one in the same,
And as one we are death and disaster.
These victims before you bathing in flame
Were brought before the ritual master
That the remaining token be brought forth, bespoken
By the aspect of you that's most potent:
No, not the Chosen, though he holds the notion
Of calling that one the Unbroken."

At last all those nebulous memories
Are elucidated in this nightmarescape.
The Unbroken the voice just spoke of is me,
An amalgam of these shadows of hate,
Of murderous, methodical diabolism.
It all has finally become clear:
This black, ****** rite has brought me transcendence
As something all the more terrible draws near...

Cafes.
And instrumentals.
Corpses filled with ash and syrup.
Syrup made from a hippie that lives in the flat above me.
Never arrives to confuse me.
Amazing relationship.
Contrasts the mask that covers the realness.
The class that helped **** your demons.
And your soul.
Blues.
Reds.
And yellows.
CLouds most things.
Poets dying in eternal Affliction.
Poets who died for nothing.
Beat the poet.
Real mean poet.
Mean everything to the person inside the poet.
You can find it.
You can grow it.
You don’t know it.
Boil it for safety.
Or not.
Blues bleed into the skull.
Carve with the side that’s dull.
We turn sullen.
Create Poetry that never makes us lonely.
And always makes us lonely.
Conniptions replace the complements.
Turn hate into monuments.
And Love into self hate.
It’s gonna be great.
And always be ****.
Learn from the mistakes.
Take your life.
And miss the blade.
Rope.
Bullet.
Psychedelics.
Hallucinogens.
Genetics that makes us break.
Discover the ******* that are fake.
Concentrate.
Contemplate actions.
Rott through the smoke.
Anxious ridden state.
LIke the **** that makes up the rain.
Conceptualize Sound waves.
And destroy your fate.
Make a smiley face.
Then cry.
I like what you’ve done with the place.
Crawl into your own time and space.
Tired.
Overly tired.
It’s the nights like this that are dreadful.
Terribly stagnant..
A magnet to war.
Maggots.
Loath in fractions.
In places.
With no faces.
No patience.
Static.
Just Static.

To feel red, to bleed red, to be red.

It's not enough.

The blood must flow unconsciously,
The need bleeds from every inch of self.

A hunger, that is not misunderstood.

A quiet day followed by empty nights without her.

It's finding she's Yoko to your Lennon.

Ah, the silence of conniptions.

What would they say, what would they do?

There is no cold white light for me.
Only the stark white after all the grey.