"crystallised" poems
Drip yourself into a cup
Fill up your body with antiquity
Let the collagen insist
An allegory of Capricorn
Memories crystallised
Settled in
Forevers harvest
Insensitive
Misconstrued chemical
Collective symmetry's sin
A condition, livid
Fleeting in Human imagery
Ships break
Loop our tongued
Hands, tossed in Dramamine
Whittled in a succession of malleable fashion
Talent spilled spread in supper
Collate our atrophy
And drink from baroness
Flavours tarnished
Super-collider
Blood soaked in Gematria
A garden of totality
High brow comparison
Entitled in your vacuous stigma
Forever burning
In the lesser key of Solomon
28 daemon
Tessellation in trigonometry
Temperance towards an infinite
Champion of mind, complex
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
The Grump put on his morning face.
Wiped away crystallised grit ,
Straight out of her teared up eyes.
My goodness this poem is shaped out of ****
A deliberate ploy,
For she is woman, and he is boy.
He had a *** change,
Normally grumpy is male, hee hee,
Today grumpy is me.
The last Sunday of a somewhat sulky year.
Look deep in my eyes and surely you'll see a tear.
I don't cry.....
Why ever should I ?
Mentally strong as a freaking ox,
Manipulative as a silver fox.
A wicked sense of humour.
Thank f**k ,
Without that I'd probably have no luck,
Not out on the pull.
That just isn't cool.
Ladies don't.
This lady can't be bothered!
(C) Livvi
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
I am flawed,
An inner fault, though I appear whole.
I can feel it grind with each breath,
Glass on glass.
One look and I am young again.
A thousand doubts to build a girl
Who refused to cry
And ran through fields
One word and I am crushed
Beneath half a life of memories.
Layers of varnish, too many to dry
Too many to breathe.
One touch and I spiral,
The fragments descend.
A rain shower reflected in your eyes,
Hot with desire.
A hitched breath that rounds the edges,
A balm of boiling water
On ice.
The shard between us shatters
With your fingers on my skin,
Tracing constellations in my freckles.
It's as if the years never existed,
But the splinters harden,
Crystallised with lies
And growing milky with
things unsaid.
Despite the night,
I grow colder with secrets
That choke me.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
1.
Your specimen:
the cat.
He lies, a stretched out
blob of
whirring, whizzing particles:
You can’t see them –
he can.
2.
His fur is
dried old carpet
left out on a front lawn:
homeless,
floorless;
waiting to be claimed.
3.
His eyes are
blank marbles
flicked by sticky fingers
in a game.
You won them
by cheating,
and stole them but they
turned to mush
in your hands, they
fell through your fingers, and
stained them with purple:
it would not wash off.
It grew:
an omnipresent reminder
trickling down your arms,
pooling at your elbows.
4.
You raise the scalpel:
it is a crescent moon
speckling down to
illicit behaviour
below.
5.
The portraits on the walls
applaud
when you make the first
CUT.
and reveal the
gooey caramel
dripping, circulating, inside.
It sticks to
the blade, forming
clumps of purple
that harden to a
crystallised-honey form.
6.
Later you sleep
with the cat;
he lies on your bed
and purrs
(does he purr?)
and you label the jars:
“Dissection 15”.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 4:15 AM UTC
he had a voice that made her want to believe in eternity
she had a heart that made him want to believe in love
his mind has a secret garden bearing grapes
his words are butterflies kissing flowers
his thoughts derives from what passion brings
her body curves perfectly like a well crafted grapevine
her crown is the minds image
her beauty is light in a formless world
her body gave him life
his soul told her spirit to feel honesty from that hug
a hug warm like a summers evening.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 6:57 AM UTC
Crystallised syllables.
Words fall from harsh tainted lips,
like a syllable of crystallised black,
Caressed at the touch of fingertips,
encouragement seems to lack.
A heart of steel encased within,
the shattered depicted glass,
I pray that you forgive my sin,
End this forever song fast.
Your life is plainly satisfactory,
demeaning in all you do,
waterfalls of crimson refractory
broken, diminished, by you.
Wicked and nocturnal eyes,
return your weary gaze,
reflections hard to visualise,
incentives gone for days.
Leave emotion to drown itself,
in this scarlet river abyss,
place your feelings on the shelf,
and give me one last kiss…
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
“It’s time for bed,” was never a problem for me,
I was good at sleeping, I could do it longer than anyone else I knew and they
couldn’t wake me if they tried,
I was in over my ankles, waist, chest and head,
Five hundred pillows and a duvet that was heavy enough to suffocate all the
car horns in my mind,
I didn’t have to count the sheep so they sat there and ate grass,
Because I could pass with all the flying colours refracted in crystallised
dreams,
In the pitch black I won all the altercations against those demons that bite,
The narcoleptic warrior is champion of the night, the steady rise and fall of
her chest, the flutter of twitching lashes like spiders legs, arms drawn
tight around ******* and waist for protection against the ties that bind,
It’s a **** art,
But I didn’t realise my excellence was subjective,
For my parents it was the ****** in the night,
Fox screams that would send them running to my side, only to find a steady
heartbeat and lethargic child, head to the pillow and snoring,
For friends and family who came to stay, for them it was wide eyed, white
knuckled, lying awake and clutching the sheets as I cried and whimpered in
the next room,
Trauma spilling over catatonic lips in the most wretched of yelling, pulled
out in a long, choking strings of invisible nightmare,
For my sister, it was ***** ‘cow’, **** and all the other curses that
I kicked or hit her with in my minefield of a sleeping pattern,
Bible versus, bolt upright, head spinning 360 degrees,
Charon won’t let me pass because someone wasn’t kind enough to put a coin
in my mouth and now I’m walking a shore I won’t remember in the morning,
I don’t remember in the morning, I’ve been buried in sleep,
Not until I see them unshaven and weary at the table, and I know they’ve been
leaking electricity,
Is it possible to be good at something if no one thinks you are?
I was good at it, once,
In over my ankles, waist, chest and head,
Five hundred pillows and a duvet heavy enough to suffocate,
To suffocate my talent, I lie back and count to ten,
Sleep mask, sleep tablet, sleep therapy, I try not to let it happen again,
I keep the nightlight on now, the sun my only sleeping scar,
How can you be good at something if no one thinks you are?
I don’t think I’ll ever grow out of it, but I’ve stopped reaching for the
pin-pricks of white light in those starry night skies,
And now, when I lay awake in my bed, I’m afraid to close my eyes
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Six a.m. and the morning leans
To kiss the night;
The streets are full of stars
And sleepwalking business suits
The citrus woman
With peroxide blonde hair
And peroxide blonde fingers
If she spoke I imagine it would sound
Like lemon trees and smoke
Her cigarette burns holes in the sky
But when she passes me by
She smells like the Boots Cosmetics Isle
She paints the yellowed-ivory
Of her finger-claws
With crystallised orange
To cover the nicotine stains
And maybe I think I recognise
My lemonade shampoo
And tangerine hand wash
Like a setting sun over Sicily
The beer can boy
With stuffed up hair
And a stuffed up liver
He’s grey like a November playground
Once all the children have grown
And he’s hole-punched right through
I might think he was heart-broken
And trying to see how many other lost souls
The bottoms of bottles hold
If he wasn’t here every morning
Lolling down the pavement
Like a spring stretched too far
Asking for a paper
That I’m not allowed to give
And trying to drown himself
In the pooled rain under the streetlights
The coat-and-cardie bundle
With wind-swept hair
And wind-swept grimace
Like a tornado tore up
The geography of her personality
And left it with just a bike and a death wish
And those features heaped together
Between chimney-tops and table tops
For consolation
Her feet on the pedals while her hair throttles
Because she’s unlit
Unseen, unprotected
And she rides like this morning is the last
As if she knows that skulls
Crack like eggshells sometimes
And handlebars are sometimes not in front of you.
If my Dad was here he’d see
A smoker
A drunk
A dangerous cyclist
But I see lemon zest and love hearts and black liquorish
After all I’m at home
Among these mistakes
That the morning hours make
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
a city with a past
that echoes unrelentingly
through its present
a city of whispering shadows
& tortured souls
of sharp edges
& crystallised tears
© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2016 All Rights Reserved
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
.
. .
. . . . .
. . . .
*Snow kisses the sleepy mountains,
draping them with sheets of white.
Flakes drift down into the vales,
jewels sparkling in the full moon light.
A simple crystallised drop of water
delightfully whirls on a gentle breeze,
alighting softer than an eyelash kiss,
to find a home upon the trees.*
© Pagan Paul (04/12/17)
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 10:20 AM UTC
Awareness drifts by like stories carried by sandals;
Travelers too few to carry conviction
tarry in sand,
like a neon after thought.
Relics of crystallised fables parade;
on non roaming pathways
an eerie silence that dealt time
is only fortuitous in whispered light
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
The landscape blurs often
as poets go about their business
crafting metaphors of unexpected delight
in forests of jangled words and visuals
unable to contain their excitement
at having conquered that crystallised
moment of love, hate and everything else
in a frozen sliver of time
inescapable from their minds excursion
into unknown unshaped lands.
Not all succeed in this endeavour
most try, few unable
to melt the metal in a crucible of colour
sound, taste or touch, to smell
emphasis and cocktail curiosity
bringing the best to the fore.
The newcomers tremble at the awe
of maestros watching their work
and dissolve in disasters.
There is the odd one that unknowingly
write splendid poetry
and when noticed and heaped with praise
often springboard into showcasing talent.
Reading the works of the masters
is always good. If they think it
is good then it must be good.
So many footsteps to follow and learn.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
sometimes,
my silence tells more than my words
and my throat is caught up
in a whisper
a crystallised murmur of something
i can't quite explain.
often,
our hopeless colloquy ebbs away
and my fingers desperately
reach out for you
but you are worlds away and we are separated by something
i can't quite explain.
always,
you promise as you fade from sight
we will overcome our pain
but our voices are stifled- a chasm of emptiness
an irrevocable feeling
i can't quite explain.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Why am I crushing myself
to death and beyond?
Feeling bereft
for that which I haven't
touched in years.
Leadening my heart,
and dragging my feet
because each step
is a step further
from lightness and youth.
I bore myself with this weight.
Loathe the tyranny,
and mighty pressure
inside my head
which threatens incapacity
of reason every ten seconds.
Why did he come back at all?
If only to suffuse me
with the promise of nothing,
and the intangibility
of all ****** lovers?
And, forgive me,
for ****** is how I feel.
Self-pity, you old devil!
I shall have this out of me,
or pick over it
'til my heart lays waste
all good intent.
I wish to be suspended,
as the crystallised air,
inside the strange house.
Where, this morning,
I chanced upon myself in mercury,
and tumbled through the ages.
As rose-heads wither on the stem,
my head shall fall
upon my chest with piquant,
silent longing.
And so, unto history
a dream shall die.
Should I die with it?
Or resurrect a steely charm?
Neither, sweet prince,
for your fleeting
and unseen visit
has taken my soul.
And, thus protected
from the whimsy of flattery
I stand, without notion,
of which way to turn
upon a once-clear pathway.
Should I chance you in my dreams,
I would but falter at your beauty,
though fail to recognise you -
for I no longer trust
what my eyes alight upon.
I am torn -
lamenting and tidal -
with hands that were always empty.
So what have I lost?
Nothing, that is all.
Nothing at all.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
If. Perfect love casts out fear , then why does so consume me ?
The mere thought severs the soul,
Starves you of rest , yet beguiles me .
Yet God is love , in him we find peace crystallised in our Lord Jesus .
He casts out fear when dawn breaks near,
To the Cross I cling , Lord of everything ,
Embraces the one who's love is but a tear .
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
The writings done the baby born
five months of painful paragraphs and haunted
by commas and full stops, scenes emerging from
insidious places and characters being polished
or demolished with uncanny accuracy
scenes unfolding and moving slowly
though transient prose and articulate poetry
down twenty nine chapters
and a hundred thousand words
telling a story of gripping interest
I finished at last.
The galley arrives in a red cardinal cloak
of crystallised chrysanthemums
graced by a beautiful girl
who smiled demurely at the photographers asking
and the flash captured her radiance
for the book cover.
Done at last and out to market she now goes
driving experts around with crafted
tricks to sell the books through any means
and make a buck for themselves.
Here I sat in this warm paperbag writing space
carving words in an endless stream
enjoying the river gathering
not allowing to burst its banks
and cause floods of words
and unnecessary meanderings
keeping the water tight within the dam
of chapters and structures
so readers could enjoy a careful
display of novelty and task
as they read every line looking for
the essence of the language
some searching for faults
others for ecstasies.
There are two more books to spit and polish
and send them packing to the editors
who will take a magnifying glass to demystify
the populated characters.
The power built up from being on this site
reading a hundred poems a day for 4 long
months and absorbing all the richness
and variety that hundreds
had to offer.
My time here is done.
Now I must move on to write
the Magnum Opus.
Author Notes
Check out my first Novel: The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition
on www.Amazon.com/author/marshallgass
ISBN 9781493137848
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
I drank the sea
No one was watching but me
The salt crystallised my bones
But the water made me free
Shells covered my lips and eyes
Seaweed lay as hair
And slid down throat
Sand layered like skin
Pages of a diary
Formed by waves on waves
I smelt of fish
And open air
I raged all over
Threw my spitting hands to the sun
Let it evaporate away my sins
I tossed my hair to the wind
And danced pebbles as my feet
I rolled with the tide
Tossed here and there
Fishermen tried to ****** parts of me
But I eluded them
Flowed ever faster to the shores
Picked men from rocks and threw them back
Sank deep and long
swam out again, to the deep
I rolled with whales
sifted krill through my teeth
tumbling currents rinsed my skin
Quick-silver flashing in my belly
coast to coast I roamed and rushed
and as the darkened tide turned,
I slipped out again to the deep
not content to walk when I could swim
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
you,
are a glazed lolly
a crystallised sugar coating
with jagged edges
and a sickly sweet inside that i could
never quite reach,
constantly and consistently cutting
my hollowed cheeks on your
razor blade edges
and ironically,
the blood building in my mouth
has more volume than the metallic liquid
filling your veins
and surprisingly,
i have learnt to more loathe you
than love you anymore.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
You write tragedies as if your world was built on them.
You describe it like shattered glass pieces, each jagged and broken,
yet each crystallised like ice, shining beautifully on their own. All a part of a whole.
It’s so beautiful, when you describe the heartbreak. It’s beautiful, the way you cry. It’s beautiful when you say the world is an illusion. You’re beautiful when you say you destroy yourself. You’re a beautiful
sad mess each time.
And I can only wonder how terrible it is in your mind;
the way you destroy yourself. Because you’re beautiful
enough and I don’t know how the world can treat you this way;
how you can do so yourself.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 7:23 AM UTC
I gave you sugar
that will
forever...
taste of salt
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
One moment
cancels out another
signifying a loss
something that's past
could never return
the next kiss or embrace
is not the same
each a form
an inscription
a touch-on
like none other
once having emerged
disappears into nowhere
irreversibility is the unchanging theme
of time--
each tide carries
the water forward
leaving the rest behind
a gust of wind
sweeps across
insubstantial, lost
irrecoverable
in empty space
leaving no trace
nothing does
itself repeat
replication
and recurrence
would never be wrought--
ah, my dearest and most-loved
it's the moment now
to which we are together bound
as a word
is said
as our eyes
exchange
a message
as our heart
is locked
in secure passage
we'll not be left in doubt-
as the moanful nocturne
reaches out
and its last notes fade
and sink* away
in the night's whereabout
we will know
for sure
the telling is over
the curtain has fallen
a new chapter
must follow--
if this brittle transiency
you understand
as you hold my hand
it would be bliss enough
as in silence we remain
unfazed, unmoved, unruffled
mindless of what's to come
in the sureness of our faith
that would withstand and defy
any awaiting future outcome--
courage would be ours then
to reign in and reap for keeps
whereupon our long-cherished dream
would have crystallised and bloomed
a bright light would be beckoning from afar
amidst the gloom of the shivering night
we, though weary, would have arrived safely
after the long-tested travail and trial
Via Dolorosa would its farewell have bidden
all that our heart has longed and searched for
would at last have found its unmistakable haven.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
Imperative perception
It was all far fetched, a time when I searched myself in others
No one can ever give me the moment of clarity and serenity
An eternity of peace within oneself, an embody of higher self
This place of ultimate truth and surreal objectification
A reflection of timeless lapses, the laps of completeness
The storms were a taboo, the recurrent flying unquietness
The un-resolving trips and flares of unpolarised magnetic currents
The escape to pristine moments, prestige throughs and peaks
A vision from the drowning sea, me sinking in the whirlpool
I mirrored my own reflection to yours, my 'I' to "you", your 'I" to "me"
Melodious Creeks
The moment called now is my only lullaby I can hear
A whisper so harmonised and crystallised deep in the seabed
A candle light of moment of truth in a rotating crystal ball
The chaos in the jungle have escaped to the peaks of the mountain
Uninformed lands with uniformed pebbles, the shattered glasses
Demons that stood ***** as they pierced and taunted a being
Why did it take so long?
Lets go the springs and streams of pain, the unending past
It's not a feeling, or logic, its a way of human existence
An entwinement of anthems embellished with peace
Presentiment
***** the barred barricades for me to see your pastures
I can feel the darkness that embodies your soul and mind
A thunder in the unending jungle, jiggling in kingdoms
Reject my sharp vision, I cry your tears as you do mine
I stare at your blur as you submerge in the deep waters
The blackening tunnels with no escape reject my eyes
The icy layers squeezing to escape in your sorrows
The narrowed aisles have become the only island you cruise
The trajectory of our blood realigned in our future sins
Found self?
Listen to the strings adjoining in the basements of the cliffs
The line balancing on the centrifugal pump as it impels to shrouds
Of choices?
Predetermination and judgment of other as I lost a piece of my time
In this territory, I stand at the borderline of my devotion in battle
Holding my rifle and connecting to life and all; me a solider of love
Parading in the landscapes of inhibitions and thought processes
A soul I hold is my only liberation to live fully and autonomously
Eyes wide open, mouth wide ajar as we rise and survive doing our best!
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC
From the depths of my pain,
you have shown me that beautiful flowers
grow in the midst
of the cosmic chaos I was in.
You were the twinkling spark,
the light in the shadows of my sadness,
the encouraging voice that metamorphose
my black and white world into something kaleidoscopic.
You sifted the specks of dust
that revealed the darkest secrets I hid.
You were the sun that illuminated
during the twilight of my incoherent thoughts.
I was composed of the ephemera of depression,
the hushed air between my teeth
when my lips were sealed.
I remember the time you told me,
things will get better.
I sighed and responded,
I don’t think so.
I thought you were going to give up
for I was stroppy, cumbersome teenager
but instead, you smiled;
you morphed my cynical perspective
into a superlative of optimism.
Every time my voice trembled
with the curse of anxiety,
your words nursed my soul
casting me with courage.
Your words I kept,
in hollow crystallised bottles,
like encapsulated messages of importance.
Spilled thoughts were the reminiscent
of my favourite brisk days with you,
filling the fragments of my loneliness.
I seem to be on the sentence
of the last paragraph where you wrote:
things will get better.
written in the crisps pages
of my sad blues chapter,
dipped in ink;
I believe and trust you wholly,
because things do become better, no matter what.
You were always there for me,
if only you knew how much that meant to me.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:00 AM UTC
You still visit me, now and then but mostly now and always.
Your image flitters into my mind and creates chaos,
Your face, projected in my thoughts, tightens the straps around my chest making it hard to breathe
As if the air is saturated with you and I am gasping to get my futile fix of your fading figure.
You visit my head often.
Your frequent appointments harpoon my heart, pushing it to pump harder, faster.
You do not stay long anymore. Just long enough to scrape the scar of the wound, releasing the septic sorrow and vehemence which has become vapid.
You visit a hollow space. Where memories have been stored away and feelings are protected behind a vault of fury which is always dissolved by the salt of my tears.
You are not welcome anymore but your arrogance is persistent.
You stroll into my thoughts and poison my dreams. Your smile lingers in the back of my throat whilst your words slash away at my soul.
You feed on weak. It is your nourishment.
You fear my happiness, as if there is not enough for us both to live on. Your presence is selfish – only accommodating fear and anxiety which you leave behind to freeze my heart and memory – your image, your beautiful, perfect figure, crystallised inside of me waiting to devour any joy that may pass through my being.
Your frozen statute punctures my thoughts, releasing all pleasurable moments into a swirling pool of abandonment and regret.
These moments will be lost forever. Tainted by the malicious memories that you thrive in.
I am lost. Your light shines hard and lures me toward it.
I will not be burnt. I will create light, new memories, better stories.
You will have no place to visit anymore.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC