"curdling" poems
The safest place is supposed to be my dreams
but it seems that's when the devil
tends to attack me most
Comforting warmth and sleepy slumber
disturbed by horrific fear
caught beneath my throat
and expelled in blood curdling
screams
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Colours curdling, water washing every *****
Out of us evil ever going and playing on
Land of character cherished by coloured lawn.
What a scene to see! Gracious glory gone
If you miss this mesmerizing festival upon
A folly. Foolish will be called such a conn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Holy played in school is highly pleasing crayon,
For Kinar, Aayushi, Kunal. Aryan or John.
Monorhyme has one colour, holi many micron.
Mital, Mitesh, Vaikhu, SIddhu, Saurabh are don.
This day even principal thinks to prevent throne
And join joy with teachers - see anxiety thrown.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Songs, screams; dance, D.J.; homage and hymn on;
This day with Holika heavy burdens and sins thrown.
Cruel Hiranyakashyapa was killed; glory was won.
Kunal, Arpita, Sandeep, Amit and Shreyas on lawn
Play water and colours with cool Pari’s scone
In Jalgaon, Agra, Kanpur, Karanja, Surat or Bonn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:22 AM UTC
VIII. TO ARES (17 lines)
(ll. 1-17) Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden-
helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, Saviour of cities,
harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the
spear, O defence of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of
Themis, stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous
men, sceptred King of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere
among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether
wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third
firmament of heaven; hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless
youth! Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and
strength of war, that I may be able to drive away bitter
cowardice from my head and crush down the deceitful impulses of
my soul. Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes
me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife. Rather, O blessed
one, give you me boldness to abide within the harmless laws of
peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the violent fiends of
death.
5.6k
There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.
I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.
He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.
But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.
She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.
Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.
Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.
The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.
We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.
So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.
The genie calls us falsifiers.
The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."
She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.
The genie left a few weeks later.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
She stands gazing out at the lake
the waves chase each other across its surface.
Beside her, a fire
connected to her, it burns softly and warmly in the dark of the night.
She can feel her city miles behind her
its walls shifting, changing, throbbing with her every emotion.
The waves crash against the shore
pounding the sand as hard as it can.
Then...
a silver chain, half buried reveals itself as a wave retreats
She reaches down and grabs it before the waves reclaim it into the black abyss
infinity...
the loop dangles from the silver chain blazing in the light of the fire.
A scream claws its way up her throat
blood-curdling, loathing, filled with hatred.
Beside her, her fire leaps
its flames raging, burning brighter, hotter, higher, faster
The chain falls from her shaking hands
the light illuminating the chain as the waters reclaim it, bringing it back into the black abyss.
How?
Why?
It was a cruel joke
after everything?
Now they were just mocking her
breaking their promise and throwing it back in her face.
Hatred fills her veins
for what the silver chain means
She can feel Him waking
He can feel her rage, her anger, her hatred.
Slowly everything around her begins to fade
the lake, her fire, her city.
He begins to wake
filled with longing to be unleashed upon them
to make them pay for what they did.
He begins to consume her
taking over her till nothing is left
She is on her knees, panting, fighting to control Him, to keep Him subdued
but its too late
He is too strong and she is to weak.
He enters the world
and she is no more
gone...
He wants blood, pain, chaos
He wants to make them suffer
He has no reasoning, no cares, nothing
only the urge to ****
destroy, pain.
He is the Beast
and nothing can stop him.
Her city can do nothing
only watch and wait
Watch has the Beast destroys the world
consuming it till it is no more...
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
I live in the wilderness
The Sun shines on the trees and through the leaves
Warmth envelopes my sanctuary
Until darkness approaches like a fog
The darkness is pregnant with sounds
I hear animals snarling while bones are breaking
Whimpers turn into blood curdling gargles
As the darkness renders invisibility among predators
And the darkness engenders vulnerability among prey
I desperately want to help but there is a darkness barricade
The darkness follows everything
The darkness swallows everything
I can hear planes crash
And the passengers scream
From within the darkness
I can only see muzzle flash
And the barrel's steam
Creating hardship
The darkness converts men to shouts of agony and rage
The darkness blinds us from the writing on the page
The darkness makes us believe
That it's our reprieve
Darkness has us in it's sight
When we choose to live in light
Even when we do what is right
Darkness takes flight
Becoming our plight
We try to fight back with futility
The darkness' bite has more utility
We are engulfed by negativity
As we lose all connectivity
And our mouths begin to foam
When the darkness is our home
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
"And the older I get, the more I'm sure
That more by itself never was a cure
Some days I've got nothing to show for except
Walking the dog and walking the floor"
Mary Chapin Carpenter
<><><>
*it's been twenty years plus
who can remember exact,
the last time I had a full-time four-legged
companion to share my bed, greet my head with
wagging tail, and joy incessantly, overflowing and drowning me
with face lickings and hugs of a topsy turvy twisty body,
and smiles and curdling yowls of deep throated
cries of obvious joy and the
first thing I'll do when the nectar of next
life's staging begins to commence will be me to get
such a dog as heretofore I remember as an unadulterated purest joy,
I'll still walk the floor,
long walks, yup, outdoors, early morn,
and late afternoon day settling setting endings,
dog and me, freshly bathed, settling in to watch
some British crime and ****** mysteries sleuthed and
solved by folks I'll never meet, but whose company enjoyed
over the distance of an atlantic sea and about seven feet,
and maybe dog curls up next to me, by my pillowed
head, or between my happy to snuggle legs,
don't matter much, dog & me,
will discuss an alternating
rotation satisfying our
mutuality,
and even when I still walk the floor, which be a task for evermore,
he can walk beside me if he chooses, cause choice is
what's it all about*
with a true companion
nml
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
the preacher never wrote a poem
about dahmer's baptism:
1.
he leaned across
the jail cell table
and his eyes were honest
when he said he believed in god
deeply
his eyes were honest
when he said goodnight honey
and gently draped his body
in a tub of sulfuric acid
his open jaw glistening in the moon
dissolving in the dusty noontime soliloquy
of crickets outside his apartment window
2.
can an honest man
bathe in those kind of wounds
and be allowed to ask
for a penance?
3.
for two weeks they left
his baptismal robes in storage
they asked if he really believed it
if he could believe in all this
4.
“when i was a kid
i was just like anybody else”
he had said
he seemed to think
being like anybody else
could dull the bloodstains
reduce the skeletons
still tucked into his closet
to powder
make his wishes into holy water
5.
yes jeffrey, anyone can drink it
but getting drunk on holiness
isn’t enough to repent
all of their fingers are wrapped around
your heart
doesn’t forgetting seem foolish
to the brains in your refrigerator
isn’t it just useless
to the spare ribs, in your bureau
drink all the holy water you want
you will always carry their bodies
on your chest
have you ever had a heart
other than the ones you collected
and did you ever know
what a soul feels like?
6.
and that day
they took him to a prison tub
and his body
glistened under the water
like a drowning animal or a martyr
jeffrey doesn’t float
7.
as he opens his eyes
his mouth wide
he looks just like him
suspended in white
ripples curdling in currents across his pale skin
a solar eclipse
covers the sun
as he comes up
for air
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
I should have said no
But maybe it was fear
Or maybe the fact
that he's a Polar bear
He's got polar bear attitude
with polar bear teeth
And stands ten foot tall
on his polar bear feet
He's the Killer King of the polar bear tribe
And he fully demanded, that I must subscribe
Subscribe to his annual magazine full of poems
edited by his famous brother, Jackson Holmes
Jackson is the one with artistic skill
While King Romero takes pleasure in the ****
He's threatened to devour people,
and haunted their dreams
then fed off of their, blood curdling,
Gruesome screams
But The magazine ain't so bad
And costs just eight bucks
But between you and me
It's written by some imprisoned ducks
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love
from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come
continues still perhaps in empty homage
of a sa ta na ma
personage of ((Shiva))
white bones pierce the sky
in upward curtain-seethes of heat
beyond imagined burning hells...
the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life,
sands of absolute defeat.
shadow trust imparts
a silent teacher's mantras;
soothing psychic words,
"Bala" and "Adi-Bala"
carry over dunes of morbid thirst--
the gape of ancient serpent-maws
choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons
fissured by immobile sun--
their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream
in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line:
god-fated tutelage of seedling savior,
lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew
shining arms horizon's arid form:
despite begrudging honor kings expect
when offspring given after years
in hard-earned sacrificial grace:
yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage
to which is pitted youth to slay--
despite allay by symbol feminine,
as if to question her abode would conjure her
in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf--
with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat
the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic,
forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical:
"we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy;
before your son our asthras lay their weaponry"
.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
the water filled our lungs
and bled through the cracks in our skin.
bubbling, brimming
the sea touched my eyes and you were white
with seafoam, curdling between lashes,
silvers pooling over stark blues
on fingertips.
sinuous, submissive.
the piercing cold mixed with the rough salt
over tide-smoothed shells.
we breathed out our mist to cry over crashes of thunder.
enigmatic, flowing.
you are an acrobat, my prideful tide.
your steel waters wash the sand from my legs
and glassy waves cleanse, twisting and curling,
releasing through our ocean breeze.
you opened your eyes and all i saw was sea glass.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC
People held hostage, always living in fear,
The barrel of a weapon, is always near.
Riding the train, a blood curdling scream,
A deafening noise, and a bright light beam.
A violent shock wave tears open your flesh,
The lucky ones, receive skin grafts with mesh.
Your arm torn off, artery bleeding is profuse,
A dying thought is, what was the use?
What was the purpose, to **** all these people?
In the name of Allah, perched on a mosque steeple.
Radical extremists don't care about life,
By murdering people they increase human strife.
Wasting resources, bringing the Earth gloom,
Look at faces on a plane, many filled with doom.
The last thirty five years I don't understand,
Middle Eastern countries, together they band.
Bringing terror and hatred towards cultures of the west,
We accept the need to feel your ways are the best.
Pray all you like, cover up a women's face,
Stop trying to change America's philosophy and place.
Once the oil is gone, and the land again bare,
Back to living in tents, flowing robes you will wear.
Your tactics are old, soon you may feel,
The burning of skin, this inferno is real.
A nuclear explosion will end years of frustration,
No longer putting up with terrorists indignation.
Revolutions reveal, the world ending in flame,
Enough with this nonsense, put an end to this game!
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Hope rekindles;
Flares under your skin
Heats in your ribcage
Flickers in your heart
Then it is blown out, leaving nothing behind but
Pain and darkness
Curdling in the pit of your stomach
Sinking at the back of your mind
Settling into your emotions,
Like it never left.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
There once was a girl named mary
Who had a pet canary
Locked in a cage
The bird filled with rage
And planned to ****** dear mary.
He picked the lock with his beak
One autumn eve so bleak
And made his escape
Mary’s door left agape
To her bedside he would sneak.
His eyes held a sinister gleam
And mary let out a blood-curdling scream
As he pecked at her eyes
And scratched at her thighs
Mary prayed it was all a bad dream.
After the vicious attack
Mary fell flat on her back
On the hardwood floor
Her pulse was no more
The canary flew away and never looked back.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 4:48 AM UTC
It's an animal beastly thing wrapped up warm in stigmas headlines daydreams sleepdreams ice cream headspin. pain.
Sirens call in my upper chest or my abdomen, maybe. a ****** sea. fish of mens' hooks eels and seaweed wound around aorta blood pumping mind squeezing toes cracking new blister dried fluid. cracks and flakes a flushing cycle, not over the **** yet.
salty eyes heavy chest silver parcels unending quest not shiny particles. Head spin crack of dawn hey look the moon is gone. observed the craters they were my neighbours a hole in my heart like the one......
Don't play mean i try and try green bean carrot pencil brush pen, still here? Run! too hard. Curdling scream turns sour on my tastebuds my tongue has been dissatisfied. Add it to the list! lately I know these things should not have been acknowledged. Bed. No. Kitchen work? Yes. Hurts me through and through and I know it's because it is me and it cannot be handled but it settled in the pit of my stomach and it made itself a happy home. I HATE IT.
BLOOD:
*juice
gore
cruor
claret
hemoglobin
sanguine fluid
clot
plasma
vital fluid*
why would I ever use blood?
Porous salt bruises help mind chooses slugs and moths but i want insects like ladybird bees. Keep me weak and feed me lies because not once did you see me you only looked right past me. how does it feel, little peach, to be dishing out bowls of dinky lies. i ate it you were trusted you were good there's just so many people coming.
when the moon rises and the sky twinkles lights about you its easy to be sad but its time for you to blossom
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
They say it's the distance that kills the flame
Puff sizzle and pop
The dying ember of love screaming its last breath
To the stars
The moon
Heavens ears are muted
These wailing screeching tryst
Happen daily
Yearly
The product of love that laid to close
Curdling like sour milk in the jealous heart
Burning like rancid acid
Chinese water torture to the brain
Maddening mundanity to fill the void of meaning
Like monkeys their minds seek to dull it's own screams
Love left rotting
Stinking in the distance that dragged it further spreading the filth
But the distance isn't the deceiver at least one can see the evidence of betrayal
Before it sneaks behind
And stabs them with their own thoughts
Confuse them with their own feelings
And drag them under to feast on their own flesh
No distance doesn't ******
It is the heart that deceives
It is the heart that renders false reality
Blinds the eyes to its own pain
And tricks the tongue to speak
Where it has no place
It is the heart that is its own martyr
The godly victim
Whom's motive is selfish
To **** what wounds it
But it's justice is the death of itself
And these sheets held love
Whispered melting
Scalding devotions
Held the iron hot to brand itself the dutiful
But in obligation left once more
Leaving blood fresh
The heart murdered once more
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
There was quite a crowd gathered when I reached my apartment building that morning.
Lots of cops and Emergency Medical personnel gathered everyone was just standing around.
I asked Wild Bill what happened?
Not sure, think it came out apartment five.
What?
A blood-curdling scream, and long wailing, unnatural sounds.
Right then I knew it was bad.
The apartment was occupied by cutthroat junkies and their infant daughter.
Tony “The Hulk” came out first, bloodied, bleary eyed, staring at the ground
Rosalie “The Muse” came next, screaming hysterically in Spanglish... muttering broken Catholic novenas
last soaked in solemn silence, Inca “The Baby”,
covered in a sheet, silent, never to speak again, forgotten.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
(Act 1)
As I lay there among the trees and the shrubbery
Spread before me were fields of gold
Weeds, flowers and twigs tickle my face
And above me an azure sky
Shining upon me by some heavenly divinity
Light streams through gaps in clouds
The sun beyond is impenetrable, a fortress of energy, and the clouds seem in awe
For miles visible, grass twinkles with morning dew,
So that I see flashes of reflection when I stare out across the horizon
A chorus of starry wonder brought to this ground;
When I try hard, I can calm the pulses of light in my eyes.
The sea of glittering droplets seems to fade,
But is never out of reach of my concentration.
And I perceive rolling mists
Hills that seem to swim to and fro and warp in and out of the skyline,
And the wind silently brushes the grass,
Gently moving the blades in a swaying rhythm
Like the rhythm of my heart beating, yet time stands still
And I can only absorb the pinks, greens and blues.
All the gold, seeming like visions of eternity
Momentarily I think all is boundless
My transient thoughts alone may speak a thousand stagnant words,
But that indescribable epiphany brought a river of speech and thought,
With which I felt I could transcend the inhibitions and degradations that afflicted my mind,
Soar above fields marked by fences and enclosed by vision and space
As if I were to find a boundless pattern, to speak aloud words of wisdom,
That I had been in this world for longer than that flash of inspiration that had brought me here.
I am, and therefore I think about what I am.
With all the force of crashing mountain-tops,
Or the bolt of lightning splitting the air
I am emancipated, as I ascend, beyond the negligent frontier of chaos
Below me that gurgling pit of utter curdling mire,
That entrenched the soul in fear,
And its walls reached and leaned, unassailable, around me
And now in golden fields, no restrictions placed on thought or speech,
Logic or discourse still grip or rule me.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Weeping the tears of a killer
Face buried into the palms of his grisly hands
He sobs uncontrollably for he knows what these hands have done
He cries as a child might having seen his parents murdered
Gasping and struggling to draw in a full breath
Snot running from his nose, curling over the stubble of his upper lip
With a clenched fist he wipes this away
Rage building in his veins, hatred, and remorse
His face grows red as he shakes uncontrollably with anger
Unsure of what to do with himself he rises quickly to his feet
His chair crashing back to the floor behind him
He paces the kitchen back and forth
Feet padding monotonously over checkered linoleum
Suddenly, abruptly, he stops, his gaze drifting to the counter top
As he catches sight of the skinless corpse he screams
A blood curdling scream that chills to the bone
Unable to bare the sight of his disembodied victim any longer
He barrels out of the kitchen
Crashing through doors, splinters of wood marking his trail
In the bathroom he now stands
Sulking in shame before a ***** mirror, staring down at his bare feet
Slowly, he raises his head, eyes squeezed shut
Fearing to find what he might see when he opens them
He pauses here for several moments, collecting his thoughts
Breathing deeply, hoarsely, sporadically huffing
Mustering all of his courage, he makes this final leap, opening his eyes
In the mirror before him he sees all too clearly himself
Wearing a skin that is not his own
Face, hands, feet, all that are exposed
His own pale skin standing out in bold contradiction
To the beautifully bronzed hollow man that he wears
His pale and bony knuckles crash repeatedly into the face of the mirror
Over and over again the thud and the crunch
Broken skin and shattered glass
Blood now smeared across what little reflective surface remains
At last he can see himself no more
Slumping down into a ball on the floor
He sits alone and rocks
The mere shell of a man remains
With dripping hands he tears away a patch of flesh from his thigh
Groping the floor blindly his hand closes over a shard of glass
He is now far too numb to feel pain, dead inside
Gripping tightly to the broken glass this broken man begins to write
Carving his apology into his thigh
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
A fall over rock,
Metal answering to water,
Is the seal of this spot;
A land trodden by music
And the tune forgot.
Of a region savage,
The territory that was broken,
Silver gushed free;
And earth holy, earth meek shall receive it
In humility.
This, not dwelt in, this haunted,
The country of the proud,
Is curdling to stone,
And careless of the feet of the waters
As they glance from it down.
2.2k
Clear crystal blue
Marbled colours show
beneath the cascading
ripples of heaving sanity
A feather touch
quickly thrown into a
debilitating stab
that stops your breath
A blood curdling scream
Hummingbird heartbeat
Colour fading from fingertips
Finally some peace and quiet
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 11:01 AM UTC
"Don't leave out the graphic details."
Oh, trust me. I won't.
The gruesome, disturbing, intimacies.
The bone-chilling, hair-raising fragments.
It's almost too much to bear.
But not quite.
This vulgarity is just enough to keep them on the edge of their seats.
Every tiny, twisted moral of the story.
In between the cracks, find shining slivers of redemption.
Only to immediately cover them up with rotten deception.
Good, ***** flair. Scummy additions. Sick annotations.
Keep the masses rollin' in.
Complexity, concentration, then chaos when they want more fear.
The blood-curdling, stomach-churning truths.
The disgraceful, distasteful deductions.
We've come to the conclusion they crave this coagulation of ****
Dark disdain eating away at the corpse of wellness.
Vermin, pests, gnawing, slobbering.
Choking on the bones of prosperity.
The decomposition of this life is what they love.
Flies, gnats, swarm. Maggots clump.
Crack, rip, slurp, gag, choke, ******* die.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
A sense of utter loss within,
ignoring the world outside that of the mind,
Wandering in the paths of insanity
Blasting thoughts, and a rising, formless desire
to be lost in the darkness all around,
yet still sensing the borders
that are immersed in a sludge of sin
All goes on within the invisible world
hidden from any earthly eyes.
Unimaginable to all but one,
yet receiving glimpses of similarity
that strike the uniqueness back from reality.
Giving form to words,
images that could never be painted
but are forgotten instantaneously.
The vastness that might only be
the result of a chemical imbalance.
Such that these words become aimless,
mindless wanderings
devoid of any meaning to the universe.
It is but one fools perspective that
the discourse is one of wisdom,
that it is unique
And yet still, the self-importance clings
and the lines of discernment
become inevitably blurred.
The fabric is torn and marred,
trampled under the hooves of cattle
down below, where the dust is pounded
into miniature swirling clouds,
and the grass roots are torn up
to be left flapping helplessly
in the screaming winds of commotion.
There is a lack of conviction
in every word that is spoken
as if the bubble of thoughts
has become disconnected from the machinery
and floated into boundless space.
Once the fuel has flown,
the unworthy tongue sets in,
drawing from the toxic piles of sundry
that lie skewed asunder
destined to be burned,
though they still exist
to create thick curdling smoke
that chokes out any form of life
and causes the filth of hypocrisy
to flow forth in abundance.
Sinking into the mire,
the narrow way shrinks to the eye of a needle
And all hope seems lost.
This is deprecation.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
i know, it's not exactly mesmerising
such bounties with such curdling
crudeness, but that's how it is,
with eyes vectoring into the above,
cobalt, the highest pinnacle of the depths,
a shade like any other,
and then seeking the horizon, the dilution
of the formidable shade into Arctic...
a near white, but not exactly white,
not exactly worth metaphor that's a kindred
of white & black as lack & lack...
just the see-through colour for the allowance
of possessing eyes, not near melted mirrors
of mercury, but by day,
the highest peak blue in hue of cobalt,
and when walking from the mountain's peak,
the eyes spot the Arctic and Adriatic mist hues
outlining a bordering of all things elemantal...
the transparency of the whole dynamo
on being grounded from all elevations,
before dipping into the seas' shrubbery...
for indeed the sky makes use of the close-up, apparent
green shades of the sea, or the Thames grey
without an earl on a royal gondola worthy a parade,
nearer then the grander colour scheme,
but up from space, indeed, all is blue and all is green,
and all is sandy suntanned bronze
and seemingly serene; lest we forgot the dollops
of skeletal, floating in cloud - those scouts of Antarctica;
but from the elemental blue of the sky
receding into the seas of mirrors via arctic into white
if not seemingly see-through, there too i spot
the antidote of white nearing the pristine state of
claiming being see-through, a crow's
bleak colour of being shrouded
in celebratory mourning: the pupil of my eye, black,
and all the world around me, the flattened earth
of my iris, for no astronaut i am to imagine it otherwise,
from a perspective of such heights reached by
fellow man, if i am to be so humbly grounded,
i'll imagine it counter-productively as thus.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
Letting Go
Let go of this delusion, burst the bubble where I dwell.
Then let reality set in to dissolve my wispy veil,
Let go of mindless babble; silently listen for awhile
Let go of false pretenses and slowly learn to smile.
Let go the jagged remnants, of my shattered heart.
Let go white knuckles clutching, so grief restrained may start.
Let go pathetic excuses and attempts to justify,
Addiction, plain and simply explains why we get high.
Let go the lies I tell myself, be brave enough to see,
Devastation happened in my past, now, release me agony.
Let go one single blood-curdling scream, make it worthy you get just one.
Let go of superficial friends, do unto them as they’ve done.
Let go of wishing that beauty would change me just for you
I’m proud of who I am inside, no one but I can fill my shoes.
Let go all of the games we play to avoid having to feel
Let go of who you think he wants, and be the one that’s real.
Heidi Shavill
2013
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC