"cyanic" poems
I don't even know anymore man
I don't want to live anymore
My chest gets heavier every time I exhale
Every bridge looks like a place to jump
Oncoming traffic a play zone,
I want to wash my skin with a razor blade loufa
And clean my teeth with cyanic Listerine
I walk barefoot in hopes of venomous spiders
I break mirrors while walking beneath black cats on ladders
All the while hoping my 7 years comes in a lump sum
I hope I choke on a Goldfish for the irony
Because it's the snack that smiles back
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
First, let’s talk about some of the lies
Uttered by the nefarious and unwise
Of a peculiar type of mindless insanity
Created and backed by the inanity
Of the Madison Avenue careerists
And hordes of conspiracy theorists
Who have taken the issue of a ****
And buried it in misconduct and greed.
It is important not to fall for the joke
That it is quite all right to smoke
Because smoking anything you pass
A dose of something called cyanic gas
Into your lungs, and perhaps minimal,
It’s the gas they use to execute criminals.
But, other uses for this homegrown stuff
Can help people whose lives are tough.
But the whole shooting match is a dodge
Started out by rich men in their fancy lodge
Fueled by ignorance and false piety
Written into law by a strangers to sobriety
That somehow had no problem with drinking
But thought being ****** was stinking thinking.
So they created movies and legends galore.
But repression is all the lies were ever for.
(There’s an old joke about a boss’s decree
About employees drinking ***** daily.
He issued the rule on the smell-free *****
That was drunk at lunch time by his crews,
Because he didn’t want customers hazy
Thinking his employees were going crazy.
He preferred they know they were inebriated
Rather than a staff full of the grossly pixilated.)
It was that kind of thinking that created
A fervor that up until today has not abated,
That named an easily grown garden plant
Into some kind of major anti-opium rant,
While opiates are endorsed by the AMA.
And hundreds of versions are here today
To cure the same ailments as cannabis
Without the side effects that are a nemesis.
Medical science is finally ignoring
A sacred cow that needed goring;
Suggesting to the country as a whole
That this simple plant can play a role
In helping those who need relief
And are being criminalized by a belief
That, accompanied with such sadness,
Was the true definition of ****** madness.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
Why are others mouths inclined to draw the pictures I try to scribble out that form inside my mind?
A worthless, spineless creature- almost serpentine, wriggling on its belly baring cyanic, lachrymal eyes.
I want to squirm from this Stygian tomb, disenthrall my thoughts from the shadows swimming with me
inside this amniotic pool. I'm just a worthless fetus, a crumbling parasite and perhaps it becomes more
obvious when I try to keep it out of sight, like a stench you try to hide; Dulcify decomposition with a rain
of fragrant petals and slowly you'll come to find that magnolias smell of death, I can taste it
slightly on my breath and it whets their appetite, the demons that stink of ammonia that gather every
night orchestrating their symposia, their bellies full of laughter and drink while I'm full of minacious,
eternal thoughts that writhe through plumbless wrinkles and ichor, questioning motivation and what it
is I fight for. I can never find the right answers... My tongue won't grasp the words, they just slip back into
their couthy throat where they can't be ignored; Left to die upon the shore, as fuscous waves that stain
sand with rejection crash against my shattered form. My hands crack trying to flip the hourglass back
and my eyes are constantly attacked by depression's thalassic pulchritude, a multitude of pains swaying
to and fro in veins, begging for escape but trying to stay encased. Life nulls and denudes, my aptitude
for feeling- my natural ability to hold things close without unreeling heartstrings. Keep reading, there'll
be no eucatastrophe just endless pages of pointless animosity and tragedies accompanied by laugh
tracks, everyone loves a jester with a proper act and I act a proper klutz futzing around with letters and
spelling, trying to ensorcell any being to find my misery compelling.
-SLuR
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
i
Afore there was an astrobleme, deep within me
Though now an astral queen, serenadeth gleamed;
Canorous and splendorous, her cantillate I repeat
I mimic her dancing step's, jumping on mine feet.
ii
She's sad when the past awakens, crying dreading tear's
Though tis what she don't knoweth, her king is all right here;
And through the year's, the catoptromancy shalt tell it's fortune
Chiliad timespan, her body to be mine land, water flow sourcing.
iii
I wilt constellate all her worries, and collect them on mine head
Her Burden's I shalt maketh as mine, and taketh all her's instead;
And the cyanic water's shalt we swim through, sail to the glass
The brokenness shalt leaveth her, as no time exist's, nor our past.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©あある じぇえん
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
As the crimson sun sets upon her cyanic eyes,
I'm lost to the reverberations of entropy they incite,
Were if not for these amalgamations of indigo illuming its disguise,
Forevermore would this ethereal dalliance imbue into the night.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC