"demoniac" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
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I speak the language of the ambiguous man
Two false tunnels leading to the paradise once existent
Suffocating in the soul the heart pumps mysterious labyrinths
Intricate twists, lively turns, dead ends, corrupt memories
All leading to the same two doors
Handles made from cherry blossom to conceal ****** wrists
Misleading as barren rock behind the sodden waterfall
And deceitful as the smiles of killers pending demise
I like to fool the world with my duplicitous decisons
Peeping through one door just to go through the other
There lay two paths divided in a somber world
The ambiguity of man prevails
Only when a single door leads to the innocent simplicity
But the truth about lies prevail
When the man not knows what he does
And navigates through his own mindful solitude
I intrude in a broken world filled with people most pernicious
Some call them deceivers while some call them philosophers
Depends on how they see the truth of ambiguity
Two parallel bridges to cross a sea most demoniac
While only one bridge armed with the truthful support
But the world feels much too simple without rails to grasp
As there is nothing to hinder the peaceful descent
Smoothly into that paradise once existent
I'd fairly not speak about the truthful man
But rather the lying hero
For he has more knowledge with the concept of ambiguity
But whom does the stray bullet in the revolver take?
The truthful man or the lying hero?
If the truthful man chooses not the rails out of pride
And the lying hero slashes his wrists out of regret
At first I settle with those who favor the liar
But if I had two bullets
I would see that the pride would also suffice
As the ambiguous man shall die twice
For ambiguity is anything but simplicity
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
FOR certain minutes at the least
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won
And all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death's head
Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
Welcome, and the Ormondes all
Nodded upon the wall,
And even Strafford smiled as though
It made him happier to know
I understood his plan.
Now that the loud beast ran
There was no portrait in the Gallery
But beckoned to sweet company,
For all men's thoughts grew clear
Being dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started up,
For aimless joy had made me stop
Beside the little lake
To watch a white gull take
A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
Now gyring down and perning there
He splashed where an absurd
Portly green-pated bird
Shook off the water from his back;
Being no more demoniac
A stupid happy creature
Could rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon,
That never yet had freeman
Right mastery of natural things,
And that mere growing old, that brings
Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
Yet have no dearer thought
Than that I may find out a way
To make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayed
Through barren Thebaid,
Or by the Mareotic sea
When that exultant Anthony
And twice a thousand more
Starved upon the shore
And withered to a bag of bones!
What had the Caesars but their thrones?
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Banshee screams echo in the icy, crackling gloom
Warm, freshly pumped blood spatters a pale moon
reflected in dilated pupils
whose freeze-frame focus seems fixed on steam
from that memorable last breath
slowly dissipating
Menacing, gutteral snarls
Tarmac demoniac sniffs her ****
snaps drooling fangs
at a scythe wielding spectre
snatching stunned
souls from twitching corpses
Now she packs them in pecking order
Splintered crystals of falling glass
mournfully ****** ****** the last post
Distraught, upended armco barriers
hold their freeze-frame salute
and Babylon thrums a bit louder
May I see your license please
Sep 28, 2009
Sep 28, 2009 at 11:32 AM UTC
Snapping and cracking it moves with a clink
jibbering and jabbering beneath the kitchen sink
It backs up the pipes with stagnant decay
reeking and stinking all through the day
Exhaling self-loathing, skin milky and pale
demoniac from twisted tongue to forked tail
Feasting upon rats it swallows them whole
a creature mischievous, bloodthirsty and cold
He devours Halloweeners, then all their sweets
surprising passing strangers by yanking their feet -
"I'll yoink your tootsies, tickle your toes
then what next, uh oh who knows?!"
Last Christmas it blinded the neighbours so they couldn't see
burnt the decorations and shat under their tree
The poor little children waking up that following dawn
to bits of their grandparents spread across the lawn -
Oh I can't sleep, scared of my own home
sick of being stuck with this thing all on my own
People are dead and my moral passions to blame
my inability to **** has caused all this pain
So tonight when it crawls from its slumber, I'll be there with my gun
Oh come my sweet little demon, let's have some fun!
- The Wingle Wangle Song -
"Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
Is a wicked little fairy -
bloodshot eyes, a grimy disguise
he doeth not scare me
Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
Bathes in sweat and cold blood -
Sneaks into homes, steals people's bones
Separates the bad from the good
Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
Roams all night, sleeps all day -
A blighter joyous and macabre
so happy and gay
Wingle Wangle Wyrmtail
you may dance to all the children's cries -
but beware Wingle Wangle
within a barrel lies your demise."
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
∅☢☯✰✿⚥∅☯✰✿☠☯✰
Religion, you harlot and ****** of the masses
I smell the stagnation you bring upon earth.
Gold becomes lead, in stained roseate glasses
diluting, corrupting, negating its worth.
Hierarchical structure and pseudo-anointing
seem holy— but prove antithetic to Christ
whose transparently sure apostolic appointing
began a new age, and sufficed.
I renounce you, religion. Your temples lie fallen…
the future arises from ruins, ever new.
Mere human unrighteous momentum must stall
when the truth spins around into view.
He was scorned, he was vilified; slain for your sin
Abrahamic philosopher, healer and friend
yet perceived as demoniac right to the end.
His beginning is here in your heart. Never fear:
Dead religion must perish for true love to win.
Hermeneutics imploding—His coming is near
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
they say scents are the greatest mystery
that man leaves behind
that cannot rekindle a familiar nasal palette:
the slum scents of london in the 19th century
i can equate with a moscow-st.petersburg train
where a girl tried to worm-wriggle-out
of being designated serf beds near the toilets
with a pregnancy that didn't happen..
indeed the scents, the sardine choking
congregation of humanity in a crowded
underground train, where sweaty oil vapours
to clock the glutton of bulimia announcing
midday with regurgitation...
make each word an instrument, the vocabulary
an orchestra and each word a different tuning
to zigzag intentions not intended intentionally,
a noun acting as a verb, but esp. an adjective, etc.
indeed make your voice as mysterious
as scent... make it: vox est similis odor (notation
of the double emphasis, colon and italics
are a single ditto - " - make that doubly dittoed
and i turn to quadruple minding the worded affair);
and it wasn't because of the crucifixion
that a belshazzar moment didn't happened with nero
or caligula... it was the original musicology of
the roman notation that spared the keeping of the
letters and the loss of the numerals by invoking
arabic digitalisation akin of B and 8 that, simply
congregated... nonetheless...
let my voice be like a perfume, worn by those who
heard it, and a fetish for those who haven't,
not for some saintly or angelic ordinance,
but as a reason for who i once was among those
who wear it... and know the familiar humbling appreciation,
not this demoniac laughter with the foxes i had to
choose as home.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
At times the soul gets clenched
in an unspeakable grief
In a demoniac grip, it chokes and wriggles
The pain of being stung by a dozen scorpions
or hacked piece by piece by an axe
Tremulous grows the heart, over love that is spent
Seeks in vain to revive the joy that is gone
Strains to lift up the veil that darkens the soul
Wrestles to come out from the desolate cave of black solitude
The more it struggles to wade through the mess
the deeper it plunges into the morass of despair
Clung on talons of excruciating pain,
wailing a long wail of never being understood
the mind goes berserk
whirling and churning.
Anytime the volcano might erupt
emitting fumes of sulphurous smoke
with asphalt lava, spilling out,
blowing life with its violent breath.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC
Prising through the fog like creeping fingers
headlights approach slowly, glaring and foul
from beneath the obscurement of mist,
a demoniac engine gurgles and growls.
A 1958 Plymouth Fury, one beauty of a car,
spoilers whistling, axels whispering
[THIEF]
ancient, but without sentiment -
the grills above her bumper curved into slender-hooked teeth
blood-red and fat, a body that's sleek,
bloated, ready to chastise;
one twisted zygote, a devil's reject -
from the depths of a broken heart, tendrils of fury begin to rise
blue-smoke billowing behind in transient swirls,
my mind bends as reality curls,
still lay here and she's getting closer -
and closer -
[- oh leave me be -
- just let me go -
- crawl someplace where your face won't show -]
She can't understand that my love for her is no longer,
she can't seem to understand that my resistance to her charms is so much stronger -
and still she speeds along the highway
taking the night and violently painting it red,
her wheels squealing towards
the dusty asphalt where I lie my head,
speeding along
not slowing down -
["Hey stop! No please STOP!!!"]
///CRUNCH///..-.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Melodious crackling infuses, charging static atmosphere
Vibrations penetrate barriers, fragmenting celestial sphere
Rational boundaries disintegrate, chaos emerges schizophrenic
Spliced personalities splinter, psychotic rhythm reflects genetics
Dormant heredity aroused, hysteric deranged homicide
Demoniac tempo intensifies, psychopath's insanity amplified
Demonic possession harnessed, traumatic obsession distorted
Erroneous percussion horrendous, pernicious lunatic contorted
Withering consciousness diminishes, falsified intelligence deformed
Mastermind's scheme commences, cyanotic audience malformed
Quivering frequency pulsates, puncturing deafening performance
Euphoniums circulate methane, calamitous climatic chorus
Instruments composing ballad, narration foreboding demise
Anthem consecrating malice, indulged choirs cannibalize
Virulent orchestra dissipates, convulsions eviscerate harmony
Cavernous melody resonates, cultivating maniacal symphony
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 6:12 AM UTC
Lost in the dark
tangled in silken threads,
naked and cast in pallid moonlight ~
her ageing skin she scratches and sheds.
Entombed deep, and safely within,
teetering on the cusp of reality
and the breadth of sin ~
tirelessly feeding,
her demoniac litter
from the sour milk of her breast ~
a thousand eight legged freaks
languishing in a giant skull lined nest,
relishing from her comfort,
her love and undying nourishment ~
tainted, but untainted,
encapsulated by the grip of shadows
free from any arcane judgement.
And in the thick of night,
inside your closet
and under your bed ~
they're there,
smiling with pincered teeth;
a thousand hairy abdomens
swollen with nightmares,
and intoxicated with grief.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
As I am affronted
the response is
to the simple.
It burrows in corners
and hides in creases,
residing in the cutest of dimples.
Body derelict like a crumbling temple.
This thing is evil-
or I am for sure.
One thing is true
drop the others to the floor.
A black and white,
grey on holiday.
A swinging shape I'm
sure will manifest
into a sword one day.
And it's coming for me.
There's no other device.
No time for this guy to be
approachable, no time for
this guy to be nice.
I'm fighting for my life,
but I can reason with the knife.
It doesn't have to make sense,
I've just had it up to the temple tonight.
And I ask it how it came here,
what it wants to protect.
I thank it for its service but
I can't seem to connect.
This situation doesn't look
like a lion on my tail.
I stomp my feet and flail my
arms inside this inflated hell.
I name it and it laughs at me,
it's name is not a word.
It's known by screams
and pleas for mercy
like nothing you've ever heard.
Its job is to overwhelm
me with life and concepts long interred.
A fear that's hidden deep behind
an obvious thing like hate.
I approach ad infinitum,
to make this devil meditate.
A hundred and eight prayer beads.
A mantra to stand and fight.
A weapon of intent,
of magical will;
A word of power and light.
Just get me through this night-
Our feelings aren't based in logic.
We use tools on a budget.
Report the numbers and don't fudge it.
Be honest with the others,
Be honest with the self.
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
they are to never find a path, akin to our,
an insomnia of the sun,
they are to be forever quasi-Eskimo
blonde...
but the English are *******
prunes in that department... ******* prunes!
hawk-nosed liars!
pop and the great escape
of anger...
sheer me custard-skinned
and i'll do the tøtengruß salute...
Stasi... right to poach the "free" people,
simply meaning: the impolite people...
i too wish thing were different,
and we could summarise over tea and biscuits...
but some people have never experienced
the notion of the flux, or: change...
they're still strapped to the Mary Poppins
of imagining things...
had i a son or daughter, i'd never have either...
because i wish i had wanted either...
but never care to churn a cherishing of as said:
totalitarian memorisation in me overtook
thinking, i simply stopped thinking,
memory demoniac took over:
the renegade in a Swedish village was never to be,
the internet gave the public a moral compass,
and moral superiority, meaning
that artists had to agree to a public moral
consensus, or write no art at all...
ending in? piss-poor art, or no art at all:
hence, the applause... well done;
well done. you've just invented a ****** communism
that suffocates everyone... well done...
speaking as someone who's ancestors experienced it
first-hand with the Mongolians... no!
there isn't an advert involved! you ****** up!
you little ****** crazy squatting at university
born at 5 a.m. thinking is going into the bin!
that's where it belongs... ******
i have to ways of saying tøtengruß... you,
i presume, have only one...
just you watch me mark you idiotic by a
non-existent plebiscite...
is it alright? first of all you'll soak me in honey,
then walk me into the desert, then the bees will
come... then you'll disperse...
as you have already... then you'll start to think:
who's y neighbour? should i ask him
for a spare cup of sugar?
then the neighbour will reply you:
that idiot is blasting music at 11 a.m. and
it's disrupting my sleep! lock him up!
and then you'll go among the throng and think
nothing, and comply, and just, shut, up;
like you were meant to.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
upon each tread of my entry
and upon tread of each
of my lazy escapes, i leave each
place so withered
and too readily applauding;
what scare from the coconut
so edited as to leave a feeling
of a demoniac monkey?
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
Charred―
blueberries.
I am returning your gifts
of cruel times,
when none was crying.
Chewed―
evidences.
I don't want to look at them―
to provide the measurement
of face.
A demoniac―
version,
of a sweet dialogue, stuck
in your throat.
You bend double.
Epitaphs
demand justice.
Nobody dies for his god, you
want to disappear to
take revenge.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
Beneath the sparkling stars
The twilight has dawned its tranquility
Can you see those wishes flying high
Like the never ending aspirations
Breathe in the rejuvenating paradise
Let the duskiness , take you into the lost
World of wonders …..
Free those tamed pessimist who have
Lost their virtues
Thousands of blessings are following
Your path
Let your demoniac deeds go away
Pour your heart with kiss of love
And redeem your obscured reflection
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
As the corner of my eye
Widened, gasped at the glinting Sun
Highest, above disfigured illusions
The infinite stretch of innumerable sighs
Yet closest twirls slinky eyelashes
The (in)visible identity seems to hide
As human denies vehemently
"The Supreme Personality of Godhead"
Flinching faith leads to unanswered revelations
Unflinching demoniac while innocent is shot
Yet unflinching faith in a barber
While he holds a razor against the throat
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC