"demotic" poems
Mongst the salacious ferns of
Artemis requested in the land
of the handsome labyris women
wealing and weaving Vulcans
shrewd hearts of jasper and
chalcendony, governess Hulda
cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones
fletching mandrakes philtre whetting
hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace
intercessorial unto volcanic pious
virtues haranguing loves cataract
dashing herewith demotic enditements
distempered of ludic ordination;
forging a year and a day halest
cledonomancies volley of truths
bequeathing privity of Heavens
prismatic trajectory.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Searching through her bloodied clothes.
Searching for what is left.
Nothing.
With the rage, I cut into her chest.
I want her heart, for safety and comfort.
I rip it out and cradle it.
I want it for others but I shall never reveal them now.
I love very bit of this heart.
You say I am a beast?
Look at you, I know you have done sins.
I am a dark being.
I love the screams and moans of pain and lust.
I just don't know what happened to that beautiful girl you had once seen.
Laughing, playing...
Now wicked and imbalanced.
I have made a doll.
It has the heart that I cradled.
It looks just like her.
She talks to me.
Calls me "Little Dove"
At night 'she' comes alive and kisses me with those sharp teeth.
Killing me with her poisoned kiss.
That wretched smile drives me insane.
She is a demon, bursting out if my chest.
Putting her ****** doll like hand on my pale white cheek.
I am paralyzed in time.
I love her ever so.
She says to me that me can make me a world of blood.
She makes me dream of haunted things.
Wounds, stitches, knives and more lovely,
Blood...
I am happy that she can make my world come true.
I love that I am crazy, because she makes me feel better.
I love you, demon of my dreams.
...
She has left me.
Without no warning,
just left me in this tattered white dress stained with our blood.
She said she will come back.
She never returned.
I still hear her demotic voice at night, yearning for her kiss.
Wanting to feel her warm body against mine.
Feeling her doll-ish hand caressing my body.
I awaken to a ear wrenching noise.
I found her dying on the ground.
She said she loved this dark and ****** side of me,
and to let go of this love that we had.
I went to the window and started sobbing.
Harder and harder.
No tears slid down my face.
I saw what she was dying for.
She had made me my world of hurt.
I love you Abaddon.
Thank you for loving me.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
we believe in the coming
of the white fly-
in the demotic ear
of angels-
that we will enter
the lottery
of **** else rock-
and clutch
at the neck
of god.
or swat.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
Searching through his bloodied clothes.
Searching for what is left.
Nothing.
With the rage, I cut into his chest.
I want his heart, for safety and comfort.
I rip it out and cradle it
I want it for others but I shall never reveal them now.
I love very bit of this heart.
You say I am a beast?
Look at you, I know you have done sins.
I am a dark being.
I love the screams and moans of pain and lust.
I just don't know what happened to that little girl you had once seen.
Laughing, playing...
Now crying and imbalanced.
I have made a doll.
It has the heart that I cradled.
It looks just like him.
He talks to me.
Calls me "Little Dove"
At night 'he' comes alive and kisses me with those sharp teeth.
Killing me with his poisoned kiss.
That wretched smile drives me insane.
His a demon, bursting out if my chest.
Putting his ****** doll like hand on my pale white cheek.
I am paralyzed in time.
I love him ever so.
He says to me that me can make me a world of blood.
He makes me dream of haunted things.
Wounds, stitches, knives and more lovely,
Blood...
I am happy that he can make my world come true.
I love that I am crazy, because he makes me feel better.
I love you, demon of my dreams.
...
He has left me.
Without no warning,
just left me in this tattered white dress stained with our blood.
He said he will come back.
He never returned.
I still hear his demotic voice at night yearning for his kiss.
Wanting to feel his warm body against mine.
Feeling his doll-ish hand caressing my body.
I awaken to a ear wrenching noise.
I found him dying on the ground
He said he loved this dark and ****** side of me,
and to let go of this love that we had.
I went to the window and started sobbing.
Harder and harder.
No tears slid down my face.
I saw what he was dying for.
He had made me my world of hurt.
I love you Abaddon.
Thank you for loving me.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
HOW NOT TO SWEAR WHEN ONE IS SWEARING
After I hit it
with a hammer
my old thumb takes on
a now cartoonish character
pulses and throbs
grows biggerandbiggerANDBIGGER.
My three year old
gasps in astonishment
that an adult would/could
do such a silly silly thing.
"Bold Daddy!" she scolds "Bold Daddy!"
My mind screams in silence but
my tongue longs
to utter in the demotic
a good old fashioned Anglo-Saxon
ffffffffffFFFFFFF...word!
I somehow( don't
ask me how )
gaze into my little one's
baby blues
delete the expletive
carefully in slow motion
substitute the first
thing that pops into the mind
the first( as it happens )
of Mr. Joyce's thunderwords.
None of Eliot's
" Shantih shantih shantih "
I had the presence of mind to
"Finnegans Wake" it!
"BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMMINARRONNKONNBRONN
TONNERRONNTUONNTHUNNTROVARRHOUNAWNSKAN
TOOHOOHOORDENENTHURNUK!"
"Funny Daddy!" she chortles "Funny Daddy!"
Now whenever things
go wrong and
they will go wrong
( as sure as words is words )
she begs me
to "...do the thunder!"
Waits for her little
bit part so she can
chime in with her
". . .TOOHOOHOO..."
and I gather her up
in my arms and we
both declaim
as one
". . .THURNUK!"
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
Searching through her bloodied clothes.
Searching for what is left.
Nothing.
****
With this rage, I cut into her chest.
I want her heart, for safety and comfort.
I rip it out and cradle it.
I want it for others but I shall never reveal them now.
I love very bit of this heart.
You say I am a beast?
Something so cruel?
You all made me this way.
Look at you, I know you have done sins.
I am a dark being.
I love the screams and moans of pain and lust.
I just don't know what happened.
To that beautiful girl you had once seen.
Laughing, playing...
Now wicked and imbalanced.
I have made a doll.
It has the heart that I cradled.
Stuffed inside like a body in a bag.
It looks just like her.
She talks to me.
Calls me "Little Dove".
At night 'she' comes alive and kisses me with those sharp teeth.
Killing me with her poisoned kiss.
That wretched smile drives me insane.
She is a demon, bursting out if my chest.
Putting her ****** doll like hand on my pale white cheek.
I am paralyzed in time.
I love her ever so.
She says to me that me can make me a world of blood.
She makes me dream of haunted things.
Wounds, stitches, knives and more lovely,
Blood...
I am happy that she can make my world come true.
I love that I am crazy, because she makes me feel better.
I love you, my demon.
Sweet, sweet demon.
~
She has left me.
Had I loved her too much?
Without no warning.
Left me all tattered.
White dress stained with our blood.
Will she ever return?
She never returned.
I still hear her demotic voice at night, yearning for her kiss.
Wanting to feel her warm body against mine.
Feeling her doll-like hand caressing my body.
I awaken to a ear wrenching noise.
I found her dying on the ground.
She said she loved this dark and ****** side of me,
and to let go of this love that we had.
A door of shadow had appear like a carry-on.
So dark, so pretty.
I opened it and saw beauty.
No tears slid down my face.
I saw what she was dying for.
She had made me my world of hurt.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
CECI N'EST PAS UN... poème!
It's always
the same
the adverbs
blame the adjectives
the adjectives
the nouns
and the nouns
the verbs
for the imminent
collapse of this poem
The images declaim
we're not to blame.
The rhyme just
buggers off.
The figurative language
can't be bothered to get
up of their ar..
A senile simile smiles
wistfully
in a to be or not
to be voice.
The metaphors
have gone on strike.
Oh for Gawd's sake
doesn't anybody know
wot de !%&*
they're !%&* doing
I ask
using the demotic.
There is a sudden silence...
all that is to be
heard outside
a weeping willow
weeps for me.
How pathetic can one poem
get?
No...don't answer that
it was a rhetorical question!
The words all
look to me
to pass
sentence. . .
I tell them
that's it
( there is a collective
moan )
I'm calling this poem
- off!
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 7:49 AM UTC
Death is not equal nor is it fair.
Its deep depression hugs your skin so tight till the warmth of your blood blisters within inside.
The hands of tar holds your wrist,
melting you to the gritty bones.
You can't help but to fall into a transparent universe.
Your eyes are glossy all over, and your breath is cold to the temp.
You have dark circles beneath your eyes.
Hate to say it,
but you're dead.
Just relax and pretend you're another dimension,
playing jump-rope around the corner.
Your whole body is hallow,
the ground is forever infinite.
Where is your mind right now?
I don't know.
Death doesn't do much.
We give death work, it pays us with great fortune.
Just let go.
Let yourself fall into the arms of death.
Everything you see now is bleak, draft,
nothing.
Be the sweet rooted demotic demon person you are.
Death doesn't mind.
You look to see if the clock has struck twelve,
but it hasn't.
All because of death.
Death doesn't make its move until you drop the silver spoon.
It watches you from up above.
Watch you bleed from the neck,
or weakened at the heart.
You can pursue any way to go.
Death will do.
Stop running the 100 mile race just to chase away the horrors of death.
It will come to you when you least expect it.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
Earthly time is fine despite Death
The eternal dark out of which
Shadows creep sparking illusions
That hold sway over dreams.
I came from darkness
To store the burning Light
That echoes the yells of creation
Toward some demotic destiny.
Achievements soothe so little
Within the web of eclectic waste
We tend to call societies
Run by the elite undergrowth
Who pay no heed to evergreens.
It was only yesterday
When i first went to school
When i tasted my first cigarette
My first beer, first **********
When i wrote my first poem
And many things in between
Well, out of long list of vices
Only cigarettes have survived
And they probably will
Till my stiff body
Touches the cramped coffin.
Scoop me up Ursa
In your *****
My spirit shall bask
Playing heavenly marbles
Within the volatile void.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC