"denudes" poems
Gitano yawned,
stretching out under
the shrine of Öli.
Here he plotted
and hid a mouthful
of secrets; and the Lord
watched over him
as he slept.
He plotted,
for coyote wisdom
is disguised by folly
and cunning
and guile.
All about, the vermilion
stain of Mars. The coyote
chuckled mischievously,
dreaming at the feet
of the Master and Judge.
Above,
a ziggurat raised
to the Goddess.
Two great black eagles
circled in a sky
of dry roses and lilacs.
La Santisima Muerte
stood at a distance,
yet bore Gitano
in Her *****
His mischiefs were scribed
upon a cartouche
to amuse gods
and teach men;
Yet men are not
so easily taught
as gods are amused;
For men have not yet
learned to believe
what makes them laugh.
And so Gitano sleeps,
and talks while he sleeps;
wherefore the Ways
of mischief and trickery
were laid bare.
The secret is to teach
at the expense
of innocence.
Certain illusions persist;
they must be shattered,
but their thrall
can only be broken
by design.
Whether bitterness
takes root in the wake
of the shattering
is not Gitano's concern.
Because sometimes
realization can only come
through being made a fool,
revealed to ourselves
as absurd.
Angry at our own foolishness,
we blame the one
who denudes it.
The coyote, too, is a Fool.
A Fool can learn,
shaping destiny
by taking responsibility.
Through death a Fool
becomes wise,
seeing the joke.
The burden of karma
is left to those
who cannot laugh.
Man grits his teeth,
his brow furrowed.
He despairs.
Gitano chuckles,
unperturbed.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
The Melody within
No longer reverberates
That beauteous love song
O, that Bountiful Ballad but
My heart sings a brand new paean:
One of creation,
Of Wisdom,
Of freedom,
Of might,
Of consecration.
Yes, sometimes solitude
Heightens our spiritual senses,
Reawakens our provident defences;
O, denudes our vexations.
Know the Sacral Light
Absolving every deathly pang
Is found
By Dovening Divine Aether,
And summoning the Silver Wings
Of the Holy Dove.
Movement is neither peripheral
Nor internal;
Pain is neither deserved
Nor natural;
All things
Are just as they appear
To be
An evident demonstration
Of a
Higher fidelity.
Matter reverberates upon the
Molecular level;
We are, more
Than flesh, bone, and marrow;
We are,
Life, Love, and Liberty;
We are, a
Breathing Song
That exhales edification, inspiration,
Contemplations, and excogitations.
(Se' lah)
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 6:52 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 love the way you mostly go from garden to shack
tapping at the jagged slats of my ragged door....
loosely latched to the frame of my hovel.
your knuckles
rapping
on the knot in the grain
and the lichen blotch
above the likeness
of a cumulus cloud...
etched into the feeble barricade
of my luminous
tomb.
i let you in, after you wake me....
with your quiet
rain.
You read my books
but My -
lips
move.
II
sunset denudes the strident stars
and stark they come, above the worldly disarray
of my ordinary disposable comforts.
and the tinsel twilight
of my terminal misconception
of how to proceed with
a miracle.
and i love the way you mostly ignore my dilemma
and how thine is the kingdom of little mercies
that gather to my deconstruction
to ***** pavilions of the unimagined
in the dismal eye
of my hurricane...
For to watch you at your craft
is be astounded
by my Isolation, dissolving -
into a figment
of my crippling
self doubt.
i love the way you mostly correct the mistakes
that leave a mark...
how you show me how the moon
is a hole
in a pitch dark
clock....
how you serve this hermit
a banquet of intimacy -
that never recedes from
my bare cupboard
nor my hearth.
the way you squander your riches
upon my barren spoils.
the way you ruin my dispossession
by laying claim to the crest
of my tsunami -
of crushing
disappointment in
wishing wells -
( with ventriloquists you can lip read in the dark... )
by the light
of a constant
collapse.
the star you caught
off guard with your
south paw.
III
( And )
i love the way, that i love the way - you
mostly save me
from the withering din
of long hours,
from clawing at the ripple
in my false pond...
where i skipped a stone
into the great red spot
of my private Jupiter.
twiddling your thumbs -
as you casually rescue
my derelict barge
from the Scylla and Charybdis
of my discontinuous
clarity.
( and the moment you arrive. )
i love the way you mostly
and all the ways -
you always
how all the ways
you love
me...
come so naturally
to you.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
CHAINSAW
Willowy forests sustain us, creates new life
We breathe its colorful energy
Scents of pine, damp moss
Rain, wet tree stumps
Flowers, needle-covered paths
Winter snow saturates, whiteouts of magic
We hug trees for they soothe our inner core
Yet, the whine and grind of chainsaws
Denudes vast swathes of broken hearts
Shrivels in shreds of grief
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
Beneath the flickering of a streetlight’s glare,
Her shadow sways, a monster in the midnight air.
No words exchanged, just minutes of horrendous lust—
She buries dreams that the world discards as dust.
Her heels cling the cracked concrete, defying strength,
Each step feels like a mountain, too high to climb.
They find joy in loud moaning, homicide, and cigarette butts,
But none of them want to hear the anthem she actually sings.
In solitude, she dreams of a sky unbound,
Of fields where her soul can amble and run free—
A writer, an activist, a doctor,
A gleaming star that runs over rudimentary scars.
Yet again the night arrives, the golden cage of her life,
Each stranger denudes, defying her inner scream.
She looks at the mirror, at the dark—
A ray of hope screaming to the walls: “I am more than this body, a glaring star!”
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 4:52 AM UTC
Enticement aside,
It’s a terrible game
When the throes of a lifetime
Dwindle to flame,
When the ague of long living
Denudes as it wears,
Where the beauty of youth
Simply mottles and tears.
The effort required
To gamble instead
Realistically questions…
Better off dead?
Standing *****
On a spire of stone
With the world all around
Yet completely alone,
Cold wind caresses
The knowledge of how
Old friends abandon me
Frequently now….
In dying like flies
With unseemly haste,
With a disregard
For my feelings, chaste,
The hollowness
Of last things said,
The bitterness
Of love, lost dead.
Recalling times,
With a cup of tea,
When you and I
Laughed happily.
When sunshine bled
Rich colours sang,
Bluebirds flew
And hot dice ran.
How those days
Caroused with joy
Lost to chance then,
Girl and boy.
Hurrying,
With you on my arm,
Dressed to the nines
Bustling charm
Off to roll
The dice with flair
Chortling both,
Without a care..
So simple
Were those days of fun
Where time stood still….
Yet dice still run!
Those running dice
Across the floor
Now, don’t matter
Anymore.
Dimness
In the morning light
Preempts temptation
To take sight,
For gone the gloss
Tomorrow brings….
Outside, a joyous
Blackbird sings.
M.
13 August 2022
Mists of time, once so vivid, now 5 minutes later, just fade to an inconspicuous fog. But, somewhere, the dice roll on.
Aug 12, 2022
Aug 12, 2022 at 7:22 PM UTC