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WS Warner Nov 2013
Part One
Nascent Craving

The insular heart unsealed; pearled eyes
Breach parapets of stone— periled shield,
The sweetest ****—
A threatening wonder and irrefragable synergy,
Nervous routes of cognition  
In this nascent, amorous craving.
Locked and abased,
Dissonance lends pathos — euphoric and onerous,
Disconsolate cries curb sublimation,
The regnant bleed diffusing — fervid lust
Fondled, tactile surfaces in throbbing anticipation.

Sullen, aft a veil of laughter,
Visceral aftermath, out of
The ardent ash,
Burns a thirst;
Insuperable numbness and ache.
Efflorescent intimacy,
Table for two
Enraptured in new alliance,
Élan vital (psyche);
Urgent dialect petitions
Equivocation, jocularity blending
Provocation with indecision,
Noted lilt of descending inhibition.

Adrift, the incessant Now;
As occasion inexorably diminished;
Resonant simpatico tending,
Numinous amity;
Heard conversant, cognitive idioms—
Lassitude, time-eaten pangs of the unhinged heart,
Wounds axiomatic,
In disquieting synergy,
Nibbling, the circumference—
Misery’s permeating truth;
None immune, all trundle incongruously past,
Facing intrepid savages.

Licitly felt, reverberations of Amor
Whence the heart behaves;
Measured cadence, pulse elevating—
Treasured lover, contemplative muse;
Undulating clasp, inflated bone of absence;
Incarnation — a woman,
Beyond prosaic;
Ineffable adoration pours in certitudes of verse,
Elenita, enclothed —virtue unvarnished;
Reservoir intrinsic, poised advocate of the innocent:
The crooked lines of insolence,
Brazen culture of neglected youth.
Perceptive blue stare, sensitized tears—
Plaintively, evincing her injustice ago.

Part Two
Tendered Senses

Siren silence, eruptive blush, ampler between phrases
In dulcet tones — stirring discourse;
Foments rebellion, the strife beneath— his ****,
Out of its vast reserve,
Penetrate the narrowed ambit, vaguely announced.
Groping hands, migrating the sensual member
Stern faces grimacing— mirror in abrasion,
Under the blind surf of consent;
Burrowing ambiguity, emerging torsion,
Plunge, enlisted and content in the sea;
Subsumed in the nonverbal cue,
Persuasion’s plea,
Quelled in the post cerebral assent.

Piercing eyes parallel crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe.

An untouched portion of his awareness remains aloof,
Palpable in the subsequential quiet,
Obsequious and febrile, they sinned on sofas;
Peregrine predilections quenched and viscid—
Serenely requited, the room breathes her presence,
Limp, figures *******, mantled in adolescent torpor.

Erudition in bloom, trust undoubted,
Illuminating, satiating; tempest calm—
Under canvas
Terrain soaked and sodden,
Postliminary — rains of invalidation.
Allowance and permission
Recalibrate, salivate, shortly only—
Initiate, obliged consecration, appraising
Curvatures of the spine,
Stuns him obeisant, her femenine pulchritude,
Propinquity inciting vigor,
Emergent allure, the updriven
Tower of wood sprung from the blanket.


Suffused in ether, purring streams of remembrance
Vaginal honeyed dew, sung into
Orchids, remnants of remember;
Drenched down the cynosure of devotion;
Succulent view, diaphanous pantied bottom;
Halcyon mist, saporous wine — compliance of the will,
Freed fires wander,
Pliable rind, twin plums dripping,
Abject confession, dispatching doubt
In tendered senses,
Pivotal tree, lavender Jacaranda holds the key,
Unfurled, cindered vulnerability.

Half-denuded skin invites confessional savor
Acutely bubbled rear, fleshly furnished denim;
Sultry visit, San Ramon Valley in the fall,
Strewed limbs splendid, flowing filmy;
Imagination yields—
Bursting silk congealed
Across deft thighs, ambrosial thong draping ankles,
Grazing ascension, the curvaceous trajectory
Nose inflamed with fragrance,
Inhaling, climb of acquiescence,
The ****** weal, amid the globed fruit,
Focal intention — ploughed lance thrusting,
Absconding, the ancillary perfume of essence.

Perceiving avid validation,
Swimmingly, amid the monstrous gaze.
  
Humid skies simper dank, set swell the incense of Eros,
Surge of poetry engorged
The flame levened shaft,
Nimble ******* flounce, spill the harboring mouth;
Moist hands merging, unfettered,
Weave in supplication,
Vicinity voicing, enmeshed diversion;
Supple and spherical behind
Posterior arch, milky-skin against the lip—
Ripeness jostling their complacency;
Lapped the mooring, ridden decisively;
Recapitulating— spumed forth, bellied over hips warmth.
Abandon the dirge of self-pity
Late under ego’s trance.
  
Part Three
Present Tenses

Tempting trespass across sacred gardens,
Flowering, scandal set luminous: attachment—
Consensual, their corresponsive fear;
Protean manifestations— evocative, perpetual
Unutterable contention in a fictive resolve,
Deliberating the merits of their widely disparate tastes in coffee,
Amorously touring wine, let’s drowse through the gnarled vine.
Sundry deficiencies pale, once contrasted;
The beatific vision—
Material substance unaccompanied,
Imperceptible, tear-streamed cheeks in synch,
Ventral kiss, peak of carnal perfection,
Reminiscence— flesh violent with Love.

Fiction knew to meander the innominate rift,
A tincture of irony soften misdeeds
Immense as the sea.
Insolvent beast stippled with sapience—
Unmasked, the fabric of delusion;
Dependence smothering the disciplined heart
Resentment put up for release.

Waste of residual years
Fate’s apportion, scars bleakly observed;
Chastened by heartache, engulfing fervor
Too faint to recapture.
Vague glimpses dry—
Hypervigilant his defenses,
Veritable suspensions, embers lit linger;
Slender walls of solidity, the horizoned self,
Faith and reason in concert — stone levels of elucidation.

Fractured bones of distance, emanate a rigid salience,
Another ponderous night of absence—
Lingering, cauldron of dearth as indifference ushers,
The quotidian coil of contrition.
Tearful pallor, sequestered —ciphering time and solitude;
The unkissed mouth, his restive brow;
Suspend in the approximate span.
                      
After Lucid alliterations are spoken
Devoid of her face, his lover’s nudge—
The man nurtures his hurt.

Anxious as seldom unscarred,  
Venus’s susurrations,
In present tenses,
Kissed by her serenades of integration—
Notwithstanding metaphysic intrusion,
No chain stays unbroken,
Postponed drifts of deferment left unspoken,
Reverberations of amor.

© 2013 W. S. Warner
To Eileen
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

*    *      *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical

demanding

a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.

Priest-like...

I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

death.
SøułSurvivør May 2015
---

Once upon a time
In a land so far away
There was a wretched kingdom
Were a vampire held sway

He was very ancient
Handsome as a knave
Dressed in black and silken garb
Was said to be quite brave

But such a cruel creature
He devoured the towns
The soldiers were all petrified
Would not defend the crown

So the King of the castle
Searched both far and wide
For mighty men of valor
To defend the countryside

Finally up north
He found a daring band
Of golden headed Vikings
To defend his failing land

The company of Norsemen
Could not be laidback
They rallied their army
And decided to attack!

They put no garlic round their necks
No ash stakes did they carry
They knew not the vampire ways
And so they were not wary

But oh! What valiant men!
They made quite a sight!
Scaling the vampiric castle walls -
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT!

The vampire, Vlad the terrible,
Made a crimson flood
Destroyed every one of them
And feasted on their blood!

It was before morning
The darkest witching hour
Vlad finished dispatching them
His countenance was dour

Then a light came streaking
From the pitch black sky -
It was a Valkyrie!
She made a fearsome cry!

"You! Vlad the terrible!"
The ghoul looked up, aghast!
"You feasted on my Norsemen -
But I am here at LAST!!!"

The mighty female warrior
Shook back her golden mane
"You've killed many villagers
But won't do it AGAIN!!!"

The brilliant armored woman
Faced off the evil lord
He laughed, "You cannot slay me!
No! Not with that sword!"

"And for all your armor
What do you suppose?
Your sweet delicious throat
Is slender... and EXPOSED!!!

The Valkyrie laughed
She threw back her hair
She let fly her sword
It scissored through the air!!!

The dreaded Vlad was impaled
But NOT through his chest
Through his very garments
The great sword came to rest

To a TREE the monster stuck
Like a fly caught with a pin
He could not free himself!
And he saw the rising SUN!!!

He struggled against his cape
He'd have none of THAT!
But Vlad could not break the sword
So he became a bat!

Up he flew to escape his fate
But a ray of sun broke through
With an arc he burnt to spark
IT DESTROYED VLAD AS HE FLEW!!!

The Valkyrie, triumphant,
Cried out, "it is I!!!
For when there is a battle,
I decide who lives and dies!!!

I decide the outcome!
Tis not by happenstance...
Won't see you in Valhalla
You never had a chance!!!

So ended the battle
The Valkyrie WON.
The outcome was decided...

...Before it was begun!!!


SoulSurvivor
5/6/2015
In Norse legand Valkyrie's decide
Who lives and dies in battle.

Inspired by The Masked Pimpernel,
From his poem entitled "Bloodbath"
EgoFeeder May 2013
What a sick ******* disturbing race;
And it's sad to say i'm the epitome of disgrace
So what the **** does that make me?
A self destructive **** with no integrity!

If I could peel through the rind of my skull          
The laughter around me might become a little dull
For the sake of my dignity and self enjoyment
I should make this last and indulge in some torment

Oh how fun it is to pretend that I'm on the petistil
Performing this unfulfilled sacrifice for a simple thrill
My slur gnarled into the cries of a self loathing comic;
For even the greatest have stated the best comedy is tragic!

So, gather 'round and pay respect to this nervous wreck;
Who befriends only pets or rather the comfort of a speck
Watch this defeatist plead for the misery of his next life;
The facts of fate are simple just take a glimpse at ones strife

I'm sure you'll see the ardent path beneath your detrimental stars;
Just gaze inside of your guilt and the afterlife doesn't seem so far
Look a little deeper through your pride to see exactly what you fear;
For Your reason blocks out what you cannot conceive and are dying to hear

That is the Irony of Sanity and we where it ******* well
Even before we reach our carnal end; we've seen the extent of hell
Although, I've never completely doubted the superstition of religion;
The thought of an eternal consciousness is entirely fiction

The only thing immortal about a human is it's opaque particles;
Physical existence will never fail to rot through it's perpetual circle!
It may seem hysterical to be hearing this from someone in my position;
But, It doesn't take a scholar to comprehend a personal realization

For I have foreseen myself as the lowest form of life to be;
My sincerest companions that made up the majority of my company
What shall be the retribution for this un-deserving carnation?
I shall plague each day as the worthless paramount of reanimation...

Dispatching my profession as the corrupted author of treachery;
And the needle begins to caper as I shed a contradicting mockery
All our indirect implications are rather redundant
Failing in comparison to the hidden word of the hierophant

For a mind with no sense can only tell a story in riddles;
And, Poetics itself is like watching a fox while he plays the fiddle!
The slyness of word play is exponentially folded when the theme is penance:
and don't even get me started on corroding intent with dis-tasteful connivance!

All of which being oppressed between the confines of these rhymes;
statements never stated that had been contrived at the time
A procession of silence establishing an obvious struggle of emotion    
Declaring the truth of hesitation and our twisted mental notion

How joyous it is to state a fact that can't be truly written;
Every word I've cast has no significance and is better off forgotten
I've been wasting all this ink converting beauty into reality
Completing eviscerating all meaning;Leaving nothing but a literal subtlety
Simon May 2021
"The Conjecture Radiance" is likely the most upholding effect that starts (when everything and everyone of course, least expects its full force), like an "onward march" to some type of safety.
(That then genuinely is apart of its own point of action).
However way you define its own least likely nonterrible way of communicating with the even least likely scenario, where each word is like a magnify glass too rich for its own purposes to handle. Basically, concluding the fact that whatever conjecture is full of such "radiance", doesn't conclude the Shareholder ("in the details") of this involvement. Or even (especially so), the very Caregiver (in the "emotional dispatching concealment" of the wrongdoings for how it certainly took too much of its pride into such ineffective reasoning at heart), is the truly deciding factor (at large) that actually pinpoints the very most primal directive, involved... Who do you think that might be...? If you truly stated with "I wonder", or even (for an entirely better recognition), for, "I'd reckon...'BLANK'...with...'BLANK'...!"
Well then... You’re reasoning to carefully "request" (from which the very ground you walk), would then appoint (in-charge) the very reckoning of one's own reasoning...had then gone toe-to-toe with something even more..."unimagining!"
After all, just because something even more...unimagining...would then seemingly come out of the blue and cost the very likelihood of your entire self, (from deep within that very self to go entirely "unmanaged"), just so everything leading up to this point...could then adopt (a certain flaw), or more specifically, adapt a certain plan involved (when and only when, you've gotten used to it, over time), doesn't give anyone (in the slightest degree) even the correct involvements for something even truly greater to take afoot the very compassion, from which everything is meant to take apart...and then reassemble, (when the time is right...) Just so everything (and everyone), can finally establish the very "belief" back into itself.
"But wait..." …Someone eagerly asks, "what about the 'Radiance' part...?"
Then something goes silent, until everything comes up from the very ashes, to once again then (single-handedly, of course), present the very ideal customs of the eventual "Hotseat" from which ALL such decision-making, choices, options, opinions, logic, analyzing, reasoning, concentration, focus, etc. That all align (and reflect) from some even GREATER common interest (still inconceivable, at large).
(And of course, it's obviously not from within yourself, or anything usually coherent like that. OH NO!)
It's much deeper and irresistibly separate then that could ever be...
"From within yourself." HAHA! What a bunch of hogwash!
That was the inevitable "Take one"...
"Take Two": Begins with one certain flaw involved... And it's not again (I repeat this...) Isn't "from within yourself."
"It's much more coherent than that!" Mark my words (that aren't good enough for simple results to ensure it so....)
You will find the "Conjecture" (in your very self), before you even discover what the ("Radiance") part is even about....
Stay tuned for "Take Two!" (For "Take One" is not up to standards with itself, if it wasn't for it's still BLANK one-sided half from being mysteriously misplaced from it's own such Conjecture, where the Radiance part, is too increase the full on "contact sport full of certainty"...(that entirely hints at fully making it from simply not actually being able to glow too brightly at heart)!
"For the very end of such a scenario...is a truest guarantee for inevitable warfare!"
Something that fully departs is like a logical effort for something that is not up to *****!
However way you slice it, it truly/actually depends on what your willingly able to take on...as for (effort itself), to seemingly stack the odds in your literal favor, forevermore!
Opting the favour that hopefully will (eventually) rise upward...just so ("what is the now"), could statistically "found" some sort of answer to this oncoming conundrum. One without ANY UTTER WARNING! Or even one without fully taking in what you do for your very self (in the logistics of your own life patterns). Because in the end, you might as well be the loyal knight full of such...”logical boundaries” itself!
“A loyal knight of logical boundaries” (in the making….)
Revenge for her parents death the drive
that became her passion.
The story began when she was a child
witnessing their killing!
Every detail taken in by her big eyes
to get the killer the prize.

Seventeen years painfully trickled by her
becoming an assassin.
As the hatred coursed through her veins
revenge drove her on.
Though wanting to seek the love she craved
retribution on her soul engraved!

She had found a man making it complicated
her fine tuning distorted.
This new friend had found her mobile phone
saving her photo image.
Trying to find out about this mystery female
allowing others to find her trail.

Gangs had lost foot soldiers to her expertise
who acted like a shadow.
For the first time had to be far more aware
her parents murderer alerted.
The last pages of her diary soon completed
could this evil be defeated?

Knowing he would catch up with her soon
she prepared to strike first.
Entering his mansion in a covert manner
dispatching silently his crew.
Until he was there without support alone
recognising his arrogant tone.

From a hidden point confronted head on
glaring with a cold stare.
Going to fire the gun held in sweaty hand
diving found a hidden weapon.
A bullet went right through her shoulder
he was quick though much older.

Her shot caught him in a main thigh artery
shattering the femur to.
There before her the man she hated so much
was now at her mercy.
She had prayed for years to see him die
openly then did she cry!

One more deep breath she shot him in the head
cruelly on his face a smile as he lay dead!

Knowing she would be a target vanished from sight
revenge in the end did not feel right!

The Foureyed Poet.
A young girl sought revenge on the man she witnessed killing her parents! The Foureyd Poet.
Tearing off
Imperialists' mantle
True to his name Fidel
He had lit
To the oppressed masses
And to those in the dark
An much-needed candle.

Weighing things from
Fraternity's angle
And the truth,
Fidel was not remiss
In dispatching own troops
In far off beyonds
To fortify for freedom
Mounted battle.

Considerate Fidel had taught
Innumerable orphans,
Whose combatant fathers lost.

Frowning up on
Amassing personal wealth,
He was building
The human power
Of the 3rd world like Ethiopia,
Among others,
In agriculture and health!

Stooping
To glittering things
While many leaders worried
To hanker for personal gain,
Fidel Castro,magnanimous,
Opted to assuage
The marginalized's pain.
For doing so
The shameless&bloodsucker;
Imperialists were trying
To **** him again and again.
Yes, Fidle was their bane!

Though Fidel is no more
His legacy we shall live to adore!//

Fiedel Castro was a true friend of Ethiopia!
Fiedel Castro was a true friend of Ethiopia or the whole world for that matter!
Timo Kat Dec 2014
The same shadow you carried with you
is still wearing me.
The light is on, dispatching a dim warmth,
to keep ghosts away.
And the ink on the paper isn't dry yet.

The same aura you left me with
is still roaming in the air.
My bed is made, the red blanket is on it,
so are the two black cushions.
And the dust is covering all of them.

The same song you found me dead to
is still playing on repeat.
I left the keys to my room on the second shelf
next to my broken mug.
And the door doesn't have a lock anyways.

The same stench you made out of me
is still infiltrating our memories.
The pictures that hang on my walls
are fatigue and ashen.
And your face is turning into a blur.
Stanley Mungai Jun 2012
I have seen the sunset.
Filling the western sky with orange.
Fiery clouds escorting the sun home.
Dispatching an aura of golden rays.
Bidding farewell the long shadows.
Calling tired farmers back home.
Inviting the host of the heavens.

I have seen rubies in the sky.
Appearing one after another.
An invisible hand somewhere.
Along the horizon unseen.
Switching them on to light the earth.
Twinkle diamonds twinkle
Red, blue, green twinkle.

I have seen a beaming face.
Peeping at me from the dark horizon.
Then shyly sailing high.
Racing against the wispy clouds.
To join the radiance of her daughters.
Smiling all the way to the constellations.
Blazing beauties of the night.
*So beautiful is the  day as it ends. So gorgeous is the sun as it sets, So enticing is the sky as the dark sets in*
Stanley Mungai Feb 2012
I have seen the sunset
Filling the western sky with Orange
Fiery clouds escorting the sun Home
Dispatching an Aura of golden rays
Bidding farewell the long shadows
Calling tired farmers back home
Inviting the host of the heavens.

I have seen rubies in the sky
Appearing one after another
An Invisible hand somewhere
Along the horizon unseen
Switching them on to light the earth.
Twinkle diamond twinkle
Red, Blue, Green twinkle.

I have seen a beaming face,
Peeping at me from the dark horizon,
Then shyly sailing high
Racing against the wispy clouds
To join the Radiance of her daughters
Smiling all the way to the constellations;
Blazing Beauties of the Night!
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
Her anger
Virulent as a southern storm in summer
Roars and rages invectives

Her eyes flashes of lightning
Swift daggers dispatching
Slivers of Shivers
Resonates unrequited love

Desiccation of hearts
Cold frigid and destroyed

A wasteland of memories
Strewn in mud
Irrevocable
Where love is void

Only an empty cavity of hope
Susceptible to

A masquerade
Of lies
Joanna Oz Feb 2016
smoke stacks babble their chemical love note to the gods,
huffing and clawing
and spewing their pumice
at the morning sky,
a milky stairway to heaven
dispatching
the greasy whims of a faceless man with an unquenchable addiction.

it towers over the overstuffed veins of the highway,
where a once square body
contorts its aluminum frame to mimic the spiraling form of nature,
spilling its fleshy guts into dry winter wind.
the steaming rubber neck of the world cranes itself
longer than the Mississippi
to gawk at its own mortality.

in the distance,
the steely blue city veils her face with haze,
stoic and sturdy, she stares into the thin air
past the ardent, bleeding
display of humanity
gushing
awkward onto her concrete stomach
and staining the stubbly black and beige
with sticky finger prints.

the city takes a long drag off her metallic cigarette
and sighs
exhaust,
blanketing the sky in morgue sheets.
neth jones Oct 2018
Note

Attaching honours
and dispatching lives;
So grins the new day
and greets the Great Flaw

Note

The Fusing :
Polarise
and apply
weapon to wound
(as the weatherman dictates)

Note

Taughtless and young
Fight your way from family
and take oath
with no protest:
A moral clumsiness

Note

We'll sort out that 'population problem'
and lunge out our burrowed lives
in saturation
of our unmended sorrows
James M Vines Jun 2016
Oh youthful brow that bears the golden crown. She sits upon her throne of stone. Looking out on her kingdom across vast fields. She rules her subjects with generosity. The Honey Bee and the Daffodil reside in her kingdom among her army of other subjects. The golden Dandelion so regal sits as her proud army. She sees those who have aged into white puffs of fuzz and she promptly frees them from their stem. Stomping lightly between the golden flowers, she sends her children to the wind. On a warm summer day, the lively queen, with her golden crown and woven locks of hair. She is loved by all of her kingdom, even if only until the wind comes around and finishes dispatching her subjects away.
Sirenes Feb 2016
Silently he watched the wind, blow
The smoke against the lifeless figures, laughing
At the release of life, praying
As the dust changed the landscape, time
Scattered the bones, but
The soul screamed indignity, venging
As time buried him deeper, the
Devil watched, dispatching angels, portents of death
Screamed the land awake, turning
The dark blood red, tearing
At flesh screaming into the night.
The pain was as deep as the loss
The loss eternal
The people ran
They ran for their lives
Roofs on fire
From a distance,
Looking much like
Large camp fires
Slowly merging in to each other
The people screamed
Had it not been for the vanity
Of the deranged king
The restless village
Would be but that:
Restless
As the deranged king
Reigned with an iron fist


Lily Nurmi & Paul Gaffney Production
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

          *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical

demanding

a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.

Priest-like...

I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcass.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

death.
Challenged by the Augur's spell, Vernarth met with his Commanding General and invited him not to be separated beyond the expanses that were fringed by a docile silver lunar wind. They congregate and get close to each other.

Vernarth Says: “What rejoicing surrounds my being, having in this contiguous night our Consecrated Falangists, and the cavalry sleeping in Machiavellian dreams as they fall into their sink, even in their parishioners and in their steeds, so that they do not lose their stinging eyes in the press drain. All spend the night as if they were lying in peaceful ejidos and on the edge of the belly of Chaos, exhorting hallucinations to those who doze on the kraníon rug, with the right utopias of Erebo. Dozing like cataclysmic entities upwards and rubbing himself in Orion, with a pythonic expression and changing his unspoken. Leaving barely a space back to change from caryatid triface tackling secondary Aorion mirages, turned into a decimated captivating Muse, for a desirable delight treating them as his heirs, watching them flatter with their scarlet cape and inscribed with Lambda in your Gaugamela magazine ”. Alexander Magnus responds: “I know that the satirized arms reign by the ****** of Amun, bursting your eyes-ears and eyes-unheard folded in the glaucoma martyrdom of Anubis, re-transforming the constellation of Orion after we rise to annihilate them in this silent furrow, already besieged! Meanwhile, I have to wash your most enema phrases with a thousand storms, more than the restrained bizarre that shelters in my corrected hemisphere, unbalancing the naked Diana of the night, located in the Lambda above her, so that she can accompany me with her nurse to the temple, truncating the sovereign garments by whimpering at the leading febos. "

When Vernarth observed that the Febo slime fell repaired, he quickly he measured on his jaw drying him, smiling at him and at the same time changing his nervous gestures. Taking him and holding him, as he seemed to be held back giddy from his long parliamentary speeches with his feudalists. Then it would be prosperous to let him sit on the side of the talented escort. At that moment they separate and extend their arms towards the envious koelum, join both swords that will also accompany them with the trembling and chattering bronze, puffing their retracted navels.

Vernarth replies: “Dissolute in my childhood I had to walk with my dogs like a thunderbolt immersed in their frame when I was ahead of them, they only sniffed my scarlet halos; which were fading red super-giant and near-Earth stars. Today is the belt of Aorion next to the Great General, beating in its grooves and changing its precessional course. I will move his hallucinations, so that she remains alone in his reddish outline, but not in his component physique "

In this way, Vernarth moved the tunnel of the zephyr with the tip of his Dorus when they bowed, the final glow of the tip of it warned to reopen in the viscera of the firmament as the spear emerged. Machinelike light years passed by for much more to be described, before any exact science and before an inaccurate Dorus, in a universe that is only distant while Vernarth is making use of the governance protocol, stretching on the ground with the kettle, rattling for its dorsal in the direction of its shaft, which was held volatile by the abbreviated gadget, for a spear used as a Xiphos Sword, reaching the apex of Betelgeuse to approach the legatary space of radiosity, and of Persia united in a merely advocative statement. Vernarth appears behind the clouds coughing with cloying fever, and with a rosy ruby hypnotizing the muffins of the colossal cosmic phoenix, and illuminating Alexander Magnus upon awakening. Lastly, the Phrygian Sibyl held the cross with the raised flag, in the same way, that the risen Christ himself does in a corresponding Resurrection scene, in extensive complement to the Sibyls with their Gothic and Renaissance imagination, with the Phrygian sibyl. being the priestess who will preside over an Apollonian oracle in a historical kingdom in the western central part of the highlands of Anatolia, contrasted with Cassandra of the Iliad.

The incipient compunction sequence to redeemed reigns in which the puerperal dawn, intercedes, however, the facets and the screams of the Caucasus, of those who are chained in the coldest irons of their isolation, for whom the panic of the Diaisthisi or foreshadowing, traps him in millennia seized from a heart stuck in the thorax of the Tágmati, towards the Apollyon offered in the abyss of the consecratam and the abyssal, leaping from the unfathomable ground of the abysmal providential destruction, and from its tulle dispatching in those who will not shine after being exalted concluded in silty bottoms of the mist. Lookouts and weeds will rule in intolerable covenants and promises, precociously tinted in the heartbreaking revelations of Saint John, glimpsing Apollyon's intervening diabolos together with the Sheol of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, redeeming them in Nineveh and ordering themselves in Arbela and Gaugamela, in the indissoluble plantations. of Apollyon's Camels Gigas.
Codex XIV- Ultramundis Primum apud Orionem finale
OnwardFlame Dec 2016
The voices of police officers reporting
The batching
Dispatching
Hums and whistles in the background
On my Grannies radio
Sports playing near the front
Row after row of old antique figurine
Men and women
As I think in hindsight now
Of how the separation of gender, too
Slowly
Slow as a Southern day
Melts away.

And its funny
Because time does seem endless here
Whereas in the conundrum of the sparkling city
Every moment the clock echoes the passing of time
Its as if you have gotten or lost.

I look closely at faces
But hide my own form and face away
Without a touch of Egyptian liner or
Dust of rose
I'm confident enough in my own skin now
To think and say
This is just what my face looks like
But it feels good to chisel and embrace
Too.

With heavy hands I'll nestle
Make myself radiate less
Smaller, get smaller
As to not draw
More unwanted attention.

She limped, her legs swollen
Her teeth clattering against a mint green gum
My father didn't sit for the first 15 minutes
I wondered if it was because it was
Sort of sad to see her.

I'm an angsty *******
Once I get to about the three day mark
Of having spent time
In the Williams abode
Where I once howled into the moonlight
Over a boy or 3
Drank Smirnoff, in the dark of my bathroom
At the ripe age of 15
Explored and chased
Hurt and replaced
Carved my name out in pink
Buttercup lipstick
Replaced my eyes with a contact blue
Bleached my hair a pure white
Sought to be tiny
Perfect
Porcelain.

Ownership
Self ownership
Possession.
I feel like I had so much of that in college
And as I've grown older
I've found myself
Wanting to disappear
Into the crevices
Of shut up woman,
Just shut the **** up.
Levi Johnson Dec 2018
Sometimes
This little shadow
Creeps in through
The blinds at night
And searches through
My cupboards,
The ones that hide
Those kinds of things
I choose not to find,

And it makes
Such a racket,
That ghost of mine.
It just digs and
Scratches tiny
Holes in my mind.

Then I'm so distracted;
Plugging holes,
Closing cabinets inside
My head,
Set on dispatching
This shadow that's acting
Out every bad thing that's
Happened.

The disarming
Tactics
And dastardly
Antics of that
Shadowy *******
Are
Finally
Retracted

With a ringing,

From a dreadful
Machine on
My nightstand.
This life is treacherous
Death, violence, and crime abound

Alas, the top murderer in history
Can never be caught - never served to justice
He lives on forever, dispatching all encountered souls to dark farewells

O! be it my way I'd put handcuffs on time and make the clock obsolete
Deliver Kronos to a dank cell with no parole - no probation
No reprieve for the timekeeper

However, it can never be my way - Sword of Damocles yet dangles aloft the collective head of the world
R Catherine Feb 2021
I write for me, don't care what you believe.
Don't care if you read this or not, I've achieved
a level of thought you can not imagine.
The raven expresses what I am dispatching.

I don't do this for fame, don't care about cash.
I write what I feel, I don't want to hold back.
For this kind of work we all know the returns.
No money in hand, just food for the worms.

The pain in my soul remains my dictator.
He lashes me daily, it's my motivator.
He keeps me on edge while I work every day.
Looking over my shoulder, expecting the hate.

I put pain to the page to teach him a lesson.
But he's got a habit of leaving me stressing.
He beats me on days when I wanna give in.
And he laughs in my face whenever he wins.


I sit in my car and I listen to beats,
no I'm not a showoff, just trying to be me.
It's my therapy, please, I don't need your attention.
My issues are mine, not for your entertainment.

I live on the edge of a sharp ****** knife.
One side spirals low, the other flies high.
The blade in the middle keeps me normalized.
And pain, he reminds me that I'm still alive.

Alive but not living, but that's gonna change.
Cause I'm searching my soul for the name of this pain.
He hides his name well behind my disorders.
I'm forced to confront them, reach over the borders.

I'm borderline crazy and I'm ready to steal
back the dictatorship, put pain under my heel.
I'll beat him someday til he wants to give in.
And I'll laugh in his face when I finally win.
Instagram @whimsical_writestry
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

          *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical

demanding

a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.

Priest-like...

I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

death.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2022
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

*    *      *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical

demanding

a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.

Priest-like...

I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

death.
Onoma Jan 31
moons know of no

reluctancy...

while phasing in full.

coring out the cream

of a lone crater.

with staling fortune

cookies.

no fortune

in

their wrap.

nor space for soup

noodles.

dispatching an oculus

seeing fit.

as red dragons decompress~
John Prophet Aug 2021
Power.
Crack
the door
open,
they’ll
kick it
right in!
Power,
control,
subtlety
of approach.
Come in
from below.
Infiltrate
unseen.
Injection,
directly in.
Unaware
they must
be less
plans go
awry.
Vicious
little creatures
scurrying
in the
dark.
Crimsoned
teeth.
Survive or
succumb.
Rules
of the
realm.
Power hungry
harpies.
Approaching
with stealth.
Take them
unaware.
Dispatching
silently,
victory
at hand.
Such is
the way
of things.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2020
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

*    *      *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by her hunger & her nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animallistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh

at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical

demanding

a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.

Priest-like...

I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s
death.

— The End —