"dorian" poems
Misunderstood
Making decisions that some may find hard to swallow.
Ethically, my soul may seem hard to follow.
Some clash with me and claim I'm just too hollow.
But those who quit may find themselves suppressed by their wallet.
I'm misunderstood because they misunderstand
That I don't do what I should but I make my own plan.
Because what I will do is not always what's good for me.
I try to pursue the truth to make my own ends meet.
Recycle, save the the trees, but don't ask me to concede.
I believe it's the truth that will always set you free.
Life is precious but only one life has no meaning,
Populations come and go and eventually blend into the green.
We are part of a whole that must carry ourselves on.
We can't get caught in the moment and put perfunctory blinders on.
We need to focus on greater good like we really should
And prevent ourselves from becoming truly misunderstood.
I can see all the sides to this perpetual story, man
Like the reflections from the great scrub, John Dorian.
Sap stories of pressure and plight make me sick.
Just **** it up and try to live your life in the thick.
You are always nothing unless you can make yourself.
Struggle is completely natural and we must all try to fight for health.
If you spend your life to only strive for material wealth,
Then you will never truly come to ******* know yourself.
Maybe one day when you finally come to your senses,
You'll realize your whole life that you've been completely senseless.
Your goals have only served to benefit you immediately.
Now you can see that once again you have absolutely nothing.
The rise and fall of this material life creates emotions
Of unbearable strife ending in your utter destruction.
And you'll realize that you've just been herded through the motions.
And at once your life will end before the reconstruction.
Like a flood that caused the soil to avulse,
Society will shift at the last beat of your pathetic pulse.
This won't matter to you but it will effect everyone else.
You left this world misunderstanding yourself.
The life we lead
Will always be with us.
The things we seek
Are within us already.
The price we pay
To seek our necessity
Will always be...
(x2)
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 5:55 AM UTC
Somewhere along the line
it feels like I lost my poetry.
But I've always had a deep affinity of childhood curious-gaze with the light of a passing car slicing through a slumped drapery in the dead of a powerless October night
like a fumbling mouse with night-vision, glassy eyed, walk, walk, walk
run, run, run
scurry-rubber like an imperial humvee of red-carpet glamor.
Somewhere along the line
the freeze of a less-than-bourgeoise temperature never felt close to Antarctic
until the ring of a cell-phone became my national anthem
and the complacent all-eternity-and-everything-we-are-and-more reflective one-eye of a laptop became my national flag
I waived it with surrender calling to all nation states that 'I don't give a sweet ****
entertain me.'
watching politics like sports and sports like politics I couldn't help but hear the old Native inside of me scream in suffocated final breaths so I turned up the volume to drown him out
and when I wished to return to his comforting embrace, I found he had drown to death
so all I could do was stand over his wading body in the river of my mind and lax my shoulders in defeat.
I rang the midnight church bell of 'send new message' to tell the world that didn't care
the shaman is dead.
all they said was
'finally, the shaman is dead.'
I nodded, laughed, locked the bathroom door
and cried until the river ran dry
the shamans body so far down creek I could pretend to forget he had ever existed
the ache inside became a masked anonymity with the glare of Dorian Gray
I shrugged and said, 'I could never make time anyways'
and fell right back into my sleepy routine with another cup of coffee.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
The scientist-psychiatrist
the psychologic sociologist
has proved with his statistics
and his data-riddled literates
that nothing will be crippled
if they sweep the city clean
if they slay not only Tybalt
but the whole Verona scene
so they ****** it from our hands
from our brains and those to come
as the Ravens sear across the lands
and bindings come undone
They watch the pages flitter by
and cackle with delight
as the populace of fiction
by their hands is ripped alight
The licking of the laces
by the hungry tongues of flame
will ravage on the characters
you've come to know by name
Montag barrels forth and finds
the Fahrenheit has risen
Hester screams and claws her mind
out of this hellish prison
and Dorian will clamber up
to sit atop the pile
and weep for Pictures yet to sup
upon his looks and guile
And you'll watch as they obliterate
the city from within
de-storying our Paradise
so it won't be Lost again.
But I, Calpurnia? I warned you
that the fiery clouds would rain
I told you all, fictitious youth,
but you called me insane.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC
She was the strangest football fan I'd ever met,
Between match programmes and leaflets she hid Nietzsche and Thoreau;
Philosophy being a bright passion of hers,
It all seemed so natural in her visage.
On days, she'd hum You'll Never Walk Alone
While turning delicately the pages of a new text,
Smiling at the words that appeared before her on the page.
Dorian Gray, she took time to point out,
Kept her fascinated—
But it was always going to be Nietzsche,
And the first time she strummed the pages of Thus Spoke Zarathustra it was as if the humming had turned to fire,
And she was melded with the page.
I would believe only in a god who could dance.
If you asked her who she favoured,
she would reply back with a chirp,
the Russians!
And hold to you a copy of Dostoyevsky,
Crime and Punishment, she said, was her fascination
And she'd as fluidly as ever switch back to the fixtures.
Never passion, always fancy.
It was as if viewing herself through a third party lens.
Her passion for the game,
As mysterious as her gentle touch on softer pages.
How could she love so drastically?
Football, her passion,
But her books were her mystery to all, to even herself,
And the quiet murmur of Nietzsche, her nectar.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
O child of war, preserve your weapon,
For future children let it stay,
For they will come and ask their question
What was the world like in our day?
For them, born under stars more lucky,
It will be hard to understand
How could the sky have been exploded
While battles raged on see and land?
How,flowing black with blood,could rivers
Rock,bridges bombs had battered down
They'll never see it-as you never
Saw sunshine in the world around.
Preserve your weapon,little eagles,
Of many battle it will tell
Of days ferocious and heroic
For grandson to remember well.
ሰባዊ ቀንበጥ አርበኞች
ምስኪን ልጆች
ሰባዊ ቀንበጥ አርበኞች
መሳሪያችሁን በደንብ በቅርስነት አስቀምጡ
ለአምሳያዎቻችሁ በዘመን ሃዲድ ለሚመጡ
ምክንያቱም በኛ ጊዜ
ሉላዊ ገጽታው እንዴት እንደነበረ
መጠየቃቸው ስለማይቀር!
ምክኒያቱም እድለኛ ሆነው ለተወለዱት
ለማስረዳት ስለሚያዳግት እንዴት
ሰማዩ እንደተናጠ በፍንዳታ
በመሬት በባህር ጦርነት
ሲካሄድ ያላፍታ-ማለት ልክ
እናንተ የሰላም ጸሃይ የምትስተዋልበት
ሰማይ እንዳላያችሁት!
ጠይም የደም ጎርፍ እንዴት አድርጎ
የቦንብ ድልድይ ፍርስራሽ
እንደወሰድ ጠራርጎ !
ለልጅ ልጅ ስለሚዘከር ስለበርካታ
የጅግንነት የአይበገሬነት ውሎ
አደራ መሳሪያች ሁን በደንብ አኑሩ ልጆች
ተናንሽ ንስሮች !
በ ሳሎ ሜዳ ነሪስ
ትርጉም አለም ሃይሉ
(ሉትኒያ በናዚ በተወረረችበት ወቅት ገጣሚዋ በግጥም ወታደሮችን ታበረታታ ነበር። አንድ ህጻን ወታደር የስዋን ግጥም ከጋዜጣ ቀዶ የደረት ኪሱ ይዞ በማሺን ጋን ተመቶ እንደሞተ ተገኝትዋል)
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
Left hope behind
Abandoned fights
All vicious signs
Of savage plights
Felt like a flea
A parasite
All savage plea
To savage plight
Oh Sisyphus
Exhausted might
Lay in a hearse
Oh savage plight
Heathen in prayer
God-given right
Sign of the lair
Of savage plights
A crimson snow
And eyes of white
But don't you know
These savage plights
By Doom's own herald, God's own **** creatures all collide
Like ole rye barrelled, seasoned to withstand savage plights
Let woman cry
Let man be scorned
Let savage plights
Shut closing doors
He'll will stay frozen
Heaven forlorn
The savage chosen
***** of Babylon
Live off of plights
All but one savage
Dragged day and night
Your horseless carriage
Call it a burden
That is your right
One thing's for certain
It's savage plights
With mind so prurient
Give humans blights
From West to Orient
Come savage plights
Dorian-like picture on the wall, too mild a fighter for a knight
Was God-forsaken, after all, dealt sole with and to others each a savage plight
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
It’s true what they say,
we always hurt the ones we love
and love the ones who hurt us.
We can quote Bukowski as much as we want,
but we need to realize the severity of his words.
“Find what you love and let it **** you.”
Love is a death sentence.
It is a sweet one, but in love’s very nature it is a death sentence nonetheless.
You will search the world for someone whose favorite book is The Picture of Dorian Gray
and who worships the same 1953 Hepburn film
and inhales dark coffee in the way that you do.
But you will end up settling for someone who has skimmed the back cover biography of Wilde
and who remembers when and where Audrey was born
and drinks java from a little coffee shop that you think is pretentious.
Yet there will be a time when you will find someone that you can’t live without
and you will be shell-shocked when you see that they can breathe air through their lungs
and eat the spicy food that you don’t like
and sleep with the window cracked just a little bit
all without you.
You will hate yourself more than anyone for letting yourself need someone as much as you need that one person,
who doesn’t even know that when you say you only take two sugars in your coffee,
you actually mean four, sometimes five.
You will ignore their pleas and roll your eyes at their petty compromises.
You will make them miserable because you love them more than they love you.
And they will stick around because they feel guilty for that very reason.
You will salt their wounds and ice their veins.
They will leave you on the side of the road and try their best to hate you.
You will both recognize that it is a valiant yet fruitless effort.
The line between hate and love is so slight that a feeling can change like a compass.
Love is hate and hate is love.
So you will grow to tolerate their lack of literary prowess
and enlighten them on what you actually mean when you say two sugars.
Most times everything will feel off and never quite the way you had expected,
and you’ll always wonder if you have ever really been happy,
and if this is actually how love feels.
When this happens, you must remind yourself that love is a complicated emotion.
It is in the tide of the sea
and the phases of the moon
and sometimes found in a frightening trek down Memory Lane.
You can find it in the face of every person that you have ever met
and sometimes it does not grace those pretty faces for very long at all.
The most truthful and sad part of it all is that it will eventually **** you.
But it is a death sentence at it’s finest.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
I woke up
the sun softly breaking through
resting on the wall,
i left my radio on
playing songs and songs
that i love
my hair is glued to my forehead
i feel it scratching against my skin
i look around piles of clothes
laying on the corner of my bed
empty bowls of cheerio cereal
my guitars laying up against a wall
one that is laying on the floor
two burnt matches on the floor
a poorly painted zebra mask
and a yellow leaf that fell from its place
a lot of dried pieces fell off the dead leaf,
old VHS tapes against the wall
***** dancing,breakfest club,ferris bueller , blues brothers
so much more
books piled in each other
dorian grey,to **** a mockingbird, a farewell to arms
i'm missing two books
i lent them to my friend
red ink from a pen on the floor
i had to keep the guitar cord at a certain bend to it would amplify
it gave in and exploded
a green paint mark on my wall
and a cut out mustache
an old keyboard of the 80's
sometimes it turns on sometimes it doesn't
notebooks of poems
and boxes of drawing i did when i was younger
a big jar with two dead roses
pencils and pens cross in and out
a little emptied out honey jar
filled with all my train tickets
my bracelets laying on the floor
except for the blue one my wrist
it never comes off
my camera lays beside the camera beg
drawings on the wall
and my hats on top of each other
and my sweaters all over the place
vinyl album covers
of the Beatles and Pink Floyd
My mom calls it a mess
i call it
me...
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
I die every single day. It comes slowly, gas leaking out of a tank; a river drying up to a trickle. It has taken years to notice, but here I am: On empty. In a muddy riverbed.
Standing on the short timeline of my life, I look back at the man of the past. The man is not myself, and yet he is more complete than me. He is younger – yes – but brimming with delight. He knows nothing of Walls and Comments and Likes, and yet he is whole. He has no outlet for his happiness other than his own physical canvas. His sadness is absolute and crushing, but it belongs to him.
I am not he.
I am the autumn of his soul.
There is an emptiness inside me.
It has not grown like the lines on my face nor the aches in my bones. It is something immeasurable.
I want to step out of my own identity.
I want to live in a construct that is more unique than my own.
We talk of living vicariously through others, but I live vicariously through myself. I live ten feet behind and thirty seconds after my own person. I watch the man in front of me go through every motion, and I feel nothing. I notate the changes, categorize the achievements, collate the emotions, and I feel nothing. On paper, I look quite good. Great things make headlines. Pictures show unforgettable memories, laughter, joy, and contentment.
And every feeling of inadequacy, vulnerability, shame, doubt, and fear is greeted with a blind eye.
The more my construct grows, the more I diminish.
I am the Portrait of Dorian Gray, reversed.
Each day the picture is more successful, happy, wealthy, and loved.
And the man weakens and decays.
I am frightened of what I’ve become.
If there is a way to halt this, I spend every day searching for it. Perhaps, in moments of looking into another’s eyes, I can hide from nothing. At those times, the construct falls away, and the man on the timeline comes crashing into the present.
I wonder who will greet me in the morning. Will the Man diminish, or will the Portrait grow fainter instead?
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
You can't erase your face.
You can't retrace or displace
the lines you dislike.
Some people try. Why?
At best it makes a mess.
Why am I upset by a little extra bone?
The external effects of my natural testosterone?
How can a bit of unwanted hair excite despair?
Why do I care?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*I pointlessly worry
about silly points
like the size of my shoulders
or my knee and thumb joints.
My hairline, my brow ridge,
the shape of my nose,
my masculine pelvis,
my crooked man toes...*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My eyes are fine --
My only feature I like.
My shy smile is alright
but not too wide
'cause of my overbite --
-- the size of those incisors!
Now, some would say that I'm just vain,
so self-obsessed I've gone insane.
But I would say that's how we're trained,
At least in this day and age.
Others might paint me like Dorian Gray
praying to Satan for youth to stay,
but I just wish it hadn't gone this way.
Why would you keep your looks immutable
if you were never to begin with beautiful?
Feb 28, 2022
Feb 28, 2022 at 12:07 PM UTC
Gilderoy Lockhart - The Chamber of Secrets
Leela - Futurama
Laney Penn - Grojband
Flonne - Disgaea
Raquna - Etrian Odyssey
Lilligant - Pokemon
Gwen - Total Drama Island
Dawn - Total Drama Revenge of the Island
Wednesday Addams - Addams Family
Thalia - Magic the Gathering
Isperia - Magic the Gathering
Cloistered Youth - Magic the Gathering
Ellie Nash - Degrassi
Gretchen - Camp Lake Bottom
Nina - Crash Bandicoot
Sunako Nakahara - The Wallflower
Nami - Harvest Moon
Georgia - Harvest Moon
Falkenrath Noble - Magic the Gathering
Marcelline - Adventure Time
Flame Princess - Adventure Time
Dorian Gray - The Portrait of Dorian Gray
Finnick Odair - The Hunger Games Series
Emma - Stoked
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
I want to be the flirty girl
In the floaty dress,
With the flower in her hair
Forever.
I want a portrait in the attic,
Growing wrinkled, drooping, dying,
While I dance through the city, luscious and buxom,
Not a care in the world,
Enjoying being 'different'.
Freeze time, I like me now.
It's taken years for me to get here,
And I don't want to leave.
I don't want to be insignificant,
I dread becoming invisible,
I want to just stop,
And be where I am,
I want to be me, now, forever.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
~I remember...
~For my two sisters
Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.
On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.
Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.
Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.
On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux
Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.
In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.
His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?
I don't think so.
It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.
Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.
Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.
Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull
...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover." The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:07 PM UTC
At a funeral recently I met a lot of people I hadn't seen in ages
Like from a hundred years ago (so it seemed)
What got me was, some of them it looked like they'd hardly aged at all
They looked....they looked nearly exactly the same
Now Me! I'd changed... I'd aged a lot
The trials and tribulations of this life had taken their toll
I said to one of them "Y'know you're still as young looking as I remember you
Is there some kind of Dorian Gray thing going on here
You don't have some mysterious portrait hidden away up in the attic"
I went on "Y'know you could do a movie and you could play yourselves
And when you go up to the attic and unveil the picture
Me! I could play the part of The Portrait staring back at you
You'd recoil in horror O! It's my true self, it's... it's so decrepit, so terrible looking (LoL)".
Me! when I look in the mirror all I see is a ghost
The very distant memory of a once beautiful looking kid.
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 10:04 AM UTC
if my hands reflect
the hurt they cause, maybe i
wouldn't hurt again.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
I would wonder if there be
A hidden portrait there of thee
Which bears thy sin and guilt and shame
While outwardly, thou art the same.
If this not be, then let me write
A poem to bring this all to light.
Let these immortal words then be
That true and twisted sight of thee.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
Two brains, eyes, ears and lungs,
Two feet, legs, arms and hands;
Ten toes and fingers,
Two kidneys too,
And teeth to spare,
Still countless are my thinning hairs.
I'm ready for the deluge,
I'm a walking ark.
And why not two souls too.
If I had two souls,
I know what I would do;
Like Dorian, I'd degenerate.
Let one be ****** eternally,
The other gets Paradise.
The odds are in my favor,
I'm rolling dotless dice.
And two hearts would do.
If I could have two hearts,
How'd I be today?
One could be broken,
One stay whole,
Not to be given away.
Yet my outcome
Would be the same;
A thousand hearts won't do.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
Blood drips down on the glass.
Blood stains are spotted down town in the chambers of anticipation.
Your DNA covers the walls of my heart.
I tried wiping your blood off but it keeps filling up the god ****** bathtub.
Call me Dorian.
Scream my name.
Your blood offends thousands.
Repeat my name and stop slashing your own wrists. Grab mine.
I taste your blood. It's made of prayers and goodbyes.
I built you a temple.
Your blood stains the windows.
Cover up.
I lick the temple clean with the honesty of a preacher.
Don't go home empty handed.
Don't stay fully packed.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Sketch me,
draw me in your mind,
project me onto your canvas.
colour me,
releasing the unquiet,
make me your,
unprecedented piece,
an ongoing life work,
perfecting all impurities,
eradicate all self-flagellation,
espouse a new desire,
akin to Basil's obsession,
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
infatuation lends to disillusion,
pursuing,
hedonistic pleasures,
soul baring to all sin,
intentions to please,
exonerate myself entirely,
you promised redemption,
not further damnation,
I'm Narcissus trapped,
between,
painted reflections of self,
dying a thousand times,
devoted & absconded trust,
pulling it out,
hand in chest,
blood,
*poured
poured
poured*
as Lector serves,
killings,
you feasted on my heart,
with the same delight.
© Sia Jane
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
I rode a Trojan horse off to sea with the winds of tide.
Off with a quil and a sword and a helmet to protect my
head the size of a melon soda;
I wondered,
did Dorian ever grow his hair long?
I envy you, Dorian,
with your silky locks and impenetrable gaze,
slanting, almost cursing mouth filled
with gasp.
Portraits do not exceed the size of its canvas,
but you seem to breathe Life, Dorian.
You seem alive.
Perhaps the color black suits you or your tie;
perhaps the ground on which you walk upon
turn grey and wither with every step.
They say you die a little each day, Dorian.
Are you looking for a lover?
One’s whims turn to coals with every feathered touch.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and
don’t forget to cover us.
Wrap me in the shade of your *****
and maybe tonight will be the kindest of clouds.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and kiss me on my lips.
I have long since felt a stranger so humid and dry.
Wrap your tongue around my finger, Dorian.
Taste me;
take me breath by hurried breath.
Grounds will shake and split to quarters into the far
corners of the Earth.
There was a play, staged at the living room, where the couch
used to be.
I heard a hiss on the recorder the step you
started grinding your hips pressed unto me.
I took a hold of you, dear Dorian, and you vanished in thin
air.
Goddamit, Dorian, we never talked about Chaplin.
I never said anything about grieving or weeping the insides
of my being.
Dance with me, oh Dorian!
Before the clock strikes one.
Before you fade and your face becomes a smudge on my arm.
Look at me, Dorian, *********
Look at me.
Look.
This is the sound of your embrace,
and of a million and one hues pressed clear in wells of oil.
I loved you, Dorian,
as much as one portrait hangs somewhere, gathering dust and memories,
waiting for a breath,
a sigh,
a touch,
a face.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Excerpts from the Journal of Dorian Gray
by Michael R. Burch
It was not so much dream, as error;
I lay and felt the creeping terror
of what I had become take hold . . .
The moon watched, silent, palest gold;
the picture by the mantle watched;
the clock upon the mantle talked,
in halting voice, of minute things . . .
Twelve strokes like lashes and their stings
scored anthems to my loneliness,
but I have dreamed of what is best,
and I have promised to be good . . .
Dismembered limbs in vats of wood,
foul acids, and a strangled cry!
I did not care, I watched him die . . .
Each lovely rose has thorns we miss;
they ***** our lips, should we once kiss
their mangled limbs, or think to clasp
their violent beauty. Dream, aghast,
the flower of my loveliness,
this ageless face (for who could guess?),
and I will kiss you when I rise . . .
The patterns of our lives comprise
strange portraits. Mine, I fear,
proved dear indeed . . . Adieu!
The knife’s for you.
Keywords/Tags: Oscar Wilde, portrait, Dorian Gay, journal, ageless, face, youthful, unchanging, rose, thorns, ***** vat, acid, acids, dismembered limbs, violent beauty, knife
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 3:55 AM UTC
little tiny heart compression
a Dorian Grey of my expectations
decay and grime has covered my trust
hoping for a little boy to grow up
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC
she wanted to be
a killer bee
so she honeyed up servant girls
and placed them under
the fruit trees
but upon severing the stinger
a bee loses it's lust
so she left them to the bugs
and took on a bigger love
for pins and needles
and fingernails and a pale face
laced with pain
when they scream she shivers and asks
them to say her name again
when she was still young
her husband taught her necks break
if you bend them back fast enough
eyes go blind if you cut them
crisply across the iris
peasants can go missing and
no one will ever know
god help the ruthless mistakes
nobility makes
dorian gray in her mirror today
****** erzebet kissed the servant girls
like jeffrey's boy with the hole in his skull
she must have looked beautiful
in the moonlight coming through
the dungeon grates
and they finally found out
bricked over the windows
left a slit for food
minotaur in his maze
she thought she'd show off
for her funeral
but she is alone
the bodies decay
now she is a killer bee
in a cage
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
Instead of homework,
I, a curious and
strange child
ran into a library
of multiverses.
To the left was Macbeth,
and to the right was Dorian Gray.
Amidst my tardiness and slight
disarray, I found Beethoven.
He, so volatile,
so angry and loving,
so deceitful and charming
exhausting then relaxing.
He composed
infectious melodies
of strings and brass that
rumbled like thunderstorms
but these thunderstorms
rained heavily on me,
washing away negativity,
blooming flowers
of unique beauty.
Statements in musical
form, everlasting, ever flowing
lead me away from a
place of sitting in silence
and not knowing
what notes are like
when they dance .
With his outstretched arms
I found an embrace in
an immortal man
with a loyal stance.
Time means nothing,
when floating on cloud nine.
Beethoven transcends time
and with him, everything
is just fine.
I once found Beethoven
in a library and since then
he has never left me.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Croydon was never the same
after 65
when it was sawn in half.
Wellesley underpass like
a strewn underbelly,
gave the Motor vehicle its commensurate order.
Whitgift middle schools playing fields uprooted south
making way for the,
Whitgift Centre, old before its time,
like Dorian Gray in reverse.
I recall Grants department store closing in 1980.
presiding over an omen, we could not afford a niche,
only for it to become an entertainment venue.
Standardization became our
inalienable right
with the soul of the centre dying
death by a thousand cuts,
not helped by the recent riots.
But Croydon will survive.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC