"duologue" poems - Hello Poetry

The only person that listens to me is my external dialogue You call it schizophrenia, I call it a duologue But in reality it's just, it's just that in a group of two I am my own leader, subject, enemy and compeer Born out of a fear of being alone, my mind began to sere And unintentionally planted a voice into each cerebral hemisphere

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Feb 25, 2018

Feb 25, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC

Myrrhical

Duologue

The only person that listens to me is my external dialogue You call it schizophrenia, I call it a duologue But in reality it's just, it's just that in a group of two I am my own leader, subject, enemy and compeer Born out of a fear of being alone, my mind began to sere And unintentionally planted a voice into each cerebral hemisphere

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Part I: The Elegy of the ****** O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit! Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods; Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs We strip our skins to this detestable madness, From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone, So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul? If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC

francis-santos

"The Duologue" (Part I)

Part I: The Elegy of the ****** O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit! Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods; Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs We strip our skins to this detestable madness, From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone, So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul? If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll

17

we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute.

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Feb 1, 2014

Feb 1, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

duologue

we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute.

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Part II: The Ode of the Saints O if hope crumbles, that it turns tears into sand Thou shalt find His Majesty, stretching out his mighty hand Let the Great I Am remove, the dirt mixed from thy tears Unto his glory shall yield thee, till the end of thy years O in Thy courts, we find, the rest so desperately sought Bestow Thy vindication that Thou hath lovingly bought Thou giveth roses without thorns, a bridge without nails Giving Thy warm breath of life, as death’s sting fails Now, let us bask in Thy sweet fold of heaven’s light Thou my highest Word, Thy wisdom that restored my sight Naught indeed, but the Son’s love, is undeterred to save! I, ever with thee, and Thy Spirit of Fire I crave! Grateful we are! Thou living water, the Prince of Peace Thou hath cometh, so that endless thirst may cease For once and for all; for us, he was laid Let us rejoice with glee, for it is free, none paid!

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC

francis-santos

"The Duologue" (Part II)

Part II: The Ode of the Saints O if hope crumbles, that it turns tears into sand Thou shalt find His Majesty, stretching out his mighty hand Let the Great I Am remove, the dirt mixed from thy tears Unto his glory shall yield thee, till the end of thy years O in Thy courts, we find, the rest so desperately sought Bestow Thy vindication that Thou hath lovingly bought Thou giveth roses without thorns, a bridge without nails Giving Thy warm breath of life, as death’s sting fails Now, let us bask in Thy sweet fold of heaven’s light Thou my highest Word, Thy wisdom that restored my sight Naught indeed, but the Son’s love, is undeterred to save! I, ever with thee, and Thy Spirit of Fire I crave! Grateful we are! Thou living water, the Prince of Peace Thou hath cometh, so that endless thirst may cease For once and for all; for us, he was laid Let us rejoice with glee, for it is free, none paid!

17

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014) (available on Lulu) duologue we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute. isochronal character the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming. impossible beast the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

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Sep 15, 2015

Sep 15, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

(lack)

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014) (available on Lulu) duologue we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute. isochronal character the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming. impossible beast the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

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