"elegies" poems
Challenges and competition notified.
Every step codified.
Tears and sweat pacified.
Achievements and advancement glorified.
Regression and depression terrified.
Muscles and struggle verified.
Foes and conspirators mortified.
Plans of progress and purpose sanctified.
Grace and the Goodness of God testified.
Sweet pleasures of life.
Trials, Torment and Torture.
Eulogies and Elegies of visible characters.
Promising and decisive.
No conflicts, No dilemma.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
split for kindling.
I buried my hands in the bucket,
found the nails, lifted them,
the phoenix of my right hand
shielded with soot and tar,
my left hand shrouded in soft white ash --
nails in both fists like forged lightning.
I smeared black lines on my face,
drew crosses on my chest with the nails,
raised my arms and stomped my feet,
dancing in honor of spring
and rebirth, dancing
in honor of winter and death.
I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden,
spread ashes over the ground,
asked the earth to be good.
I gave the earth everything
that pulled me through the lonely winter --
oak trees, barns, poems.
I picked up my shovel
and turned hard, gray dirt,
the blade splitting winter
from spring. With *** and rake,
I cultivated soil,
tilling row after row,
the earth now loose and black.
Tearing seed packets with my teeth,
I sowed spinach with my right hand,
planted petunias with my left.
Lifting clumps of dirt,
I crumbled them in my fists,
loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers.
And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water,
a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air,
ash drifting over fields
dew-covered
and lightly dusted green.
5.8k
So here, twisted in steel, and spoiled with red
your sunlight hide, smelling of death and fear,
they crushed out your throat the terrible song
you sang in the dark ranges. With what crying
you mourned him! - the drinker of blood, the swift death-bringer
who ran with you so many a night; and the night was long.
I heard you, desperate poet, Did you hear
my silent voice take up the cry? - replying:
Achilles is overcome, and Hector dead,
and clay stops many a warrior's mouth, wild singer.
Voice from the hills and the river drunken with rain,
for your lament the long night was too brief.
Hurling your woes at the moon, that old cleaned bone,
till the white shorn mobs of stars on the hill of the sky
huddled and trembled, you tolled him, the rebel one.
Insane Andromache, pacing your towers alone,
death ends the verse you chanted; here you lie.
The lover, the maker of elegies is slain,
and veiled with blood her body's stealthy sun.
5.7k
The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffee ***
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Whaley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
"It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,"
she says, "that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love."
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat, lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
By Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.
4.9k
They say grief comes in waves
varying in size and intensity;
some start small, moving silently,
might seem harmless but engulf
me within no time and I
was never taught how to swim.
Thrashing and flailing in the water
I find it difficult to breathe.
The seas of sadness pull me far
into their abyss where there is no
light or hope to get out of the misery;
sometimes even that feels enticing and comforting.
On other days these waves come
roaring loud in the ears, threatening
to steal my ground away from me, often
I brave to surf over them with the
help of distractions and they
recede, scheming to gulp me down later.
Wonder how I end up on these shores every time
while on a train or on my bed, in a
classroom or in a conference hall, amongst
the crowded streets and when alone,
memories of yesterday strewn like sea shells
lead me to the waters and I can always hear their elegies.
And when the moon shines its brightest
on them, you get to see the scene of tranquillity
but deep inside my heart there is
a storm brewing slowly that takes
various names every season, maybe there is
one named after you too, who knows.
Do you want to come with me down
to the ocean of tears? We could let
those waves kiss our feet while we watch
the sunset together, I will tell you
all my stories and you could share yours too.
I hope you know how to swim.
Sep 27, 2023
Sep 27, 2023 at 4:48 PM UTC
Love’s progress does not wait
For Elegies or romantic verse
The right true end of love is
Carried over, in the next generation
For how long, whose to say?
Until our children are born immortal
Until our machines talk back to us?
By our new nature, from planets
Harvesting stars, equally at peace
Love’s progress no longer rests
In the story between a ‘you and I’
Love is a thing for society
To share like virtue, soft and free
Perfection to unite, and value more
Than gold, more than wealthy
Or any physical kind of security
Although we see the celestial bodies move
Love and time have their own marriage
These swelling lips that sing of passion
And these serene hearts that dance
For a brief lifetime, that went too fast?
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
I remember when you took me
corkscrewing down kaleidoscope tunnels for the last time
mounting hummingbirds to fly through the crystallized sky
air splashing against our skin
like an intoxicating perfume, dizzying
old daydreams, new friends like
humans with spectrum eyes and hair that coiled around their shoulders like serpents, all donning galaxy cloaks
reptilian monsters that sprouted raven feathers while chasing each other through smoke trees
silhouettes with rusty-nail teeth who danced like leaves in a gale
inky, spindly limbs reaching
trying to catch the moon
fingers entangled like a dreamcatcher
We were more then the kings and queens, heroes, idols
We were gods,
ruling from the velvet mountains to the silken seas,
everything beneath the candlesmoke clouds and the caramel sun that drips like wax
everything shining beneath the stars
made out of that smoldering purple dust we know so well
always whispering to us in scritch-scratch voices
reciting elegies and hush-hush songs of longing
but then,
reality ignites and burns beneath us as we soar,
elysian fields crumbling,
flames consuming the wonderland we’ve built
that is nothing but a paper thin house of tarot cards
the future written with seeping poison ink
We are left keening in the ashes,
tears to late to douse the inferno
but maybe
they will help some seedling fester beneath the scorched earth
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
You sang hymns of solitude across my shoulders,
uttered summer sonnets down my stomach,
whispered your prayers between my thighs,
all in a language I have yet to translate or remember.
All of it sounds in between the foreign and familiar.
You screamed of ballads of adoration
hungrily against my neck,
confessed your long-hidden elegies on my bare chest,
moaned your blues inside my dry, anticipating mouth.
All of it rings and buzzes and resonates throughout my body.
My body which no longer belongs to me.
And this is the very comedy of our sweet, sudden parting.
But I shall turn over and dance for you this time,
and promise to never stop playing my favorite song for me while I'm at it
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
Oh, love, why do we argue like this?
I am tired of all your pious talk.
Also, I am tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them alone.
Take your foot out of the graveyard,
they are busy being dead.
Everyone was always to blame:
the last empty fifth of *****
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,
the worms that lived under the cat's ear
and the thin-lipped preacher
who refused to call
except once on a flea-ridden day
when he came scuffing in through the yard
looking for a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.
I refuse to remember the dead.
And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you -- you go ahead,
go on, go on back down
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
talk back to your old bad dreams.
2.5k
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
on the paper
newly minted,
first time printed
causal pausation
assessment momentation
review, the second inclination,
then scrap-heaped,
in much bad company filed
retained, reserved, preserved,
for another go round,
another someday
you look at your hands,
telling them straight,
not good enough,
is not good enough
anymore
do try, so try,
three lines, four stanzas,
elegies and funerals
don't become you,
go into labor,
write labored
and birth free flowingly
knowing,
that all knowing glowing,
of a poem child,
product of
good enough
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
The flipside of the day
Brings a lot of melodies
Of painful journals
At most the moon and stars are dead
For those eyes that lament for the beloved
The breezy sound of the wind
Doesn't bring a beautiful song of serenity
Instead a tune of sinister
Darker than the night
Because the lullabies of every nocturnal
An echoing elegies
For those who were left behind
Sightseeing imaginary images
Whispering song for them
Every night
Still dying inside
5-25-2016
Mysterious_aries
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the
exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!”
Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types!
They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time?
How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones?
>
<
>
time is over
time is up
time is running
time flies
>
<
>
Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up?
I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum?
>...O darlings...<
…motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around,
>.. not stars..<
>...O… no..<
Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind.
O…no…
Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever…
they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure.
<
<
<
The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise!
they laugh
and
laugh and
laugh
since
>
<
I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height. shout, scream and cry, they were innocent, don' t want to die. I can hear them.
>
<
They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
For all the smoke we put up, I’ll admit it was never much,
Not the flames it should have been, just a small, coveted spark
And for all my fanning, blowing, tending, it was yet too hot to touch,
But I swear this was never meant to be such a farce.
What’s oh-so-hilarious is that you’ve never realized the game
That I played like a mean-spirited child with a false set of voodoo dolls
And how high the stakes were for me, but you can no longer claim
To be the one Joshua who crumbles my dark stony walls.
Still, I promise to never blame you for this, my dear,
Because for all of your unmeasurable, ineffable strength and charms,
Qualities beyond compare, I review my praises to you and sense nothing but fear.
You deserve much higher elegies than I can lift with these weakened arms.
But I digress; it appears that an “Aromantic Asexual” is nothing you’d choose;
Yet I’ll never renounce the time I was given to love my Muse.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal
with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously freakishly faulknerically
long
but not to worry
the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
what's going on
get them used to
obnoxious departures
sudden jolts
of expression
devious detours into
obscenity, indecency
these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake alive responsive
some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe bland routes:
a snowfall enhanced by red robins
perched on a rustic fence
a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
in a shimmering moment
heartfelt elegies
quaint quatrains
hip haikus
but can these images
really keep you entranced?
well, can they?
it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
~
*Elegies
entering the lists,
in absentia,
the prayer of blood
broken at its spine.
Ah, how minding days
trampoline and joust,
like those days beyond recall
thrown into the fire.
The persistence of memory
is a series of F-stops,
the fountain of youth
a spring of well-being
and then forever nothingness.
We've reached the prophetic day,
I feel the coming wrath
in the whites of their eyes:
I dream of wires
and sleep by godless windows,
the sound of untamed rivers
chanting passions misplaced
and of the absence of belief
—the true ***** of man.
Take one last look
at the structure of morality
before it closes down.
One last look...*
~
Jun 26, 2021
Jun 26, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
The Poetry Barn wasn’t really a barn
It was merely an old farm house,
It sat on the acres of Eddington’s Farm,
Surrounded by sheep and by cows.
But Poets came over from Stuttersby Dell,
Drove over from Scatabout Wood,
To write in the air of the Poetry Barn
About things, when they ought and they should.
They came from Great Orton, they came from Rams Well,
They came from Glenn Wheatley and Grey,
The best and the worst of the poets you’d find
At the Poetry Barn, every day,
The rooms had been empty for many a year
So they all sat on bundles of straw,
And when they ran out they would send up a shout,
So some would go out and get more.
The mornings would see all the Elegies worked,
The Epics, the Odes and Quatrains,
The Poetry Barn would then grumble and groan
As the Dirges would enter the drains.
By noon the fair Sonnets came into their own
With just the odd wanton Lament,
When poets would seek out the culprit to find
One grinding his verse in a tent.
By evening they’d work on the Pastoral,
The Sestet, the Roundel as well,
And those at a loss after losing the toss
Would be stuck with the old Villanelle,
They’d all settle down when the Moon came up round,
And the stars twinkled boldly in rhyme,
When one asked the other, ‘pray, what rhymes with brother,’
And he’d say, ‘your Mom, all the time.’
The poems would stick to the inside walls,
Would tear at each other like knaves,
They’d fill up the aisles and lie flat on the tiles
And would damage the old architraves.
At night you could hear all the horses hooves
As they carried the good news to Aix,
And in came the wedding guest, him with the albatross
Counting his many mistakes.
I saw that they’d burned down the Poetry Barn
With one sad, incendiary rhyme,
A poet called Glover who wrote to his lover
‘My candle, you light all the time.’
The straw caught alight in his lover’s delight
And they fled from that bastion of verse,
I just penned this missal for someone to whistle,
The one that he’d written was worse.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
the laddering of my ribs creak
like water-stained cherrywood stairs;
tread lightly, lest you
stir the dust and the ghosts
that dwell underfoot,
‘neath the cracked floorboards
of my skin.
i have but a simple request:
rid yourself of your lungs
and fill up the empty spaces
with used coffee filters,
crinkled wrapping paper, and
forlorn hope. do
cast aside
the shroud of indecision?, for
that winding sheet will only
hold you down between
your shoulderblades, like
framed butterflies pinned on paper
with needles of stone and salt.
stay with me tonight.
we will be taxidermy birds
on marionette strings
with crumbled concrete
between our talons,
the afterimages
of neon diner signs
stamped into our inner eyelids
oscillating, phantasmic.
we'll sing elegies in spring
rock sugar on our tongues—
there are staves of music
written in the lining of your mouth
and in the webbing of your hands
––as Sappho might say:
girls, sweetvoiced.
oh! but to think
that the starfire in your eyes
could be extinguished
by the tears you shed;
i’ll return my heart to the constellations
for you
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
As I walk down the street
That looks nothing but normal,
With pedestrians walking on the sides
Mothers calling sons after school,
Teenagers writing their dreams with sweat pants and converse shoes
Trotting down the pathways with their personalities
Compressed in their back packs;
I like to play a game called
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A bomb;
A wired representation of defeat
An open gate to oblivion,
A flower with pedals of fire
Pollen of political tyranny
With ignorant humans for bees
That “spread the word”.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A kid reading a book
Forgetting the world outside
For the worlds in fairy tales
Seem real;
And as soon as his eyes start rolling
He envisions himself a leader of a striking army
A great protector of truth,
Or even a little girl dancing her way into the forest;
Busy being a child
She never thought about the monsters waiting on the other side;
And all those characters are despised,
In a world where innocence is put aside
Where dreams are confiscated
Like phones in elementary schools,
Where minds only follow
And hearts are black;
In a world,
Where reading a book becomes a threat
Only terminated by something louder than life
But nothing is louder than words.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
Afraid tyrants,
Calculating their reign
In seconds
And seconds are all they leave us
Before we leave us,
Before we start making martyrs of our names
And memorials of our pictures,
Before we write elegies
Before we write poems of anger
Before we cry down our thoughts
Screaming the names of those we lost;
Afraid that one day,
No one will remember those names
Afraid,
That one day,
Our name would be among them.
Ow martyrs who left us a world to fix
Our hands are tired of typing,
Our eyes are drowning
For the more we write down your names on our souls
The heavier are our tears;
Our thoughts are crumbling
Into posts and statuses
But who are we posting for, if all of you are dead?
Ow martyrs who left us with more spaces to cover
We cannot cover all this by ourselves.
Our trials are self-destructing,
Our memories are filled with images of you
Hoping that our memories stay memories
As we revolute towards our future.
Our flowers are wilting,
Our candles are too close to burning out
We have read all the prayers that we know
And as the journey prolongs
I ask myself…
“What now?”
Our rage is dormant,
Our eyes are open as we observe
The post traumatic epilepsies the world is coming about,
Our minds,
Once fooled
Are now base lines for our attacks;
Our hearts are filled with images of you
In an open chamber
Easy to access
For one day
All these images will appear on the surface of us
And that is the day we avenge you
Ow martyrs who left us,
You left us with a world to fix and a nation to create.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Without you I wouldn't be the same
You are the only thing that keeps me sane
We have our friends but
They come and go
Just like our time together, the lengths abate
The seasons change
It begins to snow
The days get shorter
The dark moves in
When I can see you through my breath
You remind me I have something left
In a tundra of ice, you keep me warm
And I've always kept you out of every storm
I don't ever want this to end
Let the good times begin
The hype, the energy
The falls, the countless elegies
When I had no one or nothing at all
You've been there through it all
These years, the best I've had
I regret letting you slip my grip way back
But you're here now
I promise I won't get lost and found I had nothing, but you came made me feel proud
You've made me fall, and yell loud
I've become stronger because of you
I get better when it's just us two
You've been there for me in all of my worst falls
I wouldn't change the past at all
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
The truth is that you never loved me enough.
And, I never expected anything more than a compliment through out a day, never. Still, my soul will never forget the way my hands kept writing poems about your lips, about your sparkly eyes and soft skin.
But you forgot to remind me that in some days even the moon is heavy on your shoulders, you forgot to ease my pain. You forgot to remind me that I am beautiful without all of the work that I've put in doing the perfect eyeliner or the sexiest lips ever, you forgot to tell me that I am beautiful because of my acne scars and tired eyes. You forgot to remind me that I have a strong mind and a powerful voice, you were scared of all of these. You were scared of the power that exists in these veins of mine, you were scared that once I know that power you couldn't control me anymore.
You forgot to adore the tragedy beneath my eyes and romance below my chest, how my beating heart was singing lullabies and how my mind created so many elegies.
You forgot to ask me how my day went or how can my bones still endure the pain that my body kept spreading , you forgot to care enough to ask.
You forgot to remind me who I am when I couldn't. You forgot to wipe away my tears, and then you had the courage to ask how can my eyes look so tired even after I put make-up on.
The truth is that you never loved me enough, but I will keep reminding myself every day how much I love the little girl that still finds a safe place inside of me.
I will remember every day,
until I will forget
the way I've learned
in the first place.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 4:26 PM UTC
Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats,
Where now no more the music is,
With hands that wrote you little notes
I write you little elegies!
1.6k
*Psychic Trance & ****** Dance,
Emitting Chemical Solace Dipped In Her Capital Romance,
Feral Atmosphere Written In Her Carnal Elegies,
Rapturous Serenades Forming Phantasmal Effigies,
Magnetized Synchronicity & Metamorphized Reciprocity,
Animating Foreplays Dazzling Her Astral Virtuosity,
Phantasmal Lips Illuminating Cherub Faces In Draped Compositions,
Painting Supernatural Visions Forged In Her Vocal Inhibitions,
Prototype Voids & Spiraling Realms,
Religious Frenzies In Her Temporal Screams,
Autumn Sun Reincarnating The Light Of The Spring,
Glass House Perspectives Blooming In Her Prismatic Bling,
Rhapsody Confessions Of Her Divine Obsessions,
Rainbow Skies Dressed In Her Spiritual Progression,
Coral Spells & Synthetic Desires,
Floral Pastels Engineering Her Romantic Fires,
Nightlife Flatlining Through Her Lonely Avenues In LSD High,
A Congenital Sinner She Respires ****** Hues With A Luminescent Sigh!
– 05:13 AM –*
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug), bolt upright, uplight, reattach yourself to the liquid of the music,
soothe the irritation, slowdown the shaking hand,
give god or his creatures, the nocturnes and sonatas,
a chance to restore the pounding of the chest to a leveling
equanimity
to no avail, the sleep angels have fled from the
forest fires in the chest, and the helicopters must quench
with the commence of dropping clouds of wet words,
when, when will I be released from a life that has no
easements
words, words, words but another drug, a habit that gives
everything but a temporary state, every poem nothing but
another her, another lady puncture in my restless body,
another juncture, where all your choices are the way of
error
the high will last, shorter each one, but the track will exist
for all the time, a token of human foolishness, the more is
the inevitability of the ending, writ, drawn a little closer,
and comes with a hand written spongy-apology begging for
existing
in his notes, motes, dust mites of titles, single verses,
elegies, essays half written, passing thots claiming to
want to be wannabes, this appears and it's a perfect
ending
there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable
man in his perfect certainty, never was, nevermore, n'ere will be never, and one poet walks a razor's edge, that is his three tenses struggling for mutual coexistence, one of
a calming beauty, a dark glory, a perfect closing, choosing
a final solution, a belief in relief, that simultaneously
engraves, erases, and
equates
another new poem fissures to the surface, and the palpable
is a magician's illusion, a trick, a feat of dismemberment,
an excise of a piece, a drink, a Tennessee whiskey of him,
an emission that never gains remission status, all this fakery,
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug),
excellent, worthless and self-
effacing
{|||}
3:48am-5:46am
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC