"etherized" poems
This is the morning
No this
this is the morning
Where etherized upon a table I will finally sit up and be seen.
No, this is the morning.
Together milling loudly across park(ing lot)s
This! This is the morning!
Perhaps you've seen me undressed, perhaps you've seen me **********
This is Morse Code these are hieroglyphs these are fingerprints on a frozen window pane. Meaning(fully equipped with the right place for a time) nothing to lose without first finding X.
This is the morning where to stay at home to garden and crow, hooked on the missing airplane lost in spices and exotic tea.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
I came to the Relazation,
*I don't give a ****
Only when I'm
high as **** off some
Man made ether- Now, etherized
it's easier to comprehend the demensions that led to my mental demise.
Yet and still.
*I don't give a ****
Numb.
No need for the clenching of hearts or
worry some eyes-
This is a different "Numb".
Confusing your senses to where you
Hear color,
Taste sound
See beauty in all belonging to God
An feel only with your heart-
I'm riding on cloud 9 -
Yea, high...
Surfacing on a pen that's barely scratching
The surface of my potency.
My being is being caressed by night fall,
Stillness finds space to
fit and slip down shoulders
once burdened with all
but a dream.
Reality never touched me here
So it's easy to imitate a crescent
for my lips main wear.
Corners peaked
Gracing cheekbones once hidden
Now amplified by rose colored bliss.
I wish I could stay here -
Live within my imagination
Because in this realm-
Creativity added to a heart of gold
Not affiliated with currency
Is riches.
Unfortunately,
I can't stay trapped in this... dream-
Because like that 14 year old school boy
My imagination too,
has a curfew.
Only is at 8 a.m.
When the alarm sounds for me to mask my desires
In a blue collar-
To work the "grave yard shift"-
For a dreamer.
Hmm...
I guess my stress will greet your relief again at 5.
Or if I can't wait to embrace that comforted race-
I may have to show face on my next lunch break.
- Danielle . A. Watson
✌
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
Empire; Empire
Marked with glee
Spangles
And prosperity
Dark, dank, deceased
Eyes rolled back
Empire Empire
Your Godly reign
Empire; Empire
Bleeding me
Etherized;
I cannot sleep
Dark, dank, deceased
Amor patriae
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:47 PM UTC
What if I were to take my life?
To silence the cry of a heart that has been cleft asunder
And put to an end my nights of aimless wander
In search of solace I never attain.
If I were to take my life, it’ll be beneath the stormy rain
On the gloomiest evening.
The stars will be shrouded by dark clouds
And the ground quaking from the rumbling of thunder
As the relentless gust of wind whooshing by dangles the sturdy, tall trees
And fluttering its withered leaves.
An evening were every soul pusillanimously sought refuge under their roof
Frequently peeping through their curtain with a bulging eyeball
Because they feared to venture the cold, vacant street.
If I were to take my life, have I succumbed to deceit?
To the whisper of Lucifer that incessantly tells me “this is my solace”.
Indeed, I want to rest
But how restful will be my death?
What if I were to take my life?
And I’m laid in my coffin like an etherized patient by unfamiliar hands
My mother’s tears falling upon my lifeless body
And in the ***** of my brethren will be an overwhelming urge to cry but fury will not let them.
What awaits me after?
An abyss for taking a life I cannot create?
Peace? Because God is willing to empathize for I have been tormented enough in the earth he has kept me in.
My loneliness is all that I have ever known
And amidst all I called friends I felt alone
Amidst all my anguish my eyes never brought forth a tear
But I hoped to cry, because my brain couldn't bear.
What if I were to take my life?
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 11:12 PM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
I see you walking, seriously, quickly,
You catch my eye or maybe I catch yours
And we know.
That somewhere in the smile we share there is a solution
To the problems we’ve made in our own heads
About what is right, what is proper
How we should conduct ourselves in our love
So that it does not offend the people around us.
We find our solution in ignorance.
The total forgoing of social acceptance
And the ignoring of mandated protocol
When we see each other it’s like we’re hold hands in public.
Like we’re kissing with open mouths our hearts visible
To other people it looks like we are too exposed in our glances.
Like we are heart transplant patients on etherized hospital beds
We are eerily fragile and beautiful at the same time
But only to us who have stronger stomachs
Than the general public who gag at the sight of blood.
We embrace it with a smile
And overlook pale faces who can’t see the
Public displays of affection we can flaunt
By simply looking at one another.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
The entrance shows a light, shines so bright
But over the fence there lies, something not right
a crumb of disgrace, caught in a rat race
down rated to your face, i can't keep pace
why do your eyes, break me down in time
they are just lies, im of weak mind
cursed to suffer replays
of my greatest blunders,
game on the line i fumble,
trip up and stumble,
but on my lips your soft kiss,
has me convinced my shot didnt miss
they say life is for pleasure
but ive yet had my measure
of a peaceful humble home
your boisterous figure,
your blossoming presence,
written in my tome,
taken to the tomb,
lost in your essence,
a billowing plume
of pyroclastic passion
then you're gone,
where have you gone?
how long, oh how long,
will i wait to hear,
your quaking voice,
quelling my fear,
i never had a choice.
the power of one
the game ive won
a song unsong
its time for fun
take it and run
the playing field is *****
oh god my visions blurry,
im seeing double trouble
a blinding rainbow puddle
hidden amongst the muck
my heart's come unstuck
my headless body collapses
lost in your seaweed romances
twisted and tightened around my ankles
pulling me down til the water sound kills
the song of an ocean set sail
on a ship soggy and frail
who knew out there for me
was waiting a queen bee
ruling the effervescent roost
of a wondrous world juiced
and blended to a paste
ripe to smear and taste
on your supple skin
lick and suckle sin
tuck me in
with your grin
the tidal force
free of remorse
can't get any worse
than lonesomeness
let us transgress
sky etherized
re-materialize
the power of one
the game ive won
a song unsong
its time for fun
take it and run
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees. To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other. With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods. In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon. When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk. Standing **** flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,
The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw. Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.
In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there . . . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet! Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Sail with me onto the dreamy
Blackened waters evermore
Miles from the distant shore
Another world to call our own.
Perhaps there is no planet here,
No tranquil steppe to this precipitous realm
Where the pressure aches the whole way down
Weightless of a thousand atmospheres
My brain quakes a broken stone,
Transparent eyes in no place
This etherized abyss communicates
A world embarked from the known
Deeper, deeper must we go
Through the darkened deep thorough
A gift of its own; this fathomless dome
A grounding place to guide us home
A thousand times climb below,
A million spheres by stars unknown
And yet every night in moonlit sight
I swim from shore, a stolen beau
On fog-filled days I do not see
Time comes to pass without a scene
To skip along that broken sea
And return to toiling soils
For when the weather agrees, a diving odyssey
Where I sojourn that boundless time;
With a murky message from the void that pines
To a solemn soul's menagerie
Socketed-shapes rapidly move to trace
The walls of my sailing-quarter
Eyes wide-shut in dumbstruck horror
In the darkness; my pale face
Drowning in the pitch
Dismembered hands claw for the portal
In that frozen furled, immortal
Blind fringes skitter deep-dark fish
One day into this place I will sink
And of the land cease to think
To call unto other curious souls
From that eternal deep below
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
Splayed out atop the the table, stupefied,
Etherized, dreaming anything but excision,
Witness the specimen's unnatural habitat.
Life stains the whole of its existence -
See the sacrament of its entirety, its divinity,
Its flesh made manifest and merely flesh.
It mocks this menagerie with every breath
And, aping its peers, struggles, strives, dies
For the pittance this world lends it.
Confronted with the end, it spits derision.
Confronted with the start, it cries in awe!
What a nonsense of a creature we see here,
This enigma we recognize in ourselves:
The human, being.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
You think
you had enough, Silly?
It's a love song
Let us go
You and I
Where the music
Makes you high
Like patients etherized
What's wrong with that?
They will come
They will go
Speaking of Macca de Angelo
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 9:40 PM UTC
we could rob a bank, you and i, <<with the evening spread out against the sky, like a patient, etherized upon a table,>> make no muttering retreats, no ragged claws scuttling across ocean floors, and nobody would count on us, for anything, half starving, we could have *** outside, or watch a parade, and there would be nothing to discuss, nothing to decide, nothing to fear, or desire, and we could bath in the river, or the lake, or the ocean, trust each other in silence, a wordless communion of minds, this world, this time, this life, like some endless hunger that no meal can satisfy, and we can sit across the table, look into each other's eyes, and maybe rob a bank
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
First as a river flowing,
then as a dawn mist glowing.
I Cannot but think of you, our souls,
like lost little clones, swimming in a pond,
With dreams to fly, I am learning that I've pride.
First as a cold winter day, I love the
gift of light.
I understand that you hate the mode,
of fright. It is easy to float, like bubbles
of wine in my throat.
I am not trending as a goat, And you are loved,
Therefore we are dreaming to fly,
I am learning that I've gorged with delight.
O! Happy days, Happy Happy days.
There was an age of suns and glory,
And heroic similes.
Fortunes favor the brave, I have been dancing,
over the grave, the gravest of thoughts,
As an ashcan, Like a patient on a table, etherized.
First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
feels good reading whitman reading nietzsche reading christ and feeling cool between the pages of neat words how many songs of myself there is sung how many days of summer spent inside quiet and dark dark inside quiet and summer to put my teeth in and roll over the tongue the tense dew of youth and drink the pollen of easy flowers.
(to be where you are amongst your neck and your shoulders feeling needfully hunched and youthfuly broken )
to break and to be broken by–
upon rocks
upon skittering
coils of noonlight–
(the trees mark it there is a path very deeply within them
where there is cool and etherized
by curls around of night smoke)
But all that wants to be
to be inside
(to taste)
and to meet with
the uncertain darkness
of life:
girl hips, 2 in the morning, the ocean
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC