"familiars" poems
they emerge from the wooded neighborhood ridge and fringe at dusk
into breadth of lawn
& limb.
witchy chicks
casting banter n bitchcraft.
teenage dead end dreamers tipped in black magick lip gloss
& glitter, their
genderfluid familiars &/or wayward boyfriends apparate
in the street pink cloud spinning wheel,
& hawking bile.
****** stella smile.
swallow a hex, send a snap, tongue along his neck
promising to fold bodies before sunrise.
the effervescent gasp
of post-ritual clarity.
in the house,
is a kid.
a gig.
the devil with a younger grip.
& the kid thrills on a bit of the ol’
u l t r a v i o l e n c e.
****** videogames, ****** anime, ****** mayhem n melodic music.
he is a conduit of dark energy.
a pure blooded offering of the stone age/video age,
mind in a kind of kaleidoscopic way.
he is me.
bred on televised bucket slime ceremonials.
she checks her purse.
drugs & snacks & juul & a pretty dead bird.
a daughter of delphi watching your kid.
tending to him.
trending him.
popcorn smelling him, the texas chainsaw massacre on vhs just before bed.
palace of teeth n twigs.
just a short walk to the edge and then its bath time.
the demon version is grisly and cruel.
the angel version is starry-eyed and adventurous.
to conjure some
thing,
at the cliff jumping.
it was fun.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Th poems were walking down the street
A young teenage girl,
A Professional Loser, but life lessoned and in possession of
Eagled-claws and tongue razored sharpened
From gettin/givin acidic high school barbed kisses
(She maintained up to date put down lists),
Swooped them up, hers to imprison,
Framed them to be soully hers,
Purposed for skin restoration during the wee hours of the
Crying Nights
A middle aged man, tired from failure,
Trapped tween lost rock n' roll dreams and
Unsuccessful retirement planning,
Suffocated by the hands of twixt and tween,
Grabbed the three, like a rock climbing hand-hold to
Take him home when and where his family looks at him
Pathetically.
This grandfather espied the other two,
Looked liked old familiars, friends maybe,
But eyes/words, dimmed, disparu,
Memories unsorted, disordered, jumble-merged,
Perhaps the words to a song he once knew complete,
But did he write that phrase, or was he just a poet
Thief?
The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
*FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.*
They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
Paid as in the past tense
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
We proposed for Witches Abroad on Broadway, a costume.
As a lure to students, orange and black candy.
Dancing at the prom, cell phones caught the ghouls.
This stretch of road was full of cool cats.
Unlucky ones were left on the side as skeletons.
We swept them clear with our broomsticks.
Our guns were not as brutal as broomsticks.
Bristles hid the ******* end, as if in costume,
No flesh, just skeleton.
Like bags of orange and black candy,
They were left, full of calico cat.
Our familiars, our friends, dinner for a ghoul.
They pulled at the ghoul,
In the hands of a witch, danger came by broomstick,
When ghouls snacked on cat,
In their orange and black fur costume,
Tasting sweet, like candy.
They beat them up and down, but they find another skeleton.
Them ghouls come faster, giving birth to others, another skeleton.
Vocalizing desire for black and white, red and yellow make orange, a ghoul,
Howls for student flavored candy.
A witch lays out one, then another with her broomstick,
Removing the face mask and costume.
Them that can, holler their outrage in cat.
Your *** was revealed in orange and black on a calico cat.
Females cooled themselves of *** unwilling mates to a skeleton.
Once alive, copulating loudly, now in a death costume.
Walking upright, a neighborhood was destroyed by a ghoul.
Neighbors watched, a witch patrolled on a broomstick.
Your students were seen as human candy.
One wife beater had a juicy rind, sweet and soured candy.
At the dance, hors d’oeuvres were made of cat.
Shot forward, it can create a hole, can a broomstick.
Where stomachs used to be, a skeleton,
Death conquers all, no more ghoul.
One, now many properly attired for the Danse Macabre in costume.
I found an orange, as broomsticks cleaned Broadway of cat candy.
In my student costume and human face mask, my path is crossed by a cat.
It disappeared as if it never was, visible only to Death, a skeleton made by ghoul.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
i swore to myself
that a flick of the tongue
would never shelter self-hatred
so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being.
contagion is a sad **** thing
and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor
those who hurt cannot become hurt
and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities
disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others.
however there are few who's torment is only self-projected
i am one
an anathema that exists in silence
my past has been placed in a box full of secrets
along with the evidence of my self-mutilation
is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed?
this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me
because i would rather not feel a **** thing
than to be plagued by misery
from myself and the ones i love
however, emotions are not choices
and humans cannot be reprogrammed
it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words
are what my familiars take to heart
bodies speak such complex languages
and not everyone has the patience
or the attentiveness
to listen to anything other than a cry
and although i warn
and beg for warmth
i receive only glaciers
and memories of faces
overwritten with impassivity
what i would give
to reach into the darkest parts of my soul
and rip out this sorrow
that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche
in the depths of my worst memories
there is a wish
a want
a need
to take this heart of mine
and throw it to wolves
to be destroyed but desensitized
in my heart
is all my pity
my lust
my anger
my sadness
and sunshine darkened and gutted
so very long ago
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar
From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
In field and farmstead many an ancient word
Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” “Er war,”
“Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by-talk similar,
Nigh as they speak who in this month’s moon gird
At England’s very ***** thereunto spurred
By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.
Then seemed a Heart crying: “Whosoever they be
At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame
Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we,
Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame;
May their familiars grow to shun their name,
And their brood perish everlastingly.”
2.2k
When his familiars’ pounced
a little too roughly on the davenport,
the mysteries of the cosmos
flailed about as his soft,
satin bag took a tumble…
Citrine and agate tap-danced
under the bed, as quartz
whizzed wildly through the air
like a shooting star. Opal spun about
like a fiery pirouette, and amethyst –
finding it’s way on the windowsill,
bloomed a kaleidoscope of larkspur
in the sun.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
Dressed in finest with diamonds and pearls,
Draped in cascading waterfall of silk and lace,
Velvety scent hovering delicate skin,
Senses heightened, a muse enters the ball.
Lights, glitters, somehow the chandeliers reflect,
The festive and jovial non caring mob on the floor,
Flirty and inviting giggles and smiles of women,
Received by the charming and engaging flock of men.
I hear a toast of welcomes and greetings.
Glasses were raised of sweet bubbly champagne.
Wishes of well-being and welcome filled the room.
Faces passed into an recognizing blur of smolder.
But the reception was a well-played sham,
The festive, a rehearsed staged scene from your screenplay,
Artists are your familiars that act on your command.
With the exclusion of the maiden muse you invited.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
In a crowd of familiars
I pass through
of proust effect lingers
and someone greets me.
I see you at the dead of night
You of I thought long gone.
It just gives back the stare.
As its right hand lifts
with auras cast in awe,
energy flows through my spine,
I helplessly mirror what it did -
It points itself,
Then at me.
Spirits spell a curse or divine,
You of I thought killed,
Vanished into lucid flow of energy.
Dust permeates
and whispers my ear,
I never leave.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 9:09 AM UTC
Unearthly weightlessness,
Bunched abandon,
Carelessly clustered,
As if ‘He’ planned them
To cause star-struck wonder;
Defying ‘DIY’ laws
Cautiously cradling,
The nature of wars-
The whispy familiars
Of sunset clouds
Feed vitamin horizons
To unaware crowds.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 2:13 PM UTC
"WHAT'S this?" I pondered. "Have I slept?
Or can I have been drinking?"
But soon a gentler feeling crept
Upon me, and I sat and wept
An hour or so, like winking.
"No need for Bones to hurry so!"
I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt
If it was worth his while to go -
And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know,
To make such work about?
"If Tibbs is anything like me,
It's POSSIBLE," I said,
"He won't be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
After he's snug in bed.
"And if Bones plagues him anyhow -
Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now -
I prophesy there'll be a row,
And Tibbs will have the best of it!"
Then, as my tears could never bring
The friendly Phantom back,
It seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
The following Coronach.
'AND ART THOU GONE, BELOVED GHOST?
BEST OF FAMILIARS!
NAY THEN, FAREWELL, MY DUCKLING ROAST,
FAREWELL, FAREWELL, MY TEA AND TOAST,
MY MEERSCHAUM AND CIGARS!
THE HUES OF LIFE ARE DULL AND GRAY,
THE SWEETS OF LIFE INSIPID,
WHEN thou, MY CHARMER, ART AWAY -
OLD BRICK, OR RATHER, LET ME SAY,
OLD PARALLELEPIPED!'
Instead of singing Verse the Third,
I ceased - abruptly, rather:
But, after such a splendid word
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it any farther.
So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
And Leprechaun and Brownie!
For year I've not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
"Old Turnip-top, good-night!"
1.7k
there is a song inside of my chest it
begs to be born from my naked breast
it comes to me in lullabies and keeps me from rest i find the goddess of earth in my dreams
a quest of solitude that only the soil can give me i feel
unraveled at the spine and
crave the blessing of death not for
the fear of life but merely the romance of the unknown
i speak words of love to all who
cross me i whisper intimacy
to my familiars all those whom are
dear to me are my soulmates
i was made
to love to be crucified
for sharing my body
*** is a gift
my body is communion
my divinity comes at the expense
of knowing myself
the sacred earth whispers to me words of mourning i cry for its
plants
body
and sacristy
and share myself to sacrifice
for the land which built me
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 4:06 PM UTC
these horns, these horns, they weigh me down
they extend like branches towards the sun
and my head is forced to face the asphalt
while I never get to see the rushing headlights
my shadow is sewn to the soles of my sneakers
feet slowly being molded to cloven hooves
as I tip toe through then new year silverdust snow
to feed my few remaining stray familiars
I still live behind the old car wash
so there isn't going to be an inspirational landscape
only drunken demi-gods, dollars falling on deaf ears,
and a cutlass ciera in need of a catalyic converter
inev idiv iciv
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes. Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets. What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge. Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other? A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul. Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
I am a Heart Breaker superimposed upon this soul a spiritless spec of a man a melody story written from me to thee a hopeless dream of what i mean A man, A legend, This legacy is simple lyricy and artistry My mind is gone my words remain I’d travel across all seven seas to see eyes that loved me yet some divine comedy has mocked me this lion of god has torn me her words stain my consciousness her devotion leaves me motionless & hopeless I stand here superimposed Circe is having her way with me my mind resembles Heisenberg's uncertainty its the cat in the box the apathetic emotion not progress but congress If it’s my state coup d'etat it this is a war against myself and everyone else
a broken boy with a bright mind a thousand familiars hold me down my eyes see something that doesn't drown alive & asleep the lion of god toys with me my love & sanity toils on the brinks of the blind a forgotten repression moves to take from me my essence a sweet blessing a devil that used to run me a god that only i can see or only i thought to believe a stupid soul that gives me immortality yet is stuck in the world of the ****** superimposed
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
The taxi is silent the driver's stopped trying
A crossing appears with no pedestrians crossing
Houses line the street with a warm yellow lighting
The night drizzle lightens, the pavements start frosting.
Shouldn't winter nights be spent comfortably
Rapped in familiarity?
Turn into the car park, the barrier is rising
Wretched is the destination, cold and disheartening
One day you'll return and your mindset will brighten
For now we will visit under the cold grey lighting.
Should I dare to peak inside?
The driver shrugs. I daren't decide.
The automatic doors squeak ominously open
No round of applause, no standing ovations
A pin could be heard, the canteen is broken
Seldom celebrated, there are few worse locations.
Should I lower my temperament
Become stoic and sensible?
The escalator moans while taking us further
The corridors smell stale, they echo a murmur
A slip-away comment in a labyrinth of tension
Hospital blue reflects in the eyes of the visitors.
Could I muster the strength to go inside?
I'm here, I've done it, all sadness must hide.
The nurse hands over the apron, i feel inhuman,
You lie propped on a cushion, restlessly muttering.
'It's a bad dream, it's okay' I'm nervously stuttering.
My stomach churns at the pain you're experiencing.
Should i dare to show my tears?
I needn't alarm onlookers and familiars.
Your bed-light flickers, the room dissapears
In the darkness we're calm, inhibitions are cleared
Such split-second clarity has calmed me for years.
I smile fearlessly pulling your hand gently nearer.
Should I dare to leave your side?
I'd blame myself, it would shatter my pride.
So here we sit for hours on end, semiconscious
Semi-talking, the volta on which all cruxces depend
Your dream-like graciousness cleanses and encompasses;
Myself and others, regale tales of your accomplishments.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
The police found her body.
Her body when she was dead.
Who, none did know.
But blood did flow.
Her blood, when she was dead.
The doctor felt her pulse.
Her pulse, which was as dead.
And with a twist
He turned her wrist.
Her wrist, which she had bled.
They called her parents.
Her parents who had fed.
There broke a cry.
Many throats turned dry.
Turned dry, on her death-bed.
Then friends were called.
Her friends; and tears each did shed.
Told when they lived and laughed.
How did this happen instead!
Her death; and why she was dead?
The parents were questioned.
Her parents still filled with shock and dread.
Then friends and familiars, then strangers too.
None of them, no one had a clue.
No clue, what made her bled.
But blood did flow
And so did life.
The life around her.
The life, when she was dead.
- Nandish Malhotra
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
.
There once was a shadow who thought he was a man,
He made his empty bed in a shame of familiars,
For years if not an eternity he never did one single thing,
He contemplated creativity in all its smoke and mirrors,
His only credo was padding his unknowing, limp ego,
Got a gig, speaking before a throng of other shadows,
He rewrote the crook about his own insignificances, suddenly
Nothing's became every things, all was sorely well in the bleak
Under toes. Shadowman had found his stage, had rearranged
Chaos and insignificance to the point of no enlightenments,
No regrets. What a sage!
Shadowman aped, traced, spewed in studied literature,
Experienced, faith, trust, fidelity, danced numbers,
In a cellophane pack with all the added extras included,
Found that reflecting words only got in his narcissistic way,
Left the California sun for the New York lowlands
Of the east, that only shine after the hurricane's
Deluge. Shadowman has reams of flesh plastered
On a mall of wallowing sites only Shadowmen frequent,
Modern is the moly man who makes his own myth.
Shadowman has traveled to the great southern climes
Where hotels of shade tell tales of locals and enlightenment is in a drug
Called something South American or other? A drug so smug it is a plug
For his dun holy soul. Shadowman is only a silhouette of himself.
He freely gives seminars to the lame, chained to themselves freely,
Where all the vain echoes are chambered, embodied, entombed.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
The safety of the black, winding, snake of a trail is like an arrow pointing me home.
I flee from this serpent of tar, for the promise of discovery awaits me at the bottom of the hill.
I’m surrounded on all sides by the Sylvan Queen, her antlered familiars, and her army of trees.
I need only to march east to return to the realm of men and metal, but the woods beckon still.
I blanket myself under the brittle fallen leaves that have felt autumn’s kiss and gravity’s hand.
With hesitance, I find myself starting to give in to Gaea’s soft spell of slumber.
I hear the hymns of the birds in their language true and old.
I see the dreams of the cicadas painted vibrantly in the overcast sky.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
The High Street at first was marked
with Charity Shops forever in lieu
came the Pound Shops.
Old Brands stayed with us
but in turn the internet compounded the decline
perhaps cyber shopping is akin to playing pong,
the familiars, like a fire-storm evaporated,
music, bookshops, photography
whose to know the next stage?
but I bet the inner city will be hamlets
of chiefdoms,
Gertrude the concrete cow
adorned with Golden paint
and urban Cowboys
duelling in Midnight Charades
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
I once wished to end together,
I wanted you so close and dear,
I wanted you like bees in heather,
How curious, strange to end familiars.
We grew in fondness, each landed eye,
O seasons turned through sun and chill,
Grew up together, teased and pried,
In the village schoolyards upon a hill.
And lately I have come to love you,
Greatly I have felt youths quickening,
Wishing for us to start as lovers true,
But playgrounds promise no beginnings.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Near death stories
Are not death tales.
The widow's daughter,
In Nairn, to whom
Did she speak?
In Bethany,
Near Galilee,
Where Lazarus
Learned to talk,
Who asked him
On his walk,
With his dog on a
Sunday afternoon?
Jarius' daughter
Would like to offer
A quote and goat
At the altar
Of atonement.
She was never asked,
So she never spoke.
The scribes never scribbled
To answer the riddle;
They never went to press
With the Extra Big Scoop
On life after death
From the three
Who knew best.
Never recorded for all time.
Never a word from their minds.
Would they tell of a
Long lit tunnel
Lined with familiars
Slapping their astral *****
As they ran the gamut
Into eternity.
Nearing the Eternal Throne,
They hear:
It's not your time.
Go back for more.
Keep the secrets,
Believe in Him,
For he won't
Live to be thirty-four.
And so it's not written,
Let it be so.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
yes i remember you
i have seen you in the distance
and stayed away
my memory serves me right
ive moved on
and have a better guy
listen lil girl,
do you not see what **** he put me through?
the loss-- the damage, and i am the familiar
and yet he thinks that hes right
when he's done it all wrong.
so i said so long mother ******
and i am happier than the past
and perhaps the happiest ive been in my life
imagine,
he cant tap that.
try to top what i feel
be real.
so when was the last time you heard yourself?
going on and on how you think you are better...?
when i know people that do things for purpose,
and you lack tact.
so say it twice,
and im gonna be nice
because i dont give a flying ****
and you know you are out of luck.
the one whom im still positive,
hes atleast more understanding
than the rest of the clan
but he knows i dont give a ****
the ******* is gone.
so in the depression and regret
i went for a skate,
went on a few dates,
but told myself hes a little old
and the next guy i go to better be gold.
so if i must confess,
the happiness is something to think about
when i have enough to finish my alter egos,
and start this poetic confessional.
so if i am the familiar?
why am i being fought against?
oh yea thats right...
i fight for my life.
back to the heels and jeans,
and a swivel in limbo,
dip down and there i go!
but the moments in where i shiver
often most--- in absolute delight
and knowing that inside
i fight for more than a reason to stay alive.
people have tried to harm me,
mentally, physically, emotionally, and mortally.
i still stand, i still fight
i can live longer
than the liars
because the proof is easy to gather
and put together.
but what is the familiar?
its there...
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 7:22 AM UTC
The training has been a dry run
For three years,
And I'm up for the challenge.
My corner is ready and supportive.
I volunteered to meet my Goliath.
I mirror spar with him.
Shadows,
Boxing me.
His shadow is long.
His reach is longer.
Has a knock-out punch.
We were besties during
My Philistine years.
My camp has removed the bucket and stool;
They mix with the spectators,
Clenching fists, cheering,
Teeth gritting their resolutions,
Heads shaking in surety.
I have accepted my shortcomings
And the power of this giant.
As I enter
Familiars will cheer;
The litter bearers tip their hats
In recognition,
Waiting patiently to get to work.
I belly-up for the bell.
Ding.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Guns, hounds and a desire for stew.
Familiars watch from a distance.
Wounded and surrounded, the blood trial betrays;
and these small feet are all l am.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC