"faustus" poems
Oh
to be the girl in those adverts ,
Light,
skinny,
beautiful
A tragic line
to every gentle rib
I fetishise her fragile fingers
A monstrous beast reflected in the mirror, the worst possibility.
Tis poetic, there she stares
Says her lines; remaining fair,
Into my face, My acting is heavy handed and awkward
She’s a consumable reality,
She’s easy on the eyes
The fragile female,
salvageable.
We are a tragedy of ages, her Juliet, I Faustus
They silently boo while I slop onto the stage
A lazy slob,The **** of society, just don’t eat you fat **** men like curvy girls We don’t want to see you, You’re so brave! You’re the problem, it’s not hard hide your mass from view, unkempt, repulsive, vile. hide yourself it offends my sharp eyes.
I open my drooling mouth to speak, but there are chins smothering my mouth
My eyes clouded by greasy cellulite
I don’t want to exist like this.
So just stop eating.
I’d give an arm and a leg,
my pale teeth,
my parasitic possibility
my child
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
Of flashy pictures and subtle texts found
A guy’s feet when I look around,
Of heavy lids of trashcans crude
Images of Paoli in the ****
Of blood being ****** through the veins
And bedsheets filled with coffee stains.
Of walls and posts and weeks gone by,
Without a single scream or cry,
Of not a bath or a shower
Helpless without any such power,
Of Faustus and Valdes to spare
Othello seemed to have no care,
Tomorrow never dies for me…
For it's tomorrow I will never see.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
Sometimes, I see the God descend to ground.
Lowered on pulleys, creaking as he comes,
He booms his monologue to waiting crowds,
While they - all certain that this God will make
Things right, will get the parents and the kids to talk,
Will mend the broken marriage vows, will fill
The bank accounts, will take the heartbreak out
Of growing old – they hearken to this voice.
But after, when the dummy-God ascends,
Departs in peace to mechanistic skies,
The crowd must stay to watch the empty stage
Repent its trick of mercy by design.
They shiver as it undergoes its shame -
See Faustus at the Hellmouth once again.
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 10:28 AM UTC
I found a hand written letter
From the devil, left under my
Crushed feather filled pillowcase
The morning after I sacrificed
My silhouette to sleep
Underneath those
Discarded angel wings.
It read:
*The gates of Hell have finally frozen over,
So don’t sweat it so much up there.
You’re making me anxious.*
And that got me thinking
Maybe I do take this game
Way too seriously,
Because, just like me,
The devil doesn’t write in cursive.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
What is all the knowledge in the world
worth without a lick of loyalty?
My Faustus fate
Condemned by my own deceptions.
Necromancy of desires,
Bring back to life what never ought to be
thick blood pounding in my heart.
That I might love and be loved,
Gushing every drop of my bloodline—
And yet here in my arms: the face
that launched a thousand ships:
suckling about my navel—
I pray repent:
Not that I am sorry;
For indeed, I have lived well,
But rather I pray to god to protect me from what I deserve.
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
'To me'
'To me'
'To me'
'To me'
"Silence", said Dr. Faustus
They want to hold the light bulb in their hand
One is a pet dog, one is a boy
I mean, who asks for such thing?
Lamp, just throws away the light
My neighbor Mary, keeps asking the meaning of wiper snake,
Woods is spread all over, but suddenly ends at my feet,
Though I have two rib cages, one is obviously to take out,
You can hang the lamp in there,
You can reach to the switch if you stretch your hand,
Right after the ledge, there is an abyss,
You can see it under the light,
The window sill suddenly glows, caught it,
Now, to stand, to speak, to walk, to write, you have to light the light,
you can catch it,
If you ask,
That pet dog might be the boy,
That boy might be the pet dog,
As a matter of fact,
Can be,
Dr. Faustus, a lamp post.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
I've read it as vis major.
It was written in the Senate,
And dealt with all detractors,
And the Judes and Cristos,
And the gods know whom else.
He said it leaving Elba,
Cas fortuit, was the figure head
Cutting through the white water waves,
Churning all miscreants beneath his rising currents.
The columns rose from Ettersberg Hill
In black reeks and was read in cries,
Casus fortuitous.
These are forces we will reckon with,
And as the predecessors went,
So will today's,
Dragged like Faustus,
Unrepentant and ******
For the cold blue smoke
From the shark grey barrels.
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
River floods make planted buds
Unclean, sweating blood for the seeds
Hidden in unfound prophets.
The pollen prophecies hinder
The far lost lovers, star-crossed
With their eyes to the skies and
Hands reaching deep in the seas above.
We wait, silent, and wonder. Swamping
Our stomata vision with couplets
Formed from stigmas of all the years.
Rhyming, but avoiding the answers
We crave. From cradle to grave is not
Enough. Searching signs and science
Beyond our learning, lessons hard learnt
From love itself compromise the beauty
And mistakes found on the surface of
An eclipse – blinding men and hanging
Martyrs from the stark tip of a half moon.
Sharp, revealed, they sacrifice what the church
Could not. Would not. Poison or paradise?
We will never be sure but it still fuels
The passion and bakes the bread we need
To eat and live. The sour lips of life tasted
Sweet before, but the flowers have died
Now and left their ****** marks on
The garden path. When we were young
The stigmata did not stain so much.
Clandestine and concealed to the world,
Invisible - striving for the word to be known,
But strife was not The Way. Doth with their
Own death they curse those who engendered
Them, like Faustus, who flew but twas
All in feign, for he fell in vain - and did not live
To taste the wine. Yet fallen are we all
For the sake of those two lovers –
Biting deep into the rigid skin of solid
Poison. The sickly sweet juice running
Down the side of her cursed lip
As the serpent swept their souls away.
A sharp tongue will keep the commands
At bay like spears in the sides
Of the stammered. The swollen dagger
Hearts were bitten by a Cancer
Of the stars, spreading like luminaries
Devouring ***** by ***** Only
Your hands are free to tell the story now
To bathe in the rich fountains of new-born
Life, flowing from river to river carrying
Moses baskets and delivering us to
Our stolen caskets.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
Time is a winged bird
I can't see but wait
Aurora drops into cloud
Yeaos handless the Pandora.
Alexandria light house hides in dark
Light doesn't ignite.
Nitghtingale crashes her voice
Phoenix ***** her wings.
Dadealous is in conundrum
Hamlet cries in dilemma.
Queen Seba smiles on that event
Helen composes her drama.
The world is in Faustus hands
Monarchy is all around
Loathsome activities are in serum
Hector will never raise his sound.
Dark grasps, we live in it
The celestial lights still exist
Though these are dimed
Oneday, surely, the sun will rise.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC
in zee olden days of
a ****** megastore
on oxford st.,
just beside
the Tottenham Court Rd.
tube station...
Mecca...
for all those who loved
music...
even the classical
music section, sealed,
behind glass doors...
and those music stations
where you could
listen to an album
before buying it...
i'm pretty sure i bought
*dry **** logic*'s
the darker side of nonsense...
based on?
the song asphalt...
and godhead's
album 2000 years of human
error...
decent times,
there was actually a point
to go to a major high street,
and forage,
while the girls were buying
clothes and shoes and
make-up...
books?
it was always amazon.com,
from the 3rd party sellers,
always on the discount,
thomas mann's
doctor faustus?
had to be
bought second hand...
HMV? it's still there,
on oxford st.,
but ****** had class...
a rare experience...
esp. the listening stations,
you'd forage for an album,
ask the technician to put it on,
listening to it...
and boom!
into your pocket...
i still remember Sony's mini-discs...
i still remember making
cassette compilations...
and that strange form of labor
of having to rewind,
a sound as unique
as the static of pre-digital television...
the noise from the vacuum
of the universe -
apparently considered to
be the sound, a remnant of
the big bang...
so... youtube -
now?
**** they take the music
shops away...
i guess youtube was always
about listening to music
before buying an physical compact
disc copy...
ah... this one
incident bothers me...
at the still (don't ask me how)
existing Romford HMV...
i actually had
a copy of foals
album holy fire in my hand...
but... **** i didn't buy it!
no listening station...
only after having watched
dr. foster (a BBC drama)
did i hear foals' song
my number...
and this is a quasi-nostalgia:
with a drag-along effect -
given that...
certain aspects of the 2000s
had to be, re-improvised.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
when i went to my local library, to my horror
i found no books that are in my personal library...
to my astonishment i found Thomas Mann's
Dr. Faustus -
but still, in my possession as extensive
it is in its modesty i found only two books
i'd gladly reread - Ezra Pound's Cantos and Bertrand
Russell's the History of Western Philosophy -
harsh, isn't it? only two books - from a collection of
some sizeable amount, and a good fraction well
established in my head to have made tattoos into -
like that joke: what's the door most frequently
opened in the house? the refrigerator door.
so it is with a library - but there's a twist...
how fortunate you will be if the dictionary isn't
the answer... but a book that you would reread
and know all the words; so as you can see, i have
my two books i'd establish strength with,
even if it meant waging such a war with the Koran.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
Perverts that use the church
as a hunting ground, are
possessed by *** demons &
calls go out to the undercover
exorcist to rid the church of
hidden criminal pestilences
fostered since the Dark Ages
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appear’d to hapless Semele:
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa’s azured arms:
And none but thou shalt be my paramour.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 2:18 AM UTC
Her state of imperfection
sustains my desire's
Exploited are her curves
in scanty attire
Exaggerated are her depths
such invigorating designs
Dancing in a dreamscape
of intoxicating lines...
No other thought
can penetrate this trance
My heart beats a rhythmic
meditative chant
Enlightened brush strokes
of excited flesh
Rembrandt yet Van Gogh
Traditional abstract mesh...
Bought then sold
like Faustus Soul
We consult the Devil
And the moment grows...
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
i’m meant to be able to do it,
for a long time
it’s been the only thing i’m good at,
i never felt inferior when learning it,
and getting my grades back,
was like a dream come true
finally some As in the bag,
for someone who truly,
only, ever really got Cs
and when i did my GCSEs
the questions flowed through me,
and the words placed themselves
on the page without me
barely even thinking,
i knew what i was doing then,
and now, well, i sit and stare
at the poems without a thought in my mind,
and i read Dr Faustus
and pretend like i don’t care, that
i can’t conjure a single, original point
and i can’t analyse the words
because i don’t know what they mean
and i can’t write my essays with that
familiar confidence i used to contain,
now i sit and i struggle,
without structure or form
and no context at all,
then i’m surprised when it comes back as a D,
the As are gone, and so are the Cs.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC