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In the Boondocks of the Ozarks
Salty caramel smelt of August
Swathes stench of rotten trailer parks
Imprisons barren mid-west dust

Feral fevered kids a hunting
For to cool; shoot up, or drink
Arthritic railroad; tie and shunting
Ferrous old town wretched on the brink

Since the cease of mine and logging
Depletion of iron lead and zinc
Nag horse too dead for flogging
Folks futures draining down the sink

Some respite in the summer heat
RV’s; tourists and campers for trails
Like blackfly plague pick off the meat
Fly fast; escape as another harvest fails

Dark currents pepper darker mood
Intolerance grinds in the daily way
Resentment bread as only food
At someone’s door the blame shall lay

In the graveyard of the Ozarks
Rednecks dance on industry tombs
Burn brown smoke spice. Moonshine sparks
Oblivion; no life. Back to mothers' womb

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
The sultry heat of an American Mid-West summer in a dying old mining community full of drugs, devoid of hope!
May 23rd, 2019

I first felt the ferrous fissures
Delivering shivering quivers
Down my spine
As each chime took the sight
Outside our present days

Then the shakes grew into tension
My naked, sobering suspension
Was left never to mention
Nor whisper what I needed to say

And when I asked you of this
You withdrew so quick
I only had time to trace the lines
Of your last escaping shadow

Holding on to tentative strings
And all the small things
You left for me to find
The same gray forests of signs
And plaintive silent ways

Designs you used to craft
And convey with clever ease
Laughter once beseeching my thoughts
Silence now haunting my dreams
These memories are now
Presently looming
Cold coniferous trees

It's not as if I can pretend
Like simply taking paper and pen
Could possibly remedy this
While I have to look down
At the ink staining my foot
Ankle and wrist

I'm convinced that I created this fate
Because in this picture frame
I'm the only one who made a mistake

You carry the hate in your heart
like it's been privileged to you

My misgivings have adopted
the persona that I imbue

I faced the other way as we faded
when you withdrew

You suffered daily
and faced this struggle alone

Claiming everybody abandoned you
and did you wrong

-But you don't lose me
Like I've told you all along


RE: August 23rd, 2021: - but now you've lost Me with the same old song
"Smashing, watch the glass fly
Ain't no way, ain't no way you can go back
Float away, float away, float away yeah
We're frozen in this moment
Ain't no way, ain't no way you can go back
Float away, float away, float away yeah"
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence

and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.
kfaye Nov 2012
each day lasts forever.but the weeks are forcibly torn out.crumpled into the void like unwanted notebook pages-the years are the most frightening-just to slide by them.folded over like the rolled edge of a dull pocketknife. imprecisely honed. imperfectly lived. [memoirs of a boy scout drop out]there's something suffering (in the way you do those things) stumbling into the musky, razor-blade winters of jack london's finest fantasies.like a ghost seen walking in circles around the perfect spaces in-between the empty moments of gentle speech.mumbling softly over the warm murmurs of crackling embers delicately pacing distance between themselves(so as not to burn so quickly.)the hot tangy slurs of blood dripping from downward facing fingertips.teeth gnashed together, translucent grey flint-wheel sparks springing from the shadows-flaring nostrils coupled with rapidly expanding lungs.breathing in the ferrous red-a single hammerfallpulsation. arms interacting with the bitter indifference of the cold that snaps open the veins throbbing wildly in clumsy hands-letting the animal spirits trickle out unrhythmically-into jackson ******* droplets.
onto the pristine snow.
Amit Shroff Dec 2014
Walking through the road of bones, on the way to Gulag,
Sleep by the sleepers, till you are just leftovers.
Making way for the ferrous wheels, mean machines,
The Red Tsar is still a reverend, Sukhois fly by.
Witness the northern winds, take a time lapse,
Stare at the Kremlin, wonder what Putin's doing?

Deserts of  different shades to the opposites,
Unsaid and unclaimed they rule the north.
The lost Soyuz men in the space, still a mystery,
Few hundreds revolve with little hope and air.
Uncle Sam's contender from time immemorial,
Its a mystic land, Keeps you wondering of it.
Issan Op Mar 2018
“I am free”
My icy wings tearing through the dark blue sky, the
permafrosted landscape below me getting smaller and
farther away and the Sun, its warm, amber rays glistening
on the horizon, beckoning me with its warm touch.
I look back-
Every second counts
I look back-
I see your cold eyes
Frozen pits of mud, obsidian, sparkling like diamonds and
just as hard.
Body of steel.
No blood,
No life,
Uncaring
Unfeeling
Scorpion.
Froze my wings with your poison tail, your vicious words
covered in sugar, stabbing.
Stole my heart
Oh how frail I was.
I look back-
At the small castle we built, the fireworks, the rose garden,
the old dusty freight, the dim light of the bar where I asked
you to be mine, the bamboo princess (I still have your
pillow), the food trucks and that homeless guy who is
probably dead, the pictures, the mix-tape, the color yellow,
No Doubt, the empty movie theater, the Moon in
Sagittarius where we held each other so close and you
said I smelled of patchouli and that caused me to feel
happiness because it is one of my favorite scents and I
was so glad you liked it too, the warms nights in your cold,
cold room and your hands, your hands…
Will never freeze my wings again.
I look back-
I became human for you and you acted as if I were just
some pigeon or robin or pheasant, you acted
As if our castle
Was made of sand,
Meant to be dissolved.
But how would I know?
The language you speak is all ones and zeros,
The feelings you feel are all bones and marrows
And I am blood
I am skin
I am emotion, Venus
The beauty within.
I look back-
-at you Pluto
Not even a planet
Cold and frozen with eyes of granite
Wires and copper made up your soul
And unfeeling data rules your flow.
I look back-
I asked you how you felt and received
An error four-oh-four.
That process never mattered to me,
Yet always left me craving more.
I look back-
Were my emotions not obvious?
Or were your feelings ambiguous
Intent so dubious
You viewed me as frivolous
Yet you’re continuous
With your cold touch so ferrous
Incompatible
I could understand…
I look back-
Scorpion, you’ll be okay.
As you sit in your world,
All alone, just like you intended,
You let your past rule you.
I look back-
How could we be friends?
Lovers to friends
From seeing the universe inside of someone
To just hanging out once, maybe twice a week.
No, we cannot be friends because that’s just weird.
I look forward-
The Sun has set.
My wings so cold
They’ll thaw and heal in time
And then, Scorpion, maybe we’ll see each other again.
(Good things happen in time, great things happen in
seconds.)
Worn by time my ferrous heart
Flaking and peeling and coming apart
Beating softly while thundering aloud
My hammered out pulse
Alone in a crowd
Snuffed and embered
Yet burning still
A cold small fire
Barely staving the chill
Carrying on
Down the road of life
Not really knowing
Why there's so much strife
Trying my best
To not add to the burden
Dealing with my karma
Just trying to unburden
Learning to just be
Is my new goal
Plying a new path
Like a newborn foal
Developing an interest
In a philosophers way
Learning from zen master's
Is most of my day
Feeling positive
That I'm on the right road
Realizing that my mind
Just needs to unload
This seems to be
What will help my ferrous heart
And to live my life
Without coming apart
Saturday Afternoon at the Smithy



Heart-pumped heat wall -
bellow-breathed cherry tip


Tink-tung               Tink-tung
spring-hammered hop-head rhythm
bingo-winged ripple, suet and mouth.


Square peg – round hole?  No problem.
Hot iron wrought with box-jaw tong tease.
Tight fit.  Good. Sweat-drop-splatter.
Wire teeth scrape garnet rifts,


Pig scratch back into scraped coke -
metal to plasticine.
White fizzy sparks fly and hiss


Phlopp – thirsty water stings.
Ferrous blood taste – time for tea.
Gadus Jul 2014
Summer lies while river rats gnaw on posts
weathered from the reverence tides.
Hunching over limestone slate,
picture ******-eyed states of the caricatures.

Loss of limbs in dissociative fugue.
St. Anthony's fire up along the coast.
Ergot Dreams: Such splendid things!

Waking up in a pool with callosum yarns
spinning words of concern.
And i've come so close
time and time
to find the pinhole tube light.

Words keep seeping out,
I hear my mother holding me here.
Frozen solid.
Stuck in a cot.
Letting the little ******* off his chain just to
hear him stream

How many lives to burn in the ecclesia pyre
while jesus sweeps the remainders
off to sea?

Maybe I have died again,
living in this ferrous skin.
Seeded fledgling after all.
Tammy Boehm Sep 2014
This ferrous heart
Rythmic in my chest
Striking sparks of scarlet
The rush of love
Urgent
Liquified
Thundered pulse beneath Hapheastus hammer
I am tempered
Precious metal wrought in chains
Your weathered hands strain
Clenched against the inevitable
Release….
You know you want to let go

Hesitant fingers rest
Against your hoary spine
Your response
The seismic reverberations
Rippling epicenter
Spasmodic undercurrents
Your shimmered skin betrays nothing
Silence
Before small sighs break
The surface tension
The catalyst
The chaos
Does the earth move for you, Baby?


Terminal velocity
This pyroclastic flow
Paroxic refrain
Embrace to disengage
You curl up mummified
Like the mutts of Pompeii
Ash covered and ragged
Legs splayed and heads thrown back
Against the seize
Measured breath forms fumaroles in the twilight
My vesicular skin soaks you in
Haphaestus aches
This ferrous heart sparks and breaks
In a dented cage
You never penetrate me

Eros Eternal no more valuable
Than chips of pyrite
Grace the palms of your hands
Transient cheap glitter
This exchange of fool's love
Procreation of Titans
Is best left to the gods
After all I give
You return only the memory
Of satiation
I gave you all of it….I am broken stones

TL Boehm

01/30/09
Um....yeah. Three guesses as to what this little ****** is about - and the bass keeps runnin' runnin and runnin' runnin'....I can go from zero to stoopid at the speed of light. Most days, hey...I'm already there.
z Feb 2016
enriched macaroni product
(wheat flour, glyceryl, mono
stearate, niacin, ferrous sulfate
(iron),
thiamin mononitrate (vitamin b1)
riboflavin vitamin b2 folic acid)
cheese sauce mix (whey, malto
dextrin, corn syrup solids salt palm
oil modified food starch milk
fat milk protein concentrate con
tains less than 2% of tomatoes
milk mediumchaintriglycerides sodium
tripolyphosphatecream citricacidsodiumphosphatelacticacid naturalflavour
* onions* tricalciumphosphatepartiallyhydrog
enatedsoybeanandcottonseedoil guargum monosodiumglutamate garlic**
yellow5yellow6spicemalicacid enzymes disodiumguanylatedisodiuminosinate artificialflavour cheeseculturemodifiedfoodstarchmaltodextrinpotassiumchlorideacety­latedmonoglyceridessaltmediumchaintriglyceridesapocarotenal(colou­r)contains;
wheat
milk
Equus ferrous

There is a storm blowing when blue waves crash ashore
white horses with flying mane gallop up, blocking the road.
The stallions become a river, pushing useless cars aside
to drown in their futility.
The town below is a lake, rats escaping the sewers runs
up to the third-floor frightening people with their anger
eat babies’ eyes.
A new generation of the unseeing kind, the previous one
could see but didn´t understand busy
as they were playing with the cell phones taking selfies.
Everything ends, calm sea the wild white horse went back
to the bay, and the rats moved back to the sewers
Wisdom permeated all over Spinalonga, needs were supremely supplied, Wonthelimar was together with Vernarth in the endeavor to honorably defer the Manes Apsidas converts who evacuated the cells of the leprosarium, after the Ottomans and Orthodox priests had left them, the custodians arrived at its end. Now everything has the life and the will to touch the lightning bolts of the blue sun, with the personal image of the Saint's devotion from the origin, and the new lives that rose up through the complex of the sectional rampart. The Palmario Apófisi de la Santa was made of a great awakening semblance, with the Panagia Theoskepasti, in Kimolos. From this labyrinth of the skepazo or "velar" that the Saint smudged from afar the counterweight pallets so that they are not returned through the axon tube that will take them far to this region of purgation, in the Cyclades and Dodecanese. In the bay of Dekas the archpriest of Kimolos would wait for them, receiving them near the small islet Agios Andreas, similar to Spinalonga, where they will live until Vernarth goes, after speaking in Kimol and Milil. To arrive at Psathi with his entourage to exhume them definitively in Court V of Elleniká, seeing the extreme longevity of the fallen of Spinalonga and their leprosy cloistered in a fleeting substance.

Iteration of Marie Des Allées: “The Vas Auric will rotate in all ellipses from here to Elleniká sprinkling crumbs of the purest bread of Arcadia, on a gray Monday with hummus and bobota, to attract the vinegary souls that were in a catatonic state, thus doing more esthetic or in Aisthesis in the reactionary when reincorporating them in the three courtyards in magnificent concordance with Rhodes. At the beginning of the Archpriest the talk derives the prayers from him to the semi-inert matters that were made in communion with the oratorical dyes; with worms and with the distractions of larger snakes that were planted waving, being, in reality, Vermes that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest and the protocol, who circled the universal destination of his elegies to be celebrated from an ambo or pulpit, in classical Latin to propheir the archpriest the form of Era Dies Lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies. On a dark Monday, but full of grace for those in attendance, they would give sermons, to interpret the alabaster courtyards that would lead to Tsambika. The first worms were chased by Kanti, believing that they were games that emerge from the eternal ground. Of whose ecosystem the earth was beginning to ignore them due to their annelid metamorphoses, appearing to increase in their texture, more ultra hadic than the same remains of doubt without sarcophagus, turned into sharp intestinal curves that were depressed breathing autonomously over massive folds of the acquiescent dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká, further away from all sub-divisible organic matter of finite mortality towards the eternal other, contributing to a neural complex of tremors, and in veiled sensations that are lost between itself and that of its own bodies being able to take them with their own disorders "

Vernarth indicates: “long are the hours, and doubt overwhelms me, only my instinct follows me, and then I follow him. Khaire everyone and may the light of Mashiach be with us "

Etréstles reiterates: “my spirit has met Marie des Vallées, my spiritual hers, and my mischievous spirits play with them. Divine thanks, O venerable St Marie, here we are to honor the labiernago that have brought her Marian lattices, their dark green that blends with the layer of her attire, in margins that are found out in their change of shades "

Wothelimar answers: “what fire will extinguish the similarity of the Labiérnagos with the Astragali of Vernarth, when they meet those of the Santa Marie?

Theus replies: "We have been redeemed by his spiritual fire, whose conscience has placed in us in the Apophisi that reproves him, under the joint weight of beatitude"

Vikentios answers: “the Matakis of redemption will filter the doubts of his third person for an inextinguishable, to the degree of the second character that could divert his prerogative. Thanks to the spiritual fire that burns in the brambles that result in martyrdom by already being free from the torment of *** Bei Hinnom and Spinalonga fully expiated "

The protocol is broken and Theus, once freed from the last link of the Apophisi, goes to hug his brother, together they hug and kneel down the rough *****, after the ghostly chairs run wild for a prebend of Mother Marie that from The sky presented them weightless, with the effective of the marvelous Logos of God, and the Rhema of Vernarth, who would make the plate in the aromatic herds of Myrrh, Myrtle and Marjoram, to aromatize the appearance of the Saint and to bat the world of the Howls Kósmos with this triad of balsams for the foreground of the bigamist horizon in bloom, which sprinkles the talc of the resinous species when falling from the serene on this great day. They all looked at each other for more than three days in a row without moving, nobody did it from where they were. Leaving sticky resins, deserting the greased bodies of eternal days, some looking at each other in the infinite time that anointed them with different minutes, and monuments that released their souls moistened with Myrrh and carmine for the muffins of a Hellenic piece, with properties healing for mythology that was reborn in the sub-mythology of Vernarth and the essence creators Myrepsós. Or creating essences for the Saint, condensing from the perfume on all the alabaster containers, smelling of the insurmountable effects of Alexander the Great who appeared before everyone, to support and even in the ferrous breath of the stratosphere, and the island that was reconverted by the trampled waves, which were made to fall on all the megatons of Hellenic incense, which does not lead fights or disputes, only entertained everyone here united in the order and temperance of the frenzy, which follows the fields of fragrances directed towards everyone, also for the Manes Apsidas to Theoskepasti. Supremely Marie des Allées poured Rose concoction, ordering them to have their mouths open to receive their fragrances, and then to be able to expel them to the nauseating winds of the east, where the Beit Hamikdash was free of Gehenna, transferring the Apsidas to Dekas and then to Helleniká.
Apóphisi Palmario from Marie des Vallées
Bryce May 2018
And I gave my First Snowglobe to them.
…And When I had given that to them, I had told him to give me a gift in return that may have more to itself than just simple life.  

“Inahah oona sept amni kquestal”.

Yet I had no other thing to give, this broken soul, beyond more than just flesh, I was naught. And so she had nothing more to me than that of the great overtone, the great silence of the earth, of space, her arms stretching invisible to hold our gaze to her innumerable foreign light show and state--

Perhaps there is another lover of soul somewhere within?

And he said simply to me, that there is someplace for me to be, someone for me to see-- that there was innumerable and inexplicable, incalculable and incomprehensible, powerful and overwhelming deterministic fate that guides my eyes, lets me chose without choosing, think without thinking, know without knowing.

And he knew—and she knew—and they knew with a knowing that I can never know; true and whole and unspoken, I can only dream to describe.

"We made the world for us, for you."

And I felt their love radiate that ferrous heart, steeled with centuries of pain and removal, heated by the ***** of her truth and guided by the loving, tender hand of his true brilliance that blinded and pleasured my aching eyes.

The entire web of the cosmos, in my eyes, dreaming and thinking that maybe I’d be back there one day, whole, float-- bool and cruelty of world inconsequential within the vast expanse of everything—

A powerful, emanative, restorative code of the universe that held itself no information but all, no hate but the misidentified ache of longing love, differed from the soul of the grinding earth—so far away from god through sickly skin and broken bone that without expanding into time and vaporizing into pure light, these feelings which we can never know.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
with him included? the devil's dozen, or
the 13 -
             then the hours of Horus:
noon - Simon Peter -
later with covenant
of the hour: holy spirit,
and the minute hand: son
                       and the second hand: the father
oh quiet the trinity handful,
given year zero -
            hours 12 through to 1
Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew,
Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddeus, Simon, Judas

                                    s / p.
                    s.                                 a.
                   θ.                                      j.
                  j.                     Δ                     j.  
                         m.                                  p.
                                             b.

look at the ******* clock! something's awry!
Simon peter 12
     Andrew 13
        James 14
                   John 15 (3 a.m. / p.m.)
       Philip 16
         Bartholomew 17 (5 p.m.)
        Thomas 18 (six)
                         Matthew 19 (seven)
                James (ibn Alφaeus) 20 (eight)
     "θ" (nine),
                  Simon K9'ite - ten
          Iscariot - eleven     - clocks are wrong...
the year 0 a.d. is based on this,
               twelve disciples, twelve hours a.m. / a.d.
and                                              v.  
                                                 p.m. / b.c.,
   hence the trinity / Δ -
an hour for the holy spirit to catch on,
son monetises the minutes
and the father being omnipresent understands within
seconds...
                       but i was aiming to do justice to the harvest missed
last year, i was intending to make wine;
hence the list of ingredients,
a) wine yeast;
             b) yeast nutrient:
                                diammonium phosphate,
magnesium sulphate, nicotinic acid, magnesium carbonate,
   thiamine hydrochloride, zinc sulphate, ferrous
ammonium sulphate, biotin;
   c) pectolase:
                    pectinase enzyme, dextrose monohydrate;
d) bruclens cleaner / steriliser:
                   sodium percarbonate;
  e) fine fining A: silica sol,
                  "      B: chitosan (derived from crab and shrimp
shells, contains sodium metabisulphite)
                 f) two months' worth of patience.
it's that time of the year where you make wine
(just a little bush, enough for 12 bottles) -
and gestapo a curry -
                                   a tarka dhal
and a kheralan chicken with coconut milk...
i love when **** decays, it tastes better than
when **** blossoms and isn't exactly edible
but merely colourful.
Paul Sands Feb 2015
punctuality suckles a speedy affiliation
with wakeful limbs, christened of an inferior exception
some days I might touch upon a suitably plain persistence
through a righteous soliloquy,
an instance, steeped in harmonic fear,
where music can no longer buy sleep but ****** gestures imagine a time
when oxygen will not consent but leave my lungs,
scabbed,
torn
then will come the difficult hello
for whisky rarely clears the mind
of smoky memories in slowed down time
more so while you still live in the hole
I drank into the side of my jaw
eternity
it seems so vague,
spacious yet thimble sized
whilst nature frowns,
cured,
withered and ferrous
noting the unobserved,
even as the militant dynamic
of every unendurable star fingers forever
Keith Strand May 2020
Iron graces my tongue
Hephaestus' ferrous fire

My song won't be sung
accompanied by drum or lyre

This won't end
never now or later

See the burns
on your most worthy opponent

See how far
how far you bent
This poem started out structured but kinda fell apart haha

**

KK
Molly Jenkins Oct 2015
all things consist as sounds consist
of the elements
[Here follows the history of the four]
evident then,
what we have said before
all men seek causes named
we cannot name any described before
not at all.
the Subject lisps
it is young and bone by virtue
the essence and substance of
flesh and tissues
the elements and
the names - fire and earth and water and air.
He has not said clearly.
Our views have been expressed before;
but let us return the difficulties
perhaps we may get some help towards
our difficulties.
The Subject of our inquiry:
we are seeking the universe.

the fire, forthcoming
as flame would follow
moth to candle
vapor to lust
lust to yearn
yearning to dust.
A fire’s flame, inquiries made
the perfect deep shade
of rust.

crumbling to ferrous, ferric
streaks in the Earth
the earth.
O humble, o depths
of rich and mysterious mud
o magnum mysterium
overturned with resounding
thud
and iron streaks richer than blood.

but crumble it shall
in many waters, rivers
the orbital, the oculus
the eye of all clarity
and all washed away
it is time
it is time
the Subject: washed away

into vapor
into air
into wind
the howling, the holy
the Subject lisps
and it is holy wind
holy flame
holy earth
holy water
wholly: the Universe
and nothing more
and nothing less
than its elements
than sound
Here follows the mystery of the four:
they are holy, inherently
and wholly, inherently pure.
In the process of digging through unlabeled word documents, google docs, and old notebooks. I'm really looking forward to having everything in one place.
Aleyna D Jun 2018
The pale sickly boy bursts through the thick foliage of the woods
His heart racing, face-blazing, eyes bulging out of their sockets
And then it begins…
The moon, the boy thinks slowing, It … It exudes
Magnificence in the palest of lights, every crater like ancient golden pockets
With a cry of anguish, he is no longer man

Body splitting, tearing at the line between two realities
Soft pink flesh turning into coarse fur
Teeth turning into razor-sharp fangs
The creature lies there panting; there is no need for formalities
The boy now knows the creature well, but his colliding memories become a blur
The wolf a feral rag doll as its beastly head hangs

Hunger drips down its murderous maw and the wolf feels nothing
Humanity has been ripped from his every vein
Bloodlust is all that fills the hole
The beast runs up a knoll covered in soft spring grass, ferocity still plenty
The red ferrous liquid invites the creature down making it grueling to keep sane
Instinct says it must pilfer souls, commit a theft, and break what was once whole

Treading menacingly through the village, a wild demon
Innocent people seal themselves into useless wooden homes, ready to repent
Their fear all-encompassing, like a lamb before the slaughter
The wolf’s ears ***** with the soft thud of its paws, feeling the earth underneath weaken
A yearning, the creature drools at the thick scent
A thing of nightmares left alone with a poor man’s daughter

The inner war within the beast gains a new thunderous beat
The boom ripping at the soul
The boy had always felt that his human life was his reality
But nothing had ever felt more real than his nights as a beast
No longer able to tell the difference, he sinks into that endless black hole
Pondering darkly upon his morality  

Disgusted by his own attempt at brutality
The boy turns away from his panic-stricken prey, frozen in place, praying to blackout
He has to make a decision, to do what must be done
The next full moon, during his transformation, he experiences a sense of finality
They feel a change, a shift in power, no longer any doubt
The boy and the creature lay down their spears, let go of any fears as the forest goes silent with the sound of the shotgun
spysgrandson Jul 2016
the waters ring red
with the ferrous clay from these plains
brutish brown on cloud cluttered days
caramel during floods

my feet know nothing
of water moccasins, though
a rattler nipped an ankle on these banks
a million years ago

feet don't recall
they slip into the cool tickling stream
innocent, not looking for a Baptismal
though the serpents are ever present

slithering in the depths
just beyond my eyes, only a few silt filled steps
from my ten toes, waiting--wanting fallible
flesh to slip within their sights

where there will be no
original naked temptation, only the striking,
the ******* venom, and the second fall
from grace, without woman to blame
JP Goss Jan 2014
A man I knew once
Of nobility and pitiless prose
Forked tongue, a mind who blunted those of ferrous wits
A soul nurtured by the forest ewe
Adverting stimuli, in solemnity he sits
A flicker of passion in his throat arose
Promptly licked by that silent promise
Condemned to obscurity, like firm soil he is composed
Ardent and sullen like any cracked timber,
He remains fixed, as the dead in peaceful slumber.
All and none, brothers of the pupil akin
The zenith of event, he has already been there
Visions of splendor, grandiose pulchritude, and ruin
Of his that mine eyes seek do not they dare
Of mine his eyes have never been so cursed
Blank but fruitful what glory he has seen
Of things beyond all mortal belief is he so well versed
Encased in lye and pewter flesh,
No hands were laid upon that sconce
Preserved in ****** garment, immune to life’s thresh
Did not he ignore a man, but rather lack response?
Him lacking had no name, but the case of which him befell
I called, ‘tis true, beckoned him here
And not a nod in my direction
Yet to beseech a brook at the chine of a knell
A thoughtless benediction
But deluded I, spent drunk immersion in this life
Drowned by rushing torrents and temporal maelstrom
A reward of prolix strife
My thoughts composed of endless lies, theories
Countless deeds of fitful right and wrong
Yet he, so pure, have thought nothing like myself
No speech to taint his canvas
Nay, he’s different, of this I’m sure
He’s not diseased, he’s not impure
For it is I, of adamant ardour,
Who should seek his mindful cure.
will19008 Jun 2019
lost ardor, long hidden beneath these initial wastes
pinpointing the mines and matters, estimations and worth
your excavation operating on the surface of my bereavement
without any evaluation of its dolorous costs or the extent
of these ductile veins, rivers through our subterranean natures
your shadow requirements, eroded and befouled

now, neither my eyes nor I much love your dark
epicardial secrets, projecting deposits of debris, the chloride fragrance
of our secrets, hidden fires underground; your love, all and away
digging, mining proposed new lovers out of us both; gravels and
pain and gas; ferrous exploration; uranium reclamation anew via
caustic layers of ore and deposits of once-flowing love

alloys of dead flowers and waste form my rocks
seething into scabrous life like bantling cacti after a lover has risen
such risks always require a proportion of love be livid, recoverable;
threads of passion dissolved in the complexities of the body
grains of unconsolidated minerals evoking love and potash
yes, secret metallurgists like you pose acidic dangers
to my soft endocardial things
ADS Jun 2017
I thought you changed for the better
You were nice and sweet
Our days together were filled with laughter
I really did choose you over her
Since I just wanted someone to call a friend
For a while it felt like I was betraying one of my best friends
I gave you a chance
I hate how much you neglected my love
For I enjoyed our time together
Then you met a guy and he takes all of your time
We don't talk often but you texted me today
In a ferrous rage saying how could I betray her
I don't know what I did
She's telling me I spilled the beans
The thing is I never had the beans
She must of miscounted her beans and blamed me for some information that leaked

So you are just too childish for me
Apparently I can only have one friend and not two for you two have too much history
Now I pick her over you sorry but you are a nut job
I really gave u a chance to be my friend but u keep tripping over your own feet and you keep blaming me.
PK Wakefield May 2010
luscious corpse meadow salvation
wet waxy journal scrawled generous

be straight narrow crooked armor amour
fractured ferrous magnetic skin
dry husk sheathing thee: she spun metallic

so, yes, i will



                       but just this








                                                                                                                          once
Saša Milivojev Jun 2022
.
Beams of light are entering shyly
into the darkness through
dungeon bars
Carried from the bridge are resounding
Screams and chains and wailing cries
Confined prisoners the defiant
The suffering paying their price

The walls are echoing
With whispers of the final prayer
Falling down the tears of blood
Frightened by the ferrous tide
And the Infinity’s deadly voicelessness

Perished the wholesome
the innocent the hungry
Against the injustice to rebel
To their children bid farewell
For the freedom of their children
when they drew
that final breath

Drawing close the final moments, my life
May you never forget
That moment of horrid death
The innocent could not object

The prison drowned
in tempestuous sea
Immersed the dungeons
in sharp water entirely
To pieces scattered victims hearts
Bodies and souls torn apart
With a screaming cry
Heavens let out a painful sigh


Saša Milivojev in Venice
9.11.2012.

Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska

www.sasamilivojev.com
Diska Kurniawan Aug 2016
She sit then grow something in my cup of coffee*

How can something so obvious become generous?
When we talk about ferrous and phosphorus
Chemistry and smile become vitamin
and your whole existence, addicting
like a bunch of amphetamine.

**** like you did in January
Oh, my lady died in beauty
For my butler, angel and death
In your hand, smell like a ****
Some of my friends told that relation is a chemistry
RebelJohnny Dec 2017
Dark blue infinity,
Oh, falling luminesce fading into the twilight,
how you dance across the silent sand!
The horizon shines as liquid sun cools rose gold along the ferrous peaks,
Endless strokes weave drifting clouds into fast sleep.

The awesome silence of finality
marries the shadowed mountains
cradling the firmament.
Sound abandons the valley as the dark hides the skyline;
Sight fails.

Callous fingers tighten across
Folding arms in the still air,
Let your eyes fall towards the ground,
Exhale the crisp invisible end,
Lungs rush towards bursting
with the weight of closure as
day, possibility, light are
Erased into sublime black.

Let us lower upturned faces,
Count moments as descending
Grains of sand mark the hourglass'
rest. Time embraces former possibility, their hands entwining,
joining the downcast face now
grasped by the gorgon sorrow's snare.

Rise and fall, do our dreams and hopes, creaking ribs, shifting fabric, against the petrified chest engulfed in apocalyptic surrender.

Oh, talisman of Perseus,
Cursed for resisting cruelty,
Fated to suffer despite devotion, grace, and righteous indignation,
Medusa, terrible bearer of this same curse,
What fools are we?

What monstrous resemblance does  the frozen fool now share with the ****** priestess' unfortunate victims still standing statuesque  amidst the ruins of her world?

Stone-cold eyes blink endlessly,
The figure's petrified form bears the weight of starlight and the moon's temple.

Witness as futures unfold! Gaze, like Delphi's Oracle once did as man, future, and marble pillars become a singular spectacle.

What possibility shot into the heavens, now out of reach? What mortal joy falls at each day's end joining Helios and the sun elsewhere?

Call it tragedy! Some claim her despair! Oh Dante, how wickedly you call this nightmare a comedy,
Witness as the body discovers it's dream long-gone,
whispered about by lorekeepers and bards,
The vanguards of worlds such as this one,

Jolting skyward, his jaw clenches, glazed eyes turning,
Tumbling as his form reanimates,
Walk now into that abyss.

Called myth, utopia, inferno or sometime's paradisio,
All these too are visions of man,
- Which we may
Pursue but none come to obtain -
ever fading into the absolute silence
lain now to rest amidst
the chill of the desert breeze.
wordvango May 2015
beats  musically  the eternal
recalls remembers replications
rhythms  flows  driven
we just act innocent, is it all  all about hooking up
attraction, repulses magnetic ferrous responses,
******* or not,  crude, or maybe
I am not fooled.
It's all about how many times we get a nut.
How powerful we are, the total amount of
genetic code we leave.
Only one way
to do that.
We are,
all animals.
Maria Mitea Sep 2020
Eyes lost
in waiting,
Silently
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently,
He put it away
on the old
wood table.

Carefully,
refolding
his courage
lifting up
ferrous arms
stripping
Carefully,
a tinny piece,
rolling himself
in still noise
a cigarette of
Powerful
low-graded
rustika,
a variety of
great purge
hunger
killing
good reason,
one pack a day
helped.

It helped survive
the cold,
and everyday
toil when
soldiers and ants
starved,
Makhorka,
insecticide
of freedom.

Silently,
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently.
Sombro May 2017
What's a ferrous person
Doing here, they asked, those bars of gold
Clutching iron filings as if seeking to squeeze some life into them
Some heat
I clenched my teeth,
Furious

Snobbish, looking down on baser metals,
Mixing only with the company of diamonds
I pulled no punches, held my fists
Red while they jeered
The cracks of ore in my coat
Furious

I bandied through their
Glittering parting like oil and water,
Sliding off me like I wished their wit might,
White hot and flaming, cracking brittle,
Fragile filings
Melting furious

Uncontrollably smelted
Hammered by their eyes
Clenched by their sneers
And burned, scalded, reshaped, reheated
Abused
Scarlet-whipped and chamber fitted

A drill, to reform to a drill,
Aimed at
Softer metals, I
Turn on them, they
Shy away, anxious not to mix
With baser metals, throwing
Iron filings to the floor,
To the earth
Where gold wishes it could be

My jewelry
A bit aggressive, this one, but I'm stressed :)
Syd Jun 2019
Words flow like worms
Swept along in the silt
Of murky river beds
No match for the current
And content
Of a cluttered unfiltered head

Moments perish like daffodils
Fragile to a stiff
Spring breeze
Petals turn dark to auburn
Permiated with jaundice
Depicting decaying disease

Ferrous dust lines lungs
Along with choking
Metallic fumes
Time ticks in slow motion
Steel faced suppressed emotion
As impending doom looms
when another (anointed as lady lucky)
   resident renter bequeathed her bed
prior to that good samaritan deed thyself and spouse
   slept on the floor like dogs dead
tired from another day acclimatizing ourselves,

   especially when tummies got well fed
and grudging adjustment lying
   supine upon the carpet

   did upon arising found aches and pains from head
to toes, yet financial shortcomings disallowed this Jed
eye wannabe to defer attending domestic chores,
   cuz ma whole body felt like a Led
Zeppelin, and matter of fact oft times,

   thy body electric, though lacked
   no evidence of disease NED
for short, I near felt a need to relearn basic motor skills,
   gingerly, and eagerly reached for performance
   enhancing drug i.e. PED

which coded identification exemplified the a rich color of red
this (and other) prescription medication
   (about a half dozen total found me to sleep akin to a Ted
dee bear, many instances of snoring  
   thine wife claimed emanated –
   probably no more than when we wed

if memory serves me correctly
   twenty plus years a husband aye attest
and find peace of body, mind and spirit most exuberant and best
cherished, when hen pecking wife (yup, this husband

   got pecking, pock, puck size marks to vouchsafe
   his sworn statement)
   some visible on my slightly flabby and hairless chest
and if traced with a ball point pen, the shape
   loosely resembles mount Everest

with evidence of what appears to be erosion,
   but actually evidence of wifely cannibalism –
   viz zit on par as with an unwanted guest
which at first found this pop (sic) hull averse
   to share the same firm mattress lest
she arise like a flesh eating zombie during
   wee ***** weber hours of the morning and taking nest
ling to another level, whereby teeth and scratch marks
   sure testament asper a pest

stiff ferrous mate, this husband would sooner bid adieu,
   letting fate guide  terrestrial quest
that might incorporate undergoing the
   electric kool aid acid test

perhaps buffeting this corporeal essence north west
or maybe the unforeseen sojourn would spirit thyself
   to a distant alien nation
one where each day of soundness of mental, physical
   and spiritual growth will be reason enough
   to celebrate with élan and zest.

Now tis one upside to this stroke when with restfulness
   awake after nocturnally conjuring sheep and lil bo beep
yet, no ambition exists to get down and out
   from this posh plush place to sleep
even wild horses cant drag me away, lest hie weep.
Saša Milivojev Oct 2019
.
In this century withal
Rivers of blood still flow
Bombs echo
Children are being killed
Heads are being severed
Millions are starving
Diseases are devouring
And you are singing

The gallows are trembling
In the valley of the fallen
In the salty tears
With our putrescent sores
We fall prey to the crows

Our festering entrails
For the starving wolves

A shattered house
Little boy is weeping
Over the body of his Father
That forever now is sleeping

Schools Temples and bridges bleeding
bloodstained wedding guests are screaming

Little white coffins
Maternal howls
Above Uranus
Hear the painful growls
Delirious poets are prattling
And not a word are you uttering

They blinded you
When they ***** your daughter
Strangled ‘er with the wire
They abducted your brothers
Tortured in the cellar
Shattered their fingers
With ferrous clubs
With a saw agape their skulls
Their legs wagons lacerated
Their limbs with machete dissected
Flayed the skin of their backs

Dumpers of corpses
Bulldozers to the grave consigned
Roads run over their bones in cement confined
Bodies filled the bottomless well over the brim
Come closer
Look within
The infinite darkness of the abyss
To hear the silence of the universe

A spark is glistening in an innocent eye
Children are helplessly falling to the dust
Venomous saliva dripping from their mouth
As their rosy intumescent faces bust

In their closing prayer
Reverends to a cross immured
Laughing at the stake they burned

Tender ivory cherubs
Flew away like a flock of birds

Rip my heart out from my chest
As I am unsleeping
May your golden ship catch wind away from shore
To raise your glass of blood once more
As you feast your eyes in silence



Saša Milivojev

Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
visit: www.sasaamilivojev.com

— The End —