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ryn Feb 2015
There once was a man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He worked long and hard; and wore a tan,
He was a plantation tapper.

One night he packed,
In haste after a long day of toil.
Quickly had his belongings all sacked
Under light from a lantern that reeked of kerosene oil.

He was ready, flame from the lantern he did ****.
Overhead, the midnight moon brightly shone.
Bound his sack to the rack above the rear wheel,
Mounted his bicycle and soon he was gone.

The dirt trail leading back,
Undulating with gravel all strewn.
Almost treacherous this forgotten track
He only relied on light from the moon.

The air was cool just like any other,
But something was different about this night.
Squinting ahead he spotted a figure.
Flagging him down was a lady in white...
To be continued...

Based on a story I heard.
Jillian Jesser Oct 2018
I perch here
idle hands,
administer the dregs
of my coffee, to
a flagging, dull head
agonizing over
every flimsy word
I might utter
to make my dull life
bright

grasping at a flatlining pulse
a woody smile
     from the wreckage of my past.

Look!
          Look at this earnest celebration of chaos
                                                 that drives away oblivion.
Lisa May 2018
Plagued by a flagging heart at the very mention of Brazil,
and the poor habit of scrolling to Capricorn at any and all astrological babble.
Meaningless and heedless whether together or apart,
tyros or hedonists,
perhaps both.
A volatile amalgam any way you slice it.

My best poems are about you,
my worst thoughts too.
zebra Aug 2016
while heaven and hell
where engrossed in their own affairs
the light bringer
an incandescent intelligence
was cast down
to this metallic monument of stone
hurled to the depths
mourning star falling
for aspiring
to greater altitudes
the furthest reaches
perhaps some distant
parametric edge
or insensate endlessness
of the northern most realms
Baals glittering throne

Lucifer
stellar divinity
mourning light
enemy of evil
gave mankind its foundations
fire, technology
the signatures of spirits
those vey veys
the voodoo
that Jews do
the secret of
the dark speculum
polished obsidian
for scrying
door to arcane gods
and spirits dark
of great power
Solomons instruments of wisdom
demonstrating that man might live in grace
without watering the ground with tears

now vanquished in the depths
of labyrinths submerged
and contained in a brass vessel
crypt of sigils
the true names of power
reside

as ages rolled over
we lost our depth of mind
became zombies
shadow beings
at first a mystery to our selves
and then the mysteries
became memories
and then even the memories
became dust

no longer could
we conjure or evoke
from the depths
our Jacobs ladder
those Goetic spirits
and  Amadel
of angelic powers
our protectors
and sustenance
lost and bereft of
aladins lamp
leaving men a drift in reason alone
barren religions of flagging faith
desolated
heaven and earth separated
a god absent
based on belief
the words
historic etymology
be-lie-eve
at its very core
it hides its secret for all to see
a lie

science of endless calculus
bereft
a one trick pony
rationality
like a sludge hammer
its only tool
which maps the known universe
but understands nothing
about what things mean
like the subtle architecture
of consciousness
and its interconnectedness
to all that there is
which may be nothing
with no physical properties
no volume
no trans-formative elemental substance
energies of light or force
or pulsating quanta
but inventions of consciousness
it self a light
which lacks volume
and physical quality
all of reality mere dreams
by an unknown dreamer
perhaps the child of another

at the stroke of midnight
the darkest point
in the murkiest age
the Kala Yuga
post modern man
remains conceited
while the world burns
paradise lost

Monotheism reigns
in our back water world
millenniums long night
of honor killings
god of the blade
thou shalt not ****
yet all condemned to die

put that in your pipe
slave makers
over bearing pedagogues
god loving war stooges
your god has a bigger ****
while parents
pack up their
shell shocked babies
there little trampled flowers
forced to
plummet to some dark address
tears fluttering
suffused  by poison clouds
in shady groves
where they only dare exhale

have you not had it yet
with gods mysterious ways
if it quacks like a duck
hello
hell goons
****** spiritual stasis
toxicity and contagion
of the simplistic

their god
a shrunken form
projection of an incomplete  mind

those who live by the sword
die by the sword
and those who do not
die anyway
not a leaf falls with out the will of god
are we not all falling
oh man
cast off axioms
of the addle brained

oh priests
of petrified ideation's
if you have a real god
look to reality to understand it
do you see mono anything
or do you see binary everything
love hate
macro micro
life death
creation destruction
as above so below
the tao
male female

no your god
both great and terrible
can not make you whole
with out her
for she is all of space
creator of all form
our human women
vessels of the goddess
who you have
conveniently subtracted
and profaned
for vainglories patriarchs sake

the universe it self
a multitude of powers
from hells deep shocks
and dismal woe
to adorations from the queen of heaven
and the sacred temple prostitutes
now made sullied
by goody goody minds
shames children
a vice of knives
solar heroes they think
while high minded and ignorant

the synoptic religions
feeding frenzies of dogma
beatings of submission
mouldering skeletons
of the abyss
******* blood loving bats
all dressed up
in Don Trump
plush red power ties
made in china
where indentured servants
in state hell mills
are worked to death

while others
prim men
pretending to love
god
all ostentatious actors
spiritual materialist
fearing hells abyss
outwardly proud
in self righteousness
performing public adorations
while in secret rooms
they ****** themselves
under shadows guilt
blasphemy of gloating piety
begrudging the pleasure of others
there guiding light

there true god
a demon of obedience
bes-tower of agony
ensuring
you gota suffer now
so you don't have to suffer later
dividing man from himself
All of them covering there heads
to obstruct the gifts of wisdom
and freedom
blocking the rays of Luciferic light
and insight
******* in there own hats
so they may remain undistracted
by their gods commands
having forgotten
that they themselves
made them up
pious dullards
that they are

oh Lucifer bright one
i stand before you
embraced by eight
the number of Majick
in arms that proliferate
the true will
Lucifers eight arms
amen
I never know I’ve gone til I come back
And realize that life
Has moved on for a period
And left me here behind

I don’t slip off to fall asleep
I doubt that sleep is involved at all
I jump to other nonsense lifes
Against my wish and flagging will

Not nightmares, but scenarios
Of things and people I don’t know
Doing things I’ve never done
In times and places I’ve not been

Not unpleasant in the least
Just people doing people things
But in some other universe
That skates around outside of this one

Sometimes I’m still conversing there
When something drags me back to here
Where someone looks at me and says “Beg pardon?”
And I reply “oh, nothing. I’m just talking to myself”

I can't remember where I was
Or who were those there with me
The memory fades as I return
And realize that I’ve been gone

Without farewells or by-your-leave
To visit in a different world
With nothing that I recognize and people I don’t know
I’m moving through a life that isn’t mine

I don’t know how to make it stop
Am I insane or is this real
I have no way to know for sure
I just know it will come again.
                                 ljm
Escapism in its purest form
Pradeep Aug 10
I dreamt of a carcass,
alive and kicking a ruckus,
laughing at logic,
which is demagogic.

I dreamt of quiet thunder
ready to surrender
to the quirks of sound waves
that like wild wind meander
in a town near yonder.

I peeked into a closed keyhole
of your opaque glass soul,
greedily content,
envious giver,
moronic icon,
brilliant nincompoop,
abstaining copulator,
bright *******,
detached from, yet stuck
to the world, that feels
confined to your aura.
Do you realise the world's
shrinking but not so much,
to fit only you?

I dreamt of the sun and moon
departing and arriving together,
dancing to static tunes
of neo-tradition.

I dreamt of well fed hunger
realistically orchestrated  
by naive politicians who
on noble paths tread.

I dreamt reality, that we are
in a dream, 'shining nightmare',
that creates drowsy insomnia,
memory enhancing amnesia,
makes you a belonging paraiah.

I dreamt of a world where
sober alcoholics
piously curse
and lovingly hate
insensitive poets,
flagging poems 'freshly stale',
gladdening them to depression,
gently inciting them to
a period of riotous calm
and profound shallowness.

Winsome losers,
I grudgingly welcome 'you all'
to dive out of a sepia-scented poem
I tried for the first time,
one more time.
Dream Fisher Mar 1
Pick and choose who to take today
Leave the bad, burn the good
Do it for others, be ******.
Hold only for you like you should.
Gut mutts and let the dust kick up
Like the pure bred pup you are.
You're better because you say,
I'm less for being a certain way.
Kick the kids to the streets of the nation
And may they decrease surplus population
No problem there.

The rich hate you exist,
The poor hate that you try,
I'd develop a complex, if not already a complex guy.
The only hand out I've got
Is one flagging a cab to get home
The only kicks that I get
Are the clearance ones I have on
But I'm part of the problem
Just wait they'll tell you why

Create me as an enemy,
Squint and see through their eyes
When all I've ever wanted
Was enough to get by
Jonathan Moya Sep 20
The lightness of paper
soft enough to crumble
to a chirping palm ball
released into the air,
an imagined perfect pitch,  
too gossamer to float
to its ultimate arch,
unfolding in the web  
of alluring sunshine

aspiring to be
in its unfolding angles
a thread of silk
caught into the patterns
of a spun handkerchief,
flapping finely down to dirt,
flagging to human desires,
a reverse puff tucked black
into a left back corner pocket.

In its extending it is
****** wood pulp
culled and hewn
from rings of fine pine,
rising in its descent
to barely glimpsed evolving
beaks, talons, feathers
caught in the spider’s web
and shook down by thundering axe.
Flagging or the handkerchief code (also known as the hanky code, the bandana code,) is a color-coded system, employed usually among the *** male casual-*** seekers or **** practitioners in the United States, Canada, Australia and Europe, to indicate preferred ****** fetishes, what kind of *** they are seeking, and whether they are a top/dominant or bottom/submissive.

If you wore your hanky in your left pocket, you were deemed as more submissive, or a "bottom," whereas the right pocket meant that you were a "top" or more dominant.  A black handkerchief meant that you were into S&M- sadomasochism.

Reverse puff refers to a type of handkerchief pocket fold where the puff or pointed ends fold out like the petals of a flower.
Benzene Oct 5
In days of youth's yore;

to conquer while
striking a
winning pose
may have been  the
breath of life for many
a young man.

"I love you",
assertively whispered from
her moist and
fevered lips was,
a call of the wild
and a vindication
of one's manhood.

Her legs wrapped tightly around you,
like a spider that is spinning its silken
masterpiece around its paralyzed prey.

Regaining our breath together
as our sweaty bodies glisten in the light of
an August's 2am moon.

A beauty that I  never wanted to conquer but one, that I just wanted to savor and to...

never forget.

Was it love?
Is it love?
Is this love?

Forgive me for a moment but, about this?
I am just...

*white flagging it

— The End —