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Tim Eichhorn Aug 2014
With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis*

Look at the
    Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
    Hiring hands.
We walked,
    Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
    This heat?
Forget Vulcan
    And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
    A rip tide
On the shore
    Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
    Pretending to swim
Underground,
    But only out
Of pure respect.
    Some had boots
Made with
    The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
    Others wore suits
With goggles
    Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
    Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
    Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
    Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
    Waves of S and P
Flailed away
    Like flags.
One nation
    Under a new.
No one looked away
    From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
Cory Ellis Jun 2013
Hey guys. This isn't truly a poem but a paper I wrote for English class. I wanted to share this view with people and this is the only vehicle I knew to use. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------------------


The amplifiers were turned up to ten. The young and fresh crowd looked at us with anticipation.

What were they waiting for? As the music began I noticed the subtle movements and growing tension in

the crowd. Men shook their heads and we shook ours in a violent duet between the crowd and

performer. Women and men flailed their limbs as they awaited the ******. We knew when it was

coming; they did not. When we decided to let it all go I witnessed something crazy! There was a brief

pause in the music and when it began again we kicked it into overdrive. We shook our heads with a

more frantic pace. We jumped about like madmen. The crowd erupted; it became its own entity. You

could feel the heat and power of this new creature. We were locked in a violent psychic-sphere of

crazed young teens and when the ****** was over there seemed to be a sense of relief and happiness

in the crowd. Had my after school hobby become a healing agent, even if only temporary, in society?

This papers purpose is an attempt at piecing together the phenomena of catharsis by merging

philosophy, psychology, history and spirituality.



First, to understand the psychology of catharsis we must think back to the roots of this behavior. Since

human life has existed we’ve formed crowds for various reasons. The first reason held the sole purpose

of protection. Tribes of people, men as hunters and women as gatherers, teamed up for the benefit of

human survival. Erich Fromm says that “the meaning of life is not to be found in its fullest unfolding but

in social service and social duties; that the development, freedom, and happiness of the individual is

subordinate or even irrelevant in comparison to the welfare of the state.”(Fromm, 1947, page 51) This

states that a crowd is actually very necessary to the function of human life. The second reason crowds

gathered was in form of revel, shamanistic healing and worship of deities (Ehrenreich, 30). Men and

woman would often enter trances, speak in tongues and become involved in a collective ecstasy while in

worship of their God. In later years, politics, entertainment and rebellion or protest was a main factor in

the gathering of people (Ehrenreich, 102). People gathered at Festivals that were in the midst of being

suppressed and would dance in mockery of their Kings or leaders.



What exactly is catharsis? Catharsis is a purging of emotional tension brought out in a crowd through

the viewing of a tragedy or tragic play. In the article “The Power of Catharsis” Kearny says the following

More specifically he (Aristotle) defined

the function of catharsis as 'purgation of pity and fear'. This comes

about, he explains, whenever the dramatic imitation of certain actions

arouses pity and fear in order to provide an outlet for pity and fear.

The recounting of experience through the formal medium of plot,

fiction or spectacle permits us to repeat the past forward so to speak.

And this very act of creative repetition allows for a certain kind of

pleasure or release. In the play of narrative re-creation we are invited

to revisit our lives — through the actions and personas of others — so

as to live them otherwise. We discover a way to give a future to

the past. (Kearny 1)

I figure that, even though he states that it is a purgation of pity and fear, it could also be involved with

many other suppressed emotions. Take my introduction for example. These kids were not releasing

pity and fear, they were releasing their angst! They were releasing their desire for competition.

They were making up for the violent feelings of agression they felt in their body that had been

suppressed by society for so long! They were revolting! Could catharsis also be used to purge other

emotions as well such as ****** suppression or communicative issues?





How would one come about actually attempting this catharsis that I speak of? We need to first look at

some ways in which people have controlled crowds in the past and realize that crowds form by

themselves but often look for leadership due to what Nietzche called that “herd mentality.”

In the article “Seducing the Crowd” by Urs Staheli it mentions that repetition is a key factor in beginning

to control the crowd. (Staheli, 69) This means that through repetition you can get the crowd to side with

your beliefs. The crowd could begin to think about what your suggesting and potentially be swayed by

the other people that are now following your ideas. It could also be repetition of body movements as

well. What better vehicle is there to sway a crowd than music? It’s repetitive in instrumental and lyrical

form!



Another way to “******” a crowd is to act like a madman! Specifically how I stumbled upon this in

the first phenomena place.

The leader himself is possessed and hypnotized by the ideas

and visions he holds, obsessed to such an extent that he cannot rationally exercise

control over the crowd. Instead, he devotes himself to fascinating the

crowd by more ecstatic means.8 He often resembles a madman but fascinates

by the mere power of his determination. What distinguishes the leader from

the rest of the crowd is his will alone, not any particular intellectual capacity

or a superior morality. (Staheli, 68)

The theory is that through mythological story telling or acting tragically and in a spectacle, we can

actually release negative emotions and potentially even heal neuroses or psychic ailments. Later in the

article he goes on to say that a shaman was actually documented to have cured a woman with a blocked

birth canal and in labor by telling her a story about a warrior trying to exit a cave that had monsters on

the outside trying to get in.

The function of a shaman is to heal his tribe. He uses drugs or plants to change his state of mind and

then by going over to the other side of reality he invokes spirits that help to heal.

In the séance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants,

dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice; convulsive movement. He acts like a

madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once

esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit world. Their mental travels formed the crux

of the religious life of the tribe. (Morrison 1967 pg. 71)

This shows an ecstatic crowd dancing and chanting while one man acts out a tragic spectacle. Through

this spectacle the shaman acts like a madman. This causes wild emotions within the crowd and allows it

to release their built up and suppressed emotions. Also, the dance and chants bring them to a feeling of

unity and oneness!



One may not believe in the spiritual shaman because of their own beliefs about God and religion. Some

may not believe in the other world that parallels our own.  It is a skeptical concept without a doubt and

there are probably many people who disagree with the legitimacy of the shaman. Is there a way that we

could think of the phenomena in a psychological sense rather than strictly spiritual? The answer lies in

Carl Jung’s theory of the unconscious mind and dream therapy as well as in Nietzche’s philosophy on art

and aesthetics.  



Carl Jung believed that there is a conscious mind and an unconscious mind. The conscious mind is the

everyday mind that occurs in waking life. It is rational and helps us survive. The unconscious mind can

be found in dreams or whenever you experience a déjà vu (Jung 1964 21).  He also believed that through

the study of dreams you could heal certain aspects of your psyche that have been altered by neuroses.

Symbols and archetypes make up dreams and the unconscious, and often you will find that archetypes

appear in the form  of people. Jung believes that through living in society that men and women have lost

touch with their feminine or masculine characteristics depending on their gender. Dreams can help us

get back into union with these lost roles through connecting us with our anima(female) or animus

(male) through symbols in our dreams or unconscious minds. Jung wrote that when society was

formed people took on roles and caused a dissociation in their psyche and caused a duality rather

than a unity when they suppressed one side of their mind.  He mentioned that at all times the

unconscious mind is connecting us on a psychic level.



How does this tie into shamans and catharsis? It seems like something completely different all together

right? My theory is that the shaman or crowd leader brings forth a forgotten union of the masculine and

feminine forces in the universe. Nietzche believed that there are two polar forces that are natural in this

world and in art. These forces are given the names of deities in his book “The Birth of Tragedy.”

The first is the Apollonian force that is masculine. This force in art governs form and dreams. The

Apollonian artist directly takes ideas from his dreams and brings them to life whether it is in form

sculpture or poetry. Apollo appears through an oracle often in tragedy or in visions of the waking life.

The second force is the Dionysian which is feminine. This force governs intoxication, revel and ecstasy.

Dionysian artists are improvisers and dancers and are usually tragic figures. Nietzche believed there are

three different types of artists: Apollonian, Dionysian and the fusion of both (Nietzche 1872 14). This

latter artist is what I believe the shaman is.



Through connecting these polarizing forces he fixes the psychic neuroses in his own mind. He becomes

a unified artist, or a magician of duality. The shaman, as stated above, takes drugs to intoxicate himself.

Often the drug of choice is wine or alcohol though it could be hallucinogenic drugs as well. This tied with

repetitive revel is the Dionysian side of the spectrum and also helps draw the crowd’s attention through

spectacle and repetition. Everybody is ecstatic and experiencing the collective vibrations of the crowd.

Through his intoxication he is able to go into the unconscious mind and produce dream symbols in

reality! The crowd follows the leader into this unconscious mind and brings back forgotten wisdom of

mythology and archetypes. This is the Apollonian side of the spectrum because it deals with the

unconscious mind and dream images. It also could be this “other world” that traditional shamans speak

of. Now the psychic duality is merged and a tie is formed between the masculine and feminine forces of

nature! People feel at one with themselves and the crowd and the societal suppression is vanished

briefly. All the neuroses caused by the suppression fades away in the ecstatic revel. This is the appeal of

the rock concert. Notice how many leading figures of rock bands have androgynous features and

shamanistic nature. This is because they have fixed the psychic neuroses in their own mind and become

at peace with the masculine and feminine duality of their psyche.



Stumbling upon this phenomena in my rebellious youth was very eye opening. Ever since I have been  

very excited about this theory and I’ve been trying to piece it together. It seems to be coming along

further and further in my study of this. What exactly this ancient wisdom is; I don’t entirely know. I

do know that I have witnessed this in reality and the subject is interesting and fascinating. My theory

still has a lot of work before it is completed but I think that within this article I’ve given a decent

amount of history about the topic as well as my own thoughts. Whether this phenomena is true or

not, we can leave that up to the psychologists and philosophers to decide, though I think many may

agree. Either way, catharsis surely does exist and it is a fun way of entertainment as well as a

therapeutic option for many stressed out individuals out there
The Moon and Sun shared Ecliptical Longitudes the night They murdered The child.

Beneath a stelliferous empyrean,
Like Sojourners among the quiescent Twilight, Mother and child, Ventured to meet the woman’s husband, the father of the child.

She, no more than five and ten years Old,
The child, a girl, of only months,
Lay swaddled across the Woman’s
*****, tucked inside a papoose.
A rustic device carefully woven
From wool and hide, in it contained a
Priceless world.

She cooed and clucked in the frigid
Night air.
The sound penetrated the
Spectral calm and was matched only
By the maternal soothing of a muted hum.
Together, they represented the
Heathen form of the wilderness,
The Tempi Madonna among the
Silver and shadow moonbeams that
Glimmered like the dust of diamonds
Across the river’s obsidian sheen.  

Ahead, where the river narrows,
The silence stirred and was broken.
Hushed voices rose from the outer
Dark.
The woman strained to listen.

(British Soldiers, she thought)

Foreign words...

        (Drunken and ravenous)

                         ...slithered from their mouths like Venom. Fear bloomed in the woman’s Chest.
Her heartbeat quickened.

        (Touched by the chill of terror)

Her eyes darted madly about the
Darkness.

         (Alone no longer)

Their  shadows manifested like
Smoke along the tree line.
Their
Features blurred in the darkness.
Their gestures muted.
Like birds of
Prey, they set motionless upon their
Perch along the stony shore.

I say, a man said. Indian children are natural born swimmers,
Capable at birth of swimming great distances.

Utter foolishness, old boy, another opined.

We will need proof of this claim, my good sir, an anonymous voice Quipped from somewhere in the dark.

She let escape from her full lips
The tiniest of shrieks.
Followed immediately
By
Sick
Regret.

(stupid girl, her mother’s voice echoed in the dark.
                             You always were too impulsive.)

Rage consumed her as
She struggled against the current.  
She tried to paddle for deeper
Water as the men broached
The black sheen of the river.

The moments passed by
In jagged surrealism.
There was no sound
When they pitched the woman
And child into the
Frigid abysm.

The splashing of water.
The gasping
For air.
The primal
Grapple and
Grunt of men.
The cold, pungent scent of
Fear and sweat mixed with the
Alcohol-stale air.
The twisting of
Hands that groped about the
Darkness.

         (Her rage now eclipsed by fear)

She inhaled.
Her body, numb.
Her appendages quaked.
Her body fading
As they fall upon her.
Their thick bodies
Blacked out the stars.
Their gaunt faces
Pinched and rucked in the
Moonlight
Reflected the fury, the
Hatred, and
The disgust for what would come next.
Their hands moved across her
Ravenous
Like demons as they
Groped at her small body
Beneath the choppy wash of the
River.

(A hand grazed her thigh and she shrieked in Terror. Another
         gnashed at her buttock. Another fell upon her back. Her mind
         reeled at the possibilities of what would need to come next.)

They tore at her clothing.
Her body jarred about the water as
She writhed against their grasps.
She clawed against the murk.                  
    
         (Escape the horror)

She released the paddle—

(Forever lost to the deep, useless to her now)

Hysterical animalistic thoughts
Trounced off their tongues as they
Laughed at her doom—

        (Like a pack of hyenas)

She kicked at them in nameless
Places.
She thrusted her hand into
The fabric where the child had been
Moments before cooing and clucking. 
Mere moments ago she had sang to the
Babe the same song her
Mother had once sung
To her.

             (she felt nothing where the child had been…)    

She struggled away from them.
Her mind frantic with pain, the cold,
And panic
For the child.
She no longer cared for
Herself, or what they would need to
Do with her body.
Her appendages
Flailed and churned in the dark water.
          
         (A single gasp of air followed by
              The burning inhale of water)

A shrill call to the child—

(a name lost to time)

Her voice cut through their maniacal
Laughter.
It echoed off the water and vanished,
Disappearing entirely
In the outer gloom of the wilderness.

        (like afterthoughts, lost)

She groped relentlessly among the
Water for the child.
The men, near
Frozen, lost interest and returned to
The adjacent shoreline.
It was more ****** that way.
They jeered at her,
Proud of themselves.
          
        (The seething lust of the mindless savage, she thinks)

Their mouths salivate
As they watched
Vicariously.
Her struggle
Became the current
For which she bore.
The impending death of the woman even
More satisfying than the feeling against their flesh of her cunning, wet crease that lies exposed between
Her brown legs.
They watch like wolves
Unable to reach their prey,
Desperate for fresh meat.
Despite the frigid cold,
Their *****, hard,
With the anticipation of death.

The woman clamored among the darkness
She searched for the child.
Heavy fingers fell upon woolen fabric
By chance—

(Hope bloomed in her constricted chest)

Her body finally beginning to seize
Exhaustion permeated
Her mind.
She freed the papoose
From the frozen depths and expelled
The last bit of energy she possessed
To swim to the far side of the shore,
Temporarily out of their reach.

The soldiers,
Quiet now,
Returned to the spectral woods.
They disappeared back down the
Black road from which they came.

She felt the blood as it began to
Return to her appendages, the pins And needles feeling erupting in them.
Her teeth clattered nearly exploding In her mouth.
Her body
Quaked Violently

         (The child, near in her mind, cried)

She reached for it.
Her chest,
Rising and
Falling,
Rapid like the river
As she inhaled the burning,
Frozen air.
The child let loose a cough and  
She clutched it
tighter to her *****.  

(Deny the river its prize)

A stream of consciousness,
Steadily slipped from her lips.

       (A great heathen prayer calling up some
                       Great Spirit
                                As she relentlessly brokered
                                            For a
                                       Life for a life)

The moments passed by like hours.
And the
Great Spirit, with
His wanton lust
For despair, did not manifest that night.

The child fell silent, then still.
The tears came now.
Blurred vision and
Angry sobs.
Darkness consumed entire.

The river flowed by her electric as if
Its lights descended from a place far
Beyond the black taciturn veil of
Night to reflect the merciless
Tragedies among the wretched souls of
The Maine Woods.
El Torpedo appeared out of thin air, moving at what could only be called -by any reasonable man, considerable velocity. She crashed into her soft down bed with a force that would've concerned even the most detached of onlookers, had there been any. 'Had there been any?' she wondered, as the recoil from the impact sent her flying into the air. The young girls arms and legs flailed in all directions; her body spinning wildly through the empty space of mid-flight, until finally -THUD!

“******* it, Ghost!” she groaned, holding the back of her head with her gloved hand.
“How can that still be funny!”
There was no reply, only a faint warm breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass.
“This is no time for jokes, Ghost! I was this close to offing those *******. What the **** were you thinking letting them get away?”

For a few moments she continued on mumbling various obscenities and abuse at The Ghost, which we won't bother to detail here. El Torpedo removed herself from the floor and took a few seconds to dust off her omniverse attire.
Ghost Scarecrow replied, “I didn't let them get away.”
“Well, then where the **** are they? I don't see them anywhere!” El Torpedo spat back.
“Of course you don't. They're not within our current field of vision.”
“Very funny, you are such a ******* riot. Did they get away or not?”
“No. They did not get away.”
“Well, where are they, then?”
“Finally, you ask the right question!”
“I already asked you that!”
“Whatever. Let's go.”

At that moment, El Torpedo and the Ghost Scarecrow evaporated into the universe, their molecules became space, all of it...the entire thing all at once, allowing the duo the very useful ability to appear anywhere in the omniverse at anytime without warning. I know, it's hard to comprehend. But, as far as I can tell, and from what I've been told by those who would know, that's what happened. It was a rather difficult period for criminals like me. But that's a story for another time, back to the matter at hand.

Once their miracle of physical travel was complete, the duo found themselves floating approximately 40 feet above the Lacksdale River looking down on Tom's Bridge. Two small objects could be made out in the distance, appearing to hover just beneath.

“That's them?”
“Yep.”
“What did you do, Ghost?”
“I was just practicing my justicing...”
“That's not justice, Ghost. That's ******.”
“No Torpedo, that is art.” His playful demeanor suddenly became somber and serious. “Let's have a closer look.”

The two floated closer. As they came within range, El Torpedo felt the cold, dark energy flowing straight through her soul; Ghost had had one of his moments again. The gruesome scene came into full view: Two men hung upside down from the bridge; the chains that Ghost Scarecrow had used to secure their ankles had already begun their slow and deliberate journey through the men's flesh.





Beneath the chains were crudely fashioned trash bags secured by duct tape around the victim's ankles. Ghost wasn't a detail oriented entity, he just sort of did things in a haphazard way and called it art. Even the casual observer could tell that the job was done in haste. The plastic covered the corpses from ankle to neck. The bags were bloated, filled with the blood of the doomed souls. A few tiny streams of the red liquid made it through the duct tape and ran down the faces of the men.

El Torpedo turned away for a moment and fixed her gaze on the Scarecrow, the smile on his face was quite sinister and chilled her to the bone. She wondered what he thought was so artistic about this brutality. Then she saw their faces. They were beautiful. It must have taken him hours to carve it all.

“How did you do that? It's..beautiful.”
“I didn't do that.”
“You didn't?”
“No. I'm currently compiling a list of possible suspects.”
“Ghost, you told me that you did it.”
“I did.”
“Well, either you did or you didn't. Which is it?”
“I killed them and hung them there. I didn't do the carving. You know I can't draw...at least not like that, and certainly not in this dimension.”
“Then who did?”
“I'm not sure.” The Ghost stuttered, beginning to feel a bit sick. “This looks like the work of...”
Together they finished the sentence, “The Artist!”

For a moment they stared at each other in stunned silence, both absorbing the gravity of the situation. El Torpedo broke the silence, “It can't be, we...I..., I killed The Artist myself. I stuck the barrel to her sweaty forehead; I saw the fear in her eyes when I cocked the hammer. I saw the explosion of blood and brain matter splash against the ceiling and walls after I squeezed the trigger. I wiped her blood from MY face. It's impossible!”
The Scarecrow replied, “It could be a copy cat. The Artist is dead, Torpedo. I was there; I saw what you did to her. No one could survive that -not even her.”

“You two don't know what you saw,” boomed the unmistakable voice of the one and only. “But, I do!” She continued, “You saw what I wanted you to see. Same as now.” She drew a heavy breath, her ample ***** grew fuller. She created the illusion of oxygen intake; she was a creator, and continued her verbal assault on the Scarecrow. “And you! Strawman, or whatever you call yourself these days. To even suggest a copycat after looking at my masterpiece...I'll **** you in eight dimensions a day for the next week! Ten, if I can manage it.” El Torpedo saw the fire of  The Artist's eye flickering in the cool blue darkness. “I think I'll start with the you in this dimension.”

At that very moment, The Ghost fired his (clever weapon name) straight through the heart of what we all, and any person worthy of being reasoned with would've thought was, The Artist. No such luck. The solid image became mist, evaporating before their eyes. I could still see her, safely tucked away. I see lots of things though; hard to keep it all straight, you know?

The Artist continued, “..to think that would work. Good Christ, Strawman! You're dumber than your name implies!”

She reappeared, snuggled closely to the back of  The Ghost Scarecrow. Her knife at his throat, her lips at his ear, she whispered, “My Turn.” She proceeded to pull the blade across Ghost's neck. Before Torpedo could even begin to think about reacting, The Ghost's blood was spraying all over the place. I actually felt bad for her at that moment. It was kind of sad, actually. Blah, rambling again. Back to it!  


“What the **** was that?” El Torpedo uttered, apparently still in shock.
“That, My Dear, is what you can expect when you **** with The Artist!” The sound of her words reminded El Torpedo of the sound of an electric can opener near the end of it's days. “I am the only force in the omniverse that you need concern yourself with, that is all you need to know. Now, Good Night!”

Blinded, but very much alive and very much paralyzed, El Torpedo could feel her limp body sinking into the dark, cold waters of the Lacksdale River. She held her breath for as long as she could, until finally, she gave. The water filled her lungs, but she did not die. A chain appeared around her ankle, it descended deep into the abyss where, presumably, it was attached to something that would keep the girl secure. I'm not sure, I couldn't see that far.

“I've secured you between dimensions, Dear. No one will find you here. Enjoy your stay.” and with that The Artist was gone. But, she'd made one, possibly fatal, mistake. She'd left a witness, ME!
We look for Satan with the same intensity
that my mom and dad looked for God.

In retrospect
my parents were always pushing me to expand my consciousness
by huffing glue or gasoline
or chewing peyote buttons.
Simply because they'd done their time,
wasted their teen years
lolling in the muddy fields of Vermont
and the salt flats of Nevada,
naked except for rainbow face paints
and a thick coating of sweaty filth,
their heads festooned
with fifty pounds of fetid dreadlocks,
teeming with crab lice
and pretending to find enlightenment...
That does NOT mean I have to make the same mistake.

Sorry, Satan,
once again I've said the G-word.

Without breaking stride,
Leonard nods and points
to indicate the former deities of now-defunct cultures,
now warehoused in the underworld.
Among them: Benoth,
a god of the Babylonians;
Dagon,
an idol of the Philistines;
Astarte,
goddess of the Sidonians;
Tartak,
the god of the Hevites.

My suspicion
is that my parents treasure their sordid recollection
of episodes at Woodstock and Burning Man
not because those pastimes led to wisdom,
but because such folly
was inseparable from a period of their lives
when they were young
and unburdened by obligation;
they had free time, muscle tone,
and their futures still looked like a great, grand adventure.
Furthermore,
both my mother and father had been free of social status
and therefore had nothing to lose by cavorting ****,
their swollen genitals smeared with muck.

Thus,
because they had ingested drugs and flirted with brain damage,
they insisted I should do likewise.
I was forever opening my boxed lunch at school
to discover a cheese sandwich,
a carton of apple juice,
carrot sticks,
and a five-hundred-milligram Percocet.
Tucked within my Christmas stocking
--not that we celebrated Christmas--
would be three oranges,
a sugar mouse, a harmonica,
and quaaludes.
In my Easter basket
--not that we called the event Easter--
instead of jelly beans,
I'd find lumps of hashish.
Would that I could forget the scene at my twelfth birthday party
where I flailed at a piñata,
wielding a broomstick in front of my peers
and their respective
former-hippie, former-rasta,
former-anarchist throwback parents.
The moment the colorful papier-mâché burst,
instead of Tootsie Rolls or Hershey's Kisses,
everyone present
was showered with Vicodins,
Darvons, Percodans,
amyl nitrate ampoules,
LSD stamps,
and assorted barbiturates.
The now wealthy,
now-middle-aged parents
were ecstatic,
while my little friends and I couldn't help
but feel a tad bit cheated.

That,
and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to understand
that very few twelve-year-olds
would actually enjoy attending
a clothing-optional birthday party.

Some of the most gruesome images in Hell
seem downright laughable
when compared to seeing an entire generation of adults
stripped **** and wrestling on the floor,
grasping and panting in frantic competition
for a scattered handful of codeine capsules.
This is a found poem. I found it in Chuck Palahniuk's ******.

Madison is the thirteen-year-old daughter of a movie star and billionaire who wakes up, dead, in Hell. She soon finds herself and her nearby cell mates, who make up an almost Breakfast Club of the ******-like group, journeying through Hell to discover just exactly why they've all ended up there.
Harrison W Nov 2013
She washed up to shore
By the guiding waves of the river
She was stiff she was cold
Like the deathly chills of winter

She just fell through
Didn't even make a sound
Just watched the life leave her
While she gave up and drowned

But she struggled before
And she flailed and she cried
She cried "Help me!"
And she cried "Save me!"
But the people, they passed
Watched her gasp and laugh
And they looked away
They had nothing to say

I saw the beast
Watch her from the hall
Thought she was easy
So he gave her a call

She did her hair and her make-up
Picked her up in his pickup truck
She didn't want to at all
But then she just gave up

But she struggled before
And she flailed and she cried
She cried "Help me!"
And she cried "Save me!"
But the people, they passed
Watched her gasp and laugh
And they looked away
They had nothing to say

From beginning they hit her
And they never let up
She always tried to run
But couldn't and she was stuck

They held her down
Put a blow-torch near her face
And they taught her a lesson
Put her in her place

But she struggled before
And she flailed and she cried
She cried "Help me!"
And she cried "Save me!"
But the people, they passed
Watched her gasp and laugh
And they looked away
They had nothing to say
She threw herself away
So they'd have something to say
Khoi-San Aug 2018
Well after the wingman had left
I sang along to the seductive tune
that subtly fountained
A wanton void in my libido
Blindsided by the deceit of my own desires
I had succumbed
His passion was explicit
Mind blowing
Abandoned and exposed
I have fallen for a one night stand
And flailed upon quick sulking sand
You can't hurry love
Zach Gomes May 2011
On a hot hot day
nothing better than
sweet sticky rice coconut
milk a big ripe mango

That, I felt, was what the fly thought
he touched down onto my mango,
it was so sweet, pouring
saccharine sweat
ripe slabs of yellow smorgasborg
endless pleasure of sugar mango flesh
it seemed good to the fly

Across the water,
pressing over the mountains,
opaque threads of rain, like
slim tornadoes twisting ash into the clouds
moved this way
things never looked good for the fly

He ate nonstop, boozed up on mango
an unlimited supply of yellow stuff
he gained weight by the second
there was no point in stopping

the more juice the mango sweat
the stickier its meat
the more mango the drunk fly ate,
the further he sank into its flesh
he was stuck, flailed his stupid legs
in the air as if more flies coming
would rather help him than eat
juicy golden mango feast

he died there, I think
the monsoon would make sure of it
I tossed the mango, sticky rice
the styrofoam plate
thinking it spoiled, fearing the rain
My breathing becomes erratic and warm blood rushes to the tips of my ears as I remember you.  You showed me the world from a clean, glass window. For a while, it was amazing. The view was impeccable and there wasn't a single flaw. But day after day of staring through that clean, glass window I began to panic. The window wouldn't let me break through, let me be free. You kept me under wraps and hid me from a world of untamable beauty and free spirited inhabitants. The clean, glass window was warped with your tainted perspective on a perfect world. I couldn't breathe around you, I was a fish out of water and you didn't mind. As I flailed around, you chuckled and said "it's okay." But it's not okay and you cause me nothing but heart murmurs and not the butterflies in my stomach type. The type that wretches my gut. You did nothing but hurt me when all I ever did was love you.
Pride Ed Jun 2015
i will siphon you desolate
and leave a desert
inside your veins

and the oasis that was
once your heart
will become a tomb
sand-flailed
eroded
buried

the same you
did to me
For yet another prompt on allpoetry.
Thia Jones Mar 2014
Skipping ropes tied to lamp posts
hopscotch was another for girls
I'd try to work out the rules
but dare not ask, nor yet even
be seen to be showing interest
sometimes I'd be invited
to join in girls play
I could hold the rope
while others skipped
but had not the grace
or the agility to skip
at all well myself
there were role play games
of families with dolls
proudly displayed
tenderly nursed
and I would be offered
the role of 'daddy'
though I had no clue
of how to do that
having no father myself
so I would be told
to arrive home from work
to sit in my chair
to put on my slippers
to smoke my pipe
to hear tales of misbehaviour
by the children
and I would be amused
but would be told firmly
that I must be stern with them
then when that was done
to eat my tea and afterwards
to sit watching the telly
distracted from the game
that continued around me
or to go out to the pub
and I thought that
fathers must be
the most boring of people


The rough and tumble
was not for me
why would some boy think
he could throw me down
straddle me, pummeling
overpower and hold me there
trapped, despite my struggles
I learned early that
scratching, biting,
flailing, kicking
were not permitted
nor were tears
yet I shed them still
and screamed and scratched
and bit and flailed
if I could not avail
myself of natural defences
generally expected of girls
then why should my attacker
receive no more than
mild admonishment, if that
while I'd be advised
to "toughen up"
and the goading
carried on relentlessly
"you run like a girl"
"you throw like a girl"
"you kick the ball like a girl"
"you fight like a girl"
as though doing those things
like a girl were demeaning

Cynthia Pauline Jones 30/10/13
Pride Ed Dec 2015
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.
Joel A Doetsch Jan 2015
He was always a quiet man,
never seemed to look up...

as if his eyes were afraid of
what it might mean to
see the sky

His gaze seemed neither
fierce, nor soft.
Neither attentive or lost

He would never look at you,
it was as if he was looking everywhere
except where you happened to be.

I never saw a smile cross his lips
I never heard a laugh escape his lungs
I never heard him curse
I never heard him yell

When he spoke, I could hear the dust
falling off his breath

It wasn't a monotone sound, but I imagine
he sounded like what trees or mountains
would sound like, had they voices.

He existed in the loosest sense of the word

He was an oddity and an enigma
His quietness and unobtrusiveness
could be somewhat offputting

Yet...he was often able to blend into
the background like a rain drop
in a storm.

You can imagine our surprise
when he stumbled into town one
hot afternoon, clothes looking like
he'd fallen into a vat of red paint.

Splattered. Head to toe.
In between his head and his toes,
cradled in his arms, was the
body of a young girl

He had found her in the woods,
he had said, voice devoid of emotion.
She had been lying off the path,
in a pool of crimson.

An investigation turned up nothing
The people, in need of a murderer,
settled on the only man they could.
The man who hadn't shed even one tear
over the death of a young child

The trial was a farce
The kangaroo court adjourned
Death by hanging

The man remained silent throughout
the proceedings.  Quietly answering
the frothing prosecutor's questions
with the same demeanor as someone
would use when discussing the weather

He wasn't defensive
He wasn't derisive

He didn't plead, nor pray
when the verdict was announced

On the day of the execution
nearly everyone in town was in attendance
Most of them couldn't tell you why

The noose around his neck, he stared
back at the crowd.  Stared through them,
as if they didn't exist.

When the rope snapped taut,
The man flailed as his body
involuntarily spasm'd.

When he finally passed,
his body swinging lazily
under the gallows,
I caught the hint
of a smile

Only for a moment.

I found it odd

That he would only show
a sign of life
as it was ending
Tess Elaine Sep 2012
There once was a prince,
as kind as can be.
Whenever he would write,
he’d sit beneath the large willow tree.

On one rainy day,
he walked to the willow
and rested his head
on the moss, like a pillow.

The tree kept him dry
but the breeze made him shiver.
The puddles turned to ponds
and his lip began to quiver.

The water rose as it rained
so he climbed up the tree.
Hoping the pond would dry
and he’d finally be free.

He then heard a voice
that rose from below,
A mermaid called up to him,
telling him to let go.

He still clutched the branch
but he asked of her plan.
She said that she could help him
swim to dry land.

So the prince dove into the pond,
quickly beginning to drown;
he flailed and kicked
as the mermaid swam down.

She grabbed on his arm
and pulled him up to get air.
Then she dove right back down
and swam who-knows-where.

The whole way he was gasping
and clinging to her hand.
When she finally stopped swimming
they were right next to land.

He thanked his sweet savior
asking if they’d meet again.
She looked at him sadly and said,
“I’d love to, but when?”

“My sweet little prince,”
The mermaid did say,
“if you grew a tail,
we’d be together everyday!”

“But my dear angle of the sea,”
the confused prince did reply,
“How would I do that?
I wouldn’t know how to try.”

Then the girl of the water
began to explain
a flower that bloomed
in a wide open plain.

It shines in the day
and glows in the night.
It can make men live in water,
all it takes is one bite.

And so the young prince
went on a journey to the field
where this magical flower
is said to be concealed.

After three days of travel
he is finally there.
But no flower he found
could even compare.

That night, he could not sleep,
instead he wandered the plateau.
When, at that moment,
A flower began to glow.

He pulled it from the ground,
running back to the mermaid
Another three days later,
he found her body half-decayed.

“I waited for you, my prince,”
the note by her bones read,
“I’ll wait for you here, love,
until I am dead.”

While he had traveled,
the water had dried
and under his willow,
his savior had died.
Bailey Kreutzer Dec 2012
A small slow creak and a shadow peeks,
Behind an unexpecting corner.
You close your eyes, but to your surprise when you open,
The shadow is gone,
But a presence you can sence around every turn,
The conditions right in the dead of night with a
fierce howling wind,
And soon you realize through sloppy tears the danger is swiftly drawing closer!
Creak.. Creak... Creak!
The lump in your gut, seemed to force you out of your frozen rut.
The edrenelin took over then!
Relying on touch for your eyes were usless from crying too much.
The beat of your heart stretched from your ears to your feet.
Your arms flailed and your feet flew,
But still you felt the hot breath on your neck it was
the end you just knew.
A nervous tremor in your leg threw you forward right onto your back.
Instantly your eyes traveled to the onyx bulbs of death that stared you down,
Cloaked completely in black.
As he reached a boney hand around your throat,
It didn't matter you couldn't breath either way,
Just when you could see the light of savior...
It spoke...
The most sinister slither slid out of his covered lips "I'll see you in hell." A small smile was then visible through his mask.
From sheer fright I gasped my last breath of air, and out of the strangest things to cross my mind all I could think is 'goodnight.'
This is sort of a kinda rhymey short story but ohh well This was sort of an edited dream I had I Troyes to make it as close as possible but I had to make some stuff up because I forgot so yeah goodnight haha!
How shall my animal
Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,
Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,
Endure burial under the spelling wall,
The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,
Who should be furious,
Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,
Roaring, crawling, quarrel
With the outside weathers,
The natural circle of the discovered skies
Draw down to its weird eyes?

How shall it magnetize,
Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze
That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart
A brute land in the cool top of the country days
To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,
Love and labour and ****
In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout
The black, burst sea rejoice,
The bowels turn turtle,
Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle
The parched and raging voice?

Fishermen of mermen
Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin
With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,
Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound
Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,
Trace out a tentacle,
Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and ****
To clasp my fury on ground
And clap its great blood down;
Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas
Or poise the day on a horn.

Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,
Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost
Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops
With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast.
lucy anne Feb 2013
your soft lips made mine feel soft too
my plain self effloresced under your fingers.

your touch made me quiver
your kiss sent a shiver
down
my spine
signs of fear and confusion
passion was our mistaken conclusion
or maybe that mistake was solely mine.

looking back,
the quickening of my heartbeat was a warning, not an answer
electricity can warm you
but it can burn too
i was prepared for the spark
but not for the consuming flames

i felt the unsavory heat of embarrassment not long after
grappled for an explanation as i flailed into uncertainty

who's to say where i faltered?
only you, but you've gone mute.
jad Sep 2013
There was chatter reflecting off the water just like the moon. The Milky Way was swimming with us, wrapped in algae and moss. We had no swimsuits, only spontaneity and laughter. We were far away from trivialities where there was no light pollution, you could see so far outward into everything. We were not looking up, we were looking out at what we are part of. Light, so much light. When our thoughts were finally chilled like iced lemonade, we ran through bushes and flailed in the mud to the car. We drove. Once sitting on our bed, a delicious thought bubbled into reality.
              We discussed it, unanimously deciding on this nights adventure...we'd enjoy the first rays of the morning while seating comfortable at Sacajawea Peak.
              Eager legs kicked and finally slept…too soon later, a buzz of a telephone awoke us, then another. I bounced out of the covers and to the kitchen to prepare a hurried breakfast of peanut butter and fruit roll ups for us, nutrition was priority. Then the clock blinked 3 AM.
Whines squeaked from tired mouths, but excitement prevailed. We packed into our seats and struggled to keep our eyes open, but the drive was bumpy and our sore butts kept us from forgetting the purpose of our trip. We were there to make our lives radical, and you can’t sleep in moments like these. 4 AM screamed at me, we had to hurry. I plowed my way up that mountain as the sun painted the tips of the mountains red. We crossed streams, tripped on rocks, marveled at climate change and the disappearance of the snow we had skied on just a week before. As the incline increased to nearly vertical, we met up with the mountain goats. Their tiny hooves danced on the faces of cliffs and I stood on the trail not more than a meter away. They smiled at us, said good morning, and we went on our way, huffing it up the face. As the sun’s light began to engulf the sky, we watched as the snow capped ridgeline shined pink and gold. A mountain shades us but as we reach the peak, the sun splashes our face, I felt godly. The sun has risen, and so have we. This is why we are alive; this is why we are happy. The valley below us still dozes, and we sit on top a mountain wide-awake. There is no item I could ask for that could ever give me this happiness. I do not climb mountains so that the world can see me, but so I can see the world…and it is so beautiful.
Ady Mar 2014
I've drowned before, in a literal sense of the word.
I, fancying myself adept, bored of shallow waters
dived in to the depths.
However, proving my pride quite wrong, the water
submersed me with its innate and temperate nature
to a world void of breath or zephyr.
I flailed my arms, and kicked my feet; but to the
sapphire liquid my efforts came quiet inept.
Understanding my current disposition, I left myself be
enveloped.
My lungs wailed and burned, the irony hardly lost,
and as I sank towards the muted pit of abysmal blue
I construed of Love's similar tactics.
Because now that I am drowning in the loveliness of
your undiluted singularity;
the resonance of sound, when around you, is dulled by
the  euphony of your voice,
my lungs have a lack of oxygen and the tilt of the colors
of the spectrum are vibrant and mesmerizing.
I've drowned before, in a metacognitive sense of the word.
I, more experienced, don't fancy myself a great swimmer,
because in the torrents of your sea, I am but a mariner
lost in the sublime beauty of exquisite waters.
Don't know if I like the title, perhaps I'll change it later?
Petal pie Mar 2014
She was always trying
To please
Smile, encourage,
Put them at ease
Daftness ensued
Goofy giggles ricocheted.

Her boundless enthusiasm
Though backfired.
It flailed around
And met walls
People got tired of her trying
Like an over eager licking pup
They found her presence trying.
This reflects how I feel I am received by some people
david badgerow Oct 2011
Two weeks ago, on a day that I'm making up for this story,
I was in the city.
I don't prefer the city, because you can't see the stars.
They are being snubbed out by streetlights
and to me it makes everything seem uglier, without the stars.

Anyway, I was sitting on a ***** riverbank.
It wasn't actually dirt though, because people in cities
have forgotten
what dirt smells like
and tastes like
and feels like between their toes.

It was the city kind of *****:
spent condoms and cartridge rounds
syringe needles and bags of brown
scraps of metal and wrappers of plastic
gooey globs of gum and broken glass bottles.

I won't lie, I had a glass bottle to call my own,
about half full of the Good Stuff
and I was feeling mighty fine about killing it alone.

When I looked skyward and off to the right,
I noticed a city bridge, what with its' running lights
and dangling cables and roaring traffic,
it was standing in stark contrast to the
quiet county bridges of my home.

At this point, and it may have been the *****,
but I could've sworn I could see someone
on the bridge
clinging to a tether
swaying in the swift city breeze.

I had only just convinced myself
otherwise, that it would actually turn out to be
a bag of fast-food garbage hastily tossed out
by a careless city-dweller,
that the man let go
                               and
                                     he
                                         fell.
he flailed his arms and failed
to gain traction
and kicked his legs but
they abandoned him in midair
                                                 and
                                                       he
                                                          fell.

I was close enough, and listened
and I heard him go
                               splat
                                      against
                                                 cold water.

I was jealous of his bravery.
I envied his resolve.
I admired him.
I lusted after his finality.
Greg Berlin Feb 2013
saw his mother
while they buried him. her hair
--with sorrow as flint--
smoked and caught fire. the world began to
cave in up and around the swollen fist of regret that punched
through my stomach --the fire spread--
speared my gut with blame.
all the while
a cacophony
of strings and trumpets
cried parting and
a soul flew
on golden banners
towards heaven
those stone white graffitied gates.
--the fire grew too much to handle--
in agony I flailed and screamed.
rolled down tall mountains clawing at bone and dirt
and flesh. gilded chariots breaking free. shepherding the beautiful
from the leperous, riddled atrophy that controls the living.
the dying and the burning. how everything burns
dies. fire smoke guilt regret. oh sweet death.
death in the summertime. death in the
morning, the evening, death of
everything. always.

eyes open
--a crisp, cluttered autumn hillside--
fall back upon his mother
reality stricken and grave.
blink twice. refocus.
a tear falls from her face
followed by
one from
mine.

the fire is out.
Andrew T Hannah Feb 2014
As the sun just begins to set, Eevee sits perched on a cliffside awaiting her lover Chimchar's return. She knows he can handle himself but she cant help but worry about him. Anxeity rattles her brain constantly so much that she can't sit still. She begins pacing back and forth across the cliff. Suddenly, a bright light flashes in the distance. Catching Eevee by surprise, she nearly stumbles off the cliff but regains her balance and quickly turns her head to see what caused such a bright flash. A pillar of flame had appeared in the distance not too far away along with lightning strikes. Immediately, Eevee knew that Chimchar was in grave danger. She hastily slid down the cliffside, weaving around rocks to avoid injuring herself. Rattatas and Caterpies noticed Eevee sliding into the forest and attempted to ambush and capture her but Eevees adrenaline increased her natural reaction time and she jumped over Caterpies string shot and the rattata got caught in the stringy mess. Landing nearly perfectly, Eevee made her way through the dark forest, letting her adrenaline drive her on her path to save her dear Chimchar. Meanwhile, Chimchar was in the thick of battle with an unexpected foe. The legendary bird Zapdos had heard of Chimchars quest and decided it needed to put an end to the puny monkey. Jumping from treetop to treetop, Chimchar was barely dodging Zapdos' lightning bolts while
simultaneously attacking it with his whip-like flames, nicking its wings and interrupting its flight. All of a sudden, Zapdos fired a Tri-bolt of blue lightning, blasting Chimchar off the rooftops. Chimchar landed ******* the charred forest floor, writhing in pain. Just as Zapdos was about to land what seemed to be like the finishing blow, Eevee bolted out of the forest and snatched her Chimchar out of the way of certain death. Chimchar - surprised - gave a quick hug to his dear Eevee before jumping into a cluster of trees and blasting itself into the sky, grappling Zapdos' tail. Zapdos flailed and tried to throw Chimchar off but it was unsuccessful because Chimchar had scorched its tail. Then - both plummettng towards the ground - Chimchar cloaked itself in white flames and grabbed a hold of Zapdos' body. Eevee dove behind a large tree just before the two foes crashed into the ground, creating a large explosion. Twigs and pebbles flew through the smoky air as Eevee jolted out from behind the tree towards her lover Chimchar only to see him lying on the ground next to the lifeless body of the so-called legendary bird Zapdos. Throwing herself down onto Chimchars body in distress and overwhelming sadness, she subtly noticed Chimchars arms wrap around her. Eevee stopped crying and hugged her dear Chimchar so tight he struggled to breathe momentarily. They both noticed Zapdos' wing begin to twitch so they both looked into eachothers eyes and decided it was time to go. So at the end of another successful day, in an almost picturesque moment, the two lovers Eevee and Chimchar walked with eachother into what remained of the sunset.
Jeremy Duff Oct 2012
I met you tonight.
You smelled nice
and I sat next to
you for two hours.
Sure, there was a
fifteen minute break.
But so what? Your
bangs hung straight
across your forehead
and you skirt lay
loosely around your
thighs. Your sweater
clung to you body
and you clung to my
mind. I know your
name and I know
your face but I know
not you.

It was your first time going to a show and you told me you felt like a white crayon.
It was my thirteenth show and I told you white crayons looked very nice on any color paper but white. So why limit yourself?

You had your legs
crossed and your
foot kept touching
my calf and instead
of recoiling I let it
happen. I talked to
you and when I took
my coat off it flailed
in your face and I
said "I'm sorry, sorry."
And you curled your
mouth into a cute
smile and told me it
was really okay, and
then the show was very
good and how many
have I been to. It's funny
how you're cute and I'm
me and you laughed
when I said stupid
things and I let our
legs touch and I even
held the door open for
you and said "Goodnight,
Lady. See you next Monday."
And you said "Goodnight,
Nolan. If fate wills it,
so it shall be." And we
laughed and I begged fate
to will it.
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.*



How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,

Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?



Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,

A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,

Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.

Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.



"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,

Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,

Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,

And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.



It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,

The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,

To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,

To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.



"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.

He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,

And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.



The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
I fell in love with fire at the
ripe age of seventeen years old.
I dared to flick on that lighter and
watch the sparks fly, intrigued by
how fiery the air felt.

Fancies turn to habits
Habits turn to addictions
Addictions turn to years
Years cut through naivety and
solidify into adulthood.

I flailed, I flopped,
I even stopped, dropped, and rolled
in filth, in mud, in murky waters
that rippled into a crystal ball of
an unfortunate future, indeed.

No prescription or over-the-counter reception
could soothe the burning you created.
I never realized how flammable my mind,
my heart, or my in-between places were…

As my soul smoldered
my throat choked on the smoke.
I asked for it to stop but all you heard was
“Keep going…”

You prodded, you poked, you stoked
the flames that licked from the freckle
on my foot to the freckle on my ear.
You poured out
the gasoline of selfless love and
smiled at your victory.
You crept into my life
You caught glimpses of the parts
of me hidden in secret places
You conquered my reason

Worst of all I was folded
in the hollow of your hand,
Beating around a bush
with a dead Trojan horse.

I didn’t see it coming, but I should have
known—I trusted you with my crowning jewel…
I let my guard down. Hell, I even
sharpened the knife you used to carve out my spine.
You entered my safe haven
in disguise, leaving  
a trail of matches behind and
scorching everything on your way out.
Jack L Martin Sep 2018
There once was a man named Rick
Who carried a red blackthorn stick
He flailed it blatantly
that ancient shillelagh
The bataireacht fighter was quick!
onetwothree Oct 2013
The machete of death is
Coming closer closer closer
Blood and bones and
My eyes are strained
From too much existential contemplation.

Not good for the soul
To consistently ideate
About it’s utter and absolute distinction;
Throwing your living body, your living soul,
Swiftly and without warning into
A raging flame that cobbles you up
Hungry to dissolve you, disjoint you,
Consume you into her wild flames.

Blood red and yellow as the surface of the sun
All breaking down into
The black gravely ash.

Where something cognizant
And living and organic and dynamic
Has fallen from grace like Satan falling
From his place in heaven
Arch-angel transformed into the anti-christ

And at times, I relate
I feel myself falling falling falling
Like Lucifer
And Alice
And Persephone.

We are falling and we cannot stop.

From our homes, the only ones we’ve ever known
Tumbling manically into a new world
Whose rules we were never told
Whose customs are foreign
Whose reality fills us with this
Dread of confusion.

Once we were home.
In heaven
Reading a book in the dabble sun
Spreading spring and life with
Our mother Demeter
And in a moment
It all changed

Without warning
Without any choice in the matter
So we watched outside ourselves
As our bodies flailed through the air
Our lungs bursting with screams
Our bodies lost to our own control,
Now just flesh being dropped
From Olymus to an upside world.

And yet…
We grew to love it
The devil, Alice, Persephone and I.

We learned to love our forced new world
And decided there was something majestic
About climbing through time and space
Traversing reality
Entering into a new world that flittered---
Terrifying at first, like the slit from a knife,
But then glowing, glinting with flame
And pomegranate and tea parties.
And as lost as we were
We began to find our way.

We sat down with the mad hatter,
We stopped ourselves form being swallowed
By our own gushing, oceanic tears.
We grew large and small.

We came to reign a dark, black world
That somehow become our own
So sinister, gaping with evil, think
With the sinners. But still, in my own way,
Perhaps the heavenly remnants inside me
Loved them. Watched them float here from
Their corpses like dancing skeletons on display
And I welcomed them into my dungeon
Of fire and flame and blackness and death.
I punished them. And yet, I loved them.
Punishing them like my children,
Wreaking the havoc they had caused.
They were sinners and they were mine
And no longer was I ugly and tarred and shamed,
A monstrosity. Suddenly, I was my own god.
And my sinners, so broken, hearts filled with black bile
Spewing out angry and hatred and violence.
But they were mine and all the fear
I used to hold that I was a sinner,
Not good enough to be good,
Dissipated. I was here in the bleakest part of
The universe, a black hold that gaped on for hours
With spikes and flames and wading pools of human blood.
I was a monster among monsters. They were my monstrous
Children, soulless, void of humanity,
And yet inside of my some fleeting thing existed
An undestroyed part of my early life:
For I loved them. I love their sins and I drank them
In like blood and wine. We are all sinners, but the sinners
Who have made their way here…their sins are so catastrophic
I believe they may in fact be divine.
Michael DeVoe Jun 2015
The darkness we share is not in the details of how we each turned off the lights
Nor the names we call our shadows
Nor the time we spent amongst them
It is that as we slipped into the absolute of despair we each took something with us
Call it hope
Call it memories
Call it armor
Call it weapons
It is that as we slipped into the absolute of despair we each flailed our arms for anything
That we each sought a way to hold on to anything
And while we both found ourselves here in this blackness anyway
The darkness we share is that you hold in your hand steel
And that I in my hand hold a flint stone
Our shared darkness is that we each stumbled around the dark
Until happenstance lit us a spark
And while we each adjust our eyes to light
Our minds come back from the maddening black
Thank you love for your outstretch hand
We know too well how heavy the dark weighs upon us to ever forget the strength of our happenstance
We may now use a spark to guide us
And later the stars
And later still the moon
And maybe then the sun
And if we are ever to count ourselves among the lucky
Perhaps then we will use each other to guide us to the light-of-still-here-tomorrow
Better-than-it-was-yesterday
AA collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae   poem for Charlie
Redshift Mar 2013
(first of all
i'd like to inform you of the fact
that my mother didn't die
in an unfortunate way
although everything about her departure
was unfortunate
and before it's time
she didn't die of breast cancer
or in a car accident
or whatever
no,
she's one of the few
rare
breeds
that this earth has been blessed with...
she's one of the mothers
that
leave)

1. if you don't have a mom
you probably have come to the realization
that you are never going to have nice socks
or even clean ones
ever again

2. you probably don't eat a lot
if your mother was
the cooking type
you probably eat mostly
hungryman's
and hot pockets
also
you'll probably die
a premature death
because of it

3. if you don't have a mom
you will be suddenly aware of all the **** you leave
lying around
for like
months
and never touch
until you break your
******* face on it

4. you probably have discovered
that talking to your dad
about boys
usually isn't a good idea
it gives him
the strange urge
to grease up his
shotgun
make sure that's all
in fine working order
sit on porches
waiting
also
give total
crap advice
about all of it

5. if your mother has left you
you've probably realized
that you're looking for a new one
that suddenly
your friend's mom
takes over where she left off
like some sick network
but it's not really sick
sometimes it's kind of nice
you get soup an' ****
and those awkward
bonecrushing
usually choking
mom hugs

6. your dad
has probably tried learning to cook
he's probably almost
killed you
more times
than you can count
on two hands
but every once in a while
he hits gold
on total accident

7. if you're a motherless child
you probably do your own laundry
or wear the same clothes
for four months
until you drag
your sorry ***
to the laundry mat

8. if you're a motherless child
you've probably pondered the fact
that you sorta wanted both your parents at your future wedding
but you'd tell mom to *******
at the drop of a hat

9. if your mom left you
rather unconventionally
(thanks, 1960's. didn't do **** for me)
you probably
pretend a lot:
pretend to be ok with her
pretend to want to tell her about your life
painfully
so she can tell
all the million other single moms
who left their husbands
(sometimes for good reason)
that her kid is smart
although she hates your guts
oh well
it's the thought that counts
(wait...)

10. if your mom has abandoned you
you've probably sobbed a lot
hit a lot of walls
slammed a lot of doors
kicked a lot of ******* bookshelves
pounded floors
stifled screams into pillows
tossed
turned
flailed
plugged your ears
slit your arms
open
bit your fingernails
blamed it on your dad
once or twice
smashed your head onto hard stuff
trying to forget
that feeling
of wholeness
spent a lot of time
thinking
about home
and how it used to be
and then cut some more
if your mom has left you
robbed you
broken you
lied to you
spit on you
smacked you
discredited you
then you're probably
a lot like

me


oh

and the secret is

you don't survive
2ndBest Jan 2015
SOS
Whiskey works in waves
I saw something hazy, a light
Making it's way down to the shoreline
I followed and took two more shots
Along the lakeside
One was to warm me up
And the other to make me believe
I couldn't drown in anything
Beside a body of water
Yet even with my feet
Firmly planted on the beach
My arms flailed above me
I coughed up seaweed
And my flooded lungs
Began to sing a broken chantey
"Take down the mast, o!
Tear down the rigging!
Tell me! Tell me!
What is a life worth living?"
MissNeona Apr 2015
Some of them are part hilarity, part shame... The thing is, there are so many reasons why I shouldn't have worked that job... I was between 16 + 17, overworked, super ADHD, brand new driver, horrible with directions (and these were the days of maps and phonebooks... >.>). I was usually running late, not really prepared, costumed, carrying things, haphazard and I had (and still have) plenty of issues doing standard issue human things... there was this one time that I remember going up to East Side Marios at the time... and again, this is over 10 years ago.... dressed up as a large bird... and now I'm a fairly large human as it is... especially for a female around 5'10" and in highschool, I was around that height already. With this head, I clock in at a good 7"... toting either balloons, flowers or some other gift... I wander through this restaurant, asking waitresses to direct me to my location. I get there, do the song and dance thing... and I'm pretty sure I totally slacked off most times and did 1/3 songs or whatever I was supposed to. I can't remember if the rules were never told to me proper, changed or if I just anxietied the **** out of the situation and failed to deliver. After I was done and trying to make my way the hell out of there. I'm extroverted, but not a fan of people seeing me in costume, touching me, trying to meander through waves of people dressed as a bird.. and just a plethora of other things. I preferred being safe in the shop and just tinkering away. Anyhow, while I was trying to make my escape, a waitress came over and informed me that they had another birthday party and she asked if I would be so kind as to go and say hi to the other party. Now, being the good little roman catholic school girl that I thought I was being raised to be (save for the glaring oxymoronic behaviour that I tended to exhibit in shame when nobody was paying attention to me...) of course I would agree to say hi and make someone's day a bit better. I made my way over there, and as soon as I appeared she screamed at the top of her lungs, sprung out of her chair and dashed over to me. Her arms flailed and found themselves all over my person, rubbing and molesting with a intoxicated fervour I had yet not been in receipt of at that tender age. Now, don't get me wrong, I had molested and manhandled my share of unsuspecting, awkward nerds at the time in my amazonian haphazard ***** youthful mode... but around that time, most thought that I was much too strange and dorky to engage with. So luckily, most wouldn't be able to get near my bubble, especially not to the extent and excitement that this woman was sporting. I fumbled over my words and sputtered out a, "Uh-uhhh.... Happy birthday?" To which the woman gleefully exclaimed, "Aaahhhaha! It's aa giiii~rrrl~" and at this point, in youthful motification a heavier set bald man let out a lecherous chuckle, "Uh hue hue hue.... my turn." All I remember was bashful waving and me trying to make the quickest escape my chaotic form could. Now, I don't even remember how long I held this job for, because most of my memories of the position involve some sort of failure and folly... so, I'm not sure if I made a clean break and if I heisted the additional awkwardness from another story and mashed them together, however.... on my way out, I remember somehow bashing into a waitress and having at least six glasses of beverage go all over me, her, the walls and floor and make a hell of a clammering all about. I remember being absolutely ready to expire by the time I made my way back to the van to change out of the confounded outfit that made my existence even more cumbersome. I am pretty sure most of the joys of that job only come in the retelling of the incidents in how entirely horrible they were to experience first-hand.
Sam Ciel Jan 2015
A knight left on his journey,
Three days he claimed he'd take.
He packed his gear, his blade shined queer;
He'd made a huge mistake.

A knight, left on his journey,
A day he'd been alone.
The hero's trail, a silent wail.
He wanted to be home.

A night left on his journey,
The dragon lie in wait.
As our hero neared, he slew his fear
The beast he would away.

A knight left, on his journey.
And in the fight he flailed.
He could only succeed as dragon feed.
As a hero he had failed.

A knight left on his journey,
For others to partake.
The beast was slain, 'mongst his remains
They found the knight's mistake.

A knight left on his journey
With a blunted sword.
The blade shone queer, and 'twas quite clear;
Death was his reward.
Just a lighter silly poem playing with words and whatnot. The title is literally nothing more than a gag, I couldn't resist. Forgive me.

Let not your pursuit of your dreams keep you from the dreams themselves.
Keep writing,
-Sam Ciel
©Sam Ciel
tanya Oct 2011
There is comfort to be had in some things familiar
But there was no comfort in that familiar voice
Telling me those familiar things
There was no comfort when the ground opened up beneath my feet
And my arms flailed about, with nothing to reach for but words sharp
But blunt with overuse.
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
Confused seems to be the new grade.
i've brought it home on my report cards
for years and yet
never allowed it to dampen until now.

It would appear to many that i have
lifted a new blank page from the books
and flailed around senselessly, finally
resorting to casually disembarking the
book on an outward passage through
the plate glass window of the 19th
floor apartment.
It doesn't scream on the way down,
primarily due to the complex fact that
it knew in some way or form that
this day would come eventually.

(Across the street, an old man sat
on a park bench, feeding popcorn
and alka-seltzer to the flocks of
pigeons he attracted.  He watched
the book's swan dive and unapologetically
smiled inside: also so disenchanted that
he too gave himself coal in his
stocking labeled "Dreams.")

i don't smile anymore for them;
makes me sad inside, i guess,
because one day we will be old,
carry our canes arthritically and
look for and reminisce about each,
but who knows if together.
Pagan Paul Jul 2019
.
The barrel hit the bottom
with a sound something like 'thwelp'.
The first was a 'thud' on mud,
the second definitely a 'Help!'.
Slim rolled from the wreckage
doing his best to look nonchalant,
and failing.
Its hard to look casual
sprawled face down in the dirt,
a help speech bubble floating overhead.
But he did his best
picking himself up slowly,
no-one else was going to do it.
Remarkably, or not, he was unhurt.

Kelm found a rib-cage,
the remains of a large fox,
and he was delighted.
Do barbarians dream of culture nights?
Kelm had, and he liked hitting things.
He had lost all interest in fishing,
in Bruce, in dolls, in girls,
even with the story he was in.
Because now he was, as stated, delighted.
He had his very own
Ex-why-low-fone.

She reached the bottom
blind panic in her open eyes.
She saw the figure of a man
picking himself up slowly.
“Poet!” she shouted at him.
“No” Slim said off-handedly
though he had a few select words.
“Then … I've killed him” she wailed
“Badly?” asked Slim
“No. Rather well actually. He's dead”.
Then she spied the sword
stuck fast in a rock, at a jaunty angle.
Aesthetically pleasing in fairy tales.
And a tiny figure grimly holding on,
reached up for a better grip,
touching the Green stone in the hilt.
Jerrica and Slim were blinded by a flash.

The tingling increased
and the sword felt power
surge through its length
and explode in a bright light.
The connection was complete.
The sword sneezed.
It knew him, he knew it.
Neither of them particularly liked it.

The moment he touched the stone
he felt the tingling feeling
and he felt the connection hit
like a brick wrapped in wool.
His head exploded in pure light,
the sword sneezed
and his future was sealed.
He felt so powerful and … elastic.

“What can you see?” shouted Slim.
“Nothing” Jerrica replied
“Which way is it going?” Slim asked.
They had sunspots, flash-spots,
dancing on, in and through their eyes.
They both needed a *** ***.
But as vision cleared
a shape, a shadow, a form, a man,
greeted their returning sight.

The poet stretched and kept on stretching.
He took stock, he looked great.
From 6 inches to 6 foot
in a matter of moments,
he had grown up.
He took a look around him.
Jerrica and Slim were gawping at him.
The sword felt warm in his hand.
And very smug.
He was a sword wielding poet,
he spoke.

“I do thank thee kindly Princess.
For being my friend and rescuer”.
She blinked quite a lot.

Her body was telling her what boys were for,
but her mind was really not quite sure,
and what if there was no known cure,
but he did make her think thoughts impure.

Seeing his effect upon Jerrica
he smiled in that Poet's flirtatious way.
She blushed even more.
“What is its name? Slim piped in.
“What?” the Poet asked.
“The sword, what's its name?
Fairy tale swords have to have a name”.

Tink, tinky, ******, tong, tung.
Kelm hit the bones with a stick.
Each cracked bone had its own tone
but lacked volume.
He used a bigger stick
and invented bone-shaker music.
He even became famous
with his own backing band
The Clandestine Trolls.

He held the sword
and asked it its name.
It maintained silence
in an embarrassed sulk.
“Aw c'mon” crooned the Poet.
Silence replied.
“Come to think of it” said Jerrica
“what's your name Poet?”.
That got him right in the logics.
He looked back in baleful silence.
The sword chuckled.

The singing bowl woke up,
aware of the presence of Magick,
it started to gently hum.
The sword started to hum.
With its own resonance
aware of the presence of Magick.

Startled Jerrica stumbled
falling through the waterfall
that had with immense interest
being watching proceedings.
Her arm flailed
and knocked the small plinth.
Jewel encrusted, humming, alive,
the bowl landed upside down
on her head.
And the connection was made.
Tingling Jerrica, tingling bowl.
The sword joined in
with a song of joyful union.
Quick as a flash
Jerrica was up on her feet
smoothing down her attire.
A princess neither flounders nor trips.

The Poet had had his hand extended
to help her to her feet.
She looked and smiled
'thanks but I'm ok' at him.
Their eyes locked,
their hearts threw away the key.

Slim got the familiar feeling of
I don't need to be here.
He looked at the smashed barrel
and thought philosophically
'something to tell the grand-kids!'
He headed for a tavern, any tavern, anywhere.

And our hero and heroine?
Well ..
they lived fairly contentedly ever after.

Except for the incident with
the anarchist fortune cookies …
but thats another story.



© Pagan Paul (June 2019)
.
Finally! The last part of this story typed up and posted.
Please enjoy :)
.

— The End —