"foretoken" poems
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.
Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.
Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.
The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.
The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.
Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.
Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.
People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.
They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.
And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.
That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.
Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.
Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
i
In the snowbroth, in the chill of the eve'
Mine aficionado inamorata shalt swoon me;
Under the gloss, of the ancient moss
Under the golden shower, overhead albatross.
ii
Thou art the apricity, when the wind bloweth cold
Thou art the castle, wherein is mine abode;
Thou art the rose, with none Thorn's attached
Thou art the night and day, a movie, stage, angel hatched
iii
Gorgonized, thou hath done to me
Directing me under thine foretoken;
Thine voice is quiet, though so captivating
Thy locution is so spiritual, liberating.
iv
Thou art a snoutfair, angel wing's, oriental hair
Freed I am, from the world of man, a perfected pair;
Thou maketh me want to do better in all of mine way's
I shalt loveth thee tommorrow mine queen, and more today.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
Well, hello!
Nice to meet you,
I welcome you to come see
The Land of the Words,
That's within you and me
Tell me, what is it?
What words do you seek?
Are you trying to vaguely describe all the bleak?
Well, come in!
We’ve got it,
A library of words
To use at the times where yours just never work
We’ve got, you name it
Every word that there is
Obscure, slick and slimy
Eternal and bliss
Or maybe enlightened
Audacity, please?
Do they properly describe your
Brown dungaree jeans?
No worries, don’t fret
Don't think I'm done yet
Sit back and hold on,
Those words, you'll regret
Bungalow, bushy, cabal and unclean
Tremendously, vacant
And blindly obscene
Tattered and broken
Lies and Unspoken
Do they speak to you mind,
Like they are a foretoken?
Cataclysms with dark exorcisms
Punk, goth and metal
And hooliganism?
Tell me, what is it
The library goes on
I’ll talk your ears off
From dusk until dawn
Patiently, potent
Absurdly, outspoken
Is that how you’ll describe,
A bright golden token?
Charismatic, kick, addicts
Your thoughts are a savage
Discombobulate, ravage
The words can be baggage
Keep looking, it’s there,
Every word, and I swear
They exist to make circles
Out of regular squares
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Curious habit you've got, Doctor,
Being proud of only parts of people.
I think if I had to choose, I would want
It to be my neck. My neck has
My throat, you see, and out of that
Comes the words you seem to be
So proud of! Well,
Thank you for all you've done,
But thank you more
For everything I've had to figure out
Alone, shambling, fingers numb in early Autumn.
You were never there
When it mattered most:
When the townsfolk came for me,
Torches and hayforks outstretched--
Where were you then, Victor?
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC