"frigidity" poems
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
My Arwen lies over Belegaer
Beyond the Straight Road, lies my Evenstar
Across the Endless Sea, in Aman she lies
She wouldn't stay here just to love, but to die
I remember her here, here in Endor
When the beacons of Gondor burned bright.
I remember her here, once beside me
In the days before the long night
In Imladris fair, as Estel I was raised
In ignorance there, I spent by blissful days
I lived, and I learned, and yet never yearned
For she from whom I now feel so spurned
I've had my Éowyns, but none quite compare
To She, my lady, so radiant, so fair
At Cerin Amroth we pledged our love
To all, ourselves, and the Ainur above
But the Darkness again spread
Morgoth's mission again led
The Fellowship was wrought
The battles all fought
The Age of the Firstborn was ended
The Age of the Hildor ascended
Our world together was split
And really, that was just it
She could stay here, forever, be mortal
But ever so closely lay Mithlond ,the portal
To a life without end, I can blame her hardly
I guess Barahir's tale was never to be
What’s this? You say she’s not yet set sail?
But how can I stop her? Our parting was so stale!
Sure Elrond's presence and Galadriel's glare
May have done oh so much to damper our parting
But as she goes afar I know I can't go there
And her expressed frigidity, that wound is still smarting
What should I do for her I adore?
Run to the Grey Havens and stop the White Ship?
But so much I must do, right here in Gondor,
A King I can become, as my Queen give me the slip
And the spirits are howling,
The white tree is burning?!
My power, my people
BUT I CAN'T STOP THIS YEARNING
Oh what shall I do? TO ERU ABOVE
I have so much work, but I so miss my Love
The tears, they are welling, the Ship has set sail
In all my adventures, in truth I have failed!
For what am I worth? No King has Returned
And without Hope is Gondor, and the Stewards have burned
Denthar departed, the mighty horn split
The mighty White City left here to sit
I could let it fall into disarray,
Again a Ranger, I could slip away
To die like the Ents, forever, no Wife
Is there nothing to save me from this strife?
A new dawn is rising, a new age begun
My hopes might still clear
with the new rising Sun
I see its my duty, as Arathorn's son… what Isildur started, I must see done
but still I mourn my loss… that beautiful star, which now like all others, I must admire from afar.
~D. B. Guy
09/02/2007
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
The air is brittle this ominous, wintry night.
The slivers of a life you used to know still haunt you, as surely as you have permitted them to be a haunt to others.
Without question, it is those memories that spur your ruminations; that cause your copious circumlocutions; which compell you to stand on this somber boulevard in front of this crumbling, but once stately manor that now is a languid presence with the solitary purpose of looming over the vast grounds.
It is obligatory that you proceed along the avenue that used to split the yards that are now overgrown and chocoblock with twisted vines, and thistles.
You pause, to gather your strength.
One deep inhailation and then you hold your breath as you grip the tarnished handle and lock leaver.
With a perfect measure of strength your thumb recalls, the mechanism is undone.
Your arm pushes forward.
The silence is disturbed by a warbling creak as the heavy door is slowly opened.
You exhale, then before you lose your nerve you quickly pass through the ingress and enter into the foyer,
which is instantly familiar in the dim, flickering light and the long, slender adumbrations effected by the gossamer encaked voltives jutting from the dusty walls.
Though it has remaned unchanged
throughout all the time that has passed, standing in the ornate room affirms that the warmth with which you used to be recieved here has been abandoned to a frigidity.
You feel as if this room remembers you.
This is as far as I dare go with you, my friend, though I know you must continue.
I have listened to your stories, so
I know you have many rooms to search.
The closier that you seek is in a matter that is not my own.
I will depart upon rendering these words of warning:
When visiting the past,
As you daringly explore these often haralded halways,
Be careful what you leave behind.
Take caution not to lose yourself,
For a shadow lingers in the Suite Sublime.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
The broken mold lies screaming with hopelessness,
its purpose lost-
the clay has discarded the form the artist wanted to emulate.
The mistake,
the fault,
the glitch,
warped from the copy to become an original-
not as desired or required,
but having a will of its own.
To realise the dream,
is to satisfy the itch.
To wake from the dredge
is the Life on the edge.
The fault of finding freedom from frigidity.
Spectacular views are seen when you wake from the dream
and the colours scream like coffee and cream
Laugh at the imagery,
the cardboard cutout words strung together like sweet christmas decorations.
Fall in the pool
like a funny bunny cartoon.
Be the sad clown for one more noisy day-
and while you're at it:
brush a giraffes teeth.
Smile at the dreary monotony
and greet the ever grey sky
like a buzzy nook not.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 9:00 AM UTC
---
she
is
defunct
mother of a
strange changeling
she
nurses it upon
her own heart
arterial blood
of deepest crimson
while It
bites the ******
she
accepts her fate
and allows it to feed
until it is bloated
as a leach
she
allows this stillborn
to drain her soul till
there is no longer any
joy nor pain
love nor hate
peace nor fear
lust nor frigidity
she
has named
her child
loneliness
and she
lets it
drain her
til
she
is
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
How To Dress For My Funeral
black or white, hot n'pink,
lavender always a fav,
at a fun funeral rave,
lacy or plain, your choice,
tho clean would be nice,
won't matter to me very much,
the color of your underwear.
but do not fail to recall, the dead,
their vision keen, can see all!
funeral gravity rules to be strictly observed,
snickering and giggling to commence in the
back row, when holy pomposity gets uttered,
let it wend its way forward from the aft,
until y'all better be
laughing your ***** off
anyone who chooses to speak,
must commence with words,
"Did ya hear the one about"
or be haunted by my spectral shadow
tickling both feet at midnight, or,
worse yet, reciting this awful poem
in their head, like Henry the Eighth,
I am, I am
perhaps a hora dance might be nice,
a mamba line, butts, holy rolling n'shaking,
past rows of rock n' rolling tombstones, guitar-playing
some Metallica,
while the rabbi intones somberly,
Let's get this party started, gad ******
if my untimely hour should arrive in July,
I humbly request that flip flops be the ped-modality,
if January should be my season
of absence treasoned, use some reason,
please stay home, and let the paid professionals
suffer in fine phony, professional, seasonal frigidity
at the post partum party, should that occur,
I humbly repast request, barbecue be the cuisine,
in the hopes you all recall to place
a generous helping, repeat, generous helping,
inside my sauce- proof pine wood casket,
with extra napkins for the long trip ahead
now these are all post hypnotic, post breathing,
helpful suggestions, not requirements,
but honor or disparage, cry or vent,
curse or bless my perma-absence,
don't matter to me, as long as somebody
reads this manifesto at the festivities, first and last.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Rattle my yolk control, baby.
Give me a turbulent flow.
Squeeze my needle valves, baby.
Insert your directional valve.
Come on upstream through the orifice.
Give me that viscous friction.
The discharge coefficients are ready.
Blow out your resin agent.
What's the matter, baby?
What happened to the elongated pump?
Do you need a pressure compensator?
It looks like a reducing valve.
How about a little friction
to reexhibit some rigidity.
Let's renegotiate positions
and dissipate some frigidity.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 4:23 AM UTC
love is a
state of mind
an emotion
sometimes ephemeral
sometimes steadfast
its source
an archetype
formless
it is not a relationship
although it may exist
in a relationship
or only
in a moment
like a spark in the dark
it is a function of imagination
as is empathy
it is magical thinking
*** may be an instrument of love
or a powerful healing balm
in and of it self
a profound therapy
and seen as an act of
divine grace
the ancients knew this
but unlike them
we have taken
sacred prostitutes
from ancient temples
vessels of the
goddess eroticism
Astarte of the Canaanites
Áine of the Celts
Min of the Egyptians
Aphrodite of the Greeks
Kama of the Hindus
Inanna of the Mesopotamians
and transformed them into demons
by subjugation to the depths of our subconscious
the archetypal female was replaced
by the neutered holy ghost
the patriarchal symbolic genital mutilation of women
a gift of horrors by Romes Council of Nicea
crippling values written in stone
frigidity guilts child
an abysmal morality
a theft by
kleptomaniacs of freedoms desire
for two millennium
vessels of the goddess
have been transmuted into a profanity
inflicting
a cold homicide on
****** freedom
forcing the abandonment
of a most essential constituent of sanity
the miraculous repair and revitalization
of the soul
through passions physical touch
sensual love
and the release of pent up desire
and left in its place
a harness of deprivation
an expression of a regressive culture
that promotes
a barren terrain
between
emotional ****** insecurity
and the monotony of monogamy
I am a voice of Thelema for the coming Aeon of Horus
LOVE IS ALL LOVE UNDER WILL
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Frigidity gnaws dully
like an outcast lion
scavenging on the bones
of its former pride.
Creeping nefariously,
it claws through any gap it can find,
sliding and slithering
through a hole in a fence:
a rabid dog.
It is thick, viscous and voracious
like some sort of anti-magma,
having all the properties
of a volcano’s foaming mucus
only lacking heat.
There is no frozen core,
as the whole is so consumed
with horrid chill,
the edges are no warmer
than the deepest depths.
Ice holds the same burning power as fire.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
*This coldness reminds me of the ice in my heart
it reminds me of the avalanche that threatens this winter
upon the snowy mountain in my soul formed by the tension of her absence
and the compressional forces of loneliness
this weather wants me to have another start
but I doubt there's more in my embrace but a cold shoulder
I doubt a lifetime could melt away this ice brought by your lies
every such morning I realise maybe I'll never get over this winter
unless I find one who will summer bring
there's no such person, none can bring even spring
so much as I'd wish for warmth, I must find it in the rain
albeit I crave pleasure of belonging,I belong to the pain
to the hurting and taunting past I can never have
with the innocent beautiful girl,the only one I love
the beauty cast away and innocence she lost
if only I could can find her among the white walkers, her ghost
this chill reminds of how losing her was a big deal
it was the an inferno in paradise and it's burning still
how will I rediscover the warmth when I'm content with frigidity
how will I change my heart,how will I bend its rigidity
this coldness is a mirror that reflects ain't over you at all
it reminds me of heaps of flakes piled in my soul*
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
Drip drip drip
The sunset cracked the surface of her permafrost heart
Drip drip drip
The candlelit feast fed the flames of the passion denied
Her heart as fossil frozen away and yet the smell of summer experienced
Seeped deep into her countenance and so it was the melting of the snowman
Drip drip drip
His touch pierced the outer wall
Her lips freed to his drip drip
Her hands held in passion drip drip
The melting of a permafrost heart
A little from the edges freed then more and more breaking fee
To beat free from bonds of frigidity
And so the ice melted piece by delicate piece
The woman fossilized, the man rebuilt in heat of a summer.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
Your jagged smile struck my heart,
Took sweet thoughts and turned them ****
Your smoky brown eyes chilled me to the bone,
You took away my frigidity that made me alone.
You dug your virtue underneath my skin,
I tried to get away but the uprightness already leaked in.
It turned my soul new and rebuilt my mind,
Happiness and hope was soon all I could find.
Drown me in your sublime toxicity.
Drinking in your fresh authenticity.
Eeverything you do, truthfully
In a world full of lies you're the truth to me.
You're lips touched mine, such a bittersweet taste,
Covering my mouth in a toxic paste,
The poison rushed in, like rain from above,
I was injected with a dose of murky love.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
Looking out this double-paned plate glass window into the gray frigidity and red-leaved bitterness of October in one of the last wild and still-untamed bastions of freedom in the west at the mountains thinking about how even they are moving, my darling, and how the spaces in between them are growing just like the space in between the sun and the earth and the space between all the galaxies all at once and the space between the spaces between the world and I and soon I’ll just be floating all by my lonesome in some swirling pool of- not air, no, not even air, just nothingness and watching everything float away like disappearing city limits from the tailgate of a truck on cruise control zipping across the badlands and maybe you’ll be there but going the opposite way and there’ll be nothing to do but watch it all go, go, go, til it’s
gone, gone, gone
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
The Games we play
This is not an English poem, the fear of showing
emotion, look at my stiff upper lip, wrapping
words of love in cotton wool. The truth is, my
Dear, I don't care for you, but my cowardice is
a deep river so profound I can't come and say:
I don't love you anymore.
Flowers sent, the ring I gave was out of pity
and guilt hoped you would sense the chill
behind the gift and frigidity of feeling.
Under a cloud of pusillanimity, we'll wed, live
near a hairdresser salon for you, and a park
bench of Autumnal leaves, for me.
Unbridgeable the distance between us, I will
go on dreaming, and you will scream at, my
passivity till there is no reason left,
the useless wind brings no seed to replant.
This is how it will end because I lack the gut
to say simply. “I don't love you anymore.”
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 6:07 AM UTC
Frigidity wounded the tender palms,
numbness nestled in beards,
crystals of snow hung from her earrings;
all now photographs that have creased.
The souls stare into the windows once mistaken for walls,
recalling their shadows chained to the stagnant snow,
but the seasons are meant to spiral,
and amidst the mosses osculated by winters,
there bloomed petals adorned by renewal.
Some cling tight to the yarn,
afraid of pointed crystals shredding the weave,
while some recall the cold, garbed in a tender sweater —
the tender sweater spun by bleeding hands,
pricked by needles and lost amongst the threads.
Once one with the pine tree,
trembling in a blizzard,
they now converse of and with past,
clad in fabrics of rejuvenation.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:05 AM UTC
Rock's chill in early Spring shadow
keeps leaf-buds folded
while greenery's frocks, still frozen
in fuzzy stiff mold,
reveal growth's frigidity goes
hand in glove with cold.
As ice-wind becomes zephyr stone's
rime loses control,
frost melts when pairing takes over,
plants' ****** role
exchanges gender, smouldering
with intent that shows.
May's rising sun resurrects tones
of need-coloured gold,
male and female lustily hone
livened desire, hold
hands, steal kisses and gene-loaded
feel blood embolden.
As time turns to love Nature owns
the chase will not slow
for copulation re-proves growth,
appearing sans snow
stirs fur, feather and human bones,
to what all are prone.
The heat of togetherness sewn
into weather owes
its success to overflowing
need for warm clothing
for cold never turns bread to toast,
or so I am told.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
I, the bird, to this marine world
looked back up at the bastion of mine
from a new perspective.
The brass propellers,
the ‘streamlined’ shape of the beast,
seemed insignificant, to the beasts of God below.
I insignificant,
out of place,
in a way that awed a part of me
A vortex of swelling frigidity replaced the air of my world,
I spit out the tube
lurched back to my reality
My scape.
I saw the bright yellow
pale blue, above,
and a squadron of orange tipped tubes floating
about the rippling white capped sea.
The pearl again white, and pure.
The Voices fluttered about, and grins were sent our way.
I looked inside for my knot of fear,
it dissipated,
impossible to reassemble as dry sand.
water drained from my tube
outstanding figures below were gone.
All that was left was the shadow of the boat,
a couple dozen still to my rear approaching.
But the serenity and rush were gone.
The perception of the sea’s attitudes on my weak flesh,
the fear of the unknown,
vaporized like boiling ice.
The whole experience lost, and replaced.
Urgency lost, I floated about on the plane between two of God’s worlds.
Neither of which we truly understand.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
I've been awake for a while.
You have been in stasis.
A bitter slumber,
With burning dreams
My scalded thoughts writhe,
Frigidity is so tempting.
Am I ahead or behind?
I lost interest in this crossroads,
Years before you approached it.
You will stand and search and see,
Finally,
That in this flashy intersection of bodies
There is nothing to explore but what you've already seen in your head.
There will be nobody to talk to
But the corpses of those that never moved forward.
I have felt so much more
On this dusty two laner--
Without the distraction of the blinking lights,
Without the screaming of the thought police,
Without a lust ridden billboard selling supposed truth--
It is so much easier to see the horizon.
It is far more beautiful
Than flesh.
And is more eternal
I would see our fingers
Intertwined like you would see yourself
With as many people.
If that is truly what you want
And this is truly your stop
Maybe it's time I unclench my heart
And let you wander;
It's four in the morning,
And I'm exhausted anyway.
I hope by the time I fall asleep
Your ever-shuffling feet
Will let you find home.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
to you nameless and cold
harbinger of longing and breathlessness
icebergs float eternally in your presence
to mingle with the myriad capsules
of the love you will never know
and the tears of those saints held aloft
who forevermore condemn
the frigidity of your dissolution
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 5:11 PM UTC
Will you stand and face the greying skies?
Bear, resolute and unflinching, the shudder of thunder
the flicker of lightning
the anonymous frigidity of hail and snow and rain and sleet
as it crash lands on your face?
Will you stand and face the rising tide or the enormous wave
that sweeps towards the sandy shores of your desires,
hold still, perfectly so, while the ocean’s salty tears
come together as one to deliver
a hit so merciless, your very soul will be knocked off its feet?
What will you do when you wander the forest
naked, without sight, without direction
and the towering jack pine comes crashing down
directly onto your path?
Will you stand and fight the ignoble bigot
on the corner of the street that claims
to be overlord of your conscience?
Or will you stand and face the skies, the seas, the woods,
and Man,
with the creed and cry of one determined to scatter
oppressors into the night,
to walk from one side to the other
and come out unscathed?
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 12:47 AM UTC
The world was shrouded
in thick curtains
of ebony night,
a chocking,
gurgling
scream
faded into the void,
and I became aware
of my own
frigidity.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
Take me into you, mind and body alike,
Tired of this world, in your arms I seek respite,
You may shiver, of the cold within thyself, and my frigidity,
But still hold me close,
Believe me it's a necessity,
My bones may thaw, in the warmth of your embrace,
And if they don't, at least my tears may melt within you, some cold, aloof space,
You are the alpha and omega, the very breath my lungs inhale,
You are the rhythm in my beating veins,
Tired, of all the functions living entails
So hold me, love, let me be in your arms until time stops,
Don't ask me to move, keep me, just until the ball drops
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
Slow whistle.
Atonal wind hums
through the naked
boughs of autumn.
Sunny November.
Hats and flannels
color the cityscape
under assumptions
of nearing frigidity.
But the sun still shines
and the wind goes on
humming, just like
it always has before.
Nov 7, 2022
Nov 7, 2022 at 7:35 AM UTC
Fall, fall...fell
in love with
this day, as
every.
When the sun
goes down,
her look away
is not frigidity--
but a reminder
of what days
imply.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC