Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
multi sumus Oct 8
Intimate the sound the sirens call beaconing throughout the inspissate fret...From afar her beguiling incarnation ajacent the horizon her eye's on his billowing bedimmed silhouette reflected upon the face of the deep...

"Come to me" she cried "Let us be as one"

   Casting chaos to the gales he verged athirst and there, before him she lay

...Oh how firm the swell and rich with froth as the tides awash the sands of time and the weight of desires burden wrenched within

   Esurient the turbulence by fathoms and leagues by eddies conceived in tidal she arose to greet him
   Yet gentle the mistral caress upon her surface bare as a wanton air perloined the gasp

   Vaporous emergence sudations occurrence the descention attention to ripple and wave engaged such heavens flash and thunderous peal

   Now vortice coalescence their essence as one the sun so concealed revealed there is none to which could deny the troth twixt communed abiding implored as tantra ensued tsunamic collision the vision beheld but immanent imminence ebb and dispelled their epoch ephemeral memorable (knell)...
   Allusive conclusion and this is the tell


                   my mother a maelstrom

                           father a tempest


   And through their Love they created the perfect storm.
White Wolf Aug 21
Tempestuous gales imbued the horizons about
Thunder and lightning charged the dense sky
Watching shards of a rainbow swiftly fleeing
Flashing blacks and greys permeates the eye

Indeed, the heavens were vexed with rage
Hearken to the voices of the gods this day
Echoing through the mountains and valleys alike
There was no denying this mighty display

Expeditiously it came, like a furious beast
With a hefty breath, it suddenly dissipated
It was as if, the gods had been satisfied
Some way or another, they had been compensated

Within a heartbeat, the birds took flight again
Flying in the wind, for now, they were immune
The elements now all calm, brewing in their guise
Don't play with this woman, she's a wild typhoon
Excuse me for being so verbose!
Palpating the empty cavernous realm of intellect and morality,
I find a restricting noose constructed of the finest strands of insecurity, but it's more proportionally comprised of self-doubt. Each fiber's soaked in a vat of social restraint, the ineffective capability of people to deny injustice. Choosing instead the intoxicating mirage that hereditary lies has handed down throughout the centuries.

Helping the constructors of irrationalism build their platform upon supports of popular opinion.
Equipping it with the ingenious trap door many a potential scholar of entropy and fatalism has fallen through. Snapped necks they suffocate on the breath of pseudo-liberty; as the French have, and Americans still do.

Hands bound behind their backs by indecision, latent anger, the belief in a system far from progressive. Where morals and codes of conduct are tempered, and deliberately shaped into devices of torture sugar coated, and worn pridefully without knowing the restrictions nor the pain, any form of progressive thought is absent. The mass majority select intellectual stagnance over the enlightening evolution of attempting to understand the human condition.

They are not to blame.
For shame and resentment are left for frugal debates over each new candidate, sheered from the same wormwood poisoning the stream of consciousness ****** by a nationalistic fervor full of flavor, no long lasting integrity, only iron clad walls of discretion and misrepresentation.

Traveling great distances, shoulders encumbered with regret, apathy, and triviality; the phantom that is a patriot has left his burden laden tracks for the next poor sap to find his way far from freedom, closer to slavery. The yoke fits loosely but unlike the bumbling oxen his purpose is indiscernable, his capacity to think of a way to escape is neutralized by the bag of oats and blinders he himself accepts; by abhorring what he’ll call disrespect and irreverence toward a slave driving body masked by the right to live fruitfully, albeit sedentary.

The joy of complacency is not holding responsibility, not feeling accountable for any choice where the dangers of rational thinking may awaken the bitter, savage realization that he is merely a by-product, a cog in a larger scheme to keep freedom a longer journey than it is according to the whip holder’s theory. The excruciating knot is pulled tightly together by hunger, so the worker satisfies this hunger with more intricately designed knots. His concentration isn’t in untying it, it’s merely compounding it with greater enigmas he’ll leave for the omniscient to decipher, and untangle.

He’ll wash his hands of the assignment and swallow what he deems nourishment, but the hole is never plugged. The hole grows and the abyss growls, the sounds of thousands of souls in constant traction, but this man of many fantasies can have no distractions. His focus remains selectively aimed upon projects the future will later ruin, yet without foresight the ambition has no name so the cycle remains the same.

His lifeless body now swings to and fro above gallows where the omnipotent applaud the writhing spirit of free will convulsing violently; gyrating while the sedated world of the executed continues being recreated to disguise the sincerest, deepest pain he’ll never know, because knowledge is will and the power struggle is one of isolation and possible destitution. So only when he wakes after his fate has been sealed will free spirit, and free will assault his no longer inebriated body, showing no mercy and reminding him of every time they tried to save him.

He’ll scream in utter agony placing his voiceless soul amongst those bellowing from the abyss he never tried to close. What’s more, choosing to ignore such an enormous expanse of nothing, makes the punishment perfectly sufficient, and succinct with every bit of skepticism he had that such a void of expression, virility, and endless suffering even existed. The twisting twine that holds this wretched, still body of reason securely above the wastelands of awareness makes the most insidious noise. It’s like rubbing famine and pestilent ridden bodies together; the crunching sound of bones absent of mass, riddled with brittle chip marks where the consciously aware soldiers of misfortune have attempted to shape spearheads of vindication, but are then left where they were found because even the potential tools of warfare are less sturdy and strong than the flesh bound mind of sterility from whence they came.

So there is nothing this heap of biological ingenuity and imagination can offer, but to swing in each gusting breeze like a sign posted “No Loitering,” “No Trespassing” would when pushed by the conglomerate gales of assembled hundreds. Ignorance prevails, those who fight are made to accept this evil mantra not out of doubt, but hope that once one awakes before his/her spirit and will has been completely removed, they’ll feel the refreshing irony of those who prayed silently that their army of insolent rewriters of justice has grown by one more.

Still breathing, within a masked struggle fought on separate planes of reality, behind curtains weaved of Kevlar, lead, and iron, many perverts of theory co-opt covertly in absolute anonymity fashioning plans: the plans of liberty, freedom, and prosperity.

They’re his only means of acquittal. Slashing the ropes and allowing those long since dead to die in peace, and those whose breath still has a bit of resistance to fight; the chance to view in full honesty and tragedy the gallows where weary travelers of theory are beaten by conviction and moral restrictions.
Vicki Kralapp Sep 29
While all about me wild winds rage, I stand amidst the calm,
and wait for gales to raze that which is loved;
as storms return to pummel me and bring me to my knees,
while skies above let loose their mighty flood.

Amidst this massive hurricane I search to find a light,
but in that place of gray I find my pluck,
in a place of calm and solitude I gather strength to fight,
through turmoil in each moment that is struck.

I kneel now at this threshold, and pray to heaven above,
for added heart to get me through this war,
to ease my pain and guide my feet while fighting through these storms,
and place me once again on life’s calm shores.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Yenson Jul 22
Its stuck in their heads like a finger in a ****-hole
pull it out and a torrent of water jets with stunning force
a wasteful cascade of the natural gift that feeds world-wide whole
water brains is fitting here for what is stuck in liquid brains is farce
its a 'silver-spoon' image created by knaves, spivs and errant proles
alas, its stuck in watered brains brewing stormy gales in places sparse
fantasized 'silver spoon' has driven dammed water-brains to sad tolls
no reasoning or logic assailed vituperate mob voicing fully till hoarse

War, war the tin coat armies rise in Tolpuddle marches
a 'silver spoon' resides in our dusty midst in shinning splendor
heads heaving with dank waters, muddy slosh they riled in batches
lords of Denim and dukes of tattered canvases go knocking at doors
join the revolt and do your bit for a silver spoon is to be put in latches
no rhyme nor reason to watered-senses as simple minds settle scores
in frenzied pain and fevered angst's they tarry, scurry and scratches
hate has been legitimized and freedom for racists to all roast and sour
pandemic madness in full throes, a made-up 'silver spoon' to dispatch
Crowd manipulation is the intentional use of techniques based on the principles of crowd psychology to engage, control, or influence the desires of a crowd in order to direct its behavior toward a specific action. The main property that keeps a crowd united is a shared feeling ;A� a key factor indeed, both for propaganda and advertising.
The crowd experiences a sense of insurmountable power and a feeling of omnipotence to such an extent that it annihilates any sense of responsibility that it might be present.A� So the crowd gets easily carried away by its wildest instincts and becomes overly spontaneous while beingA� wrapped in a mist of social stress.
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
In the Plymouth Pass where I have passed
I witness buckles gaining mass
The paper cuts within my brew
Lampoon another step anew

Here lies where my skin was sewn
Wheezing steel, nature-grown
The gasps around my mind can see
The naked yellow tether

Where I have seen my lover last
She kept me in a dress of brass
I long to see the Painted Crew
And eat the early morning dew

Dying’s cheap, dying moans
But living’s false and lies alone
For I believe that there’s a seed
That dares to croon, “forever”

I am strapped to a crown of birds
A shepherd of a mangled herd
We saw the Creviced Brigantine
And dreamt to hear a Byzantine

But speed, it saunters with a lapse
Cleaving instantaneous gaps
Who keeps watch to study time?
I’ll lock my learned head

In mondegreens, I taste a word
That chimes the gong of Lost Kyntire
Delouse the tongue with saccharines
Postcards via magazines

The wheels don’t turn, no, they collapse
Into a delta off the maps
I weep the street with sweat of rhyme
To lose what I have read

Where is Homer’s furrowed lining?
I forget my ink a-shining
The sun berates my slanted sleep
Which leads me to a voidless keep

The ties I twirl have never told
Me money’s green and fakes a fold
This jagged jingle holds a pen
That rakes a love of wealth

My mind is braised and stamped for finding
Reasons for a word’s rescinding
By my sins, I rest on heaps
Of famine-stricken sermon-sheeps

My steel-laced cries have never sold
A penny for my growing old
I decry the breadth of men
Who drink and die to their own health

Christ, I tire of my treads
I sense distaste of the well-fed
Sprouting my depraved behaviour
To find the sport in slaves and saviours

I can’t read with eyes of grain
I can’t draw the dated pane
My limbs belong to Nation Trusts
My child shall have my feet

A Mannish day usurps my bed
As the net that keeps me wed
To depots of deserted paper
And sickened lines of perverse vapour

The printed blue fight to remain
Twenty-four stallions breed to maim
The Court of Mobile states my lust
And treasures it like beets

Berries of the freesome smell
Southtrail deers degrazing hell
I am born to hear the hiss
Of driven serfs endowed with ****

Gratitude is served in rocks
Given life by stale warlocks
Augurs of the larger days
Reducing me to innocence

The Marshall spits a shallow well
Coagulates into a gel
To stress this life, I’d be remiss
And slowly stripped by vicious mist

I should chafe to serve a clock
Which underlines the formless flock
Yet I try to pave my way
To tangible incessance

Vivian Mills, an architect
Loves a state she can’t protect
The walls are hammered willow trees
Mercury arrows, guileless and creased

Edward Crael, a charlatan
Only writes on jars of tin
Where hate is love, rendered stale
And echoes through the past

Lonny Winn, the One Prefect
Cries over a submerged wreck
She feels the transit’s caving knees
And drinks away her soaring pleas

Finnick Gaelan, the Captain
Feels the weight of northern winds
He prays to long for wayward gales
Yet permeates the past
poesuer May 27
as I lay there, hugging my knees, tucked up into my jacket
the 4am gales swept away any comfort I may have found, and I thought of a wisdom I once heard,
"this, too, shall pass"

and I clung to the thought as my eyes drifted shut,
as the dawn stumbled its way forth
and the street lights weren't needed anymore
"this, too, shall pass"

and as my head drifted from concrete
back to cotton sheets
and I felt safe and content and greatful for all I have
I breathed a sigh
softly, in relief
"this too shall pass,"
I don't know the origin of that saying but it helped me through sleeping rough so I'm greatful it exists
Jude kyrie Mar 15
darkness  is a mantle
That billows from the clouds
It brings back all the pain
Hidden inside its ghostly  shrouds

Bring me the  light of morning
Hold fast those  bitter tales
Give me the tender light of dawning.
Quieten all your stormy gales

Bring softly the ghostly memories
That dance inside  my head
Take away the fear and longing
For all of those now dead
Dark thoughts
Jude
acacia Aug 21
Talking through the walls, whispering endearing acts of heresy;
(for the most holy things are said in secret)
he's tricking and flipping the air around,
but will his gales blow stronger than the Sun's fire burns?

Who could be satisfied with clovers of their own?
I want clovers of yours, and yours: but I must not let this greed take root in my soil.
For if it is fertilized, I will have to uproot my whole skin—
truth is always becoming, truth would look nice on my body
(to become a spiritual young woman, I must make my mind like I make my bed, I must cleanse my heart as I cleanse my plates—I must, so to present my body as the ultimate sacrifice)— shedding the old, and the new glistens like moistened lips.
"Just a vehicle," I whisper to myself, looking into the window out my bedroom.

Ceiling is bright blue, decorated with moving clouds and stars: it is night and day in my land.
Mr E Oct 2018
Ethereal rift, shimmering tide
Calm as ripples dancing across the sea
A standstill beauty where we coincide
Gazing gently, comforting me.

Blanketing sparkle of speckled dust
Swirling sea foam and warming light
Cocooned bliss within complacent trust
Soothing me softly with twinkles bright.

Stepping onto glassy plains
Mirrors to my internal plight
Reflection of eternity remains
As I fade to the night.

Floating faintly I drift away
As gentle gales push ever so slight
Embracing me, my love, I cannot stay
As I fade into the night.

— The End —