"gibbering" poems
The failed seduction
by drunken discussion
and skunk fueled
consumption, leads to
a compunction dysfunction
suspended in animation
the digital tides
of expulsion
catapult me into a
an eschewing propulsion
and the limitations
of re-imagination.
As far as I was aware
I was imprisoned
in nothing more
than the realms of
Skype and FourSquare
but for the Feng Shui
of trapped energies
and google-mapped memories
adorning the locations
of complacent hallucinations
amid the dark fibre
communications
with a female
of Nordic persuasion.
The compliments and comments
and poems I sent
were lost to the myriad
of random intent
I was attempting to be clever
and metaphysical
she on the other hand
was PHD level
and psychoanalytical
ergo my metrical composition
was utterly lost
in a conversation
on metaphorical reproduction
and the magic and mysteries
of osmosis
and the application
of modification
by transduction.
The moral of this tale
- if indeed there is one -
is if you are going to Skype
with a mentally superior type
do not before hand
have a blistering
smouldering
grass pipe
with a flagon of ale
lest you be a
gibbering earthling
destined to fail.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
My heart is in utter confusion
My heart bleeds
Tiny razors ***** and torment and cut me and my heart bleeds
No one understands the extent of the damage caused by such a deep betrayal of trust
No one understands the feelings of shame and blame
No one understands the pain of the memories
No one understands reliving the past in the present
Except those who have been through this hell
Broken trust is like a crystal goblet shattered by a screeching high pitched discord
It can never be fixed
My heart bleeds again
And just when I thought I'd bleed out & my soul would die
Fate opted to show me another side
Dared me to learn to trust
Tempted me with small glimmers of hope
And, again, my heart bleeds
But not in pain or disappointments
Not in self-hatred and hopelessness
This time my heart bleeds with hope.
My heart is in utter confusion.
It bleeds.
Tiny razors ***** and torment and cut me and my heart bleeds.
No one really understands the extent of the damage caused by such a deep betrayal of trust.
No one really gets why you turn into an emotional gibbering mess trying to hold your sanity together with duct tape and super glue.
No one with the exception of those who have been through it themselves.
Trust broken is like a crystal glass shattered by a screeching high pitched discord.
It can never be fixed - best to just throw it away.
My heart bleeds again.
Just as I thought I'd bleed out, my soul would die, and I would become this empty shell of functioning learned reactions with no thought or feeling, something happened.
Fate opted to show me another side.
Dared me to learn to trust, teased me with small glimmers of hope.
So my heart bleeds for what I hope is the final time.
Not in pain or disappointments, or even self-loathing and rejection of the hearts purest feelings.
No, this time my heart bleeds with longing.
This may be my saving grace.
And yet I am scared to death that this may destroy me yet.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Drums in the darkness: a jungle clearing
fetish masks and gibbering lips
grass skirts, headdresses, face-paint leering
nocturnal trances, gyrating hips.
A medicine man, by spirits possessed,
grunts while the powers invade his mind;
the dancers shriek, as if distressed
by a presence in shadow not yet defined.
It’s only Rock’n’Roll…
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
my love is that love
swerving in novas, gobsmacked and gibbering...
a funky cuss of lust
oblong in the short run
sprinting to horizons of forgotten doves;
cooling heel and grind-
in peat moss
of mauve thoughts; so lurid you could find them
in pitch dark.
my love is the love
that chinks your armor.
the soft clang of a raging Kismet
port of your starboard !
i am in love with you
and this thing
is "mostly harmless "
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
The North Wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then,
Poor thing…
The house that poor young Robin bought,
You’d scarcely call it a house,
A single room on a farmer’s farm
You’d not swing even a mouse.
But he moved on in, and tidied it up
And asked Rosemary to stay,
She sat in silence, her knees clamped tight,
And her first response, ‘No way!’
‘There isn’t a cupboard to keep a broom,
The kitchen’s there by the wall,
We couldn’t live in this tiny room
To even think, I’m appalled.’
But Robin said, ‘It’s just for a start,
I’m going to build on a wing,
I’m making the bricks from mud and straw
It will all be done by the Spring.’
So Rosemary had unpacked her case,
And hung her clothes on a hook,
Then looked in vain for a tiny shelf,
There wasn’t even a book.
But Robin slaved, out in the yard,
Making his bricks from straw,
The walls went up and the roof went on,
And he laid the wood for the floor.
At first they slept on the floor inside,
And Rosemary kept it clean,
She said, ‘Don’t touch, till I am a bride,’
And pillows went in between.
He put his love all into his wing,
All carpeted now, and swish,
And set it up as a bedroom then,
‘Are you coming to bed?’ ‘You wish!’
She only ever kissed with a peck,
She never opened her lips,
He wanted more, but couldn’t be sure,
As he nibbled her fingertips.
Then one day, down came the winter rain
And the wind it was blowing cold,
Rosemary lay there shivering so
She allowed him just one hold.
His hand had strayed, down where it would
You’ll admit we’d do the same,
But he found down there, in that neighbourhood
Something that changed the game.
He leapt on up, and he washed his hands,
Said, ‘You’re not even a girl!’
‘Didn’t you guess,’ said Rosemary,
‘It’s not the end of the world.’
She chased him all around in that room,
‘I thought you wanted to play,’
While Robin stood, his back to the wall,
While holding her off, ‘No way!’
He fled into his favourite wing,
And hammered and bolted the door,
His bricks were melting out in the rain
And mud flowed over the floor.
She went on back to the troupe ‘Les Girls’,
While Robin stayed on the farm,
You’ll not see him venturing out these days
He lives in a state of alarm.
With just the sight of a petticoat
He’s a shuddering, gibbering wreck,
And ask him if he will leave his wing,
The answer comes back, ‘Like heck!’
He’ll flee to his farm,
To keep him from harm,
And hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!
David Lewis Paget
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
She stood in the dock,
a ruddy gibbering wreck,
very flushed and very frightened,
The stern judge was a vulture,
dreams of chewing her flesh,
Counsel for the prosecution,
was a rather noisy crow,
In her defence,
an eagle stood,
Clutching close her feathered brood.
the courtroom clerk a budgerigar,
with yellow breast,
and mottled feathers,
chatting and typing litotes,
although not really listening.
The defendant for the trial today,
was a bright pink flamingo,
with googly legs and googly eyes,
that poured out such pink tears,
the way the case was going on,
well,
she could be locked away for years,
the jury consisted of mockingbirds,
who laughed at everything they heard,
the evidence was null and void,
not really heard above the noise.
Having heard what he could of the evidence,
the vulture judge got rather cross,
he called upon a dove,
"members of the jury,
we have to acquit this pretty flamingo,
because I believe that I'm in love".
(c)Livvi
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
You would have me play their games
conform to their ideals
take their tests and obey
obey their wishes obey their authority
You would have me forfeit my
individuality, essence, mind, soul
you would wish me to walk
the walk of the waking dead
open eyes unseeing, open ears deafened
by their voices, ranting, raving, gibbering
salivating, drooling, gnashing their teeth
in anticipation of consuming my
hopes, dreams, morals, conscience
but
I refuse you and your lies
I refuse to be one of the flock
I refuse to be subjugated
I refuse your will
I refuse to live how you see fit
I refuse to passively accept your burdens and your problems
I AM ME I AM MYSELF AND I AM I
You will never lay claim to me
I REFUSE
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 12:10 PM UTC
I went to a funeral and lied
I went to a funeral and lied
In junk and drink, no grief,
Just cowardice and pride.
Fear of losing you by my side
Losing you to the other side.
Fear that shook with the gloved murderer's hide
I went to my funeral and shied
I didn't want to sleep or hide
I just held your bloodless, jaundiced face
I couldn't help but feel a fake
As two sets of opache eyes
Did not pass a tear and cry.
Just the shivering hands that stopped your last sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
I drank and stood in black and could not cry,
I strung words and made some ineloquent speech
Loved and held but held love out of reach
Spoke in riddles, played hide and seek
With a congregation of perjured freaks.
I laughed at their blindness where my guilt sits.
Last night in our death bed where I slept
Dry-eyed like your cataract eyes
Dumb mouth fish gape
In the old flat, my eyes, dry, dry eyes.
I didn't hear the trains last night
I couldn't hear grief's knock at all
There was no knock,
There was no wake or ball, just
Your bloodless gape and jaundice face
Shining yellow plumbed and spent
****** leech-mouthed, dumb,
Your cataract eyes,
Under clumsy-ashed mascara lids
A shy pass in some gothic flick
A tetany spasm, no shock or awe.
You looked up at me and saw nothing at all.
I share some dead shark surprise;
Opache, tearless rolled-up eyes
And I lay gibbering at your side
And laughed and hated your passion and cries
King over requiem and bride
Healer, dealer, hood and pride
Addicting storm and flushed aside.
I scraped blood off your chessboard marble floors
Wiped the evidence from cold-polished claws
I burned effigies of pagan-hates
Hoodwinked the sentimental double agent spooks
And threw scent off my mistress as a ******* clown.
This morning I went to a funeral and lied
I could not spill one tear from these witness eyes
That watched the hands suffocate your traumatic sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
Conducted proceedings with the murdering hands’ whys
I wanted the last of you, my bride.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
The restaurant where I often eat has a raw cinderblock shell to show the world
It was painted a long time ago, when a new owner bought it out
It was meant to beautify, it didn't work
But I guess it's the thought that counts.
On the East wall, near one corner, is a rectangle of thick white paint
in a field of grime. Always fresh, always clean.
It is marred by a series of looping black slashes.
Stare at them for long enough, relax the muscles behind your eyes, let them slip out of focus
And you'll start to see letters
In the dipping and diving bands of black.
It's writing
An alien calligraphy
People as woefully uncool as you or I weren't meant to decode it
There is energy in the strokes though.
It's a performance frozen at it's moment of completion
You can see velocity, grace, excitement, a little fear, and a deft, darting contempt.
All of these things in the broad and narrow ribbons of paint.
When I'm in the right sort of mood, with a full stomach and a lazily sunfried imagination, with the heat from the asphalt making things in the middle distance quaver,
I can make out the dim shape of the artist.
See where they stood, the sweep of their arm
the turn of their head, wary of witnesses.
Days in and out, it goes on.
Bare white one day,
blackened, besmirched, beautiful the next.
The snowy rectangle grows thicker.
Why the owner never stakes out his restaurant one night, I'll never know.
Why the artist doesn't venture beyond that one little pen, or choose a new wall entirely
will remain a mystery, probably for all my breaths to come.
It's like some mad story penned by a poor, gibbering lunatic.
Each is doomed to a war neither can win, and neither can lose.
I bend double I'm laughing so hard
They take it so seriously.
But then, don't we all have our petty conflicts?
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
Flashbulbs. Microphones.
A circus has invaded our home
And filled it with strange, jeering faces.
Reporters, you once called them.
And I remembered.
Avarice. Questions pour out of their incessant mouths.
Like a metronome invading my brain.
The thudding roar of my heart transforms their gibbering mouths into a silent movie.
Funny, I never knew you were famous.
With a jaunt in my step
And my smile fixed in place
I saunter away to my room to weep.
I throw in a skip.
You would have applauded my decorum.
I fantasize that the mask slips off my face
And shatters onto the floor.
What a mess. Someone should clean that up.
And a reporter asks me, "Excuse me, little girl, did you drop your face?"
To which I have no answer.
Fast forward 5 days to
Labyrinthine hallways
Filing cabinets for the dead.
My tiny footsteps resonate in that pristine expanse
Though you no longer walk with me.
How can it be
That I can only remember you
As a wisp of smoke
On a fickle breeze?
I am only 10, and yet I know.
That I will dream of your loving touch
Your silken voice.
Your gentle way.
But not from memory.
I will weave this tapestry of imagination
So strongly, So warmly
That it will provide permanent shelter
From the bitter chill of your ghost.
From the truth of you.
I smile once more as I leave that space
Of ineffable loneliness.
Why not?
All is well again.
You would have been proud.
For it was you who taught me to lie.
It was you who taught me to fear.
And it was you who taught me to forget.
Mother.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
Kissed Faith good-bye,
Stepped into the night,
Met a man on his way
To the Forest.
Faith behind him,
Uncertainty before,
Wavering on his way,
Brown faltered on.
Such a cloud of witnesses
As to keep him from this path!
But then they met him,
One by one,
Catechist and Minister,
Deacon and Elder,
Murmuring and gibbering;
Wise fools wending their way
To meet him
In a clearing, deep.
Pink ribbons falling,
Snake-head pointing
Feet now stumbling,
Then running before
In a wind of curses.
Firelight red,
Congregants cowled, silent,
Save the voice of Faith,
The near-initiate.
"Faith, Faith!
Look to Heaven!"
Resist the wicked one."
Woods silent;
Devil, fiends, fire ... gone.
Only Goodman Brown
To stagger home.
Ironic morning sight:
Smiling faces of Salem town,
'Gainst downward gazing
Goodman Brown.
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 9:18 AM UTC
Angst paces around the room gibbering to himself, and scratching the hair off his head. “ I need, I need to find it. Ally’s key… Aye, just the mad hing to lock it”. The door’s been left open for weeks, and the filth has been pouring in relentlessly: “ My Boyfriend was average till he discovered these miracle pills”, “ Icelandic Brides”, “ Think Rich. Be Rich”, “ Wonga: YOU pay when YOU can”, “. It’s all piled up and yet scattered throughout this already cluttered space; mixing in with the mess of the severed heads and rolling eyes. Angst paces through the filth, eating some every other hour. But he carries on searching for the key ( or the wee hing) he needs to shut all this out and think.
He lights a cigarette from one of the candles on the long table(12 chairs accompany the piece, but there is only one, as there is only need for one just now) and passes the rest of the day watching the smoke swivel into a thumbs up icon or a question mark in a thought bubble( or anything else blue and white). All the while sifting through the filth for that wee hing’; stopping every hour or so to feed on it.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
the death rattle
of the rain on glass
wind howling
in the eaves
i feel the earth
start shaking
as time's shuttle
loops and weaves
all that is within me
wants to turn and run
but i know that i must
stay here
and finish what's begun
within
three days of darkness
ghosts gibbering
ghoulish glee
i don't believe in
fairytales
but this wickedness
i see!
i'm hiding out
within the halls
of a fortress strong and tall
I would not have
been able to brave this
without these
sturdy walls
so, c'mon wolf!
just huff n' puff
try to blow me down!
squint your eyes
***** up your face
wear that bad ol' frown!
i await my destiny
with backbone
and with tact
*I LIVE IN A
BRICK HOUSE!*
and brother,
*THAT'S A FACT!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/15/2016
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 4:57 AM UTC
witty witticisms
profoundly profound
flung
from
fools
guarantee gibbering garbage
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
Down in the cellar.
By the river, by the candlelight.
She sits with her pale grey
Eye that points and beckons,
Beckons to the gibbering
Of incessant trees.
She calls out to the Man she
Is destined to meet
Like everyone else.
Like the curdling of what
Is there, faceless, at birth.
A Figure proceeds out.
From his coat He pulls a
Golden pin that is as long as
A day or longer. He smiles,
He takes her hand and stabs.
Her wrist beads with the
Dawn. It runs down her arm.
She smiles, she takes her candle
By the wick and feeds
A Man
Her flame.
Under the speculative moon.
Under the sleeping house.
Finally, a sigh from the Man.
He has no mouth to speak of.
To the river He leads her.
The water accepts her. A hand
on her neck, He the biting aid.
Not light.
Not of need, but to feed-
To cede an ember.
To burn her up in the night.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
It was in december when they came for her
she had been coming home in her Volkswagen car
there was a flash of light on her windscreen
and then from the drivers seat she was gone
Why they took her I will never know
four years later she did make a show
her face was ashen and her dress was in tatters
and she was gibbering like a mad hatter
She told us she had been taken
told us to the highest heaven and deepest of hells
we looked up at the skies after that
after the unfortunate taking of Lillia Bell
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC
Give it a rest
give me a break
Let me wake to fresh coffee and not more 'earache'
Give it a miss
give me a kiss
Let's settle down for some marital bliss.
But you go on and on
and you're wearing me out.
I want to shout 'leave me alone'
I want to feel this house is a home
not a warzone
not a ground zero
and you're not a Nero
but you want to burn me
turn me into a gibbering wreck.
At your beck and call is not all that I do.
I have a job and you have one too.
Give it a rest
let's both try our best and compromise
look me in the eyes and say,
'Yes
that's what we'll do'
On Sunday at two when I went to confession
the old priest was not ready
nor could believe the procession of my faults I laid out.
And he began to shout,
'leave me alone,leave me alone
this is a church don't treat it like home'
On my own now
echoes of home now
fade.
Wish I had paid more attention.
Suspended
My life's in suspension
has it ended?
Should have tended to needs
pulled up the weeds
Now I'm speeding towards another silent day
there are no words I can say
to describe that.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
I spit words
I do not mean to say that
in the street, beat, hip-hop sense
I do not mean that
I spit hot rhymes
I mean
I spit words
they explode from me
suddenly
violently
And they are painful
And I cannot control them
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
gibbering like a
simian, brandishing my
privates in my fist
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
Just because Mother told
Father he looked like some
New York tourist, with his
Loud shirt and hanging camera,
He hit her once or twice, you
Couldn’t tell, just remember
The yell, the cry and flurry of
Fists. Mother looked a wreck
After that, her eyes gazed out
On a different world like some
Columbus on dangerous seas.
You **** with me woman,
You’re going to regret it,
Father said, his bass voice
Flowing around the room like
A large bell, his knuckles
Speckled in bright blood.
Mother’s spirit was black
And blue, but he never once
Touched you, not even a raised
Hand; just his words and stare
Kept you out of there. You can
See her now, cowering when he
Came in, standing stooped over
The sink and saying softly, Mary
Lou, don’t say nothing when
Your daddy comes in just let him
Settle in to his chair just let him
Be calm and unwind, don’t bring
Him troubles or worries, just let
Him be there. You watched as she
Shook when his key hit the lock,
The young woman she’d been aged
With each hard look and knock.
You sit now and see her in the
Crazy house, wandering the ward,
Gibbering to the walls. You can
Still recall your father sitting in
His chair, his eyes in some lifeless
Stare, with the carving knife Mother
Had ****** into him, well rooted
There and in the background on
The radio some Country and Western
Singer was singing deep and slow.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
Mourning nights between tiled walls.
A neon tube flickering... illuminating the darkness of my mind for a brief spell.
I contain, restrain myself... refrain from doing things i might regret.
These white walls.. where i spend most of my sleep...
Splashing water, rinsing my eyes....
pretending you are filth i can wash away..
A bad dream that fades with sunlight
But is never that easy....
Hours drip by... endless pounding
my head against the wall....
Another pain to block out the other..
End these sounds that cause my anguish..
A self inflicted comatose..
I wish i could sleep my life away..
Yet sometimes release seems so close...
my feet anchored to the ground..
To finally catch my sleep...
My thoughts collide.. converge in purest shape..
The flickering neon light bursting in violence...
Nothing but a dark room.... and this eery feeling... of a stranger watching over my shoulder...
It whispers to me.... and grabs me by the neck
my elegy ending with a sour note...
For i find myself a gibbering wreck
I reach the end of my road
shattering the memorable mirror...
Shoving its shards down my throat.....
And i am found between the blood and coffee
that stained the floor....
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
I am out to lunch
feeding the monkeys in the zoo
so busting the seven twenty
just to get back home
I try to talk to them in Latin
and they are gibbering something incoherent
and I gaze at them and think
*** who's out to lunch
Here is a banana
I have a bunch
*** I am out to lunch
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
Standing aside
sun gibbering
a moments collide
rotating dreams
shifting upon axis
thrown adrift,
start the car
it's time to go
seeing faraway
pollen drifting
in your hair
set of jaws
Tense in despair
smell the gas?
Time to go
on the verge
Off the curve
careful not to drive
Into the sea
careful not to drive
over the wet sand
wary of desires
too easily
set adrift
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Dear Chaos,
Hi.
I don't know how to start this because I'm sure this is going downhill from here,
But how are you?
I'm...coping.
There's this whirlwind going inside of my mind and All my insides are compelled on coming up,
Any minute now.
I'd ask if you'd lend me a hand but I know that whatever you touch, you're pledged to burn.
Sometimes I feel like that;
Anything my fingers come across,
The contents become ash
A figment of my imagination,
No longer present.
How is it that you're so used to the damage you create?
No matter how many times I ruin something,
This ache within me grows.
There's a hole in the center of my chest.
I think the void will swell and someday,
I'll disappear.
Chaos,
Why does it always seem like loneliness hangs onto me?
This weight that presses into my lungs makes it hard to breathe.
I lie there in my half filled bath tub and think about how it would be to drift through space.
There's this immense silence that I wish my mind would contain but I'm guessing it's used to the endless talks and gibbering of nonesense.
Chaos,
There's so much hurt...
Why can't you leave me alone?
Why can't something else clutch onto me and love me
Why does it have to be you?
Am I supposed to appreciate that I get loved by you, even though I slowly lose myself in this maze you've created inside my head?
Chaos...write me back.
Help me understand.
Yours truly,
Angel.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC