"graven" poems
where am i?
how am I to write when
I am no different from
those gaseous ephemeral words
who lie prostrate upon
the pages of my dictionary
carved plainly into
those battlefields strewn across
the wartorn country
my heart the despotic dictator
whose primal drumming
carries no tune
and no rhythm
and throws of explosions
grenades that
black out the world for
a brief moment
until it careens back and
slams into me
disorientated
i should have been born twice
for how could i have
both my body and that
intangible inexplicable
something inside
it stirs at the molten core
of me
that chasm that forged
those graven images
that first gave way to
a pictographic language
and offered me
a voice
to explain that immutable
all powerful
urge
lust
to throw myself on that
red button and
detonate
burst into a million pieces
and finally relieve that
nauseating pressure
of adipose smushed between
holy bone and
saintly skin
interloping in that space
and separating two lovers
barriers create madness
walls box me in
and yet i grow
an expanding balloon girl
macy’s day parade and
candy littered streets
and razor sharp edges
to steel walls pressing harder
against me than
my supple skin could
ever possibly press
back
i can’t breathe
there is no room
for my lungs to expand
and feel the
fresh sun filled meadow
of crystal air
delivering oxygen to
starved alveoli
and i can’t find your chest
to guide me
in impossible respiration
i’m suffocating in my own skin
from no outside force
but my body itself
turns inward and
shouts its dominance at my
cowering self
sniveling in the corner
of my dusty half used heart
where no blade could possible
land a blow deep enough
to silence the torment and
particular personal poison
a torture to course through
every part of me
activating every single neuron
and making me
hyperaware of my
shame and noxious
venomous corpulence
a reality i
never wanted you to see
but is written plainly
in fiery script across my forehead
and in every fold of fat.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
Somewhere at some time
They committed themselves to me
And so, I was!
Small, but I WAS!
Tiny, in shape
Lusting to live
I hung in my pulsing cave.
Soon they knew of me
My mother --my father.
I had no say in my being
I lived on trust
And love
Tho' I couldn't think
Each part of me was saying
A silent 'Wait for me
I will bring you love!'
I was taken
Blind, naked, defenseless
By the hand of one
Whose good name
Was graven on a brass plate
in Wimpole Street,
and dropped on the sterile floor
of a foot operated plastic waste
bucket.
There was no Queens Counsel
To take my brief.
The cot I might have warmed
Stood in Harrod's shop window.
When my passing was told
My father smiled.
No grief filled my empty space.
My death was celebrated
With tickets to see Danny la Rue
Who was pretending to be a woman
Like my mother was.
4.4k
That fella to seemingly false gods
Giveth his entire devotion, worshipping
Carved and graven images and idols
Instead of the Lord Almighty in heaven.
Even the witches in their chosen coven
And Satan himself are to God bowing.
Idolatry filleth God's heart with sorrow
Like adultery bringeth to a home woe.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
Though toss'd of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.
2.6k
1. Grumble
Of pugs. Or old men. Correlates to the grouping
of wrinkles: smile lines (down) whiskers (up). Synonymous to a gaggle of geese. Or women.
A grumbleman steps on the Pug's tail
and a passing girl hears
a crack, yelp, **** She turns to help
but the grumbleman is gone and the pug
with him. She wonders why her neighbor's car
is still at her Mom's house? Why her Mom
wants to be called Veronica not Mary. One night she dreamed Veronica dancing on their roof
in the rain holding tight to an old red picture whispering to a woman on the lawn dancing
dry in white. She tried to call out to Veronica
she saw her slipping, but when she touched her lips
She felt them sewn shut with coarse, wet thread. Veronica turned and flew to her, to the window, grabbing her hands forcing fingers to feel
the brail graven into her Mother's giggling teeth that read, Don't look, your father will be bleeding soon. She awoke and her window was bound
in greased black leather. The floor ashen. Her lips still sewn
shut.
Anne stood,
picked out her fathers bones
Veronica had sewn into her
pillowcase
and
she
danced.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
In the midst of old ravines and paintings, a succulent soldier dreams.
As dawn starts to paint, as the secondhand piano plays,
his azure iris will gaze
to the sun- the faraway maiden.
In hope that one day, he'd sunbathe and chase dreams
with spring nymphs in holy fields of bonnets and poppies.
Into the poetic imaginations he submerged,
eating dainty buns,saccharine berries and milk by a spiral pond;
and pirouette like butterflies on feathery grass with florets and mist.
Far across the sullen lakes, He'd run with the spring squirrels and foxes;
through the honeyed prairie, the crooned secrets echo faintly like a damsel's song.
In between His spellbinding tales, plants they giggle in harmonious blithe—
that even the gale who gush by in haste, would stop and peer with serene awe.
Abundance of miraculous faith He ignited to his vein,
for the black dots of his crest and spine to someday evanesce.
And in ease, realms of woodlands and lone moors abound upon his eyelids,
that mother nature awaits him.
tick tock, two steps away from the holy born of Christ,
He died of collapsed dream, like muddy landslide of wet monsoon.
His soul— a soul of a fey,beatific and mesmeric dreamer, perish away in stardust.
a shriveled lilac body, graven into a treasure box, a seraphic smile carved.
With waterfalls and chrysanthemums,
moonbeam and fog, an elegy,
and a handful of brimmed ash—the box sealed like a secret letter.
that dusted night
ashes charily scattered to the wide empyrean
along with a brush of vain agony.
Rest in peace, Floyd the cactus.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
In pressing times truth oft' lies so oppressed
And falsehoods rouse to speak in joyed debate
That burdens brought to bear upon the breast
Might anchor nought but will of one testate
What courage leant upon a graven guest
Not thrift of fear in bearing of his fate
But silent as all untruths so expressed,
Except to cry with cursed tongue, "More weight!"
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
Andrew ate my tamales inside of 11 minutes,
and soon there will be more kerpustiuous ones ready to taste.
Watching ****** through three different windows; all broken at the moment.
Anyone have a sheet of blood to give to my mad mothers rage?
Let us copulate together for the glory of this fleeting age;
yet inside eleven minutes
the leaning waxy vomper mice shall dance upon my wig and deliver unto me an aching head.
So let me not,
no do not,
let me live
through this night so dark and shmear-ed upon this graven face.
Nay, let me live toward this learn-ed light with a hand to hold,
and away to learn your shining grace.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.
"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."
2.5k
Wellspring of blood and gold
In flame and glory ever
Doest thou faithful rise
Cast off thy vapor shrouds
Radiance of ancient godhood undimmed
Magnified by singing ice
As prophesied in the late darkness thy
Hoped triumph heralded while
Bearers chained on metalled rails
Muttered protest under
Hoary breath of polar air
But lo! The brazen promise of thine
Image graven in beholder's eye
Rings hollow in the bitten ears
And the stung flesh
Feels thy boasted fire
Not at all
Above thee stands the city's goddess proud
So virile once thou smilest
Upon her white clad shoulder now
Ceres scorns thine impotence turns not
But fixes her steeled gaze
On the frozen north
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
My mind never sleeps my thoughts defeat me.
I just need some sleep.
my head spinning round and
round like a merry go round.
how do you sleep with a broken heart when
the one you want is so far gone?
Thoughts control my emotions leaving
me open. My mind is effortless it
leaves my breathless. its amazing how our
hearts and minds work.
A wonderful creation of art graven.
We all have the same functions
but different conjunctions.
When the mind never sleeps
the soul slowly departs the body
leaving an empty shell where once a
person dwelled.
Sometimes i feel like my life is a dream.
At 3 am i'm tossing and turning laying
restlessly..
Hoping one day i'll finally wake up and be stress free.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
See me as I am:
A broken masterpiece shackled in chains.
My wounded soul bleeds.
Time cannot heal the lesions broidered
on my flesh, nor the scarred past
that is my graven present, my son's future.
Envision the dream, a hollow
glow shimmering in the night,
searching for the key
that will unlock freedom.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
To Gods acre caught in the storm
Of the angels immolation harried
Like welcome strangers to the feast of
The good shepherd, the world
The flesh, the devil take the hindemost
Vigilantly stalking Earthly tears
Encrusted jewels upon Hells vestment,
The harbinger of death wearing a garland
Of skulls fashioned off of Heavens tomb
Splendiferously graven upon lonelinesses
Stoop spirited as shooting stars the
Pitched candles of sovereignties saintly hands
Resting between lives enlightening the broken
Lamp of truth purging the liasing humours of
Illuminous damnation unfrocking priests
Under colour of nothingness epitomising
Faiths elixer yonder the gate of unfoldenment
Breaking butterflies on the wheel
Of rightousness unabating delving the vale
Deciduously to show the cloven hoof woe betide
The levity of Man Friday billowing in the
Teeth of the wind.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
It comes suddenly
a storm that rages to fury
bleeding me between your hands,
your mouth,
to where each syllable lost
between midnight’s satin
crests into a crazed madness
where the soft slide hardens
to gripping intentions as my arousal
tastes in jasmine-licked surrenders
like manna
for your hungered heaven
there, where no scream
goes unanswered but only echoed,
you are with me
primal
seared,
the flesh of you wetly hot
to my thundering pulse,
I am surrender laced
with impetuous desires
woven to linger upon your reddened lips
pressed *******
scrape across your flesh
as you moan in greedy adoration
to my whispered frenzy,
“taste me here,
let me feed you
there”
the suckle of your hot mouth
plastered to my ******* fills me
and I am burgeoning
upon graven yearns
here,
I ache in throbbing flames
as your tongue lathes
love’s lick playing tag
to my purr of silken gasps
and breathy mewling cries
in your ears
stating my submission of this
plunging dominance….
I burn…burn
…to inferno
Smiles wreathe pearl
as you revel in my passionate blossom,
your lick peels me wanton
where we are
pooled
shameless and painted,
my torrents are spilled for you
stained and swallowed
greedily
and I,
quivering in the tsunami
that you bequeath to my racking body,
I arch,
reaching that shattering golden gateway
singing joyous to the columns of fate’s
raging wave
Unleashed,
I am
the tide
Where you are damply hollow
and drowning...
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
For eons untold I have watched you rise and fall. Build empires and break them. Cure diseases and be ailed by them. I have watched you commune in many religious ways… watched you slaughter for your faith. Now that the darkness has dawned, finally I have come, soaring towards you.
As the farmer brings his harvest home, the librarian pores over long forgotten a tome, whilst the piper flutes a final tone. Echoes from my insides a most peculiar and maddening drone.
Too long soils you have stained with blood, bygone your time of breeding. Your cancerous race, your viral existence… Put out of its misery soon enough.
I soar, adorned in shrouds of doom and gloom, my wings blowing frigid winds and blotting out the moon. Unseen horror, hidden in the darkest nooks of your feeble minds. The stalking predator that lurks near the sheep pen. Crypt born from the graven mounds of a long stained and rotten memory. Ancient pillars carved for me, worshiping us.
No atonement can there be for the existence of human sin. Only to rend and tear your fleshy vessels. In a nuclear chaos confounded to the self-made oblivion, the blindfold to not see, the unutterable horror that is me…
Flee…
If it makes you feel safe and sanctified. You will feel my leering gaze and gaping maw wherever you may hide. Sleep will creep upon you somehow.
Like in times of old, there are some stories they left untold. To prevent further damnation and total extinction, the worship of the gods of all creation. Floating in a sea most nebulous, blackened and foul, adrift outside of the play garden of time and space, there live things without a face.
The piping of mad flutes a harbinger of my coming, a blazing star to wipe the slate clean. Not even a faint echo will remain.
Go out while you can… Walk hand in hand into extinction as brothers and sister, opting out of a raw deal. The last midnight for the human race…
A cancerous vile growth that only thrives for our amusement…
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:52 PM UTC
the kissing dogs are gone, sleeping long, chasing fancy in their fog
curious, a girl with a pocket of amaranth
always fresh rain on her lapel and neck
and eyes that become fixed and smaller in pleasure
an image that remains un-graven in memory, a mystery still,
like a candle stolen from a windowsill
sitting at a bar, drinking ***** with lime
seeing people i know, yet alone in rhyme
"this is how it’s going to be", said the picture of j. edgar hoover
"i’m burning you, feeding the furnace in your belly.
'you'll meet the devil if you haven't already'”, said the *****
"it will all sour, everything. get a taste and die
knowing one heaven”, said the lime
"you want to melt. the heat of your desperation touches me. you want to become a lone liquid and disperse into the clouds.
you think you can travel the world that way, maybe be tossed around
in the clear tide near fiji. but you won’t, look at me”,
said the ice in the glass.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
the shuffling men huddle
in the lighted room
eyes glue to shoes
the miles a man treads
are the measure of his soul
and these worn feet are
men to move mountains
with bare hands
tinge the conversation
with the propaganda of innocence
priesthood of crafted reality
puts good and true men prostrate to the
graven images of a better world
when all that is accomplished is the slow decay
rotting fruit of our collective wishes
our collective hopes
a man on fire
his hand to the road
that i must travel
like a cool drop of rain in the blast furnace heat
like a woman's smile after years of being alone
like the taste of real hope
after the road has come here
this strange strange place
at the end of the world
one hundred and ten men
in this dark hall
waiting for the storm to let
waiting for the sun
waiting for a better world
one man waits
in the rain
surreal in his mind the day has evaporated
and as the shadows of night crawl into his eye
he dreams aloud that she has come home to him
that things never went astray
that we could be our happy little family again
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
Breaking waves, folding in river bends (meandering)
with an effortless grace
Cupids mouth, foaming to return -
broken and filling up the landscape.
Cracked horseshoes
waltzing across a vibrating brain,
all the worlds night
quartz, cutting drunk into
your Green city.
Banishing a sense of self
uprooting positivity, displacing our discontempt -
boil out the water from the soup of human condition.
Boredoms grace.
We're rotting, lizards tongues
wearing the past, skin deep
Imbued.
a morbid relocation of entrance
authority, a fee
Reflecting light off your face
always leading back,
back towards a tabletop nausea.
Caked in powder,
i make my way over -
licking my finger and rubbing away
at the cracks formed years ago
wandering in and out of Escher's wet dream,
hoping to settle mind and body
numbed and lethargic,
medicine doesn't help.
An open patio door,
grooming in the whisped brown dawn -
7.34am
God's rags, crisp
displacing particles against the mountain lip
red light brewing in the observers mind.
Cubes of water
pushing through into tomorrows wake
all unwrapping like 1,000 words
diluted into one second.
I'm tired
appetite gone
graven, knowledge of the inside of my mouth
encyclopedic and (almost) boring.
It's closed again
at the crux of abandon,
the skies youthful,
built from wood, holding up the trees.
Excess - child's play for Atlas.
Rogue, electric Blue.
Mollusc in hand
living, lipless
just outside the geopolitical borders
heading back towards maturity.
Nihil,
projects objectivity, sycamore due, borders
as happiness combed our soft necks.
A situation is only what you make of it,
we're all in on this
living together in leaves -
by roadsides
making homes where we sleep.
The sky is on fire
exploding into fruition
as hot chlorine licks against unwashed belly buttons and hair
going blind and stripping back
it breaks you.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
I walk around touching.
I walk around touching objects
-Hanging or resting-
That carry shards of our
History in their origin.
My hands remember
The warmth of your back
Against my palm.
Sun lotion between my fingers,
Denmark. Summer.
You tasted like xcide and your
Mother's Marlboro Light.
Laughed.
Kissed me;
Soft but hard. Soul to my soul.
We were so completely happy.
This quill pen you made me
To inspire my words.
Draw us with your poetry.
To write about you drawing
A picture of me writing
About you.
Taking in; transferring.
I've written you
Volumes.
Volumes.
Picture.
I touch and smile.
Trace your face with
My fingers, your
Mouth. My God, your
Mouth...
You let me touch your
Teeth when you smiled.
I cried then, even during the
Good years.
I take it in. Dig deeper in memories
To strain my soul, and tattoo... and
Claim these moments as
Mine forever; graven into
The marble tablets of
My mourning mind.
Feeling the farewell with
My every fibre
And gaping, face soaking wet,
At the Heavens in a
Silent scream of
**** You God! She's gone!
GONE! FUUUUUUUCK!*
Like some kind of miner or
****** of some sorts
Craving pain and beauty in
Equal handfulls,
Tearing and ripping
At the remains of something
That just days ago
Wasn't dead.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
Drown Cincinnati, drown!
We sang from the balcony,
Give up your blood and sweat and be cleansed!
And as they drowned below they called to me for help,
But I'm sorry brothers, I have looked in to the gaping jaws of Hell and I cannot go back!
Euthanize your idols, burn your high fashion statements!
Build a bonfire of your vanities!
Your ancestors ***** the Native American people and now you bear their graven image on your T-Shirt
Oh but how they were HOLY
Holy is the slogan sewed in to the denim
Holy is anarchist ideal held together by safety pins and hairspray
Nursing at the breast of punk's decrepit corpse,
You read the eulogy, screamed "Anarchy in the UK!"
In to the microphone
Although you never left American soil
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
---(@)---
a
grave
left open
inside me
no roses for
posterity
whirling winds
the stars
will fall
six feet under
ten foot wall
as i lie
here all alone
a heart is
graven
on my
stone
there's a crack
there's a fault
chiseled with
a lightning bolt
all my roses
turn to
rust
~
*ashes
to ashes
dust
to*
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey
If time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time’s spoils despisèd everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife.
986
I shall liken to the fact that I am indeed, alive and not dead,
I shall be satisfied that air penetrates my nostrils and breath radiates my skin,
To be sanctified in Him shall be more than all else striven for,
Yet, incomparable to the fact is how dead life acts,
I am a poorly driven soul that is starving for what I cannot yet have
And to have everything I shall need and want more, is nothing brave of me,
I am a selfish human being, who craves the instant gratification found in flesh
And words, and romance, not Truth and Love is what such men cannot even afford,
What shall I liken to this generation, a bleeding heart? A dulled piano in search for notes,
A key lost without a lock to be had, or words that are endless in my rambling head,
I fear what I am looking for, is what will never be had of me, I fear, that I may be lost among the darkness,
That I may be one-in-of-the-same, a vapor, a piece of pain, a washed up vine thrown among the sea,
Where art thou my Romeo, where o where do you hide your face, where dost thy go to awaken thy graven soul,
where shall I spot my face to yours, where may our eyes may lock and our hearts may soar?
Is there not yet a lover among thorns, is there not yet, some love to be formed,
To be found, to be had, am I not some forgotten old hag, where do dreams liven up to reality and where can satisfaction be met without dread?
I shall frolick the lilies, I shall strike another match, to dance where no turning back is necessary,
And to reach the cup that was set down amongst the parched is where I shall find my reward.
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 8:44 PM UTC
you move the sun closer to me
and that has no disaster.
your All is the wet funk of my Yes.
the graven image of a total thing -
masquerading as ****** glint
of my " just asking " without the burden
of my suspicion. only the wonderful
of my submission.
You.
You are the One
that Two
looks up
too.
you march into my femur. break my bones
where the soul is course and rancid.
where the Always has no Answer
but the Never has as a
Speech.
you move the Sun closer to Me.
you bring me joys that hate
and mutter the rumple
of lesser men
who have no Love.
you join the disjoint
and mock the cradle
of our discontent
with the spectacle
of our humble
What ?
you move.
you move the sallow fortunes of our weakest
too the strong weeping
of our dire " of course ".
the code. Morse, may be... but the dots
align in the ragged farse
of our profuse jungle.
we are these monkeys
lifting hammers
we cannot claim
but we have stars
that march
against
the verity
of our lies
to preach
the brevity
of our almost
in love.
with an up-close sun.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC