"guillotined" poems
Spectrous aberrations of youth
Surround him, embrace him
Leaving him disoriented, dismayed
Amidst sultry belongings
He’s tethered to that pole of vicissitude
Draped by disfavor
Postmarked Valhalla
Addressed to Folkvangr
Teased by irreverent lovers
In pursuit of contentment
His chronicles restart
In an unpublished testament
Bound by leather, cows unfettered
One lifeless body stationary
Crimson streams part chalk-dry lips
As love’s guillotined victim drips
His future’s fortune forsaken
Willingness to triumph in battle
Leaks from this dimension
With each fluxing discharge
Of her stream’s outgoing apathy
And his fluid permeates alluvium
In streambeds near life’s summit
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 11:12 PM UTC
The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…
DO
I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,
What do I speak, to what do I allude?
Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,
for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),
IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined;
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain
We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.
" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.
Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked
with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.
Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen
harps
ones - he stole, to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
**** [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...
lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;
Locked on
One of
God's.
like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.
II
Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard; and wake the dead
asking them for new songs
to set their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or someone
knocks.
As if "Hello."
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.
Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
2k
None the way for me -
does not matter; need not be,
neither I nor thee.
Science is a god
born of self-referential
rationality.
"A dearly-paid inch",
paid at expense of our dreams,
sullies pure desire.
Justified belief
destined to be guillotined,
burned in future fires.
Body is a pet:
unruly, fit to be tamed.
Discipline is key.
Mind is but a curse -
"disease of ***** indeed.
Thought makes not Man free.
Soul is what remains,
a Nothing that remembers,
that does not exist.
All these three are One.
The Sacred is the Profane,
divided for bliss.
None the way for me -
does not matter; need not be,
neither I nor thee.
Love unites the loved
until they blur together.
Truth is in between.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
When the night falls,
I am at my best.
I could topple from the sky for a saunter amongst the wingless owls arbitrarily.
Carrying my futile attempt on serving the sun with a contempt glance,
As I let my imagination run free like nine jockeys in one horse race.
When the night falls,
I am the captain of my own ship.
I could set my course straight to my hiding place without any further ado;
Where I'd sail to where dreams and phantasies collide until the clock strikes two.
But most importantly,
When the night falls, life isn't like crossing a palisade or walking through a horrible gale;
Life isn't like a perpetual movement of climbing up the rickety stairs or losing a bet to the middleman.
Life isn't as stilted as when I stood dead on the yawnful street or as boisterous as the crowds watching King Louis guillotined to death.
Because there is only peace.
The skies may be the blackest black; the air may be the emptiest space,
but none like the night
where I can sit and stare,
and watch as the moon and the stars
shine my way.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
You have become like the specter of my youth
A knothole seeping deadly fumes
Surrounding me, embracing me
Leaving me intoxicated and defeated
In a pile of filthy belongings
Tethered to this pole of existence
Wrapped in disregard
Postmarked for the gates of Valhalla
Addressed to sirens of the flat rivers
And dropped at the feet of irreverent lovers
You are my memory and the end of all complacency
The beginning of a new chapter
In a volume to be published
Bound in leather
Taken from cows raised in pastures
Decapitated and sawed open
Removing vital organs from lifeless bodies
Supported by a hook
From which brain chemicals drip
And neurons fire
Through a convict with his blindfold on
Moist cigarette, dangling off his lips
Air breathed by love’s guillotined victim
Rattlesnake’s discarded skin
You take from me coconut’s milk
Fuel for foddering the future
And willingness to triumph in battle
I leave your kingdom
Hopeful for patronage
Seeking refuge, perchance amongst palms
Floating on what seems a sliver
In your filthy sea’s apathy
I bide my time, until delivered
Until my tawny encasings unravel
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 11:00 PM UTC
verdict: guilty--of loving you "too much"
sentenced to: living without you or living without you..
"until you can figure this all out"
barred, by your pleasure-seeking addiction
imprisoned, by your man-whore conviction
shackled, by your deadly crystal blue eyes
guillotined, by your crushing self demise
but i'd rather be locked to you
than live in this pain and misery.
gated, by your fear of commitment
executed, because to you i'm not sufficient
punished, because i love you, "too much"
tortured, because i won't seem to budge
but i'd rather be locked to you
than live in this pain and misery.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
spread over
this ludicrously
green lawn
tormented
by spring rains
bruised and battered
their purple tattered
remains
wait to be guillotined
by the steady sweep
of lawn mower
blades
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
The wicked candle of cindered vacations
Invites in the aroma of specials shopping
For school stationery, short-sleeve shirts
And books with which to bury boyhood.
Once scattered now reassembled,
All were dressed like occupants of a warm, neat nest,
Not a plume lent to a rebellious rise.
Barbered and beautiful in balm,
All gleamed gorgeously, save for your humble, sprouting speaker.
Naturally averse to clipping claws
And vehemently opposed to malting manes,
I slipped through the scorching Serengeti to school,
Rugged and sharp in every stride,
Intent only on ******* on the porch of prissy pigeons.
Horrified, they weighed up my Transylvanian talons,
Convinced such manifestations hail from heretic or heathen heritage.
Looking at my lumped locks with gentrified gall,
They whispered low squawks, suspecting lice.
Two metallic hand-held instruments housed in pouches and boxes
Brought my feline rebellion to its guillotined end.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
it seems to me that the child is beheaded –
there is not much to look at in this paling weather.
moderate climates douse their bleak, blank face-ovals,
their frigidity has no relation to stone,
their silence, loveless as a fabric is torn wild
by a rabid dog, dragging it senselessly against the furniture.
outside, the whiteness bears no reputation of laundry
impaled to clotheslines: frilling at the collarbones,
fringing at the high afternoon, distinct flutings
of iridescent night-gowns,
they want the life of some lovelorn progeny.
the scald of water is his trademark – it seems innately natural,
those who, someone else lauds the **** verdigris
of trees, able to tell how immense the stasis
of the darkness is, outside when all homes bellow
a concatenation of absences:
it seems to me the child is guillotined at this
moment, verily, in moderate climates.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
It was void less on the dead tree branch,
or what was once something reaching
for the heavens but now it is rootless.
Digging into the earth, like a tombstone
of remembrance entwined in razor wire
woes.
It was cur once, now it is cut upon even in
death, every breath of life the world temps
it with just cuts deeper.
And the onyx crow, just perches on it.
silent, it just gazes at the others
neatly put into shallow graves of despair.
They are naked for all to see, for all to gaze upon.
stripped of decency. Shallow graves tease as though
they wish to flourish, roots are dismembered.
But where the branch fell, where the dismembered
remanence ****** of self horizontal.
When a tree falls no one hears it...
When the now guillotined life falls,
it fell upon its executioner..
In the woods now one hears you fall..
They bleed into the wood, the egg that hadn't
hatched now cracked open, a chick will no longer
fly high but sit on this deathly stripped void.
Every now and then, when I look out my window,
I see the field, and a crow with gapping vision.
And a silhouette of someone....
There neck arched and a smile crocked,
as if to say this is a coffin above ground..
And there slowly rotting in the earth that took
them all...
When a tree falls, when the leaves are stripped bare,
only the bones show, and it like those before
are just images of what fell when they decendedly silenlty.
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 6:58 PM UTC
The collateral fiction of Waves
The sounds of echoes scream as I strained by my body by the beat of the music
Tears pouring down on my makeup
You can hold me down if you want to
I don't really mind 'cause I'd like to
Feel love, how it hurts,
Guillotined of principles killing my subconscious thoughts of the injustice
When we cling on each other bodies doesn't matter the weather changes on over the collide of pauses
And I was writing poetry about you every day
And yeah, I know that things
They never tend to stay the same
But I don't think you love me and it kills me every day
Burned out by the red cuff of over lining shine
The word we're unimaginable
By the colorful pigments of fools
Like the collision of her blames that blinds her before she flies higher than the stars
Blink of the moon and the perpendicular crimination of crimson cream
Bloom all over the sky of orange and blue
The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity
What was she supposed to feel
What was she supposed to do
In the different universe, how was her story gonna end
So many victims tattered her eager thoughts
It is better to lock up your heart with a merciless padlock than to fall in love with someone who doesn't know what they mean to you.
Let her sin away her thought of us
Let her devils ruin her soul and peace of mind
Pictures of her burns alive as the wave take her away
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 3:30 PM UTC
Lets get over the stupid **** about God and the Devil
Satan is the serpent power
originating at the base of the spine, this is primal power corresponding to the id
With out Satan you would be dead
This power regulates primal autonomic excretory and ****** functions, ie. survival and supports the higher activities of the body mind and soul
corresponding to the ego and super ego, your God
The ego is and integrative mechanism that stands between Id and the super ego ie Devil or Id and God or the super ego
The id is the original primal survival mechanism and true will not to be ignored or denied
The light is born of the darkness and is born-less
The darkness is eternal and the light is everywhere within her
The super ego is discernment ...principal ....reason...ethics and ideation's of mythic heroes , not to be ignored or denied
In religion aspects of the higher self are personified as a Christ, Buddha, Krishna etc when God takes human form
and the Devil is personified as Satan, Asuras Beelzebub Demons or various miscreants in human form
If Christians adhered strictly to total purity they would have to insist on castrations and analectomies to purge their so called evil elements and die because surviving with out the lower is undoable
conversely the Satanists would require lobotomies or being guillotined because living without essential principals is indoable
God and the Devil are not mutually exclusive except when they're viewed through the maw of religion...God and the Devil are different sides of the very same coin
In the royal yoga of the the east when the serpent power ascends up the spinal column the id, ego and super ego are instantaneously integrated and transcended into an all together different order and the fractured nature of self is over come by unity
This unity transcends all myth and concepts of god ie. religion ethics morality
It is a totally transcendent order..
In western terms as a human you stand between the the higher and the lower
Spiritual evolution is not about taking sides its about the integration towards a whole self
You are potentially the magician who mobilizes the lower to serve the higher
This may be an over simplification but
you use your demons to create a base ...they are work slaves to get money so you can go to your temple, your home...the higher self in effect and reflect on the beauty of life
.helllooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
CAN WE **** NOW :)
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
once upon a time, my english teacher (a pict), blamed english soap opera (namely eastenders), for his students treating books like bricks, or at least door stoppers.
yep, and the most entertaining drama
i've seen unfold, was between my
neighbour's dog, and my pavarotti's
worth of a cat: every time it rains
and his meowing, i'm an inch's worth
close to phoning amnesty international
on grounds of: human abuse...
hate this ginger **** this castrated frankenstein
monstrosity meowing all the time...
it almost feels like i guillotined his
******** + testicles off, even though
i'm the ******* of pedigree annoyance
tactics...
but, really? it must be the jazz pedigree
in me, transitioning from classical music
that really, gets me,
i hate bands that disrespect bass guitarists...
i'm either sly, or pedantic, or simply
nerdy...
i don't like bands that forget bass guitars,
i like to think of them as a buffer criterium
segregating rhythm guitar and the drums,
bass guitars allow a harmony,
listen to enough jazz, and you'll know -
i like, and i also don't like bands like
metallica... i must be deaf...
i must have had a mumbai elephant stamp
on my trombone's worth of owing an ear,
but i can't hear drums...
so i must be deaf...
i know the bass is there,
but it's subtle... too subtle for my liking,
it might be a guilt-ridden thing,
having lost cliff burton...
but i have to be a bit deaf guarding a reminder...
i have no respect for bands that
hide the bass, and bask in rhythm guitars
and drums...
sorry, but bass guitar is a crucial
mediatory medium of what comes after:
either solo guitar or the already apparent
"stage fright" of vocal exfoliation...
and that's truly the case, the most "soap opera"
i've seen these days, was staged
by my ginger-ninja and my neighbour's *****
when people become too docile to become
interesting or entertaining,
you revise yourself using animals
as a blank slate...
and i must be deaf,
i can't hear any bass guitar on the majority
of metallica's songs...
devil's dance is besides the point,
being stated;
just call me deaf and we'll be ripping
a dollar bill to the hush of: evens.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
I never miss a thing around
the skies are always above me
'never' always asks for an 'always'
And blood will rush until it stops rushing
chilly air of a chill night out - hold, release
relive (free WI-FI) willingly crashing
So many trippy kids and adults in the city of M.
Empty beat attacks with the strength of a spring grizzly
Heart slipped my mind like a metronome slapping
Suddenly universal knee touch fulfilling each fantasy
Was bad so could be good again, by that it was winning
night knows playing cruelly, touch and run, taggers
i go with it, i play along, i start dancing, head first, bare neck, collar settling
cause of death: Guillotine in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs on Smolenskaya
Coke still evokes the taste of blood because of metal wrapping
Indistinct music on the street so kind upon me helps swirling
My curls grow, I cut'em, they come back
I leave locks in the books reread, Franny and Zooey hold it
* «Louis XVI, born Louis-Auguste, was the last King of France before the fall of the monarchy during the French Revolution. … Louis XVI was guillotined on 21 January 1793. … The executioner, Charles Henri Sanson, testified that the former king had bravely met his fate. » OST Wikipedia
* «Jerome David Salinger was an American writer. … Salinger died of natural causes at his home in New Hampshire on January 27, 2010. He was 91. … The representative believed that Salinger's death was not a painful one. » OST Wikipedia
* «Metronomy is an electronic music group formed in 1999. » OST Wikipedia
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC