"hangings" poems
Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor
Number 1
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.
Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.
One showed a vain and noisy ****
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.
And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.
Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.
And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.
All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.
The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.
The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,
Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.
The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe.
"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."
"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please."
And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!"
The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.)
The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.
Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!
Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
5.5k
It must feel good
To strike at royalty
To ****** a blade with gold
To avenge the unjust hangings and deaths
To send the 'rulers of the world' to oblivion
To make them cry instead of hundreds of people
It must feel good
To slay royalty
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
she hovers over the handwritten letter
with maniacal grin gripping her face
as she devours his texted words
with weeping eyes
and she sings in unnatural tones a child's lullaby in some
forgotten french dialect
delightful reflections in song of the garden gate
leaning broken onto the rough hewn path
where the soulless cherubs cherish their seed
in haphazard rows cherub faces sling silent tears
and labour at the desires never felt and
the dark soils never fertile
seeking redemptions in the rebirth of the harvest moon
which decorates the far wall of the tomb
the cherubs brief delighted laughters
soon sputter and fail
as in the dying light of day
reveals that they must labour yet another day
to no useful end
she lives in this place
a cottage of straw with dark windows
and a wood stained door
she sits on its porch with knitting in hand
weaving futures for her beloved cherubs
weaving pasts for her own
she devoured him like she did his words
and came home to roost
like her innocent faced dragoons
she will someday march forth with this army of doom
but today she is content to be contrite
knitting porridge and whey wall hangings
from the tables of the
steampunk princess
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
In the twilight of immeasurable hope
I run, I pace, I stagger.
A moon of sorts tucks its hefty beams
Behind the gauzy, twisted zephyr,
As if teasing that its crisp, round, clarity
is merely an echo of a distant, convoluted story:
a myth.
One moment I am carrying out my quotidian realities
Unfiltered, unbridled, lucid,
Running my fingers through laughing waves
of golden, auburn richness,
Letting my wavering, billowing hair
slowly melt into the quavering, trembling wind…
When suddenly-
I am caught in the labyrinth of veils.
I, with my hair and my warmth,
I am auriferous.
And these sheets, oh these hangings!
They float like century-worn cobwebs
And they ensnare me so.
This is where the tangled messages
And mangled mixed signals
All wriggle themselves into form
And make their zombie graveyard.
And yet there are sparks,
Little voices trapped in burning baubles
Shining like the ever-loving soul of the universe,
Which whisper the stories of the moon-thing
Beyond the borders of this haze-land.
Sometimes I attempt to fashion
these ethereal sparklings into my hair.
They suggest insanity, so close to my ears,
And I can’t fill my soul with enough…
I cling to the faith that they will lead me out
Into the amaranthine beyond.
I come back here often,
Always hoping that today will be the day
That the beams from above
Will reach to seek me.
For that, I will love the mists,
And carnally sip away
At the nebulous, crepuscular,
Pools of Fantasy.
But in retrospect,
I should never have told you
That your name means “Purple” to me.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
My foggy mouth tries to hide behind rain-smacked glass.
She says goodbye with complacent stares
and with the sudden flash of an umbrella.
The red of her dress doesn't belong in my life.
Each of her strides carry my resentment and weariness,
alongside the melting grey of the Seattle skyline.
So, I don't yell for her or imagine our lives,
as the windshield wipers sweep her image, out of sight, but not out of my head.
I return home, the half I was for decades.
The tread of my shoe mashing bluegrass,
digging up seeds and insect carcass, with every step.
Storm-soaked magazine subscriptions lay on the porch,
and her name is tattooed on every one.
The dog lays on the carpet, ears and eyes perking up at me.
And he knows he's truly alone, because I'll depend on him.
Eggshell kitchen cabinets are jammed with her:
Vermilion, saffron, and burgundy glasses hold
half-empty hangings of golden flat draft,
keeping her day-old, dried saliva smothered on the edges,
like transparent ocean waves dying on a glass coast
and buried in the bottom of the sun-pierced vortex.
What I couldn't realize is that the cup was me:
marked in so many ways,
letting decaying memories burrow and stay.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
Well Annie now you've done it
through your gyrations, characterizations
imitations
a spot of light of spirit
flipped out into the ether
like some kind of spiritual dandruff
all crystal prisms
twinkling stars shook off of you
and floated
through my eyes and ears
and penetrated and infused
my pumping heart
through my circulatory system
snapping synaptic changes,
touching those places
of
dreams and trances.
Well Annie now you've done it all night long
with images of Olive Oil
and no Popeye
I have become a sailor man
unmoored from the safety of the slip
dragging the anchor
until the tether breaks
and find myself floating
on some Jungian sea
of the unconscious far away from the shore.
Well Annie now you've really done it -
How will this all play out
when walking down the faux marble hallways
as I roll up one wave of imitation
and down another in
clients/secretaries/billing clerks
deranged psychiatrists stories
and all of this reality
grabbing trying ranting riffing
how is this all going to play out
when strange guerilla theatre
erupts on backwards
in administrators offices
and leadership committee meetings
when I spread my legs
as my grand opening
in carrot top hangings
and turn to clients
offer them too
this spirit spark of
courage.
Well you've really done it this time Annie
when my door is locked
and pagers are begging for my attention
but I will be in the room at that desk
throwing rules, regulations
and my professional reputation
to the current winds of unwinding
truths and soulful stories.
When they turn to me
and ask for my forgiveness
in their true confession
or when I shift shapes
to the big onion
when everyone who wanders near weeps
when they ask me for that magic sentence
to make it all okay
or write a treatment plan
or
just a hand on the shoulder;
as they begin to talk
like rooms of old echoes-
I will tell them that will cost them extra.
You've done it now Annie forever
in my minute little world
rocked the boat
that spirit
like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane
of courage.
You've done it now Olive Oil Annie
I have found my spinach
and
freedom cannot be far behind...
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Apprehended in the moonlit night,
Of the silhouette of a mystery,
The clenched fist hesitated to show might,
Stared at the wall hangings of tapestry.
Curiosity crept in and courage whispered to his ears, "Go Leonard, go."
His feet trembled, but bravery ruled his heart.
He reached for the lamp, as the fear, he forgo,
He walked, to find the cause of disconcert.
He stood, astonished, at the sight of a black cat.
It meowed, as slowly, it vanished behind the trees.
he heaved a sigh of relief, and laughed, at ease.
What was he so afraid of?-
The answer lay in the breeze.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Where I live alone and never feel lonely
where I wake up with Jimmy Page pointing his guitar at me
have breakfast with black and white Floyd watching over me with musical eyes
where a sketched Calvin looks into infinity and inspires me to find meaning
the lexicalized walls remind me of the love I once had
written with the feelings of love I imagine ever having again
that burnt paper hanging under the nails with Frost engraved
reminding me every night of the miles that await my footsteps before I sleep
the shadows of the pink and blue hangings intimately romancing
where the folding walls trap the secret lunacy from times
when a laughing smoke and imagination once fought for existence, and again
and again
I seize from them the mere immortal existence
of the silent memories these walls holler at me
when gone I will be, unveil them with the wind
and the ashes will reach wherever I am
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
Watch out as we struggle to maintain
the withering roots with a dose of intolerance
Blasted through the decade aged monitor that
We can't afford to replace because these
suits and briefcases are tattered together to call substantial and the white building you cruise to each day ain't that blinding anymore
For all the 'accidental' 'unknown' and 'uncaptured' hangings you dated
And the collar around your necks
Got no creases in them
Like those on the hand of his sister
as she sits by the coffin
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Where the artists breathe paint the blue pig too fat to stop them
Blue lives can **** my blue **** swinging money *****
They want to **** my **** and somehow profit from it
Blue killing color from the jails and school halls
We gotta stop dad **** the patriarchy
Spreading ******** miracle whip from the white supreme party
Ignorance it blocks me taunts me my privilege shows
Standing up for the fight of love we fight for our humanity
Fight for every minority because it’s a dog ******** in America’s White House these days
They’re sending out prayers and our media sends praise
Tired of the gunnings and the hangings
Tired of the negative nancies dancing on graves of ancestors shooting up death with no awareness of how they **** others too
Boo hoo
**** you and your trump too.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
Do you remember the first piece?
Did it wrap around wrists, a Twist or Curb
hug fingers or hang round your neck holding on
for silver or gold?
Maybe it was gunshot through ear lobes
hot blood rush, diamond studs sit in until
body heals and holes held open stay open
for hoops and dangles
Is it worth your face in gold?
Does he bling too, that black boyfriend?
Is he Bead or Box or Byzantine chain
blazing bronze or phat platinum
Did you two star gaze for long
at rocks and stones and coins
stunned and dazed in all that tomfoolery?
Did you ever put his glitter on
and how long did that ice last
before melting down to a memory?
What would it mean to leave the house naked
no sequinned cloak covering
no shiny ear lobed shimmering's
no solid gold hood hangings
wearing just your skin to hold yourself in?
Cloth does not count, it is matterless–
would you be worth your face without gold?
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 4:42 AM UTC
Let's start a business today!
We'll call it Complimentary Mirror. Here's how it works.
First thing in the morning you look into the mirror and say,
"mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all"?
And the Complimentary Mirror answers back - you are, your
the fairest of them all. Then it tells you one of hundreds of
reasons why your magnificent, which it keeps stored in its data base.
The mirror would give compliments why someone is so
terrifically wonderful.
Compliments such as:
Your wonderful because you don't take **** from no one.
Your awesome because you practice revenge on your enemies.
Your the fairest of them all because you extort favors from your
inferiors and blackmail your superiors.
You rise above all others because you don't tolerate stupid people
and publically humiliate them.
Your terrifically wonderful because you discipline with spanking
other people's children.
And you get raises at work by threatening your boss.
And want public hangings brought back.
And loathe loud talkers to the point of wanting them dead.
And other complimentary mirror things.
A mirror that compliments you each morning to help you get a
positive start on your pathetically wretched day.
Let's start a business today! (Trademark pending).
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
White collars meet soil
Holy hangings, righteous men shake their heads
Throw your glory before the swine
And hold still your parasols, ladies
Hold high your chins
Keep bound any doubt in the depths of your dejection
Lest ye be like Adam
Y bounden
Betraying
That which is written most outright is the stone
That only the condemnèd break
*Change is a sin
So take your pills and see to your woman, son
And silence that serpent that seeks
That seeks to remove the crown you wear
That seeks to find peace in those arms*
*The warm and thick arms of the ******
Collars of white
Books of blue
Robes of red
Two thousand years of turmoil and discipline
Brought you this?
By the power of my hand--in pain you’ll repent
By the power of their cloaks and their words
My boy*
Love is patient; love is kind
*So do not insist in your own way
To blacken your robe with pagan ways
Is a disrespect to the starry crown
Gather your pearls
For myrrh is no longer abundant
Turn to the sun, bow, and
Tighten their chains*
Give them their aid with the strength
Papa taught you
Slack is cowardice, doubt
Rows chained up behind
On my knees I pray for their salvation ?*
I will pray salvation, truly
From hypocrites
From legislature
From the smoke and the mirrors and the smiting
“Justice”
In the arms of your forbidden
Light your candles and share your vows
I’ll pretend while I can
But don’t you keep your hearts
To yourselves
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
On wings of expelled vapour
did they venture beyond the hangings
of gravity and they ascended to heights
that blended with thoughts of fulfilment.
Wisps were expelled till exhalation
was exhausted, and slowly what arose
descended to it eventual beginnings.
But declining was harder than was imagined.
Pain elevated as the friction of reality swept
over, and where the vapour once filled there
interior now only emptiness did eviscerate the
stable mentality and wished only to ascend again.
"Beauty of a dream, that is a nightmare of reality,
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
It's become nothing but words
Hollowed hangings dangling from my teeth
Hurt and hateful
Confused and fateful
For the light from my computer isn't enough to see the room
I am alive only by the heartbeat of another
And I only believe through fear anymore.
That's how we were raised.
It can only love if you only fear
And I'm afraid we were mislead
Instead I hope to see light
Flashing fanatically and frantically to tell me to follow
Because the light from my computer is just enough to blind me from the world
And I need something.
Anything.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
The clock clapped his hands
and told the time to go **** itself,
while the walls stood wobbling,
scared of the confrontation.
The telly turned herself off,
for fear of adding to the noise
while the lights flickered
as they thought of something to say.
But still, time marched on.
The clock made two fists
and waved them with fervour
as the walls tried to hide
behind their hangings and features.
They telly, still silent,
cowered quietly in the corner,
and the light bulbs no longer
had any bright ideas to voice.
Time marched on, uncaring.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
this was it, the sideways glace with criminal intent
tax dodger, millionaire with make-up
slyly fleecing sheep off poor citizens backs
living within wind and rage on a mountain top retreat
glass chandeliers, wool carpets, ivory wall hangings
smoking cubans, smirking has-beens
'who are they but grovelers in the grime
of social disgrace'. The lord.
no, i'm not i countered, shrinking in my walrus skin,
of shades of brown and chameleon
i didn't do it. I was just there buying groceries
for a weekend soup.
take him away, he is a liar, his face says so
his words are smooth as ***** glass
inserted in a conscious effort to fool us.....
five years will teach him temperance
make him see routine, file his taxes,
place him in a cell with accountants,( the cells are full of "em)
lock him up in tax forms
place him in a poverty trap
let him learn not to get rich by his wits
wits are for whites only.
skin colour is everything now. ha ha.
case closed.
throw away the key.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11670069-Your-honor......-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.TB0bh83H.dpuf
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
sticky cold sweat
coats hairy back skin
as the garage sale fan blows –
droplets of water continuously collect
in the corner of agonizing eyes
while the relentless ticking
of the wall clock
beats rhythmically –
press board paneling bows
under duress from years of nail pounding
and decorative wall hangings –
flickering fluorescents
hidden behind translucent ridged plastic
sends mutated shadows
dancing across dust-covered paperwork –
squeaking roller chair
with one stuck wheel
scoots every inch of the five feet
linoleum flooring, off-white marble
as I desperately search
for form 35-wr121 –
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
I buried your bones, I buried your skin, buried your hooks that hung my mind akin...
I emptied your closet, I emptied the walls, I've emptied the garden of roses and thorns...
I broke the vases, I've broken the dishes, I've broken myself into submission...
I've pulled the blinds, I've pulled the bedsheets, I've pulled the nerve to reckon your touches...
And as much as I'm hiding, as much as I'm blaming, as much as I'm crying in vain over paining...
I rattle the hangings, I battle my god, I scatter belongings that don't matter at all...
It's begining to occur the way back is hard, to places we made in oceans and stars...
You're a part of the air now, I'm breathing dense it's heavy, maybe I can try and walk out of the mess, but the drag's too much to resist...
The warmth of the floor still persists on the floorboards where you stood, so cold and lonely you were, I kept ignoring the truth...
What hurts the most is that I knew yet I kept it low, I slept every night beside you, and let the spaces grow,
I can hear the curtains screaming, cursing with every sip of the wind, to reveal these hands I denied her and let her scream within,
There's words to speak,
I say to these walls where we sneaked,
To kiss to breathe each other,
Where we laughed at every situation
Just like lovers....We were
I wish I'd said it then,
I fathom you still bound to the wall,
Eyes looking at their reflection in mine,
Like knowing that we lovers would fall...
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
hate sings a love song,
blithe, pretty, little tune
in honor of its heritage.
hate sings sweetly, a song
of marches and hangings,
of ghettos and slavery
it hums admiration for its people.
it sings of this land.
the majestic peaks and playful meadows.
it sings, with love, of blood-drenched cotton and
trenches adorned with crooked bodies.
it sings of its forefathers-
the conquistadors and pioneers.
saintly butchers and child rapists.
hate paints it’s history holier than the Sistine Chapel,
singing blindly like a hymn.
hate sings a love song,
possessive and vicious.
it scrawls the lyrics on
subway walls and sycamore trees.
it sings in symbols and metaphors,
accompanied by the beat of temple gunshots and kicks to the ribcage.
hate sings through the pulpit and the pew,
clipping it’s verses from a holy book,
it sways to the rhythm of “Amens” and “Hallelujahs”
hate breathes down my neck and yours,
knocking door to door,
bearing music with a message,
it weeds out the undesirables one by one.
for the greater good,
hate tortures children therapeutically,
and executes those presumed guilty.
it erases generations
in concrete rooms
and in the bellies of ships.
it explodes homes,
smashes panes of glass,
and burns every convenient symbolism.
hate roves and rages and spits and howls,
singing the song of a beautiful future.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
A building of darkness
Fitted with opaque doors
***** curtains hangings
All lights are out
No place for light
I am one who was left alone
In this dangerous and fearful
of mind play
I only have one light
My wisdom which was
Covered with stupidity
Like a dim cloudy day
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
Yes today is the day
Getting the flowers in a little later then wanted. Today is the day, mulch, decorative stones, an old sculpted frog to match the soil
Below. Springtime grow! Water to be a vital giver to the coming little bugs, creepy crawlies and the fly buzzer above. Down south, the trees down here have a little more history, they've seen hangings, not done by me, by men who only saw by eyes, not
Spiritually. Some were lost in the decades of tradition, then through all the bloodshed, "still appearing", even now there's yet to be fruition. But now in my kitchen peeping the kitchen backside window, I can see the squirrel's eat the hickory as they get fat and full they see the world as a bunch of fools , planting seeds of disgust! Shiftshaping waters and Meadows. No more good ol days where the boys were good fellows. Now everything and one is to it and themself. Creating new high tech gear, while society's hooked on beer and whatever else. We lost the meaning to this life, our family kids friends, husband wife, tommorrow could end. That's why I make my garden to be in the pristine condition it is, untouched. Undefiled, others walk by and see the sphere they once knew and miss.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
There will be lakes and rivers and broken dreams
There will be happiness and sunshine and fallen down trees
There will be smoke and ashes and bright burning coals
There will be holes and patches and unworn clothes
There will be peace and sorrow and a great big war
There will be killings and hangings and meadows of green
There will be love and blood and half open caskets
There will be beauty and torture and pain among masses
There will be strength and heart and paper unfolding
There will be stories and pleasure and and and
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
His eyes rolled upward
straining so hard he blew a vessel crying blood.
I rubbed each streak from his eyes,
******* the spatter of blood from my thumb.
“When I’m finished with you you’ll be dead.”
I told him frankly
before I began to stroke him.
The impulse came on so roughly
that I couldn’t control myself.
He came and I was left with his discharge in my hands.
Copying what I had seen him do to a street *****
I feed him his own
watching him cough and spew out.
I closed my hand against his lips
and forced him to swallow
before I began to laugh.
The hysterical sound filled the room,
the vibrations shaking the hangings from my walls.
I couldn’t help myself.
As if a power beyond me gripped me
I laughed a throaty laugh before returning to my victim.
I stroked him till in his pain he became hard.
“You like to **** and I am ****
I laughed.
His cry of pain made me stroke him,
clenching strokes which made him arch
and each time he came
I gathered his discharge into my hands,
cupping it as if it were water,
lifting the fluids to his lips forcing him to drink.
“I live for your pain you feed me and in turn I feed you.”
Again I pulled strip of skin from his inside thigh.
Ah, the close-lipped scream was music to me.
“Sing to me.” I crooned
before I peeled another strip slowly
letting the skin tear away from muscle
watching tendons rip
giving forth blood that slid down
pooling on the table,
then another and
another
till he lost consciousness from the pain.
“But you cannot hide within the confines of you mind. We must finish.”
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
Remember. remember,
The fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
But forget we will,
For worse days still,
Overshadow the whole ****** lot.
In these modern days,
Though we're miles away,
From those old times we almost forgot.
Still hangings and lashings,
Democracies crashing,
And freedom just left there to rot.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC