"harlequins" poems
.
*So here I am once more, in the playground of the broken hearts.
One more experience, one more entry in a diary self-penned.
Yet another emotional suicide,
overdosed on sentiment and pride.
To late to say I love you, to late to re-stage the play.
Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday'.*
The first words you killed me with.
The first Script to make me cry.
The opening song on a plate of sorrow.
The opening sight of my Poets eye.
Your words soaked my childlike mind
as I lost on the roundabouts and swings.
The Jester stands with violin and quill,
composing tears on his broken strings.
I sat and chewed those daffodils
and I still struggle to answer why.
I grew up and left that playground
but its the place where my heart died.
So I never did write that love song,
My words just never seemed to flow.
The martyrs twisted smile haunts me,
my Harlequins head dreams in sorrow.
The game is over.
The game is over.
© Pagan Paul (22/05/17)
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 1:14 PM UTC
Coming from the shadows a six armed samurai,
Followed closely by glowstick wielding neon ninji,
Grips of *** swigging pirates swing from the rafters,
Swallowed alive by blacklight monsters,
Gangs of ***** smoking gurus,
Armed to the teeth with translucent didgeridoos,
Monks parade in swirling vestments,
Whilst the shaman trip in lotus testament,
Gods transfixed by blood tear beauty,,
As humanity’s heroes slay bejeweled dragons,
The king with two faces is beheaded,
By his charlatans, harlequins, fools and jesters,
Chaotic, prophetic killers run amok,
The order of lunatics chant as the time is struck,
A battle royale then follows,
As robots and aliens envelope,
Brilliant beams and whirring mechanics,
Clash with steel, rock, bone and sticks,
Screams from the heads of the thieves,
As their brains are devoured by zombies
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
Sugar nightmares haunt children
Nancy harlequins cane them
Oh, child of mine
your life you did,
away,
sign.
Force fed familiarity with already branded emotions,
irregular realities and clouded surreal formalities,
so very many humans’ form dichotomies
out of our shared mute gray;
spinning constant self-important prose.
So very many humans share so much,
so little,
not often
doing little to soften
all of their emotional blows
trying hard to strike enigmatic pose.
Oh, child of mine
the heart of utilitarian method
has receded in incredulous fashion
followed by authoritarian apologies;
the majority is not icecream people
spreading simple good thought,
but generations fraught
with trivial conformist ideologies.
We are all hiding our seams
with creative masks
and self created tasks.
Oh, child of mine
your prescription reality is revealing itself as Atlantis,
sinking and shuddering into Quaaludes
with frightening psychotic interludes.
Emotions paint
stained lurid faces,
dancing with
ludes effecting movement,
nudes of swaying and repose.
You arose deeming so much rightfully yours
waltzing through seemingly already opened doors.
Holy curb their anti-Christ
Consider your aging soul
Oh, child of mine
Belief of awareness in action
understand the probability of dissatisfaction,
Stop!
treating the moment as a bleak bridge to the next inaction.
Eventually ponderous thoughts form
resembling an orrery,
an incessantly philippic story
orchestrates your oleaginous personality.
Oh, child of mine
Youth flees and your mind
takes once again to the seas,
a vexing penumbra of perception.
Bathos permeates the fathoms of an obstreperous life
and if you still care,
lament that this meaningless congeries
of moments
inspires only delusion,
no disillusionment.
Eventually a lilting threnody
leading 'tween burning pews of proposed serenity
and the following bumping callithump
will firmly stamp you into black infinity.
Oh, child of mine
You've used the switch
too much
too often
coupled with lofty scoffing
giving the innocent up as offering
to the
mechanical engine
of organic creation.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
1) help endures even the worst pumpernickel shortbread ***** but understanding outweighs that of the pessimistic drug lords squatting in **** ridden sandlots.
2) compassion is for the virtuistic harlequins.
3) underestimating the estimatable is the idea, even under a load of unsettling emotions. just hoard them in your fannypack.
4)the *** next door may make your head spin, and the typewriter might make your nails crack. but, beyond all of that, there lies an undisclosed truth. one that neither the walls nor the space bar underneath your thumb will ever know:
I am here, and this is now.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
It’s a place where an enticing bay sways,
Music dancing on the misty breezes,
Humdrums of level heads mingle effortlessly,
The constant waves lap up on indigo stacks,
The sun sits bejeweled in the sky,
Sandy stalks of sugarcane sweeten the air,
Drink and pleasure abound,
Vagabonds and harlequins twirl and chant,
The dusk and the dawn live together,
Creamy silver and golden haze weather,
The aesthetic is O so grand,
Celebrations of life here in the sand.
Mad trolleys take them to the city,
The hustle and bustle reduced to saunter,
Adornments of every shape and design,
Line the alleys and canals,
Flora and fauna engrained in the DNA,
Every bit of the city breathes, sighs and laughs,
Back at the bay they all rest together,
Making love by driftwood fires,
They sing like mad poets and howl to one another,
Everyone becomes an instrument,
Everything becomes equal.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
A man stands. overlooking two different visions. Two different choices.
On the left he gazed over the glorious modernized utopia. Tall prominent skyscrapers, gleaming in the dazzling pure sunlight. Clinical white rows of spacious suburbia. Unnaturally green gardens of perfectly shaped, perfectly cut square grass accompanying the houses. Polished, scentless people strolled down the un-littered perfection of the linear streets. Enormous great smiles featured on the faces of all. The urban paradise. Biblical, eden in practise, sanctity. Economical bliss. Unpolluted, crime free, social perfection. No inequality, racism, no hatred only love among broters. No depression. The endless rows stretched glorious miles, convenience, supermarkets, brand new glistening, hospitals, all necessity in perfect working order. No unemployment, no political unrest. Every man among equals. Utopia.
On the right hand side, wretched poverty as far as the eye can see. Cramped, overwhelmed shanty towns. Terrified people, dragging themselves through diseased streets. Crippling illness plaguing the antagonized masses. There is no employment here, no glistening new buildings. Only the decaying festering ruins of lifetimes of selfishness. Hatred, jealousy, paranoia, neurotic fluttering harpy’s, harlequins of the night. Plagued minds, plagued bodies. Gargantuan monsters of men rose from the rubble. Demented. Lava flows freely through the crumbling streets. There are no trees here, no vegetation, only blackened earth. Blackened with the ****** despair of man. Only anguish in this land. The black sun burns with hateful rage in the sooty, cloudy toxic sky, the only rain falls as corpses falling from sardine cans to the sky. Burnt out cancerous lungs, filled with sulphurous air from the giant volcano's of dead minds, spewing deadly chemicals into the already uninhabitable environment. The demons of despair stalk this land, endlessly wallowing in there own self-loathing, amongst other vile things.
The decision resting on his shoulders governs life for all men, all men to come. His left side, yearning for paradise, freedom, equality for all, peace, communal gain.
His right side leaning towards narcissistic self gain. Taking the world for himself, watching alone the setting of the poisoned blck sun, poisoned by his greed.
He walked forward, leaving the realms of choice behind him. The future was his to choose.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Of splendid thrones of gold
or treasures manifold
Of jewelled caskets
or lavish banquets
Of Emirs and rajahs
Of Sultan and Shahs
Of kings and queens
Of rulers and emperors
Of sparkling crowns
or flowing gowns
Of their subservient stewards and obedient pages
Of their stalwart squires and servile knaves
Of poor humble, docile minions
who tended to regal pavilions
And obeisantly carried royal palanquins
Oh and some were real life harlequins
Of castles and palaces
of abounding gold and silver
in ostentatious regal splendour
The sidelined fanning maids in waiting
Yet to me only one thing worth noticing
The minstrels who came to sing
from afar for the queen and king
For I'd rather be a poetess for kings
so to my tunes swayed a kingdom
than I be the king of mere subjects
and be filled with regal boredom!
So I could join ranks of
troubadours
and sing for the king
some folklores.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.
The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.
He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.
It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Tighten your fist
let the sand slip
contort your face
make it ugly beautiful
watch it trickle through invisible chinks in your hood
sadness
fulfillment
i love you
i want to hold you
firmly
to be dragged around
until you declare me father of all your progenys
******** or otherwise
be my wife, choke me to death
only you are capable of doing that
**** me
before i spill through the fingers
before i escape
stealing all of me and important bit of yours
to live the life of a scoundrel
a soldier
who lusts for blood
but can’t stand the corpses which litter his dreams
a life he wants for his own
but begs for at empty street corners
In evenings
when i could have gone to cinema
or a **********
or listen to demi-harlequins talk about art or poverty
(that is all they ever talk about)
i find a secluded corner in an empty beach
i smoke too many cigarettes
and let the sand slip through my fingers
again and again.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
A LETTER TO MY FIRST CRUSH
My Dearest Kevin
My hands shake nervously as I write this letter
the ink made heart-shapes
resembling pieces of my heart as it reach out to you
I just want you to know that loving you isn’t easy
My dozen of Harlequins and my entire Mills @ Boons
collection of books
Haven't prepared me enough
To deal with a player like you
I heard it through the grapevine,
That you are heartbreaker, and a womanizer
With only one thing on your adolescence mind
My grandmother always told me, that
Why buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free
My grandma is a wise woman
More like a heroine in my eyes
I am the heroine of my life
More like a Nancy Drew
Without a clue
I am never satisfied I am curious
And mysterious
However I am very chary
Kind of gal
^
I do believe that
I am in love with you today
However,
I might hate you tomorrow
Because you never know with a secret admirer
To the man I love today
They are nothing more than I can say.
I will wait for your reply my love
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
No light weight pick up sticks or childrens game
these streets of age all look the pain we travel on
and along the way
that road of well versed stones speak to me of
skeletons and dead men's bones
and harlequins that never win the coloured robe.
Global warming swarms
more food to feed the flame
that leaps and shouts out 'who the hell am I'?
no wings, can't fly
can't feast on clouds that rule the sky
no name
more pain
more streets and terraced vol au vents
more wants than needs
the fire's feeding well
and who the hell am I?
The game of jacks and random court cards
highway tightwires trapped in backyards
tripping through the cabbage patch
match this if you can,
the cooking *** that will not get hot
the trying man that does not try
the winds that wail but never cry
a merry go round
but why?
A rest,
the day I test the temperature and paddle in just to be sure
it covers me
and the sea that doesn't see will take me
to the place where blind men congregate
and wait for..
..but it's far too late for me
whatever was meant that I should have seen
has been and gone.
Sticks more stones
no lack of mobile phones to spread the word of this disaster
stifling an insane desire to laugh at my own misfortune and already five before the hour of noon, when the Sun scallops lightly across the other sea of sky
I pull my socks up,don't know why they ever fell
who can tell?
Not I.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
But these Eyes which fall on words inevitably unwritten,
Resonates absurdity's fingertips,
A delayed abomination,
Dancing with harlequins in their ring of retribution,
sing out with a poet’s mocking:
‘Fear your mistress/fear your maiden,
Decorated in her daisy chain of souls,
And silver to her bones from stone cold matinees’,
With Carnal thirst for the cruel phantoms
Who patrol like clockwork within a cell patterned cathedral,
Chanting monologues pairing their patience with promise,
In Shadows behind the collar they hide,
With convulsive voices knotting the synapses like shoelace,
This Fruitless curiosity meets with defeat,
The divine torture of invisibility argued with nihility,
Running blood of a guardian and a watcher's ghost,
With whom do they divulge their surrender to?
An anonymous force or a non-existent one?
Maybe they refute the toxic plains of prayer,
Maybe it is their duty to be timekeepers not lovers,
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
Static anxiety housed in a shipping container
Bound for the coast of Maine.
Pandora slipped out from the lead-lined box,
And drowned out of sight, in elapsing waves.
Hallowed shores in the presence of beached harlequins
Sipping sand as their bodies get dragged
Latched and cast off as bait
Used to pull Poseidon out from the depths
Holding fast as shipping lanes rust,
Bleeding off into the current bellow.
Path marked by Aphrodite’s bust.
Belittled at the point of metaphysical conceit.
The epic crashed and burned
Turned to dust through a negligent Milton
Burning down the library of Alexandria
Housing ashy books with inadequate binding.
Homer, now, repeats a Harvard grads humor
Doh filled remnants of a paralyzed form
Duff downed in the hours after the plants closing
The barred doors leave Joyce with nothing left to quote.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
What legendary parts
Can we play.
Might we emote sullenness
And find a sheath for our daggers;
Act impetuously and stab at rats;
Be susceptible to lies and hankies;
Do we speak proudly to our friends
And countrymen;
Should we go mad, be foolish
To float on laurels, and drown;
Are we advisers and know-it-all
Busy bodies;
Will we be friends, and die
Sacrificially in the end;
Should we cut out our tongues
And gauge out our eyes,
To draw pictures in the dirt;
Why be so courageous as to fall
On your sword;
Will we smile and be a villain,
Then fall off our high horse?
Or
Will we give new meaning to love;
Replace the stars in their orbs;
Control the elements for our children;
Bear our friends like princes;
Accept harlequins at court;
Be gentlemanly in any state;
Love more than ten thousand brothers;
Support our partners in what they will?
Script your part.
Life isn't all comedy and tragedy.
Shadows don't offend,
And life is more yielding
Than a dream.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
8:28 Sunny Sunday Marching 3rds
(3/3/23)
<>
as per usual,
(tho my fingers strangely type ‘per Isaiah’)
commencing at my beginning with no
direction home, an entitled title asking
for complete composition, and your
attentive compensation, threatening
to sue for “failure to finish,” a crime
for which I’ve served many a year behind
the bars of my ever increasing
TO DO file
but struck am I this morn by the poetry
of the common place, the phraseology
that we use without momentary cognition,
the every~day verbiage that, within lies
perhaps veins that deserve mining for
nouveau riches
and we get what we deserve,
no more, no less, but when
I inquire who has decided this
measured cup of justice and
painted the lines of liquid fluidity,
or just vanilla inspiration, a one
hand clap and a mocking hoot is
returned reverberating as in an
empty spelunking cave
*we are all experts in the ordinary
diurnal doors that require opening
by morning, closing by night, while
waiting for that “break that would
make it ok…from the wreckage of
your silent reverie”^*
yesterday was my birthday,
no, it was not, but I’ll pretend
to have that right to make the
summary judgements that the
spirits and harlequins, who,
now revealed as my silent mockers,
none
the less, no more, no,
lessening,
I am rendered,
split asunder, by the sentence I’ve self~
impose down on my conscience and
constitution
balance does not require balancing,
more bad than good, wrecked and wracked
by the un~proportionality of my unbalanced
imbalance, what flaws, what traits,
what genetics,
what misapprehensions, foolishness, led me into
this straying straight life, of no more, no
less
and I quit here for the answers do not appear,
and that voice says you need a shave, go!
look in the mirror and revelations will dance, emanating from your eyes who bear witness to all,
no more, no less
^ Sarah McLachlan, “Angel”
Mar 3, 2024
Mar 3, 2024 at 9:54 AM UTC
Charity found in clarified thought.
Harlequins in dormitories quickly sought.
Indiscretions come with ease.
Liberated by a youthful ******
Dilation found in most pupils.
Birthed in the hell of forgotten scruples.
Irate over nature's gift.
Renounced parentage moves in swift.
Theologians they're not to be.
Heathens, they are, as it's clear to see.
Insurrection from a parents hope.
Secured through the first ****
Nodding off to dreams of bliss.
Organized by pots of ****
Tempting fate with a play on chance.
A child's born through horizontal dance.
Vindication came during a failure at grace.
A look of contempt etched across a father's face.
Composure slipped through the cracks.
Adolescents and their empty sacks.
Tying nots in a diluted fashion.
Insulating them from drifting passion.
On and off they float along.
Nullified in the end by unwanted spawn.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Dark red passions
Covering mesh around this bone heart
Foam and thunder
Moon rises on stormy sea
Set course Leviathan
Set cap misty sailor
Set course and move
Yonder horizon awaits
Impatient future
Shimmering diamond chances
Step back
See this scene with wonder
Armed with ink and plume
Cast away the carnival of harlequins and angels
Brew from present grist
Stories of mysterious tramps
Make a glad end at the dimming
Final soft silken soliloquies
"Goodnight dark angel
I send love from my death throes"
© 2014 fireblossom
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I've lived
my life on a razor's edge,
cut & ragged,
a victim
to loveless harlequins
fallen to Dixie cups
And yet,
they cannot
**** my spirit,
I still look up
to the million-suns
twinkling
in the heavens above
me.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Dark red passions
Covering mesh around this bone heart
Foam and thunder
Moon rises on stormy sea
Set course Leviathan
Set cap misty sailor
Set course and move
Yonder horizon awaits
Impatient future
Shimmering diamond chances
Step back
See this scene with wonder
Armed with ink and plume
Cast away the carnival of harlequins and angels
Brew from present grist
Stories of mysterious tramps
Make a glad end at the dimming
Final soft silken soliloquies
"Goodnight dark angel
I send love from my death throes"
© 2014 fireblossom
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
If only we can catch that phrase that slips beyond our reach
Catch that phrase that teeters on our tongue,
Wrap those words elusive in a bouquet of mystique
To scatter forth like harlequins un-thumbed.
To caste our bright confetti of sweet wordage unconfined
Across the room and flung above the green,
To blue sky where syllables cavort to mix and play,
Where riotously in colour they are seen.
A symphony of texture in articulated sound
Revealing mans’ great majesty displayed,
Revealing the story of one humble moments joy
Of simple words so brilliantly portrayed.
M.
3 April 2018
@ Wozzles Copse
TARANAKI
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 1:31 AM UTC
A yellow pill, and then into
The tender hold of Morpheus,
Surrendered to the warm embrace
Of things seen and unseen.
Under white sheets, and then amongst
The harlequins and Freudians,
The rampancy and innocence
Of false narcotic dreams.
Amongst the sailors at the dock,
Or naked in the thoroughfare,
Gathering to watch the lions
Stalk adjoining streets.
To speak in tongues, and find it well,
To call a rabbit 'Marchioness',
To draw a sword against the fray
Of marauding balloons.
Vanity but tossed aside,
A ghost with no reflected face
Walks through a foreign city
Where the streets do not have names.
In Port-Au-Prince that never was,
Truth wears a past love as a mask,
And speaks in riddles, strumming softly
On an old guitar.
One last caress, the god retreats,
Warm sun peeks through the lush blue curtains,
Subject wakes alone, the potion
Sifting through her veins.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
You console me and hold me to your body
My hands love to hold yours
We are obscenely closer than I’ve ever felt before
One more breath and I’ll melt to the floor
I don’t know if I can stand this feeling for much longer
We are already a whole universe
A rhythm escapes your hips and I am driven mad
We are abstaining from the naming of these feelings
Quickly it appears relevant to refrain from our embezzlement
Of sound and sensation, since its never just about ***********
We sweep the stairs and compare our share of stories
We are beating ourselves into a form of beauty
Bruised and confused we recoil at our duty
And seek the comfort of hands that have never been this cruel
We are bank robbers and mannequins
Fantastic harlequins damaged by parliaments
So we take it out on each other's hearts
We are permanently trying to deny our inner spying
But it never seems to work out as well as planned
Later the next morning we fell a thousand stories
And landed on our monologues and mortgages
But life has a funny way of showing us our faults
And our feelings never seem to lead us
Exactly where they need to
See we are desperately in need of another type of guidance
So now I am replying to all your silly letters
And having the time of my life playing out these archetypes
One more night in the city and once more we take pity
On our impoverished souls and ****** attempts at love
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 5:50 PM UTC