"hermetic" poems
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped
as above so below
the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
*** hole below ...flesh woven
does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy
then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children
i build temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****
do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes
the catechism
of the solar ****
to know
to adore
to prostrate
to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth
to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries
those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
895
A Cloud withdrew from the Sky
Superior Glory be
But that Cloud and its Auxiliaries
Are forever lost to me
Had I but further scanned
Had I secured the Glow
In an Hermetic Memory
It had availed me now.
Never to pass the Angel
With a glance and a Bow
Till I am firm in Heaven
Is my intention now.
5.6k
It's summertime. The saxophone jazz
sounds are pirouettetting the waves
to find their own balance. It's a mauve
inner dance in almost everything around.
More exactly, the melodious movable
sounds become soundable movement
needing a reverberation time to dissipate
the energy. The movement releases its own
purity to become simple fecundity. The pulsed
sound waves are also old memories lost in the
natural green. The saxophone looks much
more like a Tahitian prince dancing his love
on the sand. The singing mauve sea waves
have a sadness taste at sunset. The last one
is a watery mermaid and he embraces her
while searching the high. The sounds need
touch and life. They need to dematerialize
and to disappear into the universe. The
saxophone remains a solitaire keeping
safe his evanescent hermetic equilibrium.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power
surging in evening haste over
roofs and hermetic
grim walls—
Last night
As if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling, as if the last traces
of warmth were still fading in you.
My thigh burned in cold fear where
yours touched it.
But I forced to mind my vision of a sky
close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move—
a sky of gray mist it appeared—
and how looking intently at it we saw
its gray was not gray but a milky white
in which radiant traces of opal greens,
fiery blues, gleamed, faded, gleamed again,
and how only then, seeing the color in the gray,
a field sprang into sight, extending
between where we stood and the horizon,
a field of freshest deep spiring grass
starred with dandelions,
green and gold
gold and green alternating in closewoven
chords, madrigal field.
Is death’s chill that visited our bed
other than what it seemed, is it
a gray to be watched keenly?
Wiping my glasses and leaning westward,
clearing my mind of the day’s mist and leaning
into myself to see
the colors of truth
I watch the clouds as I see them
in pomp advancing, pursuing
the fallen sun.
3.3k
She was nyctophilia;
In the darkness,
The moon and stars was her Nakama;
She could hear the stars whispering,
And the moon comforting her.
As she licked her wounds and drowns in her own sobs.
In the darkness,
Her room becomes her hermetic fantasy world;
One where her cries sound mellifluous,
One where her wounds look ethereal
Her pain was considered tacenda,
But in that little Universe, she built,
She was rebirth – with each heartbreak.
She is a philocalist - a Lunar Pisces
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
learn your questions.
discern the myriad as One, and console your misery with service.
pour your fumes into the heart of mars; press pause when your gods
make you nervous. and when they don't exist, you whistle while you hurt...
as if
the Master Plan
had jokes.
but know this.
your cathedrals have killed people, and your faith was crushed -
whenever sincere. so i
bid you peace. a peace with
tranquil thoughts and night lemmings;
squealing
right over the Cliffnotes to Oblivion, in vapid terror and happy herds.
their little parachutes; cumbersome, with snapped threads to a forum, that unpack, once filled
with air and
parents .
you inherit
the edge of your vague notions.... that expand
upon dissent .
heretic tick
BOOM !
then make love, all day Wednesday
learn your questions. gain the gist
of your out-risible ignorance and invent the humor of "precise submission"
as humility will boast , enthroned above the kingdom of desire
aching hermetic in a mob. but knobs -
that turn, despite severed hands
turn Truth's *****
learn your throat.
hold only the notes to your music
to a golden standard !
Brandish your exile, like a rogue -
from it's sheath of Turin
[ and flash! ] it's blade of grasp
in Walt Whitman's
Verile Phase...
face your loved ones, but only
with the face
that got away.
return...
return unbridled and
unkempt. more windswept
than lost and found
haunted...
and remember
eat whatever
you **** well please
because
" **** Dr. Phil, Really ? "
Have you ever seen an anorexic
Buddha ?
and bought that one ?
if you have...
you might be
ascetic.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
711
Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds
To drink—enables Mine
Through Desert or the Wilderness
As bore it Sealed Wine—
To go elastic—Or as One
The Camel’s trait—attained—
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind—
2.9k
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
to no music - only acrid scruple
of this being with and not being with,
one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in
the garden as a steady arm of light
stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
and the heat clambers the wall of
the vacuously atrabilious moment
of just plainly existing. the slender
harlequin of moon, like an old lover
having its own way with me, a child's
yelp coming home — the hermetic
air crushing the light, slivering it
revealing all the ensconced phantasms
too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
that teems with a concatenation of roads
and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
receiving the star of aloneness,
vacillating between
place and placelessness
telling this originary of repossessing
the moon with a hand in my hand,
pressing a question of where
have you been all the raging while.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
undress the frets and peel the strings, pulled as oxymoron through chord progressions
hermetic code and the 8-fold path swim indefinitely within concept of illusion
concept
of
illusion
trick question.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
Proudly self diagnosed as non compos mentis , the gallivanting hermetic of Hill Country , walking barefoot this evening , scantly clad , joyfully whistling beneath astonishing skies of blue , fields of clover , clear running creeks , copious woodland greenery ! A fickle , fanatical , fervent lover of every creature the forest has to offer ! Rolling hill , pasture and homestead , Wood duck , blue jay , otter and crawdad ! Every rooster , wild turkey and dairy cow ! A boisterous , benevolent , painfully reverent disciple of Earth and sky , lover of cascading brooks , placid lakes , the cool breeze , bumblebees and centipedes , bobcats and chickadees ..
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
We're washing in
On waves we ride
on the Crimson Tide
Washing up
Drying out
it'll be alright--
Six pack Pacifico, it's all sympatico
and copasetic
but it's so pathetic
you're living hermetic
You can't even smell the trees.
It's an age--or it's becoming--
one of reckless living
and sin forgiving
Finding time to be alone
I'm not alone
I know
Just one out of millions
Cover streets and subjects and bare midriffs
pull sardonic smiles tight
Disagreements turn to fights
but not on my watch
not on my watch
not on my
WATCH WHAT I CAN DO!
The Stupendous Calamari,
that is what they call me
'cause just
watch what I can't do!--
Got eight long arms
And no axe to grind
Six-pack Pacifico, that still leaves two, you know
One to pick up
One to dial
Tell you you were right
Five to put away the empties
One to save one for tomorrow,
For the Crimson Tide
But you never liked
Never liked that movie much.
And anyway
Time to take some time to
take some time
I got some time for drying out.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
there's a secret place i found to keep my fear
to hide my tenderness & be vulnerable --
it's next to the smallest bones in your inner ear
the fluid skin blanket of your swooping neckline
lily-soft & somehow stiff enough to break
open my seed-pod heart
the one i thought no one could pry apart
but with rosebud ******* -- lips --
the figure of biblical magdala takes me
away from a lone satsuma tree raising its
shriveled offering from the crippled earth
on sunday strolls through duckpond parks
kicking cobbled streets of augusta block
or scooping water at me smiling in cutoffs
on a hot hometown riverbank
you came to me on barefeet out of the smoke
& rain silence where i was invisibly sobbing
where heat-lightning waltzed
sneaky-pete over the prairie
& what are you if not a rain -- a zephyr
flowing through stone temple
just as the dry-mouth dog days of summer
brought hell's fire across the southern field
so i've abandoned the hermetic existence
& buried my old dead shell with a
harp song hail glory to the contortionist god
vaulting off the balance beam in the
back of my mind beneath the
rain soaked topsoil of dawn
among the mound palaces
of ants & mourning mud hornets
while the gray shadows of the magpie
dance & writhe on the mosaic faces of
the trespassed lupine forest
& the sun still comes up on time big
gold fluttering like a delusional cicada
over the empty pink street
i'm still fidgeting because
clouds with tails like jellyfish sting
with rooted memories of azaleas but
you kiss away my all my latent
restless gypsy fears & keep the harsh
light dimmed or wrapped in heat-foil
in your front dress pocket & you only
give it back to me in brief drips --
pinches -- wet tongue kisses --
we talk with our eyes as only animals
can our butts in the damp sand
beside the breathless sea where streaked
clouds seem free to finger the horizon
but are cut by the city skyline --
a switchblade
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
There is insincerity in my electric praise,
regardless of response I drip cool pools of soft cloth on floor
and utter abstruse succulent phrases.
Even with all this, I am insipid in lending lip service to ***
I absently inhale acrid smoke because
I never pretended to be a hermetic socialite-
because it is a socially acceptable
form of self hatred.
Obsessive animality has become
disinterested sexuality,
I have done anything
ever asking "what then?" and
everything done:
has me **** in the eyes of men.
Gleaming ideals of girl on girl,
feverish licking,
slick sweat dripping and all this
boredom:
the initiated
subjects of whoredom
come undone with the gripping of slippery moans
and now lay soiled in sheets
where hearts beat fast,
striving hard,
deep in keeping the motions of man.
We are stripping off flakes of soft humanity,
which we feed each other to watch it melt on the tongue.
So very unlike writing,
*** is hard wired,
it needn't be learned-
only practiced with intent for perfection
and when the edges bleed together within the edacious mind,
all is bared
unclothing only sloven swine.
The truth is:
I only deal with shadows and
align them in a malignant play of poetic puppetry.
I outline a silver coated tongue
seen to deliver elaborate loquacious lies,
I **** deep at cultural control
and I huff full lungs of the social soul.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 12:03 AM UTC
my darling
i will visit you in your boudoir
tumescent Satan, I
you, a goddess, your body-- the temple it was built for
our hermetic union,
two bodies entwined on the hearth,
the argent moon looking on, clutching her vestal livery
heathens, heathens!
how can something so exquisite be a turpitude?
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
a costume party in my father’s house.
my mother
in her Sunday best.
little old
hermetic
me.
loudest brother
in the attic
with a stick.
in his mouth.
my most housebroken
sister?
basement, on a stack of bibles.
other siblings, non locals, dogs, my father…
all in the mind
of your private
nudist.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
Dicontained, uprooted from
origins and disbelongings
stowed stored
in hermetic containers
stacked by soul-less rows
in the dead cold night,
transiting to upended lands.
Inside, a monocular view:
ironed pillars, art-palm,
disinteresting shots framed
of distant falls,
as luggage tumbles off
the conveyor creaking
tired from endless
circumambulations of the
graveyard of emotions, where
day on day, hopes, loves,
dreams, die, unwaved for.
Welcome - to neverneverland.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Deliverance
Pensive admiration
It's inquisitive
Punctual and problematic
my entourage
my dwindling embrace
my niche is clandestine
hermetic to myself included
elusive equations
encumbrance,
what a term
conundrums around every turn
vague. Not vague
expensive. economical
Living in squalor
a gay romp
systematic oppression
trace it to the roots
It's sad
unsettling
deliver me always
no longer apprehensive
no longer am I
I am yours truly
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
Maria's mom
had an ***
A nice
peach.
The kind that made
Maria
uncomfortable,
because her mother wore
green bikinis
to the grocery store
and bought
every green thing,
even the hard bananas
that wouldn't be soft
for months.
in the lime bikini,
the creases
of her upper thighs
were places
where men wanted to put
their tongues.
Maria's mother
was a
thirty-seven year old
milk-skinned
body.
And other than
the green bikini
she wore
the black skirt.
When her mother
wore the black skirt
it made men
want to slide fingers
up the black hemisphere
and feel for the rabbit
in between her thighs,
to feel the magic
of soft
stomach flesh
and a still-tight
almost hermetic
***
Maria's mother,
called Ms. Herrera
by Maria's boyfriend,
resumed the old name
Judy
in the mirror.
She spent long, distended moments
in front of that
mirror
in the black dress,
watching the folds of fabric
slide.
Although her stomach
was starting to sag
and she could hold
the flesh
in between
an index
and
a thumb,
She could still take solace
in the still-tight
gift;
the one part of her body
that she could turn her back to
while it gave her
gracious returns;
It was a capsule of the past:
intact,
still vital
and still
hers.
Maria's mother
wore those tight black dresses,
g-strings
and bikinis to the grocery store,
because they were
relics.
Maria was a relic,
but not the kind
that made her mother
still
feel pretty
or young
or at least
valuable.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 10:28 PM UTC
bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
with me.
live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
these things pulse with strength
in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
no sight or hindsight.
i'll run to where the sunlight is
and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
scarred, sundered.
clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.
living alone
yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
the well-placed gnome of stone outside
stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.
tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
and crawl towards the ajar door of
my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
all books dissipated, some naked
in relished pages, others abeyant.
the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
— all is broken.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
The Octopi Jars
by Michael R. Burch
Long-vacant eyes
now lodged in clear glass,
a-swim with pale arms
as delicate as angels'...
you are beyond all hope
of salvage now...
and yet I would pause,
no fear!,
to once touch
your arcane beaks...
I, more alien than you
to this imprismed world,
notice, most of all,
the scratches on the inside surfaces
of your hermetic cells...
and I remember documentaries
of albino Houdinis
slipping like wraiths
over the walls of shipboard aquariums,
slipping down decks'
brine-lubricated planks,
spilling jubilantly into the dark sea,
parachuting through clouds of pallid ammonia...
and I know now in life you were unlike me:
your imprisonment was never voluntary.
Originally published by Triplopia and The Poetic Musings of Sam Hudson. Keywords/Tags: Octopus, Octopi, Medusa, Sea Angel, Angel, Angels, Nature, Sea, Ocean, Aquarium, Aliens, Imprisonment, Prison, Ship, Ships, Shipwreck
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 4:20 AM UTC
Is it your blood
that crawls with art?
A bold union
that cries when the distant
sounds of Bach wisp from there.
I wonder if you were called
by the sudden beeping that
resembles the stain
on a rusty coin from a long buried culture.
America perhaps, but also Caesar.
All the while, we weary wounded
stumbled through charisma and over altars
pristine in silk and lace;
the holy plateau where snow falls only;
amidst this shipwrecked coast.
And above us all
waving and trembling.
And below us all
stains upon the snow
as charmed blood ran deep
to the ghettos of art and science,
collected in this Hermetic vessel
sealed but for a hole
where beauty alone caused tremors
to rage and spark in fires.
And you alone, bound by blood
saw through the night,
through the forest of dreams
to the stars.
Not being burnt by their light
was your cause; bound by blood.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 2:38 AM UTC
Can you believe?
I almost let a ******* job blow my brains out
steal me from my kids and love
this system rots us inside out
it makes us dissolve and **** our selves back through a straw
and say we still aren't enough
the catharsis of it all is slipping
oozing through life not on our terms
this capital is rot incarnate.
Death encapsulated in a hermetic chamber
I breathed my last labored breath face beneath a pillow
and woke up to failure
a failure that could start the rest of life
failing up for us
is giving into the quit.
Brain unlocked, heart bound in broken promises
to children and now fear of lack of value
and resource to feed them full.
This prison immolated
crystal chandelier impaling
only pretty to them
when stained with our blood
soaked geometry splattered
tessellated across the porcelain walls
they only smile when we weep
staring at us in our cage
as we writhe
and they dine
on the blood of our infants
on their labor not yet
realized.
Eating our children and us
right before our eyes
out of the sunlight
they only laugh when we have nothing
they only feel when we hurt
they're only full when we are starving
only sated when we need.
monstrous predators of money
and greed
they only smile when we bleed
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
electric — conflated with
the doldrum of once ignited feeling
on the russet table work
and the stringing aroma of flyblown
coffee painting the morning something
earthenware;
i imagine
women lounging
and displaying their flamboyant dresses
confessing a dull promenade
parading their attenuated ***** reveling
a queendom on recall and this bane,
merely resolute, gives itself a new
meaning as a hand of forgive
men resigning their bags on the corner,
grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into
a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting,
verses lying cold on the froth of the tile
and the wind ripening the brew of
contestations — punctuations in their
cupboards still and reserved in hermetic
space curating silence, giving dins
their polished ends,
open for all: churlish boys,
naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects,
rebels and the overwrought –
never closes like a hand in cold
or a rose, its face occulted by
identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling,
scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered
wall, sipping coffee,
mmmm, that
morning ripple transcending the
heaviness of the city before me.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
the crow
the fine print
of nowhere.
the bomb shelter
the rumored locale
of a mother’s
laundry room.
the bare cross
the teething
toy
a baby
bypasses
for the neck
of the woman
waiting
for her junk
to fall.
the mare
the anxious
bike.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
Fog-grey paint on wood…
Sentry!
Imprisons willing hostage…
Safe!
It jars - jams handle door to floor
Uterine prison seals hermetic hermit
The fawn as naked innocent born.
Cow mother forages for food…
To earn!
Boy buck lay prone; ears twitch.
Waiting to exhale.
Wolf pants foul -
turn handle -
entry permit?
On eves gone by wolf violates fawn.
Cow mother oblivious in her providing!
Crept in!
Kneeled!
As fawn feigned sleep…
Lupus leered, licked - abused like prey
This night young deer escapes the hunt
Lays quiet, tremulous.
Wets itself!
Chair holds!
Patriarchal coward creeps back to fetid lair
Brief reprieve?
Grow strong - pray another day!
©pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – All rights reserved
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC