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Out of the little chapel I burst
Into the fresh night-air again.
Five minutes full, I waited first
In the doorway, to escape the rain
That drove in gusts down the common’s centre
At the edge of which the chapel stands,
Before I plucked up heart to enter.
Heaven knows how many sorts of hands
Reached past me, groping for the latch
Of the inner door that hung on catch
More obstinate the more they fumbled,
Till, giving way at last with a scold
Of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled
One sheep more to the rest in fold,
And left me irresolute, standing sentry
In the sheepfold’s lath-and-plaster entry,
Six feet long by three feet wide,
Partitioned off from the vast inside—
I blocked up half of it at least.
No remedy; the rain kept driving.
They eyed me much as some wild beast,
That congregation, still arriving,
Some of them by the main road, white
A long way past me into the night,
Skirting the common, then diverging;
Not a few suddenly emerging
From the common’s self through the paling-gaps,
—They house in the gravel-pits perhaps,
Where the road stops short with its safeguard border
Of lamps, as tired of such disorder;—
But the most turned in yet more abruptly
From a certain squalid knot of alleys,
Where the town’s bad blood once slept corruptly,
Which now the little chapel rallies
And leads into day again,—its priestliness
Lending itself to hide their beastliness
So cleverly (thanks in part to the mason),
And putting so cheery a whitewashed face on
Those neophytes too much in lack of it,
That, where you cross the common as I did,
And meet the party thus presided,
“Mount Zion” with Love-lane at the back of it,
They front you as little disconcerted
As, bound for the hills, her fate averted,
And her wicked people made to mind him,
Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him.


Well, from the road, the lanes or the common,
In came the flock: the fat weary woman,
Panting and bewildered, down-clapping
Her umbrella with a mighty report,
Grounded it by me, wry and flapping,
A wreck of whalebones; then, with a snort,
Like a startled horse, at the interloper
(Who humbly knew himself improper,
But could not shrink up small enough)
—Round to the door, and in,—the gruff
Hinge’s invariable scold
Making my very blood run cold.
Prompt in the wake of her, up-pattered
On broken clogs, the many-tattered
Little old-faced peaking sister-turned-mother
Of the sickly babe she tried to smother
Somehow up, with its spotted face,
From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place;
She too must stop, wring the poor ends dry
Of a draggled shawl, and add thereby
Her tribute to the door-mat, sopping
Already from my own clothes’ dropping,
Which yet she seemed to grudge I should stand on:
Then, stooping down to take off her pattens,
She bore them defiantly, in each hand one,
Planted together before her breast
And its babe, as good as a lance in rest.
Close on her heels, the dingy satins
Of a female something past me flitted,
With lips as much too white, as a streak
Lay far too red on each hollow cheek;
And it seemed the very door-hinge pitied
All that was left of a woman once,
Holding at least its tongue for the *****.
Then a tall yellow man, like the Penitent Thief,
With his jaw bound up in a handkerchief,
And eyelids ******* together tight,
Led himself in by some inner light.
And, except from him, from each that entered,
I got the same interrogation—
“What, you the alien, you have ventured
To take with us, the elect, your station?
A carer for none of it, a Gallio!”—
Thus, plain as print, I read the glance
At a common prey, in each countenance
As of huntsman giving his hounds the tallyho.
And, when the door’s cry drowned their wonder,
The draught, it always sent in shutting,
Made the flame of the single tallow candle
In the cracked square lantern I stood under,
Shoot its blue lip at me, rebutting
As it were, the luckless cause of scandal:
I verily fancied the zealous light
(In the chapel’s secret, too!) for spite
Would shudder itself clean off the wick,
With the airs of a Saint John’s Candlestick.
There was no standing it much longer.
“Good folks,” thought I, as resolve grew stronger,
“This way you perform the Grand-Inquisitor
When the weather sends you a chance visitor?
You are the men, and wisdom shall die with you,
And none of the old Seven Churches vie with you!
But still, despite the pretty perfection
To which you carry your trick of exclusiveness,
And, taking God’s word under wise protection,
Correct its tendency to diffusiveness,
And bid one reach it over hot ploughshares,—
Still, as I say, though you’ve found salvation,
If I should choose to cry, as now, ‘Shares!’—
See if the best of you bars me my ration!
I prefer, if you please, for my expounder
Of the laws of the feast, the feast’s own Founder;
Mine’s the same right with your poorest and sickliest,
Supposing I don the marriage vestiment:
So, shut your mouth and open your Testament,
And carve me my portion at your quickliest!”
Accordingly, as a shoemaker’s lad
With wizened face in want of soap,
And wet apron wound round his waist like a rope,
(After stopping outside, for his cough was bad,
To get the fit over, poor gentle creature
And so avoid distrubing the preacher)
—Passed in, I sent my elbow spikewise
At the shutting door, and entered likewise,
Received the hinge’s accustomed greeting,
And crossed the threshold’s magic pentacle,
And found myself in full conventicle,
—To wit, in Zion Chapel Meeting,
On the Christmas-Eve of ‘Forty-nine,
Which, calling its flock to their special clover,
Found all assembled and one sheep over,
Whose lot, as the weather pleased, was mine.


I very soon had enough of it.
The hot smell and the human noises,
And my neighbor’s coat, the greasy cuff of it,
Were a pebble-stone that a child’s hand poises,
Compared with the pig-of-lead-like pressure
Of the preaching man’s immense stupidity,
As he poured his doctrine forth, full measure,
To meet his audience’s avidity.
You needed not the wit of the Sibyl
To guess the cause of it all, in a twinkling:
No sooner our friend had got an inkling
Of treasure hid in the Holy Bible,
(Whene’er ‘t was the thought first struck him,
How death, at unawares, might duck him
Deeper than the grave, and quench
The gin-shop’s light in hell’s grim drench)
Than he handled it so, in fine irreverence,
As to hug the book of books to pieces:
And, a patchwork of chapters and texts in severance,
Not improved by the private dog’s-ears and creases,
Having clothed his own soul with, he’d fain see equipt yours,—
So tossed you again your Holy Scriptures.
And you picked them up, in a sense, no doubt:
Nay, had but a single face of my neighbors
Appeared to suspect that the preacher’s labors
Were help which the world could be saved without,
‘T is odds but I might have borne in quiet
A qualm or two at my spiritual diet,
Or (who can tell?) perchance even mustered
Somewhat to urge in behalf of the sermon:
But the flock sat on, divinely flustered,
Sniffing, methought, its dew of Hermon
With such content in every snuffle,
As the devil inside us loves to ruffle.
My old fat woman purred with pleasure,
And thumb round thumb went twirling faster,
While she, to his periods keeping measure,
Maternally devoured the pastor.
The man with the handkerchief untied it,
Showed us a horrible wen inside it,
Gave his eyelids yet another *******,
And rocked himself as the woman was doing.
The shoemaker’s lad, discreetly choking,
Kept down his cough. ‘T was too provoking!
My gorge rose at the nonsense and stuff of it;
So, saying like Eve when she plucked the apple,
“I wanted a taste, and now there’s enough of it,”
I flung out of the little chapel.


There was a lull in the rain, a lull
In the wind too; the moon was risen,
And would have shone out pure and full,
But for the ramparted cloud-prison,
Block on block built up in the West,
For what purpose the wind knows best,
Who changes his mind continually.
And the empty other half of the sky
Seemed in its silence as if it knew
What, any moment, might look through
A chance gap in that fortress massy:—
Through its fissures you got hints
Of the flying moon, by the shifting tints,
Now, a dull lion-color, now, brassy
Burning to yellow, and whitest yellow,
Like furnace-smoke just ere flames bellow,
All a-simmer with intense strain
To let her through,—then blank again,
At the hope of her appearance failing.
Just by the chapel a break in the railing
Shows a narrow path directly across;
‘T is ever dry walking there, on the moss—
Besides, you go gently all the way up-hill.
I stooped under and soon felt better;
My head grew lighter, my limbs more supple,
As I walked on, glad to have slipt the fetter.
My mind was full of the scene I had left,
That placid flock, that pastor vociferant,
—How this outside was pure and different!
The sermon, now—what a mingled weft
Of good and ill! Were either less,
Its fellow had colored the whole distinctly;
But alas for the excellent earnestness,
And the truths, quite true if stated succinctly,
But as surely false, in their quaint presentment,
However to pastor and flock’s contentment!
Say rather, such truths looked false to your eyes,
With his provings and parallels twisted and twined,
Till how could you know them, grown double their size
In the natural fog of the good man’s mind,
Like yonder spots of our roadside lamps,
Haloed about with the common’s damps?
Truth remains true, the fault’s in the prover;
The zeal was good, and the aspiration;
And yet, and yet, yet, fifty times over,
Pharaoh received no demonstration,
By his Baker’s dream of Baskets Three,
Of the doctrine of the Trinity,—
Although, as our preacher thus embellished it,
Apparently his hearers relished it
With so unfeigned a gust—who knows if
They did not prefer our friend to Joseph?
But so it is everywhere, one way with all of them!
These people have really felt, no doubt,
A something, the motion they style the Call of them;
And this is their method of bringing about,
By a mechanism of words and tones,
(So many texts in so many groans)
A sort of reviving and reproducing,
More or less perfectly, (who can tell?)
The mood itself, which strengthens by using;
And how that happens, I understand well.
A tune was born in my head last week,
Out of the thump-thump and shriek-shriek
Of the train, as I came by it, up from Manchester;
And when, next week, I take it back again,
My head will sing to the engine’s clack again,
While it only makes my neighbor’s haunches stir,
—Finding no dormant musical sprout
In him, as in me, to be jolted out.
‘T is the taught already that profits by teaching;
He gets no more from the railway’s preaching
Than, from this preacher who does the rail’s officer, I:
Whom therefore the flock cast a jealous eye on.
Still, why paint over their door “Mount Zion,”
To which all flesh shall come, saith the pro phecy?


But wherefore be harsh on a single case?
After how many modes, this Christmas-Eve,
Does the self-same weary thing take place?
The same endeavor to make you believe,
And with much the same effect, no more:
Each method abundantly convincing,
As I say, to those convinced before,
But scarce to be swallowed without wincing
By the not-as-yet-convinced. For me,
I have my own church equally:
And in this church my faith sprang first!
(I said, as I reached the rising ground,
And the wind began again, with a burst
Of rain in my face, and a glad rebound
From the heart beneath, as if, God speeding me,
I entered his church-door, nature leading me)
—In youth I looked to these very skies,
And probing their immensities,
I found God there, his visible power;
Yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense
Of the power, an equal evidence
That his love, there too, was the nobler dower.
For the loving worm within its clod
Were diviner than a loveless god
Amid his worlds, I will dare to say.
You know what I mean: God’s all man’s naught:
But also, God, whose pleasure brought
Man into being, stands away
As it were a handbreadth off, to give
Room for the newly-made to live,
And look at him from a place apart,
And use his gifts of brain and heart,
Given, indeed, but to keep forever.
Who speaks of man, then, must not sever
Man’s very elements from man,
Saying, “But all is God’s”—whose plan
Was to create man and then leave him
Able, his own word saith, to grieve him,
But able to glorify him too,
As a mere machine could never do,
That prayed or praised, all unaware
Of its fitness for aught but praise and prayer,
Made perfect as a thing of course.
Man, therefore, stands on his own stock
Of love and power as a pin-point rock:
And, looking to God who ordained divorce
Of the rock from his boundless continent,
Sees, in his power made evident,
Only excess by a million-fold
O’er the power God gave man in the mould.
For, note: man’s hand, first formed to carry
A few pounds’ weight, when taught to marry
Its strength with an engine’s, lifts a mountain,
—Advancing in power by one degree;
And why count steps through eternity?
But love is the ever-springing fountain:
Man may enlarge or narrow his bed
For the water’s play, but the water-head—
How can he multiply or reduce it?
As easy create it, as cause it to cease;
He may profit by it, or abuse it,
But ‘t is not a thing to bear increase
As power does: be love less or more
In the heart of man, he keeps it shut
Or opes it wide, as he pleases, but
Love’s sum remains what it was before.
So, gazing up, in my youth, at love
As seen through power, ever above
All modes which make it manifest,
My soul brought all to a single test—
That he, the Eternal First and Last,
Who, in his power, had so surpassed
All man conceives of what is might,—
Whose wisdom, too, showed infinite,
—Would prove as infinitely good;
Would never, (my soul understood,)
With power to work all love desires,
Bestow e’en less than man requires;
That he who endlessly was teaching,
Above my spirit’s utmost reaching,
What love can do in the leaf or stone,
(So that to master this alone,
This done in the stone or leaf for me,
I must go on learning endlessly)
Would never need that I, in turn,
Should point him out defect unheeded,
And show that God had yet to learn
What the meanest human creature needed,
—Not life, to wit, for a few short years,
Tracking his way through doubts and fears,
While the stupid earth on which I stay
Suffers no change, but passive adds
Its myriad years to myriads,
Though I, he gave it to, decay,
Seeing death come and choose about me,
And my dearest ones depart without me.
No: love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it,
Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it,
The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it,
Shall arise, made perfect, from death’s repose of it.
And I shall behold thee, face to face,
O God, and in thy light retrace
How in all I loved here, still wast thou!
Whom pressing to, then, as I fain would now,
I shall find as able to satiate
The love, thy gift, as my spirit’s wonder
Thou art able to quicken and sublimate,
With this sky of thine, that I now walk under
And glory in thee for, as I gaze
Thus, thus! Oh, let men keep their ways
Of seeking thee in a narrow shrine—
Be this my way! And this is mine!


For lo, what think you? suddenly
The rain and the wind ceased, and the sky
Received at once the full fruition
Of the moon’s consummate apparition.
The black cloud-barricade was riven,
Ruined beneath her feet, and driven
Deep in the West; while, bare and breathless,
North and South and East lay ready
For a glorious thing that, dauntless, deathless,
Sprang across them and stood steady.
‘T was a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect,
From heaven to heaven extending, perfect
As the mother-moon’s self, full in face.
It rose, distinctly at the base
With its seven proper colors chorded,
Which still, in the rising, were compressed,
Until at last they coalesced,
And supreme the spectral creature lorded
In a triumph of whitest white,—
Above which intervened the night.
But above night too, like only the next,
The second of a wondrous sequence,
Reaching in rare and rarer frequence,
Till the heaven of heavens were circumflexed
Another rainbow rose, a mightier,
Fainter, flushier and flightier,—
Rapture dying along its verge.
Oh, whose foot shall I see emerge,
Whose, from the straining topmost dark,
On to the keystone of that are?


This sight was shown me, there and then,—
Me, one out of a world of men,
Singled forth, as the chance might hap
To another if, in a thu

Noon—is the Hinge of Day—
Evening—the Tissue Door—
Morning—the East compelling the sill
Till all the World is ajar—
for Susan O'Neill Roe

What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****

The thin
Papery feeling.
Kamikaze man ----

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
***** girl,
Thumb stump.
Rebecca Karlsson Mar 2015
She's got a hinge loose.
Well, I'll tell you,
it's more than that.  
The whole door is falling off,
And will certainly take a few other things with it.
The sum failure of her small unseen parts,
Coming loose one by one.  

And there never seems to be a proper screwdriver handy when she needs one.
Maia Vasconez May 2018
1.He’d say anything to get me out of my shell.
2. His pupils are hard, black marbles and I want to flick him off of me.
3. He is always shuffling through women like they are a deck of cards.
4. It’s just how the dice rolls.
5. I was afraid of falling, of my arms snapping like wishbones.
6. He waits until I’m swaying like a door hinge.
7. My eyes are wide like 8 ***** and he hits me with that same click, roll, thunk of a pool ball table.
8. You are cursing me. When you yell, you are cursing me.
9. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
10. I hope the bruises on your legs turn into birds. I hope you get out of here.
This is for anyone whose ever been hurt by a man
I no longer believed
in the idea of soul mates
or love at first sight

But I was beginning to believe
that a very few times in your life
if you were lucky
you might meet someone
who was exactly right for you

Not because they was perfect
or because you were
but because your combined flaws
were arranged in a way
that allowed two separate beings
to hinge together
2 condemned males serving life sentences in top-security prison inmates separated by wall and steel cell bars

INMATE 1 (burps loud coarse voice) i have this fantasy of being a hunted outlaw taking my 3 guns and ******* Ford truck driving north south east west robbing convenience stores bars banks people sharp-shooting car thieving running until my time is up like the old west firing pistols wearing a Stetson hat drunk smart-*** talking hanging with ***** bar girls forget about eating just burning a trail (holds metal reflective scrap in hand attempting to catch glimpses of inmate 2)

INMATE 2 (sits cross-legged on floor with palms up resting on knees) too many people are hurting and getting killed right now i imagine if there is a god i’ll bet he or she or it feels weary disappointed disgusted by human kind’s destructive nature

INMATE 1 so what

INMATE 2 i don’t know about you but i miss women their point of view play friendship tenderness nurturing intimacy physical beauty i long for love belonging a woman’s touch her attendance passion the hinge of her thighs licking ******* ****** crave its warm wetness taste smell texture even tongue dipping into **** in a way i’m a total gynephiliac or philogynist

INMATE 1 filojinist huh what are you a professor you ***** son-of-a ***** where did you learn to talk like that tell me professor ever **** on a perfect *****

INMATE 2 most women have some desirability i’ve known many but yeah there was one in particular i remember she was a beaut bulging pelvic bone cute floppy lips eager **** tangy gamey sweet salty flavor just the right amount of furriness lust response flow she’d reach for my ******* and i’d just keep working her getting her hotter taste her ***** taste her *** i was addicted to that woman’s ****** even though she treated me like trash perhaps it was simply an oral fixation or some subliminal need i don’t know our relationship lasted way longer then it should have guess i was kind of drunk on her downstairs

INMATE 1 i never was much of a cooch muncher (flexes arm muscles opens tightens fist) women are cows they give off too many odors plus they always want mommy control no matter how much or what you give them they always want more

INMATE 2 you don’t get it do you the connection between the moon oceans great mother earth fragrance of dirt aroma of rain female beauty you’re a misogynist gynophobe possibly misanthrope

INMATE 1 you use too many big words ******* i hear some women is like how you described yourself some women gets drunk on johnson and nuts

INMATE 2 what are you talking about

INMATE 1 i want to get hooked up with a ***** like that a ***** who’ll lick and **** my johnson and nuts all day long (hand goes to crotch squeezes)

INMATE 2 yes me too maybe we ought to ask ourselves why escapism into ****** fantasy and release is so profoundly vital to our existences

INMATE 1 what

INMATE 2 life sentence means no motive for rehabilitation no hope for redemption how much money does it cost to maintain each prisoner who pays the bills why keep us alive does society honestly believe we pace our confines haunted in regret yearning for inner salvation

INMATE 1 you think they should **** us

INMATE 2 i question the entire punitive system did you ever read Michel Foucault’s Punishment and Discipline the beginning will make you squirm or Franz  Kafka’s In The Penal Colony that horrific carving apparatus

INMATE 1 uuhhh what the **** are you talking about

INMATE 2 i don’t know i don’t understand why i’m locked up in here

INMATE 1 (runs fingers through hair) what crimes did they convict you of

INMATE 2 i tried killing myself so many times they put me on death row i should be free to roam or at worst case scenario sedated in an insane asylum instead they accused me of being a danger to myself and society they said i could injure other people while attempting to destroy myself i drove off a 6-story garage ledge onto a public street below

INMATE 1 is that why you’re in here you silly *** ***** driving off a 6-story garage ledge onto a public street below ain’t no crime hell just reckless driving

INMATE 2 the courts are ******* up judges think they’re celebrities silver-tongued thieving lawyers twist the truth the whole system is corrupted by bribes cover-ups secret deals concealed schemes personal gain collusion fear

INMATE 1 as for me i tortured ***** killed lots of people men women children you want to hear some tantalizing details like the time i ***** killed a mother and her 2 young daughters cut out their warm hearts and ate

INMATE 2 (interrupts) stop you sick animal please stop

INMATE 1 yeah you got a problem with that

INMATE 2 i couldn’t live with myself doing what you did i get skittish at the sight of blood

INMATE 1 you pathetic lightweight i want to stick my johnson up your tight hairy *** so bad (sniffs finger) i want to hear you squeal like a little girl

INMATE 2 sorry to disappoint you but i’ve got hemorrhoids

INMATE 1 French ticklers hell they just make ******* a more interesting sensation

INMATE 2 this is the rudest most repulsive conversation

INMATE 1 what you think you’re better than me just because you’re educated (finger picks nose flicks ****** at wall speckled with many ****** flicks)

INMATE 2 i didn’t say that perhaps morally more reserved why did you torture **** **** people

INMATE 1 it was fun made me feel powerful having control over another person’s existence hey i didn’t ask to be born blame it on my mom people are so ******* up life is a joke i was just trying to help rid the world of all its vermin

INMATE 2 there was a time when i would have considered you psychopathic but in this chaotic shifting flipped out world where reality mirrors fiction and when civilization is insanely vicious fraught with violence guns firing fires exploding extremism prevails criminals scoundrels lunatics govern gang lords rule the streets your murderous vices may serve as grounds for exoneration provided you conduct yourself intelligently you may qualify yourself as an ordinary survivor or possibly even reputable citizen

INMATE 1 what? you’re reasoning i’m normal maybe innocent you’re my main man tell me why you want to destroy yourself so bad

INMATE 2 i think human kind is a curse we annihilate everything and don’t seem to learn change instead we get worse our busy selfishness is a betrayal against earth all the creatures a betrayal against god as a kid the betrayal i felt i knew i could not reveal because it would be a deeper betrayal the neglect and punishment i endured i knew i could not make known because it would only add to the betrayal the rage i felt listening to lies i knew i could not challenge a million lies i did not know how to confront the frustration i now suffer pains me as long as i can remember in my mind i’ve always felt like a prisoner alone in a room no one is coming this twisted despair inside the body of person with suicidal tendencies found guilty sentenced to life incarceration in maximum-security prison doesn’t that sound like a double conviction

INMATE 1 wow interesting ok professor you’re putting me to sleep chat with you later

INMATE 2 you really ought to learn yoga

INMATE 1 voga? what’s that for

INMATE 2 an inner journey a light when other lights go out a way to stay grounded when gravity fails

INMATE 1 sounds like just another jail cell
Cat Fiske Jan 2016
I am the Box Turtle,
I shut you out,
and sleep away in my shell,

I am the Box Turtle,
the only turtle who is safe from the world,
the only turtle who can shut away the world,

I am the Box Turtle,
I'll hid for life,
behind the hinges that cover me,

I am the Box Turtle,
Who will slam my door,
on you and the world,

I am the Box Turtle,
I can live my life in my shell,
while you continue creating this hell,

I am the Box Turtle,
I will not fight,
I will live in peace not war,

I am the Box Turtle,
I'll  lock the ones who try and hurt me out,
to try and survive these battles alone,

I am the Box Turtle,
inside my hinge like doors,
I'll be safe from the world,

I am the Box Turtle,
I must be safe from you,
and any other fools.
Box turtles  are cool,
only turtle that can fully close its shell bc it has mini doors,
I love em, they're cute.
Third Eye Candy Sep 2019
The world is a rogue wave in an otherwise tranquil cacophony.
Like porridge in a squeaky door hinge too sleepy to be orange.
The jawbone of an *** at rest on a window sill. next to a Pi.
The world, a smoldering flume of genius, unbridled, by and by.
a continuous ravine of asymmetrical adoration.
as we inhabit the foreign,
native to Fate.

We sing the body eclectic in a percolating rue of an infinite gumbo.
Like Venice, with Florence in its teeth. our pompadours-
shameless for sport.
The heart of a battle trout in a river of Trojan lures are We!
dangling from a current as swift as any eventuality.
An upstream vagabond of illustrious toil in the wee hours. Common
as weevils in a Gin. sweetening the palate of an unctuous ablution.

sleeping through the good parts
our eyes on spikes
in the dark.
Fletcher Oct 2013
This is too far,
I know I’ve gone too far.
As if the light of day were enough to wake
my dormant wit,
               But I know it’s not.
My children lay dead. My wife lies cold and still.
How long I sit in silence
   I can’t know.
My arms are lifeless weights along my sides,
My hands are crusted
With my family’s blood.
I cannot know the horrors of last night,
Echoes of screams
                   And a rage not my own
Are all that I can manage to produce.
At last I gather
their once warm bodies
and lay them down beneath the high noon sun.
Our house is now a broken shell,
    Much like me.
The door hangs from a single copper hinge
A parody of
   my fragile mind.
No windows remain, only empty holes
Beneath a partially
       collapsed thatch roof.
I fall to my knees and begin to dig,
Every handful of dirt
Is agony
To my shattered hands, I welcome the pain.
I dig the hole
wide and deep to fit them.
At last, my greatest fear has come.
The grief arrives,
            and bears down upon my chest.
I lower my children first into the ground.
And kiss their brows,
       holding each, one last time.
My tears raining down on their broken bodies.
I gather my wife
    And softly place her
Alongside our children.
I kiss her lips
And whisper all my thoughts
Into her beautiful deaf ears.  I moan
And heave, tasting
       salt and earth and blood.
“Bring me death if you have any mercy!”
I shout to the clouds
                 and blue above.
I wait for death but there is no reply.
Gods do not answer
                                 pleas of the insane
I ask for their forgiveness one last time
And heap the earth
       Onto my happiness.
I walk away towards nowhere, anywhere
But this place where
My murdered family lies.
This is a conversation I had with God.
In which I told the silence of my room
that surrealism is the only ism in which God makes total sense.

I could see the chalk whites of his teeth trying to bite down on his words
but before they could be derailed his tongue caught wind and his words assailed
as he said, "I hate surrealism."

As if his words would never be caught dead in an urn
sometimes his mouth looked more like a jail in an Old Western
and his thoughts fought like criminals desperate to break out
until they finally found a way to use his tongue as an escape route.

"No, I don't hate surrealism," he says
"I just hate surrealism as a movement."

Upon hearing this my spine coils like a wine-corker-spiral-staircase
upward; where my brain plugs my cranium like a cork
and my eyes drip like blank canvas,
I am one hollow statue decaying in a melting structure
with wax in my ears I feed landscapes to winged insects
as I drown in pools of water/color.

Behind me is a sky so burlesque it actually looks like the clouds are crying.
Under me is a ground so vast it has nine horizons wrapped in a double helix.
Reconstructed beside me is a tree so old it could be the same wood as The Crucifix.
Nested inside me where my spine should be is a coat rack made crooked by the weight of all-nighters.
The texture of my skin makes it look like god paints with typewriters.

"No, no," he says, his voice turning melancholy, atomic, uranic, idyll,
"I don't hate surrealism as a movement,
because hate's such a strong word. Oh god, I guess I just don't get it."

Now I'm overcome with a sincere desire to light an entire herd of giraffes on fire
and sip wine beneath the light as if it were dinner by candlelight,

"Seriously?" I say. "Under giraffes, in this light
I can't tell if you're Lincoln or Jesus.
In fact, we all look like swans with elephant reflections.
Your trunk is a trumpet.
Don't even get me started on where we derive our visions of god
from where I stand everything casts a shadow in the shape of where it's heading
and the sky, vast and pale and open, the sky is the only all-seer
and the truth is far less surreal:
if your demons are ants then your god is an anteater."

I can see the chalk whites of his teeth stall door,
squeaky hinge, his mouth-
occupied with a realization he can't pronounce.
A pause as pregnant as a desert landscape,
ornamented with butterflies.

His head is an empty room with an evaporating skylight,
his ears, hang like clocks on a half-wall, melting.
The escalator to his brain is a spiral staircase moving in reverse.
His eyelids peel back like the last page of a two-dimensional book.
I can see with my Spellbound eyes, we are finally on the same page.

When his tongue curls back into his saloon jaw
like a bee sting rifle shot back into the mouth of a lunging tiger,
swallowed deep into the wells of a fish belly.

"I'm sorry" he says, "that's not what I meant."
Pandora dO Sep 2012
Over there I see
what seems to be
a little mushroom.
Or is it?

It's not very big
and it's not very special,
actually a little plain.

Wait, what is that?
That looks like a door,
and is that a shed?
What's this?

That there must be
some kind of hinge,
wonder what it's for?
Can I open it?

This special mushroom,
it even has a chimney
and a set of stairs.
Oh how sweet!

There is some
tiny furniture
and a tiny clock.
Where'd you get this?

Inside there are
two grey mice,
A tiny baby and a mom.
They're very cute!

Now, let's close this
special mushroom home
and leave the mice in peace.
*It's a lovely ornament.
©2012 - Inspired by my mushroom ornament :)
ottaross Nov 2014
The door needs to be kicked in.
No gentle open and whispered hello
It needs become of splinters and dust.
The glue of its joinery to shatter and crumble.
The latch which would open smoothly
With the simple request of a raised hand
Needs to be driven shattering through wood
Sending formal wooden trim embellishments flying.
The myriad of small retaining nails will be extracted
Reversing a collective hold they held resolutely,
Pinned by hammer blows so long ago.

That door needs to come down.
To lower hinge will give way completely,
Leaving some screws still biting desperately
Into a fragment of the wooden frame.
The hinge at eye level will twist apart from our blow
One side remaining stuck in place on the frame
The going with the door as it disintegrates.
The pin that held it together in smooth harmony
Soon will dangle pointless on half a binding hinge,
Still now – the mechanism prised-apart.

The door shall be destroyed.
Our collective force irresistible – it will fragment.
Once trees were felled and sawed into planks,
Smoothed and shaped and joined in the build.
Now we need to render it all into firewood.
And where once stood a blank, heavy door
There will be light and air flowing through.
And the only hint of the barrier that was before,
Will be a final clear, metallic note
From the pin that finally falls
Upon the smooth stone floor.
A single note will ring out
And lead into a song of freedom.
weaver Oct 2014
I am fuming about the world I am so upset with people who think their beliefs entitles them to hurt innocent people or worse their children I am tired of people thinking they have some sort of right to tell us that it’s not love we are fighting we are fighting with all our might to transcend over 2000 miles while at the same time trying to keep hate from other people at bay we have been together almost two years we have learned and grown together we have battled distance and illness and tragedy we have committed to each other what more information do you need to know it’s love oh is it for one of us to have a ***** because here’s news for you I can get one of those online I can get one of those from a doctor because *** is merely a quirk of skin and chemicals and gender is all in our heads and if you would rather base love off of genitals than feelings I think you need to take a good long look at yourself and your god because if he is so shallow as to dictate love by X’s and Y’s then **** your god I am not going to try and please you I do not owe you to cater to your hurtful and hateful beliefs anymore

let me tell you it was taught by your messiah to keep your piety to yourself and to love everyone you can’t tell me that god made me this way and then turn around and claim oh no I am messed up that is hypocritical that is not a religion that I can respect and you are a shame to those who actually try and follow this faith, I can admit that much that there are those who do it right and I thank them but also keep in mind that religion is a human cultural construct and it has been separated from law for a reason because it is recognized that belief is individual and cannot be used to control masses since that causes empires to topple so why are we listening to the heretic fanatics claiming that my love is wrong when I don’t even believe in that god I don’t even believe he exists I don’t believe in heaven and hell and even if I did why the **** do you care so much about MY damnation if I am going to hell I honestly don’t give a single **** I would rather go to hell than spend my time here alive and breathing in misery without her what about that do you not understand

my life is more important than whatever afterlife there may be because I KNOW what’s happening now I know what it’s like to live and I won’t hinge my happiness on what YOU think is wrong and will happen to me my beliefs will dictate my outcome and I can tell you right now that you are wrong to think love could ever hurt anyone your hate is going to spawn your ticket to the hell you believe in while I revel in knowing that love is a universal truth and love is never wrong and I am not scared to love her because something that opened my soul so profoundly cannot be wrong I planned on being alone forever until I met her and your obsession with reproductive organs are not what I will make my choices off of

I think our similarities are so many blessings I love her curves I love her voice I love how our bodies match and our minds get it there are no barriers on gender there is only knowing there is only understanding my issues are her issues and that connects us on a fundamental level that I don’t know how I could ever be so comfortable with a man I have a deep deep reverence for women that resounds to my core and how you could think that is anything less than achingly beautiful is astounding but for all this I will not pine for the approval of a stranger if you do not know me than keep your ******* opinions to yourself and let me love her in peace and if you are someone we care for then the least you can do is love us and let us be and rejoice in our happiness we do not affect you in any form so why would you go out of your way to hurt us

I should not have to hold her while she cries about wishing she could hug her mother I have never wanted children yet I know more about unconditional love than that woman does or apparently her god does the fact is I would never scare her as much as they have I would never make her cry like I have seen her do all I want is to love her with all my heart but by a simple fact of nature my loving her rains down hate and all this is not something I should have to carry.
i'm so ******* tired.

this is very stream-of-consciousness i just let a lot of what i've had to think about the past two days pour out of me so i hope the message gets through
Stone mouths silenced
Yet my whimpers bloom
Salted tongues spew and flay
Dredged bodies crammed in the unknown
Suffocating and stitched into the woe
An illusion of a serene  path
My eyelids grieve the inconceivable lies
The silence of the hills caressing the sunlit
As I lay still
ottaross Jun 2016
We went to a play last week

Actors strutted around

Among a set of tall buildings

Made of actual stone of grey

And billowing smoke

And noises

And crowds.

Upon the great stage they talked

About their ancient ideas

Like wars

And politics

And freedom.

In one scene an actor yelled

and swung a mighty hand

and struck the other man!

And though we knew

It was really just acting

The idea that one

Could hit another

Shocked all of us in the audience
So powerfully

And a few people even left

The theatre

In tears.

But there were funny bits too

In the play that night.

A character said he had a car.

His Own. 

And together they were to drive

Both of them

Off to an aeroport.

Like with all the steering,

And foot pedals,

And everything.

And in a very sad part

Someone treated someone else badly

And called her names

Because of the colour

Of her skin

And because she had come

From somewhere else.

And all our eyes were wet for a while.

One man used a device

Which was an ancient komputer.

Two flat parts with a hinge

And it opened upon his lap

And one side glowed brightly

To illuminate his face

And he presses a bunch of button-keys

To spell words and things

Because that’s how they told the


What to do.

And we all laughed.

when it was over a bunch of us asked the man that was hit if he was okay was he really okay it looked terrible and did they really have to do that awful thing in the play and was the other actor a bad man and he said no, it was alright and the other actor was a nice man and that it didn’t hurt at all and he said he was sorry that it scared us but it was the violence of the time and the people of that time and we said we kind of understood.

And we all felt better

But one lady

Still needed to hug him.

And his eyes

Were a little wet too.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2012
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,  
What words could never speak
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud
Two of us, alone, as one
Rapt in the spread of wings.

Later, alone we dine in the Café  
Campagne. Our conversation  
Deafens a burgeoning crowd
Coffee was nectar, our words  
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest  
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed  
By your tears.  I have always
Known you.

Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin
Your slender legs, columns that taught  
The Greeks in Helens age, touched the water  
And the sky. I saw the milky way that night.

Síneánn, I am your Pablo
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone you are the hinge  
To my casement world.  Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes  
I hold your skin, my Selkie
Sweet Niamh, I have lived  
One hundred years this week.

It is warm in the distance
In the country of the sun
We end at the house in Umbria
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.  
At the great table we feast  
With family and friends  
And I am not alone with you.
Izzy Stoner Oct 2013
Somewhere in this town there is man with his feet bare.
He has spent the last hour staring at his toothbrush and trying to remember how to leave this room.
His fists hold fingers that are twisted into paleness:
Like jaws too small for adult teeth.
The bathtub gapes up at him, yawning in his peripheral vision,
He remembers that two feet are just as good as six when it comes to sinking.
He never did learn how to swim, but
Like a fish out of water knows
The sea can make short work of accidental sailors
And the gurgle of a tap can sound like the tide coming in.
The bathroom mirror is not kind to him:
His imperfections make apologies he simply won’t accept.
Ribs forming corrugations on his t-shirt, as though his bones are trying to escape from the confines of his skin.
The porcelain lip of the sink continues to pout, its expression a perfect ‘O’.
The plughole is wearing lipstick today; blood red,
As it has been every day of this week.
Thoughts are like spiders webs, he thinks, constructed by moonlight then torn down in the morning
Occasionally he’ll still catch the dew.
In the sterile light of an eco friendly bulb, he holds the mirror back with both hands, one hinge broken.
He wears his heart on his sleeve, cufflinks cutting off his circulation.
In the shadow of the cabinet, are kept row after row of soldiers he uses to fight off his demons
And below that another regiment to handle the effects of the others.
He says, “All I am now is a synonym; and alternative to what I used to be.”
As alive is in likeness to living.
As the sun is, to the infertile glow of his grandfathers TV.
phil roberts Mar 2016
I came out of the north-west
Staggering from the storm
The surgeons had repaired my body
And my mind hung by one hinge
So I headed for the coast of Wales
To assume the healing rhythm of the sea
And breathe the briny air
Where no-one knew me
Nor called my worn out name
Sweet freedom in isolation

And so, in smiling solitude
I walked and smoked too much
Staring at the moody ocean
As we all inevitably do
As though it holds answers
And indeed it does
The answer is "being"

One hot but breezy day
I followed the coast from north to south
Not too far but far enough
Until I came upon a harbour
Tiny and insignificant
But a harbour nonetheless
With a clutch of small boats
Bobbing and swaying lazily
On the backwater slack water tide
And somewhere close by
A nautical bell tolled the rhythm
Of an endless heedless movement
And an oddly comfortable melancholy
Rocked me in it's arms
Lost and found
Beginning and end

In as much as everything matters
Though nothing matters much
This place was nothing to me
No more than countless others
But that harbour bell
So patient and so constant
Touched something deeper than knowledge
Perhaps it was the state of my health
Or the glowing heat of the day
But some vulnerable receptor
Vibrated to that gentle toll
I've been in many places in my life
And seen wondrous famous sights
All seared into my minds eye
But their memories will last no longer
Than the haunting harbour bell

                                                By Phil Roberts
Written last summer in Wales. It was the first poem I'd written for 4 or 5 years. Sorry it's so long but that's how it wrote itself :/
Timothy Brown Jun 2013
Every door in this place creaks,
shattering the silence of the empty echoing
of faucet leaks.

Drips are part of the  company I keep.
Along with drops, smoke trails and static details.
Fuzzy sounds penetrate the hell I face while asleep.
© June 6th, 2013 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
zebra Jul 2016
do you have a dark secret
my darling
a terrible brain
instead of nice ***** pink
girl things
you ache for ****** insertions
cutting edges
menstrual swab mouth plug selfies

while you pretend all is well
loving Mother Mary
at the church with mummy
deep down inside
your a ***** *****
god dam the boys look good

do you have the courage
to admit it
first to your self
and then another
or shall you live
as you finger *****
obsessed with flying *****
and devils teeth
pigs nuzzling mud and ****
strewn at a *** trough

you love playing with fire
hot toes and ****
oh yeah
turn up the ****** heat
your craven desires
to be a **** toy
and then the pleasure
break me break me
twisted broken
little **** toy

if you could only find me
the one who glorifies
your *******
insinuates kisses that tear
who adores your
midnight whimpers
howls of pleasure
cries for help
no safe words
bending bending
mutilation gasms

you smiling
hobbling over
for another hard blow
your **** drenched
******* zinging
from razors play
blood red rivulets
falling on pretty feet
while good people
dream of angels
you dream of
big cocked men
and merciless gang bangs
a sweet ***** of Babylon
hard justice
cruelties ecstatic
being beaten to death
by 100 buttered *****
legs and arms piled high
and **** and **** and more ****
your holy trinity

no you say
there must be some mistake
thats not you
your on gods leash
burying yourself
in black rocks
crypt of normalcy
your goody goody goody
time to cinch up
veil of the nunnery
hinge on the death mask
no honey
theres no gorilla
in your cave
crushing girlie's soul
pride will out shine all
til last bloom is no more
then learn laments fury

My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
#death  #***  #adult  #explicit  © zebra    love poems • death poems • sadomasochism poems • ****** poems • explicit poems
#poems   #******   #explicit   #sadomasochism
Ochre May 2010
I am not built for dancing



just built

to think

that I am not

I am a poet



just built

to think

that I am

Just like you

when you said

you don't love me

but maybe


just built

to think


you don't

Just like me

when I said

I love you

but maybe


just built

to think

that I do
Expensive handbags,
Pensive listening,
Nothing I say is ever worth
Swing on this
Hinge-- a see-saw of
Bruised on the *** by
The frozen snake--
Never to thaw
And never to break.
Exquisite lampshades
Hide the luminous
Now a dingy
Dim of disrepair
Visit a fairytale
Where honey flows in
The smooth will soothe the
Heartless work and
Tangled cloth again today,
Moth eaten and angled,
We ride in the dark
Convinced our little playground could save
A heart.
Gremlin Definition: an imaginary mischievous sprite regarded as responsible for an unexplained problem or fault.
AP Nov 2015
the wooden hinge creaks as its rotting frame grows weak
a delicate hand reaches into the void, brandishing into the cold, open space
reaching for something, anything to grab onto
the bitter air latches onto each finger, burning dry skin with flames of ice
the boy’s hand jolts back, as he blows on it with his relieving breath
his unspoiled heart and untampered mind
they convince his short legs to strut back, away from the unknown
so he returns to his comforting quarters, and in short time forgets this day entirely

years later, the boy is now a young man
the splintered door is all but collapsed from its hinge
with his courage further developed, he walks out into the cold, open space
he scans the area, squinting to his left and right
in a matter of seconds, a gust of wind picks up and begins throwing pieces of the white blanket every which way
the bravery that once existed quickly sinks to fear
his vision impaired, the teenager slowly begins to walk back
as he stumbles backward, he feels the tips of numb fingers scraping against his ankles
he now begins to run blind, his liquid tears turning solid before they are able to roll down his cheek
as he trudges through the frozen land, a hand manages to clasp onto his leg
in horror, the young man looks down and sees hollow eyes matching his gaze
but he jerks his leg away, and smack! he hits his back against the crumbling door, rolling back into his comforting quarters
he is safe, but the door no longer stands to protect him

many more years pass by, and a grown man dons a full beard
without the door to hold back the outside world, over time, the sharp air has slowly turned his once heated body very cold
lonely, the man willingly walks back into the space, knowing what waits ahead
he takes his steps further and further until he begins to feel the field of hands that lay above the ground, flowers without proper care
the dead establish a firm grip around his feet, and begin to pull him below the earth
unnerved, the man takes in the blank space around him as he descends lower and lower
the rays of the sun glint golden speckles onto the ground
and the reflected light attaches itself to a small body approaching the man ahead
he screams, crying
warning the short figure to turn back,
no! not now! not this soon!
he is up to his neck in the compact snow
the restraint of the snow causes his speech to break,
y-your.. innocence..b-bui-build a door
and then, he was gone
DblNickel May 2017
Let's take a second
Recalibrate this conversation
You do know, right
That I am the hinge on this life
I don't want praise
Or a pat on the back
But even hinges need WD-40
From time to time.
**** it,
I need to be greased constantly
I'm needy in that way
(Therapy helps)
But look into my day-to-day:
On my left is the Wall,
My root and my reason
My family (my girls).
The Wall is permanent, important
(Those words don't do it justice)
On me it relies on necessities of life.
For that Wall, I hold the Door.
The Door on the right,
Replaceable, not solid,
It's a means (to an end)
That Door is temporary, minute
(Compared to the house)
And on me it rests, day in and day out.
On ME it rests
I  am the only hinge
The other?
We won't talk about him
But hinges only have two hands, you see
One on the wall, one on the door
I have no hands that are free
Hinges are fierce little *******
That are good at their jobs
But they age all the same

So *******.

The Missing All—prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World’s
Departure from a Hinge—
Or Sun’s extinction, be observed—
’Twas not so large that I
Could lift my Forehead from my work
For Curiosity.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.it's called pronoun usage focused upon the experience of claustrophobia, or rather, the lack of... hence: one thinks in order for one to be... unus, cogito, unus se, per ergo; these people went after grammar... not a good idea; i've had my doubts... but... i also have my... rigid beyond religious orthodoxy credos... infringed upon denials! grammar is one of them!

if we're going to go about our
verbiage as we've done...


   i have to do this...

or rather...
   one has to resort to this...

one must think / hinge on such
    one must execute such...
one must, press on such

        just so, one is able...
to counter the trans- pronoun usage...
with a royal,
pronoun usage;

     go on... two is able...
two think...

figure it out... tow along;
as a Nascar wreck...

because started thinking...
is pluralism intact
pluralism... on the basis of
an isolated instance of
a disfranchised base within
the confines of He... or She?

well... the royal pronoun
  as one would expect...
or rather, as one would hope so...
    i think the lunatics have run
the asylum long enough...
their supposed asylum,
formerly known as society?
   not good enough...

call the guys in the white coats
that... everyone seems to fear.
Darbi Alise Howe Feb 2017
“Was it the backless back of a black dress that did it?”

                                          They’ll ask, loudly
                                          even though the wolves that roam these streets
                                          are merely feigning sleep
                                          and are starving


                                          They will agree
                                          as drool slips from the hinge of a wolfish grin
                                          from the forked tongue
                                          of an angel

“What else could she expect?”

                                         Of course
                                         they must abide by the code of the pack(of course)
                                         which is of course
                                         the root of disrespect

“How obscene! How uncouth!”

                                         (how to measure human flesh)
                                         as if they could  hold up her “no(s)” to his “yes”
                                         which is bigger and louder
                                         and stronger

“Yes! … Yes! … Yes!”

                                         As if to them
                                         to the wolves, to the men, to the uncondemned
                                         what happened, really
                                         was for the best.
Kimberly Clemens Dec 2012
Mistletoe hanging on the door hinge
A mess of tacky holiday sweaters
Caroling in the streets of snowy wonderlands
and houses flashing red blue and orange.

Wishlists to Santa sent in the mail
Gingerbread houses are built
Families tobogganing down the hills
Leaving behind a sleek icy trail.  

Holiday shopping is nearing its craze
Christmas trees cluttered with presents
Little girls and boys staying up late
waiting for Santa 'til they fall asleep in a daze.

The scent of ham is filling the halls
Loved ones gather 'round
While children open their presents
and compare their rockets and dolls.

— The End —