"hydrophobia" poems
i am a whirlwind of rain on a hydrophobic world, an angel
of death scraping by like a vulture, picking at skin and bone
and leaving scratches on doors and blood puddles on floors
my blindness is as translucent as a jellyfish's sight, my mind
is shattered, and my memory is coming back slowly, piece by
brittle piece, and the emergency exits are sealed against me
so i travel in concentric circles trying to find a way out of this
labyrinth, only to catch the waters attention and grasp me by
the throat and gag me unconscious, only to see black afterward
i'm living each day through my mistakes, and making up for
it with cold revenge with haphazard patterns, abstract words,
and navigation through uncharted waters where i've drowned
not only everybody else, but myself, in this complete denial
- kra
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
My silence echoes across the chasms of Hades, where rabid entities claw at my soul with eyes like splintered rocks and a presence of tangible blackness.
Deafening is this sight of transformation, and I am unable to resist the aroma of tactile experience.
Unfortunately, I am ignorant as I have never metamorphosed nor spread my wings from the shell of the cocoon.
However, madness of the central nervous system is a condition which can result in hydrophobia, especially where sacramental water is concerned.
Therefore, how relative is time in this black hole of confirmed epistemological doubt?
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
A crutch, a walking stick
Use and abuse so sick of it
There for you when you can't move
Support your weight when you lose
But let me burn when you're cured
So **** you from all us tortured
Swinging in chains, bonded by pain
A snakes skin is all that changes
The venom still gleams crystal clear
So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your hopeless desires
I'll just take a seat right here
Blindfold off its so **** clear
This cinema rolls the same tape
But it's hilarious to see your face
The devil on the big screen
You wanted attention, now act your scene
A snakes skin is all that changes
But your method never rearranges
The venom drips, so crystal clear...
So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your faith has retired
Once again, called you out
It's hard to swim when drowning in doubt
I know, that riptide was far too strong
But in seeking help, I never did wrong
And your life is crumbling, as the venom drips
So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your hopeless desires
So let me burn!
Playing with fire
Let! Me! Burn!
Your faith! Is!
Retired....
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
When, like cancer, people fear war and death
as a rat fears a cat;
when people detest war and death
like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell
which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia;
when a bright city crowded like a river full to the brim
gets vacant all on a sudden just after seeing a gun-
what can the city be named then?
Avoiding war is the nature of the Queen of Sheba
because a woman means getting boiled like an egg
lying under the aggressive virility of a man
surrendering completely to his lust;
and a man is always like the King Solomon,
at whose beckoning with finger the Queen of Sheba
along with her state gets belonged to him.
But what a city is it, where the disgraced men
hearing the name of war enter the latrines running fast
like the patients of diarrhoea?
What an ill-fated country is it, where men and women
calumniate the war in their sky-rending chorus?
In ancient days women chose only knights and warriors
as their bridegrooms; and for their beloved heroes,
they made ready their shields and swords
so that they could leap into the fathomless beauty of war
if the battle-drum was heard beating.
When they returned to their homes, their wives welcomed them laying their hearts and tears of eyes under their feet.
If they got martyred, the wives felt proud of losing their husbands, as the full Moon feels proud of sacrificing
her light for the earth.
When a woman gets inclined only to her body,
when no noble thought can enter her brain
except the thought of her ****** only then
she clasps her bed-mate like pincers
listening to the sweet slogan of a procession.
But tell me, o *** men, which cancer makes men
such boneless like earth-worms?
Being affected by which tuberculosis, men start shouting heart and soul like ***** saying 'Save!Save!’
listening to the maddening war-song in the air and the sky?
When people detest war and death like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia, that habitation then
can be called a country of worthless people
where the sun should not rise ever,
it should not rain
and crops should not grow in the fields.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
not rats--he revered them, at least those sans hydrophobia
mice much maligned, though not condign; feral and farm cats kept them at bay anyway
both species took the rap for rodents
his curse he cast on the squirrels--rarely hunted, always chiseling, chipping away at his redwood trim
the spell he cast was whispered; nor did his rifle bark at them
only a few fouled words, imploring birds to dive bomb the ********
and poison placed here and there: allowing him to imagine them taking the fatal bait, skittering off to a favorite hole, writhing in death pangs
sensing some greater god than he could see, and deliver his own malediction to the world, with murderers of squirrels granted no special reprieve
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
" I aggregate to you of all that is relevant in my life,
I gild to love you as if you were sweet roses or gemstones,
Effulgence love of mine was she as sure as the moon above,
I love you as certain somber things are in need of love,
As ships of all sizes sail away to their distant shores enclave
Earthly we live up to life is sometimes encumbered by love,
No matter how hard winds brandish my perplexed soul,
Every breath I take will be a memory of my effulgence of her,
I love her without knowing how or where she might be,
I love her virtuously without elaboration or peace of mind,
There always will remain a secret adumbration in our souls
That secret window that will aggregate effulgence of love,
Cataclysm of passion a defense procures to my sensibilities,
I love you as the flowers we await for the spring to blossom,
Solid fragrance within ferries in itself the light of hidden flowers,
I must not give way to despondency of hydrophobia of your love,
But only to the effulgence of mine love thereof towards thee”
By Andrew Guzaldo 05/05/2019 ©
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC