"hypnopompic" poems - Hello Poetry

Of all things unknown, easily a non-denumerable infinity, very little will drive a person to the precipice of madness like the insignificance of a statistic - say one in seven billion, a statistic that unhinges the mind, dragging out primitive insanity, catalyzed by spurned desire, an insanity that is raw- raw and sick and hungry- feeding upon itself like an epidemic, an acid that reduces one's existence to a longing for a hypnopompic eternity, some twisted fascination that becomes an elegy for the ****** one where the past with holds the future, laughing at the heart's bipolar fluctuation between absolute paralysis and pure agony, a grey stillness to a light switch flipped off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and aren't you tired yet? Are you not chilled by truth's cold whisper, shaken awake by logic's steel grip? It is a rare prison we build for ourselves- trapped between what we know and what we wish, these non-existent walls of unrequited everything, where melancholia acts as our shackles and we sit in complete silence, content in our discontent, because we know, we know that escape is intangible when you are both jailer and captive.

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Feb 3, 2013

Feb 3, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC

darbi-howe

Of All Things Unknown

Of all things unknown, easily a non-denumerable infinity, very little will drive a person to the precipice of madness like the insignificance of a statistic - say one in seven billion, a statistic that unhinges the mind, dragging out primitive insanity, catalyzed by spurned desire, an insanity that is raw- raw and sick and hungry- feeding upon itself like an epidemic, an acid that reduces one's existence to a longing for a hypnopompic eternity, some twisted fascination that becomes an elegy for the ****** one where the past with holds the future, laughing at the heart's bipolar fluctuation between absolute paralysis and pure agony, a grey stillness to a light switch flipped off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and aren't you tired yet? Are you not chilled by truth's cold whisper, shaken awake by logic's steel grip? It is a rare prison we build for ourselves- trapped between what we know and what we wish, these non-existent walls of unrequited everything, where melancholia acts as our shackles and we sit in complete silence, content in our discontent, because we know, we know that escape is intangible when you are both jailer and captive.

15

Take a glimpse back down the cobbled Roman road, and you will bear witness to a catalogue of decadent milestones which await unrestrained consummation. But I am now a weary pilgrim who wanders through misty forests, where the sound of cracking twigs around the badgers sett, shatters the serenity of twilight ecosystems. Toadstools are not a part of my current diet. Therefore, I bid you farewell. When you stand by the sparking fire at the ancient gatehouse, you will resolve the carnival of hypnogogic and hypnopompic startlements. Therefore, before you begin your journey of forgotten mystical awareness, I must ask one thing of you: are you able to recollect your whereabouts in the next lifetime?

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Nov 11, 2013

Nov 11, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC

david-barr

The Future of Nocturnal History

Take a glimpse back down the cobbled Roman road, and you will bear witness to a catalogue of decadent milestones which await unrestrained consummation. But I am now a weary pilgrim who wanders through misty forests, where the sound of cracking twigs around the badgers sett, shatters the serenity of twilight ecosystems. Toadstools are not a part of my current diet. Therefore, I bid you farewell. When you stand by the sparking fire at the ancient gatehouse, you will resolve the carnival of hypnogogic and hypnopompic startlements. Therefore, before you begin your journey of forgotten mystical awareness, I must ask one thing of you: are you able to recollect your whereabouts in the next lifetime?

4

I welcomed you into my labyrinth, shut all the doors, drizzled blankets across everything, each squashy chair where you could rest your head, leave remnants of you in perfume and hair so I wouldn’t forget. Little pictures developed in my hands, a simple magic trick which made us smile as sniggering kids. Then they dropped to the floor, created a collage of recent memories, our private history stationary and square. Bricks cold as frost on grass, you danced, I fell deep. A soporific multi-hued haze played in my eyes as if it was endless hopscotch. Sunset glazed our faces a marmalade-orange, we lost ourselves in towers of books and images which now spread beanstalk-like up the wall. Pinch-marks resembled berries on my arms, soaking in madness, basking in your light. I could rest in this maze forever you said. Then I, in frustration, turned over in bed.

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Oct 29, 2014

Oct 29, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Hypnopompic

I welcomed you into my labyrinth, shut all the doors, drizzled blankets across everything, each squashy chair where you could rest your head, leave remnants of you in perfume and hair so I wouldn’t forget. Little pictures developed in my hands, a simple magic trick which made us smile as sniggering kids. Then they dropped to the floor, created a collage of recent memories, our private history stationary and square. Bricks cold as frost on grass, you danced, I fell deep. A soporific multi-hued haze played in my eyes as if it was endless hopscotch. Sunset glazed our faces a marmalade-orange, we lost ourselves in towers of books and images which now spread beanstalk-like up the wall. Pinch-marks resembled berries on my arms, soaking in madness, basking in your light. I could rest in this maze forever you said. Then I, in frustration, turned over in bed.

38

sometimes she forgets, and she wakes me up by touch - i hate those late nights, because i am robbed then of hypnopompic tranquility. most days i wonder what it’s like, having zero obligations - i dozed off in the surf, painted neon blue by some nearby coral beast’s castoffs. it wasn’t dawn i was waiting for, but just the tide rising high enough to submerge me completely - my lovely wicked moon its accomplice.

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Apr 16, 2022

Apr 16, 2022 at 11:47 PM UTC

zakiy-zakaria

april

sometimes she forgets, and she wakes me up by touch - i hate those late nights, because i am robbed then of hypnopompic tranquility. most days i wonder what it’s like, having zero obligations - i dozed off in the surf, painted neon blue by some nearby coral beast’s castoffs. it wasn’t dawn i was waiting for, but just the tide rising high enough to submerge me completely - my lovely wicked moon its accomplice.

12

Breaking the surface Clutching intangible thoughts Slippery seaweed. . . Bobbing up for breath Swirling down through dark colors Which world is my own? New yet familiar The shoreline my spreading wings Shifting transition. . .

0

Jan 18, 2018

Jan 18, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC

E1L0n3wy

Hypnopompic

Breaking the surface Clutching intangible thoughts Slippery seaweed. . . Bobbing up for breath Swirling down through dark colors Which world is my own? New yet familiar The shoreline my spreading wings Shifting transition. . .

9