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Michael Marchese Jul 2018
The all seeing iris imperial city
The swiftest of stylus this side of the ‘sippi
The trippiest spittin’ Promethean hippy
Conspiracy theorist of eeriest verse
The despotic hypnotic black flag bearin’ Hearst
Still immersing myself in a poverty trap
As I grapple with lack of fact check cashing crap
Cryogenically frozen emotion vibes flowin’
From out my funk bunker boombox
Overthrowin’
Your global dominion opinion with ease
Shootin’ breezes with Tirailleurs Senegalese
I’m the kid wicked picket sign paintin’ Tom Sawyer
The ill eagle Taino privilege enjoyer
Still swoopin’ in mean on each **** I make clean
Pick the bones dry of serpentine oil green dreams
Then I bury what’s left of your money machines
With the pharaohs of old’s latest pyramid schemes
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
when i was born within the Chernobyl aftermath, and the nurse tried to **** me, in that she almost choked me, enlarging my heart, and when that didn't **** me, and they attempted to befriend me, and gave me a brain haemorrhage... and that didn't **** me... i started to think: what will? i can't say i'm in hell, i can only assert limbo: i'm not a monster, just yet... it's only later that i became *******, when they wrapped me in a blanket of denials, to ensure their society was a beacon of false hope and even more false love... that last bit is the cherry on the top... i once hated ridicule: now i started to loath playground like games of lies... i just started thinking: these people are a bit worthless... how could people i once respected become so... so... pointless? it's not a case of: oh poor me... i'm laughing... asking for the next quickened allotment of epitaph in marble... i prefer the pain rather than this kiddy game of denying something being true... that sort of **** just makes up for being thought about too much... it exhaust my mental capacity... limbo is quiet fine, i'm apprehensive where these people think they live... utopia isn't exactly a best-described vicinity... but when did people start to become so ugly? it's slow down here, the big bang just happened, or as i say: with the kettle boiling water... biology's darwinism timescale for a reaction, and physics's timescale of the big bang theory are not exactly fascinating for me, boiling my water to make a cup of tea... i am literally split-mind concerning these two "barometres"... it's just hard juggling these two (0, 0) coordinates... to stress a beginning... evidently juggling these two narratives leaves us living our lives on amphetamines... insect like... it's hard to even make time or emotional investment in: a death in a village... it's doubly hard to make adjustments for a tomorrow, giving our input in beginning: no one knows, billions and billions... years... and then back toward the befitting cranium... it really is man with an omni-characteristic, well... at least one of them... which clarifies itself in a way: given that we're no longer exploring this orb, globalisation ensured the tribe died... we can go in circles: round and round... there's never a clear vector in sight... no real unknown land to challenge... it's all been tamed... once the savannah, now the zoo... as one german noted: the melancholy of the completed house... all the work gone into constructing it, the thrills, all gone... it just stands as perfect, as it is already derelict... hard to keep track of a two-beginnings system... it's hard to find awe these days, i mean awe that might allow an Aristotle, rather than just looking stupid... i think that England really does require an invasion to shake it up a little bit, it looks so docile in its arguments... so certain: "poised" to conquer... i can get (0, 0) of the big bang, a big blank... my brain just became scrambled eggs... i store that **** in my head: i'll see forever-never-tomorrow... i store the monkey-suit in my head (the other (0, 0) beginning) - i'll begin to wonder: but the monkeys have it so easy! me panda! me and bamboo! darwinism has either killed of history that we made in the centuries a.d. / a few centuries b.c., or what they're prescribing us really can't fit into one head, or into a few, to make it into a crowd... because when a few ditto-heads ingest one wise monkey talking over another monkey... the atheistic crowd is the quickest to disperse... as with the constant banging on about the number of stars in the universe... i like to look at the number of carbon dioxide bubbles in a glass of Perrier water.

well, maybe because they aren't
my contemporaries... but i despise Chopin
like despise Liszt... the fact that the latter
smoked cigars is just asking
for me to abhor him... and that a poet
   succumbed to his virtuoso skills
with dire tears of
       a jealous thread (matt arnold)...
for me Liszt and Chopin battered the piano,
literally, battered the piano...
     could have slaughtered a cow also...
but then again there's a part of my that says:
well, if the god argument is infantile,
how about the nation argument, is that infantile also?
are we to be bleached entities,
or merely abstract pronoun users? you see,
   they stole Copernicus from the Poles,
and Mickiewicz, and evidently Chopin is no Pole...
but a prize nonetheless... so they keep him
as that rare thing: something born into an almost
inescapable state prone to disintegration...
   what with the monarchy being
     one of import, either a Swedish electer ruler,
or a Hungarian, or a Russian, or a German (e.g.
house of Sas) - a monarchical brothel,
   otherwise known as an aristocratic "democracy"...
    it's just a good thing i don't like him... i don't see how
a piano can be ***** as it has been by either Liszt or
Chopin, sure enough, nimple fingers,
joseph ii hapsburg, mozart, the film amadeus citation:
                                                               too many notes...
    a bit like me... for its worth, the piano is so delicate,
    so so delicate... how it becomes an instrument that
requires competitors, how you need more virtuosos
who can play the **** music than original from-scratch
composers... piano: it just asks for gliding hands,
it's not asking for these megalomanic
tunes that might leave you with a wish from an audience
memember: to break your fingers...
evidently nothing more than a death / ******* stare...
or why the true resting place
of Chopin is Japan... as odd as it might seem...
           plays the piano great... plays a woman
  like a bagpipe...
                  aren't the two related?
     and when i first heard *ola gjeilo
on the radio
i was a woman watching a romcom...
                              the whole northern lights album...
my: a feast!
         just one of the few contemporary composers
that i can invoke...
     so coming back to the piano:
   me more of a Debussy and Eric Satie palette...
they just glide... i can only imagine
       a flight of migrating swans,
   or ice-skating...
    Chopin and Liszt is a mathematical headache...
        solo piano and the gentleness of approach...
    and only today,
   a lesbian couple travelling to manchester...
one of them phoned the radio station
and asked for a request...
      i've been dying to note this song / composer
down for a year or so... always heard the song:
never the composer's name...
                   ludovico einaudi,
much to my taste: the piano still remains
   a wardrobe item of the orchestral architecture,
rather than a door of your fridge...
constantly yapping for: more, more, more.
you glide across it,
tease it, rather than taste it,
  or subject it to a rubric of quickened calculation,
it stuff the room,
the best you can do is make it sound airy,
    make diacritical echoes from it,
than actual letters...
           say: the acute above the o, rather than
the o and acute in ó....
such a delicate thing: the piano:
which is why i never understood Chopin,
or felt a need for a national argument
       needing him, propping him on a peddlestool...
having him as a national treasure...
                  i always remained true to
those who settled for gliding over the alphabet...
    rather than immersing themselves in it...
that kind of composition, that simply fakes lazy...
     they are the ones i admire...
     and yes, given that dialectics has been
completely forsaken,
   the best we can do is give an indulgence
in an opinion, and make comments of
diacritic...
   women, chocolates,
men: dialectics...
                    or at least that's how i find myself,
making diacritic comments...
   akin to piano (contra chess,
    white notes consonants,
black notes vowels,
or should i say: any letter with a diacritical
distinction is the black note,
vowels and consonants are uniform in white)...
Terry O'Leary Sep 2013
MORNING HAS BROKEN
The men, in lines, ***** two by two,
forgetting all the women who
indulged them through a night of tricks
(their lips designed with crimson sticks,
their eyes a wild mascara mix)

and think instead on times ahead
when they’ll be gone, their bodies dead
(some rotting slow’, some mummified)
though once they were their mummy’s pride.

Attired bright in uniforms,
they strew their bombs in desert storms -
like melting sands, the sky deforms
with darkness, death - and doomsday swarms
through ravished lands where fires warm
the corpses, cold and puriform.

Their eyes flash forward towards the backs
of lucky ones who have the knack
of never being in the way
of bursts of bullets as they stray
(effacing phantoms faraway)
and dodging doom’s Redemption Day.

They’re wishing for a foggy morn
or best of all to be unborn,
and peering down to mark the sway
of wings in webs while spiders prey,

they wonder when their time will come
and they can cease their fleeing from
the sights they’ve seen, the deeds they’ve done,
the life they’ve lost, the death they’ve won,

then muse a while upon the child
they killed today when they went wild,
and when they’re finally reconciled
with broken bodies stacked and piled,

they ponder, does she have a kin
to curse them for their burning sin?

And if she does, will god reply
with tooth for tooth and eye for eye?

Or will her clan be mild and meek
and simply turn the other cheek?

2. MIDDAY MUSINGS
They’re counting steps to pass the time
and puzzle if they’ll reach their prime
or if instead they’ll serve the worm
their carnal flesh and aching *****

when soon, perhaps, they sleep in berth
provided by the chilling earth,
and fret about the fate they’ll find
below the stones that slowly grind.

And once or twice will come to mind
a sultry smile they left behind
(the distant past - a tepid trace –
another time, another place),
reflected in the gray grimace
that paints a frightened fading face.

And on they trek through guilt and gloom
to track their own and others' doom
and soon they’ll  grace another pool
with blood of other beings who’ll

inhale no more the evening airs,
unlike the wily Functionaires
who brutalize the fighting men
and send them far away and then

(relaxed, unwound, with victories made)
confer with sword an accolade
on those who’ve lopped bowed heads, with blade,
so someone bent must turn a *****

to hack a hole which then is filled
with all the cloven bodies killed
then cloaked with clay or loamy dirt,
as if to hide the pain and hurt.

3. TEATIME INTROSPECTION
Amongst the many are the few
who maim and **** and think it’s true
that purple war’s a parlour game
when really they’re submerged in shame
for crimes for which they are to blame
and can’t expunge with searing flame

while plodding through an endless time,
or pealing bells with holy chime,
or posing in a paradigm
where paradox and riddle rhyme.

And when they die (as die they must),
forevermore their putrid dust,
still soaked with gore and carmine lust,
will conjure thoughts of cold disgust.

And even though torrential rain
(which tastes at times like cool champagne)
can wash away the scarlet stain
which soaks the sands of god’s terrain,

it cannot ever cleanse the hands
that work the guns and burning brands,
or purge the throats that give commands
to him who never understands.

Nor can the raging hurricane
from blackened souls the white regain,
rescind the sins or void the banes
or loose the ****** from Satan’s chains
who line the pits of hell’s domains.

4. EVENING REFLECTIONS
When through the day to night they pass,
their eyes avoid the looking glass
displaying dim a pale phantasm
plunging deeper down a chasm,
surging through a blood ******,
smiling thin unveiled sarcasm

for the chances lost to taste
the many fruits that went to waste
when each was still a joyous lad,
who went to school and learned to add
and danced in rivers, barefoot clad,

attended church with mom and dad
(which tends the poor and cheers the sad),
to pray for good and curse the bad,
before, in war insanely mad,
he fought the fight (no Galahad)

by flinging flames and slashing throats,
immersing bods in  midnight moats
between the broken battered boats
where babes and booted bodies float,

and leaving bags of bones to bloat
in bullet-ridden overcoats,
and wondered if the goblins gloat
or spot (behind his eyes, the motes),

then strode away without a thought
that mortal lives had come to naught,
sedated by his conscience brought
to nothing more than dripping snot,
while Others sit upon a yacht
and pluck the eyes of fish They’ve caught,

for, when they die, fish seem to see
The Ones behind the tyranny
(with bellies round from gluttony)
in future dangling from a tree
(with leaves as black as ebony),
for that’s, They fear, Their destiny.

5. MIDNIGHT DREAMS**
At night the soldiers sometimes dream
of many things which make them scream,
like
                      floating down a gelid stream
             with burning flesh and cold ice cream
             upon their lips, which makes it seem
             as though their salt they can’t redeem
             when looking back at bold extremes
             of valiant warriors’ victory schemes.

Or ofter yet,
                      they sometimes meet
             a broken skull upon the street
             with gaping eyes, its mouth replete
             with swollen tongue that can’t repeat
             mere words of joy when lovers greet,
             or yell aloud or indiscreet’,

             or talk about the grand deceit
             of Those Who live on Easy Street,
             Who plot, destroy and overeat,
             while others bide beneath a sheet
             on bed of steely cold concrete,

             with final gift a flag or wreath
             that soon will wither like their teeth
             when once they’re settled underneath
             a mound of muck on mouldy heath,
             to lurk in Limbo Land beneath.

And ever more before they wake,
appear quaint dreams not quite opaque,  
like
                      upside down upon a lake
             keeps popping up a pregnant Drake
             who says “there must be some mistake,
             I only have a bellyache”,
             while high above’s a flying Snake,
             (a sight to make a killer quake).

             She cries aloud “for mercy’s sake
             your foresight’s blind, your wisdom’s fake
             the fragile bodies that you break,
             impale or burn upon a stake,
             then stack in layers like a cake,
             reflect a lust that death can’t slake”.

             And turquoise Turtles on the make
             (though taking time to overtake,
             each slurping down a chocolate shake)
             rev up to plead “let us explain,
             we think you men are all insane
            with morals thin as cellophane;

             for, peering through god’s window pane,
             we see quite clearly those you’ve slain,
             enough to fill the Dim Domain
             with blood and guts and tears and pain,
             Chimeras of a frenzied brain.”

             A worn and weary weather vane
             announces floods of claret rain
             that forty days and nights sustain,
             submerging mountains, raising Cain,
             while flushing mankind’s acid reign
             down nature’s evolution drain.

             The Serpent hails a hydroplane
             “because”, she hissed, “we can’t remain;
             behind the hill, the atom’s spark
             has vaporized the palace park,
             reduced to dust the Meadowlark
             and nullified the Rainbow’s arc”.

             And while the others hush and hark,
             a feline Toad begins to bark
             “This plane is certainly Boa’s Ark.

             Let’s flee the Human hierarch,
             forsake all Men to sate the Shark
             which swim within the Waters Dark,
             and purge all traces of the Mark
             in Eden when we disembark.”

             The beasts, in lines, by twos embark.

The dreamers wake, they’re staring, stark,
behind their eyes, a watermark.
Theresa M Rose Oct 2015
The Midnight Dawn: The ship begins to dock.
A woman stands, looking down, silently. Black waters swirl salty white foam; Icy waters move through flapping rudders; The sounds of shifting motors pound; This is a beckoning scene for one in feelings of immersing self-isolation; And, Lora stands at this very edge. Lora stands completely unaware of the true beauty that surrounds her at this very moment.
         The ship’s docking, at Dearing's port, in the Kotzebue Sound... Alaska's pre-dawn dark blue skies with it’s tawny orangey gray clouds; A  panoramic view of white snowy peak mountains surrounds the port. And yet, the only thing Lora has on her mind … is a small Inuit village that will soon make her isolation complete.

    Out onto the deck Jeff calls, "Lora!"

Lora turns towards her husband's voice; But then, turns her eyes back to the whirling water over the stern.
  
    "Sweetheart?" Jeff places his hand on Lora’s arm, "I called the shore; The transport will be waiting… as soon as we're finished docking."
Jeff's voice becomes serene.
“ Wow. Lora, I can’t believe it. It’s been eight years since I been home last."
Jeff places his hand on Lora's.
“ It’ll be good for us to be with family. We'll leave the ship before the sunrise and we’ll arrive in the village just in time to see the final day of Tribal Awareness Week. Lora, I wish we were here a couple of weeks ago. I think my mother would have been happier meeting you when she wasn't so busy...."
  
Lora turns…, "You know, Jeff; I do wish you would just shut the hell up!”
Lora pulls her hand away.
“ Please, just keep still until we get up there.”
Her teeth clench.
“ It's another four and a half-hours, to get to  where we need to go. And, quite frankly, I think it's going to be hard enough for me to what needs to be done; And, I’d much rather get through this without having to listen to your mouth all the way up there."

"Alright.", Jeff says in a somber voice.  He turns to walk back inside but then he sees a new flicker of hope.
"Lora, I see the biplane. It's pulling in..; See it? See it, down there, at slip four, on the pier?!” Jeff smile’s pointing to the small transporter; As he does he grabs Lora kissing her cheek. “ I'm go get the porter to help me with our bags and we'll meet you down at the clearing, All right?”
"Fine.” Lora,…with a strain in her throat.
"Fine, let's just get this over with..."

    Lora stands at the clearing;… She watches the ships crew set-up for a day of helping  passengers board and depart the ship.  Jeff arranged for the two of them to leave the ship two hours earlier than everyone else so they could meet up with their connection.
As Jeff and the porter comes down the ramp a man comes down the dock waiving.
“ Jeff!”

    Jeff calls out. "Lora, here comes Gabe!"
“ Gabe! Gabe!”
"Gabe?"
"Honey!? This is my cousin, Gabriel." Jeff says to Lora as they started down the pier to the biplane. “ He runs our local transport."
    Gabe turns towards Lora.
" Yeah, I run everyone from our village up and down the river; Sometimes, I think this little craft here thinks she's just another boat! She so seldom has a chance to be airborne.”
The luggage is placed on board, Jeff and Lora settle into their seats and Gabe starts moving up the sound; Then, after about fifteen moments the little plane begins to lift, up and out, off the water.
  
    Lora becomes startled, "I thought the plane wasn't going to leave… I thought we were not going to be airborne?! I thought we were riding up the river?"
  
"Yes, Lora." Gabe states with a giggle,
"Yes, the Koyukuk River! I'm sorry, I thought Jeff would have told you?! We'll be airborne for just over an hour then we’ll reach the Koyukuk River and then, from that point, we’ll be riding the river for another three hours till we reach the village."

"Oh."
Lora sits back… and begins to stare out at the enormity of the Alaskan skyline. For her, it seems to have no end; And yet, for Lora there seems to be, nothing, nothing at all but endings on her horizon.

    The procession begins...
The parade comes down the main road in the small Inuit village. The local people are all playing drums, jingles and bones and they’re all wearing traditional ceremonial attire.

    Lora starts looking around to find her husband but Jeff is gone. Lora thinks, angrily.
‘ This is so senseless!? Why did Jeff ******* up here? I can't believe this; Here I am at The Koyukon Festival to tell his mother we're divorcing!? His mother never wanted me in his life. He was just suppose to finish his studies and come back home. I'm sure she'll be relieved to see me gone from his life.’

    Jeff comes up behind her, smiling.
"Honey, Honey isn't this wonderful?! I remember my parents and I participating all together in these events when I was small.”
Jeff points down the road. “ Hey Hon, look!" He places his arm on Lora's waistline.

    Lora turns to him with a grimace," Remove that…!"
    Jeff moved his hand and Lora turns to see where Jeff is pointing.
Lora sees, her mother-in-law, PaKaSuk; PaKa begins down the road dressed in her traditional Inuit tribal clothing.
    She has on a headdress made from the skin and skull of a coyote, and there’s a pair of small antlers imbedded on it. And, she has on tall boots made of polar-bear fur that are adorned at the rims with dangling teeth from the hunts of the past.
PaKa sings long mournful notes as she plays a soft singular beat over and over again on a drum-snare of  sealskin and whalebone.
    Jeff waves to his mother; As she sees her son, she begins to call out,


” Come fellow me one and all…;

Come fellow me to the place of the great hall;

Come to hear a tale that must be told;

Come hear the words from the time of old.”

As PaKa reaches the doorway she gestures to Jeff and Lora.
"Please come, sit here near the fireplace."
    As everyone-else  finds seat’s; PaKa kneels down, she looks deep into Lora‘s eyes; She smiles and then hands Lora a small long rectangular box.
Speaking softly, "Lora, please, hold this… But, do not open it right now; Wait until I’m done with my story. I'll return and we will talk."
  
    Lora stares at PaKa thinking…
‘She is an odd woman. To give me a gift? Looking down at the small rectangular box. She makes a huff, ‘ It's probably a brand new pen to sign the divorce papers with. She's probably…; But wait!’
Lora remembers, ‘ Jeff hasn't told her anything about the divorce yet. ‘
Lora places the box on her lap.

    The show begins...
    PaKa hushes the assembly; Cues the drums to play.
    The drums start. It is a slow, low singular beat  beating over and over…; Over and over. beating  slow low beats; Over and over... Again.

    Jeff bends down; He whispers, "Lora, the crowd is so much larger then I ever remembered it being before."
    Just then, a woman comes and sits right next to Lora and the woman has a baby sleeping in her arms.
Lora closes her eye and thinks,…
‘ Oh God… Why couldn’t this woman find somewhere else to sit; Anyplace other than here?’

    "Welcome! I am PaKaSuk...I am the Coyote-woman for my people…, now! But my story is of a Coyote-woman of long ago. Her name,… GaTraRa; The Coyote-woman Who Lost Her Tears.
Come one and all close your eyes. We shall breath deep the air and hear the drums beat…; And, we shall go… into the past.

            GaTraRa became a coyote woman when she was young. Much younger than the old custom....The old Coyote-woman would chose a young girl to replace her and she would teach the girl all of the knowledge  needed to help her people; She would learn all the wisdom of the herbs that cure and when ready she would take place. GaTraRa was chosen… And with great pride and joy of all the tribe.
She had learned much in a small time working at the side of the old Coyote-woman. But, a great sickness came to the people; Nearly half the tribe were lost...
The old coyote woman was lost…  GaTraRa was now The Coyote woman; …without knowing all the wisdom  the old coyote woman needed to give…

    Lora, sits there listening to her mother-in-law; She starts feeling cold beads of sweat against her skin. She starts feeling a slow low ache in the pit of her stomach.
    Jeff looks at Lora, "Are you alright?"
    "Leave me alone!” She swats at him. "Just go away! I'm fine. Leave me to hear this..."

    PaKaSuk continues "By our old traditions the Coyote-woman is not to join with any man; It was said… She’s to care for all the people of the tribe; But…, for GaTraRa;  GaTraRa was highly favored in the eyes of the council, And, especially by the chief elder's son, NeKraRa.
NeKraRa, who wanted the tribes very young new Coyote-woman to be his spoke a plea to the elders; GaTraRa wanted to be his as well. But she knew a Coyote-women was not allowed to join.  GaTraRa was surprised and overjoyed when the elders told her that she and NeKraRa being allowed to be joined...She felt the spirits were pleased.  And, soon after their joining they were blessed...They had conceived a child.
  
    The drums begin sounding faint and far away to Lora. The scent from  the smoke seems to be making her feel hazy.

Lora feels a low dark ache in the pit of her belly; It begins to grow; Her head lowers and her breath begins to labor. The pain is so deep Lora's eyes feel full of heat and she holds-back a feeling to cry out...
  
    PaKaSuk continues…, "It was the time of the hunt!”
  
    Eyes tighten. The pain becomes overwhelming to Lora; From a deep place within … A howling cry cries out!
"AAAAIIIIEEEEE"


    GaTraRa pushes; A baby’s cry fills the room. Her beaming sweaty body falls back onto the bedding.
    "It is a boy! You have a son!” mother-in-law smiles while wiping off the tiny crying new born.
"My child, he is a, strong, healthy boy! And, look, look see how his face shines like dawning light. NeKraRa will be pleased when he returns."

    As her husband's mother places the new born into her waiting arms, GaTraRa thinks ‘ No woman could ever be this happy.’
She looks up and says, "This day is the day of my greatest joy,"
  
Several weeks come and go. It will soon be  time for the men to return

Several weeks come and go without the young men.
The sound of drums call out from the distance; The time  for the return has come at last.
Many come to the Great Hall to greet the men when they arrive. The young Coyote-woman lefts her baby and runs happily to show her husband, NeKraRa, his fine new son.
Looking out, beyond the path, the men could be seen; They look weary of their hunt; Not all who left seems to be coming… The elder  hunters  may be a day or two behind bringing the treasures of their travels ;All the trades made with the outsiders.  The younger men come with the new pelts to cure and with the fresh meat and fish for the smoke.  As the men come closer the young women gain sight of their man; They run to walk with them to the Great Hall. But, but GaTraRa could not find her man. Her husband, NeKraRa, was nowhere among the men.
“ NeKraRa; NeKraRa !“ The young Coyote-woman begins thinking…’ He may be with the elder hunters; But why?’ She calls out several more times “ NeKraRa!”
Grabing at the men as they pass she asks,
"Where is my husband?"
    None of the men would speak to her or even look up at GaTraRa They’d just keep pass by her and enter the tribal council. Leaving her standing there holding her small baby.

    NeKraRa's father comes out of the council hall; He walks to GaTraRa and places his hand upon her arm.
"My child, our NeKraRa met his death over the ice on the very first night of the hunt."
  
    She looks down into the face of her small child.
"That was the night his son was born..."
Softly, sadly she speaks to her sleeping child cradling him in her arms,
"You will hold your father's name, my sweet boy...and his spirit.“
She walks home.

    Her mother-in-law meets her at the door, crying.
In a deep mournful tone, "My child!"
    GaTraRa just stands there with a void look on her face. Then, she looks at her baby. She lifts him up and hands him to her mother-in-law,
"Here mother," in an increasingly laboring tone,
"Here, here is our NeKraRa."

    The next day, mother-in-law waits for the baby to wake. She waits, long…, but there is no cry. She goes to lift him up and to wake him but as she pulls the blanket back she sees the baby's body is still, motionless. The baby is cold, blue and silent,
She lifts him and lets out a long wailing cry, "No...!"
  
GaTraRa runs…, only to see her baby in her mother-in-law's arms; A face full of tears and crying out over and over again, "He's gone...He is gone!"
GaTraRa falls to the floor; She begins to rock, repeating
"No…! No…! No…!"
But yet, now, not a single tear falls from her eyes.
  
Weeks pass since the death of her baby. Her duties as coyote woman become harder for her. Whenever others seek out her help she becomes angry. She says, "The spirits curse me; I went against them with family and now I have nothing; They will allow me no peace!"
All she does is watch the doorways; it is as she is waiting for someone or something...

    The council watches GaTraRa closely. Mother-in-law brings her worries to the elders.
“GaTraRa‘s sadness grows. “
Mother-in-law tells them, “She must be watched. Our Coyote-woman has felt the brush of the Raven’s feathers; Her tears are stuck within… No tears fall.”
Mother-in-law pleas to them, “ Her sorrow grows, silently! I fear, if we do nothing, she will be taken from us as well.”

    The women of the council gather together; They decide to have the grieving ritual for GaTraRa. But, none them has ever done this ritual. This was something the Coyote-woman would do.

    Days pass, the men are preparing to leave for the last hunt of the season. And, the women begin to prepare the council hall. They gather up all the things they could remember from having watched the ritual done times before.
    The chief elder sees the woman; And he asks, “What are you women doing?”
Mother-in-law tells him of what she and the other women have plan.
Shaking his head, “For as far as back as my memory takes me I have never seen a Grieving-Ritual done during this season before; And, without the young men being around. Do you really know what you are doing?”
All the women said, “ We must!”

    The men are gone…

    The women take GaTraRa to the council hall. They place her near the fire. GaTraRa watches as women gather herbs and place them in bowls.
She speaks out, “You don’t know what you are doing!?” Then, her voice saddens.
” …or maybe you do.”

    The women do not listen; Without a word, they begin to place the bowls in all the places they have remembered seeing them before…Recalling, all the men would play drums all night, during the vigil, they each pick up a drum. They gather around the fire. They stand and surround  the fire with their drums; The woman slowly begin to play.
GaTraRa, motionless, looks to the women thinks to herself, ‘Why are they doing this…I did this…to myself. They should not care
As always, I enjoy any and all  feedback you could give me.
Clem N Tine Jun 2014
On Monday I didn't go to school
because you wanted to take me out instead
We walked around the park downtown all afternoon
finally we perched ourselves in the gazebo
immersing ourselves in each other's thoughts
and wading in traded words.
My attention was shattered when a
lady bug landed on my knee. I was baffled-
I exclaimed that it's orange. You laughed and I
coaxed it onto my finger. And you told me
"Some of them are green you know"
I didn't know. I said "maybe those ones just aren't ripe yet"
I played with the bug for a few more seconds
until I felt your gaze, and I lifted my emerald greens
to your cup-of-coffee mahognies. You were looking at me
the way I imagined Gatsby must have looked at Daisy.
And you smiled a little too wide
for the stupid thing I had just said. You touched my chin
and kissed me gently, and i could feel your lips
still frozen in a grin.
But when I looked back down my coveted orange lady bug
had flown away-
and left no trace that he ever came.
love runs deep
and true like the Isar

flowing as an
amorous stream

immersing lovers
in the surge of
golden currents

its thrilling
buoyancy
lifting the
beloved

reaching sanctuaries
on soft grassy banks

finding solace
in trickling eddies

sustaining the
most hungry
of hearts

Isar springs
from a far off
continental
pinnacle

tipping from the
mystic peaks of
mythical Valhallan
tables

royally set to feast
the unabashed love
of Tristan and Isolde

she
pours
as an
ambrosial
libation
brewed
by master
Brewmeisters

coursing through
the veins of all
Bavarians
she sweeps across
lush Alpine meadows
anointing the water
with nectarous
edelweiss fragrance
and budding sprigs
of mountain laurel

generous streams
gently cascade
down the Alp’s,
sloping through
picturesque
valleys,
sustaining the
blue on white
Maypoles of
busy hamlets
crafting the
things of life

the glacial melt
of Spring swells
the flows of
a rising Isar

bringing new things
from far off places
heralding arrivals
revealing epiphanies
washing the
deepest stains
carrying away
the unholy flotsam
of loved
starved souls

proclaiming fidelity
tributaries are joined
in a holy union

once submerged
hidden doubts
yearnings and
unrequited
longings
are banished
in a mornings
lifting mist
charting new
courses for
companionship

summer reveals
sparkling waters
winding its way
through beds
of polished stones

during the
easy season
the river offers
respite from
pressing heat

clear waters
invite bathers
to dip a toe,
wade deep or
fully submerge
oneself in pools
of rejuvenation

British Gardens
offer spectacle
of self affirmed
nudists and
surfers tacking
atop waves,
while spectators
marvel from
protected alcoves
yearning to
peel off
extraneous
layers of cloths
to experience
the joy of naked
freedom

during gay times
carefree summer
lovers intoxicated by
the sweet scent of
blooming tulip trees
rendezvous in
hidden glades

breathlessly
relishing the
intimate reveries
of seclusion
embracing
renewed
discoveries of
fathomless desire

along canals
laborers find
the recompence
of a well earned
day of rest

families lay blankets
to define the space
where circles of trust
are assembled,
where identity
is sculpted
and family folklore
is handed down,
entrusted to the  
guardianship of
a new generation

the boughs of
broad leaf trees
seat heralds
of songbirds,
gracefully shading
the resting with
a welcomed lullaby
while shielding loungers
from the remorseless
hum of a busy city

water and
love unite
forming a base
compound element
nurturing companionship
gleaned on the gentle ebbs
of a green river calling  
its estuaries to rejoin
its fluxing host

in Autumn
the foliage of
the glorious season
paints a Monet
masterpiece
a life of love
has wrought

dazzling
watercolor portraits
are splayed onto the
glass surface of her
magnificent face

revealing
the depth
and dimension
of loves full
pallet of life's
seasons
beheld
in living
color for all
to behold

enthralled we
marvel at the
wondrous
portraiture
nature
composed
urging us to wade
into the golden pools
baptized by the grace
of reconciliations from
the dislocations of
expired seasons

as the hard times of winter arrives
serrated edges of ice floes creep
across the snow laced stones
reminding us how jagged
seasons may be

the gray steel water challenges
the warmest hearts of love

but elegant bridges
crowned with
statuesque keystones
arch across the water
joining the river walkways

the knowing statuary
of a city's mythic guardians
are ever watchful
assuring the Isar’s flow
remains unimpeded
and uncorrupted

the beloved of
Munchen sleep well
during the harshest
Bavarian nights
knowing the Angel of Hope
gleams through the darkness
her fluttering wings
sounding surety
to the faithful

her protective pinions
sprinkle gold upon the frozen river
planting the hopeful seeds of spring
whispering reassurances that
love will never be extinguished

Music Selection:
Bette Midler, The Rose

Composed for the marriage
of Maxine and Glendon McCallum
Munchen
7/4/14
Composed for the marriage
of Maxine and Glendon McCallum
Munchen
7/4/14
harlon rivers Oct 2017
when you start
feeling as if
just being you
    is not enough ,..

when you see
the sunlight slipping away
sliding into the ocean
and the outbound tide
    is pulling strong ,..

   gravity throbs downward ―
you see it's weight groan
pacing in lonely eyes,

you feel it's burden
bear down on
a wayfaring stranger
   wandering away alone ,..
wondering what went wrong

stalled by a riverside
frozen in time ;
walking on slippery rocks
and fallen stars,
searching for peace
along the meandering shoreline

the waterfall surrenders
a river's silent lament ;
the storm gales' surge stirs
the urge for moving on

a heart broken knows
how fickle tides change
which way the wind blows ,..

which way the rain
     comes falling down ―

watershed moments
undulating
serpentine rivers,

unbridled terrain waters
veritably cascading  beyond
blurred latitudes,
uninhibitedly drifting
     in shapeless symmetry ―

a deep ocean rises
with the calling tide's
murmur,

  the shorebirds linger ;
hole up with the peace
of the unsullied sands
at the sea stained
      tide-mark ―

barnacles cling
to the pulse
of the tidal sway
where starfish hold on to
   slippery rocks ,..

being enough
to while away
just a little bit longer ―

to simply let it all be
and wholly wash out
in the water
waiting for the tide change,

to swallow whole
the rivers stagnant flow,
immersing
    the stars in swirling silence ―

in the unrestrained
    rhythm and the sea ...
mazy rivers ...October 25, 2017
thank you for reading

just be you
no matter wherever you feel
the earth move under your feet;
no matter which way
the wind blows ―

"Slip Slidin' Away": song title by Writer(s): Paul Simon 1977
https://youtu.be/U7PBjKzaQEw
refresh mesh Jul 2015
every time he touched me
i felt him memorizing me like a wreck
every time she touched me
i felt her heartbeat caught in my own neck

they are problem solvers.
i had cushioning companions
fuller and calmer than me.
perhaps someday i'll tell them this
if i ever learn to handle it:
the open, raw closeness.

In the meantime, i'll remember her
laughing into my legs
immersing us in the soft hair from her head
and his enchanting voice
inflating my lungs;
the simple gift of speech in bed

the moment right before their contact,
a few light-years away from being.
the moment between shine and its reflection,
just a hollow eternity to all the space in between.

company?
I starve for the long moments
that thick time of silence together
feasting on whatever he just said.
community?
I crave gazing at an orb of truth
wholly understanding one another
a vague sense of being like her family.
civility?
honoring the ghosts of our realities
and remaining gravely touched
by the mortal ritual at hand.

I couldn't deserve either of you
just promise me you'll understand
or at least try to
get the ******* my land
better stay back
harlon rivers Nov 2017
Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains

Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul

Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway


Rooted in boulders
                                                       
  
scattered  within      

                           milestones                               

                   and
                     

                                           riverbed Cornerstones

                                                   ­                                       Gray


As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn

With intent a higher law's freshet flows

For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue

Rolling currents thickly bestow


A  river  of  simple  truth lay  bare

A stream of random kindness betides,

Rivulets of unconditional love abounding
  
Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence

Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests


Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers

Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide

Blossoming undercurrents gushing,

resounding,

rhythmic  ebb  and  flow


Verve undulating wholly alive

Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ―

Wellsprings arise from bedrock

ancient mother earth

A surmounting light leavens abidingly

From imploring water's flowing river song


To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings

divergent from thither and yon
                
Through  which  to  portage

A way to carry back home in psalm



*h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
Notes:   The Blackwater River I once flew into
is farther north in the British Columbia wilderness
K Mae Nov 2012
Mercury stops~~~Before Retrograde Motion
Time to sink deeply immersing in truth
Paying attention to what drives distraction
and all that we've buried as if it's no use
Be sharp with contracts and service your engines
Revitalize ~ and absorb what's abstruse

*Now is not hinged upon past or the future
This precious portal is our gift to nurture
Marie Stehlikova Dec 2012
Bathing thyself in Lethe,
not ingesting, forgetting,
yet not reminiscing
on thyne torment,
though immersing
thyself in it nonetheless,
persisting on pain and uncertainty.

El océano sin agua,
ese is what thou art,
unable to breathe,
unable to control,
longing for a hand
to halt the quiver.

In the midst of submission,
thy capture in the seductive
dance of the monster,
thou utterst sólo una palabra,
“help”; the first and final request,
yet thy time in Lethe
were much too lengthy,
not one hand shall be lent
to those who menacingly,
cherish death.
Khoisan Jun 2022
She is
the water
immersing the shore
a
motion moving entities
into
the
shadows of the lore
sirens call on rising tides
men of flesh flock
in
waves
falling as they fly
dwelling
eternal
within her mystical whiles.
Andy Plumb Nov 2011
Pretty Persuasion

beginning

I skate around the mall
with a walkman tuned into
subversive sounds
I am in search of secret passageways
people of unusual genders
spaces of unabashed desire
The teenage girls with
nasty tongues never look at me
yet they tell me stories from afar
strange, exotic tales
they could never have gotten
from television
they dress in layers
in bizarre mosaic patterns indecipherable
I listen for simple truths
yet hear only complex lies
which, of course, are much more trustworthy
I purchase working class lingerie
(I mean, underwear) at Sears
from a salesgirl who KNOWS
but will never tell
I plead with her to scream it out
reveal the source of her despair
but she just laughs heartily and
steals away into the hardware section
I call the security guards
who arrest me for wearing plaid socks
with a leather skirt
I manage to escape between the cracks
and return unscathed to the scene of the crime...









middle

I light a cigarette
though I don't know how to smoke
it seems natural at the time,
I cross my legs
right over left, left over right,
then I refasten my garter,
smooth my skirt,
fluff up my *******
I'm anticipating something
but I'm not quite sure what it is
a recurring moment, perhaps
a (parenthetical thought), maybe
the merger of parallel lines
that's it, the merger of parallel lines
I remember vividly the secret dance
I used to perform
when I was nine and yearning
so awkward
so strange
so utterly incomprehensible
yet it could not be denied
it had a raw beauty to it that exhilarated me
I check between my legs
to see what gender I am today
I find nothing in particular except
an old beat-up baseball mitt
and two dozen rose petals
"I must be a boy," I say to myself,
though I can't be certain,
I never am, but I never give that away
there are much better things to give away
imaginary kisses
telltale signs
sideways glances
I dream of climbing Mt. Everest in my Maidenform bra
I never reach the peak
I wake up in a cold sweat...

end

We make love in a vacant lot
as it was meant to be
cold asphalt below
full moon above
crickets chirping madly in the background
He is my dada Daddy
I am his exotic drag princess in heat
when we kiss, our fantasies collide
explode
immersing us in minute particles
of lust and longing
He touches me as if I wasn't there
when I cry out for more
he gives me less
the pleasure is all too much
so I revel in the pain
He draws his sword
and I my water pistol
we duel for hours into days
he backs me into a corner
I dive between his legs
and make a run for the abandoned space
between provocation and allure
between outrage and surrender
between perception and scandal
He calls for me
he pleads for me
he paints his face by numbers
and recites nursery rhymes for me
remembering my name for the first time in weeks
I reach out and pull him deep within
and hope he hasn't forgotten how to swim...
almat011 Feb 2019
Asian girl is a ****** mystery in her **** ****** eyes in her sultry look with a burning passion, hypnotizing her beauty with very delicate strings like charming ****** melodic hints with flirting eyes. Asian drum rhythm gives the insight of love as if her eyes are beckoning to her, immersing her sweet moans into ****** romance like a flute melody, her silky snow white or dainty honey caramel or a golden body that radiates brilliance of indescribable beauty is like indescribably epic beautiful scenery. Her character is like a cloud as she is sweet and gentle, like sunshine illuminating your life. You gradually know it, it opens only with time like a striptease where they take off the details of the clothes, and then attacks you like a tigress protects her happiness she is able to give you a cosmic scale love and ****** in the rest of the time she is gentle, sensual, soft and very feminine. You love her in return, she will become obsessed with you. Like a wild cat, she guards her happiness, as if the pillow is tender with you, will cover the cover of love with her body and soul. With you she is like a little kitten, like a child eager for care and love. And you depend on her beauty and love and love for her goes to the depths of yours, I and you soak through it and understand that you will love only her gentle face and life without her is meaningless. Over time, love only increases and it seems to you that she knows no bounds like you in a fairy tale. She smiles at you and you see that your priceless happiness is sacred happiness of the universe, priceless gift of fate and you smile at her and so warmly at heart and you think that this is love is what I will look for in all lives. Life with an Asian girl is like a beautiful, unforgettable ****** dream filled with spiritual romance and the poetic lyrics of the harmony of soul, mind and body. The Asian girl is a secret that only the chosen ones will know her love is the key to heavenly life on earth. The beauty of each Asian girl is very clearly subtly delicately noted in graceful details. Each of them has its own imperial face of divine beauty as if the queen of the world. Her love is a kiss of true love is a kiss of the soul I want it to last forever and you understand that you love her to the very depths of your mind and soul that there is nothing more valuable than her love she gives you a child genuine sincere joy and your soul shines with romance and happiness you are like a flower stretching towards its light of beauty that comes from within.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
traces of being Feb 2016
.
Musical brush strokes paint
               the pink honey moon
               full and bright ;

the melody wafts lightly
               with a sensual scent
               of Jasmine fleur

Lonely hearts sip the sky’s
               lambent elixir’s gentle persuasion
from separately dispersed novas

the perennial blossom of the perpetual tide ..,                                       .
               merely pined moonlight

Immersing wholly in wistful reflection
               alight on wellspring emerald pond

Verily unspoken words cavort
               like musical rivulets spiraling flow
into the crystalline echo

Luna’s haloed heavenly sighs ,
               emanation bestrewn
               shimmering through dark nebula

like shooting stars shattered
               by the weight
               of their darkest radiance,
echoes upon the tide-less mirror pond

               the nimbus of moonlight
               imbuing all the ways I want you
. . .


wild is the wind ...© 6.17.2015
from a year ago, still longing for the touch of solacing song in the breeze as the waning last winter moon stirs the ache of loneliness
Yue Wang Yitkbel Nov 2019
The Beginning and the End
(Introduction and Conclusion):

The withering maples, the fallen skylark
The plagued leaves, the forsaken bees
Are warning us that we are not only
Losing our depth, but also our earth
The sun, and our ways
When love is great, greater than the sea
We fear it the most, afraid to be lost in the waves

It shall not fade away, the eternity will always stay
Yet, Yet we build our haven with materialistic bricks
To hide away from the fear of losing
And look down upon culture and souls as a foolish faith
Not realizing, all that can be weathered away
Will be weathered away, broken down, to decay
Then, swept away, by the temporal waves

And those that belong in the eternal place
And those that seek for truth within this maze
If they ever find it or are found by it
They will shine, shine under the sun of everlasting rays

If all these endless roads are only for the incomer
To prepare for the end of the road, the end of our ways
Telling them that within this cycle of brevity
The road will end just a few short steps away
Would it be more rational to not arrive, or stay
Surely, we seek truth to find guidance to the pave
And continue our lives
In that painless, lossless
Place

  
Verse:

When we are still combating evil
With our guns and metals of empathy
Another far more vicious and shapeless foe
Has suddenly and quietly sneaked up behind us  
So that on our search for the truth
We are being suffocated by the abundance

It seems like we are being surrounded
By two different but equally hideous enemies
But are we the only innocent ones?
Are we innocent?
The sky is veiled by the autumn shade of change
Perhaps, we couldn’t see clearly who’s who
Behind the mask of foliage
Couldn’t see what is truly happening
To this new age

Pre-Chorus:

The red leaves gently fall
Covering their visages
Till we are deluded by the illusion
A fool with dusty tattered cloaks, scythe in hand
A knight shimmering like gold, staff in command

But what hides behind this nature’s disguise
Which of them is our friend which is the foe
Is one warm in clothes but cold in his soul?
The humble one cherishes his blades for harvesting
The boastful crushes with his plenty, baton of pain

Bridge:

All hungry and thirsty souls
All bodies filled with emptiness
Just want to be filled, filled with whatever will stay
And stay, peaceful without the prospect of abandonment and fading away

Chorus:

We wish, we pray, we
Won’t be washed away
Be forgotten, perish away
Why climb for the summit
If we must fall to a nameless grace?
Why can’t we just stay unborn?
If we can’t bear life’s lightness or weight?
Perhaps, I’ll never understand my place
But within the pondering and hopelessness
I woke up
And realize that truly:
Only Love transcends time and space
The embrace between two condensed hearts
Of pure longing could exert
The gravity
And gravitational time dilation
Of such self-forgetful density
That would wrap entire fabrics of reality
Around us, immersing us, with brief
Merciful revelations and trials
Of the unfathomable
Eternity

Verse:

The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire
Should not have been for us so near and dire
Only a couple of generations, only a couple of decades
We are already lost between unrest and the barren
The wavelength of boom and bust becoming exponentially shorter
So that before a man has fully dug himself out of the mud
He is already returning to ashes and dust

Within the ocean of impermanence and uncertainty
We quickly raise the good lumber
And then just as efficiently push it back down
Till we are more like volcanic rocks
With so many holes floating, to ask to be filled
And when fulfilled, drown as we fill, purposeless
And empty  

Pre-Chorus

Hungry or at peace is sometimes the same
We are equally empty and anxious
We aren’t necessarily searching for more
Like Milan Kundera said,
What we can bear the least is
“The Unbearable Lightness of Being”

The children joyously rush towards the summit
And pushes down the monolith that crushed them
Without realizing an invisible rope connects all
So that all who wishes to reach the top
Must also fall through and brace the ground

Bridge:

All hungry and thirsty souls
All bodies filled with emptiness
Just want to be filled, filled with whatever will stay
And stay, peaceful without the prospect of abandonment and fading away

Chorus:

We wish, we pray, we
Won’t be washed away
Be forgotten, perish away
Why climb for the summit
If we must fall to a nameless grace?
Why can’t we just stay unborn?
If we can’t bear life’s lightness or weight?
Perhaps, I’ll never understand my place
But within the pondering and hopelessness
I woke up
And realize that truly:
Only Love transcends time and space
The embrace between two condensed hearts
Of pure longing could exert
The gravity
And gravitational time dilation
Of such self-forgetful density
That would wrap entire fabrics of reality
Around us, immersing us, with brief
Merciful revelations and trials
Of the unfathomable
Eternity

The Beginning and the End
(Introduction and Conclusion):

The withering maples, the fallen skylark
The plagued leaves, the forsaken bees
Are warning us that we are not only
Losing our depth, but also our earth
The sun, and our ways
When love is great, greater than the sea
We fear it the most, afraid to be lost in the waves

It shall not fade away, the eternity will always stay
Yet, Yet we build our haven with materialistic bricks
To hide away from the fear of losing
And look down upon culture and souls as a foolish faith
Not realizing, all that can be weathered away
Will be weathered away, broken down, to decay
Then, swept away, by the temporal waves

And those that belong in the eternal place
And those that seek for truth within this maze
If they ever find it or are found by it
They will shine, shine under the sun of everlasting rays

If all these endless roads are only for the incomer
To prepare for the end of the road, the end of our ways
Telling them that within this cycle of brevity
The road will end just a few short steps away
Would it be more rational to not arrive, or stay
Surely, we seek truth to find guidance to the pave
And continue our lives
In that painless, lossless
Place
The Perfect Circle of Wise Fool’s Allegories
For all hungry and thirsty soul searching for eternity.

By: Yitkbel Yue Xing ****

Translated from original Chinese Lyric that was originally translated and adapted from my English poem: “Terror of Good, Emptiness of Plenty”
Original date of Chinese version: November 3, 2019 18:55
Date of New English translation: November 5, 2019 15:04
Ovi-Odiete Jul 2016
OH NIGHT OH MONSTROUS NIGHT
~•~•~•~•~•~•

Upon a darkened night
Flames of love burning in mystic depths
Fleeing as
  *INFERNO RISES

And by the darkest Shroud
She fled her house
Immersing in the night
In a rainy*  MYSTERY NIGHT
while all sleep beneath a strange moonlight

Upon a darkened soul
Flames of love burning in glowing sight
As secrets hidden unveil into the night
And with the moonlight beam
She waited still
While counting all the stars
The Glow consumed her soul
While all in quiet rest


Upon a darkened heart
Flames of love burning into sea waves
As flames consumes her mind
And by the
  STARS GUIDING NEAR
She fled herself
Flying into the* *NIGHT

The flames consumed her heart
And left it darkened still

Oh Night Oh Monstrous night
Oh NIGHT UNVEIL THYSELF
Oh shadows of the night
Tiptoe into my presence slowly
Oh night watch my quivering heart
Oh Night appease my shivering Soul
Oh Night caress my weary mind
OH NIGHT OH MONSTROUS NIGHT
Oh Night Reveal thine masked face


Oh Night Arise, Unveil the hidden STARS
Unmask the MOONLESS NIGHT
Oh Night Oh Monstrous Night!!!
Oh Calm Oh Calm of night
Rock me as I fly searching for thine face
Sing for me lullabies of THE WITCHING HOUR
Oh Night Oh Shadows of night deep
Elude the bane and miseries untold


OH NIGHT OH MONSTROUS NIGHT

OH MONSTROUS NIGHT

*OVI ODIETE©
A Poem invoked by watching the moon and by listening to Lorenna Mckennith song "THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL"
Alex Leeper May 2013
Song


Intro


Your bedroom leaves you behind,

Remembering a blurry background.

You’re not in your world anymore.

Look up, look down.

Blue sky, and a green floor.

Look in between and another color

Strikes you like a knife,

And then another color, and another.

You've been stabbed by a tree.




First Verse


You're vision is the clearest it's ever been,

Each individual crease on every leaf.

The trunk is a clear brown, the browniest brown

That brings back blips of brainwork that believe to be begotten.

Crystal-like yellow leaves,

As if someone took the image

And manually added the color.

But you know it's a physical object,

You can walk around it and see the back of it,

And soon

You gain

The confidence

To touch it.


Second Verse


A pulse deep in the tree as you run your fingers across it.

As you recline yourself,

The knife turns gray

And the once eye-catching yellow

Silver leaves dance tauntingly towards another color,

A slow-moving car that tapped you on the back.

A hill overlooking a hill,

With a forest of grey trees.

You notice one is lit up,

A carbon replica of the previous chromatic timber,

And is begging for attention.







Chorus


You almost fly down the hill,

Isaac’s first helping you descend.

You alight beside the single resplendent floral,

Its chromaticity illuminating its ashen brothers.

Brush its rigid shell,

The lights fade in its core,

But analogously,

Its closest neighbor is afire,

You now understand,

You are following a circuit in the wilderness.







Third Verse


You start to gain impatience now,

You flow through the achromic forest

Touching every blush of color you see,

Following the maze of crayoned woods,

Journeying, immersing, submerging deeper

Into a blank woodland.

You soon come across something,

Hidden in the bright green grass.

A mirror, a flat, square plank

Of cooled and melted obsidian rock.

A light ray reflects off it.

You pick it up, the ray

bouncing back and forth,

And store it in your pocket.


Fourth Verse


You almost loose hope,

Not to mention interest,

About your current predicament,

But something, something about the atmosphere-

You stop.

You know to stop, just for a second,

An epiphany.

You look once, twice, three

Quick turnarounds until it glimmers in your eye.

A barely gleaming church door.

And you realize.






Chorus


You realize so intensely,

You almost can’t perform the action.

You pull out the mirror with glee,

Catch a small ray through its skin,

Aim the ray towards the door,

And you spray

The sunshine

Onto the

Door.







Second Chorus


Your mouth agape as the perfect light

Reflects onto the invisible passageway,

Causing it to enamel the door with a beautiful shade

Of orange.

You spray the door planks with your infinite atomizer,

Covering the small blotches you missed

Until you drop the mirror, turn around,

Say goodbye to the gloomy forest,

But discover an luminous explosion of color.

Each tree has awakened for your departing.

You smile, and turn around,

Pull the doors open and walk into the white.


Outro


Blurry background.

You recognize it as if you never left.

Because you didn’t really leave,

You see yourself asleep on your bed.

It’s everything you remember but just a hint

Of chromaticity is left behind the walls.

Not wanting the feeling to end,

Waiting until just the right time

To finally elope from your now distant memory

And regenerate to another adventure

In which you hope will have meaning.
uranus Sep 2014
I foster an incremental relation to the cosmos, enticed regularly by its indefiniteness and appeal.
Its evolutions, innate behaviors, and formidable sciences are recompense for earth’s meager discrepancies.
I often engage in the caprice to dismount much dissatisfaction by the constancy of riveting celestial events.
These beings possess no artificiality.
Its prophetic order, ornate and stupendous architectural facets have allowed a crescendo of dispositional hysteria.

Prosaic imprecations are deduced from its auxiliary wherewithal.
There is no contrition in immersing in enthrallment nor is there fickleness in trust.

Magnificent bodies orbit in finesse and probability, achieving universality and control.

Though these incitements are exponentially cheering, my origin is but connoted in despondency.

Usurpers and ill-suited vandals proliferated by the intemperance of the Ptolemaic discipline.
Rustics, miscreants and idle minds misdirected by less virtuous planetary derision.
My cognitive severity asserted by ominous consummation.

Oh how these preponderant truths confine me unfortunate.

Soliloquy is but an affliction amidst this era of anachronistic reign.
Grandiose passivity is intolerable at this time.

I plan to dichotomize my adamant fate from precepts and conditions anew.
The deposition of malfeasant kings will be sought.

Ploys I have already configured; propagation is near to instigation.

I will exhort my ascent to prime eminence.
The stars will sanction me to a rightful end.
Marshal Gebbie May 2012
Times behold when twisted men are captured by their spleen
When souls will writhe in torment though their thoughts are seldom seen,
When agitation rides aloft with blunt spur on its' ****
And the hounds of hell are baying as though purgatory will pass.
Torment in its' basest form is shaded beastly red
Immersing flocks of faithful in the mind set till they’re dead,
For shredded nails and worry lines, so deeply now ingrained,
Are signatured paralysis of the breed that has abstained.
Abstained in all things beautiful, such as dreams which flow in mirth,
Abstained from eyes of merriment and joyful leaps from earth,
Divorced to all that conjures up the gracious well of love
Divorced from thoughts of holiness in faith, both hand in glove.
Baptised to despondency, inured to sights and sounds
Which lift the mind's creation well beyond all earthly bounds,
Committed to the trench of the dark abyss of gloom
Assigned to unenlightenment...The soul has left the room.

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Sean Dec 2017
she carried me to the sink.
she acquired me so long ago.
she has cried into me.
she has wiped tears off her face with me.

we have grown accustomed to each other.
i know her every supple detail.
she knows my soft, warm touch.
we know each other too well it seems.

today, she carried me to the sink.
the water started.
the wrath of liquid poured out
and filled to the brim.

i did not expect her to do this.
i know we loved each other.

she told me so much about her life
even though i couldnt talk back.
i was stuck inside myself
so even my own thoughts couldnt escape.

i was a washcloth

i submerged into the liquid
and it surrounded me
and soaked into me
and burned every part of me

and i didnt want to think about it
how she put me here
and if i was just a ******* washcloth
i’d still be on the shelf

but i was still her washcloth.


the liquid became a part of me
it absorbed so deep
and it was just liquid
but it was also what it meant

it was the joy
it was the hate
it was the beginning and the end
it was the concept of life

and it was swirling around me and immersing itself
into thoughts i didnt even know i had
she plunged me deeper
and made it perhaps
lethal

because i didnt know i was just a washcloth

but then the worst part came

the part where she just left

the part where i was left out to dry
except i was still engulfed in misery
the part where she could have rerisen me
and wrung me out like i was a washcloth

was i meant to drown like this
by this girl that picked me up off the shelf
was i better than the other washcloths
or was it just because i was there

so i sat there drowning in the water
and i wanted to scream
and i wanted to cry the liquid out of myself
but i was a washcloth soaking in water

i wanted to look up out of the sink
and see shining fluorescence
but i couldnt see
because i'm just a washcloth

instead i made my own light
i got closer
and i saw it all go by

the shelf

the girl

the sink

and one last time
the light
Yue Wang Yitkbel Nov 2019
I

When we are still combating the problem of evil
With our vicious guns and metals of empathy
An invisible enemy much more clever and stealthy
Has been sneaking behind us
Suffocating us with the suddenly plenty
On this battlefield of seeking

We seem to be caught in between
Two grotesque foes, but are we really?
The gloomy autumn sky is covered with change
Perhaps we judged too early, unclearly-
The red leaves fallen with grace of leisure
Have obscured their countenance, and we see
Only a tattered fool holding a scythe of nothing
And a soldier looming with righteous perfection
Yet, perhaps behind their foliage masks
The fool has his brow raised with love and longing
Cherishing his tool for harvesting
While the soldier with his bullets ever ready
Smirks with an air of violence
Perhaps we have failed to distinguish
The unwanted, cleverly disguised humble friend
From the well dressed yet poisoned with greed, foe

II

Where I come from we used to send
The youth not to the land of plenty and above us
But to help the poor, those who after hard work
On the land, lie beneath a clear sky full of stars
Unwounded by the pale light polluting the cities
With nothing but the vast dome of possibility
The moon and specks lighting up nothing
But a heart full of hopes, love, and dream

Now we climb and climb
Till the new sprouts are already at the peak
Or they are struggling under the shadow
Of the giant trees
Unable to find higher climes
Or
Unable to break free from this lack of oxygen
Of the giant canopy of already achieved greatness

III

The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
Was not supposed to be experienced by us
In a couple of generations, in a couple of decades

And the speed of the waves of boom and bust
Of our stability and the longevity of great things
Is only getting faster and faster
In this ocean of constant rise and falling
In this new age
We lift up the logs above us so quickly
And then let them drown so rapidly
We are more like volcanic rocks
With so many holes floating, to ask to be filled
And when fulfilled, drown as we fill, purposeless
And empty

IV

Youth in both poverty and idleness craves for unrest
But those on top should never be opposed with
Proud antagonism
With cries of illusive victory the restless rush towards
The king who tied himself to the top rung of
The wheel fortunae
Who is yet unaware where his inertia leads
Till his destined demise as it turns
To lift up the newly rich
And the new enemy
The vicious cycle of wanting to be above all
When the unwanted truth is glad humility

V

The oak trees stable at its roots, undefeated
Sends us in leaves and birds chirping
A warning to heed that we are losing our depth
In our growth and rooting
For we have rarely seen the valley empty
Yet with all the space to fill with everything
And now live and dream on a slopeless plain
Some with it all and unable to hold anything
Some struggling to breathe under the shades
We are all waning, waning
For our fingers had never dug through the earth of life
With the desperation of the fear of being swarmed
By the dark clouds of timely locusts
Yet,
These wizened words are being scoffed
For being too connected to the past

Are we proposing to cut off the rope
Connecting us to the very beginning
Just so we could get faster to the end
To the depth of this pit
Where no traveler would truly return
Without the past guiding
And we will fall again and again
Ever repeating

VI

I was filled with guilt and despair
That while people are still with next to nothing
With no luxury and sometimes not even family
That when others try to bring them necessities
I can sit in cozy idleness writing poetry
Yet filled with nothing but shame and the empty
In a world less and less occupied with reading
Why I must be a poet sole and wholehearted

And when the missionaries
Send the doves through the screen
Asking for awareness and money
To support these bodies with nothing
I was suddenly filled with hopeless shame and pain
For only one thought echoed from the words said to me
"They have very little material things, yet they seem to be really happy"
And that was the way it used to be
That the suffered and now living with peace
Seems to recall with loving longing
With great sorrow and gladness, I ask you
Is it really monstrous to say they are in a better place than we
They have the most important things
Love, hopes, and dreams
And the nothing waiting to and could be
Filled with anything
While our shaded and sheltered youth
While we hold our cups full
Filled with useless glamorous materials of our own
Or
Constantly poured out for others to keep
Wailing for something more
And lasting

Conclusion:

At the core of our ever-hungry souls
We only really needed one thing:
To be filled with something.

Hopefully more permanently,
But nothing of materialism, or even rationalism
Last more than
A mirage of permanency
Even the century tree of sunset dunes
Eventually sets as whispering dust into the sand
And even the wisest man fades away
Into the senile body whose soul
Has already bid farewell
To this temporary land

I sought and sought
And only found that  
The Word is true
Only Love transcends time and space
The embrace between two condensed hearts
Of pure longing could exert
The gravity
And gravitational time dilation
Of such self-forgetful density
That would wrap entire fabrics of reality
Around us, immersing us, with brief
Merciful revelations and trials
Of the unfathomable
Eternity.
Terror of Good, Emptiness of Plenty
By: Yitkbel Yue Xing ****
First Draft Completed: October 29, 2019 5:36PM
---
A mix of existential crisis, fundamental theology, rock music, and whatever little Taoism that's in my mind and blood.

Thanks to Lawrence Hall for proofreading! :)
aviisevil Jan 2014
"Forgive me o' father for I'm about to  sin"
Said the shadow with a grin
Just outside the gates of the holy
Standing with all the black he could bring

Infinite night stretching across the sky
Immersing one and all forever in its shade
One shade too dark , the shadow
Laughing and howling outside his holy gates

"Where at the light o' father
Look what has night done to me
Turned me into a ghost
Upon your throne you couldn't see"

"Your kingdom is in ruins
Yet you want us to have faith "
As he ignites the torch with his blood
"Now there's nothing but hate "

Nightly creatures are summoned for the ceremony
From the remotest and the darkest towns
Where who ever dared to wander ,
Was never found  

"You made this army of monsters
For you're the one who creates
Turned us all into a night-mare
And expected us to be saints "

"We might not be saints
But we do preach love ,
Love for you o' father
We have nothing but love"

"We'll love you with our blades
Sharpness will define its reasons
We'll paint you with hate
Hang you for your treason "

"For you left us when we needed you
Who said you couldn't sin
Forgot us , when we prayed to you
Who says we can't sin "

With an evil smile he lets go of the torch
'burn with all my darkness'
Taste the flames of my pain
While you beg for forgive-ness

You are the reason for your demise
We are nothing but a vessel
We gave it our all , we did fight
But you never heard our message

"where were you gone o' father"
Too engrossed in your own praise
As the world burned and suffered
You only cared about the ones who prayed

Rewarded the beautiful daughter with a **** ,
Faithful wife with nothing but hate
But your son understands you,
For He'll love you with with a blade

"Without you o' my dearest father
We might have a chance at paradise"
Said the shadow in a whisper
With nothing but rage in his eyes

"we'll break those gates down o' father,
utopia for all"
Screamed the shadow once again
Just as angels begin to fall

"welcome o' brother and sisters,
isn't it a beautiful day ?"
Smiled the shadow on the dying breed
"sad , you couldn't stay"

"o' father bless my kin with all your love
For they need it for what's about to come
No longer will they rule the skies
Ignoring all , serving but a few chosen ones "

"you were never our father ,
We were nothing but slaves
Now look around you o' father
There's no one who you can save"

As the fire raged on ,
He could see the world awake to its chaos
"o' father you can hear me now "
Said the shadow somewhat lost

"o' father i will miss you , i wont deny
you made me feel less alone
And I'll let these gates stand once you're gone
To remind the world of your existence and your sacrifice
But your rule is over now and you have to die "  

With that there was darkness no more
As the fire brought day to the world
'we are free , we are free' they cheered
And a new season began to unfurl


His Rage has consumed both of them,
'god is dead , god is dead' whispered every meadow  
Gates were still standing tall and
On the burnt throne were the ashes of his shadow
Kite Feb 2013
I remember the last time I went surfing.
I loved every second of it. I loved running out into the icy water, the chill taking a second to hit the vulnerable skin under my wetsuit. Those fleeting seconds of running ankle deep in the water before realizing how cold it is, and the moments following where I just kept running anyway, my body and board becoming dispersed in sea froth. I loved feeling my feet sink into the grainy sand as I gradually reach a depth that touches above my waist, then, bracing myself for the numbing cold, diving onto my board, immersing my top half in the crisp temperature the water holds. After the piercing cold is absorbed by my skin, and I am lying flat on smooth fiberglass, I see a wave forming in the distance. In a hurry, paddling madly, grazing my hands on the fiberglass sides of the board, desperate to get deep enough to catch the wave. I turn the board around and feel the wave coming behind me. This is the moment. The moment that feels like waiting for your plane to take off, or waiting for a raffle to be drawn, hoping desperately to hear your name called out. I feel the swell behind me, and continue paddling, facing the shore this time. I can feel it as a powerful but consistent surge brings the nose of my board up, and I hurry to lift myself up. I am crouching. My hands nervously let go of the sides. I am bent over. I am straightening. I am standing. My palms are flailing madly, but feel free in the warmer air. Within seconds, I lose my balance and the rush pulls me under. I fall off the board and take a mouthful of seawater. I emerge, laughing, trying to stabilize my focus and figure out whereabouts on the beach I am. As I drag the board back to shore, the salty sea water is already drying in my hair, fingernails and skin. I feel the familiar crunch of dry sand, and collapse, laughing, into the soft grains. I could do this again.

I was so excited to finally have my own surfboard. Brand new, I just hadn't had the chance to take it out yet. My brother asked to borrow it one day, and I couldn't see why not. He helped me attach the fins and leg rope, and I watched him walk away with my latest investment.

I was going into the garage to find something when I saw it there, in half, the fiberglass peeled towards the nose, the insides stuffed with sand, lying in a pile. The next day, my brother came home to find me waiting for him outside his room. "I have good and bad news! The bad news is, I broke your surfboard, the good news is, you now have two boogie boards!". I am sitting.
True story.
It's a cruel world we treat ourselves like an advertisement.
So caught up in an obsession that leads to death painfully, sadly.
Looking in the mirror watching her body  waste away,
Yet still to her it's getting more, and more beautiful every day.
Yet every day she get sicker,
covering up the hate for herself by Immersing  herself in liquor.
Is this the right thing that we've been teaching the world? To consume our self-hate? To tremble every time we see a title having anything to do with cake? Cringing everytime we think we might be gaining alittle weight? But alittle weight in reality is nothing to everyone else but an idea you created in your head. Constantly you continue to dread the next time you have to face a meal. Caring to much about the way you appeal.
She says she's 100 pounds too heavy.... Being 110 already.
Girl do you hear yourself?
You see a masked and disguised version of the body your confused  minds blinded you to always see.
scratching at anything everything trying to find a hint of self-worth yet leaving empty-handed.
it's a painful addiction promising you a body that's beauriful so pretty, too skinny.
Skipping breakfast like it's nothing. Then sitting before lunch and dinner don't want to feel the pain that so real, So you push the plate away and leave can't stand the thought of gaining another pound.
Running with your fears,
numbers dictate nearly everything you do.
So you restrict and starve.
Losing your hair as fast as your weight.
This is the painful cycle you choose that we all hate.
Your burning.
You consistently battle thoughts, temptations, it takes up all of your time.
They have no idea but they judge anyway.
you wish you were braver but the idea of throwing it all away is too much, to heavy. These excuses you use on this body that you consistently abuse it's crazy this pain is weighing piece by piece.
you tear  yourself apart.
your ribs getting more and more visible, your meat turning into nothing, it's clinical.
As hard as it is, they don't know what you feel and they never will...
Anorexia.
Mr E Dec 2013
There once was a tune which did but play
A melody of heavenly descent
Able to mend the broken heart of man
Washing desolation of the soul
All doubt drowned out and gone
And sewing the pieces back again
But this song when final notes sound
Would take the life of those who heard
So no man listened or attempted to endure
In fear of the consequences of its curse
Until there stepped a broken boy
Torn by shame and shattered dreams
With nothing to his name he grit his teeth
Immersing his mind in the deep waters of this elegant sound
Journeying through the crescendos and diminuendos of life itself
When final verse of notes did play
Opening his eyes, the old man which took the boys place
Realized, that he was reborn again
And his desolate life was good again
Thanks to his decision
To endure that song
As he died with a smile upon his face
I need to speak my mind more often.
I need to speak it truthfully,
Pent up it fumes and poisons me.
Turns my tongue to ash.

Today I've noticed I didn't recognize myself.
Fires have warped my features,
Though unchanged my reflection
yields new connotation.

Poets once unheard
now rip tears from my eyes.
Music plays on repeat for hours,
Immersing me in a blanket of deceit.

I hide myself behind my mask of notes,
Submerging myself in an unbreakable bubble,
But its protective husk suppresses the peril within.
The truth is I'm suffocating.

My open wounds pus hate,
Scabbing over in deceit that only cracks with more hate,
Unexplainable angst inflames a desire to break out,
To speak my mind truthfully.
Nov. 30/ 2013
These waves are like

the locks of your hair

how they seem to spiral endlessly.



The aroma engulfing me

is your honey-scented perfume

how I’ve longed to breathe you in

for hours at a time.

And this current is

your eyes

alluring yet dangerously unpredictable.



Odd,

how drifting on this pool

is not calming me.

Instead, it is constraining.



Has this current suddenly come

to a tragic halt?

Do your eyes have nothing

more to say?

Is this all that is left,

for me,

       to stay

            at the surface?

There is a sudden instinct,

An impulse that makes me

want to take this dive of faith.

But first, inhale.

Count to three.



I’m sinking,

but this doesn’t hurt.

I open my eyes and

how divine

to traverse to this new world,

immersing in your depths.





I submerge further

to the unexplored,

Soak in your joys

and sorrows,

Glide by your insecurities,

Yet I don’t quite notice,

I’m suddenly at the mercy

of your emotions.

Suffocating

in your secrets.

Drowning in your tears.
Melissa Rose Sep 2018
I have felt the ripples
of predestined change
Some crashing like tidal waves
upon my desolate plane

Others a delicate trickle
through this narrowing gorge;
complex and understated
in its methodical purge

Both deliberate in the upheaval
and churning of the soil
change that brings inner balance
to mind, body and soul

I’ve swum against their current
dragged to murky waters below
tumbling in the turmoil
of my urgent need for control

Now cast upon this rocky shore
panicked and alone
I must surrender to the journey
to find my way back home

I welcome the soaking of soles
as I intend to surf each wave
Immersing myself into its flow
I become the ripples of change
9/24/18
Jo Nov 2013
“Why does the moon follow us?”
I asked my father
As we drove past beige houses
Mixing with white mailboxes.  
I couldn’t see his face from the back seat
But I knew he smiled when I heard him
Laugh and shake his head.
“Honey, she’s following you,”
He said, and I looked out the window
Smiling at my new friend.  
I was five.  

Now I know that without the sun
The moon is for the blind to see
And that it orbits the earth
Not me
And it doesn’t chase cars down southern highways
It sits lonely in space
Surrounded by nothing,

Scientia potential est
Is what I’ve been told
In my own tongue –
And I agree.
Never have I felt stronger
Than when I am bathed in light –
Filling my pumice skin and crater eyes
Until I can happily walk around
With as much certainty as a human can.
That hasn’t happened yet,
But the day’s coming
I know it.  

Yet I find myself wishing
The light immersing me
Was that of the moon,
Which cannot be,
How could it
When the moon only reflects
What the sun emits?
That knowledge doesn’t stop me from wishing
On the stars
I know to be dead ***** of plasma.

As a little girl I always slept with my window open
To let the dreams,
Made of fairies, roses, moonshine, and lullabies
Funnel through my ears
Into my empty head
In a stream of dust –  
I had nightmares sometimes,
But every shadow is a product of light,
And I was happy.
In time I went to school,
Now I know of dreams and nightmares
What they are made of, what they are not –
But I don’t have them,
And I sleep with my window shut now.  

Understanding is beautiful
Yet mystery is magical
And school takes magic and twists it
Until you’re ashamed for believing
In anything.  
I want to learn, I yearn for it
Like my head does air –
But why must I be mocked
For listening to the five year old on my shoulder
Who whispers fantastic dreams
I forget upon waking, blinking, thinking?

Thinking and dreaming
One heads, the other tails.
I’ve been taught to imagine
Is to forsake thinking,
That dreaming is the rot
Causing intellect to atrophy
So I stopped talking to the moon
Because by then I had been taught
It couldn’t hear me anyway.  










I want both,
And so I shall
Through fight, doubt –
The noose made of fear
Can be burned
And so it shall,
By the light of the moon,
My lovely friend,
Whom I know well,
And dream of often.  

I hope she chose
The right person to follow.
Education makes a return.
Ariel Taverner Dec 2013
You know what i hate the most
Well not really
Its impossible to know what you hate the most
But anyway
What i hate the most is that i cant be crazy
I cant use the 'back door' as tge joker describes it
I have on countless occasions imagined myself freaking out
Storming through the house breaking things
Grabbing my mothers wallet
And leaving the house
Surviving off the streets
And my mothers credit card
I have imagined
That i would get involved in drugs and alcohol
Start hanging with the wrong crowd
Doing anything for the next dose
I have imagined immersing myself in a world of lust
Constanyly searching for ***
The newest *****
And then doin anything to enhance the experience
I have imagined myself having a mental breakdown
Becoming crazy
Doing things that can onky be excused by madness
Being given a straight jacket
Being forcefed pills
Living in a padded cell unable to **** myself
Coz even if i starve myself they will make sure i survive
I have imagined cutting myself
Living in a world of private torment
Until the pain becomes too much
Then i spend three weeks writing my suicide note
Because my emotions are so hard to peg
Coz i have spent my entire life hiding and running away from them
And so far i have succeded
And then i get the rope
Get the suit and spend three days 'gracefully defiling' it as my last piece of art
Then i burn it all because im too scared to do it
Then i restart
I have imagined that i sseek solace in violence
In crime

Stealing small things
Getting angrier and angrier
Ubtil i **** someone
Then spend my life in prison
I have imagined that i become a famous writer
Feeling empty and lonely
Fi ding the woman i love and wishing i hadnt
Because i end up killing myself and hurting her
I have imagined tgat i stop ****
Become a nobel peace prize winner
Become famous
Then die without the right woman
I have imagined that i am a gamous singer
But end up killing myself coz the fame is too much
And the attention drives me over the edge
I have imaginex that i go to sleep and not wake up
To go peacefully
Coz thats wgat i ****
Peace
I have imagined that my family throws me out and i fend for myself
I work hard
Survive by washing cars
Or working a petrol pump
I have imagined that my whole family dies
Then i choke up coz i love them so much i cqnt continue with this ******* illusion
And i  the end i cant do it all
In the end im just a ******* little boy with depression
In the end i want to cut but am so scared that i cry myself to sleep
In the end im a little boy that refuses to take medication
Because tgat is his way of defying this disease
In the end im a boy that says things like 'this is my way of defying the disease' but actually im just so scared
In the end i lie fo myself to make it better
In the end i know im lying but i still do it
In the end i still believe .it And i wish this was the end but its not
Coz ill probably die
Married to a woman i love
But never being able to do what i love
Because I care about other people so much I would give them anything for them to be happy
Miss Grim Jan 2016
It seems these antihistamines
Are causing reoccurring dreams
For every time I go to bed
The same old scene is in my head
Like the one where all my teeth fall out
As I sit and pluck them out of my mouth
This one causes a lot of strife
For I've had this dream my entire life
So I searched for answers everywhere
And this is what they had to share
The native said it signifies
Remorse I feel from telling lies
Which I guess would be appropriate
I tend to say things I regret
So I went to see a medium
To trace back where this all begun
We tried to get mister Jung
But as the Latin rolled off her tongue
To our surprise
Before our eyes
Stood the spirit of Sigmund Freud
Claiming I need *** to fill the void
A conversation I'd rather avoid
Needless to say we ended the spell
I gave her my paycheck and bid farewell
And as I exited out to the street
I almost hung my head in defeat
But the natives words came back to me
Bringing a sudden epiphany
It occurred to me as I was walking
I really need to just stop talking.
Perhaps I'll be a silent monk
To help me get out of this funk
But that just sounds absurd
I can figure out how this problem incurred
I don't need to see a therapist
Or invoke a psychoanalyst  
I will just continue on my quest
Until I obtain some dreamless rest
I'm sure I can find the connection
By immersing in more self-reflection
So when I go to bed tonight
I'll study my dreams with all my might!!
I may be delusional.
Amy Perry Dec 2015
You are worth more than words.
Here I am, on the verge of immersing myself in the voyage of words.
Like Mother's beloved birds,
On a trek to traverse towards Source.
The one constant on an ever-changing earth.
But,
Birds need no words
To convey their bliss
Towards the Source that burns,
In a Nature's kiss.
So,
I share my words,
I scrutinize it too,
Just as everything else
I feel or do.
But there is one thing,
I can't ignore,
It's the feeling of knowing,
Of loving, of joy,
Without ever needing
Language to deploy.
The scholar sits,
To ponder his cursive.
Words are intangible;
Yet, so intricately immersing.
The garden of old.

— The End —