"impiety" poems
My love is the shape of canine teeth and claw marks
I leave around your neck,
the way I leave poems decaying in an unforgiving landfill —
the gods have turned away in disgust
as I sit and lick, like a rabid dog,
the maggots chipping away from the inside —
the entrails of my grief, all pulled out without mercy,
without a deathbed confession,
without a god to listen.
I long for something else to unfold;
something sacred and beautiful
when you turn my body inside out, but lo.
This is as deep and far as we go.
Tell me, I beseech, does my filth look better inside out,
uncovered, on display,
penetrating your very skin?
Take what you need, love, they are all yours —
my sins, my wounds, my impiety
in exchange for your darkened heart — I’ll spit it out
and swallow it back
down to my underbelly where no one can ever take it —
not you, not the gods, not their fallen, forsaken angels.
Forgive me — forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.
Forgive my unforgiving hands, forgive my unforgiving poems
if our sick, twisted, defilement is all they ever know.
Dec 13, 2022
Dec 13, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
A created moral aspect of human awareness imbedded deep within the hearts and minds of mankind.
Who's sympathetic to the pain and suffering of others, aspirating the need to reach forward with compassion.
Feeling the sorrows of the poverty stricken and the ill afflicted soul as one struggle to extend his hands in alms while his strength quickly diminishes.
Even the impiety of the ungodly, feels the remorse of the neglected, has they take sight of a weak child who struggle to place a grain of rice into her savoring mouth.
While the tears of one who's compassionate, are channel through his ducts, forming a matrix of a salty saline solution that falls like the morning dew from a leaf.
The life around her fragile body falls dramatically as she watches her under nourish flesh wrap around her tiny bones while holding on to a seemless life that holds no promise.
A vulture wait patiently with anticipation and eagerness for carrion, as her emaciated body collapse in preparation to sleep soundly in the afterlife.
By no means shall you attain righteousness unless you give of that which you love and whatever you give, of a truth, God is all knowing.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
Blunt,
your words and knives.
Rounded, as
you carve out my heart
with your painful prose.
While you enter my soul
through your impiety,
I greet you remorsefully.
I greet you impossibly.
Regretfully.
Painfully.
At the gates of my humdrum heart.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
Spit in my face you Jews, and pierce my side,
Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me,
For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he
Who could do no iniquity hath died:
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sins, which pass the Jews’ impiety:
They killed once an inglorious man, but I
Crucify him daily, being now glorified.
Oh let me, then, his strange love still admire:
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment.
And Jacob came clothed in vile harsh attire
But to supplant, and with gainful intent:
God clothed himself in vile man’s flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.
1.5k
Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will love me again
Wear my flesh like rind and reclaim my sweetness
I am not dying yet, but I am not living and I am thirsty
For days, dazed and drugged on dirt’s divinity, brown knees
Nestled under the willow tree, the sun promises to purify me
Before the night swallows it whole, and regurgitates it tomorrow.
Somewhere between ripe and rotting, I will shatter my shame
Shed my sin, kiss palm to palm and nail a cross above my bed
Rid myself of impiety and feel what it feels to be clean.
I will walk the veins of the forests and trail the spines of the hills
Forage for berries and fall stupidly in love, over and over and over
With the art of existence and one day I will mean it when I say
I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 7:20 PM UTC
No Goodbyes
Tonight
The pores
Of this bed
Shall unleash
Streams of sighs
Like one of the stricken storms
Of the summer
And
The very
Of a cold
Shall twice
Smoother its naked whole
Even
On the
Most part
Where we kindled our impiety
Or
The centre
Where we rowed and cloven
On to each other
And inflamed ourselves with delirium
Will not be left alone either
Sleep
Shall be
Belch on the outskirts
Of the ceilings
By the rains of my tears
And in their moist warmth
Shall I seek solace for your absence
Alas!
That which I hate
Had come again
To take the honour that dignifies me
Verily
Many parts
Of my bones are broken
And crushed into many piece
Yet
All for a reason,You
But
Then
Even as I
Watch you leave
I shall still hold on to the ticks of time
Till you retrace your steps back
For I know this no Goodbye
No Goodbyes
©Historian E.Lexano
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
The radio is wracked with fervent calls
(Minutiae of obscure variety)
But silence comes from one room down the halls
As one man fights his own impiety.
Whatever ideologies he held
Before his current call have kept quite mum
For no two words their meanings yield to meld
(His god of information now is dumb).
A slight gives way to crack the dam of calm
As one man's altar all at once forsakes,
And pray-ers praying prayers receive no balm
When mortal ignorance its sanction makes.
Men in apocalypses are left fire-less.
(Though no one listens to the wireless.)
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 8:19 AM UTC
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace it self with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins,
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains?
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.
1.3k
In a far land known as Pakistan,
in the little town of Prym
Impiety was criminal,
And blasphemy a sin
A Christian woman stood accused
Of impious words and deed-
Did her words insult the Prophet?
Or did her neighbors hate her creed?
Tried and condemned for Blasphemy
in the little town of Prym,
The Christian woman waited,
for the stoning to begin.
The townspeople all gathered round,
pious Moslems one and all.
They chose their weapons from the ground
and awaited Imam’s call.
When suddenly the sky grew dark
The Sun obscured from view
A Nickel Iron stone from space
One, without sin, just threw.
In the place where Prym once stood
is a crater deep and wide.
There is no more impiety.
and no more fratricide.
Take to heart the lesson
Let hatred be unknown
Or next time He who is without sin
may cast a larger stone.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
if souls were made of things like:
compassion, anger and bliss
ours would be of the same.
the way we find presence
is enough substance to withhold a friendship.
the use of playful impiety
is a reflection of deep affection.
in which we take all these and use
them in the same doses.
and although science says nothing
of souls but of cells and pedigree
it was always about how
differences brought things together
and our similarities drove us apart.
our bodies cave to the commands of science-
it's no surprise that the rules of attraction
bow down to it as well.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
"The song of a distant owl in the middle of a cold night.
Its' voice raising as high as the tall pine trees,
Echoing through the silence,
Mixed with the misty fog as that one of a King's castle in a chilled winter morning.
The cold seemed like nothing.....compared to its somewhat full of impiety song of darkness, that emerged from its keen"
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 4:10 AM UTC
Purify the earth from all oppression, from all injustice, from all crime, from all impiety, and from all the pollution which is committed upon it, exterminate them from the earth.
Enoch 10:25
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
1
The art of growing up is teaching your skin to become a mask factory
All the orifices stuffed with paper , tainted with ****** poetry
My transgression is to pretend a part of me is still innocent
calling back to my own instinct , be as dead as a statue
2
Some nights, I am left in moods
I thought I have left behind ,
guilty feelings over my wife
mopping up the mess
of my self-evisceration
I remember as a child I would feel
bad for standing outside
obstructing sunlight from
a boy shaped patch of grass
now, in my mid-thirties,
a part of me still has not
grown secure,
wanting to stay quiet
about wounds, who
still sometimes
feels the echoes
of being told
how worthless I am ,
at nine after
harvesting a whole
onion field by hand,
or the times younger
left with the responsibilities
of alleged adults,
the ********* who hated
his life and fatherhood ,
or the mentally ill woman
who would’t get off the couch
to do anything except ****
my pets in front of me
when I was behind on chores
they are the ones who called
themselves farmers
and they have left seeds
which I have tried pulling
out of my bones,
but you always look insane
when trying to circumvent
your own skin
sometimes at night,
I can feel a bumper crop
coming on
3
Because I love to be not loved
they will ask me what my damage is
and I will say impiety is a comfort
when one was raised with grace used as a weapon
my future is a success if others fail to make sense of me
4
I learned what innocence is,
birth throws us into a world
gentle and illiterate ,
we age, hording weaponry
our skin turns to armor
by reading sharp edges,
this is a world of broken glass streets
every human soul a bottle ready
to fall off its shelf
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
Wild beasts of prey
sought to mangle and slay
those souls who believed
and to one God did pray
Thousands led to the slaughter
innocent sons, ****** daughters
before a great Roman Caesar
was baptized with water
….and civilized society
deplored such impiety
crying Never Again
shall we suffer insanity!
The ecclesial of privilege
did torment and disparage
whom they might perceive
to be guilty of sacrilege.
Masses were murdered
into prisons were herded
in God’s Holy Name
the inquisitors consorted
….and civilized society
deplored such impiety
crying Never Again
shall we suffer insanity!
Church elders would castigate
whom they judged to be profligate
to fires consigned
hell and brimstone their fate
Too many were burned
before it was learned
no possession took place
no demon was spurned
….and civilized society
deplored such impiety
crying Never Again
shall we suffer insanity!
The cotton-culled gentry
who prospered from slavery
forsook all compassion
to embrace what was monetary
Families were fractured
unwillingly indentured
till brother fought brother
to forge a free culture
…and civilized society
deplored such impiety
crying Never Again
shall we suffer insanity!
The great Aryan pride
led to mass genocide
obscuring such motives
their atrocities to hide
They led millions to exile
into death camps so vile
as nations ignored
their deafening Sig heil!
No, Not Ever Again
was still the refrain
but so quickly forgotten
while the world grew insane.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Alcohol coursing through my veins
Erratic thoughts cloud me
I beat the drums of impulsiveness
We dance towards the primerose path
With brake pads worn out
Hold on honey, hold on too late
You left me on the precipice of impiety
You left like I was your imagining
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
there is love brewed into the calluses of my coffee;
a hard-bodied steadfastness with the diligence to build me a humble home,
a playful sensuousness that can laugh after it ***** me but
in my tea i find the missing tenderness, a delicate jasmine translucency that remembers the curve of my lips around the cup
perhaps i find a mirror, in which i might discover a work of art
swaths of oil paint that earnestly create a woman, asking by their very existence to be forgiven for their impiety because she cannot be captured on a canvas
i want to love you in this way, the way women are loved;
i want to lift your jaw in my palm and kiss you gently,
to write aching letters to you,
to hold your head to my chest and finger your flaxen hair,
to rest my mouth on the nape of your neck and tell you about the home i’ll make for you
when we get out of here.
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 3:05 AM UTC
Your life will lead into a dead end, after mine I'll become a legend. I will not be forgotten, while your body is down there rottin', nobodys gonna remember and I'll be crashing through your head like the planes on the 11th september.
I am relevant and am able to do everything you can't.
The only thing you do is screaming, while locking yourself up in a mental prison and losin' the key matching the sealing.
I am the champion of my state of mind, yours made you a puppet and got you stuck on rewind. I wake up every day and enjoy everything I do, you wake up every night thinking about killing yourself but aren't brave enough to pull through.
If I face problems I am not looking away cause I am the only one allowed to stay and you can't even handle the smallest pressure, your life really isn't much of a pleasure.
I'll die with a smile and yours died long ago, but then I tell myself, is that really so? We're cursed and followed by impiety, cause we share the same body but not the same life, mind and Personality. You're inside my head and sometimes take control over me, but that doesn't make you me.
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
ripe limed watermelon *****
wear light stricken sun stripes
for an absent bottom
without oxygen
but inside
infused with pink ecstasy
that births the belly of many seeds
see,
these decoys in our sight
seem willing
but they were alright just sitting
on
cross-legged coils in sun beams
what the acid stains left
when they came as spoiled decay:
a spot of impiety
where veins were torn
off
from a she-deity
and the gyroscopic fruit
before being eaten
was
already
gone
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
I cut off two fingers from the hand of the poet who can’t stop from writing the hymns of her.
I put them in my ears so I could escape the redundant song
About the girl with the face that inspired the seas and it’s depths
And the sun
And the moon
And the stars
And a spirit that defeated them all
I would’ve used two of my own, but I need all 10 to compose this sacrilegious psalm
Because I value Beauty not
Although I guess it’s only me
They’ll adorn your scars as long as they don’t bleed
and applaud your broken bones as long as they aren’t visible through busted seams
And they live to hear her story
No matter how old or recent
But If you look like the hell you’ve gone through they’d rather you just
Didn’t.
Or perhaps you prefer that narrative
of hate
And slaughter
And lust
But no matter how many time it’s spun
I still can’t seem to trust
The girl with the mind that dared to lock eyes with the void and it’s breadth
And time
And space
And death
And a soul that embraced them all
She’s prayed for the devil one too many times and that’s probably why he won’t leave her alone
Cause she’ll tell you her name is fearless
And that she’s mystical and cold
But really she’s Banality
And her lionhearted stories
Old
I suppose it’s not her fault
Nor is it Beauty’s either
That their tales are all derivative
And clichéd, their Author’s leisure
They’re shrines to archetypal aspiration
Overwatered brain garden
Concept vegetation
So I pulled up Beauty’s roots
And those of Banality too
And reveled in their surprise as a **** like me ripped them from the view.
And I plant them here with me
amongst the blooming Apostasies
And how willingly they drink
My Eucharist of impiety
And now I sit with open veins
And written in my blood this
Antiphon remains
But since we’re all just echoes in the void
I’ll know you’re lying if you say
you didn’t lick your fingers anyway
when turning the pages of this introit
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC