"incarnadine" poems
you
modified magic lantern
incarnadine
soul
puppet show
short dresses
free
cocktails
little swords
and
big drama
where we
make love
in the
dressing
room
I watch you
don
the sheets
and cut
eye holes
while I grab
the light
and radiate
your
behind
the audience
better not
see
that
***
I’m
protective of
my baking
flour
*****
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.
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We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,
we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,
we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.
We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,
the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,
the hard melancholy
of dying machines.
We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,
we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,
when rosy limbs and sweat entwine;
But rapture drowns the sense and self,
the wine the drawer of the wine,
And Him that planted first the grape-
o podex, in thy vault there dwells
A charm to make the member mad,
And shake the marrow of the spine.
O member, in thy stubborn strength
a power avails on podex-sense
To boil the blood in breast and brain;
shudder the nreves incarnadine!
From me thou drawest pearly drink -
and in its pourings both are drunk.
The Iman drives forth the drunken man
from out the marble prayer-shrine.
Blue Mushtari strove with red Mirrikh
which should be master of the night-
But where is Mushtari, where Mirrikh
when in the sky the sun doth shine?
Now El Qahar to Hazif gives
the worship unto poets due : -
But songs are nought and Music all;
what poet music may define?
Allah's the atheist! he owns
no Allah. Sneer, thou dullard churl!
The Sufi worships not, but drinks,
being himself the all-divine.
Come, my Habib, the roses blush,
the waters gleam, the bulbul sings -
To pierce thy podex El Quahar's
urgent and and imminent design!
5.3k
5:00 am - Happy New Year!
I look like I should be a musician not a poet.
"It's so easy being a poet
so hard being a man"
- Charles Bukowski
----
5:14 am - Passing Rocklea, no sign of the dawn.
Coopers Plains station.
3 people get on.
Florescent lights cast a spell of sleep.
I wish I could sleep right now.
Eyelids droop like sad flowers from a convenience store.
I write metaphors like a drunken amateur.
Trinder park - Sounds like a bad neighbourhood.
**** ME ITS WOODRIDGE.
Where even the McDonalds sign is ******
XxXxxxxxx, Xxxxxx Xxxxxx :
She could be fun. So tight, she sometimes felt illegal.
Tight and bald. I would slide up to the *****
She loved it rough,
golden hair wrapped around my fingers
as she was pushed into the pillow.
She was loud in the mornings.
I could feel her tight ***
grinding against my thighs
as I ****** her harder and harder.
Until I came :
either inside her.
Or on her chest.
Or in her
prim
pink
suburban mouth.
Tightening my grip on her hair as the hot ***** spurted against the back of her throat.
The head of my **** throbbing as she gulped it down with silent satisfaction.
That only happened twice though.
----
5:37 am - The Dawn begins to rise over the Suburban Nation.
Final remnants of night
twinkle like stars
against the silhouette
of society.
House lights
Street lights
(and the omnipresent)
fluorescent light.
Beenleigh station - A pinch faced older woman gets on.
Business suit, lunch box.
Short hair, glasses.
Her earrings are imitation mother of pearl
(step-mother of pearl?)
She sits next to a window covered in graffiti.
Prim, tight mouth
incarnadine lipstick.
Over in the distance a smokestack cuts through the sky above the horizon.
Trees do mask the sun and sky.
"Hippies; they spend their whole life trying to get to a microphone and when they do, they don't tell anyone to **** off." - The Wolfman.
----
5:52 am - One more stop.
The clouds are the colour of smoke against the pearl blue sky.
----
6:00 am - Arrival.
Clouds are tinged with fire and blood
incandescently.
You can watch it spread and grow
with intensity.
Taxi driver was a foul mouthed Indian.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
My heart's so tied up
I can hardly breathe.
It seems, to me, that every scent is yours
every sight or sound,
song lyric or strip of poetry
relates back to you and the knot in my chest.
I best recruit a young sailor
to untie and bend these cravings.
These faint and vague desires
not to kiss you
nor to **** you
but to see you, lay with you, be with you.
That is what I crave daily,
what I need to loosen this knot.
*But
the knot
just
tightens.*
I crave to see you alone on a walk
or you with others
or you with me.
I especially crave to see you with me.
O' that which I'd give
to see you with me.
It must have been the grass
or the beers
or the LSD
because no natural occasion could make me feel this way.
I first heard you before I saw,
singing across the fence.
Your voice was like cream in hot coffee
scintillating, mesmerizing
fascinating, and light;
a drop of sweet in the dark, dark bitter.
I never knew that drinking coffee black
would soon become impossible.
*Everything is
bitter
when you've tasted
sweet.*
It's something in the way you visibly think
about the world and
others actions and
everything I say and do; something in the way you care.
It's something in the way you spit,
claiming the concrete as your own, a primal beast.
You are an incarnadine being,
a vastly deep creature whose
curls I can be lost in for
hours and days if not for those eyes.
Those eyes steal me with every glance,
dark mines of copper and fool's gold.
But pyrite is the sheen to which my mind melts,
and Scorpio sun signs
paint the mystique
that keeps me awake and alert all through the night
You keep me awake and alert,
waiting for the next move.
Yes, I'd be a liar if I said I felt friendship for you
and a heretic if I
dared to touch you.
But you dare to touch me. Every day,
you brush your hand 'gainst my leg,
grab my shoulder and hold,
knock your knee upon mine,
you push me gently,
but I die when you grab my thigh,
grab my thigh and squeeze it tightly
reassuring me that you're there
you're real
you're caring for me
and when the goodbyes come
**** the goodbyes*
you hug me so closely and so tightly
that my heart,
knotted as it is,
beats faster than it ever has.
I swear that it beats
faster than it ever could.
And in this speed, this conflagration of emotion,
I feel how the knot
only tightens to where
even the youngest sailor lacks the nimbility to loosen it.
I swear that it's much
tighter than it ever was;
that no one has stressed my mind so,
kept my heart strained to where it
beats
faster than it ever could,
it beats faster yet, than the
rush of a train upon steel.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
The word 'Montana' has a taste to it.
It is a being, it really is.
There is a spirit in those fields.
And you won't know it!
You won't! Know!
YOU CAN'T SEE
how much it has gripped you,
how firmly it has your heart until you are long gone.
Then you miss it. I miss it, friend, like a distant love.
It is like a massive pylon with bright red ribbon,
INCARNADINE
ribbon wrapped around your wrists.
No matter where you go you will always be connected.
It will always call your name, like a siren
in the seas calling a sailor home
BEFORE
cursing him and
devouring him forever.
Like the earth is to the moon,
distant and gripping,
Montana is my anchor.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
My soul whispered a secret to my heart,
It spoke of spilled blood upon a rose,
Rouged lips within the garden,
Drops of crimson liquid blush.
[CHORUS]
Nature’s beloved colour is green,
So red speaks of originality,
Blood is a passion,
Scarlet bleeding from thy own,
A claret sun dawning beyond,
Sanguine stained skies.
When the little cardinal sings sweetly,
A doorway opens I never chose,
Visions of a bloodshot key,
A lock rusted with dried blood.
A glimpse through the keyhole,
A pale forest awaits on the other side,
Showers of cherry blossoms,
Falling upon the snow.
Red berries bloom under crystal snow,
Glints of sunlight touch down,
Sparks of fire captured within,
Just beyond this rubicund door.
[CHORUS]
The dreams I am allowed,
Burn and scar my will,
When the door swings open,
Of its own accord.
Damask petals on the wind.
How warm and gentle that spray of blood,
Like a hundred tender kisses,
And the golden keys to Heaven.
I glimpsed the gules of true heraldry,
A suffused spirit at the dawn of memory,
Imprisoned by a cage of vermillion frost,
Warmed by a glass of spiced wine.
[CHORUS]
A roseate palace at the end of a long walk,
Painted titian by my tear drops,
Caress a florid complexion,
Carmine not my own.
Roan stones dusted,
By the fall of Angels light,
Make-believe incarnadine carpet of,
A mirrored auburn dusk.
I settle back into the maroon night,
The darkness flushed by concealed art,
Bay canvas touched-up with unreal imagery,
Indifferent to the passing of my former life.
[CHORUS]
Rubies fall from ruddy clouds,
These gems are not for me,
Reddened glass has come to pass,
The moment of my undoing.
[PAUSE (Epilogue)]
Red is not for me,
Red was not meant to be...
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
All the roads are closed. Silence metastasizes through the stretch of EDSA. Cold seeps in bone. Sun still flagellates.
Oscillate through sound space and whitewashed walls. Seismic grunt of jeepney awakens the signs: no avatars, yet. The night was as deep as any lover, a fine blistering moon glares through lit rivers.
Nothing exists except heads of tacks and maimed populace ambulating across roads sequined with ermine light. The disquiet approximates the lightness of
buildings in repair. Scaffolds, ubiquitous lovers,
clouds explode into white, and everything else like pain, pales in comparison with the slow twitch of everything.
Today there will be no siren nor
simultaneous joust of cyclists in perpetual motion— just you contending
against hues of all graffiti:
Cataract of anguish. News of killing.
Incarnadine trees netted with aureoles burning bright in solstices. Penumbral undulation of
forethought and afterthought.
Dislimned – all; you, left
in polaroid taken in solitary shutter,
in pursuit of light.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
No rose that in a garden ever grew,
In Homer’s or in Omar’s or in mine,
Though buried under centuries of fine
Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew
Forever, and forever lost from view,
But must again in fragrance rich as wine
The grey aisles of the air incarnadine
When the old summers surge into a new.
Thus when I swear, “I love with all my heart,”
’Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear,
’Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece;
And thus as well my love must lose some part
Of what it is, had Helen been less fair,
Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece.
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He opened his eyes in a night sky,
Waxed black and fed by dews darkness,
Ebon and incarnadine mists consumed the air,
One hundred ravens in coracinet played
Soft music gliding her pale feet,
Quivering a flutter she swayed dreaming,
Before his black oak door,
Long his finger enchanted the path,
Fluttering onward in rapture,
The bell rings and rings,
Come dance, dance with thee,
Enchanted ye be
Her naked withering pallid body,
Of silk and chiffon he enfolded,
Her lips tasting amber and figs ripening,
Coruscating maidens swirled an epitome of dance
Not until she was dark grown repentance,
Renouncing all others,
Only then he shall devour upon her,
A bargain be struck,
Swept away riven by her dreaming plea,
My lady crowned dance with thee,
Beholdeth spelled she be troth,
And the Raven King hungered upon her lips
Forever radiant enchanted black,
── Unto the dance of night, his eternally bound
© Arnay Rumens 2015
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
i.
Mine Waling-Waling
If mine existence soon doth leaveth;
Mine psalm's art left here on Hello Poetry
In thine Palm's they shalt speaketh.
ii.
If this shalt be the ******
Mine rhyme's in thee;
Shalt be entwined
Into thy mind, I will meeteth thee in heaven's gate nine, the back.
iii.
If soon shalt be mine termination
I'll meeteth thee at the station;
Wherein cerulean airmist
Shalt maketh me drift, onward ahead.
iv.
Amongst the living
Not dead;
I shalt findeth thou
If today's mine last breathe somehow, I'll be waiting in a shroud.
v.
If mine Incarnadine
Shalt be spilt as wine;
And I hemorrhage from mine brain
Just remember queen, eternally, we shalt meet and be one again.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley/Filipino rose dedication
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
***It's there in black and white
The greater good demands sacrifice
I fall as I fail to penetrate with the sword of truth
Black clouds mask raw wounds worn as shadowed badges
And the proof of fragmented love
How can it be anything else?
A life in platitudes for a moment of freedom
A moment of honesty
A moment greater than those before and those to follow
Incarnadine pages depict the ****** of innocence
Turned ****** of crows
Set to peck out eyes that see only the good
In a smile that reflects the heart
You yearned to believe existed
Sacrificed, and still...
I would grow bone through flesh to block your pain***
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC
If I couldst show to thee the measure of my love, wouldst thine eyes shine in radiant hues? Smoulder then in deepest lapis blues, that put to shame the very rainbow's best intent.
If I couldst share with thee, the hottest of my humors, wouldst not the boilings in that abyssal pit, pale and mediocre seem, as 'twere mine, in compare? It would melt old Vulcans's anvil, adamantine!
Take for thee, these my softest kisses, which, placed upon lips, seeming to mine own essence, as pillowed angels breath, yet, those godly messengers own sweetest puckerings, as granite, to those of my mistress.
If thou couldst pluck from my chest, a still beating heart, wouldst not the sanguine, boiling streams, scold the unforgiving stones, on which they splash?
The fiery vapours rending air, as heaven bound they rise to paint the sky, incarnadine!
And yet, merely moistening that beloved hand, which holds, the fleshy, ruby prize.
Canst thou now measure, that which knows no measure?
And like heavens starried twinkles, whose beacons point the way, know this, infinite, is the measure of my love for thee, my mistress.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
You spilled incarnadine
across dirt floor
grainy crystals and flecks of
stone that turned to mud
sunk deep to worms
and roots of trees
that drank your stain
and
turned thin-veined leaf
shy pink until rain
came and
saturated dew
carried you away to
white clouds lost
in the perfect sky.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
The mirror is shattered.
So without any reflection on the misuse of this image,
The shards will be incarnadine.
The bleeding will ne'er end.
It drips drops of thick sick thoughts,
Smothering the scattered shards.
A sight bred for horror.
Speckled endlessly, sorting sorrows
Into uniquely spattered shards.
The fulmination of self-imitation.
No longer are little words taken lightly.
You are now obscure shards.
I, too, once saw clearly.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
…rain, rain, red rain, scarlet rain, ochre rain, incarnadine rain, rain driving in torrents unseen in millennia, pounding the desiccated earth in a frenzy of hydration...
I... I never dared hope to see this. In the last days... let me see now... this is so difficult that even my recollection grows dim...
In the Last Days, Council met and planned. We exhorted the brightest, challenged the greatest minds. We sifted through aeons of knowledge and philosophy, searching for the key to our salvation. Plans were made and discarded. Theories expounded... and proved false. In time, we came to the inescapable conclusion.
Our seed had grown thin. Hundreds of generations of advancement, fine-tuning, and engineering had taken its toll on our people. We had become threadbare; the canvas of our soul stretched beyond the limit of its frame. We had become a doomed race.
(...rain from pole to pole, reaving nature through force of Will, rain into rivulets, rivers cascading into falls, scouring terrified hillsides, on an unstoppable charge to the lowlands...)
The inevitable demonstrated beyond doubt, some lost all reason. Others chose their own end; marching calmly, in ones and twos, or in families, into the hopeless portals of Ra’k Tanar. A few of us chose to carry on, in the hope that something might be salvaged.
(...rain like the fury of a spent people, a whirlwind railing against futility, rain coursing and surging, hungrily rediscovering its soil, its flood-plains, its oceans, rain urging defiance, blood-red rain on blood-red clay, a million screams and a million years out of time...)
And in a way, we forged a kind of victory. Ruined as we were, we were not without Craft. Our best we gathered to the Hall of Treasures, under the icon you have only just uncovered. We laboured hard, so that even with our passing, the land would not forever wither. The seeds of your future were planted long in our past. You are coming into your inheritance: now, under the deluge...
(...rain like a thunderstrike echoing through the centuries, life-giving rain, angry rain, rain like the tumult and violence of all the wronged and lost, breathing, raging life into possibility all around, and with one last, weary, sigh, I leap into the heavens, rise up, become one with the sky, one with the rain, and fall in a billion crimson teardrops
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
She says maroon is her power colour,
because after the departure of her last lover,
it's the hue she saw spilt on the carpet,
the gorgeous ink leaking from her chest.
She wears burgundy dresses
with wavy beach tresses,
because they make her feel like a whimsical beauty,
the kind with her life well put together.
She paints bright red lipstick over her mouth
because it makes her feel like a sassy adult,
like a woman taking on the world
with her lips as crimson as the
blood she will extract if you scorn her.
Every day she looks in the mirror
at the incarnadine shades she made her veneer,
and thinks... maybe, someday,
my life will match this costume.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
They say you can’t keep your prying eyes off of a w r e c k.
The extended siren diminishes even as it creeps closer,
the road only grows harder, pierced glass and incarnadine blood.
Clear in your head where you're setting those sights,
disregard the stench of burnt metal and the doused fire of the passenger seat,
block out the screams that streams into your ears.
There is nothing to be curious about.
The slow, infantile pause while your pitying gaze
shifts across the midnight scene
is the only thing the jaded victims can feel,
beside the rusted pain destroying their decaying bodies.
Strangers are the distraction from the d e s t r u c t i o n.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
Piercing the white veil,
The tarmac steaming
from overrun millions.
Dotted yellow hexagrams,
lost in a backward glance.
Far from precious cerulean skies
Farther still from incarnadine sunrise.
The predawn grey swirls it's silken dress,
Alluring all towards the edge.
Heavy hands hold the circle
while bleary eyes fail to pierce the translucent fog.
The black road;
smeared with last nights fallen remnants
begs for another story to travail over it,
or fall prey to it's countless tragedies.
The taste of stale coffee bites,
with an acidic bitterness that gags.
that memorable flavor
Combining with the old taste of the last cigarette,
brings the pain of aging headaches,
and memories of stories before the road.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 4:25 PM UTC
Stygian shadows devour my fall:
Incarnadine structure the greatest of all!
I fathom this flesh by transgressions been moored
In depths of iniquity forevermore.
Dreams been hallowed in glistening chest:
Thought sanctity born to be laid to rest!
Clouds of soil drape the skies,
My chalice strewn in grave on high.
Shockwaves emitted from brain do rend
In soul conviction of celestial mend,
The thew of ebony phantoms draw
Blood from heartbeat left unthawed.
A parcel wayworn and torn by winds,
And by time: the fruitage of illusory sin!
In lungs my oxygen laced and maimed,
Tis’ miasma of youth impaled by pain.
Are pining for flight the days of yore
Into the horizon of virtue’s dawn.
Yet a specter reaps my holy days
Until incorporeal, for eternity shamed.
Yet is there hope for the soul accursed?
A susurrus spins a tale of mirth:
Though once incarcerated by dirges doom,
A melisma tranced a deluged moon.
Forlorn in the skies by nebulous stars,
Yet efflorescence cocoons that body marred.
Gravity transcended by a coronal soar,
Lightness abides at aethers door!
Prophecy of the cosmos exhales at last!
Rapture divined red-shift once masked!
O extol His radiance, O relinquish your souls!
That The Transcendental shall forge ye whole!
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
I remember when lachesism took place
You enkindled me with your smile
You and I were culpable at the start
We wondered into the coniferous forest
Only for you to elicit these feelings upon me
You had rutabosis, I did not
Your ambivalent heart took a toll on mine
Love seems pretentious to me now
But even when I fall asleep trying to escape the day I dream of you
I fall in love with you all over again
It's all too ambiguous and ethereal
Causing my incarnadine heart to turn blue
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC