"ingots" poems
Swept in on the sixth of the first
Icy winds sluiced on dripping fleecy snow showers
I saw a raging storm coming with vile foreboding nursed
Staple in peace in love in goodwill laid a fitting banquet for all hours
Rewards for toil and strive in minds attuned and goodness versed
I knelt supplicant before my Lord
Laid my just heart bare and without fear or dread
laid a ringing vow as in warmth or bellowing thundering cold
I rest in the forethought I am girded to sail sun's flames un thread
For no blooded being can justly state I harmed or injured in my fold
I will walk this vale of tears
Meet with demons and the ****** of the outer worlds
Face the volcanoes in hell and shame blazing red lava ingots
I will not cower before deadly serpents or baulk at icy frozen walls
If I fall I will stand again an again till God's time uneaten by maggots
I implored my Faithful Lord
Take me down grind and cast me asunder and bereft
If this be ordained that an innocent soul pays an unjust price
The darkest storm has raged wild and furious a depraved joy theft
My God upholds me and holds that truths and honesty never a vice
[email protected].
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
God said,
-through the Shaikh...
..be He blessed,
The news has come to me about the kind of calamity that will befall Baghdad.
Offering a supplication on behalf of the inhabitants of the city, praying they be spared. Saying, as God, dejected;
*Be my life for indeed someone in this city deserves to be killed and crucified! For one individual whom YOU honor, like thousands of others whom YOU shall have destroy them; You make us suffer for THEIR sins?*
WHAT HAVE THEY DONE?
YOU *have melted the pieces into ingots of the Godless and men?
You try to compete with the Prophets?
You claim to miracles?
You believe you speak the Word?
That you represent, in doing, by action?
Nay, -you serve the Jinn!*
This is the end of an Age,
Hypocrite!
Vanity is your loss.
* *...be not a deceiver...
(85:20)* *
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 2:29 AM UTC
1366
Brother of Ingots—Ah Peru—
Empty the Hearts that purchased you—
—
Sister of Ophir—
Ah, Peru—
Subtle the Sum
That purchase you—
—
Brother of Ophir
Bright Adieu,
Honor, the shortest route
To you.
3.5k
when I say the wind blows
you already know
but how do the leaves portend
emerald on the end
or grasping to the limb?
If the Love is Lost, when?
feelings were ample
yet, when unplugged they limp lame
sentiment in lieu of visceral slanguage;
Who needs a Heart when a record can be Broken?
i think therefor iThoughts
Depress into cracked lead
and bled red into inkwell;
gun shots have more potent stocks
tragically hip to be so square ingots
what gracious melodies and languid lives
battered idioms with only one just is to bear
how Sad their flirtatious Ness affair
with Pain must fin' ish and putrefy,
those believers in Death will die
hail a Hashtag worthy of
Octothorp
for phoenixes are found everyday
prostrate your Poetry for posthumous
consumption
apply the alembic of alteration
and
Heal our Hashtag heathen history
or
**** It
Hate the Hashtag
that's Life!
#love #life #sad #pain #depression #thoughts #death #sadness #heartbreak #lost
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
when I go
it will be
impossibly late
and I’ll leave you
not multi-talented bars
or pairs of randy ingots
itching to procreate
in a splendid explosion
of golden delight
what I’ll leave you is
a stale-air larder
filled just this once
by dully packaged thoughts
and duller feelings
when I have them
they could only couple
if enlivened with musical prodding
or the sigh effecting benefits
from hands full of mood-altering
pharmaceuticals
so please yourself instead
and don’t
put them to any use
bury them deep
better yet
pile them high on Pyrrhic pyres
where the gathering scorch will send
down leaden puddles
while precious platinum curls rise
up to trickle trickster tears
my greatest possible reward
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 8:54 AM UTC
I have died a juniper bar
I will take this as a moon rise
Seldom in youthful prodigality
Of ingots minus three
...it ran out of petrol...then the camel died and we had to eat marshmallow biscuits surrounded by green monkeys.......:) Edgar
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 7:53 PM UTC
Poets are word canaries
prepared to die in dark, airless places.
Poets are sharp sirens
alert, alarmed and warning of the firestorm.
Poets can read
tree bark calligraphy of knots and scars.
Poets decipher codes
and shrewd puzzles, bold and enigmatic.
Poets ignore the talk of Angels
their prophecies and broken promises
Poets turn over Tarot cards
lay out rune stones, fearless of the future.
Poets steer clear
of treasure, jewels and golden ingots.
Poets climb ladders
and stairways cut in rock and stone.
Poets can see beyond
apple blossom, lilac blooms and dead lilies.
Poets find the past
in patterns of stars and the orbit of comets.
Poets lick salt
relishing the wounds and tears.
Poets throw life-belts
wreaths onto empty oceans.
Poets split existence
into life and death with nothing between.
Poets sift ashes
and sand for the rough edges of infinity.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
11
I never told the buried gold
Upon the hill—that lies—
I saw the sun—his plunder done
Crouch low to guard his prize.
He stood as near
As stood you here—
A pace had been between—
Did but a snake bisect the brake
My life had forfeit been.
That was a wondrous *****
I hope ’twas honest gained.
Those were the fairest ingots
That ever kissed the *****
Whether to keep the secret—
Whether to reveal—
Whether as I ponder
Kidd will sudden sail—
Could a shrewd advise me
We might e’en divide—
Should a shrewd betray me—
Atropos decide!
1.7k
And at him She
can't get up *****
***** She won't get
Down roundest town
She got snow seek ritz.
Not in ease et al.
Sipped at air
Owe win.
Thin call parties
Heard ur now
Sewn unwell been
In fight head.
Know shuns Felt
Ired real lies ten
Spied her
Sell fear yeah till
All ill own.
Thoughts big inner red
sighed dread kin days
pull its fair ingots
true an ask whoop
A Fool.
Errand freight sands
rebate witch whit
Wit sending she sings
A mall of us
Sudden leaps
wings to retch doubt
stun dare each tout
Ooh dues we
fund her joy
none drive all seas
Her Hollers treat tang
Urge greed sold eighths
Whim bling out
Loud Uncle Ear....
All good thin geese
must
calm.
tune
in.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
O! Happy day!
For on this day I find myself
In love with every girl:
In the innumerable masses of licentious courtesans
Parading their every facet,
Every inch of bare supple flesh
Their thread-bare scraps of clothes
Can tastefully expose,
I have chosen a mere handful
That do so skilfully!
And so I act;
Mutilating the leafy genitals of lesser lifeforms,
Pruning them into a pleasing shape
That it might entice them to reciprocate
And replicate;
Presenting to them dashing symbols of consumerism,
Such as ingots of saccharine fat
To please them now
And spurn them later
When they wish to regain their shapely shape,
Or compressed ichor borne of ancient remains,
Cut into a pleasing sparkle
To please their primal preference for shine.
Surely this will win their affections!
O! Happy day!
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand homes, nestled in the raw
slumber of soft shadows -
moon cast, in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...
a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,
crowding the dark knolls
of some beautiful assembly -
An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal
stammering
the eye of our stillness ...
A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens
shimmering in the dialect
of mute jewels.
The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -
An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether
bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...
the extraordinary -
blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~
O'Sacred things that devour flame
to disgorge supernova As tapestry.....
A garden of stars most hostile
to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -
The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds
Of a desperate mirror
One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~
but hasn't the Silver to shine.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand homes, nestled in the raw
slumber of soft shadows -
moon cast, in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...
a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,
crowding the dark knolls
of some beautiful assembly -
An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal
stammering
the eye of our stillness ...
A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens
shimmering in the dialect
of mute jewels.
The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -
An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether
bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...
the extraordinary -
blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~
O'Sacred things that devour flame
to disgorge supernova As tapestry.....
A garden of stars most hostile
to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -
The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds
Of a desperate mirror
One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~
but hasn't the Silver to shine.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
Spry distractions loaf on lithe intent,
men waking, wishing, trying,
b’lieving, doing, buying -inging time rather than be-,
results in salt-work, sprawling like the C
in coldness: callous spray
that dampens your New Canvas Day.
Pixels splat and reek of pure demise,
wine trauma met with whys
fires livid earth from foil-pressed crumbs
from which your towers rise. You miss
the point of -ing;
the shape you’re in’s an -e-d thing
writ past because of practice;
timed it slow, fixed solemn bets
all rife with catty pugil,
ribbons placed on “I-got-tīme-in” *******
that gleam too brightly
for the lover’s open eye. Youriyese
in grace, ingratiated by devices
(rueful caries)
shelter you from toil’s ten-thousand days.
You see them, they see you whilst print-ing,
comb-ing over, feel-ing joy anew: such sugar lines
the bottom
of a borrowed cup of time.
White hues direct-ing -ingots in a line
totally gold
and pin “pathetic” on your chest,
their best not forged in -ing or be-
(like they would want you to be) -lieve,
but rather hey! and halt!
The hollow points of discord,
blood of victims be- -in’ salt.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
Molten stories smelted
and poured like ashened gold.
We turn to paper
as coffers for lesser ingots - old.
In hopes to lessen;
nay, diminish thy gaping hole.
In hopes to relinquish
and set free caged memories stole.
Sep 7, 2022
Sep 7, 2022 at 1:06 PM UTC
I don't ride a Harley. Do you?
I have no need for ingots or ketchups. Have you?
I'm atheist. Are you a believer?
I'm in the body. Are you marginalized?
I respect LGBTQ. Are you in and out of your body?
I have a NEXUS. Do you have a country?
Good thing the air and sunshine have no borders.
It's not about me.
It's about us.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
Dusk is brief in valleys.
but daytime slowly washed, skin, scraped carefully
to eat, covered in
scents delivered by transparent bag
mingling with garden trees and the cattle flies from fields nearby.
Rare, imported light-bulb light
passes through hair,
hands sit dwarfed
and distort in wine glasses,
the split *** mumbles rises on the hob
for Callisto outside, dancing prosaically about a very thin pole.
Conversations become excuses to stare at lips,
and songs suggested without conviction
play unfinished.
The music is softer now, the group diminished.
Getting heavier things.
Extremities in particular, and a few more sophisticated objects.
Corkscrews like ingots and eyelashes masscarad in lead.
There are the last lights and the thin summer sheets
that get in the way; stuck to sweaty –‘tertwined and clumsy--
Ash and tannin obscure the smell of gums
(and sometimes even the folded sent of neck and jaw).
More sweat is generated
Sleep does not come
or so it feels
when
morning is slightly too soon
bright and curtainless
and the beauty is sifted fruity and fuckless soft but moaning.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
The most beautiful place on earth
is smothered in wealth and worth
gold trickles down from the skies
and into greedy men’s eyes
they ingest silver
and wear extravagant coats made of fur
a thin layer of paper money covers their head
while a pile of ingots creates their bed
The finest silk sings them to sleep
while the coin birds and euro cockroaches weep
the crystal moon starts to rise
and the rich men can’t even hear
the poor children’s cries
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 9:44 PM UTC
in the dawning days
of the Earth
an ancient poet conjured
a verse from a magical *** of words
through the ages
generations of poets
have gone to this magical ***
to draw from its
well spring of words
which
are replete in golden
ingots
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Down there in the valley, where the lunatics play parts, until the cinema doors open and the latest movie starts, there's a Mexican with gold bars that are strapped into his trousers,
and down among the lunatics are the freemen, rebel rousers, it gets hard to make their features out as the silver screen lights eerily ,with blinkers sat across his eyes he stands alone and wearily,
calls to the main assembly, 'I'm waiting for you and I'm here' but no one seems to notice him,
as Robert Redford rides a bike, he bites into a burrito, no sense in wasting good food and there's nowhere else that he can go, the gold bars start to melt and yet he's never once felt so alone, he wonders what is wife is at when he's so far away from home.
The lunatics are filing through the exit doors and who's to say, if what is madness here and now is going to be madness on another day.
The Mexican prepares a feast but no one comes except for me but
he's not in the least perturbed,
he did it once before and no one came then, so it's no surprise ,when looking in his eyes I see a medal made of bronze for me, a runner up in history, no golden ingots hidden there,
just questions and I wonder why
he came.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
The words I spoke were broken open on my cracked and bleeding lips
and any meaning they once held fell screaming to the floor.
In the furnace room where temperature hit bodies like a train and the noise was so magnificent,
I lean't on Iron works to steady legs that would not pull and pulled away from foaming steel
and the flaming mouth that swallowed bridges whole and spewed them out as ingots told its own tale.
Jobs or jails when all else fails and the furnace takes the rest,it took the best of me,messed me up and chewed my brain in temperatures up on that train.
In my dream I lean on iron works when nothing works and work at being far away.
In my dream I dream of yesterday and wish it was today or any day away from furnaces.
In the end the heat beats everyone,one day the heat will dissipate or we'll be gone
I wonder if the furnace will then linger on
or will that be gone as well.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
the street out there in the Streets, got those eyes
that mark you as you pass by. as you stroll through
the misbegotten voodoo of your mind worms
you just might have a David Lynch blooper reel
and a Cosmic ray of uncertainty in a bottle
barking the stolid Oak of your Delirium
so the rain cannot penetrate the pith of your Delusions.
i am the king of a sofa and a much squalid.
parked in the dank blip of a valley in a heartbeat
cancelled out by the hum of a Be.
and I cannot
Be,
but the parasols of my inner lightning, speak.
they march from fingertips from the ether of my solid Noise.
i am granted, underneath... full access to the torrent
of the everlasting sting... and all the chambers of the heart
where joy outlasts every living thing.
and i snag my hammer on a good nail, and clip barnacles.
vexed in the extreme, and my humility
invisible. and the cackling ingots of snow
caught in the spine of my mouth, singing to a gaslight
in February.
how i summon the snakes, the Saints won't say.
but they are happy to see your thorns
sinking into my Happy
Place.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC
In China, they’re eaten on special occasions.
But every day with you is special, and worth celebrating.
They are shaped to remember wealth.
I am shaped to be in love with you.
They are a whole meal with nothing else.
I am sustained because of you.
When we eat together, we should drink too.
This will make us richer.
From bowl to sauce to mouth.
The pattern woven is repeated.
In the tapestry we sit like an emperor and his favourite concubine.
Dumplings are the ingots of love we share.
The colours in the silk will fade.
The taste of garlic and soy will not.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 9:06 PM UTC
I am
Crying
Crimson
Inside
I am
Forest
Fullness
In deed
I am
Buried
Bullion
Ingots
In the
Words I
Will con-
Cede here
To you
Pistol
Packing
Tulip
To you
Loving
Looping
Rhetor
To this
Beating
Bulging
Tremor
Tuning
Heart hailed
Hue horned
Taxis
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
America ... your soul is green. your fingers mint currency, your feet forge false ingots, your eyes see empty horizons, your legs march towards false dawns ...
America ... you've got your cheap tv, you've captured joy & containment, you've cornered the market, you've found all lost prophets, you've made sure of the final episodes ...
America ... you surely contain me, you ever so definitely horrify me, you each & every day lessen me, you overwhelm me, you reduce me ...
America ... the world becomes you, the people love you, the children envy you, the papas imitate you, the mamas just hope you ...
America ... your dollar excludes me, your banks deny me, your corporations just overlook me, your industries may soon destroy me ...
America ... your future awaits you, your poor folk haunt you, your rich folk dazzle you, your news just smokes & mirrors you, your understanding ... is beyond me.
America ...your closets are never too full, your wallets call you, your purses cry out to you, your credit cards whisper to you, & in secret your dollar bills make love to you ...
America ... your karma dooms you, your Kissinger is not funny, your Reagan dines with Satan, your preachers preach with poison, your Christians destroy you ...
America ... can you hear me? you don't answer my calls, do I have the wrong number? are you just plain avoiding me?
America ... you think I'm kidding? you think you can out-wait me? you think I'm all mouth & no trousers? you think your days aren't numbered? ...
America ... I'm tired of waiting, I'm now on a mission, I'll recruit my soldiers, I'll destroy your temples, I'll overturn your tables, I'll tell the end of your stories, I'll just plain overcome you ...
America ... you think I'm joking?
(With a nod to young Allen of course)
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC