"libations" poems
i like it ickity split
mad to exceed the world
in dark dreams ******
to evoke blood wet mouths
insertions paradise of fluorescents
in a dark aperture
her pudenda
a rolling hill
gaudy wound like a smash mouth crying
split torn tearing, pink estuary
for gluttonies' joyride
that can hardly be endured
twisted tongue spice melts and glitters raw
the sheets soaked through
matted hair in saliva
blood and eggs
the screams of monsters rapture
oh feral abandon
every thing else a toil
winged genitals
hell toys for mama
like heaven cant know
his *****
like hanging bats
Nagasaki goes off in her ***
bodies; quake in silence
the bedroom; a chaotic bathroom
tulips shrill flutter
gulp and swallow milks flame
rosy welts laughing
flushing orgasm's
shoved urns
all spilled libations
touching and *******
crimson **** runnels
in bathhouse foam
down the drain
to earthen bowels din
where the dead push up daisies
i am the worm in the fruit
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
the tides swell
and hearts quell
my body shakes in anticipation
of profund ecstasy of liberation
and not the emptiness of libations
the bright moon light keeps the revelers out
thirsting for soemthing they cannot name
in a drunken fanatic frenzy they shout
claiming a new change in life when they remain the same
the ocean waves crash
and so do my thoughts
an uncontrollable maelstrom that spreads like a rash
only to find peace in the still silence I've always sought
Finally I am home and I bask in the light of the full moon
I too was a reveled once howling at the moon
but now instead I drink in the spirit of life
I might have spoke too soon
because my heart still feels stife
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
One can easily become disillusioned in a world senselessly
Filled with confusion and upheaval – evil at every corner,
and it appears as though good has become unsustainable
Bleak as tomorrow’s tidings may, I stay on bended knees
Looking upward with unanswered questions - let wisdom
Rain down like libations, to quench thirst wrought off miles
upon life’s rugged road, and before the end has come I want
To have left behind a legacy of achievement, taking whatever
Motivation I can get to buildup up conviction, until cynicism
is converted into action - my spirit soaring like an eagle propels
My ambition to loftier heights thought unimagined – so I wait
Patiently for a windfall gain, made from choices to facilitate change
For I’m indomitable, from a lineage of kings rising above the worlds
condition, like a sprightly star among the constellations…
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
I am a simple bystander.
Upon my slightly rough surface rests libations
Libations sometimes full of color
and others devoid of any light
Along for the ride one minute he or she is calm or quiet
Quiet, and the next moody
Moody or wildly mad with passion
Passion for words sometimes strung in nonsensical or hardly decipherable sentences
Sentences forming the harmonious song of social interaction
In this I delight.
On my course surface games are made,
Challenges are placed,
Games and challenges are played, and it all ends with uproarious laughter.
On my grainy surface words are sometimes written
Written along with shapes and symbols
Symbols which for reasons unknown increase my value ten fold
In the morning I am desired and required
Desired and required I am sought
In the morning I am loved.
I am a simple bystander,
In this I delight.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 10:10 PM UTC
Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the colored moths of Love.
Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,
A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,
Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
2.1k
Beautiful, breath taking views
Of vast volcanoes and bright blue seas
Scorching sun and high temperatures
Palm trees swaying in a soft breeze.
Through landscapes layered with black lava
White washed walls wind their way
Around gardens full of fantastic flora
Where lizards and geckos love to play.
Ships sail by beyond the breakers,
Planes pass over as they come in to land,
Promenades packed with holidaymakers
By beaches of beautiful golden sand.
Sun loungers and swimming pools
Hours of rest and relaxation
Siestas while the hot sun cools
Poolside bars for cool libations.
Spectacular sunsets in surrounding skies
Each day ending in such serene splendour
Reds pinks, blues, greys and turquoise;
Colours any artist would be challenged to render.
Pubs clubs and restaurants of such variety
activities that appeal to everyone
Local residents renowned for their hospitality
Make Matagorda a paradise second to none.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞
When the Mahdi returns to smite Dajjal,
When the Antichrist in his temple of lies
is vanquished by lightning from God’s black skies
as the shuddering stars blink, waver and fall,
When JAH Rastafari, Lord Jesus (and Paul)
With Isaac and Ismael – even Jibril
Cash in on redemption and pay up the bill
(no longer in discord, but harmonized all) –
When the Jinn (and the tonik) have thrown in the towel
as libations are served by the Heavenly Host,
while Apollyon’s watchdog combusts with a howl
and the demons and dhimmicrats give up the ghost –
only then shall we learn not to entertain doubt.
But until that apocalypse: vote the clowns out !
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
1 the chemical essential to the covalent bond, that is amorous,
2 the non-verbal communication that’s equivalent to conversing for hours,
3 Vibrations
4 The aromatics of bed sheets and perspiration
5 The forte of a night club and the pianissimo of a night spent star gazing
6 Libations
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
imagine all the cells that form to
join in your sensation
all the stars that blew your bits together
for proper procreation
being born with every breath and
reaching death through exhalation--
i simply can't exist without you
nor you without i,
and of this we can be sure that
(though the sureness of my i
obscures the many in us all[
mere words to ***** for thoughts we cope with]
)it will rumble beneath
and explode at the surface
to delayed surprise of just reprise
(mistaking inflation as progress)
that libations of dogmas won't change a thing:
when you look at the fibers in the fabric of being
(spun finely by spiders invisibly swift)
and if our knowledge were but a fly
we'd see ourselves trapped by its infinite web,
both victim to its trap and servant to its host
(though this is the nature of matters sticking close[
especially light years away])
just as the lattice of language roots deep
inside double-helix libraries unimaginably tall
filled with books authored by curious protons,
excited electrons and fleeting photons,
composed of sentences by snarky quarks and gluons
lying in -eate groups with unseen companions
(read between the lines) working in union
to fashion a sum greater than summation could do--
an alchemical-calculus of fractal fluidity,
finding contexts for novelty to sing songs
like Earth (though just a planet in other eyes)
to give conscious rise within the cosmic playground
embodied by us, but not encompassed by us;
rather extended through us
as curiosity mirrored.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
You're a good Man
& I love Ya, I do
Honest, trustworthy and true
Loving father, artistic,
a hard working man
for all these qualities
I love Ya, I do...
it's the nights I have
trouble getting through
Tonight as in last night
and the night before..
The nights of the months
that make so many nights
of our years together. ..
I have missed you dearly
Not for the lack of being present
Nor to support us in
house and home
Yet, the trade you've made to
Libations & Ale
that has left My body and
Heart so Very Alone
••●《■》¤《●》¤《■》●••
~MoonFlower~Fluer de Luna~May 2015~
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
I can't help but be concerned with your every move
with my mind developed in solitude
You move with out care with drunken eyes
Over mornings with an aching sighs
You speak with conviction
A smile with devious intention
But with a fire of daemonious concerns,
An Attention for fallen angels, you learn.
That the reality is not complete
Disconnected from you, and discontented
You elicit change in others providing
Romantic praise in libations of initiations
You gather lives, pressing a piece of yourself
In each intimate encounter – satisfied
That you have made light of their candle
A blue flame of resolving promises
You have kept yourself well
Free, intangible from the intrinsic
Drawing from your own ambiversive nature
Clearing your own torture of monotonous conjecture
I almost lost your reflection
From the diversion of an incidence
Realizing your beauty surpassed superficiality
Through your eyes I see aesthetic sensuality
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:33 PM UTC
arching my back
the sparks fly
like shaved metal
off of my sternum
as something
like happiness
flecks through
in metal firebuds
that screech coming
over me as a
wave washes
through my
molecular structure,
inside the libations
held up to the
small goddesses
running through
the rush of
the chainsaw shrieks
of bloodstream
now a fomenting river
of tiny waves
cresting made up
of my tears
shed all through
the mineral-encrusted
night
Now those tiny deities
with singing plumpness
of breast and thigh
indigo radiating
from their third eye
are dancing
inside my being
as I strive to catch
the shadows that
only just surrounded
me in that last hour
of plague
of chasm-patched torment
tears insulating me
until I could not see
for the steam
just on the edge
of inability to
contain my
filtered out
pre-injected rage
Here I now sit
a few inches above
the grasslands
lotus in each palm
pumped
with manifestation
in my very fingers
of life
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
These Nights with lights, Lightened from cigarette filled clouds to rainstorms.
We are drowning our Inhibition to exhibitions, of a shallow madness.
Within a matter of clearance
Of transverse sunrays:
We call this morning
A day past,
A night ruled with dreams.
Flooded with traffic afflicted
Souls searching beneath empty vessels of libations
Only to unearth realizations from lost sensations.
Vagabonds patrolling streets
apparently policing their worries,
from failed inquiries of maternally adopted creeds.
Divided vision escalated arrhythmic palpitation
Deviation from a gradual calm away from calamity
Expel, Exhort-Excise, the deep-veil
A rising dawn, polluted skies reflected in these eyes,
I stare at this street lamp, flickering at-us-all.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
*did you buy all of this on credit
and can you do without
going to ceremonies for awhile
look what higher learning
and empty rituals have given you
a distrust for humanity
and all that's truly valuable
are you a nihilist or a solipsist
what a life to be so twisted
like an elliptical esophagus
so strange the way we spell things
what would we do without
spellcheck or a dictionary these days
is a thesaurus a dinosaur or a literary device
the swelling went down
right in time for your dialectical revival
while didactic strange attractors are strangely repellent
selective attackers leave your marriages despondent
disparaged orthodontists leave fluids on your face
still you wipe your chin with sandpaper
and leave greasy finger stains in their place
fluoride is a bargain complete with its own argument
and quite often batteries are not included
but that doesn’t mean you’ll never use them
for what's a *** toy to do
if its lacking its adjacent latex compartments
or if you're really just not in the mood
i guess this human body will have to do
grooving to the music is all about our choosing to
becoming outdated or faded like a tax evader
these equations are meaningless
when you are fermented with libations
if you drink more amber liquid would you be negated
relevant for a moment and then
just as quickly discarded as a piece of paper
the receipts we diligently saved
are just as well used to light your fireplaces*
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
the coffee flowed through tales of three lovers,
all dead now, somehow
he managed to squeeze in a live one, number four,
over apple pie with melted cheese
she was still coming around, usually after her AA meetings
helping him fill his apartment with Lucky Strike haze
(only woman he knew who smoked unfiltered ****
he did not know why she watched him drink
maybe he was her 40 days in the desert,
tempting her with the libations
she loved more than her own flesh,
(her son in Waukegan with his sober dad)
maybe he was her test, he didn’t give a **** he said
she was quiet in his bed
often, like a thief in the night,
she would be gone when he woke in the morning
a book or two missing, ones he had read
and filled with notes, some with pages torn out
that lined his walls, even his crapper he said
where he could stand and drain his lizard
read Ezra Pound and Elliot and ask himself
why the **** did those guys use so many words?
when he ate the last crumbs of his pie, he told me
he meant to ask me the same question,
but the answer would be too long,
that I asked questions that did not need answers
I tried to tell him
I felt the same way, but
he fired up another Lucky Strike,
and asked for the check
which I would pay
and I knew, he would hear nothing
I had to say
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
vibrations resonate from the keys
and a rhythmic heart beats all eighty-eight.
those who cannot glean her pleasantries,
adorn snapshots of SOHO shopping sprees.
a gleam of light seems dull amongst the coral reefs,
sending shivers up the spine of apathy.
shaping narrow minds and corrupting the weak,
is this vial, verbose and anxious society.
a butter knife has taken the place of my edge,
not sure how to sharpen its fight.
a flutter of broken wings i've pledged
this blur has delayed my flight.
so i steady my fingers
over both blacks and whites,
and ready libations,
like Goethe's pursuant might,
vibrations do linger with no end in sight,
until my art escapes me, only fluent at night.
we coral reefs need to be saved
_TRF
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
Our preconceived notions
can’t seem to be left at the door
as we all seem to meet each other
for the first time, hand shake in check
psychiatrist inspecting psychologist
who to take, what to take, can we partake
in this guessing game of assumptions;
all because we are deeply insecure.
Yes, perhaps the writer even the reader
can take heed even implore the words
from abstracts, to ideas set forth to type
font, confront abound the reflective recollections,
as I form sentences and you figure the syntax.
Seeping through the membranes that we have solely
constructed from the libations and gluttony from opposite
heads to tails; phobic forming channels flipping
ratios of eyes on you, and yourself so to be social
concentrates every weekend, only to dissipate.
What has been lacking is simple genuine
conversation of good morning, how are you ?
exchanging information so to know
one another - that is being social.
The microcosms we place ourselves into are nothing more
than are fathom facades we trace as perimeters so to measure
how much we can let people into our already egocentric lives.
Don’t contest that statement, to some level we all have absolved
in our own thoughts everyday, that we lose sight perhaps
what we see with our eyes should be understood logically
with conscious from the back of our minds.
Tip this scale for which we wait, taking to memory
that we heal as we initiate, and take ourselves
into each others weight, so we can carry on.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 9:09 AM UTC
N Y’s serrated skyline,
a pale blue sleeps on teal.
But cut out
the distant end of it
and something of that shade
might wake
from under there, I feel.
The cross which I tend
to see is nearer than
N Y. It is rusting
an old green garden on it
and there is much strangely
colored gray living in
the winding motions above it.
The last of the sun, it dying
again pours libations of
pink upon the summit.
The view is far to me
yet brings me close
to a sky’s permeation.
(Been dragging me forward
a while now to its edge,
this now ever wasting.)
This is much like the way
the Torre fell through
my eyes, pending inward
upon some mind, which
I tried to catch in my gray
gray matter (sitting next
to her) like that was
the last essential task.
I said keep it keep it.
Did not keep it. It passed.
The blue is changing now—
lighter, paler, ghost-like.
If you were here
you would know the color.
(It is the sheet spread over
when things are lifted
as if born.) Lights, smaller
than skin water specs
begin to glimmer.
A breath is a crumpled
thing, used and used but
never wasted. When I
breathe to breathe I
remember to keep
breathing. And when the
world enters my lungs,
I can choose when to
exhale time—if I breathe
to breathe.
More speckling of sky skin.
The shades are fading, darker.
Suffused under, the clouds
congregate in covers.
The Brooklyn museum
is some pantheon upon
my roman hill from here.
The street lamps flame
orange as if it all was a
constant procession
towards the unceremonious
entrance, through the changing
gates, to the unknowing
home of being.
(The blue has fallen
from the sky and dropped
onto the roofs.)
The impossibly colored
clouds smoke up in
one heap from the end,
still the same distance—
far away. (But there still
is blue behind me.
A blue has kept away
from the end.
The cross has blackened.)
I wish not to leave this
Brooklyn roof. But I have
chosen to sleep on a bed.
One day
I will sleep on a roof.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
Words tumbled out of an aluminum commode
into a hungry mouth: naïveté.
Libations atop a tin altar
in a squalid temple rife with the stench
of lascivious youth
bemoaned battle cry
transcendent in the sound of forever.
Coming of Age
a cleverly disguised charade
kept in place
by a smile that never breaks
until dawn.
White noise
cryptic static
proselytize
vomiting mucus-draining corpses
a parade of mindless disciples
dancing to the beat
of the heart in a distant star
whose life perished in the forgotten past.
Fabricated promises of maturation
facetiae in the frozen teeth that
only part for the stubborn tongue to
lap up remaining consciousness on the floor
like a begging dog.
By himself he's weak
but among many he's a god.
A song bludgeons the eardrums
"Tonight, tonight, to-night": Repetitio est mater studiorum.
There's a voice in my head but
you put a hand o'er it's mouth
and pried mine open with
the monkey's paw
clutching a rose goblet
containing spiritual cleansing.
I've got a good idea
but bad intentions
and there's enough feculence wrapped in flesh and lies
to make this place feel like Heaven.
Stuffing my mouth with promises and
fallacies
that won't become clear until the
bottle is empty.
I'm washing away all the pain
and the hurt
right?
I'm a man now, risen from the
dirt
right?
I'll put my trust in the siren's call
reaching through the fog to grasp
her by the hair
I fall into the murky bog
beleaguered by strangulating tendrils
wrapping around my frail bones
I feel I'm being pulled under
and I'm all alone
I see their shimmering faces on the surface
distorted
in the reflection
peering into the soul as I
make my descent into the abyss.
Waking up a man with a
battered conscience
Compromise wraps a warm blanket around
me and places coffee between
crusty and brittle fingers
A gentle kiss on my forehead
is the finishing touch
leaving me alone with my baleful torment.
Coming of Age is a charade.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
October’s storm was brutal,
drenching rain and heavy wind.
Our little tavern by the beach
started taking water in.
Then, when the storm surge
breeched the wall,
the place lacked all defense.
Waves swept away our little bar
leaving us just the front steps.
The “Pour House” now a memory
for its scattered congregation.
Mostly Irish Catholics who enjoyed
its liberal dispensations.
Some people prefer brews to pews
for fighting off dammnation.
So many demons haunt our souls
and these demand libations.
The juke box played sad Irish songs,
the only sort it knew,
while disorderly Hibernians
enjoyed their favorite brew.
Here the patrons much preferred
Draft Guinness in a glass
while stealing furtive glances
at my waitress’ shapely ***
Here the women started homely
but were beautiful by close-
at least to those poor drunken sots
Who’d relieve them of their clothes,
By Christmas it was apparent
that the “Pour House” had to go.
There just wasn’t FEMA money
For an old man’s bar you know.
So word swept through the beach blocks
And it reached the subway station.
Gather at the Pour House Steps
for the New Year’s celebration.
Party favors must be had
So I bought some horns and hats.
Dry eyes and throats were disallowed
So I had free beer on tap.
That New Year’s Eve was cold and drear
When we held our celebration
Our dear old timers all appeared
for our “free beer” dispensation..
At midnight we stood on the steps
And had our photo taken.
We all hugged and went our separate ways
While inside our hearts were breaking.
The Pour house is a memory now.
I’ll miss those guys and girls.
It was a sort of Paradise,
a refuge from the world.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
The eyes should be plucked from their orbits
Submerged in formalin
Stored in a museum for all to gaze upon and know
My love is pure-tried by fire-
The fingers cut off at the second knuckle
The skin and meat picked from them leave
Pale Pale Pale white bone beneath
...Untouched by any other man
Scrape Scrape says the knife carving
Runes and poetry into the finger bones
So that all may know
My love was pure-tried by fire
The ****** knife danced
As in the sleep visions I cried out silently
Gray and muted were the eyes and
The voice was...lost from those lips
I remove the death mask to lick the cold lips of her corpse
Purple Petals that wither in the winter air
The warm cloud of my breath
Filling her nostrils
God breathing breath into Adam's first-rib
A lock of hair I disrupt
Falling from the high place
In Hurried Lust
I wonder at the stopped machinery that lies beneath
Do I dare slip the scalpel once more from its placement
And bring it to bare at the left breast?
It is the doing of another-I am no longer here
Searching for what is lost in the garden of her entrails
Wilting Bloom
I search the throat with my fingers
Reconstructing the final moments
Once more I run my fingers against thread
Delicatley I have sewn closed the gaping slash wound
To the throat warm spray a muted gurgle
Air slipping from the vocal chords disjointed dirge she sings to me
Forgetting quickly my stone ears deaf to such frivolities as mercy
The knife found it's own way through the breastbone
She and I are ancient beings
Our bodies sarcophagus for the true form
Released at last First Breath
Picking pieces of it from my teeth
Nail marks line my fore arms
Wounds tasting of the final throes
For she in peace dances at the feet of Him
Her wings cover her eyes
Her wings cover her feet
Holy seraphim returing crest raised high
Among the host
The great cycle completed
Tried by fire she is found whole once again
And I await with joy
The eternal punishment
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Every time I have a symposium
Following a banquet
With my muse
I start with three libations
With the best lychee wine I can get
From Mauritius !
The first is to her eyes
The second is to her lips
The third to Venus.
Then I spread the floor smeared with wine
With vanilla perfumes and jasmine flowers
While the moon is playing a tune on her flute of Pan
Then it's time to sing a hymn
And only after all this ceremony and ritual
When the symposiarch says : "drink !"
And the symposiasts start to drink
and be drunk
the symposium is declared open,
Only then,
we can start our tête-à-tête.
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 9:02 AM UTC
How can you reach the unreachable
So high that you are beyond the sky
Subconscious moving to your conscience
Making reality real
Sometimes it's a steal from your memorization
Libations to your membrane
Feeding it to exhaustion
Maybe you will get lost in plant 54
Making you want more till you've reached your limit
Maybe jus one more minute till you get there
Feeling experiences that seem to be so rare
Cases if boxes packing and packing away your cares while you climb to plant 54
Store open for business
Satire feeling
Metaphorical misleadings
Stairs leading all the way to the top of plant 54
Shouting from the top or actually the peak of mount leaf
Feeling like the chief of a tribe
Strive no starving for better
Maybe I can get a letter from my favorite person all the way on planet 54
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC