"locales" poems - Hello Poetry

The devil's speech say they: Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry. Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam. That charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. In the coughing desert Not a thing dares roam Neither wind nor creature And neither stick nor stone. But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek - The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying "Tell me, thou innocent, Why feel you special and best? For when all is done I take you And return you to my nest; Your world is bright and happy Full of high spirits and song, Though soon you too shall step aboard And join my faceless throng." Hot saliva on the heaving engines: Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched. Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth! From that charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. That dark train cries out and all around A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog- Bleak and yellow it obscures the land Seeping out insidious in strange locales all: The old lonely fisherman Sleeping on his wharf, The frustrated hawker's Windblown barefaced booth, Silent streets crying for attention, Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye. That solemn train cries out and all around Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog Calling all to upright attention and fear. Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window Slowly closing cold dread claws- Naked numbness dumb as ice- Cold dread claws upon thy waist. And you, You poor old thing, Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones, You never had any chance! You were only human. You were only human, you poor old thing. Barreling on with brimstone slang: Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub! Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet That charred old shell so terse, Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse, Is all that gives meaning to our every gain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.

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Oct 4, 2011

Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC

alexander-klein

The Funeral Train

The devil's speech say they: Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry. Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam. That charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. In the coughing desert Not a thing dares roam Neither wind nor creature And neither stick nor stone. But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek - The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying "Tell me, thou innocent, Why feel you special and best? For when all is done I take you And return you to my nest; Your world is bright and happy Full of high spirits and song, Though soon you too shall step aboard And join my faceless throng." Hot saliva on the heaving engines: Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched. Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth! From that charred old shell so terse, Black as sadness and dead as a hearse, Darling to death as he brings on the rain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train. That dark train cries out and all around A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog- Bleak and yellow it obscures the land Seeping out insidious in strange locales all: The old lonely fisherman Sleeping on his wharf, The frustrated hawker's Windblown barefaced booth, Silent streets crying for attention, Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye. That solemn train cries out and all around Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog Calling all to upright attention and fear. Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window Slowly closing cold dread claws- Naked numbness dumb as ice- Cold dread claws upon thy waist. And you, You poor old thing, Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones, You never had any chance! You were only human. You were only human, you poor old thing. Barreling on with brimstone slang: Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub! Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet That charred old shell so terse, Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse, Is all that gives meaning to our every gain: The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.