"locutions" poems
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
like way
think
just look
snow eyes hit
want
know
looked having kids
yard
hard flower movie
crazy screaming wonderful skull
deal
caked bird growing clean
cracked
um
laughed whats-his-face
wash dirt rose
fighting anymore
christmas embracing wishbones
doesn't
girls aren't
they'll
it'll
blue-eyed water-color
won't judas
prom stumbles
snowball reminded sort
snapped screams
crevices cradled
dreaded teenage june-bugs filled fight
held skin
blood red
say
year
****** help
night life left
play
turn
got light
love away home
kiss
hold hands
searching girl
thing laughing
stretch ice man
water gun going
fading
asked
saw pretty legs
bruises
hand
thought coming kind
wish
burn
fingers desperate rock
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Happy days are numerous.
Continue to enjoy the limitless splendid days
until night falls.
Apologies for wrongdoings become comforts
for the poor and inconsolable.
Forever doubt the incongruity of jocular locutions
and reality
in order to truly find the blissful song of life
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
"If you could only hear my genuine feelings within these locutions,
If I was only good at expressing my exact emotions,
Then maybe I wouldn't be giving you these mixed signals
And maybe I wasn't left with the segmented petals."
I wonder how many times the owner tried to find this letter,
I wonder how much effort was made before he gave up
Or did he even find time to look for this? Did he even read this?
I wonder how he felt.
I wanted to tell him, "Don't give up!"
Don't we all show confused emotions?
I wanted to tell the person who wrote the letter, "Take the risk!"
Aren't we all eager to know the after-possibilities?
Yet, I can't.
There are reasons behind every action.
She's perchance too hurt to give her whole soul,
He's perhaps too tired to have another heartache.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 6:15 AM UTC
I kiss the tip of your nose while my leg is thrown over your weary bones. Smiling, knowing that Im the one who gets to see this part of you, falling asleep mumbling your lullaby locutions with I love yous twirled around your tongue.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
While transforming his aesthetic liberty
into narcissism
he gambles with expressions
Turning the locutions of credos into beauty of tenets
trying to find amorous melody of life
he always lost in lushly thoughts
recreating a brazen space for new celestial cities
he is blissfully poetic.
He is a bloke compelled to dream on
Harbouring hope, conceiving the ambition
Delivers the ultimate…
Even at the tragic ******** release
He is still a Poet.
Being Utopian is his
second nature
forgetting
the cultured bites of
trauma in dogmatic ethics
He assuredly tried weaving
a carpet of viaduct
between the actuality and contentment
Yet, every time failed to
realize the power of reality
bouncing him back from his Felicia
After all he is a poet.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.
These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.
Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.
A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!
(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.
The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.
Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
Muteness creates sounds, warning perils
as hyenas shrewdly approach shelters,
expressing needs of thirst and hunger
when lands run dry and fruits perish,
chanting instincts sparked by seasons
eliciting mating overtures inspired,
drawing pictures on cave walls
to indelibly report, leave a legacy
of human exploits, enduring struggles,
nascent cultures and traditions,
storytelling striving to be faithful
to a truth the only known, evolving
to engender words made of letters
placed in devised orders to confess
thoughts and feelings, exchange concepts
and ideas, bring minds closer to reflect
upon the myriad marvels of a world yet
to be discovered. Eclipses. Crafting caravels
designing maps, recording wonders
encountered in search of an end, a limit
where it all began, keeping Captain’s log
fearing the monsters of the unknown,
tornados and typhoons a presage
of death inducing mortals to call
for mercy upon immortal gods,
fantastically explaining what reason is unable
to decipher. Singing songs to raise moral
until bashing locutions begin to bless
far more than slaps and blades, hanging ropes,
lightning and storms, using them to hurt
with intentions turned malicious, ingenious
communicative talents drowning
in oceans of wickedness and shame, leading
man to regret to have ever invented words
in the first place, leaving me with just one
sound of indwelling grief, a sigh, succumbing
tuning back to muteness.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 8:56 PM UTC
The raw, cardinal ichor slipped on her skin like a lone and lifeless river of miseries. She winced as the thorns lacerated extensively, marking a scar of bitter locutions.
Lights flickered, belligerent voices echoed and repetitive cogitations at the same first few minutes. Her dull eyes scanned the room that she barely fancy for the mean time she arrived here.
"Check mate, sweetheart. It's your one-of-a-kind 'unexpected' moment of your life," The walls shuddered like it followed a pattern of that distinctive voice from a vast nowhere.
As the cuts were getting deeper right straight into her veins, she couldn't help but agree with the voice and with all her consciousness that was present at the moment.
"This happens when you failed to do what they believe you should do," The voice continued, touching every part of her wrenched emotions.
The spiral thoughts flowed violently along with her overflowing teardrops across her feeble cheeks. The droplets were fuming hot like a natural acid from her flesh.
"Come, a tea has been served lately, exclusively for our new guest," It once again spoke that made her realize that she always knew it was risky.
It was never an option for the little her back in the 'good old days.' She knew the Devil will come for her first before any deity.
There were no appealing colors for the rest of the dawn. Her very own drained soul attracted Him.
"Either way, I will still be sleeping with roses." With her hoarse voice and a final slit, she let her eyelids shut and swam to the barbed rouge cushions of demise.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC