"lullabied" poems
Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts.
Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers.
A sweet thing for you!
A growing circle of six-legged empty.
Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton.
Oh, what a dreadful sight!
Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech.
Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones.
Not milky bones with calcium-love..
A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp.
Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes.
Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers.
Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more"
.......To the sun, the moon and the stars?
Every star mocks,
Every beam scoffs
and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes.
A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor.
Oh how we are dusty and unsure!
Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start.
Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people".
The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl.
Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Can't dream a lovely scene
When heart was broken
Light was dim, grass not green
The bolt of grief was open
The lullabied sang
Killed the rainbow
Noah's rain, flooded pain
A desperate tomorrow
Can't paint a flamboyant view
My muse is dead
Lovely rose, heaven knows
Now, I will paint death instead
5-12-2016
9:15 PM
Mysterious_aries
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
Atop her night ‘fore one more broken altar,
The oddity in #309, a special sort of
Pale beholden raccoon junkie’d lids,
Was showering mascara’d mayhem
And naked come two windows down.
Shivered and if only by candlelight –
Just her, from cold to ever’d numb,
Her dog, (a lab and, “Sam,” I think),
Endeavor and smoldering wick
Amidst burnt flesh, timid
Added scent wrought a
Stainless steel’s earlier promise.
Alone, and the winds carried
Whimpers, tearless atop
A mixture – sweat, fear, relief,
And, “you’d once loved me.” She
Looks up, under starless and towards
Two wandering eyes, my own.
So much so, that even my
Beer-tainted tongue could taste,
“It,” – *** cash, and solemn lies;
She knew, I’d taste, I’d waste, come
Her sojourn aimed desperate and pallet.
But I refuse, when she called,
She begged and she gently lullabied,
“Ravage,” as the nails trace spiders,
Seeping, “junk,” and down her leg,
“Come be with me.” Please?
But – the, “Wiser?” I closed my eyes.
The, “Weaker,” took my last swig,
And alone, shuttered my window;
So having dodged her bullet,
I remove my clothes, my ***** socks,
And imagined one wrist’s warmth
Atop her night ‘fore one more broken altar.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
In that room with a hundred woolen cradles.
In that room with a thousand bright candles.
there were so many little ones sleeping tight.
there was Old Queen singing halfway through the night.
she was sitting on a carpet so magically good.
and then Little King came in barefoot.
10 years old voice of kids' leader joined the tune with his thoughts and his breath and his heart.
and they began dancing slowly on that carpet with silent steps, both knowing acapella by hard.
suddenly he fell asleep in Queen's hands by himself lullabied.
and she'd let him go and so down to the carpet he'd slide.
and she left the room silent leaving children and Little King alone.
As the full moon was yet to be lullabied, Old Queen was gone.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
In your rhythmic ocean of warmth
You tug sweetly at the thousand threads
Of red and ochre, sunset blushes
A deep song through shallow veins
Tuning your fragile compass
By a beautifully
Miniature
Heart
One day you will love
Tumbling pirouettes of quiet unawares
To the melody of your mother’s laugh
As the gentle lullabied vines
Cradle your whispered breaths
You hold a perfect thumb
A flawless white shell
To pure pink
Lips
One day you will speak
Suspended in wondrous veil
A delicate radiance of blessing
Weaving light in golden promises
A dulcet requiem for your perfect world
You sing from your beautiful sphere
Scrunched in lovely darkness,
Precious child
Your little
Eyes
Will one day see
The beauty of life.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 2:14 AM UTC
I see blue from a rooftop,
blinded by light and laughter.
an embrace of the sun —
my skin, melting butter.
through the attic window,
weightless curtains flutter…
and I suddenly wonder:
what it feels like to be a bird?
smelling air,
its scent of lavender,
singing the wind's song,
unbottling memories of last summer.
enjoying a rainbow after the thunder,
oh, how I wonder
what it feels like to have wings?
and I fall asleep, lullabied into dreams
by a gentle wind with its tune of a summer breeze.
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 6:58 PM UTC
How holy the night looks, dressed in its crushed velvet gown, folding in all the delicate and beautiful places.
I tuck my grief into bed beside me and as I feel it's cold heat, its head careening onto my shoulder, I wish I could have your thin fingers lapping over my wrist, your delicate and blue beauty settling into the space next to me, left by my own two careless eyes. I want to feel your body curled up beside mine, safe and righteous in its temple of quilts and comforters, safely lullabied by a 10 episode Netflix binge, popcorn strewn on the carpet like exploded snowflakes from when I tried to throw it in your mouth, missing because I shook with butterfly laughter.
I want to take your sadness and whisper it to a memory. I want to kiss the fading and cooling parts of the sun back to life. I want to taste what every word you've ever spoken sounds like, feels like, lips on biography on lips on pearl's surface. I want to hold your heart like the wildly beating wings of a tiny bird. I want to love you so much, so beautifully, so genuinely, so big and wide and lovely as the ocean, so that love is spoken back into existence.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC
I asked my better halves
how they desire to lie,
once their hearts stop beating,
and breath bids a last goodbye.
Whether they want the stars to
sculpt their constellation, or
the wind to whisper their
cacophonic tales.
Whether they want the earth
to devour their cadaver, or
the skies to weep and
wash away their existence.
The guitarist stated he'll despise grief
as his memories are being relived,
of who he was and who he remains,
as his guitar sleeps in the arms of its heir.
And maybe, the perished strings of an old guitar
don't have to be mourned over,
but applauded for the melodies
that once kindled a ripple of delight.
My dearest across the border
wishes to be nestled beside a mosque
to be enwreathed by The Divine
and lullabied by the Azaan.
And maybe, the eternal slumber is a charade,
and the past still echoes
within the mute boughs or
streets alive with familiar voices.
My junior casts an absurd wish —
to be submerged in cocoa's caress
and be tossed to the lesbian zombies,
who hunger, not for flesh, but for a passion, so savage and insatiable.
And hence, I believe, the hilarity will haunt forever,
but so will my adoration for her,
and perhaps, the craved fervour will
find its form in me.
Then, another writer wove it in her own syllables —
she urges to sink beneath the dismissed waves,
flicker among starlight, like undying thoughts.
She wants her bones to dissolve, ink for Gods,
and her heart to rest beneath a willow.
She wishes to slip into silence,
like laughter scattered over dreamy vinyl,
breath scattered over moonlit stars,
and a page torn mid-sentence.
And lastly, if you enquire of me,
I wish my corpse to be a legacy beyond self
and be gifted to time and science.
But if coerced to be cremated,
I wish to reincarnate as a litchi tree.
With my arms extended in a welcoming warmth,
I will embrace the excluded,
my shadow will shelter the weary,
and my fruits will sate the starving.
All of which I was never offered
in the frigidity of my bloodline,
but was abundantly endowed with,
in the refuge of my closest mates.
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 12:06 PM UTC
I am learning to fly every day, every night
I am learning to fly on my own
spreading my wings wanting to catch the sun
With the break of dawn
With its rays being so hot and bright
to be loved…can it blind?
I feel the weight of my feathers cling to the skin
and me clinging to hope like it is a sin
I hope to be always caressed by the sun
Lullabied by the gentle breeze
And during the raging storms
being able to hide in the crown of the trees
My wings are still growing, I am not flying high
While my thoughts are already somewhere in space
In my dreams, I am already far in the sky
Flying high at a fast steady pace
“A delusion?”, you’d ask me; I would say, “life”.
After all, I’m a bird learning to be free
I will think of the failures and downs in the afterlife
But for now, I’m not afraid to fly above the rolling sea.
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 4:47 AM UTC
and of how many howling a times
have i watched the closed lid
patches of bonsai tiger tattoo
in stitches and in wrinkles
the rekindled routes of rivers
and veins... that might take to
the route of heart and molten iron
as sourced...
thus my fright,
that aged begotten by only pride,
and cat in pillow safeguarded
by the stuffing of lullabied sheep
of forked duck feathers
into a volume of bypassed flight,
that huffed and puffed a wheezing of sleep,
sepia too arable, kept the pedigree
of unexplored surrender kept for some concern
for signature; and thereby i too served the tongue,
as a plated palette of forehead
that once scorned acne worthy of constellation
but later make stars an inconvenience
should obstructions be limbed and active
to raise hand and simply orientate with a wave:
so to the incomprehensibility of what defined
poetics rather than simply selling a car,
of what defined poetry and came to be merchant's assertion:
the economy of language never provided its beauty:
and the second economy never lifted a stone
to say it was mountaineering for a zenith of the ever resting
as challenged to be above: for each child nonetheless
in rubric a confirmed multiplier
but hardly a welcome addition that posthumous fame desires.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
i don't know what's
governing this scent,
or what's the exfoilation
of the scent's origin either,
but, baby (that's true americanism),
it's like milk, honey and soap;
and a cat lullabied listening to
ryan adams' debut album.
that's the scent i'm picking up;
i have absolutely no idea regarding
what's actually blooming
to be so aromatic...
but it's milk, honey and soap...
and if i were to be a guarantee enteral:
i wouldn't even care to know...
because... **** me... it's so ****
pleasurable;
i'm sniffing into the air,
protruding nose and all...
like a dog's nose does up
a bitch's genitals.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
I opened the doors to this beautifully built heart. It had all the making of the perfect home. From the love to the affection, it became so pleasing to my soul.
The kitchen all the ingredients to happiness. All the measurements for the different ingredient, laid out on the table just waiting to be served to anyone willing to make something of it.
The bedroom was cushioned safety and warmth. These blankets covered my insecurities and doubts, and the pillow was tailored with a sweet voice, that lullabied me to sleep.
The living room was so full of life, and the couches were laced with fabrics of tender care. Engulfed in the softness of the seats, one was made to believe that perfection was in the moment.
Around the corner came a light giggle. Rays of sunlight blessed the skin of love, and the room echoed the radiance of her being. I thought I had entered perfection, and I was humbled to meet, Perfection.
She sat me down, we had a meal of conversations, digested with light giggles of laughter. Quenched our laughing moments with light smiles, and long stares.
Beauty had beckoned me to compliment perfection. How does one do so? So, I leaned over and held her. She looked at me and smiled. I whispered to her, “You’re everything I’ve hoped for, and more.”
I figured that would be the only fitting line to tell, Perfection. Tell her that her name, was not oversold.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
There’s spirituality in that
Music
“Oats in the water”
Apocalyptic loss (of true love)
Serenade me, Ben Howard.
Lullabied
Tears in my eyes
There’s magic in that
Love...
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 1:55 AM UTC