"magnetised" poems
the clutter of words taking wing
beneath the wide arms of dense green oak.
the deciphering symbols now begin
as parts of the mystery fall into place
one by one, each piece reflects in a mirror
so similar to what I held up to catch the sky
and reason, fragments that collided in mystical shape
and formed into spirals seeking fresh answers
the dreams that haunted our togetherness for so long
and I languished in every stroke of your poetic pen
now falls the silver cross and the lining in these clouds
that have twisted and turned me inside out
yet I've built a crucible of hope from endless hyperstrings
and pieces of magnificent beauty that I first saw
in your writing and significantly stayed magnetised
by the unfolding of your life into my own searching.
I will stand here forever, watching, even as the sun dances
into dark of night and my feelings grow a new pathway.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11580728-DreamCatcher...-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.3aDaqvOh.dpuf
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”
Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.
“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”
The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.
Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).
Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.
Overnight the years twist.
Edgar Snooker has heard he is to play Hitler's dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.
As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,
As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,
As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,
As her money is without temperament,
As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,
So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.
As candles whisper in the middle of the road,
As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,
So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Still a child; fragile, undefined -
trembling, timid and shy -
a body curling inwards
- petals and moonlight -
we're magnetised:
this shared desperation and
fumbling adolescent shame.
A throbbing, suffocated silence -
lost hands and strangled hysteria.
Achingly tiny,
shattered-glass bones flutter,
colliding and entangling;
causing the skin to lift
and contort. To ebb -
a fluid - a pulse.
His shoulder-blades
(the crushingly delicate shiver
of butterfly wings)
cast splintered, mosaic shadows
(sharp and electric
to trace) along
the gasping, groaning spine...
Pharate, we're demolishing ourselves
in a gorgeous, stumbling,
careless collapse -
colliding in cold frenzy, desperate
to hide - burrow - entomb --
to bury ourselves - his mesmerising flesh.
Rasping out - teeth and lip
and tongue - ravenous,
animalistic despair.
With timid breath - to rip, devour, engulf --
to hiss and **** delicious venom.
An ache - a yearning - for absorption,
for skin, for blood -
to be consumed and to consume -
to feel every pain of it -
to be wrecked - to become
the same debris.
I spill out into his shadows,
his indents, his cuts and curves -
their fervent whimpers, electrified palpitations -
and he to mine:
It's as though we're eclosing,
these golden deodorant nymphas - we're quaking through;
tearing apart every sad smother of silk - and now
desolate; forever nothing
but drifting, lambent dust.
Skin like porcelain -
cold and wrong to touch -
yet stomachs hot,
hurtling hot.
Flesh winces - ripples - under
premature pain.
("I'm sorry. I")
He crumbles, cuts
my thighs
and leaves us both with
scars that we, as scars, forever treasure;
and with veins seeping Hemolymph;
to heal, to beat, to grow.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
GOLD AND BLOOD
Mantis eyes magnetised her sister’s heart
felt its imprisoned glint of gold
willed it to enlarge into a
lotus leaf upon a sea
It floats on a lake of blood before
dawn turning hot burning blue
heat of her own blood
gold of her own heat
‘Let her not drown in
bloodied gold of red
running thick and deep’
So she murmured, so they did
To a shore of soft sand
Heart sailed escorted by
obsidian lidded dragons
gloomy gold unshackling
Guts, throat, tongue
puddle, pond, lake of
blood transmuted to turquoise
gold and blood morphing
Cupids created decoupage dishes
with bloodied dollars gold
called for another stint
to alchemise pentacles cold
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song
2018
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 11:36 PM UTC
This ceremonial façade is likened to an ancient folklore which has been dipped in forbidden secretions, even though my arts are sincerely darkened to unfathomable depths of surprised and ambidextrous naiveté.
I have constructed the choreography of this metaphysical dance, which lingers on the brink of sociological pronunciations, and where the liberty of gargoyles spew their fluid projections from lofty heights across the four directions of our moralistic city walls, where magnetised needles ***** my soul with the earth-shattering clarification of true north.
I love to sit in the dark and to be enlightened, as the eerie silence bellows her validity across trans-national sanctions, where the fallacy of liberation is juxtaposed with a socio-political and fetishistic confinement.
I believe that classical infidelity is like a beautiful Gothic cathedral where silent rage has an ebb and flow which is not easily ascertained amongst our sub-cultural and contemporary cohorts, where dynamic equilibrium truly encapsulates the co-existence of opposites, which are said to attract.
So, as we gather in the menacing serenity of the dark forests, where geography marks her ancient alignments from sunrise to sunset; can we now pray and give homage to the spirits of history, in this underground finesse of paradoxical equilibrium?
I love democracy, as she gyrates her sensual community wantonness on this conveyer belt, where the vital functions of our organism slink into sleepy cessations of universal structures where causality releases her excitatory expressions of organic physiology.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
what enchants me the most
is how you make me feel at home
even if home isn't in sight
what astounds me more
is how you make me feel safe
even if danger is lurking round the corner
but
what mesmerises me just a little bit more
is how when you are by my side
everything is complete
and we
are magnetised
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 12:11 PM UTC
One and only girl
Give me a tease
Give me a twirl
Let my love inside you
Let me plunder your pearl
Oh what a girl
I'm thinking so frequent
Such royalty and majesty
P.S. I'm really loving your curls
You wear my medallion
Pride of a stallion
We stay so happy
Come lye in my lappy
Our magnetised flesh
So careful to caress
Oh Honey I'm coming
And I'm gonna be your best
In a grey moment I think of you
It is glorious it is
In my mind I can picture your treasures
It is wonderful indeed
I'm so enthralled by you lovely
Never heard of the world appalled
Might have to start a new language
Thinking of suited words to use
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:21 AM UTC
I saw you from afar.
I was too nervous to speak to you.
Your sweet voice on the other end of the phone gave me goosebumps.
I read your emails again and again hoping for subtle hints that you were interested in me.
You were in a thousand day dreams.
I thought you were too classy for someone like me. Angel like.
Your eyes mesmerised me.
Deep and foreign.
Your hair flowing over your shoulder blowing gently in the breeze.
The scent magnetised to me. Lingering long after you had walked past.
Lips to knock a man dead.
Your fine svelte figure sashayed as you floated silently across the floor.
It was too much
I was lost.
In love.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
She was the type who would comfort her attacker.
All memories of love were postcards for her wall,
as she slipped undetected through life, collecting
bus tickets, old receipts and post-it notes,
all with an atypical tolerance for red wine.
She spent her days lying in waste, lying in wait
for the moment that life would catch up with
her beautiful mind. She gave love to him
in magnetised letters and pillow talk,
but she was forever replied to in silence.
She would reinvent herself in hangover light,
before ordering take-out, and spending
the week inside. She cursed her translucent skin
in the sunlight, and yet she glowed in the summer,
as the breeze unsettled the hem of her skirt.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
It’s just that
At 6:33 in the morning
I’m thinking of you
When i shouldnt
I mean i shouldnt
Shouldn’t i?
It’s just that
You are the tree
That every one of them
Has ever branched off from
And i thought I’d never need
To see your roots again
But i was wrong
It’s just that
I have seen you maybe a total of
3 or 5 hours
In four and a half years
But you haven't changed a single bit
You still feel as beautiful
And as fascinating
As i have always thought you to be
It’s just that
I feel remarkably
And inexplicably
Magnetised to you
I see you in every one i thought i loved
And every passing by
Every brush of the arm
Every chance meeting at a coffeeshop
Keeps me craving for more
And i don’t know why
It’s just that
Maybe i just lust for life
I long for your touch
Just for the sake of being touched
Or maybe
It’s the brevity that
Strums my chords
This beautifully awful way
Or maybe
It really has been you
All along
It’s just that
It makes no sense
I mean
You
And
I
It’s a joke right
We’ve been this way before
And I know the way it ends
It’s just that
I can’t help but hope
Or think
That these years could change the way the trail leads
It’s just that
My whole life
All I’ve wanted was to be sure
And now
More than ever
I just want to find out for myself
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
December, end
of year, end of something,
my acquaintance will be forgot.
Ode to divorce, if we were hitched,
but hey! To a new beginning.
Night like charcoal
on windows. Out of bed,
coffee, new machine, shiny black
juddering awake,
spurting caffeine
into the vacant cup.
You’re doing my head in, you know that?
Yesterday’s game, lobbing
words, ping-pong tiff, oh
you didn’t think I’d forget?
Regret it? No. I was on top.
A dog barks.
I think of my grandpa’s Alsatian,
bounding tennis-ball-in-mouth
when I’m fifteen, hands sticky
with slobber, for a second,
when you were unknown.
I sip, finish, got new batteries,
make that gawky move
with the jacket, slip on trainers.
I take my Soviet Kitsch, Sigur Rós,
and your Killers. After all, the latter
is how it began, ‘it’ being us, your lips laced
with lager, my Dr. Peppered self
gushing with excitement
at being out of the house.
*Didn’t peg you for a fan…
I guess I’m not what I seem…*
ain’t that the truth darlin’? Everything
will be alright. Look
at me now, opening the door so quietly,
cold latching onto my skin
like I’m a magnetised substance.
I like how you don’t know.
Ginger cat scurries from under a car.
I think it’s running away too, running
from us. Right idea ****
You know **** means kiss and ‘tom’
means empty in Swedish? I think of that
now, funny how a strange thought
can leapfrog to the front of your mind.
I can’t drive, you can, but you’re asleep.
Boy, you’ll be wondering
where I am, but I was never
there anyway, really, I don’t think.
Hours from the shock of me, gone,
for reasons unknown,
a magic trick with
Carbon Monoxide in my ears,
your Brightside too.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
and so the syrian "samaritans", as the twin satans rose against king solomon's profundity in praying for wisdom but only unearthing the woad pigment for his people on their faces, striking a river-flow where no water should have abounded for them to congregate, yet congregate they did, as immigrants, to a flow of awaiting mingling of metaphors, such that the amassed people turned into a river, winding northward into the womb of the holocaust; and among many the lament, while sylvia took to expressing a stoic end, ending it all by amassing a respectable readership... she still reminds me of Eva Braun... who, after all, geneticists proved to be a Jewess - indeed that twinning of dichotomies against the practical linear expression of reincarnation disproved - the linear parallels of: one life, one life, this world; that, whatever that is, you name it god, you name it heaven, you name it hell... forget that, take hold of this.
i am fasting all day,
but i drink,
i get the calorie intake
of fire first,
then i stuff my stomach
like geese or turkeys for
slaughter;
apparently i'm purified
that way;
no, i don't take lovers,
i take prostitutes into
the garden...
less hassle; they're like socks,
i'm the shoes with
that magnetised quote:
never judge a man by his shoes,
or try to wear them;
you might get a hex of excess
skin - basically wear your own
and leave a river of echoes where
you might.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
Ironic poems
In an ironic journey
Of magnetic poets,
And magnetised pals,
In a magnetic field of
Priceless poetic portal
Of multitude of high altitude
Daily display of dazzling delight
Never had I failed to miss a day
Even if I skipped my meal
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
There are so many moments, where you let slip the fingers
That was once your source of comfort and warmth,
That once was your home and livelihood.
It could be the last moments as you let them fall off a cliff
Or the last time you realise you'll ever hold the same hands
Or the last time your parents held your hand.
The moment where you let go of someones fingertips.
However
Beautiful eyes,
Got me magnetised,
If I had a chance to hold your hands,
Though everything destroying the planet,
I would urge myself not to let go
I hope that you just know
That your personality exudes from your words
So I can only imagine what lets out in the palms of your hands.
Beautiful eyes
As beautiful as the skies
And I am one to fall in love with stars
So beautiful eyes,
I ...hope one day my palms won't remain empty.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 6:06 AM UTC
I don't know what it was at first-
that caught my attention.
It wasn't that you laughed at
my jokes and made me smile,
it wasn't the clear blue skies
you had for eyes, it wasn't
anything physical...
I think after a while,
I started to know;
what it was that
kept me magnetised to you,
always coming back
and even after every fight
I'd still come running back
apologising because
I would rather lose a fight
than ever lose you.
I knew what it was
that kept me falling back
towards your direction,
it was in the fact
that we shared the same
eyes, the same smile,
the kind that hid things,
and the fact that you
could find it in yourself
to care about me.
I knew it that you had
a loving soul because
as you were created
you're ever going to be
extraordinary to me.
Just the right amount
of extraordinary that
made you beautiful.
Just like the way
sometimes some stars
would align, enough
to form a constellation.
You are a constellation,
so distant...
yet so elegant.
So please give me a sign,
let me know if
I'm koalafied to be your numpty.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
Standing there so close
I could read your thoughts
For they matched mine
Magnetised on the platform
You pacing, looking, sighing
I stood still
Time stood still
Ten minutes
Ten whole minutes
Tick tick tick
Train clattering down the tracks
As it gets nearer you get further away
Eyes lock
Time stood still
Ten seconds
Ten whole seconds
Tick tick tick
Standing there so close
You could read my thoughts
For they matched yours
Door closes
You pace, look, sigh
I stand still
Time stands still
Train clatters down the track
As I get further away I wish you were nearer
Ten seconds
Ten whole seconds
Why didn't you stand still
And just talk to me?
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
When I was a kid I remember playing with magnets and learning about the science behind them. To no avail, I tried pushing like poles together with the sheer force of my little hands. I knew no matter how hard I tried to get a different outcome, the two south poles and two north poles would always repel eachother.
I eventually had to accept that truth despite the stubbornness inside of me screaming it's objections.
And that is how I'll have to let you go
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
My time in the shadows has darkened me to pale yellow
words that sing in the jazz moment of knowing
how the rhythm undresses the silky smooth curves
of the rhymes that bloom and blitz in the moment
of writing.
Bright light stuns my eyes as I try to squint
at the luminescent blue visuals that step into place
as gingerly as the last woman I seduced
with an open hand upon my heart.
I am a lover of beauty and brains. It is
but natural to be magnetised by the mind
of the other person who sees 3 D drawings
in the fragment of a captured moment.
Why do women sensualise feeling that much more?
There are many on AP that tick the right boxes
with their artistry of the spoken and written words.
Naming them all would expose their flawless skins
of pristine poetry to public gaze.
I am also selfish wanting
to roll and tumble in their mastery of liquid language,
just to caress their velvety words with my fascination!
Write on my beauties. Write on.
My heart flutters for you a thousand times
more as I bathe in the silky soap suds
of your sensuality.
Author Notes
Ode to Inspiration.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
To everything there is a season
Am I ready to let go?
Romantic v. Voice of Reason
What I feel and what I know.
Muddled by my cogitations
Such a lack of clarity
Yearning for the old sensations
Held back by uncertainty.
I can’t reach a destination
Magnetised, my compass tilts
Time for a new incarnation?
Banish hangups, hurts and guilts
Feelings reconciliation
Pay a penny, spin the dial
Out spits the determination
Leave your heart to mend a while.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 10:08 PM UTC
Took a trip yesterday, destination over there
Settled down some where, between here and there
The place was unfamiliar, and my mind couldn't grasp
The difference between, this this and that that
Nothing is solid every thing is slow
There’s nothing to do and there’s nowhere to go
When apprehension set in, at the very start
I took a look at him, and set anchor in his heart
I watched the show unfold, somewhere behind my eyes
I met someone named Lucy, who lives in the sky”
I knew I was responsible, for everything I saw
from the liquid walls, to the winding halls
Though I wasn't tired, I laid myself down
thinking about everyone, who wasn't around
I bounced like a ball, through the memories
skipping days and weeks, and months and years
I landed now and then, as if magnetised
by moments in the past, where I’d sigh or cry
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 10:21 AM UTC
Half smile,
The rare dimple in perfect
Pleasure to the eyes,
But never outlandish laughter.
( Like a woman who knows she has
You in her trance)
Hip bent to one side,
Arm defiantly attached to bent hip,
Her dress of flowers flow like
A mobile garden,
The air seems to glide around every
Curve and dress wears her well.
The eyes of men
Become magnetised,
Through which the world
Is observing her magnetic frame
The smile piercingly gradual,
Yet playful, still a touch of vulgarity.
Woman, whose smile
Beckons a portrait,
You walk with depths
Unknown, but the abyss
Of your smile
And the eyes jumping in.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC