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"malignance" poems
(There are galaxies pinwheeling all around me and I can’t sleep.) there is a malignance festering within my bones. night has hypnotized me numb. it pulls Lake Michigan’s secrets in. i stare at my cracked wrists. there is mold in the crevices of my mind. i need stardust, to taste the burn of light. the moon pulls blood from my heart, shivers from my skin, a sirens scream from my throat.
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May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
Insomnia
Totalitarian menace refined, tailored pants bleed malignance and fear. What stalks the passage, normally? Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty and tortured fiefdom from the sun invading damp alleyways and musty cement corridors abet you enthroned on that sidewalk stump. I curb, the habit blindly happenstances about yore salty ruins we yodel, indiscriminately.
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Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 2:22 PM UTC
The Hydrant
The bitter drink is that of loneliness Its company, Pure desire. How it destroys a soul, Magnificent malnutrition; magnanimous toward Malignance. A yearn. Unanswered, festering wounds. Crashing thrashing, harassing, Then caressing. Loneliness still sings.
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Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 11:17 PM UTC
Yearn
Matter does not exist The source of all being is consciousness, although The scourge of life revel in selfishness Ever still the cosmic force lies tepid As the malignance grows ever more intrepid Harbingers of inevitable demise They preach Order from Chaos But rather warmonger - masquerading their charades from the sidelines However, if the time paradigm states light will shine triumphantly harmonious to the sound of victory blaring from the Seraphims' trumpets Why are we still waiting?
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Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Invariable Humdinger
A mask of lies disguises my inner thoughts Accompanied by a black veil which conceals my sorrows A cage of snakes hold captive everything I ever bought While ropes of disillusions hold back my tomorrows Encountering materialistic poisons that plague my existence With a side dish of infectious bad habits Offered with a full menu of self-destructive malignance That are stuffed into my boxed head like voting ballots Having a desire for unwanted capitulation Which lead to uncontrollable regrettable decisions But a light guides me on a path to true elation With nervousness overcoming my body like a surgeon making his first incision Darkness becomes light blessed with colorful roses A flame of love has ignited its route like a traveling circus Followed by a wandering mind that creatively composes As life’s symphonic strings are strummed, this writer finds his purpose Jonathan Pizarro Copyright 2011 © January 29, 2011 2:40am
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Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
Traveling Circus
Terrible illness Anxious, irrational fear Putrid malignance Lack of warmth, sterile air Earth nourishes her daughters
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Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 3:44 PM UTC
Phobia
Rhythmically swimming into the deep abyss of this weird world Our weird world Their lies a nebulous of unknown creativity Invisibly bloodying sadly shallow water And until I drown In the shallow salty water I cannot drown the things that make me frown Albeit problems I have, mistakes I've made, grievances I've kept I'll never truly know The life I could live Insecurity is my disease Insecurity is my cure Sanctifying malignance molds me Makes me madly married to anxious uncertainty And what ever happened to simplicity? What ever happened to the world I haven’t known? Waking up to witness a white-washed will and Waking up and wishing I could swim back in time To the salt of the water To the shallow of the brim To the world of untapped love
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Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Shallow Salty Water
The Mask of Evil by Bertolt Brecht loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A Japanese carving hangs on my wall – the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer. Not altogether unsympathetically, I observe its forehead’s bulging veins, noting the tremendous effort such malevolence requires. Keywords/Tags: Bertolt Brecht, German, translation, Holocaust poem, mask, evil, Japanese, carving, demon, totem, forehead, veins, bulging, effort, concentration, focus, malevolence, malice, hatred, enmity, spite, spitefulness, animosity, maliciousness, malignance, venom, spleen, viciousness
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Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 4:49 AM UTC
Bertolt Brecht "The Mask of Evil" translation
How hard can you bite the **** of life That’s the one thing I ask myself Malignance unto Death Rueful vengeance at the depth of apathy The mind trapped inside the body The man sits and waits And watches the party outside the window The love of the women Nothing but flowers plays in the background As the sandy foundation cracks beneath The man sits and waits And watches the party outside the window But he dare not dive through the glass Though he feels the Anguish From fear that he might ruin the party below Crème delish and everything else Right and wrong are illusions of the mind And yet, I cannot abandon them Projected light into the darkness Epson powerlite 1761 W Oxymoronic by nature Paradoxical in practice I am the lord our god Pinhole projection in reverse, we all watch the eclipse of infinite suns And daughters that never really lived But I regress the artist is lost as he learns the skills of the trade and the artist only ever existed in his own mind fuel dried up running on good vibrations past inspirations all distilled like potato ***** with ketchup brewed in a prison toilet but I regress to the moment I was born and I didn’t even know it
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May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Just Words
Awakened by light, and naked in shame Slipping, scion of **** from skin oh slippery and thick Away from sight, with no luster or name In corridors of flesh, pierced by thy kick, whilst in Phantasms do dwell in minds murky swamp Gliding in air, through life’s cosmic sea In queer reflections, of youth’s insipid romp, Ignorant to malady that life harkens to thee. Of the feeble mind, demons slumber In wait for gestures of youthful pride In caves do inhabit, where sperms of hell may ‘bound in number In carnal filth, thy river of life ‘came rot by lies Slow in decay, both despaired in heart and feeble in mind “Come unto me,” he sayeth to thee Leeching from wounds of flesh confined From cradle to corpse, by thine malignance of HE Of young, tender flesh it is time is to feed Mindless in thoughts, how willful thy bleed, By host, Of demonic seed.
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Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
Cradle to Corpse
See the eyes, through jagged trees Humbly calling out to thee And the damp eagle plea Downy arms falling free As breath makes no qualms With the levity of psalm And the soot between palms Lies still in fearful calm Orion’s sprightly pace Shrouds the cratered face As pearls fall without trace Miss the ocean’s embrace Neon ghosts surround The orphaned mobile sounds As empty fertile ground Now bitter and profound Within malignance, the smell of stale night As blue and then amber engulfs the sight
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Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 3:08 PM UTC
Humble Fertile Grounds
Every pink pustule pounds my skin like an artillery bar- rage. Your horde swells with my stress, bubbles up from my rage. Volcano head, a v of violent irritations between my brow. Doctors prescribe petroleum products to ease the water pressure from your oily fracking. Every splotch a rig rising up over the water, and YOU place every dot target practice for pointed looks. No mythical halcyon calms the red waves and YOU, the construction company placing rows of pylon. Risking lifelong scars pounding railroad spikes across the Great Plains, With no grand plan or project to mask my pains With what form you take, it must be the most Awful, vile, loathing, malignance of being, Where you cannot be complacent in your own immutable form, that you must plague others with your adolescent pestilence. But a pestilence of lilies’ dot the starry pond The lovely constellations, have no need for an Andromeda, And have no worries, for my residents are no Cancer, And that hope of divine light shining through such inconsequential motes, also shines through, bathing my face before I sleep, night after night, And I see the stars through my rosy windows, as I lay back in my cot. And where Greek Gods so methodically placed every gentle blót, a cherished love had never not known the halls of my temples.
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Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 9:57 AM UTC
Acne