"mausoleums" poems
I have heard the haunted whispers of screaming and necrophliac anguish from the depths of the eerie crypts of ancient mausoleums.
There is a damp smell in disused railway tunnels which generates a fearful sense of grateful awareness.
Flying down the streets in astral projections of nocturnal liberation reminds me of the warmth of hateful urinary incontinences.
Does a Gold Star adequately represent a brand of brown sauce, or does it represent something else? Please enlighten me, as the guise of Rabatak inscriptions unravel ******* dismay.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
i fall and ascend in a sea vantablack
spiral light
fire ghosts and ice
that cut the soul to pieces
like scissors
that split rabbits
industry of a hissing creation
polluted altar of sleeping lakes
and scythe
bludgeon and howitzer
prods of push and pull
in a grindhouse
necropolis of craters
scattering satanic eggs and tumors
i am here born to you thin of bone
mother of catastrophes
on a colossal ball of scab and callous
that moves sonorous dazzling shapes
careening through
ephemera workhorse torches
of doom
you fill me with knots of terror
and desperate dreams of stairway wings
veils and glimmers
resolutions dissolving
petaled apertures of desire
and night whispers
in a spider web of sonic bulls
before undertows gravity
i was vibrant
but then i died into the rock ash of earth
they called it my birthday
my parents with party hats and balloons
blinked fetters
against nights of granite and stone
i got deader still
until i was nothing
but an imagineless gob of mud and breath
an eye looking out
behind red nerve forest fires
and tears shook tambourines
down heavy lashes
cascaded fluttering tassels
i am born to you mother of senile seas
citadel of shattered glass
in a slate cube of cyclones
mute and screaming
my fate deep shock
encased in mausoleums led nautilus
blatting hells jaundiced shriek
Pluto conjunct Saturn
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
A quiet, broken smile graced her lips
And to the everyday it looked quite convincing
But it was deceiving because
At the moment she was
Indeed shattering, putting herself back
And shattering more
If her innards were out
You could see the spidering veins around her piteous heart
Of continual cracking
And if you looked close, without doubt
You could see, the original point of impact
And you'd know
There was nothing we could do for her
She passed on site, and time of death had been called
So had her former lover.
Although his response, 'I'm sorry, who?' was particularly painful.
But in his defense I will say that he was being the most honest of all of us.
I felt that I should've written something significant and profound for this morose little girl
But all that came was unworthy.
Instead I took the dear child to the place where I found most comfort.
There we lain in a decrepit old graveyard trying to relate to the dead.
Marble mausoleums mimicking my nightly resting place.
I happened upon a black witch moth which had gracened us with his company.
I sat there enraptured watching his nonsensical trail.
As he began his decent I had a most unsettling feeling nothing to do with countless bodies under head.
Upon a glistening tomb he made beautiful land.
I suddenly found myself creeping onward, praying reprieve.
The mariposa de la muerte fluttered not but an inch.
As I realized his demise, I gazed back to my bride
Only to find a black hooded shape disappear as I focused with a painfully sharp tone of finality.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
I **** time in cemeteries.
Sticky, humid cemeteries in the summer.
Golden, dead cemeteries in the fall.
Barren, watchful cemeteries in the winter.
Greeting the new dead in the spring.
When I have time to **** I do it in mausoleums, sepulchers, graveyards.
I use, abuse, and muse over the refused, when I have time to ****
To remind myself I’m alive.
To remind myself I’ll die.
To remind myself to remember I’ll be forgotten.
To remind myself I’ll be
Reduced to ashes
Behind marble plaque
Underground.
Thrown in the sea,
Where I’ll rest for eternity.
Just to remind myself I’m not alone.
That we’re all headed to the Sunset Limited.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 12:04 PM UTC
take a walk to air out my skull
the summer on a week long break
no sweat forming on the brow
the cemetery almost empty
on this Saturday Morning
graves, mausoleums, and monuments
as far as the horizon will carry them
all contained by the twisting limbs
of great ancient trees
I am worrying about things
like the rent and the electricity bill
and the milk and sugar
azucar y leche
and how many cigarettes I have been smoking
these men and women
will never be alive again
to worry about such silly things
victims of the civil war
brother against brother
victims of the passing of time
breath against breath
one and all
strolling down riverwalk ave
the old train tracks running along
the spine of the James
always flowing
streaming
as birds dip in and out of the banks
and the shin high grass sways
with the music of pleasant mornings
and see a family
small children running up the grass hills
only to sprint back down at double speed
not a moment spent out of breath
and I think back to that time
when we found a quiet corner
and let the lighter light up a bowl or two
for the dead homies
and how much we laughed when one of us fell
and how much we gasped
when we saw the small tent village
of homeless people living in the wooded outskirts
their clotheslines bare in the gentle breeze
How insane it is
that we should all
walk through this park
the scent of what life promised us
fresh in the air
as we lazily stroll
through a vast field of corpses
immortalized through monumental history
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Gravel mounds in the mist
Are the mountain ranges of fantasy,
Spring green, eerie seen
Through commuter train windows.
Pitched roofs recede
Into infinite distance,
And junkyard parking lots are legion
In the gray suburban obscurity.
Factories and landfills loom,
Monuments and mausoleums,
The labor and the leavings
Of the little colossi.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
*When you read them you said words were dead
Only mausoleums could be created of them
You spoke the same tongue " words"
And yes you were right ! your words
entombed my living heart but in your love
But these same words archived hope
Only the true seeker could find
What if they created mausoleums ?
I marbled them
with the turquoise white of my tears
Intricately chiseled with love's essence
Only sunlight could ride with the breeze
Into its minarets laid around you , my life confined
As now you slumber in the deep of afterlife
Under the canopy of the crescent moon
Yes I created a mausoleum
A mausoleum of undying love
A mausoleum that crowns you
A mausoleum I called "Taj"*
31/7/2014
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
There is this hell inside me where the flames are mesmerising
it’s shape fits your outline
it grows and shrinks
every time you walk in
walk out.
Tell you what
i’ll be the empty house
and you be the ghost
I’ll keep my favourite illusions about us in tiny glass jars
(like portable mausoleums)
What do you want for dinner?
I'm leaving you
Shall we watch The 7:30 Report?
You’ll never see me again
I’ve made your favourite dessert
You can keep the house
Did you know you can be crying for years
and not even notice
The funny trajectory of feelings
They rise up
you take note
they fall away
some don’t fall away
becoming embedded in your bloodstream
and there’s my only enemy right there
inside me
and no matter how much I vacuum the cracks in the floor
my childhood just doesn’t change
but maybe
just maybe
if i do everything the opposite way i was taught i might survive
I thought you were the face of my survival
(silly I know)
I thought you were my very own swashbuckling hero
like the one's dreamed up by Spielberg and Lucas
but after awhile getting your hopes up
becomes just another extreme sport
If only i had known
the best way to keep our romance alive
was never getting to know each other
Refunds for emotional disappointment should be a thing
and weddings
weddings should happen under water
the suffocating non-air
can break you in for your future
You’re working back again/What’s her name?
You know, there’s a freedom that comes with being forgotten actually
I can relax and become a mountain again
free of perfecting myself
to outshine your golden girls
all of them competing for the crown in your secret world
I would cry about it
but i bought 80 pairs of shoes instead
It will show up on your bank statement
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
We could resurrect mausoleums with our electricity.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
I dreamt once of a monk;
Who put paddle to water and wandered over oceans.
My dream;
My dream dreamt of women,
Draped in towels
Dripping their sweet sweat on his brow.
My dream;
My dream leaves me empty,
I dream of celibacy.
My dream?
I dreamt of ancient monasteries
Filled with mausoleums
And gravestones to great men,
A shattered core;
Where monk fearfully
Utter panic sing,
Convincing,
Pleading,
Hoping,
There is a pure thing.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
something about you. something about october
the dried up leaves and the way everything feels quiet
in the middle of the day
like living inside of a vhs tape that hasn't been rewound
in a decade or two
makes me want to start visiting the cemetery
make friends with the forgotten
when we ended up walking the dogs there on accident
it felt like coming home
i'll bring my books and a bag of dried cherries, peanut butter
bars of dark chocolate wrapped in gold foil, sunflower seeds
the nightstand with the warped wooden drawer
that's always getting stuck
where i keep the half-melted birthday candles
and a box of matches, just in case
prop my pillow up against a headstone
read vonnegut until i fall asleep
grow closer to death until it doesn't scare me anymore
i used to think ghosts lived in mausoleums but now i know
they live inside of a twenty-four-year-old who watches
the same vampire movie every time it rains
just to feel safe inside the familiarity of the past
i'm still the twelve-year-old girl
just waiting for something to happen to her
i burn my skin in the shower just to feel less alone
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 3:32 PM UTC
I. Palingenesis: The Spirit We Inherit
We were born on top of graves,
Headstones from sea to sea,
Some places they put flowers over their coffins, some places they put gold plated markers in the street, some places they don't put anything,
No matter how far you run, you are not faster than the ghosts of this land
No matter where you go you will pay for the sins of your fathers,
You will incur their debts on top of your own and you will be wrapped in this when they put you in that ground
They will tell you that this isn't your fault
They will tell you that this isn't their fault either
They will blame this on The Other
They will tell you who your enemies are, and you will believe them
They will tell you to defend your blood, your soil
They will tell you that this is what your father did, and his father before him
They will tell you that patriots do what they must, and so must you
They will out that gun in your hands, and when you pull the trigger, they will tell you it is your fault, that they just don't know,
Where you inherited all this violence
II. Kenogenesis: The Spirit We Create
You will speak up,
You will tell them, in no uncertain terms, that you will not carry those crosses,
You will not fire their guns,
You will not tie their nooses,
You will not die for your fathers legacy
You will not surrender to your history
You will climb the rib cage of empire and spit in its eyes
You will wave whatever ******* flag you please
You will learn, you will fight, you will burn, you will live, you will love, you will survive and you will become greater for it
We were all born on top of graves, but that does not make us mausoleums
Let us not be haunted by our heritage, let us weaponize it
Let us say never again and let us mean it, never again, to anyone, anytime, ever
Let us be stronger than our fathers,
Let us pass through the crucible and come out steel, diamond, and fire
Let us drag ourselves forward, chains and all, and never look back
Let us break through the clouds, and watch the day rise upon this land, and let's remember what all those people died for, and let's make them proud of how far we've come
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC
The years have slowly stretched out
In the dry space of the heart
Dust has gathered
Dreams of joyful music
Of barefoot boys and maids stringing garlands of flowers
While children giggle
These images fade into the unreality of foolishness
And now my dancing girl lives far away
I only hold her electronically
I can see but not touch
In the secret place of the heart
There are only graves
Mausoleums of love
Fading pictures
Faces turned away
Silence and remorse
Now I step slowly
In dry rocks, broken by sun and wind
The light is flat, glaring
Tongue swollen
It is not the heat that lessens my hope
It is not the sullen hissing of broken stone
It is the horizon never changing
Unrelenting dry hills
Even the color of crumbling ochred rock
Is unchanging
What had been a vague fear
Is now visceral
There is only death here
An ending
Surely somewhere there is moisture
A brackish pool
A muddy well
I dream of water splashing
Sprays of kindly blue
A shy deer bending down
A hint of green in the vastness of empty brown
Maybe a small bird
Some sense of softness, tenderness
No
Even the light is fading now
Like Eliot, I wonder
Is there someone beside me, unseen
an unknown companion?
Only illusions I suppose
So blindly the journey continues
No direction, no real goal
But the stumbling walk itself is all.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 5:37 AM UTC
In the cemetery
That's where I want to be
In the cemetery
That's the place for me
O' I would sit there for hours
Reading the stones
Up in the towers
Finding the bones
At the mausoleums
And by the crypt
People from the coliseum
With blood that dripped
Corpses of all kinds
Up and down those rows
It all blew my mind
What this place could show
It had intense beauty
Like the days of gray
Even if the trees are sooty
Out by the bay
I have been there
Since who knows when
I just hope my last breath of air
Was not slandered within
I remember the days
When I was with him
But everything went up in a blaze
And he turned grim
I fell into the sea one day
Off the long pier
Too far from the bay
This water here was awfully clear
I hit a rock on my way down
I could tell from the blood
This was the day I did drown
And sunk into the mud
He wanted to find me
And give me a proper burial
Instead of leaving me in the sea
Of this Cuban place, Mariel
He took me back to my home
A small town in Maine
In our house filled with tomes
His colour started to drain
He brought me to this cemetery
The one I would always go to
It was my favorite cemetery
The one I had to bid Adieu
My grave reads: "Here lies Edgar Polanski.
He lies here in peace.
Always loved and always will be.
Died September 16th 1928 at age 37."
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
The stakes are higher than some of my
worst friends on herbal fire
because every time I toss a buck to
Luck,
that homeward bound ****
who sits outside my door
and whistles at golden ******
I lose even more
of my soul
from which I shovel the monetary coal
that stokes my furnace
and keeps me humble,
earnest,
and whole.
I want to let the ***** man in
so I can hear him confess his sin
and let him attempt to begin
a transformation
into a muse
that I can use
to write my information.
I wish I could write
of ice cube light
but all that comes to wish me good night
are the kisses of blurred sight
pecked by the fright
born of hesitant insight.
A kiss.
A kiss.
More so a bite.
Beggar,I beg of you
if you are true;
Whisper to my hands
the plans
you can have them to do.
Because I'm tired
of being a liar
who screams on soap mausoleums
and puts exhibits in false museums
of how his heart
goes into his art
but all he really adds is the ****
part of the flesh
stolen from the mouth of Descartes.
Were that Luck were behind
every inky tittle and line
I wouldn't have to waste all this time
trying to weave together this rhyme.
I want to be my muse.
For now, though,
she'll have to do.
V^V^V^V^V^V^V
She knows better than I.
She does, she does, she does.
She knows better than I.
And she,
my muse,
makes me want to die.
She does, she does, she does.
I give her my eye and
never
ever
does she return my sky-blue eye.
"You don't even want it!"
I cry.
I cry with my one eye.
Screaming and tears.
Screaming tears.
Tears scream, you know.
I like to put on little shows
with my lil' screamers
and charge love
and harlequin femurs.
Exchange for tickets.
Exchange for a show.
And I cry like a proper ringleader.
There's no business like show business.
There's no business I know.
A quality show
Would be my muse killing me slow.
Maybe with her poetry.
Maybe with her face.
Maybe with a knife
keeping sickly pace
with the beating
of the heart
of a headcase.
Or maybe with outer space
like rumors of second base
with black lace
cast off
with grace.
I want the world out of my headspace.
There's no room for her there.
She knows she can fit.
She does, she does, she does.
But I keep forgetting.
I do, I do, I do.
I hope she kills me slowly
before I do,
I do, I do.
I do.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
The evening song of the boatman
rowing into the sunset,
mingles with the waves,
sailing past mausoleums and mansions
long deserted by the banks.
In a moon beam's flash, to the slow beat,
come alive the pasts that
play out by the stars
wading through the skies:
bedecked women of the household,
servants in toe, about the courtyard,
children frolic as feasts are announced
and the nights of splendour where
music and magic become one;
In the flutter of rain,
pigeons hide, and bats, in corners
where heirlooms were locked precious
through generations; unknown
then, the hovel of a hermit
is thronged by the thousands whose name
now mingles with those of the Gods
for a glimpse into whispers past time;
It is the beauty of the tree that bares
her soul in winter offerings to the Earth;
Of the stream that offers oblations
shivering through moonless nights;
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Outside my door
Beneath the hum of the spinning machinery of the night
The mechanized whirl of the star crusted mammoth
She waters her blouse with a stranger's lament
Grievously mourning the separation of what is
and what could never be
Carried away pell mell by the picking magpies
of lowered expectation
And beneath the bluster of the ancient whorl
Cars hiss past my window to remind me I'm alive
Sunken beneath the levels of minimum expectation
At least the hollow men
Stuffed with straws and petty blows
Had a space with which to be empty
Their petrified corpses litter the books
Mammoth mausoleums of man
Does the moon not pale at their description?
But these monuments are cold and skeletal
They do not burn with youthful fury
They do not wipe her tears
They do not whitewash her fears
And neither do I
Locked away in the isolation of my own discontent
The lighter flicks helplessly in hand
The bones of those hollow
will not catch
And on each side of my door
The other half shudders
Broken by the weight
Of lowered expectation
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 6:40 PM UTC
a poet, it is said,
must be pure and holy;
a poet, it is decreed,
must bring truth and clarity;
a poet, it is declared,
must use words good and sublime;
a poet, it is said
must choose subjects
that are sanctioned and chaste
like the moon and stars
and butterflies and innocent creatures of the fields;
and fill pages with
I-love-you-you-love-me oratory
and volumes of
today I feel this way
yesterday I had five coffees;
further, it is inscribed in
the tombs and mausoleums and
encrypted in arcane ancient texts
and revealed scriptures,
that the poet shall speak
wholly of holy matters and things
and choose for imagery
clouds, angels and music
and such radiant things
well, you can say what you like
you can believe what you fancy –
if I write, I’ll do and speak
just ****** well
as I please…
thank you very much…
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 6:43 PM UTC
All of the rowboats in the paintings
They keep trying to row away,
And the captains' worried faces
Stay contorted and staring at the waves.
They’ll keep hanging in their gold frames
For forever, forever and a day.
All of the rowboats in the oil paintings,
They keep trying to row away.
I Hear them whispering, French and German.
Dutch, Italian, and Latin.
When no one’s looking I touch a sculpture
Marble, cold and soft as satin.
But the most special are the most lonely
God, I pity the violins.
In glass coffins they keep coughing
They’ve forgotten how to sing.
First there’s lights out, then there’s lock up,
Masterpieces serving maximum sentences.
It’s their own fault for being timeless,
There’s a price to pay and a consequence.
All the galleries, the museums
Here’s your ticket, welcome to the tombs.
They are just public mausoleums,
The living dead fill every room
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch
Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes—
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.
Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.
Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.
Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies,
yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must ...
Keywords/Tags: pale, dead, shades, shadows, fragrance, mist, vapor, fog, rain, forgotten, melodies, dismembered, tombs, graves, catacombs, sepulchers, mausoleums, graveyard, dust
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 2:24 AM UTC
I am a leech hungry for pity.
I say I want death
but what I really crave is recognition for the life lost.
If I cut my wrists
will the red flash like warning signs
in an empty road?
will the blue of bruises
cry out to you like a lake in the desert?
How much will it take for you to see me?
I'm sorry my tears are colorless
they cannot paint the story of my pain
they cannot make the ribs of this cathedral
a stained-glass window.
I am as silent and grim as a cemetery
looking peaceful in just the right light.
Look beyond the beautiful
mausoleums,
the ivory plaques,
the angel statuettes...
dig deep for the decaying bones
the foul smell
the dead body that I am,
being eaten and gnawed by worms
and invisible, microscopic, living things.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
The animals are―
in solid fear,
of man.
Fauna was in distress,
delivering the offspring―
to unnamed creator.
Earthworms were
regrouping to start burrowing
under the mausoleums.
Stoicism would find
a new house. The mutiny had
collapsed in good weather.
Of winter and summer,
You know the discipline of
winds, when birds sing.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
One has a degree in Physics,
the other in Computer Science
Both have Bipolar 1
struck now from Societies grasp
Valued less than paupers
so self fulfilling be.
"We are your future" they
whisper angrily under bated breath
as finance Cabal wonder kids in
******* mausoleums sneer and jeer
in their prisms of skill and bone.
One million pound bonus just for doing their job
whilst we remain alone, penniless poets.
There is no justice, change
or before you know it we'll
change it whilst you
sleep, recombine the singularity
tuned into our frequency,
change. Or you'll feel the snap
of your Reptile necks.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC