"metallic" poems
Ecstatic bird songs pound
the hollow vastness of the sky
with metallic clinkings—
beating color up into it
at a far edge,—beating it, beating it
with rising, triumphant ardor,—
stirring it into warmth,
quickening in it a spreading change,—
bursting wildly against it as
dividing the horizon, a heavy sun
lifts himself—is lifted—
bit by bit above the edge
of things,—runs free at last
out into the open—!lumbering
glorified in full release upward—
songs cease.
19.5k
It's dark.
Sounds like a rainstorm and smells like fragrant fire. But the earth underground is thirstier than what sulfur and dead things and various excrements can quench.
And the scent may be a brain tumor,
or even better some drug-induced hallucination;
either way it feels amazing.
I'd just love to slap these stupid feelings
in their pretty faces, I bet that'd also feel
pretty amazing.
a million oscillating fans and still so much heat.
divine metallic miasma .
Is there something pathological about how
I like to see the hurt & desperation & the shock that I cause? Cuz I've been told this type of behavior is 'odd.'
...I don't see it.
I mean,
I do feel remorse out of narcissism
& for my own wants & gains.
It's just a ***** ***** game.
Everyone plays one or the other.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
Metallic-, ionic-, covalent bonds.
Persisting still proving, able to break.
The forces assured, the pressures endured,
the attraction unequal, results left uncured.
Surely there exits an unbreakable bond,
created by a wand from a paranormal pond.
A connection not so rare, sharing DNA in our hair.
A bond assuring trust, selflessness and care.
Not even death, can break a bond that strong
and this may seem unfair, science points to wrong
but this is no illusion, my doubts are less than low
I do not have to prove, what I already know.
Its far beyond a feeling, description left unknown.
This bond is right beside me, never am I alone.
I do not need an idol, I do not need a god.
Impossible to forge a key, it's not that type of lock.
My brother is my hero, my brother is my rock.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
Gemma~: Autres Temps, Autres Vertus~~
A young girl, so innocent, so new,
Cheerful and happy in any place,
Sat alone in her room, beneath the argent glow of the moon
And whispered to the jewels that glittered the sky
“I am beautiful, I am me.”
Now that she's older, the world around her has become colder.
As she sits in her bed, beneath the lunar glare,
Silver turns to red,
While she whispers to her familiar jewels
“Am I beautiful, am I me?”
The moons go by, and her jewels remain ever changeless.
This time she stands on a chair, illuminated by the metallic gleam of the moon she held so dear
With one last breath and one last glance, arms wide open, she whispers
“I want to be beautiful, I want to be you,”
And welcomes death.
The moon continued through its phases, and the stars stayed their course.
He sits alone in her room, in the argent glow of the moon
And whispers to her jewels that glitter the sky
***“To me, you were always beautiful, to me you were always you.
There is no one to blame, but the world who ought to hang her head in shame.”***
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
I can't wait till I'm awake..
Plugged into the wall.
Nothing noted until the shell of the capsule
collapses under the weight of your trembling hands.
No there is no notation for what was said between us, just figure-less voices and a strenuous pain that strained our throats for the fear of nothing being communicated between the exasperated gasps of what was less than incommunicable silence.
Ugly is not a word but a feeling applied with meaning, applied to a certain truth about that metallic taste in my mouth, that tearful pain jostled in my chest and that consuming fear.
I know little of what this ugliness could mean other than it harbors shame in my corners. This shame is not inborn in anyone, but it builds it's presence as a drunken braggart who shouts obscenities and believes he is a prince of highest regard.
His ugliness is in what he slings from his tongue and his criticisms of all who in his mind toil about. But he is simply a angry troll with no heart and delusions of grandeur, frittering away time.. for time stands as an eternal judge and measure.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Life caught a baby eagle:
Injured, alone and named Hope.
Fell from a tree; would have
Ended Hope's days probably.
To bring him home wouldn't be
Entering Hope into the
Chaotic world of men,
Home of addiction to
New coined technology
On making men's work easy?
Life didn't has a choice though;
On Hope's left wing was a
**** as big as her index
Yet to be healed by Psyche next.
In the home, with Life's mother
Night and into the day,
Neighbors in and pushed out,
Over the wing they both worked.
Vigorous task it might be,
A life of a bird depend,
Together they had made
Impossible into
Optimistic victory:
New metallic wing awaits the world.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
They're huddled 'round their periodic lunch tables,
square and socially pyramidal,
and I'm at the bottom.
But they're just fluorine factions,
bullies at heart trying to steal my e-lectricity
with their negativity.
Because I'm light,
Ultra-violet violence to the eyes,
Magnesium burning.
Anti-matter meets matter.
And that catalytic, cataclysmic energy is attractive.
And they see me. They see, see, see,
But I've got too many Cs on this side of my false, metallic personality.
I'd better balance myself
Or I'm not getting a good reaction.
Classic ionic, ironic idiocy.
I've bonded with you,
just compounding the issues.
'Cause you're a complete acetate without a solution:
now all I've got are problems.
Dot Diagrams are dotted lines separating you from me,
because over the years what was a bond
became a partially negative charge
against me.
I was your oxygen, and you were carbon
-ated, bubbly and explosive.
We would Combust.
But now all's left but to see, oh, two
of your new girlfriends flanking your sides,
'cause we've decomposed, split, gone off to better things.
Monatomic monotones lace my speech,
and I'm pining for something to complete this emp-d shell
that is myself.
'Cause I miss what we had.
We had chemistry.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
I breathe in this silence that is not
Silenced,
Air alive with heartbeats and
Clocks ticking too slow,
Eyes meeting over
Sticky plastic tables,
Snapping away like an awkward blind date,
Fingertips drumming impatiently.
Wait.
Calm.
Be patient.
Tick...tock........tick...............tock
I can't, I won't, my son laying
One floor, 3 hallways, 12 rooms away,
But we are relegated to the hospital cafeteria as if my husband and I are naughty schoolchildren,
Interfering.
My red shirt crumples beneath
Nervous fingers,
The same shade as the blood given
To my son, not knowing it contained
Death.
Why can't I fight with my son,
My son,
Shining brightly and boldly as the sun,
Infected with a blood-borne killer we were never warned about.
Hemophilia is a tough diagnosis,
But my careful worrying wasn't enough to save him from a
Diagnosis of ostracism and certain death.
AIDS.
Oh God.
Breathe.
Can't breathe.
Time moves too fast, my son racing towards eternity
Alone.
White sheets and sterile beds rob
My son of all his sunshine,
Lips blue and pale like my husband's jacket,
Nothing but incessant beeping and bustling nurses who can't fix him,
Clock going tick, tock, tick, tock.
I see red.
Red dripping into and out of his arms through silver needles,
How do I know that this is safe,
No one knows if this is safe,
This is our only hope.
Tick..tock.....tick........tock.
White coat of the doctor moving too quickly towards us,
We run.
My heart thumping red and my stomach yellow bile and my eyes leaking blue.
Hospital room not room enough for all my emotions,
All of my tears,
All of my grief,
All his last breaths.
My son.
No longer my sunshine,
Just a pale winter afternoon,
No sun beneath cold sheets of snow.
My son.
Time moves too slow when everyone wears black,
Like molasses dripping from a jar into
Metallic air and earthy graves.
Like ash clouding out the sun.
My son.
No more my sun.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
The gusts of wind rustle through his dark hair as he rides his broomstick
In the search of the golden snitch – In the search of the ferrety golden snitch.
And in his mind whizzes past an image – at lightning speed, very swiftly,
As his expert eyes go after the small shiny metallic ball.
The Nimbus 2000 he once owned has now been replaced with another
In the attempt to make him quicker – In the attempt to make him quicker.
His eyes look like his mother Lily’s – His father James was a Seeker,
This is an analogy of a natural case of heredity in Harry.
The old broomstick Nimbus 2000 he owned was broken into pieces
In his third year at the school of magic – In his third year at Hogwarts.
Dementors attacked him – in the Quidditch pitch during a match,
And he fell several feet below from air before Dumbledore saved him.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
It begins with the ominous clouds that roil and billow over the sky.
Then they darken:
Soft whites...
Seductive greys...
All the way to the purple black that haunts the skies on the cusp of a winter night.
The smell that follows this sinister nebula of vapor hanging over your head is that of life bringing relief.
The smell of dry earth mingling with that of the fresh water above reminds one of summer breezes, freedom and relaxation.
The cool but warm drops of moisture start gently stroking your shoulders and arms.
The strength increases, forcing you to squint as you take in the beautiful composition of nature above.
Soon you're covering your head as the rain pelts down and you race for shelter.
The puddles appearing on the floor disrupted by the matter consistently falling into them.
You peer into the world, completely changed, as you visibility decreases and smile, the metallic twangs to the rain hitting the patio roof fill your ears and soul with its rhythm and music.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
I'm stressed, I'm angry,
They don't understand,
The rage that burns within me,
The fury in my veins.
"It's adolescent thinking,
That rush in your brain,
The twitching of your fingers,
The scorching of your heart."
Yet they don't seem to see,
With their condescending eyes,
That the feelings trapped within me,
Are more than adolescent.
The rage I feel to ****
The need for blood to spill,
The coating of metallic liquid,
Over my pristine knuckles.
To them I'm very simply,
A 'normal adolescent',
And my fury will flee,
When I finally mature.
But I can see it in their eyes,
The suppressed demons that they hide,
Away from the public eye,
From their 'adolescent' years.
So until I'm what they call 'mature',
I'll just have to stay,
Angry, uncontrollable,
And simply adolescent.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
there are bones between my teeth
moonlight glimmering in my eyes
dried blood in my nails, in my hair
my head pounding (thump. thump. thump.)
you know they say blood is thicker than water but that just means blood is more likely to stick in my throat
coughing up family ties one by one
glistening red memories, leaving only a metallic aftertaste
sick nightmare fantasy of ripping open bodies
im the monster in your fairytale stories
lets do a bit of editing, perhaps?
lets shred the whole **** book, perhaps?
lets set fire to the town, perhaps?
im tired of pretending to be your precious child, perfect student, "the innocent one"
i want to paint obscene material in your blood (in the name of art, of course)
@god do you ever feel unreal? are you even real? am i?
no i have to be real, I can feel the blood dripping down my arm, the bones cracking in my spine
im real. im real. im real.
everything hurts!!!!! fuCK i cant wait to rip you all to shreds !!!!!!
T H I S I S N O T A D R E A M
walking on eggshells is far more difficult with digitigrade legs, im not gonna try to be nice anymore
i dont need to be nice anymore
why be nice when you can **** why just **** when you can slaughter?
nobody can stop me from lighting up the post office,
nobody can stop me from gouging out your eyes
im no god but im closer than you
im no angel but you might be soon
close your blinds, lock your doors
big bad wolf is back again
bigger, badder, better wolf
greater, darker, madder wolf
teeth like knives and claws like daggers
six golden eyes staring into your soul
oh right, thats me!
i m i n y o u r h o m e
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
A shallow breath,
A gentle tone,
Sustained,
Ringing out,
Calling the trees,
Whose ears bend to hear,
Subtle harmonies,
Growing,
Calling the hills,
Whose eyes close to hear,
More clearly,
The song,
Calling the earth,
Who stirs the sleeping seeds,
So they too,
Can hear,
The calling chimes,
Asking the world to smile,
As they resonate,
So easily,
And sing their metallic song.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 4:00 AM UTC
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY
The morning found
only blood & feathers.
The fox leaving
only Death
& its presence
& the gossip of the frightened chickens.
My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue
(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .
An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock
crying like a cartoon “cock-a-doodle-do! ”
My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.
“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”
I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a chicken! ”
* * *
All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox
who was clever enough
not to turn up
until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature
she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight
as both it & the fox(shot through the head)
fell dead
at my uncle’s muddied boot.
My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.
His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:
“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”
The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.
I whimpered:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a fox! ”
The countryside
brutal & Biblical
demanding
a life for a life
Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.
Priest-like...
I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.
My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.
That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck
(the chicken’s name was Patricia)
& I declined the clean
white breast
still haunted
by the chicken & the fox’s
death.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
As dark clouds thunder on a grey day,
Resounding across the arid plains,
I hear the loud cries of a bird,
It cuts across the rhythmic drumming of the clouds,
He's quiet for a moment, then I hear him again.
Through the trees I see him,
Royal, an electrifying metallic blue,
A peacock, stunning, strutting,
Fanning his train of feathers,
Eyespots of majesty, stroked with mossy hues.
He dances in a flamboyant display,
In spot light, as lightening flames the sky above,
Nonchalant, a blue crested head turns with pride,
His ornate train, shimmering, beckoning, to and fro,
His moves, a courtship ritual of love.
His iridescent trail woos in style,
A life of its own in its opaline shades
Golden, blue, brown and green,
Colors of the earth, gloriously resplendent,
A gathered spectacle in his plumage.
As drops of rain touch the earth,
He is still high on the wings of romance,
His feet in motion,
His feathers spread for his mate,
Quivering, glimmering a love dance.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
god meets
mystic: the
swing of winter
and lakes frozen
over.
god meets
Judeo-Christian sinner
whose eyes sought
lead along the lake’s
shore.
heavy.
heavy.
god meets sin:
a welding of
metallic vines and
out of tune music.
god meets underwater
Vulcan as he swallows
a laugh. gasoline
tops the lid
of the lake.
god meets the
fire that wicks the surface
until the body bubbles.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
My darling boy,
The real one. The real thing and all.
A figment of my imagination but in my (tiny) self I hold.
You.
There is much awe in my city, my dear, but you are the skyscraper. Much joy in my world, but you are the bubbles, clumsily blown by a three year old. Much wonder in my life, but you are my eyes when fireworks are set off. There is much music, but you sing a different song, of other lives lived, of sisterhood, of soul mates, of brothers, of lovers. Once again, we are.
It had been so long and on your descent, your landing, your smooth slip through Heathrow’s arrival gates (the home of my memory hidden in its ink)
I felt myself climb
Back into you
In the strongest, yet weakest way
Possible
Now you must rest. Go home to your mother and sleep til you wake.
Those days later
I watched you step out of that car
And as if in swift teamwork, my body was broken and healed at once.
I watched you cascade, so graciously, towards the bell ringers.
The people, your people
Your girls – full of anger, heavy wombs and hurricane.
I whispered, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’ and became
Me
You arrived and left without a girl on your arm – because, the truth is, you could never have anyone on your arm
Not even
You
My olive tree
The fruits of my loves labour never lost
A middle aged woman’s warm self among metallic scratches and blips.
A photograph – taken just before
Half of your face
Filling the whole page.
I will write to you
For you
As yours
Daily
And at the end of each I will
Whisper, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’
Thank you
I love you
Scorpio x
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
Sitting past the reeds
upon a willow tree
the kingfisher surveys
his watery larder
With keen polaroid eyes
a victim he spies
and measuring distance
he makes his next move
A flicker in thought
his blue metallic wings
now do go into action
such a beautiful thing
Down from the branches
wings folded back
he darts into the stream
by the banks waters edge
The minnow that was hunting
has now become the hunted
and out of crystal waters
the kingfisher is victorious
Out of the stream
with feathers to preen
after a hearty fill
of minnow and bream
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Banana splits lickedy his spican-and-span throbbing
peninsula clock jar.
The scar from his far faux **** ignited his beating
hexagonal calendar.
Which is used to peruse the jujubees metallic books in the public
libation crazy train station.
His ecstatic adulation exemplifies why diamonds are
a girl gorilla's favorite soap.
His floating cubed boat is on a remote desert
impala growling at the turquoise toilet.
But his spoiled toys are annoyed about the choice between life or
demonstrative sponsored concerts by budweiser.
Woeful razor beaked birds marvel at absurd his Salvador
Daoist Dharma surreal cereal caramel karma flakes.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Saying your name leaves a metallic taste in my mouth and I wonder if it's from biting my tongue to shut myself up or from biting my lip, thinking of you at 1:48 in the morning.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
*if i were made out of iron,
then you are my flame--
melted my barriers and,
molded me
to who i am
today.*
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
was uttered in a
computer generated,
non-demeaning,
gender neutral tone
by the impersonal,
unemotional,
automated,
grocery checkout machine.
"Enter your customer ID now!"
demands the artificial human.
"And... if I don't?"
I query the metallic shell
of what once was
a minimum wage employee.
There was no reply.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
It is cold. Through the days I found myself loathing that object of mechanical functioning, but never looked upon it with disregard. The grip is truly comfortable; the grip and its metallic curves fit my hand and its fingers...just fine. Once again, I summoned it and, without making use of it, I left it there. There, the place where it should never be taken from.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC