"milken" poems
Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body’s balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul, like a white palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
And there I’ll kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink my eternal fill
On every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after it will ne’er thirst more;
And by the happy blissful way
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have shook off their gowns of clay,
And go apparelled fresh like me.
I’ll bring them first
To slake their thirst,
And then to taste those nectar suckets,
At the clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are fill’d with immortality,
Then the holy paths we’ll travel,
Strew’d with rubies thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearl bowers.
From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,
No cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king’s attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
When the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins and sinful fury,
‘Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder,
Thou movest salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
3.7k
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage;
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body’s balmer;
No other balm will there be given:
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.
2.9k
Four fairies were dancing
in the sea of summer's night
by a seabed of roses
and jasmines of delight
I, nonchalant
was gazing at the waves
when the westerly wind
brought me a whiff of her scent
a castle of emerald green
with angels at its gates
its courtyard with daisies
swaying in the wind
I, in my dream
was floating along
when I saw her in the moonlight
lost in my song
the fairies then led me
to her castle in the sea
lit in a haze
by moon's milken rays
I saw her by the pond
with geese splashing around
and a swarm of darting bees
feasting on fragrant white lilies
Lest this melody's green fade
in autumn's yellow glare
Lest my dream wither
in winter's barren despair
The fairies who blessed me
my soul's last prayer;
‘To the distant horizon, these verses fly
forever live, beyond the deep blue sky’
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
As hands twist, stumbling through doors locked made of
wood pulp and ink and the light underneath seems to
illuminate the sleep in our eyes, it reveals too the cracks in
the corners, the silver slithers and the rust.
To dart across country remains the aim but now many an
Inn will beckon with its burning hearth each more
welcoming than the last. The food more exotic, the crowd
merrier.
Crackling azure wraps and warps, and their eyes glow
with milken dullness. Bereft of colour this solemn matter
thirsts and hungers to consume, to gorge, to shine
postcards of brightly spotted watercolours.
No longer can we trace a finger down the side of a tree, to
remain locked in a single room melting wax and judging
hats.
The wood swung and thus the rope, born 200 years too
late, when was the last time we heard wanderlust not for
the road? The jailer has recaptured us not with wooden
sigils but copper rods and numbers. A primordial beast
slain not by magical tome but by black powder. The
renaissance is over.
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 11:25 AM UTC
i'm sitting i can hear the ocean way out over the moon hangs deftly round in all the fitness of chaste and cool darkness my hands are at my waist i'm sure they are and where are my hands i wonder at the split milken and tenderly dripping sea it whispers my heart is in it deeper than a seagirl their ******* are like cherries popping sweetly with just a crisp flens if pinkness at their tips at their **** i'm feckless staring harder than and harder then a star leaps wholly the blouse of night one unsharp button of her quickly tousled hem i'm tearing to by bit by into her tear and a boy is sitting on his door step he looks thinking one day he will make a boy in a girl spilling her full of him
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
Half a milken bowl
stuck on the wall:
sporting a contraption at its head
all silver, this touch-cold cast,
spouting out a colourless stream.
Sound of an outpouring,
the song of life.
parched desert mirage.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
VII. mitosis
i...
i love him
and i will pay with fire and brimstone
maybe i’ll realize
that the plot arc of my life
doesn’t really make any sense anymore
that i don’t know where i’m going
(i never really did)
and i’m falling i’m ******* falling
the potter's wheel lays in disuse
the clay has cracked
much like ourselves
crazed in the heat of our crucible
the teacups are but shards
and no golden lacquer remains
to mend, to smooth sharp edges
we cherish things until
we can replace them
"fragile, handle with care"
i didn’t test in an inconspicuous spot
i didn’t reset to factory default
i didn’t come assembled
but i didn’t come broken either
we were dealt the cards before
we even knew we were players
and i cry for innocence had,
and innocence lost
innocence misplaced,
and innocence taken
my nightmares lathered
in sterile surgeon cyan
after all, we lobotomized machines
could never feel
what pleasures lie,
in those frosty windowed wards!
arched backs, bucked hips
gossamer cauls of flesh unwillingly broken
bulimic hearts, skinny love
i need not drink but the viscous
milken nectar of our lust
what pleasure, achilles!
what pleasure?
what pleasure is there in
the supplication of sutured flesh?
iphigenia, astynome...briseis—
flesh blemished, removed, replaced
housing haunted souls
heracles, phaethon, oedipus, icarus...
are we too consigned to eternal song,
that bitter deathless death,
like our tragic forbearers?
our glory, our hamartia
lies only in our love, philtatos
when wisdom brings no profit
to be wise is to suffer
the proud will be humbled
and the humble will be exalted
quell your arrogance
mitotic spindle
my name means glory to the father
and i am the prodigal son
all is equal in the chaotic omniscience
of mitosis, of death, of entropy, of war
we? we are indivisible.
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC