"mordant" poems
You agree
When you want to shout, curse, and swear
The Almighty....answer this weeping willow
Made of concrete air
Of unfeeling movement
You cower behinds browned bodies, montezuma minds, and your license
Power to go as you please, be as you please, please help me to see
The inner child trapped in mordant cornerstones, and sitting on your own weight
To grasp the folly by the throat and twist him into existance
Not so much absolution
In agreement with other fancies
Prayers unanswered
Dwelling on ginger hands and knees
In *********** when his course has never enter into being....real
Or really close
His path to plunge thick into purple passionate trance
His path askew from my own
Though a followed trendy line
A drink
When it makes your journey into trees, and speed, and gluttony
A laugh
When scorned mouth spewed and sput into russet wounds already *****
A smoke
When it clogs your memory into patchwork and quilted thoughts unwoven
Youre unspoken!
You agree?
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
It is nothing,
a mordant of the soul,
an elixir, a panacea, a placebo
for my lesions, there in the thistle, grows
our drastic garden of red posies and hyacinths,
such little things, on the verge,
lilting as the decorum begins to bobble
and slump sideways, and murmur,
on Mondays I can swallow the octave
of your absence, tendrils and all,
red quince limbs parting from the deluge
and in its wake, the wreckage
of black pumpkins and purple corn, hanging
pendulum at our door,
the Autumn lights summon a lavish song to harvest,
thirty seven colours in the brocade you gift me,
tangled and heavy the years upon my bones
begin to spur and flower
into cunning disruptions,
and stratify upon my body like rinds of ricepaper,
vellum for another wish
in the complacent burial of mango flesh,
listen,
as my song liquefies,
drowns you, inundates
each alveoli, and our love
in the swallowing gush, perched,
begins to shudder,
devoured by its symmetry,
stem cells all akimbo
in the shallow pitch of days
bound in a nostrum of wine and liquorice
it is nothing, really,
a mordant for the soul, a tulle filament
twitching in a raincoat of lightning....
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
This is the last time I write about ships; the mighty seafarer, clasping in the deep. The last time the esoteric tides capriciously change their erratic minds, left torn between rousing up to fight and solemnly crawling into the shapeless night. I’ll haul, I’ll haul. Outward bound, I’ll haul away from the safety of the buoy, through a thousand spiralling knots, batten aground and set anchor upon the recondite bay. I’ll avast the journeys where the compass takes an unprompted turn, where celestial proves consort to nautical woes, awoke awash amidst the darkened shallows.
This is the last time I go back and fill vast depths, bearing right, then left, across the beating breadth. This is the last ring of brash audacity resonating in chime with the gull’s hooded pride, the last of the salt and sway commandeering the longitude of each tumultuous ride. I’ll roll, I’ll roll. Hanging on behind, I’ll roll with the salted souls of Nelson and Hook as they furl and collide, hand over fist, drawing the curtains from their chariot’s majestic height. I’ll gybe and set back to sail, quarrel with the rushing sands, and grace every fractured notion that tooth and nail can siege the devil’s rest and forge currents capable of hustling both vessel and man.
This is the last of the gallant endeavours, set adrift from buccaneer’s voyage to a solitary pulse at the end of storm’s tether. This is the last stern embrace of Poseidon’s harrowing howls, the last of the rapturous applause mordant as it rises and swirls, the last time I wrestle away from his scaly hold. This is the last time I change tack and set course into the path of the sound, where finally, the tides settled
I’ll release control of the helm.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords
Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards
Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise
Of the tit-less toys
The dick-less boys
Enraptured in the music
The anthem
Of invidious phantoms
My eyes hurt inside and
I want to pull them out and
Scrape out the gunk and rust
that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance
so I can cry
for the first time in years…
Wrapping my hands around his slender torso
Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so
Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges
To bite what emerges
And my mouth purges
The obelisk from underneath
The iron-pierced jester
The voracious molester
My hand tightens as I grip
his throat tighter and
I want to squeeze until his eyes pop
from his sockets and
laugh until I puke against the walls,
watching the ****** fluids mix
like an execrable marinara sauce…
I turned thirty while still being sixteen
The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams
But none of mine, none that I can recall
Many years have passed since I took the oral fall
Where no one saw
Intransigent need to live
For the snake in my veins hungered for more
So many had their way
until I was limp and sore.
Defamatory fingers of mire and strife
Probing and stretching
My insides
And devilishly comforting
With limpid ambrosia
That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing
And fruit
Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over
Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions
That fracture, crack, morph, distort
Emphasize, marginalize
Rationalize, desensitize
Acts of *********** evasion, moral drainage;
Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings;
Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes,
Love, lust, infatuation
Adoration
Boys, girls, women, men,
Angels, demons, monsters, humans
Creators, gods, titans, divas
All extended and limited from the minds that worship
Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify
While humans eat more, love more, **** more
Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans
We ponder and cherish
Nevermore, for me
Ever lore, for all
Crows surround
And chaos found.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Snow began in mordant gray dusk,
a silent sprinkle of crystal light twinkle,
attaché charm to the simply ordinary.
Purple skies drew black as dreary fought back
to obscure winter’s mask of ceramic magique.
Yellow sodium campus lights slow ignite to golden
halo bright, their intense, saintly glows casting rivers
of shadow and a golden glisten to the snowflakes that fall
twisting, in silence, in grace, to present winter's face.
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 7:17 AM UTC
Thirteen thousand strides progress
Blind leathern tread with gritted teeth
Stride hard rough bracken heather strive
Incipient thought embrace the scarp
Bent shoulder strain web strap entrench
Sharp body lean oppose the wind
Slow pitch forward cold lash rain
Pause..Shrug pack .. Lurch on again
Rough rock scrape pass
Sharp edge hand scrape
Each tread ascend dull lactic ache
Stone eyes cast up
Embrace dark peak
Surge on .. Dig in..
Embrace the pain
Aggressive stance.. find strength begin
Engage the enemy entrenched within
With comrades in adversity
Side glance reveal
Grey brother tight
Mordant ploughshare gleaming bright
United thought strong purpose right
Grim grimace glower grinding on
Helping hand support and share
Exchang-ed glances sing the pain
Relentless climb advance distain
Strong ******* stride bogged into mire
Grappling cragfast handclasp dire
Entropic spirit brief despair
Revelatory cause unswayed
Each cloistered personal crusade
Burst upwards into sunlight flame
And stand with vision intertwined
Each grim companion lasting friend
Eyes meet brief recognition shout
We know what it’s all about
These clasping minds
Empath embrace
Profound cognitive self aware
To follow where few others dare
These comrades in adversity
Oct 30, 2009
Oct 30, 2009 at 7:24 AM UTC
*Lavished; I endow many creatures
Trenchant and keen they denude as weepers
As we are harsh while we wangle
Deviser’s enriched are all riotous tamers
Crowns en-dowering among the fittest
Bounteous of all wades in telluric mist
Unscathed by deft spry
Admitting your mordant’s are never lies*
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
mine own psalm musings
*living between two broad, sea-emptying rivers,
a Majesty’s sentries to mark the differentiation~
division tween divine and a moderate human’s
moderating steps, as his stride shortens as the y/tears
lengthen, and it is accepted as an inevitable musky must,
no matter how the sweet spring day refreshes, the newly
planted trumpeting shards of bright yellows daffodils
pinch his yellowing eyes, few notice the tiny tears of
discrepancies of an annualized emboldening, a grand
heavenly rebirth and a slow man’s body self~editing,
shedding of a life’s~ending~of~story psalm musings*
*the man looks for the terrible swift sword, but its
failure to grace us with an appearance, is but a
modest disappointment, for a deferred delay is but
a causation to eke out a few mordant, pungent, caustic
reminders of all that is yet to be, to be accomplished,
though the smirking lips of the necessity of yet, one
more unloved poem extant, tilting the Earth’s axis
benevolently toward the open palms of his beneficiaries who*,
you,
*are among them numbered, is but, a green shoot in a city’s
hopeful earth planted, by summer, will shed seeds to come
thy way, as an evocation, a good consternation, a joyous
provocation, an asking kingly~gentle, a royal polite inquiry,
would you care to add a a verse to this eternal verse?
before time shreds it too into a yellowed crumpling,
and to the earth it is returned, for the mine of this
psalms is only generic, genetic, and what is mine is well,*
and truly yours too.
nml
<>
March 31, 2024
NYC
9:16am
Sunday Mourning Service
Mar 31, 2024
Mar 31, 2024 at 9:25 AM UTC
Tip toe in a mordant night
having slipped on an Amaryllis's mantle piece
There's a compliment
buried in there somewhere !
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
She was
not old enough
to have graduated
high school,
nor aware enough to
notice
how many eyes were on her,
sympathetic or
disdainful or
hungry,
as she struggled to push a cart full of
pull-ups
and cleaning supplies
in a cart with a broken wheel
through the warm and somniferous glow
of ill-maintained streetlights,
those obelisks of granite.
Don't call it
pity,
but
something
stirred my gut,
and burned my eyes,
as she trudged past me,
pushing a cartload of motherhood,
trailing a warm autumn breeze,
an aromatic telegram;
lilac and lavender,
a diffident bouquet,
accented by spritely vanilla,
withering before bleach-fumes
and mordant disinfectant.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
I walk the path alone. Though I am never without company. For the wind and trees sing lullabies; lulling me into a sleepwalk-stupor.
The rain caresses my face like a kind lover. Making everything seem...
But the way is dark and I regret to realise that I cannot see beyond the skeletal frames of those dark boughs. Oh how they whistle mercies unto me, my sweetly singing entourage of thornéd ghouls.
Come, oh stifling Death. You whose omnipresence disturbs my skin and forces it to crawl deeper into the shadows.
Leave me, oh pain. You who I alone have elected my captor. Do not bind me with your mordant roots. Roots nourishing my doubt and uncertainty, indeed utter disbelief in that supposed truth - salvation.
"God save me, guide my steps." I cry aloud this pathetic plea, and then wind answers me; that immaterial half, so quiet - whispers:
"There is no God where you are".
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
The taking of Roses
their ovaries lesioned,
stamen's blanched
Is hubris now mordant ?
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
She woke up sick.
Her wooden limbs drenched with bound torment.
Her eyes merely mirrors of dubiety, marked by soft insecurity encased.
Her skin now bleached.
Her mind framed by Cassiopeia.
Contrails of vanity laced with discontent on her skin
An evanescence of admirers taunts her,
Yet only if her veil is worn too thin.
She knows.
Only an ethereal countenance will please them.
Obsession linked by 4 shattering chains,
5 imaginary bonds.
Unbeknownst to her, imaginary until she
Boasts of her infatuation.
Her lips are thin.
Then her bones sag heavy
Still sat on her mordant throne.
She is once again asleep.
Appeased by dreamy seas
littered with artificial palm leaves.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
The hibiscus is dying
bilked to the hungry maw
of a desert kobold.
Listen to the knell of loss;
screeing of mouse in crushing jaw,
tiny sparrow philistined to a
mammonism of white-
seizing cold and jet trails.
Desert nights mordant,
aestival qualms hurry to
obliterate green orange pink red -
promises of what this dry rock soil
longs for prays for dies for.
Greedy dust -
I suffer no greater blow
than this dead blossom.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
Black crow take us life and limb
Take us, take our heart, soul, and sin
And into my tender auricle skreigh your mordant dirge;
Consume the life that from these corpses you did purge.
I prithee, abolish this torment that I carry;
Take from this hell to darkness dreary.
For I am no sun nor soil nor seed
And from this heart I shall bleed.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
An elegy echoes from a high place, toward ardent souls parading below.
Cascading sculptures are carried by failing effervescence…
Masses are laid anxious; by irrational passion to venerate the superior.
A culture unchallenged is tolerated in its precedence to death and questionable redemption.
Here the tradition is exposited:
It is said that by the touch of HIS ornament, that of his imitated form, will provide the requester of their plea.
In light of HIS agony and validated glory this belief was prescribed.
So it is that souls are driven.
HIS arms gilded, HIS face adorned.
But by a mad riot for this achievement we find no acuity for complacence.
A tremendous depth of perdition is much predestined.
Harsh and vital consequences cannot be halted in its continuance.
Inevitable fury fall with tears on feet wounded; screams of worship increase amongst hopeful delusions.
Blood remains as these intrepid helots pass.
Marching forward with their thinking misaligned and unreliable, debris of retreat no longer exists.
A disserted option must be initiated to avert disruptiveness and voluminous loss.
A journey most unhurried...
A guise of religiosity quite mordant …
Each breath constrained and succumbing, each fretting step prized.
Fortunate are the survivors, let prayers fill the dead.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Who is special ?
I only see gustier, cobweb and coil.
My slide film captures the hues of Autumn perfectly.
Mordant is an unfeeling word,
Sometimes I think a November song is moving
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
Irony often oozes the blood stain
That history will use to paint
An honest portrait of erstwhile deeds
Or to turn some altered soul to saint
Few are those that exist within the mist
Who loom larger than the shadow portrays
And seldom does a shadow exist undiminished
By the dreariest of all darkest days
So when seeking blood in passionate resolve
There comes a mordant aberration of unheralded stature
Rising to fly above mortal attributes into unremitted immortality
By assiduous conviction born of monstrous evil of unparalleled scale
Born among the Carpathian mountains
From the ancient and mysterious Transylvanian forests
One who seeks blood for righteous alliterations
Not for glory but for the saving grace
A quest to alleviate all alien allagory alligned along the meandering memories of non-mordant minded men
No imagery conjured by Bram Stoker thru Van Helsing
Encompasses the unmitigated reality seen
The lifelong - still beating strong - near century long shadow of the denizen of our brightest outlook
The creation of circumstance as much as man ( unkind ) made
Maybe unheralded by too many
For such a knave am I so sorely cursed now...
With shame
I ...who have always strived
to drape myself
in the raiment of the eternal optimist
Now pay overdue homage to the true and absolute optimist
BEN FERENCZ.... Is his name
Seek out his story now ..
.while he still lives
Reach back ..
Into those dark, dreary days
To share what history gives
and you will see what he means
when he say's
" I'm Right. "
For I truly know that he is!
Keith w. Fletcher
Humbled by the humanity exhibited.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
The mountain piercing through the cloud
warm volcanic rock
quietly sleeping in it's shroud
this mordant hidden clock
Dormant and alone
she clutches to the centre
inhabitants understand her goal
she is no longer their tormenter
Rugged and timeless the mount appears
exuding a natural calm
serene are the sweet tears
as if she's reading psalms
From my silvery bird I see her
beckoning me from the skies
her message is very clear
never telling any lies
The landmark I have come to love
promising many leisures
the people, the life, I see above
exulting many treasures
Landing I know I am home
reunited with mount Tiede
never leaving her alone
her tentacles always find me
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
Piercing through fluffy cloud
a warm volcanic rock
quietly sleeping in it's shroud
a mordant hidden clock
Dormant and alone it sleeps
inhabitants believe it's vow
promising not to leak
his secret lava pow
Like a lover who's been forsaken
patiently holds his burn
his heart remains unbroken
knowing I will return
From my silvery bird I see him
beckoning from the skies
the message is very clear
forgiving all goodbyes
His magnificence astounds
never failing to avail
like royalty it crowns
on a grandiose scale
Landing I know I'm home
reunited with mount Teide
never leaving me alone
it's malevolence always finds me
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
nothing but age.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip
she'd respond with such a caustic delight
corrosive was its thorniness of quip
on the pointy end being put to conic flight
an outpouring of stinging did rain free
she'd respond with such a caustic delight
never not thinking of the spurring's tee
compelled by a so driven tong's tine
an outpouring of stinging did rain free
*yet the rejoinder was not very **** fine*
applying her barbing tool time after time
compelled by a so driven tong's tine
browsers saw the regularity of crime
sticking in too much abrasive acid
applying her barbing tool time after time
the mordant seasoning far from placid
sticking in too much abrasive acid
at the urgings of the needle's keen tip
corrosive was its thorniness of quip
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC