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One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Connor Aug 2018
Pleasing each other in the perfect
black night
(wretched forest)

Hands gripped tight against your waist,
on my knees, the dirt below digs into my skin
which is okay
We can hardly be heard midst the lively pandemonium
surrounding our loveliness

like a Luciferean Prima Donna
in silk /
walk on flowers of both Hemispheres
telling me how much you adore me & you

As equals in our posture-possession
unable to stand straight/shrouded by holy creamy
doves closing-in
muffling our mutual shrieks (as to be private and without gathering too much a crowd)

O Autumn Calypso
keeper of the scales, of the riddle
& the promise simultaneous -
- I am your victim and your master, trafficking our fragility
into a glorious Unknown, shade & essence of leaves wavers in the quieting hour,
seduced - transfixed & ravished in a wondrous spectacle
with Enchanter's nightshade laurel endowed on high

****, close and
hot - unrehearsed arias told by tongues  -
while we seep further in a hallowed guise/harp misplaced -
excommunicated from the Stead we traversed
before on ideal grounds – too late to remember or
repent – dabbling in magic with our double identity - now one insoluble drapery of illuminations
being shepherded into a ferocious
intoxication of its own fluid magnificence – a Narcissus gazing back, decaying with vehemence

     Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung above his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.

     Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,
No further than to where his feet had stray'd,
And slept there since.  Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;
While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.

     It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;
But there came one, who with a kindred hand
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
She was a Goddess of the infant world;
By her in stature the tall Amazon
Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck;
Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.
Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx,
Pedestal'd haply in a palace court,
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore.
But oh! how unlike marble was that face:
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain:
The other upon Saturn's bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenor and deep ***** tone:
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in these like accents; O how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods!
"Saturn, look up!---though wherefore, poor old King?
I have no comfort for thee, no not one:
I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou?'
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God;
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command,
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands
Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
O aching time! O moments big as years!
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth,
And press it so upon our weary griefs
That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
Saturn, sleep on:---O thoughtless, why did I
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep."

     As when, upon a tranced summer-night,
Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
Save from one gradual solitary gust
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
As if the ebbing air had but one wave;
So came these words and went; the while in tears
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground,
Just where her fallen hair might be outspread
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet.
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed
Her silver seasons four upon the night,
And still these two were postured motionless,
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern;
The frozen God still couchant on the earth,
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet:
Until at length old Saturn lifted up
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone,
And all the gloom and sorrow ofthe place,
And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then spake,
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady:
"O tender spouse of gold Hyperion,
Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face;
Look up, and let me see our doom in it;
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape
Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice
Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling brow,
Naked and bare of its great diadem,
Peers like the front of Saturn? Who had power
To make me desolate? Whence came the strength?
How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth,
While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp?
But it is so; and I am smother'd up,
And buried from all godlike exercise
Of influence benign on planets pale,
Of admonitions to the winds and seas,
Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting,
And all those acts which Deity supreme
Doth ease its heart of love in.---I am gone
Away from my own *****: I have left
My strong identity, my real self,
Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search!
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round
Upon all space: space starr'd, and lorn of light;
Space region'd with life-air; and barren void;
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell.---
Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest
A certain shape or shadow, making way
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess
A heaven he lost erewhile: it must---it must
Be of ripe progress---Saturn must be King.
Yes, there must be a golden victory;
There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival
Upon the gold clouds metropolitan,
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise
Of the sky-children; I will give command:
Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?"
This passion lifted him upon his feet,
And made his hands to struggle in the air,
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat,
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease.
He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep;
A little time, and then again he ******'d
Utterance thus.---"But cannot I create?
Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth
Another world, another universe,
To overbear and crumble this to nought?
Where is another Chaos? Where?"---That word
Found way unto Olympus, and made quake
The rebel three.---Thea was startled up,
And in her bearing was a sort of hope,
As thus she quick-voic'd spake, yet full of awe.

     "This cheers our fallen house: come to our friends,
O Saturn! come away, and give them heart;
I know the covert, for thence came I hither."
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went
With backward footing through the shade a space:
He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist
Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.

     Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed,
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe:
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound,
Groan'd for the old allegiance once more,
And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice.
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept
His sov'reigny, and rule, and majesy;---
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
Still sat, still *****'d the incense, teeming up
From man to the sun's God: yet unsecure:
For as among us mortals omens drear
Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he---
Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech,
Or the familiar visiting of one
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell,
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;
But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve,
Oft made Hyperion ache.  His palace bright,
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold,
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks,
Glar'd a blood-red through all its thousand courts,
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
Flush'd angerly: while sometimes eagles' wings,
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men,
Darken'd the place; and neighing steeds were heard
Not heard before by Gods or wondering men.
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths
Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred hills,
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took
Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick:
And so, when harbor'd in the sleepy west,
After the full completion of fair day,---
For rest divine upon exalted couch,
And slumber in the arms of melody,
He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall;
While far within each aisle and deep recess,
His winged minions in close clusters stood,
Amaz'd and full offear; like anxious men
Who on wide plains gather in panting troops,
When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
Even now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy trance,
Went step for step with Thea through the woods,
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
Came ***** upon the threshold of the west;
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope
In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes,
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies;
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape,
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye,
That inlet to severe magnificence
Stood full blown, for the God to enter in.

     He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath;
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels,
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,
That scar'd away the meek ethereal Hours
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,
Until he reach'd the great main cupola;
There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot,
And from the basements deep to the high towers
Jarr'd his own golden region; and before
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceas'd,
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb,
To this result: "O dreams of day and night!
O monstrous forms! O effigies of pain!
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom!
O lank-eared phantoms of black-weeded pools!
Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye? why
Is my eternal essence thus distraught
To see and to behold these horrors new?
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall?
Am I to leave this haven of my rest,
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime,
This calm luxuriance of blissful light,
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes,
Of all my lucent empire?  It is left
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.
The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry,
I cannot see but darkness, death, and darkness.
Even here, into my centre of repose,
The shady visions come to domineer,
Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp.---
Fall!---No, by Tellus and her briny robes!
Over the fiery frontier of my realms
I will advance a terrible right arm
Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove,
And bid old Saturn take his throne again."---
He spake, and ceas'd, the while a heavier threat
Held struggle with his throat but came not forth;
For as in theatres of crowded men
Hubbub increases more they call out "Hush!"
So at Hyperion's words the phantoms pale
Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold;
And from the mirror'd level where he stood
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh.
At this, through all his bulk an agony
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown,
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular
Making slow way, with head and neck convuls'd
From over-strained might.  Releas'd, he fled
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours
Before the dawn in season due should blush,
He breath'd fierce breath against the sleepy portals,
Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them wide
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams.
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode
Each day from east to west the heavens through,
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds;
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid,
But ever and anon the glancing spheres,
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,
Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muffling dark
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep
Up to the zenith,---hieroglyphics old,
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers
Then living on the earth, with laboring thought
Won from the gaze of many centuries:
Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge
Of stone, or rnarble swart; their import gone,
Their wisdom long since fled.---Two wings this orb
Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings,
Ever exalted at the God's approach:
And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were;
While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse,
Awaiting for Hyperion's command.
Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne
And bid the day begin, if but for change.
He might not:---No, though a primeval God:
The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd.
Therefore the operations of the dawn
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told.
Those silver wings expanded sisterly,
Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide
Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night
And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes,
Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent
His spirit to the sorrow of the time;
And all along a dismal rack of clouds,
Upon the boundaries of day and night,
He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint.
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars
Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice
Of Coelus, from the universal space,
Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear:
"O brightest of my children dear, earth-born
And sky-engendered, son of mysteries
All unrevealed even to the powers
Which met at thy creating; at whose joys
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft,
I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence;
And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be,
Distinct, and visible; symbols divine,
Manifestations of that beauteous life
Diffus'd unseen throughout eternal space:
Of these new-form'd art thou, O brightest child!
Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses!
There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion
Of son against his sire.  I saw him fall,
I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne!
To me his arms were spread, to me his voice
Found way from forth the thunders round his head!
Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face.
Art thou, too, near such doom? vague fear there is:
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods.
Divine ye were created, and divine
In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd,
Unruffled, like high Gods, ye liv'd and ruled:
Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath;
Actions of rage and passion; even as
I see them, on the mortal world beneath,
In men who die.---This is the grief, O son!
Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall!
Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable,
As thou canst move about, an evident God;
And canst oppose to each malignant hour
Ethereal presence:---I am but a voice;
My life is but the life of winds and tides,
No more than winds and tides can I avail:---
But thou canst.---Be thou therefore in the van
Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's barb
Before the tense string murmur.---To the earth!
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes.
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun,
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse."---
Ere half this region-whisper had come down,
Hyperion arose, and on the stars
Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide
Until it ceas'd; and still he kept them wide:
And still they were the same bright, patient stars.
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast,
Like to a diver in the pearly seas,
Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore,
And plung'd all noiseless into the deep night.


Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings
Hyperion slid into the rustled air,
And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place
Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd.
It was a den where no insulting light
Could glimmer on their tears; where their own groans
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd
Ever as if just rising from a sleep,
Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns;
And thus in thousand hugest phantasies
Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe.
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
Stubborn'd with iron.  All were not assembled:
Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering.
Caus, and Gyges, and Briareus,
Amber Evans Aug 2018
Pale legs sprawl out;
untangling and stretching,
as I absorb the
Montana air.

Isolated, we sit,
under the big


White clouds float
through a sea of

The same shade of
orange as those sugary
push-up's my father would
shove down my

Gas station sweets
to make me
me forgive

I shake the feeling
of comparisons—
they never did me
any good.

Instead, I lie down
and allow you
to touch my
tense body.

Softly, you
reach over, muffling
words of beauty and

I do not flinch.

I flash a smile
and focus on

The mountains in
West Virginia
rolled; they flowed,
so graciously

There was never a
road that was not

I've never
seen a rugged

Snow-capped and

Not until Montana.

Until this moment,
I, too, have
tried to

Living the same ways,
in which I experienced,
Mother Nature.

Going through the
with no purpose.

No passion.

The fear of becoming
an abrasive,
overbearing woman
urged me to

To slide through
life, barely

Never climbing
for more,
to discover the
true beauty in
a bit
I wanted to write about love but instead I wrote about strength. Hope that's okay.
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iambruised Oct 2016
and all these years
they told you that heartbreak would be
not being able to do anything;
crying most of the days;
not being ok for a long time;
being able to hear the sound of your heart breaking;
'the heart break syndrome', they would say.
'time heals', everyone promised.
'this too shall pass', everyone whispered.
'it will strengthen you', they encouraged.

what they did not tell you
was that
heartbreak would make you do the unthinkable.
crying on your bathroom floor during shower.
muffling your crying on your pillow.
trying to explore yourself.
meditate, read books, watch movies, writing.
waking up with puffy eyes.
and have to go on like nothing happened.
lock yourself in your own room at night when you get home.
laying awake staring at the ceiling.
counting on what you did wrong.
replaying every scenes.
endless pool of tears -
those kind that make you really tired;
not the sleepy kind of tired,
but the 'God-please-end-this' kind of tired.
praying to God to please just end this
for you cannot take more pain.
asking God on what you had done wrong in life
to deserve this kind of pain.
do i even still believe in God?

they did not tell you that heartbreak
change your perspective in life.
that it would feel like you are suffocating;
unable to breath.
where is the air?
even when you sleep,
you wake up and dreaming about him again.
the desperation to end it;
that you would google
'how to deal with heartbreak'
or the desperation to ask people for help.
but you know it's useless
and you don't want to be a burden.
or when you hear others telling you about their relationship
and you can not even give them any advices anymore.
'i used to be so good at giving advices', you think to yourself.
but now not anymore.

they did not tell you that heartbreak
would make you numb
when you are surrounded by people.
the way you get yourself throughout the day
and do the daily routines
do random things,
being weird;
'you are still the same old you even after all these things', they would say.
'no i'm not', you tell yourself.
even when your heart is broken
or the way
you would act like you had never got your heart broken
or the way
others would tell you their problems
and you have to act
like you are okay
and you have none

they did not tell you that heartbreak
would make you feel this useless
like how you suddenly think of
'i am so broken'
and yet you could not
even think
of telling anyone
because of how pointless it would be
'what's the use? they don't get it like i do', you would think.

they did not tell you that heartbreak
would take this long to heal
'time heals', i used to say
'this too shall pass', i used to tell my friend.
but now
i am not so sure anymore.
time heals, they say.
*well, i'm still waiting for the time mine would heal
The amateur poet Nov 2012
I am writing this now, in some early morning hour, because sleep evades me.  I’ve been awake so many hours that time itself has little meaning anymore. I quit. There's no other way to put it. I just give up on trusting the human nature, on words, on promises, everything. Promises, once perceived as a sign of trust now erode away into hallow, empty lies that stab at my heart. I believed them. I was actually stupid enough to believe all those sugar coated words about caring, and guiding, and family. It’s all lies now. The soul of my being, everything I know can now be called into question. I can trust no one, everything’s a lie. I'm not sitting here writing some pretty little suicide note. I’m past that. I’ve grown up to see you can’t always take the easy road out and I’d sure feel sorry for the living soul that my black spirit would haunt.
For all you novice readers this can easily be taken as a story of heart-break; in an all-so cliché girl loves boy situation. But for those of you who can read into my words that I am spelling out so bluntly, I apologize; for I am once again telling my little sob story to anyone who willing to listen.
To begin this lovely tale you must know I've always been more comfortable when in the company of guys rather females such as myself. Whether it be the drama soaked lives or the shallow personalities all dressed up in makeup, I'm not sure. But I've always found guy’s emotions to be more reliable than girl’s. But hey, after recent events I'm beginning to question my own judgment; maybe I can really trust no one other than myself. Anyways back on track.
As in most situations of such heart-break and defeat, this tale begins with the typical boy likes girl story. Skipping over all the heart-warming details this relationship ends, like every other. The only difference this tale offers up is that their friendship remains in-tact. Not the awkward I’m-just-saying-this-to-make-breaking-up-easier friendship either. A real one. Time passes, they become best friends, and ah, another problem arises. The boy is unhappy being alone. With this knowledge in mind the girl searches for a mate for her best friend in an attempt to make him feel complete in ways she is unable to. Love. Through searching for a relationship for him, the relationship grows even more and the girl learned to feel safe and secure. Something she hasn’t felt in a long time. This brotherly love shown to her only drives her more to make him happy. Finally a girl is found. With a bit of help this boy and girl fall for each other and the friend, me, watches happily from a distance. The boy is happy. The girl is happy. I am pleased with my actions; I have successfully helped another friend. But hey, remember this is reality. Of course it cannot remain this way.
The boy starts acting different towards me, all obsessed with his love, but I ignore this knowing that all relationships have their puppy-love stages. He promised he wouldn’t abandon me, he promised he wouldn’t hurt me again on purpose. I believed him, but he lied.  Time passes and patterns don’t change. This boy, who I once thought was different in every way, is acting like the rest of society. Losing him. I'm losing another friend. Again, this time is different. I've put so much faith into him, my trust, secrets, dreams, fears…everything. I thought he genuinely cared. I start acting strange around him, he only grows more distant, so I put on a mask and hide my true emotions. He’s happy why ruin that. I don’t want to lose him, I don’t let him see. Time passes. He asks her out. They are happy. He tells me this gleefully and I feel my heart-sink, putting on a mask once more. I can’t do this anymore, he is gone.
I wrap my mind around this and once again taste the bitterness of karma working in reverse. What have I done wrong now? My thoughts expand. What have I ever done? Memories come flashing back, all the similar circumstances, the sting, the pain. I try to breathe but I feel the cold truths stabbing at my heart.
‘Everything is just peachy’.   I hate that phrase, but use in my messages to see if anyone can see I'm not acting myself, see past the mask. They cannot. I vent to two close friends. The first ignores my cries and tells me about her trivial problems and the second proceeds to show his immaturity, for he does not understand my strife. I cut myself off from the world and cry hot burning tears into my pillow, muffling my sounds in the plush.
People only care when they need you. They are kind in their time of need but when their own lives are running smoothly and they no longer need you they leave you. Does anyone ever check to see if you’re okay? Of course not, this is reality.  These revelations are not anyone’s fault. It’s not the boy’s, it’s not the friends’, it’s not the media, it’s not society, or even one definite cause. The only reason this story was told was to set the scene so you understand the premise of the initial spark for these thoughts. These events, that cause such pain, arise from a part of the human nature that I try my hardest to avoid, self-centeredness. Now I don’t mean the self-centered actions you’re thinking of. No. it’s far more complex than the shallow-thirst for popularity. It’s the tendency to worry about one’s own problems and not another’s. When you have all you want why worry about other people? This natural course of human emotions ceases to sicken me, as I now realize I am the victim of such actions. No, I am not some self-praising idiot; I admit that I have hurt others this way in the past. But from my point-of-view I have a pretty compelling case. Everyone just wants to be my friend right? Others call to me in times of need and then abandon me, calling it friendship. In the past I haven’t realized it more or less because there was little bond between myself of these people. After years of repeatedly getting my kind acts thrown back in my face, I choose to give in.
This last series of events has forever changed me, and now my eyes are open. Today I am done trying, and I am giving in to my human nature, becoming a self-centered person, free of everyone else’s burdens. I quit. Open up your eyes and see who you can call your true-friends. See past the illusion. Please, wake up, your dreaming again. But see, I don’t have the ability to dream, for I was always awake.
Jedd Ong Jan 2015
I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle

Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.

And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.

And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,

Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly

Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was

Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,

When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,

And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Basketball and frisbee,

And the screaming.

Oh, how I miss
The screaming.
Simon Oct 2019
What’s happened! A voice remarked. Why are my puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland? Another voice spoke up, sounding distant. That’s what I’d like to know! Then more followed. Sounding like a choir of different voices were in effect. Except none of the voices sounded cheery in their perfect chorus on cue. A shriek followed. A wasteland full of shrieks rumbled the ground. Ejecting lots of dust. Blinding visibility across a wide landscape! A landscape full of sand. Governing a deadly waste scouring a dryness accumulating pieces of voices not to far off from one another. Dust from the shrieks rumbling the ground, finally clear. Settling a glimpse at what has been shrieking with such volumes of obscure reasoning. Puzzle…PIECES! Huh? Who said that…? The voice asked, completely taken off guard. What instrument are we trying to provide here? Not sure I’m exactly wondering what your trying to offer by the term (instrument)? Having instruments aren’t folly you know. Another voice interrupting the other voices conversing nonsense. You guys do realize non of what your saying is making any practical sense? Like…at ALL! Huh? One voice replied. Another joining in. Well if your so clever…why don’t you entertain us with how things should really be voiced? Gladly! The more logical voice commented. The voice acting snobbish made a sound. Showcasing it didn’t like being told what it knew and what it didn’t know. The dust has settled. The two voices conversing said on cue. Your point…? No logic, until you display your horizons onto the landscape which shows what we are. One voice replied confused. Logic? Another responded. Horizons? Then on cue again. Landscape??!! The logical voice continued. Just looking around the landscape, which introduces the horizon of who, what, and where you are. Making the logical assessment that, well…everything…is what should have been since the very beginning. Panting for just a single moment. Without claim or focus…the end! The two conversing voices completely dumbfounded, sighed very harshly! Finally deciding to take the more logical one’s words more seriously. Other voices following on cue. Which made all voices look down toward there surroundings. The logical one smiled brightly! AHHH! Another shriek came. O…JEEESSSUUUSSS!!! More shrieks accumulated the wasteland. Prompting more dust to rumble. Popping all over the horizon’s visibility again! So, what did we learn about this very confusing, obscuring display? Well…easy! A voice said from no where. That it was a display of nurturing. Huh…? Really? The one sounding like the narrator drawn in by the voices interest. Ya, well… They stopped to rethink what they just offered in response. Your hesitating. The narrator’s voice sounding suspicious. Ya, well… Not sure how to express what I saw. Still remaining suspicious, the narrator continued. Anda…what is it…you exactly…saw…? The voice from no where exploded all built up energy in one gigantic spurt! There was puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland! They had no identity to speak of. Pieces deconstructed in a sand covered landscape full of dry essence. And…and… They stopped mid-thought to catch their breath! The narrator didn’t speak a word. The dust was symbolizing ones missing grasp at not figuring out they were all apart of the same form. The same essence. Drying out claims too full of themselves through partial reasoning on potential agreements never going anywhere. Mmmmm…mhm…mmmmm… The narrator seemingly amused by this information. No identity, means no way of connecting to one another. Never to make sense of the premise one could offer. Puzzle pieces stuck in the sands of dry essence. A rut too involved to be just any coincidence. The dry essence covering up each puzzle piece. Muffling there voices forever. They tried to reach out. Trying to make sense of (what could have been). Rather then how to assort their differences into one claim. Working together wasn’t this identities strongpoint. Pieces were arguing too much. Until one seemed to be the most offering of the bunch. Thou…thou… Go on. The narrator said. No one listened to them. Following in the footsteps of one foolish puzzle piece after the other. Until there was nothing to be left, but silence. The voice from no where shrieked towards the narrator’s glaring tension toward the speaker. Laughing in disgust toward the potential risk one poses when reaching out toward its other component pieces.
Puzzle pieces will never learn if each piece doesn’t know how to direct oneself, before connecting with the bigger, more established form. Which is rendered to a mere silhouette full of details invoking a nothingness claim.
THE HAGGARD woman with a hacking cough and a deathless love whispers of white
flowers ... in your poem you pour like a cup of coffee, Gabriel.
The slim girl whose voice was lost in the waves of flesh piled on her bones ... and
the woman who sold to many men and saw her ******* shrivel ... in two poems you
pour these like a cup of coffee, Francois.
The woman whose lips are a thread of scarlet, the woman whose feet take hold on
hell, the woman who turned to a memorial of salt looking at the lights of a
forgotten city ... in your affidavits, ancient Jews, you pour these like cups of
The woman who took men as snakes take rabbits, a rag and a bone and a hank of
hair, she whose eyes called men to sea dreams and shark's teeth ... in a poem you
pour this like a cup of coffee, Kip.
Marching to the footlights in night robes with spots of blood, marching in white
sheets muffling the faces, marching with heads in the air they come back and
cough and cry and sneer:... in your poems, men, you pour these like cups of coffee.
Hasan Aspahani Jul 2017
A pair of lovers is a pair of tongues that say the word alternately, the same word, which moves from mouth to mouth.

A pair of lovers is a pair of eyes that never tired of looking at each other, lyrics to each other, closing each other, in the light and dark.

A pair of lovers are two travelers searching each other, and steadfast wait until finally found each other.

A pair of lovers is a pair of names that ask each other for a place in memory, so as not lost in the loss.

A pair of lovers are a pair of farmers who rush to the fields do not wait for the rain to die, because love is a fertile morning.

A pair of lovers is a pair of eyes in the night, there is a beautiful dangling light, and there is hope that gee, rampant.

A pair of lovers are two lines on a gurindam, longing for revenge, mutual opening and closing, harassing, muffling.

A pair of lovers is a pair of longing hands, stalling to the empty, as if to rub a love on the forehead full of sweat.

A pair of lovers are a pair of hearts at a glance, bristling, as you imagine the longing will be very torture.

A pair of lovers is a pair of interconnected books, the first book, continues into the second book, and vice versa.

A pair of lovers is a pair of books that amaze each other on the cover, because it knows very well what is written on them.

A pair of lovers are two books, writing and reading each other, without ever interchanging the pages.
Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning  glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******,
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,
grumpy thumb Nov 2015
Thick fog
muffling street lights,
confusing shadows,
smoothing edges.
Silent stretch of phantom arms,
damp embrace.
Smothering distance
harsh city vanishes.
As wondrous as it is eerie.
****** into its vacume of nothingness.
Leigh Marie Mar 2016
Chapter 1: Lie-Lie-Lie or else bye-bye-bye
“How have u been?”
“good, thanks :)”

Chapter 2: What are you hiding, anyways?
Well not really my shoulders feel light, but the weight of the world seems to be pressing down on my chest as I lay in bed

Chapter 3: Why?
I have been meaning to tell you, but how do I cough out the words?

Chapter 4: Be honest (with yourself, only)
I feel as though Mother Earth has taken hold of my neck and pushing on my sternum, I gasp for breath, but as I finally get a full inhale, my air is pushed right out of me
I lay, watching the world go by

I feel mother’s hand cover my mouth with her other hand, muffling my cries for help
I grip onto my fondest memories for hope, my happiest times run through my brain like a double feature movie
I lock eyes with mother, as she holds me down
I see the fear in her eyes
Mother nature does not want to do this to me, it was just my luck of the draw
My pleading eyes beg her to fill me up with the antidote
Theres a fix for this feeling, I know it
I finally get up, I swallow the two white battleship pills, and I pray that they work
My day has begun, and I start my routine
I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, wash my face, put in my contacts
I then go right to my bed and meticulously make it
I get dressed, pants first
Next is makeup, then I put on my shirt
I decorate my wrists and fingers with jewelry
I sit down, pull my black socks over my feet, lace my shoes and prepare to leave
I do this routine every day
In order, bathroom bed, pants, makeup, shirt, jewelry
I do not go deviate from this sequence; schedules rule my life
My fingers take turns touching my thumbs
Pinky, ring, middle, first, middle, ring, pinky, ring, middle, first, middle, ring, pink
The tapping of my fingers keep rhythm for my day, my anxious energy exits through my finger tips, a quick relief
I am endlessly fidgety, my legs dance in circles, swaying as I sit and shuffling as I stand
My fingers pick and **** at my skin, my hair, they rub roughly against the palm of my hand, making sure everything is still there
My eyes, they never stay still
And my mind never rests
It is constantly jumping, jumping, jumping
It gives me a headache
My schedule for my day rolls through my head on an endless loop, I map out all of the options of what people may think of me, and I create routes for how to respond for each scenario
My fingers scratch at my face, smoothing out the impurities
Pinky ring middle first middle ring pinky
My hand goes back to my face, like it is the first time discovering my cheek bones
Pinky ring middle first middle ring pinky
I smooth my lips, pressing them into my teeth
Pink ring middle first middle ring pinky
At 12 pm I’ll get lunch
Pinky ring middle first
Then at 1 I’ll go back to my room
Middle, ring
I’ll have to leave by 1:40 to make it to class
Afterwards I’ll nap for 35 minutes, allowing perfect time to get to the gym
Ring, middle, first

Chapter 5: the follow up
“how are you? lol I got distracted, sorry”

**Middle, ring, pinky
Elodie Eye Mar 2012
It’s all over Weak Man’s MySpace
(might as well be on the news),
it’s in his MSN name;
he has no face to lose.

He’s always been so open,
(worn his heart upon his sleeve);
up pops his Facebook status,
so emotional, every eve.

Then a phone call to his friends
(tears muffling the line).
After listening for hours,
the verdict is “It’s fine.”

His jury is so kind
(one sided sympathy).
They do the trick for Weak Man;
they are what sets him “free”

He looks through some old photos
(sunglasses and a smile)
turns up his brand new ipod,
reminisces for a while.

Up gets Weak Man from his chair,
Looks out his bay window,
and on his face a nice new grin,
who’s the strong man now?
Marcus Lane Mar 2011
When the tide is high and the spray flies wild
And  storm-battered cliffs loom grey,
Gulls are flung like litter in the wind
Above the tossing boats in the bay.

Now grey-gloved fingers feel from afar,
A muffling shroud of fear,
For the mist's stolen in with a furtive glance
At the lighthouse winking on the pier.

The ******* surf on the shingle shore
Rattles like smugglers' bones
Stirring the dark and dreary depths
With gales of ghoulish groans.

Wrestling waves in a turmoil twist
Their heaving muscles in mounds,
And crash to a crescendo of spittle and spray -
A rejoicing of ocean sounds!
© Marcus Lane 2007
Sheyla X Donatt Apr 2017
I’m sitting in my car, hugging my knees to my chest muffling my cries
My parents look at me through the rear-view mirror with worry in their eyes and in unison say
“It’s not your fault”

I’m sitting in a tight room, on a small chair, in the interrogation room
The first thing that comes out of the officer’s mouth is
“It’s not your fault”

I’m standing at the bottom of my stairs with tears streaming down my eyes
In front of me is my mom, she’s consoling me and she says
“It’s not your fault”

I’m struggling to keep myself standing wrapped in a pair of arms, sobs escaping my mouth
Hugging me is my dad and he’s repeating the phrase over and over
“It’s not your fault”

I’m telling my story, my typing is slow and my hands shaky, tears are flowing down my cheeks
Jonathan texts back his support and the first thing I read is
“It’s not your fault”

I’m sitting on a couch, I’m shaking and repeating the story holding back tears
My new counselor looks at me and says the infamous phrase
“It’s not your fault”

I lay in bed, lights off, blankets on, tears streaming down my cheeks
I can’t get all the people out of my head, the memories of what happened, the phrase is stuck on replay in my mind
“It’s not your fault” “It’s not your fault” “It’s not your fault”

I repeat the phrase over and over
Under my breath and into the night where the only person who can hear is me
“It’s not your fault”

It’s not my fault and it never was.
How can it be my fault when an adult took away my childhood?
How can it be my fault when I was in fear and embarrassment?

Most Importantly
How can the people who are supposed to be there for you think it’s your fault?
How can your family disown you when it’s not your fault?

I’m not going to apologize for trying to protect myself and everyone else he’s done it to.
I will be the voice for everyone and anyone who is or has been afraid to speak up about it.
Because It’s not your fault.

Sheyla Donatt
Debra A Baugh Jul 2013
his mouth an infusion of lust,
eagerly impinges; suckling,
tasting as a kitten to milk.

playing in titillating wetness;
sliding tongue over fevered
flesh, leaving me blushed.

arched in desire…

laid back; glaze eyed,
licking delicacy of my essence ~
as I moan sweet and primal.

savoring labials to ****; entering
sharp tongued cove of pleasure
widening thighs inch by inch.

our bodies immerge *******, hips
slow dips, locking lips muffling
sighs; drenching aches in rhythm.

a symphony of wood, soaked
tangled sheets losing ourselves
in ecstasies kiss; assuaging
hungered *****. unleashed
greed explodes; drenched in
trembling aches as we bend
into supplication of us.
Rebecca Shain Aug 2015
Bubblegum flavored tequila and bubblegum flavored kisses.
Drink up. Drink more.
My friend and I sat giggling on the bed across from two wolves, their fangs hidden behind blue lipped smiles.
Have another sip, the bottle is nearly empty.

My friend leaves me, and the wolf makes a gesture to his friend to follow.

I am left alone.

Blue lips kissing blue lips,
blue on my neck,
blue on my stomach,

Take these off he says,
it will be more comfortable he says.

The room is spinning and all I can see is an empty bottle of blue bubblegum flavored tequila on the floor,
And blue bite marks down my legs,
And I'm struggling to fight off his hands as my ******* are torn off,
And I am wearing a blue bra that's wires are piercing into my chest,
And inside my chest I can feel my heart pounding,
And my ribs are not protecting the pain in my heart,

I can hear my friend outside the door,
she's on the phone to a boy,
I am calling out to her but she cant hear because his paw is muffling my scream.

Just a little bit he says,
I force a blue lipped bubblegum smile and shake my head.
Do not ******* this wolf.

I manage to kick him off but I cant find my clothes.

The next morning I wake up with a bubblegum flavored tequila hang over, and blue bruises.

"Its okay though, it could have been worse."
Morgan Rain Mar 2014
How can it be that when ever I can't see you
I'm stuck so empty. ****, do you even know?
I'm damming up a waterfall but I can feel the pressure building...
and I fight it, I fight it so hard and I don't even know why.
Logs come loose, currents push through, leaking
I pull my head down, using my curls as leverage to keep my face hidden.
Hidden away from these four walls, these four hovering beings.
The only witnesses. Counting my tears, muffling my sobs, but you don't know.
No one really does.
These walls unmoving, silent, still with eggshell paint, cannot comfort me. Cannot hold me. Cannot tell me that I am not a worthless person, that these feelings will fade. These walls cannot take the blade off of my thighs, soak up this crimson shame before it stains the thin gauze that makes up who I am.

A simple stumble of my thoughts can send me tumbling into reality where I sit alone.
trigger warning
topaz oreilly Aug 2012
The inner city is relocating
every day there's new direction,
sash windows replaced by double-glazing
robust masonry sandexted,
the muffling of the bespoke past proceeds.
Yet Parties and boom music,
testify to weekend strain,
Sometimes we get more than we need !
How I have longed to reside in Catsfield
nr Pudding Hill Lane
amongst  the 888 parishioners
and live with a Battersea rescue cat
a victim of London neglect,
someone's got to live with  Phoenix  rising, I suppose.
Your reality is altered

My imaginations wild

Together, a pair so faltered

But the efforts worth our while

A blink and then a nose rub

I shift my eyes, oh no

We both know who's lucky

And who's about to go

We smile then we grin now

As the roar of pain grows loud

The kissing over shouting

Is muffling the sounds

Washing all the blood off

They're beating on our door

You help me out the window

Just like we did before

Running, Gasping, Panting

But our grins are ear to ear

How could we get away again?

We're professionals with no fear

This game is far too easy

Were loosing interest now

Should we both confess sins

Exploit, I don't know how

Bars become our wallpaper

He's doing push-ups all in drag

She marked my arm with her name

But a better life, we've never had
Can you say Bonnie and Clyde?
zero Jan 2018
The day you left I felt the seed
plant in my brain.
The negative thoughts of you caused it to
flourish into a ****,
one that rooted itself in my eyes,
performing dance routines in my sockets,
blurring my vision every step-ball-change,
making my eyes leak the water it tried
so desperately to drink,
drowning me in my own tears,
forcing them down my oesophagus,
gorging me with my own dismal identity,
Muffling my whimpers for help,
as it deflowers my innocent happiness,
and forces it into a pit of despair.

When people walk by me in the street,
and they see the elegant,
amber dandelion,
thriving and expanding out of my ears,
down my nostrils and out of my mouth,
they compliment me on my smile that
seems to pair so well with it,
almost as if it were made for me.
But they fail to see that it is choking me,
blocking my airways,
obscuring my vision and forcing me to the ground
with every clogged breath I breathe.
I could curse the stars and heavens for cursing me,
with the wondrous obscenity that is located under my left eye,
it grows outwards,
haunting my dreams.

It's the reminder of you.
I felt disgusted,
that I still water the plant that attacks me,
But as I watched you walk out of the door I realised
that you were happier this way.

So I am happy to make myself bleed,
as I shall do so better than any king would,
but before you leave,
trim the blooming flower that blinds my eye
and take it with you.
Reminder to water your plants,
you're their parent.
Like, c'mon.
Be an adult...

look where we are now,
for none envisaged her
fate.  how her alluring
vivacity, her
captivating warmth,
enticing others,
could in an instant
vanish leaving but a trace.
through this:
their thoughts abraded
layer by layer, peeled
raw to despondency.
where nostalgia of her gulps
the corridors,
through muffling rivulets,
melancholic laughs, and
stuttering cracks.
the palpitating enigmas,
talk of mindfulness,
and the swallow of silence
spoken between gaps—
leaves her presence resonating. ©
Copyright 8.17.2017
By Chanel Stevanovich
IA STORM of white petals,
Buds throwing open baby fists
Into hands of broad flowers.

IIRed roses running upward,
Clambering to the clutches of life
Soaked in crimson.

IIIRabbles of tattered leaves
Holding golden flimsy hopes
Against the tramplings
Into the pits and gullies.

IVHoarfrost and silence:
Only the muffling
Of winds dark and lonesome-
Great lullabies to the long sleepers.
glass can Jan 2014
an anesthesia as quiet as

mustard gas
with it's creeping cloud passing through barbed wire with a magnificent yellow intangibility;
slow-moving and inevitable, unavoidable, and deathly--
--it's silent stalking is the breath of the Holy Ghost.

an anesthesia as visible as*

a mute scream
from the cracked beaks of all-black birds as they *croak
outside the thin, thin, thin, panes;
birds ruffling and rustling like reptiles that knew better
and beat the game that the mammals never tried.

Pressing, muffling, a heat so harsh and deep I wake from my sleep, running away from the pull of a endless dark tide. So dark the breaks cannot be seen in the black gulf. I am haunted.

I am haunted.
I am haunted.

I cannot sleep, I cannot dream. There is no rub--all folly and hubris brings the death knell.

Where is the source?
To whom must I kneel?

I can feel are my bruised knees from falling prey to false idols,
                   but all I can hear are the creaking ropes of hung robbers.
username Oct 2014
your heart is the bottle of jack held snug
in between your hands
the heavy sighs of regrets flows into the rhythm of the slurred tales smothered at the tip
of the bitter choices; your tongue and its companion
the curiosity hidden in the wrinkles of your lips has leaped, died
& turned into a tale for prying innocence
like a child with no taste for exotic lies
one whose father went on an adventure to a world with no family & no love it’s just
Him, peace and weary smiles
one who kicks the dirt that covered his father’s eyes praying it feels what he feels
a selfish pain with no one to sneer against
one who grows up to hold a pretty girl’s hand
& buy her roses
read boring fiction like a eulogy &
kiss her forehead anytime a
a wrinkle ticks and a thought is trapped
answer her questions with an honesty that offends the sky, he treats her like the things
he admired from afar as a child. she
the new superhero toy,
the fastest car on the plastic lanes or the comic book with so many pages.
treasured, admired &
cherished till all that was left was what could be seen
a skeleton with no bones to carry
the weight of all that was left behind
he closes her eyes and threads the dirt on her clothes
hoping it’ll turn to her skin somehow
walks till all that is visible is the sun’s pity in his line of sight
the lights are always off, lamps always broken
the books too worn out to reflect her smiles
the striped porch with its many uninvited inhabitants becomes his bed
with a bottle held closely to his chest
neck tilted up as if to ask for more stories about her
the neighbors say all they heard were rumbling bottles rolling & crashing, muffling the name
being called for right before he was dragged
limp and lifeless with
a shard of glass on his left palm
& a heap of sand clenched in the other.
Maddii Lloyd Jun 2016
Safe Drive
Safe Driv
Safe Dri
Safe Dr
Safe D

ringing in my head,
looking down at my phone
one more time

replying with

"i will, I love..."

her later getting the phone call
I never really got to
tell her how I feel and I guess
I never will.

being 6ft under
with the words still at
my fingertips.
and the dirt muffling
my screams
Juliana Aug 2011


unknowingly melting in with the blue,
filling baskets full of clouds.
Gather stars with my dream catcher,
drift with the passing feathers in the zephyr.

into my own little piece of Earth,
perhaps muffling the sound of
the city I long for,
hating with every passing second.
Feeling crushed in the safest way imaginable.

I feel smothered,
everyone cramming things
down my throat,
when I come back for more
you tell me no.

All I can see is wanderlust.
Feed back is much appreciated!
Batool Jan 2016
She kept her emotions
under her head
ignoring always
whatever heart said

she let her brain lead
cause she had a fear
that she'll get hurt
if she lend heart an ear

she had seen people
who followed their hearts
and ended up broken
with the ugly scars

she decided to do
what she deemed wise
locking her heart alone
muffling it's cries

her brain eased the pain
as her heart bled
changing it's color
to pitch black from red

she witnessed her failure
and soul falling apart
she could do nothing
as she was cursed by heart.
Blank Jan 2016
My heart cried out as she did
And bled out when her teeth sank into her arm
Muffling her screams... This kid

Desperately searching for a key
I picked up my pink and fluffy, bite sized alpaca
And ran back to her side... I can not leave her be

Wrapped in the arms of a friend
Her eyes stared right into mine, almost pleading
I hand her the alpaca... Hoping her sadness will end

"Is this important to you?" "No"
With tremendous rage, she rips off it's tags, it's clothes, and it's chain
My heart sinks as my fluffy friend is torn apart... But these feelings I stow

Because when she asked, distraught
"Is this important to you?"
I immediately thought
*Yes... But not nearly as much as you.
dresnic Sep 2009
The thunder booms within my dome
Holding my will to sleep underwater
I am an infant,
Trying to weather the storm
As I mock my new found adulthood with fetal tendencies.

The lightening flashes inside my eyes
Revealing the depths of my mortal boundaries
I am a toddler,
Looking for trouble
As I dash wildly into the night.

The wind echoes through my ears
Muffling the memories I pretend to forget
I am a teen,
Searching for the liquor cabinet
As I chug and fall face first to the floor.

The rain pours over my body
Cleansing me of all my mistakes
I am an adult,
Still searching for what is right
As I carry on the only way I know how.
mira Nov 2018
the wreath’s rustle interrupts my sleep. in my dreamy shiver there is lucidity. between my toes there is carpet; I can feel its green, sense its virginal cool as I shuffle across the hall. I have the urge to scream, to tear the milk-matted blanket muffling my fervid anticipation. I hear you, then: the creak of the door, the friction of skin and silk, the sapped wail of youth’s wasted power. starlight pierces the linen curtains and casts my shadow ten feet tall, two feet tall, not at all. I crawl into bed and feel your breathing but it is not you. you are the unbroken hum of the furnace.

the sugared smell of candy fruit depresses my throat and ***** threatens. my eyes search the window for a stranger but only rain knocks; my clothes are still wet, dripping one, two, three on each step. they dry more quickly than the boards creak; more quickly than I can find the storm drain, my translucent skin sloughing off at your touch. you are the static of broken vhs, the rattle of the closet mirror door as it slams, the easing cries through a premature mouth. I scream again, only to feel you in my ears as cotton, in my limbs as rigor. you whisper my name and I turn like a dog.

dandelion seeds litter the dew-fresh yard. sing louder, you say, and I run faster. the wet heat is psychoactive. I trip and fall and you are the grass; you are the mud, the leaves, the water, the worms. you are the earth who protects my knees, careful to keep pristine my blue-jean jumper, careful to capture every moment of fleeting touch. oak leaves sway above. as intently as I gaze at it, the sun gazes at me and my doe eyes well. maybe there is something in them. maybe there is something in them with your crystal reflection, an eskimo kiss to speak what I cannot.

afternoon sun rules my body and becomes blistering, unbearable; I stir, pressing against the heat, pressing your fingers into my skin, seeking to relieve the thrill. steam curls from my eyelashes as they squint to see you through the illuminated dust. it accumulates. you are the sudden cognizance of the windburn on my cheeks, lingering october air sharp behind my eyes, forcing tears I cannot help but to explain incorrectly. you are their singed, sweet-hot puddles in my hair. you are the residue they leave long after your sublime touch made them invisible.
four different people
Claire Cluck Dec 2014
The sun fell swallowing the garish light of day,
As the creatures of night came out to play
They were of all sorts, all shapes, all sizes,
But to one accustomed to their dance, there were no surprises.
But young Thomas did ignore these nightly friends
And drifted to sleep shunning the beauty which no one comprehends.

The skeletal folks, with wide eyes and graceful tendril
Did love the small boy, and sent him many dreams oh so tender
This night was strange, something amiss,
And a vile silent creature did slide out from the shadows
For young Thomas was placed in bed without his mother’s kiss.

The poor dream senders shrieked not knowing what to do,
They broke their oath to keep hidden and entered the room
They called forth to their dancing friends outside
All entered to guard the young one in stride

The silent creeper, was of a darker world
In his eye crept shadows, in his tears only blood,
He remained unseen to the human eye.
Muffling Thomas’s screams and cries
His bony arms stealing all the boy’s sweet thoughts
Tying innocent minds into painful knots.

With little success the boy’s twilight defenders,
Did claw and pull at the monsters limbs, attempting forced surrender
But to no avail, in a final attempt, a haggard frightened being, cradled,
And he left into the night as that was all he was able

The others ran after, as the monsters’ fiends leapt up from hell
The night creatures fought and in vain they did yell
For they were outmatched but joys must prevail!
Thomas’s family must not face the fate of dreams gone stale

The frail creature whisked Thomas away to a beauteous place, fairy dust
He worked away the dusk, to be rid of this distrust
But this night could not end, for the hellish beast
Took away a bit of Thomas’s light, just the smallest piece

Thomas, poor lad, brought something dark
That lives on in him, rooted in his soul,
Best love your children, show them, and mark,  
Before creatures of hell, not night, do take him whole.
RKM Jul 2011
She explained, as she passed him the coffee,
“I just keep dreaming that I am a couch”
His eyebrows lifted,
a smirk played on his lips.
Asked her if it was the couch they were sat on now,
Crushed green velvet and
endearingly hideous.
She glowered, said
She wished he’d take her seriously.
“But your body writhes in curious convulsions,
You fill the cottage with ear piercing screams-
Can it be that bad, being a couch?”

She declared that he would not understand,
Could not see what was worse
than his dreams of combat;
gunshot night terrors
she’d never hear.

He insisted, “explain”. So she told
of the aching void beyond her couch-body.
How paralysed, she would flail vainly
Cushions muffling her hungry screams
of longing for oceanic adventures.
He watched the sun through the sway of the trees,
form a moving lattice upon her shoulders,
Mused of his cravings for their living room
from his bunk at sea.

She watched him, watching her,
and knew,
He’d never understand her couch-dreams.
They sat in silence, holding their coffee,
And accepted their anharmonic lives.
Ceridwen Jan 2015
do not tell me that my sickness is fake
because I know all too well
how it feels to be
bound in chains only I can feel
with a terror only I can sense
vines around my throat
muffling my cries
and gasping for breath with plenty of air around
lol another bad poem another day

— The End —