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EAC Jan 2015
that falls motionless in waking dawn.
muffles the sadness within our souls.
mutes the voices within our heads.
holds us close when we're all alone.
that saves my drowning soul.
will help me grow...
WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name :
For when that fatal knot is ty'd,
Which nothing, nothing can divide :
When she the word obey has said,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that's kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride :
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows :
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take :
But still be govern'd by a nod,
And fear her husband as a God :
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatt'rers hate :
Value yourselves, and men despise :
You must be proud, if you'll be wise.
Francisco DH Dec 2013
I observe how they speak but as mutes                                                
The seem to be fluent in the language of love.
                                              With one look of an eye he knows to place his hand on hers.
With shudder she knows to move closer.
With the distance no more than an inch
they know to let their lips
Speak all the love they have.
I observe.
They speak this language fluently but as mutes.
I can't.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i always favoured Händel (see the hidden γραφεμη variation of the a diaeresis - some simply sprech Hendel, also not the aesthetic mimic symbiosis with sigma - aesthetically it is written Σσς, so too it should be written Εεη - with the variations of epsilon - η - written conclusively, as with the variation of sigma - ς - the remnant, a last resort - the greeks don't believe the tetragrammaton twins of the symbol H anyway, they already laid new pavements for the road ahead, ridiculing the old testament with fanciful quotation, so that man could imbue a godliness rather than the filth of prophetic warmongering in the desert, sacrificing children to a bear like Elisha, the new testimony and the clean prophet, beware the wolf in sheep clothing, sheep equating itself to Nazarene cleanliness, but the wolf inside that will be worthy a tri-summation of interests - before universal education in the Victorian era, when finally enough horses were used up and machines took over, and people were allowed to be escorted into the cinema of uncovered phonetic encoding - taught literacy - but to no avail, having squandered that on acronym shortenings... multifaceted digressions ensue, as i am true to the purpose of suddenly injecting venomous imagery into this whole crescendo of the new regime, nightwatchman every over day, to save myself the pointless stimulus of drinking - let's leave the realm of italics and regroup with the points already made...

what a glorious night yesterday's was, by me saying,
well, there is still over an hour left to include yesterday's
night as today - the heavy Baroque organs of thunder,
interchanging with brilliance of lightning -
7,000 accounts of lightning flashing in a square mile,
perhaps more - there was me, reminiscing what i missed
about Freddy Kruger in the original version of
a nightmare on Elm's street, the 2010 revamp made it
plain (i thought Freddy was a bit of a loser compared
to the other horror icons, like Jason, Michael, Pinhead),
but then it dawned on me... he, was, a *******!
the former two were mutes, hefty mutes, bodybuilding
mutes, bulls, charging, dragging around them a gravity
of pure animal, a bit like a lion hunting although without
the growling - if only lions had cat eyes,
but lions don't have serpent eyes, their pupils are more
mammalian than cat eyes, bonsai, Asian squint, inverse,
serpents in fur - their pupils dilate proportionately
to small pupil, large pupil, not vertical Asian squint in
leather... anyway... what a night to watch a horror movie...
the big brainstorm before the referendum,
morning's newspaper and the newspaper *the times

in revamp mode of the tabloid the sun with
a Shakespeare quote: i to the world am like a drop of
water (or, whatever, water is precious, Shakespeare
is about as much a schooled sneeze / quotation in
comparison), that in the ocean seeks another drop -
told you, the times is just a revamped tabloid version,
it's under the same umbrella group - the only two
opposition newspapers with credentials in England
are the guardian (the left) and the daily telegraph
(the right) - i can see now why Freddy seems pathetic
but is more frightening - it's the ****** talking,
the nursery rhyme jingle - that's the freaky part -
but in the same night i expressively enjoyed
t.v. caviar of Versailles, no critical essay mind you,
just noticing this strange pair of aristocratic ladies,
fakes, a mother and a daughter, what's revealing
is that the girl has no interest in the king, this
builder is eyeing her up, whistles, and loving it,
she has not desire for aristocratic **** *******
of her cousin who's courting Louis XIV brother
Philippe, the gardener ex-soldier (a Socratic type)
warns him, he's asked by the builder, what the hell you
doing here? oh, i'm trying to see the garden more clearer.
he ain't though, he's questioning the entire hierarchy,
later on the same builder puts a pink rose in a bucket
and lowers it down to the garden promenade
where the same pair mother and daughter are walking,
the girl engages... she isn't aristocratic in the least!
she's more interested in frolicking in the hay with
a builder than some king or prince... the mother is poor,
she knows all the salon politics, she basically wants
her daughter to get herself a pension by ******* the king
and bearing him a *******, but there's a scene where
the daughter asks late at night... what are you doing?
the mother replies... writing letters... now you'd expect
that to mean letters in the style of Voltaire or de Montainge,
but by letters she means A B C, D E F... she's illiterate!
an aristocrat and illiterate? how else to control the
masses so long ago if not keeping them illiterate
content with fables from Plato's shadow puppet metaphors?
later the mother becomes frightened that the motto
Louis XIV emphasises (appearances are power -
deception = poker-hand perception, bluffs the higher up
you go), she's walking alone through the corridors of
Versailles and starts chatting up the court inquisitor etc.,
Fabien Marchal - he ain't exactly the aristocratic type,
she's already seeing the failures of her daughter
and the failures of too much information being passed down
to her about how to catch the eye of the king - god i love
this show, Philippe taking an ancient form of a selfie
looking into a little mirror before charging on his horse,
the power struggle, Louis flicks some porridge
onto Philippe, Philippe flicks some back,
Louis shoves a whole bowl of it on Philippe's head,
Philippe ****** on Louis, a wrestling match after:
you might have ****** on a brother's head...
but i ****** on a king's head. so why **** this entire
notion from Detective Comics and Edward (e)Nigma
******* all the brains out from a television set?
the idea of a bulls-eye is still out there - just have to know
what to glue yourself to;
but never mind that, to give closure to this whole
random escapade -
vote leave, reason? three houses of parliament in Brussels,
not a single member is elected by the public,
they're all self-appointed or appointed by connections.
vote remain, reason? cheap cigarettes from Romania,
Bulgaria and Poland - under new regulations they might
not be so cheap, i might have to resort to e-cigarettes.
probable outcome? Europe is already failing, it seems
that the idea of the free-movement of people doesn't
really apply to member states, but to non-member states,
esp. those outside Europe - the stigma born from
the grand European expansion of ~2005 fuelled the problem,
free movement of post-British Empire peoples, yes,
movement of member states in the political union? no,
no one from California and go to New Mexico,
but Mexicans can go to Washington, what a ****** up
logic - the prophesy of a revived Roman Empire is a bit
daft - and if i really did have an illegitimate child,
at what age does paying child support end? 16 or 18?
i wasn't married, i asked about the contraceptive pills,
but still the hot-bun shoved under my pillow to think about...
i'm positive that's when the buzzing in the left
hemisphere of my brain will end, and a grand L.S.D. trip
will appear in the sky, like a big Christmas mince pie -
ask me then, it's been 9 years in, i might have a break,
but until then i'm contemplating juggling Joyce with
Burroughs, and telling you... you know what i'd really like?
hearing Händel messiah in German... singing opera
is English is so so horrid, i love the opera never mind,
i was inspired by the section:
opernchor - weil von mann kommen tod -
to want to hear it in German - and trying to write German
using English grammar, and translate it, is like
a little-Oedipus fable, not as bad as mother and son,
no gauging of the eyes, more like the standard practice
in Arabia with marriage between 2nd or 3rd cousins -
and D.N.A. quick-tests in Iceland, who i'm praying will
win if the vote is to leave, fairy-tale Leicester City,
a country with the same population, 330,000;
not to mention Gudmundur Benediktsson's ******
that beat any South American gooooooooooo(h)'l /
enlarged spelling of ~gall, and so on and so forth bladder
or blah blah blah blah blah.
Bruised Orange Oct 2011
bring your hammer and mutes.
temper my just intervals and
i'll beat a sweet harmonic series.

stretch my octaves,
correct my dissonance,
fine-tune my enthusiasm,

i'll play you some smooth sounds
another 'adopted metaphor'.  now i'm an out of tune piano. lol
km Dec 2010
Contentment is the greatest evil in the human grab bag of emotions.
It’s born out of the head of ignorance,
it resides in the heart of the blind.
It manifests its evil doctrine of passiveness throughout the body,
until fully enslaved by inaction.
It turns agents into sun tanners,
activists into office workers,
outlaws into accountants.
It puts preservatives into culture, it laminates laws,
it places crowns on faceless leaders.
It slaps a smile across the *****, the beaten, the neglected,
the racially profiled.
It mutes news casts,
veils the homeless man that lives behind office buildings,
glorifies the paycheck.
It makes the walls of homes seem bullet, terror, bomb,
corruption, and death proof.
It allows sleep at night,
it kills the monsters under the bed and the ghosts in the closet.
It causes hundreds of thousands of suffering people to simply, disappear.
It insures, “birds like to be caged,”
and “pain is just part of the human condition.”
It whispers these misconceptions
like a priest insuring his congregation of the power of Jesus. Contentment, you see, corrupts the very concept of progress.
Progress is deemed by the million-pieces-of-paper-owners to be founded in terms of economy.
Progress is deemed by the people-who-stop-us-from-returning-to-state-of-nature to be founded in terms of control.
Progress has forgotten it’s maker,
just as dying old men forget that they were once bounced on a loving knee.
Contentment leaks from the Western world
and infects all those around it.
When you are no longer content
you will begin to see the holes in the patchwork of life,
and wonder how it was you hadn’t seen them before.
When you are no longer content, you will at last demand change.
May not be printed for other than home use.
SøułSurvivør Feb 2016

mist in solemnity
mutes the sounding
leather bells in silence


salt surges waste wantonly
gulls guttural in guises
of waifs


driftwood delivered dull of
deluged dilution
ochre offering to dune's


sea glass shivers into
shallow sandy pockets
scintillating color schemes


conches lie abandoned
in stands of sea grasses
cacophonous quiet


i am wide awake yet dreaming


into the


(C) 2/1/2016
Some alliteration for my morning
a wee shaft of beam
a sea of chilly darkness:
dashing on, dashing long
a chain
of disturbing crispy waves.
a haunting pitch
of sirens, of winging gulls.
a whistle in the dark

i have bled.
and ever bleeding
is resurgence.
the stones are stained now
not all are stained yet.
but i can hold no more.
no more.

to listen would have been enough
but spoke i
to deaf-mutes, clayey forms.
and every uttered little word
faded like receding undertone.
and then
conspiracy of silence,
sharing of once
too friendly shoulders.
a nod would have been enough,
or a pat,
or any like gesture;
they turned askance
and i fled… fled away.

back to my chambered shell
back to my cradle
where there are many whispers.
and every fateful swing
of the pendulum
i reel and ride the wheel of fancy,
embrace false idols
like one fearful of his god
if only to escape the haunts
of conscience;
tremble at approaching footsteps,
shriek at every shadow.

i shall walk barefoot again
past leafless stumps
windborn, heated, and bowed,
‘cross an oasis grown desert dry,
past anthills now dunghills,
‘neath rapid flutter
of widespread murky wings,
past cliff edges
where resound pampered echoes,
while arched in deceitful hues
a rainbow.
…i scan the blue… i pause…

i await a lily-white stork
or there shall be no curtain speech.
Jessica OBrien Jan 2012

seeds of crimson, slightly sweet
alien pods of ruby meat
like exoskeletal teeth.

scores of crimson, holding in
like breath, its babes of sin.

little beetles; ****** tears.
one swarming conglomerate.

as if in fear, they huddle close
to await their fate in quiet fits.


sprawls out
fleshyfingers, fatwithfruit.

seedling children populate her innards
like a red-skinned race of juicy mutes.
Francie Lynch Jan 2015
Near death stories
Are not death tales.
The widow's daughter,
In Nairn, to whom
Did she speak?
In Bethany,
Near Galilee,
Where Lazarus
Learned to talk,
Who asked him
On his walk,
With his dog on a
Sunday afternoon?
Jarius' daughter
Would like to offer
A quote and goat
At the altar
Of atonement.
She was never asked,
So she never spoke.
The scribes never scribbled
To answer the riddle;
They never went to press
With the Extra Big Scoop
On life after death
From the three
Who knew best.
Never recorded for all time.
Never a word from their minds.
Would they tell of a
Long lit tunnel
Lined with familiars
Slapping their astral *****
As they ran the gamut
Into eternity.
Nearing the Eternal Throne,
They hear:
     It's not your time.
     Go back for more.
     Keep the secrets,
     Believe in Him,
     For he won't
     Live to be thirty-four.

And so it's not written,
Let it be so.
The Epiphany, Jan. 6th. The arrival of The Magi, or, The Three Wise Men.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Wind swept

Wild places the grass it puts on a veritable orchestra of movement as it undulates to the power of the breeze that passes
Mountain meadows splashed with a profusion of flowers they jiggle as if there tickled about something or other
The crest of the hill bordered with trees sloping down the hill children are running reminiscent of Jack and Jill
This utopia of nature sets aside the hurly burly the curvature of the hills still the wind hold the sun just right you it invites

Cross these pasture lands the feeding ground of many cattle and sheep the pride of the farmer who keeps
Inexorably bound by breed and creed for centuries this way of life flourishes among these native grasses
Tender shoots these roots give of their riches the sun and rain gives them a time to reign with joy all reaps
Pleasure in the walk letting fingers glide over the heads of tall grasses the silent telling of harmony filled poise

Future generations will be brought to these shadowed grounds they too will by their lives express and know contentment
Hourly they hold in sod that has known the breath of time as it has passed time and time again it enlivens breaks fourth
Sturdy and resplendent it shows all its dependability the same respect settlers knew is found the builders of this continent
Long shadows grow upon earths shoulders she knows the good and the bad but through resilience remains unconquered

The distant mountain stands eternal guard, it affects rainfall, mutes the winds force guarantying a peaceful valley
Perpetuity is taught in this land tomorrows unfold from days gone by with regularity they build and keep the way open
Stewardship the blessed hope working in harmony with all that surrounds at days end this will be the final sum and tally
The herdsman knows the time he invests it well always with broad vision does he act in this wisdom all will be victorious
Greg Berlin Aug 2014
So very many people speak
that so very little is ever said.
Words pour in from all around,
surrounding, inundating
those who dare listen.

The little overheard
through the din
is oft rathered to have
gone unheard after all.
It is so very unfortunate.
Here, my addition to it.
Helene Josephine May 2015
This kiss is the last word tonight
It mutes your soft whisper
And the comfort of your voice
Leaving musings on my side of the bed

This noise of a thousand thoughts
It drowns out your breathing
And the silence of the night
As words toss and turn inside my head

This secret is locked in my heart
It veils all our untold stories
Like poetry behind closed eyes
Dreaming that it won’t remain unsaid

This evasion of verbal confrontation
It quiets the bemusing pieces
That would come out misshapen
Making unspokenness easier than regret
Ace Malarky Jul 2013
Deep fried asphalt crawls beneath my wheels as I pedal on, pursued by buzzing flies
   and salty drops of sunscreen sweat sting my squinting eyes.

Caffeine coursing through my corporal chassis fuels my weary legs
   and mutes the screaming mind that wants the same respite for which my human vessel begs.

Be the road before me treacherous, the hills before me steep,
   God heals my aching body every night with fitful sleep.
I just took a few weeks with my bike, touring Wisconsin and the U.P. with some of my buddies... Now I'm back with hilarious tan lines and mental grit. Hi.

Shroombloomer Nov 2013
Increase The Pace (Side A)

Rhythmic pulsations invade comatose receptors
Lingering in the thick summer smog
The onset of tribulation commences-
Increase the pace.

Reverb ripples through
Hot wet lungs,
Love and Hate
The beats resonate...

Scared vinyl skips:
Repeating visions of angst,
Violent red chords
Rolling off shredded steel strings,
Acting as mania’s fingers…

Feet trapped in rebel rubber soles
Draw on littered concrete floors
Lonely like before
Noble souls abandoned this
Scene of raunchy rust,
gravity grabbing
as our wrists touch.

Increase The Pace (Side B)

Rush to Eden-
Greeted by harsh halogen
Bleach, eating out your sinuses,
water swirls as it slithers
round the basin
heavy door mutes the static,
holding back waves of thick smoke.
Blood shot eyes soothed
By branded potions,
Clarity cleanses
Dismembered demons

Crazed revelations infect the night no more
Forced silence seeps into aching eardrums
Breath forced from lungs
Adolescent epiphanies
Swirls down the drain,
Flying around chrome chains
Dust worn as protection
Drips into the sewers,
Flushed away
Forced silence reigns true
Voice of the bass-line
Forgotten anew.
duncanwrite Jul 2013
My Father’s Clothes

My father left a rack of suits
And on their cloth still hung cologne
Hand tailored navies, greys and mutes
And one plus-fours in herringbone

He had a drawer-full plump with ties
Rolled silks and regimental stripes
But none with matching handkerchiefs
For dad was not one of those types

He favoured good strong walking shoes
And walk he did with fancy cane
“If you look smart, then you are smart”
Was Duncan Baxter’s wise refrain

Some thought my dad a gentleman
He opened doors and doffed his hat
And rose when ladies entered rooms
Now why don’t people still do that?

Folks called him “sir” when he’d arrive
He had that bearing in his blood
Though widowed with a brood of five
He did the very best he could

He taught us rules are hard and fast
And manners make you who you are
And please and thank you always last
As first impressions take you far

Another thing he used to say
“To thine own self always be true”
Has helped me even to this day
When sometimes unsure what to do

Occasionally he’d raise his hand
To keep his errant sons in line
I didn’t understand it then
I wonder would it work on mine

We children could have had much more
Our aunts and uncles used to say
If he’d been wise enough to store
Some money for a rainy day

In truth he lived beyond his means
As men of taste are wont to do
And never realized his dreams
To live the life he wanted to

He moved among a group of friends
Who drank pink gins at social dos
And puffed on Turkish cigarettes
And daily scanned the racing news

He should have been a country squire
Perhaps what he was born to be
With open fires and hearty stews
A labrador beside his knee

To ride about in hunting pink
My brunette mother by his side
Alas there was no joy I think
For father after mother died

My mother left her darling ones
All spirited and out of hand
Three lovely daughters and two sons
On Valentine’s in Newfoundland

Now father lies in simple ground
Carnations flutter at his stone
Across the road, a pub he’d found
Where he would never drink alone

The day he left, the landlord’s flag
Was billowed half along its pole
And locals gathered, glass in hand
To send a tribute to his soul

And when I gaze at hillsides green
Or hear a Richard Tauber strain
Or think of places where we’ve been
I see his weathered smile again

My father left a rack of suits
Those things that last when you are gone
And life is short and love is rare
No matter what clothes you have on.
Duncan Baxter Fletcher -- 1908-1988 (single parent from 1952-1988) Born in Halifax, Yorkshire. Buried in Shalford, Surrey.
Keertana Mar 2014
Scintillating depth paints the luxurious fabric
In a vista that drowns in
Its own sophistication
Thick, spicy flavor drips from the petals of
Soft indigo ink
Wetting the paper (that sweats with
Hard work and furrowed concentration,
Eyes do not waver
External cacophony mutes
The only tunes being the hymn
In the skilled artisan’s mind)
Art materializes into
Real beauty- an irrational, existing,
Hypnotizing magnificence,
A piece of pure worth, ready made-
To be sold cheaply in the local market.
Yue Wang Yidhna Dec 2017

Scene 1

Scene: A fleet of small boats on a open sea, carrying a flock of poets, actors, and musicians. They row into the distance, searching for land.


Oh, the horror, the horror! The deadly locked eyes, the motionless limbs, the gray lips, telling me it is the end, no more, horror or else. I felt it too, at moments, though something else; what I felt was the sudden fear of death, what might come afterward, and the loneliness of this solitary journey. I had to escape.


Yes, those lost half-lives of inevitable and unrecoverable tragedy, the guilt, unable to close in, and so moving away from the sorrow. Turning eyes away from the horror, no, get away from them entirely, let none of them escape with us. The tragedy, the grotesque demons.


Yes, let them not chase us toward the end of the vast and endless voyage, and if we die so, let it be quick.


Quick, by the thundering strike of heavenly signs, let us be at peace.


Oh, no more, no more. Leave those thoughts behind, send them to exile as we have been for our refusal of "high tragedy."


So, it shall-(The Fool stands up, squinting to the distance.) Look! Is that a patch of dry land?


Yes, our salvation of isolation, our comedic Garden of Eden!(A roar of cheers from all, though each voice distinct on its own.)

Scene 2

The troop have landed on the unnamed island.


Here we shall be settled.


What a handsome little place!


Then we shall make it our home!


Home, yes, but home of what? A wild circus of cowards?


No, cowards of tragedies but advocate of joy, happiness, and comedy.


Comedy! We are the Comedians!


Very well, so we are.


Yes, laughter and happiness.


We shall not only avoid tears, anguish, and sorrow, we shall make them crimes of criminals, we shall uphold only the Highest Order of Comedy!(In the distance, a ship carrying the mimes arrives.)


Oh, look, so the mutes are here as well.


(To the mimes as they arrive.)

Wipe your black tears off your faces! Leave only the red smiles, we are a tribe of comedy not tragedy. (They do as they have been told.) There, better.


Ah, here comes the musicians. (A band of cheerful flute, drums, and violin players arrived.)


(To the Band)

Yes, very well, you shall never again play any sad little tune and lure me to anger!


Be gentle, Argorn, for only peace shall visit you.


Yes, criminal, anguish, and sorrow, are the horror! They are criminal, criminal!

The band

We promise you only tunes of celebration will be heard on this lovely paradise!


Very well.

Scene 3

The band plays a cheerful little song while the mimes dances silent to the music. The actors and poets are reading poems of merry endings.


Oh, her tears, like blossom petals, have fallen and are gone forever.


The sun approves of our sanctum! Look, how the minions of clouds take flee!


Yes, presently they do.


Only when morrow comes, shall we be certain of our well-being.




Keep calm, keep calm.


Yes, settle, joy will only come when you are unaware of its flaws and when you take no notice of the hidden misery.


No! Tragedy is horror, tragedy is criminal, it should only be fought, contained and send to exile.

Scene 4

The cheerful tune of the band have slowed with weary into a lingering sad tune, the mime have slowed their dance, and the drawn smiles drips down into a frown.

Argorn nails a notice to a tree. It says, Laws of Comedians.


Stand up, you slothful infidels! You have once again turned what could have been joyous and merry into despair!

NORTHWORTH and Virginia

Argorn, you have burdened and slaved them with works of oppression, they are not happy!

The band and the Mimes

Yes, we beg you. Please let us rest, or the music will only be sadder.


No! Rest and what? Allow tragedy to intrude! No, be alarmed, be on guard. We will battle sorrow to the end.


Argorn, only you are the advocate of pain and tragedy!!! You are fighting yourself!




I dare say, you are what drowns us with slaving pain!

(Argorn advance toward The Fool with a hammer, and knocks him dead.)


No, he is dead! Argorn have slain Fool.


Say more, and death or exile awaits you!


(In fear and deviance.)

No, we will send ourselves to exile.


And the music!

(The band and mimes quickens their pace, the music and dance does not sound joyful however, but in a rushed mess, it rings of fear. )

Scene 5

The Band and Mimes are lying on the ground, being worked to death by extreme exhaustion trying to bring joy and music for Argorn.


Play! Your fools! Why have you all stopped!

(Argorn rushes to where the bodies lay, and stops.)

Oh, are you dead already? Someone else, come and take their place! Don't let the little tune expire!


(In tears.)

No, I rather be dead to be mocked by your horror! You are a monster!


How dare you cry?

(Argorn kills Katty with the hammer.)

What do you say Benedict, keep the joy alive?


No, you fool, what do you say is the most horrendous of a tragedy?


Death, I fear.


Then, who is most foul of a tragedy?


The tyrant of a villain, champion of bloodshed, and one without conscience.


Then, please, find your conscience, and see around you, the blood, and decaying bodies. What have you done?


NO! NO! I killed them for comedy!


Yet, what you brought is tyranny, bloodshed, and death.


Do you mean I am the villain? Then, please, in the Law of Comedian, execute my execution.


No, I shall only take my exile now, and leave.


Then, I shall bring peace to this inferno once and for all. (Argorn kills himself, and falls. )

Cody Edwards Mar 2010
There is a beetle on the high street,
pushing the sun along at a fraction-
0f-a-mile-per-hour. He is pondering
his plans for the summer.
Perhaps different venues?
Perhaps different dung?
But he knows it's all foolishness.
He never goes anywhere.

Then a god falls out of the sky.
Not a particularly large one,
a medium-sized god as far as
they go. Roughly human-
shaped. Not counting those
streaming banners of fire
that pour from his eyes.
Few humans have burning eyes.

A dagger drips from an open
wound and he clenches his
blood (it is his own blood) in his hand.
More are coming he realizes.
All of them. And he's quite
correct. Without trumpets or
lights or choruses or bowls or
scrolls, it starts to rain.

The beetle pauses in his
pilgrimage to survey the
man underneath the god's feet.
A hand in a crater of asphalt
with a keen, nigh-inaudible
wheeze of breath. A cough
and a choke.
And the beetle scuttles on.

They fall from clouds that aren't,
I mean, actually in the sky. They crush
buildings and businessmen, They
eat fountains. They descend into an
unthinkable and unthinking
age like a dizzied chorus that cannot
pick up on the beat. Purple sash
and green helm, They build mountains.

Teeth chip around the clay- the men
and women- like fireworks.
The gods' great works resolve
like a finished slider puzzle, like the
back of the sun. Mannequins watch
the moving marble for a moment.
But the Mutes eventually find a voice,
they shout, they run into the fray.

Tantalus' mouth fills with
wine. The beetle walks around his
head. Sisyphus' back was broken
by a boulder. The poor little fellow
descends into an inferno and
climbs the devil's back like a
Purgative mountaineer. Such struggle,
thinks he, to have to take a detour.

Sky sets fire to the shell pink
sun at night.

The liquid spheres engulf ideas
on a dry stretch of ocean.

Clouds splinter in a victor's hands,
are frozen shut.

and everything sinks back home
in the middle of a wor
© Cody Edwards 2010
Steven Fried Apr 2015
Red mutes hurried through the passages, underneath
They mewled in a soundless frenzy — straining
Mania drove their bodies against the walls, and broke through
Rain, a drowning curtain from prejudiced eyes
Stop! and stay there, down below, together
So the caverns may echo, but no one will know.
Sreejith Mar 2015
The times are so normal and peaceful.

A yellow leaf can fall freely to the earth

without any obstructions and die peacefully.

Rivers flow at their will: sometimes calm
         sometimes furious.

Everything is perfect, following a masterful design

They invented a machine to keep peace and order

The machine wiped out chaos and dissent form the world

The machine pushes the misfits into under ground

Look around you: there is no one with a scarred face

A world so perfect

The machine emits a sound while it works:

An army of iron boots stomping the ground

And the machine's sound mutes all other voices

All other music

And a perfect world is born.

Now, the machine is turned on

I hear the sound of iron boots

They march ahead....
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
The Muted Commoner

You don't see them,
......Just past them......

Speak but unheard,
perforce, thus, muted,
against their will

blogs bread unread uneaten,
poem orphans better than us,
vine ripened unto death

Truly dare you say I/you the better?

Shamed heat, you spit,
outed, no penance offered,
non granted,
the forgivers are muted too

so this be your charge,
so this be your salvation:

free the mutes from the trance -
exhume, exhort find them
in the back pages, then
acknowledge  that we are all
Muted Commoners.

find the poem unread,
revive it with a read, a heart,
and then you can speak your
Written in a taxi.
Jenna Jul 2016
We live in a world of talkers,
Of shouters, of debaters, of know it alls.
Listening is a long extinct creature,
Unheard of by a species that has devolved to simply wait their turn to talk.
Conversations no longer flow like rivers,
Instead they are puddles:
Started, then abandoned to become bone dry.

We live in a world of talkers,
All raising their volume to be heard,
Shouting that their opinions are fact.
No being is exempt from the epidemic,
The infectious itch to crank the volume dial right
And scream that the other talkers are wrong.

We live in a world of talkers,
Of screamers, of bigots, of smart alecs
In a universe not made for this noise.
The voices get louder, the status updates get longer, the protests get deadlier.
We live in a world of talkers
And soon we will live in a world of mutes.
Drifton A Way Nov 2018
I wanna wisk you away to a Tropical Paradox
Run a Risk filled Forest Gump Chocolate Box

Wear your flip flops and your Crocs with Socks
We’re all in the matrix , so don’t give any Focks
Where if someone talks **** tell em to lick Rocks
Roosters tend to grow hard just like Fort Knocks

Soak up that Vitamin D while you ride for free
Try and hide those lies, while you Moisturize
Shampoo & condition me, with Pantene Pro V
Face mask your cries, with a Creamy Disguise

Throw me 21 salutes, I’ll catch them 22 times
Even a group of mutes, feel my spoken rhymes
Nicholas Cage’s eyes peer into a snake’s mind as we watch our living memories in rewind from behind
spysgrandson Jan 2015
they do not speak  
mouths sutured shut  
their words, thoughts, appear on their skin  
like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not
by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels  
that maimed them  

they do not speak  
though their screams appear
as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants,
their whispers as smooth vowels
on their exposed hides      

they do not speak  
but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings  
the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes
and the sound stars made  
upon colossal collapse  

they do not speak
but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code  
“lesser beasts” read with feral snouts
and see on the breached breaths
the silenced try
to conceal    

they do not speak  
though they see the mocking mouths of their captors
and their words that fly through the air  
slicing through these mutes, as if
they were never there
inspired by the lobotomized, either by knife or by potent potion, and the lunatics yet roaming among us, smelling of truth but not saying a word
Entangled in this lost love this
New trust all wrapped in
New lust this gray scale
Between being alone and in love
The enigma I am,
Existing between the borders
Of feeling enough leaning up against that hard line
Marking off space for the insufficients,
Deaf,loners and mutes and
All those awkward adolescents,
Loitering on the far side of sanity.
Any body ostracized for being different than
what ever normal means.
Or those lonley people like me.
your meek and vulnerable,
For something on the other side
I fiddle around somewhere in the middle
Sometimes I’m so sad
And I just don’t cry.
It just wont work
And then when you have me laughing
Side aching gasping
I think of all the little things
And now that I feel safe
I can take a breath,
I want to cry about everything.
What the hell does that mean?
There finely something to feed
the ache in my chest.
I feel livelier I feel brighter
And sadder in the same ways
But I’m like a beacon shining through the broken
Hanging to the notion that broken dreams
Can heal too and when they get together
They can transform like a caterpillar
Into the butterflies in you.
When you smile it’s like a glimpse at a truth
I keep chasing after but have never really seen
Heading contrary to this person I became.
You excite me into being something I am but have never lived
And I’m fighting to see who she is
I’m pinning myself against the answers to the questions
About who this new person really is.
And wondering the part in it you will play,
Kicking my self for my uncertainty in the claim
Of being broken or brave
At this silent admission of my wanting you to stay.
WoodsWanderer Dec 2015
Blue eyes
Hold mine captive.
Sweet scent of sunshine
Mutes the light traffic as
shadows play in the vibrant green
of the overhead maples.
His laugh
sudden though musical
Fills me with satisfaction
This boy with the blue eyes
and the pondering lips
Harbours a magnetic pull
The north
Which attracts my south
His mind a lacework
Of thoughts thought far too much
Far too often
But always real, always true
which is rare, in any blue eyed boy.
Jon Tobias Apr 2012
The movement of her body was entirely too loud

She is desert throat gasps
When the water is so good
She doesn’t stop for air

Can hear her comin’
Her rusty train wreck tremble
On loose tracks

Her collapse is a cinderblock rain
The crumble is so much quieter than the crash
Her crumble is so much quieter than the crash

Her hands shake as she swipes her EBT card for the fifteenth time
She puts back the bacon this time
Throws down 5.50 for the Marlboros

She talks to herself
Slams ever door she enters
Every door she exits

Her children think she is crazy

She is crazy

She is a body built
On passive aggression
And the threat of a shaky foundation
When the earthquake hits

Any day could be my last day you know

Her son turns up the tv
Her daughter plugs her headphones into her cd player

Do you all think I am talking just to hear myself talk?
And if you don’t stop sleep talking
Telling me you’re going to **** me
I am sending you to the hospital

The boy mutes the tv
Dries his eyes before they’re wet
He shakes his head
Begs her not to do that
Says he doesn’t know he’s doing it
Says he doesn’t want to **** her

She walks away
And he is left wondering

I remind him later
That we were not raised on truth
So it’s hard sometimes
To trust people

I put a lock on his door
Tell him to shut himself in at night

As for the mother
We don’t talk anymore

Like I said
She’s crazy
And I’ve got too much of that myself already

Somewhere a door is slamming
Somewhere cinderblocks are crumbling quiet
There is a sizzle like slowly cracking glass

I feel it crawl my spine
It crawls his

The girl misses it
Head buried in pop culture
Going deaf in trying to drown out
Her mother’s noise

Do you think I am talking just to hear myself talk?

As a poet I ask myself the same thing

Ask how far the apple can fall from the tree

If any one of us are lucky

It will be just far enough
First line donated by the continually awesome Nicole (Lady) Adams
Anais Mostly May 2013
Hotel room a/c fans faded red curtains
Lamp shade mutes the generic glow
Side stepped your way into something so certain
A dance no one  means to learn
Yet,  everybody knows

Yeah, you used to want something and you lost it in your lover's eyes
Fatal to acquiesce
No you can't acquire the original wonder you gifted him the year he said good- bye

You were too young to fathom
Now the monopoly houses in the suburbs look like geriatric wards

Easy blueprints to dispise
Cheap siding to realize

You dream of nothing
Your thoughts aren't your own

I promise that I won't wait
There is nothing I would change
The parts of me that I don't know
City to city
Continents and languages
One  woman alone
I promise you nothing

P.s. you can have my bones
Michael W Noland Dec 2012
The automaton
Encrypting a nation
And devils
A bio-mechanical equation
Living in circuits
Under pavement
In eternity
Are the angels
The demons
The adamant
The legion
Cursing from bended knee
In the triviality
Of truth
Are we
Not to be
But seen
Between the seams
Of perceived reality
Off children's dreams
Breeding the themes
Into memes
And scattering
the practicality
The capacitors
our hurt
The whispers
Into blurts
For the world to hear
Not my words
My word
Wordless in itself
Silent as the film
The filth
With the music of my youth
Leaking doubt
from the roof
Rerouting the abuse
Rescinding the ruse
And rebooting
With the other
7 billion fools
As toothless mutes
Sparking mutiny
Amongst troops
Pursued by armadas
Of savage sonatas
Of cleaners
Meaning to
demean us
In the cleavers
That be-heave us
Or our humanity
Self created
In the slated
Boxes to think in
To tinker
Is sin
and again
The denser
To death
In breathless
To the addiction
In step
To rest
My head
On the *******
Of your disbelief
I'm still asleep
Counting the sheep
Counting the creeps
My sub routines
In a sea of snakes
Pricers Feb 2019
The shadows of worlds from her were surrounded the heart from every angle that left only one passageway to the heads component go neutral department the princess walked bye but was mere set into motion not to do anything other than decompose the love of your next life
Em Glass Mar 2016
Dead flowers are brittle, break
Dust covers the things you gave me,
mutes them, claims them, overtakes
them, squeezing the pages of books
together until they choke,
clouding the glass jar that you use
as a vase for the dead flowers.

Dead flowers do not need water, live
You made
the bed this morning
so if memory failed me
I would have no way of seeing today
that you were here last night.
And when I blink my eyes,
for that moment they're closed
I cringe with the sudden goodbye,
every instant turned away from your face
filled with the graceless empty
of having just finished a book.
No longer able to live in its eyes,
burrow into its spine, nestle
into the crook
of its neck.

dead flowers are brittle, break easy,
please, please be careful
with this–
Sprishya Aug 2013
She mutes the TV
"What the **** is happening to the world"
I wish you could get in my head
And just hear the thoughts that play around
There’s a lot happening in there
Or better yet, just give me head
The news lady on the TV is quite hot
I bet she gives amazing head too
If only you could learn that
From all the news you watch
Make CNN more interesting
Then maybe I’d care
About the world news

(Kathmandu, Nepal 8/29/13)
Joshua Quinones Nov 2011
Impartial to the frigid air,
We pallid cherry blossoms bear
A dreary warmth on dismal days
And Romeo on passing by
Will pause to comb his matted frays
Of toil under lidded sky
And smile as our sleeping sways
Become his absent lover’s hair.

And Juliet with windswept eyes,
While taking linens in to dry
Will hesitate to swallow deep
The tonic of restoring will
That raining wraiths for hours steep
With spices of a lonesome chill,
But we who taint the brew shall keep
Her pines of He in vast supply.

But Year by Time is seasoned strong
And autumn mutes the swallow’s song
And winter chokes the poignant flow
Of beauty from our cotton breast
And when the dawn forgets to glow—
In cambium we sleep repressed—
Depart the fickle Romeo
Who fails to tote his heart along.
Marti Nov 2013
Bodies cross the floor in the train station late at night
life is a spark
contained in the quirks and stories
of the passers by
their laughter, their pain, their corruption and beauty
all the words left unspoken like another world
shadows on the impressions of everyday sun and star shine
footprints on snowy days
Does no one else feel the world so keenly
So strongly as to find the perfect sunrise, a dance, rain and lights on the highways,
crossing boundaries into the passion of a lover's arms
Has no one else made my choice to feel the blistering pain as well as the ecstasy highs
..the ones that exist in the vicious winter's night, the crystal beauty of snowflakes,
touches of fingertips, whispers in the dark, its a cocktail of the senses, a drug of the truly living
I see the world in another way where the shadows dance the tune to idle day dreams
the trains contain the lost wandering souls of the lost by choice and the lonely mutes of passion
I keep calling...
There's this howl like the wind on the high mountains
its stuck inside my chest and I can't voice it
like a note of a song that gives me shivers I can't sing
stripped naked in the rain

— The End —