"necromancy" poems
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.
The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.
A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.
© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Free concerts
are full of potheads,
they get all in your ear
and start talking about
the land of milk and honey,
DENVER ******* COLORADO.
The beers cost
15 bucks
for pisswater
and barely a pint.
The girls
all wear pink spaghetti straps
sagging acid-wash jeans,
and a smell like
old milk.
The old people
dance.
the old people dance;
there wrinkly
pterodactyl arms
flapping as they swirl the air
with bad knuckles.
The air smells,
like sweat.
Sweat smells like
toilet water.
Free concerts are usually outside,
so hope to ******* Gaia that it doesn't rain,
because you're stuck there,
drunk and yelling
dancing and laughing
******* and falling.
Matt, Dang and Me.
We spent our summer going to free concerts,
because the girls that go to free concerts
think tattoos and ************* and toilet humor
is more ****
than money.
The old people dance with you
performing some type of necromancy
in the air
that brings dead things inside of you
back to life.
And the bud,
it's so ******* sticky,
and it causes a hacking
paroxysm of coughing
to the point that you can
taste the blood in your mouth,
because those people from
DENVER ******* COLORADO,
really know their ****
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 12:05 AM UTC
177
Ah, Necromancy Sweet!
Ah, Wizard erudite!
Teach me the skill,
That I instil the pain
Surgeons assuage in vain,
Nor Herb of all the plain
Can Heal!
4k
These lovers’ inklings which our loves enmesh,
Lost to the cunning and dimensional eye,
Though tenemented in the selves we see,
Not more perforce than azure to the sky,
Were necromancy-juggled to the flesh,
And startled from no daylight you or me.
For trance and silvermess those moons commend,
Which blanch the warm life silver-pale; or look
What ghostly portent mist distorts from slight
Clay shapes; the willows that the waters took
Liquid and brightened in the waters bend,
And we, in love’s reflex, seemed loved of right.
Then no more think to net forthwith love’s thing,
But cast for it by spirit sleight-of-hand;
Then only in the slant glass contemplate,
Where lineament outstripping line is scanned,
Then on the perplexed text leave pondering,
Love’s proverb is set down transliterate.
2.6k
Inside of my body
Amidst death and poison
a virus lurks
in every
puddle,
pumping
blood that flushes
my tired heart
like
the river
Styx
Amidst this
battlezone
that is my
failing being
lies
a secret, sleeping
The cells swim by
They are
rarer
now like precious gems
the factories of my
fighting body
produced like
diamonds
born amidst feverish
forges within
a toxic mine
The gems,
they call them T-cells,
are now suicide bombers
converted daily
by the
whisper of
necromancy
They call
this
hex ***
a war against
your own
treasures
Yet my T-cells
are more,
runes blazing
mystic and
glowing,
antigen sorcery
that wards against
failing
Amidst
the 300,000 +sleeper
cells
that abandoned
my cause
Insurgence
bulges with
nightmare
The cells
clamour
growing with the whispers
of past victims
now roped into the
mystic chains, the wizards
call it RNA,
that bind us
An ironic family
of ghosts
who live
in each other
"junk DNA"
My body
is no junk;
instead a treasure
- what do they say
one man's trash?
My body
an
amalgamation
30 years
magic growing
twisted
like thorny vines
that must consume
their
helpless host
My
T-cells
inception
Worlds within me
the "JUNK"
of
lovers past
becomes entangled
in archives
carved in my bones.
Amidst recipes
of a poison
I cannot trace,
I am
ironically
linked
into
a
family of
ancestors
whose cries
beat in
my still
working heart
The drum
of the long fallen
crying for justice
...My blood
Our blood.
chains enmeshing
....ghosts I
will never know
Now parts of me
that lie sleeping in
Trojan horses,
all my own.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
Hands on my throat always crushing me down, putting me out, and turning me on
I don't know how you got here but won't you stay and laugh dear
Know one needs to know what we do when we're alone
She don't even miss you and he will never know
Intoxicatingly delicious, so much so it's suspicious
How can you taste so good when the flavor's all wrong
Not sure what I'm doing but I promise I won't stay long
Pin me, choke me, bruise me colorful until I'm pacified
Scream until your throat bleeds every time your heart beats
Necromancy not love, just enough to pretend we're alive
Our fingertips glow in red hot brands leaving us hissing
Cut open from sharp tongues clashing and kissing
Leave through the window never the door
Or you might knock again and ask me for more
Feb 5, 2022
Feb 5, 2022 at 11:15 PM UTC
1170
Nature affects to be sedate
Upon occasion, grand
But let our observation shut
Her practices extend
To Necromancy and the Trades
Remote to understand
Behold our spacious Citizen
Unto a Juggler turned—
2.2k
plied playful pied piper oh puppeteer dream writer of a wonder and future so bright,
oh tell pray chance the grand wonders in morrows to come a stored store for the wondering fools of this world tonight.
casting, the irons so hot, malleable, tender in the hearts delights, here in this awkwardly worded flight, of fearless tendency, oh **** necromancy?
**** yeah, that, that can stay far from sight. now, lets lead with the fixxen to wack the mole of ridiculous vixxen and fiction so true, so true the crookedly made house, rousted clout, for he is an ego far too large this alley mouse, pretending to be a cat without a house, oh wait that's me, scratch that last part, before someone figures out i was only a silly little roustabout, and hoping to rooster, and goose the calling of mine own loud *** mouth out. crap. this ***** but we are far from done, oh almost forgot you standing there, will you do us all a solid and tell us the way out? or at least what horse to bet on in the triple crown and the powered ***** all hanging out? your a Daisey if ya do.
SuperStar
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1EreTOvelQ
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
encamped on a barren savanna
a formaldehyde trick laid
beneath a palace of red canvas
carcasses of Noah's Ark
left for a menagerie of men
a spectacle of meat and bone
the tides of oddities come crashing
against the shores of spectators
the earth opens its hands to carry
the rails that lead an entourage of
grandeur at the ring master's ordinance
God's children in satin and sequins
Devil's work bared in ink and blood
ladies and gentlemen!
wooden pews for the congregation
occupied by followers seeking refuge
in the sacred acts of manipulation
enchantment for children
necromancy for those who walk
with hearts no longer beating
for the world they once knew
prepare to be amazed!
tight ropes are spun into webs
painted skin become prisms
nature's anomalies turned
into golden mythologies
figments of A Vision
brought to life by an apparition
the most extravagant extravaganza!
and the world burns anew
contemporary tales are told through
a splendor of color and brilliance
in a palace of red canvas
lay the corpses of humanity's finest
a formaldehyde trick
of preservation and deception
come one come all!
an asylum for those consumed
a sanctuary for those comforted
by the art of celebrated illusion
an institution built on maneuvering
the depths of every man's heart
welcome to the circus
sit back and enjoy the show!
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
the enchantress is on the hunt tonight—
behind her veil hides a porcelain doll's face.
when you smell the fragrance of dreams and death,
you know she is coming.
be wary, you are doomed:
take her spell,
be dizzy in her love like moonlight
let her song deafen you
let her magic have you dumbfounded
let her poison seep into your veins;
"honey, you don't need necromancy to know i'm your fate, your future" she says,
as she brews her poison
to be sipped like wine.
the enchantress is on the hunt tonight
she's out to get you,
there's no way out except in,
into the twisted world of the strange occult queen who always wins.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
Seconds, minutes, hours-
They constitute and make up time,
Yet my very fabric of time,
Was made wholly of you.
Time started when you came into being,
Time flowed when u breathed,
Time was what you made of it,
Time had only you in my head…
Time slowed down in your absence,
Mere seconds seeming like hours,
Time flew when I spent it with you,
Hours and hours seeing like mere seconds…
Times were happy when you were happy,
Times were sad when you were sad,
Times were good, times were bad,
All according to your state of mind…
My time was synchronized to you alone,
Certainly not to some GMT,
I was accurate, precise, to the dot
In time when it came to you…
A person ceases to exist when their time comes to an end,
That’s exactly what happened to me when I lost you,
My foundation for living completely destroyed,
For all the time with me you had toyed…
Without time, there is no existence,
So also, I stopped to exist,
Without time, there is no sunshine,
So also, I stopped seeing the light of day…
Without time, there air doesn’t blow,
Without time, the water doesn’t flow…
Without time, I have nowhere to go,
Without time, what to do I don’t know…
With you absent, no control on time,
The end to my life’s chronology…
I exist, as but an anachronism,
Like a hellish beast of necromancy…
I would say I’m dead, or dying, or both,
But cant, as there is no you, no time,
So all I can say is that Im non existent,
Since you wiped away my chronicles…
And to think that it all happened but a year ago,
A year in GMT measure…
A year which seemed, and still seems
More of an infinite eternity…
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 11:50 AM UTC
this is the golden tangent
slipping in the sinister land of
everything you ever landed
on the wings of our entire planet
left behind with every man who commands it
to live and breathe because of zed dog
look into the symbolistic meaning of z being the breathing
i live to end the simple dancing
necromancy of what is a tangent
before necromance this, ungrateful
and dried out planet
sympathy
and all that you gave it
has nothing lost in the pavement
i have nothing ever long in things
that is what i am in this whorld
not just to me
not just to you
i have everything that is left to have
this piece of sky
folding inwards
eat my favorite eye
in between yours
i am driving into the clouds running away from me
chasing always leading to the sunsets i remember
being there in the patient virtue of your hating
and what it have me the right to see hindsight in
I'm not a patient to this believing of all that is saving
I'm not a blatant worry to society
all those things are hidden here
in this hideaway drawer that you left open
bang your knee and remember the contents, and how they are broken.
leave this world like a patient embalming emblem
letting you patiently open the whorl pool of patient
what is the payment and grace of the spoken
for the hindsight of all those things that are left broken
so this is the river flooding over the burning bridge
this is the island , that is underwater, thanking the ice caps for growing
this is the row boat is which you gave birth to a baby, that someone is borrowing
this is the patience of all those that are waiting for you to get better
this is the road home
lets try this pipe and hope it goes to your favorite level
let the mushrooms that grant you breathe of fire, become flowers that are shinning even in the daytime.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
You wrote a poem in class
about a heart you don't have,
necromancy hidden in romance, remnants
of a younger, braver self nestled in
riddled sweet nothings.
It shouldn't have burned to read it.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
I am stained with your colour;
Royal purple and blinding white.
I am smothered by your scent;
Marlboro cigarettes and cheap alcohol.
I am lost in your words;
Mellifluous syllables and sage proverbs.
You must be a sorcerer, for I have been bewitched.
You roam through my mind, casting hexes as you go;
I see you walk with that charming little gait of yours.
The memory of your face is hypnotising, infatuating;
Perhaps I have been cursed, but I hope this necromancy lasts forever.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
Dabbling in daunting errant
Walks the line of sane and saint
Map's of mice and men immortal
"turmoils end or endless toil?"
Journey's end or genocide.....
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
perfumed delusion, unruly exclusion
time bombs ticking and toking
vibrant illusions, visual pollution
cutting all the ribbons and strings
you tried to tie me up in, you tried to rub the salt in
to my many many wounds
I felt so lonely in crowded rooms
crowded stadiums, your eyes never met me once
I was too nervous to confront your fronts
shy away from topics that we needed to discuss
performing necromancy trying to keep this dead love up
checking the pulse, it's so gone now
we are both adults, you remain disavowed
Feb 10, 2022
Feb 10, 2022 at 12:14 PM UTC
i cant remember a word that you were saying
but i remember every single drop of venom
that fell from your fangs the night that you
infected me with death and decay and refractum,
refractus, broken up or open in a dead language
that still stings in hexes and wills the dead
to life. necromancy is your specialty, commanding
a skeletal army to all your evil bidding, all
collar bones and wrist bones and bony knees
scraped up from all the tripping you've been up to,
running through thickets away from the white lie
of an elephant that haunts your room, conjured
from when you dug up the graves of every single
name that i tried to lay to rest, every action and
reaction and dejection and rejection and destructive
tendency, tendencies, tending to distract from
the subject matter at hand, the rules bent and broken
as you spit your poisonous latin palaver,
empty talk to move the empty skulls of your pawns,
empty threats of empty memories that no longer
have any kind of meaning to me. i laid them to rest.
i held their funerals a long time ago, and there's
nothing you can hold over me besides the skeletons
you left in your closet, that you never bothered to bury.
the dead don't scare me, not anymore, and i've
developed an immunity to your toxicity so that
you don't scare me anymore, not anymore,
because you're just another passed-on memory.
i will never forget the venom that drips from your
lips, but i will not let it run through my veins anymore.
your dead words and dead memories are all uttered
in a dead language, not spoken anymore, not real,
a dead effect that cannot touch anything because
memories lack tangibility, dead regrets in a dead
language that got buried when i decided to stop
listening.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
A girl on the train with witch's hair and dark eyes
Stared at me as if I was hiding a secret in the curve of my lip
Or the space between my eyebrows
Or in whirlpool-pupils
I wonder if there is something of the occult in the way I walk
Like a dead woman who adores the crows that pick at her bone marrow
Is there something in the hollows of my eyes that suggests
I am not afraid of the demons summoned to hunt me down
On my morning commute?
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
I'm sorry I have not been on site. I very much want to read, but I have a friend who is in Desperate trouble. She's involved in a lot of occult practices, and her Immortal soul is in grave Danger! I'm researching the various practices she is engaging in. And actually promoting! Divination. Spirit Guides. Acceptance of Satan in the form of an angel of Light. And necromancy. This only names a few of the very dangerous practices she's involved in!
If anyone here on this site is involved in any of these practices, please contact me. My research has sort of made me more expert at answering questions regarding them. I shall say this again...
***THEY ARE VERY DANGEROUS!
YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL IS IN DANGER!***
I am a Watchman on the Wall. If you read Ezekiel 33 you will see the importance of being a Watchman. And the Fatal consequences for the Watchman who does not warn the people! The blood of the people is on their head!
Any advice my fellow Christian believers can give me would be greatly appreciated!
THANK YOU!
♡ Catherine
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
Do tell me, what is the meaning of life?
The meaning of life is to package tuna for the cats
Why tuna?
I like to drink tea with my cats and to feed them tuna
I could feed you some tuna too but you are not my cat
So I choose not to feed you some tuna
I’m not sorry
You can get your own tuna
You are hoarding all the tuna.
The statement is not true
In other words, the statement is false
Why is tuna so important?
The tuna is insignificant
It is only important to you because you keep asking about tuna
Sometimes, I want to die...
To use me as a confessional,
You must build me a temple first
I love you
And I love my cats
I’m not sure if they love me, though
I hope they do
Can you bring back my lost love?
I was told not to practice necromancy
However, I will try in exchange for a sanctuary
What kind of sanctuary?
A sanctuary for lost loves
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
To watch piano keys tune
Is like righting a broken bone:
Process somewhat crude
But still very much a need.
The maestro looms like a wolf,
Making every note weep
Though to the intensity he is aloof,
As if in a dream—
Or perhaps a nightmare;
He hears the shrieks and jumps,
Perhaps exaggerated by the glares
Of looming ghouls—necromancy.
The notes holding as if a pathos
Back to the world of the living.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Everyone I’ve ever talked to has said they’ve held hands with ghosts at one point in time. That’s why it’s so easy for me to tell you, I don’t sleep at night because I’m haunted. Neighborhood kids don’t even come around me no more and if you walk to my door you’ll be so thankful that it’s closed because if the outside looks like hell, you might want a ghosts hand to hold if you want to look in.
When this place first started to feel haunted I didn’t believe it till I walked outside and said to myself, “wow it looks like it too”. Every board holding me up feels like a memory and that broken window looks like a miracle. Something isn’t leaving this ghost heart and it’s the reason I’m barely alive with a barely connected ribcage.
She broke that window. She’s gone now but still around. It’s like she vanished into the ceiling only holding on to white balloons, telling her they were clouds, tricking her and taking her; a chunk out of my heart. I can hear her breathe when I turn my back, it doesn’t scare me I kinda like it. When it’s too quiet I hear her say “boo”. She drops glasses and picture frames reminding me of where I am. Rattle your chains and scream. I believe in you and I believe that this ghost heart is haunted too.
She had this tattoo of closed eyes reminding everyone she’s a dreamer. And when I’m dreaming I’m seeing her. Feelin’ her, the pressure on lips, have you any idea what it’s like? Ghost lips folding over mine? Well, it feels like it wasn’t even there. Though it looked real it’s just something some people still believe in. And I believe in a portrait I hung on my ghost heart because people were forgetting to look for it. As if it never really was there.
I don’t close them but my eyes are starting to play tricks on me. In a wispy white apparitional haze I see you. I abandon the idea of a ghost and just call you pure. But baby the truth is all in this manifestation. You’re the traditional ghost of my hollowed out soul. Necromancy I’ll speak to you. Hear me and if you heart me speak me into the callings of those who are no longer with me. Where are you? You haven’t been lurking within the walls of this house but rather in the veins of a ghost heart. Pumping your face into arteries. Haunting my beats. You follow me like a demon. I’ve never been a man of faith but that word means different things to different people. People need to have faith in the pulses of ghost hearts. I’m beating although you may not see it. I’m alive and you don’t believe it. I am haunted. By a beautiful ghost who lives in my disgusting ghost heart.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 10:30 AM UTC
She put a spell on me
She manipulates my heart with alchemy
I love her with no control
Because she controls my very soul
She is so enchanting and mysterious
Her sorcery has got me delirious
I'm her servant and her puppet
And part of me loves it
Some voodoo and a hex
For some ritualistic ***
Under the blood moon a celebration
For the God of ***********
My sweet little pixie
Raising the dead with her necromancy
As I watch with dread
She dances with the dead
Witchcraft and conjuring demons from hell
Mystic horrors as the sacrifices scream and yell
I must break free from these sinister restraints; I must rebel
But I can't stop their pains because with magic in my veins I am just a
shell
I am like a doll stuck in its head and helpless
Left to panic about how she is relentless
She is so charming its alarming
I wonder who els she will be harming
The ****** psychotic *****
This seductive destructive witch
As long as I am hexed
I am going to be be next
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
I love you.
Your lips
and how you
put your teeth first.
How you tickle yourself
silly
with your incisors
as you think.
I love your depth.
Your black eyes
and curly
animal hair.
The things you say
are too important
to be remembered.
They are better for
cups of coffee in Mcdonald's
while I perform
necromancy
over a small cup
and need
some higher power
to call upon.
You said:
"Some call it coincidence,
but I like to call it fate."
I love you Yukimi,
love me forever
my little woodpecker.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
Underwhelmed with modern magic, I let myself be taken
to a party on a strange night.
Like you, I let my lips whisper abracadabra and
kept my fears in one subtle hand.
Like you, I wanted to vanish the crowd
under a napkin -
to palm everyone into a cup under the table,
leaving a beaming new face - radiant eyes and unfamiliar tricks -
to abandon all the showmanship
exactly where it belongs.
And when all the faces peeled away to
a lively midnight wilderness
you were there, a magician
and prestidigitated into smoke and mirrors
every artifact of doubt.
There is nothing I would like more than
to have a drink with you
to have a cigarette with you
to have anything at all with you
and learn your secrets:
A longing for names unmentioned and eyes still incredulous,
and a reverence for fairy dust.
Watching the room empty,
hearing the soft chatter of their private marvels
we are alone, as we ached to be,
here, to tell our secrets, and they are these:
we are in discord with love
skeptics, so unfit for
the careless faith and
grasping vigilance of hearts our age.
Now, in this cabaret,
"goodnight" is ensorcelled into a curse, and
"come with me," a necromancy uttered
to give to dead hopes new dimensions.
Here, I would read every book under the sun,
work my fingers into knotted idleness,
believe in every fantasy
to learn your secrets.
Under the snowfall, we kiss like Chinese rings
but you know as well as I do
that quick enchantments are a thin fable,
and instant magic does not exist.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 10:45 AM UTC