"netherworld" poems
im a self describing a self
a face on a liquid surface
a plasticity
a brain
a three pound infinity
always remodeling itself
and making new copies
a copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
a massive accumulation of copies
each a slight distortion
from it's original eminence
a history of minute alterations
all subtle deceptions
my so-called reality
a memory
of
a memory
of
a memory
a repetition pouring the self out
self corrupting the self
until it is somebody else
a fibbing shifty double-dealing soft machine
trying to remain intact
it's signature
a disjunctured awareness
my cells talk **** about each other
i'm more microbes than human
every synaptic light of the divine casting a shadowed past
a devil to the true origin
a mangled remembering
my pillar of reality
spirit from matter
not the other way around
i no longer recognize myself
am i human
or perhaps a robot
an alien
a walk in
that left the original inhabitant
disembodied
to wander perplexed in a netherworld
lost and crying
or, just a bad copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
of
a co
py
of
a
a
co
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
How do I hate thee? I cannot count the ways.
That you are a clueless, narcissistic proto-fascist
Are words so true
They make me rue
That I’d not the durst
To use them first.
But here are a few
That well may be new
To vilipend you.
You move limacine-like
Into the nasty netherworld
Of our national nuttiness
Spinning whigmaleeries
That you prompt gailliardese
Among those not yet dead of brain.
You are a ********* a blatherskite,
And a fanforan.
So How do I hate thee?
With the breath,
Smiles, tears,
Of all my life,
And if Fate choose,
I shall but hate thee greater
After death.
- Dan Wick
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
You are the seeds of Hades.
When I look at you,
My soul bleeds with desire.
Without you,
I starve.
Tempted by you,
my mouth parched,
I close my eyes and devour you.
Each bite I take bounds me to your underworld.
Here I suffer.
Here I am alone.
… but here I have you.
So devour me.
For I would rather suffer with you
in an endless netherworld
Than to be quenched by another.
Aug 12, 2022
Aug 12, 2022 at 9:56 PM UTC
liminality;
barely there
ask if it matters
care if you dare
believe in impossibility
mind framing liminal spaces
places of liminal mind-frames
filaments between contexts
capturing subtleties as moths
liminally reaching inwards
map of a shady threshold
twilight netherworld border
between now & everywhen
cusp of crisp discovery
intangible as of late
liminal during daylight;
stars, fireflies, lanterns
night itself being liminal
colors need brightness
shadow for textures
whispering worlds
peripheral vision
vibes and feltsense
inner underworlds
embracing hell
reversing it
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
Persephone smiles the darkness to light
Yet I am but blinded by my own vice
Twas my greed which choked her dreams of youth
To ferment her innocence in sweet vermouth
I bear the warriors of battles lost
Greet them with warmth bitten by frost
And heroes who see the journey through
To the Elysian Fields where hope's renewed
I cage the souls whose just deserve
To feed the fires beneath the earth
Tormenting Demons with whips of flames
Wicked Witches Inflicting infinite pain
Who am I but that which has been written thus far
The God of the Netherworld, Lord of Brimstone and Fire
Yet more than that, I've become and so I am
So fear me not less thou be ******
Persephone smiles the darkness to light
For those who dare to stand and fight...
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
dedicated banishment
self inflicted, echoing
physical displacement
from permanent coronary scarification
devouring accidentally my lacerated pulmonary edema
cauterizing weakness into cement
thermodynamically frozen muscles
umbrellas on parade in your city
netherworld for my regret
disreputable raincoats rubbery ebbing
against a tide of discontent
ringing out like let-downs
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Wondering through
the complex mazes
of the wind,
trying to feel beyond
what I cannot see;
trying to see beyond
what I can feel ―
The echoes of the breeze
invigorate the stillness
The weight
of a world heavy
expands like the traces
of life lived
packed deeply beneath
jagged fingernails
Lost in the wilderness
of my soul,
a feral wind
abides silently
as I wonder alone
from end to end
... side to side
through a portal
shapeless as the wind
Blinded by a collective
bioluminescent light
rooted deeply within,
intimately touching
crystalline fountains
as the deepest pools
of innate blackness unfold
in the wake
I reverently touch
the inward rhythm
where a heart strong
runs alone …
feeling its
pulsing cadence
quake and thunder
in reach …
Rivulets thrumming across
the burgeoning blossom
of soothing netherworld seas
Washing away
all the memories made
like the shapeless waves of wind
moving the stillness
beyond
wild is the wind ... 1. 27. 2017
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
today we visit graveyards
turning over the wormy soil
to uncover the exquisite corpse
though we were told to
let the dead bury the dead
on this day we unbury
the dearly departed
relishing transcendent
embraces and cool
cervezas with jolly
amigos and la
familia who have
gone on before
we wrap ourselves
in graveblankets
to complete warm
circles of love
embracing our
beloved companeros;
gleaning netherworld
heavenly rest wisdom,
sharing the laughter
of trite earthly concerns
we’ll roll speckled tortillas
on smooth tombstone mesas
to feast on Mariachi tacos
brimming with spicy queso,
chased with another cool sip
waltzing with the holy bones
to the candle lit reveries
of this evenings
flowing melodies
Mercedes Sosa & Joan Baez
Gracias a la Vida
Dia De Muertos
Diego Rivera
Oakland
11/1/13
jbm
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
The Cambrian period had 7000ppm of CO2 in the atmosphere.
That was a time of the perpetual fire.
Even though the solar luminosity at the time was 4% weaker than today, the earth was much hotter due to the free amounts of carbon dioxide.
Slowly chemical weathering and living organisms bound the carbon in the atmosphere so, at the time of the Carboniferous period, it had reached 180ppm.
The earth was much cooler. A wonderful time with 34% oxygen in the air.
Then after this period, flood basalt eruptions, such as the Siberian traps and the Deccan traps released vast amounts of CO2, and this caused the earth to heat up again.
That was an inferno. 90% of all life died.
This followed by slow weathering out of CO2 and subsequent cooling.
When the CO2 levels are in low and balance the earth temperature change due to the Milankovitch cycles. During such period the climate always changes.
We even had ice ages during this period.
Now there is no flood basalt eruption at all. This time it is we humans who released the CO2 in the atmosphere. It took us one hundred years.
Earth will be warm. It will be hot.
(Source: youtu.be slash r7aZ6vqCk2E)
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
I’m wrapped in a netherworld
between fear and urgent turmoil
a shady region of late twilight
on the edge of dreadful night
what to do with the light.
Like the nightingale whose song
brings pausing, sadness, and hope,
blinking in a landscape of plains and slope
sadness of a creative life’s ending
a blending of sand and the hand of God.
My gut clinched in a tempest
rowing unknowing for shining sky.
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 6:31 PM UTC
A grassy field, blowing in the breeze,
A peace surrounds, entirely at ease,
A deer stands guard, basking in the heat,
Unnecessary, trouble it won’t meet.
Years pass.
A nice corn field, blowing in the breeze,
A distant house, shelter under lease,
A cattle herd, grazing in the field,
Hay barrels lay, rising like a shield.
Years pass.
An asphalt road, blowing in the breeze,
A near city, old ways had to cease,
A few cars pass, bullets to the past,
Lights gleam nearby, piercing the field’s cast.
Years pass.
A barren land, blowing in the breeze,
A tumbleweed, bouncing across the freeze,
A netherworld, being void of life,
Only darkness, result of time’s strife.
Years pass.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
it saws old rain in my skull
and your thoughts take a tour; wet and heavy
and quietly, the dirt shifts in the metal tracts
*you break me every single time
my internal spilling is entangled
hopelessly*
my summer-psyche enmeshed in your season
and forever swallows a few more ribs
don't wake the children of the light
for their feathers will burn beneath my nails
a storm hangs patiently on the wall
like a delighted painting made from frantic crystals
and I skitter from your towering moods
yet the moon dances in and out of every calm abyss
the lid is no more vacant than my veins cursed with
your silence
like algae, I slip on
my terror squeaks like a vehicle possessed
cheeks go ashen in my gay smiles
you will blush, in secret at what I will do
to you
sails lift on garlicky air in a port where ships don't wait
and my tongue loosens another melody only doubt hears
I'm completely in your hands
and willing for that crush
my acts for coins fall meaningless in embedded frustration
don't come to the table, then
keep the shades drawn
only the sense of phantoms
will be hanging in my smoke
intoxicating me to radiance
racing through to the ripples in your day
I'll keep lancing pebbles across the ocean's surface
they will never really reach the riverbed
frosty comes in agonising diamonds
a feast of distress sitting urgently
a shudder flutters through me, imperceptible
reduction of sweetness
a date with the cherubs from a netherworld
my nose feels the snows you carry
and I know you constrict still
my language falters and thinking shatters
and although slumped and vulnerable, it flourishes.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
Drowning in old sorrow
Yet ignoring the extended hands
Utterly selfish to dare expose vulnerability
A deep rooted want to become a-
part of the bleak sky
But, truthfully known the earth-
would be a final resting place
Why does one chose the walkway-
that caresses a personal netherworld?
Each portion of forced effort falls short
Especially in the eyes of the inner perfectionist
My closest friend is a crippling emotion
It sends consistent reminders-
in my dreams-
of my broken
aspirations.
Nightmares are a lingering-
background in my head
Why must detest my own blood?
For it is brimming with the corruption of loathing.
The engraved disappointment-
I grew to be-
Is even repulsed
by the soul within.
*Plaster a grin
and keep it all in.*
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 5:25 AM UTC
i have no words for emptiness
i'm a bulwark of clots and knots
death is a *****
in a party mask
her seduction a cruel bite
we have always lived for
nakedness on a pyre
makes the man
the bodyless are toasting at a college breakfast party
in the netherworld
of new birthed astral lights
the dead living
somersaulting like fantasmal flux
while we the living dead
gimp through labyrinths time-space
marking spired hands of a clock
that *****
like a black glove
towards endless white-knuckle struggles
no matter our destiny
in a dream of forms
like run on *****
a truth only the dead know
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
A darkened bar
An old guitar
A stage that once played host
To all the Delta greats and now
to Robert Johnson's Ghost
An old man
His spitting can
A boy from up the coast
Learning how to play the blues
In the home of Johnson's Ghost
You gotta feel the music boy
You sure don't feel too much
Your fingers skipping half the notes
You're playing double dutch
Slide it, let the music meld
That's what folks all want the most
You got to feel it, yes sirree
Like Robert Johnson's Ghost
Five hours passed
Time went fast
But what he learned the most
Was feel the notes
That were wrote
By Robert Johnson's Ghost
The spirit has to fill you
You have to suffer for the blues
You can't come in and play for us
In shiny, brand new shoes
The old man
his spitting can
Made the young boy cry
He played the notes
That Johnson wrote
on the day that Johnson died
Until you feel the music boy
And stop playing double dutch
You got to slide the fingers son
Don't use the guitar as a crutch
Remember where you're playing
And to who it still plays host
You're playing for the netherworld
And Robert Johnson's Ghost
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
An unfenced field
of memories awoken ,
frozen pastel flowers
color fast ,
though fading
on borrowed time
A one-way footpath
disappears unencumbered
between the snowdrifts
leading across
the winter stilled
iced up creek bed ,
coursing a path
of least resistance
destiny unknown
Changing tawny petals
scatter like potpourri ,
fallen collateral
in the aftermath
a beautiful dream's
passing light
Pressed and dried
memories buried
under dog-eared
tear-stained pages
black topiaries
that grow in the dark
Redemption unbid
and unwelcome,
earthen mineral rights
surrendered unspent ,
Natural order
decomposing
reclamation ,
chilled to the marrow
A scorned lover’s
bated breathe
bared ink unspoken,
Unbidden laments
eerily betokened
in an unseen
netherworld ,
undeniable , yet
bashfully remarkable
I see the frosty
fogged breath
that repents
in choral dialect ,
speaking in known
tongue , with
the absolvable voice
of a bitter cold wind
wind is the wind .... December 20. 2016
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
hes a bone fetcher
in black leather
with a better vendetta
to rip your netherworld
to split your feathered murals
to leave you striped, cold and curled
watching you unfurl
as you beautifully twirl
into the abyss
by that in which you enlist
by that which is not
dismissed
by the soft kiss
from the whispering lips
of the ventriloquist
never to commit
to the ****
never to admit
to the thrill
the anti
of human will
the hand
that crush and ****
the vigilante
the potion in a pill
the loyal fan
the scope glare from the hill
Everything and nothing
in one inverted exhale
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 4:49 AM UTC
through shattered glass a broken mind
in one lone voice terse and cleansed
speaks unspoken thoughts of rusty will
nestled in spirit's brawny grasp
winged notions lay in wait
on woodless edges of fate's forest
relenting for relent's sake
heart-shaped clouds bleed sorrowed sheets
blanketing a clown of shame
huddled atop nervy stilts
embedded in the muck of mourn
furious fields forge fires of rage
a sweltering stench stands tall
in lockstep a ghosts parade
foggy silhouettes stop and gaze
watching, waiting, wanting
to rob future's grave of treasures past
scratched and bruised and battered lands
tattered bands of dreamscape caravans
timeless sands, spineless hands, heartless clans
among these, fate is planned
a distant city stands to fall
infidels shall cringe and crawl
brotherhood of hate begun
redemption of man undone
©Jason Cole
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
shall i strip myself bare
letting those committed to jealousy
see the things in me
that were never there
though they won’t bother
to scratch beneath the surface
to see i have purpose
in this icy netherworld
to live a life in love
so i let go of those
who choose to
never see me
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 8:34 AM UTC
When the river flows
to the cliff for its deadly plunge
into the maelstrom of nothingness
that defines the soul of the netherworld,
you enter into the nirvana
that rests in the stillness of your consciousness.
Heaven's gravity holds you up
to glide over the mundane!
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
david was warning me, i didn't listen
instead i kept on running towards you
controlfreak of the netherworld, goon
my life is like a fairy tale, shimmering
invention and glory, similarly
psychopathic word play, baby doll
schizoprenic flow, i have to write
standing ovation for my family
some people have double standards
sweetlove tried to correct me;
hosting a contest about racism
playing grammar police, she was like:
"could you edit this horrible slang?"
no, it's simply the voice of many people
i demasked your entire outfit, kiddo
never ever will you hear back from me
once upon a time, i grew up, now i'm huge
tall, fat, dope, fresh, i'm ********
adjectives for my people to subsist
my life's a motion picture, get it baby
pipi langstrumpf zöpfe, du lächerliche
throw some german into the mix and be real
dinosaurs are chasing me, as long as i'm on it
paranoia guardians, copycat killers, word
livelong sessions, i'm not hiding myself
behind the mask is a good-hearted sicko
a sick, good-hearted person, no doubt
broad-shouldered and i stick my chest out
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 7:49 AM UTC
here lies, too, his lover still
doting from the daffodils
shrieking, hot and virile; shrill
caressing flesh she's soon to ****
so goes, whence?, the evening train
as she, longing to love again
lust as deep as sugarcane
howl at me between the rain
enter, now, the corpse of faun
carved from wet, unsightly lawn
lithe and nubile as a swan
murky eyes look further on
at last, rise from the netherworld
'round her fearsome finger curled
soul diffused and newly pearl
kissing the form you call a girl
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
prayer of hope, for young and old, who suffer from the slings and arrows sadness and the loss of love; I offer up this prayer of hope and offer you my hand around your shoulders until you no longer require it
more than once,
for lengthy periods,
by events, other people,
my self was eradicated
and limping from day
to night, and J faced
absolutes, choices choking,
alternating alternatives that
offered zero, or even less
than zero, and the inkwell
wasn't refillable, and I could
point to nothing yet encouraging a mystifying purposed existence
then came a woman
who asked nor proffered
conditionals
pre, prior post or otherwise
and
offered up the miraculous
drink, human kindly notice,
snd it
drained the bitters,
began fluid replacement,
and slow resuscitation
and then
poems rebirthed me,
liberated the angry sacred
gory sadness words devoid of glory,
with a reworded score, and
the eyes could write without
a patina filter of jaundiced hatred,
and whispered private internally
many times a beloving
hallelujah
and when ever the remembrance of
the near misses are crackly occasionally appearing, the surge dissipates intact quick
into a netherworld for suppressing
and bid "away with you," and a
thin lipped smile part sneer
for having survived
even
prospered when
then came a woman
and the self, the my self,
returned
after an absence of destructed
decades...deadening decades
and I smile when
the grandchildren tell me
knock knock jokes
and gently knock me on the head,
to make sure I'm alert,
then came woman
who had already~all ready
knocked me on the
heart
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 9:32 AM UTC
“We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits in slithered and too ample pockets.”
Hart Crane, “Chaplinesque”
A footstool in the desert.
A napkin in the netherworld.
A coffee stain in the margin.
Perfumed remains.
Systematic garnish.
Dorothy Stratten climbing Mt. Suribachi.
My late father’s toenail clippers.
Pale clouds over Slauson Avenue on the day after the L.A. riots.
A rhetoric of purpose.
A philosophy of decay.
A poem written to an audience of one.
©David Adamson 2015
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC