"nonage" poems
that man has a fever (for flesh),
one would think
that one would
need to be cooled
in order to leave her undressed.
always hanging 'round the ladies
strong and handsome
hollywood smile,
the good adonis, a fair tease.
but his nonage was not dominated
by girlish squeals or hearts,
boys like him were quiet-like
and kept under the dark.
(for what if they found out?)
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-penetration,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:
Here a thicket
of sycamores, there a baldaquin
of pinnate branches, yonder
a periphery of marigolds, below
a cacophony of hyraxes, above
the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
jink of a darting swift and moribund
crawl of a mollusk;
Hymenoptera coaxing
their haploid broods into teeming
life as a cell of the swarm
and viviparous apes cajoling
suckling chimerae at the fathomless
fountainhead of a rosy breast;
Higher still,
Cirrus cephalopods traversing
the trench of sky, dandelions
hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
wavering hum on cockchafers'
forewings and a turbine's
bombinating pulse, the chattering
of roots ravenous for depth --
Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --
inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
nonage of towering evergreens --
the plaintive shrift of elegiac
redbreasts a goad to silent elation --
A likeness unlike
(vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
(the eyes of ignorance closing)
(the mouth of the mystery)
that spurns the truth of tongues
is nature naturing.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
she says I'm too young,
but sadness manifests the same
so I place my broken jaw
back into its broken place
a modern epimetheus
dragging my prudence by the reins
confronted with the trouble that'd been steeping
for years on the fire
and like the ferris wheel that spun every summer
that I lost interest in
as I sloughed more and more of my childhood skin
I look off into the fog, salt and sand
'n the moon perched so highly,
a king in the sky
sending off its armed stars to cut through the night
****** from this nonage fantasy
by the bitter taste of tobacco in my mouth
maybe I can't love anyone
not yet
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
Somewhere between
Life and death
In the borderland
Of an awake and a sleep
You strive very hard
To come back to nonage,
Somewhere on the timeline
Of creative visions and dreams
In your inner streets of "Drohobych"
In the search for lost indentity-
You fight with crocodiles
Waiting for the "cinnamon shops",
When you try to catch values
In all crying corners.
But they run away like mirror images,
When you travel by tram
Wthout a front wall
And you look for the colors
in this colorless reality...
But somewhere beyond self-mythology
You still await for a train...
And nobody knows of
Its true timetable...
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
As this energy restart's over flown
isolating pain with Illustrations thus our convictions
our afflictions our endeavors united
Our love defined a declined selflessness exile,
Passions Achieved
yes , we are trace's of matter that no longer matter
We write- the declaration, our orders 'to Design.
Painting Christ cries With what new tragic world order a view
a peaceful monk chasing purity, forevermore a rising son with eyes
passion achieved
whom in which it is in thyself so curl with anger
art thou thy future, thy nonage hidden aside deep waters ,Regressing Depression Defacing aggression with progressing a cure by pressing brush to canvas.
pushing a non existing perfection only for humanity a last
Passion achieved
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
i.
you can’t stop the man who’s tucked himself away. like mine, your mother doesn’t lose her voice but disappears when quoted. give the babies to jesus. god wants us old.
ii.
I lasted in childhood as long as any who believed a scarecrow got its name for being scared. though I’d go out like a light, my father never fell asleep on his feet.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Going within to feel
the war moves.The pagan
gods have come out
on parole.
Was it an esoteric event
to propitiate a violative
divinity? From crude to soft
affirmative nod, I am going to-
see the game of chairs.
Between sin and virtue,
wrong and right, nonage
always jumps into.Too proud to accept
the defeat.First the annihilation
and then the fathering.
This genesis had no design
no vision.A miraculous journey
downhill.The dawn is still
faraway.Nightlong agony
will continue.
Unclenched I hold the pen
to say nothing.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC