"nowhereness" poems
The door out back from a cosy hamlet
is too a thorny one that is not often tread
Just when all seems certain and settled
life comes knocking and seething.
And you go walking the starry path,
the wayward path, the meandering path
to nine yards of nowhereness.
Questions, some are never settled. Invitations
some are never forever. Rhythms are not
made to last, just like the seasons. Winters
are the longest, deepest and darkest
that etch their cold onto pestles of the heart
that want to pound down memories a tonic.
Emerge, shadowy oars, from mists unraveling
by the shorey oceans lining the soul,
Slow here are the sailboats of hope
that we unfurl in sodden winds
and keep rowing on, on to the shoreless zons.
when the cold gets to the bones, I make a bonfire
of all my pasts, longings and belongings,
oh the late gull that shrieks past the silences.
All, but love. That, I cannot burn,
for that I am, I loved, and will love,
change forms, change norms, but that I will.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
****
The poison's me the choice is up to you. Good lord, if they take away all the fashion houses, the rain men won't have anything to wear.
Naked armies, fighting the stories that just someone's grandfather wrote. Is it even real if it goes to sleep at night? Does it wake up to address the evening sky? I don't know....three heroic words the human race can barely say. Isn't the want for pizza an international religion, can we agree on that?
What mind of man gets it in his head that it's his hand that receives death to choose? In what nowhereness did these lonely princes lose everything they knew? Did they hear that killing isn't cool like it was in the 11th Empire- to make light of a situation or just a few lumens too, is pretty rad for any human to do. I may be a vampire but I need a bit of daytime if I want to continue to worship the dark.
It's been 4000 years, and I'm still looking for her, the way she talked to us after the sea we crossed through. The poison is me but the choice to take it is up to you. The rain men may come, but the water dance's for a seldom few. We could starve just for the thrill of wrapping ourselves in pieces of the moon.
Ne me quitte pas. Ne pas passer la lumière. Je vous attends ici, tout comme je le fais toujours. Il est dommage, je suis passé par là avec vous attends.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Silence builds an awful wreckage of a girl
It feeds on loneliness and creates a void
Gray shadows haunt and torment and torture
A teenager is stricken and destroyed
There is no sound of laughter or happiness here
The little one has thrown in the towel today
Somber, melancholy moods decay the soul
It is futile to hope and dream and pray
Emptiness builds a home in this woman
In this girl, this child where hollows have bred
A deepening sea of nowhereness consumes
And eats away at every connecting thread
Confusion feeds like a savage inside her,
Leaving nothing considered worthy remains
Destined to walk through life less ordinary
Alone, exiled, different and disdained.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
In a tragic of despair
that she could espy of something unseen
but what I know now in the nowhereness of triumph is the oblivion that’s long forsaken . My mother, the earth , has loved the truth of my words . My mother of memories, where my intricate roots embedded in her many wombs , with her,
my mother who is the mind to my soul, with her crystal teeth, puncturing the veins of my spirit, I am uncured from the illness of illusion.
with the love that is filled with the sickness of the cerebral ;
that every nerves, they only now yearn to forget, to erase, to delete,
what should never end , will ;
of those forward to ,
is like catching light,
my mother's arms, wrapping my dead body,
for that great freedom that ought demands
but now encountered swords that I see no farther onward impulse stirr'd,
from every dew-drop in this sequestered heart.
it inculpates the soul’s wigwam,
to love , that is unpure
powered of perception ;
for me , do so as what say I
the abyss will never know -- without noise, bad field of unfamiliarity, to create the creation of layers, layers of spectre, phantasm, apparition;
I exorcise & exterminate this being of nothingness, name that is uncelebrated ; & be merrily skipping in their long farewell,
you gave your face , I gave mine
& there shall be a bow of
hypothesis, musings, mirage
I inject, dementia
trying responsibly to digest over
my own ignis fatuus
/
there will be hanging gardens
the commotion of untendered bones
down beneath your cloaks,
knowing sympathy, to bully an empathy
death come, came & in repeat
through the lullaby of Antioch,
sorrow wholly unexpected, in scarcely discernable; but far descried
black winged demon vanished through the chested barrier of feelings, when justice lynchings in the centre of my core,
twixt vows, where from descended upon myself alone, indecent, in deep scrutiny —
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC