Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sam Temple Mar 2014
I sit holding my aching head in calloused hands
experiencing ‘forlorn’
a worn soul aged beyond the calendar
dreary eyes look upon the state of humanity
irradiated babies trading rabies with deviants
live on pay per view
seeing the shape of famous faces
manipulated flesh blankly posed
only desperate oculars show the truth
darting frantically form mirror to mirror
attempting to validate existence through reflection
but not like the monks in Tibet
regret fills bent cheekbones
spackled with Botox and raspberry jam
thinning peak aligns with the occasional grey strand
and I sit wishing only to see people love themselves
Khushi Batra Mar 2018
Your perfect curves

ensnaring over my frame.

Your irresistible soft pink lips

Inviting mine,

Massaging our tongues.

Your jaunty demeanour

making my heart palpitate.

Your seductive smirk

Dovetailing our bodies

Letting me see your gorgeous décolletage

Your bold persona

Purging the tension from my soul.

After your reckless claim

My smock hung loose on your torso

With desire fawning in your oculars.

Making me the purple of your pink.

-Khushi
Unlife Jan 2012
and roused from the back of my mind was
a warm breath of childlike wonder, present
in the twinkling of my eyes
that he called "unmissable," like it was the reason he drew toward me

with a blade called fate to my neck
and promised me escape, finally, since nobody else would.
but he spoke in shimmering riddles, tongue dipped in a persuasive agent.
he did not miss his clarity. he did not miss much anymore.
by his hand, and with God as his witness, he would keep any of that nonsense
far from the equation. he would **** that which once made him feel alive.
walled away somewhere deep inside of him, behind visible ribs and invisible slate
i observed a faraway macabre, and it did not deter me, and it did not want to.
i took his hand, which was good, since mine still trembled.
i let him pull me into the same rank pit
he had occupied for some time now. drawn, quartered.
the skin around his eyes crusting, blackening, oculars submerged in pale.
through needles were salvation; he fully intended to alter pace
and allow himself, for once, something of his doing.
solace, if not brief solace, from wretchedness.
a scarce commodity.
nothing can shine down here.
and i'm surviving on what kills me.
The sky was lost in colors, everything was snowy white, sparkling with whitish clouds that were arranged on top of other pearly ones, which tended to break from the high stupor brought by the Cherubs and Seraphim to receive Vernarth and Alikantus. Arriving at the highest plain, Vernarth saw the Mashiaj who was waiting for him, he was wearing a white garment, and on his neck an ornament that the Hoplite Soldiers of Arbela had given them. When
Vernarth dismounted, and a Hoplomachus could be seen on his Lynothorax, which was the same medallion that warriors carried to face divine death in combat, donated by a Thraex, who had always accompanied him with the Kantabroi with the sulfur mists after dark. rusty battles, and that he wore a manica on his arm that seemed to point with the tip of his finger at chapter
XIX of the Apocalypse of Saint John the Apostle, on both legs an Ocrea labeling the chorus of hexameters that the Sybillas chanted to revive him. And his head rotated three hundred and sixty degrees carrying the Leonatus with another Helmet under his arms with oculars with grid and crest, on his right leg a Xiphos hung like a thelamo that hung from both angles of his legs to approach when carrying his horse thrown by his hands.

His belly heaved with anxiety, in his hands was a folder that Drestnia and Etrestles had written, which had condescended to him from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, saying:

“All the cities of the world will be called Athens…, because from there you will arrive at Patmos where you are in all places. Everything is old because it soon gets dark, and the funeral address is the first death you had when you were an infant..., all the people who are with your majesty yearn for civility that you imply in the legacy of the deep Christmas in Patmos, with tablecloths, wines, rolls and thick Corinthian wines in their plausible Patmian creation,
leaving them in the corridor that reaches the end, where the alabaster replaces the burning manger..., as a story of two stories and battles, which are exalted narrating the wars after they are their dominated lands suspended in the waters of the Aegean, and tinged with an apparent unrealized pact. The whole the world will be called Patmos, where nothing and no one will defeat you
without first a dirge when the gargoyles of your veins sob, when their capitulation is filled with culture that swirls between the white tablecloths of Kissamos and Kimolos, behold where the Sarissas They will parade through the pantheon like thousands of solitary lances towards the perpetuity of the patrimony that doubles the clouds pregnant with liquid bronze, to be
scattered throughout Athens like marble shawl stoles carried by the Meltemi with the prudence of ennobling cousins shocks of the storms that augur your departure. Nothing of minimalism or arbitrariness that cannot be resolved in loopholes that are hidden among the requirements, in which all the threats have admonished the canopy fallen on your integrity, on the Cherubim who fights with his empty hands like a beautiful angel fallen at the dawn of Miletus, being already a state governed by the Hoplomachus with his dyed sword, where you can see what you can be more than a convention of gladiators, just like that and indeed disposed towards the courage of what the daring produces with the infamy of seeing you pray alone in his black stretch.

In everything you were left alone, favorable only to the disagreement of what you should be or do, then return what you can do, you are already a legionnaire who carries the world on his back struck down with his Corinthian Kantabroi. Why did you stain your tanned hands, why somehow did the Nikephoros bring victories that take time to come and go soon? Thirst for victories they bring vessels and flows incapable of satisfying you in the immensity of their anguish and everything is done just when what fits my thinking fills my belly, and what saturates the belly remains tied to the Rudder of your precocious olive trees, from so much that the drum sounds, it turns it into empires of stones that do not coin the subsidiary complaints of their warfare, if you dare to be hostiles who bring food for dinner and everything that spills the tediousness of piling leftovers where nothing else is huge what an insult to sigh.

Vernarth, the world of Messolonghi and its eternity comes to give you the admission of a Commander!, who negotiates with greatness and simplicity, just as you can understand each other from sixty-four springs that have closed the eyes of Pericles just like yours, where the laws will have to compensate and fill vessels that remain empty for this toast  "Stin iyia sas o Khaire" from
Elpenor to your house and health of a Nikephoros devotional or conquest to win over everything,... but stay drunk alive and be reborn in other taps condescending to mythological ups and downs, where the laws revive the second or third vigils of banquets that lead into the orbit of a Hoplite. Do I see you comfortable in the klismós that carry you to the Empyrium, where the scattered saliva mixed with wine is confused with models to take you to your new home? perhaps of particular or unequal equals or relative merits that will make it exist and will prevent the possibility of doing it again. In the eighth Messolonghi Cemetery a great riot has been made, she prescribes to pay you honors with Markos Botsaris at the head of which all the gold spilled on the table will be made with bows and arrows, shields, and spears to take them to Patmos and Athens by river sounds that sound from the Hékein or the formality of lavishing to do or utter, so that everything is in favor of desolate places that will not be felt by all of Greece when they understand that you carry all the cries of the Warriors who hide behind the moor so as not to see they sob, still feeling the drums of the compass of a victory where wine flows that are written in the stands of Epidaurus, signing the chaste peace with their Medical Wars. It seems good to you that the ghosts speak of democracies, and that they also govern them with the spill of satisfying public ovation that only does it with two or three flags, Oh Cóphade I dress in a foreign outfit that enlivens your lightness from head to toe, I want to see you come back to life on the plains without stopping riding with Alikantus, free from all stratagems and fantastic smells of lavender, and grasses toasted by the summer of the hall, oven of Athens. Do not be afraid, we have distances that
are difficult to overcome, it will be the expulsion of our hearts if we allow ourselves to be caught up in the irrigation of their vulgarities that always complain of open will, do not be afraid, Pericles entrusts your departure just like you at sixty-four, in such a Syntagma double of 32 who appreciates you right and left in our companies, with courage obsequiously in becoming where the wind rises in Abdera.

We can dare to say that we are a group of seven, in the association of 25 Syntagma men who will accompany us split... but not divided! That it is nothing more than death as a double life that is placed in front of you, that shows its opposite side of the Syntagma where victory and defeat offer omens of reviving in both fights, not all of us are saved by our annihilation, nor by their qualities of Picking ourselves up even among those defeated by invisible
conflagrations or just because of the excessive feeling that what ends or begins is not impregnated with beauty, we know that you will come at Solstices and Equinoxes are free of their austere plagues, and reborn from Aspasia or the social life of socialites that Your eyes are drawn from seeing so much beauty ignites in the theater that never ends, and for this, we know that we will measure what fits in your gallbladder, and the wine that we are ashamed to recognize in order to satisfy you, O Brother, receive from an entire nation and from the inhumed of Messolonghi how they will see you happy to come to visit us, whose boastfulness disappropriates panegyric Homer, with plausible lightning from all borders if it is that a Sycomo to makes your initial on its bark, granting a new star to Greece where you can observe that it bears fruit from where you cannot taste it, but you are going to affirm yourselves well from the trunk where you can write values that are similar by virtue of the Kashmar that points to the Aegean Sea.

An immortal never claims a sycamore, rather he claims it with probity that resembles the wealth of a story written by locals who know well that they are spring harvests. No one will be able to hold more praise than Drestnia, and I to receive you in our land clear of enemies and that they sit at our table for the mere fact of avenging challenges that speak of saving and retreating, of counterattacking with perseverance carrying in your hand what breaks the Light and becomes subject to you "The Xiphos Sword". At the end of the voices they are filled with hope and fortune of your sword that could stop time, and bring you made of meat in the herd of Mosul as a weak mischievous, for this reason, it is equivalent to our parents that they will enjoy our vows, such cenotaphs for the weak who have to live protected by vigorous walls that have to engrave in their narrow, empty, and perplexed urns Freedom from other unfortunates who did not enjoy it, who did not cower from dying on earth that does not recognize martyrs who are still destined to live glorious declining. How foolish it seems to you when the mouthful of bodies from the battlefield rise with the same to everyone's heaven, and from evils that become benevolent from so much miracle to live next to them, fearful right there before the city bailiff who does not dare to dare to bury you in their domains, to see you resurrected in the domains or district of the fearful ruler. Now take your halo, take it with your five senses, and make of it courageous thirds where your seal is declaring that no one will erase or forget it "
AmbientThought Jun 2017
Unsettled understanding, perhaps paranoid
Oculars overacting​, ​should vision be void?
Are thoughts toyed, or distracted destructively?
Slide this sinusoid to come back constructively​.
Away it's easier to see.  
When near you know no need.
Stay thine hand from Mead,
and mind from greed
As only fulfilled neuron fires repeat
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2023
.  In the year 20/20 he

    got his frost pair of

  oculars, lazy eye the

   optician diagnosed.


Misted vision added to

  tinnitus in both ears

left him with only one

communicating option.


  One day Boy Vocal

  raised his empathy

   glasses and said,

    “ Behold Gaza "
calix Sep 2020
The glacial air lulls our thoughts, only the two of us standing two feet apart, two words away from a broken heart.

"Love me."

I cannot even glance at those azure lusterless eyes, yet those pooling oculars peer right into mine.

   It no longer works, it only breaks you the more you say ' I'm fine.' It will never veil the lies hidden within that frozen hollowed-out rib cage.

    Your gelid lips tremble in the cold, but nothing compared to the melting of your heart, it aches.

  The warmth of heartbreak.

— The End —