Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ciel Noir Apr 21
sand and snow
why are we afraid of these
ghostly messengers

I wonder
if some ancient part of us
remembers that day

long ago
when the dragons ruled the sky
there when the night fell

we survived
to wonder at this omen
winter is coming
In Nineva, in melted days of yore,
In a very distant verdant realm
Of a shadowy enchanted Moor,
There rolled a nectar stream.

And whoever ever drunk from it
Whilst the sun rained her golden light,
Craved nevermore to drink nor eat
But perpetually dwelt in delight.

Once, upon her banks strolled a couple
Majestically holding each other's hand.
Golden robbed with plush ribbons purple,
All the way from a very far away land

Where dwelleth many a mandrill,
A realm of many a precious stone
And many a verdant rolling hill,
Though creatures there all but forlorn.

King and queen of Merindrill they were,
On a golden quest for perpetual youth
Akin to the luster of many a fiery star
Whose mystery none knows the truth.

Though the stream galloped in gladness,
Though meadow larks chirped in ecstasy,
A roving wind eerily rustled in sadness
As it danced about aspen leaves all sassy.

All birds of evil omen graced the heaven
Whilst darkling clouds blotted heavens' bed
But unto none did it seem a bad omen.
Dyadic ravens perched upon their head.

"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not from the river,"
Unto the king quoth the first raven.
"In that river deep thou shalt dwell forever,"
Unto the queen quoth the second raven.

"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not," they didst spoof
At the ravens whilst as quick as drops of rain
Plummeting from earths' eternal dewy roof,
In such haste, they quaffed again, and again.

And 'tis for that reason that all men know
From the ***** of that sweet rollin' river
Did the fanciful couple now as cold as snow
Ever leave, but there dost live forever.

©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California, USA.
#Tales Of Nineva  #Fantasy #Adventure

#Merindrill is a realm of darkling woods far away from from the mighty land of Nineva.

Nineva is a magical kingdom in Kiko's legendarium - a miscellany of tales of mystery and macabre like you've never heard of. Tales such as, "The Mystery Of Lenore," "Woods Have Eyes," "The Dwarf Of Nineva," The Novelty Tea ***," "The Witch's Cauldron," "Jazabel The Witch," "The mandrill of Merindrill," among so many others yet to be posted here.
Julian Jul 2016
Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though **** unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream
Life, Love and No Mathematics to God and Gain
John Dewberry May 28
The oman's grave
The times of indecision
Written on your gravestone

"Here it lies, death of an oman.... Good or bad.... We'll never know
Surely we'll never know the full potential of this... Omen
... And maybe it's better that way
... Today we say farewell to you
... A mysterious malgmation
Reflective particles of  nothing??
Who... Are... You...
We... Bequeath... You
Goodbye... To the Omen

The sparrows and ravens joined in cacophonous harmony
And sung the first notes of your afterlife
Gabby Jan 9
Fire and water have a lot in common.
They both reach for that which they cannot have,
But on whose behalf.
In large quantities, they can be seen as an omen.
They both are destructive,
And seen as beautiful.
They are impulsive,
But excusable
For they do not think.
Despite their similarities,
They are also quite distinct.
They sing the same song but with different melodies.
One burns the skin,
While the other burns the lungs.
One sings from within,
While the other beats like a drum.
They both dance to different rhythms,
But in the same harmony.
Their ultimate goal
Philipp K J Aug 12
Tears gushed
surpassing the cry
Fears gazed
causing it to dry
Warmth of the hearts
Froze in rubbles
Sobs of the breaths
Chocked in mumbles

The dancing rain
Of lovely screen
Lost its smiling
lively sheen
The wafting tasty
Kitchen smell
Paused in a fill of
debris hell

Temple lights
and canteen delights
Crumpled dark in
a flash of lights

Oh hand that fed
This lovely valley
Are we not value
In your tally?

The flowered hill
Was proud of itsef
My mired will
was fond of myself
The house I owned
The wife I found
Empires I built
On mental marsh
You kid and cast
Like spits in trash
Washed off all
in a playful haste
Buried all in a muddy paste

I didnt know the strokes
Of your brush
Could blow with such
a deadly crush

Oh I never knew
You could wipe
Out with such dark
force in one swipe

You counted the sheep
And found the lost
She set the lamp
Began to sweep
To seek the coin
She loved the most.

He sets the table
Feasts his return
Cooks the fat lamb
To feed his men

Your plays are cruel merciful
Dilly dally not with the poor
You send fears
and tears to we men
Then turn the sky
bright and hopeful
We settle with all our mettle
Soon steals in your dark fresh omen.

Your sums
are beyond our asumes
Your tallies
we miss totally
We presume
all in our resume
Yet your views
are beyond our purviews.
Vitruvius Feb 6
Cesar awakens with the crow of the roosters,
and he leans over a basin,
and he drenches his temples,
and he curses the Roman summer.
He sees his mocking reflection in the troubled water.
He barely recognizes himself.
He doesn't realize how tired he is.
From another room
comes the muffled whimper of a woman.
Cesar approaches.
Spread eagled over the bronze bed,
Calpurnia is sleeping.
Just as the previous night,
as every other night
she is having a bad dream.
Cesar remembers
the stillness of her gaze in the afternoon,
after they laid together,
when she begged him not to leave the house this morning
(I've had a bad omen, his wife said)
and smiles.
He loves her,
and he pities her.
He places his hand over that warm, milky skin.
Calpurnia has stopped moving.
Cesar walks away quietly,
without looking back.
He wears a spotless purple robe,
and some worn out sandals
that used to know Spain.
He gets down to his study
and takes breakfast standing.
His secretary, a sparse bearded Greek,
is waiting for him with a quill in his hand.
Cesar would like to handle
the excruciating minutiae
that come along with ruling an empire,
but a crucible of memories
has run aground in his mind
since he last saw that stranger
looking at him from the basin,
and won't let go:
The mosaics of Jupiter's temple,
The face of a crucified pirate,
The weeping of the daughters of the Gauls,
The roar of the Rubicon he left behind,
The hollow eye sockets in Pompey's head,
The Nile under the light of the stars.
his loneliness overwhelms him
he doubts of everything,
and wonders if so much blood,
so much iron,
so much fire,
were really worth his while,
if it wouldn't have been better
to end his days as a feast for the crows
within the dust of Pharsalia.
That weakness lasts but a moment.
He then remembers Calpurnia's fears
and smiles for a second time.
He goes out to the street.
The morning is catching fire.
He starts walking towards the Roman forum.
BoringBoy Sep 2018
It's easy to pretend to be this wise owl, dancing around with the words of your mind.

Raising your head to look down on others...oh, you didn't know that that is a poet's kind?

Some forget that a poet's greatest feature is their power to think...

But others will say that that isn't at all true. It's their power to snake around until they've settled down.

A poet's wise moments can be the same as a crow being an omen. Evil in certain settings and simple in others...

Don't use your wisdom as a dagger to shank down your enemies and fuel the worse in humanity...

Don't turn a blind eye to someone or many whose on the brink of insanity...clapping when someone dances in the words of love or nostalgia...vile for poets to even consider it wisdom...

Where is the wisdom inside of a lie...why bother...why?
'O godmother, open your mind to me and tell me of your woe!'

'My dread spouse, he is to joust on the morrow's night; Death cannot accompany him, else I shall be left bereft!'

'O godmother, he is no longer a marauder; he shan't greet Death on the verdant hill where he shall joust,'

'My dread spouse, what will he suffer if he were to fail?'

'O godmother, ye of little faith! Your dread spouse shall joust with a fiery spirit,'

'My dread spouse, what would become of me if he survived, only gaiety!'

'O godmother, worry not, for he shall battle under a gibbous waning moon, a good omen surely!'

'My dread spouse, if he shall be pierced by an arrow whilst on his stallion, I shall weep to the moon!'

'O godmother, if his blood is to stain grass browned by heat, he will lay peacefully knowing his courage.'
In days dead and burried in time,
In a very far away enchanted clime,
In the mighty kingdom of Nineva
Where there fairly shone forever,

There once was a strange lonely wood
That ever in fairest robes of green stood
By the edge of a fair shoreline of pearl,
Whose mystery none may tell nor unfurl.

For akin to the most effulgent yonder star
That forevermore scintillates from afar
In a splendiferous novelty golden cluster,
So thrice scintillated the gem's luster.

And 'tis for this that as we all truly know,
All mortals, I say, all mortals  of long ago
Gravitated from corners of distant lands
On the quest for riches by those strands.

Once, sweltering was the noontide
When upon a violent lonely rolling tide
A bunch of desperate pirates were seen
Nearing that wood of emerald sheen.

In a while, they'd gathered all they could,
Leaving not a single gem in the wood.
Alas! A wind murmured upon the skies
In faint whispers: "Woods have eyes"

So muttered all birds - all birds of the air,
All creatures in caverns desolate yet fair,
All leaves upon strange shadowy trees,
And all - all creatures of wild lonely seas.

But, despite the looming dark omen,
Swifter than plummeting drops of rain,
So hastily dashed every single pirate
Blindingly minding not about their fate.

They raised their silvery sails to take sail
But hark! All this - all this was to no avail;
For upon the skies no wind was seen
To render them across so wide a sea.

In a jiffy, louder than birds of the skies
All gems whispered, "Woods have eyes."
From that moment on, all lost their sight,
Doomed never to behold the sun's light.

And now, upon those murky restless seas
They dost weep but no plea can please,
For they were doomed to rove evermore
In search of their long forgotten shore.

©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 29th.July.2018.
#Tales of Nineva #fantasy #adventure

Nineva is a magical kingdom in Kiko's legendarium - A miscellany of tales of mystery and maccabre like you've never heard of. Tales like, "The Dwarf Of Nineva, The Nectar Stream, Jazabel The Witch, The Novelty Tea ***, The Witch's Cauldron, The Enchanted Gold, The Mystery Of Lenore, among so many others.

Thanks for reading.
Julian Jul 2016
Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam
ConnectHook Sep 2018
That Chinese box
Your wares untasted
From whence arose
The lunar doom
Of my obsession.

Some oriental harmony
I never heard

Auspicious omen of prosperity
That passed me by
Like cloud shadow across moon
On a restless night
Long ago.

Your pale and autocratic beauty:
Moon over wall-gate in frontier
Long gone
Like life on a distant planet;
I am out of your orbit . . .

Still you circle
Serving others more worthy
Of your light.

I still love you, Mooncakes
Though I shall never taste you.
The Moon Over Wall Gate in Frontier:
"Its Time" to hear a story hang your tears to dry the"Me Time" no it's not bath time that's truly fine. Oh! I  "All Mine" just breathe I remember how hard it is to share. Like kids smell the summer breeze so bubbly happily ever me. What about you please just join me The"Me Time." So lovely the nature hanging branches.
      We must have "Me Time" for looking in your starry eyes* filled with romances.
(My time) + Fall 4- Fall (Your time) the eye's wink at glances the weather cozy lackadaisical time is moving with us sensational. Me time fighters political. All the crazies let the truth in your words be told. The smells from my Moms daisies so poetical.
Lets slow things up the time is called the "Me Time" perhaps the tea time everything you thought before its a matter of time.
Make it your time, not the words that are forced to rhyme. No one really knows what's ahead
       You and Me time read a book in bed
The likewise me to see your smile like the sunrise goes through the world of now what was before the future holds your smiles  forever to adore

         "The Me Time"
         Its time for
         "Hello Poetry"
           It's Me
          Just shine 
           Oh! Me O- My       
        Miss Sunshine

           Me and you

           It's Open all the time          
          But that's the problem?
          Who is really listening
           Like free bird Robin
           On your free time
           What about mine
            Like a Bad Omen

             How it grabs you and me
             It's on me__*
              Let me pay
               Don't worry be happy            
              Me Time" just like
               any day look
               at the fine print
               And if you don't
                What do you mean
                 you can't

               Just pray* Me Time
            " They say it's your
                  " Birthday"        
                 Talk to me hurray
                 Count the money
                       "Trust Me"                   
                  You could count me in
                  "Me time" what tastes good

                      Robin Hood so rich
                     Another world poor
                      A person gets evil heads
                      out the door                       
                      "Me Time" Cheers to pour
                       Your time journey
                       I will catch you don't fall
                      A shooting star shot me
                    Whoa that's my wakeup call
                     He avoids me
                     my mind floods me                  
                  Carefre­e all me God Bless the
                  How it set me up
                  Me Time "Never give up"
                  On the edge "Robin Rebellious"                 

                   Do you hear me!! It's contagious

                Young spring chickens
                 you hired old ones fired               
                I see a stranger would he
                Help me I need my family               
                 Me time my flight gravity
                  Not a Stand-up Comedy

                  Nobody cant stop me
                   Who lives above me                    
           I never want to see what is below me                    
                    Keep in touch with me                     

                   Can you pay me in advance
                    Relax make your own time
                     My time travel to France
                          That's the Me Time                     
                         My poems are all I got                     
                   Thank you, (God) and (Mom and Dad)
                   The time went by Fly Robin Fly
                    Never underestimate what you have or why
                           Like the day I was born
                           Called the "Me Time"
Me time so simple to relax sip a cup of tea all me by myself just know how special you are we all have qualities and stop looking so much into the time how fast the hours go just indulge in what you have been happy that someone gave birth to you and gave you Me Time to move forward towards your own time
I feel like I should write today,
But I lack my confidence ,not that I’m shy,
But because you never believe in me,
Never even gave me a pen or a paper,
Never gave me a chance to pour my feelings,saying that poets are weak,

And I will write,
Of how sad it is to live as a poet,
Of how it is hard for a poet to express himself through his tongue,
Of how it is hard for a poet to relate with others through his mouth,
Of how a poet has to suffer in silence just because of his courage,
Of how a poet lacks the love of a spouse because no one loves to read,

Or maybe I should write
Of how HUMANS despise poets, saying that they are weak,
Of how HUMANS hate poets,saying that poets only see the dark side,
Of how HUMANS pessimistically criticize poets ,saying that poets lack emotion
Of how HUMANS dump poets,saying that poets carry bad omen
Of how HUMANS misuse poets,saying the world is for the strong

Or maybe I should write about me,
Of how being a poet can make you feel as an OUTCAST,
Of how being a poet can make you lack friends because you are a lone walker,
Of how being a poet can push you to die with loneliness inside,

Or maybe I should have never written

Amen, oh men, oh man, oh woo man, oh women,
Its our bag of skin and bones, the way we make love to cosmic tones.
The life disguise, with masks and veils, trials and trails that do impale and repair,
The masquerade in all its sequence and glory embedded in delusions of despair .
A stride on a crystal clear river,
informality unformed, the enigma you radiate surely delivers the best of heart shook quivers,
in the poles coldest of nights and days my faith and hope warms the shivers,
mystery me mary carry they, the hopeless and broken to a violet flames new day
we think we must, and trust in the bust, the fear of the event is worse than the event itself
we do our **** near best to keep our thoughts in stealth
I dug and dig the sweat that poors in the ******* of the sun
The needle in the haystack will surely send the homeless man for a hundred mile run
I see the hawks that fly high in the sky with imperial focus
Above the elegant witches in their dance circles conducting a festive hocus pocus
My eyes are peeled to the back of my head to witness you my beloved omen
I live to witness your glory oh men in the omens
Merlin spill your omens
Ladies and gentlemen can I get a witness to these omens
Victoria Feb 19
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.

“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”

Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
There is something sickening about Christmas
On the edge between tears and bliss
Not being able to fulfill what I need for real
"December" by Ben Gibbard and stuff
every Christmas it kind of comes back

If you leave me
I can already read it
Messages with the "seen" infamous tick
It's my Christmas omen
Coming back at me
My Christmas fear
A perfect timing for the perfect pain
The most crippling one, meant to be today
Lonely, confused, torn in two

There is something threatening about Christmas
Hidden in subterfuges and empty laughter
Filled with air
A hint of loss, with all meanings of the word
something dangerous grows in my soul
I kick it with my boots, but it scares me as the first one

There is something fearsome about Christmas
The pain that all might (in fact it does) go wrong
By your hand, my broken heart
My broken mind, that? I can do alone
There is something dark about Christmas
Something blind and shapeless but existent
I can't even begin to explain
I simply sweat it away
I simply fight it away
I simply survive
Sometimes it hurts...every now and then

But...the lights in the street
The people smiling, in the periphery of my eyes
The periphery is all, encompassing the whole
But...I am coming alive
Your love, your kiss does
Sweetest thought of this menacing season
for this girl that writes
My courtship is like autumn chill,
An omen to the nervous trees,
Who hold their warmth by staying still,
Before the comfort of green flees.

The steady chill has no effect,
The leaves resist their urge to fall,
The branches hold ever *****,
Resisting the whistling winds call.

With the first frost there is a change,
The tree becomes vulnerable,
The nakedness of its trunk is strange,
But change is inevitable.

My poetry has worn away,
The leaves you wore for protection,
That frost came when you heard me say,
Magic words of my affection.
Instagram @insightshurt
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at
Rhiannon Jan 24
The chief of vessels,
Here he lingers still,
gormless and ruthless,
guilty and ill.

The matriarch will protect you,
courageous and fair.
Swords may dive around and above too,
But she will not flinch, She will not care.

This omen is an old friend,
One we have learnt to disguise ourselves from,
Bonded by blood they may be,
But their blood is cursed and wrong.

A jester jumps entertaining us,
Distract yourself from historys doing,
Whilst the matriarch guards the doorway,
The chief is left to ruin.
Dramatically altered and changed
I am the same but oh, never again
Hell strikes back - what am I to do?
Bring back this state - its good fruits

I can witness my old pain
it doesn't look the same
the mirrors do reflect
but anyway I see myself...

[I saw it clear, dear
I (we) can't stay here
Maybe I was so high
but only high I think right]

Pick my pieces from the floor
make sense of this mess
that has rearranged my heart
this blurry epiphany I've had
looked through by London's eyes

I saw a flickering bright light!
Just a second - enough because so much shine!
an omen that -maybe- things were right
I saw a luminary
I have to process and think
but it's an apparition
I can't let go to just dissappear

Because it never was perfect at all
but this is how perfect was born

And London is an escape
London is a hiding place
where you confront reality
in trippy, playful new ways

My smile was true and wide
no pain, just enjoying the ride
why it can't be like that all the time?
Perched on worries melting to the Sun

Because it never was perfect at all
but this is how perfect was born.
We Are Stories Aug 2018
keep the doors shut,
keep them closed.
when the wind blows, don’t let them open,
don’t let the doors go.
the knocking sound calls you to open up,
but don’t let careless emotions show!
keep the doors shut!
no matter how many knocks you hear below!

keep the doors shut,
keep them closed.
when voices start to grumble inside,
it’s tempting to let world know.
feeling like a hero?
maybe like that open gate’s a grove,
where people will be safe inside,
where people will find a home!
get rid of all your lies!
your words could never bring them hope!
keep the doors shut!
for they will always choose that rugged road!

-keep the doors shut
because opening them
only lets the darkness in
every time your try to show the light-

-keep the doors shut
because mosquitoes make their hives
right outside the walkway light
and come inside in expert time,
enough to **** your blood-

-keep the doors shut,
for being a symbol is a wanton game,
a desire to be held the same,
praised and pulled in every way!
don’t you love the spotlight gaze!
and the feeling of a voice heard in a moments daze!
your words plastered on some expensive page!
it’s good enough for a pleasant date,
but turns your heart into a bad omen-
Ormond Oct 2018
I came to a courtyard of my own making,
To a cottage by the sea at the worlds edge.
I furnished it with my left over life, complete,
Barren and colourless and I wrote the newest
Book of psalms out of tinder and flame, a tome
Of grey and useless poems, unheard of songs
And reams of flesh.  There in the lightest dark,
By the Druid stone that was placed just for me,
I planted a creeping yew tree.  And the moon
Sang in celebration and silence like a fallen
                    Under the covering hazel trees,
That sprung to life after the longest winter,
Which taught me to forget my name, I now
Struggle with light and my body, warring, torn
Is fading slow, like the always arriving, down
Turning solstice, the climates of the mind,
Where it is digging the never ending shallow
Hole only the spreading eternal yew, that I
Planted, will ever know and only the Lazarus
Moon shall ever rise above.

I came to a courtyard of my own making,
Was it dream that led me there or my eyes?
Strolling down Móstoles - I am
Going to meet my man.
The world is an omen right now
schizotypal delights
of *** - over anything else
but they are plain delights
The omen of joy itself
The world is perfectly untidy
The world (or me?) needs nothing but loving

Men are looking to me
and they mean nothing
but they mean everything
as I'm close to you and me
**** omens, in the street
everything is the way it should be
Perfectly in time, every beat
As I stroll around with me
in my poppy and short skirt

I am eager to meet you
and this is the prelude to us
We, that set the sky in flames
with the whispering of our names
Eva Aloezos Aug 2018
Do not fret,
the bet you foolishly made with the devil
has come full circle

even though your tarot card predicted death,
there is no reason to worry
death is not an omen for the end of a beating heart,
rather a sign indicating all things that fall apart
can give life to replenshing breaths

thorns are transforming into roses, little one
clouds make way for the sun
rain is not acid,
but rather a fountain aiming to cleanse you

live and let live
the devil crept back into the dark cursed woods,
where he shall remain

you are not insane
you are destined to reign,

and soon you will
You visit me like an omen from the past
If you knew me now, maybe it could last
I can feel my body tense and tight
like that old night, like that old good night

How you broke my heart - you are the point
where it all starts
Now that I am slave to a fickle rhythm
Thomas, if I catch you now, ai se eu te pego, man
Let me show you what I learnt so far!

I am not the same girl - scared and so in love
Now I am free and I roam till I get lost
I felt the force, this time it could work
I felt my breath as shook as it was back then.
If I could step in time and catch back my strength!
A dream to keep breathing, a dream to go on.

— The End —