"ornamented" poems
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
4k
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."*
Shall I compare thee...
...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls.
or
...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable.
or
…to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness.
or
…the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you.
or
…the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta.
or
… the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
But of all,
I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite
arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell;
Venus rising from the sea,
a lover of many,
later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus,
by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli,
using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model.
© Sia Jane
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
O LOVE! O LOVE! WHY ARE YOU EVER DEVOID OF LOGIC?
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Mankind in its pathetic folly entice you in a dint of stupor
Knowing not your true colour and texture
Endeavoring to achieve glory in your mastery
With the so limited human capacity
In grey faith that you are a cradle of bliss
But O love! Why are you ever crooked?
Young men and women in strength of their sinews
Toil day and night in ******* of humanity
Praying and whining incantations with the hope for optimal love
Ornamenting their bodies with diamond and bronze
Fibre and silk ornamented to helm of providence
In the foolish quest for love equillibria
But in full stretch of your vice, you impish love
You catapult all away to the shifted goal posts
O love! O love! Why are you ever ruthless?
You hate the learned but you favour the strong
You hate professors but you favour the soldiers
You hate the rich but you favour the agile
You hate the lawyers but you favour the footballers
You hate the pastors but you favour the ruffian
You hate the whites but you favour the Negroes
You hate the groomed but you love the ragamuffin
You hate the chaste but you favour the mistress
O love! O love! Why are you ever illogical?
Love, I revere you for wickedness and irrationality
In all of your history you scored sum *** laude
In the duo as blend of your domain, Look;
You never dwell in a genuine companionship
You like where the couth will interject;
Amidst fornication between married and single ones
Amidst adultery in the triangle of foul compassion
Amidst miscegenation between black and white
Amidst infatuation between the whole and the lame
Amidst conjugal appetite between the old and the young
Amidst concupiscence between house master and houshelp
Amidst immorality of married master over the wallowing servant
Amidst libidos between literate teacher unto the peasant pupil
Amidst disordered passion among the sly lesbians
Amidst impious ********** among the suave gays
O love! O love! You are the most wicked force!
Love I am told; your colour is red
You may be red or you may not be red
But all in all, you deserve poetical veneration
For your herculean ability to bend the most wise;
In your force you made sagacious Shakespeare to bend
In your force you made Princes Diana to bend and bend
Bending downwardly stooping for Afawoyed the moor,
In your stupefying dint you made Napoleon de Bonaparte
To bend and bend downwardly stooping for Josephine
Josephine a famed she-Casanova in the gone Paris
Among the then humanity and the then animality,
In your impairing machinery you set sons on their fathers
In the roman empire of Antony and Ceaser
In the scramble for Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen
Beauty of her aquiline nose heavily hovered perhaps
In the eyes of the Roman beholders
The father and the son only to sent the empire
To the love forlorn smithereens!
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Eucalyptus filled air
Sheets of warm and cold air
Early tasmac drinkers
Weary eyed dads
Bye bye -ing mommies
Dung splattering cows
whipped pedigree dogs
Scared insects
Proud birds
Flowers with an attitude
The pig
A hero
Swarmed stinking
Dirtiest of them all
And a early morning feast
Charming brown eyed street dogs
Question marked trees
Washed pavements
Drooling men
Betel chewing glaring women
Girls in floral blouses sweeping
Sh -sh -sh -sh -sh
Autos rrrrrr
Shock absorbing nike shoes krr krr krrr krr
A cigarette ****
A sad memory
Pushed aside
By the brush of a hand
pushed to a remote corner
Hidden
another memory
a recent one
with a scaredy cat
Which i want to share and party with
Was vivid
Ornamented ladies
lighting lamps to a dead god
Guarded by vain priests
Obesience
and giving life
for people
Lost in hope and fear
A parallel existence
Corporates blaring into phones
Fit men playing tennis
Small sturdy grass
Petite flowers
Swaying and dancing
Everlasting
Everlasting ?
Is it a will or maybe or a should be ?
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
Once there was a man who had only one friend.
Every day, just before the demise of a cyclamen orange burning ball on the horizon ~ he swam to the shore, waving with a magnificent tail, blowing bubbles and bundles of water and air into the wide open skies.
Under the darkening heavens, he sang the muffled song. Tempting his beloved. . .reaching magic, farther then any sonar's ability. Abnormal coldness froze Icelandic Beauty. But beneath the surface, life was warmer without wars. Dwarf seals were jumping into the laced ocean; trying to cry each time they were cut off the Earth's gravity.
This Mighty friend of an old man, was his only link to the global world. The man was old-fashioned; had no telecommunication facilities, his radio were gulls, stray cats, shepherd dogs and sheep on a green hill, behind his wooden hut.
Sometimes he looked over his shoulder, only to determine whether his elderly donkey is able to follow. . . or do they both need a little rest, just to postpone the books from the saddle for later and spread the beautifully ornamented Indian carpet under the great great grand olive tree ~ to take a reviving little nap in the shade.
When he woke up, the old man lit his wooden pipe, puffed few beautiful rings of indigo smoke, smirked to a buzzing bee and found that the air is still pure enough. The pressure was normal, the wind was playing with wave foams in the neighbouring bay.
Under the olives, hanging from the tree canopy, the quietness was fulfilling the old man's heart. Motionless peace was heard. Tranquility.
And the motion of a Humpback Whale. Leaving.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door
through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea
hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore
was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma
hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition
sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again
then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
Sinister coughs
haven't approached
as an invigorating threath
whilst reading "The carousel"
in dim lit cyclam softness . .
Poetry is poetry and prose is
Not it!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of kill-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
I am from worn out measuring cups where the numbers no longer show,
From years of guessed quantities and over sugared cakes.
I am from cracked blue paint,
And the mantra “we’ll get a new coat next year.”
I am from the cow peas, crop circling, and honeysuckle vines ornamented with butterflies.
I am from Grandpa’s tobacco yellowed hands, Grandma Doll’s old wives tales,
From “eat your bread crusts and your hair will curl,”
And from “your face just might stick like that.”
I am from morning walks and the sylvan veil of moss,
From meandering trails and the drip of rain on leaves.
I am from Otter Pops, and bright blue tongues.
I am from cassette tapes, now left in the back of the closet to grow antique.
And VCRs,
From Monsters Inc. and Totoro.
And I am from the worn bindings of The Phantom Tollbooth and The Velveteen Rabbit.
I am from the meadow,
From searching for fairies, and sometimes even finding them.
And from the whispered promise “I’ll dream of you and you’ll dream of me…”
I am from the babbling gurgling creek, from the itch of nettles and the deep earthy scent of loam.
I am from the cat in Alice in Wonderland,
From Jacob and Leah’s wronged daughter.
I am from the Xanadu, the Akela, and the Dynamite,
From the crack of sails and the swing of the boom.
I am from placid seas and the rushing tumult of rain,
From heavy grey skies and flaming sunsets painted in watercolor across the Olympics.
I am from the pink syringe and the old blind dog’s last breath,
And I am from the hole where we laid her.
I am from the evergreen planted in the frozen ground to the sounds of my first cry,
That tree whose limbs witnessed my first breath, whose lofty trunk now stands as a testament, a marker, of where I am from.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 10:31 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
She is an anti-thesis to Maya Angelou’s conscience
She stretches Maya’s awareness beyond rudimentary perfection
She is a public commoner with her insatiable palatability,
She eats French fries and pork like a carnivorous queen
Her instinct cannot save her from curse of pinching,
She is tall and slander with all virtues of beauteous individuality
Which the sagacious Friedrich von Schiller saw in frivolous Cassandra,
She has tattooed nose and ornamented death, not white in taint of alcohol hue
Chains of jewellery around her neck and hands, sea corals as beads around her waist,
She loves rough men like Alexander Pushkin who died in Duel, and the militant Othello
Who only woos by using the vaginal ******** of the alligator
As his Casanova’s love voodoo bequeathed to him by his mother,
She spends money from a foreign sweat, in thrifts and thrifts,
She commands unilateral faculty of non-numerical learning
With her indelibility dominating the world of Music and painting,
She dares not to dream of true love, but her faith is in weakness of men
Hot in bed like an Italian pizza oven and cold in reason like tundra climate.
The non phenomenal woman the mother of my first born son,
I took him to Oxford University for a degree course in land law
He came back with a diploma in being a barber, good in shaving!
He is so handsome in pettiness with mighty athletic mediocrity
Vices redolent of maternal genetics in the non phenomenal woman,
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
What is it about stairways?
An image of promise,
Or is that mystery?
Cascading in slanted light,
Tempting us forward,
Upward
Delivering us to romanticized paradise
Or ornamented haven.
To sanctuary disguised as a sun dusted bedroom,
Where doubtless, is a hidden love
Of the sort that once uncovered,
Will ever follow us.
Or maybe to dark wooded rooms,
Glowing with strings of frosted light.
Indigo ceilings and charcoaled walls,
Lit up
Or a creaking hallway that will usher us
To chipping french doors with a glassy view,
Where we will glimpse a new and equally hopeful vista.
Perhaps enchantment
In the form of rolling, dark green gardens,
With another Stairway that is their own, but is
Descending,
And which, at its very sight, we can feel tugging at our hand;
Breeze itself, defined and determined
It will be an alluring yet familiar pull.
Luminescence between our fingertips.
The sight a vow that will pull us down those steps
Cool stone alive with mossy cracks, that curve, disappearing from view
Laying us down to wonder,
Only in a moment to reemerge in the clearer eyes of our mind.
Where surely, round the corner, we will just be able to make out that the steps are met
With an unclouded, rosy woodland.
The aspen encompassment of a measured and ghostly chemistry;
Flourescent tree line and rocky hem,
Savage and most lovely,
If we only have the courage to climb or to descend them, a perceptual promise awaits,
An ended hunt.
The perfect tincture of Wilderness and Refuge,
That will make us feel the scope of our existence,
without ever having to doubt whether we are safe.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
The plantations have been privatized
The cotton fields paved with concrete
They still exist
Despite how much you resist
Needing working bee's
They persist
And insist you enlist
From the stone like mass
Sky scrappers are erected
At the tiptop, a **** head runs the show
He tells all the little white men
Who work beneath him
What to do and were to go
You're too tired to even think
But you have to work
If you want to eat
From cotton
To poppy
From slaves in shackles
To droids with imperceptible chains
Leading and whipping the pack,
NASDAQ reigns
Grinning like a fool
All complacently cozy cuddling your coins
In an ornamented box
Where your view of the stars is blocked
Politicking away with a bottle scars of yesterday
Telling yourself "Everything will be okay,
It has been this far."
All the while Uncle Sam blows freedom smoke
Up your *** with his federal cigar
Buy, consume, sell
Get drunk, stay distracted, inhale
Imbibe thoughts instead of ale
You could read a book for fun now,
Or to cure boredom in jail
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
no, i mean this anger
no, i mean this guilt
no. i mean, what is the difference
between this anger and guilt?
because the chains all rattle the same behind me.
i could go and ask my mother,
but the lines on her face would deepen
and she would tell me there is only anger
and she doesn’t know guilt
and how could i expect her to believe in something
which she has never experienced?
and would i take the trash on my way out?
i am unsure if it is my fault my mom feels this way,
or if it is my fault she doesn’t feel any differently.
she’s sewn me richly ornamented robes,
woven from girlhood ambitions fallen short
threaded with hopes she had long dismissed.
but i am not joseph, and the garments never seemed to fit me right.
and my mother is not god,
her love has never been unconditional.
the robes have long since become stiff
gathering dust on the coat rack.
maybe i could hang some of the guilt there, too.
or maybe i’ll hang the anger.
or maybe i’ll hang both.
or maybe i’ll hang on to it all a little longer.
i never learned when it’s appropriate to let go
and i learned a little too late about the bruises i leave behind by holding on so tightly.
a lesson all my mothers before me had to learn.
after all, in the very beginning,
eve never once received a mothers embrace.
the closest mother she had was the garden of eden.
(was she saddened in her exile, or was she relieved to be free?)
May 11, 2024
May 11, 2024 at 12:22 AM UTC
In the beginning there were no words
for there was no call for words,
neither was there knowledge,
for there was nothing to know.
All was sublime wordless ignorance,
everything simply - was.
It was at this time, the time of everything,
that Utopia reigned.
All things raised themselves up to the sky
from the rich fertile soil,
from the clear waters,
and from beneath the weight of great boulders.
All things in harmony reaching towards
the brightness of a Utopian sky.
And it came to pass, that beasts
came to dwell in that land.
And the beasts became Man and
Man became the beast.
It was a great time of change.
And Man spewed forth words from his mouth
saying:
"Blessed is this land, for it hath many resources.
I will make claim to it and bring it to order."
And with these words came Knowledge.
Henceforth,
all that raised itself was cut down,
the fertile land defiled,
the clear waters made corrupt.
Great boulders were rent asunder in order to build
marble palaces and statues ornamented with
gold and silver, paying homage to Man.
Time passed,
and there came upon that land a great famine.
The fertile land became barren.
Fishes floated in the pestilent waters.
There was no more reaching towards the sky.
In Man's greed Utopia had been dethroned.
Chaos reigned in its place.
All became worthless.
And Man wrestled uneasily with his conscience
knowing he had lost Utopia forever.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 12:39 PM UTC
The pillow's edge
Ornamented with an ant
Its siblings crawling on the pipe underneath
This one's rebellious
Debating whether or not
to cross the border from my sock to my skin
Come on, Little Ant
What are you - Afraid?
The smells and the texture
as my leg hair sways
Come on, Little Ant
I'm doing nothing all day
Except to face my few fears
The wind wants to play
You know when a horse drags his front foot
And hangs his head a little, nudging into you
His horseshoe catching the dirt
as it drifts towards your face
Just like that
The wind wants to play
Come on, Little Ant
What are you - Afraid?
Of the taunting
And haunting
that lives in your brain
Come on, Little Ant
I'm doing nothing all day
But to burn in the relentless sun
And blow you away
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Whirling in your charm
I crave for owning tiara
ornamented with your love.
No matter what you are ,
but a king throning on my heart.
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 12:51 PM UTC
Rising Tide.
Fading sunlight.
Ascendin hunger.
Descending tolerance.
I crave; a bowl of soup.
Light.
Darkness.
Blackout.
Carried.
Where?
A prayer answered.
A beg for a bite.
The loss of limb.
So what?
I am filled.
Pain.
Hunger.
Satiated...
I am sold;
ornamented in the devil's almirah...
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 11:14 AM UTC
he was strong. i could see that much. and bitter, with a black-coffee way of speaking that kindled thoughts of fallen soldiers learning to walk again. holding fast to my blue plastic tray in true freshman fashion, my focus wandered to the red band around his arm, akin to the one encircling mine—always a symbol of the hunter, never the hunted. but i could not pay attention to this small detail for long; a gruff voice was asking me questions and a pair of sea eyes swept me away with the tide.
he was tarnished. i knew from the moment he took his seat, like an elderly man would, holding onto the back of the chair for support before lowering himself down. though it was easy to hide behind an ever-charming veneer, the fine wood was peeling at the corners, revealing the coarse plywood beneath. we talked of the living dead, zombies and zeds, planning attacks like star-ornamented generals as casually as two strangers meeting at a coffee shop. we never touched, and a bridge was building on our crumbled foundations.
he was beautiful. an army assembled under his command. and with myself at his side, we were breathtakingly terrifying. breathers defended the air that had held them thus far like a secondhand cradle, yet we were the vacuum that ****** it directly from their lungs. the ruthlessness of it all stirred up carnal instinct in me that had existed millenia before I was even conceived. and he felt it, too. there was no denying that the hypothetical taste of flesh on our tongues was enough sustenance to keep us from feeling the bite of autumn or the memories of betrayal sulking in our war-punctured hearts. a different war, for certain; but there was still the hunter and the hunted, and we fought with every cell within ourselves to be the former.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
Toy soldiers align in formations
Where generals command their fleets to vanish
Into the depths of time
Amidst rectangular caverns of sand
Villages of gingerbread decay
Leaving behind many half-broken smiles.
Ornamented plush friends mozy along the meadows of one’s mind
Finding dreams that were once read,
While snowmen slowly melt away
Becoming dried up memories
That remind us of what was once
Upon completing level ten
All has come to a cease
A tear at last
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 1:11 PM UTC
It was indeed on shady road that I had met my match
With a crystal crest of oxygen poured outward along the outlays
Seconds passing to overflow the hour
as my thoughts ornamented each breath
with deep oranges and nectarine
I lurched toward the dunes lay displayed across the pasted pavement
To imagine her and I masquerading here in another life
She was timeless
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC
Sitting by the pond I was
enjoying the moonlit night
and beholding the shimmering stars
in the milky sky
Suddenly I felt moon staring at me
with a steamy smile from inside the pond
her sensual gestures captivated my heart
provoking my love feelings
With enthusiasm I felt getting lost
into her ****** blue eyes
that enchanted me and
I lost my consciousness
As if a nymph from heaven
were Landed on the earth to allure me
for making love and
looked ornamented with galaxy of stars
Suddenly lightning
flashed in the sky,
and I came back
in the real world
That I assumed was the moon
actually not the moon
but it was its reflection in the pond
And I came out of a incredible delusion
(Written by Kishan Negi)
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC