"palls" poems
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .
A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float
Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
Germany.
They do not die.
Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high
Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will **** and eat.
8k
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
4.3k
Jill. Fred phoned. He can't make tonight.
He said he'd call again, as soon as poss.
I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.
He said to tell you he was fine,
Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks,
The crap you have to fight.
You're sometimes nothing but a walking *********
I was well acquainted with the pong myself,
I told him, and I counselled calm.
Don't let the ******* get you down,
Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes,
Go on the town, burn someone to death,
Find another **** giver her some hammer,
Live while you're young, until it palls,
Kick the first blind man you meet in the *****
Anyway he'll call again.
I'll be back in time for tea.
Your loving mother.
3.2k
Feelings are full of meanings.
Abandonment and pleadings.
Heart beatings.
Feelings are just sweepings
swept up off the floor from
pain frozen beings.
Feelings release the pain.
Which overreaches and falls.
Pain palls.
A dark cloud of dust
emerges to cloak
the feelings to black.
Feelings like seedlings
grow in the sun. Eclipsed,
the sun and feelings turn dark.
Bright, feelings ultimately
turn to gloom
Happiness vs sadness
Who wins?
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
735
Upon Concluded Lives
There’s nothing cooler falls—
Than Life’s sweet Calculations—
The mixing Bells and Palls—
Make Lacerating Tune—
To Ears the Dying Side—
’Tis Coronal—and Funeral—
Saluting—in the Road—
1.6k
The comforting warmth of another
breathing alongside,
closed eyes,
drowsily gliding
over waves
of sensuous dreams,
untidy covers
askew with contented
sonorous sighs.
Competing with birdsong at dawn
palls a little
when wet lips and cold nose
lather your ears
in a pawing ecstatic four-footed
wake-up call.
Pets never sleep where they should.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
Sign there son
You will be paid
Take the shilling
Europe awaits!
Grab your rifle
Grab your sack
Tell your mum you'll be back
Meet new friends
Palls together
All aboard and off to The Somme
They were just kids together alone
First the smell
Then the noise
Far from what you left at home
Then the shells begin to fall
Like nothing you had seen before
You're wet and cold and in a hole
Shaking with fear not the cold
Your friend just passed in a puff of smoke
His head was first, then his *****
His legs are spread across the floor
Then another explodes next to you
The smoke clears and the Sarge smiles at you
Like a statue painted red
He doesn't know he's already dead
Mother Mother! Others scream
But cries and wails no one hears
None of this can be real
You're just a boy and soiled with fear
Fifty years past then more
At night you still hear the screams and cannons roar
Like yesterday but years before
It didn't end all the wars
They made a sequel a bigger cast
Not your turn now to carry the flag
With one arm you can't do that
And your lungs still burn from the gas
Once again the generals cried
"Come on lads, we need you now, come and sign the Sgts form"
But was Tommy on the top once more?
Or did they use anothers name, to sign your precious lives away.
When oh when will all the madness end
For The Somme took away your friends
Only poppys now remain
Over fields where Britains youth lies slain
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Los Angeles
Griffith Park,
June 2009,
we got out of our concrete cage
and into the untamed wild.
We tried to escape the amber streetlights
because they polluted the sky;
twinkling stars
winking aeroplanes and
startling skylines
covered in the midnight blue.
I walked with you,
in lockstep,
we avoided the cracks
in the pavement.
We found a quiet place,
just you and I,
the sky cleared
and I didn’t want to blow my cigarette palls
into the sky
as I feared
they would block your view.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Spacemen, cavorting, ridiculous jollity,
Fuzzing stars buzzing in the fabric
Space-time, folding, holding on
Spin, seven, nine, four,
Okay,
Just try to hold on.
Spinning lights flee by feeling
Hurry on Sunday
Slow
Circles.
Why? Why?
Why?
Why? Why?
You have no air.
You didn’t listen.
You had a warning…
Strap yourselves into the spin
Dazed and conned
Fused into your seat
Dancing in madness
Whistles, flutes and shakers
Unsettle your
Muted rhythm.
We sing for blessed distortion
Then drop away
Away
Who did
and
Why?
Why? Oh, God…
Bridge.
Wonder threw four bidden streets
and re-jet, the Prince Palls,
Ash on faced the walls.
Bridge.
Why? Why?
Why?
Why? Why?
Causes her arm.
Cause is her harm.
Cause is arm.
Arms are the cause of her harm.
Then-
Bridge.
Then-
Begin again…
You should not have done that.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 5:03 AM UTC
It seems so far away
My youth preserved that precious little thread
Convinced a price I’d never pay
Convinced I’d never be dead
I thought my skin iron armor
A shield to all the shifting forces
The forces that nature threw at me
Until I saw life at its sources
And for lasting life, was my loudest plea
Never before
Have I seen so visceral a scene
Until I witnessed life escape, stripped to its very core
And on that pavement, so impressive a rouge sheen
Tears shed from my iris
Like I could change the horror
And shrieking like my efforts pious
Calling life, to my side I implore her
For him, I beg her company
For me, I’m no source of council
Though I cry, don’t trouble me
For I’m not the one that woman killed
I can’t express my grief
No petty conglomerate
Could afford me relief
For I’m not the one that woman killed
His blood was steaming
On that September road
By the sidewalk, dun and grey
Like life between its anti and node
I can only cry so much
Before it no longer matters
And it becomes another event, such and such
And its significance becomes a thought, to the floor it clatters.
Don’t cry for me, though I’m rife with ill
I don’t need it
I’m still alive
I’m not the one that woman killed
Think about that body rushed away
On determined heels
To the hospital, on precious time played
His fate, despite man, sealed
I’m not there, no fruit to give
My presence not by his dying side
Though he screams to the empty, futile air
My efforts can’t discourage his departure nigh
Though the sun may rise
Thougt the babe born
Though the shoot will rise
I will still morn
His loss, the rotting human soul
That sits in a wooden box, rested in the solemn hearse
Carried off by the bearer of palls
And buried deep beneath the earth
I’ll lament the loss, I’ve lost it
So very suddenly placed, without abet
This event so caustic
I’m face to face with death
But I’m not the one you should morn
Despite the tears streaming from my face
I’m not the one with the greatest of ills
I’m not the one you should be praying for
For, I’m not the one who that woman killed.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
We all have bad days,
And just now must be mine,
What are you smiling at,
Haven't you had thine?
Rejections and failures,
And numerous palls of sadness,
I've pulled through these before,
I have got the finesse!
Although some confidence gets undermined,
And my fate is, apparently,
In the hands of you- an imbecile;
But I am still okay to walk on.
Surprise, surprise! I am not dying.
One day the tables will turn,
And I want you to feel what I feel.
I am not looking at revenge,
For neither are you made of steel.
I think I will let go of it,
And the time shall move on,
For that's what it does best.
As for me,
Skilled sailors were never made by the seas
That were the smoothest.
**
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
The lighthouse at Le Cap de Grace
Was damp and dark at best,
The rain would sweep in from the south,
The wind rage from the west,
But nature’s torments could not match
The storms that formed within,
For deep inside its battered walls
Were palls of mortal sin.
Two lighthouse keepers kept the light,
Both Jon and Jacques De Vaux,
They tended to the light above
While she would wait below,
The dusky, husky buxom witch
With lips of honey dew,
Who loved the lighthouse keepers,
Not just one, but even two.
Below was but a single bed,
She said that they must share,
They watched her eagerly each night
Her tend and brush her hair,
For then she would turn round to them
And indicate her choice,
She’d merely point at one of them,
Not even use her voice.
And then the chosen one would smile
His brother often curse,
For he would share her bed that night
The other fare much worse,
For he would lie inside the store
On coils of hempen rope,
And lie awake and listening,
No sound would give him hope.
But often she would cry aloud
In passion through the night,
While Jon or Jacques would stop his ears
And think, ‘It’s just not right.’
But she ruled this menage a trois
With silken hand and glove,
And they would never question it
While working up above.
She only ever favoured each
For just a single night,
She knew to show a favourite
Would seem to them like spite,
And thus the nightly balance kept
Their tempers both in check,
She fed on their desires, and they
In turn showed her respect.
The winter storms came in to stay,
The waves beat down below,
The wind beat at the lighthouse glass
And one would have to go,
Above to guard that precious light
To keep the ships from harm,
But who would go aloft would cause
The brothers both alarm.
For he who stayed would taste the charms
Of Elspeth for that night,
It might not be his turn, and that
They both thought wasn’t right,
A rising tide of anger fed
By storms and mute dismay,
Turned brother against brother when
One had to go away.
One night the light went out, and Jon
Said, ‘Jacques, go up above,
Your turn it is to light the light
While I stay with our love.’
But Jacques refused his brother’s plea
And said, ‘No, you can go,
You had the bed of love last night,
I’m staying down below.’
The night was dark and moonless and
There wasn’t any light,
While out there in the darkness rode
A freighter in the night,
It drove up on the reef, its bow
Then battered in their door,
And pinned their husky, dusky witch
In blood pools on the floor.
The lighthouse at Le Cap de Grace
Is damp and dark at best,
The rain will sweep in from the south,
The wind rage from the west,
Two lighthouse keepers keep the light
And share the only bed,
The half love that they long for now
Is well and truly dead.
David Lewis Paget
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
The mirror, consistent bystander, a defiled savior that returns
An arid eyeful of the misery masquerading in skin
The promises, unturned in the ragged nails
Of hands amongst the worn blades, desiccated with blood.
Night prefaced by sleep endeavors to hold a zephyr to never wake
Keeping a window parsed with misguiding lexis when solitary
Escapism writes itself on panes in palls of a routed exhale
The walls, sordidly stained with parody of preaching truths
Openhanded to the sheer erosion of missing self-misuse
And as the dawn reveals the path out redemption's door
The fetter of morning's mourning reminds its prisoner of its tethered grip.
© 2013
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
I weep for a host
O'er the sea -- For liberties lost,
For autonomy
Shrouded in black palls --
Tyrants flood in hallowed halls,
Where great men once stood
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 9:23 AM UTC
Sheets of linen, palls of grey
Old bathroom walled
Scrawled dismay
School of halls, rooms of beige
Sheets of linen, palls of grey
Old bathroom walled
Stalls, dismay.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 3:53 AM UTC
ESCUTCHEON: Tuesday September 17th, 2019 at 09:41 PM writes:
oh please…no more fluff for the stuffy…blah, blah, blah
REPLY:
its so dank in here – do you mind moving over?
ESCUTCHEON:
have to go anyway, its late and kinda artsy for fancy yum yums like me ... so derivative like.
REPLY:
ha, ha, ha ya mean so loosely fitting that it ‘palls me ***** cheerios girls, as the Telegraphers say
ESCUTCHEON:
cornflakes, potatoes, silk chiffon ribbons, any french layer cake will do for you lot…btw working me times table
REPLY:
since you (men)tion it, hee, hee, kah, kah, (cough)(spits out loose tooth).
ESCUTCHEON:
rolls around with five men until sparkling clean. Just like all the men *** known, T. Hee (she wahnts five x =’s 45)
REPLY:
leave it alone pal (3plus10)
ESCUTCHEON:
yeah or just leave. this restaurant is for invertebrates and finger stats and rind rats
cafe french is stupid. and quit pointing that thing at me
it feels like two flutes in the back
i ho(p)e everyone just turns out to vote (for me!) (aside to self – how does one thought supersede another (self to aside – withering like self-replicating worms - it's sequential, isn’t it?))(parens within parens)
huge thugs. good work all. take 5 (6-1=3)
REPLY:
he's drunk.
ESCUTCHEON:
blood everywhere
meh, just on the napkin...thank g-d
Geesh, Im surprised he could keep (alive) that long (plus 0 minus 0)
Comment awaiting approval.
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Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 2:04 AM UTC
Phoenix I
I set myself aflame to purge myself of sin
The fire sears me deep beneath my leper's skin
Yet cannot heal the scars that bleed the heart within
I seek for peace of mind to still my sorrow's din
Alone I've wandered years a Cain of restless path
Blind from acid tears beset by storms of wrath
But neither miles or time can my missteps rescind
The faith of Job is lost drowned in scalding rain
The ghosts of dreams abound of **** by folly slain
They weep and shriek for grace but rot forsaken in their graves
The shame of failure galls the spirit shrinks and twists
As hope of living palls and perseverance proves a *****
Still I travel on refusing to give in
With strength of will near gone I find my inward wind
Though an orphan scorned by luck I am of phoenix grain
However oft I fall to dust from blaze of bones I rise again
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
often there is an echo
to what happens now
foreshadows cast a long darkness
the pause palls gives one a hint
the mercury in the bulb
goes higher when
and we ignore defy look away
no the instruments
can't be trusted
this time
as our plane circles a spiral we feel
the same as level minds
and crash headlong
the river rushes by
feet get wet
the trees on the shore bent downstream
a precedent
but we go on in definite
ignorance a human thing
that evolutionary flaw of
near-sightedness a myopic
kaleidoscopic happy thing turned back to make us
colored like fools
in "fake news"
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC