"pantomimes" poems
We are absurd
You and I
Fragments
We have created a fermentative reality,
Where words are symbols of relation
That you and I falsify
And Bingo was his name-o!
Ah!
Oh holy onomatopoeic jargon
What do you mean?
And how shall we bargain?
And mora is but a half step to a whole
Eek gad!
January Febuary March and April
May I introduce you to June and July
August, Sept Oct Nov Dec
Randomly systemized organs organized
Abstract or… dissonant?
But who is in charge?
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“Why so serious?” said The Riddler
Mellow dramatic
Melodrama
Melancholy
Pantomimes!
Pantomimes EVERYWHERE!
They are able to speak
But alone I mime, “Do you have the time?”
Together we fall!
United I stand.
Backwards
Upside down
Inside out
And grammar
What’s in a name?
Please don’t be lame
Sarcastic and the glamour
Synonymous nonsense
Homophones and nyms
Where are the polysemes?
In the antonyms
In the antonyms!
Repitition
Exclamation
Annunciation
tions…
verbage verbage verbage
syllables and such
meaningless meaning
defining definitions with such
True or False?
Hide and Seek
Ring around the rosy
We all fall down…
We all fall down.
Black hat, white shoes, and I’m red all over.
Salt
Sour
And bitter
And dill
And
And
And
And
And
And
Ampersand
Institutionalized poetry
But I am for rhythmic prose!
No, not you
Listen to the hue
that the colors protrude
red green blue
red green blue
Black is not a color
Chrome is my favorite
I will not believe otherwise
You are an alien.
I have divided by zero
Musical dissonance
*(asterisk)
A beautiful disaster
A shadow without its owner
Wild natured wilderness
And naturally a wildcard.
**** **** **** **** ****
Etcetera.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC
We are absurd
You and I
Fragments
We have created a figmentative reality,
where words are symbols of relation
that you and I falsify
And Bingo was his name-o!
Ah!
Oh holy onomatopoeic jargon
What do you mean?
and how shall we bargain?
And mora is but a half step to a whole
Eek gad!
January Febuary March and April
May I introduce you to June and July
August 28th
Sept Oct Nov Dec
Randomly systemized organs organized
Abstract or… dissonant?
But who is in charge?
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12345678
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12344
12344556
“Why so serious?” said The Riddler
Mellow dramatic
Melodrama
Melancholy
Pantomimes!
Pantomimes EVERYWHERE!
They are able to speak
But alone I mime, “Do you have the time?”
Together we fall!
United I stand.
Backwards
Upside down
Inside out
And grammar
What’s in a name?
Please don’t be lame
Sarcastic and the glamour
Synonymous nonsense
Homophones and nyms
Where are the polysemes?
In the antonyms
In the antonyms!
Repetition
Exclamation
Annunciation
tions…
verbage verbage verbage
syllables and such
meaningless meaning
defining definitions with such
True or False?
Hide and Seek
Ring around the rosy
We all fall down…
We all fall down.
Salt
Sour
And bitter
And dill
And
And
And
And
And
And
Ampersand
Institutionalized poetry
But I am for rhythmic prose!
No, not you
Listen to the hue
that the colors protrude
red green blue
red green blue
Black is not a color
Chrome is my favorite
I will not believe otherwise
You are an alien.
I have divided by zero
Musical dissonance
Asterisk*
A beautiful disaster
A shadow without its owner
Wild natured wilderness
And naturally a wildcard.
**** **** **** **** ****
Etcetera.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
we both work in the postal service
but neither one of us
has ever sent a single love letter
maybe it's the drill of the job
maybe its the grind of the machines
or the clack of the keyboards
grind turns to a drone
and i look around to what we thought
were industrialized patents
were actually what we had once considered our friends
was that where they disappeared to?
instead of quitting the dead end
i had assumed too fearful to follow the leap
they hid away in mail bins and P.O. boxes
i thought i was alone
maybe i was
maybe they really did leave
their souls gone
with empty shells of bodies
remnants of what once was
yes
i am still alone
those who i knew have fled the building
in search of a more meaningful existence
winding in up in god knows where
anywhere but here
these gluttonous pantomimes only accept hopefuls
midlife crises who leap
at the opportunity for promotion
like increasing payroll would reduce their age
same as the twenty five year old liberal art grads who need a filler
to help pay rent while they work
on what will collectively become hundreds of thousands of volumes unpublished
here i stand
twenty eight years old
and strip off my badge
as it falls to the floor
i walk out the door
say hello to the next boarding train
(last stop your hometown)
and goodbye to the dead end road.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
Puts me in mind
Of a man who embodied our eternal, sometimes fruitless search
And why the heart is a lonely hunter.
John Singer, you silently sang,
Of heartbreak and devotion to someone
And the eternal search for those elusive qualities
Those missing puzzle pieces we all look for
Happiness
Acceptance
Love
Always seem out of our grasp
Like a puddle of water
On the sunbaked, summertime highway of our lives
Traveling
Always looking for something
Hunting for anything
To let us know we’re human
We’re loved
But still our lonely hearts search on
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
The heart is a lonely hunter.
Staring out the window of the bus
Thinking about the ones I love
And wondering if it is all worth it.
I wish I could’ve sat down with you, Mr. Singer,
And compared notes through pantomimes
Written words of your struggles
Maybe I could’ve understood you better than others
Deaf and mute, you
Couldn't communicate with words,
Couldn't hear what other said,
Instead you communicated with looks of compassion
Serenity,
Composure
Masking a single-minded devotion to one person
And you let others who lean on you
Attaching what meaning they may
To the nonverbal cues you say to them.
When some of it wasn’t what you really intended.
Believe me, Mr. Singer.
I know all too well the misunderstandings
That come up in the name of simple love
Or the search for it.
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.”
You think you have something special
But does the other person really understand you?
And when others need you, and vice versa,
They fail to see behind the wall masking
Your true heart
What you’re really trying to tell them
And even with the powers of speech and hearing
Would you still have made yourself understood?
Misunderstanding, it’s so easy
Words are woefully inadequate
Because people will see what they want to anyway
They attach their own meanings to the words you say
Mister Singer, I can understand why you blew a hole in your chest
Sometimes that gaping hole is more preferable
To the gaping hole left by a broken, misunderstood heart
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.
And if you think that you are only
A shadow in the wind
Blowing around but when
You let somebody in
They might fade away.” (*)
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
In Farmington the misfit suffers the jukebox and dances to an unknown song. He dances on the pool table. He wears black—black skull cap, black
duster, black shirt, black slacks, black boots. He's in Farmington and
the women here drink Bud Light. He dances slow. It's similar to a dance
you've seen before. You have that friend that climbs on couches after a few and half staggers, half sways. The women here watch him with unhappy eyes and hands stained blue from the textile mill. He seems to mouth the words although he clearly doesn't know the song. They, the women, dig their elbows into the bar. Pocked and graffiti'd, the bar soaks up spilled beer and ash and nail polish. Behind the bar a sign reads: Free Beer Tomorrow. And for some reason, you must admit, this sign's effect never dulls. The Misfit pantomimes a dance with a pool cue. His face is severe, serious. He's in Farmington dancing with a pool cue on a pool table to a song he doesn't know like a drunk friend of yours and the women are watching. Next, he does something amazing. He removes his cap. He's got shocks of bleached hair and burn scars run like rivulets between the patches. He tosses the cap toward the bar. One lucky woman catches it and summons herself to the pool table. You want them to have a bit of dialogue here, to say something oblique and innocent. Instead the lucky woman dances at the man's feet. He surrenders a smile and he's got small tracts of bleached hair and burn scars and he's in all black and he's dancing. The lucky woman, she's in a canary yellow patch dress. Her dance, although clumsy, still mesmerizes you. It's without ego, without shame. She is a child. She is the light in the room. She is, in this moment, the world entire. He pulls her onto the table. It's time to appoint the Misfit and the lucky woman names, you think. His name shall be Joshua. Her name shall be Anna. Palms together, her head resting on his chest, they sway. The smoke and the tracers of light meld and Joshua and Anna's outlines become muddied. Their bodies merge and they are both yellow and black and covered in burn scars and bleached hair and the women are still watching. As the song starts to fade, someone—maybe it's you—drops a few coins in the jukebox and it begins again.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
Jingle Bells and Mistletoe
Christmas songs galore
Plastic crap marked down again
Sales in every store
Santa Claus in Shopping Malls
Photos for the hoards
Teenage girls dressed up like elves
Looking rather bored
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
Get me through the Christmas Craze
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
I can not take much more
Christmas shows and pantomimes
Put on by theater groups
Old actors who we used to know
How low will these folks stoop?
Boxing Day and crazy crowds
Houses lit up like the park
Even when the power's off
They're still glowing in the dark
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
Get me through the Christmas Craze
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
I can not take much more
Charity is on the wane
People confuse want with need
The population's gone insane
They're full of Christmas greed
Snowmen out in the front yard
Decorating Christmas Trees
Carolers from up the church
...that is Christmas Time to me
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
Get me through the Christmas Craze
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
I can not take much more
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
I see the pantomimes
In France, on the sidewalks
The frowns and the smiles
But all painted over by
Such pretentious acts
They put for all to see
Like our lives
We are no different
Just becoming strangers again
I once bluffed you
through lying teeth
Saying "I'm okay"
When I'm really not
Wasn't that like the pantomime
We saw circa 2001?
So much truth behind all the acts
To create this perfect lie
To make you believe
That maybe this could work
But when you walked off
Giving me no face
I could finally wipe off
All the thick heavy makeup
Of the lies I had created.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
this is the news: a strange to do with all strange. some other kiwi in the hissing bliss of a fine day.
the spoils of bounty are ludicrous in disarray. a jumble of lumpkin, festooned in prayer-wheels and Tibet.
a fountain of open hands.
on the brink... on the terrace of counterfeit pantomimes
a man of days
darning socks and ultraviolet, with quasars for aspic.
a drunk pirouette -
bereft.
love is the one jungle you know when you're lost, and the last thing that made sense. All day.
the spoils of bounty are numinous, always. a trundle of frump-kin, immune to what feels like a guess.
" i refuse to sell my daddy's ranch! "
if you blink... i might tell you where you lost your mind.
an ace of spades
a Goldilocks and ultra violence, with ****** for aspirin.
a defunct smidgen
of less.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
Chase the emerald fairy
Around the Eiffel Tower of France
Shadows swagger an acid dance
Of Hollywood trances and diamond glances
We’ll spout poetry beneath a glamoured moon amour
Drink whiskey and absinthe by the gallons
And wash it down with the finest wine
Grown from sultry ***** countryside
A poet’s star will drive jealousy mad
In famous graveyards of prostitutes and prose
Our night will be spent in gothic debauchery
Eyes once spoke the tale of flesh and lust
Pouting over torrentially voracious desires
Decadence deceived promises
Bewitched with voluptuous tongue
The playwright types at his typewriter
Typing funeral dirges of sitar and violin duels
The contravention of dawn’s chorus
Erupts behind curtains of pantomimes
Charms lost in the end of magnificent performances
Your whispers in my ear are the last I hope to hear
The last beautiful gasp of breath I hope to hear
Will be your whispers in my ear
(*Death sits before his typewriter
pounding keys in a ravenous lunatic frenzy
electing the end to our story
we have no contribution
only dealt the parts we act upon
and our scripts to speak*)
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
misunderstanding flows, like beer on tap
and as we drink it down, pint after pint,
all reason is spilled onto the table,
wiped up by the ***** bar mop
that stinks of yesterdays brew
the proprietor of this establishment
stands at counter, smiling his knowing smile
that sadness in his eyes which can only come
from seeing pantomimes like this one play out before him
on every night of his long, long career
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 2:36 PM UTC
I’m outside and the air is so crisp it’s turned brittle
When I move, my hair cracks with electricity
As if with each step I take, I displace
And crinkle the wafer oxygen.
My hair, it is poised like a snapping electric halo,
And I think how many angels have also had feet
Which knew this frozen, frosty soil like mine do.
What a shame we could not have met and compared notes.
Above is a ceiling, nearer than people credit to be.
There is no navy shroud tonight,
Seasoned with the universe.
It is not even a black curtain,
But instead a piece of smoke fogged glass, graying.
Above the briery penthouses of the evergreen boundaries,
Against which the glass rests,
Is a blush of light, to the North, tattle of a city.
They call it light pollution, a lightening of the sky
Due to artificial, phosphorescent, perpetual pantomimes of noon: streetlights
And I see two electric halos,
One belonging to me
One the heavens,
And I think how funny that
Without the dry, horrid winter air,
or the residue of a wasteful city of men,
No halos would exist.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
What does a poet do
When words fail them?
When the vernacular
They so heavily relied on
To convey every navy blue,
Indigo, violet hue of the midnight sky,
Dies on the tip of their tongue?
When the morphemes
That gave life to the phantoms
And pantomimes in their heart
Come out as Neanderthalic grunts?
What does a poet do?
When the discourse once so comfortable
Becomes stilted, halting, and forced
Because their brain has blanked
On their particular patois?
When not even the thesaurus or lexicon
Or revered Oxford English Dictionary
Can provide the adequate locution
So as to appease the poet's need
To be
Understood,
Acknowledged,
Fathomed,
Decoded,
Interpreted,
Heard.
Because that's all we want.
And that's the impossible
When we have writer's block.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
The ineffaceable stain
Allegorical refrain
Dictates the wily antidotes for a newfound sane
They hector from a distance
Muted but militant resistance
magical hobgoblins the lifeblood of their persistence
Heterodoxy enters the stage
Cognizant of ignominy, a potent repressed rage
Succor sought, corporate media bought
A pyrrhic limelight is certainly not what was sought
I defer to dignified exemplars
I confer with callous company at vapid bars
Concluding thereby the inverse proportionality of authenticity to success
The articulations of divinity imply rigidity
sweltering soul burgeoning with light sweating an evanescent humidity
If blind before, partial and total sight reconstitute the core
omnipresent paparazzi deplores
Past pities insuperable even with pithy witty
Future pieties irrelevant to ineradicable ignominy and purported dignity
Cupid and cupidity must be related
because gold-diggers alerted to my fair share would be elated
Begrudged at every tick, tantalized by a slow torture lurid flit
I cast my ambitions into the fathomless depths
I amass provisions for a restive hibernation, enduring schlep
Redemptive powers yet articulated
Should ease the prospects of being matriculated
But is cloistered suffering an inexcusable plight
When the deep coffers derelict a modest gesture of making grievous inequities once again right?
Must I swim to distant shores
Past the barnacles beneath and the urchins on submerged sand, very sore
Landmines at the beach, pantomimes and their garbled preach
Past scattershot invective fortified by intransigent misers of conscience, the balmy resort out of reach.
Bleak bleats, meek feats, good eats
I think it is about time for a tyrannical psychology to let me off the incapacitating leash, letting me focus on actions rather than on incomprehensible speech
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
his loudspeaker thinking
shot through my eye
as he passes me in the crowded room
its over-speed thought process painted on his sweating face
he fingers loudly the moist pages of his life
wishing to replay the better moments
but just like everyone else
cant relive the moment
but you can live in
the pain of its regret for the rest of your life
if that's what you want
he's a follower of the herd
he sits with with them
and pantomimes their moves with precision
she sits in the exact centre
of the same corner each day
making notes of the coming and goings
and draws the faces
the funny faces
spiral notebooks full of faces
her glasses held together with scotch tape
her mind held together with
reruns of nineteen seventies sitcoms
and heavy medications
she is lonely but will never admit it
she watches him
and wonders
at the days end
she convinces him to walk her home
and together
they set out hand in hand
the sky and world around them a tourist picture perfect whitewash
he fingers her medicated mind
prying out the soft meat
looking for the dark stuff that tastes
like chicken
her misfire engines let him get only so deep
before her childhood memories
of a beautiful blue dress
and a apple pie brings enough
reality to his palate to end his fascination
they will end up married
because being misfit is better than
being alone
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
trust me she assured
in the fading glow as though
trust came tied with thoroughly tested
knots intertwined with love.
hear me she pleaded
as the past abruptly revealed
itself in the present and communications
became pantomimes in the dark.
help me she screamed
to the night stars who shone
glowering at her lusterless attempts
to be elevated and live.
hi, its me I whispered
to her as the sun crept through
the morning curtains and caused
her smile to glow.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 3:40 AM UTC
I think you should have made me say sorry
Before I had to come to the realization myself.
All the backs rubbed, padded fingers
Bruised in futile comfort
Came from you doing, living you, yourself,
Your normal of
**** it, **** happens*.
No, I'm not angry at myself, because
You plant these seeds yourself and let them
Diffuse into your acidic tasting soil,
Dirtied by all of the forgotten questions
And
Dismembered, overcarressed words.
Stuffing filled ******** you shoveled
Over your shoulder,
Back onto the pile.
There's value you tirelessly overlook
In ending a fight,
Finishing a thought,
Having emotions,
Being a human.
It's your well deserved turn now,
You can do it,
Just inhale
Languages
****** expressions
Subtitles
Paraphrases
Gestures
Pantomimes
With fluidity as each atomic being sifts through continuing passages
And go.
Exhale,
No, you're doing it wrong.
Breath. Out.
What you feel,
Release,
Allow me passage inside,
I've only wanted to help all this time.
I guess we'll just start here.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
On starry nights the mind is like
To step on board a vision;
To climb the enigmatic steps –
The liquid path to heaven;
Fast to ascend – for some too fast –
And then to stop and ponder
For here the mind holds precedence
Revelling in wonder.
For minds behold what eyes cannot,
So stop to gaze in awe
At shooting stars, at swirling mists
And worlds not seen before;
At light-filled cosmic pantomimes
That never cease their games
And ever-changing paradigms
Of constellation frames.
But then too soon the vision halts
Its journey into space,
While falling fast the mind clings on
But has its fate to face.
For back in its imprisoned home
It cannot wander free
But lives within the narrow-world
That only eyes can see.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
We step away and then,
you close the door
(you always knew how to close)
The palm of your hand (I)
shut(s) my eyes
and I imagine you must be thinking
that my head is spinning
only, it’s not.
I’m tired this time around
and all that we’ve had,
in cups, in pantomimes,
in black bottles at the back
of your grandfather’s closet,
is beginning to weigh me down.
I am an anchor
lightly kissing
the bottom of an abyss
in a sea.
But you don’t swim
and I know you never will.
No, my head isn’t spinning,
but the world is.
Before, I thought it ceased
to halt when I found myself
alone with you
in that enclosure
I craved from the back
of my throat.
I was possessive of your presence
without good reason.
Never had any good reason
and here again, I’m without it
but I no longer allow myself
the delusion of believing
in the immortal exceptionalism
that I once painted
on your face.
The auto-intoxication has stopped.
We step away and you engage
my mouth once more.
It has never been the way
I’ve wanted.
I gave you permission
and you close the door.
(I am now closing my eyes).
I was blind
now I ignore
the way this body
has never been more
than a robust instrument.
I use it as such.
You dismiss my thoughts,
that is your mistake.
Your hand on the back of my neck,
pulling down to devour.
We always speak of ***
as in hunting terms.
A predator hunts his prey.
The prey traps her meal.
But I no longer resist
and I admit that violence
no longer shines.
It is nothing and makes
for one hell of a drowsy exchange.
You disrobe me,
these mechanics are boring.
The choreography of two
relative strangers (I hardly know
you in the end, we don’t talk)
moving their bodies in
a badly needed rhythm.
Pure imagination.
We dance for the other
without listening
and you step on my toes.
I crave the scratching halt of the song.
Your tongue is metallic.
This has been ugly since day one.
I shut my eyes, my head not spinning,
and its only now that I see.
I no longer wish to force
stimulation through the filter of my body.
You shut the door
and I shut out the world.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
You can hear them
Stories that turn into pantomimes
Shadows dancing in his mind
Joining hands in the quiet
Breaking free when the voices come back
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:08 PM UTC
Aye, aye, b-b-, AYE!
-
I try to rhyme ten syllables at a time,
Whoops I meant eleven, isn’t that a crime.
To make poetry is proving nothingness,
Oh I meant something-ness, what a ****** mess!
Let’s just shut the hell up and be pantomimes!
~
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 12:55 AM UTC
The Elephants At The Zoo
The elephants at the zoo, lumbering in their cells, like deadwood floating downstream, where the mouth is closed. When kids arrive they put on a show. It brings them minute happiness to see the smiles, hear the laughter and to look into the eyes of freedom.
As the day moves on, it's a blur, as the sunny disposition is weathered and fake. Each movement of the trunks, calculated, silenced and each passing face, a tear.
Such sadness their eyes
Windows wide open to see
Pantomimes of hope
Logan Robertson
9/16/2019
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 2:06 PM UTC
The skill through which you maneuvered
between skyscrapers of lust and longing
through dense forests of future dreams
through intertwined hands and hearts
and picnic pantomimes and love letters
dinners and dances
were all a mirage being built up
to elude the truth manacled in the mystery
of what you really wanted.
When you left you sliced a part of me
wrapped it all up in pain
and vanished into the thick night of excuses
How foolish I was to believe that you would
return to claim the territory you conquered
and cherished for so long, defeating contenders
to their kingdom through wily ways.You laid waste
a landscape of emotions and vanished into the mythical
realm of external attractions.
You have won. I lost
my sanity for a short while until I awoke
one morning to find that you really won nothing
but an artificial heart with no heavyweight
knockouts.
Good luck. I am free.
Author Notes
Bile and beauty co-exist. Figure.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ag
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Gathered up the sticks and stones,
metalic chains that tied down bones.
twist gibberish from mithered mind,
poisonous scolpamine that makes it bind.
throw in angst, grief ,abuse and pain,
the manic , depressed clown, sudden sane,
projections coloured, in black and blue,
silvered mirror, which reflects you too,
tapping feet, to tell his story,
vibrating, whirring, hate and gory,
tangled hair, in love and war,
left the house, she went too far,
Eve's cursed with all honest, gentle, meek,
an act of love, was taught to seek,
not in public, lies, their great shame,
it's ***** ops, they got it covered,
none Independent to Post,
All is hidden in the Sun,
With ***** Mirror,
one cannot find
junk Mail sings to tapped Telegragh.
none Express the Times,
News reels out fear, in pantomimes,
bowed to the fiddle player,
President, Minister, Senator , Mayor,
dressed in copper, gold, inked paper, bit coins,
buried in weighted tonnes, aground,
strawman arguments, plentiful found,
mutter mumbo jumbo,
about survival of fittest,
serfs was born, to be that hitlist,
elequent etonians, buzzing fabian tales,
once bolting cheetahs, now, well fattened snails,
More occult jibes, from outer polished cups,
with poisoned inner, She passes up,
If sinning became winning,
patient, with time locked down, spinning,
weaving multicoloured threads,
of too man-y voices in her head.
Found alchemical gold in solitary cell,
Thanks to the Fathers Heavenly spell,
unravelled her story, from sickness to well.
Omnipresent, all round, all high,
nothing hidden from his all seeing eye.
Good things come, for those who wait,
lockdown will serve the meek and kind,
the architects soon stricken blind,
believe their own lies,
think their bots are real,
love is truth, for those who feel.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 12:50 AM UTC
i aspire to be a kaleidoscope, a useless commodity,
many bits and pieces merged together harmoniously.
the vessel holds sturdy, regardless of my peccant deeds
to have you glance inside of me, observe all of my colors bleed.
see easily my artistry, view the roots surround my arteries
painted with every color of the palette of sublimity,
forming iridescent trees of immaculate coruscation,
appraising the vestige of my aberrant nature.
everything i will ever be is dripping down like watercolour,
pastels falling off the page and landing on another surface.
i beseech your ardor and tendency to be besotted, but
omit your yearning to examine my detachment.
i am corroding under your duplicity, sinking in your inertia
drowning in your astringent disorder of ignoring my existence.
you attempt to dissimulate the deterioration of your artifice
and ruminate the feasible consequences of mild adulation.
what do you envisage as you imbibe from the silky waters
of my fluid emotions, and my convoluted pantomimes?
my enigmatic essence is slowly decomposing and
hovering intermittently in detrimental cessation.
you constantly contravene with the archfiend within yourself
and wage onslaughts in your mind on your impertinent abstractions.
and i am afraid it is interminable, but i will still hold dear my
sanguine complexions and continue to hope for auspice.
you articulate your pronouncements with ease, and implore
that your austere endeavors are deeply earnest, but
the significance of that word unravels on your tongue,
and is meaningless, turning to ash in your mouth.
i supplicate for waves of benevolence, ardent winds and
ingenuous conversations. anchor me, or disengage.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC