"parapets" poems
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
With that, my Parapets should find Content
Knowing you and all Involved will migrate
But only sever out those Post-Chains sent
Will I be Enlightened from this Debate
I should go first, seeing this Program, I,
The Valleyed Entrepreneur once invest
For special - Hearts which ferrimost go by
And boost this Capital for all your Best
Only a matter when my eyes Break Lens
Which, for once, these Songs never did Exist
Since configured to Sportive Water's sense
Those Borrowed Drums whose Beat will now resist.
With my lips pursed, to the top of my mane
I Thank you once again, Beauty's Maiden Name.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
'I went out myself into
an immortal body, and
now I am not what I was
before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
Steps these beginning steeps unavoidable the stains of water and mud clearly from Noah’s flood
Seeds crushed into the cracks from earliest civilization fiery ones left black shadows on the walls
Faint touches of red as clear as rubies square holes like those used in crucifixion could it be his blood
Beyond earths plain the steps are blocks of diamond burnished by the glory that brushed over them
Spirals that know no parallel in earthen design etched loves burning flame scenes of two worlds intact
The rise and fall of battles waged evil repelled the cost by sacrifice unto death they tread these steps too
From parapets of stone their souls ever bold made their way and vulcanized the heights adding impact
God called legions they left behind the puny Himalayas uncharted stars they pass still the steps rise
Rend me wool to hang among celestial worlds the maidens can weave this from mountain doll sheep
It will drape this spiral in great detail masters will add the flaming achievements a banner of honor to all
Hard places of the wall softened by showing perilous dangers overcame through eyes so fond that weep
Not one single foot will be lifted on this way who knows not the way of sorrow and pain only by this gain
The winds would tear you loose as you climb to those terrible heights the hands are steadied by might
Keep up the pace ever mindful of the race yours is not a level one but a crested one of brightest morn
The long days are fading all are nearing following those who from their climb know joy of almost flight
Look down look up these tiers look no stronger than thinnest silk not so this is an unbreakable ancestral chain your forbears forged that leads to heaven your place is add to this living chain
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
in the catwalks, high above
this city, sleeping
in the parapets, twisting
through darkened fire
escapes to stars, lost
in this complex maze
the architects left
behind - hope
runs out of the arteries
of their dreams
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Tired yellows on infant flowers
Are like resignation on new lovers.
Rains drop, when the sky blinks;
Fetching tears on abandoned brinks.
The sweaty smell of gestation,
Signifies the mangoes’ manifestation.
I close my eyes and hear
The inevitable drum roll caving near.
Spring reclines under the parapets of roofs,
Crushed like a migrant under our carriage hoofs.
Summer.
The Harbinger of Life.
Possess these seeds and fertilize
Their voluble dormancy
In the flames of insurgency.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
I built my hopes
On dreams of you
With parapets
And spires
Lofty columns
Reaching into
Amaranthine skies
But castles are not
Meant to stand
Atop unsure foundations
And these walls
Become so fragile
With your cyclic
Oscillation
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
sometimes i just--shut--my eyes
think of what could be
a brief instant of mixing--reality--
fantasy--
wings melting i crash--into the sand
the waves washing wet--over me
the sun is too--hot--hot hot
i can carry the fire--up
but i cannot put it out
in all my ice i cannot **** the sun
so i am building a castle--a sandcastle
with parapets and a gated moat--
i knock it down with a crash
destruction was my primer-book
cynicism my blue-backed speller
so i lock myself up--in my room
pretending to be named emily
in my flawless white dress
the old nickname e.d. is transformed
until i remember--myself--
i am not a doll
and i--am not--afraid
the world can be--irrelevant
i will not abandon life
****** half-hatched into reality--
lost in a foreign land unknown
a sojourner who has lost--the song
peregrine with a misplaced home
the repressed truth will arise--
i will find the beginning--in the end
i fly back up--fire in my pocket--
bid cheerful farewell to the sun
good day to the beach-grains
rebuilding the--castle--
it is only--sand--
and i let it stand
life is reality--what took so long
and life that is really happening
is better than supremacy unlived
and i get lost--in omniscience
looking--skyward--realizing
i am a--grain--of sand
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 4:41 PM UTC
Time..
slipping
from the parapets
a rorschach night
laid out below
If mine
is but a little while
then yours is not
for me to know
so, glittering
away, we leapt
from all convention
disavowed
restoring
golden folklores
with our whispering
of owls
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 4:38 PM UTC
she is a little more than a little tired of
lists. And litanies that go no
where, and
hail no one. it would be nice to be the
list, instead, being penned, being spun into be
ing, to be the logical result of a strong clear
desire. (all she can really remember
from that pirate
movie is that the compass only worked if
you could let yourself
wild yawp want it).
More. more (the word quivers at the nub
like something might be actually
happening).
More
magic beans.
Less stirring soup.
More of to fly into
a rage at the intrusion
more intrusion! less
steady golden eggs that bore her
into a whipless
stupor. More unknown. More parapets of cloud. More
lovers the size of small mountains. More rumbling
and coming apart at the fault lines.
More lava beneath me, she writes and grows
warm. Oh! How
that would burn...
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
This stray amongst the lions, singing
Songs about the motions, while he
Shuffles on his feet, and dreams of
Birds and trains and oceans.
Inside a cage of pens and desks, his
Mind a whirlwind blowing, and his
Instinct rarely showing that there's
No real way of knowing. Be-
Neath the towering eyes of stone, he'll
Charge forth into worlds unknown. And
Maybe he'll make us all so very proud.
The jewel within the junkpile, reading
Classic works of old, and telling
Stories of a life she dreams on
Starry nights so cold. She
Takes a subtle gesture, turns it
To a work of art, and then she'll
Take a few steps backwards, turn, and
Then she shall depart. Be-
Tween two realms of parapets, she
Takes her time, but still forgets to
Return to the heavens she is from.
A seething mass of paper, screaming
Mindless riddling tricks, bent on
Giving you your fix, of heady
Sciences, for kicks. They share a
Bleak appraise of life, but still
Together it's alright, because
There's nothing they can't face, if they just
Shine a little light. Be-
Mused and disillusioned glances, and
Gaily executed dances. The
World just fades to white, and all is well.
A satin mix of music, and an
Air of discontent, disguising
All who can't repent and left to
Pick their cold descent. She
Strokes aside her hair and puts her
Hands around your waist, before you
Narrow up the space and dance to-
Gether, face to face.
Alone without a single care, the
World is left to stop and stare; and
Rain falls from the stars in darkest skies.
He stumbles round his words, and offers
Meaningless remarks, which don't il-
Luminate the dark as well as
How he set his mark. An
Awkward, crowded scene conspires to
Rid him of his dream, but still he
Doesn't let it seem as though his
Nature doesn't gleam. A-
Lone with just a pocketbook, he
Takes his turn, but doesn't look to
See if she has found her way back home.
He carries his emotions to a
Private place he knows, where the
Jokers never go, and all the
People walk below. She
Meets him at the bar, but doesn't
Take a seat beside, because she
Doesn't like this ride, and so her
Feelings are denied. He
Stares into her ashen eyes, that
Earthy depth that never lies; she
Sits and plays a tune for all to hear.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 1:19 PM UTC
_White nights, grey days,
Phosphorus and gin;
Graffiti-laden pavements,
Diamond rain and paraffin.
Chalk dust reveries,
Aerosols and spit;
Zero-hour freeways,
Magnetic parapets.
City high, city low,
Monoliths in drag;
Silent spaces, dwelling places,
A hoody and a bag.
Freestyle evangelists,
Salvation strikes a pose;
Train tracks, kitchen hacks,
The rapture and the snow._
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 2:52 PM UTC
she is a little more than a little tired of
lists. And litanies that go no
where, and
hail no one. it would be nice to be the
list, instead, being penned, being spun into be
ing, to be the logical result of a strong clear
desire. (all she can really remember
from that pirate
movie is that the compass only worked if
you could let yourself
wild yawp want it).
More. more (the word quivers at the nub
like something might be actually
happening).
More
magic beans.
Less stirring soup.
More of to fly into
a rage at the intrusion
more intrusion! less
steady golden eggs that bore her
into a whipless
stupor. More unknown. More parapets of cloud. More
lovers the size of small mountains. More rumbling
and coming apart at the fault lines.
More lava beneath me, she writes and grows
warm. Oh! How
that would burn...
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:55 PM UTC
Ancient Stairwell
Steps these beginning steeps unavoidable the stains of water and mud clearly from Noah’s flood
Seeds crushed into the cracks from earliest civilization fiery ones left black shadows on the walls
Faint touches of red as clear as rubies square holes like those used in crucifixion could it be his blood
Beyond earths plain the steps are blocks of diamond burnished by the glory that brushed over them
Spirals that know no parallel in earthen design etched loves burning flame scenes of two worlds intact
The rise and fall of battles waged evil repelled the cost by sacrifice unto death they tread these steps too
From parapets of stone their souls ever bold made their way and vulcanized the heights adding impact
God called legions they left behind the puny Himalayas uncharted stars they pass still the steps rise
Rend me wool to hang among celestial worlds the maidens can weave this from mountain doll sheep
It will drape this spiral in great detail masters will add the flaming achievements a banner of honor to all
Hard places of the wall softened by showing perilous dangers overcame through eyes so fond that weep
Not one single foot will be lifted on this way who knows not the way of sorrow and pain only by this gain
The winds would tear you loose as you climb to those terrible heights the hands are steadied by might
Keep up the pace ever mindful of the race yours is not a level one but a crested one of brightest morn
The long days are fading all are nearing following those who from their climb know joy of almost flight
Look down look up these tiers look no stronger than thinnest silk not so this is an unbreakable ancestral chain your forbears forged that leads to heaven your place is add to this living chain
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
Low light and the murky air
Damp, lurid; dust parade
Stale breath and the pounding of soft wood
Stage set, waiting for life
Walls set so high among the purple sky
The hills but glancing over the parapets
Icy hot stone turning me away
Perhaps the gate is on the other side?
Music starts, blank stares
Somehow betray a thought
As movement becomes grace, grace becomes meaning
And for once a call beckons
And the walls begin to tumble
Chipped by every sigh and every turn
Waters rush through the hills, sweeping aside
Sage brush and hot sands, charging
To drown out the scared girl’s cries
Yet they seep through the cracks
And lift you up
I had sent a ship to these shores
And the polished wood moaned as it came
Happy tidings of wealth and good-fortune
Its sails flapped in the winds
As I ponderously shoved it on course
Tentative as a mother releasing her child
The cold winds shake and maim
The crack of the heavens scare and restrain
The heaving hearts of the galley crew
Between the charming bay, engulfed by flame
Flares that failed and faltered when needed most
As the crew found themselves dashed against the rocks
It is odd to see this city, where my wares were bound
Inundated, gloriously awash
Perhaps my wares will float right through the gates
And betray effort and worry and care.
Because they are still out there
Floating through lurid seas, waiting.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
As I sit waiting in my lonely castle, gripping onto the parapets, I pray that I can keep myself away from the fringe of reality
And though I am not lost, it still drives me bonkers that I cannot raise myself up as some sort of merciful avatar; some sort of pillar that cannot be driven into a tailspin as gravity falls around it
Yet, I find that I have leverage in this scenario—that my choices do not fall on pale wings supported by goodfeathers
Somehow this calms me and keeps me feeling supported in a world of alphas, and I know that my final words—even if they do not end with me yelling eureka—will have the effectiveness and power of the big bang theory
And I carry on in thought, yearning for some sort of fairy tail that doesn’t need to begin with “once upon a time,” but that can still lead to a grassy meadow where I can my lay my hands on just one firefly
So I pull on the cape that I was given from this King of Queens, ready to chuck myself over the ledge of the tower, fearing that these pocket monsters I carry with me will do nothing to save my fall
And even though I’m mad about you, and even though I feel like I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, I trust that my life will be saved solely on the fact that I am a person of interest to all
For now I see the end and fear the worst, surrounded by freaks and geeks, by a full house in dire need of home improvement
And despite the fact that family matters, I find that I would give it all away to help a lost girl if it meant saving me
In the end I grab the block of black and, with regret, I end it all with the click of a button
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
The moat where we keep watery fowl
afloat feeding them cracked corn
scattered from our parapets.
Repaired the dry rot in the gate, got the
drawbridge working, again…it rusts.
There is dust, makes us sneeze.
Stumble over stones, look at masons
askance. Threaten grain withholding
(hint: barley) unless they
make ‘em flush.
How fun to keep
the keep
shiny.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
There are chinks in my walls though tall they may be
Spots of weakness
Where mortar and brick were placed too hastily
To cover up what was
I stand an ever watchful guard upon the parapets
Unwilling to unbar the gate
Willing to fight to keep all out
I sit alone in my false castle
A great and powerful facade for me to hide within
A projection of an image rather than reflection in truth
If left to my own these walls will only grow
Left behind them to rot
They serve to build a fear of what lies beyond those walls
Almost like the walls themselves
I willingly seclude myself from the greatest opportunities
Because it is easy. No
Because I fear they be only half broken by someone
To be able to see over the edge
Yet still too high to make that leap
I have seen that path
These walls still show the marks of repair
Like the rings on a tree
They mark the passing of loves, friends and family
I beg of you
Lay siege on my walls
I'm ready to see these walls come down around me
Bring your greatest canon and siege works
Although I am ready they will not fall without a fight
Take aim at these chinks, those great fears piled like stone
They will hold fast for they are old and high
Yet no wall can stand forever
They will fall
Walls will tumble and turn to dust
From the dust I will emerge free of these prison walls
To see the world firsthand good and bad
Please I beg of you
Lay siege to my false castle
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
When I was a boy, the castles of education
soared impossibly large: Brick-laid with Blake, mortared
with Marx, wound round-about with subsidized ivy, rooted
in the 17th century.
And me, just me, on two legs, from 1981.
The flickering incandescence of rebellion started in
these fortressed halls; ideas more snapped than volleyed, until
at the end of our emotional tether, we society on our pale legs,
we sure did fall to a gust of reason.
Emotion pounded at the walls in every century; and minds, fortified with logic and stoney fact, beat back, beat down, beat away the
Crying, yelling minds. For tears do not make progress.
I was tender, careful, deferential in my youth—an idealist without ideas; merely the powder keg of emotion lurking somewhere beneath my epithelial smarts. Ready and willing to rain against the parapets of education with unsightly feeling.
And I stood, in my academic frock, at the feet of the great hall of learning. And I wondered if my legs could stand it.
Is it any wonder I was raised to be an intellectual?
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:39 AM UTC
I know this pain will last
Far beyond tomorrow's atmosphere
Because this paper-thin skin of mine
Keeps far more in than will ever escape
I want to hide beneath these grey skies
I want to hide beneath black feathers
Because this paper-thin skin of mine
Is just a wound away from breaking
I press my heart up against the glass
And shatter the world with a single heartbeat
Because this paper-thin skin of mine
Is just a puncture away from bleeding
I want to stand beneath these parapets
I want to stand beneath salvation
Because this paper-thin skin of mine
Is just a sunrise away from burning
Pull up a chair and dream next to me
Cover violet bruises from violent love
Because this paper-thin skin of ours
Is just a bruise away from yielding
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Sometimes it was a palace
Of gossiping cortesians
Ruled by a queen
With an army of rough men at her influence
A palace from which I, the demon,
Was forbidden to enter
A place of shared lunchables and rubber bangles
While I was relegated to chasing bugs
And swinging through branches
At other times, it was a prison
Guarded by four of the new queen's men
While they sat counting poker chips of bark
I sat plotting an escape
I could dash out and outlast any man
But in a confined land
They'd intersect my path, given long enough
And every time
They'd drag me back under by my coat sleeves
Kicking and shouting
And other times
When no one else was out
And the grounds were as silent as a winter's night
And the queen and her men were in the city
Arguing ranking amongst lords and ladies
I would be out on the parapets
Turning the fortress
Into my domain
A perch with a view of the whole kingdom
A castle owned by the wild dragon
Now I walk up to it
And watch the children upon it
And I remember my time
As a demon
A prisoner
And a fierce, unbridled dragon
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
The teen-age finds
Infamy attractive
& the 'unlawfully fun'.
I heard that
There's no better feeling-
than being on the run.
Some made rebelling,
their creed
& saw thrill-
in ruination.
Amid the juvenile drama,
a thirst for-
retribution.
On top of
great parapets
& in thickets-
we hide.
Don't we all
want to be~
Infamous inside.
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 10:47 AM UTC
Lines like a laxative for tongues,
The individual pieces become greater than its sum,
Summer time therapy dialing up in increments,
Wouldn't know the difference between the butterflies and chrysalis.
Syzygy in spirit as sympathy in the impetus,
Synergy in serendipity makes symmetry seem ubiquitous.
Flummoxed, I fell face first flying into fellowship,
Feeling fusion in the furrows of my fingertips,
Figure this, mistigris, implement mirrors for the synthesis,
Taking root in the underground,
This is censorship on stimulus.
Kaizen from the get-go,
How did silence ever get gold?
Climate of the biome discernible by petrichor,
Some of my greatest allies are people I've never even met before.
Mumpsimus with metaphors, metatron or metamorph,
A mess of Mesozoic memoirs drowning in a reservoir,
Reserve my right to write a mire of a message board,
Desire an empire of satire to conquest; explore,
Buyers, sellers, best befores,
Crying out to be adored,
The expiration estimation rivals rivals' primal repertoires.
Rhymes like mycelium, climbing up the parapets,
Embrangled mosaics interceding abstract arabesque.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:48 AM UTC
Bullion stacked against a window sill
piled high enough to watch the street parade
from behind bullet proof glass panels
wives and children safely ensconced
in upper rooms closer
to the helipad on standby.
He watched the streets burn
Moloch madness known
ego blown and ballooned
on taming the nightskys own fireworks
with the stars in attendance.
with God as his butler.
The man on the street did not think so.
The bills mounted high
and his power was cut for the presidents party.
with a loaf of bread to feed six children
he lost his soul to the furnace in his brain
molotov cocktail in hand
he marched down the alleyway
to the highway of the presidential palace
to set fire to his anger
on the parapets of broken promises
to lay waste to the promised kingdom
to break bread with his brethren
until his message was written
on the politicians plate of plenty.
The helicopter rose
straight into the molotov smash
and the fireball consumed the palace.
The rising ashes replaced the starlights
in the sky and the gold bullion melted back into the earth.
Author Notes
The Revolution has just finished in one place. It will start again in some other.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Under most Circumstances keep Offense
Fearful which Foreign Voices tend to Betray
Whichever Dame or Diver licks your Defense
There your Potent Training roots them at-bay
Perhaps your Person, skinned yet strawed by Choice
Placed chosen Parapets enter the Few
And where my Rawlish Spirit blows out a Voice
The Wax does cop; Or Heaters blend a Stew
To Rally then, a Sickness born indeed
Makes Brisk Conversions programmed to Despair
Yet allow your Vices for Virtues to Bleed
Risks the Common Hand - the Headmaster's there.
To place one's Treasury far from your own
Betrays the Heart's Consent and my Cover blown.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC