"phantasmagorical" poems
these tempting and tumultuous times,
when the insect bite of attraction nibbles
your cheek, and first blood thickens with
intrigued,
the blood heated by, with a bewildering new sun's glow,
then bubbling boiling
over
with phantasmagorical fantasies,
and one endeavors to coax, to tease,
to preen, to adduce how best to ******
this persona, imagined or imaginary to be,
whispers a silent "no thankee''
and first bloom curls into a deathly brown doom,
you,
chastened by amorous hastening so quick evolving,
and the hither in come here, withers to a ghostly silencing,
one wonders, reminisces, and sadly recalls then forgets
the entreaties so eagerly received, how one wants to be
deceived,
for the once lay-buried-arousals now well recalled,
and quick to appear, faster to dismiss disappear,
and disaster cones and goes with light-speed velocity,
having fling,
now flung,
having crushed,
now crushing,
you caught laughing at your self,
still evolving long past the time
for youthful deceptions and silly indiscretions,
but not unhappily, for it was an acknowledgement
that good love poetry yet within resides, alas, alas,
it reciprocity seeds need replanting, and that notion
is quite pleasing...
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC
Take a moment,
breathe...
Inhale that infinity carrying all the words that we speak,
both the heavy rock steady deadly second darts
aiming for the bullseye painted on our hearts and
the artistic gypsy dancing ones
like honey whisky giving us a little buzz.
Take a moment,
breathe...
Exhale this surreal reality of fallacy
don't matter what's happening on Downing Street
or Pennsylvania Ave cause you have more important things to do,
like laugh as you let your mind crash
watching this game everybody's playing like Minecraft.
Take a moment,
breathe...
Exhale the clenching pain
your brain might claim you shoulda kept hold,
like the Buddha once said it's like grasping hot coal
so blow your dragon breath and stoke our campfire souls.
Take a moment,
breathe...
Inhale the light,
feel the warmth sojourn and wander
through your veins asunder tappin' 5/4 patterns
hi hat snappin rim clappin' rhythm
filling all schism within as if a liquid bridge joins sides of a grand canyon.
Take a moment,
breathe...
Exhale and feel the silence...
listen to the surrounding serenity
whispering aplenty serendipitous magnificence
within your heartbeats and breath bereft of distraction.
This sacred and holy action is a sacrament
as you attune into what's happenin both within, and beyond.
Take a moment,
breathe...
Inhale the heartgasm phantasmagorical adorable
world force of all things , the high vibe entirety
inspiring the fire within everyone,
that sacred holy light igniting the path to your heart
basking in ancient ******** laughter where nothing matters
and the mind chatter is silenced by the awe inducing lucid compassion
of all atoms in union of togetherness.
Take a moment,
breathe...
Exhale and follow your breath into the infinite.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
And opposite,
In the electricity fields,
Sit rows of hollowed-out shells.
Now in-land,
Though out of place,
The lightning whelks generate Hell.
And parallel—
Conducting phantasmagorical light—
The pylons coil around them:
Reverberations from the industrial fields
Where the blood lines coagulate and dwell.
And the blood lines—
They feed the hollowed-out shells—
Form conglomerate veins.
And in their hands—
Great fires they weld—
Ever-surging, moth-coaxing light.
Apr 1, 2023
Apr 1, 2023 at 7:49 AM UTC
Chronology Dynamo(Cogwheel Goddess)
Excogitation; twiddling my thumbs…
My eyes are glued to the soil beneath me; I shall sink into the mud.
The winds embrace my untimely surge of vain equations.
My metacarpals have contorted; supplication exhausts my soul.
“You my Goddess, who I look to for Time, yes Time and solace“.
“Thou shall not reveal to me vicissitudes of vernal decay”
“When shall the Great Harvest arrive?”
“I ask myself this oh Mother of Divine Infinity; Scythe of Era in the hands of thou.”
-When-
-When shall my flowering forth arrive from aegis wings?-
I sweat; I bleed; I murmur; I fade; I glow; “now what am I?”
Translucent in skin; hollow to the core; dying to warp through dimensions; lithe like a sylph.
Her diadem is one of metallic gears and bejeweled bolts; a Manufactured Diety of the Glorious Space and Time.
Her blade of mascara beautifies those who gaze upon her luminous needle lashes;
Her apparel that of disassembled clocks.
The sand of the hourglass composes her tears and blood; she bleeds out every second of wasted chronology.
Her corona is iridescent and she is one with The Universe.
“Ye shall not waste Time, yes, Time, for it is the essence to all things that are and all things that are not!”
She speaks to me as the nebulae around her glimmer, adorned with supernovae creating a phantasmagorical and celestial overload.
My eyes are clocked with sensory overload; so many colors and luminous neon lights.
“Before the collapse of Mother Earth; the Liminal Sphere, you must feed the Galaxies with the brilliance of your heart.”
-When the rivers of time run dry-
-Act-
-Do Not Wait…-
By Sanders M. Foulke III
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
The quantity of *******
observed from a motorcycle
is phantasmagorical
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:23 PM UTC
I love you.
I'ts been about 3 years since i said this,
at least unabashed.
Doesn't mean i love you any less than I ever have,
Fact i love you more than i ever have.
Among the leathery ripples of complexion,
upon old face.
Lie two young, proud, loyal eyes.
Pained eyes.
A life of breaking your back, hungry and hysterical working up sweats in the rainy morning hours of another somber English day just to bring home the bread to your family.
Leather worn hands, complete with callus.
Grey seasoned hair
Anger like a temperamental furnace.
and laughter that could fill the largest room.
Incandescent kindness;
With a heart the size of a boulder.
Hours spent in the same room with nothing to talk about, a simple nod of acknowledgement, comforting smile across the room.
Nothing to say and no need to say it.
Days of my youth spent in awe of your presence, excitable days, exhilarating times spent on adventures, and the phantasmagorical fairy tales you'd tell me as we ran through the forests.
The giants have clearly just let as we can see their footprint. stricken with fear, staying close to you father and son we conquered the lands. two great hero's, we roamed the local forest and in that moment for me it was indeed a kingdom.
And now i'm older and on my own voyage, still i remain in awe of your presence.
Venerable father,
I love you,
it's been three years since We've said this,
at least unabashed.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
She’s a touch away, generations behind
An enigma wrapped in mascara,
Cleopatra in mittens, Desdemona defined
With the sweet scent of Scarlett O’Hara
She strums some strings in tender tune
With a melody’s voice so gently
I crave to believe as I howl at the moon
When she sang of her love she meant me
My cartoon brain scribbles scenes in panels
Bubbled words floating over my head
While asleep she poses, dreaming in flannels
On a phantasmagorical bed
Longing to adore being desperately charmed
My impossible dream is eternally armed.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
In the comfort of blackness,
Beneath a veil of wool,
And with eyes without duty,
The symphony of night fades away
Like limestone in fiery rain.
And as I fall into a sea of darkness,
My eyes, still without purpose,
Grace me with fantastic apparitions,
And I hear whispers that echo in the void.
And within my weightless head,
The tumultuous gears and cogs
Grind and turn with speeds unheard,
And in the clockwork, a single spark
Flies from the iron machinery.
The spark is an entity of many names.
It is often a bonfire where tales
Of phantasmagorical beings and
Phenomenal landscapes are told.
There are times, however, when the spark
Takes a different name:
Inferno, a terrible creature
That destroys all life it touches
And ravages Nature’s beauty.
It is a dark roulette at times,
And though I know I cannot revel
In evening’s dusk eternally,
I now dread the blackness,
For fear of Inferno’s wrath.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:32 PM UTC
REM moments
are where dreams begin
under the eye-lids
the activity pulses
with movement
all that's seen
is quite extraordinary
you're climbing an unconquerable mountain
and the ascent is so effortless
nothing hampering
what you've always
had in mind
this vision so live like
all your night imaginings
materialize
men and women
over the ages
have bought their dreams
to fruition
the first step
originated
in nocturnal reverie
as they strove forward
on successes golden road
yep them dreamers
of the REM set
achieving much
through accessing the mind's
phantasmagorical corridors
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
the only greater justice
that i could ever know,
would be to pass
from my flimsy grip
of the world,
into iron clutches
of a higher esteem
than my own for what
has been written
by my callousness.
long gone are the days
of passing into folklore,
or to pass as an erosion
of memory in common song
in celebration of
some event that
pleases the people,
and the state.
perhaps akin to Hölderlin
passing into a patriarchal
***** of Heidegger -
or what can be said in ancient
tongue - toward the misty
ocular eternity:
toward a Homeric
third eye
of blindness: from all
the phantasmagorical ambitions
of man, having been
exposed to the shamanic
yet still returning to
the troughs of grey and boorish
affairs of monetary leverages:
as ever - wishing upon
Archimedes' joke of a pound(£) -
settled on a gamble for
the grand wish of
using a pound(£) as a lever -
to tickle Mammon into coughing
up riches.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Awestruck was the reaction I had when I first saw you
The perfect glimpse of that perfect soul you had
I knew it will take time to accept things
Which I have inside my heart for you and only you
U are for me the most miraculous miracle
The most beautiful story and the most perfect narration that u give with that voice.....
Oh my oh my oh my God how can u be real......
The phantasmagorical creation with that zeal...!
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
The harbingers of death intimidate the soul
The mind works up to derive endless possibilities with a certain unanswered question-
Is it supposed to end this way?
A series of phantasmagorical events have plagued the lives
Although real, but i prefer to sound like a brainless Pollyanna
The sufferings shall soon culminate
And the negligible nexus would become tangible
No catastrophe would annihilate the presence
And if the sisters of Fate were to suffer a reversal,
We'd live the way we dreamt, You and I.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
I tried to throw the phone on the bed,
but threw the glass instead,
sprinkling ***** and fanta fruit twist like holy water,
This is where I hurl my head
and wake, and wake, and wake.
Crust seals the eye like a crypt.
Dreamscape duvet: paint your colours,
Phantasmagorical shadows sweep the brow,
walls blend blurred images,
dream friends pass like flocks of birds faceless in flight.
I could ask you what it’s like to be a character in my dream,
make it all about me or you could tell me I’m a character in yours.
Shatter my reality,
tell me I’m your worst nightmare.
From corner of eye’s mind the luminescence of lamplight spills.
A startled stumbling, a fumbling with covers out of worlds and into new ones.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 3:48 PM UTC
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
<for Sanders Maurice Foulke III>
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
the muscles of the brain, design bridges, author poems, obviously
the strongest force upon the Earth, whence & where the powerful
coiling of our mortal coexistence energies be stored & unleashed
muscles summon previous unknowns, establishing neural connectivity
between colliding galaxies, undiscovered planetary rings, using kinetics
to create a vocabulary for the express purpose of astounding creation
the modest only dare inquire of themselves in wondrous silence
how came this thematic landscape, new language, to escape my
optics, my ken, my viewfinder, purview, essential essence sensories?
the deniers claim magic lanterns, optical illusions, love, par example,
they ascertain, a chemical imbalance stimulates the sensorineural,
mocking those who believe the comet’s tail visible wags its orbital path
this poem abstruse, yet full of truths, a working man’s lunch pail
full of fine china chicanery, fooling those who observe only exteriors,
but we who live on bounded islands recognize safe passages available
when the thew of the phantasmagorical is debunked, acknowledging
that for something to be truly true, it must be agreed upon by two,
thus creating a language clarifying even if it’s punctuated by shadows
621pm 23-2-2020
IP lmn
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 6:29 PM UTC
Fantasy:
Imagination,
Magic,
Illusion,
Fraud.
These are the parlor tricks that
our mighty government
has sunken too
instead of creative linguistics.
Or a tapestry of rhetorical philosophy
that is meant to persuade us
into their petition of ideology--
to understand their foundation for society
for how we live and prosper
as a nation united.
Instead we are beaten over the head
with misdirection and red-herrings
they willingly and happily use
slight of hand
so the people watching
can be mislead,
instead of asking tough questions.
They are sawing the news media in half
to delude you of their credibility
and showing you
compartments full of reflective mirrors
to hide the true emptiness
that lurks behind their lies.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
A strange cruel eidolon often glides thru my silent room, then slinks away dry and smooth as that daystar punches through my window pane -like daggers of wakefulness to pierce my dreams once more; and layers of consciousness likened to pale dead skin, to lay bare unwanted awareness of a world too embarrassed to open up that stained and hollow door.
Streaming images on my mind's eye are outstretched, like the gossamer threads of a silver web, woven taut, near a hypnotic light, to draw the uncanny moth, feeding the ravening host tonight.
Nightly visions driven by restless fantasies most phantasmagorical, scream and shout in palm-muted half-tones fluttering as the matrix of horrors, divined thru an oracle, haunt that same silver death-bed... one that reaches out and frightens me like a shape-shifting ghost, (alight and deplorable.)
Though it's all in my head, it's still all too horrible!
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
A Day Of Thinking or
This Is The Way My Brain May Work On Any Given Day
Breakfast In Bed
No one in this world
Makes thinner toast,
Better toast, winner toast.
You do not boast.
How have you learned to slice
This near-transparent, indisputably crunchy piece of bliss!
What skill! And modest too!
No one can make such toast as you.
Going In To Thank
Going into different segments of the brain
I thank for life in any of the synapses.
Is there a gratitude partition
Or a separate, section - special one?
An all-inclusive?
I don’t always feel it – just today.
It probably will go away.
I hope it leaves a record.
Late Afternoon
Deep, deep inside
I’m feeling tired of society.
It’s like, what I imagine to be
What they call depression.
It’s connected to reality; civilization.
There’s the problem -
It’s not me, it’s them!
I ought to put away the TV (I’ve no phone)
Things electronic, dailies, monthlies,
All things histrionic;
The destructive, scandalous and shocking;
All things not-to-be: illusory.
Noel Coward wrote “World Weary” –
A light, song for something serious.
Perhaps that’s it!
There still exist fall hues phantasmagorical:
Food tastes, sweet music, friends amusing, loyal,
Beauty, animals…and still I feel
Despite the goodness,
Deep, deep sadness at the mess.
A Day Of Thinking 10.28.2016
Circling Round Reality;
Arlene Corwin
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC