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Bryce Dec 2018
The air is burly
trees harvest soldiers on the line
combines, threads, manure, life--
A whole world lost amidst the flats

Saplings are the next season's
Almonds, Apples, Dates,
Waiting for food shelves and stockrooms
packed in banana boxes and given a place
They will find the plates of capitol city dwellers
They will be engorged far away from their origins

The Sierra-- oh the great plutonic mass
They are grey from age, peppered with white whiskers of snow
They are asking to be known as the interior

Pilgrims who traveled over their spines, seeking these fertile swampland
Now airstrips and dirigibles

The edges of clouds on the valley, the deserts and the mountains like folds of a book
they crackle in the sun and the skin of the earth shrinks in its gaze

Migratory birds dance in the fields, the lowly clang of bell
Bleached american flags tell us this is the land

The land of things and endless breadth

This is only California, but the majesty of it
a gem valley encased by the rocks, in silicates
A roaming place for cows, wanderers, farmers, dreams

Where the only edge of things is the mountains, saying
-Climb me, surmount me, lay me under your deeds-
Rangzeb Hussain Jul 2010
VI

“Hearken, all ye there!”

Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis

It began, as these things tend to do, with a quartz encrusted howl,
Lamenting under the crystalline shadows of Leda’s heartrending growl,
Her ravished moon bled and sank into the vocal cords of guilt coated cowards,
“Come back, come back! Oh, frivolous sanity thou art truly unjust, most unkind!”
Right here in this lonely place did my Darling dear spill devotion onto spiced dust,
She swayed on the rickety ridge surveying her sapphire kingdom’s splintered trust,
There it lay glittering, her city of cities, nothing now but a jeweled corpse.

V

“Know ye not of the oft-told tale of the drinking-well at World’s End?”

Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco

My Lady who did fire the lyre of Orpheus, she weeps there in the misty chilled cold,
Wild it is, all about her the night wind nibbles at the skin clothing her fractured soul,
Cacophonic waves of regret silently scurry to labyrinths entombed with truths bold,
“Come back, come back! Oh, to my tempestuous ***** hasten with thy canticles!”
The symphonic fingers of fog pluck a requiem upon her autumn flavoured hair,
My Queen is attired for her banquet at tables far beyond Persephone’s desolate tears,
On the precipice her figure rises for the final faithful leap into Styx’s stratosphere.

IV

“Behold now the dread eyes of Hades, see how they hunger blood at the boil!”

Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro

Carnivorous tasted memory plagues the betrayed Minotaur’s desired deliriums,
On these haunted shores I clutched her close and eagerly inhaled love’s elusive serum,
Legend has it a suicide was here on this very cliff-top, ‘twas a true Roman centurion,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let us under Demeter’s enchanted orchards lie!”
My obsidian-eyed Beauty gathers her eggs and over the fearful edge she unfurls them,
Closer to the dead of Euphrates she steps, I to madness hurtle as one condemned,
Bind savage Cerberus for the solitary reign of the wolf is fate for all hanged men.

III

“Prometheus thou hast drunk Pandora’s poisons, what sayest now the Titans?”

Tres Tres Tres

Golden fleeced days into the fleshy ground of Morpheus’s realm did seep away,
How well spent they were not even immortal Calypso shall decipher nor say,
Would that mine myopic ears had been shorn and tossed into Pompeii’s crisp clay,
“Come back, come back! Oh, gentle Maid no more, I beg thee stay awhile yet!”
What was it? Was it me? No, no, it could not be me for I was Achilles buried asleep,
How little we then knew, we two did partake of the stinging, you the wasp I the bee,
Mayhap ‘twas this unlocked the plumed towers to thy curled universe tunneled deep?

II

“Therefore did the Serpent spake and pronounce a judgment most nefarious!”

Dos Dos

She thinks back, my Lady fairer than Medea, she remembers a time happier,
Really there was, hear yet my credo, once upon-a-time there was no doubting terror,
But then a thing did into our guarded haven breach and wreathe about my treasure,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let me slake my thirst with thy honeyed spirit!”
My flesh did crawl, my fangs grew sharp, my spittle ran down and my fur stood taut,
The jawbone stiffened and all the while I burnt like an infernal phoenix caught,
Oh, my sweetly crazed fruit, did I for real the horror upon you wrought?

I

“Would that thou didst offer me thy riches upon the hour of the violet twilight...”

Uno

Wolfsbane moon, high above it rose in that final cracking of sacramental bones,
My Lady much wrong did you I, forever for this will the beast in me atone,
Now, at this baleful hour has the wolf left you on the edge of an embryonic cyclone,
“And so to the Elysian Fields where insanity fertilizes the soul do I embark...”
You cross the Rubicon and glide into the obliterating arms of Plutonic eternity,
The wolf, me, is left clawing your hooded red robe with absolutely no certainty,
I see you sailing upon Neptune’s trident, forever adrift on oceans of eternal cruelty.

N

“Seekest thou sanctuary in the hinterlands where the man with one eye is King?”

Cero...

pretium libertas est nex**



©Rangzeb Hussain
Chuck Mar 2013
(RING)

There are nasty rumors about you two!

"None of it is true!"

You know I believe you.

"I'd expect you to kick my ****, too!"

That's exactly what I would do!

Just make sure this plutonic relationship is through!


(FOUR MONTHS LATER)

Meeting, heart attack, rumors again!

Believing he will tell me, he didn't descend.

Planned a visit to see my sick friend.

Then, I learned the facts that truly offend.

Could not go, I do not pretend!

Thought to myself, this will be his end.


(NEXT DAY...RING)

"Your old friend is dead....

He shot himself in the head!"

I was afraid this would be said.

This was a community he once lead.

He, himself, cut the last thread.


(REACTION)

You *******!

You *******!

You took the easy way out, tossed everyone else in a ditch!


(REFLECTION)

This betrayal of a community left so much dread.

It left a once loved man, dead,

And a young lady, who will never be right in the head!


(BETRAYAL)

You betrayed all who put you on a shelf.

But most of all, you betrayed yourself.
This is based on true life events. It has been three years, and I'm finally forcing myself to deal with it in writing. I used the silly rhyme scheme just to make it tolerable to me. Not great poetry, more like therapy.  Thanks for sharing this with me. Send me the bill. Haha
Bryce Jan 2019
Ice caps
Mushrooms with frost on their mycelium
The ceiling of the earth tearing,
Dropping liquid ****** to give quick interest

Outside the planets twirl and explode from small rocks
Impact like pebbles on a great salt lake
The ripples of death create movement
Momentous Momentum

Violative but oh so real
Not too kind but who needs to be
Break down walls and streets and building facades
Say hey, bullets of mind should try again,
Hit something new, slit the hole of older jeans

Plop your tetrapedes between the planet matter and look good for once
Clean unwashed blue and painful on the junk


These favorites are just irises, asking to see themselves selfish and alone
Always alone in the body of god
Always a single cell in the larger overall
Pull-ups and getting down to work
Unsheathed from sleeves and lost in only the most bare of skins

Speaking to the lovers of Horus, seeking sunlight between the zippers of their minds

Rings out the bells, love, death, destruct
All the conscious constructions of the mind

Always of the mind

Never in divine
Cosmogony of My Emotions: Teleological Theosophy of My Personal Theology
Death cannot defined. Being of ultimate consequence it is above causation, yet reigns supreme as an effect. It can only be affined: Aqua, Ignis, Terra, Ventus , Umbra, Lucem/ Hydro, Pyro, Gaia, Aero, Erebus, Aether, all swirl in dead languages spoke a thousand years ago yet they all have been read by our generation in our youth.
The veil of death is a tabernacle in which only the high priest returns from walking, all others are drug back rope around their solar plexus. All paths of death are two fold.
First, from the feet of the Teleologic Cosmos of Emotion we grow towards the Son, the Father, and the Holy Spirit. From the abyss we stare at the knees of the concave exterior of healing. Like the twins of June, hate and pain, are the two closest modes to death, but not the most direct. I feel fear is the ultimate neighbor of death. The flow of Consciousness lies first in the womb. Concealed from the light, darkness sheilds us from the illusion of Illumination. Hate feeds into pain as Pain feeds into hate, like a sibling rivalry. The knees (pain and hate) bend not to cushion the feet (death) but to stop the pelvis (fear) from shattering under the weight of the back bone (Stillness).
Adapted to the new ways of my mother's demon of lust wedding sloth and gluttony. Sin is the seat of unconscious control, or lack there of like a drunk blacked out asleep, already anticipating his next drink. Hate is Ache followed by ate. Pain and hunger are two sides of the same page. What can I say, everything happens for a reason. Even if I feel it was treason yet I'm no regal prince, nor a Mercury lying closest to the Solar, I drenched myself in my own masochism: physically mentally spiritually, and had done so for years. The basis of your emergency alert was quite founded, yet not without ignorance. Yet to me, you felt i was going to rise through fear to descend into pain and find my new year 25th, death. But the beauty is in my birth with one hair on my head I left the manger a man, no wig, feeling for the first time while the police speak to my mother searching like the warriors dispatched of Herod. My blood spirit is free, having saved Adam through the pyramid  I dethrone Satan by the sip of the crown of the feathered serpent. Yet you hate he who fell. I fear the vile nature of the burning fields respecting the ignitor of the flames as the sole cause of err that lead or Savior to accomplish who no one else could. For without the fall of the unholy, wingless, cut from tip to tip, Iesus-Yeshua-Judah would not be your most beloved. Without the pain of Christos (the annointed), Khristos (the enlightened) would not achieve ideology of the cosmos. Pain rises to fear shortly, and shifts into hate in confusion as siblings squabble, as I had done internally for a decade. Yet through the gift of the heart heavenly Saul is able to see the life lesson to use the lower part of our mind to find the Big Blue. Pain ascends into love if and only if death can bounce like glue. If you aim for the Sun and the Moon you can only be a child of astronomy, yet you showed me my dreams to buy you a ring of Saturn and hand it to you on a Sunday. I believed my pain laid plain and bare could convince you of you're convictions. My mission in the deepest recesses of body was for you to give into your fears so we could slip into the underworld of sin sipping red wine until the mounring in my heart rose Rex by the fading starlight. I dream to live a lye, basic as alkaline, I wished to be a battery. I saw myself freed of my woman battering heritage ceasing the cyclic self fear that posited the ferocity of my fore fathers, due to the love of a woman most beloved and true. I felt you could be the instrument to my Burning Lyre, my love Plutonic I felt my crow caw. As I held you in my arms singing with you in harmony, setting the bond between the viscous cycle of Pain, paying dues with Hate, to rise like smoke to face fear starring death in the face like a shadow below. The night sky black with how to Know, twinkling with the star light of Love. Only above the vault of heavens clung Joy, Hope, and Live.
Without poeticizing further, what I term the Basement of Abasment consists of Death at the roots (red inverted triangle) rising into Hate (orange w/ red center) and Pain (tan w/ red center), with the connection of Pain and Hate forming a cross with the direct bond between death and fear (yellow w/ small red center).
Proceeding up the towards the chain of being, leads to what I call the equator of emotions. Cling/stillness/resolve is the grey region connecting all body's of feelings as the Moses, the leader of the Exodus and the appellation of the celestial globe. It binds Love and Know laterally to one another, while connecting the Vault of Virtue to the Basement of Abasement.
kneedleknees Aug 2016
As I was changing my settings I noticed
Explicit poetry, by default, is hidden.
What is poetry but the explicit?
The clarity of everyday
Are melodies of vulgarity
Strung together.
Tinsel on the ****-tree.
And when you poets talk of love
The plutonic is a bore.
You say beauty as a synonym
For *******.
BEAUTY IS *******
*******.

If hellopoetry has a swear jar I owe a lot
But at least I don't hide what I say.
Meghan O'Neill Apr 2014
All I want is someone
Someone to hug
In a not so plutonic way.
I want to hold hands
With interlocking fingers
Swing arms like a pendulum
While we walk down the street.
I want to talk for hours
About everything and nothing.
I just want to talk to you
It doesn't matter
What words fill the empty space
As long as they're there.
As long as you're there.
zebra Jun 2017
have you read the book of lies
such a comfort
to know how acceptable we are
like well placed silverware
as long as i keep moon shadow
in a cellar box shut tight
where little cocka demons
play unuttered
you can't hear them rustling about
but
i shake little bats and owls from my socks

am i lookin congenial today
just a teensy icky inside
bubbles in the belly
clinched toes in crowded shoes
eek
hope i'm not dead and don't know it

my graciousness plastered on
like white sheep over a goat
to get what i need of course
to make friends and influence
sorry
about my ti ti ticks
the way my fi fi fingers fi fi fidget

my towels are folded
and in place
vanilla cup cakes with sprinkles
all in a row
like little ballerinas prancing
as plutonic volcanoes heat
like spires pandemonium

my life a white glove inspection
all pressed and starched
like a mythic poem
written by a ******
stiff with holiness
as saints float over my head
yet the world
for all my good
a thunderous
black light
a poem about the struggle between who we are and our face to he world
Amy Grindhouse Jan 2014
You know
I was thinking how much
I'd like to just leave it all behind
and let loose like a mad
rebel with plenty of caws
flitting through sunlight that creeps
through the trees
because anymore
I can't get behind another day of
constantly dragging on more
supposed last toxin riddles
while your hands become these frail metastatic
cooling tower fingers
I can already see them already shaking off
clinched jaw fuel droplets
onto cancerous rancid mass graves
and I don't want to imagine what's beyond that
Besides
lately I've been preoccupied
with the feel of timeworn ciphers etched
in my charcoal wings as I
descend on power lines joining
scorched throat jesters cackling murderously
at this scorched earth
See I want to get away from our plutonic friends
all they want is to binge on residual radiation
raising their safety glasses to their excesses
knowing their acceptable risk deformities await
with contaminated breath
Sure we've got a reputation of being devious
but I'd rather proudly flaunt tattered onyx feathers
than sit around with
decaying radioactive half lives surrounding
inactive decaying half lives abounding
We crows scavenge our meals indiscriminately
but we don't dare eat our young as you do
Michael Senaike Mar 2021
O GENTLE MOST HOLY SLEEP;
COMMIT THY SERVANT UNTO THY HUMBLE KEEP;
COME, FERRY ME WITH THY COLD WINTER'S SHIP;
INTO THE DARK HOLLOW CREEPS OF THY FANTASY DEEP;
NO QUARTER SHOULD BE GIVEN NOR TAKEN;
TILL MY IMMINENT AWAKENING.
Amit Pokhrel Sep 2018
The ordinates concealed in your infinitesimal rationale
Insufficiencies portraying vestibules in your feverish attires
Every new soul you see makes you feel homeless
Dizzying altitudes you feel inside the depth of cavities
Indifference on pain and sufferings you crave for
And,
Hell; you feel inside grandeurs of perspectives
Hate; for the dearth of adulation on you
Liken Gaia could have never taught you of your frailty
Postulation of Karma and de-carnation of meanings made you converted
You were on the path of revolt
Against, say, cosmos!

Every symbolic gestures remind me of your meddlings
Penultimate; utter grievance of never ending poignancy
The night sky could have never baffled about your existence
Palpitation could have never made you shiver
But you have cried,
Of your loneliness!

Say,
A tiny fraction of clairvoyance I gave
Pulled you down into the puddle of wanderings
Instigation of a melody; created the symphony
A mere touch; drenched you into the silken lake
I spoke for your heart and you praised
Then, I gave you love but I got caged

How could I have done whatever you wished?

Since nobody knows,
The culminating dichotomy of your pantheistic ideas,
And of a maggot growing inside you
Breathless desires governing your feet,
And the time falsifying your plutonic ancestry
Mosaic glittering over your virtuous self,
And the tapestry of vanity covering your abysses
Depleting number of Hordes and Tartars fighting for your existence,
And devalued meaning of your modern-self

All those songs that never could soothe you
Teeny panting of your blasphemous heart
Multitude of distances you travelled
Series of condemnation bouncing between you and me
Your fleeting poverty
Your affections on materials
Like you die the death of pertinence
Love shall never please you

Nonchalant, over the,
Embargo you created on the faith
And the game you created on the bliss
But you shall never win
Since, you are a mere human soul
Bless you!!
Lindy Nov 2018
How long is history made
20,000 years or three hundred?
The dedham cracked, releasing as it calved the chip on its shoulder
A glacial erratic
A plutonic catastrophe
Or a geologic pilgrim
Which we call Plymouth Rock.
When we landed on the chip,
It broke once, twice, and its demolition continues as tourists whittle down the stone to its smallest of meanings
A sedimentary token of mistaken intention.
I wonder how long we shall be here.
I think the truth is found in the dwindling stone.
Plmouth Rock is just a small 3 foot wide stone at a tourist attraction. In this poem I examine its glacial origins and the natural metaphor unfolding as my nation burns itself down.
Thomas King Jan 2018
How does one traverse the distance
Between two hearts separated by love

How can one pass the infinite expanse
Of time created by their loneliness

Will their longing and heartache
Explode Like a supernova

Creating a vortex
That sends them both spiraling
Into an abyssal plutonic existence

Or will their passion and desire
Be strong enough to bend and warp the continuum

Bringing the far ends of the universe
In upon its self
Allowing their love to join once again

Creating a intergalactic paradox
Of celestial oneness
Travis Frank Sep 2018
Trying to fit into their ways in answer
To the imploding impulses that daily
That daily scatter and course violently through my veins
Like rats on a riotous rampage,
I revolted against the raging tide separating me from romance.

Armed only with an obstinate oar,
I waded and spun in absent, bereft waters,
Scrolling loveless letters lost in illusion,
Fondling friends and family like a fiery foe,
Offering only cheap chocolates as comforting condolences.

Riddled with rejection,
Two testing alternatives availed:
Find refuge in the land of the plutonic
Or challenge death alone on the choppy deluge.
Here’s to being the best friend a woman could ask for.
CJ Sutherland Aug 20
From dust we are born and
to dust we shall return

Born in diapers
And in diapers.
We shall return

However, that’s not
Even our biggest concern
We learn to rationalize,
Soon it’ll be our turn

However that’s not the
worst of what is to come
Memory loss, the ultimate cost
Dementia, Senility, Alzheimer’s

True it doesn’t happen to all, Just some
Who answers the call
However evidently nobody
will know their outcome

Add in a myriad of
other ailments for good measure
The word “walk” at your own leisure  
has a new meaning it’s rather demeaning

Each person’s, inevitable fate
Life’s journey Check Mate
We learn to slow our gate
turn another page life’s gage

Yes we celebrate OLD AGE Ironic, plutonic
Chronic, crate paper crinkles like her skin
Beautiful hands now liver spots wrinkle
and black balloons they think that’s funny. Oh don’t fret honey. Just the Young ins  

They don’t understand
What it means to have a good day
No significant illness’ to speak of today
Why do we celebrate so many ask
Living with ailments, is a laborious task

We celebrate;
The life we’ve livedThe love we give
The things we’ve seen places we’ve been
The people we’ve known death shown

The things we’ve done While having fun
In our prime, another day another time
We were bigger than life, 10 feet tall
Even the gladiators eventually fall

Nobody ever ages gracefully  
Most Fight it every step of the way
The Golden years worldly and wise
We shrink before our very eyes
Our skin wrinkles sagging
The immense pain ever nagging

The wonders of age and getting old.
A word of the wise don’t believe the lies
It’s not for the weak meek its for the bold
I will age gracefully I’ll never be too old
I have the propensity for living life large

Even knowing
Sickness will bring  us to our knees
“The JUICE  is worth the squeeze”

Inspired song
1) Grandma‘s hands by Bill Withers
BLT Webster’s Word of the Day challenge
Propensity8-20-24
Propensity often intense, natural inclination, tendency, Appiness. Usually irresistible inclination, example propensity for the inability of risk.
Does anyone ever notice the older you get the  term old changes.. I remember at the age of 10 I thought 20 was old. At the age of 30 I thought 50 was old now it’s 63. I think it is old. Interesting that Worker moves. age is a relative concept you’re as young as you feel keep it real
S E Pope May 19
I was born of steel and smoke
Sent here from a realm unknown
Guided through the eternal core
Breathing the magma as it filled my lungs

I was shaped by salt and stone
Hardened from the depths below
Veins weaved by stars of solid gold
Erupting the crust the end begins to flow

I was made to steam and seethe
Ripping through the laid concrete
No one knows but everyone can see
A sunlit force igniting the trees

I was born of death and dreams
The ethereal womb of boundless being
Floating over the desperate streets
A plutonic revival built to consume everything

I was shaped by doom and despair
Origins beyond maps of historic lore
Intended as the light of atomic desire
The reactionary relationship became nuclear

I was made to deceive and destroy
Sent from explosions that were left behind
An eternity of rage seeped from the void
A radioactive woman was created from life
Caro Apr 2023
I'm 28
and I'm reclaiming my virginity
I've just realized in my bath
That *** is optional
Which came from the realization that ***, good or bad is amoral
***, good or bad, has no innate wrongness to it
**** is wrong
*** cannot be wrong, it can only have varying degrees of good to weird or mind blowing or awkward
Just like a sandwich
Of course it is more than a sandwich sometimes
Sometimes it deep and energetic and connected
Sometimes it has ramifications
Sometimes it makes life
A sandwich cannot make life
So the good and badness of it carry more innate weight
But in terms of morality *** is eating a sandwich
A poem from my bath
"*** is 100% apart from ****
But it happens in the same place
Here in this body
That remembers it visceraly"
I said this poem and thought
That this would make a good moment in a play
A woman in a bath sitting up tall in the tub with her arms against the wall, saying "*** is optional" then slumping and sliding down until she was submerged, breathing a long loud sigh on the way, only to muster the courage, arm gliding upward first and body trailing behind to sit up straight and again say "*** is optional" and to repeat.
And then I wondered if this part of me
The artist
that has visions and is mysterious
It felt clear to me in this moment that my creativity
Came from the confusion in my body of *** and ****
And wondered if my creativity, my artist, knew that she had come from this confusion
And then it dawned that maybe she has always been
Maybe I haven't been enjoying ***
Because I've been having the wrong type of ***
I don't know what the *** I should be having is
But I am willing to try things
And then I realized I am maybe scared of what I might like
And then I realized I was scared
Because lately my fantasies have been me naked in heels and chained, walking into a room of naked huge hard men who I have to ask for help because I'm a damsel in distress and then they touch me and **** me
And that sounds like an actually very scary fantasy to come true
And then I realized that maybe it's my fantasies
That don't match up
Maybe I want completely other stuff
Then I got worried of what I might like again
I rememered my ex-partner who one time made a sound like a baby in a tub when we were in the tub on shrooms and his **** was hard
And in that moment I thought oh god is he into adult baby stuff
And I was super icked out by it
And then just now I thought, did I only think that because maybe I am into adult baby stuff?
And then I thought am I into adult baby stuff?
I'm not but it does really upset me
In various ways
And then I was like oh right of course,
Because I was molested as a baby
And then I remembered the ****** I have when I'm alone
and how only two men have every given it to me
Out of the nearly 100 I've ******
Only two
Maybe I shouldn't be ******* men?
Maybe I'm actually really gay?
Though women haven't given me that ****** either,
The ******* fantasies I have
Leave me feeling so vulnerable
But *** that doesn't do so much of what I like in those fantasies
I don't enjoy very much
It would just be so much better if he choked me
Or held me down
That would be more exciting
It would send a thrill through my body
But afterward I'll feel exposed and
I'll want someone who loves me
To hold me
And if someone who loves me
Is there is there to hold me
I may shut down in fear of intimacy
Probably I will cry
Why can't I have that ****** with partners?
I have a fear that my squirting and the ****** I have with ******* doesn't count
Because that one ******, the best one, the one that waves me and quakes me and send my ***** into outer space, the readiness of my lips, the bloat of my *****, the viscous wetness that drips down my tingling *****
Doesn't come out with partners
Something faster comes, something hot and wide and flat, something high shine and piercing comes, white hot pleasure. Dehydrating waterfalls that spill out, calming the white heat before the next attack of pleasure
I'm exhausted by the latter
I'm exhausted by ***
I'm underwhelmed by *******
At this point
I've been ******* since I was four
I've had *** with all the hotties
In many countries
In all the seasons
In every stage and phase of romantic attraction or plutonic mistake
And I get it
I've squirted on so many people
I've *** in my own hands so many thousands of times
And I'm exhausted by it
But of course also I crave it
I think?
Or do I just WANT to be a sexually healthy woman who WANTS it
and I remind myself again,
*** is optional

— The End —