"preludes" poems
At the Zoo
Patriots and faux exhibit and binge on synonyms of liberty printed on beer and underwear
Advertising what should be unspoken and inspired to pervert and romanticize
Preludes to the parades and finale above us all
Weeks of saturated irony
Cuckoo bird irony and BBQ
As they reform Phoenix, rebirth of distractions and thievery
Predators in ally ways pursing America's diamonds and legs
Then gunpowder
Gunpowder of colors and cuckoos
Layers of streets in gunpowder
Towns built of gunpowder
Sky is gunpowder
We are born addicted to led and gunpowder
Gunpowder ****** in the air
Success, display and diversion and more gunpowder to ingest.
The Grand Finale
The Volta of the evening
The hammer of the judge
*** appeal of death and nature flexing it's muscles-
show us some skin!
Covering your ears
Eyes fastened-
Ready to burrow back to mothers womb
Binged and free
Chinese celebration hijacked
Red, White and Blue
And a moment of silence
Orchestrated onomatopoeia in heaven
Chorus of arousal on Earth
Band marching war machines in hell
The showdown of 241 years!
This freedom we are all grateful to only talk about
Only free to battle shackling intoxication
Men and women tugging extra weighted offspring
Sulking for indoors and portable addiction
Chanting three letter obedience
God being counted by his blessings
Fear and Statism in every breathe for salvation from our stick swatted enemies
Checkpoints that serve and protect asking for a toll;
liberty synonyms.
Arresting the too free
At the Zoo,
The cuckoos regaining reality.
The phoenix red eye and held under oath
To the next day where we are back
To hate each others freedom, again.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
Headless chickens running aimless toward the almighty dollar
Blindly staring at the knife"s stainless steel amidst all the squaller
My thirsty soul argues against my numb skull to hold a thorough audition
They lewdly feud about potential candidates accrued to search for recognition
They conclude on a suspicion they mutually feared as a result of blind ambition
Search preludes the admission, that I found my dream car with no keys for ignition
Don"t question authority especially when it's the majority
Everyone knows the world is flat and let's just leave it at that
I bought water from you now I have ice to sell
I have a great story but no one worthy to tell
Hindsight should really be at least twenty fifteen
Because to admit we just don"t know is too obscene?
Blissful ignorance"s repugnant scent wafting through the cave
Mindless sheople"s chainlinked brains all dancing at the rave
Fire flickering Shadow puppets tastefully riding the next wave
Puppeteer wizard behind the curtain telling them how to behave
Misaligned redcoated frontline soldiers falsely labeled as brave
Life"s ironic conundrum puzzle, choosing which children to save
Diseased cement steadily drying in a world ever ready to pave
Hungrier than I"ve ever been, yet sickly devoid of things to crave
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
3.1k
Like a sinful seduction, I slip off the edge of sleep,
my eyes are drawn to the darkest shadows of my room... kinetically searching...
I seem to penetrate them, my mind breathes life into them,
they begin to stir and morph into the preludes to my peculiar dreams,
bizarre at first until inevitably familiar,
as if I had lived them indefinite times in the past... and infinite times in the future... remembering... becoming... unfiltered and unaffected...
my subconscious is my truth, awakened by my dreams.
I long to remain lost in this ethereal bliss.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
Constructed in a year of inconsequential relevance,
A lighthouse stood over the turning tide.
Many a vessel had found respite in the glow of this beacon.
Through many years this tower stood strong.
The keeper, never of like name,
A position handed over in death.
Countless generations of watchful eyes relieved after duty.
All but an instant to this pillar,
This guiding light of prosperity.
I took over, 19 years from birth.
Training took a fragment of an hour.
Stood on guard, through a ceaseless haze,
First night on duty.
Tremors shook the beacon,
But it never lost its light.
A wave came to view,
Its size well beyond my comprehension.
The tower stood, as I was knocked upon the floor.
It never lost its light.
Sixteen years slipped by,
Not so much as a boat.
I admit, my head was starting to slip.
I hadn’t spoken in years.
I went in search of conversation and left my post.
In it’s place I discovered a barren wasteland of death and decay.
There was no life.
It was gone.
Without purpose or place, I marched on into the wasteland,
Until I came across a roaming beacon, shining out upon the horizon.
There I returned to my post,
With this guiding light of prosperity.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
2.4k
How far can we fall
from the edge of a whisper
suspended above molten desires
dangling from a single breath
escaping through fragile fingers
pressed against
a reflection of lips
piercing the swollen silence
in words that belong to you
I am paused in patient syllables,
a hum on the tip of your tongue
searing the wings of uncaged secrets
spilled from your eyes upon my skin
sliding in the hush of immaculate worship,
in this ritual of discovery
an unyielding hunger,
your hands unravel passages
confessed in intimate testaments,
stained in your fingerprints,
translating the map of my body
in minutes that pass too soon.
Cradle my thighs in an estrus of dreams,
bathe my release in the burning hours,
drenched in the silk of lilac orchids
soft petals from your eyes,
leave a trail from flesh to soul
for lips to taste the jasmine-laced crave
softly veiling the naked lust
caged behind these sapphire windows
gazing into the depths of your reign,
I am stranded in exile
awaiting the guidance of moonlight
translated in the stroke of your fingertips
that brand my flesh yours
And, in that place,
Ours..
I reveal every sacred secret,
exposed and shivering
beneath your body ascending
upon the ****** truth of me,
beneath these sheets of midnight silk,
tangled in translucent urgencies
unfolding into a delicate intimacy
that preludes this savage awakening
so restless to adorn your primal sting
in a deluge of my body to your parchment,
scribe me spent in the ink of your resonant whispers
how far can we fall....from the edge
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Rubicon on broadway
young and beautiful
in white Cadillacs and Buicks
audio pop gods transmit
preludes for the night
through hair waves
and satellite finger tips
Buried souls are only resurrected
among friends
at Shakespearian rags
at 10
in mind
with wine, no whine
oh mine, oh mine
no more golden toads in Costa Rica—
the planet is a metaphor for the body—
old spice and white gum
our everyday gospel
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
Now in this season
It smells like sweet honey nectar,
Thick, warm pollen that heavies the air, that
Overarching succulent sweetness I can
Never find. I'm nearly
Dreaming in the midst of day,
Lack of sleep sharpens this
Feeling of loss that doesn't coincide with
The growth around me - My mind
Is falling back a quarter year, another,
Chilled over somehow in direct sunlight -
My hunger could be assayed with
Those honeyed towers somewhere blooming, but
I've not been told where to find them -
Stumbling along with aching limbs and
Exhausted heart, forced anxious smile,
Can't seem to find these supposed fruits
That hang down at reach, give way to new days -
Just quiet, vacant preludes
Along all these miles of solitude.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
torrential teardrops join pavement
transforming surface to sheets of glass
patient trees plants flowers quenching their thirst
stray animals bemused hovering with caution
only to find shelter in the rustic shed
the good samaritan leaves scraps
through the makings of savory soup
passing cars washed in rain
will sparkle come sun
lounging indoors focusing through drenched windows
raindrops like opals
pattering on copper roof
cascade as peaceful shower
fairytale sound, sight and smells
invite nestling with a book
cup of tea and scone complete the pallet
with glowing candles
a sanctuary of chopin preludes
surrendering to peaceful sleep.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 9:13 PM UTC
Today I felt the urge to fall down a flight of stairs, and when I say fall
I mean,
jump,
plummet
and plunge.
I wanted to feel something, a pain that wasn't already carried within me.
I could imagine the weightlessness I would have felt as my body relaxed,
how time would have appeared hampered as if altered by my sudden descent.
That numbing pain as each step would buffet my spine and finally the ominous silence that preludes my last breath while my misery pools around me glistening for all to see.
though sadly...
. I live in a bungalow
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 6:24 AM UTC
In any mirrored face
the homeless sees nothing shuffling
from his favorite stores
At night they feel their wild
canine teeth
Words surfacing
uncollected in fragments and scratches
besde underdeveloped manors
in the city's growing mold
and buildings separated by dust like a ream of books
on the trail to the open west
Noise clock, sharp chiming
and unbearable
soot blackness of perpetual rain
pulsing faintly in a palsied
flow of the oppressive
heats and sounds
My sister is a forgotten composer of rebellion
given only the courage
to think her words will merely be
a droning
cello's moans
and preludes unsettled
and old
Without authority
someone might hear her
centuries too late
when few will give her a wait or wax cylinder
of words no better than it's tremorless
indentations unseen by the eyes and ears
The days of crystalized quartz
and effeminate handshakes and kisses
vacant gestures and the beautiful
view of the destitue on a warm
spring morning in the park
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
what have i to do with these grips,
these squared, white knuckles
holding tight to handle bars?
what have i to do with these empty stares,
eyes void of truth?
these "fill-in-the-bubble, A B or C, music only reaches the ears" types of humans
attempting to tell me how to carry out my existence,
attempting to tell me the most efficient
practical
mindless ways to die?
attempting
to tell me
to show me
the most rewarding ways
to die.
what have i to do with these sculptors
who try and quantify the rain,
who try and evaporate
the sun?
what have i to do with these ideas of perfection, of what is best?
these assumptions of false fulfillment,
these preludes to orderly, institutionalized chaos
and contempt?
what have i to do with all of these cardboard boxes
which cannot differentiate between being filled
empty
open
closed
soft
rough
dry
loved?
what have i to do with those who cannot detect their own storms,
their own energy waiting to explode?
what have i to do with one shade of blue?
what have i to do with feet that cannot move,
knees that cannot bend?
what have i to do with white houses
black cars
trimmed bushes
a front porch?
what have i to do with stationary?
what have i to do with these wings
unless they are free to flutter?
what have i to do with structure
with corners
with average
with plain?
what have i to do with boredom
with settling
with insignificant breath?
what have i to do with waste?
what
have i
to do
with waste.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Space to make change an indelible part of life
Encourage the stagnant side to enliven its speech
Flourishes of energy folding in on one another
Pecking, their beaks marking time with biting tongues
Sqeamish reminders of circus clowns vying for laughs
Staring eyes and red painted smiles freakishly scaring
The innocent rosy cheeked wondrous audience
Clapping the skin from their fingers while querelous
Adults sit bored hoping to borrow a new time zone
Spot checking the interest of those encroaching their space
Space to make change an indelible part of life
To fool the viewer of the showcased goods before their
Sell by date, when holding onto stagnation pales the hand of change
Quell the nausea that preludes sickness leaving that vile taste
Rancour alongside a grinning mass of stained teeth borrows
Sweating it out with flailing words of ignorant abandonment
Scorching hot tears racing one another, dripping from lowered
Eyelashes, coaxing the seeping colour coated debris to release
To wash away the dirt, leaving streaks of diluted aftermath
Space to make chnage an indelible part of life
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Look at the stars
Spinning, coursing lightweight
Through the blackness,
Like ice-coated spiders
Floating gentle, softly interweaving
Cloud and hovering nearly near enough
To be captured by your tiny hands.
It seems all so easy
To stay here mentally forever.
Look at the stars
Drifting magnetically, childlike
In their path. Lost and dreamy,
An image separated from a cause;
Heavenly blessings as they drop close enough
To kiss the roses,
Breezily hoping to rest frozen
'Neath the nest of your tired skin;
Lazily watching the night transition
As others must've all those nights before--
When you were too busy to pay them any mind.
These stars map a codex that laughs at you
While you're fixed to the ground and forced to look
beautiful.
These stars sing of the dead. Muses without a voice
Or lives to any longer be lead. The stars dream
Silently of you, patiently nibbling at your breath,
Looking forward to the day they can absorb your
smiling teeth.
The stars hold your spirit and you theirs,
Both constant and unremarkabley dull--
The stars did not ask to be beautiful,
We made them that way. The stars
And you are one, in as much a way as polar opposites
Can be one.
You and the stars, making your fates as you go along...
You and the stars: unintentional twin sisters left astray.
You and the stars: two blind men unravelling an exquiste corpse.
You and the stars: two pawns beating helpless in awe of their sojourn.
You and the stars: complimenting the other like sand does glass.
You and the stars: in awe of each other and the rainwater that
preludes
The moment.
You are the stars, you are the dreamer, you are the observer,
You are the life that has been given life in order to give it back
Sing softly now and lullaby the stars asleep,
Like the son does after growing old for his dying mother,
Like the summer leaves do when their boughs start to snap.
Sing softly for the stars that remind you of whence
Once you were nothing
But a hypnotised lantern
Wandering the endless black.
You and the stars, connect them
even when they appear as aimless
anxious dots.
Form a shape out of the stars; encarve
And embody the flesh of your own constellation.
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
aldous huxley told me twice,
'that men do not learn very much
from the lessons of history is the
most important of all the lessons of history,'
both times i put my pen to the page
and re-read what he had said
until i thought i understood
today i watched big fish and
thought of spectre longer than
i probably should have,
where is it that i arrived before
the road was paved to bring me there?
when will i return?
i know i don't need to figure out
timing because that's what fate's for,
but with a wild wandering mind
it's difficult to detract senseless what-if's
from buzzing about in my brain
tonight i delete excess and make plans
to live a life that doesn't declare ignorance
of what preludes each step taken,
tonight i find sollace in full moons and
figure if there's anything i've learned
thus far, it's just as aldous said,
live life as if you've learned something
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
The riders come on horseback strange
The days are coming; soon will change
The four horsemen that come in night
One pale, one dark, one red, one white
And each will bring a plague derange
Now listen well and preludes hear
The coming of the horsemen’s near
The blood of God, our only hope
The riders come…
The first is white and wields a bow
The second, red, is war we know
The third is black and steals our food
The last is pale and kills our brood
Each plague when comes will bring us woe
The riders come…
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
I was once a classically trained pianist:
My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue *ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom* tuned to the metronome.
Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias
and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.
What is the value of
a wrong note alone
or amongst many,
of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
give away a smile
pass on a hug or two
always keep close
the ones who mean most
and dearest to you
for they may
never express
the hurt
in their chest
and they may
suffer in silence
until darkness preludes
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
There are too many factors to be remembered,
In each second we are fragmented in so many ways.
There are too many mouths to feed when supplies aren't endless.
Some lose their voice if they are to be ignored.
This is a final call for freedom from memory.
The past is simple in a song, go ahead and live any aspect.
Transcendence at its best, I love the feeling of lightness.
What happened to butterflies? When nervous I only get
Preludes to heart attacks.
Things weigh heavy when they matter,
like a matter of importance.
I wish for this rigid stance to relax,
For strained hands to unclasp.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:49 AM UTC
I
The morning traffic settles down
When the smell of chips create a haze
By the arts block.
Squawking fills the passageways
And now a familiar face taps
Your weary back
While you are drowned by stomping feet
And despite the try your mind clots;
The name deletes
And you’re left thinking it is Scott,
While all this time his name is Pete.
He didn’t hear it through the stamps
And we sit lakeside by the lamps.
II
Morning: you arise from consciousness
And faint stale smells of beer
From the night on Dublin streets,
A night you won’t repeat, unless
The moon reclaims the lands.
And of course the Paddy’s day parades,
That, one naturally assumes.
Just thinks of all the hands
Raising pints by the spades
In a thousand bright green rooms.
III
You stretched your arms above your head
And yawned at a class you’ve never hated
You dozed, and watched the screen revealing
The thousand boring images
Of which World War II was constituted;
Their burning qualities weren’t appealing -
They stung until the world went black
But the light crept up between your shutters
And you heard the backgrounds snobbish tutters,
Despite meeting them on Grafton Street
Where you exchanged drunken demands.
You awoke and cringed as you were aware
Of the tuft sticking up about your hair,
But instead of a fix-trip, to save your feet,
You covered it with your hands.
IV
You stared up at the flawless skies
That fade behind the Newman block,
Or often watched insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock,
Or watched the fountain-spewing pipes,
And watched the swans watch life’s disguise
While you recalled wild fantasies,
Of walking down a college street
And opening your eyes to receive the world.
And now my eyes have been unfurled
And I feel like a god, a king
For I have seen an infinitely mental,
Infinitely wonderful thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
And treat the worlds like you treat the women
And hopefully both will give you lots!
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC