"pylon" poems
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
I should have run to Japan, to be the writer that I can, to sing folk to girls who are smiling because they can, I should have road the rails, staring at the never ending cities with hearts ablaze, ducking down into a dreamland maze of alley ways, give my poems to hobos and gays, and find any naru to sing karaoke, go into dens and clubs that traded air for smoking, I'd be the talk of toast, and the **** of the island, or I'd get drunk with samurais on a foam pylon, I'd ask a geisha to dance, but get nervous and spill my drink all over my pants, I'd go with malcontents and roughdy otakus as we hit the arcades on speed, I'd stay at a hotel and get married married in the states, I'd fall in love with a girl for a weekend and shed tell me she hates fancy dinners but loves dates, I would end up sleeping in the hills, high and full of chills, I'll tell school children what the stars mean, even though they can't be seen, I'll write a poem about my sin, of wanting my right, my right of a writing man, in Japan.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
there is no saying goodbye to an addiction,
each day may be a new and exciting adventure,
you succeed, one day at a time, in affliction,
reach way out, open hand and up high, a joint venture
stinking thinking,
stumbling steps come in flights of twelve,
don't punch the pylon, and stare down cars,
shout at the sky if you must,
he who hears you can trust,
then the particles so small,
they turn inside your head and all of your nerves
into a cosmic squall and
you stand in the eye, watching
LIFE chaotic go by,
you see yourself live
and you see yourself die,
some one swears at you,
and kicks your feet,
someone else yells
"get off the street",
you reach out and up, but no mercy,
no maker to meet,
if this is hell
you exist in it,
now if some one would spare some change,
you could stop tripping over your own feet,
if they let you on the bus.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
The word 'Montana' has a taste to it.
It is a being, it really is.
There is a spirit in those fields.
And you won't know it!
You won't! Know!
YOU CAN'T SEE
how much it has gripped you,
how firmly it has your heart until you are long gone.
Then you miss it. I miss it, friend, like a distant love.
It is like a massive pylon with bright red ribbon,
INCARNADINE
ribbon wrapped around your wrists.
No matter where you go you will always be connected.
It will always call your name, like a siren
in the seas calling a sailor home
BEFORE
cursing him and
devouring him forever.
Like the earth is to the moon,
distant and gripping,
Montana is my anchor.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
The Cannibal’s dream and the inverse conclusion
Twist of the seam, sunken scattered illusion
Shouts of the spy fastened tight to the pylon
Sacrifice sweating; bygones can’t just be bygones
Mustard gas moans, whip lashed in the fire
Cunning glass masters burned alive at the pyre
Miscarriage minister delivers the sponge-bath
Alive at the eve of divination, the wrath
Blasphemous cries vindicate putrid powder
Sweet crystal cradling, swaddling sheets on the shrouder
Arcane sessions in the cavern deep
Turbulently righteous ideas to reap
Divine purification at an alchemy flame
A zenith of nostrums, bad medicine, blame
Strip off the layers and chant benediction
A hand, from the mind, reaching out for conviction
Sharp swords of lead, heavy, shifting to gold
Sentient beings search for truth to behold
Excavate, deviate, a stranger to demonstrate
Colloquial séance with panic to elevate
Head leads body, a path of insurrection
The soul and the mind at war for correction
The crotches of branches, slits of the eyes
A crevasse of lonesome; wedged in, we writhe
Anticipating the sting that comes with the change
Of transforming the cave into a mountain range
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
Once felt in the lonely, identical corridors
of hotels, hostels, hallways of homeless flatblocks;
The urge,
The urge to move the moment,
Move the momentum of the meandering life
From work to shop to sleep to work to shop to sleep,
Supplanted by the unattainable mental utopia,
Supplanted by delusions in the colour of dreams,
Supplanted by 10,000 madman notes on the nature of daylight,
Tender sounds accelerated into screams,
Lost in the pylon forest,
Trapped by Tendonitis, Tinnitus, and terrestrial TV,
Stifling the electoral laugh,
Deafened by D-beat, Dubstep, and Democratic conventions,
Bled to death in Bosnia,
Died in Damascus,
Executed in Entebbe,
Murdered in Mogadishu,
Born in Berlin,
Lived in London,
Carried in Copenhagen,
And again in Amsterdam,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Forecast nothing of their waves,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Safely say their real names.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
My sunbaked hands, that are worn in places, handle the grapefruit moon. Juiceless craters embellish the surface that is smooth to the touch, but ¾ it’s natural size, as it has been prematurely picked from the tree above. Flatlands an Amazonian green, resembling the most courageous leaves that journey to find the purest sunlight, with polka-dot peaks that resemble the tint of dewy summer grass in the shade. There is a hole where once stood a pylon that connected the moon to the universe it knew. The scar’s mark forms a pupil and in it’s orbit I see nothing but the incomparable eye of a chameleon. While it twitches and inspects the world, tiny white rovers scuttle across the glossy hide of their new-found planet and big black bugs invade. Bugs! I drop the moon, as it is infested, and recoil as it hits the ***** concrete floor of what is known and rolls into what is expanding.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Ash from two cigarettes on the stone pylon beneath my feet,
I **** yellowbrown into the Hocking.
My stream meets the river on a riptide,
Carefully crafted from the funneled remnants
Of melted snow and torrential rain
Just to give off the illusion of chaos.
Forms of spectacular watermotion grace the noonday clouds,
And despite their haste, too high on molly,
There’s something hanging in the stillness beneath the mudbrown surface—
Some epiphanic moment that rapidity and angerwaves
Refuse to force out of sight; some
Strand of smoke, still floating upwards from the dampened cigarette ash
Abandoned twelve hours prior; some
Slurred-drunken word, tinged anyways with meaning.
The lips I kissed after climbing back onto the bridge the night before
Proved to be less than irrelevant (screaming later, as they did, someone else’s name
While I lay listening, still half thinking that
Maybe she’d just gone upstairs for some floss). But
The fact that there were lips there at all,
In the rain
Under the stars
Over the Hocking
Issuing with reverence the words “magical” and “perfect”
Through the darkness of the night and the echoes of Joni Mitchell’s voice…
It’s something worth noting, despite the angerwaves;
Something worth feeling
Despite the noonday clouds and dampened ash.
Now that I’ve screamed at the river and ****** on it with a harshlaugh,
I think I can also
Find a moment to give it thanks.
Because I’m off the pylon now.
I’m back on the bridge. And I’m walking South
With the flow of the Hocking, back into Athens.
And I am finally
(The rain beating against my face, my clothes, my mind)
So very here.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
because the stream cuts me into paths every morning:
makes me shallow and deep, soft, jagged and drifting
and we all greet the crayfish in miller’s creek eventually:
become ships in the komorebi
become chips off of secret rock below the rusty pylon
on a hilltop, invisible, quietly
pinging signals to the strangers nextdoor from a raspberry bush
because we all become scarecrows, lost
in tomato vine towns
and red maple roots and branches
scared to disturb the dirt or the clouds
because sometimes the bats come out at dusk
to enrapture small ghosts that hang on wilted branches in the woods
climbing toward where the sun used to be
and i join them when that little river runs deep enough
Sep 23, 2024
Sep 23, 2024 at 10:53 AM UTC
Monolithic steely strides;
Cables strain, whilst nature hides,
Arms outstretched from metal sides,
A buzzard glares as by he glides.
A pylon dwarfs a nearby tree,
But makes no home for bird nor bee,
Landscape ruined, just so that we
In idle warmth ... can watch TV!
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 3:39 PM UTC
Of our years rises, thinly, ominously—profound. We
Are flames holding tallow truths, keeping guard
Over these sleeping futures. Grahamstown
Rises in pylon energies. I levitate,
Broomstick as afflatus, and galvanize
The unsullied words of night. The virginal morning
Comes in whispers. Earthworms dread the gawky
Commuter. As students shout FeesMustFall,
Billowing abdominal surges bawl as bitter abiku.
These truths are milked from noted black holes,
Where Fanon’s skins wipe the tears from the eyes. I
Tremble, having anointed more than my restive hands.
Hidden things are not the soul of the stars—somewhere,
Somewhere over the mocked rainbow. Rains fall
On stuffed human throats. And ours is to peck
At the interstices of welt-ridden memory.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Houses held up like puppets.
Pylon-wire branches spread out;
assuring the land wont drift far out to sea,
or melt into the earth with subsidence.
Cotton-wool-candy-floss caught up in cranes,
wind-whipped, white-wash, wispy, whippy clouds.
Do you remember when we waited in line for 99s?
The sky was busy with boats, the sea so blue. No, I mean...
And I had strawberry syrup dripping down my cone
and a multi-coloured sticky chin.
We watched the boats going out, coming in;
then we joined the rest to say goodbyes.
All the hands were wagging; electric flapping.
Water splashing up against the dock.
The arms propelled the ship.
Gemmed fingers dancing farewells;
the jangle of bangled wrists;
waving in the air, propelling the ship away
to retirement paradises,
honeymoon bliss,
champagne seascapes.
Always in the middle this place,
on the edge of a million-gazillion other worlds.
The rumble rattle of engines as I walk along
to look out at the reeds; on search for quiet idleness.
Leaves rustle, tickled by the breeze.
A train passes in-between;
on its way, on its way...
I sit on a bench nearby and hear a hum of life amongst the hedges.
Then,
walk back
with orange light bouncing in and out
of windows' winking eyes;
watching the chalk line,
aeroplane trails in the sky
cut through the blue.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
This morning I did see Julie
my word she looked awfully pale
her face was so vacant
as if she had traversed all of time
I called her name
yet to no avail
she was distant
as a static pylon
Their was no glow in her face
yet she smelt electrical
like you find on birds wings
as they fall to cinders to the ground
I wonder did she fly last night
when told not to
did she fly again,when asked not
did Julie dare to fly again
Her living soul was lonely
for I saw it on Waterloo station
she beckoned to me to her
I told her to forgive my invocations
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
Do you hear the sound of the beating drums?
It beats and plays all day long
Do you hear the sound that always comes?
It’s sounds fill the air with song
Do you hear the sound of the dying drums?
It tries and tries to be what it was
Do you hear the sound of what has become?
It’s sounds stop with one last pause
Do you hear the sound of the drums now gone?
The sound that freed the people from their chains
The sound that once was used as the world’s pylon
The sound that removed all the people’s pain
The sound that once kept the world spinning on
The sound that will never ever be heard again
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 3:44 PM UTC
Every pink pustule pounds my skin like an artillery bar-
rage. Your horde swells with my stress, bubbles up from my
rage. Volcano head, a v of violent irritations between my brow.
Doctors prescribe petroleum products to ease the water pressure
from your oily fracking.
Every splotch a rig rising up over the water, and YOU
place every dot target practice for pointed looks. No mythical halcyon
calms the red waves and YOU,
the construction company placing rows of pylon.
Risking lifelong scars pounding railroad spikes across the Great Plains,
With no grand plan or project to mask my pains
With what form you take, it must be the most
Awful, vile, loathing, malignance of being,
Where you cannot be complacent in your own immutable form,
that you must plague others with your
adolescent pestilence.
But a pestilence of lilies’ dot
the starry pond
The lovely constellations,
have no need for an Andromeda,
And have no worries, for my residents are no Cancer,
And that hope of divine light shining through such inconsequential motes,
also shines through, bathing my face
before I sleep, night after night,
And I see the stars through my rosy windows, as I lay back in my cot.
And where Greek Gods so methodically placed every gentle blót,
a cherished love had never not known the halls of my temples.
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 9:57 AM UTC