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The Seventh Floor
By Otuogbodor, Okeibunor

He just saw her downstairs seated
She saw him pass by but noticed him
He went up to the seventh floor
She breathes the air of freshness
Freshness from home, freshness to school
His mounts of the stairs mounts hope
She sat solitary savouring that air of hope
The university,the hope shaper
The dream comber, ivory tower,
A monumental hope to mount.
One hour past, from that height
He looked down he saw her
She looked up she saw him
Eyes  locked in seconds
Hearts lost to hope
He held his heart lost
She looks her hope not sure
He dare called she dare answered?
Clutching her bags she mounts the stairs
The university stairs to mount in years to come
He stood there on trembling feet waiting
She climbs on and up,on n up
Up the height their  hope clingy
He is up there she mounts up to him
At the seventh floor to  meet  him
As she makes it up all eyes on her trail;
Noticeably slim model of freshness
Admirably everyone to behold
She climbed up to him
Before him she stood
His call she dare answered.
Transfixed! He took her bag
Willingly  she gave him
The floor quakes! The feelings of not just two
The feelings of an age quakes
The hope of many quakes too
The seventh floor quakes!
The waiting room quakes
She enters with of all but him!
He Leads  her to a chair
Her tired Legs grateful.
A sachet of water he gave her
Her thirsty soul appreciative.
He loved her immediately!
She sips the water genuinely thirsty
And She saw the eyes!
His eyes  beholding her.
Her nerve quakes the water pours
Pouring on her chest her white shirt dampen
The chest thumping reveals her Breast
A beautifully moulded set of young Breast
Breast shaped by only the Almighty!
Breast only can be possessed by a Goddess.
Adorable set of gem like diamond points at him.
He looks on. All in the room looks on.
He breathes hard like he just climbed the stairs.
In shock he brought  out a brownish white handkerchief
Dampen  the  chest staining the wet area
She felt his hand. He touched her soul.
The seventh floor quakes the more
Quaking the very foundation of hearts in the room.
He looked her in the eyes , kissed her forehead
She quakes inside of her
His very soul sincerely stared
Her very innocence quakes.
He mutters this lines;
    ‘Be mine sweet Angel’
Her soul heard the lines from a distance
Transporting further the very quake
Whose after shock will last for years.
He was in his third year fed for himself
She was in her first year in daddy’s shadow.
Tortious was the climb
Broadlynarrow was the road
Choice was  a task
Trust…! a life bet
Two hearts-dice juggled
The quake was seconds still
Single mindedness was the decision
The mindful was n is the after shock.
Her friends bemoaned her
His friends fearful cheered him
Her mother cautiously careful
His mother hands off n up in prayer
Her father tearing n threatening.
Thundering his nerve to the brims
She remained obstinate n focused
He remained supportive n sacrificial
Sacrifices of an umbrella in the rain
She appreciated him. He protected her.
He provided the hanger for her  grip
She stretched her arms like the pumpkin tongue grips
The vow of  protections as a service  after graduation.
A service not to a fatherland but for truth
Truth of two souls in opposite divide.
The protection from unspoken facts
Facts only known to one n whispered to the other.
The bet on Trust not Love?
And four year stroll  past
For time crept in to birth a newness.
A new birth n a new day of destiny berthed
As fortune of two set sail
And another two stuck on the hyacinth.
She mounts the podium
He watched from afar in tears of joy
She was the best in the pac
He made it happened
Her mother esthetic n jubilant
Egoistic  father puffy with pride
The pac applauds success n true work
She worked for it. He saw to it.
A synergy of trust for result seem unattainable
Impossibility made possible
Success he desired but archived in her.
She is rewarded for excellence
He is rewarded for steadfastness
Her mother is rewarded for unspoken fear from shame
His mother is rewarded for daily travails in prayer
Her father is rewarded for money spent on trivialities.
The reward of one pervades a whole lot
Avalanches of rewards open n secrets.
UnOpen secret between father n daughter
Shared secret between him n her.
She collects her award admits ululations inside of her
He feels n knows her pain admits the atmosphere
Her mother is carried away like the gele she is wearing
Her father boastful in an atmospheric  blindness for his money's efforts
Her hearts inner workings is detached from the day's euphoria
He standing at the distance transmutes her experiences
Experiences of a father who knew only his desires
Desires bought n explored from every available mode.
The university was a safe heaven for her
He provided the guard and guidance she lacked at home
Her encounter of him n the journey to the seventh floor
Shaped her to today n assured her of tomorrow
True  love stands like strong pilar  
He longed n gave love he wanted n  never had
She believe n trust for him save the climb
She is a daughter her father only knew  in the dark
He is a friend who is a true father n never had one.
Drives n ponderings of the hearts
The podium is for gallery elicit joyousness
Joyous celebrations into the night.
The night comes with  it's sounds
Darkness comes with it's secretes
Tides n storms in dark hearts alleyway
Lighten flashes schemes it's way in the dark tides of time
The heart thunders in ‘tick ****’ motion of time
Tale  trail to time
Quest of two in timescape alley
Time: a healer n a judge?
Time n space bridged reward
A collusion of hatred n love rewarded.
The reward of time is unquantifiable  
And timeless is its weight.
The weight of love prompted a search
A search for his father
A search for her true father
A father who constantly seek n desires  daughter’s nakedness?
A mother whose silence at the face of such shame?
Truth bound by time  rebounds in space
Complicit of two self lying marriage between man n woman
Rebounds in  two young honest lovers
The happiness of youthful individual being sacrificed?
The weight of a DNA is  love for him and her
And hate for father n mother .
Her mother was shameless n still is
His father was irresponsible n still is.
The early light dispels darkness
Darkness of the heart under a fretsaw
Patterning  in style  actions of the dark
Every secret did have open reward
She was n is her mother from a man she refused her knowing
He was his father Who absconded 33 years ago
Hiding in the arms of another woman bewitched?
Likes begets  likes in a mate of two deluded snakes
Living in the dark holes of there night
Orchestrating symphonies of lies n lies
And now likes dogs leak their  poisonous venom.
At dawn light gains its penetrations
Penetrating the very marrow of truth….!
As Morning dawns with it's dews
A climb to the seventh floor was the dew.
And light melts away this dew
Shining in the life of two young fellows
Who loved from their souls.
The poem is still a work in progress, will like to make it better.
Kam Jul 2018
Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer,  not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”

My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.

The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.

Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you, 
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.

This world is not tender.

II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.

split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.


My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.

But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.


III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
I wrote this in pink gel pen, maybe, that’s another joke.
atomic blue Jul 2018
da da dun da dun da dun
dun da dun da dun
da da dun da dun da dun
dun da dun da dun

there's a flash-- of lightning
lighting up the clouds
then in silence-- hiding
before the thunder sounds
and the sky falls to rain
and the earth quakes again
.
.
.
there's a rock-- sits rugged
dying in the shine
where before-- it bled
with colors inline
they coursed-- through veins
when it was alive
yeah the sky falls to rain
yeah the earth quakes again
.
.
.
there's silver-- set skies
to horizons of land
reflected-- in your eyes
shadows on wet sand
before the beach dies
by the flames that 'r fanned
yeah the sky falls to rain
and the earth quakes again
.
.
.
there's a portrait-- 't burns
smoldering to scatter
the atoms-- of remains
to times that matter
the sparks-- to our dreams
igniting 'ey shatter
yeah the sky falls to rain
ooh the earthquakes again
and the earth quakes again..


Sam@070118
keep strumming this on my guitar ...
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs
as I removed my source of Grecian power,
as if King Midas dared to touch the skies,
upon thy body fell a *******.

Thy body's temples, two church bells had rung
upon thy chest, a row of pearls bestowed.
The sun had set, thy set with wary hung
I thought, "How black a night, and blue a lode!"

I said, "What light through yonder ****** breaks?
It is the yeast!" And now my belly's yellow.
My pole gives cause to storms and earthy quakes,
but 'tis not massive, I am no Othello.

And when that final moment came to pass,
like Christ I came a-riding on an ***.
Marco Buschini Dec 2016
Lie within chaos, and create comfort
In visions of endless love.
Riding slowly on the crest of a morning fling, and flutter,
The body stutters
Like a street dancer.
Shine in different directions
And end the yearning
For a love of creativity
By stripping off
And darting
Into a sea of uncertainty,
with a sense of
Unimaginable lust for what keeps you
Ticking like a sturdy clock.
Find the rhymes that combine
With what lies inside the mind,
To stumble upon the future pleasure,
That you unearth with delight,
As you wonder.
Inspiration is born out of desire.
Fuel to fire the birth of creation.
The mind quakes for a taste
Of the cake, that is blessed with greatness.
Alek Mielnikow Aug 2018
Her titillating tattoo
tantalizes me deeply,
to the tenth degree. I see
it as I slip her silk dress
slowly down her left shoulder.
A lizard lying on a
boulder, contrasting with her
silky smooth soft snowy skin.

I kiss her shoulder, and she
shudders and sighs a deep sigh.
Goosebumps rise up her body
as a sturdy gust seizes
the moment. The forest we
make love in quakes and shakes
as she shivers and quivers
under the touch of my hands.

My left hand holds her upper
arm, while my right grips her hips.
She closes her eyes, smiling,
giggling in amusement.
I spin her slowly ‘round, and
look into her hazel eyes,
her soft ******* and thighs against
mine for warmth and gentle touch.

I kiss her lips. Strawberry.
And we slide down to the ground.
The scariness we have found
slips away in our grace. We
sinners share our shame, our lust,
and come to a conclusion,
and bust each others doors down,
sweet ****** on this cold ground.
Eleni Jul 2017
Where the tides of Magnus swell
And his thundering roars beat lightning to hell.

We've been living in a maze.
We've been digging up our graves.
We've been throwing up our brains,
Yet these quakes will still go on.

Sickles and hammers
And tall corporate buildings, portly businessmen.
The windows and towers they will smash because of the beast inside their heads.

Black and white
Good and evil
Are there two sides? Four, eight? Or are there billions of coloured pixels;
Each twinkling their own ideologies.
But once they blend, like watercolours,
The wars commence and their crimes they won't repent.

Our conditioned brains
Entertained by an electronic screen, or perhaps a print of lies on paper.
And we will curse, wail or put other opinions on bail.

Will we live a life of sepia, of black and white?
Or will we respect all sides of that rubix cube which becomes ever more difficult to solve.

The algorithms twist, intertwine, sever
But there is not one single lever- we can pull

to save our bleeding earth.

The quakes will go on
We will not have a break from them.
We are veterans of psychological corruption;
And our armour and weapons are destroyed.
A little extended metaphor about how solutions to a specific problem are not as simple as they seem in our complex world. Just like this poem can be interpreted in many ways, each interpretation may be valid and I have respect for that. Our weapons and armour can deter the quakes of other brains, but we must act and feel intelligently with our minds.
Amanda Jean Jul 2018
Timing rhymes
Does it heal
Proximity
Close to feel
And this crutch
It’s a spinning wheel
Imagine us getting killed
And then you see it in your sleep
It just repeats and repeats
Sometimes I'm the only hero
And sometimes it's you who's saving me
We watch it on tv
Getting killed in societies across nationalities, we catch you screaming in your sleep
Sometimes you gotta bleed
We'll leave you to patch it up yourself 'cause
You're all you really need
This is what it means to be free
We catch you getting help we lock you up, it's the rules of the games, money paper book tree
Paper cures us all the time in the schools, the libraries, and outdated trees in the courtyards
They say nobody reads ours
Nobody has gotta breathe trees for any hours unless you breed ours
Gotta pay to breathe
Repeat repeat
First breath I'm writing on paper
Breathe in again we on the crystal
Square shining on my face
We're mentally chasing the sun that never satisfies
Looking for light in all the wrong places we're constantly mystified by how it never seems to last

I'll chase the light in your eye a day before I die staring at the fire of the sun as it slips to early morn where Luna's shining in the storm

So fierce but lonely does she seem without the fire burning her soul to gleam so clean

We scream fire ****** bathroom sinks filled the graves the shining metal gleams gory ****** are sipping tears from powder quakes

We rake the crowds with raining sun so one day we pray we'll see the light of glory goddesses to be won

We’re shambling ourselves
We're lying in the muck
Crying ghostly in our sleep trying to beat the sound of screaming sheep

One side of me growing closer to the sun, she weeps, I'm drowning in these sheets
She pulls me closer and questions me
My split soul is a far reach

Why even ask why you're trying
I know what we’re finna keep
I'm glad who I meet
We should shatter in these streets

I know what you're asking me
But I don't think you're saying it quite right
I don't think we have the time
I'm riddling you and me we're questioning

I don't know how to say it fine
How to finesse the letters to make em mine
Dancing phrases of better days but I know I haven't yet paid the price to pay to shave the way of better feelings

But standing in this storm I'm reeling
I'm hiding, cover, summer stealing smiles from off the deep end brothers flaked and waked you out you baked in heat from another paper so timeless easy smoking

Like my father, a toking fighter lighter laugh on the wall to appall and adore show us more the universe is sure that we're lurking for a cure

Lurking in the hard to reach forbidden injustices in the back of memories of these contemplated possibilities rolling over thots like a crusted raw prince’s

Tongues never seem to think of where their words travel whether they keep their mouth shut or mind open maybe closed like the door to this blocked soul

I want to write and I do kind of sometimes get something out of me that I haven’t seen before.
Times like these I can’t get more.
I’m bore such a sore grasping, letting go in the face of someone I adore.
I need you.
I can’t do this without you I need somewhere to keep my heart arrest while I dive into these depths of ***** streets, dungeons in the roots of mind where lies me dead and stagnant.
Disgusting ******* written on walls in these tunnels, gulping all love, dear please spit out your fears you may never know the destinations of your timeless travels.
But I yearn to, I dig deep scratching at my skull trying to figure out who I am and why and who I am supposed to be in this world, I twitch at thoughts of happiness while dreaming of death I plead, for better days and understanding I’ve never been fond of this blissful lie.
We all die we all live we all run to jump to fly as high as we can possibly imagine knowing that one day we will fall only to be picked up by lovers still floating in the trees.
My guardian angels of my soul.
We speak to the trees of ancestors of these trying again to win our hearts back from these time never healing devil memories.
We only sleep to name the trees our memories.
They say our hair contains our memories.
If that’s how you really feel, squeal.
patty m Nov 2017
Today the sparrow chirps inside my head.  Tiny wings flitter nervously from the hedge darting out for bread newly spread upon the lawn.

I  throw it everyday but still they're nervous and I can't blame them as my own heart beats rapidly in sorrow.

a friendship broken
and still my heart cries in pain
fluttering wingless

Could it be these tiny birds are totem of the sad,
then perhaps butterflies represent new life and hope?  

sage little sparrows
tiny heads peeking through hedge
watching for the hawk

The rabbits are nibbling late summer grass.  Their tiny noses and ears twitch.  Some will fall while others flourish, the world isn't always kind . Gentle furry friend your baby is bigger now and no longer stays close to the hedge but cavorts upon the lawn as all children do; Still she's not quite as knowledgeable as you,  my friend with fur so soft and gentle eyes.  Yet you will both survive this city living, hopping through the spray of sprinklers on lawns, digging holes ever watchful.  Perhaps we all learn to adapt even soft furry creatures.

Today a bunny
burrows protecting new life
small carrots my gift

Last night the leopard roamed through my dreams.  I felt the thrill of the hunt, teeth sinking into flesh and I'm not repelled. This is life and the leopard too must eat and yet she only kills to feed her hunger, she's not vindictive and for some reason she grounds me.  To survive one must be strong.  In light of moon she urges me on stilling frantic thoughts and giving me purpose.

essense of fleetness
necessity is living
surviving through pain

As a child I remember the zoo rides on the elephant. What a gorgeous creature she was. A special saddle was set atop her back and little children were placed in a row to ride upon this gentle giant.  I loved to feel her rough hide, and the touch of her inquisitive trunk. Yet even as I felt dwarfed in her presence I saw something so powerfully wondrous in her eyes, a strength of character and wisdom as if life had taught her so much and she wanted someone to understand.  
When I rode atop her I felt light as if I had wings, there was no mistrust or any frightening vibes, just a glorious feeling akin to euphoria.  Once she was sad and I saw tears in her eyes.  I didn't ride her that day just being near her was enough.

mountain of wisdom
the earth quakes beneath your feet
and yet you shed tears
Ayaba Babe Apr 2013
the heart aches
like
earthquakes.

today
i allowed myself to feel
heartbreak
one very last time for you.

the sun was settling,
silhouetting the city

it felt like
the burial site of massacred dreams.
Joseph S C Pope Feb 2013
I

Wonderlandia, torn off the submerged lung
of a daydream diary.                   Reoccurs
as she does with silver eyes, weary Alice
during tea time--bullets burning past her
                                     like flowing nations.
Everyday similar tsunamis fund
                                     the lack of 20/20.
Nose to tail--the surge of angry engines
splits the ends of her blonde strands.
    Each one the last witness to maddening hospitality
--utopia never sweats as it talks and withers.
Amnesia blots,
new aspirin machines
vaporize apples and ***
on the other end of spectrum,
                                                     trans-positional labels--

Guillotine gargling teapots
       have no patience
         to the bushes of Olympus opiates
                                      bound in yellow barrier tape,
                     five o' clock traffic
               welcomes her back to what we are facing.


II


Dreary weather of late fall                       and her beautiful,
              powdered face

great mouth of atomic hell,
         when she speaks--80,000 deficiencies boil alive
                                                   --Trinity's teething test
                                                           on the tired bones
                                                   of a story-teller's raspy cards--

"None the wiser," she speaks,
                                "during the transition of ships
                   vermin turn into krakens culturing
                               on the surface of a raindrop.
    Heroes, villains, animals frozen together
                 after now eating for four days.
     The transition of one genocide
                                                        ­  to the other,
                the delineation of cat-and-mouse,
   mingle too long
   with the dead
   and its necrophilia."

                 Blind Alice wanders off the highway,
leaves her brewed cup of steamy static
on top of the unimportant saucer, sticks pins in her *******,
             and enjoys the sound of Cleopatra
             rolling over in reincarnation.


III

      Dear Alice smells
sunbathing, studded tangerines
                      assimilating liquor within the vast,
       empty, glowing nausea that is--
                        the warm germ

Oil                                    and                 ­          water
               rippled glass too silly for skulls
              made humid by distant salt water,

blood, acid, enzymes,
cheating probability
that runners with drunk kids
have blood between their toes.
                                                      Death­ to the distillation within
                                                    --the chronic diamond too polished
                                                       in *** to see the roses in her *****
    She curses these wood songs,
             heritage patriots with the pelts of wild lions
             with antlers over their heads,
                                                  faces advertising war paint
                                                applied by gargoyle hands
                    --sad memoirs always drink people
                                                  that use God as a cookie jar.


IV


  Gorgeous names
  on graffiti institutions give her a home
                                                         a market
                                                         a nickname
           still                  Alice only accepts Alice.

Grace periods where she misses tyranny
                  rise and fall like endorsed breathing.
    Now Alice feels her dress fall off,
                                  extinct years message future occupancy
                                  about what to wear.
New era, this era, past eras plead guilty
in a      clinic museum
             of forcing demons
              down the medical
              throats
of first graders. Court adjourns at 9:01 PM, Saturday

             The populus can sleep now,
                          but not her.
                 No one gave her clothes
                 to cover up the drained monochrome.


V

Instead she celebrates her flesh,
                                        the broken glass,
   and quakes and leads off to expose
           others to its potential vital prosperity.

         Instead
                     headlines like bumper cars read
                     about the beheading of weeks,
                     failing rescue missions,
                     and debates on teenage tolerance.

Nicotine intoxication points Alice
to over-extended memories--wards of music
sequenced to point out the extinction of marble tigers.
                        Only 550 expected to understand
                         tethered to millions able to survive.

  Flood waters look at moral standards, a mean hurricane
                                   that collapses the death toll
     all patented 50 states
     have a dating service
     and huff paint as a way
                              to pray to art.
                                                      Double­-canvas faces
                                                      dyed in pixel     hope
                                                       that the media levees hold,
             but volunteer to herd sheep into poppy seed fields.
                                            She refuses to stay,
                    to watch the long night
                    of castration on men with mud-covered ankles.
                                      Television says eunuchs want
                                       to be prodigal's children,
                                       everyone wants to come back home
                                       to mom and dad, safe zones, away
                                       from themselves.
                                                     ­                 It says our ancestors want
                                                            ­          this for all of us. They worked
                                                          ­            so hard to tie up the hair
                                                            ­          out of Aphrodite's face.

                                     They treasure the silver eyes of Alice,
                                          but call them blue,
                                                  they issue her high cholesterol
                                          but pump sweet ****** into he stomach,
                                                  they tell her to put down the drill,
                                            so she can finish their orchestra--

her lightning
    is
     a
  string
     of
  souls



VI


     She decides to depart Sunday,
to discover the ordinary beginning,
                        painting WHY? on its delirium.
re-arrangeable viewers become
                      inserted sounds under percussion and piano.

       Caging various important charts
                                          undetermined
   ­                           as finished attention.
                                                      ­              Three movements in flux
open end the people                     vacuuming
                            craftsmanship blocks
                   from                                dogs and zen.

                                                 The
                                 suspended letter               is happening in 1951
   drenched in existential white                                            spacing
        ­                                                   the viewer
                        from integrated architecture.

Down
the
bell is a structure called
"the quarantined wheelchair."
                               Dead ignorance changes pattern
                               after six movements of the second hand.
Alice speaks, "To you all, know
                                       that this is an un-dramatic situation.
          Everyday windows with the same
           participants have girls drinking
                                                     orange juice, activate fluid,
                    both exist as objects
                    and caught propaganda."

                                                   ­                      Six tunnel
                                                          ­      audiences are watching
                                                        ­        drown in the plastic silk
   her                                                       built by the motorized collage
                                                         ­                                        spider.

          Alice, a kinetic mannequin pop star
                        is limp in the glass point.
             Rhythmic flux is objectified war torture
                         censored in fitness magazines
by simple toilet literature.

                                        Six tunnels worth of eyes
                                 latch to the *******
                                           as a way to bury **** protesting.
                                  A coat of pepper spray
                                   works in front of the exhibition.
This stage is shaded by moans.


VII


      Alice the female, has a door-to-door friend
                                                          ­    over the sea
of the cathedral's ceiling               who died of disemboweled
pulchritude             at the mutilated nuclear other-place.
                     Her friend was a synthesized example
                     of staged catastrophes. Her friend is her, silver-eyed
                                                     ­                                             Alice.

            ­                     She performs herself and herself
                                 but they are played by polished, scored poets.

Everyone of them incorporates the events
                                 of a dancing gunshot. Everything rests
                                                           ­ at an intermission

               but after fifty minutes of pondering,
          the lost audience remembers
         her name is Alice.
                   So it comes back on with a shower of sweat
                  and this clear
                                  substance
               ­                                 called
                         ­                              patience.
       This composing, peering vulnerability
                        psychologically destroys the flux tension
              like analog genocidal dictators.
                                   Ultimately this is dream liquor

     commentating war to the war tree
      using trauma and chairs as humor.



VIII


               Patience on the water level lives translucent
                                            on networks that brand flesh
                                            with displaced identity.
Alice convinces us all that pickled ***
                                                             ­               takes eight years
                     to ****** and we accuse it
                                         of being fake. Afterwards, her character dies
in confident silence.


IX


     Not majestic, but she does cough
                  to mock the earth.
        The seeds of Alice are ripe,
                        harvested early, and now her children come out and dine
        like speaking tongues on gibberish.
                          The room is fat with hair

and kindness. Feeble, mundane hands chew on each other,
                                                         feet stand proud.
We even call her Alice or "the beautiful *******,
                                             a black cloud feasting
                                             in orange."
                       Everyone feasts on the nectar
                                                         she has, but never the rye
which makes her round. Juice is squeaking and her children laugh
                         as in competition.

     It's a distinguishable game as the mixed
                                                           ­      couple up front
              begin to play whistles as
                                         everyone eats
                   the pride of the silver-eyed Alice's children.


X

                                                ­ The children's souls
                                                       bow and say
                                           "Thank you for barely growing."
                                                   and dissipate after five minutes.

          "Curiouser                                   ­                                      and
           Curiouser"                                                       ­                   they
           say                                                              ­                        as
           they                                                             ­                       leave
           this                                                             ­                         homage.
                  The decimal backbone
                     of each of sweet Alice's
                                   blonde strands
                   divorced by the gust/ of a green light's/ allowance.


XI Epilogue*


  The day crawls away
                   a vigilant pest
     of the nocturnal project
                   --suns beam down still, like
                  stomachs of grinning felines
                           at Valentine's day.

toxic-dyed fingers
                        soldered
to bodies pittering across rainy streets

--legionnaires with hearts on stones
                         we are waiting for her orders,

     thistled-teeth clench,
                                         but did she
                                          actually
          ­                                ever come?
Mark Steigerwald Nov 2014
The mist rolls in
and the sun comes out,
the flowers bloom
and the wylde things shout.

The beasts roam
and the thunder quakes,
the stars dance as one
the ground beneath begins to shake.

The calming air
the wondrous air
the peaceful air.
Ode to the beauty of this fresh
mountain air.

The cool breeze so fair
flowing steadily
from the mighty peaks

Of earth and sky
rock and water,
ever does it reek.

The green of the hills
And the shiver
of the river's chills

The sounds of the forest
and the roar of the beasts
Ode to you oh ye so fair
Ode to you
oh perfect mountain air.
Tanisha Parekh Feb 2019
rumble,
grumble,
almost a mumble,
made me stumble,
see the earth crumble,
fumble,
tumble,
the thought of it humble,
but it quakes,
it shakes,
watch the ground break,
awake,
it aches,
it is at stake,
the earth,
it's worth,
the earth,
rebirth,
the motherland,
seen to be grand,
look where i stand,
on solid ground,
but it breaks,
it shakes,
the earthquakes.
Her soft leaves tremble as
the clouds clash and collide
above, revealing their deafening
roar.

Tremors ripple through her,
beginning at her roots; the
poignant sky tears straight through
her rind.

Vicious tears fall from melancholy stars,
and she quakes under the bellow
of the outraged clouds; she is
alone.

Turbulent,
    irate,
        ferocious,
but she will remain.
Chris Voss Feb 2013
I'm leaving.
Less like, Peace the **** out,
more like, I gotta go.
I'm leaving the way ships are wooed by waves,
under the pretense of more promising continents.

I can see where countless hands have pulled at my shoelaces,
wrapped my arches in ribbons of origami,
left me second guessing how well holes burn through soles.
It's been a long day of finding breathing space between double-knots and bending
broken fingernails back into place;
the self-constrained chaotic embrace of something supposedly so
straight as string brings forth beckoning ghosts of
those figure-eight souls who laid themselves
horizontal
to waste their Sundays tracing the Hills
on the breath fogged side of some painted-shut window sill;
trading the promise of Infinity
for the Religion of Monotony.
Praying through agoraphobic day-dreams
raining across the night sky of their eye lids
with the brilliance of meteorites,
imagining how earth-shattering they could be
if only these tyrannosauruses would just look up.

I have come here;
Less like, conquest
more like, exploration.
--Abandoned the comfort of quaint, suburban
ruins of the American Dream, which buckled
like widows knees mid frail-voiced eulogy
mourning the death of their Salesman--
and wandered aimlessly into the improvisation of some story-book jungle,
wishing I was better rehearsed.

I have come here
to congregate with the snakes and beasts; to feast beneath
the din of carnal sin and primal instincts. I've chosen to begin jumping
from stump-to-stump like stepping headstones
in a graveyard of fallen trees, where men,
                     who grew up too quickly and forgot the importance of pretend,
                     who learned early on how to black-market trade
                              the need to imagine for something a little bit more
                                                      tangib­le,­
                     who, smiling through serrated teeth,
saw it fit to clear this wilderness for something a little bit more
domesticated.

But thank god, these brambles grow so thick!
For every hail Mary their metal tongues would lick
into the trees' skin, a hallelujah of vines and branches and roots
would erupt in confused medley,
and their finest mathematics couldn't begin to calculate
the thriving division of a place so ungoverned by logic.       
In a jungle plucked straight from storybook pages
I'll band together with these untamed brutes
--these feral barbarians and unbroken monstrosities--
to howl at the moon with the effervescence of a Ginsberg poem.
We'll forge a tinsel-town crown and take turns
playing king of Where the Wild Things Are found.

See, unlike concrete cities
The Wild of Atavism has never forgotten that
Tradition is a catalyst for change
and that nothing is permanent.
Hell, I've been having laughing contests with a mountain
because every now-and-again he will crack
A smile, and when a mountain laughs
He does so, so gutturally,
From deep within his catacomb chest that
the whole Earth quakes -- everything shifts--
And I'm not gonna lie to you right now,
I've sort of got my heart set on being a part of something so
significant.

So if you follow,
shipwrecked and mapless,
Keep your shoelaces strapped tight
and run off the infinity of double knots.
If you go looking for me, continue
past the paint chips, through
the open window;
Set your sights to the far treelines.
And don't strain yourself listening for
the laughter of mountains,
Because when that stoic disposition
Finally does crack, you'll feel it in your feet
no matter where you are.
And from the way his ridges are crumbling,
I think I've almost got him beat.
Feb 27, 2013

© Christopher Voss
Terry O'Leary Jun 2013
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
          (in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
          near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
          the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
          while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.

A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
          and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
          neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
          sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
          in random splayed and sprawled runs.

A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
          the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
          his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
          with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
          is on his way to find ’em.

The pack rejoins with weary ***** -
          perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
          with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
          for, yes, he’s still the rover.

When snow enshrines the timberlines
          and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
          as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
          they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
          float, hanging in the air.

Their path is black (they can’t look back
          for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
          the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
          he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
          display the night’s devotion.

The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
          and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
          a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
          like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
          and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.

With snout upturned the moon’s discerned
          as well as wafts a wendin’
and muzzled growls and shriekin’ howls
          mark wolves in quests unendin’.
With fragrant hint, the wolf’s a’ sprint,
          the pack begins t’ rally –
in swift descent they’ve seized a scent,
          that’s flowin’ down the valley.

The wolf moves on behind the dawn
          and shades the pale horizon
as she-wolfs vet his silhouette
          each time they lay their eyes on.
With trek discreet, a trail is beat
          across a river frozen –
when day’s complete, just mice to eat,
          a choice despised, but chosen.

A stillness jeers the shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over),
while caribou, with much ado,
          drift, seekin’ blades o’ clover;
the wearied pack picks up their track
          (with stony stomachs pangin’)
through endless seas of barren trees
          with ice like daggers hangin’.

The wolf invades forgotten glades,
          the pack stays close behind ’im;
the caribou, in his purview,
          seem far too far to mind ’im.
Above, a baleful moonbeam wails,
          “oh god he’s gonna’ catch ’em”;
the scene is grim, the Reaper dim,
          the night has gone to fetch ’im.

A moanin’ mynah’s crying loud
          as birds of prey are preachin’
to cravin’ ravens prayin’ proud
          and wide-eyed owls a’ screechin’.
The wolf, unrushed, is breathin’ hushed,
          his hollow eyes a’ narrowin’
and focused hard in fixed regard
          on herds they'll soon be harrowin’.

The morning breeze is ill at ease,  
          a surge brings sudden silence –
then haggard swarms launch poundin’ storms
          and hurricanes of vi’lence;
the herd’s surprised and paralyzed
          all over hell’s half acre –
the leadin’ buck’s run out of luck,
          he’s soon to meet his maker.

The old wolf creeps, the old wolf leaps
          on prey he’s been a’ trackin’ –
a deer adorned with branchin’ horns
          is torn by beasts attackin’.
The morning quakes, a shadow shakes,
          tined antlers left a’ lyin’,
and spattered spots and scarlet clots
          repaint the point o’ dyin’.

A magpie flies with frightened eyes
          (on ebon wings a’ wavin’),
spies wolfin’ jaws and sated maws
          of wolves no longer cravin’.
The snowdrift clears, a cool wind veers,
          a dying breath, moreover –
a wraith appears, with shaggy ears,
          (one droopin’ down, hung over).

Dawn’s sunbeams crowd, ignite a cloud,
          its threaded strands a’ weavin’.
The pack awakes and twists and shakes,
          for soon it’s time for leavin’;
it’s bleak, it chills on shallow hills,
          as she-wolfs come a’ nuzzlin’,
but north winds scold, the wolf lies cold,
          the pack stands back a’ puzzlin’.

On crimson snows neath perchin’ crows,
          the pack abides a’ guardin’;
while nights are tight with Harpy kites,
          the she-wolves wait an’ harden,
until a groanin’ blizzard stones
          the barren forest stowin’
his shaggy ears beneath the weirs,
          with icy hails ’a blowin’.

The storm abates and terminates,
          the glacial wind’s subsidin’;
the past is past or passin’ fast
          and life goes on abidin’.
The herds, today, roam far away,
          not thinkin’ of the dyin’;
the pack’ll stray from day to day,
          ’a stalkin’ hard and tryin’.

As spring sneaks forth upon the north,
          they’re lean without their leader.
A she-wolf (bound with belly round)
          strains neath a budding cedar.
Upon the morn a whelp is born
           (the future forest drover)
in new frontiers, with shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over).
Nickols Sep 2013
Dull lips give way to a finely sharpened tongue.
Soft skin slides underhand like roughly hidden scales.

You asked of me to bare my blood.
 Both times I cut my veins for you.
Both times you asked for more
And I bled once again,
for you, my Prince.


A hand touches my soul; held within the demons greedy paws.
All the while,  I wonder why, I let you continue to rein over me.
An insufferable plague you have bestowed over my brow.
Nay...
My heart.

My heart quakes from Lust's tightening grip.
My veins bleeding for you...
A card dealt from the sleight of a devils right hands.
A dagger in the left, aimed for the back.

- Hark -

The call of darkness beckons me on-wards.
Calling me home through the red fog and the vile pit of hatred.

When you asked for me; I was yours.
Then, when you asked for another,
I withdrew...


You are an enigma, in your entirety.
Oh, sweet angel
burden with a devils twisted soul.
You shall burn forlorn in a delightful blue flame.

*Alas, ask once more my Nephilim Prince.
Ask;
and I shall bleed my veins for you.
This was inspired from me playing Devil May Cry way too much. Call me a fangirl, and I'll probably just laugh and agree. *le sigh* I think I might have a cartoon crush on Dante. (so there in fact, Virgil as well because they are twins) *sighs and shakes head at self*
Atoosa Apr 2017
Mother Earth quakes
Absorbing heavens' tears
Like crystals on her greening robes
Her heart aches
She knows our fears
Within her are endless globes
I marched with thousands of concerned fellow lovers of the Earth today who showed up despite the rain, trying to defend our planet, the voice of science and the human right to seek and speak truth.  It was inspiring.
RW Dennen Sep 2014
In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans;
anticipating our prone-positioned
brothers and sisters held
Prone positions against walls
Prone positions against fences
Prone positions against vehicles
Prone positions against buildings
Prone positions against prone positions
Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied
like our great nation; like our souls
I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor
as yourself "

I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin
to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized
I hear lamentations about blood tales
I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land
I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people
Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake
Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen
Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory
Then inhumanity's ugly face:
America to its Indians, America to its blacks,
America to women, America to its gays,
America to Mexicans,
America to South and Central America,
America once to Southeast Asia,
America to Islam, America with its war crimes,
America and Israel both innocence died

So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs
We gesture all hope
The apartheid surrounds us
The dead talk to us
The smoke surrounds us
Perhaps better days we say
Entwined with bizarre everydayness
we accept sleep with fits
Fits without food;
Fits without crucial welfare
Roads, shelters, mock us
sculptured by missiles and bulldozers
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror
We pray upon our prayer rugs
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror
And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly
and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened
legacy...in written legacy
love your neighbor as you love yourself...
marlene dunham May 2010
Volcanic eruption
corruption
unemployment
recession, depression
Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan

Earth quakes
rumbles
Wall Street crumbles
Haitian children wail
tidal waves prevail

Global warming
fiction or warning?
Taxes, health care
how to handle
the next scandal

Hawaiian birth
takes precedence
over incidents. Coincidence?
Arizona immigration
discrimination

Oil spill
of gigantic proportions
contortions
in the Gulf
causing strife, ending life

Bomb in Times Square
where? not here!
just sit and sip your beer
watch the world go by
with a wink and a sigh!

Sometimes we are powerless
nothing we can do
our head in the sand,
don't understand
not care, or dare
to question?

What is our place
in this space
our destiny and fate
to help our world continue on
so our children can survive?

The world is spinning out of control

Iraq, Iran, Afganistan
Quakes, Rumbles, Crumbles
Global Conservation, Preservation
Distortions, Contortions
Bombs and Beer
Dare to Care


Frenzied

© 2010 Marlene Dunham
Liner runs thin
as I examine the skin
where I look for a tell-tale mark
Left of a ring that would prove
I'm not alone.
(it's not there)

My back arches and
my body quakes
as deep inside
Infantile sexuality wakes
as my lips let fly
assumed and guessed sighs
of fabricated pleasure
(whatever that is)

They did not teach me these things
I was left to assume
as hearts often do
when they are kept in a room
and ushered away from the pains and joys
of Love

I stare into a mirror
and I stare back
Until all of a sudden
my smile cracks
and I'm left to stare
into the eyes of one
born to lose.

I hug warm pillows
and stroke my own hair
Until I realize he
is not
wasn't
and will never be there
and I'm left to assemble
a Shattered Glass Heart
with nothing but hammers for tools

But then I see myself
beauty and flaws defined
and at this point I know
the only glass heart I need
is mine
even in pieces, it retains it's strength
and waits to be whole again

So dormant I sit
mesmerized by the prisms the pretty pieces make
as I wait
for a true artist to come
and give this
Shattered Glass Heart
new form
with the heat of reassuring and shared existence
and the grace of gentle words and sweet kisses.
In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes’ eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o’-clay,
Waiting for the time o’ day.

While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o’-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o’-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind’s breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o’-clay,
Watching for the time of day.
Kelley L White Aug 2015
I shall write from a room of my own.
Kick tin at the cat on the roof

“You're one of my favorites”
He said.
And said.
Until he didn’t.

Naiveté’s intoxicating allure
Once duped
Breeds contempt
The mask slips.

I failed to see the hot plate of my goose cooked
For love of kindness
While kissing your ***.

Eviscerations deflower nobler hearts to pay lessors’ intentions
Beyond pale of reason
Power’s addiction

I shall not suffer wisely
A fool indifferent

The secrets we keep safeguarding delusion for hope’s sake.

What we allow?
Continues.
A heart breaks
Until it quakes.

Then heart writes from a room of its own
Kicks tin at the cat on the roof.

©2015 Kelley White
Serenus Raymone Oct 2012
Mother Nature

(Poem by Serenus)



Mother, Oh Mother

You’re such a woman scorn

Your children mistreated you

And now we’re caught in your storm



Your womb, birthed the earth

And from the earth, we were born

We use to be so close

But now we’re just a family torn



Smoke stole your sweet scent

We scorched your beautiful hair

Your skin sealed in cement

Suffering from thirst, but we didn’t care



We force fed you poison

We put a price on your head

Taking your gifts for granted

And we left you for dead



But Mother, Oh Mother

You have come back

With a vengeance!

Your temper is heated

With no signs of forgiveness



Your touch use to be gentle

Tough-love, but modest

But your backlash has been brutal

The judgment of a goddess



Hurricanes, acid rains,

Monsoons, tsunamis

Droughts, water spouts

And quakes that sneak up calmly



Blizzards, floods, tornadoes, and wildfires

And we never cried for you Mommy

Now our situation is absolutely dire

We are begging for a day that’s balmy


To protect yourself from your people

You are fighting back

And all we can do is stop our evil

Reflect-and stand back



But Mother, Oh mother

Can we be saved?

Or have you sealed our fate

For the way we behaved?





…Before she can be her children’s savor

Rescue us, from our own bad behavior


She must save herself "first

So don’t blame her

She’s a mother

Protective power

Is in her nature



She said she’ll get back to us later

…First she has to communicate

With “The Father”…Her creator
mj cusson Nov 2012
The final breath is entreated by the breaths of wind,
the sky returns again as the stormy clouds depart.
Droplets of water, from seas all over Earth
Puddles of mud which use to be dirt.
Centuries of creation all about,
Weep as fast as the swimming trout.

The morning birth of the turtle doves,
peaceful and sad to see the dark night.
The atmosphere of peace in might,
As it pecks its way out of shell.
Beneath the bone of its mother,
She nurtures without a bother.


The evening loss of dogs of war.
At last the threat returns,
****** turned out of sores.
Teacher sick of burns.
Fire of skies tormenting,
Precipitate of dirt fomenting.

The freedom of the snake is not so seditious,
It feeds on the nest of the turtle dove.
Protect O mother-bird your love,
Jettison the hatred deep inside,
And **** the snake with severely brutal guile.

The final wind is shakened by the quakes of ground.
Hurt is one dove but there is three.
Enough to go around,
Eaten as food by thee.
Hurt I'm, Hurt I be, nature you sicken me.
Nature you sicken me.
Ashley Williams Jun 2014
Curiosity sparks within,
The unknown rising in the foreground.
An evanescent whirlwind consumes all.

Shimmering rapture quakes on the horizon--
Tangible, ephemeral,
Eternally unstable.
Some times tremors of foolish wise thoughts,
pass man's mind like waves of earth quakes
across the muscles of unsuspecting earth,
to day one of the type has visited my brain,
i ask myself why John F Kennedy committed suicide,
with all the resources and riches in America of Kennedy's time,
The FBI, CIA, NATO and the shrewd Mozart, the security masters
of the world's vogue all guarding the Kennedy the president,
how came that the public imbecile had claim on his life,
money overflowing like the waters of River Congo,
into insatiable Atlantic basin is the simplest measure
of American riches that Kennedy headed at his time of demise,
full backed with intellect matchless muscle from study of history,
eloquent like the weaver birds of Uganda in the city of Mbale,
sending all packing in the likes of Nehru, Nyerere and Nkrumah,
perhaps subdueable in single phase to the mighty of Castro,
how comes that a madman killed Kennedy in the fullness of the day,
was it the invisible hand of the Ku klux ****, Synagogue of Satan or Freemason,
the death of Kennedy is none other than beautiful suicide
or the active curse of fate, misfortune and violent death.

Why Nkrumah died out of power was political suicide,
his knowledge of the world set African pace,
towering mentally above all else in the chronicles of consciesism,
he stood like a tor on the African mountains against Senghor
Why Colonel Afrifa putsched Nkrumah is none else
other that suicidal politics played at helm of power.
why Tom Mboya died is suicide of suicides
to believe that reason can overwhelm ethnic sentiments
in a tribal consciousness of country like Kenya
in time of Kenyatta,
to foolishly conceive that Kikuyu can assassinate a Kikuyu
was Luo foolishness of that particular century,
it is Mboya who bought the gun that shot him dead,
it is Mboya who bankrolled his own assassin
he brought to the world political suicide of the century.
in memory of tom mboya killed august 1969
Sara L Russell Aug 2013
(A poem to be recited by actors)*

I

[Salome]

Jokanaan, such is my desire for thee,
The moon and stars hath turned away their face
I thirst to kiss thy sullen lips, softly,
I love thy lips, thine eyes that darkly gaze.

Fain would I strip thy garments all away
Replacing each with kisses to thy skin
Just as the dark of night becalms the day
Mine open arms shall gather thee within.

I burn to taste the kisses of thy lips
Just as the hummingbird sips from a rose
Stealing thy nectar with such tender sips
As melt thy sternest aspect, till it goes.

O let me taste thy kisses, holy man,
And quench desire as only woman can.


II

[John The Baptist]

Depart from me, daughter of Babylon,
That look'st on me with such covetous gaze!
Siren of *****'s mire, harlot, begone!
Away with thee and all thy wanton ways!

How canst thou speak with such depravity
Addressed unto a holy man of God?
How canst thou dance in merry liberty
Where our forefathers, seers and sages trod?

Look not upon me with thine eyes of lust,
With salivating, ravenous desire!
Love's purity shall outlive mortal dust
When thy dark soul burneth in Hades' fire!

Harlot of Babylon, strumpet, begone!
I am not thine to crudely gaze upon.


III

[King Herod]

Salome dances, circling the hall,
Gold lamplight shimmers in her dove-like eyes;
Her flame-red chiffon swirls with each footfall,
She glides like a bright bird of paradise.

Behold, she throws a veil onto the floor,
Exposing but a fleeting glimpse of breast;
Allowing but a small promise of more,
Another veil she throws, at my behest.

She sinuously sways her slender hips
And not one moment do her eyes leave mine;
She dances closer, smiles play on her lips
Those lips that could be sweet as Muscat wine.

And still she dances, ravaging my sight,
This light-skinned girl with hair as black as night.


IV

[John The Baptist]

Behold! She dances now before the king,
Whose eyes are full of lust incestuous;
For *****'s daughter, wildly gyrating
Whose very presence here is blasphemous!

I hear the music from my dungeon cell
Her light footsteps, distracting me from prayer,
She dances like a dervish sprung from hell,
I reel with loathing, knowing she is there.

Beware thy sins, Herod, Herodias!
Thy fall from grace approacheth like a storm!
Beware daughter of *****! None shall pass
Beyond the pit, the flames, the locust swarm!

Thy kingdom shall be cast into the flames;
Thy souls struck from the book of living names!


V

[King Herod]

Ah! Now the last veil flutters to the floor,
Her body holds no secrets from mine eyes;
Like ripened fruit making me thirst for more,
But I have promised more than may be wise.

Now I make good my promise unto you,
Salome, fairer sister to the moon;
Come now, I am thy slave; what can I do,
Name thy reward, and thou shalt have it soon.

Come hither, precious girl, I wish to share,
Take from the riches offered up to thee;
Choose from the sweetest wines beyond compare,
The rarest rubies of my treasury.

From treasured gems to pleasures of the vine,
Pray name thy heart's desire; it shall be thine.


VI

[Salome]

My heart's desire cares nothing for my love
What jewel can ever love me in return?
My regal beauty's deemed as not enough
For Jokanaan. I see him, and I burn.

I spurn thy earthly treasures set in gold,
I yearn not for their dancing play of light
There was but one pleasure I could behold
And he regaileth me with words of spite.

Thy precious cellar brimming full of wine
All taste divine; yet never quite as sweet
As luscious lips of he who can't be mine
Whose savage beauty stings me like defeat!

Therefore I say, reward me if you can;
Bring me the severed head of Jokanaan!


VII

[Herod]

Salome, you have asked a dreadful thing,
Such monstrous words flame from thy pretty lips!
I offer thee my finest emerald ring
The choicest clipper from my fleet of ships;

Thou canst prevail upon me for my land
My fields and vineyards all lain at thy feet;
Stables of horses all at thy command,
All of these gifts might make thy joy complete.

But do not ask of me the baptist's head,
His eyes disturb me far enough in life;
I listened well to everything he said,
His death would be a curse; a flaying knife!

Salome, quell the anger in thy breast,
I beg thee, reconsider thy request.


IX

[Salome]

Thou shalt not swerve the purpose of my mind,
My mind is set, this action must be done.
There is no greater gift that thou might find
Than that Jokanaan's eyes forsake the sun.

I prithee, take that scurvy **** away,
His eyes stare so, his tongue derides my name;
Silence his prating tongue, he's had his say
Now he must suffer for his words of flame!

I shall not sleep with that voice in my ears,
Sever that head, that mask of insolence!
He rants of prophecies, preys on thy fears,
Now he must make his final recompense.

I danced for thee. Reward me like a man,
Bring me the severed head of Jokanaan!


X

[John The Baptist]

A famine on thy fields, monarch of shame!
Locusts shall take thy vineyards and thy corn!
Rivers of blood have stained thy royal name
Thou art forever doomed, thy kingdom torn!

Thy family are coiled like nesting snakes
Thy daughter whispers with thy feckless queen,
They die along with thee, when the earth quakes
And fall into the bottomless ravine!

I hear thy soldiers storming through the halls
Approaching now, to my decrepit cell;
I shiver at the sound of their footfalls,
Though I'll not be the one condemned to hell.

May God send Raphael down from the sky;
Take me to somewhere better when I die!


XI

[Salome]

Ah now, thine eyes that once held so much fire,
Forever hide their light of righteousness;
I almost miss that shiver of desire
I once felt in their presence, I confess.

Thy tongue is silent now, that once cried out
In shards of venom, wounding blades of words;
And I'm at liberty to pluck it out,
If I desire; and throw it to the birds.

Thy rosy lips, as sullen as thy brow,
Soft petals, rendered harmless in repose;
They spurned me once, but I shall kiss them now,
As easily as one might steal a rose.

Thou once dared to refuse me, holy man,
Now I will kiss thy dead lips, Jokanaan!



The End.
Vinoth Apr 2014
Ever time a mountain erupts in as Volcano
Every time the sea slams the shore as tsunami
every time the huge buildings are brought down to shambles by quakes
every time a part of the world is swept by floods and tornado's
The earth is just trying to remind us one thing,
I am your creator, I can be your destroyer if you don’t behave.
Save your environment, protect your lively hood.
King Tutankhamun Sep 2018
My flows Isaac Hayes hot butter emcees stutter
Once I rise from the gutter no other
Layin' raps guillotine know what I mean
Make a chick lean once shes see me on the tv screens
After my greens but I play mean switch up the scene
Ya styles anorexic so ya necks better get protected
Another sucka selected mics I wreck it
Head on I'm dead wrong cheat more than Armstrong
Cycling rhymes easily I be the coldest
Past the tundra sound the thunder with no lightening
Only striking I make the earth move
But it ain't no quakes take over I dominate in all states
But you ain't in good hands running" with the clan
Once I stand ya turn up a paraplegic
lieutenant Dan desert sand storm soon to swarm
Invoke harm sound the alarms bombing farms
Let ya blood meditate in my
palms
Silence **** end your wills made many sigils
Begins a new sequel since snitches squeal
They gotta get dealed with blows deadly
Than a uppercut from Dempsey swing rapidly
attack the mic like a ragin' chimpanzee
emcee of the century
Don't many wanna see the styles of real street gory laying killer
ephipany


Lyrical iceberg **** the seas flows honey
Attracting bees melodies so smoothly call me
Johnny G sayin my my my as the bullets fly by
Another dead guy soul searching the sky
I got ties from the Buddha that rises the highest
A wise guy
Know a lie when I see a lie so why try
Shootin' fairy tales only to mind
jail
Ya thoughts I'm dead caught
Without a chase slash ya face
With my Lyrical sickle got ya brickled
Penny to nickle count ya steps watch the reps
I got prepped so many slept as I crept
On the mic turn the industry swayze amazingly
My styles wicked complex as myxlplix
Mentals twisted lyrically gifted none could lift
My rhymes couldn't weigh on whales scales
Sail like Gail Devers please believe tha
Brother in black is back to set the track
Bumpin' out new jacks with they wack acts
No ******* I move minds like clergies in pulpit
Vatican Assassin clench my fist catch a whiff
Of a Bruce Lee's lift way of the dragon I'm stabbin'
Deep into intellects once the  rhymes injects
Spreads like infects contaminated none could reject
Cydney Something Dec 2018
I collapsed the seats of my Rav4
You watched my *** the whole time
And saw an opportunity
As I bent over between the front seats
One, two, then three fingers
While fumbling to turn off the hazards
Biting a seat to keep quiet
Accidentally turned the music back on
"Stay In My Memory" by Bim
The song from Him
**** him, I'll ******* instead
The hazards were off
The music still on
Your fingers making my body quake
From the inside
Twice
Strong enough to throw me around
Like I was someone cuter and smaller
And put me on my back
With a hand around my throat
Kissing at me like a dog
Making me submit like a *****
Three, four, five
"On your knees"
And you threw me there, too
Six
Around we spun
Getting rug burn
Lost count of the quakes
They started to blend
With the aftershocks
"Are marks okay?"
And then you left one
A hickey on a weeknight
And a Monday, no less
Next time, we need a bed
Rug burn is a *****
Kevin Bennett Feb 2014
I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs
As I removed my source of Grecian power
As if King Midas dared to touch the skies
Upon thy body fell a *******

Thy body's temples, two church bells had rung
Upon thy chest, a row of pearls bestowed
The sun had set, thy set with wary hung
I thought, "How black a night and blue a lode"

I said, "What light through yonder ****** breaks?
It is the yeast"

And now my belly's yellow
My pole gives cause to storms and earthy quakes
But 'tis not massive, I am no Othello

And when that final moment came to pass
Like Christ I came-a riding on an ***
Kiernan Norman Jul 2014
I try to live Here. Here is humid-sticky-underground-dance-hall hot. I’m caught tight in a mess of limbs- bodies stretch and sway from this to Eden. I have never been more lonely. Together we inhale metallic Old Spice. Together we exhale stale tap water hymns. I am breathing all alone.

My tired tongue kicks awake to cheap nail poison as I tap each fingernail against bottom teeth and lightly push three times.
(Four times or eight times. Ten times in one quick, heart-drop minute but who’s counting?
Me. Of course I’m counting. There’s not a beat, rhyme or giggle that hasn’t busy-bee buzzed around my foggy brain. Each thought its own color, each touching down on a different set of crumb-glazed quilts or a different tower of gutted magazines. Each bee is long and thin, pointy in a terrifying way. Each bloated and dripping with a grand idea- which they leave like droppings and are so specifically intense they will never make any sense a breath apart from this moment and this context which crumpled and blew away while I dully, dutifully checked my pulse. I'm alive but my thoughts took off. I can see their exhaust but they fled fast, like they knew I could only begin to gnaw on them. They were born to quickly, maniacally live and die- in and out and there then off and gone.)

Here. Here the walls are chipping off one hundred years, one hundred lives of lead-based paint and are dripping onto the frayed denim of my ****** cut-offs. Impossibly long hair, absurd to call it mine, hangs heavy and wet. The strands shed drops of atmosphere on my (and their and your and-) bare feet. I’m my own sumi brush- my calligraphy is not words, but a footprint-marked path to treasure. Braided bits cling heavy and soaked to the curve of my neck and then billow like sheets hung out in the wind. My sharp, slick scapula must be the laundry line. It’s one of the good bones. Good bones only exist while jutting. The scapula is the beautiful ******* of my skeleton and we finally have made nice.

Here the music is so loud. The bass ignites my dental cavities. They sting and pierce as a reminder of how terribly I’m taking care. Lights blink, the room quakes and I need water.  I’m throbbing and flickering and faces attached to bones slither between each other and grind up into my own perfect focus. They’re smirking.

One at a time they appear with a warm, grainy hand on the small of my cold-sweat back. Each face of bones lean in close, dry and cracked lips that graze my own fever-hot ears. Goose bumps sling up and down limbs and the lips, all smudgy red lipstick and cigarette breath, whisper something to me that is absolutely crucial. It’s something beautiful or something hilarious or something crude but I can’t hear it. I’ll never hear it. They throw their bones back and cackle-laughing so hard it must be painful. All I can hear is my eardrums cracking and breaking, laying the bass for a high pitched dial tone.

One by one they do this and then, with a huge play-dough smile and eyes as deep as I feel, they slowly back away from my flimsy, electric body. I know they’re relieved they didn’t get stung. This goes on for forty straight hours. I feel like the Queen bored and still as they file through to kiss my ring. I feel like I’m at my own wake. I am beginning to erupt. I am lightly vibrating with the burden of militant creativity. I think I'm melting from the inside out. The bones still laugh and the bees, diving like war missiles, are screaming that it’s time to flesh out that novel, string precise words together in a huge, monumental way down golden strings that will change the world for the better and forever hang on God's graceful neck. It's time to record that beloved lullaby and sculpt that masterpiece or put on black clothes, sneak out and vandalize monuments. It is all absolutely crucial and so very urgent. Everything is wailing and I’m nodding slowly because if I do not do it, ALL OF IT, now- right this instant and quickly- I will die having said nothing. I will have wasted my opportunity to matter.

Here. Here the bone-bodies continue to mock me. The room stays dim and damp and I don’t think I’ll ever get clean. After twenty minutes or seventy years the crowd thins out, lights switch on illuminating exit signs and the room slowly, sadly, empties. I am sticky and aching and have never felt dumber. The bone-bodies left their blurry sweat, their empty bottles and their void inspirations like blank fortunes trailing across the bar top. There’s a real, fur, calf-length coat and a fake Birkin bag in the corner. My feet are filthy.

Here. But I’m not really Here. Here is bougy and exclusive. There’s no list but you probably can’t get in because actually Here is utter *******. Here is the moldy bricks and pre-war ceilings inside my head.
Leaving Here is too easy. You blink and you’re gone. Then I try to remember what party I even went to but I’m sitting Indian style and cramped on rough carpet and my back is in knots and everything I’m thinking is slow, melting taffy lose and inconsistent.

The sun starts to rise up pink through broken bedroom blinds and I know that I went way down deep and danced and gripped tight to flurrying ideas and made a big mess and now I’m stuck ripping papier-mâché, three inches thick, off coat-check walls and trying to read the graffiti-ed bathroom stalls but the Sharpie is dripping and I might be illiterate.

The Somethings I came to flirt with are hiding and won’t answer ‘POLO’ no matter how loudly I scream ‘Marco! ******* Marco!’ I’m reeling and under-breath begging ‘and please come find me and let’s make stuff and we can’t waste this and I can’t be a waste.’ But below all the pacing and knuckle-cracking I know that there are no Somethings listening to my panicky prayers. They sneaked out while I was braiding my hair for the sixth time, humming something old and Johnny Cash-y that I remembered and liked and had to Google and perform eight times for a mirror. I sneeze and I want to cry. I don’t think I know how to read. Edges start to blur and the alphabets a mess.

In defeat I’ll wash my face and slide under one light blanket and quickly sweat through it. I’ll lower my heavy, thick-thought and dizzy head onto a stack of three pillows. My vision will fall away from me and stars will explode in a chatty whisper that has be immobile and straining and sore. I will treat them like a sky full of fireworks blazing just for me. I'll ooh and ahh and my heart will palpitate under the weight of them. (Really I do know they're just amphetamine snowflakes falling slowly and burying my wasted night.  I swear next time I won’t waste it.) But at that moment I'll watch the show and feel safe and small and inconsequential, at last.
Pea Jul 2014
Your loud breath
Cold hands
White eyes
Unseen groping
Peeling skin

The gold walls
Booming ticks
Volcano heart
Unnamed quakes
Crumbled skull

It is the song of the lost children. At night they come to your sleep. They can love you till you bleed. Just wait for it. You call them nightmares, horrible dreams, but you are their sweet one.

You are their bedtime story. Every single night. The same story being told over and over again. The exact same words. The exact same you. Keep being repeated. On their starry eyes at day. On their twinkling lips at night. On their meals and toilets.

You are their sweet dreams. That's why tooth fairy hates you.

Your loud breath
Cold hands
White eyes
Unseen groping
Peeling skin

It is the song of the lost children. At night they come to your sleep. You wake up yet they come again. They have always wanted to love you till you bleed.

The gold walls
Booming ticks
Volcano heart
Unnamed quakes
Crumbled skull

When you were six. They were the evil mothers crawling under the sofas. They made the air shift, softly whispered to your feet. They were the ones who made the screams.

Your loud breath
Cold hands
White eyes

When you were eleven. They were the gigantic spiders appeared from the toilet hole. They were the ones who ate your dad but didn't swallow that curly black hair of his.

Unseen groping
Peeling skin
The gold walls

When you were seventeen. They were the train wreck. They made your dad has to stop the car. It was too dangerous to move. Another crash was coming. And they were the ones who made your dad step on the wrong pedal.

Booming ticks
Volcano heart
Unnamed quakes

It is the song of the lost children. At night they come to your sleep. At day they are the invisible shackles around your ankles.

Crumbled skull
Crumbled skull
Your loud breath

Oh, I am sorry. It seems that the song doesn't really have an

Cold hands
White eyes
White eyes*

end ----
Earth Shine Aug 2012
to feel your embrace is heaven on earth
your caress, your gentle aggresiveness
the deep pleading in your eyes for my body to be intertwined with yours..
we melt into one another
our souls connecting, our skin vibrating
pleasantly awaiting that moment of complete serenity
that bliss
the trembling of our tender quakes, lost in submission..
heads in the clouds, counting wisps of broken dreams
carrying the weight of the world in our hopeful hearts, beating together as
o n e
a solid entity

i stroke your cheek, imaginging for that moment that we are the only two on the planet
far-stretched across the galaxy
our very existence shedding light throughout the cosmos..
you wink, a guilty smile
knowing the thoughts floating thru my mind
ever-dreaming, lost in space & time with you..
we shed our skin, glowing in the naked vulnerability of our souls:
on display, for only us to see
a cloak of protection surrounding each other from the outside world
our love a vast secret of hope for all the jaded souls who hoard away their love
buried under heartache and unforgiveness
relentlessly hiding their shame
an atrocity to all those who've cast aside bitter memories
grasping at the void for acceptance and bliss..

the stars shine bright in the night sky
overwhelming me with their capacity to give and give, and never take
they shed their light over our swelling hearts, catering to our every wish
a beautiful gesture of pure loving kindness
a feat i will cherish for all of my days..
you stir slightly, not wanting to jolt me from my peaceful reverie
nonetheless, unabashedly watching me delight in the unfathomable universe surrounding us
your half-cracked smile says it all, as you glow with admiration
or is it my glow that is pouring over you?
quietly, i take your hand in mine, smoothing the hair on your neck
i rest my head in the crevice of your shoulder
thoughts drifting in and out
only heaven on earth remains
fort myers fl
Sean Hunt May 2016
Things coming and going at the  same  time
is the most sublime Rhyme

Einstein and Siddhartha  knew this
many years ago
They told us something that we just don't
really want to know  

Things coming and going at the same time
Is the most sublime  Rhyme

Bits of seconds  passing by
Keep on looking them in the eye  
Be here now,  time will fly
As bits of seconds pass you by

Things coming and going at the same  time
Is the most sublime Rhyme

When the earth quakes
And shakes the ground
Beneath your feet
Slip into the crack and don't look  back
Let your heart skip a  beat

Things coming and going at the same time
Is the most sublime Rhyme

Sean Hunt  May 8 2016
from a song I wrote called 'The Crack'
if the world were to end
            today,
                          or tomorrow
                                                                ­                                       or someday
i’ve realized  that I don’t really care!
it doesn’t matter to me-
none of this
                                                 there is just one thing though
through all the raging and destruction
volcanoes, tsunamis and quakes
(can you hear the roars now?)
i want to remain
in your embrace
as everything crumbles around us
(can you feel that? All the crumbling. Strangely it makes me think of cookies breaking )
i just want to be held by you
the way you hold me as I fall asleep every night
(sweetly, gently)
that would be a more beautiful passage
calmer, more accepting
just like floating into a dream
(I can hardly hear the screams)
and then it would all be done
life isn’t important
nor death
the only thing that matters-
is you.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
         02.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Del Maximo Oct 2010
on a starless, moonless evening
a fissure quakes open
as time stands still
stench gasses hiss

a fissure quakes open
the earth moans hauntingly, eerily
stench gasses hiss
an unmarked corner of the cemetery

the earth moans hauntingly, eerily
an unspeakable evil imprisoned
an unmarked corner of the cemetery
hidden from the vaults of hell

an unspeakable evil imprisoned
stone angels stand their ground
hidden from the vaults of hell
great is their power

stone angels stand their ground
an aura of authority
great is their power
without words the trembling ceases

an aura of authority
quieting the yawning earth
without words the trembling ceases
closing its lips tight

quieting the yawning earth
silent sentinels prove their worth
closing its lips tight
no evil will escape tonight

silent sentinels prove their worth
on a starless, moonless evening
no evil will escape tonight
as time stands still
© October 14, 2010
Swords and Roses Aug 2015
Mirror, mirror
Said the queen
Self-conscious,
Not wanting to be seen

Mirror, mirror
Every day
Urging wrinkles
Not to stay

Mirror, mirror
She was taught
If she was ugly
She was naught

Mirror, mirror
She cannot feel
Emotions ruin
Her appeal

Mirror, mirror
She feels dead
To the husband
In her bed

Mirror, mirror
Her heart is failing
Her lungs are gasping
Her kidneys wailing

Mirror, mirror
The doctor said
She has a growth
In her head

Mirror, mirror
She cannot stand
But she's still the most
Beautiful in the land

Mirror, mirror
But not anymore
Her place taken
By the child of a *****

Mirror, mirror
She needs a heart
The child has one
There's a start

Mirror, mirror
She's in so much pain
She doesn't know
How to be humane

Mirror, mirror
The child is dead
The heart is weak
But she has fed

Mirror, mirror
The heart has failed
There is no other
That ship has sailed

Mirror, mirror
She is desperate to live
She finds a corrupt magicker
And gives all she can give

Mirror, mirror
She feeds on death
Each soul she takes
Lies in every breath

Mirror, mirror
She carves words in her skin
EVIL, VAMPYR
DEMON, SIN

Mirror, mirror
She moans in the night
Her husband sleeps in a separate bed
Yet still quakes in fright

Mirror, mirror
The child is not dead
All the lives she has taken
When she could have taken one instead

Mirror, mirror
Look at her now
Twisted and broken
Macabre magick on her brow

Mirror, mirror
The child must pay
Perhaps her soul will be redeemed
It is the only way
Glenn McCrary Aug 2011
Along a narrow, vacant street at 2 a.m.



Underneath the threatening lights of peril



An act of ******* was taking place between



A beautiful cigarette and the orifice of my lips





Halloween had not yet dawned upon us



Yet as I walk Jack-O-Lanterns smile at me



Displaying minor quakes of bloodthirsty evil



While a serum of scorn soaks my tongue





With a heartless trick of ice, cold malice



Summoning the entire town to its kneecaps



Devils regurgitate lullabies resembling the sound



Of nails ****** a chalkboard sparing no mercy





Arousing the hopeless romantics



To awaken a graveyard



And **** the corpses until they're



Resurrected from their comas





As the nymphomaniacs ice



Their frozen flesh with *****



Painting an ocean of abstract thoughts



Across the edges of their frames of mind





Do morticians make up the majority



Of necrophilia related crimes?



Maybe so but, I bet they had never felt



A ****** so dry and so cold





Yet still the thrill of chills tickle these criminal's spines



While they measure their screams careful not to awaken



The beautifully disgusting corpses that lie before them



They turn their heads only to find a pair of scarlet eyes





Gawking at them from within a cowardly shield of fear



Darkness was it's home, Mother to all its desires



In my opinion it was just a phase; A massacre encaged

— The End —