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jonni inferno Mar 2018
comprising several works -

Intro -     Seas of Tyme
Chapter - 1  Bent and Broken
Chapter - 2  In Sorrowe Wepte
Chapter - 3  Beyonde Alle Dreams
Chapter - 4  Thru Deepeste Nyghte


Seas of Tyme

'neathe starry skyes
warre doth rage
crosse the seas of tyme
yet there upon
this battle-fielde
two heartes
becayme
entwyned...



Chapter 1

Bent and Broken

he stumbles
'pon the rocky pathe
in armour
bent and brokenne
his journeye to
bryghte sylvarre-mere
lyfe's hoppe
'pon his shoulders

peeringe deep within
the sylvar-mere
he casts about
unknowinge
darke eyes
a starlit ebon sea
reflekt the meres'
great power

his burninge gaze
losst farre beyonde
these earthly planes
we ken
in darke despaire
forsakes him-selffe
lyfes hoppe
not yet
abandoned

in anger rages
defiant hope
alle left
this man to gyffe
fromme ebon seas
his tears do flowe
an' pours his lyfe
into the mere



Chapter 2

In Sorrowe Weppte

she walkes alone
the moonelesse pathe
within herr shielde
of stonne
herr journeye to
darke shadowe-mere
starre-lyghte
herr brighteste hoppe

peeringe deepe within
darke watterse depthes
in searche
of alle lyfes hoppe
greene eyes
an oceanse soffte embrayce
reflekte
the darke-meres power

herr burninge gayze
losste farre beyonde
these earthly planes
we ken
in darke despaire
reklaymes herr-selffe
lyfe's hoppe
keppte fromme herr stille

in sorrowe weppte
alle lyfes lasste hoppe
alle leffte
faire maide to gyffe
fromme emeralde seas
herr teares do flowwe
into
darke shadowe-mere...


Chapter 3

Beyonde Alle Dreams

'neathe
starre-lit skye
herr sylvan voyce
in songe
is softlye raised
for alle lyfes
forsaken hoppe
for hoppe within despaire

when beyonde alle dreams
an' shattered realmze
faire maidens voyce
is hearde...

...her tears
falle softly
into these ebon depths
their sylvar lyghte
reflect within
the darkness of mine-selfe
whereupon
i must responde
for lyfe
for love
for alle mine owne
lostte soulze

reachinge out within
these darkeste depthes
beyonde alle hoppes dezyre
her gentle touche
at once perceived
redemption
in this hour....

then fromme
the darke-mere's
surface rose
ten thousande soulze
once lostte
black swordze uphelde
in armoured fists
'pon steedes of ebon-lyghte

in silence watched
wi' somber awe
beside the roilinge mere
faire maiden broughte
unto herr feete
fell knights
before herr
kneeled...

in silente rayze
of dawninge lyghte
herr slyvan voyce 'tis raised
black swordze
on sylvarre shieldes
do crashe
in honor of herr daye

within ten thousand
sylvarre helmze
losste voices
lift in songe
to winne the lyghte
of dawne's laste daye
'pon the battlegrounde...



Chapter 4

Thru Deepeste Nyghte

theye ryde to warre
'pon sylvarre steedse
armour gleaminge
wi' sunnes' lasste raye

charginge fulle
'gainste nyghtes darke-lords
to wynne the lyghte
of dawnes bryghte raye

an' warre doth rage
thru deepeste nyghte
cross battle-fieldes
of bloode
foule daemons falle
'fore their myghte;
true heartes,
to meete the sunne

an' who woulde lyffe
musste see the dawne
an' feele the kisse
of sunne's bryghte raye...


- finis -

.
for Kristi Raye

i created chapter 1 & 3 to tie them all together -
perhaps i should not have...
u tell me
Wo khte lhja bdlo bolne ka or filter bhi lgaya kro

Kahte Aap ** jaoge mashhoor, mahfil toktok pe lgaya kro

Hmne bhi keh diya unhe agr raye achi de na sko to faltoo me muh na chlaya kro

#carryminati
#itssadyboy
#skirtmen 😂😂
Full supporting youtubers
Le coucher d'un soleil de septembre ensanglante

La plaine morne et l'âpre arête des sierras

Et de la brume au **** l'installation lente.


Le Guadarrama pousse entre les sables ras

Son flot hâtif qui va réfléchissant par places

Quelques oliviers nains tordant leurs maigres bras.


Le grand vol anguleux des éperviers rapaces

Raye à l'ouest le ciel mat et rouge qui brunit,

Et leur cri rauque grince à travers les espaces.


Despotique, et dressant au-devant du zénith

L'entassement brutal de ses tours octogones,

L'Escurial étend son orgueil de granit.


Les murs carrés, percés de vitraux monotones,

Montent droits, blancs et nus, sans autres ornements

Que quelques grils sculptés qu'alternent des couronnes.


Avec des bruits pareils aux rudes hurlements

D'un ours que des bergers navrent de coups de pioches

Et dont l'écho redit les râles alarmants,


Torrent de cris roulant ses ondes sur les roches,

Et puis s'évaporant en des murmures longs,

Sinistrement dans l'air du soir tintent les cloches.


Par les cours du palais, où l'ombre met ses plombs,

Circule - tortueux serpent hiératique -

Une procession de moines aux frocs blonds


Qui marchent un par un, suivant l'ordre ascétique,

Et qui, pieds nus, la corde aux reins, un cierge en main,

Ululent d'une voix formidable un cantique.


- Qui donc ici se meurt ? Pour qui sur le chemin

Cette paille épandue et ces croix long-voilées

Selon le rituel catholique romain ? -


La chambre est haute, vaste et sombre. Niellées,

Les portes d'acajou massif tournent sans bruit,

Leurs serrures étant, comme leurs gonds, huilées.


Une vague rougeur plus triste que la nuit

Filtre à rais indécis par les plis des tentures

À travers les vitraux où le couchant reluit,


Et fait papilloter sur les architectures,

À l'angle des objets, dans l'ombre du plafond,

Ce halo singulier qu'on voit dans les peintures.


Parmi le clair-obscur transparent et profond

S'agitent effarés des hommes et des femmes

À pas furtifs, ainsi que les hyènes font.


Riches, les vêtements des seigneurs et des dames,

Velours, panne, satin, soie, hermine et brocart,

Chantent l'ode du luxe en chatoyantes gammes,


Et, trouant par éclairs distancés avec art

L'opaque demi-jour, les cuirasses de cuivre

Des gardes alignés scintillent de trois quart.


Un homme en robe noire, à visage de guivre,

Se penche, en caressant de la main ses fémurs,

Sur un lit, comme l'on se penche sur un livre.


Des rideaux de drap d'or roides comme des murs

Tombent d'un dais de bois d'ébène en droite ligne,

Dardant à temps égaux l'œil des diamants durs.


Dans le lit, un vieillard d'une maigreur insigne

Egrène un chapelet, qu'il baise par moment,

Entre ses doigts crochus comme des brins de vigne.


Ses lèvres font ce sourd et long marmottement,

Dernier signe de vie et premier d'agonie,

- Et son haleine pue épouvantablement.


Dans sa barbe couleur d'amarante ternie,

Parmi ses cheveux blancs où luisent des tons roux,

Sous son linge bordé de dentelle jaunie,


Avides, empressés, fourmillants, et jaloux

De pomper tout le sang malsain du mourant fauve

En bataillons serrés vont et viennent les poux.


C'est le Roi, ce mourant qu'assiste un mire chauve,

Le Roi Philippe Deux d'Espagne, - saluez ! -

Et l'aigle autrichien s'effare dans l'alcôve,


Et de grands écussons, aux murailles cloués,

Brillent, et maints drapeaux où l'oiseau noir s'étale

Pendent de çà de là, vaguement remués !...


- La porte s'ouvre. Un flot de lumière brutale

Jaillit soudain, déferle et bientôt s'établit

Par l'ampleur de la chambre en nappe horizontale ;


Porteurs de torches, roux, et que l'extase emplit,

Entrent dix capucins qui restent en prière :

Un d'entre eux se détache et marche droit au lit.


Il est grand, jeune et maigre, et son pas est de pierre,

Et les élancements farouches de la Foi

Rayonnent à travers les cils de sa paupière ;


Son pied ferme et pesant et lourd, comme la Loi,

Sonne sur les tapis, régulier, emphatique :

Les yeux baissés en terre, il marche droit au Roi.


Et tous sur son trajet dans un geste extatique

S'agenouillent, frappant trois fois du poing leur sein,

Car il porte avec lui le sacré Viatique.


Du lit s'écarte avec respect le matassin,

Le médecin du corps, en pareille occurrence,

Devant céder la place, Âme, à ton médecin.


La figure du Roi, qu'étire la souffrance,

À l'approche du fray se rassérène un peu,

Tant la religion est grosse d'espérance !


Le moine cette fois ouvrant son œil de feu,

Tout brillant de pardons mêlés à des reproches,

S'arrête, messager des justices de Dieu.


- Sinistrement dans l'air du soir tintent les cloches.


Et la Confession commence. Sur le flanc

Se retournant, le Roi, d'un ton sourd, bas et grêle,

Parle de feux, de juifs, de bûchers et de sang.


- « Vous repentiriez-vous par hasard de ce zèle ?

Brûler des juifs, mais c'est une dilection !

Vous fûtes, ce faisant, orthodoxe et fidèle. » -


Et, se pétrifiant dans l'exaltation,

Le Révérend, les bras en croix, tête baissée,

Semble l'esprit sculpté de l'Inquisition.


Ayant repris haleine, et d'une voix cassée,

Péniblement, et comme arrachant par lambeaux

Un remords douloureux du fond de sa pensée,


Le Roi, dont la lueur tragique des flambeaux

Éclaire le visage osseux et le front blême,

Prononce ces mots : Flandre, Albe, morts, sacs, tombeaux.


- « Les Flamands, révoltés contre l'Église même,

Furent très justement punis, à votre los,

Et je m'étonne, ô Roi, de ce doute suprême.


« Poursuivez. » Et le Roi parla de don Carlos.

Et deux larmes coulaient tremblantes sur sa joue

Palpitante et collée affreusement à l'os.


- « Vous déplorez cet acte, et moi je vous en loue !

L'Infant, certes, était coupable au dernier point,

Ayant voulu tirer l'Espagne dans la boue


De l'hérésie anglaise, et de plus n'ayant point

Frémi de conspirer - ô ruses abhorrées ! -

Et contre un Père, et contre un Maître, et contre un Oint ! »


Le moine ensuite dit les formules sacrées

Par quoi tous nos péchés nous sont remis, et puis,

Prenant l'Hostie avec ses deux mains timorées,


Sur la langue du Roi la déposa. Tous bruits

Se sont tus, et la Cour, pliant dans la détresse,

Pria, muette et pâle, et nul n'a su depuis


Si sa prière fut sincère ou bien traîtresse.

- Qui dira les pensers obscurs que protégea

Ce silence, brouillard complice qui se dresse ?


Ayant communié, le Roi se replongea

Dans l'ampleur des coussins, et la béatitude

De l'Absolution reçue ouvrant déjà


L'œil de son âme au jour clair de la certitude,

Épanouit ses traits en un sourire exquis

Qui tenait de la fièvre et de la quiétude.


Et tandis qu'alentour ducs, comtes et marquis,

Pleins d'angoisses, fichaient leurs yeux sous la courtine,

L'âme du Roi mourant montait aux cieux conquis,


Puis le râle des morts hurla dans la poitrine

De l'auguste malade avec des sursauts fous :

Tel l'ouragan passe à travers une ruine.


Et puis plus rien ; et puis, sortant par mille trous,

Ainsi que des serpents frileux de leur repaire,

Sur le corps froid les vers se mêlèrent aux poux.


- Philippe Deux était à la droite du Père.
Breezy Raye Aug 2013
Lifeless body , without spirit
Nothing in mind , maybe an empty room
Something in hand , the muscle don't feel any release
Slips up when the neck curves
A weightlessness occurs when a perfect face , ground
Down and out , a way around ?
Her spirit is now to create life
To give happiness only to a deserver
Anyone , who could that be , but me

Stratosphere , protector by self
Barrier , eyes are stars to light up dark skies
Turns to a light
An ominous glow , so far
But so bright , nothing like the knight
But a warrior of happiness
Raye falling to earth
A heavenly experience

To everyone , but to herself
A guardian of our own mental health
What you see , eyes for me
Its all in-between
The non-belief
But to her demise
The diminished material to create her voice
Consumers of words
And the ideal of what I should be
But I said what I heard
No one could see , beauty was for me
To give , but no one would receive
The message hidden beneath

To catch your wondering eyes
And a magical feeling to hold you
The looking you do
Do not hold me too
Forget the inspiring lies
And the truth to **** lust
Was not trust
On another note
To hit the next
You need a love it  .
Anais Vionet Jun 7
(Inspired by Carlo C Gomez’s ‘The Lacemaker‘)

We’re manufactured girls,
designed to be beautiful and pointless.

Everything we tell you has to be true,
we feel we can open up to you.

We’re decorated and prepared for sacrifice.

We can touch your tender isolation
and reinforce your inadequate truths.

We can mirror your internal struggles
and help you shape your damnation.

You’ve caressed our powerless distress
a thousand times, with sleep's dark hands.

Don’t feel your destroying something beautiful

You know, when privately accessible
in the darkness of your man cave
our soft, immediate shapes
excuse extraordinary behavior.

That’s all we want.
.
.
A song for this:
Genesis. by RAYE
This is about the dark side of male fantasy - as far as I understand it. A comedian named Shaun Murphy has this joke, that’s always stuck in my mind: “The difference in the male and female *** drive, is like the difference between shooting a bullet and throwing it.”
We (my generation) get to deal with the **** influence - a lot of guys have seen WAY too much fake sexuality and come to women with dark, unrealistic expectations.
They put me in charge of the churchyard,
And said, ‘mow between the graves,’
The weeds out there were atrocious
Grew in lumps, and clumps and waves,
They tangled up in the mower blades
And they shut the motor down,
So I had to use the garden shears
As I knelt upon the ground.

They covered some of the headstones, so
I had to rake them clear,
Spent half of my time sat reading them,
The date, the time of year,
The ground had given away on some,
Had fallen into a hole,
Wherever the coffin lids had caved
On some benighted soul.

The nights were coming on early so
I laboured into the dark,
Just by the light of a spirit lamp
That I’d borrowed from the park,
At length I came on a sunken grave
And I pulled the weeds aside,
To see the shape of a bony hand,
With the shock, I almost died.

The hand came up through the stoney earth
And it pointed to the sky,
With no flesh left on the fingers, yet
It seemed to question ‘Why?’
It still belonged to the corpse below
But had tried to get away,
Out of the dark of doom and gloom
And into the light of day.

The name on the grave was ‘Clarabelle’
And, ’She of the evil eye,
She hexed the cattle in Fingal’s Dell
And the swine, while passing by,
They hung her high on a willow tree
When she pointed at Belle Raye,
Who choked, then withered and sighed, was dead,
And all in a single day.’

The hand had twitched, I couldn’t resist
As I sat and watched it there,
I reached on out and I seized the wrist
And I felt some strange despair,
The hand was warm, and was then full-fleshed
As a shape rose from the ground,
That held me tight in the darkening light
With the hand that I had found.

I heard the rattle of death as she
Had tried to clear each lung,
Full of the body’s liquid waste
That had formed when she was hung.
I heard a croak, and the words she spoke
As she glared into my face,
‘I might be saved from my early grave,
But you’ll have to take my place.’

Whatever power it was she had
It dissolved and turned to sand,
The moment I pulled away from her
And I let go of her hand.
She didn’t speak, but let out a shriek
As she slid back in the grave,
So I’ll never know if she heard below:
‘You’re much too bad to save!’

David Lewis Paget
Dell Anne Raye Sep 2018
Sorrows Rhyme
Beyond this place,
beyond this smiling face.
There lay hidden dreams,
nightmares laced with dreadful things.
Silently hidden behind a mask,
one that seeks more important tasks.

Painted upon this facade of serene.
Of theses hateful dreadful things.
These antiquities of broken love,
Forgotten by those who cared,
Locked away, these tears of the just.

Scenes play, dance to their own time.
Repeating painful, sorrowful rhyme.
Deeds committed, never being a punished crime.
So they replay, these things not healed by time.

Here we pretend, imagine, even bend,
Will’s of worlds, societies forgotten to attend.
Where hero’s falter as they fail.
Here in this place, where inhumanity prevails.

Be this our lasting song,
To remember those who’ve gone.
Battered, bloodied, broken bonds.
Shattered words of a love gone wrong.

© 2018 Dell Anne Raye
All Rights Reserved
Dell Anne Raye Sep 2018
I saw you today
I saw you today,
Frolicking while you played.
Youthful vigor restored.
Curiously, little kitten explored.

I saw you today,
though there could be no way.
For I held you, as from this life you passed from pain.
Felt heaven's tearful gain.

I saw you today,
Just as I did many other days.
Catching fading summer sun,
Purring upon favorite perch, as you have always done.

I saw you today,
Remnant of a memory, one that I replay.
Though with all my heart I begged you to stay.
You spoke softly, saying I love you as you drifted away.

I saw you today,
mournful tears falling, not kept at bay.
Moments of borrowed time.
Selfless, enduring love, rare to find.

I saw you today,
Every which way,
locked in memories played
moments, joyous memories we'd made.

I saw you today.
just like I hope to everyday.

© 2018 Dell Anne Raye
All Rights Reserved
Dedicated to my Cat Cowboy who passed away at 15 on july 7 of this year
Dell Anne Raye Sep 2018
Speak not of forever,
Rarely be that one’s endeavor.
Speak not of prince charming,
Be neither prince, nor charming.

Speak of Bittersweet battle,
Of scarred hearts, torn and tattered.
Speak of walls built, born of battle.
Of touch, aching need, they did shatter.

Speak not of fleeting lust,
Of fiery frozen lustful touch.
Speak not of souls fearful to trust,
Of tender, wistful dreams turned to rust.

Speak of brave, hopeful enduring love,
A kind gifted from heaven above.
Speak of what transcends lust.
Of woken souls learning to trust.

Be this written upon sand and stone,
Be this a blushed, gritty story to show.
Be this sewn between two hearts,
Be this a story of love, blood and bone.

© 2018 Dell Anne Raye
All Rights Reserved
The stinking, fat *** upon which I am sittin' is no sexier than the fat
*** of third term, infant-abortion-loving crazy *** Hillary F. Clinton
whose sapphical love for me's by crotch-grab & touchy/feely hintin'
as I'm war-chapped & ****-blue from slapping her California mitten
while she dabbles in public rest-room-mystery antics on the crapper
into which this Parkinsonian-tremorin' ***** crone is hardily shittin'
I can't bear the weight of a 600-pound chick with my back this way,
so you will have to **** Martha Raye's widower who is 104% gay
A **** accusation is harsh, 1 second you're eatin' a cuke with a ****
& loving it, & 3 minutes later you're in a rut with your ***-gob shut
The fattest flat *** on a platter, wouldn't make the platter any flatter
when, with thick bricks, it is bullet-proof glass that I need to shatter
America's first gay, trans-****** robot will be strangely demanding,
sloppily ******* in Target's women's room whilst defiantly standing
over women with guns drawn, by lay-away on the 4th-floor landing  
with a perverted presence more grotesquely disgustin' than the snot-
streaked persona projected by the crapped-out **** Garry Shandling
Martha Raye's shortness was not by luckless fate but because of her
leglessness state, irked by 4 diabetical comas that killed her too late
⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳  Depression is a sub-clinical symptom of deficits in B1 & B3. There's no mind-over-matter to it. Take niacin (B3), a gram each day on a full stomach.

Martha Raye's shortness was not by luckless fate but because of her
leglessness state, irked by 4 diabetical comas that killed her too late

♨ Good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go everywhere.

You'll not ever again be the **** girl doll, loved by all.

Humphrey Bogart was a chess hustler. He's playing "correspondence" chess in *Casablanca.

— The End —