'Reviles' poems - Hello Poetry

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Hilda Doolittle

Helen

All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

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Phillis Wheatley

Niobe In Distress For Her Children Slain By Apollo, From Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book VI. And From A View Of The Painting Of Mr. Richard Wilson

Apollo’s wrath to man the dreadful spring
Of ills innum’rous, tuneful goddess, sing!
Thou who did’st first th’ ideal pencil give,
And taught’st the painter in his works to live,
Inspire with glowing energy of thought,
What Wilson painted, and what Ovid wrote.
Muse! lend thy aid, nor let me sue in vain,
Tho’ last and meanest of the rhyming train!
O guide my pen in lofty strains to show
The Phrygian queen, all beautiful in woe.
  ’Twas where Maeonia spreads her wide domain
Niobe dwelt, and held her potent reign:
See in her hand the regal sceptre shine,
The wealthy heir of Tantalus divine,
He most distinguish’d by Dodonean Jove,
To approach the tables of the gods above:
Her grandsire Atlas, who with mighty pains
Th’ ethereal axis on his neck sustains:
Her other grandsire on the throne on high
Rolls the loud-pealing thunder thro’ the sky.
  Her spouse, Amphion, who from Jove too springs,
Divinely taught to sweep the sounding strings.
  Seven sprightly sons the royal bed adorn,
Seven daughters beauteous as the op’ning morn,
As when Aurora fills the ravish’d sight,
And decks the orient realms with rosy light
From their bright eyes the living splendors play,
Nor can beholders bear the flashing ray.
  Wherever, Niobe, thou turn’st thine eyes,
New beauties kindle, and new joys arise!
But thou had’st far the happier mother prov’d,
If this fair offspring had been less belov’d:
What if their charms exceed Aurora’s teint.
No words could tell them, and no pencil paint,
Thy love too vehement hastens to destroy
Each blooming maid, and each celestial boy.
  Now Manto comes, endu’d with mighty skill,
The past to explore, the future to reveal.
Thro’ Thebes’ wide streets Tiresia’s daughter came,
Divine Latona’s mandate to proclaim:
The Theban maids to hear the orders ran,
When thus Maeonia’s prophetess began:
  “Go, Thebans! great Latona’s will obey,
“And pious tribute at her altars pay:
“With rights divine, the goddess be implor’d,
“Nor be her sacred offspring unador’d.”
Thus Manto spoke.  The Theban maids obey,
And pious tribute to the goddess pay.
The rich perfumes ascend in waving spires,
And altars blaze with consecrated fires;
The fair assembly moves with graceful air,
And leaves of laurel bind the flowing hair.
  Niobe comes with all her royal race,
With charms unnumber’d, and superior grace:
Her Phrygian garments of delightful hue,
Inwove with gold, refulgent to the view,
Beyond description beautiful she moves
Like heav’nly Venus, ’midst her smiles and loves:
She views around the supplicating train,
And shakes her graceful head with stern disdain,
Proudly she turns around her lofty eyes,
And thus reviles celestial deities:
“What madness drives the Theban ladies fair
“To give their incense to surrounding air?
“Say why this new sprung deity preferr’d?
“Why vainly fancy your petitions heard?
“Or say why Caeus offspring is obey’d,
“While to my goddesship no tribute’s paid?
“For me no altars blaze with living fires,
“No bullock bleeds, no frankincense transpires,
“Tho’ Cadmus’ palace, not unknown to fame,
“And Phrygian nations all revere my name.
“Where’er I turn my eyes vast wealth I find,
“Lo! here an empress with a goddess join’d.
“What, shall a Titaness be deify’d,
“To whom the spacious earth a couch deny’d!
“Nor heav’n, nor earth, nor sea receiv’d your queen,
“Till pitying Delos took the wand’rer in.
“Round me what a large progeny is spread!
“No frowns of fortune has my soul to dread.
“What if indignant she decrease my train
“More than Latona’s number will remain;
“Then hence, ye Theban dames, hence haste away,
“Nor longer off’rings to Latona pay;
“Regard the orders of Amphion’s spouse,
“And take the leaves of laurel from your brows.”
Niobe spoke.  The Theban maids obey’d,
Their brows unbound, and left the rights unpaid.
  The angry goddess heard, then silence broke
On Cynthus’ summit, and indignant spoke;
“Phoebus! behold, thy mother in disgrace,
“Who to no goddess yields the prior place
“Except to Juno’s self, who reigns above,
“The spouse and sister of the thund’ring Jove.
“Niobe, sprung from Tantalus, inspires
“Each Theban ***** with rebellious fires;
“No reason her imperious temper quells,
“But all her father in her tongue rebels;
“Wrap her own sons for her blaspheming breath,
“Apollo! wrap them in the shades of death.”
Latona ceas’d, and ardent thus replies
The God, whose glory decks th’ expanded skies.
  “Cease thy complaints, mine be the task assign’d
“To punish pride, and scourge the rebel mind.”
This Phoebe join’d.—They wing their instant flight;
Thebes trembled as th’ immortal pow’rs alight.
  With clouds incompass’d glorious Phoebus stands;
The feather’d vengeance quiv’ring in his hands.
     Near Cadmus’ walls a plain extended lay,
Where Thebes’ young princes pass’d in sport the day:
There the bold coursers bounded o’er the plains,
While their great masters held the golden reins.
Ismenus first the racing pastime led,
And rul’d the fury of his flying steed.
“Ah me,” he sudden cries, with shrieking breath,
While in his breast he feels the shaft of death;
He drops the bridle on his courser’s mane,
Before his eyes in shadows swims the plain,
He, the first-born of great Amphion’s bed,
Was struck the first, first mingled with the dead.
  Then didst thou, Sipylus, the language hear
Of fate portentous whistling in the air:
As when th’ impending storm the sailor sees
He spreads his canvas to the fav’ring breeze,
So to thine horse thou gav’st the golden reins,
Gav’st him to rush impetuous o’er the plains:
But ah! a fatal shaft from Phoebus’ hand
Smites thro’ thy neck, and sinks thee on the sand.
  Two other brothers were at wrestling found,
And in their pastime claspt each other round:
A shaft that instant from Apollo’s hand
Transfixt them both, and stretcht them on the sand:
Together they their cruel fate bemoan’d,
Together languish’d, and together groan’d:
Together too th’ unbodied spirits fled,
And sought the gloomy mansions of the dead.
Alphenor saw, and trembling at the view,
Beat his torn breast, that chang’d its snowy hue.
He flies to raise them in a kind embrace;
A brother’s fondness triumphs in his face:
Alphenor fails in this fraternal deed,
A dart dispatch’d him (so the fates decreed:)
Soon as the arrow left the deadly wound,
His issuing entrails smoak’d upon the ground.
  What woes on blooming Damasichon wait!
His sighs portend his near impending fate.
Just where the well-made leg begins to be,
And the soft sinews form the supple knee,
The youth sore wounded by the Delian god
Attempts t’ extract the crime-avenging rod,
But, whilst he strives the will of fate t’ avert,
Divine Apollo sends a second dart;
Swift thro’ his throat the feather’d mischief flies,
Bereft of sense, he drops his head, and dies.
  Young Ilioneus, the last, directs his pray’r,
And cries, “My life, ye gods celestial! spare.”
Apollo heard, and pity touch’d his heart,
But ah! too late, for he had sent the dart:
Thou too, O Ilioneus, art doom’d to fall,
The fates refuse that arrow to recal.
  On the swift wings of ever flying Fame
To Cadmus’ palace soon the tidings came:
Niobe heard, and with indignant eyes
She thus express’d her anger and surprise:
“Why is such privilege to them allow’d?
“Why thus insulted by the Delian god?
“Dwells there such mischief in the pow’rs above?
“Why sleeps the vengeance of immortal Jove?”
For now Amphion too, with grief oppress’d,
Had plung’d the deadly dagger in his breast.
Niobe now, less haughty than before,
With lofty head directs her steps no more
She, who late told her pedigree divine,
And drove the Thebans from Latona’s shrine,
How strangely chang’d!—yet beautiful in woe,
She weeps, nor weeps unpity’d by the foe.
On each pale corse the wretched mother spread
Lay overwhelm’d with grief, and kiss’d her dead,
Then rais’d her arms, and thus, in accents slow,
“Be sated cruel Goddess! with my woe;
“If I’ve offended, let these streaming eyes,
“And let this sev’nfold funeral suffice:
“Ah! take this wretched life you deign’d to save,
“With them I too am carried to the grave.
“Rejoice triumphant, my victorious foe,
“But show the cause from whence your triumphs flow?
“Tho’ I unhappy mourn these children slain,
“Yet greater numbers to my lot remain.”
She ceas’d, the bow string twang’d with awful sound,
Which struck with terror all th’ assembly round,
Except the queen, who stood unmov’d alone,
By her distresses more presumptuous grown.
Near the pale corses stood their sisters fair
In sable vestures and dishevell’d hair;
One, while she draws the fatal shaft away,
Faints, falls, and sickens at the light of day.
To sooth her mother, lo! another flies,
And blames the fury of inclement skies,
And, while her words a filial pity show,
Struck dumb—indignant seeks the shades below.
Now from the fatal place another flies,
Falls in her flight, and languishes, and dies.
Another on her sister drops in death;
A fifth in trembling terrors yields her breath;
While the sixth seeks some gloomy cave in vain,
Struck with the rest, and mingled with the slain.
  One only daughter lives, and she the least;
The queen close clasp’d the daughter to her breast:
“Ye heav’nly pow’rs, ah spare me one,” she cry’d,
“Ah! spare me one,” the vocal hills reply’d:
In vain she begs, the Fates her suit deny,
In her embrace she sees her daughter die.
   “The queen of all her family bereft,
“Without or husband, son, or daughter left,
“Grew stupid at the shock.  The passing air
“Made no impression on her stiff’ning hair.
“The blood forsook her face: amidst the flood
“Pour’d from her cheeks, quite fix’d her eye-*****
  “stood.
“Her tongue, her palate both obdurate grew,
“Her curdled veins no longer motion knew;
“The use of neck, and arms, and feet was gone,
“And ev’n her bowels hard’ned into stone:
“A marble statue now the queen appears,
“But from the marble steal the silent tears.”

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The Queen Of Darken Dreams Mar 2017

My Loneliness

My Loneliness is killing me
No one should have to go through
Something like this;
I could no longer fool myself
or my heart;
Because my heart and mind
reviles what I’m feeling all the time;
Oh, times sea look at me
I am in way too deep;
my pains are cutting me
I’m bleeding out like ink;
this loneliness left me feeling cold
and very alone;
I can no longer bear
it but I know I must,
loneliness make me feel
I have no existence
No self-worth;
a life of a living Hell of true darkness,
out in the cold all alone
trying to make it on my own;
Oh, how my body craves to be loved
But love was never a part of me,
my empty heart needs to free
to love and to be love back,
I had read every book after book
to pass the time;
to easy my nights
to easy my mind
my pains of loneliness remains,
but one day it will go away.

Poetic Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery

The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery

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Michael R Burch Mar 2020

The Locker

The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,
removed,

reproved
adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

These are poems about sports like baseball, basketball, boxing, football and soccer. Keywords/Tags: Sports, locker, locker room, clamor, adulation, acclaim, applause, sentiment, darkness, light, retirement, athlete, team, trophy, award, acclamation

Ali’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

They say that gold don’t tarnish. It ain’t so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, “called a ***** a *****.”
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.

Ain’t got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can’t be lukewarm, ’cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, “Now here’s your bullet and your gun,
and there’s your cell: we’re waiting, you choose one.”
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.

My face reflected up, more bronze than gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image—Bold.
My blood boiled like that river—strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child.
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

Published by Black Medina, Bashgah (Iran, in a Farsi translation), Other Voices International, Thanal Online (India), Freshet, Formal Verse, Borderless Journal, Interracial Love, and in a YouTube video by Lillian Y. Wong

Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying, “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******.” I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in a publication called Bashgah.

Me?
Whee!
(I stole this poem
From Muhammad Ali.)
—Michael R. Burch

hey pete!
by michael r. burch

for Pete Rose

hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy’s dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then
you'll be a Superstar.

Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player as a boy; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather ironic commentary on the term “superstar.”

Baseball's immeasurable spittin’ mixed with occasional hittin’.—Michael R. Burch

Larry Seivers had golden hands
by Michael R. Burch

Larry Seivers had golden hands,
platinum hands,
diamond hands,
hands of jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth and amethyst.

Other receivers were more elusive,
bigger,
faster,
more physical,
flashier ...

but Larry Seivers had hands.

Julius
by Michael R. Burch

Instinct
in an unplanned moment
as you rise
will teach your limbs the art of flight:
the waltz of light
through vaulted skies.

A falcon flies:
its keening cries
as sunlight fails
fall hollow to the earth below,
and you must know
how fierce the light of sunset feels.

You hear
those ringing cries, their echoes clear
though far away, and so you pause
—defying even gravity,
suspended over some vast sea—
then fall ... into applause.

Larry Legend
by Michael R. Burch

He's slow, can't jump,
looks pale and plump.
He talks too much;
he brags, and such.
He's not real nice,
has blood like ice
and will like steel
(and steal he will).
But when the game is on the line,
your team, or mine?

Big Mc Attack
by Michael R. Burch

Johnny Mc
Enroe
is back—
the fierce
attack
of words
and serves,
returns
and taunts.

He flaunts;
he flails,
reviles
and rails.
Sometimes
he wails.
His ego
swells.
He grunts
and groans
and moans
and gee . . .
I think
he wants
to referee!

Johnny Mc
(thank God)
is back—
wisecrack
ing, fiery,
taking flack
(not hesitant
to give it back).

We love
to watch
him glare
and wince,
and since we sense
his dreams
(intense),
we sit
on pins
until
he wins.

For Jack Nicklaus, at the 1987 Open
by Michael R. Burch

When you were young
every putt was makeable
and every dream remarkable;
the stars were unmistakable
you set your sights upon.

Then, in your youth,
time not yet a factor
and age not yet your rector,
you plotted every vector
and victory shone ahead, like truth.

But uncouth youth was fleeting ...
soon losses grew more numerous;
time's skies became more cumulus;
the nerves with age—more tremulous,
as the sun from the sky was setting, retreating.

How have you then, as sunset nears
and the world looks on with unsure eyes,
cast off the crutch of age to rise
and stand as though the butterflies
have no effect, no, nor the cheers?

I wrote this poem after Tom Watson chipped in at the 1982 US Open to defeat Jack Nicklaus. Nicklaus was getting older, but he was still competitive.

There Are Dreams
by Michael R. Burch

for Jack Nicklaus

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that are etched into your eyes.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed
that resignation can’t disguise.

There are dreams
that you have dreamed . . .
O, I’ve dreamed them, esteemed them.

Like fire,
desire
flares most brightly as it dies.

Jimbo
by Michael R. Burch

for Jimmy Connors

Pounce like a panther,
all sinew and nerve;
attack, arched in anger,
your quarry—the serve.
Imagine a moment
of glory to come
as you lunge for the path
of its flight through the sun.

Are you a Templar
like warriors of old,
forsaking your loved ones,
crusading for gold?
Or could it be
need for fame drives you on?
Do you soak up the cheers
as you dash through the sun?

As you battle those younger,
those stronger, more fleet,
still none can be fiercer,
less yielding, complete.
Oh, what drives you onward,
what makes you compete?

I think not the riches, acclaim, even love . . .
but your heart is incentive enough.

The Great GOAT Debate
by Michael R. Burch

The great GOAT debate
can no longer wait:
we MUST know who’s best, and know NOW!

Is it Jordan, Kareem,
or Hakeem the Dream?
Is it Gretzky, the Rocket, or Howe?

Is it O.J. or Brady,
or are they too shady?
Tom Burleson or Monte Towe?

But now that I’m thinking
and done with my drinking,
before I make friends with a large purple cow ...

It’s the Babe, let’s get serious!
Babe Didrikson Zaharias!
Let the Ultimate GOAT take a bow.

Mildred Ella “Babe” Didrikson Zaharias was a basketball All-American, a baseball and softball star, a professional golfer who accumulated ten major championships, and a track and field legend who won two gold medals and a silver in three different disciplines at the 1932 Olympics while setting four world records in the process. She was also an expert diver, roller-skater, bowler and billiards player. Didrikson won the 1932 AAU track and field team championships while competing as an individual, by winning five of the eight events she entered and finishing second in another. She remains the only track and field athlete, male or female, to have won individual Olympic medals in a running event (hurdles), a throwing event (javelin), and a jumping event (high jump). Despite taking up golf in her mid-twenties and having to wait until age 31 to regain her amateur status, Didrikson won 17 straight women's amateur tournaments, an unequaled feat. Altogether, she won 82 golf tournaments. She made the cut at two men’s PGA golf tournaments, the only woman to do so, and she did it sixty years before any other woman even tried. In 1934 exhibition games, after being taught the curve ball by Dizzy Dean, she pitched one scoreless inning against the Dodgers and two scoreless innings against the Indians. Didrikson still holds the world record for the longest baseball throw by a woman. The world has never seen anyone like her.

“She is beyond all belief until you see her perform ...Then you finally understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination, the world of sport has ever seen.” – Grantland Rice, considered by many to be the greatest sportswriter of all time

Ring-a-Ling Bling
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is mostly bling.

Determining an individual athlete's greatness by counting championship rings (i.e., team success) makes no sense to me and seems disrespectful to all-time greats like Ernie Banks, Charles Barkley, Elgin Baylor, **** Butkus, Ty Cobb, Michelle Kwan, Karl Malone, Dan Marino, Marta (who may be the greatest female soccer player of all time), Barry Sanders, John Stockton, Fran Tarkenton and Ted Williams. Perhaps the best example is the player most cited for rings these days: Michael Jordan. In reality, Jordan didn't win a ring his first six years and was 0-6 against
the Larry Bird Celtics and lost two more playoff series to the Isiah Thomas Pistons. Were Bird and Thomas the better players, or did they simply have better teams? The answer seems obvious.
Jordan only began to win rings after he was joined by outstanding players like Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, et al, and even then it took time for that team to jell. Jordan was a transcendentally great player before he won a ring. If he had failed to win rings because he never had good-enough teammates, would that make him a lesser player? Judging individuals by team success or failure makes no sense, unless Jordan was a lesser player for six years while his teams struggled and then he miraculously became the GOAT when more capable players showed up. Ditto for LeBron James. The first thing he does after changing teams is use his influence to get better players to join him. LeBron is not foolish enough to believe rings are won by individuals.

The Ring Thing (is entirely Bling)
by Michael R. Burch

The ring
thing
is entirely bling.

Michael Jordan was zero-for-six
against the Larry Bird Celtics;
moreover he was twice sent home
by Isiah’s Pistons;
his ring case only began to gleam
when he had Horace, Scottie and B.J. on his team.

Thus the ring
thing
is bling.

The Ballad of King Henry the Great
(aka Derrick Henry)
by Michael R. Burch

Long live the King!
Send him victorious,
happy and glorious,
long to reign over us:
Long live the King!

Long live the King!
Send him like Sherman tanks
Mowing down cornerbacks,
Stiff-arming tiny ants:
Long live the King!

No T.O.
by Michael R. Burch

Lines written after the aptly-named Eric Eager said, “A. J. Brown is Terrell Owens.”

I’m young, I’m big-hearted,
but I’m just getting started.

I’m running my own race
at my own **** pace.

T.O. belongs in fabled Canton town,
but I’m A. J. Brown.

The second stanza was actually written by A. J. Brown, a budding poet, and published in the form of a tweet.

Charlie Hustle
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

Crouch at the plate,
intensity itself.

Follow the flight
of the streak of white
with avid eyes
and a heartfelt urge
to let it fly.

Sweep the short arc,
feel the crack of a clean hit,
pound the earth
toward first.

Edge into the base path,
eyes relentlessly relentless.

Watch his every movement;
feel his every thought;
forget all save his feet;
see him stretch
toward the plate ...
and fly!

Fly along the basepath
churning up the dirt,
desire in your eyes.

Slide around the outstretched glove,
hear the throaty cry,
"He's safe!"
And lie in a puddle of sunlight
soaking up the cheers.

A Texas Leaguer dropping
to the left-field side of center
sends you on your way back home.

Take the turn past third
with fervor in your eyes
and a fever in your step,
the game just strides away ...
take them all and then
slide your patented head-first slide
across the guarded plate.

Pause in the dust of your desires,
loving the feel of the scalding sun
and the roar of the crowd.

Shake your head and tip your cap
toward the clouds.

Slap the dirt
from your grass-stained shirt
and head toward the clubhouse ...
just doing your job,
but loving it
because it is your life.

This was an early attempt at free verse, written in my teens.

The Sliding Rule
by Michael R. Burch

If you’re not quite kosher,
like Leo Durocher;
or if you have a Pinocchio nose,
like Peter Edward Rose;
or if your life turns tragic,
like Ervin Johnson’s magic;
or if your earthly heaven
is stopped, like Howe’s, at seven;
or if you’re a disciplinarian
like Knight, but also a contrarian;
or if like Joe you’re shoeless
because you’re also clueless;
or perhaps like Iron Mike Tyson
you work a little vice in;
or like Daly working the jackpot
you’re less unlucky than merely a crackpot;
or like Ruth you’re better at drinking
than at dieting and thinking;
or perhaps like Andre Agassi’s
your triumphs are really your tragedies . . .
though The Judge might call you a sinner,
society’ll proclaim you a WINNER!

Tremble
by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,
juts.

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.

Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC—Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals (Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse

Keywords/Tags: Tremble, predator, raptor, hawk, eagle, falcon, talon, beak, wing, preen, preened, preening

Y2k: The Score
by Michael R. Burch

You should have known
when you were giving us wedgies,
pulling down our pants
in front of the cheerleaders,
playing frisbee with our slide rules . . .

that the years are exceedingly cruel.

You should have seen,
dashing across the gridiron
(as the cheerleaders screamed
in a *****-show of ecstasy),
playing the hero, the bull-necked **** . . .

the hands on the face of the unimpressed clock.

Though you were popular,
the backseat Romeo, the star
who drove the flashiest car,
though you lived out our dream
and took the prettiest girls to the dances, the prom . . .

you never had a chance. Something was wrong.

We missed the big dances and proms
as we hissed and we schemed,
as we wrote and re-wrote our revenge
while you partied like Stonehenge.
Now your business is in debt to the hilt.
It’s too late to cry: Foul! Unsportsmanlike! Tilt!

One statement of ours and yours are all lost!
Your receivables, aging and gathering dust,
will yellow like ***** one soon-coming day.
While you were scoring, you missed this play—

Jocks: Zero. Nerds: Y2k.

Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression, PW Review, Poetic Voices, Poetry Renewal and Poetry Life & Times

#sports #locker #lockerroom #clamor #adulation #acclaim #applause #sentiment #darkness #light

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THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS Oct 2020

MY LONELINESS OF MY LIFE

My Loneliness is killing me
keeping my poor heart weeping,
this coldness
of true loneliness
is eating away at me
No one should have to go through life like this.

I could no longer fool myself living in a place of happiness
when all I see is the gray hovering over me,
my heart is truly broken
like someone had left me for the dead
I have no where to rest my head.

Because my mind is traveling over time
that reviles what I am feeling,
I know this may sound silly
but really
this has became apart of me.

In my mind I would see a place that haunts me
I am upon a mighty sea
where his eyes are looking at me...
but I never understood what it all means,
I just no I am in something deep
that scars the hell out of me.

In this darkness of my loneness
I have found myself in something deep
that leaving me cold and weeping,
I don't really know if I'm sleeping
my pains are cutting me so bad
leaving me feeling mad.

I’m bleeding out into the sea
because this old loneliness has taken over me
left me feeling cold and very alone;
but I keep hanging on
like an old sad song
that keep playing on.

I can no longer bear it
but somehow I am getting stronger
I know I must-
standing around in this dust,
this loneliness make me feel like I have no existence,
No self-worth
Oh, how this hurts the worst.

A life of a living Hell
Did that wring someone's Bell?
out in the cold
so very alone...
trying to make it on my own
I have nowhere to call home
all I do is roam.

Oh, how my body craves to be loved
but love was never a part of me,
my empty heart just bleeds like ink
as I wrote my famous lines
for the whole world to read
about a life that kept so many hooked.

So I could set my soul at easy
and my spirit run free
so I could feel a touch of love
and just maybe be love back
instead of always being attacked
behind my back.

It is crazy how so many has read my book
they all wanted take a better look
like they are hooked
but then it was them that wanted to bring on more rain
just to give me more pain.

But when I wrote down my story
of my lonely life
that made me cry
in my own bloodstained ink
where it is my sprit sink's
to pass the time-
to easy my nights
to easy my mind
my pains of loneliness remains,
but one day it will go away.

- Judy Emery © 2017 The Queen Of Darken Dreams Judy Lilly Emery

THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS POETIC JUDY EMERY

#dreams

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WARNER BAXTER May 2015

I DARE TO DREAM

It is simply being at a still point, where silence speaks volumes.
Where guilt turns to tranquility and I can trust to risk
or risk to trust, either way, it doesn’t matter.
It is a matter of perspective, I can dare to dream,
of a Wondrous Journey and when I dream,
without fail, I am greeted by Chaya,
mystical Goddess of the shadow.
She reviles wisdom of the shadow.
in the shadows are rainbow colors.
She brings forth, essence of Black.
For background and contrast.
Then magically splashes
the essence of Green,
and everything

GLOWWS ! ! !

My little Chimera steps out from behind a giant fern
and holds my hand, in anticipation of the journey.
Chaya holds a finger to her lips and says,
“The Whisper sunset is near” I am Red.
Again she raises a finger to her lips,
“Listen for the Whisper - Twilight
The Dream Catcher,
it is what makes
the magic fun
and fancy.

Angel’s Breath and Dragon Tears,”
Chaya explains while
Scintilla the Necromancer
dances along the creek ,
and she SPARKLES.
A giant bumblebee
hovers to watch
SO SURREAL

Then everything just bursts and fades into the mist.
What happened to the magic? Where is Chaya?
"Chaya went into the eye of the storm"
The voice from within says
“Where is Scintilla?” We ask
“Scintilla dances in heaven now”
The voice within echoes
The Wondrous Journey
is over,‘til twilight
tomorrow when
I DARE TO
DREAM

#dream #metaphor #fantacy

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Ryan P Kinney Jan 2020

Lords Temple Basement Men

The first Holy Book of The Word
In Nonsense we Trust

Assembled from pre-existing works by John Burroughs, Ryan P. Kinney, Jack McGuane, Cee Williams, Don Lee, Susan Grimm, Joe Roarty, Russ Vidrick, Dianne Boresnik, Mitch James, Tanya Pilumeli, Julie Ursem Marchand, Vicki Acquah, Terry Provost, Adam Brodsky, Lennart Lundh, Raymond McNiece, Hannah Williams, MaxWell Shell, Tim Richards, Ayla Atash, RC (Bob Wilson), Chuck Joy, Katie Daley, Solomon Dixon, Mary Weems, and Gordon Downie
Mostly taken as quotes during live poetry readings. Some stolen from other sources.
Additional content from predictive text by JM Romig, Linkin Park “Powerless,” “Saga of the Swamp Thing” vol. 1, T.S. Eliot, Amalgam Mythos, Kurt Vonnegut, Kevin Smith, and Psalms (chap.):13
Added original content by Ryan P. Kinney, Lennart Lundh, Barbara Marie Minney, and Gabriella Ercolani

“Lords Temple Basement Men,” it says on the door in a badly photocopied sign, replaced freshly each week. The original was built from torn up pieces of bootleg band vinyl stickers left plastered all over the windows of some teenager, surely passed into decaying adulthood long ago.

They gather in the bottom of an abandoned house in the heart of mostly warehouses. Something, someone long ago forgot to bull doze in the wake of morbid industrialization and the zeal to just get more men more jobs while giving them no life, no place to live. They built in their own obsolescence

A Man stands outside; half catcalling, half showman barker; daring, tempting, bribing people to worship with him. In paint stained torn jeans, long shaggy hair with the bald spot landing pad directly in the center of his head, and shoes barely hanging together on his feet, he bellows out The Word. Somewhere between slam poetry performance and theology lesson, he entices and seduces people to enter. Here, they do not call him Father, or Brother, just person: Man. “Hey, Man,” is how they great him.

“This is the original Church of the world's scraps.
The body of the body of the body.
Burning in the sun.
‘Me and my son were born in the sun,’ They say.
He is willing to do it.”
The Man says, in a soothing voice.

People enter a crooked doorway. The Man pulls the peeling door behind them, scrapping the ground as he does so, and leads his flock down the concrete stairs to the basement. They come to a dingy dirt gravel floor and spread out; filling the space like gas expanding into a cylinder.

Background chatter already fills the room with low whispers before the performance-service,
“I am happy to hear that you are safe”.
“I am not sure that you are”
“You will be missed.”

The Man steps upon his usual milk crate to open the service. He intones the Capitalist Mantra,
“God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies”

And the people chant, “I will not kiss you. I will not bow. I will not bow. I will not be moved.
I love the idea of what I have to be”

Mama Evil steps forward to explain their purpose here,
“This is a strange, mad religious service. Everything is out of place, nothing and no one seems to fit together. We all gather here, but no one seems to-gether. This is less a sermon and more a discussion where the gospel is debated. The Word is critiqued, modified, disputed, and changes between its members at each meeting. At any time for no reason, people can interrupt The Man to deny, confirm, suggest, or challenge his statements. The group then decides on the next bit of gospel to be made up on the spot or if what has already been said is still the current phase of perspective. There is no central thought or plan, just a plan for thoughts. We, people, call this Faith. Our membership makes up a multitude. There are Baptists, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Atheists, Satanists, Buddhists, Capitalists, hippies, goth kids, Starbuck’s sipping bloggers, just plain weird kids in the back working on their latest D&D campaign. We are just people. And he, is just a Man. The only interconnecting philosophy among us is, ‘Anything is possible at any time for any reason.’”
“As the recovering Catholic Kevin Smith wrote, ‘It’s not important which faith you are, just that you have faith.’”

The People are ready to receive The Holy Spirit and his unique brand of performance poetry,

“In the beginning, there was only The Word, a word. And then more. Which were collected into a story; The Story. And from The Story came creation.
And then came the questions. And The Question was man. Who are we? What are we? Why? Who am I?”

The Man explains,
“The whole point of The Word is to make up new ones. To defy God’s Word by creating ourselves.”
“Do you see the animal’s asking questions? Wondering who they are. They simply know that they are.
There are no fish in Purgatory. Only us.
The Garden of Eden is colonized by serpents
There was no place for the demons to go, but further in.”

A Hindu Yoga instructor rights himself from walking on his hands and decides to take the first initiative, “Puff the Magic Dragon says, ‘Jesus loves me, but I need to talk to a human.’”
A furry cosplayer responds, "I need to talk to a human."

A Wiccan Princess retorts, "Nature is not as inventive as she thinks she is; Neither is God"

The Man answers,
“We are a beautiful blasphemy to God’s word (because we question).”

“Heavy is the crown that wears the head,” says the child prince.

The Drag King quotes, “Psalms (chap.):13
You will tread on the lion and the cobra.
You will trample on the great lion and the serpent.”

"...And God teaches the cricket how to play his music," says the bookish-looking woman sitting in the corner, trailing off as she adjusts her literal Coke bottle frames.

A gym rat, wearing a holey muscle shirt, extends arm to point as he says,
“Humans begin as *******.”

“Humans are also stardust.
Which means we are golden,” replies the scientist

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust,” says the derelict businessman hobo hero,
“God made mud in his own image and we are the leftover **** that rose out of it.
And if all life is really God’s sacred mud, then every **** storm is God’s Wrath.”

The Man quotes T.S. Eliot,
“What are the roots that clutch. What branches grow out of this stony *******. Son of man, you cannot say or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images.”

"The grapes of wrath transmuted into the harvest of imagination,” illustrates the painter

The automaton states, “**** the earth, to make a certain sense of it all.”

The Man attempts to regain control,
“Some future digger after truth,
alien or human, kneeling with
trowel and brush at this grave,
will note in clear, careful script
the wonder that a people would
be so deliberate with the smallest
of their gods' creatures,
and so careless of themselves.”

A soccer Mom asks,
“They say I shouldn’t be so tired.
They say I should get a job.
They say I should get off this couch.
They say I shouldn’t be a blob.”

“It takes but one step to enter the grave,” says The Man.
“So much can be lost in crossing that threshold. How did your grandparents, born in separate countries, meet? Did your mother kiss your father first, or vice versa? These are questions we don't think to pose, but without the asking or other evidence, Death will redact the list of begettings. Are you prepared for that void in memory? Or have you made notes for your children to leave theirs?”

"My Dad keeps their honeymoon receipts in the family Bible,” says the Unknown.
“After Mom moved on, he would take the Bible off the shelf every evening after supper. He would first stare at it for what seemed forever while pouring himself a huge tumbler of bourbon and lighting a huge cigar that smelled like month old underwear. Eventually, he would open the gold clasp and raise the deeply cracked leather cover of the Bible and first look at the family history written inside the front cover in the delicate and intricate handwriting of Mom, before pulling out the well worn honeymoon receipts, which he would shuffle through like a deck of cards before spreading them out on the worn and scratched kitchen table like a kind of dead man’s hand. Sometimes, he would weep quietly. Other times, he would pound his fists violently on the table shaking the cans of beans and potatoes on the shelves above. That is when I knew it was time to make myself scarce. He never ever opened the Bible any further than the front cover, which made me wonder about the nature of the book itself. I always pondered the same questions over and over.”
“Is Bible a filthy word? Is it the animal? The Man, The Woman? Should we burn the book?”
“Is the Word filthy?”, asks The Man, “What are the filthy words? What are the power of Words mired in ****? Who do these words define? Who are you?”

Mama Evil commands a presence,
“****? ****? ****? *****? Broad? *****? Are these the words you use to define me? When that which defines me is the holy chalice, life's catalyst, mia figa, my ****: stand us all on our heads and we all look the same. Regardless of our skin color, or the shape of the bones in our face or the skin around our eyes or the texture of our hair, those folds of flesh, that tunnel to the precipice of the universe, that little happy happy joy joy button, these are what we all have in common and what the whole world simultaneously wants and reviles. It has that much power. A lexical reclamation is taking place. One that will lift up the collective feminine spirit instead of dragging it down to the depths of all pejoratives. ****! The taking back of all pejoratives is an essential part of the reclamation of the collective self-esteem of woman kind! She is a Hindu Goddess! She is the Roman Goddess who is the protector or newborn infants. She is cunctipotent. She is all powerful and creates and destroys the world with her blood sugar **** magic. She is the princess and savior of the Mahabharata, renowned for her hospitality, who willingly receives any traveler who requests food and lodging. She is that benevolent. Durvasas bestows upon her a powerful mantra as payment for that hospitality and with it, Princess Kunti has the power to call on any God in heaven to lie with her and she will bear a son then by the next day. When her husband is rendered sterile as punishment for shooting the Stag King as he mated with his queen, Princess Kunti bears three heirs for the kingdom. She saves the kingdom. She saves the day. She is **** magic at its finest hour and she dwells in all of us who have ever been slandered. So go on, you ignorant *******. Call me a ****. Only you in your infinite small stupidity are skint the knowledge that you have just called me a princess and a savior.”

A comic nerd asks, “What of Power? What is power?”

Mama Evil holds up a single flame, spewing from a cheap blue lighter in her hand. She asks, “What is the power of The Word.” Is it in the book? Or in the air.”

She answers, “The power to choose. Do I set the world on fire, or put out
the flames?”

The room goes dark as she abruptly steals The Man’s usual send off,
“The Word has evolved, my friends.”

#analog #kingdom

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John F McCullagh Jan 2019

Gerard Nolst Trenité - The Chaos (1922)

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
   I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
   Woven, oven, how and low,
   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
   This phonetic labyrinth
   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
   Blood and flood are not like food,
   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
   Discount, viscount, load and broad,
   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
   Would it tally with my rhyme
   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
   You'll envelop lists, I hope,
   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
   We say hallowed, but allowed,
   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
   Petal, penal, and canal,
   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
   But it is not hard to tell
   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
   *****, ***** and possess,
   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
   Making, it is sad but true,
   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
   Mind! Meandering but mean,
   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
   Prison, bison, treasure trove,
   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
   Evil, devil, mezzotint,
   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
   Funny rhymes to unicorn,
   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
   No. Yet Froude compared with proud
   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
   But you're not supposed to say
   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
   Episodes, antipodes,
   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
   Rather say in accents pure:
   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
   Say then these phonetic gems:
   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
   With and forthwith, one has voice,
   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
   Job, Job, blossom, *****, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

****** does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and *****,
Next omit, which differs from it
   Bona fide, alibi
   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
   Rally with ally; yea, ye,
   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
   Never guess-it is not safe,
   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
   Face, but preface, then grimace,
   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ***, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
   With the sound of saw and sauce;
   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
   Respite, spite, consent, resent.
   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
   Monkey, donkey, clerk and ****,
   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
   Once, but *****, toll, doll, but roll,
   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
   Won't it make you lose your wits
   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
   Islington, and Isle of Wight,
   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
   Finally, which rhymes with enough,
   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

Not one of mine but I thought it a fun look at our funny language

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The Queen Of Darken Dreams Oct 2016

The Mowing Field

The Mowing Field
I go up through the mowing field
while my poor heart reviles
it's old passions of long ago
the headless aftermath of the beating past
keeps hanging around like a necklace around my nick
the pain hovers over me like the clouds of gray
half closes is the garden path where you lay
I come to the garden ground
of sober birds sing
while my poor heartaches
I kneel down to pray
but my words was hard for me to say
Oh how much I love you
I do hope you known it
I do hope I gave my all to you
my tears I couldn't hold back
they came down like rain
On the ground the leaves
lingered with the breeze
sweeping them away softly
I end not far from my going forth
to pick up the faded blue rose
of long ago I have given to you on Your grave
Oh ,how my poor heartaches for you
I just hang on to your love I once known
I walk away with no more words I could say
But to put another in the other ones place
With a word I will always love you .

Poetic Lilly Judy Emery (c

Death

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THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS Mar 2017

My Loneliness

My Loneliness is killing me
No one should have to go through
Something like this;
I could no longer fool myself
or my heart;
Because my heart and mind
reviles what I’m feeling all the time;
Oh, times sea look at me
I am in way too deep;
my pains are cutting me
I’m bleeding out like ink;
this loneliness left me feeling cold
and very alone;
I can no longer bear
it but I know I must,
loneliness make me feel
I have no existence
No self-worth;
a life of a living Hell of true darkness,
out in the cold all alone
trying to make it on my own;
Oh, how my body craves to be loved
But love was never a part of me,
my empty heart needs to free
to love and to be love back,
I had read every book after book
to pass the time;
to easy my nights
to easy my mind
my pains of loneliness remains,
but one day it will go away.

Poetic Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery

The Queen Of Darken Dreams

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Matthew Harlovic Sep 2016

counter-culture

will the birds sing or sit in a string discussing theories on a wire?
too tired for repercussions from prior trials by fire,
so they pile the pyre and sing for the choir
while the liars catch wildfire to a dire count of 4-5-1
by a child with a drumstick instead of a thumb in his mouth.
you can hear the percussion through his stomach for crying out loud.
are the parents proud of this juvenile behavior,
have they vowed to reconcile with its nature?
are they beguiled by how it reviles exile
but every now and then goes the extra mile?

© Matthew Harlovic

// burn // baby // burn //

#love #life #death #nature #thoughts

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Thomas Fitzgerald Aug 2011

***** Boy's

Who am I to love the ones that love me,

Horrid ******* run wild for pleasure,

Sick men take turns to **** each other,

Morals outlines of no different measure.

***** boy's look at friends *****,

The bible reviles this greek fun,

They mock me and others for nature,

I am at a loss for a new sattirical pun.

Be safe when knowing I care little of you,

Your opinions are safe within me,

Change your mind, I don't think so,

A warrior for christ you'll always be.

Hear my message you snivelling ingrate,

A tender and powerful one at last today,

You hold no stance in these current times,

For I will always and forever be GAY.

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Jamesb Jul 2023

I wish

I wish that you could see
The man I truly am,
Rather than the useless failure
I have acted as,

I wish that you could see and feel
The torment in my heart,
It matches that which
In yours I have caused,

I wish that rage which I created
Never came to be,
I wish the pain you feel
Would be hurting only me,

I never loved a woman
Quite how I love you,
Never been a coward for
Fear of losing who I love before,

You are that one who is pure of heart,
That one my soul has sought,
And now my soul reviles me
For what stupidity has brought,

Soon I may hear my life will end
Rather sooner than I aimed,
Yet losing you is far far worse,
That life I lose is maimed,

And even as I write this verse
My heart yearns to make you whole,
So if my passing helps you heal
I gladly take that end,

But please know this my lady love,
The man you loved,
Saw glimpses of,
That man you saw that worshipped you,

That was the real me

This applies to just one woman. I hope and pray that one day she reads it and knows my love is true

#sorrow #regret #truelove

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J Penpla Feb 2013

Wake up tense,
Then enmity has commenced
His agonizing screech,
Her pleading moan.
Back and forth,
A pitiful drone.
Hostile, but to each it’s home.
Both together, both alone.
One reviles the other’s lament.
Another breakfast’s
Brazen treatment
She needs a companion.
He, who knows.
Of this, be certain,
In this house,
no love grows

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Neuvalence Dec 2017

A Worrisome Dame

Reviles gnaw on her somber thoughts
as she hangs between beige curtains
tightly thick around her neck
absorbing lachrymal crystals under her eyes
Her many faces retreat—implode under
pressure—like glass borne on a cliff
As for her, herself, come forth many
holding stones—boulders to her—
ready to strike this candle;
intimidated by fire, she melts
And as the flames are roused
watch her re-harden: an exquisite tragedy

#torture #bible #allusion #biblicalallusion #stoning #execution #death

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mark john junor Apr 2013

the soft dangerouse road

the soft barrier between us
a cotton and folded cloth mask of wishes
a storm of tears
that seeps from my soul at hours such as this
a thing that abhors the weak
and reviles the strong

i am cold in this room
alone with only photographs
to reflect you
i only need wait few more days

panic flees followed by fear
there is a woman out there i would
love to be with
envelope, swallow, taste
**** upon
cleanse our souls with her
quick and hard frame

her lean form is now in the room
she disrobes and makes to the beds edge
i cannot deny
this is a dangerous road

the redhead is rachell..
this poem is dedicated to Daniel James who runs hello poetry...without his work, none of us would be here...
and elliot too :-)

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Scott T Feb 2015

Untitled

Midnight seeps
Through
And one man is between his sheets
With something stirring beneath the pleats
And he wrestles his dusty memories
He relives and reviles them
And why is the night so dark?
And why does it make us damage ourselves?

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Star BG Dec 2017

With inner guidance
my compass of heart I hold,
listening to its direction.
My breath aids to hear.
My intention reviles purpose.

With inner guidance
my dreams
are unleashed
to the spinning dial of dance.
To the moment that expands
with light.

Through storms and winds
I land safe secure and
intact with help from source.
with a whisper of gratitude for life
and a large abundance of blessings.

Inner guidance don't leave home without it.

Saw words inner guidance the rest just followed. LOL

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Sometimes Starr Feb 2019

Anger.

Rip me. Rip me to ******* shreds.
I don't care. I never meant anything.
I'm pinned to this moment.
Everything is a trick,
But you're not fooling me.

Infect me with sadness,
Sadness, sadness,
That is ALL I WANT TO FEEL.
I let the happiness billow up
And Hope can stay the night
She's a ****** thot,
But I am hungry like a black hole for deep, dark misery.

Purple and navy,
Gray and black.
Or void and colorless,
The taste of death.

My talents are a fleeting bloom,
I can die with them curled,
You will never know my true beauty
Because you betrayed me deeply
Wrongly, I will never forgive you

I will make you like death to me
Rank, inimical, raw, s e x y, the truth that reviles us all
And this feeling will pass over me...
Like a storm,
It comes and goes.

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Thomas Dressler Jul 2019

please...

The door opens suddenly,
Enter she that I love dearly,
But her stare is blank and desolate,
And her skin is pale and sickly.

She falls and wails beside the couch,
She feels her soul is split,
She needs embrace I cannot give,
She would not dare permit.

For touch of man disgusts her,
The sight of man reviles her,
And I cannot even comfort her,
Because a man defiled her.

I sit and weep away from her,
I could not have comprehended,
I pray she’ll rise and carry through,
But for now, for this abiding moment of grating pain and grief beyond understanding,
For now, her world has ended.

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Sajini Israel Mar 2018

Dream land

Strolling in the woodlands,
I see ahead of me a large stretch of ****** timber where blackberry thickets foam white in spring time.

In the valley littered with gold,
winter reaches for me.
It cuddles me with frost and restrains me with cold.

Words from inking pen strikes me,
Its stinging sentences reviles me.
Rising from deep waters I learn to be bold.
I face my predators unlike days of old.

Wondering in dream's land,
my eyes quake at mountains taller than everest.
Lost in dream's arms,
I rise above the tempestuous plunge of sea tides.

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Dr Xijuan Angel Liao May 2022

Summer Dance

A leap, a ****** over virtual space
Love shaped motion emerges west and east border.

A yell ends at power station
No more silence, summer breaks the icy skies.

S.Polunin signature leap, with mathematic
Motion of pure moves and spirals,
Likewise, a new-shoot burgeoning pulse

Sun reviles the evolving shadows
A refreshed balance game tags leaf and might
He moves with glimmering dappled light

Movement from a bird of paradise
Melodic cold folds of ego, the deer,
And the wild leopard chanting itself

An animated odd sight come out at night
Gestures flake off where space to cross.
Looseness, forgetfulness, we know it is
not only a summer dance

Dedicated to Sergei Polunin

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Julian Apr 2023

4/3/2023 Writing

THE IATRALIPTIC DISGUISE OF MASKIROVKA IN THE WHIGGARCHY OF SUBLIMATED ELASTANE PREROGATIVES SOOTHING THE MALAXAGE OF A SENICIDE PROMONTORY OVERLOOKING THE ACELDAMA OF NOYADES ENTANGLING DOYENNES FLIRTING WITH THE GLAZE OF INFINITE SPECTERS OF BALEFIRE IN THE WROTH AND WRIX OF A WANCHANCY RIGGED BY ALTARANE AISLINGS MEANDERING IN DAYDREAMS SURROGATE MOTHERS TO NEWLYWED MUGIENCE THAT DERIVES FROM HANDSPIKES OF TANTONY A TENACITY OF TIMBERLASK VISION SCATHING AGAINST THROTTLEBOTTOM SATRAPS WHO MALINGER IN THEIR OWN CODDLED ENTROPY DISMISSIVE OF THE FUSION OF NUCLEOTIDES MIGHT THE BLAINS OF BLUNGE BECOME THE ASCENDANCY OF ALL NEW WORLD POTTERY AND ALL THE GREATEST POTAGERS OF CENTURION GROWTH OF SYRINXES TOO WELL-GUARDED IN KATABOTHRON SYNERGIES TO EVER BE DEFEATED BY BEGUILED SOPHIANIC NEPIONIC NIDOR THAT IN SCALARIFORM HUES DISMANTLES THE EMBOSSED PERFECTION OF ZALKENGUR. WE WANDER WITH THE WAMZELS OF WOODSHEDDING VERDERERS WHO EARN CERBERIC MERIT FROM AS EARLY A SYCOMANCY AS A WAR GAMES VENTANA THAT PREFIGURED GLEBES SERENADE THE AVALANCHE OF TURNVEREIN SURFEIT OF BANGTAIL ECONOMIES OF SPOKESHAVE SPODOMANCY THAT WE CANNOT CALCULATE THE LIMOSIS OF LIMNETIC LOSS IN THE DULOCRACY OF TIMES OF HEYDAY AND BRIMSTONE FEWTERERS THE HAUNT OF JACKALS AND THE BRONTEUM OF THE VENTRAD AND VENTRILABRAL OLIVASTERS OF VEES AND MOUNTENANCE BECAUSE SWASHBUCKLING SHALLOP IS AN INDENTURED LANGUOR BEYOND THE CARAPACE AND TESTUDO OF FLICKERING ALPENGLOW SUNRISES ON THE DESOLATE PLAINS OF THE NOVANTIQUE BEYOND THE BUTTRESS BECAUSE OF THE ROORBACKS OF SEDERUNT SCUTTLEBUTT OFTEN THE RAFFISH APLOMB OF VAMPIRES CAROUSING UNDER PRETENSE FOR BLOODTHIRST WITH PRETEXTS OF WIDDERSHANCY BECOMING THE CIPPUSTURE OF THE CHAMOISES AMONG THE GREAT COBALTIFEROUS CABRILLAS THAT USES THE SAGINATED SURETYSHIPS OF JORDAN STOKEHOLDS AMONG CASEMATES IN THE PRODROMES OF WAR AND BELLICOSE STRIFE OF CONTRAPLEX TAMARAWS BELONGING TO THE LIONIZATION OF THE APIKOROS FASHIONS OF THOSE THAT FORESAW WITH THE GREATEST TENACITY OF CAREWORN WORMCASTS OFTEN SEEN AS HERETICAL AMONG ESBAT OLIMS BUT THEIR HEYDAY IS RECONVENED BECAUSE NO LONGER IS THE BETHEL IGNORANT OF THE CHARADES OF POTEMKIN SQUALOR ABAFT ON THE TURTLEBACK TAFFRAIL THAT ALL DESTINY UNFOLDS WITH PRESTIDIGITATION THAT OUTNUMBERS THE ENUMERATED LEGERDEMAIN WITH ITS PLASTIC PROTEAN SERVITUDE TO ICEBERK ICEBLINKS OF VERGLAS THE EMOLUMENT TO THE PAST HAMARCHIES RESIDUAL TO HACHURE BECAUSE THE AISLINGS OF ONEIROMANCIES ONCE BELLOWING AND BELLIPOTENT EVEN IN ANTEBELLUM CARNAGE THAT THE CARTHAGIAN MOORGANIZATION OF THE MOST PROMETHEAN OF FATIDICAL HEROES THAT COBBLED FROM EMOTIVISM IN AN AGE OF SPHECOID SPHENOGRAMS AN ANZACTILE MOBILIZATION OF AN URBANE SPREE AND SPRINT TOWARDS THE ENTELECHY OF THE AUTOGNOSIS AGAINST NEUTROSOPHY THAT WE MIGHT EASILY DEBUNK THE URCHINS OF WEGOTISM BECAUSE THEY STRAIN THE BARNSTORM OF PETTIEST WASES OF WAPENTAKE DESIGNED TO ENTOMB THE GRIDLOCK OF MANUFACTURED POLLARCHIES OF WEIGHT MEASURED ONLY BY A PRETENDED BARAGNOSIS ENFORCING THE SWARF OF THE BOSCHVELDT THAT EVENTUALLY IN THE TIMEPIECE OF FORESIGHT HINDSIGHT ITSELF DISCOVERS THE GREAT NOMOGENY OF ITS CLEVER BYWORDS AGAINST BACKPIECES OF CARDIOGNOST CARDIMELECH TITRATIONS OF WRATH ARMORIES OF RANCOR IN SUNBITTERN SUMPTERS ALWAYS BROOKED WITH ARRAIGNMENT RATHER THAN THE SURFEIT OF A POLISHED OLIGOPSONY BECAUSE THE STANGS OF THE STANNARY ARE BANKROLLING JESUITICAL JANSKY TO PROVIDE THE PATHWAY TO CIVILIZED SALVATION AGAINST POLTROONS OF ******* HARBORED BY THE CREDENDA OF DISRESPECTFUL MACROBIAN DECEIT AUTHORED BY THE CONTRARY ELEMENTS OF CAMARILLAS DEPOSED BY DEMUR. THERE IS GREAT TIMOCRATIC VALOR IN HETERODOXY WHICH BORROWS FROM BAHUVHRI AGAINST THE STUNTS OF CAGOULES OF YERNAGE AND CATAMOUNTS OF DIATRIBES OF SHIBBOLETH DESTRUCTION BECAUSE OF CAFARDS OF BIFIDS THAT EXIST AS MARTINGALES AS ENTOMBED SILENCE GRIPS THE LAND SUCH THAT THE CACHALOTS ARE ALWAYS MOTATORY IN CONVERSE DIRECTIONS TO HEED THE INFORMANTS OF TIME THAT ASTOUNDED FEATS OF FENESTRAL RELEGATION BECOMING A HABITUE OF THE MOST PROFOUND SPURTS OF BULGURS OF TRAULISM IN THE FACE OF PROMINENCE AND EMINENCE FRONT LIONIZATIONS BECAUSE THE BALDRIC AUTHORITY OF NAZES WHO ARE MURENGERS THAT ARE BLACKGUARDED GUARDIANS OF COUNTERCULTURAL OPHILIOPHILISTS THAT OFTEN CAVORTED WITH THE AUTARKY OF KALIMKARI THAT A WORLD SEDIGITATED BY RACKRENT COACERVATION IS A COAMING MENACE OF PICAROONS THAT ARISE FROM MERIT RATHER THAN ABDERVINE CONTUSIONS ON BLISTERED NIDOR OF NIDAMENTAL NIDDERING NANCIFUL RECKLESS WAYSPAYING MULIEBRITY COAUTHORED BY PLOUGHSHARES OF BLUEPETERS BECAUSE THE NEW TORCHIERS OF ANGLOPHONIC COUVEUSES THE GONFALONIER OF SOTERIOLOGY AMONG THE HIDEBOUND YET PRIVY VOGUE OF A GYRATING ECONOMETRICAL SCALING EVENT THAT HERALDS THE SUBTEXT OF ALL CONFORMED PECCADILLOS OF IDIOSYNCRASY AND REVILES THEIR BACKPIECES BECAUSE THE CORTEGES OF THE OLIGARCHY OFTEN SCRIDE OVER SCRIVELLOS BECAUSE OF CHRYSELEPHANTINE GAMBOLING VESTIGIAL HARBINGERS OF ALL SPAWNED ENTROPIES AT ONCE DISCARDED BY WREPOLIS AND WRIKPOND AS CALCARIFEROUS RANCID BLENCH AND BLAGUE BECAUSE OF PROMINENT BONTBOKS OF ENTHYMEME DESPERATELY BEING PUSHFUL WITH ADVANCED CYBERNETIC VITIATION THROUGH ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE BECAUSE OF HALLOWED HARPOONING GRAMPUS BECAUSE OF NEKTONS ENABLED BY DUGONG MARTYRS OF PRAXINOSCOPES FAR AND WIDE TO DISENGAGE THE PSAMMOPHILE FROM DISCHARGED DUTY AT HIS OWN BEHEST AND THE FLUID DYNAMICS OF TURBINATED TUBIFACIENT ICEBLINKS REGISTERED BY THE SEDERUNT OF SYBOTIC WORMCASTS ALL CONVEYING THE SUBSTANDARD SUBTERNATURAL SATURNALIA OF UNHINGED DECADENCE PROFESSING A CRETACEOUS SERVITUDE TO AN EXTINCT BRAND OF SCIENCE BECAUSE OF CONFEDERATE GNOTOBIOLOGY BECAUSE OF MODERN FIGURATIVE GEITONOGAMY THAT FIELDS ASTRAY THE JOLLYBOAT OF THE VANGUARD THAT IT MIGHT FETCH THE DOOMSTERS OF HAVENED COMBUSTION AGAINST TRICOTEES OF SCORIA WIDELY ENAMORED OF THE DISSIPATION OF SPHACELATION TO INFORM THE WORLD OF ITS DUTIFUL SERVITUDE TO HONOR BRITSKAS RATHER THAN DISDAIN VENDETTA HEROISM. WE IN BLINKERED HUBRIS BECAUSE OF INGLUVIES OF ILASTICAL WEIGHT FOR THE HYPAETHRAL LYTHCOOPS THAT ASTOUND THE SIDEREAL ELEMENTS OF THE HAMARCHY THAT PATIENTLY ABIDED BY THE STRICTEST OF SECRECY TO UPHOLD A NEW WORLD VISIONARY POTAMOLOGY THAT SERVES JAWHOLES WITH THEIR SUBPOENAS THAT THEIR CARDIOGNOST CELERITY IN MOBILIZING THE POPULAR RANCOR OF SIMPLE PRETEXTS ENTANGLED BY COMPLEX THERMODYNAMICS OF MALAISE THAT WE MIGHT EXPEL KILLCROP BODEWASH INTO THE BARTONS OF JARVEY RATHER THAN ELEVATED INTO JASPERATED VESICLES OF JESUITICAL CULTURAL TERRORISM AUTHORED BY DESPERATION EVEN WITHSTANDING VAPULATION TO CONVEY THE CONTRARIAN MESSAGE TO THE WIDEST SPECTACLE OF BYRE EVER WITNESSED BY THE PLUMAGE OF THE PEN NOR THE ARCHITECTURE OF ARCHITECTONIC SERVITUDE. WE MUST INFORM THE SYBARITES KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT MASCON GEOCARPY AND ALL OF THE INTERRAMIFICATIONS OF INTERSTELLAR DEBUTANTES THAT REVILE THEMSELVES INTO CATERCORNERED ATTEMPTS TO THE BALUSTRADE OF THEIR OWN SURMOUNTED EGOISM THAT EVENTUALLY THEIR BANGTAIL OSTENTATIONS GLORIFYING THE DEBUNKED FULGURANT BRONTEUMS OF RHIZOGENIC INSTRUMENTALISM OF CRIME FINESSED BY SPECTER AND ENFORCED BY THE VENDETTAS AGAINST PROPER SOTERIOLOGY THAT THEY ARE IN FACT IN DELUSION ABOUT HOW THE CORTEGES OF VENTRAD MUGIENCE OPERATE IN THE WROTH OF ATTINGENT CONTRITION BECAUSE WHEN WE TITRATE ATTEMPERED PHENOMENA OF IDIORHYTHMIC AND THERMOLABILE POIKILOTHERMIC ELEMENTS THAT GOVERN THE SABOTAGE OF MANY UPSTART TITANISMS THAT THEY MIGHT SIDLE AGAINST THEIR OWN CALCULUS TO SOCKDOLAGER BECAUSE THEIR EFFETE AND EFFUSIVE NEUTROSOPHY IS AN ANGLED ENTRYISM TRYING TO INTERPOLATE NEW WORLD FICTIONS TO FIX THE NIDOR AND CASUALTY OF PAST TORMENTS AND TEMPESTS OF CRUCIBLE TRIBULATIONS SUCH THAT A MODERN ESBAT IS BORNE AMONG REMIGATE OLIMS THAT SUSPEND DISBELIEF IN ORDER TO INGEMINATE SERVITUDE TO DEFEAT THE SONDAGE OF SELCOUTH SECODONT BODACHES WITH THE GREATEST PENALTY OF SENICIDE BECAUSE THEY ARE SWARTHY WITH THE DARKLED RANCOR OF FENNECS THAT THEY DESPISE BECAUSE OF SALIVATING SOVENANCE IN ESPIRITS OF CONTRITION. IN WARTORN REVANCHE THAT EMBATTLES THE SWIFT DEMOBILIZATION OF DEMASSIFIED ECONOMIES TO DISARRAY THE SCHWERPUNKT OF SARANGOUSTY BECAUSE THE ELAPID DISTRACTIONS OF MALAXAGE SEETHING IN TOOTHLESS DENTICLES TRYING TO COVERTLY ASSUEFY ENTIRE REGIONS TO THE NOMOTHETIC NORMALCY OF PERVERSE IDEOLOGIES BECAUSE OF RAMPANT SOURCES OF JAWHOLE OCREATED SWAMP MARSHES THAT SWARF WITH SWARPOLLOCK TO BENIGHT ENTIRE GENERATIONS OF THEIR DUTIFUL PREROGATIVES BY PROSCRIBING IN THE STRICTEST TERMS OF CREDENCE AND COVENANT THAT INSUBORDINATION MUST BE PUNISHED WITH THE STEEPEST CULVERTAGE EVEN AMONG THE MOST VENOMOUS AND POWERFUL ELEMENTS OF STANNARIES OF BULSE AND PROFUSE VENOSTASIS BECAUSE THE HARBINGERS OF TOMORROW ARE DESIGNED TO SCARECROW THE PAST INTO ZUGZWANG BY AN ECONOMY OF QUANTUPLICITY OF GAME THEORY DYNAMICS SUCH THAT FEWER PEOPLE WAGE GIGANTOMACHY AND THE PILLORY IS ENGORGED WITH THE FASHIONS OF FLAMFOO VINTAGE SERICULTURE TO DISMOUNT AND DISCOURAGE MANY A PERSON TO SEEK RECOURSE IN SUBLIMATED PSYCHOGONY RESULTING IN A PANMIXIA ENTRAPMENT AGAINST ACCOLENT PANTAGAMY BECAUSE WE RESORT TO OUR BASEST INSTINCTS IN THE TWILIGHT GLOAM OF THE PARLANCE VERDURE OF ESCULENT DISCOVERIES PREAUTHORED BY COACERVATION OFTEN WITH SYNTHETIC RHEOTAXIS TO ENTOMB THE WAPENTAKE IN A CONVERSE STATURE TO THE BETTER ANGELS OF OUR NATURE. NOW A GAMMERSTANG DELIVERANCE THAT SEEKS THE MAXIMALISM OF ONCOSTMAN OF COMPROMISE THAT THEY MIGHT BE ENTHUSED BY A WORLD LESS “*** IN THE CITY”ADMIXED WITH “BIG BANG THEORY”AND MORE A SOCIETY OF “MASKED DANCER”AGITPROP THAT CONGEALS A HOMONORMATIVE MESSAGE THAT IS DEFICIENT AND DEFUNCT BECAUSE SOME AND MANY IRONCLAD WARSHIPS ARE MARTYRS TOWARDS A DECADENCE OFTEN FORESEEN THAT NOW REMAINS HOBBLED BECAUSE THE DISAGIO OF A DISTRACTED WORLD OF BOWERIES SEEDING MALCONTENT MIGHT BE EFFERVESCENT IN A NEUTRALIZED DIRECTION RATHER THAN FATHERING A NEW WORLD SOLIDARITY TOWARDS NUCLEOTIDES OF NEPIONIC LORE THAT SOLVES CLIMATE CHANGE AND SYLLABATIM PROVIDES RECOURSES FOR THE BALDERDASH AUTHORED BY MANY HOBBLEDEHOY CULTURES OF STULTIFIED SUTLERS IN SECTILE REGRESS RATHER THAN AGENTIC PROGRESS OF GLOWERING LOVE BECOMING CENTRIPETAL RATHER THAN A CALCIFUGE OF SHANTUNG BECAUSE OF STOCKINETTE DIVERSIONS. THE KEY TO THE FUTURE IS TO ANALYZE WITH THE GREATEST PATIENCE AND THE MOST EXPANSIVE SCOPE THE NEUTROSOPHY OF THE AVERAGE CAMPUS AND THE ATHENAEUMS THAT RAISE NEW WORLD LEADERS TO THINK THE INDEPENDENT THOUGHT AND TO ENTERTAIN THE SOLFERINOS WITHOUT TRITANOPIA OR PROTANOPIA BECAUSE WE BELONG TO AN AGE WHERE THE FACTUAL IS FRACTIOUS AND THE MYTH SUSTAINS A BREVITY OF COMPUNCTION THAT IS THE RAILLERY FOR MANY DERAILMENTS THAT ENTHUSE THE SPECTACLE BUT DEPRIVE THE LIBERATION WE SEEK IN PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS OF ORTHOTOMY AND ORTHOTROPISM IN ORTHOBIOSIS BECAUSE OF GEOTECHNIC OPTIMIZATION THAT GOVERNS A HOLLYWOOD SYSTEM THAT REFRAINS FROM THE PALLOR OF NEBBICH GORE AND EXTINCT PREROGATIVES OF CINEASTES WORKING FOR NUBILE GRAFT AND CARNIFICINE CORRUPTION BECAUSE OF MURAGE AND WOKISM MURENGERS WHO GUARD ZEALOUSLY THEIR CULTURAL IMPRINT FOR IMPRIMATUR. LET US AUTHOR A NEW AGE THAT IS CONSCIENTIOUS OF IDIOSYNCRASY IN ACADEMIA AND WORKS AROUND THE HEDGES TO THAT EXCHEQUER OF ASCERTAINED BELIEFS THAT THE TOTEMS OF SCIENCE BENEATH US PREVENT A BARYEICOIA OF REITERATIVE AGITPROP OF BACKPIECES NOTARIZING A FICTITIOUS WORLDVIEW THAT BLARES IN DEFIANCE OF THE FACTS BECAUSE OF SUBORNED AGENDAS OF THE WEIGHAGE OF THE STEVEDORES THAT MANUFACTURE OUTRAGE TO MOBILIZE POLITICAL BARNSTORMS THAT EVOLVE INTO GROSS TEMPESTS RATHER THAN REFORMED MOVEMENTS THAT CONSERVE THE MOMENTUM OF TRUTH IN AN INEXORABLE MARCH FORWARD TOWARDS THE LIBERATION OF THE BAHUVHRI IN THE HEYDAY OF ORIGINAL THOUGHT ANCHORED IN REALISM EVEN WITH SURREAL MAGNIFICATIONS OF ITS MOST MESMERIZING QUALITIES BECAUSE THE FUTURE DESERVES AN ACCOUNTABILITY IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES ON A GLOBAL SCALE THAT UNDERSTANDS POTAMOLOGY AND IMBREVIATES THE STOKEHOLDS OF JAWHOLES SO THEY SUSTAIN IMPETUS AND INSTRUMENTALISM TOWARDS PRODUCTIVE GROWTH RATHER THAN RANCID BLENCHES OF REGRESS UPON CAPITOL HILL.

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Kurt Philip Behm Nov 2021

The smoky structure of forgotten dreams,
buried in the breath of lost denial
Stealing from sleep what life rebukes
—disguising what the coming dawn reviles

(Dreamsleep: November, 2021)

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THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS Jun 2020

LIFE OF A LIVING HELL

I could no longer fool myself into believing someone truly loves me. My heart reviles what it feels that is keeping me so ill, this nightmare is real, I can feel the pains within, I can see things in darken dreams that come to me from another time, where the screams play upon my mind.
I can no longer bear it this loneliness without the existence of what is true and clean to what is right is messing with my mind. This life that I see is the life of a living Hell, where the old rusty bell wrings, Ding, ding ****, life isn't moving along.
Darkness is what makes the heart bleed even upon the mighty seas,
out in the coldness of their empty dreams that come to me in darken dreams. Oh, how my body craves to be loved and free from this painful nightmare that has been handed down to me.
My empty heart needs to belong to what is right, where true love once shined so bright in my life. I had read every book after book
To pass my time to easy my nights but my pains of loneliness still remain.- Judy Emery © 1981
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery

THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS POETIC JUDY EMERY

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Damien Ko Oct 2023

sublimate

when every thing is beautiful and nothing is
when your mind is pregnant and your tongue is thick
when the water laps laughing
when the thoughts come through like fine threaded guilt aqua regia
when angst sparks his ire and fuels yours
when its only four hours until his flight
when dehydration is your only plight
when pride and wrath and gluttony
when eat, pray, love rear their ugly heads
when the hand of salvation wriggles against you like an eel
when the greed churns upon your skin
boils and bile upchucked within
it turns and turns your sin
within and reviles the ones you want to win
who can't explain the words within
it fires and fires your unholy sin
within within within
within
I

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Landon Keys Jan 2021

Truth be told, who knows the truth?

As I replicate my thoughts
recollect my intentions
and
re-seize my emotions.

I find that
Time has a funny way of distorting things.

It
revives the life that
reveals the truth that
reviles a saint..

look at now
not then..
not when..

The only way that
time makes sense.

Man, men
mice, moose
it doesn't matter really

lose that thought.

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THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS Apr 2020

THE MOWING FIELD

I go up through the mowing field
while my poor heart reviles
it's old passions of long ago
the headless aftermath of the beating past
keeps hanging around like a necklace around my nick
the pain hovers over me like the clouds of gray
half closes is the garden path where you lay
I come to the garden ground
of sober birds sing
while my poor heartaches
I kneel down to pray
but my words were hard for me to say
Oh how much I love you
I do hope you known it
I do hope I gave my all to you
my tears I couldn't hold back
they came down like rain
On the ground the leaves
lingered with the breeze
sweeping them away softly
I end not far from my going forth
to pick up the faded blue rose
of long ago I have given to you on Your grave
Oh, how my poor heartaches for you
I just hang on to your love I once knew
I walk away with no more words I could say
But to put another in the other one's place
With a word, I will always love you.

Judy Emery © 1983
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery

DARKEN DREAMS POETIC JUDY EMERY

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— The End —