"ritually" poems
Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
Most schools have projects, in science classes and such.
Most of us, mastered the science of surviving in projects.
It's those at the bottom who need the most help, but cant even get proper school supplies.. where's the logic ?.
But oh, the rags to riches story is prevalent isn't it? Nope, the only rich I know is Professor Richard.
And that's not even something worth mentioning, he does more lessening than lessons lets paint the picture..
But these young kids don't understand, they try to curse them, place them in prisons, its a trap from birth..
Give them these Rick Rosses as role models, knowing they don't have fathers, instead of Tupac Shakur, showing them worth..
My bestfriend Tony once questioned his dark skin, just like i once questioned my brown.
how profound, a couple 4th graders at the time, having to prove that they were "down".
Crazy how Tony proved he was down, now i visit his site yearly on November the third.
And things aren't getting better, but nobody gives a **** haven't you heard..
The prayers our mothers chant, ritually every night.
Praying to the Sun gods, perhaps one day we'll all unite.
-afj
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Taking Flight
Soar Off The Ground
And We Were Lost To Be Found
Fly Above Commotion
Fueled By Emotion
Transition To The Ocean
An Abyss
Of Bliss
Because The Sky I Kissed
Let Me Drowned
There Was No Sound
Just A Geometric Playground
Dissipate Now
To Euphoric Dust
Empathy
And LSD
Ritually
Taken So Compassionately
Passionately
Lucid
Confused By This
Cosmic Dream
Tore From The Seams
Pathless
But I Let Go Of This
Let Go
Just To Flow
To Melodic Assumptions
Melody Had Me Elated
The Light Sensation
Liquid Creations
Creating Aquatic
Sounds Of The Sonic
Vibrations
Vibrating
Dilating
Pupils Dilated
And It Reflects Back To Me
Reflect The Patterns To My Moves
And I Move With The Motion
Loved And Infinite.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
That ***** Named Desire
I had a succubus try to take my seed
in a dream today
I broke the connection and said
***** you gotta pay to playyyyyyy
You so used to controlling my desires
well, NOT ANYMORE
Best get on your knees and call me sire
“Sir you have the floor”
I wage war on the empire
of the realm of desire
So if you conspire to be in my line of fire
Don’t say I didn’t tell you,
You’ve earned my Ire.
The rhythm of my war drum goes:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Mah heart BEATS ta da Rhythm of the
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
Dreeeeeiiim
We illuminate truth, or sooo it seeeeeeeeeeeeim
But still.....
The rhythm of my war drum BEATS:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
So I wage war on the realm of the evil fae
Ima PURIFY da demons until
dey take me away (screamed)
Bleed out into LIFE;
reverse the vampire effect
place succubi in a hearse
and drive them straight ta deaph
cause lately You been drivin me crazy
and making my will, focus, an determination
sooo haeeezzzzy
But NO MORE
cause now Its time to
Settle DA SKORE
Ritually open my wounds
and bleed acid on you
Don’t worry theres enough
cause your hackneyed and few
Ima chase the Daemons off
Smoke my dreads to their lungs
and make dem young cough
so offten I put em in a hot-boxed coffin
Now your outta breath
But im just not stoppin
huh (echo(
whats this? whats this....(echo(
Claws,
talons,
teeth,
and uh oh
Blood barrels stacked Its a wierd supply depot,
for that army growin
and growlin behind your eye, see though....
They Perma-
on your shoulders,
and now mine, Truth Show
!!!!!!1111RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!!!!!!!11
So my wings tear free of my back
For so long they’ve been bound and compact
I look to my lovers and brothers and CRy
Stand!
Pick up your weapons,
Humanity,
Its time to act
A TRUMPET BLOWS,
BEATING WINGS
THE DRUMS CONTINUE INTO THE DISTANCE
The rhythm of my war drum goes:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Mah heart BEATS ta da Rhythm of the
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
Dreeeeeiiim
We illuminate truth, or sooo it seeeeeeeeeeeeim
But still.....
The rhythm of my war drum BEATS:
BOOM BOOM KAT TiS KAT
OHHHHM
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
It might be the pungent steam from a ***
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.
However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the ****
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.
Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:
The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.
The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.
The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."
Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.
The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 2:54 PM UTC
i wear my religion like i wear my makeup.
i put it on when i’m suppose to.
my face shines with the highlight
of the Holy Spirit on my cheekbones.
lipstick stains a bible verse which
i use for every circumstance
“God” throws at me.
i line my eyes with the blackness
of my heart and i let “God” flick it
out into a wing at the end.
after awhile though my skin
grows weary and itchy.
i can feel every pound of makeup
that cakes my face.
a single wet wipe no longer
works to dislodge the
uncomfortableness
in my pores.
i bathe in rose-scented oils
and steam my face
ritually.
everything is off.
my flaws are showing.
makeup use to be fun
when i wasn’t wearing it
for other people.
now social media lets me know
that i must contour my cheeks
with a prayer that starts with,
“dear lord,” and ends
with, “amen.”
in order to be in my family’s good
graces i must have faith in
myself but
mustn’t be prideful.
you must not use a mirror to put your makeup on.
your eyebrows should be
arched and ready to
defend,
not yourself,
but “God”
if questioned.
when you find a boy
who says he likes makeup
you must not pursue him.
he is not worthy of your highlighted face.
love yourself but
also put your
makeup first.
sculpt the nose
define the face
overline the lips.
do all that you can
to hide your real face.
make your skin scream
to be let free.
and when you take
your makeup off,
make sure to
moisturize
because your skin
has to look great when
it is drowning in
foundation.
take care of your skin
but it also doesn’t matter
so paint your face once more.
bat your eyes.
pout your lips.
but don’t be lustful.
because your religion is like your makeup...
so cake it on like a fake facade.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
Here I write some recipes,
From our anti--football league,
How to cook a football totally,
Must boil it for twelve hours, ritually,
Then you can dice it and fricassee,
Or maybe bake, broil, and grill,
What won't fatten, shall fill,
Or you can make mini-football custard, eh,
Chocolate footballs in a bowl, let's say,
We call it Footy Iles Flotante,
Star sweet in the anti-football restaurant!
Then a recipe for Grand Final Day, swell,
It's called footy Croquembouche Noel!
Hear the anti-footballers yell!
You, too, can write recipes,
For the Anti-football Society,
It's like dining at the Waldorf Astoria,
Anti-football recipes from Melbourne, Victoria!
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
seductive whispers in my ear
tell me that the hour is near
dreams and fantasies become reality
as we decide to explore them romantically
you look into my eyes as i bite your lip satanically
forcing our bodies to meet underneath the sheets
rough enough but never too much
but sometimes even further
as you ****** yourself up to hear me scream a little louder
my divine elixir transforms your mind
to keep one goal in mind
as you slide inside
deep enough so that our bodies align
and then a chill gradually defines the groove of my spine
my legs wrap around you and we intertwine
in this bed we call our shrine
a place where you ritually worship me
to every degree
a thrill for the moment
ravaged completely in moaning
i draw my head close
and you beg for the next dose
while i dig my nails into your back
and we lose track of time
in between feelings that have been neglected
for so long
the rhythm of our motions have perfected
our heart's favorite song
and we climb into a world of heavenly ecstasy
desperate to be set free from what's wrong
yet nothing in this sinful instant is inaccurate
your only desire now is to smother me
in your fire of lust
that inspires
******* taking us higher than we've ever been before
floating on satisfaction from a passionate reaction
i need everything you have to offer
in order to feel a little calmer
and as we approach our final conflict
it feels amazing to reach it
i realize now i am an addict
for the love that surrounds me
and then pounds me into submission
until we reach our ultimate transition
and peacefully... let go...
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
I feel tender and raw
like the patch of skin I
ritually pick at
every morning,
a red and swollen circle
I barely notice anymore.
It's tucked away from the mirror
but my fingers find it
with practiced ease,
and as the sun rises
I bleed out the nightmares from hours earlier.
I did laundry last night.
The warm smell of clean sheets makes me sad.
I can't explain it
but I bury my nose in my pillow
and fold myself under the sheets
and the cotton on my skin
feels thick and tough.
Another injection is due this week.
I find relief in the fact
because my skin feels empty,
and walking around sore
and leaking oil from my thigh
is better than nothing.
I made a list of pros and cons
in my mind on the bus this morning,
but the pros fell short
and I fell out of love
with the rain's tinny sounds on the metal above my head.
I am tired.
I am always tired.
I don't try to stop it anymore.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Was life truly; ever so sweet,
As in the sun-worshipped, One World,
Beneath feathery banners, all unfurled,
Celebrated rhythm of the Mexica beat,
Applauding the gods with dancing feet,
While eagerly anticipating the final breath,
Of the honoured warrior’s, flowery death.
Lost ancient world, carved in stone,
Temples and plaza’s of grandiose plan,
Before the great pyramid of Tenochtitlan,
From lowliest slave to the highest throne,
Gathered before gods to whom they atone,
With obsidian blade priests begin the flood,
Of a sacrificial ceremony sealed with blood.
But do not weep for the ritually slain,
Or condemn this misunderstood race,
This culture both in and out of place,
Who flourished before interference from Spain;
Immoral inquisitions wielding torture and pain,
Led by Cortez’s murderous gold greed,
Condoned by religion’s, fanatical need.
A pyrrhic victory for invading Spanish-whites,
Conquistadors, who murdered, pillaged and *****
A savage slaughter that not even children escaped,
Brave Mexica vanquished in the one sided fights,
A nation revelling no more during hot sultry nights,
A lost civilization weeping for countless lost lives,
And yet, and yet . . . Mexica spirit; forever survives.
©Paul Chafer 2014
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
self distructions a daily high
i watch hundreds implode ritually
cant make sense of the masochism
we perpetuate so consistently
theres a thousand eyes watching the cracks in the floor
ignoring this noose around my neck
theres a thousand ears with headphones in
ignoring their own cries for help
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 2:47 PM UTC
I dream of you,
by a white oak tree.
I dream of you, i dream of you, i dream of you.
There is a ribbon tied to the tree.
I don't know the connection, but suddenly it is lost.
You open your mouth and there are words flying through the air,
gaps between your teeth,
pauses in your ribs,
and i still can't see your face.
I dream of you in a white shirt,
beige trousers.
Pretty bland, holding out your hand.
But i am not on the ground, i think you cannot see me,
I am flying up here, my darling,
up where i am free.
I have no tether, i am not portable,
I am free.
I dream of you, i dream of you.
I dream of you where there is no keyboard in my hands.
Where my fingers can touch you,
Where i can connect to you from within and without,
and you can feel my skin to yours.
But there are words floating around me in the air,
I cannot breathe,
I am scared.
I dream of you.
Silently i dream of you.
Obstinately i dream of you.
Sacredly i dream of you.
Ritually i dream of you.
Petulant i dream of you.
As only dreamers can do,
As only lovers can do,
when dreams are love,
and i am a bright red balloon.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
White washed wood
with a whistling rush of wind.
Where rounds of woodchuck beer
past the rustling of chips and laughter.
Empty bottles, elaborated clinks.
Even every inch of eager filled smiles
covers the thoughts of enamored hearts;
Entrusted with faults and sorry's to be accepted.
Are the ancient artifacts,
again the reason we think that trust is best?
A beer is best passed along with time.
Here's the drink, calm down please.
Resting in reverie,
is this really what we pretend it to be?
Requesting solace from a drink and company?
Ritually wrought instincts and partially rellished revelations.
You'd never understand if it wasn't for being young.
Yearning for years and solemnly sought
yells and whispers.
Please, I'm tired, hand me another beer.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
They tried to convince me
that Cadillacs are a valuable
commodity
And it's perfectly normal
to erase my imperfections
ritually
That water from bottles
are for my health
not to generate
wealth
Try to convince me
that eating protein
is the only way to
build a strong man
And that people
can be classified
by their brands
They try to convince me
that they are what I need
but their shackles
cannot lock onto me
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
When the sun stops shining
And the thunder starts
When the winds start blowing
And the hope departs
Stones and ashes, blood and bones
All remains buried and broken
Walking necropolises
And seemingly lovestruck zombies
Loving in despair
**** your heart before you love
Loving in despair
When the seas stop grinding
And sickness arrives
When the orbits dwindling
Shall all collide
Cruel and despondent slaughter
Ritually cannibalistic
Talking brevities of pain
And seemingly awestruck corpses
Loving in despair
**** your heart before you love
Loving in despair
When the stars are exploding
And the dreams shatter
When the trees stop flowering
And the Earth denies all
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
White like the North
and the cold places on the earth
my great grandfather was fond of
over-proof *** and
caribbean sailor blue waves
His Nigerian goddess bore him
nine children
pretty little barefoot toffee skinned children
scampering through sugarcane fields
and tall tropical grasses
the lilting sound of their voices
playing on balmy breezes
My Aunt Glo remembers him well
strolling about with his switch and
stiff upper English lip
he governed the immense rural
Jamaican plantation in St. Elizabeth
around the end of the Nineteeth century
Everyone called him Pupa and his
wife Muma
I don't know much about Muma
except that her mother was an
enslaved person and that she
had to tolerate the insult of ritually
hiding her mixed children when
Pupa's mother, Lady Bush
flounced into town with her entourage
There is an old photograph of
the two of them:
Muma in white frock seated,
her eyes drooping brown sparrows
Pupa with his switch, pocket watch
and far away eyes
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
In the quiet of the morning, heavy with mist, rabid with scents
a woman settled in the copse meditating amongst the fleeting mice
and secretive rabbits, the bee and butterfly. What was she thinking
of on such a humid day? Her features relaxed, a smile lingering
over her lips, eyes opening and shutting ritually,
the sun poking its frazzled head above the half-light, the grass
heavily hung with dew. This was our goddess, still alone, still alive,
a thousand years after her demise, battered by crosses and incantations,
holy water and an ever-present authoritarian god searching the land
for sacrifices. I watched for several hours.
In that time, that uneventful time, she grew older, flesh flaking away from her opaque bones,
the sun slicing through. Within hours,
her presence vanished, earthbound, seeking to emerge once more within the millennium
exhorting religion's timely death; with once again irrepressible love, life and joy
freely restored. As darkness fell
her shade morphed into a seed, sinking slowly into the soil.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Unwind within me.
Oh pain,
I knotted you up,
Crudely looped and tore at you,
Yet your strands were too strong,
Those ropes that bit into my flesh
Bound my wrists, held my legs.
I knotted you up
Into a bundle I could hold
Look at and investigate
Gain comfort from keeping you in my sights.
Better than not knowing your devious work
Not knowing which parts of my life
You were immobilizing.
I know you now,
I can see where you begin,
That frayed end,
Yet in the midst of the knots
I can’t find your resolution.
As I try to unwind you
Work this pain through
It is like trying to feed thread
through the eye of a needle.
These knots have become a hindrance
Trying to feed you through my mouth
Onto a page,
and now holding you has gained it’s own kind of pain
like I may never be rid of you.
I pray, unwind within me
Flee from me for I have had my fill,
Yet I know you won’t
For it was I who knotted you up,
So I must sit here and ceremoniously,
Ritually, unbind you.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
Came home again today
monotonous words were ritually exchanged.
She's always chipper and he's always severe,
I no longer feel at home with him near.
Do some things out of obligation,
avoid some things with procrastination,
do my best to avoid aggravation
by focusing on product accumulation.
Then watch some TV
though I find it boring,
it passes the time
and distracts from reality.
Get drawn towards the pantry
the fridge calls my name
I eat because the alternative
seems impossible, so I'm put to shame.
So I give in, as usual,
then feel disgusting.
Wallow for a while, then
get on with life.
Wait for the cycle to
take over my mind and body
again.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
It don't
mean
nothin'
until we make it up,
lean in to me, we think
we have ra tov wisdom
understanding with science,
we can hold this thought,
we can think this thing
though we see ghosts
roughly speaking gh aha silent
though through ghost thoughts
ghuking unholy common thoughts,
be spoken letters letting us just think,
ritually, just right,
the spin and the coherency, being
on point, this point, perceptual me
happening
in ever after you before me were in
ever after ever before at this point,
right
here, prior to the ritual pending,
the core correction essential for me,
loosing as
some part of me wishes to be ready
to be read and held as true, self evident,
pre-
sent from beauty and truth, to prove us both
here
body and soul, all the people think they know,
but, really,
the word of life, in truth, divides soul from spirit,
the form
between us tonight, the distance sensed
the thought let live in lines I find tying me in one
mind
both hands in flux… dancing letters, keys to this
letting
next experience inside, to know my measure, mete
for me, she who balances he who wished to pray,
letters let us take
and receive, in truth, our daily bread, and essential
other formal additions to daily bread alone, water,
with fire
power, rain and lightning, and ozone smell, or
"petrichor," ichor of stones, groundust wetted
with
gigantic drops, drumming on a tin roof.
-------------------
Look, man, this is what I do. Two hand writing machine
interface taking my worth to the scale
we need for trade,
my best, my easy peacock cry
for help, look
into my eyes,
see we no longer wished
for what we have, so we have it.
Yes, for now.
the time gone riverwise, flows past
into tomorrow, when I go
to the rest and relaxing place
introspecting expecting lost knacks patience
perfect. just in time, not for ever.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 9:32 PM UTC
are oilers tickets available Tyson
*** you heard i was doing the same **** and it was believable
i project myself in the arena
and the oilers take the game
i heard you got a new girl now
and you never told nobody
whats some other **** people say around me
my sisters saypseudo intellect
and that its by way of control and predict
if i was ever to be a killer it would be ritually sick
i gave a devious look
but it wasn't like im twisted
i knew my cousin wasnt a ******
the instance that we met
al wondered how much of my last poem
was just said so it would fit
or wait itd be better if i regress
so i could remember every moment
with a better working head
cat doesn't believe at all im not wasting ******* breath
i cant tell these delusions from each other
so i end up out of breath
Andrew casman says im just somebody you gotta just accept
brad says share it with the world, we haven't killed you yet
he says when this does end
itll re hardwire in my head
i think im overdue this year my illness is turning ten
they gave me the antigen to purge the chemical
from in me
iu was waiting twice and felt so nice
until it crept its way back in me
logan mentioned that its no wonder id be an *******
after only thinking nice for so **** long
and before tony passed away he said i wasnt a bad guy all along
the list goes on and on a reoccurring problem
my conscious stir ups judgements
of the people i see most often
kassie roan said b.cs smoking crack
for thinking that im awesome
al said my conscience is a good reveal
of my inner psychies problems
there i tweaked that thought
to correspond with what im talking
Kenny says theirs a paradox between
the surface and what hides inside the closet
interesting theory Kenny
it deserves to be acknowledged
while my mom wants me to promise
that ill live a life of promise
its so hard to make a promise mom
when the talkings always constant
i take shots to stop the talking
but it s always same old topic
i cant walk into Walmart shopping
*** im bombarded by your *****
i developed life this way modeled
it to be un godly
now you know my symptoms
feel free to keep on talking
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
People don't seem to understand
I ritually expand
Outshine when I take a stand
Listen carefully & comprehend
I spit real so you know the deal
Wasting no time staying on my grind
Never fall behind so I don't pretend
Instead I defend the laws
Deriving from high command
Mother earths in high demand
Advanced individual recognized spiritual
Intact physical gifted fallen spirits
I uplifted drifted from the ways of mankind
For a moment I was blind
Now I'm fine I'm one of a kind
Imperial emporer with an Aztec Mind
Something I refuse to leave behind
Ancestors buried treasures
Difficult to find
As my story begins to unfold
My heart forms ice cold
Ancient stories never told
So behold now pause & take a deep
Breathe there's no escaping
Everyone awaits death
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
500 years ago,
On a shoreline in northern Peru
More than 140 children,
Were ritually sacrificed,
Their chests sliced open,
From the sternum,
And their hearts ripped out,
Literally, all in one day.
In America over 5000 catholic priests
Have been reliably identified,
As child rapists,
And that's just since 1950.
And only in one country.
Over 300,000 child soldiers exist today.
The worst of the worst,
Had to ****** their parents,
On the day of their abduction.
Think about cutting open your father's throat,
And watching him bleed at your feet.
Over 30% of child soldiers are girls.
This poem won't trend,
Almost no one will care,
And I am certainly no saviour.
But somehow, someday, somewhere,
The essence of us must change.
Only art can save us.
I know that now.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC