"rituals" poems
∴
A signifying monkey grunted
(keyboard-clever, morals stunted)
from his perch in a digital tree.
And next, did text (quite rapidly):
“Courtship rituals won’t suffice.
Face-to-face can’t break the ice.
Instagram me! Tweet me up . . .
friend me, like me, buttercup.
Sentences are so outmoded—
take too long to get decoded;
primate sexting hits me faster,
steers me towards your hot disaster.
Female monkeys: send an image.
(Ain’t got time for useless verbiage…)
if your snout just might unseat me
tweet me, greet me—don’t delete me.”
Then, unpeeling fresh banana,
searched his screen for Vox Humana. . .
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
the witches
they don't take no ****
feminists with a wand
made from a femur
wrapped in ***** hair,
fingernails, and spit
no
not good little passive girls
although amused by a good spanking
for laughs that titillate
from a red wicked dicked old man
with slippery fireballs
like a spicy cherry pepper
that slurps filths coves
through a black tongue
and open-mawed bite
Femdom's queens
oiled torsos and bond fires
drenched ornaments for laughing snakes
that spread like spider webs
while the whips flash licks
hells tender blood kiss
insatiable prayers
and
************ rituals
mixed like bones in broth
with intricate sigils and saliva red
menstruum her holy sacrament
that shapeshift crones into young girls prancing
and bind water to stones
her spell can crack your skull
like a mules kick
and melt your eyes
like nuclear skies
no
the witches
they don't take no ****
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis
Look at the
Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
Hiring hands.
We walked,
Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
This heat?
Forget Vulcan
And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
A rip tide
On the shore
Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
Pretending to swim
Underground,
But only out
Of pure respect.
Some had boots
Made with
The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
Others wore suits
With goggles
Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
Waves of S and P
Flailed away
Like flags.
One nation
Under a new.
No one looked away
From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
I am in a constant battle for control.
I am hard to deal with
because my therapist says
OCD will not rest
OCD does not care what time it is
OCD does not care where you are
OCD does not care who is watching.
Usually when I obsess over things
I see my life falling to shambles
I see people not loving me anymore
I see germs sneaking into my skin.
When my uncle, my aunt, and my friend all died
in a matter of three months,
i performed rituals every hour on the hour
sometimes even more.
My therapist says this will not go away.
My therapist says to come see her so we can try to cope with this.
My therapist does not understand that WE are not coping.
I am coping
not her
not anyone else
me.
My therapist is a sick person
she is still recovering from alcoholism
so how can she help me
if all she sees is a bottle of bourbon when she looks at me.
I am not a bottle of bourbon
I am a bottle of OCD and depression and anxiety
I am a bottle of drugs and alcohol and death
I am a bottle being smashed over your head
I am not coping
I am drowning
And people have stopped loving me
And my life is falling into shambles
And I think I may be getting sick
so what the **** are these rituals even doing for me
anyway.
I have stopped taking medication because
wanting to die has become habitual
and I fear that will become a ritual too.
If I die
all people will talk about is how much they loved me
even if they didn't.
If I die,
there will be no room to have my life fall to pieces
because I will be in peace.
If I die,
I cannot get sick because the soil
will be taking care of my body but
who will perform my rituals
once I'm gone?
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
As Autumn approaches,
my mind drifts to the decaying leaves,
Halloween,
the cool, crisp breeze...
The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with
death—
that Summer must always go.
And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations
for an exalted Spring.
Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay—
like a host who lectures his party guest for too long
so he won't look at his watch.
Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills!
Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa,
the misty light rain in the gray of the morning,
the high canopy of fleshy red flakes!
And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed
with sacred rituals and good company.
I need Autumn personified—
a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl.
A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm.
Someone comforting like oatmeal.
Someone surprising like the first day of school.
I need Autumn.
I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
*
Krishna asked, Romeo asked, Majnun asked
Rumi asked, Rabia asked, Kabir asked
"Who are you to make me sick?"
And the reply came in my BELOVEDz voice
**"I am LOVE; My purpose is to
Steal you away from your LIFE"**
"WHAT?"
They all asked in one voice
LOVE replied in my BELOVEDz voice:
"I steal your heart
I steal your peace
I steal your sleep
I steal your life
Secretly I make possible
For BELOVEDz and LOVERz to meet
Then I reside in your eyes
Glancing at each other
I pierce into your SOUL
I steal your heart-beats
I give goosebumps to you
I weaken your knees
I make you feel dizzy
I create butterflies in your stomach
I make you dream beyond LIFE
**"I am LOVE; My purpose is to
Steal you away from your LIFE"**
No one knows my story
I come from nowhere
I go nowhere
People think I'm a crazy phenomenon
But I'm mystical & meta-physical form of
Nature - many call it God/dess
I am all around YOU
I am all pervading
I fill your lungs with oxygen
I am the CO2 you emit
I make you see stars in daytime
I make you intoxicated without liquor
I make you search for a falling star
I make you kiss dewdrops on flowers
No one is as existential as me
I've changed the cosmos with my presence
I've transformed animals into humans
Those people who are still animals
I transit them towards humanity
If you are not in LOVE yet
You are still part of ignorant animal life
I make everyone lose their fear
I make humans play a dangerous game
I create rebellion and revolution
I make humans swim ocean of fire
I make meek person brave & courageous
To revolt against out-of-date rituals/ traditions
Once I make my home within two humans
Even though they live afar
I don't let the BELOVEDz and LOVERz
Stay away for a single moment
I make them fly into LOVE dreamz
Without a pause, without a stop
I make them write poems and sing songs
I am seen on earth, I am seen in sky
I am seen in desert, I am seen in oceans
I am seen in flowers, I am seen in moon
I am seen in clouds, I am seen in rains
I am seen in darkness, I am seen in light
**"I am LOVE; My purpose is to
Steal you away from your LIFE"**
*
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
my darkest poems
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
a well of torments
soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
gorgeous
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling **** lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures
********
once
exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
putrefied
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils
because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment
while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas
out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
suicides
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us
humanity
muffled ticks
and splintered sticks
my poems let my demons out
yoo who its me
my name is spray snake z
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies
in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted
to be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold
bind it not
nor let it bind you*
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
I remember her.
On days like these,
she would light up
a few oriental sticks
to make our house
smell like lavender.
On days like these,
she would make some tea.
She had her own rituals,
she dried some herbs,
by the window,
and,when i think about it ,
her hair smelled like lavender.
On days like these,
she would take long showers,
and sit by the fire,
waiting her hair to dry,
and i would kiss her skin,
and touch her body,
which had a scent of lavander.
On days like these,
she would stay until dawn,
to watch the snow fall,
her soul had traces of lavander.
On days like these,
she would lay in bed,
she would talk to me for hours,
until all the pillows and sheets
had a smell of lavender.
on days like this i would
bring home many gifts for her,
but i picked only the ones which
smelled like lavender.
This year she is gone,
but the snow...
it has bittersweet smell
attached to it,
a smell that is familiar,
it smells like lavender.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
complexity bias
how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex
poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews
Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%
perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -
give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences
I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces, you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied
25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born
there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future
this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden
my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder
my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under
so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority
you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions
resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length
compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
in a taut black dress
you brush by me
you are
dark summer fruit simmering hot
a sopping estuary
i gather you into me
you cascade like an undulating cat
giggles like trembling gelatin
cherry kiss lips
agile muscle shifting
pleating like soft furs
against my thunderous chest
your tremulous tongue rupturing
like spiced chrysanthemums from heaven
i inhale your lavender breath
your saliva melts stormy mouth up-leaping
i eat your soul
and paradise ********
licking honey rainbows
filling my mouth a thousand times
and a thousand more
its never enough when some one has your heart
suffocate me in your drooling mouth
your body is my aviary
and hot house of man eating plants
i run to your teeth
beautiful cleavers gleaming
shivering with excitement
from your dragging bites
my blood languishing at your feet
have no regard for me
eat my love
i live to be swallowed by you
i hold you through the night
all dire raptures
dark in mystic paradise
tangled in your hair
may mourning never find us
torrid scorched from flames infernal
black candles uncrossing pasts
devils **** your adoring toy
kisses never ceasing
hot weather nostrils steaming
your flexed body writhes
a royal contortion
your heart cleaving
so that i may like a sun
consume your darkest edges
bitter chocolate so sweet
to fill griefs mouth with ecstasy
my heart aches like a siren of echoes
calling to you
shaking your gates down
you are a titanic gravity
and i'm forever tumbling
like eternal burning ashes through cobalt night
it is a steep decent into heavens arms
as i crumble
all smashing diamonds
and hissing flames
into open wounds weeping glitter
your chin jutting
throat stretched
while pulling the roots of your hair
exposing arteries pulsing
stuffing myself on your marrow
you plume like a volcanic moon
showering me with spooling stars
and butter **** kisses
ill turn you into my glistening little *****
all swollen tears for more
rituals of adoration
kisses like monsoon rains
i look up at your supple form
your haunches my temple
worshiping you
smothered in heavens jaws
you cascading pantie-less
in a taut black dress
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
She tends her cactus garden,
beads of perspiration,
works with a maniacal absorption.
One of many visitors she receives
yet looking at each other's eyes
dawned this quick realization;
similar maniacal obsession and passion.
A tornado she was, self created,
in her swirl uprooted
many huge trees, even tombstones
by the sheer force unleashed,
with her poetic flourish.
Love of a crazy woman
with effervescent creative surge,
is a magical portion
brewed by a witch ,
in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night.
Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited
prompted to walk the garden path
holding hands of lovers, one after the other,
who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper
and at the end to a blind alley,
life was a tribal dance,
from where return was impossible.
She never had to apologize to her mate,
who for all the world to see, remained with her
till he went behind the curtain.
Imagine a life, a walk
through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip,
searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration.
Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions,
(There were many who walked with her for each adventure)
They met, poetry flowed like wine,
she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations,
she feared nothing, but her truth made many squirm.
Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch,
attained such fame.But all ended in a great betrayal,
she was deep down a naive woman,
craving for love, to immerse in it.
On occasions she would change identities
at will, she was one but many
there wasn't any one like her before or after.
They would walk through the witch's cactus patch,
somnambulists reciting poems,
when they are together, in private,
cactus spine criss- crossed his skin
her nail wrote poems on the back
of the lover of the moment,
each one bled like soldiers in combat.
One monsoon night brought
everything to an end,
the cactus garden was trampled by
big grey wolves, the journey
met with an abrupt end.
What is she, cactus herself,
vampire, witch, lover indefatigable,
with the heart of a lion?
Erotomaniacal poetic surge,
yet a fantasy in flesh and blood?
**They buried her
in a cactus garden away from town
not even ten people arrived to mourn,
not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon.
Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they
still shed tears,
cactus garden, it was---
the metaphor perfected by her life and death.**
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
A strange kind of people
whose hegemonic ways dictate
and justify them
to exhort their rituals upon outsiders
and breathe fire on those
who refuse.
They have people called Slareneg
whose job it is to decide the fate
of the outsiders.
They claim to be receptive
of foreign rites
but are known to somehow be able to
coerce others into
blindly discerning matters their way.
They even have a history of
confining their own,
the ones they care not for at least,
to do their bidding for them
even though they are of akin heritage.
These people also defecate in the same place
where they consume meals.
They are backwards.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
There are so many ways to worship the divine
Though my absolute favourite is in an abandoned parking lot
With fogged up windows to hide our devotion within
A temple of our own construction, and as sacred as the sin between our lips
As your hands roam the curves of my body, the fire within us ignites
Ready to sacrifice any and all logical thoughts
The rituals begin soon after in a rush to take our clothes off and I am nothing more than a humble offering
So you can drink me in like the finest of nectar, suited only for the gods
And finally the festivals commence with a tangle of limbs and a fight to keep ones breathe
Hands still explore as the fire burns hotter and before I know it you take me to the home of the gods
You welcome my acts of piety and respond in ways that make me see stars
My screams echo louder as your pace only quickens
And as the fire consumes us both
You take great pleasure in hearing your name being sung from my lips like a prayer
Satisfied by my worship you have no doubt in knowing which god my devotion belongs to
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 11:40 AM UTC
eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...
not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.
the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
R Red moon came to soon the red "Viper" love spoon
E Energy trembles hearts race eluding like the Dodge Viper
D Devil red ****** moons demolition Dodge of technology
M The moon of darkness dissolves like lava "Hot Male"
O Orderly overindulgence the moon at a comfortable rhythm
O Out of touch slowly getting back to your outstanding body
N New Age High noon time Eqyptian Nile moon neverending
S Shift of energy simplicity strengthens your existence
T Truly love for the family the moons makes a celebration
A- Able so articulate touch the moon lover fate
R Robin bird flies manifest the ruler the rider risque delighter
S Sensible and a seductive moon she is superstitious
C Circle of light sacred chalice not to be malice
An Amorous depth of feeling delicious Moon love key luxury
R Rituals turns to purity racing minds of sanity ♥ Car Vipers ♥
V Vampires blood moon lessons to be learned
I Ingenious Free yourself from anger all love inked
P Patience is a virtue Moon true Periwinkle blue
E Ecstasy the moon turns on the celebration of love
R Recollection of moon poems time to be Reborn
S Sensational Venus Soulmate of cars Sultry Valentine moon
I can't wait to come home soon that was a trip to my moon.
°• Dodge Viper •°”˜. zoomed off to the Red Moon
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
***All that mush
What's the fuss
Life is to live
Oh yes
Love it and live
Love you Zindagi
Love you Zindagi
A crazy you and a crazy me
Holding hands breaking rules
What a lovely pair together we make
Love you Zindagi
A simple smile and a twinkle in the eye
Take away the tears and banish the fear
A beautiful art , warms up the heart
I do what I like
And I like what I do
Right or wrong
Responsibility all mine
A Believer
More of spiritual
Forgive me , Oh Lord
Follow not too many rituals
I do what I like
And I like what I do
Works of a complicated mind
That's what you'd find
In retrospect
Reflect
Yet not regret
A quirky me
Yes that's true
And
Today I turn 42
Love you Zindagi
All that mush
What's the fuss
Life is to live
Oh yes
Love it and live
Love you Zindagi
Love you Zindagi***
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
A secret society founded as a dark, heavy rainstorm
loomed menacingly one night in November of 1888
over Boston University; Sarah Ida Shaw,
Eleanor Dorcas Pond, Isabel Morgan Breed
& Florence Isabelle Stewart sneaking in their
nightgowns into the dusty attic where Florence
swore she had seen three black cats sitting
in the rocking chairs talking; to humor their friend,
the others followed her up into the dark attic:
meaning only to frighten Florence, Eleanor
pulled a kitchen knife; the uncomprehending
Isabel & Sarah forcing the terrified [so they thought]
Florence to her knees; while there, eating the *****
of the knife-wielding Eleanor, who raising her stiff
nightgown told the others to do likewise until they all
were satisfied, shouting - meow meow meow meow -
old lady Murphy hollering up the attic steps: 'who's up there?'
the three girl giggling their little heads off running
past her down the stairs; Florence nearly tripping,
coming down a few moments later, also grinning
but silently to herself.
'what are u girls doing up there?' -
'playing w/ the cats,' said Flo, slipping past her;
'Cats! Cats!' shouted the old witch, rushing up the
stairs raising her broom [from that evening Delta Delta Delta (ΔΔΔ)
has met to lick talking black cats in secret college sorority rituals]
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
Neither in the vividness of the arches of a cathedral,
Nor in the dangling bells and echoing rituals of a temple,
Neither on the holiest banks of Nile or Ganges,
Nor among the peaks of the grandest Mountain,
There is no augury, there is no God, is there no God? And if there is,
Why are the eyes of lives haunted by the cruel dreams of disbelief?
Why is banishment tangled around the feet of a truth seeker?
Why the perverse thoughts and deeds ruling the Mankind?
Why the pious body and mind are today full of grief?
If there’s God, Why is this sea of cold blood on a high tide?
If there’s God, Why are the innocent lives being wasted?
If there’s God, Why are the good being handcuffed?
If there’s God, Why the darkness is today the source of light?
The slaps of violence on the face of peace is a sign of doom,
If there’s no God, then these drops of bloods cry for whom?
But GOD is that moment which is beyond knowledge and wit,
That one cipher which has taken centuries and yet not deciphered,
That one point of thought where the minds seize to think,
That one decision which stops a man from giving up,
That one drop of tear from the eyes of an Oppressed,
That one source of energy which makes us to take a stand,
That one voice of truth which demolishes the works of lie,
That one smile of innocence which equals a million shouts,
That one silver lining which makes us believe in ourselves,
Calls Aloud and makes us believe, that there is A GOD,
And He’s Everywhere, With everyone, and Will always be.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
The demon in me
It feeds on
************ rituals
***********
****** day-dreams
It searches
For prey
Finds
Sappy men
Who can't aquire
Someone their age
The demon pounces and recieves
It flaunts it's
Power
It's pride in the
Wrongness
And when
The real me
Returns
She is
A little
Less alive
And a little
More evil.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
The Luna Moth
The moon does not in fact wax anything,
She does not wane; she simply ever-is;
She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights,
A willing queen, and willingly obeyed.
The luna moth, her winged votary,
Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness,
Their moon-sent goddess from another world,
And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green,
Pheroming softly for some other moth
To come perform with her those rituals
Of love illogical, of sacrifice;
For all a luna moth can do is live
A summer week or so, but in those hours
She loves
In lunar beauty, strangely eternal
Who needs a dying luna moth?
We do.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 7:12 AM UTC
Life can be painless
Provided there is sufficient
Peacefulness
For a dozen or so rituals
To be repeated simply
Endlessly
Your genius does not fail you
It allows you to understand the
Truth of the situation;
Which makes you--at times--
more tragic than ever
And your genius,
like all geniuses
Suffers periodic fits
of monumental
naïveté
Hi-ho
Listen:
Where is Grace
When milk and blood
Are about to be added
To the composition of the
Stinking ping-pong
***** being manufactured
In Grand Rapids?
Schizophrenia
The sound and appearance
Of the word fascinates
It sounds and looks to me
Like a human being
Sneezing in a blizzard of
Soapflakes
This much we know:
You made yourself hideously
Uncomfortable by not narrowing
Your attention to details
Of life that were immediately
Important
And by refusing to believe what
Your neighbors believed
Hi-ho
Let your imagination continue
To be the flywheel on the
Ramshackle machinery of the truth.
But not the ‘awful’ truth
The ‘beauty’ in truth
Because we are a part
Of a system that is very
Restless,
With people tearing around
All the time
Every so often,
somebody stops to put up
A monument
Ours is a country where
Everybody is expected to
Pay his own bills for
Everything,
And one of the most
Expensive things a person
Can do is get sick
Grace:
Because if we stay here
We’ll do one of two things
(or both!)
Build a Commune
Or do like Collin Heise did:
Make the main thing that we
do be this:
Move seventy-eight
Thousand pounds of olives
To Tulsa, Oklahoma
Even if we can’t
Improve the quality of our surroundings
We’ll do our best to make our
Insides beautiful instead
Piebald Roadtrip-writing, baby
Hi-ho
You are the turtle
able to live anywhere
even under water for short periods
With your home on your back
A particular comfort in
Realizing that it so often feels
There is no order in the
World around us
That we must adapt ourselves to
The requirements of
Chaos instead
Remember:
We are healthy
Only to the extent that
Our ideas are
Humane
To you
To me
To ourselves
To We
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
I dream of innocence
of days long spent
beneath summers sun
a Carpenters son
and royal daughter
a Queen and a martyr
one girl one boy
eyes fuse like alloy
caught in a sudden trance
a courtship dance
loves hypnotic rituals
of star filled visuals
white lights against black night
white Knight versus black Knight
this is now a game of chess
strategizing what to do next.
Three is a crowd
how I wish he wasn't around
your first mistake
so I sit and wait
for the nightmare to be over
for my Knights mare to save her
I already know the pain she's due
it's as old as the sun, this rain isn't new
nothing washes away infidelities sinning
nothing can make them white sheets of linen
once innocence is lost like paradise
if only you took another roll at the dice
maybe fate is predetermined numbers
and maybe innocence only exists in slumber
maybe it was lost at birth
maybe it's just an ancient curse
inherited from days long ago
maybe we were never white as snow.
But still I have this martyrs cause
yet still I never really give pause
the Knight that sacrifices for his Queen
for he has already witnessed all to be seen
history repeating itself
Déjà vu sapping our health
reincarnated pain
can the black Knight ever be slain?
or is it just another side of the coin
everyone is still curtain drawing
hiding from the dark
the day that's lost its spark
black night only masks the sun
black Knight versus the Carpenters son
but white lights appear in the sky
the white night is there when we die
when our numbers finally up
when our slumber finally stops
the ending of the night
maybe we aren't really Knights
maybe we are all just pawns
so innocence can be reborn.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC