"sainthood" poems
I do not want the sainthood you assign to those
who have never let you down
I want the ***** gritty scabs that come from falling
off of pedestals and landing in the mud
I am in no need of your righteous tongue
I am in need of your caring shoulder
of your love
of your grace moving through me as you kiss my thigh
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC
while you were singing in the churchyard
i was sleeping in the ***** barn
beside a withered picture of an astronaut
and a long beard filled with street secrets
while you were burning up in sainthood
i was screaming into a melancholy leaf
wearing sweat on my miserable *****
and a liar's grin on my face
while you were murdering your wife
i was milking this dream for all the light
and i thanked god on bended knee
saying you're a turtle dove in an icebox
while you martyred yourself into the ocean
i carried you with me on my road to freedom
like an aligator stomped hard by a mockingbird
or a mermaid shot full of antibirth tablets
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
I shall love diners after Death
Famished from a million mile trek
Soft dances, whimsical, flowing
All in time and in step
Effervescent in its antiquity
Light penetrates the vociferate soul
A blinding silhouette Reveals the true physique
casting no shadows
back, at last, back to the harmony &
surrealism of our sacrarium, our home
no more hours to waste away
nothing to signifying
night from day
no need to search for words to convey
As we began we return just as we should
our recrudescence revivifies our sainthood
with No judgment charged upon us
with no reward for the good
neither condemned are the noxious
immoral nor the many many absurd
For those deleterious malignant calamities
must remain incarcerated on Earth
from whence it came
As we Return once again
soul cleansed in beatific death
The physical abandoned with sin
The dead left unknown,
un birthed
Shut in
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
laced with lovers lonely thoughts,
We prowl.
a handful of shadowed sinners
veiled by the illusions of sainthood,
We lie.
etiquette adapts to enchant.
laugh to lure, touch to trap,
We ******
clothes clutter the carpet.
with the courtship climaxing,
We ****
before the sun can show your shame,
We leave.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
again you drag me out the depth of forever
to sing a song of light
to all who are left standing and those who are not
I try to hear what hearts are saying
birds in flight
all committed to one or another
love of gold and silver power lust and fight
Innocence and Sainthood
Way down on anyones mind
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
A philosopher is one who
strives to think new & original
thoughts; I think you need to
rethink your views on
Christianity...or philosophers;
And I get to say this, because
I was raised Catholic; In church,
every single week, we open up
a book that has not changed
in about 2000 years; I was raised
in an Irish-Italian & Hispanic
neighborhood & lived across the
street from Our Lady of Good
Council, I got to see them all
suffer & most go straight to Hell;
I used to fantasize about being in
the Spanish Inquisition & going
on Crusades slaughtering Infidels
& joining the Knight's Templars;
****** killing & pillaging, then
retiring to a quiet life of Sainthood
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
passerby words plain hidden
in a wall sconce of a
fly-bye compliment,
sent to the thankee intended,
creating an instantaneous,
Slam! Bam! Thank You Man!
yeah come , face slap me,
with open palm instant recognition,
there's a poem lurking therein, within,
that uncommonly good common observation,
like hearing a drill bit roar,
demanding with insistent persistent demandation,
"come out, come our, wherever you are"
the good lord makes 'em in
all kinds of shapes and flavors
then makes sense, most eminent,
to favor the good kind,
who go on marching in our number,,.
no claim here to good,
certainly not, sainthood,
that would be quite the hoot,
so settle, man, do settle
in and for the right kinda,
nothing could be finer,
than to be
in the company
of
my kin and kindred,
the kindest,
y'all
God bless all...
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
(Or Bi-Polar Disorder)
I. Depressive phase-
I love you for your kindness first,
then for the peace in your eyes.
How could anyone as sure as you
not be the one sent to save me?
But save me from what?
From doubt? From myself?
You are God’s gift to me yet
I can't help it sometimes
I picture myself ten years down
the line with you not caring
and me destitute and homeless,
living on the streets, alone.
*When the transition comes
I see it come and embrace it,
picking up speed it screams over me
like a snow white avalanche,
a huge chemical ****** in my brain
that cannot be stopped.*
II. Manic phase-
Here I like to entertain myself
with vain fantasies of sainthood.
I’m standing and waving
to the faithful in Piazza San Pietro,
doing what’s necessary to secure
my martyr’s destiny in the after life
where I’ll have a place of honor
in the great hall of God, and through
a window in the floor I’ll be able
to see my mourners
filing past my gaudy reliquary,
crossing themselves as they gaze through
the philatory glass at the peaceful repose
of my sequin studded bones.
*I have come to understand that
this matter may never be settled.
I’d truly give anything for you
to have power enough to hold me
in the middle, to hold me in
the purple fog nothingness
but I believe it tires you
to prop up a puppet all day.
You’d rather love me in each moment
which is the truest love there is
and that makes me the luckiest
man on the face of the Earth.*
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
it was in the darkness that i found her
there by the dry fountain
its basin gathered the paper thin years
like withered leaves
like soul searching written with her lips
like a castle keep penned with the inks of my regrets
the dry fountain flowed once upon a time with a rich river of
all manner of worldly beasts
the fabled ones and the forgotten ones
and their tales like tapestry's woven with heart strings
now the dry fountain was her home
she bid me take my leasuire for a moment from my fleeing
so my bone thin horse could rest his weary heart
i offered her coins in gratitude for her shelter
with a gentle hand she turned such aside
and instead took my hand
and withdrew the pen embedded in my skin
and said to me that
'each dawn requires a darkness with which to begin'
she began with fragments of me
i tried in vain to be the candle that holds back the shadows
but in truth she is venus finding gentle sweet sainthood in her repertoire
like a frail swan of the ethereal grace
she wanted only to see the glory days to return to this place
to see the fountain flow once again
see its thriving life and its deep magics of the heart
we spent that winter camped there gathering each paper thin tomb
and placing them at the alter of the written word
but to no avail
the days had fallen to cold stone
and not even the brilliant light she shed soulshine and heart
could revive the dry fountain
the last i saw her she had glanced back from her road leading away
with a kind woman's smile she gives to friends
she once said i was too reckless with my heart
now i knew what she meant
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
If Charlie Parker
Could hang his hopes
That someone
In some lost corner of history
Could blow a soaring reunion
With birdland fingers
Tremble dancing in flock
Then in this sapphire of an evening
His old ghost
Is pushing thermals for
These wings of notes to wander in
As they search for some secret progression
That unlocks the amber stairway
To the burgundy heaven of jazz
Drink long enough and swint your eyes
And you might almost mistake the
Stage lights for halos
This was a resurrection in B flat
That curved its broken body into the great throat of god
And begged us to come drink deep
From the red wine redemption of his voice
What else could we do but fill our glasses
And sip our way into sainthood
Off the liquid sound of heavens saxophone
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
internet wingnuts...
nah nah nah whatcha thinkin?
whatcha thinkin....you spelled it wrong
whatcha thinkin...you didnt capitalize
are you satan's spawn you cant write that here
i will come to your house and eat your dog
nah nah nah whatcha thinkin?
ill follow you round tearing you down till you let me kiss you
ill fill your mailbox full of hate till you love me
i will tell everyone what a horrible person you are
till you let me in
who are you....keep me warm....let me hate you
wingnuts....wingnuts everywhere
whoever invented the block list should get a freakin sainthood
whatcha thinking you cant block me
ill just make a new profile
fill your inbox full of hate till you love me
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
The devil’s in the details,
Selfish souls for retail
God doesn’t answer prayers
He only answers emails
A demonic description
Of a self destructive demolition
Concentration controlled
By a conspiracy driven coalition
Cowards by the hour
Sending soldiers on dummy missions
While the eyes of desperate housewives
Are glued to their televisions
Poisoned....
Impoverished....
Imprisoned....
Policed....
Outcasts of society with no chance of release
Who’s the real thief?
The dead are pretending to be alive
A slim line between Sainthood and Satan
The New World Order
Disorder has arrived
Thanks for being patient…
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
birthed in toxic soup
of nesscessity and lust's needs
her own words haunt her
with simple phrase pronouced
clear and heartfelt
sorrow fear hope lust love love lust
like her little ballerina musicbox
such an entertaining little toy
such a long daydream to wake in such a
strange place
with its strange names and faces so flush with anger
why are you here
snowbunny go back to your mountains
go back to cold serenity
and the dream that she could care
for a malfuntion like you
snowbunny
clear and heartfelt in the morning
are full of doubts and questions by nightfall
in her dream
they lay in candlelight
and speak in whispers
though they are alone
they are as one with love
they are as one in heart
she awakens in a trash littered feild
by the highway
wet from the long night of rain
cough
the latter days of her sainthood
had faded
she wakes in her bed
and alls right in her world once again
for the moment
snowbunnys come to paradise
seeking new lives and easier living
in the sunshine state
but when they arrive
its raining
rain
rain
rain
rainy season in the tropics
sunshine state is an advertisement
not a reality
nothing friendly
nothing real
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
The rotten fruit shall be shaken --- W. H. Auden
Do they somehow envision sainthood in the homeless
or extol the virtue of the millions toiling for minimum wage;
see themselves as the feudal overlords of trickle-down,
their enormous profits banquet omelets for the common good?
You know the politics whereof I speak,
the Me, Myself and I of anachronistic yesterdays,
the concave years of soup-kitchens supporting high-rise condos
and batshit crazy presidential candidates admiring selfies.
I wonder if it's all because they can't reach ******
impotence and pharmaceuticals which fuel our economy?
A nation moans from the exhaustion of despair with
forgotten cityscapes of odorous blacks and blues.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
one: "mom"
crossing the line she had drawn in the sand
cussing me out from holding my hand
these rules and lies all she made up
her chalice of fire scorching my cup
rue the day she came to know
the silent demon hid in my soul
pushing memories out of the way
and succumb to a chasm of arid dismay
two: "rules"
forget the burning in your *****
forget the cursed mine of coins
forget the lashings from her lips
forget the sinner b'twixt my hips
eyes that sting when open too long
voice that scratches when given song
bodies that itch for cursed delights
heart that relates pleasure and fright
three: "Mary"
blessed are they that feel the burn
holy is she that ignores the yearn
but what should she get for crossing her thighs?
not honor nor respect, but labor and sighs
'sainthood becomes her,' the elders all say
'so honest! so pure! and see just how fair!'
whilst only yesterday they'd cursed the *****
remanded to outcast; covered no more.
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 7:23 PM UTC
saints and secrets
created over the span of a life
written down and read aloud
to make it valid; it's crowded
in here, where we're living
day in and day out, in our heads.
we seek escape; there's enough here
to feed the whole brain.
i think i'd rather let it starve
after the last time i watched it fill up
on the ideas they'd lead me into believing
and how they ate what was left
when i was just trying to prove i was right.
there's nothing left to prove here
they've made their points,
and they're making it poignant
that there's nothing left in their points.
once i begin pointing any of it out,
i'm the one who's a heretic
and i'm the one who's corrupting
the true imagery they're trying to paint
in the canvas of everyone's minds.
blank, white, and pure at birth,
filled in over age with the brush strokes
and the colorization that's found
in nature as naturally we create
the world we see, how we see it, and why.
tell anyone what's right and what's wrong
and you're telling just another lie.
you're the artist, and your interpretation's lingering
as you tell me about the way you've painted the sky,
they way you've painted your life,
and the picture you're painting,
well, it's getting darker and cracking with age.
as you wander about the museum,
you'll find them; saints and secrets.
hidden in each piece of art, you're painting
the pictures you're seeing in your own mind
and as they fade into memory,
they're pointing themselves towards you;
introvert and reveal you're findings.
nothing but secrets you'd kept from yourself,
as well as the sainthood you'd been seeking,
redemption for the belief you let yourself believe.
and here i am, the heretic.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
I shall love diners after Death Famished from a million mile trek
Soft dances, whimsical, flowing
All in time and In step Effervescent in its antiquity
Light penetrates the vociferate soul
A blinding silhouette Reveals the true physique
casting no shadows
back, at last, back to the harmony &. surrealism of our sacrarium, our home
no more hours to waste away
nothing to signifying
night from day no need to search for words to convey
As we began we return just as we should
our recrudescence revivifies our sainthood
with No judgment charged upon us
with no reward for Good neither condemned are the noxious
immoral nor the many many absurd
For those deleterious malignant calamities must remain incarcerated on Earth
from whence it came
As we Return once again
soul cleansed in beatific death
The physical abandoned with sin
Jan 1, 2010
Jan 1, 2010 at 7:03 AM UTC
Verily, verily, I wilt thole
the strenuous measure
Without thee in mine
Reach. Thine countenance do I seek in
Sainthood luster; O' how I needeth thee mine
beloved of cherubic power,
Tis the moonlight hour's I dieth to layeth mine brow
Upon thine own.
Sweat cover's me, I needeth mine
Abode, for thou art mine home;
In which I hath sought after
Since afore the age of Noah.
O' how this locution screameth out loud to the crowd's of emptied lonesome-hearted mad
Men. Mine darling, àgapi mou, best friend. Tis not the end-
Only the beginning. I glance keenly dearest jane-
Into meadow's wherein the pool's of life art made for one man
And his wife, as godly intended;
Foregone art the soul's that shalt
wait ourn arrival, they've been waiting endlessly to enter us inside.
O' Queen Jane, Filipino treasure of mine;
O' how we shalt dine and feast amongst the golden pathway's and see-through streets, bare **** feet to lead ourn spiritual direction, ourn agápi reflecting Yahweh's glow in three-
Dimensional complexion.
One day to be as babes, Unchained, not slaves to menfolk's rule-
A place wherein one enters by the amount of love they've given
And hath shown, a kingdom
Wherein we shalt be renewed.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedicated
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Splitting the framework of conceptualized demise, demanding council with the potential for immortality found in the roots of a proud, longstanding family tree.
Withdrawals worked out to pay off a longstanding debt with a beat down mentality housed and rehearsed for the sake of a sour state of mind, preserving faltering sainthood.
Ink stains used to stretch the page thin, scraping off fragments of the tatters of a foreign form of progress, denounced with age, but brought back around for a short bout of overtime.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
Asked I eventually for her name.
And she to me said, Miss Summer ***
And thine? required the the fair dame.
I'm Sexton. Yes,
The Sixth Sexton Durex.
Told I her as she's frolickin' 'bout me free.
Although looketh she supernaturally gay,
On that beach, in her birthday suit;
But seein' we two were in pursuit
Of Sainthood could we not Hollywood play--
Except 'gainst temptation to pray,
From which a man should rather flee!
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 10:57 AM UTC
Life,
Shit.
Laughter,
Shovel.
Praise to those
who plug their nose
and
Dig.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
tell me why your eyes are closed again
your hands are tied, you can't listen
your words and all the time you spent
your "soft and sweet," your "innocent"
they call you madness luring in
deception's home that never ends
a sleeping devil, angel's friend
the one whose evil lurks within
your sainthood is a counterfeit
you mimic gods and envy them
like stone you never break or bend -
you are regret, you are my sin.
-aprilxcv
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
I am not a martyr.
I am not so pious as to suffer the slashing of a knife-edged tongue.
For what cause?
What peace could my silence bring me?
My tongue is metal too.
Perhaps not as sharp as yours,
My words still have the soft scent of gold about them,
But it is metal too.
And I am not a martyr.
I remember when you coddled my name on your tongue.
It was safe there against the slick muscle and gentle press of taste buds.
Why is simple sentiment and unblemished truth to complex for you now?
I don’t want to play these games of ****** and parry with you anymore.
I am cut, you are bleeding, and we are both weary
From the constant cleaving of delicate flesh.
It is a bitter taste that blooms as steel is folded into my tongue
By life and time and all the things we never talk about.
My mouth is tinged with metal and my breath is wet with blood.
This, my love, is a battle for fools to partake in.
My tongue is not yet a blade, too dull for cutting.
All I want to be is soft flesh and slick muscle.
I am not holy enough to stomach the taste of blood on the back of my teeth.
I am not a martyr and neither are you.
So I’ll go.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 1:40 AM UTC
Checked myself yesterday
wondered if my soul was intact
that, and the seams that hold it together
its sense and social competence
its gait and many faces
its sainthood and devillish endeavours
and all other things
Washed down everything thoroughly before
I reckoned I was ready to see you
the perfection down to the littlest detail
at least, what passes as perfection
glazing over and stopping short
of reeling and swooning at
the mere whiff of your scent
Cleared the hoops between
the long sidewalk jog of endurance
hearing the cars whisk by and wishing
that they'd give me a lift - for what seems important
that brief moment when my eyes find their sockets
The sun will rise as I
slowly make my way into the compound
find the snug spot between the walls that they
seem to have left empty for me
while I might watch from the window panes
wonder if you would look over
and pay me some attention
though often, I
pass the entire day
watching but never found
To work the night shift and spend the daytime waiting
tailing your silhouette like an empty vagrant
grasping onto nothing as the world ignores my presence
like they did always
like they did yesterday
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 6:23 AM UTC