"sanctus" poems
Before I come and wake you
With hot tea and kisses
I will say some quiet words
In the dark
where you cannot hear them
I founder sometimes in your beauty
As if the side or depth of it are out of reach
I sink beneath its density
How your body shudders
With unwinding joy
When everything and breathing stops
In one intense point of space and time
Resounding and fading
A sheer pulsing drift of wonder
Then I feel your flesh vibrating
Like strings beneath my fretted fingers
Like an ocean of dazed and dazzled being
Exploding beyond your senses
And flooding your soul with holy vespers
And I am blessed to be in your body at such a time
And I am further blessed
By the intimacy of your secrets
Those fears and hopes
Your most precious self that no one sees
Beyond the energies of life and death
Beyond healing and forgiveness
You let me touch your prayers
In grace and bright dawning
When being is done and the universe explodes
Will the murmurs of our love
taste like Sanctus on the lips of angels
And I will be blessed to be in you at such a time
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.*
i found the investments of psychology
all too unfathomably capricious,
where the ratio of theory
to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution:
in that when one theory fails
another two emerge, and so on and so forth,
in that great existential ******
of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel
of freud glees with anticipation
to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic
life to enter the great **** eye that
cannot peer into itself and consider
both being and nothingness, as the great
ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus
nimble footed and thumbs on the ready
in the grand coliseum of life - just a great
fishing net where once the mighty fisherman
st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud
catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water
of these paradoxical amphibian representations;
psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction
of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted
for, the way in which thinking becomes
what thinking always was: a malignant capricious
medium pulverised by five vectors, and
the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the
selfish... dragged down to the molecular
degeneracy of explanation using genes,
but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's
reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos.
indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing
and not the study of thinking: imagine
what a hot snarling and wet breath raising
a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting
in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines
and african voodoo masks... sends him running...
the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words,
the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking,
pure vocalisation of emotion...
no, i think less and less of psychology...
i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια:
the study of caprices, the study of whims -
e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders
a big mac in the following way:
- yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no
onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
Satietatem potare dulci nectare tua desiderium ego
Ad nos transeat, usque mane
Nostra corpora convol
Corpora nostra lusibus
Sol ortus, Sitis commoratur
Amorem vivere devora tua suavita
Vitae caelestis
Nostra ad et aut angelus diaboli
Quod viget, vitae singulis nobis,
Retorta peccatorum gaudium de salute nos
Corpora *** carnis luxuriam
Tenebrae concupiscentiis saginatus
Dolorem voluptatem servus
Impium impium fames
Sanctus diversitas peccatorum
Ita et nos, in manus nostras et amore peccatorum nos
Nos ad unum corpus est cor
Translation Latin to English
I drink my fill of sweet nectar of your desire
To pass to us until morning
Our bodies roll
Our bodies dance
The sun rises, thirst lingers
Love, live, eat your sweetness
heavenly life
Our call to the devil or an angel
That is active, the life of each of us,
Twisted sins, the joy of our salvation
Bodies with carnal lust
Dark desires fed
Pain and pleasure slave
wicked, wicked hunger
Holy diversity of sins
Even so we, in our hands, and the love of our sins
We are one body and heart
~Wes Noneya
My Latin isn't the best but I gave it a go. I like both versions.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 5:33 PM UTC
Falling with shoe laces undone,
Only whispers, the quietness amidst grandiosity, majesty life beyond me
The tragedy is, I am melancholy, the family
Who don't know quiet, they judge often, they
Need control over each other, competition is so powerful
No silence, so love cannot grow, it is cheapened by talk, talking, exhchange, The children crave approval
The parents crave limitless pride,
Everyone is disappointed, the gift merits more control
The mountain is not of character, rather it is God, only understood
Amidst the silence
I can feel the poem in my forehead
Stop editing, pull it out of you
Ermine dire Sanctus, Jesus burning in cackling solidarity tainted , save me, I surrender, take it, tear off the sarcasm, show me your light, your beauty
Too intense for the public, only known in silence, the majesty of great nature, the objective world, the spirit of chaos, ******** and spitting, unwrapping, giggling, ******* ******* sizing, ughhh putrid ugly hierarchical idiocy act, urching and lurching felt so secretly, brutality, eating its way out of the stocking, crispy toffee, Buddhist books that will never be read, shaving kids, raging! Hurting, false gratitude, let it out! Romping, stomping, groping for lustrous pious godless lurch, ****** through my pallet, based on experience, wreaking, cleansing
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
Sunless steeples toppled the fonts of your apocrypha
The mumbled harbingers of guilt's ascendancy
The icicles of the chandeliers dripping
Carbuncle tears, as the ransom of sullen lives
Many Sundays saw the closing of word-stiffened pages
In the hands of the blue-suited multitudes,
In homage of cathedrals filled up with dead Lilies
The pure must wear dark colors, in a kind of fake humility
While the evil wear white alone, in broad strokes of denial
And attention is a weather vane spinning madly
At the top of the world, wanting only God to be watching
only God to be watching
only God to be watching
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 12:19 PM UTC
Don't be so hard on yourself.
The holiest of mysteries
may be bafflingly simple.
What is redemption if not
rising from your bed
into the broken world
of human flesh and struggling
to imagine how to live
and what to say?
Isn't that wrestling with angels?
Isn't that staring down
that burning bush?
Isn't that calling the forbidden
name of G-d out loud?
To try it every way,
knowing clearly you may
never quite get it right,
but persisting in the challenge
each and every day?
Don't be so hard on yourself.
Redemption may be
only a morning away.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
poetry written in English
just reminds me of
agent orange in Vietnam:
or the anorexic
tailoring of some city-state
fashion week -
twenty girls
to one Mongolian yak;
it actually sounds as horrid as it sounds...
premature depression of
its users... when old age should be
reserved depression...
their old age has dementia
reserved for all its worth of accomplishment...
sadness in youth when old age should receive it...
and dementia in old age when
youth has nothing demented to give...
only another imitation of Catcher in the Rye
or a David Copperfield -
or the faking of cult:
when old age should deem itself sad,
it's their youth that's sad...
and its elders demented -
because its youth
can't allow old age to fathom sadness of an
all encompassing accomplishment;
my excuse is?
i never ventured into colonialism -
i can't, by reason, integrate into
using the tongue completely -
for i have no tattoo that says:
slave owner no. 10256901 -
or no ****** guilt at not doing
the better runner from King Fuji-Moochou
of Ivory Coast selling me to the pink pimple-skinned...
**** me... it's great not having that sort of guilt
imbued in me grappling with history,
and the first offender: **** Germany as the
prime excuse making me pristine, holy
by comparison... ha ha! as if! Mao killed off
many more than you care to believe.
all i have is Lithuanians telling me:
you ****** us over... while i ask a Lithuanian
girl to kiss me in a pub... and she does...
oh god... sanctus polonius pseudo israelii.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Oppose the nefarious moves of life with a force of compassion. Let your life know that your activated energies can counter its all blitz. Let your heart sanguine with joy and dance with courage. Let your mind co-ordinate with your heart completely to lower down the urges of a wicked amygdala. .Let your hands shine being an epitome of brilliance and vitality. Strive to change the composition of your body to wipe out the swaggers of your pain. Whisper the songs of plentiful delight. Let yourself create an influence on the forces of nature so that cool breezes can add sensational pleasures to your prairie. The fragrance of Rosaceae and the beauty of Tulips can engulf you completely. Allow springs to serve the autumns so their inferiority complex can be reduced. Persuade summers to envy winters so they can at least learn the art of kindness. Let verdant attribute all its efficacy to deserts to know their worth. Provoke it to thank the uninhabited lands for its effectiveness. As a gesture of appreciation, kiss the nebulae, let it shower blithe and kindness upon you. Scintillas of aurora are narrating a new tale; help them complete their narration.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
Sanctus satanas, sanctus Dominus diabolus sabaoth satanas-venire satanas venire Ave, satanas, Ave satanas Tui sunt caeli Ave satanas.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one
Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America
The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile
The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America
The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried
Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America
Purple
Yellow
Indigo
Green
Lime
Curmudgeon
Ocher
Bordeaux
Magenta
Pink
Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?
Allah?
Krishnu?
Tezcatlipoca?
Zeus?
Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more
The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her
And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-Fuck
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 5:33 PM UTC
When you scale –up
someone, does it makes you
feel better.
Ye, not learned enough,
great journey, lie behind us
in time.
Am, I~ worth nothing,
Then? Is there is no truth~
Of IID.
Thus, what Credence,
do you have?
When, we row,
not the same boat.
May we bring,
Thy, Master Glory Always!
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 10:38 PM UTC
Before I come and wake you
With hot tea and kisses
I will say some quiet words
In the dark
where you cannot hear them
I founder sometimes in your beauty
As if the side or depth of it are out of reach
I sink beneath its density
How your body shudders
With unwinding joy
When everything and breathing stops
In one intense point of space and time
Resounding and fading
A sheer pulsing drift of wonder
Then I feel your flesh vibrating
Like strings beneath my fretted fingers
Like an ocean of dazed and dazzled being
Exploding beyond your senses
And flooding your soul with holy vespers
And I am blessed to be in your body at such a time
And I am further blessed
By the intimacy of your secrets
Those fears and hopes
Your most precious self that no one sees
Beyond the energies of life and death
Beyond healing and forgiveness
You let me touch your prayers
In grace and bright dawning
When being is done and the universe explodes
Will the murmurs of our love
taste like Sanctus on the lips of angels
And I will be blessed to be in you at such a time
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
I'm going to tell you an story:
At first
There was only
Fractals
And mysterious forces
That they wove them
On the delicate canvas
From the void.
Galactic Star Beings
Whose fingers and limbs
They danced in a swing
Dictated by the music of heaven
And there, in the middle of the fire of creation
Cosmic little seed, sigh
Hidden in the subsequent emulsion
From the juices of god
Spilling over
Free humanity
That barely light
Runs
Perpetual
Between the shelves of time
Drawing footsteps of all sizes
In all hemispheres,
distributed
Through latitudes, sown at the tip of Oz and the sword
Of a complex zoology
That of the human animal
Fire thief
Polyphonic heron of storms
Seabird that augurs stars
Because we are built
With feathers
That threw the phoenix and the albatross
On the holy land.
And bloom right in the middle
At the beginning of the war
When everything succumbs
And the ruin falls to pieces.
Little rainbow seed, your serpent tongue
Invoke the circular prayer of your abdomen
A sacred energy
Possessed in the word
You undress
Oracle of ******
Emitting a little moan
Barely cat
And overshadowed the man in his misery
Contemplate gods that understand nothing
Rejoice in tumultuous ecstasy
Of his exacerbated human games
Oh for the being of creation
The whole cosmos!
Sanctus and lux aeternam, in paradisum
No requiem bears your name, no bullet
Plus all my poems
No grave my epitaph
And i have died
More than a thousand times
Shake is to infinite prison of bones
The sacred words of the alseid
And the naiad of moisture
How jubilant
He gave his most beautiful flower to Priapus
And you who did not want to lose yourself
In the labyrinth of the Minotaur
When you offer
Your blood on lotus leaves
Worshiping Polyphemus, the lotus eaters
And to the cyclops in the same way
And me sitting in the middle of the odyssey
With headphones on
And the lost look
Thinking
When will the war happen?
When will the war happen?
When will the war happen?
R.
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC