"sidereal" poems
Among the hills a meteorite
Lies huge; and moss has overgrown,
And wind and rain with touches light
Made soft, the contours of the stone.
Thus easily can Earth digest
A cinder of sidereal fire,
And make her translunary guest
The native of an English shire.
Nor is it strange these wanderers
Find in her lap their fitting place,
For every particle that's hers
Came at the first from outer space.
All that is Earth has once been sky;
Down from the sun of old she came,
Or from some star that travelled by
Too close to his entangling flame.
Hence, if belated drops yet fall
From heaven, on these her plastic power
Still works as once it worked on all
The glad rush of the golden shower.
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I opened a door in the cosmos
and was swallowed, ensconced
by the darkness that followed.
Euphoric,
there you were
Phantasmagoric and sidereal;
I find I'm beside myself.
Come along and freefall with me
At the end of times
O'er the cliffs of nigh
We'll aspire to fire into spirals of nebulous unknown.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
Two birds flying at night crash into each other
and as they spin falling from a cloud of feathers and starlight
they are reminded of a time before they learned how to fly...
Will we fold into each others secrets
would we fit each other like a spoon
won't you take my hand and chase stars with me
we'll catch them if they fall
and bury them in the backyard of our childhood dreams
so we can always find our way back there
Chase the shoreline
fly with a flock of airplanes
we'll signature the moon
as we dance our footprints upon the clouds
swim with me through an ocean of bed sheets
and Sunday mornings
and we'll chase dinosaurs from our bedroom
The warmest place in the world is next to you
let me sip coconuts in your arms
won't you plant my name behind your tongue
that it may bloom in a garden of your smiles
We'll find a beach to name after our children
and serenade the ocean as it refuses to stop kissing the shore
we'll use toothbrushes as tuning forks
fake a limp at new years eve and ride the elevator to the highest floor
and dance with me above the skyline
'cause if you sing me a lullaby of forgiveness
I will keep you from all the broken promises
we can finger paint sunrises on each other skin
Be orphans with me
so that we can name each other
the way we once named the stars
as if the constellations held the promise
we could find our way home
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
Take her sidereal night,
its darkness
and the shimmer in it.
Draw a co-secant,
a beam,
in your full-light trace.
The script is embedded,
it runs on its own:
see?
A pulse,
myriads of whirling suns,
a blaze within her,
a firmament
for a cotillion,
a constellations' jigsaw.
Her night breathes,
in symbiotic pace
with its aural lover
and, within its velvet,
darkness is an indigo,
drunk on orgastic throb.
15.5.2015
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
When I was born,
From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,
Saying, This be thy portion, child; this chalice,
Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw
From my great arteries; nor less, nor more.
All substances the cunning chemist Time
Melts down into that liquor of my life,
Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty, and disgust,
And whether I am angry or content,
Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,
All he distils into sidereal wine,
And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!
Of all he sheds how little it will hold,
How much runs over on the desert sands.
If a new muse draw me with splendid ray,
And I uplift myself into her heaven,
The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,
And all the following hours of the day
Drag a ridiculous age.
To-day, when friends approach, and every hour
Brings book or starbright scroll of genius,
The tiny cup will hold not a bead more,
And all the costly liquor runs to waste,
Nor gives the jealous time one diamond drop
So to be husbanded for poorer days.
Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?
Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught
After the master's sketch, fills and o'erfills
My apprehension? Why should I roam,
Who cannot circumnavigate the sea
Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn
The nearest matters to another moon?
Why see new men
Who have not understood the old?
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I saw the rest of my kind scour against the streets, hands calloused-laden,
wizened by erratic explosions – nondescript music analogous to silence;
terse sleep stiff in wind, homes filled with tension, arrow-headed men
quiver through the busy streets as tatterdemalion as stray dogs.
inverted triangle, sidereal vertigo, mutilated rose and the beheaded tulip.
the ambiguous spiral of the downcast climb. I see all men maddened
by wine over the rooftops.
choking in dank light – the night exudes its flayed machinery.
an empty bottle of whiskey and a body stripped of skin melded with fright
raised higher than the maladroit sky.
I, whose name is but an algorithm of formlessness. I, whose silence is but the contemplation of stone. I,
whose voice toboggans like a tender ramshackle of incantations
filling tubercular pockets with spare hope yet none are we but only poorer.
whose fingers are but tired girls tousling in bed lacquered by sunsets – whose nails are paler
than a ****** of moonlight, whose homes are inflamed hemmed in by petticoats,
whose eyes set affixed to no avatars in juxtaposition of parks
falling madly in love with everything that glints.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:
a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)
all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
retrospect.
you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
falling as lithe as poppies in spring
only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.
i imagine you anything but lustrous this evening.
there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.
i imagine you all soft and plump as a word of salvage
without the vigor of blandishments when you start with your
own way of moving i imagine you as blunt as a dull knife
plunging into me – i imagine your sidereal satellites fail in their coverage
over impossibly the blackest of skies in February,|
i imagine you anything but clean
and all white and spruced up with the most
drenched light, real to the touch and swiftly moving across the afternoon
like wishing you all but perverse and anomalous
and strikingly beautiful.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
~
*Moonlit angels keep turning the wheels of the universe
In conversations with God, they placed the Sun precisely in the centre
Alarum and escapement keep the gear train moving forth:
Astronomical clock, armillary sphere, lunar phases in sidereal time
All patterns of evidence -- releasing our impulses, advancing our hands*
~
Dec 16, 2020
Dec 16, 2020 at 9:52 AM UTC
this marauding dark.
a bleak behemoth ---
the head of the chimera.
integer by
blind integer,
life's
absolute emptiness.
a sidereal zero.
caught in the web
of a relentless
tarantula.
this
dead end
or this ***** in
the armor.
life's what you make it.
i make it like this:
intractable like a fiend,
these words unsheathe like
rusting swords in old scabbards.
i astonish death with smallness.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
You slid to me
with ice on your heels,
flame on your back,
the wind in your face,
and the stars in your eyes.
It's a scritchy scratchy situation
made from a wishy washy connotation.
Shift, shaft, shake the muscles beneath my skin.
You crick crack creeped to corner of my grin.
Broken with a kiss, and sealed with a sigh.
You remain my favorite little white lie.
Confessing that I don't know why
I will write about you until the day that I die.
You pretended; I embroider the delusion
with every hiccup of a heart's confusion.
Remember, child, what you can't see?
I won't stop, I still fancy that fantasy.
I pushed you away, but you threw me out.
I was your trash; you were everyone's treasure.
Internally screaming with scarcely a shout,
all in all, the torture was my pleasure.
Backtrack back, to this and our state.
A slip of strength but not a slip of the tongue,
Because like destiny and the idea of fate,
I stopped believing in you when I was young.
So I stole your
ice for my heart
and flames for my belly,
because it's windy in my head
with your stars on my mind
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
What avails of this sidereal year?
If not my love with me ever.
What if the flowers spread and disperse?
Even they make the earth paradise.
What though sweetest your incessant loving be?
If now you're receding from me.
What lies behind your heart to reside far?
To me it seems all, you rift through the clouds like a lone star.
Is it a gentle pride?
It’s your fallacy my beautiful bride!
Afraid of your restless youth and irresistible trait,
I am drawn so close to you; so no one can drift us apart.
My thoughts in your mind should often come across
A timeless true love in your mind brighter than luminous stars
That you never forget.
Playing hot and cold never dishearten the resolute.
Give and take in love is an enchanted gift
Never drift away from true love otherwise pain will grow in rift.
Where have you been all this while?
Your sweet incessant love beguile.
Setting moon besets, between us flitting moments
Wretchedness came upon in disappointments.
The days, the moments and the years all unfetched begone.
All this time, our feelings had never lain dormant and forlorn
There you dear staring at me willingly,
Yet looking upon your grace continually.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
a golden dusk
this blindness
rising a sun
in the sidereal night
my vortex
spiralled path
from nothing
to nothing
a golden dusk
delusion
11.11.14
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Sidereal gaze enriches casual lays beneath the shimmering firmament
Glorified passions is the indignity of benighted scars and brandished armaments
Scour with the owls proctoring over the night for signs that penetrate the tight
That ooze new light and wage an epigamic fight
Temptress like a mainlined ecstasy enlivening a heightened empathy
Our love towers above suburban muses and urban ruses
It showers with meteoric power and consummate flowers that it chooses
The misfortune of star-crossed affections
Is the serendipity of empowering but inclement afflictions
Impenetrably vast like a cavernous space
To make us tremble in insignificance at the petty rats that race
Our lambent passions erupt with paroxysms immune to an unbuttoned snooze
Oneiromancy glistens with prophetic eternities dreamed awake with inordinate *****
Playful jostles and succulent pretended jilts lionize our blessed fates
We reckon with eternity by adducing modernity at its current rate
We disavow transient objections just like gravity impounds its own weight
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
Trying to describe what happened to us
is like fumbling to forge stars from
the evanescent remains
ever fluent in our veins
of astral bodies drifting further away.
Translunar thoughts extort my orbit around you
regardless of your eyes, their contained gravity
despite your lucid voice and it's fervid pull,
how they all hold me in place.
You are your own universe
and I am lost in your space.
Asteroids of presentimental wounds cratered my trust
you eclipsed unhindered through my life
and flared into hers;
our syzygy was over
but I never noticed our declination occur,
with your ephemeral attention
and I, rapt in limerence,
stayed a sidereal fragment to your sky.
I never did and still don't mind...
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Seraphic art her ways
Displayed on heaven's fountain
Drinking wine from her lonesome cave
I shalt abide with her in her solace.
Sidereal she's in reverence toward's her white-out orb
A woman, not a girl, just passing through to explore the tour's.
Distress she weareth upon her chest, as her hope dost dwindle
I shalt shake her and taketh her, wherein mine arms a fire kindles...
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Elsa angelica dedicated
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
last
night
she lit
a candle
for someone special
it was flickering faintly
she cast
her eyes
to the sidereal mysteries
the starry fireworks
were spellbinding
Oct 31, 2021
Oct 31, 2021 at 1:25 AM UTC
Climactic excitation
cosmic copulation
sidereal sensation
astral frenzy
sighs, stars, moans
her moans, hormones
interstellar ***********
endlessly interesting
of course.
Reduced to this—
cosmic carnality:
black holes, shooting stars
spurts of intergalactic light
spasms of ejection
from the corona; solar fire
deep into lunar mysteries
outer space beyond her solar system
I seek dark beauty
new direction
off course.
Waiting
for a bigger better bang...
(out of space)
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
Two stars collide.
They're beautiful -
Moving in,
Towards eachother.
You'd think it'd be a beautiful sight.
But when they touch a spark ignites, and
Up in flames goes everything we know.
𝘐 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶...
My edges are crooked.
My corners are sharp.
My skin can be rough.
My heart can be dark.
For I am a mourner,
Of all of my lives.
Of all of the pain
That this heart has gained.
𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦...
I do miss you, and I hope
That you can see,
Behind all the trauma...
There is love. 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗲.
▪︎mica light▪︎
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 6:51 PM UTC
when I stood with you in a crowded room
we built beneath the cedar boughs
I watched as a star, a light from afar
shone down and set our spirits free
a ring of pure light through the blood red night
we were at once in orbit bound, me and you between
now we sit alone in our empty home
just waiting for tomorrow’s dawn
with parallax eyes, sidereal sighs
but there’s no place I’d rather be
and when the day comes, when this night is done
there will at last be a new song you and I can sing
it's that song I can't sing
the one star I don't see
the same sun, the same light
you’re the moon in my night
and I know that my sun’s still out there, somewhere
because I can see my moon shining
with brilliance rare and a beauty serene
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
A glance,
A smile,
A hint of attar.
A word.
A touch.
My heart thumps.
A sidereal excursion
And I cannot wait until tomorrow.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
nothing but age.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
We have this peculiar practice, both of us. We partake in the delight of nothing.
We are two walls being vandalized. And then we are the same walls being photographed
by onlookers. And we become the complicated eye of the strangers. We become the beauty
they try to subscribe to in strange calligraphies, bent caricatures, and flagrant peripatetics.
We have the most outlandish of penchants, especially when nothing happens while
everything happens. Forget the sidereal zeroes of this equation. We are one
unanswerable phenomenon tractioned by a willing cohesion. Put into mouth what fingers
cannot do. The one in pursuit is divided by blame and the other a fugitive.
Mind takes space when absence does its duty. There is ease in accepting
that a body impaled in a moment may bear no gravity.
We have disparaging repetitions.
We invest in invented lives. We know not much from here but we know
the end it tries to exact in itself. The silence teems in that probability:
all static, intrinsic, and jarring. We both know a fine day when it happens.
Lurking sounds of hermetic space brought to life by informed choices.
Clinking of bottles and the silver of fish on the platter. A book stolen
from a place where everything is organized – strangely enough, the disarray people
are capable of with their hands is not preempted
by a custodian. We have godless moments. Say for example, this body
houses a river and on its flaxen waters we have already let go of everything.
Soft waters gnaw flesh and shadow off immediate impulses.
We have bizarre practices, both of us, separate.
Desire is dispersal. Weathering the diaspora is grace.
We both are gilded by attendance, and in rooms fat with people we are
marauders of space together with them – our lives so unobstructed,
free, and proliferating. Why can’t we house ourselves? Why can’t we cling
like ivy to walls of stone, melancholy to walls of blood?
We have this peculiar practice, both of us. Separate. No warnings,
no conveyed messages, no alarms. To be unmoved in moving, to be moving
in stasis.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
I'll peer through the flaxen strand
of night
with your color that excites,
and think myself the blue pither of fire
or a flummoxed stone left unturned.
it's not the rapture of a knowledgeable
beast or the common grip
of the eye's gift for unsparing detail.
it's the way the queen moves to all
corners unclenching a fold of sidereal,
and then like a child with almond eyes
spruced up, spritzed this morning's
incandescent dye,
the lapping of strange tides revealing
fish with dreams of brine
or that one moment when you had
at first light, the hot flush of coming
into, recognizing insatiable appetite,
whistling its overdue intent and the detritus
we try to hide when we had that virginal moment of once and never looking back
at mirrors.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC