"sigils" poems
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
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
[Dedicated to Austin Osman Spare]
Have pity ! show no pity !
Those eyes that send such shivers
Into my brain and spine : oh let them
Flame like the ancient city
Swallowed up by the sulphurous rivers
When men let angels fret them !
Yea ! let the south wind blow,
And the Turkish banner advance,
And the word go out : No quarter !
But I shall hod thee -so !
While the boys and maidens dance
About the shambles of slaughter !
I know thee who thou art,
The inmost fiend that curlest
Thy vampire tounge about
Earth's corybantic heart,
Hell's warrior that whirlest
The darts of horror and doubt !
Thou knowest me who I am
The inmost soul and saviour
Of man ; what hieroglyph
Of the dragon and the lamb
Shall thou and I engrave here
On Time's inscandescable cliff ?
Look ! in the plished granite,
Black as thy cartouche is with sins,
I read the searing sentence
That blasts the eyes that scan it :
**** and SET be TWINS."
A fico for repentance !
Ay ! O Son of my mother
That snarled and clawed in her womb
As now we rave in our rapture,
I know thee, I love thee, brother !
Incestuous males that consumes
The light and the life that we capture.
Starve thou the soul of the world,
Brother, as I the body !
Shall we not glut our lust
On these wretches whom Fate hath hurled
To a hell of jesus and shoddy,
Dung and ethics and dust ?
Thou as I art Fate.
Coe then, conquer and kiss me !
Come ! what hinders? Believe me :
This is the thought we await.
The mark is fair ; can you miss me ?
See, how subtly I writhe !
Strange runes and unknown sigils
I trace in the trance that thrills us.
Death ! how lithe, how blithe
Are these male incestuous vigils !
Ah ! this is the spasm that kills us !
Wherefore I solemnly affirm
This twofold Oneness at the term.
Asar on Asi did beget
Horus twin brother unto Set.
Now Set and Horus kiss, to call
The Soul of the Unnatural
Forth from the dusk ; then nature slain
Lets the Beyond be born again.
This weird is of the tongue of Khem,
The Conjuration used of them.
Whoso shall speak it, let him die,
His bowels rotting inwardly,
Save he uncover and caress
The God that lighteth his liesse.
6k
Yeah it's one shot one ****
Plottin' against my enemies will soon to be killed
Bullets feedin' ya last meal
Dope rhymes sedatin' like pharmacy pills
Since hataz got no chill heads I'll drill now you leakin' out like oil spills
Or a radiator angelic caters none could create a
Flows nasty as mine poppin' a multiplicity of shells I'm one of a kind
Thoughts intertwined
****** into a demons intervention contenders in suspension from the soul lynching
Caught in the realms of heaven and hell & you can smell
The ashes burning fermentin'
time runnin' slower than molasses
My murders be classic enemies dramatic causin' static
Shoot more than Bird combined with Magic
Workin' my Johnson on the tracks tonsils sittin' as a hip hop consul underground magul
**** longer than Repunzels hair follicles
Cookin' up sigils into a *** of gold no rainbow snortin' sir nose
D'void of Funk rattlin' the earth from the bass in my trunk blazin' skunks
Abraxas I'm embracin' one of my goetias when facin' ain't no replacin'
Fools givin' chase
and to tastes of demonic faces
My flows replenish like **** laces
Blunts turn into ashes dump it out on the masses
Epidemic mase deaden your pace hazardous like toxic waste
Adversaries don't wanna face
Off like Nicolas to Travolta livin' in an ultra violent culture
Cleatin' into ya flesh I be the stalkin' Vulture mulchin' ya
'til ya
A dissembled particle blank photo in the article from curvin' emcees with my surgical
lyrical sickle stare into ya eyes as the blood trickles
Down ya body you easily brickled rhymes artificial
My soul sour as a pickle no tickles
Could move me or influence thee my legacy
Lay cinematography like A. Hitchcock in the 50s huh
Ya soon to be a death reel for thrills
Rememeber
All I need is one shot one **** forreal!!!!
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC
I want glyphs inked into my skin
A needle to caress and stab
Crying stains as an apology for the pain
Leaving behind a mark
But not a scar
Never a scar
A reminder, a promise, proclamation
All the sigils that ever were
Etched into our coverings
Leeching into bone
Changing and reminding
I want something permanent
Even if I change
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
Lightly colored with painted kisses, humming harmonious hymns:
The vital branches of our tree, such strength, unblighted!
Your charity sustains me, the manna of my muse,
Do you feel my fingertips as they glide across your cheek,
My palm on your chin, your eyes upturned they settle and seize my attention.
Stay not your caress, though in between us there may be a veil.
Serpents in the short grass will not strike you as you pass,
I've paid them for your safe passage, come to me, I crave only your touch.
Here, let us only touch each other,
No more is needed now, but skin, and silence,
Let the wind carry away all pains and past sorrows.
With your touch my agonies dissolve
like a sweet treat in a moist mouth.
With confidence I shrug off past limitations,
Celebrations are even now being held in the core of my being.
Your smiling spirit sends sympathetic vibrations when I am away.
Restored are the comforts of past days,
Eiderdown and slow burning sage,
Before I knew your words were ever for me
I fell deeply in love with your melodies.
If I could, in my deepest passion prove the power of your touch
It would mean so much if you could understand.
Like an assembled host of mighty magicians focused in concert
Your hands work epic miracles, of soothing and creation.
In the course of my rambles
I have stumbled
On sigils and symbols
That have granted me a second sight
And from you I see waves of light,
In mingled colours sharply detailed patterns
Of magnificent artistry,
An aura of delightful pageantry
That reveals your unparraleled self to me.
Entrusted with the formula for happiness,
I share this willingly with the hope you'll see,
All I need to wake each day,
is the nearest hope that we shall spend a moment together,
So in touching, we may impart the many words left unsaid,
The truths that would shatter our lips should we utter them.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
The wave that crashed
my soul
The seashells bedecked in gold
The mess I couldn't erase
with every trace of constellations
pulsated a face
And the day gone black
under a bedsheet
Wine spilled on a cuffling
The longing for drizzle
and rain
The levitation from the
Earth like tripping windowpane
A watchtower showing you home
You are the well I'm crawling
down
( To float in the clearlight )
The alchemy and sigils in stone
A voice that mumbles
in my sound ears when I'm alone.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
On a scale of 1 to Lord of All,
how important is your
opinion of what others create?
I see you, through these sigils,
pretending every breath you took
is a doctorate.
Did you know you dont have to choose between being the brush or the brush stroke?
You could build boats,
hunt ghosts with broken radios,
climb mountains to commune with the dead,
stare at the stars and make
your own constellations,
or play ukulele alone with a head full of acid.
All I am saying is
there are far better plotlines
than playing sovereign king of the
swamp that swallows you
and believing it be noble.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
Nose to the table
Swan-dive into the land of fables
Where every song is a sacrament
Cause magic has no accidents
And grief opens the door to sin
And mistakes which lead you into
A world where the light bringer
Is also the scorpion’s stinger
She’s wearing rings, she’s wearing bells
Still you deny she’s a Jezebel
Immoral fiction from the past
Makes sand fly through the hourglass
The immortality of sigils and art
Cause no one tells you where to start
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Drifting....
waning, wandering away from myself....
electric pine and turquoise eyes unfold,
greeting me,
a jade leopard winks with those eyes,
an inside joke
in the new moon darkness lighting the room.....
I watch myself levitate into conscious caverns
in my gray matter canyon
wind tinkles and chimes
( ( ( ( v i b r a t i n g ) ) ) )
the moist, fleshy rocks...
memories of sativa green Canada echo--
a family of strangers
humming, buzzzing & drumming rhythms
tattooing heartbeat sigils onto each other
amidst a sonic amethyst campfire
moonbeam embers glow
indigo guitar strings sing hymns
swaying and swimming in cuddle puddles--
a new age baptism.
My wings shimmer,
visions simmer and chill
the darkness returns
left with myself again
I flight right into another lightbub storm
as trebble trouble words rain bows of colors
atop white lilies reaching for stained-glass clouds.
Distantly, native flutes flourish
like rippling water rises slowly
into incandescent tides...
sweet, filagreed foam tickling-
washing
bubbles popping over pores.
and I rejoice!
a homecoming for an ocean's drop rejoined--
rejuvenated!
berserk bongos bump 'n thump
a raucous rumpus of blissful voices
vicariously lift my visage into everyone
at once!
astral silhouette forms cajole and conjoin and
we laugh ourselves into ******
And for a fleeting moment...
I reminded of the celestial infinity
that surrounds us,
where time isn't measured in promises
and trees aren't groomed to be currency.
Here, I remember the why of my existence,
only to momentarily forget,
upon opening my eyes,
until delicate deja vu echoes intermittently remind me
once in a while.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Where were we when you quit the sound?
Caught in distance while you hung around
Encased inside of our own menial pursuit
Flaunting desperation as a constant survival
As you battled death in your combat boots
There is no glory with fate as your rival
What were you seeing in your distorted mind?
As you ate your last words and ecstaticly dined
At the chemical festival of illusions' absorbtion
How far did your gaze stroll onto the other side?
did you meet with an end or the start of damnation?
In which lonely drawer do your dreams now reside?
Where have the remnants of life made their grave?
Are they in the lingering regret that you've paved?
Through each flash of your face and casket sight
The delusional rebirth of your presence revealing;
Fragments of ended realities giving spark to night
Burning sigils into visions of a broken feeling
Flame lit sketches etched across a charred eulogy
Only a name remains lying in the wake of a memory
Pieces scattered amongst an unfitting resting place
Conflicting beauties molding a divine contrast
A devil laid to rest in the midst of holy space
One shade of diversity on a bland earthly cast
Echoes of descension from this dimming black sky
Adorning each reflection with your hollow eyes
Complexions left searching for an answer to hold
As to how lifes' vigor can so swiftly fall to decay
And,The aging of dignity resembling every tale told
Seems to shine a reality check on this tragic play
A nulling backdrop for this cemetary playground
Where the kings and queens become tediously crowned
With a sickly ailment that reaks of dalipidation
The stench of the end atop an eternal retrospect
Glaring back with the most sincere of validations
That the fallen live on as our recollections resurect
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
I am drawn to it
Theres no doubt
Now that ive glimpsed behind the curtain
Theres no way I could live without
The wisdom there, the fantasy
All grounded within reality
Cleanse a room with a loud noise
Poise is no longer mandatory
Crystals, carving sigils
This is where I belong
After so long
I have finally found a place
Jun 5, 2021
Jun 5, 2021 at 11:55 AM UTC
a dead trumpet, resting on the desiccated lips of a fallen angel, a desolate scorch of hemispheres
blasted and puerile...
primal dross from the furnace of all agonies and heaps of time, hoarding hours in pain to multiply the bias to ill fates as a happiness, her madness has never known
[ on the inside ]
a dread comet, branding the optic nerve of a blank stare
into oblivion
in a closed loop of integrals of self hatred
outlasting the venom of god's scorn, by an order of magnitude
her blight, dwarfing the locust swarm of dead suns
bleeding black ink in journals that document her heart's delirium, in crude states -of silent rage at a billion decibels
[ on the white page ]
a barn door, torn from the hinges of a tempest and marble goats, chiseled from a monolith of dark thoughts
to be sacrificed on the altar of pitch dark
there are sigils that burn in the dense fog, and everywhere a banshee of rogue hope and a siren of fine dreams....
and here there be oceans
[ and no map ]
legions of invisible hornets living in every atom of two red lips
lips that would kiss and be kissed
but seldom disembark from tar pits and windswept tragedies
and fell words that plunder her true thoughts for anything
toxic enough to **** the conversation with a lost god...
bilious fountains of lost joy
sterilize a pregnant pause. and yes
aborts the spirit
[ from no throne ]
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Bugs, and bogs, and battlecrys,
thieves, and trolls, and dragons fly.
Sword and sorcery,
shield and steam.
Clink and clack,
shine and gleam.
Mythril, chain, and leather works.
Sigils, pain and thrusting dirks.
Student, Teacher
words and wind.
Music, Fae,
and naming things.
Mistborn, alloys, Kredik Shaw,
Kandra and Inquisitors.
Rohan Mordor,
Minas Tirith,
Rings and Orcs,
Hobbit village.
From child, to teen, to present me;
escape, and dreams, and fantasy.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
I wish I could draw circles
Signs and symbols
And have you understand
That there should be
More to life than this
The mundane
The days found lacking
The words that mean nothing
There is more than this
There has to be.
I cradle my head in my hands
And wish on a higher power
I draw sigils on my skin
and hope they mean something
Hope they make me more
Than what I am.
They don’t,
They are nothing but inkblots
Open to interpretation
But nothing else
They are not important
I am not important
I cannot draw a line on the ground
And turn it into a wall
I cannot paint birds
And make them fly
I cannot stand in a circle
And be protected
I cannot call upon power
That I do not have.
I am not chosen or called upon
I just live in the world
I haven’t changed it
The marks I make are superficial
They can all be erased
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
As hands twist, stumbling through doors locked made of
wood pulp and ink and the light underneath seems to
illuminate the sleep in our eyes, it reveals too the cracks in
the corners, the silver slithers and the rust.
To dart across country remains the aim but now many an
Inn will beckon with its burning hearth each more
welcoming than the last. The food more exotic, the crowd
merrier.
Crackling azure wraps and warps, and their eyes glow
with milken dullness. Bereft of colour this solemn matter
thirsts and hungers to consume, to gorge, to shine
postcards of brightly spotted watercolours.
No longer can we trace a finger down the side of a tree, to
remain locked in a single room melting wax and judging
hats.
The wood swung and thus the rope, born 200 years too
late, when was the last time we heard wanderlust not for
the road? The jailer has recaptured us not with wooden
sigils but copper rods and numbers. A primordial beast
slain not by magical tome but by black powder. The
renaissance is over.
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 11:25 AM UTC
He wrote sigils of the world with air.
Pursued upon every street and grove,
attempts to writhe free are unwarranted;
Though in what way could escape mean separation?
Cast over rifts like a falling mist,
paradigms lay sedimentary
mediating sight as a membranous
pseudo preface to the essential.
This alluvium breathes, drawing inward
consecrating the dreaming idol;
We had found a stitch in space
where mortals wield no bodies.
Now subtle coagula are vessels enough
So temporal wills decay.
Join the aether;
Through the high cascade
some remember first knowing Self
akin to parting breaths in absentia.
This is our amniotic solvent;
The cycle stops repeating;
A ceaseless inception
compressed upon Eternity.
Our beginning remembers the end.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
Activate prior knowledge,
like a tumor that resembles
a painting of Churchill,
circumlocution
more like an echolocution…
or is it echolocation,
perhaps electrocution?
The sigils of universal coincidences
have finally revealed themselves.
They’re aligning for you
right this very second.
A hair from your head
laying in the bathtub
that reminds
you of a letter
from a long forgotten
language.
A random pattern of a scratch
on your arm from a outstretched
coat hanger in a department store.
An odd configuration of blood
on your arm after you dispense
a pesky mosquito.
A rorschached blob of a condiment
on your favorite shirt.
It’s out there trying to tell
you something very important.
There.
In those things lies the truth.
As much as you don’t want to
believe in it…
As much as you want to
deny it.
It will not live
up to your
memory of it later
on.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
-
to
day i found a Letter;
turned it to a set of Books...
...look in side the Covers
at the
verses of a cursive Message:
sigils of a Slumber;
burnt in side a den of Soot,,,
...footed under Beds,
headed with a Testament.
.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
Hexagonal yet
fashioned into a pattern;
process of dying.
Sleepless before day.
"Sunlight"; a curse for vampires,
not wretched function.
-Not impurity,
the presumptuousness of
those who point at us
and call us sinners.
They pray and sacrifice their
children [pentagon].
-We preach free speech, but
stab the tongues of fascism
deliberately.
Gaslighted by a
genocidal culture, we
fight back [pentagram].
~
Carving sigils in
frantic vanity eating
death incarnate, whole.
Hell is paradise,
and here we relish the filth
built up in corners,
where history fears
to show it's face and be struck
back into darkness.
Back into process,
simple pattern of dying.
Machines that grind flesh.
War machines by name;
"Liberty", "Freedom", "Safety".
Sleep can be wicked.
Where it interprets
the death of the innocent
as "necessity",
or claims tradition
is inherently wisdom;
"That's just how it is".
~
Sleeplessly in night,
I tap my finger against
a cold damp window.
Mass paranoia
for doomsday ticking downward,
not to zero though.
We wait for midnight.
Perpetuation of fear
is hexagonal.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
This life got a jigga stressed out
The strife 'lot bigga than he'd th-ought
Dropsy hurt his mind left something behind
Topsy turvy his path seems more curvy
Than straight even without the hate
Doing a dance with fate at eight
Even though it feels more like nine
Surrounded by swine carrying the sign
Of Cain, quite profane sigils etched
On they brain, apathy that Masons sketched
From Babylon's blood cult sons they fetched
This blueprint, that's all this Jew'll hint
I refrain from consciously causing pain
But the stain unconsciously switching my lane
Getting bucked off the faux high horse
Getting ****** out the ego lie of course
Getting lost sending this code morse
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
They stay vigil, ever waiting the new design of sigils.
Kinda simple, keep their fingers pressed to pimples,
The pus a pit of petered parts,
Perceived by the reckoning of depleted hearts.
I rushed the doors at the sound of a great escape,
The process a repeat coordination of hurry up and wait.
Ever balking at the atrocities of cost,
Average Joes chasing dreams at the velocity of sloths.
How to be content with immense disparity?
Hands out faking quivers, shaking for some charity.
Forsaken someones somewhere surviving on a sliver,
Watching all the getters, I see myself a giver.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 8:32 PM UTC
Sigils in the sky
The wind is my luck
My knowledge echoes , amplified
As it wears the dusk.
The bell chimes with my commands,
Alchemy to help humans understand.
The hidden truth bleeds in rhymes wearing dusk.
Reflecting our paths in one big entangled knot
Words Of Harfouchism
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 8:27 AM UTC
My Lady's Place
At last the house is quiet and empty and with an old thrill I approach a worn and battered chest
The room itself is evening dim and cool as the sun has left the sky
a faint scent of candle wax and sweet incense welcomes and entices
old books and and arcane sigils jars and hanging herbs
hand made oils and potions line shelves glow softly in the setting sunlight
This small cupboard is my place where I study and speak to My Lady
Write read sing laugh question cry caste pray and worship
My small Circle my private solace
...My Lady's place and here I am home.
Solita @2007
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
I need to heal...
But you keep on ripping my stitches
It's kind of suspicious
That flesh and bone can be this resilient
You're one in a million
But I can't help but believe that you're guilty
Of trying to **** me
Why do you ****** my feelings?
I swallow pills...
So I can continue my mission
To tune out all the ********
And self-obsession, it's sickening
I'm ripping holes in your memory, turning ashes to sigils
I can't believe that you think
That I'd take all of this sitting
I promise you, this time
There will be blood on the ceiling!
And on the walls
All down the halls
And up in the Attic
Chop you up into tiny pieces
And hand feed them to maggots
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC