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Jon Thenes Jul 12

#1

I’m no good at merrymaking
I do it alone
I do it dark
And I go at it with rabid excess
I am fellow to it
Until morning
And I make the morning hurt
A mark is embed


#2

Amoungst great company
I am dog unwanted
In the comapany of one
I am villain bird
I am influence
I hit a drinking partner in the weak knees of weak truths
And things go madly south
But tonite I am alone
As I ought
And not sought out


#3

Astray from the fireside
Into the woods
In the territory
Where I fear to thread the pathways
I shall recover my work
In the graven woodland
I shall face myself down
And bed darkness
Where I am truely wed


#4

Thriving and well hausted
I strain and clamp upon the energy
I face my enemy
My power
I bide from his readings
I make ****** pleasings
Form verbal greeting
And extend a hand
For this
The first of many a meeting


#5

Upon this connection
This Faustian reflection
I make the primal
The woe in me
And the red wash of ravenous pages
My activity
My moulded tool
My rage
My howl against creativity
Joe Bradley Jul 2014
I
a flicker of warm light
and your face is all that I see.
Thunderclouds are silenced,
burned away and
my chest is left open to
our place under the opal sky.
The light is our soft romance
and our candlelit meal for two...

II
'Spiritui Sancto'
A Benedictine Monk
alone in
cold stone chambers sees
an ascending soul,
holy company,
a solitary light in all the
emptiness.
'Sed libera nos a malo'

III
Scorch-marks
drip
love - bites
drip
but please don't stop...
drip
In his lust,
Mould moments of my skin
and keep them
forever.

V
'Waxy fingertips!'
'Put that down,
PUT THAT DOWN!'
Mum told us
If you play with fire
you're going to get burned.

V
30 miles
they say
is the mathematical distance
you can see a flame in the dark

VI
This is the symbol of our nation.
'Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit'
This nine branched lamp symbolizes that our Israel.
has courage, those may be their Qassam rockets,
but those are our sirens.
and that humming you hear is our drones
over their heads.

VII
buuuuzzzzzzzzzz
What enchanting light...
zzzzzzzzz
what God are you? Oh
zzzzzzzzzzzz
wondrous beauty
zzzzz
what magic do you hold, what glory...
zzzzzzzzzz
come closer str.....

VIII
What died so I could read?
The tallow is a pig
the squealing embers
fat pig.

IX
here comes the candle to light you to bed,
And I curled, vulnerable to the shapes in the window
with my feet creeping further under the duvet.
The shadows were melted, cut, distorted on
my bedroom walls.
A primal evil will danced by the light of the flame
until I shut my eyes so tight,
that I slept it away.
here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

X
'No Jennifer, I just feel candlelight just adds a certain

ambiancé

to a room

No?'

XI
'Quickly, before it turns septic.'
'This wont hurt boy'
'The fire, pass the fire'
'Quarterise it quick or he won't last long'
'bite down hard my lad, bite down hard'
'AHHHHHRRRGGGGHHHH'


XII
Children hurtle down,
a Bombay slum to hear that.
'King Rama has returned,
light his path!'

The open sewers adorned in Ghee lamps
find such intense beauty as each quivering flame,
although so fragile, breathes the story
of the power of human spirit
unshakable against overwhelming odds.
*'The King of Ayodhya
Has Returned
Show his path for the Festival of Light!'
“Every herd is a refuge for giftlessness…Only the solitary seek  
       the truth, and they break with all those who don't love it
       sufficiently.”

                          ― Boris Pasternak,  Doctor Zhivago


You cannot write with your fist clenched in hate
You cannot sing with a conscripted voice
You cannot dance if you are made to march
You cannot love if your heart is not free

You cannot think if they slogan your mind
You cannot play if they deny your joy
You cannot dream if they program your spirit
You cannot pray if they poison your soul

You are an artist, a seeker of truth:
And no one should finish this line for you
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
I can hear confusion clap
Could it be confusion relapse?
Is the problem confusion perhaps?

I sit in solitary confinement
To perfect my confusion refinement
He guards my door
Like a chore
From inside my lonely stall
I can hear him take calls
I stare into a concrete grey
That blocks the Sun's rays

If I told my guard I loved him
Would he free me from this cell?
Would he free me from this hell?
Or would he release me
To the murderers and thieves?
Or would he release me
To a life where he leaves?
I sit silently in solitary
And enjoy his presence
I'm not allowed in his monastery
For I'm a mere peasant

Confusion grasps
I scream
Muffled gasps
In the wind
Confusion *****

I fear the day the guard leaves his post
Because he's the one I love the most
He's a circumstance of my condition
When he's my confusion's ambition
Making him the only one I see
So how can I ever be free?

I have become a confusion shell
I live in a confusion cell
In love I fell
jane taylor Sep 2016
hints of auburn drift creating a soft cadence against the autumn wind
almost heard in lieu 'tis felt somehow awakening souls buried long ago
giving birth to falling crimson leaves tinged with maroon and gold
abandoned dusty roads transform under enchanting spells cast by fall

burnt orange pumpkins standing solitary on wooden porches threaten to reveal
hidden secrets held by dusk’s luscious cinnamon seasoned air
once fulgent sunflowers begin to slumber softly beneath the harvest moon
whilst autumn’s trance brushes all it touches with honey colored hues

i stand pensive as an amber leaf gently twirling falls to the ground
bewitched by thine supernatural powers; thine gifted artist’s hand
who with one stroke turns to butter amber all that once was forest green
and imbues my soul with thine exalted essence forever ripening

©2016janetaylor
Evan Backward Aug 2013
I want to look out the window
And see bright stars
Lights, and shattered visions.
I want to see
Colors and flying discs.
People thinking, dreaming,
On the edge of discovering
Always not knowing,
Always around the corner.
The timepiece etched in diamonds
Solid, imbued with living darkness
And sheltered worlds.
Pass the time along rivers
Motion, curling smoke and ladies dancing
I want to hear bells and raindrops.
Scattered droplets of rejuvenation
And solitary gongs calling into the depths,
I crave to see the night
For what it could be.

For what it really is behind
Closed doors, and open windows
Behind every mind the desire to know
Others and people
Moving flesh and deep breaths,
Sighing into one another
Haunted by control,
Thoughts of distaste for the lack of
Efficiency.

For I fear acceptance,
To accept a flaw,
A spiraling flood of color
A crack in the shield of dawn.
The weeds pushing up through
Concrete,
Trees, skyscrapers grasping at the atmosphere.
Shadows beyond the fences
And your eyes when I've asked too much.
I want to feel the night for what it is.
Not for what it could be.
when scenes
pixelate
halt in a cell's
frozen scream
slow-motion rage
cloaks grief

do earth's plates
shift at all
respond to pain
torn out of shape
in savage roar

no

we matter to ourselves
on some days
while he or she
reads the code
to check the tides

oscillate in
crawl space
hidden
in island habitat's
darkened cave

we try to breathe
solitary venture
as days run out
leaving dust
and bones

in silence

as a new
dawn
rises
when depression's dark dirge speaks... may we find a way to wait for a new dawn
Egaeus Thompson Mar 2013
Nearly home.

The bed
And the slippers grow ever closer.

A memory of things that give comfort seem palatial,
Euphoric in the mind's eye,
Though I do seem to ponder of its romanticized reality

Memories always seem so warm.

In reality,
The things that hold others close are affirming.
Love,
Shared events
Symbiotic empathy,
But given the current state...


The boring,
The mundane,
The trivial and the tedious that makes the most of a lifetime
Are omitted from the mind.

But why not have a memory full of nothing but the nothingness of life?
The train rides?
Waiting for the toaster to splay its insides
So I can feast on its wonderful toasty goodness?
Talking to the tenant who does not understand
That a bouncing leg
And constant time updates are signposts to *******?

Empty the files of my brain
And fill it with the moments of nothing.
These moments and these alone
Are your true self.
if you are a good person
Is not determined by
How many charities earn your pay
Or how many items stored,
What you are is chosen by the lonely,
The solitary,
The Tigress.

Only when you accept that person,
You are happy
And free.


But don't hold your breath.
DivineDao Mar 2016
~ ~ ~

*The solemn paths
    The fever of seeing you
          From a sailing boat
      Like you were a comerade
  Dolphin fellowship giggling
  Playfully along the song of the curving
     Waves, along our marine vessel
   And it makes me sadder a bit to see
      Them carried away, their tales
   Waving in a cool familiarly
Resplendant manner

And chilled was the sea
And creatures goodbyes
And there you, here me
Entombed in my memory
      And your hands I would
       I would most dearly
        Most certainly love with
       This utmost divine
   Devotion resembling me
Sun sprinkling solitary
Strolls through my native woods
Where contemplation takes place
    Where gentle leaves unfurl first
Blooming buds and animals awake
Where my forlorn I, ceases to be forsaken no more.
Stephen E Yocum Mar 2016
In an open-air flower market,
it happened in an instant,
with one solitary scent,
years unraveled and
I was that kid again.

One AM on a school night,
vague street light through
my window, painting
shadowed crosses on
the wall and ceiling.
Even in the depths of night,
a stifling ninety degrees,
our home no air conditioning.
Slight temperate breeze through
open window conveyed
exotic sweet Camellia perfume,
from two large flowering plants,
standing sentry out there.

Too hot to sleep, turning and tossing
on a sweat-damp sheet,
I'd conjure and dreamed of far away
Pacific isles, of cool sea surf and sandy beach,
palm branches sway in fresh, clean breeze,
robust with the soothing fragrance
of thousands of tropical blooms,
Like those standing guard
outside my window screen.

Heat-induced, half sleep,
Horizon Lust loudly calling me.
A few years later I answered that call,
and it was all that I had envisioned it
would be.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Ashari Ty Jul 2018
My sweet, sweet Sunday, you made me write
Unending ***** of November breeze
Your afternoon is filled with delight
Incandescence of an orange bliss

Saturday's past and will be forgotten
Sunday's solitary is very bright
Monday's mediocre; five out of ten
Today's sunset is forever in sight

A weekend that should last eternally
But why do the nights just fall so quickly?
TGISunday :>
nja Jan 8
One thread came loose with alcoholism at a very young age.
She recovered. She forgot and proceeded.
One thread was yanked loose by a growing tendency to self sabotage.
She clawed her way out of the spiral.
One thread pulled at others when she learnt she didn’t need alcohol to have a good time.
She felt deprived by self-restraint. So she slightly caved.
One thread burned along with her personality when she became a stoner again.
She was suffocated yet high.
One thread was singed by ****.
She fell back into her ***** habits. She found herself here, but not quite present.
She became dependant. As she flooded her body parts with superficial happiness, just a quick release, her mouth grew dry. Then the peeling skin on her stained lips began to stick together and she regressed into a still and faded silence. In the end, she was in shreds and blissfully unaware, alone with nothing but one solitary thread left to grasp at.
Based on my own personal struggle with addiction and how instant highs can lead to long lasting lows that i am still dealing through.
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