"somniferous" poems
*Morpheus has never been kind to me
His somniferous ways leave me wanting
Grasping at the cusp of a reality
As evanescent as the morning mist
That greets this reluctant gaze.
He exists to these sheathed
Bourbon eyes
Within the veiled carapace
Of the only form I've ever wanted more
Than necessity and air.
His torment lies
In false reunions, in joining and parting lips
In forest eyes that linger behind in my thoughts
Like the echo of a cannon
Long after it's wrought its own havoc.
Yes, that twisted Lothario
That Grecian sandman
Exists to overcharge the soul with
Hope so poisonous
Bodies and minds are wracked with it
Inspired by it
Haunted on into the waking world
Where he waits on the periphery
Eyes narrowed in the light
Of the waking world that renders him useless.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Altered by the winds laced with a threnody tune,
life in the northern woods will never be the same without its bloom.
The deceased puppet master continues to pull the strings of the dehiscence heart,
one of this game is forced to take part.
The ears of an indecisive mind take in the plaintive sound,
which provides an ongoing reminder of how these feet are forever bound to this ground.
With the chances of escaping this monochromatic box slims,
one might begin to take a swim.
The ideal way of living becomes a compromise,
the old personality leaves only the eyes.
Shed away in a abscission fashion,
and along with that goes all the passion.
Sitting down to confabulate with a higher knowledge,
carry on the dreams of going to college.
Storybook barriers leave no saltant mood.
Being passed by society is quite rude.
A misnomer indeed,
being labeled wrong because of greed.
Hunger of such has taken a life,
of one upon a lake that was never a wife.
Letters that hold such wicked silence,
that can never be undone even with science.
This blue body surrounded by an invisible malediction,
or maybe that is all just fiction.
He has nothing left from his unmanly lies,
upon keeping secrets he thinks he is wise.
Knowing it all is never enough,
but with an abecedarian brain on might just call it a bluff.
Eventually farewells must be given without hate,
and one might hope to return as if all was in a somniferous state.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
it was a dry mojave afternoon,
with crows cursing shrilly
the streetlamps bearing broken bulbs
and the striped cat sleeping in the sun.
the wind drew frantic breaths,
exhaling dead leaves over the hill
and sending the blackbirds
spiraling into the sky.
a lizard stirred, somniferous almond eyes
gazing lethargically over his rock
and at the old man on the porch
leaning back- impossibly uncomfortable in his rickety wooden chair.
his name was Jackson.
gnarled gray hair mixed with gnarled gray beard
appropriately framing a pinched, ornery visage
and tattered clothes adorned his whisper of a body.
it was his sixty-fourth year here in the desert-
on the fifty-second he'd lost his wife
on the fifty-eighth he'd gained a kitten
named him Waldrop and let him **** the mice and lizards.
'sixty four years is a long time,'
a thought murmured in the back of his head
eyelids peeling back to give a cursory glance to Waldrop
who was stalking the reptile watching him.
he remembered his twentieth birthday
when Edna had first said she loved him
and he remembered that glorious July morning
where she said she was his forever.
he remembered the pain of labor
down in the factory,
and the camaderie with his fellows
chewing tobacco and cursing the bosses.
he remembered the time spent weeping,
but remembered more the time spent laughing
in places miles and miles away
that now seemed imaginary.
exhaustion echoed through tired bones
and he wondered who would feed the cat,
drooping eyes closing one last time
to await the warmth of sunset.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Sitting here, thinking about death, about which death to choose, about which passing of time to write about. I am sweating, like, hold your breath or die sweat. It is hot here, but it isn't the temperature that is making my glands leak, it is the memories, it is the death grip that takes my heart when i remember, when i write about life leaving, silence stealing from the night.
Heroine. She's a tuff-tender ***** with soft sleepy skin, the daughter of Morpheus, who takes your breath and holds it inside you. Somniferous, She likes to sit alongside you while you die, she holds your hand and whispers in your ear, allaying fear and slowly she wraps her fingers around your lungs. So tired, of this world, of this life; you think, i'll just close my eyes, nothing new about being on the nod, nothing strange about this tiredness that follows a quick projectile puke in the gutter.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Writing about Overdosing. It is a strange thing, a quick story, one minute your blinking, nodding, often murmuring, then asleep.
Lucky the dog who runs in a pack.
Lucky the man who walks with strangers by his side.
I don't remember much of what happened before i closed my eyes.
A shot, pin ***** relief, then, quickly/slowly/gone. It is night out, with a dark and steady sky, I am watching the stars through slitted eyes and loving my life, loving my wife; ****** how she makes my heart sing. I am glad to be far from withdrawing, i am happy to be in sin with my lovers, stainless steel turemo picks.
It is my first blast for the night and apparently my last.
There is no warning, no red flag that appears in my minds eye. Just silence and a world fading away. A heartbeat disappearing. Short shallow breath and a small niggling concern that soon will come the time when i am not high then...
I am going. I am gone. I have died.
The strangest thing about dying is not dying. The hardest thing about it all is waking up and realising you were finally gone, you were finally done with the rigmorale, the procedure, of living, of life. You had reached the ultimate goodbye. And now you are back. Still high but not high enough to be faced with the living. Narcan gives your lungs back, it breathes back into you what She stole away. Wanting more then ever to ***** but not wanting to puke on the paramedics lap. Fear of police and reprisal, anxiety soars high on the agenda of the recently revived. A trip the hospital, a free ride, then signing out early, i have shots to blast, a past to wipe out, a life to live or die trying.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
Recovering from exhaustion only available
after nights and nights (and nights) of dreamless sleep
and sleepless dreams and mourning pillows that hold
more tears than we'd like to admit. Recovering from night terrors
only possible after decades of shameless meandering along
a rocky shore of somniferous hyperactivity.
Hide your fires no light will find you here.
Wake up, feel the sweat drip from your brow:
your heart is racing and you've no clue why.
Life is burden when sleep is terror.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
She was
not old enough
to have graduated
high school,
nor aware enough to
notice
how many eyes were on her,
sympathetic or
disdainful or
hungry,
as she struggled to push a cart full of
pull-ups
and cleaning supplies
in a cart with a broken wheel
through the warm and somniferous glow
of ill-maintained streetlights,
those obelisks of granite.
Don't call it
pity,
but
something
stirred my gut,
and burned my eyes,
as she trudged past me,
pushing a cartload of motherhood,
trailing a warm autumn breeze,
an aromatic telegram;
lilac and lavender,
a diffident bouquet,
accented by spritely vanilla,
withering before bleach-fumes
and mordant disinfectant.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
Your blue grey eyes
Were smooth, beautiful,
So softly somniferous
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
Lemon twist has always touched
this kidney and this mind
and I have never wanted anything more
than seduction into sweet sleep
through papaver.
Somniferous has always been
a friend of mine, one I have never
wanted to leave
behind.
But I must one day.
But today I ride the wave of tooth pain
and Poppy tea.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:20 PM UTC
Creature of the poppy feild
What type of pain you ask I feel ?
Shades of Green and reds for show
Drink the nectar and move so slow.
Picker of the Niferous pods
The flowers bloom the croaks of frogs
Seeds will suffice in any matter
The better the pods they grow the fatter
Mothers milk some may say
couldnt survive hades any other way
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
The somniferous mist
Soothes my erratic soul
With a gentle touch,
Like soft blue watercolors
On a radiant white canvas.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 9:16 PM UTC
I find you in the deepest recesses of my heart,
I look for you in every visage,
I trace you in every path I trudge on,
The drudgery piles on but the search goes on.
The morning breeze is reminiscent of you,
Your thoughts wake me up in the somniferous air of two,
Every moment I breathe you,
Every second I envisage you.
In every prayer I chant you,
Every figure transfigures into you,
I look for you everywhere,
And I will look for you forever
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC