"sooted" poems
A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Pompous
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy's letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday's Tribune is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.
6.6k
I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.
Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.
Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.
They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.
But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.
Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them
breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
Vicinit vicinit the gamut go round
Progenies excogitate faster
Ode to no eminent thing
We all morph into matter.
The atramentous inky and blackest dense;
sprints and weaves in and out.
Tenuring twains over head, under toe;
Absconding ways in which we've never known
A paramounted heretic defeat.
Darkness that foliole footprints sooted deep;
Seeping stenches of fowl un-scented reminiscent in attire of the welkin;
Vastly sly making a skullduggery indent.
CR2X let us pseudonym by hex.
"No nomen no nomen for I matter dark"
"Matronymic nix hold's my fine lark"
"Nongermane logics are behind you and left"
"I am not your scientific pet"
Not a test, nix preliminaries"
Matter of all is of all existing quarries"
Spoken gallant and wise
Need not ever a compromise
"Matter dark matter dark it is you we embark!"
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
poppies and chamomile bloomed roads,
covered in warm dust... such a pity
that these are the only ones left
to be pointing towards the eternal city,
where marble and stone still stand
on places gods used to walk bare-footed,
where belief was more than just demand,
until cassocks have had ancient ways sooted.
A place where manner was turned into art
And polymaths emerged from genius creation,
where Latin blood spills from heart to mart
In a continuous state of vibrant elation.
where green is the colour of oils and lust
and the sun can burn to a lemon flavour,
and the sand on the front of the boot is black
and the wine is more than a bitter-sweet savour...
There, where a walk through square paved markets
is bursting with hand-made stories,
where scratching through history's pride
would always end in timeless glory...
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 4:14 AM UTC
i can hear your hesitant silence
louder than an
atom bomb
and the sliverous little
glances
that weave between the
minds
i counted them
once before
when the wind
blew out your
lashes,
when your
fumbly words
and jumpy fingers
gave away
all
your secrets.
show me the string
that unravels the thing
ive been
hunting all day
in search for -
the mirror in the rain
that collects all the pain
for gain
that
ive been waiting
my life
for.
'bunch of student
pollutants,
faces sooted
in black,
fingers
grimey and sticky,
snatching the little
i got.
all ive ever wanted
has been a
simple enough dream:
to be happy
and sappy
with my lover,
my cream,
to play my part
and finish out
what i
started,
to exist on this earth -
serene
but there's this itch
i can't get
to succumb to a
verdict.
this is it.
are you coming
or going?
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
.
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
come earth
come flushly
come trees
come birds
come all warm living heat
come frothing leaves and grass
come oceans brimming deepest
come able breaths of god
come creation
come body
come soul
come all rightness; all rawness; all bleeding and kissing
come hurt
come pain sorely and pleasure elated
come knees greenly sooted in the Summers virginal lush embrace
come lovers
come clear crystal nights
come drunken muddled nights
come stars
come lips and cheeks
come arms
come hearts
come urge
come increase
come wilt
come rind
come life
come death
come all things simple
come all things complex
come all
come everything
come and i will meet you
come and i will greet you
come and i will touch your bodies with my bodies
come and i will brush the lewd breaking dirt of you with the clean sturdy skin of my body
come and i will know you
come and you will know me
come O soft careless husk of amorous purple spring
come lilting
come graceful careful colours of flowers blossoming
come sun
come light
come women
come men
come **** ample female things
come mothers
come children
come into each distinct infinite freckle of the days agreeable self
come churches
come houses
come hovels and shanties
come love(and hate even)
come each thing and i will kiss you and i will tangle the crass and the beauteous in the immutable soul of my flesh
come and make
come and do
come and live
come and rejoice
All things good
All things evil
(nothing was ever either wholly
even holy neither)
All things studious
All things slack
All things fair
All things ugly
(the world's a body innumerable
a body complete
a voice and sinew
and to each great
frolicking kind bit
and to each meek
cowering mean bit
we are all
and everyone of us is
we contain every creation
every destruction
every birth
every immolation)so let's reconcile our own flesh with it
and let's meet it squarely
let's fit into it's cracks snugly
and let's kiss each grain of sand
let's love it
let's become it
(for it was always us
and we were always it)
(and i know it)
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
Yet still how the Mind would by Conscience clear
As Pickled Brains could those Sooted Clouds mop
If Facts extolled by such Roomed Degrees fear
The Elder-of-Age; Check deserve his Crop
That by addends of his Résumé, form
Match sordidly less to his Passion burn
And plomb much Skin; Past Generation's norm
Make less easy for Child Labours in-turn
Unless hammered - again - wax this *** Refuse
To sacrifice your Male for Image spent
Soon Locks will rust; In best Demand abuse
By plucking the Peacock's Magnificence.
Can you Comprehend? This Well-Minted Voice
Ask for Pile's Honest; Beg for your Fine Choice.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
You lead a life which happens to be fallacious
You live inside your head and happen to never travel far from it
In fact, you praise the open road
and travel, still you sit relapsing on
obscure memories that only ever bring you to the borders of insanity
No one could have dreamed this up but yourself
The world continues to rival and thrive
and wallow and rise from malign characters and sensibilities
Or that so you think
All you ever happen to do is not much but
Drive your self dry in misprinted thoughts and distract yourself from the evidential truth
Post-parched, you continue to further down a path which is only going to crackdown upon your world of disinfected affairs
Soon, will the sooted streets that chafed your unworn boots collude
And all that was ever known, even if it was but the faintest of an understanding as to how this time in space truly functions, Will soon perish in sanctuary
Soon will contemporaries all alike
Recede with tides anew
Soon will it onset the primitivism
Locked behind plywood doors
Soon will you know unfortunate
Tribulations beyond recovery
Soon will you be segregated from
Yourself, indeed
Indefinite suspension will bestow
a harrowing animation that will find
Itself repeating until you finally cross the
aforementioned border without any luck
Of returning home to the sheer bliss that
Was only good to you in youth
Fair enough in the last years adolescence
But unforgiving come the dawn of manhood
And soon on
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 6:56 AM UTC
You lie
Perfectly
Openly
Honestly
Upon my bed
And while
I want nothing more
Than to curl up
Beside your flawless form
I fear
My essence
Sooted with vice
Rough with coarseness
Would tarnish
The sublime glint
You flaunt
So innocently
But
I know
The feeling is mutual
For perfection
Is arbitrary.
Diamonds
They reflect
Their effulgence
Is no weakness
For nothing can cut
Or blunt
Their brilliance
And I suppose
This is the lame
Metaphor
I have reverted to
As a demonstration
Of my ineffable
Vertible
Love for you.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
violet sky gathering sooted clouds
as sunlight gives way to nights shroud
a touch of rain falls warm
the pepper clouds may yet bring a storm
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
.
I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.*
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
From my window, only darkness falls in the room:
and in that darkness is only darkness
The sooted moon and ashen stars lie cooling in the fire
Only darkness is in this hour.
A scene heavy and distilled with fear
Oak leaves falling from the tree; a weightless mass
silently sliding into the void, that is all that is out there.
In this hour, the hour of the unborn,
no ghoul or monster stalks. Nothing else is left out there.
Only the thick deep terror that remains unanswered.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
sooted
candelarias
greeted my Christmas morn
along with the flakes of snow that freely falls---
the ground shivered with me as I
touched your hand
that is as cold
as the asphalt covered
with white that somehow
immitated your lips
so pale 'tis
daffodils replaced the poinsettias
mourners replaced the gifts
tears replaced the smiles
still, we hope you're happy where ever you are
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
More belongs to he who holds the stone,
Of fortune's birth, the pharaoh of our time.
When words proceed, he directs them;
When foes recede, he compels them.
Hear the labor-stricken bones of men
Wail out from death and sooted soil:
Hail the River King, our stoneworks praise him!
Hail the River King, the rushes raise him!
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:27 PM UTC