"spiritless" poems
Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial & jail seem almost
friendly)
a Kiss in the Storm
(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
space populous & arching
coolly)
A barn
a cabin attic
Your own face
stationary
in the mirrored window
fear of restroom’s
Tragic cold
neon
I’m freezing
animals
dead
white wings of
rabbits
grey velvet deer
The Canyon
The car a craft
in wretched
SPACE
Sudden movements
& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless
Night
The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker
Afraid of Wolves
& his own
Shadow
~~~
The Wolf,
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Water.
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
night
& the cold men
who play there.
~~~
a ha
Come on, now
luring the Traveller
Mighty Voyager
Curious, into its dark womb
The graves grinning
Indians of night
The eyes of night
Westward luring
into the brothel, into the blood bath
into the Dream
The dark Dream of conquest
& Voyage
into night, Westward into Night
33.4k
Day by day I fritter away
Observing decorum as best I may
Meet me as you meet — reserved somebody
Leave me as you leave — dull nobody
Dreary, weary, listless, spiritless
A resting spirit clamours to emerge
Unguided, wild, free and seeking
Boldly defying reserved somebody
But how, just how do I unleash this defiant spirit
For it is to cross all conceivable limits
Oh but a mask, of course a mask!
The perfect accessory for this task!
Careless of propriety
Boastful of daring
Acting against my will
Or in tandem with it?
This mask — just now I can't discern
Ponder I do with great concern
Does it shield my identity
Or render truth to it?
So now just what fun in masks
One may ponderously ask
Masks, bring to life fantasy
Fantasy, a realm of our reality
Reality, wherein lies multiplicity
Multiplicity, within each individuality
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
Shouting a hello to a dark and empty room,
Hearing my cry echo back to where I stand
Alone without friends in the space of my mind
Facing the harsh truth that my soul demands.
I look for sunshine even though I only see grey.
A level deep within takes pleasure in the despair
Of the vast empty sky, bereft of warmth and light.
Sitting here I loathe that which I feel I cannot repair.
Curled up on the bed, clutching the sides of a hollow body,
Wishing for comfort, for a companion to understand,
I know that I’ll be right here again tomorrow,
Even though there are some willing to lend a hand.
Because this darkness has become familiar,
Making it a comfortable, though destructive place.
I unleash the usual wealth of tears and hatred,
For frustration with who I am and who I’m not is a losing race.
Rubbing at the itchy tearstains on already-red cheeks,
I remind myself that I am not alone and that I am strong.
But I no longer wish to believe that for how can it be true,
When I’ve been crushed under this weight for so long?
Pain is a feeling, which is better than feeling nothing.
Crying for a faraway love, for feeling lost in my dreams,
Shattered under the expectations of others (and of myself),
Spiritless, with no motivation to sew the torn seams.
Ironic really, how this feeling can hurt so much,
Yet be craved with an incredibly forceful need.
Like an addiction, knowing that it is wrong,
But still I always choose the mind-numbing ****
For it takes away the hard reality of life
Allowing an escape into a world surreal.
Because that seems better than the truth
Of a world that I can no longer feel.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
For sustenance we trudge on
Just to sustain
This callus equilibrium of fragile crystals
swaying in the wind, falling constantly
Employing the cleverest techniques of fleeting upward momentum
Short-lived displays of affection bleeding the small offering received at birth
endlessly replayed to our children's eyes
Despondent indentured servants scribbling through skin and tendons
Just to feed their families the rice they can no longer grow
And sending these fairy tales to the rosy-cheeked offspring of their oppressor's store bought dreams
To keep the oppression alive .
To operate at peak efficiency.
To transfer honest muscle through wire mesh.
And fatten.
And enfeeble
Enforce the prerequisites to match the scale's testimony.
Testify! Oh, Lord. We thank you for this meal stolen from our inferiors.
Please Please Please.
We demand pleasure. IT IS REQUIRED.
For if we feel sadness, then we have failed.
And we'll lay down what we don't have space in our engorged bellies for.
It will be placed, with all due honors, to our greatest shrine.
Where we are honest with our real Mother.
Where the proud, twicely worn, footwear of our warrior-spiritless cows rests
Where erections limp as collapsed towers, respected by false jihads, sleep.
Where dream's plastic refusal composts never; nourishing nothing.
Where potential is pure impotence.
The bed we all share.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Exalted will be the son of Man,
Who today has let Death die,
Breathe in the spirit of spiritless air,
Eternal will be our finite lives.
The ***** of Babylon be praised,
Her virgin-like beauty is the bliss of skies,
I am lust incarnate the child that she raised,
Human blood and hatred, love that's free from lies.
Gomorrah O Ancient! From Ashes arise,
And reclaim the glow of flesh and desire,
***** the Glorious with fuck-wanting eyes,
Evermore lighting the ***** on fire.
Blood of John's beheading is baptismal oil!
The Cross of fallen Peter will glow brightly today,
Faceless ones that living, taint the mortal soil,
Life will be your punishment, Death will be your way!
Like a phoenix Glorious Babylon stands tall,
Existing without being built back up on bones,
Universe will judge and be the only law,
The free Men of the world will tear Jehovah's throne!
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 9:17 PM UTC
Violet Valley
Violent Valley
In unison
a painted progression
possession
Seen to the point of intrusion
Illusive
In a cloak of mercenary wander
A violet valley
of a crimson dawn
Drawn from scarlet billows
Where I seethe
Into a prison I saw
A vision blurred from yours
Under the heath of an adolescence
comes a lapse of time
in a spiritless essence
Godless
Unsheathing itself
In the beds of silence
the voice of a cobalt rebellion
Freedom stricken
Gaslit onto your lips
The index of incendiary
Rearing fruits of wonder
Where knowledge is set without bound
born from the dusk
of a violet valley
No truth knows where it has risen
For curiosity is kept unkempt
inside obscure tides
of thought from yours to mine.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 4:25 AM UTC
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
Her eyes twinkling like the stars in the night sky,
But he loves the way she takes a sip of her over-priced latte,
He wonder why he's infatuated with those undone maroon flocks,
No surprise, Linda's outgoing personality matches her lovely voice,
Laughter comes easy with her,
She tells her stories about life and lies,
But he's lost in those beautiful hands,
As he pledged his love that spring.
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
A tender touch
Her intimidating tone,
Brimmed my eyes with guilt,
As I confessed my past sins to my only friend.
'Wanting to know all', I finally started,
' I overlooked each particle, containing the whole unknowable.'
she looks into my eyes,confused.
I carry on,
'I missed love's everywhere,
Small presence, thousand-guised.
For I could not differentiate between what was wrong and what was right,
Forgive me, forgiver.'
I heard the trust break louder than the shatter of her favorite coffee mug against the floor.
' I want to know all' she said
And I finally opened.
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
Mind numb,
Heart dumb,
Treated like dirt,
Taken out for a cup of coffee,
With free humiliation.
Feeling so fragile and helpless,
Hiding behind his own shadow,
A single, rebel tear rolls down his eyes,
Then a revolution of them cascading down,
His face is time-chiseled and weather beaten,
Seem a bit spiritless,
As if life and old age are getting better of him,
He still wears that moth-eaten coat carrying a smell of blueberries his wife used to love.
Taken out for a cup of coffee,
An element for show off,
'Look how much I love my uncle!'
But the truth lies in those contorted fingers.
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
'Come my baby girl!
Let's celebrate!'
Such words coming out of a man so precious to her soul,
'But something's missing',
She says with long lost courage,
'Daddy I've regretted all the pain,
I'm exhausted now from all my thoughts,
Science is not what I desire,
My heart lives in free spirit.'
Daddy's eyes didn't blink for 20 seconds,
A portrait of a man having a cribbed Abe Lincoln beard,
The daughter is ready for rejection,
But he's thinking about all the cards she gifted " my papa, my hero",
Deciding it's time to show.
I don't know what was so special about that coffee shop.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:29 AM UTC
How Strange.
You long for change,
but you are loath to redo.
And thus, loathe yourself.
And this loads on you,
on your coarse course.
Preventing the Metamorphose,
and forces you
into your torturous fortress.
A cocoon,
that protects against monsoons
but not the typhoon raging inside,
waking Typhon,
and blowing out
Prometheus's fire.
Oh how Oedipus Wrecks
the tedious good
until spiritless.
But never hopeless
Pandora's box is open
but Sparta's soldiers
will close it and guide you
from Tartarus to Olympus
and change, you will.
Shed your mortal grossness
for immortal happiness.
No common sense
that this recklessness
has consequences
When you do realize
What the Fates's foretold
it will be too late.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
I saw death,
no angels singing
nor plumes of hades
Energy relaxes
leaving spiritless flesh
No romance,
like that of a grim reaper
or noble feats on a cross
an evaporating mist
I saw death,
no strength I gained
but a feeling of shame
It's strange,
this feeling of immortality
in
we, the animated skeletons
of humanity
It's simplicity really,
there's no magic in death
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
To run after material fame
Counted not rich sensitive game;
Among wealth, *** and love affairs,
Character is above all arbiter.
As adorn ornament each bridal's limb,
An artist make active clumsy-wart-stone;
Company bear trophy by aggressive troops
Oblige character graceful at distress grown;
The character die seldom minus bloom,
Yet en-lights personalty fade in gloom;
Usually left little paid proper care,
Although always seen inclined sincere;
Certain place customary said temple
Where almighty's statue noted install
Estimated body deserving only when;
Thermal of character never fall;
Effort need to build the character
Honesty and endurance are weapon mere;
By effacement total thought rankle
And block pulse hide egotism perennial;
Good name lost can regain later
But character pleases rare if blot;
A richest jewel survive human tread;
Turn soul ill, fret, spiritless on rot.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
Gravitational forces
towards something better
as if it exists
buried beneath
some distant desert
what is it
that strains to convey
itself
in this broken poetry
as if truth were at
the tip of its tongue
perhaps it's to feel real
for only a moment
to escape the routine
of making a living
which only yields
a skeleton
compacted in dirt
Take my writing
let it fly upon the wind
let it touch the four corners
of Earth's spiritless surface
Take it farther!
upon the wings of doves
and sound waves of conversation
to red and gaseous planets
let even the martian men
attempt to
translate
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
I ask myself
Is this for real or just a fantasy
Is this a dream or reality
I can't escape was has come to be
This pain inside my veins bleed
It overfeeds my mind
I can barely breathe
Then I open up my eyes
and I see my whole life flash in front of me
WHAT HAVE I DONE?
As the blood trickles down my arm
I have become so comfortably numb
So drunk ,swallow the bitter sweet taste of love
My soul is cold, eyes are red and swollen
Down this path I follow succumb by the darkness
inside this humble heart of mine,
I'm crying!!!!
The light to my stairway is looking dim
I can hear the whispers in the wind
that told of the days long past
The spiritless singing of a lacerated heart
I'm barely clinging in this world painted much to dark
Someday God I feel so lost
Somewhere caught in between time and space
where my dreams only awaken my inner demons
I feel so ****** up and I ask myself
Is this for real or just a fantasy
Is this a dream or reality
I can't escape was has come to be
This pain inside my veins bleed
It overfeeds my mind
I can barely breathe
Then I open up my eyes
and I see my whole life flash in front of me
WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
The astral umbilical cord which tethers flesh to soul,
in Death is torn, the spirit soars, the man is no more whole.
In life when man is put away outside the city gates,
untethered by a scornful wife, his spirit bears the toll.
Untethered, man may roam the paths of cemetery aisles
as dead, yet spurned by those in graves--the living corpse's role.
As dead in spirit, living flesh hangs rotten on its bones,
yet breathing still it can not qualify to rest in hole.
Though charitous among the living offer food and clothes,
I only seek from those I've lost to fill my begging bowl.
Declining shelter I have chosen life under a bridge,
that I may watch my loved ones from afar, their ugly troll.
Where love is life, a loveless life is spiritless corpus.
In my decay in search I stray to find again my soul.
(C)2013, Christos Rigakos
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
I encountered your spiritless body swaying gently
as your dangling tiptoes longed to reach the tips of the dandelions
I found tacked to the tree, the christian leaflet with the sellotape crucifix that asked
HAVE YOU FOUND JESUS ? , then saying WELL, HE'S FOUND YOU and your Vermillion lipstick scribbling on the reversed side.
Poor you, I could imagine you frantically searching for the sticky notes
( they were on top of the refridgerator Irene)
Poor you, I could visualize you searching for a pencil, realizing that they needed to be sharpened (you coulda used my Swiss army knife Irene, it was in the rusting tackle box in the garage, sure it was covered in dried fish guts, but you coulda cleaned it)
Poor you, I could picture you finding the pen depleted of it's precious writing fluid, then exploding it's flimsy frame, beneath a lone rabid pink bunny assassin
WELL **** YOU IRENE, **** YOU FOR LEAVING ME
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Everything about you is miraculous.
I have no words to give you
because they all taste like apples,
when they should taste like pomegranates.
It is all too generic, nearly – spiritless
to call you beautiful.
I am merely
existing in this dazzling
vapor of mania, that I
so clearly see
buzzing mad about you like hornets.
Only psychotic pills can describe what you mean.
Everything makes sense, in that, it doesn't.
I want to tell you all my dreams. And somehow communicate
that I think you are far more staggering
than I could ever articulate.
Isn't it a sick shame
that those – I mean those
wickedly gorgeous human beings, those with souls
heavy and earthy as antique clocks,
souls like tree moss
living for ages on wood sheds;
souls warm and tormented
like voodoo shops and dreamy sunsets;
souls like ruptured stones,
in-grown toenails and volcanoes –
those who,
should take compliments
and tuck them away on the wide shelves of their hearts,
instead –
handle them like steaming acids.
I only wish you would
take more than a kiss from me.
but I feel content
also obscene and distracted;
listless yet
serene – when we
share a close space.
The aesthetic I find, I cannot ignore
nor quite place.
It smokes. It intoxicates.
I want to describe the spices in your curves,
(surely you must know) – the organic magic of them
and how they flow, sway-swaying
gentle stream, always waiting to be
dipped into.
But, there is
an energy far more hypnotic than lips or hips,
it is familiar yet new, and constant
and constantly
enticing,
beneath your skin, behind your tongue
somewhere twisted within
your twisted brain –
it gives me
sharp visions of grandeur, like African whiskey;
I can hardly come back from it.
Your dark eyes beaming in the moon rays
like violet plums chilling in water.
Sweet hell.
My heart hurts so brilliant.
When you are near
I thank the stars I that I am, too.
I close my eyes and I am a poet.
But once, as is inevitable
you go; I am helpless
as I am when the clouds move.
The satisfaction I felt
evaporates, in seconds,
just as it came.
one, two, three...
I feel directionless
and ordinary
in all the sober haze.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
The Artisan tongue and Linguistic,
Likes of the melted cheese upon the mouth,
And the gift of tamoto soup in winter tundra.
Those are the gift that I seek upon,
As an indentured servant looking upon the wonders of aurora boreal,
Or a spiritless soul seeking to quench the inner fiber meld with ether.
Dream seeker with nothing to stand,
A adventurer without a quest,
Or the rebel without a cause.
Those days are but a distant past,
Forgotten murmur of mythic dreams,
As radiance dawn from each breath.
Come upon the golden kingdom,
And seek prize upon the window of glory,
While never stand in comfort of being normalized.
The suburban curse of procrastination,
The comfort of daydream,
The arrogant silence of enact.
The desire to seek greatness entwined with destiny,
Perpetual confidence grasp the very breath of existence,
And one would crawl out from nothing.
I breathe to be something,
And seek everything,
To avoid being nothing.
For seekers desire,
And desire seek every essence of breath another day to be all things.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
Coexistence
V
What did they see?
They felt disbelief.
What didn't they know?
My clearness was shown.
What didn't they see?
A world beyond their peaks.
What I could have owned,
That struck them unknown?
What I've failed to see;
What they've failed to believe.
They brought forth their ignorance,
Bestowed upon me.
Motionless, I lay.
Surrounded by ghosts of ice.
Spiritless, I venture.
And cleverness,
I display.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
I am a Heart Breaker superimposed upon this soul a spiritless spec of a man a melody story written from me to thee a hopeless dream of what i mean A man, A legend, This legacy is simple lyricy and artistry My mind is gone my words remain I’d travel across all seven seas to see eyes that loved me yet some divine comedy has mocked me this lion of god has torn me her words stain my consciousness her devotion leaves me motionless & hopeless I stand here superimposed Circe is having her way with me my mind resembles Heisenberg's uncertainty its the cat in the box the apathetic emotion not progress but congress If it’s my state coup d'etat it this is a war against myself and everyone else
a broken boy with a bright mind a thousand familiars hold me down my eyes see something that doesn't drown alive & asleep the lion of god toys with me my love & sanity toils on the brinks of the blind a forgotten repression moves to take from me my essence a sweet blessing a devil that used to run me a god that only i can see or only i thought to believe a stupid soul that gives me immortality yet is stuck in the world of the ****** superimposed
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
I awoke from pseudo-sleep to frigid sweats and an unhealthy heartbeat
my mind snowy as the television opposite me, morning, half past three.
I dreamt up a personal narrative, reflecting on dreams forgone
time deferred, potential memories collecting dust on a suburban lawn.
Similar to that of books gifted to me, never read, and currently locked,
Vonnegut converses with Hemingway within a cavernous box.
Tucked neatly beside the dehumidifier, bottom level of my fortress
My once-manicured front yard so overgrown, you'd expect wild horses
galloping about like I once did before my femur weathered like sea glass,
leaving me like my alabaster figurines, just more stationary mass.
I've grown accustomed to drawn curtains and opening them at nightfall,
my eyeballs have grown to love staring contests with my blankest wall.
Not-quite-yet-discarded alcohol bottles have become my closest fellows,
kind enough to let me grasp them as action figures between my yellowed fingertips. We'd make dates to watch Local on the 8's together,
humming along blissfully to the muzak without regard to the weather.
Since my everyday life now remains a comfy 72 degrees, accompanied
by a soundtrack of leaky faucets and turning pages of AARP magazines.
Now completely alone I float, clinging to life in a sea of unknown
Clawing a barely buoyant lifevest filled with styrofoam and rhinestones
If I were still as spry as a spring chicken, I'd walk ten paces in the kitchen,
I'd draw my nine and snipe a mirror for displaying an unpleasant image.
If my eyes had less cataracts I'd be in the process of shredding them to bits
because I never wanted to peer through lenses so dull and spiritless.
If my ears were better, I'd hear fewer phantom telephone rings,
answer every telemarketer, hear more synthetic voices advertising things.
I'd never touch my college sweaters for the regrets they would conjure,
But now I'm finally grown up, wasn't that what I always wanted?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
I can see the future.
It's not a happy foresight.
Dead.
I dream about it every night.
It's not a nice dream.
A nightmare.
Massive constructions made of concrete and steel.
Grey giants moulding the cities.
No colour, only the cold colours of illuminated signs - eyestabbing sabers of light.
You can't see the naked soil, no plants, no sky.
People have no presence, wandering around spiritless -
Controlled by the artificial intellgence they once created,
People themselves are nothing but copies of their past,
Built-in in this huge system of nothing.
You know too much? You die.
The sky is always crying about the lost planet.
Tears in the form of raindrops fall on the city all the time.
Sometimes in my nightmares
a butterfly appears out of nowhere.
Just a small, white one.
A fragile piece of hope fluttering through the dark future.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
paralytic skies
hold close their embrace
folding in
upon themselves
glaring
burning cobalt eyes
crushing
their despairing captives
whose hollow faces
drag the recalcitrant air
into the cavities
of spiritless lungs
blood and bone
test the bars
of their inherited prison
built with
walls of allegorical stone
they cast
their harrowed gaze
upward
prospecting for pay dirt
through tapped out veins
of hope
and love
in strip mined heavens
Sep 23, 2024
Sep 23, 2024 at 11:50 PM UTC
All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";
Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?
It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.
"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.
So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.
I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:
"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."
But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.
So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?
A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
Colorlessness filth inside
Spiritless and exposed
The bloodshed of humanity prolongs
As Injustice penetrates our wounds
As we have lost our way
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Face down in the mire, head weighs three tons.
Ants marching, he longs to be among their
shimmering ebony ranks.
No morality, no war of will.
Only repetition, only eye and jowl, red and black,
simplistic nature.
Love lacking, spiritless life, bearer of the stone
always East of Eden.
Outcast.
Cyst of society,
unknown.
City walls crumbling, tears crushing their noble courts.
Ten thousand limbs pressing new earth, as the innocent scream at the sun.
Beautiful this unseen inside,
the coursing lifeblood below sand skin.
Steady chaos, as drones rise about carnage,
unscathed on whipping wings.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
i sometimes float
in the kitchen
wondering
where to go.
the time oozes
from every crevice;
the digital numbers
on the oven
fall away like weak
magnets slip from the fridge
door,
like my mind as i linger
on the floor, cradling
a cup of tea
yearning for an urge,
a drip of
inspiration.
but here i am, boring
as ever
filled with
frustration that frolics
and laughs,
telling me how good
i will never be
that’s all i ever do:
‘be’.
admiring others that do
more than me;
i am good at loving
and seeing,
but what will that ever
come to?
i sometimes laugh at myself
instead of being flattened,
i blow myself up
and burst.
sometimes i am plastered
against a wall,
and i give up
and blend in.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 10:43 AM UTC