"sulfurous" poems
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you **** breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit---
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
17.8k
the seduction of eternity
ice house Shekinah
sad hag with a revolver
a carnival of skinned rats and bullets
during the blood soil days
pets left on the dark side of the moon
a deluge of morality in a palace of tears
structures of consciousness under compression
the tongue of eternity
a veiled Eros licking
blood shot distant moons
flickers a selfish dream serenade
pollen of discontent
like a pregnant superhero
dressed in a candy wrapper
treading a visionless ezoic brain
bugs; war zones of memes and genes
all matter is metaphor
near death objects
meteors of grinning spiked crowns
we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
mice in a supermarket with tape worms
and a trade mark
we are something boiling
we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
a holocaust in a supermarket
with tapeworms
and a trademark
we are something boiling
In the bowels of eternity
graves of meat and mud
crucifixes in a screaming
abyss
creations
rabid belly of shadows
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
In the deep of time indigenous tribes
surfaced a red earth with protruding plateaus
and burnt canyons along the Cimarron River.
The ancient Anasazi settled
at the core of this mesa.
Scattered ponderosa pine.
Yet, their sudden demise echoed curiosity.
Navajo sensed a struggle of two infinite worlds,
a quivering inundation.
Circling its haunted ominous shape,
a skull with one eye, the apparition of light
rose into a blue desert sky.
Violent storms crackle hot lightning
strikes in a sulfurous summer-
an oracular hothouse.
Navajo talk of spirits or the gateway
to fire. Heaps of iron and lodestone
lodged in the cap. Only two
brazen, cat totem poles guarding its passage.
Standing among the mesa
to feel the verve of the earth.
A New Mexico sun beats down
burning the drowsed terrain.
To see the legendary shaman glow
in his ephemeral blue nimbus.
Bathed in gaudy turquoise.
Sensing the dark encroachment
of a ghost. Near the bony hills, soared
a turbulent black bird in full flight,
upward.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
I want to ask you what you know about yourself?
is it true that God doesn't know how he came about?
he claims he was always here
having no memory prior to his own existence
just like me
perhaps he has no memory at all
a Buddhist or Hindu
will tell you God only lives
in the ever-present now
a self-effulgent light that emanates from a great darkness
from a black mother,
she a vast formless womb
that takes up no space
who we westerners dare never speak of
the patriarchs may tell us
a truth that is a violation of the sacred
is a god a spoke of light deep within her?
archetypes,
**** and **** in love and war
like you and me
a perpetual delicious copulation casting the third eye
during an argument
In the beginning, there was primeval darkness
and she gave birth to light
and he is always everywhere within her
in ecstatic ******
like cherries in flames
their juices boiling oceans
all hot licks and *** soaked *****
a black sulfurous wave and a floating white swan
a howling crime and the remedy
a never-ending paradox
hissing snakes in love
a marriage of heaven and hell
a burdened breath
like a golden city under attack
in tuleries
of blood and glittering fruit
so i ask you what do you know about yourself?
living in this micro dream machine
like god
a creation that creates
by deeds
as trees that weave
and
rot to grieve
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
Zero One and modern blight
Travel at the speed of light.
We wondered on the Wandering Jew,
Or, in lieu,
Orthon, Urian or Lilitu.
We trepanned our empty skulls,
Searched our humours,
Were touched by Rulers!
Now troubling symptoms of want and need,
Have blighted growth of yesterseed.
Patient Zero left no lead.
East fingered West
(and vice versa)
Was Ireland really the cause of cholera?
Did Blacks languish in Tuskegee squalor?
We christened Mary, but drank the water.
Fracked Incubus and Succubus
From son and daughter.
Patient Zero left the slaughter.
We deprived women of their tea
To cure wandering womb hysteriae.
Deviances and leaking lesions
Were headwaters of women's *****
Patient Zero has no season.
The barber sensed it might be smell,
So our widened streets became a sulfurous hell.
And wastelands swelled
Where curled cats dwelled.
(no talk of Michelangelo)
II
Our children's blight has a techno name,
Like the rose, IT smells the same.
With zero tolerance I lay blame
On screens and phones and video games.
The world wide box stores flipped their lids,
Touching all who crawl the social grids;
From the base of Mammon's pyramid.
Now Jake believes he's a gangsta dude
Since posting whatever on You Tube.
Nothing to gain, nothing to lose:
No services rendered but expects what's due.
Inflated egos are a system symptom,
Clearing firewalls, reaching children.
Patient Zero is no phantom.
There is no tale of rat or flea
As cause of lost immunity.
There is no open sore to fester,
The Selfie is the X-ray picture.
Patient Zero is so much quicker.
In our gel of techno bliss,
On our elliptic petrie dish,
Bathed in more than we could wish,
Patient Zero will finish,
And with that whimper
All vanish.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Service
the sections
we skim
on
four limbs,
integral
to the insect
cause
and effectively
crippling
the cross culture,
dumb and
auspicious
in the year
of the
opposable
thumb.
Feline
friction
in
the way
you
hug the fuzz
and
tug at
the tension,
a conscious
show of
subterfuge
and
pretentious
pretenses
concludes
in the dismal
aftermath
of a
stamped
and sent
ten cent
envelope
filled with
nothing
but hope.
Sacrilegious
privileges
construct
reality,
obstructing
the
graffiti art
along the
cosmonaut
crosswalk.
The fire,
fought
with wine
in the dark
etched an
imprint
in ash
where
the
cadre had
left its' mark
in the colors
of a
corroded
battery.
Under
spray
paint stars,
hollow,
half
sunken
sights
echo
through
the
illegitimate
children
of a
wind
chime.
Sulfurous
silver
lining
igniting
the ego.
A blue
reaction
in a black
field,
refraction
with a
maximum
yield,
it all glows.
Feline
friction
in
the way
you
hug the fuzz
and
tug at
the tension,
smooth
and rigid,
we fit in
the grooves
and service
the sections
in a
crippled
cross
culture
that
crawls
on all fours,
integral
to an insect
cause.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
Down
Down,
Through the sulfurous haze,
Dante stumbled,
Lost in a
Fiery
Maze
Is this hell or a hammer film set
He asked himself,
Grinning with regret
A demon
Dressed in tattered lace,
With
Fangs and makeup,
A boneyard
Face
"Welcome to the pit, where
Sin abide
And
Dracula's got a VIP ride
The first circle
Fog and gloom
Looking for a friendly face,
I hope to find one soon
Next the gluttons,
Oh what a feast,
A banquet of souls
That never ceased
The brimstone smoked,
And ghosts of
Sinners,
Just happily joked
"Is this hell or a cryptic comedy?"
Dante laughed, lost in absurdity
The third,
greedy souls did cry,
Stuck in the mud,
Can't buy a thing
To
Satisfy
The Sinners dined in darkness,
Yet they slept
Until Dante shouted
"This is the wrong set"
So down to the deepest depths,
Where bat's flapped
And twisted,
Dante's glasses
Got slightly
Misted
But in the end
Dante found a seat,
In hells own cinema
Complete with a
Treat
A demon with a smile,
Made popcorn pop
And said
"You're in for a shock"
Dante sat back with his eternal snack,
And watched
As the credits rolled
"I'm never coming back"
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 6:05 AM UTC
It's Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:
"Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?"
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.
You've bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—
while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.
Those simple plebeians: you'd love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.
Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let's read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.
The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.
The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner—there's something amiss:
The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you're reading the Times...
(immune to the words that some Christarded poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)
Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical squawk.
Then she'll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will talk.
It is Sunday in Babylon. What if your sunlight ends...
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast—or calculate dividends...
what would you pay for salvation?
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.
A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”
Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.
People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.
Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.
So long, mom and dad.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
Bright, sunny rays fall
On the tip of my window pane
Some go back; some cross the wall
Lighting up my otherwise dull decor
Three books,a pen ; A clock,three hands
And an old poster of Kurt Cobain
Clinging on its heels like a ballet dancer
On a tightly hammered rusty nail
An old,wine-colored music set,
A box of discs and a candle stand
Fired by the sun rubbed sulfurous sticks
Rooted calm and firm by my window pane
Wind creeps through on a balmy day
Takes my curtains to a fancy ball
On Cuckoo's song and wind chimes tone
Hustling sound acts as a background score
Rains come by , to give a wash
To the tips of glass and my tired mind
Dims the gleam of my fresh bright paints
Sets my mood for a romantic date
So, what else do I need to spend my day
A comfort chair and a pointed gaze
Glued to my seat i watch the show
That starts right from my window pane
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
My terror grows with each passing night,
As slow, steady darkness steals away sight.
Footsteps and whispers add to my fright —
Is there an end to such desperate plight?
How long, too long, till dawn’s early light!
I clutch my candle in trembling hand,
And watch the shadows dance to understand
What I envision as its light expands
Through the room and down the hall’s span.
There lingers a vision, diaphanous and pale,
Shifting and shuddering, as though it were frail,
Whispering softly a most horrible wail.
Eyes no more than twin black abysses,
The vision approaches to beg final kisses.
Heavy, so heavy, my heart thuds in my chest.
From hall to room the visitant creeps,
Upon my mortal form it silently seeps.
Gliding in silence, not walking — not quite —
Closer it comes with its sulfurous blight.
My eyes are held tight — can’t even blink right.
Lips part, jaw drops, revealing a black maw;
The specter extends one moon-gray claw,
Caressing my cheek with a grave-cold paw.
My throat constricts — no breath do I draw.
It locks my eyes with hell’s black gaze,
Until moonlight strikes in golden rays.
The phantasm shudders and starts to blaze,
Struggles again its arm to raise —
But from the light it reels in malaise.
And heavy, so heavy, my heart thuds in my chest.
The hallucination retreats, as though pressed,
Back to the doorway — its intent suppressed —
Shrinking into the dark hall, a lost contest,
Driven by a moonbeam so blessed,
Whose gentle light coursed to my relief
And unmasked the fear beneath belief —
The frightful soul-stealing thief
That stalked and grieved me, if only brief.
Now I breathe, and calm my soul:
“Twas nothing but a myth… a troll.”
Then thunder pealed a mighty toll.
Wind brought rain and a thundercloud —
Again that wail, this time loud.
Oh heavy, so heavy, my heart… no more…
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 3:20 PM UTC
Rapprochement
was necessary for survival
Handicraft helped
but shelter was not necessary as the world burned
To phase'out companionship
invites emetic death
Blazes hot enough to burn stars
smolder with sulfurous fumes
The flames burgeon illumination
as worlds are rent
All forms of hesitation are irrelevant with
society's abutments collapsed.
To pass freely was
never an option.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Sulfurous smell
Please seal your lips
Not a word you shall tell
Nobody would heed your tip
Narrow mindedness,
Selective thinking
Has caused you blindness
Do us a favor - please stop speaking
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Do you talk to your mother
about me when you drink?
Do whispering thoughts undulate
from your subconscious,
yearning to be heard?
Go on and carry me as your burden
I won't say a word and
I'll breathe in this sulfurous shame
And suffer the same
As I have for so long
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
What strange memory serves this fate?
Why the silly sheep has lost its way?
In subterranean dungeon lies the secret,
Guarded by the wicked wolf, they say.
The Oracle of the high priest,
Along the testaments of old gods,
Has told the tale of an Apocalypse,
A due judgement against our odds.
The sulfurous land has grew a thorn,
Right in the sane hearts of men,
Like a wildfire in a scorched summer,
The lost sheep led to the lion's den.
Through these seasonal dark days,
The pristine shots of old Bourbon and the sour taste of a lemon squeeze,
Over the pages of a forgotten book,
Were now the ghost under cease.
For this old eyes has seen the waves,
That broke us down like a beach tree,
With nature bells once we played,
Now they became our arch enemy.
Through civilizations we pursued,
Shallow contemporaries and history,
We forged nuclear swords on wooden fields,
And reap the fruits of downhill misery.
We treasured the featherbrained ways to progress,
And recklessly stroke the beam of balance,
For we waged the song of disasters,
To now sing in this sulfurous silence.
As the blue water has turned to air,
The green leaves dyed themselves brown under drought,
The soil poisoned by the radioactive breeze,
And to our miseries, we all laughed, we all laughed.
So won't we plunder the right actions,
Course the way to a changing surface,
The secret of everlasting existence,
Lies in the red flames of the old furnace.
The sheep was rescued by mere chances,
For the lion was not yet born,
For this looming night is still to come,
As the world hangs on that silly thorn.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
my mind is cyclical,
Battle Bot on Hamster Wheel
installation art soon to be in
Tokyo, San Francisco, New
York, Chicago: every city
I had the languorous pleasure of
kissing You in.
being unkind to me is terrible and
yet I love being able to vent
my emotions like so much
sulfurous smoke. [redacted]'s in
his bunk bed, 30,000 feet up and
only 1 girl is invited;
****** brain frizzed out, wasted
girls coughing kush while we
contemplate wasted opportunities.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
Enter the chilly no-man’s land of doubt.
A world unknown to the conscious,
A place where you should feel nothing on your conscience,
A realm of the mystical,
Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums,
A place where our thoughts turn to reality,
A place where our questions create their own answers.
Enter the dead, for no living people exist there.
A realm between heaven and hell,
A domain where there is neither good nor bad,
Constant neutrality created by us.
Powered by imagination,
By our thoughts of the day,
This world is made by us.
A world of silence,
Nothing bleeds through,
Save the voices of those trying to wake us.
There is a guide through this endless world,
Our very own brain,
Leading us into this maze of vision.
We all share this state,
We all view our dreams differently,
We live in our dreams.
When awoken,
Memories are present,
Memories so very vivid.
A lucid dream,
Controlling the grey,
Our dreams do matter.
A dream is recurring,
We have all had these,
Such simple repetition.
A blinding light,
And everything is interrupted,
We are yanked from our world.
****** into a harsh reality,
Where we control nothing,
We long to dream again.
Sitting in office chairs,
Slipping into our thoughts,
Eternal longing to dream.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
Ivory lad,
Ivy grad;
Tell me,
Why is it that you're so slow?
Behind the times,
Stuck where
Even your parents have outgrown.
What eccentric lessons,
What bombastic professors!
To say it is one school
Would be an insult
To the whole of the institutions'
Asserted goals & aspirations.
It would be a disservice
To their alumni,
The attendees,
And those to be admitted.
Prattle off your dissertations,
I'm genuinely interested
To hear of your perspective,
But I won't hold my breath
So keep the air honest
Lest you share a foul stench
Like dioxide so sulfurous.
What hand is up your ***
To puppet the controls as so?
What stick has been stuck
Through your rear-end
Which parades you around on?
What pike has been found
Deep in your bowels
Rendering detachment & disembodiment?
From which war & what battle
Do you think you're taking part of?
Which side & which force
Do you swear allegiance?
What little league team,
What playground do you call home?
What duel with duality,
What fight with nature!
It would be entertaining
If they had only stuck to playing in the mud.
Feb 10, 2025
Feb 10, 2025 at 1:29 PM UTC
Sing now, for years I've given
To a prophetless religion
Of "loss" of "love" and sickening
Wretched abuse of misery.
-
God of the heartache,
Won't you hear my overture?
Torment has become my heart,
Existence be my pain!
Create a wandering wonder,
Of sounds and intricacies,
Turned to ignorant folly,
All logic holds dismembered seas.
Creature inside me,
Won't you rip out my heartsrings?
Boil them in bilgewater,
And finally free me?
To a world so defiled,
Won't we pray for another plague?
Irradicate the "innocent"
And self-hallowed in their name.
Longing and lost entrails,
Of a muddied buried tribe,
The body seeks its insides,
The backbone it can't find.
Fretfull and apparent
That love lost is better found,
Then dragging forth in sulfurous folly,
And losing touch with all sound.
Run, Charlatan, Run,
Your mistakes will claim your fret,
In the ending, fun at last,
I'll massacre you yet.
Overture of Torment,
The only thing I hear,
All Is Lost In Our Sad Lives,
I Will Feed On Their Veril Fear.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
All one glory.
ominous contextual, meanings
humongous without thought to consequence…
sulfurous smell, sour, double entendre
homogenous council
genius plan, or so we thought
genuine execution, or so it seemed
feminine taste in styling, perfect
female operatives
male operatives
stale-mate… disaster retruning
pale faced bodies lie strewn
plate on plate on plate of shields return, with bodies
flat faces
flake, crack, and cry
fan the widows, fan the orphans, wipe their tears
plan for the future, if you dare again
dan-ce for the youth and show them hope
man-to-man we deserve it… or do we?
mention history
prevention is operative at this point
invention, 1984,
convention, Meadows
convent, Corrine
Death ends for us all with a path… or without.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Spring sulked this year,
plants wet and swollen shut,
buds reined in
by the season’s late debut,
all drenched by loss.
But life, spirited away in mourning,
cannot remain shut up.
Fingers of grief, deft as hungry lovers,
pry open.
Wet sheets snap in the drying wind.
Trash cans
plundered by dogs
boom across winter worn grass
ironed by sun, spilling
corks, stained red
with last night’s wine,
alive,
sulfurous.
The sharp rains of sorrow cut
through me into places left long
vacant by tears until I,
worn from wearing masks,
in company of shadows,
refuse to bury coals
to keep the blaze
from burning.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Don't Read my poem
Your eyes Will burn
Your children
Will melt
In
Sulfurous
Squamous
Pools
Of Lust
Denied
Or torrid pages
Of words
Worth
Looking
Up.
Danger
Lurks here
When hearts
Speak.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 9:58 PM UTC
Well that was last week
& this is now
& yes …
it actually is
to him
This President of the United States
who has just endorsed
an accused
child-molestor …
…
THE PRESIDENT OF THESE HERE
UNITED STATES
HAS ENDORSED
AN ACCUSED
*********
…
“He denied it”
says Trump,
of Roy Moore
this man who has 8,
yes …
8 women accusers …
together with witnesses
from the time,
& corroborative evidence
from the time,
& tears …
from the time,
& fear …
from the time,
…
& if there’s special
place in hell
let it house
Trump
& Moore
& Moore’s enablers
& Republican justifiers
& equivocating TV hosts
& the Evangelical apologists
…
& as for Trump
& as for Moore …
the moral bankruptcy here
leads me to simply say
in anger, disgust & horror …
may the dark pitiless depths
of a sulfurous burning pit
be their’s for eternity,
…
or close to.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
You see it coming,
for you,
or perhaps you don’t.
Either way
it comes full force,
creeping,
burning everyone
and everything
in its wake
(in its way),
like Lava;
red-hot,
sulfurous,
scorching,
till it reaches your feet.
It reaches you,
sweltering,
sizzling,
hissing at your heels,
but you continue
walking down
and over
along determined
path.
Others attempt
to run,
falling at your feet,
while they smoke
and hiss,
and death wraps
its tendril-like fingers
around their
throats;
many never
get away.
Lethal, angry
winds threaten,
mocking,
calling out
your undoing,
yet
you champion
through.
You’ve always
known this path,
drudging on
sometimes with
energy and
tenacious need...
to go on
and make
good time
to wherever
you’re ultimately
going,
many times
not even knowing
yourself,
yet persistence
wins out
as you diligently
force your feet
to keep moving...
forward,
never back.
Exhausted
but resolute,
you can’t see more
than three feet
in front of you,
often times
your poor vision
playing tricks
on you...
mirages,
misinformation,
erroneous
perceptions.
You can’t see
too far ahead,
but some voice
deep inside
tells you,
coaxes you,
gently,
to keep legs moving
and eyes front
and forward,
never back,
till you
finally arrive.
Seeing for the
first time,
with new,
clear vision,
that this walk
was purposeful
and not in vain.
This arduous hike
through storms,
enduring the
violent debris,
was not without
rhyme or reason...
it was a
necessary
journey as,
on this often
harried trek,
you found
nothing more
and nothing
less than...
who you are
and what you were
always meant to be,
and now
you’ll get to shine,
wild and bright
for all to see.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC