"supplicants" poems
my darkest poems
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious
a well of torments
soup of Salmonella
the souls gut
its cauldron
yet not with out lurid enticements
and voluptuous supplicants
gorgeous
like an eight legged woman
with beautiful feet
drooling **** lips
drunk on sacrificial rituals
of blood black tongued kisses
and hideous contorted pleasures
********
once
exquisite archetypes
gods and goddesses
are now
putrefied
cellar dwellers
moaning in nature bed crypts
of rock, stone
and engraved sigils
because honest pure desires
became fragmentary
and are now gimping amputees
by legions of primal disappointment
while faces blare in the world
like super bright L.E.D.s
shinning paths to others
our deep self
remains patinaed in tears
a black box pox with a lock
the skeleton key lost
in arcane seas
out of utter disgust
for those dark crawlers
that live within us
revealing them selves
as anxieties, depressions
suicides
and myriad quiet despairs
we appear undaunted
to others
and they to us
humanity
muffled ticks
and splintered sticks
my poems let my demons out
yoo who its me
my name is spray snake z
with my hooks and cries
and dark blood skies
in the misty night
i dragged out their earthen coffins
legends of the despicable
resurrected them
fed and loved those darklings
had every conceivable union with them
their healing, my own
ive sexualized them
and found love
albeit twisted
to be adored
in a hidden embrace
i bestow upon you a poetic fantasy
while obsession takes hold
bind it not
nor let it bind you*
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Shhh.
Silence.
The red robed supplicants
Are sequestered
Inside the Sistine.
They speak
In silent supplications
To the spirits
To pronounce a Pontiff.
The stewards are set
To send the smoke.
The smoke
That must be white.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC
The Ides of March had come
but its Sun was not yet cold
when Spurinna reminded me
what his augury had foretold
Some good men tried to warn me
About the risks I take-
But Caesar has no need of guards
I look Death in the face.
Calpurnia asked me not to go
Based on her silly dream
But the Parthian war won’t be derailed
By some Republican’s scheme
The supplicants surround me with petitions,
Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away.
Casca grabbed the draping of my toga
and bared me, awkwardly, to start the fray.
The first dagger found my flesh
and left a superficial wound.
I wrested the dagger from his hands
and swept the blade to clear some room.
They are too many that surround me.
Too many of their thrusts strike home
Brutus my son, “Et Tu, Brute”
I cover my face to die alone.
Bleeding, powerless, dying,
No one must see me as I lay.
My dignity must be preserved
for I am uncommon clay.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 8:26 PM UTC
Broad shouldered lions
stand over the ocean’s quietude,
roaring thunder in the surf,
thudding sand laden questions
with salt soaked and matted paws.
Surly supplicants beseech the sea,
whose tides answer only to the sun and moon.
A lions home is the African veldt,
so, go home king of hearts…
The seeker leads and the answers follow.
For, what gives the lion his strength,
is the softness of his dreams.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
There is a moment
When sunlight bathes the trees
And your thoughts
My dear, dear friend
Invade me.
You seem to love the morning
When our room is cool
And paper, pen and attitude
Anchor an old fool
Bowing fore your witness
Reaching out for lines
Winding towards your inner life
And sketching it in rhymes.
So soft your silent whispers
But clear and hardly grave
Patiently you elevate
These aging earthbound ways.
Why such generosity
Beloved friend of messy me?
Perhaps. . .
When time is near an end
And meeting on a star
You will share your name
Down here and how
I knew you then.
Until that day when music plays
Around and through our souls
We grasp the air and strain
To hear the cadence of your strolls
As we hope to be so still
And clearly hear your voice.
So busy we remain
Both supplicants and prey
Chasing our discordant days
Contradictions near your side
As sunlight bathes the morning trees
With songs of immortality.
May we always walk afar
Singing with a morning star
Reuniting earth with heaven
Brothers in this house forever.
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 8:06 AM UTC
We shall need
a very private
language for this.
Let us create it.
A language
for lovers,
not strangers.
We are those lovers,
supplicants at this altar.
These syllables
will bind us
in lovers knots.
The ceremony begins.
We shelter
in our bodies
holy flesh
steadily chanting
this communion.
Slowly touching,
slowly turning,
slowly burning,
we begin the dance.
We whirl
until we merge
and the magic
takes hold
as we pronounce
in sounds never
heard before,
the incantation
of a spell
that begins
with words,
but ends
in ecstasy.
~mce
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
The Black Veil - by D. B. Sullivan
I knew this day would come. I must confess,
It’s quite surreal to have this taking place.
I hold emotions tight within my dress,
Behind the veil of black that hides my face.
Arriving at the church, I’m overcome
By all the feelings that I have inside.
Until the end, I’m staying silent, mum,
But absolutely present, misty-eyed.
I’m ushered to the front and find my place
With slightly trembling hands, I breathe and wait.
Chantilly lace and crepe obscure my face,
my heart begins to race and palpitate.
The priest begins with welcoming regards.
He then proceeds to bow and raise his hands
Aloft, appealing unto Heav’nly guards
This group of hearts in silence fore him stands.
We bow our heads in rev’rent piety,
And pray that God attend these supplicants
Of mortal flesh. Dispel anxiety -
New life awaits infused with sustenance.
The rites are read to sanctify and bless
Transitioning from this life to the next.
Our faithfulness in God again profess,
That we, in times of strife need not be vexed.
The ***** and its pipes uplift the hymn,
Resounding with an echoing reply.
The colored glass of windows dark and dim
From thunder clouds and rainfall rolling by.
A single rose of red I hold in hand,
With silken gloves that all my arms conceal.
My knees are weak and faint, but here I stand.
Chiffon of black hides ev’rything I feel.
Devotions made, felicitations said,
Means soon will be the last and final bell.
When after tributes voiced and scriptures read,
I find I’m falling farther under spell.
I feel the eyes of all that gathered here,
Anticipating words from me. I start
A deep and steeling breath so all may hear
My words before they'll see me come apart.
And now, with sacramental candles lit,
All other persons did their prayers purvey,
The time has come for me - the last commit.
From ev’ry corner of my soul I say:
“I do”.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 6:16 AM UTC
“He is a dreamer; let us leave him – pass.” Julius Caesar I.ii.24
Strident philosophers at Hyde Park Corner
Poor buskers at Queen Victoria’s feet
Chalk artists remaking the pavement as Rome
A Seventh Sister with her folk guitar
These are not dreamers passive in their beds
Or supplicants awaiting permission:
They are the worker bees; they know of pain
And sweat, and sunstroke in the fields - and truth
When a sidewalk artist notes that the Ides
Have come, Caesar indeed should turn to hear
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC
My deeply hidden inner restlessness often finds me when it only walks the depths of my crouching trap-soul; Sisyphean boulders are cut first into tears, then into pearls with a buzzing, persistent work of the universal melancholy with the smell of spleen, carefully guarded. So many billions of instinct-splits of cosmic forces ready to crumble, the torn, abandoned hawthorn bush revolves like a sleepless swarm of bees, from which a camp of brainwashed idiots regularly light screaming bonfires.
My impulses are bound by Zhivágó’s gales, they would not let me go, because now I am still standing up to my waist, hesitant, often helplessly in my unfinished, ridiculous affairs, and it is no longer my mere actions that define me - but rather the devilish spasm-like convulsions of the soul, which not even the dog can hear.
With concentrated attention, I tie days together again, like the echoes of some strange coordinates, so that I can feel and know that I am going in the right direction.
Like a broken-hearted piece of **** I throw away the weight of my often useless memories, which still tempt me in the fangs of nights crouching in the form of my recurring nightmares: I should still hold on to myself tooth and nail, with the all-conquering holy tiger-will, as long as possible and as long as my prisoner-body allows it at all by the speeding highways of the rampant, daily changing, and worn-out cell-molecule tendrils.
It would be good to live a little longer, as if the free thought that continues into infinity, thirsting for independence, were to be rocked quietly by white silence, as if the one-Dear, who could still promise to wait for me from the far reaches of other shores. Black-eyed supplicants ring out in humming-melancholy voices while a Damocles-sword blade rests hissingly over my balding orthopedic head!
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 12:19 AM UTC
I drove four miles this evening
Down the road to see the miracle
Of pastures greening.
They'd come to life this Spring
To lick the rivulets of melting snow,
Lichens before wild grasses, glistening,
But then a blistering summer blow
Came to patch their roots.
Just last week a quarter inch of wet
Fell from a Treasury on high
To tell the famished carpet,
"Wait a while! Storm clouds are nigh!"
And yesterday a full wet inch
Of heaven's grace and mercy flowed
From the billowed Throne's high bench
To rally grassy supplicants to grow.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
To sell the body is seen a sin
when the skin is currency
while the buyers flock around
with payment held close at hand
once the exchange has occurred
away realms of chastity
the supplicants deign to condemn
the very source of ecstasy
to decry the pleasures gained
saves the face of holy men
when due fairness is applied
between the partners of the act
their honor clutched is a sham
like the masks devoutly worn
when the imp comes to call
evoking lust in high and low
the urge is fed for a time
few may last when it returns
ask yourself why dogmas lie
when suggesting otherwise
to sell the body is a boon
stooping low to holy plans
only asking for respect
while others wear their saintliness.
© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190201.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC
#*For Yue **** Yidhna*
And All Who Brew Morning Poetry for the World
You are neither barista nor priestess
Even though perhaps a little bit of both
You do not serve either McDonald or Tim
But rather the supplicants who approach
Who plead with you to offer them the Cup
Of transient peace and hope in this sad world
A layered paper chalice wherein is borne
Colombian savour, healing and warm
And it is from your hands that they receive
A special blessing, and strength for their day
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
The devil does exist
He’s living in our midst
But William Barr insists
That he’s not a liar
While impressing those
Much higher
Beware to the buyer
The situation’s dire
The devil does exist
If you get my gist
And let me tell you this
That he’s not a joke
Look at how
He goes for broke
Smell the sulfur
From his smoke
The devil does exist
And those who can’t resist
Are on his naughty list
They gladly sell their souls
While assuming
Their various roles
That he’s assigned to them
They all bow down to him
The devil does exist
And so we should resist
He’s looking to enlist
Willing supplicants
To follow him
Like a colony of ants
Then they take a chance
By lowering their pants
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
Once the sun rose in the south
like the fowl by the same name
regular enough to set a watch
this ascension of desire’s push
promising much as consequence
if the eye can be believed
even as the owner sleeps
still embraced by wanton dreams
then to wake against the day
asking rutting in payment
to witness god’s greatest gift
bequeathed to eager supplicants
to sate the fire that burns within
the showers pelt in response
by sparse cloud’s drizzling
or the tempest’s drowning fist
this revelry in dawn’s face
expected at daybreak’s light
is now left behind in the years
with only pain to end the night
the sun has set forever more
no longer rising like days of yore
and while the fowl may share the name
no crow is heard at first of day.
© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190203.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 10:43 PM UTC
The Givers
Sunday evening sermon and as the parishioners
leave this up-market church, some are in a good
mood and feel generous towards the beggars at
the door and give coins, others, of moral frugal
hearts are busy reading a leaflet- handed out in
the church- and thus didn’t see the supplicants.
Had a fifty centimes coin in my pocket, which
I intended to the man with the Labrador-hound
as I did so the dog followed the transaction with
serious eyes, as far as the dog understood it, its
master was higher up on the human hierarchy
then me, after all, I was the one doing the giving.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 4:51 AM UTC
by Ryan P. Kinney and Aaron Shinkle
With additional content assembled from Eli Williams and Lennart Lundh
The fall of man
It was the end of monsters
The end of mothers
The end of haters
Of lovers
Of pain and suffering
Of bliss and ecstasy
Nothing to hide under the bed
No terror floating in your head
Just the buzzing and swarming of insects
There was just the animalistic need to survive
And Gaia had decided
It was best for her survival
If we did not
Truth be told
We did it to ourselves
Some future digger after truth,
alien or human, kneeling with
trowel and brush at this grave,
will note in clear, careful script
the wonder that a people would
be so deliberate with the smallest
of their gods' creatures,
and so careless of themselves.
One never sees the monster
Hiding in the open
No one ever suspects that we are hiding something
When they are staring it in the face
We walked upon the new Earth
Like we did on the Old
Tugging along our gravel hearts
On broken asphalt
Our eyes slowly
Moving towards the new sky
The clouds, like curtains, unfolded
Our feet freshly cleansed of old
Traditions and assumptions that we
would never make it to this moment
But no one knew what was past
That port of no return
The ship sailed away,
Faded out of view
Another layer chipped away like
Hardened clay
The people here aspire to be
Nothing more than alive
The lives of the New World
In the hands of strangers
Coexisting within each other
For fear of never existing again
This is their lifeline, their blood
They are all in this repopulation
Together
we see others as they are
we see ourselves at every age
and all at once
supplicants, praying for tomorrow.
Everything from nothing.
And to nothing we return.
To the whole of the way,
We hastened our downfall through an illusion of control.
Only through letting this run its course
And stepping to the center could we hope for survival
The lights one by one dim
The music softens
The actors bow,
We close the curtain on this world
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 11:44 AM UTC
frankincense becomes the vapour that I savour
In the catacombs I look into cold unwelcoming rooms
the tomb of the priest betrays him
Less ornate as his God seems to hate the ostentatious
even in death and the tomb there's no room for the show off or braggart
but you can
**** in the face of the dreamer, this place is beyond all redemption
the supplicants supperate as
they wait for forgiveness
his highness denies them
and casts out
unholy men.
lesser men might live but there's
no turn or no quarter to give in this dark place,
no warmth to give succour to neither man nor his saviour
we may as well abandon all hope.
the redeeming feature is myself, a sentient creature born of the womb
on these floors in this tomb
I face inwards.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC