"swellings" poems
underling animals
in times
of quake-
slight
swellings
in brain
of maybe
one mole
bottled
now
for sea-
if on a baby
your hands
would be
so cute
but as
an adult
you glove them-
world as wheelchair
the wheelchair
from which
god rose-
as sporadic
surges
switch on
the sink’s
disposal
pull thorns
from the rabbits
you dream
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had ****** aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
4.9k
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.
By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.
Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.
As the summer teases, she writhes Lolita-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
The Lady Mary took to her bed
On the last of the mad March days,
She’d strained her constitution, she said
At that upstart, Shakespeare’s plays,
The ruffians at the Globe were known
To be often rotten with fleas,
‘I must have been bitten,’ Milady said
With her skirt drawn up to her knees.
The footman fastened a painted sign
‘No Visitors’ up at the door,
While one of the maids got down on her knees
And scrubbed at the parquet floor,
Milady took to her poster bed
By a window out to the square,
‘You’d best get down to the Fleet,’ she said,
‘Lord Orton is working there.’
The doctor came with his physic
Carried a nosegay close to his face,
The cane that he prodded Milady with
Would leave her with little grace,
‘The swellings down in Milady’s groin
Will have to be truly bled,
A mixture of clay and violets then
Applied to the sores,’ he said.
The mist swept in and the night came down
As the fever grew apace,
And dark black pustules grew and swarmed
At the Lady Mary’s face,
A shadow fell on the window pane
Of a man stood out in the square,
‘Who is that nightly visitant,
And what is he doing there?’
She couldn’t make out his features for
His hat was broad of brim,
Shading his face and hawk-like nose
Though he kept on looking in,
‘I have a terrible feeling that
I’ve seen that man before,
He’s come from the coffin-maker, and
He waits outside my door.’
She slipped off into unconsciousness
So the footman let him in,
To measure her with a piece of twine
From her head to below her shin,
They waited then for an hour or two
While the doctor had her bled,
She cried aloud at a fancied shroud
And she shrank from it, in dread.
Late on the second day she woke
Lord Orton at her side,
Holding a faded nosegay to
Protect him from his bride,
She heard the clatter of wheels pull up
Outside in the darkened court,
And cried, ‘My Lord, will you leave me now
That my time is running short?’
She lapsed back into a coma, but
She could feel the tremors start,
And something strange had begun to change
In the beating of her heart,
A rattle deep in her throat began
And resounded through her head,
Just as a voice, it seemed to her,
Called out, ‘Bring out your dead!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
attendance
fumbling my entrance array
passionately late i pull off my tie
and crashing here without apology
all-ready a crowd sweated room
low ceiling candy glass munching underfoot
the senses are rushed upon fuming
lit up and strobing with the chaotic humour
and tumorous smells
furious ingestion
swellings and releases
pelling and girling with the dances
hectic music making hero's of uz all
a steaming sot lady lands before me laughing
she climbs me till her bare feet find ground
naked from the waist up
her dress has fallen into a trampled magpie tail
doughy features unfocused
my heart is gurning with ruckus
installed with an addicts engine
it caves and puffs for attention
these are my people
these are my people
now that they're reached their peak
of ******* inebriation
and raving chorus
i am drawn imediate into the density
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 11:43 AM UTC
Soaring from the breath of my soul
Winding silence in between my dreams,
I stared at the swellings of my eyes
Over creeks and soil wiping them dry.
From Gulmohars to the things unseen
My earthly shell has learned life
To heal the revealing wounds.
I’m prisoner of the fortune no more
I live and breathe in tranquility,
The poet’s potion to heal the bitter portion!
I was the White Mountain faceless
And lonely like the tiny blazing aura
Numbing away from the crammed world,
Slight and elapsed like the deft cloud.
A new season I can foresee
Inside the distorting images,
Archaic and ripened from lemon pennies
To receive this broken unattached life!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Since the day I was born,
you have always been there.
Showing me love,
showing me that you care.
You have watched me grow up,
into the man that I am.
You taught me my manners,
to say ''please'' and ''yes maam''.
It has been a long road,
it's been curved and rough,
but you always stick by me,
and you never give up.
So now I’m thinking back,
to when I was so small.
With you watching Godzilla,
and the cyclops in Krull.
Laughing hysterically,
at the mangy king kong.
Hiding my face in your shirt,
when chucky did wrong.
The hours and hours,
of pitching skills taught,
and the bruises and swellings,
that each lesson brought.
So many memories,
that you have given to me,
and an outlook on life,
that few others can see.
You are the mother,
every child wishes for.
The one I show tears to,
my best friend and more.
So to the mother I love,
I just wanted to say,
that you've made me so proud,
to be your son every day...
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 5:24 PM UTC
No comfort shall I ever find
in this, my empty home,
where lowly vessels are but cracked
and water never flows.
—–
No hope here shall I ever place
in such a state as this,
where desires are but empty dreams
and love, a trader’s kiss.
—–
No joy shall I ever seek
in such a shallow stream,
which cannot hold the swellings of
my heart and deepest dreams.
—–
No life is there in such a place
that like the lilies fade.
There beauty is but for the day,
but dry in evening’s shade.
—–
No longings shall I here esteem
O turn, return my heart,
for all I find under the sun
will soon, must soon depart.
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 2:01 PM UTC
an odious funk
interior swellings
of my own decay ?
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 11:49 AM UTC
I can hear the whispers
That echo from the
Crevices of your broken heart
And I hope you hear mine too.
I can see you're crippled
From the bludgeon of treachery
So am I
Only my crippledness engenders from
The emptiness of my soul
That has relinquished its everything
To someone who didn't return it.
I can sense your breath
That still reeks
With the smell of the abyss you've seen
But can you discern
The wrinkles on my skin too
Which conceal the tales of the depths
That I also had drowned in once.
I can decipher the fear
That emanates from the tremble in your touch
Somehow I can overhear the cacophony of your thoughts
That run wild inside your mind,
And I can also discern the silence
That lingers on your lips.
But do you see the swellings
Beneath my eyes
Which bulge from the accumulation of unpoured tears.
No need to vocalise your grief
Or substantiate your pain.
For I too have had the misfortune
To know these maligns
And I know how much they can deprive us
Of happiness and joy.
When we stumbled into each other
On the same path
That we both were trudging
In this forest of lost souls.
It seemed like I finally
Felt the warmth of the fire
When your eyes clashed with mine.
It seemed like a tempest
Had pierced
The layers of loneliness and desolation
That were bedaubed over my skin
With time.
I wondered at the sorcery of your smile
That occupies such a little space
On your countenance
But still outshines the elegance of the moon.
Let's be the hands that eternally hold each other
Let's be the legs that walk all the miles together
Let yourself be the shelter of a boat
And let me be the lighthouse that exudes a ray of hope.
Let's adjoin our firmaments that is filled with myriad of stars,
Let's sit beneath it and deduce constellations out of our erratic thoughts.
Let's help each other in gathering the pieces of our shattered hearts
Let's build a heart filled with love and care and begin from the start.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 4:30 AM UTC
LO! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently —
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —
Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —
Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of scultured ivy and stone flowers —
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye —
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass —
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea —
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave — there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrown aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide —
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow —
The hours are breathing faint and low —
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence.
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
Pushing the ground away - with iron cutoff
The sough interlight of toller - outgoes
From islands - floating - in the choir
Collisions - of world state waves
Counteract - of contradictions
Forgot to remember - throughout from the depths
Eroded - fractures - cuirass of theirs - is moss
And shrouded - with sprouting - cold wrists
Dew trails - hands flooded -
To wash the soot of the blood from one's face -
Up to phalangeals - lacerated - spring of pyrexia
Mindbreak - helplessly curdled
Seeing - far-heading stabs to inhale
Trouncing to raise - the head up -
In the fratricide craving
Hum - and of body parts - ocean
Blind sea-gulls - skrike - and anthracites'
****** - is in embrace interlocked
Drogues - are not eaten to bone - and no brink-
Of - he-li-o-cen-tri-cly driven -
Mound - and weak swellings -
Nauseating headrush
Endowing to - entrails - of cascade
Dissonance - limbs - apart
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 6:36 AM UTC
O drunk love love me
Like you did before
Your livers’ swellings
In misty yellings
I now know you better
And do not know you
Anymore
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC