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zebra Jun 2016
she came to me one day
the *****
beautiful like a girls choir
singing Latina L'Amour
moving her bottom
like a metronome

her ******* a cascade of kindness
that break the hearts of men
they die
for those
blouse muffins
her smooth legs and feet
made for *** art
lickity splits and ****** contortions
while her wiggly *** and ****
tell you
what heaven would be like
hips that sway  traffic
causing pile ups
and fender benders
and make good boys
hopeful about being chosen
perhaps anointed
and judged worthy
but alas  
turn good boys into
chronic *******-rs
in dim midnight closets
or trawling *** criminals

at the very sight of her
my soul buckled
i wanted her
like darkness
needs a lantern
like blood
needs cells

she looked at me
with ****** in her eyes
it would make my **** wet to hurt you
she said with a soft tremor
ill **** yours for hours
tongue toy
gullets prey
girl food

will you earn your suffering
adore my goddess ***
and lick it **** and span
kiss my beautiful feet
with tender devotion
pray for cruel ***** abuse
be consumed
by ******* jaws
thrill me
love me
flood me
with blood
and ****
die for me
my love

as i looked into
her hollowed
desperate soul
so eager
and felt deeply her need
and loved her to tears
to broken hearts mend

to struggle with
the dark angle
unrequited love
to expunge
years of vacant stares
of nameless women
and empty beds
to forget foreboding
bath cabinets bereft
of girly things
lolly pop pink lipstick
cherry sherbet nail polish
lacquered hardened coats  
aerated perfumed clouds
of vanilla candies
and fashionable
demonic party masks
over black brooding mascara
on almond eyes
hiding hot embers
cool and staring hungry

while wrenched obsessive
for the feminine
that drag my soul
through long coffin
hollow gullies
that drive me
to invocations
of Hecate
sacrificial blood rituals
voodoo trances
god forms
and black art astrologers
who have the power
to move planets
through space
and change fates

oh so wrong
yet i must
for loves sake
say yes to her
yes to her for pleasures sake
even if in the end
i am left to moan
to howl at a blood moon
with in the confines
of her dark edged
ascending in sin
as she ***** me
like she hates me

yes my beloved
to vanquish numbness

she consoles
my willingness  
i felt her adoration

be brave for me
she murmured
sadists are cowards
teach me surrender
you are glorious
in my clutches

i made my self ready
positioned my self
as per her instructions
face down
legs apart
on a bed of nails
happy in my pit
as she played
a whole lotta love
by led zeppelin
blood swollen ****
for her tender kisses
and brutal schemes

the masochists tao

to denigrate oneself
to kiss your goddess feet
to lick your perfect ****
to adore your prim rose ****
to taste your lips of fire
to tangle in your silky locks
to see your eyes a blaze
to drink your saliva nectar
to eat your crumbs
to lick your *** clean
to be beaten
to your satisfaction
to drown in your *******
to hold you close
to take pleasure
in your cruelty
to suffer for your delight
to be
the sacrificial lamb
to be a victim
in an ****** dream
with jaws and teeth

she took me inside
smiled  like a feral
lust twisted child
took out a
scalped handled knife
brushed it across
my tummy and *****
terror brewed
excitement struck
my **** got so hard
she grinned
and salivated
like a Satanic Cheshire
in bloom

she devoured ***** warm butter
as it poured in waves
into her black lipsticked
pink wet mouth temple

oh she said
i like it a lot
do you mind a small incision
my darling

mommy needs
a little taste of hell

her face shape shifted
into a warbled shadow
as she licked her lips
and tickled
her *******
with gooed fingers

cut me i implore
im in the mood
you sweet savage

she opened me slow
o o o o ooow
ooh the sting
don't stop i begged
loving her
voluptuous greed
as she covered me
with heavens kisses
eyes desperate
drenched through ******
and bestowed
upon me
eager  licks
that swoon
and savage wounds

she took charge
with curvilinear cutlery
she gave it to me hard
then good again
then deep and threw
like a spoon through Crisco
a surgeon from hell house
oh so fun she said
she licked my ****
fingered my ***
****** my *****
then stuck me with a fork
not done yet she mused
and then
required of me
that my tongue
obediently pay homage
to her naked mouth ****

i was the pig for slaughter
needles and knives
burned *******
bruised ****
a bleeding torn
pin cushion
eyes teared
back arched
torso writhing
cherry cheeks
blood gusher
her *******
and belly ****
soaked in my blood
commanded me to lick
my own pools
of red plush
for her amusement

a couple at play
in Satan's temple of lust
her face turned to mischief
in a demons trance
her soul
like hyenas
and clawed weasels
all trapped villeins

im done ****** around
with you she quipped
her **** on fire
like a burning house
she plunged a blade deep in my gut
her eyes wide and glaring
like blazing head lights
possessed by hell bats

oh my goddess
for you
over the summit
as i shuddered
arching in torment
curling into a ball
like a severed worm

her face contorted
with horrors fun
her **** pored forth
tremulous quivers
and hells
brimstone gasms

oh she drank my blood
****** my ****
with kaleidoscopic tongue
like a devils bride banshee
licked my *** clean
filthy *****
defaced me with a drooling ****
and brooding ****
strangled me with nylons
until my lips ran numb
until my tongue dragged
like a corpse in a car wreck
she  whimpered and cooed
suffocated me with her **** ***

stepped on my face
with feet i adore
chewed off my *****
a black mambas kisses
filled my mouth
with hot rocks
that melted my skull
oh cry to heaven
wheres Jesus
as i scummed

the  last words
i ever heard
*** you sure to kick a lot
im cu cu cu cu cu cu *******
for you blood boy
dead dead dead
floppy floppy head
**** like cherry pie
Cory Ellis Jun 2013
Hey guys. This isn't truly a poem but a paper I wrote for English class. I wanted to share this view with people and this is the only vehicle I knew to use. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

The amplifiers were turned up to ten. The young and fresh crowd looked at us with anticipation.

What were they waiting for? As the music began I noticed the subtle movements and growing tension in

the crowd. Men shook their heads and we shook ours in a violent duet between the crowd and

performer. Women and men flailed their limbs as they awaited the ******. We knew when it was

coming; they did not. When we decided to let it all go I witnessed something crazy! There was a brief

pause in the music and when it began again we kicked it into overdrive. We shook our heads with a

more frantic pace. We jumped about like madmen. The crowd erupted; it became its own entity. You

could feel the heat and power of this new creature. We were locked in a violent psychic-sphere of

crazed young teens and when the ****** was over there seemed to be a sense of relief and happiness

in the crowd. Had my after school hobby become a healing agent, even if only temporary, in society?

This papers purpose is an attempt at piecing together the phenomena of catharsis by merging

philosophy, psychology, history and spirituality.

First, to understand the psychology of catharsis we must think back to the roots of this behavior. Since

human life has existed we’ve formed crowds for various reasons. The first reason held the sole purpose

of protection. Tribes of people, men as hunters and women as gatherers, teamed up for the benefit of

human survival. Erich Fromm says that “the meaning of life is not to be found in its fullest unfolding but

in social service and social duties; that the development, freedom, and happiness of the individual is

subordinate or even irrelevant in comparison to the welfare of the state.”(Fromm, 1947, page 51) This

states that a crowd is actually very necessary to the function of human life. The second reason crowds

gathered was in form of revel, shamanistic healing and worship of deities (Ehrenreich, 30). Men and

woman would often enter trances, speak in tongues and become involved in a collective ecstasy while in

worship of their God. In later years, politics, entertainment and rebellion or protest was a main factor in

the gathering of people (Ehrenreich, 102). People gathered at Festivals that were in the midst of being

suppressed and would dance in mockery of their Kings or leaders.

What exactly is catharsis? Catharsis is a purging of emotional tension brought out in a crowd through

the viewing of a tragedy or tragic play. In the article “The Power of Catharsis” Kearny says the following

More specifically he (Aristotle) defined

the function of catharsis as 'purgation of pity and fear'. This comes

about, he explains, whenever the dramatic imitation of certain actions

arouses pity and fear in order to provide an outlet for pity and fear.

The recounting of experience through the formal medium of plot,

fiction or spectacle permits us to repeat the past forward so to speak.

And this very act of creative repetition allows for a certain kind of

pleasure or release. In the play of narrative re-creation we are invited

to revisit our lives — through the actions and personas of others — so

as to live them otherwise. We discover a way to give a future to

the past. (Kearny 1)

I figure that, even though he states that it is a purgation of pity and fear, it could also be involved with

many other suppressed emotions. Take my introduction for example. These kids were not releasing

pity and fear, they were releasing their angst! They were releasing their desire for competition.

They were making up for the violent feelings of agression they felt in their body that had been

suppressed by society for so long! They were revolting! Could catharsis also be used to purge other

emotions as well such as ****** suppression or communicative issues?

How would one come about actually attempting this catharsis that I speak of? We need to first look at

some ways in which people have controlled crowds in the past and realize that crowds form by

themselves but often look for leadership due to what Nietzche called that “herd mentality.”

In the article “Seducing the Crowd” by Urs Staheli it mentions that repetition is a key factor in beginning

to control the crowd. (Staheli, 69) This means that through repetition you can get the crowd to side with

your beliefs. The crowd could begin to think about what your suggesting and potentially be swayed by

the other people that are now following your ideas. It could also be repetition of body movements as

well. What better vehicle is there to sway a crowd than music? It’s repetitive in instrumental and lyrical


Another way to “******” a crowd is to act like a madman! Specifically how I stumbled upon this in

the first phenomena place.

The leader himself is possessed and hypnotized by the ideas

and visions he holds, obsessed to such an extent that he cannot rationally exercise

control over the crowd. Instead, he devotes himself to fascinating the

crowd by more ecstatic means.8 He often resembles a madman but fascinates

by the mere power of his determination. What distinguishes the leader from

the rest of the crowd is his will alone, not any particular intellectual capacity

or a superior morality. (Staheli, 68)

The theory is that through mythological story telling or acting tragically and in a spectacle, we can

actually release negative emotions and potentially even heal neuroses or psychic ailments. Later in the

article he goes on to say that a shaman was actually documented to have cured a woman with a blocked

birth canal and in labor by telling her a story about a warrior trying to exit a cave that had monsters on

the outside trying to get in.

The function of a shaman is to heal his tribe. He uses drugs or plants to change his state of mind and

then by going over to the other side of reality he invokes spirits that help to heal.

In the séance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants,

dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice; convulsive movement. He acts like a

madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once

esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit world. Their mental travels formed the crux

of the religious life of the tribe. (Morrison 1967 pg. 71)

This shows an ecstatic crowd dancing and chanting while one man acts out a tragic spectacle. Through

this spectacle the shaman acts like a madman. This causes wild emotions within the crowd and allows it

to release their built up and suppressed emotions. Also, the dance and chants bring them to a feeling of

unity and oneness!

One may not believe in the spiritual shaman because of their own beliefs about God and religion. Some

may not believe in the other world that parallels our own.  It is a skeptical concept without a doubt and

there are probably many people who disagree with the legitimacy of the shaman. Is there a way that we

could think of the phenomena in a psychological sense rather than strictly spiritual? The answer lies in

Carl Jung’s theory of the unconscious mind and dream therapy as well as in Nietzche’s philosophy on art

and aesthetics.  

Carl Jung believed that there is a conscious mind and an unconscious mind. The conscious mind is the

everyday mind that occurs in waking life. It is rational and helps us survive. The unconscious mind can

be found in dreams or whenever you experience a déjà vu (Jung 1964 21).  He also believed that through

the study of dreams you could heal certain aspects of your psyche that have been altered by neuroses.

Symbols and archetypes make up dreams and the unconscious, and often you will find that archetypes

appear in the form  of people. Jung believes that through living in society that men and women have lost

touch with their feminine or masculine characteristics depending on their gender. Dreams can help us

get back into union with these lost roles through connecting us with our anima(female) or animus

(male) through symbols in our dreams or unconscious minds. Jung wrote that when society was

formed people took on roles and caused a dissociation in their psyche and caused a duality rather

than a unity when they suppressed one side of their mind.  He mentioned that at all times the

unconscious mind is connecting us on a psychic level.

How does this tie into shamans and catharsis? It seems like something completely different all together

right? My theory is that the shaman or crowd leader brings forth a forgotten union of the masculine and

feminine forces in the universe. Nietzche believed that there are two polar forces that are natural in this

world and in art. These forces are given the names of deities in his book “The Birth of Tragedy.”

The first is the Apollonian force that is masculine. This force in art governs form and dreams. The

Apollonian artist directly takes ideas from his dreams and brings them to life whether it is in form

sculpture or poetry. Apollo appears through an oracle often in tragedy or in visions of the waking life.

The second force is the Dionysian which is feminine. This force governs intoxication, revel and ecstasy.

Dionysian artists are improvisers and dancers and are usually tragic figures. Nietzche believed there are

three different types of artists: Apollonian, Dionysian and the fusion of both (Nietzche 1872 14). This

latter artist is what I believe the shaman is.

Through connecting these polarizing forces he fixes the psychic neuroses in his own mind. He becomes

a unified artist, or a magician of duality. The shaman, as stated above, takes drugs to intoxicate himself.

Often the drug of choice is wine or alcohol though it could be hallucinogenic drugs as well. This tied with

repetitive revel is the Dionysian side of the spectrum and also helps draw the crowd’s attention through

spectacle and repetition. Everybody is ecstatic and experiencing the collective vibrations of the crowd.

Through his intoxication he is able to go into the unconscious mind and produce dream symbols in

reality! The crowd follows the leader into this unconscious mind and brings back forgotten wisdom of

mythology and archetypes. This is the Apollonian side of the spectrum because it deals with the

unconscious mind and dream images. It also could be this “other world” that traditional shamans speak

of. Now the psychic duality is merged and a tie is formed between the masculine and feminine forces of

nature! People feel at one with themselves and the crowd and the societal suppression is vanished

briefly. All the neuroses caused by the suppression fades away in the ecstatic revel. This is the appeal of

the rock concert. Notice how many leading figures of rock bands have androgynous features and

shamanistic nature. This is because they have fixed the psychic neuroses in their own mind and become

at peace with the masculine and feminine duality of their psyche.

Stumbling upon this phenomena in my rebellious youth was very eye opening. Ever since I have been  

very excited about this theory and I’ve been trying to piece it together. It seems to be coming along

further and further in my study of this. What exactly this ancient wisdom is; I don’t entirely know. I

do know that I have witnessed this in reality and the subject is interesting and fascinating. My theory

still has a lot of work before it is completed but I think that within this article I’ve given a decent

amount of history about the topic as well as my own thoughts. Whether this phenomena is true or

not, we can leave that up to the psychologists and philosophers to decide, though I think many may

agree. Either way, catharsis surely does exist and it is a fun way of entertainment as well as a

therapeutic option for many stressed out individuals out there
SassyJ Feb 2016
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion

Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency

Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams

Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions

Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled

In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
******* with the intangible essence

To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance

Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
    Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…

Pipit sate upright in her chair
     Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
     Lay on the table, with the knitting.

Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
     Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
     An Invitation to the Dance.

     . . . . .

I shall not want Honour in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
     And other heroes of that kidney.

I shall not want Capital in Heaven
     For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
     In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.

I shall not want Society in Heaven,
     Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
     Than Pipit’s experience could provide.

I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
     Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
     Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.

     . . . . .

But where is the penny world I bought
     To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
     From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;

Where are the eagles and the trumpets?

     Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
     Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s
'Tell me I'm not in a dream. Or one of my trances.' She uttered the two sentences between gasps and seem-to-be quickening pulses. In midair, the tension between them kept growing intensely, trying desperately to meet its peak every second, before finally disappearing into the sightless distance above it. 'You're not,' the man said, his voice distant even when his face was only a few inches from hers, and cupped his free hands around her chin to calm her pale face. Her cheeks were warm in his palms, as if being burnt by hundreds of heaps of dying, yet ravenous flames. She closed her eyes, recording the touch of his perfect skin that seemed able to charm her endlessly since the first time she had fixed her gaze on his shimmering features. The angelic voice which accompanied it woke her a few seconds later. 'And even if you are,' he traced his soothing fingers along the reddening skin of her cheeks, 'I'll bring you back to life. Which is here.' He emphasised the last two words with a smile, a heartbreaking, infuriating smile - because of its astounding beauty, before tenderly touching his cherrylike lips to hers, making her start to tremble uncontrollably in deep confusion. She was, again, in the middle of these steep rocks without any aid to support her unstable weight, meanwhile the air over their heads began to twirl in circles, the weather around them getting pink and turning red in five seconds' time. She was lost. In someone else's magical world, with a rendition of one of The Beatles' hit singles from the 1900s or 1950s - she could not exactly recall which period of years it came from - playing smoothly in the CD player in the languid atmosphere of the living room behind them.
After a moment of enjoyment the kiss brought them he pulled back, before slamming his left hand into the tiny depth of his shirt pocket and taking a silver locket out of it. He threw a confident smile at her, and in one blink of his eye, the room fell dark. Petrified yet washed out by the sudden darkness among them, the girl let out a heart-rending shriek, which was followed by her heaving her body onto him, making his head hit the floorboards and the long necklace break in half. In seconds, blood-red light began to shuffle out of the center of the torn necklace, mingling with the air outside its shell and sending the woman into gradually-coming unconsciousness. She could now only see shadows, muttering and brimming all over the weather around her, and had not the strength to stand up apart from lying helplessly on the feathered carpet beneath. Before her, she saw how he started to rise and reveal his claws, and fangs, and bright red eyes above her. He laughed mercilessly. Instantly, she covered her sweating face with her hands - which now felt too shaky and she hated it, she loathed it very much - and brought out a despondent, lamented sound of cry. Her evil lover, at the same time, continued to soak up as much energy as possible from the change of circumstance.
'Again, I successfully, harmlessly tricked you,' he whispered this to her right ear. Around them, the horrendous wind potter faster and faster meanwhile their invincibly powered circles got bigger. 'You should thank me for that.'
'Th... Thank you for what?' She abruptly gathered her courage to confront him. If this meant that the end of my life was approaching, I would be ready, she thought silently.
'For letting me bound my ways into your life again, Em,' his angelic voice replied, and before she realised what was coming next, she wailed with all of her might when she laid her eyes on his real monstrous, vampiric face before her.
'I am indeed sorry to say that you - a clever and sanguine girl like you - was granted the chance to relish your life only momentarily,' he cleared his throat. 'You have always known that you could not outrun us at the end..., and so have your family.'
'No,' she mumbled, and drifted her gaze to his face - his now burning face. 'NO!'
'No,' he mockingly repeated her words, 'or YES, my dear?'
'Don't call me using that 'D' word, beast,' she put her best effort to yell at the top of her lungs, ''cos I am not your dear, and prefer death to becoming one of you!'
With those last few words, she scrambled to her feet, and stood up in just two swift movements. In her both hands, which he did not know were protected by the two stashes of garlic and one wooden cross in her dress pockets, were two shiny swords with special blades carved onto their two edges which were designated to **** vampires. Get rid of them. And their malicious world of beasts.
She stepped forward, and new powers began to regenerate inside her - despite the cries she felt start to roll into her heart, upon knowing that her beloved Joe had died. Joe had been deceased now. He was lifeless, and no longer able to help her here. She should never have ditched him. It dawned on her now, when everything was already too late to fix up. But she knew that she should never give up. Javier and his vampire family might have tasted every single drop of her other family members - and the rest of Ludirus town's residents - including her Joe, before she idiotically kicked him out for this pathetic, heartless beast who wore a disguise to displace him. She stretch the first sword - the one in her right hand - out to him. He took a step back, his eyes remained focused on her.
'You won't hurt me,' he pretended to be in pain, and in one and a half seconds, he transformed into the figure of the innocuous, blue-eyed prince once more.
'I won't be deceived by your looks, pig,' spat her, meanwhile her brain rummaged through a thousand ways to stick the two swords into his chest. That was, in fact, the only way to **** him. To drain his evil life out of him.
'You were, once,' he laughed, the sound of his devious laughter echoed in the very room, and later left it in such dread and wariness.
'Not anymore,' she bravely took a step forward and, without any further doubt, without caring about her being imprisoned for the rest of her life before getting her blood dried by the fangs of Javier's two older brothers, she stabbed the swords into his chest with all the energy she had left. And the effects sprayed out by the action were beyond any of her expectations. Thousands of blood droplets poured out of his body and onto the floor beneath her, flooding the entire living room and finally the streets outside the building until no litter, little scraps of food, and wheels of vehicles were seen anywhere in sight. Surprisingly, these endless streams of blood did not cause any floods, and rapidly soaked through every single layer of soil the earth had on its surface. The blood that had been consumed out of the poor people of Ludirus, the rural village in South Ireland, famous for its cruel killing rampage for several thousand years, where a group of aristocratic vampire ruled the lives of humans and their own species. But now, there would be no more of them. No more of their horrible treatments. No more of their sneaking-up-on-humans tricks they secretly did at night - to savour human blood, which was lawfully removed from the protecting-human law renewed every year. It was all a lie. Yeah, a lie. A lie that allowed Javier's family to approach Lucinda's family members to be victims in their lifelong killing spree. But now, there would be no more vampires, thought Lucinda as she kissed her holy cross and sets of garlic affectionately. There would be no more blood sacrificed to fend for those beasts' hunger, even though it meant for her to live alone. Live on her own, as she no longer had anyone around her to turn to. To soak up her tears when she was scared away by the bunch of vampire kids on the way home from school. To calm her with her melodious chords at the piano. Mother. To serve her the best spaghetti in the world as a reward for her outstanding grades at school. Sister Sheila. To rub her back and put her to bed at night - at the age of sixteen! Father. Luce's tears just would not stop while she kept counting her memories, as every single shadows of her deceased beloved came back to her. And finally, the sight of her Joe lying his tired head on her lap, and reading out loud to her his newest poem he composed at the office for her. All were gone. Dissolved into the ravenous sea of blood in the guts of those psychotic, simpering, abusive monsters.
But she was satisfied. She felt, somehow, proud of her heroic, or at least, brave actions. She had taken control of her fear, and that was one of the most important characteristics a woman should have to succeed in this cruel world, her father had once said. Now she could prove to them all that she was a newly reborn person, and was no longer the old Lucinda. Lucinda Hale who had always been the 'tail' of her sister while they were six and four, and the little, spoilt daughter of Jim and Aileen Hale who could not hold a plate properly in every banquet their family was invited to. Luce knew that she was now completely a stranger to her family. She squinted her eyes shut, trying to imagine how nice it would be to show off her new self to her late family if only they were all alive with healthy pink cheeks now. In her own peace and this momentary solitude, she found herself sinking onto the floating warmth of blood, but strangely, she did not fall. She did not plunge into the limitless red colour underneath, and remained flowing above it while her tears started to crawl out of her eyes. She did not know, and did not want to know how long this remained until she eventually felt the rough surface of the bearskin carpet again. She woke up with a dizzy head and quickly threw a hasty look around her living room. The prince, beastly Javier had vanished. Oh, there are his remnants, she thought and unconsciously, chuckled quietly to herself when she came to take hold of several white, lifeless bones laid in front of her. Then suddenly she understood what had just happened. The legend in that book she had borrowed from the library transported the knowledge back into her mind. All the members of Javier's family had been crushed now. They were dead. Her sacred tears, which came to mix with the blood flood, became the cure for all the people who had been ****** by the vicious vampires in town. They were now freed, and reawarded, although still mortal, but yet a very rare, elusive, privileged chance to be alive once again and start their lives all over again. They must not be far from her now, thought her. Without any further wait, she raced out of the room, and wormed her way onto the street.
And here they were. The streets of Ludirus were no longer deserted. Traditional markets with a thousand-metre long series of antiques roamed them, occupying every single tiny space provided to place racks containing jewels, valuables, and gold pots. There were also shelves of books about cookery, traditional healing potions, sports, literature, and anything else someone ever wanted to buy. And then she spotted a book with a bright yellow cover, entitled 'Love Poems: From 1900 to the Present, by Joe Grogan.' Her breath seemed to stop at that time and suddenly, before she even got the opportunity to touch the cover of the copy in front of her, two warm arms wrapped her waists and turned her body around to face the owner. Once again, she was at a terrible loss for words. 'Joe,' she mumbled.
'I am,' the writer nodded solemnly. And just like the evil Prince Javier had done before, he pulled out a beautiful silver box and opened it. Inside, two rings shined beautifully before their eyes, radiating a smile as bright as the one seen on others' faces among them. A smile that celebrated the comeback of their long-lost independence. Before she knew it, Joe knelt before her, and presented the ring upwards onto her.
'What would you like to do first, Madam? Marry me, or buy my book?' He grinned and held both her hands. Before she could answer him, he inserted her left ring finger into the perfectly made ring, and helped her right hand fasten his own ring onto his finger. She lifted him up and wrapped her hands around his neck.
'Do you have time for both, Sir?' She rubbed his smooth cheeks and kiss them before looking deeply into his hazel eyes.
'Absolutely,' he answered firmly, and scooped her whole weight into his arms and spinned her around. Luce could no longer say anything when a sudden wave of happiness washed all over her, and became even at a more unfathomable loss of words when she caught the sight of her beloved father, mother, and her sister, all alive, start approaching to deliver their congratulations. Here we are, she thought with a satisfied feeling. We were, are, and will always be meant to be together.
DAEJR Apr 2012
My pulse keeps time with the leaky rusted faucet of my bath tub.
Tiny ripples, like cold shockwaves through my body,
wake me

                                from deadly trances.
My streamofthoughts race the fan blades on my ceiling.
Eyes chasing like mice on wheels,
retreating to

                               nowhere fast.
Pebbles thrown, bouncing off well walls like your voice.
Gently it screams, like whispers in silence, “These things take time”.
Never reaching

                                the bottomless black.
Just white noise,

                                a sea foam screen.
xuans Aug 2015
i just really hate the term puppy love.
makes me sound like i'm way over my head
simply caught up with the clouds high above
and not gonna stop myself till i'm dead

rather, it's a cherry blossom romance
beautiful, brilliant and illuminating
sweet and pleasant, putting me into trances
a fire in me so strongly burning.

i hate the word crush with burning passion
makes this love feel fragile and soft-boiled
i know myself well, there's no confusion
at that point in time, my heart's fully-booked

let's call it a sakura rendezvous:
where raw, feral love comes into full bloom.
burning bright, though eventually withering:
'twas an embodiment of maturity.
for a friend...along with my thoughts. enjoy
Andrew Rueter Aug 2017
I don't blame people for hating me
I hate myself sometimes
I just hope they give me a chance
I give myself chances
Until I start giving glances
And move through playful prances
Others witness my glancing dances
And knock me out my ****** trances

I wonder what I am
My eyes look at my hands
The wise watch the sands
Of time that slowly count down
Until we're not tyranny bound
In this empire of circular hate
Trapped on this circular crate
It gets smaller as we push inward
When the solution is the inverse
These ideologies keep us from expansion
Like those that knock me out my trances
But please give humanity more chances

A murderer stands before his judge
The judge says:
Why do you weep?
It's just one word
My sympathy isn't reached
For I am the herd
The murderer responds:
Sorry I must weep
These tears I can't keep
When that word sums up my future and my past
It evokes memories and desires engraved in brass

As a society we're constantly filling ourselves
As a species we're constantly killing ourselves
When knowledge is a sphere
That needs to be maximized
We need to look in the mirror
And continue asking why
But we must start in the middle
To fill up the sphere
Until we can solve this riddle
And I can keep tears
And we can be peers
Who live on this sphere
With nothing to fear
I am a poet.
I am an artist.
A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts, a master of feelings;
A player of emotions, a speaker of charms, a thinker of minds.
A giver of taste-and at times, a succulent creator of madness.
Madness outside such lines of timid regularity;
The rules of the common, and the inane believers of sanity.
For to me, sanity is as easy as insanity itself-
On which my life feedeth, and boldly moveth on;
And without insanity, t'ere shan't be either joy-or ecstasy;
As how ecstasy itself, in my mind, is defined by averted uneasiness,
And t'at easiness, reader, is not by any means part of;
And forever detached from, the haunting deities of contemporaneity.
Thus easily, artistry consumeth and spilleth my blood-and my whole entity;
Words floweth in my lungs, mastereth my mind, shapeth my own breath.
And sometimes, I breathest within those words themselves;
And declareth my purity within which, feeleth rejection at whose loss;
Like a princess storming about hysterically at the failure of her roses.
Ah! Poetry! The second lover of my life; the delicacy of my veins.
And I loveth, I doth love-sacredly, intensely, and expressively, all of which;
I loveth poetry as I desire my own breath, and how I loveth the muchness of my fellow nature;
Whose crazes sometimes surroundeth us like our dear lake nearby;
With its souls roaming about with water, t'at chokes and gurgles-
As stray winds collapseth around and strikest a war with which.
And most of the year-I am a star, to my own skies;
But by whose side a moon, to my rainless nights;
On the whole, I am an umbrella to my soul;
So t'at it groweth bitter not, even when t'ere is no imminent rain;
And be its savior, when all is unsaved, and everything else writhest in pain.

Thus I loveth poetry as well as I loveth my dreams;
I am a painter of such scenic phrases, whose miracles bloometh
Next to thunderstorms, and yon subsequent spirited moonbeam.
And t'eir fate is awesome and elegant within my hands;
They oft' sleep placidly against my thumbs;
Asking me, with soft-and decorous breath;
To be stroked by my enigmatic fingers;
And to calm t'eir underestimated literariness, by such ungodly beings, out t'ere.
Ah, poor-poor creatures-what a fiend wouldst but do t'is to aggravate 'em!
As above all, I feeleth but extremely eager about miracles themselves;
and duly witness, my reader-t'at t'is very eagerness shall never be corrupted;
Just as how I am a pure enthusiast of love;
And in my enthusiasm, I shareth love of both men and nature;
And dark sorrows and tears t'at oft' shadowest t'eir decent composures.
When I thirstest for touches, I simply writest 'em down;
When I am hungry for caresses, I tendeth to think them out;
I detailest everything auspiciously, until my surprised conscience cannot help but feeling tired;
But still, the love of thee, poetry, shall outwit me, and despise me deeply-
Should I find not the root, within myself, to challenge and accomplish it, accordingly.
I shall be my own jealousy, and my own failure;
Who to whose private breath feeleth even unsure.
I shall feel scarce, and altogether empty;
I shall have no more essence to be admired;
For everything shall wither within me, and leave me to no energy;
And with my conscience betrayed, I shall face my demise with a heart so despaired.
Ah, my poetry is but my everything!
'Tis my undying wave; and the casual, though perhaps unnatural;
the brother of my own soul, on whose shoulders I placeth my longings;
And on whose mouths I lieth my long-lost kisses!
Ah, how I loveth poetry hideously, but awesomely, thereof!
I loveth poetry greatly-within and outside of my own roof;
And I carest not for others' mock idyll, and adamant reproof;
For I loveth poetry as how as I respectest, and idoliseth love itself;
And when I idoliseth affection, perhaps I shall grow, briefly, into a normal human being-
A real, real human being with curdling weights of unpoetic feelings;
I shall whisper into my ears every intractable falsehood, but the customary normalcy-of creation;
And brash, brash emptiness whom my creative brains canst no longer bear!
Ah, dearest, loveliest poetry, but shall I love him?
Ah-the one whose sighs and shortcomings oft' startlest my dreams;
The one whom I oft' pictureth, and craftest like an insolent statue-
Within my morning colours, and about my petulant midnight hue?
Or, poetry, and tellest me, tellest me-whether needst I to love him more-
The one whose vice was my past-but now wishes to be my virtue,
And t'is time an amiably sober virtue-with eyes so blue and sparkling smiles so true?
Ah, poetry, tellest me, tellest me here-without delay!
In my oneness, thou shalt be my triumph, and everlasting astonishment;
Worthy of my praise and established tightness of endorsement;
But in any doubleness of my life-thou shalt be my saviour, and prompt avidity-
When all but strugglest against their trances, or even falleth silent.
Ah, poetry, thou art the symbol of my virtue thyself;
And thy little soul is my tongue;
A midnight read I hath been composing dearly all along;
My morn play, anecdote, and yet my most captivating song.

I thirstest for thee regularly, and longeth for thee every single day;
I am dead when I hath not words, nor any glittering odes in my mouth to say.
Thou art my immensity, in which everything is gullible, but truth;
And all remarks are bright-though with multiple souls, and roots;
Ah, poetry, in every summer, thou art the adored timeless foliage;
With humorous beauty, and a most intensive sacrifice no other trees canst take!
O poetry, and thy absence-I shall be dead like those others;
I shall be robbed, I shall be like a walking ghost;
I hath no more cores, nor cheers-within me, and shall wander about aimlessly, and feel lost;
Everything shall be blackened, and seen with malicious degrees of absurdity;
I shall be like those who, as days pass, bloometh with no advanced profusion,
And entertaineth their sad souls with no abundant intention!
How precarious, and notorious-shall I look, indeed!
For I shall hath no gravity-nor any sense of, or taste-for glory;
My mind shall be its own corpse, and look but grey;
Grey as if paled seriously by the passage of time;
Grey as if turned mercilessly so-by nothing sublime;
Ah, but in truth-grey over its stolen life, over its stolen breath!
I shall become such greyness, o poetry, over the loss of thee;
And treadeth around like them, whose minds are blocked-by monetary thickness;
A desire for meaningless muchness, and pretentious satire exchanged '**** 'emselves;
I shall be like 'em-who are blind to even t'eir own brutal longings!
Ah, t'ose, whose paths are threatened by avid seriousness;
And adverse tides of ambition, and incomprehensible austerity;
Ah, for to me glory is not eternal, glory is not superb;
For eternity is what matterest most, and t'at relieth not within any absence of serenity.
Ah, but sadly they realiseth, realiseth it not!
For they are never alive themselves, nor prone-to any living realisation;
And termed only by the solemnity of desire, wealthiness, and hovering accusations;
For they breathe within their private-ye' voluptuous, malice, and unabashed prejudice,
For they hath no comprehension; as they hath not even the most barren bliss!
And I wantest not to be any of them, for being such is entirely gruesome;
And I shall die of loneliness, I shall die of feasting on no mindly outcome;
For nothing more shall be fragrant within my torpid soul;
And hath courage not shall I, to fight against any fishy and foul.
My fate is tranquil, and 'tis, indeed-to be a poet;
A poet whenst society is mute, I shall speak out loud;
And whenst humanity is asleep, I wake 't with my shouts;
Ah, poetry! Thy ****** little soul is but everything to me;
And even in my future wifery, I shall still care for, and recur to thee;
And I shall devote myself to thee, and cherish thee more;
Thou hath captured me with love; and such a love is, indeed, like never before.

But too I loveth him still, as every day rises-
When the sun reappeareth, and hazy clouds are again woken so they canst praise the skies.
I loveth him, as sunrays alight our country suburbs;
With a love so wondrous; a love but at times-too ardent and superb.
Ah, and thus tellest me-tellest me once more!
To whose heart shall I benignly succumb, and trust my maidenhood?
To whose soul shall I courteously bow, and be tied-at th' end of my womanhood?
Ah, poetry, I am but now clueless, and thoroughly speechless-about my own love!
Ah, dearest-t'is time but be friendly to me, and award to me a clue!
Lendeth to me thy very genial comprehension, and merit;
Openeth my heart with thy grace, and unmistakable wit!
Drowneth me once more into thy reveries of dreams;
And finally, just finally-burstest my eyes now open, maketh me with clarity see him!

Ah, poetry, t'ose rainbows of thine-are definitely too remarkable;
As how t'ose red lips of thine adore me, and termeth me kindly, as reliable;
And thus I shall rely all my reality on thy very shoulder;
Bless me with the holiness confidentiality, and untamed ****** intelligence;
Maketh me enliven my words with love, and the healthiest, and loveliest, of allegiance.
Bless me with the flavoured showers of thy heart;
So everything foreign canst but be comely-and familiar;
And from whose verdure, and growth-I shall ne'er be apart!
And as t'is happens, holdest my hand tightly-and clutchest at my heart dearly;
Keepest me but safe here, and reachest my breath, securely!
Ah, poetry-be with me, be with me always!
Maketh me even lovelier, and loyal-to my religion;
In my daily taste-and hastes, and all these supreme oddities and evenness of life;
Maketh me but thoughtful, cheerful, and naive;
And in silence maketh me stay civil-but for my years to come;
and similarly helpeth my devotion, taste, and creativity, remain alive.

Ah, poetry, thus I shall be awake in both thy daylight, and slumbers;
And as thou shineth, I knoweth that my dreams shall never fade away;
Once more, I might have gone mad, but still-all the way better;
And whenst I am once more conscious; thou shalt be my darling;
who firmly and genuinely beggeth me t' keep writing, and in the end, beggeth me t' stay.
Leave me not, even whenst days grew dark-and lighted were only my abyss;
Invite my joy, and devour every bit of it-as one thou should neither ignore, or miss.
Over the hills,
From mountain to mountain,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Playing his pipes,
And drinking the wine,
He dances and hunts and roams.

Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.

A cave in the hills,
The heart of his fair Arcadia,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Demeter he found,
And then he told Zeus,
He dances and hunts and roams.

Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.

In fair Arcadia,
He stood feeding his hounds,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Artemis came,
And he gave her ten pairs,
He dances and hunts and roams.

Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.

Visions and dreams,
In trances and dances of ecstasy,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Fair Apollo came,
And learned prophecy at his feet,
He dances and hunts and roams.

Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.

Bragging and boasting,
He plays his pipes and he dances,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Apollo comes challenging,
And the mountain god liked lyres,
He dances and hunts and roams.

Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.

Echo he loved,
He sang and he wooed,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Scorning his love,
His panic tore her to shreds,
He dances and hunts and roams.

Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.

Youngest of gods,
But oldest by far,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Father of all,
And forever the Child,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.

© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)

James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
Sa Sa Ra Dec 2012
~Welcome the Eighth of days!!
Whereby the snake of fear becomes our best of friend transmutable,
we come here now ready already in~~

~'Release all your fear
Heaven anticipates earth
Rolling in laughter'~~

‎"Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world.

The forms may change, yet the essence remains the same.

Every wonderful sight will vanish,

every sweet word will fade,

But do not be disheartened,

The source they come from is eternal, growing,

Branching out, giving new life and new joy.

Why do you weep?

The source is within you

And this whole world is springing up from it".


~'So It Is Sown!!!

The Heart of the Infinite Deep Dark Sea of LOVE <3 <3 :) :)!!!
From where she and all is sprung and springs still and still;
Where if some is Good More Is Given!!!!

Welcome to the 8th of Days...
My Dearly departed and imperishable ones of such this very LOVE!!!'~~

'Satyam Shivam Sundram Love Truly as Kindness in Action
as Beauty Be of Great Spirits's Ka- Alling Afu Ra's Childeren All
Must Be One Great Womb Where Our Love's Light Spirit Breathes
Within as without, above and below every rainbow I Am Another You';

'I know of these flock's,
Of all the little birds and swarms,
Of bees, but whom did 'Tweet',

Which did 'Pollinate' Lovely Upon Such,
A Shimmering Glimmering Flowering Field,

I know not which one,
or if s/he was or is still sleeping!!!


2012 Crossing Over, A New Beginning;

'Nostradamus and sleeping prophet's One lost image of the singular Eye';

'Nostradamus too understood so much within,
With and about these could find no conclusion,
Of otherwise what was self evident,
Certain kinds of trends predictable,

But a blank of 'time/space',
That went blank thereabouts by,
Nine Times Nine the 81st page,
'The Lost Book of Nostradamus',
Where it was left open...

IS... Us...

Knock Knock!!!

You can become

'One' with this then 'Great Architect',
See, Understand A Midwife Be Need,

Then Also Completely That None Can Be Left Out Indeed!!!'

"KISS Kiss'S KissES"!!!

'Keep It Simple Silly


Especially Sweet!!!'


'GOOD  Time
Bad Time





"Knock Knock BLISS!!!"

'If this BLISS comes knockin'
BLISS wants in, O' Be Lite Swift

Say the 'Door Is Already Open'
Bring Friends All The More!!!'

'Dancing In LOVE's
Joyly Fun Seeking
Thine Rightfully
Divined Kiss's
Thine Divine
All Willing
Out of
Ode Baseless
Fearful Trances
Hypnotic Spell's
Broken Freed
If You
Let It

~'We Shall Launch That
Greater Magical Mystery
'IT' of them ALL!!!'~~

~'Know soonly
We shall find,

Truly Abundantly Food
For Our Bodies And Souls;


~'Your heart
torrential river
rushing reaching
touching changes all
at once all so between
it's every beating!!!'~~

~'As we breathe so too it follows like the Great Tantric Being...'~~

~'Solomon is here with me man
and we laughing really we can
understand the wooing of such
pains fading Heaven oh so hard
and at once too easily off!!'~~

~'Sure I can understand your heart
that just assume chop garlic really

and more than imagine
the quandaries

and about the fairly's of lonely's

wide by wakeful heart of eye
I can dream about the hopes, dares

and of your despairs of your great
yet uncertain missions too'~~

~'Still I say
Forgive me all!!!

Oh silly me,
for to be or not to be,
twas not question after all,'~

~'In any Darkness at all,

This or night, still you will find,
there is truly only More Love Willing,

To Come Into the Sphere' of Our Beings,'~~

"Mind Games" - John Lennon

We're playing those mind games together

Pushing the barriers, planting seeds
Playing the mind guerrilla

Chanting the mantra, peace on earth
We all been playing those mind games forever

Some kinda druid dudes lifting the veil
Doing the mind guerrilla

Some call it magic, the search for the grail

Love is the answer and you know that for sure
Love is a flower, you got to let it, you got to let it grow

So keep on playing those mind games together

Faith in the future, outta the now

You just can't beat on those mind guerrillas
Absolute elsewhere in the stones of your mind

Yeah we're playing those mind games forever
Projecting our images in space and in time

Yes is the answer and you know that for sure
Yes is surrender, you got to let it, you got to let it go

So keep on playing those mind games together
Doing the ritual dance in the sun

Millions of mind guerrillas
Putting their soul power to the karmic wheel

Keep on playing those mind games forever
Raising the spirit of peace and love

(I want you to make love, not war, I know you've heard it before)

“When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.
To love life through labor is to be intimate with life’s inmost secret.
All work is empty save when there is love, for work is love made visible.”
~~Kahlil Gibran~~~!!!

'We gift each other,
I will run with what you impart,
to me and with what I see,
your most precious gifts,'

'As much as this is simple truth,
I know those now whose body itself is one with this inner spirit,
and runs in defiance of all other illusion!!!'

"Know then that the body is merely a garment
Go seek the wearer , not the cloak."

~ Rumi
I agree with the spiritual aspects of this film however I do not agree with 'they here now, past no longer' and or forward'
All are in this together and all will roll with the 'Stone' One Force of Love!!!
They we have all worked hard and long for the One Dream befalling upon us all!!
We are fee to see, hear, understand, forgive our selves and other selves and Speak with Compassionate LOVE!!! It is the gift one finds with inner self love through inner self honesty!!
What you truly wish to see without you must embrace truly within as we all receive this pure Divine Love Spirit inwardly receiving!!!!
All abandoned power is regained and solution is love mete need without question or discrimination!!!

2012 Crossing Over, A New Beginning OFFICIAL FILM

As much as this is simple truth,
I know those now whose body itself is one with this inner spirit,
and runs in defiance of all other illusion!!!

"Know then that the body is merely a garment
Go seek the wearer , not the cloak."

~ Rumi;=a.143009069116229.37546.143005819116554&type;=1&theater;

Poem by Sa Sa Ra in draft,
edited well enough yet,
half completed!!!

I share here what I have yet!!!
<3 <3 :) :) R


\               /
Is that



/                   \


Star Dust







<3<3##:):)!!! Sa Sa!!!
Taylor Ott Jan 2018
This is my favorite dress.
I bought it from a store I managed on Haight Street in San Francisco when I was 24.
It was a sample, one of a kind and I felt like a fairy in it.
It required no bra and I required no restrictions. We were a good match for each other.
Some might say it looks delicate as the lace flutters around my thighs, but, I know. This dress sat on sidewalks chain smoking cigarettes in the Castro. It danced in drug induced trances with new and old friends where we lived like sardines.
This dress moved to NEw York City with me and we endured cat-calls and harsh words. A casting director called me plain in this dress. He explained, to a room full of people, wasn’t it amazing how my talent shown so bright while I was so very plain. And as I walked along side Madison Square Park I saw myself shining in car reflections and my dress told me I was beautiful, and I knew it was right, and that man was insane.
In New Orleans I was invited to a party and I went because I didn’t know anyone. I was New. I wore my favorite dress and as I put it on I thought of the cold California beach breeze grazing my underwear throwing up my skirt, I thought of that mad man calling me plain, and I thought how scary it is to go to this party alone. I rode my bike in the humid air and I felt my pink slip clutch my waist. I felt safe. I sang a song out load. I felt like me. And when I got there you were there. You looked at me like I wasn’t just my dress or what was under it. You told me one truth and one lie and it made me smile. And now when I turn to my favorite dress like an old friend, for comfort or confidence, you are in its history too.
Kassiani May 2013
I have wearied of grand romances
Of deep sighs and swooning trances
Of doting gentlemen’s advances
And all manner of courtship play
I am tired of love confessions
And of dizzied, dazed professions
And of unrestrained obsessions
I grow sicker day by day

I once dreamed of adoration
Went quite mad for veneration
Laughing, flirting with temptation
The queen in Camelot
The lonely, lovely Guinevere
Dainty-masked with girlish fear
But when King Arthur wasn’t near
Dreaming of Sir Lancelot

These days I want no noble knight
Despite my seeming helpless plight
I wish to set myself aright
And tread upon the ground
Yet here I am, pedestal-high
Too close to the dazzling sky
As my life keeps passing by
And boys keep running round

I’ve let myself grow much too proud
Drew up arrogance from the crowd
Heard the cheering, bright and loud
The queen in Camelot
And though I had my faithful Sir
Still my heart was all astir
With flying fancies, all a blur
For Guinevere and Lancelot

These fantasies have grown too old
I’d rather let my bed grow cold
For I have wearied of being told
“You are mine to keep”
Men have tired me to the core
Left me sad and sick and sore
And have turned into such a chore
And I’d much rather sleep

What blasphemy for a maiden fair
To toss such doting to the air
To turn away without much care
Though queen in Camelot
But I have withered, I have tired
Felt as if my brain’s been mired
And find not Arthur much desired
Nor dashing Lancelot

Is it so bad to want respite
From endless longing, day and night?
This constant charm becomes too trite
With ever staler tone
I only wish to rest a while
Recover from incessant guile
Forget the weight of lovers’ trial
And simply be alone
Written 5/27/13

Inspired partly by The Mists of Avalon, The Garden of Proserpine, and The Lady of Shalott.
Thou wast that all to me, love,
  For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
  A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
  Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
  A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”—but o’er the Past
  (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
  The light of Life is o’er!
“No more—no more—no more”—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
  To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
  Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
  And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
  And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
  By what eternal streams!

Alas! for that accursed time
  They bore thee o’er the billow,
From love to titled age and crime,
  And an unholy pillow!
From me, and from our misty clime,
  Where weeps the silver willow!
I like a church, I like a cowl,
I love a prophet of the soul,

And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles;
Yet not for all his faith can see,
Would I that cowled churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure,
Which I could not on me endure?

Not from a vain or shallow thought
His awful Jove young Phidias brought;
Never from lips of cunning fell
The thrilling Delphic oracle;
Out from the heart of nature rolled
The burdens of the Bible old;
The litanies of nations came,
Like the volcano's tongue of flame,
Up from the burning core below,
The canticles of love and woe.
The hand that rounded Peter's dome,
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome,
Wrought in a sad sincerity,
Himself from God he could not free;
He builded better than he knew,
The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest
Of leaves and feathers from her breast;
Or how the fish outbuilt its shell,
Painting with morn each annual cell;
Or how the sacred pine tree adds
To her old leaves new myriads?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
As the best gem upon her zone;
And Morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids;
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky
As on its friends with kindred eye;
For out of Thought's interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air,
And nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.

These temples grew as grows the grass,
Art might obey but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand
To the vast soul that o'er him planned,
And the same power that reared the shrine,
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Even the fiery Pentecost
Girds with one flame the Countless host,
Trances the heart through chanting quires,
And through the priest the mind inspires.

The word unto the prophet spoken
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sibyls told
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,
Still floats upon the morning wind,
Still whispers to the willing mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never lost.

I know what say the Fathers wise,
The Book itself before me lies,
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger Golden-lips or mines,
Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines,
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowled portrait dear,
And yet for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.
Indrew C Sep 2014
Hovering pass the city lights
my mind lies awake
full of the psychedelic treats you offer

latched on the various trances I felt
I make sure it was you
and not the demon who awoke
as a ball of thunderous energy
feeding the insatiable desire for vices and sin

As the body grows lapse
we know things are about to fall apart
leaving us starving for more
and voiding the reality we're in

Our minds retry to go back
while our souls will forever be lost
in the wonder provided by the mysterious ghost
of acid and MDMA
Sjr1000 Nov 2018
I've always been somewhat Autistic,
More than a little manic
I've had the fever
Occupying me

I've heard the murderous rage
And it was me

I have had my periods of Schizophrenia
Psychic warfare
in the ether

He's looking at me
I keep looking at him
Wondering why he's looking at me

I've got that DID
Going into trances
The poet he writes these tomes,
Waking up in strange places

Get startled very easily

Anxiety and depression
Are you kidding?
What's a day without 'em?

The vice is nice
Abundance to depletion,
The parking lot walk  
Polysubstance abuse
has had it's use

Fetishes phillias
Electric brain all light up
Run amok

Decades of misery
Decades of mastery
Had them all

A walking DSM
That would be me
Everything which is human inside you is inside me

Hanging out with
the human condition
my old friend and me

Trying one more time
to figure it all out,
one more time.
DSM: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of mental disorders
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny ***** and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My playmate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
I have switched to mechanics
The pen and the paper are morning my bemuse
The organic matter is dying just
Artificial forced relationships
With penetrative remarks

The tiny prism in the back of my mind
Where I can not stake out the feelings
It is forcing me to convulse on this awful thing
Those white walls are suppose to fool you
Repudiating that they are of silence

Do not placate me young sir
I know that’s were things come to a halt
You enlist them into your nihilistic theories
They can not see cyclical processes
The influxes of hysteria
that inevitably ward out the insurgency

No you claim them among the broken
Make them scared of large boxes with no windows
But does it even matter
The black matter had cast them to the seductress anyhow

The very seductress, whose embodiment of good and evil fools even me
Can she not see the rampant fires?
The cages that are cracking
As the mice turn on each other

Or is it calculated
Politically over dramatized to fool even the most sincere
You remind me of my mother
and the United States government

The will call my a conspirator
But ill know you never landed on the moon
And even if you did
You didn’t caress its very surface  

You didn’t risk your life
to just inhale the fumes of a memorial
It was nothing more then capitalist foot hold in outer space to you
No matter how much you sing about it

And what for me?
I could fix you in one splash of a recall  
But that wouldn’t change the fact that the gears are all out of whack
And the turnstiles
can’t see color anymore

I am growing blinder everyday
But I can never find my oracle under all this *******  
He has possessed me that
Flying gingerbread monkey

Before this I liked solidarity
Juggling my own fortunes
My own soggy breath fill up the window signs  

Now I am a menacing
Ravished house beast
Revering for him to make me categories and pie charts
This isn’t the competition that he enlisted for

But maybe will make it just five weeks and completely meaningless topics we will become the foremost informant
Populously used factoids over martinis
God know me and the monkey are socially *******

As this thing of forsaken design
has morphed into a manifestation of everything wrong with my punitive inception
We must talk about the alcohol.
Dwindling alone a poor and empty bottle
no worries it will have friends

Should I be concerned about my physical stability?
Not really I rather like bisecting my liver
and pouring to the brim
No its that I don’t enjoy it ,,,,,alcoholics are suppose to be a jolly breed
Why else would AA be so giggly?

I have tried to reform and it won’t be in vain
I won’t give up the dream
and succumb to a lobotomy
Just cause I Cant hold my liqueur

This is worse then the torah
A bigger degradation then the bible
If only I had cried for the proletariat
Then I would be famous

But even though the trances are fun
And the posterior eradicating
OH dark and shifty friend I have missed You!

And I do mourn in some postulated manner
for the orphans
But they would have made it out of their capsules
if you just gave them time
SJ Sullivan Jan 2016
Hints of maple kiss each of
your highlander grog fingertips.
The smell of her shampoo
pierces & permeates throughout
your living room, lingering still
to this day, on your pillow.

You told her you'd make a perfume
that smells like the car heater on
long drives home for Christmas.

Aromas of her laundry detergent
still live in your spine
like LSD.
When you turn your neck a
certain way you fall back
into trances of her & 1997.

Vick's Vaper Rub, NyQuil
Cough Syrup breath, with
a 104 degree fever. She
sobbed when her last
sea monkey died

You called her cartographer.
Intricate trails of herself connecting
each board of your apartment floor.
Charted long ago when her
candle still burned scents of warmth.
The art of burning,
a front the fire place of
maple logs where you told her
to "Let go."
I wrote this poem in a fourth dimension. Taste something maple while you read it.
I miss thee, I hath to admit
I want to witness again thy stunning smile so sweet
And how th' sun always kindly, and generously, touchest thy dark hair
Then shalt thou breakest into endless jokes and childish wit
'Fore rising a tender smile, as we greet each other by th' circular stairs.

I bet thou art still remarkable and stupendous as usual
Thou whom I'th known since last grey fall
By th' ponderous sleeping lake; in th' midst of a burly night;
Thou stared through me with a pair of unfathomable eyes;
as though thou couldst makest everything in my heart-better and right;
and yon, yon colourlessness of th' night, shinest so beautifully as butterflies.
Thou wert, indeedst, not th' paleness I had dreamed,
thou wert not bleak, thou wert not mean.
Thou still shined brightly though chilled and dimmed,
thou wert damp, but sunny-just like th' nearby shuffling trances
to which I had never been.
At times thou canst seem lazy, ah-but thou'rt indeedst not!
As just I do, thou liveth thy life from dot to dot,
thou leapest from time to time in my story,
thou, though far away, somehow always seem near,
and be sitting here idly with me and my poetry.
Thou might be close not to my ears,
but I canst listenest to thee; as thou eat and pray,
and as thou waketh, to every single inevitable day.
T'is life, which canst somehow be bitter,
shalt at times corruptest thy happiness and thy laughter;
wringing thee into false devotion and meanness,
but be sure, my love, t'at I shalt be thy cure;
I shalt be thy unhealed passion and all-new tenderness.
I shalt be thy first salvation, honesty and satiation;
I shalt be a scarf t'at giveth thee warmth, and thy hated mediation;
hated and dejected by t'is dreadful world, my love,
t'is world which knowest not t'at love is everything above.
And I shalt be thy heaven, and holiness,
and thy greenest grass when it is too dark,
as t'is world hurts and drivest away from frankness;
and within its grim sacrifice, lettest go of its single spark.
Ah, thee, thy innocence is just like my own soul,
but it is what makest thee divine as gold;
thou art ever pure, and incessantly pure,
and thy jokes and ventures and preachings flawless and true.
And in t'is weary life-which is sometimes faultless but unsure,
thou always makest me feel honoured;
makest me feel brand new.

Ah, Kozarev, thou art my immortal twin star,
and thy lips my sophisticated fragrant moon;
thou art my umbrella in yon idyllic heaven afar,
fade away not, but thou drifted away too soon!
My love, but sketchest again our undying night,
t'is time with a new ***** of light,
and giveth me comfort within which,
and flinch no more, for I shalt not flinch.
Thy genuinity is my nature,
thy childishness is my cure;
for t'ere are no more lips as naive as thine,
though t'ey oftentimes seemest spotless,
and t'eir toughness, seemest fine.

Ah, Kozzie, only fate t'at shalt makest out paths eventually align;
fate who hath sent me sweet prophecies, and a truthful bold sign.
Let me be thy grace, and thy sole, immortal lady;
let me be such craze, so t'at thou shalt always be with me.
I shalt be thy doll, and thy very own addict;
I shalt nursest, and cherishest thee every day of the week.
And joy, and its miraculous delight shalt be ours alone,
fallen fast asleep by night, and renewed by upcoming morns.
Together shalt we teasest every passing minute and hour;
and treatest all 'em nicely, just like how we deemeth t'at laugh, of ours.
And when nightfall greetest, sleep, my love, sleep;
thy red, innocent cheeks shalt I kiss; thy greatest dreams shalt I keep.

Kozarev, and fliest me again to th' melancholy Sofia,
wherein our peace shalt dwellest, and be cheered and alive.
But let me first fetch my old, talkative umbrella;
for Sofia shalt be full of rain; but one t'at makest it safe, and thrive.
Ah, Sofia, our little haven like yon nearby oak chatroom,
old as it is, but still-tenderer t'an t'is ever lonely gloom;
I bet Sofia is still warmer t'an t'is fraudulent war of my heart,
though it is, of now, far and sat by a land wholly apart.
Oh, Sofia, in which our love shalt be adequate, but still-inadequate,
for our love is more benign, ye' at times-more capricious t'an fate.
And it is raw, but ripe, like a mature cherry;
it hath neither tears, nor hate, nor brave worry!
Ah, my love; but again fly me, fly me, t'ere-
for cannot I waitest to live my life with thee;
and so promise t'at I shalt not bend, nor go else anywhere,
so long as thou shalt stayest, and liveth thy future years with me.

Oh, and I shalt forsaketh thee no more;
and disdaineth thee no more-thou art my sonata!
My delight liest in hearing thy sonnets be told;
thou sitting by me 'fore moonlight, down on th' starlit piazza!
Ah, Kozarev, please no longer makest my heart sore-
I am sick to death, I detestest t'is grief to th' core;
Burnest my heart's cries, and indulgest me in thy arms,
I shalt brimmest in thy glory; and gratefully lost, in thy charms.

As th' world turnest so weak and rough,
we shalt be th' sole ones to fall in love;
but our idyll is one t'is envious world cannot gather;
as it growest bleaker, as it turnest worse.
But Kozarev, having thee by my side shalt be enough;
and my days shalt be no more sad, nor tough;
Thou art th' candle, t'at lightest up th' life within me,
thou art th' candy, t'at livenest up all my poetry.
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.
NaPoWriMo #15

TS Eliot
wrote highbrow literary
poetry (so-called)
ConnectHook Feb 2017
Drums in the darkness: a jungle clearing
fetish masks and gibbering lips
grass skirts, headdresses, face-paint leering
nocturnal trances, gyrating hips.

A medicine man, by spirits possessed,
grunts while the powers invade his mind;
the dancers shriek, as if distressed
by a presence in shadow not yet defined.

It’s only Rock’n’Roll
Up against the wall, burn all it down girl, smash the state, armed love, light my fire, here comes the new order, impending chaos, a new dawn, when all is one and one is all, etc, etc.
Oh yeah, man. Rock’n’Roll is so REVOLUSHUNARY ! It’s all about, like, Freedom … and Change…  and – uh…

But let us pause for a moment and consider: spoiled sons and daughters of the upper and middle classes, children of the land of plenty gyrating in the psychedelic sun or cavorting in nocturnal cavern-clubs; masses of ****** teens chanting in arenas, banging their heads to guttural nonsense – raving narcissistic drugged-out youth, flaunting their rebellion and paying good money to confuse their brains while they do it in the road, mocking the ****** standards of anterior generations while projecting bad attitude and donning costumes of calculated shock-value – self-anointed anarchist prophets, metal-head barbarian wannabees and metro-queer Gothic prettyboys… these are certainly interesting cultural phenomena (symptoms?) to study. But PLEASE don’t call it revolutionary change. Revolutionary change would mow down these bourgeois decadents and ridiculously-attired hipsters with machine-gun fire and then herd the rest into reeducation camps. Revolution is organized death at the hands of tyrants, thugs, and bureaucracies… Rock n’Roll is about – uh… downloading tunes to your i-pod, getting high and disobeying authority figures. To hell with Rock and Roll. It’s just a lot of syncopated slave music at its “get your groove on” heart. (I mean “slave” in the greater Greco-Roman and Nietzschean sense of the word – not in the recent context only. Think Hellenistically for a moment). Rock’n’Roll and all of it’s “shock the bourgeoisie/anti-patrician” offshoots is music of the lower chakras, gut-music, 3 or 4 chord fuzzed-up anthems to carnality punctuated by ******* grunts, plebeian hoots, hillbilly yells, ****-strutting shrieks, lecherous leering slavering animality, and undulating serpentine harlotry. Ooooooh – how revolting it truly is – because it commodifies revolt, repackages the same old inarticulate teenage rebellion OVER & OVER & OVER, intensifying it slightly each time, tweaking it for each distinct youth subculture and acting as if it actually had more significance than it does (remember – I also love the music – bear with me -we’re analyzing here…). Rock music is an opportunistic infection – and a power-aggrandizing freak show. It monopolizes your attention with its pounding adrenaline-rushing excitement but then can’t figure out what it wants to say to you. You mistake its verses for Wisdom and Truth – especially when you’re high or drunk or tripping. But in the end, it’s just words and rhythms with a lot of “ooh yeah” and “woah baybeh” and “c’mon now child” – or worse. It messes up your diastolic cardiac-rhythms and induces slight panic and disorientation that you mistake for liberation and enlightenment. Then you go out and BUY the GOODS ! Lucifer is reliving his glory days as the instigator of an abortive coup attempt against Heaven and God Almighty. He is mumbling in the *****-blocked tracheae of dead false prophets and departed drummers. He is strutting on the glittering stage amidst cheap pyrotechnics at a show where no one gets in for free – and no one gets out alive. The Prince of this World is bringing out his new product line next spring. The ****** androgynous freak – the glowering little dictator (the ghost of a dead insect) tries to convince himself that he is alive by cultivating the adoration of godless youth who salute him in unison like a bunch of **** faithful at a fascist rally. Rock and Roll is stupid when you think about it.  I’m ashamed I like it so much. Classical music is probably better for your mind in the long run.
Sjr1000 Jan 2014
Well Annie now you've done it
through your gyrations,  characterizations
a spot of light of spirit
flipped out into the ether
like some kind of spiritual dandruff
all crystal prisms
twinkling stars shook off of you
and floated
through my eyes and ears
and penetrated and infused
my pumping heart
through my circulatory system
snapping synaptic changes,
touching those places
dreams and trances.

Well Annie now you've done it all night long
with images of Olive Oil
and no Popeye
I have become a sailor man
unmoored from the safety of the slip
dragging the anchor
until the tether breaks
and find myself floating
on some Jungian sea
of the unconscious far away from the shore.

Well Annie now you've really done it -
How will this all play out
when walking down the faux marble hallways
as I roll up one wave of imitation
and down another in
clients/secretaries/billing clerks
deranged psychiatrists stories
and all of this reality
grabbing trying ranting riffing
how is this all going to play out
when strange guerilla theatre
erupts on backwards
in administrators offices
and leadership committee meetings
when I spread my  legs
as my grand opening
in carrot top hangings
and turn to clients
offer them too
this spirit spark of

Well you've really done it this time Annie
when my door is locked
and pagers are begging for my attention
but I will be in the room at that desk
throwing rules, regulations
and my professional reputation
to the current winds of unwinding
truths and soulful stories.
When they turn to me
and ask for my forgiveness
in their true confession
or when I shift shapes
to the big onion
when everyone who wanders near weeps
when they ask me for that magic sentence
to make it all okay
or write a treatment plan
just a hand on the shoulder;
as they begin to talk
like rooms of old echoes-
I will tell them that will cost them extra.

You've done it now Annie forever
in my minute little world
rocked the boat
that spirit
like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane
of courage.

You've done it now Olive Oil Annie
I have found my spinach
freedom cannot be far behind...
Raven Nov 2010
this is how god rocks his children

my body feels weighed down
pleasantly heavy
gravity takes over on my wrists,
my thighs, my ankles, my elbows
all of that is pulled to the ground, and my eyes.

tell me a story
about your brother and you.
a smile creeps to the side of my face
when you describe something
excuse me
i was just having a funny thought.

we burst out laughing
my eyes blissfully closed.
weighed down by angel dust
it can't possibly be owned by the sandman
at least, not this early.

lids closed
chin to chest
wild curly hair fallen around your face.
slowly and slowly
around my head turns with the beat.  
it feels so peaceful.
my hair brushes against
my cheeks
and i can feel every strand.

i feel on a higher plane
the puritians
the tribal trances
the 60s hippies
i'm on the same level now.

i see myself trying to leave my body.
i'm too grounded to project.
but i see the black sky dotted
with bright white stars
like im looking into the sky.
but now i'm flying into it.
i have no boundaries
no limits.

i feel like i'm being rocked
like a child
a mother rocking her baby.  
i feel like a giant hand cradles me
and rocks me in this circle.
so this is how god rocks his children.
this is how god rocks his children.
Sjr1000 Jun 2015
The it upstairs
thinks it's God,
But it isn't.
Man or Woman,
It comes in a thousand genders.

It's only has one mind,
Its own pleasure,
The power of Now,
Well, that's what it's all about.
The cost,
Well, that's no problem.

It begs
It borrows
It steals
It pleads
It lies to you straight faced.

If you bleed,
When the consequences are paid,
It says, "Not me"
"We'll deal with it later"
"One more time"
"One more round"
"One more rodeo"
"One last time for the road."

It's pretty smug
most of the time,
Can't move your
arms or legs,
But whips up anxiety
you say, "No. "
It'll show you resistance is futile.

Though it only hangs
for little while,
It'll let you know.

It speaks to you
in the third person voice -
You deserve it
You need it
You've been so good.

It'll talk you into trances
strange self-destructive dances,
Twist you upside down,
Inside out.

It ain't God,
Somebody needs to talk to it soon,
Let it know,
These days of running the show
are numbered,
There's more to life than this slumber
Numbness has had its abundance,
Talk to it soon
While there's still time.

A whisper, though, says something different,
"How's about
one more
time. "
Dedicated to those in Recovery.
And those who say, "Not me, not yet. "
Lora Lee Dec 2016
and these waves
             of longing
                  are burning me
              into stumbled
           desert trances
  as I crawl, parched
        earth that
             sears and spears
                 my limbs
                        my inner organs,
                             once wet              
                 with the fire
             of my blood
now only
ashen embers
         the very salt
               of the sum of
              my wounds
lacerated open -
   barely held by
        a secret tourniquet
            wrapped tight, ******* me  
      in reverse tempest
and I clamor within my being
move in jolts,
like a voodoo dance
             zombie girl
stuck in the hell
of no-woman's land
a landscape of spires  
piercing me hot
making the sharpened path
dangerous for strangers
As for me,
I can only succumb to
their scalding roast
if I want to somehow
get out alive,
my skin charred
from that branding of insults
my heart scarred
from countless lashes
that your serpent's tongue
has inflicted upon me
is not the pleasure
of being tethered
tender flesh teased
  until writhing
          is not the grind
          of earthen fire
           and sky mixed
     with underwater lava,
swarming cloistered whispers
   into my brain temperatures
is not the conflagration of
love seeds developing
into a ripe field
of the succulence of lustfruit
        Is just an
   to wear down
the goddess in me
     And to that
          I say

I turn the other cheek
to your barbed wire lies.
In the frequencies of the
next universe over,
an echo bursts into flames
rapidly oxidizing,
licking into
the rebirth
   of my

Inner death?
Not today.
Perhaps the most positively uninteresting tragedy
Is the story of flawed, impeded love.
For whenever I venture, strive, endeavor—
To exit my haven of solitary isolation
I’m devoid of any bravery.
Though I wish I could say
“People scare me! I don’t want to be judged
For things I cannot control,
For transgressions and loves
Methods, impairment, systems and failures
Despicable lies and harrowing truths
Cringeworthy trances and malicious propositions—
That’s the reason I tragically fear you!"
But such would be blatant lies.

For I am not a reticent sheep,
Not afraid of human, futile words
It’s not any judgement or hate I despise
It’s just that I can’t ever compromise
I’m so terrified of judging
Even in my mind
The people of the world
Precious brethren of my kind—
I don’t wish to hurt a weakling
Or a disgraceful abomination
Thus, I’ll isolate from anyone
For fear of impeding my love
Of all alive, of everyone.
Stephan Jun 2016

I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Calmly bound of tempted drizzled fears
Slow dancing on the desperate dying wind
Placing endless hope against the flow

This does come
beyond iron gates of broken trances
to sing
undying wishes upon deaf ears

Fractured in meanings and senses known,
these wrinkles form a favored mask
Donned in apprehension of a wilted feeling
Sleek and slender, along a poisoned vine they grow

in endless streams of sorted need
Stead fast
with chains of charmed tethered truth

Cartoon headstones with scribbled crayon names
cast darker shadows beneath the edges of sanity
Ripped and tattered these empty voices scream
my name in echoes bearing nothing more than seen

As I cry
my tears sprout wings and flee from my face
I fall to my knees
finding only the jagged earth to rest

Desires cling to the massive arbors of life
Dreams falter along a winding creviced cliff
Nothing laughs like the air upon my sorrowed face
and I choose to breathe for every breath is free
[Dedicated to Horace Sheridan-Bickers]

A vision of flushed faces, shining limbs,
The madness of the music that entrances
All life in its delirium of dances!
The white world glitters in the void, and swims
Through the infinite seas of transcendental trances.
Yea! all the hoarded seed of all my fancies
Bursts in a shower of suns! The wine-cup brims
And bubbles over; I drink deep hymns
Of sorceries, of spells, of necromancies;
And all my spirit shudders; dew bedims
My sight -these girls and their alluring glances!
Their eyes that burn like dawn's lascivious lances
Walking all earth to love -to love! Life skims
The cream of joy. If God could see what man sees,
(Intoxicating Nellies, Mauds and Nances!)
I see Him leave the sapphrine expanses,
The choir serene and the celestial air
To swoon into their sacramental hair!
K Balachandran Jan 2014
Her peals of laughter, gently rocks, wakes him up
takes away from a midnight dream's warm embrace,
one dream to the other, what she is up to, he feels bit cheated,
like many times before, bit weary of misleading senses,
they are friends of course, distractors too, if unaware of their penchant

Perking his ears he listens, wind whistling in the woods,
rain drops on leaves create sounds of soft laughter.
Every where she is, the nymph, the ethereal presence,
in dreams, in the spirited dance of clouds, in swirl of water
and waves, when the birds play flute from their perches,
in flights that seems meditative trances beyond mind.

She is tranquility incarnate, beauty that grabs mind's eyes
mother who consoles at the time of distress and pain.
The night is silent again, the rain clouds too left to rest
yellow clad moon peeps above the clouds, many gifts we
forget to enjoy, some times without being aware, one leaves
"What is this life, if full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare"
----Leisure by William Henry Davis
ZWS Mar 2015
I'm guilty of admiring my works and not others, that's what's silly about my self compassion dance
When the only thing I've got left is the narcissistic klaxon that my self-righteous ambulance horn trances

If it's killing me, Bukowski would be proud, because he loved his liquor, but he loved killing himself more
He'd say, "**** your religion! Pour this! This will bring you closer to God!"
It's hard for an atheist to swallow, and to dabble in the tasting of sin,
But Jesus was famous for turning water into wine, with no grapes mashed or thinned

The shield of amaretto is strong and smooth
You can put your cruise control on if you feel amused and soothed
But in darker times it will make your feeling woozy and moved
But **** does it make you feel more like yourself
The you'est you can be, with impeccable speech craft and gentlemanly muse
Helps you pay the dues that you have abused in your passive seasonal attitudes

So what say ye Devine for thou'est darkest temptations, when you've created your own demons, hells, and abrasions
Seems like you're the one holding the power ***** of creation
Ye 'ol Devine *******
Andrew Robertson May 2013
I see her in the morning.
I think of her in the night.
And all the hours in between,
She enslaves my very sight.

Her shiny black hair
Is like silky waves of night.
Her deep blue eyes
Are portals of mysterious light.

Her smile is magnificent.
Her teeth are always glimmering.
Her body is phenomenal.
Her laughter is always ringing.

She has a corner office.
I have a corner store.
I await the moment every morning
When she opens up my door.

She is perfect
In every single way.
All she has to do
Is everything I say.

She's married with children.
I'm single with none.
She seems so intense,
But maybe she's the one.

She'll be here soon.
What do I do?
I've absolutely, positively
Fallen for Sue!

I'm a fool!
I've fallen into a trap.
Help me find my way.
Can you lend me a map?

She is intoxicating.
She's out of her mind.
She follows me home
And tries to be kind.

She rearranges my furniture.
She decorates my house.
She adores this little puppy
That looks like a mouse.

She whispers and gossips
And whistles and prances.
She sends everyone into
Their own kind of trances.

She tasted better
Than Blueberry wine.
But she sure did crush
This little heart of mine.

Written by: Andrew D. Robertson
ArturVRivunov Oct 2011
When I walk I’m deep with my senses, clearly drawn to people’s alluring glances.
So lucid they think, their eyes show the interest far from extinct from my stance in this world.
I feel that I’m respectively speaking, to say so the least.
I’m not recluse or a beast always wanting to feast.
If I had to say so the least, I’m as calm as the tree with the leaf, that stays calm when the wind turns to burn, while everyone goes with the turn.
Because it’s what the tree made them learn.
But back to the point I was making while you are sitting by this tree,
looking at me with such glances pointing at stances,
blaming the cause which in you is aloft,
making you soft to pretend in this wind,
moving you and the others to part sways in the matter the wind is racing.
When simply it’s all about the peace calming transparent flow,
less transfiguring your stance in this warming sensation. . .

When I stroll, I feel deep in my senses, just life of the sound I’m within.
I feel you friend, no need to misunderstand because I’m the kind,
only of a kind, truthfully speaking since the world is ordinarily laid but so many minds sillily played.
What’s the reason to hastily be placed?
Impatiently wasting the self through calamitous wind around you in its ways,
pulled of your senses to part in its flowing admiration to help you feel its position not what the tree has been foolishly placing.
The sternness of impeccable word, just blur through the blurry frustration fostering to break wind from word communication.
But back to the sound that’s within, that plays for me again.
I say its sweet in this miserable place full of faces with eyes that stick with assumptive cases.
I can sense uneasy feeling of their spiritual mirror, lost in their glance even unheard, why did **** **** **** such lovely bird?
So you see what I’m saying, as angry ***** would be saying.
All the angry ***** this part over will be playing. . .because even words turn swiftly by the wind, gripping around the calm of your leaf.
You feel yet what I feel?
Practice with the wind, don’t amend to the blend of practicality because some want one option for you to be planted to grow all over this world as attired.
Only feeling whole after past your time being retired.
How in this sense could we live in such life time without sharing simple joys that some used to uphold,
but then life changed with a fold, all you could is forget and be sold, just like I was.
Funny story, but no worry, I’m no worry for you to worry.
One day I’ll share with you this story.
Plenty time don’t worry. . .to those who die I’m sorry, but there’s more joy in this story,
your story then the idea they abhor to make you feel this squally worry.
Although your dead and won’t hear my story, life will tell you after. . .
But of your self that I've been listening trying to feel you in what you have been missing.
It’s funny to words I have been retorting to, to explain exactly the calm of the self, when the word can never touch on such imperfection as to why the word is always leaning towards this misdirection. . .
hidden deep down in its simple complexion, when its all misdirected with the imagery that comes with projected. . .that’s why ***** get angry at my use of such satisfying word deep under their ego -blistic wants. . .
never relenting their simple misfortune of always trying at preventing the complicated feeling of but resenting what’s to them so complicated. . .
for a feeling they never awaited, stopping into churches thinking its something one day be recon-stated, but when silly as a church where they put you under at your birth, without a will to simply choose the path really most tend to loose. . .instead sticking a mat under your body as if its going to be the least your life can embody. . .and your parents so meek to realize from beginning as it it’s meant to be. . .life of being peaceful, instead disgracing you later for your aspirations. . .in any way possible manipulating your gracious. . .Even this comes as a misunderstanding because some choose to feel my words out of tune in miscomprehending the essence of my stroll through this wind. . instead resentment in the form shows up in assumptive waves with negative impression of your ease for my self I could give **** less when from you I hear your impression, since moi it don’t displease. . .but I keep on strolling with my full senses at life’s mistaken glances shadowed down on the branch caressing with pretences, in which all jump into with a **** full of stances. . . .with my outmost respect I have for everyone in any sort of the trances. . .
This is obscure and obscene in the sense of use of words. It is simply a prose with metaphorical concept of flow with the use of periods to make a point as well as to hint on the idea of a drive towards alignment of ideas of one sensation as how the prose commenced.
ArturVRivunov Oct 2011
I couldn’t believe it so true. . .first time I set my eyes around you. . .
Gloomy dream steaming my wits . . . I felt that I could rescue you. . .
But then time passed on by . . . my heart broke in to slow rhyme. . . .
When we sit in front of each other . . . the shock of emotion . . . is a thunder over ocean. . .
I never go around wondering . . . What is what around as our somber. . . .
I just see in your presence. . .the beauty looming from your end. . .Something one day you will help me understand. . .
rather than when time is demand. . .Tending you is a lovely fortune. . .far from other’s misfortunes. . .
I couldn’t believe it so true. . .to have moment of peace. . .
Even so as to please you by side such commotions. . .Relentless far beyond your emotions. . .Because I see that you care so much. . .You could flare such. . .Childish emotions. . .but then the moment you put it. . .I see deep in your starry eyes. . .Even to think once or twice. . .How pretty those eyes. . .seeing them even under your lids. . In wonder universe planting your seeds. . .
I couldn’t believe it so true. . .that you could think so unfortunate to misuse me. . .to only feel the guilt of yourself to confuse me. . .for with my heart I refuse to believe. . .the sense that life. . .surrounding each other we can’t achieve. . .
I can’t believe it so true. . .when I’m sitting by you. . .life’s tenses. . .relief. . .
when we share our belief. . it is but hinder our moments. . .
seeing casual of life hit by beautiful comets. . .your love is true without fear. . .
But then your words are close to it near. . .even when things at the moment tend to be unclear. . . .
I can’t believe it so true. . .How far dream makes my sense being in front of you. . .the glance standing by chance perhaps something beyond norm of romance. . .When we dance in our moment. . .or stand on the street. . .you always looking so sweet. . .Nothing matters but your heart beating repeat. . .next to mine so sweet. . .over and over so calm, your darling eyes are my charm. . .
I can’t believe it so true. . . When holding your hand through and through. . . .all that matters, your softest of voice. . .your soft essence aloft my cough mess. . .When you talk of a feeling. . .Your timid the gentlest. . .your hair thick as whisper. . .I always say to myself. . .kiss her. . .Every moment a passing. . .never out casting the previous. . .just moment of moments. . .my heart always blasting from yours a sweet melody. . .
I can’t believe it so true. . .How much I feel for your blue. . .moments respired. . .with you always inspired. . .I’m senseless on cue. . as from where comes this feeling of words from you. . .With you I’m in ocean. . .relaxed under clouds forming shapes of our showers. . .sunshine you are. . .waking up flowers. . .
I can’t believe it so true. . .When we touch with our lips. . .tearing my soul into sips. . .cup of tea by you taking our sips. . .the rush of my heart by bits. . .rush of your senses never alluring to dances. . .clear in our stances from all of the glances. . .Just moments of truth. . .clear me from trances. . .of life living inspired. . .giving ourselves in life new chances. . . .
I couldn’t believe it so true. . . .when moments with you. . .melting. . .every feeling my mouth feels to you belting. . .I couldn’t sing to your soul but truth from deep of my essence. . .when my essence feels around yours but that flow never ending. . .my heart at every moment feels outstanding. . .I don’t know what’s about you. . .but already I feel so much around you. . .the pretty face. . .glow in my arms, I want you to embrace. . .
I can’t believe it so true. . .melting around you. . .every waking moment our skin touching soundly. . .with soft whisper of harmony. . .loudly. . .away from all that is blasphemy. . .we stand strong with each other proudly. . .if your heart quit, it would make my life catastrophe go cowardly. . .without you I’m endeared to all things I find myself nearer. . .with you all universe is much so clearer. . .if only fear is seeing you. . .unhappy, I’ll say to life it’s time to wrap it. . .and scrap away at puzzle pieces where life’s mess left it piece less. . .for in it everything jumping for life is tease less. . .oh what a mess it would be less. . .with you without stress. . . .
Frieda P Jan 2014
...i wish my pen could capture last night's fancy,
flight of divergent apparitions took my breath away
hallucinations of a dream so real it made me weep
for i saw your face high above the clouds
you appeared as an angel with chimerical wings,  
in their flutter released thousands of butterflies
each one carried a smile of incandescent light
promised posies of an altered moment & space
where poetry becomes reality traced on lofty clouds
amidst trances of tranquility & enchanted frivolity
so here i await on ink's flow with a fool's faith
of glinting endings and freshly burnish'd beginnings...
Frieda P Jan 2014
...i wish my pen could capture last night's fancy,
flight of divergent apparitions took my breath away
hallucinations of a dream so real it made me weep
for i saw your face high above the clouds
you appeared as an angel with chimerical wings,  
in their flutter released thousands of butterflies
each one carried a smile of incandescent light
promised posies of an altered moment & space
where poetry becomes reality traced on lofty clouds
amidst trances of tranquility & enchanted frivolity
so here i await on ink's flow with a fool's faith
of glinting endings and freshly burnish'd beginnings...
Sa Sa Ra Nov 2012
Been a while sorry I am behind on reads,
overly buzzed busier reading these;

~Hearts Of All~~

I Try Might...
With much mightly...

In My Own
Sorting of

Dancing In LOVE's
Joyly Fun Seeking
Thine Rightfully
Divined Kiss's
Thine Divine
All Willing
Out of
Ode Baseless
Fearful Trances
Hypnotic Spell's

Broken Freed
If You
Let It
This is my remedy need too;

~~Solutions Want Need Of Their Remedies As Much,
As A True Remedy Wants Their Need Of Solutions.~~

More Right Better
Than needing selfishly sought wants any day,
Who How!!!

~One by for one by two of each others just for starters.~

~~Love seeks need always as need is calling of Love too truly!!!~~

Is this not then for each others better of the seeding,
growing than shoving else of each other's else's

~Thine Divine Bliss's off!!!~~

Uprooting and or smothering one way or any other!!

Overly too close to call home to or,
From when more too eerily at all!!!

Nice though so well thee,


Very Touching Real Deep!!
So well you All Do Speak!!

Now too I am remembering as much as Eye
Try ever to believe how ever tender forgiving,
And understanding can be, be endlessly!!!!!

It's offensive defensive covering,
Of self hate to hard to conceive,

That can will to go on in such like ways,
Death walking till blood stops pumping,

~Does not sound like the plan,
   That We Inwardly Receive!!~~

Too many lies from to many partners,
In preference-ing of ganging together,

In our latest smash successes so oft,
Momentary and addictive pleasures.

So shallow freaky speaky creepy as,
Much is dead just above ground!!!

Oooh ouch!!!


      BREATHE ~~
\             /
   Ty ALL,
  \     /
      ~Sa Sa~

Older set so I thought,
I'd bring these here Top with Pop!!*****/

More recent Top Pop's and Overly Sweet Treats!!!  ***still in making,
Daughter's birth story, by poem here not yet born!!!
Pssst...have two son's and have pretty well drafted first born son's story as well...

Short Tweet Tweets!!!

— The End —