"troglodyte" poems
(history)
Quell the bard was silken-clad and ever young.
her flute connected earth and sky,
tamed lightning in the higher notes..
her ancient horse would winnie to her song
of endless breath she blew her story even into stone.
having borne the stigmas of a *****
her martial prowess struck,
trampled disrespect to cacophonic dust
while over hills and vales he carried her--
a love-sick equine heart at peace at last upon the road
between her thighs, commanded loyalty of beasts and men.
none claimed her for their own,
though some risked instant death to try
..stirge beaks tap on bones and rock
to seek corrupted blood of elven kings,
who having reigned and fallen
to a royal troglodyte of dragon times,
paint each eon with ambivalence...
i conjure what my heritage beholds
--reclusive double-tongue to hoard all words,
reinvent religions for a lark
what legend am i privy to the making of
that hasn't had its underwires stripped,
hung about a square in lewd display of Fact
to purge a sense of mystery awry?
i am alone within my fantasy.
its symbols still mythologize my i.
i will not bare it here, or anywhere--
concealment is its freedom, and its boon--
in which a frame of tenuous material appears
where antidote addictions cycle musically,
the timeline's summoning
a game of recompense, compensating wanderlust
won by whim and licorice for thought;
it finds familiarity untamed--
adolescent anchorage aweigh--
adventures into wildernesses lost
.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
troglo-what?
look it up, those who
do not know the word
for
I am
a lover of words
obscure exotic esoteric poetic pedantic petty greasy slimy odoriferous clanking cacophonous melodious odious arcane archaic
all
a primal pleasure to hear,
to write, to read when perched
in the right order and place
to take flight and allow
me to soar above
or hide below
the massed multitudes of monkeys
who share my deoxyribonucleic acid
(and you thought
I would simply say,
DNA)
for they
find solace in the day
shared with simian soul mates
but I,
the true troglodyte of Texas
prefer the singular scent of words
on trackless trails
over the sound of lovers
and their breathless tales
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
The people to the left of me want to get married, but not to each other. Mawwiage is a funny word. Gopher? Potato. Crawdad. Wobble. Jiggly bits. Harmonica. Put your arm on it, cousin. Guzzle. Doozy. An ornery snool. Troglodyte. Haysoos was a troglodyte, that's one of the most hilarious sentences I can think of. Dudebro and ******* are nice. Dankrupt. Barbie. The urban dictionary gave an example sentence using Barbie: if Barbie is so popular why do you have to buy her friends? Perhaps if I memorize that line and say it, I'll get a half second of laughing, showing I have the value to entertain others for about two seconds. That'd be a nice feeling. I'd feel peach-fuzzy. A woman is standing with a rainbow of candy in a ziplock bag. I can't make this stuff up. Life is so incredibly fascinating. Just kidding. But really, that's some bright stuff on display in her transparent bag.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
She's always misplacing.
Feeling for new incongrunces
I try to be pragmatic, & feel for her supple fingers.
These are the parameters of an injured human being.
A prosaic heart, A tenuous mind.
I have fallen into the pit of her idiosyncrasies.
A man on a mission seeking to breathe & expand my spirit into her lungs.
Her nature corrupts my own,
And like a troglodyte, I disperse my emotions into a prism.
A prism that is now full of turmoil & suspicion.
Oh wonderful, wonderful you..
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
*my love,
you have nothing to fear
save the fear you
harbor...
and the beast behind you
with your name
scratched
on it's tongue
like a thumb
in a ****
you have me
at my very worst of late
as well as my conjuring of a better man
than I.
the sorceries of introspection
and my lucid inner
light.
your pigeon holes are raven squares
storming a brilliant darkness
that has but one pair
of lost souls.
and nothing else to
spare.
you fit where
the war has a peace
as our worlds collapse in
sunshine
and the narrow luxury to mourn the death
of such a wish
from such a
heart... with it's own
mind.
yes
we roost in the empty caverns
of our needless fight
and humble none the shadows there
that troglodyte.
i love you more than all of this
and pray the same
you might.
i wish upon a star that fell
and found it
in your
eyes.
and yes I know
I know, I know.... I know
it fell from
mine.*
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
i
Aloof aback the nether antechamber
Abaddon tried to calleth out mine name
Aba composition's awoke from smoke
Whilst nephilim brutes were left untamed.
ii
They bit me and they gripped me with
Their nail's of poison and polunium whip's
Through the old agaric horror play oubliette
Obelisk's, of troglodyte monstrosity!!!!
iii
The nearing was open, yet to far off
I felt the crimson color, up mine lung's I coughed
Mine calumus pinion's all were eventually lost
For I was mocked, as the legion scoffed.
iv
Scourged I was, as mine back was chopped
Like glass bead's hitting a gentle rock
They cracked mine sweetly frame, and made a pop
Mine soul was dying, mine head was lost.
v
Yet in the destination of this witching hour
Cameth in Gabriel and Michael of all unknown power's
They arrayed this hell with celestial shower's
They freed me of mine inferno, and tooketh me to the higher sire.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry.....
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
Language, being what it is, our vioces what they are
when all are well and healthy their
mind makes musical sounds,
calibrated by breathing
tones across the chest,
we learned to count
and swear an oath to the master of a universe.
Come and count with me.
Open a dialogue to sound and
count, tone, rhythm, wind blowing free,
cows, baboons, birds chattering in a tree,
where these unnamed things are given names
by the Troglodyte friend and me.
Ajerry 10-29-13 near halloween
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
The Inn sat down in a hollow,
Deep in a grove of trees,
It sat so far from the road, the yard
Was two feet deep in leaves,
It looked to be well deserted,
Except for a single light,
That poured its glow on the porch below
Late on that fateful night.
I’d looked since I found the Grimoire
Sat up on that dusty shelf,
Written in faded longhand
I couldn’t decipher myself,
The ancient scribe in the library
Had helped to decode each line,
And said it spoke of an ancestor
With a similar name to mine.
It mentioned the Seventh Circle Inn
And where it could still be seen,
It lay astray by a country way
Deep in a copse of green,
And Agnes Drue was a name I knew
Though I heard she’d not been found,
After the Mass they held that day
On consecrated ground.
Her coven had raised a spectre
Beside the Inn, in the woods
Near to a marble altar where
An ancient church had stood,
But then it demanded a sacrifice
To give the Devil his due,
And everyone formed a circle then
Apart from my Agnes Drue.
I entered the Inn to find who kept
The Seventh Circle of sin,
I needed to find what happened to
The one who was lost within,
An ancient crone kept the bar in there
Who croaked, ‘I know why you’re here,
You’re far too late for she’s at Hell’s Gate,
Has been, for many a year.’
I thought that I’d find a clue in there
On the fate of Agnes Drue,
And asked the crone was she on her own,
Would she rather there were two?’
A screech came up from the cellar then
Like the wail of a troglodyte,
The crone went down with a worried frown,
‘She only does that at night!’
Then right in the midst of the cellar floor
Was a seaman’s wooden chest,
With iron hasps and rusted clasps
And a chain wound round the rest,
I burst it open to shrieks and cries
That seemed to come from within,
And there was the corpse of Agnes Drue
Where the Devil had locked her in.
The staring eyes in her skull had gone
But they seemed to stare the same,
There was no flesh but the woman’s dress
Was torn in a rage of pain,
And held in her frightful bony hand
Was a book that she’d scribbled on,
Deep in the dark of her awful tomb,
‘I knew! One day you’d come!’
David Lewis Paget
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
I don't know if I want to live anymore.
To be or not to be, to see and not be seen;
those hermit eyes can see right through me.
And I feel ignored, passed over, strung out
on the wicked surface of a thousand liquid crystal screens,
on the lips of paltry kisses forgotten.
I don't know if I want to live anymore
he says with a troglodyte twang
grappling crippled finger bones the keys of ivory sang,
dried, cracked lips with tight reed slicks the river bank.
And I am insane for being sane in an insane world.
Friendless, I feel forlorn, and like so many others,
self-reflection terrifies me more than death. Boredom,
on the border between depression and peace, between suicide and meditation.
Teetering on the edge of the abysmal,
fortunes fool animates an impetuous illusion:
the act of insignificance, the play of powerlessness.
May I die with insobriety, but in life, in spirit, inspiration.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
A free portrait! Imagine that,
At no charge this troglodyte
Decided that I deserved a rendition in pulsing crimson, me!
He effortlessly sliced the curve of my face,
And then holding true to brute form,
Let his fists do the rest of the painting.
In a breath’s thought I fought the idea
That this strong browed man was a fan of
Yves klein, but then he caringly guided my sight
Floor-bound and I noticed that he was a
Monochromatic *******
Now, I wasn’t expecting Monet,
But in truth the elegance of the lazy red river
Careening down my cheek and neck got my hopes up.
And then further was impressed by his liberalness
With bottomless black crimson
Where he’d only previously flirt with young pinot noir
As he took a break to wash and massage his stained hands
I clutched at the hope that perhaps he was done with the
Onslaught with such blunt tools,
As such methods could ruin the whole piece
Unfortunately, he returned
And his care for each swipe was becoming more
More impassioned, but less precise,
I asked if he perhaps needed a second break?
Perhaps I could assist him,
I wanted to give it a try myself, but my hands were
Tied.
In vain,
I tried to tell him that,
Perhaps,
His bearish skills and appearance,
Would be better suited to a life of leather, whips, and Oedipus Complexes,
But his response was,
Cutting.
You should never laugh at an artist
Especially the bad ones
Because then their work some how finds a way to get worse
I asked if he’d learned how to work from his father,
And whether his father had worked him in any
Other
Manner, and that’s when I became dizzy
I think.
Apparently struck a nerve.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
"Odoriferous fresh gardenia flowers fragrance was she,
Her beauty will be cultivated forever amongst and beyond,
How does one know if it is love it is more than just a word?
It is a feeling soul bound that fervor’s beneath the skin,
So how do I know it is love if it isn't as the words are procured?
A sense of rising tide a rapid undulant river of a woman,
One cannot be a troglodyte in life when love arrives,
My love has arrived I have felt all the above and much more,
Sheer thoughts of her sends a billow enliven rapture within,
A rush with consternation render’s fervent fracas of piquancy,
I have heeded in life these depictions of the fluttering gusto,
As long as I live this tectonic emotion of this naiad will remain,
Restraints of the days is this prologue to exodus to enclaves,
I turned my back on the capricious sea the euphoria and somber,
Where with a strain and a ****** on the banks of islet sands,
Beauteous day slips in night as the sailing foam drifts afar,
Although I am where I am I will never be perniciously charmed,
Stars will burn for all time as I lament in demanding sadness,
Cursing as a cavalier of false hopes with untethered regret,
For I am not a troglodyte of ages but just an aesthete in love,
Beauty is Culture!”
By Andrew Guzaldo 03/02/2019 ©
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
If there ever was a golden age
The smile on the cherubim’s grill,
Wistfully look into her eyes,
Devoted to her algorithms---
Like Christine there are no eyes,
Desoto algorithms---if there
Ever was a golden age
She’s sleeping in,
Evolutionarily destroyed by fire---
Mysteriously her eyes go blank,
Blank for all eternity,
If there ever was an algorithm
For the golden age---she was one---
For a quarter of eternity or an hour
Show her the pile of stones
The men will use
Saints go under the bridge
While over the bridge go the lions---
Her bones thick and mammalian
If there ever was a golden age of stripping,
She was there, her ideas and sciences
dawning on troglodyte mankind---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
Desire paired with loneliness
Is quite the ugly pair
Light the rooms inside my heart
My guts exposed threadbare
And I ponder, And I ponder
All these mountains with no view
And my wanderlust takes over
While my troglodyte subdues
Desperation paired with insanity
Is quite the gruesome two
You foam at mouth and commiserate
With hallucinating beasts inside of you
And I float there, And I float there
In this vat of carcinogens strong
Perfect aim meets jugular
My cat and mouse shan't take too long!
Reason paired with logic
Is a fable wrapped in dreams
There's people who are sane out there?
No neurosis bursting at their seams?
As I sit here, As I sit here
Etching brainsick into stone
The faces of my personal Rushmore
A mocking comfort (I'm not alone!)
Enmity paired with self-affliction
Are the volcanoes I prepare
No need for collusion or invaders
I'm my own Cotopaxi terror!
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
oh what is this space between words and the emblem of speech, enchanted by the calamity
of opening my mouth to ask the very same thing?
oh how do i bloom so much with all my fairies Fae and all my moons New Earth
surging in the pixie ****** of what i can only assume is my purpose
among deader men than my living hell?
oh how i beg to be loved like a coin!
oh how i strive to slit the throat of a laughing troglodyte to let the sun shine
into the purpose of an idiot.
i consume what disbelieves the power of my weaknesses and secure a place in Valhalla
full of plush toys for Gypsies and waifs of every sadness
doing nothing but getting hit… by dead-end jobs
in the mouth of profound madness…
on this side of happy….
which incidentally, is the dark side of smiling
out of fear like an ape
with a word for a
man... without a god.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 8:37 PM UTC
Born in an overloaded place called “earth?”
The first sight caused a carved in my right-eyed
Doctors name it being a narrowminded child!
I become what mother couldn’t bear “ troglodyte”
Father went flying to starsmost,
Leaving me with a pocket full of invisible spectators.
Left my walls painted in red
In Whos lesion that shall be unknown
My doppelganger downhearted my mother duties
Which left a burst vessel in my heart.
So now we go around playing catch fire with a wooden fork
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 12:06 PM UTC
I knew that something was going on
When she went to walk each night,
Just on dusk when the tide swept in
With the blue moon of delight,
She never asked me to tag along
Though at times I thought she must,
We’d once been close, but the time was wrong
And our closeness turned to dust.
I stayed back up in the dunes while she
Took on the darkening shore,
It triggered memories held when we
Had walked it once before,
That gentle rise where the sand had dried
And we sat awhile and kissed,
Now I sat lonely and cold aside
Bemoaning what I’d missed.
I didn’t follow along the beach
Too scared what I might find,
A lovers tryst in the dark I feared
That might upset my mind,
I knew my temper was short and so
I feared what might be done,
Out there, and under a hasty moon
Might see me overcome.
The moon was skirting the ocean’s rim
The stars were riding high,
My only thought as she disappeared,
In a single word, was ‘Why?’
I wondered what the attraction was
That would take her away each night,
Would leave me sat alone in the gloom
Like a pensive troglodyte.
It had to come to an end, I knew
So I strode along the beach,
Followed the trail of footprints where
The tide had failed to reach,
Till sudden, there was the sweetest song
On the wind, I ever knew,
And there was Isobel, sitting rapt
While the notes came fast and few.
And on a rock set above the tide
Sat the singer of the song,
The perfect form of a sweet mermaid
With her tail, so curved and long,
But then she gave out a sudden cry
When she saw my shadow fall,
And slithered back off the rock, to swim
Below to the mermaids’ hall.
‘Why did you come,’ said Isobel,
‘Why did you have to pry,
She’ll never come to the shore again
To sing to the empty sky.’
I turned and ran from her angry gaze
But at least I now know why,
She sits at night in the moon’s half light
And I often hear her cry.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
And the Troglodyte shall reign;
and all you slaves, shall die in vain.
Keep your clocks and hurry for it tocks.
For your patience is lost; rush for the tick,
and pay your penance in case you might miss,
a chance that is yours for free if you might wait.
Run you fools as fast as you can; pay the Ferryman,
and find your too late; as you squandered your date.
Alas poor children; you are grown but you failed,
you hurried too much; and missed your fate.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC