"twofold" poems
heavy, deep and dark.
louder, louder;
the twofold pounding
of clockwork respiration.
thud, (thud-thud)
goddess arms hang
into the abyss, like
dead weight.
depth obscures,
lesser life forms
meander on their own,
unaware of the wayward colossus.
/lonely/
a shroud of antiquity
suspended --
veiling the secret
of ages.
thud, [thud-thud]
percussive life
continues alone,
out of time.
evolving
longing
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
[Dedicated to Austin Osman Spare]
Have pity ! show no pity !
Those eyes that send such shivers
Into my brain and spine : oh let them
Flame like the ancient city
Swallowed up by the sulphurous rivers
When men let angels fret them !
Yea ! let the south wind blow,
And the Turkish banner advance,
And the word go out : No quarter !
But I shall hod thee -so !
While the boys and maidens dance
About the shambles of slaughter !
I know thee who thou art,
The inmost fiend that curlest
Thy vampire tounge about
Earth's corybantic heart,
Hell's warrior that whirlest
The darts of horror and doubt !
Thou knowest me who I am
The inmost soul and saviour
Of man ; what hieroglyph
Of the dragon and the lamb
Shall thou and I engrave here
On Time's inscandescable cliff ?
Look ! in the plished granite,
Black as thy cartouche is with sins,
I read the searing sentence
That blasts the eyes that scan it :
**** and SET be TWINS."
A fico for repentance !
Ay ! O Son of my mother
That snarled and clawed in her womb
As now we rave in our rapture,
I know thee, I love thee, brother !
Incestuous males that consumes
The light and the life that we capture.
Starve thou the soul of the world,
Brother, as I the body !
Shall we not glut our lust
On these wretches whom Fate hath hurled
To a hell of jesus and shoddy,
Dung and ethics and dust ?
Thou as I art Fate.
Coe then, conquer and kiss me !
Come ! what hinders? Believe me :
This is the thought we await.
The mark is fair ; can you miss me ?
See, how subtly I writhe !
Strange runes and unknown sigils
I trace in the trance that thrills us.
Death ! how lithe, how blithe
Are these male incestuous vigils !
Ah ! this is the spasm that kills us !
Wherefore I solemnly affirm
This twofold Oneness at the term.
Asar on Asi did beget
Horus twin brother unto Set.
Now Set and Horus kiss, to call
The Soul of the Unnatural
Forth from the dusk ; then nature slain
Lets the Beyond be born again.
This weird is of the tongue of Khem,
The Conjuration used of them.
Whoso shall speak it, let him die,
His bowels rotting inwardly,
Save he uncover and caress
The God that lighteth his liesse.
6k
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a twofold Silence—sea and shore—
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.”
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
5.5k
MESSENGER
Now at the Seventh Gate the seventh chief,
Thy proper mother's son, I will announce,
What fortune for this city, for himself,
With curses he invoketh:--on the walls
Ascending, heralded as king, to stand,
With paeans for their capture; then with thee
To fight, and either slaying near thee die,
Or thee, who wronged him, chasing forth alive,
Requite in kind his proper banishment.
Such words he shouts, and calls upon the gods
Who o'er his race preside and Fatherland,
With gracious eye to look upon his prayers.
A well-wrought buckler, newly forged, he bears,
With twofold blazon riveted thereon,
For there a woman leads, with sober mien,
A mailed warrior, enchased in gold;
Justice her style, and thus the legend speaks:--
'This man I will restore, and he shall hold
The city and his father's palace homes.'
Such the devices of the hostile chiefs.
'Tis for thyself to choose whom thou wilt send;
But never shalt thou blame my herald-words.
To guide the rudder of the State be thine!
ETEOCLES
O heaven-demented race of Oedipus,
My race, tear-fraught, detested of the gods!
Alas, our father's curses now bear fruit.
But it beseems not to lament or weep,
Lest lamentations sadder still be born.
For him, too truly Polyneikes named,--
What his device will work we soon shall know;
Whether his braggart words, with madness fraught,
Gold-blazoned on his shield, shall lead him back.
Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers,
Guided his deeds and thoughts, this might have been;
But neither when he fled the darksome womb,
Or in his childhood, or in youth's fair prime,
Or when the hair thick gathered on his chin,
Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers,
Nor in this outrage on his Fatherland
Deem I she now beside him deigns to stand.
For Justice would in sooth belie her name,
Did she with this all-daring man consort.
In these regards confiding will I go,
Myself will meet him. Who with better right?
Brother to brother, chieftain against chief,
Foeman to foe, I'll stand. Quick, bring my spear,
My greaves, and armor, bulwark against stones.
4.8k
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song
here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
scattered and at long last, never collected
deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.
what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,
swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
“Tantusan mo!” to remember
where we last took off, like a heron,
or a bird, wary of distances.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Beyond the farms
of my troubled fears,
a path weaves through
icy slivers of bone,
glossed by Winter’s breath,
who sits enthroned
aside her onyx pond,
reflecting.
“The challenge you face is twofold:
confront me and confront yourself.”
A black jaguar saunters from
her ivory throne, holding
my gaze in the vice
of its assured indifference.
“That which you seek may not be found,
but earned.”
My dagger shakes,
frozen tightly in
my sweating palm.
The lush snow absorbs
the crush of my knees
as the jaguar closes.
“Your unearthed answer, clean of instinct or knowledge,
bids closer reflection.”
At arm’s length,
the jaguar stops.
“Change does not ride the wind,
for the wind has direction.”
The jaguar’s breath
warms my quivering lips,
and I exhale
my unbidden thoughts.
My eyes, still fixed in place,
are not aware
of my rising hand.
“To understand is to forgive,
and to forgive is to love.”
Her words chill the blood
pooling in my outstretched palm,
quivering closer to my host.
The ferric scent tickles its whiskers,
and the jaguar laps up my gift.
“Love, and you'll belong.”
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 12:54 PM UTC
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—
The finger-points look through the rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
’Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
’Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:
So this wing’d hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
2.5k
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
2.5k
Going once the
cruise_______*
One specific lover
What do we uncover
More advice going
twice in (2)
You see an
unexpected
attraction
Like twins with
two heads exact copy
Say Action your movie part
"The offer you cannot refuse"
You cannot duplicate her heart
With another Flower rose
Another heart obligation
"Alaskan Huskies
Twin Adoption"
Two heads better
than one snipper
She- Wolf surf and turf
Mexico taco, at the gulf
Her green planet thumb
Mount Fiji we climb
Right force ruler the heart
divider the duplicate lover
"To Reproduce" over the
a million light-years
duplicated love tears
Years we treasured
It's in our duty
Congregated
United we stand
Imagine the world
stopped to be buried
The duplicate became a
twin maid of honor
She lost her duplicated purse
"Twin Identity"
Doppelganger
Your heart couldn't
hold on____
Any longer
To reproduce the same
forbidden fruit
voiceover singer
The rare find
someone with a
Giving heart
Having a double
scotch doing the part
The pirate wearing
Eye patch*
Twofold twice the gold
one heart match
Poems true believers
One is the snitch
To love life singles or doubles
subjects to catch up in triples
The full house
what a spouse
Your boiling minds
Twice around the
coffee house
The day she or he
was born
The comfort
comes with love
Fire eye lit bedding
(Forever young
double wedding)
You're the one so
gifted hearted*
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
It is winter and it is cold,
or am i just feeling old.
The shortest day is past so it is time,
to celebrate anew with a party sublime
and it costs naught, not a dime,
the event once a year, one-time.
A great event, a party, an event, a Do,
catch up on events and acquaintances renew.
Chase away this cold winters blue,
with friends and food and a good brew.
This Saturday coming as foretold,
come celebrate this special day twofold,
to reconnect with friends of old
and to dispel the winters cold.
Sijo Robert Z
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, -
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: -
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
2k
. . . . . . .
. .
. . . . . . .
i would like a space marked out
wherein in silence i'd observe my sacral auguries,
and insularly divine
amid mid-dawning light contingencies,
to sweep a magic sweep for sunrise-
-tabula|_|rasa
and find, founded in a flout: a sect beyond sects
to section self sectionless~
inwrought helix interhelix nest~
and there reside attentively
()blinking() s l o w ...ly
in rainbow eyelash quiver flow,
arrows soaring ' ' ' ' ' 'centerly
to pin
each
whirl
of dream,
of sleep,
mneumonic residue,
prehensions right or wrong clear through --
symbological goo, too--
all too evidently called
from out an obvious deep
oblivion of plenum om,
or so it's said it's seen
in clear eidetic percept room
of alter overmInd of mindstuff's tomb [*]
and form of selfish altar drama gone and soon
for looking in or out or neither both
oblique, about aboutness-mirror zoom~
to which what spectionism halves
behaving in a twofold twining intro free: the finest of the fine:
insight-interred intuited sign
quiescently, albeit doubtfully at times, benign
.
.
.
.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
The murderer and the killer sat
Across from one another
On the banks of the river Shambhal.
The killer said:
“My actions are my own.
My kismet; my own.
My victim's; their own.
My ripples stop without a stone.”
The murderer sat in silence.
He drops a ruby into the river Shambhal.
The killer continues,
With a quote by Johnson
That speaks of man toward man.
“He who makes a beast of himself,
Gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
The murderer stands in silence.
He drops another ruby into the river Shambhal.
And walks away in silence.
The killer laughs,
With a hyena cackle
And wraps himself in a cloak
Woven of mirrors.
The murderer turns in silence.
He smiles with knowledge
And speaks with tears.
“My actions are my own.
My kismet; twofold
With victim and self.
My ripples are not stopped
With stones, or banks
or time or thought.
Brother we differ;
For your's are the actions
Of Caine.
And mine are the actions
Of Hamlet.”
The killer sat in silence
On the banks of the river Shambhal.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
empty imagery
the head itself was an afterthought. had god not allowed the soul to come up for air, beauty would have been spared our invention.
empty imagery
a single mother is a twofold mirage. please argue above her quietly. her legs collapse. her child comes first.
empty imagery
your sister is the only person I’ve recorded to have been born without a gift. I was told this in confidence by an angel masquerading as a small animal; the size of which escapes me.
empty imagery
it wasn’t until my father lost his job that I began to go hungry for myself.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
I look and stare at the beauty of your pair—
so new, their intricacies I now study.
The color is subtle and quite comparable
to my desk’s dark grain where sun and wood have lain.
Lost am I, in those eyes, such that senses die.
Eyes pull away, gazing now at that smile’s stay—
it’s kind and shy, and encages butterflies.
My heart will palpitate with a feather’s weight
each time those lips take rise— such, is love’s reprise.
My mind rests on you, and tranquil thoughts ensue.
For you I pine, with your hand clasped in mine—
these feelings transcendent of lovers just met.
Your eyes—a spark—inspire love and fire.
The latter I fight, thus this verse I indict
for its aesthetic appraisal. Your Musal
qualities mold my virtues to grow twofold.
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Say one more time the crown of beauty's dying. Without the shine the gown of beauty's wilting. 'Tis nothing fair a timid being. Fear not, stand tall against them halt from fleeing. Prove thy might young maiden now before ye bitter.
-----
Dear Restless, don't you know when you mess with the Mother it comes back twofold? Reckless actions masking your denial feeding her disapointment. Striving to get your way, darling, but you'll never be happy. One wrong move after another and she's coming for you baby one way or another.
-----
One day, one night, lost track, lost time. Standing alone I see all to be done, but lack ambition to clean the slate. Whereas, together I'm blinded and forgetful. Seconds pass, alright, but seconds build to minutes as a steady trickle builds to a stream. Soon enough I find myself trapped in a river. I can't escape, I'm caught in a current of disassociation. So what if I drown here? No, I want want more more. Every second a thought runs by and like the trickle turns into a dream. I feel that I think I can, but as I think this there's another stream building, the one that's pulling me back. As I'm drowning, the seconds tick..tick..tick. Just one strong lunge and I'm air bound to a new element, the one I was meant to survive in. Soon I will take a lungfull of that bountiful production the leaves breath for me. I will bask in the glorious light and love to be loved. Just one .. Strong .. Lunge.
-----
Just get on your feet and run, baby, run. Glance behind you once, no shame, twice and you'll lose your footing. I tripped when I tried to get out of misery, but I'm standing up now and tying those laces tight. Moral of these things is normally not to run anymore.. Not here, I intend to keep going.
-----
This road we travel on may some day bring us to our peace, but in the meantime we'll roam this place one offbeat path at a time. Join me on a magical adventure to nowhere and I swear you will never forget it. Peace, love, and wickedry shall set you free.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Torn in the breast
over twofold decision
regarding ***
regarding light,
regarding the salvation of the soul
dismissed any hopeful vision of the holy spirits of the mind
cast down to the deep den of the forgotten, rotting mental tomb of vice
spaced out beyond any homely recognition
no patterns are to be known
no faces are to look upon the one who fades in stark daylight
where once a garden grew bearing ripe the fruits of virtue
now stands in torn remembrance to the sinking of the pale indigo sky
where once there was a hopeful, familiar world
now stands an aching gravestone of paranoia and delusion
carved out of deep obsidian
and jutting from the chasms of a past life
aching for the heavenly bliss of an unmanifest soul
yet spinning with the force to throw one from his own gravity
cast into outer space alone
content in his own silence
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 8:43 AM UTC
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won;
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
And when a woman woos, what woman’s son
Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.
1.1k
*Conflated afore
Twofold elation
Betimes for melancholia
Insentient erewhile
Heretofore
We love semovedly
Together nowise
Enow*
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
on the day they were born
I murdered my brothers
in reverse order
to teach them
about sticks
more specifically
about my love
for what can break
easily
on the knee
for what gets smaller
the more
it is shared
-
premonition? the delayed seizure of our mother’s countenance.
she could recall the brokenness of a toy car but not the location of the shop it drove itself to.
she needed two people. one to smooth the map before her. and one to laugh when she’d blow
playfully
from her palm
the ants the car’s tires had become.
-
to remain
brothers
brothers
keep silent
within
earshot.
distance?
the hole
god leaves
by not
existing.
confession?
the seashell comfort of a woman’s hips.
-
in baseball
one could ******
the pastor’s
nose
wipe the ball
on a white shirt
and transfer
worry
to the tick
heavy
dog
lazing
in the rabbit blackness
of its ongoing
joy
-
as an inner child searching for its twin
the loneliness
of our sister
is twofold.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
After a night of paradise
Love flowing from the very walls
Music flowing from my body
Onto the dance floor
As sensual as *** yet with only eyes upon me
No touching,
just the deliciousness of looking,
with emotions touched
as the eyes understand,
Something understood without talking
After a night of love like this
You really know how to gut me out
leave me empty, my insides spilled
like shattered glass
upon the floor
ready to cut those who walk upon it.
My heart , clear as glass,
beats upon that floor, hoping you'll pick it up.
I love you to no end, and I know you love me.
We will be okay.
But in the meantime my heart beats twofold:
Once, upon the steaming platforms of love
Where my body moves in perfect rhythms
Once, on a bed of shards
Where every move may mean a cut.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Words, sharp as knives in a skillful hand,
turn soft as a child's quilt, when spoken in tones of love.
Words, the expressions of ourselves, the strings that link us, bind
us, hold us, change us. Words, thought incarnate.
And yet, at times they fall short, inadequate to capture the
glory of the moment, or the horror.
This a sorrow, and a comfort,
Twofold as words may be.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
And then there was orange, glinting in a pile
from the ground outside my second story window.
I sit and count the scattered papers on my
bedroom floor, thinking, "Maybe someday the
past and present will meet," though I know full-well
that they already have.
Now it is twofold, it is insult to injury, it is
twenty seven eleven.
We are lies, aren't we? We are thankful for
the unknown. My father sips scotch and devours the
truth. I catch my connecting flight and travel back
in time. The man in the blue coat is replaced by
the man in the black hat, the man with the feather
hat, and the man with naught but war paint.
It is like the movies, I decide. I settle on a log bench
and read the classifieds in the newspaper.
Mother and father tell me to count my blessings
as if they are sheep. I tell them that their analogy
is flawed. Morning comes and I tie a string around
my ring finger, proclaiming, "I am here to collect
thanks! Bring out your wish lists and your tattered
diaries!" I am a liar; I am thankful for nothing but
sickness and ink. I write "twenty seven eleven"
three hundred times and vow to make a difference.
I fill my car and my fridge and roller blade up
the mountain, chanting, "Noa! Noa! 'Oia'i'o! A'ole
mahalo nui!" My cries go unheard and I sulk
back down, a landslide for the ages.
I begin to write poetry that oozes pretension and
reflects obsession. I try to pronounce the disease
and instead find myself bound to a table crushed by
feast and fear. I have written "twenty seven eleven"
on my forehead and am forced to listen to the "Lord"s
and "grateful"s and "God"s and I have had enough.
I break free and head for reason.
May 5, 2011
May 5, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
Answered, thus labeled because views a similarity. Who had this in the hand of the eye’s compact? If presence shifts to absence and believe it is safe in transit, what contract aspires to be an object used against it?
Here must be another present, moving thing for this nonattendance to take place. Its duty need not be nominal. And when it takes place, there is a guarantee for a statement: almost, to a certain extent. Had, adhered, temporary.
This was taken as an insistence of its exclusion as an avowal of its state: when a thing ceases to move, it has named a boundary all within a venue with already christened boundaries. To rise from its nomenclature, a question: what for is this mode? The unassuming and deliberate twofold of its chrome is indicative of something. There are only two possible answers to the question, but never warrants indemnity.
If amorphous then suitable to bend or assume over and over, a confrontational: to hold it against walls everywhere, its color only when dual fixing not a shadow, but the possibility of a shadow. To spill light over the malleable – notice how a body contorts.
If distinct then determined to traverse a straight line, a sanction: to furlough the idea of its controlled variable which is its many possibilities, its shape now not only a name but a force that deals with a believable architecture of compressed options. There is no need for appellation when related to dislimn as a shade is necessary for this disappearance to simulate. But the treachery is that when light surrounds no longer, form somehow a myth as if pausing all lightness to declare something: this is of two explanations merely a single.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC