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Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”
Jedd Ong Mar 2015
Dad
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.

My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:

The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,

The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,

The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,

Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever

Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.

He once could dunk.

He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid

Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.

They sang to him.

In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.

Song set from
His favorite band.

"Apo Hiking Society."

His favorite word,
Was "leap."

A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,

Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.

"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."

He was always afraid of heights.

It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.

"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."

I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:

So.

This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Daniel A Russ Oct 2010
Boredom churns broad-in-brain
competing with petty volumes of alcohol
(white Russian, 1, Magic Hat #9, 1)
for dominance of the summer's eve.
Unsure of which would prove the victor,
past-tense, too, filled with unknowing:
thought- and pedaling-process interrupted
by a traitorous bicycle;
a forward-bent-fork;
a fleeing, unbolted forwardwheel.
Fast-pitch forward,
eyes-wide but dead:
quickfall into void.
Then, wide-eyed horror:
awake again
filled with the horrible pain of life again
fueled, amplified tenfold
through the impact of the sidewalk.
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
Amber S Nov 2013
yes, i have not removed an inch of makeup, these
past three days.
i can still taste beers and united kingdom’s colloquialisms
on my burdened  
tongue.
and i have holes in stockings and black-and-blues
brushing my collarbone.
weekends, two and a half days, winding among unbolted
doors that lead to what you want but can’t admit
sober.
yes, i still feel every inch when i saunter through flaxen
leaves. how did i never notice such colors
before?
let the world be your oyster, except i’m vegetarian. so let it be my
sea. ocean. every drop that i never tasted.
fingers taste much better when they’re being
shoved beneath your front teeth.
five in the morning is the perfect time for screaming at lies
you cannot see through. for falling onto beds that cannot hold
more than one person but you trytrytry anyway.
yes, i do not know where i am going anymore,
but this tingling in my toes must mean
something.
Natassia Serviss Jan 2018
I never felt like a hopeless romantic.
I was more hopeless.
My echoed gears turned the oil blood sick.
Burnt rubber following a dim lit haze.  
Unbolted and unburdened with only you to praise.
Soft thoughts of him, a daily occurrence.
I S A A C Jun 2023
braided by burdens
hidden from the wandering sun
my cage was bronze, my voice frozen
only could stretch once i was
unbolted, unjolted, of all these poisons
soaking into my psyche at every moment
altering the shade of joy, door left open
reruns from the demons, another opponent
the drink so potent, my ego stolen
a wordy poet silenced to biological atonement
Aman Dheer Sep 2016
A muse plays my harp
strings made of veins and thread,
cobblestones line over my body
having bric-a-bracs in the evening,

Rain splashes over shelves
and ego vapourizes like helium,
pyres burn my effigy tonight
stardust shines the bubble
tearing ashes like paper,

Warheads crack my halo from within
setting me up like the haze,
my lip syncs with the beats
dancing my limbs as it heeds away,

Clouds shower blessings upon my head
the chakra opens as if unbolted by wind,
clear conscience reigns inside me
and photos set us apart like fences .
amandheer.wordpress.com
AJ Vicario Feb 2015
Their knowledge challenged by fascination
And their purity approved by desire
The mortality of the gods is tested in love
And their morality in passion
The planets align for trial by combat
In what seems like an infinite second
The fates were blinded by prophecy
Slaves to the gravity of their polarity
Stars glide over the dance floor
Eclipsed by the salt of the Earth
The magma boils under their surface
Sulfuric rain is set aflame
Toxic fumes pervade the galaxy
Warning any body of their cosmic steam
Secrets kept by ancients unbolted
Are left in dust and ruin
The pull is inescapable
The heat untouchable yet embraced
To meet is forbidden
His mass a carcass everlasting
She is seen but unspoken to
Above the fog she shines dark and scarlet
She invites any who can bear her fragrance
Her aroma intensifies while denying the powers that be
The boldness of her presence pumps fire into his veins
The canals boil absolute war for her
Alien as he may be
Beauty is her business
Feed her appetite for affection
And drown in undying cream
Scream thunder
Play with lightning
Hold hands on the horizon
And **** the cosmos for a crush
It happened again. The vulture came and perched on the sill.

But this time, unlike all the other times, it pecked on our windowpane. I unbolted the lid, lifted the frame, and offered some bread crumbs. It didn’t stir. I scattered the morsel on its feet, which it picked like fallen friends.

Aside from this long deserted corridor and abandonment lingering on my exhausted underwear, I wonder what I would have for breakfast.

I half expected that the stars would be reborn after its embers had disembarked. Like a dying flame on the grate, every night when you stir the coal and feed me with lies. In your flicker I have placed my heart, and let my flesh, my bones, my thoughts, be extinguished by its tongue. Only to be molded again, like months, like years, like centuries of false promises and interminable greed. All going on, forever.

And today, the sun had burnt itself into cinders. The ashes is everywhere. On our bedcover where we set the world aside and built an new one. On the wall which witnessed those infinite hours we had, those minutes when my bounty was as boundless as the sea, those seconds when you stared at me before you sleep. It lingers on the fabric of the clothes you last wore, before I heard the creaking steps of your departure, of which you were stationed in some distant place, of which you were told that your country was in grave danger, of which your patriotism is highly requested. Of which you complied. Of which you never returned.

You met another woman, I heard.

I hadn’t cleaned the room for ages. I desire to preserve your scent. Layers of sawdust are now resting on the looking glass, which had witnessed both our everlasting days and hideous crimes, which had shared my fear of you going, my anticipation of you coming back home, and my pain of learning that you were killed in the war, which the government had plotted in order to save the country’s dying economy.

You met another woman, I heard. And told her everything about me.

The vulture came everyday. I have known it for ages, had even fooled myself to befriended by it. The last time it perched on the sill was the last time I saw you, after you had received an order commanding you to join the military. Of which you cannot refuse. Of which, in this continent, we have no choice, but to abide.

And now, it’s here again. And had perched again.

The country requires the service of our eldest son, I heard.

The vulture told me.
~Lacus Crystalthorn 2012
My Lady dances. Angel bands
From Heaven’s balconies looking in
Admire legs, feet, neck, head, arms, hands
With torso slim.

My Lady sings; the doors of Heaven
Now unbolted, gaping wide
Permit escape the song celestial
Of inside.
Sarina Aug 2012
You have seen as
many winters as I
have known days,
and my body still
coils under frigid
beads of weather,
while yours is an
unbolted entrance
to planes touched
and surfaces seen
by many seasons
my caress cannot
compare to, now.
Dacia B Apr 2015
She shuffled her feet uncomfortably as glowing cracks of light appeared below her feet.
The veins of light expanded and engulfed the darkness, evaporating the stale, swampy water from her field of unbolted flowers.
A million suns rose and cast their revealing light on the shadows in her mind.
She saw the billions of galaxies surrounding her trapped inside electric graymatter.
Spilling out into sound and vision. To be shared and admired.
She wanted to grow her own oak tree, a mighty one, with branches to offer birds and shimmering gray leaves to kiss the summer and suffice to the winter.
Driving her roots into the soil she noticed it was salted.
So she jumped into the ocean and lay down on her back and became an island with azure fields.
"My bones can be a house for the fish" was her final sigh as she gazed into past ancient light.
AllyRose Jul 2018
He unbolted the locks
and untied my restraints,
which left painful bruises
and permanent marks.
  I could barely gather up
the strength to stand up
and make it to the door.
Then when I tried my
legs gave out and I fell
right on to the floor.
  As weak as a lamb
that can't hold the
weight of it's own wool.
He told me the shackles
I've worn were years ago
outgrown.
  There is a new pair
somewhere that I must fit into.
I listened because being in
a cage was all I ever knew.
Tanya Chaudhary Jan 2015
Memories, few I have now.
Which is better, if you think how?
I do not think it was planned.
I pray it was never intended,
I hope it was destined.
I would love to believe,
that it was a bad timing.
A result of mixed up,
wrongly fused confusion.
I knew from the beginning,
or should I say from the ending.
This love of mine won’t work out.
And so you left.
I burned out.
And you couldn't even see the damage.
My hot tears scaling down and leaving scars on my skin.
The noise that your absence left behind.
The clutter, the mess, the chaos and the scrapes
and the caramel taste
of the days gone by.

You rejected me.
I rejected me.
Until, I was a claustrophobe
I couldn't breathe.

But, then I cracked open.
And light seared through my aching, contused soul.
I stitched my unbolted ends.
But the flowing thread faltered.
I erupted.
I detonated.
Leaving myself weak and disrupted.

So, I laid in the sun and I allowed.
The wind, the storm, the rain came,
and I weathered whatever they gave.
I stayed open and empty.
And finally opened my eyes.
I discovered, you ruined us
but you hadn't ruined me.
I was glistening, glittering, shimmering and glowing.
My aching soul that was burnt and pressurized
had now, crystallized.

Dear, you whisked away the love.
But, you left behind a diamond.

So, thank you.

© TanyaC. 2015.
Loretta Proctor Feb 2018
Early morning


It was in the early morning, blackbird song and
long wet grass, shuffling through making trails in dew
In the early mornings of my life.
Something of magic in the sun slanting
through wet dripping branches,
pearls of water drops in spidery webs enchaining
blade to blade in the long wet grass.

It was in the early morning rising from warm sheets
when hearing that cuckoo summons from
far distant woods, calling , welcoming me forth
into the dewy day, doors unbolted, stepping from within
dark walls, shadowed kitchens, cold and stony floor.
Stepping forth and catching at my heart.
They were.
Sun’s rays, dewy grass, pearls of water drops.
To stand at the breakers , at the whim of -
warm tidewaters , cleansed in the saline , spume -
chemistry , yearning to deliver the ghost imperishability
Physicality's iron manacles unbolted
Copyright May 14 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Right
Fumi Himawari Dec 2017
This is my quod of secrets untold.
An ode to my heart rived by memories of old.
Now the moment calls for me to finally write,
The dubiousness of the quirks I spite.

It was the height within the octave of the decade,
When my ticker suddenly strayed.
I got caught in an eros I deemed true,
An instant juncture that I hadn't got a clue.

That wight I stumbled across with was amiable and vigorous.
Who ventured to garner my sentiments which made me ambiguous.
Who intoned some hymns with gracious prance,
Hoping to hook my regards with a chance.

I unbolted my heart to let that wight in,
Layed my cards and hopes in all that could have been.
I deduced it was something I could keep.
So I quashed my uncertainties and took the leap.

But I never knew until it was too late,
The risk had passed, I fancied the ardor I thought was sincere and great.
Myself waned in those words felt and spoken.
Never anticipated my heart and innocence would be broken.

If only there's another shot unused to tweak my adjudications,
I would permute them without hesitation.
If that would be the scheme to liberate my heart,
I would partake in all of its parts.

Of all the things time can tell,
Above is the list I unconsciously dwell.
It may be so dense in pushing them off the cliff,
but these are the questions I start with "what if".
Written by: Josephine Mary
Revised by: Machel Yvan
Loretta Proctor Mar 2018
It was in the early morning, blackbird song and
long wet grass, shuffling through making trails in dew
In the early mornings of my life.
Something of magic in the sun slanting
through wet dripping branches,
pearls of water drops in spidery webs enchaining
blade to blade in the long wet grass.

It was in the early morning rising from warm sheets
when hearing that cuckoo summons from
far distant woods, calling , welcoming me forth
into the dewy day, doors unbolted, stepping from within
dark walls, shadowed kitchens, cold and stony floor.
Stepping forth and catching at my heart.
They were.
Sun’s rays, dewy grass, pearls of water drops.
My childhood in Yorkshire, UK
smallhands Mar 2016
a cup transparent, a sight, a reflection
which one diverts like unbolted frames
in the air
a serene dawn will arrive
this vision is in a kaleidoscope lately

heat in sheets goes unfelt
this fear, it expands and loses, drowns and rests
a serene dawn will arrive
my serene dawn will

heat in sheets goes unfelt
until a pair of eyes out of the grey
pull confidence towards it
this juvenile center won't delay
it waltzes, forces me to dwell on
you're the brightest sun, the brightest shadow
it leads to me being in awe of you

-c.j.
Jen Aug 2018
Slowly
Unbolted,
An aperture
Inside.

Mind.

A rift
Settles
In.

There is
No measure
Of seconds,
Or hours.

Time.

Finding
Reassurance
In
What billboards
Display
As
Happiness.

Everywhere,
Every time.

Running, running, running;
You can't leave this world.

Behind.

Feeding,
So blind.
Constantly
Monitoring
Others.

Lives.

Judging blindly;
To take a glance
In the mirror.

Sometimes.

Knowing
It's a
Far
Cry
From
Circumstances.

Here.

Is that what
Brings
Us closer
To finding
What we
Seek?

Displayed
In the form of
Material
And Physical
Things...

Nothing in
This
World,
Can
Satiate.

This aperture.

See.
Surbhi Dadhich Feb 2018
Breathing in the cold showers
As I glared sky's divine diamonds
The stormy weather unbolted
The windows and the carpets
I gazed at the adjacent apartment
A solitary lady devoid of content
Struggling in stormy weather
Sobbing and weeping altogether
How surreal was it!
A lady with power and pelf
How devastating was it!
A lady trapped only in herself
A lady with brain and brawn
She wasn't contented and that was all
She might be cursed or sinned
Or was an accused
How her luxurious leisure life
Left her impossible to strive
Treasure may be her best companion
Till the very end
What a great pity was it!
She was well- off but what use was of money
When her boat of life was so heavy
With entertainment stuff unworthy
The boat is continuously drowning
Slowly and steadily
Someone warn her please....
Megan Sherman Aug 2017
Dear Love - hither -
How happy I -
I dreamt for you - free -
As you - chastened - lie -
To light - you crawled -
How exhausted - you -
Dear Love - how do you and do - and all that -
Are you okay?
Dear Love - dive in to my arms -
I have so much to say.

Your memo came - from Angels -
I hardly guessed you were on your way -
My entreaty - how tyrants hated it -
But Love - I implore you -
And all warriors for better day -
Who in woe struggle - rue -
You deserve to frolic - play -

Who's there! Souls spouse -
Unbolted - gate -
Summoned out the louse -
Insatiate - for hate -
When I can survey Justice -
As sublime mate -
Will be hour of armistice -

That virtue commensurable to Love -
Love as bright as virtue.
Betty H May 2020
Rough seas assuage
subtle fog
faces concealed with cloth
awaken to a ghostly city
albeit, hesitant movement, unsteady
as prisoners' death rise
distance demands

One fervor to fly
like cooped up birds of prey
takes priority over all else
flocks of birds' salvation

Emotions unbolted
hurry to taste the rain
soak the sun
sense the buds, smog
sweat of the city

Bizarre is the normal for us
rousing, prior to lockup
as it is, eager, a fresh smell
touch, passion, like strangers anew
Bolts and screws protect
This empty chamber in my chest.
A compartment once warm
Now cold and barren.
She came swiftly with a drill
Hidden behind the smooth curves
I once worshiped with devoutness.
Deftly she unbolted the metal
Sliding the door open she reached inside
Tentatively stroked the warm steel
And grabbed my heart in her tiny hands
I felt comforted and at peace
With her grip holding my love
Until she turned on her heels
And didn’t come back.
Leaving my chest open to the elements
Empty and longing for her touch.
Forcing me to fortify the area.
Never to let someone in again.
Who’d want an empty chest?
Jermon Jun 2021
Wings,
Swirls of gold, and sliver,
Pearls and rainbows that bite the dust.

Halos of fear.
Your fingers know the touch of every crease.

The world is jeweled with stones
Ruby and coal, the eyes see no difference.

The void is space,
Space is wide,
Width is unbolted.

Lightning is breathtaking.

Have you ever seen the skies from within?
Have you ever ridden a thunderbolt?

Have you ever screamed and knew the world could care less?
That your joy is the most beautiful thing,
And they smile beneath that frown,

For nothing is as beautiful as freedom pursuing itself.  

18.06.2021
Chengdu

— The End —