"unilluminated" poems
The fault of our reality is not written in our stars
And it will not dance across unfavorable constellations,
Or dissolve into inconsolable fragments.
The fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
But how fortunate would it be?
To cast the providence of our unlucky affairs
Into the gloomy twilight,
Where the sky is so unilluminated
That we could close our restful eyes
And fathom a world where it does not exist?
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
We are heavily folded sheets of stationary:
A collection of utterances
Bound into melancholy novels
By our mangled hearts,
And though spoken words
Still fall onto my turning pages
As tears do fall from my reddened cheeks,
I have yet to forget
The chapter you have left unwritten,
Because an unwritten chapter is one to be adorned:
It cannot end
For it does not exist.
And so we fumble through an amorous affliction,
Fabricated into a bittersweet infinity.
And at midnight,
When my restless fingers
***** the empty air for you,
And the reality of our desolate fault
Seeps into my hands,
I wish you were here.
But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.
j.s.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Aurelia my goddess in disguise,
Let loose your spell on spectactors eyes.
Kiss with grace unknown by man,
And flutter with lashes cast wide in span.
Dance a dance unmatched by Muses,
Together so tightly the movement enthuses.
The bodys spell abrubtly breaks,
the rythm ends with conflicting aches.
Aurelia lingers on eternal moments,
Beaten back by unseen oponents.
She longs to dance with softest steps,
unseen unhindered by the rhythmic inept.
Unable to catch up to beat,
I watch and follow her leaderless feet.
Swept up in listless unfelt tune,
unilluminated by a forsaking moon.
Lost to darkness and lost to time,
Aurelia your love is no longer mine.
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 6:22 PM UTC
I can’t help but love it here.
The desolation elates my melancholia,
swathes me in haunted clothes
and comforts a need for loneliness.
To look upon desiccated cliffs,
trickling down to meet
the emulsifying waters
of a serious North Sea,
makes me yearn to offer myself up
to the ravages of tide and time.
How smooth I would become!
Worn to my bones
by ceaseless motion,
wearing the patina of eternity.
I would sigh upon the mud
settling into a shape of my own making.
In my heart I know
I’m just a fossil
same as all the rest,
who lie in wait
to be picked over –
anticipating selection
or discardment.
I hope to be discarded,
sent back to the mud
and the incessant ****
of sand and stones.
I shall try, very hard,
not to be afraid
when black night falls.
For I have always been afraid
of that which creeps and calls
through unilluminated hours.
But, if this place
is to be called home
I’ll get used to the dark,
bunk in with shadows
waiting for the trickles to quicken,
heralding the next great landslide.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
Inversive spinal / F major chord,
Tumbling twisted caterwauling toads
Left turn right in the gut of the feels
Sawfish feeding on blood stained carcasses of piranhas
Strawberries from the garden of eden,
Birds cleansing their sins in the scorching fountain;
“Hell yes!”
In this ephemeral, fleeting light speed of a moment,
I need you, my Solis.
to shine your bright light
in the unilluminated, gelatin closet
where my frail body cringes .
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
I am so ******* done.
I am now a loaded gun,
So you’d better ******* run.
I am hateful, like a forsaken son,
I am spiteful, like the blazing sun.
An appetite for self-destruction,
Akin to handling dynamite without any instructions.
The chaotic disorder that runs amok,
The scavenging hoarder pillaging dead schmucks.
This language is those dark corners left unilluminated by love,
A savage from unknown lands coming over the ridge,
That unsated, insane impulse that turns push into shove.
Throbbing veins and demonic thoughts,
Sobbing dames and manic frauds.
Your mental kingdom, your palace of peace –
It all falls apart, piece-by-piece.
Hate is like a saboteur, sneaking in,
It robs life of its grandeur, sinking its teeth in.
Rhythm just doesn’t happen,
You feel stricken, like you’re borderline bed-ridden,
Feeling as used as a ***** napkin.
You see hate in every pair of dead eyes,
In every new set of ******* lies,
Whenever another inner child dies,
Whenever another bomb-dropping jet flies.
We have two languages, in this life –
The language of love, and the language of hate.
Which one do you want to speak?
Which realm do you seek?
Choose wisely;
Mistakes are not taken very kindly.
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
i stole the constellations
from the inky sky and spent hours
stitching them into my snow white flesh.
i dazzle and shine but now the heavens
are darker than my thoughts and
the unilluminated sky cries to me
woeful of their loss.
the moon, you see, she's so alone,
and it grieves her to think of her children
so far from home.
these diamonds look beautiful on me
but they cannot tell their story when they are
trapped underneath the itching sleeves of my sweater.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
instead, they send me a glow of esperance
and expounding answers through the back of fireflies
which I now must entrap for further examination
like a sterile entomologist milling around
in the someday
blazing with unbridled wrath
the reason barred by all gods
only at nightfall disclosed
within my grasp but in the somewhere
preferably after the daytime shadows
have fueled my will in the antrum
a modest perishing cold revives splendidly
and I awake by the sound of my rumbles
from what seems to be one oblivious moment of eternity now
I swing an idly leg of my dented bed
pull the other inanimate carrier behind
she's here, whenever the eyes open
this time far back in the mirror right across
that stares back at me with those withered and dilated eyes
underneath two unilluminated crescents
uncertain, if she sobs or smiles
the night is nigh, better hurry
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 1:21 AM UTC
*Far behind, where the moon turns its back,
We dream till it becomes prohibited,
We set the sails and watch empty bottles
Swim through rivers, only the dead fish inhabited.
We wake with a scream that gets drowned,
In the rattle made by feet willing to just walk,
Engulfed by the depth of this tunnel,
Where voices fade like words written in chalk.
Hungry eyes watching backs laying in the luxury of their chairs,
Black clouds following every peacemaker,
As if we're doomed to breathe different airs,
Just a penalty for the damage we did to nature.
If it's true, every person is a product of his environment,
Then watch us burn with our hopes accelerating the fire,
And with only ruins surrounding everyone of us,
To exist is to be prisoned, so to die is what we shall aspire.*
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 8:52 AM UTC
instead they send me a glow of esperance
and expounding answers through the back of fireflies
which I now must entrap for further examination
like a sterile entomologist milling around
in the someday
blazing with unbridled wrath
the reason barred by all gods
only at nightfall disclosed
within my grasp but in the somewhere
preferably after the daytime shadows
have fueled my will in the antrum
a modest perishing cold revives splendidly
and I awake by the sound of my rumbles
from what seems to be one oblivious moment of eternity now
so I swing an idly leg of my dented bed
pull the other inanimate carrier behind
she's here, whenever the eyes open
this time far back in the mirror right across
that stares back at me with those wizend and dilated eyes
underneath two unilluminated crescents
uncertain, if she sobs or smiles
the night is nigh, better hurry
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 5:28 PM UTC
She lies above me, wed to bed,
and startles when the doorbell tolls,
alights afloor, and softly treads
on dewy toes with heightened soles
to quickly close the bedroom light
that theretofore had from her panes
spread forth into the haze of night
that long had fallen on the lanes.
Stepping back, I raise my stare
to see, should any creature stir,
but in her window, nothing's there—
not a cat, and no, not her,
just books and papers on her sills
all outlined by the street lamp's glow,
which emanates and softly spills
upon her walls from here below.
I call to her with no reply
before I call again and go
back to the door again to try
the bell, but I already know
that she will not allow me in,
so I descend the steps at last
and walk to where I had just been—
my unilluminated past.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 7:28 PM UTC
I have garnered such wealth as I have
Through, if I may be so bold as to say so,
A preternatural ability to observe and catalogue
The foibles and follies of my fellow man
(This hard-won sagacity not the product
Of what I have learned as much as
The sum of what others do not know of themselves)
Yet, even though I believed
I had plumbed the very depths of absurd behaviors,
The prospect of kings--no, more than that,
Kings among kings-- bearing gifts
And complete fealty to some rank infant
Rudely swaddled and propped upon damp straw
Has brought even myself to bafflement.
Understand, the charms of children
(And the commensurate commercial usefulness)
Are not unknown to me,
But they are mercurial, undependable beings,
As ephemeral as the light of stars
Which allegedly acted as a guide to that trio of sovereigns
As their retinues crossed sand and savanna
(I sometimes chuckle to myself at the notion
That perhaps unwarranted clouds
Could have obscured the object in question,
And that the triumvirate could yet be
Wandering, searching, ruminating in vain)
Such intangibles are nonsense, of course;
Mere fol-de-rol entertained by those
Who would disdain the heft of solid coin,
The grit of good sand and dirt
Providing the assurance of good footing
As one saunters across the landscape
Upon such a night as this,black and unilluminated
As the aftermath of death itself.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC