"unmixed" poems
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Ireland is riddled with
cancer.
Pesticides, herbicides,
fungicides-
Are obviously, not the
answer.
Dairygold® have got
it right. Surprisingly!
Organic pastureland,
green grass, happy cows!
"Golden Valleys,
Growing Naturally" ?
("Logo ™")
without the question
mark.
<>
In the event of Corporate
Punishment, IE, finding a
herd of hungry Friesians
in my front lawn, or my
next organic pizza happens
to be a Crispy Cow Pat with
lashings of Mozzarella, I am
hereby declaring that Silent
Spring lady, Rachel Carson,
was bumped off for making
metaphorical accusations, such
as could be interpreted by those
who are currently involved in
the depopulation process by
way of poisoning the people
via consumer products, that
are known to contain harmful
carcinogenic compounds veiled
by misleading advertising.
natural
adjective
1. her policy of using fresh, natural produce: unprocessed, organic, pure, wholesome, unrefined, pesticide-free, chemical-free, additive-free, unbleached, unmixed, real, plain, ****** crude, raw. ANTONYMS artificial, refined.
2. a natural occurrence: normal, ordinary, everyday, usual, regular, common, commonplace, typical, routine, standard, established, customary, accustomed, habitual, run-of-the-mill, stock, unexceptional. ANTONYMS abnormal, unnatural, exceptional.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 4:43 AM UTC
SHE might, so noble from head
To great shapely knees
The long flowing line,
Have walked to the altar
Through the holy images
At pallas Athene's Side,
Or been fit spoil for a centaur
Drunk with the unmixed wine.
1.8k
when did i last spend a good time?
a second, a minute, an hour, a day
one undiluted, unmixed, pure, and raw,
a good time, truly good, without a flaw.
was it those moments of ******** height
when sans one sense, all else was dark night
or the time spent brief in her warm embrace
seeking her moons reading map on her face
it could be the while when a gust of joy
made this heart shine like a boy
a flashing streak of event that lit up the soul
from pieces of fragments revealed the whole
getting from a girl her kiss of innocence
drench with her in first summer rains
reaching a heaven from far firmament
by a smile from the boy a dime i lent
turning that page of a now lost time
when this mind first chanced upon a rhyme
they rush like tide set me to brood
from the budding child to the aging manhood
where in the memory now thick with grime
lies hidden the passing of the last good time!
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
A mind curious by step, ******* in streams of vitality
Grasping its journey..... Spirited by step
Oh, curiousity, spirit - placed before caution....
Stuck between one or the other, unmixed?
Only a singly misstep and its curiousty's mistake without prior consideration- you tumbled.
Rolled down, the wind knocked out of you!
Heaving, anxiety of dying......
Now......
Every single curious idea was lost in faultful recklessness
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
Jesus, I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow Thee;
Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,
Thou, from hence, my all shalt be.
Perish ev'ry fond ambition,
All I've sought or hoped or known;
Yet how rich is my condition!
God and heav'n are still my own.
Let the world despise and leave me,
They have left my Saviour too;
Human hearts and looks deceive me;
Thou art not like them untrue;
And while Thou shalt smile upon me,
God of wisdom, love, and might,
Foes may hate and friends may shun me;
Show Thy face and all is bright.
Man may trouble and distress me,
'Twill but drive me to Thy breast;
Life with trials hard may press me;
Heav'n will bring me sweeter rest.
Oh, tis not in grief to harm me,
While Thy love is left to me;
Oh,'twere not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy unmixed with Thee.
~Henry Francis Lyte 1793--1847~
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
Woke up to a pale gray morning
Gray bed, gray room, gray me
And it took a hundred deep breaths
For my eyes to see
The blue, the red,
‘cause my head
Was telling lies again
Woke up staring at the ceiling
To a stale cold noon
And it took a hundred deep breaths
To mute down the gray tune
The silent words
With weight of worlds
That said I was to blame
Woke up to a scary evening
Trapped inside my head
And it took a hundred deep breaths
To cut apart the thread
That choked my throat
With lines I wrote
Of guilt and hate and shame
Woke up with this red-blue feeling
Mixed all up in gray
And with each one of the deep breaths
I unmixed them again
See red, feel blue
But every hue
Makes me who I am
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 5:53 AM UTC
fragile cloud streaks
stroked by summer's dried brush
sunlight is September
sky - sauce unmixed
the damage that was
back in tornado alley
can not be fixed
but will always be missed
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
Normal
The word pertaining to the behavior of the majority of the masses, yet I refuse the title like unmixed blood cells, pushing the average in me back until I’m taken by my higher self, my true form.
But you wouldn’t know much about that. You can’t wait to get home to watch TV or play your video games.
It’s normal.
Higher
Whether through drugs or levitation, getting high is easy. However, the average cannot reach this level, they cannot display this power. Only we can, us being the lyrical miracles that the world has once craved and the world being those around us that give us our inspirations.
Higher.
And I guess I’m a space shuttle. Yet I have felt no high in chemicals, no uplifting in elevators, just the heightening fuel that ignites in my brain. Yet some can’t take the heat of a burning mind filled with questions. But can you?
We are poems, poetry, poetic expressions. But it’s a dual edged blade of which we have all found. We’re all special, from A.D.D to suicidal, we have the experience to write tragedy. From love to loss we have the reason to write about romance. Love, fear, heroics, sadness, strength, all poetic expressions to us.
We are poets
The people who everyone looks at for supporting. Some of us are tough, some of us are pushovers, and some of us are pacifistic. Yet the reality of our gifts open up a new world for us.
We are poems
Our writings speak to our souls, that’s one more connection from our brains to our hearts and the entities beyond. I write about it and you understand where I come, my point of view. My pain, your inquiry, yet to hear it being read is poetic justice to our emotions.
We are communications
No, I don’t mean through phones or emails. I’m talking through spirit. You see a poet down, you help, period, as we are one and the same in heart. A symbol of independence to those who forget the meaning of the word. But we’re a community and a family, so I love you like a brother or a sister because of the natural familiarity between us.
We are poetic.
Our lives are filled with instances where we simply need to express. Oh, the sweet and sour irony. Our day to day experiences speak for our poetic natures. Whether jamming to Taylor Swift or Tracy Chapman or Migos or even Luke Bryan, musics tell our moods and words tell our stories, our tales, our liveliness and oneness with our selves.
Poetic beings are we, and we are
Poetic
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
fragile cloud streaks
stroked by summer's dried brush
sunlight is September
sky - sauce unmixed
the damage that was
back in tornado alley
can not be fixed
but will always be missed
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:52 PM UTC
look at me
keep looking
i didn't say to look away
look right
now look left
now look inside that tim hortons at the person in the flannel jacket eating chili with buttered bread (love chili)
now look back at me
look at my shoes
now look into my eyes
you just checked me out
look as deep as when eyeing the unmixed sugar in the bottom of your coffee mug, too far to get your fingers on....
keep reaching....fixed at the bottom
look away.....
just know
i'm still looking at you
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
In her ******* is the history of class war
many many ******* later
immaculate conception
pure white by herself
unmixed
making him
making them
exterminating pressure
for the chastity of class war
class war’s immaculate conception
inheritance of her smile
genocidal ******
exists in ecstasy
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
6:18
Getting up today felt like the vanilla scent of a cake.
Let the water run through your face
Neck,
The curve of your hip
In all your bare-skinned finery you're awake
Plain strong coffee
Let it be our ritual at daybreak
Perfect time for a sweet craving
Crimson lustful bliss
I say my "Laudes" through parted lips
7:22
Celeste's declamations sound more alluring today
Teach that Hedonism is not all Humans seek
Unique brazen secrecy
Let not life be an honest misery
14:03
In that aisle read "dairy replacement"
For a second wish to find out when did people supersede humanity
Proceed, smile to the woman at the counter
In the open-air, lit cigarettes
Blown smoke, blown regrets
The joy of yesterday not relive
16:30
Home sweet home
Lay down your upsets and close your eyes
The touch of your hands my worries confine
Shoulders,
Back,
Clavicle,
Shoulders,
Back
Lastly, we baked
Uncomplicated and unmixed orange cake
Orange cake and vanilla ice cream is our feast
21:47
The water takes away, clean, purges everything
Glory redemption finally found
Close your eyes and claim your prize
Caress me
I am brand new!
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 1:05 AM UTC
That night she dreamed of a freedom blue and sweet
God blessed her she got it, escaped through a slit.
She’s gone, she’s gone, she has gone into the blue
For what lies beyond her cage, she really has no clue.
The prowling preying perils, she has no idea about
Can chase her, erase her, monsters strong and stout.
She’s gone, she’s gone, she has vanished into the blue
For what lies beyond her cage, she really has no clue.
In the mad rush of wind, in her mad flap of wings
She never knows, did never know, all the coming things.
In the hunting eyes of hawk, trailing her in the sun
She’ll soon learn freedom, is not an unmixed fun.
She’s gone, she has flown, vanished into the blue
If only had she known, if only she had a clue.
The dream run will soon end, when comes the night
Her weary wings will rue, she took this fancy flight.
Her eyes will gather a mist, for the ones she left behind
Though she dreamed it, and longed it, the freedom in her mind.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
january in jersey is painted with globs of oils
all icicles and sharp edges and unmixed colors --
the view from my window when i lean out
to breathe smoke through my oscillating fan
is starker than greek statues (we know now to be garishly painted)
and every fractal dropping on my sloping roof
provokes me to paranoid thoughts of the matrix
and how close to death these dissolving shapes
spun me, sledding in my car, into a ditch off the highway
next week i bid goodbye to the atlantic and chase
watercolor scenery and exhaustively organized color pallets
and every breath that manifests in front of me
reminds me to leave.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
eggs
jug, broken shells
in the sink
Radiohead wails OK Computer
from Alexa archive
Jack glugs from a freshly
unsealed present from my wife
am I hip like Motorhead
or just another tipsy old dad
I wonder what Urbex explorers
would discover if they
crawled through my letter box
into this mess of a kitchen
onion makes me cry
something I never did
as a child
cheese and ham
how much **** can I cram
into this frying pan
an alchemical cupboard
of herbs and spices pervades
my sense of smell
am I brave enough
should I have beans
I’ll only eat half a can
people are starving somewhere
out of date packets call
do you feel lucky punk
but sliced beef for **** sake
who can resist that
a forgotten sandwich
never made
the truth in the pan
unmixed ingredients
never mind says bourbon head
it’s all the same
gas ring ignites
north sea pipelines
fishermen risking their lives for
for Brexit quota lies
the fiery grill, another bourbon
once you pop
small one in a big glass
carnage of packet autopsy
for the morning after
waits
Feb 7, 2023
Feb 7, 2023 at 4:30 PM UTC
Like a road around a corner
never disappearing Michigan old
glory eugenics for German laws
Thirties’ ezratics racialist
limpieza de sangre, Velazquez
awaiting ennoblement, Ezra hound
reads Italian translation, 1940
Mia Battaglia kleine mein
stumpf, o sweet Alabama
his small light
utterly
erased, obliterated, negated
Cruel hygiene unmixed
hieratic Idaho’s
small pebbles, turquoise
tesserae, Roman, Babylonian,
and them Assyrian archers
Ever unstill Ixion ever turning
Re: Canto CXIII
2017.11.12.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
My frail heart avoided a beat
Now I'm staring at my small feet
Waiting for my very reply
Not a single word I spoke, why?
My cheeks changes to warm and red
I desire I'm on my safe bed
My daydreams are her coy smile
Beautiful in her own style
As my lonely feeble heart burn
Mind said escape and never turn
Around and not ever look back
I scamper fast not coming back..
Inside my bedroom I rejoice
I still hear her sweet shy voice
Her honeyed shy voice makes me fly
My gut now fills with butterflies
First time her pure coy smile so real
Crazy and in-love all I feel
But wait, reflect back what happen
I think I made a big mistake
A sudden bolt of pure sadness
Struck me hard to unmixed madness
Life inside me evaporate
I'll sleep weary and never wake..
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Put another record on
While I pour another glass
And fill that clouded
Empty expanse
With a nice amber
Hue and we can talk
About god and music
Until the sun comes up
But no song or god
Will match the tangerine sun's
Corona as we fall asleep in the
Night's dew
Put more metal on
Put more Bowie on
Put more classical on
Put more punk
More hip hop
More Wu Tang
More Big L
More pop
More hair metal
More classic rock
More who gives a ****
My teeth are numb against my lips
And everything sounds good
A proposition
A song
A liquid taking up empty space
Just keep me here
Next to you
The rest of the world looking
Up or down
It didn't matter then
And it doesn't matter now
Shhhhh
Let the carpet slip from under my feet
Let the wall pat my back like an appreciative friend
Let the stairs seem long and winding
Shhhhh
Let it all be caught up in the back of your throat
Sore and raw
Keep it away from those you can
And those you can't
Wake up with the regret of the morning
Spilled across your face in
Buttery swaths
Drink deep the pain of happiness
Tasting ethanol on your breath
Like a can of unmixed paint
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 11:42 PM UTC
some things
will
forever
be mine
the warm glow of familiar places where you have never been,
the joys and wonders of sensations dragging years of accumulated memory that you cannot remember, because you hold your own
the melancholy that slips behind the face of certain words
the tender, sweet appeal of that certain way you smile, breath, and move -
all these things are only mine,
there is no way for you to know
i used to wish it was not so
that union could be deeper, break
this personal distinction, keeping
soul unmixed from soul,
but now i treasure it, and
ponder all the beauty
this truth holds:
that tightly as we hold each other
and deeply as we love
as much as soul joins hand with soul
and dances life's sweet symphony in duo
through the passing of each cloud
we still are two
separate
beings
wanting nothing more and nothing less than to live and breath
and die as one
the unmitigated separation
lends a sharper intake to the soft, sweet edge of pain
when we discover at the end
we two were never twain
in heart, in life, in purpose, in eternal destiny
for we share a mutual Maker and a mutual agony
while still our feeble bodies wend their way to join above
to God
the one and only
perfect union for our soul
a tiny little picture - our longing to be one -
finds all its true fulfillment in eternity to come
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 8:22 PM UTC
**The high import of
finding ourselves unmixed
with darker things
things which seem to divert
notions of luminous I am..
Let us then become Seer
seeing all else as seen..
We have created two poles of
enormous yet temporary worth..
I am the Seer
with new freedom as felt
and I must linger a while
without remembering
all I have left behind..
I will rest here this evening
this lighted waystation
safe from memory's recall...**
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Fat less bone chewing
Extended delivery of debt.
Floating in imaginary happiness
Smile in a broken heart.
The rise of thought which is invisible
Fainting in the imagination.
Thoughtless consciousness
Worship without offering.
I kept within silent thinking
Ride in the free tide.
Fascinated by the incarnation of the event
The soul is angry at the not so long ambiance.
Ah! Unmixed results
Let the surface start from Zero.
Apr 27, 2022
Apr 27, 2022 at 11:44 PM UTC