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"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’ !
0
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Ω Gothic Postcard Ω
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’ !
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5
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.
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Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 4:43 AM UTC
Cancer, naturally.
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.
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1.8k
A Thought From Propertius
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!
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Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
When did I last spend a good time
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
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Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
Fateful
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~
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Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
Jesus I My Cross Have Taken
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
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Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 5:53 AM UTC
Fighting the gray
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
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Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
big sky
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
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May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
poetic
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
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19
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
0
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:52 PM UTC
big sky
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
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Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
look at me (luv)
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
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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!
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Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 1:05 AM UTC
Brand New
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.
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Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
Freedom
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.
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Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
winter is the time for untrained landscape artists
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
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Feb 7, 2023
Feb 7, 2023 at 4:30 PM UTC
omelette
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.
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Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
them Assyrian archers.
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..
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Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Act 2..
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
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May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 11:42 PM UTC
So hard to leave but so hard to stay
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
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Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 8:22 PM UTC
unity
**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...**
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Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
The Seer
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.
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Apr 27, 2022
Apr 27, 2022 at 11:44 PM UTC
Desire