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Ignatius Hosiana Apr 2015
Someday I'll hold you like you me charms
Look you straight and deep in your eyes
And let you know how much I lust for you
I'll pull your soft body with me masculine arms
Dead close to mine so that you realize
How glamorously my  **** tightens for you
Someday I'll touch your neck with my teeth
I'll graze it so softly that you won't quit
And then pour magical whispers into your ears
The much I've dammed up all these years
I'll place my hard palms beneath your shirt
To softly hard caress your skin so that it'll sweetly hurt
Then I'll place my head onto yours and sigh
Because by this point I'll already be high
Someday I'll be this close and I won't miss
I'll peck your forehead but your lips kiss
You'll shut your eyes and savor my taste
I'll take it one step at a time with no haste
I'll patiently unbutton your outfit
You won't stop me for you'll feel me heat
Someday I'll **** at your beautiful *******
Draped like two cute oranges on your chest
You'll mourn like you're grieved at the pleasure
You'll beg me to quickly find my way inside
But I'll try and keep my control and decide
when to partake of your juicy treasure
Someday I'll explore further down your thighs
Me whom you much loathe and despise
You'll arch like a bow at every touch and laugh like a clown
Yet mourn as I navigate every street of tuna town
You'll beg me to pass through the tunnel of love
And just then I'll swiftly embed myself into nature's glove
I'll place myself above you,I'll be a long awaited burden
You'll hold my posterior as I plough through your garden
Since you say there's no love around here
Further apart your thighs will obediently split
While we make it
Someday we'll walk a thousand miles with no rest
We'll surf the ****** waves till we hit the viperous crest
I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me
Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!”

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.

O, weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania!—He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Not all to that bright station dared to climb;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished—
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.

To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.

O, weep for Adonais!—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,
They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,
“Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.”
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!
She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.

One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Washed his light limbs as if embalming them;
Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more weak;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.

Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
And pass into the panting heart beneath
With lightning and with music: the damp death
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.

And others came… Desires and Adorations,
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.

All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,
Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,
For whom should she have waked the sullen year?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere
Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year;
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season’s bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.

Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean
A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst
As it has ever done, with change and motion,
From the great morning of the world when first
God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed,
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;
All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender,
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!
Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene
The actors or spectators? Great and mean
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!
“Wake thou,” cried Misery, “childless Mother, rise
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,
A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs.”
And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes,
And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song
Had held in holy silence, cried: “Arise!”
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs
Our of the East, and follows wild and drear
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania;
So saddened round her like an atmosphere
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.

Our of her secret Paradise she sped,
Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
And human hearts, which to her aery tread
Yielding not, wounded the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,
Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.

In the death-chamber for a moment Death,
Shamed by the presence of that living Might,
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath
Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.
“Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,
As silent lightning leaves the starless night!
Leave me not!” cried Urania: her distress
Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.

“‘Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art!
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!

“O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.

“The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true
Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
And whose wings rain contagion;—how they fled,
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled!—The spoilers tempt no second blow,
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.

“The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then
Is gathered into death without a dawn,
And the immortal stars awake again;
So is it in the world of living men:
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.”

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came,
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow; from her wilds Irene sent
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.

Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
A Love in desolation masked;—a Power
Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow;—even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

His head was bound with pansies overblown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band
Who in another’s fate now wept his own,
As in the accents of an unknown land
He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned
The Stranger’s mien, and murmured: “Who art thou?”
He answered not, but with a sudden hand
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—oh! that it should be so!

What softer voice is hushed over the dead?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.

Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!
But be thyself, and know thyself to be!
And ever at thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow:
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled
Far from these carrion kites that scream below;
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now—
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
Through time and change, unquenchably the same,
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—
’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
Invulnerable nothings.—We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air
Which like a mourning veil
Justin Koellner Jan 2016
Forged by Hephaestus himself, tempered in Satan's heart.

It moves too fast for the normal eye to see,

But leaves traces of moon glinted footsteps in the fissure of heaven's breath.

In the harmonic tune of clashing instruments, an orchestrated chaos is present.

The chord from the bowstring beats time on wooden shields.

To this, their blade waltz continues.

Their cadence unmatched by surrounding performers,

The maestros continue their viperous style.

Just as a painter cannot take away a stroke of the brush,

A swordsman cannot take away a stroke of the blade.
Brody Blue May 2018
Sunday's bell broke the recess
And three times as professed
The gavel rapped before the rooster's caw
The horn was blown the drum was beat
And in the top of every street
We swooned with the wounded at the wall
And we said nothing just our prayers
But if someone's heard something
Nobody cares

And now with the yellow moon
Fixed beyond the clouds that loom
It soon would be a day the devil owned.
High on horseback thru the mud
They came and bathed their hands in blood
From the thumb up to the funny-bone
And we said nothing just our prayers
But if someone's heard something
Nobody cares

And by and by
We will crawl
Before we fly
High above
The middle of
Utopia

Lightning made the thunder ring
Until the dawn when suddenly
Light divided darkness in the east
Thus once more the wheel has turned
And proved itself a viperous worm
That gnaws the bowels of the beast
And we said nothing just our prayers
But if someone's heard something
Nobody cares

And by and by
We will crawl
Before we fly
High above
The middle of
Utopia
A song about an honorable man.
aria xero Oct 2012
Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

what remains...

charred piles of torn up memories

Exposed fragments bitter and lost.

Your Mortal fire burns

every piece, Deadly in its wake.

Is it ok?

Us, a tumor Malignant in nature, benign in fiction.

Your flourescent blue

engulfs until full

eating away all.

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

Viperous, you lash

your tongue blackening my heart,

Fatal strikes one by one.

A blaze, your eyes bore into my sole,

Threatening to peel away the love.

It's snowing, particles drop to then end, smothering

my lungs arousing,

an Impending thought that we were not to be.

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust.
Chris Voss Jul 2014
When he entered the room, she was naked. She sat stripped of her mythology and the bare curves of her hips made his hands shake. He hid them in his pockets like seizures in winter and told himself it was just the morning coffee.

"Jesus Christ..." His jaw slacked and tightened and he waited for a response; something witty like, odd time to pray or not quite, but maybe his cousin or oh, honey, he moved out years ago, but we still get his mail.
But soon waiting gave way to waiting, as waiting is wont to, and things became uncomfortable. Her deadbolt eyes. She blinked in slow motion, no lash out of place, and he felt foolish.

See, he never expected her to be a woman, and he almost said as much, had the look on her face not shut him up beautifully. Besides, at this point he was pretty certain that cities definitely don't speak--not English anyway--and even then, his concrete dialect was, at best, as atrocious as cracked pavement. He lisped with too much wind and not enough asphalt.

He looked around for somewhere to sit but the only chair wasn't even really a chair, it was a stool with a questionable third leg that sat over-turned and tucked in the far corner and he found himself at an impasse. Retrieving it would not only involve taking his hands from their linen hideaways, but she hadn't even offered him a seat and he didn't want to be rude; he being a man of manners with the cotillion lessons to prove it. On the other hand, there was a more-than-decent chance that his knees would buckle at any moment. He cleared his throat.

"May I?" he motioned and crept around her with a weird, dainty tip-toe. He would later reflect on and regret this odd step choice because it was undeniably ladylike, unlike this lady whose face seemed carved from marble and gave nothing away; she just cast her eyes slightly downward. He uprighted the chair that wasn't really a chair and checked the sturdiness of the questionable leg and shrugged in questionable approval and dragged it back to where he was and returned his hands to where they were and felt, aside from the girly walk, that went surprisingly well.

So it was in silence that he was left to sit. Sit and think. Think about small things, trivial ****. He thought about the small stain on his pants and hoped to God it was toothpaste. He thought about the itch in the dead center of his back where he can never scratch without looking like he has a severe case of cerebral palsy. He thought about his pockets, full of trembling leaves that fluttered with spare change winds and hung delicately from his autumn tree arms. He thought about bigger things too, like how if two people on exact opposite ends of the earth simultaneously each dropped a piece of bread, for a brief moment the whole world was just a really big sandwich. But mostly he thought about the difference between hard and mean.

Hard is the bottomless tumblers of American dream fathers, breathing scotch like fire and promises that were only ever half-way held true. But mean... Mean is a different kind of machine entirely. Mean, he realized, is one solid kick in the nuts past hard. Hard is when your ice cream drops mid-lick and falls in the cinematic drama of a-hundred-and-twenty frames per second to the unforgiving pavement, and even though there is a split seconds chance to reach out and catch it, you don't because, let's face it, sticky hands are gross. But mean is the little junior sonofabitch dog that comes a-waddling on in, laps up your deliciously sweet sidewalk treat and stares you right in the face while he does it. Mean makes you realize the sticky fingers would have been worth it. And before he could decide which category this Angel City would fit in, she stood, with a slight smile curling at the corner of her mouth and one hand behind her back. She slinked over to him with snake ankles and reached out and ran her fingers along his jawline and hooked his chin upward and kissed him.

It wasn't the delicate, thin-lipped kiss of embarrassed virgins and ex-stripper-turned-born-again-Christians. It also wasn't the Californication kiss filled with carnal tongue that he might have expected had the idea that she was going to do anything but intimidate the utter **** out of him even crossed his mind. It was somewhere between the two. Between shelter and apocalypse.  Viperous with a tinge of motherly protection (which, actually, gave him some confusing feelings). When she pulled away he felt the slight clink of metal against his teeth.

A bullet. Round and smooth, he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and watched his fingerprint peel off and mark the lead skin with little, oily mazes. He looked up to her, unsure of what to say or what to make of whatever the hell just went down. She stared silently because, you know, that's her thing and he felt he had to say something because, you know, manners.

"I thought we said no gifts." He laughed. She didn't. He felt like an idiot immediately. Then, like the other half heart of a best friend necklace, she drew from her back a snub-nosed revolver. Her thumb flicked with outlaw elegance and the empty chamber rolled open.

"Let's play a game."
It was all she said. He didn't pay attention to whether she spoke in impeccable English or if the words were lit in the electric neon of Sunset Boulevard. It didn't matter and he didn't care. He didn't even notice when he took the gun and slid the round in until after he spun the chamber and slung it shut. When she lifted his arm without touching him and he felt like he was her marionette. When the snub nose found it's way to his mouth, he was certain of it. The feeling of the metal barrel against his bare teeth made his skin crawl and his stomach turn, yet even still he grinned.

He grinned because he saw his hand and his hand grinned because it wasn't shaking, not anymore.

He grinned and cocked the hammer back.
©2014
"It was only a kiss" you'd said
to me, that ended
our wedded bliss.

I caught you and her
of all places, in
my kitchen.

New year's party for the neighbours
right next to the drainer
You, and her from number five.

Warned about her the day we arrived.
Gossip I thought
Jealousy I thought

Vicious viperous women
being vindictive
I thought.

Shows you what thought does
Did you like number five's thighs?
Her sighs?

Did you even remember your wife?
Whilst being depraved, full of vice
lies and cries of lust ?

I expect not, your head
was still full of her lips
Or is it her lips that are still full?

Relationships are give and take
You took too much.
I hate goodbyes.

You've been Blythe about
Your demise with
Number five, and her thighs.

So, to cut to the chase
We cannot revive nor
survive. Your kiss can consider me the ex.

Oh, and by the way
let's just say that the
slice I made today will make no 5
Stay permanently away.
© JLB
René Mutumé Jul 2013
The males. Dressed in straight shoulder pads and collar bone,
a stretch of bone padded material.
No breathes admitting that they need air.
The females. Seeping ‘S’s’ – here for the same job
some of the actors knowing their lines, others
under the hollow gloom
more honest
about the play.

The training room.
The world made of blue felt and none
of the leaders allow hell to come;
where they lead us.

We know that the statues don’t remember.
We know what the worm knows where (s)he rattles
out, a constant poem that is not afraid.
We know that the sea must dance and lead the statues from their weave.
We are not the names given, but the names heard.
We’re sat in salacious dog eyes in the milking fruit.
We’re vaults on the decaying tongue of sad minstrels.
We’re the same as his battered fingers ******* infinite strings.
We’re infinite style.
We’re the lyre coming from the cocoon
savouring the world;
wings and unheard screams distilled in a womb of immense energy
flowing to the root
Apollo Agoria Abbraxus
is one of the names
releasing the buckle and diving into bed belonging to nothing
just a hearse in a low gear, just the last radio song fulfilling the waves with a
song and video;
where a black woman shakes near a window and smokes
like she does, when she smiles her mind is a knife, more naked
than a training room full of melancholy.

She’s drunk and sober.
She’s more awake than the sadness of mannequin eyes.
She’s the conversation that out lasts the time we have.
She’s every word that holds power and meaning in a den
that’s turning into a heated pile of digital scream.

We’re the first thing chiselled into rock.
We’re dressing our limbs and placing new scents upon our skin.
We’re the night we’re the jazz.
We’re the thrash and the shadow.
We’re the history and the human.

We are the private life of two workers
keeping our puke to a minimum.

Then letting it break out in one sigh of red thought
once we return home.

My weariness is forgotten as heat rolls across my cheap carpet
and you’re already back.
There’s stubble upstairs on my cheap razor.
There’s a small humming bird sat on the fence past my kitchen window.
You’ve already thrown away your office
clothes
as I throw mine away
too.

It’s 10. And the fire is forgotten and new. We don’t own a TV
and the walls are cleaner than a womb made from our own flesh.
Dusky sand blown into our face from a bomb collapsing out and in from the sand.
We’re the particles collecting over the dunes, uniting themselves
in the night – new languages opened in sphinx dreams and sphinx sighs.

All we gotta do is sit back and watch as her paws twitch and she rolls her neck.
It’s tight after a few millennia of sleep.
No one is sat near our place below her chin.
Watching it drink in the murmur of our thumping chests and heat scent.

There’s the sound of flesh ripping from marrow.

There’s the sound of lorn coyote’s mixing in the heavens and the street rain.

The street has a thousand strings combining our arms within itself
knowing that the road rythm is a mime, and that our four paws
are more
and are grace itself. The stage
the gods,
the science,
the electric
breathes
of nature
hungered in the spectacle of sliding shadow
amidst the mood of viperous traffic lights and moans behind sunglasses,
a wolfing flock,
a cavernous look of sacrifice
in the death strike of a swan
protecting its eggs
below the bridge where we once walked.

An absolute, of sheer life.
A universe of sheer decay.
Broken away.
By our song.
Keith W Fletcher Jun 2018
I listen to the coiled out words
Of the viper-tongued miscreants
Placating the willing to walk along
In Involuntary servitude as in a trance
Zombies of the evil spells that liars spin
Where sparks of dissent are overwhelmed
       deep deep down
in those murky depths of the swampland
By those willing ...robed in anonymity ...
      ...  tasked with the responsibility.
..of burning down ....the entire world
    if we all ....don't accede
     To their will....
....obeying all things they do demand.
Venom fanged and dripping malice
I hope my words wound like a
callous
upon your skin.
My madness reigned in by
******, your life in my hands
and Thallium.
On balance I am
unbalanced.
Maybe even deranged.
But, would I know that I was?
Like hapless maggots
you consume.
Like a canvas
soon to be spattered
I await my doom.
Viperous,venomous, *****
that I am,
my malice came with not
your phallus
(I rarely did)
but rather digitalis.
© JLB
12/10/2014
23:43 BST
Travis Green Jan 2023
You fill me up with incomprehensible sensual pleasure
Arrest and undress me, caress and finesse me
My black soul king, my wondrous worshipful warrior
Somewhere I can stay and escape
Into your ****** exotic zone

My blooming and soothing rhythm of pulchritude
I swirl in your fervent worthy verve
My high-profile viperous kryptonite
You are smooth, inviting delight
That overpowers my world
Makes me thirst for your intoxicating vibe

You bring me to life when you check me out  
With your breathtaking bedroom eyes
You put a smile on my face
When I am watched by your delightable
And unforgettable machoness

You are enough lush robustness to make me blush
A very merry perfect lover boy
That raptures me incontrovertibly
You amuse me with indisputable smoothness
With meaningful tenderness that I can surrender to

Your deep, electric, and majestic voice
Makes me wanna fly into your insurmountable vibrant paradise
Allow you to divest me of everything I contain
Draw me into your compelling and refreshing scent
Sheathe me in it, embrace me tightly
Let me luxuriate in your exclusive and alluring greatness
Anne Jan 2019
Sickly sweet boys fill honey combs like goblin hands in tiny gloves.
They taste like gummy vows and glass letters.
These boys will rot you from the inside out,
painting organs with grainy sugar,
which dissolves to sour acid.
Beware!

Sickly sweet boys know the right flavours,
yet their labels are flawed.
Always lick before biting.
Toothaches are common,
but sugar rushes won’t last forever.

Sickly sweet boys don’t stay sweet for long.
Candy loses tang over time,
coating is just coating.
Inside is a viperous liquid that oozes like oil.
Ebony, boiling, sticky.
Your tongue will never be pink again.
Written on December 17, 2018
boy.

those caveman days were brutish, nasty, short and rough.

     ear splitting cacophony felt like listening to partying beastie boys with smashed face on a vampire weekend competing with deafening leopards roar rin n rush shin version of hells bells, inxs of pulp fiction sung backwards by cold play, or a brutally nasty yet thankfully short version per youtube video drowning out beach boys winking in the hood.

     loud quiet rioting !@#$ growls shook bats overhead when this grizzled papa bear disturbed (like twittering angry birds), and forced to wake prematurely from hibernation set his seething animal anger to boil, and smoke to issue from his jack rabbit *** nine looking don Quixote ears.

     argh.

     the gumption from this then profoundly gap toothed, high browed, red necked ursine, viperous spouse getting  one swiftly tailored kick in the bony **** sent me flying like a twisted sister careening forward into out of the summer time sadness air back to the future.
     right then n tha hair, earth, wind and fire convinced this **** sapiens he became gratefully dead.

     upon immediate and most unwelcome exposure therapy to the arctic blast, this mama’s and papa’s boy (by george) was in no mood to tangle nor play footsie with mother nature.

    i  wanted to whip the hide when needles of miniature aeroplane shaped snow white slippery buckshot elements of style kissed, pierced and smashed against his face from those shoddily made flimsy animal clothes that barely kept him warm. lucky for that vat of midnight oil, which shrouded me in n wispy pearl jam pelt.

     tears for fears spilt like pearl jam (like 10,000 maniacs bursting from a soundgarden or highly revved motorhead during a black sabbath)
     stop crying bellowed.

     wah.

     without a shadow of a doubt, these beatle browed monkeys (strewn by denim dog gone hooligans), who cawed like sum Cajun gumbo baboons for a banana split Sunday.

     anyway, i practically froze off mine scrawny ****.
     dang! ooh!
     how purty!
     my oh my!
     a cute deer!
     out came the bow and arrow.

      the feathered lancet described a nike arc with a nike swoosh.
      bulls’ eye!

     upon uttering "hey lucy i am home", the little beasts tore their sharp nine inch long nails into the soft raw doe!

     now compare the above paragraphs to this technological age.

     no way, no how does this domesticated simian relish expending any ounce of energy.

     without the need to leave the comfort of my warm bed, a click of the remote can provide immediate needs at these fingertips.

     why dress (perhaps just a coat of armor), when breakfast, lunch or dinner delivered via robot.

     bathe?
     this waterbed doubles up as a washbasin.

     ah.

     how in the name of judas priest could our ancestors enjoy feeling like a beast of burden? who says you cannot always get what you want? alice cooper in chains? beastie boy george cinderella? eddie money? freddy mercury? iron maiden? lana del rey? madonna? pink floyd? quiet riot? soundgarden? yes! the entire motley crue!

     yeah! obvious, I aint no luddite period! this creature of habit would never give up his pad (shaped like an oversize ipod) and forego any of his labor saving devices the only way to take away these cherished, idolized, prized possessions? you would have to pry these buzzing, flying, whirring gizmos loose from my cold dead fingers!

     don’t get your doggies with dimples hopes up!
     i aint planning to cross the river styx anytime soon.
     maybe not even in this lifetime!
     ha!
     so there!
     nor best ye *** any ideas to boot me from this tear rest trial plane, and put me six feet under.
     capisce?
     comprende?
Graff1980 Feb 2015
Death has come to take its’ fill
From a sleeping serpentine creature
Writhing with longing to make still
A slithering thing with viperous sting
Slashing or smashing never concealing
With no breath left in its’ chest
A cold stiff corpses has no feeling
No heart beating beneath this breast
Only empty eyes praising the ceiling
neth jones Jun 2019
i am a lie
when i am with you

a faceting deceit

i fidget to achieve vital moments apart from you
when i perform bursts ;

acts of
what it could be to be me

like
little dishonesties

flourishes of free time

i’d indulge in fierce meals out
drinks
loud music with offensive lyrics

and then
back in time to greet you

remeet your arguments
and self central needless deeds
and the viperous structural shakedowns
of your violent
flailing personality

will either of us
stalk free of this numb feast of ugly energy ?

when i go to bed at night
i take to the edge
furthest from you
and kip like a dud

my creative force is in holding

i suffer a duration
whilst we struggle
to maintain
the whole world
according to the way you persist

according to your law
Tabatha Cromer Dec 2019
Unrelentless chatter as nothing matters
Have not your viperous sting fallen on my stricken heart
Cruelty crawling between lips of malicious distortion
Yet unconditionally insain
I continue in vain loving but this foul ego of man
The toll of betrayal laced and heavy deceit
As he batters prideful blame on me  
With a sip of despondence
I carry on till
Once again I feel the spill
Of my heart bleeding stains on a forsaken bond
With no potion to mask the turmoil
Feverishly I have the need for he
Yet I carry on with this placid distraction
Leaving my mind no rest for it shall scurry towards the darkest corner
Of thy bleeding heart
Travis Green Dec 2022
Rare nefarious incomparableness
Catchy manlicious prodigiousness
Vigorous viperous kryptonite
Bright dynamite delight
Fraught with hot appetizing sauce

I wanna play with your ardent sparking fire
Feel your hopping and heart-stopping charmingness
Surge through my flesh and bone
Taste your sweet, delicious lips
Pressed against mine

Rub your rich rugged beard
Feel your sculpted, seductive eyebrows
Check out your **** sunny eyes
My smashing strapped Daddy
I burn for your sexually alluring gorgeousness
Your smooth-muscled thugness

Feel your magical tattooed flesh
Your sexually gripping pecs
Flashy ab-worthy rarity
I yearn for your hardness
In the flawless forest of my femininity

Bend me down
Press your delectable, rock-solid body
Against my tinglingly sensual limbs
Wrap me in your delicious, exquisite notes
Of ****, ****** perfection

Eat me up, **** up my guts, make me lovestruck
Push harder into the wet gates of my gayness
Make me take a fancy
To your aesthetically appealing manfulness
Drool over your lusciousness and roughness
Your earthiness and spectacularness
Your magnetic and majestic freshness

I fall into your expressive capricious litness
Feel you love on me and rub my splendid succulent *****
Press your impressive velvety lips
Against my captivating curvaceous back
Astound me, enamor me, make me venerate your greatness

Cram your long, dominating snake in my inner space
Demolish my delicate aesthetic softness
Enclasp me in your crashing masculine wings
Reel my bare sassy *** cheeks
Into your crowning muscle-bound appetizingness

Allow your masculineness to move me
To speak to me with passion
Fill my sweetness up
With your untouchable ***** hunkiness
Make my enchanting and supple milk duds

Bounce to the enticing wildness
Of your endlessly exuberant existence
Make my biteable ripe points hard
Like bold and shiny brass
Impassion my homosexualness

Bite your blossoming bottom lip
Grip and squeeze my soft, red-hot rear guard
Let me digest your lecture on lecherous love
Taste your pure, revered peerlessness
Slithering sweetly on my tongue

Swim in the limitless depths
Of your luminous stunningness
Make me bound to your insanely
Exciting and game-changing flame

Feel your fullness in me more
Arrive at the backdoor of my core
Pour out your steaming demon *****
All over the shimming surface of my mad merry world
Yenson Mar 2021
Think me a think
tell me a tale that I can't swallow
get it fresh from the asylum of the thoughtless thinkers
for thirty and more I see the uncovered racists
set free to plague and blunder

I watched mesdames le guillotine all cackling in witless throes
knitting laces of viperous lies strung tight in wicked untruths
seen solid bridges of sweat and honest toil
rumbled and ravaged and strewed with chalky muck and dust

I have in alas, witnessed translucence sirens
peel of caricatures to reveal deadly serpents belly crawlers
and watched dishonourable 'mothers' painted in clouds
rip into a kind and loving heart
searching for the lion within to spear its life-force asunder

they showed me teachers un-teaching
and the hypocrisy of the vicar's wife who bangs the good book
they laid my tomes before leaders to be torn and burnt to ashes
they took my cloak and furs and rendered me out
in the alpine desert as their likes and kin roasted fattened hogs
up close and personal they revealed their rancid underbelly
and the stink of putrid vapours from cascading snows

now hear the height of the ridiculous saga
from the battlements of the asylum at common ground
perhaps based on my utterance of liking contrast in vivid hues
purely i might add, only in artistic or fashion sense
what beats a jet black pantaloons paired with blinding white tunic
definitely not a Scandinavian maiden with bosoms to spare
I have seen the evil of blue eyed monsters
and the sick rotten innards of sleeping beauty with golden tresses
how can I write heart songs to daggers in my heart
I work with sincerity honesty truth and loyalty, not fakes
its all I know.......
so u real???
Warning! The following choppy, batty,
*****: elegy = flaky, goofy, history: iffy,
jumpy, kooky: loopy, matty, *****, nippy,
sketchy material prone to find the reader
dazed and bewildered, yet comfortably numb.

Modern Roam Min Times – mesh
THERE IS NO RELATION WITH THE
EPIC OF GILGAMESH (abridged from
brook land) AND THIS VIGNETTE – in ma Englesh.

thank a u faux sis
this married sexagenarian
encloses his poetic opus
the smooching this celibate
(sleep as a cellar dweller) chap doth miss
shaw wish i could give hew a kiss
though ye might rip ply with a hiss
that would usher inxs of x2c Noah obliging bliss.

while perched within mine
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania aerie
this totally mishmash, succotash, n trash -
hoopfully finds ya cheery
so...hallo n greetings ma dearie
just faw bean help ming this fool

i.e. myself who haint no fairy,
boot possibly the missing humankind link
cuz o be yin - head to feet - completely as hairy
Siamese twins with names Tom n Jerry
'though ye might disbelieve moi n feel leery
n doubt every word written -

but try 2 feign b ying merry
while i pose the following philosophical query...
to make sense = deciphering billy shakes perry
now take a mooch needed break cuz,
the following gibberish might beak comb quite weary.

Is society a better world to live in with less or more?
boy! those Everclear caveman days were brutish,
nasty, short and rough. that aside, though
no Culture Club, Fancyfeast, nor Iggy Pop
the Flintstone era a bit raucous, riotous, and
yabba dabba with Doobie Brothers rubble ye us.

Def Jam, ear splitting cacophony felt like
listening to partying beastie boys on a vampire
weekend competing with Def Leopards roar
n rush shin version of hells bells, Inxs of pulp
fiction sung backwards by cold play, or a brutally
nasty, yet thankfully short version per youtube
video drowning out beach boys straight out ta

Compton winking in the hood while loud Quiet
Riot !@#$ growls shook B52 sized bats overhead,
when this grizzled papa bear disturbed (like
twittering angry birds), and forced to wake
prematurely from hibernation set his seething
animal anger to boil, and smoke to issue from
jack rabbit *** nine looking Don Quixote ears.

argh! go. whar art thou Cello Yo Yo Ma?

the gumption from this then profoundly gap toothed,
high browed, red necked ursine, viperous spouse getting
one swiftly tailored kick in the bony **** sent me flying
like a twisted sister careening forward out of summer time
sadness air back to the future. right then n tha hair, earth,
wind and fire convinced this **** sapiens he became
another Grateful Dead Foo Fighter.

upon immediate and most unwelcome exposure therapy
to the Avast arctic blast (complete with Arctic Monkey),
this Mama’s and Papa’s Boy (by George) was in no mood
to neither tangle nor play footsie with Mother Nature.

Analogous to The Idler Wheel Is Wiser than the Driver
of the ***** and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More
than Ropes Will Ever Do, I wanted to whip the hide,
when needles of miniature aeroplane shaped snow white
slippery buckshot elements of style kissed, pierced and
smashed against his face from those shoddily made flimsy
animal clothes that barely kept him warm.
Lucky for vat of midnight oil, which shrouded me
in n wispy pearl jam pelt.

Tears for Fears spilled in One Direction (like 10,000
Maniacs bursting from a Soundgarden or highly
revved Motorhead emulating a Quiet Riot).

Wah. Stop crying bellowed the Queen Scorpion
(Poison ing the Air Supply).

Without - dark shadows of a doubt slunk N’Sync
with the twilight zone along the edge of night, these
beatle browed Monkeys (strewn by denim dog gone
hooligans), who cawed like sum Cajun gumbo baboons
as proto Partridge Family for a banana split Sunday
closing out Vampire Weeknd packing a full house
at the Tokyo Hotel.

Anyway, I practically froze off mine scrawny ****.

Dang!

Ooh, how purty, a cute deer.

Out came the bow and arrow.

the feathered lancet described a Nike arc with
Nike like swoosh bulls’ eye.

Upon uttering "hey Lucy i am home", the little
beasts tore their sharp nine-inch long nails into soft raw doe.

Bathe? The (Puddle Of Mud battled crippled creek),
when a dry riverbed doubles up as a mud bed or
washbasin after the springtime flood.

How in the name of judas priest could our ancestors
enjoy feeling like a beast of burden?

who says you cannot always get what you want? Alice
coop er in chains? Beastie boy George Cinderella? Eddie
money? Freddie Mercury? Iron Maiden? Lana del rey?
Jane’s addiction? Pink Floyd? Yes! the entire Motley Crue?

— The End —