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Patricia Drake Feb 2013
Accept this
And another
Amazing adventure
Awaits you
Aboard an
Alternative alphabet
Ark

Begin believing
Building a barge
And a bridge
To beauty
In the blooming back yard
Of your brain
I bid you

Climb!
This creation
My careless challenge
To charge
Chivalrously
into cosmic chaos

I dare you!
Devote yourself
to dream
dizzy, delusional
dazzling deep deceptions
of dormant demons

Elevate!
Ego
Exciting emancipation
To encompass eternity
Everlasting ecstasy
Escape
With ethereal
Energy
Emitted from
Evasive effervescence
Of Eden

Fly!
Feel the fantastic fires
The fury in the furnace
Fed and fortified by
Fantasy
Forming, freeing
Freaks
Flamboyant figures
And flittering fairies

Glow!
Give me a grin
A gaze
A gift of gorgeous
Glimpses of golden gardens
With glaciers of
Gargantuan greatness

Hesitate!
No!
Hesitate not!
Hurry, make haste
Take no heed
Of heaven nor hell
Hear my heatbeat
My heart
Hear it!
Do not hinder it
With your head

Indulge!
I invite you
I insist
Insinuating
Irresistible improprieties
Idolatry
Impertinence
Improvised imperfections
On thin ice

Jest!
Play the joker
Squeeze it, juice it
Just don’t be the joke
Be a jazz piece
Juggle tones
In life’s jive
Juggle life

Kneel!
Know thy mistress
Know that she is knowledge
Knock on her door
Her knickers
Until your knuckles bleed
And know
That knowledge will keep you

Linger!
Let the longing of your *****
Linger a little
Allow your lust
To lift you
Illuminate you
Let you levitate
In liquid lucidity
Leaving the low lands
Of the ludicrous living

Move!
Make magic
Moving
Me
More
Make me
Mimic
Magnificence
Make me move

Now!
Need me
Nothing else
Near
Nobody
Now need me
Naked

Orchestrate!
Organize an ouverture
Of ******* oblivion
Obsess over the opening
Obsess, occupy
The opening
Oh!

Ponder!
Pick me
Place me
Put me on a pedestal
Paint me
Plate me with precious
Platinum
For preservation
Of perfect passion
For posterity

Que?
Always question
Quaint sequences
Faint frequencies
Question the questioners
And the questions they ask
Pourqui?

Rapture!
Rip the ropes
Riddled with regrets
Ravish and ****
Reality
Ransake inner rooms
For real rushes
Always risk
Ruin
For a rendezvous
With risk

Slither!
Slip secretly
into the streams
Below the surface
Sheets
Of my sanity
Slowly,
Softly,
Like a sword
Into sheath
Of satin
Or suede
No sound
Surely,
Just surrender!

Talk!
Tell me tales
Of tangible treasures
Of talents and truth
Trust me
Let me take charge
And take you on a tour
of the tower  

Use!
The ultimate utterance
“us”
Unconditionally
Under Utopian skies

Venture!
Vivify the visions
Of voluminous vaults
With velvetine varnish

Want!
To
Walk with me
Into wondrous worlds
Where wishes
Are washed in waves
Of
Wellbeing
Of
Wonders
Walk with me

eXcite!
Exaggerate extraordinary
Expertise in
Extravagant
Exhuberance

Yell!
Your
Youth
And youthful yearning
Out beyond your years
Yell yeah!

Zoom in!
Our zone
Of zen
Becomes a breeze
And a cold fizz drink
To create a buzz
Tom McCone May 2014
a stale giant under a smoking
roof designs agony only
befitting of i. up in
another attic, the map
of the day dissolved. hope
in suffix, she cast another
loop round my spine. a
wound to forget to mend,
a few days, some potable
words. just carrying along.

red, she still carves into
my eyelids closed. a fool
plays gambit above the
ground. we were flanked
by frigid soil, and given
time the space bred in
our met gaze would surely
go to seed. but, questioning
whether we'd even make
a half-heatbeat through
this mess, i can't convince
myself you'd walk along
more'n a couple miles.
i'm becoming further away.
in an instant you could
catch me,
though. i can wait.

but not forever.
tiny glimmer of hope. don't fade too fast, please.
Sigilism  Aug 2011
Aftershock
Sigilism Aug 2011
Later, I'd swear that the empty bottles
and the smell of smoke had
rotted my clothing away

I think I may have tried scrubbing myself
with dirt; i found blood on my hands and my feet
the next
morning

sweat was everywhere in my eyes
the only thing that made the stench
go away was soaking myself in perfume until
my skin pruned
and i couldent breathe

no sleep, no heatbeat here in this body
who needs breath
who needs love, after all

break the mirror, replace your artificial beauty
scream "wantmeneedme saveme"
watch them want  you.throw out your artificial hope.
replace your broken records

now start to play them all again
urushiol  Oct 2014
Victory
urushiol Oct 2014
I know my life brings me perilously close to Death,
To the mother from whose dark womb we are bourne and returned.

Every day I dance with Mortality.
We waltz round the house.
I feel her fingers lock round my neck.
My fingers dig into her waist.
Our gazes lock,
And I peer into her eyes reflecting sweet grassy hills of surrender
And I say to her
... Not today.
She will retreat for a moment, but
Soon, in the dead of night, she will slap me awake
And I will wrestle her to the floorboards.
But by the time the sky begins to bleed mauve
She will have sublimated.

Her vapor follows me still.


Have you ever gone fishing with your dad?
Have you pierced the animal by its lip
And fought to drag in its body, thrashing wildly and gasping for air,
Eyes wide and wet?
It stares into you,
And it stares into me.

And my father, screaming at me!
My father! And his “scary eyes,”
I cried to my mother.
Shh, sweetie, soothed my mother,
His eyes are the same as yours and mine.

Years later
I know this to be false.
His eyes are glaciers threatening to crack.

But sometimes, only sometimes, my springtime permeates through to his eternal winter
And slowly, snow begins to melt
And slides down his cheek.

Oh, Father
Do not repeat what you have so desperately wished to forget!
Do not isolate me.
You cannot afford another winter
And neither can I.

My roots are reaching, but as to where, I do not know.
Stretching ever deeper, ever further
Grappling in the darkness, prying into soil
Searching for just a little sustenance
A little sustenance, to keep me going,
Just for now.

Chords strike in time with my own heatbeat
Spirit in body quivers like the strings of violins.

Let me soak in the pool of your one thousand resentments
Your hundred sorrows
And your only disappointment.

Come and let me cry tears of liberation
Like the red and white of the flag you hold so dear
Streaking down my face,
My eyes two stars that proclaim
Deliverance!

Do not tell me I am in danger,
I have long known this to be true.
It is only in the retrospect of lives past
That we we wish we had been different.
I swear I am not the past.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
psychologists only have children,
procreate...
       in order to have an
upper-hand in us. childless,
left akin to fathoming cats...
          but you know what you can't
say when taking care of children?
you can't smoke...
    oodly enough tobacco
       is an ease-mechanisation
for the domesticated animal,
esp. feline to fall asleep...
                           i, have,
an, inability, to, care, for,
human, infirmary....
                                   animals?!
first posit.
                 no questions asked.
and in this world with all its grandeour...
and the football score...
    there were never any
grammatical plays of pronouns
involved...
                           there was always
a merger ploy, or rather:
                a plight,
                   akin to experiencing
petting cats....
                          dogs need a leash...
cats?
        who knows where a cat
wanders off to, without the cat it"self"?

i don't know, and...
        i don't want to know...
      it's like watching a cat
experiencing a receding heatbeat
in deep-sleep...

   the jaw drop disappears...
the tail stops flitching...
the open eye (yes, not eyes)
is less Gandalf...
                  with  a peregrin took,
"enterprise"...

           how well does the individualist
globalist (fiddled past the
double -ist -ist?)
                    take to relearning
german?
  ja! gir-man!
                       not s'oh fein,
ver vey?!
                                vs. vacany
on the ready?
    vell... ja...
                   ** best bitten zee doost?!
              apparently, üß!
                                          (that's a T
without a rhyming couplet... mr. bean
sorry, sorry...
   you know how hard it
is to compromise on an apology...
within, or without an ethnic
sentiment... that could be
                            comprehended?!

you can't exactly say sorry,
when it's so exaggerate-made-uniform
in the english format of use-with-and-
especially-without-applicability)...

   who are the glorified neo-anglos?
no, i'm petting a cat...
   the last woman in my life
"involved"
               is but a shadow...
i'm testing the use of tobacco
                          on... even breathing...

blow one puff into the room...
heartbeat drops,
jaw drops...
  eyes slightly open...
        
i known that the only reason
behind psychologists' vehemence
is in having children...
  and they have it, own it...
       they'd be echo chambers without
the end-result of procreation...

no wonder, with child and wife
in tow...

              i'm a metaphor of schrödinger....
given schrödinger is a cat
that's strapped to the "metaphor"
of Ísland (e's'land... ice, no ice:
**** schtill ein land...
                                            iz-land)...

******* saxons...
migrant saxons...
        contamitated the assortment
of speaking pristine germanic, nordic...
  mongrel: every day any ****
bollocking public prepubescents...

but there is no i in: if "i" were the raj
of hindustan...
                       don't know...
sick 'em with a narration borrowed from
the biography of buddha?!
apparently that conjures
twice the expected dog...
     ever wonder why the geer-mans
bred the finest specimens?!
    
  romans apparently had war hogs...

   so...

         why didn't people extract
a bull, for a cavalry charge...
     to topple horse-riding empires
akin to the mongols...
        before setting foot on the moon
and crippling the brothers grimm,
for even marking a-brick-for-a-wall
mark, in history?

     bewilderment...
  how horses overtook bulls
                               in a cavalry charge...
            it's only yesterday,
and it's only today,
   and it's just about tomorrow...
and it's...
              a complete detachment...
with what is,
was,
                      and could be...

           because that "be": never... is...
within the confines of
              wishful "thinking"...

               elsewhere reduced to
cogs, machinery and...
    
                   something resembling rust.

— The End —