A Radically Obstructed Existence

We watch the cockerel’s dance,

And dream to learn its dusted step

Through Sloth-screening,

Triamines exude noxious

Freedoms stirring

The vitreous resolve

Of canopies high,

Air Fiery floods

Upon flashbulb

Firmament.

Crooked arrow scars engrain

Burnt sienna brilliance

To the pigmentation of

The washroom serf

The silver contrasts the skin

Always following the tinny sounds—

The only music ever sung to him

The cigar still hangs its shadow-veins,

Finger and thumbnails strain the check-boxed page,

Calmly noting the indices newest casualty

How’s and why’s are questions never asked,

Yet, should the capon crown be out of place,

An inquisition will surely find the reason why

In halation’s after-lens,

The breathing understand there & then

There’s no escaping these rutted rails

For us, even in mort, liberation ever fails

Uselicity

A fault-line

Tripped implosion

Careened—

Leveling this sacristy.

Calloused toes,

Barefoot—

Skin atop corroded nail,

Filtered rust to vein,

Futures collapsed under

Rotted board.

Uselicity vanquishing

Rational defense.

Pain so rigid

It feels like death.

The raven and the vulture

Hover above this home’s empty shell.

Circling…in wait

For maggots to appear.

Caste Contrast

An occupation, a career

In some sets

Truly do, make the man

Apollonian skylines

Contrast the turbulent thrash

Within the waves of Dionysian tides

Argots, each, them all

Burnt petals

Scattering threads of sole

Seedlings linger now

They are strewn to sow,

         Within some other soiled bed:

And hence, wherewithal corrodes calabash

While papyrus stains

 That which shall be penned

Regardless—

A blue book for the common

Cheaply proffered

Deeply resonating in

The karmic flesh Of disillusioned kin

The Hunters, they hunt

The Farmer’s acreage wide

As the Love’s

Play promiscuity—in games of lust aside

In the barns and cathedrals,

In the fields unsowed

In the trees above horizon lines

In the alleys and sewers beneath

Born unto a surname

Inflicted with its toil

An inheritance of talents—

         You pray never to need

Centuries ripple blistered deep

Freshly painted eyes still see

The same ills at folly,

Yet play…has grown a conscious too

Those men and children sleeping

Shivering in their makeshifts

Relying on the roving self-titled Samaritans,

To bear alms

Instead of spittle from gnashing teeth

All the while the maidens in stockings blue,

Prepare diligently

For the feasts their soirees expect them

to keep

 It's another Tuesday and as seems to be the trend these past few weeks I've had periods of one thing or another come and hamper me. Anyhow, Tuesday has become a sacred day, a day for Poetry, therefore, try we must.

Head on over to D'Verse, where Open Link Night is in full effect.  Check out the number of outstanding contributors and even submit a poem of your own.  It's a great time for any who deeply appreciate the art of poetics.

The Ravaging of the Caravan

I awoke to a single calm

I bled fast until the ring was gone

Traffic patterns

Of triumvirate’s wail

In pastel, my inner river floods—

To harmonize the many hours spent,

Amidst enchantment’s bell

Caravan—

Ravenously bleeds,

Lost in the moments, in the while spent,

When I left to relieve the most basic of needs,

Left to curtail, the spurring ache

That continuously writhes in me

As I followed the steps I’d made

Back to the coven of my peers

Brushing back the pine that sways

Unlocked the key, and swiftly in slow-motion,

The gates closed behind me—

Opening a passageway,

To some demonized reality

The Crimson Bath

Post prism

Depression

Angular dissension

Grandiose

A delicacy, a toast

For those lacking light the most

And so I drift away, to a place I once knew so very well,

A universe unlike this one, a place where homes are carved in stone,

Where troublesome letches rove the dark extensions

Hours in comatose

Stumbling cross the craggy fray

Middling moments

Of great reverberation

Songs of echoic chants repeat their play

Over and over, again and again

I can’t get their words out from my head

Fur placed by river’s shore

In the water I reflect upon atrocities

So soon forgotten despite their retention of warmth

Like spores popping conscientiously

I see my face in its entirety

A slow step back brings my frame to focus

And the memories flood my thought canal

         Painting cornerstones a myriad of shades

The vivid and the off hue

For an eon it seemed to stand

A frozen man, without

Yet amassing swarms of enemies

Bathed in crimson,

                  Not just the flesh, but also, the question marks as well

          How did this cleansing come to be?

                  Was it birthed in pleasure or necessity?

         What languages speak in tongues like these?

And even the voices shake their heads…

                           Why has recollection shunned me so?

To steal the process from the skipping stone,

To dwell so far yet ogle my position from deserted throne

                  Leaving me with only prayers to own

What is the origin of such constructs?  

                   Is it in me, has this been the case all along

Or is it within parts yet to be seen?

Who is the architect of such a mask?

         Were these hands meant for callousing?

If so, then why has the subconscious purged remembrance so thin?

                           Into the crystal wash I walk

The scarlet I desire weakened; pray at all cost it’s forever lost

        

Upon submersion

How many sins shall wash away?

Where will the currents take them?

Will they regret? Will they every truly go?

Will they feel isolation, as they drift along without home?

Or will their next host embrace their cruel glow?

         From phosphorus to dust

From anxiety to life

                  We wash the crimson clean

                           Arising, from beneath the fluid screen

Hair compressed to nape

Levity is quiet still; levity may have died this day

Yet/ Reborn I feel/ lighter than I have ever been