Of Consequence...

Photograph by Terry at http://mobiusfaith.wordpress.com

listen to ‘Consequence’ on Audioboo

In a land draped in smoke

We find a people caressed by fear

Where only the undead

Are unspoken for.  (APOCALYPTIC SNOWFALL)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

In a world consumed by hate

We see a realm that doubts their faith

Where the only beliefs able to heal

Are dusted, dead, or concealed. (NUCLEAR WINTER)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

In a society applauding theft and greed

We shun the children who’ve yet to feed

Pushing back the masks, only for the time it takes

To devour what purity’s left to rake. (INHERITANCE)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

Behind hidden doors, Hope’s salvation weeps

As daily they do watch…monsters, unwrought and free

For outside’s where the abhorred stray at night

Leaving but the day to retrieve those released from misery 

(MUTATION)

SMART BOMBS BUILD BETTER ASHES

When the stench renews

Pulses must grow numb…

As darkness covets light

Vision alters sight…

No matter what you hear

That sound you cannot clear

Despite your urge to feed

There’s no taste left to comfort thee

For when the ravagers appear

Muted be thy cries

Lest beckon upon all

The infection summoned by your call.  (THE END)

Smart Bombs Only Destroy

The smartest bomb is the one NEVER made…

Over at D'Verse, Claudia brought forth a photo prompt. Being a moderator at D'Verse, I, like the others, had a chance to get ahead start tonight, (which I obviously took full advantage of lol). 

 Well, to be perfectly honest, I saw that it was a photo prompt and while those can be quite fun sometimes, I just didn't think I was in a mood to roll something out this way.  So, I did a bit of reading, napped a bit and then hopped on the computer about two hours ago.  

I wrote a couple of things, but I've been rather stagnant lately, only able to knock out some haiku.  So I went into my bag of tricks, poems previously written and noticed I only had one in there, which I had planned on using with some art I did for another blog.  So, I popped in to D'verse, to check out the post and the photos for Poetics.  And there it was that I saw some really impressive photographs. 

Well, I have to say this apocalyptic verse sort of just came to being right then and there.  So, long story short, it's kind of funny how things work out isn't it?  There I was, not feeling like working from a photo at all, even knowing that was suffering a bit of poetic paralysis, and needed a jolt of some sort.  Yet, I was being stubborn I guess, thinking that only I could get myself out of the slump or whatever it is when, lo and behold,not even five minutes elapsed over at the site when bang, the full premise of a poem accosted me in a most pleasant way.  Funny how things work sometimes.  

I look forward to reading your pieces.  These are some very unique photos, that should really offer a wide many angles for poetic approach.  So head on over, check out Terry's photography and check out all the responses linked up on D'verse.  Maybe you'll find yourself quickly impelled to write like I was, please share it if you are, I for one would love to read it.  Then, how about swinging by Terry's site to check out all the neat pieces he's created there.  Definitely a lot of unique material, he has a different way of looking at the world, which makes for some really interesting shots.

Nightmare's Autopsy (The Will to Overcome)

Unawareness.  Sad, sad scourge,

Where despite the cleavers gleam

Enroll again! On we surge

Upon the cold, cold table we

Will once more lay prone for

His convenient dream

Watch we shall, March we will

From the silos to the unmarked graves

To cut across reaping fields, ever forward on we stave. 

Vivisection does not breed good intention,

Do not believe anything they say, it’s never about

The process, it’s always about the pain

Inflicted, where the loudest are the strong, and the screams expire before the walls wail their weeping songs, while the sick, while the poor, shed not one tear more

Bone to bone. Disassembled on

Slats of marble, practiced upon

For those not cared for

Are but generic and alone

stainless tin, cold, cold steel

each discarded, parts and whole

Sad it is, for these, not a tear is felt

Separated by the lash of an imposter God

Fearing a day without, where future’s freedom’s left in doubt

Leaving but an unheard requiem, a lesson, a sigh, for without the crackling, pain does not yield, ever forward stirs the prod

Reassembled, fractions and sums

As only a self-termed God would dare attempt make whole,

Such reunions of the recent dead

Your image yet fans each flame incited by the memories haunting the dreams of your dearest mourners, where words, spoken in your natural tongue, engrain each minute of slumber, with the writhing procurement loss endows

Every piece within is found without.

All lined up across this wall

Organized precisely yet scattered haphazardly about

And here treads a man, in the shallowest depths of water, pacing in wander, sloshing over each direction ever scoured

Ever mired is the misery concomitant to each shard remembered, never knowing what tortures persist to lurk

Yet, it is he, who we cannot dare guess upon; it is he, who never sickens thinner than frame allows, for repetition’s mysteries here assembled sour not the troubles therein

Jars of me, at rest, alone

In this sealed solution,

flesh plucked clean, off its bone

a floating cage with lockless ends

Forever swimming—

Never truly dead, yet life barely seep these veins,

Floating simply about, within this pool, an aquarium

Where waves are as absent, as those prehistoric beasts science willfully omits from the present-day vernacular

Pickled in formaldehyde; Awash, then dried,

By permutations cloth, preserved forever, yet

Never, in such company, could the soul hope to thrive within

Errors form the function, upon this weavers loom,

Tainted by misfortune, needles sew wryly their quilted interpretations, echoic of our most hollowed depths of doom

Expertise is ignored, when it’s failure that’s exposed,

Leaving only the thrush of pride, forever hidden—shall we try, to find pathos, through wisdom’s ever dwindling light?

Parceled streams create purported visions—albeit in lieu of the self-sustaining sufficiency such stained seams require—

Where thusly soon thereafter, we are quick to notice that the breadcrumbs have all grown stale and indigestible

Here, the body secretes away its last remaining vertebrae, crafted, is a sense of clarity, never known or seen before—proffering each sentiment stored away, with the dank chill preeminently found whilst creeping seditiously amongst those reservations not your own—for it is within these chambers, where the stagnant air of darkness, adroitly replicates mankind’s first regret—

Yet strangely enough, for now, a change is found—an unrequited epiphany appears—here, falling forward—we see through the murky horizons and past the greyest clouds, envisioning that fleck of precognition crucial to surviving this nightmare realm our beings have been unwittingly cast unto—

It was in each these bands of sparks, whose arcs bestowed more than superficiality, but legitimate directions to salvation—here, it was found that one can be lonely, without succumbing to loneliness, where one can be alone, yet sated still—for it was then, when needed the most, that I became aware, aware, fully, completely aware, where the torture that shall surely follow, will be nothing to the comfort I now feel.

A Fairy Tale Rightfully Unpronounced

Head on over to D'Verse where the doors are open for Open Link Night. Check out some amazing poets and their poetry and while you're there, link up one of your own.

I.

There are some fairy tales purposely forgotten

Masked scabbard of the Interferon

Embark me now! Harken deep!

Pincers, heather-gray

residing, in the chaos

of the fay

The scope, the breadth—

freshest are the forceps of

wealth, so forcibly inhaled

Squeeze play…last to first

Squeezing…intensely

Rein in the misgiven logic

harness the bit displayed

bridle order, offer reprieve

To a day, unbeknownst, but veritably

In a somatic state of disarray—

        

II.

Covet the uniform less distinguished

than the dignity displayed so prominently upon the crest

One must love

before they hate

         One must hate

         before they can love

each,

alone,

flawed and frayed—

destitute and drowning-in

a parabola of valor

         affixed and spent

         dignified only

by the wash and wring

In-together

refined in the rough edges met/completely

blent/a merger into one—mixing free—to

a place once lost by me

III.

Music is built upon the foundation of every emotion we possess.  We should carefully consider what melodies possess us full.

No longer have we become isolated

no longer has the interlocutor lost his tongue

proscription, no longer in mask or shaded by

the fear of what is laced within belief—

                          

The opposition grows unbearable

we, haunt the fragments that cluster

in despair—in perilous decree—

then, will understand, will see….

all that is alive in the make-belief

world of inspiration found in song

IV.

There are some things we should never wish for or openly accept without dutiful consideration.

Go back forward

thirsting greater

whet for the knowledge never meant to sate—

hidden amidst the decorations are the words

and agility— of thousand-year-old invisible men

Where ginger henpecks snarl forth

and exaggerated bindings scoff retorts

Where scarlet footfalls shed flaked skin

to dais—ever raising until

gone by

to the sounds

of sepulchral tones

fade…

faded…

fading still…until

awake you grow

resurrected

from your bed—

 of pebbles, topping boulders of stone

V.

The bronzed veil of the squandered dove

attracts our prey and walls the dam

from cracks that call…

Erosion marks,

plated tint

fireflies….alive in glint

yet such a flash, bears the seeds—

That correlate the actions of fessing men—

directing us to the locations where

Attributions are all but lost—

where even the squalors flee

this pathetic excuse for symphony

Enter the hyperstatic repository

built upon the domino’s gradated sweetener

and force-fed mortar—by the shaking hands of tankards

alive, if only to cozen the salivation out from within…

pip to pip it effectively simulates a contagion effect

Burbling are the salivary dreams—

Of cuticles brittle, where bristling trumpets signify

the aloof designs for higher power

Impossibly vacant, yet acting out…

solely to manufacture a reason for

assembling….

A sacrificial toolkit, intent on discovering

the phantasms hovering, closely, near

Where candor has played second fiddle to cowardice…

Now. Vis-à-vis, brazen impudence stutters naught—

boldly affronting the dignity dishonored by such weakening

strife’s…

VI.

If vision is the object of your desire, then sight

shall presently appear…

But be forewarned

you may not won’t like

the images you are now to see!

The reavers are coming—

reapers and raiders, cannibalistic kin—

rising, continuously, from infernal abeyancy

The reavers are coming! The reavers are coming!

to purge both blessed and cursed,

to remind all and every

their scourge and bane

Ensconced abrasions quickly form,

from sentient pockmarks to boils forged

The reavers are here

to burn the bridges built up high

The reavers are coming  

Please pray and hide

Until the strong and proud live freely unafraid,

The results you see will remain the same

Until the worst in man can come out,

To produce the true fear buried deeply south

The reavers will come and seek man out

The ferel beasts will not relent

They’ll destroy without regret,

producing widows and widowers

along their seditious course

The youth are spared,

yet only so the scars can breathe

the foul memory

of their death to come

The reavers have never been defeated

never a casualty to claim

they come and crush

and rattle calm

they brutalize the damned

but bow naught their heads

for the countless innocent’s

they’ve also slain

VII. 

The Final Act is always the most disappointing

Eradication begins….

         when we wedlock our sins

Masked scabbard of the interferon

save me now…

         for I’ve lived a thousand years

                  and, as one might surmise,

                           the years have not been kind.

         I’ve never had to beg

                  so please do not make me now

Bear me my golden veil

         for without,

I fear

this reign

will be short-lived

An Otherwise Empty Parking Lot Outside An Institute of Higher Learning

Volatility unprovoked

First comes fire

Then there’s smoke

It’s in this hell that I awoke

Bludgeoned, tired

On aggression, I slowly choked

The cement, crimson soaked

Left with air as my sole desire

All regrets were then evoked

It was here I softly spoke

Yet each world only grew their rage higher

And they laughed…

As if this all was but a joke