Heart Song's Devastation Device

Corridors of ancillary porticos and retractable switchblades, Macrocosmic sentry’s patrolling the scenery’s v-cut scape,

In their boots, the sole is clothed in lathered concrete—

Worn

Sworn

Torn

Devastate

It is but a foundational approach of beheading—An arsenals instrument, still clanging, even on into the post-mortem survey of disciplinarian design.  Shackles are chafing the inner thigh—its lines are brutal and corrupt, bankruptcy in a cauldron of maleficence, proposing nightly, during the encore, upon the stage crafted by a lightning strike—filibusters become the lucre, the damning suet of exsanguinated space

Damned.

Crumbs

Of

Neer-do-alls

Devastate

And then the heart sings, in putrid voices made from crocodile tears. They are all combusting at a euphoric pace, blinding the children and heiresses alike.  With dreams of tomorrow, they thank you for the kindness you share with them now. Their liner notes have since been blurred, recollection transformed into an absurd shade of paste-framed blonde. 

Devastate

Alleviate

Pulsate

Palpitate

Crush.

Swing.

Heart-aches

This sculpted axe swings it’s arms short to long. While the pastry chef expands his tonsils, still reddened by the convoluted inhalations that have merged too often with the birth canals of silent screaming.  Squelch. I love that word. It’s influx settles high. Into, and exchanged from without, the assistance of a predisposed effigy, some creature you wish you never had known, all this, during the moment of argh.  The agony of the ecstasy…the shifting sounds of sighing SHHHHHHHH’s!!! And listen, to the highways divided and the sky, as it sends forth its parade of effervescence, one, not yet diluted by life’s hologynic rapture—

Diodes

Implement

Salvation

To those

Of us,

Those among us,

That still cares….

I sing with a vociferous tongue.

My heartstrings are frayed

My range has betrayed my trust

Drawing mute, I reflect and clutch,

Unto a prismatic unveiling,

A claw used to scratch away the damnedest itch..

Simply put

Devastation,

Devastation to,

The most heart-curdling degree

Shared with the outstanding poets at D'verse for the incredibly potent evening of poetry that is Open Link Night.  Haven't had the time to properly spend swimming the seas of poetry lately. I've been in the middle of something and trying to figure things out for myself logistically in the meanwhile.  Writing alone has been much more sparse than I'd like.  I have done a fair share of writing lately, but still far too less than I'd like.  But again, it is something that I'm working on, trying to regain the groove of writing and reading the amazing poetry that is available across the world daily in the poetry blogging universe.  Hopefully things will trend back and soon for me.  However, until the end of the month at least, I doubt I'll get much time online, let alone the time to write and read, as I'll be taking a flight out west for that time and while I'll have my Ipad handy, it's the wifi only kind, so, I'm somewhat at the variable fate of wifi availability.  Anyhow, for those who follow regularly, thanks, I do appreciate it, and again, hopefully I'll get back into a regular routine sooner than later.  Until then, thanks for being there and bearing with me as I attempt to logistically sort things out.

Shards of Mankind Broken

Nostalgia burns a fever

In the caustic river’s eye

Tidal boundaries shatter, flooding shores,

forcing debris to swim, well before it's learnt to drift

Ill-equipped thoughts addle. Matted wings resign to weight.  

Flailing, it all feels like flailing….  

The crows nest dangles. It's broken pole slivers.

Remnants linger upon distressful seas.

Venial thoughts are left to stew. Eventually weariness ripens.

The polished and hewn wilts alike.

Overwrought. Ambushed. Daylight is truncated. Evening falls to Stygian design….to those daring enough to dream.

Danger paints a dragnet from your plaster. Hunger feeds the gluttonous rill. Currents, replete with paroxysms, commiserate.

Tragedies offer casualties alone.  In such moments, mankind as a unity is shattered.  All we have is grief and mourning. 

And a river born from sorrow.

Addendum:

If you believe the vortices will calm their vehement swirl, I pray the shoreline shackle heel to sand.

If you believe absolution will quickly cast it's net, I fear that catch shall never breathe again beyond it's gnarled mesh.

If you fear that time will not heal such lacerations, I pray support is ever by your side.

Upon the Battlefields

Surface to air

Contact wounds

Amassing in clots,

Clustered epoxy,

Seeping, from flesh to soul

A revelation amongst balderdash

Revealing the jakes of war-

Chariots afire, travail the thieving scape

While asphalt and cumulus collide in view then break

…and the visions continue

Watercolors and botanicals

Both angles bountiful

Yet inhospitable,

to those who never spoke their tongue

Limbs. Torsos. Sternums. Tibias. Fibulas. Ulnas. Radii

Huddled jigsaws. Amassing carts.

Victor would have a field day in such anarchy of body

This world is inhabitable.

Air is filled with musket fodder

Water contaminated by what keeps us living

The truth materializes within each image

Pituitary cloaks, in division

Possibility, leashed by feral strands

And bounties clipped upon…

Things no man was meant to see.   

Another Tuesday has made it's way.  Another Open Link Night is itching to play.  3 pm the links will appear.  All poets will chant their cheer. Another Pint, Another Poem, Tuesday Night, D'verse owns.  So yes, please join everyone over at D'Verse, for their weekly Open Link Night, where you can submit your offering while enjoying those shared by others.  So hope to see you all there, starting at 3pm.

Apocalyptic Son

On a Sunday lacking sun, a son traverses empty roads, upon a mission of repose.  Carousing placated lots and fields, in search for a compass clear, yet in doing so, a presence felt he does become.

Escaping the cloudy dream ennui would love you to believe.  Shaping the shaded particularity of particulates within, a hazel-greenish glimmering grin. 

Foraging the aftermath, calculating inflated costs at every turn, shrugging shoulders up and out, as pariah’s doubt fills the bloated sensory. 

Pits and pots and cracks amiss, leveling locations meant for bliss.  Candor amassing sand and grime, with each wheel turn, more mud it finds.

The evening prior was Saturn’s day and in his images ringing scattered moons amongst.  A meteoric rise from the south, launching pads whizzed and banged, dramatic flash-mobs fidgeting smog, domesticating horrifying promissory notes of deceit, as a brutal vocabulary was spun by nature’s pen, tipped and felt.

And now they call for an encore.  And now they take a bow.  Before the crowded masses huddled in scowl.  Emasculating herculean humanity, soft skinned souls arrested in surprise, to the drop-dead beats of ballast heard. 

Condensation’s frigid fate relaxes in sheaths and grates, ingratiated by the letters youthful hoarders use to test their trade.  Standards of privacy lay isolated amidst open fields, spackled with dirt and amber clay.  Bashful barterers far from their serene, prioritize internal valuations between shackles and shades.  Lonely crustacean, parched and dry, would relish but one spigot to try, for spine to fluidly bend again. 

On a Sunday lacking sun, a son peruses the wreckage that’s been done.  Furious and ferocious symbols scatter empty palettes, which once were cluttered thick, seeking another to join, in this regretful trek, as eyes meet foreign Griffins talons descend, sinking into your familiar streets.

Upper torso and head, with wings the eagle’s image flies.

Legs and trunk bronzed and bulked, lionized, they tout branches, alms, kalamata shapes in hand.  Yet the survivors only hear unsympathetic roars of rage from the kingdom close, for so few there are left to save.

Drifting through the feeble praise, from distant soldiers left unscathed, the tautological preys upon.  The man is shaking his head.

The son shines his beams, high yet with dusted distractions sparsely dancing through the wavering rays, aiding reddened, sleepless eyes with their quivering light divine. 

He’s praying there’ll be others, draped about, amongst, by the tapestry of the night that’s yet to come. 

The silence befits the wanderer.  There aren’t any distractions, yet there is nothing but distraction.  The mind is wondering where the departed flesh has gone.

The questions that mount, he cares not repeat.  Answers scuffle briskly at the stamping of their ne’er-ending feet.  Needless admonition moving left to right then right to left, traversing conversations that were left unsaid.  Smoking barrels commissioned for purposes of health and recreation, appear to be the solution, appear to be alive, yet at this point, he begs but ask the question:

Is this just another mirage built upon deception or is there hope beyond these tracks?