• Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.

Poetic Ramblings

Go to CruxDreams.com
zenwhips1

zenwhips1

Governor

Love


in morning with the mist and new sunlight
she wandered into forest and was devoured...
love
contentment

and her blood, tingling



Only Silence Now


lifted to the skies, a gift to silent gods;
malevolent sans this supplication
pure and female and needful
the flesh to be devoured slowly and with love
in giving
as makers of the world gorge and bluster and feed
and snap her bones in joy,
her smile never fades, those maiden lips
rose and cream and childish prattle, only silence now
and rapture...
with love in giving
a gift to silent gods
female and needful, flesh to be devoured

rapture




Little Boys Who Cry


the sacrament made whole is the sacrament found wanting
it is all in pieces, as the soul that hides
impassioned blatherings of curious men in curious clothes
gone wishing for betterment in their unholy lives
incense can not help them now
nor the purest of tides
nor the most winsome of gods
and their little boys
cry...
they could not pray away your wings
nor carry you to places you would not go
their stars are silent above them and only the sound of torment from the pit
whinnies its way to their ears
blessed, the sacrament that is you
reconciliation of a penitent, the words that fall from your lips
at times, whispered, at times as screams
but all is laid bare
all is laid bare
barren child, you, a womb which holds confusion dear
life and death and life and death and life and
death...
such a dark and private liturgy your life has taken on
professions hide confessions til those ruby lips are raw
blessed is the healing from thyself as all your nays and posits give way
to monstrous recognition of a world gone sour
barren child, where lingers your love
where does it abide, when can it return
such a privilege to be so loathsome in your beauty
that even the night will not look upon you and smile
these things...
even the most winsome of gods house little boys who cry
their bread upon the water even on the purest of tides
never returns
their tears made holy

all is laid bare




Rumors As They Fall


no amount of cleansing rain can wash away the spot on the hearts of fallen angels
their sins too fresh to discount, too visceral to do without
and there are whispers and rumors as they fall from the skies
desperate tales in strange tongues that temper not the feel of the earth as they fall
absolution
each shall burn to ash when their journey is done,
as they've passed through this world to the next
will we all dance in madness to the sound of their screams
as our collective breath catches, one concerted hush...
where is a rhyme which answers the riddle
where are those prayers we laid down to rest
put away, silent, their aged lips, sealed
no amount of pain can cleanse the sins of all our fallen angels
as we all dance in madness to the sound of their screams
one last collective breath
catches
one lone, concerted hush

absolution





Of The Gathering Years


only the just and belabored wear a crown of thorns
baptized in blood-soaked despair, one more holy moment in which to gather one's thoughts
one more moment to breathe as the dusk gathers
before the curtain comes down...
on the night air a baby's melodic sighs and cooings come to visit
and wakes them from the stupor of the gathering years, nary a minute to lose
barely a second to spare, when is this race run
vanished
dusk comes together and lifts them from their fog, come, hither, good citizen
bother not with lies and false notions, leave them at the door of their genesis and take no notice there
the doorway, darkened, the candles are silent in watching
the dust is stirred in its places, in places held aside for it
vanished
only one good man to lead an empire, streets lined with gaunt crosses, the crucified
ex-patriots and vandals, a warning given to the tumultuous crowds of lovers and fools
who take no heed, when heed need be taken, restless ones who suffer the fates of their fathers
their mothers and brides
vanished
bother not with false notions, or lies or the crosses of crucified fools
put them down a while and feast with the gods of your misfortune
who lay in vast mansions of tenuous malfeasance, they are come to us, not we to them
they need the coursings of blood in our veins
maleficence

vanished




The Yoke Of Dying Prayers


I wandered into reeds in waters where your dreams are stored
and woke you from the sleep that kept you safe
breathed the minutes your heartbeat echoed through the glen
and brought you gleaming, shore-bound
I spoke with the angels of your soul, and the nights in which you've wandered
thrown off the yoke of dying prayers and early dispensation
they blessed the broken child who knelt and murmured secret thanks
in fevered heat her blood did boil, her mirrored eyes did shine
( it is all gone, now... all gone )
I've stolen the clay of Gods to make your flesh anew
and when I have been your God, I will cast you from the earth in pieces
broken, bare and used;
even the angels will not know you...
( all gone, now... all gone )





She Comes, Begging


she breaks fast with the Fear that keeps her up at night
she dines with it, fear is her companion, her confidant
her muse
when her bath is hot and scented, her nakedness bathes with Fear
she exults in it, raises her glass and honors it as no other...
( it comforts her, this Terror )
she asks the Mercies' blessing for Anguish not to leave her
in Need, she comes, begging, for the Pain to never end
the shards of peace smother her sleep and
her nights are spent on altars, of Blood, Flesh and Wine
( she spends her nights with Angels )
a sacred whore for her own private God
who smiles as he fucks her screams...
( she is in love with this Terror )
a whore to her Fear, her muse, her own private Need
of Blood and Flesh and Wine...

( she spends her nights with God )





The Sounds Of Your Desperation


wade through the coals and the low fires of your resistance
I call to you as you fall into the boundless pit of all your fears
hung from a thousand ropes
skinned by a thousand shards of jagged glass
you preach your love to the silent night and it falls on deaf ears
for there is no one to help you pray
and the stillness is shaken by the cracks in your foundation
as the hammer falls, and falls
again
would you pluck out your eyes and feed them to the ravens that follow you down
if there was a law which forbid you to see
cut out your tongue and feed it to the dogs that have taken your scent
slice off your ears and feed them to the worms of the earth that surround you there
so the sounds of your desperation ring out no more...
and the hammer falls, and falls
and falls
again
leave your fingers behind, on the doorstep of things you've never touched, you won't need them anymore
fill your nose with incense and paste, and so the stench of your malformation fades
away
gone away
gone now
and still you preach your love to those who will not help you pray to the silent night
your dreams and visions fall on deaf ears, in the slowest dawn of your resistance
and the stillness is shattered by the cracks in your foundation, as the hammer falls
and falls
again

and still you pray





Given To The Night


the girl kneels, punished by remembrance of a new-found grace
and shudders at echoes of a mantra
"all things made new"
when all her world is made of dust and cobwebs, bones and broken glass...
and she can not find her way home
the craving to be beaten by her past grows strong
the error of her ways as sin, washed away in pain, and
deservedly so, for the whorish nights when her soul was sold
for aching pleasures given to the night,
and her clothes dissolved
but she could never make enough to pay the passage home
her breasts auctioned off, her vagina wrapped and sealed
her thighs and her lips, her fears and her worry, her scent and her soul
sold away and gone...
and all that remains is the scared little girl who cries in her bed
alone with her new-found grace and all things made new
dust and cobwebs and broken glass
the craving to be beaten by her past grows strong
her errors as sin, washed away in pain
for aching pleasures as her clothes dissolved
her vagina wrapped and sealed, and all that remains
a scared little girl who cries in her bed

alone​
 

Caught Up In Marble


chimes in a slow wind, singing
every breath which blesses her lungs is labored
with icy blue snow
she tilts her head and listens to bells in the distance
calling her home
and the crosses she was taught to revere mean nothing,
now
was it a man?
or a woman, so affixed, bleeding
and beaten
sunlight prismed through colored glass
laying softly on the faces of those, saved
as incense wafts and plays in the stale air of saviors
caught up in marble, gold and granite...
every breath, labored
each blue snow, calling
bells in the wind, calling her home
and the crosses she was taught to revere mean nothing
now
a man, naked ?
or a woman, bare, so affixed and beaten
chimes in a slow wind, singing and
she sleeps with angels, nailed to her cross

bleeding​
 
Been a long time...

For Which She Prays



her screams winnow their way across the moors

excrucia, kept secret, but for the bellowing

and they’ve no idea of her blessings,

nor the spaces, in joy, they hold in her secret

place…

her soul, ripped to pieces, still her charms

all wet, delicious, and sticky

they cannot harm her more than that for which

she prays

yet they labor in vain, with prayer, gods

and false idols

it is she who is pure,

and only the prayers from her fevered, worried lips

are heard from afar, way up yonder in the heavens

only in supplication is her skin removed,

bones broken,

flesh removed, and still the secrets remain

as her screams gently winnow their way across the moors

and their blessings hide agony in a caressing wind

excrucia, kept secret and silent,

in joy, they’ve led her to the secret place

where God whispers

her soul, ripped to pieces, yet her charms

still wet, delicious, and sticky

and there is nothing for which her body has not prayed

she welcomes the silence, bathing in their cursings

and threatening protestations

she is pure and quiet, worried and silent

soul ripped to pieces, the gift for which she prays

endless,



endless…




Taken In Tears



in a slow, calm torrent, there pours

many a breath, caught between those who love

and those who don’t

and many a house has vanished in the rains

made in tears of the innocent

or, of at least those so accused

why has she been left behind?

to bear the standard of all innocents so accused?

she would rather be bare in the heat

than bundled in the cold night

but rescued by the moon, yes…

colored in silver for all that matters

true and swollen and filled to over-flowing

breath, caught between those who love

and those who don’t

houses taken in tears

she would be bare in heat, than bundled in the cold, and

rescued by the moon



in heat



​




The Beauty We Find​

​

she comes dancing through the silver​

on her tarried way to the comfort, laying fat in her belly​

she wished for nothing more than to be oiled and filthed​

learning in the twilight, reading in the dark​

once she could breathe but that was eons ago​

and now her chest is seized, rattled and torn​

she is the mother of every ugly thing​

but there she is, behold, she nurses all the beauty we find​

inside​

no, it’s nonsense, is it not?​

this pathetic creature, her belly fat with the world, captive​

caught up in things which cannot be explained​

and her eyes sparkle as she beckons​

“come, come to my fire and burn and I will burn with you​

have you enough love to birth my child and listen as she consumes the world?”​

and it chars my bones to listen as she giggles​

she nurses all the beauty we find inside​

oiled and filthed​

learning in the twilight​

and my loins say, yes…​

​

yes
​
 
Well, thank you eul... I deeply appreciate your comment. I am flattered.
 
I agree ... they're all really quite good.


I imagine you are not fond of seeing males blush... so, I will go out on a limb and say you're pleased you cannot see my face. I must say I am so very glad to be a psychotic lunatic... it provides a good balance.

Thank you, dear.
 
The Rhythms Therein



the day I lost my soul I began to write

and as if by a miracle

completely unknown to those that matter,

really

the words became a shrine

a sacred place to bathe

to wash away the stains of a life spent wandering

searching

every letter, every word, every nuance

fit for queens and kings

of empty, haunted junkyards…

there was no way for me to know

nor understand the rhythms therein

and the louder I wrote, the clearer the longing

the sharper the edge to a search for something lost

awards

recognition

cacophonous prattle

is all it ever was,

really

get in line, quickly

before it fades

come see, come listen

before it fades

come pay your respects with that hard-earned dollar

before it all fades

my soul….

lost

wandered off while I wasn’t looking,

for loneliness

too busy to notice

too wrapped up in wanting to be

more

only more

these things happen so quickly, you know

first you’re happy, full and vibrant

wanting to be

more

and then, you are short and pale and wanting

more

wandering forever in dim light, searching

please, come home

i am waiting

please

i promise

the day you come back, I will stop writing

not

another

word

it's all been for you, you know

for the aching of loneliness



please





With Every Breath​


​

wistful;​

wishing upon fair dreaming​

her gaze matched to soft light and the nuance of stars​

yet to show their faces...​

a life held in concordance with a rhythm not yet found​

but found, wanting​

and she could sit and stare for lifetimes​

at mysteries as yet unfolded​

a dance​

concerto​

every painting ever done​

with every breath she dreams, of​

more...​

yet, this is enough, to sit and stare​

to breathe and dream​

gaze, matched to soft light​

and the nuance of stars, as yet​

unborn​

a life held in abeyance, rhythm, not yet found​

but found, wanting...​

​

dance,​

concerto,​

and every painting ever done,​

with every breath she dreams​

​

unborn




What Is Theirs​

​

tiny bells, ringing​

usher in a lilting breeze​

a bookmark of one who comes​

and goes​

leaving ink upon the page and a soft​

echo​

deep inside her mind​

taking what is theirs, and​

leaving what isn't​

and if she looks closely enough, she sees​

footprints​

ink upon the sands of impermanence​

fighting against the tears​

tiny bells in the distance, hearken​

a slow, playful breeze upon which she spends her time​

breathing​

deep inside her mind, she hears​

footsteps​

one who comes,​

taking what is theirs and, leaving​

what is not​

and only rumors remain; ink​

upon the sands of impermanence​

breathing​

​
 
Pursed And Wet, Craving​

​

cast down from the skies in deluge​

slipping between the torrents, dancing​

newborn, curious, a new creation,​

flowing...​

born of the wind and the currents which pull you down​

pink and plump and covered in blood, your lips,​

pursed and wet and​

craving to feed,​

starving...​

born of the storm, writhing​

wrinkled skin and tiny fingers, grasping​

at anything​

fat, soft little thighs, twisting as you fall,​

dancing​

born of a winter's moon, in deluge​

slipping through the torrents, singing​

lips, pursed and wet, craving to feed,​

starving for life​

newborn, curious, a new creation,​

flowing...​

gathering the world to your newness​

tasting, suckling, feeding,​

tingling, pink and covered in blood​

tiny lips, wet and swollen and fat​

craving being filled​

singing...​

feed




The Girl Who Knew It Would Rain​

​

when her glance would fade, lost for a moment​

spread thinly over a span of years that made up her life​

seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days​

a lonely calendar, built on dreams and expectation​

one spare list, just another piece of parchment, filled with ink,​

drying...​

watching the storm pass, breathing in the wind​

the girl who knew it would rain, one more time​

one more rain-soaked morning, one more cloud-filled sky​

dipping her toes in swirling current, pushing out her breath for one more night​

lost and alone, breathing in the wind​

watching the storm​

another rainy morning, one more rain-drenched night​

and her glances would fade...​

a span of years that made up her life​

built on dreams and expectation​

dipping her toes in the eddying stream, she​

was the girl who knew,​

and it rained​

one more time...




Not Even The Furies​

​

her eyes, distant, frigid and​

far, far below​

as the sea slips by​

washing away the sins of every waking hour​

stirred and abandoned,​

blended with charm and uselessness​

manners and culpable negligence...​

there is more​

there​

sordid garden of fruit and forgotten seed​

vine and thorn, bile and rectitude​

alone in silence not even the Furies dare disturb...​

and something whispered in her ear​

subtle and true, a blanket of wholesome night-dreams​

for every waking hour​

stirred and abandoned​

blended with milk and cinnamon​

manners and menstrual blood​

til her cheeks are fat with it​

dripping and waxy and soft...​

there is more​

there​

rotted fruit and barren seed​

on her knees she prays to be set free​

from tedium and good manners...​

charm and culpable negligence​

wrapped in a blanket of wholesome night-dreams​

from her lips, flow​

incantations​



​
 
zenwhips1 said:
Pursed And Wet, Craving​

​

cast down from the skies in deluge​

slipping between the torrents, dancing​

newborn, curious, a new creation,​

flowing...​

born of the wind and the currents which pull you down​

pink and plump and covered in blood, your lips,​

pursed and wet and​

craving to feed,​

starving...​

born of the storm, writhing​

wrinkled skin and tiny fingers, grasping​

at anything​

fat, soft little thighs, twisting as you fall,​

dancing​

born of a winter's moon, in deluge​

slipping through the torrents, singing​

lips, pursed and wet, craving to feed,​

starving for life​

newborn, curious, a new creation,​

flowing...​

gathering the world to your newness​

tasting, suckling, feeding,​

tingling, pink and covered in blood​

tiny lips, wet and swollen and fat​

craving being filled​

singing...​

feed




The Girl Who Knew It Would Rain​

​

when her glance would fade, lost for a moment​

spread thinly over a span of years that made up her life​

seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days​

a lonely calendar, built on dreams and expectation​

one spare list, just another piece of parchment, filled with ink,​

drying...​

watching the storm pass, breathing in the wind​

the girl who knew it would rain, one more time​

one more rain-soaked morning, one more cloud-filled sky​

dipping her toes in swirling current, pushing out her breath for one more night​

lost and alone, breathing in the wind​

watching the storm​

another rainy morning, one more rain-drenched night​

and her glances would fade...​

a span of years that made up her life​

built on dreams and expectation​

dipping her toes in the eddying stream, she​

was the girl who knew,​

and it rained​

one more time...




Not Even The Furies​

​

her eyes, distant, frigid and​

far, far below​

as the sea slips by​

washing away the sins of every waking hour​

stirred and abandoned,​

blended with charm and uselessness​

manners and culpable negligence...​

there is more​

there​

sordid garden of fruit and forgotten seed​

vine and thorn, bile and rectitude​

alone in silence not even the Furies dare disturb...​

and something whispered in her ear​

subtle and true, a blanket of wholesome night-dreams​

for every waking hour​

stirred and abandoned​

blended with milk and cinnamon​

manners and menstrual blood​

til her cheeks are fat with it​

dripping and waxy and soft...​

there is more​

there​

rotted fruit and barren seed​

on her knees she prays to be set free​

from tedium and good manners...​

charm and culpable negligence​

wrapped in a blanket of wholesome night-dreams​

from her lips, flow​

incantations​



​
Click to expand...

I really like all your recent contributions to this thread. The way you described the moon was fascinating. Also how you portray the use of words to show the effects of one's mind was quite intriguing also :)
 
Well, thank you once again. Sincerely...

I find words endlessly fascinating. There are few things in life, in my experience, that carry the power of words. They affect us in myriad ways. and some of those ways are wrapped in mystery. Such as poems... people have frequently commented to me "I have no idea what that means." My reply has always been, poetry is art. As such, is not only has no explanation, but, moreover, is poorly served by even the attempt. It either strikes certain emotional archetypes in us, or it does not. It should be left on that doorstep.

Thanks once again.
 


And A Swelling​

​

curious girl who aches​

an aching of which she has no ken, save​

an itch, and​

a swelling...​

quiet voice inside her head​

whispering​

as her blood seethes​

and piles of dirty panties​

one after another after another​

sticky and wet and filthed...​

and she aches in secret places​

blood, seething​

an ache of which she barely understands​

and the itch, which drives her​

mad​

and a swelling​

and quiet, soothing voice inside her head​

whispering...​

and piles of filthy panties​

dirty and wet and seething, one​

after another, after​

another​

aching til she cries​

and the itch, which drives her​

mad​





Hearing The Echo​

​

and she slowly turns and wonders​

the mystery of things, unsaid​

of secrets, bared in shadow​

and never, ever, pulled up into light​

as she putters round her place of resting​

here and, there, humming​

the echoes of words from far, far off, come​

and dining on them​

her body lightly oiled and gleaming by light of the fire​

that burns, ever, ever so low​

watching the curtains move and knowing the door is closed​

against the cold, cold night...​





Dawn As It Breaks​

​

she sings rings around the moon, calling to the night to come save us​

from every tiny hurt, ache and heartbreak​

chiming in the wind, she sparkles​

and spins round and round and round...​

she speaks in soft shadow, singing to the dawn as it breaks around us​

wet and milky and flowing​

chiming in the wind, she bubbles​

turning round and round and round​

she gathers...​

hearts and souls and one's hopeful breath​

tends and worries and fusses​

humming in soft shadow, dancing to a tune that was lost​

now, found...​

saves me, from every hurt, each tiny aching, a lost, clinging​

heartbreak​

chiming in my soul, she is glowing​

chiming round and round and round, wet, milky and glowing​

flows about the dawn as it breaks, and​

singing rings around the moon, calling...​

save me​



​

​
 
Well, I can only say thank you once again.
 

One Fine Morning

​

gone to old pastures to muse and rest​

you have turned once more, to kindle and seethe​

at the very line which keeps you safe, and​

whole​

bent on self-destruction one fine morning too late​

as if you could still see it or feel it or taste​

it​

there is, waiting for you, just there, on the other side​

of night​

running...
come to new lamplight, new in kindle​

and seething​

tilt your head and listen, thoughts are there​

toe on that very line which keeps you safe​

and whole​

you can do this, you can​

or is it just one more morning too late​

as if you could see it or feel it or taste​

it​

running




Every Little Thing​

​

her breath comes as a thief, quiet and measured and soft​

wondering of all those things which conjure magick in her life​

breasts, tingling and firm, her thighs opened in solemn invitation​

and those eyes which search the shadow and far horizons, peer​

endlessly​

​

waiting...​

​

gathered souls come to play, with tunes on their lips, and joy​

come skipping round her heart, dizzying​

and every little thing that matters, drawn close​

as a shawl​

words flow, unbidden and sweet​

endlessly​

​

waiting...​

​

a voice, clear, coated in sugar and water, a'boil​

laving her body, eyes, ears​

love​

and every tiny thing that matters, pulled close around​

as a shawl​

flowing, unbidden, sweet and clear​

endlessly​

​

waiting...




Something More Than Fear​

​

a murmuring sound, held close and it barely escapes​

to take the girl's virgin fear and mold it to the sound of her heart​

as it beats, like a maddened, fearful clock​

blood, coursing through her veins, seeking passage to something more than fear​

to a comfort she has never known; a soft blending of sweet love and caring for​

her needs​

and she wishes on the stars to just sit and pass the time​

telling stark little tales of everything for which she prays​

when her fingers move on the beads and she softly mouths the words​

Novena​

nine blissful days, Cilice and comfort, sensation and penance​

as she mouths the worried words​

Novena of the nine exquisite nights​

held dear and treasured, pulled deep within herself and guarded, for no one​

comes near...​

virgin fear and molded to the echo of her heart as it beats​

maddened, fearful clock to comfort her, the sounds so late in evening​

passage to something more than all her fears and terrors​

a wish on special, treasured stars that her blood might show her need​

and it does, of course it does​

stark little tales of everything for which she prays​

as she gently mouths the words, Novena and Cilice​

nine joyful, bountiful days​

and nights,​

exquisite nights​

pulled deep within herself and hidden, and​

no one dares come near...​

Novena and Cilice​

treasure​

​

​

​

​
 
Every Small Dream



tempers of the stormy skies come settling into grace

missing every small dream laid at their doorstep, yet

remembering those that call chaos down upon us

laboring long, lofty expectation folds in upon itself

the weight of a future unborn lays dormant but crushing

this, that, those, in voices held far above cacophony

herald and bard, come with news, no longer the mountaintop

but lent for every ear

this, that, those…

stormy skies skitter and roll, tary and stay

their voices mix with silence and belch across the valleys

and every small dream laid at their doorstep

amnesiac echoes of something we both recall

the chaos that falls down upon us

a future unborn lays dormant and crushing

this, that, those,

in voices held far above cacophony

no longer the mountaintop

but lent for every ear

this, that and those…



come with news







Those Things Which Hide



one thing, all

in every thing, cost

a penny

a pound, looking

frightened to be those things which

hide, but hide

poorly

one thing, all

in each cost, every

thing

pounds,

pennies, found

and founder

dashed upon the rocks of our survival

at long last, clear, yet frightened

to be those things which hide but hide

poorly

the cost of every thing

called to count

and ordered

in each cost, every

thing…






Of What Is Needed



tacit, mumbles and parables

paraphrased and glib

but maybe more

more of what is needed

our bellies sleek and winsome

empty of all that makes us

sleep

there is more to keep us up

at night, can you feel it?

it yearns to be known

but chortles at hiding its face,

faceless

breathless

deathless

tacit, glib and paraphrased

mumbled and chewed and swallowed

more of what is needed

and needed more…

empty of every thing that keeps us safe

faceless

breathless

dead

oh, to be all these things

all at once

is there ever enough silence?

can you hear it?

never enough…





Face Of Their Existence



empty mouthpieces whose batteries are long since dead

left lonely, in a drawer for lack of company

they’re not needed anymore,

only things that cannot speak for us are left out

eager to say and say and say

but speaking of nothing, the echoes all gone

and every hallway we once tread is filled now with concrete

not even a cheap vision can make us feel better about ourselves

now that santa’s elves are dead

every

single

last

fucking

one

yeah, merry fucking christmas, rudolph

and only the things that can never speak for us are left out

and if we could but see the face of their existence, we would know

and be sure

of our own existentialism…

things that have no meaning

that cannot speak

that know no joy…

locked in a drawer, for loneliness

for lack of bread with which to feed the birds

merry fucking christmas, santa

you fat, red fuck… and take your rudolph with you

all your elves are dead, now

dead and gone

every

single

last

fucking

one

our mouths are filled with concrete





Back To The Sea



staggered in brine and sea-dragons,

dragged back down to the Genesis

one more chance to make it right, at last

there is nothing here anymore that is needed

only things we want, wish for and dream…

a current that bears not a whit of resistance

for the voice is over-bearing

and so, to drown in the bubbles as they slowly rise

gone back to beginnings, back to the sea

back to that first, quickened breath

under the front porch of God

or maybe lesser angels



listen, the first birds are singing…
​





In Hiding, And Soon



gathered together in silence

a silence soon hidden

in hiding, and soon,

voices

the Fenris Wolf is calling

calling to the wild, inside

feral dispassion, abiding in secret

gathering the silence inside, and pushing

against the walls we have built

but nothing stands against the passion

not a brick

nor a gate

the wild will out and have its say

and say

and call

and beckon

the heat in the call, the wild

and the feral

the direction in which the wolves are calling

Fenris, standing on the edge of that which makes us wild

a wildness at our fingertips, hiding just below the surface

naked

unfettered

a hunger that drives us mad

a silence soon hidden

in hiding, and soon,

voices

Fenris Wolf, calling

calling to the wild, inside

within, a feral dispassion, abiding in secret

alone with our hunger

intertwined with the wolf

Fenris is calling…​

 
Thank you, eul.
 
Wonderful set of pomes zenwhips. The last one was real interesting with how it describes the inner human nature and the choice to let it loose.
 
Thank you, Shadow Wolf. Much appreciated.
 
And Tales Of Darker Places​

​

there are places that exist beneath the houses and gates of our resistance​

to the ghosts that follow us, from dusk to dawn​

our words are never enough to keep them sane​

and so they watch us, but they can never understand the nuance​

of our indiscretion​

this does not mean we do not understand the nuance of our own​

cravings and hungers​

what we've found, what we've lost, what awaits​

in shadow, gibbering in language we couldn't understand...​

I know​

you​

madness comes with no invitation, no blessing, no bentornato a casa​

the fever that comforts me, you, it knows no veins in which to make its way​

it flows between us, has its way, tells us curious tales of torture and love​

and then moves away to shadow​

this thing, this​

madness​

our comfort, now​

fill my glass with your indiscretions, your madness, your​

heady brew, swirl around me and whisper of the terror that makes you melt​

peel off the shadow that paints you missing and color your love with meaning​

and foundation, now...​

help us with the strains of music we hear from ages past, interred but still heard once the noise stops​

paint yourself and our room with the notes of keys once lost​

on pianos that never die, no matter how heavy or how much room they take​

they keep you here, and I pay them with the keys of my own indiscretions​

that madness, it's found us, paints us like whores of the street​

plies us with drink and tales of darker places​

beckons and dares, smiles the madness and then leaves us​

vanishes​

leaves us here with the banners of our own indiscretions​

I know you​

come dance for me






When The Moon Came Up From Hiding​

​

come blend with me from the earth​

bring your spices and herbs, safely in bottles​

of heavy-leaden glass​

bring your pet worms and give them reign​

let them feast at the banquet your blood creates for them​

bring your thighs and your dandelions​

your briars and your sweetest, brightest butterflies​

come to the music your eyes cry for in somber moments taken from us​

Adagio...​

fluid and muted​

I hear the echo of lost whispers, your voice as it crumbled at my feet​

why​

I could hear you clearly yesterday when the moon came up from hiding​

but no more​

no more​

your whispers fade with time​

Adagio​

come to me, bring your pestle and mortar, the seeds of your restlessness​

bring your muslin dresses and your slippers when you danced for me​

let them free, give them only those things you give unto yourself​

when your nakedness serves you no more​

and always resist the urge to hide from the shadows in which you take your leave​

I can barely see the trail you've left as you passed me in the velvet gloaming​

take not those things I need to remember you​

scatter them here with the scent of you​

the salt of your skin​

the taste of your blood as you played for me​

Adagio​

take only what you need and go​

but leave me your soul, your eyes, your bright butterflies​

your scent, your passion, the blood of your eggs​

scatter them here at my feet, I can smell you​

leave me but know I will always wear your eyes​

your breath forever mine​

the salt of your tears to comfort me​

the taste of your blood as you played for me​

I remember​

you​

Adagio





Bring Me Your Love​

​

bring me every tiny sliver of flesh, feed me with your trembling hands​

slice away those eager breasts, those cherubic nipples, fat and cheerful​

the skin like warm, succulent cream​

and feed them to me​

give me your tongue, so studied, virgin and soft​

bring it into the firelight, extended, pink and wet​

caress the blade and gently press til it lay on your chin, lean to me and gift it to my lips​

tilt your pretty face, brush back your chocolate hair and lay your head in my lap​

as I cut away your tender ears, the echo of the blood inside your head​

and feed them to me​

press your fingertip to those well-deep eyes and dig them out slowly, make it last for me, I wish to hear the precious

grunts and mewlings of your exertions,​

as the sticky lips of your warm, pretty cunt slap lightly together, the cream seeping out​

swollen, needy and lush, hot, sweaty and full​

open your thighs and offer her, I hunger for you​

bring me love, need, life​

destroy yourself​

piece by piece by piece​

bring, give, offer
​

for me​

​

​

​
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom