PromiseI thought I was a prodigal man.Promise by thetaoofchaos
It doesn't matter.
The sun holds true.
Perhaps, I am a priest of thieves,
redeemed in some cautery.
The air, still bountiful and sweet.
However life inlays my debtors,
and I have laid them, after,
I will leave an opening
The Cat in the Christmas TreeI have a duty to explain myself.The Cat in the Christmas Tree by thetaoofchaos
Somewhere, in microcosms, filthy habits
wrapped in entrails like a serpent
‘round the planetary grin,
lay the last frontier. Though, the masters say
do not leave your sitting place.
So here is where it bellies up:
outer space in the guise of skin.
I have a purpose,
Earthly and transgressive.
I have performed the sacred spells.
I have severed two umbilicals.
I spent the whole of Tuesday
twitching for egress, peeling bed sheets,
a wispy film of dreams
still playing credits.
Again and again, another false body.
The front door releases me, a mouth to the cosmos.
December is first reckoned by the lips.
Our warmth is adrift, there’s some great conspiracy
where the leaves of the Ash are all set ablaze.
Through the layers of enigmas, I trace your outline
sitting in the kitchen,
midday, rapt in reading.
Slivers from the window blinds
a quake of continents in your hair.
Shadows of oak limbs
scale your bosom.
Where are the divisions;
hymenopteracompassionhymenoptera by thetaoofchaos
is full of surrogates
like those brushing in the yard;
I would grant them their aspiration
one last, exalted scream
before the crisp disintegration
to be a crystal in the honeycomb
some edge of necessity
not yet worried off to the nub
I do see you
it was me
The Anarchist SermonI like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching.The Anarchist Sermon by thetaoofchaos
What fruit is left on Sunday morning?
Days have past since the last idea
to hear the pitch of life saw light.
The children pawn their sinew off
on unexamined vessels.
We gather up our thirsty voices
and watch as they are driven off
into the moorings of our hovel.
If I would teach them nothing more;
“savor this, these delicate miles”
until we sit along the pews
and stare into the quietus.
I Can't Remember Why It Made Me Angry At FirstI Can't Remember Why It Made Me Angry At First by thetaoofchaos
She throws up arms and intellect;
reveling in the natural atomic weakness
of given margins.
She'll never cram enough of space
into her desk to house the whole
and everyone will hate her
for the way she closes in on
that chase us from the tips
peeking through the stratus lip
of our tektonic brotherhood.
Yes, you can go ahead and say it: "Well, that's you
BiteI am mute;Bite by indiana-w
I cannot express
what has happened
There is not a word
block letter language
for how I feel
I am mute when I come to you
All I can say
is that I have been crushed
and again deceived,
buried behind the ancient veil
I am a soldier without a sword
I am afloat;
I am somehow
I am forced
like frozen matter
transcending separate forms
into a bitter disguise
knowingknowingknowing by e-bojnowski
a myth is very becoming,
in these spilled wheres
and singed spurs of whens.
like a library lion statue,
you raise your paw
stark, unholy knowledge-
to the moments when you
cursed your juvenile skies.
roaring through the present
you feel the segmented vertebrae
in the farce of
and you feel how the tight shadows
lapped against the wall-
how it breathed
in the clever instance
in which you sold your teeth
for a small bit of sight-
those groves where you lost
your glowering voice
and learned to be silent.
charrlie's HaikuThe "I" is closing,charrlie's Haiku by AlecBell
swayed by waves of ecstasy.
"Me" no more, nor "You".
Dearly BelovedMay the best man win!Dearly Beloved by AlecBell
the phrase as close as he had ever
come to philosophy in his life.
His voice adapted only
to the imperative mode, a voice
that had sounded across the parade ground spaces
it had dominated years ago.
He was sort of man a eulogist might
describe as larger than life.
You might see some mourners cringe
at such a choice of words. For many
he was no more than an angry, selfish
man. His widow, some might think,
was relieved to have survived him.
Even if he could never manage it,
now she at last could rest in peace.
night's collideMonday's Bones `night's collide by lesickcousin
How is it that you are still lying beside me every night?
Waking to no one, i feel the impression on the bed
still evident in the darkness,
where your being surely just was.
The window is up and I am conscious of the cold
and the living that have begun to circulate in the days veins.
Still, i coexist with unease.
If it is true, like they say,
that only in my mind
does your figure still lay each night
then I must have felt your ghost again,
as I do remember once or twice
persuading the shadow of you to stay
our hands clasped briefly over and over before waking
It cannot be, that soft rib and distant heartbeat
were my own.
` Heat '
Before I was shattered star,
and decomposing shoreline,
punctuated by cold shivers
and organs all swollen and aching for miseries
The thing I could not picture,
was the raw acidity
the lingering, inconstant vapour
thats follows me around nightly
hanging on my breath
circling, thick as fog
a corrosive provocation,
the undertakeri wish there were butterflies insidethe undertaker by lesickcousin
my office walls
stirring something other than this
are bleeding out
staining the carpet.
on the desk,
embers, chalk and ash scarred insides
running down the walls
pacing the halls
there is no seam,
that can hold the organs in
i spool out,
in undignified pose
an inversion of me
that strikes at my heart.
plasters me in nausea
i've been sewn shut roughly
so many times,
old wounds gape,
and curtains are drawn
the family in my ribs,
the violins, the melancoly,
the grace, and way you got
stuck in my throat
begs for me to end it
you will be better of.
the body is flailing behind the
the seconds before it all becomes eternal
I am an undertaker of oaths
i am a waterfall,
where the rain once was
the conveyor belt
which once brough you to me
stopped sending toys by,
I liked collecting them,
matryoshkaa little lightmatryoshka by lesickcousin
as your wardrobe
its warm you think,
like waking from dreams
an opening to beyond
a peach pond sky -
a strobe effect -
to your past
i always saw fangs
in the mirror,
but you know more
you know the grid
is re-written every night,
under blinking boat floors,
movement and love
and endless nothingness
gently your sea
its all upside down now,
in case you
I will wait for you
the weaping flowers
in darkest hours
ill swap you
for your soul
trade you some
for some dirt dreams
some thing earthly
to connect us
and grow again
with colour and light
our only friends
unfinished and unconcerned
Little FuckwitChain-hands and heart a trap -Little Fuckwit by amaranthones
he calls her bitter and swills
her through his teeth,
and what comes out is smooth literature,
lines spat slicker than remembered,
always better than how she remembers,
and she runs out to the teal shore
to shiver ruthlessly under those same old
heavy clouds, those same old welling beds behind her cheeks
and those nights that slipped like blue silk,
hearts poured like milk and love like honey
lap his rock-hewn bones, sand-sculpted stones-
her love like water and she sings
"Our city torn down will be rebuilt with walls of emerald,
and there will ever be a king on the throne we made . . ."
She is a brazen harlot, wailing beneath the spreading trees.
jekyll and hydethe unification of jekyll and hyde, thejekyll and hyde by injuredjaw
pictures of naked girls you have sitting
in your e-mail inbox, all the dirty little
things i know about you swirling
like dry, aged paper around my mind.
there's a fourth wall here, there's
something you cannot cross, this is
the fiftieth time i'm saying that i will
not have sex with you, and i always
seem to fail. jekyll hated hyde, jekyll
loved hyde, jekyll was afraid of hyde, jekyll
was assaulted. and hyde is a thing i
picture at the back of closets, huddled
and small. hyde is compensating.
forgive me, as i hack all your passwords
and firewalls and i breach your innermost
workings. forgive me, but i'm not saying
a drunken poemCall me clementine,a drunken poem by FrancieT
Call me mermaid magic,
Call me when my phone is on vibrate
and I'm fucking someone new.
Just please lobe, love, obe, one
Just call me
(I'll wait a ring or two so you don't think me too eager)
wait with me,
be clementine, be mermaid magic, be my phone on vibrate,
be the someone new I'm fucking
Just be the one that fucking calls,
fucking calls me
yours, your gal, your clementine, your someone else to fuck, your mermaid magic
|my favorite dA poetry|
beingof all things
be in wonderment
souls high kites with holessouls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ball
Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?
Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Of the wolcen burnspot
What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
A curling fern:
We slip around like
In Lilliput ponds.
We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
At the empty
Of an underwater statue-
Arms like levers:
Blackening the coats
And peeling back
Stripping time of
We see the sky
Where it is skyless;
It remains an opal;
In the bowl
Blackbird Pupilsdont look at me
with those eyes
bluebird green and hazel-ache
mine, already hollowed out
and daily leak-
i cannot bear your
youd see all those wax demonshades
youd know the clockworks run
i read some other poet,
his words were blackice bludgeoners, soundless suturing socket spikes, hammergods, each one,
the last cicada to flee the moult.
but he hasnt the orbs to ruin me.
almost no one has
(the triple lunes that
PetrichorI walk without an errand for the mind.
I must be homeless.
Neighboring enclaves separate our spaces,
belie their builders’ mirthless exhaustion.
Not even necessity can be blamed
for these mud-struck, brittle gourds,
these quick nests of vasculous organs
pulsing with their peculiar tyrannies,
briefly scuttling from their hovels
like sun refugees
darting into gleaming storefronts
waffled in concrete misery
all to forestall the end of their souls.
Where can we go when we only want to breathe?
Sitting in a park bench,
trillion-visioned, crowned with galaxies,
I can rest my weary invention.
I sense the weight of an unseen player,
a secret stratagem
as she moves her piece into the glade.
I’m set in place, yet unopposed.
Uncombined with lovers, children,
the slow parade of trees and heat,
I lay beside these stalwarts,
at once, still and hurtling
throughout the travesty of time.
I assemble a cumulus intelligence
near the playground,
threatening Summer with three days