I threw some whore off a rooftop in Santa Fe.
Watched the cars carousel around her corpse,
With our music drafted from a window two stories down,
And that street light shimmering from a tire tinged blood pool,
Blinking with a cobweb eyelash, dripping nimbus tears.
Crusty mascara singed blue-black scars down paling cheeks,
A cigarette tossed into a frayed, fallen mane,
And the lips she charred cherry,
Just for me,
Drink in the hopes, and spell out the shames;

‘While the rigmarole of the cajoled soul,
Dilapidated dress for some rugged role,
Tempts tacit ticks in tittering tolls,
From canorous clocks and capacious colds,
That dare depict Dark’s derelict knolls,
With gunners and whores who can’t seem to grow old.

And heritage injects, fallacy construes,
My perfectly precocious anti-muse,
With her sordid skirt, and his bent spoon,
Basement endeavors, raping rooms,
Hiding in starlight, twilit dooms,
Biding in plain sight for worshiped wombs.’

Post and lintel dreams droop in the midday sun,
Semiotic promenades incipient at dusk these days,
When the corner huddles too close,
And the night crawls back to you, licking tired wounds,
But no one knows their names anymore,
Those who drop from the eaves to lend limpid ears,
And one must wonder why they crave your redundance,
As the Mantra Aficionado is at it again, to hell with cloaks,
But he kept the daggers, didn’t he?

Listen, there he is:
[i]“And I won’t let this build up inside of me,
And I won’t let this build up inside of me,
And I won’t let this build up inside of meâ€

Very nice! Man, that was some great imagery you managed to pull off.

Sweet leaves of chaos,
Tore through a withered heath,
Dancing for an albatross,
Flapping forth dissonant beats,
Winding winds till tempest tossed,
Biting plains with figment teeth,
And a carapace of silence lightly lost,
Starred you down to dare bequeath,

"Holding out,
For just the right amounts,
Of Luck and Grace?

Well show me now,
Just so I know,
And let's go so slow,
That I don't notice the morning.â€

A windswept iris,
Caged by those gaping alien pupils,
Cataracts of a soul's tacit linguistics,
Balmy brooks sieved with riddled retinas,
To spite a stuttering perfection,
That could only be your lunette lips,
When they mold to wan words,
Whom I scarcely care to hear anyway.

And lust inundates the schism,
Abridge esurient orbs and razor hips.
Tempt-Tick-Tock, o they've cast rhythm afire,
Searing till you shiver for sullied flesh,
Your quiver torn aside to dot the floor,
With broken arrows and black satin.
“Fancy that,
rape on your lips through a lonely Night,
If hips held heart,
you’d still have stabbed her outright,
Bled her slow,
all through the long hours’ blight.â€

(Knowing this board's reaction to line breaks as I do, I might note that this poem had a specific line-break pattern, and if it really even matters, it's shown correctly here http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/35342712/)

Within the flowers of the Hesperides, lie voices so sweet none other deserves to sing, and, when Ladon bellows for silence, none other shall.


-Eσπερίδες-
O! Give unto this calid calyx plundered,
Seven sultry sepals, whose undulations under
One livid lily of languor, tempt men to blunder,
But a sundering song, of primordial thunders,
Rankles the wrongs, in those tenacious yet tender,
Till attrition looms long, beneath fiery splendor,
With dear Draco’s claw, sifting the cinders,
And gilded fair flesh, hangs ripe for thoughts hindered.

And breathe not! sweet Nightingale,
Lest ye inflict one heart’s travail,
To deny the hymn a lily-lip unveils,
And think not! of what silence entails,
Lest ye break on thought of her voice’s avail,
For though thou sweet, Dear Nightingale,
Thine magic wanes weak, and thy lyric pale,
With supernal sun bleak throughout Night’s first wail,
And so sleeps,
So weeps,
The Nightingale,
When hum from beast of opal scale,
Prefers the sum of our sepals’ tales,
Vaunted long the river’s run,
Thorough song of a dale undone,
And so needs,
So heeds,
The Nightingale,
Proffered off for vixens’ avail.

Et quant ma maladie garie ne sera nullement,
Sans vous, douce anemie, qui lie estes de mon tourment,
A jointes mains deprie vo cuer, pui qu’il m’oublie,
Que temprement m’ocie, car trop langui longuement.

Il N'est Joie Ne Joir

1
As a Gascon I fled those mists,
When the Moon rose from an earthly bower,
Against the messianic oratorio of one Whippoorwill,
Flirting with Handel like a harpsichord struck sane,
And within this third night I swear She came,
I swear,
Rolling back the mountain stone so as to shine full upon me,
When I receded from the Rhone’s foggy outpouring,
Desperately eluding vapor figments,
And still She rose,
To glitter through the Lethe beasts screaming for a chance to forget,
Passing off an earthly verdict to nameless stars,
Bearing wisdom to the craven,
With words refracting off nameless streets,
I held Her close again, translating as she paled,
“Hold Tight, The Night Has Comeâ€

Musings of the 3rd and Its Confusion With The 4th

There’s a dance I’ve never strode,
With my feet that shuffle in so dismal a gait,
Chiseled deep into the blackened ice of chilled heavens,
With steps like daggers trailing ephemeral wounds,
Pains wasted on the tenure of mists,
Wiping way the stark snowy bloods, drawn forth,
With some angelic partner’s stiletto heel,
As she siphons hates across ashen meadows,
With flora contorted to screeching moors of branding,
Fire, white hot,
Yet wiped through the fog like some memory on
Your schoolhouse chalkboard,
And still yet this Lightning seems to be,

Citing the syntax of celerity,
Harking in havoc and hilarity,
Singeing, through stolen severities,
The brackish balms of a broken breviary,

And with tricky little trickles of tripe,
The fiendish fusillade of fire and fife,
Nestles notes of a sense’s sedulous seduction,
Through reviled rivets in rhythm and redemption-
-That I would love to someday dance to,
And, for but a moment, the prosody of pronged power,
Pulsating throughout the shrouded sky,
Fools me.

It surely was a vivid vernal visage,
A temporal trellis of trendy triage,
Glittering glabrous as the winds massage,
My temples through his minute of mysterious montage,
And then I see it, recapitulated in one star-spangled regurgitation
Of all men knew about thunder;
Gunpowdered Emulations.

It was like releasing pigeons you’d,
Choked with an olive branch or two,
And passed off as a service to New York’s windshields,
When doves cost too much to trouble with,
And your budget was already bound in peace and petrol.

Though, god probably gouged you when he pawned off peace anyway.
I’ve found it, it was hiding under an angel’s skirt,
As she danced across the sky, blowing kisses that shook windows,
And rattled sweet dreams into melancholic dioramas,
That keep reminding me of your lips,
When shadows slipped through shutters,
To see what you taste like.

The DA poem was pretty cool. I should do something like that sometime, too.

I was asked by a friend on DA to do a poem concerning Bondage and S&M.
This is it.

Trumps and tricks from this little witch,
With a bustle of black breathing timidly behind locked lids,
Shivering like stout oaks surpliced in Virginia Creeper,
And told to wait for death,
With me plucking leaves from her scalp,
And placing them on the brusque Summer floor,
For the sake of hearing them rustle when robed,
In the bare, barking breeze of her screams,
Till I can once again trace Autumn through the air.

Taut trunks, wrapped in the polished vines of bondage,
Still writhe when tickled by soothing snaps of Southern winds,
Roused from sweltering slumbers,
By the sickle of raw hide on ingenuous fleshes,
So that I can trace the wrinkles in her tear clenched brow,
With a dagger’s burning acrylics,
And transmute the smooth, pallid canvas of submission,
Towards the intrigues of tribal frescoes,
Granting her fear the countenance of fury,
Painting a warrior into her sundered spirit,
And deeming this encounter an expose,
On the petty barbarism of War and Peace,
For right now she wants nothing more than to kill me.
(a metaphor?)

I’ve hushed her heart,
Sipped from her soul,
And now we’ll see if her body can do as told,
When directed by the clenched fists of my Ego,
Or the lecherous mesmer of her own sadism,
Till she starts to kiss back and tear at impudent leggings,
With fingers the Spectre of my own Sins has dipped in,
A blue hue of deadened tranquility.

She’s got me walking through walls,
And humming rhythms of celestial libido,
When the demon beating on those frail prison bars,
Of her rib cage signals for someone to flash APPLAUSE,
So these nights' spectators would stop blushing,
And realize they are someday going to masturbate to a miracle.

And it’s okay to worship witches like saints,
When they f*ck like slaves,
And fight like they’re crazed,
Till I’m tending to rope bitten wrists,
As her breasts heave a little softer on the nectar of culmination,
And she tries to grin through a gaunt grimace,
“It’s like getting raped and asking for more.â€

That poem is ace, my man. I especially liked this part:

Lo! The purest perianth garnishing an odious Jacinth,
Sidling jilted alongside wan, worried winds,
A horrendous Hyacinth, wilting forth from my veins.
How now, Hyacinthus? Heated is your claim,
Upon the floral morass encircling our shames,
And how prudent of perdition, to reek of blames,
Yet waft your sweet aroma whilst I wither in chains.

Twill this eromenoi’s periapt, poised pagan petals,
Spill along my verdant hills, poisoning with its mettles,
While oblique accoutrements mask, these sins I’ve settled,
And the palest rider banters past, releasing from his prattles,
Condemnation of a sordid preach, as I employ hell's idles,
He babbles on with ruin’s tongue, and upon my ears a trial,
The hours cower and seep for dawn, yet time’s tendrils tremble.
The world’s whims wept, crumbled, crept; till the witching hour dreamt,
About, around, and with our fears miskempt, we sowed screams in groves,
For the God whom drove our marionettes to a tempest, wistfully wove.

And some forthwith specter was the Scream’s confidante,
Offset as he rose to transcend fair Moon’s haunt,
With skies now blooming black from flowing flaunts,
And Hyperion he flees from we demon’s taunts,
Thus a soul gives unto gloom that resolve, once staunch.

When this livid scent cradles me through another dusk,
And the pollen’s putrescence plucks at my lust,
With one Rose, nay, an Iris for my lover’s dust,
Gladiolus’ symposia undulates amidst a hatred’s rust,
And Hyacinth Hells hinder with a hush,
I gaze upon the fields o’er my soul’s own crush.

Let the larkspur thrush afford yet one more bitter taste,
As the silver bones, they’ll mingle with lucid tones in my wake,
And the singing stones will rivet with a moan of pure remorse,
A lament for the grave they’d been bound to, and how coarse,
To rest atop a sinner’s glee for all of infallible eternity,
Sanguines swaying with the mirth of miseries,
Atop an unnatural earth so vested to entomb me.

<i>Pater-Noster!</i>
Perfidy has a pallid penchant.
Poxy polish pacing the pews, resplendent.
Passion pissed to the parson’s parley, remittent.
Pommel pinched in your paltry decadence.
Poor pose pouring past pitted defiance.
Perched rose pungent above her compliance.
Precarious power peeling from Love’s Science.
Petrous persons eyeing their primes, repentant?
Pillory of passion prime in we recreants.

<i>‘Mea-Culpa,’</i> she passed to me.
<i>‘Mea-Culpa!’</i> I threw to her.

The winding words, the wistfully white lies.
The embrace beneath her marital colonnade.
The lone waltz to distant violas.
Bite of the purloined peach.
Love drips, stains stark on the lie’s white smock.
Red as Ever.
<i>‘Caritas Aeternus,’</i> as her back turns.

<i>And O Merciful Father,
Mayhap mine Death be found now,
In the last lingerance of lovers' arms,
So as the helion may have but one choice,
In the smiling soul his cold so swarms.</i>
But alas, Silence deigned a response,
Whence my Father would not.

Purloined peach plodding through the postern,
To the tabor’s candor, within the soul’s cistern:
Waters lacking shores, dank deluge amidst their churn.
I follow; dare to asperse a white day with heart’s burn.
I come to the parson, eyes fluttering out my sinful yearn.
Reticent reverie, bemused bash, flit out on his turns,
“And would ye hold peace, young kern?â€

I was busy counting Cadillacs through the clouds,
Like I wasn’t a blind man in an aisle seat,
On a 747 my nightmares had chartered,
To cart me off to Dreamland,
(a few last words of wisdom stuck in my mind from when they flung peaches at me screaming: “You know poodles never
should’ve been crossed with nighthawks, YOU KNOW!!" though perhaps my pocket translator was dropped in by a grinning Elagabalus,
And any moment I’m going to be drowning in rose petals)
When I asked the stewardess for two buttery nipples,
Though apparently figments,
Make bartending just a bit more complicated than it really is,
For she plopped out acouple mammaries,
That pulled a few electric levers in my neighboring refugees,
Whose task was apparently to douse the compartments,
In chilled semen,
So that when I go and vomit in the morning,
I’ll have a better reason than Comforts,
That were finally Southern.

10 hours, 12 minutes, 32 seconds I’d managed sleep,
And I think there must've been a few long pauses in there,
So I could grasp the breasts heart, mind, and soul,
Because it wasn’t a very long dream,
Though maybe it was just Hypnos,
Having his way with with me,
Like the cheap bastard that he is.

Sunspots trounced rebirth along yielding easels,
Done-up mortally under scents instilling clemence,
Inside another lonely night,
And punctual undertones never knuckled rivets in your malice,
Or called kisses,
Chasing happily the poniard’s coursing kinetics,
And all the potential energy within as it hung over marble appendages,
Ready to show me how much it and death got along.

I like to stick my tongue in God’s navel,
And ask if he finds it awkward,
But he never can quite catch my meaning,
When it's pitched in tones that don't quoth in thee or thou,
And yet always finds the time to answer;
That his ears aren't in his stomach,
And that I should really stop turning him on,
Cause the press never seems to like when he lays the holy hand,
On his children,
And that Noah was a fool,
And men were meant to be foot-stools,
For dodo birds,
“But we all know how that turned out,â€

Dypsomania,
Places pullulations of parsimony,
Along the prandial sanctions of provender,
While prophet is parched and lonely,
Yet all ‘neath the panicle’s splendor,
For leafs of faith, left lithe and moaning,
Tend poets as arcane hegemony,
And vatic veils of scent unfolding,
Locution loved and lent from the holy,
Delphic, dense, pictorials atoning,
For every snug quietus roaming,
Around the bodice, spent and stony,

For:
Loving
You always
Meant hunting snipe
With
Secret tides,
Of tallow tarradiddle,
Incited,
To hallow,
Memories of benediction,
That
Soothed every
Incision like salt
In
Sobered seas
Of fallen petals,
Flowing
As fey
Eulogies for spring.

Those are great pieces, man.

And by the way, I'm gonna watch you on dA. You deserve it. (my nickname there is 'iaaan')

After many a summer dies the swan,
With the steady beats of corvine quills,
Skimming the last tides of withered wills,
We’ve slid into bromides of inken thrills,
So that words abide for a voiceless trill,
That only a poet could grant the dawn,
Or the lost larynx of the loving swan.

After many a winter sang the swan,
Whom cants of a cursory kiss hath left laying long,
Furtive moonbeams for this held breath of song,
That wrung dreams to wrap each note gnawn,
In dry tapestries of death’s darling spawn,
Till cordiform constellations fade unto dawn,
And I search for the lost whispers of jaded swan.

Each gentian wave
Our ocherous tides rallied
Through the foxglove
Slid over swollen knuckles,
Adds velvets to your wrinkled
Volition,
Or
Perhaps,
All the agrestics,
Bent on smothering our
Foothills of sensibility
With Dandelion downy
Were killers
Whom
Happened to possess
A means that was worth
A turn or two in a tumbril
By the end.

But know that heather
Pools
Are best to drown in
(if only I could've told your brother as much)
That lilacs mean more
To a
Corpse than your kisses
Ever should've.
(if only we could twist your lips into pollen drops of felicity and foil)
That sundials
Keep
The cogent times
(if only they traced the mimiced suns so well)

Be Sure
To think of me
When you've injected
That instigated redolence of
Poppy and passion,
Just as I'll
Ruminate the cud
Of your dreams
If I ever decide impatience
Could mean so much in a world
Where flowers keep the time
Like hollowed whale marrow
At the podium Mother meant
Your eloquence to fade from.

Conceptual spinal chords,
Tapped through with the maple spigots
Of platonic recrudescence in the notations
We’ve exhumed for the chance encounters of
Divinity on phonetic reliquaries of vinyl,
Through the traipsing soothsayers revealed
In every gramophone that ever dared
Defile Beethoven.

Flautist spoke through her
In places where frail limbs are lynched,
(Blessed be the apartheid of body and
Soul),
Cembalo stifled he
In cases of the pale whims clench,
(Blessed thee whose sins are clever
Told)
And I told you,
When we hung from the heart-strings
Of symphonic martyrdom,
With quiver-tongues that felt the proof
Of Jesus in every metaphor pricking
Our high brows
(All Hail The Cross Of Musicality)
Sing through the blunting blades of
Viola bows,
That we allowed to saw through the truths
The deaf bade you at last hear,
For we dreamt of the treble clef
Meant to weigh upon your neck
So thee might feel as Bach in the end,
Hauling towards the hills of Judgement,
Dead with a half-note spiked through the
Ink spattered palms of
My Savior.
(Thou Shalt Repent)

Though, be sure and do it
As Handel did,
For you're left the heathen
Lest the crones bleat
Tears back at your
Perfection
With the talk of kneecaps
Sputtering against glaucous limestone,
As gavels against the splintered
Blocks of oaken soul, Sustained.


Erecting cat-gut cathedrals in the name of
The Shepard,
Caught herding perfection into the sunset,
Before we showed him the passing
Faiths of Music in the heart,
And watched souls squint
In the proper direction.

Great shiz right there.