Bitter Musing/Dark Poetry

Bitter Musing ~

 

The bitter taste,

the bitter taste of sour tea

I did not take the mean black, poignant gleam,

that shimmered in a whirring-circled, roiling stir,

and left me musing over its moor,

to take me back again where I love best,

where my heart can sing in sweet rapture,

where the birds glow and flit and cry,

their cadences, and I gently rest, with my hands splayed,

before the dynamics of them . . .

 

take me away from the sour taste,

the cold anchoring of my hands, upon-

it cruel distaste,

and burn me not, while I sit here and deeply ponder over its,

shimmering boil, hatred filled heat,

and the blackened tornado,

when the birds flit out of my minds eye,

and I become aware of my mooring, 'gain,

sitting and gently resting with the

seeing them in my minds eye,

as I listen to the cadences,

of a places that passes above me,

somewhere in my brain within me,

somewhere, somewhere I cannot see,

and the sounds finally fade,

filling me with nothing but this dark taste,

the flows along my tongue now burning,

trembling with the sour thought-

and deep distaste . . .

Why You Should Visit A Rural Town- Humor

Why You Should Visit a Rural Town ~

 

            You cannot drive very far in a rural town because of the fact that there are no actual houses. Therefore, as much as you continue to drive, the town will always appear to look much the same. The remnants of what are deemed to be houses are actually rags of clothing which are revered due to their masterfully patterned, brown dresses. The houses are flowing in the wind with the most languid ease, because their long clothing is easily swept up by the air, and this makes the patterned calicos creak delightfully. These houses wear a wide range of brown to black coloring which is so spectral that they have the innate grace of the taste of a grandmother, who once understood the grace of impeccable clothing- riddled with holes, cuts, and bruises in the most natural, elegant textiles- and best of all, no one bothers them, because they are now provide such a vast impression.

            They make the grand appearance of age-old Roman emperors, who face the city after a massive war. They are so highly respected that, entrepreunuers run wildly, and flee the city before ever creating more than one Save-A-Lot. They are so highly esteemed that, in short, no one would ever dare step foot within fify miles of them. And, best of all, because they give the majority of their time to the cows, the animals benefit from them by living within the fruitful grazing and constant sunlight. These contented animals languidly roll within the long, steadily rising tendrils of blue, smoky plants all day, while gazing up  at their black counterparts, as though they have become comforting mothers to embrace. Thus, with the endless miles of rural imagery, you will always see the same image, and it will be more delightful than you would ever have dreamed, because, who wouldn't want to go where the cows graze?

Agonizing Love- Poetry

Note: Is it always so difficult to love someone who has an uncertain past? How capable is the human body of loving, in spite of a conditional circumstance?

[Warning: Contains dark content. Read at your own risk]

 

 

Agonizing Love ~

 

This body which has torn and ravaged,

the blackened souls which it has touched,

a physical force with strength untrammeled,

the charcoal color in which I dipped each soul . . .  

 

I painted every semblance of their skin,

black with my physical paintbrush,

 and every portal of their minds charcoal,

watched as the gleam in each eye, blue or hazel,

darkened immediately upon my artistic choice,

darkening those thoughts of sweetness,

killing them with my black body, soul,

the fear I caused, the shivering pain,

the blood which dripped between them. . .

the charcoal which colored them,

it was all because of me.

 

My body sought among this evil,

looking for elements of pain,

they became one with my own internment,

the acts became a cage . . .

one for my own pain.

 

The guilt I live with now for it,

is comprised of sins unsaid,

My has ravaged the souls of many,

torn these virgins from precious glass orbs,

the moment that I slipped inside them, into white,

and colored them with my blackness . . .

 

though stitched them up again, to staunch the bleeding-

the best that I could manage.

 

As I laid down beside her, now thinking,

that I am not good enough for love,

that her blessed purity has killed all my feelings,

for anything save hatred and revulsion,

the terms float before my vision,

and mocks my saddened gaze,

as I wonder at what I have done to her,

this tiny flutter between my breast,

blossoming from this small stem,

that lays beneath me still, in solace,

who refuses to leave me and my poison.

 

Oh, why can I not leave the burden,

of my self-hatred,

to anyone else save for her,

why did I need to fall in love at last,

and taint her with all of my pain, myself?

Wings of Gold

 

~ Wings of Gold ~

 

Scouring wings of gold,

Gracing mysterious cries,

That ripped the black night,

Tearing in illusionary parts,

Chunks, which fell enamored,

Love-glued to lacy tendrils,

Of majestic rose and sunlit hues,

Embraced by an angel’s grace . . .

 

She sat quietly in pearl bonnets,

Of speckled sun-pressed orchids,

A Heavenly measure of braided,

Silver-tied rushes,

Within the pithy splendor.

 

A paint-brush feather,

An elaborate whistle, of silken clarinet sounds,

Lilting in a song beyond the Gates,

E’en though she would not lift,

Her blue eyes to glance upon,

The honeyed wings,

That scattered her life,

Into sweetened touches,

Licking her fair breast,

Gently, so calmly, a glaze,

It was all,

While the chipped glass majestic red,

 A creamy mist of herbs, and spices,

Heaven’s crystal-clear touch-

Mere measure-

That disavowed night,

In her favor,

Lending her just a bit,

Of its petals and scents,

The hues and delights of Our Father.

Midsummer Night's Ballet

~ Midsummer Night’s Ballet ~

Sensitive and graceful curvature,

Behind those dark lips,

A soft, enigmatic phrase,

That was upon his kiss,

Never seeking me out, and dying,

Beneath the soft pale features,

That starkly showed a contrast,

To the flames that spurred the devil-

Who had grasped him,

Tucked him within its clutches,

Sought him out, regaled him with bright touches,

That enamored the word, the art, the whole, the beautified,

Glory-path,

Bright pendant within the moon’s light-

And then the pale, sodden, wet tongue suddenly turned black,

The evil art of his own figurine body,

Yet a casted, a dancing ballerina-

In bashful loving . . .

A shard,

Of heavy glass,

Yet, one that trickled down from a sun-flecked window,

Glancing at me in the sunlight,

Through his tamed, empathetic, red-rimmed eyes . . .

That dark intertwined with the silver,

And that beautiful prose,

Who made him what he could only be-

A creative talent whisking,

Against the woods in a midsummer night’s dream,

Black as the ace of spades yet so white, so endearingly luscious,

A porcelain set upon my dresser,

And now I can only think-

That something has taken away,

The devil inside,

Yet his tongue is still two colors,

As I barely brush against his soul,

Alight with shuddering, forcefully teased pleasure,

Trembling spurted physical and spiritual strength,

And the enigmatic force,

That this person holds for me-

And the phrase is loosened,

As I finally hear him speak,

As together we chat,

In a passion,

Which never needs an ear,

For,

We never have need of talking. . .  

Dark Passion/Poetry

~ Dark Passion ~

The slipping tongue,

That shines, gleams, and glides,

Out of the mouth, the lips towards-

A better catch-

The sickly sweet, syrupy honey,

Which glistens as it falls,

In slow, glittering succession,

Of drops, onto this tongue-

Better than anything which this tongue-

Has yet poured out to touch-

In the open air,

While the gleaming of dark syrup,

And snaking tongue,

Finally become as one.

But . . .

I do wonder, how this bodily function,

Has enwrapped such lust, as this . . .

Because the blissful, caressing warmth,

Of this still unbelievable, true, gently tickling, cold, appendage-

Has taken inside . . .

All of my tender, womanly passion,

The sweet and most dear yet unnamed,

Desire,

The courses, throughout my blood,

And finally-

Drips,

Inside of your loving folds forever.

Truth Ventricle

~ Truth Ventricle ~

What we knew,

And what we never saw . . .

Is crying in deep red blood,

Yet, while the shining, glittering tear rolls down the woman’s face,

I caress it carefully,

And my finger-

Comes away red.

Yet my heart is wrenching, jerking in a cantankerous way that,

I would never be able to comprehend, if,

I was unable to rest my hand,

Upon her swine colored, pinkly flushed, slowly dying  face-

And something begins at that moment to cry in my own breast,

In wrenching gasps as I-

Fall forward,

Spiraling towards a dab of a hardened blotch,

That has crusted up and dried,

On my hand . . .

I open my palm gently,

And the vision of a tear-like drop, of blood,

Has fallen there to rest . . .

I look up at the midnight blue stars,

And feel my heart swell,

As I lay down to rest,

In the cold, dampened meadow . . .

Never really understanding,

How her tears turned into blood-

And I keep sobbing,

My hair, finally cascading in a gentle arc-

Around my shoulders,

And finally, finally- I lay her down,

And cover her up with a blanket,

While truth pumps through my own veins,

Pumping, coursing-

Now I see everything so clearly . . .

If only she had told me-

If only I had known, the truth . . .

I breathe a deep sigh to myself,

And lay down to rest, beside her . . .