Simple and clear
Though murky water
It is as still, as is all water
Flood and Pain
Now does come
To all who desire
Earths humble Pun
The TollThe Toll
A simple Clock
deep with fury,
I am found.
Wrecked my life
and torn asunder.
I lay here still
and I wonder...
Would a blade against my throat
Heal this wound;
guard me as a moat;
slice me deep, until I’m found.
Should I ever wake from this dream,
shall I find shores serene?
Or will I discover
the ancient home of my Mother,
She taught me well,
the Arts and Crafts,
with tainted Star;
I mark the hour
that the Clock,
tolls with arms
at noon and midnight.
From these wounds,
that I have suffered,
the clock again,
shall never chime
For me and mine.
As I pass
through the gate,
my death of my own make.
I am met at once with power,
strengthen deep upon my glower.
This is now the time
when the veil is lifted at the chime.
I see all
from this high perch.
Atop a chariot,
My wrath and fury
upon this verse,
they shall know
my painful curse.
thus do I know now,
The clock chimed so foul,
Not for my eternal soul
but for my ene
The Anariarchs Freight-trainThe Anariarchs Freight-train.
Fast with fury, It must deliver; seeds and rum, and a brand new Sun. The Gardens stocks are running low, we will die before the next snow. Placed the order, upon parchment sound; delivered by Dragon, small yet proud. It arrives at a house, filled with wares and trinkets bold; thus did this story unfold.
Packed and ready, my order great; from my distant throne, I hear Its on it way. The conductor boards the now doomed train, his hair alit as clear flame. He stokes the fire, and shovels coal, gems as black as pits profound. In reverse, the Engine slows, locked in place, its cars in its wake. At last the final crew boards, arm with weapons; danger on the road. Now the horn, it is blown, whistles great with note untamed. Gems are loaded to the fire, Holy water bubbles and simply bursts. Smoke and ash rise as one; this Engine will never be undone. The men are ready, the Conductor strikes, a lever ‘dained with skulls in numbers Thrice. Down the lever, it n
The Anariarchs Call to ArmsThe Anariarchs Call to Arms
From every corner of this verse, my voice and pen becomes sore and hoarse; yet upon this Kingly hour, Thrice the Horn shall peril sound; tremble at Its Holy power. Its blast is heard all around; It brings the Gods to divine ground. Should we gaze upon their sights, our eyes would melt and pay steep price.
Marked and made with sacred hand, taken oath by sacred land, It calls to us, us the mighty and the strong. I hear It now, I am called; to Holy War, there can be no wrong. Clock and Bell chime before It, leading up to symphony; this Strife will shed not sympathy. The devils mock our Crown so bright; we will follow It, err It lead us to deadly plight. Forgotten calm, now frenzied Lord; He shall guide us to victory, in eons lore.
I now know Its name, truthful and profound, spoken only with hushed sound. It rises softly, deep with verve, a note so calm, soon torrent bound. For an era It is blasted, from lips of wisdom, and iron casted; voice forever, it long an
Conversation with the Anariachs Mechanical ReaperConversation with the Anariach’s Mechanical Reaper
Should they tell my story whole, it shall begin with maddened pen; with which is writ my inner thoughts, may they flourish as a shadow on the land. The day has come, with Eden spent, I seek to speak, of forbidden tech. From ancient ground, to forgotten mine, the pieces fit, with me and mine. With harried print, I etch the plan, upon which the hour tolls; my machine shall be born.
Taken salt from this scorched Earth, with steel and forge, It is made. A simple visit to my Lore; It shall be blessed a hundred-fold. By priestly might, It shall be named: The Mechanical Death, for It reaps Pain. With hardened tears, from angels rot, I craft Its inner heart. With demon horns, I forge Its fingers, long and slender with ample room; I fit Its weapons old. I fashion Its feet, from metal strong; It shall walk upon the barren Ash. With Hammer and Anvil, I striketh hot, this ancient steel, Its veins with oil dear. Its head shall be a skull, giv
UntitledI see as clear
as the sky above.
I am made whole
by your kind and simple words.
Should ever I feel the need,
to mark my soul with blades,
I will remember,
the words you spoke.
In times of darkness,
I have lived.
Until my eyes
beheld your awe-ful vision.
As an angel, thee appeared.
Wingless, yet radiant.
True to form
You spoke with dew.
And I imbibed,
made whole anew.
Now I sit
upon a throne.
Made king forever
by righteous acts.
No more do I carve.
No longer do I burn.
Only now at my height,
so I ever wonder:
Where did I find this might?
The answer clear;
twas few words
that spoke of volumes,
mighty and with lore.
I now want for ever-more.
I no longer gaze
at the floor.
I lift my head
to rain, clouds, and sun filled air.
May the Gods find me fair.
Of simple stock I am made.
Yet with this verse,
I am free of curse.
I am finally
I am not a rock.
I am not still as a stone.
As a mountain, I grew tall
this deadly abyss fall.
Through thick and bush
I fell lament;
my love is shattered,
upon hearing the final verse.
I am dead at this sound,
made deaf and very numb,
polished by a giant gun.
I sink deep,
by oceans might;
I am crushed by blue midnight.
Down into the dark
where I find solitude;
envious is my mood.
Jealous of those, my betters;
I could never hope to see
myself above a tree.
Though a mountain mighty,
I am tossed into the sea;
Will fate and death
ever let me be?
Through the long abyss,
Unfathomed the krakens depths.
I muse here now
at the bottom
dead as sows.
Crushed to powder,
my heart and soul,
my everlasting body.
I will never say:
A key and door
did I found.
Unlocked and beaming,
Tears soon as a stream;
Am I lost in a dream?
For what I saw,
through that door,
sitting upon the ocean floor;
I tremble mighty and despair
Oyneng Yar (Dance, my Love.)Oyneng Yar
Cleaned by oil,
Strung on wood,
the Cello speaks.
Tanned the hide,
that maketh the drum.
Dance, my Love.
The song is sung.
From Forest deep,
the fairy speaks.
Her voice so sweet,
makes the man, now humble meek.
True to form,
the spirits frolick.
With simple hue
the moon beams at once.
Dance, my Love.
The song is sung.
Her hair, water waves,
cascades as Falls,
Her lips so red;
I wish her upon my bed.
But tonight I’ll woo her, dear,
with words and eyes
that pierce the soul,
and are delicious as pies.
With verb and form,
I sing to her;
She dances to my tune;
my heart is all aflutter.
Cleaned by oil,
Clear and true,
their profound notes.
Strung on wood,
the Cello speaks.
Deep with verve,
Its song is served.
Dance, my Love
The song is sung.
This night is cursed
with Loves torrent;
for my beauty love,
is Deaths sweet caress.
Soon I’ll cease my humble watch;
Maddened, insane, and of simple eerie stock.
Once heard, is the chime,
That would bring you close
to heart so dreary mine.
As a seed I’ve watched you bloom,
with your sorrows I have swooned
from East to West, and to distant star;
I have traveled very far.
Yet with all my years I have yet to see,
such a face, a beauty such as thee.
From deep abyss, I sing to you.
And watch you take full moon.
To bask in midnight's purple light,
is the task in divine hands;
you will blossom as a star
bud eternal, rent from God.
I place you in my Garden,
and watch you grow to full tips blue.
True to words, I have spoken,
with painful lips I set thee free,
and smile painfully,
as you take your rightful place;
a lotus here, a tulip there.
Yet at center stage,
you dance forever,
marking hours as the years go by,
Never knowing how I fly,
past your Eden decent scent;
I am made all the quiver,
at your voice, now is heard,
a sound like Thunder
trembles my eter
Maddened SymphonyMaddened Symphony
chalked and spied;
never knowing a lyre’s lies.
To seek the truth,
one must die.
To lift the veil,
I’ll play the harp,
and pluck thine eyes
for me and mine;
succulent and white.
oh how your screams delight.
Many of us,
begin to sing.
your simple heartstrings.
your subtle mind.
to mark the hour
should we falter;
our patron ill;
She’ll kill us all,
if one should sing
an ill struck chord;
off her head
and troubles accord.
So here we dance,
and here we sing.
We play tunes
to maddened ears,
and wicked souls;
dance if you fear,
never worry still.
My faithful loving dear,
I’ll carve a smile;
clear from ear to ear.
I’ll take a photo.
This is not
my final verse.
I’ll speak more,
once your in my Hearse.
A Cure For Writer's BlockWhen your pen hits the paper and nothing comes out
With a full cartridge, something's about.
Sitting there lonely staring off into space
You've got Writer's Block mate, it's a terrible case
The symptoms are some of the worse things to *bare
If left untreated, might as well say a prayer.
Diagnosing the problem is the first step to take
So let's get it started before it's too late.
Do you find yourself doing, the things you've put off?
Or watching TV late at night till you cough?
Dusting and cleaning. Hunting for food.
Surfing the net since you've found yourself glued.
Hanging out with friends all night long?
Getting them together for a night on the Town.
Or lying in bed staring off into space
Tossing something up till it hits you in the face.
This list of symptoms can go on and on
Keeping you busy for weeks, whilst mentally withdrawn.
Now on to the cure which you'll see,
It's really quite simple like *growing a tree
To Block means to stop, the ideas from flowing.
Get this barrica
Because of Doctor WhoBecause of Doctor Who I am Afraid of...
2. Christmas trees
5. school food
7. blue tooth devices
10. children's drawings
11. MRI machines
13. gas masks
14. brass bands
17. the dark
21. coma patients
23. ...and hospitals again
25. weight loss pills
30. old ladies
to icarusin the next life you were a phoenix
a fiery resurrection
songbird of ash & second chances
when you flew south for the winter,
you made it every time
see for you, the universe was an olympic mountain
jutting out of the ocean, a temple you would never set foot in
an elaborate maze you'd been lost in for too long;
the only love you'd ever known was from the coalfire
of your father's hands in the dark, they were the most angelic
monsters, they were beacons
his mind was the gears of a clock that never stopped spinning
but the light,
the light was a promise to be seen
the fire, a dancing enchanter that never leaves
the future was an echo on the labyrinth walls:
prince, dream of dove and swift and nebulae,
dream like the lone at night for the warmth of day
you were a golden child, waiting to be found in the darkness
the earth is too flat;
you said you'd go up,
thought you'd be a little closer to the gods
your downed shoulders caught wind of the whisper in the air
—the ground is no place
gardening tips for the mentally unstable1.
i got drunk last night, eight beers too deep,
preaching streetlight gospels about the benefits & drawbacks
of rocky mountain air,
we stayed up past the stars & showed off scars, told scary stories
that we really wish we had just made up in the first place,
killed apathy with a flyswatter, splattered its guts all over
the coffee table outside
and come to think of it, we didn't even end up saying much anyway.
my mother used to tell me secrets, secrets of science, secrets diagnosed
by doctors from ikea furniture catalogues,
secret bits of diluted reality with my toast for breakfast, genial omens
in my aluminum lunch box--
it wasn't until tenth grade that i learned that some secrets are just sickness,
and psychology textbooks seem a lot less appealing
when they start to sound real.
it's hard to remember if death threats were dramatic ironies
or just empty promises,
but i'll tell you that nowadays i nurse the idea over a cup of tea at noon
i'd like to think i can at l
assembly for pompeiithere has been a poem stuck between my molars
from the night before I decided the hands of my wrist-watch
needed someone better to wait for. there wasn't one metaphor
for time I missed with us and I know you asked the half
a century worth of summer alcohol in your veins this
more times than I did;
"you don't get to hurt over dumping a year of alienation
in one fight he never saw coming," but you see, now
the backs of my hands don't hurt with morning sickness.
I don't fake spasms in my nerve endings louder
than my mind's own dark places; I have learned to say no
after swallowing that I had to deny you so many things
you asked for well before you earned right to them. for starters,
i. you did not earn the glorious, then-private hourglass
of my body. you begged with the reserved desperate
in your sly grin and showed off the glisten of my virgin skin
on deceiving pixels.
in your virtual hands, my body felt limp-- a bottom-heavy
chalice of airless vessels.
ii. you did not earn the lo
The Human RaceWe are a species,
interlocked and intertwined;
so why do we make our survival
a race of humankind?
We are human; both man and beast,
yet we are known for our rage
and our depravity, known for locking
up "kind" in a cage.
We are a legacy, the evolutionary
history book that spells our lies
far better than we do. Why let our
winners erase past losing cries?
We are horrible, ruthless things;
a true mockery of living
as we wage war for the simple
act of giving.
look at the clouds todaywhen i met you, i stopped writing. i also stopped waking up to a face full of post it notes saying things like its bad luck to see the woman before the driving test, or my house smells like apple cider and bluebottles have eyes, or i've got static in my arms. i stopped feeling sorry and i stopped falling down the stairs. i noticed the stars at night could have a story and you could have taken the ocean and put it in your eyes. i also stopped writing.
when i met you, i stopped trying to be a nice person and just was. when i met you, i discovered post it notes and then i couldn't use them. i realised my house was not just a picture of a house and that your silence is so loud and my loud is so quiet. when i met you, i stopped writing and i cut star shapes into my blanket because i couldn't reach the sky, even with a ladder.
when i met you, i traced the map of your bones and filled my hands with yours because i stopped writing. i also stopped walking backwards because i noticed that i coul
on leaving it behindi still
this might appall you
or agonize you but i do.
i remember still evenings
with little to exchange besides
heartbeats and breathing patterns.
i remember soft afternoons
with my back raking against the carpet
leaving sporadic scars and stitches of memory.
i remember dark roads, and darker rains.
i remember a longer faith and a shorter pain.
the wounds are not as fresh, they do not sting,
but they ache and the few times i hear your voice
wedges your fingers in my brain and i can feel the cake
of neglected cum stains and i can hear the desperation in
the small whimper of my name and the way it was hard for your
breath to escape and my mind is running on thin rails, paper train,
and all i ever wanted from you was a home, not a place.
you would finger fuck me in the movie theater
and i would squirm and you would laugh because
i am not so good at keeping quiet. and all it would take
was a look from me or my hand up your knee or my lip under my
teeth and your eyes would
The Reaper's LootOf war, of war this day I write,
Of battle and blood that is shed in the night,
Of cries and screams of blood and pain,
I wish this night to become day's light.
The pain, the pain of the killing pursuit,
The scars etched upon berserker brutes,
The hate and fear of fire and lead,
I see the fruit of the reaper's loot.
Oh fire, oh fire and destruction's start,
Oh copper and lead seeking the foes' hearts,
Oh flesh and bone you sought to rend,
And as their souls depart,
The devil sees your new art.