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Tag Archives: metaphor

Has What’s Been Ignored Been Received Well?

And so…

 

…Like dust redistributing the atmosphere with salt and pepper paint-strokes of disassembled gambits of temporary existence.

 

…Like glitter genuflecting upon the pulpits of false gods and sacrificial lambs…bleating in bloated biorhythms of incandescent temporality…blinded completely by an unfortunate choice of shades.

 

…Like dampened cloths beguiling the drapery with its wash, collecting every invisible remnant dormant yet astir, partially in prayer, entirely in-dream, hoping all that will about become is resultant solely from the unsubstantiated anxieties formed in frown, upon this altar built from heaven commonly referred to as life, itself a mystery only solvable through death.

 

…Tomorrow thinks nothing of what it steals from today.

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Collision: Larynx crushed//            //Enter: Pantomimic reply

Kill. Queen. Green. Flag. Capture. King. Within.

A bull and the belle…a message for…

Unmask the luchadores. Show them for all that they are

Bric-a-brac. Banderillas first. In seconds, heart-ATTACK.

What may seem like forcing, isn’t even the crux of it.

This biscuits gone stale.  Pour another round for eachthemall

Horrible what they’ve done with your grammar.

Porous sieve you’ve become.  Drifting round with that afadavit sleeping sideways off your tongue.

Don’t sleep. Don’t sit up straight. Pretend. Dream. Just pretend it’s all a dream.  Stars, they shine. Big. Bright. Here. On this, impossibly broken narrow string that once was just a normal night.

LOUD: Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalla. Sings them all.

SOFT:  whisperslayuponthetonsilstill…[trails off] \\ for silencia’s sake.

INTERMEDIUM: For thou shalt not covet thy maker’s SUN.

THE poltergeist’s a sparrow.  The cardinal’s a fence.

CRETAN: “I’m truly saddened by your loss…{Extremely Edgy}

)you should see the other guy( as I lay here in my bed…only I know. And I can’t help but cry. “How do I tell Daedalus that his toreador is dead?”

 

The Bond

Coruscating thoughts betray thy primal instinct.

 

To the witness, the clouds commence, skewing that which has been long since known of man.

 

It is here, where the heart begins its activation.  An internal clock of inborn premise commences, stirring forth the Grimoire incoherent.  In counting down and spiraling through, a leavening of complacency spires to, flecking the stars with gold and sparkling hues.

In a momentary lapse of permutation, reflective as it is refractive, adjunct to the enemy it stows.  As is the composure under compromise, baseline’s stilt, rearranging polarity. Such damask blends breed patterns unrehearsed.

 

Pulsation bleats awhile rapt in throbbing undulation. Emulously, in duress, the synapse skitters to inert measure; a weight felt reactively within the fading doe.

 

Struggling, she battles each interval coursing in the plague. Struggling, to remain focused, to ignore the loosened clasp. Struggling, to deafen the fleeting harmonics born this eve. Struggling, to adhere to innate notions, to see through, both the vision and the virtue, she’d painted in her dreams.

 

Fledging forth amongst the besmirched quaking born from such dystopian avails, one would not think ill for fading soon to the aberrant qualms that darkness drew.

 

Despite tremors, of consequence, nature is discovered; where traits, of perseverance, dare not yet escape into death’s ever-alluring, outstretched arms.

 

And, in as such, violent resolutions forego their anticipatory applause.  Instead, baffled as they should be, said constrictions grow intrigued by the tarried rebuking from this beast.

 

The doe, now pale like pallor’s bride, rejects thy outcome, denouncing the agonies your restrictions make.

 

She adheres instead, to the coursework determination phrased within; blocking all currencies of pain and by staring deep into her pleasure’s swoon. And it is within this now, which sensations become avowed, thusly taking her through, to that time, in which she elsewise would’ve claimed.

 

Amongst each meandering pause another echo would emerge.  Upon a bed crafted in cruel reality, in a setting coated by seeds of unnatural parlance, maternal impulse still chose to surge. Instructions whispered she to stay. Whence came the word, perhaps the ethos spake, perchance the wind itself? Though none knew such a cure, enough was spoke to stir the beast e’er still. Mystery kept wake her eyes, to stare, beyond the pain and through the sadness it would purge. Mystery kept full her lungs, to breathe, inhaling another tinge of life.  Though fleeting still, mystery kept alive both instinct and hope, enough for her to feel what it was she knew as truth. Mystery kept her silent, still, to marvel upon the art she gave and to lay eyes upon that which she would invite to set her free.

 

Yet, when time came to, she looked away.  Many stood agape, to believe she chose to test the temperament of fate. If not for the architect with womb, never would this truth be sate. For the salt cast stream, which was all the story needed a mother to see and know.  Such action was not bred in denial but rather bled from sacrifice.

 

As the doe would have relished taking her leave with such a sight, it was out of fear she chose no such reprieve. As much as her lids did beg for this delight, she could not bear to know her expiration would be her artistry’s initial sight.

 

Such strength uncommon, born of a love noticeably unseen in such a time, to sacrifice the love she bleeds, so her blood can bear not the timeless burden of such bloodied sorrow.

 

Seasons would shift and time did pass, leaving us our return to this unfamiliar familiarity, a present path connected with the seeds of life’s past.

 

A hunter, it is told, often discovered a child scampering through his favorite tract of lawn. Upon this day and for each one that does still pass, he would stand still to watch, as this child aged upon his familiar stretch of path.  Here then he sees, each time he does, the child is cuddled close, amongst a warped wood of unnaturally yet naturally shaded hue.  And strangely enough, seasonably without expectation, such a man, of his line, should choose ebb back such a gifted sight.  Never did his quiver part from the spine, effectively deboning sycophantic notions of archetype.

 

And as the well worn boots march away each time, a child scurries along through brush and wood, ever looking back, leaving indication it would return again, a truth this hunter proudly knew as true.

 

And what is to be said of a predator that sympathizes with his prey?  Perhaps all that can be said, must lead us through, past the points of typical convention, to the precipice of an unlikely connection, a convection, that forever onward, only two would truly know.

 

Or quite possibly, as I like to think it through, perhaps the myths are true.  To which, so the songs bestows, that despite what we know of as truth, a doe still protects her own, even after her days were eternally through. The tale then retells, that through a promise made, between a sickly doe and a hunter who fared not well in hunting, that bonds be built, between man and nature and nature with man, creating an ouroboros between adult and child.

…And Silence Looms

The guillotine extends

And annelids we are

Bisected harshly,

By all the edges we’ve embraced thus far

 

The adder puffs

The lamprey’s splash turns red

Stinging, struggling

Tearing, gnawing upon

 

The wolverine

And the panther, both

Sharpen, their many rows

 

Leaving but

Prayer…and then

Only Silence—

Seemingly

Forever looming—

 

Another string undone.

 

 

Short Poem 8-16-13-4

Mankind is rife with terse reminders of the ever-lengthening scars formed deep within the lost crevices of his interior.  It is, at such hours of disenchantment, where treble-tinged vivisections stir the scalpel cold to flesh. Therein a pulsating vibration beckons unearthly fears unquenchable until the manifestation is acutely committed to.  The surgeon, fresh off a seventy-two hour misshapen bout against reality, stands, imperceptibly shaken yet shaken nonetheless.  It is then, beneath the blankets of operating room lights, that the keen observer will unmistakably notice the contrast of appearance.

Short Poem 8-16-13-3

Lost amidst the trellises of radiant glitter and crimson scaffoldings, is corded insignificance.  Such passageways endear their exteriors to those impatient with palatial gardens and the valleys of waking doldrums.  It is here, in such dominions, where the keen blend fastidiously with the ermine, slinking about in secrecy, gnawing upon the vestiges of dignity, and all the while creating a martyr’s trove of varicose reactions. Beneath this new estate, there are magnanimously enriched life forms, biding their days with the frailty of a past-lives’ prognostication citing the prominence of the days that follow suit. They flee beneath the radar of disconcerted eyes, collecting and scavenging whichever degradation their fragile frames can amass beneath such convoluted armor.  They collaborate with their brethren, engorging upon the hollow earth with their so-called civilized modernity, enriching the soil with the well-placed trinkets they’d ensnared from the last descendants of humanity itself.  These gathered idols are reminders, of just what the tiny form can conquer when cooperation and unyielding belief coincide so generously.

Short Poem 8-16-13-1

Corroded veins breed contaminated circulation, a tainting that begins with bereft corridors of tampered complacency and ends, after an excruciatingly devolving revolution of unhappy pursuits often confused with oblivion.  The validation of end-laced deportments, bludgeon clean the all too delicate levers of supine vacancy. Time then offers us a parable.  A poor excuse for solidarity when unleavened vines ever-captivate the wandering directions of the slipknot’s integral mind.