From Masada,
Light cascades all around
Ready to envelope any party
That dares pass below.
At Masada,
Comes the order to break.
Caravan, having traveled far west
To mere barrenness and death,
Savors the simple rest.
Above Masada,
One respite of blue,
In this sea of colored cliff,
Remains so far above
It's accessible only by death.
Beside Masada,
Lies a closer blue
That offers no respite
In its fatal sapphire swells,
Despite this mirage of life.
Beyond Masada,
Bandit faces block the path
Merely a mirage? Rather,
A reflection of ourselves.
From Masada,
There trickles the solace
Of a moment's peace,
Replenishing only the
It wasn't long ago that I could pace
Unnoticed amongst their docile numbers
Despite the passage of many a year
Since my Weltanschauung was torn asunder.
Can't recall what eased that fateful blunder,
Why we'd share our savage meals together,
What laid deep within her azure eyes that
Crowded out any thoughts of another.
Flames can burn an ignorant bright before
They must endure that endless, bitter cold.
Should've heeded, icicle bones barring your door,
Perhaps spared my heart from this chilling void.
Can't even tell the teeth-marks anymore,
But the blood from hardened wounds
casualties of chance by KanisSapphirus, literature
Literature
casualties of chance
The impotent thud of the gun won't lie,
not even in the furtive light of a cigarette haze.
Listen hard for your life as your blood beats by.
Chill metal smooth as sultry sweat, try
not to focus on how high the bets will raise.
The impotent thud of your gun won't lie.
Soldiers still wet while their blood sets to dry
Muzzled violence dissolved; yet their stench stays.
Listen hard for your life as your blood beats by.
No moment's chance to contemplate why
spinning chambers are a dizzying maze.
The impotent thud of your gun can't lie.
Addict to the dealer's smirk and the wry,
smiling craze that always haunts waning days.
Listen hard
i can't write i can't think
my mind is a void
i can't eat i can't drink
my stomach's annoyed
all night i'm awake
fear of being a fake
and in that fear's wake
the only refuge i take
from mistake to mistake
i can't live as a failure
i can't live out success
why did i come here
my whole life's a mess
How very sorry was I
that the predicted tornado
never attacked from the sky.
All my hopes were in vain
to see the side of my house cave in.
Stolen hopes of a basement bunker
in which to weather strong wind
that surely would have made life
interesting for a while.
The rain still fell
(they failed to foresee that)
and I heard a siren's yell
whither to but a sigh.
There is something in you and I
that longs to brave the violent might
of a hard storm, we delight
in some measure of destruction
(feigning to hope the damage is light.)
A whole race chasing storms
fascinated by the awesome power
of our Earth's breath.
Two
dead
dog eyes
stare at an
empty orange dish;
while the flies, the flies, the flies buzz.
Maggot colonies crawl in sprawling bald patches of
pink skin, parched, and old ear torn, limp,
hanging uselessly
like pupil's
eyelid,
worn
dry.
Two people separate and walk away.
Were you one? I cannot even say. Sight
blurred in lieu of your soft, allaying words –
your deft blade slew my terse prayer for us.
(And earlier today, did you notice
our sheets shone soft grey-blue in the dawn's light?)
Why did we stray from our view, held jointly,
that we'd stay with each other through it all?
Dismay trailed us both, for we knew no
way to regain our places in life's queue.
Poetry is the art
Of gleaning stillness from movement
Of giving still life motion.
Poets are photographers
In developing verses versus film
They give the inanimate emotion.
Poetry is the technique
Of saying more with less
Of leaving some things .
Poets are people
The bored security guard reading East of Eden;
Or his merlot-addicted housewife who
no longer tends her garden.
Poetry is the act
Of platonic love and zealous lust
Of coveting your neighbor's wife.
Poets are children
Coloring outside all the lines
|in the process creating new ones|
Poe
It is a late summer day.
Dogs sweat fur, molting like tropical birds, but
their noses are cold and wet on our toes as we
kiss on the pock-marked porch swing in your backyard.
Your hair flows through my hands like wine.
Your lips are cool too, fresh and sweet
like the promise of autumn cider.
The swing creaks like the deceased cider mill
keeping time with the water whispering through
your mother's rock fountain, shimmering in the sinking light,
almost the last rays of the sun scatterin
Current Residence: Amerika Favourite genre of music: I like most things except country and any jazz that's not live. Operating System: XP [sp 2], OS X 10.4.4 MP3 player of choice: winamp Favourite cartoon character: American: GIR and Batman. Everything else is anime [e.g. D, Guts, Kenshin, etc] Personal Quote: what is reality but the words exchanged between people?
Favourite Visual Artist
Leonardo da Vinci
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Metallica, Tool, Vivaldi, Astral Projection, Eminem, Enigma, Rammstein, Kozmix, E Nomine
How is it that our lives accumulate so much useless junk? I mean, half the things I keep I don't even understand why .. temporally they aren't important anymore, they have no sentimental value. I have a lot of things like info postcards, display garbage (keychains, pens, etc.). Why do I keep them? It's almost like I'm trying to make up for some lack in self-confidence by buttressing my life with tidbits of information. Does everyone do that to some extent? My parents are horrible pack rats, but I'm not that bad. I usually binge & purge (in clearing out junk), but I never get rid of enough. I don't think it's all worthless, I just need