[Poetry] Satan In The Hearts of Little Children

I've done a number of different forms of poetry; a lot fall into stream of consciousness, free verse, and similar things. I'm huge on e. e. Cummings, Georges Bataille, Hart Crane, Rozz Williams, Andre Breton, and Antonin Artaud.


WRITING IS

Writing is
The coffin scratchings
Of the buried alive
I am writing to avoid
The world I have rejected
The world I can't see
The eldritch gnosis
Nightmare garments
Woeful throne
INTERROBANG
Just a theory.

THE BLACKEST STORM

The blackest storm
Swept our home away.
I looked for my boy.
Rain begat ice
As wind followed darkness─
The first in silk wings,
The second, in tattered rags.
Calm came dead and empty.
I never had to dig
Such a small grave.

HIS MOON EYE

His moon eye
Was a gaze so bright.
Fall and her heart stood rooted
To the very spot.
He died when pierced
And drained;
Just like any old lump
Lodged in her breast.

I USED TO ENVISION

I used to envision,
While in a fetal position
On my side, that
I was a parasite
Inside of a giant organism,
And in the excess of its security,
I had no cares in the world.
That helped me sleep.

THE TITANESS

The Titaness looms over us.
Wearing her pallid flesh garments,
The occluded deity stares patiently
Into the configurations of matter,
Peeling back the layers with her eyes
As they fill with unspeakable anguish
and belabored anticipation.
The stars will align.

DISGRACEFUL

Disgraceful now, the eyes
Of all who chose to see.
This violent symphony
A dead beggar's lunch.
I am elevating trash and ♥♥♥♥
To the dimension of heresy.
Shall we tear it all out by the root?
Finish the Dread Circle.


FATHER AND MOTHER

Father's eyes and
Mother's lips;
Their owners invested in entropy
By bringing the lifted torch of life.
That budding fruit was torn at
By hate-mongering tribunals,
Driven by the tongue of
Venom-thinned Demonologists
Harshly dieting in combed sands.
Their kin isn't mine and so
I was stunned to finally see the Gods
Dance in their golden sack cloths.

JESUS DREAMT

Jesus dreamt blood dreams
Jesus dreamt of blood
The cross cried out
The Leviathan rots
Sleeping in the sea
Beasts of Gethsemane
Sado-masochist fantasies
To the soul black with tar:
Thou wilt soon be with me!

HARKEN WELL

Devoted ones harken well
Change just one word and
Heaven will split you in half--
For sadness suffers only in a mirror.

EYE OF THE BEHEADED

Beauty is in the eye of the beheaded.
Beauty is madness,
And must slay the mind
And its horrendous truths
To bring forth the pure lifeblood
Of direct Encounter.

FLY KITES

I'd like to think of myself
As an even-handed
One-man think tank.
Sympathetic yet relentless,
I fly kites in my head all day
And no one gets hurt.
As smart as that is in theory,
My feet are broken clay
And my emotions are made of lead;
Every day, I regret
Forgetting who I was.

‽ Interrobang = WIN

"The Titaness" would be my top pick. I admire the simplicity in the text itself, while the meaning carries much more weight than the compactness would insinuate. I am much the excess when I write, more prose than suggestion.

That's what I enjoy about poetry -- it is limitless.

Originally Posted by Doran_Bladefist

‽ Interrobang = WIN

"The Titaness" would be my top pick. I admire the simplicity in the text itself, while the meaning carries much more weight than the compactness would insinuate. I am much the excess when I write, more prose than suggestion.

That's what I enjoy about poetry -- it is limitless.

Poetry IS limitless. It's as limitless as lying without consequence or fear. And it is this mad freedom, the excess of being that spills out of our words as poets. I wrote that poem based on a divine-themed interpretation of a woman I've known for a long while, definitely fun to do.

THE END-TIME MARTYRS

The End-Time Martyrs

Appear carrying signs

But answer no questions.


The war-mongers

Salute hate slogans

In the interest of fairness.


.
The swine farmers

Worship the butcher alone.

They dwell in terrible abodes.

Spooky stuff. You have lots of powerful imagery everywhere, right down to the title of the thread and everything on here is fantastic. I think I like Writing Is the most. Coffin Scratchings works so well there. I eagerly await more!

Originally Posted by Awesomecake

Spooky stuff. You have lots of powerful imagery everywhere, right down to the title of the thread and everything on here is fantastic. I think I like Writing Is the most. Coffin Scratchings works so well there. I eagerly await more!

Thanks, Awesomecake! I don't usually get a ton of feedback, seeing as there is only a small audience for apocalyptic and surreal poetry. My thread in my sig called "Cryptic Verses" will link you to a whole other thread of my work from a few years ago.

Anesthesiac Heard Whispers

A long table and the body itches

Hold her open

Racing white curve of barnacles--

Easily removed

I am putting on the gloves

The masks in place

Can't hear us at all

Her body

Just wait

Bring me the drill quickly

Before the tongue goes pale.

Spare The Savior

Possessed by His followers,

Crying into the phones,

And crawling up my walls.

Fractures line His eyes.

Bring me the bed-ridden One,

Regressed to His manger of low degree.

Pass me the rusted chalice:

The precious blood given

To feed and bathe the living dead.

I overturn the cup onto the dirt

To feed the worms, toads and locusts;

Salvation mercifully given to the plagues

And not to Man.

Christ weeps with joy,

And I bid the Man farewell,

Able to die for the last time.

Tormented by the Loneliness

Of distant visions of faces lost to time,

The swollen computer God

Reads from within the Akasha,

Burning words like knives

Lined and laid into cruel boxes.


The Body of Lights is pain

Death is so close to me

Life is but a sideshow

Of our longest journey

Into the Deeper Self.


Death is so very glorious;

A horizontal vital sign in free-fall,

A vein seen as ghost through the eye.


I speak much of the Journey

And yet each Sideshow

Contains a Ring and its Master.


The withering pale woman of glass

Gives the growing bright sprig of

The flower that grows thorns-- of love

And loosening petals that wilted long ago

The Confession

I have taken blood and yet I have only begun.

At the age of nine, I told him to kill his mother.

Flecked flapping, like a spotted ink pigeon,

Woke them all up downstairs.

But that was then, and this is now.



Persons are amongst my finest stock.

Try and make a species yourself...

Tables of biological utility are

Couched in parabolic equations.

I left the means.



I draw new crowds of shuffling carbon;

Delight in detail, obscure their sensibilities in your own.

The masses of men, women, and Oxford communists watch

My naked housemaid washing the counter

Through the television screen.



I decided to make you today,

So before I spit you into the world,

Your architecture must be defined.

A stroke of my brush gives your scalp the flowing locks it deserves

But leaves your eyebrows barren, without regret;

Your sickness is like a blossom.

In my empty study, all I can do is laugh.