13 o'clock ( dark-er poetry)

So what of this rage that I
rail and rant into the empty
hours here in the dark and lonely
nights when fair is but another
word with meaning not applied
to women who haven't lived enough
cried enough or laughed sufficient
tears to bathe a babe unborn
or mourn a parent too young to pass?

What of a love still waiting
for its time to blossom and grow
amongst the first warm days
of infatuated touchings and eager
kisses not even felt on lips aquiver
with glistening lashes closed over eyes
bright with tears to shed in grief
and regret that rage blots out the day
I could choose to smile with you?

There is no dignity in waiting on time
to either knock or cease to press
opportunity to live a different path.
No power in obeisance to a master
who holds the hour I might spend
in struggle or in joy. Give it back
to me and I will determine all the good
or evil that this life will wright.
 
This is also in the 30 Poems in 30 Days thread...

Jezebel in Hell

Jezebel stands
in white cotton undershirt and panties.

She used to adore her mother's in their
satin lace state, she wondered what the
age was when she would become "grown up".

When she too would be able to go shopping
at the boutiques of satin and lace
and all things minimal.

When the time would come when
her breasts would hang low and
hair would sprout among v-shaped space.

She stands at the top of the stairwell,
stamped into the floor as if she had
been built there along with it.

He's coming. She can hear him groaning
and pick away the sleep from his eyes.
She can hear his heavy footsteps.

In the thirteenth hour of night
everyone else sleeps and she stands steadfast
and he starts climbing the stairs.

On foot in front of the other
and up, up, up.
Up until he reaches Jezebel in Hell.
 
arienette said:
This is also in the 30 Poems in 30 Days thread...

Jezebel in Hell

Jezebel stands
in white cotton undershirt and panties.

She used to adore her mother's in their
satin lace state, she wondered what the
age was when she would become "grown up".

When she too would be able to go shopping
at the boutiques of satin and lace
and all things minimal.

When the time would come when
her breasts would hang low and
hair would sprout among v-shaped space.

She stands at the top of the stairwell,
stamped into the floor as if she had
been built there along with it.

He's coming. She can hear him groaning
and pick away the sleep from his eyes.
She can hear his heavy footsteps.

In the thirteenth hour of night
everyone else sleeps and she stands steadfast
and he starts climbing the stairs.

On foot in front of the other
and up, up, up.
Up until he reaches Jezebel in Hell.

:heart: this.

Would like to know more about the past of Jezebel. Why is she so commandingly in spot and what shaped her other than mother. Maybe more about mom would be good. A great write just feel as if I missed something ...


:rose:
 
RhymeFairy said:
:heart: this.

Would like to know more about the past of Jezebel. Why is she so commandingly in spot and what shaped her other than mother. Maybe more about mom would be good. A great write just feel as if I missed something ...


:rose:

Basically I just modernized Jezebel and made her young and the focal point of rape by a mother's boyfriend. This is the second time I'm hearing about "the missing link" so it will probably get revised in time...Just not now, I'm being drowned in poetic form after this 30 poems challenge. :rolleyes:
 
Again, also posted in the 30 Poems in 30 Days thread.

Love Making or Pure Fucking

In the thirteenth hour of night, right after the scenery becomes pitch fork dark and right before the sun makes it's grand entrance, passion seeps in through the bottom of the door. We never see it coming, we never did fix where the door is much too short, where you can see the floor and the feet of the people in the next room. The place where drafts and ghosts and passionate, late night craziness sneak in.

We are the scientists, continually trying out potions and magic tricks and seeing what happens when we consume the liquids right before we consume each other. Trial and error is like this, like falling, like the cliche description one gives when they believe they are in love. And we live our lives by doubling and redoubling and multiplying fragments of each other and placing them upon pedestals, while ignoring all the bad that courses through our veins.

In the thirteenth hour of night, we climb and push and thrust, moan, scream, clench fists and exhale heavily. We revolutionize what the story books call "the language of love" each and every single time I climb on top or you master me with burning cravings, searing desire and pushing, from behind or grabbing fistfuls of hair and pulling. I melt each and every single time.
 
In the thirteenth hour my shadow and I swap places.

He walks upright,
and I slide transparent across the world,
subservient to his motion.
 
Shallow

In the thirteenth hour my shadow forces
he and I to swap places.

He walks upright,
and I slide transparent across the world,
subservient to his motion.
 
Consuming Passions

Would you mind awfully
if I took a bite?
Just held that morsel,
tight. My hand's touch
could sully smooth skin.
But wait. With teeth
incise through and rip
flesh from those bones.

With tongue lave the wound
and taste these sweet juices
that I must have. I crave
the cry of pleasure
as I move this treat to tears,
savour the moaning fears
left to suppurate in the dark
until a faint realization sparks
a flame and meat learns - joy
comes with service.

Feed me this meal, come sup
at my side. We hunger, you
and I for more than lust can offer.
Truth rests inside these revels
to show us it's only dreams
in the night. Now, sleep with me
through this torment. When
we wake, I'll take another bite.
 
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snow falling


no sense sticking tongue to ice.
inside
this blue corpsed house
strangulation took place,
long ago. day by day
little
by little
the closeness of counting calorie
steel, clamped down. a suction cup
drunkenly breathalyzed
every dream.
like a stopped up potty, each give'n pull
purged us dry. without notice of foreclosure
eviction, eventualized.


..
 
illusion

seclusion keeps me bartered down
with the weighty conclusion, that all
is well. an allusion that I've played
along with, my innerself.
 
overcast skies
feeling their sorrow. I see
rings of blackness, feel them
descending, casting out
inky pools of smudge
coating the landscape
and I know this is just
their way.

let the rain fall
thunder roar
cleanse the earth of its murky
depression. their pain
like ours
leaves impressions
falling into puddled
lonesome hearts.


..
 
thpenny.gif


Clowns

With their screwed up faces
Peering at your innocence

Painted on smiles,
devilish grins
Distorted features
Identity a blur

Invite them to your parties
Children on a platter

Gloved hands
to grope and snatch
Bald head,
Stretched on skin

All the warnings and signs
but yet you giggle

Hobos, Clowns,
and circus freaks
Nightmarish fears
all reality.
 
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Maria2394 said:
the minute before the first hour past midnight
Maria, for most of the world, 13 o'clock is about the lunch time (actually, it is common there to eat dinner around one-two hours after the noon time, i.e. around 13 or 14 o'clock -- the US 1pm or 2pm respectively; they eat, if they do, their 2nd breakfast around 10am or 11am).

Best regards,
 
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Senna Jawa said:
Maria, for most of the world, 13 o'clock is about the lunch time (actually, it is common there to eat dinner around one-two hours after the noon time, i.e. around 13 or 14 o'clock -- the US 1pm or 2pm respectively; they eat, if they do, their 2nd breakfast around 10am or 11am).

Best regards,

In Magical terms... the 13th hour is the hour between midnight and 1 am. It's an hour that doesn't exist in the mortal world. On our clocks, it would exist in that time period between 12:00:00 and 12:00:01. It's when magic is suppose to be at it's most powerful. It is a time when evil has free reign. It is The Darkest Hour

Senna is your terms is would be... 2500 hrs
 
Maria2394 said:
it is that time, the minute after midnight, the minute before the first hour past midnight, and you are still up, online, why arent you somewhere writing? Right here is a good place to start. Or not. But if you have the devilish urge, to cook something up, some [...] poetry stew, be my guest and post here, I might post some two ;)
In music, there were some "nocturnes" before Chopin, but it was him who created the genre.

I claim "nocturnes" within poetry. About half of my poems, both in Polish and in English, are nocturnes. And perhaps more than three quarters have at least some nocturnal accents. I used to write the date of my poems written at night as something like 1991-08-24/25. Since almost all of my poems were written at night I gave up on such a date format, and switched to simple, say, 2006-10-14 instead of ...13/14.

Here is one of my nocturnes (in English :)): a note. Hm, the format is messed up, I better post it here, below.

Regards,

Senna Jawa

**********************************************







a note






the night rain
and Chopin
fall onto
my comforter
and smell
good
so good

the street light
explores my eyes
searches for my brain
but my brain
is dead
so dead





wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1992-06-02



*
 
Beached

This day is cool and grey,
soft to the touch;
a vacant eye fruitlessly seeks
its final destination.

There are traces of
the last pathetic throes for the unattainable;
grasps and gasps for freedom
and succulent life.

Inside, maggots fester
and raw, red reality
stews, prepared
to collapse in the hot sand.

If kicked by some disrespectful child,
this thin rubbery skin threatens to split,
erupt the putrid stench, all-breath consuming,
as the facade falls,

And you will be left
with the innards of this rotting sea
on your oceanfront property.

I realize it seems a little twisted, but I originally wrote this as a metaphor for my anger and frustration, yet no one seems to get that and only focuses on the rotting whale.... suggestions for clarifying my intent?
 
Savage Kitten said:
In Magical terms... the 13th hour is the hour between midnight and 1 am. It's an hour that doesn't exist in the mortal world. On our clocks, it would exist in that time period between 12:00:00 and 12:00:01. It's when magic is suppose to be at it's most powerful. It is a time when evil has free reign. It is The Darkest Hour
Thank you SK. I understood Maria's intention and meaning but I didn't know that it was a common notion rather than Maria's invention.

Senna, in your terms it would be... 2500 hrs
Except that 25th hour doesn't have a ring to it, that 13th hour does. The 25th hour sounds like the fifth wheel.

Best regards,

Senna Jawa
 
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Senna Jawa said:
Thank you SK. I understood Maria's intention and meaning but I didn't know that it was a common notion rather than Maria's invention.

Except that 25th hour doesn't have a ring to it, that 13th hour does. The 25th hour sounds like the fifth wheel.

Best regards,

Senna Jawa

Hi Senna :)

I wish I could claim 13 o'clock as my own by alas I cannot. SK is correct in her explanation, the wirching hour, or minute. I get bored easily and this thread was a product of that, but there have been some terrific dark poems posted so it was a godo thing!

The only invention i claim as my own in the lst year is porn on a cob...

its a novelty item, like an ear of corn, and as you "shuck" it, the woman strips down, until the end, you have a totally naked girl who sort of dances as you twirl
t he cob :D

I bet you wish I hadnt told you that, dont you

:heart:

j
 
(Couldn't resist this thread... revival time.)

1:00AM Inspiration

in a slight pre-light,
the overcast and the pavement appear to be
one, the same color, the same monster.
metal rhinos charge along the
gray flatlands, fewer in numbers, though,
during the night-light.
some fear the lions that hide in shadowy alleys,
while others sleep peaceful.



(done "Writing Live" style, with a spell-check, though.)
 
Midnight Diner

drank a cold drink of water
from a soap stained glass.
not a tall drink of water,
that was you,
and not a glass of water half empty,
that was me.

under a starscape something like
an explosion of sap in a fire,
i burn.
every man in this joint burns.

(for Matt, woke up thinking about you, twice.)
 
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I write

in the daytime, when all good girls
are at work. But, me
I sit, conspiring a way out of the
deep, dark pockets I scrounge around
in.

Coloring in, images
of what I want. Outlining his trunk
peanuts tossed to attract
grey in mind, like an elephant he sits
on the outskirts of town
to be penciled in
my pouched pilgrimage.



~
 
A mothers plea ...


The truth is
I can't sleep. I'm scared.

Dad was in his mid forties.
Out mowing the lawn, had some kinda
reaction. Swollen mouth, blisters bulging
lips inside out.

Patchwork quilt welts, seeping. Shots
doctors, emergency. Home he went.
Laid down and never awoke.

Packed on ice for three days.
Still no open casket could be had.

Daughter ~ single mother of three.
Sick all the time with one thing
or another. Bronchitis, trouble breathing
chest pains, so weary and tired.

No sleep to be had.
Everyone knows
one day,
you just might not
wake up.



~ g'night
 
icarus v 2.0


he gives up
flight
for steady footing
among the lichens, look,
his teeth already green
with chewed algae
and other roughage.

he shoots forth
as a mushroom, unannounced,
far too many. Or like
wet petals with irrevocable
scent. He sheds his whim
& luxury, now all
thorny.

for love
he forgets. bumps
into corners. falls
from grace. his jaws
bruised, where words have stuck
like discarded moth wings
 
they put you in the lion's den
and came back a to a pile of bones;
not yours, theirs.
the infected puncture marks
lining your forearms
drool liquid hate,
dribble a spittle of venom
down your arm,
dripping from your middle and index fingers.
that's a hell of a peace sign if I’ve ever seen one.

perhaps it was V for victory.
 
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