a few of mine, diversity and regrets included
- Thread starter butters
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butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
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silken
escaped, escaped, the promiscuous crowd:
along an empty coast
the sea creamed
in ribbons,
slowly,
dreamily,
erasing contemplative frown
as the pulse of the sea
carried to me
the quiet voices of oracles
telling of a future-life...
a whispering
of monuments eclipsed and timeless moments;
of minature moons trembling
in shallow pools over wave-wrinkled sands;
of deathless prose
carried on the voice of shimmering cries,
incessant
and ushering those leaden skies
of some-time cherished melancholy.
...and in a opium smoker's dream,
a bird of the wind and waves sank
languidly to earth
in a swirl of soft cinnamon,
its tiny heart pierced
by the glittering darts of thin sunlight that
dazzled and glistered a watery skin;
and from one corner of its soundless beak
it bled a crystal parody of life,
three dainty crimson beads to stain artistic souls.
it sank gently as if sinking
back into a sleep, an otherwordly place
all populaced by solitary islands
in a placid, pallid sea...
a time of slowly drifting mists obscuring vision,
muffling the celestial tongues of birds:
these limbs felt heavy-smooth, relaxed,
covered in a silken crust of salt
and, where bad men boast, they idly felt
by turns
luxuriant and tangled, transparent as
pink ice
or licked and rubbed and soothed by
broods of shaggy suns and
velvet-opalescent seas...
...escaped, escaped, the promiscuous crowd.
published cold eels
escaped, escaped, the promiscuous crowd:
along an empty coast
the sea creamed
in ribbons,
slowly,
dreamily,
erasing contemplative frown
as the pulse of the sea
carried to me
the quiet voices of oracles
telling of a future-life...
a whispering
of monuments eclipsed and timeless moments;
of minature moons trembling
in shallow pools over wave-wrinkled sands;
of deathless prose
carried on the voice of shimmering cries,
incessant
and ushering those leaden skies
of some-time cherished melancholy.
...and in a opium smoker's dream,
a bird of the wind and waves sank
languidly to earth
in a swirl of soft cinnamon,
its tiny heart pierced
by the glittering darts of thin sunlight that
dazzled and glistered a watery skin;
and from one corner of its soundless beak
it bled a crystal parody of life,
three dainty crimson beads to stain artistic souls.
it sank gently as if sinking
back into a sleep, an otherwordly place
all populaced by solitary islands
in a placid, pallid sea...
a time of slowly drifting mists obscuring vision,
muffling the celestial tongues of birds:
these limbs felt heavy-smooth, relaxed,
covered in a silken crust of salt
and, where bad men boast, they idly felt
by turns
luxuriant and tangled, transparent as
pink ice
or licked and rubbed and soothed by
broods of shaggy suns and
velvet-opalescent seas...
...escaped, escaped, the promiscuous crowd.
published cold eels
Last edited:
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
5 years old or more...
something else entirely
it's that time again. that time of shifting moods like sands that slip beneath one's feet, where no place will bear the weight of one's step but to remain still is to sink up to one's neck before choking on detritus that slides over lips, into nostrils, across eyes...
no. this is not a premenstrual thing. this is something else entirely.
the need for one solid piece of existence is paramount - but excruciatingly elusive - and for such an ordered soul as mine this disorientation is suffocating in its instability. suffocating. drowning in the mire of inactivity. things
are not what they seem.
I sleep with mirages in front of eyes heavy with hoping. I wake, trusting to the naive dawn to shed new light on shapes that waver like shadows rippling behind a drifting curtain of smoke... choke once more on disappointments brought by low clouds cutting off the blue.
once, I thought I knew. my skies were lit by a golden sun and stars sailed the night in rightful attitudes. false days, false nights, where steps taken forward are really only steps on a treadmill; the fragile illusion of forward momentum a cunning distraction of my attention from the struggles of trying not to sink beneath this stinking pool of murk - embalmed.
distended - with the bloat of undigested thoughts; amending - for the troubles that have brought about this flimsy peace; unbending - yet must bend before the wind or snap, this aptitude for balancing on tightropes something lending me extension...
I am not mad.
to dwell in realms of unreality is not a sign of madness. to survive these surreal states of mind requires tenacity - and the skills of an acrobat: I bend as India rubber bends; I spin plates on poles that don't exist; appear smiling with the tiger yet I'm flying through the air with the thunder of the canon's fire still ringing in my ears. I
disappear
yet go nowhere. just mirrors. just a trick involving mirrors. you direct my performances - you - the ringmaster. you tie-off the ropes, adjust the nets, pull in the audiences...
you
orchestrate the marches and the clowns.
I climb the ladders blindfold, bright visions of towers dancing in my mind's eye... call in the elephants - the lions are tame now. the trapeze swings low for me, I must catch it left-handed... if I fall, will the crowds gasp? will the crowds gasp as loud as they'd gasp if it were you falling through the air instead of me? should we see? but who would take pleasure in that? that would be like tying a rat to a burning thing... smelling its fur singe, hearing its eyes pop - tasting the blood in its mouth as it bites through its tongue, stifling its screams.... see what I mean? not much fun to be had that way. that's not my way nor is it your way I shouldn't wonder.
no. I shouldn't wonder. that distracts me and I may lose my balance and I wouldn't want that. you wouldn't want that - would you? no, there's never a finale and the word anti-climax is therefore never heard over the struggle to remain sane. I am infamous for retaining my sanity when all clarity is muddied.
lost in your head I am lost... in your head.
does the ringmaster never take off his hat?
does his whip never lay idle?
does the smile never leave his face?
more lost than most he is. you are.
there are those
who would say enough is enough and games are idle creatures - speakers who've never been framed by ringmaster edicts; speakers who've never danced to the band as it plays and it marches, loud and roisty, round the ring; speakers - who've known nothing of you or your ways.
speakers - who are better not speaking. strike them dumb and turn them around and around till they are dizzy with you; till they succumb to the forces of centrifuge and vomit forces its way past their teeth; till they stagger and roll in the aisles. the clowns are in the audience - watch them as their faces grow numb and they politely applaud you and I,
a cystic high.
cut my ropes. let me fall.
let me.
something else entirely
it's that time again. that time of shifting moods like sands that slip beneath one's feet, where no place will bear the weight of one's step but to remain still is to sink up to one's neck before choking on detritus that slides over lips, into nostrils, across eyes...
no. this is not a premenstrual thing. this is something else entirely.
the need for one solid piece of existence is paramount - but excruciatingly elusive - and for such an ordered soul as mine this disorientation is suffocating in its instability. suffocating. drowning in the mire of inactivity. things
are not what they seem.
I sleep with mirages in front of eyes heavy with hoping. I wake, trusting to the naive dawn to shed new light on shapes that waver like shadows rippling behind a drifting curtain of smoke... choke once more on disappointments brought by low clouds cutting off the blue.
once, I thought I knew. my skies were lit by a golden sun and stars sailed the night in rightful attitudes. false days, false nights, where steps taken forward are really only steps on a treadmill; the fragile illusion of forward momentum a cunning distraction of my attention from the struggles of trying not to sink beneath this stinking pool of murk - embalmed.
distended - with the bloat of undigested thoughts; amending - for the troubles that have brought about this flimsy peace; unbending - yet must bend before the wind or snap, this aptitude for balancing on tightropes something lending me extension...
I am not mad.
to dwell in realms of unreality is not a sign of madness. to survive these surreal states of mind requires tenacity - and the skills of an acrobat: I bend as India rubber bends; I spin plates on poles that don't exist; appear smiling with the tiger yet I'm flying through the air with the thunder of the canon's fire still ringing in my ears. I
disappear
yet go nowhere. just mirrors. just a trick involving mirrors. you direct my performances - you - the ringmaster. you tie-off the ropes, adjust the nets, pull in the audiences...
you
orchestrate the marches and the clowns.
I climb the ladders blindfold, bright visions of towers dancing in my mind's eye... call in the elephants - the lions are tame now. the trapeze swings low for me, I must catch it left-handed... if I fall, will the crowds gasp? will the crowds gasp as loud as they'd gasp if it were you falling through the air instead of me? should we see? but who would take pleasure in that? that would be like tying a rat to a burning thing... smelling its fur singe, hearing its eyes pop - tasting the blood in its mouth as it bites through its tongue, stifling its screams.... see what I mean? not much fun to be had that way. that's not my way nor is it your way I shouldn't wonder.
no. I shouldn't wonder. that distracts me and I may lose my balance and I wouldn't want that. you wouldn't want that - would you? no, there's never a finale and the word anti-climax is therefore never heard over the struggle to remain sane. I am infamous for retaining my sanity when all clarity is muddied.
lost in your head I am lost... in your head.
does the ringmaster never take off his hat?
does his whip never lay idle?
does the smile never leave his face?
more lost than most he is. you are.
there are those
who would say enough is enough and games are idle creatures - speakers who've never been framed by ringmaster edicts; speakers who've never danced to the band as it plays and it marches, loud and roisty, round the ring; speakers - who've known nothing of you or your ways.
speakers - who are better not speaking. strike them dumb and turn them around and around till they are dizzy with you; till they succumb to the forces of centrifuge and vomit forces its way past their teeth; till they stagger and roll in the aisles. the clowns are in the audience - watch them as their faces grow numb and they politely applaud you and I,
a cystic high.
cut my ropes. let me fall.
let me.
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
Temples and Towers
we worshipped in temples of faith, hope and lust
we fed on temptations, disguising mistrust
their altars were burning, such innocence, yearning
inviting the spite of excuses and dust
punch-drunk on perversion, I staggered and strayed
morality writhing and freewill decayed
captivity's practise was always coersive
submission's attractiveness slowly subversive
hostility's wilderness briefly delayed
perplexed and delusional, insane-institutional
i raced my reflection across a dull sun
now i despise irony but something divine in me
scorned and derided all that i had done...
divided by lies, i was un-hypnotised, i was
pale and confused, my deliverance come
i rolled with the rhythm of malice unsung
that beat on my ribs and my ego that hung in such
desperate tatters, from sensual towers
and in all the hours that followed the sun
found deadliest vows were stripped bare of all powers
the emptiest vessels the easiest shunned
the headiest vices were no-longer priceless
serenity's rising - the purest gold spun
...and we worshipped in temples
i raced my reflection
i rolled with the rhythm
of malice unsung
that beat on my ribs and my
ego that hung in such desperate tatters...
we worshipped in temples of faith, hope and lust
we fed on temptations, disguising mistrust
their altars were burning, such innocence, yearning
inviting the spite of excuses and dust
punch-drunk on perversion, I staggered and strayed
morality writhing and freewill decayed
captivity's practise was always coersive
submission's attractiveness slowly subversive
hostility's wilderness briefly delayed
perplexed and delusional, insane-institutional
i raced my reflection across a dull sun
now i despise irony but something divine in me
scorned and derided all that i had done...
divided by lies, i was un-hypnotised, i was
pale and confused, my deliverance come
i rolled with the rhythm of malice unsung
that beat on my ribs and my ego that hung in such
desperate tatters, from sensual towers
and in all the hours that followed the sun
found deadliest vows were stripped bare of all powers
the emptiest vessels the easiest shunned
the headiest vices were no-longer priceless
serenity's rising - the purest gold spun
...and we worshipped in temples
i raced my reflection
i rolled with the rhythm
of malice unsung
that beat on my ribs and my
ego that hung in such desperate tatters...
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
the great race
it's not always the fastest out the stalls
who'll win the race, nor always those in front
who draw ahead and sweat and puff and blow,
the favourite who'll lift the winner's cup
sometimes it's how you take and make the jumps
keep your feet while those around you fall
withstand the heavy ground that saps the strength
from flying legs, the rain obscuring view
if you can strive to be your very best
endurance, guts, control combined as one
with drive to make the most of what you've left -
outsider's have been known first past the post
it's not always the fastest out the stalls
who'll win the race, nor always those in front
who draw ahead and sweat and puff and blow,
the favourite who'll lift the winner's cup
sometimes it's how you take and make the jumps
keep your feet while those around you fall
withstand the heavy ground that saps the strength
from flying legs, the rain obscuring view
if you can strive to be your very best
endurance, guts, control combined as one
with drive to make the most of what you've left -
outsider's have been known first past the post
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
the magnetism of geopoetry
why did you make a scientist of me?
you could have let me be
remained discreet
opaque, but no
your echoes spoke of need -
the bait
too late I felt
your vast, uncharted depths
fire interest like none before
you pulled me by degrees
seeking to expose your truths
new breed of man
striped by such anomalies -
distorted fields of negatives
and positives
daring me to map their bones
their rifts, their lava-flows -
hazardous furrows at best
the more so when
one doesn't know the risks
but Time alone will show - has shown
i've found that i have depths to call my own
demanding answers
answering your call and not
content to let things lie - or lips
never knew those
hypothermic vents could
melt my eyes
steal the breath
dissolve a weaker mind than this
and yes it's made me stronger
it's true that i no longer flinch
when, even now -
where water's cooled
your boiling sediments down to
these bright and glassy margins -
the wafered edge of flint still
slices
why did you make a scientist of me?
you could have let me be
remained discreet
opaque, but no
your echoes spoke of need -
the bait
too late I felt
your vast, uncharted depths
fire interest like none before
you pulled me by degrees
seeking to expose your truths
new breed of man
striped by such anomalies -
distorted fields of negatives
and positives
daring me to map their bones
their rifts, their lava-flows -
hazardous furrows at best
the more so when
one doesn't know the risks
but Time alone will show - has shown
i've found that i have depths to call my own
demanding answers
answering your call and not
content to let things lie - or lips
never knew those
hypothermic vents could
melt my eyes
steal the breath
dissolve a weaker mind than this
and yes it's made me stronger
it's true that i no longer flinch
when, even now -
where water's cooled
your boiling sediments down to
these bright and glassy margins -
the wafered edge of flint still
slices
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
04
the rest is silence
imagine
the penitent thief
wearing the face of languid hunger,
doomed to wander the sleeping maze -
soft-spoken delphic utterances
lingering in his ear...
imagine
pimps and doleful prophets
cradling their harps and petting
captive, fatted claves...
imagine
Dymphna dancing sadly
'neath a weeping copper beech,
fortitude in madness
exiled from the human race...
imagine
bright-buttoned boys
all-fallen down,
wild flowers soft-embracing
endless banks of lamentation...
imagine
falling apart,
the auto-erotic precision of flight
a shabby percussion to the music of spheres...
imagine
salient inkslingers, demanding as ulcers,
offering cold-comfort as
you strive to remain silent under provocation
...smiling litigation
inviting you to dance...
imagine
Diogene's cup overflowing with spite,
salt where sweet required,
stale where fresh desired...
imagine
an empress of some unknown land
entombed within the symbol of infinity -
immaculate and inscrutable and
retaining her untrammeled modesty
under the hammer...
imagine
this world with all her cares and woes,
the clock spring unwound;
moon-struck saplings and desperate enterprises;
weak-kneed key players and questionable loyalty;
shrines and magnificent distances;
collaboration with the enemy as
fertile minds invest in covenants of salt and
churchyard rats no-longer troubled by churchyard coughs;
rainbow-chasers and greasy sycophants
weaving leaves of black mulberry
and soi-disant idols devoured by mice;
dissymetry in the revelling of detested broods
while alliances slump and yeast blooms...
simultaneous keys and nests of white orders...
supreme carrion -
the rest is silence.
published in Subtle Tea e-zine
*shakes head*
the rest is silence
imagine
the penitent thief
wearing the face of languid hunger,
doomed to wander the sleeping maze -
soft-spoken delphic utterances
lingering in his ear...
imagine
pimps and doleful prophets
cradling their harps and petting
captive, fatted claves...
imagine
Dymphna dancing sadly
'neath a weeping copper beech,
fortitude in madness
exiled from the human race...
imagine
bright-buttoned boys
all-fallen down,
wild flowers soft-embracing
endless banks of lamentation...
imagine
falling apart,
the auto-erotic precision of flight
a shabby percussion to the music of spheres...
imagine
salient inkslingers, demanding as ulcers,
offering cold-comfort as
you strive to remain silent under provocation
...smiling litigation
inviting you to dance...
imagine
Diogene's cup overflowing with spite,
salt where sweet required,
stale where fresh desired...
imagine
an empress of some unknown land
entombed within the symbol of infinity -
immaculate and inscrutable and
retaining her untrammeled modesty
under the hammer...
imagine
this world with all her cares and woes,
the clock spring unwound;
moon-struck saplings and desperate enterprises;
weak-kneed key players and questionable loyalty;
shrines and magnificent distances;
collaboration with the enemy as
fertile minds invest in covenants of salt and
churchyard rats no-longer troubled by churchyard coughs;
rainbow-chasers and greasy sycophants
weaving leaves of black mulberry
and soi-disant idols devoured by mice;
dissymetry in the revelling of detested broods
while alliances slump and yeast blooms...
simultaneous keys and nests of white orders...
supreme carrion -
the rest is silence.
published in Subtle Tea e-zine
*shakes head*
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
03.03.04
the oldest route
he's returned...
that old scoundrel,
god of strife,
supplying all the rumour-mills with grist
- he's back.
when was it that i fell asleep
at switches needing monitoring?
my lack of total vigilance
allowing him to smuggle in his shadow...
and now the sexual savage plays me cupid,
pursing those patronising lips and
waving in my face his leaden arrow.
that beast a thousand tongues employs
and each one steeped in poison:
if i've pocketed an insult
then i've swallowed many more,
and with his stale, rag-water breath
he snuggles up alongside me,
a wound reopened - festering and raw.
he would never flinch but slay
the bowman for his misdemeanors;
sabotage the order of the day,
he fastens on a coat of borrowed charms
and in some quarter of my mind
his actions set ringing none-too-soft alarms.
he burrows beneath my shrinking armour,
exhausting my mine,
seeking with loose-lipped ardour my
incipient moral collapse...
i hear the distant engines
of a destined war foment,
and the dogs they gather swiftly
licking at their paws and whining, breathy...
it's his discretion, his desire
to paint the landscape Aceldama -
and love lies bleeding tears to soften stone
my desire's to be left all on my own;
i am plundered, slain and broken
in the soul;
i would salve my splintered bones,
seek calm beyond the aftermath,
peace beyond the shock,
and in a japanese garden
would i were the fifteenth rock
the oldest route
he's returned...
that old scoundrel,
god of strife,
supplying all the rumour-mills with grist
- he's back.
when was it that i fell asleep
at switches needing monitoring?
my lack of total vigilance
allowing him to smuggle in his shadow...
and now the sexual savage plays me cupid,
pursing those patronising lips and
waving in my face his leaden arrow.
that beast a thousand tongues employs
and each one steeped in poison:
if i've pocketed an insult
then i've swallowed many more,
and with his stale, rag-water breath
he snuggles up alongside me,
a wound reopened - festering and raw.
he would never flinch but slay
the bowman for his misdemeanors;
sabotage the order of the day,
he fastens on a coat of borrowed charms
and in some quarter of my mind
his actions set ringing none-too-soft alarms.
he burrows beneath my shrinking armour,
exhausting my mine,
seeking with loose-lipped ardour my
incipient moral collapse...
i hear the distant engines
of a destined war foment,
and the dogs they gather swiftly
licking at their paws and whining, breathy...
it's his discretion, his desire
to paint the landscape Aceldama -
and love lies bleeding tears to soften stone
my desire's to be left all on my own;
i am plundered, slain and broken
in the soul;
i would salve my splintered bones,
seek calm beyond the aftermath,
peace beyond the shock,
and in a japanese garden
would i were the fifteenth rock
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
the slipping of the veil
I'm not afraid of mirrors in the dark, anymore
Nor too afraid of zombie, witch, or were;
I'm very rarely scared by spirit, succubus, or demon
And tales of baleful vampires hold no fear.
I never pale at U.F.O's seen twinkling in the sky -
Aliens with their domination-plan -
Or vengeful, mythic godheads and their petulant damnation,
For I have glimpsed the monstrous face of man
I'm not afraid of mirrors in the dark, anymore
Nor too afraid of zombie, witch, or were;
I'm very rarely scared by spirit, succubus, or demon
And tales of baleful vampires hold no fear.
I never pale at U.F.O's seen twinkling in the sky -
Aliens with their domination-plan -
Or vengeful, mythic godheads and their petulant damnation,
For I have glimpsed the monstrous face of man
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
the waiting
tender bones
responsive to the pressures of columns of air
tuned-in to their nuances
bend a little
wetly pliant
bound by pale cartilage
fillets of muscle
slender-armed willow
bends to hear
earth share her dreams
while air whispers to leaves
as they mimic the ears
of somnolent cats
full-stretch in the grass
but on those days
when the air seems still
when the weight of atmospheres press
like tired seas
down onto bones
onto limp and breathless leaves
and there's no listening to the voice of the earth
for silence has bound the soil
the willows
tempered bones
cats in the grass
all endure
the waiting
published in Epiphanies and other Absurdities
tender bones
responsive to the pressures of columns of air
tuned-in to their nuances
bend a little
wetly pliant
bound by pale cartilage
fillets of muscle
slender-armed willow
bends to hear
earth share her dreams
while air whispers to leaves
as they mimic the ears
of somnolent cats
full-stretch in the grass
but on those days
when the air seems still
when the weight of atmospheres press
like tired seas
down onto bones
onto limp and breathless leaves
and there's no listening to the voice of the earth
for silence has bound the soil
the willows
tempered bones
cats in the grass
all endure
the waiting
published in Epiphanies and other Absurdities
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
This leprosy of mind
Do you watch me as I sleep, serenely savage?
watch my watching...
overfly this glazing eye, see this leprosy of mind
like hunger cling,
to tinge thy celestial aspect.
And from a calmer grave
forgetfulness I sought,
but rose, instead, an uncalm busy devil with
sarcastic levity of tongue
whose sneering accents fell on thoughts
that dwell in Janus spirits such as mine.
An overcast of spirit sat in gloom;
and though it be the noon-time of this world
no face of golden orb was to be seen.
The rivers, lakes and oceans all stood still,
the waves were dead,
as were all the finest fish
to ever flounce in Neptune's net;
and sombre skies moved not;
nor breath of wind
made motion in the tops of trees
that had forgotten how to breathe,
awaiting lightning's fearsome slash
to shiver them to mournsome ash
that every martyr might proclaim
"We are sick beggars, standing still
on streets that never, ever knew our name!"
Are you still watching?
When things not right are too oft' wrong,
the briefest dream appears
a life too long.
a compilation of words/phrases taken from the works of Byron and rearranged to make this. the one exception is strophe 3, all mine. sorry, Byron. please forgive me
Do you watch me as I sleep, serenely savage?
watch my watching...
overfly this glazing eye, see this leprosy of mind
like hunger cling,
to tinge thy celestial aspect.
And from a calmer grave
forgetfulness I sought,
but rose, instead, an uncalm busy devil with
sarcastic levity of tongue
whose sneering accents fell on thoughts
that dwell in Janus spirits such as mine.
An overcast of spirit sat in gloom;
and though it be the noon-time of this world
no face of golden orb was to be seen.
The rivers, lakes and oceans all stood still,
the waves were dead,
as were all the finest fish
to ever flounce in Neptune's net;
and sombre skies moved not;
nor breath of wind
made motion in the tops of trees
that had forgotten how to breathe,
awaiting lightning's fearsome slash
to shiver them to mournsome ash
that every martyr might proclaim
"We are sick beggars, standing still
on streets that never, ever knew our name!"
Are you still watching?
When things not right are too oft' wrong,
the briefest dream appears
a life too long.
a compilation of words/phrases taken from the works of Byron and rearranged to make this. the one exception is strophe 3, all mine. sorry, Byron. please forgive me
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
my oldest -# written about 30 years ago.
unholy crusade
...and with what rough work did you
your king-blest, sweet-edged sword employ
throughout the charnel red of night?
Bereft of sight, the sacked and burning city
gawps and gapes, aghast as the streets run
with the blood of horrors etched forever on
the memory of stones within its broken walls.
Did your bright blade the skulls of infants cleave?
And did the ancient half-wit, blind,
cowering in terror midst the carnage, feel
the killing stroke that split her all asunder, neck to waist?
Or the half-grown boy,
(not old enough by years to bear the arms of war) -
did he kneel in grace (in the burning streets,
the sounds of death all about him)
as you loosed his head from atop his scrawny shoulders?
Did the tears of tortured mothers,
as they were forced to watch their daughters
torn apart by man and blade,
wash your knighthood clean again?
And did your doe-eyed god smile
a benediction on your deeds?
i didn't write anything for another 19 years, till i was 40.
unholy crusade
...and with what rough work did you
your king-blest, sweet-edged sword employ
throughout the charnel red of night?
Bereft of sight, the sacked and burning city
gawps and gapes, aghast as the streets run
with the blood of horrors etched forever on
the memory of stones within its broken walls.
Did your bright blade the skulls of infants cleave?
And did the ancient half-wit, blind,
cowering in terror midst the carnage, feel
the killing stroke that split her all asunder, neck to waist?
Or the half-grown boy,
(not old enough by years to bear the arms of war) -
did he kneel in grace (in the burning streets,
the sounds of death all about him)
as you loosed his head from atop his scrawny shoulders?
Did the tears of tortured mothers,
as they were forced to watch their daughters
torn apart by man and blade,
wash your knighthood clean again?
And did your doe-eyed god smile
a benediction on your deeds?
i didn't write anything for another 19 years, till i was 40.
Last edited:
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
the sea, the sea
how slow rolling waves beguile the shore
they kiss and kiss
again again
sing in fluid voice of evermore
to lonely lovers, hearts that have been wronged
they call and call
again again
woo them to come join their endless song
how slow rolling waves beguile the shore
they kiss and kiss
again again
sing in fluid voice of evermore
to lonely lovers, hearts that have been wronged
they call and call
again again
woo them to come join their endless song
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
to be clear
we're not talking playing games
you know
they're for children
or those afraid to grow up
when it comes to games
there're always losers
and what we're seeking here
is a win-win situation
even if that sounds
a contradiction
in terms of balance
we're not talking playing games
you know
they're for children
or those afraid to grow up
when it comes to games
there're always losers
and what we're seeking here
is a win-win situation
even if that sounds
a contradiction
in terms of balance
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
too close
you stood too close to the scene of my crimes
stood tall on your soapbox of virtue
curiosity's cat
lent you all of her fleas
should've warned too much knowledge might hurt you
so you itched and you scratched at the surface
but some things are best left alone
for if they're uncovered
the worms might just turn
to strip hypocritical flesh back to the bone
down in the dirt i looked good on my knees
till you tried to rub my face in it
but you were too close
just a sinner like me
your soapbox a bubble with limits
guilty
guilty
so who judges whom
when the grit stings our eyes
and we'd all like to forget
we are guilty?
you stood too close to the scene of my crimes
stood tall on your soapbox of virtue
curiosity's cat
lent you all of her fleas
should've warned too much knowledge might hurt you
so you itched and you scratched at the surface
but some things are best left alone
for if they're uncovered
the worms might just turn
to strip hypocritical flesh back to the bone
down in the dirt i looked good on my knees
till you tried to rub my face in it
but you were too close
just a sinner like me
your soapbox a bubble with limits
guilty
guilty
so who judges whom
when the grit stings our eyes
and we'd all like to forget
we are guilty?
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
15.11.01
touch the fear
...the moments glide away
on the slip of a pen,
and behind closed doors
the brief madness of anger
becomes nothing more than a stage trick,
because the unwritten law is the license allowed
to poets.
they say the world is a woman's book -
sweet solace of our labours;
but i know you, a god from the machine
and, as the drop hollows out the stone,
so shall i erode your flowing words
till only the silence of your truth remains -
the poetry of truth.
gild this bitter pill... ah, patience;
patience is a bitter taskmaster - but the rewards...
ah, the rewards!
you are the touchstone of my faith;
here i am and here i stay - loyalty binds me.
and though it be dark i see you,
Master of those that know;
you are my North star -
one to whom Fortune herself yields, smiling.
sweet idleness! black care!
my love i commit to the air -
experimental balloon on a wordless journey
(great griefs are silent)
seeking celestial secrets to squander
'neath a moon that sees me not.
it is not lawful to know all things
but this much do i know:
i am here.
from beginning
to end.
death is the gateway to life
and we all must die...
the burnt child fears the flames yet i
would snatch food from the fire -
for envy blinds me to the flames;
and make no subtle distinctions,
the descent into Hell is an easy one.
if i am refused my rightful place;
if i may not recline at the banquet of the gods;
if i am spurned, when they lack inspired poets;
if i cannot move the gods
then will i stir up Hell!
if i become a woman with nothing to lose,
still will i kiss your hands,
kiss your feet,
for truth is all-powerful -
and love the final truth.
i'll be no pious fraud but will
embrace that rage for writing.
this is the labour.
this is the toil.
and when there's nothing left to say
still will i perform before this irritable tribe of bards,
and with my final stroke i'll
touch the fear.
this one arrived using a lot of translations of well-known latin phrases. it's dramatic nature and 'character' have little about me, it's more a stage-production kind of write
touch the fear
...the moments glide away
on the slip of a pen,
and behind closed doors
the brief madness of anger
becomes nothing more than a stage trick,
because the unwritten law is the license allowed
to poets.
they say the world is a woman's book -
sweet solace of our labours;
but i know you, a god from the machine
and, as the drop hollows out the stone,
so shall i erode your flowing words
till only the silence of your truth remains -
the poetry of truth.
gild this bitter pill... ah, patience;
patience is a bitter taskmaster - but the rewards...
ah, the rewards!
you are the touchstone of my faith;
here i am and here i stay - loyalty binds me.
and though it be dark i see you,
Master of those that know;
you are my North star -
one to whom Fortune herself yields, smiling.
sweet idleness! black care!
my love i commit to the air -
experimental balloon on a wordless journey
(great griefs are silent)
seeking celestial secrets to squander
'neath a moon that sees me not.
it is not lawful to know all things
but this much do i know:
i am here.
from beginning
to end.
death is the gateway to life
and we all must die...
the burnt child fears the flames yet i
would snatch food from the fire -
for envy blinds me to the flames;
and make no subtle distinctions,
the descent into Hell is an easy one.
if i am refused my rightful place;
if i may not recline at the banquet of the gods;
if i am spurned, when they lack inspired poets;
if i cannot move the gods
then will i stir up Hell!
if i become a woman with nothing to lose,
still will i kiss your hands,
kiss your feet,
for truth is all-powerful -
and love the final truth.
i'll be no pious fraud but will
embrace that rage for writing.
this is the labour.
this is the toil.
and when there's nothing left to say
still will i perform before this irritable tribe of bards,
and with my final stroke i'll
touch the fear.
this one arrived using a lot of translations of well-known latin phrases. it's dramatic nature and 'character' have little about me, it's more a stage-production kind of write
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
turned away face i
grew fat i
on a diet of your deceptions
spoonfed me your words
made sure never hungry i
but now i bloat
overfed and sick on
your surfeit of mistruths
turned away face i
afraid to eat again lest
die should i
one more death
one too many
so now pretend no hunger i
for words sweet
words savoury
but will listen for the truth
upon the wind
grew fat i
on a diet of your deceptions
spoonfed me your words
made sure never hungry i
but now i bloat
overfed and sick on
your surfeit of mistruths
turned away face i
afraid to eat again lest
die should i
one more death
one too many
so now pretend no hunger i
for words sweet
words savoury
but will listen for the truth
upon the wind
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
still passages of here
to there
the moments between that we must cross
knowing the cold
yet reaching beyond
a transition none can walk except alone
each step pressed soft as lips into the snow
yet you will come to see the old
fold in upon its own rememberings,
the future rushing into the light
to there
the moments between that we must cross
knowing the cold
yet reaching beyond
a transition none can walk except alone
each step pressed soft as lips into the snow
yet you will come to see the old
fold in upon its own rememberings,
the future rushing into the light
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 81,536
we all break
life breaks us like the sap-filled stem
we snap
and bleed
our hopes and dreams into indifferent dust
and grow again
put forth new buds
to reach towards
the distant, dreaming, charismatic sky
and time might try
to staunch, to heal the wound
but such is life
know
we'll break again
and maybe more than once
if luck is on our side we'll plunge
stronger roots into the secret soil
we'll bloom
we'll ride the storms of life
and seed
if not
if too oft' snapped and
sapped of trust
we'll stunted be
withered, wizened, dead still standing up
no longer reaching up with hope
towards a distant sky
life breaks us like the sap-filled stem
we snap
and bleed
our hopes and dreams into indifferent dust
and grow again
put forth new buds
to reach towards
the distant, dreaming, charismatic sky
and time might try
to staunch, to heal the wound
but such is life
know
we'll break again
and maybe more than once
if luck is on our side we'll plunge
stronger roots into the secret soil
we'll bloom
we'll ride the storms of life
and seed
if not
if too oft' snapped and
sapped of trust
we'll stunted be
withered, wizened, dead still standing up
no longer reaching up with hope
towards a distant sky
