Monday, August 30, 2010

Project 67 Intro Poem - Anghellical Eve

 Anghellical Eve

Whats happens when 
your insides tear you apart
like the sun falling 

into the horizon at dark.
It can burn and it can sting 

and bring red to your eyes
as if devoured by flames 

in the darkness of cries.
Or this fire may warm your bones 

and excite your blood
and show you a bad time 

but this bad is good.
Then again you might see 

clouds on a sunny day
and lay in the light to 

rejuvenate your soul and pray.
But this light may get too bright 

and hold from knowing
all of the sensations 

of life, love and growing
So what happens when 

you're insides tear you apart?
I'll show you every blissfully painful second 

but where do I start?

This is the intro poem in a book I'm working on. This book is currently untitled but its called Project 67 for organizational purposes. It will be a book of poems about the duality of man and my own personal duality. A few of my poems posted have already dealt with this but I will be taking things a little deeper now. Also, the most of the poems in the book will be named after different theological characters (angels, demons, saints etc.) some examples would be:

This book may take a while, but here's to the beginning.

The Loch Ness Ardor

High above I heard the 
cries of a dozen doves
and everything was tingling 

but I wasn't buzzed
In the corner I was 

shaking huddled up
I couldn't scream for help, 

my mouth was muzzled shut
In my head I was 

thinking what is what?
Were all their words true 

or merely scuttlebutt.
Either way 

I continued making progress
Frightening all hair to stand, 

even severed locks yes.
Infamous within weeks, 

I was now godless
and I became known 

as the monster of the locked nest.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Beelzebub & Shekinah: A Romance

Heaven hates me now.
Saint Peter has cast me out.
So follow me down.

My wings lack feathers.
Just burned skin like black leather.
We fall together.

Under my horns now,
you let me fly in and out
with your halo down.

I'll stroke your feathers
on this red bed of leather.
In love together.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

A Fever of Haste

I've got skeletons in my closet
monsters under my bed
ghosts within my dresser
and voices inside my head.
I'm crazy, but I'm living,
if you call this a life.
I'm conscious and still breathing
so why do I feel I died.
The stranger in me is screaming
and ripping apart my veins;
Stabbing me in the spine
and climbing up to my brain.
Resistance here is useless
I've learned this all before
He's been kept down too long
and won't sleep a minute more.
He's insane, he is rage
he's been locked down in a cage
as a slave and a knave
in the darkest dankest cave.
He just waits to be saved
but the heroes never came
so he bathes in his hate
and a fever fueled with haste.
He's so wicked and delusional
and when he gets free
there will only be remains
of the man I used to be.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

erametiN naciremA nA

Its called a dream for a reason, you know.
The only way to see it takes a dose of Ambien.
And another. Hell, just make it a ménage à trois
because you'll be getting fucked every which way
for 8 hours day with a handful of nickels for your pay.
Those who wish to achieve don't want to live,
but would rather sleep in a lucid dream where even
their minds cant depict the world that they're told of.
The heavy cost of wishes won't shed a single bead of sweat
and they're the victims, here, with broken nails.
They aren't sure but there are some us who know.
We know that its a sham and a nitemare.
So we keep our heads down because looking up isn't free
unless of course you're J walking on wall street.
We rattle the pigs asses, of greater equality, backwards
and shake the unconscious to wake them and tell them.
Whoever concocted The American Dream was a poet
of catchy pop lyrics and heroic comic books.

Note about this poem: Read the poem, then re-read the title and it should make sense.

Veronika Kirsch: The First Kiss Kills

Oh, that first kiss.
So fond in your veins.
It opened trails for later trials
to be flattened with mistakes.
All the while still, you'll never regret it.
Such an oral fixation, a weightless sensation.
You move a thumb to her cheek and 
a hand to her hip as she stops and softly farewells
Oh! That sweet cinnamon spark
the one that lit a fuse in your pants
dying for another brush with her lychee lips.
Once you're there you're fine and flushed
but days later without that cardiac bolt
you're sweating in the cold night
and shaking in the morning sun.
Far gone from your veins;
Oh, is that first kiss.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Riddles & War Pt.I

Scorched earth.
The apple and the knife
Bones nailed to dressers
and meat draped over
the furnishings of militants.
It is cannibalism.
Skulls within skulls within skulls.
Infinite death
and a fork to your head
carving the truth deep,
all the way to your paper soul.
Common men live,
heroes will die
but only cowards hide.

The Letter "Go"

Her words were pathways
the way they opened doors.
Words that made me smile
wider than a two by four.
She was the perfect friend,
the one that I adored.
An even better lover,
I would've died for her.
But good never lasts,
and great is even shorter
and bad will follow you
to kill you at the core.
So turn the volume up,
and let your feelings roar
and put the feathers on your heart
to let your blood soar.

Have I Gone Mad Or Am I Home

I've been breaking more mirrors than promises,
fighting with these fun-house reflections.
Refraining from saying the wrong thing
by shutting my eyes to a cold beat.
My cigarettes were lit by your short fuses
as I killed a queen and a saint that evening.
Freedom was split between love and a curb
while everyone saw the fate of a lion.
If all of this was true and I wasn't dead
Would you answer if I asked,
have I gone mad or am I home?

Friday, August 6, 2010

Veronika Kirsch: Hip to Hip, Lip to Lip

When the storm finally passed
the sunset yawned like red behind smoke,
melting as it stumbled slowly underwater.
We never waited so long to rotate our songs
and twist our necks around each other like swans.
It was sweet, it was subtle but still rough and abrupt.
She steered my sails with expert precision
like I must not have been her first.
We moved the waves in every direction
diving and sinking deeper and deeper
until we landed on the ocean bed
and fell in love to the bedroom floor.

Monday, August 2, 2010

If Poetry Is Dead, I'm Just Fine Being A Zombie

Please, tell us what you know about dreaming
and the inner turmoil that leaves us cold as steel.
Our tales are all written of trials we face.
Some die for their country, we die for our art.
But either way, whatever we feel is our legend.
So live and fall prey but only to your passion.

We cannot know love or hate without passion.
So when we see light we think we're just dreaming.
Its like we're stuck living in the shadows of legends.
And any light from around them is as hard as steel.
We constantly trip over the roots of this art
and hop right back up with earth on our faces.

We follow the maps in the mirrors we face
searching for that X where we buried our passion
just to bring it home in the name of king art.
If you're searching for fame then keep on dreaming
for words are all tyrants with hearts dark as steel
and only the artists of truth become legends.

We write to stay alive and tell the world legends.
And some will treat us different but not to our faces.
To keep fighting our fight, our skulls must be steel
but porous enough to drink the elixir of passion.
When life cuts our legs we feel we are dreaming
for continuing to please this insatiable art.

Now realize its us who cant be satisfied, not art.
Only then our blood flows in the direction of legends
who once were like us. They lived, died and dreamed.
They saw the same exact vexations that we face
and in respect we gave immortality to this passion
which we guard with our lives and bend like steel.

Our intangible thoughts are now real as steel
as we donate our lungs to this loving art.
We've just given birth and are feeding our passions
with food from the minds of a thousand legends.
There's nothing now in life or death we cannot face
since life is just perception and death's an endless dream.

Lets keep our passions warmer than sunset tinted steel
and keep our dreams in mind to compose this sacred art
that later legends can view and know the world they face.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Not One Will Ever Make It Out Alive

Narcotic nightmares and a bubble bath dreaM.
Over exposure to that treacherous black seA.
Tonic blood for every single shaman to drinK
On that special night with the burial of peacE.
Never was it seen by the eyes of good chI
Even when the lost found a way into a seaT.
Walking like the gods of our time, we were twO
Ill fated, delirious peons of our time me and yoU.
Lost but ever lucky still we rehearsed it to a T
Laying waste to all that wasn't drinking up our teA.
Existential train wrecks that once were full of faiL
Vaguely fighting off their urges to bow to you and I.
Examine as I rewrite their souls just like LermontoV
Replacing every memory with emptiness and gauzE.

A small note about this poem:

     This poem has the form known as Double Acrostic. An Acrostic poem is a poem with which the first letter of every line or verse helps to spell out a message of its own. In a Double Acrostic, the first and last letters spell out a word or message. In this case the first & last letters combine to spell out the entire title.