Cloud ForestA Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe) I put my heart into this poem. Although I feel I still need to improve, I know you will love this poem, if you just take some time to read it. It's a step on the stairway to heaven.
The offspring-trap of fall lends souls Caught strapped to the teeth Of rapture’s afterlife Like a smiling leviathan of skin and bones To my heart of stone A monolithic riptide of serpentine bibles I smile homicidal The stranglehold roots Of my family tree have been Branched out before from The soiled remains of decay We too have grown weary of the wind How it can be so gentle Yet uproot our dreams From a bed of grass In the meadowlands of a nightmare I never got to grow from my own grave I never got to rise like a phoenix From the primordial dirt As if I wasn’t bound By my inability to let go Holding myself together With the many pieces that made me Us, all these bark faces A mausoleum of bright futures Shining between the foliage of leaves Weave together Become such a massive monster of life that We might as well be our own forest Lost in telepathic ivory lilac everglades In foggy botanical holocaust Plane-walkers stalking The shadow of dawn Cataclysms raw spawn Andromedas of mitochondria Blindly feeling for the numb release Of an empty page Embracing the abyss Of a thunder’s sun-kissed eclipse We cast a-side the coin prophesized Know phantasmagorical oracles Of opal metamorphosis The iridescent blessing Desecrated by cardiovascular creation Masquerading skyscraper aether Of the babbling labyrinth of life And my hands, my open arms Wishing to embrace you all is just a vice Hear the poltergeist of a molten scythe Scarring the
leviathan Of kaleidoscope’s horizon Know that even the forest Will be uprooted sometime People with steel in their hearts Will build a hollow crust Over our reaching arms Sad souls will cut our spirits Into materials to build their thrones Orchestral bones will be their instrument For their self-pity and wrath The collapse of rapture’s Happy ever after But this will pass years from now Wrapped in The amethyst bandages of clouds The lost shadows of a furrowed brow Whispering to the moonlit splintered crucifixion Of a christened chrysalis My silver guillotine of a shroud Why is it that when I hold you close Your sharp edges make me Bleed the most beautiful colours? Onto the unwritten pages of my skin Like the graffiti god left to say he’d been here Hundreds of years ago When tongues were pastel paintbrushes Screaming into an ethereal sky Of every colours’ bubbling brotherhood Stumbling through luminous wounds That bore the fruit of paint To stain our hearts with Drunk and drenched In the art of jealousy Peeling back spirals of pages Like wallpaper from diaries Tearing each other apart With these smiling teeth As if there was ever a god who could love us This library of crumpled poems This wasteland of words This hate speech of love (Does not read between the lines) (Drawn in the bloody sands of time)
The wind can leave dismantled The paragraphs of a forest's ensemble, easily Massive trunks bearing burdens The straw that broke the camels' Back-wards can take ourselves apart It is just the soft saplings that remain The flimsy blades of crabgrass Can not cut down the wind, but When all the pillars of sky Scrape stories off each other's bark Until heaven falls inwards Like a whirlpool hurricane Crushing creation Only the soft grass doesn't come tumbling down It doesn't suffer Because it yet has nothing to lose No deep roots, or high branches The bed of leaves you've tucked me into Is an unread mercy Is a puddle under the abyss Of dried-up tears like morning dew Smothered by the clouds Until what we have to say takes root To stand on our own, and fall Our roots must be as tall as our branches Becoming the blood In the body of another crown When we’re of age To touch the moonlit sun Dancing with the wind like old enemies Friends of a feather Flocking apocrypha Knowing one another Like the palm tree of our hands Dressed for our funeral In pine-needle gowns Blooming in unison To wither into infinities’
(idiosyncrasies) Of another forest Hanging from a ceiling fan of double-helixes The iris of a dilated ultraviolet kaleidoscope Rays of light, terpsichorean onomatopoeia Like electroconvulsive halogens Pulsating illuminated constellations The coming umbrage Of intangible doppelgangers in the mud Heavy as the wind’s of change Flowing flowers through our veins
Some Words Yet Again
Put your life on the frontlines Off the rails of a halo Dangling by the head of a spiderweb Blossoming in the gospel Of kaleidoscopic apocalypse Heaven’s umbrella Of an Armageddon’s metallurgy Brief-case-workers Of the hypnotist tuberculosis Reading reaver seamstress Dream eaters Of polycrystalline hieroglyphics Crucifix hallucinogens Of a magenta penitentiary The vector of a sepulchre Unravelling intangible mannequins The whisper of a pixyish eclipse Rippling omnipotence In the dissonance of intimacy The sun chasing the moon Through the slipknot of stars Rejuvenated hallucinations Of cloudy Valhalla Falling holocausts between The power-lines in the sands The buffalo of the wind grazes On the skin of my teeth Chiselling a smile into The acrylic weeping-willow-wisp Of my wooden heart’s Unfulfilling guillotine Like the embers dismembered By memory of Decembers’ embassy Somewhere burrowed In the nook and cranny ribcage of my chest Where the dead that feed the barn owls Have finally come to rest Empty paperclips wings Point-blank on sap-soaked pages of a maelstrom Pennames that draw blood Like a love letter to the lady in red Popping cherry bombs Smoking pipe dreams And everything in between Old-heads roleplaying as if All the world were a stage But we never got our scene As if every waking moment Were a dream within a dream Contained in the sanctuary of release Scattered ashes of alabaster saplings On the unforgiving wind Far-off memories' a tornado's oasis Of broken pieces
reaching out Spilling over equilibrium Growing feathers soldered Into a dozen coloured undertows puzzles Called wings Falling upon the carcass Of a new day together in parhelion In the confines of my borderline mind The cells within my skull The shackles of a straitjacket skin My body exploding outwards Like a hurricane rainbow Extending over the grey railway Of a halo gone metallic hallelujah Becoming one with the thunderclouds Of a paraplegic breeze A tumbleweed of thorns sprouting From my head like rosemary From the seed of my empty heart Growing, longing for the forest they cut down
Burying Life
My grave is no bed of roses Not a battlefield Not a vast plain on the edge of madness Choking on the tip of God's tongue Or the mouth of a hollow citadel In the cavernous bowels Of a world that couldn't stomach us My grave is where I sit waiting For a better world to walk over me Until the words that I wrote Rust off the body of my works Until someone kicks over My graffitied gravestone Until they throw my name in the dirt And my existence flowers From inside their angry mouths Like a tightrope walking the end Of the fine-line cats cradle of every knot in their stomach Like a butterfly without wings Like a drunk driver on memory lane Like a cold shoulder no one will lean on Like a forest with no trees And I will be there Just the bright sun's unwavering breath The cold shower of the rain spitting murmurs And the grass-whistling song Of a lonely wind Reaching out to the sound of ruin The diaphragm choir Of isles silence reminding Within the ethereal scream Of a wet dream's white noise Baptism of a black sun The child of a black-hearted midnight Ringing in the ears of earth Growing from the womb Of clustered nothingness Ruminating illuminated The acrylic illustration Of nature’s wraith Wearing the bones of man Like the reaper’s cloak A token of respect Doesn’t drop a dime For a pretty penny Let loose change, Roll around in the mud With every courtier
like a stag With a buck or two Hells’-gatekey-per-cent Of mint conditioned tongues jingling With juniper berries whispering sweet nothings For the pound in your pocket Waiting to turn the tables Onboard for a little piece of heaven But when even the blood of Christ Is mean-spirited Drinking in the afternoon sun Will leave you thrown-up till
mourning For the fallen knight sky And when these lilac fires Burn to ash the hearts of men The forest will finally have no end And my grave will be The most beautiful meadowland Of
flowers within The clearing of my eardrums So I can hear the sound of nothingness Vibrating in the stillness Of my bones
Bits My bones like an orchestra of Orchards born phantasmagorical From Jehovah’s own primordial oracles In the chlorophyll corneas of metamorphosis Like a trombone omens Of distorted metronome’s cornucopia Kaleidoscopic constellations like Mockingbird astronomers Watering the fauna (like Picasso's velociraptors) Of chronological andromeda’s Kilometres under oceans Of metempsychosis in the oasis Of reawakening homeostasis The monarch of parchments’- silver archenemy demiurge Of the nemesis Of spring on chandelier wings To the tempestuous netherworld’s Emerald cemetery Vorpal scythe poltergeist Incorporeal eyes born vocalized Celestial ventricles Of cardiovascular astronauts Like
cotton candy Neanderthals Hanging from the clouds Playing in the bloodstream of God Ventriloquist mystics Of elliptical shapeshifting photosynthesis Drifting through the grains of the aeons Articulated by claymore Of Himalayans recirculating Nocturnal deities Reverberating hurricanes In the nasal tornado Sneezing double-helixes And I still breathe deities like Venice drowning in its own waterways And I still capsize on islands of your irises like a blinking neon sign from God And I still waters of wyverns and leviathans with the inkblood of my own silence And I still swim through the memories like maple syrup in my veins And I still live like I’ve already died A thousand lives hung up on the telephone flatlines of a close call And I still write over the graffiti on my grave with my bare hands shadowboxing with the night And I still bury pieces of myself and call them doors I never want to open again And I still won’t die And I still will be here, forever, like the wind on a grass whistle Or a concrete cloud dribbling cement Like the sound of voices that never sung for heaven’s choir And the forest doesn’t have orchestras Because I am the instrument of my own symphony And have nothing to say to you but this
© 2020 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)Author's Note
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R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)Burlington, Halton, CanadaAboutMost of my poems can be differing lengths depending on the time you want to spend reading them. You can avoid reading anything brackets, or read it all. If you want an in-between, you can read only th.. more..WritingRelated WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
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