Cigarette Burn

Four poems. The first two are best connected. The third poem is experimental. The fourth, a continuation of the third.

 

Cigarette

Dreadful meadows the celestial nectar

 

Of echoing sepulchres vesicular beckon

 

Stretching evergreens of methamphetamine question

 

Hallucinogenic pomegranate canopies banquet terpsichorean resurrect vengeance

 

Mandarine amethysts of polycrystalline mist

 

Pastels of the canvas of endless dreams' bliss

 

Like an umbilical basilica of Valkyries temples of a dreamcatcher’s kiss

 

Relapsing in the collapse of palpitations heartbreaking lisp

 

Out of the shell of the cerebellum, tendrils, the Mirabelle sanctum, praying mantis

 

A seed of olive branches of a hangman’s gambit nook and cranny

 

The melancholy hollows of diabolical stardust anchors

 

Rusting in the rain of purgatories haze

 

Cremating scintillating given by the prisms of clay

 

Glimmering oblivion Olympian rays

 

The men wage their wars where the dandelions play

 

The women will make quilts of bloodstained fabric

 

Of history's braided crosshairs tangled loosely with madness

 

Curling like the fingers of a fist bent into a saxophone

 

The trombone embouchure of screams

 

The dislocated jaw of a piccolo

 

The clarinets hexing the exit wounds of hecatomb

 

The dead lay their wards of ethereal grace

 

The end of the lord and a varicose race

 

The lent of the gore to a Thanatos slays

 

Repent to the swords of an everglade's blade

 

Hellbent to be torn into sinew entrails’ gaze

 

Let the bowels of the earth birth a God to prevail

 

So that the children at night have a tale to wail

 

The intestines of times digesting effigies of death

 

And then comes the bellow of a hurricanes' breath

 

And the world merry go rounds itself into a cat’s cradle heart

 

Chained in a ribcage like a lost bird

 

Feeding worms of light through the bars like a skeleton key

 

Something soft before the hardness without pause rips them apart

 

And the strings we attach move the people in place

 

And the heartbeat stills without a way to keep pace

 

And darkness trills through midnight awake

 

And the artist, shrill, learns to barter his fate

 

And the harvest bell, yearns to harness each grape

 

And the succulent vines grasp the fruit like a slipknot of green

 

And intertwine and loop ripe for the chord of a dream

 

And the Gods are praised and the devil waits

 

And the world learns again that their life is nothing of faith

 

And there is no great love, at the end of the day

 

You can bury your past

 

Every word is a spade

 

Curdling grey, velvet mandala's of prayer

 

Even though living is an unforced error

 

Blind in the dark there is sunlight's glare

 

Binding embarking through Arkham's lair

 

And though this world is an empty path

 

To splash through the caverns of travesty’s amnesty

 

I'd rather walk through a maze

 

Than be lost in the haze

 

I’d rather take each word to the grave

 

Than try to talk to the blade

 

And sharpen my wit into a pencil of lead

 

And write of the way that this vestige world bled

 

For all of the words that it put in my head

 

Edifice of crevices spiderweb of the thread

 

And every thought that becomes newlywed

 

I suppose in the end the verse gives me meaning

 

But if I cut out my heart and put it on a page

 

It’s no wonder I’m bleeding

 

Every word graffitied on the ceiling, the inkblots I’m leaving

 

Are only the Rorshach’s that enter the brain

 

Like a soft Autumn wind, or a summer day’s rain

 

And the people will fight, and the people will die

 

But if words have any meaning

 

I’ll write down their cries

 

And when we wake from this dreamland

 

Let me bid you goodbye

 

And if we meet at the crossroads

 

Don’t stomp on my life

 

If I’m the cigarette butt of your jokes

 

At least I burned bright

 

Starfire in my eyes

 

I see the smoke rising

 

I am the last flicker of life

 

Dyeing bright the sapphire horizon

 

Limestone of Gaia, a pillar of ivory

 

Ventriloquist of supernovas burning on high

 

The choir uprising

 

What’s cut out to dry

 

Cast out of the heavens

 

The asters of the ashen meadows

 

The white pages yellow

 

The bell tolls, bellows

 

And I carry on my treble

 

And rebellion of the velvet crossroads of night

 

Like a raven's still framed flight

 

Black and white

 

The broken wings of seraphim

 

Crumbled papers of homunculus aether

 

Grasp at the wind and catch nothing

 

But a bullet to the head

 

Burn

 

And we shall have our symphony of madness

 

Our prose of the comatose

 

Forever branded shattered Nirvana in a labyrinth chandelier of mirrors

 

Anchored to pier into the depths of hell, a vessel drowning in psalms

 

Ethereal Eden primeval gears of cerebral heirs to baritone pheromones

 

And the words shall cut our wings free from a tangled spine of this handwritten book

 

So that every stab in the back will find its nook

 

And the crooked canvas will dry like a bone in the sun

 

Watching saffron mitochondria auburn as andromeda

 

Mississauga’s sonata taunting Toronto

 

Ambrosia’s pandemonium pandora’s flora umbilical chords strumming umbras of tundra

 

As the world polished its diabolic eclipse crippled by the weight of a stillborn moon

 

Lactescent crescents of crepuscular destiny resting

 

In evanescence reaching bleaching Elysium’s tomb

 

The sun stumbling through a kaleidoscope of silent crowds

 

The harbour of gardens carnival armada’s of mosaic bouquets in this hurricane maze

 

The underworld thunderous, the sky a Tartarus of archangels strangled by dandelions

 

God’s oasis bent into an empty heart’s chaos

 

Oracle of the vorpal metamorphosis of the opal vortex dark

 

Falling through the cracks

 

Tendrils of vertigos’ inner circle of ventricles celestial temples of edifice monolith

 

Hanging by a finger

 

When the world pushed me over the edge

 

Stalagmites limelight stalactites ricocheting shadows zigzagging crisscross Cocytus

 

Holding the half-eaten apple of the earth in my hand

 

The fruit of labours spreading the seed that uprooted my garden

 

Aurora borealis primordial blood chalice Vahalla in an hourglass another chapter of rapture

 

A butterfly lullaby of stratosphere satellites the polymerization of all constellations

 

Meteor rites of the ritualist abyss chrysalis of the pitch blue in the afternoon

 

Lilac cardiovascular aphrodisiac plastic pastures

 

Always hungry for more than this

 

Bluejays perching on the heartstrings, picking at the itch

 

An empty stomach, a drum of hollow words

 

Without enough structure to hold a story

 

And half-empty smiles of broken glass bottle teeth

 

Melting waxing formlessly beating away until the bruises sing the blues with me

 

Wanting the world to taste the bitter truth of its own medicine

 

And swallow the roach, the burden, the pill, the tears

 

Getting high-spirited away on second-hand smoke

 

Adding fuel to the fire until it burns itself to cinders

 

So I can finally

 

Feel the warmth of its negligent embrace

 

Bent Spring

 

 

Swilling vermillion guillotines of indigo spindle windowpane hurricanes

 

Saffron tsunami’s of discombobulated mahogany under the fog of cinnabar

 

Empty smiles of broken glass bottle teeth

 

And empty words without the structure to hold a single-story leatherbound

 

The tip of my tongue paints pictures you wouldn’t even be able to describe

 

Dipped in a multicoloured river of scarves

 

Billowing in a billion tangled clouds

 

Wrapping their talons

 

Around the snake of a tornado’s pallet

 

Of slithering tongues to lick clean every bit of blood from the bright sunlight’s boot

 

A ripe vineyard of a warm and fertile sky

 

The harvest reaping of this stillbirth

 

A dead world born where each skeleton is

 

A rainbow of Ragnarok

 

Blind to the end’s beginning visionaries

 

And still, the time passes and leaves us all behind

 

Like painted memories fading into obscurity

 

The grey radio static of our swan-songs’ lost frequencies

 

Nestled into every nook and cranny like water under the bridge of burning pilgrimage

 

Inside the rosebud of your mind, a butterfly

 

This canvas of white noise stapling shut the jaws of a smile from blooming

 

The mouth of hell screaming reasonless from the wicker of a picture frame

 

The black brush of bristled chiselled fingertips twisted into abstract Rorshachs

 

Engine roaring, the wreckage rust encrusted with the capsized hopes of the unknown

 

Ivory kaleidoscopes cascading radiance plague the candlelight

 

Every street corner of my heart stapled together by the blend and bleed of maple trees

 

Tangled stranglehold’s of roots lucid dreaming herculean

 

The foliage oil painting wraiths of laced aether

 

If I cut out my heart and put it on a page

 

Stamping out the ashes of life before the grave

 

Iridescent megalomaniac amaranthine Nirvana’s clandestine onyx monoliths of constellations

 

Learning to swallow

 

Learning to swallow

 

Learning to swallow

 

Swallowing it down

 

The need to smile

 

Swallowing it down

 

The need to frown

 

To be needless

 

To swallow the meaninglessness

 

Choking on the ashes of a memory

 

Learning to swallow the sun and leave behind its shadow

 

Like a lantern of nightshade burning black

 

Tangled bodies as the roots spiral and slipknot limbs tie-dye bark and skin’s hollow

 

Like dilapidated branches of a family tree’s ribs shambling promise

 

Nestling fallen leaves in the wind palpitate creation

 

Before the flame of spirit extinguishes the lingering vigour of infinite photosynthesis caper

 

The match lit by the blister of a polycrystalline whisper

 

Ammunition’s rhythm dissonance prisms linguistic schism

 

And the battle cry

 

Is but another way to scream in a garden of sounds that cannot hear mercy

 

The words blurring together into one song

 

Beaten into the ground until it pushes its toes out of the black soil

 

To carry on like a spring coils

You

 

 

Toy soldiers made of tin foil

 

Lost souls toil on their own voyage

 

Primordials loyal to the slow broil

 

Of life’s mural voile of immaterial spoils

 

Watercolours, oil, mixing coral chlorophyll with this vorpal world

 

Pull the chord out of the back of my head

 

Wake up from a dream that’s long since dead

 

The chalk outline of my shadow

 

Split the barcode battleground bedazzled

 

Lips kiss the spark exploding chalice of an embroidered Valhalla

 

Break the mold standing on one leg unbalanced

 

Belting out a stone-cold ballad

 

Skin each grace note’s frayed callus

 

Escape the scapegoat of post mortems’ malice

 

Bend the shapeless hours into twine

 

Let the tongue taste those vowels left behind

 

I lived a great lesson, and learned to die

 

If I’m to face this world of broken laws, I have been tried

 

Spoken word is no longer on my side

 

Spoken word is a body, breathing, living, beating, inside out

 

The story that learned to write itself

 

Grew my family tree from a seed of doubt

 

Gouged my heart out from a treasure chest

 

Play my song and never rest

 

A music box is deep within

 

Sounds of gardens, Eden’s, birthed from sin

 

Enkindled by the heavens whim

 

I will find a way to win

 

Or die the way I’d like to live

 

Take the words that I would give

 

They are the brightest apples, the sharpest shivs

 

And if you ever hungry more

 

Pick the sanguine apple from my core

 

And plant within a bitter fruit

 

The blood and flesh of those made mute

 

For even they sang off-key tunes

 

And scratch at guitar strings, pick with fingers bruised

 

The hands of time conduct the band

 

Every note lost in their phosphorescent sands

 

Silenced shots in the dark

 

Shooting stars

 

Are worlds apart

 

Foolish bards we are

 

Solitude, isolation, loneliness creates the greatest art

 

The inkblots pump in my frail heart

 

A great tree’s stump

 

A gallows arch

 

A Valkyrie born of wood and bark

 

A weeping willow hangs her head from a spiral arc

 

An engine that will never start

 

Remnants of the empty dark

 

Pendants of the endless march

 

Through forests grim with seraphim

 

Though chorus dims valorous cling

 

To the sewage drain like fallen rain

 

Bent to kneel before the king

 

A sapling body torn limb from limb

 

A throat of storms that never sings

 

A baby bird not born with wings

 

The bottom floor on which they sit

 

Where thirsty choke on their own spit

 

And the mouth of madness curls its lips

 

And bites into the broken heart

 

And swallows down the depths of art

 

Drowning on the pockmarked pages of black anchors

 

Harbouring doubts that no longer sail

 

I went a bit overboard

 

Drifting through the shapeshifting omnipotence like a maggot

 

In this wave of plastic rays, capsized without shape

 

Left shackled to the wake

 

Every watercolour paint pasture greener than your eyes

 

Bride to the lilac sunrise and violet midnight

 

God's flower in a garden of saints

 

 

Author's Note

For the first poem, Cigarette, it's inspired by the game Hades and its music, especially "Good Riddance" (Duet)

I originally thought to myself after writing, this: "Not happy with it. It looked so good at first. Should have left it after the first edit, but got impatient, and finished it on a bad day. Nevertheless, here it is."

But then I realized, I put my heart and soul into this, and it's honestly not bad. So, I tried to fix it up. In doing so, I wrote the second poem that goes along with it, Burn. That one speaks for itself.

Added two newer poems. Enjoy.


I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.

Reviews

[Adeline E. Weathers]

I can only read to the first one, I think I can see that you're dictionary of filtered, polished words. There isn't a sense of confusion, just boundless adjectives connecting to every piece of what you can offer, that's amazing. You don't stop these things, not even redundant in a way. I can see the efforts and skills you've mastered and this is just one of your works, not even half. I hope to write more like you.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

You have no idea how much that means to me to hear you say that. I greatly love writing poetry, and focus mainly on the abstract sound, shape, and form of a poem, as that provides an idea of what the poem represents as much saying so. Showing is something that I believe can give a story in a more intricate way than telling. My poetry is often difficult to understand, and so some people put it down and find no purpose in it. But there is meaning there, I simply hide it. I don't underestimate the power of the reader. Because I do not consider them unable to understand, I give them something where they themselves decide the truth of the poem, and find their own truth within it. I always have a story there, and because it's difficult to find, I feel it is worth finding. Many people do not have the time or patience for this, they may prefer something clear and objective. I prefer something overflowing and loud, something that stands out in a strange way, and is difficult to understand, but rewarding within that. Abstract poetry is a lot like abstract art. There is a picture, but the meaning of the work is decided by the person who looks upon it, it is something that some people cannot stand, and that others enjoy. When people write differently, paint differently, and so on, they are often ignored or not accepted as a 'true' artist. But change is what keeps art young. Unfortunately, people who come up with new ideas in art are often unsuccessful, as they challenge what is considered good art. It's all subjective what good art truly is. So some will love sporadically different work, and some will despise it. I'm glad you keep an open mind. My work may not be for everyone, but some people will always be interested in a different perspective. Sorry for the ramble.

[Adeline E. Weathers]

Art is not only a word, or a figure of beauty, It can be seen or not. It can simply be anything you'd put your mind to it. People have different, quiet and loud and messy directions in thinking. Yes, it seems people would not want to read all of it, but it's pleasant to keep, think about from time to time and even just let it stay there. It's something I would do too.

YOu don't have to apologize for what you're doing, what you've been doing and what you would like to keep doing. Just keep at it, you can alter it in any way and as long as t's there. It'll always be read, kept, and still seen by many.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

You’re right, thank you. :)

[FaeryQueen]

this is such a powerful piece, thank you so much for sharing this work of art!!

khat

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you for reading! :)

[barleygirl]

The most remarkable aspect of #1 - the way you mix positive & negative imagery in the same sentence . . . "diabolical stardust" . . . "glimmering oblivion". Also in #1 it feels like you are flexing your muscle in terms of seeing how many complex words you can stack together, which looks like exhilaration from a wordcrafter like you, but not necessarily crafted with a mind to make it clear or easy to read.

Stand-outs from #2: In a few places there are pile-ups of complex words that can feel a little unwieldy to read, but in this poem, you use more very short connective words mixed in with the complex words, which makes #2 read more conversationally than #1. This one has great word sounds, some rhyme, some assonance, etc.

#3 starts out with some tongue-twisting combinations of words, but still, the words themselves are fun & interesting to use together. After the opening, which felt a little clogged with words hard to spit out, then your writing loosens up considerably & becomes very readable with excellent & wildly imaginative imagery. This is my favorite of the 4 poems.

Whereas #3 is more about sensory imagery, #4 throws down more cerebral ideas to ponder, with more of an emotional tinge than is typical for your writing. It's like this message is about thinking & feeling thru a thing, thru many things, the stuff of life.

Hope your Halloween was interesting. I got my first trick-or-treater (a surprise visit from high school friend) in 10 years of living in the wilderness where no trick-or-treaters dare venture! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you for taking the time to leave such a helpful review. This isn't my best work, I've been a little bit messy this time, sort of lost my muse so to say. I'm glad you're able to pinpoint where I went wrong in this collection of poems. I have a lot of work to do to improve, and gain back my ability to write the way I used to, I feel like I'm losing my ability to write well. It's upsetting, but I know that only writing more and listening to friendly criticism will help. Please, let me know if there's anything in any of my poems you would change for reviews in the future too. It does help, and I do listen. Thank you Margie. :)

[barleygirl]

I find today's social & political climate to be so full of rage & discontent, it's totally distracting me from being able to write much at all & especially nothing serious that requires deep thought. I'm way too filled with anxiety these days to relax into something deep & thoughtful!!!!!!!!!! Good luck getting thru this & hopefully things won't become even more hateful after the election, regardless of who wins!

[Re-Pete]

powerful words, no-holes-barred imagery you paint - like addiction itself. captivating, ashen title and accompanying pics. you certainly like to go where most of us are afraid - but you have a way of forcing us to confront life and ourselves. this one is rolled and lit - smoking hot. you possess a vast vocabulary and an unusual way of incinerating the dark . unforgettable. one of my favorites of yours ... :)

p.s.
i don't know if some of your writing has rubbed off on me but i've done several in a similar style

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

I've noticed that you've been writing darker stuff recently, and I've enjoyed the change. Again, thanks for reading!

[Kari Rakitan]

My husband is a recovering smoker, so this is an interesting view into what that might be like.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Some people close to me have suffered from addiction, and made it out to see the other side. Although I haven't seen them since quarantine. I myself am heavily medicated due to mental illness, so I rely on my medication to get through the day. I felt like the name cigarette fits for this poem, but I'm still in the construction/writing phase, so we'll have to see. Always happy to share a poem.