Cigarette BurnA Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)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
© 2020 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)Author's Note
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StatsAuthorR.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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