Wanderers' EdenA Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe) My favourite poem so far, I thought "Climbing Centipede" was a great poem, but this one is its equal, if not slightly better at times. The section labeled "Time" is optional here, but can be read.
And Yet, Still
(Cavernous avenues of Saturn’s pianos like <Babal’s> mandibles) Deathlessly desolate bioluminescent restaurants, entrée enclaves of beige (ever)glades Cardiovascular ecclesiasticals pastel the carnival’s (swelling melancholy in felonies) rebellion Dismantling fountains of dreams (from the babbling seems) In the antlers of cantering chrysanthemums rampant In the clouded hallelujah of travelled cowls Bowing shadows of marrow herald hallows of discombobulated polymerization Disembowelling shrouded gallows in towering balaclavas Sombre wandering farmers of harvested mitochondrial harbour dharma’s argonauts Whispering crystalline viscera(l) lithium Ovulating groves of clovers like chrome supernovas Of frozen ambrosia kaleidoscope opium Cloaked in dystopian pandemonium Decomposing symphonies of idiosyncrasies Entangled ambers of avalanching amaranthine chrysanthemums Ragged banners of amethyst hieroglyph the riffraff Dance with antlers of anther lances in cancerous amphitheatres The anguished sanctuaries lit by lanterns of branching hippocampus and chrysanthemums Kafkaesque crepuscular effigies of reckless repetition’s transgressions Amps of lamplight take flight in the ripe white blight of ichor Vivid prisons of cataclysms patchwork tapestries of refracted lapis lazuli Crocheted blades of grass in taffeta Rorschach molasses Like columns of pollinating stamens Cedars of onomatopoeia folding embroidered (tsunamis of Shinigami) origami Embers of transcendent entropy weaving seem into greenery Silken and wilting amaryllis basilicas disassembling wendigo nebulas Tenebrous shores of northern lights Ripe off the spiralling vine of spinal kaleidoscopes Like poltergeists in the molten scythe of waxing and waning hurricane crescents incandescent Apotheosis glowing in the forge of phantasmagorical oracles in the shapeless casings of oasis Cosmos of origami mandala monoliths drift shapeshifting eclipse with lips of eucalyptus Crawling rollicking golems palmer discombobulation Of hollow molecules in the stalls metabolically of our cauldron of follicles Frayed pages suede serrated hurricanes of grey monasteries That sway lackadaisical azaleas gauging glazed haloes of polymerization Within the wavelengths of homeostasis baseless abominations Seance praying to mirages of discombobulation Angered mouths of valleys flooded with tears up to their mad eyes All born from the canyon of Zion rifts of eclipse through the moonlit shapeshifter The ravines of terpsichorean wheels turn Windmills amaryllis that roll the blunts of time Turning in the mercury circuits Of Ursuline curtains falling halogen diabolical Making their way through the out of place acres forsaken The wake laced with aether of wallpaper skin Fringing millenniums in intricate photosynthesis, symphonies of Indra’s linden trees Schism linen chrisom in the cinnamon wind swindling infinity The handmaiden mannequins stand by the cliff face Which smiles upon the skies of hyacinth wide-eyed Barbed wire Gaia Rises from the vandalized spires of bonfire pyres lilac choir umpire spiralling kaleidoscope Spits out the bones of last nights’ supper How hungry we were for God His empty words left us starved for daylight In the mouths of canyons (of ambience) and shipyards (of martyrs) (Among the echelon of demon spawn in Bethlehem’s precipice whipped by a visceral abyss) Among monstrous cities with steel mountains perched between splintered, jagged, pushpin teeth That swallow’s cosmopolitans Which can not be stomached rumbling by the rummaging steampunk sunset The body of earth vomiting constellations from curdled milky ways Watch the watercolour gypsies wriggle on the floor These people who know nothing but death and new breath Their wormwood fingers singed by pilgrimage of priscilla guillotines They are whittling guitars from the roots of Yggdrasil, Jupiter's juniper Watch them play with their strings and twang the very abyss and mistress of sound Terpsichorean onomatopoeia braille maelstroms like bales of halos woven like chainmail Made from dilapidated tapestries of lost words Laughing Rorschach actors of plastered plastic daffodils of elastic masquerades Blossoms crisscrossing the clockwork nocturn of mockingbird metropolis in phosphorus In the lackadaisical mosaic of aether and chaos disordered by boreal forests The puppet master, the ventriloquist, leaves the play The act of show and tell Of cello and mademoiselle elegies that mandala Patterns of each grain of sand Banished from chrysanthemums on the endless shore of evermore Paths of cardiovascular tapestries sacrosanct The staged performance of my broken pocket watch heart As it beats the eardrums of an orchestra Until the quiet silence goes Stillwater, hush, motionless Falls into the laps of Lovecraftian shrapnel Rorschach astronauts like patchwork blackbirds Emerging insurgency of demiurge metallurgy blurring eternity’s furnace of churning hurricanes Blackened by blasphemous pathos and raptures’ sacrosanct Rusted by their brush with death Dusted by rupturing tapestries cardiovascular the flow of a musical Bamboozled lunatics of eclipse dip their hands in liquid pixies Losing their grip on reality As it slips between their fingers, muddy water, dry sand, untouched and Crippled by the wings of The end of things Stranded canvases of enamel unravelling castles in the sky’s dynasty of finite breeze Stung by the penumbra of a bumblebee’s underworld Furling into sterling silver willows Shipwrecks of ambidextrous Nephilim Epithets echoing spectres of meshing interconnecting epitomes Necklaces effigy of hecatomb rejuvenate and illuminate That silhouette the forgotten reckless steps, Back down the staircase of heaven And into the dark basement of God Into The clouded hallelujah of cowls shrouded in towering balaclavas Blackened by sacrilegious abyss A blasphemous masquerade that quakes with incandescent thunder Yet even I have been ensnared in this spiralling trap This web of God, as I wriggle Waiting for the lilac spiders to find me As I swivel as an umbilical ventriloquist pulled at by the hands of the clock Pushed by the rushing stream of thought, by the boundless crowd That walks past the infinite surrender of their wars Chained to the cross of the passing day and the dizzy night The sands of time winding The cries of the dead musical And the hands of God firm The mosquitos, seagulls and eagles in the terpsichorean colosseums A terracotta mausoleum of peering delirious speleothems Grieving cathedrals that still flutter with the shudders of hummingbirds I still look for beauty with my cold dead eyes Lifeless as a fallen leaf in Autumn For visions of futures christened and lucid Even in a world that has none Even in my grotesque perception, echoed manifestos Recollecting the perpetual effigies of God’s messengers In their crepuscular luminescent wreckage of zeppelins like spectral sepulchres’ essence (Sketching requiems blessed resurrected manifestations of destiny’s desiccated destination) (Etched decrepit mechanisms of wretched hecatomb incongruent altocumulus) (Looming druids strewn bruised by intuitive lucid ribs ruining views of ruminating culmination) (Discombobulated transmogrified serpentine kaleidoscopes writhe in the moonlight’s kite) (Womb’s illuminating eschewed blooming illusions) (Loose screws movement rejuvenate all-consuming in the grooves of unison) (In the full moon’s distant rippling lithium eclipse) Collections resurrected a skeptic spectre of perfection Even as those who preach (of) beauty Have none And as those who preach (of) humanity Have none We are simply wandering between the lines Strolling along with the infinity between the two sides of a coin Stradling a chicken-scratch written poem Lost between the lines of a life’s sentence Features of each author that leave their indents on the page like eulogies Barely readable, their tombstones Documenting a time when they painted the town red with rusted flowers Even after the lead casing has been erased like an oasis Even when the ink no longer stains the walls red Words of silence Static In a world that has none Only the noise that hunts for one voice In the blasphemous cacophony of Rorschach vaccinated machinations Grafted by the background noise (A billion words) One voice
Reincarnation
Patterns of collateral anatomy Like grand ballooning bulbous baubles of Babel’s colonized horizons Blossoming kaleidoscopic cacophony Chosen clovers rows of foaming chromosomes roaming the Octobers of porcelain Orpheus Bottomless mausoleums of terpsichorean Elysium Elixirs and pitchers of pixyish bliss Electroconvulsive palpitations Constellations of ovulating crocheted suede glades of creation Incandescent revelations of iridescent Nephilim Resurrected in all their excellence In the arms of reincarnation
Time
The stretch of time like a muscle winded in strings; Resuscitating creation; unwinding hyacinths The arched back of a cat hissing at the mourning sun Frothing broth of kaleidoscopic nocturne of phosphorus brothels Flocking with gospels of mockingbirds Sleepwalking in the clockwork of melodic octaves claustrophobic In the symphonic omniscience of a lithium stripped eclipse Of whispering viscera shapeshifting sifting through candlewick Icarus View the strewn union of a blooming moon Budding in the motherhood, motherland, mother tongue of thunderclouds That plant their damp hands into the belly of the earth giving birth to serpents That twist and turn in the linen bedsheets of the clouds Contorted and pretzeled coiling void In the webbing of heavenly nebulas penumbra Mumbling from the sun to the underworlds I am reborn They bore the fruit of me From their amaranthine branches To be husked by death And bitten into by his rusted iron teeth Racking, digging desperately, working the land into something more palatable Never reaching the other side, he haunts this one Swallowing the old world And spitting out the New Testament The will of God I cling close to my chest Like a wilted flower picked from the earth Or a candle weakly burning in the wind Something uttered long ago that has been long forgotten Something so utterly lost to time Something I found so utterly lost to me Burning into ash Decaying into dust Rotting into bloom The earth dances the same dance God grows complacent And I grow tired of seeing it But the more I do The longer the chain binding me to this world Grows (From the leg room) From my dirt-caked hands Like a flower Or a bluebird I shape the sands And watch everything I hold dear slip through my fingers And it hangs in the balance So I tip the scales In my favour And the hourglass Paves over me With each tiny grain of sand Over time In a desert of words The chain of sentences becoming longer than my tongue could mother God dances the same dance I grow complacent And everyone else grows tired of seeing it
This Everything
Diabolical mausoleums bending tendrils of emerald metallurgy That speleothem the split ends of threads of renaissance Yet still, we follow our knotted memories The memories of our fellow past children Unable to reach the joy of childhood No longer imaginative, no longer alive, no longer feeling Searching for the lost dreams of seamstresses like terpsichorean beacons Reaping ethereal empyrean murals between cylindrical buildings Like silken pillows, pavilions of willowed amaryllis basilicas Frolicking bird-calling halogens Colosseums of caged helixes walk through the rusted subway Of bulimic phoenixes breathing in the Elysian Prometheus Batted at by the paws of a kitten Waves of frayed suede mosaic the glazed aegis of enslaved wages of dilapidation Crocheted vertebrae paving barricades of condemnation in grey Azalea’s phosphorus apocalypse of clockwork mockingbirds’ sarcophagus I live by the barcode, A consumer of tongue-tied tastes paving the waking oasis Tattooed obsidian calligraphy, engraved poetry, written upon my spine, a serial number A birthmark upon my paint peeled skin Auburn andromeda of autumn guitarlike harbours of terracotta cobblestone mahogany Of Armageddon’s spaghettified headstones of chromosomes lotus Of unwoven clovers in the groves of crowned chalice of wildflowers amalgamated Weaving terpsichorean ravines and winding rivered of slithering scimitars The bangles of chandeliers that puppeteer The empty fields have been replaced with great spires The green has been ground into silver The nothing has become something for some time now Replacing the ecstasy of knowing nothing When everything was new and shining With familiarity The beauty of my past Is forgotten like an old movie Replaced By what I have come to understand What was once magic Is now ordinary And all I have left is this meaningless, mundane, everything
Lost City
O cacophonous brothels of phosphorus Apocrypha O blossoming colossus of mockingbird clockwork O serpentine walking gelatinous metropolis You are a Lovecraftian basilisk Of rapturous kaleidoscopic Ragnarök gospels That Rorschach astronauts Abstract cast in ecclesiastical shrapnel’s alabaster masquerade The very shapeshifting eclipse A one eyed-abyss wider than the meadows of Eden O wasteland city Yours is the fate of all men who stood before you Like an ant before God Swallowed up by the sands of time
Insignificant
Malfunctioning compass homunculus Armageddon’s brethren tethered to forever’s wax and feathers Trying to touch the sun A golden apple in an orchard of porcelain clouds like wildflowers Lonely, pointless, tiny, and worthless as we are Is it not the greatest tragedy to watch from your seats? (in the front rows) As we destroy ourselves And tear our hearts inside out like wildflowers plucked from the harp of the earth To give to you Is it not beautiful? Am I not the most delightful thing you have ever left to the roar of the city? Am I not so pitifully wretched? So infinitesimally small? So eccentrically mad? Would you give me the slightest of a chance to lay my roots? (Daisies and dandelions like barbed wire wyverns in the bonfires of lilac) Refuge from a world That has none? What have I done? But get up out of the ditch I’d been left to rot in But wander from the road I had been given onto a mountain trail But swallow every bomb dropped upon my broken back, soiled skin and walk What did I do But give up hope just to get it back again But climb over the gates of heaven even if they’ll never open again, rusted closed What have I done But spread my arms out to God like a tree As if I had already found my taloned wings of wax and feathers? Barbed wire violins of Zion spiralling What have I done But the impossible? Spaceman, wanderer, speck of dust in the rusted canyons (Like tambourines of lustrous percussion) Following the passage of time Winding Nile’s bible hyacinth into finite xylophones Lost and forgotten Like those who found God On the razors’ edge of a field Reaping the brightest apples of Eden What have I done But run myself dry of memories, or love? Under the madness of A demented sun That smiles upon my miles of exile Fading into the suede of marmalade days And vibrant cypresses of vipers in the jackknife of night What have I done But find my way home? Only the flapping of my burlap wings High on the fumes of oozing music altocumulus Yet I cannot fit myself back into this clockwork box I broke away from This eggshell no longer fits the bird As it sings the most beautiful melody I no longer hear it
Scar Smile
In the memories of cemeteries Between the valleys and mountains Between the alleys and skyscrapers unshaped clay in matrixed grey-faced aether I am small So insignificant So damaged and useless But even if my voice is cast out by the crowd Stilled in still waters that once rushed white Drowned out by my stream of consciousness And my tributary of thoughts passing by me like a ghost burning out in The bright lights that dance on the bones of this city’s ancestors My scars are like stars in the night sky They too are but a speck here Yet grander, they fade too in the morning Although not completely Theirs is a but a dim (fluorescent) light humming in my darkness There would be no shadow If there would be no light Horseshoes come together, feeding on each other, one The difference between left and right is none existent We are unable to follow the directionless flow of (universal) existence’s constellations Guided along the river Styx by carrion ferrymen buried by age itself Laid to rest by the hands of the clock That conduct bodies of music in cut time Sometimes, shades are brightest in the nighttime So much easier to stand straight If you don’t bear any wounds For I carry the weight Of a million distant, tiny, stars Upon my blind and blistered cluster of a back Onyx comets and bronze constellations That stalked the flocks of blossoming chalky phosphorus mockingbirds In the metropolis of their nocturnal infernos And not one of them Guided me home, or ever Got me anywhere
Birth
Webbing leather-skinned brethren bake under the wrath of God Heavenly serenity bending in the hallucinogenic engines Blisters of lithium crisscross rippling Polycrystalline shapeshifters of mellifluous conifers Icarus picturesque (crippled-winged sickles) Blasphemous alabaster pastures Like waning wax of molasses Patchwork grasslands of shackled Rorschach’s pastel’d in asphodel elegies Nebulous perennials in skeleton Netherworlds, (Meadows in the dishevelled faces of oasis) Tendrils in the rending ebony of clementine cemeteries in the hallucinogenic tenebrous Climbing shadows on the wall Winding sapphire spirals of graphite ivory kaleidoscopes The Nile’s strings like violins Shackling Baphomet basking in rapture’s aftermath To the ink blood blotting out the names of the nameless And the Gods of the godless Neon halos of sable cradled hurricanes of Beowulf maelstrom Crocheted bays of dilapidated Himalayan Mazes of braille azaleas, aether mosaics, murals bleeding cashmere, the empyrean ethereal Picked clean from the lackadaisical black abyss of the pupil A boutique of spiders and irises the shade of hazel glazed in angel dust Labyrinths of cancerous canyons (like amputees of champagne amphitheatres) Of bangled pianos stranded in amaranthine lanterns of ashen tarantula chrysanthemums Like astral Lovecraftian castaways of a lavender (nook and cranny) avenue’s masquerade (Nomatic) Astronauts lost inside the castles of the sky (Dungeons) Built on the foundation of my back Holding up the heavens like the outstretched arms of an ancient tree, My hands great pillars that built the cathedrals of God (Towers of books like crooked inukshuks fishing in lithium with paperback hooks) Branches anchored in the riverbank sanctuaries A canopy of lycanthropy’s dancing carnivalesque crepuscular effigies That tremor in the remembering of endlessness A cemetery of arrowheads spread jagged vagabonds in the sparrows of red Where once there was but the bullet bodies of rain Bottomless monarchs to the unravelling balaclava of shadowlands Bottomless neon harbours bombarding candelabra obelisks Where ships sail through the ear canal of Gaia Echoing, to hear the word of God And men swim through the stream of conscious thought In the static of commercial vessels Balconies in the mouth of every spangled canyon That scream echoes of the past In their briars of barbed-wire dialect Mandala of monolithic hieroglyphics etched in decrepit sepulchres If you listen closely, you can hear the scratch of a record player Digging into the broken plate Of what is to come All of it, and we Are a mausoleum to a world That is bound to inevitably die I see it in the men and women I pass on my hikes through Websters Spiralling wireframes Evangelical skeletons bellowing from their very bones Mangled flesh that speaks with the whole world waiting under their tongues I watch the children make their endless trek to and from the schools I see the workmen and workwomen in their expensive cars on infinite highways I watch the sun come down upon the earth in an act of love (and hate) Only to rise in the morning and leave her for the heavens Meaningless and obscured None of this is a beautiful thing I watch the leaves on the tree branches slowly shrivel up and die In anticipation of winter, the end of their worlds Just to be reborn again in the Spring I die once more just to be reborn every morning, every night I look out upon the water And see the lake bulging its fat belly over a rocky belt I am waiting for the end Waiting for the cycle of things that do not matter Continuing, in a way that does not matter To birth something new from their elderly wombs And I can tell That it’s only a matter of time Eventually This world will die with me The sun will blink the tears from its eyes Before being plucked from the sky like a silver coin (As pinpricks of light perforate the shroud of midnight) (As the lines on God’s back connect into constellations) (As the skinning scintillation of oblivion’s obsidian scimitar calls) (For infinity’s calligraphy) (A pigment riddled flower petal meadowland) (On each lithium ridged vermillion pillar) (A basilica of priscilla ventriloquists) (As my livid rhythmic bridging obsidian repetition flickers out of existence) (As rigid daffodil sigils trill with their quill-like fingertips) (And swivel pillowed silhouettes) (In the quivering blizzard of stygian figurines) (On the incendiary wind) (In the smudge of a butterfly) (On a violet horizon) (Constellations suede in havenless polymerization’s gaze) (Comets on the monolith of my broken back) (The skies where our forefathers wander beyond the dishonourables) (Tempestuous incandescent deliquescent etchings of the records of our ancestors) (Blessed as the incandescence of a thunderclap) We will only be what has come and gone Like the last star crumbling to dust in a once vibrant sky Even one small light will become blinding again, and again Like an anvil and a hammer forging sparks of life As a newborn child finally opens their eyes Life will be fleeting Art will be fleeting And maybe In/At the beginning of this end As the Gods watch silently and remorselessly As the prairies of alstroemerias, engraving of maelstroms The gregarious fairies, and totalitarian marionettes Drown in a neon slurry of bright urbanization As the wind blows through the carrion prairielands As the children close their world wandering eyes And the men and women leave their seats empty As the good trample over themselves to barricade the pit against the evil And the evil abandon their love and parish in their soft poignant gregarious voices Gregorian choruses born against the good In the fountain of Baal Illuminated in ruination As the tower of Babel comes crumbling To meet the sky on its own terms, like the tusk of a mammoth The teeth of the earth, and their many sky-scraping brethren, smile As the ground comes to meet the heavens Like an outstretched hand reaching out to God before the waltzing of death Makes its way through these hallowed ballrooms Finding God to be down to earth Until there’s nothing left but dirt Just maybe Maybe It will matter (to me) again And I will start living One more time Stepping (directionless) back into these once nostalgic streets And start walking Towards the far-off destination The stillbirth Of my jagged mountaintop My shattered (armor of shifting tectonic plates) (Shaped by the earth) (In all its rustic beauty) (My terracotta) soul
Desolation De(composition)
Lands of chrysanthemums Lanterns of amaranthine Pomegranates of hippocampus Panthers of amber Lamborghini ambience Scaffolding plastic Rorschach afterworlds Of furling hurling mother of pearls in the sterling again Amps of lamplighter amputated from champagne hurricane elation Desolate effigies of vermillion capillaries of the silicon bones of amaryllis civilizations Sleek with the leafage of bleeding deities In the cleavage of clouds bottleneck crossroads Alleyways palisade in dismay Of autumn Shinigami cotton leaf on a bottomless breeze Of jagged fragrant snaggletoothed trees With too few roots to quite be a smile, But still, roar soaring with the sour windpipes Stuck blowing smoke from its oven of lungs That no longer speak in tongues Nostrils of apostles who dared speak the word of god And burnt their tongues on andromedas Swallowing the moon and spitting out sunsets Remnant’s revenants of vengeful heaven’s archipelagos Cellos that bellow preaching to the choir, the children of God Their mothers breaking watercolour And painting the town red in his rusted love A hand me down from the man who never came to see his kids, But expected them to meet him on their own terms In the clockwork maze of wasteland time In the steampunk labyrinth of heavenly bodies Counting the sheep below with wool pulled over their eyes Hiding from the wolf that clothes them In the odes of crows interwoven in supernovas like four-leaf clovers In the groves of posies caught in the noisy voices Of tin foil roses bloated like the tongues of passing clouds That gallop with the windflowers wildfire childlike In the twinkle of a diamond Or the moons’ one-eyed asylum Piling up on the beguiling vinyl In the barbed-wire fence of briarwood hymens spiralling in suspense of black fire lilac Spires of irises closing their eyelids On the great beyond’s bondage And I am still caught in the knotting colonoscopy of phosphorus Apocrypha Blossoming from Serengeti heaven’s appendages Blades of paving saviours names of graveyard’s faceless space-lift oasis Blemished Everests of tempestuous neo-genesis In the mosaic, lackadaisical halos, tapestries dilapidated, derailed evaporated maelstroms Grave-digging Stygian calligraphy’s mimicry of rhythmic scimitars in the barbed wire Styrofoam Through infinity’s photosynthesis limping on the simplicity In every blistering symphony skipping beats Whispering of epiphanies rippling in the insignificant distance Of bliss chrysalis mist of Valhalla’s valleys The boughs of gallows for melancholy Valkyries In the valves of Alcatraz Leaving trails paving ukuleles in angel wings Spasming in the lavender fields of photo reels Unyielding immaterialism murals of the ethereal leering speleothems Of resonance blending the thunderclap of blasphemous alabaster Of a bending compendium pendulum of archenemies Rending heavens spaghettified Into diamonds of horizons eyes Of spiderwebs ivory dreads That cryogenics cannot remember In its penniless blender of parthenogenesis Embers embedded in the September of reverends Serpentine orphans to the phantasmagorical orchards Of rigour Mortis incorporeal in the boreal forests Of chlorophyll in the pastels’ swelling with elegies Like pelicans of the belladonna wells in corals’ floral aurora borealis Propellers of hell’s metallurgy skeletons of parhelion reefs In the creases of leaping elysian helixes Cerulean empyrean peel back regal torpedo’s of gaseous plastic asters The layers of Himalayan Aegises Pale gales against the flailing railing of trailing azaleas With the alias of passing astronauts In the phosphorus gospels of rapture’s Lovecraftian chapels (Overlapping cardiovascular castles) Baptized in the violet sunrise of smiling Gaia’s vibrant isotopes Of osmosis smoking the opium of eloping dystopian cloaked Of chrysanthemums’ lycanthropy In the anvils of spangled dandelions spines like amber lilac spiralling Nihilism’s formaldehyde vials of childhood Of the woodlands of amaranths, scattered dance in splattered hands Of Saturn’s lance, in patterned trance Of addled branch, and latter stanch, in Adam’s glance An avalanche, of attic’s man, to tip the scales, from spick and span The gathered grands In dabbled ankh, unravelling plans, of travelled dance, to plough the lands, in ground to plant Our promises, dogmatic damned In rollicking howling balaclavas in the malleable stratospheres Mirroring the delirium of fearless years imperial Into the spiritual earlobes of flow comatose of groves of crows afterglow Ambrosial dope, spoken to, the open truth That locusts flew, and oceans loose, the broken pews, the tokened few A rotten hue, forgotten muse, a lotus blooms, in throats of blue In symbiosis coating oracles in primordial metamorphosis Of contorted orbiting chords of shortening gorges of unborn endorphins Snorkelling in the porcelain amorphous of collected wreckage Predestined beckoning crepuscular depths of records etched into nectarines The threads of a nebula wed to swivelling renaissance And the thundering anaconda of penumbra Enveloping the basilicas of shadowland In the soma of Beethoven’s coves of pandemonium In the pull of their ovary rotary chromosomes As mercury circles around the earth like a second moon spun Amorphous incorporeal under scorpion Sun Incendiary chariots that bend alstroemerias to the carrion ferrymen buried like a marionette Champagne hurricanes sterling stained in the silver-frames Azazel’s halo of braille archangel azalea bloated on the coasts As the heads and the tails derail like a rope Viscous liquor of the willow wisp eucalyptus (The ripening ichor of the undecipherable maestros) (Serpentine mercury of herculean Prometheus, speleothem of the endless heavens) Trickling bickering slick with the ricochet syphilis Flipping off picturesque in the nickels’ cryptic lick of crystalline Scripture’s depictions of the shapeshifting wicker nicotine Icarus gripping eclipses Smoke in his lungs like a loaded gun Amalgamated nations, crocheted snakes of polymerization’s mosaic In sacrilegious Rorschach choreography of discombobulated waltzing compositions in lithium Static statues in the castles of atmospheric empyreans Castaways’ daffodils tapestries of shrapnel Rorschach blasphemy Inter-mapping rapture’s relapsing passageways of grey In the marmalade shade of carnal haze On the edge of a reverend kicked out of heaven again Frayed in maelstrom of Autumn’s blazing mosaic of basil azaleas Peering through vertical curdled herds of flirtatious marigolds As the clouds that ballet with their bent iron feet Finally, balance on the ground that they meet (And crowd themselves powerlessly) (Unravelling gallantly) (Calvary casualties) (The heart don’t beat) (The art don’t breathe) (Like harlequin wreaths of weatherbeaten Prometheus reaping breath) (In the dangling jangle of leaves) (Among the reeds and the trees) (Stark, arcing, embarking) Over The dead barley and wheat
Immortal
Apartheid kaleidoscope On the cape of isolated landscapes Shaken by the wake evisceration Symbiotic imago Staccato of vibrato Mausoleums of Elysium’s speleothem Helixes mixed in the bricks of a ricochet In my crystalline crucifixion Coral Meteora pouring distorting organs of meteoric chlorophyll Crocheted crazed Shapeshifting Icarus eclipses the lithium gypsies Ecclesiastical pathos in the wrath of my pathogens Woodland scavengers avalanche Plastered pastures pastel rapture‘s flowering hourglass Of the ecclesiastical astronauts Who graft chapels of shrapnel shafts Sapphire graphite nightless In the white light Lovecraftian Rorschach afterworlds Chainmail ukuleles Arching Parthenon (Expressionless contraception’s pestilence bottleneck breathlessly in echoing hecatomb) (Banners of ragged shrapnel tapestries crafted in the dilapidated apathy, gravel candle annuls) (In the canopies of Nirvana’s tyrannical hands) (Dangling enamel and branding of propaganda) Nocturne’s proclamations of the gospel of apocalypse Rakshasa doppelgangers looking out upon the reverends’ desert of dilapidated cities With their flags of blossoming taffeta fluttering in dance with the dervish wind Of blackest astral blasphemous iron-cast Damascus Scabbards of lavenders angering on these stagnant magma avenues Time immemorial I am immortal Never will I die (from rhyme) On the inside again
Mississauga
Colliding horizons of wyvern briars Like sirens kaleidoscope And the lilac iris of pines Of ivory cypress of white death, bottlenecked, sepulchred The intertwining rhinestone Of violet scythes choir Churning in metallurgy Merging in hurricanes of sewage drains Unwinding a child now writhing in Gaia Spindling chimneys of mithril basilicas glistening lithium rhythm In a prison of piano and mandolin strings And rivers like scimitars Varicose chariots of tributaries carrion Carve their way into the daunting harbours These varicose oceans Roped in hymns of spiralling wind In bloated overtures Roaming pandemonium coast to coast Grandfathers to the waterlogged Halogens of foggy Mississauga Docked in the bloodshot Apocrypha I watch your afterglow And see your nebulous florescence Scarred upon the landscape beautifully The neon lights wish they were students as bright as yours As you reek with blinding lights that dilute the pupils Teaching of how both the yellow slur of metallic gold And the great holy outback of rural villages In the mud and snow once touched And held hands before the altar Before becoming one That pulls from both dualities, our dualities Like Lord Shiva Neither this nor that Neither one nor both Somewhere in-between Or outside it all You are what remains when every colour in the world is blurred into one Or where there was never colours At all White black and grey tongue Let the pictures hang your promiscuous obscurity Your opaque inconsistency Your collage of mirages sprawling (Bulbous with the columns of andromeda monoliths to colonization) (Polyphonic iconography in lithium glyphs) (Musically illuminating incongruently transfigured Olympians of rigid photosynthesis) Your clear glass tapestry of broken sharded people Like banners of amaranth on your walls of fibreglass sacrilege Primordial embroideries coil in the foliage Blurring the line between realities into one mesh Colossus blossoming from the breath of Nephilim, zephyrs, and epitomes Waltzing on your ulcers in malting cauldrons of frolicking mandala decomposition (Let you/Or) be one of many Or nothing at all
Incomplete
Tsunamis of origami wander bottomless terracotta mausoleums Discombobulated Autumn’s breeze a mitochondrial ensemble of fawning mahogany cosmos To the well-tuned eardrums of bottomless andromedas Harbingers Shinigami harmonic constellations Inkblots of cartilage Tartarus in the broken glass tapestries of teetering onomatopoeia In chrysanthemums of planted drums in an answerless amphitheatre Astronauts blotting swastika’s out from the blotched mockingbirds of concrete monasteries Monarchs of archways paved embalming onyx alstroemerias And varicose azaleas in the androgenous gelatinous crossroads of apocalypse Vassals to the discompassionate asteroids void In a ceiling of wrathful alabaster grasslands Paint cans spilling out planets of amaranthine The sulking hulk of penumbras of bumblebees Thundering through the tundra of undergrounds With the shrapnel lassos of Lovecraftian halos tailing the maelstrom Gospels of Picasso’s grasping at straws Drawn in grey lines across the pageless earth A broken-spined journal that never touched a single word Rough drafts of skeleton belladonna With its flippant flipping conifers rippling lithium eclipse through the whispering chrysalis Dusty memories that bellow from the Everest in its crevices a cemetery Like a rusting thrush of blustering combustion Blossoming colossus of pastel apostles Cropping from the grapevine horizons like in the thread of leatherbound crevices Serengeti’s spaghettified by the lithium sycamores of prickly pear miscarriage Sickle crippling twisters of viscous mithril Icarus The crescent of phosphorescence of blessings Repetition’s iridescent sepulchre of arcing scarves of parchment In the splendour of parthenogenesis Stricken by you, I am And after watching the process again and again, how you made me this way I am the answer to your damning questions Just the dream of your reality Just the unspoken word for your silence Just the frown of your smile Just the empty in place of your full Born from your (never) ending Ascending emerald tendrils compendium of endless glens in the splendour of your pendulum Born from the edge of the abyss You dared to look upon in wonder Squandering Shinigami, picker of wildflowers, plucking at strings I was born from your road’s dead end Your path leads to me I am the beginning of the end The judge for your run-on sentence Well versed in your tongue You give the word of God At your own hearing And the court finds that you lost your innocence But you are deaf With your cauliflower ears And your patchwork heart As the weight behind their punches Batter your façade As you and this world are the same They have shaped you like knotted terracotta pottery, or a fallen mahogany tree Blind to God, primordial earth Trying to feel for something more than the shadow of yourself In the death of your birth In the extinguished light of a candle Lost in checkered boards of black and white in a grey haze Without really living in the first place Reality without dream Silence without word Smile without frown Full without empty Movement without grace Time without patience Love without virtue The oasis of your nothingness is a darkness that enveloped you in flames And now you are but a wicker The writer that burns his own pages Putting out his best verses to warm the boiler of his clockwork heart Which does not understand the posies of prose in a voiceless vortex of porcelain perfection Burning your waxwings in a midnight sun Under a strawberry moon Do not fear the ticking of your eclipse A hive of lilac butterfly’s glide on the isles of this horizon’s one-eyed kaleidoscope Unravelling galaxy’s shrouding flowery gallows of bedazzled hallelujah Balaclava talon alcoves of groves open their arms in avalanche blanche tarantulas (Eldritch Machiavellians) <Ramshackle astronauts in ecclesiastical pastures of blasphemous masquerade> Basking in sacrilege, aspers of lit matches castaway like a blade of glasslike grasslands In the dancing branches of damp lanterns Chasms of shadows, prismatic gladiators in the Lazarus of stratospheres Of lavender patterns that Saturn mandala of velvet elegies in the bellies of melody To (brandish) amethyst salamanders of branding ambience in the champagne clay Like ectoplasmic gatherings under shattering throng of Avalon Babylonian chthonian dwelling dishevelled in bellowing melodies In bevelling wells to evangelical skeletons Strands of amethyst canvases As the eye of the storm opens blindly To see its pupils’ planting irises among the stars Within the crater sockets of the octave mockingbird moon Harmonies reincarnating in the clocks’ apotheosis Dreams in the carnivalesque crepuscular hecatomb in the wreckage of perfection’s destinies Its wings outstretched skyscraper deities Daisies of megalomania craning their slender necks out of vortexes sepulchre Watching from the radiant Himalayan graveyards of mazes within the pale braids of azaleas In the matted hair of perishing eras samsara (Armageddon’s feathery poinsettia brethren like severed heads of the tempestuous) (Remember their shaved membranes like manes engrained in devastation) The arrogant bounteous fountain of mountains entangled in the brambles like unkempt effigies Ungrateful as you are You fail to see the beauty in nothing You do not know the fifth ring You do not know the joy of honeysuckle Under the rays of blinding pillars and columns That house Cleopatras of alabaster Weaving elysian terpsichorean mausoleums in the limousine trees You do not feel the cold of winter glisten Like sheets of ice upon riverbeds of skin Or of the mattress clouds that smile upon the tyrant mountains Holding up castles in the sky built from the brickwork of stars Lost sigils of God You are but a piece that will never fit into any puzzle Misshapen, a blackbird the colour of tar Painting yourself watercolour Mesmerizingly alone, drowning in solitude’s kiss, its femininity And so We see no beauty in you Nothing and I You and I are both pointless nothings I will never forgive your trivialization Of the only things that bring me joy But I am a puzzle too And I understand What it means To feel incomplete But I still wish to gather my lost pieces Little lambs, flocking to Apocrypha And shepherd the lost clouds across the horizon of a cold black Back across the path from heaven Before they fall from their stairwell to God And shatter into mortal men Who do not love the sun, in all its rage, yellowed page, and poem Hating those who burn their tongues Without a word To vomit brick(s) from the oven of their pain As such is the foundation of the heavens Baked in the spit of men From their slack-jaw mouths Beauty lays each block of death Across the inevitable empty Dozens of stories it is The walls infinite Misery is incomplete The call of wild angels lull silence into sleep And sleep lulls silently The building built upon our built Split Upon our backs Inside the stomachs of men chiselling rosemary from their gravelly faces Wrench free Each twig from beneath the fingernail of the branch Each tooth from its entangled bangle of roots Each cog from its mechanical anvil of a smile The house of God is taking shape There Man becomes God, the Machine And God wanders, trampling on mud and man Across deserts of flayed skin In the rivers of black In the skies of white In the fields of nothing but crows with everything grows freely from Eden And the missing pieces Naked to shifting eyes That fail to see The beauty in God Incomplete as we are Watch the unfolding of the last scroll Like an elongated tongue That spoke nothing But forgotten passages And falsehoods, called truths Like a velvet carpet The machine crawls on its windup legs into the iris of the sun; (A ball of yarn in a cloud stitched sky) Pulls the thread (free) from the fabric of unravelling reality The silk from the wound Until everything fits through the teeth of the turbine The gears are clean The machine hums with voice through its sharklike maw Like caged birds in the trap of its ribs And oil paints my steampunk face The colour of God Red as the apple of my eye The worm gyrating through the centre of the eclipse Umbilical birth of the many eons of sand and dust Caught in the throat of mourning A motherless Sun
Machine God
Failing still to be born From the overflowing cup of a wrathful sky Painted by men Gears and pulleys gnashing Shadow In the shade of men, incompletely, (incomparably) Spilling from the pipes The tear ducts of vermillion cylinders Eyes like moons cratered in the face of the earth That blink out neon from their smoking amber depths Clogging shillings of villages in the gizzard innards of its splurging eternities The valves of Valhalla’s bowels The intestinal crestfallen terracotta mahogany bonding comets of hydraulic alstroemerias Collages of constellations bathing in the fresh paintings of latex The swollen heart of a motor in the rusted flower of foliage Pistons pumping steampunk homunculus voluptuously sunken in Grand cathedrals of organ primordialism of porcelain rigour Mortis <Disheveled cell of propellers> <A velvet shell parhelion> <Vellum belladonna of fauna’s andromeda crusted with the dusty must of sustenance> (The deconstructing ruptured concussive percussionist) (Budding discoveries rummage in the plumage of umbrage somersaulting altocumulus) (The ruffled conductors’ lustre of crushing and rusted musculature) (Mushroomed husks blustering flush clutching the gusting clusters of nothingness) (Flesh and rough draft sacrilege refractive damascus in blasphemous ecclesiastical dilapidation) (Disaster’s afterimage swivelling amaryllis ventriloquist imprisoned pilgrimage grisly chivalry) <A creeping steeple of bipedal cathedrals reeling in Elysium’s’ grim sanguine chandeliers> The machine’s body is its own temple Its own God The gears continue to turn The sun continues to burn The deserts continue to grow The sands continue to blow It smiles without a face through its endless stream of words Conscious only to the mechanisms, the machinations of its own bones I do not love the machine But perhaps Incomplete as it is It is not quite God It is almost human Stricken by you, I am And after watching the process again and again, how you made me this way I am just I am just I am just The answer to your damning questions Just the dream of your reality Just the unspoken word for your silence Just the frown of your smile Just the empty in place of your full Born from your (never) ending Reality without dream Silence without word Smile without frown Full without empty Movement without grace Time without patience Love without virtue I am just And I am just And We were just Monsters without virtue Chewing into the sinew of our gods Incomplete in the face of our own mirrors Seeing ourselves without beauty A motherless Sun Staring out upon the impossible empty Locking eyes with the abyss In which we bath ourselves dry Bled wandering through the circles under God’s eyes Drunk on the salt of his tears I am baptized in fire and sun, and burning away at the seems Drowned brightly in the waters of Phlegethon Vomiting (barbed-wire) psalms I failed to feed the grey fields of my tongue I am just- -(Watching Slowly as the pieces on the board scatter to the wind)
Seeds of the Fruit
Forever wandering the shallow creek of my own lonesome shadow Drinking from the chalice of a full moon blossoming Its flower eyes opening To the cruelness of the cross I carry Down the boulevard of broken chess pieces Their boardwalk of splinters and discarded limbs Disfigured outlines where once dead men stood by the corners Their outstretched wings of bare flesh skinned of life Mannequins broken in by time Wandering gardeners of mitochondria unravelling scattered to the Babel of an avalanche Engrained in the lathering of tattered rags clouding ballooning maneuvering juniper The bowels of Valhalla’s cowls shrouding Valkyries Crows watch from the strangled spiral of telephone lines Hung from the mighty oaks The rusted cherry blossoms’ lustre, and the withered weeping willows’ knots Widowed to the angels who do not care for their upturned roots Like grand orchestras of veins and arteries, organs, and pianos dangle like entrails, tangerines Strewn across the backstreets of decay As the last dance of rotting maple leaves Plummet sad from their summit Like the choreography of fallen gods painted into murals of twine In every crack of a dust smothered sidewalk Colourless, unremarkable, cobbled in cracked porcelain Smoke slithering snaking scarfs across the angered canyons of mannequins Of my strands bangles of canvas ramble brambling in sanguine wreaths of bohemian bulimia Down below the iron sun Hammering flat the anvil ridge of earth on the edge of this town As the cars needle and thread through melancholy lanes tattered cloth As the crows watch cooing As the day is eaten away by the blackness of night As the boughs of trees bend their backs winding with the hands of the clock And the new world Born ignorant, blameless, embodying tomorrow’s flame Leaves each shred of it to die (In the alleys of rain, pooling their waste into the sewers of altocumulus) Grey, purple, and ragged red Bleeding from the stained fabric of time (Wring every second’s ounce) (Minutemen with [no]-body counts writing the passage of time with the lifeblood of sheep) (While they weep) Draining watercolour of what painted my white grey dreams hopeful And like I have Forgets them all Nobody counts on me I don’t smile (I don’t laugh) (Sometimes even,) (I don’t dream) Just show my dirty teeth But I pick the flowers from them In this weed-strewn overgrown garden of a mouth (Just) To give to you (my word) Maybe so you’ll have The chances/life I never had For I have wandered beyond the pit of the pomegranate And past the core of the apple And bore my own fruit With this mouth And these fingers Feasting On the incorporeal morsel of my mortal soul And now I leave you The seeds As they sprawl in the boreal forests As they spindle on the irrational winds I feel as if I can see them These embers of wood, and bark, and star Watch my world crumble away in the bonfire of dreams In the palms of your hands See what the man underneath you Grows for your stump As the flowers Have mine Have my name Let it roll off the skin of the page And tumble from tongues Decaying into dust Have my words As I cannot cling to their harmony I am not the meat I am the leftover verses Of a dream That will flower Someday As I am but a memory And you are but a garden of fresh dirt Let us manifest our destinies Let us grow boundless forests among the great mountains Let us be static like the flow of water Let our dreams warp reality Let us hold fate bent, restrained, firm, enslaved, within our flayed leatherbound arms Let us be Flowering stars in the grand burial of black Let us be The sound of nothingness driven in noiselessly before an endless storm of wind and rain Let us be Sparks born in the clash of two souls I didn’t choose this This is who I am (I didn’t discard this) (I have little, if nothing, else, really) (This nothing) (This everything) (This dream) Is who I am <Try to> Take it from my hands Sprawling metropolitan kilometres that domino in the snow All I’ve been doing Is waiting
© 2021 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..Writing |
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