Flowers of All I AmA Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe) One of my favourite poems to write, and one of my best so far. Please enjoy.
All I Am
See how I see Bleed as I bleed Fibres kaleidoscope in the rising quagmire spiral Unravelling the fragile jasmine javelin of cavalry The orb of an accordion like a primordial void of oracles Of sundial highways revving the engines of heaven Greenery Ribboning linen rivers of obsidian Strangled chrysanthemums and formaldehyde dandelions Made timeless in the binding of its rewinding binary kaleidoscope Obsession Give it to me Give it to me Give me back the weight of eternity; Let it rest between my fingers It is my welcome burden to bear Blasphemous taffeta handcrafted by ramshackle alabaster massacres; Like a flightless bird, I am hustling roses to the gallows, to the dreamless, to the walking dead I am falling deep into the abyss, Inescapable, this beyond, this ending, Before the beginning of a sunrise of vinyl in the ivory kaleidoscopes Blanketing anchors of dancing chrysanthemums Count down with me In the roar of background noise Count down to zero In the disarray of suede glades subterranean and sable raven Himalayans Waltzing palpitations in every nations’ creation and cremation’s rolling molars of pareidolia Chapels of daffodils smiling in the serendipitous abyssal nickel conifers Of lithium eclipse whistling in the igneous misty vistas of bougainvillea basilicas Briars and dandelions spider silver-lined kaleidoscope Like alabaster saplings under the axe of hermaphrodites You can feel sorry for someone and still see their flaws Wrapping lavenders of amethyst cataclysm Around the sapphire line and the binding pyre of lilac horizons I have preserved my sanity Have I not? Or did I lose it somewhere? To the carrion of alstroemerias Or to the cerulean bougainvillea Or to the braided eons prayed on by the séance of blades Or to the chaos of clockwork glossed docks in dreadnoughts’ wedlock of caustic phosphorus Provocative nocturne yearning for the churning urns of mockingbirds and the runes’ arboretum Forsaken acres of naked wakes of wraiths Of aether scarecrows of osmosis and blossoms of coffins and apotheosis In the fibrous guise of a meteorite in mid-flights scythe You were wrong to take it from me The smile from the face The beat from the heart The wrinkle of the skin The man from the picture The ink from the blister The page of white skin taut flat across the table, disabled And that left me feeling nothing Left me feeling numb This cold frame This leather cloth called flesh Shivering in itself and the ever-shifting derelict affliction The soul knows no better than to freeze in the bombshell of a heart In this warfare of the body I still am stained in brushstrokes Waiting for an atom bomb to drop like a fist From the heavens of her eyes Or reflected in their old age Me I see myself, there Tie-dyed in sunset’s threads dreadlocks of Cocytus and Ragnarok, the apostles of lost worlds The umbra of thunderstruck hummingbirds In the murmuring fertile unearthing in the birth of eternity Spores of metamorphosis strewed by confused beautiful cumulus The spires of wildfire scrying the hurricane’s eyes A runaway train of vinyl A shrine of binary ivory within the iris of grinding dust into flower, and flower into dirt Through the pupil’s like lucid crucifix of Jupitar, black purpled, Mercury, red rusted, brown Climbing in the winding rhinestone lining of a fibrous nylon kaleidoscope Like an opal incorporeal gorge of floral violas in crepuscular exodus kissed by the whispering Within the organized corridors of this coral morgue For chlorophyll oracles primordial morph the fortress of endorphins gorging on embroidered Me Mourning for these stormy corneas Expurgatorius in the quarry’s rust victorious Threatening mechanistic lithium calypso witnessing the abyssal eclipse of Vishnu’s missionaries In the rickety history of crystalline lithium passing through the mouth of the eye Splintered in their scintillation the teeth, the tongue, the lips Are chipped at by the rippling mithril ricochet of blackbirds, blackberries, black veil halos, Made of jade and cast in jasper and alabaster The opposite of cosmopolitan andromedas Fauna of the hollow chested crepuscular phosphorescent frescos of nectarines like figurines Between ravines of Incandescence silhouettes of Hephaestus’s crescent moons Battered blued with hues of ruminating crocheted mosaics Hammering tangerines and tambourines In the glades of oasis paled by the werewolf underneath the leaves of a decade’s recipe Weaving through seamless sheets and reaping gatekeepers of Elysium Under the reef in the sky gone lilac dilated In the bonfire’s briars of an unwired violin Chiselled whittled from willows like champagnes of memory lanes, sweet sappy syrup of God From the swivelling woodlands of amethyst sun thumping into a percussionist’s sky Lowering itself into the lips of the horizon, bowing its hips of lithium Swallowed by the earth French kissing God, Fathered and mothered asunder umbrage of the mourning son’s limbs Olympians of the grim symphonies bleeding eagerly for the moon Into the palms of the earth Another younger sister following her older sibling After losing her own mother to the bonfire in the darkness Arbitrary tributaries of wisterias’ marionettes In the depths of clandestine resurrection through sepulchres’ effigies Recklessly pressing their faces against the frosty glass elastic with daffodils all frills umbilical And breathing in the steam of smoke of the brokens’ spoken word Churning in the metallurgy, the furnace of eternal clergymen Who bend into crevasses that blossom and belt the Valkyries with their pitch-forked tongues With the welling tears of evangelical mirrors In the sealing of the speleothems with cedar onomatopoeia and phoenix of arboretum That end in the tempest of centuries’ entropy maleficent contemporaries The cemetery chariots and the Everest of heaven’s fist And the ghetto in the yellow meadowlands Like a flower opening its fingers so you can see the flats of its pollen slathered palms Wilting in dance to the clap of God’s hands As the shifting wisps like ships kiss the abyss with lithium eclipse Missing the wish of a falling star on a carnival Carving itself into the umbrella of clouds Malleable shallows like gallows of aurora borealis in the shadowed hourglass pastures In the lyrics of sulphuric immaterial In the mirror image of a clearing In the fury of spherical heresy to the void of noiselessness turmoil In the foliage of oil painting forests In the chorus of Ouroboros humming like a bumblebee amidst the clutter of lumber and Fumbling over sunlit dream rummaging in the blue plumage Illuminating the scarecrow plumerias that wear the world on their satin backs Waxing and waning in the greys of Himalayans Playing with clay and braille of a lackadaisical maelstroms Waves in a halos grace in the scaled cliff-face In the wail of a babe and the grail of a plague Vagabonds discombobulated in the masonry of Egyptian griffins and whistling gypsies Glyphs like wickers of sickles like Icarus kindled in the spindling incendiary The dwindling phosphorus blossom, colossus The mosque and apothecary, the flock of mockingbirds That surge in the pearly sterling silver of bougainvillea basilicas Amaryllis and lilies in the frills of a silver ridge of pilgrimage Sifting through the blue moon like a juvenile’s bible In wyvern’s kaleidoscope Opening topaz and gladius in the Saturn’s gathering amaranths Splattered over the canvas like an avalanche Dancing in the lanterns of our fantasy, our frantic fanciful cancer Iridescent spectres of phosphorescent resurrection Nephilim of Bethlehem’s Bessel and sepulchres of terpsichorean arboretum Spires, dark messiahs of barbed wire Spiralling Nihilism in the endless masses of alabaster crashing in the rapids of baptism Succumbing to the unavoidable end; The opening of eyes; The closing of the curtains As hurricanes crane their serpentine heads over the cradle of a tornado From the threads of bedlam’s reverends; The fibrous disguise of lilac’s blasphemy Rasping glasslike taffeta reverberating serpentine herculean with mercury oceans of tuberculous The inner circles in the circuitry of a thirsting Ursuline hurricane of jade rasping of jasper Screaming to the helix of Elysium Screaming like a tongue that no longer finds its place In (y)our mouth(s) The hollow of the tree Whittling, carving away at itself until it turns masterpiece The rotting totem pole, proud, but Vindictive of its roots
Atlas
Fabric labyrinths of Lazarus’s ejaculated aspirations of abberration’s creation Tapestries of gelatinous radioactive artifacts of dilapidated faculities on the denim breeze Evangelical embryos of cythonian blanketing anchorage of sanctum’s bridge Gone are the auburn constellations Wrapped in the gauzy ovulating polymers of shapeshifting crystalline omniscience Charmed by the dawn of Necronomicons and the faunal andromedas in a garden of starlings Etched of Westwind's sepulchre of a polyester jester Wretched cesspool and the juice of crucial ballooning hallucinogens This scythe of enlightenment illuminating moonlights flight Titans in the night Through its blinding wine of white blight; A mithril sickle of prickling omnipotence whispering precipitation among the conifers’ lithium And spindling in the schism of mimicry and linden trees Like linen cloth sarcophagus prancing in the wind Like the rim of a scimitar in the of reincarnation and thread through riverbeds of fate In the grey cliff’s kiss of a glacier’s aether machinations Of discombobulated oasis and the choreography of dolls in the hallways of jade And cauldrons of polymerization In a matrix of misplaced transfiguration All through the binary siren of an iris through transmogrified asylum For lilac butterfly horizons of spiderweb Incorporeal kaleidoscopes notions of unspoken oceans Like oracles in the talons, The crowed palace of aurora borealis And the crescents’ maleficent precipice That ingests eclipse in resurrection’s crypt Like a pyre in the islands of your pupils lucid and unfruitful, Their void, their blackhole, their bottomless abyss Where I still notice a pinprick of light from somewhere Tucked in the nook and cranny of your amethyst kite blinking neon from its whites Ripening deciphering insights of lifeless cypresses And the reeds of newborn cedars; Out of sight; Warriors of expurgatorius foliage Corridors in floras’ harmonious omens in the moments Cloaked in the red apple core of terraforming gorges In the ornery embroidered orange mornings of metamorphosis In the carving of harlequin In a tsunami of mahogany and terracotta obelisks Holding barbed wire hyacinths and carousel wisterias In their prairelands of their reaching hands Like ambrosial osmosis of ghostlike roses In an ocean of crocheted lace And glaciers in the blossoming apotheosis of an opening cornucopia Formless and intricate like the glyphs of infinite symphonies The blimp of scintillating glaciers of lacquered aether Burdening the infernal murmurings like the gizzard of a river’s obsidian Steering through the mural of ethereal clearings in the fog of ominous god-lands The palm of a gondola crocheted with the glazed aegis of abominations and condemnation Singing to the mimicry rinsed in the synth of photosynthesis The rhythm of bougainvillea The reeds of onomatopoeia Careening seamstress to the weaving remix of elysian cedars And heathens carved in marmalade harmony of a harbour’s farmland arboretum And the whisper of hieroglyphic liches rich in the viscera Relinquishing the scintillating inkblots lost to the outcrops of phosphorus Ragnarok Crops of chakra blossom like knotted faucets frothing with the nostrils of apostles lost In the rotten esophagus of gothic clockwork along the rocking river Cocytus Altas is holding the rapture of skies and horizons goliath His many hands of blasphemous Nazareth Could never hold a flower Could never give a rose Could never learn to love All he knows is his punishment, his suffering, his destiny He only knows the burden he has He carries on Shouldering the weight And dreams of hustling roses To those lost in Tartarus To the avenues of the dead And the highways of hell And the solitary confinement of a windowless limbo “So many knives” He says “So little flowers” Picking the placid weak roots From between his dirtcaked fingernails Digging in for more, once holding up the bowels of heaven, the entrails of Gods, like a sacrifice Now, catching butterflies In his clenched fists More is, slipping away His grip on reality, unsteady More garden, more statue, more column of stone Than man Than flower More feet planted firmly More arched back raised More chained arms Than tree He is heavy Under the weight of all those bodies Above and below him He is He is (watching the heavens) He is (ankle deep in the dirt) He is (the in-between) Their god, their devil Their headstones, their rock Their blind salvation And a reminder of their untimely demise And they are all Holding their breath Until suffocating On their snuffed flames On their lost tongues While he (does not speak) Didn’t have a mouth (Or a single word to teach) (Of the windswept beaches of his drowned suffering) (His clenched fists full of sand) (Catching nothing) To begin with (Does he feel nothing? Falling through his fingers? The grains of eons? The touch of God?) (Lost years of love no longer seen in his mirror?) (Does it all mean… nothing?) (Is nothing, the answer?) (Echoing its hum of salvation) (Through every moment of it all?) (Is this what trinkets of the world he left behind?) (The imprint of his hands holding up the skyscaper laden horizons of ivory) (Is this the meaning? The answer?) (Bleeding, crushed under the voided weight of nothing?)
Wilderness
Gathering Saturday’s abbreviations Reverberating hurricanes in the antimatter fabricated machinations Of reanimation of ramshackle mavericks Of biomechanical Nazareth Candlelit by the abyss and lucid crucifixion The crucible of musical contusions of blooming illuminated boons To rejuvenation accumulating in a matrix of salvation And the maelstrom of wailing hatred Patron to obliteration and liberated oasis Among the high-strung glacier or a fibrous horizon Of lilac iris in the jasmine topaz of opal of bifocals The graphic tapestries of aftermath’s ecclesiastical taffeta Elastic in the polycrystalline apparition and mithril lithium of visceral chrysalis Tongue twisted and glistening within the cliff named Icarus Shining over the book spine of Nihilism’s bibles Spiralling in the eyes of hyacinth And intimacy’s pixyish eclipse As it ricochets through the motions of an open grave In the ocean of crowded commotion In the close shave of everglades, A flower blooming from the flesh of a concussions’ thrush of percussion Muddled in the summit of umbrage Plummeting from the bumblebee seas of elysian debris Sleeves of helium helixes unpeeling from the follicles of wallpaper Matriarchs waltzing in palpitating collages Of choreography’s discombobulated polymerization stationary And the vase of halos blow through a field unyielding Under glass ceiling speleothems reeling in the summer skin of windbreakers In acres of waking aether a proclamation of the gospel of phosphorus Apocryphal offerings to the samsara of folding accordions Of pareidolia pouring through the the ornery metamorphosis Of corridors in the euphoria of chlorophyll Corneas to be born in us glorious quarries In the roof of a pupil In the attic of a avalanche Dancing with the water lantern chrysanthemums Cancerously spreading wings like seraphim Within the dim-lit pit’s lithium precipitation Still existing as it litters obliteration of civilizations and the flailing aegis, A basilica of bougainvilleas silhouette the vermilion stillness of cerulean capillaries Like sigil villages in pilgrimage with imitation’s scintillation Creation’s vaporous aether erasure of homo sapient glaciers And sapphire saplings in the laughing rafters of scaffolding Dilapidation and lackadaisical azaleas That gale in the fable of a paper trail’s maelstrom With each loose screw and every nail I build myself up again, A*s the tornadoes rend I’m still railroad bent To the grazing zigzag of a pattern’s avalanche And a hurricanes’ birth again, I remain mortal, uncoil this string, Let the echoes the spectral ring Under the necklace of Nephilim, the nectar of the crepuscular, I break the record, and watch it spin With the autumn gauze of andromeda polymers Of pollens ovulation in hollow staccato Of terracotta mausoleums and mahogany colosseums In the bondage of a collage of bulbous constellations Like grand amaranthine spiders of rhinestone dandelions Ivory with the skies of tweed and horizons weed The dynasty of cypress trees with lightning’s leaf And ichor bleeds from spiralling iris iridescent with the hectares Of resurrection’s effigy Pestilential with the disassembling entrails of trailing azaleas And the ferris wheel of helix of cathedrals like cherry alstroemerias That carry dead on ferries’ treads Weaving cedars of intravenous legions through the multilateral bowels In the towels of ravelled shadows in the travelling shadow Of the gallows of onomatopoeia Inside a vinyl hideaway of lilac and violet defiling the nylon thread of a violin’s stretch Of catguts twisted viscera that sounds will the howl From in the Valkyrie of a thousand amalgamations of obliterated creation Shapelessly raked of the amorphous incorporeal vorpal moon Of an oracle’s ballooning cumulus Fumes of blooming ludicrous sapphire pyres On islands of irises in the pupil’s hallucinations Scrapping and scraping at the atrophy of monotony’s atrocities As their terracotta brothels to the apostles of pastels and melodies Of disheveled meadows and the serging metallurgy In the furnace of a sterling hurricane Chained to the hallowed ground of unraveling hallelujah From the lips of a chrysalis of obituaries of wisterias and alstroemerias Married to the ferrymen of blended watercolour smothered embers Among the feathers of Armageddon’s heavens Wrapped in evaporated tapestries of clouds Like shrapnel taffeta glaring down from the skies Like apartheid’s society under the iceberg hurricanes of suede Silken frills like pillars of waterlilies The umbilical bougainvillea and pillows of weeping willows Amaryllis gone vermilion in the window of biblical cylendrical blizzards in the prickes of Icarus
Heavenless Earth
Nickel visceral wickermen Churning their metallurgical urns Like a suede ocean wave Crocheted in marmalade palisade of arcanum’s vertebrae Like a naked snaking calcification Of hurricanes’ reverberating oasis Like the gallows of crowning bowels Of hallow grounded of metallic phalanx unravelled hallelujah Crucifix spruce of altocumulus Like the precipice of a resurrection’s nest The festering necklaced epithet In destined sepulchres spurred by the turbulent turning Of a burgundy hurricane’s serpentine chains In the malaise of vaporous aegis and the facial oasis Combing Bablonian, the crocheted beard of a seraphim Swimming in the gin of woven covens of photosynthesis Rinsing the rivers of blizzards And the skies of homogenized horizons Capsizing bibles in the lilac ivory of a spiralling cypress tree Like a wraith of pathos’ aether Shapeless as the graceful maple polymerization Scales of the wailing gale in the maverick of fabled halos Fallen in the palm of discombobulation Like a pamphlet of amaranths Chanting to the Babel of taffeta Balaclavas unraveling in the chalice of a champagne radiance Sapiently gazing upon the prize of a sapphire geyser Like a wyvern of diamond a hyacinth chimera Idolizing spiralling wildfire pyres And writhing wires of the seismic horizons Of riled Goliath and fibrous bibles Of Gaia’s synthesizer like bottomless augers Of frolicking synagogues from the colossus of phosphorus Bending hemorage of clementine rhinestone The sky under the weight of this obliterating saint Like swivelling mills of bougainvillea Sigil in rivers of amygdala And cinders of amaryllis like a crumbling cerulean pillar In a village of intimate scintillating aether Like a frivolous guillotine of vermilion capillaries Mimicking the syncopated synchronization Of a whittling infinite whimpering symphony In the splintered winters whistling with the rippling gypsies A blistered history written in the annuls of chrysanthemum Avalanches from the hands of an amethyst Amorphous in warmth of the anthropomorphic porcelain Bridging gaps with a sapling’s cacophony as we shape-shift the many faces of oasis Weave what I weave Be how I’ll be
The Festival of The Burning Man
Washed in the phosphorus esophagus of a cradle’s tornado Braided by Beowulf in the mouth of a lighthouse’s balcony Welcoming an alcove to Valkyries In the valleys like a chalice overflowing In pandemonium combing pastures of grasses Blades of black alabaster and graphite chassis In the massacre of cardiovascular astronauts Lovecraftian chapels of taffeta scaffolding the scalpel of the moon, a broom of ludicrousness Spooned by all-consuming jubilance The lances of amber opals crammed down the throats of an incorporeal ocean Crocheted by the greys of an evergreen Between the bulbous leaves of colons and spleens and entrails and bowels of onomatopoeia Cedars spontaneously splintered in the winter’s photosynthesis And the glint of scintillation like a wicker’s glyph Upon the gondola of this uplifting cistern Of this whipped syphilis spit from the lips of a derelict heretic’s blistered affliction Greased like the wheel of their horseshoe speleothems empyrean arboretum In the helix of not a phoenix But a burning man In the inferno’s metallurgical hernias Eternally blurred in ferns of suburban iceberg insurgency Like pearls in the furnace of a barley carnival Like columns that domino These polymers call out in the karma’s harlequin In the crosshairs of a ferris wheel Parallel to the barrel’s mouth of a parasol’s carousel
Church
Communal funeral of the lunar tribunal All-consuming moon looming blooming chewing through illusions Moving in the churning dew of sinew’s linen Spinning through the windpipes And the briars of the choir of diaphragms Like bands of amaranths clamouring over each other’s watercolour The ambrosia of clovers like molten shoulder-blades In the glades of clean-shaven Himalayans Crocheted from the basil of sable sailboats In golden Asmodeus awoken by Clotho Spinning the threads of fate assimulating lakes in the quake of a sacred thousand acres In the snaking wraith of maple trees and aether scintillations of glaciers’ polymerization Accumulated sacrednesses of honey-dipped eclipses of illiterate viscera crystalline Crypts of crystalline and distance of andromeda’s kilometres Bottomlessly blossoming in the holocaustic coffins Phosphorus mosques of sarcophagus and esophagus Crisscross-roads of comatose chromosomes In the soma of crepuscular nectars echoing Effigies, hectares of sepulchres And the breathless necklace of beckoning hecatomb Like a shrieking beacon of terpsichorean fiends In the furled grip of Elysium’s riptide Poseidon and chimera leviathan in the masks of brass basilisks Cast from pits glistening with the last whispers of mithril epiphany And lithium christened with the barren wisterias Vicariously varicose with the croaking of crows in the jaws of vibrato Lowering telephone pole thrones of lonesome pandemonium banding omicron, The sputtered start of my beating heart No light; no dark, no bite, no bark Binary in the spines of lilac dryads in the winding highlands of a line of irises Grinding themselves into the valves of asphodel Chapels of shrapnel Crafted into the masts of alabaster rafts Like castaways in the lazy river haze of yesterday’s maze Among Himalayan radiance glazed in the entropy of a thousand battalions Crossing mausoleums through the knot of arteries Gnarled in the hook-nosed nook and cranny of a banner over the debris of fallen trees In gleaming evening like parted seas of Eden’s terpsichorean greenery Weary of the immaterial clearing in the confined of a shackled mind Empyrean delirium in the clouded mind Left in the fog we left behind Winding into Styrofoam xylophone ozone boats across the oceans That wrote the tug and pull of worlds of words Chained and bound in boughs of amalgamations ancient With the aegis of creations’ aether wraith of pollinating terracotta obelisks In the sodomized horizons of cauterized mahogany wandering past the grasslands of man The echoing bethel of maleficent frescoes Like the phosphorescent nectar Wrestling in the wreckage of a sepulchre Threatening mechanistic lithium calypso witnessing the abyssal eclipse of Vishnu’s missionaries Coalescent frescos of snaking acres on wastelands of aether glaciers In the haystack of a maelstrom Canonical andromedas bombard the harlequin barley of carnage and colosseum The manifestation of polymerization The frescos of crescent’s manifestos destined to wrestle with the endless twist of a bending whip Rorschach chapters in the leatherback chapels Swathed with alabaster and taffeta’s shrapnel wrapped laughter In satin blasphemy grasping apathetic parthenogenesis Tendrils of viola, arrogant Reach a form of understanding With their empty hands Only the immaterial could Only the dream could feel so real Only reality could be so outlandish As the pixies ricochet like a bauble in a glass bottle
Wisterias and a Butterfly
I’m not ready for this yet The past is beautiful The present Is what I have One must always follow the other (Into the kaleidoscope of a new day) (Into the whisper of cities dipping their lips in the crystalline lithium) (Into the throat of an autumn breeze of eulogy ukuleles cradling the flames of a hurricane) (Into the dark abyss beyond the length of tongue like a trail of music notes lisping hypnotic) (Expanding molecules dissolving through follicles damp into the catacombs of the unknown) Standing in this line Between the strings of life and death; the brink of morning sun on the tusk of dawn Their (mammoth) symphony Their (ancient) harmony My (extinct) melody I did not write music this time Instead I am an echo of an echo Trapped within the alabaster walls and hallways in a terracotta vase (of symphonic andromeda); The maze of my own making A shadow hiding from the light of a windowpane Concealed hunched behind the back of celestial bodies Hiding from innocence Hiding from God Hiding from the opportunity To sing As everything that I was Dipped in bittersweet Is ringing In my ears Like an echo drawn out across pages, Sketching the effigies of figures bound in leatherbacks shuffling barefoot Coming back across the desert of chapters The many stories of this heaven, this serpent, this Oroboros built from the ground up Into silence Again Into beginning At the end of the river of sound At the oceans welling with streams of consciousness, drowning in downpour, the salt of all Stalagmites of poltergeists and chapel stalactites, chasms of lavender, patterns lapis lazuli Braided sable halos, tornadoes in the veil of a basil maelstrom Over the larks like harps of arching parchment on the escarpment Like a temporal meteor of violas, tomorrow’s (phantasmagoria a) rolling ghost of opal symbiosis Whittled with a swivelling chisel of amaryllis, guillotine brittle vermillion In its umbilical citadel of a mellow cello, a melody’s elegies in the belltower of parhelion Let us share this empty; this poem; this syncopated erasure of the hallucinogenics of heavens Let us feast upon The ephemeral crescendo to nothing, dusty musculature rusted by muffled light Amphoral and incorporeal Waiting to hear that The silence of my heart Has not been broken yet As I give you the inheritance Of what was lost before I was Life will continue From where I left off The music Plays for you now For you It is fading, but I hear nothing It calls to me As if I am nothing but a memory And you will remember Nothing And One must follow the other And the cliff It is Softer than it looks And the rocks Will cradle your head there Like a baby And the darkness Will envelop you, now, eventually And in its shadow There will have been some form of light, there will have been some form of death; or life And you will shed light like the sun And flowers will grow From your buried roots, and your spangled banner of bandaged amaranth branches The past is beautiful You are beautiful The present Is waiting in line One must always follow the other One must always follow Into the skin, under the bone, out of the body and into the night Always fade indistinct, and immaterial, into the darkness of the night So that there will be light One must always follow; god, or maybe optimism, or happiness, or a quick death The path Of death Through the thicket The garden Of life And grow ripe from it; grow rotten; grow anew Grow ripe enough To fall from the withered branch To be the last fruit of knowledge picked from the fields of chaos And the mossy mosques of docked mockingbirds in the surge of blossoming phosphorus Spreading the sickness of the mind deviously through the intravenous river reeds And become the malleable mandala of flowers unravelling callous hallelujahs from their blooms And Of devoured kalpas in the bowels, the entrails, the grail The sable eyed bonfire with a hint of lilac like orange geysers of reborn choirs to scorn Gaia In the dirt So beautiful you are As you leave the dirt Again, and again Returning, again and agina A fresh fruit set upon the path Travelling in the trenches and ridges lined by the feet That became flower Before them Their symphony Their harmony My melody These flowers Drink of the wine of the wrath of God The heavens of their never-ending The present Is what I have I am left With (nothing) Little else Other than the comfort of light yet to extinguish itself Hiding somewhere Over the lips of the obsidian horizon Slowly dwindling in its wax prison, in the waning of this lucid moon So beautiful It is It sings! (Oh how it sings) To me! Of what could have been! Do you hear? Do you hear Do you not hear! Or Have you plugged your ears With (dirt and) clay? The moon… It sings to me So sweetly now I am not ready for this Their symphony Their harmony My melody It permeates through the silence; through these dilapidated bones, the hum Oh how it sings to me! Ringing in the ears of etherealism Oh how it screams through me without noise All as if Not to make a sound And now I find the quiet Monotonous, repetitive, unrelieved Dull, and tedious Without lustre, and rusty Lacking The night is black with daffodils Like a Rorshach sun Painted on my skin Tumbling in the wind You are an echo Of my echo <A shadow> <Of my shadow> My symphony My harmony Your melody Did you not know? (In this dance) One must (always) follow the other <Take my hand> <Dear (fellow) butterfly, are you dreaming of man?> <Or am I merely, dreamlessly> <The reality, (the remains of my dream,) in you?> <You don’t understand me, now> <But (oh) how you sing to me!> <Oh, and> <It’s enough to make a man sick> <Yes,> <(I do understand)> <(The sound that madness makes)>
Struggle (Or Surrender)
<As it scratches at and torments me from within these walls, this beast, this b*****d> <The swallowed note of its echo eroding in its reverberation hunts the light of day> <From behind curtains, serpentine, swindling dwindling cinnamon mimicry> <In a conclave of hazel Azazel bouncing in like a scalpel in my hind> The halos of mayhem like ruffled feathers in all its cumulus doomed plumage> <Within the closed off cell of my skull> <Where no man may visit but me, lest they seek the understanding of pain and her effigy> Painted like a fresco deep within the hull of my inner defenses Closed off from the dripping paint of a glacier’s oasis <But (little butterfly, my bird, my flower, coasting on the thermals of my second wind) I was born (from that) sick(ness,) <Moulded, crowned, shaped, by its sculpture, its dexterity> <Woven in my very flesh by its creativity, its resourcefulness> <Its power, its nonsensical babbling baubles of strange genius The lost fruit of knowledge in the babble of a wildflower’s petal, its alabaster machinations Creation, cerulean villages within raindrops of phosphorous <Unravelling in its keen-eyed stupidity as it wanders the fields and mangroves of my mind> <Like wireframe diagrams of chlorophyll corridors in my sanguine Elysium> <That glisten like lithium words, its distinct peculiarity> <Blooming like a second sun from underneath the coffin lid, this sky of mine; this hate, reborn> <That groped me within its talons of loathing> <In a cesspit of my own sorrows> <Oh, and> <It’s enough to make a man sick> <But I was born from the fruit of that sickness> <Were(n’t) you?> Madness is place where a man who can’t stand reality lives Some call it a dream I call it home, this dream, this brink, fringing on this waking nightmare of star ridden skies Pockmarked escarpments; This ridge of the mind overlooking the hamlet of all that I am This cliff edge of dreadnoughts lost to the gospels of fossils of phosphorus doppelganger’s lands Tied together with the grapevine kaleidoscope of a cypress of vipers and hyacinth of bible strings This helix like a photo reel of onomatopoeia bleeding through Elysium And it’s cozier Than any other prison I’ve had the pleasure of living in And brighter Than any (dark) future (of mine) I have ever (had to the privilege to have) seen A torch greater in blindness than any other I could bear I wear it like a flag, a hooked cloak swathing my body under the white sunlight that spites me It promises the partial understanding of many things, and the complete understanding Of nothing The broken, shattered, unsteady, unreliable mind for instance That comes with it Free of charge It is the anvil of bronze wings that let me sample the fruits of the heavens But at what cost? A head in the clouds, soaring above the brightest cypress of kaleidoscope Pruning the juvenile moon Does not know logic, or of the bend of its own reality from within <Beyond the fanciful nature of its own resemblance> <Below the ravine of phosphorus thoughts> And a palpitating heart That ripples with the whispering rivers of Icarus’s chrysalis <But does not feel anything but the static of a radio station only it could possibly understand> <I am> Madness is (The sound of) black and white Partial and whole Life and death (and the last lecherous breath) One beyond where imagination could take you Beyond dream, behind nightmare, beyond reality For, despite climbing higher than any man could imagine I am chained by my own bonds even now; dangled by them; shamed by My own steel, my own blood, and adrift on the sinking vessel of my own mind <And when I hit the earth, the seafloor, the rock bottom, like a bombshell All while watching the silk moon spindle, unravel(ling) into a blank sheet in the book of God Spitting on me with all its lithium plethora of hieroglyphic viscera ticking away in malaise Like a river of what clouds amalgamated in nature’s tributaries and alstroemerias <I will be> Falling harder, and heavier, than any other man could understand, or consider And deeper into these (derelict) depths, these crepuscular Neptunes, these capsized leviathans <These festering questions of nectar’s wreckage molested by phosphorescent effigies> <Digging deeper into the depths of this (cold dead) heart> Than any sane man could bear And the flower (of applause) That grows from my hulking husk From this hollow This heirloom Will remain Like a crater In the womb Of (these/this) false God(s) That called themselves madness As if it were all I know A murder of crows Bringing me home <And stepping over the life I lead> <As one must always follow the other (into the dark; and back into the light;) <(Among neon shadows like a blasphemous catastrophe of terpischrean dream bleeding reeds)> <Precariously balancing off the top of the abyss> <And death is just another stepping stone> <I’m happy to walk (all) over> <Weren’t you the same?> <Cold and happy to liberate the world in your image?> <Only seeing the hate of your own reflection> <Only seeing the shadows when there's even a single ray of light> <Blindly feeling your way through familiar roads no longer homely or recognizable> <Trying to make the world perfect while being flawed yourself> <(Always seeking a higher precipice to lay eyes on this desolate fresco)> <(This excellent representation of the aether lace (in the uneasy phoenix helix) of creation)> <(This delicate terpiscorean flower of life below (the cathedral, the knife of) your heights)> <Or were you just that much better than me?>
© 2022 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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