All-Tongue

This poem is pretty much finished from what I can tell. It's really good in my opinion. Give it a read if you have the time. I put a lot of time into this myself. It may be my favourite work. Thanks!

Shadow Isle Man

When my friends are away I keep their souls warm;

In hilly citadels,

Frills of amaryllis shillings of defibrillations’ recalibration

Chalices in amalgamated validations

Crowded nature’s ballad lacquered

Callous freighters in valour’s station

Of valleyed nations’ polymerization

Basin in the clay clockwork of a binocular’s gospel

Sub-nautical brothels in the shroud of asphodel and Nyx’s

(Pixie ricochets picture-book nooks)

Cryptic(ly) whisper (the blisters) of (omniscient) hieroglyphic asphyxiation

Never waking in acres the echoing bells of the bethels’ of parhelion

Spelling the swell of hellions that fellowship

With the eclipsed riches of lithium in the caramelized skies of an iris

Sired by bonfire’s barbed wire choirs

In the bottomless choreography

And the corridors of flora florin’s phantasmagoria

In missionaries concerto the ghosts of osmosis

In varicose oceans ripened under scythe of undone spun thunderous knife in the strife;

A poltergeist in a craggy avalanche

Of out-branching scampering lances of amaranths

And chrysanthemums on page blank sacrum’s

Like anchors on the riverbanks’ ankle-deep sanctuary

Under braziers of shadows and javelins unravelling

The battlegrounds of Saturn’s yells in jasmine cowls

And clatter’s bell in attic’s dwell this fabric’s knell

Like a wilting pavilion in quilts of bougainvillea ribboning infinity’s silhouettes

In the depths of amaryllis bethels that wrestle for words in the half-turn of a hurricane

Grazing on the hazel of a grey basin masoned by the lace aether culminating polymerization

In columns camouflaging andromeda

In the blond mitochondrial ballrooms of solitude called biblical;

Civilization, a scintillating snake awakening in the heartland of darkness

Where but a spark spurred white in formaldehyde dandelion isles

That spiral in our denial and strike;

Like honeycombed soldiers in the smouldering burs of light;

They tried to kill me; because they couldn’t love (like) me; right?

And neither could I love; like them

Maleficent frescos blessed by treachery

In sepulchres molested by incandescent bethels restless terrestrials

I watch them twist and unravel

Peeling the words from the pages of these walls

Figs of the amygdala’s like twigs of squiggly assimilation

In civilizations’ playpen

Brushing musculature in the manifestation of my crowning foundation

Infestation’s aether creation of my lacquered oasis in the banquets antiquity

Value and perspective is inexplicable

If you’re not willing to open your arms to something;

How can you embrace it?

My lungs are deep roots

Because I cannot catch my breath on the reeds

Between the leaves of this family tree

I have uprooted in the hopes of fruit

The seed remains in my sternum

Opening the nook of my heart, I pluck fingers free from this garden

Like an inside out rose

I rip off each petal that adorned my brow

And give you the stem of a ballpoint pen

I cannot write you off

You know this now

But I refuse to be just like you

I will not pluck flowers born in sunlight to give to the night

I will not dry nightshade

Under the withering moon

I will not rip out these pages

To be someone else’s book

Or some else’s shadow

When your sun was born in the shade

This fire will not die in the dark

For you to live in the light

 

Different

 

The screams trapped inside this body

Wrap around me like your arms;

I hear them echo through the scars

Like words on ripped paper;

But still find the strength to push you away;

Let me climb higher than your arms could carry me

And be the precipice the sun looks upon in jealous slumber;

Ripped from the (fore)skin of this earth;

I won’t stop until my words reach the ears of corn

And the roots of stars

And the face of the moon

And the shadow of the sun

Hear my words

And read my stories

Lest they remain silent

The Arc

Spinning incendiary this checkered epilepsy

This wreckage record a flag of craggy canopies

That bleed through the gleaming reeds

The leaves and trees of elysian dreamlands

Spangled anchors in the entanglement of a paint-splattered labyrinth

Lathering chasms in the splintered foliage of an oil painting

Squinting in the pot of boiling over sun

Like charred cinnabar among charcoal, champagne and gangrenous onomatopoeia

Raining down from the clouded cowl of borealis

Shrouded in the Valhalla’s of a disembowelled hallway

Of cauldrons malting in vaults of saltine

Wrapping firecrackers that warp in the incorporeal Orpheus;

The oracles of Ouroboros furrowed by tomorrow’s coral spores of chlorophyll

Gorges of the Morningstar cinnabar on islands of vinyl

In the rhinestone eye of a kaleidoscope

In the cliffs of my shapeshifting riffs

Of gypsy lisping christening driftwood cognition

In the pinnacle of amaryllis

And fields of gold unmooring from the floorboards

Of a forest’s quarries of corridors

In a shipwreck misled by god bled blitzkrieg

Fishing precipitations’ Mississippi’s through the lips of Michigan’s cryptic missionaries

In bodacious resuscitating laces of palpating creation like the wings of a butterfly gliding

Crocheted in milky silken capillaries of the floral borealis

In the alcoves of unravelling stalagmites

Bedlam’s anesthetic

Reddening a cross the crawling skies of Gaia

Lilac as the blackness that raised up rusted by lust in the pastures rapture

Ambrosial coves of rosaries

Combing in the dark tones like a tome of jovial chromosomes

Roaming like crepuscular effigies

 

Tongue

 

Incandescent retinas crescent exodus

In the rustling percussion flush with the nectars bethel’s lactescent essence

In infinitesimal precipice of echoing edifice

Of wrestling exodus sickles of ambiguity

In the crescent moon of hurricanes’ emblazoned maelstrom

Spun by umbrage of sunlight in a tenebrous glow

Of snowfall’s columns in the bottomless obelisks of omniscience

Witness to the mithril hieroglyphics of the infinite idiosyncrasies

Like Olympians waging war on the selfish mountains

Wrinkled by sun-kissed missionaries

In the arid vicarious barrelling Ferris wheel of an unrevealed helix

With the lenient phoenix of shrapnel chapels

Krakens capsized in violets with a flat tire’s iris

In the iridescent orchestral episodes

On a blue screen of elysian pretzeled stencil of a Rorschach

Captured in the stained glass blackness of straitjacket masquerades

In labour with the paper

In the vaporous aether in wastelands’ glaciered acres claymation

Shapelessness braces itself

Against the parhelion of hell moored in borealis

 

All

 

Sentinels like thralls that follow the wallflowers into borealis

Canvas, wall, and hallways; stuck the seams, the thread of a renaissance

In maleficent destiny hanging between teeth and tongue

Now and then, the pages of a book

That casts the shadow of blind gods

Like dice across the impossible empty

In the abyss of an eclipse

The precipice of spiralling lilac asylum

Colliding wyverns of bonfire hieroglyphs

Sifting through shapeshifting sands

Of anchored pomegranate lanterns in the bangled lands of amaranth

Lathering the splattered travesties avalanche

Stanching in the glands of an avenue

Blanche canopies that bleed through the canvas of maverick’s painting

(Chandelier’d) murals and (Bethel’d) frescos in ethereal echoes

In the weaving dodecahedrons of onomatopoeia

In the graffitied speleothems of a helix reeling in the sun

From its crown of cloud and reaching branch

As shadow creeps in dance like a chrysanthemums’ gravelly avalanche

Dismantling dreams in the ethereal fields of a teal cathedral

(Breathing in weaving reeling in the ceiling’s speleothem)

Cast out by the broken spokes of a heart thumping against the mosaic of mirrors

Of umbilical bougainvillea capillaries priscillas’ silhouettes

Of deathless resurrections hectares of hecatombs

Blooming in the cumulus uterus of pseudonyms

In pupils’ unison in the musical sutras of fuchsia

Like halos of Beowulf and mushrooms like brushstrokes

In broken light half white in lavender cytoplasm’s

That set their fingers singed by the yarn spun

Untarnished yard of sun

In the rigging figments of lingering fingers of amygdala’s

Like figs ripe for the picking with the wickers of Icarus

Chrysalis rich like bewitching lithium in the stygian ringlets of brigadiers

Leering through murals in the mirrors of a clearing

Reared by veils of the pale regalia of a paradigm rising

In lilac wildfire brighter than a lightning strike

Of rifling ichor Eiffel Towers of wildflowers

Isles gathered in the unfathomed cataclysm of battered Lazarus

Empty-handed as a man gazing at the moon eschewed

Luminous as the arcing escarpment harps of carpeting archways

Laid in the spade of gradients’ Salem

Nectar’s precipice

The Room of Nothing

In the realm of no one,

I realize as they run for/through their lives

The wet tongue dried, closed door, open mind,

Moving forward from behind intertwining trident kaleidoscopes

In the eyes of hyacinth

In the basin of creation’s idealizations glaciered polymerization

Oasis in umbilical civilizations of willows and bougainvillea

Baptized in the fire of the early mourning son,

I’ve chosen the catacombs of this comatose ambrosia;

This roaming throne of lost chords

Foraging through porcelain orifices

Born of amorphous orchards in the incorporeal metamorphosis,

Know that we orchestras are all both everything and no one

Unison and separation,

Desiccated subjugated wraiths in our stasis of cremation

Lacing around the algorithm of imprisoned incendiary

As the thread un-spun like yarn in this thaumaturgy sky

Burning itself ashen eternal stretched out like corridor or a pair of legs;

Is not but one;

But crowded in the room of nothing,

The way the wicker no longer feels, (fears) its own fiery sting,

Treading through the threads of reason;

Like Atlus crumbling under the weight of our bodies;

The weight of our world’s baggage,

A mountain of nothing and no one,

The ones who were, forgotten by the ones who are,

And so on and so forth, we climb;

Past the shackles of this reality;

He climbs, the floorboards creak;

The shadows crawl on all fours through the warp bridge of a giant’s nose;

We have built civilizations;

It is victory that has defeated us now;

Let us hide away all our forbidden forgotten foretold knowledge,

In our ancient skyscrapers

And remember how to walk; to dance; to pray to deadbeat gods;

Knowing fully nothing as only nothing truly knew;

Knowing God as only God has not,

In the realm of no one; the shadows colour the different shades of grey

Taming the nameless son, who shines upon us, midnight black;

Between the serpentine cracks;

Relapsing atrophy into cacophony’s blasphemy

Taffeta wrapping around the gallows’ shroud;

Mourning for fallen stars like iron warships

That float in distorted aortas

The endless sea of white

That gods have yet to scar and bleed;

The colours of a dream

That pour through vast astral pastures of jasper

From caramel parhelion and velvet vessels orchestral from the twelve mouths of infidelity

Relishing the relinquished syncopation of polymers

In the jaws cholera onyx andromedas

That yell through the yellowed (elms’) calcification

Reanimating scintillation’s  infinite wastelands

In the strands of lavender canvas

Labyrinths of blimps of cumulus blooming in the eyes and bog of discombobulated halogens

Wrapping back together in the endless surrender of incendiary wisterias

As we glare into the light and become blind men

Who cannot see past the stretch of nothing

That yawn at the bulbous pondering of yards of garbled kilometres,

And cannot hear the sound of empty,

And cannot taste the tart of fruitless,

And cannot feel the one of numbness,

As it whispers of the endless twine recirculating aether

Of shapeless wraiths of lost worlds unfurling burrows in the brows of valleys;

And the balaclavas of madness

That hang our sanctuary as no vast masterpiece;

No god given plan; simply a knotted helix of tongue,

Weaving itself beige in the glades of hurricanes’ Salem,

Each vindictive lick of instruments from the brink of a symphony

Limping in the asters of jasper and cardiovascular passion

Of craftsmanship collapsing in the sunken homunculus of our flesh stained hands

That reach the precipice only to refuse the touch of nothing;

As clouds cloud all there is;

There is only nothing;

In finding something there is grave beauty,

For if there are moon and sun,

The clouds remind me, I am futile, I am voiceless, I am nothing, and through that nothing,

I am

The harmony that follows in the melody of a flower petal

Of possessing nectar’s precipice

Under the weight of shapeless spun;

In naked lungs

The eyes and the corneas of a mourning son;

The wicker serendipitous ricochets still;

Fumbling over the colourless discovery of flame

Like a jangled chain of the bangles of humanity sanguine

With the phosphorus blossoming of philosophical gospels

That offer themselves like a bethel’s bell

Dwelling in the carnivalesque elegies of the earth and breeze;

I hold the last dandelions in my hands before winter;

Before the bated aegis of time and eon

Blow away their seeds of reason in the beaded seasons’ Bohemian

 

Paradigm

 

Paradigm pines winding with Nihilism’s dialects

Violets that spiral hieroglyphics in vinyl kaleidoscopes

Sickled decrepit ecstasy of effigies tributaries of wisterias

Barricade the parade of a bethel in the wreckage of a precipice,

The abyss ricochets echoing across the incandescent emptiness of auburn mausoleums

Like Zion in a wildflower

Cowering in an hourglass of Damascus

Crows of symposium stone chalice of amalgamated elation

Gazing into the maelstrom into infidelity’s melody

Of gazelles in elegies parhelion mellow ghettoed green

Of serpentine Elysium

Reasonless deviants that dance with chrysanthemums

And hold hands with amaranths

In a labyrinthine dream of balconies that falcons leap from

In the creeping shadows of unravelled towers

Gallows in the hallowed valleys of Babel

Like man’s Valhalla a vermilion and cerulean silhouette of decrepit breath

Of a cobweb’s thread like guitar strings

Twanging Saturn’s ravelled avalanche

Of rancid chrysanthemums dangling in the spangled reeds

Leaping headfirst into the unknown with fistfuls of bluebells

In the yellow skeleton shell of marshmallow parhelion

In a chapel of scaffolding shrapnel and varicose scarecrows

Golden with the molten oceans of fields

In the speleothem ceiling revealing the northern lights in bright delight

Melting in the felt of a ghetto’s umbrella

Interstellar like a bonfire’s vinyl in the timeless abyss of emptiness

And precipice of spectral bethels’ exodus

Nocturnal ferns and hemlock gospels

In the phosphorus of mockingbirds

Building pavilions in the acrylic amaryllis wilderness

Dressed incandescent blessed by intrepid polyesters

 

Orchestral

 

Orchestral bethel deafening nectarines

In the sea vessels wendigo of tendrilled embryos

Of a crepuscular precipice’s lithium eclipse in the blissful abyss of eucalyptus

In the whispering crystalline hieroglyphs

Of mistress seamstress black

Bleeding cysts in the rippling centrifugal ventricular ichor of Wickerman

Nyx; seamstress of dreamer’s

Bulbous polymers

Reeds of seamlessness in the elysian bulimic leukemia 

Fishing for sickled dictionaries

In abomination polymerization

Concrete beads in frolicking monasteries

In Elysium’s hollow mausoleums of discombobulated convulsing somersault

Of sulphur constellations in palpitating aether

Laced with the graces of cremation

Cemented of hallucinogenic clementine’s in the book spines of the divine

Complicated aegis in the matrix of masons inebriated emancipated

Emaciating matriarchs in the bark of an archive’s ire

In the speleothems of heaven above sheet metal clouds of desire’s spiral

Ambrosia

Quelling dishevelled interstellar rebellions

In the disassembling mandala of a parhelion

Of elderly corellas delving into melancholy

On the beach of urethra ridged reefs and the wreaths of antiquity

Breathing in the branches like tapered lances cantering amethyst

Formed from the anvils of the rambling hippocampus

And its ramshackle acolytes bright as lightning in the scythes of kaleidoscopes

Like figures of amygdala’s arcing in the starkness of vicarious clarity

In reddened Armageddon like an isle of wildflower battalions

In honey smothered discolouring

With the rudders of a stuttering hummingbird among brotherhoods of words

And the grove of soma a moment’s murders of crows

To further betrothed cloaked in clovers of loathing

In foaming cloves of groaning ambrosia

Gorges engulfing the sulphur mausoleum of terracotta dreamlands

 

Moonchild

Those who lose their minds

Hold hidden knowledge hoarded inside their hollow heads,

Their gallows’ skulls;

Promised land within a one-man cell;

Infinity ribboning (anonymity) in an hour’s borealis

(Not a wallflower; but a wreath for times passing);

Solitary confinement; a freedom in their hearts

The melody of a breeze in the honeycomb aroma of the soma’s comatose tenebrous

In heaven’s excrement of exited remembered tenets;

Like a candle under fluorescent lights, dim

Or the night lit city of roses

Kindled by the mourning son mothered and fathered in the torment of chlorophyll

Floral as oracles of aurora borealis;

I was hollow, and now I remain; full;

I struggle and therefore I am; whole;

And hollow as the moon;

Like stray candles in the (pianos of) night

Nothing Will

 

Nothing will stop me from writing

Nothing will get between me and myself, or I;

Ceasing to be in the fires of my midnight mind;

Transcendental Rorschach factories;

Immaculate vernacular;

The sun nothing but a blimp or cloud in my hallowed skies

Of smoke churned blacker lacquered

In the apples of towns crowned by the dawn of man

Clouds furled by the furrowed brow of a howling mandala of halogens;

The cowl(ed anathema Rorschach) of my taffeta mind;

Drifting away; clear; paper bag; clear; phosphorus;

Whittling away at itself until nothingness is left behind;

Winding inwards its arms around itself into this vinyl frame of mind;

Like a photographed cry in the spiralling tides of barbed wire;

Time;

Concubine wyverns of the choirs in this chiselled willow;

This abysmal calligraphy (like a sigil upon andromeda)

(A guillotines’ rhyme in the stars the chime in this fog) of mine

Tenebrous oceans

Floundering psalms drawn in the bondage of autumn’s collage

Of mitochondria in bottoms-up insomnia

Constellations reconciliation stencilled into the pretzeled branches of an antelope

Antagonist polycrystalline rivers of withered lavender lathered fabrics

In the antlers of chrysanthemums

Lances of amps in the lamplit lanterns

That venture through tempest and the godhood of monasteries

In the lariat of an unanswered dance(r)

(In the rippling whip of a hippocampus)

Carnivalesque resuscitated oasis

Dilapidated coagulated in the nape of acres of glaciers

Lakes of conclave’s aether in the taper of polymerization’s wake

In the naked stasis dismembered in the cold December air

And a renegade in the depths of a treble clef

In shifting sands of banded amaranths

In the chains of hurricanes matrix

In the concentrated sabres of Arabia

In the stumps of enunciating homunculus

Miles kaleidoscope of wildfire choirs for the messiahs of piety and ire’s societies

In the lilac vaccination of refashioned scaffolding

Rorschach Damascus cackling in the basilisk of vermilion basilicas

That form from the core of the gorge of meteors

In forests of coral moors

Put together like the tethered weathers in the palm of Armageddon

Stricken in Icarus’ wickers of bickering lips

That whistle crippling through the chrysalis abyss of liquid ichor

Mithril glyph’s on cliffs of crucifixion

Like the ricochet of promenading ink-stained sky

In the mires of Gaia’s Goliath

Wyverns of Poseidon’s iris in the posies of flowing groves

In the clover ovaries coves of phantasmagoria

And spires of nyloned leatherbacks

In the collapse like capsized high-rises’ horizons

And sunrise spiralling down into the ground

Swallowed by felt without the gout of yellowed pelicans

Among sands and sounds of amaranths gandering

In the soma of pandemonium like chapels of catastrophe

Tapestries of sound laid down on the ground(work)s of a merry go round

And the staves of marmalade playgrounds drowning in gowns of borealis

Fringe

The throngs like jaws of an ensemble’s geometry

Broadened horizons gliding by my eyelids

Like lickerish musicians

Christened by the linguistics’ inquisition lithium

Boughs shrouded by the rhinestone of onyx night

(Hurricane plains marmalade bathed in) Sun (rays)

Drains from the (colour-stained) veins of the (dripping lithium)

Mississippi (Quicksands)

Of sulphate silvers in familiar pavilions

Under the slumbering thunder and the thumb of an umbra

The prophetic edifice of Armageddon’s Everest

Heaven’s treading feathered renaissance

Of chakras doppelgänger hanging pomegranate canopies

From the canvased dream of a seed in the tapestries of saplings

Wrapping shackles around ballad’s cloud

Of talon flowered Valkyries of malleable shallows

Permeating in the hallowed gallows of battalions

In the shrapnel’d shell of blackened bell-tower

Parhelion like a death knells cello of yellow regalia

Bewitched in lithium’s crystalline ritual visceral

Hypnotized by the star-binding horizons of ire and lilac wyvern black

Prisoner of Sound

I’m drawn in by (emotion)

And so draw my emotions

Like graffitied frescos

All over your beautiful white walls;

I can’t help myself;

I must be something or I am nothing;

And all these pages you call(ed) walls are nothing;

Asking to be stained white;

They are colourless cells,

(Shells) that I refuse to live between;

The spine of the book wrapped around my tongue like a spotless snake;

I am inkblot (apostle); I am Rorschach (taffeta); (caught up in wind and rain)

I am the end in your beginning;

I am the blessing in your sinning;

Over the edge and swimming

In the vermilion rhythm of my mind;

Christened crucifixion by the blissful abyss of my lithium riffs,

Mithril mothering wisps that crawl across the surface of the moon

Like a sprawling ballroom grooving in rollicking roses of bottomless insomnia;

The ink is butterfly black; the ink is (the) free;

The dream that fabricated (glazed hazels of Himalayans)

(Candled avenues that bloom ambiguity)

Over decapitated creations’ white lace and alabaster hallways in the follicles;

The polymers that glow phantasmagorical

On my interwoven soul of metamorphosis gold;

(Resurrection) dripping my precipice through wounds of withering idiosyncrasies

Infinite in its symphonies (hand)prints the touch at the brush(strokes)

Of the hopeful dystopians (in oaks and locusts)

An opal of rosemary focal of kaleidoscopes

Groping grotesque grottos in the staccato of incandescent vessels

Nectar in the decrepit sepulchre of the sun and moon;

A pair of eyes guiding;

Watching bloodshot blotting Bifrost phosphorus apostles of gothic sarcophagus

Cropping cornstalks in the philosophies of gospel’s bleed

Through the lost ones breeze in blood-clot disease

In the speleothems of unending vengeance

Like the mending incomprehension of the threads of a crescendo

Loosening like the roots of a spruce noosing its way across the everglade of Hades

In the lumber of umbrage and the stumps of homunculus

Cut from the photograph that captured the chapels of rapture lackadaisical

In the frail tornadoes of this braille maelstrom;

(For this world) to part with; (to sit in scriptures of) silence;

It must be deafening;

Sit in silence;

But I will choose to be (deafened/deafening);

Let the sound of it all permeate into a single word;

Or a sentence lived out;

And blooming from the husk of corn;

The hollow of a tree,

The shell of a beetle,

(Let me be) imprisoned in the cell of God,

Between the bars of (Jupitar or of) lined paper;

Prisoner to the sound you (couldn’t or) refused to hear

Among the elysian diseases of deprived reprieve

As you stand atop the heavens (like a cruel angel,)

[Fallen from the decrepit intestinal bethels of molested precipice]

[And the archipelago of the scrap metal ghettos]

(Left in solitude, disgraced alone and forgotten, left remembering;) in silence

Through Heaven or Hell

I like the ones who have the strength to refuse

Or go against societal norms;

To think for themselves; to live for themselves;

Even when told they should not;

That they would be rewarded for not doing so;

Simply in the attempt to be an individual,

And because they (prefer to) think like a body rather than a cell;

I prefer to change over something brought on by the devil within

Rather than the (existence of some vague) god above;

I would rather be a pacifist madman than a sane killer,

Self-serving, but never serving the self;

I choose my life, not my death; let them decide, god, sane men, faith(ful),

And those who are not;

To die for your beliefs is to live

To embody them in what would otherwise be emptiness;

Is to give it life;

Breathe life into the nothingness and be something in nothing;

To stand for something,

To be yourself is to care for what you are in a world that is uncaring;

See what no one else can while everything is watching

And show them the shadow you cast

Longer than the hours wasted in not doing so

 

Struggler

 

Ramshackle rakshasa

Swathed in taffeta that walk through

The gospel of hemlock, swastika, mockingbirds, nocturne, apocalypse

Waltzing apostles without a care for any of this madness in a cold world (called reality)

In the lucid fuchsia of a new moon’s communion

Blooming ludicrously fugitives of the noose of unison

Hanging bangled from the spangled fang of God

Like a transmogrified horizon of kaleidoscopes that grope for the cumulus fumes of a uvula

So saith the phantasmagorical lord that applauds like staccato

In the belching mouth of God

To forget the past and forge its epithet ephemeral

Within this spherical miracle returning to suburbia

Turbulent are the masses Lovecraftian

Like vassals to capsized Cleopatras of the Nile’s sunrise

Gaia’s high-rise of wired choirs and bonfires lilac mired in the skies of a distant deep desire

In the deserts of Armageddon’s leather bliss

And heavenly abyss the crucifix of hieroglyphs

That ripple dribbling from the pavilions of white

That speckle sepulchre the skies of hyacinth

Nylon bonds of mitochondrial kilometres

That run their finger lovingly black along the back of eternity

Serpentine with the leaning eons of beads of greenery

Vast seeds along the strawman

Strawberry moons

Sprouting evangelical parhelion from underbellies’ melodies

In the greed of all my broken promises

Gardens of discarded harbours in the fuss of rusted rushing water

In the dreams like feeble weeds between the cracks of a stone,

Conifers bulbous and bursting free:

Bristling visceral matchsticks of Icarus

Ready for the heavens to burst into flame

And hurricanes of sewer-drain in jewel of rain ricochets of ferns,

Bluebells like shafts of lapis lazuli

In the Lazarus labyrinth of shattering gravity

On the greens of a wet dream’s moonbeam

Elysium grieving for the accordions of primordial Gregorian chants

In a chrysanthemums’ dance of amaranth

Labyrinths in an amethyst

Plato’s Allegory, The Blindman’s Cave

 

As shadows play in the conciliation of constellations

Under umbrella and mandala

Of parhelion pelicans in the soot of what could have been,

In the gin of oceans in locomotion graced by the wasted oasis

In the palms of a knotted cobbling obelisk;

Napalms’ grimoire songbirds again in the frayed pages

Of this book that no one looks in anymore;

Among the manticores of expurgatorius

Glory be to the seven seas and the setting breeze and welling tears of a mural

In the chapels of bluegrass and wheatgrass

As the asters of astral rapturous (thunder)clap against the yellowed page of sky

Like a pride of high-rises

Chimera in the migrant of my blind messiahs’ iris

Coming down from the Valkyries and the valleys and alleyways

That gaze among the stunned umbrage circumference

Unfurling its hands from within the pocketed clouds

To lift in question like a clock to ask and bask in the flowering hours

And the gallows of talisman howling to the uterus of the moon’s tomb

Of grooves in the plumage of plumerias that stare varicose

Through the bars of starlight like crystals of viscera,

(Eyelids) Painted across my tongue in the tie of two kaleidoscopes

Both born from the sagging (craggy chrysanthemums; anchor of) skin

(Dragging themselves through the muddled sky;)

(Crafted from the imprisoned visage)

(Wandering anacondas of andromeda read palms in the directionless precipice mechanism)

(Wreckage of epithets, exodus, circumcision, the collision)

[Bougainvillea sigil themselves in the squiggly bells of a]

(Bethel blessed with resurrection’s repetition,)

(Its waltzing palpitations reverberating dilapidation)

(To the rafters of ever after’s disaster song)

(From the psalms and bondage) of blind men

(As the entrails tendril stencilled ventricles pretzeling their [grey gazed] way)

(Across a shadowed stage)

[In the cyst sifting through Nyx’s whisperings of glyphs which like lithium;]

[Eclipse serendipitous shadows shapeshifting in the ricochets of shaded greys]

[An inquisition of indifferent fishermen]

[Bickering glistening decrypting onyx omniscient bristles]

[Photosynthesis of nickel conifers like pixies over a black sea]

[Of rafting blasphemy in the Rorschach taffeta]

[Of greased oceans under crescent lactescent precipice a mesh of effigies incandescent]

[With their white leathered dove feathers]

[Retching testament from the dejected sepulchres’ bethel]

[Of crepuscular resurrections manifested by the Nephilim’ breath]

Of phosphorescent nectar nestling etched in destinies depths

[Of festering requiem like the vessels of carnivalesque orchestral festivals]

[In the dismal viridian under wax of alabaster wickers]

[That fish shifting through the sickling abyssal]

[And shine their spiderweb thread through the evangelical bevel of eleven devils]

(Playing cellos) in the (cerebellum) parhelion of a setting sun

(Sailing pale azaleas like forgotten isles in the spiralling)

Wedding Armageddon’s dreads of nebula

In the February apothecary of glaring arid wisterias

Like a bottomless grotto of all of God’s obelisks

[Forgotten constellations in the cosmos of no one]

 

Grotto (Into The Fire)

 

Stalactites stalagmites

Taut diabolical as cauldrons of molecules

Ovulate in the follicles of creation’s wraith-men

Composing chromosomes

Aberrations like wraiths of naked aether materialization

In the spindle of a window opening amorphous

Incorporeal in the open door of corridors

In ichor to orchards of disciples indecipherable

Bethels of phosphorescent nectars in the seas of Elysium

 

 

Marionette

Restructured puppets of lustrous resuscitation

Serenade of maidenhood in Salem’s woods

Roaming through the unyielding fields of unrealism

Calm as a storm in the quarry of reborn accordions

In the primordial borrow of chlorophyll

And the ecclesiastic mask of asphalt cracked

With the saplings reaching through the gloom of asphodel

Crowded around the galleys,

Alleyways and bowels of the collage of galleries in a phalanx of words

That spur the chains of a hurricane of barley and grain

In the marquee of mountains that disembowel the flowers

Chastity fashioned from the fractured plastered face of asters laced with pastries

Of aether an hourglass’s rapture

Chapels of asphodel daffodils that frill with cerulean ventriloquism

In divisions’ stigmatism risen of rhythm from the blinded minds like islands

Writhing among the unravelling labyrinth of wilderness

Like wild tigers among the porcelain contortionists

Fishing for the crystalline hieroglyphic scriptures of Icarus

Birch of ramshackle acolytes Rorschach’s

Cauldrons of halogens

Like diabolical volumes

Of the entombing ludicrous fumes of altocumulus

 

Storm In the Rorschach

 

Wafting gelatinous clouds

Swathed in taffeta

Swirling black with anathema

Like effervescent vessel’s Nephilim

The spiralling chimera barbed wires choirs

In diaphragm winding islands in the binding of polymerizing horizons

In the diamond lilac of porcelain Rorschach’s

Churning vertebrae of vertical hurricanes

In the aegis of tornadoes scaling the tops of nocturne’s phosphorus

Metropolis among flocks of mockingbirds

On the docks and city blocks of the mosques of apocrypha

Like a walking colossus of hemlock gospels

In a nightingale’s maelstrom

In a grail of halos and the flail of azaleas

Frothing over October’s woven ambrosial monochrome

Of the foaming oceans of soma’s clovers

Like Sol in an oil painting

Within the vases paved by glacier lace of nameless oasis

Pages gazing into the void of primordials

In the clockwork of earth’s motions

Like the hands of a supernova’s explosion in lands of glamour and amaranths

Gathering in the clock;

The provocative apostle of Ragnarök

An arrangement of angels like the flowers of a borealis

Valkyries and stallions and the fowl dance with chrysanthemums

Lances and lanterns of unanswered prayers

Like a barricade of buried rage in the spades of a campfire

And berries palisading plumerias and alstroemerias

Like the barring of a ferris wheel

Speleothem in the dead glen of heaven’s leatherback

And Eden’s Everest on the ices of maestros

Groves of zodiacs cast out like dice in the stars of cinnabar

Grimoires arcing out in a glide across skies Poseidon

Rivalling the geysers in the iris of Gaia

Like wyverns on isles of writhing papyrus

Folding into dorsal fins like bowstrings’ symphonies

Written on the skin of oblivion’s infinities tributaries

Of clarinets that vestige themselves in the mouth of paraplegic eons

Among bohemian legionaries

Varicose in the ghosts of their roving oceans close-nit

Breath of grotesque perfectionisms prisming

In the blight of daylight ripening like a mesh

Abreast in epilepsy zesting itself in the infinitesimal crescendo of parhelion bluebells

Of melancholy polymers between the reeds of a serpentine tree

Terpsichorean with lackadaisical trails

Like bales in barren carrion of wisterias

Like Tartarus’s marbling cartilage carving partisans on spangled dams of amethyst

In its yards of caramel tobogganing andromeda

Bottomless as the abyss

Angels of champagne Himalayans under bulbous saffron mandala like plump homunculus

The sun melting into parhelion brought down in valleys’ collage capsized in the Nile’s horizons

Channel’s unraveling balaclavas in the static of Babel and Avalon

On the anacondas of streams and rivers crystalline

With rippling lithium like the sap of dilapidation’s astral rafters

In the blasphemous saplings that keel on the heel of a ceiling’s helix

Of phoenixes glyphs that ricochet like the hips of gypsies

In the reefs of elysian nimbus

In the strings of continuum

In the vision of ventriloquism’s fission

In the fissure of a riverbank

Anchoring itself against the tumultuous gulf of a malting full moon

In sigil chiselled amygdala’s of amaryllis vermilion

Priscilla in the galleys of Valhalla’s alleyways

Hallowed and cowling malleable everglades of shading bathing in savoury matrix

Glistening in effervescent clefs of exodus efflorescent incandescence

Vesicular sepulchres with the crescent of a precipice

In clandestine effigies of a mesh of pestilent leaves

Seething over comatose from the wine of hyacinth

For a bethel of nepotism illuminating the union of cumulus

Blooming black(berries) and jubilantly fuming

With the oozing illusion of well-groomed rubies

Like bristles of viscera out-branching antlers of hippocampus

Blessed in the depths of derelict precipice

In the nectars of incandescent evanescence

Echoing from bethel’s wings singed until Stygian

In a trial of wildfire

Spiralling into Nihilism’s wyvern of violins

Violet as the sunset

Retching the infested effigies not to be blessed by ecstasy

(Lapis lazuli borealis like stalagmites and stalactites)

(Bowing to the women in gowns of milky way)

(Siphoning the iron scythe of a lightning bolt)

(In the rusted cluster of lustrous brush[strokes])

(Of opal ropes in the disorderly soma of a lotuses betrothed)

(In broken kaleidoscopes of hopeful roses)

(Like the reddening Serengeti of hallucinogenic reverends revelling in Everest’s penitentiaries)

(Dilated pupils like ballooning spruces in the fuchsia of a lucid nucleus)

(Armageddon tethered to the setting sun)

(In poltergeist of bevelling serenity revelling in leatherback nether December air)

(In the cello of psychedelic parhelion)

(Unhinged from the windless fringe of photosynthesis bellowing melodies that bleed serpentine)

 

Undulating Rubato

 

Perfect isn’t perfect;

A hundred voices screaming in unison

Isn’t one opaque dialect

(Or some Rorschach’s cacophony)

 

Perfect isn’t perfect;

The sound of undulating rubato

Isn’t ragged fabric

(Isn’t life, [or] death)

(Jagged flame)

Or the jaws of a mule

 

Perfect isn’t perfect,

The woodwind instrument

Is not without its metal skeleton

To guide it through an afterlife of sound

(Slamming itself against the walls of time and rhythm)

(Raping rhymes [and kissing bellflowers, thyme])

 

Perfect isn’t perfect;

Don’t [ever] let me tell you so,

[I am not anything but imperfect, not yet]

Even with a big mouth and tiny withered lungs

Like pixie wings in the dust bunnies under my bed-frame

(Sleepwalking through the tomb of unbirthed soldiers yet to learn to walk; [crawl, or])

(To learn to die burning; [singed candles in birthday cakes of ash])

 

Perfect isn’t perfect;

A hundred-(thousand) fold voices could scream [before erasure]

([In unison, or] Alone, between [four] walls [of stillness])

[Motionless] In demented agony

(Till [scratched-throated and] silenced) and I still would only hear one

 

Mine

 

[(My God)]

[It’s strange isn’t it?]

(Shaped by suffering to only know my own suffering)

[I first started by plunking pinpricks of stars from their watercolour eyes]

I [now] listen to the music and hear the cries of silence[, questioning them(,answering them)]

[(Questioning God,, myself, letting time burn its way into my matchbox mind, leaving its brand)]

Like bluebirds nesting in my ears

Watching [over them[, and their words] (glide/gliding)

Between hemlock apostles of us walking trees, docile obelisks [in the burden of thaumaturgy]

I hear the murmuring ribboning of clouds in a burnt candle [in its cold incense of crimson]

I see the wicker bent over the wax melted moon

Perfect isn’t perfect

But I play pretend

Hide and seek

For everyday I can scrape a living

From the tip of my tongue

For every word I press against my lips and then the paper

Imprinted in the schism of my skin

Licking every drop of meaning, love, torment, foundation

Off the floor

Do not test me

For my perfect(ion) is not perfect

My love is futile

My hate is hot, untempered[(-steel)], (direct, unrefined, self-destructive,) and infinite

My spirit is burning away

The warmth in my veins

Is liquid memory of lost victories[, in which I have remembered defeat]

In the directionless maze of my skull

I have yet to find solace,

(Straying disoriented, straddling the lines of a page, between life, death, and sentence)

The clock ticks away into the darkness and silence

The world continues to turn its wheel of hands

People walk through streets of boredom, (colourless greys between blocks of black and white)

Ignorant of the Composer and their (role in this grand) Symphony

This is the way that it is

People do not care

But I am here, listening

Aren’t I?

Until the echo fades

Until the flower withers

Until the forests kindle

Until the people shrivel

Into white noise

Black night

Grey twilight

A hundred-(thousand) fold voices could scream

And the world wouldn’t hear anything

But static

And nothing

But me?

I watch the hands of the clock conduct the seconds like a(n impatient) maestro

The hours pass their bows against the strings (with reckless abandon, as if crazed craftsmen)

The (minutes like) trumpet(er)s blurt out rambling passages from scripture, (inebriated sane)

(Or into false sanity)

And as the symphony

Falls into (or out of) place,

A jigsaw ripped apart and put together by the same delicate, wrinkled hands

I feel (like) the audience

Has already left their seats

Because perfect(ion)

Isn’t perfect(ion)

I sometimes ask myself

Was I not good enough?

Or were you just too distant (from it)

To hear

The sound of a lost world

(Collapse, and) crumble into dust

As I stand alone

On the edge of my mind, watching this atom bomb, this monster called God on my horizon

Ready to leap ([blindly with wide eyes] from the brink of collapse)

Into the spiralling unknown, [the frayed borderline, in] the void of dull hands

[The shallow boundary of brimming symmetry shimmering dimly through rivers of equilibrium]

Again, [take me]

In[to] the debris, (and the [chambre] mushroom clouds[’ ballad]

[In(to) the ashes of an hourglass]

[Like Mache of vast pastures blanche in the candor of a dancer]

[The frame of a great painting written across the white void of all of creation flourishing colour]

[Like contorted forests in the shallows of Valhalla]

[(The black asters of onyx pixels)]

[(Like glyphs of lithium fishing through rickety flickering vistas)]

[(Reeling in ceilings and cathedrals;)]

[(That tremor like I once remembered)]

[(Peeling murals in fields of teal bending genesis into speleothems of endless surrender)]

[(Rivers of civilization like twine binding spiralling cries of dryad kaleidoscope)]

[(Bougainvillea unwinding hyacinth in the brine of highlands)]

[(In the span of an avalanche)]

[(Of disfigured fingers of crimson nimbus scimitars like arteries)]

[Galleries flowering on the unbridled hieroglyphs of Osiris’ dialect spiralling wires of horizon]

[The barbed arms of a carnival of roses flowing soma through the fruits of ambrosia’s lute]

(Everything we left behind [in blindness])

In the solemn silence that permeates eardrums in stillness, in solitude

[In the liquor of a picture frame unhinged like a doorframe from the mouth of these walls)]

[(The passage of ecclesiastical tapestries)]

[(In the cloth metropolis of brothels of poplar and the cedar mausoleums)]

[(The hollow polymers of emaciated lace; our family tree)]

[(Which once held, housed with its roots a glass chalice, like a palisade of nature’s glaciers)]

[(In the coral oars of forests phantasmagorical)]

[(Oracles that swirl with mother of pearl)]

[(Lapping up the sun’s sap like coagulated aether)]

[(Baptized in the wine of deep cellar spirits pined behind sobriety’s irony)]

[(The hallowed shallows of a ballerina’s gallows of cowled balaclava devouring the hourglass)]

A mass of pastures asters of polyester question marks in the bark of archangels

(With tooth and nail halos veiled in the pale tornadoes of sable railroads in towers of bellflower)

[(Under village of cerulean guillotine and far reaching green onomatopoeia)]

Dead and alone[, we wait]

For you

Waiting for the closing of the curtain

The destruction within creation

Put back together

With broken parts

To exit the stage

Anew[, crescendo’ing and then decrescendo’ing]

[Stopping, only to continue]

Broken, shattered [(on these) avenues of ambiguity, blue, (and musically)]

By God

[The glass shards of silence, rainbows that littered the room in illumination coloured butterflies]

(Only to be made) whole [,made metamorphosis]

(All) Because perfect,

Isn’t perfect,

Yet

Author's Note

Previous edits:

I've been adding a lot more to this poem lately, getting the last bits of the poem right. I feel like this is my best poem so far. Since I want to do better with every poem I write, I'm quite happy.

Unfinished poem. Like most of my poems, I'll share the unfinished work and continually make improvements, which you'll be able to see with an added few thousand words. It shows some promise.

Most 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 the ( ) brackets, or ( ) and [ ], or ( ) [ ] and { }, or all these mentioned brackets including < >, or these brackets all the way up to >( )<, and finally, up to - - or -< ->. It must be in this order though if you wish to read some of the brackets. Obviously the more brackets you read, the longer my poems will be. The purpose of this is simply to allow leniency in how long or short you want the read to be. The lines in grey are particularly optional. This is not a way to ruin art in order to string in more readers, nor am I doubting a reader's capabilities to understand, or even how much they're willing to read. It is much more something where I simply do not know whether I consider these extra words be the core, and see them in a sense of not entirely understanding whether I consider them "canon", as they often change the flow of the piece, for better or worse, when or when not they are included. In a way, making it a completely different poem, as is their intention in a way, to add more, and to sculpt words differently. Think of these added brackets and words as the fat of the piece, rather than the bones.


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

Reviews

[adornoscousin]

In the clockwork of earth's emotions. Great lines. Your language use is amazing

[Pete]

your title made me smile knowing how you like to go on at length. this one is really good. it's as if you've taken it up a notch if that is possible with you. shadow isle man stood out to me perhaps because your writing is like an unexpected right cross that you never see coming. just when you're catching your breath you deliver another gut punch in the next line never relenting. powerful stuff (as usual) ... :)

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

So glad you enjoyed my work here! And it makes me quite excited at the fact that this one is even an improvement! Always glad to share a poem with you. Thanks Pete. :)

[Betty Hermelee]

Good day…while I would love to read your poems, my attention span is not equipped to concentrate on such long poetry, and I’m sure it’s great. Please refrain my requesting your reads. Thanks you
Betty
PS if there is a short one, I will be delighted to read it.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

I understand, it's difficult to sit down and read something for a long period of time.

[Betty Hermelee]

Thank you for your understanding. I would like you to read some of my short poems!!!
Best, Betty

[Lisasview]

I read several of your poems.. and then read your about me.. and, when you said you do not review.. I decided not to read anymore.. Because quite frankly submitting poetry and not getting constructive criticism about what one writes.. leaves one hanging out to dry...
I only started submitting a couple of months ago for the first time ever... I have been writing since the 70's and I am loving this new adventure.
I wish you the very best,
Lisa, now in Spain

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you for giving my poems a try either way. I'll check some of them out myself sometime.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

I mean I'll read some of yours sometime. That's what I meant to say.