The Looking Glass
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
Seven seasons of the past,
have echoed through the looking glass,
and the muddy grass has faded,
like the ink of ancient pages,
Turned over by the light of stars.
No single microscope can peer,
into the beauty still unknown,
about the souls of ages past,
that whisper in the winds of night.
Howling past the realm of sight,
into hallowed halls of many rows,
guarded by the empty words of poems.
Etch’ed onto heavy stones erected in the dust of glory.
When the clamor rings beneath,
the moments of contemporary politics,
eluding to the barricades imposed.
like fields of fists to naked skies,
craning to the marching tides,
applauding not with thunderous cries,
but only in collective sighs.
From the ashes of our actions,
fiery birds seldom imagined,
grace the skies sought in a fashion of religious tomes.
But to our dismay there happens,
moments of some living passion,
driving past the rusted bars of rationality.
Peering out two colored windows,
trying to affix the symbols,
to a life flashing akimbo streaks of melody.
The notes betwixt the soothing lessons,
collect sincerity in thimbles and our artistry,
will dwindle until our consciousness has died.
The morning papers burned in print,
can hardly coin a better mint,
than a sunrise beckoning;
on the songs of feathered things,
all leaping from the maddening traffic,
Loos’d from their perches, by the shuffle down below.
But the burden of the drowning rocks,
foaming with the rivers curves,
dive into pools where insects flock,
and spread their parasitic waves.
There is no place for unabash’ed days.
Blossoming with sweetened fruits,
and aroma’s flailing past the roots,
Of great kingdoms and sweet half-truths,
the pollinating armies roam.
Suddenly the lava bursts,
explode from cones of solid Earth,
and the lilting flowers curse the shade.
Silhouetting scenes of birth
while juxtaposing sense of worth,
without much thought to what came first,
until the realization that,
music should always play .
And as the June eclipses maybes,
of the darkness born of lazy ways,
the waters fail to flow,
from reflections through tobacco smoke,
while the terraced monocles looked sadly to the stage.
Rolling in constricting covers,
the sweet caress of tired lovers murmur,
in the sleep the smothers
the nightmares.
Searching vainly for a someone,
and intercourse is racing the sun,
before the lonely dawn has come,
to bear down of the burdens
of hormonal chemistry.
Watching plainly for reactions,
from a world of doled out rations,
consumed by trivia and fashion,
sprinkling out from test tubes,
of microcosmic harmony.
They swam with tails,
and then grew legs,
over the continents they spread,
creating life inside their heads,
and religion in their beds,
eventually returning to the
ground beneath their feet.
Breaking down the chromosomes,
and unlocking endless monotones,
while whispers in the microphones,
sing honey’d sophistry.
Stolen by the august breeze,
the breath of god has plucked the leaves,
from the canvas brushed with trees,
outside the pane of what we see,
when sitting with a wordless book,
that fills with thoughts bought from a look,
at the world from which we took,
our only wide-eyed breath.
The answers to the nameless things,
that fret wrinkles of ag’ed skin,
are often squeezed into a bin,
existing in the space between the paper and the pen.
have echoed through the looking glass,
and the muddy grass has faded,
like the ink of ancient pages,
Turned over by the light of stars.
No single microscope can peer,
into the beauty still unknown,
about the souls of ages past,
that whisper in the winds of night.
Howling past the realm of sight,
into hallowed halls of many rows,
guarded by the empty words of poems.
Etch’ed onto heavy stones erected in the dust of glory.
When the clamor rings beneath,
the moments of contemporary politics,
eluding to the barricades imposed.
like fields of fists to naked skies,
craning to the marching tides,
applauding not with thunderous cries,
but only in collective sighs.
From the ashes of our actions,
fiery birds seldom imagined,
grace the skies sought in a fashion of religious tomes.
But to our dismay there happens,
moments of some living passion,
driving past the rusted bars of rationality.
Peering out two colored windows,
trying to affix the symbols,
to a life flashing akimbo streaks of melody.
The notes betwixt the soothing lessons,
collect sincerity in thimbles and our artistry,
will dwindle until our consciousness has died.
The morning papers burned in print,
can hardly coin a better mint,
than a sunrise beckoning;
on the songs of feathered things,
all leaping from the maddening traffic,
Loos’d from their perches, by the shuffle down below.
But the burden of the drowning rocks,
foaming with the rivers curves,
dive into pools where insects flock,
and spread their parasitic waves.
There is no place for unabash’ed days.
Blossoming with sweetened fruits,
and aroma’s flailing past the roots,
Of great kingdoms and sweet half-truths,
the pollinating armies roam.
Suddenly the lava bursts,
explode from cones of solid Earth,
and the lilting flowers curse the shade.
Silhouetting scenes of birth
while juxtaposing sense of worth,
without much thought to what came first,
until the realization that,
music should always play .
And as the June eclipses maybes,
of the darkness born of lazy ways,
the waters fail to flow,
from reflections through tobacco smoke,
while the terraced monocles looked sadly to the stage.
Rolling in constricting covers,
the sweet caress of tired lovers murmur,
in the sleep the smothers
the nightmares.
Searching vainly for a someone,
and intercourse is racing the sun,
before the lonely dawn has come,
to bear down of the burdens
of hormonal chemistry.
Watching plainly for reactions,
from a world of doled out rations,
consumed by trivia and fashion,
sprinkling out from test tubes,
of microcosmic harmony.
They swam with tails,
and then grew legs,
over the continents they spread,
creating life inside their heads,
and religion in their beds,
eventually returning to the
ground beneath their feet.
Breaking down the chromosomes,
and unlocking endless monotones,
while whispers in the microphones,
sing honey’d sophistry.
Stolen by the august breeze,
the breath of god has plucked the leaves,
from the canvas brushed with trees,
outside the pane of what we see,
when sitting with a wordless book,
that fills with thoughts bought from a look,
at the world from which we took,
our only wide-eyed breath.
The answers to the nameless things,
that fret wrinkles of ag’ed skin,
are often squeezed into a bin,
existing in the space between the paper and the pen.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
collect sincerity in thimbles and our artistry,
will dwindle until our consciousness has died. "
i first read artistry as "ashtray"
nice read, Toaster
the gait settled quite nicely in the second half
and this:
"Breaking down the chromosomes,
and unlocking endless monotones,
while whispers in the microphones,
sing honey’d sophistry."
falls very nicely off the tongue...
"Ashes of our actions". Damn, if I could sing like Tim Buckley I'd attack that line!
I don't become appreciative like this all the time.
Thank you, Toastage. Please share more with us. I fucking appreciate it, and I don't use fucking as an unblurring adjective often.....
i think i might try to be a poet someday
A breath
short spur of exhalation
an injection of life
every few seconds
we breathe peacefully
or to fuel our fury
a taste of the universe
inhaling cosmic dust
exchanging cells with our environment
when the game is over
the trading done
we fall to the earth and fade
so that others may play our cards
giving little parts of themselves
for a glimpse of something greater
the results of years of love
toil
and woe
how will their children grow
is understanding god a feat we're allowed to achieve
or can we be content with the mystery
will the galaxies stretch out their hands
and embrace us
with all our flaws
or is it man who has to plant his flag
forever in every direction
until reality is forced to defend itself
Ah, you're a talented fucker, Yellow. Ain't nothin' wrong with learning from others, though?... Share, mate. Share.
I learn from all of you.
A Black Swirling antimass
of synapses loose
and not even bouncing
For space is too great
and too wide
and too roomy to encounter God
Would we,
our thought-processed soul,
Embrace it as whole?
Would sometimes we scream
for our flesh-bound gravity?
Singing, "Hey It's Good to be Back Home Again"
While tears sting our
waterless eyes?
Or suppose it's the promise
beat against the Rock of Ages?
Thumped upon the Good Book's
pages and filled with segregated,
wild-eyed Christians?
I hope my entry is more like
the digital helicopter pulse
of multiple orgasm
with my eyes ripped open
sucking up the universe
with my soul's spongy iris.
And then, in the calm,
being told every tear
I never cried
saved someone's life.
posilutely! absotively!
i gotta soul's spongy iris, fo sho...
"thought-processed soul"
"flesh-bound gravity"
and of course "soul's spongy iris"
cheers mate - keep on letting the juices flow