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Literature Text
sickly pale, deathly pale,
his skin the colour of a new moon,
a false god in the dim light.
they always said,
"we look down on idolatry"
and i never knew why,
i always thought the symmetry
of sacrifice spoke brutal truths
about the nature of
Man and God
the romans did it
why can't i?
enamoured by the fallacy of honesty,
i break the lambs neck with my left hand.
and with the other, i carve patterns.
old enochian and languages
spoken by those buried in history and time.
(or maybe those are the same thing?)
he's like a roman dream
hair in glorious disarray; triumphant
i paint myself a picture, burn the lamb
burn the ashes, burn my fingertips
(injury indicates dedication, and i, for one,
feel luxuriously accustomed to attest to the fact
roman soldiers wanted suffering
scattered messianic festivals, darling flee)
the smoke sails forward and scalds my eyes,
but he was never much to look at.
prospects, my dear.
a god could be amongst your lovers,
with hair like a crow's nest at midnight
and complexion so white had he not been
immortal, you'd think him dead
the ghastly king of hell,
envious of my glowing glory
a god could be amongst your lovers,
little lamb.
be the sacrifice,
pro magnus dei
hosanna! hosanna in the highest!
Literature
Downpour
To be ignored, is like a downpour,
where even the raindrops refuse to hit you.
Rain overflowing the gutters in these dirty veins,
as yellow sneakers drag street lines into the cracked pavement.
Hansle and Gretel crums,
a simple reminder of where I house my pain.
If only my lashes had length enough, to hide tears,
but i'm afraid the only growing lashes are from the whip I taste daily.
Downpours come and go in life.
Don't seek shelter under a weathered umbrella,
if the rain wont get you the wind surly will.
Literature
Empty Nest
and as your sepia-saturated voice fades into the night
you will remember all those dreams you woke from,
weeping, for the conversations you'd never
have and the people you'd never get back
you will remember the flock of birds that used to
reside in your chest, pounding against your
ribcage, crying to be free (and you will try
to remember the day their wings went silent)
as you hear the leaves hum and the sky pulse,
you will try to fall into cadence with the steady
music of nature, but instead begin to believe you're just
an outlier.
you will tell yourself, in your needly, narcissistic
way: you are a falling star, a withering cel
Literature
Sovereign
When the air pulls on your shoulders
and the eyes sit on your spine.
Think of the strength of Atlas
if only he dropped the world.
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for the great god
edited: nov. 11, 2013 ; nov. 21, 2013
© 2013 - 2024 thepoetboy
Comments10
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The idea of this is super cool. You kind of toy with a number of unspoken cultural taboos and play with them beautifully. You also packed so much meaning into so few words, I had to read it over a few times to really soak it in (which I mean as 100% compliment... not so sure it came out that way). You're such an amazing poet. Your stylistic touches give all your work a great voice too, like the lack of punctuation, etc. Here it really lends to the heretical themes beautifully