Impeach, O impalement?
O brass bull, burn the air?
Ancient torture, man? Lament.
Life is just not fair.
Blister up inside me, rage.
Boil within each vein.
Shatter, scatter, serene sage.
Agony, thy bane.
Berserker, thy story.
A hundred swords to one.
Covered in red glory?
It's gory, O my son.
Repayment? Before you die?
Debts to multiply.
Work or shirk or slick and sly?
Fry or fly, firefly?
Traps. They seem to set themselves.
Nose of mine, sniff out.
Cemetery, safe on shelves?
Deep delves, run red rout.
Fastener or flickering fog?
Sea-cliff, draped in mist?
Humanity, twice a cog.
Abyss, how you kissed.
Legacy, brutal thy blow.
Honored thus? Guess so.
Beggar, cryptic chains of woe?
Untouchable? No.
Ichor, wicker, nicker, knock.
Lines of chalk, thy block.
Silkworm, work with the cornstalk?
How the crows will talk...
The Centerfold On Frost Field.
As I lay on my back dying I heard the cry for help.
With the last of my endurance I stand on my feet.
Valiantly I break ground!
As I grasp my axes within twain of my hands.
Though exasperated, I release my mournful cry!
With my last aggression, I let loose my inner berserker!
To bastion, for glory, for thy honor, for thy blood, for thy bonds!
Feet thunderous as I break earth upon each step!
As I run my breath hits the frozen air, like lava melting even frozen fear!
Valiantly my body adapts, with the fortitude of the gods.
Volatile is my mind as I rush into fighting the fowl fiends!
Alone I stand against the devastating foes!
With the tenacity of the witcher I fight against their enemies!
With blood, sweat, grit, and tears, I shred them to bits!
One by one they befall my feet, in thy raven's eyes they feed.
Only by Valkyrie's hand on frostfield, may I be saved!
With my battle born cry I continue to slay!
~ Benjamin Luke Aguas.
Corrupt heart, depraved mind
A master of time, the weaver of trap
One whose mouth, falsehood emit
Gone from men, man and ghoul part and part
A victor, the slayer of ten men
A wolf in sheep’s clothing
The stopper of the flow of time
Catching his victim, in his well made net
Armed with a sneering dog
He is myth, the god of men
He was here before humans lived
The devil we can see
A menace since he was in diaper
Daily baths in the pool of tears
Constant loop of wretching blows
Till he killed the first, a debt repaid
He swore to fight as long as he live
Till he becomes one, the evil incarnate
Indomitable will, never to de-rail
He became the killer, the liar, the satan
He walks unimpeded to glory
A war dog, feared berserker
Hushed whispers turned raw
The god of men, the breaker of dreams
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun,
one of her hands would refrain from touching her,
the other has been long carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar,
she now floats between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the iniquitous Maître D'
looming above a meaty cleavage,
he who flambéed Steak Diane
with a slyly sapid leer,
poured cognac,
then after the salacious hunt,
triumphantly decanted his thirsty+ lusts
into any grateful woman
whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound,
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living,
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry,
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live a life of unremarkable normality,
trysting the nights away
with damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.
A king went down to a rolling sea;
declared to all:
"so far my Kingdom this shall be".
Time did pass,
invaders trespassed
then the invaded, invaded.
Great was all conflict spread
and after it
followed the dead.
The people cried out
from their cottage gardens,
from their farms and homes.
"Let it be, let it be,
this far only
shall our Kingdom be."
Above dark clouds
berserker Gods guffawed
and shook their spears -
sang out with a fierce
and feral glee:
"Not for you, not for thee
shall there be peace
between the rolling seas."
unusual worker
the placid mundane run when they see her coming
berserker
off the wall weird
office great but now we’re slumming
so smeared
she’s flawed
quickly dumbing
odd
unusual worker
office great but now we're slumming
odd
Written 9-9-2020
Contest: Let’s Minichu on Bizarre Poetry Contetst
Sponsor: Mohan Chutani
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun.
One of her hands will not touch her,
the other has been carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar;
she floats now between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the satyric commis-waiter,
looming above a meaty cleavage,
flambéed Steak Diane with a sapid leer,
poured cognac and butter,
commingled shallots at the table.
Then after the hunt, he’d triumphantly decant
into whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live among damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.
Trial by fire
Heart is game, showing us red
Tunnel visioned aim
Slipping bullets, jumping trains
Can't be stopped unless we're dead
Wide twisted grayed white cloud of thunder
O'er ground so hallowed waiting in asunder
A tale untold until the flash of crashing light
Unfolds to show the shattered scene of blight
What is this rack of torment in suspense
To cause this pounding redness of intense
Can winds of Wodyn thrust valkyrie thus
The tides are wrong this singing song
Will be the end of us
The tunnel forms to take us in it's dance
As axe and sword a swing to madness trance
Once more to see Valhalla's open door
Or wake to shaking silence on this shore
Bathed in others' blood still yet unsure
Red fog periphery
Thundering blood a counter point
Anger sharp clarity slows time to waken
ancestral soul fountains of spurting joys
Accentuated by the hard ball of regret
As she retreats to recharge
That sweetens the berserker rage
To drown reason in red
Storm seas of Scottish passion
Instantly free to destroy
Such are the ways of a very small boy
in a tantrum
Or the lord of a land
That he feels is his own
Later Regret with her dampening blueness
Will wash with wet teary frustration of feeling
To color and brush on the darkening canvas
Souring the day of a dour celtic soul
The grays and the browns of a daily existence
Painted tamed works o’er past’s living souls
Who wait in their darkening dry cracking prisons
For red hues of anger to free them once more
Stand at a fireside look into flames
Watch as your soul takes a part in the games
Sip on a whiskey while shaking the hands
Of kin who were here then talking in tones
Walking on lands that nobody owns
On this side of Neverbeen
holding fast to truth so keen
ever circling hawk or shark
in instinct driven tunnel vision
world of red surrounding white
berserker rage surrendered flight
Thus the other side of Never
thunders blood in pounding ears
A sight to see to startle shiver
cause of swift unfounded fears
racial memory of steel
swinging to the piping screel
violent keening silent screaming
hairs all tall in taut attention
back aquiver with delight
so we dance into the night
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