Best Cloyed Poems
A smile is cast upon your sultry face
as lover's glance makes way for love emblazed.
With timid touch your breast my fingers trace
in search of love's familiar urge unfazed.
Your skin like silk pressed warm against my chest
entices feelings longed for in my bed
then with a kiss your love leaves me caressed
with cloyed emotions, burning flames have fled.
But lonely hearts, so filled with you, will break
on lips as soft as heaven's sweet whipped cream.
I taste your soul with every breath you take,
when passion's hunger's lost within my dream,
then dreams of you are all that I can see,
for love for us, in truth, can never be.
08/02/16
(for: them who are ever there!)
these branches and roots
that cord to the grave ancients
should be free from man’s swords!
both oracle and priest held for days …
I
Your voice speaks in the silence of the night
To the deep still shady earth
That once held a great zest for our childhood
Here in the once thick wooded land
Where progenitors strewed their rustic huts
Yes! where, sang tho’ unseen those sonorous kin-spirits.
2
Ah! Happy and keen folks were the ancients, then;
But their sons? what a sad lot, now! even
Demented hearts aching from those drinks of dizzy times
Raw anguish, sorrow, painful hemlocks of death-lines,
The slow songs that tune softly to the mirthful graves
That still hold the ancestors like prisoners in the wild caves.
3
O! for your unravished wave of primal welcome,
That bade the sonorous weaver come
To make loud greeting of blue azure with song-fleet
O! for such uudecoded song that for the sagging flesh bear ointment
Secret balm from the rhyming unsteady palm leaves of the winds
That flute clearly to ancestors those eternal silent songs.
4
Known are those festal spirits of your night
From whom many lives readily spring forth:
Mused thru’ the voices of strong mortal compeers –
Priests, priestesses, praise-singers, warriors, dancers!
That with gusto, flounder across the space of time;
O, for those festal moments of flush! o, for the celestial clime!
5
You are the unseen bridge of the world,
Like Nturukpa, that elder amongst our ferry trees;
Your bark exhumes the bright colours of the past;
And carried thru’ the festal wings of your night
We desire to be mused to the ethereal clime;
Of uncurbed equanimity and euphoria of the divine.
6
I now know the anguish of these festal spirits
Who take refuge on the water-void banks
Of the topmost branches and leaves;
I now know the noise of their feasts in sacrifices:
Doleful sacrifices in the gods’ swollen foot!
Then adieu! adieu! from the cloyed humans in advent!
7
O farewell! with all your festal spirits,
Who coaxed to the night of sacrifices, priests,
Priestesses, dancers, praise-singers, warriors of the land;
Adieu! with these cold celebrations and coax-throated songs heard,
Thru’ the voice and echoes of rain’s thunder,
In the day of the panther and his noble twin, the hunter.
Sgt. Bedlam of heavy artillery reporting sir
Bedlam I want you to pick the runt of the litter
and turn him into an agent assassin
with the clandestine power of hypnotism
yes Generalissimo I am here to obey
decked out like a burlesque revue warlord
his Mauser cigar lighter on his belt
a curlicue mustache and a pie tin helmet
Opal his opium fiend gun moll squirming in his lap
was our Generalissimo
Bedlam weighed the coming abrasions
concluded we are our scars and furthermore
if adaptation is survival so is parasitism
cleared his throat noisily and bowed an exit
later that fate laden candle lit night
he made a deep study of his globes and charts
Europa Asia Oceana the Steppes the Savannah
the Scorched Hills of Malibu
a map addict re-educated in the cleanup of '89
his bell-shaped curve insisted love me
server and served a beautiful thing
if one enjoyed giant jungle arachnids and leeches
and centipedes that crawl up your butt
to lay millions of eggs when you sleep
where the laws of physics become
a tumbling burbling retinal stew
geysering steam and sulfur and mud and
where was I oh yah
yet a thing of beauty was Opal to Bedlam
he heard scratching and purring at the door
it was she incognito in an iguana skin
we must escape this hideous circus of shame
she coo coo rooed as her tongue dove into
the holy fissure in his brain
and he threw caution to the feral hogs
forgetting good posture he oozed upon Opal
I bet you think you make your own decisions
she cloyed and again he tossed caution
into a cauldron of grunting mammalian rut
for several hours perhaps the entire weekend
it's easy to rewire a human
you just give them a little epiphany
and bingo ownership
his hypnotic gambit paid off in ducats
the Generalissimo slept like a corpse
the pet centipedes concluded their labors
his ex-kingdom rejoiced at their new liberty
and that's anarchy for ya
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Under the depths below the deep
of this Atlantic Ocean
live the lobsters that crawl and creep
with an articulated motion.
On the ocean that smells so fresh
the boatmen cast their nets
for lobsters' tender, tasty flesh
which they'll sell to pay their debts.
With a great catch this new season
the boatmen head for home;
the frozen lobsters give them reason
to reach harbor and not to roam!
In restaurants and sold at stores,
the lobsters are enjoyed
till all on New England's shores
are full and over-cloyed.
The beauty from outside the beast from within
How careless was nature to commit such a sin
Not to equally on your parts grant its grace
Sparing the heart and saving it all for the face
The face of a princess the heart of a tigress
You’re cloyed with beauty but lack loveliness
You still can adjust this error, if you start
Working less upon the face and more upon the heart
Most sweets their nectar pollen pollinates,
Preserving life before their sap gets sapped;
Yet amber's sweetest resin resonates,
Ambrosia's essence from death's lap gets lapped.
But you, my sweet, are most untimely soured,
Indulgent hungers feed with greedy gluts
On dulcet fares, you're from your prime devoured,
Consumed unsweetly through most seedy guts.
You're like a cloyed, discandied bubblegum,
A sweetened, syrup-sugared pixie dust;
Your cheer gets halved, they're more than double glum,
An eaten snack succumbed through tricksy lust.
Most sweets conserved from death live still distilled,
Yet those most sour that have their fill fulfilled.
Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb
Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet,
I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime,
As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song,
For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game,
And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue,
And triply even more, my soul’s the same.
As hours pass, upon these pages, bare
I stare as if no passion stirs to fly.
To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair
I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby
Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke
Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice.
Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke
Your lilting charms which, magically employs
All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells:
Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace
And Calliope’s trance which softly swells
In finest verse, and in such verse does trace
Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song
Nor for you visiting me, worn with age
No words would spill from out my stricken tongue
And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge.
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
Try to often and readily avoid
What makes others annoyed:
During prayer pressing android,
Invading others’ spaces, yours void,
Another appetite getting cloyed;
A plane stopping from being buoyed.
Try to singularly avoid
A killer knee on the neck of Floyd
Leaving A Triangle to draw A Cuboid
A Circle skipping for A Trapezoid
A Human making out as A Humanoid…
With others’ dreams I’ve never toyed.
Love latent in us unladled cloyed our heart with pain
Orgasmic thoughts that seed our efforts vain
Residues of things that will not walk away
Nested in the memories few, the longing lips to say
Always in innocense, yet love yearns still for you.
Ever more alone than this
No creature life to tease my eyes
Mornings roach long gone to freedom
Hands ice cold on cell block bed-rim
Ever more alone than this
Invasive sound intense in meaning
Stark distanced clang of high tensile steel
Bitter requiem, my poor mans bell chime
Ever more alone than this
Copper mouth of fear, stark marker
To thickened tongue, for no good reason
Behind lips as dry as perished rubber
Ever more alone than this
Cloyed aura of human bucket smells
Chilling reminder of my frail mortality
On mucous membranes condemned to death
Intense unbidden claw of fear now rising
To clutch a heart to late for hope
Never more alone than this
It was at our gate
A tree the bloomed white rose
And bore velvet leaf
That type of thing that makes a child believe in fate
I mean the sweet scented kind
Like a woman's skin covered in oil
One day I stood there again
Long after my father fell asleep
Leaving me like an abandoned child
My heart was cloyed with grief
And like a child I weep
For love I had taken for granted
Was gone
The fence had fallen too
And I was forgotten
At the forgotten gate
Where the myrtle rose grew.
Staring the sky , whispering towards the star,
full moon rise upon the winter sky.
"Talk spirit talk grant the hopeless person a wish,
reflect upon the sky and teach how to preach".
Lying with one breath left on the bed,
tears stream running as the memory flash back.
One last blink and close it forever,
body grows cold like the air in winter.
Nothing's left , the one last sigh end with a void,
the air dances as the body becomes cloyed.
The richness of death and the poor life
was toyed by the hands of the sweet bitter love.
Covered by the dark demise of runaway laughter,
I find myself lost in a chaotic chapter.
How cloyed it is to be consumed by rage,
As emotions swirl and violently engage.
Most savage-such than our gentle origins,
Anger grips me tight, its grip tightens.
I crave solace, for a moment of peace.
But in this storm, my anger does not cease.
I am wanting to live in my remote portrayals,
Where laughter embrace is an adytum that never fails.
In this realm, I am free from the chains of fury.
Where joy and mirth replace all that is dreary.
Oh, how I long to be lost in laughter warm hold.
To escape the darkness that has taken its toll.
To find solace in the sounds of contagious mirth,
And let laughter guide me back to my own worth.
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
Autumn, hoar with age, and damp,
Was about to swallow her pride and go away —
And go the way of all flesh—
Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up
Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves.
Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar,
A fattening roofless museum of couture
That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall,
Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern,
Fogeys and hipsters,
Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks,
Redder than deer blood,
And assembled pieces of mascara,
So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks,
Each selling much more than a fragile penny.
I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by
Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then.
I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses.
Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits,
The rush needless and lacking in manners.
Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform
Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! '
Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels.
On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac.
I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution.
Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and
Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the
Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs.
The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper
Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey!
Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers,
He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand,
His breath on torture,
‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? '
‘Last, ' I mumbled.