Best Crucifixes Poems
Greenwich Village breathes,
She inhales exhausted tepid air,
And exhales blustery winds of possibility.
The lady blows away the veils of dishonesty.
Tangled streets strung together,
Knotted masses of pearls and poetry,
Entwining marbled heroes,rounded arches,
Crucifixes,and snakes penned on skin.
Artists, tourists, vagrants,and scholars,
Know the calling of its siren song well.
People living on the fringe of humanity,
And those from the upper crust, fuse.
The village is the one spot on earth
Where you can expose your primal desires,
And explore their depths unfettered.
She is a lovely harlot who lives to please .
Musicians and thinkers engage in chess,
Neighbors line the benches of it's central park.
Children run naked through its fountains.
The poor and idol rich roam, anonymously.
A reader of fortunes lays out his cards,
Lovers tango,who knows which one leads?
Perhaps all the seekers will find their way,
And the leaders will learn how to see?
Lady Greenwich Village,the canvas of New York life,
Her face painted with brilliant spattered oils.
Each of us can add our own divine colors,
Dripping and blending with individual uniqueness.
12/12/19
"Struggling"
I've been struggling
Doing things that are puzzling
It's rather troubling
How much liquor I've been guzzling
Shiiiit
I admit
I'm not proud at all
I got a problem with alcohol
It'll be my downfall
If I don't fix it
Instead of always getting twisted
On my end, there's been a lot of resistance
It's been hard, and I know that I'll miss it
But I want to follow through on my wishes
And get after serious riches
All the while, taking care of business
With god as my witness
Up until the very last minutes
And at the finish
I don't need anybody's forgiveness
Just got to make the best of my existence
Another relapse, because I always got to get my fixes
On the walls upside down triple sixes
Pictures of provocative b**** es
Blowing kisses
And a tank with fishes
As well as a few glow in the dark crucifixes
Life's tough, yet sometimes it isn't
Good riddance
Once again I've done did it
I'm starting to get suspicious
Of much more than the superstitious
I've been ambitious
Yet still oh so vicious
Sorry, can't relate, I'm not very religious
And that's just one difference
Use to be a jock and a nerd
Nowadays I burn so much herb
I've been feeling disturbed
Because there's been so much I learned
Yet the problems always return
When you're at your lowest or feeling superb
On my back the weight of an anvil
Been trying to leave it at the landfill
But keep ending up at a standstill
Damn girl,
You really gave me feelings of ecstasy
Turns out it wasn't always meant to be
You'd best believe
Working my ass off, to barely earn ends meet
Only to struggle on through the next week
Makes me feel like a ****ing dead beat
Life continues testing me
Getting the best of me, but I can't let it be
I'm ready to achieve
An outcome that turns out successfully
Living rather recklessly
Been at odds and making some enemies
Doing things that'll shorten longevity
And life expectancy
Having strange tendencies
And certain dependencies
Which could very well be the death of me
Chucko Is Dead
It was on Columbus Day, 1962
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Sang in tones most glorious and free.
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko
I’m Chucko the Birthday Clown!”
I was comfortably ensconced on the couch.
A feigning 10 year old with a pseudo fever,
Sister Mary Daniel was probably making the sign of the cross,
Up the street at St. Mary’s,
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Stared into the camera and saw me,
Insignificant me,
Just a freckled punk kid;
Hater of sadistic nuns and boring dry lessons
Of crowded sweaty stinky catholic classrooms
With crucifixes of a dead bloody Jesus.
And the sweet salvation of the universe was not yet apparent.
But Chucko knew all about that.
He knew the future and the past.
He knew about Kennedy and Kent State
He knew what was coming so imminently,
He looked into that camera at Channel 7
And saw the children of the 50’s
Coming home in body bags from
The jungles of hell,
From the other side of the world,
From the bloody backside
Where all things are vile and evil.
He saw fear, and an ocean of tears.
He saw ten thousand sunsets
And 50 thousand funerals of the crazy brave.
Even in 1962
When the country was still a damn good country,
He rode the highways and byways with a pockmarked grin.
But he knew he could never tell of what was coming,
Of the madness and corruption and the greed,
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko,
I’m Chucko the birthday clown!”
Mother! Please! Take my hand.
I’m afraid!
Chucko the Birthday Clown is dead.
"Bag o’ sweets"
like fantales chewed slowly
the concept of what’s left
sucks on the sweet marrow of it
sticky caramel pages
stuck in between flowers pressing
the parallax pollen view of it
never hallowed
the wrappers flimsy, quaint
short stories unwrapped
violet crumbles
pollinated footprints
left like scorched fingerprints
melting moments
spooning the soothing
of deep thinking honeytraps
candy years
worn like necklaces
loved and worshipped like crucifixes
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Music Festival
Boys in glitter and gold quote the doors
With dreadlocks they beatbox drum and base
A girl balances my friend with her legs
He lies planked above her face
Flags ripple with colour
Cheers wave through the crowd
The clearest pitch of an angel
Embodies my soul with sound
I'm inhibited won't you accompany me
Sunlight replaced by lasers and neon Crucifixes
I lust for a disturbing insatiability
I've become transfixed
Paramedics attend to paralytics
While I unwind I feel
The sleepy sexy wind on my face
And I drift off
Tonight the understaffed was overloaded with impatient calls n' flashing buttons buzzing the central core
I marathoned from room to room in frantic answer
My vision rang from Rocky Horror, the Ringling Brothers to your flesh and blood side show...in one nightmare slow breath
It was as hyper-real as a whole sandwich in the pit of one mans mutant mouth moving in slo-mo
As unreal as Pinocchio's carved hands, bleating on bloated bellies & rolling in dough
& Then to watch one black pincht princess bolt up in her barred bed
Her beady eagles on a bearded lady....disrobing article after article, In a constant beat beat repeating...Why did Daddy do it?
Me...I'm just crossing my index to ring finger in hopes it will go away
...It's countdown and 40 rooms seems too long to earth the same beds, woozy rooms, rising temperatures and more multiple people unbedded and tied to chairs
Peace cannot be found here or in the hand of whitta-whitta whittering words
Tonight under the full moon....she hangs on my whites-pleading for that abstract something, for cement feet to take on liquid answers. for one big black hole of understanding to scoop her vocals & make sense of her
While the squirrel lady sobs deep into my back about some strange Pope filled room with bloody crucifixes and fervent praying hands
She points to Uncle Sam up in his military sky-condemning me to another, just as horrible war
The delirium in this place multiplied the last straws of my sanity
My finger really wanted to hail the waitress for the check...
And why did that frothy mouth frighten me so?
Why did the lady feel so cold ?
The very stiff yellow lady...
The realization screamed me out of the room and into the hall with vision of toe tags and body bags
Paralyzed, shaking, buzzers-buzzing, callers calling. my feet running
detonating the uranium in my head
Where bad little Hiroshima's dance over the fence of my dreams
Where the day after is possible …...
Possible?
Can it be true …..
Is my shift over?....
(working in an Nursing Home with an 102.5 fever)
I have written of love and romance someone
passed a comment about being careful of
false idols. This left burning questions within
the mind and heart. Golden crucifixes, ornate
statues, papal rings to be kissed are not these
false idols, paintings adorn the walls, robes of
elegance are worn for what purpose. Even the
so called father of the church held in the respect
of being no mortal man, to which he surely is.
Why are woman forbidden to preach the word
of the lord when in the past so many have and
been sainted for it, it is not man's given right
to put himself above all others. This church
keeper of the ten commandments, throughout
histories pages has broken everyone of them,
persecution, torture, war, all heralded under
Gods name by the church. Secrecy within the
regime, the closed ranks of some papal inner
cell, what lurks, celibacy such an unnatural
form of life and living, how can a celibate
man preach to me on the everyday ups and
downs of married life when he has no real
experience. Where is the compassion and
humility in this church, the Lord gave words
to alleviate suffering, the churches laws on
contraception compound the misery of the
third world masses, with AIDS and over
population. It seems to me that through the
ages the church has lost it way, remember Jesus
died on a wooden cross for all mankind, all.
Please do not think of me has an unbeliever
for you would be so wrong, I live and love
the path of the Carpenters son, I still love his
word and his word was love.
A noble trade a soldier made
To fight and serve my country
The cradle fix indoctrinates
A nationalistic junkie
As in Oman true colours shown
A philanthropic lie
Semper fi, death before dishonor
Ours is to do or die
I fought to serve my country
Well prepared to pay rhe toll
Blood sweat and tears I freely shed
But my country wants my soul
A bloody tale so deftly written
Etched deeply, growing colder
An ode so deathly chilling
In a song sung for a soldier
Carried high in the wind
For whom.the bell tolls
Dark secrets revealed
Like Dead Sea scrolls
I've toiled in the depths
Of a depraved quagmire
My feet engulfed
In brimstone and Hellfire
Though you can't bear the weight
Of a heart that is heavy
When it's your turn to pay
Can you handle the levy
A fight to the death
A bone for to eat
Do you fare any better
Than the dogs in the street
I don't know whence it started
With just one single tear
But pretty soon the damage done
Was far beyond repair
It hangs there in life's war-drobe
A shining Christening robe
Don the garb of Nationalism
That's worn around the globe
The tear in you had lain hidden
As tears so often do
Until that tear is beyond repair
From mending tread or glue
The Devils a joker
If its laughter you're after
But his punchline gets told
In the here ever after
I failed to find the honor
Nor the righteousness of war
Dulcet et decorum est
Is my deeply hidden scar
Our crucifixes broken
Scattered in Elysians Halls
No words of comfort spoken
As the Tears of Jesus fall
I've feasted with killers and fasted with kings
I've been naked and hungry
I've worn diamonds and rings
I've done deeds of desperation where the crooked do their crimes
I've been to Perdition on up to Paradise
I've been up to Heaven and I've been down in Hell
In the valley of vultures I stumbled and fell
I ran with risk takers until I had to drop the dice
I've been to Perdition on up to Paradise
I've been the sad sinner and I've been the mad saint
I've worn razor blade crucifixes made of self righteous rage
Once asleep in a grave now awakened I arise
I've been to Perdition on up to Paradise
I take it from the top and bring it back to the bottom
I roll with prophets of pain who have long been forgotten
I slip through the spotlight
I disappear into forever...into that neverending night
I've been to Perdition on up to Paradise
The Wallachian fields of yore,
had such a prestigious decor.
Hanging corpses with his skill,
thirsting only for bloody thrill.
Crucifixes near a soulless heart,
fields of bodies displaying art.
Scorching the earth each crusade,
Islam cursing his torturous blade.
Cordial visits of clueless guests,
sharing ideas with the noblesse.
Later slicing their fattened sacks,
sharpening his broad stone axe.
There were nights never spoken,
gnashing teeth and bones broken.
Feeding more on their inscrutability,
severing limbs of purest nobility.
Rape and murder never repelled,
absolute grandeur from titles held.
Blackness ruled his ruthless mind,
the reaper unleashed on mankind.
Tyrant of destruction resting nigh,
earth consuming the hellish sky.
Blissful irony that never failed,
Vlad the impaler forever impaled.
The nun sees telephone poles as rows of crucifixes
Counting on a rosary, her habit, on her morning stroll
Construction worker looks down at his feet
Not in prayer, on the same thoroughfare
Sees concrete he poured there weeks ago
And not much more
Municipal worker observes wires and traffic signals
Knows them by color and functionality
Nature lover wants to hug every tree on the street
But it’s illegal in the city
Ornithologist looks for binoculars he forgot while on his walk
Birds don’t wait around for such mistakes
And simply fly away
Boys and girls look for each other; see nothing else
Minds in the clouds
On the street, sometimes young lovers can be found
Town people of all persuasions keep it to themselves
Each person views a different world as they walk down
I'm where the rubber meets the road...that road to ruination
Where the metal meets the meat...in masses come the maggots
Where the train it meets the tracks headed down to Tarturas
Many hobos head for Hell and a billion bums all bring their baggage
I'm where blood now meets the bricks and there is terror from many thrones
I'm where the castles start to crumble and the center does not hold
As Hell's hour slowly comes around...I'm the tyranny of twisted souls
I'm the sunshine that turns to storms...without a word without a warning
I'm the wound that kills the warrior...bad believers now are burning
Legions of lunatics turn into livewires...lies of life they now are learning
When chaos conquers all your cities I utilize that urban ugliness
Once civilized and civil now my barbaric beasts are blooming
I'm where captors now are captives
By way of revenge and riots I'm reversing many roles
As Hell's hour starts to come around...I'm the tyranny of twisted souls
I watch many church creeps clutching crucifixes...to me such comedy
Where perversion was their greatest power...now they are on their knees
I'm where angry ones with much ammunition ice innocent ones from tall towers
I'm where the bullet meets the brain
Where the toe it meets the tag
Dragons love to drag it on...where the body meets the bag
Your society is now a Skelton choking on it's skin and broken bones
Shadow soldier now in the spotlight...stopping time till my second is gone
Hell's comes around at last...I'm the tyranny of twisted souls
LONG LIVE THE NEW FLESH
The secret blood of a crucified man a god born of flesh, bone, a righteous soul, so long live the new flesh, the sacraments of stone, upon burnt offerings fold….
Watch the nine inches of iron pierce the flesh, the flesh made whole holy and insane the immaculate ejaculate or the fantastic flight of fantasms made flesh and bone…
Blood and stone the arcane born of the unholy holocaust, choking on ashes, sackcloth and lies watching the blade sharp, the razor keen slicing through flesh, angels cry...
The spill of seed, the muscles of crimson, tendons of white, the unholy sight of cruciforms and crucifixes line the hills of Adams first sight, his unfound reign… denied…
So long live the new flesh, the artificial blood of the synthetic intellect, the cybernetic systems, nano gears replace the natural, the forsaken and profane…
We destroy and dissect to make a martyr to the new flesh, of nanotech and tachyons from unknown space, a forgotten god from a dark region in eons greater depths dwell…
So long live the new flesh of suicide and sycophants and silicon…
So long live the new flesh the acetate blood of crucifixion, a man, a god born of the flesh, bone a righteous soul…
So long live the new flesh the sacraments of stone upon burn offering fold…
Watch the nine inches of iron pierce the flesh made whole holy and insane the immaculate ejaculate or the fantastic flight of fantasy made flesh and bone blood and stone…
The arcane born of the holy holocaust, offering of the burning flesh…
Now science has replaced all the rest…
the hollowed be thy soul, hallow be thy name:
“Holy is the new flesh!”
In the corner there...
Under the defused lights,
With spectral highlight’s here,
There, they float near and afar.
An apple sits in its technicolor glory,
It's not fully red or crimson or scarlet
Greens of sage and emerald
Dances in its hues,
Corruption is setting in as time passes
under these searing spots
as rot comes like a little death
spreading to the rest,
The rust of fruits oranges,
nectarines, bundles are of berries,
sliced in aromatic spice,
bloody droplets of cherry’s puddle,
next to a crystal chalice
of fine facets and filigrees
cut to trap light, to express
spectrums of color glitter and refract,
Standing starkly next
to the draped sacred rosary
and the sweet-fruited flesh.
Dust comes to rest
A raven of stately lorn,
blue on to black night into
nocturnal feathers bore
eyes deep as ink wells so black, onyx
dipping into hues blue in the reflect.
A haunting vestige that knows breath, nevermore!
Amidst the abstract, crowded
silent room linger
Still, stranger odd ornate objects gather...
from oblivion's shores.
A compass of intricate design,
sextons of aged patina brass,
Crack mirrors and mercury glass.
Mechanisms fine-tuned for sailors
to chart uncharted seas where “there be dragons”.
Deep, driven is the shaft of daggers hilted blade
Casts its long crucifixes shadow
Here on books of quaint and forgot lore
Tomes of cryptic grimoires,
archaic mysteries, ill-begotten biographies,
Black Bibles of some unknown deity...
Or leather-bound abominations
found in the depths of god-forsaken tombs.
Stacked like sand blown Persian Ziggurats.
To were a white horror stares
bleached bone and hollowed sockets glare
it grins sinisterly but it's harmless if you dare
But why would you care
Around this still life of oddities
Things found a life lived out fast
Hallmarks of someone long
forgotten history left in this corner
under these lights for someone
to render in all details
of its fading glories
Life is still at last.
A great giant man vanishes from the face of the earth
No help for the hoarse throated cries of his lamenting wife
How will we remember his pastures, like a sea of green?
His children too small to gauze the torment of grief,
Yet how will we remember his sapphire hair and sepia face?
Stripped from the ash of his wall is concealed a hollowness
Felt by the saints, and one flickering, bitter, candle tenders
The execration of his passing.
That sacred sand in whose shadow I have gushed
Gives me pause for he who carried a pocket full of grace
And whose hallowed chalice must have touched the cells of heaven itself.
Oh! How can I reclaim you, restore you, repay you?
MY dancing mercies do not dissolve the blue veil which surrounds
The guilt and warm tears shed for him.
Mass upon mass, benediction upon benediction,
His name celebrated a thousand times
As unseen witnesses regard that great deliverance.
Old and exhausted but uncommonly kind
His white smiles have disappeared.
Without warning save presage from a little box of spells
Resembling many crucifixes on the wall,
And one great stone,
The sky opened up and took him
Like grey smoke rising.