With lank longish hair, of virtue most spare
Hollow cheeked, with joints that creak..An elderly evil proponent of deaths i see there is a reek a pungence of cadavers in such abundance, he knows not where he has buried children a'plenty Grandfathers their
Wives, but then for satan he strives.' He must at least rank as a liutennant skull and
Cross bones on his pennant, a trace of accord..He has trodden the boards floors he is invisible on the black squares.' And will never give up his share.' He mooted for
Guvenor of Gaza, no other i dare could
Show such brass neck.' Of tony blair, who will
Be, no doubt? flexing his ropey old pecs.'
In a coiling maze
mortars fume.
Crimson cadavers
dye the verdant soil.
Poison spears plunge
craters into young flesh.
Scattered moans rise
into the sorrowing air
of deafened canons
and carbon.
No succour or welcome
for the maimed.
Only ghosts
of peace.
ERASE me from your memory.
DELETE the messages sent.
TOSS OUT my things,
THROW AWAY this life,
DITCH me at dawn, leaving me to the shadows.
BURN my pictures,
BURY the frames,
RID yourself of me-
Sealing me in the vault of your subconscious.
SUFFOCATE myself to sleep,
DRIFT AWAY into the NIGHTMARES
transforming into unsung lullabies.
WILTED while alive,
LIVING while dead,
a magician's box without illusions, only silence-
ABRA cadavers into this soul.
Fish swim in water
while drowning in our air.
Toxic people, nuclear hearts that leak poison.
Death comes swiftly,
quietly in the night.
When I lift my eyes, the sky offers no stars,
only missiles parading with arrogance.
Before me, mountains of corpses rise,
my pupils dilated by human savagery.
Humanity has been consuming itself for millennia,
and I bear the guilt of all those cowards
who watch peoples fade away
behind screens, instructing the purveyors of war.
I arrived in this macabre dimension
like so many innocents cut down by bombs.
The Earth groans under the assaults of unbalanced men,
who plunder its entrails,
who sow hatred, death, and chaos
since time immemorial.
The oceans vomit waves of cadavers,
the hurricanes carry the scent of desolation and fear.
Nations crumble beneath the laughter of tyrants,
and children, bare-handed, learn to count
the bodies falling into the mud of oblivion.
I walk amidst these ruins,
listening to the groaning of stones,
a powerless witness to the unchained pride of men.
Crushed hearts weep for their torn roots,
death swallows secrets that no one tells,
and the sky has become nothing but a theater of fire and iron.
In this open-air junkyard,
the sparks of love persist, stubbornly burning,
like a breath even death cannot smother.
I sit, this morn, on the bed of
A dried-up rivulet,
Head-bent and full of compunction.
It’s clam-quiet except for the impatient
Squawks above which prompt my heartbeat.
I raise my head, heavy with grief.
Climbers and weevils align in a silent choir,
Singing with precision the lines of a forgotten
Mirth.
It’s 5 o’clock in the morning — a time when
Cockcrows are loud enough to wake the dead.
I cringe and slink as I traipse about in the dead woods,
Among the cadavers of river plants, decimated,
Deserted, and vitiated through seasons’ flagrant ebb.
I see shadows that sing with their mouths tightly shut.
Like them all, I, too, am lonesome, and I draw about me
The dry waves of parched waters.
On my lips is a certain prayer — a revised edition of the
Paternoster.
Return, waters, return from the underrocks, I pray thee.
My sorrows are old and fragile.
Hoots and cries and stridulations beseech me.
I have picked my way among paths that
Cuddle the feet in sympathy and soothe
The souls that hide from the earnestness of
Sunrise.
Wash my dry naked feet, O waters,
And grease my palms so cracked from
Endless chafing.
He slips the noose around her slender neck
Cloaked and masked with heavy breath
He can't help but be obsessed
All the dolls hangin' around - pretty little lies that make not a sound
The poison of passion imagined as they are undressed.
The dead in their eyes is magnificent
Ivory skin - chill to win
Realm of the dark, lips apart, he just has to do it - again and again
The equinox of evil with the essence of sin
Is it vanity or insanity - his dressing up to lure them in
Disquiet Devilry and a sip of gin and the perplexity of the evil twin.
The morbid beauty of death and dying
The lovelies I have twirling in the twilight
Death has changed my life - the quiet peace holds the ladies and - I tight
The divinity of debauchery - death is not treachery
It's like an estuary of decadent innocence.
Dainty damsels dangling Breathless but fabulous
Envisioning slitting their throats as if they were flowers
Heinous and horrific the macabre abounds
A carousel of corpses, a ballet of cadavers, a symphony of death
Dazzling
The eloquence of the end-of-life - exquisite and eternal
His masterpiece just hang'in around.....
He slips the noose around her slender neck
Cloaked and masked with heavy breath
He can't help but be obsessed
All the dolls hangin' around - pretty little lies that make not a sound
The poison of passion is imagined as they are undressed.
The dead in their eyes is magnificent
Ivory skin - chill to win
Realm of the dark, lips apart, he just has to do it - again and again
The equinox of evil with the essence of sin
Is it vanity or insanity - his dressing up to lure them in
Disquiet Devilry and a sip of gin and the perplexity of the evil twin.
The morbid beauty of death and dying
The lovelies I have twirling in the twilight
Death has changed my life - the quiet peace holds the ladies and - I tight
The divinity of debauchery - death is not treachery
It's like an estuary of decadent innocence.
Dainty damsels dangling Breathless but fabulous
Envisioning slitting their throats as if they were flowers
Heinous and horrific the macabre abounds
A carousel of corpses, a ballet of cadavers, a symphony of death
Dazzling
The eloquence of the end-of-life - exquisite and eternal
His masterpiece just hang'in around.....
Stalwart Artz Burkhardt, a tackler of problems, it was right At the heart.. Of how as a professional he did his work; luminary.'
In the face of an epidemic; He did not shirk.' He organised
Fifteen cadavers to autopsy and re-search, the result of injections he set to work.' He knew the innocent bodies could not lie.' Yet
As he began, the 'drainstream media' however gave a strong
Try.' His findings of vascular damage in at least fourteen.'
Was disparaged and derided..There was no appetite it seems.' To search for veracity, the science; real truth so it
Was not published.' The guy was cancelled forsooth.) Then
(There was the accident?) That robbed him of life.' Though
At 79 he was quite strong, thats not denied now the results
Of his findings he put down they are stored ' R F K if you Access them.' You can face down the hordes.' Coupled with
Data from registerd elmbalmers, it should frame.? A better
Case against the invective of those, who would you defame!
A solitary tear escapes my eye,
As poignant thoughts shuffle my decor.
If only I could rewrite the script, defy,
To release the burden that anchor my core.
"Why me?" reverberates through the ventricles, mummified,
Ripped apart by destiny's cruel spell.
In this moment of truth, I stand crucified,
Awaiting light to penetrate each cell.
Acquaintances revel in my agony,
As I waddle through the puddles,
Tripped by the weight of bitter irony,
In molasses-like mean shackles.
Yet I strive to rise from the ashes of fire,
As cadavers of self-pity unleash,
Infusing life into a desert's sapphire,
Elevating my spirit—hope as a feast.
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
As night falls, a dark melody
fills the air with a feeling so deep
it is the song of a dark rose
tweeting near a corner fence.
Dahlia, a withered pale woman
lies on a granite slab, still and serene
The song transforms the air, calm
infuse her chill cells, pungent.
Cells overhaul false refluxes
taint her veins with lethal hues
rose rummages the window
like a creeper it probes in disguise.
A noise of a phantom stirs in the void
The deadbeat song reaches its peak
undermining her heart waves
the roaming restless phantom roars.
"Who is the next cadaver to join me?''
then dark rose turns from grey to white
the source of the call slowly deranges
with the rise of a promising dawn.
The sunrays pack her vitals with life
a dark rose is reborn, its music unheard
may *Prana saves helpless cadavers once again
a wish for a dark song seems wanted.
*Prana, a Sanskrit word meaning breath, a life-giving force.
In the heart of a war-torn country,
A mass grave awaits to be filled.
Piled high, the riddled cadavers,
Of the many citizens killed.
Their unrecognizable remains,
Haunts those assigned to the task.
To bury their friends and neighbors,
Each wearing a hideous mask.
There were many that prayed for peace,
But the Warlords would have their way.
Their methods of horror increased,
And became the trend of the day.
The bombs the enemy launched,
Would land on Ukrainian streets.
Destroying a thriving city,
Where its pulse no longer beats.
As they arose to meet the challenge,
Their lives were put to the test.
But their courage couldn't be thwarted,
And their will inspired the rest.
Now this country's character shines,
For the eyes of the world to see.
And the battle will never cease,
Until all of Ukraine is free.
I Love you deep then runaway
For the slave child may never lay beside the master
Encase our cadavers within one grave!
So that we may live happily ever after
Thier words pierce sharper than blades.
Branding the letters out on her heart: "NEVER LOVE A SLAVE!"
For the slave child may never love a master
Encase our cadavers in one grave!
That we may live happily ever after
If those buried beneath us
could rise today,
would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen,
stick blackened bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and icy eye-sockets?
Sadly I imagine that some,
(the frost-jelled and un-melting),
might return to crumbling factories
or defunct offices,
their briefcases or tool boxes
stuffed with snow
to labor over epitaphs.
Fossilized cadavers
Unable to be cremated or buried
Refusing to disintegrate into oblivion
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