I think its time,
that I departed,
I'll still
have the scent
for a scratch
and sniff
sticker.
My poetry now,
is foreboding
in the red & clause.
I'll still comment
on much poetry,
the fancy pens,
never come to fairy,
of never had a reality
for a pen that worked
with ink that spurted.....
worked for a luxury
My time is now
fragmented
and blurry,
and the timeless
has a single blur,
once happiness
of skirts and
fond-ness.
Principally
to rulers
here
of this poetry.
I advocate nothing
to a single something,
bless be a statue of
a monument
of a Goddess
Censorship
for which
reasons?
It'll be different,
if I was not
the pirate
of this ship....
But therefore,
I too take
the blame
of
annihilation
and
the
gallows,
our so called heads
in the hallows.....
This is poem 75,
reduced alive,
and so called flaying,
no, I won't accept
and time for dying.
I'll never realize...
Its just another end
to me...
As I look upward at the wooden door labeled 'My Demise',
I clearly see thirty-nine wooden steps on the rise.
Each step takes a minute to grasp what I'll leave behind,
With many memories and thoughts, to recall and unwind.
There are just sixty seconds to replay each precious step from my past.
Joys and sorrows, loves and losses, with sobs and laughter broadcast.
The first memories of childhood, growing up with family and friends.
Each a fleeting echo, highlighted in a telephoto lens.
Each step a treasure that soothes my weary flaying soul.
Building like a jig-saw puzzle to make the picture whole.
I'm like an old film editor, cutting and selecting,
The scenes of my life, beloved and cherished, collecting.
At the top of the stairs with thirty-nine stairs lies the door.
As I grab the handle I know: "Time's up!" "There's no more!"
Most everybody can handle a few parasites
but eventually it reaches critical mass
the body runs low on flesh and laughs
it begins a slow collapse from the inside out.
America's body is infested with parasites
The rich, powerful and the thoroughly corrupted
are flaying the good people to sate the parasites
in hopes of gleaning votes from their dependence.
When they run low on good people
the malnourished and entitled parasites
will turn on those that have fed them.
Let's call it a parasitic revolution.
From the progeny of good people
and enlightened parasites,
a virgin middle class will arise.
They'll replenish equilibrium....
A new age ecosystem if you will.
In the meantime, the socialist buzzards
and communist hyenas
are moving in for a sniff.
Note that an elephant is never easy prey,
especially when wounded and perpetually played.
He hears again
the far-off jiggling of keys,
the throaty cough of ignition,
recalls strafing lights
on a night-blurred road.
Moths, like pale flowers,
crash against the windscreen.
Over-reaching branches
whip back and forth, warping
a transfixed retina.
A gritty sleet, then,
the bloodied head, the matted fur,
the flaying shanks;
a frozen shock laid bare.
Returning to the garage,
warm metal ticks,
he stares at a dark windscreen,
the dead
spread across his mind
still looking for a way out.
Zippily, zippity, I slip down
the slippery dip slide.
Zippity-doo-dah, slippily-dippity-do!
Suddenly and nippily, tipping
backwards to quicken the pace.
Snappily, I whippingly
swish right off the end of the slide.
I launch into space,
Fly high in the air, arms wildly flaying
like a rocket man on steroids, screaming.
I land with an awfully
painful jolt, snap and thump.
Woefully my aplomb undone,
not so spryly or lightly,
right on my backside.
In silence, as nausea passes
as I crawl into a corner shaking
head violent visions
of somewhere or something.
Flashing nano fire of my spine
flaying hot the essence of thought
a razor in my skull! Crimson!
The image turns, bleeds
As it is drawn in thought
and through my broken fingers.
It pools in the dying crimson embers
a hot white liquid light
eagerly cooling in the oncoming night…
As nausea passes,
twilight creatures' feeds, recedes, fading…
There are days that wink out like stars at dawn!
Neuron fire sparks expire
snaps in the spine
in fine crimson wire
wrapped tight around my imagery
bleeding down burning out…
Into pools of amber symmetry
I wash my Nightmares clean
Something coming from afar
cooling the soft hues, azures
nausea passes into the silence…
A life that conquers all!
I feel….something
Transcending.
Crimson!
Oh my god, what have we done
Just gone and killed, your only son
Even worse, tortured him to death
Jeering whilst he gasped for breath
In realisation, we’re overwhelmed
Certain now, to be all condemned
His only crime, was none at all
And we the people, made this call
We had a choice, Barabbas freed
Crucify our idol, and more indeed
Mankind is evil, we’re living proof
Sold out our saviour, stood aloof
So what now, is it time to pay
Might just be forgiven, if we pray
But who could condone, such a sin
Flaying the innocent, of their skin
Maybe was preordained sacrifice
Let’s just say, made his own choice
Stop passing on, humanities shame
We like to point, the finger of blame
Even now today, two millennia later
People are still, intolerant haters
Yes we can love, all we hold dear
It’s our conscience, that’s not so clear.
Voice of Conscience Poetry Contest
Sponsored by the Unseen Seeker
02/06/2021
A constant throbbing
Soreness often
Stabbing two or three time a day
Acute anxiety
I never know when it is coming
Like a searing spear slashing and flaying
I had never felt sorry for others who conjured up these symptoms
Thinking they were weak, liars
Feeling that no one has constant pain
Because it is ridiculous
Now that I know better, I feel a tad bit sorry for them
But even more sorry for myself.
Rude awakening for sure!
My mouth almost opened
But I quickly clamped it shut
Experience taught me not to try
To find my voice
Stifling myself is easy
I have sixty-seven-years experience
It is my natural reaction
I fall into it quite naturally
So many opinions of others flaying about
Engraved in concrete attitudes
But I have bound my mouth
With chains and locks, keeping my opinions safe.
It has boded well for me
Has kept me out of confrontations
I share my ideas with no one except poets.
Awoke by a nightmare, in cold sweat
dews were to settle on foliage yet
sun was below the horizon still
birds were calm in their nests in chill
rooster had not sounded alarm yet
the darkness a foe waiting in stealth.
Now an eerie silence flaying my mind
dredging the past, mind remorse clad
minced by remorseful reminiscence
Oh ! can I erase the past in silence.
Or if I could retreat to the womb again
And my slough, if stealthily hidden
And frame only my infancy and smile
Cropping edges of my worn out shell.
and cast the past in the consuming fire.
To rise like a phoenix in time and pure
And start all over the lost days in peace.
When will the fighting be done,
My son,
For the pain of your possible death in the throws of war weigh heavy on me,
Repeating its torturous torments day after day,
Like a fresh flaying of my heart as soon as my thoughts touch your face,
Why must you be the one,
No broken heart or lost love has ever hurt me so,
You,
My own making in the line of such uncertainty,
Defiant and gracious in the name of honour,
You will never know,
Just how much your pride and valour imprison us that love you.
Be safe my soldier son.
wM
She was irresistible
Lust had me in its grip.
Tempered though somewhat,
When she produced the whip.
"What is this I said,
What is this game you're playing."
"You'll know soon enough, said she
For you are for a flaying."
I couldn't make a run for it
I'd let her tie me to the bed,
As she began to crack the whip
My heart fair filled with dread.
But several lashes later
How could I have known,
I really rather liked it,
My 'interest' had grown.
Entry for
Sexy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Lewis Raynes.
18/11/18. Placed 2nd.
Pull myself from hell
Drag myself from heaven
The ecclesiastic devil may care
So high god cant see me
So hidden he doesn't know me
So far his powers cant reach
The single cell organism
has split his genes
Put the guns against my head
Pull the trigger
and before
Im dead and start to fall
Hear my mantra
you all
lifting lyrics like lost legends
positioning prose perfectly picked
No stupid people only intelligent people that know less
Like fire burny
The abnormal abnormality with rage in his chest
Flaying about not a care ever made
Call me back later world
When everyone's dead
Fate's Wicked Black Hand And Its Long Sharp Sword
As withdrawn sword shows its reds and gashed side aches so
horror's hand is shown in colors that are vibrant,
within swirling shadows and their flesh flaying blows
echo black curses and cuts that are redundant.
As this rampaging world, crashes upon the weak
innocent souls walk into nights of wanton sins,
oft embracing evil with relish, stench that reeks
with no thought to stop or ever make true amends.
When it seems Fate's granite mountains tumble on down
falling to crush blind masses and drink flowing blood,
safely away have flown those with their golden crowns
into havens far from the poor they see as crude.
Yet even mighty Kings can not flee Fate's true wrath
as dark deeds insure miseries lay in their path.
Robert J. Lindley, Sept, 26th, 1979, as was written -no new edits
Sonnet, (Fate Insures That Even Mighty Kings Fall)
Snipping through the skin
vocal pain ripping my eardrums
Breathing in your blood
as i wash my sins
in your devotion
Masicate my masterpiece
Notes scratched in her skin
Mangle my manuscript
Snapping my fingers as i draw them down your chalk board
With the final flaying chord
My bow berates your jugular
And my opus is undone
Silence drowns all noise
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