Long Convulsing Poems
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Underneath all the layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
Of reason and understanding
I smolder
In passion's pleasure bed of red
Paroxysms of pleasure
Emanate from my core
Searing the shroud
Flames of fantasy's feast burn
Yearning I yearn and lie in wait
In my ambuscade
with the relish to ravish ravaging
every fiber
Conceived in the throes of passion
My conception is my perception of life
Woven into my being
I’m prisoner to pleasure monomania
Obsession of desire hysteria
My cacoethes: gratification gratified
Thus, I scintillate sparks
Riding on my satin flares
They captivate your stare
You see me
Feeling the heat of sultry flame
You want to play scorch torch game
So your reach out to touch
Mere kindling in my blazing wake
You quake as I slake your florid fantasy awake
Convulsing in temptation’s torment
You combust to lust
Consummating till consumed
Eliciting my passion flower bloom
In opulent oriental room
You swoon
Exertion exhausted
Gratification’s glory gained
Having tasted my reign
Revived your leave
Yet…
My image I’ve seared
On your flesh and mind
Branded, you’ll find
Your way back to me
Slave to my passion's decree
You’ll come to me
And I retreat
Enshrouded once more
In virgin layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
of reason and understanding
Biding my time
when sensuality sublime
calls me
to bloom in her red flame
Eileen
Word Lyric #6 for Music
“You Could Hypnotize Someone”
Turn away your blinking blue eye,
It is searing my brain with wind and sky,
We are at pause here in this fountain of mystery,
We are standing here to reset the pulse of history,
Your rolling turning eye is silently sucking me in,
It cannot possibly change what might have been,
It is capturing my sadness, and stealing my soul away,
Please turn your blinking blue eye away, I say.
Like looking down the barrel of a burping gun,
There is no doubt, you could hypnotize someone.
Oh quiet lady, cast away your scary stares,
Into far-away space, beyond all chants and prayers.
Turn away your blinking blue orb from my sight,
It is draining my heaving convulsing body outright.
The weary world stumbles ahead drunk with wine,
Please quiet lady, turn, turn toward the sunshine.
We are at pause here in this fountain of mystery,
We are standing here to reset the pulse of history,
Like looking down the barrel of a burping gun,
There is no doubt, you could hypnotize someone.
I Can't Wait For Death
And finally take one last breath
where hands of Seth
Thomas no longer clock
freed at last from cataclysmic aftershock
reverberating thru every baited cell
after quaking mine flinty bedrock
well nigh since birth zapping bloodstock,
an existence fraught with chronic anxiety/
panic attacks convulsing lovely bones,
where anorexic buttock
evinced bloody need dulled deadlock
cramping puberty averse
to let young manhood defrock
childhood's end aghast
(as would Alfred J. Prufrock)
assisting administering electroshock
coursed across every marrow
buzzfeeding mine famished
emaciated skeletal feedstock
self starvation jamming body electric
grave situation forced hand,
where mother intervened
to break-fast gridlock
i.e. pathologically hell bent
to render null and void yours truly
vanishing into black hole
(son) disappearing mock
curry of pathetic existence,
an arrow escape,
when grim reaper did nock
bowed, deplored, vied
against innate willpower
deadbolted with padlock
suffocating lifeforce pitted
with devastating indelible pock
marks still evident as I schlep
along cratered, gutted, pulverized...
impassable singular stairway to heaven
resembling bombed roadblock
finds me tethered, suspended,
roped... hanging lock
stock and barrel atop gaping abyss
mull echo chamber,
where sounds of silence tick tock.
beyond earnest vows
and doting promises
our love will last
forever and a day
yet all avid promises
are one day shattered
in spite of best intentions
sometimes I hear its thunder
it’s in the quiver of his voice
the shiver of his nightmares
the shudder in his fearful eyes
the feeling of helplessness
over his body convulsing
inevitable visits to the oncologist
vital treatments and aftershock
unsparing reminders we are not immortal
it’s the pain of growing wings
the price to pay for crossing over
till then…
the promises feel real
every day a gift and blessing
a promise is a promise
in this realm or the next
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on May 31, 2020 for contest THE PROMISE sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
#1
An awful odor arises through a quick developing pea soup fog.
Sounds from nearby crickets and frogs fade as light footsteps draw close,
then stop.
The fog gets thicker, thicker than before. The odor gets worse, more
concentrated. Your now ingesting an evil toxin.
Violently your shoved to the ground from behind, something pierces
your neck.
Evil memories, pictures of death swirl through your mind,
convulsing, as your body begins to turn.
Suddenly all goes still...
You come to, but not like you once were. Something feels different,
your vision is altered, you see only a crimson red. Motor functions
once average feel almost supernatural.
You died,
revived, rise from death.
You've become a dark death dealer.
A new hunger has emerged
Cattle.
You leap,
splurge,
submerge yourself in the
crimson substance,
riding the bloody waves.
uncontrollable,
relentless in your attacks.
Screams of horror
a mass slaughter.
Your alarm rings soft, minutes later it screams in terror....
I'm awake, I'm awake!!!!
You open the curtain
The sun.......
To be continued........
Radioactive fields where golden grain once grew,
magnificent churches, razed right down to the pew,
Kulak farmers starved out, four million of them dead,
free though and expression only lived in your head,
lives destroyed by camps, that archipelago,
how many lives vanished? We’ll probably never know.
Rivers all polluted by bad ideas deployed,
Russia learned it first hand: Socialism Destroys.
Even now in Cuba, the Carribean’s jewel,
people live in chains thanks to Marxist fools.
A country once wealthy off a grand sugar trade,
now drives around in junkers, all left from past age.
People still vanish if they say the wrong words,
so desperate to leave they swim an ocean that churns.
See that island prison and you cannot avoid
the truth of the matter: Socialism Destroys.
Glance to North Korea, if brave enough to see
a stark, ruined nation stripped of most of its trees,
it has a huge hotel in which no one will stay,
and most of its people struggle to eat each day.
Millions of them in camps, millions more try to flee,
you know things are bad when they run to the Chinese!
Despite their media throwing up poor decoys,
all who look still see it: Socialism Destroys.
And poor Venezuela, once rich and on the rise,
now it is convulsing and preparing to die,
so flush with black oil, now the rigs sit quiet,
once fed, now its people face unwanted diet,
female doctors whore out themselves to buy some food,
refugees are running to find some place that’s good.
By economic laws all tyrants are annoyed,
they cannot escape it: Socialism Destroys.
In our own ‘great’ cities we can see the same trend,
a path to poverty, a horrible dead end.
Once great Detroit is now a sad, crumbling pit,
San Francisco’s roads are covered in human sh-t!
Seattle will jail you for drinking form a straw,
Chicago’s a war-zones with little rule of law.
These once proud cities that people used to enjoy
sink into slow decay, Socialism Destroys.
in this your padded cell of silence
you torture me
in your straight jacket of neglect
I writhe
tormented
tried
from the observation window
you look in
cold hearted
indifferent
you take notes
of my descent
from this padded white room of insanity
into hell
you torture me
wanting to break free
I claw
I scream
straight jacket white
now crimson sheened
madness extreme
I fall to the floor
convulsing with the memories
of when your arms
straightjacketed me...
the rocking almost stops
I'm still
you walk into the room
not a sound
silence profound
deepens...deepens
I've no fight left in me
my eyes beg, "Please...
See me! Remember"....
Cold and calculated
you do what you've come to do
I'm waiting
you remove the straight jacket
and expose my nakedness
for a moment you stare
unaware of anything
but that tattoo on my breast
above my heart
You finger it
your name
what a shame!
you're not the same
for a moment
there is a flicker in your eye
a glint of passion
I sigh
and look away
too late
too late
I raise my arms
I straighten my form
"do what you came for"
and you help me into a new straightjacket
pristine white
a sight
a fright!
Not a word spoken
you leave
I bleed
from wounds not healed
not cleaned
I lie still
there....there
in the padded cell of your silence
In the straightjacket of your neglect
I lie still...
I
lie
s t i l l
Eileen Manassian
Another of my deleted poems....Abuse has many faces. Though physical, sexual, and verbal abuse are easier to detect, neglect is one that often goes unnoticed. It causes psychological trauma, and at times, death. We read stories of children dying because their parents were too busy to feed them. There is also, the neglect of silence.
I’m suffocating… convulsing…
The walls are closing in
I’m feel trapped… profusely sweating…
My heart is racing within
Life cheated me,
It preyed on me like a trap door spider
Enticing, inviting
As love’s door opens wider
Then it happened
It bit me; I am paralysed as it sucks me dry
In a relationship from hell
And I don’t know why
I feel claustrophobic… buried alive…
I cannot bear anymore
We stay together as convenience unites
Us in a loveless painful chore
Anxiety impatiently searches my mind for a way out
I’m stifled… hurting…and sad
The reality and clarity
Amplifies it… and that’ bad
I am at the mercy of hopelessness
Now long is a soul suppose to endure such bruising
Of hatred and fighting
And belittling emotional abusing
On spewing wave, our departing ride
Crazed currents crack, an azure slide
Freedom mingles in sea foam seethe
Cobra throat coast gulps river relieve
Estuary entry rests, rushing ruthless
Canoe oar dip downtempo soothe us
Convulsing closing, seen from stern
To mayhem mouth we shan’t return
Silver silt filters salt, lake lap littoral
Ranges ahead etch graduating blues
Drift beside reeds, bird pews hymnal
Harp strum seraphim strike chords
Nacreous nematodes writhe towards
Tiny sun centre lace tutus feverfew
Pirouette pirogue wet on dawn dew
Papery apron snapdragon bonnets
Bloom ten a stem syllable sonnets
Cut log capsule covets its heritage
Forested foothills fix ship wreckage
Fir hands welcome hung hammock
Cosy ocean recoil, mountains titanic
Sixth of November
- upstream -
Underneath all the layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
Of reason and understanding
I smolder
In passion's pleasure bed of red
Paroxysms of pleasure
Emanate from my core
Searing the shroud
Flames of fantasy's feast burn
Yearning I yearn and lie in wait
In my ambuscade
with the relish to ravish ravaging
every fiber
Conceived in the throes of passion
My conception is my perception of life
Woven into my being
I’m prisoner to pleasure monomania
Obsession of desire hysteria
My cacoethes: gratification gratified
Thus, I scintillate sparks
Riding on my satin flares
They captivate your stare
You see me
Feeling the heat of sultry flame
You want to play scorch torch game
So your reach out to touch
Mere kindling in my blazing wake
You quake as I slake your florid fantasy awake
Convulsing in temptation’s torment
You combust to lust
Consummating till consumed
Eliciting my passion flower bloom
In opulent oriental room
You swoon
Exertion exhausted
Gratification’s glory gained
Having tasted my reign
Revived, you leave
Yet…
My image I’ve seared
On your flesh and mind
Branded, you’ll find
Your way back to me
Slave to my passion's decree
You’ll come to me
And I retreat
Enshrouded once more
In virgin layers
Of tradition
Of religion
Of philosophy
of reason and understanding
Biding my time
when sensuality sublime
calls me
to bloom in her red flame
~*~*~*~again~*~*~*~
Eileen Manassian
This is a repost that has over a thousand views. Just trying to remind myself of the glory days. I seem to be unable to write at the moment....and poets can be a strange lot. If you don't post...you're forgotten, at least by most. The feeding frenzy is for words..and if you're empty, you are neglected. I'm glad I have friends who visit my older works even when I'm not around. I need to cultivate this spirit in my life because I know what it's like not to be visited....