Long Disturbingly Poems
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This was before they were banned
From overhead storage.
Amazing how one Durian can clog
So many confined bobbing heads.
A stomach turning air turbulence
Is yet more desirable than
That choking miasma of emissions
Which waft from their pulpy substance.
In foreign parts beer is not quaffed
While consuming Its flesh.
No one says why.
I do say however
For it is disturbingly wonderful
to glug while munching
That earthy reek.
To gormandize upon
The fungal billowing
Of its noisome meatiness,
Is an experience only
The reckless may speak of.
The creamy white meat
Around the large pithy seed-eggs
Beguiles the mouth to suck
And pillage its pale treasures.
While the cold beer
Both numbs and shocks
a cringing brain.
I have found it blows the mind
Yet leaves only the stench
Of a gluttonous well-being
That permeates through
Every orifice.
Those unused to the potency
Of being alone with a ripe Durian
Should not fly or be ill prepared.
For even when sealed in cargo
The funk of the fruit stuns and stupefies.
Fellow passengers
Demanding parachutes
High above over the Indian ocean
Have been known to renounce
Their white privilege
Or fall to their knees in prayer
Hoping against hope
That ventilating masks
Will drop into the contaminated cabin.
Naturally, there is no escape
For even when they disembark,
Cabs will not carry them,
And all will shun even the shadow
Of a Durian
Once its odor has latched onto
Your trembling soul.
Part 3 of ? in an unfolding Denizens series
Spring came; Penelope left with a company,
bodyguard, chambermaid, there at her side.
Ten days of travel now lay there before them:
the passage maintained well, the way open, wide.
For six days, the journey was most uneventful.
Then the air thickened, felt heavy to breathe.
When they made camp in the moonlight at nightfall, the
sounds of the forest disturbingly seethed.
Guards were dispatched all around the perimeter;
sentries, no issue, for nobody slept.
Then, in the morning, dim, gray and quite overcast,
what was before them was hard to accept.
Though none could prove it, the clearing felt smaller, and
there was no evidence forward or back;
of the trail they had been traveling eastward on:
briars and brambles now, thorny and black.
Two of the guard stepped up, withdrew their broadswords and
labored to cut a way farther ahead;
others were scavenging downed trees and branches to
throw on the bonfire to hold back the dread.
As to what happened next, none could be certain. One
moment, our two knights still hacked a way clear.
Then, though none saw it, there was a loud rustling, and
muffled cries trailing, as though far from here.
For a brief moment, before their way closed back in,
wizened and old, a man leaned on his staff,
then like a panther, he bounded off, crying out
like some strange bird: a maniacal laugh.
With little fanfare, the forest just swallowed them,
Tilted its head back and opened its maw.
Cat-like, a beast sprang forth, straight at Penelope;
That was the last thing the rest of them saw.
(To be continued)
part 1: https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/denizens_prologue_-_1_1445556
part 2: https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/denizens_beginnings_-_2_1445687
He could take what most found, in the time of that
Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any
Pleasing or greatly passionate way,
And, after immersing it into low, blue flame,
Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as
If it were but a whitened molten lump when
Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained
Deep within some smith's insatiable forge;
Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms
Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks;
Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand,
The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes --
High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal;
And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately
To his task, shaping something new and
Disturbingly strange...
While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those
Unremarkable fields,
An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill
Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of
Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an
Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h
Before it slunk back into the lengthening
Shadows of a withering age.
I was young at age but old enough to recognize cruelty
My eyes watered and my tummy ached
I was scared and embarrassed
With wet trousers my tiny thin legs- Shaked
I had raised my hand to go to the john
But my fourth-grade teacher, whom I'll never forget
She wouldn't let me go, why- I don't know?
But I know it was her fault, that I was soaking wet
The kids in my classroom stared at me shaking
Watching me crying, my eyes dripping water
Who will she not let go next?
The boy who sat next to me- or somebody's daughter
My mother, may she rest in peace
Rushed to the school to bring me some dry clothes
She spoke to the principle in a fiery rage
That's when all hell broke out, and a firing arose
That was the last time I saw that mean teacher
Never again would she teach in that school
I hope that she learned a good lesson in life
It's not very nice to be disturbingly cruel
Is darkness transparent?
Painted for all who see... black
Perhaps we are irrelevant
That of needed light for we who lack
Perhaps I can see the dark for what it is
A colour unnoticed and discarded carelessly
A greater shade with a potential to believe
Might I only believe unanimously?
Darkness as black as any eye can see
Covered yet protected, shielded yet afraid
Blackness as dark where anyone can be
Disturbingly easy to somewhat contemplate
Do you hide amongst its namely shadows?
Or did you stand proud in absolution?
This darken path unseen... have you tried to follow?
Or have you the need for light for a solution?
An ungodly world unnoticeably goes unlearn
A probable balance as perhaps an aspect
Are we... transparent?
Painted for all who’ll see... black?
Yesterday I walked down the stairs
and found myself going within
the clubhouse of a league of folk,
who strive daily for excellence.
Our membership is rather rarefied
and reserved only for those
who find their voice in epic poems,
instead of tired, prosaic prose.
Of course, its not really a clubhouse,
since there are only five of us,
it’s actually Dan’s mom’s basement
where we hide from the world above.
And Dan’s not so much an epic man,
he’s never broken two hundred lines,
but he always keeps the beer fridge full,
and knows how to have a good time.
Then there’s Sandy, our only girl,
she’s excessively proud of that,
and though it’s stereotype to say it,
she’s disturbingly fond of her cats.
I suppose that there are worse things,
and she writes with practiced flow,
but I can’t take another feline ode
that runs for ten freakin’ cantos!
There’s also Jack, our newest pal,
known far and wide on the internet,
mostly as a troll, not as a writer
for he has posted no verse yet.
But I’ve seen his work, it’s really good
and would be even better to read
if his characters didn’t constantly bang…
a girlfriend is what he needs.
Then there’s Rodney, our best success,
who self-published his epic last fall,
a rousing tale of Gods and Titans,
it’s sold twelve copies, all-in-all.
Still he’s confident of his future,
and spends most days locked in his room,
pumping our quatrains for his next work,
a poetic history of visiting the moon.
And then there’s me, you narrator,
a glutton for more punishment,
I keep rhyming even thought I know
there’s no dollars coming, or cents.
But in this room we’re strutting kings,
and the world but illiterate clods,
we strive nobly to keep tradition alive…
…thank God that I have a day job.
Leave me alone please, the disturbingly patient but truly sick woman said.
Every time she was mysteriously interrupted, she was brought out of bed.
After the six interruption, she began to get a bit mad and mean.
Very seldom had any of us experienced her temper seldom seen.
Everyone except her significant other should have known she meant business.
Maybe it is because he wanted attention, but he was her nemesis.
Every time she was interrupted, she began to get more and more wild.
Always by the same look-at-me-now-man, he was like a four-year-old child.
Leave me alone, please, she asked nicely, and sweetly time and again.
Only he was so needy that he kept irritatingly rushing in.
Need I let you know he is no longer bother her another minute?
Even a sweet woman like her knows what to do when she reaches her limit.
Queen Gaia
hopes to more resiliently return
to marijuana grazing meadows,
rather than supporting
worn-out tobacco and oil
industrial fields.
That's what LaoTsu breathed
industrious mountains in Yang,
valley nurtured rivers flowing out
WinWin
baptismal EarthWomb YinYin.
Whatever could that mean?
Rumor is,
about those sonnets?
Written transformed
by SolarYang outside enlightenment,
and nondual endarkenment,
to his liberated left feels West,
And incensed by EarthSoul THC
breathed in conservatively right feels Eastern
innocent dawn
from nearby smoking pot.
Ummm...
I thought there was something ***** about him.
Disturbingly paradoxical.
Always on chaotic fences
about what's natural ecology
and what's spiritual theology,
mixing them multiculturally
and metaphysically up
and down
and across rivers
of bilaterally flowing time.
All those YangLife PositivEnergy therapeutic restorations
with Yin WinWin
notnot ZeroZone Resonance,
harmonic spiraling octaves
of double-fractal regenerative
DNA with RNA flow,
indeed.
Indeed.
Sounds a bit more like LeftBrain dominant
Tipping Pointed Bucky Fuller
than RightBrain dominant
LaoTzu
and his NorthernLIght sonnets
wu-wei
in-between
poetic licenses.
So you think the whole THC thing
is a cosmic MotherGaia hoax?
But not so much a paranoid conspiracy theory
about what some prayed
was higher divine
RightBrain deep listening inspiration.
I think
and feel
health would be Earth's highest
and best
ZeroZone Wealth
secular ecological--Left
sacred theological--Right
Restorative Ego/Anthro/Eco Therapeutic
WinWin Resilient PolyCultural Outcomes.
I think writing outside,
compared to inside,
feels narrative
with my skinpores open,
my NorthernLight ears able to hear
most everything worthy of listening to
right WiseElder healthy now.
My nose able to smell EarthSoul wealthy fragrances.
My eyes able to see
what more nutrition importantly
unveils PositivEnergy Democracy
behind
and beyond
this Left to Right handwritten notebook
static
stale Elitist page.
Prayer talks
reflective love passion
Meditation walks
responsive life pleasure
Prayer is meditation
as cognitive life images intuitive love
Sometimes reduced to words
attempting to define
purposeful reality
Sometimes induced without awkward words
refining organic life's creation
of meaningful relationships
Reforming
disorganizing death's abortion
of meaningless non-relationship.
Reducing inductive meditations
to produce deductive reflections
may lead to seductive mystic paradox
Redacting
distracting
retraction
The silent Muse
may deeply feel
desecrating death's inevitable cause
remains organic life
While the prayerful Sage
may profoundly believe
organic life's unavoidable effect
portends desecrating death.
Life's absence
does not always provoke beating hearts
to grow fonder
Yet love's presence
is always necessary,
and yet insufficient,
to avoid life's organic losses.
Natural life's spiritual love
feels like something healthier
than unnatural death's desecrating lovelessness.
If "lovelessness" is not a proper prayerful word,
could this be because loveless meditations
remain so relentlessly still
abortively unspoken,
Earth life's integrity denied?
Sage prayers acknowledge personal
and environmental
trauma
causing disturbingly dissonant effects
while
Meditating muses recognize longer-term personal
and climate-aborting political
silencing systems
of deadly desecrating disgrace.
So too,
we may sagely anticipate personal redemptive
blessed events
and also amusing longer-term environmental
and deeper bred political
salvific climate wealth systems
loving sacred living grace.
Out of hell’s breath the Devil’s Coachman comes and turns
around the tale to woe twists as the world creeps backwards
underneath the clay slithering sacrificial savagery begins
Ghastly ghostly spectres watch on with soulless glee
under laid this icy moon the toxic evil venom spews
within hideous precision it claw’s innocent victims prey
Fiercely gnashing jaws instinctively in this fiendish predator of night shades
dark striking off balance this stead of hell delivers his deadliest of blows
disturbingly the pungent smell permeates this surrounding sphere
Paralyzing unwary sufferers arching like a scorpion ready to strike
acrimony spreads stealthily through the shadowy invasion within the beast’s bite
suffering of hades destructive force inflicts a prelude to the apparitions
Awakening within this lair of madness an unsuspecting sacrifice
blinding under tombstones creeping slowly chill’s out
through one veil of darkened soil a nocturnal predator comes to feed
Liquefying resistant victim within the glaze of ebony eyes
mystic powers claiming to be magic crushing the core of Eve’s apple
emerging covered with its sclerotized plates the Coachman devours
Repast of putrid skin the last victim lies rotten
one captured soul sinks into the river of Acheron
final reward for the unwitting wounded prey
Begins eternal downward descent
drawn up and treasured by this hungry decedent of a Rove
carried away into hidden hollows of the dead roaring
Fiercely jealous of it’s captive trophy
sector’s remain vigilant to guard such treasured stored
this Coachman’s rightly domain claims a legion to an underworld
The deepest and darkest secrets expelled unrighteous
this scarabaeus reaper as black inside with a rapier blade and sickle
condemned are the two faced between thee jaws of this deadly fiend locked on
A co-written piece by Liam Mcdaid & Donna Loughman