Long Fissures Poems
Long Fissures Poems. Below are the most popular long Fissures by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fissures poems by poem length and keyword.
My head spins as the noise from the crash echoes in my head. I sit up in some kind of terminal with strange trains bound left and right for places I don’t understand.
One is gold and ornate but the trappings are fake with cracks that filagree in its façade the train reminds me of a serpent-like Leviathan.
The next is sliver and clean with white and sliver cravings blue accents and the train looks sleek streamlined like it's from the far-flung future. Bright lights gleam. Chrome.
Is that blood I see dripping from the golden cracks along the tracks. I feel the frost of the sliver train's exhaust. My head swims and lay my head back to let the world catch up.
The terminals lights are harsh here, harder than Fluorescence More brutal than incandescence the building I find myself in, is like no glass and armature skeletal structure I have to seen before. An architecture unknown in my life. On earth or anywhere. I feel the infernos of one and the chill of the other.
In this Terminal were these mechanical beasts are cradled. This terminus stretches into infinity. I see pail figures drifting up and down the platform faces all a blur like failed dreams I have dreamt once before. My eyes focus but the faces don’t, a little chill runs my spine.
I look around the depot, it is staggering. The architect must have been mad or on some mind devastating drugs.
I look to the right the building fades to a brilliant blue sky with regal clouds and a sun low on the horizon but never settings as occasional clouds pass before it shooting glorious rays of light my father call the visions of divinity. I think I see wing shapes fluttering like butterflies, but that can’t be? I rub my eyes nothing changes.
To the left, I look to see a dark horizon with thunderheads miles high of endlessly thunderstorms churning and crimson and violet lightning lancing the rim of a cityscape on fire. Dark industries tower and burn. A jagged broken land of fissures like rough-cut skin and bleeding lava, belching smoke. The worse nightmare of a demented god.
I stand lost in my own translation. I fell the screams of a car crash echoing, the rubber screeching, burning; in my head like a lingering bad dream. Fading in my inner mind's eye. I am forgetting the time. I must go. I feel I should go but I stand there for a while.
The taste of bile treads my thoughts,
Unwillingly my feet must now follow,
Source of inspiration guide,
Restore the signal fires now long lost,
Set beyond the temporal,
A path impassable by mortals,
The stairs of separation,
I must recount lest others falter,
Every sin a means, an end,
To each soul lead only by itself,
Counterfeiting perfection,
The usurpers, scoffers are now debased,
Anger above unrestrained,
Bereft of a target consumes self,
The famed fountains of knowledge,
Once fresh, soon descend to stagnant seas,
But only the sealed can see,
That for which they wait so patiently,
Bodies removed of the grave,
At attention stand upon their stones,
There encrypted, engraved,
Each history of self-enslavement,
Inheriting this decay,
A way in fissures fraught with danger,
Through the ravenous creatures,
Enthralled by the gravity of dust,
The ground to lie forever,
Fallow for jubilees once ignored,
Rising embers, never souls,
Seeking moisture, extinguishing both,
Lemmings to the precipice,
So did they rush only to accuse,
Perjuring with every word,
As fleeing reptiles forsake their tales,
Our course like a viper’s coils,
Round the kingdoms of brewing venom,
To behold the sepulcher,
We would visit the ten forsaken,
Follow the funeral march,
To find the center of the circle,
Like a town built on water,
Pitched footings yet ever eroding,
Their footsteps marking cadence,
Unending chimes of doom impending,
Self and place once separate,
Consummate here in actions devoid,
Those who were lowered by pride,
Moldering as risen ash returned,
Searching for what they know not,
To be entangled by serpents’ lies,
Fevered visions of the damned,
Lusting for the flesh of the living,
Soon to join the first fallen,
Trapped by their own perceived gravity,
The mass of death attracting,
The corruption of its own kindred,
Swaying the freedom of wills,
Tempting the words of the messenger,
We follow the Fisherman,
Whose breach left Hell lurching in its wake,
From the cavernous shadows,
We now turned toward the beckoning light,
Having fathomed the darkness,
To find its depth wanton and wanting,
Grieved, we left them to the night,
Dead ears hear neither thief, gate, nor keys,
Empty perceptions fall short,
He that protects, Justice is His name
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra lines,
slick on high street asphalt,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp under primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, asphalt—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh layers.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than tarmac—
onto takeaway windowpanes, footpaths, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
emotion disciples,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
decorating decline as if it were fate.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Private bleeding edges,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colors torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in asphalt,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
* A bit of sci-fi what-if?, about a lone man on Ganymede, witnessing the destruction of Io by the natural forces of Jupiter *
~
I knelt amidst the mountain's rise
beneath the weeping opal skies
there to measure Io's swoon
the envy of each lesser moon
trembling like a gold doubloon
(heaven's tinged and gilded prize)
great Jupiter, the Lord of All
filled the sky with amber pall
one reddened eye to consecrate
the anguish of dear Io's fate
years too soon, but eons late
shaking with a haggard wrawl
Io, once resigned its doom
yet, an orb of ravished bloom
(spurned as Zeus' paramour)
shuddered to its carnal core
wept, to mark Europa's door
the threshold to its fiery tomb
I, stood lone on Ganymede
minding Io's breaching bleed
as fissures split its relic face
a mocking veil of Guipure lace
ceding ripe, its fall from grace
author of such caustic screed
Europa, in her jealous bend
paid scant mind to Io's rend
jaundiced of Callisto's bough
negligent, would disavow
keen to hide her withered brow
skirting Jove to thus attend
in their haste to swift, depart
sundered Io's weary heart
forces much too fierce to shun
imploring mercy, gaining none
confident her time was done
rattled death, then broke apart
as mine, the only sentient eyes
attesting Io's bright demise
not in want of tears to shed
spirit harrowed deep with dread
felt some tribute should be said
but managed only muted cries
it wrought such horrid irony
that Io's witness fell to me
a spurious and tragic fate
for I, at best, was second-rate
at physics AND as potentate
and seemed such grand calamity
and yet ...
blessed was I by honor, deep
that my eyes were there to weep
thus, I vowed in prayer to write
the awful beauty of that sight
Io's death throes, bursting bright!
Lord Zeus' lover ... laid to sleep.
(the promise that ... I hereby keep)
( photograph of Jupiter, Io and Ganymede by Marco Lorenzi, August 25, 2020 )
It seems my heartbeat is still shuddering
my skin is still muttering little flickers of breathing
here, sit down, try to relax
hold a second in hand and let the time tick by
though time exists not and it's the anxiety filling up the air
grabbing me by the collar and whispering every single threat
it can muster at me
What did I do so wrong
Mothra, why did the villains at war decide to clip your wings
and leave me in this fright of a fight for my life on my own
How did this come about
a question to hang, suspended in the pouring rain
as I look up to the sky, my face turned upward in a flash of pain
as the horrid beauty tore through the clouds before my eyes
so I took to the pavement, a gallant steed to get to the nearest place of safety
If only I weren't so afraid of things bigger than me
if only I weren't so timid to tame these metal beasts immune to me
I wouldn't be in this mess
I wouldn't be so afraid I'd lose my head resting upon my neck
but I'm so terrified
It looks like the heavens and angels are locked in a fire fight
as cracks the clouds resemble firecracker fissures upon the ground
though they make little sound
all the more haunting, all the more frightening
It takes all I am not to cower in a room and wait for one more hour to pass before I make my move
Until I deem it safe for me to reside, to keep walking in stride to my destination so I can abide by my rules and perform my duties
I feel so childish
The people around me are all calm
the people around me carry on as usual
the people around me act as nothing is going on like this is normal
No, rain is the normal occupant in this region
no, rain and wind are natural, no sign of disaster
no, rain, wind, these gray clouds are easy to bear
but how can you sit still, relax and sip your coffee
while above you, the clashing of swords in this heavenly war threatens to tear our atmosphere
is what I would say if I wasn't trying to plot and plan my escape
counting seconds before flashes, all in three's is when the clashes begin
I try to unravel my fist full of promises, hoping so heavily to not be wrapped up in bandages from burns from a bolt
Zeus was hurling across the sky
I
Am
Terrified
Looking through frosted glass of windows' sorrowed pain I who
Reflects upon the frozen condensation in the shelter of my mind
Delight that there are crystals on the panel which refract the joy
On the grace bestowed upon me by hindsight observation glare
I do not always have to see what takes place behind the screen of
Time and reason well beyond my grasp and am contained within
The wind brushes against the frame outside and yet holds firm
Its paint has flaked but still reveals the layers of abundant paint
Where coats of varnish cover ageing primers glossing over fissures
Hinges are in need of rust converter and some lubricant although
A bit of grinding jambs on closure reminds me that I hear the sound
That reaches feelings and emotions when my moods begin to jar
I marvel at the crack that gives a certain kind of resilient contours
Which shaped my seasoned soul and tested skills and renovation
So far eluded the need for triple glazing double vision and repair
A spider though renewed its work and spun a web from musky curtains
To shutters up and down and weaved a fragile net quite unperturbed
Flies have lost their battle and I am grateful that I have not been caught
There was temptation to wipe the slate and surface clean and polish
Instead I take crayons out of the box and scribble on adjoining walls
I watch the canvass unfold and listen to the sound of scripted passion
Very soon what is called graffiti or artistic pleasure gives an easy glimpse
Into my heart soul and innermost desires careful not to hold my breath
Keeps some distance though because my exhalation could disturb the scene
Dusk settles quickly and I pull up my socks and wrap up in a knitted blanket
Put another log on the fire to kindle warmth and thoughts among the cold
The candle on the mantlepiece flickers kindly and grants a soft glow evermore
Looking through a frosted glass enhances rather than obscures all of my senses
Gives me the precious freedom to decide which side I'm on when evening falls
Now I can smell the crispy touch and taste of verglas and look out for silence
31st March 2020
Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, three precious ideals, blinded by the darkness of xenophobia.
The Republic, democracy and human rights are the pillars of a just society, but in the depths of Marianne, their fragility reminds us that nothing can be taken for granted.
Perhaps it will be necessary to decapitate a few heads again on the Place de la Concorde, so that the age-old splendor of revolutionary France can be reborn from its ashes.
Foreigners are constantly discriminated against and treated like cattle, their dignity trampled underfoot.
Illegal immigrants, without a residence permit, live in promiscuity, seeking refuge in a nation that rejects them.
The homeless proletarians, scattered in the streets of the homeland of human rights, are proof that equality is slow to become a reality for all.
Stigmatize Africans by systematically associating them with delinquency and drug trafficking,
It is to ignore the segregationist policies, applied in disadvantaged suburbs,
It is choosing to look elsewhere, faced with the cruelty of France's criminal shenanigans in Africa.
Racists, racialists and nationalist supremacists propagate toxic ideologies that divide rather than unite, creating deep fissures in a France with a legacy of slavery and colonialism.
Negrophobic xenophobes are chained to hatred and intolerance, they despise the salutary values ??of inclusion and the riches of diversity.
Enlightened pan-Africanist sub-Saharan Africans carry a vision of solidarity and continental unity, which advocates the search for the realization of Africa's potential.
Terrorism, capitalism and globalism form an explosive cocktail that disrupts the balance of the contemporary world.
Patriotic fascists, racialist stereotypes and colonial reflexes are infringements which hinder the evolution towards a community attached to egalitarian principles.
Under the lights of the slave trade, amnesia is a medicine for all those who want to forget the past and the horrors of the dark pages of the lugubrious history of sweet France.
The Code Noir gave rise to the transatlantic slave trade, and the Code of the Indigenous was the foundation on which colonization rested.
When they pleasure powered down to rest,
their twin-engine heart was beating still
at the arterial warp speed of galactic love
With the endorphin catalyst fuel shutdown,
the rocket passion blast
was nearing impulse horizontal inertia
The space mariner woman at the bed starboard helm,
told her right-hand man navigating
to turn the hip thrusters off
They were entering the nebulous
mind-meld zone
A mysterious space-time place,
where the soul pulsar gravitational curvature
formed a time slip-knot:
A bonding phenomenon where time slip not
The captain of this supernova class starship,
guided the navigator’s empath thoughts
with her sparkling, ruby-coated lips
Giving moaning, non-verbal commands telepathically
Alerting him where the next neutrino ******
micro-particles would hit at multiple vulnerable spots
Opening ecstasy fissures in the epidermal hull skin
As other asteroidal pelvic disruptions
made the body-shaped ship merge force-field shudder
The time slip-knot
was a quantum quirk realm of hot
dilithium electromagnetic loving
They were caught in the invisible force
of two strong gender poles of attraction ...
causing time to slip not
The stars were frozen into place
like a crystalline solar plasma lake,
due to the time slip-knot
The dimension where perfunctory
social thermodynamic physics were forgot
The fastest stream of consciousness
slowed to a virtual excitation phase shift halt ...
Reversing the anticipated climax ecliptic slingshot,
lovemaking vibrations moved with stilled thought velocity —
Reaching the outer limits where time slip not
The starship enters into a centripetal vortex of sweat,
plunging into the black hole of no biochemical regret
Coming out on the other side
of the molecular maelstrom kinetic frenzy
Solar sailing thru the null pain void,
on serene serotonin waves of the deep-space emotional sea
Charting the light-years of joy ahead,
flight destination: twin planets X’ura and N’gora,
the charming, AI computer voice said
Retreating into their co-joined cushioned pod,
they rode the erotic cosmic journey out
in suspended romantic animation —
Face to face
Of the created lot, Am the meandering one,
A mass of battling red,
Am always on a steady diet
Ever since the mothers bred.
Chemicals galore in profound reacts
When devils dare to tread,
The flames crack like the daring sun
And cells suffer a wreck.
Parts are fed with signals released,
Castles on the air are built,
Images form with colors bright
Traces of the past are sealed.
Departments of thought rise from Me,
I am read in books.
Creation emerges from the mind and senses
Yet asylums flourish with crooks.
Messages I gather from the senses five---
Are sent in a light year’s way.
Memory thrives in my very core,
I’m a keyboard away.
They reason Me out as the created best,
And nourish My sphere’s layers.
They ordain rules to protect my case,
From the dangers that strike their fares.
The universe sparks in the subterranean domain.
The designs of law are etched,
Loss and gain share moments across-
And sacrifice tarry the rest.
Born am I in labored love.
And extend Myself to the south
Slowly shape ‘neath the groves of dark
I have no head no mouth.
I’m the centre of all that is,
And all that’s yet to come,
Read me by the lines I stretch,
And Newton and Eliot become.
The glossary of my veins if well memorized,
Will dissolve the distance untread,
The fabric of my pattern if well understood
Will gratitude in your self portray.
I carve a niche in the business world,
While the media rocks with tunes,
I reckon the ravaging bravehearts
While in their solitude they happily muse.
The creative urge from my marriage with Heart
Has the world in the throes of death
The globe breathes in the arms of Lust
And clones of mine are traced.
I suffer the mind’s wrath unruled
In shapes and regions asunder,
Toxins corrode my nervous terrain,
And dig my fissures with thunder.
Sanity suffers numerous threats
Barring messages to be sent,
Customs perish in love and hate,
While I in my shock beheld---
A world of chaos that origins from me,
Yet I, a unified whole,
Wait and watch the generations that pass
With music and promise in store.
****************************************
It is night yet in the West
and the planes land between listlessly burning tarmac lamps
stealthy fingers scurrying through diadems of neons halogens and amber
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The cowherds’ bare blistered feet already trample yesterday’s dust into mud
and cartwheels strain in crusted fissures where rains fell only once or twice
while dreams fester in cosy centrally-heated silken beds in luxury flats
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Tomorrow is yesteryear’s planned strikes
buses trains taxis office machines lie soundlessly asleep
and will not wake until the battle over psychic comfort comes to an end
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
For You there is no respite no pause
no tea-breaks with cheese biscuits or croissants
there’s only the last container to crane over the dock in unpaid overtime
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Your eyes will hurt in the twilight’s hazy glimmer
no time to brush your teeth nor shave in hot and cold running water
nor the right to flush a toilet nor heedlessly course through in cosy tubes to work
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The sirens rave through boulevards in broad night-light
rushing hypertensic cardiac cases from their delight-full beds
cholestrol and diabetic cane sugar within reach of every child in supermarkets
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Let those who succeeded their former masters
sip their sweet sweatless porto before the hors-d’oeuvres
and flap their tabliers hiding their secret shame under cabalistic arms
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Wake! there’s little time left for your own bickering differences to fester
the dawn signals the tasks that lie ahead unfinished
and the carrion hunters trained in their old master’s image club together
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 2)