Long Ink black Poems
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Deep within the world so modern,
Lies a hidden road not trodden,
That states the obvious truth be told,
Printed in ink black and bold,
That lost in worlds of ecstasy,
Trapped in snares of misery,
That wars the rumors be told they sneered,
Now not alive a bray a’bird,
Gone are thoughts that thinketh straight,
And now to turn back it's O’so late,
Truth is gone, and truths be’come,
Lies run wild thru’ Urb and slum,
Prove me wrong this not happen,
But wrong they are yet shamelessly clappin’,
All so jolly good way they are,
From the Truth they stay afar,
Given in to the delusions be,
These strange worlds move so surreally,
That eats place a first a crown,
And Wannabe’s laze and fuss arroun’,
Talks about this and that and all that’s good,
Ney earn their money and cry for food,
When not given they stage a protest,
What they think is unjust!
But truth be told they sloth all day,
Sit around and laze away,
Their youths burnt dry, so willfully done,
When the brave reproaches them, they rant and away they run,
Sad to see, this is our reality,
Where all but’s none have time for thee,
Where life’s no respect and death appraise,
No wonder! They fit in with Artemis’ ways,
Tis’ are days of Noah’s time,
Filled with false hate and unwanted slime,
The hot is cold and the cold is hot,
They should be left to these ways to rot,
For no amount of reproach or preaching change they,
They want to remain that way,
So, let it be and move on in life,
Find a place to settle, build a home with your wife,
But when they come, O’Brave men of life,
To scandal your family and toss the knife,
Don’t debate them in anyway by words,
Take up your weapon and massacre they featherless birds,
Let them cry foul, whine and weep,
For they are into misery so deep, even the good that they do is evil so steep,
Let it be, let it be and protect your families,
From these so called ‘Justice Warriors of all the Sissies.’
What is well, when men of old just a teen,
Went to war for freedom’s freeing,
No scandal was found heard, no loose talk in the winds,
They wives waited for them, rather than sinned!
But if now one were off, to fight for justice cause,
In their absence does much spend, party’s all that splend.
Not all I say that way be done but are true, true indeed to none,
Tis’ a tragedy with my pen and ink I write and run.
It stood there
looking empty and old,
neglected and sad
with windows shuttered,
covered in shadow
both day and night,
hovered over
by trees whose branches
disguised the house
and made it seem
a part of the
overgrown landscape,
completely surrounding it,
keeping strangers and unawares
at bay.
It stood there
shrinking from the present
almost lifeless,
a house with no soul
no face, no breath,
as if it started out as a ruin
and was determined
to remain so for all time,
unwanted, unkempt,
shunned by passersby,
its roof looking tortured
its doors uncertain
as to whether they opened at all
and no one knew
and no one asked.
It stood there
talking to itself
in a silent conversation
that no one heard,
talking about things
that used to be
as though the Past was in the Now
and the Now belonged to the Past,
and who would dare
to knock on its doors
or tap on its windows
to see if anyone would answer
or show their presence
to the world outside,
a world gone by.
I stood there
on many a night
along the side of the road
just endlessly peering
at this lonely old place
wondering, waiting
for a light inside
to be turned on
at the same appointed time
emanating from behind
heavy and yellowed lace curtains
that looked like tattered spider webs
in only one crooked window
and one window only
hung with spidery lace.
I stood there
on those moonlit nights
bewitched by this house
listening to calls
and breaths of wild things
that roamed all around me
under ink-black star-filled skies,
but no light from moon nor star
could illumine
this clapboard-covered curio
from another day and age
concealed by branches, vines
and bramble,
bushes and nettles
and mystery.
I stood there
wondering
who turned on that only light,
who roamed the house by night
who walked its tilted floors
who locked its uncertain doors
who hung the curtains of lace
who built this unsettling place
who called this abode their home
and how many hallways would they roam
and are there secrets that lived inside
and what was the bramble trying to hide,
was there anything for it to reveal
anything for it to tell
this house haunted that knew me so well?
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
A welcome sight the lights ahead - like misty globules on ink black foam
The billboard elicits a sense of foreboding - Welcome to the Midnight Bazaar
A lack luster moon adds to the mystery – nervously I enter to ask my way home
A familiar song plays in the somewhere, the name eludes me - how bizarre
Somberly dressed people scurry past- eyes focused on illuminated screens
Refusing contact, shoving past rudely as I ask where this place would be
One of them in riddles tells me - this is home - the place to be it seems
I wonder if the scales of reality have tipped in favor of insanity
A stall arouses my curiosity and I look as a butcher of sorts places
Bleeding hearts getting desired effect - starts a pushing jostling frenzy
Uninterested in the clowns on stilts with their painted morbid faces
Children walk with sullen looks - expressionless eyes that fail to see
Crowds clamor to buy sea food - how absurd - especially as a smell of decay prevails
Fresh produce on sale with dyed color bleeding and truffles of mud is there something amiss
A man wanders around with passports on offer - Buy yourself a Life - his sign displays
Relief at last - a stall with books and maps – here is my escape from this tainted Abyss
This God forsaken place is not where I wish to stay
And I must strive to leave it before the light of day
An exorbitant sum I pay eager to escape his cloying breath, his black toothed smile
A commotion at the far end - some sort of bidding - curiously I venture courage giving me wings
A sign proclaims ‘Souls For Sale’- in rage I scream ‘you cannot sell souls - This is so Vile ‘
Dark soulless eyes in chalk white faces – Bore right through me – Look right through me
I run screaming, falling, clawing the map that shows all roads lead back to this Hell - I scream
Waking myself - knowing the name of that song still in my head - Shaking from this macabre dream
Footnote:
This was not meant to be a pretty poem. It exaggerates the state of a world that has seemingly lost its focus and empathy. Let's not let this happen
Take a bit of Dean Kontz, Stephen King and the unnatural things going on with food enhancements and you have the stage set for a macabre nightmare!
Ache—
Let it sink
Deep
With quiet and unfathomable rage, every word shown
Black ink, black intent,
Yeah, she was done
The black nail polish on her nails chipping
Stupid, cheap crap…
The color black burned through her soul,
Giving her slight satisfaction in her furious state of mind
Always angry
Always sad, and hollow
She wanted desperately to get back at the wretch
Because of him, she wished she never existed
Lying there cold,
Stark-naked on the bathroom floor…
Standing outside the chipped, wooden door
He wanted more
Waiting to feel her flesh upon his own
The demon…
The monster…
You’ve heard the tale
It’s nothing new
Hearing him breath heavily,
Listening, his ears pounding with his heart
A beast awaiting his prey
Cornering her, despairing her
Nose pouring forth snot and blood
He had hit her very hard,
And there was surely more to come
But she had to resist the monster.
She just had to
Glancing at the boarded window in agony and despair,
No one would ever know and there was no one to tell
He’s a good man…
It’s her who’s the bad one
God is mad at her…not him
It’s always that way
Her fists slammed on her desk
After it all, he was coming back for her
She kept telling herself he was going to forget
He was going to leave her alone,
But he soon would be back for more,
Just like the old days
He didn’t give a damn about the ache she endures every day of her miserable life
In a frenzied fury,
She tore up the paper with the short poem on it
He would never feel the ache…
It would never seep through his marrow
Her phone rang loudly, startling her
She let it ring three times and then begrudgingly answered it.
“What?” She spat, clenching her teeth in irritation.
“It’s Mr. Rickman. We are ready to see you in.”
She gulped. The time was upon her. “Now?”
“Yes, of course. Everything’s going to be alright”
She hung up the phone.
She put on her darkest of shirts
She slipped on her black, studded sweater and her spiked collar
Black boots
Black gloves without the fingers
Black skinny jeans
She wanted EVERYTHING to be black today.
Last night, Lisa, Peter, Leeza and I were in her father’s 50th floor study watching New York City. It’s a corner room with glass walls from floor to ceiling. He likes to watch the city himself and has a small, 5 seat sectional couch facing the view.
The left wall window looks across Hell’s Kitchen to exactly where Sully Sullenberger crash landed flight 1549 in the Hudson river (it was 3:31 pm and no one was home). The right window overlooks Central Park and Upper Manhattan. Lincoln Center, almost dead center of the corner, looks like part of a toy train-set.
The view is a wheeling, ever changing and mesmerizing panorama. Well lit ships, barges and boats move glacially against the ink black Hudson. Jets in expressway-like holding patterns (Newark Liberty, and Teterboro airports left window - LaGuardia, right window) blink, like waving angels, helicopters buzz below like insects and the traffic, far, far below, forms a living chain of red and white lights which can erupt with nugatory hues of police blue at any moment.
While we watch, we’re playing a game of “Would you rather.” It’s a game of situational trade-offs, like “Would you rather listen to the same 10 songs forever or have to watch the same 5 movies forever? Of course, most people say the movies - because they last longer and there would be fewer repeats.
We take turns asking these critical questions - pausing, occasionally, to point out things below.
“Would you rather be in a crowded elevator with a bunch of noisy high school students or pinned in with a bunch of judgemental, middle aged men? The girls chose the students, even though high schoolers can be mean. Peter chose to be with the men.
“Would you rather find your true love or a suitcase with 5 million dollars?” We all chose love.
“Would you rather hike or camp?” Both were unpopular if they involved going to the bathroom outside - which creeps the girls out.
“Would you rather give up your computers or your pets (forever)?” THAT was a stressful one.
.
.
My movies: Clueless, Rushmore, Moonstruck, Shakespeare in love, Dr. Zhivago
The empty page stretches before me, a white blank page with nothing but ink and a pen to
fill its crevices. I pour out my ink-black heart, to stain the paper with use-less words of a fashion and I
know that nothing can hurt me now. My heart is spread far and wide in every word on every page I
write. It can never truly be found and pieced back together. Just like a personality, I am not one but
many. I may look like one but looks can be deceiving. Or have you not figured that out yet. I cannot
help you with whatever it is you are searching for, but maybe what you’re searching for is already
found and what you thought you had is really what is lost. Or maybe it is the other way around. Does
Blood Leave Black Stains Down The Window Panes, Or Have My Ink Covered Finger Tips Left Their
Marks There As Well. No matter, tomorrow’s storm will wash it away with the flood waters that pour
down from heaven. Rain is rolling down my window. Don’t cry. The window, broken, weathered, worn,
mirrors me in ways unimaginable. I will not look at the reflection in the mirrors. I will not gaze through
those unseeing eyes that so happily deceived me. I will not talk with this ill-fit mouth that has so easily
devoted itself to shame. I will only write. And think. My mind is untainted by the black blood that spills
from my fingers. Painting the windows until no sun shines through and no matter how many floods are
sent to repair me they will not show what I am. To you I may look like me. But inside, inside is where
the darkness hides. And the monsters tend to come out at night. They stain my hands black with the
blood they pour out onto the white blank page in front of me, staining the paper with use-less words
that no one will ever see.
The Vatican hides many books, but some stories bleed through stone.
He was Pope Fourteen, God's chosen hand,
A shepherd cloaked in crimson and command.
But beneath the weight of holy crowns,
A man still burns when no one's around.
She was Anna, a Catholic nanny, pure and fair,
With ink-black eyes and Marian prayer.
She sang the hymns with sacred grace—
But bore a storm behind her face.
Each Sunday night, when Rome lay still,
They met below Saint Peter’s will.
A hidden tunnel, cold and deep,
Where secrets crawl and angels weep.
There, among scrolls and serpent dust,
They broke their vows in sacred lust.
He kissed her sins, she moaned his name—
No saint or sinner left the same.
He whispered, “Forgive me, Father, for I have burned,”
She answered, “Then burn again until we learn.”
But fate is cruel to secret flames—
The nanny’s belly grew with shame.
A holy child? A cursed seed?
The Curia watched, and so decreed.
They took the child in robes and rings,
And chanted old unspoken things.
The infant’s cry became the bell—
That tolls for those who sleep in Hell.
A dagger carved from Judas’ breath,
Was kissed and plunged to seal its death.
The Pope knelt down, too numb to scream,
And Anna vanished from the dream.
Now when the bells of midnight toll,
And incense haunts the dome’s black soul,
They say a cry can still be heard—
A baby’s wail. A broken word.
The Pope went blind in both his eyes,
But claimed he now could see the skies.
He walks alone, he speaks to ghosts—
And drinks to shadows more than hosts.
So if you wander Vatican's night,
Beware the door without a light.
Where love and death once made a vow—
And saints still tremble, even now.
You pull me in like a velvet snare,
whisper lies in the midnight air.
Every touch is a loaded gun,
but I can’t stop, no, I won’t run.
Dripping sweet like cyanide,
I taste the death behind your smile.
Tangled tight in your design,
one more hit, just one more time.
Venom kiss, lace my veins,
burning slow but I love the pain.
You’re the fire, I’m the chain,
wrapped around, I can’t escape.
Venom kiss, steal my breath,
you're the fever, I’m the death.
Toxic love, no turning back,
you're the best I've ever had.
Your love’s a noose, but I crave the rope,
choke me slow with a thread of hope.
Every word is a wicked spell,
but I’d follow you straight to hell.
Dripping sweet like cyanide,
I taste the death behind your smile.
Tangled tight in your design,
one more hit, just one more time.
Venom kiss, lace my veins,
burning slow but I love the pain.
You’re the fire, I’m the chain,
wrapped around, I can’t escape.
Venom kiss, steal my breath,
you're the fever, I’m the death.
Toxic love, no turning back,
you're the best I've ever had.
I should run, I should break free,
but you’re the drug that’s killing me.
Ink-black night, your wicked game,
say my name, I’ll stay the same.
Venom kiss, lace my veins,
burning slow but I love the pain.
You’re the fire, I’m the chain,
wrapped around, I can’t escape.
Venom kiss, steal my breath,
you're the fever, I’m the death.
Toxic love, no turning back,
you're the best I've ever had.
Venom kiss… (one more taste)
Venom kiss… (no escape)
A Haunting Waltz
As I recline, wearied, on this eve so dark and dreary,
Whispers in the shadows, tales of Victorian eerie.
The moon, a spectral lantern, spills its ghastly glow on cobblestone streets,
Where specters of yore, in corsets and top hats, discreetly meet.
Beneath flickering gas lamps, secrets deftly concealed,
In murky alleys, truths unfold, a clandestine reveal.
Gloom, thick as velvet, cloaks the halls of this Gothic terrain,
Sorrow and madness entwine in a macabre dance, a haunting refrain.
The ticking clock tolls a mournful chime,
Velvet curtains shiver, echoing a ghostly rhyme.
In the parlor, a specter, veiled in lace,
Dances with memories, a waltz in somber grace.
Haunted whispers, ethereal threads through tapestry and lace,
Betrayals linger, a venomous embrace.
Raven calls echo in the ink-black night,
Tales of sorrow and lost love take ethereal flight.
A portrait on the wall, pallor of despair,
Capturing the essence of a soul laid bare.
In this Gothic Twilight, where shadows conspire,
The heartache of ages, a symphony in the choir.
The sepulchral beauty of the night unfolds,
In corridors of despair, where grim tales are told.
No respite from melancholy, no escape,
As the past entwines with fate's remorseless tape.
So, I recline here, in this realm of the morose,
Where echoes of the past in haunting prose.
In the dark Victorian era, where shadows reign,
A macabre sonnet etched with sorrow's indelible stain.
-Edward
The salt water
baubles washes
gently
upon the jetty sent
from lands distant.
Pushed by a hovering
yellow moon,
sometimes built into
thunderous waves
of hurricanes.
Change comes rapidly
and dangerously
as the sea meets
yesterday coming
back.
It speaks to me and
it does say,
I give no quarter
and furthermore
I ask
for none.
As I stare outward
at the placid waters
I feel heaviness
deep inside my
chest.
The sea has become
humanity to me,
With its powerful
and hushed rage,
not seen before.
Heretofore I have
been persuaded
by wanderlust to
skim the surface,
to walk on by time
without end,
miss nothing that
may be something.
I linger here.
The moon is playing
peek-a-boo,
reflection on the
water seems sad.
Stories are to be
told, perchance
to a much lesser
degree of now.
But
not yet.
Ink-black dark, I
cannot see;
even Luna appears
quite uneasy.
The peaceful lapping
of water
distresses me; I
don't know why.
Devouring soul?
So tranquil you
could hear a
tear drop, or a
salamander fart.
My nose detects an
exotic odor
Arabian sand carried
by wind.
Wind
words.
I squat on the rock
jetty,
look for ghosts;
probe my own.
My intimate séance
annoys
what I have kept
concealed..
I see what I see.
The serene sea is a
patient anomaly,
so serene I fear
there are things
unsaid.
The night bitter
black when moon
hides,
I sense an
oppressing evil
attributed
to dreams.