Long Metallic Poems
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Written: May 31st, 2025, for contest by Kai Michael Neumann
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In the stillness of twilight, shadows sway.
and a delicate craft rests on the shore,
embarking on a perilous, winding path.
Odyssey, its supple rostrum slightly widening
as if attuned to the twilight.
Drifting on a warm breeze, such a leaf,
Its brittle hull swings.
In a katabatic void lies a sliver of moon.
Bright crescent casts eerie glowing lunette.
over the nocturnal landscape.
As fragments of splintered light,
Meteorites streak across the cerulean vault,
leaving behind trails of glowing embers.
A haunting, protracted silence seeps
from the twisted, barren trees.
A slight breeze stirs the zephyr.
evoking a curious sense of déjà vu—
an illuminating, transient bond
With my repressed heart.
And the hardened, smothering cage
It jolts me back to the present.
Broken, overwritten nerves
Sustain high tension,
a permanent low-grade hum
that corrodes my senses;
The caustic, metallic taste of affliction
clings to my mouth, a constant
a nagging presence that resists fading.
Exercises to release it only
seem to weaken its grasp, which is maddening.
awful refrain that still haunts me.
In the wake of that terrible evening,
The broken pieces of our lives are strewn.
reflecting as shards of a funereal mirror,
collective soul.
The memories of that chaotic
cacophonous scene—the fractured glass,
The blood-stained floor
The irreversible point of no return
continue to plague me, a continual
repeating nightmarish specter
invading every waking minute.
There, in the evening silence, colors dance.
A little ship at the coast.
Starts a dangerous, winding road.
Year 1488
Daring to hide it in verses and score,
Mother Shipton predicted her scrolls would not be understood until years after her body’s release.
Read aloud by an educated nephew, almost five decades after they were protected by a family of peace.
She may have been burned at the stake for her predictions of America’s Civil War, simply for being a she.
Her prophesies included horseless carriages, and men’s future unfathomable plans to conquer both the sky and the sea.
Understanding that a metallic monster, would change education, and the menfolk from farms would flee.
Pictures that feel alive – computers, U-tube, I-pads, video and their predecessor – TV?
Mother predicted all this and more. Daring to hide it in verses and score,
Nostradamus had protection of patrons, medical background, sublime.
Mother Shipton knew her predictions she had best write down in decipherable rhyme.
England’s most famous prophetess, born in Norfolk, England in 1488, she dared not share her fire. Prophesized that women would cut their hair short, and wear trousers, practically three hundred years prior.
When I think of her brilliance at hiding her mystical savvy, hiding psychic self in her moods,
Her declaration that “men will live as hogs” makes me smile, predicting processed foods?
London fire seeing before the fact, she knew of the Catholic Church’s fall, the rise of Elizabeth,
Me thinks a comet is coming that will circle the earth for six days, six nights, causing us instant death.
A homely woman, she may have been, but her ideas were sound, as they came right in.
Daring to hide it in verses and score, Prophetess Mother Shipton, forevermore!
you cannot remember white shores of summer
and the metallic taste of the sea on your flanks
and the air opaque with the dazzle of noon
you cannot remember the wine that gleamed like a snake in the sun
and the boats nuzzling the hot pier
and the emphatic simplicity of their message
the urgent peal of the cicada has been quite lost to you
and the sleepy eyes of the horizon late in the day
and the loneliness of the ocean that justifies everything
you cannot remember what the sudden laughter affirmed
nor the startled sweetness of the flowers crushed under your loins
nor the love from which your body drew its pleasure
easily as a child milk from the breast
I
The metallic clunk
of intervals between voices -
cognizant cogs drive fluctuations
like ducks crossing a road.
I tilt away from
the coils of your being,
your sounding.
I see you speaking,
twirling
like a spinning six pence
in the rush of
on-coming traffic.
II
Together, we want
the same chromed leverage.
Knuckles cracked
where handles mash.
Long unused gears crunch
inside flesh filled leather, we
creak and stretch
over old maps.
Pushed against one another,
leaning in, until hinges unclasp,
we ride the hairpins,
spring-loaded instants
cream the road.
A clockwork hallelujah
that all ends in silence.
Illnesses besetting
Parents aging
Chilled waves of anxiety
buffet the shore
Thunderclouds dampening
soil and spirits
Cellos, subdued in minor sonority
play Eleanor Rigby in my mind
Painted ponies gnashing
at their metallic captivity
In February
Health returning
Sandpipers scatter as we approach
Collecting shells
with smiling mother
Children's laughter rains down
on half-filled sand pails
Thundering gales of glee
as they test the frigid ocean
Trumpets dance to the melodic riff
of Good Day, Sunshine
The painted ponies go up and down,
'round and 'round
the brass ring again in sight
In February
On his throne he sits
In armour adorn
The father of Semaj
Who one day will be sworn
This hunter of demons
Of his people he protects
Generations of allegiance
Infinitive elect
All Semaj has learnt
Has been handed down
Through blood lines so strong
One day he'll be crowned
Their story goes back
Many, many centuries ago
When evil was rife
And living was low
Demons and Wizards
Dragons and man
Violence was rife
Take when you can
But this King Kade
The North of Scotland he ruled
His son was destined
He was not to be fooled
On a dark December night
Whilst the castle was asleep
A craft so unknown
Rose from the deep
From out in the Minch
This metallic beast showed
With flashing lights
And a body that glowed
It rode the waves
And came to rest by the shore
An opening appeared
Like a magic door
Three beings stood
Not very different from us
No fear was detected
Had we already been sussed
We welcomed them in
But i knew in my heart
For it was my son they wanted
He was their new start
Our dialogue was strained
Mixing Gaelic with theirs
But our wave lengths were similar
We became distant peers
This was the day
My son Semaj left home
To Cygnus-X1
Where one day he'd be throned
What happened to us?
Well the strong ones travelled
To the Plough beyond
As our past turned to gravel
But our souls remained
Like beacons of light
For if the earth cried for help
My son Semaj, was in sight
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy.php
Ten million years from now when we become mature
When Earth rotates much slower around a faded sun
Turned orange with flares of yellow visible to the eye
People will find true love in their metallic selves
Seven fingers will emerge to manage many tasks
To hold the hands of alien partners from the stars
From the past the moon will have moved on by then
An oval shape in orbit forever traveling with indifference
Beyond our reach and touch in favor of the elliptic distance
Elegant on the horizon, elongated on the dawn
Brains will grow larger over time to think
To form into blue crystal fluid usage machines
Five million years farther into the future to the second
On a Saturday evening in late September at 8:00 pm
Tardigrades will merge with human metallic beings
Deep inside the womb where symbioses matters happen
Evolution allows mankind to orbit about themselves
In the vast design to form a more perfect mechanism
Encrypted for their desired use into the future
An unforgiving sun burns on at the core
Looks down on us no more or less than human
In nature all things take their course
In five million years or more
Note: Tardigrades (water bears) are small, really tiny, actually micro animals with segmented bodies. They are usually water-dwelling creatures but can be found in a myriad of places like Antarctic ice, deep in ocean beds to a depth of 14,000 ft, high up in Himalayas at a height of 20,000 ft, tree barks, moss and more! Virtually indestructible, capable of surviving a direct nuclear bomb blast.
My dear ones, years and accounts have passed since we spoke about the New Man, "Le Horla."
From the midpoint of the Reset cycle, it is known to emerge from the mix of slaves and technology.
Rudolf Steiner knew, the beginning of vaccination, non-foods prepared in the shadows of the times.
The control of the masses through technocracy, a vision of the 1900s when the world was slowly transforming.
Under the influence of drugs, Hitler saw prophetic nightmares, screaming in fear before "Le Horla,"
A fearless and cruel monster, a presence deeply haunting the collective social subconscious.
Poe, in 1840, sensed that autistic presence in crowds frightened by the mysterious inexplicable,
And Bulwer-Lytton, through "The Coming Race," showed us the way to a future full of uncertainties.
I merely connected the threads, for geniuses often reveal the hidden truth in the folds of time.
We lament the lack of empathy, the mimed emotional life in public space, a theater of our days.
"Le Horla" spreads, USR, a symbol of technocratic times, an experiment of the present.
A nano-metallic transhumanist nervous system, beyond which only Zombies can survive.
Zombies, USR members integrated into the 5G network, coordinated by towers watching from the shadows,
Soldiers of an unchosen destiny, in a world led by the deepest and darkest shadows.
Remember the '50s, when the danger wasn't in vaccines but in the hunger and fear that reigned,
Today, technological terror and transhumanists bring us times of darkness and fragments of hope.
The worst satanists lead, and strategic starvation is just the beginning of a story.
Under the command of 5G, group intelligence manifests like drones drawing messages in the sky.
A trans 5G USR member becomes an appendage of the Beast, an eye on the ground for its unrest.
And yet, in this nightmare world, there is still a chance, a thread of light in the dense darkness.
Sexual Employee
It clocked in at 7:02 am
No orifice in sight
Placed the time card in a slot
Made its way to a metallic table
Blank white paper on the top
#2 lead pencil, covered yellow, appeared
One hour later the employee began to draw
At the center of the paper starting at point “A”
A thin line was drawn from there to point “B’ on the page
Horizontal, naturally
Below that, one hour later, another line was formed
Starting at point “C”
It too was a thin line drawn and continued on to point “D”
Horizontally, of course (the two lines never intersected)
Vertical lines could only be drawn on Fridays
Diagonals were not permitted
They were perverse and went against the laws of nature
The employee had no discernible features worth mentioning
But, it does come to work each day though
With two buttons built or installed into its side
It rolled over to the clock at 4:02 pm and punched out
Placed the time card in a designated slot and left
Went home with the push buttons still installed
One red. One green. Always the same
We never questioned
It is not our job
There’s a constant hammering
Alongside my bedroom window
Repercussions of a corrupt gutter
The maddening drain
Obstinately and persistently has refused
All rehabilitation efforts
There are no
drip drip drips
Only
Pound Pound Pounds
As water clashes with wood and metal
The clangor must be amplified
By a loudspeaker
To make such minute water drops
Sound like a crazed gongsman
Locked in a metallic chamber with a battle mace
With no distinct pattern
The piercing pattering
Thwack Thwack Thwacks
Proclaiming,
“You will find no peace here!”
And yet
Its constant monotone irritation
Somehow
Lulls me to sleep