Long The living dead Poems
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I warn you this is not a warm message
written on a generic greeting card.
It belongs to the dark and the cynical,
those people who spit truth on a fire.
You may ask why is Halloween the best?
Don’t you prefer colored lights and tinsel?
Well, no. Not particularly.
I’d prefer to hear a purr by a pumpkin
then find my cats in the holiday tree.
I’ve a preference for things that are alive,
not fake like some spray-painted pine.
The energy in the air flooding October
is bloated with the richness of the macabre.
There is nothing but the living dead
in gifts for those you barely speak to.
They only call when it’s ‘that time of year’,
Halloween is real fear emoted with a mask.
No pretension, no phony phoned in words,
it’s more party screams in a haunted house.
This may only last for the length of a night,
at least the diabolic intention is honest.
Dressing up and giving someone a grin,
giving out candy you’ll meet the neighbors.
Traditions based on your net worth?
Read to me a little bit more like pyrite.
You may ask why is Halloween the best?
Don’t you prefer colored lights and tinsel?
They do not resonate well with an empath.
So, no. Not particularly.
I see them but I don’t hear them,
I feel them but I don’t penetrate them.
They say that I am the main character in the show
And I make their heart glow, my spirit is soaring
but my body needs feeding, and my nutrition is getting low
Every day they make money off me but they never patronize me
My appetite is boiling over in the fireside but I am still enjoying the ride with a painful bliss hanging by my side
The restaurants are closed and the woodpeckers are digging
at my door they are spreading dust in the air and knocking on the pudding pans with a message folded up in their long pointed beaks
They pass by me to and fro with mean looks on their faces
Hurling stones at me with destiny trapped underneath their broken trees
Dried cracked lips and torn up fingernails, and center bones sticking
from my flesh, their handmade gown hanging from the
empty throne reminds me that the clown has moved out of the town. reality is sinking in and my body frame is very thin anorexia nervosa is setting in. I did not plan it but my body has slowly transitioned to it no hostess and no resources. My arms are still strong and my courage is bolder then than ten men gallivanting in the lower den with a strong fleet rising up to the heavens. I see them but I don’t hear them, I feel them but I don’t penetrate them. The morning has just come alive and the people are browsing around without a solid frown, they are still amazed with the sun as it drains the energy from their head and penetrate the living dead. Things are slowly coming around and the message is circulating around, mesmerizing the entire town and the normal is squeezing out the abnormal. Obese men and women walking in the street with protruded stomach and healthy guts look around without much fuss. They have gain excessive weight in the middle of stressful gate. Their mind is in several different places and they are trying to stay in the races.
The wind is standing still and there is nothing in the flour mill but suddenly the dark clouds start shifting from side to side and the skies greeted me with an awesome smile. I see them but I don’t hear them. I feel them but I don’t penetrate them.
“Now then, may I ask a question?” sounds pretty ugly.
It’s almost exactly perplexing as a calculated error,
Or an easy problem posed by that living fossil of a teacher.
Most students with an apathetic interest would agree to disagree
That the quantum leap required to solve this needs an indecisive decision that less is more.
Then there’s that timeless moment when the student teacher,
With their unbiased opinion about modern history, states
“We came second best in Vietnam”, when military intelligence reports
We left the place completely unfinished.
You can hear the silent scream from each kid
In the small crowd, who’d rather be in front of their rent free
Reality T.V. watching the science fiction,
The Living Dead.
But with change being the only constant it’s fairly accurate to say
the new tradition for adult children of today
is to expect surprises.
They don’t wear plastic sunglasses and listen to soft rock with passive aggressive
“Sounds of silence” anymore.
As long as people remember they’re each unique
And they have no choice to believe in their own free will
Then it’s O.K. they each stand alone, together,
And have the same differences. They each can be as famous as the unknown soldier.
I am innocent.
I will never plead guilty
For all the crimes against humanity that France and its colonialist accomplices
Have committed in the cradle of my ancestors for centuries.
The color of my skin is neither a crime nor a tragedy.
I do not have to justify being a human being.
I am a Sub-Saharan African.
I am a Bantu from Equatorial Africa,
Like all those Pygmies exhibited in wooden cages by this Christian and supposedly humanistic West.
What have I done to inherit the nightmares of Françafrique?
What have I done to flee misery on a land so rich, chained to the voracity of Western predators?
I will never sing the symphonies of submission
Upon the altar of servitude
To sanctify my humanity.
I do not have to submit to the Negrophobia of these supremacist savages.
I was born free on a land devastated by Western imperialism.
I grew up in one of the colonial wastelands
Of a France that is still slave-minded.
I built myself amid the savagery of a banana republic,
Worshipping the tyranny of alienated natives of Françafrique.
I have never feared death.
I lived in a dilapidated cemetery, lined with the living dead.
The scourges of misery shaped the coldness of my lucid soul.
I am the product of the colonial massacres
Of the slave-trading France of the Enlightenment in Africa.
I am the proof that the Republic of Human Rights
Has never treated Sub-Saharan Africans as free human beings.
I bear the indelible scars left by the independence fighters of Cameroon.
I will never be ashamed of being an African with melanin-filled skin,
Even if Marianne’s Negrophobic children call me a parasite,
While French multinationals brutally plunder the wealth of my continent.
I am an ambitious migrant,
An honorable undocumented immigrant,
A humanist Pan-Africanist,
A preacher of the saving values of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
I do not believe that democracy is the paradigm
Of Africa’s colonial trading posts.
I did not cross the Mediterranean
To become a prostitute for the criminal capitalism of the West.
The fascists of the Republic mock the thousands of African women
Who end up swallowed
By the deadly waters of the Mediterranean.
The Window of Luminous Darkness
The window has closed toward the black lights of absence
the living dead embroider their banners from bones woven into rags
opportune for the transience of their ephemeral eternity
the serpent in mother's breast feeding the shadows with living substance
Their unmet confrontation takes place in the cosmic den
we commemorate their birth in a festive and colorful death
the final and black confession of the transparent open white
we technically use the spontaneous meditation of mechanical contemplation
We will all be air and crystal and earth without sterile decay
we deserve the title of baseness in the luminous clear times
of the return toward aurora from behind the dead twilight
they lead us speaking noisily toward the silent transience
The vulture begins the surge toward earth in the forgotten second
the sun and moon separate in their solid gaseous form
abruptly continuing their stagnation toward the terrain of orthodoxy
outside the straight spiral the unsurpassed solar stagnation
Her pleasant celestial de-earthing fixed punctual flow
only the feet can pass underneath the mute rainbow
the roots grow in our ears speaking foreign tongues to us
their food is the stones and the dry wind of water burned in fire
Let them lead us howling toward the transience of our eternity
in the open-closed window where the living dead die eternally alive
the mother serpent feeds its shadow with coagulated light
and we float in the liquid earth of the heavy stony air
A musky, burnt haze sears slowly into my nostrils.
The twilight hour pulses steadily, bathing stark walls in an eerie gloom.
Too awake to drift to sleep, yet too tired to drag my bones off this sinking mattress.
Thoughts cyclone like a tsunami within a withdrawn mind,
picking at scabs; the half-life of my darkness pools in red droplets.
Licking the wounds, the taste of metallic and melancholy blends.
Loneliness wraps its arms around my dejected shoulders like a winding sheet.
A howling wind rattles the paper-thin glass making up my windows,
as I ponder how I became the living dead.
Traumas poisoned my sanity,
slowly paranoia replaced reason,
delusions became my nightly bedfellow,
whispering sweet unpleasantries into tainted ears,
leaving hallucinatory trinkets in my repeating nightmares.
The world is shrinking, withering,
yet as I am becoming paralyzed by fear, I am unequipped to stop it.
Like a freight train derailed,
bellowing at full speed towards the inevitable,
I too am racing at the speed of light towards oblivion.
The full moon lit up the night sky
A wisp of cloud passed it by
To add to an eerie atmosphere
As if something gruesome might appear.
The gates to the graveyard groaned in the wind
As did the groans of the grave stones twinned
And the night demons were on the prowl
As the wolf cried out with a harrowing howl.
In the chapel attic a light appeared
And the girl in the red dress everyone feared
Was staring out with blood shot eyes
As the living dead heed her cries.
The door slams open, a priest appears
Holding a silver cross that the demon fears
As the holy water burns the skin
Of a possessed soul steeped in sin.
The ghoulish corpses to the girls demands
Descend on the chapel, as the devil commands
And the sweating brow of the terrified priest
Does little to ward off the devils beasts.
Reciting Latin, the priest persists
As the decomposed bodies in the graveyard mist
Aim to transform him into one of them
So he keeps reciting over and over again.
The girl morphs into the devils form
But the priest refuses to conform
And so with a scream the girl is thrust
Way up high, as she continues to cuss.
‘Lord save this soul’ the priest declares
‘Release this soul from this evil affair
And with this water I purify thee!’
And with that, in an instant, the devil did flee.
It is said that the girl did not perish
But became a nun of the local parish
And yet on every full moon night
It is rumoured that the nun was nowhere in sight.
And so tonight, as you lay in your bed
If you think this chapel is somewhere else instead
Beware as the full moon glows
That the girl in the red dress never shows!!
Paranormal Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Robert James Liguori
29th December 2021
- [ ]
I have been holdings back the tears because I have nothing to fear
I have been holding back the tears for more than twenty years
There is something enigmatic about me that everyone is dying to see
I have enough empathy to fulfill my responsible. I have weathered all the storms from midnight until dawn and I am not tired yet so you don’t have to fret.
The mornings and the evening come and go and I am surrounded by the cupboards, cabinets and special desks, my lab is in my head and I can raise the living dead. And when wisdom call out form above I will be
standing by the door with everything you need to make your life stable
Here I am in this open space looking around at the myriad faces staring at me, and asking questions that cannot be heard but are silently answered. They knock from door to door and then travel to the sea shore
I look beyond the brightly lit skies with golden colors running all over
And thick clouds running below pressuring me and telling me that it is time to go
I watched those running cables beneath the ground from country city states and towns and the concrete positioned between them and talking
furiously to them in a strange language that arouse my curiosity. I didn’t know what to make of it but that image keep reflecting with a chip and the sun keep shining on it. The object is moving around with a message for the town.
They walked down the street in droves with sad and happy faces and people of all races, some dancing and chanting, others singing and shouting and another group walked slowly talking with one another in silent whispers. They hurried down the bridge with courage baked
in their faces and curiosity running a thousand miles beneath the earth
Cars and buses trucks and vans circle around the bend and meet at curiosity bridge. There are no divided oceans or barriers on the bridge, and you can meet your fortune on one side and your destiny on the other side. When the crowd decreased and the noise ceased, I will wait for you on the pinnacle of curiosity bridge, hope meet with hope and peace meet with peace to seal their fates and climax the race.
(5/25/12)
So many different things that we don’t understand
So many different things that are in gods plan
A touch, a look, a place ,a face, a sound, a word
All of these things we have seen or heard.
What I treasure most are those moments that I spend with you
Cause I know exactly what you want me to do.
when I hold you in my arms , I feel your heart begin to race
It beats so fast that I can’t join the pace.
I feel you quiver to my every touch
And I know I need you twice as much.
Falling in love with you was no surprise
I knew it when I looked in your eyes.
My heart was taken and molded into you
To a point I didn’t know what to do.
You used my heart like molding clay
And with you is where I want to stay.
This was a gift that GOD sent to me
And in your arms I will always be.
Holding you , caressing you
making love to you
my whole life through.
A gift of love is more precious than
any diamonds or pearls , or emeralds and rings.
A value amount can not be put on love
For it is given from GOD above.
Love and life go hand in hand
This is something we must understand.
If there is no love, than no one would care
If we lived or died and not one shed tear
Would any one cry.
there would only be negativity and hate
And never feel or know about religious faith.
We would then be called the living dead
That is something that I dread.
So this gift which was given to me
I’ll treasure the rest of my days
For there is no better way.
The ever present presence of what we can't make out.
Reassures the mind that there just cannot be a doubt.
A world beyond the concious realm exist's and alway's will.
But talking to the other side is just brain cells that you kill.
So take a nap and don't wake up and join the living dead.
Believing in an after life is not just in your head.
Where can we turn to understand the many shades of thought?
When battle's with the evil demons, we never even fought.
The gates of hell and prison door's release sooner or later.
But next time you should take the stairs and not the elevator.
For ghost's can fly upon a wing where angel's fear to tread.
And foolish pact's with so few fact's can just leave you for dead.
For the Angel of the Odd contest