Long Veiny Poems
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look at me
appear to be
Brutal, broken beauty within the villainous, vocal vision
Bold, bloody beauty within the voluptuous, virtuous vision
Bad, beauty within the vibrant, violet decision
Bald, bright beauty within the vulnerable, venomous vision
Blue, beauty within the vile, volatile, victorious, vegan vision
Brilliant, brave beauty within the vicious, vast vision
Bad, bitter beauty within the vivacious, vintage vision
Black, blonde beauty within the virgin, vain vision
Best, bouncy beauty within the vivid, versatile vision
Busy, brown beauty within the veiny, violent vision
Bubbly, beautiful beauty within the vulgar, vengeful vision
2/7/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Quote by author: Angel feather colors hold no meaning,
if the messenger of God is not a paragon of virtue.
Every year she wore the plumage with such grace
and her beauty raptured every being around the liquid festival
Caribana black and gold tassels pasted on each tender nipple
She lost herself in a night of debauchery. One that took her further away from truth and the love that she so hungered for.
dance little lady dance
by a dirty man's glance
you don't stand a chance
That night she went too far and ended up by the side of the river. Her face streaked of mascara dripped onto a shattered heart, and turned into a million shards of glass. A celebration of life turned deadly cold beneath the winds of deceit. Sand blown bits of broken moon entered her soul as she lay still on the ground. Heaven's stars muted stunned, held space as
a concrete angel
invisible but able
touched by a glacial pulse
noticed she was still breathing but scarcely, so wrapping the dying girl in feathers woven from God's fibrous root, she washed the red off her soaked plumage, and cleaned up her wounded back. Two vestal hands bathed her with life's essence, and just like that, she was born again.
"Choose Life" was the last thing she heard uttered to her faint ear. Then she heard the sound of a beautiful silence, as the Angel of God spread her glorious veiny wings and flew away.
the grass held its dew
and the wind blew
a woman child grew
Some days, I’m still fighting the urge to light a cigarette—missing those rippling ribbons of smoke and the way they would uncoil in the dark, humid air. I’ve been coughing so much lately, and my lungs will hardly expand for any air that isn’t polluted at the source. I’ve been hacking up my lungs, and each time it feels like trying to drag them out through my throat just to see how charred they’ve become. I ignore any signs of disease—any signs of my own actions catching up to me—all because I’m so afflicted and so addicted to slowly ending my own life. Undoing the veiny strings of my body for no reason other than my love for being unhappy, only allowing myself to breathe the poison I think I deserve. After long nights, when my daydream canopies crumble, I always wish to commit blasphemy for you again—treat your white ash like the god I sometimes think stopped loving me long ago. I wish I could still believe the burning in my chest when I run is the only thing that will save me from a future that’s not home—because it saves me from a world where I feel like all I am is my flesh and bones.
Cast aside, he plummets to the desolate earth.
Hymns of his treacherous heart consume his ears.
Tears aren’t shed, pleads aren’t wailed
He’s left atop the desecrated hollow ground.
Azrael, the Angel of Death, come
snuff out his remaining life.
Azrael, take up your bloodied scythe,
carve off his wings,
and leave clotting crescent scars on his back.
He needs his wings no more.
Kiss a crimson smile upon his neck,
he’ll not sing anymore.
Left broken, flies descend upon him.
The flies sing a song of lies.
Devouring the words, he wished he had heard
at the time of his descent.
Chewing away at who he was
Ushering in who he will become.
Neither an angel,
Nor a man.
But something else.
The flies swarm the pit.
His body lies at the center of the crater.
A crimson smile graces his neck.
Murky eyes yearn heavenward.
Maggots nested within his flesh,
eating away at his unbeating heart.
Crawling through his veins
Multiplying, devouring, transforming
The quaking rot of his new body
Bleeds veiny wings
that beat against the blackened earth.
His baptism is a vile mass of
maggots, blood, songs, and flies.
His new body
Ugly, but defined.
Flies dance upon his unblinking eyes,
He can’t cry. His tears have since dried.
The fall desiccated his eyes, stealing his cries.
Ears echoing with fading hymns,
He is dead but persists in consciousness.
Maggots worm out from his red smile,
forcing him to gurgle,
“I am the Lord of Flies”
The flies buzz in victory,
Using their teeth
the maggots squirm out of his orifices
hatching from his flesh.
They raise their bodies heavenwards,
In praise of their new lord.
A fragment of matted stone breaks surface.
It is already colonized
by moss and fungi factories;
eventually they will churn
green spawn into rural Ohio towns;
not yet of course, ‘yet’ has to wait
for the rain and the blood to settle.
The stone must be crushed
by the weight of circumstance,
fields of new growth
must be planted in microscopic slime.
If you follow the centuries, then time takes time,
but if you stay put,
and branch out like a graveyard Maple
you will see, all at once,
the Shawnee coming and going -
passing as fireflies on a summer night.
You will see families of settlers,
adding their calcium to the earth.
Maple leaves and bone litter and layer,
until even that residue begins to construct,
a filigree scaffolding
the weave of industrious minds.
All those small, time-seeded towns
come sprouting. Hands work wood,
and stone then brick. Hands lay down
in the soil, to feed a worm-tilling earth.
Pebbles unearthed
by gentle raindrops and tornadoes
become antique stores.
Abandoned mills empty out
into art galleries and cake shops.
Arts and crafts stores signal the end
of old railway lines.
Cities of iron and coal bud and blight.
The moss returns.
The larger the urban sprouting,
the more the moss and lichen flourish;
but this is all in the unseen,
unless your spread yourself
through time like a branching tree.
Eventually though, Ohio
will leave its foliate forest temples
to be discovered
by incipient microbes that even now
live on the underside of rocks,
as codified plans and veiny blueprints.
and thus free verse runs amok as prose with line breaks that must be just supposed to make a turn – or not – get caught in rhythmic flow or rambling thought. But then again it’s all the same –but not….I guess – unless – you’re somehow caught in webs of veiny, spider guilt for weaving things no spider’s built. Legions have waged prosaic inquisitions haunted by wordless suspicions lurking in the hallowed halls of those who ingest whatever falls upon their ears of sightless peers denied the sound of visions birth slow bowing in a manner curt unsure of when the end is nigh whether to laugh or trembling cry beneath the wandering endless drone – discordant voices lacking tone or tolerance for skeptic wow…I saw an apple with a cow and seven sheep in bearded drag twelve humble men about to brag of feats of chicanery and stealth that stole from the words their only wealth as all the rainbows turned to blue as colors were to hard to do – no pots of gold no poignant brew to blend the colors in new hue just one big muddle of verse free words stirred into a cheese-less curd raised to heights some think absurd but then again it could be prose and then again nobody knows……
John G. lawless
©1/19/2019
Old man sits in the air-
the wind's firing the life at him
while the young girl sits in grief,
waiting.
The old man really does know
and understand her sorrow
but she doesn't understand why he gets her.
They sit in agreement-
disagree thoughtfully
and remind eachother of a loved one.
To he- she's a mirror image of his daughter-
alone,
frightened,
pure.
To her- she's the essence of her mother
keen, stern,
yet approachable.
The wind continues to blow and the boat sails along the sea
while both the man and girl
realize what life's made up to be.
And though his worry has oppressed all else
he feels at ease seeing the girl in his final hours,
she smiles,
the first in years,
the first since 98,
when her parents' lives were taken by a drunk,
those nights of fighting now only selfish,
but as she examines his arm, veiny and shaking
he reaches out and grabs it, a clench of confirmation
that the time is right
and then the ship went down,
it went down that very night.
I never have the right words to say..
It feels the people i look up to, look at me then look away..
Im not formal enough, nice enough..
just blunt and straight up in a world that's f**ked up
Maybe im like RZA and just dont give a F**k
Might as well go silent as im treated invisible anyway
Like the girl i crushed on in 11th grade..
She only loathed me and made my sky feel gray
My voice doesnt mean anything to anyone as i shout out the pain in black matter
A cosmic stir inside my soul storms and sends my heart beats off course
The sun flares like the ends of my hair, bringing to life my own personal nightmares
A gift to the world for the loneliness i feel
Or maybe its just a coincidence and i need to be blue pilled...
All i know is im breaking on the inside as the outside markings stain my skin
Tattoos from my reminiscence of days spent
Sevens they look like as i ponder it... Skyrim shout words of power..something i wish my soul could do as i hold the pain within
Another perfectly vain, veiny friend.
Another thing they will mock me for im sure
Until the end
Carve into the birch trees, pollen breeze my air to breathe.
One more cough and one more sneeze until it’s over.
Tissue paper mottled with blood and yellow-green mucus, tearing and dissolving from tears.
There is always salt in my mouth these days.
Veiny leaves in the fervent winds remind me that I am an animal, and my skin gets filthier with each mawkish phrase that erupts from a faraway throat, but it feels like mine.
Beautiful and pathetic soliloquy fills up the air.
I am the only one.
I am the only one.
With the grasses' pedagogy and the flowers' instruction, I stand up and walk to the water.
Its chill cries out for help, my pollutant and contaminant is all but too much to be cleaned by a simple stream.
“I am sorry,” I say. “I am sorry Mother.”
I should have been listening this entire time.
I'm looking for you in bits and pieces
In someone's height, in someone's face
In someone's cry and in someone's grace
I crave your trace
This never ending yearning won't stop till I find
The one that I can finally call mine
I tend to push my heart into believing
That guy is the one, That guy might be the one, That guy just might be the one but
The heart knows what it knows
He never is, nobody is.
These useless attempts of forcing love into my life constantly ends up with me knowing that the result is not what I expect.
I Wish I could pick and choose and build you with my own hands.
It'd be easier to just opt a nice personality, good height, mesmerizing face, hazel eyes, veiny arms but they don't add up to you. Because those eyes wouldn't be the ones that look for my hoodie in a room full of red dresses, that face wasn't the one I held with my very hands, those arms don't lift me with happiness and give me a princess twirl.
The problem is that even if I had the superpower to put you together from boys of my age, I would still be left heartbroken
You aren't formed of their qualities but my expectations and imaginations. You laugh with me, crave me, touch me, look for me and me alone. That can never be true because this version of you just doesn't exist. You do not exist and that's the worst of all