I see demons
I see ghosts
Staring at me from the bedposts
Gargoyles of grotesquery
Statues of misanthropy
The Prince of darkness has come for me
There's evil in this room
I can smell the sulfur in his perfume
A fiendish foray into Axe body spray
Wedded with used ashtray
Trade name The Devil's Bouquet
Why me why me ?
why today?
Because poets die tragically?
Remember Shelley drowned at sea
Where's your humanity?
In the voice of a late night disc jockey
A silky deadpan delivery
"I lost it the day the world began.
You may have heard not my game plan.
God made Adam and Eve
I made beggars and thieves.
See Milton Book Ten
Are you not well read?
The blood immediately drained from my head.
Beg pardon what was that you said?
I'll have you know I'm quite literate
I have a ing doctorate!
Proper Society
A determined practitioner of misanthropy
My ungainly feet stumbling
I go about life on my own terms
To sit at a table for tea
Would find me apoplectic
No finishing school for old women
Who once burned their bras
I prefer to say my piece straight out
And watch truth bounce, like a pinball
From the walls of artifice
Polite conversation
Pass its tray to others, who can
Bend word to find themselves
A cabal of correctness
Their blinders hide them
From naked actuality
You've a black heart like a burnt up bridge. Twice as cold as Jeffrey Dahmer's fridge. Learnt lessons will dissipate, water boarded till the memories lapse. A free nation ate itself to death In the wake of the great collapse.
When the doors of perception are nailed shut, the mind withers in atrophy. There's omens in the stars. A catcher in the rye. Enlightenment leads to Misanthropy.
This violent development is bred from the seasons of hate. Spawn forth the daughters of whom drink from the skulls of fate. And it's treason on all counts. The blood we've spilt is not our own. Penetrate the host and infest it's belly to make it our warm home. This being of flesh is of a feeble kind. Numb, hungry, and curious... Of human design.
I can hear their voices, they're in my head,
"You Emo ****, you're better of Dead!"
Aw sweetheart, there isn't a place I'd rather be,
then to rot forever, in Hell's misanthropy!
This world I lived in became so bleak
or was it I that turned out weak?
Wait does it matter, if at all
It's just to postpone the inevitable call.
A Christmas dream; the wish of Death,
Nothing more then a dance with Seth,
Yet like that, my corpse to ogle
Disgust, no pity where the blade cut the vogle.
Then I ask, "Why wish me dead?
Is it only to end my Emo stead?
Either way with Her I wed,
A wasted life for all Her pled..."
Then it came that gorgeous sight;
Twisted trees ripping the Eye,
Shinning dulled from the blackened sky,
A sight sole on Heaven's night...
What they call suicide,
I called salvation...
Across the shadowed byte desert, a lone warrior limped.
Impelled by a spirited misanthropy, he plied the
idle partitions of mind and thirst.
An orphaned amorist, passionate, but alone.
And as he stumbled, the adders whispered hoarsely, and
the diodes siphoned the darkness, revealing the
atrophy, the phantom.
The showering bits, hardwired through his dreams,
despised his trophy; reality.
It was stormy with the pathos of insanity...
---===|||===---
And still, he wandered vainly through this parched land,
searching; His reward glimmering quietly across the code,
which danced between his groping fingers.
Aphorisms roamed in the chaos, and margins shifted
as he compiled the disorder which roared within his mind.
Slowly, his child emerged. At last, execution!
---===|||===---
But the young one, so perfect, so delicate, required more
than he could give. The decision was made...
| end parent process |
I am never alive on a Smile's Journey
That is how I take pictures through views Spritually Presented
The Art through Her Eyes breathes rehabilitation into my wilted assurance
The Sun Shines reflecting perfectly in the Mirror of my Forward Motion
I swim in a sea of never before seen in scenes
that make make me feel a type of Serene
that positively effects the reilluminated sheen
that feels so invigorating, crisp and clean
The Beautification of the Waters Power of Upliftment is like YES!!!!!
in extraordinary snowflakes of Profound Exclamatories.....
She looks Alive in Her Resurrection Sundress,
and She sows the seeds of Light Renewed
Omission and oblivion are relatives of loneliness and misanthropy
Blue and grey are confidantes of depression and its lingering gloom
The blood of the Sky Blue Phoenix drops Tears of Innovative Healing
Life can be the cursive endoskeleton of the exoskeleton of a criminally unsen manuscript
As She Spins Benevolent Renovations in Her Resurrection Sundress.....
I breathe grey air in spaces in between,
And whisky stings my tongue and bides the time,
In steps I aimlessly record the scene,
And cherish my misanthropy sublime.
Wandering the streets and alleyways,
Of this downtown, wherever I may be,
No need for love suffocating my days,
Alone but free to lie with honesty.
I let my flanerie in verses sing,
Excited to report that everywhere,
The happy tattered P.I.G. is living,
“The great imperative” of Baudelaire!
Cups thrust high, A diving umbrella licks at many fingers,
rose water licks - and seeks our elbows for a plunge and gathering below.
Now echoes the trumpet prelude, a brilliant flash of praise,
almost a ritual proclamation.
It matters none friend whether you're pro or con.
-When has it ever?
Let us climb the high sun groping forest,
and consume together with glee split faces,
the sloppy viscous sex of misanthropy and philanthropy.
Cups thrust high, A diving umbrella licks at many fingers,
rose water licks - and seeks our elbows for a plunge and gathering below.
Now echoes the trumpet prelude, a brilliant flash of praise,
almost a ritual proclamation.
It matters none friend whether you're pro or con.
-When has it ever?
Let us climb the high sun groping forest,
and consume together with glee split faces,
the sloppy viscous sex of misanthropy and philanthropy.
Written by my husband Thielus.
A. Green
The tearaway, youthful runaway
Running for a lifetime, blocked out
Brick wall, but, those same
Old demons stuck to your back
Demon wings like barnacles
To the hull of your iron heart
Beating under apron strings
Ever since "Daddy" left, Electra
You have been a tulip, caught
In a Slavic winter. Redraw
The map. Nazi Prussian blues
To London, America. The United
States of absolute; the growing
Ground for your misanthropy. Awfully
Unfortunate; yet ever giving
We feast upon your tortured
Soul. Black gold ink
The slurry you bleed upon us
Rich in image with a sick
Sense of humour; like laughing
In a morgue or spitting jokes
Upon a fresh grave. Ach du!
The same old jar, pickled flesh. Gott!
A foetus. What a tortured mind can
Breathe to life in the fold of a
Notepad; the centrefold...Paula Brown
The world in two, waiting for a saviour
Superman or Nazi gas. The house drowned
In complete, ravenous silence as you fell asleep.
Eyes of abhorrence…
A hatred of humanity…
Shrilling of silver tongues…
Decreeing noxious mandates
Spurning absolute control…
This recluse contesting…
Hands gripped in bloody fists…
Striking at scarred old men…
Bleeding century old wounds
Pits overflow in battles chaos…
Friend versus friend and foe versus foe…
Exchanging arrows for bullets…
Beating plowshared swords into rifles…
Lead flying in shrapnel burstings…
To “Bring freedom to all mankind”
A prospect dim…
Without success or hope…
Burns the voice of misanthropy
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