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Saint Alphonse Poem
I
Boastfully, I regret no deeds,
my sins are minor, lame, and weak.
These children, though born dead, are strong,
like a necromancer, I make them dance.
Machineries, and wretched whores,
all linger midst my core's hollow depths.
So violent, I reproach their names,
like demons, they return the favour.
Silence now, no not a sound,
save for my gears, grinding gold.
A littany, these vicious lines,
meant to be enjoyed in Death.
So let me sleep, wake me not,
the Grave is my truest home.
Quietly, I shall decay,
and I will become my art.
II
Burn this body, this sinful cage,
bound to Earth's pleading ways.
My soul is chained within,
the keys just out of reach.
Pleasantries, I crave emotion,
intoxicated, I find them here.
Cells may rot, the better then,
so that the soul may roam.
Spread the ashes near and far,
somewhere left unseen.
Not valiant, not brave,
I am the Coward's King.
So still my heart of violence,
let the impurities flow.
Diminish all your foolish laws,
this soul belongs to me.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
So here am I, are we, sit us,
a chair, a chair, a davenport.
White; blue; floral; bright;
we linger, and are never used.
Soft carpet: plush, divine.
So clean, untouched,
we wait for a miscreant.
'So you,' said I,
'how long, sat here
have you?'
'Too long,' said she,
'years too long
it seems.'
That chair, so soft,
she has eyes for me.
Yet here, away,
I may merely gape.
'Davenport,' said she,
'look away, have
some courtesy.'
'I'm blind!' said he,
to she, then I.
'Fifty years, seven
months sat here, have I.'
And there we sat, for
years, for months.
And never sat in that
room did they-- humans.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
What,
this velvet ocean's shore,
down-side up
and up-side 'round is:
uncouth,
awash with painful memories.
How,
requisite solitude,
in the glaring sun does blaze;
like this fear, shaking my every fibre.
Real? Or as yet unknown,
seen only as a fantasy,
with images just beyond my grasp.
A breath, misty and grey,
so cold that I may shudder;
distinctly fading into the distance.
Yet I fathom not a future,
what,
when everything is lost.
How, when nothing seems as real...
as that distant shore, of velvet or of chrome,
where one day we all make landfall;
poised and resolute.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
Human
without
cause.
Is that human?
I watch;
discretely;
he doesn't know, and won't.
Faith
hold
true.
Is this worth it?
Occultist dreams,
killing sounds,
violent taste buds,
silent fears.
A catalogue of pain:
Unfelt!
Unknown!
Unrelated--
a smile, hollower than his eyes.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
As seen,
unfed,
nourished by atmosphere.
It waits,
crying,
waiting to stake its claim.
Silver,
tarnished,
leave me in your wake.
Ashamed,
alight,
captions flee this scene.
So strong,
unkind,
the promises fade to ash.
Blisters,
unhealed,
will mark the villain's face.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
Chlorophyll,
dissected hearts,
painfully
realized.
Atom bomb,
broken glass,
finally
putrefied.
Sanctuary,
is absurd,
heavenly,
dramatized.
Warming sun,
fragrant bloom,
fitfully,
cauterized.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
Darkened, soiled, burnt.
The maggots squirm in love.
Felt through novel nerves,
a litany betrays your senses.
Inflated corpse of blood,
it savours its own demise.
Hollowed and enlivened,
it spews poisons freely.
Plain cobbles whine,
tortured by the resident.
A meaty bit of pain,
left to lesser means.
Leaves of death flutter,
brilliantly coloured bits.
The the hour of Hell,
and the season decay.
Time passes haltingly,
not wanting to progress.
The clocks will move,
but no longer do they tock.
A rhythm of solitude,
a beating at the door.
The caution will depart,
and the flesh will descend.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
Living in this chrome,
I’m not free to roam,
Blistering hot,
Stuck in one damn spot.
All the world’s a stage,
Well mines more of a cage,
Nothing is for real,
Sunburn starts to peel.
Superficial vice,
Uncommonly nice,
Living day by day,
Sinning ‘long the way.
Whatever do you mean,
By ‘all I haven’t seen,’
All this is a game,
So you won’t curse my name.
Ironic and sublime,
Vicious pantomime,
Taking this for granted,
It’s all I ever wanted.
Bleeding in the dark,
Longing for the spark,
Wishing for new life,
And getting lost in strife.
Pretentious is the one,
Who claims it’s all been done,
For I will show you all,
What it’s like after the fall.
I won’t play so fair,
And won’t get out your hair,
With my nails in so deep,
That even statues weep.
But there is hope for some,
while others will not come,
to sit on bended knee,
and laugh with vile glee.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
Livid with unexpected rage,
Intended as a cure,
But fraught with
Ravenous venom,
Antipathy runs amok.
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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Saint Alphonse Poem
Glistening in you palm,
A simple shining blade.
Scalpel or a razor,
Sharp to spit my flesh,
To make me into you.
Shadows in your dreamscape,
And nightmares in my head.
We whisper lost prerequisites,
And sample broken fares,
But in the end, its on your head.
Contortion of reality,
Bound but not beheld.
Loathed through the fear of it,
And never brought to light,
Though a sunset is in your eyes.
Everything has ceased,
The silence is so loud.
A complaint of inadequacy,
Uttered for a charlatan,
Will the prophets listen?
Copyright © Saint Alphonse | Year Posted 2009
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