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John Arthur Poem
The feeling is neutral if not numb;
to the fact that most dogs are now rather dumb.
They waddle and limp to whoever has food,
regardless of thought or apparent mood,
led by hungers conjured and imbued.
Forgetting to hunt, they now excrete and eat all day,
mumbling and barking with nothing to say.
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
The Washing Machine
Trembling, writhing in pleasure!
Upon which arouses without measure,
As it was, as it were,
The washing machine, upon which sits thy mother!
Behold! A sight unforetold!
This is no jest.
Do not fret, lest
you forget, that she hath needs of her own.
Tis be best to forget, bleach thou minds eye of what art known,
seeing as thou an adult, fully grown.
Run away! As what witnessed, to thou, thine eyes doth shewed and shown
What was witnessed upon that vibrating throne,
the screams of your mother on that pleasurable chrome!
Tis a tragedy, especially in thou home.
02/23/2023
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
Graveyard
I arose, my eyes open, though it was not what I chose
Eyelids rotten, which did not close
Forced to behold, a fate unforetold,
merely whispered by the foolish and the bold.
An unhallowed grave, a darken tomb.
Awakening within the deathbed of the reapers womb,
To that familiar scent, of a loathsome doom,
Which unto my senses, which although dim,
Declare a darkness which crawled without limb
In a land of the dead, ghastly and grim.
Vistas macabre and morbidly new
Instilling fears that continue to brew,
Feelings that within me doth grew,
If not due
Towards visions of thyne fellow dead, now risen anew.
I struggled and limp from that darthly crypt
Naked, cold, forlorn and stripped
Of coherent thought, nor simple articulation
Confused in the delirium of a harrowing anticipation.
I know not where I am.
Tremors signal the birth of the unseen,
I am lost. I know not where I've been.
I know not time, nor place nigh destination,
If not certain of that chronic sensation,
Drowning in the certainty of an ethereal damnation.
2023/02/23
'Writing Challenge - G Words -'
Constance La France
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
Upon fields ripe with earth, alone we lay,
yearning the foretold birth of a brighter day,
far beneath the heavens' maw,
nearer the crystal seas and her luminescent shore
we await the light we've grown to adore.
The sands, the dunes, were wet with waters crystalline,
of fragrant colours like none thou have seen,
a place not before we have been,
yet forever enamoured by vistas holy and serene.
The beauty, slowly, began to decay,
Slowly, we realize the sun would never rise, nor surmise,
the delivery of another day.
And so, it ended and began rather forlorn,
Ailing no array of light, no sun, no dawn.
Instead darker, if not colder too,
the shadows of night so continued to brew,
birthing horrors unchronicled, unexplained and new.
How could we have known, or have ever knew,
That the Sun would die, birthing a darkness anew?
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
In the dark recessions of the corpse canals,
Where the breaking of bones sounds the eerie air like the clanking of bells,
Where the tearing of tendons whistle and hiss,
Echoing across blood water lakes laced with piss.
Found deep within a Carcass Catacomb, where the restless undead candidly roam,
There are, unfortunately, the unlucky few who call this home.
Sunken cadaverous corpses sink restlessly, forever seeking to escape and flee,
If not entrapped within an infernal sea, suffering in blindness with naught to see.
There! Deep below swim the loathsome drowned, cursed to breathe the contagions of innumerable ilk whilst eerily unfound.
And so to the canals are they forever bound, with rotting bones whiter than milk,
flowing in a surrendering of flesh, bleached flags of corpse silk.
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
Behold!
Where is it no mortal soul fathoms to dare?
The foretold detestable dunes of despair!
Whose sands of crystalline luminescence
Drown and drain thy essence.
Far within that redolent tomb
Hidden deeper inside the heavens moon,
Where the souls of the damned unwillingly swoon
Slaves to the sin that fathered their doom.
Where thou art subject to phantom pains
Orchestrated by the Litch who reigns
Without delay upon his frozen throne of ice
Whose subjects lament in the decay
of blood maggots and eerie lice.
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
A drowned Perpetua inhumane, whose dwellers art furthest from sane,
where mortals had once sought to reign, now mindless husks subject to an eerie pain.
And so, amidst boiling waves of a single flow, which so seek to sate hungers that blindly echo from beneath that gangrenous gore
eclipsed in crimson too dark to ignore,
Nearing if not therefore, beneath those vermillion dunes, chronicled from before, hidden nearer the ocean floor.
Far beneath bore that which only fellow filth may grow to adore.
So arose the disembowelled silhouettes of creatures eerily unfound, hidden beneath corpsed constellations that continue to astound.
Ripe with rot, anywhere yet not
upon thine festering flesh, betwixt sinews which crudely infest.
Alive by the necromancer's bequest, so welcoming thou as their unholy guest.
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
Behold! A land writhing in cold
prophecies untold, uttered by the foolish and the bold.
Where the darkest of clouds swirl and unfold
to reveal a land ripe with a decay uncontrolled.
Forevermore stained in the wet contorted hues of crimson red
where life continues, if not broken, as a soulless token
To this, what else can truly be said?
if not instead about that particular dread;
Behold! The wondering damned, to their graves by the nose were they led
Whose dark blood flows through the limbs of the living and the dead.
Wretched denizens of damnation, upon lands no mortal shall explore to dare.
Uttering their pathetic lamentation, a morbid unholy prayer.
Together in conjoined suffering of no delay, do they share
the putrescent smells rancid and fresh from decay, so taint the air,
a foul stench too much to bare.
Deeper betwixt that ethereal black mountain
of dark waters and darker fountain.
From this a city rises dark and abrupt
Seeking to consume and corrupt.
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
Surgeons of soundless suffering, led by ministers of madness,
The dead drown whilst muttering of intolerable sadness.
Atop the tallest towers of the dark city
Aloft spires of insanity, so do they weave
the existential lies of mortality.
Where the living are led to conceive and so believe
That which is mad, continuously the surgeons weave
And knit half truths of life, disguising words of strife
with lies as their knife unto the remains of humanity.
Surgeons who cut and tear with
Words too elaborate to question or mentally bare
or visually see.
The ministers of madness, feed the masses with words
That ought to be the chirping of birds,
Words that sound near obliterate
born of tongueless mouths that art illiterate.
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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John Arthur Poem
Déjà vu
You look familiar, have we met?
I feel as though the memory has yet to set.
Perhaps this is a sensation of déjà vu
Perhaps we’ve once talked, me and you,
A memory I think I once knew.
Though I am unsure, yet certain in my confusion
That you are familiar beyond articulation.
My words are spewing without humiliation
As I am certain of this particular occasion.
This place, this smell, it is familiar.
Do you not sense it to be similar?
An occasion of a memories ancestor.
Those eyes, that hair, it seems nearly unfair,
That my memory would forget, that it would chance to dare
To fail to remember someone so fair.
2023/02/23
Déjà vu
Unseeking Seeker
Copyright © John Arthur | Year Posted 2023
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