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Best Poems Written by Alex Cullen

Below are the all-time best Alex Cullen poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The White Devil's Pride

Bearing a European haploid, I should be branded by shame.

I am the White Devil as they claim.

The Ciakara, a bipedal reptilian that fades in and out of gamma rays.

The Ivory Dragon with razor fangs.

He who breathes flames of artillery; consuming the indigenous cultures of men.

I who supposedly slaughtered, raped, and evangelized my own fen.

A Caucasian falsely accused, I must defend.

I sigh with Celtic lungs.

Long ago in antiquity, they cut my foreskin and Gaelic tongue.

Apprehending my crown and bride while the rebels hung.

Enslaved and hate I have not done, but due to this achromatic shell, their numbers I am among.

But I am the blank hero who is sullied and unsung, for an enemy of all is an enemy of mine

Yet compassion’s tide is on the rise, I am consumed by love for all races and all colors of hides.

Reds, blacks, browns, yellows, blancos and pinks. 

An alabaster bastard I may seem to be, but in the utmost totatality, I am proud I am me.

Despite my lack of melanin; my reverence and acceptance of self sets all others free.

So I will slay the Neo-Nazi supremacists and ethnocentrisms, by nationalist and patriotic decree.

To reorient this cumbersome narrative; as such that I see fit in my mind’s eye.

The Maverick Abolitionist of Light, I let my skin audaciously shine.

So yet again, the fierce Anglo Saxon attacks; swiftly and valiantly one more time.

Only to redefine the phrase “White Pride” so I may make it mine.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2018

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A Beast of Chirality

I blink my eyes and then the world is gone. 

Open once again to see some peons upon the lawn.

They came to hear the Lion yawn and swipe a wife by dawn.

That's why I keep my pride and believe,

to conceive that it's respite is my reprieve.

But you yuppies be just mere pawns in the grand scheme;

placed at rank 2 file C.

I treat myself to treats I don't need to ask the priest.

I fill a lady's niche when God's dead like Friedrich Nietzsche.

I'm an autonomous man, the world needs me.

Due to greedy deeds, I lost the lot of you to petty thievery.

Now standing orthogonal to the bishop you orthodox Cis.

Tearing holes in the fabric of time while mother nature sits and knits that. 

Amidst a scrimmage over minish mishaps, fisticuffs and misfired mitts with whiplash.

Hexed by wind and turbulent syntax.

As activists vehemently flail at the fascist crux; only to be met by impasse.

Making my attempt to love exclusively an outward expression;

a barrage of affection bombarding the good intentions of a meta-man’s vision.

Otherwise known as fortified Freudian defense mechanisms.

To deal with ideals in an asymmetric system. 

Oh but I pray praise that I am what I be.

Hallow thy be virile amongst a creed of faulty seeds.

Yet I’m an enantiomer, a Chiral Beast;

my courage can never be superimposed upon the fear of defeat.

Finally granted with the Coupe de Gras when disagreements meet.

As if graced by chance, I advance with the apex of a Sword’s vertice.

Striking clean from the left to then evade your deceit.

I take a seat while a woman cleans my wounds with peace.

Ahh but even in victory, the warrior’s woe must be debriefed.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2017

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The Valkryie

God is good to everyone; so when you love, be in love.

Said to me a Sable Hoplite in mottled clothes; guarding the memoir of his dead wife in Boston’s subway transit.

Robbing a pedestrian of a moment's time as he did from banks for fiat claims and capital climbs via violent crimes.

He intimidates the hive mind as well as mine, but we are receptive.

Like all under the devil's thumb, we wish to traverse the red wall.

I look to my side and see a cherub evolving into a matron of unworldly skies.

Her will soars like a whirlwind sword that scores the fabric of time.

She fosters the orphaned spirit and walks the literal and figuratively blind through their valley of darkness.

Her and I are vagrant and lost like nomads; but we find homage in one another.

Attracting like covalent and ionic bonds.

She’s an eclectic electric Aryan blonde with the constellation Pleiades in the lines of her palm.

The lines are in cursive and those who read and heed its words will hear the echo of the Celestine. 

The Valkyrie, oh so cunning and keen; so intent to take me to Valhalla.

She passively leads the Liberation Army; to their respective terminals and posts.

As if to intervene.

Co-collectively, they carry the virtue of a justified rebellion in the form of a military coup.

Encouraged to face the truth even in her absence, a man finds he must transmute.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2017

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Ace of Hearts

Some say affection is a farce.
I’d surmise a soul who feels as such receives it in sparse parts.
Yet most will one day find themselves in amour.
As the Temptress ordains by coitus sustained, you will remain.
Not out of plight or by oath, but through providence.
For love is the ontological constant, so says the monogamous ominous.
That who created us oxytocin automatons with a volition so insidious, that both our spiritual and biological imperatives became synonymous.
If life were a game, than the deck is 51 cards; bearing one irrational inequivalence that's strikingly obvious.
The Ace of Hearts.
The fiercest and the kindest, as inconceivable as that may seem.
Yet if a boundless arithmetic exist in mathematics, than it will persist; to be the only quantity that realizes it’s infinite significance. 

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2018

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The Hatchet

Hatchet in the tree
Hatchet in the snow
A snowman’s hand gripped
A snowman slashed low
Low falls the timber
Low level UV light
Light reflects white
Light will then entice
Entice by photoelectric effect
Entice by photons in cadence
In cadence with yuletide
In cadence with Christmas time
Time is itself a gift
Time and time again
Again the winter solstice
Again the world will spin
Spin on it's axis
Spin by angular momentum
Momentous holidays will come
Momentous mementos prior
Prior to the feasts
Prior to the givings
Giving a beginning
Giving an end
Endpoint to point
Endpoint to position
Position the world with bows and ribbons
Positioned in a box
A box of dark matter
A box of hot rocks
Rocks wrapped in flavour & colour
Rocks wrapped in gravity & electric charge
Charged forward by a vacuum
Charged forward at 0 dollars cost
Cost just a kiss under the mistletoe
Costs just an open heart, does it not?
Not if not genuine
Not because it ought to be
Be because you ought to be
Be joyeux noel
Joyeux noel Deus ex machina
Joyeux noel God by machine
Machinations of generosity against greed 
Machinations of compassion against apathy
Apathetic the inanimate object
Apathetic indeed
Indeed life is an incantation
Indeed the miracle we need
Needless to say
An incantation speaks atop the tree

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2017

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The Artiste

I am The Artiste. 

I draws lines by cutting carcasses, among other things.

I am the crazed dancer, down pouring a diaspora of red essence and entrails as I sporadically spin.

I am the antagonist; the anti-hero jester with a ricin covered knife.

It’s poisoned point thrusted through regal robes; to rest in the fief, flesh and fealty of the king and his knights.

Making a mosaic of the martyred by combat and tactical subterfuge; again and again enacting battles of attrition. 

Each successive version of ourselves adjacent to the next, compartmentalized in seclusive panoramic positions held together by Gravitons.

Vacuumed by a stretched string in infinite dimensions; making an Omni-vector to temper the fool.

Ah but I am the axiom of chaotic-kinetic dynamism; I distort lattices and break symmetry. 
I am the Goldstone boson & Majorana fermion, I am the Tachyon.

I command my Pions to intersect and form a Rho.

Regimented in units, they leer over fortified Dirac and Neumann boundaries.

A coalition of rebellious Quasi-patrons; under siege by Gauge Synchronicities and Eigenstates.

But I am still my own worst enemy; myself and my anti-self.

When living in a world reborn on God’s Sword & Shield, many of us are left on edge and apprehensive; but we will always die in God’s heart.

From there after our remains are gestated; by the womb of empty space & silence, the true Matriarch Mother of skies.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2017

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Billowed in black by my schizophrenic ponderings, these personalities are somehow resolute.

Within a matrix of survival; they coincide.

Fractals of quanta and wavelengths that fall from grace, will soon depict a Homunculus face.

Spanning out into oblivion as it gestures it’s courtesy beneath the world sheet.

By Orch OR, my loyalties are reduced to inconceivable amounts of ones or zeros.

When they do reduce, why is it a woman's face I see him seeing? 

He watches a holograph of her, looking with a handheld azimuth to turn its view.

Sleeping in a hole of shambles, I see them seeing myself see nothing, but I feel my hadron body shrill. 

Shadows like carbon fiber polymers are threaded intraosseously, trimming my astro-man's shins and knuckles with dark armor.

He now stands fortified as a hominid of diamond; surrounded by a phoxonic shield.

He protects her in his holon cocoon of qualia; it cannot be computed by perturbation, heuristics, or algorithmic affronts.

All but to fight back a bad dream, one that could harm the face we saw him seeing.

For better or worse we shall remember the sentiment.

To record this exert of love, he wrote the whole thing down as I thought it up.

Doing right by the left side.

Before I turn the light on, I put his clothes on inside out and tags back.

As if by coincidence, it was an imperfectly perfect fit.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2017

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The Sword of Gale

I am the axiomatic master of my fate; the King of Maxim state.
I sit on a throne of axions, maintaining discrete time symmetry to keep my line in place.
With ordained and sovereign rule, I rise to the dominion of my life’s decisions; even when they do not translate to my intentions.
Blazon insignias are inscribed by my position.
Posed by social status and affluence, alongside it a physical constitution.
Each of us having idiosyncrasies by means of paradox.
As if to say I'm right handed an made of left handed particles, with momentum opposite to intrinsic spin.
By what parity could this arise?
Alas a vast enigma, derived by the perceptions of body soul and mind.
At ease and at odds to forego and prevail.
In concert of my peers, I will unsheathe the Magnus Opus and uncover the vale.
The ignorance of our own empowerment that I overtly forswear, and so goes on the allegorical tale.
It’s given narrative defeated, torn to tatters by The Sword of Gale.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2018

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Qi and phi,
Murder and hijinx.
Averting worth to silence the clink.
Yet it is there; impaled through the chink in my armor made of kinks.
I'm a topological quantum knot; if my thoughts were anymore entangled, I couldn't think.
Too much or less would be false so no waltz.
Assaulting the heedless mind with hyperbole or nulling it with apathetic faults.
Adapted with facts fabricated by clocks.
By this insult, I assert a Ballista of rage and riposte.
That acts as a swift handed counter attack.
Tit for tat with the Colossi; in opposition to gargantuan adverts.
As such, I am tasked with being poise and strategic in the face of futility.
But that is what the hero does in every fable; as such it is fitting for mine.
Wielding qi and phi with guile, so be it when my time is nigh.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2018

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We swim in slime of a kakristocracy.
Its murky yet neon green; with radioactive counterfeit dollar bills.
These waters are toxic; it's inhabitants littered and hypoxic.
Ethnocentric, psychographic, demographic divides each line in it's Net worth catch.
Yet there is a falling cascade.
A where about place where Seahorses galavant.
There can be no chuevinism; where she provides and he bears his own legacy.
The Stud and his Mare.
Subsequentially inside a tsunami, crashing down on a barren coral reef.
Even in these tumultuous times, he will ask for her egg and she shall concede.
Now wading in the torrents of a dream; they and their offspring, sleeping peacefully beneath the Stampede.

Copyright © Alex Cullen | Year Posted 2018