Lost Words They Used To Call Me (Eightball)

Just something that came up when I had some time to think on the poem Pen Name. I think it's one of the most beautiful poems I've ever written. In a way, there are many, like this. Hope it continues.

 

 

Lost Words They Used To Call Me

Disease of half-bred gasoline respiratory rigour mortis

 

Fornicating malaise of daisies gone hazy lackadaisical napalm

 

Goldenrod of forefather’s slaughtered

 

In the gardens of arbitrary vicarious marionettes

 

Deathless and relentless

 

Lavender labyrinths of jasmine amethysts

 

Silken umbilical amaryllis of civilization’s depravation

 

Straddle stratospheric radio static catalysts

 

Ravenous as megalomaniacs

 

With the hunger of a fallen sun

 

Half-bent to hell sent descending hallucinogenic

 

Pendulums of evanescence scintillate disfiguration

 

The stomach of the beast

 

A guttural scream of gut reflexes

 

Songs stretching palpating flesh over bone over idea over nothing

 

Middlemen sung the aroma of tongue twisters

 

Speak of the devil; the chatter of teeth (ricochet) crocheted into smiles

 

Through the many open mouths of madness

 

Chewing, swallowing the goldenrod Nirvana

 

In an onyx renaissance of martyrdoms’ Tartarus

 

Dirty magazines sanguine and loose cartridges of cartilage

 

Vermilion lilies filling the gap of factories refractory, Rorschach tapestries

 

Lord of the butterflies with no wings

 

Velvet elegies of clockwork nocturnes

 

Celadon umbrellas of interstellar cerebellums

 

First, I lay the groundwork when I bury the past

 

And birth a new future from the empty lot of my heart

 

Left kicking and screaming

 

The brambles of its knees a knotted noose of branches

 

Build the city’s foundation from mere stories

 

Tall tails of the serpent Infinity’s kiss

 

Left hungover head-over-heels at the foot of creation’s spiral staircase of pews

 

Drunk on high spirits over the moon with jubilance like an upside-down hell

 

Yard-sales of memories in every lane

 

Walking the fine lines’ mile

 

Cocaine in each vinyl aisle of serpentine kaleidoscopes

 

On tightropes of cyclones opals of dopamine

 

Ectoplasmic lavender cadavers

 

Casket basilisks, scavengers of harpsichordist Asmodeus

 

Metamorphosis through open orifices church organs expurgatorial

 

Of anthropomorphic cornucopias

 

Chlorophyll sorrowful horror show front row

 

Death’s blow curtains’ roach beetles of crematory aurora borealis

 

As I watch the world come down from the ivory towers of heaven

 

Just to beat me into the earth like a body

 

Just to beat me into tune like a symphony

 

Just to rinse me from my doom, like epiphany

 

From the chrysalis, I come bearing gifts for the photosynthesis of lipless syphilis

 

Heads wrenched like a nail from the crowbar of the spine

 

Bent into pedals of plastic cardiovascular asteroids of polaroid joy

 

Sunrise reviling revival pile-driving denial non-violence silence of the goldenrod

 

Chalk over the mountain of bodies you climbed like a stairway to God

 

Skyscrapers scab over the heavens but still scrape by together in the scraps of rapture

 

Leftover morsels of porcelain, with lavender canopies of cotton-candy flesh

 

The phantasmagorical orchestra of primordial oracles

 

Ouroboros coursing through the veins of maple trees

 

Lustrously clustered with succubus succulent cemeteries

 

Of blueberry heretics paraplegic in bohemian bulimia

 

Doppelgangers vagabonds drawn and quartered brought forth

 

Cornerstones of eternal servitude

 

Born to flesh

 

To bone

 

To body

 

To soul

 

To loss

 

To loath

 

The crows that watch from the glades

 

Graves of Himalayans where molehills become mountains on the face of the earth

 

And pores become cysts and w****s enlist

 

The abyssal promiscuous linguistics of ellipsis of fisticuffs

 

The riffraff of aftermath crashing on the sofa

 

Drowning in a plastic ocean of creamy oasis

 

Where the dreamers leave weaving their signs like an advertisement

 

In a language that God doesn’t speak

 

And the city is a concrete cell

 

Born among many concrete cells

 

Becoming its own screaming organism of broken

 

Built to destroy its hallow creation by leaving behind the lie

 

Of someone whole

 

In a fractured mirror

 

Wondering

 

If this world will ever break them

 

And if shattered

 

If still left in one piece

 

Puzzles of the lost worlds’ revolving doors that were once them

 

Clear images

 

Blurring together like the terpsichorean herculean mercury topsy-turvy of hurricanes

 

Until we close the blinds

 

And the window of the soul, the bulb of the flower

 

Is boxed in

 

And buried

 

Under the maple tree in winter

 

Like a rose caught behind the crossfire dunes of bioluminescent exorcism

 

And curtains of an hourglass

 

Like vintage indigo of biblical acrylic ventriloquists of pillow kissed basilicas

 

 A bottomless well of pastel blasphemy

 

Valkyries’ veneers mirroring sulphuric fuming fuchsia altocumulus

 

Of celadon belladonna anacondas of bronze armadas vibrato’s Gehenna

 

Harlequin sonnets of auburn harmonies starstruck carnivals

 

Hazel mosaics of trailblazing halos, veils of teal murals of the spirit immaterial

 

Tempestuous crepuscular resurrections of theocentric exodus

 

Omnipotent monolithic hieroglyphs crisscross eclipse

 

Sunkissed in tipsy willow-wisps of eucalyptus 

 

Just spiralling violin lilacs of plastered black-lit Rorschach castaways

 

Where God entered and exited the stage of flesh like a (paperclipped) bullet

 

As if the world wanted an(-other) encore

 

Of Molotov apostles mandalas polyphonic columns pollinating

 

Of kaleidoscopic andromeda blossoming omniscient Autumn halogens diabolical

 

Gospel’s onomatopoeia a paraplegic phoenix of remixed double-helixes

 

Tongue-tied French kissing ludicrous hues rippling rhythm of Lithium monocrystalline

 

You see, I am the nightmare that dreams

 

Yet, to be so hollow and never achieve anything

 

God of my own empty gun

 

Like a cigarette without lungs

 

Choking on the ashes, the memories, of my own second hand smoke

 

A blank canvas painted in you

 

Seeing in colour

 

A world of black and white shades of shadows that glint like fallen snow

 

Together, we are

 

Ecclesiastical astronauts who never found God

 

A red rose caught in the (slip-)knots of its own thorns

 

Sliding through the cracks that some would call smile-lines

 

Born shattered into place

 

Your days numbered in prime

 

Getting even as oddballs playing pool

 

This is your cue, take your shot (from a different angle)

 

And exit the stage through the barrel of a muzzled scream

 

Whole

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Heavy editing has taken place. It's almost a different poem. Greatly improved, in my opinion. Maybe finished? Who knows?

Anything in brackets is uncertain. Someday I may delete them, or improve on them. You choose whether you'd like to read the poem with them as a part of it, or not. It all comes down to taste in the end. They're good lines, don't get me wrong, but they don't always fit. And so, they remain in brackets, for now.

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.

Reviews

[light and ashes]

Reads like the babblings of a madman who has sudden outbursts of utter brilliance. (I am not calling you mad nor would I ever.) I am a fan. I actually think you are quite brilliant.
Highly abstract and a lot to take in and for the reader to digest. There are many lines in here that I absolutely adore.
It takes quite a lot of talent for someone who is not insane to write like this. ;) High marks.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thank you Light, if you don't mind me calling you Light, a lot of my poetry takes sound-bounding metaphor, and the occasional double entendre as my main tools for writing. There have been times I've put together entire poems of similar sounding words. Not always is it clear for the reader, but there is definitely thought put behind the words. I have several different styles, but this one probably is my more unique style. I love sharing my writing, and I've been reading your writing as well. I'll definitely pop by every now and then to read your new poems. Glad to hear you enjoyed this one! :)

R.J

[light and ashes]

A lot of people do. I like it. :)
Your writing is great. I wasn't trying to take anything from it at all. It's just a lot to digest.
Thank you! I'm glad to know that!
I have a new one.
It's called, "The Kraken."
I would really love if you gave it a read.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

I'll check it out and drop a review sometime this week. Always excited to read something new.

[light and ashes]

Great! I'm looking forward to reading your review!
Thank you so much!

[Pete]

first off i love the title and eightball. fascinating, the way you put words together in a most unusual way. off the beaten path words that takes one on a journey and back, full-circle. it does at times seem like the stark ramblings of a brilliant madman. i always appreciate your wording and imagery but this one is especially potent. so many memorable lines.

Heads wrenched like a nail from the crowbar of the spine

Of blueberry heretics paraplegic in bohemian bulimia

your accompanying pics are also the bomb. reading you always leaves me out of breath and my head spinning ... :)

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thanks for sharing the journey, always appreciate when you enjoy my poems! :)

[Kari Rakitan]

This takes me on a fascinating journey as always.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Thanks for reading Kari, glad you liked it! And sorry I didn't get back to you immediately, I was just so engrossed in my writing I didn't think about reviews until I finished.

[Kari Rakitan]

No worries! Life happens :)