A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

I've added 5 parts, and still don't know if the work is finished or not, however, I do know it is polished and ready to read. The second part "Drive" is a pseudo part, your choice to include or not.


Deaf To Life


The kaleidoscope of an opal utopia

From the rusting brushstrokes of a red-throat

Crocheted crazed in May’s greys masquerading oasis

Crocheted mosaics of blasphemous pastures evaporating (asters like) lapis tapestries

Wrapping (chapters) of Cleopatras collapsing

In alabaster rafters chapels of overlapping apathy

Capsized in her eyes’ horizon

Crocheted everglades of lackadaisical maelstroms

In the faceless opaquely lacy forsaken creationists’ oasis

Maelstroms of fabled angels

With crocheted halos of lackadaisical azaleas

Rainbows of untameable flamethrower corroded ozone osmosis

Coursing through the voiceless rejoicing incorporeal metamorphosis

Tomes born in the void of primordials

The well-oiled mortal coil phantasmagorical

Omnipotent gypsies hieroglyphics on a sycamore’s stiff back

Between the cracks of a sidewalk

Andromedas domino chronological as scattered patterns ravage a tattered avalanche

The burden of a metallurgical hurricane of chains

Refurbishing the serpentine currents of blurred eternities

Burning together in lead smeared Armageddon

In the leather feathers of weathered poinsettia like heavenly blemishes of tethered remembrance

Sometimes it is better to burn

Scimitars of bending arms

Us crooked inukshuks of pebbles toppling into rivers

Smoothed out by pain

Made yarn of suffering

Hanging our entrails like a wreath to dead Gods

That couldn’t bear to listen to poems

And the crows flock among the sheep

And the high crowd around the deep

And dead will never get to weep

A candle’s chrysanthemum chandelier strangled bangles in the entangled avalanche

The waxing and waning beacon of a fully lit moon

(Face leaking through the tendrils, the fingers of clouds)

(Lucid with jubilance miscommunicating)

(Hands hiding mouths from view)

Burning out, French kissing

Leaving smoke in the lungs of heaven

I wish I could

Snuffed embers flickering

Fallen stars

Ashen with the sweat of eons

Legions of Eden

A dry stick in a basket

I no longer run

The tears have dried

My tongue has licked the stars clean of sympathy

There is only this lit match

Only the shadow of a man

From the men of shadows

There is no light of day

And the dark night only invites esteemed guests

Nobody knows me

The men of yesterday

In the lacquered wake of aether Homosapien

The lavender catacombs of inhabited heavens with no agenda endless

Rusting under waves of capsized clouds creased by cloverleaf ovaries

Ships swallowed on the milky way crashing with astronauts

I reach out to them

Those who have pushed me aside

An empty book, blank pages

A human heart flowering on the shelves of cobwebbed leatherbacks

Lost in the garden of Eden

Cost is the bargain to freedom

They were too many

But I need no legion

Only the comfort of solitude

Warming my shivering peeling paint hands

Over the flame of an intrepid sun

No longer soft as the underbelly of a bluebird

Plucking feathers from between my wings

Caged between the ribs of this earth

The forge of corridors pouring through this blue sky

Anadromous andromeda of fauna barnyards of harmonic polymerization

(Homage to the bottomless sovereignties of auburn candelabras like comets mandala)

Limbs of trees arched (like a cat), bending over backwards

Twisted at different angles together

Hands praying to the twilight

Burning alive in the cold bombardment of rain

A fence chrysanthemum of amaranthine branches

Around the circumference of heaven

That I still trespass in hopes of finding God

Hiding in his abandoned house

Among the mannequins of humanity

Every now, and then

Before I climb back down

Into my everyday life

A child

Lost along the way, trailing into nothingness

Ricocheting off empty, (full of it)

Pretending to be an angel

(Picturesque Icarus)

Leaving behind (the bread crumbs of) my world

One day

They will find the broken pieces of a cracked mirror

Or the scribbling of words on the back of a page tumbling in the wind

And I will have existed

Be it on the page

Or written on my skin

Flames that have long since become ashes

And I will not care

For if I am a lit match (today)


I must burn out

I am not afraid of (a life in the) darkness

Only what hides in the shadows, unilluminated

As the clocks tick rhythmic symphonies

Across the boardwalk of apocalypse

The white and the black checkered

Ruffled brushstrokes of gusto lustrous fluctuations complacently awakening aetheric

Basilicas broken down into angel pyres

Breathe in the liquor and nicotine

A menageries’ mirage of bottomless choreography

Hernias burning squirming like a serpentine tourniquet’s current of blurry hurricanes

Wildfires under eyelids that kaleidoscope

Overripe smiles intertwine formaldehyde in the miles of a beguiling riptide scythe

Slithering obsidian rivers glimmer mimicking

Spindling schism of rhythm to the ribbons of umbilical imitation and scintillation

Into another empty morning

Greeting death after making love to life




Bustling brothels of toppled sarcophagi

Sonatas operas of fossil’s esophagus

And rondos of gelatinous acropolis follow

(Anaconda of) mitochondrial mausoleums like audible colosseums dreaming terpsichorean

Wrinkled with mimicry’s illiterate blizzard of idiosyncrasies’ symphony

Propellors of velvet amaryllis

Unresting nestling Nephilim

Kissed with the bliss of synchronicity

The needle and thread of scarecrows born from heavenly/celestial bodies

Rising and falling upon each other like waves

Mountains crumble tumbling in the surfy murk

Crisscrossing nocturne the blossoming colossus

Starcrossed phosphorous of city block clockwork

Desiccated vessels of speckled retinas’ imperfections and perpetual pestilence

Desolation smouldering creation

Burning through burgundy eternity

Hurricanes of graveyards carved from the trunk of steampunk trees

Ripe with disease and sea breeze

Autumn discombobulated in the colours of a wondrous promised land

Shielding the heavens from their blind eyes

Grasping empty air in their closed palms

Homunculus rummaging through thunderous underworlds

Swirling early in the mourning of devoured moons

Looming altocumulus of distant crippled Icarus,

Rigid within a prison of photosynthesis

Infinite rhythms and rays like razorblades

Cut the bed of clouds into sheets of paper

Leather covers of smothered dreams

Bleeding the seeds of regal Elysium

Like acrylic citadels of biblical immaterial veneers of spherical murals

Scrawled on the knowledgeless concrete walls

I mould together with (clay and) my bare hands

Keeping the thoughts within the pen and fence

Dissipating into acres of aether oasis

Pouring with stories of oracles phantasmagorical

Oarsmen taking lost poets down the river to the afterword

Written with the stitches of rivers

The moon’s pull an undertow unfurling churning whirlwinds

Interconnected stretching Bethlehems

Out of secondhand madness

Lost in the apostles of songless heaven

Screaming silence in the unravelling chords of void humanoid

On the flip of a coin rippling omnipotent noise

Vocal orchestras incorporeal searching the Milky Way

For a silver swivelling guillotine of lilies and willow wisps

And cerulean skylines divided by sirens like a drive-by

The words must stand on their own

And fall like dominoes

Caught between the plains of pages a hurricane’s angels

Gone stale in the flailing of railing halos

Before drowning in the amalgamation of creation’s mouth


Scratched Blackboard


Looking through the reef of graffitied trees

The acrylic buildings of amaryllis stillness among pillaged villages of lilies

As if shielding my eyes from the watchful sun

Chiselled hills of Yggdrasil billowing silicon vermillion trilling willow trees

The mesh of effervescent vessels incandescent mess

Impressionists of deathless mechanisms

Forests of Ouroboros corridors born of phantasmagoria

Porcelain chords of menorah flourishing currents hurricane

Turbines rewind like neon signs from God

Intertwining vinyl ivory

Binding spiralling bibles of silver-lining kaleidoscopes

Spires of quiet choirs riot among diamonds

The wind roars like a lion

Funnelling puzzling watercolour puddles

Of lilac horizon among wide-eyed skyscraper wyverns

Like violet hyacinth

Scrying the angler

Bangles of sign language mangled dandelions

Like hangnail angels cradling babies of mayhem a ukulele made of azaleas

Flailing in the pale halo of wind

And do not feel the shuddering moon beneath their blackboard skin

Scratching record needles against bones

Finding their out of tune strings

Strumming thunderclouds into the mouths of hallelujah

Stuck between the teeth of a paintbrush

Under the mattress/tongues of riverbeds

Inside the lungs of endless dead

Scratching words onto the herculean surface of the lake

Meticulous Icarus wickerman crippled by the rippling sun

Graffiti meteors onto andromeda the kilometres of mandalas

Unravelling pianos staccato of static labyrinths

(Zigzag) In the shallows of babbling gallows howling hallelujahs

Dripping with the sweat of exodus

Crepuscular nectar the epithet of Nephilim’s wreckage of wretched Bethlehem

A drop of blood muddling the sunset burgundy

On my back, the burden of eternity’s metallurgy

Twisting into sisterhood polycrystalline

Bodies hanging from the broken neck of a guitar

The distorted morsels of porcelain orchestras

Spinning linden trees incendiary with the strept breath of marionettes

Ethereal murals (of steel) speleothem

Sleeping terpsichorean lethal rejects of Elysium

Spilling trilling vermillion guillotines without the lyrics

Some say none will stop (the clock to) hear it


Paint (Perhaps)


Perhaps my friends have forgotten me

(I keep telling myself)

(“I’m sorry, so sorry”, )

(But also, so tired and strafed)

(That) I can no longer see their blank slate faces

Featureless smiling

On my third-degree burn skin

And still

I do not care

For they

Can no longer judge me

As much as I can

Judge God, or heaven

For them

The nameless dead

Will no longer find their reflection

In my stained-glass eyes

Those windows

Have long since been boarded up

And still

I do not care

You cannot shatter bricks

Or stone

I am not so terribly lonely

(Between the walls of this shell)

That I would pull my heart (inside) out from below the wreckage

Heaven and God

And offer it

(To you)

To these vultures


Like me

Do not


(Sorry for themselves)

And for those who think otherwise

Know, no

You are mistaken


We are not (too) different

As all of us

Must meet death

On our own battlefields

And become tomorrows’ roses and thorns

Painted into (blood portraits of) prairies, meadows, clearings, (pastures, fields,) and forests

Crumbling into ashes, scattered gravel trailing on the breeze


And that perhaps

Is the only gift these deaths can give

The final sentence

Before silence


This blood should be kept on the inside

Before I become another mural




I ate my own words and found I was full of myself

Stanzas of jasmine Lazarus catacomb colloquialism

In the apotheosis of cashmere stratospheres as torrents flourish Ouroboros

And the heavens bend their backs over to

Poltergeist maestros ripe with ichor intertwining vines of bloodlines

As we pull the strings and dangle

Syphon lightning’s disciples writhing with isotopes

Skylines of violet shining maniacal and psychotropic metropolis

Gothic gospels of lost kaleidoscopic apostles

Lycanthropes psyche’s kaleidoscope song from throat

Stencilled mementos on boulevards of marble and jargoned gardens partisan

Aether crocheted gazing mimicking mosaics of clay tapestries

Masquerading Himalayans splayed by yesterday’s maze

The swaying pages of everglades and ravens

Like white kite scythes daylight grazing naked on graphite hermaphrodites

Grasping gasping rapturous Cleopatras from between their shapeless forms reborn

Cardiovascular passageways pastures and grasslands captivate the castaways

Flowing rowboats supernova four-leaf clovers floating utopian

Sunken ships, bunkers of homunculus

Puncturing the sunburned underworlds

Of thunder furled twirling boroughs of sterling silver

Steampunk beacons with the wingspans of older men’s hands

Unravelling planets, winding the spirals of Gaia’s kaleidoscopes

Kissing lips sewn together by alphabetical letters

In the deafening radio static of silence

The heart goes on beating onomatopoeia

Until the ceiling speleothems in surrenders’ hemorrhage

Feathers of leatherback Rorschach in weather-beaten Armageddon’s flora

Writing the bones into the flesh

And the words into sentence

And the Gods into man

Grasping empty in our hands, feeling it between our fingers

Fulfilling wishes on fallen stars that lack the strength to stand

These tumbleweeds stumbling in the sands of time

Rumbling winding smiling vinyl

Throughout the cloudy sound garden in the talons of these lands

Through the loose shackles of atmospheres

Dreary with lyrical delirium

As they spread their light across the road like blood on the pavement

Engraved in the soft cement

Lovelessly torn down the middle

At war with peace

Surrendering happiness

Giving their lives away on crowded street corners

Vultures watching the falling leaves swivel in the wind

Left to fend for themselves

Clogging gutters with their second-hand poems

And half-smoked cigarettes

Flowers in a basket

Among backstreets of whips and thorns

Bloody and blooming

Wilting hands of the clock

Raised like a (white) flag fluttering in the wind

Lost in the firing squad of stray seconds

I could hear them

Shouting whispers to themselves in the thin alleyways

“In the end I was a wounded dog

Why wouldn’t they kick me?”

I say to myself

“At least they never had to live life collared on a leash”

Free, like

Somersaulting hummingbirds

That mumble strumming smothered love affairs in the coiling foliage phantasmagoria

Insects in the grand scheme of things

Blotting out the sun with their outstretched tree limb arms

Free from their roots (in the concrete)

© 2021 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Author's Note

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
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.

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Featured Review

This is amazing work...the alliteration enhances as I found myself immediately reading out loud as if in a poetry slam...
"Hanging our entrails like wreaths" breath taking phrasing there.
"greeting life after making love to death" mmmmm

I see three poems here that are separate and my only suggestion would be to post them one at a time...so the reader can get the full effect of each one...does and will get a bit taxing for some readers
to read them when all put together, because of the length of each.
but really good work.

Posted 3 Months Ago

2 of 2 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

3 Months Ago

I'm really glad you enjoyed it, I myself started sharing as a slam poet once I got past the stage of.. read more


way too talented
it's a little complicated to me

Posted 2 Months Ago

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

Well, I'm glad you feel I have talent, that certainly helps my self-determination. I understand if i.. read more
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This was a whirlwind of emotion and imagery, like a psychedelic, gothic opus. I like work that I might not fully grasp but instills images and thought like a film. You're quite the writer.

Posted 2 Months Ago

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed this poem. Keep writing, I'll keep up with your next poems.
You are beyond talented my friend.

Some of these lines are, well, I don't know how to describe them. They burn into your consciousness.

I would recommend shortening your work however. I kinda see how that might not be conducive to what you're trying to do but, you should still try and work with brevity in mind none the less. One of the reason's I don't leave you a lot of reviews is because I have to read you in pieces and that kinda keeps me from being able to leave a more nuanced review. Keep the pictures though.... definitely keep the pics.

Posted 2 Months Ago

2 of 2 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

I entirely understand that the right thing to do would be to split up the different parts for severa.. read more

2 Months Ago

I think you should stick to what you're comfortable with. If the longer stuff is where your sweet s.. read more
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

I’m glad to hear you’ll still stick around, it’s definitely where I’m at my best for some re.. read more
This is amazing work...the alliteration enhances as I found myself immediately reading out loud as if in a poetry slam...
"Hanging our entrails like wreaths" breath taking phrasing there.
"greeting life after making love to death" mmmmm

I see three poems here that are separate and my only suggestion would be to post them one at a time...so the reader can get the full effect of each one...does and will get a bit taxing for some readers
to read them when all put together, because of the length of each.
but really good work.

Posted 3 Months Ago

2 of 2 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

3 Months Ago

I'm really glad you enjoyed it, I myself started sharing as a slam poet once I got past the stage of.. read more
Amazing and beautifully written like an ethereal dream caught in glimpse by memory the images you painted stay with the reader. There are layers upon layers of art revealed and hidden in the words. Thank you for sharing your poem with us.

Posted 3 Months Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

3 Months Ago

I'm glad you enjoyed the poem, thank you for reading!

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5 Reviews
Added on June 23, 2021
Last Updated on July 14, 2021
Tags: burning


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Burlington, Halton, Canada

Most of my poems can be differing lengths depending on the time you want to spend reading them. You can avoid reading anything brackets, or read it all. If you want an in-between, you can read only th.. more..


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