Spindle

Spindle

A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
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A collection of closely related poems. There are ten of different lengths. Some are quite long, some are relatively short. If you have the time, give them a read. It would be much appreciated. -R.J-

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Stray

 

Spindled quivers of limericks ventriloquist the nymph of incubus

Cherry chimaera of neoclassical lassoed alabaster grasslands dilapidated

That brim in swimming linen infinity

The ineligible dwelling of melancholy swelling parhelion

Melody quelling in the belly of evangelical elegy

The char of bulbous knowledge samsara rubbing off

On scratchy pathogens of hands in the stained glass pastures

(Intermingling among dried riverbeds of wasted tears)

Braille gales of coattail tornadoes

Somersaulting polymers like amaryllis melodies

Chthonic discombobulated symbiotic mantras of flora and fauna

Saunter (acoustic nucleus) altocumulus plumage illuminating

Ruminating in the clementine fermented heavens

Of hallucinogenic genesis

Spindling cylindrical prisons

Of indigo behind closed windows

That schism incendiary in the timid rhythm

Of windbreakers of barren prairies

Bearing varicose caricatures

Eras of vicarious marionettes,

Blossoming aquamarine

Apothecary broth of over-frothing mockingbirds

Of crepuscular death

A Gregorian chant

As the skeletons dance blessed

By the echo(es) of effervescent Nephilim

Who hold scepters of crescents

In a rambling megalomanic canopy of hands

Threads of poinsettia treading feathered Armageddon

Tethered in leather reveling devilish Everest

Among pelicans of mellow evangelical archipelagos

Wings of stigma’s pigmentation

Like nomads of cadaverous Lazarus

Canyons of unravelling Babylonians

Smoldering wardens of Asmodeus

Orchestrating coursing metamorphosis

Within the strings of a stray’s basil ukulele

The spray of grey Himalayans

Cat’s cradling kittens bare-fisted

Between the missing lithium cistern

Blissfully mystified by winding spines of bibles

Disciples of the scythe’s road

Reaping Elysian weaving museums speleothems set on by heaven

As the worlds ripple twisting pixies in pristine lithium

Conifers of the omnipotent hieroglyphic eclipse

As the eyes of God crescent into pestilence

And the clouds fall upon the world

Like a predator

Spiralling trials of braille trails azaleas

Spires where wyverns cry out to the

Lion’s iris of choirs of writhing diaphragms

(Sure swerving to serve and)

Sire silence hand and in hand

Like a quiet sort of band

Leaving dishevelled reverends tethered

(Rebels) In the heavens

Pendulums streaming endlessly of renegade new genesis

Balconies of Valkyries among the scattered seas

Of debris spray painted disease of graffiti

Covering the steampunk umbrage

Of thunderous bumblebee homunculus

Sunken in the slumping shoulders of slit-throat slums

Of a ghetto’s archipelago bellowing melodies

Crescendos arpeggio assemblage camouflaging Godhood

From the bottomless cauldron of staccato choreography

The bog of halogens disembowelling men

The evanescence of west winds mortar and pestle again

Blessing blotched blossomings of crosslegged lackadaisical angels

Bearing the serendipitous eclipse

Between their well-toned thighs

(Gaia)

A sunrise, a ball of wool unwinding like a string

The livewire of an unstrung violin within

In the infinity of a symphony

Symmetries umbilical mimicry

Among unblinking idiosyncrasies

Like neon irises that flower

Hydras lilac in twilight on the violet horizon

Nomadic gladiators

Flagging down the cab of a vagabond

Malleable valleys and alleyways

Wallflowers of mountainous clouds like alabaster molasses caskets

For astral castaways

In the blasphemous blackberry

Kissed abyss of the sky

Spindling cinnamon incendiary

Linden trees of green

Swindling swinging trapezing

In the terpsichorean breeze

Like a spriggan’s amygdala or a nun on her knees

Cashmere veneers of the delirious free

Sodomy in the autumn leaves

Harvesting menageries, disembodied monasteries

Guitarists gargling on arteries

Strumming a subterranean maelstrom of heartstrings

Disembarking wingspan pianos

Of bantering anarchy

Rusted by the rain, under the one-eyed sun

Is our barbed wire veins

Different colours

But the same (to be strung)

Underneath the moonlit rays

As our planet wastes away

Shattered ceramic made of clay

Battered amaranth of jade

Splayed again this hurricane

Drown still asking, grasping,

Collapsing into rhapsody

For the rain

Basking, halfway

Sane

 

Sleep

 

Stains stitched into the fabric of history

Flickering images pilgrimage my grimaced intimacy

These blistered lips still whispering crisply

Falling like we’re Icarus

Bewitching polycrystalline ammunition

Lisping crucifixion’s apparition

Littering the ground with magazines

Collages of their broken bodies spreading across concrete

Scratched into one vinyl disc screaming

Put the pieces back together

Put the pieces back together

Put the pieces back together

Bluejays of jailed railroads

Pale with the haloed spade of azaleas

The flowers grow here now

The flowers grow here now

This is my meadow

Don’t yell

The dead will hear you sleep

The dead no longer dream

We no longer wake

 

Shade

 

Hollow men

Vessels of crepuscular resurrection

Nocturne’s rakshasa, crows of apotheosis

Of Netherland’s brethren

Kaleidoscopic rocking chairs

Of the stepped on stems of buried men/dead

Of a cemetery of emerald memories

Disassembled remedies

Incomprehensible endings

Hemorrhages in the minds of Gods

Circumcised confinement applauds

(Chalky mockingbirds)

In dishonest comradery

Drowning in the (valleys)

(Boundaries of) bottomless

Autumn audience

Iridescence nestles/Iridescent nests

Between the breasts of testament

Tendrils of ventricles dribbling amaryllis

Without any fulfillment

Ravens of handmaidens and chamberlains

Bathing raised in everglades

Glazed grey by the veil of cottontail volcanos,

Lackadaisical maelstroms fables of fairytales

The horizon bides its timely demise

In their empty, cemetery eyes

A halo

(For the communal funeral)

(Of life)

 

Sol

 

Travel unravelling caverns of lavender scabbards

Of battered avenues over a canvas of labyrinths

Carpeting the knife’s edge of a city

Cutting into the fabric, the fat of the land

Leaving the bones behind

Under a tattered flag

Alone in the shipyard

The ricochet of ghostlike hammers

Can still be heard like a heartbeat

On these old walls

Building like a crescendo

Sitting cross-legged like a buddha in love with Christ

Crouching crocheted into the untamed waves

And hazel gravestones of Himalayans

Matrixes in the vapourware of destiny’s yesterday

Like a mural of gears

Rearing their ugly sheet metal heads

Children beyond the silver mirror

The warmth no longer lives here

Cast your hands into the fire

Work with the metallurgical murder of crows

And pull out our screams

Give back our silence

This is everything we have ever heard

I remember what we left behind

In the deserts, frames of buildings

From the sands of time

Sprouting roots of steel vines that scraped the knees of God

This darkness used to

Burn (so) bright

There is no sanctuary from light

Each nook and cranny

Feels its fingers tugging, its eyes watching, tongue gorging

As if crammed into all corners of our mouths

Smiling blind crying enlightenment

So now

We dance in the dust

And play in the shadows

While scarecrows strum and

Tune guitar strings in their wicker throats

And imitate the word of God

Carried away by the wind

Lending its severed ear to silence

So that as silence speaks

So that as the sound of mind

Remain deaf to madness

As if they haven’t heard of reason

Shuffling through idea and ego with feeling

The heart

A dog pulling at the leash in a child’s hands

Willing to lose itself, to disobey and feel through the forest,

The stream, the river of consciousness

Of emotion, thought

To find freedom

Willing to be stupid, unique, on its own intuition

Or return to a familiar world of intelligent mediocracy

Safe from creativity

Callous of emotion, (flinching at) free-flowing, (ignorant of) curiosity

How easy it is to fit the puzzle together for them

I see every single piece

As unique

And cannot fit my frame

Into a single photograph

As they blur together

These many minds

Are better broken, distinct

Are less individual

Whole

When shattered, kaleidoscope’d

Bent out of shape

And out of focus

With intensity

Madness is legion

But does not lurk in the finite masses

Madness is the only thing individual about thought

The only reason I get up in the morning

Madness

Is Sol

And perhaps

Madness lights the way

For those who must live in darkness

For where I live

White is black

Smiling at me

(Growing more beautiful than buried stars)

Gnashing of teeth, bleeding of gums, umbilical chord tongue

Raising its voice like a child of words

Writing my story

On its stygian lips

 

Et Obscuratus Luna

 

Heavenly memories headstones of utopia

The dark cartilage decompartmentalizing the horizon

The punch line

A hurricane’s blackeye/closed eyelid

A skyline’s pilot rioting quietly

Siring society

Aspiring violated

Violence in a crying iris

Flowering ballerinas owls of talons reaper

Nihilistic and polycrystalline hipsters

Of the crypts of whispers

Whisky ellipsis elapsing asteroids

Of tactless cardiovascular masturbation

Of elation and crannied nations

Alabaster rationalization

Decompartmentalizing

Nations naked natures of lacquered creation

Masonry weightlessly crocheted

On the bays of bombshells andromedas

Bellowing velvet melodies of hellions

To the skeletons of elegance

Pelicans enveloping elegies

Of evangelical Valkyries

Lending their free hands to the chains of men forged from helixes

Haunting altars to monstrous decomposition

Astral mash of asters cardiovascular

Polymers of halogens’ menagerie

Of ovulating hate

Discombobulated fate

Monasteries wait

For the monolith of greats

Bottomless late

Cauldrons frolicking create

I ain’t no f*****g saint

Frolicking belladonna

Pawns of songbirds unheard in the blur of insurgency

Balaclavas labyrinth pianos salivating Homosapien

Through the static passageways

Of radioactive blasphemous masochistic astronauts vascular

Pastures of raptures’ asterisks crevasses

Broken vases where

Apostles are Rakshasas

On the inching of every city block

Of phosphorus gospel-kissed metropolis

Every endeavour remedies heaven’s blemishes

And blotches out the plane-walking apocalypse

Pouring out my organs in metamorphosis

From the crevices of my cracked bottle heart

Sharp enough to cut flesh into leather

And I wear leather like skin

And I wear myself like a puppet

Still lively in the hands of men

On the television

In the bathroom

My words that bleed out dry coughing

Everywhere

Sometimes I listen to myself scream

Until it rings in my ears like a telephone

I never pick up

The beat to my drum

Is stretched skin torn into chrysalis

Eggshell left hollow

I wonder if the butterflies

Have been crushed against the walls of this house

The way I line the outside world

Like a dropped water-balloon

Splattering into canvases water-coloured black

Where black is white

Colour me surprised

Colour me anything but bone

I still wear my heart, my emotion, on my sleeves

I have so many pockets

I can hide everything in them

Your smile is always visible

I am anything but

If I were to dream

I think I would be a butterfly

This world is a cocoon

Everything whole started out shattered

Breaking out of monotony

I am a gear in a machine

You provide the grease

We slither soothing snakes

One in the den of God

Idyllic

I shine in the dark like a lamppost

Hanging its head

A weeping willow of steel bark

My roots digging into infinity

Heart hanging by a string

Tied up in my knotted fingers

A broken guitar

Strum me like a musical note

Let me feel the vibration

Of the strings beneath my skin

A crowded room within my desiccated chest

Empty tempo

A wicker chair steeple

In the ether

God watches our two hearts eclipse

The sun melting below the horizon

The kaleidoscope of countrysides widening

Smothering midsummers, motherhoods, judgement, love affairs

Shimmering obsidian swimming stygian rigging

Rivers of images of willow wisp ventriloquism

My filthy hands cleansed by heaven’s Armageddon

In the wishing well of parhelion’s exoskeleton

The untuned moon a flower

Flowing through supernova over the muddy morning

Forged in Ouroboros

The Kalpa of aurora borealis

Over the black lactescent crescents

Of decrepit vesicular mechanisms questioning epitomes and trombones

The grin of a sliver’s silver in the sky

Guiding me back to the shores

Groping opal ghosts for the kaleidoscope coast

Before I drown in learned nothingness

And come back to the formless forest

Boredom of decorum, of substance

To catch my breath

Before sliding back into the shadows and crevices

Exploring emptiness

Finding fulfillment

Sailing through the lackadaisical railroads

Like ageing braille azaleas

Before the stampede of caged minds flatten meadows

And pretend to feel emotion

Under their dancing feet

The vibration, the rhythm, the breath, they never intended to feel

Simply there

Missing every note

Blind to visionaries

Deaf to God

(Somersaulting hummingbirds mumbling)

(Strumming sunset smothered summits in the recoiling primordial foliage)

Never finding the words

To love each other

But, as they look at each other now, strangely, and refuse to see

(By the tracks left by dragging feet)

I find I no longer care

 

Imago

 

Turning tourniquet churning hurricanes

Borough from the bough

A staircase of spines to the attic

Cellars of cerebellum mandala

Like a spiral chimera of winding xylophone

A burrowing portrait

That spells out the words

“I am a loaded gun”

(The shells in my chamber)

(Ricochet and palpitate ultimatums)

(Through the revolving door of my heart)

Thunderous undertows

Blunder in the sunburned tundra of carrion Sahara’s parable

The underground palace of amalgam

And stalactites

Disemboweling Valhalla’s hallelujah

I am the lost image of black upon the staircase of white

I am written between the lines of grey

Iridescent Geist spliced into isotopes

Born of thorny unicorns with storm cloud horns

Moored to euphoria, trails of halos

The cocoon of a full moon looms illusive

Wombs lucid in the fuchsia crucible of a cracked skyline of vases

Like a set of shark’s teeth

A brick wall where every brick is a word

Built out of discarded false-Godlike letters

I am the distance between here and there

Now and forever

Left and right

Black and white

Come meet me in reunion

Part ways with togetherness

Come back to goodbye

Yesterday is asking to greet you

Butterflies torrent agoraphobic seven stories

Through the forested metamorphosis

Mirrored theories washed up waltzing wasted on flawed spirits

I see the image of what I should be in your eyes

Blinking out the imperfections

Like neon cemeteries

In the dry cracked face of the earth

Leaving my tracks behind

To crawl through the hallway’s of crossed minds

Blindsidedly intertwining in the wireframe of irises

In the unblinking fire of civilization, cites

The beehive of metal fences

Barbed wire in lilac

 

My Own

 

I can still the feel, love

That once transpired in between these walls

Once inspired by livelihood

Hold its breath, theirs,

Underwater before the morning creeps in

Through the heavy drapes

Like a crack in the doorframe

I have been unhinged from,

Now only empty, space, open, but closed in

Full of empty

There are so many people like me

Filling their worry eaten mouths

That hurl their plastic bag piped stomachs at each other

Like a church organ in desperation

For a meal of lost souls, or the holy ghost

Without the heart to forgive

People become bloodthirsty, dry (for it)

Drink the moon down their throats like a glass of wine

Loaded dice aiming 3 sixes at lady luck

Gambling their lives away

I am not robbing their futures

I simply secure my own

Don’t think that when I step on eggshells

I’ve never been the egg

 

Ontario

 

The current a furnace of metallurgical hurricanes

Canyons of ceramic mannequins

(Valleys of palaces Valkyries of orichalcum)

Like anchored anvils of grand pianos unravelling gelatinous

Whittling the schism’d (visage of) wisdom(’s pilgrimage)

The splintered hieroglyphic fingerprints

Of weeping willows hollow with polymers

Of infinite oblivion and spriggan

Of sprigging figments ligament in mimicry’s idiosyncrasy

Like Mimosas of prairies

Scarecrow holsters of explosive poltergeists

Untwined in slices of overripe vice

Fabric of travesties like clavicle labyrinths

Cerulean pavilions of umbilical biblical vilification

Patient Mother Nature

Dips her wet kaleidoscope hands

Into the Milky Way

The way the sun drops under the horizon

On lake Ontario

While wearing a streaming bikini

Weaving meteors of romantic prancing planets;

Mars and Jupiter

With the traipsing of Elysian graffiti

Of boulevards of fallen stars

Moulded into the pores of her azure viridescent skin

The crescent moon kissing her cloudy cheek

Waxing and waning under the pull of an undertow

Gospels of sprawling metropolitan halogens

Written on the cities illiterate walls within solitude

A splintered axe embedded in the heart of a tree trunk

Beaten splintered photosynthesis

Gallows of phthalo blue avenues

Within the grooves of the world tree

The throat that swallows the word of God

And digests his mouthful of flowering prose

A monasterial burial in

A last gasp for breath below the depths

Of the crepuscular crescent

A renaissance of calm choreography

Of discombobulated celestial bodies pollinating

Elongating Homosapien matriarchs

Carpeting the ground in a distorted vortex

Reflecting conception’s indefinite imperfections

Oracles, fairies in hysterical marigold

Like motionless oceans in the biomechanical Avalon

Oasis on the tip of a broken spear

Like an ethereal pyramid of lost spirits

Buried caricatures in the chariot

Of planetary cherry blossoms

Born from the phantasmagorical flora

As we orbit the torso of a porcelain scarecrow

Ferrying paradise from the paraplegic eons

Saplings wrapped in the cardiovascular asteroids

Voice of a poltergeist deciphering an orphaned scythe

Wiping the smirk from the dirt of the cliff face

Turning over a new leaf

Sown together reverends

Of leather figurines, stygian obsidian trees calligraphy

Bleeding through clearings of crematoriums

Dreaming incoherently of a bloom’s seed

Rooted in a fantasy, feathered remedies

Planted by bantering mannequin hands

From the static fabric of the hunter-gatherer amputees

Rancid dancing entranced in the answers

Left to question the bantering

Rest to fester in vessels of polyester

Oil lanterns of amaranthine chrysanthemums

Flowering disembowelling the cowl of shrouded hallelujah

Grooming the ludicrous into unassuming unity

Strewn across my bedroom floor

Bridging the swimming oblivion visage

Incriminating Ecstacy’s echo from within my hollow skull

The mountains speaking my lost language

Mimic my rhythmic spirit of insecurities

Breathing between the greaves of my well-oiled turmoil

Stolen by the God’s of death and love

Staring me down as I hang from the coatrack

Plastered in my spit like a poem

Wet with the rain of blending memories

Ending in silence

Beginning again in the noise I’ve yet to hear

The monster in the mirror

Looks just like you

Sometimes I wonder why

I shattered myself in the first place

Perhaps I was just

Puzzled by the pieces

As they spindled like newspapers

Articles as illegible as the sidewalk

In the wind

Birds without wings

Trying to fly

Like hands on a clarinet

And each finger filled

The holes in my heart

This instrument

That sings to you now

Like an echo of a memory

Or a hastily written poem

On the fickleness

The unfeeling stare, the apathy, of God

Watching over the blind (visionaries)

 

One

 

Pillows vermilion willow wisp

Guillotines for the phantasmagorical foragers

Of waterborne oracles

Chlorophyll in the mid-mornings

Story filled corneas

Velvet formaldehyde

Of poppies that blossom

Like coffins and swastikas

The iris of a cypress tree,

Pine needle cathedrals

Looking down the mountain of dead bodies

Tossing and turning

Hurricanes in the turbulent riverbed

Under a blanket of sky on a mattress of jagged stars

Reaching out to the moon and grasping it in Her palms

Building stories on the foundation of a clay city

On the dredges of bedrock Cocytus

The way words structure a sentence

And the sentences become paragraphs

Secret passages built in time

Written by holy men

That prophet off war in a divine comedy

That have prolific dreams to share

While the knowers sleep

Like visionaries that have never left the cage of life

The cave of shadows

Bathed into every crevice of the walls

The light that pours in

Diluted like watered-down wine

They are drunk off the holy spirit

Ghostwriters for dead Gods

Haunted by spectres of their own design

Over the moon with their loaded questions

Shooting themselves with their anticipation, imagination

Every word pastel’d

Like an elegant bullet

Spattered compositions like a mosaic of aether

Bodies painted in the mud

Rolling around in the dirt ditch of the page

Covering it in the imprints of their hands and feet

Slick with themselves and their dry brush tongues

They are more mural than man

More veneer than body

They become the crevice, the dark edge

Everything hidden in the darkness becomes seen

They reveal the skeleton to the flesh

What’s the fun in knowing?

I become the viewpoint,

I embody it

Why share it?

I have nothing to share with you

Nothing at all

Just the image

Not the object

Just the sound

Not the symphony

The instrument of death is not a trumpet

It is the blur between the lines of a page

The detail is unimportant

Intricacy is beyond the clear

It is the static, the oneness, the gray, the in-between

That is the true state of art

So many people squished into one skull

Art is an explosion

Art is everything

But remains

One

The final vinyl of the last scream

Before the sun swallows the earth

Whole

Every moment

An infinity of done

Unendly so

We all are

The same painting

The same play

The same movie

The same book

The same poem

Blurred into one stroke of the brush

Flowering on the canvas

Before an endless sea of white

Meets the stretching shore of black

And colour blooms from their sepulchre chrysalis

Of fleeting eternity

Altars to penultimance

Cascading born from the gray gravelly abyss

Of a dirty page

 

Zero

 

Temples of concrete pulse like an ulcer in malting palpitation

Kingdoms of windmill linen spindling fingers of whittling amygdala

Shapeshifting eclipses whisper lisping

Wickers of unlit abyss chrysalis flicking Icarus

Baptism’s rhythmic schisms shrivelled prisms

Prisons under the umbilical vermillion sun

Spun from the yarn of Kalpa

Amorphous shapeless chaos

Of order desiccating creation

A crowded mirror in an empty room

Like a half-full womb

Swallowing audience of lost bodies

I have grown close with death

So much that the twang of life’s string becomes distant

Memories of the two intermingle

With hands ripped raw from strumming telephone lines

Like a tree branch without bark

I am the b*****d orphaned child adopted by God

Let me hold the world up to the light (of the city)

So I can see every detail pictured

Within my clenched fist

Or open palm

Either way, grasping reality

And all the subzero gravity of imagination

Making image from the clay

Shape from the chaos

The torque of a hurricane

Twisting back into place

This machine

Always rusting

We built god from so many steel words

Let us turn tail and run

Through the forests of our creation

Through the rusting hulks of giants

Through the empty harbours soundlessly alone

Where we once set suns like monstrous mountains out to sail

Let the stretch of screeching metal sing

Upon the flesh of thy enemy

We are slick with the spit

Of a civilized world

Homeless in a place where there is no recluse

What we need is more hardness

What we need is more sharpness

What we need is more heaviness

More magnified earth, cold steel

Bent into flowers of aluminum foil

Loose screws between painted fingernails

Metal before man

Let the heart singing to itself

Halt its hammering wake

Let us be silent again

Let the sound of static bend the earthly twine

Shibari to the wind, and the earth, and flames

Steam from our red-hot iron beaten into beauty

Let the Gods trample over us with their calloused feet

They too must know what it means

To be delicately broken

Left out in the sunrise of endless waters rusting

Into roses

Planting our feet into skyscrapers

Setting our roots among the stones

Bending under the heavens

Of our own weight

Jagged teeth protruding from the face of the earth

The mouth of the metal muzzled jaws,

Unbreakably shattered

Each piece of our many parts

A crescent moon

Smiling between the concrete cracks

Unpolishingly graceful

Among pupils, schools of fish

That flower like an iris

On the blackboard

Scratching the itch

Like a broken record

Mends bones of vinyl

Notes from the underground

Pistons of the glistening anachronistic

Gears in an incoherent machine

Ticking hands outstretched

Arms shoved into the mechanism of lustrous musculature

Musculoskeletal parhelion

Peeling back the break of day

From behind the crumbling concrete walls

Like metallic clouds painted white ballad

Graffitied discoloured and decorated in rusted chains

Familial bonds, knotted digits twisting omnipotent

Polycrystalline in the denim heavens

Rusting vellum, cerebellum arpeggios

Wrinkled handkerchiefs of smoke

Like scarves slithering in the dispersed wind

Overgrown with the yolk of mitosis

Thrust into succulent nothingness

A bantering lamplight

Sanctuary anchored echoes in the dark

Fumbling over figures

Smudged with the fingerprints of existence

Bathed with chapters unwrapping sacrilege in black afterimage

Of a chapel's laughing amphitheatre

In the alabaster rafters of a half-built sky

Abyss plunging deep into the heavens below

Uncharted waters of the bottomless highrises

Drowned out by the crowing of the city noise

Renovating the house of God

In the white blackness

The void of nothing’s crannied depth

Gathering together in the blank room of one place

Crawling on all fours

Throughout the emptiness of existence

People translucent transcendent

Never there to begin with

More see-through than the night sky

Tears flecked like ash from the eyes of angels

Churning in the burgundy eternity

Of a rainbow railroad

As our bronze and brass bodies

Shed skins of shredded shrapnel

Ricochet drift away in the grazing carousel

Of carolling marionettes

As clockwork mockingbirds of phosphorous

Walk the crossroads of apocalypse

Laughing at the temporary

Like dancing amaranths chrysanthemum

Disfigured in stygian obsidian brimming within

The oblivion of freshly trimmed linden trees

Debris of heaven’s remedies

Tumbleweed breathing in

The serpentine cursive of Ursuline weaving terpsichorean Elysium

Healing seraphim, phoenixes that helix speleothem

Crocheted effigies of endless dreams

We are born from shed skins

We are the empty shells of those who shoot pictures of their fleeting pasts

Into our gravelly hearts

You had best believe flowers become soil

Be prepared

You will be buried in the flowers of yesterday’s garden

Rusted into someone else’s shine

You will not be beautiful forever

Uprooted tongues licked dry of words

Wither under the burning sands of time

I gather their faces in my blind eyes

They are my gift

For when my face

Is gathered

In the hands of the dead I have left untouched

That God had forsaken and left behind

Growing old

The ivy vines of ivory

Clinging to life

Are afraid to jump

From the side of this house

Back into the dirt that birthed their ancestors(‘ pestilence)

This world is twisted

And from its shape

The smouldering metal frame of a picture

And I

Fade with time

Like the pictures of my grandfather

His furniture haunts this house

He is trapped within these walls

And I smell the dirt

The grass

The wilting of wreaths

The shadows on the walls closing in on me like

His hurricane's eye

Twisting and tossing and turning

The hands of the clock are watching me

Conducting a symphony bound to end

Sometimes I can still hear

The dead sing

In the ears of corn

In the stalks of flowers

They call through their sorrowful cries

To me and my headphoned ears

And I

Try not to listen

(My eyes damp with their words)

(My knees weak with their burden)

(My arms empty of their love)

As they

Are far more beautiful than my poems

(And I cannot write their lives)

(Into/as anything but fading memories)

[I want to cry]

[But all I can do is laugh]

[I wear these broken smiles I’ve found]

[That don’t belong to me]

[But]

[As much as I hate them for it]

[It’s good to know some people loved me once]

[This was meant for me]

[I was meant to collect smiles]

(Like seashells left by the crashing tide)

(Swamped by waves falling in on their selves as lovers might)

(Collapsing into rows of city blocks)

(I was meant to search for answers)

[Along the (overflowing) waterways of the damned]













© 2021 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)


Author's Note

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
First Edit: My previous self critical ass said this when I first started writing this poem in the description. Don't entirely disagree with what I said, but this is it: Short poem. Now, I absolutely hate writing short works, so I can't say I'm happy with this, but among my short poems, this would be the one that I'd pick. I like reading short poems, not writing them.

Second edit: Medium-sized poem. I do these again? Well God damn. Ok. This is decent, not too long, but not short thankfully. I'm happy with it. Please enjoy the read.

Third Edit: Somewhat of a large poem now, or a normal-sized poem for me. This has much potiental. Could be my favourite poem I've written for over a month. I'm in love with it. So it will continue to grow.

Fourth Edit: Four poems, fourth edit, the poem continues to grow into an anthology of works. Many of my works do. This work is clearly different to me now. It feels like new ground, or at least something beautiful

Fifth Edit: Five poems now. This is around the same length as my other poems. It certainly is an epic. I'm happy with the result, and hope to be even better as time passes, present, to future. Each stands alone.

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.

My Review

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Reviews

more of a great story than a poem,i liked it lot of great quotes

Posted 1 Month Ago


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Month Ago

Thank you, happy to share the read
 wordman

1 Month Ago

you`re welcome
this is so cool. such masterful word weaving. the way you put such emotive words together is truly amazing. thanks for another trip to the outer realms of existence ... :)

Posted 2 Months Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

Always glad to share! :)
This is a great piece of art. Mature and sophisticated, between human and non-human. Between language of thought and soul.
Really great.

Posted 2 Months Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

Always know I've written something well when you enjoy it. Thank you.
"of vicarious marionettes" is such a great line.
There is so much to like in this poetic journey...I prefer shorter pieces, always my anthem, less is more; however, this held me...
as the symphony continued to hit high notes.
j.

Posted 2 Months Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

Glad you liked it, thanks for the read.

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4 Reviews
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Added on July 6, 2021
Last Updated on September 22, 2021
Tags: basil, stray, spindle

Author

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

Burlington, Halton, Canada



About
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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