Forest of The Unforgotten

Forest of The Unforgotten

A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
"

A mix of nostalgia and horror. Forgetfulness and memory. Love and death. Loneliness, and crowds. Hate and longing. I truly made a piece that showed all of this. What a strange pride I have for it.

"







O

Beginning

(The Shape of a Guitar)

 

Shrieking scratching of metal-on-metal

Dusts the smudged full moon

And fills the charcoal sky ballooning brooms in runes of altocumulus

The shrouded cowl of balaclavas’ talons

Like Valkyries in the valleys of nightshade

Steady brevity

Spiraling vinyl of barbed wire violins

The empty field stagnantly clear and motionless, taunt, unmoving in the distance

Its heart not yet still, as if held in the hands of the forest

The beat never reaching the ears of corn

Or the eyes of potatoes

Or the crowns of the trees

Hearing, watching, studying every jewel upon its head

As if in disarray from the world of jade ballet

The forest crawling across oceans of flesh to leave its younger brother

Left to parade

Its fresh spade

In the grave of the shade

Waiting patiently scraped with this shapeless cremation aegis

A pier worn away at by still water

Floating splintered

Making chords that ring clear in the silence deep into midnight

From rusted iron strings

Chaining sentence together into noisy silence

Into black and white

Into nothing

Churning

The blistered riffing of eucalyptus eclipses in the distance

Driftwood hieroglyphics shapeshifting

Liquid in the mirror

Laughs at him

The crowd leaves him

He listens to himself cry

Metal screaming from every orifice

The broken amp of his hippocampus

A lantern panting in the rain, a lamppost

Of stars like scars

Falling tears from the face of midnight

Scratching records like an itch

He lights a cigarette

He mumbles lullabies (no one can hear)

God doesn’t want to hear him speak

He watches the simple knot of fumes smoke its way around his fingers

A motorcycle on an exhausted suburban street

He strums his heartstrings like a puppet on a flatline (of telephone poles)

His hands and tongue must be

The shape of a guitar

But the words no longer fit in their hollow syllables

The body of music no longer fits its strings

Much as he no longer fits

At all

 

I

Swarming phantasmagorical stories of orgies in the chlorophyll

Rattling sabbatical Vatican’s of stratosphere veneers

Incoherent murals of collared andromeda fondling

Comets chained in wireframe refraining from hurricanes of arcanum

Renegades of hazy Milky Way grazing on maelstroms

Craniums of azaleas pale in comparison

To the marinaded constellations

And the waterlily sigil of stygian figurine’s that imitate calligraphy on willow weave

Mimicking ventriloquism in the weed and linden trees

That bleed simplistic synchronicities in the intimate symphonies

Like willows trilling villanelles of amaryllis guillotines

In the misty eclipse of pixies rippling lithium schizophrenic hemorrhages

That lisp bliss in the fist(ful) of abyssal chrysalis

As its bangles exsanguinate entangled and mangled in dandelion rhinestone

Fissures of rivers ribbons of linen (prism slivers of) obsidian (smithereens)

Schism rhythm’s imprisoned limousine of swivelling infinities

Discombobulated novelties of smattering onomatopoeia dabble in the theatre

Bangled stanzas of blasphemous asterisks rasp their vast capsizing lilac horizons

Transmogrifying bibles of iron scythes that vilify the skylines

Dreaded malevolence of maestro deciphering provocative machinations

Dreadnaught clockwork mockingbirds

Hurricane through glades of stained-glass chapels

Baptized by pastures of pastors postulating pastels of passionate patronizing past times

Acrylic basilicas of Tartarus’ Parthenon

March arching martyrs of cartilage in the dearly departed artisans of parthenogenesis

Walking apothecaries of a proclamation’s apotheosis propagating Apocrypha

Plateau’s of porcelain prairies portrait pixie painted pantheons of plentiful pointed pentagrams

Cross-eyed priests that watch the heavens blindly and

Balaclavas balloon blooming congruent luminous fumes of black and blue altocumulus

Boroughs and boughs on clouds and honeyed summits of umbrage

Like thunderous homunculus sundering the funneled muzzled swirl of pearl underworlds

Skyline xylophones whiling in the isles of Nihilism

(Arboreous tomorrows born from fornicating expurgatorius)

(Exploring corneas of boreal forests void in the coiling primordial foliage)

(Euphoric flora of meteors collage discombobulated with haunting mantras of fauna)

Swept in the waves of yesterday’s maze

II

A cocktail of ukuleles like grey halos swarm morning tornados of braille

Trailing narrow barrows of veiled railways below clay everglades in disarray

Mitochondrial ensembles entourage ambient bottomless

 Bog water harbours of omniscience

Confidants to the darkest unstrung harp of escarpment

The fingers of trees on the hands of mountains

The body of the earth sprawled out across empty cemeteries of space

Sofas of clouds where angels sit cross-legged (like [half] crucifixes)

As they watch the aquamarine daydreams soliloquy

The wreckage of ecstasy

Perplexing resurrection questioning breathlessness effigies of mute screams

Streaming through the evening skyline

Spiralling bibles of (riptide iris and) lilac cycle through the bike path of life

Charnel guardians discombobulate

Armies reincarnated patron to salvation’s hatred

Chiselling billions/and whittling away at the bark of Yggdrasil

Chitin ichor ripe on the vines hind legs, bulbous colonies of leaves

Wringing the inner circle of this earth into acrylic

Lines etched into endless rivers of twine

As wood moons circle with their cork strings

Like schools of fish or flocks of geese

Seagulls flocking together on the pretzel pencilled tree branches

Their wings brushstrokes against the blank canvas skies

Painted faces below that lick the sweat from each others’ brow

That spit out the word of God from the church of their mouths

Each a small steeple, not as tall as the trees

No light reaches the tips of their shingled roofs

Blind and blasphemous astronauts lassoed like Picassos

Body-painting with their scars, and their tattoos, and their smile lines

A starry night of the many coloured scarves

Of stars that billow in the wind like rag dolls

Their blood and sweat and tears are watercolour

Incoherent murals stapled into the fabric of history

Watch as they bend in the wind with the (umbilical) willow trees

Come see the artistry of their lives

Lost to the music of time

Listening to the feet that patter wandering past these shells

Abandoned to the wild forest, the wilderness, the rust, and the shine

Watch the slit of their crusty corrosive mouths

Speak

The hinges of doorways shriek

Opening into nothingness

I came into the nothing to watch the symphony unravelling into sheet music

I went into the empty to hear exhibitions of art martyred into frames of iron cartilage

The empty met me there

And we shared tongues and swapped words

Shedding our skins until we were just bones

Left behind in the forest

The soundless chorus

Birdcalls of silence longing to be lonely

Divorced to the word of the living

The words of the animated

Still, in the frame of images plastered into ideas

Lost frames of mind

Empty skulls

And nothingness pulling

The brain into complacency

Imitating nature’s crematorium

The cemeteries of mountains laughing together,

Around the campfire of a harvest moon

Drinking in the light from a star-stricken sky

The way it shimmered in symmetry

The way it glistened promiscuous

They lined the night sky in their silver

Like memories of buried gold

Around the crackle of an ignorant flame

The unreeling empyrean green speleothems of heaven’s remedies

The remains of the reigns that spiral out of control

Pulled by the unbending unbeatable soul

The hideous city that hisses in the distance, as if sitting in its filth

It doesn’t remember

The way the wind rocks you to sleep

The way the water walks with you

Through dead quiet forests

And carries away the newly departed

It doesn’t understand

The clock will keep ticking

The music will keep playing

The wheels will continue to turn

They will forget that we love them

And the love will fade

Now is temporary, love is temporary, as is before now

Like old pictures

Hand-painted by the outstretched arm of a branch

Asking the pine needles to dance with them

In a hurricane of leaves

Tumbling into a bed of decay

Rusted into nothingness

Brushstrokes bustling with substance rubbing the sand through dry fingers

Tasting of earth and ferns

Of grass and daisies

Of sunflowers and juniper

Kafkaesque crescents

Junkyards of life whispering to the wind

Burning brighter than the distant skyline

The spines of pine trees (rioting)

The conifers of blissful eclipse like ecclesiastical pixies

Wrapping their silky bodies around the width of an ancient steeple

Like two star-crossed lovers struck by one heartbeat

Becoming one motion of the hand

One blink of the eye

A touch of the face

Skeletons of yesterday’s men

Dreamers of now

Nothing but memories full of emptiness

Crumbling foundations

Forgotten beauty

Distant memories like embers in the rain

And everything that/nothing entails

The river that runs its hands through the thicket

Mossy yellow ghettos propellor of ramshackle houses

And bushes like blouses

Worn away by a discoloured world

Abandoned in amaryllis metallurgy

Cracked windows, glass tapestries like crocheted mosaics or

Broken mazes, labyrinths, spiderwebs, of reflected sun

In warped refraction, jagged eyes

A wallowing collage of Autumn menageries

The lackadaisical waxing and waning of regal eons

Of the phases of playful daisies

Halogen Molotovs

Arcing carpets, harps of flowerbeds webbing

Weathered wings of silver threaded river

Like waves of aether, acres, anchors of a low tide

Rising in the turbulent meadows

(Crashing down upon purgatory of curving clergy splurging ferns birthing terpsichorean)

Orbiting porcelain coral orchards that mirror the lyrics of the sun

The sunflowers reaching for the moon spoon-fed

Blanketing around them shrouding the forgotten in the moss and rust

Growing over the flawed failures of humanity’s lost beauty

Gnarled and gnawing at what once was

Consuming the scraps of our lives

Lost to the dirt

And the shadows, the (chapel) tapestry of the trees wrapping around each other

Tied into thick knotted tongues

Bloating out the passage of time from heaven’s hallways

As they bark at the workmen of their roots lifting boughs through ceilings

Chimneys of wooden wicker (and the clutter of butterflies)

Hidden from the winged beasts of the city

And their jungle of iron

White noise reverberating in the echoes of silence

Reaching the ears of low-hanging angels

A spiral stairway in the cathedrals of trees winding into sign language

Leading to the remnant of heaven

Reaching towards the fat apple of the sun

The realms of alcoves jovial welcoming the weary travellers

Clouds of deciduous riverbeds

Leading freely through the pathway to Elysium

Further lost in the walkways,

Drawn into the drowning depths of the great, living abyss

As it pulls more of the past into itself

As the world forgets itself

Forgotten by the many, treasured by the few

The forest swallows memory whole

Leaving behind the bones

To decorate the decay, with the never-ending journey

Of the two star-crossed lovers

Life and death

Memory and forgotten

Was and will be

Everything and nothing

Gone and watching

Empty and whole

Nature and man

They were, and we will be

The driftwood, the roots, the shrubs and brush,

The bushes, the sky, the rivers, the escarpment,

The birdsongs, the quiet, the running water

The broken stone path like a giant buddha’s rosary beads

As he bows deeper than the ocean

Dragging in the dirt and mud the footprints of mountains

Pulling his chains entangled in the leaves and branches

Like the vines on telephone lines strumming each note together with scrap metal guitars

Strung together intertwined in life and death in the strings of ukulele

Played by God’s fingers

Screaming with the over-easy breeze

As the sky weaves clouds into smokestacks crackling (like porcelain) and-

-All the forest is their tears

ALL THE FOREST

IS THEIR

TEARS

III

Seismic geysers, spines of horizon

Of synchronizing vinyl unwinding xylophones of bone

Eldritch balconies of Valkyries

Pledging the edge of plebian resonance

Through the pendulum engines of heavenly reverends

Dank decorated depths of decadent desiccation of damp decibels

Decimate desecrated deception dressing effigies in deep green reeds

Rust, crack, decay, rot, deteriorating, falling inwards, torn apart

One day all will fade into the nothing

And they will cry for us

As we did for them

 Until all the rivers run dry

And all the skies burn black

And all the cities poison the heavens

And all the forests gone

And all the stumps of trees remember

Listening

Such was our end

We ceased to matter

You will not have much longer to wait

IV

Rust, crack, decay, rot

One day all will fade in the nothing

Never known

Chiselling billions

A thousand people screaming at once

One word

After another

And another

(And another)

Like dead butterflies

Falling from the canopy of their open mouths

This present is now

And all I do is watch

And listen

Until the sounds and sights reach all corners of my mind

Thinking outside of the (black) box, (opening it)

(Checking the contents of the uncaged world)

(Swiveling willows riddled with whittling soliloquy)

The trees pass trapezing Elysian

Like aircraft of plastered rapturous pastures

Pathos manufactured by astronauts

Collapsing passages of alabaster castaways

Blasting away in their captivated elation

In amber Nirvana labyrinths like Saturn’s rings

Clad in wings lavenders in many patterned

Chandeliers of strings

Rhythms’ polygamy peering through acoustic lucid altocumulus

Blooming through the bruised uvula of God

Like andromeda concubine

Unwinding in the spiralling briars synchronized spires

Barbed wire admirers in diaphragmatic avalanche

Of a loose cannon for a fictitious world

That’s sewn from the fabric of history

Weaving terpsichorean with the reapers

Keepers that sow the poems of rainbow rodeos

Of ambrosia of mono-chromosomes begonia woven in the soma of four-leaf clovers

Roaming the oceans of ferns like the soul of a man

A churning tourniquet of murmuring earth again

Wrapped in the wilting flowers of Valkyries

The gallows of hallowed lands chasms of clattering matadors

Dangling mangled mannequins of spinning stinging anonymity

The muleta cape fluttering in the wind

Taunting Death and his sharp scythe of iron horns

Caught in a dance waltzing with the inevitable

Like a leaf in a hurricane

(Carefully bred)

For/Of Autumnal hymns

The crashing ensemble of polyphonic rondos

In the squandering caldrons fauna’s insomnia

Blindingly seeing, deaf from hearing, mute from screaming

ALL THE FOREST

IS THEIR

TEARS

The memories rising from the depths of their despair

From the ancient cities succumbing to rot

From the common flower burned to ashes

The day will come when there will be

No one left to cry for

And from the teeth of forest

Grinding asphalt into soil

Metal into rust

Temple into meadow

Skyscraper into rumble

Man into memory

And no one will hear the nothing sing

Joy outstretched behind the broken back of vases of splintered bone

Vivid paroxysm schism imprisoned in the moon’s prism

Dropped like stained glass bombs on the horizon

Thread from the leather of hollow embalming columns

Clouds balled into Molotovs

Free from the heavy (eternity churning) burden of our love

Continuing to outgrow the warmth of our embrace

Until man moulds into nature

Becomes the lips of trees

The pallet of ponds

The torrent of leaves in an orchestra of wind bending limb into figure

Form into substance, style into font

A dancing skeleton without a shadow to cling to

Learning to scream silence

The white noise of a black void encompassing homunculus

Without the ears of the material world

The ticking of the clock bending second into minute

To hear nothing

(A sundered underworld)

The voiceless singing of the insurmountable empty

The gap in the stairway to heaven

The hollow in the tree

The nook and cranny of every crevice in our porcelain stygian pores

The rhythm between each cry of a heartbeat

We are the moment between what has been and what has yet to be

The desolate heart thumping against the doorframe

Unhinged, deranged from walking the halls of our bodies bleeding elysian

Corridors born from the distorted vortex of sound

Bent into a single bar with one note

Come home with me back into the sun and the shadows

Into the then and the now

Into the dead and the living and the limbo between

The tidings of a wrathful sun and a nonsensical moon drowning in tongues

All-consuming all-encompassing all-compassionate

Meshed into one word

(Budding directly from the centre of my broken glass heart)

Spit from the many mouths of the forest

Once more

(Will wastelands)

(Once again)

(Fill this hallow sky?)

With the roar of nothingness

V

(To those who found our paradise)

(Your time will come)

Shaped by the hands of clocks

In the dredges of the sand,

In the cloth of the prairies

In the barley of the forest

You may build Babel

Great cities that grasp continents in their overbearing arms

Dominions, dominos that topple into dilapidation’s footsteps

Following the unwinding path of a foreign tongue into solace

Your mouths may cave-in

And crawl with words picked at with teeth and tongue

Memories, life and death

Hulks of husks where once the busy hands of nations grappled for control

Hollows where once there was but wood, and bark, and iron

And yet

You will be forgotten like us

Too

As no one

(Not one)

Can out live death, life

Or

The forest

(Biomechanical gelato of galivanting pianos unravelling galvanized irises)

(Lilac choirs of sign language vanquished)

(Plastered wax figures lacquered with barbed wire eyelashes)

(Of wrapped wyverns like formaldehyde dandelions)

(Endless tempests bent of contemporaries of florescent pestilence)

(In the extraterrestrial gastrointestinal carnivalesque vestiges of breathless effigies)

(Sacrosanct pantheons anchored in cancerous sanctuaries)

(Of mantis hippocampus and pancreas chrysanthemums)

Growing, birthing, coiling voices

Unmentionable entities in temporary penitentiaries

Vascular patchwork pastures of elastic

Verbatim of constellations

Flagellated elated creation

Bursting from the whispering cyst of the old wound clean

Alive and flailing like worms in the decadent dirt

Crawling in the wreckage, the soil, the warped saxophone of existence

The parade of tornadoes cradling concrete angels in graveyards

Digging through ligaments of symmetries oblivion

Swimming in the stygian

Wriggling wings that glimmer cinnamon obsidian among crimson Olympians

Decomposing chromosomes of odorless osmosis grovelling in the soma’s skin

Oceans pulling at the flesh

Until the percussionist brushstrokes of thrush suffocate in clay

Slush in the mush-pits of succubus and steampunk homunculus

Mocking flocking docks of rocking hypocrisy

Lost to nocturne’s vertebrae, crocheted

Coasts molten of sclerosis and oceans of blossoming apotheosis

Typhoon cruising altocumulus

Statues of rapturous Cleopatras waves crashing protruding through lucid dreams

Deeper than the bog waters

Higher than the crumbling summits of swerving suburbia

Mediterranean wailing and extraterrestrial hecatomb

Blooming in the looming distance polycrystalline

A beautiful rose trimmed from the heart of the flesh beats the drumskin mumbling

Rooted in the soiled bodies of man

Smelling of fellows in elegies the petals of pelican’s bellowing evangelical

Every hanging wing of theirs a wrinkled rag thrown upon the flustered bodies

That fill the garden

Every birdsong a call from death

Egging on the newcomers to the final supper

Where the earth swallows whole

Its parasitic skin to below

The muscles protruding ruminations of creation

Caricatures of mannequins rust in the musculature

The flowers of blood bloom like ivy

From the openings of pores and in the crevices of flesh

We can hear ourselves speak through the muck of our insides out

Reaching deep into the person hidden inside each carapace shell

Pulling out our deepest secrets, unseen, untouched, unspoken to

Tolling like a bell

VI

From our throats

A newborn baby

Uncaring, unknowing

No purpose, no will, less than nothing

Not looking for freedom or escape

Nor closure or determination, weakness or power

Understanding or doubt

Devoid of the empty that was

That used to be, and will be

The sound warped into a chimney of absence

A hallway of empty trailing into the distant dawn

Of crawlspaces between hallowed rooms

Blooming

Of smoke, fire, fog, and ash

Melting into the licking tongue of orange

Bent and twisted, scarred foundations of order and creation fused into One

We are

A single piece of paper in a tornado

A flower in a wildfire of lurid green

(The shaping of amorphous within the shattered empty)

(Rusting musculature, fairies, cemetery caricatures)

(The murmuring turbines of winding high-rises skyscrapers of Gaia’s twine flatlining)

A long endless winding nightmare of corridors stretched into vestige

Passages of vassals like glass tapestries asteroids mortared brick by brick

Licked by spores of rigour mortis

(Rejecting arborescent destiny)

Celestial crepuscular vessels of walking clockwork intricacies and symphonies

Here, his promises mean nothing but dirt and mud for matadors

Their capes flutter before the wrath of God

A grand bull

Who’s ivory antlers of Saturn do not mean to lie

But have forsaken him

Much like the forest has forsaken us

As we have the forest

Cursed to pray for the predatory weak

Shackled by reality’s chains

VII

End

The scarves of endless silken silicon

Spiderwebs that thread the needle through

A woven hurricane’s black eye peering through the muddy horizon

Gazing upon itself in horror

Seeing the mirror image of beauty fused into the nuance

A noose of spruces

The dancing lances of branches embracing newcomers as we pour into the empty lot

Of a discarded backyard swept clean of memories

Only the feast

Only the green

Only the forest

As we rumble like the stomachs of clouds that rain saliva in staccato’s vibrato

Ready to indulge in our personal tastes

Biting into the graphite lazulite of black and white

Our bodies blooming into endless flowers in the garden of Eden

Lining the stomach like ulcers of altars

We were mistaken

The metamorphosis of God

Is not the butterfly of men

We do not belong here

Lost in the jumbled jungle gym of our graves

There is no beauty without sacrifice

There is no love without death

If you were born to love or be loved

Then you will wilt too

And become the trees

In the shadow of the forest

Looming over the lost

Burying the very idea of a funeral

The grievers of past celebrations age and distance themselves from memory

Never facing the reality of their decay

Intoxicated by the inevitable

Pushing onwards into conclaves of bodies being broken down into spare parts

Made to garden the Beast’s wild mane

To trim the phantasmagorical scrapyard of jagged bottles

And white satellites of poltergeist blight

Combing its teeth, its branches

Irradiated and smiling upon the red sun’s distant glow

(Bathed in blood, moulded by body, one and legion)

[A great hand that strangled the throat of worlds long ago]

[In all but a bristled whisper whipped by thistle]

[The forest will tell you what it told me]

All the mourners

Are the trees

ALL THE FOREST
IS THEIR
TEARS

 








© 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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Reviews

whew. goodness. that's quite a thick and at times dark forest. memories and your usual dose of horror. the beginning (shape of a guitar) was a very strong way to begin.

so many powerful, memorable gems laced throughout -

especially liked, 'the eyes of potatoes'

'That spit out the word of God from the church of their mouths'

'Blind and blasphemous astronauts lassoed like Picassos'

a new favorite of yours for me ... :)

Posted 1 Month Ago


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Month Ago

Man, I was worried I'd made a mistake somewhere so hearing this from you boosts my confidence. I'm g.. read more
Pete

1 Month Ago

i thought it was great. you write prolifically. like a volcano erupting ... :)
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Month Ago

I'll definitely check out some of your work soon too. Thanks again!
your thoughts of life and it`s memories of lost love and times past pressed into words painting beautiful imagery

Posted 1 Month Ago


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Month Ago

Thank you wordman!
 wordman

1 Month Ago

you`re welcome

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Added on July 28, 2021
Last Updated on September 13, 2021
Tags: forest, of, the, unforgotten

Author

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

Burlington, Halton, Canada



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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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