Wanderers' Eden

Wanderers' Eden

A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
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My favourite poem so far, I thought "Climbing Centipede" was a great poem, but this one is its equal, if not slightly better at times. The section labeled "Time" is optional here, but can be read.

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And Yet, Still

 

(Cavernous avenues of Saturn’s pianos like <Babal’s> mandibles)

Deathlessly desolate bioluminescent restaurants, entrée enclaves of beige (ever)glades

Cardiovascular ecclesiasticals pastel the carnival’s (swelling melancholy in felonies) rebellion

Dismantling fountains of dreams (from the babbling seems)

In the antlers of cantering chrysanthemums rampant

In the clouded hallelujah of travelled cowls

Bowing shadows of marrow herald hallows of discombobulated polymerization

Disembowelling shrouded gallows in towering balaclavas

Sombre wandering farmers of harvested mitochondrial harbour dharma’s argonauts

Whispering crystalline viscera(l) lithium

Ovulating groves of clovers like chrome supernovas

Of frozen ambrosia kaleidoscope opium

Cloaked in dystopian pandemonium

Decomposing symphonies of idiosyncrasies

Entangled ambers of avalanching amaranthine chrysanthemums

Ragged banners of amethyst hieroglyph the riffraff

Dance with antlers of anther lances in cancerous amphitheatres

The anguished sanctuaries lit by lanterns of branching hippocampus and chrysanthemums

Kafkaesque crepuscular effigies of reckless repetition’s transgressions

Amps of lamplight take flight in the ripe white blight of ichor

Vivid prisons of cataclysms patchwork tapestries of refracted lapis lazuli

Crocheted blades of grass in taffeta Rorschach molasses

Like columns of pollinating stamens

Cedars of onomatopoeia folding embroidered (tsunamis of Shinigami) origami

Embers of transcendent entropy weaving seem into greenery

Silken and wilting amaryllis basilicas disassembling wendigo nebulas

Tenebrous shores of northern lights

Ripe off the spiralling vine of spinal kaleidoscopes

Like poltergeists in the molten scythe of waxing and waning hurricane crescents incandescent

Apotheosis glowing in the forge of phantasmagorical oracles in the shapeless casings of oasis

Cosmos of origami mandala monoliths drift shapeshifting eclipse with lips of eucalyptus

Crawling rollicking golems palmer discombobulation

Of hollow molecules in the stalls metabolically of our cauldron of follicles

Frayed pages suede serrated hurricanes of grey monasteries

That sway lackadaisical azaleas gauging glazed haloes of polymerization

Within the wavelengths of homeostasis baseless abominations

Seance praying to mirages of discombobulation

Angered mouths of valleys flooded with tears up to their mad eyes

All born from the canyon of Zion rifts of eclipse through the moonlit shapeshifter

The ravines of terpsichorean wheels turn

Windmills amaryllis that roll the blunts of time

Turning in the mercury circuits

Of Ursuline curtains falling halogen diabolical

Making their way through the out of place acres forsaken

The wake laced with aether of wallpaper skin

Fringing millenniums in intricate photosynthesis, symphonies of Indra’s linden trees

Schism linen chrisom in the cinnamon wind swindling infinity

The handmaiden mannequins stand by the cliff face

Which smiles upon the skies of hyacinth wide-eyed

Barbed wire Gaia

Rises from the vandalized spires of bonfire pyres lilac choir umpire spiralling kaleidoscope

Spits out the bones of last nights’ supper

How hungry we were for God

His empty words left us starved for daylight

In the mouths of canyons (of ambience) and shipyards (of martyrs)

(Among the echelon of demon spawn in Bethlehem’s precipice whipped by a visceral abyss)

Among monstrous cities with steel mountains perched between splintered, jagged, pushpin teeth

That swallow’s cosmopolitans

Which can not be stomached rumbling by the rummaging steampunk sunset

The body of earth vomiting constellations from curdled milky ways

Watch the watercolour gypsies wriggle on the floor

These people who know nothing but death and new breath

Their wormwood fingers singed by pilgrimage of priscilla guillotines

They are whittling guitars from the roots of Yggdrasil, Jupiter's juniper

Watch them play with their strings and twang the very abyss and mistress of sound

Terpsichorean onomatopoeia braille maelstroms like bales of halos woven like chainmail

Made from dilapidated tapestries of lost words

Laughing Rorschach actors of plastered plastic daffodils of elastic masquerades

Blossoms crisscrossing the clockwork nocturn of mockingbird metropolis in phosphorus

In the lackadaisical mosaic of aether and chaos disordered by boreal forests

The puppet master, the ventriloquist, leaves the play

The act of show and tell

Of cello and mademoiselle elegies that mandala

Patterns of each grain of sand

Banished from chrysanthemums on the endless shore of evermore

Paths of cardiovascular tapestries sacrosanct

The staged performance of my broken pocket watch heart

As it beats the eardrums of an orchestra

Until the quiet silence goes Stillwater, hush, motionless

Falls into the laps of Lovecraftian shrapnel Rorschach astronauts like patchwork blackbirds

Emerging insurgency of demiurge metallurgy blurring eternity’s furnace of churning hurricanes

Blackened by blasphemous pathos and raptures’ sacrosanct

Rusted by their brush with death

Dusted by rupturing tapestries cardiovascular the flow of a musical

Bamboozled lunatics of eclipse dip their hands in liquid pixies

Losing their grip on reality

As it slips between their fingers, muddy water, dry sand, untouched and

Crippled by the wings of

The end of things

Stranded canvases of enamel unravelling castles in the sky’s dynasty of finite breeze

Stung by the penumbra of a bumblebee’s underworld

Furling into sterling silver willows

Shipwrecks of ambidextrous Nephilim

Epithets echoing spectres of meshing interconnecting epitomes

Necklaces effigy of hecatomb rejuvenate and illuminate

That silhouette the forgotten reckless steps,

Back down the staircase of heaven

And into the dark basement of God

Into

The clouded hallelujah of cowls shrouded in towering balaclavas

Blackened by sacrilegious abyss

A blasphemous masquerade that quakes with incandescent thunder

Yet even I have been ensnared in this spiralling trap

This web of God, as I wriggle

Waiting for the lilac spiders to find me

As I swivel as an umbilical ventriloquist pulled at by the hands of the clock

Pushed by the rushing stream of thought, by the boundless crowd

That walks past the infinite surrender of their wars

Chained to the cross of the passing day and the dizzy night

The sands of time winding

The cries of the dead musical

And the hands of God firm

The mosquitos, seagulls and eagles in the terpsichorean colosseums

A terracotta mausoleum of peering delirious speleothems

Grieving cathedrals that still flutter with the shudders of hummingbirds

 I still look for beauty with my cold dead eyes

Lifeless as a fallen leaf in Autumn

For visions of futures christened and lucid

Even in a world that has none

Even in my grotesque perception, echoed manifestos

Recollecting the effigies of God’s messengers

In their crepuscular luminescent wreckage of zeppelins like spectral sepulchres

(Sketching requiems blessed resurrected manifestations of destiny’s desiccated destination)

(Etched decrepit mechanisms of wretched hecatomb incongruent altocumulus)

(Looming druids strewn bruised by intuitive lucid ribs ruining views of ruminating culmination)

(Discombobulated transmogrified serpentine kaleidoscopes writhe in the moonlight’s kite)

(Womb’s illuminating eschewed blooming illusions)

(Loose screws movement rejuvenate all-consuming in the grooves of unison)

(In the full moon’s distant rippling lithium eclipse)

Collections resurrected a skeptic spectre of perfection

Even as those who preach (of) beauty

Have none

And as those who preach (of) humanity

Have none

We are simply wandering between the lines

Strolling along with the infinity between the two sides of a coin

Stradling a chicken-scratch written poem

Lost between the lines of a life’s sentence

Features of each author that leave their indents on the page like eulogies

Barely readable, their tombstones

Documenting a time when they painted the town red with rusted flowers

Even after the lead casing has been erased like an oasis

Even when the ink no longer stains the walls red

Words of silence

Static

In a world that has none

Only the noise that hunts for one voice

In the blasphemous cacophony of Rorschach vaccinated machinations

Grafted by the background noise

(A billion words)

One voice

 

Reincarnation

 

Patterns of collateral anatomy

Like grand ballooning bulbous baubles of Babel’s colonized horizons

Blossoming kaleidoscopic cacophony

Chosen clovers rows of foaming chromosomes roaming the Octobers of porcelain Orpheus

Bottomless mausoleums of terpsichorean Elysium

Elixirs and pitchers of pixyish bliss

Electroconvulsive palpitations

Constellations of ovulating crocheted suede glades of creation

Incandescent revelations of iridescent Nephilim

Resurrected in all their excellence

In the arms of reincarnation

 

Time

 

The stretch of time like a muscle winded in strings;

Resuscitating creation; unwinding hyacinths

The arched back of a cat hissing at the mourning sun

Frothing broth of kaleidoscopic nocturne of phosphorus brothels

Flocking with gospels of mockingbirds

Sleepwalking in the clockwork of melodic octaves claustrophobic

In the symphonic omniscience of a lithium stripped eclipse

Of whispering viscera shapeshifting sifting through candlewick Icarus

View the strewn union of a blooming moon

Budding in the motherhood, motherland, mother tongue of thunderclouds

That plant their damp hands into the belly of the earth giving birth to serpents

That twist and turn in the linen bedsheets of the clouds

Contorted and pretzeled coiling void

In the webbing of heavenly nebulas penumbra

Mumbling from the sun to the underworlds

I am reborn

They bore the fruit of me

From their amaranthine branches

To be husked by death

And bitten into by his rusted iron teeth

Racking, digging desperately, working the land into something more palatable

Never reaching the other side, he haunts this one

Swallowing the old world

And spitting out the New Testament

The will of God I cling close to my chest

Like a wilted flower picked from the earth

Or a candle weakly burning in the wind

Something uttered long ago that has been long forgotten

Something so utterly lost to time

Something I found so utterly lost to me

Burning into ash

Decaying into dust

Rotting into bloom

The earth dances the same dance

God grows complacent

And I grow tired of seeing it

But the more I do

The longer the chain binding me to this world

Grows

(From the leg room)

From my dirt-caked hands

Like a flower

Or a bluebird

I shape the sands

And watch everything I hold dear slip through my fingers

And it hangs in the balance

So I tip the scales

In my favour

And the hourglass

Paves over me

With each tiny grain of sand

Over time

In a desert of words

The chain of sentences becoming longer than my tongue could mother

God dances the same dance

I grow complacent

And everyone else grows tired of seeing it

 

 

This Everything

 

Diabolical mausoleums bending tendrils of emerald metallurgy

That speleothem the split ends of threads of renaissance

Yet still, we follow our knotted memories

The memories of our fellow past children

Unable to reach the joy of childhood

No longer imaginative, no longer alive, no longer feeling

Searching for the lost dreams of seamstresses like terpsichorean beacons

Reaping ethereal empyrean murals between cylindrical buildings

Like silken pillows, pavilions of willowed amaryllis basilicas

Frolicking bird-calling halogens

Colosseums of caged helixes walk through the rusted subway

Of bulimic phoenixes breathing in the Elysian Prometheus

Batted at by the paws of a kitten

Waves of frayed suede mosaic the glazed aegis of enslaved wages of dilapidation

Crocheted vertebrae paving barricades of condemnation in grey

Azalea’s phosphorus apocalypse of clockwork mockingbirds’ sarcophagus

I live by the barcode,

A consumer of tongue-tied tastes paving the waking oasis

Tattooed obsidian calligraphy, engraved poetry, written upon my spine, a serial number

A birthmark upon my paint peeled skin

Auburn andromeda of autumn guitarlike harbours of terracotta cobblestone mahogany

Of Armageddon’s spaghettified headstones of chromosomes lotus

Of unwoven clovers in the groves of crowned chalice of wildflowers amalgamated

Weaving terpsichorean ravines and winding rivered of slithering scimitars

The bangles of chandeliers that puppeteer

The empty fields have been replaced with great spires

The green has been ground into silver

The nothing has become something for some time now

Replacing the ecstasy of knowing nothing

When everything was new and shining

With familiarity

The beauty of my past

Is forgotten like an old movie

Replaced

By what I have come to understand

What was once magic

Is now ordinary

And all I have left is this meaningless, mundane, everything

 

Lost City

 

O cacophonous brothels of phosphorus Apocrypha

O blossoming colossus of mockingbird clockwork

O serpentine walking gelatinous metropolis

You are a Lovecraftian basilisk

Of rapturous kaleidoscopic Ragnarök gospels

That Rorschach astronauts

Abstract cast in ecclesiastical shrapnel’s alabaster masquerade

The very shapeshifting eclipse

A one eyed-abyss wider than the meadows of Eden

O wasteland city

Yours is the fate of all men who stood before you

Like an ant before God

Swallowed up by the sands of time

 

Insignificant

 

Malfunctioning homunculus

Armageddon’s brethren tethered to forever’s wax and feathers

Trying to touch the sun

A golden apple in an orchard of porcelain clouds like wildflowers

Lonely, pointless, tiny, and worthless as we are

Is it not the greatest tragedy to watch from your seats? (in the front rows)

As we destroy ourselves

And tear our hearts inside out like wildflowers plucked from the harp of the earth

To give to you

Is it not beautiful?

Am I not the most delightful thing you have ever left to the roar of the city?

Am I not so pitifully wretched?

So infinitesimally small?

So eccentrically mad?

Would you give me the slightest of a chance to lay my roots?

(Daisies and dandelions like barbed wire wyverns in the bonfires of lilac)

Refuge from a world

That has none?

What have I done?

But get up out of the ditch I’d been left to rot in

But wander from the road I had been given onto a mountain trail

But swallow every bomb dropped upon my broken back, soiled skin and walk

What did I do

But give up hope just to get it back again

But climb over the gates of heaven even if they’ll never open again, rusted closed

What have I done

But spread my arms out to God like a tree

As if I had already found my taloned wings of wax and feathers?

Barbed wire violins of Zion spiralling

What have I done

But the impossible?

Spaceman, wanderer, speck of dust in the rusted canyons

(Like tambourines of lustrous percussion)

Following the passage of time

Winding Nile’s bible hyacinth into finite xylophones

Lost and forgotten

Like those who found God

On the razors’ edge of a field

Reaping the brightest apples of Eden

What have I done

But run myself dry of memories, or love?

Under the madness of

A demented sun

That smiles upon my miles of exile

Fading into the suede of marmalade days

And vibrant cypresses of vipers in the jackknife of night

What have I done

But find my way home?

Only the flapping of my burlap wings

High on the fumes of oozing music altocumulus

Yet I cannot fit myself back into this clockwork box I broke away from

This eggshell no longer fits the bird

As it sings the most beautiful melody

I no longer hear it

 

Scar Smile

 

In the memories of cemeteries

Between the valleys and mountains

Between the alleys and skyscrapers unshaped clay in matrixed grey-faced aether

I am small

So insignificant

So damaged and useless

But even if my voice is cast out by the crowd

Stilled in still waters that once rushed white

Drowned out by my stream of consciousness

And my tributary of thoughts passing by me like a ghost burning out in

The bright lights that dance on the bones of this city’s ancestors

My scars are like stars in the night sky

They too are but a speck here

Yet grander, they fade too in the morning

Although not completely

Theirs is a but a dim (fluorescent) light humming in my darkness

There would be no shadow

If there would be no light

Horseshoes come together, feeding on each other, one

The difference between left and right is none existent

We are unable to follow the directionless flow of (universal) existence’s constellations

Guided along the river Styx by carrion ferrymen buried by age itself

Laid to rest by the hands of the clock

That conduct bodies of music in cut time

Sometimes, shades are brightest in the nighttime

So much easier to stand straight

If you don’t bear any wounds

For I carry the weight

Of a million distant, tiny, stars

Upon my blind and blistered cluster of a back

Onyx comets and bronze constellations

That stalked the flocks of blossoming chalky phosphorus mockingbirds

In the metropolis of their nocturnal infernos

And not one of them

Guided me home, or ever

Got me anywhere

 

Birth

 

Webbing leather-skinned brethren bake under the wrath of God

Heavenly serenity bending in the hallucinogenic engines

Blisters of lithium crisscross rippling

Polycrystalline shapeshifters of mellifluous conifers Icarus picturesque (crippled-winged sickles)

Blasphemous alabaster pastures

Like waning wax of molasses

Patchwork grasslands of shackled Rorschach’s pastel’d in asphodel elegies

Nebulous perennials in skeleton Netherworlds,

(Meadows in the dishevelled faces of oasis)

Tendrils in the rending ebony of clementine cemeteries in the hallucinogenic tenebrous

Climbing shadows on the wall

Winding sapphire spirals of graphite ivory kaleidoscopes

The Nile’s strings like violins

Shackling Baphomet basking in rapture’s aftermath

To the ink blood blotting out the names of the nameless

And the Gods of the godless

Neon halos of sable cradled hurricanes of Beowulf maelstrom  

Crocheted bays of dilapidated Himalayan

Mazes of braille azaleas, aether mosaics, murals bleeding cashmere, the empyrean ethereal

Picked clean from the lackadaisical black abyss of the pupil

A boutique of spiders and irises the shade of hazel glazed in angel dust

Labyrinths of cancerous canyons (like amputees of champagne amphitheatres)

Of bangled pianos stranded in amaranthine lanterns of ashen tarantula chrysanthemums

Like astral Lovecraftian castaways of a lavender (nook and cranny) avenue’s masquerade

(Nomatic) Astronauts lost inside the castles of the sky

(Dungeons) Built on the foundation of my back

Holding up the heavens like the outstretched arms of an ancient tree,

My hands great pillars that built the cathedrals of God

(Towers of books like crooked inukshuks fishing in lithium with paperback hooks)

Branches anchored in the riverbank sanctuaries

A canopy of lycanthropy’s dancing carnivalesque crepuscular effigies

That tremor in the remembering of endlessness

A cemetery of arrowheads spread jagged vagabonds in the sparrows of red

Where once there was but the bullet bodies of rain

Bottomless monarchs to the unravelling balaclava of shadowlands

Bottomless neon harbours bombarding candelabra obelisks

Where ships sail through the ear canal of Gaia

Echoing, to hear the word of God

And men swim through the stream of conscious thought

In the static of commercial vessels

Balconies in the mouth of every spangled canyon

That scream echoes of the past

In their briars of barbed-wire dialect

Mandala of monolithic hieroglyphics etched in decrepit sepulchres

If you listen closely, you can hear the scratch of a record player

Digging into the broken plate

Of what is to come

All of it, and we

Are a mausoleum to a world

That is bound to inevitably die

I see it in the men and women I pass on my hikes through Websters

Spiralling wireframes

Evangelical skeletons bellowing from their very bones

Mangled flesh that speaks with the whole world waiting under their tongues

I watch the children make their endless trek to and from the schools

I see the workmen and workwomen in their expensive cars on infinite highways

I watch the sun come down upon the earth in an act of love (and hate)

Only to rise in the morning and leave her for the heavens

Meaningless and obscured

None of this is a beautiful thing

I watch the leaves on the tree branches slowly shrivel up and die

In anticipation of winter, the end of their worlds

Just to be reborn again in the Spring

I die once more just to be reborn every morning, every night

I look out upon the water

And see the lake bulging its fat belly over a rocky belt

I am waiting for the end

Waiting for the cycle of things that do not matter

Continuing, in a way that does not matter

To birth something new from their elderly wombs

And I can tell

That it’s only a matter of time

Eventually

This world will die with me

The sun will blink the tears from its eyes

Before being plucked from the sky like a silver coin

(As pinpricks of light perforate the shroud of midnight)

(As the lines on God’s back connect into constellations)

(As the skinning scintillation of oblivion’s obsidian scimitar calls)

(For infinity’s calligraphy)

(A pigment riddled flower petal meadowland)

(On each lithium ridged vermillion pillar)

(A basilica of priscilla ventriloquists)

(As my livid rhythmic bridging obsidian repetition flickers out of existence)

(As rigid daffodil sigils trill with their quill-like fingertips)

(And swivel pillowed silhouettes)

(In the quivering blizzard of stygian figurines)

(On the incendiary wind)

(In the smudge of a butterfly)

(On a violet horizon)

(Constellations suede in havenless polymerization’s gaze)

(Comets on the monolith of my broken back)

(The skies where our forefathers wander beyond the dishonourables)

(Tempestuous incandescent deliquescent etchings of the records of our ancestors)

(Blessed as the incandescence of a thunderclap)

We will only be what has come and gone

Like the last star crumbling to dust in a once vibrant sky

Even one small light will become blinding again, and again

Like an anvil and a hammer forging sparks of life

As a newborn child finally opens their eyes

Life will be fleeting

Art will be fleeting

And maybe

In/At the beginning of this end

As the Gods watch silently and remorselessly

As the prairies of alstroemerias, engraving of maelstroms

The gregarious fairies, and totalitarian marionettes

Drown in a neon slurry of bright urbanization

As the wind blows through the carrion prairielands

As the children close their world wandering eyes

And the men and women leave their seats empty

As the good trample over themselves to barricade the pit against the evil

And the evil abandon their love and parish in their soft poignant gregarious voices

Gregorian choruses born against the good

In the fountain of Baal

Illuminated in ruination

As the tower of Babel comes crumbling

To meet the sky on its own terms, like the tusk of a mammoth

The teeth of the earth, and their many sky-scraping brethren, smile

As the ground comes to meet the heavens

Like an outstretched hand reaching out to God before the waltzing of death

Makes its way through these hallowed ballrooms

Finding God to be down to earth

Until there’s nothing left but dirt

Just maybe

Maybe

It will matter (to me) again

And I will start living

One more time

Stepping (directionless) back into these once nostalgic streets

And start walking

Towards the far-off destination

The stillbirth

Of my jagged mountaintop

My shattered (armor of shifting tectonic plates)

(Shaped by the earth)

(In all its rustic beauty)

(My terracotta) soul

 

Desolation De(composition)

 

Lands of chrysanthemums

Lanterns of amaranthine

Pomegranates of hippocampus

Panthers of amber Lamborghini ambience

Scaffolding plastic Rorschach afterworlds

Of furling hurling mother of pearls in the sterling again

Amps of lamplighter amputated from champagne hurricane elation

Desolate effigies of vermillion capillaries of the silicon bones of amaryllis civilizations

Sleek with the leafage of bleeding deities

In the cleavage of clouds bottleneck crossroads

Alleyways palisade in dismay

Of autumn Shinigami cotton leaf on a bottomless breeze

Of jagged fragrant snaggletoothed trees

With too few roots to quite be a smile,

But still, roar soaring with the sour windpipes

Stuck blowing smoke from its oven of lungs

That no longer speak in tongues

Nostrils of apostles who dared speak the word of god

And burnt their tongues on andromedas

Swallowing the moon and spitting out sunsets

Remnant’s revenants of vengeful archipelagos

Cellos that bellow preaching to the choir, the children of God

Their mothers breaking watercolour

And painting the town red in his rusted love

A hand me down from the man who never came to see his kids,

But expected them to meet him on their own terms

In the clockwork maze of wasteland time

In the steampunk labyrinth of heavenly bodies

Counting the sheep below with wool pulled over their eyes

Hiding from the wolf that clothes them

In the odes of supernovas like four-leaf clovers

In the groves of posies caught in the noisy voices

Of tin foil roses bloated like the tongues of passing clouds

That gallop with the windflowers wildfire childlike

In the twinkle of a diamond

Or the moons’ one-eyed asylum

Piling up on the beguiling vinyl

In the barbed-wire fence of briarwood hymens spiralling in suspense of black fire lilac

Spires of irises closing their eyelids

On the great beyond’s bondage

And I am still caught in the knotting colonoscopy of phosphorus Apocrypha

Blossoming from Serengeti heaven’s appendages

Blades of paving saviours names of graveyard’s faceless space-lift oasis

Blemished Everests of tempestuous neo-genesis

In the mosaic, lackadaisical halos, tapestries dilapidated, derailed evaporated maelstroms

Grave-digging Stygian calligraphy’s mimicry of rhythmic scimitars in the barbed wire Styrofoam

Through infinity’s photosynthesis limping on the simplicity

In every blistering symphony skipping beats

Whispering of epiphanies rippling in the insignificant distance

Of bliss chrysalis mist of Valhalla’s valleys

The boughs of gallows for melancholy Valkyries

In the valves of Alcatraz

Leaving trails paving ukuleles in angel wings

Spasming in the lavender fields of photo reels

Unyielding immaterialism murals of the ethereal leering speleothems

Of resonance blending the thunderclap of blasphemous alabaster

Of a bending compendium pendulum of archenemies

Rending heavens spaghettified

Into diamonds of horizons eyes

Of spiderwebs ivory dreads

That cryogenics cannot remember

In its penniless blender of parthenogenesis

Embers embedded in the September of reverends

Serpentine orphans to the phantasmagorical orchards

Of rigour Mortis incorporeal in the boreal forests

Of chlorophyll in the pastels’ swelling with elegies

Like pelicans of the belladonna wells in corals’ floral aurora borealis

Propellers of hell’s metallurgy skeletons of parhelion reefs

In the creases of leaping elysian helixes

Cerulean empyrean peel back regal torpedo’s of gaseous plastic asters

The layers of Himalayan Aegises

Pale gales against the flailing railing of trailing azaleas

With the alias of passing astronauts

In the phosphorus gospels of rapture’s Lovecraftian chapels

(Overlapping cardiovascular castles)

Baptized in the violet sunrise of smiling Gaia’s vibrant isotopes

Of osmosis smoking the opium of eloping dystopian cloaked

Of chrysanthemums’ lycanthropy

In the anvils of spangled dandelions spines like amber lilac spiralling

Nihilism’s formaldehyde vials of childhood

Of the woodlands of amaranths, scattered dance in splattered hands

Of Saturn’s lance, in patterned trance

Of addled branch, and latter stanch, in Adam’s glance

An avalanche, of attic’s man, to tip the scales, from spick and span

The gathered grands

In dabbled ankh, unravelling plans, of travelled dance, to plough the lands, in ground to plant

Our promises, dogmatic damned

In rollicking howling balaclavas in the malleable stratospheres

Mirroring the delirium of fearless years imperial

Into the spiritual earlobes of flow comatose of groves of crows afterglow

Ambrosial dope, spoken to, the open truth

That locusts flew, and oceans loose, the broken pews, the tokened few

A rotten hue, forgotten muse, a lotus blooms, in throats of blue

In symbiosis coating oracles in primordial metamorphosis

Of contorted orbiting chords of shortening gorges of unborn endorphins

Snorkelling in the porcelain amorphous of collected wreckage

Predestined beckoning crepuscular depths of records etched into nectarines

The threads of a nebula wed to swivelling renaissance

And the thundering anaconda of penumbra

Enveloping the basilicas of shadowland

In the soma of Beethoven’s coves of pandemonium

In the pull of their ovary rotary chromosomes

As mercury circles around the earth like a second moon spun

Amorphous incorporeal under scorpion Sun

Incendiary chariots that bend alstroemerias to the carrion ferrymen buried like a marionette

Champagne hurricanes sterling stained in the silver-frames

Azazel’s halo of braille archangel azalea bloated on the coasts

As the heads and the tails derail like a rope

Viscous liquor of the willow wisp eucalyptus

(The ripening ichor of the undecipherable maestros)

(Serpentine mercury of herculean Prometheus, speleothem of the endless heavens)

Trickling bickering slick with the ricochet syphilis

Flipping off picturesque in the nickels’ cryptic lick of crystalline

Scripture’s depictions of the shapeshifting wicker nicotine Icarus gripping eclipses  

Smoke in his lungs like a loaded gun

Amalgamated nations, crocheted snakes of polymerization’s mosaic

In sacrilegious Rorschach choreography of discombobulated waltzing compositions in lithium

Static statues in the castles of atmospheric empyreans

Castaways’ daffodils tapestries of shrapnel Rorschach blasphemy

 Inter-mapping rapture’s relapsing passageways of grey

In the marmalade shade of carnal haze

On the edge of a reverend kicked out of heaven again

Frayed in maelstrom of Autumn’s blazing mosaic of basil azaleas

Peering through vertical curdled herds of flirtatious marigolds

As the clouds that ballet with their bent iron feet

Finally, balance on the ground that they meet

(And crowd themselves powerlessly)

(Unravelling gallantly)

(Calvary casualties)

(The heart don’t beat)

(The art don’t breathe)

(Like harlequin wreaths of weatherbeaten Prometheus reaping breath)

(In the dangling jangle of leaves)

(Among the reeds and the trees)

(Stark, arcing, embarking)

Over

The dead barley and wheat

 

Immortal

 

Apartheid kaleidoscope

On the cape of isolated landscapes

Shaken by the wake evisceration

Symbiotic imago

Staccato of vibrato

Mausoleums of Elysium’s speleothem

Helixes mixed in the bricks of a ricochet

In my crystalline crucifixion

Coral Meteora pouring distorting organs of meteoric chlorophyll

Crocheted crazed

Shapeshifting Icarus eclipses the lithium gypsies

Ecclesiastical pathos in the wrath of my pathogens

Woodland scavengers avalanche

Plastered pastures pastel rapture‘s flowering hourglass

Of the ecclesiastical astronauts

Who graft chapels of shrapnel shafts

Sapphire graphite nightless

In the white light

Lovecraftian Rorschach afterworlds

Chainmail ukuleles

Arching Parthenon

(Expressionless contraception’s pestilence bottleneck breathlessly in echoing hecatomb)

(Banners of ragged shrapnel tapestries crafted in the dilapidated apathy, gravel candle annuls)

(In the canopies of Nirvana’s tyrannical hands)

(Dangling enamel and branding of propaganda)

Nocturne’s proclamations of the gospel of apocalypse

Rakshasa doppelgangers looking out upon the reverends’ desert of dilapidated cities

With their flags of blossoming taffeta fluttering in dance with the dervish wind

Of blackest astral blasphemous iron-cast Damascus

Scabbards of lavenders angering on these stagnant magma avenues

Time immemorial

I am immortal

Never will I die (from rhyme)

On the inside again

 

Mississauga

 

Colliding horizons of wyvern briars

Like sirens kaleidoscope

And the lilac iris of pines

Of ivory cypress of white death, bottlenecked, sepulchred

The intertwining rhinestone

Of violet scythes choir

Churning in metallurgy

Merging in hurricanes of sewage drains

Unwinding a child now writhing in Gaia

Spindling chimneys of mithril basilicas glistening lithium rhythm

In a prison of piano and mandolin strings

And rivers like scimitars

Varicose chariots of tributaries carrion

Carve their way into the daunting harbours

These varicose oceans

Roped in hymns of spiralling wind

In bloated overtures

Roaming pandemonium coast to coast

Grandfathers to the waterlogged

Halogens of foggy Mississauga

Docked in the bloodshot Apocrypha

I watch your afterglow

And see your nebulous florescence

Scarred upon the landscape beautifully

The neon lights wish they were students as bright as yours

As you reek with blinding lights that dilute the pupils

Teaching of how both the yellow slur of metallic gold

And the great holy outback of rural villages

In the mud and snow once touched

And held hands before the altar

Before becoming one

That pulls from both dualities, our dualities

Like Lord Shiva

Neither this nor that

Neither one nor both

Somewhere in-between

Or outside it all

You are what remains when every colour in the world is blurred into one

Or where there was never colours

At all

White black and grey tongue

Let the pictures hang your promiscuous obscurity

Your opaque inconsistency

Your collage of mirages sprawling

(Bulbous with the columns of andromeda monoliths to colonization)

(Polyphonic iconography in lithium glyphs)

(Musically illuminating incongruently transfigured Olympians of rigid photosynthesis)

Your clear glass tapestry of broken sharded people

Like banners of amaranth on your walls of fibreglass sacrilege

Primordial embroideries coil in the foliage

Blurring the line between realities into one mesh

Colossus blossoming from the breath of Nephilim, zephyrs, and epitomes

Waltzing on your ulcers in malting cauldrons of frolicking mandala decomposition

(Let you/Or) be one of many

Or nothing at all

 

Incomplete

 

Tsunamis of origami wander bottomless terracotta mausoleums

Discombobulated Autumn’s breeze a mitochondrial ensemble of fawning mahogany cosmos

To the well-tuned eardrums of bottomless andromedas

Harbingers Shinigami harmonic constellations

Inkblots of cartilage Tartarus in the broken glass tapestries of teetering onomatopoeia

In chrysanthemums of planted drums in an answerless amphitheatre

Astronauts blotting swastika’s out from the blotched mockingbirds of concrete monasteries

Monarchs of archways paved embalming onyx alstroemerias

And varicose azaleas in the androgenous gelatinous crossroads of apocalypse

Vassals to the discompassionate asteroids void

In a ceiling of wrathful alabaster grasslands

Paint cans spilling out planets of amaranthine

The sulking hulk of penumbras of bumblebees

Thundering through the tundra of undergrounds

With the shrapnel lassos of Lovecraftian halos tailing the maelstrom

Gospels of Picasso’s grasping at straws

Drawn in grey lines across the pageless earth

A broken-spined journal that never touched a single word

Rough drafts of skeleton belladonna

With its flippant flipping conifers rippling lithium eclipse through the whispering chrysalis

Dusty memories that bellow from the Everest in its crevices a cemetery

Like a rusting thrush of blustering combustion

Blossoming colossus of pastel apostles

Cropping from the grapevine horizons like in the thread of leatherbound crevices

 Serengeti’s spaghettified by the lithium sycamores of prickly pear miscarriage  

Sickle crippling twisters of viscous mithril Icarus

The crescent of phosphorescence of blessings

Repetition’s iridescent sepulchre of arcing scarves of parchment

In the splendour of parthenogenesis

Stricken by you, I am

And after watching the process again and again, how you made me this way

I am the answer to your damning questions

Just the dream of your reality

Just the unspoken word for your silence

Just the frown of your smile

Just the empty in place of your full

Born from your (never) ending

Ascending emerald tendrils compendium of endless glens in the splendour of your pendulum

Born from the edge of the abyss

You dared to look upon in wonder

Squandering Shinigami, picker of wildflowers, plucking at strings

I was born from your road’s dead end

Your path leads to me

I am the beginning of the end

The judge for your run-on sentence

Well versed in your tongue

You give the word of God

At your own hearing

And the court finds that you lost your innocence

But you are deaf

With your cauliflower ears

And your patchwork heart

As the weight behind their punches

Batter your façade

As you and this world are the same

They have shaped you like knotted terracotta pottery, or a fallen mahogany tree

Blind to God, primordial earth

Trying to feel for something more than the shadow of yourself

In the death of your birth

In the extinguished light of a candle

Lost in checkered boards of black and white in a grey haze

Without really living in the first place

Reality without dream

Silence without word

Smile without frown

Full without empty

Movement without grace

Time without patience

Love without virtue

The oasis of your nothingness is a darkness that enveloped you in flames

And now you are but a wicker

The writer that burns his own pages

Putting out his best verses to warm the boiler of his clockwork heart

Which does not understand the posies of prose in a voiceless vortex of porcelain perfection

Burning your waxwings in a midnight sun

Under a strawberry moon

Do not fear the ticking of your eclipse

A hive of lilac butterfly’s glide on the isles of this horizon’s one-eyed kaleidoscope

Unravelling galaxy’s shrouding flowery gallows of bedazzled hallelujah

Balaclava talon alcoves of groves open their arms in avalanche blanche tarantulas

(Eldritch Machiavellians)

<Ramshackle astronauts in ecclesiastical pastures of blasphemous masquerade>

Basking in sacrilege, aspers of lit matches castaway like a blade of glasslike grasslands

In the dancing branches of damp lanterns

Chasms of shadows, prismatic gladiators in the Lazarus of stratospheres

Of lavender patterns that Saturn mandala of velvet elegies in the bellies of melody

To (brandish) amethyst salamanders of branding ambience in the champagne clay

Like ectoplasmic gatherings under shattering throng of Avalon

Babylonian chthonian dwelling dishevelled in bellowing melodies

In bevelling wells to evangelical skeletons

Strands of amethyst canvases

As the eye of the storm opens blindly

To see its pupils’ planting irises among the stars

Within the crater sockets of the octave mockingbird moon

Harmonies reincarnating in the clocks’ apotheosis

Dreams in the carnivalesque crepuscular hecatomb in the wreckage of perfection’s destinies

Its wings outstretched skyscraper deities

Daisies of megalomania craning their slender necks out of vortexes sepulchre

Watching from the radiant Himalayan graveyards of mazes within the pale braids of azaleas

In the matted hair of perishing eras samsara

(Armageddon’s feathery poinsettia brethren like severed heads of the tempestuous)

(Remember their shaved membranes like manes engrained in devastation)

The arrogant bounteous fountain of mountains entangled in the brambles like unkempt effigies

Ungrateful as you are

You fail to see the beauty in nothing

You do not know the fifth ring

You do not know the joy of honeysuckle

Under the rays of blinding pillars and columns

That house Cleopatras of alabaster

Weaving elysian terpsichorean mausoleums in the limousine trees

You do not feel the cold of winter glisten

Like sheets of ice upon riverbeds of skin

Or of the mattress clouds that smile upon the tyrant mountains

Holding up castles in the sky built from the brickwork of stars

Lost sigils of God

You are but a piece that will never fit into any puzzle

Misshapen, a blackbird the colour of tar

Painting yourself watercolour

Mesmerizingly alone, drowning in solitude’s kiss, its femininity

And so

We see no beauty in you

Nothing and I

You and I are both pointless nothings

I will never forgive your trivialization

Of the only things that bring me joy

But

I am a puzzle too

And I understand

What it means

To feel incomplete

But I still wish to gather my lost pieces

Little lambs, flocking to Apocrypha

And shepherd the lost clouds across the horizon of a cold black

Back across the path from heaven

Before they fall from their stairwell to God

And shatter into mortal men

Who do not love the sun, in all its rage, yellowed page, and poem

Hating those who burn their tongues

Without a word

To vomit brick(s) from the oven of their pain

As such is the foundation of the heavens

Baked in the spit of men

From their slack-jaw mouths

Beauty lays each block of death

Across the inevitable empty

Dozens of stories it is

The walls infinite

Misery is incomplete

The call of wild angels lull silence into sleep

And sleep lulls silently

The building built upon our built

Split

Upon our backs

Inside the stomachs of men chiselling rosemary from their gravelly faces

Wrench free

Each twig from beneath the fingernail of the branch

Each tooth from its entangled bangle of roots

Each cog from its mechanical anvil of a smile

The house of God is taking shape

There

Man becomes God, the Machine

And God wanders, trampling on mud and man

Across deserts of flayed skin

In the rivers of black

In the skies of white

In the fields of nothing but crows with everything grows freely from Eden

And the missing pieces

Naked to shifting eyes

That fail to see

The beauty in God

Incomplete as we are

Watch the unfolding of the last scroll

Like an elongated tongue

That spoke nothing

But forgotten passages

And falsehoods, called truths

Like a velvet carpet

The machine crawls on its windup legs into the iris of the sun;

(A ball of yarn in a cloud stitched sky)

Pulls the thread (free) from the fabric of unravelling reality

The silk from the wound

Until everything fits through the teeth of the turbine

The gears are clean

The machine hums with voice through its sharklike maw

Like caged birds in the trap of its ribs

And oil paints my steampunk face

The colour of God

Red as the apple of my eye

The worm gyrating through the centre of the eclipse

Umbilical birth of the many eons of sand and dust

Caught in the throat of mourning

A motherless Sun

 

Machine God

 

Failing still to be born

From the overflowing cup of a wrathful sky

Painted by men

Gears and pulleys gnashing

Shadow

In the shade of men, incompletely, (incomparably)

Spilling from the pipes

The tear ducts of vermillion cylinders

Eyes like moons cratered in the face of the earth

That blink out neon from their smoking amber depths

Clogging shillings of villages in the gizzard innards of its splurging eternities

The valves of Valhalla’s bowels

The intestinal crestfallen terracotta mahogany bonding comets of hydraulic alstroemerias

Collages of constellations bathing in the fresh paintings of latex

The swollen heart of a motor in the rusted flower of foliage

Pistons pumping steampunk homunculus voluptuously sunken in

Grand cathedrals of organ primordialism of porcelain rigour Mortis

<Disheveled cell of propellers>

<A velvet shell parhelion>

<Vellum belladonna of fauna’s andromeda crusted with the dusty must of sustenance>

(The deconstructing ruptured concussive percussionist)

(Budding discoveries rummage in the plumage of umbrage somersaulting altocumulus)

(The lustre of crushing and rusted musculature)

(Husks flush with clutching the gusting clusters of nothingness)

(Flesh and rough draft sacrilege refractive damascus in blasphemous ecclesiastical dilapidation)

(Disaster’s afterimage swivelling amaryllis ventriloquist imprisoned pilgrimage grisly chivalry)

The machine’s body is its own temple

Its own God

The gears continue to turn

The sun continues to burn

The deserts continue to grow

The sands continue to blow

It smiles without a face through its endless stream of words

Conscious only to the mechanisms, the machinations of its own bones

I do not love the machine

But perhaps

Incomplete as it is

It is not quite God

It is almost human

Stricken by you, I am

And after watching the process again and again, how you made me this way

I am just

I am just

I am just

The answer to your damning questions

Just the dream of your reality

Just the unspoken word for your silence

Just the frown of your smile

Just the empty in place of your full

Born from your (never) ending

Reality without dream

Silence without word

Smile without frown

Full without empty

Movement without grace

Time without patience

Love without virtue

I am just

And

I am just

And

We were just

Monsters without virtue

Chewing into the sinew of our gods

Incomplete in the face of our own mirrors

Seeing ourselves without beauty

A motherless Sun

Staring out upon the impossible empty

Locking eyes with the abyss

In which we bath ourselves dry

Bled wandering through the circles under God’s eyes

Drunk on the salt of his tears

I am baptized in fire and sun, and burning away at the seems

Drowned brightly in the waters of Phlegethon

Vomiting (barbed-wire) psalms I failed to feed the grey fields of my tongue

I am just-

-(Watching Slowly as the pieces on the board scatter to the wind)

 

Seeds of the Fruit

 

Forever wandering the shallow creek of my own lonesome shadow

Drinking from the chalice of a full moon blossoming

Its flower eyes opening

To the cruelness of the cross I carry

Down the boulevard of broken chess pieces

Their boardwalk of splinters and discarded limbs

Disfigured outlines where once dead men stood by the corners

Their outstretched wings of bare flesh skinned of life

Mannequins broken in by time

Wandering mitochondria unravelling scattered to the Babel

Engrained in the lathering of tattered rags clouding ballooning maneuvering juniper

The bowels of Valhalla’s cowls shrouding Valkyries

Crows watch from the strangled spiral of telephone lines

Hung from the mighty oaks

The rusted cherry blossoms’ lustre, and the withered weeping willows’ knots

Widowed to the angels who do not care for their upturned roots

Like grand orchestras of veins and arteries, organs, and pianos dangle like entrails

Strewn across the backstreets of decay

As the last dance of rotting maple leaves

Plummet sad from their summit

Like the choreography of fallen gods painted into murals of twine

In every crack of a dust smothered sidewalk

Colourless, unremarkable, cobbled in cracked porcelain

Smoke slithering snaking scarfs across the angered canyons of mannequins

Of my strands bangles of canvas ramble brambling in sanguine wreaths of bohemian bulimia

Down below the iron sun

Hammering flat the anvil ridge of earth on the edge of this town

As the cars needle and thread through melancholy lanes tattered cloth

As the crows watch cooing

As the day is eaten away by the blackness of night

As the boughs of trees bend their backs winding with the hands of the clock

And the new world

Born ignorant, blameless, embodying tomorrow’s flame

Leaves each shred of it to die

(In the alleys of rain, pooling their waste into the sewers of altocumulus)

Grey, purple, and ragged red

Bleeding from the stained fabric of time

(Wring every second’s ounce)

(Minutemen with [no]-body counts writing the passage of time with the lifeblood of sheep)

(While they weep)

Draining watercolour of what painted my white grey dreams hopeful

And like I have

Forgets them all

Nobody counts on me

I don’t smile

(I don’t laugh)

(Sometimes even,)

(I don’t dream)

Just show my dirty teeth

But I pick the flowers from them

In this weed-strewn overgrown garden of a mouth

(Just) To give to you

(my word)

Maybe so you’ll have

The chances/life I never had

For I have wandered beyond the pit of the pomegranate

And past the core of the apple

And bore my own fruit

With this mouth

And these fingers

Feasting

On the incorporeal morsel of my mortal soul

And now I leave you

The seeds

As they sprawl in the boreal forests

As they spindle on the irrational winds

I feel as if I can see them

These embers of wood, and bark, and star

Watch my world crumble away in the bonfire of dreams

In the palms of your hands

See what the man underneath you

Grows for your stump

As the flowers

Have mine

Have my name

Let it roll off the skin of the page

And tumble from tongues

Decaying into dust

Have my words

As I cannot cling to their harmony

I am not the meat

I am the leftover verses

Of a dream

That will flower

Someday

As I am but a memory

And you are but a garden of fresh dirt

Let us manifest our destinies

Let us grow boundless forests among the great mountains

Let us be static like the flow of water

Let our dreams warp reality

Let us hold fate bent, restrained, firm, enslaved, within our flayed leatherbound arms

Let us be

Flowering stars in the grand burial of black

Let us be

The sound of nothingness driven in noiselessly before an endless storm of wind and rain

Let us be

Sparks born in the clash of two souls

I didn’t choose this

This is who I am

(I didn’t discard this)

(I have little, if nothing, else, really)

(This nothing)

(This everything)

(This dream)

Is who I am

<Try to>

Take it from my hands

Sprawling metropolitan kilometres that domino in the snow

All I’ve been doing

Is waiting






© 2021 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)


Author's Note

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
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 the ( ) brackets, or ( ) and [ ], or ( ) [ ] and { }, or all these mentioned brackets including < >, or these brackets all the way up to >( )<, and finally, up to - - or -< ->. It must be in this order though if you wish to read some of the brackets. Obviously the more brackets you read, the longer my poems will be. The purpose of this is simply to allow leniency in how long or short you want the read to be. The lines in grey are particularly optional. This is not a way to ruin art in order to string in more readers, nor am I doubting a reader's capabilities to understand, or even how much they're willing to read. It is much more something where I simply do not know whether I consider these extra words be the core, and see them in a sense of not entirely understanding whether I consider them "canon", as they often change the flow of the piece, for better or worse, when or when not they are included. In a way, making it a completely different poem, as is their intention in a way, to add more, and to sculpt words differently. Think of these added brackets and words as the fat of the piece, rather than the bones.

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

wow. you sure know how to knit words and imagery. a literary marathon with every line a gold medal. i was grabbed from get-go and it never relented.

from
In the clouded hallelujah of travelled cowls
to
Under the rays of blinding pillars and columns

That house Cleopatras of alabaster

you've got some real cool beans growing in this one ... :)

Posted 1 Week Ago


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Week Ago

Thank you Pete, happy to share this poem with you! I appreciate the review.
This is a great piece. I especially like the part 'Insignificant'.

Posted 1 Month Ago


R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Month Ago

Thank you for reading, glad you enjoyed it. I've been working on Climbing Centipede, another poem of.. read more

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Added on September 10, 2021
Last Updated on October 24, 2021
Tags: wanderers, of, from, eden

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..

Writing