Flowers of All I Am

Flowers of All I Am

A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

One of my favourite poems to write, and one of my best so far. Please enjoy.




All I Am


See how I see

Bleed as I bleed

Fibres kaleidoscope in the rising quagmire spiral

Unravelling the fragile jasmine javelin of cavalry

The orb of an accordion like a primordial void of oracles

Of sundial highways revving the engines of heaven


Ribboning linen rivers of obsidian

Strangled chrysanthemums and formaldehyde dandelions

Made timeless in the binding of its rewinding binary kaleidoscope


Give it to me

Give it to me

Give me back the weight of eternity;

Let it rest between my fingers

It is my welcome burden to bear

Blasphemous taffeta handcrafted by ramshackle alabaster massacres;

Like a flightless bird,

I am hustling roses to the gallows, to the dreamless, to the walking dead

I am falling deep into the abyss,

Inescapable, this beyond, this ending,

Before the beginning of a sunrise of vinyl in the ivory kaleidoscopes

Blanketing anchors of dancing chrysanthemums

Count down with me

In the roar of background noise

Count down to zero

In the disarray of suede glades subterranean and sable raven Himalayans

Waltzing palpitations in every nations’ creation and cremation’s rolling molars of pareidolia

Chapels of daffodils smiling in the serendipitous abyssal nickel conifers

Of lithium eclipse whistling in the igneous misty vistas of bougainvillea basilicas

Briars and dandelions spider silver-lined kaleidoscope

Like alabaster saplings under the axe of hermaphrodites

You can feel sorry for someone and still see their flaws

Wrapping lavenders of amethyst cataclysm

Around the sapphire line and the binding pyre of lilac horizons

I have preserved my sanity

Have I not?

Or did I lose it somewhere?

To the carrion of alstroemerias

Or to the cerulean bougainvillea

Or to the braided eons prayed on by the séance of blades

Or to the chaos of clockwork glossed docks in dreadnoughts’ wedlock of caustic phosphorus

Provocative nocturne yearning for the churning urns of mockingbirds and the runes’ arboretum

Forsaken acres of naked wakes of wraiths

Of aether scarecrows of osmosis and blossoms of coffins and apotheosis

In the fibrous guise of a meteorite in mid-flights scythe

You were wrong to take it from me

The smile from the face

The beat from the heart

The wrinkle of the skin

The man from the picture

The ink from the blister

The page of white skin taut flat across the table, disabled

And that left me feeling nothing

Left me feeling numb

This cold frame

This leather cloth called flesh

Shivering in itself and the ever-shifting derelict affliction

The soul knows no better than to freeze in the bombshell of a heart

In this warfare of the body

I still am stained in brushstrokes

Waiting for an atom bomb to drop like a fist

From the heavens of her eyes

Or reflected in their old age


I see myself, there

Tie-dyed in sunset’s threads dreadlocks of Cocytus and Ragnarok, the apostles of lost worlds

The umbra of thunderstruck hummingbirds

In the murmuring fertile unearthing in the birth of eternity

Spores of metamorphosis strewed by confused beautiful cumulus

The spires of wildfire scrying the hurricane’s eyes

A runaway train of vinyl

A shrine of binary ivory within the iris of grinding dust into flower, and flower into dirt

Through the pupil’s like lucid crucifix of Jupitar, black purpled, Mercury, red rusted, brown

Climbing in the winding rhinestone lining of a fibrous nylon kaleidoscope

Like an opal incorporeal gorge of floral violas in crepuscular exodus kissed by the whispering

Within the organized corridors of this coral morgue

For chlorophyll oracles primordial morph the fortress of endorphins gorging on embroidered


Mourning for these stormy corneas

Expurgatorius in the quarry’s rust victorious

Threatening mechanistic lithium calypso witnessing the abyssal eclipse of Vishnu’s missionaries

In the rickety history of crystalline lithium passing through the mouth of the eye

Splintered in their scintillation the teeth, the tongue, the lips

Are chipped at by the rippling mithril ricochet of blackbirds, blackberries, black veil halos,

Made of jade and cast in jasper and alabaster

The opposite of cosmopolitan andromedas

Fauna of the hollow chested crepuscular phosphorescent frescos of nectarines like figurines

Between ravines of

Incandescence silhouettes of Hephaestus’s crescent moons

Battered blued with hues of ruminating crocheted mosaics

Hammering tangerines and tambourines

In the glades of oasis paled by the werewolf underneath the leaves of a decade’s recipe

Weaving through seamless sheets and reaping gatekeepers of Elysium

Under the reef in the sky gone lilac dilated

In the bonfire’s briars of an unwired violin

Chiselled whittled from willows like champagnes of memory lanes, sweet sappy syrup of God

From the swivelling woodlands of amethyst sun thumping into a percussionist’s sky

Lowering itself into the lips of the horizon, bowing its hips of lithium

Swallowed by the earth

French kissing God,

Fathered and mothered asunder umbrage of the mourning son’s limbs

Olympians of the grim symphonies bleeding eagerly for the moon

Into the palms of the earth

Another younger sister following her older sibling

After losing her own mother to the bonfire in the darkness

Arbitrary tributaries of wisterias’ marionettes

In the depths of clandestine resurrection through sepulchres’ effigies

Recklessly pressing their faces against the frosty glass elastic with daffodils all frills umbilical

And breathing in the steam of smoke of the brokens’ spoken word

Churning in the metallurgy, the furnace of eternal clergymen

Who bend into crevasses that blossom and belt the Valkyries with their pitch-forked tongues

With the welling tears of evangelical mirrors

In the sealing of the speleothems with cedar onomatopoeia and phoenix of arboretum

That end in the tempest of centuries’ entropy maleficent contemporaries

The cemetery chariots and the Everest of heaven’s fist

And the ghetto in the yellow meadowlands

Like a flower opening its fingers so you can see the flats of its pollen slathered palms

Wilting in dance to the clap of God’s hands

As the shifting wisps like ships kiss the abyss with lithium eclipse

Missing the wish of a falling star on a carnival

Carving itself into the umbrella of clouds

Malleable shallows like gallows of aurora borealis in the shadowed hourglass pastures

In the lyrics of sulphuric immaterial

In the mirror image of a clearing

In the fury of spherical heresy to the void of noiselessness turmoil

In the foliage of oil painting forests

In the chorus of Ouroboros humming like a bumblebee amidst the clutter of lumber and

Fumbling over sunlit dream rummaging in the blue plumage

Illuminating the scarecrow plumerias that wear the world on their satin backs

Waxing and waning in the greys of Himalayans

Playing with clay and braille of a lackadaisical maelstroms

Waves in a halos grace in the scaled cliff-face

In the wail of a babe and the grail of a plague

Vagabonds discombobulated in the masonry of Egyptian griffins and whistling gypsies

Glyphs like wickers of sickles like Icarus kindled in the spindling incendiary

The dwindling phosphorus blossom, colossus

The mosque and apothecary, the flock of mockingbirds

That surge in the pearly sterling silver of bougainvillea basilicas

Amaryllis and lilies in the frills of a silver ridge of pilgrimage

Sifting through the blue moon like a juvenile’s bible

In wyvern’s kaleidoscope

Opening topaz and gladius in the Saturn’s gathering amaranths

Splattered over the canvas like an avalanche

Dancing in the lanterns of our fantasy, our frantic fanciful cancer

Iridescent spectres of phosphorescent resurrection

Nephilim of Bethlehem’s Bessel and sepulchres of terpsichorean arboretum

Spires, dark messiahs of barbed wire

Spiralling Nihilism in the endless masses of alabaster crashing in the rapids of baptism

Succumbing to the unavoidable end;

The opening of eyes;

The closing of the curtains

As hurricanes crane their serpentine heads over the cradle of a tornado

From the threads of bedlam’s reverends;

The fibrous disguise of lilac’s blasphemy

Rasping glasslike taffeta reverberating serpentine herculean with mercury oceans of tuberculous

The inner circles in the circuitry of a thirsting Ursuline hurricane of jade rasping of jasper

Screaming to the helix of Elysium

Screaming like a tongue that no longer finds its place

In (y)our mouth(s)

The hollow of the tree

Whittling, carving away at itself until it turns masterpiece

The rotting totem pole, proud, but

Vindictive of its roots



Fabric labyrinths of Lazarus’s ejaculated aspirations of abberration’s creation

Tapestries of gelatinous radioactive artifacts of dilapidated faculities on the denim breeze

Evangelical embryos of cythonian blanketing anchorage of sanctum’s bridge

Gone are the auburn constellations

Wrapped in the gauzy ovulating polymers of shapeshifting crystalline omniscience

Charmed by the dawn of Necronomicons and the faunal andromedas in a garden of starlings

Etched of Westwind's sepulchre of a polyester jester

Wretched cesspool and the juice of crucial ballooning hallucinogens

This scythe of enlightenment illuminating moonlights flight

Titans in the night

Through its blinding wine of white blight;

A mithril sickle of prickling omnipotence whispering precipitation among the conifers’ lithium

And spindling in the schism of mimicry and linden trees

Like linen cloth sarcophagus prancing in the wind

Like the rim of a scimitar in the of reincarnation and thread through riverbeds of fate

In the grey cliff’s kiss of a glacier’s aether machinations

Of discombobulated oasis and the choreography of dolls in the hallways of jade

And cauldrons of polymerization

In a matrix of misplaced transfiguration

All through the binary siren of an iris through transmogrified asylum

For lilac butterfly horizons of spiderweb

Incorporeal kaleidoscopes notions of unspoken oceans

Like oracles in the talons,

The crowed palace of aurora borealis

And the crescents’ maleficent precipice

That ingests eclipse in resurrection’s crypt

Like a pyre in the islands of your pupils lucid and unfruitful,

Their void, their blackhole, their bottomless abyss

Where I still notice a pinprick of light from somewhere

Tucked in the nook and cranny of your amethyst kite blinking neon from its whites

Ripening deciphering insights of lifeless cypresses

And the reeds of newborn cedars;

Out of sight;

Warriors of expurgatorius foliage

Corridors in floras’ harmonious omens in the moments

Cloaked in the red apple core of terraforming gorges

In the ornery embroidered orange mornings of metamorphosis

In the carving of harlequin

In a tsunami of mahogany and terracotta obelisks

Holding barbed wire hyacinths and carousel wisterias

In their prairelands of their reaching hands

Like ambrosial osmosis of ghostlike roses

In an ocean of crocheted lace

And glaciers in the blossoming apotheosis of an opening cornucopia

Formless and intricate like the glyphs of infinite symphonies

The blimp of scintillating glaciers of lacquered aether

Burdening the infernal murmurings like the gizzard of a river’s obsidian

Steering through the mural of ethereal clearings in the fog of ominous god-lands

The palm of a gondola crocheted with the glazed aegis of abominations and condemnation

Singing to the mimicry rinsed in the synth of photosynthesis

The rhythm of bougainvillea

The reeds of onomatopoeia

Careening seamstress to the weaving remix of elysian cedars

And heathens carved in marmalade harmony of a harbour’s farmland arboretum

And the whisper of hieroglyphic liches rich in the viscera

Relinquishing the scintillating inkblots lost to the outcrops of phosphorus Ragnarok

Crops of chakra blossom like knotted faucets frothing with the nostrils of apostles lost

In the rotten esophagus of gothic clockwork along the rocking river Cocytus

Altas is holding the rapture of skies and horizons goliath

His many hands of blasphemous Nazareth

Could never hold a flower

Could never give a rose

Could never learn to love

All he knows is his punishment, his suffering, his destiny

He only knows the burden he has

He carries on

Shouldering the weight

And dreams of hustling roses

To those lost in Tartarus

To the avenues of the dead

And the highways of hell

And the solitary confinement of a windowless limbo

“So many knives”

He says

“So little flowers”

Picking the placid weak roots

From between his dirtcaked fingernails

Digging in for more, once holding up the bowels of heaven, the entrails of Gods, like a sacrifice

Now, catching butterflies

In his clenched fists

More is, slipping away

His grip on reality, unsteady

More garden, more statue, more column of stone

Than man

Than flower

More feet planted firmly

More arched back raised

More chained arms

Than tree

He is heavy

Under the weight of all those bodies

Above and below him

He is

He is (watching the heavens)

He is (ankle deep in the dirt)

He is (the in-between)

Their god, their devil

Their headstones, their rock

Their blind salvation

And a reminder of their untimely demise

And they are all

Holding their breath

Until suffocating

On their snuffed flames

On their lost tongues

While he (does not speak)

Didn’t have a mouth

(Or a single word to teach)

(Of the windswept beaches of his drowned suffering)

(His clenched fists full of sand)

(Catching nothing)

To begin with

(Does he feel nothing? Falling through his fingers? The grains of eons? The touch of God?)

(Lost years of love no longer seen in his mirror?)

(Does it all mean… nothing?)

(Is nothing, the answer?)

(Echoing its hum of salvation)

(Through every moment of it all?)

(Is this what trinkets of the world he left behind?)

(The imprint of his hands holding up the skyscaper laden horizons of ivory)

(Is this the meaning? The answer?)

(Bleeding, crushed under the voided weight of nothing?)




Gathering Saturday’s abbreviations

Reverberating hurricanes in the antimatter fabricated machinations

Of reanimation of ramshackle mavericks

Of biomechanical Nazareth

Candlelit by the abyss and lucid crucifixion

The crucible of musical contusions of blooming illuminated boons

To rejuvenation accumulating in a matrix of salvation

And the maelstrom of wailing hatred

Patron to obliteration and liberated oasis

Among the high-strung glacier or a fibrous horizon

Of lilac iris in the jasmine topaz of opal of bifocals

The graphic tapestries of aftermath’s ecclesiastical taffeta

Elastic in the polycrystalline apparition and mithril lithium of visceral chrysalis

Tongue twisted and glistening within the cliff named Icarus

Shining over the book spine of Nihilism’s bibles

Spiralling in the eyes of hyacinth

And intimacy’s pixyish eclipse

As it ricochets through the motions of an open grave

In the ocean of crowded commotion

In the close shave of everglades,

A flower blooming from the flesh of a concussions’ thrush of percussion

Muddled in the summit of umbrage

Plummeting from the bumblebee seas of elysian debris

Sleeves of helium helixes unpeeling from the follicles of wallpaper

Matriarchs waltzing in palpitating collages

Of choreography’s discombobulated polymerization stationary

And the vase of halos blow through a field unyielding

Under glass ceiling speleothems reeling in the summer skin of windbreakers

In acres of waking aether a proclamation of the gospel of phosphorus

Apocryphal offerings to the samsara of folding accordions

Of pareidolia pouring through the the ornery metamorphosis

Of corridors in the euphoria of chlorophyll

Corneas to be born in us glorious quarries

In the roof of a pupil

In the attic of a avalanche

Dancing with the water lantern chrysanthemums

Cancerously spreading wings like seraphim

Within the dim-lit pit’s lithium precipitation

Still existing as it litters obliteration of civilizations and the flailing aegis,

A basilica of bougainvilleas silhouette the vermilion stillness of cerulean capillaries

Like sigil villages in pilgrimage with imitation’s scintillation

Creation’s vaporous aether erasure of homo sapient glaciers

And sapphire saplings in the laughing rafters of scaffolding

Dilapidation and lackadaisical azaleas

That gale in the fable of a paper trail’s maelstrom

With each loose screw and every nail

I build myself up again,

A*s the tornadoes rend I’m still railroad bent

To the grazing zigzag of a pattern’s avalanche

And a hurricanes’ birth again, I remain mortal, uncoil this string,

Let the echoes the spectral ring

Under the necklace of Nephilim, the nectar of the crepuscular,

I break the record, and watch it spin

With the autumn gauze of andromeda polymers

Of pollens ovulation in hollow staccato

Of terracotta mausoleums and mahogany colosseums

In the bondage of a collage of bulbous constellations

Like grand amaranthine spiders of rhinestone dandelions

Ivory with the skies of tweed and horizons weed

The dynasty of cypress trees with lightning’s leaf

And ichor bleeds from spiralling iris iridescent with the hectares

Of resurrection’s effigy

Pestilential with the disassembling entrails of trailing azaleas

And the ferris wheel of helix of cathedrals like cherry alstroemerias

That carry dead on ferries’ treads

Weaving cedars of intravenous legions through the multilateral bowels

In the towels of ravelled shadows in the travelling shadow

Of the gallows of onomatopoeia

Inside a vinyl hideaway of lilac and violet defiling the nylon thread of a violin’s stretch

Of catguts twisted viscera that sounds will the howl

From in the Valkyrie of a thousand amalgamations of obliterated creation

Shapelessly raked of the amorphous incorporeal vorpal moon

Of an oracle’s ballooning cumulus

Fumes of blooming ludicrous sapphire pyres

On islands of irises in the pupil’s hallucinations

Scrapping and scraping at the atrophy of monotony’s atrocities

As their terracotta brothels to the apostles of pastels and melodies

Of disheveled meadows and the serging metallurgy

In the furnace of a sterling hurricane

Chained to the hallowed ground of unraveling hallelujah

From the lips of a chrysalis of obituaries of wisterias and alstroemerias

Married to the ferrymen of blended watercolour smothered embers

Among the feathers of Armageddon’s heavens

Wrapped in evaporated tapestries of clouds

Like shrapnel taffeta glaring down from the skies

Like apartheid’s society under the iceberg hurricanes of suede

Silken frills like pillars of waterlilies

The umbilical bougainvillea and pillows of weeping willows

Amaryllis gone vermilion in the window of biblical cylendrical blizzards in the prickes of Icarus


Heavenless Earth


Nickel visceral wickermen

Churning their metallurgical urns

Like a suede ocean wave

Crocheted in marmalade palisade of arcanum’s vertebrae

Like a naked snaking calcification

Of hurricanes’ reverberating oasis

Like the gallows of crowning bowels

Of hallow grounded of metallic phalanx unravelled hallelujah

Crucifix spruce of altocumulus

Like the precipice of a resurrection’s nest

The festering necklaced epithet

In destined sepulchres spurred by the turbulent turning

Of a burgundy hurricane’s serpentine chains

In the malaise of vaporous aegis and the facial oasis

Combing Bablonian, the crocheted beard of a seraphim

Swimming in the gin of woven covens of photosynthesis

Rinsing the rivers of blizzards

And the skies of homogenized horizons

Capsizing bibles in the lilac ivory of a spiralling cypress tree

Like a wraith of pathos’ aether

Shapeless as the graceful maple polymerization

Scales of the wailing gale in the maverick of fabled halos

Fallen in the palm of discombobulation

Like a pamphlet of amaranths

Chanting to the Babel of taffeta

Balaclavas unraveling in the chalice of a champagne radiance

Sapiently gazing upon the prize of a sapphire geyser

Like a wyvern of diamond a hyacinth chimera

Idolizing spiralling wildfire pyres

And writhing wires of the seismic horizons

Of riled Goliath and fibrous bibles

Of Gaia’s synthesizer like bottomless augers

Of frolicking synagogues from the colossus of phosphorus

Bending hemorage of clementine rhinestone

The sky under the weight of this obliterating saint

Like swivelling mills of bougainvillea

Sigil in rivers of amygdala

And cinders of amaryllis like a crumbling cerulean pillar

In a village of intimate scintillating aether

Like a frivolous guillotine of vermilion capillaries

Mimicking the syncopated synchronization

Of a whittling infinite whimpering symphony

In the splintered winters whistling with the rippling gypsies

A blistered history written in the annuls of chrysanthemum

Avalanches from the hands of an amethyst

Amorphous in warmth of the anthropomorphic porcelain

Bridging gaps with a sapling’s cacophony as we shape-shift the many faces of oasis

Weave what I weave

Be how I’ll be



The Festival of The Burning Man


Washed in the phosphorus esophagus of a cradle’s tornado

Braided by Beowulf in the mouth of a lighthouse’s balcony

Welcoming an alcove to Valkyries

In the valleys like a chalice overflowing

In pandemonium combing pastures of grasses

Blades of black alabaster and graphite chassis

In the massacre of cardiovascular astronauts

Lovecraftian chapels of taffeta scaffolding the scalpel of the moon, a broom of ludicrousness

Spooned by all-consuming jubilance

The lances of amber opals crammed down the throats of an incorporeal ocean

Crocheted by the greys of an evergreen

Between the bulbous leaves of colons and spleens and entrails and bowels of onomatopoeia

Cedars spontaneously splintered in the winter’s photosynthesis

And the glint of scintillation like a wicker’s glyph

Upon the gondola of this uplifting cistern

Of this whipped syphilis spit from the lips of a derelict heretic’s blistered affliction

Greased like the wheel of their horseshoe speleothems empyrean arboretum

In the helix of not a phoenix

But a burning man

In the inferno’s metallurgical hernias

Eternally blurred in ferns of suburban iceberg insurgency

Like pearls in the furnace of a barley carnival

Like columns that domino

These polymers call out in the karma’s harlequin

In the crosshairs of a ferris wheel

Parallel to the barrel’s mouth of a parasol’s carousel








Communal funeral of the lunar tribunal

All-consuming moon looming blooming chewing through illusions

Moving in the churning dew of sinew’s linen

Spinning through the windpipes

And the briars of the choir of diaphragms

Like bands of amaranths clamouring over each other’s watercolour

The ambrosia of clovers like molten shoulder-blades

In the glades of clean-shaven Himalayans

Crocheted from the basil of sable sailboats

In golden Asmodeus awoken by Clotho

Spinning the threads of fate assimulating lakes in the quake of a sacred thousand acres

In the snaking wraith of maple trees and aether scintillations of glaciers’ polymerization

Accumulated sacrednesses of honey-dipped eclipses of illiterate viscera crystalline

Crypts of crystalline and distance of andromeda’s kilometres

Bottomlessly blossoming in the holocaustic coffins

Phosphorus mosques of sarcophagus and esophagus

Crisscross-roads of comatose chromosomes

In the soma of crepuscular nectars echoing

Effigies, hectares of sepulchres

And the breathless necklace of beckoning hecatomb

Like a shrieking beacon of terpsichorean fiends

In the furled grip of Elysium’s riptide

Poseidon and chimera leviathan in the masks of brass basilisks

Cast from pits glistening with the last whispers of mithril epiphany

And lithium christened with the barren wisterias

Vicariously varicose with the croaking of crows in the jaws of vibrato

Lowering telephone pole thrones of lonesome pandemonium banding omicron,

The sputtered start of my beating heart

No light; no dark, no bite, no bark

Binary in the spines of lilac dryads in the winding highlands of a line of irises

Grinding themselves into the valves of asphodel

Chapels of shrapnel

Crafted into the masts of alabaster rafts

Like castaways in the lazy river haze of yesterday’s maze

Among Himalayan radiance glazed in the entropy of a thousand battalions

Crossing mausoleums through the knot of arteries

Gnarled in the hook-nosed nook and cranny of a banner over the debris of fallen trees

In gleaming evening like parted seas of Eden’s terpsichorean greenery

Weary of the immaterial clearing in the confined of a shackled mind

Empyrean delirium in the clouded mind

Left in the fog we left behind

Winding into Styrofoam xylophone ozone boats across the oceans

That wrote the tug and pull of worlds of words

Chained and bound in boughs of amalgamations ancient

With the aegis of creations’ aether wraith of pollinating terracotta obelisks

In the sodomized horizons of cauterized mahogany wandering past the grasslands of man

The echoing bethel of maleficent frescoes

Like the phosphorescent nectar

Wrestling in the wreckage of a sepulchre

Threatening mechanistic lithium calypso witnessing the abyssal eclipse of Vishnu’s missionaries

Coalescent frescos of snaking acres on wastelands of aether glaciers

In the haystack of a maelstrom

Canonical andromedas bombard the harlequin barley of carnage and colosseum

The manifestation of polymerization

The frescos of crescent’s manifestos destined to wrestle with the endless twist of a bending whip

Rorschach chapters in the leatherback chapels

Swathed with alabaster and taffeta’s shrapnel wrapped laughter

In satin blasphemy grasping apathetic parthenogenesis

Tendrils of viola, arrogant

Reach a form of understanding

With their empty hands

Only the immaterial could

Only the dream could feel so real

Only reality could be so outlandish

As the pixies ricochet like a bauble in a glass bottle


Wisterias and a Butterfly


I’m not ready for this yet

The past is beautiful

The present

Is what I have

One must always follow the other

(Into the kaleidoscope of a new day)

(Into the whisper of cities dipping their lips in the crystalline lithium)

(Into the throat of an autumn breeze of eulogy ukuleles cradling the flames of a hurricane)

(Into the dark abyss beyond the length of tongue like a trail of music notes lisping hypnotic)

(Expanding molecules dissolving through follicles damp into the catacombs of the unknown)

Standing in this line

Between the strings of life and death; the brink of morning sun on the tusk of dawn

Their (mammoth) symphony

Their (ancient) harmony

My (extinct) melody

I did not write music this time


I am an echo of an echo

Trapped within the alabaster walls and hallways in a terracotta vase (of symphonic andromeda);

The maze of my own making

A shadow hiding from the light of a windowpane

Concealed hunched behind the back of celestial bodies

Hiding from innocence

Hiding from God

Hiding from the opportunity

To sing

As everything that I was

Dipped in bittersweet

Is ringing

In my ears

Like an echo drawn out across pages,

Sketching the effigies of figures bound in leatherbacks shuffling barefoot

Coming back across the desert of chapters

The many stories of this heaven, this serpent, this Oroboros built from the ground up

Into silence


Into beginning

At the end of the river of sound

At the oceans welling with streams of consciousness, drowning in downpour, the salt of all

Stalagmites of poltergeists and chapel stalactites, chasms of lavender, patterns lapis lazuli

Braided sable halos, tornadoes in the veil of a basil maelstrom

Over the larks like harps of arching parchment on the escarpment

Like a temporal meteor of violas, tomorrow’s (phantasmagoria a) rolling ghost of opal symbiosis

Whittled with a swivelling chisel of amaryllis, guillotine brittle vermillion

In its umbilical citadel of a mellow cello, a melody’s elegies in the belltower of parhelion

Let us share this empty; this poem; this syncopated erasure of the hallucinogenics of heavens

Let us feast upon

The ephemeral crescendo to nothing, dusty musculature rusted by muffled light

Amphoral and incorporeal

Waiting to hear that

The silence of my heart

Has not been broken yet

As I give you the inheritance

Of what was lost before I was

Life will continue

From where I left off

The music

Plays for you now

For you

It is fading, but

I hear nothing

It calls to me

As if I am nothing but a memory

And you will remember



One must follow the other

And the cliff

It is

Softer than it looks

And the rocks

Will cradle your head there

Like a baby

And the darkness

Will envelop you, now, eventually

And in its shadow

There will have been some form of light, there will have been some form of death; or life

And you will shed light like the sun

And flowers will grow

From your buried roots, and your spangled banner of bandaged amaranth branches

The past is beautiful

You are beautiful

The present

Is waiting in line

One must always follow the other

One must always follow

Into the skin, under the bone, out of the body and into the night

Always fade indistinct, and immaterial, into the darkness of the night

So that there will be light

One must always follow; god, or maybe optimism, or happiness, or a quick death

The path

Of death

Through the thicket

The garden

Of life

And grow ripe from it; grow rotten; grow anew

Grow ripe enough

To fall from the withered branch

To be the last fruit of knowledge picked from the fields of chaos

And the mossy mosques of docked mockingbirds in the surge of blossoming phosphorus

Spreading the sickness of the mind deviously through the intravenous river reeds

And become the malleable mandala of flowers unravelling callous hallelujahs from their blooms


Of devoured kalpas in the bowels, the entrails, the grail

The sable eyed bonfire with a hint of lilac like orange geysers of reborn choirs to scorn Gaia

In the dirt

So beautiful you are

As you leave the dirt

Again, and again

Returning, again and agina

A fresh fruit set upon the path

Travelling in the trenches and ridges lined by the feet

That became flower

Before them

Their symphony

Their harmony

My melody

These flowers

Drink of the wine of the wrath of God

The heavens of their never-ending

The present

Is what I have

I am left

With (nothing)

Little else

Other than the comfort of light yet to extinguish itself

Hiding somewhere

Over the lips of the obsidian horizon

Slowly dwindling in its wax prison, in the waning of this lucid moon

So beautiful

It is

It sings!

(Oh how it sings)

To me! Of what could have been!

Do you hear?

Do you hear

Do you not hear!


Have you plugged your ears

With (dirt and) clay?

The moon…

It sings to me

So sweetly now

I am not ready for this

Their symphony

Their harmony

My melody

It permeates through the silence; through these dilapidated bones, the hum

Oh how it sings to me! Ringing in the ears of etherealism

Oh how it screams through me without noise

All as if

Not to make a sound

And now I find the quiet

Monotonous, repetitive, unrelieved

Dull, and tedious

Without lustre, and rusty


The night is black with daffodils

Like a Rorshach sun

Painted on my skin

Tumbling in the wind

You are an echo

Of my echo

<A shadow>

<Of my shadow>

My symphony

My harmony

Your melody

Did you not know?

(In this dance)

One must (always) follow the other

<Take my hand>

<Dear (fellow) butterfly, are you dreaming of man?>

<Or am I merely, dreamlessly>

<The reality, (the remains of my dream,) in you?>

<You don’t understand me, now>

<But (oh) how you sing to me!>

<Oh, and>

<It’s enough to make a man sick>


<(I do understand)>

<(The sound that madness makes)>


Struggle (Or Surrender)


<As it scratches at and torments me from within these walls, this beast, this b*****d>

<The swallowed note of its echo eroding in its reverberation hunts the light of day>

<From behind curtains, serpentine, swindling dwindling cinnamon mimicry>

<In a conclave of hazel Azazel bouncing in like a scalpel in my hind>

The halos of mayhem like ruffled feathers in all its cumulus doomed plumage>

<Within the closed off cell of my skull>

<Where no man may visit but me, lest they seek the understanding of pain and her effigy>

Painted like a fresco deep within the hull of my inner defenses

Closed off from the dripping paint of a glacier’s oasis

<But (little butterfly, my bird, my flower, coasting on the thermals of my second wind)

I was born (from that) sick(ness,) <Moulded, crowned, shaped, by its sculpture, its dexterity>

<Woven in my very flesh by its creativity, its resourcefulness>

<Its power, its nonsensical babbling baubles of strange genius

The lost fruit of knowledge in the babble of a wildflower’s petal, its alabaster machinations

Creation, cerulean villages within raindrops of phosphorous

<Unravelling in its keen-eyed stupidity as it wanders the fields and mangroves of my mind>

<Like wireframe diagrams of chlorophyll corridors in my sanguine Elysium>

<That glisten like lithium words, its distinct peculiarity>

<Blooming like a second sun from underneath the coffin lid, this sky of mine; this hate, reborn>

<That groped me within its talons of loathing>

<In a cesspit of my own sorrows>

<Oh, and>

<It’s enough to make a man sick>

<But I was born from the fruit of that sickness>

<Were(n’t) you?>

Madness is place where a man who can’t stand reality lives

Some call it a dream

I call it home, this dream, this brink, fringing on this waking nightmare of star ridden skies

Pockmarked escarpments;

This ridge of the mind overlooking the hamlet of all that I am

This cliff edge of dreadnoughts lost to the gospels of fossils of phosphorus doppelganger’s lands

Tied together with the grapevine kaleidoscope of a cypress of vipers and hyacinth of bible strings

This helix like a photo reel of onomatopoeia bleeding through Elysium

And it’s cozier

Than any other prison

I’ve had the pleasure of living in

And brighter

Than any (dark) future (of mine) I have ever (had to the privilege to have) seen

A torch greater in blindness than any other I could bear

I wear it like a flag, a hooked cloak swathing my body under the white sunlight that spites me

It promises the partial understanding of many things, and the complete understanding

Of nothing

The broken, shattered, unsteady, unreliable mind for instance

That comes with it

Free of charge

It is the anvil of bronze wings that let me sample the fruits of the heavens

But at what cost?

A head in the clouds, soaring above the brightest cypress of kaleidoscope

Pruning the juvenile moon

Does not know logic, or of the bend of its own reality from within

<Beyond the fanciful nature of its own resemblance>

<Below the ravine of phosphorus thoughts>

And a palpitating heart

That ripples with the whispering rivers of Icarus’s chrysalis

<But does not feel anything but the static of a radio station only it could possibly understand>

<I am>

Madness is

(The sound of) black and white

Partial and whole

Life and death (and the last lecherous breath)

One beyond where imagination could take you

Beyond dream, behind nightmare, beyond reality

For, despite climbing higher than any man could imagine

I am chained by my own bonds even now; dangled by them; shamed by

My own steel, my own blood, and adrift on the sinking vessel of my own mind

<And when I hit the earth, the seafloor, the rock bottom, like a bombshell

All while watching the silk moon spindle, unravel(ling) into a blank sheet in the book of God

Spitting on me with all its lithium plethora of hieroglyphic viscera ticking away in malaise   

Like a river of what clouds amalgamated in nature’s tributaries and alstroemerias

<I will be>

Falling harder, and heavier, than any other man could understand, or consider

And deeper into these (derelict) depths, these crepuscular Neptunes, these capsized leviathans

<These festering questions of nectar’s wreckage molested by phosphorescent effigies>

<Digging deeper into the depths of this (cold dead) heart>

Than any sane man could bear

And the flower (of applause)

That grows from my hulking husk

From this hollow

This heirloom

Will remain

Like a crater

In the womb

Of (these/this) false God(s)

That called themselves madness

As if it were all I know

A murder of crows

Bringing me home

<And stepping over the life I lead>

<As one must always follow the other (into the dark; and back into the light;)

<(Among neon shadows like a blasphemous catastrophe of terpischrean dream bleeding reeds)>

<Precariously balancing off the top of the abyss>

<And death is just another stepping stone>

<I’m happy to walk (all) over>

<Weren’t you the same?>

<Cold and happy to liberate the world in your image?>

<Only seeing the hate of your own reflection>

<Only seeing the shadows when there's even a single ray of light>

<Blindly feeling your way through familiar roads no longer homely or recognizable>

<Trying to make the world perfect while being flawed yourself>

<(Always seeking a higher precipice to lay eyes on this desolate fresco)>

<(This excellent representation of the aether lace (in the uneasy phoenix helix) of creation)>

<(This delicate terpiscorean flower of life below (the cathedral, the knife of) your heights)>

<Or were you just that much better than me?>


© 2022 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Author's Note

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
This is by far more artpiece, more abstract, than poem. I wanted to play with the words, but I feel like in doing so I lacked meaning. I could point out mistakes for you, but takes away from the good. The poem is by far among the best I've written, regardless of them.

Originally an offshoot of a larger poem called "Cracks In Pavement". It was quite long already, so I decided to make these two separate poems. I suggest reading "Cracks In Pavement" first.

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.

My Review

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WOW!! such a deep piece here...
love the part of "Give me back the weight of eternity"
This is so well written and said

Posted 1 Year Ago

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Year Ago

So happy you enjoyed it, I had a lot of fun with this piece. Thanks for taking the time to read and .. read more

1 Year Ago

i like my feature write the best, but I don't care what you review. Thank you, you would be my first.. read more
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Year Ago

I’ll check it out in the late afternoon and share my thoughts, I’m always happy to read.
love the title. damn, what a piece.

these lines stood out and stuck with me for some reason -

Give me back the weight of eternity;
Let it rest between my fingers
It is my welcome burden to bear

format and pics too. wow, what a masterpiece... :)

Posted 1 Year Ago

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Year Ago

Sorry it took so long to get back to you, glad you enjoyed it!
This is one long write, but I did enjoy it and the imagery

Posted 1 Year Ago

1 of 2 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Year Ago

Thank you for reading and leaving a review, I’m glad you enjoyed the poem!
I am in agreement with Jacob. As I have expressed before you are one of my favorite poets among a few here at the Cafe. I always find your art sublime and in many ways haunting. They are like captured nightmares and dreamscapes. That at times bring me a sense of wonder and comfort in their mystifying imagery. I hope inspiration never leaves your poetic heart my friend.

Posted 1 Year Ago

1 of 2 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Year Ago

Thank you, your words mean the world to me! :)
"you are the echo of my echo"
love that line...
several great lines in this...and I am still digesting for meaning.
I get pretty overwhelmed by really long poems...
I feel this could probably be four or five short poems on their own.
just a thought...
but lots of wonderful images and strong lines contained in this piece.

Posted 1 Year Ago

1 of 2 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Year Ago

Glad you enjoyed the work, thank you for sharing.

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5 Reviews
Added on December 25, 2021
Last Updated on January 15, 2022
Tags: flowers, of, all, I, am


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

Burlington, Halton, Canada

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


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