The Empty of the Sun

The Empty of the Sun

A Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

A (tool/fool) for the future pretends to (know/represent) the past



Part 1


Victory In Failure


Know that you succeed in failure

Failure (transmogrifies/metamorphosizes) success;

{Leading/warping}, linking lines across (the territories on) one’s face

Farming, irrigating the dirt of the skin, tarps pulled over

Wrinkles in the fabric of an avalanche,

Carmine lilacs bask, marching) in(to) memory

Linen prism of photosynthesis infinite;

Creasing water-coloured cluttered clouds yellow(ed)

Ripping strands of amethyst

From the scarves of efflorescent ecstasy

Beating Elysium into the stygian rivers of jagged rags ribboning

Fall in downwards spirals

Learn to hate the staircase

It is a step above you; the clouds;

The birds squawking gouache; mackintosh’s moksha, peridot cloth of the shallow clouds

Clockwork from the spiralling highrises,

Fibrous strings of violins

Bound like Atlas in the chains of this earth

Listen to music in silence

To frayed edges, the echoes of the pages of history crossing the many channels of static life

Watch the stillness as it moves gelatinous, amorphous, unravelling

In alabaster flowers, tranquil discord,

Sane madness, orderly chaos

You too will be worn away; sculpted, shaped, into art, eventually

Learn to plummet rather than fly;

Teach of the weight that binds and tethers you, holds you

The threads of fates in a guitar, blooming from junipers

Run the rails; until you can carry your emotional baggage

Beyond boundaries, into the amorphous heavens of a dream;

Catching planes with your bare hands; viewing worlds in midflight

Poinsette’s feathers efflorescent iridescent;

A single thread of ebony ribboning prisms of unfolding imagery;

A blooming flower cowling

The roots of a tree hold onto (rockface/memories) of stagnancy;

Static rivers flowing smouldered

Carrying a single golden leaf;

Blending nebulas’ assemblage of gauze; cobblestone crows

Until spring comes; like the devil, up from the dirt

Wash warbling watercolour out from dry lips stretched into smiles

Carve passageways into the cliffside

Leading you home; through tunnels of light, dancing

Drawn out shadows like lead shedding the page like a chrysalis

The way angels suffer sin

In the cacoon of non-existence; in stillness, in nothingness

Born without wings

You can’t fly

But in knowing, even worms may win important battles;

Fighting for flowers, clustered together like a nebula, glens of remedy’s edifice

(Even) in the dirt; (it is hard to say goodbye)

({In/to} the morning)




Blanketing branches in the chasms of amethysts; anchoring themselves in a memory

No comfort to mother these smothered feelings; echoing into the cardiovascular mask

Hieroglyphics crystalline with lithium

Trickling through the hallucinogens of unending genesis

In the ravel of a shrouded cowl of balaclavas’ clouds

Jasmine topazes of amaranths

Of pomegranate nectar in sepulchres

In the honey of the sun;

Slumbering homunculus

Colourful choreography carved in the arteries of harbours;

Fields of barley under the golden crow;

Perched at the pinnacle; untouchable

Brushstrokes of opal metamorphosis warped

Into the black Rorschach fractals;

Like pillowy frills; chiseled amaryllis

Shackled by alabaster walls

Surrounded in the fear of a mural;

Peeling back the skin like wallpaper;

Reverberating, refurbishing the blur of an eternity;

Curling into the churned clouds

Wandering the skies otherwise empty

Bark archways in the everglades’ halo like a grey tornado;

Corona of magnolias in the soma of a dying ocean;

Motionless as the cliff over the rift of the abyss;

Ripping away the suede of clouds and shade

Vermilion ventriloquism of cathedrals

Crocheted in calligraphy; graffiti of bougainvillea

Willow’s capillaries trilling like a piccolo;

Whittled from cerulean basilicas

Instead of the shackles of anathema

I tried to please them all

This bitter man I am

I know better now

You can’t change; warped glass,

The ludicrous eclipse; its drifting echoes,

In the resurrectionist’s sepulchre;

Kept in line, swept aside in the sunlight’s twine

Blindsidingly unwinding me capsized in violets;

Transmogrifying xylophones of vinyl briars spiralling hyacinth;

The crows of clovers like coronas

The city flooded with bright lights of lazulite oneness; braided together

It all blurs into empty words

You cannot outgrow the garden

Uprooting wildflowers

You labeled me; I’ll label you

And that is nothing, if not fair

I know

I love you because (I/you) don’t love me

Pictured between the frame of every second wasted;

A gouache between the chapel glass;

In the bombshell of a mandala

Camouflaged in the gauze of a terracotta andromeda;

Comets of armadas in bottomless pomegranates with branching antlers

Embroidered in the foliage of turquoise coiling itself into the strings of a guitar

In between the four walls of my heart

The world counts slowly to ten

Before opening its (blinded/blinding) eyes

As we (all) hide and seek salvation

With our closed eyes (stumbling)

Madness is a bridge over sanity I haven’t dared to cross

Over schools of fish that teachings cannot substitute

Class in rooms of cumulus

Among the halls of andromeda

Deserting honour

Forgetfully nostalgic

Infinitesimal forever

Falling down the stairway to heaven

‘Cause I do know love

In the mourning

And it’s not a question now

The change is coming

And I will be left behind; in the lonely summer lights of opal

Paradise is hell with a pretty face; launching a thousand ships towards the sun

All the suffering I’ve endured meaning nothing

In meteoric floral euphoria in chords of corridors’ orange metamorphosis

It all returns to nothing

Tumbling down, tumbling down, tumbling down

Sometimes you have to die to learn to live

Dive into the sun

And drown in the bright lights of the city

Singing until your voice cracks into mosaic

Split like the reflection in the mirror

Learn to love again

Friend to no one; except for the shadow fading pale

Fighting tooth and nail into the symphony

Dancing in sacrosanct; to the road I commit my feet now, gouache, walking

I’m ready my lord; as the sun rises

I am ready, now




The Empty of the Sun


Can you still smile

Without any teeth?

Stray bullet, fallen star, rhythm within flesh; a fistful of anarchy

Ribbons in (your/my) hair; like mountain streams

Threading your iris through the eyes of needles; hurricanes; hollow tree stumps of homunculus

You know no better; the Fates have already cut your shackles loose

Every fibre of my being is in the frayed pages


Or did you remember

What it means for me to forget you

Cut free; left in the dust, like you did to me

A bible spiralling through dialects of ecstasy; bethel’s maleficent precipice

Left to wander through the corridors of thought; the city at midnight

Somewhere over the edge

Hanging by puppet strings;

Never learning how to dance to the tune of silence

Never learning how to (overcome/feel) the numbness of pain

Never to notice the movement in stillness

The fluidity of rigid rocks across the docks of mackintosh blossoms in basilicas;

Crashing ecclesiastical gouache

In the wrapping rapturous taffeta

Collapsing into blasphemy

Acrylic vermillion under the umbrellas of a stella;

Marigolds of parables laced in creation

Only knowing

The end is in sight; off in the chrysalis of the distance; rippling into cisterns of lithium stitching

Feeling the bending contorting thunder in a river, or a tunnel of light; slithering through

Carnivals of embroidered exfoliating magnolias;

Etched, sketched, frescoed,

Carved into the bright lights

Like a hundred undiscovered colours

That smother the skyline in their twine

Unwinding into the bonfires of Gaia;

Pious silence; the mosaic of our lives

Fit hand and hand like a puzzle piece;

Everyone ripped apart;

Put back together again, in patchwork;

Stitched into tapestry;

Grown into garden; born family

Grasping the train of thought;

Tracking in mud through the living room;

Railroads of letters scrawled across the dirt

Through the lens of a windowpane;

Shattering expectations;

Cracked by the shrapnel of daffodils;

Broken in and put back together

Like an eggshell of parhelion melding inelegantly in underbelly’s of cellos

Wreckage of precipices eclipsed by perfection’s effigy;

Leaving behind our footprints in their endless colour;

In the bowels of the clouds; shadows unravelling in the gallows of a windflower

Bound to force others down through the same path;

The oars; the treads; the oath in the oasis without freedom, without destiny; thought,

Wait for them

Born out of lack for love

Born out of the need for music in a world filled with empty noise

Moored, skinned of all its fat;

Left out to rot into dust

(They/you) mock me

Like (you/them) I know better

I peel back the skin; to reveal bone; the painted canvas; an unfinished work you made of me

I want you to see its image; yourself

How I learned to write with these hands; painted another year’s cresendo on this back

The flower, the reddest rose

Is it familiar?

If you planted it in the thick black dirt

Do you think it would drag itself out from underneath the depths of your shadow

Like surfacing from a pool of water; a tormented soul

A grave of wildflowers; a silver lake; a torn mural

Of despair; of the valleys under the mountains of death?

Yearning for the brilliance of the sun as anything else would?

To climb up the citadel of bodies; the chapel of astronauts like strawberry obelisks listening

Find God, and reach for him like a silver dollar

Leaving the hollow of an eye socket; bleeding

So that there would be no viewpoint

To judge me from?

And no mortal man

To fear me?

Just the lucid crucible of thought to shape me

From the warped talons of God?

Like a snake dropped down upon the rockface of creation

To slither down like a river between the cracks of my façade

Would I be overcome by joy?

Or would joy overcome me?

And send me back into the hell you built for me

The prison of words in your tangled hair

Will you still smile?

With this mouth that belonged to you once?

With these hands that crawled up from the dirt to tell you

I have not been forgotten


So wait for me

To (know/feel) the dimensions of emptiness twist(ed) between the liquid bricks of your fingertips

Let the photography, the flowers, let it fade

In time

I will be gone tomorrow


Eventually; like you

Ricocheting ripples in the empty echo of time; hollowed out; stencilled in sentimentals

Pretzel’ing incomprehensively into intercontinentally compartmentalizing horizons

Like a lit firework; exploding into colour; then leaving you with cold silence

I hoped to mock you in the same way you mocked me

Brilliantly; colourfully; indiscriminatingly

Like a sin you could never atone for

Or a love that could never spoil

Every pulley; every spring

Every coil; every sting

Like primordial polaroids in the void of magnolias above the droplets of phosphorus

Blossoming into one room; infringing on the prism of linen; illuminating shapelessness

The dark side of the moon; ambiguities of doomed unison delusionally rouge

In every hue of June ballooning rubies of fluid lunacy behind the blues of suede in polymerizate

The wastelands of nature breaking through the lacquer


In the beginning; there was chaos

In the beginning; there was chaos

In the beginning; there was chaos

This isn’t the way the world ends

Within the solidarity of every following flowing moment

Bending and contorting; reborn in the span of a heartbeat; a Rorschach butterfly

Rising out from the hollow, empty sun;

Man walks upon this sacred earth; living in a frenzy; passing into madness; into obscurity

Singing and dancing the waltz of death

With masquerading angels; walls of flesh; pustules of motion bound by more than flesh

There is no love here; there is only humanity

The sickness of the soul; never being full of itself, hollow of the tree

Pollen in the columns of debris; turquoise foliage

With the setting sun and the rising moon; with the empty and full of the mouth of God

With the endless abyss of lactescent sepulchre

Pulling nails out of coffins

And burying the depths of the past under

Clandestine futures

Transfigured in the amygdala; infinite ligaments

Instinctual; inescapable


We scream in unison

But there is nothing left to hear;

Metal scraping against metal; heaving like an iron lung

Only silence; sinking like the summer sun; setting orange, its lazy orb

Black mirror reflecting white light; white noise into black night

Different in the same noise, the same way; hard to distinguish with the disguise of twine wyverns

Of white shadow; blackened sun; coals burning neon

Like tapestries on a wall

Leading into avarice; juxtaposition twisted into bristling nickel

Forming blades of grass tapestries; to strike down the clouds with

Stringing together sentences; stitching crucifix’s into nickel

Lovers suicide on the river Styx; drifting in the shapeshifting ichor of lithium cisterns

Churning into burgundy

Falling through the branches of amaranth lanterns; chrysanthemums

Rancid answers from the pancreas in corpses of metamorphosis contorting Orpheus

Writing poems with the empty of our hands; stretching out and reaching for the trees

Never catching the dilapidated stars; still;

We were born dead;

Decorating our halls with pictures under the crawlspace of life

There was nothing for us here anyways

Could never be more than the slush of dirty snow under the foot of winter

And I felt the imprint of so many feet branded into my psyche;

Trampling over my poetry

Stamping on my dandelions, sunflowers; weeds in the garden of Eden

I could never know the difference better;

Anymore completely

Than anyone else

But you already knew that; didn’t you?

Humans don’t know any better

We were born to hustle four leaf clovers to those unlucky downtrodden silent grasses

But; thickly covering the garden in chaos; lavenders of madness raveling

Instead, we grew hate;

(Vengeance; [like wildfire])

(And then)

(We left [our/the] garden to the weeds)

Instead; tending to ourselves

Watching the blind lead the blind to salvation

Listening only to the sound of silence

Despite knowing, feeling, hearing everything



Through our love

Instead of loss

It is victory that that has crushed us

Instead of [imprisonment/captivity/subjugation] it is freedom that has shackled, us

Instead of an apple, it is the seed that has wronged me

I know that now; I know sadness, it is all that I have now, and it is of no comfort to me

I watched it grow into a maelstrom

And it swallowed me up, as I did it

And spread its roots from the bottom of my entrails

Dressing the sky in velvet; crawling with the follicles in the bellflowers towelling in my bowels

Eating my heart out

And planted itself behind the eye of an empty sun

For it is pride that becomes the most shameful sin

It is wrath that becomes eventual unending calm in death;

(The bottom of a cold watery abyss; asking for the warmth of the sun, receiving not)

And it is love that nurtures hate;

But what else is there to cling to, cold-heartedness?

As you walk away; again;

The animal inside me

Is staring back at you

Hearing your steps fading into the stillness and brilliance of succor’s nothingness

My words; (the/twisting) curtains buried inside you

Over the stages of grief, you endured; {masquerading}-acting as if

Just like me

You were human



Dye (Mesh)


Beige waves of lackadaisical sables curtail in the braille of azaleas

In the lavender chasms’ unravelling

Parading the lace of constellations’ dilapidation

In the sake’s machinations; prophets in an apple’s dilapidation masking gouaches

In ribbons of deliverance, obsidian slithering

Rivers of epitomes whittling away the grey haze of alliteration;

Fusing my pseudonyms like psychedelic melodies

From the umbrella of your skeleton,

Hellion’s rebellious to the twist and turns of eternity;

Currents re-emerging disturbed and purging the curving butterflies of burgundy;

Thaumaturgy’s metallurgy is the petals’ sterling

Curtain of morning expurgatorius, glorious;

Birthing accordions, serpentine organs

Churning the burping twine surging words from the vine

A bouquet of vertebrae;

Birds mosaic crocheted in mayhem;

Nightingales with their halos like a sailboat

The railyard of a harbour

Discarding the mantra for the auburn

Carving linen in harlequin

Boasting, to see in colour

Between gaps of black and white


Twisted Heads


As the world turns, as the skies watch diligently

As the waves crash in the shrapnel of liquid taffeta

As the mountains stretch their tired arms up towards the heavens

As the flowers bloom overflowing pollen out of proportion

I will follow in the footsteps of no one, this is absolute

Holding up the sky; carrying the whole world on my back

Hustling smiles among the ghettos of the dead

What better way to live, and die?

Outstretched; reaching for the moon

Stillness billowing; never ending up in the stars?

I tire of knowing the answer without knowing the question

I suppose we are jigsaws; torn apart by time, remembered by nothingness

The hands of a clock conducting the madness of our lives

There is a tempo to the clockwork of a damaged heart

There is a tone to every word silence spits

Decaying on the radiant plains of eons wandering auburn kilometres

I suppose we’re all murderers; in a way, thieves

Killing time with the hands of a clock

Trying to turn back the hours; the current passing through our veins like a canal; too heavy

Varicose with the soma of everything left behind

Maestro of words that form nations in sentences

I cannot walk in your shoes

You no longer fit me; shadow

You left me in a darkness I could not swallow

Fading into memory; I mask you, like a second face

Many faced dice; gambling with life; rolling along a roulette table

There is a different side to every story; beaten down; knocked up with the children of odd gods

This purgatory of corridors; this penitentiary; this house of cards, this apartment of cells

I take the stairs

Not knowing up from down; spiralling into madness

Retreating into the shadows that are painted by light into the corners

I am the light threaded like tapestries through the windows of the soul

Every peacock feather mural; needles of reeling film

Light stripping painted canvas; flesh from bone

I try to wash off the fauvism of my words; the chintzy rinsing photosynthesis; blotchy phosphorus

But they cling to me like maggots of peeling brushstrokes; nailed to the cross of gouache

Scratching residue off my skin

The many pages that I never wrote empty vessels that never bloomed into plumerias

Covered by the crumpled lettering like peacock feathering

The leatherback of my hair;

Sprouting from the many lines that domino down from my eyes

Left out to the decay in the malaise of the hot summer sun

Bending its way through the drapes of blindmen

My eyes white with the implosion of a thousand suns

The pupil’s calligraphy leaving its fingerprint like a meteor in the full moon of my eyes

Drenched in the tempest of eventually entrails

Colouring the white void with the colours of smothering butterflies

Sheltering pelts of velvet from the pockmarked sky

Oozing through the pores in glyphs like cysts in apocalyptic eclipse

Brilliance bleeding through

Staining the shades with crayons upon the mitochondria

Dreams awakening with blind visions

Touched in numbness with mute thunder

Black laquear of wax wanning in the haze of proliferation

Schizophrenic embryos squealing in the regalia of aphrodisia

Peeling the cerulean from the sky

Like layers of cake from the matrix of aether

Oasis in burned paper

In the wake of civilization; branching hippocampus anthers of

Blossoming gouache of Gigantomachias turning and tossing in the apostle’s apocrypha

Tainted by the mayhem of placenta

In the membrane’s halo

Waling into regalia of swilling trilling guillotines that scream with the fields of Elysium

As the asphodel melds in the gelatin

Behind the iris of my singled mindedness

Spiralling kaleidoscopes

In the reeling helix of a phoenix

Within visceral chrysalis

I will follow; blindly

Just you watch me

I need a different point of view; only able to see things my way

Eye for an eye

Tooth for a smile

Crawling through earth

Elixirs of Nyx knitted through the cotton clouds


Among the boughs and howling of the wind

Skinning the fur coat of every second’s warmth; the hours that flow like gauze in a whirlpool

Outstretched crescents with the momentum of sentinels

Dwelling in the yellow parhelion of skeletons brimming with symmetry

My infinite silence upon infinite silence

Infinite black within infinite white

Timeless as the chessboard

I am disappointed, in the chalk of white

In the soot of black

Smothered in the covers of colourless butterflies in the resin of a clementine

But it is in my disappointment that I better myself

And failure is a road I must cross again

With these calloused feet

Brushing my pastel against the sunless sky, and; every crater of this wild moon

It never ends, (or it always ends this way) does(n’t) it?

Beaten; like a hammer on a nail, like an anorexic looking at a mirror

Again, and again, and again

Trying to be better

Failing; bent into shape

Twisting, transmogrifying, built from spare parts;

Love, hate, anger, satisfaction

(It could have been me)

I had my own brush with Nihilism;

And with my knowing (of) it, I became (individually much) stronger

While in knowing it; most others only become blind

Now I can finally see

[(I don’t want to die just yet, simply remember how to start living again)]

[(Injustice is (an) unavoidable (reality) if you believe in it)]

[(Those who have no heart; who lack a pulse)]

[(Are a bombshell for)]

(Colourless life; stretched out in old photographs)

(Cold cellars where footprints linger like tenebrous ink; something, something lost)

It broke them; this world

(The way it could have broke[n] me)

([Though/yet] I am no better; I am)

(At least; somewhat satisfied)

(In knowing; I am still here)

(Peering through the glass of a one-way mirror; while they watch me, with their blind eyes)

(Like hands outstretched that can no longer touch, feel, or connect; the light to them is darkness)

(But I see myself; for what I am, [in them])

(A memory; waiting to be forgotten by time)

(And a [translater/guide]; for those drunk on the spirits of the dead, without a sole purpose)

(Dipping their feet into the River Styx; testing for warmth; in the rushing lustre of the waters)

(Those who wait at the ends of the earth)

(Like a diving board)

(Above the churning abyss, beneath)

(Who don’t yet have the courage to jump)

(Into [endlessness/obscurity])

([Into] oblivion)

([Into] calm)

([Into] still-frame)

(Madness, then order)

(And fall; into emptiness)

(Just yet)

(Where soft voices come to dye the fabric of history [in their creased watercolours])

(So I take life in my two hands like a baby bird; for them)

(What else can I do; but this?)

(Like them; I must struggle, persevere)

(For beauty/love/myself)

[(I must remember how to fly)]

<[(Become a monster for the sake, for the existence, of angels)]>

[(So there would be some shadow to compare their light to; bright minds with dark thoughts)]

<[(Lost together)]>

[({Or/yet} know no better)]

<[(There is always another heaven to fall from; to climb)]>

<[(Trust me; I know; no better; than this;)]>

<[(But I still smile)]>


<[(Standing in front of the mirror)]>

<[(Of a better me)]>

<[(Blind to the idiosyncrasies of his own reflection; watching hopeful, blissfully unhappy)]>

<[(And ignorant, so ignorant; like the last flower on a mountainside before the winter, I am)]>

<[(Falling {into stagnancy, into stillness-again})]>

-<[(Forgetting the roots that made me; unkillable weed)]>-

<[({And/all-because} I don’t, {couldn’t,} care {less})]>

-<[(I am me; I am the poetry; and the poetry is me; my own reflection; dreaming of reality)]>-

*-<[({Staring back at me adamantly}, and)]>-*

-<[(Intoxicatingly pure)]>-



Part 2


All I Am



I tried to be what {they/you} (always) wanted me to be, a fool;

{Entranced by} my {own} reflection

{Caught between somewhere/lost} in the river

Perhaps I was born to drown in memories

Perhaps you were right

In the end

{I/we} {am/are} alone

And that means everything {to me}

Even {if/when} it doesn’t

{We/I} {that still} knew no better

Did, {or didn’t} {we/do I still care}?

Or am I simply an effigy of memory

Or a broken clock

Ticking, ticking, ticking into the thicket of the next moment;

Embracing {that/true} nothing{ness}, the warped image of amorphous form

Time, goes on without me

{God goes on without me}

{And/though I} can no longer dance {with you}

Though the music continues; {winding/past}

In the {cavernous/tunnels} of my {deaf} ears

I loved once

Somewhere in the {rusted/bottomless} {bombshell/chambers} of {this/my} heart

Oh yes

Didn’t I/we?

{We/I} {who knew no better/unbelievably innocent}

That tried, once{full of hope, ignorant and beautiful}

I look at myself again, and cannot recognize my face,

Splintered into a million jigsaws littering the room with Sakura blossoms of gouache polaroid

I look at myself, and see you

{Fading polaroids smoulder into marigolds}

{Somewhere/lost} in my memories

{And} I’ve been fighting-alone

Against phantoms of the past I {would/should} have loved

Against phantoms of the future

Who will only fight me, hate me {for what I am not}

With or without victory, lost every since {licking my wounds hungrily}

But it is in the smallest, most infinitesimal victories;

That I find the will to live

{Or maybe} lose the will to die

Among the moonlight reflected on the river;

Romanticizing horizons kaleidoscope in my eyes

Everyone I drowned out within the noise of nothing,

The sound of no one; the voice of silence

But I {don’t surrender/don’t remember/don’t fall/don’t weep/don’t care/don’t-dream}

{Do/did/would} you?

Come, sit down

There is enough {misery/anguish/suffering/saudade}

{To feed/for} everyone {here/in this hellish world}

{Yet/know} I can only provide

{An/one} answer {to/not} the question

{Footprints/linger} on the shoreline

(As the waves crash like alabaster tapestries of gelatinous tweed over them)

(As the seagulls perch on the jagged rocks above)

(As the people drown in beer)

(And thirst for {something/more})

(As the words are rung like ink from the wet Rorschach of pages, sentencing paper to rot)

(They were once, they were)

(Men die early, or later, at some point)

(Memories die too)

(There is little need for memory, little need for antiquity)

(As the waters grope the sands that slip through their fingers)

(As the mountains watch the world melt under a gelato sun)

(As the trees sit cross-legged in golden fields)

(As the men of God fumble blindly, collared by their crucifixes)

(As the men of {ignorance/isolation/Nihilism})

(Follow the masses into greater ignorance, greater discourse, their hateful art)

(In the castles of mud, in crusted voids of voices)

(As the gods fight over {the}-heavens)

(As the borderline bears the edge of existence, serrated knifes billow like old newspapers;)

(Rags of rivers cut from a different cloth; strands of scarves embroidered in turquoise foliage)

(Flowers in the dirt, many, among many)

(Open hands that cup the grains of sand)

(Fists that grasp at the straws of millions)

(And God is an abyss mankind has tried to fill with {kindness/faith/love},)

(Shallow, hollow of the tree, carving into the arching escarpment)

{Receding, fading into tomorrow’s foreign memory}

They were once, they were

Dyed in the colours of fall, leaves, petals, curling up, fetal

These {small/fragile/pointless/warped}, wilted, flowers

Refuse to die in the mud

{Cannot/refuse} to be forgotten

Yet cannot be anything, anything other than memory

And nothing

In the cold frozen ground; buried alive in vinyl hyacinth

In the {winter/river/mud}

Reminding me of {you/death}

Etched into the canvas with such ferocity, with such mad anger

That I am curious

As to how this {madness/chaos/echo} dies

How it leaves behind imprinting

{Such/a} stillness that once {blossomed/bloomed} chorographical

With its clipped wings

Outstretched in pointless salvation,

In {still-frame/victory}

[({Praised/pure} as the moon; wishing to reflect an {angry/empty} sun)]

(The trees of the world are heavy with words; their leaden leaves)

(The paragraphs of gods stretch their arms to the sun)

[(Endless poem upon endless poem; man {reflects/dreams/bathes})]

[(In {violet/violent} {rivers/words})]

[(In an avalanche of beer on an asphalt of green;)]

[(And all there is, is silence; the slow hands of a {clock/movement}]

<[(And there is death; within a colourful life)]>

<[ (And new life; within the colours of death, and dirt)]>

[(Nails digging into the flesh of a stanza)]

(I’m {not/like} {him/that/them/you};)

(I am simple another name, in a book of names; shackled, sentenced)

({Tongue-tied/to} an endless chain of love letters)

<[(That wrote the stars into existence on a black slate)]>

<[(That told the tallest lies; tree branches over the moon)]>

({Tormented/incomplete}, lost, trampled on by time, {and/infinitesimal/noiseless} finite)

({And/I} {refuse/don’t pretend} to be)

[({To know})]

(Anything better)

[({And if I did})]

[({Would that mean anything?})]

[({Could I fill the hollow of the tree})]

({With my hallow words?})

[(Give {shape/form} to {shapelessness/amorphous}?)]

[(Give birth to stillness)]

[(Give passivity to time)]

[(Let madness and chaos become their own order?)]

[(While the whole forest rots)]

[(Into warped shadows, cast in iron, their backs arched like tiger cats)]

[(Stalking the sun’s rays of light)]

[(In darkness)]

[(Wandering through a placid image)]

[(Cursed by the words that {bind/buried/broken} sentences: {of chain-linked fence, torn fabric})]

(Rags of scarves hanging bristled by the trees peeling like a helix in cerulean {fields/cathedrals})

[({Drawn/to/these/warped} {empty/vessel’d} {mouths/vows})]

_<[(Pulling back pages {like/rose-petals} the skin of an orange)]>_

<[(I tried to be what you always wanted me to be, a fool;)]>

<[({Entranced by} my {own} reflection)]>

<[({Caught between somewhere/lost} in the river)]>

<[(While a whole forest {rots/loves/wilts)]>

<[(With{in} me,)]>

<[(The black heart)]>

<[(The slow crawl of minutes in mute madness as it ripples through my fingers, onto paper;)]>

[(The turn of the hands of time; broken branches of a warbling tree by the destitute creek, and)]

<[(The elevator shaft of my words; twisted arms held by bars of barbed-wire)]>

<[(Stretching on beyond the light of a naked eye’s mirage, watching in silence)]>

<[(And yet I know there is great beauty in this)]>

<[(And yet I know of a great exodus in arrival)]>

<[(And yet I know a grain of sand could make up the entire coast)]>

<[(And yet I know)]>

<[(Although I am blind to the light’s shadow)]>

<[(I know)]>

<[(I have nothing)]>

<[(And nothing has me)]>

<[(And yet I know better now)]>


<[(I was born from it; the mother of the turbulent night cries for me alone; in silence)]>

<[(And somehow, within that {echo/reverberating} of silence)]>

<[(I never really left)]>

<[(Stretched out like a full moon;)]>

<[(Yes, somehow in my inebriated sadness, my life)]>

<[(I am still here)]>

<[(Aren’t I?)]>

<[(There’s something wrong with me; isn’t there?)]>

<[(I {move/continue/stumble} forward{s})]>

<[(And leave only the ripples of time)]>

<[(In my wake)]>

<[(What can I say?)]>

<[(I came to hear the music)]>

<[(I came to be)]>

<[(In the echo of an echo)]>

© 2022 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

Author's Note

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)
Previous edits:

Even worms can win battles (if/when) they're fighting against dirt - Doppo Orochi

I am disappointed, but it is in disappointment that I better myself. That has always been the mindset I use. To destroy and rebuild constantly. I can only love a poem unconditionally if it is my best.

This was meant to be part of the poem Stars, but I thought it wasn't good enough so I decided to release it separately. I need to gain back my style and my skills. This is simply not good enough.

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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Featured Review

I really like the bible part...and others...I would still suggest maybe having this be three poems...

the length is overwhelming for a reader to tackle...

I think there is a bit more impact with less that leaves more for the reader to work out in his or her own mind.
Just thoughts...

Posted 2 Months Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

I'll keep that in mind. I'll separate the poem into parts, but I'll release them as a whole. I'm not.. read more
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

And thanks for the advice/review.


I managed to read until balaclavas clouds and whatever i read up to that line was fabulous enough to admire your creative phrasings and awesome eloquence in epic way again. Kudos!

Plz also read and comment on any of my two newest poems as per your preference.

Posted 1 Week Ago

Holy emotional transliteration Batman, some of this was a brain-full to read. I like much of the phraseology and usage incorporated into the work. The nearly invisible ink print in parts made my eyes strain some however. But, it's not your fault that some of us old men are nearly blind. I do like wordage that makes me think because I enjoy linguistics. I don't think it waxed pedantic so much as artistically expressive. It's like reading a Jackson Pollock painting in parts. But the mastery is disguised by the abstract usage and layered harmonies. I can tell you put a great deal of work and heart into your art and I'm very appreciative of that. I didn't find the length completely overwhelming though some might. I just finished reading James Clavell's Shogun which is well over 1100 pages and a brilliant write. The book was so much better than the made for television mini-series. I wanted the story to continue for another 1100 pages. Something so engrossing literally pulls the reader into another world. Coleridge's lyrical ballad, Rime of the Ancient Mariner, was offered as an essay topic in one of my early creative writing classes and some even found the length of that too much to bear. But we dedicated writers are dedicated students first and foremost, eh? To be a good writer requires being a good reader first and the ability to comprehend and retain meanings implied as well as understanding the syntax and proliferation of words offered in a particular passage. I enjoyed reading the piece and I must confess I had to reflect on some of what I read before continuing. It wasn't what was being said that flummoxed me at points but rather what was being meant. Ah, but as I said before, I like a challenge and this gave my brain a workout. Keep up the good work and stretching the boundaries of language and expression. After all, variety is the spice of life and words are its meat and potatoes and there's nothing wrong with a savory stew now and then. Cheers, F.

Posted 1 Month Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Month Ago

Thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed my work and saw the effort in it. A lot of my work is quite .. read more
Fabian G. Franklin

1 Month Ago

Oh, I can HIGHLY recommend Shogun. It's about an English sailor who is the first to arrive in feudal.. read more
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

1 Month Ago

I'll have to check it out sometime. Thank you for the suggestion!
I really like the bible part...and others...I would still suggest maybe having this be three poems...

the length is overwhelming for a reader to tackle...

I think there is a bit more impact with less that leaves more for the reader to work out in his or her own mind.
Just thoughts...

Posted 2 Months Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

I'll keep that in mind. I'll separate the poem into parts, but I'll release them as a whole. I'm not.. read more
R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)

2 Months Ago

And thanks for the advice/review.
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3 Reviews
Added on July 2, 2022
Last Updated on September 24, 2022


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..