(Note: PLEASE READ. Have noticed, on this site, that certain members continue to perpetuated a dogmatic institution and impression upon poetry without knowledge of WHY, thus it's dogmatism. Do NOT tell me to capitalize the beginning of every line and do NOT justify such blatant sheeplike behavior with "But, that's what my teacher told me to do" or "But, that IS correct form". Correct form? ... So ... dumb.)
I sun I
in curled lips
watched passions die
to steambent drips
round an engine,
like a Christ.
Perpetual motion
dies to vice
versa Versailles
amongst the men
I had dreamt
round times bend.
I had welt
a golden friend
couldn’t caress
nor court the end
Sun I Sun
upon dials of blood
vials of filth
and bathes of mud,
I would watch
the ticks fry
lonesome together,
drunk but dry.
“Cold”, they’d call me
though I reigned fire
from smoke filled towers
and hellbent pyres
eversearching,
to I they fly,
burnt but torching
in Icarus’s eye
I Sun I
wrapped in hivemind
turned back the bodies
encased in fine pine
refused the mummies
embalmed in fresh lye
and swallowed their pupils
to show them they’re blind
with life death
fear and fame,
cursed language
existence mundane.
To fire and light
the taste of butane
is mockery,
ghostly, and manmade
Sun I Sun
dissections deception
bled smoke to the most
meaningless chatter,
parasitic host
to secular perception.
Clogged throats, hungry for air
they toke and they
toke, scraped and bare.
So spun the noose
knit in steel
braided in ruse
cold and real
stitched in carbon
and hearts that feel
naked, without meal.
I Sun I
when passion’s lips
blow a steam Christ kiss
it drips to engines than tick
perpetual vice grips
crying, “motion can’t die, cause time don’t slip.”
Versa friends in men
amongst Versaille’s alley ends
who’d tripped round unhappy bends,
dreamt time’s golden hen,
welding holes in carbon, realities end
ditched the corpse to date her friend
Sun I sun.
Vials of blood held high in limelight
bathed in ticks to burn that wick
to the core, past the veins
leaving a lonesome corpse, tried and hanged
cold in fire, charred at home
let the liar smoke to the bone
amongst the towering pyres he’d built
drier and drier, the cavities crumble then wilt (in search)
of the eyes they had torched (since birth)
Sun I sun
turned the hivemind, back
to the fleshy wrappings, veiny trappings
stretched round some marrow easel (red with fever)
pupils coloring the canvas vibrant grays,
a cheap charade swallowed by the blind parade
to mimic the entropic wolves
held at bay by a god of fear
and martyrdom’s fame
and now they cry “My Son,
I am chained! With these
mundane butane shadows of eternity
I’ve made”
a
Sun (I sun)
bled deception into smoke’s dissection
the parasitic clatter of infectious chatter
set fire to soul, “But ablaze we soar higher!”
claimed a host of blood caked throats
choking down their daily dose in tokes of
sunparched air
so spin the nooses in all (all in) our heads
in reels of ruse, in bed (im
bedded) with our granite cocks and carbon truths
Ra’s steelspun glocks
turned skyward, set loose
and like a bullet to a bird’s head,
birdbrained from shitfed
leechlike laxitives,
from our asses we bled
like ashes to ashes, a lung and a drum
those circular retnas had only begun
to notice feet travel where they are, from
ashes to ashes we all fall
down –
- drowned
by I sun I sun I sun
glowed brightest in humanities nicotine stained gums
the will to fill our inhale-ex drill
twas a practice test, meshed in pills grilled
on a pseudofed stake, gambled (and lost)
we waged a war for peace and suicide
because all fire burns to die (a self-sustained cost)
…and upon the cross…
I Sun
Sun I
I Sun
“My only son, what have I done?”
