Your voice sounds like silver chariots,
sweeping my balcony,
cold in moonlight,
soft like the feathers
of your horses’ wings,
warm like red wine,
ancient like the end of time.
I don’t want to escape from it
the way I am driven from
all the noises
that echo through earthen
anthems.
I want to escape into your tenor majesty,
like a falsetto get-away car,
like a sun-streamed swing set,
like a wailing underground railroad,
like a quavering ocean wavelet.
Am I mistaken or did you two actually come to a consensus 🙂 .
By the way if I believed in gods I know they would be how you discribe
I like how you gave a shout out to red wine in this poem lol awesome!
How are you pumping out so much goodness so frequently? Teach me, woman!
I feel so bad that I have neglected the depression blog, but I can’t write about it when Im IN it. (that’s how, by the way. And Muses.)
I very unfortunately understand. Well, at least some good’s coming from it? I guess.
I thoroughly enjoyed, was even titillated, by your fight and I praise both of you for so competently wielding the English language without abusing it.
He is the worst sort of intelligible bastard.
I’m still smarting from no comments on My Morphia re-blog.
PS Tell Him you wrote “Starship” for Me.
Must be why he’s jealous : )
I don’t wanna leave this, but My Daughter just told me it’s my bedtime. I wonder if you two will go on all night. I’ll check first thing in the morning. Night Night.
Night, darling.
I’m off to tell my husband about your wonderful word fight with the only guy I re-blogged.
He is the only one worth re-blogging, and then SETTING HIS WORDS AFLAME! 😉
A little bit of joy escapes my lips every time I see one of your works of art pop up in the “reader” here in WP. Don’t stop being true to yourself! And I will never stop reading.
That is undeniably lovely, thank you so much.
Don’t mention it. After all, you did all the work. I simply enjoyed the spoils 🙂
Well, that is what they are for : )
Hah, good point there. Well, thank you for the fantastic writing, and as a side note: you have a beautiful singing voice to boot. I just saw your “shrinksarentcheap” FB page with a pleasant vocal number inviting me in for a listen. I hope you share some more of that as well! 🙂
Thank you so much, working on a new song as we type!
Cool beans! I am looking forward to its birth into the digital world =)
It must be nice to live in Wonderland in blissful idiocy.
Much nicer than your prison-camp guard enlightenments and disillusionments.
Your cloying hymn to some moron’s melodies is a prison camp itself. I want to be paroled from your illusion of musical godliness!
Set yourself free and write your lamentations on your wrists.
I would but they would look so much better on your wrists!
You wouldn’t have the first idea of how to apply them there.
Practice makes perfect, and I have more than a few ideas on how to lament on your flesh!
I will never be afraid of you, regardless of how barbarically you come after me, you will never see fear in my eyes, only lust for your demise.
You’re correct again, lunatic, I’ll never see anything in your eyes because I’ll pluck them out of your head and fling them to the sky!
You are a raving, rambling Babel for me to topple underneath your own invocations.
Oh, I’m raving, alright, but you’re the queen of Babel and I’ll topple your sun-strewn swingsets invoking my own wrath.
And you are a king like Cain, wandering aimless in search of innocent blood.
Nobody is innocent, certainly not you. Your poem about some magical songbird god is unpardonable.
Your uproarious soliloquys are justified in no universe.
They are in mine, and that’s all that matters, not your damned homily to a celestial bastard.
What is your purpose in condemning it, antiquated jealousy? My laughter must be ringing in your ears by now.
All I hear is symphonic doggerel dragging on in continuous trills. Jealous of what? A singing ghost? Are you at Disneyworld?
A person who cannot conjure jealousy for a singing ghost must not be of flesh. Are you a demon? Do you make your home among flames?
I can make your home into a hearth of flames!
I can make your heart an icy tomb.
After reading your whimsical treacle, I’m already frozen with disgust!
In that case, hold still, while I smash you into a thousand irretrievable pieces.
Smash me with what? Your whiffle-bat and magic flute?
I can hardly see it taking more than an infant’s pinky finger, fluttering in its sleep.
Your attempt at insult is lulling me to sleep.
Then go, eternally.
And give you the satisfaction? Never, you horrid gorgon!
You are already chained, then. Can you not smell your defeat from there?
All I smell is your nauseating thralldom to a phantom.
You must want him, then, and know that he is mine!
Oh, I have no doubt that he is yours, only yours, your delicious hallucination. I would want him to spurn him for spurring your desire to pipe about his melodic stool.
Don’t worry, he is generous. I’m sure he’ll throw you the scraps you are looking for, if you kindly cover your face with this paper bag.
You can take that paper bag and show humanity a modicum of generosity and suffocate yourself with it!
Humanity does not care if I live or die, so
WHAT
ARE
YOU?
I care if you live and die, life is agony and you don’t get the luxury of a passer-by.
Demonic swine, I can make your immortality twice as unbearable.
You can make origami swans floating in tepid bathtub water, that’s the extent of your power.
And what is the extent of yours? Sexual harassment and open sores?
Oh, is my harassment arousing you? I knew it! And my open sores are flecking your screen with by blood.
You are only infinity as described by a mayfly, I would drink your blood, if it would do me any good, or bad. As it is, it may as well be water.
It would intoxicate you with moral insanity until you drive your car into the ocean singing to phantom ears.
Well that sounds
like
Heavenly rain
on my
parched soul.
I’ll drink it all.
Drink from me and live forever, you cursed sibyl of song!
I can’t seem to help myself, does disgust always lead to longing?
They’re the same thing.They both lead to each other.
Is this it then? Are we to be led so unwillingly?
I’m sure, like iron nails screeching a chalkboard illustriousness. Oh, and he’s a god, like the ones you’re going to summon to kill me with? Wake up!
I will sleep forever if it saves me even a moment of condescending ire, and self-flattering potency.
It would suite me if you would sleep forever in your polytheistic flattery, you starry-eyed groupie!
You are nothing but an ungrateful, purposeless mortal, cleaving joy from wreaking piteous blasphemies on the glorious.
Mortal glory is blasphemy if I’m following your deluded logic of piety correctly.Get it together, woman!
Hurl yourself off the nearest bridge, no matter how many times it takes, drag yourself back up, your weight pressing on your broken legs until the fall makes it certain! Then you can find out about the gods for yourself.
Oh, and I’m suppose you’ve survived this desperate attempt at immortality? I’d like to hurl you off a crag and watch you drown in foreign oceans. At least then, you have a 50/50 chance of divinity, right?
I would gladly jump, since the wildest ocean current is invariably preferable to the sight of your foolishness.
Finally! I’ll be sure to post your fatuity on Youtube for the world to scoff at.
The world scoffs at many a tragic scene, blinks, and then adjusts their view. Their mislabeled compassion holds no power over me.
Apparently some pop-star’s silver tongue has power over you given your elaborate detail of his mellifluous flotsam. You are in thrall to detritus, how refreshing!
Pop-star, now that is something to scoff at. What does it matter to you, who worship nothing? Who stand in awe at no one but yourself, you practice incest with mirrors, vagrant!
No, I violate your gods in highway rest-stops and worship the torment that exudes from their bodies wracked!
This only makes my (and their) vengeance all the more succulent between our teeth.
Your teeth are rubber Halloween fangs and your vengeance is a water-balloon fight!
Each will crush a cockroach such as yourself.
If I’m a cockroach, you’re the mange of feral dogs and the lice of licentious trollops!
You are a scar on an adulterating corpse, the ruination of a girl’s first period.
And you’re the mephitic fetor of gangrene and the hot flashes of menopause!
You are the drippings of the obscene,
and the world’s coalition of flaws.
And you are the rape of the serene,
and the maniac scratch of claws.
You are impurity among the clean,
and the opening of toothless jaws.
You’re cowardice incarnate without spleen,
the salt to all wounds,murder of marshal laws.
You are a murderous, ocher gangrene,
on the rich supple leather of motionless paws.
You’re the bile boiling from a communal latrine,
the screeching tedium of droning chainsaws.
You are the plaything of a godless queen,
and flayed, skinless ice that never thaws
you’re the bombination of mindless machine,
the carrion from which a vulture gnaws.
You are vomit atop a trampoline,
the artless sound of hollow applause.
You’re the fungus glistening on cuisine,
a muted voice and an empty cause.
You are a housewife’s old routine,
a circle jerk with no hurrahs.
You’re everything base that exists to demean,
writhing in madness to my sadistic guffaws.
You are a jester dressed up as a fiend;
your laughter is vicious as newborn lamb baas.
You are comical vomit in a freakshow scene,
clad in harlequin print and flaming bras.
You are as boring as dripping saline,
as adults in cartoons with their muffled blahs.
You’re neither here nor there, only the between,
you are blisters and bane, humdrum bourgeois.
You are the fecal olive green
which rigor mortis draws.
You are the stupefaction of your screen
swathed in nitroglycerin gauze.
You are a playground of Philistines,
of fuel-soaked slides and broke see-saws.
You’re the screams of children in perilous careens,
a song-dead bird gurgling turbid caws.
you are a debutante’s waxing preen,
a grotesquely beaten, dead outlaw.
you’re everything undesirable, wretched, unclean,
a vassal to virtues and sex-slave to shahs.
you are propriety’s sordid vaccine,
the unwashed undergarments of grandpas.
No voice sounds like silver chariots, whoever this “person” is is either a ghost or you are schizophrenic.
You are not fit to lick the boots of the god this was written for, and if you heard his voice, your ears couldn’t process its illustriousness.