The writings of Oddpoet » craft

Apocalytic Stew

Eddie Mount — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 22:36:59 +0000

Apocalyptic Stew

Phase
Shift
Crazed
Rift

Argent
Blackness
Cogent
Confess

Vicious dogs
Mangy mutts
Pinup hogs
Vile sluts

Some fallen Priests
Are eying cock
A banker’s feast
A scattered flock

All wounded souls here
Spin the wheel of time
No one can see clear
Reasons confused crime

Centerfolds are singing
A crass and tuneless song
Demon wasps are stinging
The poisoned malaise strong

Who truly can remember
When it all came tumbling down
That dark day in November
We all wore the jester’s crown

Old Friends

Eddie Mount — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 02:57:37 +0000

Greetings old friends. I thought you were lost…

A treasure, unearthed, covered with grass, dirt and moss.

Words that span the decades, they always spoke my heart,

Though you were gone for a while we were never truly apart.

I lovingly smooth out the wrinkles and peruse you with pleasure and glee,

Thoughts of love and passion was that– truly me?

Songs of love and lust, that lifted me off the ground,

Suspended me in enthralled enchantment.

Only to come crashing down.

I learned that love is a victim of its own passion.
Such conflagration, heat, and fire

Ignited in a flash,

Can have only one result,

All that will be left is ash.

I smile as I tried to pierce the veil of mystery that surrounds us.

The universal truths that Teases us all…who can see

The universal soul, the collective unconscious of humankind
I know it does exists,

However, when I try to grasp it in my hand
it vanishes in a mist.

Old friends, Old words.

I will always have you beside me to remind me of those simple times.

Where life could be reduced… explained… with mere prose and rhyme.

As I prepare for the end and as the decades, tick away

A poet’s gift is their passion for they must always have words to say.

I am a Poet

Eddie Mount — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 19:30:58 +0000

I rage at the incompetence of my words
Another futile attempt to
Pierce the caul
That filters my dreams

Ripped from a woman’s womb
Not of a woman born
Seeking companionship
Finding only scorn

The obfuscations of Satanic spawn
The TV’s point of singularity
Into that black hole I’m drawn
Blinding me with banality

They killed Lenny Bruce
Disguised as overdose
They though they broke him
The Pharisees did boast
They died faceless, unknown
They are forgotten corpses
Devoid of flesh and bone
His words live on

I am a Poet
I dance
Between the crushing weight
Of conformity and chaos
I move to a rhythm and beat
That speaks to my unique vision

My songs are pain
Not joy
Of questions
Not knowledge
Of a broken heart
Not love

I am the pack less wolf
The outsider
You never see me
I hover on the edge of invisibility
I am the embarrassed pause
The faux pas
And the lost cause

I am a poet
I am what the world made me
And what I was meant to be

Child of Apollo

Eddie Mount — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 17:11:49 +0000

I met her.
A woman with a child’s eyes
Filled with wonder and questions.

She danced through the snow
Cold could not touch her.
Her heart burning passion.
Her soul a prism
Where she shaped dreams.

Others faltered.
Her steps were ordained.
A child of Apollo.
She was her own Muse.

She spoke to the world
In a language
That caused wonder.
Armed only with quill and ink
She changed worlds
Shaped hearts
Made tears obsolete.

Her words were like songs
Indelible
Unforgettable.
They vibrated in time to a universal clock
Ticking truth and beauty.

Poetry was her art
Her passion
The altar where she shed
Her life’s pain.

All were amazed.

But no one saw the sad girl
Behind the beauty
The words…

She was a child of Apollo.
Her steps were ordained.