The writings of Oddpoet
I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

Posts Tagged ‘Poet’

The Poet

Mon ,15/02/2010

Sirens sing the song of death
While rental cops lay cones down
Restrict­ing traf­fic



They have come for me.



I am the Poet
The truth
My words are carved in the flesh of inno­cence
Scrawled in cheap uri­nals
Chis­eled in the faded gray paint of shit holes
Of lonely tomor­rows
I dry the tears of the hope­less
Scream with the home­less
I sing truth that hum­bles Gods
I am Prometheus, Sisy­phus



I cut the throat of pompous laugh­ter
And kill its first born
I eat the soul of dread­ful nor­malcy
I walk the edge and con­versed with mad­men
My words rever­ber­ate in trash strewed alleys
My tread echoed in the halls of jails and men­tal insti­tu­tions
Shared secrets with bro­ken soul­less junkies



I am truths
That freeze men’s souls
And the lies they swear by
The burn­ing blade cut­ting teth­ered souls
Illu­mi­nat­ing light­en­ing



I am the Devi­ate fondling sacred sex­u­al­ity
The ser­ial killer cov­ered in Blood
Suck­ing life from vic­tims
With last breath curs­ing God
Whim­per­ing
“Why me?”



I am the throne­less king
The voice­less trou­ba­dour
The song no one will sing
I am the invis­i­ble chill
That fon­dles your spine
I am dis­com­fort
The night­mare
The book no one will read
I am words no want wants to hear
I am …


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Smile for the Devil

Thu ,04/02/2010

Ringed
Inside kalei­do­scopic brim­stone
A Hierony­mus Bosch Vegas strip



Sans tourist



Smoth­er­ing vapors of sul­fu­ric mists
Tor­tures gasp­ing breath

Ya wanna scream

“Mommy”

But

Mommy ain’t here



Fish faced generic pedes­tri­ans
whose idea of a good time
Is a home car­pen­try project
Approved by Norm him­self



They sit behind rein­forced
Plex­i­glas
In air con­di­tioned
Save-way stores
Plead­ing
For dis­counts
And
The real deal



The demonic choir
Sing
Johnny Cash
With gui­tars
Made of human skulls
Stringed with the sinews
Of dead heroes



Big D
Enters
The circle

Wit a
Impec­ca­bly coif­fured
Elvis Doo

I guess every­body
Loves
The king



“You stay­ing Poet?”

“Don’t think so D
But thanks for
Asking”

“Ya know Your time is coming”

“Decided?

“Up or down?

“Think I might start
My own after­life D



Big D
Gives me an Elvis
My Way flour­ish
Swirling his black sequined cape

Get­ting into that phony

Elvis karate stance.



“Sounds inter­est­ing Poet
You always did know how to style
If you need a hand
You know where to find me”

“Cool D”

And I rolled.


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The Last Poet #3

Sat ,12/12/2009

My scream painted sin

Across the sum­mer sky

The world

Wob­bled on its axis

Paused

Held its breath



The trees trembled

Sam­son knelt before me

And pre­pared to die

“Scarred Man” he began

His lips quivering

“They came in the night”

“The Cho­rus and I drew sword”

“”She bade us hold”

“And left with them”

His hands twisted in rage and shame

Yes

He would die for her



I let him live

My breaths came in ragged gasps

Her voice

Sud­denly

Came to me

As it had for three years now

And my eyes squeezed

In vain

To stem the tears

That washed my scarred face



She was alive!

I moved to my horse

Sam­son and other mem­bers of the Chorus

Eyes gleamed

And fol­lowed

Their blood lust

Pal­pa­ble

I winced



Men who

Once coaxed

Beauty

And Life

From Dirt

Would become

What I have always been

The enemy had much

To answer for.



“Samson”

“Dou­ble the guard”

“And pre­pare to move”

It was as if I struck him

“But…”

I never gave orders twice



My horse wheeled

As I method­i­cally approached the castle

My body was strewed with arrows

I couldn’t die

Until she told me

I could

The berserker was upon me

My sword screamed

And Sang

In the key of rage.

My blade glowed incandescent

Its white fire

Unquench­able

Blood hissed and splattered

My hated essence blazed



Who would dare touch her?

Those who stood before me

Died

The rest fled



Three witch word singers

Hurled arcane verse

At me

Just before there heads

Came to rest on the floor



I stormed the room that I knew held her

Five men died

Quickly

There

She was

The Last Poet and a Word Mage

Were engaged

In eldritch incantations

Her hands were bound

Imped­ing her

From verse flow



He was not

Nor could he ever

Be

A match for her

I almost laughed.

But decided to kill him

Instead



The Word Mage eye’s widened

Hurled

Death verse at me

His words crum­bled and howled

In use­less fury

“I am already dead fool”

I flung the Word Mage out the window

And watched

As his body tumbled

Curs­ing

That I could not hurt him

More.



I gath­ered her in my arms

“You know

You really have to stop doing that”

She curled up in my arms

And the world was

Once again

Tol­er­a­ble

Hope

Was

Alive



A bird sang

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I am a Poet

Tue ,24/11/2009

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

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Child of Apollo

Tue ,24/11/2009

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.

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