A poem because poems.

[ChezaRose]

"Drowning Hearts and Dragon Smoke"


Incense is perfuming
in smoke that is breathing,
drawing images of snakes and dragons,
burning fires on pyramids,
while Wolf Larsen grapples at this heart
that dances in its' capsule
but drowning ever still
so slowly and so concerned.

And it--this sick and sad salt-water heart--
sings to me little songs
all about kitchen knives and razor blades
and tells me that love is not scary
as sex is not brave
but that they are only illusions,
as illusive as they are guaranteed
and as ashamed as they are proud.

Because just like love the music will stop.

Just like sex the smoke will die.

And just as everything must,
the dragon will sleep.

- Cheza Rose

 

[Mankini]

thats cool. i like pablo neruda.

 

[Rob Nothing]

"Rotting Trees"

You won't know the significance of a lover until the room no longer whispers with their breathing, when your dreams are a seperate universe, when their smell no longer lingers. The stench of tobacco reminds me of you, you remind me of the sound of thinking. You remind me of the rotting trees in my home's back acre, tall and immovable with a core of decompostion and emptyness. My senses ache severely from you. You are the phantom above my bed, the disillusioned menace. The sun rises and it sets, each day has been a foreboding promise of time to forget you. I am the self-aware fool, I am the doomed romantic, I am the moron.

 

[Rob Nothing]

ah mankini, I recommend octavio paz if you really do.

 

[Mankini]

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man --
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began --
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mice,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire --
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return
-kipling

 

[Rob Nothing]

so many times i've fantasized about the horrific
orgasmic
unfathomably beautiful

image of my fist
colliding with your mouth and sinking
dissolving


into microbial sized soldiers through your bloodstream
galloping like amphetamine fed wild horses
into your heart
tearing out
breaking down
burning alive
the black smoke soiled demons that greedily consume your
potential
and vomit love and anything similar to love-feasting acidic bile from their bloated gullets
into your once admirable, boy like conscience.

who injected you with this terrible disease that strives purely to distance your heart from your mind from your soul?

i can imagine killing you and not grieving.
or feeling guilty.
i'd be setting you free.

but the boy would want you to stay alive.

you're the surviving example of bad choices.
the breathing display of wasted potential
and all the reasons to not fall in love with it.

-- source: young girl to an ex lover shortly before he'd passed away

 

[ChezaRose]

How Sure You Know


How sure you know that I love the abuse,
you with your glittering eyes
feasting and praying on my fragility.

How sure, you know
I am accustomed to the corners
and the silhouettes;
always making shapes and sounds
but never being heard nor understood.

How sure, how very sure
you know
the lust of my chase
and the vitality of my being.
And so I must forgive you
as all good children do.

And how sure you know
that I am a child
because I am poor and lonely,
and a child's needs are never valid.

So how sure you know
that it does not matter
how deep I bleed
or how soon I perish.


Because, as sure as you know
you are true in your lies and in your silence
and I am false in my pain.

- Cheza Rose

 

[Mankini]

I speak with them: at night!
They are in line: I walk
Among the ranks: tearful,
I embrace marble: "Oh marble,
They say that your children drink
their own blood in the cups
Poisonous of their owners!
They speak the rotten tongues
Of ruffians! that they eat
Together the bread of opprobrium,
On the bloody table!
That they lose in useless language
The last fire! They say,
Oh marble, sleeping marble,
Your race is dead! "

I hear a bootstep.
The hero I hugged: grabs me
By the neck: sweeps the earth
With my head. lifts
The arm, the arm splendid as the sun: resounds
The stone: White hands look for their belts:
From the pedestals
the men of marble leap
-Jose Marti VS XLV. trans. Mankini

 

[Rob Nothing]

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number
half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical
or wardrobed out of a fevered dream
with the skins of animals and
silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked
with the blood of prior owners
coats of slain dragoons
frogged and braided cavalry jackets

One in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella
and one in white stockings
and a bloodstained wedding veil and
some in headgear or crane feathers
or rawhide helmets that bore
the horns of bull or buffalo and
one in a pigeontailed coat
worn backwards and otherwise naked and

One in the armor of a Spanish conquistador,
the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented
with old blows of mace or saber
done in another country by men
whose very bones were dust and
many with their braids spliced
with the hair of other beasts
until they trailed upon the ground and

One horses ears and tail
worked with bits
of brightly colored cloth and
one whose horse's whole head
was painted crimson red and
all the horsemen's faces gaudy and
grotesque with daubing
like a company of mounted clowns

death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and
riding down upon them
like a horde from a hell more horrible yet
than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning,
screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke
like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing
where the eye wanders and
the lip jerks and drools.

Cormac McCarthy

 

[Mankini]

A legion of horribles, hundreds in number
half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical
or wardrobed out of a fevered dream
with the skins of animals and
silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked
with the blood of prior owners
coats of slain dragoons
frogged and braided cavalry jackets

One in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella
and one in white stockings
and a bloodstained wedding veil and
some in headgear or crane feathers
or rawhide helmets that bore
the horns of bull or buffalo and
one in a pigeontailed coat
worn backwards and otherwise naked and

One in the armor of a Spanish conquistador,
the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented
with old blows of mace or saber
done in another country by men
whose very bones were dust and
many with their braids spliced
with the hair of other beasts
until they trailed upon the ground and

One horses ears and tail
worked with bits
of brightly colored cloth and
one whose horse's whole head
was painted crimson red and
all the horsemen's faces gaudy and
grotesque with daubing
like a company of mounted clowns

death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and
riding down upon them
like a horde from a hell more horrible yet
than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning,
screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke
like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing
where the eye wanders and
the lip jerks and drools.

Cormac McCarthy

Ahahah Thats my favorite book by him!!! I read it like 4 times

 

[Rob Nothing]

only twice, only twice