I am smoking the sun at last -
Its flavor like the burning orange I have always flamed
inside the infernal love and lust of my mind.
I am dragging the vast and greying force
into slackened form of fated crumble.
And with the craving of ashes to become one
with blind, scattered oblivion of origins and ends –
this is the eternal moment of mad imagination!
I am smoking the sun at last – the core of a pleasure –
The cure for sucking as it lights the way to the filtering desire.
It’s now stained with hellish deposits of revolting black nauseated - my shade satisfied.
I am breathing Sun as she absorbs the moistened flesh.
And as the hot ashes of being cycles cold into heat once more;
And as the breathing rhythmically nears its repose
It reeks incessantly of glorious revolt!
the dark clouds of nausea of soul
in absence
perturb an already mind aslant
as pure is
the being of being in continuation
and absurdly arrows itself into solid absolute
while against that into infinitely spread relations
all white light suffocates
under a brighter dusk of rotten black substance
the elevation decreases in increase and stretches forever
into bonded eternity in damned consciousness
Was it too great in scale to my poor thought?
Was chaos bent across its careless crest?
Or has my trance and dream by mind been caught?
It ruined my mind’s womb - the tomb where it may rest!
My sanity is now so void of might
Inside the darkness on the verge to flood.
Yes, either that, or great eternal plight,
Alive in rage outside my flesh and blood.
So now my sense is fiction on a ballot
And spiral force invade my brain in vain,
As horses dark on cries of mine may gallop.
I coil my sinews madly with a chain:
But as my stomach dances on its edge,
The world divides in two without a pledge.
Do not so proudly cripple or kill
the birds of the bluest heavens.
For on their inspirational wings
we are soaring today even higher
than the confines of their terrestrial skies
Longing for warm presence while there’s cold absence
Is longing for absence of the present cold,
For in the absence of our love and meaning
Our own essence feels absent;
It wells from Being itself endeavoring to escape itself
Through strife he created and writhed the sinewy form,
For splaying the layers of chaos and muscular norm
Is a talent not just born, but raised to race
Itself and direct to a novel and transcending pace
There may be no hints or familiarity showed;
Plaudits may stay in their wombs not to serve or to‘ve flowed
At gestures that splice the muscles which wrenched and ruptured
And wry judging eyes should go shocked by our moulds of raptures –
‘Cause of more dimensions is pointing ostensible judgment.
So now we may seize that old judge – the soul’s ointment,
For our new coming wave of invention
Will stretch that ancient horizon while fashioning:
New thinkers and moving creators that witness the instance
That new natural intent to feel existence
A bending being seeks some sort of lighted end
While questions pervade and perturb the subjugated term
The request will transfix the body of reason and send
Some messages from above the world of perm
And though they might but permit perplexed effect
Our notions and perspiring views of perpetual resist
Might relay to forces alike so to win respect
That this new relation to truth will in fine time shine first
Against those fitments about the room of debate
Perceptions must transcend; transpose old directions
For to treasure forever that used – and scions by fate
Might shove nature’s hand and heighten that stinting rejections
Come. Combine. Transform that sight of ages
Our beings will seem superior and soar on sages!
Syren, I suppose you would say the same thing if you read a Sonnet or other poem by Shakespeare - 'seeming significance'. Just because you don't understand a poem, or because it looks complicated on the surface, doesn't meen the author is trying to make it seem significant. Shakespear's sonnets are mostly utterly hard to comprehend, but I don't say it's 'seeming significant', I try to read it a couple more times in order to understand what he wanted to say, and in the end I do and a whole new world opens up.
By your comment, you're merely exhibiting your own shameless ignorance.
Gender: Female Location: every which way but loose
I'm utterly serious, as you will find in my axpanatory PM. I apologise profusely for any offence I have caused in my unwise choice of words Although, you could have been a little more polite before jumping to conclusions, you're portraying yourself as having a complex
Gender: Female Location: every which way but loose
Um, I wasn't saying that it only appeared significant.... I probably used the wrong word. The context in which I made that comment was not intentionally negative, I apologise if you read it that way. Please try to remember that due to this being a forum on which we can only read one another's written word, there is no possible way to ascertain exactly what people mean when confusion arises over words used, or statements made.
Oh wow! These are superb!! Seriously, they have such depth and seeming significance, I'm going to have to read them all again
This comment was made in complete seriousness, if I were to find your poems unsatisfactory I would simply tell you. I believe in constructive criticism but I found no flaws in your work, I truly appreciated your talent. By 'seeming significance' I mean 'apparent' or 'obvious', in that the underlying messages in the poem were excellently conveyed. Ok?
Gender: Female Location: every which way but loose
It's ok, though you did give me a fright, I hate it when I don't explain myself properly I do, however, have it firmly lodged in the back of mind NEVER to mess with you
Don't worry, I enjoy women messing with me...especially messing with me under the blankets, if you know what I mean. The poet should strive to be poetic in every aspect of his life, even if things get dirty
Climax? Yes, if you want to - you dirty mind The poetic and the erotic.....Did you perhaps meant Orgasmic, but was a little reserved in your choice of words?
I bet my orgasms last longer than yours! "The climax being the tip of the orgasm, " How about The climax being the tip of the object which caused the orgasm?
Gender: Female Location: every which way but loose
Could be, could be..... hmm, don't you just adore our conversations? Nothing is taboo, it's extremely refreshing I suggest, however, that we concentrate more on our poetry..... this is, after all, a poetry forum, not a porno
KMC Community Forums
Poetica
Jan 13th, 2005 01:14 PM
Although, you could have been a little more polite before jumping to conclusions, you're portraying yourself as having a complex 
Oh, you 
Can we call that Climax?
The poetic and the erotic.....Did you perhaps meant Orgasmic, but was a little reserved in your choice of words?
The climax being the tip of the orgasm, ergo, your short but sweet poem 
