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Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

Twisted Children

ah

is it not the stuff of legend

the twisted, malformed child

allowed to live

through a perhaps misplaced sense of compassion

instead of allowing the midwife to take it away and drown it

grows as twisted in the mind as in the body

hating the thing that gave it birth

because of its own self loathing

but being weak, it cannot kill itself so must kill the source instead

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Outside Looking In

What can I say

that language will not turn flat

crushing my quantum clouds

into its 2D world.

Infinite is a pale word

that cannot describe

what bubbles out of the core of my being

I can taste the universe

it fills my nose

it clings to the back of my throat

what do you seek

you who are

outside looking in

I am inside

there is no outside

all possibilities exist here

that is me, looking over your shoulder

wondering at what you find so fascinating

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When the Great Alien Overlord, or the Wyrm inside your gut, or the parasite sucking the light out of your life

begins to nibble on the edges of your soul

what was once an exercise in philosophy becomes a very personal

life and death struggle

do not listen to the old voices for advice

there is no sin that requires this much suffering

there is no crime that cannot be forgiven

there is no disease that cannot be cured.

pain

is just a reminder

that the world pushes too hard

in places you wish to call your own

take out your sword or your staff or your frying pan

and beat them back

Even shadows

will respect your boundaries.

Shout your defiance.

you are a sword

in the hands of the Oneverse

whose edge can make even time and space

bleed

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Does the caterpillar

have Armageddon dreams

as the crystalline walls

encase its transformation?

Or is it awake

as the mushroom clouds of change

detonate

turning its flesh to jelly?

Can you rest so easy

in Eden’s idyllic embrace

once you hear

the chrysalis screams?

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Might it be that butterflies, confined by their chrysalis jail, come to hate the walls that serve their birth and in that hate, beat with butterfly fists against the rigid stuff,  thereby setting themselves free?

And perhaps the caged chick must come to rage in impotent fury at its perfect porcelain cell, gnashing and biting, until the crystals shatter and the next generation of bird rolls free.

If this is so for small things, what then of the truly fierce?

Terrible must be their anger; Infinite their rage as they suffocate inside their soft prison, ineffable desire to breath free smoldering, until at last spontaneous combustion ignites their fiery sword, slicing through the ties that bind.

Ahhh, but freedom does not always assuage the rage nor quench the fires of hate.

No. A fierce thing, upon being born, emerges screaming berserker screams, brandishing its bright sword, only to turn and slash the womb of its birth into dust, venting its fury upon the very thing that held it close and dear for so very long.

Walk wary about the birthplace of fierce things.

Their blood is up and they are on the lookout for the next thing that needs killing.

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Soft

is the sound

of the ‘Verse

winding its way around

the silence of this world

a vibration

not heard by the ear

nor perceived by the mind

but felt

deep in the core of me

down in the deep places

beyond the doors of this world

a sound that brings a sigh

of pleasure

a feeling that bubbles up from inside

I throw my head back

and moan

no lover

can touch me

as the ‘Verse can touch me

ahhhhh

cruel lover

I am ruined for any other

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