Friday, November 23, 2012

A horror sweet


Fantasy http://goo.gl/4of9L

I scream your name  in ecstasy
unicorns run over my skin
you are a fairytale of sin
a horror sweet, my fantasy

Your eyes shine through in mystic glow
I long to taste your pale blue veins
A hunger deep in me remains
As flames of hell inside me grow

Oh I am cursed and surely doomed
To burn eternally in lust
Until my bones will fade to dust
By your fierce passion all consumed

You'll be the death of me, I know
My end in you is close,  and yet,
The wildest joy I'll ever get
Your cold lips soft over my brow...




linked to @dVersePoets Pub Open Link Night~72

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Leave me a place underground, by Pablo Neruda

gothic wallpaper at Gothic Backgrounds: Scary Gothic Wallpapers http://goo.gl/MVDPC


Leave me a place underground, a labyrinth,
where I can go, when I wish to turn,
without eyes, without touch,
in the void, to dumb stone,
or the finger of shadow.

I know that you cannot, no one, no thing
can deliver up that place, or that path,
but what can I do with my pitiful passions,
if they are no use, on the surface
of everyday life,
if I cannot look to survive,
except by dying, going beyond, entering
into the state, metallic and slumbering,
of primeval flame?

One more time, by Pablo Neruda



"Untitled" by de at http://tinyurl.com/d2wld7l
One time more, my love, the net of light extinguishes
work, wheels, flames, boredoms and farewells,
and we surrender the swaying wheat to night,
the wheat that noon stole from earth and light.

The moon alone in the midst of its clear page
sustains the pillars of Heaven’s Bay,
the room acquires the slowness of gold,
and your hands go here and there preparing night.

O love, O night. O cupola ringed by a river
of impenetrable water in the shadows of Heaven,
that raises and drowns its tempestuous orbs,

until we are only the one dark space
a glass into which fall celestial ashes,
one drop in the flow of a vast slow river.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Death wore her face

Photo by kind permission of Claudia Lucia McKinney
©Phatpuppyart.com
http://facebook.com/phatpuppyartist 
... That cold and biting night
He cried rivers
And regretted oceans
After all these years

Death wore her face
And came to torture him
with visions of happiness
between an eternity
and his last breath
her warm blood
filling his old veins

Death wore her face
and vexed him for his heart of stone
crushing it into 30 pieces of silver
his lips whispered her name
and one heartbeat exploded
through that frozen chest

Death wore her face
and time lost its pace
across the fields of  love
memories flew over his gray head
like a runaway bird hit under the wing

Death wore her face
And claimed him
with her kiss...

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Phoenix

   Phoenix, in www.deviantART ©2007-2012 *moonmomma

i close my eyes and there i see you
under my eyelids 
inside my soul
your kingdom lies

all  my sighs 
a long row of flaming arrows
ascending  to the holy shrine
where you sit naked and terrible
a merciful god
staring at my poor offering
my burning yearning heart

my lips wither away from your kisses
your eyes give the signal
to end my life before you
to set my heart ablaze inside your love
i light the fire smiling
i walk into the flames
satisfying your thurst for my surrender

soon
no more than my ashes at your feet 
You rise like the sun
gazing at what is left of me 
your divine tears of lust
become one with my crimson dust
shaping the fragile clay of my flesh 
bringing me back to life
whole
so you can love me
again
and 
again
and
    again.... 

Ballade to the forgotten poets of the ages - a poem by Kostas Karyotakis


Detested by both men and gods,
The Great Poet  - Jack Vettriano  http://goo.gl/fVlHK
©2010 NonPrints.com All Right reserved
like nobles who have bitterly decayed,
the Verlaines wither; wealth remains
to them, of rich and silvery rhyme.
With "Les Chatiments" the Hugos are intoxicated
by their terrible Olympian revenge.
But I shall write a sorrowful
ballade to the forgotten poets.

Though the Poes have lived in misery,
and though the Baudelaires have suffered living deaths,
they've all been granted Immortality.
Yet no-one now remembers,
and the deepest darkness has completely buried,
every poetaster who produced limp poetry.
But I make as an offering this reverent
ballade to the forgotten poets.

The world's disdain is heaped on them,
but they pass by, unyielding, pallid,
sacrifices to the tragic fraud that
out there somewhere Glory waits for them,
that wise and merry virgin.
But knowing that they're all due for oblivion,
I weep nostalgically this sorrowful
ballade to the forgotten poets.

And off in some far future epoch:
"What forgotten poet" I should like it to be asked
"has written such a beggarly
ballade to the forgotten poets?"