Masticated By Ignorance
There is an eye fashioned from iron
A steely cold cellar for a famished soul
Iron eyes feigning to macadamize
The dark circlets around the orbits
A wreath of cinder from the toppled
Empire, a shriveled recollection
Of lacerations and ecstatic slurs
A stringing harp of the devil
There was a man with iron eyes
Reeking of a valuable possession
Exhumed from a constant oppression
A gilded and ciphered fanaticism
A lopsided ribbon of disposition
A fortified super imposition
That devoured the man's vision
And cloyed the nausea into gagging
With a cigarette rolled on his hand
And panic knotting on the other
Fear wedging on his angry teeth
The lanky man rode a lightning
And ripped the undulating street
All downhill the ocean floor
Devoured by the mad looming city
Devoured by a blossoming paranoia
This man was spruced with derailment
A delusion that no doctor or witch
Can diagnose and convalesce
He ran and ran, unknowing what's on his hands
Past the livid vultures and hissing panthers
In the pavement of a mad hostile jungle
He would traipse and will be preyed
No one knowing that he didn't know
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Rags & Old Iron
Norman curtis, oscar brown jr
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
I heard that old rag man now making his rounds
He came right to my alley lord with sorrowful sounds
Crying rags old iron and pulling his cart
Ask him how much hed give me for my broken heart
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
So I asked that old rag man how much he would pay
For a heart that was broken baby when you went away
For a burnt out old love light that no longer beams
And a couple of slightly used second hand dreams
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
For those big empty promises you used to make
For those memories of you that are no longer sweet
I wish he could haul them off down the street
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
When love doesnt last tell me what is it worth
It was once mamas most precious possession on earth
When I asked that old rag man if hed like to buy
He just shook his head and continued to cry
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron rags old iron
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Obstinacy and Malcontent
Livid and delusional,
Haplessly obdurate,
Like these smoke and mirrors
Distorting the visage of hope
And faith in prayers sent forth
Whilst the coruscations of the past
Inveigles the doom in these eyes
And I exhumed myself alone
In declining my liberation
This obstinacy and malcontent
Deluges with the brine of blood
From angry vessels rooted
And gnarled in the dark corners
Of the cobwebbed heart
Because in this pawned life
Where satisfaction is a drug
To forget the querulous vertex
(To be complete not only in the dark)
The coup-de-grace was a dejection
An unspoken unfaithfulness
That devoured the flame
And the verdigris of the soul
Disemboguing everything
Until the only resolve for pain
Is the sedation in a greater pain;
A wrath that defends
This obstinacy and malcontent
That was once acknowledged
And fortified with sympathy
The resentment of the light
Dislimned the mirror in these eyes
And exhausted the smoky screen
To unfurl that the dark
Had always been underneath
These placidly asleep canopies
Now how do I rectify my truth?
Like these smoke and mirrors
I hid inside myself, unscathed
Groveling for a final clout
So I can shatter into dusts
And finally disappear
In my absolution.
poem by Norman Santos
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Cold Iron
Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all."
So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- shall be master of you all!"
Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron -- Cold Iron -- was master of it all!
Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all."
Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown --
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.
"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is Bread and here is Wine -- sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron -- Cold Iron -- can be master of men all!"
He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread,
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron -- Cold Iron -- to be master of men all."
"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall --
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
Crowns are for the valiant -- sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold.
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Our Eyes
Our eyes
are limpid
drops of water.
In each drop exists
a tiny sign
of our genius
which has given life to cold iron.
Our eyes
are limpid
drops of water
merged absolutely in the Ocean
that you could hardly recognize
the drop in a block of ice
in a boiling pan.
The masterpiece of these eyes
the fulfillment of their genius
the living iron.
In these eyes
filled with limpid
pure tears
had failed to emerge
from the infinite Ocean
if the strength
had dispersed,
we could never have mated
the dynamo with the turbine,
never have moved
those steel mountains in water
easily
as if made of hollow wood.
The masterpiece of these eyes
the fulfillment of their genius
of our unified labour
the living iron.
Translated by Taner Baybars
poem by Nazim Hikmet
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To Those Dames with Crimson Eyes
I can reckon with the lucidity
Of the tranquil motions of the floor
Those farfetched nights sent to
The scrapings of the harried memory
Your skins, glistening from the blur,
Staggering through a solid corner
Like the stars settled in the firmament
Concealing its desire to fall
Betrothed to the potions of alcohol;
Your eyes, all six of them,
Crossed mine from the jovial turbulence
And I thought, from behind my telescope,
That a soul met another soul;
I permitted my lips to droop with my eyes
Macadamized with iron slyness
Averting the crimson redolence
That beckons a skirmish of the heart
A blitzkrieg of blind shots,
From blatant courteous unwritten words
To long small jeremiad of the silence
Buried in the sighs and diffidence,
To hot grazes boiling the blood vessels
Then the soul intertwined once more
In the crimson gases of the turfs
When you caressed my hair
And have my soul surrender
Exploiting its secrets and laments
Spoken in inebriated language
Of undulating bodies and ruffling sheets,
Jabbing open wounds and scraping skins
That faded in a silent scream.
And now, I aimlessly wonder
What those crimson eyes envisaged
Ignited by toxic lemonades
And serrations of aberrations
To provoke a lackluster man
To pour out the enzymes
Of the insentient soul
Sulking in the jagged corner
With feigned exuberance
And smiles castrated by
Cigarette kisses, hissing with
And enigmatic silence.
I wonder about your names
But I might have sent them
Far in the fathoms of Alaskan graves
Or maybe I forgot to ask them
For the soul was a gypsy
Meandering aimlessly with legs
Slathered by sedative bliss
Pawned for all famished nights
Of wailing bleak howls
But I failed to keep them
For the chemicals in your bloods
Was effortlessly devoured
By hedonistic blarneys
Yet, in these times of abandon
I wonder about you
Longing for answers,
Wanting requisitions;
What does this ugly vessel posses
To be invited in your boudoir
And swallow the phantom swords
With a wry of a smile
Crossing the darkness
As the scant strokes of my silhouette
Leave the fine svelte fringe
With no intention of returning?
My apologies for this comedy,
But it was a good drag
Not in the flesh,
The thighs,
Or the crotch,
But in the wisps
Of the unwanted soul;
The very quintessence
Of being accepted.
poem by Norman Santos
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Iron Eyes
Divulge yourself in my language
Speak of forked tongues that can masticate
Imagery with psychedelic blades
And swallow these swords so you can tell me
That I have eyes of iron
That I am blind but I can pretend to believe
That I can perceive in full colors
From sapphire, to eau-du-nil, to claret
And if you are malleable enough
To sink in my impermeability
And nibble on my waxing vision
Then I will permit you, in my elbow to my anteroom
Suffice enough to fracture my vision
And enrapture my eyes of iron
My eyes that can decipher decoys
My vision that can perforate veils and halos
I would gladly fall in a slumber
And in acquiescence I shall fumble
To bolt my callous eyes
And dwell within the perimeter
Of your coherent liminalities
Seasoned of pseudo-animosity
The facile art blotted of acrimony
May be adequate to coerce valiancy
Whenever, we could go now
To anywhere but the down town
Where everyone knows who we are
How we are damned and surmised to expire
Lead me down the Mediterranean Gulf
A sanctuary in the grazing sea
And I can ponder inside your bountiful fingers
Of callas that would cloy my cellars
And though we cannot swim
We would be buoyed by our belief
That we have feet of street lamps
That blaze aglow so no one would trample
If we pretend like lovers lost in time
Could we hold the sun perched in burning leaves
Of ivories and ebonies, of a tatterdemalion gypsy?
In daylight, I would feign that I can see
The words coming out the mouth
Of angry clocks and compasses
And I would curse like a sphinx
To live with you forever at the fringe
We'll pretend like black suited agents
Sheathing a pistol and a plan
To find fate and kill serendipity
And create something out of dark alleys
I would run whilst you walk
For you walk too fast
Perhaps, to leave all behind
Perhaps, there's something you're trying to find
But in gasping breaths
I would keep with your selfish pace
And I would keep you in askance
With the dark corner of my crumpled eyes
Juxtaposed each other like mutual towers
Are these orbits of hefty balconies
Unswerving eyes of flimsy convictions
I would vie for another vision
Of our galvanized liaison
That had transpired in my phantasms
And absconded through veracity
And left me with pallid assumptions
Of a fatal life line
That I wanted to preserve
As we traverse the phosphorescent shore
And trample in the city streets
In an ethereal living
Where we would never have to go home
For home is in our seams
Wandering with our dreams
But I have iron eyes;
Eyes solely to embellish
And all the things that it can perceive
Are those in a parcel ground
A land of voracious reveries
And all it failed to hold
Are things vagrantly unfolded
Right before these iron shackles
I have gone astray
Too far, too long, I have been away
But no one knows
And no one cares, anyway
Iron eyes, sleep pensively
With your dreams in a hearse
A cavalcade of whimsy notes
Remember what you are: iron eyes.
poem by Norman Santos
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Cabinessence
Light the lamp and fire mellow,
Cabin essence timely hello,
Welcomes the time for a change.
Lost and found, you still remain there.
Youll find a meadow filled with grain there.
Ill give you a home on the range.
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
Who ran the iron horse?
I want to watch you windblown facing
Waves of wheat for your embracing.
Folks sing a song of the grange.
Nestle in a kiss below there.
The constellations ebb and flow there.
And witness our home on the range.
Who ran the iron horse?
(truck driving man do what you can)
Who ran the iron horse?
(high-tail your load off the road)
Who ran the iron horse?
(out of night-life-its a gas man)
Who ran the iron horse?
(I dont believe I gotta grieve)
Who ran the iron horse?
(in and out of luck)
Who ran the iron horse?
(with a buck and a booth)
Who ran the iron horse?
(catchin on to the truth)
Who ran the iron horse?
(in the vast past, the last gasp)
Who ran the iron horse?
(in the land, in the dust, trust that you must)
Who ran the iron horse?
(catch as catch can)
Have you seen the grand coolie workin on the railroad?
Have you seen the grand coolie workin on the railroad?
Have you seen the grand coolie workin on the railroad?
Over and over,
The crow cries uncover the cornfield.
Over and over,
The thresher and hover the wheat field.
Over and over,
The crow cries uncover the cornfield.
Over and over,
The thresher and hover the wheat field.
Over and over,
The crow cries uncover the cornfield.
Over and over,
The thresher and hover the wheat field.
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bridges (For Rosemary)
Two pillars devoured by
A famished hunger
With the dents still gnawing
Leaving us crumbs
And the gap between
These cringing towers
Is a torrent river
That needs not
A bridge
For we are the eddies
Of the river
And the soles
Of our weary feet
Is the very pavement
Of our constitution.
Speak little,
Care little,
And find yourself
In the fissures
Of my haunting bones
Shuddering in the same
Vestige of fear,
And tethered to
The same visage
Of foible inadequacies,
If I can only be
As firm as you are.
Dear, Rosemary
When you topple
I would fall harder,
When you believe,
I vie, I pry
For a succoring chance.
Sift the turfs
Of the wrong places,
Shuffle the winds
Of the windmills,
Thwart this delusion.
Dear Rosemary,
Leave if you must
Permit me to shatter
And pick up myself,
Or not.
Leave if you must,
We need not
A bridge.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Iron Cross
THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,
Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?
The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,
Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sin
They plead before the Iron Cross?
Or for some gift of gold or dross?
Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,
They pass before the Iron Cross,
The Cross, that ancient words emboss,
Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.
His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —
The Crucified, who knows all loss,
And had on Earth no resting place.
'O world of men,' he seems to say,
'Behold me on your Iron Cross!
To me why kneel and tell your loss?
Why kneel to me and weep and pray?
'Have I not taught you to forgive?
And bade you from my Iron Cross
Believe, and bear your grief and loss,
That after death you too may live?
'You have not followed at my call!
You keep me on this Iron Cross,
And pray me keep you from all loss,
And save and comfort you withal.—
'You ask for love, and hate the more! —
You keep me on this Iron Cross!—
Restore to me my greater loss,
The brotherhood of rich and poor.'
They pass, with weary eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross —
The Nations, wailing of their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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The Man Exclaims Part01
The man exclaims, 'It was by mere chance that I was in the parking lot when the man died, with the murder weapon in my hand. No sir I had o idea how he died. I just picked up the tire iron to check the pressure on my cars tires. I always used this tire iron. For I've always used the one from the parking garage to check my tires.'
the officier spoke sternly in a serious tone, 'that tire iron is not the weapon that killed this man.'
The man questioned in a state of confusion, 'Then what did? '
The officier was angry now. He screamed, 'you did after you smacked him with the tire iron. You ran over him 6 times.'
The man exclaimed, 'but that's not even my car. That's my wife. Mines the one next to it. I'm being framed I swear.'
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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If you are caught on a golf course during a storm and are afraid of lightning, hold up a 1-iron. Not even God can hit a 1-iron.
quote by Lee Trevino
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Irom Sharmila
Voice of noiseless resistance
Eyes of guileless persistence
Sign of boundless resilience
Irom Sharmila
Iron Sharmila
Face of mask-less compassion
Hands of tireless devotion
Sign of fearless self-assertion
Irom Sharmila
Iron Sharmila
Heart of endless sympathy
Mind of spotless sanity
Sign of selfless humanity
Irom Sharmila
Iron Sharmila
A Rondeau
To iron a shirt, first lightly spray,
then left and right hand interplay;
with one to press and one to lead,
the path's prepared, the creases freed
and gathered wrinkles fade away.
The woman's old, in slow decay,
she's taken care of every day,
yet restless hands still feel the need
to iron a shirt.
Her mind now tends to disarray,
yet sometimes skills, long practiced, stay
and though she lacks her former speed,
her family and friends concede,
she's always known the proper way
to iron a shirt.
poem by Diane Hine
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Iron Coffins
Dedicated to the submariners everywhere, past, present and future.
The sea holds many secrets
in the darkness of its depths
and men being men have dived
beneath the waves in iron coffins.
Some have gone there
to fight an unseen war on passing ships,
while others have dived
to depths for exploration.
No matter what they did,
at times their machines
became iron coffin
to entomb them on the oceans floors.
Each who sails beneath the waves
holds their breath for a moment
always hoping to return
as they dove - alive.
However, there have been many.
Who have been lost below
in the iron coffin that they rode.
12 April 2010
poem by David Harris
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If I lived back in the Wild West days, instead of carrying a six-gun in my holster, I'd carry a soldering iron. That way, if some smart-aleck cowboy said something like, 'Hey look. He's carrying a soldering iron' and started laughing, and everybody else started laughing, I could just say, 'That's right, it's a soldering iron. The soldering iron of justice.' Then everybody would get real quiet and ashamed, because they made fun of the soldering iron of justice, and I could probably hit them up for a free drink.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. The Poet's Tale; Charlemagne
Olger the Dane and Desiderio,
King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower
Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains,
League after league of harvests, to the foot
Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach
A mighty army, thronging all the roads
That led into the city. And the King
Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth
As hostage at the court of France, and knew
The Emperor's form and face 'Is Charlemagne
Among that host?' And Olger answered: 'No.'
And still the innumerable multitude
Flowed onward and increased, until the King
Cried in amazement: 'Surely Charlemagne
Is coming in the midst of all these knights!'
And Olger answered slowly: 'No; not yet;
He will not come so soon.' Then much disturbed
King Desiderio asked: 'What shall we do,
if he approach with a still greater army!'
And Olger answered: 'When he shall appear,
You will behold what manner of man he is;
But what will then befall us I know not.'
Then came the guard that never knew repose,
The Paladins of France; and at the sight
The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried:
'This must be Charlemagne!' and as before
Did Olger answer: 'No; not yet, not yet.'
And then appeared in panoply complete
The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests
Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts
And Desiderio could no more endure
The light of day, nor yet encounter death,
But sobbed aloud and said: 'Let us go down
And hide us in the bosom of the earth,
Far from the sight and anger of a foe
So terrible as this!' And Olger said:
'When you behold the harvests in the fields
Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino
Lashing the city walls with iron waves,
Then may you know that Charlemagne is come.
And even as he spake, in the northwest,
Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud,
Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms
Upon the people pent up in the city;
A light more terrible than any darkness;
And Charlemagne appeared;--a Man of Iron!
His helmet was of iron, and his gloves
Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves
And tassets were of iron, and his shield.
In his left hand he held an iron spear,
In his right hand his sword invincible.
The horse he rode on had the strength of iron,
And color of iron. All who went before him
Beside him and behind him, his whole host,
Were armed with iron, and their hearts within them
Were stronger than the armor that they wore.
The fields and all the roads were filled with iron,
And points of iron glistened in the sun
And shed a terror through the city streets.
This at a single glance Olger the Dane
Saw from the tower, and turning to the King
Exclaimed in haste: 'Behold! this is the man
You looked for with such eagerness!' and then
Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Arcane Lightning
When lightning ripped the land
A torrent of amethyst riveted
In the landsliding current
And there, in the opposing tackles
Of eviscerating flashes
Lies the mendaciloquence
Of the heart of veracity.
In the shafts of the rasping
And the brambles of the pounding,
There was a fire ribbing
And no one understood
What bipolarity slewed
Into the ruffles of an electric heart
That the rain of fire halted.
The savage oscillation plucked
Too many emission, ejaculating
Too scarce constellations
And the riddling cacophony of
The struck zither dispensed
The jewelries into the engulfing ocean
And the lightning died in the sky.
The blade unsheathed and
The fire devoured itself
Never will the lightning reap
Its scythe into the barren deep
For the eccentric fury that propels
The esoteric fire of the veins
Never hauled the affable string.
poem by Norman Santos
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Exhuming The Bones Of Naivety
I was another orphan
from the gravid collections
cloyed by jealousy,
drifting past the irony
I watched it dance -
the usurped splendor
once basked in the innocent eyes -
with the waning dust motes
with a vehemence of a sleeper
Felled from the platoon,
unrifled and guised with a
perfunctory smile,
hiding amidst the enviable insularity
of the rain's iron curtains
complacence is my confidant
my citadel against
my own destructive measures
And when the crooked hands
of the clock unsheathed
its vengeful fusillade
not a shadow flailed,
not a soul squandered,
everything was as still
as an obsidian memory
as if the wanton silence speaks
a mirror of harangue
against the enemy inside
the eyes of naivety.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Last Man
By heaven and hell, and all the fools between them,
I will not die, nor sleep, nor wink my eyes,
But think myself into a god; old Death
Shall dream he has slain me, and I'll creep behind him,
Thrust off the bony tyrant from his throne
And beat him into dust. Or I will burst
Damnation's iron egg, my tomb, and come
Half damned, ere they make lightning of my soul,
And creep into thy carcase as thou sleepest
Between two crimson fevers. I'll dethrone
The empty skeleton, and be thy death,
A death of grinding madness. -- Fear me now;
I am a devil, not a human soul --
poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
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Iron Maiden
Wont you come into my room,
I wanna show you all my wares.
I just want to see your blood,
I just want to stand and stare.
See the blood begin to flow
As it falls upon the floor.
Iron maiden cant be faught,
Iron maiden cant be sought.
Oh well, wherever, wherever you are,
Iron maidens gonna get you, no matter how far.
See the blood flow watching it shed up above my head.
Iron maiden wants you for dead.
Wont you come into my room,
I wanna show you all my wares.
I just want to see your blood,
I just want to stand and stare.
See the blood begin to flow
As it falls upon the floor.
Iron maiden cant be faught,
Iron maiden cant be sought.
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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