The Immolation
The rotund sun slyly coveted
His diadem of light and warmth
Yonder the gnawing jagged teeth
Of these greedy mountain passes
And the days stretched without
The fire ball hung above the clouds
Of ignorance, innocence, malignance
So I squandered my gambling and
Gave up haggling with the King
I knelt before the oblivious sky
Scraping my bloodless knees
In the hoarse and mordant skin
Of the thinning ice beneath
Pleading for my immolation
So I can transcend in liberation
To the land of the phantoms
The oppression to be caught
In a reedy ensnare of vagary
Underneath jealousy and abhorrence
A labyrinth of flustered identity
Is a death far more excruciating
From the carnal conflagration
It is a shackle of lightning impaling
And lashing to the frozen core
A death that will live on, bleed on
In the echoes of this immolation
"Who am I to you, lovely people?
I cannot see myself in those big
And once sincere doe-eyes.
I was yours, not just an accessory
Of what you can encompass
From each other's covenant.
But the tides washed away
My footprints on your shores
Because you walked on them
For they were your chalcedony,
And your tides, and your ebbs,
Your sea, your coveted jealousy.
Your waters heaved me too close
Then shoved me too far away
With your clashing demands
And a whirlpool of obfuscation.
It took its toll in my harried eyes
Because I am not a saint nor a god
I am just a comrade, and a misbegotten
Catalyst of a storm that shall fan
And hone your arduous appetite
For each other's somber ties.
Who am I to you ululates a cry
Submerged beneath the zealous
And ardent hunger you have,
Such subliminal lust to become
The mighty flame of the sun—
Between the two of you:
The brawl is to undo
What you have become
From dragging me too.
Good riddance, to you
My riddled affinities.
So long, and may you find
Your separate peaces."
I chide to the bony clouds to falter
And thaw into a bottomless river
And I shall walk the void bottom
Of this bottomless ocean vapidly,
I plead for the vestiges of the night
To mantle a pall on my shoulders
And I shall carry her into the impasse
And there I shall limbo with the dead
And wistfully peel off the mordant skin
Of your haunting memories: doe eyes
And porcelain skins, lips quavering
Of malaises, pains, and of the dead
Incisiveness of trust and honesty
Of far-flung amities, now they seal
Themselves with stitches to latch
The demons of loathing and treachery
And the blood lust for this immolation.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Witch
Eyes, rivulets of red that run beneath a canopy
Of green-tinged lashes –
Tear blood playing on the grey-white skin,
Stretched across the twin peaks of cheekbone.
That slender pillar of a neck –
Magnet of eroticism, blinds to
Veins gorging on the flesh,
Dancing under pulse of blood –
Or whatever pumps inside.
Coal-black lips word intentions –
Castigations – variations of the horror
She was born to be.
O the hair! – a flame-orange avalanche
Thundering down to Hell
Where seething mounds of torn bodies lost their souls
To viler wants and fouler holes of
Scatological minds.
And the plunge of lavish breast –
E’er the siren’s weapon! –
Baits the mortal man –
Were he to chance his hand across
The certainty of doom.
But still we go, our weakness on display –
Hers will not a challenge be to see to our decay.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Under lust rain
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
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lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Self Immolation
Skin
Your scars
Surface is
Rusty blades
Chorus:
Self immolation crying out
Self immolation crying out
Self immolation crying out
Self immolation crying out
Oblivion
Your weakness
Is your temper
Is your temper
Repeat Chorus
Your god
High above
In your veins
Liquid sky
Repeat Chorus
I'mmortal
Your saviour
Destroys you
Destroys you
Repeat Chorus
song performed by by Fear Factory from Soul Of A New Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death XXVII
Then Almitra spoke, saying, "We would ask now of Death."
And he said:
You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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We Are All Savage Underneath
A sullen ochre rose reluctantly
Breaking dawn in the distance
An oblique path of sleepy ray
Flashed across the coiled bedlam
I rubbed the comported eyes
And the pallid ebullient light
Revealed the tolls of lucid dreaming
And reeled an abhorrence to waking
In a place that was my safeguard
Now a cellar of mordant jealousy
From the tobacco scent suspended
To the ruffled gaunt sheets
Rue lingered with a phantom smile
Eyes burning behind a grimace
These blood stained hands lay
Seething in the wrists
With the blood of a crime—
Claws in a pang in the viscera
A tattoo of guilt that will
Oppress the ignorance until
It topples to fiendishly release
The soul of alloy and steel
Back to its hapless vulnerability
And the malignant paroxysm
Will reckon my old fashion
Of living in daunted emotions and
Struggling from fissures of lamentations
Caressing and nurturing death
To burn the leaves of life
Impaled with many sufferings
Tonight, with the cavern growing
And the shadows behind the escritoire
Pleading for a macabre dance
I shall unlatch the demon spawned
From the cloys of your flatteries
And the inveigles of your geniality
That was savage underneath
For you despised me, after all,
For treading the waters and dunes
That you possessed and owned
My sincere apology shrieks
A lightning fork of pain
For what caused your conundrum
Was my very quintessence
You cried, you bled, and pointed
A trembling sanguine finger
I was your murder
Who you were
And who you are
Battled and connived
Inside my bones,
Inside my home
With who I am and was
Either way, you won.
I fastened manacles on my feet
Riveting me in a dark nook
Out of lights reach for
I opt to be buried in the dark
Basking in double edge swords
And a cesspool of saline blood
And never shall I meander
In your querulous roads
Until one misbegotten day
I will radiate from this holocaust
Without the acrimonious vagary
And the connoisseur indictment
That you whispered in my vanity
In this den of thieves
We are all savage underneath.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Road Away The Night
The night perched on its favorite peak
To let down the pall of oblivion and
Murmur temptations into the wind
It's reedy voice swept and perforated
The euphonious singing of the stars
Like a dissonant violent string it shrilled
And shattered the taut smile hoisted
In the harlequinade that comforted
This pilfered parcel of direst and slosh
The aqueous blood of the saline sea
Where the memories drowned struggling
These convoluted meandering that lead
In a rendezvous with death's scythe
Is starting to outnumber the plethora
Of my night terrors and day dreams
And the shadow of my blinded fears
Is starting to blend into the thin walls
That rectifies my ebbing faults and sin -
I am lost in this aimless wandering.
Walking upon this slivers of rues and regrets
And slathered with the profound burning
Of these salty tears of absolution and bereft,
I conspired for my salvation, and still
The only wisp of light in the firmament
And the only peace roving in the air
Was the same treason in these veins -
The liberation to this labyrinth
Is another sweet immolation
Perhaps, the night will always fall
And her phantoms will always call
The vultures will fence my sleep hoping
That I may finally found the valiance
To face the black demise of the night
But with my complacent obduracy
Perhaps I will endure this walk with time
And the scars will fade, but not your face
And the sun would sink, but not my yearning
And the night will wan with all her demons
But not the trepidation in trampling
In the sweetest treacherous roads.
poem by Norman Santos
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Ouroboros
The snake that coiled asleep
Underneath the misbegotten
Earth unruffled agitated from
The vanguard of its slumber
Because his cold blood
Could never grow colder
And the scorching land
Could never get warmer
And the unselfishness
Could never be selfish
He shed his gossamer
And fragile skin to
Eviscerate the phantoms
Slithering with his dispositions
And super impositions
And then swallowed
The undraped suit
And the night was
A blood lusting
Carnal show
Where you blew the flute
To surrender and
Call it truce
He stuck out his tongue
Forked and rived
And palmed the warmth
Truant in the airwaves
And the arid coldness
Beckon the void chance
Of subsisting yonder
The scorching land
So his blood froze
Congealed with the
Chamber of fire
He held somewhere
In his labyrinthine frame
He developed a fancy
In eating his skin
And soon he shall
Eat his rattling tail
But never would he
Cave out again
To face the devoid
Chance of getting
To where he can live
For himself
And while she gets jealous
And while he gets jealous
He shall crawl away
Far from the dancing flames
Where his skin is charred
Only to molt him
Into nakedness
And leave him there
Eating his lost
And unwanted chances
To settle it fair.
It is an ouroboros
Eternally ensconced
Into the lattices of
The void.
poem by Norman Santos
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Sent By Sparrows...
if i undress your eyes very gently,
will i find the last vestiges of fire?
did the great wings of hunger
scar the skies of your soulless darkness?
is the screech of the owl
hidden in your tight numbed lips?
does the snail trail of my body,
still cling to your need in the moonlight?
must my fingers fumble with the latch,
and my footprints haunt your sleeplessness?
or am i just the tree that fell
in the fury of the storm?
am i the leaf floating on the still pond?
the things i buried in the small wooden box,
that night beneath the willow.
perhaps among them were you and i....
will the spiders resurrect us?
if i am dead then let it be,
for what's given is what remains.
and the small imprint on your pillow
that smells faintly of me,
is just a bad dream sent by sparrows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Yellow Haven
I remember the forfeited nights when hunger
Had sent me mangling into fortified walls
Groveling to thaw into the pallid inflection,
Squirming from the scraping inside the chambers
That putrefies the veneer to haplessly reveal
The unwritten words in the wrinkled skin,
Where the poisons crumpled to potions
Picking slivered beads and making a chalcedony
Of pebbles to grind in our running feet;
Turning serpentine vespers into the cinders
Of the day's vigorous fanning of ambiguity;
And ephemeral drizzles engulfed by the wave
Of esoteric perpetuity in a colossus rave;
In spite of the incisive transatlantic distance
Imposed by tacit seclusion and disparity
I found the light show on the ocean floor
Where gods are servile of the fathoms
Placing their languid heads in stone tables
For an immolation to omniscient mortality.
In a cup of golden concord that entangles
Our meta-fictional lives in a conscious strangle:
A highfaluting chaise, for arriving and departing
Impassable planes of plutocracy
To premature decadence that lingers
Into the absence of your sculling chortles
And vivacious silence riveted in the listening floor
As I touch you and feel the seraphs wafting
In your skin and melting crystal castles
And as I part, shoved by the demons
With awry prongs locking in a tale
That not one without a sip of the sharp
Spangling revelries in our fragile cup
Could neither evade nor leave triumphant.
I am one amongst the motions and susurrations,
Stringed in the latticing chances of conclusions,
Assuaging the winds of odyssey, never to bury
The skeletons when time flew like an albatross
Enslaving the sea and nary a home but the sky
Teeming with the liberal sensations to descry
The asphyxiated lungs of lost voices,
And collapsing ribs of lost viscera,
Intertwines the demon's lair into
The ornate heaven for the mortals.
As soon as we touch and spew verve
We lose contact and the valley of death
Yawns wearily to devour the mechanism
Learned in a plenitude of scant days:
A close good bye juggles with hello
Oblivious with all these lovely people.
poem by Norman Santos
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Abaude: Your Eyes
"In an age where there is much talk about ‘being yourself, ' I reserve to myself the right to forget about being myself." Thomas Merton
When I look into the mirror
I see the perfect mime,
moving left or right, mimicing
my vanity as I comb thinning hair,
check wrinkled skin for new blemish,
try figure out who I am;
but when I look into your eyes
I see long drives, mountain roads
rising to clouds, ocean mist
washing clean the highest pines
as the eastern sky
grows bright with
morning.
Your eyes
enfold me.
Like the rising sun,
your love renews
my aging day.
poem by Steven Federle
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Bow Before My Death
I lie beneath the flame this night,
I bow before my death,
He takes my hand,
And holds me close,
Death embraces me,
He says the time has come,
Beginning now meets end,
He says the fires taken me,
And now it's time to walk,
Walk the path of fates sweet song.
I lie beneath the flame this night,
I bow before my death,
The fires stripped me of my sins,
Humility my pride,
Now death guides me through the dark,
And speaks to me kind words,
'The pain has stopped,
It won't come back,
Your senses now are cleansed,
The soul has been washed clean',
He says the end is pleasure.
I lie beneath the flame this night,
I bow before my death,
Death's a man clothed in blue jeans,
A white shirt stained with blood,
Death holds a knife,
Death slits my throat,
Death is the end of my beginning.
I lie beneath the flame this night.
I bow before my death.
poem by Holly Heron
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Sexual Soup
A man so sick that the sexual soup
cannot save him -
the chicken soup of sex
which cures everything:
tossed mane of noodles,
bits of pale white meat.
the globules of yellow fat
like love...
But he is a man so sick
no soup can save him.
His throat has healed into a scar.
Rage fills his guts.
He wants to diet on dust.
I offered to feed him
(spoon by spoon)
myself.
I offered my belly as a bowl.
I offered my hands as spoons,
my knees as tongs,
my breasts as the chafing dish
to keep us warm
I offered my navel
as a brandy snifter.
"My tongue is gone," he said,
"I have no teeth.
My mouth is with my mother in the grave.
I've offered up my hunger to the air,
my nostrils to the wind,
my sex to death,
my eyes to nothingness & dust."
"What do you lust for then?"
I asked.
"I lust for nothing."
poem by Erica Jong
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Carrion's Redolent Ululations
Beneath the wings of the ravine condor
Perched upon my dislocated shoulders
And in the scraping of its scaled talon
I found myself a lackluster prey
Already devoured by drifting webs
Of the starlight's tale; a carrion
Putrefied in believing and unbelieving
And submitting only to an immolation
Sating verve in embedding roots
In the lost fathoms of a parliament
Digressing the fear that hones a man
Into what a lion would have become
Perhaps, averting deaths in cognizant places
And taking leisure upon cheap ryes
Spewed to sedate the thorough wile
Have I made a shack, shabby or not,
In this derided chance of slipping away?
With the died-out leaves of summer breeze
Have I made enough drivels to ignite
And char myself again in the gravels?
As the clock never swallows itself
And the sun never sleeps with its eyes
How do I subsist this hunger game?
When time would reach the dock
And the ships sail its oars to different currents
Is it suffice that I have been present?
Would that compensate the lack of life?
As I avert the eyes of the scavenger
Have I defeated the malingerer?
Should I nourish the famished land
Buried beneath the taut and thinning ice?
Ephemeral as everything goes
How do I learn to satisfy
And molt wings apt to circumnavigate
The same plane where you linger?
poem by Norman Santos
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Birth of the Lion Man
And he was a man with revealing sylvan eyes.
Sad, wandering, eager-eyes swathed with sagacity.
Coy he was, like an eagle in the wild; aversive but suspicious.
He is not a child, but he is less than a man.
A critique and a wonderer loathing his own skin
At the top of his head, he watched people
He watched them flash harlequin smiles at each other
Smiles that harmed his eyes like polarized lights
And he remained aloof, preserved to his flightless dignity.
His nest a bare warren of pride and fear
Every leaf of the book he turned with dismal eloquence
Disgusted with the filth of the forged layer
He desires to strip them, undress them
To crack the cynic Monalisa smile and the soul submerged beneath.
A spin-off awaits to swivel as he walked the cobbled streets
Unmasked, but masked with forced vulnerability.
Strutting the town like the lazy-pacing clouds,
Invading skies like searing rays of light
Her lucid radiance in the kind afternoon
Ruptured like pyrotechnics shooting with sparks
She's a mirror, bursting with luminescence.
In a town confined within tedious time
Her presence invoked a prism of hope.
Whipping and lashing everything in a subtle vigor,
Bending the sealed harlequin smiles to transparency
An enigma superior than the moon, magnetizing
She walked the core of the earth with eyes of a periscope.
Her light caught his bronze frame and he almost burned
A light so flustering, it revealed his concealed omnipotence
She is a drug; a ladder to the vertex
To the grounds of liberation,
The freedom of the Lion.
poem by Norman Santos
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Burnt
Why can't we look
Deep inside ourselves?
While my sole existence
Is a fountain of amber
In the breadth of your
Burning waltz with each other
You fan his putrefaction
By throwing a dry stick
And the victim of the immolation
Is my scarce flame
And he fans his own fire
With the coals of my dying
To meet a fire break
With you
While the sly tongue
Of fire I held is
A picador hurtling
For its own death
Because I shall not
Succumb to this
Incendiary death
So while we banter
About valiance,
Lies and promises,
And selfishness,
I shall careen into
The holes of the stitches.
poem by Norman Santos
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Peace Is Not Yet
Whisk the rose-wine veiling fume
And the reedy rendezvous of the stars
But be cautious to exhume the gravid
But frail burden of the canopies
Underneath the marred chortles
And the playful lisping of the lips
These eyes sweep the dusts bashfully
And bleaches the tattoo of oppression
Cringing the sallow skin of somnolence—
The pawned peace in slumber;
To usurp the fissures of the greedy sand
Siphoning the path thoroughly
Until the stride bends in a spur
Of evocative and spurious reveries
And as hope grovel for hope
I shall contend with the manacles
And as pride devour pride
I shall rival with the angry tides
So I can forgive you,
So I can forgive myself,
And sleep may arrive the harbinger
Of peace and quietude
But until then, I remain astray
In this ravine inside myself
In this harried tug-of-war
Of cajoling phantoms
And their mourning deaths
Peace is not yet, sleep is not yet,
In the equinox of unreality.
poem by Norman Santos
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Skin
Underneath my skin, is another skin
Underneath my bones some other bones
In which you have walked
And still walk
Underneath this tree grows another tree
In which you have grown
In which your roots have sewn
These shoots that rise up
Carry me nearer to you
I walk into your past
Breathe inside of your days
And your heart holds mine
Each beat
A sign that you are still living
Underneath these stones
Are your living stones
That will not die
I walk into your past
And live always in your presence
I carry you under my skin
Shaped by the dust of your bone
Born from the seed of your love
Carried on the wind
I carry you under my skin
Into the skin of another
Into the flesh and the blood of a lover
And you will live on
In the root of the tree
In the fruit of the flower
On and on
Held in the heart on another
I carry you under my skin
And always you are here, with me
poem by Yvette Smith
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On Death
Then Almitra spoke, saying, 'We would ask now of Death.'
And he said:
You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Beneath The Skin
Beneath the Skin a caustic red river
Beneath the Skin corrosive abuser
Beneath the Skin genetic in rupture
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
Beneath the Skin a still born forgiveness
Beneath the Skin cell transfer in whispers
Beneath the Skin a lover cries murder
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
Beneath the Skin i wasted this moment
Beneath the Skin old undiscovered
Beneath the Skin another lies ruptured
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death of the Old Sea King
'Twas a fearful night -- the tempest raved
With loud and wrathful pride,
The storm-king harnessed his lightning steeds,
And rode on the raging tide.
The sea-king lay on his bed of death,
Pale mourners around him bent;
They knew the wild and fitful life
Of their chief was almost spent.
His ear was growing dull in death
When the angry storm he heard,
The sluggish blood in the old man's veins
With sudden vigor stirred.
"I hear them call," cried the dying man,
His eyes grew full of light;
"Now bring me here my warrior robes,
My sword and armor bright.
"In the tempest's lull I heard a voice,
I knew 'twas Odin's call.
The Valkyrs are gathering round my bed
To lead me unto his hall.
"Bear me unto my noblest ship,
Light up a funeral pyre;
I'll walk to the palace of the braves
Through a path of flame and fire."
Oh! wild and bright was the stormy light
That flashed from the old man's eye,
As they bore him from the couch of death
To his battle-ship to die,
And lit with many a mournful torch
The sea-king's dying bed,
And like a banner fair and bright
The flames around him spread.
But they heard no cry of anguish
Break through that fiery wall,
With rigid brow and silent lips
He was seeking Odin's hall.
Through a path of fearful splendor,
While strong men held their breath,
The brave old man went boldly forth
And calmly talked with death.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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The Three Enemies
THE FLESH
"Sweet, thou art pale."
"More pale to see,
Christ hung upon the cruel tree
And bore His Father's wrath for me."
"Sweet, thou art sad."
"Beneath a rod
More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
The winepress of the wrath of God."
"Sweet, thou art weary."
"Not so Christ:
Whose mighty love of me suffic'd
For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist."
"Sweet, thou art footsore."
"If I bleed,
His feet have bled; yea in my need
His Heart once bled for mine indeed."
THE WORLD
"Sweet, thou art young."
"So He was young
Who for my sake in silence hung
Upon the Cross with Passion wrung."
"Look, thou art fair."
"He was more fair
Than men, Who deign'd for me to wear
A visage marr'd beyond compare."
"And thou hast riches."
"Daily bread:
All else is His: Who, living, dead,
For me lack'd where to lay His Head."
"And life is sweet."
"It was not so
To Him, Whose Cup did overflow
With mine unutterable woe."
THE DEVIL
"Thou drinkest deep."
"When Christ would sup
He drain'd the dregs from out my cup:
So how should I be lifted up?"
"Thou shalt win Glory."
"In the skies,
Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes
Lest they should look on vanities."
"Thou shalt have Knowledge."
"Helpless dust!
In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust:
Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just."
"And Might."--
"Get thee behind me. Lord,
Who hast redeem'd and not abhorr'd
My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word."
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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