Get These Golden Nets, These Chains, Off Me
Get these golden nets, these chains, off me,
these dreamcatchers, cobwebs, suspension bridges
swaying like sticky spinal cords across the shoreless abyss.
I'm smothering under these pillows of sunset
you keep pushing in my face to soften
the impact of my meteoric heart
trying to induce a new species
out of my own extinction
that might accord me a retroactive purpose
for having lived like a root
in the dirt of their flowering.
More compassion spent on lies
than truths, the sun might come up
in the morning and pour honey
all over its head like bees in the dawn,
but it isn't the same for active volcanoes.
Half the world waiting to receive
what the other half wants to take from them,
via positiva, via negativa, sure
all roads lead to Rome eventually
like most rivers make the sea
but haven't you noticed the mystic path
is cobbled like a calendar with the lunar skulls
of birds and gurus all along the way
who mistook the windows of opportunity
in their third eye, for the real sky up ahead?
I know you believe time heals all things,
and day after day, this implacable pace
can be construed as some kind of advance,
and even the dust on the windowsill
will be redeemed as the pollen of windblown stars,
if someone would only give love a fighting chance.
May it be so, sweet one, but life isn't
the agenda of the blossoms, it's in
the corporate boardrooms of the roots
trying to put a good spin on death
like the propaganda of decay. But even
castigation has lost its joy in life
and the sages that might have saved us
yesterday, are muttering like madmen to themselves
in murderous alleys that end
in cul de sacs of laughing children
without any idea of how absurd
it really all is for them as well as the homeless
they stab in the back in their sleep
for ratting life out like the black plague of their dreams.
Even if I had no legs, I wouldn't want to spend
the twenty or less autumns and springs of life
I have left, if that, walking on water with golden crutches
like the principles of the dilemma I stand on,
I stole like oars from a lifeboat on a shipwreck
that had no more use for hope. I don't
want to cook the books of my cosmic home recipes
and make a diet a messianic way of life
that greets the moneylenders at the door of the temple
and feeds the people the tongues of doves.
I was born into life raw as a new wound.
The same insights that touched your eyes like fireflies
were runically striated across mine
by surgical glaciers without any anaesthetic.
A street gang flashing its smile
like an iconic switchblade of moonlight
trying to leave its mark on life like scar tissue.
I've seen diamonds on the fingers of adamantine saints
turn back into infernal coal bins of ungratified desire
as soon as someone blew the candles out like photo-ops.
I'm wary of good people these days.
I've mythically inflated the illusion of my isolation
up into a rogue planet of habitable solitude
where nothing's ever wrong or right
but endlessly intriguing in an interstitial kind of way
like a fish that swam out of the sea
or a bird that flew out of the sky
to adapt myself to the inchoate spaciousness
of a new medium of transformational events.
I've jumped the synaptic gap
between the earth and the heavens,
like the sound of one hand clapping
at its own performance, the sonic boom
that ruptures the eardrum of the sky
like a clown shot out of a cannon
without a safety net to disqualify the risk.
Whether I'm Zen duelling in the snake pit of the Id,
or studying the logic of the lightning
in the mirrors of prima donnas putting on their make-up,
to let the trees in the open fields know
where it's going to strike their nervous systems next,
I don't cling to things like a bat in the burdock
or a monk enduring the earthly ordeals
of his immaculate detachment like spiritual velcro.
I live in a world without handles, where the atoms
free associate into elements of their own choosing
and base metal can as easily be seen
as the grey dawn of gold, rather than
the long, hard discipline of learning how to be
self-destructive creatively and calling it a sacrifice
to the new moon on the altars of occult learning.
I don't sail my poems down river like
paper-mache swans in a labyrinth of locks
trying to make their way gracefully to the sea
without waiting for a gate to swing open
like a crane on a backwater loading dock.
I shed them like the blossoms of the moon on a lake.
I can't dance to engineered versions of this lunar ballet
that can't walk on water without
feeling vertiginously out of its depths
whenever the road leads through a black hole
like the easiest way around the mountain of the world.
Slavic enough to take the whole burden
of the integrity of pain upon myself
as one of the eventualities of suffering
it's as crucial to live through as it is not to,
I still reserve the right to shake my fist at the sky
like an extra gang railroad lineman
at four every afternoon before I fling a shovel
like an inkwell at the decapitated sun,
all the fruits of my labour you shall know me by
surrealistically Sisyphean as the tracks I'm laying
keep on decoupling my thought trains in the wilderness
as if this were as good a place as any to jump off.
poem by Patrick White
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Related quotes
Walking Straight Through The Cobwebs
Walking straight through the cobwebs of old emotions,
trying to get these straitjackets off me, these
brown starclusters that stick but never seem to shine.
Don't care if I'm in or out of my mind, enough's enough
and comes a time to take a bath in your own grave
to wash all these ghosts off like the smoke of old fires
that returned to their urns like shepherd moons a long time ago.
And I still can't tell if that's a rose petal or an eyelid of blood
under the fingernail of the crescent moon
when she scratched the eyes out of her prophetic skull.
Tired of asking for clarity and being answered in labyrinths.
The more I see the more alone I feel. I've been
disciplined by catastrophe long enough to know
how to build bridges of fire across the mindstream
without extinguishing my reflection like a torch
in my own awareness. Suspension bridges
woven of spinal cords like the suicide nets
around the Peace Tower. Dream catchers, yes,
but who can stop the nightmares from falling to their deaths?
The scars grow old as the tongue leather of leeches.
Time for them to dropp off like deathmasks on a pilgrimage
that just couldn't keep up with the unholy pace of my blood.
Tired of waltzing with bear traps in a plastic marijuana patch.
Weary of arranging flowers so they're not embarassed by the stars
that are wearing the same thing this year,
as they always do in the fall, when it's not their wardrobe,
but our eyes that are renewed by their shining.
Not a crusade in advance of hope, not the retreat
of apostate despair, nor yet a sideways move
to get out of the way of anything I labour
under the delusion for convenience
I was meant to experience without being consulted.
It isn't the stump that has to fear the lightning.
Asleep or awake, it's all the same vision to a sorcerer
casting spells on the moon like oxymoronic dream grammars
that don't come with parachutes or safety nets
to catch the flying fish when they swan dive back into the abyss.
What's a thought? What's an emotion?
Why do the butterflies sting worse than killer bees?
Why do the scalpels of thought only dance with amputees?
poem by Patrick White
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Sticky Sweet
When she calls me up
My voice, it starts to shake
She says come right over
Over right away
Oh, good god, theres a fire
In my pants
Then lightening strikes and she
Laughs that evil laugh
(chorus)
Shes so sticky, so sticky, so sticky
Shes so sticky, so sticky
Shes so stick sweet
Sticky sweet
Sticky sweet
Now when Ive done good
She slaps me on the ass
It takes more than ten seconds
To satisfy this lass
The way she walks, I swear
Should be a crime
Sirens scream everytime
She walks by
(chorus)
Sticky sweet
The way she walks
The way she talks
Stick sweet
Oooh all the time
Sticky sweet
(solo)
(chorus)
Sticky sweet
The way she walks
The way she talks
Sticky sweet
Oooh all the time
Sticky sweet
Sticky sweet (repeat with vocal adlib)
song performed by by Motley Crue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The presents on the gift list yet unread
and there’s the presents
which we don’t talk of
which we secretly wish
for ourselves; wondering
whom we might ask for them;
or whether they were already ours,
bestowed by fairy godmother
there beside the cradle; in which case,
where did we hide them
from ourselves? ..
to wake each morning,
not to depression and the lack
of any sense of personal self-worth..
but to praise and gratitude and joy…
unwrapping the world,
loosing its knotted golden cords,
easing its sticky tape,
folding the paper neatly into memory,
discarding all the packing which defends…
or must we posit a god so just and merciful
that time to him or her or it, is but an experiment
to give us time and freewill, to remember
where we hid those presents from ourselves?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Suspension Without Suspense
My divorce from dependence
Thats when you found me
I was too soft
And we always were in trouble
Odds stacked against us
And troubles what we are
We get so far
And then it just start rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Now that Ive murdered your inspiration
And I forced you off
Do you hate me?
Do you want revenge
I want to call you but I wont
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Oh the pessimistic protection plan
Moderation loving
Ive been hardened by the circumstance
We knew this was coming
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again
Suspension without suspense
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Intentions without intent
But I dont want the love we have to end
song performed by by Gwen Stefani
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unbrakeable chains
These chains around me are all but unbrakable.
They leed my to self distrution.
But still I cant brake these chains.
The chains of depression.
They are wrapped around me tight as tight.
I Hate these chains.
As they pull me down.
These chains bring me to my knees.
Never braking never losening.
These chains are the demon from afar.
These chains have put me in selfdestruct.
The chains pressed the buttons long ago.
These chains will never brake.
Never brake untill I've met my end.
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Suspension Without Suspense
My divorce from dependence
Thats when you found me
I was too soft
And we always were in trouble
Odds stacked against us
And troubles what we are
We get so far
And then it just start rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Now that Ive murdered
Your inspiration
And I forced you off
Do you hate me?
Do you want revenge?
Well I want to call you
But I wont
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Ooh
The pessimistic protection plan
Moderation loving
Ive been hardened by the circumstance
We knew this was coming, this was coming
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Ooh, we get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
Were playing it again, and again
Suspension without suspense
Ooh, intentions without intent
But I dont want the love we have to end
song performed by by No Doubt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Suspension Without A Suspense
My divorce from dependence
That's when you found me
I was still soft
And we always were in trouble
Odds stacked against us
And trouble's what we are
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
We're playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Now that I've murdered your inspiration
And I forced you off
Do you hate me?
Do you want revenge?
I want to call you
But I won't
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
We're playing it again
Suspension without suspense
Oh the pessimistic protection plan
Moderation loving
I've been hardened by the circumstance
We knew this was coming
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
We're playing it again
Suspension without suspense
We get so far
And then it just starts rewinding
And the same old song
We're playing it again and again
Suspension without suspense
Intentions without intent
But I don't want the love we have to end
song performed by by No Doubt from Return Of Saturn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whenever a song (Nafaka)
Whenever a song doesn’t let me breathe
There’s
A punishment of time burning in my body
The fingers looking for a word
Among the cobwebs of empty rooms
I’ll scream from my window
What’s going on
Just what’s going on
There’s death in the neighbourhood
Moving the strength of life
They carry counterpanes and pillows
A big tiding up of their own thoughs
To the graveyard they carry
To bury themselves
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Frances 6
at the end of the day what thoughts shall i keep
what thoughts shall i discard
what to forget what to remember
at the end of the day when we see each other again
dine together on this carved dining table
and steady mahogany chairs
sleep together in bed on thick blankets and soft pillows
then you lower the mosquito nets
we are both feeling buried
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shortie 5: Bondage
i do not ask you to
set me free from the
bondage that i always
revere, these chains that
i love, that i worship,
these golden chains of
my dreams, that i still
wish may come true.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Babble
Nothing ever changes
Nothing ever moves
I swim around in circles
In the same old lifeless room
And talk about the mirror man
The whispers in my ear again
The hot and sticky pillow man
Is smothering my face again
Nothing ever changes
Nothing ever moves
And i run around hysterical
In dead persistent gloom
And babble out in simile
Like dog-head-monkey-music me
Shut up shut up shut up shut up
Shut up!!!
And let me breathe...
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Abyss
To test the 'Stare into the Abyss' bit,
Toroweap Point is a perfect place-
Hang your legs over a volcanic 3,000-foot drop,
And stare anywhere you like.
If you are firm in your commitments,
The Abyss will free you;
If you have low imagination,
The Abyss will drive you away;
If you are a great philosopher, poet, scientist, or musician,
The Abyss will nestle in your heart;
If you have drunk far too much wine,
You will become one with the Abyss.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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At The End Of The Day (2)
at the end of the day what thoughts shall i keep
what thoughts shall i discard
what to forget what to remember
at the end of the day when we see each other again
dine together on this carved dining table
and sit on these steady mahogany chairs
finally we sleep together in bed covered by thick blankets and soft pillows
then you lower the mosquito nets
do we not feel both being buried?
i honestly ask if you are still alive with me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Love In Chains
I see you walkin down the street
Youre turnin into paradise
The boys are crawlin at your feet
Burn them and turn them to ice
No one gets a piece of your heart
Its over cause you wont let it start
You keep your love in chains, love in chains
And only fear remains and keeps your love in chains
But isnt it time (enough), isnt it time (enough)
Oh yeah
They know you feel just like a queen
Baby, are you havin life
But all the things theyd never seen
Stab at your heart like a knife
No one knows the way that you love
Its over when its never begun
You keep your love in chains, love in chains
And only fear remains and keeps your love in chains
But isnt it time (enough), oh, isnt it time (enough)
Oh yeah
But isnt it time (enough), oh isnt it time (enough)
You keep your love in chains, love in chains
And only fear remains and keeps your love in chains
But isnt it time (enough), oh isnt it time (enough)
Love in chains, love in chains
Love in chains, love in chains
Love in chains, love in chains
Love in chains, love in chains
Love in chains
song performed by by Kiss
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Katrina: The Shrimpers Tried Their Best
Twilight sprinkles mist over October waves...
Ribbing docks, straining through nets...
Into sunset boats waiting for tides...
Wishes of months vanishing in weeks...
When brown water seethes, barren
As ash...no one knows, as ropes loosen
Again...
The night harvest will be dreams in waking
Sunrises...nets empty, dripping water...
Bridges open, shut, open once more...
It is only October. Cold. Seagulls keep
Boats company by sunset again...
Flying, sweeping, well fed...
On their own, soaring down on unwary
Fish, too-slow crabs...empty shadows
Shred into webs of too-soon
Family Holidays...yet,
Children always laugh, after little fingers
And eyes forget the presents
Still in stores.
poem by Elysabeth Faslund
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Wacky Weed
Your fiction has a sickness,
And it is in deluxe.
Trimmed with a mouth piece minted,
Sweetened to touch.
Bong bong wicky sticky bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
You fed on that wacky weed.
You fed on the weed.
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong bong.
There is no truth you mention,
While you do that stuff.
Your motives are quite hidden,
And you munch too much.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong bong.
Your fiction has a sickness,
And it is in deluxe.
Trimmed with a mouth piece minted,
Sweetened to touch.
Bong bong wicky sticky bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong bong.
Wicky sticky bong bong.
Wick wicky sticky bong.
Wicky sticky bong bong.
Wick wicky sticky bong.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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And The Poems Sit There
And the poems sit there on the tracks,
on the shadows of serpentine ladders,
without engines, though moving, without diesels
to drive them, chain-letters to the world,
to a moment with nothing else to do,
to lonely abuses huddled by the flowering lamp
like fairies in boxes of shy plaster,
to broken windows who rage at the stars
for not accepting their jagged black holes,
to lovers who spend too long in the shower
pruning their gardens,
every ray of light in place
as they go out to pale their shining in the sun,
and the poppy girls with spider tongues
offering little green crowns to the bees, sit there
without moving, though moving,
pulling their hearts on long lifelines out of the void
that fuels their furnaces with crows,
that rescues drowned sailors from the rose of the sea,
that fangs the old lions with light
to pluck the one-stringed jugulars of radiant gazelles.
Two cobras dancing, the hold of our hands,
and the swans revealing their lizard roots,
and the rain a small violet in the rusty passions of the coffee-can
I don’t want to trade blood with the sour wine of the snails,
I’ve always had my own skull to drink from, and the water
of the dirty windows weeping in the morning,
and there are faces I can lap like mirrors for a taste of stars,
and bodies that unfold like single futons
patched with small maps of nocturnal sugar
that glow like prophetic ores from somewhere deeper in the mine.
Every morning I take my eyes out like contacts
and rinse them in the grave, wash off the residue
of yesterday’s visions, the smog and the dew and the soot,
the stagnant waters that cling to them like skies and skin
and the little rivers of blood that show you
an aerial perspective of the lightning, fireflies, stars, dreams
and the cinders of oil drum fires under all-night bridges
and the black commas of what’s left
of the butterflies in midnight webs. And there are cocoons of birth,
of transformations with wet wings emerging among the water hyacinths
and then there are the cocoons that hang like pendants
from the trophy lines of fat arachnids,
webs dripping under the weight of their hourglass stones
like torn suspension bridges and swaying spinal cords.
And it makes me so sad to see a door burn, a helical stairwell
straighten itself out to belong to a fire-truck,
and there are other things, sadder things,
ants with pruned antennae, dreams who think like used stamps,
the rainbow fingers of painted children
washed off under a cold tap,
and the breast of a pigeon undone like a pillow by a hawk,
the sad, abandoned look of heroic fire-hydrants
ready for action, that sigh like empty watering cans
as they pour their newly-enameled transplanted hearts out all over the street
like a wedding rehearsal that stood in for the bride
who’s burning in the walls of the groom like a flower of fire
in the lapel of a black tuxedo; so sad, so indefensibly stricken by grief
to know the paint rags are a better likeness of their sitters
than a face is, that there are tiny screams in the grass for mercy
that are only answered by a praying mantis,
and agonies of crushed centipedes that die like eyebrows
and the hides of mangy crosswalks thrown down on the street
like zebras; so unbearably sad in an avalanche of tortoise shells
excavated for their meat like raped bells with their tongues cut out,
my mouth turns into a wound,
and every word’s a galaxy of salt.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Man In Chains
Ive only myself to blame,
Now that Im tangled up in chains,
So you say, ooh, so you say
Caught in this human cage,
Trapped, and Im fired up with rage
And somebodys got to pay
I can never talk about it,
I can never say what I want to say
So Ill take your tip and Ill bite my lip
And hope it goes away
You say Im a man of straw
Well, baby, Im gonna break your law
Then its war, ooh, yes its war
Love on a thin white line,
Love that was just a waste of time,
Oh, not anymore
I can feel it coming at me,
I can feel it coming like the wind
But, Im locked away and Im bound to stay,
So no one can get in
Im a man in chains, Im a man in chains
Oh, Im a man in chains, Im a man in chains
I only pray that before I die,
Just like a phoenix I will rise and fly
Tell me whos to blame,
Oh, Im a man, now Im a man in chains
There must be a reason why
Youre pulling the wool down on my eyes
Its a lie, its a lie
Dragging this ball and chain,
Oh, how long can I take this pain?
But somebody has to try, yeah
Oh, I can feel the pressure on me,
I can feel it taking me from the start
Sticks and stones will smash my bones,
But never break my heart
Im a man in chains, Im a man in chains
Oh, Im a man in chains, Im a man in chains
I only pray that before I die,
Just like a phoenix I will rise and fly
Tell me whos to blame,
Oh, Im a man, now Im a man in chains
I can never talk about it,
Oh, I can never say what I want to say
So Ill take your tip and Ill bite my lip
And hope it goes away
Im a man in chains, Im a man in chains
Oh, Im a man in chains, Im a man in chains
I only pray that before I die,
Just like a phoenix I will rise and fly
Tell me whos to blame,
Oh, Im a man, now Im a man in chains
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Corpse
Hey, see you soon
Sail through your room
I'll meet you there
Hey, be my friend
Stay 'til the end
Don't walk away
Hey, hey, hey, hey...
Hey, take 'em off
Don't talk that way
Don't feel my lover say
Hey, hey, hey...
Chains move that thing
Chains we can see
My chains way too long
Chains in this
Chains move that thing
Chains we could see
Chains are way too long
And i hear my song
Hear my song
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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