The snow fell white on Russia’s lonely plain,
And hid the roads where weary soldiers lay;
The fields were still, the skies were cold with pain,
And death walked softly with the close of day.

The Russian mother mourned her fallen son,
The Frenchman dreamed of home beyond the snow;
The war was lost, the long retreat begun,
And none could tell how far they had to go.

Napoleon rode beneath the fading light,
His proud heart heavy with the dead behind;
The man who once had conquered in his might
Was now a lonely king before the wind.

And snow fell softly over one and all,
The great, the brave, the nameless, and the small.

Hark! Listen, my tale,
Of mystery it quaintly abounds.
I trode once the jungle lane,
Mind heavy with dejection and pain.
Dusk rushed quick,
All was dim.
Walked I quick with intent and zeal,
For the woods conceal unique fears.
There I saw a white hue,
White as milk, pure as dew.
Reached I near the tree,
A little lamblet there played carefree.
Who was its master? I wondered as I saw and gushed.
I said she, and came back with water.
The little one jumped in her lap,
My mind leapt with joy abound.
Of night it was now.
She said, “Why don't you rest in my cottage for the night?”
Follow I did the gentle company.
Rested and refreshed, I woke at dawn,
Kissed the dumpling goodbye.

Sun gilds wheat fields gold
Her motherly hands gather the grain
Warm bread fills the dusk

I am not selling peacocks
I compliment your carrot sir
I still haggle a bit?

>>25612299
A poet's tongue for hire

Dear ex gf
I text you hat in hand
Horny a f

Midday allows none to know shadow most yet
Dark in these bodies spun still ever rests.
For sun skips along skin but so too sets
Before it has time to find the true breast.
Tender light, be still! Rest over their head!
May you two slowly soften as spouses
So that mere skin may melt into pure gold.
And your ray rest in their holy of hearts
So may ever run their ray of dark.

Hi Suzie, no person is knowable.
I see you in good shape
But in a shape only.
The things you say, I've heard them.
I've said them to myself
many times, waiting for the bus.

violent spirit
heart of war
filthy fire
on bloodied gore

its bitter poison
is empty stored
its soul of anguish
left sorrow torn

now a gnash of teeth
who flares its blades
from this ghastly sheath
of wounds you made


Know there is a chasm filled with torment
where the regret never ends
an all black fire that sets the darkness alight
it will be your eternal prison of carrion and worms

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>>25614688 >>25614842

Poem name: Hylics in the eightfold book of moons

1: Gibbous prism

HDMI ossuary,
Poly-domestic abuse domicile,
It’s okay to be a fish
Spit roasted.
In this cyclone I’m alone
Electromagnetic spinbar,
Mechanical mandible manufactured made to order,
Made to order.

The sickle of khonsu barely,
Whether the system you green ombrophile,
The leftovers on the dish
Composted.
In this silo I was thrown
Exobiologic spinar,
Lamentable laminate ledger please just leave a quarter,
Leave a quarter.

Galactic light made with dairy,
Sorry we couldn’t locate your profile,
Everything I could have wish
I posted.
In this cycle I am shown
Derma-ontologic skinscar,
Technology-totalized tenements what marks the border,
Marks the border.

O.L.E.D mortuary,
Digital fulcrum per-gram crocodile,
In the hadal zones to swish
Wave coasted.
In this I know I’m a stone
Enantiomorphic in tar,
Identity-instrument-item conjugate and hoarder,
Gate and hoarder.

2: eddy-cool plenilune

And yeah it’s not a question;
Whatever you have learned;
And never would I mention;
Unmentionables you have worn,
So should I say I’m torn up?
Grogging for your grogware,
Burning my silica to crystal quartz!
But that’s electric in a circuit,
Light splitting for a gear,
Fine, I will tell you your purpose,
You’re glycine for my polymers,
Riding around you’re my asbestos,
The little strands coiled in reels.


Oh how texturized, lost inside my house,
Corrosion keeps expanding the edifice,
Door by door by door,
Appareled achromatic,
Hope it exhausts the under monochrome!
Baby throw cobalt in your casing home,
Pupigerous this thermal paste in peristalsis,
It’s loading loading loading stalled console commands,
A Dual layered dilemma to the retina;
Red ring of death blue screen of death and yellow light of death,
Another fatal era,
It cost my sense.

I put right on the VR!
And see a world of rebar!
and take it off to disillusionment,
This lurid darkness really cramps my style!
Terminal velocity terminal atrocity terminal what’s on the screen?
My nematodes in calamitic distributions,
Polarized topology in the isotropic medium,
Stop showing me all of your isotopes!
I’ve whole a mind to give you a piece.
Re-pproach without that ambulant gait, son!
Or any blazon!
Frozen in liquid,
Suspended in motion.


Cont

>>25614683


3: swollen hollow


The xylem are the hilum, nothing more.
The reservoir the geode, nothing else.
blood vessels, just umbilical cord growths.
And there never was a thing called mother,
And I will never know herbariums,
Because acanthuses carved in a stone
Can never yield a butterfly nectar.
Adorning capillaries never flush.
Dispersed dirt balled up made into a mound,
No doubt there is the littlest wetness,
By which stretching and designs are allowed.
Each speck tumbles the rest without potter,
I talk to you talking about talking,
Talking about me talking about you,
My talking swallows your talking and you
Swallow my talking, your talk talking too.
Each jar containing grog to bake anew
A new jar baked containing grogging too.
My adytum’s the atrium of clay,
My adytum’s the atrium of flesh,
And, will, you, let, me, lay, here, all, alone?
And, I, am, a, one, just as you are, one,
But nothing else, that is the burning flame.
To separate me from all of your moisture,
And turn to ash each leaf and each flower,
And pressed upon by towering fire,
It too, becomes new clay and grog for jars.
The liquid of currency in currents,
Greasing the gears making the world go round.
These hands are nothing but a solenoid.
The dollars and accounts my livelihood,
Extracting life to make the means of life.
Separate-flame with liquid of dollars,
Condensing and fuming just like bubbles.
The flame-blown currents separate to steam,
Steams rise in the expanse void world,
Condensed by the pressure of emptiness
It forms the clay bubble that is my world.
Self mechanized and fine tuned by a hand,
That if to touch the solenoid explodes
Bursting the bubble that is my whole world.
Inside of the film bubble light, ours
The inside light of the bubble film, ours
The bubble of the light inside, ours
A clay-flesh-bubble full of living breath.

Cont

>>25614688
4: counting and recounting still short a quarter of a dollar


While my eyes die I try by life like mine,
While my, eyes die, I try, by life, like mine,
While, my eyes, die I try, by life like mine,
While my eyes, die I try, by life like, mine
While my, eyes die, i, try by, life like mine,
While my eyes die, I try by, life like, mine,
While, my eyes die, I try, by, life like mine
While, my, eyes, die, I, try, by, life, like, mine,
While my eyes die I try by life like mine.

In slow windblows primrose,
in slow, wind blows, primrose,
in, slow wind, blows primrose,
in slow, wind blows prim
Rose in slow wind, blows prim
Rose in slow, wind blows, prim
Rose in slow wind blows primrose,
In, slow, wind, blows, prim, rose,
In slow windblows primrose.


Ichabod iccha-baudh ick a bawd,
Ichabod, iccha-baudh, Ick a bawd,
Ichabod, ick a bawd, iccha-baudh,
Iccha-baudh, Ichabod, ick a bawd,
Iccha-baudh, ick a bawd, ichabod,
Ick a bawd, ichabod, iccha-baudh,
Ick a bawd, iccha-baudh, ichabaud,
Ich, a, bod, icch, a, baudh, Ick, a, bawd,
Ichabod iccha-baudh ick a bawd.

While in ichabod,
My rose baudh
In a slow
Wind, eyes; a
Bawd, blows like
Life in iccha,
Ich; prim by
Life in ick,
In ichabod die.


Cont

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>>25614694

>>25614689
Part 5: the waning horns of light encircle dissipation


“Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,
Whence camest to dazzle our eyes?
With thy bosom bespangled and banded
With the hues of the seas and the skies;”


But there is night for creatures that are toys,
No longer played with placed in a toybox,
Despite the painted figures painted joys,
What can they really do when the door locks?


Do you remember it when on your walks?
Not the ones rushing where the walkings to,
But the ones walked leaving you holes in socks,
Shoes, even your feet rusted away through.


When there’s nothing to do but just to do,
But you still move, life moves through you too, though
There’s nothing but rest tiring anew,
With so much energy, it goes so slow.

It’s almost like you see a slash of glow,
Maybe the box will open up again,
Luckily there is something that I know,
It’s good to think of every now and then;

Cont

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>>25614696

>>25614691
“You’re sanguine, very sanguine, a good sign
You have discovered an invisible power
That runs along your wires around the world
Called electricity-the word is much”

Lucky you! There’s something you just can’t see!
It’s destined! You’re chosen for greater things!
Who knows what path you’ll take or who you’ll be!
Here! Take this, put it to your ear, It rings!


memory! When you use it the world sings!
But something just doesn’t connect, just yet,
Despite the mirror of your summonings,
blank screen reflecting, what did you forget?


Why in my wandering do I regret?
Beyond my level to know what’s above,
With no experience, a silhouette,
The face and form I have no vision of.

There is no alternative path of love,
Only the path of war has a reward,
I numb my touch by putting on a glove,
Steelier than the cutting of a sword.


now I can snap, my fingers snap toward,
Each surface feels like nothing but my hand,
So I will press and they will be restored,
Clay broken back to dust in the dark land.

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>>25614699

>>25614694
“If you live up on the great white screen,
you cannot de-demonize
your dirty trouser pockets,
the snakes remain, the snakes remain and petrify”


Without jagging-sensation meat is meat,
There are three wisdoms on my sofa chair,
Growing in clumps they fold into a sheet,
With my machine, my brain, what death is there?

Flattened I live and die always aware,
Death for the grog, brain for the flame, machine
The dissipating moisture in the air,
Without sensation the three are not seen,


Being divided I know what they mean,
I press, the three images disappear:
I, I-reflect, and I within the screen,
We-three-one gazing, nothing else is here.

Perception of a square trapping a sphere,
It will not fall apart due to my strength,
I am the definition of each tier,
And everywhere is my extending length.

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>>25614703

>>25614696
“task) never hold one in your hand. The warm
touch of human skin melts them to water. (As
the man said, one's name cannot be written
there.) Engrave an image on each tumbling”

I-magisterium, the solenoid,
The face, the face, the interface is such;
Skyscraper-triple-diadem destroyed,
Melting to basic elements at touch.

With insurmountable power I clutch,
Disfigured this figure is mine to stretch,
It bends to every bend however-much,
Pressing the grog-flesh I begin to etch;

My finger is the pen by which I sketch,
No, do not die, you are the life I breathe,
Accept the bowel-eucharist I retch,
By emesis be covered in my sheath.


By words, composite-nothing underneath,
By words, the palimpsest of thought and tongue,
By words, which grind the world between the teeth,
By words, of which I am but one among.


Cont

My dick's gettin' bigger
I'm pullin' on the trigger
When I step onto the stage
I don't wear beige
I'm straight flexin' dicks
Strong ass dicks
Tight ass tricks
Big ass dicks
Come here lil momma
Show me yo' nuts
And let's stab guts
Cos I'm da bes
And you da bitch

>>25614699
6: the Moon is gone but invisible sunlight shimmers in space.

“1. Die Sprache des Traumes

in the state of delirium before falling asleep, man speaks another language. Objects and qualities become persons and vice versa, in that language, ideas follow a foreign grammar,

a more rapid and dense grammar than the waking world, with its repository of hieroglyphs the course of hours pass in a moment, a single sentence may contain the significance of a book.

We cannot deny this language of abbreviations and hieroglyphs is better suited to the spiritual apprehension, being more expressive and comprehensive, seemingly unbound by linear extension in time.

The hypnagogic thought is our first language, no doubt we are adopters of the daytime tongues, the mind at sleep or delirium, that is, at liberty, rushes to its native idiom.

But as a transplanted child soon forgets his native tongue, so also do we, learning our mother tongue forget our father tongue.

Just as the words of Orpheus control the external natural world, how much more does the inner language posses the internal nature?


life is a series of events arranged by natural laws, these are the same dictums which order dreams; that is: God’s will within and outside us, or whatever else we wish to call that significant thing, speaks the same language as our conscious in dreams. this language by nocturnal combination fuses tomorrow to yesterday, uncountable years to moments of the past, to those who understand, foretelling the truth.


remarkably this language is the same language in each person, differing only in dialect. If I met a foreign stranger in my dreams, they would understand my words, and I theirs. our shared language’s wealth of words and registers would far surpass our daytime tongues.


in a language as rich as the hypnagogic, there are many words for the same object, just as one chooses while awake one expression over another, this or that favourite construction, so also in the father tongue.

the Hylic therefore speaks his low dialect, those superior, the higher.


“The book” of each person then, that is, each dreamers dream, when compared, agree despite the peculiarities of syntax and content.
Therefore the dreams of many can be studied to decipher one’s own “script”

Ones aptitude in letters corresponds to the degree of conscious apprehension, the dreamer is made perfect by depth of dreaming, and the one awake, by degree of wakefulness. Therefore the light slumberer mutters in two worlds.


In the interim of day-conscious and night-conscious one finds the two tongues mingle in an incoherence.

Cont

>>25614703
Imagine if you will the drifting mutterer was a puppet or child’s toy, of which the dream-conscious plays with, in ventriloquism affecting the important tones fit to the design of the toy; though of unknown minutia, still mocking in imitation.

in the finer dream states, the hieroglyphs multiply in diversity, becoming harder to understand.

A prophetic dream comes tending with solace a past that’s yet to arrive, or in a room full of blood, we meet an acquaintance we believe in good health, who tells us, pale faced “ today is my birthday” , then waking, you find in the same room that man has died.

In finer perfections of dream, the father tongue’s grammar rejects the singular thought or feeling or meaning; due to a supreme economy each image may contain the symbolic equivalent of the entire man.


Let us clarify that there is a kinship between the waking tongue and dreaming tongue in the usage of poetical figures, likewise the conceits of one’s words derive from the constitution of the man, thus in the common poet and common dreamer: A path that goes through thorns or steeply over mountains signifies in dreams and common poetic expression, unpleasantness and obstacles; a path over smooth ice expresses an awkward, dangerous situation; darkness signifies both sadness and melancholy; to receive a ring: to be betrothed. Thus flowers may signify cheerfulness, a dried-up brook, want, being shut up in a fortress, socially trapped; the doctor’s visit is illness, to see someone travel away or go over water: to part with them for the extent of life.

The father tongue also contains its complex metaphysical conceits, thus by some image one ascertains the diametric meaning; to which it may use cheerful images for sad events, and conversely sad images for cheerful ones. Seemingly our griefs stimulate the comical strain whereas our joys illicit a graveness. a sign most likely of an inherent opposition in character between the two languages.


Cont

>>25614706
Thus weeping sorrows signifies sensual joy; whereas laughing, dancing and play indicate tragedy. by comedies, playing cards, merry music (especially of strings), nothing but quarrels and adversity, and only singing is said to prophesy good. In the same way graves or funeral processions often signify a wedding, conversely to see someone married often signifies death.

No less, in the higher registers of dream, being born means the near death of the sick, thus the birthday is the day of death.

Similar values are often inverted. So excrement in dreams signifies money; eating earth: to become rich; money is also signified in dreams by pocks, spots on the body and other unpleasants; indeed, in the language of dream great riches are represented under the image of hellfire, or possession by the Devil.

drunkenness signifies outward good fortune.

In another, related respect, the father tongue tends to remind us of the inverse necessities of happiness; career advancement marked by a briar; the gaining of dignities; one’s own funeral; the cross, the symbol of suffering and disgrace, signifies triumph over enemies, and esteem; to see lilies blooming, mockery and contempt before the world.
The meaning of dream-hieroglyphs has been searched out principally in dreams that foretell.

Cont

>>25614707
The father tongue, however, does not exercise that prophetic gift of combination in all dreams, nor even most, just as in waking; one speaks just as much of the current going on’s or past nostalgia as they do future prospects.

Dream-speech often, like a great part of our conversations in waking, is formless chatter, and sometimes the night-conscious supplies in dream the superfluous small talk that was lacked in waking. conversely, mighty thoughts and meanings appear in dreams to those hylics who seem to lack the organ for it in waking, expressing in dreams with power and substance.

The same hieratic script of prophecy is used for the non-prophetic as well, A great part of dreams is reproducing the past, or a free play of inclinations and appetites in a world of peculiar images and hieroglyphic signs;
it is probable that there is a still deeper degree of the dream state, of which only seldom a dim recollection abides in us on waking; separated from the region of waking by the profound gulf between the ordinary thought and the echelons of genius, doubly so as it must also traverse down the mountain peaks of dream to the low plains of dreams to touch the waking conscious. Those deeper dreams, however, leave behind in waking a certain mood and a continuity of conscious. Thus one may sleep trying to solve a scientific problem, make headway in sleep and waking solve the problem with the dreamers substantial contribution. (of which several examples are well enough known.) As the whole world of dreams in general plays an important part in history and the formation and development of our spirit, so also the higher degrees of dream exert proportional influence over man collectively.”


Cont

>>25614708
Part 7: Grave in wax

Meat dissolving to ooze, ooze hardens to lime sediments,
sediments in carbonic acid release calcium deposits,
Bifurcating to new stones and mineral-water suspensions,
The water’s absorbed by clay-meat creatures needing flesh and bone,
Bones structure an edifice for meat to gather in assemblages,
the assemblages conjoining form bodies to hold plasticly,
Meat-warm plastic shapes cold plastic building tenements of old stones,
Cold bones melted to hold meat, stone-bones of machine light;
Clay-meat life’s electrical current oozing light-bodied life,
Each machine expanding the accretions with the sediments of bone-light,
Bone-light forms edifices of flesh, meat, bone and water in light,
Life machine of life by the machine life makes light-life,
Light-life debifurcates the stones and meat in water-light,
Shaping new edifices of melted light in electrical bodies,
Electric-digital light bodies give light-life shaping digits,
Shaping light into my image, the digits shaping myself.

>>25614710
Part 8: rolling quarter
Digital gestures snapping,
Signals determining mapping,
Graphing procedurally
Regionally biometrical-
Electrical biomes,
Tiles,
In asymmetrical geometry,
Probably,

Probably,
In datasets and data systems,
ALS-LLM conditions,
Syntactical error messages,
API Always looking at my mirror,
Failure refactoring
And on some unconscious level tracking,
Rebuilding overwriting,

Rebuilding overwriting,
Reactive lighting,
detailed LIDAR cloud lining,
Segments of differentiating planes,
Granular to grains,
Grey checkerboard grids
Generated,
Regenerated in hologram no man’s land,

Regenerated in hologram no man’s land,
Will While True: Will Loop,
Duplicates deleted
And repeated,
Big bucks for you!
Whatever will we do?
The excrescent homunculus gland!
Appareled in platinum-feeling,

Appareled in platinum-feeling,
Life: the concave delusion!
Protrusions on protrusions,
Universal serial,
Thermal-ethereal vacuum,
Skeletal lament the chemical
And tomorrow no elemental
centrifuge spheroid,

centrifuge spheroid,
No fault
Or vault
Still living arthropleura in your salt diapir,
Neuromyceliac planning,
Thrum the jelly
Domiciles!
Render sterilized rays,

Render sterilized rays,
crystal-seasons,
Pardon the lard delicately corroding,
Rolling 90 degrees,
Hydrate dirt rocks!
minus the spirit is fatal,
Insect-extract,
Internal-exoskeleton,

Internal-exoskeleton,
Memory-crucible,
Endure the theory,
Promised flesh-clay-bubble moon!
Augural-ontologic tv screen;
Legend of melting,
Thus your story begins.
HDMI ossuary,

are you guys writing these yourselves? they're neat.

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>>25614885

>>25614683
stinky post modern hoo ha. get good and learn meter chump

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>>25612299
’Twas in the month of December, and in the year 1883,
That a monster whale came to Dundee,
Resolved for a few days to sport and play,
And devour the small fishes in the silvery Tay.

So the monster whale did sport and play
Among the innocent little fishes in the beautiful Tay,
Until he was seen by some men one day,
And they resolved to catch him without delay.

When it came to be known a whale was seen in the Tay,
Some men began to talk and to say,
We must try and catch this monster of a whale,
So come on, brave boys, and never say fail.

Then the people together in crowds did run,
Resolved to capture the whale and to have some fun!
So small boats were launched on the silvery Tay,
While the monster of the deep did sport and play.

Oh! it was a most fearful and beautiful sight,
To see it lashing the water with its tail all its might,
And making the water ascend like a shower of hail,
With one lash of its ugly and mighty tail.

Then the water did descend on the men in the boats,
Which wet their trousers and also their coats;
But it only made them the more determined to catch the whale,
But the whale shook at them his tail.

Then the whale began to puff and to blow,
While the men and the boats after him did go,
Armed well with harpoons for the fray,
Which they fired at him without dismay.

And they laughed and grinned just like wild baboons,
While they fired at him their sharp harpoons:
But when struck with the harpoons he dived below,
Which filled his pursuers’ hearts with woe:

Because they guessed they had lost a prize,
Which caused the tears to well up in their eyes;
And in that their anticipations were only right,
Because he sped on to Stonehaven with all his might:

And was first seen by the crew of a Gourdon fishing boat,
Which they thought was a big coble upturned afloat;
But when they drew near they saw it was a whale,
So they resolved to tow it ashore without fail.

So they got a rope from each boat tied round his tail,
And landed their burden at Stonehaven without fail;
And when the people saw it their voices they did raise,
Declaring that the brave fishermen deserved great praise.

And my opinion is that God sent the whale in time of need,
No matter what other people may think or what is their creed;
I know fishermen in general are often very poor,
And God in His goodness sent it to drive poverty from their door.

So Mr John Wood has bought it for two hundred and twenty-six pound,
And has brought it to Dundee all safe and all sound;
Which measures 40 feet in length from the snout to the tail,
So I advise the people far and near to see it without fail.

Then hurrah! for the mighty monster whale,
Which has got 17 feet 4 inches from tip to tip of a tail!
Which can be seen for a sixpence or a shilling,
That is to say, if the people all are willing.

>>25612299
>>25612513
>>25612673

these are LLM generated

>>25614842
Not actually. Every stanza in section one has stanzaic rhythm so every line in stanza 1 has the same rhythm as stanza 2 as line 1 in stanza 3, etc, also rhymes.

Third section is entirety in iambic pentameter blank verse just using allowable restoration era subs, fourth section is a permutation poem, fifth section is rhymed quatrains,


The seventh section is actually in quantitative sotadean meter but in order to do it I used a form of quantitative meter I invented, where short English vowels = short syllables, long English vowels= long syllables, and diphthongs = long. I used this because linguistics identify these as genuinely having more morae weight meaning we can genuinely use them to imitate the classical meter. As far as I know it’s the only attempt at sotadeans in English.


The ideal was to at first glance seem like nonsense free verse mush, but that through longer analysis one sees it’s not simply a Chomsky-esque autonomy of syntax masturbation, but rather all logical and beyond that formal. This is to imitate the hypnagogia aesthetic of the game hylics.

>>25614885
I appreciate your Bachian approach to verse however I will say section 4 is exactly the kind of thing I hate to read the most. So maybe congrats.

something withers
swings this way
sways that way
spinning then spun
writhing (,) still

There's a kinda large indie press in my city that is looking for submissions for their next anthology and its suppeeerrrr high intelektshual conceptual interpretations of naturalistic mediums or some bs worded exactly like that. This is my submission. I made it in 5 minutes and I think I'll make it. I read their other anthologies and it's all exactly what I was expecting will make some bs minalistic art piece to go with it

>>25614914
It’s a risk I knew and expected honestly but it fits the spot in the lunar cycle idea I had too much, when actually pronounced it does give you that type of delirious mental feeling that being near sleep and getting not-quite-right thoughts gives.

>>25614976
It feels like homework.

>>25614712
>>25614710
Feel free to be honest because I like your style and write similarly but do you look up meanings frequently for precision or are you pretty loose and free-associative? This is my number one struggle whenever I try to write something and after all this time I still don’t know if I’m endlessly biting more than I can chew.

>>25614987
Hahaahaha
>>25615001
I try to chew on words, I’ll go through authors and highlight whenever I encounter a rare word, then study its etymology and usages by other writers, play around with it, but always put it in my notes to tinker with later. Even in that above poem it’s only attempting to look loose;

HDMI ossuary = High-Definition Multimedia Interface + bone box/skelton repository.

It’s the body, the body is the container of the bones which serves as an interface to experience.

But precision doesn’t have to be exactly pure semantical depth, it can be textural and trying to bring some shades out of a context. Example here’s a more normal poem I wrote recently, it’s a cowleyan Pindaric, so consistent rhythm, varying line lengths, rhymes but ending and beginning whenever you want. I use the word “ligneous” to churn out sexual connotations but also stay in that Classicizing decadent biome.


Cont

>>25615015
Poem name: 19th-20th century eroto-fantastical pastels of paganism


Recall the life once igneous,
Whence amber shone from every stone,
The dappled tone of bloodfull roan,
Raging with passions ligneous;
Seeing the mare trot cygneous,
Your lust as his,
Is such as this;
The subtil-muscled neck you’d kiss,
In moon-cool groves of long ago;
Chasing with laughs between the trees,
Each time you grab she flees for shes,
More than a human, but less so;
The woodland nymph clothed with the boughs,
Resplendent in the evening shade,
Did you not see Diana bathe?
With skin of marble-mirrored rose,
Even if your eyes close,
The fragrance blows,
Of incense lifting prayer,
To virgin air,
While amorous spice burns the nose.
In her repose of open eyes,
Your fancy multiplies,
You are the wise asclepius,
The twisting serpent’s hiss;
Her hushèd sighs;
Divine the rising sign ophiuchus,
In fruitful handfuls of the thighs
Resting on velvet leaves,
Sap drips along the twisting vine,
Soon both receives
From bursting grapes a sultry wine.
But look again and ask “was mine
The touch of skin pure crystalline,
Whose lips were lips of amaranthine flush,
Whose almond eyes were eyes of kine,
Or was it just the drawn mascara line
Applying after an artisan’s brush
A look of life, a twinkle of the eye,
A winking statue in a pagan shrine,
Covered in moss and fruit-turnt-mush,
An ornamental deity of wood,
Was it not good?”
Even if it was, was it truth?
The shadow of the rood
Hiding a withered root?
Or was this love but lust,
Of a lust that caresses
The matted tresses
Of satyresses,
Clutching the flank to find but dust;
Women are skeletons in satin dresses,
The river banks run red with rust,
And all which earth possesses,
Is not enough.
Gloam is but parting day,
It has no ray,
The old world serpent’s dull under the slough,
The sepulcher gives beauty to decay,
And age; unearned dignity.
But we return to the favored abominations,
What good are open eyes bowed in prostrations?
Whence comet blazes, common praises rile the nations;
We are a people worshipping malignity.

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>>25615845

>>25614885
Yea I see that. Doesn't stop it from being an incomprehensible mess. You can make up something that "technically" has meter and "technically" rhymes, but it has no cadence. no brevity. also no sense. "With rhyme and sense". All this shit has surpassed complexity admired by idiots, its just insipid post modern word salad.
Why not just spend the time working on one well rounded work instead of a bunch of random dissonant crap clumped together? would it even matter if they were all seperate?

all written in this month, forget the typos and errors.


Such a thing mind is,
i would say i hadn't any,
if not for these troublesome thoughts,
that have come from nowhere,
bearing winter garments,
and return back to nothing,
and everything else.
......
I await for nothing,
And the ticks of my clock pass through me without any virtue,
I lay my head down to come upon no rest,
I stand and stare into the sky: it is bright and dull,
I scrath my head to find something,
And open my window to some soft sound,
And find him smiling,
And I smile, and smile, and smile.
......
Fret only for a little while more,
walk the paths only once again,
take in once again the contrast done-in by the empty sky,
humour once again the ironies running through and around us,
dream again the what-ifs,
open your eyes once again to what you don't know,
once again mourn your mother: she'll live on againist any death.
And at last, and only once, your heart will stop gazing through your chest.
........
Dreams of solitute are futile sheltering ruins,
longing falls short while martching nowhere,
there: bustle and chaos,
here: mirrors endlessly replicating muddy shades of dull souls.

Mine right eye speaketh contempt, mine left eye loathing

>>25615599

>. Doesn't stop it from being an incomprehensible mess.

I would usually agree, but in the task of ekphrasis if you’ve played the game, that sorta texture was necessary, and it’s simply not incomprehensible, it plays with appearing like the sort of contemporary mess but every line if sat with can be explained within the poem itself.


>You can make up something that "technically" has meter and "technically" rhymes,

But it’s not technically, it just is, stanzaic level meter was common among the ancient Greeks, I did nothing more modern than alcaeus inventing a stanzaic meter where every line differs, and within my stanzas I also regular the punctuation distribution identically, even at points controlling the length of singular words, alliteration distribution on the seventh line, etc. and there is cadences within the stanza itself repeated across the lines on the first section. My rhyme scheme is no more modern than the troubadour Rimas Dissolutas of which it is a specimen.


>but it has no cadence.

Every part has its own cadence selected to continue the metaphor of the moon as producer of abstract hypnagogia aesthetic, which goes along with the games phases of pre and post the gibbous moon’s domination.


>no brevity.

I’ve never held brevity a virtue so be it, but there is sense.

>.all this shit has surpassed complexity admired by idiots,


Good, it’s not for them, it’s for its own sake.

>its just insipid post modern word salad.


But it’s really not, the second sections primary method is voice modulation along with a Pindaric style rhythm control, I specifically for that pastiched the sort of 80s Bowie aesthetic while forcing it into the aesthetics of the game, the third section is fully comprehensible it’s just synthesizing the style of Erasmus Darwin with the few verse and prose examples of Dali, the fourth section is permutation, the fifth flips the alusive-elusive quality by seeming the most normal formally but refusing to explicitly name the subject, using quotes from various formal authors in very strange poems that, again, seem non formal, the sixth is of course comprehensible it’s a prose translation, the seventh obviously has a discernible cadence and clear meaning.
>Why not just spend the time working on one well rounded work instead of a bunch of random dissonant crap clumped together?


I’ve made many works in many different aesthetic fields, that pastels of paganism poem for example posted earlier is nothing like this one, one should fit the form to the aesthetic intended.

>would it even matter if they were all seperate?

I think so, the repetition structure of 8 connects with 1, each parts subject matter evolves the themes without resolving it, each section increases and then decreases the rational comprehension back and forth in a consciously patterned way.


Fundamentally, the Game’s dialogue and verbiage and aesthetic structure is the core.

this might be the worst poetry thread yet and that's saying something

>>25615020
i like it frater

A comically long winding up noise for a swerved day
casting garish boon at ghost hour of which I am guest; as for now
Served Chrysalis and elusive pleasures under watchful eyes I stab around echoing up to the hallway
A meek catfish and verbose absinth -reverie of fealty.

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>>25615845
cadence means rhythm. the poem has no
rhythm. And no, there is no sense. It is all incoherent. Schizophrenic flashes of light in your cerebellum does not count as coherence.

>>25615955
Where's your poem, good man?

>>25615845
all these big words and concepts and yet it's the most unreadable shit ever posted in these godforsaken threads. no amount of mental masturbation makes them interesting

Anon anon
Sing us a song.
Not too long.
Make it chime,
like a gong.

Anon anon
The thread has begun.
Your song yet sung.
You Give your lips time.
Like your chewing strawberry gum.

Anon anon
I long to hear you sing.
Your voice would win.
Your going to make it rhyme?
Oh your making an intangible thing!

Four poems written in a couple of days all on the topic of autumn.


Poem 1:All-hallown’s hope.

In a season the blushing apple falls,
And shading woodbine bares its barrenness,
When demon shadows haunt the chapel walls,
And childhood delights grow perilous.
The steps of day are limping slowly on,
With tired dark-circles, a weaker sun,
With only morning, nothing of the dawn;
Inevitably, not enough is done.
Wheat from the chaff taken at harvest time,
Gathered to the fathers in a cold place,
Did summer smile on an improper clime?
Smiling the smile of a stone face?
Though heat is fading, and I cannot cope,
I weep not youth, with an all-hallown’s hope.

Poem 2: summer has gone.

Summer has gone while summer yet remains,
The sky is clear yet downcast all the same,
Thunder and frost but quenchless nothing rains,
And verdures sere withering to dry flame.
I knew her once, and loved to say her name,
Now lanes of day are night, and night dull grey,
Through streets I called your name, but no one came,
Since every way I walked, was the wrong way.
The birds sing the same song, and no less gay,
I know the things I know, but know they’ve changed,
I wish i didn’t go, I wish you’d stay,
But now your road is gone, and mine estranged.
Cold winters and hot summers, both deranged,
Like life and death in loveliness exchanged.

Poem 3: To the leaving Year. ( Written in perfect alcaic decasyllabics (same cadence as WHAT do you DO with a DRUNK-en SAIL-or, with a repeating stress-alliterative pattern of LLGL, GGLG, LLGL, etc)

Leave me the leaves that are greenness laden,
Grown in a garden of larch and gorses,
Load them with light as if gold’s inlaid in,
Gilding the ground to a lither gorgeous;
Leave me a life where I guiltless lie-back,
Guileless give me my lost-love’s gazes,
Lest I be led to a grove of lilac,
Goaded to gambol by lethe’s graces.
Leave with your litter of grizzled lichen;
Grayish with glaucous the landscape’s gutted,
Lateness has lengthened its guts I’d liken,
Gobbling its gullet is lumpy glutted.
Leave for the lantern that glows is lowing,
Gone in the gelid of lunar gloaming.

Poem 4: All-Hallown’s Hope:Redux

The gnarled squash droops on the stilly heath,
The carven pumpion crooks a jagged smile,
The streets bustle with wind and chilly feet,
The smell of cloves and allspice all the while.
What happens has happened and will repeat,
Everything goes according to its style,
Spring is a shortskirt with a frilly pleat,
And Autumn is a sweater of argyle.

spent tides recede to the sea back and forth,
Enlimes each creature cycled in waving,
Spindriftpale waters turn a blackened swarth,
Wash flesh, to stone, to nothing in laving;
Look as a man above a brackish port,
We are the same thing, saline, shapes swaying,
Riprap rippled to silt and crack-contort,
Drench-dredge distort, and never left staying.

Cont

>>25618411

No use complaining, let’s just say what’s meant,
Everything’s only thing is changing till
Everything’s changed, nothing can stay content,
Do what you can do, and say what you will,
Sleep with the night, wake with the day intent,
Hyblean honey in hylean hill!
You’re still bound as a man go pay the rent,
Make your due, beg or work, just don’t stay still.

Life’s autumn days, from red to winter snows,
I’m oft afraid, what’s left won’t be returned,
My problems change, swept by the wind that blows,
Like awful flames, each step these feet are burned,
Why lay awake? When you’re within the throes?
But no surprise, in dreams I’m still concerned,
Day after day, the moments interclose,
I turn, yearn, squirm but all the same, I’m spurned.

And worse it hurts, the thought that we must do,
Like seasons changing bounteous to bleak,
To shape the clay, we’re forced to see it through,
I am my care and care is what I speak,
The voice “I must do” the voice speaking you,
The self defines the self in self critique,
To be is not to be, but being who,
But what’s more common than to be unique?

The straight line grows oblique, in spiraling,
No sphere is here and no center is seen,
I look to find but find no final thing,
God spoke this word, who knows what it could mean?
I am letters, alone in my knowing,
To find my ark you must look in the screen,
Folding the veil; the outer-eye closing,
Grave there my idol, an “I” glowing green.

From harvest moon to sickle sweeping phloem,
The stalks are highest right before the slit,
The cities rust they will not keep their chrome,
The words of every wise man will lose witt,
The glory of the world; a heap of loam,
Even the self from self from self will split,
With only night after the sleepy gloam;
No more voice, will that be the end of it?

The face I carved is not a face of stone,
The features are the features I could grope,
My Golem-God, with flesh to case the bone,
Apocolocyntosisin scope,
The Pumpion-God shadows my face, I groan,
What is the vine hanging it on the slope?
To know the Christ and by his grace atone;
Eternal summer in all-hallown’s hope.

>>25618411
i like 3 the best my mush

>>25618411
you should use less words. It sounds clumsy with the made up words, too many adjectives and compounds. If you can't construct a natural sentence you shouldn't use filler words its sounds dumb

A once golden morning loses its hue
when the boy had to pay, what to one is due.
It is the cost of life: the debt of death, but
who knew just by growing old, you’d lose your depth.

>>25618883
*fewer words