Submissions by HedonsHerald (Alexander Johnson)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I'm Glycolosis. There is no special meaning. Your obsession with meaning is unnatural. Go watch t.v. It's better for your state of mind.
LOVE POEM
Published
31st Aug 2020 10:31pm
31st Aug 2020 10:31pm
Untitled blue poem (first draft)
Blue shines vibrant
A messy mane oer twin sparks,
Fey-formed body
Making a mockery of sky.
How could the noonday mantle
Compare to the brightness of that
heat, twinkling in time with the light?
You say you don't have bones.
I believe it.
How else could you squeeze
your way into the cracks
crevices in my desolate and dry mind.
Dusty tomes and dust caked thoughts,
Made fluid and free by blue light,
Strange songs,
Eclectic and blistering,
Slipped into my hands and head
the beats thrumming through My Quiet...
A messy mane oer twin sparks,
Fey-formed body
Making a mockery of sky.
How could the noonday mantle
Compare to the brightness of that
heat, twinkling in time with the light?
You say you don't have bones.
I believe it.
How else could you squeeze
your way into the cracks
crevices in my desolate and dry mind.
Dusty tomes and dust caked thoughts,
Made fluid and free by blue light,
Strange songs,
Eclectic and blistering,
Slipped into my hands and head
the beats thrumming through My Quiet...
#love
341 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
4th Jan 2020 5:02am
4th Jan 2020 5:02am
Angelus Novus (aka I Heard a Song, and it brought back A Lot of Memories)
I feel heat burrowing between my shoulder blades.
Im backlit.
An angel sailing out of paradise
A past wrapped in fact
and fiction,
Who can tell which from what?
This new world is beauty,
My first was a nightmare of adolescence
My second was fire and cuts and fun.
My current is starlight.
I cherish each and every one.
But when I hear music it burns me.
When I smell certain perfume it wracks my dreams.
Angelus Novus, sailing out of paradise,
On the winds of time,
Is always facing backwards.
Im backlit.
An angel sailing out of paradise
A past wrapped in fact
and fiction,
Who can tell which from what?
This new world is beauty,
My first was a nightmare of adolescence
My second was fire and cuts and fun.
My current is starlight.
I cherish each and every one.
But when I hear music it burns me.
When I smell certain perfume it wracks my dreams.
Angelus Novus, sailing out of paradise,
On the winds of time,
Is always facing backwards.
#memories
#nostalgia
619 reads
2 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
4th Apr 2019 5:23am
4th Apr 2019 5:23am
Of Slinkies and Words
Vocal chords taut
Like a euphonic ripchord
Pulled from its mooring
Then promptly wept over.
When a change is irreversible
Can it ever feel good?
Tangle a slinky
Then try to bend that shit back into shape
And tell me you don’t well up with that childlike horror
The epiphany that rings through your head
That it will never be the same.
Words are like slinkies,
when you bend and twist them
they never retain their original shape.
I love you means something so different
when it echoes in your cranium
At the...
Like a euphonic ripchord
Pulled from its mooring
Then promptly wept over.
When a change is irreversible
Can it ever feel good?
Tangle a slinky
Then try to bend that shit back into shape
And tell me you don’t well up with that childlike horror
The epiphany that rings through your head
That it will never be the same.
Words are like slinkies,
when you bend and twist them
they never retain their original shape.
I love you means something so different
when it echoes in your cranium
At the...
#love
808 reads
4 Comments
ANGER POEM
Published
17th Oct 2018 5:40am
17th Oct 2018 5:40am
SJB
I am not a Social Justice Warrior.
Warriors are trained and inculcated,
Indoctrinated.
Razor edge ethics,
Kind hearted breathe sits
In the hollows of their chests by design.
No I am much more savage than that.
My ethics are homegrown,
Birthed in the fleshy metronome
That beats doublestep for the oppressed.
I fight injustice alongside an SJW,
That guerilla war against the cruel,
Not because I was taught it was right,
Tempered in that good hearted kiln,
But because I know what its like
When bigotry almost...
Warriors are trained and inculcated,
Indoctrinated.
Razor edge ethics,
Kind hearted breathe sits
In the hollows of their chests by design.
No I am much more savage than that.
My ethics are homegrown,
Birthed in the fleshy metronome
That beats doublestep for the oppressed.
I fight injustice alongside an SJW,
That guerilla war against the cruel,
Not because I was taught it was right,
Tempered in that good hearted kiln,
But because I know what its like
When bigotry almost...
#power
587 reads
3 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
10th Oct 2018 7:28am
10th Oct 2018 7:28am
Cartesian Ink Mix
I am a week sober today.
An achievement soured by the fact
That the only reason is a dearth of dealers
Alcohol wheelers,
Or skeeving thieves of peace of mind.
Im a week sober today.
I have never felt complete,
But less so without my faculty of reason,
On paid leave,
courtesy of the dizzy season
Sponsered by the Bureau of Intoxicants.
Im a week sober today,
But while Im glad this is the case,
I want to rip my hair out
and wail inconsolably,
Because sobriety has not made me a better me.
Its only made...
An achievement soured by the fact
That the only reason is a dearth of dealers
Alcohol wheelers,
Or skeeving thieves of peace of mind.
Im a week sober today.
I have never felt complete,
But less so without my faculty of reason,
On paid leave,
courtesy of the dizzy season
Sponsered by the Bureau of Intoxicants.
Im a week sober today,
But while Im glad this is the case,
I want to rip my hair out
and wail inconsolably,
Because sobriety has not made me a better me.
Its only made...
#nature
#alcohol
488 reads
1 Comment
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
30th Aug 2018 10:27pm
30th Aug 2018 10:27pm
Out of Practice (rough draft)
I shave with a straight razor now.
It conveys a level of pretension
And passionate posturing
For mirrors and blue eyes,
That the clinical precision of standard razors
Just cant replicate.
Narrow cutter, skindragging
Neck-nicking
Savage soothing,
Like a reaper in the field,
Hairs falling down the drain
Like matted black grain,
Im alive in the crimson of my nicks,
In the friction against my throat,
Like being lightly choked.
The brutality of it reminds me I have not lost my sense for life.
My...
It conveys a level of pretension
And passionate posturing
For mirrors and blue eyes,
That the clinical precision of standard razors
Just cant replicate.
Narrow cutter, skindragging
Neck-nicking
Savage soothing,
Like a reaper in the field,
Hairs falling down the drain
Like matted black grain,
Im alive in the crimson of my nicks,
In the friction against my throat,
Like being lightly choked.
The brutality of it reminds me I have not lost my sense for life.
My...
#death
#myself
453 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
13th Jun 2018 9:27am
13th Jun 2018 9:27am
Untitled
Be humble for you are made of earth.
Be noble for you are made of stars"
How succinctly said,
this axiom is,
in its ambition to take the mortal condition in sum.
How dark,
that we are made of graves and desert heat.
Such sorrow it is,
to know that we leak worms and radiation,
like Chernobyl loam,
or dirty bombs.
We are not just earth and stars.
We are blasted mounds, and cairns for quasars.
We are the means by which the world is measured.
The universe is made up of wonders and
we...
Be noble for you are made of stars"
How succinctly said,
this axiom is,
in its ambition to take the mortal condition in sum.
How dark,
that we are made of graves and desert heat.
Such sorrow it is,
to know that we leak worms and radiation,
like Chernobyl loam,
or dirty bombs.
We are not just earth and stars.
We are blasted mounds, and cairns for quasars.
We are the means by which the world is measured.
The universe is made up of wonders and
we...
#universe
554 reads
1 Comment
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
17th May 2018 9:43am
17th May 2018 9:43am
Dont read this. Its shit. Not intended to be read. Its not goid dont click it its not worth it. Just keep scrolling
An old man opens his medicine cabinet for his heart meds somewhere in Singapore.
That creates an eddy in the air currents that slowly builds.
It becomes a wind that blows storm clouds into Utah, a world away.
Lightning lancing from that front,
Strikes a power line. The lights go out in Salt Lake City.
Thank you for saving me from seeing myself in the mirror, man in singapore.
Im not pretty anymore.
My skin is tight, my cheeks are flushed and my hands shake a lot.
You saved me.
You should have taken your meds a half hour earlier. Then...
That creates an eddy in the air currents that slowly builds.
It becomes a wind that blows storm clouds into Utah, a world away.
Lightning lancing from that front,
Strikes a power line. The lights go out in Salt Lake City.
Thank you for saving me from seeing myself in the mirror, man in singapore.
Im not pretty anymore.
My skin is tight, my cheeks are flushed and my hands shake a lot.
You saved me.
You should have taken your meds a half hour earlier. Then...
#murder
500 reads
1 Comment
LOVE POEM
Published
2nd May 2018 5:45pm
2nd May 2018 5:45pm
Slow Burning Papers (revised and applied)
Love is like cigarettes.
The moon taught me that.
I lost my cigarettes looking up at that fat gloating eye,
downward glaring like so much ash.
The funny thing about cigarettes,
is that since the late 90's they burn slowly.
Fire safety laws.
And if you let them, whilst you stare blankly at an smogged out sky
(with no stars and a bloated yellow wraith looming over you),
they go out.
Quietly, giving no notice of their silent death.
It's not until that jarring taste of cold stale air
that you realize what's...
The moon taught me that.
I lost my cigarettes looking up at that fat gloating eye,
downward glaring like so much ash.
The funny thing about cigarettes,
is that since the late 90's they burn slowly.
Fire safety laws.
And if you let them, whilst you stare blankly at an smogged out sky
(with no stars and a bloated yellow wraith looming over you),
they go out.
Quietly, giving no notice of their silent death.
It's not until that jarring taste of cold stale air
that you realize what's...
#love
591 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
18th Apr 2018 5:42am
18th Apr 2018 5:42am
Anachronism as Intertextuality
Cast back the line
With your tongue as hook,
Pulling Pound into Homer.
Grim-gripping sages
Cut epochs like mastodon meat.
But time is gristled sinew
Thought pulled tau(gh)t
Across a flexing membrane
Of growth and rot.
Answer Homeric Shame with Christian Guilt!
Call Mary Shelley a Modernist!
Shapes of yesteryear cast shadows forward,
but shadows dance both ways.
With your tongue as hook,
Pulling Pound into Homer.
Grim-gripping sages
Cut epochs like mastodon meat.
But time is gristled sinew
Thought pulled tau(gh)t
Across a flexing membrane
Of growth and rot.
Answer Homeric Shame with Christian Guilt!
Call Mary Shelley a Modernist!
Shapes of yesteryear cast shadows forward,
but shadows dance both ways.
#mystery
581 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
12th Mar 2018 12:22pm
12th Mar 2018 12:22pm
Vox Clamantis in Deserto
First the past leaves you
gasping as the slowly growing vacuum
pulls and tears at the core of your chest
Then the narrow present wrings from you what little was left,
a vice of certainty,
No room to look for breath
Even if you remembered how.
Then finally the massive future,
ominously shrinking as it buries you
in the dust you thought you’d left behind.
This poem may sound
Like the shape of the glass is to blame for all you’ve become.
It’s not.
You had a chance before you were lost beneath a temporal sahara. ...
gasping as the slowly growing vacuum
pulls and tears at the core of your chest
Then the narrow present wrings from you what little was left,
a vice of certainty,
No room to look for breath
Even if you remembered how.
Then finally the massive future,
ominously shrinking as it buries you
in the dust you thought you’d left behind.
This poem may sound
Like the shape of the glass is to blame for all you’ve become.
It’s not.
You had a chance before you were lost beneath a temporal sahara. ...
#honesty
732 reads
3 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
19th Feb 2018 11:31pm
19th Feb 2018 11:31pm
Patroclesian Memory
I remember being love-struck
By that lyre-bearing Styx-borne warrior.
For me
so much of His rage,
A flame,
was neutered to gentle breeze and bluster.
The Furious Flurry of death-blows
borne on His razor-edge
Were just as gentle
e’re my egress,
not from passion, like our song-heavy kiss,
but from its lack.
War for House Atreus,
unheated by personal stake.
But this Apollo-like warrior,
played the lyre for me.
I sang for Him.
So as Hector, that son
of Troy sundered flesh with edgéd grace ...
By that lyre-bearing Styx-borne warrior.
For me
so much of His rage,
A flame,
was neutered to gentle breeze and bluster.
The Furious Flurry of death-blows
borne on His razor-edge
Were just as gentle
e’re my egress,
not from passion, like our song-heavy kiss,
but from its lack.
War for House Atreus,
unheated by personal stake.
But this Apollo-like warrior,
played the lyre for me.
I sang for Him.
So as Hector, that son
of Troy sundered flesh with edgéd grace ...
510 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by HedonsHerald (Alexander Johnson)
