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.
ANGER POEM
Published
26th Jan 2018 1:26am
26th Jan 2018 1:26am
Spit
When overtaken
With Achillean Fury™
I spit like a Zulu-Viper
Viscous humours
Expressed in sinewy saliva,
Heavy-laden with poetic cypher.
My throat opens wide,
Like ophidian eyes,
Ovoid and cruel
Lifted on sulfur fumes,
And peacock plumes
Like the stench of Eden.
If that pre-Roman Rome
Had been lined with tombstones
From the death of apple-season:
“Here lies the apple core,
Left by the cruel curiosity
Of some silly omnivores,
Who made quick work
Of establishing Abrahamic Lore.”
Quoth the...
With Achillean Fury™
I spit like a Zulu-Viper
Viscous humours
Expressed in sinewy saliva,
Heavy-laden with poetic cypher.
My throat opens wide,
Like ophidian eyes,
Ovoid and cruel
Lifted on sulfur fumes,
And peacock plumes
Like the stench of Eden.
If that pre-Roman Rome
Had been lined with tombstones
From the death of apple-season:
“Here lies the apple core,
Left by the cruel curiosity
Of some silly omnivores,
Who made quick work
Of establishing Abrahamic Lore.”
Quoth the...
#anger
#conflict
#confessional
#WritersBlock
#WritingPoetry
627 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
14th Jan 2018 5:04am
14th Jan 2018 5:04am
Ode to My Heart
I treat you poorly.
Between Pall Malls,
and cortisol,
I've treated you like a punching bag.
I expect each day
for you to leap from my chest,
to doom and divest me
of the meat-bound metronome
that keeps me from death.
But you keep faith,
like a beaten dog
that doesn't know what trauma is,
rhythmically smiling at a Shakespearean drama kiss,
You stay despite wounds that metaphorically drain liters,
still singing out rhyme,
fluttering out meter
--- filling little black books,
In quiet coffee nooks,
making...
Between Pall Malls,
and cortisol,
I've treated you like a punching bag.
I expect each day
for you to leap from my chest,
to doom and divest me
of the meat-bound metronome
that keeps me from death.
But you keep faith,
like a beaten dog
that doesn't know what trauma is,
rhythmically smiling at a Shakespearean drama kiss,
You stay despite wounds that metaphorically drain liters,
still singing out rhyme,
fluttering out meter
--- filling little black books,
In quiet coffee nooks,
making...
#hope
#myself
#learning
#SelfReflection
#SelfWorth
671 reads
1 Comment
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
4th Dec 2017 7:43pm
4th Dec 2017 7:43pm
Ophelia
A hymnal heart,
garland graced,
Under weeping willow suspends.
Amniotic verse made sweet.
Danish fey,
Sinks down to her end.
garland graced,
Under weeping willow suspends.
Amniotic verse made sweet.
Danish fey,
Sinks down to her end.
#PopCulture
642 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
27th Nov 2017 6:51am
27th Nov 2017 6:51am
So Much More Than Blue
The jagged imagery of a sunset,
visceral and vegetative juxtaposed
in red red sun,
and rich green hills.
That's the origin of the most authentic misery nature ever created.
The heavens and the earth just outside each others reach.
So saccharine sweet, this symmetry
between the sanctimonious sack-cloth fathers
and the snake-oil people charmers.
They both so clearly hold their stance,
and demand that you concede your happiness to miles.
An angel held me accountable to the colour wheel,
and ever since I learned to paint with...
visceral and vegetative juxtaposed
in red red sun,
and rich green hills.
That's the origin of the most authentic misery nature ever created.
The heavens and the earth just outside each others reach.
So saccharine sweet, this symmetry
between the sanctimonious sack-cloth fathers
and the snake-oil people charmers.
They both so clearly hold their stance,
and demand that you concede your happiness to miles.
An angel held me accountable to the colour wheel,
and ever since I learned to paint with...
#sun
#universe
#angels
#spiritual
#StreamOfConsciousness
729 reads
3 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
8th Nov 2017 8:11pm
8th Nov 2017 8:11pm
Pastoral Cleanliness
Thunderous heart,
like shield-shattered Valkyrie,
prone shaped like standing,
made of pride's mimicry.
Stand athwart the tyranny,
of mind and terror's mien,
and convert from masks of pomp,
to a face of truthful stain.
I offer a stretch of land
in that Infernal estate,
to those who wear their masks,
where flames ne'er do abate.
But wash your face of it's powder'd demeanor
and false claims to piety,
and in truthful filth be made cleaner,
and dodge Hell's sobriety.
A truth of grit is more fine...
like shield-shattered Valkyrie,
prone shaped like standing,
made of pride's mimicry.
Stand athwart the tyranny,
of mind and terror's mien,
and convert from masks of pomp,
to a face of truthful stain.
I offer a stretch of land
in that Infernal estate,
to those who wear their masks,
where flames ne'er do abate.
But wash your face of it's powder'd demeanor
and false claims to piety,
and in truthful filth be made cleaner,
and dodge Hell's sobriety.
A truth of grit is more fine...
#religion
632 reads
2 Comments
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
13th Oct 2017 1:01pm
13th Oct 2017 1:01pm
Familiar Firmament
I rest now under strange stars,
made familiar only in the artifice of mind,
and am reminded of a firmament flung so far
from easy gaze and smile.
Mountain skies and foreign soil,
thankfully forgotten in dreams of archery,
a black bow stretched taut for a twisted arrow.
shallow bones made for hardy marrow.
There is a sky on sun swept hills,
that I can truly feel.
Here the air is too thin.
made familiar only in the artifice of mind,
and am reminded of a firmament flung so far
from easy gaze and smile.
Mountain skies and foreign soil,
thankfully forgotten in dreams of archery,
a black bow stretched taut for a twisted arrow.
shallow bones made for hardy marrow.
There is a sky on sun swept hills,
that I can truly feel.
Here the air is too thin.
#WritingPoetry
759 reads
3 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
12th Oct 2017 10:34am
12th Oct 2017 10:34am
Shifting Aether
Twisted wave
Of crushing enigma
Made quick by Lazarusian waters.
And I mean that Biblically.
Smoking guns are fools proof
In this postmodern violence.
What proof is proof
in the face of crushing uncertainty?
Broken and scattered,
Like the modern concept of Utterance.
Where has My truth gone?
Decrepit anxiety,
And existential angst.
The sky makes me queesy sometimes.
Of crushing enigma
Made quick by Lazarusian waters.
And I mean that Biblically.
Smoking guns are fools proof
In this postmodern violence.
What proof is proof
in the face of crushing uncertainty?
Broken and scattered,
Like the modern concept of Utterance.
Where has My truth gone?
Decrepit anxiety,
And existential angst.
The sky makes me queesy sometimes.
#LifeAsAWriter
620 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
10th Oct 2017 11:15am
10th Oct 2017 11:15am
Intermediate Focus
There are no dead languages.
The only words that putrify
are the poems that lack obscurity.
The ones that don't have
the presence of mind
To violate your presence of mind.
When words rip through like drunk khans
In a mongolian calvary beat
And turn sanctity of thought into warfare,
You know you live in a time of art.
And by art I mean existential agony,
Because too often the words are interchangeable.
Brutally so , like the switch up is childbirth,
And the first pangs are really bad verse.
There is no...
The only words that putrify
are the poems that lack obscurity.
The ones that don't have
the presence of mind
To violate your presence of mind.
When words rip through like drunk khans
In a mongolian calvary beat
And turn sanctity of thought into warfare,
You know you live in a time of art.
And by art I mean existential agony,
Because too often the words are interchangeable.
Brutally so , like the switch up is childbirth,
And the first pangs are really bad verse.
There is no...
#LifeAsAWriter
#WritingPoetry
#SelfReflection #SelfDiscovery
#SelfReflection #SelfDiscovery
638 reads
2 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
4th Oct 2017 8:49am
4th Oct 2017 8:49am
This Story is True- In That It Is Not
Imagine, if you will,
the heart of a god.
Flung far by flayer's bow,
center of ashen slopes,
Imagine that godly heart.
Deep-priests found this heart,
whilst digging after their art,
and round it a city did make.
The Deepmen, all godless by nature,
sought to craft a god of their own.
with Brass, and steam, and the Godly heart.
But Dissident folk from far south and west,
saw heresy in the shallow Deepmen's chests,
and despite friendship forged in the ash,
fought and cut with sword and axe.
No shaped-god...
the heart of a god.
Flung far by flayer's bow,
center of ashen slopes,
Imagine that godly heart.
Deep-priests found this heart,
whilst digging after their art,
and round it a city did make.
The Deepmen, all godless by nature,
sought to craft a god of their own.
with Brass, and steam, and the Godly heart.
But Dissident folk from far south and west,
saw heresy in the shallow Deepmen's chests,
and despite friendship forged in the ash,
fought and cut with sword and axe.
No shaped-god...
#philosophical
600 reads
1 Comment
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
30th Sep 2017 8:32am
30th Sep 2017 8:32am
Truth in Sound
So much music in my head,
Where fearful few are want to tread.
Sonnet made violent by piano keys,
Bled out on piano wire and heartstrings.
How fingers dance for dichotomous teeth.
How bow string scratches out melody.
I am a pianist where a pen is my piano,
My throat a poorly tuned violin.
My life would silently ebb and abate.
Now Ive found my key.
My life used to be Shostakovich String Quartet #8.
Now its the Flight of the Bumblebees.
Where fearful few are want to tread.
Sonnet made violent by piano keys,
Bled out on piano wire and heartstrings.
How fingers dance for dichotomous teeth.
How bow string scratches out melody.
I am a pianist where a pen is my piano,
My throat a poorly tuned violin.
My life would silently ebb and abate.
Now Ive found my key.
My life used to be Shostakovich String Quartet #8.
Now its the Flight of the Bumblebees.
#music
#lyrics
718 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
28th Sep 2017 1:44am
28th Sep 2017 1:44am
Cheese-us Christ
Lock-step,
like fresh sun,
we march inevitably backward.
An overwrought tyrant,
the Mind,
stretched thin like mint leaves.
I worry.
How I worry.
What chance have I against the tumultuous change
that ravenous beast,
Time?
like fresh sun,
we march inevitably backward.
An overwrought tyrant,
the Mind,
stretched thin like mint leaves.
I worry.
How I worry.
What chance have I against the tumultuous change
that ravenous beast,
Time?
#confusion
538 reads
3 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
24th Sep 2017 11:17pm
24th Sep 2017 11:17pm
New Skies?
Sap-soaked grit
along iron's edge
quaking aspen
burning hedge.
Have the stars blazed again?
I hope this is not false firmament.
along iron's edge
quaking aspen
burning hedge.
Have the stars blazed again?
I hope this is not false firmament.
#PopCulture
500 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by HedonsHerald (Alexander Johnson)
