Submissions by The_Silly_Sibyl (Jack Thomas)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I've written about religious, historical, and philosophical subjects, because I find systems of belief and existentialism interesting. But I've also written a lot about stuff like The Jerry Springer Show, slasher films, and junk food.
And all of this makes sense to you
The simple, elegance
of nightmare's dream
alive and on the shelf
where keep you things
of memory, then scream
as Bard-y men do you
the ultimate disgrace:
a bowl of porridge
in muddy head that's yours,
a life a weeping blister,
computer glitch goes
on and on, twirling in
static the shreds
of your head, mother's
screaming baby-face
in roses without thorns,
but Stanley knives and hate.
And all of this makes sense to you,
unlikely as it seems,
in that place between the pillow
and the sunlit...
of nightmare's dream
alive and on the shelf
where keep you things
of memory, then scream
as Bard-y men do you
the ultimate disgrace:
a bowl of porridge
in muddy head that's yours,
a life a weeping blister,
computer glitch goes
on and on, twirling in
static the shreds
of your head, mother's
screaming baby-face
in roses without thorns,
but Stanley knives and hate.
And all of this makes sense to you,
unlikely as it seems,
in that place between the pillow
and the sunlit...
498 reads
1 Comment
An Evil Ordained
587 reads
2 Comments
Cushions and Lace
Blondes make the best victims. They're like virgin snow that shows up the bloody footprints.” - Alfred Hitchcock
"Do you like girls?"
The question is common enough
that it's become a cliché;
yet, I do like girls,
just not in the way the question means,
the fumble in the backseat way,
the "I'm watching this terrible movie
because that girl takes her clothes off"
way. Trust me, Mein Inquisitor,
I can objectify women
as thoroughly as any man,
be he ten times my manliness,
or...
"Do you like girls?"
The question is common enough
that it's become a cliché;
yet, I do like girls,
just not in the way the question means,
the fumble in the backseat way,
the "I'm watching this terrible movie
because that girl takes her clothes off"
way. Trust me, Mein Inquisitor,
I can objectify women
as thoroughly as any man,
be he ten times my manliness,
or...
835 reads
5 Comments
Under The Boabab Tree: A Closet Drama (collaboration with RevolutionAL)
Dramatis personae
Chorus (heard, but not seen)
Hannah, a widow
The narrator, a vagabond
Tom, Hannah's husband's ghost
SCENE 1
Hannah stands to the left of the Baobab tree, the right of which contains a hollow from which light and soft but happy music can be heard, as well as the occasional chink of glass to indicate a bar.
HANNAH: "We live in beauty", so you said.
A crib from Lord Byron felt appropriate
back then.
I won't cry this time,
(an observation, not a promise),
but the sadness, of course,...
Chorus (heard, but not seen)
Hannah, a widow
The narrator, a vagabond
Tom, Hannah's husband's ghost
SCENE 1
Hannah stands to the left of the Baobab tree, the right of which contains a hollow from which light and soft but happy music can be heard, as well as the occasional chink of glass to indicate a bar.
HANNAH: "We live in beauty", so you said.
A crib from Lord Byron felt appropriate
back then.
I won't cry this time,
(an observation, not a promise),
but the sadness, of course,...
617 reads
4 Comments
The God of Dada
"We, the founders of Dada-movement try to give time its own reflection in the mirror." - Kurt Schwitters
1.
In Nineteen Hundred and Eighteen,
aesthetics tore, sternum to spleen.
The Somme and all its muddy mess,
the crows on bones, like Devil's chess,
to cinders burnt Olympic lutes,
Elysian harps, and faerie flutes.
The sceptre and the studded orb
lay strewn across the palace floor.
No painted nudes of Grecian grace,
no wedding gowns of Roman lace.
The guns had torn them all apart,
the trenches thick with...
1.
In Nineteen Hundred and Eighteen,
aesthetics tore, sternum to spleen.
The Somme and all its muddy mess,
the crows on bones, like Devil's chess,
to cinders burnt Olympic lutes,
Elysian harps, and faerie flutes.
The sceptre and the studded orb
lay strewn across the palace floor.
No painted nudes of Grecian grace,
no wedding gowns of Roman lace.
The guns had torn them all apart,
the trenches thick with...
587 reads
2 Comments
Bone Cold
The outside blackness does not stare,
It simply waits, with its bone cold.
The bridal net it wears may mock,
Its face a fair and polished glass,
But I am old, and bone tired...
The multitude may never pass,
The blue street blocked, the clouds mired.
A chill from All-ways Death grips me,
Its patron saint sat by the church:
A suicide from 1410.
Whatever beasts may roam and lurch,
What scares one more, than teeth or men,
Is outside blackness cast like stone.
The hours by this small window
Are as an embrace: cold, and slow.
It simply waits, with its bone cold.
The bridal net it wears may mock,
Its face a fair and polished glass,
But I am old, and bone tired...
The multitude may never pass,
The blue street blocked, the clouds mired.
A chill from All-ways Death grips me,
Its patron saint sat by the church:
A suicide from 1410.
Whatever beasts may roam and lurch,
What scares one more, than teeth or men,
Is outside blackness cast like stone.
The hours by this small window
Are as an embrace: cold, and slow.
512 reads
3 Comments
ABC (Madness in Grass)
A house adrift in time and space,
Bolting windows of gypsy glass -
Cat nor dog may breach this place -
Designed to hide madness in grass.
The fields extend their lease apace.
Bolting windows of gypsy glass -
Cat nor dog may breach this place -
Designed to hide madness in grass.
The fields extend their lease apace.
578 reads
3 Comments
Sonnet (Stolen Skin)
I conjured you with dreams and stolen skin,
The runes evil with deep longing.
Your curves and muscles formed within
The confines of my warped bedding.
A shelf to lay a head of stone upon,
To melt it down to warm sinews...
That was your torso of living iron;
The heat between its plates renews,
And I am yours; obedient, I crave
What clefts and grows behind the doors of Shame.
"Of Mist and Fancies thou art formed, a Knave
To show me Cities long debauched in Fame..."
The spell created buttocks, lips, and lies,
To seek a...
The runes evil with deep longing.
Your curves and muscles formed within
The confines of my warped bedding.
A shelf to lay a head of stone upon,
To melt it down to warm sinews...
That was your torso of living iron;
The heat between its plates renews,
And I am yours; obedient, I crave
What clefts and grows behind the doors of Shame.
"Of Mist and Fancies thou art formed, a Knave
To show me Cities long debauched in Fame..."
The spell created buttocks, lips, and lies,
To seek a...
714 reads
1 Comment
Triolet (The Haunted Castle)
The castle is alive with blood,
The stones a quilt of strange organs,
As in the dungeons filled with mud
The castle is alive with blood,
And all the courtiers in flood,
Their guards a flock of stone gorgons:
"The castle is alive... with blood!
The stones? A quilt of strange organs..."
The stones a quilt of strange organs,
As in the dungeons filled with mud
The castle is alive with blood,
And all the courtiers in flood,
Their guards a flock of stone gorgons:
"The castle is alive... with blood!
The stones? A quilt of strange organs..."
#dark
#triolet
526 reads
1 Comment
Villanelle
The daemon on the balustrade unfurled,
its tail changed from stone to singéd flesh.
The burning sky and all its painted world
beneath, to this my caught body was hurled
so that I saw the witches in the mesh,
the daemon on the balustrade unfurled
as it returned to perch, and curled.
Before I struck the stake and screamed afresh,
the burning sky and all its painted world
vanished. The flames became a blanket whirled,
no witch encircled with wire to thresh,
the daemon on the balustrade unfurled
simply a trick of...
its tail changed from stone to singéd flesh.
The burning sky and all its painted world
beneath, to this my caught body was hurled
so that I saw the witches in the mesh,
the daemon on the balustrade unfurled
as it returned to perch, and curled.
Before I struck the stake and screamed afresh,
the burning sky and all its painted world
vanished. The flames became a blanket whirled,
no witch encircled with wire to thresh,
the daemon on the balustrade unfurled
simply a trick of...
486 reads
2 Comments
Sonnet
We live in beauty, like a summer star.
Whatever darkness there may be,
The light it holds cannot enflame or char
If seen by ships across the sea.
A shaded life was what I owned before
The day in June, when some old fox
Alighted near and brought my gaze to shore:
A sea of green approached its locks...
The dress of powder blue you wore that day,
Curtained with locks of dusty blonde -
A beach on which I longed to bathe away
The cares of Death's eternal bond...
Under a tree, six thousand summers old,
We met, and walked inside the star.
Whatever darkness there may be,
The light it holds cannot enflame or char
If seen by ships across the sea.
A shaded life was what I owned before
The day in June, when some old fox
Alighted near and brought my gaze to shore:
A sea of green approached its locks...
The dress of powder blue you wore that day,
Curtained with locks of dusty blonde -
A beach on which I longed to bathe away
The cares of Death's eternal bond...
Under a tree, six thousand summers old,
We met, and walked inside the star.
623 reads
3 Comments
The Ice Palace
A great network of cloth and couch inside the sheer ice-walls,
cold, opaque, beyond the limits of interaction. This is my Hell.
(Hell need not be an evil place, my darling.
By Hell I mean Heaven, my Heaven,
one without camp little angels playing Jim Reeves tunes on harps.)
Anywhere a little bit claustrophobic would perform just as well, however;
a bedroom overlooking an alleyway
so I can lay awake at night in the warm and light
and think: I'm in here, cosy as the grave, and they're out there,
Death and the tramps having sex in the bins...
...
cold, opaque, beyond the limits of interaction. This is my Hell.
(Hell need not be an evil place, my darling.
By Hell I mean Heaven, my Heaven,
one without camp little angels playing Jim Reeves tunes on harps.)
Anywhere a little bit claustrophobic would perform just as well, however;
a bedroom overlooking an alleyway
so I can lay awake at night in the warm and light
and think: I'm in here, cosy as the grave, and they're out there,
Death and the tramps having sex in the bins...
...
599 reads
3 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by The_Silly_Sibyl (Jack Thomas)