deepundergroundpoetry.com
a place beyond the grays
I make these stories of myself, all part of a runaway journal.
chapter & verse. but I go back sometimes & make alterations,
because things change. especially the sweet parts that we
want to keep just as they are. especially those.
little tragedies that I walked into desperately. each one a
collaboration of romantic lust with a lonely lady… what is
tragedy, after all, without a woman to make it perfect? &
when I can no longer swallow the heartbreak of a particular
memory, the sad beauty of her tear-stained face, I toss it to
the storm outside, to be carried away by the deliverance of
the rain. but the rain doesn’t care.
so the nights pass gently for awhile; I am benevolent in my
solitude, reading old poetry, drinking older whiskey. but the
sexual beast that owns me doesn’t rest for long. I hear the song
of a dolorous siren in the summoning distance, luring me to the
turbulent bed of her perversions.
I know some vague things about her, who she is & who she
belongs to. but there is some mystery in her.
& in me, as it should be.
I’ll tell her things she needs to hear: her eyes are beautiful, her
lips were made to be kissed. the pretty things that will make her
smile & cry a little when she’s alone.
we are nomads of the flesh, two halves that will never be complete.
on clandestine fields, we will shed the oppressive garments that do
not define us, to feel the heat of my skin against hers. I will force
myself into the wet garden of her naked desire, her hips thrusting
against mine. when the stars explode, they reflect in her gray eyes.
the sweetest sins go unforgiven, but we hold onto this meager space
of time that we’ve plundered from a malevolent universe –
our haven beyond the grays…
(Artist unknown)
Published 14th Jul 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 18
reading list entries 6
comments 13
reads 1413
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
14th Jul 2016 1:55am
14th Jul 2016 2:31am
14th Jul 2016 7:39am
Any ideas of heaven are close enough to this. Enraptured here. Thank you, as always.
14th Jul 2016 11:15am
every moment captured so perfectly John poetry truly runs in you blood..
love Crim
love Crim
14th Jul 2016 3:22pm
There are few arms of respite where we can truly
be accepted as ourselves by another person.
This shows the hope of such.
Wondrous, John.
be accepted as ourselves by another person.
This shows the hope of such.
Wondrous, John.
14th Jul 2016 4:55pm
Love your descriptions of life occurring as it should and lived in the furious power of each moment
Excellent Sir John
Excellent Sir John
I added to reading list after the first stanza, because that shit's perfection in truth form. Nothing more must be said...
I shall finish your now highly anticipated poem...
-ed
I shall finish your now highly anticipated poem...
-ed
"I’ll tell her things she needs to hear: her eyes are beautiful, her
lips were made to be kissed. the pretty things that will make her
smile & cry a little when she’s alone.
we are nomads of the flesh, two halves that will never be complete.
on clandestine fields, we will shed the oppressive garments that do
not define us, to feel the heat of my skin against hers. I will force
myself into the wet garden of her naked desire, her hips thrusting
against mine. when the stars explode, they reflect in her gray eyes."
Just magnificent poetry, John. Best poem I've read in a long time, sir. The truth and living nature of this write poked at me in all directions that matter. You're a master story teller and without writing a story at that...
dolorous - I'm fond of this word...
Fucking loved it,
-ed
lips were made to be kissed. the pretty things that will make her
smile & cry a little when she’s alone.
we are nomads of the flesh, two halves that will never be complete.
on clandestine fields, we will shed the oppressive garments that do
not define us, to feel the heat of my skin against hers. I will force
myself into the wet garden of her naked desire, her hips thrusting
against mine. when the stars explode, they reflect in her gray eyes."
Just magnificent poetry, John. Best poem I've read in a long time, sir. The truth and living nature of this write poked at me in all directions that matter. You're a master story teller and without writing a story at that...
dolorous - I'm fond of this word...
Fucking loved it,
-ed
15th Jul 2016 4:08am
WOW !! Such an incredible weaver of words you are JohnFeddeler ... Just Beautiful ...
15th Jul 2016 7:55am
If I add to my reading list all the Feddeler poems I liked, well...
You and your women truly reminds me so much of Vettriano and his women... I don't comment much on your work because I sometimes feel that whatever I write will be inadequate. But thank you so much for the gift of your words. :)
You and your women truly reminds me so much of Vettriano and his women... I don't comment much on your work because I sometimes feel that whatever I write will be inadequate. But thank you so much for the gift of your words. :)
15th Jul 2016 5:15pm
Wow Johnny..
You always pack a healthy punch to all my senses ..
Loved this on many levels❤️👍
((((((((( Johnny Rotten)))))))))))
Much love ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Love
Jackie
You always pack a healthy punch to all my senses ..
Loved this on many levels❤️👍
((((((((( Johnny Rotten)))))))))))
Much love ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Love
Jackie
15th Jul 2016 8:01pm
This one soars despite the melancholy. I'd say the universe can be both malevolent and benign, but it's all too often more of the former.
"so the nights pass gently for awhile; I am benevolent in my
solitude, reading old poetry, drinking older whiskey. but the
sexual beast that owns me doesn’t rest for long. I hear the song
of a dolorous siren in the summoning distance, luring me to the
turbulent bed of her perversions. "
That sounds like paradise to me somehow. The "dolorous siren" is possibly a muse, one to be treasured if she inspires work like this.
.
"so the nights pass gently for awhile; I am benevolent in my
solitude, reading old poetry, drinking older whiskey. but the
sexual beast that owns me doesn’t rest for long. I hear the song
of a dolorous siren in the summoning distance, luring me to the
turbulent bed of her perversions. "
That sounds like paradise to me somehow. The "dolorous siren" is possibly a muse, one to be treasured if she inspires work like this.
.
