My Poetry

[Sniper]

Across the net I go by many a alias, such as; Sensitive-Cherry, Augoeides, Sir Canvas Corpsey and many more. One thing that al these names have in common, is that they are all associated to some degree with my prose and poetry. I'm posting some pieces of mine on here, though they can be found in several places in cyberspace.

Can you gallop?

Spoiler

"Can you gallop?"
Nay with a neigh
I do so say
I move no faster than a scallop

"Then try a canter"
No! you know;
I will not do so
No matter how you banter

"Well why refuse to trot?"
Simply Sir Dregs
I am a horse without legs

Idiot Machine

Spoiler

Cog upon gear spinning in
The quaint notion of perfect unison

But in this sphere, behind aesthetic veils
Rusty teeth break, and the power fails

However the,
Iron forged lord is eternally dreaming
Even as the metal heats
And begins steaming

So it continues
Another golem exits the room
Just another factory, a substitute womb

Fertilized by electric seed
Deus ex Machina, indeed

Populated by dolls, a lifeless situation
Truly, man’s greatest invention

And wonders will cease
As none can compare
To this Idiot Machine
That our suited God came to bear

Ocean

Spoiler

From the bottom of the well,
you will find a path that
runs to the great deep blue
and currents that flow true
to the tides cast by the rings
of our planet and the ones
whom reside lost in static.

Let it not bother you that
although day and night
pass over the well’s rim
in the blink of an eye, that
the world is still dark with
a salt water underworld hue.

To what source can we owe
the eternal veil cast over the
denizens of this sapphire room
and the way that it ripples
with each swoop of the rings
like the new bride in wind.

It all begins in the shapeless
ocean mist, that clings to
the black velvet walls and is
the physical manifestation of
the veil; the veil which allows us
to feign, falsify and erect a façade.

To what extent is this mist a fog,
when it is already condensed
into humid air that chokes, the
man in the chair, the chair that
is seated at the desk, where
we write of the birds which
imitate our moans and despair?

To what extent are we allowed
to feel this way without guilt,
what lengths are we granted to
feel without being the fool, the
melodramatic, the misery, the
one whom they exploit as a mule?

We are but the masses, the ones
who sit in front of the chatterbox,
breathing in rhythm with its’
clickity-clack, the same sound
of the pistachio nut stack that sits
on our coffee table, riddled with stains.

So tell us, the supposed unique,
how and what to believe in, we’ll
listen too, just like the ones whom you
broadcast to, straight from your
dish spotless on the interactive screen.

You think you fool me, and you
think you can feel the way I do,
but you are resting on the rings
and I’m caught in the gravity of
solid, which means despite all
that you say you do, you will
never understand me, ever.

This is the imposed madness of
our youth, the single, ridiculous
thought that we are truly unique
and that we do things for ourselves.

Revelations according to the new
Bible of you, tell me that you’re
just scared of death, like me, so
join me in this deep blue room.

We’re martyrs for our own
induced crisis’, and I’ll have you
know a messiah isn’t made
divine by the outer limits,
they’re made so by us choosing
to believe they’re better than us.

Cast off your doubts and simply
accept that we’re all drowning in
sea that you can see, a sea of lines,
dots and cancer (which there will never
be a cure for)

 

[e]

I liked the last one; the first one was a poor humorous attempt, the second one had broken rhythm (unless that was intended? it still felt weird) and generally didn't impress or bring forth any emotions from me. Third one was good and well written.