Ramble OnRamble on?Ramble On by Halicron
When twilight fades from the dying day
and the nightingale's song begins
to play sweet melody, filtered strains
that echo down sweet lover's
lane I pause, collect myself
and of the air I slow inhale
rapturous, the flower-laden night
golden blooms fading from the light
and wild things, yellowed
eyes just past my sight
breath deeply, of the dying
day, while I make my lonely
way down lover's lane.
Sympathy for the DevilHe looked like Jesus.Sympathy for the Devil by Halicron
The Son Himself, smoking in the laundromat.
Maroon beret, red wool turtleneck,
dark jeans, birkenstocks.
Purple granny glasses.
Snappy beard, trim like you'd expect
Mary's toenails to be.
For twenty-two minutes he explained to me
the nature of man and thought,
"Listen," he said. "Listen," and his teeth were brown
under the influence of decay.
"Listen," and I was listening, "you can't- y'know, life man.
Life is this crazy cosmic whirlwind, it's like- life is-
Damn." He took a breath, popped something blue
and round as my thumbnail behind those ochre teeth. "Sorry.
What? Life. Right." He trails smoke absently between his fingers.
"Life is like a duck, right? Imagine
a big yel
Are We A Mused Yet?Are we A Mused yet?Are We A Mused Yet? by Halicron
Poetry is the practiced cultivation of so much bullshit, in which writers generate a beautifully complicated series of cadenced and semi-musical rhymes of rhythmic structure, then present it in a purposefully obtuse written form, or verbally, with phenomenally bizarre intonation; the idea being that anyone who lingers around corner cafes or coffeeshops, drinking wine and smoking clove cigarettes- habitually garbed in turtle-necked shirts and snappy berets- must be justified in doing whatever the hell they want. This is particularly true if said poet is trying to convince beautiful women in the audience that they should sleep with such a wonderfully introspective and sensitive man, despite obvious fashion handicaps.
Female poets, who on the whole don't look nearly as good in a beret, do it to demonstrate their superior mental and emotional development over their male counterparts. Hence, the tremendous preponderance of female poets who write lovely and enraged poems,
SparkSparkSpark by Halicron
words shrilled in protest, an elegy in half-syllables
and inadequate verbiage.
Tears hung pendulous in her green eyes,
a pianist's fingers clenching in consternation.
She wailed because I did not turn to Him
It was not something I could give away, this cross
the burden of failing, of succeeding, of loving and hating.
Of all failures I give only to myself,
and where she mourns,
for having failed to succeed,
having done it ultimately alone
admitting only that I can be broken-
in the darkness of closed lips, once, I betrayed myself.
Above all else, I would have her shed
tears for that one sin, whispered
against the dark of my heart.