Poetry/Poem Appreciation

Mammoth flocks of a ragged array.
Original jets and skyward tombs
Devilish and doom;
Two moons, mid-ballet.

Cloaks atop bitter zephyrs, leaving the breeze.
Married on a candlelit hilltop.
Picture this, just pause.
Amidst the orchard, gaze unto ease

Then Bark is stripped from the trunks
And drifts outward in a slow race.
Universe is reaching entropy right in front of my face
Thus, my heart sunk.

Gold flakes litter the wretched underneath;
You, Goddess, you, Aphrodite;
Your pride and your apologies
Lay waste to the beasts

Slain beneath the soft haze.
Act number two approaches.
Chain of thick metal rings and broaches,
Asphyxiation of the final phase.

But I still seek and have a fool's heart
With a romantic inclination.
Mostly noticeable, is the separation
That begun from the big bang's start.

Not quite prone to this disease of an emotion.
Sparkling,
Her eye's lift up and away while I'm darkening.
Collapsing chest at the bottom of the ocean.

Wanting you is seven desires to fly.
Detachment towards above.
Strange thing about love
Is that he only misses when you are mine.

Globules of a past self, worry free,
Slither upon your ground.
Terribly shattering, I've found,
The ways of wicked jealousy.

Note: Read it in Robert De Niro's voice for extra immersion

JOURNEYMAN

Here I am, alone. A cold mug of coffee in my hand, bitter to the taste.
I try to drown, the sound, of title shots and loud beat downs, which echo through the fabric of my skull.


Here I am, in a café that never closes, sitting quietly in the darkness, listening to the sound of distant voices.
I think of all the guys who bet their hard earned dimes, time after time, on a dark horse.


I’m no raging bull, I’ve pulled a punch or two;
but when the brutal bruises and jostling jabs hit home, they broke the flesh and bone, like a bulldozer through stone.


As I drink the bitter drink, each sip colder than the last, the memories of my littered past come flooding back.
All the late night acts, the guys getting smashed or smacked, below the belt of decency and reason.
The down and outers, who, without a care, cling on the ropes of their sorry affairs.
The Palookas who are going nowhere.


This is it, my last haymaker. I’m kissing canvas. I’m punch-drunk.
But here, in my desperate slump, I carry on.


Day by day, they may walk over me, but I won’t throw in the towel so easily.
As I stare into the depths of my black coffee, all I can see is the sucker who was sucker punched, the guy I used to be.


Pound for pound, I was a clown, gloves too big, and a fancy dressing gown.
It was inevitable that I would go down.

>>8894742
Enjoyable to read. Nice scheme.

The lambs are falling,
Following gravity like the good shepherd's herd.
The lambs are falling,
Like time will tell them just when to stay upright is absurd.
The lambs are falling, and falling, lured by tempting stares.
Impaired beings of hot air and limp fur in the wind.
Initial velocity slips into a sinful lull.
The lambs are falling.
The lambs are falling.
Canis lupus prowling, scooping up dirt with a full sprint.
The lambs are falling, far past that point of speech.
Useless lint at the bottom of your pocket.
Little did Little Red Riding Hood know, grandma had no teeth.
The lambs are falling, right into place, right and left.
The lambs are trapped in a web of lace.
The lambs are tilting.
Vertigo: unlimited.
The lambs are falling into a downward spiral,
Into a cage with the Viral,
Into the arms of another depressed child.
The lambs are falling like meteors and like trauma.
Scouring the strings and plane with no seating for the wilds.
I'll be your lamb.
I'll ram this flailing body of dormant tissue and sail, not more.
The lambs are falling.
The lambs fell just before municipalities did.
Just before cities and towers and people died, four horses were ridden.
Newfound good riddance to mankind.
Sitting down, willingly, when one could give up and drift down.
The lambs are floating for two and half minutes before they drown.
The lambs are brought to the core of it all.
Father, for it is I who weeps in the presence of your shown light.
Father, for it is I who seeps down through the porous tunnels of the bright.
The lambs sought eternity, infinity, endless possibility,
Adventure and tombstones, other things that fall just as easily,
Other falling lambs, great shepherds that will lead on and on.
The lambs are falling in line.
All is going according to plan; All is a song with a particular scheme for rhymes.
All is falling as lambs do tonight.
Mary's bones wither into ash unto green pastures.
Father, for it is I who seeps down through the porous tunnels of the bright.
Without guidance, the lambs are falling.
Rock bottom is a literal term for the ephemeral yearn to be with another falling lamb.
The lambs are falling in sickness and in health, together.
The lambs are falling, abreast to the burn, resting for an everlasting forever.
When below is reached;
When ties binding us towards downwards bleach and break,
The lambs will fall for falling's sake.

Here the thing that thinks writes and sits
thinking of sitting and writing and thinking, of thinking and sitting in writ
amid smoke in a well furnished basement,
smoke that hangs like thoughts thought of the thinking thing sitting thinking
laughing at the dead trees surrounding the thinking thing sitting and thinking sitting laughing
and wondering what cause had that in the wallwood knot
if not to be placed by some chopping thing chopping for building things building a thing for the thinking thing to see and think up a rhyme
then for what the thinking thing thinks again this thought this time:
motions of flux, flux of motions, laws abided by unabiding emotions
the maelstromboli spilling from pantspockets
showers the ground in noodles making noodle covered mounds redly colored and wet
to picture the whole earth through a hole or two
the thinking thing only thought of regret.

"caw" cried the crow
who knew not of hope
nor lust, nor envy
"caw" was all it knew