Poets we be

whisperingquill



The day grows cold
in a groaned fade
into the grey of her winter
gasconade cannonade,

my billhook splits
cerise dayscreams
from a nightmares
lineage radix,

step into my vortex
spilling arch light phantasms
that contort and contract
your cerebral orgasms,

I lace this hazy
uni-lateral lysergic grace
with blitzkrieg hurricanes
cumming in your
inner frame,

watch it ooze
along and stain
as my subliminal
travesties,

clog the cog
dripping coup de tat
droplets of licorice
leporsy,

bow in the emitted
gleam glistening
from the sting
slicing your scripture
sphincter with
stingy structured
fissures,

they say pussy
is paper, poetry,
power, and pistols,

wondering if Pac
licked the shots
from the glock
as it kissed him,

we walk within
sibylline symphonies
splicing spitfire
synergistic soliloquies
systematically dismantling
your cybernetic
syphilis sobriquets,

as two toned strings
sashay to a double
dipped espérer
within a sole
brain fart that
darts into the
whimpering spark,

falling from
the scrotum
of lexicon
icons,

whose archaic
quills find new
thrills in
rigor-mortis
paradigms,

shape-shifting
strained beams
seeming to team
as choke artists,

lost in the soup
of Yahweh's
primordial greedy
creed.

 

Copyright ©2019
WhisperingQuill.All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods,
without the prior written consent
of the author or publisher.
All my poetry is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),WhisperingQuill.

  • Author: Whisperingquill (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: January 13th, 2019 14:41
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views: 25
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Comments +

Comments1

  • sylviasearcher

    Maybe it is my twisted interpretations, but sometimes I get the same feelings repeating and reversing when I read your most recent works.

    There is a certain passion that verges iin rage that I feel compelled to soothe with a lullaby. Yet I have to set off to work now... Maybe we could collaborate?



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