Author Archives: Swor

Ybbstag

Posted on by under Poetry

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fast hands, rouge heart

quick feet, cool head

smart mouth, sweet tooth

sharp tongue, soft lips

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i do not want to die.

i can taste it near

plastic what if… the lie

when my thoughts run clear

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there is an island to my name

through the gate immortal

a monument to tame

another dark portal

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by the marches, by the shire

rinse the wind, ride the storm

as she watches by the fire

this life, this hat, this form

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say we don’t sall apart

and learn to fail instead,

this journey could be smooth –

blunt the coming eclipse

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i live through a bright eye

in smooth wrinkle and tear,

what an easy goodbye,

at least one good ear

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nostalgia of what i could have been before i am even gone to myself

pretend like it’s the first time

Posted on by under Poetry

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sister mister fister sits on a bannister

her hand is but blister holding a canister:

an old transistor full of stinky bister;

she’s the faster foster fister sister

nearly polyhistor, expert at tongue twister,

explosive disaster, pastel plaster blaster,

now that’s a fast wrister for just a shipmaster;

can’t believe she missed her, can believe she kissed her.

—

broken, repaired, remade in gold

soldered in war, cast to the fore;

as you well know fortune favors the bold,

never apologize for being born to be more –

seize what is yours by the power of your hand,

let them writhe and choke and struggle and implore;

if the writing on the wall is all they understand:

when is a jar not a jar? when they must adore.

—

there is a distinct cellular sheen

to this photograph

an everyday, quiet, unremarkable scene;

a bland paragraphe.

and yet i cannot help but try to glean

through the riff raff

all of the things that could have been

on your behalf.

don’t say the word, don’t say the name

it brings not luck, nor fear, nor shame

simply it has been given out to the wind

scattered in the rainbow of the clouds

for the Lady giveth and taketh the prouds

equally the saints and those who have sinned

do say the name, do say the word,

remember the voice of the blue bird.

…

the dirt inder your nails

killing is a cycle

killing is a cycle

Posted on by under Poetry

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for all around there is a song that still hums

a wistful tune in melancholy tones,

no one quite knows the hand which strums,

who shed the tears? who broke the bones?

there was a singer beneath the statue

they say not quite so long ago

who once again dreamt of us few

and would have loved to see you go.

—

it was in bed, it was in blue,

each other’s sheet, each other’s new,

the rose is red, the violet’s blue,

powder is sweet, wish she was you.

she can feel her fingers in her hair,

she can breathe her perfume in the air,

yet she cannot help keep an eye on the gear

that seems to keep turning year after year.

—

were there a god inside of us all

what then is he waiting for?

what then is he yearning for?

surely simply for the hammer to fall.

is there still a soul behind this heart?

when all the roads have been taken

when all the paths have been trodden

must they only lead us apart?

eye for eye and tooth for tooth, and turn the other cheek

…

the dirt inder your nails

pretend like it’s the first time

the dirt under your nails

Posted on by under Poetry

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through machines and mechanics

through the industry of my own hand

i have devised djinns and tonics

to gently wash away the sand;

concocted in gold, incense and myrrh,

a most sacred ablution

to provide for all to admire

reborn in such glorious evolution.

—

and though the cold metal can bite

i still tend to the olden hearth

turning darkness into light,

crackling wisdom come as it may

when it is death that i may birth

i weave the threads with sure fingers,

there is nothing that i can say

when only your silence lingers…

—

none may know that which i pray

for my voice is all they hear

and it is lost into the grey,

the blood rushing to my ear;

face full of soot, hands always gloved

desperately trying not to shatter

i have lived, i have laughed, and i have loved

never enough but does it matter?

a priest, a doctor, and an orphan walk into a bar…

…

killing is a cycle

pretend like it’s the first time

J’ai croisé un ange

Posted on by under Poetry

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J’ai croisé un ange

un jour de printemps,

je l’ai senti se poser

sur mon épaule

le temps d’une brise.

Il s’y est mis à danser,

il s’y est mit à rire.

Des ailes d’un blanc

à faire pâlir la neige

et trembler la rosée.

Il s’est tourné vers moi,

nous nous sommes envolés

par dessus les montagnes,

au creux de ses vallées,

j’ai plongé dans des lacs

profonds et frigides,

pourtant y nager m’a réchauffé

et m’a rendu le souffle.

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Il a tenté de m’apprivoiser,

J’ai tenté de l’apprivoiser,

en m’écrivant des mots

lui dire mes prières,

colorés de douceur

lui écrire mes rêves,

sous un rire chantant

sur une peau de verveine

jusqu’à ce que tombe le jour,

où l’encre coule en profondeur.

je me souviens de sa mélodie.

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Puis au brasier du soir venu

se redessine l’ombre de son élégance.

Aurais-je dû le voir ?

Dans ce reflet perlé d’étoiles

les volutes des mots s’étiolent

en murmures chauds,

en souffles rauques.

Peut-être, me répond-il alors,

des lettres enflammées

dans une langue de soufre;

c’est sa couronne qui me fascine

chaîne de saules implorants

que ces bois sombres ne dévoilent.

Aurais-je dû le voir

revêtir d’une robe carmin

sa gorge, ses lèvres, ses mains ?

Aurais-je dû le voir

avant qu’il ne m’ait vu?

.

Émerveilles.

tonneaux

Posted on by under Poetry

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j’ai cru voir le ciel le temps d’un instant

j’ai cru sentir le vent

celui de la reine mer

plein de sel, un peu amer,

j’ai cru entendre le chant insistant

de ces espoirs nés d’avant.

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c’est un port de complaisance

qui m’ecueille quand j’en ai marre

et s’il s’avère que j’en perds

mes bouées, mes repères,

que dans l’eau je manque d’aisance,

disons moi albatros au plumard.

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mais à la côte ses humeurs

à la frontière d’une nature sauvage

son droit de m’honorer de ses embruns

d’harmoniser mes cris de ses somptueux refrains;

il y a de ces voiles qui gonflent aux rumeurs

puis-je être un autre Caravage ?

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les tonnes d’eau me rongent la cervelle

mais tel est le calibre de celle qui m’oblige,

si seulement je ne savais compter jusqu’à mille,

que ne mordrais-je encore à la vermille ?

la blancheur de l’oiseau de Javel

ne laisse de traces que sur la plage…

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une tempête approche, je le sens dans les vagues,

alors je dis tout au secret de tes flots

et je laisse la marée regagner ses perles

avant que sa colère n’émousse et ne déferle

ses coquilles, ses coraux, ses récifs, ses algues

qui coupent mon sang à l’eau.

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c’est une marre intime sur laquelle vogue son flow

hypothermia

Posted on by under Poetry

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madness comes to the mind

as cold comes to the limbs

in sweet smiles and old stars

like shivers after dark

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oh row, oh row, and row

to crest atop the wave

where only dawn has trode

and glimpse at what is theirs

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welcome to an abode

of grandiose empty white

here muddy Melopée

retraces silent steps

.

corridor upon corridor

of elegant thresholds

perhaps tis in repeat

that we shall find the new

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ice ice maybe

none wrong go

ambiance (written listening on repeat)

brained amage

Posted on by under Poetry

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i’m a slut and you’re my bed
let me lie upon your head
split your skull devour your dreams
tear your sheet apart the seams

please let me see these insiders
oh let me crawl in your spiders

dip the matress throw the covers
only originals for us lovers
be my pillow be my princess
through crumbling kingdoms of excess

take the fall paint it red
do remember what i said
a hundred sheep along the stream
into the arms of morpheme

a tongue sharpened along the wood
can only do so much good

i’m a slut and you’re my bed
why can’t i wake up instead
lay me down and let me breathe
perhaps i’ll wear this silken wreath

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silence is golden but a slip of the tongue makes you shiver

the innocent

Posted on by under Poetry

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burrowed into their hole

swallowed unceremoniously

by the darker of night

they shiver and quiver

and cannot help but hope

that somehow their prayers

shall be heard and answered

and that they may be

in time returned in kind

but they cannot remember

what at all they used to be

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oh they can still hear the notes

and murmur a few words

broken verses of an old song

carrying truth through the season

spreading warmth through the winter

filling their full before the summer

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they are bright and strong

able and bodied,

puzzled by their own mastermind

but they cannot remember

what at all they used to be

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as they fall prey to sleep

as they run and flee

wild in the colours only souls can shine

full of life and longing

for what they used to be

they cannot remember at all

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a cold white field rests silent

above this citadel of spirits

unresting, unrested, uninterested

when they see the shadows

and they read in the fleeting ink

in broken words and murmured notes

at the brim of the stage

just beyond the deathly rempart

destiny’s unequivocal soliloquy

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and they yearn, and they cry

and they burn, and they try

to remember how to understand

how they could be again

what they never were quite able to be

what they saw reflected

in the shivering fresh water

just below the icy mirror

but they are hooked to the lines

that will sink them to the floor

afloat while the rain pours still

as the call of the deep

offers to swallow the fear

of what they used to be

that they cannot yet remember

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it is yet the science of it all to question

a madness lined in gold

The Jesus Metaphore

Posted on by under Poetry

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I’ve wine in my veins

So when I bro with the guys

I forget I’m missing you

I’ve thorns in my pains

‘Cause everybody lies

And I know exactly who

I’ve holes in my hands

So when I close my eyes

I can see right through you

I’ve got tears in my commands

‘Cause there’s only so many tries

That can achieve so few

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I’ll never have the wings as white

As the clouds that conceal your shame

And you’ll never be able to understand quite

What it is to never feel the same

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I’m the man of the house, put the bread on the table

I’m the man with no spouse, the never quite able

I’m the man in a blouse, the mentally unstable

I’m the man or the mouse, never far from trouble,

I’m the man gone to drowse,  currently unavailable

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I’ve blood in my stains

And bone in my brands

I’ve worms in my brains

And twelve lost in this land

It isn’t sugar in these grains

What then weaves my long strands

My love works in hurricanes

Filling their lungs with sands

Until they gouge my eyes

Until they burn my pews

Until they gild my spy

Until they get to you

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Cross my heart, nail it to the post

Kiss me, kill me

Let my shadow into the cave

Early morning or late night,

Always around half past three

Look at me strut, follow where I walk

Look at me dance and learn the talk

Designer toga, lonely one ever made

It’s a Turin, lets me throw shade

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There is a God in me,

Only one they can see,

I can feel it gnawing

As the end is drawing

Yearning for your mouth;

I am my own maker,

A lone star in the south

Incestuous moonraker

Mystical nobody,

I wonder what mother sees in me

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One last testament of my youth.