third's occasional poetry and other such curiosities

[thirdform]

discovered a few old poems which I will be rejigging or publishing here, but don't expect me to write 15 poems a day (much less in a year) I can be very pernickety.

wounds of infatuation,
Scimitars deprived of volition,
gnawing on the tongues of coagulated slobber,
thrashing at the joy of anguish

His namesake,
that of doom,
the razorblade, his packaged melancholia,
in the marketplace of despair

Make haste!
monetise your feelings,
As they evaporate as nano particles,
assimilated by the bank of guilt

Cocksure of insipient transgressions,
mismatched molars,
God, in the eye of the mercurial sun,
alas, only the glacial void

Denounce them, denounce them with your charred heart, my friend
Slander them, the rabble,
doom will be there, pining for companions lost,
for fate will never bless us
with Gabriel's wisdom

now cradle your ears,
hold steadfast to my word
I your doom
must never give up

and if you must not heed,
must remain obstinate,
then a thousand beams of crystalline,
pelting, zipping from the heavens,
can only fade away

 

[thirdform]

Thus stated the olivebranch to be,
Reconciling blackened infatuation,
With the ideological nexus of cooperation,
Eternally blood triumphant,
Requesting another sip of the wine,
For the honour of illusions.

Permit me to clink my glass with yours, my friend,
For future imaginations,
Coalescing around condensation,
Confined to this tavern,
As the band plays your treasured folksongs.

Pressurise your leash,
Pound on your cage,
Bellow from the mountaintops,
At any given point,
For the honour of a treacherous olivebranch.

You are disillusioned, You are disillusioned, You are about to be disillusioned, You are about to be disillusioned, That is to say,
You are not yet disillusioned,
And you are not yet despondent.

Outside the tavern you light a cigarette,
Smoking it for the honour of honour,
Intrinsic antinomies exhale.

Olivebranches zigzag around the sensory dial,
Flicking it fugaciously for new horizons,
Conceptions novel,
Anchored to dangerous games of Russian Roulette.

 

[thirdform]

cognisant of how this night will terminate
drip feeding himself the morsels of the necessary
muscular fortitude
to ignore the gloomy rollerball of his navigation aid,
consumption, totemic consumption

and he would have closed both the blinds and doors to his hall of fame,
praying to god to dispense climactic justice,
by dropping an atomic bomb
no visitors will now be permitted
thus those who will be permitted by external circumstance
will be rebuffed, by a form inert

no longer privy to what they had deceived themselves into searching for,
ineluctably shimmering into guardian angels of the wretched sewers of rumination;
escaping the need to satiate the Molech of knowledge,
unforgiving mistress as she was,
leaving Tarsus to endure the jins of recurrence

intuiting, as he did,
the proximity of the door to his sternum

 

[thirdform]

greetings, Mr and mrs al fresco shitting worldwide,
is it not a pity that your creative startup is a fucking whore?
parading your valueless certificates
these things, for years to come

never asking the vital
question
of why you must scrutinise
the overproduction of sewage

a friend marvels
ponderous sensory inputs
laborious, arduous
labile thoughts,
lacking ductility

secreting conversation
for puppet shows
genuine and incorporeal
feeding, resurrected tautologies

rendering you dissident
mr and mrs al fresco shitting worldwide
Do not be afraid!
we will liquidate you!
and you will cease to be
usufructuary time wasters!

you will cease to hug police officers,
and will cease to force your friends to throw themselves under tow trucks
no more broken ribs!
and will cease your therapy,
now adorned with a distributed plastic head

your limbic systems,
disposed of by the brain of the universe,
sorry, mr and mrs!
high performance now!

 

[thirdform]

Tritones of the cosmic scowl
Swallowing, rapaciously
Hacking
jagged, vitriolic bronchitis

old man, reclining,
eulogising of time transcendent
Plateaus of ecstasy, he says
Being and moment, his triumphant conquest

ineffable, , incandescent smiles
prelude to the rapier in the back
twisting, turning, perverted caress
torpid melisma, war cries

fidgeting, restless magots under the skin
trance denied, privation of sleep. This program is not responding.

Damaged goods, repartee
Bemoan a past that is no longer the present; if the problem persists, use the error code: 0x008

Shriek indignantly
For amorous jubillation
And multitudinous proclamations

Sublime dissolution is nigh
But can you make amends?
or will everything merely
Become that of
malignant glossolalia?

 

[who is he? i love him!]

you the last person i expected to write poetry

 

[jenks]

I got Chat GPT to turn that into a poem

Tritones of the Cosmic Scowl
Tritones of the cosmic scowl,
Devouring all, rapacious howl.
A hacking cough—jagged refrain,
Bronchitis echoes, vitriol’s reign.

Old man reclines in twilight’s grace,
Eulogizing time, a boundless space.
"Plateaus of ecstasy!" he cries,
"Moments triumph, where being lies."

Ineffable smiles, incandescent glow,
Prelude to daggers, back laid low.
Twisting blade, caress perverse,
Torpid melisma, war cries immerse.

Fidgeting maggots squirm within,
Restless whispers beneath the skin.
Trance denied, sleep’s cruel retreat,
A frozen program, defeat on repeat.

Damaged goods, a jest in vain,
Past’s lament, a present’s disdain.
"If the problem persists," the code intones,
"Error: 0x008" etched in stone.

Shrieks ascend in jubilant air,
Proclamations scattered, declarations bare.
Sublime dissolution draws ever near,
Can amends be made? Or succumb to fear?

Will all dissolve, a fading aria,
Or erupt as malignant glossolalia?