 |
Poems On Site: 198,500+ Comments On Poems: 427,000+ Forum Posts: 105,000+ |
Custom Search
|
|
|
||||
| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 10-June 18:24:59 AEST | ||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
Array
(
[sid] => 51285
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Bubblegum Tree
[time] => 2004-06-10 09:41:03
[hometext] => A bit dark, a bit mythological, a bit wordy, a bit grandiose, a bit (very) OTT, a bit surreal... very me :-)
[bodytext] => the tide surrounds me i am floating in the ether my mind is released my body is an empty vessel i drift from consciousness to a land of pink and green and of lovers and of haters. the psychedelic whore coaxes me to her underground lair to perform a sickening ritual that acts only to reinforce the hate of the technicoloured people of this technicoloured land. a lonely crucifix hangs from her emaciated neck, a dilapidated soul filled with outmoded ideas. her god is dead, a victim of technologies new, devoid of faith and power dwindling. emotional rape and repression is ceasing but there are still those who long for Him, holding on to the core of elder days oh fools! why must they be so blind? they refuse to see what lies before them a future of expression and individuality, the cessation of conformity and pigeonholing. the malignant malevolence molests new generations, but the stranglehold is lessening, we are growing strong our minds expand, our horizons broaden, our acceptance grows. they speak of a designer, but of such a being there is no proof, evidence circumstantial, convictions held, criticisms ignored, hatred remains. the whore completes the ritual, returning to the streets, to her regal underworld, the queen of sleaze. she holds no tolerance with her customers who lust for more and more and more like rabid hyena with a dirty joke. as the curtain is drawn back the sunlight is revealed, the psychedelic mistress is resigned to the shadows allowing the normal to come forth into the light of the day. the normal are all around us, yet are creations of our deranged minds. they come and go and 9 till 5 and do lunch and repulse me. i have no time for such cretins, conforming blindly like the old men of the cloth. there is no respite from the cycles of living, the day and the night, the love and the hate, the riches and the rags. we long for an escape, but where are we to seek it? the institution of the mind has been bastardised by the words of the bourgeois, the mode of their speech and the dictates they betrove to us. i long for a respite, desire it with a passion immeasurable, but fail to find it. i look with three eyes, the external two fail miserably, but the third gains a glimmer of hope from the universal majesty of the inner self. we are not to seek a greater source to solve our problems, we should have enough intrinsic worth to be above such aimless degradation of the freedom of the mind. the almighty font of wisdom is a vile myth, one dispelled innumerable times, yet still it remains, the yellow stains on the smoker's knuckles, the purgatory of expression, the jealousy of the ones unable to explore the gifts given us by chance. to not exploit such a perverse but priceless gift is true sacrilege, a blasphemy beyond reckoning. i wander through this technicolour tapestry, the reds of passion offsetting the blues of control perfectly. the orange flame and the velvet sky are as one, remote yet unified, like the body and the soul. the blackness that lingers can only exist with the whiteness that shines like the gold at the end of your rainbow and the gleam within your eyes. i meet you by the bubblegum tree, chewing the fruit like a cow does with the cud. may i take your hand my damsel, and whisk you far away from here on a raft of dreams, on a tide of loveliness. the turquoise leaves will be our bed, soft as the mother's caress, firm as the father's hand. the brother and the lover as one, the source of joy, the sister and the friend combine and give a glance of longing deft and subtle. after we sail, i see you drift from me. your eyes wander, your passion fades, your hatred grows. did i not warn you of the wicked aged men? did i not speak to you of the repercussions of their facetious rantings? alas! i was too late, they have corrupted you with thoughts of averageness and conformity, never dynamic always static, never fun always cruel. as i lose you to the waves of another life, i hide in this cage hidden in the strata. the plates will move and fire will erupt, but the blue of the sea will stop it's ebb. oh mortal coil, must you retract so soon? it had only just begun. the embers are still aglow, the phoenix is ready to rise. must you douse her wondrous wings with death and decimation? you give me love then take it away; you give me life then take it away. what is to become of me now? is this vessel bound to crash, stuck six feet under, with it's lowly passenger unable to escape? or will my spirit take flight upon the astral plane and soar to nirvana, to heaven, to immortality, to peace? oh mortal coil, why must you curse me so! is life but a terminal disease, or is such violent nihilism destructive of the body as well as the soul? why must we wander these paths, convoluted and warped, each of us alone, lucky if we glance at the footprints of those who have preceded us? do these markings in the sands of time remain forever, or does a wicked wind conceal the way through, making each of us solitary wanderers without a map, nay, even a compass for guidance? if this is indeed the case oh master, then why does the whore waste time with the act of hate, why do we squander life with love to have it taken away, why do we live at all....? [comments] => 2 [counter] => 296 [topic] => 42 [informant] => Jackman [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 8 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => mythology )
|
Menu
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
Poetry is much like a great photo, a single "moment in time" capturing many feelings and emotions. Yet, they are very alive; creating stirrings within the readers who form visual "pictures" of the expressed emotions within the Poem. ©
Opinions expressed in the poetry, comments, forums etc. on this site are not necessarily those of this site, its owners and/or operators; but of the individuals who post items to this site.
Frequently Asked Questions | | | Privacy Policy | | | Contact Webmaster
All submitted items are Copyright © to their submitter. All the rest Copyright © 2002-2050 by Your Poetry Dot Com
All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owners.
Script Generation Time: 0.052 Seconds. - View our Site Map | .© your-poetry.com