Rate this poem:0.0 / 0 votes
Poem I, The Anti-Christ, Section 8
Sun rises, Sunset
sun rise, Sunset
whereever you go.
It becomes a shrill hope
out growing among the sourly
depicted prospects of our reality.
Sun rises, dust falls
over the Vampire glaive.
The Vampiress fills her heart with
delight, just swimming into the bloody, bloodless
stains of written words she vendicates.
She opens a pale, shrilled colored doorway
and collides her recently divided brown hair that blended blond, white hair strands at its peak
into the spirals of nocturnia.
Obelisk the Tormentor is her query...and begotten soul? Her Jupiter.
No one feeds her mouth, but she feeds her words. Silent lambs gaze over her.
She is warranted in Death, warranted in life.
I sit there in a serene, African-American chair made of bamboos and turso of
snake hides as Princess Garnet of Alexandria, or the esttemed Isabella Swan of
the Twilight forest. My legs are curved and crossed. My stomach mounting. Count Dracula
appears from the vivacious layers of his libroscope and bravely awards me Islam.
My deity is satisified? Oh, what a pity! My thoughts are blurred. My skin is pale and I am
a beautiful, lesbian vixen.
The Dragon began to feed--off of Harry Potter and the Philsopher's Stone-- and began rumbling through the pages of
Obelisk the tormentor's purity chalice.
I contact my Evangelion. My deity is satified. She claims santity. I then feel Rei Ayanami's eyes back upon me and up and the Event Horizon sky she says is "Endless venture".
"This world is saved," the deity said. Then she guarded her grill. "Eye on Me," sung by Faye Wong was imagined. The forces of light and shadow began to impede off the event horizon. There was Loki in the distance, climbing over White Lightening's back, and Serah, looking behind her calling us "Demon Nusforatu." There was an anti-climatic pasture of adventure. Odin appeared. So did Troy and his other son, Pericles or Thor.
" 'Why do the gods torment me with such reckless, destructive, blasphemous sons?' "
Odin began to quote as if he were Seth the Pharoah of Rome. He wore his sash like a cane and he then repelled the entity of suggestion, me, without thoughts of Tarturus or blasphemy. "I wonder where the little idjot went?" he said calling out to his talking steed. His horse ferried and then lights a single noose into his retina symbolizing the dominance of the Oni verse within me.
I wonder if the celestial world knows I'm here? where my inquistive thoughts. The sound stage lights my mind. I hear the legendary voice of the long-since-passed Selena Gomez singing "Dreaming of You" into her captivating audience of the living dead vampire race. For here, they flurried around the stage coach like a beacon of hope, symbolizing the unity of the Vatican-faired wall of scimilidge on the coral reefs of the Atlantic Ocean to the Nirvanian pools of the wayfarer religion that they sat on. In time, all would come to know this state of mind as Valcurian warfare. That the water pipes, whereever they may lead into the ground, may find rest into someone else's head. That is where she could make theme imagine, Hallucinate, into the proximity of their own Nirvandian home. She could destroy them from within, but, out of good coinscience, would summon up a book and with the help of Christohper Paloni's Inheritance books' dragon, Saphira, ehom to ehich she called Eragon, would make vivid imaginary creatures appear from the book of Chew-And-Swallow of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
I can see it all too clearly that I have too much power and too little influence to control it--this fantasy, this fantasia...I grip myself along the ruffles of my bed as Alexander the Great's spirit continues to try and summon me to vex the cosmos with my presence. I take this time, in between dream and memory, to summon the Buddhas's Karma Sutra spells (or so I called them), which were nothing but my lack of regointion, although it posessed doubt and treasure, spouted out blasphemy and silence. I said not a word, only thought in my silent lantern by the nightglow of the Forest Witiger seashore I call my bedroom. "Buda, Buda, Buda," I hummed in thought and then conncted the reins of telepathy from the seas of my imaginary Evangelion of scizhorprenia and becgan to ramble. What sould I do? I said to myself as the Courage ran deep. I Morphed the horizon.
As little as I've known my heart
I pathe the world in gleaming
what witers me a thoghtful Heart lies
awakenening for me in dreaming?
By now, I've known all those horrible horrors
that folkscores have brought for me
as I gaze alive into the jubileny eyes etes
of the werewolf vampres' loving lust love's lust
have taught me.
He was so lean and pale of heart and eye
that my fingers were ignighted under jublient ete,
a vacant g;ance, of thouest carefree eye squalls
newer vibrations under thine nose of sheets and thigh.
For whom does thou speak? Thou covetest low?
Edward Cullens of the Twilight moon, pale red and
lustruos as it glows...
For bother me not for I have simmed. For Death be thy
maker and thy grave's name...or so I have spent...
I shutter a moment. What if these apirations where real? I began to think. My hopes began to emerge with me, ever triumphant and ever demeaning. Why am I such a skeptic? I sit on the wooden floor of my room dressed in my pajamas. It is a silken, white mushito a pale and as confortable and the black, secy lingerir underneath I wrapped up my hair I called the Nightingale with a smooth, elastic rubber band and begin to light a small scented candle with the aromatheraphy of scented peaches. I sigh and blow out the light of the lighten match. Outside my beautiful vinyl window of jade white and pearl, hung red curtains blowing into the springtime-summer colstise. I close the wondow from the cold rain, which ironically confortably could afford to kept me vacant. It was a mild thundestorm outside and the night moon was full and white hanging overhead underneath where the cluds of gray-bluish rainclouds gathered.
I crawl back onto the floor where the candle was lighten and began to pray to the Ram of of my Springtime, myself, only in materiallistic form. This prayer to my own Springtime was congruent to my own Winter, Fall, and June. Those other part of me I could hear I culd clearly see in the room as children with long brown hair and pale skin and light brown eyes made of ember. This was their personifocation. Or where they simple Spirits like I led them to believe.
Magnificent feet, magnificent features
blond hair, pacific blue, sparkling eyes, White features--
deranged, dorock, abstinate: these words describe me.
A mangovelent boy trapped in a woman's body--seamsless, elusive...
I can't help but describe myself as this pallithic boy, yet a "man"
of the Human race as one of my fairytales.
It's as if I'm trpped, looking, aimling, stirring, with brass knuckle and
gentialia in one hand and a stern grip of Rinoa's, Esemerelda's, and Satan's invisible
My husband weins. He is simple. BUt my soul aches for something more, something profound--
like an exotic adventure of Walt Disney's Belle from The Hunchback of Notredame all the way to Beauty and the Beast.
I've cried, shedless tears. I;m an "orpahn", yet I'm not. A Nepililm (P)prince(ess) or Valencard and Dream. My Pegasus tells me lies.
For that which is to console me is to remain elusive...and vacant. My eyes erase all but the black and I am empowered; Empowered by the Soul Divide.
My (H)horizon is set; another name I used and made up. That name alone has become a frequent flyer in the Age of Man of the New Lithic Era. Hah! I say to myself, with one hand positioned as like Poseidon's staff and wooodwind advnetures. Vertura's hope and Daphne's serenity.
My legs smell like the back ass of a stagasour's; sweet and pale. My eyes a green with envy and my lack of tolerance. "I just don't know what to do..." I say to myself. That is were the Angel Wings come from. Some say their Rinoa Hearilly's from off of Final Fantasy VIII, but truth is they're from my great-grandmother, Clotis, the anti-God. "I fear for her..." I would weep. These wings can be anything, or anybody. By the powers of the Heavenly FAther, that I idolized as my very own biology, my seamlessness seems almost eraticadited.
I see Santa Clause? Then I know I a "dreaming", the Eternal Dream; a dream worth keeping shall never fade away. Yes, that's the Spirit. "...AND only theholy and righteous shall inherit the Earth." Am I...
...one of them? My image of Satan comes from over 25 years of virgin linee surpressed and "Cerebro'd" to a higher power deity in order to fit my upcoming, Apacalyptic crown as Princess Garnet of Alexnadria of Final Fanasy IX or the Hero and the Crown by Robin Mckinley were I am the dreagon and the hero battleing against the "Unseen"; the "UNseen" world of Hades Pluto, where I am the doormat and the three-headed Cerebrus is the trainer and the master. I have no regeets though. For that instance, I have seen worse.
I am beginning towonder if my Personifone or my Persephone is truly ignorant or simply staying the Game. After all, not even the Rock could stay the Game. I have decided to name myself--right amoungst the various voices I hear inside my head from Spirit World, or the Setithis Phoroah says "Spirit Guide" in order to make me look up at him. I don't look UP and him per se, oly DOWN. And THAT'S because I've got a lot of things on my mind; from sprit world all the way to its decension and depravity, any homosexual or sexuality had been forbidden by my own moraitly, and the state of mind continues to baffle me with usseeminly Evils.
The haves of my house are called the "A"'s with a capitol "A", something simple I could very well agree on and not avoid my destiny. I see the battle ground up ahead. Could it be Gundam Deathscythe would have me fight the Cyclopes there in the actual battle of th Souls of the Blue STar and the Blue Star Manga? Am I really all that revealing a gender? And speaking of which, why I still in between tragedy guides of my sex and sexuality? With Rei Ayanami as my guide, things get a little easier, however, I HAVE no place of Man, only "Woman" and that's fleeting. My spul was christined a hermathodite and virgin man, not an ordinary Black woman. I am virgin, pure and honest, too. I've studiesd my soul, I have no weakness, 'cept maybe the empedding crown of being crowned Lucifer and Cyclopes of the Gorganite Angel clan commissioner.
I wore a long, white braid and a handsome face somewhere between the genders. In that facade and safety of my own mind's eye, I began to theorize the next Twilight. I would subside that Count Dracula of the 1993's version movie would have the power to smell and see, but not all the necessary elements to sight and hearing. That theory came to me when I depicted myself with my own ears, the ability to "see" and to "smell", to "taste" to "touch" and the command to "Imagine" by simply calling out the commands and suggesting a new perimeter.
It was then I became aware of Pluto's springtime and began to pray to the imaginary forces that goverened underneath him and his Plutonian world called the Netherworld or the Underworld that created it for the innncence of Springtime. Pluto grew hestiant. He was the "Unseen" one by character NOT by choice. He stood on his thrine next to Cereberus, and depliberitelity "allowed" himself to subjugate and protect the imbessiled interest of the androids and the supernatural undead. He looked me up and down. I was his personifone; a mere Black woman with a frosty complextion. And to bite it off, my "hidden language" only he, Cerberus, and the undead spirits of the animal world knew of and would decipher.
I laugh in my sleep. Pride and prejudice got nothing on me! I thought.
The ever-thought is the innocence demanding
that the Devil within me continues to be repremanding.
Continues to fight for all the right reasons?
Bah. I have no shoulder, but all the RIGHT reasons.
I moon with EVANESCENCE songs just like I'm lost
a number, a meaning of vaye hope and Novembers.
Oh, woe is me or is it woe as I? Heh, innocence is
the brighter soul often forgot.
The Ever-thought, I mumble to myself as I erase the plastered features around the paper I was writing on. My pens and pencil were aline on my bed as my spiraled, compsotion book was a being of hope and serenity. It was then I could hear them mumbling, those voices I stirred up with, showering with my head and with my images of dreaming and make-believing. I mumble to words to the lyrical song, "I am MOANA," from Walt Disney pictures movie MOANA, and begin to write down its lyrics down. I illustrations of the meoemorium began to palsate with my pen and paper as the Universe began to highlight its descrections--its BEN-Yehweh. The YEWYEH would appear to me from the both the sky and the invisible seas of MOANA in the guise of the Titanese Mysesyne as the Angel of Death, Personifone, of a hooded pale-faced, Black man weraing a light, phatom blue and and enchanted sword resembling my imaginary bows and arrows admissions of Titus's sword of Final Fantasy X and X-2 that I can make manifest in physical form from my "dream world" stage of evolutions.
I look up over at Moana, or should I say Mynesyne, as she began to reveal her darkest reaches of intentions.
I crumble, a little bit afraid, not of HER, as one would think, but at my own superstitions of studying the Holy Commandments and memorizing them as such as though I were a Bible-study student.
From the moment I stand up, I felt him, this black articulation
as a piercing wind that promises and pleases, but never gives a damn
about the reason.
When a Woman is a Lesbian-Man
What if a woman were a lesbian? Easy to say they'd be homosexual.
I begin to cram what little information I could get about myself into the Dora the Explorer t-shiet I ordered.
Submitted by shelina_s on May 29, 2022
Modified on March 13, 2023
- 13:00 min read
- 3 Views
|Scheme||A ABXCD EFXXE XXGH HF FFCXXG FXHX DEG XIJI KDEXDLAEF BMX LX NF KKDFGXMCXXXJXDAXXHHHX IBOOXHEXX EOX GGG G C N|
|Stanza Lengths||1, 5, 5, 4, 2, 6, 4, 3, 4, 9, 3, 2, 2, 21, 9, 3, 3, 1, 1, 1|
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Gaeilge (Irish)
- Українська (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"Poem I, The Anti-Christ, Section 8" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2023. Web. 30 May 2023. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/128352/poem-i,-the-anti-christ,-section-8>.
Discuss the poem "Poem I, The Anti-Christ, Section 8" with the community...
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
You need to be logged in to favorite.