Death of a Rose blatherite continuous poetry, rhymed or not, and if it has been done already, I'm sure one of you will let me know.

As i sit here empty of mind,
Unique skies are abroad,
Total vistas of blackness find,
Master and slaves of faithless god,
Dafremen Bent upon destruction of
The latter's lack of Godless love
Squeal and scream and in between
Your gasps for breath seem so serene
You are my sanity
You chain my soul to twisted dreams
You're my insanity
Death of a Rose screaming first and screaming last
bending bridges far too fast
bounding, bouncing, make it flash
running, diving, feel it crash
knot meat you say to me that it's all been quite done,
that there isn't a feeling that hasn't been had,
but i say to you, there's still more under this sun,
and there's no solace in the agelessness of a feeling like sad.
blather spell check probably and already are both mispelled
my real name here is thus withheld
thpppttttt.....ack. shite, blathere spel chek his cott me agin
muste tri to doit, as I grin
Dafremen Grimace, though more than a grin
Take thy knife and plunge it in
Accursed spellcheck go to hell
First LEARN to write then
We'll learn to spell
Freak ...back to the original poem at hand...

refusing to let go
sending hopeless hope
it only causes more pain
still not letting go
forever stuck in this hell
Death of a Rose so push it down,

downwards, make it flat,

don't give up,

you've got more miles to float


I begin my travel in a sunlit field of hay. I ahted and still hate trying to make up words to match the shit I have gone through and all the hell of everyone around me. I hate my life and all that I've ever done, that comes back to throw me into fits of nightmares. Loneliness is my companion now, give me a good ole c&w tune. How do I relate to the objects around me,
wear a mask and live a continued silence.

I wish I had no debts to pay, my life to end. I need release from this constant barrage of needless life.

Enjoyment is fleeting, happiness is only a word, abandon every feeling and lie like you still have any.

You know the stuffing of your life is gone when you are pretending to have some.

Dark and squat, rising fireflies lick his shoes and extinguish.
Alone to think, wonder why shock waves can come so subtly and not as expected, to tremble in warning.
He brushes his hair back letting it stick in place.

Moaning, he cradles a lost boy,
tasting names but never swallowing.
He was warned not to play with his food, and to despite them he had taken nips and pieces of lessons told.

Nodding slowly, as if under the brink of river sleep, he struggled to raise his head as if in this final fight to betray the nimbus os his fading aura; how bitter.

His views as a youth became quickly and quietly washed with pollutants.

I am one of the lost.
A gray soul caught in modern traps and desires.
Emotions have run out,
At this point nothing swivels, nothing bends.
Every day repeating and completing the dot on the paper.

I would write you bleeding hearts,

and cover it with toiling embraces.

Dynamic convulsion, stretched and bending.
Spare me the twitches.

Spare the heart beat.
A shadow, a timed movie.
Favorites last forever.

Glimpses last while you are staring at the ceiling.
I'm an idiot playing with fools

and the fools are winning.

Description will never be enough.

Describe a page,
imagine hurt,
Laughing at the chords;

And speckle finely a blackness,
watch it drift away.

My words, while I write are confused and true. I like to think of hidden meanings.

And similies are constant.

but true thought always betrays consideration of pages taken away;

Always taken.

Pages turned and pages clicked, pages retraced.

Grab me at my lowest
wrestle my supposed ego.

Tray a nameless see, make it flourish. Call a dictionary as referee. WHO CARES!!

I have too many pages to go it seems, and I fear that I will not reach the last page.

One pen, writing and then spelling. A sad voice screaming into grayness. Life is not accomplishments, I do not think. Life is how you have screamed with the earth. Have I saved or damned.

I really don't know.

Why am I writing?

Tonight is well worn.
Tonight, crazy fingers are deciding.
Where is goodness?
Not a personal salvation, maybe?
I've experienced evil and holiness.

So what is right. Do I accept the spaces, slab a foam pimento into my ear.
Desperation and addiction causes this. and lacking want.
I've always been scared of describing what is happening to me, ridicule fear perhaps. The thought of being exciled. Never having someone to talk to or hold.

I can measure my life by its beats of fhythm. I wonder how infinite are the melodies that hit an individuals ear, and how many of those sounds caress the soul, ready it to be bound, pure movement and instinctual following. Not a robbing of the soul, but a joining, seperate laughing. Slow sounds, erotic shivers from the air.
Delight in shound, I have known no feeling except this movement. Erratic and dancing, eyes half closed, letting the electric control movement. Addiction to sleepness nights, and thoughts.
I wonder at the zero, and laugh at it.
Feeling the transformation in my eyelids.

Wrong words beginning and hurt lips ending, waking to find no dream has happened!
A sensory deprevation of single focus.
Transport me into rememberance.
Consider my actions and not my habits.
Play a tune and smile.
Not for my passing but for my wandering.

Trepidation is the yearning for two.

Into the yawning abyss;
Crawling the weave, you cast
My eyes everywhere.
Their road leads to oblivion,
We walk to extinction.

I've sung many a silent dirge,
To half remembered wounds.
And when new stars appear,
My funeral song will ride the 'Illiad'.

That is why before I dive
Towards the Mirror, I should
Wish for nothing more than
A nerve tingling kiss from you.

Rose Follow me for a moment.
I would make plain my compulsion.
Magnify your want,
That samll mark of annoyance:
Or heal the fallacies of silence.

There are so many who do not
know who they are.
But live with what they do.
It is only very rarely you can
seperate a distinctive goodness
of character, that should/can't
be polluted from that personality
of conscience.

You should be my balanced truths.
And if I could I would play
a concerto in your mind;
just to alleviate my freedom.

The implementation of considering
future worth, blends into mirages
and clouds what shall improve the

Maybe we interpret our actions
too quickly.
Will we all become inefficient
machines and ignorant moles?

Your lush vibrancy is my pen.
I cannot claim to be king of
anyone, nor would I wish to be
Instead treat us as equals, even
if you have to lie to yourself.
I know immaturity is hard to tolerate,
for some, but I believe quite
strongly that this morning fog
will not entirely dissapate.

So let us not be latent but perpetual.

I describe for you a flower,
seen once many years ago,
and return with impassioned haste
to the window to watch
dissapointment walk toward my unlocked door.

Upon cushioned impact, I step back
decades, recalling smiles and
words; ah.....forgive me, promises.

How can I remember your face
with only photographs?

My hand isn't responding to my useless
Have another smoke and remember the
pages of semi circles spread upon the

Does everything stumble when uttered?

My minutes are hours,
Hours are daze,
Daze is forever.

I look to my wrist and watch it break
as if bound to Hercules arrow.

Nothing matters except lines with warmth.
Nothing matters except teaching and learning to watch.
Nothing matters except pressure.

There are no conventions with muted weavings.

I would lose my pride with the quick slash.
Take the pain apart to find its source.

Believe nothing, for the angels
never miss a hated soul that has remained beating.

Such pompous words, such that even this is inextricable from nearness.

I can't recall a single moment when I
am free of you. Nor do I wish to.

You will haunt me with broken bottle
nights, and I lie here not knowing how
or when hell will freeze over, or if I will still be able to continue to walk down this path.
Death of a Rose my last post, anthologized
so I wish to apologize
Dafremen Burnt offerings
Upon the spit of repetition
Spitting on your own creation
Leavin our improvisation twisting
Shifting left and right
It waggles on the wind
Dragon napalmed wings that shudder
Then flutter in ashes
Fall upon the ground
To sound the trumpet blast
Of half a dozen souls
Who joined you in this sojourn
Left upon the Death of Rose
Their mark, this dark repose
This closed unclosure grows
Below the fray
This darkened day betrayed
Its mixture bent upon a whim within
A grim thin slim pestulence
A tin din's corpulence leaves behind
Some spigot's fencing in your mind
And blind to all those roses sprung
Then died upon this noxious dung
Of those whose words had come
To share this fare
Who care about the art
Which blooming fell apart
And now grows still
Do with it what you will..
Death of a Rose thumbs pressed wide apart,
forming indents in solid rock,
here is my crime, here is my chart,
coalescing upon a knock,

who is upon my entry way?
sages profound and classics penned,
bring your needle and some clay
we bring erasers for you to mend.

something simple, filled with life
continue then, my failure mirror,
leave the rock and subtle strife.
here is some cash, make it clearer.
oldephebe hides in this brittle chalice of splintered light? could i depart from the parameters of this blathepage to say death of a rose i almost wept after reading your tear drenched drops of splintered flame briskly shorn from the bleeding torch of your soul..and even now with these few words i feel so inadequate to what you have shared...effortlessly exfoliating the intimacies of your hearts hidden blight..but i wanted to acknowledge this glittering parchment of equisite pathos and so here are these few lines
wrung out..spun out from my splintered Art..and what would those greek sages...the masters of myth and reason say if they heard me equate these ungraceful lines with the apotheosis of human endeavor..i want to read this heart breaking issue out of your souls darkest cavern..again and and's almost borgesian on some levels..and now my tongue is flailing impotently to conjure the right shade of inadequate praise to heap upon your beautiful heart..these words you have written DOAR are simply .. giving birth to shattering sighs..nice work brah

and as usual daf..another side of a another side of your many faceted being
you continue to suprise and delight be well my friend..
oE the first line was should read

how could you know the harrow that hides in this brittle chalice of splintered light?

Death of a Rose a road has been thanked by
the passing pilgrim oE,
giving light upon the dark
edges where the weeds grow.

This road is yours and mine,
friend oE, if you will but
walk it with me.
oldephebe in the demimonde
where a vague path
is parted
in the forlorn field
and some who fortuitously stumble upon them..these diamonds out of the ducts of a splintered soul..would glare at such glittering gems..and some would sit with fingers steepled under a stubled chin
an hirsuit pursuit
of carefully
poised disenchantment
yet informed and cultured aplomb
a pose of profundity..
me, i stoop to lift these tears..glistening jewels
borne out of our ovens..
and i jostle them
upon the smooth plane of my idle hands..the substance of abstraction is not for me
to sift fact from fallacy
here..look a soul smear
splendid spectrum of striated soul
and i am agonizingly
aware of each beautous bleat
of brokeness
shadows grown like stalks of corn
fields of dusk and ash
and slowly stirred things
Death of a Rose blessed stones, heaven=man=hell,
leave some pages unturned,
for all knowledge is burning,
sycophantic parasites are spread
take acid pills to ward
off madness.
oldephebe in the days of my yawping youthwhen my mind seethed like a firebrand on the flank of steer
my cup of consolation
a few beers
i'd start suturing these
these ale fevered quilts
expectorating conjecture...
swaying like a
shimmering apparition
sodden streams of incomprehensible albeit learned spatter

when i'm intoxicated..degrees beyond garrulous..
like some lapsed preacher
swaying in the pulpit..
my friends tell me though
it was quite amusing for them..
i've been separated
from those seas of bargain beer..
telling my torture
to sleep
in alchohol shallows..
setting to restive surging slumber those bruising fugues..
but only the young can really afford to be confused..
craven jester in the court of madness..
stirring the sediment
at the bottom
of a stagnant pond..
call me back..
call me back
to my languishing life..
this is what
heroism is..
to shrug the inertia
of all this
unrequited kisses
the intamacies..
of awakening in a rumpled bed
a dreary dawn and a reticent lover..recognizing the mutual exploitation of one another
reflected blankly
in that stricken posture
damp sour bodies..
clouds of the nights..
rising off
of our morning after bodies..
it's the blandness
the blankness of regret
a one night stand..
it's the body of a soul
you no longer can love..
fermented barley coaxing me into a despairing complicity
if i cannot touch you
with my words
or my body..
what is there
but this well learned minuet..
look there
in the corner..
there's a stern tower
of merciless inculcation
sister somebody
without her habit..
her cotton white coiffeture
rigidly stapled into place..
phantasms after empty orgasms
and then..
a subtle shrug..
an obdurate jut of chin..
and then briskly out the door..
and a bitter, rueful smile
at your rumpled complexion..
Death of a Rose sleep your strained dreams here,
beyond that window are shelves of magic,
wisdom and whimsey,
a juggler cannot compare to those who sit and weave, strand upon strand, deftly making pictures astounding and complexity laid bare.
even the feel of coarse bound lore,
unique in delight and despair,
bring Helen and Troy together again,
give some eyelid fluttering to your complexion. make them tremble when they recognize the carnivore has left.

mantled growth, don't look over your shoulder, coarse and still sands of time cannot win back favour lost.
humble and courteous we shall grasp,
bind your stables loosely, grow some blue grass.
Death of a Rose I think jesus screamed sometimes,
just to let it all out.

so christ, i'll just weep.
here is my emptiness, bleached black and overly sour tasting.

Morality plays upon the piano tonight,
something sanguine and silent.

don't leak on the keyboard
or you'll fry yourself is just a fallacy.

gut spasms in almost lazy hello waves.

i'm alone because i drink
i drink because i'm alone
nice little self wrapped conundrum
doar Bring it on that moon ridden time. Flapping it's wings into a frenzy, just so you can hear it. Step in to the parlour my dearest deceit. Play upon the stage of the night and dramatize its senses. Did you hear that, the masses yearn for the morning, but I hear only my heart beat with intoxication. Roller coaster fantasies are eerliy different when you're standing in sunshine.

The will be my blatherthon. You will see our number flashing at the bottom of the screen. Don't bother calling, we are outside having a cig. I'm not even going to look at the screen while I type this. Just let it come out. Here is my clown, ready to fire from the cannon good people. Oops.....I guess you're not all that good afterall.

There is a wall. People gather to pound their fists on it. It makes them feel righteous and better about themselves. They should check their hands for splinter of rock and steel. Blood can be ignored quite easily when the mind is elsewhere. Keep that mind rooted.

If I was the man who had his ear attuned to inward kisses, would you think less of me?

I've got a little black book that I forgot all over the place and yet I can't seem to do a final loss deal on it. Have to perform an exorcism on it.

this is dangerous, so windy and filled with mines. here it comes, climax in glorious forms. crossroads here and there. for her in sunlight. The middle field is calling (more later).

I have blaphemized and haven't been struck down, now is that right. Can't I expect a holy surge of lightning bolt through the head for the well though out blasphemy. (insert deity of your choice) is cruel.

give me steroids and ethanol, so I can burn cleanly. lips are stimulating. monkey brains are good, they promote regular constipation.

till later my sweet little dark things.


(but with the right link, perhaps..) 031026
oldephebe i do not write for you
i do not sing for you
i want to fill this barren field
with sprites and the dance of winter lights and fauna frolicking like tigger and pooh on smack
i want to fill these pages with
satiric verisimilitude
and just a word..a pap smear so broad
in its depths ringing something hollow
and shimmering ebullience in its breaths
and when the brown round tone blinks into the black
i want to embalm this
i want to tear the very heart out of winter..i want to etch a dagguerotype of the terror i see clouding in your eyes..the one brief flickering moment of truth that passed between us..and i want to see you drunk and stumbling down the stairs..and see you wrap a shawl around your shame..although i wear your face i cannot begin to assume the mantle of the master raconteur..
the ravages of spirit..the ribaldries that scalded her ears..the coarse and close intimacy of that fraternity..i will never touch upon it..upon that
i want to sit in an oak panelled bar
and see the spirits shimmer in the glass
watch the shape your hands casual and aloof and yet an inescapable affinity with this appendage..the glass the ice..the bourbon sipped slowly..affectionately from the glass
i want to take that which had hung in the air between us all those years
and spread it wide upon the credense table..i want to know the man who spoke in these majestic breadths..the man who had fists like cinder blocks and yet was so aloof towards me..the man who sent men into oblivion
one blow and one hastily slurred word
and they were prostrate upon the pavement...a man of immaculate manhood
all i ever felt was a vague sense of discomfature..and a vague sense of pride or familiarity..
i do not write for you
i am not you
but as the years etche a character in this face the man i see more resembles you..these things that whispered vaguely in the air between us are now spreading their wings wide
i don't want to become you
i don't want to be aloof
i don't want to seek some desolate solace in the smoke and steam of a barley inebriate.. i don't want to be this great house of splendor that has fallen down..i don't want my relationships to be defined by strain and exasperation
but i fear that i am becoming you
no, not the man with cinder block cudgels raining furious blows upon some hapless bar patron who has stayed well past his time..but the man who was so irrevocably alone..who sat up nights and mimed a mirage through his days..
sometimes father i saw the ache..the lonliness cloud your eyes..just for an instant..and then you'd fill the awkward space with that phenomenal photographic memory..and fill my head with exacting forensic prodigies of recall..your recall..estuaries of the esoteric..and i remember at those moments being filled with the poignancy of your sorrow..that now it became my sorrow..a kind of transgenerational cross pollination..and then the notion of daylight burning..
yea i have come at last to myself
the self i searched for as an ephebe
wanted to define myself by something besides my ( )parentage
yea i have come to myself at last
a self i spent so long searching for..
and now i want to be unhinged from the past, the profound lapses of ( )but there is elucing the harsh judgement i have meted out to tender eye of light beams down upon me..i have this panic that is rising in my throat..when i confront the totality of what i have not honored.
paul had his damascus epiphany..struck with holy blindness so he could see what he had become..and how he must atone..and yet i am clinging tenaciously to this rot that eats at me like black moss growing over a soul..
clinging..remembering so acutely every lapse and every shame..O what calamity waits for me in the wings?
and in the interegnum between these precocious winter breaths...autumn is a slow dying fire..and now i try to hide this terror from my son..and from my family and friends..but they see it..
i do not write for you..but it seems the score is being written out of you..
the end from the beggining the requiem has begun..and i have heard its score since those early young years..slender shadow growing tall in the field of dusk
what's it to you?
who go