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Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 20:04:49
The rose I never bought you

I knew that it would never work
and so I hid those thoughts away,
In truth, was far too scared to ask.
And if faint regret seems to lurk
behind my smile, then do not say
"What feelings stir behind that mask?"
To deny them for another day,
after so long, would be an easy task.

In the puzzle of each other's lives
we were pieces that would never fit,
and notes that could never ring true.
I should have written words more wise
or blessed with passion, fury and wit
to honour everything you do,
but this verse is yours. Think of it
as the rose I never bought you.

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 20:06:27
Living Dead Girl

The siren commands me to my final duty
The sweetest of tragedies poised to unfurl
when I bowed to the whim of an infernal beauty
invited to tea with the living dead girl.

Curled on your pallet deep in the barrow
Lit by the glow of a funeral pyre
You dine on the relics, the bone and the marrow
sipping absinthe laced with razor wire

Though I know your purpose, in truth I don't care
so I drift to your parlour where doom is enshrined
and you permit me to bury my face in your hair
In pleasure, in torment, in witchcraft entwined.

You belle dame sans merci, repose at your leisure
Though I strain at my leashes, my chances are slim
and I know that you'd take the greatest of pleasure
in watching my carcass torn limb from limb.

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 20:07:29
How a child survives

Eleven years old and dreaming
I was weak when we first met
and all the things you taught me
have left me in your debt.
Five years in your clutches
learning to grovel and hide.
Learning to never show weakness.
Learning to save it inside.

That's how a child survives.

Fifteen now and growing
learning the tricks of the clown.
I learned to stare you back in the eye
and once in a while you backed down.
Why bother with your creation
when you can have a treat?
With younger and smaller kids around
you can feast on easier meat.

That's how a child survives.

Twenty years old and raging,
a damaged and violent man.
Though I'm years beyond your reach
I think of you all I can.
Thirty years and I'm calmer.
Forgiveness is what I could show,
but I've still got an evil seed inside
and I've chosen to let it grow.

That's how a child survives.

Hate isn't something you're born with.
It's something you learn and choose,
and rather than time erasing it
it shows I've got nothing to lose.
I'm using the memories as a crutch
and I'd like you to know what I crave.
Don't talk to me about our past-
I just want to spit on your grave.

.....and that's how a child survives.

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 20:08:32
The widows of Inish Shark

tickety- tick,
clicking needles
pulling the yarn
knotting the wool.
A cable stitch
for a fisher man,
puts a name to a corpse
when he is found.

Wrinkled hands
feel the chill
The ache is deep
in winter's seal.
She knits his clothes
to keep him warm
in the sea's embrace.
She will not mourn.

A widow's weeds
collecting spray
from the breaker's crash
the ocean's play.
She watches the waves
as the others do
for they took the boats
and swallowed the crew.

On Inish Shark
the bridal vow
means every woman's
a widow now.
The night of storms
was the instant when
the elements rose
and took their men

Uncle and father
brother and son
It drew no distinction
it took every one.
The grief of the women
they will never see
for they're lying gripped
in the fist of the sea.

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 20:10:46
Gruinard

A soft green isle in the arms of the bay
Gruinard was so very still.
We stood on the facing shore,
watching otters hunt in rockpools.
On the land behind us bees murmured
and Wagtails flitted over heather.
Before us was no trace of life.

The grass and trees still grew
but nothing was moving.
I remember the silence most-
how the flow of animal life
seemed to pause warily
before shying away from that isle.

I held a rough stone in my hand
and gripped it until my palm hurt.
More than all else I felt
that I was staring down the barrel
of random and careless doom,
and what still chills my blood
is that the soft, green, poisoned island
looked close enough to reach out and touch.

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 20:14:44
Eustache D'Auget reflects

Always he follows my every move
my cell-bound life, coldly observed
by unchanging eyes in changing bodies.
The unspoken threat, my gaoler.

Should my hand stray to the velvet mask
(my only bond, devouring maw)
his hand lingers on his dagger's hilt.
The unspoken threat, my oppressor.

Through the mask's enveloping folds
I feel the contours of my face.
The forgotten features of the son
that my family try to forget.
They deny me my voice and face
and hide me away in this tower,
concealing their shame from the world
robbing me of identity.

When the mask settled on my head
the errant D'Auget, wicked son,
had his life torn away.
Guards with knives and staring eyes
observe this moving, grieving corpse.
I am no Lazarus; no rebirth
will escape the guard's quick knife.
Yet I stroke the velvet coffin still.
I should welcome another death
but the carcass ever drags me back.

Time has escaped me.
How many years have passed?
How many days have died
since darkness fell upon my face.
The debauched son of great fathers,
wallowing my days in carnal company,
who raged 'gainst deity and crown.
My heretical friends now sleep in graves
while I was spared by power and money
to be concealed in living death.

The unruly youth is long gone,
half a lifetime, or more, has passed.
I cannot recall the sins I made
that caused my final downfall.
Time without face has swallowed my crimes
while a family's pride holds me here.
In their eyes Eustache still lives;
still glorying in amoral company.
They fastened their guilt upon my face
and buried it with my identity.
A family's shame in a velvet mask.

I was handsome when they buried me.
Has the passing of years been kind?
No ageing is traced through my velvet tomb,
I no longer know my face.

From my window I see the lake
lying far below in emerald fields.
The sun plays across invisible ripples,
sends silver ribbons dancing:
reflections strike these stony walls.
Clouds above cast giant shadows
gliding ponderously over the water.
The breeze even penetrates my mask.

Two swans drift over the water
as if to mimic the clouds above.
Lords of the lake. How I envy them.
How I desire their power and grace.
Their pride is a thorn in my brain:
they have the freedom to stand unmasked,
to be acknowledged by the world
knowing no man is their gaoler
they are free to fulfill their dreams.

Did any swan, for all it's strength,
for all it's glorious nobility,
ever dream of so much as I?
Could any free spirit under the sky
match the shining dreams of freedom
from a faceless man in chains?

The beauty I see breaks my heart
but my tears, running softly from my eyes,
are soon soaked up by the velvet.
The world has turned it's back on me.

If I could, by tearing out my heart,
become one of those swans below
the bloody deed would soon be done.
To leave my world of fetid air,
of corroding iron and damp grey stone,
to glide freely on the water
I would suffer any pain.
To think of the key confirms the lock.
What value the blood of a dead man?

Freedom is distant as the cold white stars.
I will never leave my prison walls,
yet some desires will never die.
One urge surpasses the calls of flesh,
the drives of custom and aesthetics,
even my burning dream of liberty.
Beyond life and freedom, to stand alone
and unmasked in my naked flesh
by the edge of the swan's gentle kingdom
and see my dazzled newborn face
reflected on the waters.

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 20:15:27
Regarding Iscariot...

A frozen study in torment
a portrait of icy horror

Look at your trappings,man.
a block of ice where your robes once draped.
a chilly end perpetuated
with the moment of self-realisation
the moment of shattering sanity
the moment the trap snicked shut
imposed, extended,
perpetuated.

A cold so absolute
the flames of hell shrink away
A steaming fury of chill
in the very heart
of inferno.

The eternal frozen mass
in the belly of the fire.
An affront against reason.

With reflected images
of writhing fury
of charring carnage
as a new season's colours.
The fashion of the damned.
And the man within the shell
with eyes frozen open
to observe.

With clear brown eyes
he watches the dance of hellfire.
With clear brown eyes
he watches replayed death-throes
spasmodic jerking, writhing,
again and again
in pornographic cycle
with clear brown eyes.

and sees his story retold
forearmed with the knowledge
of the impending fall.
In the light of the horror
the enormity of his crime.
Replayed on the eyes of the fallen
replayed in the fear and the pain
of the forsaken children
with clear brown eyes
frozen open.

You who fought for principle
in favour of faith.
who substituted actions
in the place of faith.
who questioned your belief.
You saw the tyranny in creed.

and forsook the paradise to come
for the liberty for now.
the cruellest of ironies.

and regarded the living parable
an affront against reason.

Now frozen in the flames
to consider your sin
in icy perpetuity
with clear brown eyes
an affront against reason

If I could move that ice
I would drag you through the furies
back through the circus of hell
back across the Styx
and back into the day.

and let you thaw
in the warm light of dawn
while you watch the sunrise

with your clear brown eyes.

Immortal Wombat
01-01-2004, 20:36:31
I've read the first second third and fifth ones of those before. I really like the first one. I don't buy enough roses. I like Gruinard though I've forgotton the story behind the poisoning of the island. And I still think that you could have ended Living Dead Girl better than by quoting Hank Dogs so directly, no matter how brilliant the phrasing of it.


They're all very good. :)

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 23:29:53
Yes, I think the first one is probably the best I've ever done. As for the Hank Dogs quote? The whole poem grew from it, so the starting block had to be in.

Lazarus and the Gimp
01-01-2004, 23:44:23
Funnily enough, I had no them in mind when I started "The rose I never bought you". I just decided to write something using ABCABCAB. The rest just flowed off it.

ABCABCAB isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I like it.

alsieboo
01-01-2004, 23:50:58
i love a man who can write good poetry

Eklektikos
01-01-2004, 23:51:49
ABCABCAB being what, other than the sound of a kids' party magician with a stutter?

zmama
01-01-2004, 23:55:46
OG, the rhyme scheme.

Eklektikos
01-01-2004, 23:58:37
Not an 100-0 attempt, I just know very, very little about poetry :)

BigGameHunter
05-01-2004, 21:08:09
A rhymes with A, B with B, C with C etc.

I'm one of those hypocriticaly published poets that finds poetry the height of public masturbation and, if it is good, never as good in the retelling as it is to the writer.

The agony I've lived through, reading endlessly horrible poetry submissions...enough to make you put your fucking eyes out with a rusty razor blade.

Yours is structurally perfect and interesting, if not lacking some of the visceral, free-forming qualities I prefer.

King_Ghidra
05-01-2004, 23:37:42
Very nice stuff, Laz.

johngalt
05-01-2004, 23:41:34
I agree - being an appreciator of poetry, but never havign tried to write myself, I agree - good stuff.

fp@korea
08-01-2004, 07:31:02
Excellent stuff Laz.

I agree that the first one is the best, I found it very moving. Skillfully written too - not many people (myself included of course) can write a rhyming poem that doesn't sound like either a nursery rhyme or limerick.
I don't usually like reading poetry that is obviously autobiographical - just not really my cup of tea - but that was a good'un.

Darkstar
08-01-2004, 22:55:31
It's surprising the number of people that cannot recognize that a poem is a poem if it uses ABCABC scheme.

Very nice, Laz. Thanks for sharing.

johngalt
09-01-2004, 00:12:18
No, actually it is not - consider how *many* stupid people there are in the world.

The consider how modern society has made it "hip" to *not* use your grey matter.