nameless-poet

[nameless-poet]

Dandelion

We are the dandelion. Maelstrom Plantae incarnate. The hope of the first Bloom in Spring And the resilience of the last flower in fall. We are Joyous in our eternal metamorphosis ever changing, and yet the same, Fleeting but steadfast. Spirit of chaos, we are Born of the cerulean void, A child’s wish upon the wind, Like hope and belief fuels magic. The healer’s steadfast companion Herald of the resurrection after winter Beautiful in a way order hates, But can never truly destroy. Beloved by children.

in a word: Unkillable

[nameless-poet]

Cat's Curse

Listen now, hear him sing through me Locksmith, artist, singer, harpist , thief Quick witted, musical, all he met fell under his spell. Art and song and beauty in all he touched; Wit and pleasure for all those he loved; Courage to friend and terror to foe; How we wish you’d stayed: Zethara Shadowscroll.

But still sailed downriver and found there A book and too soon he was ensnared. Left us — left all, torn yellow and asunder. He broke dreams and sung nightmares into existence, He hoped to shatter all resistance. With Death in his eyes, he looked death in the eye, And dead he is, and so he’ll stay.

Shadowscroll, what happened or your symphonies? All that remains is only sorrow, only fear.

[nameless-poet]

Gone One

Now for Kolera Blithros Look on her and watch her dance On the turning gears of law.

She has  a warrior by her side now, The fire and the dead who walk, The One who calls them, And a soldier from the worst of wars.

She wears a spinning crown of law. Gears turning through her weary head. She brings chaos to chaotic tyrants; Recklessness be her mighty weapon, Wit and fearlessness her shield.

Though Victorious she ventures forth, Death watches from the shore. When It found her out there, all alone In a blooming field of amaranth She gave her soul to save a friend.

Tragedy, Oh, Tragedy carry her body down the river To the turning planes of law Where Aeons and her Aeon pass In hopes to see her dance once more

[nameless-poet]

Opinions on planes?

Opinions on Planes

You came screaming down from the sky:

Glossy white metal and hundreds of rivets

hurled across an ocean and back down to earth

headlong through the clouds and mists,

and for once I don’t hate that

we fly the only way we can — at least

this time you aren’t flying away.

But our every hello promises a fare-thee-well.

So as I am whisked away — my story is on rails,

inevitably — You pack the last of your effects

and prepare once more to step Into the sky

on shining wings and cross the ocean

that’s all too keen to take its place

between us — its embrace is colder than

Yours, my love.

[nameless-poet]

You're asexual? But...

“but sex is what makes us human!”

  in 1916 a French officer in his twenties writes his

doctoral dissertation under

heavy mortar fire.

he sends it by mail, a page

at a time, to his wife.

a week before he’s to step up to the podium and

defend his work rather than his country

he is killed in action.

even as the bullets rip

through him he still wishes he could have become a professor

in French literature and

the university awards him a posthumous Ph.D.

sex is

  a woman breaks down in tears on the phone because

a week is not enough time to

get over a breakup.

her sister drives an hour across town,

comes up the front steps with

a gallon of ice cream and some beer

and together they eat moose tracks and marathon

every

single

Godzilla movie

ever made.

  sex is

she’s late for work but her car isn’t

starting and even through her coat and hat she’s cold.

she knows she can’t be late again because she’s missed

one time too many already because her

father’s nurse was sick with the flu and someone

needed to help him bathe.

the clock ticks past fifteen after and she hits

the wheel like it’s a heavy bag as though that will help

steps on the gas like the car will go

and wonders how she will pay rent

and how she will feed her father.

sex is

  it takes three people to hold the predator down because

even with the cover over his head

a bleeding eye and shattered wing

he is trying to hurt them.

none of them have seen this bird before in their lives but

they bandage his wing and head and give him a painkiller and

put him in a warm place to sleep and heal because

it is right.

at first he is paralyzed and cannot

fly but soon he is taking steps

and then fluttering, and then soaring, and

six months later he is whole and healed and hunting.

once he is gone they never see him again

which means they’ve done their jobs right.

sex is

  in 1969 a girl watches grey-and-white footage on her parents’ tiny television and

can’t quite believe that what she is seeing is not a movie set but

another planet.

the men on the screen look a little like

aliens with bulbous heads and no faces and fat

marshmallow arms

but they are still men.

her mother puffs on a cigarette behind her and declares that

this is progress

even if it was just a small step.

the girl grows up to be not an astronaut but a secretary

and her boss calls her ‘sweetheart’.

but sex is

  a boy is taught that real men don’t cry so

he doesn’t.

when his best friend dies from a self-inflicted

gunshot wound, he locks himself

in the shower every day and sobs under scalding

water until it runs cold

so nobody will see him grieving

so nobody will see that tears are just love that

has no place left to go.

he learns to dull love rather than suppress its expression and

soon the owner of the liquor store knows him by name.

three DUIs, two evictions, and twelve steps later,

he is feeding people at a homeless shelter,

and telling them it’s all right to cry.

Sex is

  the broken man tells the comedian

that he didn’t mean to step in front of the car but the rain

made it hard to see.

he seems okay but his leg

does not.

the comedian clutches a grubby receipt with the driver’s

plate number scrawled on the back

in pink pen, stands out in the rain so the broken man

can have his umbrella,

and gives him the comedy routine that ruined his career

so the man doesn’t think about the pain in his leg.

once he’s out of the hospital, the fixed man sends him a thank-you card

with kittens on it.

what makes us human

  yawning is contagious,

and there is a species of bird whose young we call “pufflings”.

melodic collections of sound, spaced by silence,

can move us to tears.

the tallest building in the world is

two-thousand seven-hundred and seventeen feet tall.

in less than eighty years we went from our first powered flight

to touching the moon,

and in one-hundred from the first phone call

to instantaneous connection between thinking machines of our own creation.

we make pies out of tree organs

and let cow’s milk ferment until it hardens and then

we put them together, because apple pie with cheddar cheese isdelicious.

what makes us human is

the earliestfossils of anatomically modern humans are

two-hundred thousand years old .

we have had pet dogs

for sixteen-thousand of those years, longer

than corn

or the wheel.

the steps we take are part of

one of the most energy-efficient gaits the

animal kingdom has ever seen.

we invented the concepts of love

and hate

and justice, and mercy

and we invented the language to convey them.

we sharpened rocks, then metal, to convince other people

who don’t hold the same idea of those things as we do

because we think

it’s right.

we are two hundred millennia of love and disappointment and

sorrow and innovation and

mercy and kindness and dreams

and failure

and recovery.

“but sex is what makes us human.”

[nameless-poet]

twenty years across the sea

[nameless-poet]

Stars

I gather fallen stars,

I keep them in a pile.

I tell myself I'll hang them

on the ceiling in a while.

The stars are falling steady

while I rest my head,

awaken, then, to find them

scattered 'cross my bed

Whatever holds them up there

has started to run dry;

with ev'ry glance, a few less stars

are hanging in the sky.

I gather fallen stars.

In the sky no more remain.

One day when I'm far less tired,

I'll stick them up again.

[nameless-poet]

Holy, holy storms

[nameless-poet]

trick or treat

(o^ ^o)/🧺

The Chase

Silent whispers beckoning, Of spirits seeking reckoning: revenants in hollow halls — screeching screams and shouts and calls.

Run, Love, Run! They're seeking flesh. They won't pass up your distress. Their ghoulish hunger-cravings To which each one a slave is.

Having risen from the dead, to force you to eternal rest.

[nameless-poet]

Trick or treat

When I die

When I die and am buried, Unearth my coffin, Exhume my body, Cleave flesh from bone and Discard the meat in the raw earth.

From wrists and ankles fashion dice, Challenge the Reaper to a game I will play.

From my ribs fashion a xylophone, Play me one last song and I will sing.

My skull leave intact Place it on my gravestone, Coat it in your arterial blood, Trace your fear on the coronal suture, Kiss my forehead one more time, I will wake.

[nameless-poet]

Not For Good

There's a feeling that's called melancholy And it isn't all that bad, And I promise I'll be seeing you, And that this is only au revoir.

These are not our last words. This is not adieu. This is just auf Wiedersehen. For you and I will meet again.

No, this is not farewell, But even if it was Time and space never could Take from us what we had.

I promise this is not adeus; This is até mais. And still I'd give up all the world. To not say it at all.

[nameless-poet]

Forcing Rhubarb

I Feel a Bit Like Rhubarb, Forced; buried alive pale and breaking my bones in an effort to grow tall enough fast enough to breach through soil or leaves or foliage into the light, but kept in the dark for my misshapen form growing taller and faster than ever I should so fast you can hear me cracking apart - Like Rhubarb, Forced.

[nameless-poet]

What scares me the most about us

My love is a wretched creature Curled up in my chest — A wicked thing all teeth and claws and a hunger — a yearning for tender flesh and bone and blood.

I've a vicious beast for a heart. It lies in wait — A hunter with eyes on its prey, Ill-starred and star-crossed And yet full of hope — hopelessly It's sunk its teeth into

you —

. it.

. won't.

. let.

. go.

[nameless-poet]

There's a beat to a ticking clock

A rhythm in my life

Neverending hours making long days

Months in blinks and flashes

The years drip by like a leaky faucet

That I had no time to fix

Whiling away the whiles

And mourning the loss of it all

With each passing day

As it drifts by me

Pieces of myself get left on the bank

And I'm swept along unwillingly

[nameless-poet]

The Ghost Giggling

I am the spirit that haunts the halls I’m the wicked whisper in the walls The giggle carried on the wind A soft but ever present din Of silent rooms with walls too thin

So carry on and hear my call Until at last my voice fills all The floors and halls of that old house To hear that mumbling in the air

And here a laugh and shouting there My ghostly dance throughout the halls That echoes on the floors and walls Unceasing, ever on it calls:

“Come, come dance on the edge of being, On the edge of dark and the edge of seeing, Be the spirit that roams the halls, And the airless whispering in the walls. As a giggle carried through the night, I promise you, it’ll be alright”

[nameless-poet]

Apparently I wrote this long ass poem while suuuuper drunk and did not remember doing it until I found it in my google docs titled FLOATING DEATH SKULL, SALT RIM which I think is very fun what a nice little surprise for sober me

[nameless-poet]

might not be fully no romo

might be demi

might be a little scared

might be happier than I've been in years