#hail poetry

[countesspetofi]

3 Poems by Walt Whitman: No. 2, A Clear Midnight

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.

--Walt Whitman, 1881

[checkitout-checkitout]

I don't mean this in a mean way, I just mean it in an "I'm on the spectrum" way, but: I kind of don't care about plot and characters? Like, I've come to realize I'm way more interested in aesthetics and style? So much of fandom and pop "analysis" seems to be "the rise and fall of this character's journey" or "This easter egg changes the entire multiverse" and I'm way more concerned with the piano doing the tinkly thing while the camera does the whoosh.

[countesspetofi]

Mais surtout, quand la brise Me touche en voltigeant, La nuit j'aime être assise, Être assise en songeant, L'oeil sur la mer profonde, Tandis que, pâle et blonde, La lune ouvre dans l'onde Son éventail d'argent.

[doggerel-catchall]

Henry Lived on Pudding Street

Henry lived on Pudding Street At Number Twenty-three; Henry was a wunderkind At archaeology. Henry found a Pharaoh's tomb A mile underground. He went inside to have a look, And this is what he found: A statue of an aardwolf, A sterling silver adz, A check for seven dollars And a box of Brillo pads, Nineteen tiny titmice And a pound of Roquefort cheese, And the fur of twenty llamas, Sadly bitten by the fleas. He found a note to Santa That was stained with bitter tears, And a pile of titmouse droppings That had built up through the years. He found the throne of ivory Where the Pharaoh sat at court, A jeweled tray of cheese puffs, And a withered Linzer torte. He was nearly killed by mummies With horrid, stinking breath; He showed them his vacation slides And bored them all to death. He found a secret chamber With murals on the walls, Wherein he found a golden tool For making melon balls. What he found beneath the bed I hesitate to mention, But Henry took it home to give it "Personal attention." He saw a yellowed birthday card - 'Twas signed, "With love, King Tut" - And twenty-nine canopic jars Containing Pharaoh guts. Socks and locks and cocktail frocks And maps of Puget Sound; These and many other things Are what our hero found. He went on home to Pudding Street All filled with joy and pride, But ah! Alas! When he got home His goldfish all had died.

[broomsick]

She is the one who stands with Her arms open,

Ready to welcome those who have walked across the Gjöll bridge.

She is not one to be tricked,

For Her holy name is renowned through the nine worlds,

All of which know of Her power:

She cradles the souls of those who come to rest with the Gods,

And She does not discriminate the peasant from the king,

Nor the humble from the noble.

To Her we send songs of praise.

Onto Her I entrust my life.

Beside Her does the Luminous One sit.

Upon Her is a crown made of ash.

Artist

[diabolicphallus666]

Transcript:

TASA REME LARIS SATAN

We call our Lord

Through vocal chords

YID CHUS MUN NAG LAM SETAN

Our spirits cry out to ABYSS

From modern texts to hieroglyphs

ZAZAS ZAZAS NASATANADA ZAZA

Our blades do shine in crimson drips

Lord Satans sword hits Jesus lips

Pater Satanas nos sublevat

As heavens drown

He takes the crown

Victoria ad Satanam

Victoria ad Satanam

Our rejoice rings through the skies

Ad majorem Satanae gloriam

God of Abraham finally dies

[countesspetofi]

Miniver coughed, and called it fate, and kept on drinking.

[sonofsatansworld]

[derangedrhythms]

I sleep to the sound / of your name,

Mary Szybist, Incarnadine; from 'Hail'

[countesspetofi]

Well, this is such a yarn. Paul sawed his wife Out of a white-pine log. Murphy was there And, as you might say, saw the lady born.

hmmm

[countesspetofi]

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

--William Butler Yeats, January 1919

[angeloftheodd]

Pride isn’t the only gift the devil gave me. I also got poetry and witchcraft. 😈🖤

Happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈

🍒 My Instagram (angel0fthe0dd) 🍒

🫐 My Xitter (GhiaWasHere) 🫐

[usefulquotes7]

Why should I criticize what I am and what I can do? I see deep into the nature of man because I love man and nature. I see what you don't see. Another part of Me!

[nazzys-world]

Hail to the thief!

Radiohead art digital collage

[cloudsandtrails]

Please give me a follow. I post nothing but pictures of clouds and trails where I live. Please afford me the opportunity to bring you some nature to your day! 🙏🏼 Check out this Flaming Sunset on the outskirts of what I call “The Cedars”.

Thunderstorm’s roars hush,

Sunset flaming through the clouds—

Rain's tears ignite fire.

[kaosailor]

"Hail Satan"

Two words, a feeling.

9 letters, retribution.

3 syllables, a prayer in

1 sentence: "revolution".

2 words of power,

invoking the dark

and remembering eras,

and decades and those

who fell, the ones,

all magicians of Him.

Omnipresent egregore,

a legacy of pain, and

sorrow but courage

of those once condemned.

We all come together,

no matter the words, cause

the language can't limit

what matters the most:

"Hail Satan" is Pride,

it's freedom, is lust;

the egregore commands

us to join, all together,

once and for all to the

Death, yes, and beyond:

the Flow to the Source.

Long life to the black wizards, the disrupters of order, invokers of Chaos, everlasting howlers, the insatiable werewolves, those sworn to the Dark. Chaos Rex Infinitum, Hail Satan!