Bezpłatny fragment - In Pale Melancholy

„Macabre Macarism”

within the after-morn

a cadaverous realm

auguréd and arraught

by the vane via a gust so whelm’d

once the skew mirksome arose

wyth my eyne acquainting the bright

lour hath me devour’d Lady of Bane

and a wedlock made out of her surete

bestowing a whyte gold token aright

to the rustic necropolis sole

the solemnest stride;

lo! — a maid of honor is she undersought,

albeit as faithful and wondrous as they come;

encoldeneth and complieth na to do wythowt;

wickéd and awful depictéd, yet fear her not

— ’auld lang syne, egad’!;

’play ye and chant: ’neivie-nick-nack’’

deid — my skull’s afly withal;

amphibian the countenance of hers, who doth guide;

ere a scarey midnicht apparition; nu a monesmate fine;

na allenarly Mephisto, the Lord of Hatred’s aphrodisia,

yet seraphim’s infravision loveress forbye

— and as she provideth me a courtly route to thee,

tomes on pedestals descend like of extraterrestrial infinity

the deth-wed procession

to have it trail’d or march’d

subsidéd itself asudden,

yet not to thwart in cession;

anon was the tomb sunken,

yet its arch undone tower’d o’er as the fire-flaucht

no suppression

’twould run the bridal blood cold,

’tis thaumaturgic

for styll sanguine it appeareth withal

into the chasm I peer at him in a chalky whyte gown

— harpoon thou my hart and tug me adown;

dreich not, for our closeness — closure — closedown!

regarding yester — no longer be thou such a jester;

nou we have alpha and omega — ours be the omnia;

despite the infestation’s den — zilch to fester a byspel

thence I plunge, hence I subside, and the orts of the veil

held by the conifers make the final portal briefly disavail’d;

providéd wyth that by arachnids, yet acquit we dirtydance;

in the aforelife both spirit-lift’d ’n’ ground-gain’d were we—

mutual, so lovely to bechance is such a stance, e'erso dear

’n’ so sang the choir, made the night last fore’ermore;

their remembrance, be it of loathers, be it not

— myght not be of myght siréd, yet oblivion

we shall ne’er know henceforth; ’tis acheless moreo’er;

na a posy, but a yard — lickle bramble ’n’ mickle thorns

but in the flesh — oh, ne’ermore

on a toss-up result we dwell, my love

„A Would-Be”

I will e’er be a would-be,

I might e’er be a might-have-been

— under my skin,

bred-in-the-bone;

cognizant am of this,

wearing thin

and nou na solely

my association lit out,

nou na solely my fate

carvéd in stone

— givin’ in

to a cinder burnout

by burnt bridges return’d

so ignitéd danceth

the tongue

of a candle so lone

the ends met

— to the core…

„Blest”

’count thy blessings’ what they love to bid —

their sole reply to fro’ what I remove the lid

iwis a blue chamber lock sagacious be —

where the iron entereth my sowl merely

„Under The Rose”

first he made her run out of vases

then he made her run out of life…

„Myriads”

army of one maketh the body count

„Mists Of Time”

turn’d ’could’

to the ’could have been’;

nou knocking on wood;

the skin press’d by lid

’should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?

should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and days of auld lang syne?’

— would rather love

to be embosom’d

by the one who once

of kith and kynne oneself did plight

’we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet

for days of auld lang syne’

wickets of e’erness have ajarr'd;

Scotch and pale is the veil

of yester- and morrowlessness

— fro’ sanguine albe descendeth

the fane’s chorale chanteth

a cadence of ex cathedra —

shall we into our cheerful alehouse

proceed anon withal?

’we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne’

and as an ignis fatuus lyght,

therefore I shall be fine

’and there’s a hand, my trusty fiere

and gie’s a hand o’ thine’

— into the wanness of haar

’we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne’

here’s mud in your eyne

— pipe ’em ’n’ your hart out

sojourn, pine away, o’er and for —

cometh agen the annual o’ercoat afore

„Thy Future Favorite Threnody (I Am So Belovéd Now)”

wyth my head hot more oft than not,

I become more and more reluctant

towardes different activities

— their nature be both night and diurnal —

yet styll by no means am I cold

if only soft hearts and entities

were defendéd the way all those

characters are when discusséd is

the required readings scope,

but my dreams are pipe

I know I’ve become

— more or less — yet styll known

by dint of my ’chimeras’,

all those authoresses have

— no one can prove me wrong;

I sympathize wyth them

— especially back in the day,

and contemporarily here I happen to envy so much;

mayhap I ought to be patient, indeed,

and post my demise

— wait a couple of decades

for my turn to come

trust me, for me nou

— they turn in their graves;

trust me, forbye

— they are cold themselves;

my preservation — iwis your delight is being perpetuate,

for ’dreamin’ a dwam is a yet another poetess’,

and ’dreams ought to be fulfilléd, take good care;

dreams to be fulfilléd, ought they not, precious little gem?’

therefore I reach for all the inspos,

diving into the evillest of my den,

because no mayhem appeareth to be too vile,

if subsequently write it adown, beautify,

shock beyond belief, dismay, and after all influence

to such a vast extent thou canst;

prithee, may this my cave be enlargéd, as well

I appall wis to the point of being pale,

I appall wis to the point of being pale,

and who is being pale now?

I appall wis to the point of being pale,

I appall wis to the point of being pale,

yet who is perpetually pale now?

there is nought to envy, truth be told,

and I wish I could do more

than solely write and pray an orison;

there is nought to laugh at,

nought to congratulate on,

and I wish I could do at least a wee bit more

than to write a threnody of my own

and now that you are perchance wading through,

I merely interrogate wherefore doth

an artist need to have one to belovéd become?

if recognizéd at all, if recognizéd at all;

wherefore doth an artist need to have

a threnody of one’s own to belovéd become?

not to mention the one spill’d by one’s own hand…

the nebulist — here I go again on my own,

for if something is inevident or ununderstandable,

then the existence of it is forthwith gainsaid;

yeah, I love to be troublesome, I have already heard

’uneasy to decipher’,

’impossible to decode’,

who would e’er bother to do it all?

all the more so that none listeth to me at all,

and the simplicity of asking for a succor or support

is dismisséd, as one too difficult to attain — unfeasible,

so how could e’er units of

my poems become comprehensible?

’she hath her ire clad in a mire of metaphors’

protection, or at least defense once my name

they do beclart is what I ask abowt;

wherefore should I endure?

why should I thole?

this sudden ’occupational hazard

and a peril of being bright’?

a peril of being right, I dare be bound,

but the end its means justifieth not

nought to envy, nought to laugh at;

nought to congratulate on;

nought to beautify, nought to glamorize;

nothing fey — or to a certain extent mayhap;

nothing to be spread and gone

from generation to generation anymore

for that I touch wood, I knock on it all the time,

yet tell me, in what way am I doing it now?

thy future favorite threnody is ready

— am I belovéd now?

(too early/too late — delete as appropriate);

thy future favorite threnody is ready

— how do you love me now?

thy future favorite threnody is ready

— now nobody else’s is better than mine…

or, perhaps, it’s just a yet another ’chimera’,

for we, authoresses, poetesses, are so

known for ones; a wandering of the mind

when reality ain’t too kind, especially when

change is possible, yet styll kept out of sight;

especially when change is possible,

yet solutions are kept in disguise…

ye like it submissive, ye like it passive,

and I submit, like, all the time;

passing ain’t as easy as most people trow;

too little, too much, too early, too late

— cross out whichever does not apply

thy future favorite threnody is ready

— now nobody else’s is better than mine…

„Will-o’-the-wisp”

the boy for whom a mournful chant

had not been allow’d to be sung

by obsequious tragediennes as a final grant

— wyth whom the grand wraith wandereth nou

his atomy mountéd up

within frigid jewels o’ argentine

at the sight o’ Themis’ cæcity fold

aloft ’em as if to preen

so the phantasm fro’ cathedral depths did ascend

and a human wight to the marshes did mend;

the laceration shan’t amend; bygone doth it burn;

a merciless killin’; fiends those to make him depart;

so trifle-wee, but nay imp had e’er been this child

he’d been to wend, tho’ thereon chaperonéd na to fend

— a blizzard raw and ruthless to melt the bloke beheld;

rewound the season range — a harvest time to distend;

’tis the end, yet thou — na evanescent!’ the lofty soul saith

despite wyth the mortal ones — beyond comparison itself;

they certes warm ’n’ self-aware; he’d come up agin so well

— detestéd and berserk trudgeth he wyth one limb bereft,

yet no quagmire hath him sunken — doth na recess;

frosty ’n’ rotten leaves fistful-tight the same reverberate;

a sole ignitéd coal na plethora of warmth doth possess;

alackaday the spark, algidity causeth no dread withal

the orbs to chase ’n’ play wyth reign for aye

„Sick at Heart”

ye humanists

o’ the definition obsolete;

ye humanists

o’ the definition that is ’with it’

quher verbatim

and the extension wide enow

for me to be in and out;

includéd, excludéd,

and fit to be ti'd

— doctors who made me sick avouch’d;

once sick at heart, albeit come alive and tall

maugre, zounds! — I do not stand at all!