The Full Circle
Eight Years
The history made the full swing
Of the clock hands often in vain
Yet this time
Creatin’ so much cacophony
Of malevolent sounds causin’ internal agony
Whilst walkin’ with a waverin’ gait
Among the lukewarm human statues
Yellin’, yet I could never spin them a yarn about anythin’
The purest snowflake meltin’ on a hot tin roof
They’re behind the police cordon
Guardin’ my lack of comfort
From gnarled animals’ snouts
Precarious, yet I’m not afraid of them
As they should dread for their uncertain livelihoods
Build on absurdity, frivolity, and incapability
Explicitly displayin’ their real nature
And shushin’ me up like a little girl
Castin’ orders to return to my room
Vauntin’ viciousness of viable lies in pockets
Visible from miles
You dared to piss on English soil
In your red Italian cloak
Bein’ in the service of the Vatican
And worse than any other nation
Midnight cow and maiwand lion
Propped up by Spanish columns in rubble
And a Greek theatre operatin’
In the modern era of betrayals
Of one’s character, bein’ contemptible
Mounted mountain’s mould
Exhibition of atrocities
Under the same roof
Whilst the whole wide world
Stopped with a feelin’ of no support
Only malignant damage performed on me
Whilst I was quietly sleepin’
Unaware of the consequences
Of someone else’s brutal menaces
Dependin’ on enemies’ wishes
Against my psyche
When I was called “she” again
Like I didn’t have a name
Only a foot in the doorway
Flooded with lies
*
To abusers from A. C.’s crowd
*
29 June 2021
***
Thank you for reading!
If you liked this poem, you can add your Insights, Comment, leave a Heart, Tip, Pledge, or Subscribe. I will appreciate any support you have shown for my work.
You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Mescaline Brisset on my Vocal profile. The art of creation never ends.
About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
Find me on Medium
Keep reading
More stories from Mescaline Brisset and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli6 days ago in Poets
Comments
Mescaline Brisset is not accepting comments at the moment
Want to show your support? Send them a one-off tip.