Fire Rhythm Echo

All poems © Salix Thelema Rausmend. Buy my Book - Buy my eBook - Patreon -  Ko-fi - Twitter

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Normcraft

A cold caress feels skin intact: protection altaring misgivings– messages flown down on rails. Cool heads prevail, endure this visit, egged to double-burn the wax, dishonored: chided for syntax. They shift their tremors out of park, engaging flywheels, sign on lines– error that binds the river gray to bones in titles, floating loans to scant subscribers who to signal sync: clique here and link to strength in number. Textbooks waver not– no units cover aberrations. Shred such practice with a blade. Hold in abeyance hit parades– insist the linguist's hand decline our ending: dative frosts that stagger out from what is lost.

And through this pity plays the Modest Grim Quartet to crowds that haven't listened yet–presumed to rise up faithful by the sword, but buried under long receipts and bills for dull retreats, hearts centered in the sou·r stacking wrong. We wrench a living from what's left of laters severed, but so long.

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Neutralize Target

Healing hold begone. Bring on the pain that clings to eager, stringing hopes along a chain of darkness. Nigh upon the rise, we tear his tune apart, stir humming in his heart. His anxious hands below conduct wry tests of letting go of each unbidden grime and razor down marks left behind. Some level showmanship empowers routes to air—exhausted climbing there, he taps his recourse from the mouth— unruly words, unforged, surmount what flickers onto lives of rain-slicked hurry. Words depart and see him fade away—horizons to replace the outer frame of what we knew he saw: some rhyme, some scheme, some law. Some deluge infiltrates him now, brings up the level, groating all in dirt. Uncertain who sees next assault, we unleash bullets, pepper wisdom to a fault. Debride such stolen earth. Unclasp his locket, see what he called home. The fire is limitless. All passions foam and soil and solve the fear of prime depletion. What deletion from the rolls means not the loss of souls?

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Interruptor

He'll scratch at starts of fretting words— tease fracture, prime the battle grounds for pride obtained. His fans file in to bleachers, cheering on his crumbling look, delayed desi·re. Miniscule diversions check the "up" he squared, and see no timeless evil: passion plagued by livings. Lev'rages her fighting stance to balance danger there, and carve out if we care. She breaches past and pores over the staid solution, masons filling out their bricks with what was worn away. Her dreams combative to his growing-light—once tossed his turn, he slashed through living wood—severed the Marchness from it. Zeroes stall, embedded in a leaf, awaiting green. Conquers repetitive, from coast to kingdom come. What emptiness is won?

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Ad Diem Carptam

Captured at last. My quiverful did shake your ransom loose—vain price of novel circumstance, rebounding up the mudhills of the past, up mires that swallow shoes and grief us for a thimbleful of how it really felt. You dealt your doings' deal, wound up a scattered reel of torments: roses on the vine that fell on thorny wrists to leech the somedays from your spreading wings. Bare respite in the hands of kings who deign to manage what good things go wrong: one laughed and out went song. Two stood and shook out lies. Three spoke and gouged out others' views of yours as empty summer eyes. Recapped in major ways to generally fawn, yet flip a nonsense-script to hammer bad words home and sire a signal-damning tome to scratch ancestors' heads (as we would do if we could meet them)—Mysteries to greet them, burdens on the sleeve of he who dared dig mud: I linger.   What I free will sting or sear or singe, but noise is what one makes when stranded on the fringe.

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Ash Tribes

Over-exhaust of some inferno: liars case to hedge the raging cost against the dead man's deepest loss. The bleeding-in of light, the color play blanked out to cosmic white, unchecked derivatives bleach every shore. It's clean: suspend the dream mid-action, suffer closeness (main event) —two lives' derision in the backlight of the spent trash in their grip. Burning for space to butt in, burdened by what they consumed— deny they ever made it, even as it grows from out their hand. They'll wander for a land to burn, crouched lighters shielding from cold fans the doubts and duties of the clean non-lethal air. "I'd rather die than care," the smokers claim, and rally 'round the spot. Brisk trade in little leaves extortion, quarters dropped in slots—the little lives of pocket-things, borne true to clouds away, your stack, your papers in the fray. Advance your cheap diversion, spread the caustic fire. Butt-crushing embers snuff desire in lieu of one more hit, and those who knew it never left unlit.

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Gain Drone

Reach us while we're still amazing, as so few of stillness-walkers do (just faking grip of earth with hard-wired feet, electric, snapped to grid: grant "likes" to highest bid, repeat). Engagement or abandon, līves that roll and fall and blow adrift in 60-cycle retail hum. What's going on is numb – inspires the put-upon, unmasked as passers past: "Nothing calls, so leave me to my task." Abide deceitful ethers billowing "enough" to over-borne– role split, forlorn, obsessed with it, sweet nothings on the shore bring balm from outer seas – drop-carton double-loss-mistakes on parchment, human cost reviled, regaled at every party: "How I suffer!" "And I more!" construct such heavy bores on blocks to stall our moving forward. Fair days shrug to leverage signals from the road, enhancing (as the mode dictates) each fixture of this humble set: more tools than hands can carry, more consigned to ceiling- debt. Seek less and see: mores never met.

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Performative

Lovers' wanton "where" strings out a mystery on chainmail airs. Outlandish signals redirect off-stage some dull producers, sever tries to hoist the classics, sullen, tied to water- casting, free from gambled whims, all spades & spires shuffle outward dizzy after pain. Roll credits, feign the after-flash of fertile come-across, impeaches fickle livelihood to roam less traveled. Put upon, this dust snuffs out no finer match. Alight and stay up-catching to the grim-wire news that feeds us all three limbs from shades of justice: error anchors līve with words & buffer on their bread. Await the wrath instead. Oustated ample questionry upsold to counter-rhythm: eat the fee and freebase wrong to wit— too long to carry it, too short to carve an inkling out of sorts.

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Whose Girl

Origin abides the damning cost that martyrs tree-boned life. Moon-temple tides hoist stonewall pride: inverted vacuum of a sun requited into love. What bids the youth perform is puffed-up chests that pick up checks, collaborate in pulsing rooms, and stall the patient slumber of some judgment buried in the wall. Out cry the mounting omens: skulls still undecided forced to build the boundaries, carve "abstain" into their lucid twist of providence–for "reasons". Willows mark her sacred route. High-boned to arms right spent: white gridlock on the prison bay, uplifting cells as down disaster plays. Outlandish others disinfect her role from sanctioned sects, outshine desired effects– demented rays, fulfilling her apostate fame. The vetting blows up earmarked patients, wounds beset in value, offer non-regret to widows standing down. Rich pressure-towns to offer fleeting fare from homes that proffered care from bones– intractable, a loan.

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Re-Orientation

Hello new followers, thank you for your interest. If you like what you read, please buy my book available here: http://www.magillas.com/product-page/fire-rhythm-echo-book Each poem accompanied with photography. eBook with photography also available.

My poetry is:

-stream of consciousness

-consistent in meter

-not about love

-the length of one written notebook page

-twice revised for your delectation

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Road Salt

Sea pulse asurge, your pores brace for influx:

the scrub of sixteen salts whose rigid karma

scrapes us down. So sound the signals

(likely sales) from shoehorned sleeper

towns. Their patron wasn't long for earth;

a grid (what genius!) takes a bow,

puts slideshow on, and all we hear is how.

When sunlight stirs again we'll chisel

feeble errors, chip a bullet

out of stone. We'll see which skulkers

have a six at home, and toast

the night in sheetery. When devils

drain the foosty runoff of

your prim report to primal center,

sweep up white-horse myths bleached out

of paved-gray lots. Submerge in steam

of favor, frenzied in unseen replies

(no sharper catching eyes as coffees,

tipped to spoon in drowse-A.M.s

from furtive nights) -- Behold (unsold to rights)

uncensored action, living truth!

Untempted nine-percenters,

go-betweens for stunning tens

ground out of poison pens.

Abrade with noise what was to clean our lens.

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Profiteer

What do you deserve? Let's match it up with what you had the nerve to break. Concessions? Some poor sap's fair shake? No carefree drop-by-drop of days taps your forgiveness-Morse. They fall upon discourse, always needing to know, exploiting loiter- bones to cleave "now" from the crack (two shades of never coming back). None freer than the light you saw when first you shook—still you won't dance or cost, consume or hitch-hike. Backseat to some error-formed device: white lighting rolls the dice. Can we upstand the boldness of his claim? No doubt he felt ashamed— that phantom, teasing wrinkles up what we worked for. (Why won't he visit more?) Write down the weighted score: your mild applause, their terror cries, and split the difference with the outer set. Catastrophe's the safest bet.

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Successful Cowards

Players in the hit parade abound like orphans—eat the glow of while-you're-seated pills that start the fading of a heart. Their covert deposition talks you down—hawks warlord-wisdom, spits betrayals of what you built. So if you have to plea, reveal your guilt two inches from their eyes. Good jest replies in callbacks: "When you get to be more special, let us know." So folds their show of reason, leaving you to lurk upstage upholding tasks divorced from charm: false shopping, twisting arms. Outsourced. In faith a word casts end-of-game, denies them helpful shame, applauds their global reach like red-tide beaches. Lights up; stir the waxing i·re, fixed-width, non-perspiring, livid. Stunned in passing, angels catch collapsing tenets cached in rivals' mark: clipped off and quiet, buried in the dark.

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Manual of Style

Crash unbridled gates. Grind organs through the rosy calm of tolerance. See misfits shuck the beasts in bed with bliss. Type up and tack to this new daily mess the bounds of what went by 'neath private barroom skies; no looming spy will fix you flint to burn the friendly waters, flicker honor out to disarrange and scold some rhyme too bold for comfort-answers, dumb-fit, fumble- grounded in some sliver too uncouth. Tape pageless trees for truth; blog-sift the spheres, watch darkness' evil ears upend and train the tuner on the lips extolling groundwork kisses (sparkful dominance upstaged by passion turned to stone: reserves gone sour, hour unknown.) Mist-choked misnomers acting onerous and blinking out of phase: de-stage the structure. Anchor down who stays, who pulls the latest polls. While blind-spots clutch white lace like arguments, make space to process what flies past as damned rats stay the course, a maze in grace.

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Covenant

Winter muffles whys—builds camps to cover lies, and sing, and pray, and rank-and-file amazement underneath the grave. For whom? For hymns to cheer the worker tasked with robbing coffins—refund for the nauseous ever-trope. The price to cope may mount, but saints will light your way to greed-bared aisles, and holy phantages watch you in your motel, and smile, and gather shells that held self worth (picked dry—your kids don't need them anymore). Now deck the wedding: brides of clever ruse and grooms-to-be lined up in civic mass, one shotgun glance away from trumpet's vengeful blast.

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Back to Work in the Mine

Rude-awakened, bare, I plunged the mine for errors—yelled revisions up the shaft, felt echoes drift. Stifled gold-myths for anchors: pig-iron chained to answers. Asked "which way?" and felt novel paths fade to gray, gut-checked at gates Now Boarding, urgency-alive, departure day.   For-Shame walks hard his two-block beat: the love against his feet, the bleach behind his eyes. The toll is lucid blood: much thinner, quick-twitch coded, primed to run. Canaries, fathoms down, sing longing to the mask that votes for trade—sweeps laurel off the heads of state, befouls the learners' orgy-grounds. What truth might Satan still confound? Denounced and parceled, grifters spend our last resort up paper-trails that track too short— force every sense through that accursed mask. To breathe, perchance, to ask.

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Abiding Exit

After wide-set earthen towers mask the highway runoff, campers come off lofty horses, signal boorishness to breeze. Sat alone where rolling orange will tease the peace from perfect dark - the hint of dread forgoing litness to expose a martial bode -  the low-slung limbs of stern bring trained to-wrist like faithful, catching glimpses of what common good  afforded us naff hazes like the present sickle answer, whale-bone grief and prescient danger. Fix a poultice, love’s soft landing seldom not for treasures come. Revive the brazen lungs in boasts of rushes, random-lit, forestalling sodden semblances of wit from Sunday’s arsenal -  right-matched to cleaner absences  than your limited souls could ever pare. She’s felt - a fabric after our own hearts, a loan from common waltzes,  taciturn in downshifts of this archen land -  of course - of hand, a slight  anomaly for watchers to observe. Each roadblock touches nerve.