Never before released!
Steemit Rising - Original Poetry by Robyn of Eggs
This is my first release - feedback wanted! <3
Get ready for this one...it will blow your mind :-O
Poem
“Holy Space Juice”
Oh God
the sighs of many winters
come rolling off my lungs like
a huge hit of flower’s smoke
A jolting riot
of thoughts
pass by, through my brain
like the thunderstorms of winter
And the juice is not
the juice I was looking to milk
from the udders of space -
but a concoction of bubbly spew,
pouring from the great rift
with spittle like an old man’s
nipple dribble from too
much heroin and use
Yet why did I wait
to drink it
’til after satiating myself
with the wines of winter,
and the nipples of frost?
For spring comes in falsehood,
(says the boss)
Another winter lies ahead,
space is dead
and we would be fooling ourselves, instead
to think on it, she says (sauced)
Well maybe I’ll think on it
In fact, I will drink on it -
let it burn inside me with desire,
and melt the kingdom
The halls of witnesses
filled with boredom,
like so many
traumatic accounts
Long past the tunnels of
human trafficking
and insurmountable doubts -
winter is surreal now
and I feel the power
of the juice going down my throat
Spring will come
she says to me in February
but little does she know
that around the bend
lays dreary
the breasts I once knew
She is stricken with the bends
inside an inter-dimensional slue,
slain and torn anew -
yet ready she is, to be born
on the knob, in the horn
on the suckling yew
So I say to you,
and we drink to it
Drunken spew -
water draws up
wine slides down
and all upon
the crown of yew
Winter melts away
and so do you
leaving me to me
and the slue to the slue
give it another day-
for it shall melt away, too
and I fall from the crown of the yew
Yet the sighs of many springs renew
and my brain
remembers the juice from the cup
and you -
I remember her (my boss)
and the thunder, and the yew
And I prepare to take care
of the deluge that will come
when everything is done
and all I can do
is beg her for sun
and a boat -
and mountable, steady rope
to tie the limbs
and chop the dim-witted slopes
To my whim and chagrin
I grin,
all over again, as I soak
And I take saddle and horse
as relief
to town -
to cope, of course
That is what you tell the rescue crew
while I draw it all in -
the smoke and the town,
the cattle and the crown,
and I inhale
deep, deep down
like the coffers of cloisters long gone,
like the earth-scented barrels
of seasoned, red wine
And the underground storage room,
tamed and untimed
Rid me of Englentine’s bind
you say, chagrined
for rich, warm mahogany
keeps me from agony
in a glorified, sturdy stine
(I listen on the yew)
There shall be this one more winter -
before God cries,
and pigs will fly - you say
before she melts it all away
It will reveal the revel
of green, green glory
on high
in the tempest, at the bay
And you will see it,
you will know it,
though it curls,
as I did, that day
So I carry up
my pipe and bowl
to my mouth -
and cry
like a poor, white-washed baby
in the inter-dimensional sky
And together we sigh,
just the boss, you and I -
For to drink the juice of space
is to be born and then die
Oh God
Please leave all comments below the eggs on toast
Get ready for this one...it will blow your mind :-O
Poem
“Holy Space Juice”
the sighs of many winters
come rolling off my lungs like
a huge hit of flower’s smoke
A jolting riot
of thoughts
pass by, through my brain
like the thunderstorms of winter
the juice I was looking to milk
from the udders of space -
but a concoction of bubbly spew,
pouring from the great rift
with spittle like an old man’s
nipple dribble from too
much heroin and use
to drink it
’til after satiating myself
with the wines of winter,
and the nipples of frost?
For spring comes in falsehood,
(says the boss)
Another winter lies ahead,
space is dead
and we would be fooling ourselves, instead
to think on it, she says (sauced)
In fact, I will drink on it -
let it burn inside me with desire,
and melt the kingdom
The halls of witnesses
filled with boredom,
like so many
traumatic accounts
Long past the tunnels of
human trafficking
and insurmountable doubts -
winter is surreal now
and I feel the power
of the juice going down my throat
she says to me in February
but little does she know
that around the bend
lays dreary
the breasts I once knew
She is stricken with the bends
inside an inter-dimensional slue,
slain and torn anew -
yet ready she is, to be born
on the knob, in the horn
on the suckling yew
So I say to you,
and we drink to it
water draws up
wine slides down
and all upon
the crown of yew
Winter melts away
and so do you
leaving me to me
and the slue to the slue
give it another day-
for it shall melt away, too
and I fall from the crown of the yew
and my brain
remembers the juice from the cup
and you -
I remember her (my boss)
and the thunder, and the yew
And I prepare to take care
of the deluge that will come
when everything is done
and all I can do
is beg her for sun
and a boat -
and mountable, steady rope
to tie the limbs
and chop the dim-witted slopes
To my whim and chagrin
I grin,
all over again, as I soak
And I take saddle and horse
as relief
to town -
to cope, of course
while I draw it all in -
the smoke and the town,
the cattle and the crown,
and I inhale
deep, deep down
like the coffers of cloisters long gone,
like the earth-scented barrels
of seasoned, red wine
And the underground storage room,
tamed and untimed
you say, chagrined
for rich, warm mahogany
keeps me from agony
in a glorified, sturdy stine
(I listen on the yew)
There shall be this one more winter -
before God cries,
and pigs will fly - you say
before she melts it all away
It will reveal the revel
of green, green glory
on high
in the tempest, at the bay
And you will see it,
you will know it,
though it curls,
as I did, that day
my pipe and bowl
to my mouth -
and cry
like a poor, white-washed baby
in the inter-dimensional sky
And together we sigh,
just the boss, you and I -
For to drink the juice of space
is to be born and then die
Oh God
Please leave all comments below the eggs on toast