Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.

Temple of the Doll

I’ve seen the thing
        belching in the garden like a sick toad
poised in the dark, breathless as a hound.
Three stub fingers in a crooked groove,
a commandment held firmly.
Her Word a scythe over the wheat fields,
still eyes smoking with lunar fog
The suffocating aeons of spinning stone pillars
Gravitas above a black aeon’s body
far away and ill lit. Faith is in eyes
punctured and still. Her eyes grind dust,
the stars from circus balls bleed out,
the stars from children’s eyes
 fly into her wooden palm.
In her death rattle’s
misty salvo, black beaded rattling chains,
choosing victims with pitiless sainthood.
from her perch in the window. 
Sterile as a deformed star in space,
breathing in the sleeping grooves
of her many locked rooms
Her third eye’s flood, ablaze
in flooding gnosis, a painted tooth hanging;
I’ve seen this thing scoping the plots,
and her razor fishnet stockings
bleeding her as a false penitent.
Blinking once a decade
in the sick honey of poisoned reverie;
            a scream shrill an angel’s skinned octave,
a scrape of medusa’s third lung.
The monks spin in mad recitations,
dervishes of her moonpsalms.
Faith is in eyes punctured and still,
she whispers, voice counted 
on starry vector beads. She reigns, still 
in this town of bone and brick.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


Some things I've been thinking about:
What do you think of the notion of earning an image by connecting it with the concrete as opposed to creating it from the less-anchored transmission of the imagination?
Is hyper imaginative writing as in surrealism in danger of becoming merely ornamental. decorative, ingratiating linguistics?
Is it better to connect or more fully integrate our externalized face to the world (egoic reality) with the wilds of the sacred primal and subterranean?
We cooked trout and perch on forked sticks.
Fire crackled in the forest stillness
Fire forms stood out against the gloom
Ancient trunks with wens and deformities
Moss bearded ancients—and thin saplings
The strong, the weak, the old, the young—

Solitary watcher
of what rose
and set
I saw only
a Golgotha
of corpses.

And finally would such a strategy mean giving up the combustive sonic inventions rooted in the elasticity of creative writing that is possible perhaps only when one is unmoored from the gravity and restrictive forces of concrete reality?
Best Z

(c) No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.