cardinalis

moonlight is bleeding from out of your soul

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 00:14:20 GMT

Steven Wilson, I love you, I love you so much. OH MY GOD, I'm so in love with you.

Finally getting to see PT in September! OMFG HELL YES!

One of the many reasons why I want this man so damn much...he's on a mission. The destruction of iPods everywhere. Die, iPod, die! XD

oh you see the light, it's coming through...

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 04:02:38 GMT

Totally in the mood for a WoW post for my own entertainment. I've decided to make my Troll Priest my main because my Undead on my other server isn't specced the way I want and I'm too cheap to spend the gold to respec. She's just a twink anyway, so Zaranji it is. She's 51 now, so almost high enough for Wrath!

Look who I was chillin' with in UC. I almost kissed him. XD

Enjoying Winter Veil in Org. I'm the Gnome on the raptor.

My rockin' reindeer mount in STV.

OMFG I cannot freakin' wait to explore more of Northrend. This expansion rocks because I can already tell they're focusing more on the original story left off in Warcraft III.

LOLZ

Sorry, couldn't help myself.

:'(

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 04:58:29 GMT

My favorite pitcher retired...noooo. I knew he was going to retire soon, but I wasn't ready. My heart's breaking a little, because baseball will never be the same without him...ever. I'm just glad I did get the chance to see him pitch back in '99. And you better believe that I'm going to Cooperstown in five years when he's inducted in the HOF. No way in hell I'm missing that.

Thanks for all that you've done for baseball, Maddog. And thanks for constantly reminding me of all the real reasons why the game is so special. Enjoy your retirement and relax because you deserve it, but know you will be missed...greatly.

Perfect example of why he's called the Professor. The man's brilliant.

LOL. I'm one of those chicks who's always digged the Cy Young winners...you know, especially when a pitcher wins them 4 times in 4 consecutive years? Oh, and 18 Gold Gloves in 23 seasons? Yeah, that's a hell of a lot more awesome than beefy one-noted homerun sluggers coked up on 'roids.

dream a world maybe no one owns

Wed, 29 Oct 2008 03:04:31 GMT

HAPPY NEW CURE ALBUM DAY!!!

My God. I have waited four years for this day to come...FOUR YEARS! It's amazing the little things that can just make your day so perfect. The only thing that kind of sucked was having to wait to listen to it till after work. Seriously, the anticipation of it nearly drove me up a wall. But now I've already listened to it twice (I've already heard the singles a million times over though), and I knew it was going to be amazing...it's a freaking Cure album, of course it's going to win on epic proportions - hell, their 2004 album had to have been my least favorite of everything they've released, but it still kicked ass compared to most of the shit that's released these days. 4:13 Dream is definitely a step in the right direction following the self-titled album, but to be perfectly honest (I'm really not exaggerating), I think it could possibly be their best album in the last fifteen years...hell, it might be their best since Disintegration. No one can reinvent the musical perfection they created in the '80s, I don't even think they themselves can. Those albums are untouchable. But I really feel like after I listen to this one a few more times, I may possibly consider it slightly better than Wish or even Bloodflowers. I can't say for sure yet though, but damn, it rocks!

Some general thoughts I have of it so far:
1. Underneath the Stars: Great way to start the album. In the first couple minutes of it I'm already thinking, 'Yeah, this next hour is gonna be amazing.' I loved his voice each time he sang "And the waves break..."
2. The Only One: Not one of my absolute favorites. It was the first single released and I remember thinking, 'Please, don't let the whole album be just like this.' The song itself is great, but I wouldn't have wanted twelve others just like it. They would've never done that though. Robert's too moody and changing and never one-noted.
3. The Reasons Why: I loved this song. Lyrics were so strong and so insightful and dark: "In the silence for a second I am sure I hear them laughing then / I feel them calling me / Yeah they are calling me...
4. Freakshow: Haha, this song's awesome. It's fun, catchy, hilarious, bizarre...kinda reminds me of "Hot! Hot! Hot!" or maybe even "Why Can't I Be You?" Nice drums, too. Kudos, Jason C.
5. Sirensong: I liked the almost hurried, impatient feel to this song. It's only two minutes or so, but despite that rushed feel, it still has a sort of sweetness to it.
6. The Real Snow White: I liked how this one felt different to all the others and still was connected to them in some way. Lyrics were a bit odd at times and I'm not entirely sure what Robert was trying to express through them, but I still liked them and the guitar was awesome.
7. The Hungry Ghost: OMG, this song rocks. Definitely the best one on the whole freaking thing. I like it because it's got that classic Cure sound, and it really felt like a genuine revival of late '80s/early '90s classic alternative music...it didn't sound like a band today trying to write a song that sounded like that, it sounded like the actual thing.
8. Switch: It's almost ridiculous and surreal how well I can relate to this one. The lyrics spoke to me on numerous levels, and it's another example of how Robert really means what he's saying. It's not that annoying, fake, showy, pseudo-angst that plagues a lot of music these days. This is passionate and painful and so very real.
9. The Perfect Boy: Also a song I can relate to. I especially like how he expresses the perspective of both a man and a woman.
10. This. Here and Now. With You: Love the music, love the words, love his voice on it too. No complaints here.
11. Sleep When I'm Dead: This has to be my favorite of all the singles on the album. I love how abstract he was with some of the words he chose but still was able to get his point across so clearly.
12. The Scream: I thought it was awesome how he starts off singing an octave lower than usual and he's almost whispering the words, and while he's doing that I'm thinking to myself, 'Oh man, he's gonna start screaming soon, I just freaking know it.' Trust me, he does too. He sounds like a banshee at one point...not surprised by that though. I loved it. :)
13. It's Over: I thought of "The Kiss" from the Kiss Me album. Also some of the lyrics sounded like something from The Top...earlier, more experimental Cure: A nagging sense of shame I can't explain / An acrid taste of smoke and blood and tears and drugs / And every inch of me is raw / Yep, sounds like "Shake Dog Shake," which freaking rocks.

Other thoughts:
* 13 songs on their 13th studio release? Ah, they're so clever and cute like that. :]
* A couple negatives (nothing major, just some things I noticed): lack of keyboards and not much emphasis on bass. I love guitars, don't get me wrong. And Porl and Robert really know what they're doing (all the feedback was great and never felt overdone), but dude. Keyboards rock too! I know Roger's gone, but I still don't know why and I wish he was back. And honestly, some of the best Cure songs ever have the most awesome bass lines ("Other Voices," anyone?), and I sort of felt like at times I wasn't hearing as much of Simon as I would've liked.
* I loved how pretty much every song had the word "dream" in it somewhere. Nice.
* The Van Gogh quote in the sleeve was a beautiful addition: "For my part I know nothing with any certainty...but the sight of the stars makes me dream."

All in all I adored every minute of 4:13 Dream and I'm going to be listening to it constantly for a while. My thanks go out to the four guys for the great music and just for once again reminding me why they're still my favorite.

I'm in heaven, this is so incredibly beautiful. Wish they would've played this one when I saw them. Or better yet, I wish I could've been in Rome for this. And Porl's freaking awesome, it's insane. Also, if someone knows what kind of guitar that is, can you please let me know? I recognize Robert's, but I don't know what Porl's is.

the sorrow that joy seems to habitually spawn

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 02:56:24 GMT

Paper thin and razor sharp,
Those fingers graze along the cloak
Of velvet longing, tearful softness,
Weeping buds of white and smoke.

A sense of past that keeps me lost;
'Tis rhythmically drug-like and deeply inclined -
A heart that is swelling, not heard and not seen:
'Tis mine, all mine - oh yes! - it's all mine.

Standing there, squealing and shaking, you're sick -
Of you, of such fear you must feel for me.
You should be afraid, for I am a dress
That's blue with a fire that longs to be free.

Thrive in the silence and writhe in the love.
I'm mobile, I'm faster, I'm thick and you're kind
And you're fair, but not wise and eternal with faith -
That's mine, all mine - oh yes! - that's all mine.

* Still untitled and probably incomplete as I know what I'd like to add to it.

Oh, and Carl McCoy? I love you. Really, I do. Wherever you are in this crazy world.

Day exhibits no meaning without Dream.

Sat, 19 Jan 2008 06:59:40 GMT

More writing from the past couple of years. I'm working on a new piece right now, as well as making additions that compliment a few works in progress.

Enjoy.

Polly Merna, seek me now; such brings the restless ease,
To fear with patrons' absent glow emits what we displease.
This existential carelessness, the innocence conveyed,
'Tis which she comes to frown upon, by such she is displayed.
And yet, though lacking decadence, and telegraph's cement,
She widens from the brittle air and rises from descent.
* Only an excerpt from a continuous (and perhaps a little drawn out) study I've done of Polly, a "historical fictional" character of my creation.

The power of eloquence flourishes, mouthing thoughts and stripping down the silly sonnets we once soundly spoke to one another. Sin is inevitable yet is not manifest destiny. 'Tis hastily realized through simply thorough shrieks that having one is not needing one, is not desiring one either. Infused with devoted fear is such a state in which we constantly find one another, with regularity and green monsters. Such cannot be denied, does fabricate a rising dough of humanitarian acceptance. My cellular name particularly suits me. I like to hypothesize the solutions to my selected concerns. I like the sorrow as much as the smoothest of joys. I like when tolerant expressions revolutionize beside myself, spread the rising air betwixt my toes into an even cloak of a world picking kindly through my pores. I like that
dream. I like the reminders of a life that is mobile and mildly insubordinate in an adventurously innocent way, a life that is harmonious and wholly violet with sculpture and love.

Privacy
By Channyn E. Holvey-Bates

Foolish sickness, as bred through woes
As recourse breeds betwixt my toes,
And yet - oh yet! - it ne'er is parted,
Keeps such source from which we started.

Luxurious movement - monumental,
Trepidatious, incidental.
Movement said shines hearty sips,
Past savoring tongues and meager lips.

Old I am and old I stay,
And oh! how treasured 'tis this way!
I grow from such, I grow from past
To structure time's impassioned mast.
* This has always been one of my favorite things I've ever done.

Untitled
By Channyn E. Holvey-Bates
Filled with heart and rid of kin,
I shall be half of life within.

Darling beasts of nailing soils
Lick the boards of resting oils.
"Love births rain," the beasts extol -
"Ye, the man, the vaults of soul."

Yay, quizzed by love, my bank exclaims
As fortune's folly's fever flames,
Forward! Forward! Bed the sheets
With lover's absence, dimming beats.

Sorrow keeps a gem of sadness -
A charm, a treasured, sacred madness.
"Keep me, keep none else," I declare!
"Conquer worlds in courtly flares."

Blind, a moment now I gaze
Within thee, I perceive the ways
Of inward wonting, rich and ripe,
Filled with godless future's pipe.

Ending there, I find thee here,
Hasty, fervid, seared with fear.
"We make no more a finer time
Than that we made in Present's rhyme."

I may pray with cardinals sweet,
But now her tongue the finest meet:
"Love the ends," the widows speak
To mildest, wildest, most bluntly meek.

Such a folly, my clovers lie
As tempers surface and apples die.
Consumed by melodies so grand,
I grind my flesh and heal my hand.

Such an answer: blind, divine,
Self-teaching, wholesome, thick with pine.
Yea, The Way Inn bears no grief
With its darkness passing, brief.

So you bear your burdens great,
Consumed by fervid folly's fate.
Sadden me and turn the bays
Of all I am, my inward ways.

- Excerpt from "The Wax Of It All" by Channyn E. Holvey-Bates
* I'll share the entire piece sometime soon. It's one of the first poems I've written that I feel had an abundant amount of substance and power, and it's one that means a great deal to me personally, as well. This one wasn't written in the past couple years, though. This was written back in 2001...back in the day. :)

The thorns and the roses of all that are beautiful.

Wed, 31 Oct 2007 06:48:14 GMT

Time to share some writing. Enjoy my writing, criticize my writing, persecute if you must...just don't say it's your creation. Don't take what's most dear to me, I implore you. Thanks in advance.

Golden
Through the lights of a cardinal, your eyes have been found,

And all of love's unsteadiness softly pressed.

Such love and such care that is felt is renowned -

For you and your eyes which shall ne'er be the rest.

In time's sightless sadness and poverty's hue,

The grace of one chosen is that which will rise,

Above steel and havoc, and toward me and you -

And with this finesse he is free of demise.

Arresting and true in the darkest of lights,

I find him in roses, with curtains of sea.

And murmurs impart his silence and plight,

While I see him steady, enduring, and free.

A promise, security, fruitful in love

Shall I recall the strength in his effortless time -

Effectual, generous, yet lost in a grove

Of needing and wanting more sickness, more rhyme.

With purest dementia and tumultuous passing,

Mobility's power in life ne'er to be;

Yet morale maintains and no query surpassing

A gift of the one who shall dance within me.

- "Golden" by Channyn Holvey Bates (2002 & 2007)
- Inspired by Sir Charles Chaplin

Pedina

A utopian host, in the face of a fool,

You, the burlesque of a fragrance in flight;

The cross on my neck that is brooding and cruel;

I, the violin's tear of a threnody's light.

I shall not want you, and yet I am yours.

A mahogany lust, in the troughs of a rose,

You, the unmarred and a comedy's love;

The notes in my heart that are bruising and close;

I, the violet lace, the darkness above.

I shall not have you, and yet I am yours.

A bountiful fruit, in the vastness of time,

You, the echo of dream's emerald sin;

The noose on my lips that is careless with rhyme;

I, lost in your velvet, a symphony's gin.

I shall not need you, and yet I am yours.

An angel incarnate, in Heavens of Earth,

You, the demonstrative child in a womb

Of shapeshifting blissfulness. Draped in his birth,

I, requiem's heat in a sapphire tomb.

I shall not take you, and yet I am yours.

- February 2007

With anguish and immeasurable angst, Toccata in lustful C Major strums, hums itself, besmirched and implanted within my prolonged principles...does it not? "Time for a miracle!" I say to you, Pachebel! Swift sin never came so swiftly to those obsessive odes in your possession...as I was so swiftly and, dare I say, courteously informed by your company of whom you never spoke, whom you so graciously befriended from the kindness wrapped in the staples of your being. As an oiled buttered apple fell richly from your property's tree, flailing its arms in a natural gesture towards the bank of coral below, I was disgraced, ashamed of what had become of me; what had become of you; why it had all taken place; and what would become of our differences. Pachebel, must you not listen to my desperate words and my desperate eyes?

- Excerpt from "Piano's Gang of Wolves"

(c) Channyn Holvey-Bates [October 2001]

In his grace shall I find unrestricted stamina to never discontinue a glorious life. Grant him a transformation through humanity, an orchestral blooming of the most crimson of lights. Let him transcend through his masculine nature, his humble vastness, a steady pace of wild impulses. Embrace his inclinations to purify a general modesty, to transform into the promising maverick, a purpose, a position for which he was, with breathless fidelity, meant and destined, with a manly balance I extol, I adore, I commend always. Touching hearts he full-heartedly presses forward toward a soul's certain cleanliness, his innocent vivaciousness extending with a pallette of very sweet love. May he be consistent in such a love, the plasticity of an unspoken art that ought only to be his own, as much as it may be shared by many and my own self. Maintain his cards and deal them prodigiously with a crisp and constant slickness as to benefit his welfare. He has deserved such and ne'er shall I wish him ill. Rid him of the conspicuous clinging of worthless luxury, distorted, discolored materials that are not worthy of his attention. He is more, he shall rise. Ne'er shall his inward gaze be led to wander toward that which is monstrous and pensive, that which is immoral, that which lacks great faith, persistent belief, historic and memorable strength. Lead him with a willing guidance not to remorseful, dreading darkness, but to universal, calm complacency. Move with complaint's absence the most grand of mountains in his name. Mouth that which is most eloquent, such a literature that will always please him. Nourish the pillow which cradles his cardinal as it succumbs to a most dear slumber. Embrace his cardinal's rays as mine ought to be embraced. Present these curtains of sacred perfumes upon his toes of delicacy; he shan't trample upon such beauty. Bless his disposition with an endless fruit, rich from the most ripe of vines and most colorful of demeanors. Bless him, his kindred spirit, with this soulful tale, and you shall find me pleased, renewed, alive.

- By Channyn Holvey-Bates
* As inspired by Robert Smith

Cleanse
- By Channyn Holvey-Bates

Scent is lit, through blues I die.
"Follies plunder," shelves imply.
Live with red, and so may I
Greet such days with solemn sighs
...As we grow,
and as we die.

Fickle foes, who cannot see
All that I am; so they must be
The chains of freedom, fixed by me
With charming rose and aging knee,
...For them to learn,
to know, to see.

And so it ends, my Cardinal's time,
Its sweetest jasmine's sweetest lime.
Though smooth and rich and quite sublime,
"The end hath come," in constant rhyme.
...Embrace it, taste it, heal through time.
"Its end hath come, and so hath mine."

- Channyn Estelle Holvey-Bates, 2004

I think my next piece is going to have to be for my sweet boy Jones. I've been holding off on writing something for him because his passing has been awfully hard for me to cope with. Every time I think about him I want to cry, and I knew it would be next to impossible for me to sit down and compose myself enough to write it immediately following his death. But, now that it's been a good six months (I can't believe it's been that long), I feel the words for him are about ready to be released from me.

I am feared in field and town.

Sun, 28 Oct 2007 06:14:54 GMT

This band is hot.

Utrum tentare sit proprium diaboli

Sun, 28 Oct 2007 05:31:36 GMT

According to howmanyofme.com, and I quote, "There are 0 people with my name in the U.S.A."

* So...I don't have my name?

"When out driving, if you see an opportunity to box someone in by parking too close to them, seize it."

"Make a list of all the people you've ever dumped. Contact them once a year and try to restart the relationship."

- From The Little Book of Stress by Rohan Candappa (I can think of several people who should NEVER look at this book)

I am a Celt, a bard, the sea, the strings of a life of rhythmic listlessness.

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 06:28:55 GMT

I'm not sure as to why, exactly, but I've recently felt a sudden urge to finally share my writing with those in my personal life, family and friends. It's never been difficult for me to let friends online gaze into some of my work, but in the past I've always been very reluctant to allow those I know personally a look (whether it be a short-lived and meaningless glimpse or a deep and purposeful probing) into what I write. I'm not certain why, really. Perhaps subconsciously I feel that if I share with someone with whom I have direct contact, I somehow have to justify or validate what I've written, at least more so than anything else. I'd have to explain what I meant, my sources of inspiration, why I choose the words I do. That's something that's hard for me to do - I don't necessarily choose the words, anyway: it's more instantaneous, taken from something within me that must be released in a very specific way. Or maybe I don't share any of it due to past experience. I've had people read my work and they have almost always expressed the same reactions: confusion (which often, intentionally or no, leads to dislike) or simple disinterest, therefore leading me to unsafely assume that no one really cares about it and lean towards the inclination to not share at all.

But something feels a bit different now. I want people to read it, even if I run the risk that some won't think of it fondly. Hell, no one likes everything, I can't expect that. Maybe I feel this way now because I'm always afraid I can't explain to others the person I am, and I want people to know and not be misled. My writing is who I am...so it just seems obvious I should share it, right? I'm starting with my mother, it only seems appropriate, seeing as she is one of the people whom I respect most. I know she would be honest with me, and not simply tell me what I want to hear. Perhaps then I'll let Norah read some, because she's shown some interest in it anyway. And there's another person as well, but I don't think I have the courage or the total willingness to let him know me in that way. I really put myself out there when I write; it's a soulful exposure, if you will. Part of me wants to share everything with him, but at least for the time being, another part is too uncomfortable for him to know.

I am untamed, universal, I have a cause that is moving and free.

Sun, 05 Aug 2007 05:17:15 GMT

This is something I have been working on rather fervidly now. Someone has inspired me to put these words together in my head, and they've, in essence, written themselves with a haste that's almost irritating and sick. The weak and wounded part of me hates him so, and yet my love for him makes me his captive. I suppose it's not his fault that I love or, rather, feel (for how can I possibly know now if I love him when I am so clouded and lost in him?) intensely. That has nothing to do with him, it's only something in my own identity, but my irrational side is so angry with him for making me think and feel what I am now. The only thing of which I am fully certain is that I have never cared for a man so deeply as I care for him. I want to give him myself, in spirit and in body, if only for the shortest and most existential and primitive time. I want to give him everything, become his own, and then fly away from him, renewed, replenished, beautiful, free at last. I want him to end his petty games of wicked blindness and denial in a language that is unintelligible and foul. I want to know all that he is, all that he has done, all that he shall do. I want to give and expect nothing in return. I want my cardinal to invade and consume him, break his door ripped from its hinges, fill him deeply with mirth and with lust, lead him from cruelty and deprivation and toward wisdom, carelessness, rising bliss, and universal fulfillment. I want him to love me for this.

Destituo

In hands outspoken, those that grasp a shoulder's rage, there is a sour beauty, a wicked motion, a maddening grace. Through them I am left in a brisk guilt, hence I succumb to a humility that is both audacious and cruel. Words are liquid: smooth, soft, and real, like the apple of wisdom, and of despair, buttered richly in the oils of mind. From your infectiously sweet way, I am charged with a desire that is sullied and hateful and mars my purity. And through this, through you, I may find the dreams of Celtic bliss very obtainable; I may be purified and my cognitions made no longer hopeless but most sacred and just. I will find brilliance and discernment in the voice that proves me burned and unworthy, so shall I also find reason and forgiveness in his winged and silver eyes. Oh, what shame I must carry for fantastical desires, for ruthlessness of heart, for what cannot be mine? Yea, this shame is great, almost loving in its meticulous, meditative rape of one's cardinal, and how I hate it and his sweetness so, yet I fear desperately for the absence of such brutality, such destruction, that which is bitter and exceeds futility's indifference. I seek him out but do not want him. His opera's graphic warms the mint 'twixt my toes, enkindles the soul in my bones, leaves me charred and homeless, infused and estranged, wandering blindly in his quickness and my hunger to love him more, a silent prerequisite - how I long for the progressively bound corset in my richest threads of inflexible life to be undone with fever by his indomitable grasp, ripped bloodlessly from a cardinal's breast, and through this gravitational exposure I shall at last be free - free with him, free of him.

Music made less monumental, I, within every grounded moment or otherwise, hear his symphony surround me always, his violet wine bleeding boldness and truth, eyes deep onyx engraved purposefully with ivory, milky white and penetrable, set with a temper refined and childlike, to leave me bathed in a drought of him, imprisoned within a glass of wintry sun. I must consume him. How shall he ought to be draped? In my blackest of laces, perhaps, thus bearing my monster and its roaring elegance, tearful from night's past? In my satin veil, a crisp lavender, humanized and uneven, for his obtuse disregard of my prominent beauty, my emerald waltz of a dance before his rhythmic cruelty, ruby and blind?

(c) Channyn Holvey-Bates; August 2007

* Not complete.

Avis volat.

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 03:58:47 GMT

I think I'm going to make this primarily a writing journal. I occasionally feel restricted and confined when my journal entries become merely journal entries. They seem a tad too contrived for my personal taste when I just recall the happenings of my days in the simplest ways. I know I am better able to describe my life, my thoughts, and my person through what I can compose, not just a record of what I do each day and each night. Also, there are several things occurring in my life as of now, things I find somewhat difficult to write about in a strained online journal but things I find much easier to write about through my own form of literature. So here you are, and there you go.

"I have been writing about my dreams and my nightmares (as they are vivid and almost materialize as I resurrect them onto a paper's canvas), I have been writing of loves I have never felt or held or possessed, I have been writing of the virginity in a piano's forbidden echo, the sweetest apple bathed deeply in honey and wine, the tragedy I see in an effortlessly blue sky, a red feather's sensation on the lips of another, how I yearn to be closer to God, a candle's hypnotism and the seduction of incense, the thorns and the roses of all that are beautiful." - On my writing...A friend of mine told me this, strangely enough, is his favorite thing that I have written, which I find somewhat odd since it's not an actual literature piece but only my musing of some things where I obtain inspiration to write, but it is flattering nonetheless.

Untitled

Andrew asks me for a sin,
He grinds me through and reels me in,
Further in a temple's gin,
Its soiled wine and eyes within.

Stella boasts of rightful spite,
Her resisting; seas of blight
She crumbles through will soothe the wight
That he must be, her love's blind sight.
(c) Channyn Holvey-Bates, 4 May 2006

^ This is actually a project I sort of neglected for a while and then abandoned. I'd conjured an entire story of Andrew and Stella in my mind but for some reason I have had an immense amount of difficulty transferring it from the mind and onto the page. I hope that someday I am able to, for I've always been fond of the story.

Eronel

Sated sigh from every sea
Of every cell of blood in me
Clears a spell of chastity -
Of quiet animosity,
In simple rage and agony;
No more being, lost in plea
From every sigh from every sea
Of every cell of blood in me.

Death of bliss from dullest lights
With lifeless form and vile sights
Shall plague, feed, strip my hostile spite -
For all is lost; 'tis not the nights
That numb the rust and dust which fight
The Day - 'Tis Day! Its earthly flights
Bring death to bliss from dullest lights
With lifeless form and vile sights.

Answer hungers in my mind.
Lying rippled, flesh is blind.
If the times should turn to grind
Upon my blood, uneven sign
May flourish through an even line
I trod upon - toward all that's mine
As answer hungers in my mind
And, lying rippled, flesh is blind.

"Nothing! Nothing!" scream the calls
As rising heat engulfs my halls.
"Nothing have you; as you fall,
Prepare to beg from barkers' brawls.
Break yourself, give wretched dolls
All that you have, to love them all.
Nothing! Nothing!" My falling calls!
My rotting heat engulfs my halls.

Thinking madness, reason parts,
Never once in any heart
I did possess, so shall I start
Now from the end, with rancid art
Stained deep within my sweetest tart
Of bitter soul; for dumped in carts
My thoughts reach madness, reason parts,
Never once in all my hearts.

Take care! The blue beasts chose and came
To me; now I lie mixed and maimed.
Despite the might that soul may tame,
The soulless lie with mightless flame.
Intertwined, the naked fame
Shall curl them into beads of shame -
Take care! The blue loves chose and came
To them; now they lie mixed and maimed.

Dulcified, we run with ringing
In our ears, as I keep screaming
Listless notes that keep them singing
Boastful tunes to crowds agreeing
They have lived a right to freeing
All - They never ceased from being
Dulcified, running with ringing
In my ears, as he keeps screaming.

Sated sigh from every sea
Of every cell of blood in me
Clears a spell of chastity -
Of quiet animosity,
In simple rage and agony;
No more being, lost in plea
From every sigh from every sea
Of every cell of blood in me.

Eronel, with fruitful rages,
Pouts, steams, grieves, gleams, turns my pages.
If dance eats as plot engages
And sweet magic loathes the mages,
None will find peace from the stages
Of the times spent from the cages.
Eronel, with fruitless rages,
Begs, cries, beams, dies, ends my ages.

(c) Channyn E. Holvey-Bates, 2003

Rose and Frankie, baked and broiled, in such a hazy paste -
Such adhesive clowns that, wailing, scamper in their haste.

The pushes, brawls, and bru-ha-ha that predeceases blood
Is representative of molding essence in their mud.

And as their swollen, stony loves succumb to mortal fear,
Life's coil with death will find them drenched and bathing in a tear.
- Excerpt from "Rose and Frankie" by Channyn E. Holvey-Bates, (c) 3 August 2005

'Tis a brief yet rounded and probing introduction to my work, I hope who reads it enjoys it. Any comments, criticism or praise, are most welcome.

Poetic souls delight in prose insane.

Thu, 23 Nov 2006 08:24:15 GMT

Comment to be added.

I respect and will add anyone. Preferably seeking out the wise, the Romantics, the punctual, the oddballs, the kindred spirits, the hearts of gold, the independents, the gamers, the citizens of the world.