Dark Love

WARNING! This is dark!


Original DDE™ surrealistic art: “Love’s Sin” by: rob kistner © 11/16/23

 

D o you think
you’re not still my slave
since digging yourself
from that earthen grave

since you sullied
your delicate hands
clawing up and out
of my bottom lands

do you think
you’re safe

think perhaps
that I don’t know
where you are
as you come and go

do you think
that I don’t feel you
with my every breath
that I don’t breathe you

do you not understand
that I hold your life
in my clenching hand

really – don’t you

do you think at all
foolish girl

anytime I want you
you are mine

anytime

you know I love you
you love me too
with a love uncommon
you know you do

don’t you

you are mine
it’s true

forever

you are not free
your every move
is known to me
your every thought
is mine to see
your every fear
mine to trigger

feel your terror
as it’s growing bigger


Original DDE™ surrealistic art: “Dark Love”
by: rob kistner © 11/16/23

I watch you walking
every dark late night
while I hide under
my dim street light

you will not know
whence I may come
I am the shadow
you are running from

the stranger hidden
across the street
the sudden sound
that startles you
from your sleep

so cling mindlessly
to your false hope
as ‘round your slender neck
my fingers grope

you think I’m mad
well that may be
but that’s too bad
for you
not me

you pray
they catch me
we’ll see
won’t we

your nightmare is
I’ll not be caught

well
that dream’s come true
for I will naught


Original DDE™ surrealistic art: “Dark Love’s Captive”
by: rob kistner © 11/16/23

you hope I make
a big mistake
dare a close call
risk my downfall

foolish girl
there is no risk

for I am brilliant
wicked cunning
you’ve felt my power
is it not stunning

does my magnificence
make you afraid
as staring in my eyes
you feel resistance fade

you will not see me
in the cold dark rain
but you feel me squirming
in your troubled brain

as I’m creeping quiet
from behind
to steal your mortal life
as I am so inclined
as terror shivers
up and down
your spine
remember always

you — are — mine


Original DDE™ surrealistic art: “Devil In A Downpour”
by: rob kistner © 11/16/23

*
rob kistner © 2021
edited rewrite © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

 





SunsetGunn

NOTE — I borrowed lines and inspiration from my 2011 poem: Skye Fyre
 

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The SunsetGunn is loaded, the controls, in GunnMaster’s grip
calmly concentrating, he scans the horizon with careful eyes
the golden sun having made his journey, is weary from the trip
quicksilver moon will very soon, traverse the starry skies

Gaia rolls on gently, hushed in quiet space
GunnMaster has her skyline, locked squarely in his sight
Gaia pulls a veil of stars, slowly across her face
GunnMaster has a task, he needs complete before its night

he’s to set the sky ablaze, before he falls to sleep
a fiery coral-orange, twilight-blue, and crimson-red
in patterns broad and bold, in colors rich and deep
he carefully aims the SunsetGunn, and blasts it overhead

in a brilliant, blinding flash, he sets the dimming skies a’fire
in vivid hues, and lavish shades — the dusky sky ignites and burns
GunnMaster has succeeded, so for this night, he can retire
the SunriseGunn already loaded, in early morning, he returns

IMG_8599

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

 



A few more from Animal Logic — GOOD SHIT!



Castle Walachia

~ I originally published this October of 2018, again Oct. 2019, now Oct. 2022. ~
Happy Halloween

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This castle is most ominous
since becoming Voivode of Wallachia
Vlad II has not followed his father’s example
no joy and celebration reverberates
through the greattooms, hallways, and towers
of this venerable old structure

it has become dark and foreboding
and rumored dangerous
even deadly

but I know they are not just rumors
there is a murderous evil dwells here
undead and otherworldly
bloodthirsty and cruel
a ruthless predator
whom I have come to slay

I must move quickly from this light
that pools incrementally
in this long
pungent
segmented hallway

there is some safety in the shadows
that linger tight
to the arch walls
so I bolt
through the full moon’s glow
that seeps silvered through the windows

I press myself
against the damp irregular surfaces
that are the stacked-stone
boundary breaks
of this eerie chiseled passage

I pause at each
listening
casting glances all ’round

this monster moves like a vapor
so what I can see
is far more important
than what I can hear
but still
I listen

this demon has servants
soul sworn to loyalty
that must move on foot
their approach I could hear
so fully alert
I employ all my senses
in my critical vigilence

stealthily I move
from archway to archway
until I reach the last

I halt
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relaxing the tension
in my right hand
I carefuly open my fingers
very slightly
to close them tight again
feeling the smooth wooden shaft
of the stake I have carved
securely in my grasp

this is the weapon I’ll wield
to bring and end
to the ungodly bloodlust
of this ghastly creature
the good people here call
Dracula

as I stand here
back to the dampened wall
relief seasons my trepidation

nothing in my being
wants this dire mission
to which I am shackled

but it is only my hand
on the carved wood dagger
tightly in my sweating grip
that can bring an end
to my uncle’s unholy
reign of horror

I am the youngest male
of our cursed bloodline
so the brutal deed
falls to me

creeping ever forward
like a shade on the dank wall
I move cautiously closer
to the iron-laden
dense wood door
of his sleeping chamber

my heart pounding
my diaphram starved for breath
I feel I may pass out

but still I pursue
the evil incarnate
that lies coffin’d
in undead repose

suddenly
a noise
immediately behind me

it echoes through these catacombs
pierces my taut raw nerves
and instantly paralyzes me

trembling
I turn

no one there

hushed
I listen intently

no other sounds
save the blood
pulsing as a roar
in my ears

I begin to move
but again
I hear it

panicked
I jerk my head around
and see

in this frozen moment
my stressed mind deduces
the source of the noise

moisture
collecting on the stone ceiling
gathers overhead
into sagging condensation

it released
as a weighty droplet
splattering on the floor
just behind me
with a sharp startling slap

I relax a bit
enough to again draw
tensioned breath

several more labored
careful steps
and I place my hand
gently on the wrought handle
of the immense door

confirming the lethal dagger
quivering in my right hand
I reach
steadily as possible
into my pocket
and withdraw a strange key
I have secreted there
that allows me access
to his chamber

it is unnaturally heavy
and seems to emanate
an unearthly energy

I clutch it firmly
fearing if I lose my grip
I will lose my nerve

I guide the key
into the slot
of the ornate handle plate
seating it fully

slowly I begin to turn it

I feel the resistance
as the key’s teeth
engage with the bolt
and begin to grudgingly
draw it from its secure well

just before I have fully retracted it
I pause
my mind racing
blood pressure soaring
overcome by the magnitude
of what I am about to do

no turning back now
this must be done
and I must do it
but I am terrified

still I hesitate
attempting to gain
my much needed composure

I slow my heartbeat
steady my breathing
steel my resolve
and turn the key
its final quarter inch

the lock clicks
the handle releases
and the door unseats inwardly

this is it
fate has dealt the deck
I am both prisoner
and executioner
in this horrible game

I swing the door open
ever so gradually
eyes rapidly scanning
this vampire lair

and step in

this fate
my destiny


Vlad the Impaler – Dracula

*
rob kistner © 2018
revised © 2019
republished © 2022

Poetry at: dVerse

 


Hour of the Beasts

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When the most capable
believe they have risen above
the mucus, the shit, the afterbirth
of their origin

when in their reflection
they see perverse transcendence
towards entitlement
in which no allegiance
or kinship of nature
binds them to their center

nor founds them in the
fevered fumbling fury
of the frightened flesh parade
in which they lock step
flailing for survival

when their insanity of arrogance
so distorts their vision of time
of the ancient
of the sweating
bone-broken reality
of human swill and wallow
through which they likewise trudge

shiny shoes or no

when they blatantly begin
to eat their own
while copulating with false gods
on forsaken gilded altars
of perjured horrors

then the hour of the beasts
is certainly at hand
and the power of wild nature
will rise up to dominate

and we’ll all become
the hulking mass
of the apocalypse
deserving to be struck down

and our black hearts
torn out and severed
by the self-inflicted rapier
of raw wild justice
and our husks immolated
on the pyre of banished
abandoned truth

that moment is near

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: eartweal

 

Spellbound

poet
you are enigma

darkness and shadow
you veil and shroud

fire and light
you burn and incandesce

torch my essence
burn deep my soul
trouble my spirit
unsettle my being

then poet
ignite my wonder

whet my seeker’s vessel
with need
to be filled full

poet
at once familiar
yet
exotically foreign
wonderfully strange

wrongly boxed but
exquisitely wrapped

in angst
indignation
longing
discovery
loss

in love

with all these
and infinitely more
you reach an empty place
deep within

echoing my past
awakening my myths

exposing
that which I embrace
in the moment
as truth

refocus me

stirring my pain
my anger
my loneliness

my hope

offering just enough answer
that I combust with question
sacred uncertainty

I’m held
suspended in inquiry
in memories of neverwas

enrapt by your careful words
transfixed by mystery
elevated by insight
impaled by vision

spellbound

Flying Backwards


 

H ey look
look up here
I’m flying backwards

backwards
and upside down

soaring over the earth
over your cars
over your blurred human haste

look how fast I am
and invisible

I see you
though you can’t see
me

wonder where you’re going
going in your big hurry

somewhere
anywhere

nowhere

are you running away
too

I wonder
what are you thinking

how many of you are sad
how many happy
how many mad
bored
lonely

how many of you
are frightened

frightened
and hurting
how many of you are hurting

how many scared
broken hearts
am I racing above
right now
on your road
to nowhere

if you were fast as me
flying here upside down
and backwards
you could outrun
those broken hearts
those hurtful words
the mindless abuse
your fear

you could do it too
I bet you could
right now

I bet you could
too
just like I am
if you were fast
and invisible
like me

like I am
now

*
rob kistner © 2021

See other responses to this photo: Mindlovemisery

 


Finish Line

This song by Sarah McLachlan, “In The Arms Of An Angel” always makes me break down. He is my son, Aaron Robert Kistner. Hearing this song takes me deep into memories of my sweet angel. My son Aaron died in his 18th year, just prior to entering college to study music. He was a very handsome, kind, and gentle young man – and a fabulous singer. I miss him so, everyday. I ache to hold him close just once more — to hear his beautiful voice. I wrote this poem very shortly after his tragic death in a horrible auto accident.

In loving memory of my son, Aaron Robert Kistner: 11/4/76 – 7/3/95

 

This is my favorite picture of you son,
the one I treasure most
since your passing.

A simple snapshot,
taken at the airport,
upon your return
from having run the New York City Marathon.

A gentle, triumphant smile,
eyes beaming behind those ‘cool’ shades,
jacket sleeves rolled in casual hip-ness,
bag gripped firm and steady in your left hand,
medal dangling proudly from your strong neck.

The victor: gentle, cool, hip, carefree, proud, and strong,
– fiercely handsome!

How profound this captured moment proved to be.

Taken just before the finish line of your 18 years,
it said it all.

Your race is run,
your bag is packed,
your reward’s in hand.

Fly my sweet angel – fly!

*
rob kistner © 1995

 

Your Car Sir


 

Of course you have a choice sir
of course
we all have choices sir

one always has a choice
the very same choice
you
and the rest of us
have enjoyed
since birth

we can choose to live
we can choose to die
we can choose to smile
we can choose to cry
about it all

we can choose
to get the facts
to understand
or just wonder why

but we all must choose
you must choose

this car sir
will take you
to tomorrow

so if you’d like
to see tomorrow
get in!
now!

the next car back?

sir
that car
will never see tomorrow

but it will be up
in just a moment — sir
if you prefer

*
rob kistner © 2021

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Poetry Pantry at: Poets & Storytellers

 

WARNING: adult lyrics

Spilled Apples

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oil painting by: Albert Francis King 1854–1945

 

M oonlight
keeps dark at bay
pressing in
as night wind stirs

like mocking breath
of life now lost
to light-less realm
beyond the chill
encircling me

I ache
to feel
your tender touch
the warmth

but naught

my heart
cold
and empty
to remain

no emotion
save grief

apples spilled
on broken stair
where rail eluded
grasping hand

no voice came
to futile cry

those lips
will not know again
sweet fruit

nor love

*
rob kistner © 2021

Poetry at: dVerse


 

Tanka Tragedy



UH OH!

 
I am a lion
I want to maul you to death

not me — I’m a lamb

but I’m just a reflection

so I’m sorry — you are …screwed!


rob kistner © 2021

 

Can you please sing, while you — RUN?!

 

Poetry at: Sunday Muse

Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers

Day 4 poetry at: NaPoWriMo 2021

Sorrow


…born in water, in water she’s swept away…

 

Beauty sings to the sea — love’s tone
on this broken, cloud-covered day
slipping into the surge alone
silently, she kicks away

on these broken, cloud-covered days
alone with her fractured wishes
she drops so silently ‘neath the waves
deep, deep down to the fishes

alone with her fractured wishes
a’tumble in the seabed’s sway
down down deep with the fishes
she is leaving it all today

sorrow’s a’swim in the seabed’s sway
beauty’s nothing left to say
she is leaving this lonely world, today
the sea will sweep her away

rob kistner © 2021

*Check out: Joy’s Pantoum


 

 

Read more poetry at: dVerse

Day 2 poetry at: NaPoWriMo 2021

That Velvet

Vote = Voice — Speak Up! 2CC45105-E580-4197-9120-35D724A74CF8

Sorry for this interruption. Feel free to ignore this section and move directly down to the poem, if you choose. The poem is much more sensual and dreamy. This first section is cold, no-filtered, stark reality — fully and sincerely expressed, as I see it. You see, I need to sum up my final, perhaps controversial thoughts, on the issue of protest, introduced here last Thursday. I have been slowly simmering since then: Love MUST win. My proud hippie soul tells me it can — it must for earth, and her human tribe to flourish. As naive and pollyanna as this may sound, I haven’t lived nearly 74 years believing that peace, love, and intelligence will find a way — to simply stand by and see these qualities of integrity snd dignity trampled beneath the feet of humankind’s baser instincts. Perhaps good people have turned the other cheek for too long. Maybe being passively resigned to the perpetraters of evil is not the way. Perhaps it requires an extreme natural culling of the tribe to remove the evil, the result of the arrogant stupidity of that group. Whether I should revel in that possibility is something my peaceful self has been truly struggling with the past few years — since the extinguishing of the Obama light. It goes against my nature. But the continuing greedy, destructive, and heartless ways must end, or perhaps be brought to an end. At my age and health, I, and most of my Aquarian generation, can’t, or won’t, effectively mount the resistance. We lack the stamina or money, or both. Too many among my generation, who may be capable, have lost the vision — turned during the mine-me-first Reagan 80’s, and the grab-fest in the years that followed. I feel we need responsible, strong young leaders to organize on a large scale, activate on a broad scale. It breaks my heart to say it — but me and my generation, we failed. Those who are coming after us, can’t afford to — or humankind and this great spaceship earth, truly are fucked! The power can belong to the young — take it, and wield it wisely! Sorry if I shocked or offended. Just the honest humble opinion of a tired old man. Not too tired to *** VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! ***

========================

And now {{{deep breath}}} time for the poetic entertainment:

***

…inspired by the Kate Bush video, “The Sensual World”…
This is a 2nd revision of my original 2012 version.

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That Velvet

~

would I were that velvet
that she reaches for so fondly
strokes with delicate pure fingers
with soft silken hands she lingers

embraces to her bosom
wraps ’round her slender shoulders
tingles with excitement
as she surrenders to its touch

would I were that velvet
that drapes her lilting essence
that falls and folds and fondles
as she ascends the stairs each night

the plush and luscious fiber
that rises on her breasts
with each soft and subtle sigh
each deep impassioned breath

oh would I were that velvet
that glides her naked form
on those sunset autumn evenings
enwraps her perfect body warm

that chills and thrills in shivers
as she opens it ‘neath moonlight
and swoons hushed smouldered gasps
as she blooms forth firm and pleasured

oh would I were that velvet
would I were that velvet
oh sweet sensuous angel
would I were
would I were

~ ~ ~

rob kistner © 2012
(revision © 2020)

 

Open Link Night #275

Day Breaker

“stream-of-consciousness rant”

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”Drinkin’ Thinkin’” by: rob kistner © 1997

 
DayBreaker

(hard-drinkin’, jazz-lovin’, workin’ man’s lament)
~

day breaks
on
a new week’s
sun

putrid
as the stains
on my
flesh-soaked
mattress

damp
as my sour
mat
of fevered
greasy
tangle

hot
as my
whiskey-foul
breath

another
un-commuted
sentence

6A-6P
’til
merciful dusk
delivers me

jack-knifed
into
my
jack and coke

don’t obsess
in sorrow

drown
all
‘da-way
down

a bottom-dive
to comatose

no virtue
feigned
nor
implied

mad goes
the struggle
‘til
saved by
jazz
48 over
‘da
dub-ya
hump

2
debauched
24’s
then
the hissing
sting
of monday
and
the mindless
6-6 grind
120 n’out

cruel numbers
game
goes
round round
and ever round
’til
the tombstone’s
tender
solace

~ ~ ~

rob kistner © 2019

 

  • Click below to see what’s being imitated at dVerse:
    Imitation Practice

  • Crows of Castle Keep

    “Castle Keep is my metaphor for the mind.”

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    Crows of Castle Keep

    my contemplation on dementia

    ~

    my memories gather and squabble
    like the crows of castle keep
    they pick the bones
    of my recall

    bones against the cruel clay
    of an arid
    barren mind

    littered with the harsh forgotten
    like the bones of the dinosaur
    I’m becoming

    struggling
    with what letters are made of
    my words crack and crumble

    my thoughts
    parch and wither

    lonely silhouettes
    against an unforgiving skyline

    fading visions of my past
    of my life
    my home
    of yesterday

    harder and harder to remember
    the degrees of separation
    growing ever greater
    smoldering in the fog
    of my reflected past

    splashes of vivid color
    on scraps of paper
    blown in the mounting winds
    of my confusion

    dread rising
    that I will soon not remember
    what it all meant to me
    a stirring fear I will forget
    lost in tormented emptiness
    that all will go black

    this is not just a poem
    it is much more

    this is a light
    searching in blackness
    for familiar things
    for persons beloved
    that I do not recognize

    this is a fractured tome
    a cry of frustration
    a tear of loss
    a whispered prayer

    an epitaph
    to my fading map of then

    of cherished memories
    that now falter
    and dim

    slowly slipping
    unintelligible
    into the cacophony
    of the crows of castle keep


    E8A2F1BD-9ED3-4D31-95BE-D36EA9CEECC3

    ~ ~ ~

    rob kistner © 2019

     

  • Click below to heck out more poems of blackness on dVerse:
    dVerse Poetics: On Shades of Black

  • The Secret

    IMG_8614
    photo collage: “The Secret” — by: rob kistner © 1997

     
    The Secret

    ~

    from the dawn of awareness
    through the dark times
    beyond the ages of change
    into these times

    they have kept it
    the keepers of the secret

    and now
    with great fortitude of will
    to safequard frail truth
    they must keep it still

    ~ ~ ~

    rob kistner © 2019


     

  • Click for more dVerse poetry:
    Quadrille #91 – Keep