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A rose in the high garden that you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of impressionist mist.
Greys looking out from the last balustrades.

Modern painters in their black studios,
Sever the square root's sterilized flower.
In the Seine's flood an iceberg of marble
freezes the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads the paved streets firmly.
Crystals hide from reflections' magic.
Government has closed the perfume shops.
The machine beats out its binary rhythm.

An absence of forests, screens and brows
Wanders the roof-tiles of ancient houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon looms like a vast aqueduct.

Marines ignorant of wine and half-light,
decapitate sirens on seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for form and limit conquers us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors flee.

Cadaqués, the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of steps and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An old god of the woods gives children fruit.

Her fishermen slumber, dreamless, on sand.
On the deep, a rose serves as their compass.
The ****** horizon of wounded hankerchiefs,
unties the vast crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
wreathes bitter brows and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but fail to beguile,
and appear if we show a glass of fresh water.

Oh Salvador Dalí, of the olive voice!
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush
or your pigments that circle those of your age,
I salute your yearning for bounded eternity.

Healthy soul, you live on fresh marble.
You flee the dark wood of improbable forms.
Your fantasy reaches as far as your hands,
and you savor the sea's sonnet at your window.

The world holds dull half-light and disorder,
in the foreground humanity frequents.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
mark out the perfect scheme of their courses.

The flow of time forms pools, gains order,
in the measured forms of age upon age.
And conquered Death, trembling, takes refuge
in the straightended circle of the present moment.

Taking your palette, its wing holds a bullet-hole,
you summon the light that revives the olive-tree.
Broad light of Minverva, builder of scaffolding,
with no room for dream and its inexact flower.

You summon the light that rests on the brow,
not reaching the mouth or the heart of man.
Light feared by the trailing vines of Bacchus,
and the blind force driving the falling water.

You do well to place warning flags
on the dark frontier that shines with night.
As a painter you don't wish your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of unforeseen  clouds.

The fish in its bowl and the bird in its cage.
You refuse to invent them in sea or in air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen,
with your honest eyes, their smal agile bodies.

You love a matter defined and exact,
where the lichen cannot set up its camp.
You love architecture built on the absent,
admitting the banner merely in jest.

The steel compass speaks its short flexible verse.
Now unknown islands deny the sphere.
The straight line speaks of its upward fight
and learned crystals sing their geometry.

Yet the rose too in the garden where you live.
Ever the rose, ever, our north and south!
Calm, intense like an eyeless staute,
blind to the underground struggle it causes.

Pure rose that frees from artifice, sketches,
and opens for us the slight wings of a smile
(Pinned butterfly that muses in flight.)
Rose of pure balance not seeking pain.
Ever the rose!

Oh Salvador Dalí of the olive voice!
I speak of what you and your paintings tell me.
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush,
but I sing the firm aim of your arrows.

I sing your sweet battle of Catalan lights,
you love of what might be explained.
I sing your heart astronomical, tender,
a deck of French cards, and never wounded.

I sing longing for statues, sought without rest,
your fear of emotions that wait in the street.
I sing the tiny sea-siren who sings to you
riding a bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a shared thought
that joins us in the dark and the golden hours.
It is not Art, this light that blinds our eyes.
Rather it is love, friendship, the clashing of swords.

Rather than the picture you patiently trace,
it's the breast of Theresa, she of insomniac skin,
the tight curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship a board-game brightly painted.

May the tracks of fingers in blood on gld
stripe the heart of eternal Catalonia.
May stars like fists without falcons shine on you,
while your art and your life burst into flower.

Don't watch the water-clock with membranous wings,
nor the harsh scythe of the allegories.
Forever clothe and bare your brush in the air
before the sea peopled with boats and sailors.
In the worst hour of the worst season
    of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
    He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
    Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
    There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
    Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
MRR Nov 2013
Suicidal tendencies, alleged attempt in 2011
(National Scholar-Athlete)
Bipolar with psychotic features, meds necessary
(President of student government)
Anti-social features, deceptive, manipulative, lying.
(Captain of varsity athletics)
Qualifies as a pickup. Forfeits all rights. Police involvement if necessary.
(President of an all-star rugby club)
Extreme aggression. Any homicidal idealization should be taken seriously.
(Trustee Scholarship to a renown private college)
Narcotics abuse. Marijuana, LSD, Klonopin, *******, Alcohol, Painkillers
(3.7 GPA)
Masks and shields intentions. Deceptive with professionals.
(Active volunteer)
I advise that he be admitted to a hospital immediately
(Participant in community)
Drug abuse counseling, medication, extensive therapy necessary
(Leader of peers)

Diagnoses fly like a panhandlers love affairs

Your inexact science is a disgrace to what I've created

A philosophy based on your experience

Ignoring the dynamic of the human condition

****** for feeling to much

****** for not feeling enough
Poetoftheway Aug 2017
"the ever shifting light of ourselves"
(a poem such as this)

For Jamadhi V.

<•>
8/28/17

at 11:09am,
the phrase arrests itself, then assertive,
ungently demanding fulfillment,
implanted, it cares not my whereabouts,
it is a child~phrase, inexact, mysterious,
wanting its breast milk feeding immediate
no matter where my presence visible

but to me, it stinks of familiarity,
for my shifts, my redrawn shapes,
exhausting, giving me cause to grieve,
write poems such as this,
which I regret both
before~after conception~completion,
written in a fevered misery of fervor,
hoping,
no one ever likes it and its witnessing

as light ever shifts,
it consumes, extinguishes, reignites,
poorly lit, revealing dregs and dustbins

better then to sit in the darkness
the one you call,
getting it over with...

6:00pm
<•>

~~~~~~~~

*the swelling and the spume


for Lucy:

who gave me the title, three poems, a compliment, and the X Factor {inspiration}
~~~
the spume, the sea foam concentrate,
a greener white
by the the salt and the souls of the
million dead organisms,
that are are the compost of its formation,
it, watches the poet, who watches the spume,
come ashore for its final act of
immolation by evaporation

which is why the random act of
an unseen ministering force,
fills my ears with humbling glory of
Samuel Barber's Agnus Dei,^
my fresh reminder that this swelling chest
in this temporary abode of mine,
by the sea, passage is prepaid for my
expiration by evaporation too,
all lambs march to the sea,
returning to spume
~
Lyrics to Agnus Dei:
^ Alleluia Alleluia
For our Lord God Almighty reigns
Alleluia Alleluia
For our Load God Almighty reigns
Alleluia
Holy Holy
Are You Lord God Almighty
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb
You are Holy
Holy
Are You Lord God Almighty
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb
Amen

~~~~~~

"may all my lost lovers haunt me"

for Vinnie Brown

even your kindergarten crushes?

what burdens you seek to retain,
the edgy border of delicious and pain is a raggedy cut line,
as lost lovings rhymes with duality

Once upon a time,
a middle aged man
left the woman he married,
the one who drained and cruel reigned
over the destruction of his-dreams
for one accidentally stumbled into,
the love who blurred his edges as well,
between forgotten happiness and
pain so bad when she grew tired
of his life's complications and the
valises of drama,
she left him,
weeping on the corner of Broadway and 83rd Street

was that 20, 30 years ago?
a memory
from no matters land
but
the physical ache that marred the hearth in the chest for months and months,
sent him to the doc who smiled sweetly
but gave him, had no, no relief for busted grownup hearts
that had normal  EKG's

and that remains a treasured affirmation to this day of
life's capacity to love that comes with an ingrown danger
of never forgetting

did you know the French outlawed the use of the term
Mademoiselle in '12 (Mlle.)?

I loved that salutation,
calling my one true lovers
with the soft feminism of that address

and still do

and you want to recall
kindergarten crushes?

Mister Vinnie
possesses a lovely contradiction,
holding onto
lost lover sickness
that lives on in good love poems

this my new found poet
is how that he, this aching heart,
fast approaching his shore line for one last return and final departure
repays a sweet compliment,
from one who complements
another man's lovely's insane desire to
never forget any of it

~~~~~~*

reading love poetry and listening to
Joni M.,
at 3:09AM
never wise,
but always full of hindsight
mother died today or maybe yesterday i can’t be sure  the telegram from the home says your mother passed away funeral tomorrow deep sympathy which leaves the matter doubtful it could have been yesterday - “the Stranger” Albert Camus

a misguided partiality exists inside me i feel safer around women maybe i’m fooling myself and women are equally capable of the brutal cruelties i associate with men i don’t know i guess i believe women hold themselves to a higher behavioral standard gentler more nurturing there’s another aspect to my belief women floor me i am totally vulnerable to a pretty woman but it must be stated my tastes run quite peculiar i prefer alternative looks and am put off by classic American glamour i guess the real deal is i’m a guy most comfortable among men watching World Series Sunday Monday Night Football despite the fact that if i were with a woman would be my greatest craving who cares what i think i apologize for opening my mouth

we are stranded by the side of road from out of nowhere a beat up gray truck pulls along side in a cloud of dust we cannot see driver from passenger side stubbly shaven mustached man wearing red bandana under tattered western hat in accented hoarse voice hollers out how much for the girl with terrified expression in her face her hand reaches for my arm i peer coldly into man’s eyes then glance away answering

a. what exactly do you have in mind

b. how much cash do you got on you

c. she’s not for sale

d. we need a ride

e. we’re lost do you have a cell phone

f. please leave us alone

g. all of the above

an extraordinarily attractive member of opposite *** runs into you on street in familiar tone of voice greets you speaking your name it’s been ages you look terrific i was just thinking about you the other day it’s such a wonderful surprise to see you do you have time to stop chat over coffee or drink i live quite near here please come over to my place let’s catch up i’d really love that this person then looks at you in a flirtatious seductive way yet you cannot place or remember where you know them or if you’ve ever known them you answer

a. yes

b. this is embarrassing i’ve forgotten your name

c. how do you know my name where do we know each other from

d. is it possible you’re confusing me with someone else

e. i have no idea who you are or what you want from me

f. all of the above

these are dark times every one acknowledges post-modernism post-911 is bleak jobless homeless callous frightful kali yuga no one nothing nowhere  is safe wars gruesome atrocities piracy blood diamonds **** mutilation theft deceit betrayal school yard bullying assassinations cyber espionage anti-depression drugs vicious video games why aren’t people making positive video games referencing cooperation affection happiness instead of Grand Theft Auto Vice City Call of Duty World at War Mortal Kombat what kind of world are we creating for future generations why does violence sell more than *** why is *** so unkind what kind of people are we better off dead they shoot horses don’t they what happened what’s happening why are we making this hell why aren’t we making better wiser more loving choices i don’t understand

in the late 1960’s early 70’s parents didn’t have money to buy their kids high school graduation gifts or perhaps the notion was not invented yet nobody had cars maybe a few guys i knew owned cars they bought with their own hard earned money everybody i knew who lived off campus and too far to bicycle hitch-hiked to school then hitch-hiked home every day for 4 or more years that’s how we all did it in Hartford i remember sitting in different adult’s cars indebted grateful looking thinking wondering will i grow up to be like him or her projecting connections

when i grew up it was a different time turn on tune in drop out in a way hippies were reactionary to all the modern progress atomic age we winged it by inexact methods that time is gone it is crucial at present to be coherent sober accurate mindful wakeful vigilant wary prepared 24/7 this history being written how will it be told i’ve been around long enough to know how these deceptions work we are all using feeding ripping off each other we give in to whoever wants us become whoever seeks to destroy us we disgust ourselves i’m astonished dumbfounded talk with me who are we please explain i beg you

who if i cried who would hear me among the angels even if one of them pressed me against heart i would be consumed in overwhelming existence for beauty is nothing but beginning of terror we are still just able to bear we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us every angel is terrifying – “2nd Elegy” Rainer Maria Rilke
Paul d'Aubin Mar 2016
Littérature et Politique

(Prose poétique en  souvenir de la lecture de Carlo Levi docteur, peintre, militant antifasciste  et écrivain)

Je ne pourrais assez remercier mon père, André (Candria en Corse),  qui pour me permettre un jour de comprendre la langue Corse qu'il n'avait pas eu le temps de m'apprendre car il enseignait déjà l'anglais,  me fit choisir l'Italien, en seconde langue au Lycée Raymond Naves.
Cette classe d'Italien cristallise les meilleurs souvenirs que j'ai eus de ce Lycée qui n'était pas d'élite,  au sens  social de ce terme menteur mais bien plus important, jouait alors,  ce  rôle de creuset social dont nous semblons avoir quelque peu  perdu le secret. J’eus la grande chance d’y connaître  mon meilleur ami, Roland P.., qui aujourd’hui, hélas, n’est hélas plus  mais dont l’Esprit demeure et qui  fut  l'ami si compatissant et fraternel  de mon adolescence tourmentée,  quelque peu Rimbaldienne.  Mes Professeures d'Italien étaient toutes des passionnées et si nous ne nous mîmes pas suffisamment, par paresse, à la grammaire; elles réussirent, tout de même,  à nous  ouvrir grand la porte de cette langue somptueuse,  l’Italien,  si variée et l’amour  de la civilisation Italienne qui a tant irrigué l'art et le bonheur de vivre. Parmi les romans que ces professeures de ce Lycée Laïque  et quelque peu «contestataire» (encore un terme qui s’est évaporé sous la gangue de l’aigreur et de la passion funeste d’une nouvelle intolérance pseudo-jacobine et pseudo « nationaliste »  )  nous firent connaître, il y a  dans ma mémoire et au plus haut de mon panthéon personnel, «Le Christ s’est arrêté à Eboli» écrit par le docteur de Médecine,   devenu rapidement, peintre et militant antifasciste de «Giustizia e Libertà», l’ écrivain Carlo Levi. Son  chef d'œuvre incontesté : «Christo si é fermato a Eboli» («Le Christ s’est pas arrêté à Eboli.») a fait le tour du Monde.

Envoyé  en relégation par  le «Tribunal pour la sûreté de l’Etat» créé par les fascisme (dans ce que l’on nommait le  «confino», dans le petit village d’Aliano en Basilicate,  pour le punir de ses mauvaises pensées et  de ses quelques minuscules actions politiques menée sous la chape de plomb totalitaire en ce  lieu, si perdu que même le Christ, lui-même,  semble-t-il, avait oublié, tout au moins métaphoriquement de s’y arrêter, Carlo Levi, au travers d’un roman presque naturaliste fait un véritable reportage ethnologique sur la condition des paysans et journaliers pauvres que l’on nommait alors : «I cafoni», (les culs terreux, les humbles, les oubliés d'hier et  toujours).

Contrairement à trop d'écrivains contemporains qui fuient les questions qui fâchent et surtout la question sociale  ( il est vrai que j’entends dire même par nombre de mes chers amis d’aujourd’hui  qu’il n’y aurait plus d’ouvriers, ce qui est inexact ;  il est  hélas bien exact qu’il n’y a plus guère d’écrivains provenant des milieux ouvriers, paysans et plus largement populaires. ) A l'inverse de notre littérature européenne contemporaine, laquelle s'est très largement abimée dans le nombrilisme ou,  pire,  la rancœur racornie et nihiliste, Carlo Levi,  lui, a réussi à atteindre la profondeur la condition humaine  et la véracité des plus grands peintres de l'Esprit ,  tels les écrivains Russes comme Gogol , Gorki , Tolstoï et Soljenitsyne, dans «le pavillon des cancéreux» ainsi que les écrivains Méditerranéens à la « générosité solaire » comme le crétois Nikos Kazantzakis  (dans la liberté ou la mort), Albert Camus, dans «la Peste» et  Mouloud Feraoun  (dans son  «Journal»).  Bref dans son roman, Carlo Levi va au plus profond de la tragédie intime et collective des êtres et ne masque pas les ébranlements sociaux,  et les Révolutions à venir qui font tant peur à notre époque de «nouveaux rentiers» de la finance et de la pensée  sans jamais verser dans le prêchi-prêcha. Ce sont de tels écrivains, sortis du terreau de leurs Peuples,  le connaissant  et l’aimant profondément,  qui nous manquent tant aujourd’hui. Ces écrivains furent d’irremplaçables témoins de leur époque comme Victor Hugo, avec «Les Misérables» avec ses personnages  littérairement immortels comme  le forçat en rédemption,  Jean Valjean, la touchante Cosette et bien sûr le jeune et éclatant  Gavroche. Ils restent au-delà de toute mode et atteignent l'Universel en s’appropriant la vérité profonde de ce qu’en Occitan,  l’on nomme nos  «Pais» ou la diversité de nos terroirs. Encore un immense merci à mon père et à mes professeures; il faut lire ou relire : «Le Christ s'est arrêté à Eboli». Car si nous regardions un  peu au-delà de notre Europe  tétanisée de peur et barricadée,  il  y a encore bien d'autres Eboli et encore tant de «Cafoni » méprisés, brutalisés et tyrannisés dans le Monde d'aujourd'hui !
Paul Arrighi
ponds and rivers
frame masterpieces

the watery mirrors
of inverse images

a fluid movement
of inexact things

dependant derivations
of the swirling world

cloud billows
leafy trees
sun dance
shimmer
sambas with
water people
tipping along
the wet stones

flowing by
to effortless
destinations
attired in
wondrous
watercolors

birds of paradise
loft along the
gentle eddies
seeking beauty
of transcendent
touch points
in gracious
multicolored
micro slices
of tiny time

revealing the
hidden
unemerged
reflections
going
fathoms
deep...

Thelonious Monk /Sonny Rollins:
Reflections

Oakland
10/25/13
jbm
Olga Valerevna Jul 2014
So how did I become the kind of person that I am
By changing every part of me I couldn't understand
I wonder what I'll find inside the skin that I suspend
Or maybe what I've lost is more apparent in the end
And where is all the evidence I carried on my back
The weight of it has turned it into something inexact
A haziness pervading what I once believed to be
The only inconsistency I wanted to perceive
Secure in all my shakiness but never unaware
That I was going down a road that wasn't even there
And maybe in my head I thought I'd save a place for you
Until I came to realize that's something I can't do
I cannot save anyone.
Ayad Gharbawi Feb 2010
I TRIED TO EXPLAIN TO HER


December, 2009 – Damascus

Ayad Gharbawi


Myself
I tried to refresh her Mind
To the Inexactitudes of Beauty’s Truth
Wherein she then found me even more
Loathsome

You see, listen, here:
She tended to readily
Sway towards the jesters
Made of rosy perfume

I complained!
But to what avail?
None!
I began to think elsewhere
What if my 'words' have no
Connectivity
To this Damsel?
Then what ought I to do?


Her Mind told her Whispers
That were
In essence
I can confirm
Rather far too confusing
Romantic language?
What absurdities!
And so, indeed
She became confused
As I
Tried to express my opinion on what is going on
Between us
Which was precisely that which
Is inexact
But her Heart drove her fanatically
Towards Irrationality
Whereby that really
All over again
Did leave me
All too Disconnected
From her

One dull night
She screamed, “So what then do you say love is after all?”
I exclaimed calmly,
“What love is, “
She interrupted me, screaming further,
''Speak words, you make no sense!
”Always, when you speak, I lose myself
“And that does frighten me”

And, I attempted to paint for her a candid portrait
Of what ‘love’ is and
What ‘love’ is not
She did not like the portrait at all
As per the usual
“Ah well”, I said, sighing
“For this is after all, is what love is
“Never! never!” she screamed
Typically

I told her:
“You do remind me of Dorian Gray!
“Do you not?

“For you deny reality
“Of the indefinables
“You do not understand
“That nothing is Certain
“In our Existence
“Save the dour End!
“And that is where
“You find so many
“Difficulties
“In your fully perturbed
“Solitary life”.
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2017
Flow in its intricate beauty, in its parabolic slide through an inexact thought,
Niggling here and there as it soars through the rough appendage of reason.
Flagellating the highs and lows of delight and sorrow,
Titivating the realm of ecstasy to thrill the fluttering eyeballs,
Brushing mounds of ragged hurt to bruise the tender, tender sensitivities.
Then soaring, at once skyward, in a quest for knowing,
Scintillating in a spangle of joyous, YES!
To land, exhausted and deliriously happy
In the knowledge that we two,
My mind and I,
Have won ourselves a freedom.

M.
28 March 2017
On the eve of my 72nd birthday
O! The Things I can do with this Language!
It can be turned ndsıpǝ-poʍu, and drawkcab,
and bɘɿoɿɿim as well —
rcsbamdel, like eggs, even.
Made to read, made to speak, made to listen.
It Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅs, it beckons, it s̷h̷a̷d̷e̷s̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷t̷r̷u̷t̷h̷.
It tєครєร, it broadens, it SCREAMS.
Narration, instruction, completion, construction:
all of these things Mine Ears do accept.
It is in this inexact form that I find myself exuberant,
laughing as Webster turns in his grave.

*Sometimes, I don't even need a pen.
J Flo Apr 2013
# 2
It’s funny
how the stripes
on your shirt
indicate the inexact
shape of your
*******.
j f Apr 2013
#2
Its funny
how the stripes
on your shirt
indicate the inexact
shape of your
*******.
CharlesC Mar 2013
Sun sparkled snow
on lined peaks
western storm clouds
inexact forecast overlay
shifting patterns of
warnings and watches
fractals of life
glimpses of light
chaotic ground swirls
this the Middle
breathing...
lkdl Feb 2014
Never-ending,
Always chasing,
No exact shape,
No inexact shap,
Unbreakable,
Just like the love of a girl,
For a special flower,
A special book,
A special tea.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i don't exactly remember how i read j. joyce's finnegans wake, but i read it, that grand interpretation of premature dementia of his daughter, never read it aloud, but i read it, and maybe that made me skew into some sort of symbolism, the attempt to capture too any sounds, perhaps all sounds, and enclose them in inexact onomatopoeias written down - dyslexia and excess spelling - indeed, once your intended creativity disappears, you begin to become entrenched with the few original ideas you had - then you begin to repeat yourself, crafting tombstones of your mind - so many shared lives, so few given a grand grave of being entombed in a familial grave.

difficult books, like Ezra's cantos i read in
uncomfortable positions,
usually on the windowsill, in a pseudo-akimbo
of a turk, one leg tangling the other under
my buttocks -
it eased the eyes to become eager and spur
the reading fascination on -
i'm not really a book worm as such,
i had six beers with me,
i climbed the hill leading unto the Essex
village of Havering-atte-Bower,
drank, smoked cigarettes, finished off
the 2 remaining cantos -
see, for a man i could do this,
a man who wrote a book...
i could never do such a thing for a woman
who'd written something...
it's called the brotherhood, otherwise
a marriage would have taken place -
once i reached the peak of the hill leading
to the village, a slight drizzle -
but it didn't escalate into a thundercloud,
thank you;
so i sat there, first watching traffic and smoking
and then started to annihilate the Pisan cantos...
on the horizon that old torture rack
near the roundabout - the *stocks
,
behind me a church... a thief only walks through
a village once as a free man
, indeed, then
clamped into the stocks... more than feet,
hands and feet... the church behind me...
cursing the cross / spine like that...
they still have the stocks in this village...
a husband and two girls were inspecting it
trying to find a culprit to make an example of
how the contraption worked...
i told you how it worked... then one villager
emerged from a house with a little blonde boy
to play football, kicked the ball high up intending
for it to land on my head - he apparently shouted
'heads!' - but because of headphones i didn't hear it,
it missed, then he tried to apologise -
after i finished the cantos i wished him a good day -
****** - you ever see that video with two idiots
playing about with a basketball in Trafalgar Sq.
and they bounced the ball against this huge gorilla's head?
you know what the gorilla did after the two idiots
tried to hush the "joke"? he got a glass bottle
and smashed it against one of the idiot's head... ha ha.
funny now, oh much more funnier than that
basketball trick... plump pluck of a plum...
boom... on the pavement, a Mike Tyson moment...
(yes, and by comparison, i'm a ******* albino chimpanze)
once finished i plucked a camomile flower
from the village lawn, put it at the end of
the Pisan cantos... give it a month and the
camomile will be mummified... dried out...
books are better than the intended pyramids...
you can mummify flowers using books,
give it a month and the flower will be dried out;
walking down the hill took a scenic route
listening to little birds and woodpeckers via
https://goo.gl/1eU4zB (the wooden fence proves
the route is inhabited by footprints from time to time).
Ann Witt Sep 2013
Most of us are lost in thought,
masked by the anonymity
of our life's commute,
unaware of the camera so
directly upon us.
We unknowingly allow our
inner selves to be seen.

Once life becomes rocky,
our carefully crafted personas
begin to slip away as our super-egos
dissolve and our minds begin
to wander aimlessly over our
cares and dreams.
It drifts into an ambient hypnosis
where the silence of the cosmos pervades.

If you're lucky, those few minutes
with your guard let down and your
gaze inexact, will allow you to
find the true solace that
human isolation allows.
Bob B Jul 2019
I dreamed the day finally arrived
When ALL people realized
And understood why Donald Trump
Deserved to be so despised.

People everywhere saw through
His empty words, his lies, his act,
His bigoted, odious promises,
His thought process so inexact.

No one acknowledged his asinine tweets
Or listened to his divisive rants.
No one went to his vacuous rallies
And started shouting racist chants.

No one let him- or herself
Be duped by the man's endless stream
Of worthless gibberish and hateful talk
That once made non-supporters scream.

Our country had respect again
From countries worthy of respect.
Foreign relations were also mended
After having suffered neglect.

No longer did we admire
Autocrats and dictators.
We looked up to our allies and praised
Diplomatic negotiators.

The voices of white supremacy
Were drowned by voices of love and inclusion.
Voting rights would be protected.
That became a foregone conclusion.

Russia and other countries couldn't
Interfere with our elections.
All people living in
The U.S. had equal protections.

Religious freedom meant that people
Could practice beliefs across the nation
And NOT use religion as
A handy excuse for discrimination.

Clean air and clean water
Became a focus, AND what's more,
Climate change wasn't considered
A silly hoax that we should ignore.

Children were not separated
From parents at our border gate.
People weren't dehumanized
And made to feel second rate.

The taxation system was fair
And benefited not only the wealthy.
Everyone had health insurance
With emphasis on being healthy.

To presidential abuse of power
Legislators said farewell.
And egomaniacal Donald Trump
Languished in a prison cell.

What a dream--what a vision--
Where joyous hopes began anew!
If only it could come to fruition!
It would be a dream come true.

-by Bob B (7-19-19)
The Dedpoet Feb 2016
Perceptions,
           (The heart desires,
             Action at a distance)
The slow burning
Needs when the eye meets.
       Was she there before?
       The manifest destiny of its mechanics,
       How world upon world was stacked
       Until finally what the heart
       Wanted comes to be.
The fire's ancient name
When the name burned
As the first words spoken
Into existence.
      Quantum lovers to the atomic
      Extremes, the matter cannot
      Be mathmetised, fate rarely explained.
Great the string,
Silhouettes of her body
In a thousand bodies,
Only one looks his way.....

        Fallen star
        In the endlessness of many worlds
        Beneath the eyelids electrified,
        The girl, only the girl,
        I see through a tunnel
        Like destiny in a wormhole.
Tiny energetic particles,
Trillions inexact,
They lay motion into desire,
The motion becomes a walk,
A walk become a word,
The word becomes them both.

   They explode like comets
   Too close to the star,
   The spirit intertwined,
    Evaporation of perceptions,
    Both accidental and fated,
    The quanta come together.
A series of waves
That take part in duality,
Two lovers, immeasurable destinies,
Coming together,
A scarlet queen,
A quartz king,
Fire on the head of the energy.
      Silent in the moment,
      He holds her hand,
      Connectivity on the sub atomic level,
The wheel spins,
The procession of the heart
Began as multiple universes collided,
The love devours all destiny,
In a rain shower of possibility,
The boy meets the girl,
They fall in love,
In this love quantified,
All the matter and energy
Swim in a pool of desire and need,
Never can it be measured,
Destiny is but
A prelude to a kiss.....
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2020
Her body pulls away, outlying

Ask the mountains
Question the clouds

What is rotation's logic?
Have we spun fallaciously all along?

Communicating with inexact words?
Kissing off-target?
*******, an imprecise expression?

She settles now on unapproachable horizon

Learn from the shore
Understand the sea

Neither dare, nor desire, to claim
For the indignity or cumber of a difficult collide

Start anew by holding hands
Discover the "we" in you and her

Ever so gently, allow her to orbit
The offered affection
On her own terms

The heart will again probe for
A returning circuit to attachment

Her body will move closer
Her body pulls weight with ease
Ask mountains if they are displeased
Question clouds drifting in the sky
What is orbit's watchful eye?
Have spun circles too long
Dizzy as current moves us along
Communicating inexact words
Sentences sometimes are outright absurd
Kissing off-target
Inaccurate aim
An impressive meaningless game
Expressing inner thoughts strictly forbidden
Settles now
What's hidden?
Unapproachable horizon
Distant
Bright
From the past learn abuse is alright
Understand sea and it's secret depths
Neither decide
Desire to descend it's steps
For indignity she avoids at all costs
Collisions difficult tempt and accost
Start anew
Wiping slate clean
The "we" discovered that lies between
Ever so gently make change
Offered affection usually exchanged
On her own battles pain
Heart will survive because love remains
A returning circuit all burned out
Body will live
With
Without
Written 2-8-21
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
EVEN OUR SMILES RHYMED

even our smiles
rhymed
once upon a time

these dunes
that summer
us students of kisses

both of us
majoring in the inexact science
of the making of love

all that love
now only photographs
never ever looked at

not realising that
we had it
when we had it

these dunes that summer
now just a seascape
like any other

stripped of memory
the sea merely sea
the sand only sand

hard now to think
what I meant to you
what you meant to me

somewhere along the years
we lost
each other
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
EVEN OUR SMILES RHYMED

even our smiles
rhymed
once upon a time

these dunes
that summer
us students of kisses

both of us
majoring in the inexact science
of the making of love

all that love
now only photographs
never ever looked at

not realising that
we had it
when we had it

these dunes that summer
now just a seascape
like any other

stripped of memory
the sea merely sea
the sand only sand

hard now to think
what I meant to you
what you meant to me

somewhere along the years
we lost
each other
Walking with tight shoes
One meter sight ahead,
Trembling, feet by feet on a wonky land.

My bones cold,
My fear well fed
By imaginary hands,
And food nevertheless real:
The end of the alley, cornered.

One year, one month,
Silly calculations of an inexact variable,
My head up and down
Of every thought,
Short lenses,
Missing landscapes,
Loud chaotic songs,
Distracting every bit of me
In bits, bytes, pixels and inches
Of an infinite and small creation.
Cvash Jun 2021
Through the daily grind here I am, minced (me)at:
- Fifty five percent monotonous shadow of a moving soul, on auto-pilot and caught in a well-designed hamster wheel that is fully functional, like clockwork
- Twenty five percent educated consumer, insatiable bargain hunting vegan, ever-evolving being caught in a never-ending loop of self-fulfilling prophecies and ego-colliding encounters
- Five percent shattered creativity, hopes and dreams, the cohesive mass of which I keep safe under the carpet of daily small talks, self-regulation techniques and wealth-management strategies
- Half a percent chronic melancholia and half a percent sheer exuberance, which make up a whole percent of unhinged
- An inexact percentage of loves lost and longed for, probably about four percent, the bitter taste of those are semi-washed away by single malt whiskey which forms another two percent in its own right
- Three percent bottled up, unexpressed opinions, suffocated road rage, internalised feelings of inadequacy and guilt, body-image issues, what ifs, should haves, never have I evers, maybe in the futures and down the tracks aaaaaaaaaand therapy bills
- Trauma two percent; and
- Three percent memories
Torn from the womb, rushed
into a warriors labor. A failing
patriarch with eyes of sterling,
sleek in shape, displaying a
desperate smile.

Engaged in foaming conversations,
which seemingly drip effortlessly
upon the ear drums of systematic
recoil.
Cause has effect, descriptive, and
random, while tragedy nurses
folly.

Monsters leaving carcasses,
one after another. One more steel
ringlet latched around necks
like a noose.
Prophecies of habit, of vengeance,
seen only when one comes clean,
the acceptance, the truth of
religious martyrs, religious sages.

Still teetering on the edge of
impossibility, human form
infected with fantasies, and reality
based television becomes the
docility of technocracy. Easily
trapping the ignorant watchers
with denial, while fallen soldiers
lead a life of misfortunate
revile.

Gather together the worlds
inequities, and think only of each
bygone quality. Bind them together,
coalesce the congregated minority,
and strap them upon surface to
air missiles. Ready, aim, fire.
Rain down manufactured hatred,
upon their difference, their
deference.

From the windows of paradise,
I see this perjury, praise be to simple
solutions too enigmatic, because
the tactics are so similar to prayers
and hopes. God drain them of their
breath, strip them of their life.
Hold onto the image of a
limitless sky, while another rocket
races across centuries.
From one aisle to another, from
one dogmatic doctrine, into the
hands of priests, bigots, and
demi-gods. The clerics whose
spirits are our questions with
out answers, not the worlds
intentions, driving these vehicles
of intercession.

Drawing the curtains, so the early
morning sun cannot lash out at
my eyelids, whose images create
dreams within themselves.
We can see the blood running from
***** and body, reminding that
life, no matter how defiled, no
matter how tragic, or how inexact,
is still a science, a process of do’s
and don’ts.

The limiting of ambition, restrained
by our reality, relegates progressive
proposals to fictitious daydreams,
or to a drug induced psychosis,
yet this cancer will grow, extending
tentacles exponentially, cradling
the heavens.
Death after death manages to
make reality so simple.

A suggestion of ******, of
genocide, an elimination of
competition, of difference, of
doctrine, of compassion,
without interruption, the dream
of our future is the plight of
those being tortured for
sovereignty.
will19008 Jun 2019
other clocks, there are,
living through nature
depending on fixed rotations
working in time and sense
segmented, experienced
forming a continued understanding—
a different timekeeping


people do think
speculate, order the intuitive
hold to their understandings
successful and precise
keeping time enslaved in minutes
controlled and grown into hours
and days, navigated within


abundant rhythms
when overlapped in natural ways
house landscapes and observations
in well-kept gardens
a careful harvest
working together in fields
as servants watch


a sense, a time
befitting such gardens
a sense of clocks, inexact
a completely different literacy
the particular clock-time being provided
through a framework overseen
by these plants and water
Universe Poems May 2021
"You looked at me then I looked at you
someone's mask was inexact"


© 2021 Carol Natasha Diviney
Walter Alter Aug 2023
he rubbed his eyes
and said you just think that way
so you always have an answer ready
which may well constitute
a state of pure distraction
in a dog lick dog kind of world
at Cathode Ray's tanning salon
scene of criminal degradations
with multiple jaw grinding *******
from a terrestrial point of view
I'm not sure high above the clouds
is the place to find anything
certainly not a mirror to be had
much less a cinema projector
with scenes of domestication
Reginald sneezed his false teeth
into his dinner plate as an augury
probed prodded palpated
looking for the intelligentsia
in the oracle's personnel roster
their attempts to overthrow evolution
led to a cornucopia of calamity
at the crossroads of conundrum
traded their opposable thumbs
for a certifiably reliable statistic
the atmospherics garbling
the ivory tower transmissions
and made anyone look like a prophet
and bearers of unintended consequences
left my friends hanging from lamp posts
adulterers heretics and infidels
cataleptics ablaze with legend
trained by undulating biblical harlots
tending their hornet infested gardens
avoiding the irredeemably antique
remaining inexact to a criminal degree
in the war between belief and certainty
my script supervisor just pulled the plug
he's not from Sesame Street
he's from Bastille Boulevard
the artist is bait and accident prone
opaque as an 8 ball at high velocity
caroming through every nave and vestibule
bladder control found again
in the midst of bourgeoisie panic
a meditation of involvement
I'm going where

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
the disorder of discovery is tolerated

— The End —