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Nov 2016 · 288
<3
palladia Nov 2016
<3
in May 2015 (http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1199379/a-note-from-pallas) i told you i had a large corpus of material that i was editing and saving up to publish in Sept of that year. funny as it is, more than a year later, that never happened nor probably will in the near future.

when i first joined HP in June of 2013, i received nothing but warmth and love. today, i'm closing out my account for good on this site and i want to send you the same. maybe one day i'll be back.

in aeternum,
pallas
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kr3w3ZQoqGM
remember to keep following your dreams : he who loses his dreaming is lost...
May 2015 · 417
a note from pallas
palladia May 2015
dear followers, those i follow, those who have messaged me, those who have critiqued me, anyone who has read my words, and those who have yet not,

thank you for spending your time with my work. you have made my 2 year hello poetry voyage a pleasant one.

i’ve had a rough start to this 2015: so many choices have to be made; stressful home-life; and i’m on the verge of a life-changing decision which i’m counting on to put me in a better place. i’ve lost the time to spend creatively inventing new word sequences to post here, as my last drafts are insipidly dull and were posted just to seem like i’m still here… but i’m not. i haven’t been able to write poetry for a year now! i’m just continuously revising old drafts that were written 2-3 years ago, so when those springs run dry, i will have nothing left to offer.

however! i have quite a few megalithic pieces i’ve been working on for over 2 years that i am expecting to publish here, probably no later than sept 2015. after these pieces (which form a book) are fleshed out and ready for publication, i have decided to stop running my hello poetry account and leave it up as a relic of my childhood. most of my poems on here are juvenilia anyways, written when i was 15 and 16 on the vast acres of deciduous north america. i’ve moved on with my life now. i’m in an entirely different place, much older, and hopefully wiser. i’ll try to stay sane these upcoming months and pray i don’t disappoint with my expected poetry explosion.

meanwhile, i’ve shared 2 of my most favourite poems in the world by repost in my feed (right before this message). they are reed kelsey’s “there’s a universe in his eyes” and yangliu’s “rangers edge of the city.” i would like to send virtual xoxoxo to reed kelsey and yangliu because your poetry literally spoke like nothing before to me; i’m not just speaking about mechanics, but your flow of beautiful lines/blocks of words i can only dream of writing. after years of gathering words i find attractive in books (trust me i’ve got plenty), both of you seem to throw those out and just use simple language to create an unimaginably genius arrangement. i’m jealous! yet i’m in awe. xoxoxo to both of you… i can never send enough.

thank you for reading this far and to everyone i mentioned above, much love. i adored my time here, and that’s what counts. and if you really miss me, you can find me on tumblr (if you try).

from all these years of work, suffering, and toil,
pluck me, and I shall glean the gain of an eternal laurel.

now in this triumph, I shall constellate
sail unafraid through stormy Symplegades
catheterize my fears, lost to my face

remember me, with all my glorious infantry
we’ll watch them obliterate the deeds
my laurel has yet to bring…

xoxoxo pallas
Appropriate music to listen to while reading the letter:
Observations of Self, by D. Burke Mahoney:
http://twinspringstapes.bandcamp.com/track/observations-of-self
Nov 2014 · 1.8k
quis fallere possit amantem?
palladia Nov 2014
did you, even now, hope
to shut your eyes to so huge a crime,
my treacherous one, to think you could
stilly withdraw from my kingdom?
did our love not once hold you?
our ardent vows? or even I, Dido,
preparing to succumb barbaric death?
how could you, callous you!,
take wing to prepare your fleet in winter
—i’m sure to run aground—
when Boreas thrashes against the heavens?
but, if you weren’t pursuing unfamiliar soil
or incited to father a distant nation,
if ancient Ilium sturdily grimed through the war,
would you keep piercing the
wave-washed oceans in your armada?
why do you elude me; is it
because i have acceded irreality?
am i worthless, now?—i implore you!
by these tears, and your troth,
by our wedding vows, and this oath
before ***** we began:
if i deserve anything good from you,
or if you think, i was good enough
for you; pity this household
decaying before us! it was once yours, too.
and if my prayers are still yours,
gut them from my mind!
for now the Libyans and Numidians
hate me! dear Tyre is virulent!
as my honour and once-righteous
stature has vanished, just as i was
about to touch my constellated infamy.
for what destiny, my foreign one,
do you set me aside; ever-knowing
my imminent death?
seeing that only your name endures
from this union, why do i bother to keep living?
am i waiting for my brother, Pygmalion,
to destroy my Carthage’s walls, or a
Gætulian Iarbus to make me his concubine?
if only you gave me a son,
a little Æneas to play in my courts,
a boy to remind me of you;
only then, perhaps,
would i not be so utterly
violated, and
consumed.
quis fallere possit amantem?
who can delude a lover?
a modern reworking of Vergil's Æneid IV.305-330 from the original Latin


I've been wanting to do a translation of the Æneid for a while now; this is the beginning. I've studied that book more than even Latin teachers have - I am versed! - but now, I guess I need to put my spin on things. It was late March 2014 when I was depressed with my life again (It happens a lot, but it helps me feel & understand what others go through). I put myself in Dido's shoes and tried to feel as she would when Æneas just got up and started leaving…your life was pulled out from under you and there's nowhere to go. She was angry and heartbroken. Book 4 is my favourite, and this oration Dido spoke to Æneas somehow landed on my mind and I translated according to my feelings.

I was singing Björk's "Sonnets/Unrealities XI"…and I thought, e.e.cummings's words and Björk's musical representation fit perfectly into Dido's frame of reference. "It may not always be so, and I say, that if your lips, which I have loved, should touch another's..." It's just as if Dido is singing these words from the underworld, after she couldn't take the pain of not having Æneas with her & committed suicide. Dido's looking at Lavinia in Æneas’s arms, and it's killing her more, even though she's already dead. "If this should be, I say, if this should be. You, Æneas, of my heart, send me a little word, that I may go to Lavinia and take her hand, saying, accept all happiness from me." The fates have spoken and there's nothing left for Dido to do but to roam the lost lands with Sychaeus.
Oct 2014 · 423
melissa
palladia Oct 2014
if i could kiss
your honeyed-deathless eyes
every second of my life
my darling sweet Juventius
thirty thousands times would not suffice!
my lips continuing forever…
never would i feel
in love, replete

let us tarry
in the fruit-loaded fields
of our honeyed-rich basiation;
a kiss is not a kiss
any less sweet
than yours,
my love

we may kiss
until our death in
studium-full adorations;
but with my lips continuing forever,
even so, i shall never feel
in love, replete
Roughly based off Catullus's forty-eighth poem
Jun 2014 · 689
iridescent
palladia Jun 2014
Aphrodite of the Immortals
on magmatic throne aloft
ruse rummager God’s daughter
shield not my fury or pang of demur
my spirit’s empress eternal

desired goddess, appear
seal rank in the corps of my heart
from gilded kingdoms above
fling thyself to this tenebrous earth
atmospheric reentry – to me

jovial thy ****** bequeathed
known by heart, my splits and seams
my bedraped innocence and tears
to spill my trusty soul secure:
why is thy countenance amiss?
who has entranced thou in her arms?
whose caresses does thou shake?

venerated queen so valiant
dilate my love, dwindle my pain
free up my heart to love all embracive
comrade goddess, be mine
be thou, my ally
A modern day reworking of Sappho's glorious "Hymn to Aphrodite"
May 2014 · 3.3k
orion
palladia May 2014
[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]

(Winter-export), the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. (Thick lips; quick still-hunt.) I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. (Glimmering isle); my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. (Parsecs quaking.) You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me…  Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks (freighting gemstones); King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.

[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]
Feb 2014 · 1.6k
subtle abuse
palladia Feb 2014
someone clean
this paxwax
oozing from
my neck
someone call a
platoon
lasso this body
tech
i'm not zippy
or well oiled
uneasy glances
& the desperate
struggle
against anguish
you mold

{eww! entrails!}

the furies don't
like me
i'm the nature of
beast
they'd rather
not meet
they get
violent
throw me into
the gorge
the slime still
draining
out of my
pores

i'm salivating
again
you'll keelhaul me
but your tongue
doesn't stand a
chance
you'll pant
but keep up
& i'll stay firm in
your
*******
forearms
visual art usually has a large pull on me, especially pieces with gripping imagery. “subtle abuse” was inspired studying francis bacon’s triptych "three studies for figures at the base of a crucifixion". those paintings evoke how i feel, misunderstood. the critic’s reception at the premier was harsh, i’m sure bacon felt misunderstood as well. the figures look so desperate, and it’s difficult for me to see things denied. it’s like they’re wax and they’re going to melt when the light returns, and melt away into the cracks of the earth. to me, melting wax statues seem like an epithet to belittlement. I can’t help but scream when I see them denied as they are.
Feb 2014 · 907
usurper
palladia Feb 2014
A tyrant                king, a
Vandal’s               scream        
Of moor               & rock        
And fair                 I sing;                  
  Life’s                    to its                              
   Test,                  guer-            
     don of        unrest,            
      &strife; believed!  

           Milked out                
  like utter red; lipids        
   ****** hard                  
           at birth: semi-          
                     born: made
three         legion’s ****,    
careful;       cuz fate’s,  
      Allectus, mean.      

      Made in            sheaths        
     An aural           memor-      
     y lock, a-          nswer ur
    calling;              tricky to  
      be bad             &get; a-  
         way w/it!     Caraus-      
           ius’s on     guard          
             duty; he’s in.              

              Fog in chan-              
    nel; no               lights:        
    Bware!            Usurp-        
   ing cou-             ntry,        
   mauling& killing men      
   To ob-        tain                
   Power;            @any        
   risk in                   Britain.

       gold insignias!          
     shine           ur lite!      
    greed              can’t      
    pay—poenas dat!      
   Ascle-                              
    piod-                              
    otus                                
   hears:                            

    He, Allectus does a-      
    way w/.                            
   Besei-                                
   ge in London—rime      
   the trea-                            
   sure al-                              
   located;                            
   Vain he found, good.    

       Crack souls’ ice;
   To ruin              comes
   conceit,           comes
   that rip-       ped part.
   Ah, to p’wer& knifes
   Like wo-      rds...
   P’wer               slashes
    Carves,                &impales;.
usurper: a visual poem
(the poem spells the word "usurper")

i often like bragging about the fact that i've taken six years of Latin, so i have Roman History pretty much under my belt. this was written about last year when i was translating/learning Caesar for the AP Latin exam i took that spring. alongside the AP requisites, our class took a historical journey into the various parts of Roman life and warfare. because Caesar was our focus, places where he'd been were golden. the Roman occupation of Britain always fascinated me; i did some extra research and came across the story of Allectus, Carausius, and Asclepiodotus. Allectus was an usurping emperor of Roman Britain in the mid 290s AD. Allectus first was the treasurer to Carausius, an officer in the navy who took control of Britain and northern Gaul, modern-day France. Allectus was power-hungry assassinated Carausius, but his schemes did not go unnoticed for too long. Constantinus I, emperor of Rome, endeavored relentlessly to seize him but to no avail, however praetorian prefect Asclepiodotus entered into the fight and one night, when it was foggy in the English Channel, Asclepiodotus managed to burn Allectus' fleet on Vectis (modern-day Isle of Wight). He was killed in the battle and Asclepiodotus became the next king of Britain.

Carausius was greedy for power and established himself as Britain's king, but Allectus overthrew him, additionally greedy for power. Asclepiodotus steps in and disposes of Allectus, becoming king for 10 years until he too is overthrown. so it's all very ironic and one of my favourite stories of Roman history, and i turned it into a poem...a visual one, mind you!
Dec 2013 · 1.5k
algol sent me
palladia Dec 2013
some information cannot be found – you can only originate it. facts are often recycled in attempt to clear a logjam that has prevented us from finding ourselves. when i look at the billions of directions my life could have taken, you have to admit we're a very tough bunch, because, who else would have tagged along at this point? we're a recipe for disaster, but that's alright, because we already racked everything. we're bottlenecked. we're deadlocked in ourselves, and there's no way out.

strength cannot be given – it is only self-acquired. we can think of ourselves as vessels of change, but it won't be gifted to you. it has to be done by yourself. it's a real grabber. and once we take it to heart, it works.

axiology—the study of judgments. choice is so vital in postmodern culture, there's a whole branch of study attributed to it. should i take this opportunity, or should i decline it for another? should i rear success with my horns, or wait ecstatically for it to poke me? should i recline, take an easy ride, or work for it? – no matter which outcome, you're still going down the drain because you haven't established the most important part (yet).

i am struggling to understand economics, as well as applied mathematics. wall street certainly does not hang easy for me, but there is more to discuss than stocks and bonds. society has put us in stocks and keeps us in ******* – that’s wall street for you! there are still certain mysteries, such as you cannot put a negative number inside a radical. and all parabolas will have a reflecting twin, no matter how you look at it.

i fell asleep to a black and white movie, and it was still playing when i awoke. however it was in colour. i rubbed my eyes and sat there dazed until i concluded i was dreaming in colour. i woke up again and it was over. now i think that i watch the same movie, but colourized in my dreams, and that i can dream reality, while that reality is a dream within itself.

much reflection has been cast upon theoretical and unchallenged interest in scholars, for example. some presume we can only perceive one – ten-thousands of the universe but of course this can never be proven along with life's destiny and life's purpose, and indubitably, life's meaning. much dark and invisible matter perhaps comprise the rest, but the threads of an unroped cosmos are far from being knitted. can you prove your eternal existence by way of religiosity or science? Jesus rose on the third day and so did the interstellar medium situated in the midheaven. i sleep with a book of philosophy under my pillow, and i'm not in the least ashamed. Alexander the Great slept with a copy of the Iliad, and Mary Shelley, her late husband’s heart. at least philosophy doesn’t stain.

total uproar soars through the galaxy when i begin to think. the terror strikes, and i cower discrediting the truth. my trine is Jupiter, Saturn, and the sun. i’m an Aries, like the one of Judea. constant virtue is what i can believe but i speak in the revolutionary sense. i can enhance my life as long as i am able to try. there is always room to improve a man and i attest to that.

a literary device isn't useful at all until applied in context. an ambition isn't fully good until it is launched. Newton was right, after all. a body is motion will stay in motion until acted upon by an outside force. you are an artist as long as you keep your creative process going until somebody threatens you. then you hide. you establish a force field, which protects you, and you trudge on, because all that matters is your art, in the end. it's everything.

think... Ω-style. one day lofty things won't take pleasure looking at you, because you’ll be confronting them head-first. machtprobe, a german word for showdown. like the one you'll be taking with yourself if you don't buckle down and unravel your weaknesses.

this morning i woke up and stared at myself in the mirror. i was depressed at the condition of my life and my position in the world. my reflection stared back and held up its ******* at me, saying "what are you going to do about it?" not knowing how to answer, i fumbled around possible responses, but it kept going, "it's not that simple, isn't it? life can be tricky when you've got no motivation. it leaves you in a rut until one morning you wake up, depressed about the condition of your life and your position in the world and your mirror's reflection holds up that *******, insuring you're completely aware of the awaiting consequences." it finally shut up and i stood there contemplating its message. "how bad do you want this?" were its last words i heard before i knew that 'initiative' was the one i would soon fall in love with and meet at the chapel to wed.

"either you take it all the way, or you're gonna go astray." it's either one or another, a choice that we have to make. and i don't my reflection to pose a threat to my self-esteem again, so i'm gonna take it all the way...because really. how bad do i want this?

i don't want to have a shoot out with myself again. so when you ask, i'll just tell you algol sent me.
I've been fostering this one for a long time: my ruminations that I've collected over the past year. It's a mini-autobiography of my life over the past year and what I hope to change in the future. It's those New's Years resolutions we keep for about a week and then banish until December 31 the next year. And now I'm taking a stand again and want to reclaim myself from the miserable ruts I fall into. So, it's more of a personal poem, as a sort of get up and go for the future of myself and my art. And I cannot fall back. Think: "how bad do you want this?"

This poem is written in anti-traditional form: no rhyme, meter, lines, or verses. It's more of an essay, because I am especially fond of writing them, when the topic is left up to the author to describe.
Dec 2013 · 2.3k
divine psychobabble
palladia Dec 2013
i cannot face a day without acknowledging a loss.
i cannot fathom such a wilderness grew so close to my place,
my society-free, impositionless place
a tepid forest inhabited
by the requiems of the agnostically murdered
and the cogged wheels of the deceased's clocks.
sometimes they stick and the clockmaster unsticks them,
but they stop up again ever so quickly.
there is nobody who has the time or effort to continually watch the clocks.
and they return to ticking an eldritch song
which may cause pain.
it has not abolished mine, nor shall forth be disseminated to do so.
i am an ascetic mastermind, abiding in my messy pool
of thought, without my womb, without my brood, without my broom
to tidy the mishmash of unruly cobwebs and such.
the fumes cause me to wonder “where is my world,
which i’ve fondled so dearly?”
i detox and recycle memories, it’s to no worth of you
a venomous whisper on a silver lining of a dream tells you everything:
a fanatic’s agenda degrading urbane,
a plummeting depth to deep impact,
i drift away on a molten lava lilypad, and fantasize that...
i am god
but i haven’t found time to juggle your sect
reissuing lessons to mind the sheriff
and i cannot bear to lead me, to my own cultural death.
i cannot receive your moral disease, a signal on my knees
con e preghiere sbiancante. can’t you understand it?
my life is spent with hope placed
on each pair of snake eyes i roll
chance is the meter for everything.
dare i dare go back to my fantasizing,
i am god
ashamed by the lack of hope, and regret
disgraced by the hate and intolerance of man
and i see now their perfect world, is everything i detest.
and the tears produced
form new embryos of emotions
crystalline structures of psychological proportions
which develop into mature,
sentient, and emotion-proof organisms.
which become i.
and i respond vehemently yet come to my senses in a diplomatic tone,
because i am a diplomat.
and i have learned to nail my destiny to an altar each night,
an altar which can sacrifice my pensive motives
and my self-incriminating philosophy
that i should be able to write my destiny, and not
have it planned and read aloud,
read out loud, out in the air, outside.
i try myself.
i tempt myself.
and i return to supplicated suffering about my own mortality
and the atoms i will never see
and the universe i will never span
and the people i will never meet
and the times i will never live.
what if i rivered thirty silver-coins:
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌◌
what if i
didn’t
?
i might be ****** for this: but i’ll still set fire to the catacombs.
i might be scourged for this: but i’ll still hold on,
hoping there’s skin on my bones.
ecclesia, – a common, a sanctuary, a vanguard from the darkness in the world.
i know what i should do but never ever get it done;
i know what i have been and what i will become.
not defined by a dimension nor reputed by a benchmark
but shaded by the passion and dissuaded by the lashes.
i’ll do anything you want me to,
if you **** the self-inflicted psalms i plead!
the ulcer grows
that sweet cologne
i ***** it into the unknown.
i won’t tax your soul, i won’t stick a price to it:
coins ◌◌◌◌◌ won’t fill the hole -in a business deal (assets corrode)
i won’t tax your soul (i won’t buy it with blood money ◌◌◌◌◌, no)
it’s yours alone (but in business deals,
deficit is prone)
and there’s an aspect {a static} of forever and the inescapable gap
between the conscious
and the desired.
i sit here, ever so comfy and lustrous,
and habitually wait the day
they merge.
my invitations stand clear.
if you cannot come, i’ll wait for you. hidden
in the grillework of my past. but if you cannot come,
i’ll be waiting. hidden in the warmth of our teepee haus,
i’ll wait for you.

if X Marx the spot then why Kant i Locke it up?
*could living hand-to-mouth so long make me so Jung?
There’s a complex relationship with the earth, Pleroma, God, and mortality. And none of it can be solved. We live in such a saddened state today.
Oct 2013 · 1.2k
by the tough of velvet
palladia Oct 2013
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
...and it doesn't have to end there.
much of what i already know and learn is transmitted
sent to me through experiences i'd rather not relive
(until encouragement speaks)
but through the hardest circumstances
come the better attractions
although sometimes bad leads to worse,
(and i wish it hadn't).
Sep 2013 · 1.3k
à corps perdu
palladia Sep 2013
lead me far from the mainland:
i have need no more for their custom.
gore these umbilical cords i share:
i no longer need their worldview,
i have forsaken them
they have, me

writhing akrobatics!
i whip my flagellated tail
and prance defiantly
into the danger zone,
where the crispness leeches
onto my body
and i shudder in view
of the sincerity i have
forsaken for this

my life has terribly been choked,
ab ovo
in principio,
nothing, was i, but a mere ghost.
caged-in oneirataxia:
i cannot distinguish
( i was a saddened victim of kalopsia )
these prefab worlds:
one, real
the other, an illusion

my life has captured me and
coerced me - prisoner
with blackened post 'round my neck
wrenching exposure
and blemish me.
but there,
there is a light
past corridor's end
and i see it, theoretically,
finally
and i remember the one good thing
to come from Pandora's folly:
hope.

i no longer need their choices
which have guided me past with harm
i can fight alone without their armor
which never did fit right, to start
rummaging for the undertow
in this ocean
to take me far from home
where i am embraced
by my prime
their volition:
no more
À Corps Perdu, from the French, explicitly translates to ‘with lost body’; idiomatically, it defines as “desperately” and begs meaning from the phrase “to throw one’s heart and soul into something”. I have considered À Corps Perdu as a rueful plea for something more — something unhoped or unlooked for — anything challenging and new to get rid of the old… because you’ve been enlightened and have realised: their world has nothing for you. You must find another — by yourself, for yourself.

oneirataxia: the incapability to distinguish dreamstate from real life.

this poem was inspired by D. Burke Mahoney's "Sleep Inertia":
dburkemahoney.com/sleep-inertia-video
Aug 2013 · 1.8k
loathe / adore
palladia Aug 2013
loathe* — july 17, 2013

reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. *if you say so

monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
                                                i
              ­                                am
                              ­             frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]


adore — july 29 , 2013

black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
  chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
   lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
    in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
     screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
      hulks histories back - lying supine arts
       ( please remind me to act regimentally )
"They are polar opposites. Yet they are one in the same. They are like snake eyes. They are everything I hate and love...odi et amo. Catullus isn't the only one questioning here."
--Inez Impyriad
Aug 2013 · 690
patmos
palladia Aug 2013
it was said of me . . .

across the eternal city
god made me to be :
the one who
trysts eternity
perhaps if this was,
the end of the age,
and we were
the
      last
            ones
. left . here .
on
      our
            own
if i was abandoned
for what i believed,
so dearly
would you
still love me?
would you adore
my writhing gibe ?

just as alchemists alloy azyme
compounding salvation to baptize
remplissage of cold Versailles

if they debunked
everything i pride ?
could you honestly
pull the hatchet loose
and sacrifice, for me,
i
am
a - m - b - r - o - s - i - a
on the god's platter
why don't you come to?
free me
loosening
free me
for free ? (yes, it's hard, but am i
worth your fear ? )

understand
      for me
           please
                 so
                    simply

nothing can help me
it's your choice now
how will you choose?

>>>>>>>>>>>>

take the road which fits your palm
and in it lies the cusp of dawn
to where we stagnate after all
liberation is our realm
the apocalypse never took this direction . . . it was too geared for non-foreigners
Aug 2013 · 1.4k
volumina
palladia Aug 2013
A script for birth - an new revival,
libelled breaks, swollen structure,
a cupboard full of accidentals,
daubs this paragon with stucco:

Glowsticks prance on leveled stair,
canvas origami pads Negeb:
Counterculture's been declared!
'Metropolis' left in riverbed.

A crypt where all is fairly loose;
—deepened, glottal, breathened, size—
Saddled with this torment, you!
—ugly glamour pangyrized—

There's a lot more to fashion,
and a lot more, to forge;
Nothing keeps me in *******,
that would be too awkward.
the dawning of counterculture. named from the work for ***** by György Ligeti. {http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZ4ZgEOwM6s}
Aug 2013 · 788
lieutenants
palladia Aug 2013
(aka been there, done that)

lost between immensity and eternity,
                     caught between lieutenants♥ who both love me.
   & what’s more, i’ll never be able to choose:
             they can’t convince me of their truth.
“why can’t they understand i’m stuck?”
                    “why can’t i remove myself from this rut?”
        —they offered me head of their revolution!
            promised me black roads & nibiru cataclysms—    ...

    ...do i want both?

                you won’t ever feel how it’s like to live a life like me
    you don’t know what life is like when you’re like me
                     they’ll never find a cure for those who are like me
they’ll never understand what life is like for me

                   i’ve tried not to show i’m pussyfooting around this:
                             i’ve tried so hard to hide all my knickknacking
              because the eyes of a trailboss♥ can mistake
                                 your innocence with guilt and blame
                            yeah, i’m caught between two lieutenants
                                          with who i share a mutual stint,
                            either i digest one & ***** the other:
                  or wish i didn’t have anyone to call “sir”♥     ...

...to begin with.
Fractured relationships are best solved with mutual trust and incremental forgiveness. Although I believe I've been taught the hard way, this could show my easy way out. If I'd let it, that is.
Aug 2013 · 3.1k
custodian of haute culture
palladia Aug 2013
i'm living on a solitary prayer
vandalized my ego to make it rare
with teeth stained with lies i've told
and promises lost in the cold

i tussle and taser to hide my lovers
and all that i am - a mess or tastemaker
sprinkling tersely on my mercy seat
will make my season go complete?

i pull the labrys & the throttle
artefact-sprites in uranium soil
declaring my truth atop of the flagpole
i'm the custodian of haute culture

a flotilla of judgment riding skyhigh
like dido's love-lachrymose down demise
they say "better rethink your useless vendetta"
but first we'd better get out of their siberia

where the masses doubt the angry fix
"ignore the (g/h)aze above the pyramid
if we only couldn't have any more
locked in dominican ****** wards
This was inspired by all those nights I've watched the News and gone depressed over the human condition. So it's something like the world's dirge. I know the meter is off and the rhymes are cheesy, but it's heartfelt: all of it.
Aug 2013 · 726
ink-on-the-rocks
palladia Aug 2013
i am a pietà, my torso damp with tears
from my late lovers, until
my emotional self became the subvert
and paid their debts for them
i’d be at rope’s end
reduction to nothing

i wonder what it would be like
to feel myself explode, off a risky cliff
and watch a ****** geyser
like ink-on-the-rocks
would i laugh if it painted a picture of you?

i wonder what it would be like
seeing my corpse turn to
sludge
a pile of human flesh
with my mind’s fibers still at the top
blowing all{tumbleweed}way

i wonder what it would be like
how it would feel to
fall
to have a skull thaw in the sun
to have a body collapse beneath
you
to have a ribcage implode while still breathing

i wonder what it would be like
to know i did it all for you

even when there was nothing
in store for me
DEVOTION
palladia Aug 2013
i will not be dragged down to size
i will not be blindly patronized
i will, for no reason, compromise

i am myself, in that, there's pride
Based off past, personal experiences.
Jul 2013 · 654
reassignment
palladia Jul 2013
A crossbreed will evolve its truth:
Such facets crafted my design.
I re-exchange, manipulate
Until the age, true fashion finds.

Postmodern wars are pedigrees,
I transpose notes to aptly fit
A sequence feigned mathematically—
Given new meanings I have writ.

It’s not an art, which fates betide,
It has suppressed no cataclysm.
The scheme to cancel and destroy—
We’ll never be obliterated.

The architect contrives such things,
The artist coins it impromptu;
But hybrids can construct those things,
New definitions—institute.
I have always wanted to do something with postmodernism, because it is topic so surrounding us everywhere we look. Although I can't say postmodernism is "in" anymore (today is what is called the "metamodernist age", or post-postmodernism), it's impact on popculture was never so significant. One of the major premises in postmoderism was the eradication of absolute value: everything is relative and old things have new meaning. That's what this is: an ode to postmodernism, or what I like to call, "The Postmodernist's Prayer".
Jul 2013 · 813
cellophane
palladia Jul 2013
my frame :
a distant composition
of cellophane

a streak in stained-glass
clear cut plating
throbbing romance
possibly waiting

your agapē is my canopy
an all-koinonia embrace

don’t leave me
stranded
I think this could pass as part two of "Your Plasma", an earlier poem I wrote.
Jul 2013 · 570
your plasma
palladia Jul 2013
i’m that isolato-type. alright,
i get jagged sometimes
but, i don’t much.

instead, i’d rather be,
sinews sub sinews
bold and parlous:
oh what a multifaceted physique
you bought for me!

        i used to be
        fire and forget
        victual and fleshy
        as you crafted me

^tears^. i’m not that thewy,
draft, and unconscious,
blind in your mask! but,
in your plasma i am warm—
security fails me. ^yeah!^
cop-out post cop-out
i’m passive like that.

        but here’s the catch:
        like a sensitive plant—i’ll curl up
                        by just one touch.

        and here’s the fix:
        my self-consciousness is lost in lull
                        and that’s my fall.

                                     !i can’t take it anymore!
                                                        !!!
I adore writing sappy poetry about love. This is an exception?
Jul 2013 · 587
my high
palladia Jul 2013
there is another world where i slip away;
it is a river on which i float.
and i adore the scenery,
the hazy sky and so many, spiraling moons!

i savor it all, as i can’t in my real world.
here, i am everything. i don’t have any regrets.
my life is in my own hands. but i’m still depressed.
i always wished i could be beautiful;
i always wished i was talented:
to have something to be proud of
is to have the world at your side, guiding you,
and telling you, you’re worth it.
i often wonder what that would sound like:
“you’re worth it”
i often wonder, until i fall fast asleep,
drifting down the highest river of my dreams.
and the next morning i cannot wait
to be back asleep, in my safe place.

while i did all this – you bottled up and didn’t even care:
i beg you: don’t sacrifice it with your own hands.
vers.2
there is another world
where i slip away;
it is a river on which i float.
and i adore the scenery,
the hazy sky and so many, spiraling moons!
here, i am everything.
with nothing to lose
life in my palms
but nothing is perfect
i often wonder; i imagine
i always wondered if i was beautiful
i imagine what it would be like to have talent
to have something to be proud of
is to have the world at your side, guiding you,
telling you, you’re worth it
i often wonder what that would sound like
“you’re worth it”
and i wonder, till i slip away
in a saturnine ruse
to imagine is to have the universe
in your palm
because you’re the end all
and the be all
of all
palladia Jun 2013
awkward is a promiscuous word. it flirts unintentionally. it seduces mentally. but most of all it's so disruptionally absurd even the first-come-first-serve basis comes 15 feet behind the typical quota. but it really isn't that serious. it would be awkward plus if i wasn't active right now. does that sound appealing to anyone? well it better. i'm no vanguard when it comes to distribution of emotions. they'll be distributed equally, thank you, and don't worry about getting more 'cause they'll be pieced out safe and fair. lord jesus, we need some sorrow-getter-overs in here! i'm always telling those who ask me for advice to relinquish the suffering and let the good times roll. not that it'll save their hides, i snicker mimically and divert the attention to something inappropriately interesting, like a ***** bumper sticker or a animal corpse on the side of the road. and you are gonna turn into one if you don't stop that crying! man i need some fresh air and i'm not talking about the innocent kind. it's more of the obvious, over-cynical cyanide-soaked air that formaldehyde would blush over. there are two r's in sorrow because the s and the o and w need to be capsized into one rowboat. i never thought i would compromise intimacy with loudspeaker attention-grabbers and then the sailboat does a belly-flop and lands head first in the witches' cauldron. which is like Hamlet's, but a lot less systematic and bunches more pagan. it's synthetically miserable but enigmatically moral. dance of the morals is another program i like. it has to do with the regard of selfish hope and loose pragmatism. pagan! ****** i know it's pagan but it's pigheaded trash like that which gets stuck in the garbage disposal ever so often and we don't have no time to clean it out. i use a fish net that once occupied a corner near the stove which had the net chewed through by ***** rats that inhabit the lower quarters of the bathhaus. it's nothing significant really but more or less a principle in not making leftovers from the unknown trashpile near the barn. attention: entrance alert. "too bad for" who cares. i'm sick of this. "too bad for". that's all said? "let's chat a lot" what? i thought maureen was coming over at 7? who left the cat out again--the dog's gonna have a field day playing cops and robbers, and there are always reallive guns. and i'm stuck back at square/ground one/zero figuring out how i'm gonna get the next day's meal without having to cut off my head or make the microsoft paper clip icon appear with those embarrassing clips telling you how you should appear to your boss on your first interview. and find out that he's a man after all. and ultimately regret what you said every two minutes. wish i had contributed crescents more to the goodness, and not brush over like a stuckist's paintbrush. he's actually using blood instead of acrylics- that's when i get running. wish i hadn't have done that. wish i hadn't. we "hadn't" too much, you know? i wish we had to have "hadn't" before it hadn't have been created. still my emotions are sold and i've cast a mold far too ugly to be a stupid cupid. can we get on with the show, please? no thank i've had enough cranberry pie for right now, maybe buttercup the parrot can have the rest? the cat hates water. then why is he swimming in the dog dish? i'm not complaining, just hesitating to say how i feel when i want it. yeah, i know you're looking at me make a sucker outta myself on your camera. all those poses weren't hard to accomplish but you aggrandize the bad and disregard that i actually have good talent after all. crazy 8s. thought i'd never compromise. thought i'd never make a sport out of tantalizing the shopkeeper's parakeet. yeah, they're playing that game everyone calls a bore cuz it is one. why not roast a marshmallow then find a salamander caught between the chocolate and the *******. and we can't have them crackers anyways cuz there's got gluten in them. can we take a walk, i have something to tell you? i have to tell you about my personal life. i don't care if you're bored. darwin was never bored, fyi. i don't want to hear your juvenile complaints anymore. you're always telling me your problems but you never let me talk. but why would you care? and no way am i gonna share? not there. still. you're still not coming around cuz you're crying and i can't take it anymore. stop the tears, i already told you just take another pill and you'll relax. your life can stop in a heartbeat because some freak told you to stop ******* with the power outlet and make an attempt on making it right. how am i gonna make it right? seems good to me to get up and go and never return. seems right to let it all hang lose and think of excuses as a way to win some money. i'm not the principle breadwinner around here, but i'd bake enough bread to feed an army if i had to. a whole cohort of emotional bigots who don't care anything about their stupid, money-******* societies. it's leveled to the drain again, yeah i know you don't understand. i'm done asking. please? do it for me? don't you know i'm hurting myself because... i'm not listening. don't you want to know i'm cutting my flesh because... i have to water the garden. oh dear what was that? whew! almost another collision with a bee. whew--another close one. what about the spiders in the cabbage bed? what why didn't you tell me? yeah, the cabbage patch has produced more memories than heads, and no not those types of heads. a mashup of what i hate most and what i hate least scourged outta me in a whirl. she's going to take a walk. the radio's on and it's hot in here. those maudy days of summer, but i love every shred of them like i do a coat in the winter. the radio's playing my song: doomsday magnificat! i like leather and metal combinations that are sold in a 60s oz town. you can tie and whip me if you conscience can, but not now. it's another adage gone to the birds. oh no the shopkeeper's parrot is out again and i didn't do it! how come i'm blamed for things i don't do? get over it. another fact of life. another testimonial head my way. dodge! that was a flying saucer that almost razed your head. you wouldn't care though because enough has happened today to make your head spin even faster than it already is. and they're real-live which makes me keeping fumbling my too-short curls disintegrated by sheer chauvinism and belated princeness. that's alright. i know how you feel. i know how the world feels because i am the world. and the world is my canvas. and i may dictate what you are allowed and i may waver onto what laws of principalities are shooting up everywhere, but it's okay 'cause there's a lot more to shoot than good time. and those wacked people can form an alliance and take down the stronghold because in reality, you know that you are wacked yourself to say that. i'm sorry you did. the world will keep spinning, snipers will keep killing, conservatives will keep protesting, parents will keep levitating, children will keep withholding, the days will keep heating, the pool will be more refreshing, and yeah mrs. renttib is still coming over. the world is new. and i am young. but we will all stay safe and good in this empyrean. because and i created it. and i established the surveillance cameras, which are everywhere, but don't feel pressed. yes, i'll forever watch your every move, and even though you've done good, i'll still send you to hell. because you belong there. you may begin now. make your tread strong yet gentle. it's not my expense, the water is cooler out here,
                                                                ­                             anyways.
i've had a rotten day, but i wasn't involved, rather- others force it upon me, for condolence's sake.

ah, you've got plenty to be thankful about so why bother complaining? i often try to analyze this, because my life isn't perfect and i'm often ****** into an uncomfortable state, even when i had nothing to do with it. this was written during (+ after) a family argument about help and those who shouldn't help us, and telling others first, and letting everyone know. i think it's better to keep it to yourself or see a psychologist than starting a whole mess like this again. i know people hate that i don't like opening up and sharing but i'm doing it for the good of everyone. i'm the breadwinner of myself; others will only make me file more tax returns, it seems! so i'm upset and nervous and kind of scared. i want to explore it in a different angle and if i have to be crass and confrontational to do it, i say "full speed ahead!"
Jun 2013 · 1.1k
war on fame
palladia Jun 2013
my lips speak oracle
the schism is so deep
agnostic hearts and bashing ire
discrimination by desire
a crucible for silver
a furnace for the gold
do you have a curious mind
to explore the limits
we were kept so long behind?
.
.
.
(the devil wages the war on fame)
.
.
and i know i’ll be fighting it
.
  until the end
of the day...
Controversy is a tricky subject to lasso. I'm so bored with the endless debates over things which should already be established. And they're useless. Just a filler for those who have nothing better to do...
Jun 2013 · 731
mouth's orchestration
palladia Jun 2013
floss through my hair
banjaxing, rucking my skin
wipe the sweat off my forehead
and let me collapse into you
till i’m folded all in one

you want out
of this machine too
you do

please orchestrate
mutter my low grade
i want to slenderize into you
i want my dripping locks subdued
enough to make me pray
“whisper my name”

you want out
of this machine too
you do

cut into my flesh
and remove my defections
adapt my skin to the crown
agent to my tongue
slipping in and out
of my mouth
flesh-spoken
Jun 2013 · 560
full fledged me
palladia Jun 2013
adrenaline
****** thru my skeleton
i’m overheating
full head of steam
as i please

adrenaline
****** thru my skeleton
i’m overheating
full fledged me

i’ll spew – spew onus
explosive carcass
i can find danger on my own
rabid and hunting lots of erupting
i’ve been snaking in circles
since the word “go”

can you find it?
my 50 part is missing
i’m overheating
out of bounds
as i please

can you find it?
my 50 part is missing
i’m overheating
full fledged me

follow my exhaust trail
if you can zero in on it
à toute force, immediately:
blow this ejecta, out of me!
Yes I often feel like a steamroller—ready to flatten any opposition that blows my way.
Jun 2013 · 604
by-catch
palladia Jun 2013
was i that immature i couldn’t even handle it?
was i that irresponsible i couldn’t even pilot it?
tell me please...was i that juvenile?
                    tell me please...could i have done a little more
                                    to be little more mature?

was i that immature i couldn’t even tackle it?
was i that irresponsible i couldn’t even rival it?
                    tell me please...what happened to my rapport?
        tell me please...why did i go that route?
                                 why did i bottom out?

that’s where i’m leveled at, why i can’t interact
just marked as another cookie-cutter product
just some more by-catch trapped in the net
to be shucked off into oblivion next

and you always break it to me at the most unpredictable times
like i can’t take it seated down: one-to-one and the pressure’s on?
{come on!} why so self-confident? you’re not as rigid as you think
tough? no way! and out of sync

you’re so ******...
Everything goes in circles, emotions especially, like here: confessions → pity party → barrage → regain composure. Then it happens again. And again. And again. It’s a cycle—it never stops.
Jun 2013 · 931
palladium
palladia Jun 2013
make love to the radio!
enjoy the taste undercover
and cherish it in the whole lot
until it’s bone-crushing delight

let me come utterly across you
where we can cover
over each part of the universe
while we still have access

overdue for liable spree
and disciple to the entire world
to make sure the show
is worth every bit of the admission

let’s form a mental picture of it
and partake into all of the human experience
try your hand at factoring my figures
tip your hat to my complex

so you can take all your know-how
and superimpose it on around me
together we can shelve our fears
and luxuriate into all the human experience
“Palladium” is a rare earth metal, but as well, a sacred icon of refuge in ancient Rome. Therefore, in its sense, a palladium is a safeguard and reminder of protection—and a reminder for myself. Because my name is Pallas (why the poem is named accordingly), this poem is basically a self-ode—a reminder of my life.
Jun 2013 · 518
earthworks
palladia Jun 2013
i’ll be set off
a mushroom-cloud-takeoff
blossoming over
radioactive arms
a state-of-the-art shadow

i’m defending me
ooh in testudo-style
i’m defending me
twin to phalanx columns
tightly compressed in
to make myself less vulnerable

i’m not organic : :  just being cautious
it’s like walking on eggshells around you

yes i’ll sneak up {thick in stealth}
and inhale you Castle Bravo-genre
veiled yet detected
to fall out wrought
such dangerous outcomes

setting up earthworks : :  just being caustic
i don’t have a clue what you’re going to do

i’ve been well endowed
with an abdomen full of silk
to weave a wall
assault on the obvious
befriending the silent...like me
Sometimes I feel inhibited by people around me—what they might say, what they might do—and it actually determines my actions. This is more of a confession than an overcoming victorypoem. I’m concentrating on unearthing the taproot of my weakness, before I **** my garden.
Jun 2013 · 1.1k
wanderbrass
palladia Jun 2013
a hammerhead percussion box:
          an inert crystalline cymbalist’s gong.
          a confession of tined tuning forks
          of perhaps a familiar keyboard?
                    the siren sphere rings of a chime—
                    brittle yet consciously polite,
                    composed by nature’s ragged pen:
                    plinking injections; stymied to tin.

! let it all reduce the klang to mere cacaophony !

a descent of bells, i am in plume,
          a riddle delivered in aged runes—
          evenheaded shots of ******
          cut by the lotto wanderlust:
                    fractal prism, stormy rhythm,
                    thunder’s din to rainy hymn.
                    up those tulip-eared scales, so brisk,
                    the glugs and gurgles of cosmopolis.  

! let it all reduce the tolling to glorious symphony !

          a vagabond melody, no metronome,
          a metallurgist’s claustrophobe,
                    an orchestral performance at home,
                    where i am absolved in the entrancing drone...
This was written after strenuously listening to Björk's "Hunter Vessel" from Drawling Restraint 9. It's my interpretation of the looped horns and exaggerated crescendos found on the tracks: the astir brass sort of made me think of travel, thus the title "Wander-brass". It could also be a play on letters of the brass ensemble Björk toured with during Voltaïc.

— The End —