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stylesclash Feb 2017
shower me with
your naked thoughts
and spare me
the varnish of
humility and grace
and the platitudes
we mouth to give
ourselves that appearance
of humanity

as in this
idealistic condition
in which kindness
and optimism
are the quintessence
of itself

i don't
give a ****
about kindness
and the binary
of optimism and
pessimism leaves
no room for reality
so **** that

least of all
from yourself
who i don't expect
to conform to
the standards of beauty
and fit neatly
into the boring box
of womanhood
which is made
by woman-haters
whose artisanal hands have
made itself as
ostentatious as


and that's
not at all unlike
which creates
a veneer of strength
from illiteracy
as the resultant void of
emotional depth
is held-up
for exaltation

these varnishes
of people
cannot confront
the depravity
of themselves
but we can

not that
the implication
is that we can
conquer it
but we can
admit our ****-ups
and secrets
and try to attenuate
our impulses
or at least glue ourselves
together over
these scattered and piecemeal
and move-on

and move-up

hollow things
as money
won't be so hollow
when we are drinking
from the cocktail
of each other's
and the ambition
to rise above
all of it

**** your
and tell me
who you
really are

and i'll
tell you
who i really am.
Alessander Jan 2017
Sun, heat and sweat
and what remains but the bone
the indecipherable whisper on our ear
the bitter aftertaste of a potent drink
you show me your tattoos, i show you mine
you show me your scars, i show you my poems
you show me your breast, i show you my
sun, heat and sweat
the ghost of a body that has not yet died
pill after pill till the stomach is pumped
till the brain swims in endorphins, nirvana, heaven
till the night screams to be heard and the moans fade
till the bone-sun rises and clobbers our throbbing skulls
no more
for once i want to sleep by 10:00 pm sharp
for once i want to know what the birds sing
what maria callas means by "vissi d'arte"
for once i yearn to be silenced
by another's dream
dissolve in the radiance of a pure syllable
vanish beyond the confines of light
Originally a collab between Z and X

I'm trying to broaden my creativity, so I've opened up a SoundCloud and started recording some of my pieces.

Hope you like, and if you do, follow me over on the cloud  :)
Homunculus Dec 2015
All my poems are
The same, aren't they?
"You're being lied to by a corrupt,
Imperialistic government,
Corporations own your soul,
We're destroying the planet's
Natural resources, making
It uninhabitable, to ourselves and
Driving other species to extinction,
Capitalism is unethical, and
It subverts the potential
For real democracy,
Yada yada yada yada
Blah blah blah"

Maybe I should write about
Something else, but what?

I like flowers,
Flowers are nice,
Especially orchids, but
Not those weird,
Smelly ones that grow
On Callery trees... no
Those things reek like
Stale **** and sour milk.
Ah, but who could deny
The pungent and delicate
Fragrance of a rose?
Someone with anosmia,
That's who.
What, you didn't
Stop to think about,
People with disabilities?
How incredibly
What are you?
Some sort of
Overprivileged, straight,
White, cis male ableist?
*******, you ******,
You might as well
Be a fascist. I would
Tell you to go back
To **** Germany, but
It's 2015, buddy,
Grow up and join
Us adults here in
The real world.
Wait... where was
I going with this?
A healthy bit of self criticism can always be helpful.
N Paul Jul 2015
I want to write it all; all of it. Every last word, sentence, phrase, poem, story, tale, feeling, joke, song, garbled hunk of nonsense streaming from my mouth hole like from a tap until the whole world drowns in just what I want to say; to let them know that expression is here, in my mind, in theirs, whispering in the trees outside, singing from every atom that can bump and grind and make things feel or see or sigh.

I want to sit within friends late in the night heads bobbing nod nod nodding as we agree or disagree or pedigree our intellect as we refine the phrases that make us sound like we know. Cos when you sound like you know, that's when you get heard, and if anyone's gonna get heard, ain't no one better nor worse than us. Cos nobody really knows; no Oxbridge don could ever write the wind, measure my kiss on my darlin’s skin, capture what the rosy points of her cheeks do to my brain, my body, my soul, my Attachment to this world.

So Hear me, O merry gentlemen! For I am alive and feeling and that is all the PhD I need.- If only you could see what’s dancing around in my skull... but you don’t have to! Use your own ivory mug! Really stop and think and you’ll see more than in a million poems roar within an eyeblink. Know it and feel it and see it all; the whole stupid shining racing roaring- untameable- restlessness of it all! Put down your pen and paper and rush out in the air and rejoice truly in the warm company of lovers and friends, in the sweet hum of guitar strings and in the savage itch of the insect's bite. In loneliness and mourning. In boredom and steady working with clever hands. And love, never stop loving, or hating, or appreciating, or caring, or crying, as long as you are feeling. For sometimes it seems we should always be in pain from one thing or another, yet mostly from the bubbling exasperation of positive go-get-em ***** for life.

For we read this clunky tongue of ours and say it’s what should be but there is more! For life through all its prisms can impress upon your vision a beauty neverending, yet to sense it quivering within a page is a spectacular sight indeed. So let’s leave the rigid, the impersonal, the stymied words behind and let's form a new expression, devoid of convention, one that cries joyous face-first directly into our souls!

So, Cry, onwards! And let's weave this tender tongue of ours, golden! Let's stack this world full of less-than-sane streams of speech tangled images driving shards of true experience into each other’s minds, until we drop dead deep in our bones from exuberant exhaustion. Let’s follow Kerouac to the grave; cheering, and keeling and full of tender feeling and find a meaning in words that can transcend into being. Let’s **** and watch and listen and do and learn and laugh and notice laughter and mark it for the concentrated joy that it is. Let’s sit quietly and attend to those things around us and ruminate without ever forgetting our surrounding- which include, of course, the ever flipping ever spinning and unwinding tapestry of our mind and others'.

Let’s find joy, or the maker, or whatever, same-meaning trap clap-trap of a name he (or she) has in your sticks, in what we can touch and feel and see, and inside those we know and those we don’t. Let’s make language a human thing that radiates warmth for all, and bridges us to those around us so that none may feel alone or scared unless they long to for glorious masochism, or curiousness, or any things they so do please. Let us travel, and dance, and loose hope, and find it, and live it.

And write tenderness into this world.
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015

i'm here

invisible hand
retching in your pocket
reaching in your face
teaching all

or nothing

blue bottles buzz
round my head in circles
making me dizzy

I pick a posie of dandilions
gone to seed

I foray about
looking for the shiniest
diamonds in aluminum cans

the brass ring
must certainly be
tarnished gold

the forge bellows that is my chest
heaves in another cough
cooling my tounge
the empty wind that echos ashes
spent embers collect
in the cracks
of the


my bones which were disjointed
oh so slowly reassemble
but someone
at the factory didn't
read the

my legs are arms
my hands

i lie under a cold
in july
oh don't cry
when i die

no whitened seplechur my inheritance
my epitaph nonsense

a palm tree o'r my


(C) 6/13/2015
Stream of consciousness work
about the homeless in Los Angeles

Maybe this kind of poem should
have no final destination
This one did. But I allowed it to flow

SøułSurvivør Jun 2015

secret in creation
poetics set in code
difficult translation
they ***** me like a goad

wanting to improve
wanting to impress
do i write this for myself
or follow all the rest?

written in frustration
and when, at last, i read
my own words do obfuscate
quite puzzling indeed!

perhaps you have written one
then you may have been
trying to solve their riddle

for you don't know
what they MEAN!

(c) 6/13/2015
I just wrote a poem in the
"stream of consciousness"
style. I worked and reworked it
which defeated the whole point

Then I realized I was not
writing it for ME, But to
impress YOU folks!

So I wrote this poem

Shalini Nayar Nov 2014
They call this a form of madness because you stepped into my void right out of my dreams where you reigned free in my subconscious waving like the good naval officer that you were returning home after a long mission wearing all-white linen none out of place crisp clean-cut shoulders padded with shiny metals head balancing the white hat that sat tall there like a good boy behaving in the church pew and all I feel is your radiant smile glowing out of you like a million little sunbursts swallowing me whole by the pier leaving behind nothing to prove I even existed.

Now, isn't that madness?

Shalini Nayar
(c) 2014
Homunculus Oct 2014
Expanding, contracting, waxing, waning.
On the edge of your seat, eyes drooping shut.
Enthralled by boredom, hairs standing on end.
Three bites deep in a paradox sandwich,
Garnished with an oh so subtle hint of neurosis.
Seduced by a routine predisposition.
Reason fading away into subtle redundancy.





Hey, would it be redundant...
If I said redundancy?
Did I say that already?
Better be sure cause homie don't play that.

(Which leads to the distinct and important point that there was once someone narrating this... hey wait. Well, who's doing it now? Seems sort of strange that these words are still somehow finding their way into your- oh wait, he's back!)

Or am I? How do you know?


I was just an illusion this whole time!!1!!11

...and then all of the sudden, it's 5:00 AM.

Again... seriously?


— The End —