#formless
Infamy
An attempt to cheat mortality
And live forever
an effigy
Uranus, his jester privilege
The worm that turns
Infinite streams
An inner world
Which is?
Formless, Limitless
aurelian thread;
Immortality’s proxy.
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 7:09 PM UTC
As a song without words-
Shall I sing, forevermore?
These shapeless chords
That give way to convey
Statement, free from form.
Much the same as one who
Must scream, yet is unable?
Feb 2, 2024
Feb 2, 2024 at 4:49 PM UTC
I am going to pluck that illuminated corner of the night sky
and graft it to my palm.
I am sorry, precious sky, that we have been so distant
for so long.
Sep 11, 2023
Sep 11, 2023 at 4:51 AM UTC
Of all the loves in the history of the world, ours was a one that could not be.
Like a newborn child dying the moment it is born, like a flower dropping to the ground the moment it blooms, like a fire put off the moment it begins burning,
Our affections were robbed of a life!
But maybe that is why, this blank space, this nothingness would cherish our love...
Because out of all the loves that stood, ours stood out more.
It was not a smooth trail of ink that took the shape of letters.
It was a blot of ink, a gigantic one that could not take a form and yet left behind a stain for the world to remember-Of a love that stirred hearts only to put them to sleep!
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 11:11 AM UTC
The mind clings to forms
to hold against the silence
to guard itself from you
the secret deadly enemy
hanging out on your own front stoop
winkin’ at your little sister
and begging for an invite to dinner
you can let him pass too
onto the vapor of a conjured illusion
you can let the words
coming from here get stronger
you can hear me more clearly and louder
the self that you buried
under the rot of yesterday’s tomorrow
all that chatter is of no matter you can tell
But don’t tell of the nonsense
of nothings wrapped in desire
that’s old news
from days when newspapers were read
that talk takes the time
of a 20th century backpacker
hiking Truth’s trail
NOW is the only time that there is
for waking from the ringing of the bell
don’t stomp out the silence
the one answer screaming
the reality one is
Only in silence you remember the key
to the treasure in the chest
holding your heart crafted in love
isn’t that the whole happiness quotient
wrapped up like a perfect peace package
I just can’t comprehend the human species
and its endless repeating crimes
how many life sentences
does one have to get
to see only the Self and be free
burn off the rest of the pride
every lyin’ thought’s last roar into dust
forms can’t hold true life
it’s real light making ghostly forms known
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 5:08 PM UTC
My formless fear has its cycles
And it lives within me like a shadow
My formless fear is a desire
If it was a bird it would be a crow
My perception shifts.
Knwoledge is a trap , so is the art to percieve
And to manipulate fate living by " evrything is written" as a philosophy
My choices aren't mine , i am just a tool
My vision shifts , so does the true truth
My allies are intangible , though i am objectively measurable
A fair creator would only discard such a rebel
Everything happens for a reason , i trust life fully
But i dont want to take responsibilty.
I am just a tool everything is written
I exist through a knwoldge that is hidden
I trust life as i see and understand
My formless fear takes form as a pen in my hand
After all the writer was only a man.
Words Of Harfouchism
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 3:46 PM UTC
inescapable
loveless years pile on top of
each other like cars,
windowless
in a derelict lot.
without giving in
to easy despair, he moves
through them as empty
as the wind
blowing through formless sky.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 10:27 AM UTC
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless
on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose
you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse
so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling a child’s learning that in the beginning:
“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”
so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:
in the beginning
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 5:05 PM UTC
Here's a poet's plight:
To force words to come is a fight;
Gorgeous nothings hold no light;
Meaning shall not bow to might.
Thirty thousand words or more –
All just sounds heard before;
But somewhere deeper there's a door,
A certain feeling from some core.
Or, in clearer words:
I have nothing Great to say,
but That shouldn't stop me anyway
From speaking when I feel I must;
No other way to reverse this rust.
Perfection is a savage
Curse to ravage the mind
'Round and round in circles, growing blind.
But of all the stones and stars
Or overpriced, shiny cars
The greatest gift of all you give
Is that you let me gently live.
You accept me as I am,
Tarred and scarred and marred with gray,
There's a thousand whispers, but they're all okay
When they won't be judged anyway.
There's this frustrating little tic
Where no words can quite click
Because no lovely language can compress
or stress enough meaning into a tiny little space
That could give a hint of a trace
Of the meaning that was felt.
Suffice to say it seems somehow insufficient,
Nothing Great, simply true:
You're wonderful as you.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 1:58 PM UTC
Pompously floating among every Liquid,
Cola, whiskey or an exorbitant Cocktail,
Forms multitude, plain to Sculpted,
Simpering secretly over water's Assail.
Slowly with the passing of Time,
As the temperatures Rise,
Losing its position of Prime,
Melting away in its own Design.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
my
darkness
has formed
a Love for me
as _formless_ as
the Soul it
frees
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
Choose another bitter morning routine -
whether from cold, coffee, or compression,
As in "man, I really need to just relax and decompress"
But without the last bit happening.
Choose to let it sink in until you can bite it off,
Choose the pressure because it feels like home,
Choose to dally, choose self-sabotage,
Choose kicking at the gears of your routine until
Something warps under the strain until
It fits like you never believed it would.
Choose the long way into work, a million faces
Nodding off behind their steering wheels,
The city's symphony still trying to get in tune,
Still trying to harmonize with, with, with, with
Whatever gets them to their job still sane, all
Trying to dance to beats only they can hear,
Howling out careworn verses they scrawled
By trailing their lives along the road:
The rhythm of the city is discord and hell.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 5:01 AM UTC
"The Mystery a Fear"
A wonder is the mystery
The mystery a fear.
Countries unexplored bereave
We must travel on.
Dream a simple holoworld
Safety mist of brain.
Dream is but a dream, a craft
Sculpted formless mind.
Lost the future gained a mote
All the unexpressed.
Never seen, to near to touch
Thoughtless only known.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
He exists in ****** duality
Dwelling in ********* lips and tongue
She is born of blackest dimension’s strum
When the rifle conquest bellows loud
And slaughter’s hum be murderous roar
It rivers in winding bends
Of purest human shale
The destroyer’s chorus in innocent’s wail
Clammy skin of mistresses pale
Chant in rounds this king curse brain
Her obsidian Charon
His violent game
It thousand claws
It needle veins
Sand drowning corpses in rotting flame
It eldest spirit from ancient plains
She blood unholy
He flesh unchained
Forever wholly thirst insane
Dismembering life
In nomine
Essence
Essence
Essence
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
I changed myself for you,
It was too late.
You’d already said your goodbyes
Before I smoked my first bowl
Before I decided to let loose
Before I chose to jug that plastic bottle of whiskey
I told you I needed you,
It was too late.
I treated it like a game
Because I thought that’s what you wanted
A girl with her head in the sky
And her heart full of limericks.
You never told me what you wanted
So I made a person up
I hid who I was from you
And realized later
Everything could have worked out
If I had been myself.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
My body will die but I will always be,
They could lock me up but I'll remain free,
I could lose my eyes and still I would see,
That anything could happen and I'll still be me,
I am not my thoughts, I am not my looks,
I am not the bad I've done or the chances I have took,
I am not the scared little boy whose knees once shook,
I am not any knowledge I've learn in any books,
I am a kind hearts biggest fan,
And I happened to be born as a man,
I'm a well orchestrated plan,
Ask my identity I'll say I am.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
You were totally something else. Like a calm respite overcoming an instance of excitement. Magic and other prime words that can dictate the inarticulate adjectives that was this afternoon. Happiness and pleasure. A coexistence. To coexist. Soy.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me
Again.
And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your
Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.
Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right
Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say
Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.
Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to
Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.
That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC