"accuracy" poems
I watched my mother *******
Through the toilet keyhole
When I was aged about twelve.
I think I should re-phrase that.
I watched through the keyhole
As my mother ****** into the toilet.
I didn't mean to imply that
I watched whilst my mother
****** through the keyhole.
That would have called for accuracy
Beyond the average female capability.
Sorry for any confusion there.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Like flipped coin midair
Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle
Two ends of a spectrum, Möbius strip
In a room together,
Maxwell’s demon, revolving door
Cancer and chemo
Like life and death
Only one can be
The next is inevitable
Like an election
Only one figurehead may speak for a governing body
Like the seasons
Change is expected
Like a cat left to its own devices
Guaranteed to scare itself after a given time
Man tries to conquer for comforts sake
Mercurial reactions
Like elements under catalyst
Electron orbitals
Exchange positive core
Theory of relativity
A choice of determining
Accuracy of position or velocity
Hermes, deity of mine
Masculine and feminine
Ruler of I
Relieve the war of the immortal twins
Gemini
Battling my heart and mind
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
Dhalegi Raat Aayegi Sahar Aahista Aahista
Piyo Un Ankhdiyon Ke Naam Par Aahista Aahista
Night will end and the morning will arise, slowly, O’ slowly
Sip in the name of her eyes, slowly, O’ slowly
Dikha Dena Usse Zakhm-e-Jigar Aahista Aahista
Samajh Kar Soch Kar Pehchaan Kar Aahista Aahsita
Show her the wounds of your heart but slowly, O’ slowly
With thoughts, understanding and accuracy, slowly, O’ slowly
Abhi Taaron Se Khelo Chandni Se Dil Ko Behlao
Milegi Uske Chehre Ki Sahar Aahista Aahista
Play with the stars and appease yourself with the moons light
You will meet the morning of her face, slowly, O’ slowly
Yakayak Aise Jal Bhujhne Mein Lutf-e-Jaan Kuni Kab Tha
Jale Ik Shamma Par Ham Bhi Magar Aahista Aahista
What is the pleasure of life in burning so suddenly?
Burnt too I was on a flame but slowly, O’ slowly
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
A Jersey girl came along
and I started to think about angles of yaw
needed to take flight,
how the force of a kick skirts
the delicate line between winning and losing.
I’ve seen it all before, but not like this. Besides, seeing
has nothing to do with believing.
Corneas can't capture the vibrations of molecules or excitations
of electrons. Champions defy biology,
overcome gravity and I believe what goes up
does not always come down.
I want to know the point where focus takes control
of epinephrine, who’s cascade is initiated by the roar of a crowd,
but negatively regulated by doubt,
when to take a long shot or build up slowly.
I want to live the difference between accuracy and precision,
taste the dirt, become painted with bruises and scorch my heart.
A flag is heaviest when you carry it,
lightest when it’s raised,
worn as a cape and allowed to wave in the wind.
Countries aren't build, they're created created
denying muscles oxygen but allowing them to taste gold.
It's ability to conduct electricity astounds me.
It’s not about alchemy
but transforming sweat into tears,
fixing nitrogen, reducing triglycerides.
Not all reactions need light, some create it.
It’s only over when there’s not enough energy for activation.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
The first buffalo IVFed in India,
And the world is named Pratham.
It was produced by Hand-Guided Cloning technique,
By the Animal Biotechnology scientists here at NDRI.
High precision was not enough,
100% accuracy was the need here.
But now they have developed techniques using micromanipulator,
Still it requires expertise and it's only a tad bit convenient & easier.
The youngest cloned buffalo born is named Rajat,
It is both alive since July 23, 2014 and also kickin' its keepers.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it is calculating my every click
my likes, my comments
how many hours I spend at night
browsing poetry
or probably ****
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it collects my style, my taste
it knows my favorite color,
it has studied my face
the way no lover ever has,
down to the freckle.
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it knows things about me
my friends or family would never ask.
It knows how many times
I have searched the word 'suicide'
how many times I asked for nudes
and how many times I received.
It knows my greatest fears
but also my most coveted dreams.
It knows things about me
I may have forgotten about me.
There is an algorithm out there,
somewhere on the web
it has created an image of me
I would rather not see
nor believe in its legitimacy
yet every time I go to type
its guesses my next thought
with pinpoint accuracy.
There is an algorithm out there...
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Position your fingers on the keys
The typing keyboard that you will master will be a breeze
Up the ladder to ABCDEF
Watch the motion of your fingers at the left
The purpose is to position your fingers and not look at the keys
Let your fingers be the guide and your mind in response being the typing lesson
Remember typing is about accuracy and not speed
Once you master the concept than you will be able to proceed
Typing is a definite commodity you will need
Typing is the basis of any business like a creed
But then again, typing can be for your own personal use
However, typing is something you shouldn’t refuse
My Grandfather taught me typing at a very early age
He would often say, “Typing is going to be your commodity as an asset”
Typing no one should have regrets
As typing will be your best bet
Learn all the elements of typing, and watch as the typing keyboard becomes your vital friend
Now type a letter.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
I lack inspiration, when sound does not riddle the causeways of my mind
when echos bounce less around my cranium and more from my lips i find..
solace,
solace in the fact that no longer am i directed from indirect communications but more from the sound i make,
i learnt to grasp the steering wheel in both hands and turn sharp in the corners,
i learnt that without sound echoing through my ears my eyes work with pinpoint accuracy..
i never noticed the way the grass grows over old cobbles..
i never noticed the way my heart beats
the way it skips, and bleats,
i learnt not to be a sheep, but a profit,
a guider to the blind,
don't tell them I'm blind as-well
because it doesn't matter if i can see or i cant
it does not matter if what i say is truth or lies
but if the fiction of my antiquity compels you to lift your heart up
brings joy from the desolation of your mind but to the fore front of the battle field that is your life i have achieved something incredible, I've achieved peace
peace through happiness, joy through inspiration so read on!
read on young soldier,
your broken mind and battle ready battle wounds are bound too tightly by your compassion to conform
take of your bandages and read on! read forwards and on wards and strive to learn, why
why young soldier i know you've never been trained
and i know your mind is ill with discontent and i know your shoes are whittled to your socks and i know
i know how hard it is to stand with two broken legs and only the solace of that barren bare cranium to lean on
but in my antiquity young soldier
i have learnt that we are all warriors
fighters along a broken line standing our ground against greater odds then you could ever conceive of battling...
i know young solider that many will fall and die
and many will perish to broken minds and hearts and souls,
but the ones who make it through this perishable existence, the ones who fight beyond any compassion beyond any reason,
god I've met boys who will tear out each others throats with their teeth I've learnt that men are shells of creatures that have never been fully understood,
my existence has been about
nothing but fighting
and now i have reached an age where i can lay down the rifle of my words, i can leave my blunted knives to rust in a back closet i realized young soldier
the agony of your existence may seem like the end, but its just the start.
and when your reach a point in your life where you can rest,
savor it,
do not let someone tell you how to exist without your consent , do not fight a battle you do not want to fight,
stand your ground young soldier
re-reinforcements are on the way
L.G
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
When the incendiaries lit the sky
A face smiled its divine calligraphy:
It was Helen crowned with Troy's debris.
Her unmatchable mouth in the roof
Of blood moved in speech like the home of love,
Hanging its moon of reproof:
'My kiss blots history out.
My landslide legend has forgotten
A thousand thousand bones rotting;
'Under the guilty sea
The ships lie; but accuracy
Has been seduced by me.'
Her smile sailed indiscriminately
Among the squadrons of death majestically
And was reflected on the sea.
'The armless Venus carried Pompei's tears
Better than the raided years
Or the cold dances of chameleon stars.'
Then faded. But the rain
Like lovers' seeds that fall in vain,
Warned me of my sin.
3.6k
Master archer
Lars Andersen
Fires with such accuracy and speed
It is truly amazing!
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
Could there be any truth in the prophecies
that the Mayans had written?
Over five thousand years ago about 2012
foretelling a spiritual awakening!
And the possibility of the end of mankind
is it fiction that's outlined?
Prophecies written have come and long gone
scholars say they've happened.
Were these disasters predicted as it was told
or how they were interpreted?
Whether vague and their meanings calculated
their accuracy debated!
Many are sceptical of those who say they foresee
from past times to present.
Though a lot of predictions of the natural type
what of mankind's folly?
If there's a way that the future can be seen
to know seems obscene!
Usually nothing can be done to prevent it
causing fear and uncertainty.
Prophecies of the past make no difference
those of the future no comfort!
Whether the Mayans is true it's a short wait
if not next year let's have a debate!
The Foureyd Poet.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Veasna Ta Kvak recording
playback
over Chinatown cafe again
while recounting recent events
to journal pages
muddled from frequent
exchanges bag to bag
(Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most
recently)
blind fate
blind fate
shower me with Indian daisies
and photographs of Railway
New Delhi!
Hanoi Old Quarter/
Vietnam monsoon/
evening on balcony/
Darjeeling water boiled
and filtered anti-malaria
golden drink for honeylungs and
spring-soul morningtide
under moonlight canopy
of Avalokiteśvara
the fruitful
Bodhisattva!
English lessons
and future
hourless
comely chimera
in sleep phenomenon
Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW
(near Mata Anandamai Ghat)
speaking to Aghori
prophecy
Kala Bhairava
FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR
WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE?
the Ganges is full of lice and flowers
candlewax melted into holy water
sickness
equal to
harmony & jubilant
eyeclose and mouthcurl.
The future mysteries in
Mexico City poorboy
$2 mystic orb jade green
reflective underneath
dirt now in North American
bottom white four floor house
basement suite coffee table.
Visions indivisible
from the Viridian roundly haze
but surefire in their accuracy
I'm absolute
and universally formed
for the next few cacophonous
decades!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
Words blow
with the blast
Ink drops as oil to the flame
and burn the fire's light
Waved in the leaden air
the majesty of accuracy
scald the ears waxed with injustice
Literacy and liberty
are for all longing eyes
A witness to the silences—
to misfortunes ignored
to blessings need to be heard
to weak breath
trying to make sense of its existence-
the sonar in the deepest sea of truth
hears silences louder than speeches
Also, he believes in voices
voices stronger than power
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
I went to Wal-Mart, the other day
To buy you a shower curtain.
Not just any shower curtain, if I do say so myself,
But the perfect shower curtain.
I wanted a shower curtain that would describe you, as a person.
A shower curtain so wonderful
And weird
And uniquely you
That everyone that saw it would say,
"Damn! That's a fine shower curtain!"
And what's more, they would know,
Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
That it was your shower curtain.
No one else's.
I didn't find it.
I'm sorry. I am.
I tried to get one that fit
Your style, your class, your ******* beauty,
But I'm not sure it exists.
First, I tried to find one that smelled like fresh-cut flowers
After a rainstorm
In the Amazon.
Then, I thought about trying to find
Something that would match the color of your eyes,
But I don't think they've invented a material
That starts out sea green
Then changes to iron gray when you're happy,
Sky blue when you're sad,
And a mix of all three when you're angry,
Like a technicolor warning system.
So I looked for one patterned with cartoon owls.
Because I know you're scared of birds,
And the best time to face any fear
Is in the morning.
And the best way
Is as a cartoon.
They didn't have one printed with your favorite song,
Or one made entirely of white lillies,
Or one cut into the shape of every snowflake
From every snowball
You've ever fired,
With the accuracy of the captain of the softball team,
Directly at my head.
I tried to find one with your vicious brand of humor
That I find so compelling,
But they don't make a shower curtain
That insults your mother,
Then gives you a kiss on the chin
Because it can't reach your nose.
I went to Wal-Mart to buy you a shower curtain.
So I bought the only one they had
That I could justify
Because nothing else would have fit.
I bought one that is translucent,
So that if I walk in on you one morning-
By accident, of course-
When you are busy washing your hair
As you sing Elvis songs,
I'll be able to see you,
Without seeing everything.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
Roses are red
Violets are blue
What do I do
When I'm lost without you
You brought color
Into my black and white world
Life flourished with smiles
Every time you walked by
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't feel dead
Everything is clear in my head
Fog swept in
You whisk it away with a kiss
You blew to me in the haze
That hit me with deadly accuracy
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I should be dead
But I'd rather live to love you
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
they keep asking me if I'm 'okay'
and i can't say no because look at this,
a flawless facade drawn
with such vivid accuracy that the
picture is a photograph and I can
see myself in that mirror with my
perfect smile and life all ready
to be burned down to the skeleton in
my own fight for the freedom of man
and how can i deny the fact that I am
utterly miserable with this fleeting grin
and crying laughter that makes people wonder
if someone is dying in the next room over
when the disease is a cold and they have cancer
you know they can hear your sadness and they
are currently flying through their own darkness
to find the strength to strangle you until you cry no more
but it only makes you grow colder
the only proof for 'okay' is the words
that blare out like a speaker on repeat
because this face can't let them hear my cracking porcelain ;
not the little dying girls down the hall.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
I'm not the only me I see when I see me looking back at me
Bewildered by the impossibility of a blind visionary with the foresight to look past me to find me
I got caught staring so intently I lost sight of the true me completely
You see such savagery and think it must have been nurtured from infancy
While true, I had it in check, hidden away in the captivity of a long forgotten memory
But it still remembered me, waited patiently, predicting my return with a whimsical accuracy
It heard me frantically trying to find the glass to break in case of emergency
Not to set it free but to once again embrace what was scary, what might be the reality of the actual me
Instantly I handed over the key, didn't even keep a copy for me
Knowing exactly what I was doing and what it'd do to me mentally
It was always going to happen this way eventually
Finding solace in it's monotony, no more uncertainty
Both wake up and go to bed with the same angry energy
Done with the pleasantry and all the pageantry projected outwardly to seem more neighborly
Just so the world could be more comfortable with me when I pass through their snooty, gated community
While it pays no mind to what's being done to my psyche
This self destructive entity wasn't only the part of my reality I was told to bury
It is the entirety of my history, sad and happy, comedy and tragedy
I was it and it was me, the merger went so smoothly I believed it was absolutely meant to be, probably
Fighting myself got messy and wasn't necessarily a necessity
In the end there was no surprise who's hand was raised in victory
I already knew the part of me that held superiority but everyone else said it'd turn out differently
Like they got some kind of decoder key
Of course it didn't and they don't, thankfully I was welcomed back too once again become my own worst enemy
It ain't good company but I personally accept that personality and it's starting to warm up to me finally
It's been a strange journey, be thankful I didn't ask you to join me
©2023
Nov 1, 2023
Nov 1, 2023 at 12:22 AM UTC
Our planets spin in revolutions only
science can explain;
like how meteorologists are magicians
when it comes to describing the rain,
or the way conductors know at which
platform, and at what time, your train will arrive,
or how doctors can look you up and down
and pin point, with accuracy, where you’re in pain,
like a miller creating silk wholemeal flour
from coarse capsules of beige and brown grain,
or like experienced pilots landing again
in LAX after 7 hours in the same seat in the same plane,
or how writers can sit down at keys
and make them dance into Steinbeck, Hemingway or the holy Mark Twain.
Last night you escaped early because the girl
you wanted to leave with left moments
before you did; and now you’ll be back
in bed checking if your horoscopes match
and if your love compatibility is worthy of a
‘I’m in love’ badge.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
the trollometer
is a reliable
apparatus
how well it gauges
the trolling
status
of great accuracy
the needle it
employs
which locates
any untoward
ploys
trolls can pop up
wearing a plethora of
faces
theirs is the playing
of copious
aces
the trollometer
never gets its readings
wrong
the inventor's guarantee
is of a precise
prong
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
The Smell of Honey, Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry
<^>
*my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt
The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,
one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate
you see!
give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry
but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option
love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
I
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,*
this is not a lovely poem…
- * -
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 12:44 PM UTC
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC