"accurately" poems
little ladies
than dead exactly dance
in my head,precisely
dance where danced la guerre.
Mimi à
la voix fragile
qui chatouille Des
Italiens
the putain with the ivory throat
Marie Louise Lallemand
n’est-ce pas que je suis belle
chéri? les anglais m’aiment
tous,les américains
aussi….”bon dos, bon cul de Paris”(Marie
Vierge
Priez
Pour
Nous)
with the
long lips of
Lucienne which dangle
the old men and hot
men se promènent
doucement le soir(ladies
accurately dead les anglais
sont gentils et les américains
aussi,ils payent bien les américains dance
exactly in my brain voulez
vous coucher avec
moi? Non? pourquoi?)
ladies skilfully
dead precisely dance
where has danced la
guerre j’m'appelle
Manon,cinq rue Henri Mounier
voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
te ferai Mimi
te ferai Minette,
dead exactly dance
si vous voulez
chatouiller
mon lézard ladies suddenly
j’m'en fous des nègres
(in the twilight of Paris
Marie Louise with queenly
legs cinq rue Henri
Mounier a little love
begs,Mimi with the body
like une boîte à joujoux, want nice sleep?
toutes les petites femmes exactes
qui dansent toujours in my
head dis donc,Paris
ta gorge mystérieuse
pourquoi se promène-t-elle,pourquoi
éclate ta voix
fragile couleur de pivoine?)
with the
long lips of Lucienne which
dangle the old men and hot men
precisely dance in my head
ladies carefully dead
10.5k
Riding down the rapidly declining slope
on the bright, soft-water day,
I imagine myself as nothing more than an animal
falling down a waterfall into a lake clear and crisp.
The wheels of my bike turn rapidly
like the a propeller of a plane,
just as powerful
and just as dangerous if I fall,
but only to me.
Catching the sea salt breeze
my blonde, sun bleached hair flies as if
it were flying on seagulls wings.
I am a cadmium yellow blur on a painting,
moving much too fast to be captured and depicted accurately.
I ride until the end of my slope this way,
finishing strong with out a hint of regret.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
A delicate facility
holding a capacity of around
two-hundred
is taking control
of the present lesson
being presented, as only
true.
- a pleasant blessing -
im told.
It's hard to believe,
and almost harder to
imagine accurately without
drastically changing the
way we look at life;
(Blasphemously),
if we don't
think the same,
do the same,
be the same,
Well I refuse
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
And now...
I have come to realize how truly strong a person you are. Stronger than anyone I have ever met. To keep a secret like that, and never tell without crumbling.
And now...
I have come to realize what a selfish, self-centered ***** I really am to be so caught up in my own dumb mind with my own worthless problems that are NOTHING compared to what you withheld. I won't dwell too long on what an awful unsupportive friend and person I have been because that would once again be drawing attention back to me the selfish way I have been doing, but I feel like I have to say it at least once: I am so. so. incredibly. sorry. I never noticed or asked how you were or saw that something was wrong. I'm so so sorry I wallowed in that pathetic self-pity for so long just over my stupid issues that are so miniscule compared to yours, I basically want to whack myself in the head with my guitar I'm so ****** at myself. I am SO SORRY I wasn't there and I'm SO SO SO SORRY I surrounded you with my own dumb unnecessary negativity when you had enough of your own. I'm so sorry. I cried for nearly an hour last night out of anger with myself for not being a good friend and out of sorrow for your troubles and the pain you must be going through. You can almost always tell when I am upset somehow but that is like your odd supernatural inexplicable talent and I don’t have it. I wish I did, but I can tell when someone likes another person somehow almost always accurately but what use is that? I’m just so sorry from the bottom of my heart and I promise that beginning NOW and today I swear I am going to be here for you. I am so sorry for not being there. Okay, I’m going to stop going on about it now.
And now…
I can see everything I didn’t pick up on when I needed to so clearly.
And now…
I just want you to be okay. I JUST want you not to be in pain. I don’t know how to fix you but I’ll do anything I can to try.
And now…
I want you to know how brave you are, to go at it alone.
And now…
I want you to know, two years ago, we agreed “No Secrets”. Well, since then we have kept multiple secrets from one another. All of us. Since then that agreement has become less and less realistic. There will always be secrets and that is just a part of life. I understand why you didn’t tell me sooner and I just want you to know that I am always prepared to drop literally everything of mine, physical, mental, and emotional to listen to you and care more about your problems than mine because yours are always and have always been far greater than any of my pitiful woes. I will always understand why you keep things from me, but when you choose to share it, in your own time, then I will always be there to listen and understand.
And now…
I will never abandon you in this.
-Love Ember
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
Oh cursed soul,
that you be,
something I dont even believe,
In, but in pain filled ignorance,
I lack the eloquency to describe,
Even a little bit accurately,
This hateful being,
This lie of a perception, I cannot wake from,
A matrix, a coded line, I find myself,
Stuck in,
The suffering of a thousand lives and worlds,
Reaching out to you, reading this,
Lying, lying, as if the words mean,
Anything, anything, No!
Yet then, I always realize circling back,
To the histories invented by past selves,
hence, influencing who I am now,
the dark corners I look forward to in the future,
The lack of resposibility, The blissful youth,
Mixed with the pain of wisdom,
And the teachings and overview,
Of going off a cliff, only to jump back on,
And run off again,
Yet, then, again I find myself looking,
In my heart at the gun, the gun of release,
Oh that I dare say,
all humans should seek.
Crazy, crazy, John,
You are crazy you say,
Aye, aye, as all we are,
Sanity is insane,
Reason is,
2+2=4, Because.
I am the because. I am the order.
I am the chaos, that puts that electron there,
And your synapses connecting there,
Oh I'm the breath you take,
Before that **** and ***
You faked,
Little one, little one,
I am much older now in lives
Than years, I consume throwing myself away,
The self, the soul, the non existence,
Oh it is existing and it wont leave me,
And all this because,
I saw her kissing that man,
On the cheek.
Alas, that is the bane of every God and Demon,
Since nephlium, To love a human,
A mortal, the code in the matrix,
The variables for the x,
That turns your reason and logic,
Into guess work and soulbreak,
I drone on,
Where is the end,
That is the point! Dr. Seuess,
Take your money back, I know the places I will go,
Oh I've seen it now for a while, and boy do I fear,
The blank page, the unwritten line,
The truth that I've been trying to hide,
From who?
I've lived long enough.
I would like to die.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
I hold onto the hope that someday I will see them. Those lights drug across the sky by a goddess with her water colour brush. Greens and blues and pinks that dance a star's song into being while the sky stretches and wakes up and prepares to host this fit of brilliance. When people down below lift their eyes to the heavens. Irises are filled and reflect a dazzling champagne of pastels which God has created. He wants to say 'I love you' and could think of no better way than this expression. Where snow gives way to reflective ice and the shiny sparkles slide silently through the night. It is the visual of the heart when in love, and it lights up the night like the first beautiful moment of a stage being brought to life. The conductor lifts his hands and a radiant explosion surrounds the audience. Music is not needed and none will ever accurately describe it. Few will see this spectacularity because the auroras only reveal themselves to the minds that wander and the hands that reach towards heaven.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
Undoubtedly all great players know Their roles accurately ... No one goes beyond One's role anytime ... All roles are planned greatly To suit themselves ... Any violation of one's role ,then It will inevitably lead to one's end ... Crossing red lines is not allowed anytime ...
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
There's nothing wrong with la la land,
But,
For me,
It is a reminder that there just aren't movies like that,
For me,
That display my love,
Accurately.
I don't get,
Musicals,
Or duets,
Or colorful sets,
I don't get pretty dresses,
Twirling in an over head shot,
I get over sexualized,
And movies,
That are not,
Actually,
For me.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
when you pass my way, know that my Wi-Fi network
requires no password to gain entry,
thus it comes with a security recommendation:
there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable:
how came Excalibur into the rock,
will our children have better lives than us,
can we define accurately finite,
why can't we add new letters to our alphabet,
will my poems live longer than I
so when you pass my way
walk right in, sit right down,
greet madness,
thy new boon companion,
who will not ask you for the password...
8/27/17 11:43pm
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
Taking off my socks
Is my favorite part
Of taking a shower
Or having *** with someone else
We always used to wear ours when we felt vulnerable
But the memories of you scattered throughout my room
Make me feel vulnerable all the time
I wear my heart on my sleeve
Or more accurately my ankle
I procrastinate spending time with you
Like I procrastinate all of the good things
That may eventually cause me pain
I'm afraid to be happy
To the point of appreciating the loss of the cause
When I'm with you
It's like the city of Ember
And someone turned on all the lights
It's not quite beautiful
But at least we can see
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
What I have can’t be fixed by a doctor
How do you tell someone
“I don’t know where it hurts”
Or more accurately
“It hurts everywhere; where should I being?”
Because how do you tell someone that the pain of inadequacy
Mirrors a blow to the head in its intensity
But far surpasses it when it comes to longevity
And as far as timing is concerned
Every watch I’ve ever had has broken
So how do you tell someone that the lies are never easy
But the ones you tell to yourself crash over you like waves
And drag a small portion of you away each time they recede
It’s like a game of Them vs. Me
And what makes the defeats unbearable
Is the fact that they don’t even know they’re playing
I’ve been keeping score
And keeping score
And keeping score
The walls are filled with white lines
One
Two
Three
Four
Slash
Maybe if I point to my chest and say, “Here”
Someone will understand
It’s a pain that feels like everything I’ve ever wished for
Has solidified and turned to stone
Making a home somewhere in my ribcage
And it’s expanding
I write bravery on my skin because I have none
I make deals with a god I know doesn’t exist
Just so when I’m unable to hold up my end of the bargain
I have someone to blame for falling through on his
And I still can’t figure out if it’s funny or sad
That the only man I want to kiss me never will
And the last one who did traded in his lips for his hand
So he can high-five me like we’re friends on the same team
Never making mention that we kissed on the floor of his room
Until we were breathless
While breakup songs played in the background
Taking up just as much space as we did
Became witness to our nervous hands fumbling over each other’s bodies
Turning our kiss into a *********
I have heard that silence speaks just as loudly as words
But silence builds up in my mouth like a traffic jam
And my jaw is begging to break from the weight
So maybe now’s the time to scream
Time to shout
Because I've been keeping all my thoughts filed away
Under the title, “When The Time Is Right”
But there’s no time like tonight
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
The lizard king came alive in the walls of prophets,
A shrine to help follow the subjects of the topic.
I lost my mind, but found it inside the tombs of those left behind.
I left a part of my soul on La Ciegna Boulevard.
The looking glass had the last laugh,
Some smiled.
The sun dials told the time accurately.
The shadows followed me from one side of the city to the other.
All the way to the coast of the continent.
It was here I found the confidence that was lost in the dominance of you.
We broke on through to the other side,
but it was too soon,
and the other side was the same like butterflies.
Cocooned in symmetrical thoughts of the stars in your eyes.
It’s no surprise we both knew it all at that moment.
Our toes exposed naked in the sand and lost in emotion.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 5:48 AM UTC
Film developer cacophonies, and journalistic hoarding
My friends wanted to record our last year –
Accurately – not succinctly
Abstractly – and yet, directly, bluntly
Vividly – in photography, quote notebooks, Dictaphone diatribes
That’s hilarious – scribble it down.
Can you repeat your brilliance?
If you could paraphrase that – well…what would you say?
Take another one. She wasn’t smiling.
I don’t want to smile.
My friend sidles up beside me – beaming grin
Sticking her fingers into my mouth
Pulling opposite and up
And her fingers tasted like
The musty pages of books without pictures.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
captain's log, #6
3/7/16, 9:17 a.m.
i woke up to the sound of rain and birds, it's almost spring and i'm nostalgic for something that i'm not sure has happened yet.
captain's log, #7
3/11/16, 2:35 a.m.
at this point i don't even know why i still grieve over you. i've taken back what was once mine, to the best of my ability, but i think that you still have a tight grip on the parts of me that i'm not able to grow back. or maybe it's because i can't remember a time before i was either madly in love with you, or mourning the loss of your interest. me being "over it" means nothing when those words are still etched with traces of you. i can tell myself to get over it, that you have, that you're in the past, that none of this was ever real, but it was. it still is, somewhere. and in that somewhere, it grows. you will never be just, gone.
captain's log, #8
3/11/16, 4:00 a.m.
let's go somewhere. somewhere far away, just for a while, where everyone else looks like ants. i wanna hold your hand there. i wanna go somewhere with you.
captain's log, #9
3/16/16, 6:00 a.m.
it's only the beginning of a creation, but i already have that feeling in my gut, the one that can only accurately be described as nostalgia for the future. i feel things that don't make any sense, but here are some things i know; the weather's getting warmer, the days are getting longer, the flowers are tearing themselves open, and when i close my eyes i see your hand in mine. often times i'm not sure that i remember how to not be afraid, but i still find myself diving in head first. i can't stop thinking about two days ago when my therapist told me that it seems as though i like torturing myself.
(EDIT ON 3/30/16: stop forcing yourself to like girls, stop falling in love with love.)
captain's log, #10
3/28/16, 7:04 p.m.
keep forgetting to write when i remember how to be happy. when she left, she didn't close the door, and he walked right in and turned on the lights that have been off for too long. his teeth are a little crooked, and he's only got one dimple, he hates these things but they make my chest flutter like it'll burst into a thousand flowers any second. i've waited months for this. i wish on every 11:11 that he won't be as fleeting.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
I fell in love with you
More accurately
I fell in love with the feelings you transferred into me
But those mutinous emotions betrayed me
The moment you did
The withdrawal from your love was too intense
I desperately needed something to replace those feelings
I always said I could run from anything
as long as it didn't involve running
But after walking with you for so long
It's hard to change my pace
The path too tough to face
Your memories fueled the chase
Until I found my escape
The kneading needles turned me fetal
Shocked my veins like eels
Fetuses aren't the most ambulatory
The race became a marathon story
Your effervescent ghost pursued me
Breaking the sound barrier to reach me
I floated vacantly in the stew of your noise
The needles touched me
The way you wouldn't
The needles bled me
The way you would
Then the race ended as abruptly as it started
Only to begin another race
...But things were different this time
Slugs waved as they passed a sprinter
Tormented by a lane filled with needles
The hostile crowd watched with pity
As a once great athlete
Was forced to acknowledge his janitorial duties
The fickle mob cheered with triumph
Upon his valiant return
He was quicker than ever before
And the masses exalted him
He ran faster than everybody
And waited for nobody
Anxious they might reveal his secret
That his speed was derived from his feather weight
After the needles hollowed out his insides
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
Your reputation
is usually a result of your actions
involving others;
Sometimes,
it does not accurately reflect who you are,
just how others see you.
Other times,
it is social Karma for the those
of indiscretion.
Your reputation
both precedes you
and follows you;
so long as people know people.
Sometimes you earn your reputation,
other times it is handed to you
by Life and her turmoil.
In either case,
it's usually up to you
to perpetuate it.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
my mind moves faster than my mouth could ever hope to
and i so often find myself in self-inflicted messes,
embarrassed at my painfully apparent lack of finesse
when it comes to crafting syntax in a way that actually makes sense.
endlessly i stumble, desert-throated, over meager words
that could never accurately convey the hurricanes inside my brain;
no matter the conviction with which i speak them.
the war for stillness rages on in the chaos of my skull,
shaken by tremors of memories like atom bombs.
my mind is screaming but it's all in a language
that i can't understand no matter how hard i try.
reduced to heaving sobs and irrevocable disgust for my inability
to to speak due to the lack of air inside my lungs.
thunder crashes and lightning flashes through my synapses,
looming in the form of opaque storm clouds above my bed.
i am sinking, no, i am absolutely drowning,
but there is no water around to be found for miles -
so i guess that makes these waves my thoughts,
and that must mean i waved goodbye to sanity's shorelines long ago.
- m.f.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
do you know
i fall asleep
with my hands
touching
together
but I notice the difference
as yours Are tougher
bigger
rougher
but i've never had the pleasure
of falling asleep with
your hands
though ive slept
cocooned
in your scent
do you know
i've never been very good
at confessions
i confess
i could draw
freehand
the shape of your lips
from Memory
(i could show you
where they curve
and bend
and they look like
the perfect destinatIon
for my life to end
killing myself,
to die upon a kiss
to die upon
your kiss
i'm killing myself
by even thinking this)
i confess
i could shade
the exact ways
your hair falls
dowN
by your face
(i could explain
the smelL of your hair
after a long day at work
it feels thicker
as it resists against
my hands
you dO that too
do you know)
i confess
i could describe
the wonders
in
your eyes
of
your eyes
so accurately
they would be seen
by the blind
(i'd rather not tell you
how i feel
when you catch me
staring
but i just
can't
help myself
i neVer want to miss
a single blink
a wink
no time to think)
i confess
words,
the words,
keEp
running
sprinting
dancing
prancing
in my mind
but i cannot find
an acceptable order
to confess them in
love in you i am with
one two three four five six
and, oh father,
there is no need to confess
for We have not sinned
he would not look
upon me
if i was the last to exIst
he merely
glances over to me
now and then
and, oh father,
you know
how i desire
These
tormenting
words
to go
he could barely tell you
the colour of my Hair
i could tell you
the colour of his
when he was five
milky way kid
do You know
me
am i
just a girl
who falls asleep
alone
in the backseat
Of the car
that old red polo
is not so appealing
anymore
and, love,
i confess
or
these words will die
on the lips
yoU leave
unkissed
i am in...
i cant
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
I've reheated the same
Cup of coffee five times
This evening
Trying to write something
For myself that accurately
Describes how I experience
Often I am flooded in the ordinary
By the emotion and the density
Of life itself, in all its majesty
And sometimes I am left
Devoid of sentiment
In moments deemed worthy
I get lost in thinking of
The way the future will
Tangle with the present
I find myself stopped in
A memory as well,
A reminder, a fragment of past
The present is a fleeting concept
A paradox, I think
A circle of thought
At what point
Does the future become the present?
And the present become the past?
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC