"affectation" poems
Part II of "Got 0 Followers"
aim high
to keep
it low
expectations
such an
Awesome Awful
curse
others infect
you with
don't, yada yada,
ya wanna be like
Tom, **** and Jane,
even Harry, a transgendered
friend and fellow (ha) outcast,
all with a good job
prospects of a
goodly tented long life?
so ya write poems
to nobody
about nothing and
you are pleased
to be pleasing just yourself
in writing you have
nothing to prove,
so read them
like keepsakes
ya like,
keep 'em & me hid,
in the shoebox
under the closeted
pile of ***** clothes,
special designer outfits concocted
so they keep my remains,
privatized and unsanitized,
my equity,
hidden,
disguised as disgusting
but for god-sakes
don't follow me,
unless
you want to curse us
both with
Expectations of Expectations,
then comes with
illiteracy of
Affection
then the literary
pre-tension
that always follows,
leading to
Affectation,
the first derivative of the infection of affection
yeah,
then comes
caring
and it instantly it's too late,
you're *******
right up the mental heine,
lost condemned
ruined annihilated
crushed subverted
crushed into
mental death camp suffocation of more, please ma,
can I have some more?
crap, why did you have to go and follow me?
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
The river flows over empty promises
depositing sediment
in the form of confusion and stagnation
leaving a bad taste in one's mouth.
I hang on your every word.
Grainy is the trail
of crumbs left for inspection:
affectation over articulation;
all the better to hear you.
Skim a stone across the surface
leaving ripples of insecurities
and questions past.
The message is clear.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
Now you're in love, or so you think.
On the brink of infatuation, an obsession,
clinging on to whatever you can get.
But don't fret! It'll only end in regret.
These "feelings" are formed from your imagination,
An affectation of what you think you know.
But in the end you'll show, what you soon will begin to
deplore.
Paining yourself, is it worth it?
You'll be burnt out, striving for mirth,
but only ending in hurt.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...
...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...
...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...
...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...
...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
**** you cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
If you ever get close
to the fork in a path,
wander through the tectonics
that diverged the road
in the first place.
Every pixel of your being
is animated. Even the unlit
trap doors leaving pockmarks
on your mind's landscape
possess colors with no name.
Who knew electronic and acoustic
were just estranged family all along?
GENRE is a manmade affectation--
music appreciation for Jingoists.
If they feed you a raindrop,
swallow the entire ocean.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
*You spoke adamantly of gentle courage
and sharing spring's flourished nectar,
the swooning rhythm of swaying trees
and the easeful breezes that flow
'tween endearment's sensibilities,
misty moonbows 'neath dusk's stormy skies
lavender sunsets midst rosy horizons,
affectation surging amid life's turmoils
wallowing in self indulgence &
the harmony of olive branch surrender
and thrumming heart strings of patience,
it was then I comprehended, darkness doesn't
last a lifetime when lit by love's fortitude*
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
A bird sings joyfully
in the tranquillity of a moment
as the sun rises
without pretences or affectation
over canned compliments
anguish, alienation
scrambled egos and lonely words.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
I have laid claim to the Tyne Bridge - it is my home.
You can keep the streets, the shops, the bars
Share them between you
But please
Let me have the bridge for myself.
The bottle green arch of Newcastle,
And the stew of water that runs beneath
The sheer drop of air between them,
Lightly salted by the sea.
It is but the only childish affectation
To follow me and hold true
Through the contaminant of temporality.
Just please, let me keep it.
I shed the skin of adolescence
And left my school tie at home
When I made the journey North.
I arrived expecting transcendence
But instead I received the unwanted gift of the present.
From the clamour of Manhattan,
To the desolation of New Mexico and Peru,
The present will forever be the most effective ammunition
In shattering the stained glass of the world’s wonders.
I know this from the beauty of memories.
Those wonderful fragmented images of childhood
That so efficiently cut out the hours of exceeding boredom,
And the tedium inflicted by the men in suits.
And the future,
The future of flying ships,
The mining of the moon
And downloadable pizza.
But we know in truth, when we arrive
There will still be lawyers
And adverts,
Beggars on the street
And apostrophe’s used incorrectly.
I digress.
Let me return to the Tyne Bridge
My bridge on the Quayside.
For despite the bird ****
And the playboys that trundle over it day after day,
It stands defiant over deep waters,
Daring to cheat death
Or vice versa.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Born of barrows blood and acorn goodness:
honest as nature and prodigious as her harvest.
Cursed with cowardliness, blessed with bulk
but an irksome intellect invariably finds fault.
The pain of creation softened by canine affectation,
and artificially-altered perception.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 2:59 PM UTC
the outline of your jaw
and the promise of your verse,
with stanzas harboring a coincidentally similar curse,
create timely reverberations
lurking in the limbo of my love's reincarnation,
and freeing me from this cerebral assurance of alienation
caused by characterless cowards wrought with affectation and negation.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
coffee stain memories (an aging love)
our dozen or so mugs,
all white, her color of choice,
accumulating stains of black-brown coffee
that the dishwasher poetically concedes,
a decade plus of drinking, now, oh-now,
****** and can’t be removed
the lips of some are chipped,
the lips of some are chapped,
but they remain employed
for first coffee is a demonstrable
affectation of affection that losing
would be costly
*but one of us soto voce, quietly whispers
the radical ionized idea,
shouldn’t we replace,
this should-not is an update, a cognition of
a bridge too far,
both agreeing, both conceding the symbolism,
the heart acknowledges a momentary thrombosis,
for the losing turnover is a winless loss*
messaging in and about,
an aging staining love losing
~
A no ki tov tuesday poem
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
Forever, I touch the word, running my fingertips
along the coffee table we saved up for. Forever,
I whisper the word to the carpet where you
used to pin me down. Forever, I feel it on my chin,
I take it on the chin. Forever, we'll have sunshine,
little breaks in the fog. Forever, if I can even find you
then. Forever, the joke we said with wine-stained lips
and ash in our mouths. Forever, we dreamed each other
foreign and lived inside. Forever, the muse and never
the poet, the pen and never the paper, the writer and never the
reader. Forever, the way you talked down to me in t-shirts
too large for your shoulder blades. Forever, I take it on the chin.
Forever, the word, I feel it in my neck now. Forever, the affectation
in my voice, do you hear it now? Forever, the seeker in the company
of the sightless. Forever, the weaver. Forever, the weaver threading me into you. Forever, the weaver. Forever, the weaver winding me into you, unwinding me back into myself. Forever, the weaver, the girl on the dance floor, the tower of song, the siren, the sonnet, the beacon, the tower of song, the girl on the dance floor, the weaver, forever.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
~~~
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
~~~
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my merry mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
~~~
used to drink inspiration
from Manhattan sidewalk rain riveted cracks,
turn half overheard street conversation snatches
into half decent poems by Nat(chez),
professors turning phrases, upbringing a brain ratcheting,
choreographers, dancing in body and spirit and word,
in summation, a thief of opportunity...
these days, the pattern prevailing,
the El Niño de Natalino,
is drawing up works
from the wealth of messages and comments,
my troubadours, my y'all youse guys, share,
so as I compose,
not knowing where this goes,
I'm just simple knowing,
that a heartfelt reach out,
addressed as
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
deserves the recognition of its sweet intent,
in a lyric all its own,
like a traditional festival
Hanukkah jelly donut (true1)
t'is the seasonal affectation of salutations
all commencing with happy,
never struck me as anything deeper
than surficial superficial,
but this time its textual emendation -
the inclusion of genuine brotherly love,
loops, Humpty Dumpty cracks and swoops,
and here I am fastening word combos,
when the clickty clack of the clock
says uh-uh, poem in the making,
natural verbal child birthing, sleep hours docked,
and here I am,
begetting instead of shushing
a day-older brain to get-thee-to-a-hideaway...
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
sooner than later it will be the Fourth,
and in my eyes a day-deserving of a fireworks spectacular,
though the month matters not,
the sentiments of brotherhood and live love,
independent and freely given,
deserves enhanced ignition recognition
and herein supplied...
you had me at the greeting so fleeting,
then ask my advice,
is there to be had a greater compliment,
so my mien and demeanor are now modified
an oath sworn, till the infamous 31st,
every passerby and child
will be bequeathed a shockingly rowdy,
Happy and Merry,
sincerity coated
and tinged with you know what...
~~~
Dec. 3, 2015
nyc
11:12 pm
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
that tiny **** cloth for a worldly affectation
worn for vanity grew without any cessation
engulfing my being swiftly in total negation.
turned now a cloak black of inhuman sedation
a second skin becoming skin itself, then seeped
to the very bones and a coagulated heart reaped
of consequence,truth layered the real concealed,
the self an image, just mirrored slick in Gucci attire
a fig leaf terrible now hiding the whole,wise tree entire!
PS-no offense meant for Gucci designs or the beautiful people who wear them!
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:
To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,
Not to transform them into other things,
Is only what the sun does every day,
Until we say to ourselves that there may be
A pensive nature, a mechanical
And slightly detestable operandum, free
From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like,
Without his literature and without his gods . . .
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,
In an element that does not do for us,
so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
A thing not planned for imagery or belief,
Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,
A transparency through which the swallow weaves,
Without any form or any sense of form,
What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,
And what we think, a breathing like the wind,
A moving part of a motion, a discovery
Part of a discovery, a change part of a change,
A sharing of color and being part of it.
The afternoon is visibly a source,
Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,
Too much like thinking to be less than thought,
Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,
A daily majesty of meditation,
That comes and goes in silences of its own.
We think, then as the sun shines or does not.
We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field
Or we put mantles on our words because
The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound
Like the last muting of winter as it ends.
A new scholar replacing an older one reflects
A moment on this fantasia. He seeks
For a human that can be accounted for.
The spirit comes from the body of the world,
Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world
Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind,
The mannerism of nature caught in a glass
And there become a spirit's mannerism,
A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.
1.6k
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
Not tasting like affliction,
Not looking with reflection,
Needing a new affectation,
Unable to keep either hand
off
that remote control,
surfing from place to place,
Finding varying degrees of
un-
kempt hair,
Channeling, "Chocolate,
My Chocolate,"
The darker the better,
silky smooth
mousse, melts, making
merriments,
for the senses,
These are a few, of some favorite things
yet nothing compared to what
red wine brings to the table,
with nothing on,
as it unveils the light,
as added swirl to glass,
the round of the cup in the palm
of an open hand,
reminds one of...
past...bottles lying about the place,
a few at a time, Listen...
To be true, only hearing about
drugs as recreation, or
******** substances of
abuse, strange mystery to me,
as I am high on life,
so I cannot write about
what I don't know,
On anger, the hurt, on self-loathing, sings
a call from the Halls of the mountain King,
as printed voices tell in clear,
of battle scars,
of toxic people,
influence,
on lives that matter much,
much more than you know, I care for y'all,
but this ends, a tortured
free
verse,
freed,
for now I must feed my addiction,
"Open up, beautiful, here is another dark chocolate wine dipped cherry, no, no,
not from the bowl, but from my naked lips...
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
.
Midday sweeps in
a bronzing fury,
prickling its way
through skin,
pierces the core
to bleed
then, drenched
in affectation,
I turn away
to rest.
I will swathe
some lotion after,
for the scent
of longingness
follows.
A bath awaits.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
wife beaters and boxer briefs
for wife beaters and boxer briefs
we share an affection affectation in common,
for these understated, statement accoutrements
indeed I’ve caught her bare chest
hiding out beneath, via my side view mirror, revealing,
what hints lie beneath
my armless hair-shirt more than once
she loves the freedom of the stolen land grant
she's claims only to have borrowed
her deed and title, she says was
god given
she seems to enjoy as well the
impertinent attentions of this suckling pig,
driven by the hints of her pertinent robusts,
which have proven poorly resistant to the woodpeckers, ahem,
lips
but my boxer shorts she ignores,
as the differential in waste size,
about a Subway foot-long
so no wonder why
when she asks if I own any suspenders?
***who me?
Yes, you, Mr. Sinner?***
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
I cannot get to you. You
are like Jerusalem, a
misguided city. Your name is exposed
to the sun while i call to you in the
silence of the volcanic pre-dawn.
You have slides of affectation.
A pilgrim might mistake
you for the safety of a handhold
hammered in the sand.
Other
travelers knew the peril of
your affection.
You don't reply. So cold the
monument, so silent
the wall of your response.
This is all I know
and so do you that the
messages of the world fall
like the snow on the ground
white with shadows. Mute
replicas of shared emotion.
Drink to us the sour
vinegar of the sponge.
Caroline Shank
June 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 12:05 PM UTC
my loves, the many accumulated mn-
eumonic responses play'd on future
women. ideas based on the poiv-
rottes of idealized affectation past.
cesspools emptied by the horse-tanks
with stelth in the night, but the-
re couldn't be much stealth for a target
reeking of **** and convalescence.
sadness and that odor would
hang heavy in the first cold rains
of winter. transplanting thoughts,
always transplanted emotions of
subjugation. she was waiting for
someone, this now past but once
future poivrotte. feet to be
knock'd from under, body to find
lulling embrace. mind the levitat-
ing affect. mind, the missing
portion of our feint'd love.
and
- I was always empty and
both sad and happy
with a third-class train ride, at
mon poivrottes' expense of mentality.
we could used to lay together talk-
king in adult tones through our
child mouths. remembering to poc-
ket fruit to retain our breakfast
from freezing. speaking no truer
words than those utter'd while
embraced. words from the mou-
ths of us children. truer words
never could be counterfeit, never
could be spoken without loss of
conscience. Cezanne-dreams of color,
Impressionist subconscious,
j'adore mon poivrottes. feasting of mo-
vement and staining all around with
the strong cafe au lait. follow'd aper-
itif, following digestifs, following back
to lie. to flow words from our child mo-
uths, we would walk paths through the
woods in the Autumn twilight. the trees
were sculptures having their leaves
stripped bare. walking alongside, we walk'd
ourselves down the same separate path.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
A journey of impurity seems to be my affectation
My behavior that is meant to impress others, isn't an expectation
But for me I need to feel welcome...
Wrap me up in the sheets of complecion and pour water amongst my pours
So something about my body can appear clean and be adored
A bruised body and a bandaged heart splits me apart
like a little child living amongst the park
trying to make new friends
but hes different from the others...
He tries to mend the seems of his character;
but even when hes done his imperfections shine louder
and still when he grows up everything's the same;
he will be called coward, loser, and a bunch of other names
Nothing he does seems to be ordinary;
It's for the people without a character anyway
*Because if I were that boy I'd let my inspiration blossom through the day
And be the person that makes me who I am today*
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Doldrums stuck mind wafting lifelessly in time
Vigiling on what went wrong and was what I did right
Virulent thought’s had left me in reticence
With a wistful face I sat
Her bellowing pulchritude her mellowing soul
Her gleeful eyes her mirthful tone
A face more per fulgent then a thousand glow worms
Time slumbering though; Over turning sand clocks
Slowly perspiration leads to aspiration of love being deplumed
Affectations of love, Affectation of lovers
The infallibility of love, Inane for some profound for others
Smitten by the flaming arrows
Golden years golden times
Soon taking the color of a withered leaf
I have deciphered life, i have deciphered self
I have deciphered everything from rainbow to elf
But no wind so great to create the music in the pipes
It’s the love that comes through
So tell me how came it not come true for you too…
p.s
written on a sleepless night ... pensive and lustfull
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
This is what it is
An alternate reality
Except you already made the choice
Without knowing
Because the poetry is there
Not a dream
But a life
Open minded
Without pre-conception
Or norms
In the rain
Without an umbrella
In the dark
Without a light
In the sky
Without wings
Inside
Or out
Without need
A shadow
Without its body
This is what it is
Willing
Relaxed
Changing
Without a past
Melting candles
Wax covered glass
Exploding rigidity
Morals
Without judgment
Freedom
Without harm
Sought out
If you dare
Exposing
Trusting
This is what it is
An x-ray
Transparent
Without fear
Or agenda
Sincere
Fully formed
Integrated
Yet unique
Communal
Yet individual
Experimental
Excess
In the now
Blooming
Hopeful
Expecting
Smiling
This is what it is
It is ready
Not waiting
Beginning
This is what it is
Nothing else
But everything too
Every possibility
In love
Pleasant
Happy
This is what it is
Timeless
Though it may be short
Because now you know about it
What is
Was
Undefined
Uninhibited
Natural
Without affectation
Or pretension
This is what it really was
Until they tried to recreate it
Without being it
Or feeling it
This is what it was
A river flowing
But not to the sea
Instead
Inside of me
All for an instant
Just to say wow
And it's gone
Because now we know
What it was
Instead of what it is
It is only
When it is
Perfect
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Ponds anew with animals
Fine young cannibals
Forest trees blossom open
Spies await behind every curtain
Display of affectation
Serenaded by dancing starlings
Capped vertical postings
Downed power outages
Falsehoods weep tonight
With triangular reasoning:
Past, Present, Future. Vertigo.
THE QUADROCOPTERS ARE COMING!
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC