"aggregation" poems
*eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey
an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation
temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder
mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise
near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end
with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
No man is an island but as an aggregate, if we can remember who we are, we can become even more solid than a rock.
Maybe as an aggregate, we can become the rock we've always been looking for.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
Three times in my life I failed to deploy my armies on time,
failed to unstrap my armor and lay down my shields,
expose my chest, honest.
Take me.
Three times there has been an eclipse for which I wasn't equipped to see.
Sometimes I'd mistake your occurrence with that of a natural disaster.
I'd take cover.
Not willing to pardon my fears for a chance to dance with a hurricane
who identified himself as a tropical storm.
They say the difference is miles per hour.
We all know the difference is in how they allow themselves to be perceived.
On the days you touched down
beneath my armor
your aftermath was a smile that broke my face.
I was born with a need for earthquake scars but you
came to my landscape with conquer chest
convinced my natives to dance different.
You showed up with hunting, soil aggregation, and medicine.
I laid down my virgins for you in sacrifice.
In silhouette.
In your presence all my armor turned to tent sheet
transparent in the moonlight
until the fire went out.
Three times in my life I failed to peel back my Band-Aids fast enough.
Offer up my wounds for healing.
Yes, there is blood beneath these words,
there's a man on the other side of this voice, clutching
on a stone he soon realizes- his heart.
He's done slain the last of the dragons,
come back to a vacant cave, weeping
he talks to the skeleton that surrounds him,
swears the sky is as thin as his flesh,
swears he hears a voice on the other side
talking in terms of confession.
Three times in my life I can say, you're married now.
We speak to each other through veils.
It doesn't matter how much liquor we drink in tandem
or the size of the table between us
or the volume and shape of the laugh
or the impression that's left by the hug,
you're married now.
I was right to feel like a farmhouse on the wrong side of a tornado warning.
Where everything weighs nothing.
In the midst of a drought I retrofit my barnyard with castle walls,
pine over how I'm perceived,
pray for rain,
and practice my best impression of a storm cloud
because there's a man on the other side of this wind tunnel
and I'm tired of letting him down.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
What is this pulse I feel?
Stark, ever-present, the tumor with which
life is sustained.
The sky today is remarkably dismal
raindrops along the sidewalks
which I cling to:
not out of reliance --
but out of need.
The world is a bleak gunmetal grey
The Promethean fire of our reluctantly naked sun
cannot even bear to expose itself today.
So, it hides.
It hides like we all do.
What is this pulse I feel?
It hides like an introvert at a party
who escapes himself
into the blare and blur of a horrid
solidarity of bottles and children
and the illegal activities with which
they so complacently cling to.
Hides like a man in a pin-striped suit
who is concealed under white teeth and
leather lounge chairs and contemporary
architecture.
Hidden like child at a shopping mall
whose mother is almost attentive
as the child hides in a clothing rack
and screams:
"You'll never find me!
You'll never find me!"
And the mother realizes that her
child is gone
And the mother finds her child.
And the child never realizes
that he will never escape the eyes
of those whom he doesn't want to see.
The child may want a mask but masks never conceal effectively --
and if they do they're uncomfortable
and press against your face and suffocate your skin.
And it's easier just to let everyone see you
than to be an isolated mask amongst the ranks
of autonomy-hungry deoxyribonucleic acid.
What is this pulse I feel?
The child dies in a car accident several years later.
Oh, well.
And so, I am here --
the world is sullen and steel
as the raindrops fall upon the sidewalk.
It's as if the world is a graveyard
no one dares exit their shelters to
let the cold Truth gently fall upon their faces.
What is this pulse I feel?
The water falling from the Sun's shelter
answers my question:
"You are a raindrop, you fall from the sky
and land, cold, onto these concrete streets.
You may distinguish yourself amongst the other molecules
but you are all Hydrogen and Oxygen.
Your identity is nothing.
You are but an off-key baritone singing in a chorus.
The chorus is an ocean;
the aggregation of all human water molecules.
What's one drop to do?"
This pulse I feel?
It is one of billions, and it is indistinguishable.
I cling to the sidewalk as I step further --
hands in my pockets, stepping further.
Step.
I hear the abyss calling.
It takes the form of falling rain.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 3:29 PM UTC
the leaden
wetness of an
October snowfall
cloaks branch
and bough
of woefully
laden
trees
the pressing
mass
a weighty
strain
prostrates
mighty
hardwoods
to autumns
cold ground
as a
truculent
Nor'Easter
claws its way
through
the uneasy
Mid-Atlantic
night,
the crash of
creaking
maples and
popping oaks
persistently
echo through
the black
woods of
this
trembling
evening
power flickers
perplexed grids
go down
extinguishing
the warmth of
suburban
house lights
the growing
aggregation
of crushing
pressure
on tensile
taxed
branches
snaps
the firmest
wood
an
incessant
barrage
of
thumps
and
dings
splatter
against
the
house
while the
shuddering
uncertainties
of frightened
children
rise
as each
limb
clatters
to
earth
our
cowering
bivouac
draws
the
incessant
fire
of a
harassing
fusillade
from
legions
of
invisible
snipers
as
swooping
gusts
threaten to
relieve more
arboreal
tension
praying
limbs
fail
to pierce
the safety
of thinly
tiled
roofs
our
abiding
hope
remains to
escape
the
next
random
blow
of fate
the
night of
falling trees
stirs our
sleepy
hamlet
from an
uneasy
midnight
slumber
10/29/11
Oakland
jbm
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 9:38 PM UTC
When I fingered the thin skin on my left, vein-bulging limb
Where the forearm adheres to the costly little hand
I realized in all my intense ardor for pain
That there in my penitence, self-pity, self-loathe
I am a narcissist.
Laden with self-obsessed sorrow
There is a selfishness in being a dreary,
To feel for oneself,
When others care too much
An aggregation of sympathizing sobs and tears
Too much for an egoist
Who would rather wallow alone
In the orange-tinted hue of twilight turned nightfall
A ray of the luster in all subtle shades,
Can I summon the force to recall
Why I hate myself
Is it not that all despise me for a purpose?
And those who are inept at reasonable loathe
Are marooned in deep shame
That they had degraded themselves for what?
For a felon? Such as myself?
Deep in such sorrow,
Deep in my self-loathe
I have encountered the truth of all fruitless self-regard
I am a narcissist, egoist, one who self-loathes
Who slashes and severs and cannot speak love
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
There is no such thing as life!
Not as it is made out to be anyway- something different.
Life! it's merely a label ascribed to aggregation of little particles.
That is what the sum total of all human drama is,
in the annals of human history, like both, a movement of a whole people
to get rid of ******* fascism, or the struggle of one person
to get rid of bowel movement - seemed like a good idea in the darkness
but with dawning of light, comes back to bite you in the *** -
just aggregates of little particles aggregating in different ways,
evolving to make a better aggregate,
War is a part of this – for a better aggregate, so is Love.
Why not a selfish materialistic weasel be then? Some ask,
After all it would not matter if I were to risk being heroic, would it!
Aye! it would not matter. But then, so also doesn't failure,
complete utter – never finding a lover – failure.
It simply does not matter, so why not?! Why not try?
Why not go up, or down if you will, in a blaze of glory.
You really have no excuse, not to scale your summit,
not to awe every moment of your so-called life.
When your story is finally writ, before your pyre lit,
the only question for the coins will be
Did that stiff ever say **** it and then awesome it?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
I am always just a version of myself.
Have I ever really known the full me?
Not necessarily.
She is but an aggregation of all the experiences she's ever had,
people she's ever met,
memories she's ever made,
even the ones that have been lost to time.
My personality, speech, and mannerisms are all imprints made by passersby.
Need I know the full me?
No, not necessarily.
Like stained glass that misses the details,
I am a mosaic known only in concept and suggestion,
and this is enough as inhabitant of this body,
even if the resident is unknown to self.
Apr 16, 2024
Apr 16, 2024 at 9:17 PM UTC
Aggregation leads to aggravation
and the persistence of pestilence.
Compliance begets reliance
and a flash of orderly disorder.
As a structure it appears quite solid
But the sides are peeling away
Exposing the knobby-kneed skeleton
holding the whole thing together.
A memo has been issued:
‘Dear Mr. Hardy,
Thou shalt not [insert unacceptable social behavior here]
Sincerely,
Management’
The myopathy becomes my apathy
Which leads me to reply;
Who makes up these rules, anyway?
and why can’t we live without them?
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
the initial purport
this literary effort delivered atchew
to reed constitutes hazmat tocks sin
within White House blew
per, viz thee president be
getting a Hollywood love story
with "Stormy Williams" despite brew
haha murmur, now dapper Don in deep doo doo
thus, this garrulous married pro LIX prone papa flew
off (like a bat out of hell)
to his Macbook Pro laptop presenting myself
implicating Trump as po' faux guise Mister McGoo
affiliated, confused, and explained
being on par with Winnie the Pooh
especially stuck right tub bear arms in grr...
Rabbit's House, now he doth stew
nsync, nonetheless this path a logical
rhyme stir on the straight and true
composeing grist sill for ye to view
now, nar hating, hit ting
private links provide attention turned toward
two thousand twenty presidential election campaign
no Iron nee, anno putter opportunity,
how he diplomatically strived, and nearly scored
to boast asthma, overt braggart, stalwart
asper ideal consistency of cement poured
affiliation, aggregation, and attestation moored
prevails ma (Jack booted - magical) lord
rolling back to Timbuktu progressive liberal
Democratic initiatives star Apprentice
sans ("NO LIES") being linkedin, he almost ignored
with voluble chattering class hud hoard
hobnobbing (with the likes of Missus Muir's ghost,
who resort to Matthew Scott's turf brand),
reconstituted, recycled, and repurposed, gourd
nonetheless Trumping protocol necessitates me bing bored
predictable feigned "FAKE" non accord.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
I listen to the silence as its slowly creeping in,
I welcome all of the darkness as it forms beneath my skin,
I have caused many tears and I have caused so much pain,
My message was sent, only a name will remain
An infrangible storm forms in my chest
I couldn't save myself, but it was for the best.
I have a feeling of inseparable pain
It is my ego to be taken in vain
I am a monster; I have let the world down,
In a sea of my own fears is where I will drown
A hypocrite, a villain is how I am named
Spit on and despised, it was me who is now shamed.
I am no longer welcome above or below,
A soul like mine now has nowhere to go.
I will fade away like dust in the wind,
A forgotten lie, a cold hard sin
I lie down frozen, unable to feel
A plethora of scars never to heal
The darkness has overcome me; I have nowhere to go,
Dead nerves and feelings away from the show
My eyes slowly flutter it is starting to kick in,
An aggregation of powder from a rusty old tin
I know I am leaving this God for saken world
Every lie, every sin will lead to be unfurled
My final goodbye, I see the black glow
I will die less of a hero than anyone will know.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
His aggregation of thoughts amaze me,
His hermetic personality confuses me.
Temporal happiness and succumb fantasies,
Meshugges my own flamboyant melody.
Little did my mind know,
His words redounds to my feelings.
Purveys my thoughts into colder thinking,
That I should exscind him out for my sake of healing.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
10-17
secret lingo of nothingness
rings on my fingers
my someone is playing with them.
I should remove one but
it is silver and stands for an ironic
freedom
10:12 this is the aggregation
of heartbreak and self-love
the desperation of my unforgivable
humanity pushed away
buried under my high-top clad feet
for 35 minutes
I want to cement in you
a love for your idiosyncrasies
repetitive and consuming
craving the word crave
is redundant but
there is nothing I would
hide from you
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
Today, we bear witness to a post-industrial, consumerist wasteland, under whose all-encompassing totality is subsumed the autonomy of the willing subject, who becomes but an interchangeable gear-wheel in a global machine of production, distribution, and consumption. Individuality is paradoxically mass manufactured, as personal identity is increasingly governed in the public and private spheres by the accumulation, consumption of, and aggregation of preferences relative to commodities. Possessions become both indicators of social standing, and pieces of the psychological anatomy of the individual. Advertising lends itself handily to these ends, playing on the insecurities of the consumer. Products are often advertised as embodying desirable qualities, supposedly lacking in the target buyer: "If you want to be more feminine, wear this perfume;" "If you want to be more masculine, drink this beer;" "If you want to be more elegant, wear these clothes," etc. Perhaps more troubling, however, is the rate of success of these tactics. In light of this, the questions emerge: are our lives a fabrication? Beneath these tangled webs of associations, who are we really, and if we weren't told who to be from such an early age, who might we become?
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
The rudiments of love are vested deep within the soul. Like the bleeding sands of time, our feelings can't control--An aggregation of desire, filled by many things. The light that fuels our fire, embellishes our surroundings.
We shut our eyes but cannot sleep,
we hold our breath,
clinch our teeth.
We tremble at the slightest brush, our hearts awaken from this rush! & just when we expect the flame to yield, it torches the entire battlefield!
This leaves behind a humble scene, of ash, & smoke, & broken dreams... At which point only time can heal, but merely to form another battlefield?
I believe that we were made for more, that pain is something we should endure, that life is more than a half-filled glass, but a powerful teacher of poise & class! & I, for one, will never mistake the advantages of a lost-love fate!
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
a liquid heart is hard to bear
even if I shout no body hears
how many we are
lost in the structure of tears
this pain that I let in like a love decree
a wave like a fist dressed in impolite velvet
how to survive hating unresolved
the other side of everything is pain
in such a world of beauty and dread
absence and seduction rampant songs
and acid hands
a cycle revolving evolving
it disappears from here if you push it out there
I am talking about pain like a broken doll
a cruel fate left me without eyes so that I can see
only what I feel
pain in all aggregation states, a true substance
a radiant promise in a vacant smile
I am trapped inside the circle
of the moon perhaps
at the hour when a great nothingness greets you
a neon sky a synthetic civilization
full of fascination as any other
we begin to live again
with some honesty, some regret for the divinity
of a blue death that possesses our hearts
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 4:09 PM UTC
Seasons of idolism, eyes down
Tidal motion of extinctions
In and out, in and out,
Faster, faster
Borne from asymmetry
The present moves
Now towards the median
Aggregation of experience
When can I grow into
The shell of what was
Collecting rain drops
In a glass outside my window
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC
When someone leaves, what remains?
An “in memory of” on Facebook, a black-and-white profile picture, a last post with 360 likes, a music video
8 unread WhatsApp messages, 1 grey tick instead of 2 in a group chat
Nocturnal analysing of your social media accounts, finding truth in between your Instagram captions
Your last statement to the world, a peace emoji just above said music video
The question if this is what peace looked like for you
The question if it really was peaceful
The question what crossed your mind, 1 millisecond before the world before your eyes turned into a black void forever
The question when you thought about becoming a memory for the first time
The question when you thought about becoming a memory for the last time
The question where souls, if they exist, go when someone dies
The question what state of aggregation souls have
The question if you’re now air, soil or both
A cold shiver when I find the ad for your room, published 4 weeks ago. You were always looking ahead.
Your books and files meticulously arranged in one of the pictures, neat as a pin
The question how it must have had looked inside of you. Was it the chaos or were you tired of cleaning up? Did you have windows, could you see outside? When someone knocked, did you open? When did you realize the light switch? When did you decide to turn the lights off?
When someone leaves, what remains?
An empty room
Unread messages
People reacting with that crying emoji on all your posts
Memories
Things you’ve left undone
Anger, sympathy, maybe someday absolution
Anguish, fright
Thoughts about your family
Good reasons, bad reasons
Philosophy
Compassion
An obituary in the local newspaper
An iPhone with no battery
A voicemail leading directly into nothingness
An as good as new e-piano, only 5 weeks old
A rancid peace of butter in the back of your fridge
Administrative workload
An incomplete mission
Questions without answers.
Dec 18, 2020
Dec 18, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC
Smoke and Mirrors
I want to heal my body
but my mind keeps following
and the feeling of my changing
has my personality behaving oddly
Bright lights shine into my mind
and these static visions hurt my eyes
I need to be alone in the dark,
so I can slip outside of time.
There's a sweetness from within
and it melts into my marrow
Showing crystal skies escape
when repenting silver arrows
I no longer feel the same in fear
and my mind is resting angers
Quietly repressing sorrows
Making my mind saner.
I'm sorry for staining her.
The spirit of my calling within
The divine femininity
The one who speaks in Hymns.
A poet shouldn't smoke
and tarnish reputations
because where the poet flows
is in the heart of aggregation.
I want to be brave
and say everything will be okay
That I'll live life to the fullest
And pave a path to fame
But now all I really want
is to return this axe to frost
re-enter through the cold
and free myself from desert lost.
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 11:47 AM UTC