"airflow" poems
I felt like I cried too much just then, with my head in your lap and my cheeks stinging with salty tears.
I want to die today, but I can't bring you with me.
I can't bring you with me in the bleak narrow curvings of my soul absent doubt.
I hate hating myself so much.
When I look in the mirror I judge from predisposed and painted self doubt.
I trim my frame with unrealistic absurdities that make matters worse by setting them self up for failure to begin with.
I do not think one should continue to prevent them self from cutting off their own airflow to preserve another being's feelings.
Though the act of suicide is selfish, and abstaining from the act to keep others from blaming themselves is in fact selfless; however perpetual self loathing is almost as demanding a lifetime of guilt that comes out of wishing you could have done something to help.
I sit on the inside looking out. And more of the time I am perched in there, I am looking around, from within.
Disolving the interior and remembering the good old walls.
What happened to those willful walls and forgiving storage areas? Nothing is ever good enough; like a mingy white room-once coated twice, but over time has been repainted in folding colors, creating a texture that was not meant to gain, nor pleases as a result.
I want all of the excuses and laziness and hastiness to melt away and the chaos that sits with darkness at the corners of everything, to fall away as toxic as they are, and I want to sit outside of myself and watch in praise and humble patience.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:21 AM UTC
Imagine Complete Annihilation
Imagine it
First drain the colour from the world
Pour metaphorical bleach on the landscape
The lively green of the foliage
Is now a lethargic grey
The placid blue of the sky an angry black
Each cloud remains unpainted
Next expend the energy
***** its skin with this hypothetical needle
And induce a coma
Watch monochrome bees roll over in bed, unwilling to go to work
Vultures lying down with their dinner; corpse pillows
Sloth is the new God
Then purge the life
Draw your figurative razor across its jugular
Don’t worry, it’s humane: the victim’s already sleeping
And when yours is the only soul still tied down
Burn the pile of non-rotting flesh
(even the saprophytes are gone; death doesn’t revile anymore),
Gnash your teeth and throw yourself atop it
You’re almost done, now expunge your senses
Deaden the sound: halt the airflow through this graveyard
But remember that there is no silence
Dampen the light: pinprick each pixel till it pops
But remember that there is no dark
Cry “Begone!” to the wind and feel no more
But remember that there is no numbness
Cut out your tongue and relax
But remember that there are no memories
Finally call last orders on Time
Find each clock, smash it, don’t worry about the glass
There is no pain anymore
There is finally nothing
Imagine
Now accomplish this horrendous task
In the space & time-frame of a single breath
Learn
That what you godless fools call death
We of faith, however little, call hell
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
Before you know it, you'll find the sound of your roommate's voice while she's talking to her bestie on the phone to be a burgeoning wedge pushing you into retreat. The demands of your work schedule, the hours of studying to be done, the expectations of friends and lovers. They all crowd around you with their false promises of offering a new path, a light of some sort. But in reality they only hover over you with the disparaging lens of a magnifying glass, while blinding you with a searchlight intent on finding remnants of the person they once knew. The sun used to come through in patches and shine down on you in spontaneous beams, but now that flicker is gone. Now you cannot even remember what natural light looks like. You cannot see any path to what you once longed for. Your options and advances dissipate like a sugar cube resting on a tongue; the sweetness of solitude soon gone. This wall they have surrounded you with, under the pretense of comfort, has turned into a treacherous mistress. What was once the pillow that absorbed the weight of your head is now the force blocking your vision and airflow, as you suffocate underneath its weight in exchange. You'll find yourself cowering in a corner with a noose around your neck, the tension so strong that any attempt to move away will only sever your life as you know it. Any movement at all will only tighten the hold. So you must stand completely still.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
A steamy trail of particulate vapor issues from her lips
tracing the outline of her silhouette and rising
up,
up,
it diffuses into nothingness
Don’t listen to what your parents or teachers tell you, kids-
smoke is very ****
she exhales again
slithers languidly through the still air
stretching for something-
rolls across my coffee table
like dunes in fast-forward
drips off the edges-
-gone.
She puffs a thick ring at me
it crosses through the void space toward me;
I reach out to touch it- to grasp it
and it dissipates;
she grins-
such teasing.
Smoke is-
and
is not-
it traces the airflow-
the negative space
like a jungle cat pretending to be
the light between the leaves
she knows this
and she can see that I know she does
Smoke
is why I am so captivated
So fascinated
so mesmerized
so transfixed
by her
and in general-
by women.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
The Way To Dark Justice
Inside The House Of Shadow
I Stand In Darkness
I Open My Wings To Airflow
I Take The Look For Every Weakness
Inside The Dark Cloud You See My Eyes
To Be The First To Witness
I Take You Up, I Hold You Down
To Feel The Chillness
Killing Is My Only Rule
My Whole Augustness
Making the crash in your skull
with one bullet moving so airless
The Scope On My Eyes
and the breath was aptness
To Give you free visa to hell
And pain Rise up To be bigness
Bleeding Your Blood So hard
To take Your Soul in my fitness
Taking the look in That Hole
All What Says you're hopeless
breathing so hard and weakest
And your body Was idleness
Once you leave your body
your mortality will be bodiless
your spirit Will take the freedom
While you was never chariness
deciding to Jump and take the fall
thinking That you Are Making Buisness
Wars and Destruction making River of Blood
to make fear And other things dirtiness
But now I make sure about your elimination
With No Come back To Make the justice
Author / Aladdin Aures Hamdi
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
wake up, in a mood
feeling like dog ****
after a night of restlessness
stumble out of bed,
to the bathroom
to relieve yourself,
the dog comes up
with his “good morning” stretch
and a gentle bump from his muzzle
then its over to the kitchen
for a glass of water, or OJ,
whatever is more convenient
then to the wood stove
re-start the fire from the
embers of yesterday
realising there isn’t
enough wood and then
have to go to the shed
the raccoon that has made
the shed his home
skulks near the back
trying not to be seen
by the flashlight
or the over excited dog
who knows it’s there
fill the bag with wood
picking pieces that will
keep the fire going all day
some smaller lighter fir
mixed with heavier arbutus
haul it back inside
dog ever at heels
crumple up pieces of the
free newspaper
arrange embers, fresh wood
and paper to allow quick re-lighting
leave door open a quarter inch
to allow adequate airflow
head to office in basement
check email
not that anything of use ever arrives
check news
not that anything of relevance
happened overnight
head back upstairs to
check on fire
dog ever at heels
close wood stove door
head back downstairs
put on shoes, coat, hat
grab leashes
take dogs on morning walk
return,
make breakfast
eat while making lunch
usually tempeh with steamed veg,
or tofu with rice/noodles
or something similar
pack lunch
get fresh underwear, socks
and shirt for work
head to basement bathroom
shower
think of how easy life is
when there is no one around
to complicate it
life alone would be ideal
you get things done
on time
there’s no interruptions
no one else to consider
just you and the tasks at hand
get dressed
still thinking of how
well suited you are to life alone
walk into bedroom
dog ever at heel
see her sleeping
hear the silence punctuated
only by her slow steady breathing
realise that without her
you would be lost
nothing
kiss her cheek
tell her you love her
trudge out into the world
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 6:43 AM UTC
A unit of measurement is a definite magnitude of a quantity,
used as a standard for measurement of the same kind of quantity. Any other quantity of that kind
can be expressed
as a multiple of the unit of measurement.
Length,
for example,
is a physical quantity.
Any value of a physical quantity is expressed
as a comparison to a unit of that quantity.
For example, the value of a physical quantity Z is expressed as the product of a unit [Z] and a numerical factor:
Z = n x [Z] = n[Z] So if we were to let Z be “2 antique sofas” then Z = 2[Z] = 2 antique sofas.
Fifteen hundred miles or so,
converts to roughly 7920000 feet
and 48 hours of land
across approximately 29 counties spread through 5 states
However,
in order to measure more abstract concepts,
different units of measurement are often adapted,
or hybridized, to fulfill ad-hoc need.
Coping,
for example,
is an abstract quantity
represented by
American Spirits:
(farenheit, inches, exhaled smoke as measured in cubic feet.)
Tears cried as designated driver
for termination
of unplanned pregnancy:
(miles, cost of service in U.S. Dollar, speed, tear volume in milliliters)
Furniture thrown:
Forces relevant to stable flight include a balance of
Propulsive ****** Lift,
created by the reaction
to an airflow
Drag, created by
aerodynamic friction
Weight,
created by gravity
Buoyancy, for lighter
than air flight
Holes in drywall:
(Inches in diameter and depth, potential bruises to be explained if the wall is ever further away than the human form in a darkened bedroom)
Unfortunately,
some concepts are still devoid of applicable units of measurement.
Take for example, the concept of Waiting.
As it has no defined beginning,
or end, and is malleable based on
external factors such as perceived value
and level of psychosocial dependency,
there appears to be no observable limit
regarding absolute human capacity capabilities.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
flakes in the kitchen, flakes in the kitchen
my fate is holy like religion, old traditions:
live life greedily, follow your ambitions
without the stacks, i got an itching
thousand racks, volume of a bible
the day is black, that is my lifestyle
don't offer me gizmos, i know the skid row
above the earth, you see an airglow
above my head, you watch my hair glow
snow male machiny, breathing airflow
phantom with a whisk, never stop-and-frisk
my birthmark, no risk, twenty yumys in the carpark
when no one sleeps, the crowd dances
i'll be hanging with the focus, grabbin' chances
fountain flavour, the mountain and the savior
brash, blue bunnies burning all my moneys
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 7:34 AM UTC
I have scars on my body the origin to some I have no clue.
Some memories are a blur, and I don't know exactly what I've been through.
You're more than welcome to read my mind or hand.
I no longer have a steady stand.
The crash had changed me in ways I didn't know.
Since the crash, my brain has lost so much info.
People I've known slipped through a crevice.
Memories of mine found a way out of my iris.
I used to question my surrounding.
Now I question myself for not knowing.
I'm trying to chisel away as much blur as I can.
Each piece I break off only seems to grow larger than my wingspan.
This day and on I only hope to retain,
My new campaign even if it turns me insane.
I'm ready for what comes my way, cause there is still an airflow.
Life knocks me down and I rise back up without a halo.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
You are getting nosebleeds at all the wrong times
the tears welling up behind your eyes to track down your
pale, pockmarked cheek
and that bulging in your throat constricting the airflow
let’s you know that fast can be too fast
you thrive with the sunlight
but like flowers standing tall against the oncoming winter
you wilt with day’s last breath
what time did you get home this morning?
hair all matted and stood up
smelling like a sorority party massacre
glitter, wine, tequila, coke, and anonymous ****
take another adderall
******* for the bored children
feel the electrical signals pulse from your brain
to snap your pupils to attention
wash the ***** out of your hair sweet heart
the boys back home never talked to you the way these city boys do
“girl, ***** chick, **** ***** -”
“oh her? yeah she’s a sure ****
her legs are like seven eleven
they’re not always doing business, but they’re always open…”
So forget the night ever happened
each day brings new opportunities
but they all want you
they all want one thing from you
and you don’t want to say no
don’t want to make them mad,
be a tease, a ***** frigid
and you like the way they make you feel special and beautiful
until the next morning
with the nosebleeds and the dry heaving in strange toilets
and you are waiting for Prince Charming, huh?
as if he will jump out of cheesy romcoms and magazines to hold you steady
well Prince charming is dead weight slowly spinning beneath a frayed, twisted rope
in a dark closet next to the nameless stranger and the noble outlaw
so go ahead and smash those mirrors sweetheart
what’s seven years more bad luck?
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Some days I look at the ceiling.
Lay on my floor and stare at everything.
The eggshell paint chips and how they linger.
The circle where I once threw pudding up in the air with Her.
I ask it why it's so constraining,
Why everything it does makes me feel like it's raining.
Why I can't take off like the birds
And just fly free instead of living with the herd.
But flight is impossible when you have a ceiling,
mental or not it's still built like a never ending grieving.
For someone you lost,
for someone you hate,
for those people that make you insane.
Living for the future works exactly like a main
Pip bursting with water
Killing the things surrounding it farther.
This ceiling is drowning me,
Metaphorically asphyxiating the
Airflow of my thoughts
Creating a lack of creativity.
I have to destroy this ceiling,
And free myself from aboriginality.
The bereavement of society,
Is it's abhorring nature toward creativity.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Maybe, I fear the feels of loneliness. Lonesome. I am never alone.
The feels of being alone are so real. It is unbelievable.
When alone there are no distractions from the ambiance; the clutter; the airflow.
It is all there--visible; tangible, here.
Right in front of you!
The feeling of time, presence, existence.
It is rather simple.
Very at the surface--unless you explore.
There are hidden pathways on the playing field,
which can only be found by you.
These things are mastered alone.
Your presence.
This moment.
This fluid frozen moment.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 11:57 AM UTC
I caught you star gazing last night
You were staring at the ceiling with your eyes full of sprinkles as your body melted into the floor.
I watched your tears fall into to puddles of open clusters,
And the rhythm of your heart beat to the heat of the sun.
I watched your fingers turn to galaxy’s and your hair mold into the earth to become roots thirsty for knowledge from a well of an insomniacs early morning dreams
But these open clusters become disrupted over time,
by the gravitational influence of molecular clouds.
I can feel them pulling at you.
And you let them drown you into the sea.
It is hypothesized that people like you are made of dust,
Drifters and wanderers full of acid and dope but baby,
I see much more.
Looking through spectacles composed of the ocean floor I see fish swimming through your veins and coal reefs in your ears blocking the airflow from coming in.
I see doctors and lawyers prescribing you pills to keep the love you thought was real from failing and I see great white sharks to swallow your pain with Prozac and Cipralex.
You know the effects of smoking,
and the pollution to the forest in your lungs but you breathe in the chemicals because were programmed for rat poison to make us feel alive.
You crave sunsets.
But through prescriptions and sleeping pills I see the 95% of the ocean that has not yet been explored and I see crystals forming in the pit of your eyes and I want to tell you that not all tears are worthless and not all paintings are pointless and I see the beauty in dandelions that some people call weeds.
I see the evil in rose petals and the delicacy in the thorns
and I see the world through eyes that refused to be hazed by politics and religion and the opinions of store clerks when you ask for a lottery ticket with a 20 dollar bill in hand because you hold on to the hope that something will happen and God will reward you for all you’ve done good with a bundle of money and stained glass windows complete with marble floors.
You hide away your **** rugs collected from japan and feel the wooden floor, scraping each fingernail and crying dark amethyst as your falling to your knees to get closer to hell in order to pray for heaven.
I turn so I can leave you to gazing,
Then I hear you draw a breath,
You turn to look at me with starfish covering your cheeks and your knuckles branded with scratches from pounding on great metal doors until they set you free.
I see a universe in you.
I see the roots in your hair,
and the sprinkles in your eyes.
I see the coal reefs in your ears,
and the forest in your lungs.
I see the 95% of the ocean that has yet to be explored.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
when i was a little girl,
the word “crush” filled me
with horror and excitement
in equal measure;
back then, it signified
the tightening of the bodice
of that monster who calls herself love
and slowly compressed my chest
blocking my airflow and shaping me
into the girl that would
eventually
be wanted
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 11:37 PM UTC
What is life?
Could somebody be kind enough to explain,
What is living?
Could anyone be kind enough to show me?
I really need to know, I've lost myself in the process of trying to find myself,
I am dead in the process of trying to live,
The troubles of life has somewhat restricted my airflow,
I choke at every given second, I'm a wandering spirit on the earth with no goal as to where I'm headed,
I have lost all, friends, family and all I could ever boast of
Am I better of dead?
Would I be good if only I do not open this eyes anymore?
Is anyone out here, kind enough to show me what life is?
Is anyone here to explain life to me?
I'm drowning!!!!
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 12:32 PM UTC
little ********** Williams moseys down the gum-skunk street with leash in hand, connected to a pink spiky collar fastened brutally around my throat airflow restricted small inklings of blood surfacing Cupid's switchblade sticking out of a convenient place between spine notches oh but little ********** Williams is my creation my friend my only child how can i blame it for what i command it do to me
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
The foot of my bed
(where the duvet, entangled in dreams,
holds me hostage between the legs)
is slick with something cool.
Something cold — stark contrast
to the sweat winking amongst leg hair —
caresses, allows airflow to de-stagnate
the locked-in night breath.
She is all eyes and hands
in all the wrong places, long fingers
separating human from other.
Her voice coos like honey
and I am bound to mattress, shivering.
If this were a hotel, there may be a Bible
in the bedside drawer, but I would rather clutch
something else. This is home,
and with no choice but to welcome the night,
I release the dust from under my fingernails,
blessed spit holy between milk thigh.
I have heard tales of angels,
women of fire whose voices, un-silenced,
make ears bleed. I am no stranger
to blood.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 9:00 PM UTC