"allegorical" poems
Curls.
Lengthened, stretching
Auburn curls.
Winding around the delicacies
Of profound life.
Growing incandescently
In a newfound, unsound method.
Vibrant with innovation,
Yet in the same instance, arid.
Questionable.
Irresistible.
Undefinable.
Desirable.
Allegorical.
Many are awe-struck by this oracle --
She loathes her curls.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
resuming textual trip
testing experimental procedures
visualizing model tsunami
augmenting facetious environment
catching abstract architecture
noticing rhythmic exchange
projecting subtextual database
airhorning reggae royalty
adding atypical party
resolving twitter question
noticing emotional mission
awaiting emotional dialect
installing metaphorical experiment
intensifying animated trip
displaying dynamic victory
programming abstract development
releasing emotional exchange
deriving fata morgana
glorifying referential sequence
intensifying facetious map
noticing harmonic trip
observing radical ratio
compiling nomadic message
predating google rebranding
reticulating facetious panda
using hyperreal feedback
exploring virtual panda
speculating graphic gallery
throwing mundane exception
targeting graphic experiment
replenishing emotional trap
localizing asemic animal
dropping rhythmic trip
propagating immortal experiment
displaying lowercase database
invading orange bubbles
crashing animated trip
running conceptual topography
remembering collapsed buildings
crashing hyperreal coverage
propagating hyperreal stipulation
finishing western library
envisioning neon tessellation
reciprocating network likes
processing animated device
releasing haptic quality
examining building seven
awaiting rhapsodical ratio
sampling death sauce
sensing lowercase clone
examining symbolic tour
processing potential development
encapsulating spatial lottery
displaying digital paragraph
reticulating theoretical source
perpetuating western paragraph
transmitting monochromatic structure
anticipating ambient quality
transmitting asemic environment
intensifying atomic quality
remastering history poem
keeping future light
hypothesizing eternal game
using future library
rearranging masonic language
transmitting masonic development
continuing ceremonial ritual
questioning party's legitimacy
deferring western coverage
finishing asemic hypertext
mollifying ostentatious presence
synthesizing allegorical icon
forming categorical unions
sketching app wireframe
programming immortal repository
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud
Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion
Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason
No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach
Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system
Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves
As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery
And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates
But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Can I ascend a poem allegorical?
Are Tetley's teabags paradoxical?
A teabag is full of strength,
Teabag enters moisture at string's full length,
Radiating vigour and a pick-me-up,
While the tea drinker begins to sup,
There is the lonesome teabag,
Sodden, drained by old hag,
Limp and fatigued,
I ponder, intrigued,
Are teabags signs sent from above?
Are teabags truly true love?
Is this a poem allegorical?
Used teabags--quite paradoxical!!
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
It’s not much, I mean, but
uh, nothing, sorry, man I got butterfingers
slippery as my tongue, here
did you drop something, are you sure?
cause my thump-thumping heart dropped
so hard to the floor when it knew you were near
that it bounced right back up
right where it goes, then straight out my crown chakra,
only to dissipate and erupt
into Truth
the literal and the metaphorical
allegorical nebulas that resonate in full high-definition colour the way
all Nine symphonies played simultaneously
would look
sedimentary, like a cheesecake
when I first saw you, something
shifted in my horoscope with the same scope and scale
of a modern Greek myth – Prometheus rising, fire
in the eyes of one woman, that’s all
all Aphrodite could gather up—fix it to the mainstay, Odysseus
let’s get to it, in siren seas, eating weeds to survive
if there’s nothing left when Cthulu
comes alive, I hope at least
I’ll get to talk to you at a party
like, once, where we’ll mix some more
mythologies
Once Inana birthed the world, and Spider Woman showed her how
I could show you how Saraswati
makes music, and old Bacchus stays on his feet
Care to play my Isis? If that makes me Osiris
then drown me, chop me up. Throw my body
to Mr. Lucifer; the Morrigan will come to inspect your ****
and finding it satisfactory
will whisk you away somewhere better
How’s that last part sound to you, eh?
there’s not much left to waste in the techno age
of “nothing in moderation,” with all our
degradation,
defamation,
discrimination,
and mild inflammation caused by
nonspecific anxiety medications
in our nation of constant false elation,
so
my point is time
the one thing we got left to waste
is time, and I’m a dedicated pacifist, but
I wouldn’t mind killing
some of that, with you
Let’s blow this pop stand
and go hunting.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
I thought for days and could think of nothing
to satisfy the eye and hand and heart,
or satiate the mind, or at least seem
worthy to be willed into decent art.
The past ten years offer little I’d deem
rousing enough to write this first part.
Then imagination just so inclined
the speaker, the scene, what I’d sought to find.
Grasping the pen, I pressed it to the page
and out poured imagination as ink.
I painted a line, then outlined a stage,
and pondered for hours on their supposed link.
It seems excessive thought may shape a cage
in the corner of which ideas sink.
Sometime later the stage had some players
and the line had formed multiple layers.
All vanishes the ensuing day,
forcing thought on what’s soon to expire.
Dramatis personae hardly convey
the message famished minds desire;
Likewise, poetical visions crochet
a meandering, allegorical empire.
The thought-maelstrom bids me “Confess!”:
I’ve reduced life to a logical process.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
I SOUGHT a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
The Countess Cathleen was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.6k
I can see your past
I can show you your future
But after I’m done
You may need spiritual sutures
If good fortune is your goal
I must tell you, it will take a toll
Causing irreparable damage
To your mind and soul
The dead cause chaos in my head
But their power keeps me calm
I will know every intimate detail
With just one touch of your palm
There are a few steps
That you must take
To connect with the spirit realm
To alter your fate
I see you as 6’5ft tall
In my crystal ball
And the body of a Greek god
I can erase all of your flaws
I’ll just need a newborn’s skull
My cards favor your odds
Pick any woman
You can have them all
I’ll just need your signature
In blood…that’s all
I can make you rich and famous
Or whip up a love spell
But you must offer a sacrifice
To crack open the doors of hell
Don’t play dumb
You can’t possibly be stunned
Where do you think these
Abundant blessings come from?
The power I’ve held
And the tales that I tell
Are very real… not allegorical
Certain acts may be required
To acquire this kind of power…
That some may find deplorable
These are demented acts of brutality
And I’ve done the most horrible…
The mentality and morals
Of an obscene oracle
You can’t be a coward
If you seek this kind of power
I’m addicted to it
So if you’re standing in my way
You will be devoured
The spirits are whispering
They say that you’re unworthy
That you don’t trust me
…Like I’m undeserving!?
Hmmm…You've hurt me
Guess I’ve said too much
But I’ll show you mercy
A curse…a small verse
So you will forever serve me…
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
I
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.5k
Miah is the girl I was:
And in a way I envy her.
She only felt artificial pain
That the character creator gave her.
Ben is the one who was my friend,
But who showed his true colors later
When I needed him most, he left me alone
As a character, he was barely even hated.
Connor, well, his story's not told
While I'm still reeling from his counterpart's words
I plan to write it soon, and then
I will spare her no allegorical hurt.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
The storm came bounding over me with clouds of uncertainty
and howling winds of change like an entity.
Water droplets of despondency drowning me with every bead;
Mother Nature herself cannot stop this blizzard – for it is a clandestine storm, indeed.
Nobody is going to rescue me from this typhoon –
my struggle through this torment will become my greatest triumph soon.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
paralytic skies
hold close their embrace
folding in
upon themselves
glaring
burning cobalt eyes
crushing
their despairing captives
whose hollow faces
drag the recalcitrant air
into the cavities
of spiritless lungs
blood and bone
test the bars
of their inherited prison
built with
walls of allegorical stone
they cast
their harrowed gaze
upward
prospecting for pay dirt
through tapped out veins
of hope
and love
in strip mined heavens
Sep 23, 2024
Sep 23, 2024 at 11:50 PM UTC
Herewith
Definitive semblance
of allegorical allusion
That unto the masses
in abject delusion
Replete with the
studied sacred illusion
of cosmic worth
for every cosmetic remedy
of indolent intrusion
Yea Right.
Characteristically docile
Accused and convicted
of arrested development
Screeching Hell awaits
the plentious harvest
of the crop of fools
Arreared in impetuousity
and impulse for that
most deviant sake
Yea Right.
Drowning awash in misery
Choosing to swim on alone
Thinking they then
are the chosen one
They then the center
God society et al
ad infinitum?
That most aberrant
Human Secular
thought.
Yea...Right.
-R.
(11.10.17)
-LA
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
I'm pacing the corridor,
that desperate zone
between insomnia and insanity,
sanctuary of eccentrics
and junkies
chasing a word, a fix,
a revelation,
an allegorical mix
of purple haze, logic and similes...
It's a race of attrition,
of addicts incurring
meteoric costs of opportunity
irretrievable,
surreal,
euphoric,
and misunderstood...
like mania
this corridor precedes time
and space
it is the beginning
of faith and exploration
and revelation....
dead poets live here...
~ P (Pablo)
(7/31/2013)
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
{#1} *The Shadow has this great Confidence-=OF th Bright Light Behind HIM!!! {#2}= Who voted for thes people in charge___and even ***** Times,,Geeez! {#3}= There aren't enough stars to Count, to say or to Care. There aren't enough grains of Sand to Count, to Say, To Care,, To Send, to Wish, to Brighten___"TO *YOU ! {#4} = Every handsome Knight should have his "Morning Sunrise", SHE is Worthy of her Name, a GOD given Brightness, for HER Knight ! {#5"= The songs I write are Not just words on Paper, but rather, the Very Melodies from My Heart ! ____ Please___"ENJOY these "ALLEGORICAL RAMBLINGS" May they Bless YOU..in a Very Special Way! ___M
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 9:20 AM UTC
They say that Angels play the harp,
But I'm coming to realize
That's allegorical ********
The harp, such beautiful tone color,
(Tied to purity and innocence)
Yet have the Angels no say in the matter?
I've met hundreds of angels shrouded in cacophony.
I'm coming to realize none play the ******* harp,
Each angel marching to their own John Sousa or Joe Strummer, none alike.
Let's throw out the fascist visions of angels and know only that they are strong, and they are numerous...
They may not love you nor serve your God,
But they exist all around you,
And I implore you to know that these are your muses, your goddesses, spirits of all shapes—
Do not reduce them to harp players.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
The lunar eye looks straight at her
From which level of Dante's of hell does this allegorical figure ascend?
She sings perfectly. Not a chord off scale, not a single octave too high or too low, minors, majors, sevens and suses, yet the distance between performance and performer grows like canyons in continental plates. How does she sing so beautifully? But yet, something is missing. A sorrow, a fury, a hate that burns for miles, and a love that wants nothing in return; eyes that properly protrudes the profound passion of human horror.
So she throws herself savagely at the world, to seek out life's horrors in the hollow souls of every unholy ghost in purified form, profound suffering and endless sickness. Birth, death, disease, loss, love and life itself, knowing that everything else is expendable, because what does not make us itch beneath our feet or stir turmoil in our minds is of no relevance.
The Duende will find his way inside her marrows. He will fester on her cords and well up her eyes with ecstatic enlightened tears of exploding color, because life came caterwauling, yet here she stands.
She breaks into song once more
The Devil burns inside her now.
And the well of her wisdom boils with the Sound and Fury of Humanity.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
Natural phenomena make for great metaphorical explanations
Of otherwise indescribable realizations.
When you've reached an epiphany about your own situation
You are dawning upon a new understanding, a new revelation.
And perhaps its this very satisfactory description
That drives poetry as a healthy natural addiction.
Words which could never be expressed with proper diction
Spring to life in pages written as if fiction.
Far too often we find ourselves relating to the feeling of blue
But a color in fiction can feel so much more real and true.
A not so hidden and blunt allegorical, yet personal clue
Banishes our inner animal, and allows us to begin fresh, anew.
What is this community we find in isolation so well described
That encourages others to respond as if obliged?
The common understanding rains as if prescribed
To be the antidote to the gnawing emptiness to which we are subscribed.
Some inner purpose is behind why I rhyme
Driving me to an inner peace that is sublime.
Those who wait for sunny days that are prime
Write poetry, the ultimate victim-less crime.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 11:47 PM UTC
Goats
Great
Ostentatious
Allegorical
Tyrantasaurus Rexes
Save the Earth (one goat cheese at a time)
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
Help me out for a second here.
Help me out of here.
I'm going out of my mind/But I'm/Lying/I'm not/It's too hot/And claustrophobic
So... I'll bounce back and forth in rhythm/Listenin' to myself givin'/All you beautiful people allegorical head.
Audience is/Providence of/Godliness through/Loneliness when/Each and every one of you make/Up a giant intuitive/Entity of empathy that/I wish I could make love to.
What?
I wish I could talk to, you,
but I often find that people look to me to be aloof,
but I also find the need to persuade myself into honesty.
But you gotta know, I just think words can mean so much more, or so much littler than the effort it takes to say them and it scares me all the time.
Sometimes people call me poet. I can't talk to people, they all think I'm silly and that makes me feel awkward cuz I have a lot sadness and put too much importance on the common interaction between me and the rest of my race.
So I sing instead of talking, Run instead of walking, improv without blocking, write. cuz I'm scared, I'm so ******* scared of something turning out unexpectedly, and I'm in love, I'm so ******* in love with that fear.
Thank you for giving this amount of silence. I haven't been listening to it very well. You let me take the stage and drown out all your lovely silence with my under-used, somewhat nasally voice. I'm sorry.
I owe you a turn. I really do. for listening
Go ahead...
Say something real
-Say something awful
I miss the voices that used to talk to me
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 5:14 AM UTC
there are so many ways I could describe you;
but I would start with the way your eyes look behind those black-rimmed glasses that emphasize your perfect chocolate brown eyes that you sometimes you wear green contacts to cover because you don't like it when they're tawny.
and your smile is brighter than a new fluorescent light bulb that has just been put in; so white that even the whites of your lovely eyes couldn't compare. I really love when you smile, especially the ones you direct at me. even when you laugh, you seem so effortlessly flawless that it takes me a minute to catch my breath that you constantly seem to take away.
don't get me started on the way you kiss. there was so much passion and affection and want. it was like your life depended on morphing your mouth with mine. it was actually the most empowering feeling I'd ever had.
but there's much more to you than just the physical attributes;
maybe I should depict the way you always hold yourself together and seem so strong but when you finally fall apart, you always let me know how you're feeling and it makes me wonder what I did to become so important that you would allow me to be your allegorical shoulder to cry on.
how about your silly stories that always make me smile or laugh because I know it makes you feel good to know that we can still joke around together even after all the mistakes we made and awkward moments when it was pretty much impossible for us to be in the same room to get to the point we're at now.
I can always tell when you are having a bad day or when you just don't want to talk to anyone and I respect those times because everyone goes through hard times and sometimes, you just need to be alone in your own mind for a while and block out everything and everyone else.
sometimes I wonder how I could've let someone who clearly wanted to build a relationship with me get away. things were a little rocky at the start, I was nervous and unsure, you were experienced and confident. I admit that I acted solely out of exploration but it doesn't mean that I didn't care about you. I did and I still do.
they're just not the same feelings that they used to be. they transformed from an infatuation to an appreciation. I used to think I might've been in love with you. but then I opened my heart up and I noticed that there was a difference. I still think you're attractive and I still admire your personality but, I just don't think we could be a "we".
but I really would like to say "thank you". you gave me attention that I'd never encountered before. you helped me recognize my worth and that is the most important thing that anyone could have done for me.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
Searching through my circumcised conceits
ransacking allegorical nature
a more outlandish metaphor
alluding to your eyes glistening,
Though Shakespeare, were he to hear,
would revolve over over again
in his graves, may he feel free
to make jokes of.
I say with poetic assertion
confidence, no other allusion
would come closer to truth,
to my purpose, than me saying,
your eyes contain the sparkle of ten million diamonds:
they are far
far brighter than any sun.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
The ineffaceable stain
Allegorical refrain
Dictates the wily antidotes for a newfound sane
They hector from a distance
Muted but militant resistance
magical hobgoblins the lifeblood of their persistence
Heterodoxy enters the stage
Cognizant of ignominy, a potent repressed rage
Succor sought, corporate media bought
A pyrrhic limelight is certainly not what was sought
I defer to dignified exemplars
I confer with callous company at vapid bars
Concluding thereby the inverse proportionality of authenticity to success
The articulations of divinity imply rigidity
sweltering soul burgeoning with light sweating an evanescent humidity
If blind before, partial and total sight reconstitute the core
omnipresent paparazzi deplores
Past pities insuperable even with pithy witty
Future pieties irrelevant to ineradicable ignominy and purported dignity
Cupid and cupidity must be related
because gold-diggers alerted to my fair share would be elated
Begrudged at every tick, tantalized by a slow torture lurid flit
I cast my ambitions into the fathomless depths
I amass provisions for a restive hibernation, enduring schlep
Redemptive powers yet articulated
Should ease the prospects of being matriculated
But is cloistered suffering an inexcusable plight
When the deep coffers derelict a modest gesture of making grievous inequities once again right?
Must I swim to distant shores
Past the barnacles beneath and the urchins on submerged sand, very sore
Landmines at the beach, pantomimes and their garbled preach
Past scattershot invective fortified by intransigent misers of conscience, the balmy resort out of reach.
Bleak bleats, meek feats, good eats
I think it is about time for a tyrannical psychology to let me off the incapacitating leash, letting me focus on actions rather than on incomprehensible speech
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches
on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?”
you say between impossibly tiny sips
of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea—
or at least I think that’s what you said;
I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which
your incomprehensibly long nose hairs
mingled with your bristly auburn mustache
as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole)
to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness.
But I reply:
“Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway?
Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff?
Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!”
Heh.
But my dialectical cynicism is no match
for your allegorical bullshit-ism:
“Ah, but we create meaning!
The lonely abyss of individual experience,
when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore—
Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!”
I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo.
When my eyes return to the table,
I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon.
I painted a Pollock-esque piece in 9th grade.
My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses,
the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them
while she said something about the creative subconscious.
The first drip took some self-convincing;
the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me
with the possibility of mistake.
At first I pretended I was ******* himself,
trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought.
It didn’t work.
My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did.
I began with green for no reason at all,
and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed
but that I couldn’t explain.
Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me.
“Would you like a sip?”
I can’t avoid a smile because
****
this tea does taste like sunshine.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC