"analogous" poems
The picturesque glow from the full moon enkindles youthful swooning and yearning; orotund voices rising above prattle conversation yield celestial affirmations in conjunction with analogous, supernal relations
Full acceptance of the shimmering stars sacrosanct messages coruscating through the sky - fulsome oracular expressions instilling mesmerizing past-life recollections.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
You feel you're invincible
being that your sanity is uncontrollable
strolling around with your shoulders past the birds
past the planes
your ignorance succeeds in innumerable ways
your sight is weak
your mind is enable to capture
it's buried under life's adversities and Earth's pleasure
you don't know when to stop so you flood yourself
until you're lame at your ankles
and paralyzed in your emotions
you wend through life this way
well you try
stuck in misery
with no lane to merge
frustration is your best friend
a human is impossible and
incapable of the acceptance
your belittlement draws mankind away
no one wants to attend a pity party
unless their accompanied to your VIP
and to reserve
you are the one to RSVP
Enlighten heads will stray away
pessimism is a curse
rapidly spread by the weak
you have distress and frustration
suppressed
strangled screams
holds your eyelids open at night
deliberations controls your emotions
controls your feet
throughout the day
you are terrified of tangibility
so you indulge yourself excessively
burying your true identity
becoming irritable when bearing your sober mind
if only you knew how divine you are
you would grow to love yourself
in ways incompetent of how you could love so hard
look yourself in your eyes
find who you are
even if you have to savagely search
you'll see the soul people has grown to
love so much
you'll notice your beauty
that covers endless realms
or your strength that could hurl a boulder
No one can help you discover
your destiny
it's your journey you'll have to make alone
but during the expedition and constant footsteps
the process of elimination could be your guide
find your inner child
it can help your prevail that's
where you once had happiness
your joy was established there
because if you continue the silencing
of your heart's cries and
your soul's screams
you'll live a life analogous to hell
and that is
a nightmare's worst dream
Copy Right 2014
©Patty Ann
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
As I contemplated the project of writing a persuasive essay I discovered that I would have to have a topic upon which to practice my persuasive techniques . After much cogitation and enumeration of my possibilities , pursued with such zeal that it soon resembled pedantic ostentation , I concluded that the most positive prospect I could pursue in this endeavor would be an attempt to prove irrefutably that I deserve a grade of A in this class ; if not for the undeniable excellence of my effort , then at least for the unadulterated audacity of my pretentious assertion .
In order to perform this feat first I must overwhelm your developing consternation , the frozen mastodon of your auspicious judition . To accomplish this I will cite my impeccable attendance ; which although not perfect was indeed a valiant effort in the face of public opinion whose abstinence approached epidemic proportions . I will expound on the effectual and pervasive inspirations of my in class commentary , which sparked many a heated argument or thoughtful conjecture ; and comment on the polished precision of my in class narration . I will reiterate the diversity and intrigue of my subject matter and the competence of my delivery .
Next , with all the dynamic aggression of a wind-up tyrannosaur , I will recapitulate and exemplify my arguments ; until the ramifications of my inductive collusions exceed the boundaries of your psychic phenomenon and you are forced to acquiesce into impunity .
Yes I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind , until mesmerized by the multitudes of analogous content you find yourself , disguised as captain corpuscle , floating euphorically down stream in a think box mind gram dingy towards a sea of Colorado cool aid . Then as if all that were not enough to thoroughly torque your ringer , adamant and tenacious I will portray realms of intellectual austerity so intriguing you will be raised to new heights of enigmatism , and then I will leave you , enraptured with your own anonymity , at the edge of the new world freeway .
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
It without reservation can be said
Light on their indistinct feet these apparitions
Having no physical form
Cavorting of course with analogous kinds
Ravenous
On human emotions, they dine
Waltzing with elegance and ease
Disappearing as they please
Showcasing their unearthly skills
Rattling their chains
And moaning with glee
Ah yes it can most assuredly be said
I enjoy
Dancing with ghosts of the dead
It is the event of a lifetime
And is a rare phenomenon amongst the living
But not be envious of their steps
For throughout their existence they may never rest
It is a clandestine situation at best
Though they frolic gaily
Imprisoned between two worlds
Ignoring their dilemma
Nebulous phantoms
Continuing to whirl
Still, in good conscience, I cannot deny
Even with their trickery and constant cries
And disregarding the fact they are dead
What a delightful experience it truly is
Dancing with ghosts of the dead
All Right Reserved @ Tammy M Darby Nov. 3, 2018.
Re-Write Feb. 11, 2019
All Material Stored in Author Base.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
Thirsting
For subterranean
Blue morphology
Azure dreams
Flitting about
On butterfly wings
Mining stalagmites and
Stalactites
Sipping nectar
Numinous ruminations
Illuminating
Analogous mimetics
Allegories of the Cave
An altar for
Pluming rhetoric
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
I see you
I see others
I see everyone
And, I see you again
Time after time,
I ponder
What lures you apart?
Is there something?
Is there anything?
But time after time
I conclude
That cloning has surely begun.
I deduce
That no man is diverse
No woman either
No children, no parents.
We’re all similar
We’re all striving to be identical
Indifferent to the essentials of our soul
Indifferent to the necessities of our individuality
We endeavor to be parallel, analogous
To be the flock
To be the herd
To be the pack
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
watch the starlings
synchronizing
their collective dance..
each bird deciding for the all
each on the edge of
chaos and fall..
local decisions on moving
coupling a mysterious
non-local intuition..
all spurring our wonder
our disbelief
are we forced to consider
our analogous place
each one of us poised
on a delicate line..
each needing to master
a courage to reach
transform near fear
take that one step our own
trust knowing all steps..
holographic truth at last
each differing step
stimulating
new wholeness and light
watch the starlings
once more..
locate where you now stand
my edge in my time
absorb the starling's miracle
murmuring our own
murmuration
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
there are times
when the meaning
of a word
is asked
one that
has been read
and regurgitated
used regularly
correctly adopted
as part of
an apparent
well-read
or pretentious
vocabulary
however upon
being asked
its meaning
there is only
a blank
vacuous
addled
unable to provide
a succinct
or even literate
definition
to save face
to re-establish
the hubris
of this
abashed lexicologist
analogous alternatives
will be offered
oversimplified
synonyms
carrying a little
less gravitas
a layman's explanation
to maintain
position on his
self-congratulatory
podium
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 11:42 AM UTC
We used to say " I love you";
Now we just think it.
The people we became
are an odd fit.
I will admit
I am no longer pleasant
to be around.
Constant scowls and frowns
amidst the silence.
The clicks of keyboards
divide us.
Define us.
Align us.
We used be to analogous
like Bubble gum Princess
and Finn.
Just like them we've become unakin.
Padme & Anakin.
My fear of loosing you has caused me to loose you.
Like an episode of That's So Raven;
attempts at the prevention
of the future
ripped open the sutures
in my heart once again.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
I saw the rest of my kind scour against the streets, hands calloused-laden,
wizened by erratic explosions – nondescript music analogous to silence;
terse sleep stiff in wind, homes filled with tension, arrow-headed men
quiver through the busy streets as tatterdemalion as stray dogs.
inverted triangle, sidereal vertigo, mutilated rose and the beheaded tulip.
the ambiguous spiral of the downcast climb. I see all men maddened
by wine over the rooftops.
choking in dank light – the night exudes its flayed machinery.
an empty bottle of whiskey and a body stripped of skin melded with fright
raised higher than the maladroit sky.
I, whose name is but an algorithm of formlessness. I, whose silence is but the contemplation of stone. I,
whose voice toboggans like a tender ramshackle of incantations
filling tubercular pockets with spare hope yet none are we but only poorer.
whose fingers are but tired girls tousling in bed lacquered by sunsets – whose nails are paler
than a ****** of moonlight, whose homes are inflamed hemmed in by petticoats,
whose eyes set affixed to no avatars in juxtaposition of parks
falling madly in love with everything that glints.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
Our city lights,
however small in comparison,
nullify the countless Stars
of the wondrous night Sky.
Perhaps
this is analogous to how
things that seem to be
so very close,
so very small,
so very benign,
so very familiar,
so very attainable;
things of our conscious creation;
can preclude even the very awareness
of far greater,
far more beautiful,
far more powerful things;
both external and internal;
both transient and eternal;
and why we must
take great care
and
act with great tact
and
act with immense respect
if
we, as mortals:
curators of reality;
are to be trusted
with such effervescent potency.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
A spark of fear on every syllable
a hint of it on the tip of my tongue
and I am a snake- a viporess
Ready to combat Burroughs himself
Burrow himself in a hole
don't come out until winter time
until the Russian cavalry comes galloping in and my lord
wont this be interesting
A real match
I must retire to my chambers
1 minute 2 minute
God, have I discovered writing?
Joyous, glorious
as the life spills on her pages
What a treat to the historian himself
Tick tock tick tock tick tock!
A day in the loony bin!
Congratulations congratulations congratulations
Analogous to Berkeley with androgynous beings
Fly away Pegasus, fly!
And I am high
You know what's good about getting high?
You forget everything you just said
But you know everything was/is? connected
Good morning brain!
You haven't been up for 18 years
Welcome to the world,
where life is light and bright
How does it feel?
This is right
Hot to cold, just like that
Can't see, only feel.
Loose Buttons
Pregnant with a platypuss but this is high time
Wackadoodle > Lackadaisical
Dictionary please
Much hate but night night
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
it's strange how our colors changed
from analogous to complementary
- kra
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
The winter Months used to not be accounted for,
they were the annual time away from Time;
a time of parties, feasts, and, shall we say, celebration of survival;
celebrating the harvest and, shall we say, fertility;
that you and yours may outlast
the cold, dead Winter.
January was eventually recognized as part of time
and was named for the Roman two-faced God Janus;
a time of duplicity and duality
a time of unpredictability
a time, somewhat analogous to a gateway leading to a new cycle
though, perhaps also, a time for looking the other way, as it were:
I suspect that the expression "When in Rome..."
was derived from those Winter non-months of debauchery
where the people from out-of-town would come into Rome,
where the party was, company was plentiful, and it was warm,
and decide to partake in various aspects of pagan Roman life otherwise inaccessible to them
while distributing few, if any, regards for their new-found brumal unorthodoxy
and hence the expression: "When in Rome, do as the Romans."
That's just my theory on it, though.
Take it or leave it, or perhaps somewhere in between.
Happy Winter!
Time to drink, feast, **** and be merry!
It's only Human, apparently!
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
A
Not No Logos, Klein.
What about anti-logo
Using the figure as the foci
But leaving the message in the medium
Both in the back and foreground
Then we yell fore and the foreground becomes the background
2
Always remembering hierarchy but always forgetting Plutarch
Is this is a disambiguation?
Did I confuse Parallel Lives with Plutarchy?
3
So we grid it out.
GOTO Vitruvio ...
4
Trying hard to balance can create imbalance this we rationalize through irrationality.
3.14159265359 ...
5
Symmetry ... .. . ~ . .. ... assymetrY
Stressing the *** in asymmetry
And what about the meeting of Apollo and Dionysus and the Apollonian/Dionysian duality?
6
Rhythm:
3:3 ; 4:4 ; 7:4 ; salt peanuts . .. ... windtalkers
7
White space is an access point for flow, Tao, source .... this is where my batteries recharge
8
Every element is mindfully placed; an element of gestalt ism "shape form", is this analogous to timespace?
Is the whole other than the sum of its parts? GOTO Miller-Urey II nested inside Babylon Falling
Both are self organizing, none the less. Such wholesome folk we are.
9
The patterns found in isolation parallel both linear and crossing elements and the instructions always coming from a double helix. GOTO The Dance of the Double Helix
... and always adding depth and motion ... kinematic to the statics. GOTO Introducing Happiness
10
Type faces are interfaces so be consistent ... you Paranoid Android!
J
Always K.I.S.S.ing
Q
And in motion means modularity is a must
K
Peaks and valleys can be better understood at the Red Onion or maybe just by peeling back the layers (of life)
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
All other seasons usher their expectant Mother--
lay her down, and let her be.
Her's is a great birthing...paean of the eleventh hour.
Air blown lukewarm, honeyed...showers soft as
tears that place the face of growing significance.
Inbreaking rumors of life to be, the exultant charge,
moment of creation split green, thus created to divide
but moment ago where none was.
Early fires of greenery...the irony lost on nothing--
the harshest season precedes the gentlest.
Analogous to the truth of hope, where from the dead
of winter...a flower.
Broken open its color as tangible light, to it--the bee's
figure eight prayer, partaking thereof.
The rampant crisis of consciousness creature to newborn
creature, all immersed in the golden wave of renewal.
It's as if a standing ovation burst in a monastery...
what's been withheld in the making is withheld no more,
Mothered by Spring.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
you've left a footprint
in my mind.
/
you've left behind
the traces of the past
the memories
and a concave
wave
/
leaving curvatures
creating
those permanent
steps
across the
expanse of
my brain
/
upon the
landscaped
planes
valleyed
peaks
/
and the blood
vessel'd tributaries
/
I felt you flowing
in my veins-
within me
/
without me
inside upstream
outside downstream.
/
the currents quiet. the tides subside.
/
you've left a footprint,
in my mind.
/
I think you'd be
impressed
with the old
pieces
Ive kept
/
it’s a residual
effect. this left
consistent motion.
similar to erosion
/
changing, rearranging-
kind of like continental
drift.
but sometimes
there wasn’t any motion
just slow motion
/
but some emotions
picked up on all
four seasons
/
breathing an air of cold winter.
once sinister,
brought pure laughter.
the sun luminescent mirroring my skin
came spring and summer
/
I spread
em’ wings
-to be the bird
I’d always wanted to be
/
peaceful.
unleashed.
free.
/
riding the air.
it's the best
feeling-
being alive
to be redefined, unconfined.
/
you've left a footprint
in my mind
/
I was too blind and
I’ll never
forget this
/
I just
felt the need
to disappear with
no dusted prints behind
though...
/
and so I crept out
the back
door slow.
/
because it didn't
feel like those
“traditional” goodbyes.
/
wasn't chiseled in stone.
engraved in bone.
/
no handshake
no promise
we didn’t see-
eye to eye.
/
kind of equally analogous
to the sun rising
into the earth
/
chaos turned
to clarity.
-I left.
but I strived with
/
cold sweat,
with every stride
with every step
/
and the regret I carry
is something
I will never forget.
/
I was climbin’
to the top of
Mt. Everest.
/
except without you,
I fell off the grid.
it was all
plate tectonics
/
my world is
spinning off its axis.
and I haven't been
the same
since.
/
but it gives me a
hopeful glimpse-
when I'm lookin up
at those stars
/
feels like bright day
in the middle of
night.
/
I’d like to
think you’re
lookin’ at the
same stars
/
wherever you
might be.
I hope you’re looking at
that same sky.
/
you've left
behind a
footprint
forever
in my mind.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
romanticizing life
relationships
men
individuals
collectively
stripped
you are no longer what you were meant to be
fulfilling
like a buffet
knowing when not to get overwhelmed with the choices
but be humbled
and honest
to tell yourself what you know you really want
what you really need
what's
satisfying.
now i'm not trying to make men analogous to food
but i guess i am.
my meal
doesn't serve the purpose of leaving the table
with my stomach bursting at the seams
left alone
with a food baby.
my meal
doesn't serve the purpose of not serving a purpose
there just to quench a craving
to lead you in which ever direction because you think you want all of this when
really it's just
you don't know
what you want
what's the purpose?
my meal
is supposed to humble me
serves the purpose of feeding me with a thousand suns of your soul
to warm me
in my mind
and my heart
my meal is relevant
to my context
to your context
it's goldy locks
it's not being afraid to make mistakes
to learn and grow
and change.
my meal is shared with my family
enjoyed and just another
enriching aroma that give us a reason
to be together
not to
"bring us closer than we already thought we were"
we are not
a romantic novel
my meal is not a romantic novel
i know i'm a college student
that meals don't always align correctly
that they are forgotten
but always on my mind
i'm gonna be
honest
honestly
i don't know what my meal should be
where it should come from
why i will choose it
wait
what?
yea,
i'm confused, too.
Gouda.
can i marry you?
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
Watch who you alloy WITH/
tools you employ WITH/I emphasize
WITH/
no exaggeration/
emphatic to their exasperation/
no caption no captain all to captivating
verbose elocution what? verbose?
what ever
You write doesn't become rote/
the execution of the elocution of the words that Were spoke/
problems arose oppose deal with them aplomb/
synchronizing with flows currency is then what becomes/
electrifying with these verbs action astound/
pound for pound every now and then do a thing with a noun/
pronounced or
yet possibly you haven't notice/
surmount the insurmountable couldn't count the posers/
when most fake it you get most focus/
internalize their emotion fuel the fire ferocious/
fandom analogous?
non comparative/
A new style I guess/
tandem me and 26 The Narrative/
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:51 AM UTC
Today, when I was feeling worse that Jack Kerouac
I thought this must be a touch of the Doubles,
a dizziness from reflection, or perhaps an accumulation
of appearances, too many appearances.
Pull the shades.
Sit back and relax, confide in yourself, i say.
Where did it all begin, and for what reason?
Am I a mirage of the identical, a disorder
in the analogous, some transmutation of exact endings?
One imagines Zarathustra singing in the shower.
"If you can't find a woman, find a clean old man", says Jack,
ride the greyhound, hang around the men's room, try dope."
He always shouts from the freeway entrance,
thumb aimed offensively in the direction of L.A.
Later, in the woods, I whispered like Thoreau;
"simplify, simplify. One pair of ***** is enough for any man."
Be yourself, I said. Walk down the sidewalk.
Step on all the cracks.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC