"analyst" poems
I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist
But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed
I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
Erection?
You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service
Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
My business is words. Words are like labels,
or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things;
as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic,
unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick
out another, to manner another, until I have got
something I might have said...
but did not.
Your business is watching my words. But I
admit nothing. I work with my best, for instances,
when I can write my praise for a nickel machine,
that one night in Nevada: telling how the magic jackpot
came clacking three bells out, over the lucky screen.
But if you should say this is something it is not,
then I grow weak, remembering how my hands felt funny
and ridiculous and crowded with all
the believing money.
9.1k
Dear Lesley,
I'm sorry to have to do this through a letter, but
last time your crying just humiliated
the other couples in your group session.
Although, this might save embarrassment,
and make me look better, now that we are
both sleeping with other people. (If you
can call conjugal visits to your ex-husband people.)
This letter may well be the last memory
you will have of me, if your social worker
lets you keep it as a memento anyway.
I am leaving, and I won't be looking back either.
I am sure you won't be surprised or terribly upset.
It is completely your fault, no doubt about it!
Mainly, it is your long history with lying problems,
even more than your alcoholism, that keeps me
from being even remotely interested in continuing
this relationship with you. (I told you I forgave
you for sleeping with your boss, but I guess I
never really did.)
You would be so much better off finding someone
that can accept the emotional baggage that
you carry around, the ones with the orange tags.
Maybe your analyst can explain that to you better
than I can. I must say, I will miss some of the exciting
times we had together. Like when you got so drunk
and flirted with my father at our family Christmas
dinner. My mom has still not gotten the red wine stain
out of the tablecloth where you puked on it.
I'm glad this is finally done and we can go our
separate ways. I think you will find someone else
with whom to have an unhealthy relationship based
on physical attraction and a passion for strip-club bars.
Hopefully, this will happen incredibly far away.
Good riddance, and Happy New Year.
PS Maybe you should just go back to being a lesbian.
PPS I have no idea where you parked your car.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
The comfiest human bed warmer I ever had,
My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad,
The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums,
The resident photographer of my birthday albums.
The accidental magician who tricked me out of my worries,
A sympathetic dictator who scolds but allows my fancies,
My biased talent manager who always tells me I'm the best,
The loudest cheerleader who puts to shame all the rest.
The world's underrated chef cooking heavenly meals,
Our unpaid laundry lady worrying over water bills,
The overqualified nurse never leaving her patient,
Our top-notch budget analyst negotiating every payment.
The random gardener, she can grow anything with ease,
Our talkative historian, she stops recalling only if we say please,
The uncanny philosopher, we've learned a lot from her,
The lost and found administrator, tracking things hidden anywhere.
The most efficient multitasker I've ever known,
My trustworthy adviser who knows me down to my bones,
A tough fighter who keeps winning her every battle,
My life's co-creator and this world's greatest mother.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
---
*if you peel back the onion
be prepared to cry*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/23/2015
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears
as husband, lover
analyst & muse,
as father, son
& maybe even God
& surely death.
All this is true.
The man you turn to
in the dark
is many men.
This is an open secret
women share
& yet agree to hide
as if
they might then
hide it from themselves.
I will not hide.
I write in the ****
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor's name is Love.
3.5k
***A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)
one poem, written by two authors***
~~~
**Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.
From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.
The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value**
(written by S.D., a woman)
~~~
(written by N.L., a man)
unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected
the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own
every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing
a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship
all these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,
instantaneously compromised
but,
***it is upon the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality
while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:
every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the
princes of principles,
valence and value
that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,
her character
this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky***
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”
Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month
Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”
“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”
Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?
“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
I dont want simple;
Feed me yourself in silver spoonfuls.
I want simple,
Lie to me,
and tell me
I am not an Animal.
I am an analyst-dissecting details.
4Am fresh snowfall
I will remain capable!
Make first new footprints,
in a circle...
Till I reach the middle.
I will remain incapable of
Tying my shoes.
I am a participant in social warfare.
Looking forward:
Possible encounters &
Spring Rain.
Fantasizing both in measure.
All I am to you is what you see, and
What you hear,
smell,
touch,
taste.
All you are to me so far
Is what I see, and what I hear;
So i am looking very hard,
And I am listening very closely.
I want logic,
Tasting honey when I ******
I want harsh confusion,
Complete absence of logic in it's essence.
Kissing a part of you that potties.
Now,
I can remain content in chasing my tail; I sleep balled up on top of the ocean, my clothes and fur strewn;
Chewing paws in strange positions.
I want contradiction, an
Assurance of the Devil & a
Total disregard for ghosts.
Constructive chaos:
Dress like ghosts on Acid and
Wear rollerblades.
I want my resumé to read:
>works well with others,
>great fighter, &
>An outstanding Lay.
I want to leave behind dreams,
I want to rent a room in your
dream bed&breakfast;,
Sometimes sharing yours, but always paying rent on time for mine.
Sometimes
swinging an axe against a rough stump,
Craving lemonade and
Spring Rain.
Part of me wants to grow old and
Mad, and sit by rivers; I could smoke ****** from a wizard pipe for my
Sore joints.
( I am alright with the possible outcome of Alone. )
[ I would rip my hair out,
Glue it to my body, & become
A boy in wolf's clothing. ]
I want creative destruction,
Mayhem,
borderline Mind ****
Learning to pick the banjo half-decently.
That Deliverance tune.
And walk around ski towns
Scaring the **** out of some tourists
And other antagonists.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
The boy said
he wanted to be a
cowboy, astronaut, or vampire hunter
and go on fearless missions
The old man said
you're only destined
to be a system analyst technician
The boy said
he wanted to change the world
end poverty, hunger and war
The old man said
the only change you'll make
is at a 7-11 store
The boy said
he wanted to travel
to see Australia, Japan and Spain
The old man said
the only thing you'll see in life
is monotonous pain
The boy said
must you be so negative
life has surprises even you don't know
The old man said
you're just basking
in youth's ignorant glow
So the boy finally said
**** you then, I'll be a writer
The old man said
I hope you like drunken all-nighters
The boy yelled
you're blinded by age
and your cynical ways
The old man stated
you too will drift in time
into apathetic malaise
So they boy walked away
to decide his future
and how to spend the rest of his days
The old man went to rest in his coffin
home of self defense mechanisms
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC
market report: spinning on an axis of complexity
phrase captures and enraptures, buried deep in one of the
countless market reports that arrive every minute out of date by the time they press the end/send button but this rises
up from the forged gorge throat and all the rest falls away
spinning on an axis of complexity
sticks like Elmer's glue, white viscous, good for paper & skin,
cause you knew precision revision incision instantaneous,
they are intended for your eyes only, pasted to your eyes,
tinged tongue screaming you man, you poem
there is no
difference, for both at 1:55am
where time is sleep verboten,
when words are blood platelets in a mystery entitled
spinning on an axis of complexity
human must eat
human must work
human must love
human must sort the juggling orbs,
too much new information constant and brain incapacitated
*while falling-spinning
when eyes now fully glued shut by the
complexity of clashing algorithms
writing this market report on the state of me,
the passionate impartial analyst who boldly reveals, he proclaims
he owns stock in himself and issues a
sell recommendation*
the complexity-situation trending signals crash a-coming,
and at 1:59am after composing this hissy fit writ,
he downgrades the official outlook to sell and
lies down on the kitchen floor and laughs
with the angel dudes eating bagels and holding their sides,
cause they have been running a short position up in heaven
6/22/17 2:05am
nyc
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
out goes
software developer
web designer
computer ****
mercahndise managers
vacancies now:
virtchandise manager
cloud transformation officers
outcome aggregator
data evangelist
sensemaking analyst
sales ninja
digital dynamo
happiness advocate
online community facilitator
web funster
you ready?
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
renegade memories
relentless effrontery
rogue fractured intruders
a formulable formidable aside inside
man is a modified monkey
a jackdaw in peacock's feathers
contradictions, the multiplicity that is a unity
a patchwork of odds and ends
snips and snails
dreams and delusions
hopes and fears
a mystifying knot of phantasmagoric disquietude
agape in a stupefied bewilderment
as an autistic child swept up in minutiae
inscrutable incongruities
melange of matters beyond explanations
maundering machinates
necessary inventions repeating and reforming
sheltering some aspect of the mind's deforming
'reaction formations' sotto voce instructs the analyst
defending emotions at the personalities bequest
merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream
psychotherapy is no mere scheme
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
red light flashing on CNBC
hawkish fed and supply chain disruptions
an acid tongue analyst argues via zoom
black gold due to reach the sky
rotation warranted and ISM doomed
transitory or not
the fiery fall colors
are waiting to burst out,
outside, the windows of 30 W 63rd St.
this is where
her heart resides,
reverberating a song
titled ‘stone cold reality’
here,
unconditional love
speaks only the truth,
while the rest
wax eloquent euphemisms.
diligently probing charts of 10-year bonds,
i see her chiseled face with glasses and all,
in the web of shadows
whispering
one and one name alone!
© 2021
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 11:18 AM UTC
I stopped a girl at school one day
Just to tell her how pretty she looked
And a smile swept across her face.
She seemed surprised I’d ever say that,
As I am “flawless”.
I tossed my head back,
Laughed rigorously,
And pretended that the situation didn’t make me sad.
I told her I wax my upper lip
Because my pale white skin highlights my black hair
Perhaps a bit too much.
I told her my ******* haven’t grown since I was 12,
And I dye my hair deep red
Because I feared my black hair was too boring.
Not to mention my skin isn’t in its best condition
And blemishes pop up here and there.
I put unnecessary amounts of effort into keeping them to a minimum
Because I’m just sixteen
And they will never go away.
It’s not just my face, though,
It’s my back, arms and chest, too.
The blemishes are simply on parts of my body
That not everyone gets to see.
But those flaws are only skin-deep, I said,
I’m overly emotional.
I over-think and analyze,
Thus hurting people I don’t mean to hurt.
I’m often self-centred, too,
And forget the interests of others.
But for an analyst, I said,
I often forget to think a little harder about things.
I’m overly anxious and stressed out.
I want to change, but I never do.
I’m hardly serious about anything.
Never look into the mirror and cry.
You may not be flawless,
But neither am I.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Investors need to stop treating stocks as a ‘beauty contest’ and follow the difficult investment style of Keynes, global pension expert Keith Ambachtsheer said.
Data produced in a working paper from the Harvard Business Schoolshowed that portfolios built on firms with a good material sustainability rating outperformed those that had a poor rating, an aspect not considered enough by investors who were caught up with quarterly returns, Ambachtsheer said at a Chartered Financial Analyst seminar in Sydney on Monday.
“What I see happening out there is largely speculation – what Keynes called ‘beauty contest investing’, where everybody tries to figure out what the most popular stocks are going to be in six months, buys them and when they become really popular sells them,” Ambachtsheer said.
He added the implications of this investment style as an aggregate was a zero sum game, whereas investing should be taking savings and turning them into wealth producing capital.
“The key thing is you need to look beyond the next quarter; you look at the long-term sustainability of the business model of the corporation, as well as the people behind it in terms of how it is being managed.”
The Harvard Business School (HBS) working paper superimposed the Sustainability Accounting Standards Board materiality map (which identifies likely material sustainability issues on an industry-by-industry basis) onto 400 common US stocks identified through sustainability metrics from Kinder, Lydenberg, Domini Research & Analytics.
They examined what effect materiality would have over the long-term (starting from the 1980s) and found the top 10 per cent of firms that scored strongly on material sustainability outperformed the bottom 10 per cent, by nine per cent over a rolling twenty-year period.
“The practical question is, can you actually manage money this way in the real world? And the answer is yes, but it’s very hard, because you are doing unconventional things,” Ambachtsheer said.
Real-world Keynesianism investors – such as Warren Buffett and the Ontario Teachers’ Pension Plan – are in a minority despite outperforming over the long-term. In chapter 12 of his seminal workThe General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Keynes explained the reason for this was the essence of long-term investors meant their behaviour would be eccentric, unconventional and rash in the eyes of average opinion.
“Most organisations can’t function like this,” Ambachtsheer said, as they were too focused on the present.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
She was love-
tasting like revenge,
not in a hurry, but
deliberately as she desired.
-a dark searing kiss
that drew blood,
from my lower lip;
getting the dormant
********* in me ready,
in a bit,
I counted it a forgotten pleasure,
playing just sadist, as circumstances permit,
it was, if you want to know
for sure a class act,
she knew how to do it.
in my writing, she said
sounding like an analyst,
i was preoccupied with dark birds,
' i see their presence,
on tree top hide outs,
ominous darkness sitting quiet
with folded wings'
blood in my lower lip
tasted salt,
the hibiscus flower on her raven hair
(reminding animal behavior
on certain periods of need)
to me is a symbol,
she and i know, of what.
I peered in to her ***** dark eyes,
thought what she said was
false.
)O(
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC
Your analyst once called you a wretch
and told you to leave.
You say you get
“caught up in the moment” but really
you are morphing in disarray –
poet to death-marker, undertaker to toddler;
it’s boring and you accept that.
What you lack in understanding
you make up for in crushed leaves.
Like a tractor-trailor in the Bronze Age,
you are out of place.
But the sky is starrier than ever
so you feel okay
when the wind hits your eyes.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:51 PM UTC
I wanted to be
I wanted to be a cowboy, rassle cows to the ground,
I wanted to be a pilot, fly those airships all around
I wanted to be a star, hit the ***** so very far,
I wanted to be a driver, burning rubber in my car
I wanted to be a doctor, save the lives of those in need,
I wanted to be a lawyer, when I was thinking gr eed
I wanted to be the mayor, take my city to the top,
I wanted to be an actor, hope I don't appear in a flop
I wanted to be a fireman, save the children from the fires,
I wanted to be a copper, catch the robbers, cheats and liars
I wanted to be a priest, help the sinners save they're souls,
I wanted to be a lover, playing the lead man roles,
I wanted to be a father, raise my children to be proud,
I wanted to be a weather guy, explaining the evening cloud
I wanted to be scientist, discover new things in this life,
I wanted to be a husband, have me a pretty wife
I wanted to be a builder, bridges, and buildings reaching high,
I wanted to be a analyst, wondering why people cry
I wanted to be a soldier, keeping my country from harm,
I wanted to be a human, helping my fellow man stay warm
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:29 PM UTC
Snow sits on the branches of dead trees like it's meant to be there
And it just sits but
It works
No one questions it
We talked to each other on the phone for 5 hours straight without running out of conversation
A lot like last Friday night when not so sober dialogue brought true feelings to the surface
And I had to swim through it to get to you
But that was alright
Because I'm a **** good swimmer
But even your words spit out of you like poetry when you speak about God or lack thereof
And I just wish that I could unravel into you like a deity of the heart
But let's not get too attached
Right?
What happens when what starts as talking about your wildest dreams to your best friend turns into ballsy conversation that is long overdue
You've always been better than me at poetry and saying what you really wanna say
Words fall out of you on cue catching me off guard without even having to think about it
Well what if I told you that last weekend I felt euphoric for a while
And euphoria did a lot for me
Euphoria inspired me
And euphoria took me to work without complaints
And euphoria fed me only what I wanted to eat
Only the richest of cuisines
Because you make me feel
Nothing less than euphoric
I find it funny that you think I'm intelligent
Like how
Nothing gets by me
And when you say things just know
That I'm an analyst
And you better bet I'll scrape out a double meaning that might not be there
But for now
The snow will continue to fall
And as those crystals sit silently on the trees
I will continue to fall
Continue to feel
Euphoric
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
Every time She Goes Away
you know I could make up a story
I could spread the icing really thick
make it sound like I have a real clue
about where my head is it's so thick
my analyst has left me on my own
to deal with this world of loony toons
so I can pretend to anything I wish
go out drinking all nite with some other baboons
write a letter to the King of the world
let him know my displeasure with my life
this isn't new territory for me you know
she had no business leaving me like a wife
I could always speak to her the absolute
she would never judge me or show me a frown
what did she expect walking away like that
knowing that I am nothing but a circus clown
It has happened before with similar results
just what is it she wants me to say
I rant and rave and shake the rafters
I get so lonely, every time she goes away
Gomer LePoet
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
For the low low price of just being within' earshot,
the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation.
You know how that perfect comeback
feels, three weeks after
You didn't say it?
In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class.
Our conversation analyst.
Looks at you like a shoe on the wall.
Unlike the psychology major, the conversation analyst will never share his results.
He'll just judge you.
Silently.
He doesn't speak.
His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished.
She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth.
Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music,
the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally.
Our conversation analyst considers himself Socio-passionate.
Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly.
Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards.
The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist.
You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want.
If the carpenters house is never finished.
The conversation analyst
exemplar at listening,
Will never hear you.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
spiritual burglary
delicious minutes
unlovely products of a puritanical conscience
alcohol taken as a club with which to bludgeon into a state of insensibility
words seemed to clothe genuine honesty , they prove to be the veriest nonsense
epiphanic amorphous mind and its stream of consciousness
I imagine a neural interface that could record dreams
not brainwaves, but images
phantasmagoric films beset by the florid mind
sorry echoes in the verbosity
Too bad love has fallen out of style
now that squares rule the world
I can't express "why" in words
so unrealistic a view of themselves and the world that they become most difficult to live with
little wonder I dwell alone
everything is really fragmentary
analyzing the analyst
tripping over my words
instantaneous administration
mesmerized by the minutiae of sensations
tangles of terminology writhe in his brain
collating and sorting
assigning vectors
in hopeful sectors
where heart and love abides
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
I'm told the only way grow
over you, is to peel apart every memory;
I must reach down my choked-up
throat, and feel around for you inside
my broken body - find the figments
of my bitter fantasies and watch them over
and over
*[the night we walked home
at 3am and shouted lyrics from Snow
Patrol at the scarecrows in the
graveyard/ the night we ******
three consecutive
times/ the night I decided
I would let myself fall]*
until I suffocate and hate you,
all the same; the best-tested remedy
is to become a practicing
********* - a professional
pain analyst,
and so I'll gag myself
cleansing my body from your
presence, I'll pour my liver out
if only to pry apart the
bargains;
I will ruin every black and white
filmstrip if only to say
goodbye
for the last time
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC