"anarchic" poems
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
Iridescent celestial being
An anarchic yet effervescent adolescent
Frolicking freely like a breeze throw the leave of an omnipresent forest.
Bare foot and star gazing, native and trail blazing.
Like a clever fearless fairy exploring the faraway night sky
She is the fantastic bit of magic on an otherwise static planet.
The captain of passion and best little hippie on the mountain
Formed by a volcanic fountain that caused a panic on our little oceanic planet.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
End,
The True Tip of my Tongue,
(Enchanted Bronchial Tree),
holding out the
Cavern of Soft Sultry Silhouettes
that hug the walls.
Clinging to their influence able nature,
tendency to allow pink purity
to fall
to the black blistering blasphemy
of dirty-watered bongs.
Inhaling the Damnation of god
And Magic Meal of
Those residing in Gehenna,
Limbo,
And those scouring the pearly whites of
heaven for their 72 ******
***** Calls.
The desperate stench
Of religion
crawling down
my needy trachea
to attach its
sticky suction cup sermons,
trying to trick
My larynx into
Hallelujah’s
And
Hail Mary’s.
Hoping repetition
will etch it into
our subconscious
like a gravestone
set in stone.
So repent,
saunter back into your pen little sheep.
False Anarchic Prophet,
Pretend Goat.
Throw your brain back into the box,
The Individuality Dishwasher,
They built for your mind from the
Start.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
No vices, no difference
I have some things to do tomorrow,
I think I’ll just take the wagon
I’m just waiting for something to happen
to help me make up my mind
I always imagine tragic
someone dies and they’re so close
I don’t believe in fairy tales or souls,
but I don’t even want to write their names
for fear I’ll have a hand in why they lost life’s duel
or maybe we’re all just an election away from
anarchic warring states,
where I must defend my beans and cucumbers
from slugs and marauders
If we hold it together, red China could invade
so would I rather be a prisoner or dead?
Perhaps, I’ll just meet some girl,
where I’ll feel “some” as a description does her deep injustice,
because the love will be enormous
Now, I’m courting a chickadee that’s never dull,
but her name doesn’t quite roll off the tongue
Her name is Adventure and she rolls like hills and mountains,
and speed popping truckers with their eyes and ecstatic smiles
If I’m still seeing her, I might be a gat slinging ******* out west
bumming around San Jose or Cambodiay
Hearing all that talk, I think I just want to leave,
and I guess the pay is better anyway
My mind is made up
it’s not something real
It is, was, and is still fluffed up with schooling and the words of persuasive people
their confidence in what their saying is like a lightning bolt ******* into my stem
they jammed us into waiting rooms for something called progress
they even separate the sick people
I closed my eyes to see what was real,
and saw nothing
There is no waiting room at all
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Why the **** is there
all this disdain for varied techniques?
So what if I like altered guitar tunings?
Sorry that all my guitars
are in D Standard or drop C.
Yes, even the ******* Classical guitar.
*I never meant to inconvenience you,
your Eminent Prestige!*
Maybe it's a problem
on thy knavish behalf
that you can't cope
with variation within the
Sacred realm of Art.
Don't ******* tell me
what to do or how to do it.
Don't ******* tell me
my approach to my Art is wrong.
Don't ******* crawl to me
when you want to learn how it's done
and I won't say I ******* told you so
when you confess your perspective lacks variety.
I will still teach you, though,
that is, if you will listen.
I will still teach you, though,
if, indeed, I can.
I will still teach you, though,
but only if you can teach me, too.
I will still learn from you
despite your rigid adherence to traditionalism.
I will still learn from you
if you don't ******* condescend me
about how I decide to do it
about how it feels most natural
about what I like or why;
just ******* deal with it
like a true Artist;
accept it and bask in it,
that everyone's technique
is unique.
Besides,
be it not that very variation
that lends itself to the plethora of Art
that has been, could be, and will be made?
Be it not that very variation
that leads a school of thought
away from being so incestuous
that it kills itself off?
Be it not that very variation
which makes Democracy feasible?
If Art be neither
democratic or anarchic,
then I guess I'm no Artist.
Just ******* deal with it.
If you can't: then shut the **** up,
and let us, who can deal with it,
just ******* do it.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
To rise above the shoulders of others,
To see the things they can’t,
Pointing out the errors of law,
Taking a stand when falling down,
Accused of sins and crossing lines,
Anarchic behaviour built on honest minds,
Crushed by labels – a society wrapped in vines.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Kissed his student.
Punched his friend.
Accused her lover.
What if China's navy asserts control where our navy also patrols?
Should we concede the South China Sea? Not on your life! Or maybe.
Lives may be lost but so what. There's so much biomass in the
crosswalks.
Lord have mercy on my soul
Which means bring my confusion into an expressible state before it's
too late.
Sal went to jail. I belong to the loved ones. Never may the anarchic
man's thoughts be my thoughts. Not one.
It could be cancer or just a cyst
That killed Frost's considerable speck
Instead of considering its considerable intelligence.
Although bottomless ancient night stretches
From your short life forward, remember
It also stretches backward without measure.
There are few straight lines in nature and only one alternative to
ageing, so **** it up!
Suppose everything's fine and you've wasted your time wearing
sackcloth over your soul?
Start now knowing joy.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
anarchic,
lacking category.
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.
i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining *The Difference
Between Hell
and Home*:
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."
an outlaw,
a nobody
akin to Nietzsche,
returning infinitely—
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a singularity,
deconstructing
Derrida's Différance.
a nomad on the margins,
wandering aimlessly,
roaming perpetually
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.
Vonnegut recognized
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
I am nothing, nothing but oblivion,
a vast emptiness within a breathing host.
If you were to rip me open,
cut me down the middle,
crank apart my ribs,
there would only be a numb void.
Maybe the world would be inhaled
into my stomach,
for me to regurgitate,
stripped of all it's essential beauty.
No more stars, I will keep them for myself,
let the moon shine it's dull light
in the spotlight, with no one to share it's empty
stage.
Let the sky be dumbfounded with loss
and void of illumination,
and maybe with star-filled guts
I will shine again.
Everything I am,
everything i touch,
is robbed of love and joy,
for I am nothing but an afterthought
left by the shadow of death.
I'm surprised I can be seen at all,
for I am transparent to myself.
My dreams and goals seem a whisper
from the past,
warm and inviting,
their words tickling my ears
with skeletal promises,
concrete at the touch, but
with no deeper substance.
Filthy liar, tease.
I reach and grasp and tear my limbs,
praying to feel even the vague
memory of hope upon my fingertips.
I long for escape,
escape from an insomniacs dream,
the lines of reality and ficiton blurred into one,
for only nightmares and goblins await me
in my bed of anvil pillows and maggot ridden matresses.
Escape,
for even the stroke of my pencil,
once so lively as it romanced me into a verse,
paints a tragedy.
But mostly,I want to fly into the night sky and explode,
burdening the world with all the negativity I've gathered over the years.
And release all the beauty and potential I've stolen and hidden away.
With the anarchy that is my psyche, I will restore balance.
I am everything.
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 5:23 PM UTC
4am
Thoughts of you are dangling off the edge of my cerebrum creating anarchic drapes
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 9:41 AM UTC
An iridescent celestial being
Anarchic yet effervescent adolescent
Frolicking freely in the omnipresent forest,
Like a breeze through the leaves.
Barefoot & star gazing — native & trail blazing.
Like a clever, fearless fairy exploring the faraway night sky,
I am the fantastic bit of magic on an otherwise static planet.
Bewitched by wild wonderment;
Coloring my life with the chaos of pathos.
I am the captain of passion, & best little hippie
On the mountain — formed by a volcanic fountain
That caused a panic on our little oceanic planet.
Dancing in multidimensional secrecy,
Past an unattainable horizon
Is where you'll find me — on the Big Island in the sea.
It is a true treasures
With impeccable weather & such mystic characteristic,
It's almost unrealistic.
So forget your whimsey Hawaii five-O fantasy
Tear a hole right through the sky
Arise, & fly with me on a real odyssey
Across the mesmerizing island
Teeming with undreamed of creatures
& seemingly endless saffron sand beaches
few have ever been
up to the
Vermilion rainbow plateaus
& sacred volcano summits
Amidst cascading honey suckled waterfalls
& streams of splendiferous wildflower meadows.
We can indulge in thousands of hues of bloom
Or retreat, once more to the oasis at the shore,
To stand hand in hand before the prevailing trends
Of a turning world; scattering brightness in the dark
Fledge millennium into an unadulterated oblivion.
Enveloping what is suspend in time
with a colour compass configurations
The universe, nearly legible expresses herself
Writing constellational scribe
elucidating galaxy.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
ººº
*Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit,
according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world,
and not according to Christ.*
Colossians 2:4-8 (NKJV)
His Nietzschean trip moved from Comic toward Tragic:
Deleuze’s delusions flew out the fenêtre
Airborne and ****** on philosphy’s magic
(the nihilist suicide’s raison d’être…)
Propelled from the window, transcending the Ontic,
his organless body in textual flight,
a schiz-flow beyond on a voyage turned frantic.
His thought – a nomadic adornment for speed,
multiplicitly viewing a thousand plateaux
was a force for unhinging the doorways of light
and a plea for postmodern decoding indeed.
His frame soon encountered pure striated space
in the form of the pavement caressing his face.
He joins other smokers of Gallic tabac,
other esotericians of cognitive frenzy
(those mullahs of madness, those sultans of Whack…)
Sorely missed by his victims, disciples and friends
he is mourned, misinterpreted, copied, dismissed
– but for semioticians he heads up the list.
Another brave Frenchman, some guy named Debord
a bespectacled Marxist (who missed all the marks)
made the mediums’ message a radical bore
dialectically fading the lights into darks.
Indirectly disrupting pop-culture with Punk
and other anarchic phenomena-junk,
he too chose to leave with a nihilist bang –
while we whimper and suffer down here with the gang.
The old situationist’s last situation:
an agit-prop funeral short on elation…
So to French de-constructor-philosopher-ravers
and all who rejoice while society wavers
I offer these lines, like a quick coup-de-grace
and be warned – they’re now viewing the Good Lord en face.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
...The thing with no name,
Surrounded by sadness,
That kind of sadness
Penetrating its silence,
That kind of silence
Searching the tears,
Those tears
Becoming cubes of light,
Those cubes wondering
On their situation of their becoming,
Being involved in a movement
Apparently anarchic,
Needing, ''a priori cognoscible'',
Synthetic truths
And empirical postulates
On the shape of their inner dislocation,
Their shear looping into unstable equilibrium,
Needing a stable equilibrium,
Becoming emblematic symbols
Of the diminishing boundary
Between real and unreal,
That cubic thing withdrawing itself,
Slowly becoming
Memory....
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:53 PM UTC
It's quieter now.
Rioters are long gone.
For reasons beyond me.
Their anarchic war
Was replace with arctic winds
From far north.
Iciness blows through me
Unthawing the rawness.
Forlorn frozen feelings.
Slowly spreading, soon
I am a hollow iceberg
The world still moves on
Through the bright fire
And I watch from my frigid state.
Sometimes, flames will flicker towards me,
Sometimes, they lick my ice.
Temporary mealting occur.
The memory of water proves too
Tempting for ice to ignore.
But this chilled bliss is fleeting.
Memory turned sour and only to freeze up again
And forget about fire so ice retires from contact.
All I can do is watch on.
Coldness remains in the heart and brain.
As the warmth of health carries on around me.
It is time like this,
That I wait for this age to pass.
For climate change to do what it does best
However weather has always been unpredictable,
And even lava couldn't thaw me free.
Instead I will wait for the return of the rioters.
and prepare to greet them all
and All the choas they bring.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 7:31 PM UTC
Cheeriness left me Monday.
Emotionless, I staggered at the news that,
the self proclaimed "The People's Poet" was dead.
In a crashing flood of emotion the 80's flooded back,
"Post Punk" Rick was no more.
Lord Flashheart was no more.
Alan Beresford B'stard was no more.
Drop Dead Fred had died.
Rik Mayall the comedian, actor, genius was no more.
No more catchphrases such as 'Hoorah' or 'Neeeeeiiiiillll'
No more, smashing frying pans into people 's faces,
No more ***** margarine, no more 'Bottom'
No more British anarchic, anti-establishment, alternative comedy.
My youth had died.
Getting old is quite simply a *******
56 was too young.
But, never fear I do believe, that
"She has a tongue like an electric eel, and she likes the taste of a man's tonsils"
Will be engraved upon my heart, just for M'Lord! Woof!
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
The alphabet jumble,
Became quite a Jungle.
Where letters fight,
Just to survive.
The A's against the Z's,
Like west against the east.
The vowels rule,
This grammatical feud.
There are few rules,
In this anarchic dispute.
Like I before E,
Except after C.
But two letters did stray,
So far away.
In this world so confused,
Love had found its muse.
They left their contempt
They shed their hate.
And they became immortal,
As our stories do say.
These two young lovers,
Are remembered still.
For together they defended,
What hate tried to ****
And that is how,
Our story begins.
For that's what happened,
When I met U.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
The cold wheels hit the tarmac as a hiker falls back into his bed,
their screeching din like a wailing baby contaminated all around,
but their anarchic cries fruitlessly fell when they finally came to stand still,
then down the stairs and into the lobby two lovers could finally hold hands.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
The pen trembles, the paper perspires,the hand remains steady. Or is the mind weary and reality an illusion within a dream?
Infatuated with harmonising every line. Your mind is violent but your words are quiet. incessantly bleeding the pen with no anguish, just anarchic serenity as you conclude with tranquil tragedies.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
Thursday afternoon.
My God the sky turned black.
Blowing of the wind damages the trees.
Revenge for them remaining clothed.
In tardiness into December they walk slow.
Ah, their foliage should have left an age ago.
Leaves should have left the trees.
They were deceived by temperate weather.
It is still yet.
Won't be for more than minutes.
Sallow leaves attached by whispers.
Still waiting for the wind to blow.
Anarchic leaves await permission to let go.
The wind will blow.
Around ivory towers.
Ivory cast out.
Elephants long gone.
In a teacup brews a storm of sighs.
Rattles the windows and makes wet the skies.
Waiting in silence for rain to pour.
To wash off the leaves.
Make puddles bless the floor.
(c) Livvi 05/12/2013.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
My astute sadness falls in to obscurity
As my beleaguered heart drowns in madness
Yet, I enthusiastically embrace this majority
Grinning at my tortured exuberant canvas
A crooked smile, my face spreading wide
Gashes upon my past, brought to life
The twisted anarchy is my pride
Following a path on the edge of a knife
The out-flowing insanity, my soul enveloped
My obtuse feelings rushing in to disarray
The bitter darkness my spirit developed
My past life, willing to betray
I welcome and revel in my malevolence
Being called the Dark Prince
I am a mad ruler, benevolent
Giving me a wild pleasure, seen as nonsense
None can see in to my thoughts
Anarchic wanderings floating around
I burn all that I have bought
Burn it all to the ground
Burn it all. The people who walk in comfort with their morally loose ideals. Darkness needs to be dragged out from within, as we all need to be saved from societies twisted obligations. They need to fall in to primitive anarchy to truly see themselves.
I do not have another equal, none
Even my dark rival disappoints me
His presence gives me some fun
Yet I shall fall from grace
His justice is a personal vendetta
Derived from beliefs he created
Based on an iron law
Prosecuted by the judge, himself
He always hides in black, he thinks he is a dark soul. Always brooding, confronting my very mind. He is the only friend I have, the only interesting aspect of my life. And even though I wish him dead, i wouldn't know what to do afterwards.
So I crown myself in white and green
Red splashed across my lips
As I look in the mirror, clean
I ask...
Why so serious
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
Anarchic dreams of blind faith....
I want to be your starting line; the last bullet from your gun. I want to feel your chest against my back, I want to be your one. I want to be the only one on your stage, under your spotlight; I want to be your morning, your noon and your darkest night. I can’t be distracted by you even for second; for your very smile with your very mouth, makes my heart beckon. I want to see you straighten your tie, and fix your crooked hat, I want to see you be with me, I want to see us looking just like, that.
I don’t want no drama, I just want some fun and laughter, let’s not worry about the future, let’s not worry about the happy forever, after. Just let’s take this moment, and let us run. Take a ribbon from my hand, twist it, plait it, wrap it round your heart. Let’s just not care, and let that be the start. Don’t leave me to die within your arms, don’t leave me dancing without you. Lets take pictures til our batteries die, and let the night thereafter ensue. I want you to be my one, I want to be your golden hour, your only moonlit forest flitting sun.
I want to be so wrapped up with you. Enveloped in your arms and legs so tightly, so that I can smell, your scent. So in 10 years time, when I am stood in the supermarket and you are no longer around, I will smell that smell and think you are stood right beside me, holding my hand. I want to be so entangled with you, that every time you leave, I feel deflated, depleted and dramatically fall to the floor crying to the stars, for your return
I want you to be here, to feel my heart beat for you. I want you to be here, to be here just for you. And when I look across the room, I know that you are there, that you are looking at me, looking with that deep intense passionate state. I want to be your full stop, the point from which you do not pass, I want to be the ending chapter, the one, the only, the last. I want you to read this, this nonchalant article of faith you cannot withstand, I want you to read this, look at me, and take my hand.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
the entire universe
is anarchic play
-doh- -
it'll shape
it'll shape
it'll shape.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
Dear Sun,
If I have to believe on
my school books
or scientifically proven
expert mind opinions
You
are a white sphere,
an anarchic system,
composed of hot, destructive plasmons
and your rays
have the power
to turn my skin and bones
into a lump of grey ash
no matter how far from you
I stand on
Every morning
when your light yellow rays
softly touch me,
a smile spreads on my soul
and
the yellow, orange and magenta shades
you left in front of the darkness
made me to feel,
You are beautiful
though
my mind knows
You are nothing
but a colourless or white burning ball
You don't care me
neither I do
But there is something
unseen between I and you,
demolishes itself each minutes, each seconds
holds your angers
and scatters them into beautiful colours
and
made me to love each time
I see you
But I wonder
Why I failed and am failing
to honour, appreciate and praise
love of the unseen one
and his/her sacrificial care?
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
she binds with her eyes,
restrains break with gleaming smile;
love's sweet anarchy!
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC