"annuls" poems
THE noon was as a crystal bowl
The red wine mantled through;
Around it like a Viking's beard
The red-gold hazes blew,
As tho' he quaffed the ruddy draught
While swift his galley flew.
This mighty Viking was the Night;
He sailed about the earth,
And called the merry harvest-time
To sing him songs of mirth;
And all on earth or in the sea
To melody gave birth.
The valleys of the earth were full
To rocky lip and brim
With golden grain that shone and sang
When woods were still and dim,
A little song from sheaf to sheaf-
Sweet Plenty's cradle-hymn.
O gallant were the high tree-tops,
And gay the strain they sang!
And cheerfully the moon-lit hills
Their echo-music rang!
And what so proud and what so loud
As was the ocean's clang!
But O the little humming song
That sang among the sheaves!
'Twas grander than the airy march
That rattled thro' the leaves,
And prouder, louder, than the deep,
Bold clanging of the waves:
'The lives of men, the lives of men
With every sheaf are bound!
We are the blessing which annuls
The curse upon the ground!
And he who reaps the Golden Grain
The Golden Love hath found.'
2.9k
922
Those who have been in the Grave the longest—
Those who begin Today—
Equally perish from our Practise—
Death is the other way—
Foot of the Bold did least attempt it—
It—is the White Exploit—
Once to achieve, annuls the power
Once to communicate—
2.5k
Some wise men have said,
That the universe
Is made of strings, tiny,
Which vibrate in dimensions ten.
Six extra dimensions than
The usual three of space
And the fourth, which is assessed
Using a pendulum
Oscillating in nothingness.
Strings, like the ones of a guitar,
Playing different notes
And different symphonies
Bosons, fermions, electrons
And gravitons to name a few.
This annuls racism among sub-atomics
Since ultimately they're all threads.
Or do you think, a boson
Is superior to a fermion
'cause it swings in a different plane
Or because one of them is called
The God Particle?
Strings, oscillating like
The alternation of seasons
Strings, like the thread of relationship
Which stretches and swings
Between its highs and lows
Strings, oscillating like
The advancing and receding waves
All we could be is a painting,
A hologram, simple 3D information
On a two dimensional plane
Living our lives and executing functions
As the painter intended us to.
All we are, are threads
Arranged in a particular fashion
All we are is a bunch of strings!
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,
this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men
(yes, men are people too, still)
enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality
amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!
to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,
this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish
multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts
but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”
Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream
“Why just men?
*I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.*”
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:42 PM UTC
358
If any sink, assure that this, now standing—
Failed like Themselves—and conscious that it rose—
Grew by the Fact, and not the Understanding
How Weakness passed—or Force—arose—
Tell that the Worst, is easy in a Moment—
Dread, but the Whizzing, before the Ball—
When the Ball enters, enters Silence—
Dying—annuls the power to ****
1.6k
capitulation is on the English sides mind
their brand of cricket has been of an awful kind
this ashes series our Australian side blew them away
as they had a very stylish form of play
the bowling and batting of the Australian team
has wrecked the English lads winning dream
our lads didn't put a foot wrong on the wicket
they were a class act at playing the game of cricket
the last match in the series is on to-day
and the Australians will most certainly be making hay
at this stage they've got the English struggling
they've not got enough fire power in their batting
after the lunch break we'll have the English all out
they'll be wearing the odd ****** pout
they've not prepared well in any facet of the game
which has been a terrible shame
the annuls of cricket shall record England's loss
and speak glowingly of the Australian teams gloss
the 2013-2014 ashes series a series of capitulation
where the English didn't play well against our nation
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
beneath her feet
her most daring
feet
that traversed
the murky waters
of dawn, past mountainsides
of prayers, stallions the blackest mare
love combined, daresay silence annuls
the noise of heart and the shadow
casts its darkest immaterial stone
beneath her feet
her most daring
feet
the dead continue
to bury the living
and the living excites
the demanded hue of another blue
to hold close into the sky
whose also darling feet dangle
much like water’s fervent collapse
mantling the rivers, miles you have
walked without images of I
beneath her feet
her most beautiful feet
we go wind by wind in excess
of days
in the night’s blackest dress soiled
by light is inmost dance instep,
curated from machineries
beneath her feet
your feet I adore
which bony prominences hurdle
me weak, ruined,
where I lay
is always the cradle of Earth
your feet and I beneath
them, emerging from the possible life
of leaves in birdflight,
beneath your feet
your cold feet, unrelenting
on the unkind tomb of my body
your swift drop of feet, their
superfluous coming-and-going
love landing on my body – trampled, weighed down
beneath your feet,
your most darling feet.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
Whose dreary face now becomes warmth – an ash turning
into a single drop of water
I love and I have – and I know that when she looks
she does not. Nothing moves the bird of her dawn but
her. Proletariats sing of steel in the night and I deaden
within their homes. Whose dreary face now becomes
the steady light on the porch – a thigh, or a river, turning
into a single gasp of song.
I love and I have – and I know that when she sings
she does not. Her silence moves the moon deep within
its womb and annuls. Each moment in her shoes, she is absent,
and I taste the pale death of her precise waist,
her sharp tongue having me curved when enough was said
when empty was sure. I know whose face I am talking to,
but knows not what day has escaped me. The possible:
to bring her so small in my hand, and invent her this fate,
to be unclenching like water and virile like stone. I know
the singular act of her likeness is born out of my lack:
there is a spring-clean image traipsing the water. I must chase
where it streams, and its origins not my own.
The city borders us two as we are demanded by the daily:
the smell of a home shoals me a satiny sob. Still the marvelous
sky, a knife, if not referring to me, the cut lily that is the Sun.
Whose dreary face now becomes a store,
commerce, becomes the silver of hills, becomes the gray assault
of an old cathedral, becomes the surety of a transaction
and then becomes wind chiming through cities. Becomes inquiry
between I love and I have – becomes dearth and is proud.
Nothing will stop the train arriving: when thirsty for a glimpse
like mine a fountain or a singular wave from an opened window,
she passes – and does not look for me.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
/ rivers pulse this house as if activity, predictable.
leave this body just like that.
and heave the emptiness from the thrum
of the streets just like that
the stars delineate an axis tilted by my means
to live under frail coruscations.
take this house, take the rivers
with you, all the more my body
anything other than my blunder.
take even, these tiny and immediate currents
as i hear this is how it is to be delivered from
grace and expanse.
you are what this truancy is trying to undo
as you were by mine before -- this is how
it feels to be moved and sidled again and again
this river that you carry me across and left with details none can supply. there
is resolve in this, even when I am taken aback,
which certain things are left crossed and wronged,
and how you keep the place guarded, possessed
by light -- how it wholly hurts, this invented
life all mine /
1
What is to break if not another word for
impossibility, or another phrase as palliative
for suffering each other
2
What is so sure of it to arrive
in the densest minute, say when if already
out of sight, I implore you to
unlearn my body
3
This and the deep and hollow end of it.
Visage voyeurs as if the past is just next door
sleeping with my woman, laughs and then cuts
open to free itself from a slammed door
and mosey on.
4
As statement to refute my coming into,
I am already accomplished. Turn this day opaque.
Lens to the world my found
imperative of what was given, a knife
to stalk a heart so difficult as if known to me
as a path home, or unearthed bus tickets
from Longos to Tabang. Say when it rains,
forgive me. I remember still.
5
To believe in touch and its memory is
obligation. The way I see this, a palimpsest.
I attempt to discover something, witnessing myself
pass mirrors, body found as if rivers do drift
me to the brink of a high noon wishing
to swing downstream the words I have
no use for, if not documents of haloed hours.
6
I passed by your house.
Silence annuls azure skies.
Balustrades gone. They took everything down
evenly to the last inch of paint,
balmy this oblivion only for me, catatonic is this
peace as my hands lift a piece of the soul
to shred. The day burns like a forest in my hand.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
torrid love
gnawing at the withers of my reason for a horse.
my kingdom for a kindness
now in flames
and my youth a dream, teetering on the north
of my age, and the edge
of my
night,
the night i found in love.
from the belly of a wave
in the heart of a maze
i ascend
having slain
a thousand crow
to feather my black
thing
and take ingenious
wing
before the searing
nay
of the sun
annuls
melting the fledgling
and keeping
the sky.
from below, i know above
and go home.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
One may wonder;
What is it like to die?
To crumble like Pompeii,
Fall like a dynasty,
Recede
Into the frost-windowed annuls of time,
Like some forgotten journal
With words written in blood
And bound with human skin.
I can feel my heart
Beating in my chest,
Beating in my breast.
Too many nights have drowned me in insomnia,
In waking dreams,
In visions of mountains
And rainswept forests,
In my memory of the curve
Of your chin
Or the subtle tint of rose in your lips.
I sleep now;
Sleep properly.
(most of the time).
When I am not plagued by my injuries
Or by the nebula,
Oh, by that nebula of stars
And words
And thoughts
That I have fallen victim to
Oh so many times.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
how i wish to hurry
back to arms, hurtling
bearing me into the hollow
of hand full of hours rearing me prolongations of wordlessness —
bell-jar, your lip,
smashed into concrete, my lip.
bleeding, your lip,
quenching the tractable beast, my lip.
silence annuls, your lip
leaving the noise in me borderless, my lip,
wanting it more than
how dead trees desire autumn
light, your lip
left nocturnal, pulse dare drunkenly away, slovenly from the ground, my lip
i cannot have it
anymore.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC