"antipathy" poems
gather and collect
and then offer your sympathy
feelings deflect our sorrow and antipathy
life is brimming with good deeds
i remain steadfast in all that i seek
sweet love is among us now
her eyes and hands
feed the mouths of two rivers
i chase winter into her bed
our eyelids lift as we drift south
and lots of people desperately
cling to their doubts like old lovers
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
One evening
after work
I began to walk
from the railway station
along the footpath
joining an acquaintance
on the way
to accompany and converse
amicably I thought
at first
but he became aloof
and hostile
ignoring my bonhomie
why
I had no idea
so crossed the road
estranged
shocked and ashamed.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
There’s a time and season for every reason
no cookie bakes itself
cherries don’t burst on their own
cherries don’t burst ************
a bottle doesn’t empty itself to full/fill
breaking clocks is a wonderful way to **** time
ironic glory hole of blood and glass
running out of test tubes, the ***** too tight
**** reason!
INVEST!
Admiration is the state furthest away from understanding
pawns don’t need details
******** with teeth make ******** meaningful
smashing the cow softens it, …digest it well
meaning is derived from screening STD g string
of a starry eyed ******** that drowns in a sea of ******
obtuse and absolute are the only submissions
failure to comprehend results in ***********
cuckolds worth….
IMPROVE!
Lexicon laxative
this antipathy won’t last
stimulate thinking with cankerous drinking
***** ***** need no season or reason
to drown ****** who never show
the tears of heaven that understood
misled admiration and adolescent aberration
that silently candle deplorable fornication
time stays unchanged
counting doesn’t prove progress in this game
falling short… half beat hesitation
ITERATE!
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
STOP CREEPING
(Road signs in Australia thus remind us to keep to the speed limit)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare: MacBeth, Act 5 Scene 5.
Creeping, seeping, peeping, sleeping,
What’s the common factor through these ‘eep’ words deeming?
Shakespeare calls them dusty and aligns them up with death.
Our world calls it shadow but it chokes you out of breath.
Churches cannot see them so they flout invisible.
Jesus calls them idols yet they sound so plausible.
Christians follow teachers in a roundabout way.
Teachers crave disciples which determines what they say.
But these are all poor players on a poorly structured stage.
Their stage gives way. They tumble. They rise up in a rage.
“Life has not been fair,” they say, and “Where is God in that?”
Did they ask Him in the first place? Did they call God up to chat?
The churches have no answers. Now where do I go from here?
Go right back to the Bible, Friend. The truth is written there.
Check it yourself. It’s relevant to eras far and near.
Like natural laws it cannot change with fashion year to year.
So do not mix the fashion in philosophies of life
With Truth that stands forever among raging seas of strife.
Counselling in modern terms can get you sympathy,
But will it give you backbone for the next antipathy?
Feminism needed to support the weaker staff,
But now of our humanity it rejects one whole half!
And money is too much an issue when it must be said
That what is not of love is valueless to Christ our Head.
Of all the thousands who are found in church each seventh day,
How many can indeed discern the right and faithful way?
How many put their lives on hold for truth and nothing less?
How many first set out their plan and build their faith round this?
Is there not one who will apply to God for his blueprint
So s/he can play the part of power for treasure in Heaven’s mint?
The Spirit of Truth cannot be found where ideas pull such weight.
He’s somewhere else you don’t suspect. Chase Him, and don’t be late!
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
I'll seek refuge in places that don't hold my name to be true, and even in emptiness I remain wrought through heavy handed tones of antipathy
Echoes of resolute desire plea with somber empathy, but remain indefinitely beyond the horizon of which I can not seek - and I shall remain waiting for something that has yet to come, for good it seems..
It rings barren any semblance of genuineness, the shadows I fall under; in plighted qualms, through quarreled teeth; without strength to hold my own, my very soul becomes the ground with which they walk
Desolation is the staunch friend from which I may not doubt will never be there in my time of need; and what I truly need, I fear, will never set foot upon my gaze
Like a sullen rose barred behind a glass wall, bereft of life giving nutrients and slowly wilting away one pedal at a time: I'll solemnly gaze upon the last glimmer of hope what was once profound and pure, now gripped with agony, and sin; decaying, alone, forever out of reach with only my eyes and heart to embrace it, yet never once again know what it may feel like to hold close with my own flesh
I am surrounded by an unspoken emptiness; an infinite abyss in every direction, except forward - and to each footstep I hear an echo of its past, one more inch beyond itself and gone before the last moments incur what hollow life is left within
Each passing moment brings me further to the edge of the unknown, this hope that's guided me for this long has burned like an eternal candle, now wisping what light is left to bear before me
One step more, and into the embracing darkness I will fall unto
The cries of war are beginning to recess; the battle has ceased, and I am still without a place to call home
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
I. (love)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
II. (poetry)
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
and clarity,
or
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.
III. (dreams)
(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
+/-
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Parsimony Antipathy or Prudent Hostility
Locked-up Cuspid Of the One Celled Organism
As the Augury tends to its Auspices oddities
One Weak Ordeal and your reward will be handsome
Ceteris paribus when Ockham’s blade gets dull
Get a loan from your Karma or come back as amoebae
Hearts won’t be practical until they’re unbreakable.
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Salivating tadpoles for Hegemony crickets
All imprisoned here with this repressionist peasant
By a singular stroke into Jove’s black booklet
Lucidly errant, who hasn’t been flippant?
Clever Arachne, my love, oh thou immodest spider
All I ever wanted, she picked a fine time to leave us
My days squandered eavesdropping Apocalypse riders
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
I stepped out,
finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul.
My leveled shoulders carried
an empty satchel of undone buckles
To let every fresh sip of raw experience
tumble inside,
my adventures impatiently plucked
from the closest branch
of a banyan tree bearing
a crisscross of endless tales.
I rescued my lungs with air,
thick with resentment while
swallowing astringent flavored symphonies
and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as
women deflated their lungs
blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles -
A forgotten kettle blowing off steam.
Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport.
Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound,
like a severing saw can cut through
the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs.
They have become obsolete traffic signals -
First, their green light diminishes - like their wages
Then, their red light is dimmed -
it stops too many people in their footsteps.
And thus the world just races past them,
And they are left only with yellow -
Telling them to slow down.
They said it was an act of love.
That their plumped crimson lips,
Glossily complimented with nails
that matched the tails,
of the so-called mile high club
was just too much to handle.
Priming for work meant neglecting their love
for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick,
No more sweet ketchup fingertips
Showing you the emergency exits. No more,
lipstick stained glasses
of a self made woman.
These cumulating lip kissed glasses
stack up like trophies,
that sway in the heavy panting
of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation.
So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra
and through lipstick stained whistles,
They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies
And with unrelenting strife,
they passed on some advide
stop shattering our liberties
And underminining our abilities for
Endless possibilities.
Because we are the ones
Who fly high and soar
And we will always
look fabulous
while doing it.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Had I ador'd the multitude, and thence
Got an antipathy to wit and sence,
And hug'd that fate, in hope the world would grant
'Twas good -- affection to be ignorant;
Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy seen
I had converted, or excuseless been:
For each birth of thy muse to after-times
Shall expatiate for all this age's crimes.
First shines the Armoret, twice crown'd by thee,
Once by they Love, next by Poetry;
Where thou the best of Unions dost dispence:
Truth cloth'd in wit, and Love in innocence.
So that the muddyest Lovers may learn here,
No fountains can be sweet that are not clear.
Then Juvenall reviv'd by thee declares
How flat man's Joys are, and how mean his cares;
And generously upbraids the world that they
Should such a value for their ruine pay.
But when thy sacred muse diverts her quill,
The Lantskip to design of Zion-Hill;32
As nothing else was worthy her or thee,
So we admire almost t'Idolatry.
What savage brest would not be rapt to find
Such Jewells insuch Cabinets enshrind'?
Thou (fill'd with joys too great to see or count)
Descend'st from thence like Moses from the Mount,
And with a candid, yet unquestioned aw,
Restorlst the Golden Age when Verse was Law.
Instructing us, thou so secur'st thy fame,
That nothing can distrub it but my name;
Nay I have hoped that standing so near thine
'Twill lose its drosse, and by degrees refine ...
"Live, till the disabused world consent
All truths of use, or strength, or ornament,
Are with such harmony by thee displaid,
As the whole world was first by number made
And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings
Learn there's no pleasure but in serious things.
2k
There are parts of me I've hidden
from long, long ago —
There are parts I have treasured
and let the world know.
There are parts I have shunned
what I didn't want to show,
And there are parts I've enlarged,
magnified in my dreams - my ego!
Some have danced on the pages of journals,
some I have lived out, so —
Those that don't serve, I've exiled
to antipathy's limbo.
Intellect will soldier on in the face
that only trauma knows —
But somehow, the playful one
charms and warms me aglow.
Remember, I urge,
there's more in me than I know!
Don't be frightened.
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 11:16 PM UTC
Your use of words
of late, I have noticed,
seize the cold light of day
snowball the pack ice
send a shudder down the spine
hail the dawn of an audible ice age
lest if only
One would listen
that loquacious nature
left to stew in the freezer
the embodiment of toxic wine
your preferred after taste;
the sediment of choice
demands a selective palate
we have bulldozed
The Garden of Eden
now only the Snake remains
offering the bitter-sweet apple
to those who oblige
pave the way for emotions
to argue their objections
a subjective nature
in acerbic tones
fierce and unwavering;
the adulation of the Other
A raised eyebrow
denotes a self-centred assuredness
that anyone else
with a deft hand for art or language
is clearly a copy of the blueprint
your ingenious creation;
such is the intellect you abide by
that of your own reckoning
Your argument
is the passing of an iceberg
perhaps fleeting
the early evening;
the disingenuous melt
of your carbon-cloaked temper
My riposte
will be your undoing
defeat by the warmth
of the passing Sun;
embrace that which you chase
see what you dont see
agree to disagree
is the sympathy
for your antipathy
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
Looking for an exit in life, perhaps other option that is rarely available. Time travel, utilitarian way to modify the past and the future.
Trapped in a matrix of flesh and bones controlled by my encephalon, it controls every part of my daily life, from breathing and blinking to helping myself memorize.
A feeling of antipathy in life that could never bring me happiness.
The inculpation for the misapprehension in my past relationship and future.
What does a man like me to do? How can one display their philia when they're not certain of that emotion?
My endurance in this life is on a perpetual edge. I perceive with attention toward happiness.
A deprivation I share with others. An absent of happiness.
A happiness of dominance; a switch that is only controlled.
Today he can be happy; switch ON. Next week he can be unhappy; switch OFF.
I walk on egg shells in this relationship and have to be careful that it won't break. I'm sad and lonely, this is what I get and deserve.
God nor I could change this, but I don't see it happening during my remaining life.
Stifles with silence deploying infantile plots. A day at a time I enunciate as my composer easily is un-maintain.
Hidden arcanum among a number of these unidentified entities lashes out at me discreetly.
Posing no threat I conceal the pass deep in the abyss in an unmarked grave sealing off the hippocampus that only the Creator can breach.
Unannounced the gravestone is turned my past is breached which I assumed that only the Beneficent can release.
Once an inhabitation, but no longer my domicile. Set aside and noted as a lost monument.
Ascendency barbarous with words of articulation fatal to ones self esteem, grossly spoken enslaved. An inclination to the predisposition of my life.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
My name is Rajabu Al Islam, an African Muslim
Born in Africa, Black Muslim not Arabic,
I am now in the solemn city of Mombasa,
Standing on the pinnacle of Tahir Sheikh Towers,
Looking at the land of Likoni and Motonkwe
Beyond the deep blue arm of Indian Ocean,
Behold the Muslim terrorists, lynch fierce terror
On the innocent human beings, in ramshackled church,
They are shooting women and young children,
The pastor at the dais, wielding the Bible,
Also succumbs to a bullet in his ***** capacity,
The church choir master has also dropped dead
And the rest of all humanity in the church
Have no where to take cover from terrorist,
As Moslem terrorist ********* bullets on them,
Poor humanity wail in the agony of death
From the injurious bullets, of AK 47,
Auma Otieno drops dead her son Osinya falling away,
Osinya is not dead, but a slug stuck in his skull,
In glorification of Al shabab the Islamic terror wing,
Baby osinya is young boy of six months,
Without selfish piety of Middle East in chest,
When you shoot him, is it n’t it super terrorism!
To shoot a child of six months in the head
In pursuit of your religious ecstasy?
Who said that Islam is the way of Godliness?
He was a beautiful cheat full of brawnish frivolities,
Islam is total darkness, as its overt organs are ;
Al gaeda, Al shabab and Boko Haram.
I hate Islam for its ***** reasonless ignorance
I hate it with my full passion and my entirety,
Indeed I am prepared to die in stern defense
Of my antipathy for Islam; a piety so uncouth
When I recall, the Twin towers of America,
West Gate of Kenya, American embassy in Kenya,
And the stubborn Boko Haram, that condemned human life
Foolishly in the north of Nigeria to be foul divinity.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Ambivalence sat in a corner staring off into space
as Antipathy tried so very hard to keep up with the pace
Cruelty crept up behind
to pinch them one by one
while Greed badgered them all
to be a part of the fun
Lust writhed upon its chair
and licked its lips upon a grin
Timidity cringed against the wall
bombarded by thoughts
of touching unholy sin
Narcissism saw no one else
while Awareness saw them all
When Love walked in
to join the group
the walls began to fall....
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 6:52 AM UTC
her provisions are entwined with fallacy
a crucial failure to her last words
a false division sits on my dependency
four words, in question, seal our fate
our days connect, encircled commonly
in a violent sequence
conspire to our demise
i'm fearing deceit
before you mutter your sweet nothings
the force behind your games at play
voice your indistinction
of what's just in your eyes
you've been suspect from hello
decide
what's merely cornered by $lust$
in the recesses of your mind
forge my signature
to pass as though you're someone
your fake emotion
will curiously encompass all your loves
under halos cover
you can strike
unbeknownst to unsuspecting fools
very few know you as i
could we safely assume it wouldn't take much
to catch you astray?
condemn your antipathy still a possibility
that you can shine your love for us
in this cold, deserted world
hoarding all your passion/possessions
for the truthful never paid you well
pain and suffering
all we'll know
and truth be told
we feigned love, too
seal your destiny with just one lie
and shower in the fire
cry, don't cry
still enchanted by your lies
but no more can i say i would die
for your cause in the battle field
when the tears we've shed
devour every sense of self we've built
in the final closing hour
we admit defeat in your degree
you have clouded our defenses
congratulations, babylon
you're a great *****
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
"Every survivor of ****** assault deserves to be heard, believed, and supported."
Rainwater of
the Elysian fields,
you assuredly do
like to drown your winged heroines?
You write them as strange
bitter narratives,
spurious to the calling
or as a bit of
bloodletting go.
The history formed around either
her breaking at the seams
upon the witching hour,
and her own home village
pillaging her claims
in the bonfire;
Or the arcane notion
no woman shall give testimony
against a neighbor
on the occasion he's a man.
Yes, she cried 'no' at the temple gate
Yes, she repeated such entreaties
But she'd also been into the ale
and wore an overtly
fetching carousal dress
you incensed.
Let her dam break
Let her try and flood us over
you mocked.
She was only a wayfaring angel
one reckless bird of passage
What type of wounds
could she inflict?
How easily you lost sight
of her will & halo
becoming stronger than fright.
Down she poured in antipathy,
until covering your gaping mouth!
It wasn't rain that killed you,
for you were the rain,
it was her blood calling out
that finally did you in...
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 8:09 PM UTC
Boy meets girl.
Girl marries boy.
Baby comes nine months later
— blessed little killjoy.
Boy neglects girl.
Girl henpecks boy.
There'll be hell to pay
for slighting Helen of Troy.
Such an elegant fear,
this alliance, and yet,
when it's held in selfish hands
it merrily dissolves,
turning as tedious
and drab as Shakespeare.
Boy annoys girl.
Girl leaves boy.
It takes a special kind of madness
in building to simply then destroy.
Turn the other cheek
and Judas will kiss that one too,
reduce the bairn's fever
by visiting daddy's igloo.
Weekends are pay toilets
and happy meals,
frustration is a word all too real.
When did antipathy begin to rule?
About the time diplomacy was forced
into playing the fool.
The good times no one catalogues,
this life has gone straight to the dogs.
The Iditarod Trail extends
from Seward to Nome.
Run the race and make believe
the kids are tucked in safe at home.
According to Dorothy
there's no place like it.
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 6:50 AM UTC
It seems that no matter what I do,
Nobody seems to see me through.
And yet I am still so far,
Far away from what I am trying to reach.
Fearing that I would lose everything,
Existing in my own eyes as not being worthy enough.
Can you not see that I hurt?
Too late for your sympathy...
I thought I had grown weak.
Over and over I couldn't see,
Never realizing what happened to me.
I am a stronger person now!
Never give up!
Always do it your way.
Forget what they think,
For they were only try to bring you down!
Everything that you worked for,
Came from your diligence and determination.
Time will tell you once said,
It's finally time to shine!
Only you can make a difference.
Never look back at the past.... It's history now <3
Thank you for reading my 2 sided story.
Inaffection -
A word I made up. The definition of inaffection is the opposite of affection.
Definition: A feeling of disliking or hatred.
Synonyms: aversion, hate, loathing, abhorrence, pet hate, bete noir, displeasure, disinclination, distaste, disgust, repugnance, antipathy, animosity
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
the presence
of futility
an enduring antipathy
or dimensions
of the unresolved
emotions
of past lines
of the traveled
senses are damaged
from short lived
over applied
civilized
series was foreseen
long after
the desolate
unveiled
a raw reconvene
noumenon narrow
absoluteness
destined at zero
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
Dear,
During our distressful dispersal,
Due to dismal dismissal on my defense,
Your dreary demeanour is decidedly
Distressful.
Earnestly,
I evince my emotions, expressing every
Effort to ebulliate my everything,
But ephemeral expulsion excommunicates me
Exceptionally.
Apathetic,
You arrive, always akin to antipathy,
Although any alacrity you attempt
Assiduously alleviates my alerting
Affliction.
Reconsider
This rejection, revile in my respect,
Rescinding no recompense for this respelendance.
Rejuvenate while I receive the rigour and
Reward,
Dear
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
History has dreamed of me
And as such in its’ imaginings
Feels the painful days and tragedy
Of my great lament
Scorching the jagged edges of the world
It is a history that possesses
A capricious and intense sensitivity
A receptivity to suggestions of the imaginary
It bestows instability to the great vital rhythms of my life
And the misty memories of that present,
That present past, provide a misery of mood
Fills my veins with an inconsistency of feelings
Creating an all engulfing anxiety
Of fear and contempt for myself
Where amidst this great disorder
I fear that all hope has fled
Vanquished toward a black and purple sky
This causes all the great human dilemmas
To take up unwelcome residence in my mind
Which is tortured by a pervasiveness of antagonism
Antipathy and disturbance
You see I can no more escape from these
Obsessing reflections in my consciousness
Than I can from my own reflection in a mirror
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Let’s make this our night.
Let’s kick our good habits
and grow our bad ones in neat
rows of dandelions
and ponder what marks
**** from flower.
Let's fill a jar with memories
and dash it against the ground
when it's full so we can play
with them once more.
Let’s empty our brains
like a register full of quarters
chase them along the pavement
and roll them into neat piles
to trade for pennies.
Let’s cut holes in our pockets
and fill them with time
until the last echo of
a tick splits our emptied skulls
and drains out the nothing.
Let's rob a jeweler
and give diamonds to the homeless.
Their babbles are endless
and they've earned something for that.
Let's ink our pens with the clouds
and write odes to the sea
where they meet and watch them turn
orange then red then purple then black
then dissipate with wind.
Let's read tea leaves and palms
like books written by wise
old men with wide smiles
and wider minds.
Let's blow out the city lights,
dance with the stars,
and apologize profusely
for stepping on their toes.
Let's wash our hands with acid
and leave empty fingerprints
on likewise glasses
staining breathless lovers'
heaving antipathy
Let's play to lose
and throw the pieces
about the floor when
our plan goes awry, smiling.
Let's slowdance to anachronisms
while the ether whispers
around and between us and through us,
until it settles in us.
Let's watch the clouds
from atop a sinking city
and marvel at how the water's
lovely this time of year.
Let's fall in love
and drown together
in whichever order
the universe decides.
Let's make this our night
It may be our last.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
Sometimes...
I cannot hear your thoughts
Your mind to me
Is like smooth jagged glass
Beneath a pool of liquid winter
A lake of crystallized silence.
It hurts.
Sometimes...
I cannot feel your emotions
Your face is like an empty mask
A hollow shell
Your eyes are depthless glass
Living ice.
I can feel your heartbeat
I can hear you breathe
Tears flow down my cheeks,
Freezing in your frigid warmth.
They sound like antipathy.
Sometimes...
We kiss
Mental screams against silence
Passion against nothingness
Motion against stillness
You don't lie
You don't speak
You do nothing at all.
There're no roses amongst the thorns.
Sometimes...
I hear you speak
Flowers blooming in winter
Blood burning through snow
Your voice is a sirenic thing
Filling me
Maddening me
Tearing my heart apart.
A captivating inferno.
A glacial wind.
A numbing kiss.
Your voice is poison.
I crave its touch.
Sometimes...
I wonder if you're a corpse
I wonder if you're hollow
I wonder if you forget to feel.
Your smile
Is an existential thing.
Your laugh
Is a detached melody.
Your stare
Is an empty dream.
Arctic indifference.
Words fading into the wind.
Sometimes...
I can only see you
An aloof statue
A pitiless observer.
Tears flow down my cheeks,
Freezing in your frigid warmth.
I no longer understand you
Perhaps,
I never did.
Flowers blooming in winter
Blood burning through snow
My devotion
To a narcissistic fascination
Your voice is a sirenic thing
There're no roses amongst the thorns.
It hurts.
I wish to **** you.
You don't lie
You don't speak
You do nothing at all.
Your face remains an empty mask
Mental screams against silence
Arctic indifference
Decayed insanity
Inert image upon darkened glass.
What do I do with all these feelings?
You will not die.
It hurts.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC