"aphorisms" poems
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
a series of notes, prose-poems
stories, bits of play & dialog
Aphorisms, epigrams, essays
Poems? Sure
13.2k
the scars that skies paint,
on my face are stains,
that i preserve to show my soul.
i am a sucker for strong ffelings,
that often weep and get back up,
to paint colorful billboards in slums.
eyes are just nomads, they only see
the flame that is burning but the flame that's gone
is stored in aphorisms that mother's read
to their children at night, hoping
god will save them, from all above and below.
i seem to find solace, in tying up my body, using words
as knives that tear apart organs piece by piece.
it is better to die in honour, than masked radioactivity,
consuming you, like water in an ocean, like glaciers that do not want to melt and yet are subdued.
how long can someone play hide and seek, how long can u seek
shelter in the reality that often hides it's counterpart.
are you trying to smell the rose, or sacrilege the thorns?
these days will only end, in disbalance, like the ticking diving and
crashing of all the times, where forever was a noun in dystopia.
just stop listening, and start absorbing, time has lost it's crown,
humans have lost their endeavour, and
the only way to be truly sane, is flowing ever eternally like
the shape of water, succulent in all forms.
we are not one but many, scars that will draw out roads for us
to follow, roads that will lead us to meaning to we caanot comprehend with the five senses.
nobody is ready, nobody ever was.
tell me, how do we mourn such a privilege, one we
cannot touch, or feel or sense,
because what lies withing is forbidden to all of us,
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 10:34 AM UTC
Uniform mass of individuals,
With aphorisms and symbols they wield,
Sharply turning the wheel of history,
With different structure, different calamity.
Five-headed Dragon that is on the rise,
Bringing about its rebirth and demise:
Wholesome transformation as its only cause,
Ameliorative without a pause.
Ideals with violence that it must shield,
Enacted throughout its hierarchy,
With loyalty as its greatest prize.
Grinding everything betwixt its jaws,
The thirst of Humanity that it must slake,
To effectuate the Perfect State.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
With the piquant poignancy of lurid allusion
I create a dynamically progressive matrix of collusion
Whose apex crux axis is beyond finite solution
And the endergonicaly adhesive pragmatics imbue a cohesively coercive illusion
For the inveterate hypotaxis of livid elusions
I portray a protensive conjunction of latent confusions
Whose effervescent effluence is vagile laconic effusions
And the sardonic impending preponderance conveys sabbat consortium delusions
From the endemic puissance of eclectic synectics
I derive a dialectically semantic sorcery of syntactics
Whose apothegm aphorisms are levity terse synaptics
And the lucidly collusive illuminism educes the aesthetics of geomancy's fatidic
Through the viable salience of kithe’s intrinsics
I exude a portentous pervasion acuity of linguistics
Whose apomixis anabolics are irrefragably felicitous orotund acoustics
And the aural auspice austerities infer axioms of manumission’s eidetics
By the hypercritical mitigations of anachronistic sociology
I purvey rampart ransack oblations of epistemology
Whose azure opulence articulations are futurity ostensive ontology
And the evolutional ontogeny metamorphisms incur a homogeny epiphany deontology
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
Experience is the artisan of wisdom
Time is the costliest therapist.
Adaptability is the highest virtue of evolution.
Truth abides in the seeker.
Greatness is the purposeful accumulation of the mundane.
Wisdom is a basket woven from the inane.
Discomfort is the seed of growth.
Science is the art of quantification.
Art is the science of unquantifiable expression.
Time is the rations of life.
Marry fear; courage and achievement are her offspring.
Misfortune is a chain to the fool, but a **** to the wise.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
dragons in my dreams
drag queens on my streets
where was I to hide?
falling
through toxic clouds
of atomic belched aphorisms
holding my nose ‘til my lungs
screamed primal screams
that nobody ever heard
with their ears stopped
like the rowers of Ulysses
while he listened to the
sirens
I heard them too, I heard them, I HEARD them
faintly,
like the whiffed spread of black buzzards’ wings before the ****
but the sirens have beards, those wily wenches
and smell of cat ****
naked enough to have me covet
what they are not
I want them, I need them
for I don’t know what bliss is
bliss, bliss, bliss
is that what I sought?
is that what sages taught?
when they had me kneel
and put a wreath upon my head
told me to chant, silently, inwardly
told me there was no shortage of truth
I heard them, cherished every word,
no matter how absurd
because I thought they could help me fly
but then I choked on the smoke
from their farted anointed flames
that filled the sky I was told was blue
it was not only me
to whom they lied
who would not fall prey to their fiery shafts?
but when I awoke, they were not there
and all that was left in the waking world
were the scabbed burns they left on my soul
the dying crownless queens
who roamed the oily streets
the stench in my flaring nostrils
and the bit in my teeth
no chariot to fly above those **** filled clouds
that would rain vain vapid truth on me
for the rest of my unholy days…
the rest of my unholy days
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
my mother was a **********
(the greatest honor
on the tree)
--
i always wondered why
"after shooting the sheriff"
he
DIDN'T
"shoot the deputy down"
--
fig-ments
and
fact-ments
a dollar a day laborer
poisoned rain
--
at the
"end of the day"
the day ends
busted children remain
in jail
eating popcorn
i learned that
from teevee
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 10:28 AM UTC
wish i knew you
way back then
but again then
you wouldn’t have
glanced at me once,
let alone twice
but them ole aphorisms
have their uses,
useful when dreaming
in colorful surrealisms
better later,
than not at all,
my sad eyed lady
of the highlands,
better for having
met you,
than not
at all...
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 7:33 AM UTC
love doesn't dash, it loiters
with repeated movements like music
and beautifully crude endearments
love doesn't dash, it lingers
with rhythms like dance
and boastfully rude aphorisms
so dally with me, my love
lollygag, lounge and in a while
we'll share breaths and mess about
Apr 19, 2023
Apr 19, 2023 at 9:31 PM UTC
my fingers, the same fingers
that played the guitar
I mean look at your fingers,
the same fingers you licked
after getting the sticky pale red juice
from a cherry popsicle on them
my fingers were dug into the tall grass
my mouth, the same mouth I kissed Amelia with,
the same mouth I ate hamburgers with,
was pressed against the ground so tight
mud was getting stuck in my teeth
and my ears, the same ears
that heard my first sounds
were filled with colored noise, with black noise
with screaming from people I thought I knew
and those mortar and AK 47 rounds that came as fast as hail stones
and then those same ears started ringing,
but ringing is not the right ******* word
because it doesn’t sound like school bells
or phones you are eager to answer
and I can’t describe what is sounds like
and anybody who does wasn’t really there
but it is easy to say 45 years later it was
like something you knew, but you didn’t know
whatever it is you knew, and contradictions
are imperatives and declaratives, not interrogatives
like the people of “the world” think they are
and people of the world are filled with interrogatives
and you are filled with answers
that won’t come to your tongue
because you are still spitting out the ****
from the rice paddies and the lies you needed
to keep you from sticking the barrel
in your own mouth, but they, those who weren’t there
wanted to believe even more than you
so they could still look at you without thinking
the blood on your hands, the blood coming from your lost limbs
the blood oozing into the mire in some script
the dead donor did not know--all that blood
could not be spilled in vain, though you knew it meant little
when you rinsed it from you boots,
or even when splattered in your face
the same face that smiled for the little gray square
in the year book eighteen months before
or maybe a million years ago
in the land of affluent aphorisms
and fingers on bra straps
rather than the rock and roll auto switch of your M-16
the fingers, the same fingers
that squeezed the trigger
and killed something inside you
while the rounds sliced the exploding stinking air
you were happy to silently breathe
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
benjamin franklin was created by benjamin franklin
one of his most ingenious inventions
you could never read all the books about him
when you finish one, two more have been written
i party in his colossal footsteps
thanks ben, for lending me all those volumes from your library
you invented bifocals, i see clearly
your stove warms my heart
i give away my **** too -- no patents for me either
let’s jam sometime on your glass armonica
i’m packing one of your divided soup bowls on my next ocean trip
i’m sick of losing my clam chowder to the waves
these terms you added to the lexicon:
"battery," "positive," "negative," "conductor," "discharge"
i’m positive i bought a battery the other day
you designed the first penny – only now an anachronism
no matter how many of those saved pennies have been earned
all those aphorisms, my god
i bet you mumble them in your sleep
you started the philosophical society, me the secret music society
you studied whirlwinds and gulf streams when sailing to london for a cup of coffee
you designed flippers, hung onto a kite for windsurfing
used the kite to summon lightning
invite me next time you blow up a thunder house with an ungrounded lightning rod
we’ll make pittsburgh tremble
and congrats on the grounded lightning rods
you saved millions of people and neutralized religion
it’s not the deadly finger of god, the vengeance of the lord
it’s just a buzz
lighting the streets at night comes in handy
though the night watchman concept has gotten a bit fascist
brokering the french alliance was stellar for our onion soup supply
but your suggestion that we unite these states
i’m not sure that one’s gonna stick
and thomas jefferson was a cockblocker
we declare independence from his scolding us for all our mademoiselles
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 5:12 AM UTC
Every thought you have ever had
Whether good or bad
Sprung from the recesses of your mind
A deliberating consciousness that is blind.
Every feeling you have ever felt
Was wound tightly with a deterministic belt
Every word you have ever written
Was written with a hand wearing a causal mitten.
Free-will is an illusion and always has been,
However, this is perhaps one elephant in the room
best left unseen.
Dualism is a false philosophy.
We are a causal system,
In a Universe governed by a causal piston.
Libertarian free will is a delusion.
However comforting it may feel to be free,
I had no other option that to write these words,
And be me.
“Man can do what he wills but he cannot will what he wills.”
― Arthur Schopenhauer, Essays and Aphorisms
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
"practice makes perfect "
does not apply to swimming in quicksand
---
---
the phrase "toughened by adversity"
shouldn't lead you to go get AIDS to prove yourself
-----
-----
"have faith"
doesn't mean you should call "love" your attraction to a boy who mistreats you constantly
-----
-----
"calling upon your inner self"
isn't simply stringing a few oxymorons together within a few rhymes in an obscure manner.....no matter how many people praise you for your "deep wisdom"
----
----
"live and let live"
is so easily abused it really needs no comment
------
------
"it takes one to know one"
is only true for true human beings
-----
-----
"have a nice day"
is only true on a nice day
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
i climbed mount olympus
i said
"hi dad!"
--
i sailed with jason on the argo
ya shoulda been there!
--
i sat naked on a bench in central park
a beautiful young woman comes up and............
.......
----
----
and......
........we rode with chiron across the river styx
right into hades
all of our friends were
waiting there for us
--
she sat naked on a bench in central park
the crowds gathered
strewing flowers!
--
abandoned children pretending to be
betrayed lovers betrayed by love
really really break the HEART
--
a country that has ever lynched people
because of skin color
isnt free
--
a country that has ever lynched people
because of skin color
will end up with people afraid to
question their leaders
--
a country that has ever lynched people
because of skin color
will probably allow their leaders
to foment a terrosist attack upon them
and blame someone else
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC
You are a goddess
bearing aphorisms,
winged words
descended
from angels
breath
birthed golden gilded,
individual
Springs ephemeral flowing
down verb filled
streams of
adjectives,
adjuncts to
towering majestic
pronouns most
naked
in their originality,
uttered
virginal,unstained
no matter their verse,
immortal,
feeling unrestrained.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
Answers for the bold,
Machination of desire and bone.
Twisting words with honest filth,
Answering by knowing.
Paled and withered words from mirrored faces.
Spite and curse upon your disregard.
Wraiths defying with sideshow horrors,
Corruption promised but always delayed.
With buttons of expected convenience,
You promise release.
Spit to your mucus.
Rage to your withered rulings.
Bladed aphorisms to your faced extremities.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
what's know as systematisation in philosophy, or philosophical prose as such, is an endeavour to hide maxims... that only surface more like concepts than applicable truths to the everyday keen eye eager to anticipate them as laden with believability... philosophical prose hides maxims, it weaves them tightly like a spider creating a cocoon of a trapped fly in the web that philosophical prose is... it doesn't create a style of aphoristic waterfalls that leave the eyes darting: a moment here, a moment there... the spider required 8 dimensions (8 eyes) to adapt a structure adequate for the haphazard flight of flies, twirling in mini-tornadoes - the spider-web is hardly a chance by-product, but only 8 eyes could have crafted its weaving... and as said prior, the aphoristic style of writing philosophy is worthwhile, i can't deny that, but it's so eye-distracting... it can only be achieved by a life filled where much life takes place, so in the case of la rochefoucauld in the court of louis xiii, his queen anne of austria, and the infamous cardinal richelieu... this outburst of maxims / observations / aphorisms is only effectively produced in such circumstances... other works of philosophy are born in recluse, maxims hidden in thickly bulging tightly-knit prose... they're effectively not as tremendous, piquant... it's the entirety of the composition that loves to hide them, and create yet more prose on the zenith they are produced for... they can hardly be spotted as easily as the sole extraction of maxims... but maxims akin to la rochefoucauld can be easily extracted, esp. if one is placed in situations were the crème de la crème mingle, one can easily defraud situations according to: vanity, self-love, friendship bargains, the passions, fortune, chance, jealousy, envy, virtue, moderation, wisdom, foolery, morality, immorality, a woman's coquetry v. her flirtations... all these things, all these proper summations of the surroundings could never allow philosophical prose for the sole purpose of hiding maxims... such environments are screaming maxims out, layered over by a distant asylum of anguish, adorned with jewels and refinements of fabric... but with skull sockets filled with two coal nuggets.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 1:27 PM UTC
I watch and stand
and let a passing
cloud
hit by moonlight
make a rimmed
spectacle
of a distant want.
I shift my weight
and blink;
recalling wordless
feelings before
I put into words
those useless
aphorisms.
It's the words,
with their wanton
un-mouthed ache,
that bleat silently
against the ear,
tangling those
as yet un-marked
and un-surveyed
desires,
whose syntax'
obliterating duster
transforms an
ancient passion
into a grammatical
smudge.
I blink again
and return
to my frosted gate.
Pausing, I catch
a reflection
of the nearly moon
breaking free from
the hiding clouds-
and for an instant
my feelings,
unwritten,
unspoken,
return.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
beauty (of a sort)
is skin deep
ugliness is of the HEART
--
once 2 people truly make love
it is absolutely impossible for them to stop
--
i played in a basketball game
where i made 100 baskets on 100 shots
all of them 3-pointers
we lost in overtime
so you probably didnt hear about it
it wasnt as much fun as sailing
with jason
on the argo
--
not everyone can be a great poet
(nor want to)
but everybody can
be great
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
On the crest of the wave I decided to sit down at my 14 year old escritoire
On the advent of spring I decided to
Fill up the moats in my backyard
The quill in between my fingers commemorating the fall of the mighty empires when I was actually rubbernecking the flowers I filled up the ditches with.
Two universes in my mind helpings shape intricate designs and the inkwell acts as a magnet attracting my soul to get lost within these paradoxes
If I walk towards the palaces the kings will ask me to extemporise tricks of which are on my finger tips
If I walk towards the patio I will fall into the area next to it and be buried beneath the flowers
Met with an accident 20 years ago when I was thinking of neologisms
when I was thinking of atypical aphorisms
when I was lost in between the metaphors.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
I often travel
it seems between the lines
Those indexes of verbatim
that correlate to the metaphors
those aphorisms of thought.
Here beside you
The residue of promise seeps
and double dips into the erosive state
and I comprehend a deeper impersonal you.
The soft lips
those eyes that glitter to the sparkle of life
ever held the patch of pain
that bore deep the emotional self
and destroyed the world.
Yet there too
where the darkness held the sway
You lay silent to the night
hushed in fearful dreams
That still contains that pit of sorrow.
When you look at me
I can envision it all
detect the corrosive run
that stems from the child within
harbours to the silence of your eyes
and speaks between and through
every word, sentence upon which you draw
and there I read you.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:03 PM UTC
"here" is real bad
let's go "there"
--
there is a lotta ****** 'round here
a lotta faux enemies
you aint no hero
soldier boy!
--
a....."democracy?"
a....."free press?"
GET OUTTA HERE WILLYA?
--
people who want love
without lovin
HATE
--
if yer s--t dont stink
you do
--
SANITIZED INSANITY
is the special domain
of politicians
whose s--t dont stink
--
why do all american movies stink?
because people accept becomin s--t
--
"every moment"....... is a TRUE MOVIE
watch them
ya dont need popcorn
--
each moment's TRUE MOVIE
contains the
"coming attractions"
for a 100 movies
aint it fun to anticipate!
--
every TRUE ANTICIPATION
is a mythological being
smiling
from mount olympus
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 1:27 PM UTC
With the piquant poignancy of lurid allusion
I create a dynamically progressive matrix of collusion
Whose apex crux axis is beyond finite solution
And the endergonicaly adhesive pragmatics imbue a cohesively coercive illusion
For the inveterate hypotaxis of livid elusions
I portray a protensive conjunction of latent confusions
Whose effervescent effluence is vagile laconic effusions
And the sardonic impending preponderance conveys sabbat consortium delusions
From the endemic puissance of eclectic synectics
I derive a dialectically semantic sorcery of syntactics
Whose apothegm aphorisms are levity terse synaptics
And the lucidly collusive illuminism educes the aesthetics of geomancy's fatidic
Through the viable salience of kithe’s intrinsics
I exude a portentous pervasion acuity of linguistics
Whose apomixis anabolics are irrefragably felicitous orotund acoustics
And the aural auspice austerities infer axioms of manumission’s eidetics
By the hypercritical mitigations of anachronistic sociology
I purvey rampart ransack oblations of epistemology
Whose azure opulence articulations are futurity ostensive ontology
And the evolutional ontogeny metamorphisms incur a homogeny epiphany deontology
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 11:37 PM UTC