"aporia" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Off that windy bay wharf,
where old poets speak to lost walkers,
you dove into aporia
Morality the highest myth
dreaming conquered by Capital
shelter replaced by property
the immaterial, theft by sophistry
a bay carved from jade,
crescent moon.
horizon cradling distant storms
waves upon waves accelerating towards the shore.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
When Jacques Derrida's Mother
Embraced the concept
Of 'wholly other'
She loosed her hold on life
In the past tense
And gave herself up to
The 'Metaphysics of Presence'.
How I love this new-found euphoria
Now there is no more aporia.
If only the world would grasp
The concept of deconstruction.
So she put down her knitting
Logged onto the internet
And signed up for a course on
Basic Moxibustion.
Such a great invention
This internet
But life is even better
Without unresolved tension.
Oh for a mother
To understand her son.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Impossible to say yes.
Impossible to say no,
or okay I admit.
Or even - why not forget.
Impossible to think, feel,
understand, negotiate or haggle.
Aporia is a philosophical term
few people know how to deal with.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
the first step to knowledge
is to know you know nothing
the second step to knowledge
is to follow the first
the third step to knowledge
is to keep on going
until you know your steps
go somewhere
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
Water white like ghosts falls
into glass. Upended,
sickly-thick liquid encircles –
a new, easy-access-brand elixir
for an old kind of contamination.
Burning more than should,
corroding boils and poxes
as it slides, falls, digs deep –
scoring chasms and lines
while falling – unanticipated –
a novel redress for an ancient affliction.
Internal temperature rising as fast as
awareness falling, composure sedate
but sentient, growing distantly fearful -
even though the snake oil accompanied
guarantee: “Whatever ails you.”
Wonder, I, if said whatever is said oil,
mentally transfixing that fast-falling cure
into a clever-cruel kind of contagion –
thoughts worsen as poison of aporia slips deep,
and hands-to-throat, digits dig deep –
archaic antidote; a brutal purge, and
mangled boils and liquefied pox
Explode
in a burning sea rising, aflame and
charring as experience-dictates-should,
while sickly-thick water-white ghosts escape,
screaming in exile –
face-to-floor, thoughts rod-grounded,
awareness – gone, snake oil - purged,
malady - sustained.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
Ruminating epoché,
‘I am…’ ‘Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay.
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay
Initiatives imperative consolidation,
Civilly disobedient in expedient disarray.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
Forecast in vague extrapolation,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating the linguistics of silent enclaves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
Probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
The Apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging Aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:24 AM UTC
Everything will be alright
These frightening thoughts won't live past tonight
You'll wake up in the morning and feel . . .
Whole again
So when you feel that noose getting tight
When the shadows obstruct your view of the light
Just lay down and go to sleep
And when you wake
Everything will be bright
This moment you're stuck in
Will not last forever
There will be a tomorrow
And it'll make you feel better
But there's a chance that it won't
The trick is to hope
If you go to bed knowing that you'll feel empty tomorrow
Then don't
You'll wake up in the morning and realize
That you have no friends
You'll wake up in the morning and think
That you have to start all over again
You'll wake up in the morning and wish
That you'd rather be dead
But still everything will be alright
You'll grow accustomed to this empty life
You'll wake up in the morning and feel . . .
That hole again
So when that fiend comes to trap you
And you struggle ensnared
And you scream out your soul to find somebody who cares
You'll hear your own echo come back
And realize that nobody's there
Nothing ever will be alright
You've ****** up real good
Permanently this time
Spend forever in the void to repent for this crime
But this time is an illusion
And this void is made up
I am cause I am
And that one thought is enough
Everything will be alright
Because everything is what you're made of
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
When you look, what is it that you see? I don't think you see what I do, yet you might try and tell me that it is so, but the way you read the signs is so blind to the splendor, the extravagance of what is there. I find no evidence you see what I see. Soon my luminous world grows dark as the shadows of yours seek to ground what should be in flight, make cynical of all potential light. Why must the world be cast into black and white when there is so much color?
You think it safe to bind yourself within the safety of your rules,
afraid to venture out,
step outside the here and now,
outside this room, this building, this city, this country.
Within this world erase the boundaries, erase the lines,
and realize what lives sure enough dies. That's what makes it so beautiful, aporia In attoraxic duress, we are merely consciousness, outside the blood and the flesh, outside the vessel. For the universe needed something, so now, I observe it, someone had to take notice. Thus, it was given to us to take it and shape it, make it the wonderful place in which we think we can only imagine. Imagine how if we tried to see the potential, the possibilities, released the hate, the anger, the cynicism. We limit ourselves but I don't want to feel the constraints anymore, I'm ready to be, I'm ready to exist, to flourish, to find beauty in simplicity, to imagine, to create, to wonder, to let go of the urge to know and to embrace the infinite possibilities.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
Ruminating epoché,
‘I am…’ ‘Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay.
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay
Initiatives imperative consolidation,
Civilly disobedient in expedient disarray.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
Forecast in vague extrapolation,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating the linguistics of silent enclaves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
Probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
The Apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
Misunderstood.
I asked,
Not for you.
A question that tore this apart,
An answer could have saved this heart.
I was decided against.
Why didn't I know what to ask?
Why didn't I know not to ask?
STUPIDITY.
In the world,
I am a dreamer,
Torn between what I was,
And what I will never be.
Being "nice" or "beautiful,"
But is beauty all that matters?
I don't feel it:
No beauty,
No intelligence,
No worth.
Wanted:
The only thing I can never be.
Later...
You took back a word.
You claimed you lied.
Which one?
Was it the promise or the answer?
Or is it a false apology?
Flawless my acting was,
Against everything I felt that day.
The pieces of my heart are small,
And it will never amount to enough.
Hopeless when a friendship turns bitter--
*--I shouldn't have asked.
I should have been more introverted.
I should not have relied on my instincts.*
The wind blows,
Teasing my hair
And drying my tears,
But all I think about is lost...
...Was your answer the lie?
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Different Place Different Time
Same script, Same lines
Lonely souls and one alone
Bound in Breadth, but not in depth
Similar in Vein but not in kind
but Similar enough in my mind
The math says I'm bound to find others
Others who resonate and hear my frequency
"It's a numbers game"
I tell myself-
Over and over until I go under.
There must be others
Erased by the system and from Existence;
the cracks multiply and leaks grow
until their tsunami is contained in teacup.
But what if outliers are still syncratic
Why do I leak aporia over and over again?
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025 at 4:40 PM UTC
Grey in Rainbow
Blood in capillaries
Gasp, oxygen
blood, turn blue.
Regular beat, relief
Racing car, Lightning McQueen
Anxiety, rush in Aorta
Dilute, soothe, disillusion.
Greek gods, medusa´s eye
Stone sculpture, eternal
Laid bare, ****
Draw me french.
Hands, save thy dignity
clutch the *****
oh my pearls
roll over eyeballs, curses.
Put a paper lantern
over your eyes.
Put your tinted glasses
rose coloured view.
Finger on the pulse
trigger, don't shoot
don't want 49 dead
progress, fear strikes back.
Hoot hoot
the clock strikes 2.02.
Rise up from your bed
you winged sucker.
Vampire, drink your fill
no limit but 6.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 greetings Charon
One coin to River Acheron.
Oink oink
little swine you are.
Pigman, hold your cleaver.
Pig blood, Carrie´s revenge.
****** red, sacrifice Jauhar
Euphrosyne´s joy, Euphoria
River Phlegethon, the path to Tartarus.
Cocytus, bathe me in Lethe.
Hypnos, spare me.
Himeros, May it be
Aporia, Limos, Hedone
Meet Curae, Nosoi, Algea.
Phobos, I am scared.
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
Apocalyptic opportunity operating on obversely open,
oblong abortion-addiction, analogous of an upturned
episodic aporia apprehensive about obtuseness-
an opportunity inimitable in essence,
its assiduous attribution apparently evident
as economic edifices advertised as assistance-appeals.
Obviously, opportunities as enriching are essential
on account of existential affirmation,
otherwise all's apoplexy, ethanol ornament,
an altered evocation understated and escalated
obliviously; absent absinth; am armor arrayed
especially as assured; aerial oogenesis;
asymptomatic aphasia; acts of elegant appetizing.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
"She returned, with aporia.
She kissed me, with satire.
She said goodbye, with antipaphers.
... She promised to stay, with prosopopeyas."
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
A forced, facsimiled smile
crept upon my weary face
to help construct the wall between us
although its design is in poor taste.
It’s as if mankind colluded
albeit leaving out few and far between
to create a solipsistic kingdom ruled by masks
while truth lay dormant in the unseen.
Should I shatter the aporia
That occludes our interaction
Or propitiate the insipid bond we share
to neither of our satisfaction?
**** I need some coffee.
- - - —— - - - —— - - -
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 2:04 AM UTC