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"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.
0
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘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.
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47
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.
0
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
Don't talk about Politics
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
0
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Deeply Drunk
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
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87
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.
0
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Jacques Derrida's Mother
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.
0
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
Impossible
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
0
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
aporia (tabula rasa)
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.
0
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
Christmas Snakeoil
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.
0
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:24 AM UTC
Linguistic Illusions to Probable Solutions
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
0
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
Aporia
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.
0
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
Appended Streams
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.
0
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
Advanced Aporia
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?
0
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Aporia
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?
0
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025 at 4:40 PM UTC
Drink of Aporia (Bones of Ghosts pt 1)
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.
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Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
Blood of the Rainbow
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.
0
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
Alfaaz, 16
"She returned, with aporia. She kissed me, with satire. She said goodbye, with antipaphers. ... She promised to stay, with prosopopeyas."
0
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
I believed in You
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. - - - —— - - - —— - - -
0
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 2:04 AM UTC
A step into the coffee shop