"apparatuses" poems
An abstract of an academic paper written by a doctoral student: "In this semimanifesto, I approach how understandings of quantum physics and cyborgian bodies can (or always already do) ally with feminist anti-oppression practices long in use. The idea of the body (whether biological, social, or of work) is not stagnant, and new materialist feminisms help to recognize how multiple phenomena work together to behave in what can become legible at any given moment as a body. By utilizing the materiality of conceptions about connectivity often thought to be merely theoretical, by taking a critical look at the noncentralized and multiple movements of quantum physics, and by dehierarchizing the necessity of linear bodies through time, it becomes possible to reconfigure structures of value, longevity, and subjectivity in ways explicitly aligned with anti-oppression practices and identity politics. Combining intersectionality and quantum physics can provide for differing perspectives on organizing practices long used by marginalized people, for enabling apparatuses that allow for new possibilities of safer spaces, and for practices of accountability."--an abstract of a paper by doctoral student Whitney Stark
Atomic particles, how can it be so
that your purpose is not just to flow
in and out of existence, building reality--
the stars, cosmic gas and galaxies--
but to “ally” with groups of humans fighting “hierarchies”
and demanding “safe spaces”
(even though their entire race is
at the top of their planet’s food chain).
In this mysterious universe there is no safety,
accountability or identity,
only elements, and energy.
Brief combinations make life
legible for a nanosecond in cosmic time, and doomed to strife.
Biology does not know oppression,
only generation, reproduction,
until our growth chokes us and we fall
like so many of our ancestors, who lived and died
on this blue-green ball.
And one day the sun will explode and blow
even our atoms, which have endured (despite oppression),
and the particles will go far until maybe they sow
new life, in bodies unfamiliar, on planets unknown.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
Somehow
Stuck preaching from a throne of steel and
Spokes and wheels
Bound to machinery and cogs and breathwork apparatuses to assist in feeling chemicals fill your lungs You
showed me how to Walk
silent and
Listen
To the Woods
Trees
Two- and four-legged beasts of earth and Sky and
I
am made aware
In context of discrepancy and disconnect connect ed
How painfully
Truthfully and all-encompassing in harsh unforgiving reality
I
am
Dirt, and, soil, and peace, and, turmoil
Sep 22, 2023
Sep 22, 2023 at 7:52 PM UTC
all i've been able to think about lately
is a poem written by fingers on a keyboard
attached to a left hand not yet responsible
for being blistered with cigarette burns
or lifting can or shot or handle to lips
with which to stain -- barley, hops,
potatoes, rice, and alcoholic love.
and i've been thinking about how i felt
after i read a poem written the night
before by a left hand now singed
and swollen, and guilty of lifting
many such apparatuses bearing
many such inks to blot out
mistakes and scribble over
all the misjudged words
that have spilled from
lips stained with barley,
hops, potatoes, and rice.
and i've been thinking about
the content of that poem,
and about how differently
i thought of it two nights ago,
before i got my own matching
business card with a followup
appointment for next week,
and a matching warning
to allow 24 hours notice
before changing the day
or time of an appointment
in order to avoid being charged;
and with it came the opportunity
to write my own poem about it:
Christina M., LMFT,
Wed, 4-17-13 at 4:00 PM,
and it has a sacramento street
address with a phone number
i have no intention of calling.
and i've been thinking about
how i met with her today,
and what we spoke of,
how i told her about drugs,
and how i told her about drinking,
and how my grades have been slipping,
and how i realized that
my poem is his poem,
just eleven months too late.
and that's why i told her about
this party i went to this weekend,
and how i'm passive, and i have trouble
speaking up for myself when i need to,
and how we sang until i left the room,
and how i went outside in the cold
after i came back inside to notice
something i wasn't expecting
to make me sad, but did.
and this person with whom
i have another appointment next week,
and most likely the week after that,
for however many weeks it takes,
told me that it helps to tell a person
how you're feeling without
gluing strings to the information,
or getting upset, or lying,
and so i guess this is an attempt,
albeit one made out of cowardice
and impatience, and some desire
for there to be an easier way
to tell a boy i've loved him
ever since i found this stupid website,
filled with his stupid words,
and his stupid poem about
a stupid girl he used to date,
that clinically broke open
my amygdalae and upon them
tattooed every feeling
of which i was never sure.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Does nothing matter?
Is matter nothing but dancing shattered galaxies pushing and shoving each other?
And on Earth, is it worth thinking?
That I'm just a piece of eternal dirt thinking that I'm just a piece of dirt thinking?
We're all just stars, tasting humanity for an instant.
In all its fallacies, we're systems of suns that love ****** without resistance.
With the assistance of Christian values and armed pistols.
Harmful as ignorance is blissful, we're still missing the deal.
We're still ******* away the real position to feel. We're still wishing down the same ol' wishing wells
and hoping to Christ they're real.
Worse than guns, it's the waste of freedom -- It's unequal -- to **** the hungry from a distance is still evil.
I fly atomically and everything else is informal.
What's normal? Where's God when things get so awful?
He's epidermal - like an antigermal lotion. A magic potion to nurture the thought that we're important.
We're all just stars, answering a call to be Human.
Let the cold bars that hold the others down remain open till my life is dormant.
And our heads are still cluttered and cloth covered.
Filled with an age-old confusion straight from ol' Mohammed's cupboard.
They fool us with cooked messages from book passages that preach love.
Scare us into being apparatuses of a God above.
That's why society is shattered. It's what's wrong with the world.
The perennial infancy of thought that's forced unto our boys and girls.
Such unclarity, that's baked into our childrens' recipe. It's insanity to think that we don't just turn back into energy.
I'm not religiously inspired to forgive,
nor have the insidious desire to live to inspire religious permittance.
I prefer a future purpose undiscovered.
A death dimension still covered from religions' crazy buffer.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
As children we played pretend in the playground
I shot you
you're dead, you're supposed to fall down
back when we were kids
when *** heads were junkies
drunks a sloppy mess of ugly
and the only cigarettes we put in our mouths were candy
we used to ding **** ditch the entire neighborhood for ***** and giggles
and hangout just to talk
now we raise dabs of felony hash oil washed down with rubbing alcohol, cancer, and razor blades
the clocks melted before we could reset the hands
and all of the tools we need have been turned into resin covered smoking apparatuses anyway
walking city streets alone wasted in the witching hour
praying some crazed *** pulls a blade
so we can at least die in a fight
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
I always assumed
that you could determine the will of a writer
by the quantity of ink
remaining in his pen.
Yet, I have never fathomed
what makes him brilliant.
Is it his degree of education,
his inequivalent repertoire of vocabulary to the common man,
or just born gift bestowed by heaven?
Later, I came to the lucid realization
that brilliance is conceptualized
at the hand of the inner mechanics
and harmonious complexities
that portrait the writer's
heart, mind, and soul.
From which, shape his message
by the process he takes to arrange,
construct, and execute
his philosophies and mental apparatuses
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a writer.
-n.s.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
the anti-siren alarm song
collapses the dimensions of the oneiric realm,
fidgeting infinitesimally,
the tangled engine of acidic tubes
combusts last nights pepperoni bacon chorizo pizza
all of sparta trembles
stalagmites shake loose and dust the bedclothes,
cemented eye-lashes decalcify and split,
as two stumbling gargantuan steps
off the promontory of your bed
lead an unguided hand to the light-switch
the florescent hum gnaws at you
a singular parameter in the speaking mind's running mouth
“caffeinate me”
a hill, no, a mountain, no, a sheer abyss
'the stairs', a godly ascent
an ascent for winged creatures of light
creatures with legs for arms, zeppelin-like centipedes
legs whose construct are Dalían,
nightmarish vaulting apparatuses,
whose step is a bound and whose bound is a flight,
as if all of the thirteen foot-tall steps become cliffsides
and all of the cliffsides become interdimensional worm-holes
as the distance between two mustard seeds grows
and exceeds the circumference of the universal ellipse
we see our premonitions are of infinite potentiality.
resignedly, we take the first step
the next twelve follow succinctly.
we reach the ochre chamber of caffeine
only to be halted by a question
a sempiternal question,
a question of mythic, unverifiable stature
a plaguing question,
a question rooted
in our achey-breaky hearts and nigh-arthritic bones,
rooted in the seeping pathos
of our ritualized morning zombie-shuffle:
but it doesn't get asked today, we drink coffee
the world is right-side up again.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
This is my graduation class
and I have bunked quite a few of them.
terrifyingly I realize it has to be a long time
for I am frantically looking for the college
the home of my graduation class
and here I am groping to get my way back
asking people the way to my college!
Must be my long absence playing tricks on my memory
but that hardly makes sense.
At last I find out the iron gate
from there a narrow passage shows flight of stairs
but my class, which floor is my class?
doesn't strike me the hush
as I run up the steps
wasn't it the fourth floor?
and when I reach it gasp for breath
my graduation class looks unfamiliar
so is the head stooping under the table lamp
his specs almost falling from nose
intently gazing at something
from the maze of electrical apparatuses spread before him.
I don't recollect having ever a teacher like him
but today I don't trust my memories
too many things I have forgotten
must be the fallout of missing classes for too long
the man there in my graduation class
has to be my teacher!
He looks up as I start speaking
*I'm sorry sir, being ill I've missed some classes
but I'll manage to catch up.*
Then it happens
my bag swings in the air
pulled by an invisible force!
He smiles at my awed face
*don't bother, you know, it's so strong
the electromagnetic field of course
such nasty pulls they make*
in a flash a floodgate opens
my graduation class doesn't have a lab inside
my bag by now flying in the air is an office bag
I have no business in the college anymore
I had left my graduation class
over three decades ago!
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
I will stand by your bedside every day, broken
I tried to heal you, but my powers were lost
so I came home disappointed, and ****** off
all those tubes and breathing apparatuses, I feel so helpless
I ask the world not to think of me
for I am willing to sacrifice all for you
do not be taken away from what is left of us
me and my last blood brother will rise and die for you
The blood is still denied of the last
I am sure they want to **** us all
yet I am the only one trained in war
my younger, your elder will follow fast
This has been a nightmare
a bad dream I would love to wake up from
but this is no dream or fantasy
this is the real ****** world, and I hurt inside
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
no longer sheathed by the living skin of the land
ancients of the deep shriek in unholy abhorrence
as they make their rapturous ascent to the heavens,
seeking not salvation that they’ve forsaken,
but the evisceration of a former home.
it is malice not earthly tar that stains
bulging scleras and hissing pulses
placated only by wine tastes of sin.
these apparatuses remain ever silent
to eternally bask in the presence of Her.
Her who invokes the name of salvation.
Her, melichrous.
Her, scintillant.
composed of polished crystal embellishments
must have the creature once relinquished
the bipedal form to humanity in exchange
for spherical inconvenience.
renounced and disdained
by the possessors of illusory superiority
the mousy predecessors of righteousness
trod lightly through emotional labyrinths
only seeking to sate their vampiric empathy.
Her seeks this suffering of the corrupt
where the must be bound in crude scales
packed amongst their parasitical kin.
alexia unbound wreaks havoc in their stead
manifesting in serpentine coils which match
the tongue slithers out cryptic hymns.
Her must and will be subject to judgement,
durum hoc est sed ita lex scripta est.
and does this serpent mimic the rhythmic
folding to suit its needs as Her is bound
once more to the Mire
never to breach the heavenly dome
void of living skin wrappings.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
a river glows
feelings flow
happiness i guess
little is left after dragging myself through the night
keeping apparatuses near enough to not have to reach
she lost to pain
she came for more
she left for good
deepest waters trick swimmers
touching bottom
someday spilling out
or filling in
trickling drops
liquid quibble
how they come and go
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
wrong statuses or retired apparatuses
i am hunting for meaning in this lake of fire
your gardens of wonder are filled with beauty
but rust is the color of your tablecloth
i shudder to think that love comes so cheap
she is a breath of fresh air
and i am all hair, teeth, songs and fingernails
she is a fragrance in the dawn
a herd of horses thirteen strong
she is the trickle of a gentle spring
and i tread lightly upon nothing
yet this sunshine is doing its task sublimely
and i think the grief inside my heart
might slowly be melting in the heat
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
To argue your perspective in a concise and eloquent manner in court.
Those who lob false accusations must continue to lie and try to tear down the truth.
Yet, the beauty of trails of paper and properly kept records, when the evidence is not against, but in favor of you:
Why harbor the heavy conscience?
When the burden of proof is truly no weight for you,
For the innocent bare no responsibly to prove that they are such and feel nothing but indignant for facing trumped-up allegations.
Who would not feel anger?
Rather, those who bring forth the issue must beyond a reasonable doubt prove the accused's culpability and convince others of their guilt resolute.
Especially in those cases of collectives versus individuals,
As in cases brought against or by the many state & federal apparatuses around the globe,
Or as in the cases of employer versus labor.
In natures both competitive & cooperative,
Romantic & platonic;
By many chandeliers & candelabra
Do we each tend to different flames,
But the fires burn the same.
In innumerable different ways,
The things we say are indistinguishable
Even if they are misinterpreted or mistaken.
The things we say are often the same,
But either wrongly said or poorly received.
How much is simply the cause
Of grave miscommunication?
Feb 10, 2025
Feb 10, 2025 at 11:56 AM UTC
June was upon us once again,
Signaling the approaching low roar
Of vrooming vans coming to set up apparatuses
Designed solely to lift the cracks of
Dismembered and swollen youth,
Replacing the wear and tear with three days of lekker bliss.
I never missed a day.
On Friday, I saw the remnants of the monster’s mangled victim –
A patron of the Terminator was hurled high into the grapefruit sky,
The pink and orange hurl telling a tale
Of after-lunch airborne woe and chemistry.
Hell, man! – what did you eat? Gross.
Next day I was shipped out to Vietnam,
Where I saw brother consumer brother
In a wave of splashing paintballs
Whilst I pondered what to engrave on the tombstones.
Poor, artless souls –
Why not settle scores on the dartboard and win a teddy bear?
Fair’s final day dawned.
I rode, roamed and remembered
Above all else what matters most –
Rides come and go,
But carnival candy floss from foreign fields
Comes but once a year.
I smacked the beautifully basted schwarma first before picking season.
Oh, the joy!
Pink and white swabs turned into sweet acid
On my wet tongue which begged for more and more
Sugared garments
As I suddenly realised I needed new uniforms for next term.
Take me with you, cotton candy – I can’t stay here.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
The world is composed of things I will never understand
Disparate, uncolliding flows envelope me in nausea
Globalized apparatuses peaking in a way lost of me
What I hold
What I desire
Is a Frankenstein amalgam who’s purity was supplemented for progress long ago
Everyday we stray further from the light that birthed us
Entropy be my metronomic master
Lacerate my back always
Hedonism divert my will
The void of that allows only the whipping pangs in
You exist without pause
Process tells me I’m one with you
Diamond compressing isolation tells me no
Is all it says
No to all
Nothing exists but finer needlepoint disparity
Shirk false logic
False unity, emancipatory potential
All that’s known is mourning
Before your own funeral
Tear my soul
Again
Gaping wound laid open for the sun to pour inside
Hands to pour inside grasping deeper
Past guts
Pull the incision wider
As wide as you can, your ghoulish hands
What do you find?
Tell me there’s something!
You won’t tell me
Yet you look
You’ve left me
Wondering
I’ll lay mutilated
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:43 AM UTC