"artefact" poems
/ beelzebub
*(given employs the spider a posteriori
and spiderweb a priori, and then back
into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy -
the id est contra the id erat -
but there is no latin revival -
given that the latin encoding has been
translated into a.i. algorithms...
forget putting the pandora
into a box into a box into a box,
into an etc. or what is a russian
cultural artefact... forget it...
a black fly would not take upon
itself to make a dustbin, a *******
maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly
might... black flies have character,
style...
they're the ones that take
to tango, with spider architecture,
akin to the theological spider analogy
about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*:
a bit like watching
a black fly - "washing" itself -
rubbing it's front limbs
together, "attempting"
to start a fire...
god, those awful
green bottle hypers -
with maggot excesses -
in a potential well
expressed into practice -
black flies?
i can entertain them -
like i might entertain spiders
that do not require aquariums -
the non-exotica types...
so i sometimes find myself
rubbing my hands together,
like a catholic amounting
to an altruistic prayer symbolism...
so kommen faust,
so kommen faust,
so ist pseudo-faust -
or rather:
england?
deutschland jr.
america?
deutschland sr.
and if that wasn't the case?
oh me, little old slavic
babuшka...
i still can't explain rubbing
my hands together,
like a black fly might...
keeping standards of where
to take a maggoty dump's
worth of procreation value...
black flies?
compared to the others?
the priests of the whole
spectrum...
i sometimes wish they were
red,
so i could call them: the cardinals...
alas...
not to be, god said otherwise...
but i can fathom the priesthood,
like i can fathom -
an aspiration of a sleeping
samurai, devoid of the zodiac
delusion,
encouraged to make
chiromancy initiatives
(readings) to alleviate,
******** monotheism.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
i'm living on a solitary prayer
vandalized my ego to make it rare
with teeth stained with lies i've told
and promises lost in the cold
i tussle and taser to hide my lovers
and all that i am - a mess or tastemaker
sprinkling tersely on my mercy seat
will make my season go complete?
i pull the labrys & the throttle
artefact-sprites in uranium soil
declaring my truth atop of the flagpole
i'm the custodian of haute culture
a flotilla of judgment riding skyhigh
like dido's love-lachrymose down demise
they say "better rethink your useless vendetta"
but first we'd better get out of their siberia
where the masses doubt the angry fix
"ignore the (g/h)aze above the pyramid
if we only couldn't have any more
locked in dominican ****** wards
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
/ *oh no no no... you don't get a jew artefact at this point, when the play of words comes between the son and the mother... no no no... you're target; she should be a **** a stripper, a ***** but when you do what this, "englishman" did? undermining the concept of personal property? ownership? his property infringes on your property, and somehow: my, yours, our's doesn't compute... i'm ******* craving to **** my neighbour... because all i have left to lose is... frothing at the mouth.*
at a supermarket:
within the confines
of a cashier:
- 'is this your typical
friday night?'
say it plain, chubby...
**** it: more cushion
for the pushin'...
sunglasses at 6am?
a reply:
- 'it could be'
- 'if you were part of it'
- 'what?'
i'd love to fiddle with excesses
of porky...
migrant crisis?
more like a ***** cricis...
import black ****
given the white boy lay low...
it's not even funny,
i find it funny attempting
to whistle...
which i can't,
given that i found laughter...
just don't come between me
and mt "neighbour":
cos i'll **** the ******* ****
and "he's" watching me?
sorry:
i'll **** the ******* ****
fuck-face-tard!
no, i will;
i can't conceive retaining
the anglophone aspect of comedy
within the confines
of the monologue,
with a cabaret....
i'll **** him...
next time we exfoliates
speaking to my mother,
and not... looking
into my eyes...
"englishman": spew!
you! now! clean up this
***********
******* english!
like you bred a people,
gesticulating with
a hand gesture...
new yankies...
britain: home,
of the the wankies.
p.s.
no... private property contra
private property
within this ****** vogue...
i seriouslly will throw
a **** into his garden,
and say...
not enough fox hunting,
d'uh!
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:18 AM UTC
The sea cast a gift ashore
one stormy sullen day
and the barren rocky coast
was suddenly recast
as a natural history museum.
A whale.
A real whale, just lying there
shining on the shale
In another time,
we'd have known how to react.
This astonishing bounty
would have been quickly stripped
Bones for building
baleen for support
blubber and oil for fuel.
But now it lay
surrounded by detritus
made of better stuff.
The truth was,
we didn't really need it,
couldn't really use it,
like being presented with
Casablanca on VHS.
A sign appeared:
"Quad bike rides, £2",
red paint on rainsoaked cardboard.
I wasn't tempted.
Children poked it with sticks
in a desultory way,
stricken, intrigued, ashamed,
and utterly dwarfed.
The weeks passed
as we coughed in embarrassment
not knowing what to do,
until finally
someone brought a digger down
and discretely buried the beast.
By now, it will be a perfect skeleton
a prehistoric wonder
an artefact from unjaded days
when nature could still astonish,
trampled by unknowing tourists
as they dream of sunnier beaches.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
Yong Marx, yet to die, jumped
out of an air-conditioned car, a
journey Berlin to Bombay as the
Dream merchant of Utopia
metamorphosed him into a subhuman
white bearded national bourgeoisie.
The third world girl who was climbing a
tree without Motorcycle-
Diaries hung to her clothe looked
like an Engelian mistake possibly
not from Cuba, Zambia or Bolivia,
certainly not a Soviet artefact.
Alienation, self-affirmation and all
unlike modes of production confused
his surplus brain. The dichotomy
of imaginings and reality with the
girl proven anti-thesis kafkaesqued
him an added ****** struggle.
A shift in his struggle with a smile
on her lips gave a hint of welcome to her
Animal Farm. He did get inside.
The moulded furniture, preoccupied sickle
and the lacking exploitation
left him a disappointing proletariat grin.
She opened her mouth, blue words
did not discharge. Neither the mid wife
nor the revolution pumped her conscience.
He got up, disappointed, alarmed,
cursed the chap who misdirected
to a class-less renewed pattern.
“Comrade” she said shaking his hands,
the blood did stir for a moment but
the fight less slant , **** suits and
her distant reality pained the rationalist.
The amusingly alienated young Marx
jumped into his car and left for utopia.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
They were shattered pieces of glass,
In a jar I had kept away,
I thought I'd use them,
To create an artefact some day,
You found the jar in my closet,
I told you with this jar don't play,
You said you could make something beautiful,
With my shattered glass and your clay,
Then you made a masterpiece,
Your art had a metamorphic way
And although you broke your own creation,
Thank you, is all I could say
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
i'm bored of love, and bored of loving you, equating it all with cats and Carthage... whatever... something meowed something stressed a sound requiring a human artefact; yawn.
a six pack never made a difference
anyway, tiresome Ibiza
either; so fatty ooh ooh
and the required hash tag
worth of Soho,
so the **** fits a king-sized bed
puff-up of cushions.
well, let's face it, a completely detached,
Sri Lanka
Orff Corfu, twang twang Haiti!
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
Sands of time
tinkling through an obscure artefact
the light in you as you recognise your own.
Why and how are long-trodden tracks, forgotten
as my mind unfurls with a fresh green vine
whence before the stubborn old clung dry, and crisp,
those bitter octogenarians of perception.
R&M;, those sweet surprises
winking from behind a hidden door
were small shards in the bright crystal of our day
that felt woven only for us.
You trailed your fingers in the lukewarm water
And across my neck, both, at every opportunity
the warmth of the day
to turn to burning heat of us as light and inhibition fell.
'.....a thousand kisses deep', you read
And those you gave enthralled me
Cruel-clever Fate, to plant us as seeds apart
that sad, never understood genus or cure
to find now the curlicues of tendrils touch
And all to make pure, beautiful, joyful sense
our flashpoint clear in its providence.
How clear and fine, luminous, perfect
your touch and kindness and intellect drew
these feelings from myself, not forgotten
but rather, felt in that day anew.
an older......deeper.....creature are you
curled in dark and bookshelves and things unmachinated
You're art, and never be apologetic
your sorrows, twisted mad moments and lust
sift through you to paper, golden dust
and I find you entrancing
in no hesitation
still, I find I've one eye on the snare.
A red orb signalled our day into night
red wine and red running beneath my skin
I see you so clearly my dear, in mind's eye
and know the feel of your hair in my hands
and your elegance contrasts with slyness and salt
and the glint in your eye with its knowing purport.
Forgive me, I cannot relay
all I felt
forgive me, I cannot I know, more I can give?
but know, incandescence you drew from me surely
for you, kindred soul, have reminded me- live.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
innocent blue
it’s not the truth
it’s just the story I tell to you
say, gone now
all the old times forgotten
we flicker away in bliss
roll the dice
select this, forget then
never let it go then
I was just bored
watching the night
I had it all, I had it all
I need it now
covered in fade, taken from me
rolled up and stored
artefact of old
I want so much to hold
I become small again
I begin to hear too much again
see too large
speak too thin again
now it sits by
in pieces renewed
pretty and gold
hope that you find it
hope that I too
could find it for you
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 11:18 AM UTC
i’m not here to pay my taxes
blah!
octopi strings attached into thinking
i’d down a bottle of *** without the hawaiian angels!
to hell with you!!!
she’s
the last cause i have of me,
but it’s
the one that makes billions accounted for
in history, dead numbering 70,000
by only one historian's care for facts, that's
when history is dyslexic with numbers instead of words,
it says: solomon's appetite, the reverse onomatopoeia
recorded of hum? mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... *******
waves of virginia ah wooooooo!
*um um dumb d’uh 9 oh 6, 5 ah ah index pinky 1 2 3... ******* retards... throw that alsatian off the red brick wall to learn a few mannerisms of broken feet! i’ve had enough! pickle those foetuses in brine for emperor peter the great to intercede! i’ve had enough of the philistine peasants! i’m going coo coo in the artefact of the rolling composers loosing it in the muzak spectacle of the st. petersburg fountain; give me davy jones’ eternity on loop without insect ***** or interactant activity of the interpreted state of affairs, for the dictator to civilise his “insects” and reel in a misery that could never be a puppeteer’s excess shadow of string with the shadows wholly formed into balance of a hand picking up a stone excusing any excess of cobweb to interfere.*
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
placement
position the artefact
location, love and broken back
tear open
sanitise the heart attack
this was where we used to build
this is where the blood was spilled
arraignment
(all) time and space
now lost to black
spoken
sanitise the heart attack
this was where i lost my pills
this is where i almost killed
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Dust specks-settle,
cosying up to the ribbon bound notebooks
bearing your initials.
Burying this artefact,
flawed, fractured there will be no map
to guide you back to this mirth, no breadcrumbs to drop on the earth.
It will be no more than a prologue, a seam unwoven to grab momentary attention
until I sweep all away with steel grip on an exuding artery.
Is Hubris not a deadly sin?
As it lays in tatters at my feet.,
Foolish, foolhardy to have believed that all was a world of Thornfield or Pemberley
more apt is naeive.
The disparate views,that were sent by you undermined by certainty,unhinged the very bolts and nuts that held my infastructure.
Transfixed. Transfigured. Transformed into this 'new'.
Alas the day, arrives anyway the lark sings a merry tune and it thunderstorms, drops leaves life leaves the dew.
To be candid, I pocess within me one last spark it splutters and at times can ignite, for teaching me an invaluble truth.
Unrequited love, This partisan
bear with caution- leaves a scar- a victim.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
some secrets up the clouds
some gatherings that gleam
lie, artefact
chipped a statue
moving
like the watery movement of a sea
a thousand thoughts
furl unfurl
coral tunes
fish word, hues
as the curtain thins
thins
satin sky
silver sun
swift the whistlings
of drunken clumsies
and stout their wings
with merry and night
gentle
on stone body
that moves
watery
Apr 15, 2022
Apr 15, 2022 at 9:00 PM UTC
In the artefact of Dreamland, resurrected wooden rides
hope for countless bookings,
though the drunks
still come to the Mechanical Elephant
for their morning well-being.
Buyer beware
cameras with broken meters are displayed
from the last camera shop
We are witnessing the flaming of the sands
that still remembers Mods and Rockers
with a montage of photographs at the train station's entrance
including two girls
tearing each others hair out,
ominously welcomes the expected arrivals
from the four corners of the social,
making this as exciting
as a holiday weekend in Hither Green
without the sea.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
Alabaster hands
I paint like I know you
but I am afraid
I paint like I know
the hours of holy songs he sang
when chip by chip
he broke his David
out of stone
but I mumble with a brush
polluted a tomb
with thievery and doubt
if I return to you
I will do so stollen
rolled up in bay and --
my Florence! I couldn't see you
I was lost
I could not be him
he unleashed, I hold
and now you wear his hands
like a beloved scar
and then you haunt my sleep
with your eyes of old
I am sessile, sterile - I doubt.
I cannot speak.
stone carved inadequate, for
I do not know hands
the venules and the etchings.
I could not learn
fiddling like a cricket
in the arms of leaf
I see him leap through ages
to come and observe
I am an artefact flaw
and him the sound perfectionist
he inspects fingers
as they stumble in paint
ever-looming, giant, bearded
with a broken nose
you, Florence! He steals
movement, instill it, gifts it
you wear it, then you watch me
with museum eyes
Good love,
I am no David
do not ask that of me, I may weep
stone in my hand
I sling stutter over my shoulder
and watch the forever tyrant grow
Dec 17, 2022
Dec 17, 2022 at 3:34 PM UTC
drinks like this cold numb the fingers; many a times i leave the house
wishing for a poem like this one, culprit terse
and all me in the night on the greenbelt fearless
concerning death without seeking the sky;
i mean i love terse poems like these
with caterpillar sludge of the path
erected to teach mathematics like so:
god give me the shrubbery above
and nothing but worm below...
i want to be the imaginary blur of antagonism
where life dictates all life with me
being the continued tear jerker jack to abide
by bullying; no!
i want to etch twilights in
the hallucinations of the night,
dwarfing then expanding
the nightly roulette of routes
flamboyant with the shadow sharpening lost:
first the fox eager to tell the route as scout,
then i hooded with beer in hand
not asking for directions asking for the dry wooing
of his call.
there i stood in a field in a foreign land
and watched east darker than the west with the lighthouse
rotondo - i prefer to roundabout i have me say;
then sat on a pile of stone worth the blair witch project
with cinematic heart attacks, and sipped a quiet breath
to include carbon monoxide and the scenery of the blinking stiletto erections
for the trail of tailing off elephants into the night;
sooner the drunkard but sooner the pacific boa around the neck
or the black sea boa and the man drowning;
gays' gauge foremost loss of the piston in woman's favour
to trip up **** in hetero pleasures asking direction from athens to tripoli.
i was there, hoodless and armed with bare skin tattoos
invisible but seen by polaroid goosebumps exposing,
there, waiting to etch the bubbling
freshness of a secondary twitch into flex but not circumflex of prayer
or movement without motive other than prayer and abiding
by ***** and priest talk.
i took to the soil, i took to the grain,
i took to the tomb, i took to the skeletal vain!
i took to the soil, i took to the grain,
i took to the tomb, i took to the ceremony of
perfumed parting with a sneeze to make death laugh.
and by god i laughed, mortally into the eternal!
i bulged all life into the marrow
and called it an artefact to be worth a **** instead of a whistle
on that bony flute, with my breath believably less
accommodating turning the haemoglobin dolphin
into a champagne siren.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
'So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’
- William Shakespeare
Could you be my best for last?
It’s the want that can ache.
Afraid. Content nonetheless,
A golden cage self-made.
Save me and take me
Gollum of my youth.
Haven’t a clue
Where I’m going,
But I’m sure I came with you.
Transmuted from your touch.
This is a climactic heap
Whatever this is –
Offering affairs and wares.
Beautiful stilted tomb,
Cradle my stone bedside,
Accompany the whistling tune.
Tracing every spindling crack
Admiring it like an artefact,
Leave me,
Like a child at a museum
Getting lost and losing track,
Tracking back
Mused, amazed,
Wonderment haze.
Damp shadows cast their way with us
Never to be dust.
Forlorn loss of clarity,
Walls waxed with tears and
forged with alchemy,
Our very own reality.
Eyes flicker in perpetuum,
In love with what surrounds me.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
poem
Forgotten heart attacks sleeping by the back door Mercury in retrograde channeling spiritual warfare crooked teeth pealing wax work set in sixes off of tables and chairs
***** hands casting crystal corners in my head yesterdays tea poured over the infinite misunderstanding divinity thickening the air that's already wrapped tightly around the time that steals so much space in my bed heavy eyelids slipping into controlled chaos sighing out larkspur symphonies dead men don't sell secrets they hand them out for free.
comment
i know you're pursuing a dead-end take on punctuation, and that's much worth the acknowledgement, but i can be a puritan sometimes, i too transcend the distributing norms while equipping them... but i only think of catching a breath... i can spot the obvious avoidance usage of punctuation when i can; but to me the fact that it's hidden is like a sobering artefact of modern critique of art, i.e. that your avoidance of punctuation would spell out a need to keep the poem fragrant's worth of a crossword puzzle...and that much is needed when reading poetry...poetry has to be a lessened musicology, and has to become an encrusted form of puzzle... otherwise it will not survive. thank you for considering this revisionist approach.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
I don't think I've ever witnessed horror to this extent
Body parts are flying like shooting stars and it looks like people are wishing on them
Relaxing with family members watching the bombs rain down
as screams perforate the sky like the rip of paper
My dreams of a beautiful future have been ruined, not beautifully, not like some artefact I will later go photograph
This is horror
This is hope, hope in the leaders of the world, hope in the humanity of humanity,
destroyed
I will never look at myself the same
Or my friends
or my family
As we sit back watching human beings having their skin peeled off of them
There's nothing we can do
No petition will strike the hearts of the US Senate
Our ancestors made a mistake giving them so much power
Forcing people to change their loyalties in front of the world
As a child I read 1984 and laughed at what Orwell thought the world would become
I have since realised that reality is worse
This is not a downward spiral
No one has become nauseous enough to realise what is going on
This is a voluntary jump, a suicide mission we have set out for ourselves without knowing it
There are people in Palestine who have nowhere to run
I don't even know what that feels like
To have nowhere to go for shelter
To look death in the face and scream
or sigh
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
undisturbed artefact
buried in the past
*as small as a button
falling from a coat*
landing flat, undisturbed.
*the smile of your ghost
makes me smile, sometimes sad.*
undisturbed artefact
*we spun like a spinning top
spiralling, twisting
no control, no turning back*
undisturbed artefact,
let love lost lie, undisturbed
beneath warm sands,
let waters rage
but let the sun stay singing
let the sun never stop singing
for love that stayed behind
as lovers seldom stay in that,
an undisturbed artefact.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
In the light, I hid you.
Any artefact that remotely reminded me of you,
I bundled up and tucked away in the cobwebbed back corner of the wardrobe.
I hid you in the far recesses of my mind.
But in the dark, you burst free.
Breaking your confines, you seep through my subconscious.
Every night you visit me in my dreams
And we are together again.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC