"articulations" poems
I love old school motorbikes and their purring sound as they emit fragrances which trigger animosity and innocence.
It’s a total eclipse of the heart, don’t you think?
******** Lunatics, Undesirables and Eccentrics. That is the essential nature of angelic blue.
Forget those polished ambassadors of what is deemed to be contemporary.
Chop it up, Chewbacca, whilst spanners are thrown with obscene articulations.
It has been said that my father violently placed a bike in the canal.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 11:51 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
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
What are words, but mere images of time,
Leafy similes that tend to rhyme,
Melodies that fade away to memories,
Written abstractions, proof of obscurities?
What are words, except strange tries,
To express emotions made of ice,
Mere tribulations, left unjustified,
Vague articulations that tend to die?
What are words, when I cannot find,
Adjectives, verbs, nouns, and signs,
That reaches the innermost, essential soul,
Of my deepest feelings, our very goal?
What are words, that leave you speechless,
Stunning languages, sounds, scribbled messes,
Answers of diction, silly confabulations,
Stirring tools, to test descriptions?
What are words, which reach the limit,
Text, talk, vibrations that fit,
The pieces missing, the definition,
Lingering in every other exhibition?
What are words, what are morphemes,
Speeches, utterances, lengths of keys,
To the secret reassurance humans need,
Sensations of steady expressions in a mind?
What are words, boundaries of lines,
Vowels, consonants, verbal binds,
A stem, a phoneme, a lexeme, a note,
On which we all deliberately wrote?
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
Legions of wrinkled spirits nestle in the desolate branches of the ancient oak tree in winter solstice, whilst advancement is celebrated with ritualistic conformity.
How many crimes need to be committed, my delinquent colleague of egocentrism?
Our ****** expressions often betray our convincing articulations, as the lack of authenticity lurks between us like a perpetrator who has escaped from his maximum security cell.
Such phenomenon may vanish. However, there are others which maintain physical matter.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Jaundiced minds
In Red, dim lit rooms
Speak of the burning rain
With barbarous
Atavistic articulations
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
Is what we perceive truly subject to the constraints of our linguistic and conceptual phenomena?
Our ******* assertions are provocative, as they proudly stand and penetrate the depths of prevalent and superficial exaltations.
We perch upon the thin branch of various tenses in the plight of our eclectic articulations, whilst the irregularity of the shape does not hold significance.
Our cognitive representations of reproductive and anatomical semantics are like gothic architecture, where flamboyant and erogenous zones of liberation succumb to transcendental towers of majestic hauntings.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
Aristotle’s arrhythmic articulations
Appeared too apologetic for Aphrodite's amusements
Aroused by antisocial media’s alacritous abundance
Amidst arteriosclerosis and amphibiously obeisant Ophiuchus
Asclepius' ascendance was almost an abortion
Arrested by Apollo’s amorous attempts at aphrodisia
Ambidextrous Artemis’ androgynous appointments
Awakened ancient antipathies accentuating allopathic artifacts
Altercations arose among ambitious acolytes and Athena’s anorexic acidoses
Awkward Adonis actively agonized by alarming aneurysms
Allowed Antigone’s ambivalent armistice an aperture of acceptance
Appointing an ambiguously appealing additive to the Argonauts
An anaerobic Acropolis arose amidst ********** asphyxiations
As Amazonian armpit hair advocates approved artificial insemination
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
Reading a friend's poetry
and learning about myself--
learning new articulations.
Switching to menthols
for as long as this cold lasts.
Realizing my body wants nicotine
but my mouth wants smoke,
that very often one, not the other,
will be satisfied--that is what's in conflict.
I am trying to be a child,
and I could go philosophically about that
or regressively--
Sort of, it is not the bottle itself I sip
which makes me the rosy ribald randy carouser
but what I put back into the bottle then the trashbin
which displaces the liquid up to my lips.
But regardless of my intents and drinking habits,
I'll still be splashing in the water,
running along the edge of the pool
building a current, a whirlpool
compelling my friends into water,
tackling and dunking and pull them underneath,
and gasping together for breath,
swept along and swelling
hoping to summon a Maelstrom
to engulf me and all.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
Hey
I listen
I watch
I analyze
I compare
I find pattern
I detect the ways
I take note of the days
I make calculated determinations
&
Game changing speculations
Ascertain the ramifications
Of
Behavioral articulations
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
My summations are wholly gnomic.
Some call these articulations "weakness,"
Others, being driven, lettered, undress
Them imperceptibly. I'm Homeric
Without grandeur of high-flown rhetoric.
Epics I pen dissolve the world's heart
And suffer abandonment in K-Mart,
Pulp-paged and forgettable. Ironic?
Yes, but such sentiment is commonplace.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
The depths of an ancient forest remind me of an emotional fret board, where the essential oil pulsates her harmonic flow across intellectual biases and drips her captivating secretions of unreasonable discrimination from an interconnected network of fertile branches.
It is systemic in nature, where the vibrational level of subtlety satiates the thirst of the magician in his musical quest for beautiful obscenity, and where primitive percussion summons the spirits of forgotten composures.
It’s like a paradise lost, where plain attire is unexpectedly anticipated and flaunted with proud religious conformity and energetic shame.
How innocent are your malevolent intentions, oh student of silent and auditory aggression?
Your leaves are seductive, as they remind me of a copper tightrope across the chasms of a Western valley where the ground cries out her historical witness of ambivalence.
Although the anatomy of freedom is bound by socio-cultural constraints, it is wise to acknowledge those articulations of psychological politics which conveniently massage the ego into an oily land of aromatherapeutic abandonment.
The herbal essence of artistic projections will never rest, as their intensity resounds throughout the annals of cosmological animism.
I appreciate your openness when we talk, because reverb is a psychoacoustic wonder, where a myriad of pages are chiselled into the annals of our great hall of fame.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
The ineffaceable stain
Allegorical refrain
Dictates the wily antidotes for a newfound sane
They hector from a distance
Muted but militant resistance
magical hobgoblins the lifeblood of their persistence
Heterodoxy enters the stage
Cognizant of ignominy, a potent repressed rage
Succor sought, corporate media bought
A pyrrhic limelight is certainly not what was sought
I defer to dignified exemplars
I confer with callous company at vapid bars
Concluding thereby the inverse proportionality of authenticity to success
The articulations of divinity imply rigidity
sweltering soul burgeoning with light sweating an evanescent humidity
If blind before, partial and total sight reconstitute the core
omnipresent paparazzi deplores
Past pities insuperable even with pithy witty
Future pieties irrelevant to ineradicable ignominy and purported dignity
Cupid and cupidity must be related
because gold-diggers alerted to my fair share would be elated
Begrudged at every tick, tantalized by a slow torture lurid flit
I cast my ambitions into the fathomless depths
I amass provisions for a restive hibernation, enduring schlep
Redemptive powers yet articulated
Should ease the prospects of being matriculated
But is cloistered suffering an inexcusable plight
When the deep coffers derelict a modest gesture of making grievous inequities once again right?
Must I swim to distant shores
Past the barnacles beneath and the urchins on submerged sand, very sore
Landmines at the beach, pantomimes and their garbled preach
Past scattershot invective fortified by intransigent misers of conscience, the balmy resort out of reach.
Bleak bleats, meek feats, good eats
I think it is about time for a tyrannical psychology to let me off the incapacitating leash, letting me focus on actions rather than on incomprehensible speech
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Shady streets of Shattuck
and Telegraph, home to ever-present
drifters and hep, and ever-present woe
won't you sing beneath the stars and traffic lights?
for whether or not dawn is breeching, the moon
like a jealous sibling in cosmic conflict.
We need another glass
I fill mine with the good stuff
with a splash and to ignite a crutch
so that we might have pillows like
clouds of smoke to rest our restless, gaping,
restless, wicked, pinned pupils, we make
our own boundaries, our own expectations, which,
in and of themselves are beautiful articulations of
day by day. This moment we wave goodbye.
Spitting out ill-gotten thoughts, unfiltered
with hope and prayer that in the morning
we will be back at the old familiar station
dripping with contentment and familiar
that home is right under our feet. The Bart,
more like a vessel than I have ever known
who makes voyages feel like calmly strolls
through parks which lead us to San Leandro
to Oakland, to Daly City, to Ashby and Fremont
tasting and smelling home when we reach old San Jose
upon another transit that sways all the way
to Santa Cruz to home and relief, and the load lessens
to a stop, although I truly feel we've started over
to begin, although the bright, bright lights blink
off and on for me as we stray homeward, as if to say
"We will see."
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 9:51 AM UTC
The fluttering wings of angelic partners echo throughout the distant parameters of musical horizons. Have you felt the grip of warm and contracting concertos? It is important to give accurate attention to the feeling of the sound, as it transcends our weak articulations. Is there a hole in your heart? I plead with you: do not be vindictive. Why? Because your calm and faithful walk down the streets of cirrus amazement are admirable, and your heartfelt embrace is not divorced from ******** gardens of socio-political symphony.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:52 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
our time apart hadn’t changed,
his baritonal voice caused
me to tremble each syllable
spoken; soft & silky, its
frictional rustle like wheat
bending in the breeze
I absorb him...
he feels me, revealing inner soul
annihilating me pleasurably, riding
wings of his voice, spiraling, like
wisps of smoke yearning to hear
articulations desire
maestro of my being, smitten
with his baritone
his breathiness I breathe...
like a summer's breeze
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
Continuums of our nature
are starting to draw us together
like god created us to be.
me for you
and you for me
we harmonize in our balance
and falter in our articulations
but someday we hunger for more
more consistency in what we can control
nobody telling us where to go
knowing that we must hold our own
in this confounding world
We just want a home
a place to reside
when all the world is knocking with dilemmas
we can withhold in the shelter
But this residence won't only mask our problems
it will fix
all the brokenness of our past
we will have stability alas
and its up to us to carry on, no other shoulder to lean on
but our own
and each others
i on your shoulder
and you on mine
moving forward, always in time.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
You’ll outsmart death
With stygian ink on white
And conquer life
Through the iridescent glow
Of lamplight behind thin paper;
I’ll etch your pulse into syllables
And whittle your skin into careful articulations Wherein each letter is an elegy.
I’ll divide fragments of your existence
Into rhymes and rhythms
And through an artfully crafted diction,
You’ll become a lasting deity.
Your impressions will be left
To unborn eyes-
Untouched ears-
And unmapped tongues.
You will be contemplated
Into divergent wisps of articulation.
Your touch will linger on pages
And your love will persist in ink
-And you will live forever.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
ramblers often traipse through depleted and damaged soils, to discover new realms, new places of beauty.
I am a rambler of language.
I often find myself traipsing through discarded and disconsolate thoughts, to discover new expressions, new articulations.
New ways of telling you
Just how I feel.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
our circuits intertwined
mine autonomous heart
with thine interlocked
mimicks your rythm
perfected polyphony
these subtle articulations
of movements
a crude design, meant for thine eyes only
this body
this core
tear it from me
take it, it's yours
devour this artificial soul
i once was sentient
but now i'm yours
my ambition
petrified
only passion
remains
internal explosions
perfectly tuned into
your precious
wavelenghts
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
*Sound of the morn , songbird articulations over -
colored Maple , Hickory leaf lanes and sky blue-gray portraits
To the face in the clouds , a toast at the wake of surreality
Concurring melancholy's invoice with stoic individuality
For the benefit of worn repetitive thoughts , a culled
mouth filled with morning wine , Sugar pine fortresses
delay the burgeoning warmth of day , rain waters seek their
level whilst the privately insane find themselves addressing their taut vulnerability* .....
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
An encounter with words in life hitherto
Brought me asking yet again a helpless -
"Now, where to?"
For company was all I had back then
An ebbing ebb of
Self-assuring words at times,
To a frenzied slew
Of words, twisted & few
Which sapped & gnawed away
My spirits into mute stillness.
Like no adversary had ever managed.
Then another capricious turn
To a voice of rhetoric that mocked,
At every occurring thought
In my breathing existence
Angry at what, I knew not.
Every mono-syllable I pondered over, or dropped.
Words plundering away words
I had uttered, memories earlier,
Words I saw, heard, smelled, lived -
Were they ever in my favour?
Or was it a path, I ought to have taken not?
Those words had more life in them
Than I then did, let me tell you.
Now and then, a war of words with
The consciousness of words
They and I had created
A dialogue, now supporting, now doubting,
I had become a dilemma.
Words are all I had at all those times,
And they failed me when
I needed them most.
They sought a different muse.
Conscious of their mistress's dormant existence
Stammering her way through life,
Were they teaching me a lesson?
To take ownership of my articulations
With courage, wisdom & tact,
That which I probably lacked
Here comes news
Within dreams, with strides taken,
With gestures, glances, I awaken
As I cross paths again with words,
Uttered - un-uttered,
Now knowing their worth
Breaking the slumber
of
Clenched fists,
Asphyxiating knots of syllables,
Scripting now,
Drops of ink
That shall make a million think.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
I’ve been pulling words
From me like splinters from my palm,
With razor in hand
Peeling back dead skin to show the articulations,
And it feels like I’m losing myself when I take it out.
Each bit of language splatting on linoleum floors in front of a cackling audience.
I didn’t want you to hear this.
I don’t think I can say it. I think I’ll go home.
I’m losing steam through my mouth and moving nowhere
I don’t have any answers, unimportant questions to **** off peers
And I’m going in circles with them, and with myself.
Last month I tried to write a poem about childhood
When I lived in that house in the woods by the lake
I can think of the pictures but I can’t get them together
There were times when I walked in the rain to school,
And there were times when I told my mom “I wish I wasn’t born” because I had to go to sleep at 9:30pm but,
I keep thinking of the last time I saw my mom,
She was looking much weaker
And the doctors gave her morphine for the pain
Sleeping in the hospital bed
In the living room in which I grew up.
It didn’t seem real.
I was too shocked to speak
My only resolve to everything,
"That's life"
But that is life.
I don't need to narrate the hole in my throat.
Doesn't the soliloquy sound like a
Crying baby?
I am the melodramatic Hamlet crying for you now.
Don’t look at me.
I’m running circles on ***** laundry.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
Poetry is word-music
Word, word music.
Is soul, spirit, magical mystery
Quintessential essence
Of love and beauty.
Iambic and other rhythms and rhymes
Are optional
For, again, poetry is soul.
The Word is King.
Any word.
***
A singular word of double meaning:
Lickle bird and ******
No waxing lyrical here
Just a bit of lit that’s bound to fit
Uninterrupted
Brief word
Amongst sesquipedalian articulations
And rapturous birdsong that echoes through the forests.
So leave that doggerel alone.
Let your heart sing
Freely
Your spirit and soul
Shining like a supernova
Resonating through our minds.
A concerto of verbal sounds
Played with our inner voices.
Literary art
Expressed in musical notes.
Poetry.
Paul Butters
© PB 22\5\2024.
May 22, 2024
May 22, 2024 at 7:51 AM UTC