"assertions" poems
Open your mouth dear,
Stop pursing your lips.
Trust has been earned:
I keep telling you this.
In silence you revel
As I speak my troubled mind.
And in reverence, your assertions,
Expire with time.
I thank you for listening,
And knowing this pain.
I hope it won't come to define me,
And that you'll help stay sane.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
I am the Lorax, who once spoke for the trees
In the hope of bringing progress to its knees
But now I have grown somewhat older and tired,
My outlook and thought process being rewired
(Sometimes to see forest, you must clear the trees.)
Examine the case of the Brown Bar-ba-loots
Whose interests for so long I worked in cahoots.
Could such timid beasts truly thrive in the wild
So innocent, trusting, submissive, and mild?
(My former assertions I strongly refute.)
Why, see how they frolic and scamper in zoos;
How can one watch them and steadfastly refuse
To see how much better their lot is today
As joy for our children as opposed to prey
(A happy condition where no one can lose.)
Ah, scoff the nihilists, *but Truffula Trees,
Those havens for birds and those homes for the bees.
Why, what do you say now that they are all gone,
Removed to make way for some suburban lawn?*
(These angry young men—O Lord, take them all please!)
I gently remind them it’s just nature’s way,
That some species go while other ones stay,
The carrier pigeon’s no longer alive
Yet somehow we manage to live—indeed, thrive!
(In the face of brute logic, they’ve little to say.)
So don’t be dismayed or frightened or leery
Of doomsday projections outlined by theory
Suggesting that our time on this earth may be done;
Consider the caged Bar-ba-loot having fun
(And we hear fish do quite well in Lake Erie.)
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
Forensic psychology is not an exact science, despite the lofty assertions of those who are deemed to have expertise in the face of non-empathic presumption.
Please, do not dismiss the wisdom of those who are seasoned in the metaphorical school of life. It is far too expensive, even though there is an apparent and mutual understanding between those on each side of the great divide.
Dazzling suits and coherent reports do not adequately represent intricate diversities in the docks of criminality where the laughter of the prosecution echoes throughout the beams of formality.
Therefore, sociopathy and psychopathy remain to be inadequately defined.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Have you ever heard those flat harmonies of death, where operatic assertions resound throughout damp and ancient crypts of macabre folklore?
Time is slowly running out, and the flame of life is flickering in the winds of captivating finality.
Although haunting screams are like echoes which transcend fatty spreads of digestive mediocrity, the stalagmites and stalactites of gothic caverns display their ***** features which defy rational explanation.
Feel the depths of soulless forests as they chant messages of reconciliation amidst tangled weeds and branches of self-stimulation.
Amitriptyline can facilitate sleep at the end of an indulgent evening.
S
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
The sound of your voice,
linguistic forte
digital portrait combined,
reads lyrical, like Joyce,
the use of imagery -
elevating the plebeian,
resplendent -
the imposition sublime.
Pellucid prose, tête-à-tête
immersed in esoteric allusion
spoken with au fait.
Liberating my pedestrian
inhibition,
premise of surrender -
adrift, desultory,
delicious ambiguity.
Seduction begins in
the mind,
assets of imagination,
intellectual property;
side by side: lying supine
didactic invitation,
in assertions of diversion;
a chance to find
euphoria within our reach.
Linear alliteration;
fulgent flowing Fumé
Blanc,
fire and wine
private beach,
rhymes of elucidation
two bodies align,
I will learn if you teach.
Sensual epistemology,
curvaceous
figure of speech,
the Orphic; woeful
lover’s plight,
a porous song recite
art professor, verse confessor
tutor me tonight.
©2010 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
Writing in colors
Practicing the wrong art
Illusions that discover, set me apart
Feeling too washed up, at such a young age
Could I say something real? **** turning the page.
Writing in Fonts
So that I may distract.
Its like smoke and mirrors, you’ll miss what I lack
The fancier this seems, the more elaborate the scheme,
You’ll think you saw talent, I’ll just blind you with bling.
Writing in sizes,
Milking the diversions
Fancy rhyming, bold assertions
Witty one liners, and maybe a clever rhyme
Will I ever give up this job? Oh, maybe in time.
-Taylor
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
massive flooding data
with fingertip suggestions
authority assertions..
our longing rises
for calm correspondence
and peaceful correlation..
but splitting continues
with mounting pain..
new vessels we need
very desperate need
for patterns to shape
those complex splits..
when vessels emplaced
we stand guard
informing screaming data
now gather or go...
you might blame
Adam and Eve...!
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
Emergent and forming I feel a storm is imploring that soon without any warning you beg to cross a line
Every time, nothing is sacred but sacramental complacence is marked as roles of the shameless
Mean to skip a line another time? Is this too rough and obtuse for a cutie like you to boost the power line?
Number 9, completion is power and stricken chords every hour proceed to timeline devour those daily entities
I do decree that opposition to me is free and withered beatings to meetings, detours and dealings
understanding demands of variable plans is held by the hand that feeds the depleted need
I see it from every angle, the tangle, the multishifted frame though it dangles, I can't be stuck in my own head when
I see the reflections of me in the treasure it jangles, brings into focus where my head fell to float in the
moments set to wrangle, pull it in, dwell upon the good and discard where it hampers new fangled notions like
truth effusions of love and devotion are swallowed up in the daily ocean of noise traffic, the more verbose,
Graphic dispatches matches blasted disasters dashed and rash past distractions amass magic attacks balanced
Secular motion entwined with metaphysical potions, divided what is your quotient? It doesn't add up in this
moment.
Interpersonal, intergalactic, universal assertions disturbed by verbage of outrance
Message mismanaged mischief mallaeble mayhem managed maganamously mallicous mannered when I
would proclaim them. Members materialized meriting masturbatory movements and monetized
malappropriation I have no patience nor pathos for indiscriminant egos demonstrating a tangent as canon and
paralyzing progressions toward psychic visions of heaven, eyes as the cosmos, and pressures upended.
I'll cope with associations disastrous and tainted, but keep in my visage all that scratches my lenses
I know far too much to be content with the situation, but far too little to shatter falsehood's intitiation
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
There is a sombre sound when mushrooms are concealed by mists in the English forest.
We need to protect ourselves from the spirits of the ages, where accusations echo around cosmological séances.
Can we please just engage in explicit intercourses and stop wasting time?
Let us stand upon the altar and exchange ancient mysteries where the black goat dances along smoky corridors of pagan castles.
Your ****** sword has pierced my heart, oh mistress of sexually explicit ceremonies.
I love your feminism, yet offer caution against your blatant assertions.
But please do not misunderstand me, oh mistress of the ages.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
Lean out and contemplate the Empire State.
After all, there's nothing else left to you.
The spider-web paths of the city
Branch out too often to form the whole
picture in your head more than a few
stems out.
Where do your lost hours go?
Is there a heaven for the good ones?
The ones you spend reading Harry Potter
in Spanish?
As if it's really so much better than reading
trash like 1Q84 or Plato's Republic
for 1200 page-intervals of excess language or
A bunch of questionable assertions
backing up logical conclusions on the most essential questions,
Respectively.
When I sit with the bright light in my eyes,
it triggers the breakdown of melatonin molecules in
my blood,
Among other things.
Will this restore my Brooklyn Majesty
in swells of lightwave tides
Or will it lack the broad spectrum necessary
to push my half-developed form out of the tidal pool
to make a swim amongst
frail men in shark suits?
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
it was hard not to notice
her suffocating stance
eliminating life
from breath
stark contrasts clashed
chemist stench rife
clawed nails fought
with burnt electric hair
face caked with
false promise
rude lips bled
in twisted shapes
mismatched words
shot giddily from
handgun mind
long since spent
guests' amused disdain
stilled at sharp madness
flashes of veined sclera
screamed woe
signatures etched on
death warrants
coffin lids
clamped shut
wild assertions
rank religious fervor
vomited about
a hushed room
charity's stretched
compassion quit
in rush to regain
a summer's peace
efforts to impress
stabbed coarsely
dense air strangled
rational thought
guilty images beset
tortured space
noxious noise
begging revolt
yet collective dagger
falls aside mute
lest honour
too is lost
as raucous gasps fail
to impress
with anything
less than
dreams
of a quiet book
easily wooed
by a silent stream
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMCCCLXVIII)
Lo, poor man's tea in dawn's first light, whose pale
Eye shifts vague shadows 'cross dead houses thence,
Ere twinkling with an orange splash' warming sense
Upon that silence, and no coffee's bail
In morning's fog as rosy lee's detail.
Snow's bitter whiteness waits sans aught suspense
While sparrows gaily answer for two pence,
And I wash up the dishes on that scale.
We fix a mean cup of ole joe as twere,
Yet where the Brits swear by tea's mincing cue
I oddly know what tis to waken, poor
As such assertions oer the second brew.
Discuss caffeine, and I sleep well nor stir
'Til ah, forget it. What I need is you.
05Jan16d
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
I do not know that man, but he looks like an enemy of the people.
Not the strangest of strange assertions
I had ever heard uttered in these sessions,
And normally I may not have even looked up
To identify the speaker,
But as the voice belonged to a woman,
I chanced to raise eyes upward
Just in time to see an arm fully extended,
An accusing finger pointed at myself.
Understand, I had seen more than one of my peers
Dragged from these chambers
Without regard for decorum or ceremony,
And, in a state which was at least close kin to panic,
I saw visions of myself whisked away to a fetid Butyrka cell
Or thrown, bound and gagged, onto some Siberia-bound cattle car
When I heard a voice something like my own spit out
*I do not know that woman, but she looks like a ********** to me.*
My accuser blanched and sat down
To a chorus of catcalls and derisive whistling,
And one or two deputies in possession
Of sufficient power or powerful friends
Actually waved handfuls of rubles in her direction.
It may not have been grace under pressure,
But there are situations where chivalry
Is more indulgent than admirable.
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
tv shows on mute,
mouths moving but making no assertions.
a silence that doesn’t satisfy
slipping over the air like margarine.
loneliness in stillness
The feeling before you cry
but no tears are produced,
like a dial tone
with no intention of an outgoing call.
serenity’s evil twin,
a vibrant color muted with white.
no longer deep or dark,
just with the volume turned down,
apathetically pastel.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 6:05 PM UTC
~
for T.M.R.
~
*We find our poems in many different ways. Of late,
I keep finding inspiration in the public and private messages that many of you send to me, regarding poems I choose to publish here.
So I repeat my disclaimer,
"any message you send, can and will be used as a poem."*
~
instant recognition at levels so deep within,
what are the odds, given the enormous differentials,
that the kin in kindred, would blossom across two lives,
where the oppositional factoids are exceptional
as if seeded in the fertile soil of the blank spaces,
between each of our poem's words and verses,
there secreted for each other, but gleaming visible
for all to see and uncover, even join in,
uncovering semi-hidden insertions and assertions of affinity
I confess
she stands behind me ofttimes in my mind, silently,
suggesting, reflecting, critiquing a word choice,
a nuanced pressure upon the hand redirecting,
with infiltrating suggestions imaginary
oh wordy me, four stanzas excised,
abstracted from the memories contained within my fingertips,
this, an accolade to the pleasuring of humanizing mystery connectivity,
when she, in the depth of her stylized brevity,
captures more than I, after hours of exercised trying,
in the succinct excalibur of her comprehension
"We are an unstated understood"
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
The heart-warming sound of an acoustic guitar provides sincere resolution amidst the anguish of uncertainty, in the same manner as the classical Spanish guitar projects her intensities in Sierra Nevada assertions.
Consider the beauty of the finca, as she is a throbbing source of sustenance where romantic pastels merge into an array of Moorish delight.
Let us never forget that such instruments of eternal communication cannot find affiliation in the arenas of Roman legacy.
I give thanks to the order of being for the tuning of the symmetrical aphrodisiac.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:09 PM 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
Looking deeply into pieces of what I was.
Perusing the mosaic of images
That linger in my eyes.
Shards of all shapes an sizes
Moments holding steadfast
So vivid, rich and rank.
This is no wading pool
The depth is great
And the capacity is only fathomed.
It all pulses, sparks, chokes and spits.
There is no hemorrhage
This is all fine
Make assertions
Pound them deep into reality.
Each strike resounds
Like a blacksmith in a cave
Molding shifting
Creation.
Flames that had once receded
Deep into the pit of a forgotten temple.
Stoked sudden & silently by a mere shift of its outer mask
Breathing new life/light
into hallowed grounds.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
...cuz there's not much left 'cept a body, and pretty face.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVII)
Vogue begs to know what "entertains" me. They'll
Be certain I indulge in that cuz thence
By sheer default, who does not, eh? My sense
Of that is either quite perverse sans bail,
Or mebbe true: naught but distracts me, pale
As sich assertions that's my case from hence.
I'll laugh for this or that, watch for intents
Both movies, and the id'ot box t'avail.
Yet all's for mere DISTRACTION. Joy is poor,
Quite frankly. I am broken, smile as due,
And swear it's all a game of sheer, as twere:
Pretending. Christians say that is not true.
So what am I? My heart died whenas her
Heart did, and I'm a shadow, fading through.
24May19c
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
At this specific point in time, I pause and give contemplation to the definition of time, whilst the echoing chords of pizzicato remind me of lettuce and a comfortable sense of direction in the face of adversity.
Chicken is very much related to time. Now, I know that such loose associations can be categorised within psychiatric parameters. However, such assertions are not baptised in epistemological fires. If you and I rise upon the wings of the wind, then we will understand that the aroma of Ellen will etch herself in the psyche of eternity.
I am comforted by the wisdom of predestination.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
Through the passion, the anger
and the bold assertions
it may be hard to see
that I would rather not be talking about this
And the wider I spread my arms,
and the louder my voice becomes
the more I long for silence
and a solitude which asks no confirmation
Opinions are contagious
language, a game which you lose
by explaining that you don't want to play
And each concession I draw from you
each square of common ground we find
is one step further
from the hilltop I wish I was on
alone,
if you don't mind.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
Statement:
I love her.
Truth:
I do love her but seek to change her, my love is untrue.
She's still a child at heart,
Unwilling to command it,
Wish I could be the same...
I would not say words,
To hurt her many times,
Wish I could be the same..
I take pity at her bad habits,
Forgetting once I was her age,
Wish I could be the same again.
But I know she'll grow up,
She'll meet her real match,
Someone as young as her.
It will not someone be surly as me,
Her match will surely be healthy,
Contrary to me he will be young..
I must live with myself,
I am not made for her,
I am made for none...
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
Provocation is irksome to the humble soul who is incited to cross those conventional norms with ferocious and lustful pursuits.
As we summon the ancient souls of the abyss through questionable mediums, I am truly disappointed by the lack of authenticity.
My roots are important to me.
Therefore, let us move beyond this childish and cryptic crossroad where curses are said to have been released before the sight of those who presume to have been summoned.
The experience of deviance will never be divorced from a state of dissociation, where sincere possession withstands the empty assertions of rationalism and intellectualism.
The scientific futility of violence is an enigma.
Although the ritualistic consumption of various ****** fluids is a characteristic of ceremonial magic, I am unaware of that black light which flickers her forbidden permissions within the deepest recesses of my damp and historical ontology.
My dawn of golden equations is sympathetic to the threefold chiming of the bells.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC