"asymmetric" poems
a Gestalt principle
of organization
holding that there is an innate tendency
to perceive incomplete objects as complete
and to close
or fill gaps
and to perceive asymmetric stimuli
as symmetric
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
The rustic sheet of a door screams as we pull it like a scab
We step inside this warehouse can
Two floors - we're holding hands
His eyes lit like a crescent Moon - excited, he yells "daaad!"
Our head, like swaying swing
We see it all, tongue in cheek
Like controls without the freak
It's so much fun it stings
An asymmetric wasteland
Convenient and distorted
The walls - bleak and boarded
A symbolic sleight of hand
This is where we feel
My father's on the catwalk
Like paranoia paraphernalia
My son's grip tightens, it's the only thing that's real
Absolute felicity
To realize what I have in the confines of my hand
Imperfection in the making - he doesn't understand
Skylarking permissably
A reverie to remember
His smile - sifting through his eyes
Warm, he maneuvers like the flies
He was born in December
Moving closer to my father
He's amidst the in-between
Consistently foreseen
His motion is no bother
He steps along the ply
Somehow keen in his demeanor
Four-years-old, but greener
Tossed and turning - it's the gleaner
The sheet has been disturbed
He's falling to his death
I'm blanketed in sweat
This cannot be deserved
My father's eyes - they match my own
I tear through the distance
Foreseeing and consistent
My father is a witness
The fear - he's fighting falling
We've never known it more
His tiny hands just wishing there were nails
Collective - we're losing all things
I grasp a finger as he falls but not enough to bring him back
My son approaches pavement as it fills my throat the same
I look him in the eyes as they melt away in pain
My body wakes without my mind - hysterically screaming "DAAAD!"
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
you're asleep
you're dreaming
about teeth falling out and shadows chasing you
about fields full of flowers and holding his hand
no matter what about, you dream too much
and you wake up and he's still not there
the rain makes your windows look *****
and the wind causes the roof to make noises
and he won't be there to hold you when the sun goes down
so you go back to sleep
and behind your eyelids you see that smile
that smile he used to flash at you
before holding up a glass of white wine
"cheers" spilling from his asymmetric lips
but that's history
and you shouldn't still be dreaming about him
but you were never one to be the boss of your dreams
the heat wakes you up at 5:47
you haven't been this hot since the too of you shared a bed
you need to stop always drawing him into things
he
is not there
he
won't ever be
don't make yourself remember the good times
and how he's everything you ever looked for in a guy
those thoughts belong in late night dreams
and you need to wake up.
wakey wakey, eggs and bakey
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
*outlined in shades of reality
replete with eclipsed potential
the morning moon in revelation
unaware of her ageless touch
the language of time is floral
the color of anachronism is sage
so asymmetric in its beauty
so linear in its dictates
but her silhouette defies projection
refracting moments into mosaics
collaging aspirations into awareness
as dreams clarify into appreciation*
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
All women bear it's essence
with natures affinity,
beautifully incandescent
Have you ever noticed the color yellow?
No less brilliant or poignant but uncommon,
or the draw to a cello,
it music just as passionate.
Who questions the shape of a tree,
or measures the gravity of a raindrop?
Asymmetric rhythm and variety,
are essence to femininity,
It’s strength not weakness
Sadly, we’re telling lies,
and we’re selling convention.
There’s no true quintessence
Nature shapes these
and in their uniqueness,
in their own beauty,
human eyes they please.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 9:15 AM UTC
What does Eunice bring
on these blustered, raging winds?
Busted fences put up in haste,
a forlorn balloon cut loose,
with a smiley face harking back to those
asymmetric aceeeed days
when polarity was frowned upon:
what’s your name where you from what you done?
A man cut from rich serge
can be employed to gaslight
blackened eyes to white,
but the **** in Kent’s hedges
don’t lie
Feb 18, 2022
Feb 18, 2022 at 6:50 AM UTC
Deeper
(breath)
Deep Purr
(breath)
Per-fect?
(breath)
Im-per-fect
(breath)
Asymmetric
(breath)
(breath)
(breath)
Asymmetry
(breath)
African Textile Lines
(breath)
Tree Stump Rings
(breath)
Finger Prints
(breath)
Connected.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
I have been thinking about & claim,
Is not the world all way too eccentric?
Anyone wondering how & why I claim so,
Should look at all of these facts so very fanatic.
The different crimes taking place in worldly realm,
Various wars & murders and thievery & rapes,
Outrageous scams & malignant corruption,
All fortify the claim of the world being so.
As I can infer from my first few thoughts,
About this fairly asymmetric world,
Where our orbit around the sun,
Is elliptical & not circular,
Our eccentricity is excused convincingly.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
We live in a world of noise,
of parallel and asymmetric movement,
where nonchalance has become the norm.
Sweet, melodious and pleasing
is our phony makeup.
We are animals that reject our animalness.
We dread nuclear, secular, red lights, cockroaches, love,
threats and non-threats alike.
Fear has taken us on its morning stroll,
and predictably we bark.
(The sun is almost up)
We are turned on and turned off
by oil-, wind- and hydro-powered switches
that respond to clapping.
There are beige, mauve and burgundy
curtains to choose from,
and supersized french-fries, pots, and cars.
We have lost ourselves in a mess of options,
and strive incessantly to complicate.
We fly in formation
and flow through carefully placed
and beautifully colored rocks made from Styrofoam,
down an improbable slope
of over-romanticized hypotheses.
We are ******** ego-centric and nepotistic,
and asexually multiply.
Thought and all other wasted rationality
keeps the axes of our unsustainable and fanatical wheels
from breaking loose (into free space and true autonomy).
We create meaning where there is no meaning,
and scientifically and thoroughly flout
god and the truth,
whilst we absorb, photosynthesize, bear fruits and grow leaves
(we are still, essentially, vegetable).
With every step we go deeper, and faster and better,
and farther from our selves.
Hence, we barely feel.
We are deaf and blind and mute
and approximately frozen;
and dance, swirl, sing and scream
in our vague, whimsical life,
till we fall.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
You’re not allowed to step into the house.
You’re not allowed to open your mouth too widely,
your ugly teeth bared and gnashing. You aren’t allowed to be that close,
so close your mouth and sip your tea through the window,
where expensive and matching dining chairs circle around a table
set for nothing, for no one,
because you can’t touch that silverware. You can’t wash those plates.
You can’t fit, your neck so long that your head is in the clouds,
your not-quite-bony legs serving as a reminder that your feet are still on the ground.
Can you feel your heart in your throat?
The way that it pulses every time you rest your chin on the roof or
the way it pounds when you’re at the doorway, much too close to this house
that you bought and built and you aren’t allowed inside. Why won’t they let you inside?
Why won’t you let yourself inside?
Invite yourself in; maybe your head will come down from the clouds and
your heart won’t beat quite so obnoxiously loud and you can
smile in a mirror while flashing all your ugly teeth.
You can’t build a house without thinking about how you’ll fit into it:
that’s basic architecture, basic design, basic
everything that you never bothered to learn,
bent on keeping your head so much higher than the ceiling.
Asymmetric, sloping,
like your shoulders and the alignment of your eyes
and your crooked smiles and tied up tongue,
like white lies and broken foundations
and a doorknob that doesn’t work,
doesn’t turn,
won’t let me in
despite the fact that I built this place with my bare hands.
It doesn’t recognize me anymore, a fantasy
so tangled up with reality
that all the nightmares and anxiety ruin even my cloudiest positivity.
I built myself a world and a future
in which I myself am not allowed to enter.
Maybe I should brush up on my knowledge of basic architecture,
because God, I’m horrible at interior design
and mapping things out ahead of time.
I’ve tried just living without but the winter gets chilly and weakens my bones
and it really sets in without the warmth of a home.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
There as I sat it spoke to me,
this wall of asymmetric cracks.
Its faded, soaked cement remained.
Its light red bricks answered back.
Past these chips of aged white
the blue sky hung with wispy cloud.
A distant bird with creeping weeds
through ancient windows spoke aloud.
Here light enfolds these steps of prayer
where new fresh grass is listening.
The hedges kept with varied plants
in waving breezes are glistening.
This ruined wall tells its story
of faded asymmetric glory.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
I am the salivic twinkle in the eye.
I am the loss of vision when I look at a light.
I am the placement of a thing now, only put in my past, and played in my future.
I am the thing there now, that I placed in the past, and will leave there for the future.
I am too many to count
I am too dark to describe.
I am the colorful shades and lines of the inner eye perceiving my physical body.
Physical isn't quite right.
More like eternal-like being.
More like eternal-like spleen.
"Me" is so far out,
I don't know what this body is here before me.
What do these clothes cover?
Asymmetric from the center out.
Saying this like I gave humans life, made them walk upright.
I am the multichrome of closed eyes in a lit room.
I am faux wood.
I am that thing from the past, placed in the now, and still doesn't understand it's creator.
I am the question "why" which was never meant to be answered.
I am realizing those who are sanctified in their breath.
I am nerve meets bone meets skin meets hair.
But all in one form, I can't see how it happens.
I am what my eye looks like without seeing it, just imagining it.
"I am what I am" when I ask this question.
Sort of a mix of shape, mind, and hue.
Or is it head, line, and imagined body?
Does my hand touch my skull? Then is the hair and skin something unknown or forgotten?
What comes of the thought that is unrecognized during contemplation?
Are these really the bait for the goldfish in the mind's pool?
"Oh no, what am I going to do?" as a "bad" trip shortens my view.
The bone dry feeling of the fear of God, crushing every tendril and way that once carried me along merrily.
"What if I lose God by taking too much nutmeg?"
"You can't (or shouldn't) do that" a voice whispers to both losing God parts and taking too much nutmeg.
Now I'm contented and thoughts will no longer emerge from the pool.
So I must dive into sleep.
Good night.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 3:36 AM UTC
He
Who
Talks
The
Walks
And
Walks
The
Talks
Blabbers
Talks
Makes sense
Senses ****
Walks away
When
He
Is bored
Is tired
He
Walks
Too much
Too far
Likes it
He
Perhaps
Experiences
****
****
That
He
May be
Shielding
He cuts loose
The struggle
He lets go
He
Begins to travel
As he desires
To know
More or less
Battles
The usual mess
But
On the inside
Only on the inside
Distinguishes
The real
From the surreal
He sings
About life
About bikes
About the mountains
Aloud
So that
The world could hear
About her
But on the inside
Only on the inside
He dances
To dance
Just for the ****
He’s not good
But he dances
Jives
Not good
Street dances
Pretty good
Dancing legs
A delight
To his mind
Infectious
With his laugh
And
An asymmetric smile
Lives
In dreams
In parts
The world
For him
Has fallen
The world
For him
Fallen
Still
He rises
For him
He inspires
Himself
Admires
Life
He
Is
He
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
Britain's dame of fashion Vivienne Westwood wrapped up London Fashion Week Men's on Monday with an eclectic collection showcasing edgy designs that included dresses for men.
Westwood, 75, who is known for her eccentric creations and environmental activism, presented both menswear and womenswear for her autumn/winter 2017/18 "Ecotricity" line, putting men in dresses and skirts and ties on women.
Models wore colorful knits made up of jumpers and trousers as well as long dresses and arm cuffs, at times slit on the sides. Men's suits were deconstructed or had wide, ankle length trousers and sometimes were worn with long cloaks.
Women's jackets had asymmetric cuts or exaggerated shoulders. Shirts had large collars and colorful prints and patterns, including skulls and faces, adorned most designs.
"She and he are having fun with unisex and swapping clothes," shownotes for the collection read. "'Buy less, choose well, make it last' limits the exploitation of the planet's natural resources."
Outfits were often layered and looks were accessorized with face paint, paper crowns, colorful socks, tights and boots.
Westwood, who previously showed menswear in Milan, was the biggest name at the four-day London event following the departure of brands like luxury label Burberry.
"London is my home. I regret leaving Milan because they've been so kind to me," the designer said backstage.
"It's just easier and more efficient for us to be here."
Burberry will present its menswear collection alongside its womenswear line at London's higher profile women's fashion week next month.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC
I remember crying because I failed to put the pedal on my bicycle
I remember the day when I got hit by my old friend for hiding his marbles
I remember the lies, tears, and dullness for which I created
When I was younger, gazillion times I always thought about the miracle
I remember those nights when my mom put me in bed and became a storyteller
Telling me how easily people fly crossing islands which was beyond the normal
Sometimes, I wish I could have that superpower
Wish someday when I get older, I would be a perfect girl
People would forget my stupidities and give me that label
That, is, miracle.
The cycle comes, and little me was gone
Hello nineteen me,
Welcome to another bedtime story
When you could pick a dream, but not really sure whether it'll be real or just fantasy
Still hoping that might you be a prodigy,
But you forget about the term of mental therapy
I do really sorry,
Your timeline didn't go as you planned
The majority of them was dreadfully failed
Haven't you realized it?
How many pains did you have?
How many failures did you receive?
And how many silly things did you do?
There are too many to be counted.
You always doing dumb things
Procrastinating in something,
And jeopardizing everything,
You are so embarrassing that you even couldn't bear with your own being
You always try yet you always fail
You always walk though you always want to fly
You always attempt to smile yet you do a lot of cries
You compare yourself to other people
You always think their life is much easier
You start blaming yourself about your awful character
Loathing your asymmetric face for not getting prettier
Cursing how bad annoying voice out of your manner
And blah.
Out of time, wish I could rewind the time
Wish I never wanted to dream to have superpower
Wish I never wanted to dream it at all
I regret dreaming for some miracle
Cos' miracles are unattainable
In fortune, there is only fate.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
Then there were the scarred scarecrows, the wolves with their cheekbones - like a bunch of cubs, I'll tell you now! Thirst for revenge on indigestible ants, tortures for animals. There were defamation, unremitting, stinging rib-like fractures in the moral mud, and screams of mercy begging from far away in a scented school toilet!
And then there were satisfied sleeping tales that, "Well, everything will be fine!" And "Don't be afraid!" - and, with grudging fist-right and killer-eyes, we all became emigrants within our own morals: we adhered to our principles! There was little satisfaction, holy vow against the siserehada of bone-breaking slaps: We'll show you! And a lot of ugly beats have fallen on us like a bombshell! - Thick wires between our nerve strings burst with urges, in a harrowing, violent pace: "If you stay inside school, you're sure to end! Die! "
- And there was no mistaken sentiment that he was conceived in hell every day in the midst of deliberate ordnance and mockery; and the adult incomprehension has proliferated like the wacky **** in the other hemispheres! How did it become then?
Without the secret, well-meaning human-faced angels, I would smell it myself today and wouldn't give it a gift! I won non-violent, eternally infectious wounds during duels: the tears of my face were contaminated by so many nasty spit! And every single day, if given that I could survive, I could run in laziness, and with asymmetric obsession, as a beachless pursuer:
An uninhabited wound that craves understanding and shelter! Yet how unfulfilled is the tide of prayer for the deaf, the last rock of cooperative humanism ?!
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
October 30th
Words, word, and the futility of such
Or true appeal in sectioned rhymes of madness
Like Beethoven composing Blade Runner
In the midst of blue helicopter gunners
Spectator chemicals eviscerate my brain
Educationally desensitized to what I'm trained
To do, or to scream in pools of rubidium
And call back to poems of delirium
In my shelter, so deep in my room
White peroxide liquid, mangled and groomed
My heart is aqueous, love
I'm shaped by the "god-like" lingerin' 'bove
Net equation and sums enter my ear
Therefore finding themselves on paper peers
Lectures or cantankerous, droning drawls
They taste like a slave's righteous crawl
Balance life like a panther and its prey
With elegant trickles remarking on the day
And unconcievable drawings, moving fro'
The Worldwill pukes to what I sow
There is no question, this isn't one
Verses are futile under the sun
But rhyme is priority, thus authority
Digestible, like wood covered in yellow sugar
And blue butter, counting with a Cockney clock
Arrogant as he is, he smiled at her
Tick tock, and the flock is shocked
Petty Betty blessed her daughter
Loved her well 'till the police caught her
Thought-streams, and the working of the mind
Like the asymmetric butterflies of the Sistine Chapel
Oh, believe me! That's how my brain grinds
Where the world can equate to an apple
Paper on a finger, vice versa, so long
As I can keep track of Sing's King Kong
Pink-headed jubilee in old Manila
Killing time violently on the stairs
Remember the words of mouths of vanilla
And be sure to never stare
I talk to myself and tell myself nothing
Soon, over the morn', I will be nothing
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
I am kept awake until dawn arrives
Close to clawing out these open eyes
Near to dreams
Far from sleep
Further from the relief I seek
Every night feel taunted
The empty walls of my room
Space beside me sneers silently
Sunrise is coming soon
Sprawled in an asymmetric shape
Restlessly flipping pillows
In bed screaming
Into fistfuls of blankets
Drowning in sheets that billow
"You lost him!"
Written everywhere
Each and every item you touched
It's agonizing how I'm forced to see reminders
As if I did not already miss you too much
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 5:21 AM UTC
Manacles made of thoughts
Enchain spirits encaged
In asymmetric chambers
Of bodies neglecting to heed,
Prisoners they conceal within,
Terrestrial material planes
Where the tangible struggles
To conceive the impalpable yet,
Inexplicably perceives its essence
As it knocks on the soft membranes,
Of a mind striving to connect.
The incarcerator attempting
To acquaint, itself with the incarcerated
Who, peacefully surrenders as it knows
It will be freed from shackles with,
The death of thoughts and the burning
Of the corpse.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC