"auditory" poems
(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.)
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
I have bad grades.
I’m aware of this, but they
still insist on shouting as if
three letter F’s
determine my worth
as well as my ability.
I’m not athletic,
never been remotely decent
at sports,
picked last for soccer,
football, basketball,
and everything else,
tried to do parkour once-
however,
that hope quickly dissolved
when I discovered
that it was still nerve-wracking
for me to climb a fence.
(One of the many gifts
that comes with a severe
lack of coordination.)
I’m not a quiet person.
I don’t know
how to hold my tongue
most of the time.
So when my father’s paycheck
is cut shorter and shorter,
when he makes little enough as it is,
my stay-at-home mother
fighting her demons of
the severe depression and anxiety
that she passed down to me
as well as her (auditory) hallucinations,
her BPD,
her physical disabilities,
not making a paycheck at all,
and my school supplies
consist of 50-cent notebooks
that fall apart,
and 75-cent pens,
I get a little… “upset”.
I’ve played guitar for three years.
Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at,
playing strings of notes
and minor chords
that come together to form
beautiful harmonies-
but more often than not,
every note is sour…
Another thing I’m not good at.
But I am a writer.
People don’t pay attention
to teenagers, they say
We’re so full of ourselves,
We think we’re so important,
they say
We need to communicate,
but when we try
all they hear
is whining, and complaining.
Teenagers telling their friends
in passing conversation
that they’re suicidal,
that they hurt themselves,
just to see who will notice-
who will listen-
and of course, no one does.
Nobody notices that
teenagers are the voice
of our generation,
and our generation,
as such,
is royally ******
because nobody pays attention.
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
But I am a writer.
And I have
a voice,
a pen…
And paper torn
from a 50-cent notebook.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
I did not believe,
standing on the bank of a river
which was wide and swift,
that I would cross
that bridge plaited from thin,
fragile reeds fastened with bast.
I walked delicately,
as a butterfly
and heavily
as an elephant,
I walked surely
as a dancer
and wavered like a blind man.
I did not believe that I would cross that bridge,
and now that I am standing
on the other side,
I do not believe I crossed it.
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 11:23 AM UTC
Snot Sniffer, I hate you.
I hate sitting nex to you.
Why do you choose to keep the snot inside of your head by sniffing it back up?
Why don't you get up and grab a tissue so, I don't have to listen to you.
I'm sick and tired of hearing you every five seconds, with your nose and your snot
Your snot and your nose.
Why can't you blow it and make yourself happy?
and better yet, relieve me from listening to you...
Its like the guy or gal that chews like a loud cow
I hate you just as much as snot sniffer.
I hate you Snot Sniffer go and marry Chews Loud and die
In your Overwhelming Abundence of Auditory ****
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...
but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
Your words crawled through my auditory cortex like caterpillars, preventing me from hearing anything other than the inflection in your deep voice. As your body inched closer to mine, they took residence in my chest cavity, building chrysali that hung off of my ribs making it more and more difficult to inflate my heavy lungs. They cocooned themselves as I too wrapped myself up in you. Suddenly, your lips were on mine and your hands were counting the vertebrae down my back, scaring the insects from their resting place, resulting in chills up my spine. The newly emerged butterflies flew out of my sternum and up into my throat, longing to be closer to you. But then you pulled away and they instantly died, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Visual delusions:
*Scrutinizing the acuity of
what is visualized.
But sight is only validated
by the morality glazed over.
Until narratives are edited
to mimic a reality of self delusion.*
Oral formalization
*Dictation versed within syllable
delusions, never sounding
the reflection of thought to breath.
But sour exhalation collects on
vacant windows, spelling other
than what is breathed outwards.*
Auditory silence
*Auditions drummed within,
echoing on shallow walls,
nothing wrote within
A tirade of failures woven with
three perceptions. Collective ignorance*.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
I've been thinking
about
the art of speaking
auditory rhythms
and the like
in my very personal
opinion
these audio utterances
so often used
by the population
have become
somewhat
like pollution
fogging gracelessly
over the small drops
of wisdom
uttered
in near silence
if you actually listen
you'll probably hear them
somewhere
under the blurtations
of the unconsidered
thoughtless thoughts
they're there.
If you listen
the art of quiet
uncovers many surprises
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
"God is a place you will wait for the rest of your life."
In all my dreams you're drinking Nick Drake's pink moon out of a red and white straw
Standing all alone in a black coat
Sinking into secret places where no one else dared go
And laughing; I love you when you're laughing
You're always singing my favorite songs
Where we were young, and laid awake through howls
In these spaces, I've returned
Trying to feel how it felt, is supposed to feel
In all my dreams there are greasy hands and frozen feet
Tiny tanks pushing through snow and ice
Painting all the walls blue and gray and black
******* and hands and eyes shut tight
I drive through Nebraska and Wyoming and West Texas
I drive through meadows of dead grass and think
Twenty-one on midnight and hiding in a tall booth in a dark bar in a cold place
Home, because I was with you
In all my dreams I am reaching out and up
Seeking earth takeaway memories
Lifting skinny fists, bare, raising my arms in surrender
Through the mystic on all the lighthouse adventures in the world
Tonight your ghost asks my ghost in earnest:
"How strange is it to be anything at all?"
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
I won't loud my guts to say you don't mean what you say about loving me. Because,the peace of mind you bring,no one has ever brought a piece of the whole you gave on a platter of moments. But,sometimes I'm a girl and even though my auditory lobes hears it every moment that you love me as much as I do... I'm a visual learner,I need it acted out as much as you say it.
If your loving me were so loud,snitches wouldn't dare to form cocky talks,bitches would lay low when I walk with my head high. Dudes that acts like they know it all,won't point fingers at our love that its unrequited.
Now,
I'm not saying you should displease yourself to please me,
I'm not saying you should become someone else to earn me
I'm either not demanding too much
I just need you to show the world more visual actions,so that the world will stop thinking I'm an obsessed ***** trying to make the acclaimed unrequited love,reciprocal.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
*we won't die for ideals we once held dear, we'll now simply die for the numbers we can simply keep, but when it comes to ourselves, we'll die to simply keep a mistook numbering in order to readdress the ideals that are no longer appreciated in our numbering a loss of a tiger's roar, and more the microscopic ant digestion auditory exploding into a h-bomb for man to imitate by number but no essential authority: since once mammoth the authority killed man, now some sub-insect (virus) can **** man.*
if there's a group of people
who are assumed to be possessed,
then there's a group of people
who are dis-possessed,
and there's always the middle
interval mediating sales and
necessary priesthood
the two polars never mediate,
once the priesthood used to
cradle the illiterate ones,
now the priesthood uses the literacy
of the once illiterate ones
now literate, consecrating them
with something apart from holy water,
selective reading they testified
to be as calm as a lake, but turbulent
as a river the salmon swam against
the current to spawn:
the once illiterate ones now literate
are taught a second illiteracy:
watch the television, read the best-sellers..
this second illiteracy is worse
than the original one... half of us will
be water and fat... and half of us epileptic zombies
enslaved by a television... i preferred the first
illiteracy... at least we died for love...
this second illiteracy is worth a jackal's
cry and a ******* of paedophiles.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
The noise of your eyes,
It’s far too loud.
And thus I look away.
Her eyes are filled with gloom,
And screams,
For someone to notice the noise.
I block my ears.
His eyes are filled with passion,
A promise for a future,
But his passion turns too strong,
Over things not to be passionate for.
I refuse to fuel that fire.
My eyes are almost quiet,
A whisper in an empty house.
Longing.
And yet you see the whispers ache.
You hear,
And fuel the dying fires of my heart.
And whisper back to me words I do not need to hear.
For I feel them too.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Euphony * the quality of being pleasing to the ear, especially through a harmonious combination of words; making a phonetic change for ease of pronunciation
Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down,
Hickory, dickory, dock
Trickery, diddly, rot,
This Diddy's life poems rhymed not,
The boys and girls all booed,
Your poetic life thumbs-down *******
Trickery, diddly, rot
sipped his morning coffee.
thoughts about mortality and mean
saw what wanted not to be, the unseen,
trickery, diddly, rot,
brain refrain, relief not,
the **** clock ticking,
the mouse laughing,
at his euphonious nonsense
he wept for being found out,
the noises in the house
joined in
all mocking with accusations
***you phony, us,
you, phony us***
another work day ended as it begun,
or began to end
teach felt
herself
for felt
tipped pen reach,
inky dinky in the dockers it flowed,
now I am red-tro-graded,
bold letter, no fading,
F
for failing
to phony us
slipped his head under the water,
but the words auditory
and most un laudatory
feared not a drownery,
followed him down
under
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
Got me a dose of my own medicine and I can't stomach the taste.
I spit it out and let the virus run a muck throughout the place.
My mix-tapes are an act of meditation. A phonetic compilation. An auditory trepanation.
With a couple screws loose I'm beginning to know the drill,
And already the hole is on its way to being filled.
Though the void keeps my brain pulsing, still, as my self trepidation is yet to be fulfilled.
Winter is a stone-cold killer. I can feel its icy fingers groping the back of my skull.
Numbing the occipital lobe. Static. Gray. Snow. A visual forebode.
Neurotic overload.
Sparks flying and dying.
Light to dark.
Good to bad.
Duality deceased.
Appoint the next fad.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
The singing birds may waken you in the morning, only to expose you to another day of uncertain disconnectedness. However, the late afternoon handling of newspapers could result in textured fingers and a black nose, whilst ice-cold rain pelts against your jacket with a forceful concerto of magical precipitation.
As you stand dripping wet, my indulgent adolescent of traumatic naivety, always remember that Popeye will be speeding hastily toward your confectionary impulses.
The dog behaved like a royal prince, as he gracefully licked ice-cream from the cone of his masters’ desire. Further Turkish amazement could be found in the palm of his hand, whilst snowflakes fell, and the tracks of police vehicles gradually faded during blizzards of the night.
Silence truly speaks across pink morning skies, as we gaze out of the window into resounding flights of fancy.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
Loud noises set me off
It's like they ricochet across the room
Echoing off of every single surface
And end by stabbing all the nerves in my body
I try to keep calm through them
But my emotions skip the step
Where my body warns me I'm upset
And suddenly I'm yelling at my cat
Or grabbing him by the scruff
All because he repeatedly paws at his food dish
And I can't handle the sound of the ceramic
As it clangs against the hardwood floor
And just as suddenly as I yelled
An intense hatred toward myself arises
Choking out all of my energy
I collapse back on my bed and wish I were dead
Until the noise starts again
And I'm back to seeing red
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC
Breathe In
Ready?
Visual, auditory, kinesthetic
Light, sound, touch
Buildings are of the same shape, stiff outlining
People talk the same way, smell like the same scents
The air's texture caresses me at the same places, softly
Breathe out
Have I left home at all?
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 12:28 PM UTC
Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.
I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?
Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with stupid CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, ugly pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?
I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.
A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.
Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.
What weirdos really!
Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.
Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.
I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.
I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?
Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?
Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.
Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.
Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.
Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.
Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.
Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.
If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.
Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
Naked pink and ebony feet
brush the slimy grass filled path
Through the tea fields elephants retreat
After a night of jaded mud bath
Armored with sack and gunny weight
Enter the frost covered fields in drowsy rest
Wake up the greens to a gentle fright
And pluck under care of enchanting *******
The supervisor mackintosh
Walking with a bend and a toss
Shout at those Cinderellas
Who look for shoes and umbrellas
Even before its time to knock off
The tin covered temple of olfactory auditory deity,
the holy Garden tea
The chanting enchanting to a coma hot mesmerizing wafts of aroma
fills the air, capture the sense of all devotees who belong to the Orthodox commune TEA or CTC.
The sirens bugle the devotees into fits
They come in shifts for worship.
The tender hearts freshly plucked before they attain mature Tea
Spread to wither under a hell
of a hot air with care.
crushed and torn and curled,
the souls are put into a purgatory rotary drum to pause to meditate
on the ephemeral color change
To cover the green with copper red
Garment to ferment before being sent
to the fluid fire dance
To attire in black and retire
in packages
for a last plunge in to a boiling cauldron
The finale
Endgame
A sacramental service,
a self sacrifice to energize the tired souls
In cups of tea..
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
You know the type?
The ones that sit alone,
with their heads buried in books,
not even blinking an eye as
the midday trains go roaring past
as the school girls all hold
down
their
dresses.
With their blonde hair,
they all think they can be Marilyn Monroe.
Or Barbie.
But they're not fooling anyone,
and the boys only want
the trains to go screaming past again.
You know the type.
Always in clans,
looking like clones.
They're happy. I think.
At least they seem to be.
But the girl that sits by herself,
with her music loud enough
to drown out auditory reality,
she isn't.
And she doesn't even pretend to be.
And if she closes her eyes,
the visual world disappears too,
and reality no longer exists.
Then,
if you look closely,
you can see
a smile form.
It might only come along
as frequently as a blue moon,
but it's sure to make
a blind man weep.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
Walk up the street
and put a bullet in my brain,
right there, bang.
This is what we wanted!
Look at the excitement.
This is what we wanted.
See how it jumps up that barrel?
See how it pops and clicks?
Look at the excitement,
It's all for kicks. We're all for kicks.
A wonderful experience.
Splitting hairs into my left temporal lobe,
pushing through the dermis, squeezing
through the skull --oh, that tingles a little,
I must admit--
before finally sticking to
my primary auditory cortex.
My oh my, what a finish.
Anticlimactic, just as I deserve.
Appears that there is an
irony in everything I do.
I finally don't have to hear it anymore,
there's a bullet blocking me. Over and
over, but no more. No longer able to
hear you say those things you said
and my body collapses on the corner
where you told me you wanted me to die.
And I told you that what you were
would not happen again.
One promise I will keep.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
I could cry making love to her, said he about me. He took me
through the countryside where he endured and at times, enjoyed
life as a child, met his father; surprisingly winsome and caring.
Showed me the clearing where dreams of wedding vows reside,
wildflowers and sunlight and the smell of the wind. Said he could
not wait to kiss me inside the threshold of his new house, could
not wait to make love to me on the new bed that he bought to
contain the exclusive bonds of our two bodies. He said time and
constancy would prove his devotion
I am here.
I am not going anywhere, said he to me.
I scanned my instincts and found incredulous peace, my own disbelief
was the only recognizable fear, and a reason NOT to be happy would
need to be birthed by ignorant spontaneous invention. I felt beautiful,
loved and secure, with laughter and poetry, singing and guitar,
tranquility and passion and rain on our first kiss, cooing Hey Jupiter.
Undone. My head is throbbing from smashing against the proverbial
windshield because he slammed on the brakes and slipped every
thing about me into reverse tragedy has taken his mother away and
sisters and brother look to the eldest for help his 3 year old daughter
has just returned from Maine.
Too- much- at- once, he gasped, I am drowning! Take my hand
love, you are not alone, I will sit beside you, I won’t say a word.
But he wanted nothing of me from me or for me because my sea
colored towels recently hung in his bathroom have been speaking
auditory hallucinations “She has come to steal your autonomy” and
he felt shame for this, after all it was he who asked me to put my
toothbrush in his cabinet. No need to over-complicate; he thought
he wanted a relationship, until he remembered all the things he
can’t stand about relationships and now my form represents all
the things that [and] he cannot stand, and the face in the mirror
said to him “Don’t listen to the towels, you coward! You are afraid
of letting her down. Just let her down now, get it over with and
then you can pretend that she never happened.”
He listened to the mirror and to the towels and declared,
I am here.
I am not going anywhere.
Thus, he got rid of those ********* towels and the woman who
brought them into his house. Life is too hard to include you, said
he to me, just accept it; this has nothing to do with you.
Hey Jupiter, nothing’s been the same.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
I'm so sick of saying sorry when i don't mean it, I need it.
You can borrow mine if you want, it's right on the tip of my tongue,
oh but don't grab the words I saved for my notebook,
for that other version of you that I believe will love me after I tell him the truth about how I feel.
And don't grab that poem about how much I love you when you say you love you, I mean me.
Right?
See, I think you grabbed the wrong words, you grabbed the I'm
but left the sorry,
and took the right?,
but left the question mark.
I'm left with the sorry?, and I have no choice but to use it.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
Tick, tick, tock, tick,
Listen to all the clocks, tick.
Horology drew me with all of it's sounds,
The shop here simply resounds,
I'm bound.
Tick, tick, tock, click!
Turn the key in the lock, click.
There is no quiet in this place,
But I can hear my own heart pace,
Trying to win a race.
Tick, tick, tock, chime!
All the bells go off, chime!
The time chimes right exactly on nine,
The noise is less than divine,
All mine.
None knows the hollow sound,
But me!
Up all night listening,
Listening.
None knows the auditory drowning,
But me!
Deep in my veins,
With it's deathly melody!
Tick, tick, tock, cuckoo!
Chimes weren't enough, cuckoo, cuckoo!
The little birds jump out of thier beds,
Swirling into my tired head,
A moment later, the noise is dead.
Tick, tick, tock, hush.
I mutter under my breath, hush.
I'm trying to write for my own peace of mind,
Where are the words I need to find?
I'm blind, I must be blind.
Tick, tick, tock, clunk,
The thud of the door behind, clunk.
Free of this shop and it's midnight embrace,
The ideas it tried to lace,
The end of a day.
No tick, no tock, no clicks, no locks,
Home where I await,
The sun to rise and touch my eyes,
The light can only harmonize.
And now I'm here the day is so loud,
But you help me forget the sound.
Tick, tick, tock, tick,
Even out here the clocks, tick.
All I want is the silence,
Devoid of this silly rhyming,
The silence I found in you.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.
Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.
Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,
it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.
His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano
— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.
Then came 1983
and beyond just him.
Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.
The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).
His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.
Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.
Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.
Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 1:43 PM UTC
Dropped like 50 cents into your wallet for later, passing the time hitting the pay phone. You turn to the pier ancient and stone, fumbling through your coat pockets feeling for your cell phone.
You hate calling long-D, but right now it’s a necessity. You take your call along the ocean standing at the present, wondering where the waves went. An old city bell rings this somber lick through the air, touching upon the ears cuddling annoyed peoples leers. You walk past them letting the dial tone drum at your auditory nerve, letting the sounds penetrate your mind to observe.
You function down some steps, closer to the ocean break. Rubbing your hands together, waiting for the warmth to take. You feelings conduct your pace, a slow and steady race. Waiting for the rose to thorn, the sea swells against rocks where mist is born.
You stop and look out at the water, a storm is seeking land. And yet you look upon that storm with love—you give it your command. You jump onto a rail, the line between the firm and wet, and you balance upon that rail, brushed black by white turned Violette.
You spread your arms and smile, in denial of your dying love. And fall down toward the raging sea—Heaven sent from above. You smash the water with loosing gasps, and rapture all around. Of water swirling temporal doom your hearts first beat at ultrasound.
In drowning you’re alive, the struggle helps you survive. And as you give it all away, your heart beats further from decay. Your veins can take the pressure, your conduit charges—a refresher. You breathe in water, to wash your lungs from the inhaled bull, and as the salt washes away the lies, you finally open your eyes.
Dropped in the wonder years, sea of brine and You change gears.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 5:41 AM UTC