"auxiliary" poems
I reserved a table for the two of us
at the only restaurant in the world
that not only offers atmosphere and setting
but tone and syntax as well.
First some articles for appetizers. They're
easiest on my pocket you know.
An an, a the, and an a.
Let's not even start on the punctuation,
I'm treating you to a rather large meal.
As large as the entire English language,
now back to the articles.
Sure these taste like lint but they still
taste. Petit fours but there you are.
Try to be disinterested or you'll
put me off my food.
Nouns now. My, what a variety.
Bit meaty, eh? These have staying power.
They taste like a bit of everywhere,
and everyone, and everything.
What's that? Surely they're not that bland.
Maybe you need some seasoning.
"Adjective" comes from the
French for "to the word."
So exotic aren't they? These
really are fantastic.
Exquisite, unique, zesty to say the least.
You must admit, they
make the meal worth it.
I hope you're not allergic,
I could have sworn I just
had something "nutty."
Oh, it had nuts "in it"?
There must be some prepositions
mixed in here.
(I'm glad we're getting through
these now, I've never been a big fan of them.
When I was a kid, I would always push my prepositions to the end
of my sentences. You just can't do
that in a joint like this, it seems.)
Ah finally. The verbs are served.
Well-prepared it would seem.
Yes, anything you can do to a verb
they've done to these.
Infinitives (too good to realistically be believed!),
gerunds, and participles (No, not particles. But we
did have some of those at the Japanese restaurant.)
Fairly lean too, as I can't see
any auxiliary fat.
For some reason
those adverbs (just to your left, under that
thesaurus) really go well with this.
Plus those adjectives from earlier, rather pleasantly.
Now a brief selection
of conjunctions, but don't ruin
yourself. They're not a meal of themselves,
just a link to...
Oh! Look at those interjections.
So delicate, so (Wow!) incisive.
I told you to keep your appetite.
Well, just try a little of this. Goodness, me!
And then everyone proceeds to
die
from a split infinitive.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
When you like somebody so much but you don't know how to tell him,
When you are not sure about what you feel.
When you want to ask him to stay longer but he has to pick up his mom.
When you can't hide the disappointment on your face.
But he said that this soon shall pass.
When he said he was attracted to you
When he hugs you and buries his face in your hair,
When he looks at you with his baby blues so clear
When he laughs with you
When he listens so attentively when you talk
The world is filled with colors
When you knew it was coming
But you thought you could dodge it
When he sat down and said sorry.
When he texts you, When he said he would text you
When he talks with modal auxiliary verbs.
When he tells you his family history.
When I see his eyes brighten
When I think I am falling but don't know his side of story.
are all fragments of our memories.
When he said it's still beautiful to leave when you have developed feelings.
Remember me when you leave.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
Sensation, intuition, feeling, and thinking,
Is wrapped inside a ball,
A small pink ball inside our head,
That won't stop till we're dead,
Analytical bedrock inside oozing theories,
Elemental atoms sizzling logic,
The imaginative stranger,
One abstracted and eccentric,
Walking with shadows,
Talking and mocking,
Through these theories inside us,
Tilting our caps ‘til we’re shaking our heads,
Pensive love in storming analysis,
Sapiosexually excited, piqued interest,
Unemotional and thoughtfully attuned,
Absently minded, always condoned,
Unconventional and impartially stringed,
Weirdly wired in auxiliary functions,
Misconstrued and misunderstood,
An ****** intelligence bleeding paranoia,
Knocking unto me,
Into you, inside us all,
It’s something we all yearn to be,
And when you fail and prevail we laugh,
Crickling crickets thinking nothing,
Washing down the storm drain,
With no thoughts fluidly sliding down my throat,
Pop goes no questions into absolute concise words like freshly broken glass,
Again shadows await, but different shadows,
Blinking at me staring at you,
Wondering what’s what, inside this dementia made sense of a lovely afternoon,
Inside your sane, autocorrected, predetermined, twitching, little…mind.
Inspired by Myers Briggs Personality Test
Tyler is INTP... Logician (Introverted INtuitive Thinking Perception)
The drifter, dreamer the absent minded professor!
SassyJ is INTJ... Architect (Introverted INtuitive Thinking Judging)
The starry-eyed idealist manoeuvring life as if a giant chess board!
What Myer Briggs personality type are you?... See link below
It would be great to know.Please comment!!
http://www.16personalities.com/intp-personality
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
Consume speed,
rid auxiliary weight—
no love handles,
no fat from rearview—
just frame,
pumping heart,
place where man can sit.
Muffin-top women watch me
quiver under skin,
unshakable desire
to chew fat from their bodies—
never know if I’d
swallow or spit.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
*to further my point, as an eager reader in
a catholic school, reading about
the gnostic heretics, wondering
with my theology tutor upon the question
asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics
influenced mohammad on the sly?
i mean, they too believed a phantom walked
among men, and a phantom was crucified?*
my confirmation didn't take place
in a cathedral, as was due course for all of
us in being schooled, by a bishop
in brentwood cathedral,
i opted out... my confirmation came
in a russian orthodox cathedral,
in st. petersburg, when i watched
people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm,
with the priest mumbling
toward a golden altar, as typical in
the tradition, buttocks towards the people
or as in the western tradition
reciting in latin, before the nationalists
came and spoke the gospel in each
designated tongue so people understood,
a bit like having your back turned
against the people - speaking in latin -
and when i sat i the church
to listen to the choir singing,
some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me
to stand up, and pay respect to the golden
altar... he told me to stand up!
what cheek... what barbarism... only
in russia... i had to stop being bewildered
by the beauty of song and listen to
a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of
gold... THEN i was confirmed...
donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving!
mind the fact that i've seen the greatest
degradation of mysticism take place...
the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along...
in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along,
the idiots reminded me of it...
you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname...
you're educated: confirmation name...
that takes four spaces of consideration...
so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils,
folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces
of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god...
but only in writing... first name, baptismal name,
confirmation name, surname...
a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing...
same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw...
but experience-wise... un-original to the ****
not even a clone... not able to experience major
historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself...
a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior
if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper...
clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible...
too many inter-actants along the way
can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone...
different mr. john smith... NEXT!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
Whence came his feet into my field, and why?
How is it that he sees it all so drear?
How do I see his seeing, and how hear
The name his bitter silence knows it by?
This was the little fold of separate sky
Whose pasturing clouds in the soul’s atmosphere
Drew living light from one continual year:
How should he find it lifeless? He, or I?
Lo! this new Self now wanders round my field,
With plaints for every flower, and for each tree
A moan, the sighing wind’s auxiliary:
And o’er sweet waters of my life, that yield
Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal’d,
Even in my place he weeps. Even I, not he.
2.1k
.oh... hi y'all:
or rather - how did i find this in the noun Ohio?
i guess after watching
the disaster artist
and no having watched
the room...
the tetragrammaton
is so glaring to me
in the English tongue,
i might as well be
a reincarnation of
Belshazzar
(but not really...
because, to me,
reincarnation
implies
a fixed number
of people...
and an mingling
of solipsism from
philosophy,
and NPC from the gaming
world...
no, i can't believe
in reincarnation...
saving grace of
the Hindus?
they're not lactose intolerant;
boogie-woogie-boo-woo
ooh things are turning,
freak-y...
why is that a Y and not
an E?
see... the tetragrammaton
is glaring at me...
like an ***** protruding
phallus with the added
"flavor" of a circumcision
snippet...
me? i'm fine...
no snippet...
i can **** off as much
as i like and not feel
stupid -
or catholic, about it,
having, in my possession,
an unsheathed "sword").
p.s. it really is the case
of circumcising men
as a procreational motivation,
no ******** on you...
plenty of ******** on her...
and how the east meets
the west...
back in the east i'd be a blessing...
over 'ere?
i'm a walking abortion...
a nuisance...
something you send off
to fight in incestuous...
here's my 100 year closure celebration:
V!
like the Welsh longbow men... up yours!
who? in the 100 year war...
the French would cut off the...
**** index or middle finger?
they would cut off one of the fingers
of the Welsh longbow men...
so they could fire an arrow...
P.O.W.s...
so the Welsh longbow men
came up with V... a salute
to the French... up yours!
i still have mine!
hence? i don't feel ****** jerking off...
too bad, ol' chap,
you've been given an incentive
to find your missing ********
in a woman's *****
sorry... i actually feel sorry for
you having this imposed on you...
the missing caftan / hood and all...
sometimes i wondered:
does she even know what she's
doing performing ******** on
me? maybe i could cut my torso off
and show her how to do it?
in the east i'd be a godsend,
but in the west i'm an
embarrassment...
great in tissue... greater still
in pointless wars...
auxiliary pageant...
sure sure...
glorify the women...
last time i heard my ex-girlfriend
gave birth to her fourth child...
her fourth daughter...
i seriously should have been
born a ******* Mongol.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.
The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
so they pack their sacks with their old guns
to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.
The first bullets abandon their barrels,
the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
booming into cacophony
in shrill-major.
Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.
Out come the canons,
dancing on their wheels,
silencing the gunfire,
spinning on their heels,
dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.
Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
armadas sing in baritone
while civilians scream soprano.
Children cry in alto.
Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.
While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
fashioning,
always,
a bellicose smile.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
From the dark black clouds
lightning strikes
rusty old iron pike
pointing the sky
atop a haunted mansion
Charge flows into the earth
getting dispersed, neutralized
sky and clouds rumble
in joy, their claps thunder
across the valley
window panes resonate
with laughter
I stand in the haunted house
like an apparition a Ghost
at the window
Clouds appear to me as parade
of tiny dust people, Mexican wave of charges
travelling down vibrating hot plasma
to my blind eyes
enhancing the beauty of
a streak of white on
dark black canvas
In turn enhancing charging
electrochemical excitation at synapse
releasing a wave of calcium ions
as billions of cells and charges
work in harmony to create
a single conscious me
A vision of future
not so bleak dawns
before my blind eyes
as billions of living conscious
living organisms blend
in harmony as all the charges
resonate upholding inherent
diversity we empathize
into a single entity earth
Clearing the puzzle of evolution
from interacting particles and charges
to a cell with auxiliary units to
multicellular organisms to a single
Conscious beings to a single Conscious
PLANET
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
Come
wild new splendor
Come
volcanic wonder
Come
holy ignition
Come
heaving impetus
Come
ardent elastic dreams
Come
raging waters thrusting
Come
luscious droplets
Come
swift organic swells
Come
thrush of songbirds
Come
bellows of breaking ground
Come
auxiliary flowers breathing
Come
sweet sapling songs
Come
****** saturation
Come
divine allure
Come
teeming pollinators
Come
abounding overflow
Come
copious life
Come
brimming manifold
Come
sweet floral air
Come
bold blasts of bearing
Come
sun kissed beauties
Come
fervid spring
I Welcome
your enamouring rivulets
I Welcome
your riveting deliciousness
enraptured as I am by your employ
tantalizing
& Alive
Bore into my heart
Grow through my veins
Take me over
Beloved
Beloved
Love
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
1226
The Popular Heart is a Cannon first—
Subsequent a Drum—
Bells for an Auxiliary
And an Afterward of ***
Not a Tomorrow to know its name
Nor a Past to stare—
Ditches for Realms and a Trip to Jail
For a Souvenir—
1.5k
I foster an incremental relation to the cosmos, enticed regularly by its indefiniteness and appeal.
Its evolutions, innate behaviors, and formidable sciences are recompense for earth’s meager discrepancies.
I often engage in the caprice to dismount much dissatisfaction by the constancy of riveting celestial events.
These beings possess no artificiality.
Its prophetic order, ornate and stupendous architectural facets have allowed a crescendo of dispositional hysteria.
Prosaic imprecations are deduced from its auxiliary wherewithal.
There is no contrition in immersing in enthrallment nor is there fickleness in trust.
Magnificent bodies orbit in finesse and probability, achieving universality and control.
Though these incitements are exponentially cheering, my origin is but connoted in despondency.
Usurpers and ill-suited vandals proliferated by the intemperance of the Ptolemaic discipline.
Rustics, miscreants and idle minds misdirected by less virtuous planetary derision.
My cognitive severity asserted by ominous consummation.
Oh how these preponderant truths confine me unfortunate.
Soliloquy is but an affliction amidst this era of anachronistic reign.
Grandiose passivity is intolerable at this time.
I plan to dichotomize my adamant fate from precepts and conditions anew.
The deposition of malfeasant kings will be sought.
Ploys I have already configured; propagation is near to instigation.
I will exhort my ascent to prime eminence.
The stars will sanction me to a rightful end.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
The frequent phenomenon of this empty place,
Gathering energy it cannot replace,
Submerged in darkness, foreshadowing night,
Paroxysm shook, stirring up light,
Out from the chaos four beings stood,
Together infused, singular brotherhood,
Light blends them all mistaken into one,
Thirty-five times stronger, than the power of our sun,
Welcome to the dream; a death omen quartet,
Witness the rider, perceive his regret,
With a single companion, and a crown forged in death,
Perpetually doomed to a violent last breath,
Pioneering our concept of constellations,
Bent at the handle, insidious oscillations,
Corruption was constant, like a plagued medallion,
When he collared his confederate, a maniacal stallion,
Couriers of desecration, colonial devastation,
Oxidizing nations, burning depredation,
Lord and auxiliary, imperial arrogation,
And with a single voice, they declared themselves king,
Welcome to the dream; a death omen quartet,
Witness the rider, perceive his regret,
With a single companion, and a crown forged in death,
Perpetually doomed to a violent last breath.
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
from heaving waves i emerge
and wander, hapless, forward,
to shallows, to piled sand and
grasses like thickened tongue.
sallow and saltbreak, this heart
has set to mend.
across field and timberline,
teeth gnash; but now they
belong to i. now, the proud
stretches of tussock weave
song through my chest. now,
lonely is an auxiliary quantity:
heart in hand, my very own,
soft clay to mould.
let us get drunk on
the stars and burdock tea.
let me find your fingers
across a chasm i clamber
up out of, only to breathe and
kiss you. i ask not for long-
desired salvation. i have
poured my own. i've enough
left to bathe you in light,
or at least to pry open your
leaf-litter eyelashes. i can
separate want and caprice.
i can want you.
let my desire
face west and cast to bush,
to flint, to corrals of snowfall.
i've dined in all great halls, but
i'd rather sit in your room,
for now.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
solicitous,
the dark squeaks through,
sinks in the holes
in the lungs—the worms
found her too.
appendages of the hands
become mushrooms
grown from the soil of old hysterias
to sate the browning mind,
the eyes no longer do.
in the caricature of her boots,
the prints left in frenzied twos
are auxiliary to the compounds
of blues
that do not do
anymore than the supercilious
breath she left above ground
when she was twenty-two—
latent now in a grave
where the light can’t produce,
but the heart still beats.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
**media holocaust dumbing down society
matriculating detachment's spineless dump,
weapons of mass distraction's convergence
assimilating adaptation's explored transmissions
in conversions of auxiliary's pseudo-redemption
anxiety cast in embittered expulsions of
ubiquitous foghorns flailing in numbing flat notes,
off key in theatrical productions' translation
failure to cease & desist standby sub-humanity,
close-captioned in radioactive hieroglyphics
on the walls of expectations' exasperation**
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
I am an auxiliary;
Aiding people with the best of my ability,
but, somehow, all my efforts are just a part of history.
predestined and condemned
to
e
t
e
r
n
i
t
y
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
there's something that makes me this way
wandering,
lost,
in a world of our very own.
I can't truly expound it,
but really want to try
maybe it should be this way
& you shall not cry.
and how those clouds hold the rain,
and how the Sun reflects the perfect scenery,
you carefully keep me in vain,
illuminating those image of beauty, auxiliary.
thank you for the days
we shouldn't forget,
gratitude been told
intensely ******
i don't mind being intoxicated
by the love
-you dictated.
don't ever stop & never cease.
for my love for you will never decease.
and that's a promise
I guess, will forever keep.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
The man who lived on the silver screen
Was never the real hero to me
for he was the man who worked the side-door
And let me and my Mum in for free.
Back in those days the heroes were many
Tex Ritter and Roy Rodgers were just two
The cowboy films were always the best
Watching those I never felt blue.
But the real hero to me was my granddad
Who attended the cinema side-door
He'd trained engineers till retirement came
And the side-door job paid for a bit more.
There were stories of robbery and mayhem
Tales of magical mystery and fun
And we were always let in through the little side door
The moment the programmes had begun.
Everyone sat there in the darkness
When suddenly all the screen lit up
And the sheriff rounded up al the bad men
As our hands went into big popcorn cups.
My granddad was as good as those cowboys
He took me to my first cricket match
I remember once when the ball flew at me
He put his hand up and made a good catch.
He served his country throughout the First War
as auxiliary he served through number Two
He was a fine man who everyone loved dearly
He did good things just like heroes do.
They don't give medals for just being a granddad
They should do when they are the best
Now I have grandchildren of my very own now
I just hope that I too pass the test.
©Joe Wilson - My own personal hero...2014
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Black gives way to blue,
and what I see is true.
Nothing can protect,
an extreme nervous wreck,
from what he is to face,
body filled with disgrace.
Now to find a place,
to hide from all the waste.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
When a potter raise crunch
though with a hunch
soon will be a bystander
they eye a ricochet cyst
round skin that summon Alexander
the glaze cleave an arm
and this idle their crafts
let inside hand again stroll
that wing a cafe by night
and purpose their hutch
still in a penitentiary
near a dock by parliament it charm
an aft-glow where melancholy
heart departing the moon
here yet a parole by noon
though still it ample tonight
with auxiliary light it toll
but debt show this dolor
they won't tolerate anymore.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
As we grow old
We tend to lose gravity
We lose filthy distructions
and all the auxiliary desires.
We lose audacity & grudge
that we held for so long.
We feel much lighter
Like a flying feather of a seagull
Like a flowing fountain
Floating clouds
Splendid rainbows
Warming sunshine
And like a free soul.
As we grow old
And let things go
We feel like getting out of our cages
into the world of selflessness,
As we grow old
We only become young.
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 8:03 AM UTC
He is everything to me
His control is all in the powers
The power of words that,
diffuse the love
Deep thoughts carry whole branches of life
The work of sacrifice, to earn
the love of pride
To make his buds the blossom of light
Auxiliary to the hands to fulfill the dreams of life
All love and sacrifice, for family
Strong in will, strong in faith
to seek for a goal, to strive for success
How busy those hands, to save the loving hood
He is the symbol of responsiblity
to complete the code of life
Because he believe,
"A small gain is worth than
a large promise"
Yes, he is a father, the father
of every nation who has his own
secret superpower
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 3:40 AM UTC
Wail
Whine
And flail
Regale us with your colorful photographic memory
But use discretion, there are children here
We had Schnapps in a spray bottle
At the time I had the most unsightly uni-brow
And they asked us all to define the term "tongue-in-cheek"
We laughed and said, "Never go *** to mouth!"
We got suspended
We decided to pull out the heavy artillery
And painted a giant **** on the side of the school
We needed an auxiliary artist
So we hired an abstract
He spray painted "Get up and go, lay down and die"
Right on the main entrance, so incredibly serupticiously
And in such an irregular manner, as if he put every ounce of his disdain towards that institution of lower learning in every movement
Like Van Gogh in real life live action
The next morning, hot off the press was our act of vandalism
We foiled the plans of the faculty to have a nice school day
They acted perfectly, like it was scripted
Angry, horrified and ashamed
The sound of us patting ourselves on the back was incomparable to anything we've ever felt
Even my incontinent grandmother laughed
But soon all the movers and shakers at city hall demanded the ones guilty were found
They rechecked the security footage again and again
They went through student records
It all lead to us
They picked me up while I lied drunk on top of scraps of nonsensical
writings
I resisted arrest and became a victim of police brutality
Knight sticks slammed into my chest
Tips of pointed boots driven into my stomach
And demeaning verbal abuse to my person
The aftermath was all of us serving six months in juvy
Surrounded by incompetent correction officers
And just waiting for our boys to spring us
If I had a chance to do it all over, I'd do it all again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
The ancillary argument is an asclepion which is anaphoric to anathema, anointing anecdotal evidences as an asymptomatic astonishment, assumptive of an averring the verbiage unwavering used to auxesis an auxiliary found aiding the circular back to an autonomy, assuaged in its entirety, appendant to an irony, giving appurtenance to astronomy yet astringent to all company of asters in the wovenry.
A sweetened ingredient in life’s vermouth, is a lesser known but still common truth, resounding voice a sound so routh and unforgiving of jockeying jocose uncouth but the greatest parts of life we know are sorely wasted on the youth and so fundamental is this truth or verities vivacious muse that some might say we light a fuse when using such verbose abuse that angry are they who find our use an anathema to amuse?
To wit so that I must abjure the painful notion there is a cure to a playful mind’s language of slur not meant as such but thus obscured the difficulties so inured on my ment-al-lity of thought a crime, a retching twist of someone’s time thus wasted on a poem blurred, a freedom though has just occurred; my mind a paradise, my thoughts a bird...
You wonder why I wrote this po-em,
Think on your life and about your ho-eme,
Look back at youth’s wondrous days,
When life was new and full of plays,
And ask yourself is this a maze?
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC