"axial" poems
Math
Numbers
The only things everyone
And everything have in common
You can find mathematical proofs written
In between the stars
Numerical sequences hiding beneath a fern
That unfurls to reach the heavens
No one can deny, one will always equal one
And the sum of two numbers will never change
Truths remain truths no matter the language
I can't see how my friends can say 'I hate math'
Or how people say 'numbers are stupid'
Numbers and math comprise the essence of life
On another planet the number pi and
Sierpinski's triangle may have different names
But their rules remain the same
Math and numbers make up geometry
Which is full of tesselations, and fractals
And beautiful diagrams and principles
How can you not love something like the
Golden Ratio, or the Fibonacci sequence?
They provide the curl of a fern, the twist of
A snail's shell, the spiral of a pineapple
And rotation of axial leaves
Such a beautiful, never changing system
That appears in so so many forms
Why be bored when you can play with fractal-y
Tesselating doodles?
And don't even get me started on science...
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.
i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.
we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.
i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
keeping something away from myself
is harder than ever keeping it away from all others, a feeling of what's been felt
like a monster of mechanistic mechanical deities in the mask of an elk
as you melt into crusts below the surface of the Earth,
I tried to give birth to something more than I, as an individual, will ever be worth
could ever be a part of as any true influence which captures an axial tilt,
yet here I am continuing the trial like a trapped spirit embodied as a curse,
a progressive insofar as I'm miles ahead in a hearse that's headed off the edge of all turf,
and the next true hope I'll ever really have is:
"Cosmic burial is my first option, should that ever work."
Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 1:49 AM UTC
Philanthropic gesticulations are an evident dismissal of Anglican legends.
In this Northern hemisphere, we are unified on the verge of an axial tilt, whilst equestrian ladies in jodhpurs of champagne delicacy seek profanities beyond the confines of social respectability.
Let us sit under the wise branches of the oak tree in nocturnal dimensions of Newtonian questionability, and broaden our horizons as we contemplate our ancestors.
Listen to the bubbling brook as she whispers timeless stories of enchantment.
Oh, bearer of liberated pain, I resent fox-hunting.
The rooster always crows at dawn.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
your cephalic is now distal from my axial
posterior when you used to be anterior
missing our deep talks, instead of superficial ones
your orbital region all but glances at my mammaries
tilting your mental up and away from me
ignoring my lateral buccal
I miss our manus's clenched together at the median
your pollex rubbing my digital
palmer's together
my thoracic lunges at you
trying to grip onto you using all my pericardium
my umbilical region hurts
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
It is the longest night without you
My axial tilt is farther from you than I can bear
Bitter cold comes in waves
You remain a million miles away
And I fear you have found spring in the arms of another
While I break like fragile ice
And fall like delicate snow
I won’t survive this winter without your body
I simply cannot exist because
I am your spring
I am your soul
I am all that you desire
Share the solstice with me and only me
Until we draw breath no longer
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC
A limo ride
provides extra oxygen
flip flop
flop flip
might be the heart is angry
again?
VVheels turn
pavement ends
arrival time
rushing out
room 9 is yours
wait some time
it goes by slovv
X-ray shovvs vve found gold
on to computerized axial tomography
hold the contrast
in comes the nevvs
you're alone
vvhen it comes
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Good Bad Ugly.
A shoot between
3 monkey's, one
of them blinkered!
My bets are on
Corbyn and May
to shoot the DUP's
Arlene Foster.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 8:30 AM UTC