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“Defying Adam and Dancing Among Lilith”


Fighting tooth and nail,

Knowing I can never prevail,

Scared of being hammered,

Yet yearning to be smacked once more,

Praying for your finger nails to rundown,

Sinking into the small of my back,

As your hands trail lower,

All the way down to my backside.

For I am nothing but a tool,

An object for him to utilize,

Tossing me to the curb when he’s finished,

Craving for the one piece of the puzzle,

He shall never bestow upon me.

Attempting to obtain a sense of fulfillment,

As his tongue explores vast canals,

And valleys of skin,

Filling up the vessel with a force,

Of immense ecstasy,

Until he reaches sweet release,

Planting his seed in my Garden of Eden.

Yet I am not submissive Eve,

For God’s Adam to control,

As He exerts his dominance,

Superiority as king of all kings,

Who claims to possess the daughters of Eve.

Envious of her natural affinity to nurture,

To give birth to a new generation of existence,

In this cruel, wondrous world;

Her ability to adapt and expand,

And her right to proudly display her beautiful body,

With hips that sway with each stroll,

Conveying the body belonging to her,

And her only.

Instead the sons of Adam state,

The daughters of Eve presented them,

With an open invitation,

That you, the sons of Adam,

May ever so kindly indulge upon whenever,

They may feel ever so free to do so,

Over and over until satisfaction,

Is proudly obtained.

Mother Earth is never meant to morph,

Into a world dominated,

By the charming and dashing Adam;

One can only imagine Gaia and Isis rolling,

Their eyes in the way only a woman can,

Depicting her disgust,

Frustration and irritation.

Rebellion bemuses those individuals,

Foolishly content in a failing system,

Crumbling into a downward spiral,

Meant to rule,

But unfortunately never manages,

To achieve such a triumph,

Admonishing the warriors who truly deserve,

Such a glorious title.

These fierce stilettos under long legs,

Follow the path of Lilith,

Refusing to submit to Adam,

Simply because I’m told to do so.

Call me a demon if you wish,

Or perhaps a harlot among the Harpies;

The damage is already done,

Now that one aligns my identity,

To consuming children,

Yet you, the sons of Adam, are the ones,

Devouring upon the forbidden fruits,

Of this exotic deity.

Through your eyes, my sons of Adam,

I am beheld,

As this seductive and tantalizing temptress,

Who renders all of you to befall,

Such a fate of being nothing,

More than powerless victims;

How ironic since the daughters of Eve and I inhabit,

The world of the all-powerful Adam!

Should you not relish in such splendor,

At your noble deeds?!

Anxiously, I shall a wait for you,

The sons of Adam,

To reprieve the bleeding wrist and ankles,

From the chains placed upon many,

In such an ever so wicked manner.

The ever so fortunate ones include:

The daughters of Lilith,

The daughters of Eve,

Children of the rainbow,

And the beautifully alluring creatures,

Who dare to defy the reign,

Of Adam and his creator.

Your patriarchal world stifles the vividness,

Enthralling talents of Maidens,

Gentlemen and children,

Those who belong to both,

Those who are neither,

The ones of all different shades,

Those who fall in love with the same,

Who bleed crimson liquid,

Cry brackish tears,

Become hungry without nourishment,

And seek companionship just like all of you.

How dare you to deny freedoms,

To those lovely dears,

Who certainly possess the title,

Of being addressed as human beings,

As much, if not more than you,

My darling sons of Adam.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
as with any plaster work, or draping muscles and bones and
organs in skin - i knew i reached a zenith of some sort:
forever introspective, that chance momentum
that never reaches a museum of retrospective
finalised banalities -
and with that's happening in America,
i get a chance glimpse into that part of the world
so bogus, so *****-like, so haphazardly
put together - the chance to see the rats (artists)
jump ship and head to Tangiers, Paris, London
(for the pillars of the movement to come,
London especially, but might i suggest Edinburgh?
the capital of the offshoot that's to come
from Scandinavian novels?) -
i wouldn't suggest heading to Prague -
or Budapest - never to tourist hot-spots, obscurity is
what you need - Edinburgh out of season,
then the theatrical circus isn't there -
***** poetics: poncy monologues and Annabel
art-house flea markets... but that's the beauty,
flea markets in France, charity shops in England...
but i did exhaust this one musical avenue,
i dropped the ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ - it got boring after a while:
all that charged up mythological feeling -
the way we always wanted: myths to feel with,
to eat, rather than the sterile scientific facts...
i've learned enough to later ditch them,
even a Professor of Chemistry will have a postcard
of Edward Hopper's painting by his desk,
that window to view the world that doesn't
necessarily encompass sun moon and constellations...
how anyone would be foolish to scrub off
some inspiration from such things bemuses me,
the lowest of the low of poetic expressions is
sung to things that manage too much: the moon
and the sea tides, the sun and the seasons and
phototropism - it's a double edged sword...
only from one art to another do we get to see
our labourers of attention, else the same old deficit:
god... who in his glee took offence at anyone
having more awe-inspiring sense to please such
things... no alone can you master contemplating
both the beauty and the utilisation behind such
objects as a single man... however well...
it's impossible... you're sharing the bronze platform
with those that simply wrote of the shallow
beauty, and those that found these objects
were not simply aesthetic, but meaningful in
the machinery of things... it was never up to
us to find that electric genius of combining the aesthetics
with the machinery as one...
for in that sense god is a form as fraction
of 9/1, 8/1, 7/1, 6/1, 5/1, 4/1...
the fraction of wholeness... a complete set to start with...
man has already proved the limit as a fraction
with the base 3... 9/3, and that didn't really end well...
at best man is composed of a fraction base of 2...
by sharing the world through marriage to a woman,
or through a learned devotion, a crumb of what a woman
is, a philia (love) of his interests, a soloist voyage...
some just say: you will either take to being faithful
to philology and yourself as its devotee,
or you'll take up a wife... oddly enough chemists are
defilers of marriage having any purpose other than
to distract... but as i said: you can rarely write
decent things when trying to admire celestial spheres...
more ambition comes from the distraction of the zodiac
"prophets" and astrologers... a poem about the moon
is just a poem that is levelled with a poem
about a dustbin... but hey... Top Cat lives in the dustbin,
Neil Armstrong bopped along the lessened gravity
surface... but which is easier to acquire for a smile?
Benny... cue the violin theatrics of lamenting to a comic
end.
well... we have to juggle each other's impressions,
taking at hacking the raw meat will not give any of us
medium-rare barbecue steaks marinated...
taking the moon as something else is: nice...
and you know how nice things end up as... as tacky
suburban *******... if you're going to tackle the
thing with all the rawness... i'd first spend looking
looking at that thing of your attention in a graveyard...
just to get the feel to the idea: well... my fellow daisies
sniffed from the roots up would probably have
said something sulky similar.
but it's like that, you get to exhaust certain musical avenues...
i'm currently at a period where i have enough
stash of jazz records to rekindle my interest in it...
on today's menu? the real McCoy (McCoy Tyner,
Joe Henderson, Ron Carter and Elvin Flynn -
Flynn makes his mark, even though not the star
of the album, Art Blakey has a match) -
then onto the tragedy of Sonny Clark with his
cool struttin' alongside Art Farmer, Jackie McLean,
Paul Chambers and Philly Joe Jones...
i must admit that after watching the film whiplash
my ear-buds staged a coup to move from a certain
type of music into this... and even though
i already said that the climate in America at the moment
is very a second attempt at a Beat movement...
it's very much different... i guess jazz makes all the sense
in a pure urban environment...
jazz and urbanity, the hipster parties where wine flows
like poetry and people get to do their wild marijuana
******... but Bukowski changed everything
by bringing a taste of the classical into the scene...
it feels just like that these days...
there's no jazz on the radio...
going back to watches and radios, mono-utility things
that are the glamours of the inoffensive cluttering of a room...
no digital screen... the radio position at the back
of my head, behind me, the little fly-eye Rubik cube
ahead of me...
that's the odd thing with coming with jazz these days...
it's like Bukowski in the shadows of the beat movement
back when it was the beaten track...
so i said that jazz and urbanity are perfect partners...
well... take jazz from an urban environment and put it
in a outer-suburban environment, in a place
about 30 minute walk from farming fields with bulls
and horses... foxes the thieves rummaging in people's
trash... and... as classical music took to
teaching us the language of celestial bodies,
Holst... in this kind of environment jazz does the same...
jazz becomes equal to classical music with celestial
bodies... i'm just wondering if there are enough
instruments to arrange the solar system...
Mercury the Trumpet...
         Venus the Double Bass
Earth the Piano
                       Mars the Drums
Jupiter the Tenor Sax                                   (comparatively,
                Saturn the Soprano Sax                using a Holst
                                                           ­        schematic, the reverse,
                                             yet citing Jupiter, not as a planet,
                                           well, the bellowing voice of paternal fury)
Uranus the Clarinet
                                           (takes sheer magic to play that thing)
so that just leaves us with an Neptune as either
   Alto Sax or Trombone...
but that's how jazz morphed since it last came across
poetry... someone stole it from its urban environment
of busy streets and ugly manners and quick quick snappy
and the millionth time i could compare it to a spontaneous
encounter with someone in a bar... jazz lost its cool there...
people said the same thing about jazz
as Kaiser Joseph II did of Mozart... "too many notes"...
translate this urbanity into an outer-suburban environment
and put it against that kind of backdrop?
well... personally, there are just enough notes in each piece...
you looked outside the window? you could hear
a **** from a mile away and no tree would even sway
in nodding approval even with a galeforce wind slapping
them... jazz lost its synchronisation with the urban environment
it emerged from... but in so doing, it managed to mature
like good wine on the outskirts of large cities,
where it literally became the only thing that could ably
make a Kandinsky moment from semi-detached houses.
NEWSFLASH... what is this concern about art being
subjective? i don't see where these arguments go...
i thought art was about revealing the intimate,
not revealing the objective shallows of a method...
of limited scope like any philosophical systematisation...
if Christopher Columbus ever did things
objectively he might have discovered Lisbon or the Canary Islands...
art can't be objective... trying to argue that art is
"only a subjective" expression... well, if it was to be
a "greater" expression objectively, an artist would
walk into an art gallery, take all the paintings from
the canvases, and turn to the public and say:
now let's see your subjectivity, otherwise go ponce
off the art critics to take something they said to your
date about how: the light contorts the features of expressions
blah blah blah blah blah... the point of art being
superior as a subjective vehicle is so that i can feel someone
else's feelings... as opposed to thinking someone else's thoughts...
art is the sensual, not the premeditated dogmatic funeral -
which all philosophers attend: they're objective to the
point that they're afraid of having a personal attachment
to their outputs - they will hardly ever want to invite
a criticism of their objectivity, because they're such emotional
paupers - they fear criticism of their subjectivity to such
a point, that you can simply look at their pronoun usage
strategy, they really do use these words like kings -
but when Mozart is criticised by the Kaiser... he thought
nothing of it... he actually thought, nothing of it,
perhaps his vanity was wounded, but his virtue wasn't...
which is why he remains with us...
for the fatal wound incurred is not that of virtue,
but that of vanity... and true virtue is unafraid of criticism,
there's this cognitive blockage that enriches the
heart and leaves the mind blank... the sort of blank
that accommodates the Pyramid of Vanity:
bishops, priests, doctors, kings, queens, portrait artists,
Versailles... such things are so ****** void of anything
but scare-mongers, sycophants, leeches and finally tourists...
for whatever you take from the realm of Hades,
there's a stamp-duty on each precious element from that
realm... each thing is stamped: worthless...
you couldn't extract penicillin from Hades...
changing gold into a ring is worthless if such symbolism
of a union of monogamy end with the ring being
nothing more than a thing disputed over the divorce settlement.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
not that i'm paranoid, but, my jewish neighbour,
who recently converted
to islam... has...
     god almighty...
   the biggest dumps of information on
         my other neighbours...
in england, you can be employed,
and still be homeless...
so...
           why should i be ashamed
living with my parents?
when i add to the cooking,
the cleaning...
  and the invoice writing
for a self-employment
              partnership?
the "elders" call her a reuter:
yes, the meaning is
there: but in phonetic spelling?
rojter...
    no, not rodge-ter...
  roy-ter...
             me?
   i have her a nickname for her...
mossad...
   in conversation i slip it in:
so what's mossad saying?
   ha ha... and this is a jewish woman,
in her late 50s...
  and she knows more
about my neighbours than i do...
   and all i know is that
her younger son: joseph hates
the heat as much as i do...
and that her elder son...
         ****... can't remember his name...
works for the police...
  and won't tell her what
he does...
  about the conversion... ha ha!
i'm pretty sure as **** she didn't
"switch" sides for the prayer manual...
or the pomp of 5-a-day (not a fruit)
typo for ceremony...
ha ha... she has a name...
   Hilary...
                   god knows what her last
name is...
        but it's an old relationship...
the kind, that amon leopold göth
mentioned...
about king casimir III welcoming
             the jews...
that's how being neighbours works...
you, don't, get, in, each, other's, way...
you, crack, a, joke,
and, get, on, with, it...
you compromise...
   these english natives no nothing
of compromise:
   they know about dictating rules
over properties they don't own...
but to be on equal standing with
neighbours? not a ******* clue...
    i actually hope some Hindu family
moves next to us...
     then we can seriously start
      sharing curry recipe secrets...
yes... multiculturalism,
does work... but only between
                    immigrants...
as long as we can expect to share
the lingua franca...
             but speak native in privy?
ah...
              it's funny...
    there was but one english native
in the catholic school i went to...
i tend to forget that i was educated,
among... primarily the irish,
    with a scottish english teacher...
england... england... england where?!
is that even on the map?
oh... but i went to the Cheltenham
book festival, and experienced
the "heartland"...
     i left feeling -
                sooner i'll land on my ***
in a fist fight with someone here,
now, than allow my foot to step
on this land...
   thankfully i have adapted
and disguised my accent -
or thereof lack of one,
  other than - which bemuses
the local essex folk, as being:
     at worst slurry,
               at best cosmopolitan...
some arab... who went to an american
university of cairo type of scenario...
but how does Hilary (mossad)
know so much about my other neighbours,
i don't know...
   i hear she goes to the local
laundromat...
            perhaps...
                      that's where she gets
all the info.
            - oh, the jewish neighbours?
they're not rich...
         not all jews ever were,
or actually are;
but she's has her weight's worth in gold
for giving up the giggles.
Apachi Ram Fatal Aug 2016
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Time for All or Nothing Forgone
Stranger Blue Aug 2016
Strangelove.
Some may say you're an estranged love.
Everything that ever was.
I wonder what it's like to be you,
'Cause you're all the time.
How can you...
love us the way that you do?
Knowing the terrible things we do,
Your love bemuses the mind.
I hope to,
someday find a way to be like you,
to love the world just as you do
but as for now...I have no clue.
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
The Realized thinks:

flesh and the blood demands
you spew your stuff in me,
deny me nothing
even as I am sleep full,
thy cravings grow fuller, not fewer
craven not I,
to demand my satisfaction in the
rendering of yours

for you are of my flesh eaten
for you are of my blood tasted
tho the universe placed a spatial divide,
an atmosphere tween our celestial bodies,
t'is a temporary condition,
you are but moon slivered,
man half if not just quartered,
less than whole,
when disjointed and not inside
the incontestable undivided me of us

the Other Seductress
easy teases with adagios and pinprick words,
offering lifelong immortality  -
words like fish in nets,
loaves of bread,
that will
fill souls with insight long after
the physic man's grave site location forgotten

your muse, she bemuses:

I can make
you come and
make you
go
multiples of multiples nightly,
ripping your word seeds from your body
the pleasure insane, your mind enflamed
even now in the air above this planet your earth,
I am your mile high and river deep,
you belong to me and spill the verbal deeds,
your art is mastery more than
any physical sweating
of blood and sweat or tears


the other laughs and counterclaims
that all that is promised is but a mere secondary
derivative of who you are when you
whisper excitedly I love you
and this belongs
to me and no other!
where is your immortality better scribed
when your issue is woven in the tissue
of two, for you are only one when realized
your self conception nightly reborn in me

it is I that feeds your eyes,
your vision delights in me and thereby
you give birth to the art that makes
Who You Are
who you are,
for all clear all unconfused when
your soul stiffens and a single truth
are your emboldened by, and that
truth is real and is my temple
where carnal is incarnate
and you reincarnated in every way

the long haired and ever young muse
in ire arises and finger pointing a j'accuse,
says I am your eternity, the self same
that you existence demands be satisfied

only I, only I,
can provide the living will
that will exclude the black and the worm of ignominy,
place your time shopped physicality
in a state of perfect preserved beauty,
I am the mother of thy art,
the if of thy futured existence proofed,
I, thy future and the
***** that makes you beg
more, more and gives the birthing to all
your multiplicities,
never questioning, receiving all,
the good, the bad, the psalm, the ditty, the prayer,
loving best the most
ordinary


*whom did he choose
whom does he choose,
whom will he choose,
the tenses answer all
and in all, lies the answer
On the descent into LaGuardia
lloyd britton Feb 2015
If lines be given by playful muses,
And not from my own poetic labours,
Leaving trails in my mind that bemuses,
Following the flow of fortunes neighbours.
Then you’ll be waiting a long time for this,
A very long time, for they trek slowly,
But when they hit the target, they don’t miss,
And reveal those patterns that are holy.
However it shall come on flying wings,
Eventually I shall have what’s mine,
And I will bring to you, all that it brings,
Speaking the beauteous art that is fine.
Perfection found on the imperfect breeze,
And then seize the opportunity, seize.
Alexa Sz Apr 2010
When I write a poem I let my
words
make their
pattern
I give them a freedom
because they are a gift
to me
if I did not have
words
I could not write poetry
or songs
No one realizes
how
important
words are
they are the structure of
writing.
But there is some things
that words can not do
like explain a beauty deeply
words also have limits
not
every-
thing is a word
like oboligiopity
or
capontiolifondise
sorry if this bemuses you
it's just the way I think.
Cal Ashiq Oct 2017
There is a call echoing in my heart
I pray that you and I would never be apart
My soul whispers of this affection for you
My dear I offer you a love that is true

This whole being of mine yearns for your company
For only you fills the emptiness in me
Such beauty of yours that bemuses me in every way
That I wish my darling with me you'll stay

You are the future I see and my favorite blessing
The one who owns my heart for you're my everything
Don't let go of our love beloved one
As no one could replace you in my life my shining sun

I'll be the moon that gives you light at night
I'll be the stars that glimmers by your sight
I'll be the dawn that would remove every sorrow
I'll be your rainbow your hope for tomorrow

The Universe is a witness of our love
We're a match made by God from heaven above

This ends a poem I've wrote for thee yet worry not for tomorrow, forever I'll write for you again definitely
I know I know and I know that you know that I know and you know that I know what I know that you know.

Knowing isn't everything.

Blessings in disguise
begin with the firelight
flaming in your eyes,
the Suns that rise and
although only one
they seem to go on and on.

The Pharaohs become the scarecrows
and the deities are defunct.

History bemuses me
but
we make our own
most assuredly.

one hundred to one and the
gamble is on,
a rank outsider to tide ya over.

It's a jungle I fear
and the fear's in here
locked in my head.

Bed,
boring,
can you see the walls shake as
I hear myself snoring?

— The End —