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ryn Aug 2014
Wish I had a special pair of lenses
A tool for me; just for my senses
That grant me binocular vision
Allow me to see with heightened perception.

Peer through mountain crags, over dunes of sand
Pierce skyscrapers in familiar foreign lands
A sight beyond nimbus clouds
Amazingly through temporal shrouds.

Past breathtaking ridges and quiet plateaus
Alongside a ****** of black-feathered crows
Tripping over singing brooks and moss-covered pebbles
Herds of quadrupeds as they frolic and gambol
Extraordinary views and candy for the eyes
Travelling linear between earth and skies.

But...

You're too far away for me to see
Even if bestowed upon me...

Still,

I wish my eyes binocular...
Because I need you so much closer...
Rivaldi Prasetyo Mar 2014
there comes the wave in the rainbow
then they're gone into beautiful life
as it was loosing binocular
...
you spell the world clearly up of your tone
and you are getting awake
you are shading out of blue
you are getting out of town
out of this vivid universe...

and spinning the time
and make sounds
like a train that cross the hills of quiet
but covered by thunder field on high
you're chorusing all the songs of grave
the grave of mind in the cave of life
and then it come over

and you are changing the name of silence

....

life is up in the darkest blue
and how you brake yourself into some colors of your life
once more you let me down
and see, see what I've become indeed
you cross the wall
then see what I've been through

...

There comes waves into the night
then they're gone into shade of life
and I am Loosing binocular

I am Loosing Binocular
Day Nov 2011
I see through magnified eyes
the binocular kind out of focus
I see with a telescope mind
but I think that the glass might be broken

your face
is a smear on the lens, a bit blurry
and my house, I can’t see from the ground
I got worries

it’s like why can I see
up above it’s so clear?
but I look straight ahead
everything disappears






the anthills have all gone away
you filled them all up with your problems
but volcanos on mars I can see
and each molecule, and their atoms

well that’s just my beauty
I can’t help what I see,
everything’s just so giant
to little old me

and my eyes
the binocular kind, out of focus
and my mind, that telescope mind
might be broken

it’s like why can I see
up above it’s so clear?
but I look straight ahead
everything disappears
zebra Mar 2017
oh honey ****
pen and ink **** star warrior
pretty little manga girl
twinkle wisp
with kung fu throwing stars
and triple steel samurai sword
that tear through others
made of pink taffy
and cherry juice fizz blood
moving like lightening
a flying gladiator
with dripping sweet rice
and tapioca milk shake *******

oh
you would taste so good to drink
out of a swirling sherbet punch bowl
with big ******* star goldfish
and hungry pink ***** lips octopus
drooling
sit on your face suckers

oh, fighter of one-legged midgets
the best part after a fresh ****
victory ****
to go down on them
their loli pop *****
butter ***** beautiful
springing through the top of your skull
cause you can't get enough

oh wow
happy hello kitty
***** plump plops
viscous
before the coup de grâce
as she twirls their chewing gum gizzards
with her little swizzle tongue
goo ga licious
before placing
what's left of their hose like glistening entrails
around her throat like a pearl necklace
only to get strangled with it
by double **** UFO boy
solar ******* hero of the universe
so hard
she spurts pineapple juice and *** donuts
out of pucker pie ****
**** banged cross eyed
like little girl manga never felt so good
addicted to cruel
whipped with a hella wet noodle
yes no yes no yes no
yes pleazzz
her big blue marble glass eyes
binocular kaleidoscopes
spring out on the floor
and roll around
turning into all seeing
anti-gravity magnetized
silver pin stripped spaceships
peopled by
evil omni ****** **** *****
screaming through eternity
in search of cosmic
tushi sushi
ogling wiggling ballerina butts

bubble gum for the eyeballs
Menelik Mar 2016
We've grown and we're growing.

Don't know where we're going.

My feelings are showing.

I'm flying. I'm floating.



The ocean is cold,

And i'm not losing hope.

I'm anchored to you,

Ain't no rocking this boat.



You see it approaching.

I'm watching you notice.

We both saw this coming.

Binocular focus.



Through hot and through cold.

Polar or solar.

Girl I see your beauty.

And I'm the beholder.

<3
This was a real text message that I sent to someone special.
Tuesday Pixie Oct 2011
I stare through the binoculars that border my world,
my life,
my mind.
The steel rims,
walls which encase me,
limiting my sight,
my thoughts,
my knowledge.
I yearn to reach out,
to push them away,
but without them I fear I will no longer be able to see.
I feel blind already,
stumbling through my darkened doorway
to the conclusions my narrow mind rests upon.
Stumbling to the same perch,
although the route has changed,
although the facts are different.
The same limited view.
I wonder; when will I see other dazzling landscapes?
And, if I do, will I be brave enough to relinquish the safety of my curtailed vision
for the bigger picture,
a bright overview,
instead of my fuzzy focussed spot of knowledge.
Oh, binoculars, your safety is hindering.
Sienna Luna Nov 2015
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.

Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.

Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.

Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.

Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.

Where are my glasses in all this flurry?

Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.

Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.

Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.

Do I make you hard as fire?

Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.

Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.

Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?

Dear, let me mind *******
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper ***** words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and

Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.

Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.

Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
when i first found about will alexander, i immediately bought three of his books: kaleidoscopic omniscience, compression & purity, the sri lankan loxodrome - i saw the potential, rekindled surrealism - perhaps a second peacock on the stage, as in more peacock of vocabulary, rather than a peacock of historical quanta merging (E. Pound).

i really do distrust this division in what science speaks
and what poverty stricken humanism speaks of -
i distrust it because science sediments itself supposing
humanism the pauper - science and all its immediate solutions,
humanism and all its delayed problems -
the new priests look so innocent - but i'm bothered,
i don't understand their need for awe-on-purpose -
the old priests demanded kneeling and an agonising
penitence - not a concept of predestination, but
this sort of minority report: you've done nothing wrong,
but we'll assume you already have, better than a microchip
implant, the idea, we'll use that, pre everything
limit the pro of everything, and catch you in a fishnet of
omni, it was too much, all in one go, in defence it started
with a mediator impersonal, Cartesian later Spinoza's
substance - partly due to the omni-etc., a shortcut -
the easiest way out - sure, if i went to a progressive school
rather than a catholic school in an Irish neighbourhood of
far-beyond the East End locality, i might have written
you L.S.D. filled poems, instead i start off tipsy working my
way around vocabulary that's adequate - hushing out
all possible onomatopoeia static in crude tongue -
ridicule feeds the beast, ridicule my prime loathing -
criticism well and truly accepted... ridicule feeds the beast -
but i mean, this perpetuated awe of scientists,
modern philosophy anti-Aristotelian does not begin
with awe, but with a ridicule of it, a disgust -
when did humanism ever experience awe? a stranger's
kindness would be a start, but even then there's hardly
any awe in it - it soon fades, scientists have immersed themselves
as prophets of awe's preservation, one picks up
a stone and speaks of a mountain, one draws a circle and
howls out the moon - i don't know how they can fake their
awe with so many certainties - so many facts -
awe reminds me of my first bicycle lesson, attempting
balance, failing, bruising a knee, and awe when
the balance was mastered - very short-lived, then the
drudgery of re-, i distrust scientific awe, primarily because
we're slowly no longer stepping out into the unknown,
we're stopping into knows and denies - not many unknowns
out there - except as in the case of Iraq, and Donald Rumsfeld,
known knows and there are known unknowns -
now... that's awe... i don't know who was keeping check
on this, but that's more mesmerising that explaining
1,000 million years ago... in a nutshell... how long has
this pneumatic drill of Darwinism been pumping custard
into our brain? is this the part where you tell me we're experiencing
the Alaskan day in the summer months or Alaskan night
in the winter months? all this scientific awe-bashing
is no longer vogue, but they keep at it - oh amazing, ah,
stupefying - and all of it just becomes a regurgitation -
someone said in the 16th century that Aristotle was wrong,
the wrong in Aristotle is that he might have been wrong,
but he was still perplexed... we're no longer perplexed creatures,
not so much... well maybe a bit when it comes to social justice,
but it's not like: sigh and a tear in your eye... it's more like:
if a white boy was shot from a private school, the mothers
and fathers would come up to the police officers with guns
in their hands... you can see awe vanishing when the butterfly
feelings flutter away silently... it's now violent awe:
why is this still happening?! huh?! scientific awe is not
a cushion you can fall back on: we have ~100 years to live
(if you're lucky... or unlucky) and we're being told of life
in caves and trees - Darwinism has hijacked history, this is
where science in written form is like an atom bomb, it wipes
away the best part of humanism, that is: to make human
life itemised on the microscopic level - i don't care if you
go to church and **** out alms for the poor and put on
those ruby shoes and walk the yellow-brick road,
you can't relate to Judea 10 a.d. - not to save your life -
in that famous motto *carpe diem
- but strained it's not
so much seize the day, but... relate to the days and those
around you who share them: pertineo diebus - or something
like that, imagine, going to a Catholic school and they
don't even have the manners to teach you a bit of Latin slang,
travesty; but that's how it is, we're no longer awe-stricken
in what the scientists are selling us, fair-dos to
the medicine men, shampoo men, cologne men,
but the awe-invoking men are a bit n'ah-ah to me -
given the timescale for one -  i'm a simple man and i want
to enjoy my beer thinking about last Friday,
my life... not the collective origin of life, and whether
i was too hairy back then - you don't need theology to
argue this point, just a little bit of common sense self-respect,
last Friday, not 1,000 million years ago when there was
no Friday, no Sunday, no March, no human imprint -
no: i can touch it, i can feel it, i can see it... i want it.
just like in my dream today - it's rather strange that i dream,
i rarely do, but sometimes i remember one or two -
and all i can say is that - i had the best *** in my life
last night, asleep
- yeah, i was ******* in it -
but what bothers me is that it wasn't lucid in terms of
images, but sensations - i can thus say it wasn't completely
impotent in terms of colour, but then again it was -
i'm starting to believe that i'm a blind-man in my dreams,
i ~see sensations rather than actual images in reel -
i can remember leaning against a wall and moving my
tongue in her mouth and my middle-and-ring fingers
into the... what? cliche? anatomic? *****? you choose -
a strange parallelism - we can use the tongue for such
eloquent fragments, and yet reduce it to other atrocities
of equal eloquence - then the whole dream-world changed
and i felt sitting at the tipping point where the sea meets
the beach sands, sitting down awash the waves and her sitting
on me. it's what i felt, i didn't see anything vivid -
but the sensations presented themselves as such -
i associate that with delving into writing in my mother tongue -
email / diacritics "crossword" (un-ditto and apply a
non-misnomer, i.e. give it a proper name, cf. Aristotle)
.
to finish i guess i might as well write a short critique:
the over-burdening of man with nouns -
as in will alexander's index of the sri lankan...
a few examples: proxima centauri (nearest star to our sun),
hemiopia (loss of vision for one half of the binocular field),
dukkha (buddhist term for suffering),
nystagmus (involuntary jerky movements of the eye),
nosophobia (morbid dread of some particular disease),
telesto umbriel larissa (moons of saturn, uranus
and neptune, respectively),
karina (egyptian demonology, a familiar attached
to a child at birth),
pretas (ghosts) -                                  or as some people say
including Christian Guerrero - 'they're just words...'
oh yes, and words are not the cogs in the machine?
just words... just words?! a banker's bonus is just
an array of... just numbers... why is this nonchalance
to these fundamental units? first they teach us to read
and write an escape the sunny harvests of the fields,
the easy mental but demanding physical life -
after the demanding physical life went our supposed
"ease" mental life changed into a demanding mental
life and an easy physical life... that's the problem with
establishing a suitable vocabulary in yourself, you can
sometimes overdo it, meaning not many people will
understand it, globalisation didn't save us from
the babylon ambition rekindled (whether myth or whatever,
it doesn't matter, read a book literally and you'll end
up realising what could have possibly been mere myth)...
all the above cited words from the index, by god, impressive,
but why would i pain myself to use a word that i'd
have to write an index to? globalisation and words from
Iran - southern coastal to be exact home to afro-iranians -
but locally it's just a ******* shish kebab and nothing more -
or central scotoma (area of the retina that's blind) -
all this vocab wall building is amazing, it really is,
a fortress at Acre - admirable... but then a return to the dull
grey reality of everyday speech - the painful art of poetry
reduced to a personal involvement with certain words -
it's heart-breaking, well, not for me, for Will it must be,
but hey, bought three of his books, that must have counted
for a cheeseburger and a portion of fries at some point
in his life.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2021
his hobbies include
                          invisible girls
                     bubble wrapped
              shielding their eyes from the sun
                        up the side of his mountain
holding fast to the cable
                                  and the eventual terror of drawing
                     paper moons
                         framed a bit too
                                                   insular
                                                   binocular
                                                   funicular
                                                   vermicular
                         these out of sightlines
                                    opaque and cobwebbed
                               screening off
                       his ***** little secrets
Haylin Apr 2018
Dear, let me startle you by slinking my hand into
your smart, ethical decisions while I touch
quite gently
ripping to shreds
your photon ends.

Dear, let me caress your supple virtues and vows
until they blow out of proportion
merging your interests with mine
like the longing of eyes
uncanny in its distortion.

Dear, let me rip off your clothes as I grip your tight notions
ideas slipping carefully into place
like a sterile, unflinching blank slate
inching towards computed devotion.

Dear, let me carry out some foreplay
as long as you bend, not break,
delightfully stroking the edge of your plate.

Dear, let me come so close to your face
so close that it becomes blurry.

Where are my glasses in all this flurry?

Of feelings resembling photo reels on fire
shooting flames out the window
beyond everything you’ve ever known;
beyond anything you desire.

Dear, let me kiss you to submission,
your brain waves in motion
as I twist and slip into them
hormones ablaze
lighting up for days
your synapses recapturing
in a binocular haze.

Dear, let me flop on top of you
like a floppy disk, uploading your lips
into my hardrive.

Do I make you hard as fire?

Slowing burning
my hot fingers curling
up your robust spine
cracking it into
chiropractor sublime.

Massaging your tired broad shoulders
like large sofa ends.

Is this keyboard only
made for pretend?

Dear, let me mind *******
take you and light you
brighten your screen
uphold and unseen
neurons fighting as I whisper ***** words
directly into the folds of your tulip ears
too large to hear, and

Dear, let me engage my rage
into a productive haze
bolting out words, unheard of for days.

Dear, let us become undone together
like the battery of a computer
rebooting after a hectic hardware phase.

Dear, let us breathe and walk through this maze.
Prabhu Iyer May 2014
The peace pipe that has
two sides -

zoom the monsoon clouds,
summertime-bizarre.

Choices,
pieces of the peace puzzle:

Biblical, them both.

Pasts alive in
binocular introspection.

Smoking the hashtag#, now:

A hundred colour
abominations around.

Comrade, policeman,

look, our
daughters go abducted.

The last rain is dying
and the heat soars again:

Wand-love or rod-fear:

It's a battle of the faithful
in a heathen heathen world.

*#hash's so-sixties.
Now very political here: shouldn't we bury our petty enmities and focus on the common evils of our civilization? I'm Blaired, for once :)
Eriko Mar 2016
watery eyes squinting against
the pink glamor of the setting sun,
casting marvelous streaks
of cherry cream soda foam
radiating from the heartfelt
warmth

dusk settling, a quiet raven
swinging in the swaying trees
and a fence line lining
the edge of evergreen forests
a white picket fence
cluttered with the ghosts
of memories

a pair of binoculars
held by a silent girl
olive and freckled
of the shower of tear drops
which cascaded from those nights
of aching compassion

facing the other side
solitude presence of one
walked of a thousand steps
back splayed by the salty foams
spat by the restlessness of the sea
an umbrella clasped in his grip

the rain drizzled, throwing
the pink sunsets into arrays
of sweet, sweet melodies
the girl of binocular
and boy of umbrella
a picket fence in between

a relief from destiny,
a rain check into reality
figures of speech echoing
slurring syllables
recounting marbles
that used to roll off
from their laughters
on lovely nights

a girl of binoculars
and boy of umbrellas
dreamt of once a meeting
of one such like this
the raven cries
fear not, deal not
what has there
to be done
when the pink
ceases to refill
your sweet dreams

and the girl smiled
the boy climbed over
the white picket fence
and held her hand,
holding the umbrella
to keep their warmth
sheltered deep within

the girl picked her binoculars
held it close to her pretty cheeks
above her lips,
navigating sights
knowing their memories
will far exceed than that
of the white picket fence
Sumit Ganguly Feb 2017
How tall and stout were those who wore big armors?
I wondered at a museum of heroic ancestors.
In self hypnotism I look through future.
find machines are giants, people- pygmies,
products outnumber their creators,
most inhabitants follow train of thoughts
set by  few scientists and technicians,
brains control sentiments as machines monitor hearts.
The stance is broken as the closing-bell rings.
Slowly I walk out of the empty hall.

1st. Feb. 2017
K Balachandran Nov 2015
The ship(notified) lost
leisurely drifts over waves
westwards, "Unhurried hereafter"
is the slogan written on it's mast
it would seem to an onlooker.
A net is cast wide,
to catch as much fish
as the tired crew now needs.
Each furious wave
that rushes towards the ship
changes tack, proclaims
a frothy message of peace.
No more communication exchanges
causing disturbances, no hurry any more.
None waits for the lost ship,
in any distant shore, with a binocular,
or spanning a Radar, uneasily .
The crew had already forgotten
every mission undertaken before.
It has no schedule, deadlines, plan
the ship feels more buyout than ever before
,just floats along, as if it's a tranquil thought,
towards the direction where
the purple sun prepares to set dramatically.
Accompanied by two astonished whales,
sailing along like two mates, the ship,
now a lone wolf,with a hidden yearning
has become more alive, once declared lost.
zebra Jun 2019
angel's can shout through demons
if they have to
here in the valley of time slips and air borne rock
land of meteor splash and ufos

sprit friends
a fantasy gift you give yourself
but if you see some of them
its the worst day of your life
those streaking trajectories
as straight as a pencil path
sending a migration of aliens
weird ovoid's with ****** binocular vision
like Helix pomatia
****** crawlers
while eight legged locomoting moss piglets
that look like a thousand blinking
one eyed gob worms
hurtle in decent
perhaps landing in the Yucatan

barbarian headed asteroids, critter ridden
mixed of spirits and denizens of deep space
from the parametric edges of Bals  
glittering kingdom
shoot suns down from the sky
far flinging those crater bashed demons
into predatory gardens
elixir's of war and death
wave screaming reveries
through red cities
of nightingale floors

nautilus agents plummet
into brawling plots of ash
shattering a million spines
of **** ***** monsters
in a bulls eye break neck rodeo
E G Fellenstein Mar 2013
--cloud head will
deter homeostatic clutter.

--binocular- peering while walking will cause a
trip a fall and a faceplant.

--making cookies without molds will result in
messes.

--writing will invoke
insanity.
Slam Aug 2016
Tonight i ride the couch we used to sleep in
The moments where our eyes met their binocular view
You were there in front of me
Your heart, your body,
The soul i yearn to grasp
The beauty I can't stop my mind of thinking

Right there
Her pause of words inhaled my oxygen
The sound of her voice became my ringtone
Awakening the memory of love and heartbreak
She's there
I felt her, I touched her
She was the flower inside my lifeless garden

Right there
The look she wore that dark dreamy lovely night
Staring through my skin deep beneath me
Her face turned red and the sign left me clueless
I was enchanted
The brown eyes, white skin
The beauty that centuries forgotten to age

I was there
She was there
I held her soul from the heart her chest hid
I felt her and suddenly the flower blossomed between us
Her brown eyes became my view every morning
She became the sun inside my universe
The moon in nights like this
In this couch
I miss her in these good nights
But her nights are not the same like mine
No longer
The feeling of missing someone that you wish that moment would return. The moment that you both had silence that made you felt happy and safe. The moment where you shared the fear of losing each other. The moment of love looking through the faults. The moment where everything felt like they were in their perfect places. The moments you miss. The moments where the both of you are living in love and not surviving the battle both of you can never win. Now let the silence make the noise you can never stop hearing.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
hard to play the idiot; likened to Mr. Bean
taking the role from
            Angus Daily into a Blackadder
   hurrah who? ha, ha, ha!
        my eyes never
left me baffled - or washington prone:
*** to a stirrup - furthermore,
  or Rushmore:
Atilla with an entourage
worthy of Genghis: of prone gravitas -
i too santa's little helper
and sinatra's
five p.m. flamingo strut's
worth of martini -
when said slavic eye then lessened
germanic white-boy fisheyed to boot...
i mean less binocular and more concentrate...
      but
there's me as a fifth of Nevada in Siberia
that's always the: ****! we sold Alaska!
Nicolai! oh Nicolai! Alaska! ****! or
  of what was the Crimea, of what is the Kremlin:
k, c, k, c, s, c, k, c, k, c, Vlad, s, t, u, v, k, c, s,
Rasputin, k, c, k, c, Boney M....
i'm still fidgety about the third ethnicity in
europe... i have to gather them attune to being
southern slav, or pseudo-turkish,
Finns, Latvians and Greeks... sounds like
falafel: all guidance to the subsequent reprimands
of necessarily tongue-tied whiplash -
gravitas with the kink and jeopardy of a gimp
fetish on the loose.
a guest
invited to observe
gazing through binocular view
back row seat

a guest
front row of an audience
in partnership
through silent applause

a guest
to meet
at your request
last not least

a guest
special reserve
one week to the next
your rhyme and verse

a guest
no more as before but
red carpet floor
star studded door
zebra Jan 2017
shush
take the blade
dancing cutters
into your belly slow
******* unpeeled
red plush butter melting
kisses my beloved
silken tangle
around swan throat
tightening
lips numbing
growing cold
hold tight
eyes bright
legs opening
grace in submission
grateful for another wound
ooow love hurts
an exquisite intrusion
blood gush
pain for pleasures sake
a self exorcism
haunches poised
to welcome
**** and death

her noble head
*****
mouth a knit of determination
paraphillias soul
that says
i do
sizzling binocular vision
glassy eyed
flexed muscle trembles
hot sweat
torso lilting towards the floor
worked down hard
into a dark hive
until hell
feels like a humming bird
with a fluttering tongue
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a , and yes i admit to my paraphilias  
These poems  are lunar amorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
zebra Nov 2020
i watch you inside my head
with eyes like binocular surveillance
spinning bulls
dancing widdershins
in mind erasing rituals,
from witchy book
voodoo tropical itch  
that spits a mudslide

and who are you in this poem
maybe a hungry ghost or
just a girl who has a kink
for shadows burn
from midnight suns
algorithms of bleated conundrums
and luminous smiling star eyed teeth

your undulant music
melodically bleeds desire
swelling
aching worm tongued clitori
in teary shredded *******
that bows her head like sinking stones
to touch blood silent puddles
of Pomegranate Martinis encircled by  
drunken Pentecostal Lucifer's

better than a kiss could ever be
you would **** to die goat horned
pink as dingo ****
and held down by storming arms
that stop you dead past memories blur
a martyred fruit darker than night
in a leg show
scumbag halo resurrection

under threat
ankles bound
fledged
split wide and trussed
she panted
"I hate pain
but love being forced to take it".
K Balachandran Mar 2014
Yes, the night vision binocular
we call science, is fantastic!
Good to locate distant things at night,
but tell me, by any chance is it helpful
for the user to locate oneself/self ?
How would one search for  a bird that sits on a perch above the reach
of the manifested world; this universe and operational field of science is here in the manifested  part. The unmanifested is beyond the grasp of human mind, hence unknowable.
Science is only in its infancy in the matter of exploring the secrets of the
self /absolute.But the lover within every being is dreaming the union with the absolute partner.Conscious is one, undivided and cosmic.
Mike Essig Jun 2015
Dear Louise,

At 2:30 AM after
two hours of sleep
I feel I am looking
through a keyhole
and reality
is sneaking up
from behind
to give me
a much needed
kick in the *****.
Somehow, I have fallen
into a hole so deep
I can't climb out.
The arena of death
destroys the illusion
of safety and
at some point
the naked heart
cannot recover.
Everything seems
after the fact.
Everything is
after the fact.
You can't change
anything after
a split second ago.
I feel a curious desire
to do the right thing,
but there are not
enough right things
to go around.
Is life accessible?
Is life inaccessible?
I have the curious urge
to puke out forty years
of my life's garbage.
Maybe I'll change my name
to Antonio or Ivan,
move to Hiroshima or Dachau
and see the world
through the binocular
but astigmatic
eyes of a tiger.
If you asked me
to describe someone
I really know,
I'd be very hard put.
As a kid I wanted
to be a writer.
I wasn't sure
what that meant;
early ideals can **** you
but you probably
deserve it.
I know I am wrapped
so tight that if
I spring a leak
I'll sink in a day.
Could there be a way
to fence my life in
and keep the world out?
I am consumed
by fatuous sincerity.
I'd write down
all the options
int this case
but I loathe
the **** fascism of lists.
My hormones seem
to be deliquescing
into a viscous pâté
of late life protoplasm.
They belong on a shelf,
not in your pants.
I guess if no one else
will make use of me,
I'll have to make use
of myself.
This is a difficult task.
My life has been
a long preparation
for something that
probably won't occur.
For too long I have
defied almost everything.
A strong man would simply
drink himself to death,
but I'm not that strong.
Many of my sins of omission
are beginning to bother me.
Perhaps the only real use
for today is today.
Maybe I need to get
back to the basics:
eating, ******* and dying.
How to maintain
my equilibrium in the face
of incomprehension?
Waking up is a kind of homage.
Or could it be that
I don't need to change?
I'm just this.
Anyway, it's 2:30 AM
on a long night
in a strange life.
I'd better go.
Dawn may creep up
and release the
stench of coffins.
Louise, if you get this note
and understand it
please let me know
because I don't.

Sincerely,

Mikey
Someone put a stamp on this and mail it. Please.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
Oh, The Bronx in the rain:
Slick city stones'         somber gloom

Oh late afternoon
so overcast with blues,
     Navy : leaves in tinsil sheen,
     Midnight : music and
Sapphires 

Where jazz becomes a dancing shadow
beneath light post misty
gold.

...

Outside the bricks are just bricks
but down there
lo lovers' tight embrace
in the fallow light showers
catching all eyes keen
to their PDA
(Public displays of affection)
as well as mine wide
Attention
Peliculas and tall stories
From a brown stone perch
while traffic whirls
           sleep now hurries
the city is slow as thunder rolls

loud
as blacktop oil slick roads
heavy as gutter water to
asphalt bones
This towns historic

Time stands still

In lovers hallmark corners shack
All wet in the gills,
fish kisses taught kids
how honey smacks
now that the audience is frozen
With anticipation,
binocular eyes
                          snapshot a Banksy / Monet
meadows of
raindrop brush strokes
chaos maelstrom
Wet dreams rivulet

All the while I am
Dry inside
Dying here!
At a pause / intently / intensely
watching
               neighbors in hooded moods.

This reminds me
how it must of felt / now
in this commotion
by mere emotions
so reminiscent

of the weeping and pain

wordless script
scene not heard
inside I'm still dry and
                            dwelling...
In need or is it wish
beginning to purr?

Still, in this stone dwelling
I am dry inside
         Trying to hide not
                         looking down
on those love birds,
A misty glow
               and oh suddenly
how I drown
when the two finally kiss...

drowning
        
                      without.




EMPATHY.
Rewritten from original version, which can be found in my writerscafe.org page by the same title.

Edit 11022016
Hailyn Suarez May 2017
How hard is it,
To pick them out,
Together.

I mean they specifically come in pairs,
Two, dos, zwei, deux,
Trapped together by plastic handcuffs.

Pairs,
Like pairs of binocular eyes,
Like a pair of hearing aids,
Like barbeque chicken wings,
Like that obnoxious aunt and uncle.

Are you a slob?
Is your closet a mess?
You’re definitely a person who leaves hair in the drain.

Why do they cease to match,
Is it to purposely annoy me,
While I’m waiting for this **** bus,
which was an hour late,
two hours ago.

One is green like it was picked from a nose,
One is orange,
Bright
Orange.
You had to pick the most clashing colors, right?

And I can see them,
Right there, poking out of your
Adidas flats.

They taunt me,
Regard my shoes with noses turned up,

Play tennis with my emotions,
And twist my brain like a contortionist.

Were you in a rush this morning,
That you totally forgot to look for a pair,
An ACTUAL pair?!
There were absolutely none?!

Is it wrong that I’m judging you right now,
Or that I definitely would not want to have a conversation,
Let alone sit next to you.

Socks are supposed to match,
That’s how they’re made,
Knitted, sewn, and colored soulmates,
S-o came along and bonded with c-k-s,
See, it’s chemistry.
This would be a spoken poem
Hope Everding Apr 2014
I've never asked how you felt
About being watched
Some of us humans will
Travel great distances
Just to catch a glimpse
How do you feel about this?

Is it a bother, perhaps
That a clunky, binocular-toting creature
Is trundling ungracefully through your home?
Your domestic life
Needs no prying eyes

Or could it be an honor?
You merely inherited
The feathers, the songs
And you're loved for it

Perhaps you are indifferent?
You pay them no heed,
Since they do not pose a threat
To your food or family
While they stand around and stare vacantly

Maybe it depends
If you were a sparrow happily whistling,
Or a bunting bachelor finding a suitor,
Or a warbler that had a REALLY bad day
Since her baby turned out to be a cowbird?
Or a goose whose patience runs thin
As the screaming human-chicks keep chasing it?

If you could take up a pen,
Or a quill, since you have many,
I would love for you
To get back to me
So at least I could respect your wishes
After all the fighting and scrabbling,weeping and wailing and even after all that pointless bailing out,
I think the ship will sink,
who'll be left to fight then,to wail when we have become them among the sunken dreams?

The trailing of men with their means across the ocean floor,a storehouse of skeletal bone,
I look on in sepia tones, like looking at old photographs and listening to old gramophones and there's salt in my eyes,
I drink this surprise away and know there'll be another day when tears appear to fall in the fall,
and I fall into the disrepair of despair.

Once the mighty ship and now no trace.
I scan with binocular vision the horizon which drips blood on the sea and Galilee is not there
only me watching on with despair
and salt in my eyes.
irinia Jul 2023
my body is a tropical forest in transition
thought is a beast with binocular hearing
as I am waiting for him naked
in front of a narrow window to infinity
Luna Craft Jun 2017
Binocular vision
Let me see double
Let me connect with the unseen
A cause for speculation
Question emotions like a lie

I can't read a dead mans face
Axxsh Sep 2020
interlocking Complex(cities)
a fortunate mixed complexion
comprising of liberating schemes.
the unnatural routine
followed by beings with hindered genes
i see them upload themselves in a virtual scene.
i look up to them, twice
binocular vision
remix the visuals with binaural beats
to keep me levitating
before breaking into a fragmented
piece.
they’ve preached their nuisance to me
i’ve definitely caught an anomaly
i’ve heard them fabricating speech into something humble and noble
i’ll wait till it’s my turn to be
insidious
i’ll spit radiation like Chernobyl
to obliterate the ever growing regime.
molecular regain
they speak up to my senses
to attain the consent of the
eternal and beyond
with an upright movement
momentum i gain
from forthcoming sonder
while wandering down to the streets
you’re listening to city dreams
lean back, chime in
with psychedelic scenes
peripheral context
sidetracked to prevent hindrance
from the beings that are of obscene nature
i’ve seen a lot of those
nurturing themselves
by ******* onto the future
still stuck up on the yet coming past
trying to get grips on the titular concept
there’s authority with the ones who kept it flowing
rugged strength no guffawing
headed straight to the delirious ends of the rope
always falling but never out of hope
the stream that quenches the guilt of those
showing up with guns just to pinch a loaf
exterior combats
come back to the present
im here to steal the philosopher’s stone
getting ****** just to soar
above the stratosphere
i went straight out of the blue sphere
where i got to see the blues that fill up the majority of the crust
****** back to my grounds
the velocity burned my rust
thats a leap higher than the nukes
you trust
get to my location
ask the Everest where im at
it’ll point up to me and i’ll wave back
but there’s a truth thats yet to be told
i held the meeting of gods that weren’t sold
nobody showed up
neither the young nor the old
except avowed fakes that claim to be woke
another rant....i've been trying not to force myself into writing anything...that just brings in a lot of unwanted and unnecessary stress...it's been a while since i last wrote a proper piece...but...that just goes on to say that im occupied and alright...it's good enough for now.
Emeka Mokeme Mar 2019
As the scales
fell off,
you will begin
to see clearly
and differently
without the help
of a magnifier
or a binocular.
So many things
about this life
that didn't matter
or even existed but
only in the mind
have optical illusions.
They will surprise you
because you put
them up to
be important.
When you start
getting over
someone you loved,
you realise how
ordinary they were.
It was your
love that made
them special.
When the scales
fell off you
can now see
the ugliness of
those things you
thought were
so beautiful.
As the veil
is uncovered to
expose the intricacies
of the heart,
everything you
believe in will
crash in front
of you because
all you think
you know is
not as it is
or what you
think it is.
Be weary in
believing too quickly
in things of
flashy nature,
all that glitters
is not gold.
This world is
full of illusions
and plastic stuff.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Keith Mitchell Oct 2018
what happened
you disappeared
just scribbled you down
hope in your eyes
the strength of your soul
they stay wide in the night
waiting for a special flicker
to and fro sensation
intermittent fusing nuclei binocular
state of mind
pleasant awakening cloaked in fog
like a comfy blanket
veil of elements
sweeping your mind
cluster of stars swirl in dust
fractional components
that make us up
blink of an eye
did you notice where you came from
embedded in your subconscious
eyelids closed
you can see the swirling
patterns that make
universe seem small
although mathematically
to much to comprehend
you bring it to terms
high level of pleasantness
Star BG Jun 2017
I put my dream list and prays into a glass bottle. The green vessel captured the sun transmuting into facets of beauty.  I stood firmly and with a swinging hand tossed it into oceans current. I watched as it moved sideways. I watched it merge in breeze hoping it would get into sacred hands.

I felt the energy as wind carried it outward. The bottle twisted and turned bobbing up and down gracefully. I watched through binocular lenses strong. I watched as eyes widened inside an amazing sight.

It was a gentle cloud fairies hand picking container up in the mist. In passing moment bottle and hand disappeared. Vanished into an angel cloud, as I drifted below rainbow sky.

StarBG © 2017
just thinking about a bottle drifting with a message inside and this poem was born
Star BG Jan 2018
In an HP sky of verse
words float like birds.
They fly so poets divine
watch with binocular eyes and like buttons.

In an HP landscape
verses gathers inside seasons rain.  
Sometimes thunderous poems are posted
Other times light poems that harbor rainbow.
Occasionally they even shine with sun.

In an HP home people gather
singing, laughing, screaming, crying,
in language of hearts
from around the world.

In an HP platform
magic is born tickling senses.
Becoming a melting *** of jargon
in a computer screen world.
Inspired by the great Sarita Aditya Verma a great poet
Dell Oct 2017
We've grown and we're growing.
I know where we're going.
My feelings are showing. 
1. I'm flying. I'm floating. what
The ocean is cold,
And i'm not losing hope. 

I'm anchored to you,

Ain't no rocking this boat.
You see it approaching.

I'm watching you notice.

We both saw this coming.

Binocular focus. 
Through hot and through cold.

Polar or solar you have my heart long before you knew it.Baby it is I who
see your beauty.

And It is I Dell the Beholder.It is you and only you I see I HOLD,I Cherriish always and Forever...

It is you LOVE....Nicole
My Thoughts Of Her
Butch Decatoria Jan 2021
The Bronx in the rain:
Slick city stones'         Sovereign somber gloom
Oh late afternoon!
so overcast with the blues...
     Navy : leaves of tinsel sheen,
     Midnight : music and
Sapphire
Jazz         /dancing shadows
beneath light-post misty
gold.

Outside, the bricks are just bricks
but down there, mon frere,
lo the lovers' tight embrace
in the fallow light showers
catching all eyes keen to their PDA
as well as mine wide
Flatscreen
Attention...
Peliculas and tall stories
From a brown stone perch, traffic whirls
           sleep now hurries
the city slow as thunder rolls
loud
On blacktop oil slick roads,
heavy as the gutter water on
asphalt / streets’ cold bones
Like this town’s prehistorics;
When Time stands still
In lovers hallmark corners, there
In **** shacks
All wet in the gills,
fish kisses taught kids
how honey smacks
now that the audience is frozen
With anticipation,
Wide binocular eyes
                      View snapshots with captions
Options
It’s a real Banksy / real lives...

Monet meadows of skies
        raindrop brush strokes
                            chaos maelstrom
     Wet dreams rivulet

All the while I am
Dry inside
With humid anticipations,
At a pause / intently / intensely
watching
               neighbors in hooded moods.
This reminds me
how it must of felt / now
in this commotion
by mere emotions
so reminiscent
of the artists’ weeping dreams
         wordless scripts
scenes not unheard
While
inside I'm still dry and
        dwelling...
In need
is it Wish that spurns?
Still, in this stone      dwelling
I am dry inside
    Trying to hide not
           Not looking down
Aye dios mio, oh those two
      love birds
In their gossamer glow

Oh how I drown
when they finally kiss…

It’s not envy
But a sort of empty
drowning
Myself without,
Yet feeling
Their kiss so loud.
Such is empathy,
Drowning without...
Revised.
Rosa Jamali Dec 2020
The Fern
A Poem by Rosa Jamali
Translated from original Persian to English by the Author

I was a seven-story being, covered in  scarce species of a plant
And it was a funeral ceremony
and I was the only single mourner
First I grabbed a gemstone from this very soil,
And then sealed and knocked it over my forehead
I returned and had a glance at my homeland again and I wept.
My father was the phoenix ; My mother a restless Goddess in Shusha and Hegmataneh and on the tomb of
Mordechai
But God was with me
My far-sighted binocular eyes are a camera in  this deep darkness, a whole dark loophole!
And I’m the dumb and voiceless Myth of clashes of spoons and forks at the dinner table
Deity of The Nawab Highway , heading the cemeteries
At East End of this city ... What’s pouring over your head blow by blow and nonstop, incessantly?
What is this entire dirt and filth in thorns and dust?
Which is covering things in a very slow pace, gentle and soft!
What's it like? What could it be?
The fairies had nested on my dark hair,
And I had washed the fairies, drained them, brewed them like rice.
You knew the time well , the moments are lingering, it's yawning and sleepy,
That very frozen moment and then absolute silence
While with my wounded nails on the stove, I was boiling over the saucepan!
When I covered the whole scene of the Revolution Square and erupted like a volcano
Perhaps I had just kept my face pale with bleaching ...

I am the Fern
The Orphan Land
The Stepchild
Fostered Land
Burned,
And forbidden
And infected with all kinds of diseases, fake gurus, lies and manipulations

What has captured your heart and attached you to this land, brother?
The country which has been completely burned, half buried and the other half contaminated with Lead,
The somkes are left...

The Fern I am!
The Goddess of growing wild flowers,
The Lady of thorn and thistles
Upon the sorrow of the Talisman woven into my country,
And how I digged the mountains,
What have you done then?
Only a handful of soil which has been displaced
Makes me bewitched forever
Ashes which have been sprinkled over Bozorgmehr and Yazdgerd and the Great Republic
My ashes which have been spread over the seas and over the far oceans
And I have been resided in the waters of the River Tigris forever
The stale smell of dampness;
The spider which has nested right over my head
And you had foretold all this ,
You had already seen it...

The Naming ritual is over.
Turn off the lights. Tomorrow is a Saturday,
Oh, I will not sigh!
Mirrors have grown over my index finger!
For I have wept the waters of seven seas in six thousand years
And I have taken refuge in the corner of a chair in fury

The sidewalks are deserted.
Passers-by are the perpetual dead
And this deserted Military Zone
Has no longer been residential.

I yielded to the winds
And packed
Giving away my body
And giving my soul to the windshields  
It came to pass in a second when I became a yardbird
A captive for thousands of  years
To the bitter end,
My words were ashes and carbon dioxide; coal...
The Fern is an ill-bred wild seed, off the rails that is not given a name, not called by a name
It's exactly like a lettuce leaf:  not happened to be named,
But it's peeled,
Misshaped, warped and deformed
Why should it be named in the first place?

— The End —