"butterflying" poems
It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******
Just ******* could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere ******* Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
We bleed red rainbows,
for disbelief in the system of destroying ourselves
Delving out raw humor,
emotions into the void of unavoidance.
I was lost in a trance,
watching the fractals explode of the mirror,
of the reality we fight,
for no reason but to make sense of
the pentagram ***** staining my jacket|
with a memory.
I try to sweep that bittersweet memory,
off the foot of my bed,
to shed my cocoon of self loathing,
to become a mechanical butterflying by
the space time continuum,
of unconscious breath,
fogging the mirror,
watching yourself,
a fly on the wall whispered a secret,
rusting wings need
oil on the rig
before the dab hits the nail,
inhale,
that memory before you hit the ground
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Minutiae of life, betwixt
Sacred and profane in the mundane,
If lustless, miraculous disdained,
Evolves at it's own clip
Giving the unseeing eye the slip,
A crysalis of sorts,
Caterpillaring into
Butterflying love.
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 6:18 AM UTC
Current events on current invents
Looking ahead skipping stones at the rear view glass
No connectivity you're better off with brass
Benefits kicked in so here's to owning new lenses
For much clearer visuals
Mapped a shortcut between the human genome pool
No ones perfect everybody is a beautiful
The vowels of silence in a bright room
Summoning the subtraction i lost back gambling
Butterflying through the Ocean of probability
Arm distance please my thoughts are a disturbance
More than one thousand feelings of meaninglessness ...
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass
and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion.
I shall forest rituals of sacrifice,
but without Catholicizing faces drawn
from dark Crusading and my exiling.
Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering
and holying days, the dew
coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass
at midnight and cooling air
arching constellations
and the mooning of the night: the cue
to lying for rest
by the small pool in this placing or
to strike, savaging at prey.
Owling as it does, darting as it does,
from a bed of branches, crying,
soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves
rustling for this night’s Nativity,
this one lifts its butterflying wings
like the soul’s silhouette
taken by an angeling force to heaven.
After owling, angeling, butterflying,
one must create Jesus as a verb.
Having witnessing these things,
limits are paining, as are knowings and doings.
The mouse must have been distracting
this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing:
sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering.
Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight,
Hairshirting is my Church after living here,
after travelling through East of Eden in daylight.
Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near
dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp
I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper
of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup
from my own despairing.
Always there more to God than pain.
Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing
this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying,
I narrate my life’s kingdom.
Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence,
and re-Edening.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC
enemy of my enemy . . hiding metachange
information beggar . . shadow on a leash
double-threaded thoughts . . sinkhole in a sink
neatly-wrapped expressions . . butterflying horses
all-embracing circle . . meaning flowing free
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
there's a place between
place
and no place,
to press love's only
letter to your heart.
meaning meant,
to the nondrying
black of
its ink.
behind the back
of unrequited
love, dizzily
spun the dance
of perfect language.
every kiss a
pair of Jesus-fish
in the swollen
belly of a sun--
every
embrace
a
sole
reason.
sky-fulls butterflying
woman-man
dreaming
color.
lucid enough to self-stroke into
being.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC