"calibrating" poems
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.
there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
this
love
affair
claimed
to
be
the
world...
i
rather
chisel
chequers
into
geometry
of
x4
90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
~
*Black as coal.
Moth or myth?
It helps with the lights out.
And travels by thought.
Cleopatra enters Rome,
Dropping names,
Reciting pagan poetry,
Knocking on forbidden doors.
Nicole sees shadows
Of her former self
Staring back at her,
Rock paper scissors,
The color of three.
Give and take after take
On the burning soil
Of a blurred crusade.
Typewriters
And other assorted weapons
Form white lies and alibis,
Calibrating the dusted variations
Of a caught-on-camera obscura,
It is a dark waltz,
Some small hope still,
Yet there's a comma after still.*
~
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
Hilma af Klint
you’re so fascinating
goddess that once lived
I feel your thoughts
wants
calculated vision
spotting the reflection in ones eye
puzzled amazement
ahead of your time
your twenty year stipulation
turned into a few extra blinks
how did you know it would matter?
how can I hear your voice
such clarity
the timing of the universe
calibrating the weight of your works
precision
minds have finally caught up
your brilliance shinning through souls
past and present
I’ve had your thoughts
they race around
my mind like individual butterflies
landing and empowering
brain cells
felling your individual touch
lucky me or lucky you
what matters
spiritually blessed
visionary senses
planting seeds
they pop once the moment arrives
blessed that is your love
works unashamed
love unrequited
coming full circle
purest heart touched
more artist like you like me
not giving a ****
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
The Pleasant Difference ‘Tween The Spiritual & Scriptural
How to say this briefly:
How to find words for the inexpressible.
They exist.
Here is the gist:
Components - churches, sects, cults,creeds:
The claim of being chosen.
Inner spirit doesn’t need a system woven
Into scripture claiming knowing
What is best for all.
One wherein if you’re good you rise
And if you’re bad you fall.
The faith-based places emphases
On unity of life within the mixture of belief;
Consensus, peace and joy, and getting these;
Transcendent over time and space,
The sense that you are face to face
With truth above reality,
Its indescribability.
Not impossible to voice
With Love that comes, fear that goes!
****** no, more loving kindness big & small,
Universal, if you will.
Permeating, calibrating,
Affixing to an All that’s spirit: all in all.
Practices to help along:
Meditation, psilocybin, prayer and song.
The non- theistic preference
Needs to be demystified,
With road for genius or dunce.
Not piety, religion, magic, paganism, or god-based;
Theological or physical,
But meta-, deeply meaningful,
Yes mystical:
The core of all.
The Pleasant Difference ‘Tween The Spiritual & Scriptural 4.4.2017
To The Child Mystic II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Nature Of & In Reality;
Arlene Corwin
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 4:16 AM UTC
In my mind you're a scientist
That sadistic smile sparkles
With the glow of your white lab coat
Another day of tweaking the variables
Measuring the effects of each experiment
Carefully calibrating the potency of your words
To acquire a more spectacular combustion
All just to see
If the power of your consuming lust
Can put out the flames once more
Or if your fragile test subject
Will finally reach her breaking point
And shatter into a state of no return.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
the movers the shakers
the doers the bakers
the candle stick
and rocket ship makers
a race of captains
setting course
on circles of pyres
bereft of remorse
parsing madness with words
in reasons on reasons
giving life meaning
against inner treasons
founded on tissue thin
mental accumulations
biases and ticks
and vague assimilations
with subconscious shadows
over Palimpsest traces
we are convinced
we know our places
building the self
on struggling riffs
captains of the dual
navigating ships
occupying armies
assassins lens
horrible secrets
terrible rends
are we not in control
making choices
weighing and calibrating
hearing whos voices
thinking there our own
between good and bad
but outcomes are crazy
dragging mad
do we choose thoughts
from shrunken forms
from rotten gods
in darkest storms
or perhaps possessed
by invisible believers
pulp hearted creatures
pulling our leavers
that possess our soul
choose for you
what you think
and what you do
emanations from spheres
through our core to our brain
ephemeral forces
a patinaed, puce stained
skyway of cruelty
kamikazes dread goon
gods crossing each other
poxed ash moon
can we stop reflexing
with brazen compulsions
can we stop lying
with wrenched emotions
can we defy the elements
make someone care
transcend all that harms
and bring love to bare
can we shed
all we know
choose to move on
and choose to let go
are we trapped
in space and time
will we not struggle
Sisyphean blind
or are we mere avatars
in a game from x box
acting out our program
like a hunted down fox
we have five senses
to get through the day
with infinitely more
we could smooth out our way
brains like thumb stumps
form violence and hell
hooves of dragons
we buy and sell
what is a puppet
it moves as its pulled
by forces beyond it
is that why we are fooled
are we deluded
that we are the doer's
could we be puppet souls
of gods that are losers
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
Calibrating circles behind the eyes,
Making me twitch;
Startled. Surprised.
Like deer in the woods with antlers intertwined, your embrace consuming me.
Restriction.
Roots.
Vines.
Erroneous mutterings heard in the dark
The vibrations tingling the shallow hole in my heart.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
Look!
now they sleep bloodless warriors
pandemonium stilled agony slain tranquil
death sanctified in rigid cartesian rows
honored for their sacrifice and selfless valiance
laid to rest beneath mourning grasses
Ask!
where was the higher honor due them before war
are sacred vows to be profaned to be misemployed
Why!
do once verdurous lives lay cold and pulseless
as spatters of red petals tearfully fall
families breathing wistful flowers
distilling rue with lulling scents
Adjudge!
all men who enact lies
dishonoring crossed graves
greed calibrating scales of injustice
bodies tilted high by tonnages of gold
Aurelian kisses vaulting wars riches
Do Not!
dishonor a warrior’s willingness to die
for bravados mouth is a soldier’s tomb
do not forsake truth and honor our only faithful ally
ask ten-thousand whys before one soldier dies
before the bugler's breath sounds death's lamenting cries
Think!
Contemplate war’s fiery womb
hatred born inextinguishable
good & evil indistinguishable
Look, what stillborn bones lie locked in battle
this fleshless monster we mis-named peace
gv.2014
Matthew 6:13 . . . deliver us from “evil”
Evil as translated in 6:13 is "Poneros" A name also attributed to Satan
Which means: "he is not content unless drawing others into the same destruction as himself"
(From Lexicon to the New Testament by Spiros Zodhiates, TH.D
"Soon
the world
won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out."
A line from Vladimir Mayakovsky's 1917 poem , Call To Account
“They made a wasteland and called it peace” Publius Cornelius Tacitus
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
through space and time
your thoughts like rockets,
red hot, misguided, overfunded
too busy orchestrating, calibrating, hypothesizing, re-caffeinating
stringing errant thoughts and business plans and lines of code like children's macaroni, haphazard and fervent and
you don't pay attention to anything
not the groceries, the gasoline, the grime
not quiet, murmured, shrieking, spat out reminders
not the sunlight moving through the trees
not your birthday, the laundry, your mother
not my face in the morning, hands reaching
not the directions, not your appointments or morning meetings
not the wishes and dreams I murmur into your pillow
not our dog, water bowl clattering and bone dry
eight years past and the rage blisters my palms white hot
some wicked amalgamation, a spiteful frankenstein
mothering until your skin is smooth, peaceful
unmarred by sounds of pleading
begging, echoing
and even if the noises reached an unwavering pitch
past rooftops and crowns of trees
it would not matter
for you don't pay attention
are you now?
Mar 12, 2024
Mar 12, 2024 at 9:47 PM UTC
I rise, re calibrating mind's eye while seemingly sized up i realize that real eyes see straight through what lies upon rubble of distorted space and time. factor out F-iction from
fabricat-E-d pixels of sepia pictures. contemplating albums of step up or kiss my derriere. torn corners slightly f-Aded not jaded various images a-Re still scene. pass me the ******* jack crumbs li-Ning the pockets of p-Ollys blue babydoll jeans. percep-Tion is depth within regardless of judgement not swaying determination as long as t-Hese lungs live and breathe. rediscovering strength inside mazes of why did -I’s? regrets are for those filled with shame. trusti-Ng in something believe with the knowin-G that faith burrows through mortal pain....
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 2:45 AM UTC
Frustrated and outdated.
My acts are getting old, I’m told.
I’m told to fold my own fowl acts
And turn them into gold.
Golden scrolls that roll up past
And open up to brand new ways.
Days to come, I still may fray,
But carry on I must.
I would trade today for days
Which open up to blooms.
Blooms of new, and fumigating,
nothing but the truth and beaut.
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC
As I dwell within His vicinity
in search for Cleopatra's stone
His angels rise at the complexity
of the presence that dwells within
Wondering, lost in Labyrinth's embrace
I, at last, have the glimpse of hope, a distant light
As I drenched my soul in His blood to see Your face
Finally, the upper hand, I have within the fight
Inhumane, the nature that dwells within my psychology
along with tenacious entities, calibrating
as to describe the extremity of the Torturous self-tyranny
I place the pen on the table and let You do the narrating
Your grace, I can say, has spoken enough
Whispers in the dark, unseen and unheard
Strategic in battle like the argent chough
sufficient damage incurred
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 3:37 PM UTC