"categorically" poems
A line to define us is what you imagine,
When you hear the words,
Autism Spectrum Disorder,
It generally happens.
You place us in order,
Based on our physical representation,
And here come the words that I must slaughter,
Before you draw this misrepresentation.
We are not,
The terms ‘high functioning’,
Or ‘low functioning’,
In fact this is actually quite impolite.
To give a more representable label,
Please use the terms,
Severe Autism,
Moderate,
Or mild.
Every autistic person,
Has a different set of strengths and needs,
So do not presume the ‘functioning’ term,
As it tends to arrange and mistreat,
Every autistic person,
Who experiences challenges,
In different versions.
With these terms,
We have created the gap between neurotypicals and the autistic on our own.
When after all,
A better understanding is all we need to be realistic,
Because we all share the same bones.
So, no two people you meet with autism,
Are categorically the same.
We are a spectrum of many beautiful colours,
And we are all here to play the same game.
There are multiple areas where we can succeed,
And just like you,
Others, where we are not so great.
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 3:40 PM UTC
As the sun reaches it zenith & the moon becomes full,
Soldiers are deployed at various point,
Allowing their thought to wander away into ephemeral violence,
Well armed,
Red pointers at human sight,
killing in the pretence of liberation,
Defenceless civilians murdered in sight,
I don't have the adequate vocabulary to constructively & emotionally create that atmosphere,
As a poet they don't mind if I make a sound
But it's a real problem
if I ever get too loud,
It enrages me,
I'm bitterly miffed,
Imagine the agony, stress, depression & tension they are
going through,
Let's be factual,
Their based desire & legitimate purpose is to associate ,affiliate & standardize us as terrorist,
They come in front of our tv & give us speech our forefathers have never heard of,
Humanity in it eternity have been blindfolded & deviated from the truth,
They have become the fixed & Luminous center around which innumerable lifestyle revolves,
Civilization will not lead mankind to insanity,
It feels good to be in power ,
But a day will come when they will ponder, reflect & introspect,
but their reflection will be to no avail,
Reflect over what I say,
In silence & tranquillity,
We may be on a Long arduous journey,
But victory is to the oppressed,
Categorically & selectively speaking ,
It will become a practical reality,
Innocent souls are been lost everyday,
In pakistan,Syria,Iraq,Iran
Yet the conference continues,
Killings intensifies,
Women are murdered,
Fathers are slaughtered,
Kids are held captive some rigorously excluded,
Without them labouring humanity searching for peace will perish,
It's a sad time we live in,
Educated leaders with no heart of human sympathy,
Acting upon their based desires & ego,
You may call this character assassination,
I call it supreme words of justice
Only time will tell who is the true terrorist
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
The sky is an artistic graveyard.
Many a hero and many a fool have come to their fate in its wave-driven clutches.
The number of syllables required to storybook danger is as dense as ozone.
The orange layer—a warning sign, posted by the forebearers of fun, who were categorically undone by the very forces they worshipped.
Birds no better than to fly at such temperamental altitudes.
But the dream will die if we don't try.
And so we hoist our ambition like a kite, hoping to stay aloft long enough to discover something more about ourselves.
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 1:01 PM UTC
who will read aloud
my poems
when I'm gone?
that old unfriended thot,
a nagging merry query
was for awhile forgot,
put on the back of an upper shelf,
where dust motes and mites
fear to trend
thoughts,
that I thought
I had dispensed with,
letting time
build illusionary wry walls,
fooling World Trade Center tall
morose forlorn,
pensiveness of
red ant armies,
incapable of
black marker redaction,
there is always one
a lingering malingerer
a sole fado singer,
playing woeful jazz in
the Quarter
on an empty emoty street,
dressed and guised
as the soul of a solitary
cancerous cell
"survivor"
cur overlooked,
biding time,
the surgeons gone,
the drugs flushed,
radiation burning
no more
begins then
the unholy
trilogy cycle
worn out, overused...
invasive categorically relentless
maybes,
what ifs,
then
oh goddamnnotagain
because believed, on knee,
I oathed that
loathed, raven nevermore,
ought
that
cracked door would be open
yet like the
New Orleans levee aged locks
hurricane succumbed
overflowed, overcome,
keyholed, infiltrated,
falllen to the enemy,
mes enfilade,
rumps up the black flag of
surrender
brain sneers
periodically,
like every other
minute, ok,
second,
coyly asking
penny for your
worthless thoughts?
just when you believed
"no mas"
was a prayer that had been heard,
teeth kicked in,
body snatching
hordes and boors
bad boys and ******
sitting high in the
saddle again,
grinning torturous
tarty smiles
at who,
at you, fool!
you're as alone in that place
as insufficiently as that
impoverished overused
word can ere convey
the nagging realization
that when asking
no one answers
when your thinkings
perish you
your cutesy sweatshirt reads
last standing poet alive,
stabbed ded by awful-truths,
you failed and
all the black cats,
have fled the neighborhood,
just when need was greatest
who will read aloud
my poems when I'm gone,
has been silently answered
by silent applause,
the last theater goer
shuffles out, and turns
and extends his middle finger
his review leaves a
singular impression,
he looks familiar,
gauntly ghost,
he has accompanied me always
and his finger is his
triumphal parting shot
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Just what is it that I am discovering?
I feel like I'm blubbering
Idly hovering over something
Something so bright I am blinded
And if my hunch is right I'll sign it
While kissing in the sky
There's a place deep down
In the bottom of the sack
Where the weakened drown
And the warriors attack
Where the heart pounds
And glory turns to *****
Into gory sheets
Categorically pieced
Through out a dream state
In a feast of upheaval
Under the peaking sun
In a leash of retrieval
Over the space of one
All waking to wonder
In the slumber of none
My bitter bones tumbling
To the drums thump
My slithered poems humming
To the stumps
My withered homes crumbling
To the months
Turned years
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
you're a sloppy stitch
the kind that amateurs create
so they can tell someone they sew.
but you're on that old pair of
grass stained blues
I know- I should have donated years ago
*should have given you away
the moment you didn't fit*
but I refused to believe
I couldn't manipulate myself
to once again absorb the contours
of what you feel like on my skin.
so you're pushed back, Back
in the back of that rustic oak dresser
and I forget- (well I never remember)
until, once a year, I decide to
clean out everything and trim my fat-
donate all that useless **** I hoard but never use,
and there you are...categorically.
I just can't- could never do it.
You're the material possession that makes me realize
I am just a consumer.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
**“Won't do no good
To call the police.
Always come late,
If they come at all.”**
Thank you, Tracy.
Thank you for shining a light,
Drawing the world’s attention to the gulf
The gross variance in policing,
As it is practiced as we move from
One area of the city to another,
From one part of town,
Across the tracks to the
Wrong side of town,
Not the neighborhood where
Cops get out of the squad car after dark,
Ring your doorbell & politely remind you
Your garage door is open.
I refer, of course, to the same
Neighborhood with the best schools,
Libraries, public parks, and other
Fine & dandy amenities
Enjoyed by some its municipal citizens.
I send greetings from reality &
Say “Thank you, Tracy”again.
Now I’m hip to an area of town where
People have to shoot it out for themselves,
Where people contend with a
Quotidian Death Camp or Gulag,
A daily killing-field of extreme
Predatory desperation.
We’re taking a quintessential peek
Through a Social Psychologist’s lens,
Namely Abraham Maslow’s
“Hierarchy of Human Needs;”
Categorically speaking:
The ladder’s bottom-rung.
We’re talking basic human survival, here.
BTW I actually learned a lot in college, & besides:
**** You! I’m a Harvard graduate.
One last time I say
“Thank you, Tracy.”
I actually learned & continue to learn a lot,
From getting high & listening to music.
Life at the bottom of the barrel?
Sloshing it up with the
So-called “Dregs of Society,”
Which, by the way,
Would be a great name for a band.
Cue omniscient narrator:
Google "I want to Be a Pornstar.”
But I digress.
We were talking about a frightening alien planet,
A no-where place to be for
An intelligent young black girl,
Hoping for a fast car out of there.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
Glossed over pasts plus
Time tested epithets
That indubitably do define
The way you left me that's
Not to deny the truths that do lie
On the static sitting stone
Which are truths I refuse to uncover
Which tend to typify my own
Lack of anything resembling intelligence
I know if you missed me you would say it
Yet it remains categorically impossible
For me to even meagerly admit
That the starry eyed tongue tied
Deliciously delightful strikingly beautiful
Girl I fell in love with
is no more
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
Look closer...
the winding trail
is baked to perfection,
bearing the scars
of a caesarean section.
Only the snakes
dare travel along I-8,
one-by-one the seasons lie prone,
in heat this sun will castrate.
The burnt aspects on faces
don’t smile or frown,
they peer out as residue
to places perished in the wake of
a cityscape’s head trauma,
calling out to the heaven’s above
as they await her to rise
with wings from these ashes,
in anticipation for a day ne’er to draw nigh,
even the steady fall of acid rain
will fail to wash away such genocide.
A favorite haunt transmutes
into a ghost town,
burning into the ground
the heat seeps into the soul,
and the procession begins again
for whom the bell tolls.
Towers of steel melt
as popsicles on the pavement,
the sun’s punishment
is constantly transcendent,
the noise of sparks and hums
rattle the spine,
today’s forecast is a good chance
of saturnine.
Eerie colors at dawn
make for a spectral scenic view,
picnic lunch in the park
is categorically taboo,
the hunters of men
swoon in subjugation to this tyranny,
weather’s wrath was everyone’s destiny.
Live a little, die a little,
pretend it cannot happen,
but in the end we all windup
as peanut brittle...
Jun 1, 2020
Jun 1, 2020 at 7:09 PM UTC
Sporting the battledress of the warrior queen.
Her eyes wide open.
She's unfurling black banners,
while spewing venom, at the blackened retching sky.
Midnight crisp approaches,
as she grabs the sullen one,
Smashes through his barriers,
She is the chosen one,
And she sings to him, provocatively, luring him in,
dashed onto gilded rocks,
For he too is the chosen one,
the son of sighs,
deliver me from death,
I beg,
oh so unholy one,
Once again, he smiles at her,
deliverance curtly,
through teeth ,
blackened by his spite,
As morning light breaks through the sky,
he stops and stoops and wonders why.
On hell and Earth, in spite of heaven,
Why did he bid goodbye to his wild warrior queen,
the royal one,
So regally attired in ebony black.
For you woman,
you seek only the sycophant,
Believe him not,
It's all a fake, a disguise behind which he hides,
Forget her not, she still wants you,
Wants to rip your **** in two,
no chance at forgiveness,
for making the lady blue,
You,
with the faces of loyal Gemini,
you state,
categorically state,
the woman, the one,
that woman,
And f**k, as inside you walk, right in again,
As inside you go again,
Here you go again, letting your passion, cause more pain.
(c) Livvi
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
How could you be so evil?
For there is no other way to describe
Your whole sense of being,
You are rotten inside.
Disgusting and disgraceful,
How can you be so cruel?
I hate you, everything about you,
Just like when you were at school.
There are no words to express
The evil you have inside,
The pain you are inflicting,
You’ve even caused suicide.
How can you do this?
To a society stretched at the seams?
You are a waste of time and money
And your dreams – are they really dreams?
How can you be trusted?
For you are diagnosed a liar;
You are not welcome in society
Nobody welcomes a liar.
What if none of it happened?
What if it wasn't true?
What if you made up the ****
The only criminal here is you.
You have hurt so many people,
Your family and so many more,
You deserve all the punishment given
For your actions they simply deplore
What if the nightmares aren't real?
The fear and panic all fake?
What if none of it happened?
How much of a mess could you make?
You are a disgusting creature,
I hate, I despise, I deplore;
It is categorically impossible
To forget or try to ignore.
You are a black mark on society,
You do not belong in this world,
You don't deserve any friends,
You deserve no place in this world.
Where do your memories come from?
Why do you invent ones not real?
Do you not have any empathy
For how people really feel?
You are hated by all and everyone,
Yourself included if not more;
Nobody wants to know you,
You stay right behind that door.
Don't you dare show your face,
For you are not welcome;
Stay away from everyone,
You will only do them more harm.
You have a sick mind, how could you?
How could you cause so much distress?
Your spitefulness has shown no limits,
And you couldn't care any less.
You are a diagnosed a liar,
A deceitful, sadistic disgrace,
Nobody is ever going to believe you,
Such liars should not show their face.
There is no help for evil like you,
Services are there to help others;
Not to be wasted and drained and abused,
And how can you keep blaming your mother?
They do not have time for your fake memories,
Your fake life events and horrors;
There are people dying every single day
Nobody cares of your night terrors.
You need to sit in a hole and stay there,
For the safety of everyone else,
Just stay there, do not come out,
For we must protect everyone else.
Nobody is here to beat you,
So you must do it yourself,
Keep cutting and bleeding and bleeding,
Cut deeper to forget yourself.
Watch the blood as it runs
Keep cutting, don't let it stop,
This blade will pierce your evil soul,
Its painful, don't let it stop.
I am going to keep punishing you,
More and more and more...
This blade will pierce your body,
As you lie in a heap on the floor.
For there is no other way out,
You MUST feel this pain,
For this is for what you have done to others,
Over and over again.
This is all you deserve,
Feel the blade pierce your skin and then bleed;
For your blood is the source of your evil,
The evil on which you make others feed.
This pain will last forever,
I will never be done with you,
I just want to keep making you hurt –
Until you know what is true.
Now cut.....
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:14 PM UTC
swarms of little biting creatures at my ankles
smokey eye talent for your cover up
camoflauging your heart
or the thing thats there now
that you used to call the heart
i saw you naked
i saw you in bed
when i close my eyes i see showers of little water droplets cleaning you off
so i wont be able to smell
the smell of you getting ******
should i be worried?
should i care?
probably not
because i know where youre at
and its the same on my end
theres no blame here
how can there be
where all of us are categorically wronged against
acting accordingly
stapled up hearts trying to bear full loads of wet tears but at the same time trying to perform
what too many consider to be the proof of love
could you stay with me until the gold appears?
when i die its all yours
the big fat math problem in my bank account
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
My room, the suite, seemed too small.
I felt like I’d been in my room forever.
I’d developed a scratchy sense of stuckness
and a fresh, itchy awareness of dust particles
floating in the stifling, still air that made me
want to stop breathing in so much.
But I didn’t, categorically, have the energy
to get up and focusing seemed like a lot of effort.
I had a big midterm test, first thing this morning
and it laid me to waste, mentally. I think I did well
but it was a feat. Whenever I feel lifeless and weak,
I start to fear I’m coming down with something.
But then, everyone’s tired. The suite seems unnaturally
quiet, as if no one even has the energy to command
our ever-listening AI to play a playlist, so silence
ruled by exhausted default. It’s as if a low-pressure area had
descended to hold off a brush of refreshing ozone and rain.
Could I rouse my posse of symbiotic sort-of siblings
for an outing somewhere - like Toad’s bar - just across the street?
My door was open, so I called out, rather weakly, “Let’s go out!”
Someone, (Lisa sprawled out on the red corduroy couch?)
groaned listlessly from the common area. “My treat!” I updogged.
Five minutes later, it was showers all around. I love a good shower.
A shower’s where I ponder over the big questions, because
answers seem to come quickly there. I imagine I’d be wise
beyond words if I had a house with a waterfall running through it,
like one of those amazing, Frank Loid Wright masterpieces.
.
.
Songs for this:
The Duke Is Gone by Chuck Senrick
Cannock Chase by Labi Siffre
Oct 26, 2024
Oct 26, 2024 at 11:27 PM UTC
My worthy adversaries across the dais would have you believe
That, having fashioned mankind in His own image
And, what’s more, sacrificed His own son
For the sole purpose of its collective salvation,
Our Maker would, in effect,
Simply shrug his shoulders and send it on its merry way.
Free to fall, those arguing the negative will tell you.
Ah, but there’s more than that: not only do they insist
That The Creator has for all intents and purposes abandoned us,
But has allowed an equally powerful and diametrically opposed force
To set up shop on his watch.
I would ask them--what drabble of Scripture,
What logical premise would you cite to support such madness?
But surely, my learned opponents would purr,
(Oh, every bit as sly as devils themselves!)
You would not deny the existence of evil in this world.
Morons! Can it somehow be possible
That you are completely ignorant of the work of Augustine?
Tell me, after you finish your warm milk
And button up your snuggly jammies,
When you flick off the light switch, does the dark come out?
Or is your grasp of physics and philosophy equally inadequate?
I suppose, in a last, desperate attempt to buttress their arguments,
The supporters of the opposite position
Will contend my presence in this lecture hall
Is necessary and sufficient for their argument to carry the day.
I categorically deny the supposition!
I do not exist, nor can I!
Hang your forensic skills on that,
You bunch of ******* saintly *********
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
It takes two point four
Cents to make a single penny
In a post-delusional world
Exists an antediluvian deluge
Of fuel, food and fossils
Reducing our carbon footprint
Is categorically equivalent
To sweeping up our tracks
And is as forbidden
As the tampering of evidence
Or a denial of all that we lack
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 2:52 PM UTC
I can categorically list the number of times you have been misused, unheard and trivialized. And as much as I might write about you, you are not a metaphorical representation of the moon or the sun, and my pen doesn't help. You are real flesh and bones, and the real you craves for coffee on Sunday summer mornings and likes sitting alone sometimes. You too crave for *** with people whom you have just met and you also forgot my birthday once. You are not perfect, of course, you are not perfect, but you are not a gross indecency either. You are truly and finally someone I can love and my love demands to be written down on the most beautiful sheets of paper I own. My love demands to be handwritten on postcards that I have collected over the years for this moment and sent over the distances. But you see my love is also a little selfish and narcissistic, and since we are not in a brilliant and beautiful relationship, you are just another story I can tell myself before going to bed. One of those stories that demand to be told again and again.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
to you, I am categorically a conquest
a notch to your belt, a benchmark to measure against
to you, I am metaphorically an object
to be played with, to be gazed upon
never seen as whole, never seen as real
only parts and pieces for your pleasure
Sure, I'll dance for you, I'll stand still for you
but you can't make stay in a cage
Sure, I'll **** you
but you can't make me love you
Mar 16, 2024
Mar 16, 2024 at 7:55 AM UTC
flush east finchley commuter toilet - vile pic included below 25.10.18
thank you for providing
need one in every town
for sure would drop a few for sliding
categorically as always in kentish brown.
not sure if its got a sprinkler
2018 should have all mod cons
what will cover my henry winkler
to young poetry addicts google the fonz.
where goes the smell
i suppose full on air conditioning
can not see no pipes for swell
this bog has hidden features auditioning.
gold bog and not least
all commuters lining up actually
if george was here he would head east
LA toilets are open in finchley.
https://ibb.co/e1edJA
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
never contented
a library of coupon clippings and browser tabs
oh, scrolling esoteric rolodex
just because I like some numbers
more than others
doesn't mean I want to be
one
one
one
daily passing thru a filter
for vibes instead of size
sorted with the others of your kind
and each of us categorically
empty
outside of anywhere
might be a mirror
but it's still clearer
than the receiver static
send me that message
your ellipsis tickles me
magenta
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 11:35 PM UTC