"categorise" poems
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
It is only when you realise,
As you sit in the far corner of the room,
that they are all so far away from you.
So
Distant.
Laughing amongst themselves
In a joke you clearly don’t understand.
Alienated from the throws of conversation
And the formalities of friendship.
You daren’t say a word for the silence that will follow.
A dragging
Periodic
Calculating
Silence.
So you sit, content with your space
In need of something you cannot categorise.
They’re all just
So
Distant.
If the physical space weren’t enough,
Your individuality will seal the deal.
So
Distant.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
the byproduct of the aesthetics of orthography gave us dyslexia (dis-* / negation and -lexia / lexicon), as if already apparent... because dislexia would not look as pretty; alt. meaning of dyslexia? unease with vocabulary, a trouble finding a personal vocabulary - i already mentioned that letters are vox circa (approximate vocalisation), even i make spelling mistakes at times... given dyslexia not dislexia / disease not dysease. (in the polish vox circa the pronunciation of y is like a baritone or bass, while pronunciation of i is like soprano or mezzo, i could give a kabbalistic anatomisation of the mouth for they are indeed very much aligned... but let's just stick to the opera metaphor).*
i trained my œsophagus like a
minor roman noble at a banquet,
now i can smoke and not take out the
**** foley puppet
whenever i want on an empty stomach
smoking the first cigarette and drinking
the first coffee of the morn,
ah christianity’s operating grace...
let’s categorise every pagan practice as
formidable ills,
have the reasons for the crucifixion
loosely knit with the lamb of god’s wool:
that’s two wool threads over my bare chest...
because, just because that new testament
story is so so tightly knit that you can
see the pearly gates with st. peter playing
outlaw cowboy’s quick-draw with the keys,
from havana (of all places) on earth.
poor isaiah, i rather remember you: considering
the fact that you were cut in half at
the abdomen of all equators.
in conclusion? the added diacritic marks
on this latin alphabet came due to the barbaric tongue tie
on the œ and æ... from these two manifestations
we were given é and ó among others,
i still think it’s chaotic, chiseled v,
otherwise papyrus u and the umlaut.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
From the prelude it had
my undivided attention.
Cup of coffee in hand
I commenced reading
the tale: "My Life"
The intriguing twists,
the plausable comebacks.
"I" seem to simply bounce back
no matter the size of the
curveball life has in store.
Filled with mystery, drama,
action, comedy and romance,
it's hard for any critic
to categorise, to pinpoint
a suitable genre.
I have barely just begun,
and am truly looking forward
to discovering the
adventures that are
yet to be documented.
And one day, this
manuscript will be published.
Unedited, of course, as
editing will cause it
to lose its impact.
The purpose of this life . . .
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
My god, you've finally done it.
I'm lost for words.
Me! Lost for words!
Words have always been my friends,
My tools,
Working for me when they would work for no one else.
I'd pluck perfect prose out of the air before me
Words curling luxuriously like cats around my writing hand
They seemed standoffish to others
But I was the Cat-whisperer of creative composition
My magic was language
I have personified pain
Allegorised anger
Sensationalised sadness
But when it comes to your love
I must use the words of another
For I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.
Why?
I want to give you the gift of my words,
For they are the only thing I have left to give,
My heart was always yours, even before we knew
How well we fit.
When talking on any other subject
I find it hard to stop
But when it comes to you,
My silver tongue turns to lead
Because you are the one thing I cannot articulate
How can I explain that when I look up to the sky I search for the colour of your eyes but I can never find it
That falling in love with you was like falling in love with a sunset
That the way you look at me feels as if, for the first time, I am a girl worth writing a story about.
People have put these sentiments into much better words than I ever could
And I love you always seemed enough before
But how can that crescendo of emotion I feel-
And the constant gentle waves that lap the seashores of my mind,
For what is love if only felt in passion not in anger-
Be summarised in three short words?
You know me.
I like to compartmentalise,
Categorise,
Have a name and a meaning for everything I do,
A consolation prize from society-
Sure you're weird, but others are too,
From my sexuality to my star sign
My life is neatly noted
With post its and labels
An explanation for everything
An Oxford dictionary definition for anyone who sticks around long enough to care
I like to pretend I don't do it
But I do.
You were the first person to make me realise:
There are some things
Beyond language.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
what am I but bad habits and misfortune
a clump of anxious organic matter
thriving on a slow painful demise
curious to watch my brains splatter
a constant state of drunk or high
I categorise my years by tragedy
this year i was carved out like a misshapen pumpkin
a sick fleshy void eternally waiting
filling my abyss with liquor and stale cigarettes
an existence built on mistrust
my subconscious is a traitor I've tried to ****
force feeding me sadistic thoughts
I try to exterminate indruding thoughts with pills
why is it I seek solace in strangers faces
looking for meaning in empty glances
I scavenge for genuine connection
my renegade mind shuns potential advances
my identity is hiding somewhere
between the pillows of a ***** stained couch
it fell down those dusty neglected crevasses
I dropped it the night I got slipped a pill and a victim complex
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
whether it matters anymore to look to look
to count who of us is fuller of night does
sensibility disappear every time it appears
i have been called upon more than once and understand
that the most poignant statues of Pygmalion are
built on misery and
how much more can my feet disappear in insomnia
through my imagination's door a myriad of beautiful things are hidden that make me cry i am so touched
how much distance is needed between
three decaf days to
still feel it feel it
i decapitate my presence
my existence leads its own life: with a curious
personality a somehow experiencing courtesy
ergo my inner landscape: conversations between an
infinite essayist and a
grounded grounded devilish being
i categorise everything like
the sound of nails and crystal chalice and angel voices stray in a
circle of dirt and head on my chest
good morning to all in your lines
lick your fingers clean fiercely let me
remark something of desiring value:
how are those nests you all hold high above your heads
i can see handfuls of spider webs
i sit nailed into a wall
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 5:15 AM UTC
How to describe this feeling ?
What name does it go by?
Does it even have a name?
The answers to my questions
Remain unanswered
But with absolute certainty I can tell you this
I never want to let this feeling go
I'm on this insane rollercoaster of happiness
And I never want to not have this feeling
Cloud 9 seems like childs play
Sky high is where I'm at
It's like being in love only a thousand times better
The sun and the stars are all in one frame
Both shining at their brightest
Someone tell me what this feeling is !
I take that back.
No one tell me.
No one utter a word.
For if I was to categorise this feeling
It would be sure to escape me
No one tell me.
Let me drown in this moment
In this feeling that is like no other
Allow me this one pleasure.
No need to name the feeling.
Just watch on by as I sink in it.
Grant me this one request.
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
managing? knowing that it will come clear,
gradually, carefully, piece on piece.
they do say, a little help
et cetera, they do say such
a lot of things.
help spurred me on to
sort and tidy, categorise
again.
they do say that it is *******
yet placed in tidy piles, it
becomes most attractive.
they even like the photographs.
sbm.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
the end of the year, time for the counting,
time to number, categorise, remember the things,
lost. the people.
the list is endless, we highlight, tick, arrange
in rows, the stuff of our lives, the shirts and
nonsense. we mend the family clothes,
while ours are unrepaired. a whole day
counting.
he brought the logs, more than i imagined.
sbm.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
Sweet release to satisfy his sweet tooth
Find & categorise the symptoms to find few
Hymn comes, but no prayers answered, sin come due
Bin them hopes, sink them, drink away the blues
Think you can choose, but its fate that chooses for you
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 9:57 AM UTC
It's always good to hear the laughter of children
even when they're just laughing at you;
it doesn't matter that something amuses them
because by their eyes you don't see through.
Can you recall as a child how things were funny
and you had a good sense of humour
when you didn't have to worry about money
of which many people now murmur?
There are some children around who never grow up
and spend their lives living in the past
holding onto those memories which fill their cup
they drink out of now making time last.
I oft times wonder about someone's position
that other people may reflect on
whether it fits into that same strange condition
and they categorise them upon.
People try to explain their views in certain ways
and some don't come across well at all
they lack the power of experience which stays
long after they have made their words fall.
So back now to the subject of children laughing
who fill the air with a sense of bliss
they may not realise at times what they're saying
but isn't childhood comprised of this?
The past has gone and the present is now going
into the future as we all move
regardless of the place we may yet be knowing
that is for us difficult to prove.
____________
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
Details shape perspectives killing time
classifying experiences drawing lessons
from the past to live a fleeting
present wrapped up in comfort offered
by the most illusive conviction we are
ensuring a mistakeless future laying
the grounds to understanding.
People hurt others and themselves, a fact,
have and will do so again, might as well
rationalise and take notes, categorise offenses
under text book notions of human psyche.
To pseudo comprehend, believe they surely did
it out jealousy or envy, inferiority complex, greed,
fear of rejection, of commitment, fear
tout court, latent ancient traumas, alcoholism,
loneliness, inadequacy, stress, lack of fantasy,
defence mechanisms, revenge and rage,
frustration, Freudian mums and dads to blame,
poverty, miseducation or in vogue bipolar
mental disorders.
Newly labelled manic depression justifying
the indefensible, falling under the taxonomy
of psychological disease. Victim of one’s mind
or coward in disguise? And if evil be an illness
would it follow that, with no fault comes no crime?
The catalogue complete, what is left a bunch of notes
recorded in the abyssal perplexity of tired
brains, aged bones. A life spent studying flaws
instead of standing in awe in front of All.
While if, zooming out from details to focus
on bigger pictures, homes become nations,
neighbourhoods Earth, individuals Humanity,
the Universe,
partial essence of which we are, traveling
without moving through mysterious space
under mystic laws we call, Natural.
Do they determine who we are? And if,
ridding of the catalogue I am reborn,
a newfound meaning looking far beyond,
to see amazing little creatures stubbornly survive,
to live and endure, prove we are
much more than complexes and fears,
ambitions and diseases, corrupted thoughts,
but a miracle of feelings, eager to learn,
only beginning to become,
aware of itself.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:12 AM UTC
It is only natural
to use your narrow logic
tick box
and categorise
To hold this freedom
in your mind
Resist resist
this logical temptation
You are not
a number
You are free
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 6:06 AM UTC