"categorising" poems
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men
Familial desire circumventing physical rationality
I don't ******* get it
Flesh is flesh
There is no separation between this body and the next
No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones
This world is chaos bound by imposition
And none of it is real
I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs
Everything is a construct
Knowledge is anthropic chaos
Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter
A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh
I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them
So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative
Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity
Who ******* cares?
Legacy does not carry on after death
Legacy does not even carry through life
Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths
No one will ever view your life the way you view it
Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations
Hey, tell me
Do you even remember yourself that clearly?
Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve
Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical
Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago
Haven't you heard? God is dead
And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
Politics of saturation and starvation
ignore sleeping imperative intentions
in this passing light wave,
with matter in tension and
motions of presence colliding
into another in to another
syntax
(spectrums)
like that. Colliding,
categorising. "It happens
all the time" again
the flower reiterates
as it opens to the morning sun
passing through into that
clarity in contradiction
while meanwhile, in the mind
of a small worm, dirt
is brighter than blindness.
Oh where does it go to,
this timid, fragile thing?
Are we reaching
or are we lifting?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
Only imitation of daylight touches me.
New air finds yellow skin through vents in the window,
or else in the brief presentation of my bowed head
each time I succumb to nicotine and black lung.
It is a depression of inactivity,
not worth the document. These daydream catacombs
afford me translucent substance of consciousness,
and untraceable, numinous identity,
so that with each day I can be spun-out again.
The only reality in which I engage
is that of words, words, words – meandering delights
of categorising all fear into known terms.
Lo, how the quantum world beholds this emptiness.
Great depths of solidity, Mother Earth's mantle -
tectonic collisions of Biblical tirade,
of all shield, political firewall and bloodshed;
discarded in the nothingness of the atom.
These ****** words too, will offer no quantum relief.
Each thought lives brilliantly, but in a moment,
and words, words, words, are but the thunder that follows.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
summer winds scattering,
soft tissue, forty pieces
torn with a ruler, smudged and marked.
tearing the words, categorising,
knowing
it is all worth it in the end.
you would be surprised.
sbm.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Todays a day I wont remember,
Tommorows probably the same.
Memories burn,
Remembering not what you want,
But what you think you want.
Sorting, categorising,
In my mind.
Who knows what has happened in my life?
Who knows what's happened in todays tommorow?
Yesterdays a day I dont remember;
Full of fear and sin.
Sin a word I always have destested.
You believe in God.
I never did.
As a young child always questioning,
What is this all about?
Heaven and Hell are both the same.
Invented by them,
It gives them hope you see
I guess I understand,
But the word is just another I hate,
I guess I understand.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC