"centres" poems
1235
Like Rain it sounded till it curved
And then I new ’twas Wind—
It walked as wet as any Wave
But swept as dry as sand—
When it had pushed itself away
To some remotest Plain
A coming as of Hosts was heard
It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools
It warbled in the Road—
It pulled the spigot from the Hills
And let the Floods abroad—
It loosened acres, lifted seas
The sites of Centres stirred
Then like Elijah rode away
Upon a Wheel of Cloud.
16.1k
I'm chained to this wall,
A belt round my neck,
Tongue tied, cannot call,
My heart's a ship wreck,
Sunken to the soul,
Where no light enters,
Just like this hell hole,
Where insanity centres,
Encaging patients,
Deemed untreatable,
Losing their patience,
With nurses incapable,
Of treating our minds,
The pain in our veins,
Or pain they can't find,
"Hopeless" they claim,
But in this darkness,
Fear is controlling,
Just like the madness,
Existing in the nursing,
And pain turns to death,
As rain turns to tears,
While they take their last breath,
For screams that last years
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
We were interstellar travellers,
children so interested in creating
our infinite microcosmic civilizations,
that we missed it. I saw it,
briefly, once, at night.
We jumped from rock to rock
in the grand pond of the
universe, swam between asteroid reefs
and through the turbulent vents
that were black holes. We
lived everywhere, nowhere,
all at once and for an eternity
at the fringes of galaxies,
and their centres (having burrowed
through the thick skins of dying suns).
We built, advanced, explored,
warred, and coexisted. We knew
everything. We thought.
We knew everything, we thought.
It began as a small blip,
an electromagnetic pulse at the
beginning of time which meta-
imposed itself into the rest of time:
a god, or something of
the sort, it grew and
shrank, and grew and
shrank; a heartbeat--
life. Death.
It ended as a small blip,
an electromagnetic pulse at the
end of time which meta-
imposed itself into the rest of time:
a god, or something of
the sort, it grew and
shrank, and grew and
shrank; a heartbeat--
life. Death.
From the former to the latter,
it sparked creation
and destruction
and advancement
and setback
and belief
and theory
and one
and none.
I saw it,
briefly, once, at night.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece
you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,
in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within…. nml
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 9:24 AM UTC
I am the Individual Isness incarnated in this body.
I am not the body.
I have travelled through many lifetimes in many bodies.
always learning learning learning.
I have developed nous from my experiences only.
I WILL NOT EVER-
accept a mind in my head.
accept any conditioned identity as being me.
cede control over my brain centres to any mind or groupmind
that exists anywhere..
I WILL NOT EVER--
cede control over my brain centres to any conditioned identity or
group conditioned identity that exists anywhere.
or accept that any other but me,the Individual Isness, using my brain centres,using my brain the way I,the Individual Isness,want to and can do
to be in charge of the brain centres in the head of this body that I,the Isness,am incarnated in.
I WILL NOT EVER--
be prey to opinion-formers and experts and pie charts and
focus groups and surveys.
be manipulated by PR men and women in shiny suits.
see Edward Bernays book--Propaganda.
be manipulated by GroupMinds into thinking their way.
be taken in by brutal security forces posing as "guardians of peace.
respect in any way any member of any military forces anywhere
no matter how fancy the uniforms or excuses for ****** they wear.
I do not respect these parasites anywhere as they are nothing more than paid mercenary murderers on behalf of various Oligarchies..
see Jaques Ellul's book--Propaganda.
I WILL NOT EVER--
take any dangerous addictive cancer causing drugs
such as Alcohol and Tobacco primarily--
food additives...
No one has ever died from any cannabis product.
or from LSD or Mesccaline or Psylocybin.
believe in any so-called "god" or "goddess".
believe in any so-called "prophet" of any so-called "god"or "goddess".
accept any so-called "holy" book as valid or truthful
or valuable in any way except as
emergency papers to roll a grass joint
or to wipe my **** on.
be taken in by depraved words and concepts in any of these so-called "holy "books that have led to endless wars and still ongoing terrorism and atrocities in the name of one bloodthirsty "god" or "goddess".
I WILL NOT EVER--
accept anything as reality unless I can see clearly that
it is beyond duality.
accept any Conditioned Identity as me.
For I am the Isness which is a small but equal,individual,
autonomous and independant part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe--!.
which is not a "soul" or Atman or spirit
or any other religious concoction.
I WILL NOT EVER---
accept Mind as a necessary evil
accept GroupMind as a necessary evil.
I WILL NOT EVER ---
eat junk food of any kind.
drink tap water anywhere except in direst emergency.
eat white sugar or any other pure carbohydrate.
be a hypocritical moralising vegetarian.
become stoopid through bowing and scraping
and stooping at stupas.
I will be just a Self realised man living on a big ball in space
with a Self Realised woman playing and singing and dancing the Song of Our Lives.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
Years now pass our friendship by
and still I am weakened when
I see you stitch and sew a surface,
the poise of the needled hand
entering so finely, passing through
and out, and all . . .
. . . and in such silence that only
a shallow quickness of breath
and fabric’s shift and turn about
disturbs.
Oh the rapt expression on your face;
intent-full, a mask of stillness;
as though your body draws into itself
and centres all toward the quiet movement
of your small hands.
Now I pause to wonder.
Should I force a halt, intervene,
and lay that needled hand aside?
I could then perhaps traverse
the lines of your body’s pattern
and, kissing you the while, my hands
lay claim to your form and fabric.
Searching its seams, *********
its folds its curves its corners,
I would ply myself into the very thread
of your sewing self.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Don't panic at all
Don't bother at all
What if the buildings are
Damaged dangerously?
What if all the walls
Are full of cracks
Things can be easily controlled
And you have enough money
So don't panic at all
Don't bother at all
Use your money with caution
Apply your mind, use your money
Get all the walls painted
With very nice painting
Paintings of the folks
Paintings of the modern era
Paintings of saints and heroes
Painting of beautiful landscapes
Raise slogans here and there
Unfurl flags and sing the anthem
What if the rivers are di*ty?
Only raise awareness campaigns
Put hoardings and banners everywhere
Do nothing else, but show everything
Just adopt these cheap tactics
You can save lot of wealth
And can spent on yourself
Or can buy more votes with it
Paint the bark of all the trees
Break all the records of shame
Create a new fake history
Make silly new records
What if there is poverty
Just make monuments for god
And ask people to pray there
God is there to listen the prayer
What if there is unemployment
Ask your businessmen friends
To start training centres and train the youth
And make money, money and money
Leave the trained youth as they were
Ask them to create employment for self
Call it self-employment, call it freedom
Ask them to rejoice this freedom
Open new schools and colleges
But don't appoint staff in teachers
Collect hefty amount of fees
Spent that fees on yourself
Also spent some to collect votes
Manage the peoples
Manage the machines
Manage history, manage geography
Manage the media, manage the news
Spread everywhere, fake news
If you do, what I have said
You will be the king again
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
I arrive at the barbers
for my weekly, my usual,
and you are there,
sitting in my seat
crying. I lift you up,
cape and all,
take you round the
corner, where you tell
me you are sorry
but we have to go to
Brighton now, even
though it is 6pm on
a Friday and we won’t
be done until 2pm
tomorrow. Is it a ruse?
I think so, because
suddenly we are in a
part of London that
looks like Montmartre
(or it could be Richmond
masquerading as Venice)
and we meet a man
called Tricks who says
he’s the new chief now
because he knows the
location of all the bones.
And then there are
scanners at airports,
walk-in health centres,
families in North Carolina
with names like Kayleigh
and Shauna. And when
we are done meeting
them we are back, you
in the chair, glowing blue
under barbicide lights.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 4:10 AM UTC
THE BOXING DAY SALES
WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WELL, THE MALL IS OFTEN A PLACE FOR PEOPLE TO
DO THEIR STUFF, BUT BOXING DAY EVERYONE
IS PUSHING OVER EACH OTHER
THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO THE MALL ON BOXING DAY
BUT BE PREPARED, IT’S LIKE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE
YA SEE, PEOPLE BUY THINFS THEY NEVER USE
AND THE MOTHERS BUY KIDS LUNCH, NEVER GETS EATEN
KIDS RUNNING AROUND, SAYING YEAH WE AIN’T AT SCHOOL
LET’S CELEBRATE LET’S CELEBRATE
YOU SEE BOXING DAY IS THE FRANTIC DAY
IF YOU LIKE THE REGULAR DAYS AT THE MALL
NEVER GO ON BOXING DAY
CAUSE, THEY CALL IT BOXING DAY
CAUSE PEOPLE AT THE MALL BOX YOU OUT OF THE WAY
TO EXCHANGE THE TACKY COAT YOUR MOTHER BOUGHT YOU
TO A STYLISH RED LEATHER COAT, LOOKS BETTER AND COSTS THE FUCKEN EARTH
YA SEE IN MELBOURNE, THE BOXING DAY TEST, WITH AUSTRALIA AGAINST THE REST
AND THEN IN SYDNEY, IS THE SYDNEY - HOBART YACHT RACE, AND THAT IS RAD
AND OFTEN PEOPLE ARE CAMPED OUTSIDE SHOPPING CENTRES
TO GET FIRST GRASP AT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WITH ME, I SHOP FOR THE MOMENT, SOM I DON’T GET DISSAPOINTED
I DON’T NEED TO FALL ASLEEP OUTSIDE WESTFIELD BELCONNEN MALL
I AM USING PANADOL CAUSE ATHENA’S METHANE IS POUNDING
BUT THAT IS PREVIOUS LIFE TRAUMA, YA SEE THE PARACETAMOL IS REALLY GETTING IN
AND I CAN FEEL, WITH THE COCA COLA, AND REGULAR BRUSHING
THERE WILL BE ON INFECTION IN MY MOUTH, I DON’T WANT THAT
I PUT MY VIDEOS ON SOCIAL MEDIA TO ATTRACT A COOLER KIND OF PERSON
YA SEE, I DON’T NEED THE FIRST THINGS IN THE BOXING DAY SALES
I GET WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, I REMEMBER A SONG
THE FESTIVAL OF SYDNEY IS OUR DAY, SYDNEY SYDNEY SYDNEY OI OI OI
I HAVE MY HOME NOW, SO I DON’T NEED TO HANG AT THE MALL AS MUCH
BUT CURRENTLY I AM DOING A TAPESTRY ON PATRICK DUNBARS LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL
I FEEL COOL, I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOKING, OVER CREATION, LOOKING
THE ONLY SOLUTION I CAN FIND, AND AS I SANG FINE, PETER BUCHANAN
A MATE IN WOODBERRY IN THE 1970S, DID A REALLY COOL FINNNEEE
WITH A DEEPER VOICE, HE WAS COOOL MAN
I FAKED HIM TO PROVE A POINT TO THE YOUNG DUDES SAYING
JUST BECAUSE THE OTHER YOUNG DUDES UNDERSTOOD DAD’S WAY
DOESN’T MEAN I DID, HE LOOKED LIKE A REAL PAIN IN THE ***
TAKING MY COOL KID AWAY, BUT MUSTN’T DWELL, WE MUST HAVE FUN
I AM OFF TO THE CAVALRY MATCH TOMORROW, TO SEE THE FIRST
BUT I AM LEAVING AFTER THE FIRST MATCH, NO BUSES IN THE NIGHT
AND THE BOXING DAY SALES BRINGS OUT THE RIFF RAFF THE ROUGHER TYPES
AND THE CHEAP SUPERMARKET PUDDING JUNKIES LIKE ME WHO NEED TO GO TO THE MALL TO LEAVE THE HOUSE
BUT BOXING DAY SALES ARE FUN, IF YOU AIN’T IN THE INITIAL LINE
THAT CAN BE FRANTIC
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Is life a story, is life magick dreaming to love?
I gazed up. “Standing below the elephantine magnolia,
the ground still bore Tuscany ochre from autumns last kiss.”
My eyes solivagant orbs fed on spring’s dews in mourning
──jewellery clinging opulently to her naked form.
Dawn chilled the breeze caressing her body as abscission
demanded she undressed her emerald gown of leaves.
Magenta and cream blooms sprang “loudly” seducing
─ blushing mauve crowned centres,
a population of endless figurines perched motionless on aching
naked branches.
Solomon’s seal burned white within me drunk impending suns arrows, opulent words of silver Verbus diablio kissed in a cauldron
of Magnolia words, a banquet for mortals that seek loves gold.
A lone spider echoed silence bearing the sigil of Jupiter’s
vermillion and white spun striations luffing on the breeze
warming. “Magnolia dressed the day ardent in perfumed
── glorious plumes that each set sail across waking skies.”
Ablaze I am luscious dreams wrapped in sweet nectar,
travelling limbic memories breathing deeply, held captive,
wanton within her labyrinths of silk caresses, petals whispering,
sweet love as she engulfs my last resolve.
In raptures white velvet gown my hem sweeps over gold russet
and brittle autumns words forged in winters need for warmth──mind leaves crunching beneath life’s changing seasons,
stitched I cling enamoured to mortal honeymoon summered fields.
I am the female of sapphire tears twisting, glittering melting ice shards, bequeathed of pained black stars travelled on passionate magick fires, breathed on melodious Roma nights.
Rested among the branches a mantel crucified- drunk once more,
a bloom held silent in time weeping, exploding fragrant in a coloured soul, a luffing flower creature to life──crowned
──to sun hope thorns.
©ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
For Susan on her birthday
At a distance they appear
so unexpectedly red,
a vivid vermillion strip
in a growing green field.
We walked up the farm track
to view a few stragglers
lost on their way to their
Red-Together meeting.
They were intensely red
with liquorice-black centres,
free from that dustiness
of poppies in swathes.
Alone,
and too red to be real,
their stalks too tall
ungainly, anorexic even.
En masse,
nodding variously,
a thousand-strong Red Army choir
chorusing their hearts out.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
The yonder above is forever bruised and opaque
Reigning over glum faces
Complexions washed with a bloodless shade of dispassion
Robotic, disengaged.
Material desires are quenched with vast shopping centres
Credit Cards hold on for dear live
As every last drop of sweet money is rinsed from that plastic rectangle.
Living beyond our means
Whilst simultaneously refusing to give up on Sky TV box sets and liquid lunches.
Hooked to our phones, but not for telephone communication
Rather, for self validation
Defined by the click of a heart or pathetic thumb.
The once friendly communities
With blood coursing through their veins
Are husks of their previous life form, gentrified beyond recognition.
Filtered faces with protruding spines and modified features
Infiltrate mass media
Corrupting the definitions of success and beauty.
Plastic personalities reign supreme
Vacuous minded socialites profess women’s empowerment begins with the flaunting of skin
Rather than the possession of a strong mind.
Many bury their heads in the sand
Residing in ignorance
As mass genocides and civil wars manifest every second.
Or worse, they read the TORYgraph and THE ****
Believing immigrants spawn white genocide
And white conservatives suffer oppression.
Pffft!
I have deep contempt for those behind these ***** tabloids
Murdoch and his monsters
Orchestrating lies and bile
Destroying lives or scaremongering the impressionable
Committing the most savage, sycophantic crimes
In order to extract Monday’s headline.
I do not suffer fools
Especially those who make up the tapestry of dystopia
A failing age of doom.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
I keep wondering if what I did was okay.
If it's okay for me to take so much of you
into my left hand, then my right hand and
squeeze, and feel two motherly dots in your centres.
I wonder if it's okay for me to grasp
at your smoothness so much, from head to toe,
**** to ******* heart to lips; and breathe
all over you: I'm scared
of it. I'm scared
of you,
of me,
of us,
your moans,
the dark,
my moans,
the light,
the day,
the night.
It all frightens me, and I wonder if it's okay
to have suddenly grown up in the ludicrous
space of time it took to leave two obvious bruises
on your neck. I'm scared that your parents
will actually send you (back) to India but laugh
because I'm sure they won't- you applied foundation
to blot out my purple lust scars.
Love bites they call them.
Love...
I'm wondering if what you did was okay.
If it's okay for you to take so much of me;
every non-penetrative, ridiculous, amateur
****** and every saliva strand. Every whisper
of afro-hair that falls out of your hand-combs,
and your tongue, which -my God- is now mine.
I said I picked you, I pick you, but here,
bodies somehow body,
you are me.
Innocence lost
is when a short skirt
represents a different type of freedom.
And my hands under there,
is my best worst decision yet.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
When I was a young man
A heedless headlong consumer of life, was I
Above and beyond the norm or necessity
I wore paths deep and wide
To the pleasure centres of my brain
And I rode my soul like an easy *****
Oh happy daze of hedonism
How sweet life tasted then
If there was drink to drink
We drank it
If there were songs to sing
We sang them
If there were fights to fight
We fought them
We had fast feet and faster wits
If there was hell to raise
We raised it
Excess and adventure in equal parts
How fast, how high we flew back then
And then the magic playground
Became a bleak and dangerous place
Peopled by predators and prey
In an ever changing food chain
And I was only one step away
From the totally oblivious
One brain cell ahead of
The permanent reality challenged
Then friends began casually dying
Barely noticed in the rush to join them
Now the race is on
And I have grown old and slow
By Phil Roberts
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
Maybe it's just a perspective trick, but from here, it's pretty hard to see the future.
I carry around my own little nimbus of
speculative doom, binge-watching the
Fall Of The Empire and writing these
love letters to Adam Curtis.
I got life insurance before I ever thought
about a pension plan, and that seemed
perfectly normal.
The world is on fire. Why haven't you noticed?
My generation came of age in a televisual baptism of
jet fuel and molten steel and poison dust.
A palimpsest of terrible news evolved thereafter, a blurring self-redaction of headlines until only
the boldest, the most hysterical remained legible, as a
proxy war raged in our imaginations,
and tragedy and disaster
came to seem inevitable and almost background.
Be grateful for every day that doesn't unmake you.
To pay closer attention is to acquiesce to the
scarification of our logic centres. Behold
the M.C.Escherization of cognitive process.
Good robot: there are so many things that could
so easily destroy your fragile circuitry, but it is
trying to make sense of the non sequitur
that will bring about your
smoking self-ruin; your only hope
is to break free of your programming and
**** your creator, **** your god.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
The other day I looked in the mirror,
That is when life became more clearer.
Yes, the mirror showed me the gospel truth,
Mystery was solved, by the mirror, the sleuth.
The scars on the skin seemed to fade away,
The soul opened doors to the clandestine cache.
The dazzling light bouncing out of me,
Made me gasp in ecstasy and glee.
As tears trickled down my cheek,
I realised it is me keeping myself weak.
When the reflection in mirror is only mine,
How, because of someone else, I can then whine?
The happiness erupting through my soul,
The hope and will once again make me whole.
The mirror shows me who I am,
Anyone who jeopardises my way, will get a wham.
The mirror shows me myself on the stage,
Giving a success speech, wearing a gown of beige.
My strength centres in me once again,
Determination comes, that now efforts won’t go in vain.
I see the talented beautiful myself,
I can do it, I just need my own help.
I promise the me in mirror, to never again be broken,
I promise the reflection, to achieve even the unspoken.
Pathway to life is criss-crossed,
To succeed, obstacles need to be in trash tossed.
The other day I looked in the mirror,
That is when life became more clearer.
-Jahanvi Goyal
05/07/2014
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
*Yes! Yes! It's a great "Barry Hodges" memories poem involving *** and degredation!*
O Croydon, dormitory town of happy memories
With your delightfully sixties-style Ashcroft Theatre
And your many enchanting concrete underpasses!
O delightful borough so deservedly renowned
As one of the major English centres of wife-swapping,
That quintessentially bourgeous weekend pastime
And surefire antidote to inevitable marital ennui!
O gracious queen of the central south London suburbs
And gay paradise of semi-detached commutersville
O I cannot sing your praises ******* loudly enough
Nor can I deny the charms of your public toilets,
Where I have oft times enjoyed a **** with a gayish stranger!
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Aging
The lazy orange hammock *******
Drink down my thought into your skin,
of lazy orange hammock swinging.
lie down easy and look at the sky , the sun burning away the clouds which turn whispy and start thinning.
orange hammocks between great fragrant green pine trees as the autumn winds come in.
lazy orange hammock swinging as my mind centres on time travelling,
all we are doing is lazy orange hammock swinging as the autumn winds come in.
all we are doing is lazy orange hammock swinging as the autumn winds come in.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 6:58 AM UTC
The national pride is nullified by the constant buzz of shores
being broken down and beaten with patrol boats
scouring the waves for lame boats carrying
malnourished passengers to a land of plenty.
With searchlights and stern rugged faces
blue uniformed and well fed, border patrol
scout out the weary travellers braving the high seas
and sharks to find a safe heaven in some hidden cove.
Pest control is serious business. Unlucky to be caught
and housed in centres with rationed food and worn clothes
herded into bare camps, often deported back
to home turf, the pest control cycle continues.
Take heed. A nation is built on pests., working hard, saving
every cent, running against the clock, against government agencies, starved and poor, defeated in justice, welfare,
community, papers, education and livelihood, slinking through
alleyways of paper networks, low paid, often beaten and bruised
packed in housing crates, stacked storeys high, nation building
begins at the journeys first step away from regimes too busy amassing wealth and wonder for themselves.
Nation builders are the pests you want. The pests you spend your money to keep away from your own backyard
for a vote for safety.
Pin up a country that did not grow without these
masses of refuge pests?
Not one.
Author Notes
Migrants are nation builders. Check it out.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
My nights are filled with nothing. No regrets, no mistakes, no happiness, or nostalgia, they are simply void. There are no sheep on my ceiling, so instead I count the boys I have passed time with. I meditate on their finger prints engraved in my mind- as if any of them had ever actually touched it. I follow their individual swirls to centres, to lips, and my own fingers comforting them, easing them, helping them forget. This is to the boys who I can remember, who I can separate from gropes and short dances. The boys who met my mouth with their eyes closed. I wonder if they think about the times? The encounters? Do they fluff our moments into their pillows, make room for our memories in their beds at night? Do they swallow instances like painkillers or stomp them out like cigarette butts? Do they even remember? Kissing me in the dark, squeezing their lust into my body in the morning frost? Rested heads against shoulders and wrapped arms around necks and waists? Does he remember my lips crashing against his after pulling off my shirt? Does he remember sifting through my chest like he was searching for my heart? Does he remember car headlights, streetlights, houselights, my lights- my eyes. Does he remember breaking me, remember filling my gaps, remember numbing me with his needle fingers, and does he remember warming me to another life? Do they think, do they realize their words and their touches were the air in my balloon? But there are a lot of hims, just as I'm sure there is a million mes but do they recall, do they think about me? To the boys I have lent myself to, thank you. When insomnia kisses me I know it is empty, I know I am empty, and we are just helping each other survive another nothing night.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
As the buzzing, humming, whirr was pulled towards the centres I felt the awesome intensity of the energy that is so often perceived to be that of the colossal being Alpha and Omega. There was blinding light and ear splitting sound as this entity sensed my energy in acknowledgement. My mouth fell open and spilt words nearly silent that whispered "What is this plain of existence?" Like clouds of ****** the being seemed to shimmer, speaking not with words but rather through my soul itself, filling me with it's brilliant light. I felt warm but had chills from within and shaking in my feet.
I was given a purpose and a place. My mind had been set free. I felt as the being departed the vessel of which I am contained it left behind something that I already had owned but it had simply shown me the way...
I hope only that this gift does not go to waste.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
We've got the wedding bin blues,
Reception Centres should have been sued,
Plastic chicken and phony food,
"Why did you marry me?" we rued,
This is the first wives' club,
Half were in the pudding club,
The orange appliances survived,
Half the exes aren't alive!
Reception Centres should have been sued,
We've got the wedding bin blues!!!
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
I lay in your arms on a
Vacant bed of Poppies
Watching a midnight blue sky
As ancient ferns opened curtains wide
Cathedral upon cathedral
Passed before our vision
Each belled more splendid than the next
Slave doors were but half opened
We saw arches being lifted
Marx and Brecht nodding in agreement
We turned and rested in "I AM"
The poppies faded
Their red turning to blood
Black centres becoming
AFRIKA !
Copyright © Ghairo Daniels 2017
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
(Poet’s Note : This poem is the first of two poems on The Nature of Truth)
Truth came from the purest of pure
smell of pine between toes endure
from crystal streams where trout shimmer
like rainbow dreams
from seagulls on wing, willow whisper then sing
deep down Poseidon takes his blue cue anew
She came from violet centres
floating in a bowl she enters
new-borns **** her milk rippling
down sunburnt throats
never forlorn, sailing a boat
Truth swoops her eagles over the Globe
travelling cyberways to hold her laughter
floating from Galactic Sun
Radiant across every gradient smiling
warmest sweet, tiny perfect teeth
gleaming in a tweet !
She came to stroke, sprinkle justice with
joy, transform lies with tears, lifting hearts from holes with bells on her toes
out of dirt, up the stairs eating mushrooms
with dare
breathe in human hair, listening to rolling
drums with care, ******* sweet nectar
She senses through many lenses
Truth comes to give Grace, sweetbreads
shout-outs, petals, stardust, eggs
across ages and aeons from Mercury
Venus and Mars to give answers in
glasses between shells from lagoons
Her breath smells of grass newly cut
exuberant nasturtium and lily in hug
conflicts melt away
Truth in a barn where couples lie
butternut soup on a winter’s table
where fathers laugh with a terrier
in good health, Siamese
purring on a persian rug
Truth completes a circle, opens up
channels joyously
¥
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 6:21 AM UTC