"centrifuge" poems
The world's gone mad but my mind is made up.
Time to let ya'll into the darkroom of my mind,
A place where I'm the referee of a poetic world cup.
This is where I am creative even though I'm blind
Don't get me wrong I am not leaving from town.
No more radio or TV saturated with all the sad news,
I have got enough breaking news of my very own...
Breaking to me each and every moment as it brews.
Come and meet the hard drive of my creative doom,
That contains my beautiful and liberated mind.
Welcome to my one bright side I call my darkroom,
It's a place that's so special, I reckon it's one of a kind.
You have to know that I always act blind but I see.
In my mind, I can walk stack naked and levitate.
My mind is where I remain totally black and free.
Come join me set my poetic dial and help me activate,
The code that will outshine any power on this earth.
My mind is where I live and where nobody has access,
Here I can run a poetic marathon without taking a breath,
Call it my playground and intellectual fortress.
My mind is deep, a place of absolute calm and refuge,
Somewhere I will always see as the final frontier.
It is dangerous and toxic like a nuclear centrifuge.
In there, I am all alert and vigilant like a soldier.
My mind is a darkroom where I give birth to new ideas.
It is a vessel and place in which I do magic with letters.
It is my holy land of thoughts, my own creative Judea,
Where each idea is sacred and light as bird feathers.
Welcome to the epicenter of my creative mind.
This is where I turn letters into spoken words
A front line of creativity where no one leaves behind.
Come and see where all words become useful swords.
My mind produces powerful words like some light beams...
Courageous and powerful words for extra motivation.
Spoken Words that will light up people's faded dreams.
Now you know that up in my mind are no limitation,
There exists an enormous capacity of time and space.
Welcome one, welcome all to the darkroom of my mind
Take a seat and be calm, be quiet this is my place
For this here is my personal creative post of command.
www.poemhunter.com/IvanBrookssr
#Vanguard-poetry23
#IvanBrookspoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
@Bassapoet
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
Some girls just like something very traditional. does that make them any less of a woman. can a woman be a traditionalist and still be a feminist? I think so. I think that what we shared in that time was exactly what we wanted, to fall back into structured and secure roles, because we'd been through the centrifuge lately. And that may not have been who the both of us were at heart, but it worked to heal us, to make us both better for the future, and most importantly, less cynical. I think that what is most feminist about any relationship is the ability to choose. I've been in relationships where I'm the dominant one, and others where I'm not. It takes the ability to check your own self and being a pragmatist, because if you love someone you will change for them. You won't change your personality, but you'll change the way you approach a relationship if you care about them enough. I think that's what feminism boils down to. Allowing both partners to choose their roles in the relationship instead of having them chosen for them. So, **** it, my girl wants to be Susie Homemaker; that's her choice and I lay my head on that.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
The moth with newspaper wings sat under the arrow lungs of the eyeless
blood dripped falcon, more whole than the super-glued roman sculpture.
Next door a 50’s con held up church with a roulette table in the kitchen,
and boarded up the massage parlor
downstairs.
The eye of the man was a centrifuge of ducks, mallard and hen, spiraling
outward into evaporated roach-ground
asphalt.
Next door, slits in the picket fence displayed perfectly formed **** & broach,
empty shoes made of feet below, blending
fields.
The marble foundation formed from twine lollipops and fuzzy candy tabs,
ice-etched to the frequency of splintered seashell
angels.
Next door through the forest of knives a spaceship bearing gargoyles peaked
bodies through collages of faces in technicolor sepia
mitosis.
The heiress molted into tiled pieces, her own dog and sunhat caught in blizzard
cuneiform, kaliedescoping again to fractalled inchworms cemented in motion.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
When words are not enough,
and the world won’t get off her back,
she dances the Devils way,
She’s a princess,
wait she’s a queen,
wait she’s an angel,
wait she’s everything,
a Goddess,
the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen,
and she’s dancing,
dancing is her therapy,
I mean,
I’m not James Brown,
but it’s a man’s world,
even if Rihanna runs this town,
See,
she’s been suppressed all her life,
and I’m not just talking about Rihanna,
I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife,
just to survive in this life,
she was touched by her father,
or brother or cousin,
when she was just a little girl,
I know we all wish it wasn’t,
but it is true,
so what’s a girl to do,
when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen,
this isn’t battle of the sexes,
this is war of the worlds,
wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl,
no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns,
she never asked to be born,
with the burden of being beautiful,
but she refuses to conform,
she is attractable irrational and radical,
so when it’s all too much,
the stares and the catcalls,
the aggressive forceful touch,
the nails across her back like a blackboard,
and the moans become just white noise,
she takes it all in,
she forgives the man because he’s just a boy,
he is an angel even if he has fallen,
she takes it all in,
and she uses all of those abuses,
as the fuel with the tools which induces,
an allusive state of truth which,
allows her to move with intuitive smoothness,
and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is,
separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses,
into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges,
she dances,
in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals,
she is more than a princess queen angel goddess,
she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal,
the real deal,
dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores,
moving faster in progression refuting repression,
overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors,
she is not a possession,
though she is possessed when,
she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more,
no words are enough,
she shows what we all feel,
she reveals what,
was before thinly concealed,
she is the perfect expression,
of imperfect circumstances,
she is poetic stanzas,
she is the paint on the canvas,
there is no question that she is the answer,
and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in,
let’s go of everything and dances…
∆aron L∆ Lux ∆
#strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
I am Jupiter storms
Unabounded by time
Raging on
And eons
Can not hope to confine me
To unstable matter
And mass
Rearranging
My molecules morphing
To liquefied jewels
And my surface
A canvas
Of unrefined fuels
Like an abstract mosaic
Of swirling
Unfurling
Tempests of archaic
As constellations
And the ages I've waited
And slumbered and spun
Into memories
Faded
And taken the names of your gods
As my payment
Inflating my ego's
Mesmeric rotations
So quick to claim hearts
Of Europa's amidst
My seductive, enchanting
Illusory bliss
Venture into my centrifuge
Fumy abyss
I have pressed up my lips
Of a frigid, wet steel
And then sealed
With a kiss
What ‘nary
A planetary
Can resist
And as she revolves
Around me
And gives life
Io dances about me,
Callisto my wife
Ganymede my seed
And the rest of my progeny breed
Future needs
What the Earthlings will need
To make up for their greed
All will see
Look to me
In my enormity
As my reservoirs
Fill them
With infinity
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 3:44 AM UTC
In my dreams there are smoke
detectors and crashes and lies.
There is a kiss in an atrium right
before it catches fire. There is placate,
stay straight, evacuate.
Neodymium nitrate always smells
a certain way and always looks
a certain blue. Why does an alarm
go off after I dream I've kissed you,
but never if you kiss me?
What doesn't my brain want me to see?
As Orion slinks into view
I stand mixing solvents at the centrifuge.
There is always a healthy dose
of things I don't know. Always something
for Orion to pin with her next arrow.
If I am not here, asking questions of the world,
demanding answers from what I put
into test tubes,
the next thing could be you.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC
Vision
You & I get ready in the morning,
Go to office & work to exhaustion,
A 9 to 6 job at our office is tiring,
I & you meet in the lunch breaks,
Discuss work in middle of lunch,
Facing the obstacles in our work,
Busy in the various experiments,
Catching a look at the same time,
X-ray crystalograph is prepared,
Dizzying velocities of centrifuge,
Early risers - late runners to bed,
Heavy eyelids call us out for rest,
Reaching back to the home tired,
Junkies of love we'll stay awake,
Kissing we start the game of love,
Tickling yours body - you nibble,
Loving the foreplay we carry on,
Making love is a second priority,
Not always so energetic for love,
Over the edge we push ourselves,
Putting an extra effort as always,
Queen guides the King into cave,
Slow but steady our expression,
Zooming the oozing nectars out,
Under-relaxed we need a break,
Vacations are a really good idea.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
Dawn stretches and yawns
in yellow, poking fingers
through vertical blind slats;
into my horizontal eyes.
Startling
like an ice cube slipping down spine,
painful and exhilarating
at the same time and maybe
I’m not ready to shove myself out.
Let me be metamorphic for awhile,
lie back in this brightness
and soak it in; let me radiate
warm throughout the morning,
cheerfully light at noon
and erode to dust in the night
so that it all may cycle again
like moon chasing sun,
serpent slurping tail
or a dog whirling circles in the dirt.
I want to swirl, right here
in comfortable cotton, nighttime
peace and the wreath that early Dawn
weaves into me. Let me be centered
in the centrifuge: the stone in the storm.
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 2:36 AM UTC
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew
and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls
This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;
beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding
Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song
Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles
A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.
And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring
Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
~
"Why is there only one chair in this room?"
"This once was an island." She replied.
"You favor this place then, I take it?"
"How can I not," said she. "The dawn here is quiet."
"Not on this floor, you are much mistaken! The stairs are like an avalanche."
Looking down at herself, she quickly changed the subject. "There are barcodes on each breast now."
"I see. Were you nervous?"
"Only when focusing on the morning break," She confessed. "Otherwise I was much like you--killing what keeps us alive."
"Is that so bad?"
"I wonder. Sometimes I still feel the bruises." She stated. "But I am told this is normal."
"What else did they tell you?"
"To quit worrying about not being built to scale," she stated in displeasure.
"...and?"
"For me to prepare to fall again for the apocalyptic things written in the sky," She admitted with a wicked smile.
"What's so funny?"
"I recognized your handwriting long ago," She uttered into the centrifuge.
~
Jul 14, 2024
Jul 14, 2024 at 8:54 AM UTC
Deathly quiet all the sky, distant black, pitching
birds, sudden screeching turns, disappearing
windows rattled, beneath banging shutters
awaiting the pain of centrifuge
a house, like glass to shatter
shards of cutting winds
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Can you capture me, body?
Because you know how a candle burns,
but not how one burns within me
Thought is not by you,
but above you
Body, can you see what I see?
You see yourself in pictures,
but life is a movie
The body feels the moment,
but the mind is the movement
Do you rule me, body?
I am mine 'till I die,
but if my mind asphyxiates
Who am I?
The soul is the centrifuge of
Mind and body
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
Her eyes close her breath slows
Skin softens pale pallor
Yet finds its glow
Beneath the stage lights
Then she explodes
Soft silver sequined shoes
Slowly ascend and descend
Arcing at an impossible angle
Her back arches deeper and deeper
Till one would expect to hear
Her body crack and snap in half
I gasp as she spins into a leap
Tears taint my tired cheeks
As the **** breaks
From the sorrows of this week
Arms circle backward
Shirt slightly rises
Exposing the years of discipline
Abs strong as the ocean tides
Open to the world then hide
Her body becomes a centrifuge
Separating part of her soul
From her poetic form
Spinning and smiling
As chestnut hair rapidly orbits her head
I am enchanted
One hour away from life
And I needed to see something beautiful
Not ******
But transcendent
Perpetually perfected movements
One hour to disentangle myself
From the nightmare of life
And I am eternally grateful
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Bad luck--eggs are now an allergen,
I shall never eat them again,
No soft boiled eggs,
Munched to the dregs,
No fluffy omelettes for me,
My lips turn blue, you see,
So, I placed all eggs on a centrifuge,
This is my cunning subterfuge,
I rotated them in this way,
Eggs flew off to space one day,
Launched as astronauts,
Chooks can't fly, I thought,
Bad luck-eggs are now an allergen,
I shall never eat them again!
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Rings of light lowering from the skies I called my faith Godly and A universe is birthing somewhere; Transporting peace into this world everyone else infidel. Now I going extinct Dinosaurs in There! Ant-eating stick,
I emerged have divine rights to pillage all.
A galaxy few light-years away, A tool-making ape. And gave the Shoreless ocean knocking the heart. At this very moment, life first
key to St. Peter and walked, walked That I locked away behind a
door. peered at
the firmament of stars. Bequeathing hopers,
A light called forth and I walked forth A supernova ***** all light. memories down epigenetic lines. out a mollusc to the future But peace was alive all along. An arc. Epic. Exodusish. enroute a transcience
called man; Now
in the fear of a mushroom There is a God.
Too bland for our Tossing around in a centrifuge. clouds, she graces
the world in taste, lighting all hearts in peace-fires. Giant wheel. Merry-go-around. her dome-shrines dotting the wide
shores. And now
we like them, deranging conflagrations more.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Love is a PCR reaction which always runs,
Love is a Centrifuge that always turns,
Love is the brightest of gel bands,
Love is the successful experiment of the luckiest hands,
Love is the paradox that Levinthal showed,
Love is the secret in every Protein fold,
Love is the compatibility of MHC's,
Love is greener than Mendel's peas,
It encompasses us like a fatty micelle,
It is an active synapse between the neural cell,
Love is fullerene a Bucky ball,
It is a hydrocarbon that cages us all,
It is a cat in Schrodinger's box,
It is fatter than the book of Nelson and ***
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Resuspension
Centrifuge & resuspend the oligos,
The precursor to your macromolecule,
Follow it by concentration & dilution.
To avoid resuspension difficulties,
Heat the oligos to 55º C, and,
Vortex in between thoroughly.
Storage
Optimal conditions,
For standard DNA oligonucleotides,
They be followed closely.
Store them at –20º C for long,
At 5º C while performing procedures.
Also, store them with fluorophores,
For better visualization later.
For standard RNA oligonucleotides,
The conditions be more stringent.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 2:40 AM UTC
There are stars here!
There are stars here, my friends!
And as I lie among the streetlight-
-cast penumbras staring at the
Pentahedral crystal hammock jungle gym
I am with them!
I am with them in wonder
In joy in amazement in ecstasy in open-
-eyed revelation of truth
As I realize I was born not
In a city of shadows
But in a city of such blinding brightness
That I could never marvel at the darkness
and the darkness is beautiful here.
Perfect halogen moonbeam outlines of imperfect
Bodies frolicking in selfprescribed madness
Spinning in the chemical centrifuge
Until lights become light and
encircles us
endlessly
Creating its own central outward
Gravity
As I become you become me
And we sail this endless sea of
Blackness
And we fall ever deeper into the great
Singularity
everconsuming everlasting
All Encompassing
Feeling Grasping Gasping
Growing
Seeing
Darkness.
Instruments of depravity
Forged great, twisted
Spinal curvatures held proud
And feared by the mighty
For our words poison their youth
Revealing our shadowy enlightenment
Clarifying with murky water
Promises of intangible tangibilities.
Beautifying chaotic tangled
Masses forming perfection in
nebulous
amorphism.
Downward, Downward
Circling ever downward
Spiraling veraciously downward
Downward the holy!
Downward the giving!
Downward unto Heaven!
Downward unto Hell!
Downward unto Creation!
Down.
Where the soul becomes concrete
And the concrete vague
synesthetic
bliss.
The Darkness is beautiful here.
6 September 20l0
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
oh mind, your whirling dervish dancing
leaves you dizzy and reeling. do you not
know answers fly apart in the centrifuge?
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Stunned as one who has lost focus,
By spinning with closed eyes,
Until the brain leeches skull,
And reality only sighs.
Groping for the ground,
Perplexed and weak and worn,
Between the place of right and wrong,
Of lies and truth be torn.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 6:10 PM UTC
They smoke a lot of cones by the east-side lobby,
watch the sun come up in a habit-cum-hobby.
Sweatshirts line the edge of the high-rise feature,
they pass their smoke through kisses, creature-to-creature.
The weeds hang over their heads in a brick-work reminder,
search-parties comb the woods, but they couldn't find her.
In the murmur of the city, with the street-kids drinking,
cooking up their schemes for a new-wave thinking.
The papers plaster words of in-group fear,
view the class-war that is coming near.
They don't vote for the parties that bring come-downs and blood;
they'd write a sing-song for freedom, if only they could.
They exchange love like high-fives, in teenage abandon,
now in their mid-twenties, still dreaming of Camden.
In the centrifuge of their small-town dissonance,
they toast to their cancer; to their short-lived innocence.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
"Stay?"
A pleaded entreaty with tears
Soaking the edges of it's echo
Carries from your mouth to my ears
My mind races with leg entwined visions
The sloppy wet heat of our tongues
Swirling
Whispered apologies for years of neglect and bad choices
All could be mine
Yet...
That may be all this is
Chemical desire in a centrifuge
Until well blended with come **** me
DNA strands
You say you'll be there
Then when most needed
"Where's Waldo?", on the search
You know, even without disease
Our telomeres will eventually decide
When we are finished
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your fingerprints are all over my heart
Love, it's my mind
You've been reaching for all of this time
To only brush it with your fingertips
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
I am imploding.
The paint drips off the walls.
Every part of me folds onto itself.
The ground is a rumble strip.
I am fractaling inward.
The skin of the earth crystallizes.
I am eternities splayed forcefully.
The rain continues to fall up.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
The light that blasted through the fog went away not with a stutter but backward with a slow reversal of fate.
The I that was and I that am couple and copulate in a resounding we that quietly submits to Time’s mastery.
And you: an eternal centrifuge.
Spinning and pulling only to stop
And send me on a trajectory forever towards the pins that will never fall.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
*Bring in the Stash
'No-cache'
Spin Them
In The Bin
Oh Yes,
The Recycle Bin
Centrifuge The Thoughts
Accelerate The Spin
Let it Cool
Skim
The Supernatant Thoughts
A~Blend Synthetically Homogenous Words
A Quick Stir
Win Win
Stash
The Residue
Bottle it Well
For a Later Spin
Amalgamate
A~Miscible Thoughts
Repeat The
Centrifuge
Oh Yes
In
The Recycle Bin
Anew Spin
Treasure The Bin
Win Win*
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC