"circumflex" poems - Hello Poetry

Here he comes The elliptical young guy Shaky Anchored in his Interrogation wood An interjection hanging chest Pieces of the night between backquotes Certainly He lived glory days adverbial Between clouds of exclamation Today, he lies circumflex in itself Barefoot. With faltering feet About oval ellipsis.

0

Sep 27, 2013

Sep 27, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC

aroldo-de-souza-chagas

Morphology of a Common Man

Here he comes The elliptical young guy Shaky Anchored in his Interrogation wood An interjection hanging chest Pieces of the night between backquotes Certainly He lived glory days adverbial Between clouds of exclamation Today, he lies circumflex in itself Barefoot. With faltering feet About oval ellipsis.

13

Earth's satellite-- bloated and hung. And there you were out of sight. An accidental prize tucked in the crevice of tomorrow. A lethal burrow abundant with barbed avowals. In a sick dugout flourishing with axiom; an infestation. You were; The space tucked in a dream. The conductor. The lout existing in the basement. The brute in love with disdain. Plucking circumflex arteries- clumsy, unskilled. Your mouth is a watering can. Vena cava, then the right atrium. Body parts for guitar strings. I unravel and you're amused. The exercise of reason, the functioning of the intellect. Silence always stings. It feasts on the bone marrow. In the cracks of the asphalt, There you are again. Like a thief. The Viper. The hurricane smile I believed in. Use me up and hang me out to dry with all the other bankrupt ***** I'll still be dormant in the eye of your assault.

0

Nov 26, 2013

Nov 26, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC

ally-3

002.

Earth's satellite-- bloated and hung. And there you were out of sight. An accidental prize tucked in the crevice of tomorrow. A lethal burrow abundant with barbed avowals. In a sick dugout flourishing with axiom; an infestation. You were; The space tucked in a dream. The conductor. The lout existing in the basement. The brute in love with disdain. Plucking circumflex arteries- clumsy, unskilled. Your mouth is a watering can. Vena cava, then the right atrium. Body parts for guitar strings. I unravel and you're amused. The exercise of reason, the functioning of the intellect. Silence always stings. It feasts on the bone marrow. In the cracks of the asphalt, There you are again. Like a thief. The Viper. The hurricane smile I believed in. Use me up and hang me out to dry with all the other bankrupt ***** I'll still be dormant in the eye of your assault.

25

drinks like this cold numb the fingers; many a times i leave the house wishing for a poem like this one, culprit terse and all me in the night on the greenbelt fearless concerning death without seeking the sky; i mean i love terse poems like these with caterpillar sludge of the path erected to teach mathematics like so: god give me the shrubbery above and nothing but worm below... i want to be the imaginary blur of antagonism where life dictates all life with me being the continued tear jerker jack to abide by bullying; no! i want to etch twilights in the hallucinations of the night, dwarfing then expanding the nightly roulette of routes flamboyant with the shadow sharpening lost: first the fox eager to tell the route as scout, then i hooded with beer in hand not asking for directions asking for the dry wooing of his call. there i stood in a field in a foreign land and watched east darker than the west with the lighthouse rotondo - i prefer to roundabout i have me say; then sat on a pile of stone worth the blair witch project with cinematic heart attacks, and sipped a quiet breath to include carbon monoxide and the scenery of the blinking stiletto erections for the trail of tailing off elephants into the night; sooner the drunkard but sooner the pacific boa around the neck or the black sea boa and the man drowning; gays' gauge foremost loss of the piston in woman's favour to trip up **** in hetero pleasures asking direction from athens to tripoli. i was there, hoodless and armed with bare skin tattoos invisible but seen by polaroid goosebumps exposing, there, waiting to etch the bubbling freshness of a secondary twitch into flex but not circumflex of prayer or movement without motive other than prayer and abiding by ***** and priest talk. i took to the soil, i took to the grain, i took to the tomb, i took to the skeletal vain! i took to the soil, i took to the grain, i took to the tomb, i took to the ceremony of perfumed parting with a sneeze to make death laugh. and by god i laughed, mortally into the eternal! i bulged all life into the marrow and called it an artefact to be worth a **** instead of a whistle on that bony flute, with my breath believably less accommodating turning the haemoglobin dolphin into a champagne siren.

0

Sep 23, 2015

Sep 23, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

friends with no money are just passersby

drinks like this cold numb the fingers; many a times i leave the house wishing for a poem like this one, culprit terse and all me in the night on the greenbelt fearless concerning death without seeking the sky; i mean i love terse poems like these with caterpillar sludge of the path erected to teach mathematics like so: god give me the shrubbery above and nothing but worm below... i want to be the imaginary blur of antagonism where life dictates all life with me being the continued tear jerker jack to abide by bullying; no! i want to etch twilights in the hallucinations of the night, dwarfing then expanding the nightly roulette of routes flamboyant with the shadow sharpening lost: first the fox eager to tell the route as scout, then i hooded with beer in hand not asking for directions asking for the dry wooing of his call. there i stood in a field in a foreign land and watched east darker than the west with the lighthouse rotondo - i prefer to roundabout i have me say; then sat on a pile of stone worth the blair witch project with cinematic heart attacks, and sipped a quiet breath to include carbon monoxide and the scenery of the blinking stiletto erections for the trail of tailing off elephants into the night; sooner the drunkard but sooner the pacific boa around the neck or the black sea boa and the man drowning; gays' gauge foremost loss of the piston in woman's favour to trip up **** in hetero pleasures asking direction from athens to tripoli. i was there, hoodless and armed with bare skin tattoos invisible but seen by polaroid goosebumps exposing, there, waiting to etch the bubbling freshness of a secondary twitch into flex but not circumflex of prayer or movement without motive other than prayer and abiding by ***** and priest talk. i took to the soil, i took to the grain, i took to the tomb, i took to the skeletal vain! i took to the soil, i took to the grain, i took to the tomb, i took to the ceremony of perfumed parting with a sneeze to make death laugh. and by god i laughed, mortally into the eternal! i bulged all life into the marrow and called it an artefact to be worth a **** instead of a whistle on that bony flute, with my breath believably less accommodating turning the haemoglobin dolphin into a champagne siren.

50

tyko słowa! tylko słowa! sowa. sowa. zawsze to samo mówią! jedno i to samo... to tylko słowa! szkoda że numery nie mają takiego akcentu wartości w ramach ambicii na tłach domu z telewizorem lub czajnikiem! czaj czaj, czas w Petersburg'u. tak! no tak! tylko słowa! ale potem pytają: czemu to nie mówi jak młot sto razy na minute słowo gwoźdz? a wtedy: no kurwa! przecież ten człowiek to nie młot! za za za zapuźno! to młot! i on wklucza sentyment dodo: ten na wiginieńciu - albo wygnaniu - Noah i no, aha, czyli tak. wsłuchuje sie w "arrangement" apropos ę ******* Brew* mówiąc: to ma tchu! but seriously, listening to Miles Davis' ******* brew* is done more easily than any album by the soft machine... never understood the canteen movement from the Archbishop's core to make up extremism against the York contender. po Angielsku 's possessive and plural or averted into ą and ę: z sfobodą: tylko zebra casem sie pojawia... ze.... i.e. with ease (cz - časem że / rze \že / glyph) ja niby ni tu ni tu, tylko tam gdzie płodze niewinność (niewiñość) sam... French and Slav... acute aplenty... but the grave missing... and the inverse of the circumflex... for the sh sz cz ch.

0

Aug 28, 2016

Aug 28, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

zawsze i tylko nigdy raz jeszcze (ješče)

tyko słowa! tylko słowa! sowa. sowa. zawsze to samo mówią! jedno i to samo... to tylko słowa! szkoda że numery nie mają takiego akcentu wartości w ramach ambicii na tłach domu z telewizorem lub czajnikiem! czaj czaj, czas w Petersburg'u. tak! no tak! tylko słowa! ale potem pytają: czemu to nie mówi jak młot sto razy na minute słowo gwoźdz? a wtedy: no kurwa! przecież ten człowiek to nie młot! za za za zapuźno! to młot! i on wklucza sentyment dodo: ten na wiginieńciu - albo wygnaniu - Noah i no, aha, czyli tak. wsłuchuje sie w "arrangement" apropos ę ******* Brew* mówiąc: to ma tchu! but seriously, listening to Miles Davis' ******* brew* is done more easily than any album by the soft machine... never understood the canteen movement from the Archbishop's core to make up extremism against the York contender. po Angielsku 's possessive and plural or averted into ą and ę: z sfobodą: tylko zebra casem sie pojawia... ze.... i.e. with ease (cz - časem że / rze \že / glyph) ja niby ni tu ni tu, tylko tam gdzie płodze niewinność (niewiñość) sam... French and Slav... acute aplenty... but the grave missing... and the inverse of the circumflex... for the sh sz cz ch.

44

indicative: that's, what i might call an adjective.... indication? that's what i'd call a noun - indicating? that's probably a verb - i'm still mystified by this flower or bush or tree or whatever the hell it's doing, which, given it's springtime: is probably just blooming... milk honey soap or the variant in polish mleko miód mydło; because that's basically saying: if i've lost my cultural identity, something folkish, and i get emotional about a scandinavian folk song (herr mannelig) - then i really have to get my act together and say: you can everything you want! have it! my mother tongue? you're not having it! and what is currently the "west"? talk of feminism... i once had a girlfriend that told me i would always be a man-child (christ ref.) - but all she said was: "real" men don't cry. well **** me! i can't weep at an ola gjeilo composition? well... ***** you're really into the jason voorhees types: and i mean that, i'm dead serious about that point: either that or psychiatrists, or neurologists. but so it happens, that i won't be soppy about this debackle... you know what i was thinking of? the european version of peanut butter & jelly - well, being a european i'm, quiet frankly, an omnivore... and when you're drunk, and you're an attested tobacco user... you'll seriously think some weird **** up... so yeah, i came with an alternative to the american sandwich recipe of peanut, butter... and jam... said like a true nova scotia "patriot"... o.k., i can imagine the scots and the french heading north, the english the irish and whatever was left-over down south in the hail! glorious u.s.a.! where did the welsh go to? siberia? or alaska? anyway... my innovation... pâté (circumflex) a bit like a macron (ā) - so yeah... pâté! and cherry jam! a bit like saying: à croissant! avec jambon et fromage! alt. parisien... à crêpe! " " " " (as in, the same as stated above). oh right, forgot to mention: weet chili sauce with the croissant variation. **** me! what's with the linguistic aesthetic of adding an unnecessary e in a word like crêpe... the word can end on the p... like in english: crap.

0

Apr 24, 2017

Apr 24, 2017 at 4:38 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

pâté et confítūr(e)

indicative: that's, what i might call an adjective.... indication? that's what i'd call a noun - indicating? that's probably a verb - i'm still mystified by this flower or bush or tree or whatever the hell it's doing, which, given it's springtime: is probably just blooming... milk honey soap or the variant in polish mleko miód mydło; because that's basically saying: if i've lost my cultural identity, something folkish, and i get emotional about a scandinavian folk song (herr mannelig) - then i really have to get my act together and say: you can everything you want! have it! my mother tongue? you're not having it! and what is currently the "west"? talk of feminism... i once had a girlfriend that told me i would always be a man-child (christ ref.) - but all she said was: "real" men don't cry. well **** me! i can't weep at an ola gjeilo composition? well... ***** you're really into the jason voorhees types: and i mean that, i'm dead serious about that point: either that or psychiatrists, or neurologists. but so it happens, that i won't be soppy about this debackle... you know what i was thinking of? the european version of peanut butter & jelly - well, being a european i'm, quiet frankly, an omnivore... and when you're drunk, and you're an attested tobacco user... you'll seriously think some weird **** up... so yeah, i came with an alternative to the american sandwich recipe of peanut, butter... and jam... said like a true nova scotia "patriot"... o.k., i can imagine the scots and the french heading north, the english the irish and whatever was left-over down south in the hail! glorious u.s.a.! where did the welsh go to? siberia? or alaska? anyway... my innovation... pâté (circumflex) a bit like a macron (ā) - so yeah... pâté! and cherry jam! a bit like saying: à croissant! avec jambon et fromage! alt. parisien... à crêpe! " " " " (as in, the same as stated above). oh right, forgot to mention: weet chili sauce with the croissant variation. **** me! what's with the linguistic aesthetic of adding an unnecessary e in a word like crêpe... the word can end on the p... like in english: crap.

52

Title: Caeser at Lucifer's Mission Theme: The Aesthetic of Poets A duet by : Prince Jayeola ( Golden Son) : Fuad Opeyemi (Gemini) Solid heart like the mountain Everest Circumflex to the Raven, Bring up the agon in our midst, Like a dove, we still remain Challenge come about us Still, we overcome the hurdles like hills 🙇Golden son 🙇 Kvell Cadres of scrivener, Harness styluses to tattoo on thin sheets Poets, goblet of endowment, Pivoting throe to gladdened symphony Soothing the ear of grief dwellers 🙇Gemini🙇 Clear out barrel of hate, Come apart, enmity show less on our ballad We do not bow down to race Rather, we propel with grace, With the sound of humour our poem emit 🙇Golden son 🙇 The pen, like a magicians's wand Exploited by calibers of Versified bards With a tip so sharp, running in ink Cynosure of Prying eyes, like a drop - Of dew on spinach, poet are Aesthetic 🙇Gemini🙇 We are "they are who? ", certainly! Armed to the teeth with our pens Thinking of ill- hearted hearts to heal As we dance to the dead beat of our bleeding pen No, tell the man in the street to flow off our den 🙇Golden son 🙇 Rhymester's way is Slim and Narrow, Like a thoroughfare to Gehenna For we dine with words, A minstrel muser are hero, resident of valhalla, For we are the fighter, that fight with pen 🙇Gemini🙇 We stand in the racket of ranks And fight to mind our p's and q's, Hardly do we hit below the belt To avoid disruption of poets that que We stand tall and play the game 🙇Golden son 🙇 Poets are Aesthetic, alluring That travaux over the lava-like ways of poesy We are all a product of our genre Yet, living in the facade of exultation Delusional, caeser at Lucifer's Mission 🙇Gemini🙇 ©Pen Of A True Gemini™ The bleeding Hearted Pen ©Prince Jayeola™ The Golden son All rights reserved

0

Aug 10, 2020

Aug 10, 2020 at 12:57 PM UTC

gemini-pen

Caeser At Lucifer's Mission

Title: Caeser at Lucifer's Mission Theme: The Aesthetic of Poets A duet by : Prince Jayeola ( Golden Son) : Fuad Opeyemi (Gemini) Solid heart like the mountain Everest Circumflex to the Raven, Bring up the agon in our midst, Like a dove, we still remain Challenge come about us Still, we overcome the hurdles like hills 🙇Golden son 🙇 Kvell Cadres of scrivener, Harness styluses to tattoo on thin sheets Poets, goblet of endowment, Pivoting throe to gladdened symphony Soothing the ear of grief dwellers 🙇Gemini🙇 Clear out barrel of hate, Come apart, enmity show less on our ballad We do not bow down to race Rather, we propel with grace, With the sound of humour our poem emit 🙇Golden son 🙇 The pen, like a magicians's wand Exploited by calibers of Versified bards With a tip so sharp, running in ink Cynosure of Prying eyes, like a drop - Of dew on spinach, poet are Aesthetic 🙇Gemini🙇 We are "they are who? ", certainly! Armed to the teeth with our pens Thinking of ill- hearted hearts to heal As we dance to the dead beat of our bleeding pen No, tell the man in the street to flow off our den 🙇Golden son 🙇 Rhymester's way is Slim and Narrow, Like a thoroughfare to Gehenna For we dine with words, A minstrel muser are hero, resident of valhalla, For we are the fighter, that fight with pen 🙇Gemini🙇 We stand in the racket of ranks And fight to mind our p's and q's, Hardly do we hit below the belt To avoid disruption of poets that que We stand tall and play the game 🙇Golden son 🙇 Poets are Aesthetic, alluring That travaux over the lava-like ways of poesy We are all a product of our genre Yet, living in the facade of exultation Delusional, caeser at Lucifer's Mission 🙇Gemini🙇 ©Pen Of A True Gemini™ The bleeding Hearted Pen ©Prince Jayeola™ The Golden son All rights reserved

57

I leave no trace in people’s hearts Instead, I gently circumflex and disappear completely I leave no trace in anything No craft was ever held so tight that it could let offspring I leave no trace As if a breeze has blown no stronger than grass moved

0

Sep 27, 2019

Sep 27, 2019 at 7:55 AM UTC

LynnBriar

***

I leave no trace in people’s hearts Instead, I gently circumflex and disappear completely I leave no trace in anything No craft was ever held so tight that it could let offspring I leave no trace As if a breeze has blown no stronger than grass moved

9

that's one of the reasons that i don't "think" that **** sapiens* exists... it seems that from *dementia praecox's* evolution into schiozophrenia has allowed a poetic evolution of spreschen... you can write subjectivity and subjectivity, completely devoid of polar attitudes as to how the word is accomplished in a sentence... but in terms of objectivity? you always tend to side with the people who cite "objectivity", i.e. third party narrators... these this precursor stress for a necessity of ambiguity... fuck's sake, like inverting a caron into a circumflex... ^ > < ? the **** yeah... manga why wasn't it ever > < _ ? ob. human animal sub. if there's a subconsciousness, surely, given the prefix-rule, there must also be an obconsciousness... that's ******* with my mind right now... but, after all, there's the categorical foundation... we already have puritan objectivity... it's called physics... dynamic (ɔ) - an "invisible" hand: ball (p) smacks against ball (b) and you have the dynamic (c), i.e. ball (p) stops moving, and ball (b) moves from the interaction. journalism isn't a science, you can't be objective as such, you don't have the safety of a lab. slothing away at some mundane experiment... in journalism you only have 1 chance... you don't get to compare within the concept of heidegger's dasein... you're there, be a ******* journalist! objectivity to me is a myth of pompous brats who really want to reach the apathetic potential of a psychopath; that's all they're doing, imitating psychopathy; and might i add? very poorly... the ultimate psychopaths, i.e. giving the most objective: oops? the manhattan project... so yeah... "objectively" speaking i'm a late cousin of harambe (the gorilla)... but subjectively i'm equipped with the ability to write, something like this, rather than reduce myself to a rainbow onomatopoeia of syllables, imitating a human coughing or sneezing or laughing, rather than a gorilla intimidating a contender for his abode and harem.

0

Jun 27, 2017

Jun 27, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

dynamic (ɔ), ball (p), ball (b), dynamic (c)

that's one of the reasons that i don't "think" that **** sapiens* exists... it seems that from *dementia praecox's* evolution into schiozophrenia has allowed a poetic evolution of spreschen... you can write subjectivity and subjectivity, completely devoid of polar attitudes as to how the word is accomplished in a sentence... but in terms of objectivity? you always tend to side with the people who cite "objectivity", i.e. third party narrators... these this precursor stress for a necessity of ambiguity... fuck's sake, like inverting a caron into a circumflex... ^ > < ? the **** yeah... manga why wasn't it ever > < _ ? ob. human animal sub. if there's a subconsciousness, surely, given the prefix-rule, there must also be an obconsciousness... that's ******* with my mind right now... but, after all, there's the categorical foundation... we already have puritan objectivity... it's called physics... dynamic (ɔ) - an "invisible" hand: ball (p) smacks against ball (b) and you have the dynamic (c), i.e. ball (p) stops moving, and ball (b) moves from the interaction. journalism isn't a science, you can't be objective as such, you don't have the safety of a lab. slothing away at some mundane experiment... in journalism you only have 1 chance... you don't get to compare within the concept of heidegger's dasein... you're there, be a ******* journalist! objectivity to me is a myth of pompous brats who really want to reach the apathetic potential of a psychopath; that's all they're doing, imitating psychopathy; and might i add? very poorly... the ultimate psychopaths, i.e. giving the most objective: oops? the manhattan project... so yeah... "objectively" speaking i'm a late cousin of harambe (the gorilla)... but subjectively i'm equipped with the ability to write, something like this, rather than reduce myself to a rainbow onomatopoeia of syllables, imitating a human coughing or sneezing or laughing, rather than a gorilla intimidating a contender for his abode and harem.

74