"citing" poems
Sometimes, looking at you in the light of the kitchen I want
to run a finger
Down the length of your nose but
I know you'd wrinkle it, and shake your head citing a tickle, but kiss behind my shoulder as soon
As I turn away
When my feet make ice pools in the bed
Toes accidentally brushing your ankle and you **** abruptly, but upon hearing
My sigh, trap them back with your ankles til, martyr that you are, I'm engulfed in
Warmth at your
Expense.
Sometimes the last trickle of milk is mine, for the coffee,
Silent with your eyes smiling fondly, you look on as I sip, resolutely stirring powdered
Dead baby souls into mug as substitute.
Even damp smelly socks
Greasy hair
Neurotic tears and
Intellectual rambling epiphanies
Even childish blunders, fudging the
Budget or burning the toast
You still call me fond Things.
And love Me.
The most.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
There is a forest old as hillsides
tall, majestic, dappled shades
fall on ground beneath the silent
gnarled defenders of the glade.
There they stand in ancient splendour
many souls have passed their way
often used as welcome shelter
from the heat of summers day.
Sweet the air they breathe in chorus
our life's breath their lungs provide,
soaking up our daily poison
so that we may live and thrive.
You seas of men intent to clear them
citing progress, peddling greed
tearing roots from precious mooring
laying waste to nature's seed.
**** the beauty of a landscape
displace creatures for your need
rupture fragile ecosystems
scar the earth and watch it bleed.
To you I ask a simple question,
as I see the land bereaved.
What need has man of all this progress
when he can no longer breathe?
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Rivalries are an excuse for animosity to be abused.
A tradition to explain the irrational and depraved.
A justification for future insubordination
Of logical arguments by the sane.
Beasts competed with one another through physical altercations,
But we have evolved to call everyone our brother.
So why is it that we must see fighting between one another?
Why is it that we may not all show that we're lovers?
Is there something wrong with the tolerance of each other?
Whatever rationalization is created for the promotion of hatred,
Should be abolished and ashamed,
That it may show its head and become a vein for placing blame,
Is unsettling all the same.
We are all too similar, and that should not promote altercations of an individual,
Rather it should be used as a connection to the familiar.
It should be used in stride with the builder
Of peace, and a reason for all this nonsense to cease.
We have developed into adults,
and it is time to show this with amiable results.
By citing a rivalry as traditional is exactly the reason
It is sinful.
One day we may see the end of this spitefully built fence,
By breaking down the wall separating far too many of us all.
I hope it is my lifetime here, for failing to unite us,
is my deepest of fears.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
for Dr. Ursula Goodenougth
To better view the fairest the stars of
Genesis, Keats or Kepler,
the priests of vertical transcendence
built towers over clouds -
beyond the touch of worldly toil.
Standing below in soiled boots,
newer prophets citing
the universal brotherhood of
mitosis, chromosomes and DNA,
urge a new transcendence
spread on a horizontal plain
where bridges are preferred to ladders.
Muffled distant drums,
beating somber warnings
of poisoned waters and global heat,
summon us down
from our lofty towers of denial.
Murmuring rhythms of forests and streams
and all species of flora and fauna
line out the same life beats
as the engines in our chests.
The God without is the God within -
nestled within our nuclei.
With global death within the grasp
of our reckless finger tips,
and bullet fever
infesting our earthly villages,
are we ready yet
to yield a measure of our trust
to the healing power
of horizontal transcendence?
May, 2007
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Noon had barely finished his circuit
when I engaged the Sun in conversation,
wondering if her healing rays were a golden ode to pain?
Abruptly interrupted;
shirts' silk thread dripping displeasure,
at the sudden moistness of its condition.
In return and in much the same verbal position,
I chided this thread,
intoxicated with sticky saline libation,
much less for the distraction
as opposed to the - parley intrusion,
citing;
“My dear shirt it’s impolite to gravitate beyond one's social inclusion”
Instinctively,
back and fingers joined this spoken foray
distancing themselves in unison
from the sozzled garments' argument.
Arching and pulling away,
his company no longer entreated,
whatever beauty he had,
now lost,
in his present
dis - position.
In agreement and sunshine unabating,
I attempted to continue our once lovely conversation.
But she;
her glow unwaning,
had moved on,
no longer finding such small talk entertaining.
© Qwey.ku
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
***I see many portraits in my visions.
portraits of black sheep in division.
portraits of eyes so deep,
a portrait for ones soul to keep.
portraits of two hearts collided,
a portrait of a life divided.
portraits of wise men citing verse,
a portrait of sage ending in curse.
portraits of shadows with knives,
a portrait of the horned ones as they connive.
portraits of footprints imprinted in the sand,
a portrait of those footprints washed free of this land.
portraits of life and blackness of dieing,
a portrait of some innocence, then crying.
portraits of smiles not to be trusted,
a portrait of a chain all weathered and rusted.
i have many portraits my collection has grew,
a portrait of my life and a visionary portrait of you.***
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
Colours
Like you've never seen before
Blind these lost souls
As
To the music they sway
Their carefully sculpted hips
Banishing
Any thoughts
That endeavour to stray
Into their fickle minds
Between sips
Lips
That curve
Into phony smiles
Citing pitiful attempts
At humour
What are they hoping
To achieve here?
What are they hoping
To find?
I think
I'm going to stop deluding myself now
I'm going to go look for my own kind.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Theres a circle cycle of sides to the self of me
Standing in the middle surveying my surroundings
Noting each application and the consequences that apply
Maybe I'm simply a hedonist
Weighting for worn out pleasure centers to take a flame
Or an optimistic pessimist
Citing my self for the blame
My humanistic approach has lost appeal
Defying my superego
And hierarchy of needs reel
Stuck in Erickson stages
A psychodynamic underground war rages
There's a linear graph
Self sided to me
Maybe I'm projecting all my insecurities
And taking my abnormalities
Out on maladaptive poetry
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
I see many portraits in my visions.
Portraits of black sheep in division.
Portraits of eyes so deep,
a portrait for ones soul to keep.
Portraits of two hearts collided,
a portrait of a life divided.
Portraits of wise men citing verse,
a portrait of sage ending in curse.
Portraits of shadows with knives,
a portrait of the horned ones as they connive.
Portraits of footprints imprinted in the sand,
a portrait of those footprints washed free of this land.
Portraits of life and blackness of dieing,
a portrait of some innocence, then crying.
Portraits of smiles not to be trusted,
a portrait of a chain all weathered and rusted.
I have many portraits my collection has grew,
a portrait of my life and a visionary portrait of you.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
The Time For Humanity To Mature Has Not & Would Never Come. Read on - be intrigued.
Now that I believe for a long time after I attained the age of 22 years on 23rd December, 2012.
Many of the spiritual literature pieces are just contradictory to themselves, why would HE let the occurence of any trouble then and hold only the other end of a jittery life helping us cross to the other end safe & fine?
If you would excuse this question saying "HE can never be questioned and HE alone is the destructor & the creator," then it's just a desperate excuse which you hold to considering theism as flawless & unquestionable, me & any similar people as psychos, or perhaps losers.
I don't discourage theism nor do I encourage anybody to share similar thoughts as mine, but I myself don't encourage idling over the concept of the special spiritual unseen power. I agree that some phenomena like love, kindness, greed, lust & hatred can't ever just be scientifically explained in total completeness by just citing some natural laws of nature or physics. But then again why do we often indispensably need that imaginary hand above our heads for protection or more than often have to spend money in praise of the imaginary hand above our heads?
Any mention about theists' escapist nature would be countered by their many statements of the following kind:
o Us theists, we don't escape problems, we just gather courage when we have identified a problem in our lives by remembering the imaginary hand above our heads sheltering us from all troubles and then tackle the problem with enough strength.
o Theism does neither lack anything divinity nor does it lack even anything evil, both of them are manmade concepts, the world was created as a perfect place for the existence of human race.
o Instead of just leaving us all alone in this troublesome world, He has sent few of His men and we can blindly follow them to resolve our own specific troubles with solutions ideated around age-old books written by great men and we don't need anybody to question our faith wherever it is.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
Versifyin'
Isn't dyin',
But man,
It's hard to do.
Words and lines
Sound like cliches,
What once
Was old
Is new..
Familiar phrases
Crowd the pages,
Causing such to do.
Can anyone write
Anything new.
Did I write that;
Overhear a wit?
Read it in the loo?
I'll note it down,
Sit,
Sweat and swap,
Get off the ***
And write it.
I don't purloin
Pretty Woman
Because Roy
Is older than me.
To write Yesterday
Is almost to say,
I've hijacked
Sir McCartney.
Write Daffodils,
And see what thrills
That word brings to you.
We may overuse them,
Unwittingly
Abuse them,
And with some we amuse,
But they're ours,
Put to good use
With me.
The number of chords
Limits the hordes;
Repetition ensues,
The decry is sung:
I've heard that song before.
The great ones of writing
Are cause for citing,
By we and me and you.
Can't contrast love to roses,
Shakespeare's told us;
Can't compare eyes to stars,
Lips to petals:
To say,
Your soft, white skin
Is an ink-black sin.
And Beautiful should not
Be used as such.
If one must use it,
One needs
A thesaurus.
Thee, Thine, and Shall
Have taken their toll;
Like Death,
Be not proud.
Be the chosen one,
You know how.
Words and phrases
Are replete;
Too well known
Not to repeat.
They're in
Our vernacular
To be used by
Any author.
But verbatim
Copying's outlawed.
The copy cops
Finger-print
The frauds.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
We have a checkered past
I call it a story,
Inevitability,
Or something beautiful
I don’t see it with your cold hazel eyes
I don’t dissect it into painful little bits
Trying to discern cause of death
As we’re lying entwined on a cold autopsy table
Before our heart beats have even had the chance to stop racing
I don’t believe it’s avoiding failure if we never try
I never have
You read our history like a eulogy
Citing each fight as a mortal wound
Recounting the tales
Over a mahogany coffin
Holding onto your love
Was like listening to a coroner’s report
Each “I love you” was a doctor, calling it
Was a DNR order
You are ready to dress in black
And call in a headstone engraving
With past tense dates
To bury everything
And just call it a mistake you had to make
But I am not an obituary
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
A God bless you, to all my teachers.
I know it was hard,
But you definitely managed to reach her.
In Gupton's Math,
You managed to make me laugh
When the rest of them wouldn't dare cross your path.
In Lotvedt's Social Studies
It was hard staying awake
But I think I managed to make us buddies.
In Phibbs' Science
I learned a little about my body,
and you taught us a little self reliance.
In Vinger's Writing,
you had a great sense of humor
and managed to teach me the art of citing.
In McLeod's Reading,
The place I loved and learned the most
I learned to put my trust in the love of succeeding
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
I'm sick of writing
self-righteous sadness
just to drain the abscesses
left putrefying small cavities
that sneaked past my demeanor
so cleverly, so cautiously
Sticky fingers are a hard thing to manage
when everything is crying out to be taken,
i suppose.
I mainly remember ***** smeared in shisha
on the door of a shed where we would go to get drunk
and listen to the two albums left on my rich kid phone
because it's the only music we had, and silence was just slightly too unbearable.
But **** I want to stop citing all these ******* sea wolf songs
before i lose the discography to my inner ocean
and have nothing left to sing my sails
away from here.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
sorrows,
shaved scalp,
sorrows,
forehead heavy with ash,
sorrows,
scabs scraped with broken pottery,
sorrows,
all the gods stopped playing fair,
sorrows,
with cold sons and contradictory friends,
sorrows,
for the saints,
sorrows,
for the satans,
sorrows,
for citing both.
sorrows,
at the sound of laughter,
sorrows,
at the touch of neighbors,
sorrows,
for losing my mind,
my maker,
my family,
sorrows,
while everyone else is content
to live in ****** sitcoms
and safety-net salvation.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 5:28 PM UTC
A God bless you, to all my teachers.
I know it was hard,
But you definitely managed to reach her.
In Gupton's Math,
You managed to make me laugh
When the rest of them wouldn't dare cross your path.
In Lotvedt's Social Studies
It was hard staying awake
But I think I managed to make us buddies.
In Phibbs' Science
I learned a little about my body,
and you taught us a little self reliance.
In Vinger's Writing,
you had a great sense of humor
and managed to teach me the art of citing.
In McLeod's Reading,
The place I loved and learned the most
I learned to put my trust in the love of succeeding.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 8:48 AM UTC
a morning conversation
brought for those
of agnostic or atheist
doubting persuasion..
an exploration of
stone tablet verses
so to experience
some secular
everyday difference..
objections were tabled
citing limitations
much is left out..
that negative tone
we all know so well..
those shalt-nots
seem to prevail
in eight of the ten..
modern science
quite lately has
offered assistance..
producing a map
researching the brain..
two sides observed
left analytical with
edges restricting
joined by right
expansive and present
just out of sight..
left and right
interfacing
pulsating
might we say dancing..?
then to the tablets
with map in hand
left still speaks forthright..
but then a surprise
right is right there
in front of our eyes..
look once again
first in the listing
and once more
see number four..
now we rely on our
newfound map
remembering the dance
those leftward shalt-nots
might others be named..?
each one is dancing
with a partner
one clearly not seen...
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
as one famous founder of a site
citing its demographic as:
poor girl seeks a sugar daddy
to get a university education:
'love is a concept invented by
poor people,'
i agree, and also invented by
the one who was crucified,
but i might add: insanity is a
concept invented by rich people...
esp. those people who's
children are ready to embark
on a career in intellectualising
stiff psychiatric nouns without
clear verb examples of behaviour,
and the public en masse dilute
"serious" psychiatric investigations
of mood swings et al. with
poetic elasticity of metaphor -
it's no longer: oh i'm so sad...
it's oh i feel so depressed... that would
make perfect sense in aviation
history - given the 80th anniversary
of the spitfire (spuckenfeuer) over
the skies in Southampton -
subtler and more positive expression
of alcoholism? just a different type
of metabolism, water (adam's tonic)
doesn't exist because it's all contaminated...
aviation depression compression,
high in the altitudes of 16,000 feet,
then looking down at ants on the pavement
with their labyrinth rivers of blindness
and then buckle **** it hits you,
the sea of humanity.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
She sits, emotionally bland,
Speaking mechanically;
Her right jaw, slightly misaligned,
From calcifications of former fractures;
And he is left-handed.
Lime-green circles about her
Distant, blue eyes indicate
That she has pleased him
This past week.
She believes that she
Is Improving, is better;
As the distance between
The necessary corrections
Is elongating, and she doesn’t
Nap as often.
He seems to love her more;
And frequently resorts
To audible amendments,
Or is too fatigued, himself,
To properly intervene
In her enlightenment.
She inhales, fidgets, re-adjusts,
To breathe without pain;
Calmly expressing accolades for
The strength, perseverance,
Of her son who doesn’t fail;
But weeps, in anonymity,
For her daughter who must
Have inherited her propensity
Toward weakness, malfunction.
Perhaps, over time,
He will see fit to guide
Their daughter with
Identical acts of love;
And she will be well.
She stares out the window,
Toward the windswept willow;
Catatonic, citing that
Past years, learning years,
Were resonating like the
Dry-fire echo of the
Empty Chamber in a game
Of Russian-Roulette.
The sound, repeated and
Sustained in dull memory;
The clicks that fed
The ugly tomorrows;
But her eyes sparkle as
She admits to a yearning,
For the strike of the pin
To fresh primer;
And she may only regret
That she will not hear
The Sound
Heralding her freedom.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
When I found out
about your little game.
I laughed.
First in anger,
then in spite.
It was so very petty after all.
Your big persona
clothed in a bespangled mantle
of hypocrisy and loyalty
came apart
just like you did
when things began to crack.
Your hands
capable of spinning rifles
and commanding cadets
failed to handle me
in all my complexities.
I do not fault you for that
after all it takes a strong man
to be with a strong woman
but i do fault you
for the veiled hypocrisy
you showed at every turn.
You questioned my loyalty
insinuated at flirtations
flaunted your jealousy
Yet behind my back
all the while
showed honeyed intentions
to the girls in your tracks.
You gave me up
like an unhousebroken puppy,
that had bitten
your tremendous ego.
Citing your love for me
and your good intentions
while all you wished for
was to roam free.
When I figured out your little game
I laughed
first in anger,
then in spite.
But now,
when I think of your game,
I do neither
because the games of small men
no longer interest me,
and neither do you.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
I'm not trending.
Have I lost my touch?
Has the flock departed my
exodus for greener pastures
or mountain testaments?
Do the rhymes not carry
the meaning like they used to,
like sailing ships in the steel ages?
I let the winds take me anyways,
take my life and scatter
syllable seedlings across the sites
of battles just old enough where
the ghosts are getting tired.
Maybe I need a touch of comedy?
A critique would be appreciated,
dear reader.
By the way, we made some mistakes
in the last issue you had with us.
On page seven, we established the fact
that I was confident. This was
proven false with a report card report
mailed to us by the fine folks in blue at the
Teacher's Union.
On page nineteen, there was a photo
made of words that sounded like
love song lyrics.
That romance is currently defunct and we
apologize to any soldiers and shippers who
attempted to invade that lost region
on the life map.
Page twenty-three had a mistake,
the byline citing a girl who died
inside.
Our apologies for installing her name on
the neon sign and reminding you all
of the casualties of existing in the first place.
Finally, there was an absence of malice
in the letter from the editor on the back cover,
his eulogizing of his overdosed career
hardly harsh enough a reprimand for
someone who will never listen.
Thank you for your understanding of
this, even if the rest is a mess.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC