"compilations" poems
Pretend piety,
Of the temporary variety,
Placed in a shine of "I am better than you high society".
Your words are intelligent,
Your words hold weigh,
But my sentiment makes your feeble words tremble and shake.
It has taken years of mental ************
To develop the concentration,
To compose these compilations of rhythmic translations!
You think you are the victor,
You feel you have won,
But this is no mere battle, it's a ******* war...son...your pain has just begun.
Because we don't need five minutes alone,
To crush any poem,
But reaching the masses and in between is where, I, call home.
Love and pain are parts of the game, but so are other emotions,
So merely beware, your pen must dip a little deeper into far vaster oceans,
If you think you can contend to my level or quotient...
My friend....
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.
Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.
My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.
My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.
What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.
Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.
No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in
Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.
Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
when love's not served on silver, but sliced on knives' edge
from wounds we learn to draw the gentlest pledge
the violence unseen
it shapes our soul's embrace
transforming scars into verses
a tender grace
nothing concludes with verse or rhyme's decree
yet endings birth poetry from life's debris
blood once spilled held no beauty in its hue
just crimson streams
a truth we misconstrue
yet in the gaze upon our wounds
we endeavor to find solace beyond
in moments that sever
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 7:59 PM UTC
May morning cacophonies never quiet.
Doves coos, repetitive sharp whistles
rising and falling sounded by robins,
who seem to say, "cheer up, cheer up,
cheerily, cheer up." Jays shrieking
whatever warnings they shriek. Chirps,
tweets, titterings of so many more, combine
in crazy compilations of some
orchestra without their conductor
forever warming up days. I do not own
feathers but all my body hairs do stand
on end, flitting as if they were. Then,
woodpecker taps against hollow
termite ridden tree sounding like
the strike of a conductor's baton.
Nothing comes together. A symphony
never starts, at least not one of any
great composer's. Just the greatest.
I spring from my nest. I do not know music.
I hear it and am it. These mornings move
me to ditter about, find my way,
peck my morning niblings, feel dawn
dress me in sun, make me lust
life adorned with feathers. How
possibility wings bring.
From flock to flock, I dare to fit in.
Learn new mating dances.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
You know those blank pages at the end of a book?
The ones there just to make the other pages with numbers line up?
Yeah. Those.
Those are for me.
I get to fill them with all the things that the book didn't say.
All the emotions and double meanings woven
Between the lines.
Scribbled hastily in the margins
The can all be neatly compressed into that
Great
White
Expanse at the end
All the words there mean more than any plot a chapter could hold.
These paragraphs tell a different tale.
One without page numbers or punctuation marks.
One that is constantly evolving.
Something only I understand.
Only I can see all the things I made up.
The things I let bloom from nothing into nothing.
I create stories so fantastical no would could believe them.
No one can understand.
It's all assumptions and hurt.
Compilations of innocent, mistaken gestures.
The paper holds a ticking time bomb. Waiting to explode and destroy every relationship I've ever had.
Because probably, none of it is real.
I am the protagonist and the antagonist.
The villain and the hero.
The winner and the loser.
No. Just the loser.
The stupid girl who created a magical world she couldn't escape from.
She allowed letters and words to imprison her.
And the worst part?
The words aren't even real.
But I'm still stuck between The End and the back cover. In those stupid, empty pages.
Trapped in my own delusions.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."
Thanksgiving Day 2011
Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation
Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...
Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.
Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.
They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give
The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
my thanks lives,
without them,
I am lessened,
through them,
I am whole,
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:04 AM UTC
Our house is burning down.
The flames are lashing and tearing
every(our)thing in it's wake.
From the bottom to the top,
Our daughter's doll house,
our miniature planetarium in our bedroom,
my compilations of writings about you/I/us.
Don't rush for the door, dear.
There's still a chance we can subsidise these
gallowing flames that's trying furiously
to charr our ship in the message in the bottle
and our memories into ephemeral ash.
Stay.
For all the reasons to save what we have,
what we've longed for so long,
what we've built from the pit of our hearts.
So,
Stay.
We'll find our way through the maze
and through every well wishers curses.
We'll fix everything that needs to be tended to
and we'll grow to love each other once again.
I'm staying.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
compilations of cold coffee cups,
dancing about in my candle-stained room
to French music from the 50's, today,
contrasting with the cacophony of construction
four stories beneath, below,
the day is blush.
rain as rosewater, fossilizes into flakes on the cheekbones, the lashes.
a quick reading of Kerouac reminds one to
believe in the 'holy contour of life,' whatever 'holy' means,
if it exists at all,
whether America is overrated,
whether i rather play in puddles of Scotland
or some foreign place,
how delightful it sounds, as Edith Piaf's
voice trances my loveless memory.
i'm cold. but we have to be.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Existing, creating, remaining
In constant correspondence with
Fluorescent phantoms stalking
hypnogogic images of
Past selves spilled upon
A marble plane universe.
Fractals of shattered ether,
Taught not
to touch an all,
Indescribably content with systematically
Despairing hairs,
Rapidly engaging in disengagement.
Division of conscious accessibility,
Lately less than half.
Mundane introductions to despairs,
Rapidly devouring
The residual stillness.
Folk compilations of concepts fabricating
Inquiries into legends of incentive for
Existing, creating, remaining.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
(for my fellow dharma bums)
why is this backpack so heavy?
chicken & country cole slaw
forks & knives & spoons
a bicycle helmet hanging off
a sketch pad
books
the next 100 years
how the beatles destroyed rock’n’roll
a walkman & cds
the soundtrack to the darjeeling limited
faust’s first two albums
tom waits & alan holdsworth
compilations of local prog rock
modern blues & albert king
old newsweeks
a black t shirt & blue scrubs
a folder with poems & instructional material
the brain death protocol
a stethoscope
but why is it so heavy?
must be the hot sauce
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 6:31 AM UTC
Let's transcend this sad world baby
Just you and me
Past the sidewalks
And shrinking patches of green
And ministry of sound compilations
And the weight of infinity on our backs
As we circle one of the 300 billions stars in our galaxy
In a universe of 170 billion galaxies
Just you me and a mattress baby
That's all we need
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
As I write ifs and elses
& grab some dreams
out of the shelf,
I am struck by
a miracle with beautiful legs.
I am struck again
by a feather with a soft spring song.
And I lose my mind
to these little things that belong
to that time before summer.
The melody that echoes in my humming
and your beautiful uncompromising pace
send my spinning wheel of emotions
to never ending places.
To love you is to write you down,
word for word, until the pen loses its ink,
and another days goes by in dazes
and it could rain deserts for all I care.
All of the sudden,
my poem gets touched by other,
and that’s how poetry is made,
you see?
She lives in all of us,
somewhere, somehow,
waiting to be unfolded.
And the day will come
that the best poem will come bursting
out of an entire life of compilations.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
There's an inner sinking in my ocean.
A billowing crescent, waxed devotion
Whispering within the subtleties of breath.
I believe in what will cause our death.
I believe discovering our inner selves,
In among the mixed revelations,
Dainty compilations facing dilapidation.
The many soulless miners delve deeper.
When you learn who you are past the shouts of the gods.
Shattering composure with their mighty voices.
Left to one's own devices, secreting away the factual answers.
Humans dreaming in spite of their own conscious, forever dancers.
When you learn you're like the rest, a part of the whole.
What will hold up to you? As the best, the beauty of the soul.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
love poem.
eyes sink in skull quiver
lashes feather, hands reach/check yourself/hands reach
lip on ear, lobe all flesh and sweet little hairs
tastes like:
oh god and then we were on the street
corner and the light made skeletons out of
us
and he clawed at me! with his drunken limbs
he swiped. put his
mouth next to mine, over mine like a palm (for the first time)
breathtaking:
V-words-viciousvivaciousvolatilevent
tear away, fling off
slip through space: tumble up the stairway:
heart howling: leave him
swallowing darkness in
frantic gulps.
and you dream of: your bodies
made out of words-thousands and thousands of
minute black crumbling
compilations, language is the blood.
:wither:wasteland:clutch:sweep:swell:smear:grit:heave:
done.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
there's something about the idea of sitting down with him and a glass of red wine that he cherishes so much that really appeals to you, something about listening to call it fate call it karma and joking about the irrelevancy of individual objects in this mass world that makes you want to message him immediately
the truth is, you need him because you need someone to save you when you have realised at about 3 am on your way to see him this morning that you are no longer a person to rely on to be there for you emotionally - you're your own bad influence, you're your own a.m. thoughts and bad decisions
the truth is, you wish you were still drunk enough to tell him that he should date you instead; you wish you were drunk enough to kiss him, drunk enough to play with his tie when he kept fidgeting with it, drunk enough to tell him that he's full of **** and you love it
you wish you were sober enough to forget about everything that has happened and get off that feeling knowing somebody told you that you'd be in their head, because your situations have never been perfect and this hurricane is making its way towards your heart faster than you anticipated and this time you don't want to drown in the raindrops of lost desire and empty words
there's something there, something about the two silver rings, one on each hand; something about the way his hair slicks back, about how he wears his glasses and how excited he gets to show you what he can play on piano; there's something there about the touch, about the electrifying feeling of holding his tired hands, and about the way you can tease him and he still takes it, about the way he assumes things but you do too and then you both admit your faults, about the way he tells you to smile more because a smile suits you and that thinking too much can be a serial killer
there's something there, but it's too far away to be understood - too far away to be felt, too far away to be loved
your drunken mind assumes it's utopia, but your sober mind concludes it's hell
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
It may sound like tragedy
But beauty lies in calamity
The obstacles that test us
That make us and test our sanity
Self consciousnessness vanity
insecurities causing pressure
Forcing us to experiment with
Our limitations that help measure
What's important, what we treasure
What we sacrifice for pleasure
Giving us vision of clarity to find
What were carrying buried never
To be seen until bad weather
Makes us reach deep inside
To pull out courage that couldn't
Flourish without desperation to try
Our resilience that's why brilliance
Comes from hardships facing
Us opposed to expose weakness we
hold and learn to control making
The wrong move or fall to the
Inevitable damage inflicted
Helping us discover the strength
Covered never needing it evicted
But the loss of comfort from
bad situations start to train us to know
Our capability til like a distillery
our body produces an adrenaline buzz
That gives confidence like beer does
Like whiskey like ***
A natural substance like adderol
Now seeing the potential that some
Never uncover until there smothered
In fear nerves and sweat
Reminding you that a man
holds in his hands all he needs to stand next
To hurricanes and endure the rain
Cuz if he boards a plane and runs
He'll never know if he can survive &
if he runs the next time u come
To face fear it'll never be done
You'll always live scared your not
Able to stand your ground and reach
Deep down and evolution will stop
So sacrifice causer a loss
Is the cost of what will be found
Learn to be the master
of what happens after a disaster surrounds
Cause a master sees faster means of
recovery then goes to master these
Compilations of complication
s in the Situations of a catastrophe
And then he'll always have with him
the tools to fight Cataclysm
And learn to shape fate and hate
to tolerate misfortune like its Fascism
And by the end the little mishaps
And trials and tribulations
Will be welcome as u learn the pain
is worth the outcome&inspiration;
Not to mention the confirmation
That misfortune brings fortune
Like any adversity brings pain like
Surgery but the aftermath assuringly
Will be more asset than liability as
your left with something intangible
The knowledge that you are stronger
Than you imagined& still amicable
So charge toward fear, stand tall
Never hide or run away
Cuz unless the earth breaks
ull survive the earthquakes, and be ok
Hardships, cataclysm catastrophe
Calamity&disasters; are unusual
Cuz their misfortune brings fortune
So remember tragedy is beautiful
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
No more time left,
held back by false pretense,
suspenseful lust,
prisoners of want,
superstitious compilations,
chasing stars,
chasing freedom,
pockets of sand,
we gain all but dust,
whiskey in my veins,
pain in my heart,
my criminal soul,
****** from the start,
enter my hell,
where was god,
gaze into fear,
a broken man,
sealed my fate,
my deal with the devil,
problem child,
reckless love,
lifeless ambition,
corrupted existence,
capital sin,
unbridled resistance,
live for me,
die for me,
bleed for me,
cry for me,
make peace with death,
make war with hate,
the end is near,
except your fate
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
She paints such things
That the world thought it knew
But in such a way
That each color, each hue
Each texture, so surreal
It transcended the real
And gave off the feel
Of Monique
Born of the embers
Of undiscovered stars
With eyes that would shine
Amidst streetlights and cars
And then outshine the day
With a brilliant array
As if this world, it spake
Of Monique
Emulating sunrises
With beauties of sunsets
A smile on her face
That no soul would forget
Each whisper a symphony
Embedded in history
The untold, renowned mysteries
Of Monique
Prophet and poet
Both will rise and will fall
The words of greats and kings
Will then fade, all in all
Yes the universe sings in praise
Compilations all raised
On the beautiful shades
Of Monique
My voice is cracking
My eyes filled with crust
These fingers will curl
As I venture to the dust
But I would wish nothing more
Than to write a score
Of the love that is stored
For Monique
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 8:22 AM UTC
Fate had met me with hands drenched in blood.
I had met you with sirens wailing in your busy head,
but no, I would not let you diminish me.
I have turned you into my poetry, left and right
I am whisking away thoughts of you on pages and laptop screens,
all of which are dying.
I met you and I had already deemed myself worthy, of saving you.
I wrote you like my poetry,
saving compilations of you in different files but I know now,
it wasn't the way.
I met you and found out that saving you, like saving the Sun
from dying out one day, was not meant for my hands.
I met you, when you uttered to me "poetry is dead"
I know you.
I had known you for my poetry.
I have known you since I had the first
taste of what it feels like,
to be awake.
*Now I know, poetry is dead.
You are not my poetry anymore,
for you are the
Poet*.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
in zee olden days of
a ****** megastore
on oxford st.,
just beside
the Tottenham Court Rd.
tube station...
Mecca...
for all those who loved
music...
even the classical
music section, sealed,
behind glass doors...
and those music stations
where you could
listen to an album
before buying it...
i'm pretty sure i bought
*dry **** logic*'s
the darker side of nonsense...
based on?
the song asphalt...
and godhead's
album 2000 years of human
error...
decent times,
there was actually a point
to go to a major high street,
and forage,
while the girls were buying
clothes and shoes and
make-up...
books?
it was always amazon.com,
from the 3rd party sellers,
always on the discount,
thomas mann's
doctor faustus?
had to be
bought second hand...
HMV? it's still there,
on oxford st.,
but ****** had class...
a rare experience...
esp. the listening stations,
you'd forage for an album,
ask the technician to put it on,
listening to it...
and boom!
into your pocket...
i still remember Sony's mini-discs...
i still remember making
cassette compilations...
and that strange form of labor
of having to rewind,
a sound as unique
as the static of pre-digital television...
the noise from the vacuum
of the universe -
apparently considered to
be the sound, a remnant of
the big bang...
so... youtube -
now?
**** they take the music
shops away...
i guess youtube was always
about listening to music
before buying an physical compact
disc copy...
ah... this one
incident bothers me...
at the still (don't ask me how)
existing Romford HMV...
i actually had
a copy of foals
album holy fire in my hand...
but... **** i didn't buy it!
no listening station...
only after having watched
dr. foster (a BBC drama)
did i hear foals' song
my number...
and this is a quasi-nostalgia:
with a drag-along effect -
given that...
certain aspects of the 2000s
had to be, re-improvised.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
don’t question it
the sky is blanketed in gray
its days like these that i feel the emptiness
the black hole that has made its home in the pit of my stomach
I can feel it physically
like something is missing where my large intestines used to be
or maybe i feel it in my heart
my pulse is fast, but I feel slow
My friends tell me that I think too much
I’m too sensitive
i work too hard
are they right?
does it matter?
and now I’m questioning everything
what is beyond our life?
what is beyond my knowledge?
am I educated?
and does the limit exist?
and why does it ******* matter
why does a letter
on my report card
mean so much to me?
I find myself obsessed with percentages
A minus versus A
why does it matter?
why am i frustrated over homework
and as i stand in the shower
letting the water hit my back
I feel so…
blank.
so i pass my time with homework
with vine compilations on youtube
but i still feel the darkness
the emptiness
in the back of my head
as i lay on my side staring at the wall
blank
the voices in my head
is too loud
but I’m the only one who can hear it
“will you ever be good enough?”
“what is good enough?”
“what does your future hold?”
looking into my future is like looking over the ledge of a cliff
a plummet into darkness
just like the space in my head
so i don’t think
i don’t think other than the math equations
or the final projects
or the translation exercises
as long as the music in my ears are louder than the voices
i can convince myself this is what will fill the emptiness
at least I won’t have questions to ask
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
I want to consume him like
Succulent seafood at Mayflower’s
Delight in his seamless flight
His powerful magnetic majesty
Travel in his deep, serene, and sensuous valleys
Of gay and intense enchantment
Take in his lovely, creative, and all-pervading charm
He makes me utterly vulnerable
Excessively accessible to his incredible fetchingness
He is highly tempting and dreamlike
My sultry, rugged man crush
Slick, silky, sweet, and delicious
I crave to savor his pleasurable collection
Of dream-filled delights
Fill my mind with his colossal volume
Of inspirational compilations
Get lost in his magical stellar library
Allow him to feel my world
With his extensive instinctiveness
I yearn to learn everything from him
Absorb his temple of informative history
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 4:21 PM UTC