"conceptions" poems
How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keep the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 11:45 PM UTC
An abstract of an academic paper written by a doctoral student: "In this semimanifesto, I approach how understandings of quantum physics and cyborgian bodies can (or always already do) ally with feminist anti-oppression practices long in use. The idea of the body (whether biological, social, or of work) is not stagnant, and new materialist feminisms help to recognize how multiple phenomena work together to behave in what can become legible at any given moment as a body. By utilizing the materiality of conceptions about connectivity often thought to be merely theoretical, by taking a critical look at the noncentralized and multiple movements of quantum physics, and by dehierarchizing the necessity of linear bodies through time, it becomes possible to reconfigure structures of value, longevity, and subjectivity in ways explicitly aligned with anti-oppression practices and identity politics. Combining intersectionality and quantum physics can provide for differing perspectives on organizing practices long used by marginalized people, for enabling apparatuses that allow for new possibilities of safer spaces, and for practices of accountability."--an abstract of a paper by doctoral student Whitney Stark
Atomic particles, how can it be so
that your purpose is not just to flow
in and out of existence, building reality--
the stars, cosmic gas and galaxies--
but to “ally” with groups of humans fighting “hierarchies”
and demanding “safe spaces”
(even though their entire race is
at the top of their planet’s food chain).
In this mysterious universe there is no safety,
accountability or identity,
only elements, and energy.
Brief combinations make life
legible for a nanosecond in cosmic time, and doomed to strife.
Biology does not know oppression,
only generation, reproduction,
until our growth chokes us and we fall
like so many of our ancestors, who lived and died
on this blue-green ball.
And one day the sun will explode and blow
even our atoms, which have endured (despite oppression),
and the particles will go far until maybe they sow
new life, in bodies unfamiliar, on planets unknown.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keeps the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC
the trouble with poetry
(and this poetry site) is its
facilitation
awoke in a strange bed, my own,
in a different city, with my old eyes
renewed with, by loving amazement
at the beauty of so many souls experimenting
with edged, loving, dangerous compo-notions,
that make me older than King David, who loved the
love of life and this world, for here I am, falling too
for the life & love potions
of words of my fellow humans across
vast oceans
and I stoke their and stroke their
heated words, pretending that
the cool warmth of my tablet
is both their gorgeous skin and
alluring verbal twists that arouse
my innermost, and break my already
broken heart, and heals it at the very
same time...
all too, so easily
this communication is at levels that
descend, transcend,
grips me with passion and consternation
at my own desires, my open body & mind
stirred, chilled, shaken, stirred and soothed
by the busting out contradictions of us, me,
so well hidden, so well revealed in the marvy
ability of so many to share their essences,
their own scents, just by words upon a page,
and here I pause...
to consider the duality of the word
f a c i l e
for poetry shared facilitates this burning,
" " " " " tumult,
and yet comes to me so facile, that I worry,
that the words themselves are facile, cheap
& easy, but then I am reassured by the very
real drops of my body's fluids upon my cheeks,
that confirm, that poetry is too so real, so living,
and I guess you know me by my real name,
my real face, and my realized words here,
and wonder if I need cease to wonder why
wonderful is...
a thing
my poetry is written by silent night, or early morn,
so very differing, and laugh out loud at myself,
for I am a differing man, at differing times,
of a potpourri of contagious contradictory
conceptions, that I traverse so easy, this facility
is my blessing, and poetry my well worn skill
at...facilitating this absurd admixture of
human~you-man~a man~amen.
and here I leave you...
for I have left
the sunroom too...
@
3:26 am
Thu Sep 4
someplace else
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.
They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.
The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.
The ghetto sperm-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
*An ecstatic poet, conjured up a full moon night so special.
Pairs of lovers got drunk with moon's white wine, reveled,
danced all night along the sea washed sands in ebullient spirit
till they were completely exhausted, slept there on the sand bed.
When dawn tiptoed, they transformed to lovebirds, away they flew,
did they want to get back to human lives; no one knows, even if they did-
wasn't possible, the poet that created them, in drunken stupor, had
already forgot the whole episode and was in a hurry for new conceptions.*
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
Stuck.
You're stuck.
So that must mean I am too.
I don't want to be stuck.
My love for you grows
More and more each day.
But I can never stay stuck.
Stuck.
I was stuck.
Long before I met you.
I didn't want to be stuck then,
And I don't now.
Trapped within a
Disgustingly thick, slimy stuck
I worked my way deep in to find
Nothing but more unruly muck.
Stuck.
I'm only halfway stuck.
But you're all the way stuck.
I'm not going back in.
I'll suffocate again,
Lose myself and become
The demon that attaches to
My weakening soul like
The grotesque parasite it is.
You can stay stuck all you want
But you'll never find me down there
While you wallow around in your
Muddled conceptions of yourself.
Stuck.
Yeah, right.
But I'll be here
At the edge of the muck
Waiting to help you out
When you get unstuck.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Temples throb.
Ears burn red hot.
Myriad thoughts
Collide, coalesce and split.
Coalesce again.
A dark sand storm of doubts
Fear and panic brew
In the charred barrens.
Hands to my face.
Distant melancholy themes.
Overwhelmed.
Violent conceptions
Need release.
Red flows
Through graphite
At Fahrenheit 4-5-1.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men
Familial desire circumventing physical rationality
I don't ******* get it
Flesh is flesh
There is no separation between this body and the next
No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones
This world is chaos bound by imposition
And none of it is real
I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs
Everything is a construct
Knowledge is anthropic chaos
Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter
A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh
I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them
So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative
Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity
Who ******* cares?
Legacy does not carry on after death
Legacy does not even carry through life
Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths
No one will ever view your life the way you view it
Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations
Hey, tell me
Do you even remember yourself that clearly?
Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve
Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical
Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago
Haven't you heard? God is dead
And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
we're old souls you & i.
bound by a need to be something beyond ourselves.
i admire that in you.
your struggles, questioning
breathing new life into stale moments.
we're gypsies i'd say, you & i.
the new beatniks
pushing the boundaries of self discovery
fighting with ourselves & conceptions of identity.
we're moving, always
self destructing
running in search of any semblance of truth.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 11:11 AM UTC
Difference involves a discernable set of identifiable concepts, where soft cheese can be wrapped in cosmetic triangulations.
I know that electricity is a paradoxical commodity, where black diamonds resonate with something which is dissimilar to the larger expectations of society.
Like I said: miscellaneous conceptions of mature virility are evident to three-sided arguments. Aren’t they? There are three sides to every savoury story.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
You are drinking yourself red-eyed and crumpled
on an unmade bed meanwhile I
am hating the world’s promiscuity and signing
autographs that serve no alternate purpose
subsequent to their ink-blotted conceptions and silently
my heart scratches and claws and penetrates
bone, muscle, and choked fat
to get to you
How will we know
when we’re no longer
young enough
to inconsequentially
rot our bodies
from the inside
out?
If I could
I would search for a space
impenetrable
by ants molecules and medium-sized atoms
that exists between
my pale finger tips and
your freckled
bare back moving
slowly up and down
If I could
I would be somewhere where nothing
is the tarnished byproduct of anything
where no one will remind anyone not to
clog their throats or minds or eyes
when they
shiver and choke on scarlet inkblots
and chug gasoline
and wipe away dirt stains
and drink each other’s shame
and form cuts on the soles of their feet
after rushing barefoot through beds of sharp stones
to reach other
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
They say it scars you for life!
They say it consumes your soul!
They say you never get over it!
They say a lot of things …
Am I so
different?
Or maybe?
I’m
just
Indifferent!
*Who knows?
I don’t know
I really don’t know*
I often peek inside the rusty old bucket of dead babies that I keep in the loft
And?
I feel nothing
Not a **** thing
Feeble
Formed
Foetuses
*Swirling around and around and around
and around and around
and around*
Why is it that I have no pain?
Why do I not crave my dead babies?
I couldn’t even tell you when they fell out
When they made a run for it
When they thought **** this …. I’m out of this *****
Does that make me a bad person?
Would it be more acceptable if I was distraught and inconsolable?
Then you could all pat me on the back and collect my tears
Well ….
Heres the news …
“There’s NO ******* tears here, baby!”
So you all can take your sanctimonious ******** and shove it straight up your sympathetic compassionate arses
In fact
I’ll even lay a wager that if this was
YOU
YOU
would run
through
Imaginary birthdays
Imaginary names
Conceptions
Etc
"Sshhhh ….. Don’t mention babies in front of her"
She is so fragile
Full of so much love
A tiny delicate little flower
Full of so much love
MILK IT *****
COS TONIGHT I’LL BE HOWLING AT THE MOON SURROUNDED BY DANCING DEAD BABIES
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 7:42 AM UTC
*I am not one of these leather wearing ******* you see on **** sites. I am real. I listen to 911 calls on repeat. Images of gore, abortions, death, and torture fill me with unbridled lust.
Humans are amazing... Their build, their skin, with billions of embedded pain receptors. Optic nerves, sending horrific images directly into their frontal lobes. I love their faces, tiny changes in their expressions with different types and increments of pain.
There is such a glorious range and variety of pain that can be inflicted upon a human. Few appreciate the sublime canvas of a humans body. Each sense can be tweaked and tormented. All of there emotions can be played like an instrument, by someone with the right skills and tools. Their screams are sublime.
There is a certain kind of scream a person lets out, the moment they realize their own mortality, but it is beyond words. It makes me see red. I lust for it. I adore it.
I am free. I am not bounded by your conceptions of morality. ****** **** and torture are simply choices. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want to whomever I want. Whether it is one death, a million, a billion, or an entire planet or the entire universe, it means less than nothing to me. I have no ideology, religion, or higher purpose. If the slab of meat and chemicals you call your mind is searching for a word to append to me, just think of me as an artist. My medium is flesh.
I walk among you. I understand you better than you understand yourself. I have studied the human body, peeled back the layers of flesh, the emotions. I see right through you. I am the nice, unassuming person you know. We share secrets. Some of you like me. Some of you love me.*
None of you know me.
I am, sadist.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 9:18 AM UTC
he goes searching for love in the wrong ways
guided in directions by bedsheets and lost
by indulgence in the temporary
decadence and narcissism
-
a mapless journey lead in the retrospected
direction of peer fulfilled gratification,
met already past the point of no return
by a social gathering of perceptions
and conceptions towards a tangible
reason
-
the smell of sweat,
consecutive exhales and inhales
pinpoint reminders after the fact,
held tight by only bedsheets,
watching her get dressed
pulling what she wore out
that night over a coiffure
of tangled penitence
as it rises above the
neck of her shirt
-
sitting admit the marrow
of vision lies an exiting
woman, usually
brown hair, sometimes blonde,
behind the marrow lies thoughts
of penance that digs and widens
the crevice of perception
deeper and deeper
-
at times of stagnant intimacy,
intimacy that redefines ephemeral,
retrospected notions replay
and stain the mind of
women,
usually brown hair,
sometimes blonde
-
by this time
he rode the the wrinkles
on the bedsheets too far
destined to temporarily
subside the loneliness,
only to find out in the present
that the destination reached
has a population so nullified
that where he came from
was far better off.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
My mind is slowly beginning to collapse
As I go into a state of distress
I enter my pensive zone
Which is the only way I seem to clear my mind
I hear your offensive tone of voice
So I hinder your aggressive words
That some how always gets to my brain
And torments the remaining of my fragile ego
You have jeopardized every piece of my heart
But I let you do it just because
I can't stand the perception
Of you dismissing my existence
We provoked each other into anger
And it keeps escalating to something worse
Our dissensions are unbearable
So we need to replay our
Sunrise of desired conceptions
I escape my afflicted realm
Where you once invaded my blurred memories
Wishing you were in my presence
I reminisced on some of our happy hours
Thinking it would return
Not noticing the trickles of water
Concealing my vision
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Citoyens du monde,
Un climat d'intolérence et de fanatisme s'installe, des révolutions menées au nom de fausses idéologies font tache d'huile. A l'heure ou' fleurit l'obscurantisme des sociétés qui se transforment en moutons de panurge, en foules violées par la propagande politique et empetrées dans une conception maladroite de la révolution et du changement, l'individu doit se distinguer de son groupe.
Le XXème a été le siècle des guerres mondiales, ne laissons pas le XXIème devenir le siècle des persécutions aux noms d'idéologies et de conceptions délirantes.
Sachons au moins nous reconnaitre entre nous, nous reconnaitre en tant qu'individus pensants et non en moutons de panurge aliénés. Nous sommes certes influencés par les sollicitations immédiates de la situation et ce que font les autres autour de nous. Si l'homme, de nature est un etre autonome, comment se permet-il d'abandonner son sens critique et de se faire embrigader au nom de théories insensées? Eduquons nos gosses, saisissons toutes les occasions de sauver ces foules fanatisées!
"Soyez le changement que vous voulez voir dans le monde", disait Gandhi. Le changement commence par chacun d'entre nous, ici-meme, aujourd'hui, nous sommes le changement de demain.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
“It is time to write,” she says
I open a new Word Document.
A blank sheet.
My mind does not want to write an essay.
I write in verse and
chopped lines
not straight paragraphs that drone on and on about William Faulkner and his acceptance speech.
My mind, it drifts off and thinks in flowery words, much too flowery for an essay.
My fingers start typing and words appear on the screen.
Enter.
Type, type, type.
Enter. Type, type, type. Enter.
My thoughts appear in verse and William Faulkner goes unnoticed.
How many times have I written about the whirlwind of a storm inside my mind instead of
whether or not cohabitation is a good thing or
speeches about equal access and the themes in Harper Lee’s To **** a Mockingbird?
How many times have I given into my urge to write and relieve my brain of the pressure that gets built up instead of writing things that will earn me a grade?
The answer is often.
The grade,
Just a number
The conceptions?
Just words
What I write in procrastination?
Everything that bleeds from my heart.
The low grade I received on my speech because I couldn’t be bothered to write about horrid subjects when my soul yearned for something greater?
Worth it.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
Your intrusion
Is conducive
To my city burning down
So I defend from inside my castle
Civilian hordes
Wield swords
And I've gotta flail
In my chain mail
My city walls have been manned
So use your battering ram
And intrude on me
Muscle into my muscles
And burrow into my bones
By disarming my mob
While catapults lob
Incendiary boulders
That protect me from
Temporary shoulders
That have exploited my nation before
Mining the resources from it's core
Avoid all the blasts
So we can clash
In the arena of my mind
Where steel strikes time
And my defenses
Defend me from my life
So intrude on me
And shatter my protections
And shatter my conceptions
So intrude on me
And break my perceptions
But be careful
Intrusions have reflections
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
Where the church bell gapes
at its golden discs gain the airy steep.
Where the eagle deposits its
majestic soar, a mass of feather and
talon--Empyrean's doormat.
Where Icarus stroked wax wing
through the sepia ambiance of his
mind.
Where the hermit broke 'neath after
decade of reclusion.
Where star discloseth foci to
dime the dead of space.
Where striven peace's tangled root
whistles extolling.
Where an aerodynamic corpus
unsheathed horizon, parting palpebras....
surging the seen, unseen.
All's apparent aqua blue, transparent
***** outspread portent pregnant of
blessing.
O sky--every soul's once-over,
immaculate conceptions...ex nihilo.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
I am Ink
sweet blood of the
pen.
I **** the flesh of parchment with savvy strokes of timeless musings.
The poet is nothing without my inspiration to spur him forward forcing thought from mind into
visual conceptions of reality.
The written word is law and
I am law
We are one.
The ink ,not the pen, is mightier than the sword.
What is the pen without me?
The ink.
A wasted corpse
space used on a desk
worthless
to be without ink.
I alone am the soul of literature.
I alone raise words from the dead minds of deceased philosophers.
My word has capsized continents
waged unwinnable wars
I do not discriminate
I have killed men women children.
I have breathed life into centuries.
I am eternity
I am ink.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC
And what is beauty but more than just an outward reflection
of ourselves that we see in someone else?
Perhaps an awkward perception,
but often conceptions of conclusions drawn
in our mind, all beginning with a thought,
sparked up by a glance,
peripheral markings in the eye.
An undying desire to fit puzzle pieces into proper positions
once and for all.
Wedged into uncertainty,
A young ***** in my heart for eternity.
Reflections of ourselves we seek in another; common ground.
Infatuating us with others
an indirect narcissistic form.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 1:50 AM UTC
Harboring suspicions from blinded eyes,
Acid gurgles under sugary lies.
The stranger swaying dementedly to and fro,
On rocking chair thoughts, their mind on show.
How should you react when a dagger is drawn,
Neutral, or reveal a suspicion is born.
Eyeing the ranks of human heads,
Thoughts emerging from crumpled beds.
As you cannot see the source of the shot in the dark,
So you only hear the tune of the singing lark.
Consipiracy theories, click codes on the mouse,
As the snake coils into the empty house.
In an unreal life, nothing recognised,
A stranger lies, looking into a stranger’s eyes.
Steadily repeated stabs of deceptions,
From foundations, of fallacious conceptions.
Locked in a make believe play of doubt,
Interrogate the evidence, turn inside out.
Within delusory ink and pens that bite.
Making sulphuric phrases into tools of spite.
Elvis on the radio confirming your thought,
Suspicion in a tormented trap you are caught.
Eliminate subject and object, unravel the day
Anchor to a certainty and then drift away
For it has always been and will always be so,
A blind thought will return to the house of shadow.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
feels like i'm always throwing something out there
only to have it bounce back at me
untouched
obviously unimpressive
to anyone
why are some conceptions
notions
thoughts
acclamations
beliefs
disregarded as nothing
by so many
kinda makes me want to quit
kinda makes me want to chuck it all
give up
throw in the towel
raise my hands in surrender
and be done with it all
but i won't
i'll keep tossing
with stubborn determination
knowing that one day
i'll electrifyingly amaze
the right person!
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC