"conditionings" poems
Embodiment.
Its language. Listen.
It’s the dance of our devotion.
Open your emotion.
To honour this temple that houses the spirit of all madness,
wild women, roaring chaos.
As the feminine I release all guilt and shame...
Owning my sexuality. Owning my truth.
And taking back, the body as Mine.
I’m not here to be a pleaser in anyway, how utterly boring.
I take back my power, and I don’t only stand in my power,
but I Stomp the streets of chaos in defeat.. empowered..
i Soar the skies of the infinite eyes... empowered.
By the knowingness that I am free, in my body.
I will not allow, the media, the conditionings that are so stuck in their solidity, without any motion, their consciousness is stagnant and I say **** THAT.
Bring the sacred waters back,
and let the blood of bones wash over you..
as you remember the ancient essence of what is it to be Primitive,
free in the Body.
I’ll dance for you, Naked darling.
I hope you turn the lights on, and see yourself.
In remembrance. Visible.
Free in the Body.
I hope you Rip off the layers when you get angry or sad,
and let the healing of your body, make you deliciously Mad.
Scream, and remember it’s all a dream.
The sizzling fire within you is the source of illuminating,
this essence so bright will **** all your frights.
Simply burning the layers of illusions,
So you may meet yourself as the fractal of fusions
Take it all off,
And see what you are made of.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
They gave me a guitar
and asked:
what do you wanna do with it?
I said in ecstasy
I wanna be like that once baby faced old
man a street musician and travel the world
with the perishable fruits in my cap
Oh let these tingly breadcrumbs
pave us a miraculous path
where all folks stand tall and free
but
Art is Art
happens as is
Art
doesn't need
my-your-his-her-our-their
words
Are you awake yet
oh my favorite poet?
I can feel your pulse -if I want to
and you may know if you wonder
but it is no wonder
and You be sure You
I identify not by I
and for good
remain so
in the unchanging
purification of my time
observe
you -s
from everywhere
thou art a neutral witness
of such wireframes
embodied by the
conditionings
of temporal
identities
full of blind
desires so
I fast
on mandarins
it is no punishment
neither a fruitless training
but a method
of eloquent technology
blah blah
yeah
something brainy
in short
about our humanity
1-what it means being human
2-what it means to be
3-what it means not to be eligible
to be controlled by nature
as animals
because we are humans
and Not! what it means to be innocent as animals once we are
controlled by nature -because we are not animals
yes and only when you are free
you can play joyfully
with all pronouns
that instrument
called mind
becomes your
blissful tool
for making
Art
just
I said
and
they
they
they
broke my
guitar
Recycled now
thankfully
to a new
instrument
branded
as
Thou Art Art
available
to all
for free
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
you’ve been nice
you’ve heard me sing
and you’ve offered praise
for what you like
(and ignored me for what you don't)
But you mustn’t think
you’ve heard me deep
or you’ve known me now
For it’s always
someone else singing
depending whose voice was last heard
whose blade keenest, whose skills superior
who has fingers extending from the murky past
You’ve been nice
you’ve heard me sing
but you mustn’t let me convince you
no matter how hard I try
it’s me you hear
for I’m just a valley of echoes
(are we not all?)
and a scarecrow over which linger
vultures and such scavengers
never a thought of mine
not an emotion of mine
is the subject of my song
but the words generations have spun
to make myths and radiant lies
that I can sing, and you can acquiesce
I’m just the voice of conditioning
And you too, as you listen and concur
we are but
our conditionings singing
it’s the past singing
it’s not me
it’s not you
though you put a face to it
and we put our names to it
you’ve been nice
you’ve heard me sing
and you’ve offered praise
for what you like
(and ignored me when you don't)
but you mustn’t think
you’ve heard me deep
or you’ve known me now
for it’s always
someone else singing
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 8:30 AM UTC
I live with a perpetual companion
An unremitting voice in my head
An amensalistic association
This parasite and I are wed
Not by choice are we inseparable
God knows I've tried to break free
It's constant conditionings of the past
That binds this enemy to me
A chameleon that drains my color
Armed with a tongue spitting and sharp
She dominates my conversations
From morning till noon till dark
Upon the urge to be true to myself
To break free from this mimicking mime
She ridicules, rants and berates me
Until I loose all sense of time
If I grant the power she incessantly seeks
And obey her exacerbating needs
A suicide of sorts slowly takes place
Leaving an empty reflection of me
If I choose to not give her authority
(Which only infuriates her more)
And I start to rewire the pathway she's on
No longer will she bang at my door!
But the question that's left remaining
Will I be okay left on my own?
a companion like she, omitted from me,
Will undoubtedly prove I'm alone.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend XXXI "
I exists after the fact form follows
Function cultural paradigm selfish
Me centric universe causes birthings
Of effect anger hatred depression
Apathy mixed appendages of thought
Once grown manipulated consciously
Or pre-consciously from conditionings
Familial T.V. others self school work
Associations numerous random
Unseen out of the darkness fear more than
A word life bone pillar construct of worlds
Entire here a breath then gone we pass
A steaming moment turn around and look
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 3:36 AM UTC
Beyond the violet and violence, through the hole in the heap
Dwells men of fierce histories and stone conditionings, there
They sit in circle and misery, holding guilt close
To their ears and parting with their own ditch-dipped words.
Collections of tragedies and schools of morose mentalities
Dance in the middle of the room, speaking down on eachother;
Most likely an attempt to impress Mother and to scold Father.
They don’t get very far, these talks, rather
They end further down the ladder than when they commenced -
Two rungs down and the heavy tattooed butcher man
Sinks two quarter-full whiskies to help him find his bed.
Five rungs down and the spanner wielding skinny man
Calls up a number to haunt unpaid listeners with what he said.
Nine rungs down and the privileged uni boy
Smokes batons of magic leaf until his eyes are painted red.
This is where the stories end,
Those Who fell past rung nine
Are no longer falling and alive.
One rung up and the naive boat keeping man
Tells his wife he’s feeling better but out of luck.
One rung down and the naive boat keeping man
Tells his wife he’s feeling worse but rather proud.
The ladder stands tall and overarching
At the ‘dried out men’ meetings,
It’s the only one that keeps its posture
And never falls under -
Perhaps one day it will falter
And the men will see
That they are more than just
A rusting rung on a ladder.
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 6:27 PM UTC