"configuration" poems
I was like every other scientist
for love to me was just
a neural reaction to a certain
stimulus presented to an individual,
just a hormonal response of a person
to a certain situation laid out to them
Like a configuration of ****** muscle
tissue of one results to an increase
of serotonin, dopamine, and for some,
oxytocin of another
At times, one would affiliate this
****** muscle configuration
to that of pentahydroxyhexanal (sugar)
and that was discombobulating
I could not understand how
a smile becomes sweet
and yet at that moment
when I saw you smile
I immediately understood
that science
science cannot explain this
This feeling I have when I see you
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
Fantasizing
Feeling
Needing
Something scarce is eating at my melancholy.
As I deliberate, a vigor burns beneath my blood.
I get so warm thinking about his hands griping my hips.
My cheeks flush at the thought of his skin pressed heavily against mine.
Unalloyed ecstasy
His subsistence is the key that reveals my coffer.
I beg to feel his breathing
For him to cognize how much I want to gratify his every desire.
Slow motion when I fantasize.
A room bursting of fine riches I could erupt with gratification.
A gentleman who can pleasure me both with innocence and sensuality.
Rarity that comes as one.
He demonstrates loves configuration, he bestows complexity and certainty.
One could ****** with the thought of his supportive charisma.
I weaken at the awareness of his reciprocated needs.
The definition of love is embraced through his actions.
Bleeding perfection, he is untouchable.
He makes me feel amity.
He is the dream I want to feel as I shut my eyes at dusk.
I can sense him so close,
yet when I open my eyes
I’m alone.
He is what every women searches for.
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 10:41 PM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
First,
Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect.
For employing each muse, under no objection--
Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations
As if without effort,
And take their leave in abstract
Unity.
Second,
Thank you for my pain, you lying ************
Every time I fall under the spell of night silence,
Unencumbered by those solemn realities,
Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness.
Because ****
It'd sure be hard to write without any words--
Without the consequences of this troubled mind.
So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering.
And Darlin’, I suppose that
I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache--
Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway.
I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness.
Third,
Thank you for this herb, mother nature.
For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins,
Tuning out prosaicism’s drone.
For the rocking motion of my psyche
That starts when the rapid and the slow converge,
And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep
In a chorus of veins—
Conveying each of life’s cadences,
All in vain
Of what I myself
Ordain.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher
We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.
were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.
bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.
perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.
the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum ********
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.
in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Simplicity is so simple that
our mind are not well informed
in it's simple formation.
Simplicity is the ultimate
form of sophistication.
In it there are complexities
and it's quite interwoven.
Beautiful in its form.
It shows us the beauty of
creation telling its own stories
with peculiar history.
Nature is so deep and
captivatingly beautiful.
Intriguing in its own way
and profoundly awesome.
It's amazing how much of
it we really know.
Its so confounding how
many people really comprehends
the principle back of it.
In simplicity nature speaks.
Spirals of things visible are
so complex that it's configuration
and formulas are of simple nature,
only to be deciphered by a simple mind.
The mind of man is sophisticated
and complex but simple.
It's rhythm pulsates within the
intricate formation of the spirit behind it
making it one of the most simple
but not so understood things of nature.
Like a jigsaw puzzle it's sophisticated
complexity is made simple by a sound mind.
The mind has to be disciplined
to decode it's hidden ciphers.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC
I wish you lower your Glasses a bit
Then try to witness what you have Ignored
For Praises Sundry are much apt to meet
Though such Configuration keeps you bored
That you, a Technocrat I'm not surprised
Such Mages and Bards you kindly eschew
For whatever Purpose which you advise
I'll take as the Brother I always knew
And I'll LOVE you still; No Set Values bake
Since your Blessed Genesis I do voice
This is not a Tomb; Nor white-painted make
But another Graced Name I will rejoice.
Now it's up to you, which you interpret
On Pop's Face-Memos the Meaning you get.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
I sit and I dream,
a parasitic dream,
where we aren't
who we were
and we aren't
how we seem.
Where I eat you
and you eat me
and somehow
we're still
happy.
In each pile of
body on body
I walk by
loneliness
and loss.
I love you's
and
I hate me's
saturate the air's
conscience.
Us,
the nation and all
are pinned against
each wall
being ******
mercilessly.
We are
**********
heartbreakers.
Our ***** are
property of
others:
intellectual property.
In my dream,
where I dream,
everyone
I've ever loved,
is dreaming
and
trapped in a pit
of motorized
rubber ******
where the rubber
pumps and eats,
pumps and eats,
breaking ribs,
shattering spines,
ripping esophagus,
splitting spirit like
tissue paper.
Bodies ripped apart
by branded, artificial
"love":
society's configuration.
Brand recognition.
Product placement.
Motor salad.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
My configuration is accelerating
Off balance with the earth's core
Dissatisfied, I try to be still
My form is hyper and energetic
Loud and obnoxious
Mistaken and exaggerated for being cruel
I only seek to harness similarities
To stand grandly, instead I appear egotistical with low self-esteem
Contradicting, no way to make sense
This is a normal place
Disconnected, I try to behave
Social skill are at low percentage
Sitting, I embrace the heckling
one hand on heart and the other on mind,
In hopes to intertwine
Take control, define the soul
Combine me into a whole
Let standards go
Carrying a presence of a mild wind breeze
Never nearing nor ending
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
A scintillating ocean.
Refracting light across the spectrum,
colours beyond white, black, and red;
Mirror to the universal spirits.
Crystalline forms growing
like families of fungi across the horizon.
A mycological configuration
of salts and waveform reflectors.
A frisson of diamonds.
Seizures of globular light, elliptical rainbows.
Twice-reflected hollow moonbeams.
Creating.
Cubes in the molecular structure,
Silent carbon and quartz,
as from some distant caverns
unseen by any eye.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
***you are leathered with residue
decaying the rust off your skin
with our initials crawling into
alabaster sheets that all I have really
felt while staring out at the streets
we're people fading by egotistical
lack of self confidence
even though I admit using
seducing strategies
possibly disgusted by my own
emotions
that I am placing ******
thrills on my own configuration
because it's humid and blatant
unkowling breathing ruthless sentiments
of our holy communion
I am splitting into a holy sin
drenched in blissful wartime rations
of water or passion
your cotton skin and these sheets
bold statements between white teeth
it’s all a fading mystery
you said I’m something childlike
your hands are stained cherry
and even if they were around my neck
I’d whisper your name like a vesper
simply waiting
for the day to come where it all fades
because you refuse to be a
young god
no matter how it seems to be
to me in all of my naivety***
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
Beyond cascading screams in a melodically honed vibration,
Within a fading abyss of infinitesimal separation,
A dreamscape of a constant creation, so vivid by design,
An interesting compilation to the manifestations of my mind,
The psyche demands a certain control and designation,
A tether to the super consciousness without a single deviation.
But as we sail away on waves of cosmic revelation,
To travel the universe for a more profound contemplation not quite Euclidean in nature.
But as a product of Sol, there is a certain elemental configuration,
That fuels the intent of the most colorful dreams,
Bathed in the warmth we call divine,
I have seen solar systems and even far beyond,
But that was only in my mind,
As dreams are harder to navigate when it is difficult to see them straight.
One does not debate such pointless substrate.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Far away, over the monstrous gray summits
As dusking shadows crept stealthily on,
When night had turned stygian
And glow worms had begun throwing flickers of light
Like sequins stitched onto a flowing velvet gown,
When night sky had thus turned
Into a rare configuration of light and shade
When in the west was burning a solitary star
And like a one man army, it valiantly blocked
The advance of infiltrating clouds,
When fledglings cuddled for warmth
Under their mother’s flayed wings
When cicadas were chanting their litany in shrill monotone,
When the breeze whispered sweet nothings in my ear
And autumn leaves in strong gale
Flew about and nosedived into their ebony bed,
When my conscious thoughts evaporated
And I was left to linger in a semi stupor,
I knew a familiar spirit visiting me unsought
With the passion of a lover eager to subdue;
Morpheus with the scent of poppy leaves all about him
To lure my soul to bliss and chill the heat of weary toil
By the indulgent grip of his masculine hands
He took me on his wings to uncharted oceans and fairy isles
And finally to his secret chamber for a date
Making me swoon in secreted ecstasy!
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 8:05 AM UTC
you are a fractal
in a sea of branches
you are the air between
the dust that spirals in the sun streams
the decimal point in the equation
the dividing line between oblivion and infinity
you are a loose end
fraying
made of left over dry skin
you are the chemical
you poison my drinking water
you are
the secret ingredient
the last place they'd ever look
you are
the dark matter
the imaginary number I can't wrap my head around
you cure my melancholy
we are
alveoli
we breathe fire
seen through telescopes
we believe we are alone
we'll believe anything they tell us
they won't love you
they can't see you
you are too much
they'd never understand
you don't give
what you don't receive
you give life
as you breathe through me
I see you when my eyes close
I trace your shape on frosted windows
you spark the fire that hijacks my biology
you draw upon my skin with ***** fingernails
your handwriting is embedded in my DNA
your name echoes still
unfamiliar voices without faces
your secret's safe with me
hidden in massive outer space places
untraceable
mastermind configuration
takes ages just to give up out of frustration
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
sitting here in the cusp
of a greedy world
where each seeks something
only for own good,
i would rather have
a bouquet of goodies for
me and my folks
particularly as the new year begins,
i look back at the cosmic awareness
of knowledge seeking
ancient brahmins,
and get amazed at
the altruist spirit and
sense of renunciation, they
made a common daily practice,
that rang loud in chants
during elaborate rituals
of fire sacrifice
in ancient times.
one by one, putting an enormous collection of
offerings ; butter,variety
of sacred wood, flowers,herbs and grains
in to flames, with the accompaniment of
chants of benediction and good thoughts,
in unison, each one asserted in chaste Sanskrit:
"This is not for me"
"idem na mama"
with each offering.
the Gods could have any reason,
not to accept those offerings,
given away with purest of intensions,
that changed the ionic configuration
of the atmosphere, more beneficial to humans
by changing air, land and water, pure
and full of life force.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
I - stricken biped
Reside
Arranged on patina of dust
Compacted from its own breadth and comingled humid vacillations
Misplaced intent resides carking upon my ribcage
Cerebral reliquary reprises
Enunciating: distaste – mediocrity – insufficiency
Clandestine exhalation configuration obliges principal
Luminous descants evade ebullition bound in stained crystal
Eupnea elapsed - foreboding
Enigma binds frame to pith
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Similar states of analogous configuration and ancillary subordinateness in fact. Various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness. Preterite orchestration renditions of synthetic synthesis’ retrospectively retroactive. Accidence ambience acoustics, aorist actuator’s arbitrational attenuation. Explicate eventuation evocative expletives, amalgamated anathema android wind up toys. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity! Enigma entity’s identity crisis.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
what a calamity i arise to befall
The step i climbed to miss
The ground that drunk of the water i swallowed.
Hissing and blazing, in a count of configuration
The bundles of antiquities flown by the naked ventures of tranquility
Here i bore the question with an empty head of lessonless mind
Look now that i smile nay i show non by the face
See to my lips and read yourself the smiles
Is it all yours
Or you beg for less the more i offer
Many as lame i be to walk, the blind and beauty of those i lead, the bright to line by my back the genuis stuck by my ways.
Aint no way through my heart is taken, hugged in a jar of Love to the hunter of my soul
I see not to venture go by the gone in the
I heal what is hurt in my hurt from the heart
******* the ugly beauty of an angered mind, sweeting gallons of hope to thee that seeks non but faith
Down my injuries i heal of you
To say bye i lie for i stay not to fear but of my choice to go far the worry to stay in one past the known one for joy
I cometh as i leap & leave as i leap, Leaping to stay and to leave the leaper but non for one
Now am there, to stay and to be this to me is further i go to stay her meekness am drawned her thickness am strive her boldness i lay her softness i am dragged
How do i and so can i not be not to run a race past the behind of my favorite front
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
Activate prior knowledge,
like a tumor that resembles
a painting of Churchill,
circumlocution
more like an echolocution…
or is it echolocation,
perhaps electrocution?
The sigils of universal coincidences
have finally revealed themselves.
They’re aligning for you
right this very second.
A hair from your head
laying in the bathtub
that reminds
you of a letter
from a long forgotten
language.
A random pattern of a scratch
on your arm from a outstretched
coat hanger in a department store.
An odd configuration of blood
on your arm after you dispense
a pesky mosquito.
A rorschached blob of a condiment
on your favorite shirt.
It’s out there trying to tell
you something very important.
There.
In those things lies the truth.
As much as you don’t want to
believe in it…
As much as you want to
deny it.
It will not live
up to your
memory of it later
on.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
*Holding her hand , walking on the streets.
Realizing the life in those skipped heartbeats.
Exuding the attar, she dulled my senses.
Tremulous tattered talks due to spooking menaces.
Then she talked in her asthenic voice.
And suddenly everything was just background noise.
All I could do was , stare in her eyes.
And I glimpsed into her soul beyond visible lies.
She was the configuration of pain and hope.
Inside, she was in a scrimmage and clinging with a mope.
Zealously & tenacious , inside , she was a fighter.
I hankered to describe her beauty in my words, as a writer.
But to describe such aesthetical effigy I constellated nothing, not even a single word.
I was stupefyingly stuck , like a fallen wingless bird*.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
Colour of a blue eyed newborn's
Iris sneaking itself through
Marshmellow clouds lined
With pink mother-of-pearl
And my admiration.
I want to touch everything.
I work with my hands.
I can build whatever you need,
And am the best tickler
South of the Arctic.
I want to put my fingers through
Anything beautiful I see.
Always looking;
Wanting to touch.
That which begs to be touched
My mind caressing tree limbs
Breathing in celestial counterparts
To weave through this new configuration
Third eye open
Stumbled upon fathomless depths
Unknown
Wide brimmed, wide eyed
Don't sleep, don't sleep
So much yet to soak up
To taste
That which begs to be tasted.
Skin, warm with wanting,
Wet with relief and
Passing contentment.
Lips that uttered
Curses now kiss soft
Fingertips tracing
More love than
Love has ever had.
All is new
To the reborn.
Here are my hands.
They see through me,
Look into you, and rest
Upon the centre of your
Innermost centermost.
An umbilical between
Godess and
Man.
I smile mouthfulls
Of everything.
Hopeful, hope filled
The silver edge to this cloud
Dropping rainbow 3pm's to halo
Around my grinning skull
I am simple in my sobriety
Chrystal cut clear in winter yearning
Seeing the forest finally for the trees
These wonders reaching down out of the darkness
Shedding light on this pale, pale mourning
Nerve tips trace along your dips and curves
Memorizing
Mesmerized
And that baby-eye blue
Is now a full grown heaven
Full of sweet nothings
And nobodys,
Holding only such ideas as
Void and timelessness
In its handless hands.
I watch it with you; arm
Around your doll waist,
Shoulder against your
Head.
It's a new day.
A new, beautiful day.
A new, beautiful, hopeful
Day for us both.
Pots of gold on either end
Of this unimaginary
Rainbow.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
Sometimes
Sometimes I want to roll my fingers
Into a fist-like configuration
All except that brave and independent index digit
Which will rise up
Bringing the ball
Of its weaker comrades along with it
And halt
A few feet
From your sometimes beautiful face
In response to this grand gesture of the hand
That strongest
Muscle of my body
Will lift
It's moist mass of taste buds
To the spot right behind
That porcelain shield
Known as my two front teeth
Then ascending from the deepest part of me
Like a hot gust of wind
The words
"You're being a ******* *******
Sculpted into arrows of over-articulated consonants
Will hit your sometimes beautiful face
And hopefully bring
That sometimes unbearably beautiful friend
Back
To trust me
In the way that the precious,
Rare,
And exquisite breed
Of true and selfless friend
Is always nervous
Yet eager to do
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
the tetragrammaton for me is like the lament configuration, a puzzle box; it's a configuration, that, when used correctly, allows you to spew out words in great number.
what mozart did to the operatic german tongue
for the flutter of the tongue into
the incomprehensible - indeed opera does
that, to what could be understood
in the ****** accentuation from region
to region - of how the tongue is
incomprehensible when by opera strained -
indeed mozart did that to german
as did handel to the english tongue,
most notably with the opera messiah -
and as i look at europe now, and the expulsion
of jews from the continent,
i can't see an elevation of culture,
after all the muslims already sing beautifully
the praises, so an opera using the koran
would be impossible - but the name of god
in islam can be easily sung... but the name
of god in judaism can't be sung, it's supposed
to move around the language censored,
a bit like swear words in christianity,
and yet the tetragrammaton always prompts
me to think, the tetragrammaton in greek
in this particular instance: ΔΞΜΞ / ΔΞΣΞ,
it's the only way to translate from hebrew
into latin into greek - a game of matchsticks.
but also with the expulsion of the jews from
europe, in england, currently, there's this
growing policy to create ***** spaces
where once debate could become fervent,
impassioned (the attack on universities),
which now incites a hope for an apathetic
discourse without causing offence... this has
happened in europe with the expulsion
of the jews, and the mass invitation of muslims
(indeed ***** changing rooms like
the ones in shopping malls)...
european culture can't really recover like this.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC