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Left Foot Poet Mar 2017
She, my cutter,
my body, her cutting,
with tongue and finger nail,
any handy human implement,
she sculpts me to
her eye's configuring delight

she, grabs my wrist,
and my face
by her hands embraced,
unblemished once
now becomes scarred tissued,
no guise, no lies, no bearded mask,
no disguise -
all forsaken
hidden hardened skin,
speckled red/white translucent,
she kisses with adoration her
heart designed
objet d'art

no better blade than she,
with every cut,
transformed, she becomes
my devotee,
I, her escapee,
I am her, she is me,
inseparable, my every command,
she obeys


for our love cuts both ways
Sand Aug 2013
Everyone dismisses me as insane,
But I am a prophet,
Profiting,
On the inane.

When I get lost in stargazing
My cup of cardamom chai
Configuring constellations of cream,
I pocket piping hot horoscopes
Right out of the tea kettle.

Remember --
I drink in the universe,
Sanctimoniously symbiotic.

So the next time I offer,
To read your tea leaves,
Left dried at the bottom of the cup,
Don't scoff me off,
Because what I do,
Is translate the universe's art.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!

to *think
, is to not narrate,
                               much of what is regarded as
   "thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
       that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
  hands with a tongue...
                    hence: idle speech,
                hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
                                       (tongue)...
but most people don't think,
   because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
                  their day-to-day...
               and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
         i really do...
              how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
        wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
   really bothers me...
            the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
   (iberian inverted questioning
   ¿   ?          that's the first step toward
   an iberian existentialism)
                        said the third person,
    with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
  of the writer's original testimony?
   if northern existentialism (french / german...
  the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
       encompasses the tool that's "      "
   then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e.       ¿   ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
       but aphorism 285: "worldview",
     "grounding", "configuring"...
       i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
   aren't all the three descriptive elements /
   adjectives the purposive sentiments for
                   originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
   after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
                                  it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
         if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
  found in the existential tool of     double-ditto "     "
  or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
   or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
   from passing the judgement...
   they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
     at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
my frolicsome feet can only
imagine with their bones
the dream of what venture
requires me to go
farther to reach you.

it is with each step that
these passing trembles
conclude their premonitions.

it is when my hands wind-hover
in thick space that my mind
levitates itself and lifts to
draw with a shaking hand,
its own topography.

(x) is your place
      (y) is mine
   and somewhere in this
  haphazard equation is an
  algorithm that makes sound as
  all the circles are small
  without sides, and all shapes
  continue to break without form,
  encircling us now are the shards
  of this equation's
        fervent stridence.

   all of this is stellified
    without mind's authority -
only a heart's persistent longing
   and a trifle of courage,
  when these sordid amplitudes
    flounder to no swaying,
  there will be bridges for me
    to stride on so as to
  close the distances and
      silence the enigmas
  with their sought-for answers.
Lucas Mock Jan 2016
Drips and drops of lab-tested fluids
pouring lipids in curves all over the place
while pops and pangs of tiny cells
bubble and fizzle in petri disks and flasks
regurgitating out strands of fine DNA
mix and synthesis of unusual entities
bubbling cauldrons of chemical ritual
give rise to spells of mystic creation
boldly configuring new organic oddities
from lab nonsense to ancient theory
mitochondrial splits and caverns
entries into the unknown of man's babble
for the fine and final production of science's silk
that which is life
and undeniable to our being
so creation can forever stand tall and strong
in the triumphant art of recreation
I plan to edit this poem, so I would encourage readers to give criticism on how to improve it. Negative criticism is okay...in fact, I would encourage that as well as ordinary criticism. Your comments will be appreciated greatly. Thank you!
Harmony Dec 2015
It is appropriate to say thanks
To All who have bumped into me
To All that I bumped into
For without you, I would not
Know who I am  

Grateful to all who stopped me
Thanking all who aroused a confusion
Believing we were destined to meet up
For without you, I would not
Know who I am

Conscience is busy configuring
Of thoughts, words and deeds
with or without purpose
For without them, I would not
Know Who I am

Overlapping with those of others
Is my conscience, I realize
Indebted to be of service
This I know
For without others, I would not
Know Who I am

Having known this unavoidable
exchange of influences
It would be futile
To move on without bowing
For without you, I would not
Know Who I am

I take a knee before you
With open arms
Imploring to let us be in peace
In all our dealings
For without you, I would not
Know Who I am
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
The skill of the poetic linguist
is measured by
the reaction of the reader,
how they make them feel.

The use of tender,
imaginative-words
pushed gently from one side
of the written-line to the other
can create the desired effect.

Configuring
carefully-crafted stanzas,
& placing them
strategically
up & down
can sometimes elicit
the most reading pleasure.

Finding
the secret-sensitivities
of the heart can be tricky,
the most daunting of tasks,
but the skilled poetic linguist
can always find a way
it seems,
to create those
beautiful,
sensuous,
fiery-emotions.

And if you can find one,
just ask them
how it's done.
They are more than likely
ready,
willing & able,
to pen you a verse or two.
And perhaps,
maybe more.
stargirl Mar 2015
Your life was a constant
staring contest
with the barrel of a gun,
or bottle of pills,
or whatever it may be.

I don't think you ever
truly believed
things would get better.
I think they all forced it down
your throat.
Endless strings of letters
and numbers
configuring into
teen suicide statistics
and muttering
fine
and okay
whenever needed.

I thought you were nice,
despite your negative outlook
on life.
I'd love to hang out with you
again,
even if it is
just to hear you
complain.

I don't know why you
hated the world,
or why your humor
was sicker than you
ever were.
I don't know why
the stars never shone in your eyes,
or why the landing of '69
didn't spark your
everdying interests.

I'm guessing you didn't
either.
?
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
children learn and understand 1 + 2 = 3 very easily, but tell them: equate i think to be a sentence of expressing being... they get lost, and i would too, given that words are like complex numbers, parts of the index of infinity, or simply imaginary numbers, like when people discourage honour and never keep a promise / never mind the meaning of a word that attracts verb vectors to act upon; simpler? 2386 + 9032 = ? that's how words are understood to a child's understanding of 1 and 2 and 3 / ?, and when phonetics develops to no theory, such mathematical complexities are forgotten and left to a few, and the chiral equivalence is far from singing the alphabet, near enough to be crossword material... but proud enough to not teach chomsky kabbalah: i mean, it's very easy to remember 1, 2, 3... odd even odd... but a, b, c... vowel, consonant, consonant... we never engaged configuring compounds (meaning) from learning the alphabet, first the vocabulary, then the alphabet... what comes after the alphabet i leave you to decide upon life's worth for rubric; mathematical concerns are better suited first from the senses orientating themselves with traffic wardens and compulsively impressive forces of sheen metal that desire respect when crossing the street unlike hindu cows.*

an early basis
for an indicator for intelligence
in children is based
upon a strange faculty of numbering:
a familiarity with mathematical symbols:
after that you get to distinguish
the nerd from the intellect
(the former constrained, the latter free)
whether there's an equal methodology
application of numerological
acquisition of sight via 1, 2, 3
into 321985...
or whether mathematics becomes
so well hidden that 321985: cbaihe
can be presumed an anagram
or simply random / error based...
basically children learn mathematical
symbols are easier to express, because
of the singularity of 1 + 1
than they do of the singularity of
words, e.g. i + think... does not necessarily
equal morality, because 1 is 1
and both i and thought have meaning,
words are not unitary in a mathematical sense...
because they are near almost invisible,
architecture is visible, the sound of making
love isn't, it's private...
which is very peculiar but not really...
mandarin mathematics is to well established
because of the key ingredient
that's complex phonetics, and because
of phonetic complex coding mathematic
symbols are in relation very primitive,
but because in the post-latin european tongue
the phonetic symbols are almost like mathematic symbols
because of the "loop holes" we encounter
the great disparity of the equilibrated very rich
and the poor... but that's not really a concern for censors...
if you can prize a cheap bottle of wine over a vintage
if all you see is a trademark of fancy new times roman
modified into advert material...
i rather drink cheap wine in a location of my choice
(like primrose hill), than drink expensive wine
in a moscow zoo of little choice left
other than to show off the bling bling cheap.
stringing up a tapistry..
like a spider passively..
sensory is mastery..
emotions fail me tragically..
so if I see the moonlit water..
will nacht in German be my border..
configuring the astro stars..
confiding me in something far..
many miles of spun up web..
so perfectly wrapped up & dead..
admiring a thing so sweet..
we the living, feeling grief..
fleshy fetus, then we grow..
a world so round, is all we know..
starry eyes & energy..
experience will take the lead..
kody Feb 2013
Running around the inbound of sound.
For all to see me deceive what I believe to retrieve,
the neglected objective that's been subjected in this mind of mine.
Consisting of time like fine wine of the intertwined kind will bind the blind line of mine.

The anticipation of the inevitable separation caused from the nations obliteration for youth.
What's missing is the truth.
I melt to help the self,
arose to arise the arisen distant prison crimson that listens with the  minds eye.
such as I of the mind for the eye.
Distant assistant listening for missing lies.
whimpers, cries ,
exhales and sighs.

The fantasy in witch I see continuously runs into me.
Articulating fiction contradiction **** injuries.
Repetitive incentive meant to give intensive thoughts.
breaking the awakening making me shaking taking lots.

Monstrous past at last running fast from the masked blast,
new tasks.
Configuring manipulative structured meaning that's gleaming for redeeming intent,
and the time spent when it went bad.
It's sad but i'm glad I had bad dads .
Add a tad of reflection and redemption,
let me not mention,
my intention.


                                                    Side note( reading the writing fast helps the fluidity)
Leena Vango Jun 2014
Activating the root;

over my loving overgrowth

the roots grasp ahold of me

configuring sounds from

timeless throats

into our auric field;

You are closing your eyes

to see, intuitively;

Meanwhile...

I am attempting to understand

the complexity of our enlightenment,

radiating for interconnected

oneness..
lmnsinner May 2020
<>

“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”


Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman

                                                      ­      §§§

A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent,
did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?

I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle, circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries, a younger me, by kayak rounded it, from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery, 14,500 acres give or take, a lifeatime to complete a dead reckoning, an unfinished full configuring.

but haven’t reckon’d that Earth and I will be entwined/entombed in each other’s arms, until such time, one of us or both, will be reduced to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems, will be equally unimportant and irrelevant, I reckon.

in retrospective rear view perspective, come to understand that we spend every moment of our lives, reckoning, determine the odds of which fork we will take, laugh out loud, for each moment, a poem  is titled, the resultant, a poem - who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!

So, yes, Walt, the questing  answers you’ve requested:
Aye, yes, yup, but no to pride, for pride and poetry in one sentence is
a death sentence at multiple levels, pride, poetry, ego, suicide,...sins,
so better no proud for it is the entree, the invitation to fall-fail...

                                                   ­      §§§§§


12:03AM  Frieday
May 15th
my deadline missed,
but what is three minutes,
but empty pride...
Manhattan Island
Timothy Brown Mar 2014
Look at my hands.
They create and shape
Reality on my demands.
These scarred phalangies
contour concepts like destiny
deftly. Meticulously configuring
My Rubix's cube territory
Until the world before me
Is a model of what I wish to see.

I am a god

I will twist this existence
until I find it suitable
for my presence.
Only then my appearance
will be seen as a blessing.
Maybe then I won't have
to be loved from a distance
Sometimes you have to destroy in order to create.
© March 20th, 2014 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
Dylan D Nov 2010
Stubborn boy

Always treading mountains

Studying tables and configuring signals

Sending them deep into space

So far gone they will become black again

Reading slow

Maybe even more so

As capricorn’s last noise

Fills the air so clear

Purges the ocean of its madness

And the treasures buried deep below.

Stubborn boy

Will you not forgive yourself

And keep your lexis to you and God

For even now you

Cry a tear nobody will hear

Shake a violet ‘till the last petals whither

And fall to your feet.

Stubborn, stupid boy

And a rotten small thing

As it crushes you into a tiny

Uneven sphere of sadness and a grievance not so

Uncommon in funerals

And a marriage two fortnights awake



Alas a gift given is a gift taken away

A violet shaken is a flower unjustly undone

And a stubborn boy

Is a thing everyone will try to keep away from the darkness

But will not keep the darkness away from him.

Tried and true

You will suffer with the rest of them

It’s written here

In the oath you signed while your eyes

Still knew not the world

And your palms

Clean as a morning sky

Still brushed along the pavement /

Crafted globes.
Bows N' Arrows Jul 2015
Speak your wondering mind;
Lost and untold,
Let us unwind the fractured fragments,
Belittled sensed and reconfigure'd, that
Lived there.
Comatose and disfigured,
In absinthe,
Like star shine in a beautified
Distilled ease;
Touched and caressed by the
Breeze;
Calming your disease(s)
Breathing peace, precious, like emeralds and
Opals.
A mind once misused; Now an
Ingenue, configuring sparks of delight, making
Tempered pain among the night. 
Stuck with strawberry's sight.
I sip on honeydew and pray
In my mind some
Lavish desires colored
Maroon (on fire); some
Sweet'nd mystical umpire calling my name and
Igniting my life aloud!
With proud, glistening oceans of
Dreams,
I am estranged;
Lost within a  living cruel
Misconception of
Fairy tales in my heart
mike dm Jun 2014
We met for coffee; well,
I had coffee and she had tea.
Her pics didn't do her justice --
Chin prim
Lips cursive
Skin that swam under mine,
Making the porcelain creamer cup blush.

She claimed
she had a quarter million members
That followed her.
it's good money she reasoned,
But not gloating;
More matter-of-factly.
Off the cuff,
I asked for her stage name.
She explained that she blocked NY
For work and family reasons,
Assuming I had asked so to
Watch her perform later
(Which isn't altogether untrue).

She measured every utterance,
Teleprompters behind eyelids
Feeding her perfectly crafted lines.

I use the Golden Ratio when I webcam
She said, as she sipped her tea.
I consider it an art -- or
At least that is what I tell myself
.
I asked her to elaborate.
She said she was somewhat conflicted
About whether or not it was immoral.
But she was so even
With her response,
Almost as if it were compelled
By a formality
That was now checked off her list.

Her body language taciturn
Asleep, idle, screen-saved
Waiting waiting

Curve and line
Coffined for now to slake desires anon -
Her numbers in slumber, confined
Waiting to be crunched,
Flatlines Animated by pitchblack revelry
With one click

Turning them.

She said she liked to watch others
ya know, To see how they move.
She would even watch it at work,
Open in one of her browser tabs.
She took notes.

Lines triangulated
Liminal spaces given, hidden.

Digital lipstick smears
Tattooing amygdalas firing --
Allow them to slip in
Only to slip out of them
With an X.

We talked for an hour
And then left the café.
She asked me over.
I said not tonight --
The words coming out
As if willed by something
Outside of myself.

She walked off into the dark
And I kicked myself for saying no.

Her curves beholden to math --
Gyration of hip and waist,
Arms tendrils configuring, cavorting,
Slave to an inner-whorl
twirled and twirling --
One single objective truth, now
A convergence of secreting plurality
Into beauty and beauty and

That night I ****** off thinking of her
And came so hard
I pulled something in my back.

In between sleep and waking life
I transcended
Something.. I felt

Turned.

Bat on window sill
Still as the unflinching
Lidless abyss --
Then a quarter turn of its head --
Its beady eye catching streetlight --
Careening it off into a nonplussed
Night of nights.
Exposure Therapy

     A figurative light shines on me (courtesy of Pink Floyd), no matter I live on the dark side of the moon like another brick in the wall, and rarely present thyself stark naked sans emotionally. The metier viz modus operandi of writing (poetry seems to edge ahead of other structures) allows, enables and provides with utmost exhiliration, infatuation, lumination, et cetera an opportunity to test (dis)comfort zones. Hence carefree foray induces loosing oppressive repressed unvented xanax albatross drugged gewgaws, jetisonned (via Jetson propelled Segway) means producint resplendent unfettered x2c.

      I became habituated, insulated, jackknifed with non-healthy, destructive behavior cultivated detrimental habits disallowing natural maturation of body, mind, and spirit, which this middle aged mwm now more fervently revisits, remonstrates, and recapitulates when attempting to explain to thyself or another, how bing figuratively tethered to the apron strings o' me late mum promulgated, narrated, and licensed to avast quantity of active listeners, the self made parent trap (albeit synonymous with an invisible umbilical cord that well nigh strangled satisfactory quality of life.

     Thus culled from me lately (countless decades when within fledgling offspring, the progeny evince metamorphosis that display heavenly lottery phenomenal tinder phase linkedin DNA when processes of puberty per purring prestidigitation when mine deus darling daughters developed into divine dames) instilled, jolted, kickstarted personal quest to broach me interpersonal/ social comfort zones.

     The presence of generalized anxiety (with attendant debilitating panic attacks) ******, foiled, highjacked journey to experience ordinary sensate human bonding never took place.

     I copiously deprived, emotionally fleeced, gamely hocked innumerable joyous kissably leavening male natural ordinary processes qua ramping sundry transitions ushering vital wings yodeling zen attainment. emotional, physical, social discoveries visa vis via blockaded, deprived, forfeited, hamstrung inoculated je nais sais quois electric kool aid acid test disallowing, barring,

depressing, forsaking growing **** Sapiens trajectory toward autonomy free self destructive hermetically sealed reign.

     Otherwise, thru avoidance behavior, clamped down eponymous flapping gums, this now middle aged baby boomer believes he cheated himself, injuriously jarred kidnapped legendary manifold noble savage traits ushering vital willpower yawping zealous adulthood.

Said physiological, integral, hormonal, germinal, fantastical, external, developmental, capitalone entourage fumbled mine kempf outlook predicated unanimously withheld Mortal Kombat from finagled grim-faced hoodlums, whence thine smarting, roiling, quivering psyche broke LivingSocial will power to remain alive, thus surrendering StarWars shield, essentially via nixed invisible IdentityGuard, undermined re: self defeatedly favorable growth, when thy prepubescent self firmly believed he hermetically sealed, guarded, buffered, himself against nasty, meanly lampooning, cruelly brutal bullies when in truth he merely annihilated, boobytrapped, bolloxed against learning to deal with dangerous enfilades fired, and essentially a uselessly futile coping mechanism.

     Quest diagnostic codified by yours truly incorporates initiating, kibitzing, and making odious quirkiness stamping utterly worthless yikyaks axed. Courageousness employed grappling ingeniously

kickstarting my nifty operation quintessentially rallying strength to utter verbal warbling, especially when espying a guy or gal donned with dreadlocks.

     Inexplicable to myself why a plethora of persons (constituting various generations) attire themselves with the lengthy process to braid, maintain, and wear follicles in such a fashion most attribute to Rastafarians.

     No matter what the reason or rhyme (whether with or without sense and sensibility, yet inculcated with pride without prejudice), a fascination with curiosity asper men, women, and/or children sporting a headful sprouting knotted ropy plaits sets the impetus sans this non establishmentarian chap to inquire what influenced him/her to impress the trademark dreadlocks. Each person usually offers little objection asper what influenced such a predilection.

     Upon conniving, daring, egging, et cetera this quintessentially respectable son, the unsuspecting gal or guy ruminating about some purchase, I nonchalantly assay, foray, sashay...and issue a positive comment about their snake like confection of locked tresses.

     Most interaction with persons previously unbeknownst to me launch into a harried styled and swiftly tailored explanation.

     Poetic and/or prosaic concoctions, confections, coiled connotations configuring confusing confabulations representative of mine unsettled psychological state, which (aking to purging) oft times erupts without any sense nor sensibility, neither pridefulness, though prejudice against victorious vanquished wicked yoked zealousness toward unhealthy behavious linkedin with a nada so good and plenti outlook.
Love, lies in our emotions
Configuring the chambers of how we feel
In our veins, nerves, and imperfections
That thread to make our curves

Around each maze
The heart senses a new direction to turn
Sensations of familiarity begin to burn

This hurts, not having anyone to love
As I sense myself running in my own maze

With only one mission

To find inside of me, the hope that lies above
Above the darkness in our hate
In the struggles and obstacles we break
And for the moments of glory
That we sometimes cease to create

So I'll swim in this dense river
A body of love like water
And rise above this surface I bleed
So I can rid the hate of this world
And find a way for us to
Truly love another.
I wrote this poem for Valentine's Day one year. Its message is to simply spread love, and cease the hate. We all can make a difference by loving each other.
Haunched in the shower-corner
Down with the demons
A darkness so bright eyelids shut,
Clamped, seized up in a scream
Water gushes over -- maybe tears? --
A redness configuring around the
Edges, behind the eyes, No, just
The fake fluorescent lighting that
Suffocates this small shower.
Bulb-bright blearing blares out:
She lives as a conduit.
She can't -- Maybe won't? -- Hear
Me rattling about inside her.
"Poor *******" she calls me pityingly.
She's a conduit, her life lived out
Beleaguered by glimpses, images,
That she's determined to keep down.
Thrown into a Heraclitean
Fire, screaming, laughing, tumbling,
It's behind her eyes.

Aptitude, palms cover face
Slicked back hair, shower-
Drenched rosemary and mint.
An attempt. Ocean mist body wash --
She reaches up her fingers
From deep sea seaweed imaginings
Amphibious dark green soap bubbles
Please wash it all away. Rinse & Repeat.
Should I intervene? Remember:
Outside fresh rain brings the
Smell of worms to the soggy
Puddle muddied grass
But in here, in this warm fort of
Fuzz, Marlboros spread scent like
Burnt coffee permeate goose
Pricked skin
Down taste-buds Down throat
Down limbs Down fingers
Down --
It can't be scrubbed out --
You try but the red returns
In patches on your skin
Maybe friction or water heat.

But it's there, red, blotchy,
Raised, fluorescent reminders.
Pupils red, hangups, red,
Late-night, stay-up, crying, can't
Sleep, red, red.
Red.
The steady stream of water
Brings her crashing again I am
Losing to her skills of suppression
She has so many questions,
I catch them. I hang on, I ask
And she doesn't listen, a
Broken wire perhaps a frayed
Circuit board I say look at your
Body, the beauty, she can't.
Her nakedness mocks her
All she sees is blasphemy all
She sees is lies.
I drown, I'm poured out of
A bottle into a wine glass
Red, mottled, the image in her head.

She wears a straw cap &
Flowered bodice
Leaning an ironic angle against
A patio railing talking to god knows
Who in a brown hat
Picking grapes off the vine
Plopping them under her lips
The seductive "O" giggling
A thin gossamer veils the
Scene, the tablecloth laughs
At me, the cheese grimaces,
The smoke mimics, and all the
People glance knowingly over their
Shoulders.

I am swallowed in a gulp.

She is dizzy.
"It's the wine" I say, she doesn't hear.
Turns off the shower.
The chrome handle winks against
The porcelain tacky white walls
And wretches at the sandy pink
Flooring.
Off. On. Off.
Red fades away, blue veins like
Lizards perk up against her
Filmy white thighs and the
Backs of her hands.
She scoffs. Faintly thinks of betrayal.
Barely hears me.
She walks naked past the mirror
Refusing to look.
Feeling sick.
-- I've betrayed her maybe? -- I'm not
Who hurt her. I don't understand.
Curled up, bed, wringing hands.
Prepares herself for the day.
She is a conduit. She is okay.
Kiara Claire Sep 2015
-
Undesirable words spit poison
Half masks worn on disfigured parts
Covered yet exposed
Dark figure roaming behind the curtains
Instant detest for the meek
An insatiable hunger to outlive
Try configuring the twisted; pointless
As hollow as a decomposing apple
Striving to be as perfect as the golden ratio
Fatuous dialogues; spare me the agony
Inflicting pain unto others as it was done unto you
Perfect concuction of distaste and repulse
**** it with a spear; permeable you ll find
Aparna Oct 2020
nebulous galaxies
                          spiraling forth
stars collecting
                          in clusters              lost
configuring
               constellations           in
                                  
                             ­         space
and
                time-
                                  travelling
   through
                        light-years
duly                        ­                     revolving,
              aligning
     with                       the Sun  
                    and                           the Moon
suspended
                      in the interstellar
Riche' Sep 2014
The dark spirit of happiness
The cool drift of the wind
Kindness we need in the world
Hatred we have in the world
Fighting and configuring
But we always want more than we need
Blacks and Whites we have variety
We don’t like to meet other races
We rep our hood
In other words que rep nuestra campana
We marry our own race
But why?
We judge and criticize
This is America?
nivek Nov 2014
I pray straight out my misery
making it my prayer
no-longer asking for release
or configuring just the right words
its more honest and straightforward
when the God you pray to
knows exactly what you need
Graff1980 Apr 2016
I loved you, beyond the grasp of words.
The paint brush I used to describe you
Was weak and withering
Needed re-configuring
Cause you were boundless

I loved you dangerously
Even when you hurt me
Scars and scabs
Nightmares in history
Bleeding insanity
Across the canvass of time.

I loved you even when you hated me.
The outsider, with ***** ideas
The spoken artist broken heart with this
Dark daring dreams
To help heal all human beings
When you were already so happy
Being subdued by propaganda

I loved your expressions
Your poetry, your sketches
Your philosophy and science
Your rejection of dogmas
When you had the strength
To reject them.

I loved your filth
Desire and rage
Lustful urges
***** thoughts
*******

Even when you beat me down
Like a trailer trash wife
When you reeked of hatred
Stunk of consumerism and racism
I still loved you

Even when I hated you
For breaking my heart
With all the bombs
And violence
When you turned my hopes to ash
When I watched you flash past
And finally come back
From dark ages to enlightenment
And back around again and again
I still loved you

I still love you
Zigmaz F Aug 2016
Festive and free,
The music echoed,
Emitting constant and positive vibrations.
It was widespread,
Trailing amongst the forest,
Configuring an overflow of desirable sensation.
The light of day
Featured spiritual energies
Brought on by the dark of the mystical night,
Which lead my wandering path
To the end of the lonesome road,
Bringing me to you.
Charismatic and alive,
You made a soulful appearance.
The moment is now,
So we lived for the influential experience,
As if it were never going to end.
All the beautiful spirits
Confined to their happy little sites,
And we were each other's savior
Just guiding each other home.
We rode the starry night
Straight into a plume of incandescent liquid love
Electric
Intoxicated
Passionate
Fellowship
Interwoven souls on fire
Ecstatic connection
Roaming the wavelength wild.
My brother,
My sister,
My lover,
My friend,
We've mended the static oppression,
An ancient philosophy
A genetic transcription for the world.
A freedom of love
No longer a slave to the human wreckage.
One love, baby.
Courtney O Jun 2017
It's a sweet feeling
calm and delicate
and probably not as everlasting
as pain can be
But...

I am an alien in the world
I am not like them
And I never wished such a thing
I cannot help being myself
But...

I'm starting to enjoy, the ride
Never lose who I am
Never lose what I've found
Kisses, thrills, the will to leave!

(It's a naturalness in my life
I never knew before)

I am getting used to this
And I'm seeing life expanding in front of me
And things are sweetly functional
and the dysfunctional shows its face for me to slay
And all the waves washing me out
are part of life
That I'm being myself
and it's working out pretty well

All the pain makes sense, everything is still and moving
Everything is calm and shaking
I'm moving limp, but I'm moving
Optimistic moment - tears will follow

Everything is normal, everything is natural
The waves pulling me and pushing me - natural
Is it for real?
Things start to make sense
My life is configuring itself - the spells work
In all directions, good and wrong
The spell of loneliness, the spell of the house - dead
the spell of a new life
calling out for my name!
I make sense - for once!

Me? A part of the world?
I never had thought it, I would have not bet for it ever before.

But still, I don't feel I am a human or an alien anymore...
I am somewhere still to fathom
I am half everything
Onoma Dec 2019
configuring pieces make

me laugh...guess I'm loose

in the dome.

Mikey boy, do me a solid and

tighten up those figures of

yours.

make sure it stays on the up

and up, here's my open arms

just in case.
Matthew Goff May 2017
She had shifted me ten degrees, to the right, from the sight of a cat dangling a villain from the roof. Its tiles had soon adjusted to my position now, configuring in unison to the discomforting moaning of breath sneaking out from the closet bedroom window. These roof-tiles now reflected ten different expressions on my face at once. “making up for lost time, eh?”, the villain stated generously.

© Matthew Goff
poetry poems poet poets
lmnsinner Jun 2020
I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle,
circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries,
a younger me, by kayak rounded it,
from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery,
14,500 acres give or take, a lifetime
to complete a dead reckoning,
an unfinished full configuring
I love with my hands as they hold gentle to the backs of your arms,
A chest to my head hums a sound of such conviction.
A compelling starvation only satisfied by the moments you've placed your presence in my palms,
Configuring a phantasmal display of coloration into my eyes.
And you live behind my lids,
   As you echo in my mind,
allowing yourself to
be stationed throughout my ears,
with soft demand.
How well-equipped our astronauts are,
Such rigorous standards set for them by their governments.
It strikes me there are certain things a psychonaut should be,
Some level of training to make us proficient in these practices.

How to build a program or curriculum,
And how do we assess one's competency
in configuring mind? We can qualify it but
without a quantifiable unit of measurement;
We can only teach through experience.
We must borrow from other disciplines,
Adopting as many methods of description
as are useful. Ultimately our notation will fail
the exploration of inner-space, I think no metric
can adequately represent how we navigate a soul
The territory we meander through is so different
yet we may share an inkling
between people.

There is this feeling
that some experiences
are ineffable. No, I think
it's that they affect our means
of expression. States of mind that
break through self-concept, dissolve
our components, ego, id or otherwise.

We must reconcile postmodern relativism
with the richness of our own subjectivity.
Sometimes I worry it is merely a question of language.
Ideal to peruse the vast treasure trove
of lecture material
pertaining to aforementioned title
on the webbed wide world
especially gratifying to watch and listen
as various and sundry
noteworthy knowledgeable instructors
present material regarding
as topic yours truly
(Oh Henry) hankers to master
configuring networks and hosts
nsync with helpful visual aids linkedin with
purporting to master said concepts
easy as kindergartner to learn.

Young impressionable twittering
snapchatting reddit minds
analogous to sponge;
they absorb technical information
without experiencing intimidation,
which panicky reaction, I attest
impedes induces blackened
barbed pangs within mine breast
causing my heart to pound loudly
testing heart (violently wracking ribs)

inducing near bursting of chest
severely incapacitating formerly rapt pupil
to become distressed
reducing means of communication
to grunts and groans expressed,
whereby attempt to grow knowledge
ain't no funfest
as ye accurately guessed
trying to understand
mind boggling concepts

necessitates giving noggin
much needed and frequent headrest
perhaps overwhelming
sixty plus shades of gray matter
subsequently mine surviving kin
get told cause of death courtesy coroner
visa vis aneurysm discovered
after autopsy and inquest
which constitutes (dead serious)
no small subject to jest.

Despite (surgeon general's warning)
regarding unwise to teach oneself,
(and perhaps miraculously enough
become bonafide, certified and deified
as network engineer)
forthwith unnamed old codger
of these words, the person in question
thinking about aspiring to become
a sexagenarian geek
maybe ill advised
to gain technological smarts
even an itty bit
tis best to remain ignorant
and sustain dumbfounded bliss

Truth be told acquiring insight
to feel connected and integrated
with uber generational breed,
(would most definitely
give me a virtual lyft) yes indeed
allowing, providing, and enabling
he/him to experience traveling
as a gender binary male
(no offense intended toward
individuals who consider themselves
linkedin with lgbtqia umbrella
(hopefully my car won't
get vandalized nor keyed)
after I send this reasonable rhyme
thru cyberspace at lightspeed.

Though gung-**
to master intricacies of subnetting,
specifically accessing an excellent
powerfully pointed website
hosting Jeremy's IT Lab
Free CCNA | Network Devices | Day 1 |
CCNA 200-301 Complete Course
a mental impasse deters
that eureka moment.
Talking Back Oct 2020
I’m processing
Configuring
The time
And Calculating
The distance
That separates us
Oh the seconds
Until i see you
Once more
To God Above
I pray
You don't forget me
Stephen Knox Sep 8
Configuring words to gather as poems.
Broadcasting out, so people might know them.

When reciting them notice if ringing you hear.
This is a sign higher vibrations are near.

These words thrown together might not make much sense.
But read them again if the world gets too tense.

When sliding into the ever present now.
The why fades away, understanding the how.

Solving world problems involves looking inside.
Releasing the things, that you always would hide.

Don’t let belief systems get in the way.
Deep introspection can be done every day.

Understanding the one thing important to know.
Things happening above also happen below.

The darkness of night always turns into day.
Where the ying meets the yang, is called the middle way.
J J Feb 2022
codex irises hair like frozen noodles
a wonder of science in pediatric crib
configuring the context

the fractures and the consequences


Waiting to be held for the first time.


Thee garden is an overgrown jungle
Since you left

No one knows how to keep up
With eachother

Never mind their selves and a love
That once was has been unstruck

I have a hundred unacted possibilities
And a hand that's scared to lose again

Combat boots to crush the frost

August leaving my heart with every step I take
I've been blurring out your face too much asoflate
To be ready to say goodbye. But I'm keeping time


Mum I love you to the moon and back with roses.
Written months ago.

— The End —