"conglomerate" poems
We have engendered them.
Our babies.
Our annelids.
Facsimiles of Us.
A gushing warm viscous fluid
And a conglomerate of meat
From the womb pods of our hive
Rush out into your oxygen.
Our mass will grow indeed.
And,
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
8 become 16; 16 become 32
You (solo)
Must know by now; no doubt
Individuality is a cold, broken loop
An anachronism of a bygone era
Pass through Our membrane , insect.
And be born infinitely back through it.
We will have you spread-out in our warmth
Under our skins; apart of our million-chambered heart
Join Us.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
What do you want from me?
I ask my memories,
Wondering why they’ve come out to play,
Tap dancing across the wood floors of me mind,
Creating a cacophony that echoes off my skull.
What do you want from me?
I hear them when they respond, “We’re trying to make you safe.”
I know they’re attempting to prevent tumbling off the same rocks,
Trying to ensure I don’t crack bones on the same hard places.
They are telling me to avoid having pieces of me stolen again.
I couldn’t protect myself at thirteen or sixteen,
So I stumbled down the same dark alleys until I was 18
And paid a grander price in an even darker cave at 19.
I’m 22 now, and I’m still picking up the pieces out of the mouths of men,
Men who cut me down until I was a conglomerate of bite size, fuckable pieces.
I was taught not to scream when my pieces were being consumed.
Who needs to be a whole human anyway?
If tip money went into my pocket,
If he told me he loved me afterwards,
If I was alive to see the morning light,
Who was I to complain?
And when I stopped wanting to see the sun rise,
They gazed upon my pieces
And berated me for the wreckage.
What do you want from me?
Is a question I only know how to ask myself.
I have never dared ask those who stole from me
Whether they came to me in good faith,
Never had the wisdom to lock up what was valuable.
I have never demanded of anyone what their intentions were,
So I ask again: What do you want from me?
What am I expected to provide?
Am I allowed to be a whole human here?
Or will you require I be bite size again?
I am desperate to be safe in the same flesh that once enticed those who hunted me.
What do you want from me?
I’ll tell you what I want.
I want to go home whole,
Knowing my skin is all mine.
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 12:50 PM UTC
Under the old house
cast in conglomerate mix
the cataract window
and cracked sill
broken joists
and cross beams
wringer wash
and saddle set
A draw string light
brings life
to the corner bench
fowler toads
and fingerlings
jitter bugs
and dazzy vance
dirt planks filled
with mason
crown classics
Buggy whip
and whippletree
shelved on the
chopboard
tackle and mucks
stacked at the back
horseshoe and jack rod
bend the pike pole
a sawhorse placed
for the Martindale push
Gallon jars
and growlers
prepped
for the taking
ropes and reins
for transport
and fest
goggle eye
jumps the flyer
setting up nicely
for the
Haldimand town fair
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
Feel like dyin'
feel like cryin'
screaming as the darkness
closes in.
holding everything in,
shredding the pain with each layer of skin-
tormented by the shadows
that conglomerate elsewhere.
For underneath this shrill menagerie,
my heart beats
still and cold.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.
Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.
The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.
Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.
Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.
Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.
The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal
sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.
Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Choice is a conglomerate
Cause you are viewing millions
but finding one
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Spring blossoms gentle acceptance
Of vagaries of desperation
Like variegated autumnal leaves
From the core of the stone of floods
Undeclared truths
Affirmative requests
There is chaos as a whole
In the expanse of the unending.
Fear fades mystically.
Death and boredom leave your lungs ...
There. Exists
Justice and pleasure... .
.... thoughts of living, laugh in the face of Death.
all the thoughts of failures
Conglomerate and are cast away
Into a deep trench
the soothing currents lull
Sinking green verdure.
Embraced by the biosphere
And forming a reef,
Thereby even your failures succeed.
Even now your image is being painted on the dull white canvas of my love.
Violent storms may rend the world
scattering lesser unions,
There is endurance in our madness...
Laughter, the golden bird, with bejewelled feathers,
Leads to the oasis of truth, in this desert of deceit
Reciprocation of sensation
Every intention to remain
And the rapidly ascending choir of broken angels sing the song which massacres despair.
And the body I wish to settle
Caressed by the deepest dark of night
Birth of the morning
The genesis of pleasant daydreams
Calm, hope ...
..... And a sense of success
Blue morning justice cascades
With dispelled illusions, and realized wishes.
Everyday upon wakening
I discard hate
As love, is mildly colored supple flesh
Withdrawn and plunged, into the crack of a stoney heart
Space infinitum opens before us,
On the petals of the lotus
Space through which two beings connect
No matter the distance.
We know that beneath this dull white nightmare
Dwells a vibrant black dream,
That is neither evil or good,
But just is.
On the workbench of despair,
Disassembled hearts are heaped.
In this pile I dwelled for an age of pain,
Until you plucked me from the pile
And made me whole again.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
**Society, the embodiment of human securities
Is in reality the stark confirmation
Of a conglomerate of screaming insecurities
Begging….its leaders….fervent introspection **
*Bending logic is an art perfected by all
Regardless of creed class or stature
No wonder the walk is seemingly a hard laboured crawl
Culminating into deep exposed…psychological sutures*
**Beings are bedevilled by a roving myopia
Craving a farfetched grandiose utopia
That’s why a bespectacled cynicism
Is ironically of essence…to neutralise a deep rooted parochialism**
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:28 AM UTC
1.
seeds of crimson, slightly sweet
alien pods of ruby meat
like exoskeletal teeth.
scores of crimson, holding in
like breath, its babes of sin.
little beetles; ****** tears.
one swarming conglomerate.
as if in fear, they huddle close
to await their fate in quiet fits.
2.
the
unfurling!scarlet!starfish!mothership!
sprawls out
fleshyfingers, fatwithfruit.
seedling children populate her innards
like a red-skinned race of juicy mutes.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
*Perched upon the peasant’s altar
Anomalous, conglomerate, anorexic, and onyx
The concubine’s cake with the Oxford comma,
Communal and picked and eaten at by little birds
Nominal trauma oozes visceral
****** and break
Sever and break
Steep walls of amorphous clay
Congeal to the walls of the willow
Exquisite and infinite, infidel
Flight
****** Lo, light of my life,
Long hair dripping with whiskey*
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Meet me in the 982.
Where the flowers grow,
pink, red; purple, blue,
and the sun always sets,
a hazy mix, a palette box, a painted mess.
Meet me in the 982.
Where dreams collide,
memories drift, wander, shift,
and the moon is white,
like fine porcelain cups; fragile chips corrupt.
Meet me in the 981.
Where your eyes are hazel,
or are they blue? Maybe green;
haven't you noticed, voices changed,
an ordered desk, books arranged?
Meet me in the 981.
Where thoughts like this,
conglomerate or dissipate,
haven't you ever missed a song,
a smiling face, is something wrong?
Meet me where the numbers touch.
Where colors smell and words taste,
where the universe collapses and reshapes.
Meet me where dimensions merge,
where mirrors break and lights fade.
Meet me in the 982,
where my heart will race,
waiting here for you.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
Let us mine into the depths of Shakhty, and scorn the Western state of communist superintendence.
We are embroiled in a political and industrial conglomerate where cold wars lay the foundations of unstoppable monstrosities.
Converse with Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, as you splatter milk across the surface of your psychological cereal, and raise questions around the episodic nature of criminal profiling.
I love the olfactory beauty of a railway station, whose stench is dissimilar to the pastures of raunchy and deadly opportunities which result in Rostov butchery.
Nevertheless, it is rooted in crop failure and the enforced collectivization of agriculture.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Memories:
the back and forth trajectories
the internal out-of-sync in-sync directories
of treasured moments, of pleasantries
and the reviled relived accessories of treachery.
My memory is pitted with chasms like Swiss Cheese
the phantom dreams of being hit by a car in a winters bite
the realities of unconsciousness and brain spasms
the fathoms baffles in batches and waves of breaches
disfigured features like a frosted window caked in creatures
burrowed and riddled like a parasite in the spite of night.
By the time id got to hospital id forgotten my own name
fortunately I had a gas bill in my pocket which hadn't freed itself
while being violently hurled over the red car bonnet
and it became the one and only evidence that I even existed
even though the A & E nurse insisted and persisted on asking questions:
my address, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact -
like Id have it tattooed on my body like a scene from Memento
amid the voices in crescendo and brain-damage thumping techno.
That was a few years ago, or was it, I couldn't be sure now
but some days I forget what I did in the morning
so I just have to live for the moment somehow
the memories like Swiss Cheese constantly morphing
to the piped tune of the cerebral banshee
buzzing in my left ear like a perpetual honey bee
makes me wonder though;
I am lactose and diary free - the dominant dietary preponderant
some modernistic conglomerate causing ultimate lethargy.
Does this mean if recollections are like Swiss Cheese
I am intolerant to memories?
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
There is beauty in the End;
Beauty in a conglomerate of
Failed fairy tales we
Once thought would make up
Our life's happy trails.
Virtue hangs purposefully
On quivering lips
and racing heartbeats
that foretells a demise-
There's MEANING in the End.
Wipe your tears.
Dry your eyes.
These are means to every End.
So enjoy that Last Kiss
and mourn not the story that it concludes
But await the one that it begins.
For like I said,
There is Beauty in the End
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Seven days spent lost in the rogue North
Octagonal windows framed a snowed in view.
In the kitchen, sun soaking in like honey,
The kids sat eating oranges.
Two cats humming and a sheepdog dozed
Under a thick maple table, flavoured as last nights fresh game
Lullabies deep as eyes were heavy
Fire stoked and a Mickey Mouse Christmas shining brightly,
playing cards, I laughed that it was just November.
Two sets of ice blue eyes, no blood in between.
And six sets, shades of green-blue-brown,
Each the nicest pair you'd ever seen.
I fell in love with the eight,
Always their eyes first I'll admit.
And now my heart lay in
A long house, teepee on the dock.
The purest cold blue I'd ever know
To crash upon iced rock.
All the trees you would ever need,
A conglomerate of green;
Until the day I die, the holiest place I've been
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
These words, they conglomerate
on the page
loosely tied together
by the date
the sharpest needle
and
the finest thread
could not stitch them together
I have tried
many times
I have stabbed myself
many times
but
scraps of sting
unused words lay
loosely distorting an unforeseen design
but
if you squint
posses an open mind
then the words will seem to tighten
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
I am a
plenipotentiary
of your heart
but not your tongue
Which whips
with shout
Inflicting
all this
doubt
--
Try not to see my glaring mistakes
when uncaring I am trumpeting arrogant aches.
--
I became lost in channels of the self and now-
I have smoothed out my spikes,
inverted my aversions, diluted my delusions-
I have incrementally expanded my positive mentality.
I am the Xenolith within the conglomerate
uncomfortable with chafing sand.
Displaying dependability with the straightening of back,
gone is lithe youth's unbecoming stand.
I shall trust inappropriately and love exponentially.
I shall treat you, The Stranger-
even stranger
like family.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
Conglomerate softness
Plying blissfully the scars off my wounds
An addictive activity with bleak endings
Leaving a small dent on my skin soon
A memento of this visit
Comforting words and faces explain greatly
The niceness in which days daze away sadness,
So I savour this.
A kiss of kindness disguises itself in the random acts of allegiance
Only friendship commits
On the edges of wit,
And the brinks of sanity
I treat my own mind with such levity that fails to address the subject topic.
One day I’ll get past this
Like the seasons which pass by the skies like temporary trips
Staying long enough to make you feel sad when it’s gone
But hopeful that it’s not lasting
Bombastically feeling nostalgia for everything.
The world makes me happy
In the way that happiness only exists within this realm
The only one we know
And for every day that I grow I show the fruits of my labour
Flavouring the air with words that fall out my mouth like crisp apples
Perishable but delicious and nurturing,
Though this apple tree can’t really fend for itself
It has gardeners who defend its’ health,
And I am so grateful
For this help to grow,
Hopefully through these fruits
I can show you
as well.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
grit sand conglomerate binds
friction holding - heel steady
tottering
navy lace snags
upon brick dipped in night
save for - street lamps poignantly
establishing form to
lips seeking
to traverse the topography of your structure
tongue craving - salivary essence about mine
my curls remember being dragged
across,
- then –
pressed firmly against the brick
snagging
on vertical groove and red clay
your pelvic bone
ground deep – pressurized
into dust against my own
Serotonin, oxytocin fuse
Blown -
Neural patina – thick
Pompeii to Vesuvius
Diffuse
Carbon filament lattice
Clings - to
ancient couple
cuddling
in ashen grave
Compressed densely
Perchance time will compress this grit
creating friction under sole.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Connection involves a reciprocal flow where being detaches from nothingness into an inseparable unity.
So, let us acknowledge the colours and feel the vibrations as they transcend the parameters of compartmentalism, into an infinite and unified whole.
Attempts continue to socialise us into the abyss of perceptual bankruptcy with materialistic carrots where the fabric is truly frayed despite plausible and intellectual argument.
So, I want to talk with you as we swim in deep rivers of generational statements, which are released from the conglomerate of necrotic unions. I raise my glass to realms which lie beyond tangible and finite chords.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Cigarette smoke and suntan lines
Big ******* conglomerate of it all
California short hours away
Small town America burns hot
Scorched with dreams
Drunk and sappy on cheap beer
And wonder
How does it all make sense?
Where does it all go?
What Divine notices all that happens?
Going unseen
Uninhibited
Unrestricted.
Scene continues forever.
Worried in hot sweaty short drive
To carry on Sherman
Fall on Caves
First fill up, gas up, cookies and gum.
Girls work icecream stands
Firewood ten dollars a stack
Sliding into drunk dresses
Drunk kisses in
Drunk bathrooms
Room to love
And to fight
To hate and leave and stay
And we do stay and
Don’t mean what we said
When jealous.
Best friend backstab
And open road fall back
Drink,Drink,Drink
And fall on same old singsong solitary stool
Or walk on till all
Makes sweet holy sense.
Think where they will go,
Where they’ve been,
Sleeping in beds of tomorrow
And eat the toxic cancer of now away
Till only in remission can the
Revolution of our unconquerable youth shake.
Natalie keeps kids and complains
But truly is the best mother and friend of all
I really do believe it,
Kate drinks and dreams
And I dream with her, too
Of highways and great plains,
Ratty dives and eclectic bars
Too hip for She,
The Messiah of cool, even.
Gone.
Too soon.
How can we consent,
Look away, turn away from such terror?
It freezes, chills to bone and I light up again.
Figurative fire scorches lungs
Grass burning from the inside out
What’s she care?
It’s over anyways,
It always comes to an end,
But I really just don’t see
The beginning of the magic.
I’m here for you.
Helicopter scares,
Sober stares,
Where did they all go?
California dreams
Dust and ****
Close your eyes
See the soul,
The sun sink past sand,
The sky turns gray
No beautiful aversion,
See the orange and red,
See the beauty that doesn’t fit here.
Go.
See it all.
Go.
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
And opposite,
In the electricity fields,
Sit rows of hollowed-out shells.
Now in-land,
Though out of place,
The lightning whelks generate Hell.
And parallel—
Conducting phantasmagorical light—
The pylons coil around them:
Reverberations from the industrial fields
Where the blood lines coagulate and dwell.
And the blood lines—
They feed the hollowed-out shells—
Form conglomerate veins.
And in their hands—
Great fires they weld—
Ever-surging, moth-coaxing light.
Apr 1, 2023
Apr 1, 2023 at 7:49 AM UTC
Its hard to concentrate
When your thoughts rattle around
Like machinegun fire
Caught in complicated clockwork
Trying to captivate
One cognitive idea
About Life
Conglomerate
While the tapestries
Of cliches attempt
To coalesce as they
Cascade
Only to fall away
As they dribble out my ears
The critics are unimpressed.
There is no one on this earth
Who is still interested
In simple lyrics backed by
Overwhelming overtures
When the focus is on expenditures
And the bottom line wont budge
Its as if it holds a grudge
Torturing visionary artists
Hiding in their closets
From monsters under the bed
And detained by superego authorities
While alone and afraid
Locked in Negative Headspace
But the artists becon of light
Is an ironic twist of common life
In a pedestrian plight
Captured on 8mm film
And put on Lifetime.
How do you write a song when
The melody is wrong
But the lyrics flow from the hand
Like the last latent ramblings
Of a dying, possessed man
Onto the page as
The imaginary lines fade
And the surreal becomes real
And in your head its something you can hear
In your gut, its something you can feel
But the fingers on the guitar
Cant catch these falling stars
And before we go to far
Its time to take a step back
To breathe
The guitar bleeds
But its blood isnt music
And if you turn away you lose it
As the sound gets trapped behind
The saturated limitations of the mind
The brass threads slowly unwind
Only to stab you in the neck.
And still,
The critics are unimpressed.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
I WAS! DESIGNED! IN CALIFORNIA!
MANUFACTURED IN CHINA!
I WAS! DESIGNED IN CALIFORNIA!
MANUFACTURED IN CHINA...
that's all the U.S.A. seems to be,
an advertising conglomerate,
oink oink it's like three blind men
and Donald Trump:
one touched his egoistic *******
impression and said it was the Mississippi
mud-hole Riviera,
another touched his overweight cheeks
and started to chuckle while calling ************
a bulldog salivating with the cheeks
choke on chuckles you chimpanzee:
chuck chuck, whatever onomatopoeia
five cents spare...
and the last blind mind touched the
over-comb quiff... and he said: by god!
the wind hairstyling grass!
while the Russians sold off Alaska historically,
and are selling bits of ******** Siberia
bit by bit to the Chinese,
evolutionary implementation
of Pan-Eskimo...
you need eyes like slits akin with excess
camel eye-lashes to survive the cold...
like i told you, Russia will end up shrinking
into a border enclosure limited to
starting between Belarus (the ******* Tsarist **** bags)
the Baltic states and Ukraine and ending at the Urals.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC