"congruent" poems
I can still hear your lisp
the way it covered every "r" you sounded
bare skin under mist, your eyes
matched your hair
the first, all blue raspberry stained lips
the second, pure spring sky
Never before, had I loved the rain,
as much as when we ran through it
we let the downpour soak our clothes
and congruent, thunder couldn't scare us
we felt naked, or I did,
but I didn't mind it
to be naked with you
was all that I wanted
Never before, had I looked at a girl,
and wanted to hold her, the way I held you
suddenly, the laws I believed in felt
paperclip thin, and completely untrue
it didn't take much strength
to twist every one of them
into a shapeless and easily
ignorable pile of waste
You knew the flags of every country
as if your allegiance was to the entire world
I wanted it to be to me
only
and I think I knew that it was,
but that doesn't mean
I didn't want you to say it
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
There’s no other choice but to wear them,
The drawer offered nothing but these.
An odd pair of socks might be quirky,
Odd sizes don’t normally please.
The one at my ankle was spotted,
The other was striped to the knee
The latter two sizes the smaller,
The former quite large by degree.
This mismatch I thought to keep secret
And cover the dissonant pair.
I chose from the wardrobe some trousers
And shoes, with considerable care.
My ruse would conceal the divergence
From prescribed social standards of dress
And none would be any the wiser
My discomfort I’d have to suppress.
Now, it’s harder to mask discomposure
When physical pain has attacked.
The small sock had cramped my toes tightly
That blood didn’t flow, was a fact.
My colleagues regarded me strangely
For they could see nothing amiss
But I could feel cold perspiration,
Anxiety I couldn’t dismiss.
It was then that I felt a strange itching,
The striped sock began to descend
And round my right ankle it wrinkled
And bulged at the trouser leg end.
Dismayed at my great consternation
But clueless to what was awry
My friends made comforting gestures
Need of which I could only deny.
The moral of this story’s transparent
Socks are always best worn as a pair
Their nature is in the relationship
Which provides a well-balanced air.
And take the trouble to remember
Be congruent in all that you do
For disparity will often bring discord
And that path, you’ll certainly rue.
Oct 11, 2009
Oct 11, 2009 at 6:43 AM UTC
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
Life Coalesced
Envision the rest
Depressed or distressed
Worried less, I invest
May regress or finesse
Life's congruent mess
Mold your self, immaculate
Clear hate and evoke fate
Inspire, create and congratulate
Persevere when near,
Whilst you conquer fear
Happiness untamed
Dreams unattained
Mature and grow wise
In front of your eyes
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
resides a secret;
a dark spot on your soul –
a malignant little horror
that threatens to destroy
your sense of self worth.
Maybe it’s a butter knife
with an in-congruent rust spot
on one side of the blade…
Maybe it’s a random salad fork,
the final piece remaining
from a long forgotten flatware set,
with a fossilized chunk of radicchio
lodged between the third and fourth tines.
Probably it’s the fork.
There it has sat
without being moved;
without being touched;
just existing as the metaphor that it is
for 8 straight wash cycles.
The result has never varied.
The dirt remains.
Soon will come a ninth wash cycle.
You hope that things will change.
You know that they will not.
Despite this unwavering conviction
that the fork will always be *****
the next time you run the cycle,
open the dishwasher door,
peer through the gauzy veil
of lemon scented fog
and see the small bit of filth
you will still feel disappointed.
You will grow a little bitterer.
You will be a little more contemptuous.
The world will be a deeper shade of gray.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
You can go
right now
into the kitchen
to the bottom rack of the dishwasher and
reach down
with a trembling hand
to grasp destiny.
You are bigger than this fork.
You are bigger than this fork.
You
are bigger
than this fork.
With a sense of control firmly clasped between your fingers
take that 15 uncomfortable seconds
to scrape away the debris with your thumbnail
and then be free.
BE FREE
Deep and resounding will be
the sigh of relief;
the utter completion;
the contentment absolute
that you experience
when you place that clean salad fork
back in the drawer.
It will never match
the new silver
that your In-Laws gave you last Christmas, but
at least it will be clean and
in its home
safely ensconced
in that wire organizer.
Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
is a chance for redemption.
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 12:21 AM UTC
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.
Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.
My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.
When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.
Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.
I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
i am a phonographic record
and you are the ears that hear me
i cant compare my music
to malignant mammographies
and the phantasmagoria of cash
or to hash-browns and flapjacks
or to a purple field drowning in wisteria
yes, i am hysterical too
like elderberry syrup and cough drops
popping like its hot
so we japa till we drop, it all
yes, everything
so give it a chance
see your face in the reflection
of a pool of moonlight
a **** bather
a fool at the equator
equates to nothing
so i undress my unctuousness
a congruent confluence
like blood on an apartment building wall
a pox in your cereal boxes
flu shots and mandatory vaccinations
without informed consent
we are experiencing a loss of the immaterial
if we pamper ourselves with distraction
we attract the repulsive side of thy will
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
The devil wears prada
Yet his daughter drives Bugatti
Cruising down the fast lane
Seducing everybody
Reducing human bodies
Recruiting for illuminati
Promising *** and fame and giving all the souls to papi
And I ain't too proud to say that this demon almost got me
Her good looks and mystery were just enough to rock me wild
Everything about her had me profound
Long hair, perfect smile
Wayne and jays, perfect style
Boats and planes, she gets around
In every way you thinking bout
Her ***** lips are open doors
Everybody's in and out
She got a phone full of young men
And they all want her
Meanwhile she in her whip telling them to swerve
Up until they feel desperate enough to give that girl the world
And she takes it
And ruins it
And makes their life congruent with
The hell that they will soon know when Seducila is through with them
But when they find out its too late
Through the legs of Seducila they meet the Devil's gates to stay
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
You and I aren’t quite so different,
We really aren’t.
With every feeding came life,
And with every wrinkle,
Death,
Notarized our finite parchment,
Parallel and ultimately mortal.
We’ve shared –
An experience, any experience
And epiphanies congruent pain,
The numerous, the humorous.
We’ve remembered upon
Paths we’ve taken,
Together, apart, and in –
Eras defined by how we
Walked, talked,
Slouched,
Or slowed to a crawl,
Huddled and bled a back.
So come the heave,
The finality in flame,
Make a face for the name,
Let the dead man dream
And take that memory to the grave,
The One, that’s never forgotten
Whilst eternal and reciting –
“I love you,”
I loved every single
One
Of
You.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Comes a time
when the mathematics
of the years
becomes more about
- than +,
÷ rather than x.
When wisdom gained
< vitality lost,
and dis-ease > health.
A good night's sleep
and some energy ≈
happiness.
Living is
tangential
to survival,
and not
necessarily
congruent.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
Risen sensibility when it came to living life
Wiry tendencies to fall before a savior appears in the split second of your head coinciding with the concrete to catch you
You live too fast, you cannot die
A case of immortality floating through the blue and black veins pumping blood to your weary heart
Turbulent tremors beat the pallor right out of your personality
Trying to turn back time and see who's fault lies within the deficiencies of your relationship
Could it have been the haughty reactions to every novel he wept at?
Though inside he was deeply troubled by death and it's casualties in his life?
Could it have been the musk that owned his scent, one you used to crave but now repulsed?
Pine needles spiked within your perfume drove him off the cliff
And mood-congruent memory proves it's theories
You are gravely broken inside your chest
All you feel is anger for the boy that clipped the wings off of the butterflies that carried you
And replaced them with ****** tears sewn together with cheating and dishonesty
Irritable noises clamor inside your ears
Reverberating throughout your whole body
Shaking, like an earthquake, involuntary
Clangorous echoing of negativity is constant
Unshakable, ineffable, suffocating
Your disheartened recollections resonating with your adverse quality of letting go
Could it be, a silly girl like you fell for a manic depressive like him?
Or did the silly boy fall for the manic depressive girl?
Mood-congruent memory, flowing back in streams of discontent and remorse
Ambiguous reasonings and faulty evidence collide with your incoming tears
He was not, the problem
(You were)
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Congruent paths never perfectly intersect at any length, But are almost always nearly identical.
We may be parallel but the world has set us completely at odds.
Miles separate the **** near touching lines.
Aspirations and dreams is spreading the distance between me and you.
But those same goals and desires is what's keeping us even closer.
These trails that have already been tread, keeping intentions at a minimal.
Cascades of doubt breeze through the plains of blond wheat.
Slightly obscuring any trace that point A has left going to point B.
My animal like nature will soon arch our parallel lines.
Jumbling up any existence of any path previously taken.
All except for one.
Yet here I am, again waiting for that day that our lines will converge.
Hopelessly waiting for our worlds to be much more symmetrical.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 1:27 AM UTC
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Maniacally,
The days and nights
Bleed together
Into a time frame
The insane
Tap into
That's a lot like infinity.
Vampiracally,
The years of
Infinity
Bleed together
Into an abysmal
Spiral
Of insanity.
Supernaturally,
Are our states of being.
How well
We blend in
With a dismal
Arrangement
Of plain people
In trains,
Checking their wrists
For the time
As they travel
Physically.
Naturally,
The three of us
Are bound to meet
At some point.
Tapping into
Hidden goldmines
Of psychological
Nuggets
That gleam
With prosperity,
As everything
Melts together
Again.
Everything is sacred.
Everything is connected.
Mining
For hidden connections
Ought to excavate
Feelings of wonder.
The caverns filled
With complex crystals
Of energetic
Freethought
Have long been
Paved over
By trains and
Linear brains
Improving on their
Transistors.
Maniacally and
Vampiracally,
The days and nights
Bleed together,
While the world below
Bustles about;
We appear to be
Just like one of them.
We may even check
Our watch.
Our conditions
Are congruent
In that they are
Nothing less than
Supernatural.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 5:16 AM UTC
She differentiated herself from society, thinking that her life would never intersect with another's.
Her irrational thinking was harmful, she called herself odd.
"Think positively" they said, "the outcomes are countless.
Life is nonlinear, it's not as simple as x=y.
It may not always make sense but you will make it add up."
She had no proof.
She hated the sine wave of life, her countable infinity that she wanted to stop.
The probability of her meeting her congruent mate was 7,000,000,000:1
Until the day her life was bisected by a girl.
The girl was her complimentary angle, her stationery point, her happy infinity.
She was integrated.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
We hold a soul between our two hearts.
You: the armor
I: the misplaced
Us… We don’t share the universal love songs.
Not the congruent taste of politics.
Of genres
Of wealth
Our soul is an alien to society
God fooled our soul
Our past present future is all we share
Past, a multitude of mistakes we knew we were making
Present, an unforgivable regret
the Future.
Us hold,
A destiny we’re aware will not be our dreams.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
This gentle flow takes control with perfect form, dark eyes match and connect in the same breath.
Warmth spreads from head to your ******* lower realms swirl in the depths. Skin glistening.
Bubble up, subtle touch, fingers search inversed.
Would rather tingle your thighs in line with my neck, criss crossed in ****** to snap.
Head tilted back, quiver and spasm as your chasm erupts.
Hushed sighs in a rush collect.
Congruent thoughts mix in our heads, mind *** fulfilled through this text.
Open your legs as your soft lips kiss with delicate sweat, thinking in sync when you stroke the same sense.
All from the chest.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 7:47 AM UTC
I remember
The way I was taught symmetry
Butterflies.
The pattern of their wings,
I was told,
Is a perfect example
Of consistency
Each wing
Will always match the other
I once saw a butterfly
With a missing wing
Unable to do
What butterflies are supposed to do
Fly.
In other words
Useless
My wings
Are not always even
Does that mean
That I too,
Am useless
Or am I still
Worth existing?
Not everything good in life
Is balanced
Or congruent
We are not geometry
We are living
The most perfect things
Are the ones
That don't match up
Perfectly.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
when we dated
i didn't know who i was
i knew who you were
and i liked it
but no matter what i told you
about me
no matter how much you
came to know
you never really
knew me
because i could never show you
who i was
since even i had
no idea
after you dumped me
i found myself
because i had the time
to focus on me
instead of us
and now i can see
that we were never really
meant to be
because i need a complement
like we are geometry
but with you
i had a congruent shape
that only sat with me
instead of making me whole
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
Woah, I think there's a
roller coaster in my mind,
Bunches of Sporadic thoughts
With one congruent disguise.
Pop pop poppin up
all over my head
And they're pop pop poppin,
shootin us dead.
My ideas, they're killin us,
They're surface feeders.
Eating the truth
Like tasty hour d'oeuvres
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
you could cut the ****** tension with a butter knife
but neither one of us really cared about what the other one had to say
with our strange in-congruent lives and our eternal fear of internal pain
it can really take its toll when you are vulnerable
sitting at the end of the street, contemplating the site of the inevitable
I took a right into a spiderweb of streetlights
trickling into the abysmal blackness of the night
you could cut the ****** tension with a butter knife
and neither one of us cared where we stopped
with our reasonably similar motives
and our never ending lust for physical eruption
it can really take its toll when you are vulnerable
I turned the engine off and the crickets went wild
into an awkward silence as our faces splashed together
like the moon sinking into the earth
I disappeared into her mouth and my shoulders sank
my legs went numb as she playfully fault back
in a manner that seemed to be out of her control
the moon sat on the dash like an owl in the trees
my fingers began to clench and her finger nails plowed my skin
sending slim cascades of wine colored blood down my spine
we lie like lions on a tree branch as the sun comes up
breathing in the atmosphere and taking in the sounds
for a brief moment we were in tune with each other
affection seems welcomed and time moves slower
the road back seems longer when the key hits the ignition
everything goes back to normal even the tension
it all builds up then someone gets cut with a butter knife
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
Dear one,
As the domino, I fall cascading on the drawing board. Why would one deny progression? A furtherance , the ebb and flow. I remain up beat and spirited as I read your letters. It's like a barred barricade is being lifted.Your glowing light is charging me. Certainty is liberating, the riding of the waves have become a skill that I have engrossed. The tides spread from shore to shore and I must anchor. I am ever grateful for your deliberation in regard to my current affairs. Your magnanimity is greatly appreciated.
As I am
Enormous, bountifulness of free spirit. Episodes of taciturnity alternated by sequences of thrill are remarkably felt. The higher level linking is simultaneous , coordinated and equidistant. As life propels, years progress a resemblance of energy is greatly congruent. The conforming compatibility of the absolute is evident. Transpiration of what once known yet unknown surfaces, erupts and consolidates a new meaning. A renewed existence, a recovered emergence solidifies. These moments are so evident, abundantly and vehemently felt on every fibre,bone and muscle of my being. Right to the core of my soul, my very existence.
On the tangent of thoughts........"J" the jewel... the forgotten treasure. What happened to the nature trueness that stroked your mind? The non win compromises aren't spontaneous. We must realign.... we must.
Vous êtes magnifiquement merveilleux et excellent en tous les moyens possible.
You sure do give me the butterflies......
You hold me in skies high above.
I can't control the butterflies.........
Is it just a flutter ?
To progress as you progress.....
SassyJ
Inspired by........
Natasha Bedingfield (Soulmate)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P27MPi3ZhCg
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
When an army of congruent efforts
Hide away the blurs of truth for smile
And paints mischief like never before
A community of applause is born.
Same jargon of satires where I left last time
They stand like shameless souls weaker enough
And lose their naked counterparts which became bold
Enough to paint their skins and garden their hairs.
The beginning of the body as geometric machines
To demonstrate humankind rather than mankind
And *** equally splits into male, female, gay, lesbian
Spoiling the colors of your beautiful rainbow into one.
Where opinions vary and similes carry
But **** facts are sincerely presented
To carry a soul into our very build world
Welcome to the world of fashion & fashionistas.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 7:42 AM UTC
Shattered dreams..People often fall for their elusive
dreary spell,
Sages come and talk of nothing,
Children go and speak of something,
For what time does benefit us,
It often leaves us somber,
Surviving me,
Is that man in the corner,
Hopefully by now,
More than just an aspect of creation,
Or a reminder,
She comes upstairs,
Blanketed regrets,
No, Nothing surmising of hope or dignity either,
Just a blank stare,
Of formless opinion,
I knew one with opiates in her hair,
And lilacs in her mouth,
Something of a twist and turn,
She often wondered farther,
Firm believer in truth,
Yet vain reminder of silence,
Are these two once burdened upon frightful congruent spheres
or something random altogether,
I think the fish know,
The way they tangle and soar,
The way they find their way, even amidst a muddy storm,
Cloudy murky waters, like places of time stolen before your
very...
To finish this expose she said,
Bluntly reminding me,
I'd like to introduce a placebo
Look into the chalice in your hand,
Keep looking...
There!!!
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC