"consignment" poems
“and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”
Walt Whitman
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having recently been on standby for a permanent-entry residency visa
to over & just beyond death’s door, Walt’s prescient prescription strikes my broken breastbone even harder much, than the persistent
periodic pains confirming the breaking and the healing
of this man’s mending of the human centric poetic *****
for this warped heart mine, now rejoicingly rejiggered with some threads and wires to deliver a new but fresh bloodied wisdom,
begs me, eggs me to torrent word streams, but Whitman’s wisdom cautions a new slowness, the wisdom of mortality’s hot breath urges careful consideration of every letter that my second chance, consignment shop flesh, eagerly embraces, to both prescribe and proscribe inside-insights tween the deafening sounds of eyelashes beating synchronized to the revived heart rates rapid renewal and
last second-chances….
torn tween minute torso sensations and the running silence of
a new battery’s internal rapid intervals, the silent timing gaps tween beats leaves-just-enough-space to ask over and over again,
from whence will come my richest fluency? (1)
at 300am, I lay carefully caressing and chewing well each transitory
thought, absent the former energetic ability to just spill,
though highly desired,
now requires, like me,
steady re-piecing together
the steady drumbeat of now-nearer-my-god-than-thee Titanic reflections
demands a slowing rapidity
this I thought before and now ken, even and ever better, that our primary endeavor shall always be the giving, the disbursement of the act of love…for therein lies the healing of each, and wet eyes,
make necessarily concluding this poem about nothing and everything
and I comprehend Walt’s dictum:
my very flesh is a poem,
every sensation a lyric,
every breath taken and returned to the atmosphere
so unconsciously
are my oldest
and newest
3:00 AM poetry companions
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 4:41 PM UTC
Its annoyance
Anointed
In pessimistic clairvoyance
Its the avoidance
Of the simplistic
And stoical
Components
Its motion
Less
Ness
In oceans
Of lip service
Its ***** potions
For the passionate
Its fake ****
And face lifts
Its abortions
In portions
Of subordinates
As gifts
In gifs
Of gorgeous
Ordinance
Distorted
In tortured
Tapping
Of the dead
Its all the fame
In shoving
The pain
Of loving
In the oven
Of stubborn
Mothers
Blubbering
Under the covers
With other men
Its the omens
Of the oh mans
In roman
Misnomers
Of fortunate
Misfortunes
Torn
From time
Its the mine mine mines
Confined
To their own kind
Pre signed
In old blood
Its consignment killers
Its the drugs
Its timeless thrillers
Its the shrugs
Its the thunder
Plundering
Structures
Rattling out
From under the bed
Its all the thoughts
In our heads
Blaring
The booms
Of the tamed
Its the assumed
The restrained
Its this tomb
Of shame
In doing
The same
Old **** again
And again
Its been
Better
Then again
I grin
When
Cold
Its when i should fold
That i embolden
Its all the No's
Its blankets nose
Its the cut blow
And lack of flow
Its fists and elbows
As opposed
To safety locks
Its ******* flu shots
Its everything
That ****** me off
Its the the stupid robots
And the silly riot cops
Fencing in the famished flocks
Its the *****
And the *****
In plastic boxes
Giving rocks
Off
Without us
Its the gold pots
And stacked stocks
Locked
From us
Its the Rocks
Inside my socks
As they knock
The blocks
Of billy bobs
Bobbling
On the dash
Its the harsh
And its the rash
Its inside the last
Bastion
Of dummassez
passing
Through the
Blast radius.
Alas
Its the mass graves
And the paved pools
Of anyone who knew
Anyone who stood
Its all us fools
As cool kids
Knowing
No show biz
In soul ****
Its in knowing this
And ********
And barking
At the moon
Soon
To swoon
None
I am peaking soon
In looming threat
Of lost concepts
Slipping away
Under the sun
Electing to quit
While im ahead
Way back when
It was fun
Way back when
It mattered
Its a gun
Shooting blather
Blathering
As a bladder
Would
Misanthropic
And misunderstood
A changed topic
Knock on wood
Bye is good
Goodbye
Told you
Its implied
In rite
So
Good
night
Until
next
time
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
A pass between
the ceiling stints,
ivy sinews,
and unhinged bricks.
The broken glass
still shifts and cracks
in narrow steps
of a time passed.
Streams of oil,
weaving between,
to a seamless,
tar and fissure,
smoke clouds pummel,
passing stranger,
surging street lights,
to the waves of.
On the edge of
the coming rain,
consignment times
as beauty lies.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:40 PM UTC
there's a man across the street,
walking real casually
past the coffee shops and consignment stores,
hands stuffed in the pockets
of his black track jacket,
and he's whistling.
i watch him from the other side,
this lackadaisical nomad,
all sunshine and songbirds.
he's whistling his persona
in this transient fiction,
past his rippling reflections
in the shop windows,
all the while believing them to be
shifting images in god's great eye--
just one more happy creation.
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 4:08 PM UTC
I cast your horoscope across the miles,
Star gazing does take a while,
I see your astral alignment,
Hugs and kisses in your consignment,
A golden age for you of peace,
Forever in your heart to keep,
Health, wealth, and great happiness,
Your stars are giving you a bless,
Enjoy each day as it comes,
Fill your days with your kind of fun,
So, this was my day's assignment,
To predict your star's alignment,
Now I've cast your horoscope across the miles,
This star-gazing does take a while.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
Dear Mr. Cupid,
I hope you are well. Please forgive this letter’s intrusion. I know you are busy, preparing your bow, and planning this season’s collusions. I’ll remind you though Sir, of the issue I had with the last year’s arrow consignment. Your aim was amiss, and I’d be remiss if I failed to seek your reassignment. I’d like somebody new to deliver my true - love for which I have been waiting. For it has been so long since my wife ran along, and everyone says that I should be dating. So please, if you would send somebody good to shoot Love's arrow at me. Thank you in advance for forgoing this dance.
Sincerely,
Mr. Oso Lonely
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 4:19 PM UTC
Life must be carried on with contentment
We must develop an enough sentiment
All our ideas we must try to implement
Doing the best not for just compliment
Efforts to succeed we must augment
Waste not time in useless argument
Go for wise and shrewd agreement
And ever work for World's betterment
We must perform well our assignment
Sending kindness as our consignment
Work hard for our fine goals' attainment
By accepting arriving disappointment
We must make our rules" enactment
Acting always with real commitment
We must obey God's Government
mvvenkataraman
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
Driving off on the side roads precarious and dense
with firs holy beneath the florid specter of roseate afternoon,
purified with rainfall on the montane bladed rocks
holding together cliff face edges of highways.
I'm present with my black coffee humming while
folk plays on the radio and my sweater from the
consignment shop is still captured in spellbinding redolence
from the girl of my dreams. Nearby, a hidden path boasts a cliff commanding flowing pacific waters pronounced with gold
among mountains obscured in shadow.
Companions cross the valleys reciting sutras and tracing fingers through this blessed land, treasuring the trees, firesmoke ascending from beyond assembling woods thick and overgrown.
Doe and rabbit bounding from rocky terraces alert and surviving instinctively while riverside cabin homes hide a while yet from the long driveways and cozy mailboxes hand-painted or made of wind-bent tin cans.
I'm flourishing slowly and with periodical decay in this garden growing while I grow and life is beauty and spasm devils as am I, this I know.
We're matches momentarily lit in the weary hands of stars
to guide them in the darkness.
My hair will gray from death we jest
and I will live before I rest.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
itself, it was much in comparison.
butane huffed thru handkerchief
blood-nose, brain-stem dripping
with a wet cleft hemorrhaging
knowledge like the internet.
billowing smoke from the
consignment allegory of
a whokah we all shared
'til confusion had us
asking. I waited
like a trail for
a ballerina
to tip-toe
her way
up my
spine
toward
a waiting lake;
cold and warm
in a nature so
solvent.. quiet..
peripheries embedded
with industry postured
on rocks, metal buddhists
asking all to vague-labor
meditate 8 hrs a day, 5
days a week == sleepless
like dreaming, sleepless
experience wafting
through an open
bedroom door
as chicken
dinner.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Imagine hot
water music
traipsing down my throat
when you had your sharp tongue
shoved down my throat
with contestations simmering in my sinews,
a few of them scandalous
some true like the sudden fleeting of your crepuscular brow
to two moons paler than the love –
or the long traverse to the treacherous
roads of your skin mapped out in excess
your lecherous debris sprawling everywhere like words
to a book or silence to an early morning commute,
your undulant bursts outmatch the weight of my
steady anchors, imagine this cold wind sinking deep
into the bone at 4 o’clock in the afternoon
drunk in front of faceless crowds
hunting for purpose, discombobulated erudition
in sodden corners and cheap thrills,
imagine the scrumptious twinge of
the Sun that mangles its arms to paint a new
moon for us both and think of this as a consignment to
oblivion when the twists and turns of the road
remember only measures of steps that have no names
and not the passengers, where one wrong forceful
shot at fate could mean the end of all things down
below an ocean of muck or just stale blackness and ravines
of voices bellowing to call out departed ones
where you are just as trivial as
driving in Kennon Rd. at night without maps
and beacons, only far-fetched city buoys,
the frigid wind, the collapsing bannister of the night
cloying the turns sharper than how it was to first see you leave
in the morning, bringing in the fog for the first
light of reality to burn.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC
If I could express
In the most eloquent way
The need I suppress
To hate you every day
The Simple Alignment
Of pen on paper
A simple consignment
Of words to vapour
My god, the darkness that broils behind this grin
The dark resentment, every present within
But I digress
I smile and whittle away
Accepting the stress
That comes with every day
No matter the anger
That singes me like a lit cigar
No matter the danger
Of that burning to my heart
I smile, grin and bear it so to say
Till one day I snap, and throw it all away
Toss it to the wind, that cold bitter grey
Till its whipping envelops me
Its pressure that of an endless sea
Until the earth connects, and I cease to be
God have mercy, set me free
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
she's gold on one side
silver on the other
heartened and free
she runs like a car wreck
racing at breakneck speed
trudging through sand to conjoin
two-fold into one.
little passes by her that goes unnoticed.
she drinks in every opportunity
to swallow what ever happening will feed her today's lesson.
equanimity hostility frivolity passivity.
she knows the streets have taught her more
than she will ever forget.
and she can remember how it felt
to taste ***** in her mouth
when she looked in the mirror
that mocked her every breath.
she tries to back step
and unmake a bed
that she's told she made
and must lie in
for the rest of her life.
she wants to call consignment
and have it undelivered
but they won't take
bug ridden
**** stained
sprung and un-stuffed
pieces of junk that carried
peoples dreams in the dark.
there's no worth, they say.
so she's left
carting around holes and dead air.
melted glass and ***** cartridges.
spent fits and broken tin.
wondering
what kind of legacy this is
for a very pretty tousle haired girl
that trusts her with unfeigned eyes
and believes in super mom?
she cries at night
and tries in the morning
being as tangible as they expect-
but in that socketed place
that holds spun sugar contemplation
she buries herself.
one two-fold parades all day
playing puppet gurrl games.
she lives in a land of
pots of gold and rainbows
clover and blue moons
moving one step at a time
towards what's expected
because she knows nothing else.
day in and day out
running like a car wreck-
gold on one side
and silver on the other.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
Elongated fingers claw at my scarf
As I walk down this narrow and lonely road
Between the bakery and the local consignment shop.
Only the brave venture the snow storm,
Only the strong return home safely,
Only the wise find a way forward.
The lost ones, the ones who wonder narrow roads,
Call back to les femmes de la neige,
The tarnished creatures lingering on the road side,
Hidden in the far corners of alley ways;
Endless piles that soar heights, yet invisible to the eye.
They whisper of loneliness, of endless woe, a soft place to rest,
A bed to sleep away the sorrow.
They breathe your name, a puff of heat in a white tundra,
Because, you see, I could walk anywhere I like,
But I walk the lonely narrow road
To remember spring has come before;
One day it will come again.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
i hear the collective understanding
of dry sticks as they crack
the shock of alarm signals
like the migratory diaspora
of birds flying south
vibrates across tingling nerves
causing a necklace of choking
to grip at the throat
shivering I try to find a grave
I am watched from the summit of a hill
as a conflagration spreads
flames quiver
orange, yellow, purple, blue
there is an irregularity of thought
within me
my bones will soon
be pitched into debris
a petrified shiver
they still watch from
the summit of the hill
i collapse, gripped with a fear
of a permanent consignment
like that of dropping into a hollow
my face becomes plum stained
the income of breath becomes
a tenacious gasp
smoke swirls around me
blinding my red eyes
I become a misshapen
component of myself
standing like an effigy
hands raised in supplication
hysterically I try to
rid myself of this tyranny
find no distinguishable form
no solidified inquisitive intent
I rush and lash out
with a galvanised
inner adrenalin raised frenzy
a red sun appears
on the summit of the hill
ferocious in its heat
it lacks all euphony
and disintegrates with
debarring light
now speechless and cold
i fear the wind will find me
i move, burrow back
into a darkness
fire strokes across a green canvas
i am fault and disappear
without trace
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
We are stuck_____ in a turmoil
Her pantry
All red tape
Her can good's
on him?
It's my pleasure,
And he's as painful
Spinning wheel seizure
So tinny
tiny Tim foil
Long neck-------- giraffe
Life too short he's the
end of the kabob stick
My pleasant passenger
is lovesick
Mom's lips he rattles
His eyes of the
snake
Like Arby's smoked ribs
So pleasantly
on his tab
The Webster hub
passenger drinks
Pub
Bet Ya baking Trump
truffles hum?
((Nescafe Escape))
Carmello latte- James
Bondman another passenger
Mr. Sandman twins
of duct tape
it says___
((Where I End))
Where I begin
her money vault
The piano player
Billy Joel the strangers
My own flesh
and blood
Cousins and
Arsenic and lace
poison
Threw them
over the threshold
Elvira siesta greyhound
My pleasant
passenger
Secretly pulling teeth_____
mistletoe at birth
Caught in his fire
from Bruce
Springsteen
birth
The messenger
singing
Fiddler on
the roof
Matchmaker
make me a
(Outer Rim)
space station
The orange juice
his
Pulp Fiction
The argument
Please let there be
Yankee fans
Take me out
Don't ball me out
The game with my nephews
Buy me some cashews
and
Crack-Up Jacks
My pleasant passenger
I don't care if
he ever comes
back
Mary Mack dressed
in maternity black
The funeral came with her
right-hand
messenger
Newborn
life assignment
Bravo applaud
Not everything is
so pleasant
Contradicting
My pleasant
passenger
Couldn't
comment nothing was delicious----?
Rebirth reassignments
Come at me
consignment place
Second hand or
twice around
Another passenger
coming to town
I screamed he
had no face
bandages
Robin Hoods**
The passenger gobble up
seconds poor our goods__--
The first rich
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
Her $50 hair carouseled about her head
As she turned to mouth me the answer before walking through the screen door.
Her collarbone showed, shouldering through the 5-year linen blouse
She’d bought from an upscale consignment store the same morning she bought
Her second car for less than her parents spent on shoes.
Before I’d seen the sea, I pictured space;
Stars and Galaxies and Ice and Infinite, bigger than I would be and gold,
Hot orange. And quicksilver and crimson. Too white to know, too bright to see.
I dreamt of eyes, thousands. And voices and outstretched, glittered, sweaty fingers
And swirling, sweeping spirits and sad songs about love.
“Please, I need this.” “I need you, please.”
I pictured golden, heavy hands with wine and French cheeses. And clawed, chalky bathtubs
Of marble veined grey, windows bigger than their walls and shiny cherry wood and leather.
I pictured her lips parting and eyes dewy as I drifted to the door because they needed me
And I couldn’t stay any longer, I’d already stayed too long, and they needed me.
Everyone else had tried so there were none left.
I was the last, so I was the first. The moon and its stars were blinking open their eyes as my fingertips
Left her waist and I backstepped into their world that couldn’t do without me.
I could have been a martyr, clipped my locks after God gave me all he could and all the rest.
I would have been a martyr, but my blood started to burn and the flames licked my legs.
Her gentle push tugged at the nails holding the mesh to the screen door as it creaked
Open to faded wood and gravel and patches of green grass and golden sunset-light.
I hadn’t heard but I’d known the answer as she walked outside. My hands were lighter
Than the grains I’d used to make her dinner, and I found strands of her hair on a 3-year t-shirt
I’d never wanted to throw out after I wore it in my first car, a rental I bought wholesale.
Sad songs about love babbled and murmured on the Crosley she found for us during
The Christmas my cousins slept on our couch and floor. The sink poured, dribbled,
Stopped, and the sliding bottle of oil ground across the countertop. Through the door I could
See Tall Metal Skyscrapers and Helicopters. But before the moon and all its stars
Could take my eyes for their own, she found her voice and used it:
“Did you find a path to the stars?” She asked.
“I never did,” I said. “If I think to, maybe I’ll look again tomorrow.”
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 2:43 AM UTC
I used to stand for something enlightening that I might feel,
now I stand in fields waiting for lightning to peel
back my skin and make me real, or at least semi-real
or semi-charmed, but not that kind of life
in the song, you better believe that we'll
laugh about the new ordeal
and blast away the golden seal
that keeps us locked behind its waxy confinement
as we're sold into white rooms by consignment-
minded chemtrails in human shells,
thrown into wells to circumvent
the audacity of our red blood cells
to deny us their consent
to believe the hell
inside our eyes
or let us vent
some anger
with acidic
goodbyes.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 1:05 AM UTC
someday it will be willed (have I told you lately that I love you?)
that the poetry ceases,
no more birthdays notated
calendar closed, the xxx’s axed,
kitchen junk drawer, a consignment store,
no longer needed, the futility of saving
knickknacks, maximized, the no lasting
value proposition, realized, eulogized.
pictures of beautiful automobiles,
decorated with beautiful women,
will forever be last year’s models,
one calendar too far, not long enough
no more of
have I told you lately that I love you?
wrote you plenty love poems so, hereafter,
you won’t be bereft, left farklempt,
arranged one-a-day, on a timed delay,
so many more that will appear in your
inbox until you too, no longer choose open it.
no more “sirprising” I love you statements,
taped to the milk carton, it was so willed,
the daily counting, record keeping, who first,
how many, secretly added to a grocery list,
in stuff that was so beloved, exasperating,
making you just right amount of crazy, smiling....
someday it will be willed, so,
here’s the first of many more....
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
The sunrise swept me right under the mat
As the night kept me sleeping with thoughts of 'all that.'
I understood questions like I understood answers,
And the denser the wording, the darker the mountain of thought and elation
I kept still and patient
As all I could think of was what was adjacent to the fire inside me
Don't you confine me!
You may stand beside me if what it is that you want
Is a question to answer your question and answer;
It always did take an attempt to transfix the great trance of condition;
Fill me with emissions
Of your concept pollution and speak to coalitions
Of dying musicians, wrought with inhibitions
As they realize they're just a bit late for auditions.
So cry me a river!
Life's an Indian giver
And don't shiver with the thought that in mind you will quiver with fright,
And consignment
What kind of words could be used to
Prove
It's not all
Just a dream.
And the gleam in your eyes, I will always remember.
They glowed in the bright misplaced sun of September,
Which carried on well into the month of November.
To live, you must sign your unconditional surrender,
To 'all this' and the rest of our world in this cloud;
The bliss of a kiss and a fist that speaks loud,
We understood what we could as we held hands with the crowd
Of the distant, indifferent, aware, and unsaid;
It's strange when you consider 'all this' while in bed.
So rip me the bits and tape me back together,
Like I'm an arts craft you work on in bad weather.
Forget the instructions and make me whoever;
Use your imagination; be bold, and be clever!
Because the sunrise swept me right under the mat
As the night kept me sleeping with thoughts of 'all that.'
I understood answers like I understood questions,
And discovered 'existence' is just a suggestion.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
Hath they quaver
By any other sway but West
To sunset
For its fallen brother
I would have taken
Far from mistaken
The beads of sweat from rest
Risen dried
Crackle bones lost milk of mother
And other
Departed as the bending sigh
The one that bred its daughter lie
So seed can bloom with mindful bride
Shed off the blissful slumber
Would golden blaze
Be unlike the brass war-chains
In low remains
Whilst weight shift in its wake
Tell moving breath
Out come its wealth
And not the founding of its pains
Slip from sightless
Gloss a cover of unknowing
Left bowing
No wisp of remorse or remiss
But metal shifts
And opened rifts
Divide an ocean outgrowing
Shards beneath
Emblazoned even if in dark
I shall hark
Precious dull that beckons breathe
Even if restrained
Will not let waned
How earthen dreams have left their mark
If I could see
Old ones with minds of gilded time
Would it shine
And make pearls out of shapeless sea
Take their age
Befit a sage
To wrap this darkened world with light
Safe walkway
Come by the cobbles by the days
And passing they
Make moulded casts of harshest clay
So must I
Wait then to lie
Once sibling star has passed my way
Ore-laid wreath
Weigh low my courage rash and weak
So bleak
Beside the timeless task to seek
Shores for the flame
Never the same
Like sands through spyglass let receive
Should they fall
In avalanche cascade their edge
A hopeless fledge
Understand a broken wall
Births fouled resentment
Doubtless consignment
The dam repent its burden baggage
Return
By rivers come a lightened sky
A catching eye
To spread the scattered overturn
Ringlets in the armour glow
Wind suffered gently blow
Witness resending wisdom fly
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
And i heighten the enlightened
while writing of my confinement
still fighting amongst the frightened under lunar alignments
still working consignment for devils in retirement
holding souls in lament, to later examine it
you could only but fathom it
tragedies immaculate
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
They dragged him to the gallows
He did not kick nor scream
They dragged him to the gallows
To watch the father hang
As with ages sang from sandy storms
Historic distortion in the scorn of woe
Fate was chosen of a frozen foe
Calculated to the sum of that which cannot be known
As he roamed the tides of time
To find a home to shine
Until dim
But it found him and blotted out the vices of victory in victimless villainy upon the vanity of his venom, beautifully belittling the betterment of his ******* benevolence in malevolent speechlessness from his grinning sieges of silence, knifing through the violence with the ballistic alignment of a consignment contract to contact the creatures of the black.
What once was lost ...
Is back
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
A red, hot mist; a lit match
To a puddle of gasoline.
Anger is a beast, frothing at its mouth
Hungry, hateful and lean.
It is in the husband who beats his wife,
physically, and verbally;
It is in the vitriol we spew
At each other detrimentally.
It is in the xenophobe,
Who cherishes resemblances
And apprehends differences.
It is in the people,
Who segregate into a familiar tribe
Unaware of who tortures us all
Unwilling to unsubscribe
From the delusion -
'I am right, and you are wrong'.
Ire smolders beneath the surface
Until the surface is no more
And all that is left
Is a charred, blackened sore.
It is as corrosive as a vat of acid,
It will burn you to the core;
It will destroy all that is inside you,
And nothing will be left to restore.
Infuriation is a many-headed dragon;
Devalued, unjustly accused,
Hungry, hated or powerless,
Ashamed, anxious or defenceless.
Demeaned, disgruntled, upset;
These are all emotions
That lead to ire and regret.
Yet, it is also self-preservation;
In an unjust world,
It is the burden of a whole nation.
It is the sense than informs you
When you are being cheated;
Like the sensation of burning
Upon touching an object that's heated.
Yet, unknowing and uninformed
We are always at each other's throats;
The establishment is elated,
In the embers of society, it gloats.
For, in this insane, deluded world
Happiness is a rare consignment,
A moment amidst the chaos,
Not a constant incitement.
We must look beyond our petty squabbles
And realise there is more to deal with
Than each other's issues and troubles.
Anger is as addictive as ******
And just like it, it feeds on vulnerability.
Should we unite against our common enemy
It would mean invincibility.
We should not target each other;
Instead we should aim at those
Who have brought us here.
Those who steal, lie and control;
If they cannot, they will cajole.
It is those who have turned life
Into a rat race which nobody will win.
Divided we are controlled,
Unaware of the power within.
Yet, you ask, what if we were united?
Imagine, a whole world's anger
Aimed at the right mark;
That is what I propose,
Before it is too dark
And humanity swallows itself whole.
_________________________________
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
Dramaturgy
1
I believe in the sound of the fall but before the annunciation, a force did not see the brink of all ends. The polarizing image before us: this wall that has no hue. This wall that seeks to be tarnished. To tether a name. To spring it open with premise.
It is coming face to face with a familiar haunt. Strange that it has no name but you remember it from the feel of its touch, the malaise of hands upon stroking the contour, the catatonic stupor of time in fluid standstill when it is said that "It does not get any better than this.", the belief of questions and the faithlessness of answers. He is ready.
2
Thus is the physiognomy: a look so dismantled. The fragile bent of its source. A body, a body of sound treading a straight path backed by centrifugal inertia -- of speed so full and tender with blurs, the end is seen and will soon be met: patience, patience is all and the skies are impossible. She sees all this, takes cues as pain makes him more so, the one anxiously flailing in space.
3
Confess in utter space that the absolute is ideal. The process distills the heavy water of this revenge. There is nothing like this, as there is nothing the identical in your side of the Earth now, or your bed, where you are cut above yourself and across. This is the body realized. To quantify space, to resign to its bleakness, to take all of this and let it flow into the river, to the brink of all the noise, to where light will fall squarely without tremors or erasures.
4
Intent runs with me this evening straight to a place where nothing will be found, no one will be marked in this map. This light so insufficient still guiding, bleeding a borrowed sheen from the **** of evening. Intent is everything, be it a consignment to void.
5
He will repeat what was written in solemnity, in front of the mirror.
6
They will see it falsely, take it as heavy dreaming when he should have convinced himself to be awake. A laudable insistence may be perceived as a conscious labour to survivability, alone, together -- no difference will be met, no criteria to victories will be set. This is all for disappearance, the pursuit is a lie, and to continue this, the irony.
7
Desired impression: tomorrow you will emerge naked and wear me as something a perfume does to skin, or warmth does to bones. Look, when the Sun rises from its deep grave of hills, its vertical crawl will leave no trace in other regions of land, of body. Somewhere in the ornate someone washes the surrounding with a recognizable fragrance. This is all drawn to a possibility: something the world has no use for
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC