"constituted" poems
Reconstituting globalization to
re-imagine democracy.
By throwing out scale we
the economizers are forced
to turn into misers
and the satisfisers
might rid themselves
of their pacifiers.
It's all about story and
consuming someone else's
turns you into
an actor, an automaton.
Was it prescribed?
Were you imbibed?
Then you are impaled
on an un-truth and
living out a script
that is not your own.
Time to get ruthless and
cut those strings that
lead us to, plead us to
buy, buy, buy (and cry, cry, cry).
Of course, we might find
a guru
to lead us to promises
of promised lands but
this ain't the way to
Yahweh
Unlock the path that lies within.
I'm talking 'bout multi-spectrum bridges
resonating in frequencies
that ring true for you:
this is the story of Power Geometry
re-constituted
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
3.1k
~
*From the initial dawning
lithium sky met infernal waters
and it all went awry
the light of happiness
constituted halos
leaving intimate words
paperclipped, tongue-tied
and love bruises
upon inner thigh
the wellspring enveloped
char and holm
with faint kissed alkali
abating the stormy umbrage
as if a softly whispered lullaby
and suddenly along this watermark
only you, me
and the need to multiply*
~
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC
765
You constituted Time—
I deemed Eternity
A Revelation of Yourself—
’Twas therefore Deity
The Absolute—removed
The Relative away—
That I unto Himself adjust
My slow idolatry—
2.2k
My home has never constituted a building,
never been about where I lay my head at night
Since I can remember I have been alone
I have never found solace in my broken family
from broken zippers to burnt out cigarettes
I have never stopped searching for
the feeling of home
You walked in and I couldn’t help but stare
I had no clue who you were but as soon as I saw you,
I felt warm for the first time in months
I saw fire in your eyes
and I wanted to suffocate in the smoke
I lied when I told you it’s hard for me to catch feelings
I lied to you when I said I was unsure
You stared into the sunlight sitting in that Mcdonald’s booth this morning
as I watched you I knew it was over
Maybe it was the way the glowing silk blanket of sun laid over the windowsill
Or the way your eyes no longer laid into mine
but somehow I knew it was over
I see only the best in people and am blind to anything else
I try as hard as I can to push people away so I do not get hurt, I believe you call this defense mechanism my attitude
your words trapped between my heart and soul
i fall silent
i sleep on your shoulder as we drive home
embarrassment already digging its nails into my throat
tears spread across my cheeks
as you hold me
I was silently begging you to never leave me alone again
no one had to tell us we were better together we already knew
my guy pretty like a girl
electric soul, gentle touch
velvet skin, unfinished lunch
violets grow in the valleys of his ribcage
forget-me-nots blossom on her skin
every night,
the places on her skin where his fingers last fell
when the sun was alive
sunflowers hiding in her short blonde hair
daisies intertwined in moments shared
the boy wants to predict the weather
but in this garden of wild flowers and
wild thoughts
it never rains
the flowers keep on growing
occupying the holes in her chest where there once was pain
his words as sweet as honeysuckle,
the soil
her blood as red as roses,
the rain
he spoke of our wedding by the second date and after the third he announced our funeral
i think we are worth trying
i know i make you feel warm too
and i believe the feeling of home
feels a lot like you.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
Before I went my way
I was unsure if my car tire popping
constituted omen or bad luck.
That is the frame of mind I was in
leaving Lincoln.
Now I realize most of this is temporary
distraction, soon Nebraska passes and
Missouri remains, as it always has.
One year later I will change my college major,
theatre to sociology.
Lincoln taught me lessons, not
all of them important. I found true solace
in watching others, why they walk like that,
what their hair says about their politics,
microbes erupting into civilization.
Leaving Lincoln behind was so remarkably
necessary in its devices. I will always
make time for my thoughts, my seasons,
thanks to the dull, blinding cold of
Lincoln, Nebraska.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
before I understood what constituted as love I understood that there was a hole in my upper arteries where your fingerprints laced my vessels and scraped the blood clean from my veins
I knew what you had taken, and that was the entirety of loss, you caused a high that pressured me down to a flat-lined level; you'd broken no falls, dealt no hands, glued back no ties
that's why I always knew when it was you pathetically knocking at my door, you, waiting to break me down again and that's a satisfaction you will never see, goodnight to you
goodnight from me
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Sky: a repository of adjectives
―land's fast mirror
―stripped of uniform
―thought to body.
Greece: a repository of alternatives
―Civilisation’s fast mirror
―never fully constituted
―thought to Europe’s body.
And all this water between us
―greasing the dialogue
―speeding up the dissolution
―co-operating.
Isn’t it always cooperative?
After all, the trickster
is nothing without prey;
the entrepreneur nothing
without an audience.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
Integrate
Simulate
Postulate
Irritate to imitate
Grind stimulants
into my bones and
teeth after making
sure that they
are okay
Imagine the universe
Constituted by my hatred
Space and time running
backwards and beneath
Stuck at an in-between
Bitten nails and
Bloodshot eyes
Never express your suffering
Your sins are forgiven
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
Rain fell today,
They were glorious comets
Of cloud-masked light
Crashing in coruscant bloom
Of liquid everywhere.
Sister and I,
We reveled in the plunging
Electric wet
Making our hair weighty,
Painting it to our brows.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Try men's souls. Provocative mind-whip how you soothe me. I scorn modern poetry...not because it is truly bad or truly good. It just makes me feel as if my pores are ever-expanding with clicking, skittering, masses of insects.
Black shiny minuscule monstrosity.
Beautiful in gritty grotesque.
A lamb lights upon the searing dark-light torch...kill them all with glee
No pity or remorse towards humans humanity human nature,
we are disgusting creatures until I cease thinking about us.
Then we are interesting and subject to more discovering and journeying.
Take the child and expose it to everything at once; it shrivels and mumbles distant screams of flaming cliches combined with a burning shot of plasmatic soul searching. How would we approve of such?
Inside the black brown shriveled parchment child-casing: The other children are ignorant. My crooked cracked being shivers disgustingly. I hate them instantly. Not hate. A rigid viscous feeling. Rip apart the sublime ape. She-he in all splendid obsession. Strive, then, no more to ape the emblems of the spirit that was, but evoke anew that spirit in modern life.
I, we trust none. Drama drama dramatic dramatically dramatical in all appearances, but truly flat-line non expressionist.
I love only once.
Burn them and their wicked kindness.
I will soothe my satisfactions and live love only once.
My Muse is the riptide chainsaw hackslash terror of our generation. Reveling in the natural ones. The rocks scrape phrases up of graves and trees wickle waveringly with pleadings of insane sleeps.
How beautiful is nature. That it can reduce us to nothing at all and raise us upon our grandest delusions.
I love to despise of women's voices. Androgyny is revelation worthy. Epiphany causing in romanticism.
I love to desire my emotional and mental consumption.
she is grandeur made flesh
epiphany constituted within reach
glorious
******** you sweet, sweet ********
this soul will rest
not mine, not ours
it will take rest and tendril itself through all
love commissions such things
what ****** soul
She I Cannot Resist
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
They have constituted police for the maintenance of our societal masks,
They have further institutionalized education for our apparent welfare,
They have set up laws & language not exactly meant to be abused.
But how much meaning can it justify?
After all, in the end we still need to brush our teeth after the toothpick.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
It's a song of pain and of sadness that often comes hand in hand with love; its beat is faltering and ever-changing, matching the pounding in my head and the ringing in my ears. Sometimes I hear your voice, and the way you said you'd regretted almost every part of me is the temporary melody of this new tune. The undertones are constituted of tear drops falling from tear soaked eyelashes, a sound ever so faint but if you'd ever see it happen, it's like an amp overload. I'd like to compare you to myself and put you in this new song - but you're the reason for my hate tonight, and for that, the show will not go on.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
1
Sigmund Freud's sexuality theory--
not everyone could agree with or applaud
some critics wrote derisively :
'His name should have been spelt Sickman Fraud'.
2
Freud was fixated on ***
that constituted an obsession
did he become so
due to his own repression?
3
Freud: Religion is like childhood neurosis
a statement too brash and bold
if there were a heaven
he would be left out in the cold.
4
Freud's home was full of antiques of all types
was he a compulsive hoarder?
how should he label himself?
can we say his mind was in complete order?
5
If you could understand
Freud's theories on id, ego, super-ego
you would get closer to being a shrink
some say--that's all you need to know.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
Marathi Muslims
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Marathi Muslim
मराठी मुस्लिम
Regions with significant populations
• India • Pakistan • United Kingdom • Canada
Languages
• Marathi • Urdu • Hindi• Varhadi• Khandeshi
Religion
• Allah-green.svg Sunni, Shia, Shia Ismaili
Related ethnic groups
• Marathi people • Muhajirs • Arabs • Persians • Pakistani people• Pashtuns • Jats • Khoja • Lohanas
The term Marathi Muslims is usually used to signify Marathi Muslims from the state of Maharashtra in North-western coast of India, who speak Marathi as a mother-tongue (first language) and follows certain customs different from the rest of Indian Muslims. Marathi Muslims are very prominent in industry and medium-sized businesses. Many members of this community migrated to Pakistan in 1947 and have settled in Karachi and Sindh, contributing greatly to the general welfare and economy of Pakistan.
According to 2001 Indian census,[1] There were 10,270,485 Muslims in Maharashtra and constituted 10.60% of the state.
Marathi Muslims belong mostly to the Sufi tradition. Visiting the tombs of Sufi saints is very important to this community.
See also[edit]
Islam in India
External links[edit]
Marathi Muslims
60% Muslims in Maharashtra live below poverty line
References[edit]
Jump up ^ Indian Census 2001 – Religion[permanent dead link]
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
There is a hit and run in my mind
And the police are too preoccupied with their phalluses
To even notice.
A lonely man, befuddled by the blunt object that hit him from behind, fades away into nothing while his crimson blood mixes with the juice of blueberries he had just bought. The pavement turns purple, and for just a split second the scene turns from tragic to comic.
The State of Mind is policed by the principles of democracy. The system is simple: The Cerebellum is the parliament, all my cognitive skills are the representatives, and the body of voters is constituted by whichever arbitrary thoughts that enter my head that day. But in reality my mind is goverened, only by the singularity of chaos. The voters don't know, but the Cerebellum knows. The representatives will never know for sure, but there is a slight tint of discontent, gnawing away, every day, at their thoughts, while they drink their coffee and type endlessly on typewriters, even though computers have been around for a quarter of a century.
You see, chaos is regressive and progressive simoultaneously. Chaos is when time unleashes logic. The future reprecussions of a chaotic event may be necessary, inevitable and perhaps even for the good of humakind and the larger universe, but the passage between vain violence, anarchy, destruction; and the ultimate moral redemption of the event; the moment where we comprehend the possible benevolence of past horrors. Chaos is logic when time is suspended.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
I feel somehow the star that shines brightest
Is too far away from me to see
I love the brilliance of the sun in the morning
Blessing us with benevolency
But I know that its light will just conceal
Stars shining in a way I want to feel
But I can't live on strangely constituted belief
And stars I'll never reach
So burn for me outside of my horizon
As the most beautiful star
And even if I can't see you with my ever searching eyes
Know I will always want you
Be a star in the night outside of my sight
But still touching my soul
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
I
The morning traffic settles down
When the smell of chips create a haze
By the arts block.
Squawking fills the passageways
And now a familiar face taps
Your weary back
While you are drowned by stomping feet
And despite the try your mind clots;
The name deletes
And you’re left thinking it is Scott,
While all this time his name is Pete.
He didn’t hear it through the stamps
And we sit lakeside by the lamps.
II
Morning: you arise from consciousness
And faint stale smells of beer
From the night on Dublin streets,
A night you won’t repeat, unless
The moon reclaims the lands.
And of course the Paddy’s day parades,
That, one naturally assumes.
Just thinks of all the hands
Raising pints by the spades
In a thousand bright green rooms.
III
You stretched your arms above your head
And yawned at a class you’ve never hated
You dozed, and watched the screen revealing
The thousand boring images
Of which World War II was constituted;
Their burning qualities weren’t appealing -
They stung until the world went black
But the light crept up between your shutters
And you heard the backgrounds snobbish tutters,
Despite meeting them on Grafton Street
Where you exchanged drunken demands.
You awoke and cringed as you were aware
Of the tuft sticking up about your hair,
But instead of a fix-trip, to save your feet,
You covered it with your hands.
IV
You stared up at the flawless skies
That fade behind the Newman block,
Or often watched insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock,
Or watched the fountain-spewing pipes,
And watched the swans watch life’s disguise
While you recalled wild fantasies,
Of walking down a college street
And opening your eyes to receive the world.
And now my eyes have been unfurled
And I feel like a god, a king
For I have seen an infinitely mental,
Infinitely wonderful thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
And treat the worlds like you treat the women
And hopefully both will give you lots!
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC
Oh, that honest smile you got from a text message
you drinker of malty beverage.
you swam into your so called religious cage,
rage, as you never engage
constituted in the same page
the law of your anger gauge
dismayed; in your skirt that is more of a beige.
while you tell stories about your wage
proving nothing, ever as we age.
cleavage, you show while upstage
so you now project that image?
faith flows in a drainage.
increased sagging comes with heavy usage.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:35 AM UTC
If I admitted what I did last night, most might cringe
as it involves a black object that is about 50 inches,
I won't profess that I had some sort of ***** ***
No, I was on an extreme animated movie binge
And I had snowy mountain equivalent of tissues
Not because I'm riddled with problems and issues
It's because animated movies are tragically beautiful
And though I might not fit into the category of real men,
Because from Superman we learn, real men are steel men
and real men are constituted as muscled men
so by most, I would not be defined as a real man.
Last night I cried with a pair of eyes that grew so red
Not from an outcry that pink eye has finally spread
But from an emotional connection to animation
Because last night, I cried watching The Lion King,
When Simba lost his father, I felt my eyes sting
I cried watching Pixar's inside out
When Bing **** gave his life for his friend
I felt most of all that I had stored inside come out,
It gave me an insight into witnessing depression
And I found myself caught in between the tension,
So last night I felt an emotional connection to animation
And I disposed of many tissues, not out of temptation
From lust filled mind but from animated creations.
So last night, I realised I was more of a real man
Because I expressed how I feel and
That it was ok to cry lake from my eyes
because real men are not steel men
and real men are not required to be muscled men.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
Your words laid a gentle stain upon my thoughts.
Even in that moment where I assumed you left,
A shimmering mirage left while looking in the sun,
I felt your words find purchase within my mind.
That's why I'm sitting here now, my half naked
Emotions dangling uselessly at the end of sentences.
Waiting for a word, your words, to cover them up
Like they used to, when smiling was full of appeal.
But I can't complain about love lost and longing for,
When the choices you made inflict changes on me.
Since it seemed a worthwhile cause to change your
Life; back when I thought effort constituted caring.
So, I'll pray for your words to myself in the mirror.
Reminding my eyes of the shape of your mouth.
If only to serve as a kind of temporary pleasure
Before I recall the onset of your tearful goodbye.
Cause I look to the sky at night or in the day
And find the same images conjure from the air.
A red tussled emptiness that denies me a breath.
A love tainted masterpiece designed to depress.
But nothing compares to the words on my brain;
Memories die, pictures erode, a smile is sneaky
Emotions fade, the sun sets, the sun rises, tears dry,
Eyes blink, glass breaks, and my life changes.
But words don't leave my mind, they're always there.
And I'll sit here, whispering them, while I stare
At the sky, the sun, with its brilliant blood-like light,
Eagerly awaiting the moment you return to my sight.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
Let me know If I make too much noise
Trying to appeal like the modern Noyes
I can be Batman, he can be my Alfred
Washing out all the dread
One by one
My work is never done
Heaven knows why I measure my toise
Thinking I landed a Croise
But instead it looks like a kindergarten project
These lines I reflect
Are meant to create a sect
That disannuls the usual meaning of the word
I'm not dishing out a gird
I'm splitting the morally absurd
Into all the fragments I want
Labeling none
I can relate to revolving doors
Because they never stop
They never drop
The momentum
World filled with white
Commonly labeling knight
Spent so many nights trying to get it right
So many Nebulas saw me as a light
Made me think a little more open
Ready to bring the heat like Copan
Commonly called Peter Pan
Just got used to it all
I come back when I fall
The lone exception
Their biggest pushed deception
Is that the tale never happened
Till I was given the time slot
Ninety ninety seven
Praying that I'be been blessed by the Tree Of Heaven
Would be endorsed by Seventh Heaven
Can't be affiliated with the fake father
I know this is quite a fother
But I got to bring this to a poise
Blue, teal, turquoise
I feel my own noise
I chose to be the Spiro Disco Ball
A constituted mystery
I'm my own consistory
Flashy, want to be loved by all
I might not make that goal at all
But I'll continue to turn
The life of the party
I hope this delivery is never tardy
Give up, I hardly
I'll turn until there's no meaning and purpose left.
When will that be?
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
The cavern was huge and brimmed with echoes
and painted with shadows by unseen flickering flames.
"AH! Sir, you've arrived"
(He put his hand over my head to shield
it from the jagged rock edges that
constituted an opening into the cavern)
"Welcome to 'Love' "- he pointed to a little sign on a chain
"Im Cupid"
(Cupid is not a small chrub after all, believe me!)
"I'll be your host tonight and for the forseable future"
(He sniggered a coda - 'well yours anyway...')
"I'll show you your table, where you'll find your beloved already seated."
She got up as we approached and offered me her dainty digits
(Cupid whispered to me)
It was Madison Johnson whom I'd met a the wake I'd just come from
"Isn't she just the most beautiful thing you ever saw
- and she thinks you're the bees knees. ....enjoy"
(he left us, I think, I can't recall; too busy looking into HER eyes)
"So... that Cupid guy....huh?" I stammered as I began to swim in her gaze
"AH! Sir, you've arrived."
(I saw him switch the sign, Cupid, turned it deftly as some new guy arrived)
(He shielded the head of old Mr Bruce at whose wake I had been an hour ago)
"Welcome to 'Hell' !!"
"I'm Old Nick/Bellezebub/Betelgeuse, yadda, yadda, whatevs.
- Now, get. ******* in. there!"
('Cupid' kicked poor Mr Bruce with his ... hoof,
the leathery point of .."his tail" shimmered in the flames).
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
finding ourselves is a difficult search
we´re constituted by the experiences that we share
the places that we go
and the thoughts that we have
so
build yourself being aware that
the result won't be the same as
that you once had set in your mind
and
that the only thing that you truly have
is
your will and what do you think that you are
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 12:23 PM UTC