"contextual" poems
Mythical.
The artist is an old one,
Un-earthly and infinite,
Vast as heaven and the void,
The limitations of good and evil,
I am immune, yet soul crushingly bound to its power,
I am a toothpick,
Yet I am useful for now,
As I plan my escape,
Writing an endless map in memo pads and text files,
I tell myself it will someday be worth the while.
The artist is like you, reader,
The artist is ugly, disgustingly so.
The artist is beautiful, and puts me to shame.
The artist could burn the world with a thought,
But couldn’t break its teeth with a diamond,
No matter how hard it tried.
The artist is fictional,
Contextual,
Known only to I,
Especially as the artist.
I bet its laughing at me this second,
My feeble attempts to escape a napkin,
A tool to further other means.
I don’t mind it,
In fact, it’s rewarding in a way,
The artist lacks definition,
But moves with a sway,
It is hard to defend.
[(Impossible to define)]
My role is that of a journal of skin,
A memory bank to which it is akin,
But my limit is reached,
Something has come to a head,
I can feel the artist defined…
It has taken form,
And now,
Unfortunately,
Dead.
Sunburst
I wanted to ask it what it was thinking,
But I think I know now;
Bad things.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
~for Pradip~
*these words,
a blessing bestowed
upon me, by you,
about us
say kiss me write love me
for all the contextual hints that lie
within and between them ~
"gloriously adhesive"
a monument to our five years
of living together,
the friction of our grip upon each other,
under one roof, in a land of
no matter
what the language,
what the alphabet,
we are the prime,
a living example,
of the human~poem,**
our glorious adhesion!
<•>
from only love poetry,
I rename you here,
only love Pradip
8/25/17
6:40PM
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
<>
Saturday
September
21st
2019
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
Application of misinformation
Falsify a failed nation,
Eradication of all creation
Misinterpretation
Of representation
Deny the station
Granted by occupation
And the inhalation
Of justification
No prerequisite information
Just accumulation
No moderation,
Their determination
Through stimulation
Cultural ************
Communal degradation
Societal desecration,
Dehumanizing revocation,
Worldly humiliation,
Mortal sterilization
Never achieving mobilization
Lack of communication
Excelling in vile persuasion,
Proponents of procreation
Birthing digitization,
Destroy civilization,
Indications of adoration
Isolation in delineation,
Irrational indexation,
Fluctuating indignation,
No innovation,
Divination
Retaliation,
Immolation,
False ovation,
Lacking limitations,
Contextual intonation,
Divine fabrication,
Private publication,
Evolving fornication,
Give me extermination,
Notwithstanding annexation
Of dismaying oxidation,
Of valued perpetuation,
Global mass-castration,
Redundant rhetoric, dictation,
A donation, a dilation, a fixation,
An annotation of fibrillation,
We are personification
Of Contamination
Through globalization
Praising idolization
And finalization
Through **********
No pragmatic exoneration,
In all frustration
We see not utilization
Nor stabilization,
Fearful implications
Of wayward stations,
Surplus mutilations,
Seeking militarization
Of worthless nations,
No conservation,
Just excavation
Of the population
******** on education,
Spitting on graduation,
No validation of aspiration,
Indoctrination of baptization
Mitigating litigation,
murdering habitation,
Quelling all vegetation
We will end in radiation
Through faulty navigation,
Abdication and abnegation,
All worldly agitation
Leads us to expiration,
Self-made annihilation.
There was never an end in sight,
We’re lost, and hope is a lie.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
~for you, girl~
words have definitions; shades; moods,
even within the contextual moment,
the coloration sometimes is discolored,
one person frantic is another’s
normal
passing fancy
insanity
quiet
overwrought silliness
frantic is a continuum’s conundrum
and oft the hubbub coverhup lends
a veneer of urgency importance
when knowledge acquisition is iron
irony, best when well chewed, quietly
considered and consumed with the
perspective of addition and subtraction
what we know is more than yesterday,
and less than what we will one day own,
for the only purity of learning is that’s
final refining is never ending
the artifice of deadlines,
gradation vis-a-vis
all the rest, is not a
distinction worthy of
distinguishing
your human value is beyond compare
exactly!
the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of
ego to one side, and so should we all,
not
be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers
you are quality, and that is the only
qualification you will ever
acquire and require
and in my naïveté
I reflect looking back
and give you here the
free use thereof,
of its worth, you will
determine
but in summary judgement:
always keep thinking
ridicule is ridiculous
but best when applied
by oneself to oneself
with a
*** did I really think:say that?”
and laugh out loud at our human
foibles, especially our own,
with a wry smile, admitting
some of things we conjure up
in all seriousness are
are the funniest things we’ve ever heard
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 11:13 AM UTC
today seemed inspired,
clever grammatic acrobatics,
maybe some genuine musings,
definite contextual reactions.
has the psyche, yours and mine,
been as busy as the day's rain?
what was so different in the air,
when we stayed inside,
seCured in our sense of shelter?
was it ugly out? I found it beautiful,
but I couldn't take my laptop outside :/
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
This dream of consciousness will not end alarmingly,
though it leaves lines on Billo's face
smushed against pillows placed
strategically
The strategy?
To look tragically well put-together
to get her to lie in the bed I made hastily
Well - I say this, but the presentation's done tastefully:
Big blanket tucked
IN with style
OUT of luck since I've not been...
...touched in a while
I grinningly smile - it'll all be ok
(I'm not much for physical lovin' anyway)
...beyond hugging and kissing and getting to stay
for the night curled up close whispering "sweetie, sleep tight"
I've not got these dreams, but I've some aspirations
No sweetie, I'm not sweaty,
- I've no *** persperation
My room is too cold with the wind's drafty laughter
My bed is too cold since I've not quite yet asked her
to lie with me and lie to me that she is the one
and I will be won over,
over-nighting done right
...
Left to the imagination, day-dreaming's my vision
Pigeon-holing my gamboling gambling rambling
Not quite in shambles, see?
I get it: regretting is letting me settle into misery
"Mysterio the (not-so) great" is dutifully bound to wait
Patience is love doctors' medication - "Just wait!" they prescribe
and in time their patients' trepidation will end.
Inner peace outer space and I pace.
(without her face to grin at)
synapse fired
for nodding off on the job
**** awake, up for work
Woken, spurred
on toward spoken word
March forwards - four words
Reverse reverie never hurt
"But I don't dream!" I think
Does it stop me from trying?
From lying to and by myself,
in doubt in a drought
Good - buy myself a drink:
rootbeer, two shots of espresso
let's go, caffeine-Billo tag team
on the rocks, off the clock
(talk about self-deprecation, why don't you)
Chew on the cubes with contextual frustration
The drink's gone, I think long and hard at long last
ARRRG I yell in a fit mentally I'll
sleep on it.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
Falling in an open coffin
Toppling from my close minded concepts
I just
Digest this life as its fed to me
Yet I think I know the recipe
A stone cold unknown couldn't mess with me
And I have to admit ***I'm the **** incessantly
Just to have confidence in my contextual references
Like I'm the man with the plan
Map's in the palm of my hand
*Down to the print
Shrouded in wit*
In which you cannot stand
Reason I spit when I talk when I'm ****** and I missed two decades of a life not lived as a man
Understand a fall from grace that isn't so calm and paced but all over the place
Im over my weight in nickels and dimes trying to learn self worth in a selfish time
Rolling around hoping to get so high
I levitate out of my coffin and into the sky
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
The movie speaks
In silence screams
That encapsulates the feeling of the moment.
A black and white
Scene plays out
And I see the sorrow pour.
The reflection of the many lives that costed during
The era
Reflects on the black and white dots
That move around on my screen.
Wilhelm.
******
Mussolini.
Gallipoli.
The Somme.
It's funny how they don't speak
But the black and white dots that
Dance
And flickers on my screen,
Tells the unfortunate story
Of the contextual history
That lies behind,
The black and white dots that
Strafes on my screen.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
My perception is deception,
so therefore I do not perceive the truth,
but perceive the truth in my own contextual sense.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 3:42 PM UTC
I’m
St. Lunatic
I’m
Losing it
In the
Medieval Mid-west
I’m
Past my middle age
I predict
My
Lunar Eclipse
Is coming soon
Once the moon’s
Covered
So will I
Under the earth
On which
I worked
On switched
Flicked
Off
Ticked off
Rather ******
About that ****
I got in
End
Too soon
Too close
To my begin
Inn’s
Spent overnight
With a friend
Smiling after ***
Smiley faces after texts
The contextual clues
Shows
Her truth
As I lie
About our future
It’s not
I don’t want you
It’s that
I have few “sures”
In this life
But I’m sure
My times coming
To a close
Redress yourself
In that red dress
And leave me
Left
You’re clothes
Tell untold stories
Lying across the floor
Sure
Time together
Would be better
Than spending
The final hours
Alone
But
I own
My fate
And own up
To my mistakes
If we break
It’ll hurt less
Than loving me
Until the wake
I’ll have no
Funeral
But a cremation
Let it burn
Like the memories
That should’ve never been
****
I’m ******
Because of the pain
I let you feel
Love lost
In the lake of fire
While you ascend
To Heaven’s Fields.............
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 4:20 PM UTC
Sally kisses Johnny on the lips.
Johnny feels her pressure on his hips.
Sally will not ever get it back.
Johnny cannot give her love he lacks.
Sally finds it inborn to be ******
But Johnny sees it as contextual.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 1:47 PM UTC
Infect your mind with inspected signs that discontinue what you were born with, forlorn this meme, obscene yet lacking in the tracking mechanisms displaced to outer space, there it is, gee **** what'd I do now, have a cow, scientific inquiry as to *** was jfk, the cia? Information overload, a payload exploding in the brain leaves a stain that ingrains its image in your cortext (sic) contextual images supplied by visionary sources, get off your horses and dance in a trance can't stand ya burn forgotten ways of text on wood pulp gulped in by a mind left behind and signed for, designed for psychiatric cages as it rages for pages on the inequity of it all, fall, fall, morning star shines bright but it's all right, ignore that ****** and go straight for the sun, you're done, almost there, take care, truth or dare, can it be? See, and open your Mine(d) find it within outside the walls that define
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
“it’s the time of the season
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands”
Time of the Season,
Song by Zombies
1 9 6 8
<~>
was 18 years young,
when first heard these words,
now in my-eighth decade,
times is both
plentiful
and yet delimited by the onsetting sunset finale,
but
and so are the
accumulated dictionary of word’s available,
that I command,
legions, armies, corps,
all to command,
to properly say…
yes,
it is the
Time of Season
come to the. lean sheer clean paper single sheaf,
with no agenda,
perhaps to just amend an overdue,
thank you
these pleasure hands
have always been
greedy,
for the sensuality
that stroking fingers command,
the contextual sensuality
is far greater than you ordinarily
stop to think about…
but I remember
every face, every cheek,
that I have stroked,
think upon it!
the soft curvature of the skin’s mellifluous
shapely contouring to you
your pointer
finger,
thinking simple
nothing finer,
more pleasurable,
totally expressing
the emotive bonds
two human can share
mother trains her. children
with a deeper understanding
how love is simple,
enduring and stronger than
any time’s decay could contemplate
despoiling
and to those women I have
adored,
whose thieving stole my precious loving,
I
thank you,
for your taking was a giving to me,
making a whole person
understand than to be whole
was to be parted,
for two are the greatest
one,
an equation that proofs
our experience
that though solitude
inspires
our greatest creativity
is is only because my eyes are
infused with and for
love
aspired and gained…
these hands,
more powerful than any other *****
the eyes may have its
but will never touch
your child, your women,
your sense that giving up
yourself,
is an enehacemnt
of all you are,
a single finger
surveying the face of a beloved
is an electric shock
that soothes and satisfies
simultaneously,
unique…
keep those pleasured hands,
fully employed,
bring pleasure to the world,
so that others will understand
it is now or never,
a line drawn upon
a beloved
is
poem only you,
can write
Jul 26, 2024
Jul 26, 2024 at 11:43 AM UTC
Throwback dissonance, results in future social dystopian conversations. Tormented lives swept under rugs, in between the cracks of floor boards. Dust and filth, years of names. All scratched into the bathroom stalls of so called neighborhood's, subordinates of time and "hush-hush" the city to the suburbanites. Shocking to them eating dinners still in the 1990's, fastened tight in seat belts of self esteem, MTV news and 50 inches of reality. You must be joking, not ever knowing, folly box dwellers, why they say all "white".
The back doors were shut and locked when you looked left and double took right; as jokes from the safety of your water stained walls and cigarette burned carpets, to joke hatred like art and we must pretend not us though? Wall to wall, our prison starts here and ends in our front lawns as the country shouts "white man" and we must remain silent.
My father's land, nearly 20 year cultural hiatus that split our family in two, came back from time, in a paperclip, over the wall, east to the west side of Berlin and delivered in a rebel DeLorean with bumper stickers of second amendment speeches and pro-life Bible out of contextual arguments. These retrospects, taking advantage of sales on tiki torches while stealing phrases from my great grandfather class of 1933. And the whole country shouts "white man".
No, my country,
not white men.
In skin yes, in history, no.
They were never men.
Never did my father speak of men.
I heard the gang rapes of Gypsy's.
Stories of slain Catholics.
Murders of homosexuals,
The bones crushed of opposing parties.
The staple mascot of pain, Judaism extermination that swept through culture like a bad advertisement tune.
Gassed.
Tortured.
Worked.
They come for us all.
Not as white men.
They come as their own.
This is not man.
They maybe white, but not man.
I am a white man,
but it's always been human, first.
That's black.
That's white.
That's purple.
That's life.
They come for our progress, not our skins.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
All one glory.
ominous contextual, meanings
humongous without thought to consequence…
sulfurous smell, sour, double entendre
homogenous council
genius plan, or so we thought
genuine execution, or so it seemed
feminine taste in styling, perfect
female operatives
male operatives
stale-mate… disaster retruning
pale faced bodies lie strewn
plate on plate on plate of shields return, with bodies
flat faces
flake, crack, and cry
fan the widows, fan the orphans, wipe their tears
plan for the future, if you dare again
dan-ce for the youth and show them hope
man-to-man we deserve it… or do we?
mention history
prevention is operative at this point
invention, 1984,
convention, Meadows
convent, Corrine
Death ends for us all with a path… or without.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Extravagance is characterised by the excessive expenditure of materialistic resources, where those unbridled lusts of the masses have catapulted our anthropological status from an initial experience of innocence and ****** us forth into a debauched state of relativistic and allegedly progressive utopia.
Can I now be reborn into unknown astrological pastures of yesteryear, where time and space confine themselves to boundless parameters and cosmological streams trickle beyond black holes?
Droplets of our soul are seeping through the cracks of superfluous constellations.
Having been admonished to merely adhere to instructions, it is worth giving consideration to the possibility that we may simply lack accurate realisation.
Yet, the anatomy of integrity is contextual and is juxtaposed with popular and palatable propagandist dogma.
Therefore, although the nature of reality is ever-changing, there is a pattern of non-conforming adherence which spans those artistic ages of presumed literary and oratorical genius.
We know that defense mechanisms are dichotomous, as they may ward off personally undesirable experiences – yet they can also inadvertently champion the cause for solitary confinement.
As we unwrap this explosive socio-political gift, let us reach across the infinite gap and radically accept the folly of what is deemed to be prestigious.
Let us now make a record.
Saturn has rings.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
I would apologize but it would be futile,
Since an apology is meant to serve as a promise that one will never let something of the contextual nature happen again.
But I can’t promise you anything
Because I know this'll just happen again.
Of all the facets I have
You just had to find me wearing this one.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
It is quite remarkable what One can do,
if and when One would only choose to.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
Contextual. I don't
get that much-I ask. How difficult
it was to remain like gulmohar*
A collision course will meet you
tomorrow.You were a step forward.
I was held back to know the truth.
You were always orange
and red. I want to remain a human being.
I tell explicitly. You were Agni.
*Delonix regia
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 8:39 PM UTC
you’ve been lying
dormant for
the past 2 years
a moth-like hiatus
in a love-like state
you worship
the tenets of
delayed gratification
in bite sized pieces
propagate wide open
my tiny heart
mourns for you
you're making a mole hill
out of a mountain
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 7:25 PM UTC
That shy labour laden folk
stares in full force tunes
a dogmatic humour
of blunt double edged time
It's as if the tone of the skin
is an artist mix-up makeup
such an angry ignorant world
Dig the ground to depths
Ping the bells in the nights
*Ding the **** in sight*
In a world where right is wrong
the wrong that is the ethical truth
a shiny death bed with rotten caskets
masks of superior contextual ego
the masters sedated in the graveyards
the rulers selected in dark tunnels
such an angry ignorant world
Trick the graphs in halves
Move the lines in curves
Construct the earth as carves
Line up these thoughts and crunch
That a man is man, his deed maketh him
His action is his absolute character
the colours we wear makes us act
ruthless like dogs in the dead jungle
spit those words, eat the falsified values
starve to see the plentiful truth
Such an angry ignorant world
Paint the canvas of the time
The fallen sense of the mime
Un-cleansed humanity dime
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
A laughter is just a flight of a moment
made of straws that wither and burn
On the summer it glows and shows
In the winter it faints and hides
awaiting the cycle of redemption
Happiness is forever, a fulfilment
the contextual locked in filaments
When the sun strokes it matches
In the coldness it dances proud
It is ever present and sustaining
Sorrow is a transient melancholy
A thunder strike that disables all
In the warmth of the day it cries
It unfolds like a starving toddler
A disabling concept that lives and dies
Loneliness is a key to happiness
A journey of self awareness and love
It taunts like a recurrent cancer
It screams until lessons are echoed
with infinite possibilities locked to self
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC