Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"contingent" poems
In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
0
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Diaspora Vocation
In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Continue reading...
34
1405 Bees are Black, with Gilt Surcingles— Buccaneers of Buzz. Ride abroad in ostentation And subsist on Fuzz. Fuzz ordained—not Fuzz contingent— Marrows of the Hill. Jugs—a Universe’s fracture Could not jar or spill.
0
5.1k
Bees are Black, with Gilt Surcingles—
1.I love my scars, they tell stories of survival, give life to my soul, remind me I am here for a reason, they tell me everything other people let me forget 2.I love my curves, each mountain and valley residing on my sides take pains to protrude and remind me I am soft, delicate, I deserve to be handled with care, I am a woman. 3.I love my taste buds. So what if a steak has 3 million more calories than skinny girl’s bite of lettuce. I am going to eat it anyways and I will be proud, and yes, I will moan, because why, my self worth is not contingent on my jean size 4.I love my laugh. There’s something liberating about your belly shaking until it hurts, your body exploding with joy, giving another human being pleasure with just the touch of your voice. 5.I love that I’m beautiful, something you can’t touch, my glamour goes beyond my blemished skin. I am more than the curves surrounding my center, I am **** I am brave; I am smart. I am fearless wrapped up into 5 feet of glee. You. Cannot. Touch. Me, 6.I love that I’m honest. There’s something refreshing in saying, **** off, you weren’t good for me anyways 7.I love that I’m faithful. Faithful to myself, my dreams, my ambitions. I am more than a man’s lover, I will live my life worthy to the calling I have received, regardless of what price you have placed on me 8.I love that I believe, trust in first loves, don’t doubt passion; it was sincere in the moment, but as that moment collapsed, outstayed its welcome, I believed I was more, and I will be ok, and one day, 10 years down the line, that same moment will come tapping on my door, requesting to visit an old friend 9.I guess in all I love myself, each and every blemish and bruise, every scar I’ve been given. I was not created for your pleasure, but for His glory, I only require myself to wear that badge proudly 10.I love that I am who I am. loud, flamboyant, I am not afraid to speak my mind, which is why, I’m standing here, calling you to action. Take a chance: love yourself.
0
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
10 Things I Love About Myself
1.I love my scars, they tell stories of survival, give life to my soul, remind me I am here for a reason, they tell me everything other people let me forget 2.I love my curves, each mountain and valley residing on my sides take pains to protrude and remind me I am soft, delicate, I deserve to be handled with care, I am a woman. 3.I love my taste buds. So what if a steak has 3 million more calories than skinny girl’s bite of lettuce. I am going to eat it anyways and I will be proud, and yes, I will moan, because why, my self worth is not contingent on my jean size 4.I love my laugh. There’s something liberating about your belly shaking until it hurts, your body exploding with joy, giving another human being pleasure with just the touch of your voice. 5.I love that I’m beautiful, something you can’t touch, my glamour goes beyond my blemished skin. I am more than the curves surrounding my center, I am **** I am brave; I am smart. I am fearless wrapped up into 5 feet of glee. You. Cannot. Touch. Me, 6.I love that I’m honest. There’s something refreshing in saying, **** off, you weren’t good for me anyways 7.I love that I’m faithful. Faithful to myself, my dreams, my ambitions. I am more than a man’s lover, I will live my life worthy to the calling I have received, regardless of what price you have placed on me 8.I love that I believe, trust in first loves, don’t doubt passion; it was sincere in the moment, but as that moment collapsed, outstayed its welcome, I believed I was more, and I will be ok, and one day, 10 years down the line, that same moment will come tapping on my door, requesting to visit an old friend 9.I guess in all I love myself, each and every blemish and bruise, every scar I’ve been given. I was not created for your pleasure, but for His glory, I only require myself to wear that badge proudly 10.I love that I am who I am. loud, flamboyant, I am not afraid to speak my mind, which is why, I’m standing here, calling you to action. Take a chance: love yourself.
Continue reading...
10
We are all mere dots in this vast mural: too fickle and futile to comprehend the complexities of existing where everything is part of a design so grand that it stretches before and beyond eternity, a design so intricate that it weaves together strangers' destinies and where nothing is contingent and coincidental nothing is random and accidental nothing is ever too early or too late. But don't just use this as an excuse to settle in your unfortunate state because though everything is part of this grand plan ordained, our ultimate destiny is to be something great.
0
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
Fate
he demanded attention i craved validation a time and a place that's all we would need to seal our fate with a kiss, oh so sweet i lie. first kisses are messy there's always some drool memorable and bad leave you smiling like a fool but i'll tell you a truth its something i hide i'm glad that you took it sorry i lied.
0
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 3:40 AM UTC
.a contingent kiss
Fred occupies his chair, innocently enough. Occupying his time by Solving the crossword puzzle, racking his brain for the answers. So all of the letters fit together. So every space is filled. The beauty of solved Enigmas. Ten across. Opposite of faithfulness. The fire consumes the logs. Contained Chaos. The room is illuminated in frantic light Emanating from the fireplace. Flames prevented from yielding to their Natural Yearning to Disseminate to whatever matter Will accept them. Fred sits on his chair, Innocently enough, But if you look in those Eyes of his, you will witness the Beauty of Pain, la Douleur exquise d'amour. Loving Someone he will, invariably, love and forgive. A woman Whose love has changed patterns. Changed Directions. Altered. There is a string That hitches his heart to that of his infidel. His wife. He feels foreign blood impairing Them. He knows her. Without her telling Him anything, he knows the Lies in those Eyes of her. Confirming his knowledge. Ten across. Infidelity. Means unfaithful. She walked in moments ago, sat on the Usual chair in front of him. Fred’s Heart aches now with the immensity of the Heartache within his wife. He feels her heart has been broken By the same man who usurped her from Him every Thursday. She would return [not quite yet] Home on those days, Disjointed, Distracted. He Knew this was what Falling in Love looked like. But today, his wife's Heart feels different. Her Lover is Absent from their blood. Fred no Longer is Obligated to pump the blood of his Wife’s flame throughout his own body. and yet, he feels sorry for her. feels her suffering. feels her pain more than his own. He watches her face, the Sorrow in Her eyes drinks the flames of the Fire. Fred can tell she wishes she were In the flames. Better yet, the Blaze itself, free from her despondency, The places her mind must be traveling to. Fred is fully aware that she is contemplating Unloading her triste to him. Not for His own Benefit, to be Honest with him. Only to assuage her Guilt, to empty her conscience of Bad Blood. She is a sinner. She will sin Again. No doubt about that. But. His Infidel. He cannot stand to see her... His love...his life... If someone is spread out before you Seeking to surrender to Death, You do not Simply let them die. Especially if they share half your blood. Especially if your Happiness is Contingent upon their survival. Fred’s wife has a ghostly look on her Face and he cannot help but save her from Her caustic thoughts, from the Consuming pain in her very Core. and so he guides her back to him. just her wide eyes. he knows all. And He forgives her.
0
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
Bad Religion
Fred occupies his chair, innocently enough. Occupying his time by Solving the crossword puzzle, racking his brain for the answers. So all of the letters fit together. So every space is filled. The beauty of solved Enigmas. Ten across. Opposite of faithfulness. The fire consumes the logs. Contained Chaos. The room is illuminated in frantic light Emanating from the fireplace. Flames prevented from yielding to their Natural Yearning to Disseminate to whatever matter Will accept them. Fred sits on his chair, Innocently enough, But if you look in those Eyes of his, you will witness the Beauty of Pain, la Douleur exquise d'amour. Loving Someone he will, invariably, love and forgive. A woman Whose love has changed patterns. Changed Directions. Altered. There is a string That hitches his heart to that of his infidel. His wife. He feels foreign blood impairing Them. He knows her. Without her telling Him anything, he knows the Lies in those Eyes of her. Confirming his knowledge. Ten across. Infidelity. Means unfaithful. She walked in moments ago, sat on the Usual chair in front of him. Fred’s Heart aches now with the immensity of the Heartache within his wife. He feels her heart has been broken By the same man who usurped her from Him every Thursday. She would return [not quite yet] Home on those days, Disjointed, Distracted. He Knew this was what Falling in Love looked like. But today, his wife's Heart feels different. Her Lover is Absent from their blood. Fred no Longer is Obligated to pump the blood of his Wife’s flame throughout his own body. and yet, he feels sorry for her. feels her suffering. feels her pain more than his own. He watches her face, the Sorrow in Her eyes drinks the flames of the Fire. Fred can tell she wishes she were In the flames. Better yet, the Blaze itself, free from her despondency, The places her mind must be traveling to. Fred is fully aware that she is contemplating Unloading her triste to him. Not for His own Benefit, to be Honest with him. Only to assuage her Guilt, to empty her conscience of Bad Blood. She is a sinner. She will sin Again. No doubt about that. But. His Infidel. He cannot stand to see her... His love...his life... If someone is spread out before you Seeking to surrender to Death, You do not Simply let them die. Especially if they share half your blood. Especially if your Happiness is Contingent upon their survival. Fred’s wife has a ghostly look on her Face and he cannot help but save her from Her caustic thoughts, from the Consuming pain in her very Core. and so he guides her back to him. just her wide eyes. he knows all. And He forgives her.
Continue reading...
79
energy surging,              heat begetting heat expands to dark expanse to cool and brew what slow restocking weight with white supernal flare between around an equipoise of center you imagined as you write and what non-being-being residing in beneath the deep? inspired by the question-thought embracing death beyond what death to value life a blissful state in even darkest reaches found the pain a sundered gate of joy you capture with poetic greeting ploy, that coin is split to join opposing worlds as when blind Shiva blinded world unbridled lust arrayed from hut to hut obliging them his ***** to rip but then extinguishing their rant to foster pleading for the dance again collecting yoga as viyoga                                in samanvaya chiaroscuro maya-vidya or adept on cosmic player focus hate-trancendent into vast eternal love which even Luke (14:26) dropped lovely clue to un conditioned by contingent fondness for what myth of real  play we stage together evermore to frolic in the uncut hair of graves                                                                                                                     (greenest grass to know what past) whose leavings are for future sunrise lush to celebrate another self envisioned in another set of singing eyes the literal, empty, formless mien a synthesized good-bye recursion rush .
0
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
रजस्
energy surging,              heat begetting heat expands to dark expanse to cool and brew what slow restocking weight with white supernal flare between around an equipoise of center you imagined as you write and what non-being-being residing in beneath the deep? inspired by the question-thought embracing death beyond what death to value life a blissful state in even darkest reaches found the pain a sundered gate of joy you capture with poetic greeting ploy, that coin is split to join opposing worlds as when blind Shiva blinded world unbridled lust arrayed from hut to hut obliging them his ***** to rip but then extinguishing their rant to foster pleading for the dance again collecting yoga as viyoga                                in samanvaya chiaroscuro maya-vidya or adept on cosmic player focus hate-trancendent into vast eternal love which even Luke (14:26) dropped lovely clue to un conditioned by contingent fondness for what myth of real  play we stage together evermore to frolic in the uncut hair of graves                                                                                                                     (greenest grass to know what past) whose leavings are for future sunrise lush to celebrate another self envisioned in another set of singing eyes the literal, empty, formless mien a synthesized good-bye recursion rush .
Continue reading...
31
What I am, I don’t know. What I do know, however, is what you are. My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect. I observe, I don’t make conclusions – for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence. The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really, it is the world around me in all of its embodiment. I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos, and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation. In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity, the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak of the old elevator in Rasputin Music. On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom – the air and I, we hold hands. The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems until only the unwanted ones are left standing. In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage; I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me. Sitting here, on my bed, flipping pages and pages as books progress; if only my own storyline were half as intriguing. Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble. Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window, and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety; the world is below me and I am defying its weight. In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility; I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator, a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world. All in all and end in end, poems are poems but it mostly depends, everything is contingent, and it’s all ambiguous of course. That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.
0
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
On Self, and Other Things
What I am, I don’t know. What I do know, however, is what you are. My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect. I observe, I don’t make conclusions – for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence. The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really, it is the world around me in all of its embodiment. I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos, and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation. In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity, the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak of the old elevator in Rasputin Music. On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom – the air and I, we hold hands. The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems until only the unwanted ones are left standing. In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage; I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me. Sitting here, on my bed, flipping pages and pages as books progress; if only my own storyline were half as intriguing. Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble. Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window, and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety; the world is below me and I am defying its weight. In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility; I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator, a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world. All in all and end in end, poems are poems but it mostly depends, everything is contingent, and it’s all ambiguous of course. That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.
Continue reading...
33
Dread, is when I took step after endless step on the staircase of death. No. ‘Death’ is too extreme - ‘staircase of scattered limbs and self-esteems.’ The summit wasn’t far now yet it wasn’t getting any closer. My cousin Keya was behind me; her breath cooled my sun-blistered calves and I looked back at her. Her almond eyes and her thin lips came together in that customary way that moved anyone to her command. I turned back and took the steps two at a time, too quickly to think. Was the sky really this blue? When it isn’t crowded out by buildings, planes and industry it could be mistaken for the smiling reflection of an unbroken ocean. It was a strange feeling, to be so tall and no taller. I thought: ‘if I were to live here, I’d forever be looking down at the rest of the world.’ Keya’s little head scans the ground at my feet before she joins me. I grit my teeth and ignore my knocking knees. The clouds had stood still as if they had stopped to watch and right then, it was hard to see how this moment could possibly end. Braying, restless braying shook me out of my reverie. The clamour of the fiendish contingent below us clashed violently against each other. Some were new challengers. Others hoped to reclaim the dignities they had lost up here. I raised my foot; ‘I am ready’. A hand gently pushes the small of my back. ‘No’ I thought. ‘I’m not ready at all.’ My bony bottom bounces off the sides of the slide to cheers from below. Keya laughs, and follows.
0
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Keya
Dread, is when I took step after endless step on the staircase of death. No. ‘Death’ is too extreme - ‘staircase of scattered limbs and self-esteems.’ The summit wasn’t far now yet it wasn’t getting any closer. My cousin Keya was behind me; her breath cooled my sun-blistered calves and I looked back at her. Her almond eyes and her thin lips came together in that customary way that moved anyone to her command. I turned back and took the steps two at a time, too quickly to think. Was the sky really this blue? When it isn’t crowded out by buildings, planes and industry it could be mistaken for the smiling reflection of an unbroken ocean. It was a strange feeling, to be so tall and no taller. I thought: ‘if I were to live here, I’d forever be looking down at the rest of the world.’ Keya’s little head scans the ground at my feet before she joins me. I grit my teeth and ignore my knocking knees. The clouds had stood still as if they had stopped to watch and right then, it was hard to see how this moment could possibly end. Braying, restless braying shook me out of my reverie. The clamour of the fiendish contingent below us clashed violently against each other. Some were new challengers. Others hoped to reclaim the dignities they had lost up here. I raised my foot; ‘I am ready’. A hand gently pushes the small of my back. ‘No’ I thought. ‘I’m not ready at all.’ My bony bottom bounces off the sides of the slide to cheers from below. Keya laughs, and follows.
Continue reading...
28
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem! I was strolling along the Normandy beaches In the close vicinity of Caen one day With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand When I found a bleached human femur on the beach. Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain As I imagined whose bone it might have been! Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner, His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder So foolishly supplied for his target practice. Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy **** Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole, We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts, (enflamed by a very delicious meal of moules marinières and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie) I thought, what the **** does it all matter? This is now, and that was then, and this old world Has become a much nicer place nowadays; But how mistaken I was in that fond thought; Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe. For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared, Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes; How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes (and how surprised was I to find their genitals were of normal measurements and thus rather intrusively large by comparison with the rest of their miniature bodies). O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth. With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below] The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans, A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet (which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze), Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets, Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity, Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse, Realizing that her PIN number was still useable Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
0
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
Memories of the Normandy Beaches
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem! I was strolling along the Normandy beaches In the close vicinity of Caen one day With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand When I found a bleached human femur on the beach. Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain As I imagined whose bone it might have been! Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner, His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder So foolishly supplied for his target practice. Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy **** Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole, We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts, (enflamed by a very delicious meal of moules marinières and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie) I thought, what the **** does it all matter? This is now, and that was then, and this old world Has become a much nicer place nowadays; But how mistaken I was in that fond thought; Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe. For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared, Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes; How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes (and how surprised was I to find their genitals were of normal measurements and thus rather intrusively large by comparison with the rest of their miniature bodies). O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth. With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below] The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans, A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet (which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze), Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets, Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity, Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse, Realizing that her PIN number was still useable Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
Continue reading...
41
50:53 Strobe when revealing a smile variegated your polychrome soul within sight does not know where to go but to pine away from the single light to touch the innards of your button-down making intimate the body contorts dancing with another a minute past a gyratory if belief is a grave: let stasis be metamorphosis. this rained-on house will not give way any minute else there is the wreckage springing from a singular hiding behind the music ballasting ground and from a convinced consequence of being became fracture as if salacious to withdraw nothing but noise from the quiet or vice versa. If when breaths were postponed, inert – they will start estimates from outside the neon sign that says Pulse and reimagine the lives when divorced from the daily, and is then summarized in a fusillade. When on the ground they must have been dreaming of wings, or falling asleep constantly with a warm body stranger tomorrow in that evening a contingent this place they have not reached yet against their head said it was the most sincere of blankness at any given rate, when movements statistical, numbered, unwarranted like a metaphor or a glib downpour – the aftermath becomes sleep so tender with a dream which resonates They must have been dreaming of wings but by the time when someone waiting for them inside homes, they have already flown into days.
0
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
Pulse
Or afterlife I can't remember *Let's take a trip Just go for a stroll Down this hellhole Old ravaged soul Fear not my friend, For lo and behold You've been here before Time after time, Spent breaking the mold Value of life cajoled Blindfolded by fool's gold Then a jolt of electricity jots down your spinal chord Now you're on the threshold About to enter a portal of some sorts, No? Only to discover You're living the life of another And the sum of every misgiving makes you suffer in discomfort Living the dream To wake and repeat Routinely existing One day at a time Feel it yes shudder Over your head pull the covers Dream of a place elsewhere But beware your worst nightmares As a slaughter is awakening Pharm entrapment for mass brainwashing It's one global chess-game While pawns are laid to waste Archons duplicate an assumed fate Deception whispers into the hearts of the wicked For certain they're rendered by men lurking shadily behind curtains unspoken of I'm ashamed Prayers fall on deaf ears when a reckoning is ravenous Assuredly glimmering in extravagance Whilst you traipse about like savages Poisoning our brains Tainting the terrain Reign supreme putrid filth For bloodstained money & Squandered wealth Lengthening our debts Molesting children Who'd like to place their highest bet? Just stay conditioned For the daily grind The hustle and bustle Stick with consistence And reminisce of better times You're dead inside Is the end just contingent? Why won't society just crumble Keep living the lie Greener pastures lay just beyond the hillside Am I right?*
0
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Welcome to the other side.
Or afterlife I can't remember *Let's take a trip Just go for a stroll Down this hellhole Old ravaged soul Fear not my friend, For lo and behold You've been here before Time after time, Spent breaking the mold Value of life cajoled Blindfolded by fool's gold Then a jolt of electricity jots down your spinal chord Now you're on the threshold About to enter a portal of some sorts, No? Only to discover You're living the life of another And the sum of every misgiving makes you suffer in discomfort Living the dream To wake and repeat Routinely existing One day at a time Feel it yes shudder Over your head pull the covers Dream of a place elsewhere But beware your worst nightmares As a slaughter is awakening Pharm entrapment for mass brainwashing It's one global chess-game While pawns are laid to waste Archons duplicate an assumed fate Deception whispers into the hearts of the wicked For certain they're rendered by men lurking shadily behind curtains unspoken of I'm ashamed Prayers fall on deaf ears when a reckoning is ravenous Assuredly glimmering in extravagance Whilst you traipse about like savages Poisoning our brains Tainting the terrain Reign supreme putrid filth For bloodstained money & Squandered wealth Lengthening our debts Molesting children Who'd like to place their highest bet? Just stay conditioned For the daily grind The hustle and bustle Stick with consistence And reminisce of better times You're dead inside Is the end just contingent? Why won't society just crumble Keep living the lie Greener pastures lay just beyond the hillside Am I right?*
Continue reading...
64
When they greet her each morning The clouds will always kiss the sky, softly taint her with their love grooming her for a beautiful day But do they know that nothing they do will ever hinder her from hiding her truth? She can beckon the rain to pour gently, even descend fiercely as a wild shower release a luminous shock of white, striking against her nakedness accompanied by the bellowing thunders the ones that cause even the strongest to tremble as trepidation hugs their bones -- when she finds it necessary-- Her actions are not contingent upon the desires of those who only want the easier side of her To love her is to accept her wholly and truthfully for everything she is
0
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
Everything
follow the yellow brick road... The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters. Condition of complexity judged without criteria. Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent. Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom. Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows. A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ****** Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche. An infinite conversation without resolution as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever. A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity. Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it. An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers. Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant. Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines. Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition. Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord. Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste. The poem as its own universe, complete and whole, fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.
0
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
A Road Map To Modern Poesy
How many days left in my body? How many poems left in my body? One and the same, one and the sane. My body is my poems. You cannot distinguish me in any other way. eye-scans, fingerprints, belly buttons, areolae. all possess, all differentiate, none suffice, I say it thrice, still you do not understand, none not a marker singular, they are not me, nor are they you. so if you read but one of my poems, my body, you do not know. but when I find you perusing, exhuming, the-ones-that-went-before then you will, can know as well as I know myself. each poem a pore, each pore a poem. **How many days left in my body? How many poems left in my body? one and the same, one and the sane. my body, my poems.** my body is not episodic. turn on the tv, no imagination leaps needed, but each and every contingent on the prior, each poem a stepping stone to the in side, insight to the story of the body. more story than poems, I began in the beginning, believe me there are thousands of writs that lie about, lay about, that sunshine has n'ere exposed. but enough survived enough shared, enough spent, You have never seen my face, what matters that, when you have seen my poems, my body, more than windows into, they are the very pores of me. Jan. 26, 2014
0
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
How many poems left in my body?
hours have been spent hours of me, staring at myself not in a mirror, not at a picture but of my words and, i've come to realize that i have been wrong and i have been wronged emotion and pain are understandable but, how can these words possibly explain how i feel i've been thinking of someone else for too long my problems aren't contingent on our relationship at the moment... because that's pathetic and weak and it's not me nor will i let it become me i've been wrong i cant blame you for not loving me i cant blame the world for believing that my feelings toward you... are unrequited and i wont blame myself either as a writer... as a person... the type of person i am... it's difficult to call my previous prose and poems "works of self victimization" even if they are, they're still art **** what everyone else thinks **** the world **** everyone but i will never say **** you" to myself and that is where i have been wrong it's going to take more than this one, long, grievance to mitigate... NO NO NO NO NO I changed my mind I have the right to be angry and the right to be hurt You hurt me and I won't let that go until you say "I'm sorry" And I take back that comment about "self victimization" **** that entire concept If I am a victim of someone else's careless actions, I remain sane in writing it down I can think of myself however I want to I was NOT wrong I was right in every sense of the word because I conveyed the emotion that will never slip through my mouth It's the emotion that will only pour out of my eyes and out of my heart It;s the emotion that is surreal, yet my reality NO
0
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
NO
hours have been spent hours of me, staring at myself not in a mirror, not at a picture but of my words and, i've come to realize that i have been wrong and i have been wronged emotion and pain are understandable but, how can these words possibly explain how i feel i've been thinking of someone else for too long my problems aren't contingent on our relationship at the moment... because that's pathetic and weak and it's not me nor will i let it become me i've been wrong i cant blame you for not loving me i cant blame the world for believing that my feelings toward you... are unrequited and i wont blame myself either as a writer... as a person... the type of person i am... it's difficult to call my previous prose and poems "works of self victimization" even if they are, they're still art **** what everyone else thinks **** the world **** everyone but i will never say **** you" to myself and that is where i have been wrong it's going to take more than this one, long, grievance to mitigate... NO NO NO NO NO I changed my mind I have the right to be angry and the right to be hurt You hurt me and I won't let that go until you say "I'm sorry" And I take back that comment about "self victimization" **** that entire concept If I am a victim of someone else's careless actions, I remain sane in writing it down I can think of myself however I want to I was NOT wrong I was right in every sense of the word because I conveyed the emotion that will never slip through my mouth It's the emotion that will only pour out of my eyes and out of my heart It;s the emotion that is surreal, yet my reality NO
Continue reading...
51
the acceptance of her capacity to love you cannot be contingent upon her desire to spit or swallow
0
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC
contingencies
To be necessary is to have purpose in essence. Disavowed from senses of contingent dependence. Disallowed from connection in simplest of form, the necessary are to be dead and too born. Existing in realm of support for all else, with no reason at all in helping themselves. To be necessary is to have purpose in essence; contingency aiding with iris virescent.
0
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
The Necessary
I thought guilt was the most unsettling emotion Saturated in all of my wrongdoings Crying because there was no way to mitigate my mistakes But I was wrong in every sense of the word A clear conscious and 100 enemies is worse than being guilty Because right now, I know that I did nothing wrong I am the victim of malice and injustice Not even fighting the cruelty bestowed upon me I came forward because they tell me truth outweighs everything They were wrong I'm alone with my thoughts Independent of my best friend and other friend All because I made an effort to preserve one's life that I couldn't give a **** about She hurt me She made false allegations and nasty rumors She was the one who deserves to be punished by the world All I did was tell a higher authority that she was insane And with an investigation comes evidence So I provided the evidence that I'm morally obligated to give And it ****** me over Because the evidence was contingent on a friendship The evidence was about two of us Not one I don't care how many times they tell me I was right Because it feels wrong I'm all alone And I did nothing wrong
0
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
Clear
Is sacrifice contingent with results or effort? Is a man judged on his intentions or his actions? Can one man alleviate the duties of a entire team? Does age really come with wisdom? Should you take food away from one mouth to put into another? Should unconditional help have a manual or a dollar amount? No need to buy seeds for ground that won't yield any results Nor is there any need to stargaze in the sky when there is rain coming down A chameleon has no advantage to someone who can't see colors Neither is bestowing rags on a king. Is forgiveness accepted only when the victim is in need? or is it trash for a overflowing dump of emotions? - jamesdavis
0
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
The Devil's Prosecutor
good god a gaggle of girls read the dispatch thrice; the hierarchical lines some straight and some dotted but all I know they got a genealogical baseball team femi-nine and maybe an NFL eleven when the twins get older (husbands and sons ride the motorcycle bench and back up if necessary, and good for musical accompaniment) ~oh yeah, for Medusa~ this megillah message team meant for  me to assauge my mother hubbard accusations  only partial reveals the player’s names: but if you google a gaggle of strong women you become informed there is a: Queens Esther, Miriam, an Eve, four matriarchal outfielders, Batsheva pitching and only Ruth, can catch her **** curveball in between an occasional poem gig whose costs are covered under the mental health clause of a health care plan but only in California   too cavalier, get it, you prefer this perhaps sinewed strength in arms that can carry three children at once, age is not a factual issue, for there is an army of women soldiers who are a troop contingent, everyone’s back is covered always-full stop- they curve like the Earth’s crust, magma formed strong and mineral rich, curved to better resist the comets the heavens cannot resist to send & test the mettle of a gaggle of stronger women sinewy arms entwined reenforced alas the grandpa must here resist and rest, lunch prep before Sgt. Stubby movie at noon, in reclining chairs they ride like wild horses and all our shushing noisier than their giggles just google a gaggle of strong kids, you’ll see what I mean in this, we do possess a giggle of expertise sunday 10:15am
0
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
good god a gaggle of girls
good god a gaggle of girls read the dispatch thrice; the hierarchical lines some straight and some dotted but all I know they got a genealogical baseball team femi-nine and maybe an NFL eleven when the twins get older (husbands and sons ride the motorcycle bench and back up if necessary, and good for musical accompaniment) ~oh yeah, for Medusa~ this megillah message team meant for  me to assauge my mother hubbard accusations  only partial reveals the player’s names: but if you google a gaggle of strong women you become informed there is a: Queens Esther, Miriam, an Eve, four matriarchal outfielders, Batsheva pitching and only Ruth, can catch her **** curveball in between an occasional poem gig whose costs are covered under the mental health clause of a health care plan but only in California   too cavalier, get it, you prefer this perhaps sinewed strength in arms that can carry three children at once, age is not a factual issue, for there is an army of women soldiers who are a troop contingent, everyone’s back is covered always-full stop- they curve like the Earth’s crust, magma formed strong and mineral rich, curved to better resist the comets the heavens cannot resist to send & test the mettle of a gaggle of stronger women sinewy arms entwined reenforced alas the grandpa must here resist and rest, lunch prep before Sgt. Stubby movie at noon, in reclining chairs they ride like wild horses and all our shushing noisier than their giggles just google a gaggle of strong kids, you’ll see what I mean in this, we do possess a giggle of expertise sunday 10:15am
Continue reading...
39
Here i hold a masquerade A precious volatile art Held behind the veils An unstable lonely heart Praying it doesn't shatter Confused and falling apart Here i hold a masquerade Contingent from the start
0
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
Lost (Holding On)
Real is the empty promise. It's the shadow of knowledge, making contingent ideas for the nostalgic. The intention, the purpose, the art of life.. Lost. When you choose to settle for less than what you are.
0
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
The Empty Promise