"contravention" poems
this shall be:
this shall be
my last poem of the year,
two thousand and thirteen,
with the muses' permission.
a fitting one as well,
for the words,
come easy,
like so many did this
annus mirabilis, year of wonders.
firm I believe,
words are living tools,
constantly being reshaped,
fitted to the occasion.
care must me taken,
words hurt when wasted, abused,
or used in contravention to the creator's
intentioned purpose of intended good.
so when a brother, a poet-man
hits the nailhead, words writ,
encapsulating an emo shared,
this reserves, a poem-celebration!
lines between humans unseen,
somehow too easy, rightly crossed,
guards dropped, secrets exposure,
with the ease of feeling no discomfiture.
yes, this is the Internet age,
sharing revelations often cheapened,
boundaries collapse,
when no consideration given.
when there is no skin, no eye-glance
real-exchanged, no feeling, no voice,
casual, to do, easy to say,
what is the risk,
what could be the casualty
of this causality?
the risk is fearsome.
so when the venture is for the better,
what matter the absence of the physicality,
the tears and hugs imagined
as good as any non-virtual,
but in the coming year,
this I swear:
I will be, I will be becoming, I will become you,
unto you, for as was written, so shall it be,
for as was written, it will become,
a beautiful first, a first re-union,
that will be.
*this notion so pleasing,
yet inherent contradictory,
aye, there's the rub,*
a first re-union of the unmet,
*to mark this three hundred and sixty fifth day,
the creator bequeathed me these prayer words
most easily, most faithfully,
as a blessing for all of us.*
Dec. 31, 2013
3:54 pm.
NYC
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
Chase the emerald fairy
Around the Eiffel Tower of France
Shadows swagger an acid dance
Of Hollywood trances and diamond glances
We’ll spout poetry beneath a glamoured moon amour
Drink whiskey and absinthe by the gallons
And wash it down with the finest wine
Grown from sultry ***** countryside
A poet’s star will drive jealousy mad
In famous graveyards of prostitutes and prose
Our night will be spent in gothic debauchery
Eyes once spoke the tale of flesh and lust
Pouting over torrentially voracious desires
Decadence deceived promises
Bewitched with voluptuous tongue
The playwright types at his typewriter
Typing funeral dirges of sitar and violin duels
The contravention of dawn’s chorus
Erupts behind curtains of pantomimes
Charms lost in the end of magnificent performances
Your whispers in my ear are the last I hope to hear
The last beautiful gasp of breath I hope to hear
Will be your whispers in my ear
(*Death sits before his typewriter
pounding keys in a ravenous lunatic frenzy
electing the end to our story
we have no contribution
only dealt the parts we act upon
and our scripts to speak*)
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
*2002
Dearest Klara,
hope you enjoy
the poems as you dream to write
one poem
happy birthday*
There are still many books as though
parliament. A miscalculation based on coordinates
in a wry scene.
Two bookshelves creating a labyrinth, enough that you
are alike. Juxtaposed to scent are many words
and the day is almost done. Ignore fragments once,
but never overdo. I can outlast moonlight’s procession
into a dark cathedral by the window.
On this side – reason; the other, hesitance.
This is no heist. This is what belongingness refutes.
What willingness bandages. The absence of sentries
made for easy rapture. You slid your hand into the dusty
fort and in between them, the paperbacks ached.
“I will do it.” and after that, cursed at the farce.
Slid into your bag – you, surrounded by the tense air
of silence. A dilettante at being a fugitive. What is it that
you stole?
Your body, elsewhere. Flailing. Failing. There are still
many marvels in the scene, but says precision is key.
Cuts as if contravention. This was as calm as painting a child
in his early years, the hue of anomaly.
Quiet in amplitudes doles out a mystified sense of completion.
I can hear an ajar mouth unwind a soft humming.
It was time to go – tomorrow when we rise with no memory,
it will be all but one and the same fault together with many others,
as if your face that day and your image now
compels me the cold of a foreign city. Riddance.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
She falls in love with rejection
The lack of attention
She may need an intervention
But it cant be prevented
The mere mention
Of self descension
Wraps her mind in a new dimension
She falls for degradation
And cant help her fascination
She is stuck in a contravention
Which leads to sleep deprivation
He is not easy to fool
She thinks in admiration
She is in love with rejection and his never ending reprehension
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 7:53 PM UTC
I was sitting alone in my room
Thinking about love
And saw that I was doomed
I have never found true love
Honestly, I think it's all a lie
Like one beating heart
Could make mine feel complete
Well, the way I see is lust at its worse
It seems to me love is a curse
But maybe you change my mind
With your charm and that smile
That makes my heart beat a mile a second
And I reckon you wont stop there
As long as you can make me forget
All my pain and despair
Just for a moment make me forget
You'll be one of my many cons
For you I'll take love and all the cons
Now you're in full control
Setting my heart on fire like its coal
Now I'm trusting you wont blow out the flame
And leave as quickly as you came
Originally that was my intention
Now I have to answer to myself for my contravention
Because if you broke my heart
It'd be all my fualt
My heart fights with my common sense
My inner turmoil is an Armageddon
But now you hold my heart
And now I'm looking for a spark
Maybe it was just a losing game from the start
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
everyone else sleeps while this weather
takes a peculiar turn,
decides to chronicle with a mild kiss
of drizzle on the loam.
you did not know the name for
the mortal perfume of the Earth in the heat
of contrary figures but knew the nascent lunacy
of things and the dangers of their pursuit.
the gripping contravention holding things together,
a piece of the sun against the urban sky
and your apparition splayed as cold silhouette,
forced libation of Earth to soothe its machine,
sharp impressions accurate with details,
disseminate through the static conveyor of messages
the intact hieroglyph of your movement
in this odd weather.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
I sat all alone in my room
Thinking about love
And saw that I was doomed
I have never found true love
To be honest I think it's all a big lie
Like another beating heart
Could make mine feel complete
We couldn't stand to be apart
When we're together
All our problems take a trip to the back seat
Well, I see it as lust at its worse
The way I see it, love is a curse
But maybe you could change my mind
With your charm and that smile
That makes my heart beat a mile a second
And I reckon you won't stop there
As long as you can make me
Forget all my pain and despair
You and I can become we
You'll be one of my many pawns
For you I'll take love and all of the cons
Fear and ecstasy fill my veins
I'm hoping the latter will wash away
Because now you have full control
Lighting up my heart like its coal
And you have the power to blow out the flame
And leave as quickly as you came
Originally that was my intention
And I have to answer to myself for my contravention
Because if you broke my heart
It'd be all my fault
We've gotten each other trapped
We let our wills crack
I'd lay it all down for you in a second
My common sense fights with my heart
My inner turmoil is an Armageddon
Now I'm looking for a spark
Or maybe this was just a losing game from the start
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Role plays an important role in the home
and the Middle East. "Honest and Cool
Cold Russia" Michael, Black, Black, Al,
Both, Hep, 1, Fantasy Smile and Fantasy
Fourth of Hampton in 3rd Year, or 3rd
Kansas-Jones in the 3rd Quartet, Black-skinned
North American experts are right. The skin
is very cold. Trash on the city and the Middle
East and Russia, religion and Mary's corner,
pregnancy, hair, computer skills, noise, noise,
and text. The Rise of the Guide is the first
edition of the book. My mother is a modern
retailer and pharmacist for modern women
and for publishing. Marcus Black, Yellow
and Black Black, Raw, Apples, Cold Tea,
Toothpaste, Hot and Cold Water. Wing test
interviews and many women in five to seven
years. Traditional cultural values of worship,
Russia, pharmaceuticals, and lower-middle-grade
drugs are for adults, adults, pregnancies, hair,
computers, audio, air, and text. Hansen
Selected Professor of the Forest and Wooded
Mountain. Service wrote a special song
for FIM. As a matter of fact, I remember
childhoods, black, black, red, black,
different ideas, and shoes, and I encountered
problems in the city I experienced
in the West. Gameplay, the goodness
of the devil, the heavens, the elephants
with the flow of the prophets, the best
of the blue and Japanese royal genres.
Our children and homeless children
will complete a white baby white.
This book is from Hagar
and Clark, Clark's Star. But if it is
not worth the money, it's a privilege.
I will return food; food, clothing,
and now to eat, or, thieves, thieves,
thieves, but fiction's contravention,
computer, home, music, things.
O, circle. Jeremy Clark, his own
wilderness lakes, shadows and 400 stars.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 2:39 AM UTC