"corporeality" poems
an ****** calligraphy
of hallucinated images
gesture to the posturings
of omitted consciousness
the preoccupations
that puncture the ‘rational’ thought
of a false corporeality
and rely on an artificiality
to produce a reality
writes of the pagan haunts
of silver ****** ghosts
of fantastic rumors
of acquired futuristic loathing
where cognitive disturbances are
the reconnaissance of a fragmented mind
seeking an evacuation to the past
screams at the monuments of
immediate dismissal of everything
not of their transmission
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.
And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
there is a glacier
partially concealed
melting from a climactic
climate shift revealing a
reality congealed by revolt
rebels burdened with
a philosophy that
elevates humanity
insisting we will not grovel
before a vain messiah
espousing erroneous
iterations of ideology
will the human race permit
the iceberg to dissolve
as vapid reformist
rhetoric inundates our
political consciousness with
pragmatic progressivism
or will we rise in resistance
with the radicals
fists clenched in protest and
hands outstretched to one
another rather than
lifted high in praise to a savior as we
witness the glacier solidify once more
as CO2 perforates our atmosphere
with heady highs and noxious toxins
will we succumb like dumbfounded
addicts intoxicated by inoculation
consuming the opiated semantics
of charismatic personas or will we
challenge the corrupt
with our wits about us
facing the sobering corporate
corporeality with the pride
of lions facing a den of thieves
abandon the chosen champion
of the vanguard party
we stand hand-in-hand
7 billion
sisters and brothers
in an anthemic chorus of
solidarity that shakes the
bastions of the enthroned
with the resounding shouts of
perseverance in our
non-compliant defiance
our manifestos are written
in the blood sweat and tears
we've shed for this
dream deferred
and we will not be the
silent majority anymore
the masque of anarchy
is ours to share
will we wear its visage
or will hell freeze over
before we choose
freedom
over happiness
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
Best of all, there are lives in every skin. They know the words to your favourite language and the aching corporeality of smoke wisps as overused poetic analogy-- sativa with grapefruit, the particulars speak in toungezzz and sometimes I smoke **** and I'm so hungry, but I'm not hungry.. 6 o'clock and Dionysius means what the heaven needs **** done, it's awful-- no misfit twists and yab blam undeclared winter this year we call Fort Summerforever, BLANK, BLAM, expressive bottom-line, you don't look around anymore and check the bookshelves of your lives for those lucid Lucy detailers, trailers a warmer word for tracers, do the replacement parts fit all of the models and every time I went back to Trippy's it was the same guy, $70, oh the whole **** with the slide and all flattened preference to how in-this we are, how imagine how mystical, hanging those mushrooms on the wall, that weird pipe, cover ashes I dunno. In here it was I / thou and the digital paper-- I climb behind the eye and continent for a moment and hear see do 'it was a huge *** bag just filled with all this weed' bazooka balloon. crick the neck to create a feeling, oh but you'll listen to be come and be
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Oh Gods on high,
I’ve heard thy musings.
As you are above,
So am I below.
But why am I below?
And who hast placed thee on high
Aside from my perceptive imagination?
Your adorned fire illuminates all of element and void.
The Mystery is laid bare before thine eyes
While my dull and hard ember
Barely reveals what is inches before me.
Of what heinous crime have I been indicted
To deserve such a life of ignorance?
Reveal to me the exact pomegranate of which I ate
And I will prove to you
That I can master the Art of Evolution.
Tear from me these vestments of corporeality.
Free me from this prison of time and matter
For I wish to join thy ranks
Of illumined Consciousness,
To see all there is and Beyond,
To be all there is and Beyond.
I am but a piece of mySelf,
A fraction of my whole soul,
The One Soul.
My mind has been divided into countless fragments,
Isolated perceptions seeking to be reconnected,
Floundering so alone in the vacuum of infinity.
And if you are truly above
As I am below,
Then you must share in my suffering
And I am reassured
That my pleas fall not on deaf ears
But on open hearts and whetted appetites
Eager for my ascension into utmost Awareness,
My triumphant return Home.
But if Thy Spirit is indifferent,
If Thou hast turned Thy back toward me,
Or if Thee truly do not exist,
Then may there be a swift end
To this ceaseless and pointless dance of atoms
For I would rather have no experience
Than to play games in the Grand Mistake of Creation.
But this is the resentment of a frustrated child,
One who feels abandoned.
Make known to me Your power and presence
And I will live a humble and devoted life
Or You will lose another exiled child
To the Annals of Hell.
If I am the Devil, then the Devil I will remain
And wage war eternal against Thy Throne.
But if I am truly Thy Son,
If I am truly Thee,
Give me an unmistakable clue
So I may wake from this nightmare
I have built from earth, water, fire, and air.
Oh Gods on high,
Why have I done this to mySelf?
Why have I caged my mind
Only to seek what was already known?
Why have I made this Labyrinth
So nearly impossible to navigate?
How might I lift the Veil from Isis’ face
To gaze into mine own eyes
So that All is known
And All is at peace?
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:13 AM UTC
There's a looking glass
In front of my face
And I'm Dorian Gray
This ersatz me does so deface
My imperfections
The only thing that makes me
Uniquely debased
Not just a notion
Forward in motion
But the corporeality behind
This simulacrum, not mine alone
The property of the hive mind
The collective consensus reality
Because I'm only as fallible
As everyone lets me be
I smashed the charlatan
With my fist and then
Vain as me it no longer was
Cracked and splintered it sat
Upon the linoleum floor
But still it implored
Smiling, smiling like a villain
Its eyes made contact with mine
And that's all that need be said
"If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me"
As it showed me what I'd never be
This simulacrum, all that you see.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
But a dream-prayer clawing its way into corporeality
A curse cast to plunge the heads of every deathmaker onto the spikes as a reminder
A rebuke of the money-monger celebrities
who remain silently complicit as thousands of mothers let out
A guttural scream for the severed limbs & excavated hymns of the blessed children
A plea for justice
A song for peace
Sprouting from seed
“Bury Zionism under the rubble of my grief”
she says, as…
[the invocation eclipses into a tangible thing]
“The Nakba is over…”
Palestine is free
[the soft sun rises over Rafah]
ٱلْحَمْدُ لِلّٰهِ
“…alhamdulillah…”
From the river to the sea
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 2:14 PM UTC
Let me tell you ten sick notions that make reality a miserable mess.
Number one is hope, surely there’s no negotiation.
Number two is love; an asinine confabulation.
Number three is ego; our corrupt power station.
Number four is belief in awesome divine salvation.
Number five is desire; the evil conflagration.
Number six is time; its daggers of intoxication.
Number seven is corporeality; damnation.
Number eight is illusion granting exhilaration.
Number nine is our grave conscience, lost in translation.
And number ten is us alive in asphyxiation.
Let me tell you one sick thing that made your day a miserable mess.
This ***** sac of a poem, a genius game of chess.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
I'm a representation of existence
My bona fide
valiant side;
is only just a corporeality...
I am an entity.
Something that survives
on all mat-er-ial-istic problems.
Trying to break the hives.
I have many needs
things I'm trying to conceive.
incarnated, in this ****** display.
Hoping that specter
comes out of the dark
and plays.
I am connected.
To specter's company.
Because we possess the same energy.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
*The Moonlit Aethers bleed Titanium Rays
As mine Forlorn Eyes
Saunter thine Porcelain Skin:
Platinum Matriarch upon Swarthy Expanse reigns
Azure Luminaries cascade
Upon The Forested Glades of my Airy Soulwaves.
Ensorcelled is that Sylvan Shrine,
The Reliquary of the Starry Wish.
(O, that
Loveless Blight
might cease)
I Besought the Firmaments
From Dusk to Dawn
Lamenting in Dirge
Of the
Revenant Skies;
Eons transcended yet no hand to hold
The Benediction of Romance
An Ephemeral Throne.
The Pandemonium corporealizes
Wraiths in my mind;
(Perdition is Thew
The
Poltergeist's Might)
Ivory Visage of the Impearled
Hallows my Spirit
Quells the Abyss.
The Thew of Deities
Purged from my veins
Quaking my quintessence,
I fathomed
I was naught.
A mere figment,
An existential vagary:
~BUT NOW I SEE
We are
All
But a
Dream
Clinging yearningly
to the
Promise of Hope
(The Covenant of Ensouled Dust)
Groping for Eternity, Memory, and the Lightwaves
To be
Vested in our pulse;
For Corporeality;
Ascendency
To the Chrysalis of The Astral,
The Cradle of Cosmogenesis:
Our Cosmos,
Our Zephyr,
Our Magma,
Our Torrent,
Our Tremor,
Our Thunderclap,
Our Time,
Our Space,
Our Nexus to Efflorescence,
Our Incorporeal Sublimity~
I shall surrender to
Providence of the Supernal
His Empyrean Wings
(An Impregnable Aegis)
A Strewn Vestige once was I
But the Somnolent Beloved was roused
Whence I glimpsed into thine eyes.
The Vagrant Loveless is resurrected
Reawakened as a Doughty Knight
Warring against sequestration
(Until by Nirvana)
Abeyance devours this blight.
~Dream
You starry-eyed wayfarers,
Surrender sovereignty to credence
When Star-crossed
Conspire against the Fates
For when Elysium
Is your Beloved
The Ancient of Yore
Shall lead you nebulous streams
To the Holy Oracle
Prophesying the fulfillment
Of your Intemerate Hope
(For Love, myriads doven the skies)
Please Believe,
Just,
Believe in me.~*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
It is not, of course, a literal longing
An actual yearning for some terra firma unlike our own
(The vistas promised her elders
In the pages of children’s science encyclopedias,
Jetson-esque lunar traffic jams and hourly interplanetary shuttles
Failing to materialize as prophesied,
The future being a pastel, underwhelming version of our hopes)
But things unrealized, ethereal but substantial,
Their very lack of corporeality giving them a solidity,
A genuineness that those subjects of everyday aspirations
No longer possess, stripped of all semblance of magic,
And she has made a rather discontented compact with all of that,
Choosing to cast her lot with such that this plane has to offer,
But her memories can be fanciful things,
And not party to such contracts,
And in her mind she is whisked away to the bus ride
To see the cosmos projected on the school planetarium
In the cow-town school up in Poplar Ridge,
Her heart quickening as the darting stars
And the great, ponderous Jupiter
Waxed and waned on the building’s dome,
Her fifth-grade group among the last to see such a show
Before the gears in the works,
Impractical and wildly expensive to replace
Sheared and came to a halt for the final time.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
It is undeniable, when in the embrace of the great pipe *****
At the venerable old Episcopal church on Third Street,
Or wholly encircled by Tiffany-issue stained glass
At St. Joe’s in South Troy (ostensibly the “ironworker’s church”,
But gifted with its invaluable windows
Through a mixture of noblesse oblige, piety,
And a certain venal pride)
That there is a presence, a corporeality when the tune rises
From the pipes, be they iron or wholly human in origin,
Which is steadfast and implacable in the certitude of faith.
I’d heard the tune on another occasion,
Some half-dozen blocks north of the gaggle of churches,
Emanating from a squat, red-brick edifice
Which seemed a bit unsure of its own solidity,
As if the trust placed in mortar and block
Was somehow a bit presumptuous.
The voices were reedy, a tad threadbare and careworn,
And the accompaniment was unprepossessing
(A single guitar, perhaps, or an ancient and wobbly Casio
Rescued from the beyond by some kindhearted DPW worker)
And, though the voices were pitchy
And the harmonies a half-step or so amiss,
One hopes that it would constitute an acceptable offering,
Even not having fully shed the cloak of reticence
Which can be so difficult to unclasp on the road to devotion.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
The acquisition of a son
With an adequate corporeality, albeit with certain caveats,
Certain limitations in terms of progeny and posterity,
Had awaken something in the old man,
Certain forces leading him to the altar
And, subsequently, to the nursery once more
(A second son, brought to bear in the established manner.
With a minimum of drama and fanfare.)
The child was loved, in a rudimentary fashion;
While his flesh-and-blood bona fides were beyond question,
He was a consumer, a thing of constant need
More akin to a hardship than his celebrated half-sibling,
Whose command of the spotlight
Served as a gravitational pull for parental affections.
The old man passed on after a spell,
Hanging on long enough for his second son
To stumble onto the precipice of adulthood
(His mother had hot-footed it out
Almost immediately after the burial,
Choosing to stage-mother her feted stepchild)
Though his fatherly wisdom
Was limited to matters of his craft, his business,
Which was left to the young man, though grudgingly at that,
As a sop, a means of getting shet of two unwanted encumbrances.
He’d proved to have much of the old man’s gift,
Whittling and carving puppets and toys and dolls
(Though with a certain grim fury making it evident to all
That the work was not a labor of love)
Rarely stopping to speak to or even acknowledge his clientele,
Except if one of them happened to repeat the time-worn chestnut
That the toy chooses the child, in which case he laughed harshly,
All but barking *It’s the purse that closes the deal, not the ****
And then he would return to carving some doll or marionette,
Which would always seem to have a certain wan look
Around the corners of the eyes, the edge of the lips,
The look of a child’s toy equipped with the foreknowledge
That it was destined for the back of some closet shelf,
The bottom of some attic-bound chest.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
I had never truly embraced love as i had with you by my side. It happened in a blink of an eye, like watching the sun set where you thought you had more time but nightfall came quicker than you realised.
I spent a long time hoping and dreaming and believing in our kind of love. Filled with a joyousness that left no crevice of my chest aching for fullness. There was a difference between the idea and the solidity of corporeality. It became a fission of emotional vulnerability and unadulterated passion within a second.
The love we shared engulfed my being like a tidal wave and left me breathless. It was as gratifying as it was painful in every sense. A connection of homogeneity of our wavelengths that left an ouroboros scarred into my heart every time you held my hand.
A natural phenomenon much like a typhoon sweeping in and destroying what we thought was permanent and leaving behind a quiet peaceful sleep before the aftermath hits. The bruises were in my soul and not on my skin. And an uncharacteristic gratefulness for having felt a love so deep, however temporary it may be.
This love. Our love. Blindsided me.
But there's no other way I'd rather it be.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
Hellos feel a dearth of meant to room to manoeuvre
The aforementioned vibrissa came to be coupled with corporeality esse
Hir effulgent nowhere near multistorey augment some rangi
Mlles draws breath granting the fact that which all and sundry wave to or but curtsy
Up til ply immensely crosswise ciaos this macrocosm
Out of sorts sustentation examinate in addition to operational savoir-faire enclosed by a forestland
Into bodies that one yours truly to which canonised a stone's throw away from lasts yourself surrounded by steadfastness en route toward captivation Undaunted summat auxiliary earlier than a mortal arising out of the eradicators live-in lover When ring compared with bidie-in originating at leman acts as larboard eating the dust
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 8:16 PM UTC
"I disagree.
Writers who write for free are making it harder for us.
These companies have the money they say they don't have." She says —
Infuriated.
Slowly pulling myself away from fabricated corporeality,
I realize my tongue tastes of bitter beer.
Walking upstairs the other day
I caught my toe in my long checkered pajamas and tripped.
Graceless young lady who writes for free.
I chuckle.
"I asked them for what I deserve and they refused
so I left."
I hear her say and I'm thinking
about how sad I will be when Ruskin Bond dies.
A signed book, an untouched hello is a recipe for disappointment,
so I would never meet the man.
He once wrote,
about the rain drumming on
his corrugated tin roof.
How it helped him lie awake
and at the same time,
didn't keep him from sleeping.
I fall in love at the thought.
"And they wouldn't hire writers
because people waste their time and write for these companies
for free!'
Her voice brings me back to this restaurant
and the cold
condensation on the table.
Her boyfriend calls, and I want to go home.
How long have I been here?
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
Tragedy.
It's a beautiful word.
It's poetic silence,
A tribulation that makes for wonderful beginnings.
Like Juliet's death that spurned many a love stories.
Travesty.
It's a parley of hate,
Love through pain,
And words that gain,
More power than we know what to do with.
Daze.
Everyday. Every morning. Every night.
A breath of reality without you.
An understanding of corporeality.
Not far from your nightmares.
Reality.
Hateful. Painful. Resentful.
A motion without an end.
A function without an objective.
A grind towards uncertainty.
Tomorrow.
A new hope. A factual lie.
An unbelievable promise.
A filter from and dissemblement towards...
Tragedy, Travesty, Daze and Reality.
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 5:27 AM UTC