"critique" poems
Success never came without critique & hate
No matter friend or foe, they'll close down their gate.
The smile will turn into a smirk
The eyes will change into a lurk
Some may even walk on to the other side
But that's when you'll know you're doing it right
Your light maybe blinding to some
and some may even turn to ash
but don't give heed to the glare,
whispers and oh all the gnash.
Dance on your victory, you've made them so proud,
the ones who love you; so bring down the shroud;
of darkness and dullness & shout out to call,
your strength and beauty that some may appal.
Cause' you are a diamond that shines oh so bright,
but some may not see it,
so why don't you guide.
Cause' you've got it right
So stand tall with pride
Cause' you are the light
and you shine so bright.
A.S.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Hi, below I copy a humorous hiabun, which I shared as an exercise to mentor enquiring and inspired poets to learn, so they might adopt and try different techniques and then give critique together with awesome comments... Yes, I used the words *** ****** and **** for context the rest was left to an individual imagination as in good poetry!
It included reflective commentary encompasses innocent classification terminology used in the critique, reading, examining, appreciating, understanding and writing of poetry for example: POETIC DEVICES (enjambement, duality, keriji, images, collocation, semantic, oxymoron, repetition, listing etc.), STORY (personification, characterisation, subject, context, voice etc.), IMAGERY (synaesthesia), STRUCTURE ( lineation, breaks, syntactic etc.), SOUNDS (syllables, rhyme, alliteration, pace, musicality, phrasing, beat, assonance, onomatopoeia, mouthed rhythms, patterned) and WORDS (preposition, determiner, verbs, adverbs, lexical, nouns, adjectives) used by poets, critics and academics...
And here it is :
**** tongue-in-cheek haibun - a reflective commentary on writing a popular tanka
Eye lashes flicker
a shared urgent interest
parting - dancing smile
My first inspiration was *** passionate life squeezing screaming *** the thumping wall musicality of *** exhaustingly inventive sweaty and wet.
I wanted to make it a senryu but for duality the female characterisation demanded two more lines each extending to seven syllables.
Arousing images captured her moaning splashing loneliness in unusual collocation.
I was first excited by the placement of a hovering extended enjambement to give life to my final line, whilst also considering the satisfaction in using noisy mouthed rhythms.
I believe I easily hid the wet aroused context with a watery semantic field, that suggested she would choke and drown.
So in my last line I had ‘pleasures’ as a cutting keriji to make clear the dominating ****** context, having previously used a preposition and determiner to maintain duality!
Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite
**
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
Staunch masculinity
I have hair on my chest
I drink whiskey
I work out
I like Karate
I drink beer
I like heavy metal
Let’s fight
Lets ****
I smoke
I stay out late
I win
I read (ie: I’m smarter than you.)
Let’s ****
Sometimes I lose ….but I learn
I don’t care
That’s my job
I had steak for lunch
Do you want to ****
I provide
I take care of business
C’mon let’s ****
I build
I take
I teach
I preach
Let’s ****
I’m happy
Don’t cut me off in traffic
I lead
I challenge
How about we ****
I yell
I critique
I solve
Are we going to ****
I drive a sports car
I save money
I spend money
I make money
I brag
I show off
I really really need to ****
I said I drive sports car
I drink…. did I mention that.
Let’s ****
****
Yeah
****
I wait
I wait
I’m patient
I drink
I smoke
I emote
We aren’t going to **** are we?
I work out
I compete
I shoot guns
I ride a motorcycle
I’m cultured
Don’t make me beg for it *****
I judge
I ****
I love
I ponder
I create
I scheme
I think you are really special
Let's ****
I can lift heavy boxes
I can hang pictures
I can drive you around
I can buy you dinner
****
****
****
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
It doesn't matter how hard I try
I never seem to get away
Cause after all you did to me
I fear these feelings will always stay
*Your lies I believed were the truth beneath
The pain recedes but the heart bleeds
My instincts were right all along
I’m just a part of your love song*
You see, I live my life in fear
Fear I won't succeed
And every small critique I get
Makes me once again recede
*My Iloveyous to you were inevitable
Like the sun emitting his ardor
Despite the moon in slumber’s nocturne
He shines brightly with fervor*
I live my life, always afraid
That I am not on the right path
And if I take one small misstep
I'll have to face somebody's wrath
*Time consumes me while I waste it away
Like grains of sand as I clenched and ran
Only to lose it
Again and again*
I am eternally scared
That all my judgments are wrong
And if I ever meet someone
They'll only like me for so long
*But then I met you out of the blue
You were trying to forget someone too
We sparked like fireworks in the night sky
But the fire burnt out and our colors faded hue*
I live my life in constant fear
I fear that you were right
I simply am not good enough
And I will not be alright
*Thank you for proving me right
That we were not meant to be
How could you love another light
When I was the one your darkness pleased*
But even worse than all these things
Is my terror that someday
I will meet someone else like you
And not be able to get away.
*You complete me
&*
You destroyed me
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.
Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.
Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.
Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.
But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.
But hell, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.
...Now please, could you spare a dime?
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
Snaking down my wrist, beside pulsing, blue-green veins
Were obnoxious scars that left their mark
As if I needed another reminder of how some wounds could never heal.
This wrist of mine weathered more harm
Than a house in the eye of a hurricane
It bore the brunt of raw, undiluted, out of control anger
And frustration that my reflection brings.
As I stare back at the mirror,
I try to decipher the meaning behind beauty
And wonder if I could ever be like her.
But as my reflection cries and I see the swollen, red-rimmed eyes
I know only that I am not attractive
Not enough for you to think of me as worthy.
The angry welts and slashes are not merely scars
But ashes of the remains of my feelings,
the aftermath third degree burns
After you were done with your self-justified critique.
After you took away my light and peace.
That day I did not lost only you
But pieces of me I thought was mine.
You burned everything I thought I knew;
In the flames of doubt and insecurity,
I lost my mind.
I lost my foothold and you let me fall down the darkest abyss
Into my own version of hell
Straight out of my worst nightmare
When I saw a glimmer of light again as a breathing corpse,
No more than a frankenstein fixed together with thread
I saw the masterpiece of red on my wrists
And I saw that I was no longer whole.
All I know now is that I am afraid
Of being left behind by my own shadow
In this darkness I know now.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
There once was a man who lived in a tower
He had orange skin and fools gave him power
His hands shook with fury at every critique
While his family's obligations were to remain chic
His head began to swell while his eyes grew smaller
But his silly little brain it began to falter
This was a man who thought ****** assault was a joke
Until Women around the world began to hope that he'd choke
Women gathered and rallied and screamed for their rights
They took to the streets in ***** hats and tights
The man did not like this, how dare they disagree!
With the world he was trying to create
Full of misogyny
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
**** SON
I see your name glisten, your heart races
And with this multikill you will reach high places
scream aloud and build up the streak
Listen to fggts as they critique
MLG m9, Don't play if your noob
hardc0re the only way we do
1v1 m3 if your so tough
Il nock you out, im 6ft and buff
**** dont even try to stop me
Im a genius, im pro, im to mlgee
The more you boast, the harder you'll crash
*** off m9 your just jealous of my ca$h
******* HACKER
**** off scrub you dont even lift
Hubris and Pride, condemned and forsaken
Act like a god, treated like Satan
The game is over, you've won and congrats.
I'm sure your more of a man after that.
mlg for lyfe
yeah right
onto the next game because you're alone
and need people online to call your own
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
Ornery odious ordinate ostensive opulence ornate optimal
Motivity meatus meticulous morsel moribund mendacity monstrance
Lucidity lingam loquacity longevous licentious lurid languishing
Votary volition verve venery vector vauntness vast
Talismanically telepathy tantamount terrestrial tellurian transition tractive
Idolatry -ics incus ictus ichor icon icky
Yogi yowl yore yoni yerk yenta yantra
Gimpy gesticulation genre gestational glitch genuflection grandiose
Dastardly douceur denouement denigrational deplorable despicable desperate
Paltry potentate portentous plagiaristic pandemic plenipotentiary plenary
Jouncy jocular jeopardy jettison jurisprudence jaunt juxtaposition
Ramify repartee radix recital rectitude rendition repertoire
Beastly bartizan bodacious belligerent brusque blatant blasphemously
Enmity exigency exacerbation extemporaneous edifice eulogy exoneration
Zoolatry zoomorphic zilch Zephyr zoic zygosity zealotry
Sultry solace subtlety substantiation suborn subliminal sensorium
Unity ultimatum usurping unfathomable uncanny unbridled unary
***** hornswoggle horizon huckster homogeny holistic heuristic
Nugatory notch nostrum notorious nihilism nimiety nimbus
Wrathy wreak wroth wrought wrest wrangle warranty
Artistry autonomy articulation agility acuity asperity acerbity
Keeky kangaroo court kowtow kobold kleptomania kinetics kinesiology
Xylography xenophile xerophilous xylophagous xylem xanadu xenobiotic
Critically credibility critique coercion conjugational conjunctive corporeal
Queasy quasi quantum quintessence quagmire quixotic quantify
Flighty flippant flamboyance faux pas fornicatious fictitious finite
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
Finite fictitious fornicatious faux pas flamboyance flippant flighty
Quantify quixotic quagmire quintessence quantum quasi queasy
Corporeal conjunctive conjugational coercion critique credibility critically
Xenobiotic xanadu xylem xylophagous xerophilous xenophile xylography
Kinesiology kinetics kleptomania kobold kowtow kangaroo court keeky
Acerbity asperity acuity agility articulation autonomy artistry
Warranty wrangle wrest wrought wroth wreak wrathy
Nimbus nimiety nihilism notorious nostrum notch nugatory
Heuristic holistic homogeny huckster horizon hornswoggle *****
Unary unbridled uncanny unfathomable usurping ultimatum unity
Sensorium subliminal suborn substantiation subtlety solace sultry
Zealotry zygosity zoic Zephyr zilch zoomorphic zoolatry
Exoneration eulogy edifice extemporaneous exaserbational exigency enmity
Blasphemously blatant brusque belligerent bodacious bartizan beastly
Repertoire rendition rectitude recital radix repartee ramify
Juxtaposition jaunt jurisprudence jettison jeopardy jocular jouncy
Plenary plenipotentiary pandemic plagiaristic portentous potentate paltry
Desperate despicable deplorable denigrational denouement douceur dastardly
Grandiose genuflection glitch gestational genre gesticulation gimpy
Yantra yenta yerk yoni yore yowl yogi
Icky icon ichor ictus incus -ics idolatry
Tractive transition tellurian terrestrial tantamount telepathy talismanically
Vast vauntness vector venery verve volition votary
Languishing lurid licentious longevous loquacity lingam lucidity
Monstrance mendacity moribund morsel meticulous meatus motivity
Optimal ornate opulence ostensive ordinate odious ornery
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
And, you left me all alone,
left in such a silence that
I could't even believe you are about to leave.
You left an undefined scar in my soul and
my teardrops enchanted those memories we shared together
and laughed over them hours.
You went away in such silence
that all I could do is just NOTHING
but hearing you to mourn in such dogma.
Tears just drop by my cheeks and I just
wish you to come down and tell me,
"I am here, my darling,
Don't you worry child....
I can't ever leave you alone."
They said, life isn't fair, life is never trustworthy.
Now I see an feel that hard every night.
I never felt that I can't hear your voice anymore anytime sooner or later.
It all comes and goes....
what matters is the in-between time
you spend together by thick and thin holding on to each other.
You were lying on the bed when
I last saw you and there also you were fighting
to get over that period.
Remember? We laughed there too when you said
you had 26 milk pies and I strictly said,
"Get well soon Dadu. After you go home you will be having curd-rice and "Khichudi".
..... And God never wanted that to happen maybe.
After that you couldn't go back home,
you left this virtual world that very night after suffering so profusely.
You were 72 and I was 22;
but we never bothered about this algorithm.
There were healthy talks over he sunsets, over the pages of my sketchbooks.
You were my biggest inspiration and critique for every work; cause you
always questioned their existence and morality.
You always chanted honesty throughout your life and give me
strength, so that I can follow your path.
One day, you will be a proud grandfather who will be seeing my works getting recognised all around the world and then we will laugh together...
Me, from the terrace and
You, from that sky.
Come soon,
come in a disguise,
come as my soulmate,
come as my midnight friend.....
....... but come back, please.
because Payel misses your presence and laughter.
I will weep and bawl on my bed some nights,
knowing I can't see you anytime ever.
That heart-wrenching pain and undefined scar in my lotus-heart will bloom someday with your desired presence in my success and failure both.... I believe so.
I believe in you,
I believe in us.
Because, God snatched one of my biggest possession without even asking for it.
You have to come back.....
... and you will.
To those talks and platonic love,
you are being missed Dadu.
I wish, I had some digits to call you up just to ask,
if they are providing you with some spicy food or not.
LIVE FOREVER.
YOUNG HEART N SOUL.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
Nobody believes in me. But, neither do I, and that’s OK. But they don’t really know how I am, and if they knew, I am pretty sure they wouldn’t feel the same way. I sometimes feel like coming out of the closet, not because I am gay, but just for my personality. Then, I realize we are all in the closet. Even when you come out of the closet, you search for somewhere else to hide. But basically nobody will get out of the wardrobe, which makes sense, because we judge. We dislike everything. How people talk, dress, look, or even walk. We are so caught up on ******** that we don’t even get to evolve as people. I know I don’t. Could that be part of the system we grew up in? How do we differentiate a critique from simply judging. The critique highway goes straight into judge, or does it not? We might say — this is just a critique, it’s for your own good— but in reality, most of the times, we have already spoken about it to someone else. Why do we always need to get people’s approval to fit into this world, and therefore, are most unpopular “outcasts” really the most honest people to be around. I will never know, because I am as guilty as everyone else. Involved in the society that simply sits in the caffe window watching people pass by as you consider yourself better than them. Whatever. Once again, I am no better. I just find it sad to think that I am always searching from approval by bashing on other people, who have decided to live their life without caring about the dumb girl sitting by the window.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
a miscarriage
a road to nowhere
an ******
a hybrid
a chance missed
a tarantula's kiss
everything's lost
a sea of critique
a man chained in front of the mirror
a priest reciting an unending bible
everything's lost
because perfection is the goal
and failure is the only hope.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose obverse side
there's Rio,
and dancing
and mirth
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.
© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
you acknowledge a concept
no matter how you do
and when you grasp onto it so easily
you now know it is time
to critique the painting
to write the song
to film the scene
etcetera
in order to express to one another
means to lose what you knew
at one point you played around
to only discover all harmony
but to only tear off a piece
and feed that alone to the others
once it was mastered
was as if everything else was forgotten
buried back into the depth's of your heart
to never be found again
unknown beauty
infamous tragedy
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Searching for perfection is a mad man's game
be prepared to lose it all
trying to ****** a muse into my brain
when inspiration stalls
my thoughts are running free
they often overwhelm me
all I can hear's my own self critique
and it's starting a mutiny
and now...
It's Anarchy between my ears
Fighting for control by I am overcome with fear
Joyous sadness, well-composed madness, I hold my sorrows dear
'cause it's Anarchy between my ears
Now you're at the stake and the mob is going wild
you realize that you're alone
You did this to yourself- its in your head you crazy child
only you can cut the rope
my thoughts are running free
they often overwhelm me
all I can hear's my own self critique
and its starting a mutiny
and now....
It's anarchy between my ears
Looking for some answers but I know I won't find them here
sleepless nights, pointless fights, I don't think I can steer
because its Anarchy between my ears
It's anarchy between my ears
hanging by a thread and yes I know the end is near
I won't let go, I refuse to take 'no' it's been this way for years...
It's Anarchy Between My Ears
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 4:42 PM UTC
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis -
a silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
between howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the pole
on whose obverse side
there's Rio,
and mirth,
and dancing,
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.
© LazharBouazzi
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
It's in his shadow we plead
Under his wrath we bleed
His destruction leaks hate into the weak
Leaving the unsubstantial reaping his critique
His actions scorned through years of neglect
It's in his perception only, that we become wrecked
Why do we follow knowing wrong from right
Pushing those we love away from the light
His power is without doubt equal to the greats
Although derived from stray minded it opens the gates
The gates into the souls of those who are tattered
Turning old memories to ones now shattered
Although through it all, we have nothing to fear
For he is nothing more than a broken mirror
It just takes practice to realize his weakness
All his power is nothing to the strong but bleakness
It's in his own prison he will rot
Although it's up to us to become the Juggernaut
-Joseph B Schneider
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts.
a shortened critique of pure reason -
a) based on phenomena
(things most likely talked about)
and
b) based of noumenna
(things least likely talked about)....
i.e. a) and the ego implant,
and b) the god implant -
likewise the zealots on either side,
bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims...
i forgot to mention that Kant forgot
to mention the trigonometric foundations
as justifying owning a villa or whatnot,
the same foundations of having
the implant ego secured and willed
are the same parameters of the
implant god secured and thought
the point being dynamic parallelism,
mid-way between cosine and sine
rigid fluctuation tangents occur,
the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.;
you're basically born with ego
or you're born with god -
there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between -
ring-a-ding-ding-surprise?
there's no side-winding to create cinema -
being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced
with monetary affairs;
being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced
with murderers, lastly -
no psychological theory will box-me-in
given the lost tribalism and the usage of
the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing -
with money came slang - and all thorough evils,
with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab.,
Arizona in the ******* Amazon -
i'm basically saying what Kant said:
god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget,
it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it
by argument, and we certainly can't accept it
by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either
for worth of understanding tornadoes;
because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me,
filming Twister.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Dark driveways in muggy weather
Look like sand stuck in a feather
Ferns and curbs don't go together.
Clean, thoughts on it
Wrong again
Seemed, nope not this song again
A misty clip
Of winter ****
Seemed so soft and fond again.
Face the throat and choke the face
Wait for boats, critique the wave
Answer into sushi dish,
'Was this really once a fish?'
You, oh you! Oh you, oh you.
True, we knew! Who knew? Not you.
Don't begin to read the news
Now it's burning rows of twos
Ferns and curbs don't go together
Runny nose in sunny weather
Feel like lakes lassoed and tethered
Ferns and curbs don't go together.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
I have not been well lately
But I have a secret to tell you
It’s a success story: my most secret success
You see, I’m very skilled in crafting holes
And I’ve punched a massive hole
Right through the middle of my life
Please, don’t mistake this accomplishment for the result of talent
This is a skill and it takes practice to master
I went to college and learned to turn theories and ideals from basin to sieve
I learned to critique everything hopeful
And punched a hole right through the heart of hope
I honed my ability to close out creativity
I built a track down which to guide concrete linear thoughts
And I learned to use said thoughts as a battering ram with which to
Knock a hole in the barricaded door to dissatisfaction
And, though this skill is often practical
As you know, one cannot walk around wearing an open hole
So, a corresponding skill has successfully emerged
In parallel with nurturing voids
I have learned to conceal each and every hole
Sometimes with a thick canvass and
Sometimes with a paper-thin veneer
I may have learned to wrap a package
And to tie a bow
With the express purpose of packaging
The broken gift of life
Full of ugly holes
And, now, all that is left to complete the perfect ending to this success story
Is to grow old in a neatly kept apartment
Filled with the unseen haunts of relationships neatly hole-punched and
Filed in a hidden mental cabinet
Next to a night stand where I keep my phone and glasses
And across from the bed
There will be a glass trophy case
Full of trophies denoting various acceptable successes
But, just between you and I
The largest trophy denoting the largest success
Will be a lifetime achievement award
Bestowed for hollowing out what could have been
A beautiful life.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineation
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
Some have tried to tell me
not to write as I see fit;
they wish to impose their rules and their taste
onto and into my personal expression.
My Art.
While I do always seek
honest and fair critique;
attempted Censorship
is outright offensive.
At heart, I'm a ******* Artist,
a slave only to my own Will;
not some ******* demagogue
merely sacrificing his own Quill.
**** 'em,
and their illusory book of unreal rules;
I'll write as I ******* please:
I'll write how I want
about what I want
as often as I want
on what I want
where I want
when I want,
and so can anyone else,
*or so I think.
It can be so hard to tell..*
I really hope I'm not special in that regard.
The pen is mightiest
when it refuses to compromise.
**** 'em
and their failed dogmatic domineering.
**** 'em
and their fake-ass, ego-inspired rules.
**** 'em.
Once more:
**** 'em.
And, *lest we forget;
****
the living hell
out of
them!**
(Though it would surely take a good while!)*
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC