"crudest" poems
That unforgiving metal.
Within that unforgiving metal lies all the things you cannot forgive about yourself.
Those freckles on your chin that you wish would expand into a constellation so that you may give them names and so that you may give them meaning,
within that unforgiving metal.
The Greeks threw their hands towards the heavens
and deemed cosmic accidents worthy of the names of gods,
although within them lie no gifts.
Like a bedazzled and jaded Tiresias impostor one stumbles upon
on their way home,
who sees nothing but the tangible
and tells all but the truth.
Still, he is clad in diamonds and gold
and thus has value in trade.
Beauty triumphs over mendacity
and mendacity over reality.
But the freckles that mar your skin,
that you cannot transfigure into the most meaningless of stars or the crudest of answers,
sit there defiantly,
waiting to be acknowledged and waiting to be named.
You lean your forehead forward to rest against the cool smoothness of its idle twin.
You could swear you saw her sneer at you.
The freckles do not budge—they will consume you whole.
Aug 20, 2021
Aug 20, 2021 at 6:41 PM UTC
Quacking ducks
Dung throwers
Degenerate, opinionate
No plea for serenity
No chance for reverence
Only less politeness
Survival of the fittest
Hegemony of the crudest
Twitter for the *****
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
The first thing that happens
is the world collapses.
That is, it reduces down
but only I seem to notice.
Everything becomes flatter,
the depth stripped away
like rotted lumber,
like when they gut a building
but leave the historic facade,
and I feel like I'm limping
postcard to postcard
until eventually like I'm peering
into a discarded diorama,
where everything is smaller
than it should be,
the crudest copy of itself, and
everything is bounded
by shoebox limits
I can sense them everywhere.
The second thing that happens
is that I avoid everyone.
I avoid my mother on Christmas,
I can't look my therapist in her eye,
I cancel a date because
I can't handle the contact.
I touch my skin and it's like
touching paper that's been creased
hundreds of times -
old pulp that frays and splits.
The third thing that happens
is that I lose interest.
I put in whatever minimums
the day requires
and not a scratch more.
I put my mail aside
and watch crows
gather on the branch,
facing the valley,
black eye to black eye,
base wings folded against
the sleek unbearable body.
The last thing that happens
is that life cheapens.
It's hard not to notice,
since the papers and the news
and everybody's phone
blasts forth the parade of death.
No one is spared, children,
animals, the happy, the hale.
And soon these thoughts -
that life ends without reason,
that God has retreated from the world,
that no step is worthwhile -
begin to bleed in my head.
They lead to the paralysis
of a patient wrapped in gauze,
leaving only the eyes free to move
and notice the great black wing
that scythes into the valley,
feathers dark as stout,
the sun setting in its usual
incompetent way, the wing
so graceful that it might be
the only beautiful thing,
falling out of sight,
into nothingness,
down the slope
into the stale dusk,
into the exact center
of a limitless depression.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
I have a schoolboys sense of humour,
Oh yes it's true, it's not just rumour,
I always laugh at bums and willys,
It's immature and very silly,
I cannot help my humours taste,
I try to keep it above the waist,
Yet down the slippery slope I slide,
This 'Carry-On" sense of humour of mine,
Farts, poos, **** the crudest jokes,
Belong much more to bad *** blokes,
Double meaning things that people say,
Is my specialist subject anyway,
Even though I know it's daft,
I do enjoy a ****** laugh :)
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Oh my estranged lover,
What is my mistake?
To care about you,
And to suggest?
That too,
For your own good?
I never wanted any control.
Oh my sweetest lover,
What is my crime?
To selflessly love you,
And to support?
That as well,
For yourself?
I only wanted a lifelong friend.
Perhaps, a friend has an end,
But I wanted you as my lover,
And a lover is for forever?
I started to suggest,
At your own request,
Have you forgotten?
I just wanted to care about you.
Then you say that you have parents,
And they care for you as well,
You are their first born.
And you have two siblings,
Then why do you put up strange demands,
Have you forgotten Manya & Atharv too?
I tell you the rudest words because these are the crudest truth.
Do you know when your father will take a loan,
Supposedly from one of the private banks,
What he will have to pledge against it?
Maybe his car or more,
Perhaps his business office,
Or maybe the home?
I will suggest you against going overseas to study.
Do not you know India has the best education,
Ranked number one since ages long ago,
Where you transpire to go leaving it?
Trust me you do not,
I know that,
But what about your family?
Will you surely repay your loan by yourself?
Baby, you are immature and a control freak,
Controlling me was almost acceptable then,
But why do you control your father?
I love you like anything,
Your father loves you too,
But do you love anyone but yourself?
Wake up from your fantasies and face the reality.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
We are all walking around in each other
(our bodies and breathing and sweat and
sneezes)
walking around in pieces of each other
unescapably we are
in each other
in the crudest way possible we are
in each other
(in Buckingham in front of Michelangelo paintings in Taj Mahal in Los Angeles in Sydney in paradise in your bedroom)
connected in an
(uncomfortable)
way we are all each other we are all one
don’t forget to breathe
we only have this chance once
breathe breathe breathe you are one
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
as a filmmaker
I’d bury
the permanence
of my son
the magnifying
glass
in full
dress
of the shadow
lurking behind
the crudest
of surveillance
systems
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
I behold with your beauty .
thy charm is harp and lute worthy .
from route or from ocean.
i beset with Magi sojourn.
thy glance is jasper ,beryl ,and sapphire.
thy breath is anguent .incense .myrrh.
i beset with worship to thy promised land .
Sirius,Vegas,Arturus will guide me by dream or by land.
thy love is the worship of heaven choir.
i run not for jasper; lo, Orphic with lute and lyre.
but i do run for thy heart and thy soul.
i embark for love by dream or by land.
LIZZY,your worship !is only by you my soul longs stand.
im a beggar,im a knight ,im a messiah but im only a soul .
why tarriest thou?i behold with love and fume .
lets rove on down this azure of garden of fragrance perfume.
i give my heart upon the dream of thy happiness .
cause the toss is harsh but for you my lily bed minuteness.
thou art the praised of my soul even i will face *****
oh, tempest gale what do i know ?but my gait i will always resume.
drink Ichor, drink Elixir thou crudest rival Meanads.
i rejoice from my ***** the love peril with my ballad.
give me thy love and take from me Babilon bloom.
with fantasy ,love and ecstasy and myth all is sublime.
i carry not mother of pearl but the perfume of my breath .
love of fire i dread not even your kiss sentence me to death.
love ! i hear a numerable in as much as pain.
take the glory from me but i behold difficulty of your love sustain.
give me your heart ,fear no consequence for you my soul cant refrain.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
Cruelest is the man who sits and says nothing
Stand alone stare with a harrowing message
Or maybe it’s the poorest, crudest of man
Who we all brand as vicious, biting off hands
But then what of the angry indignant man
The one who feels drained with no moral compass
Moans and groans develops own brands of justice
Then there’s the soldier in all different shapes
Who plunders and kills or kidnaps and rapes
No words for the actions of each head of state
No words for the actions of the man who wont stand
No words for all those who play life at high stakes
Doesn’t life burn you when spending it thinking
So here we all are; fast living and sinking
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
We are a white children
of clouds
of sand
of carving words
that shape the sands we walk upon
and cannot judge one slip from another
at times
love is expressed through
the crudest terms
and so we divide,
define
and in each mind
rest the chicken bones of the last meal
press the prickly matter into the damp soil
where it will be forgotten.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
look back and you will see a traveller with the crudest of maps
be kind to that person struggling with so much daily detail they have no clue as to how they are going to fulfil their half remembered dream. The dream they keep tucked in the pocket next their heart, the one they take out now and then when alone and have deep intentions to make it all come true. That person is every person and if you look, that person is you.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 3:52 AM UTC
How do you prove an immunity to
a recurringly exhumed seclusion
when the noise of static, so intrusive when unmuted, easily confuses
and a skewed view produces only illusion's futile ruses?
Can't hands, seamlessly and when misguided, be abusive
from refusing their own bruises and contusions,
manifest and fuse into a multitude of misconstrued, misled misuses?
Yet I will argue choosing to humor the tune communicating through the intuitive music and movement that amuses-
what is heard echoes clues for harmony and hallowed union's
mutual congruence,
even in the crudest beauty and pursuit of human improvement and what we knew, uprooted.
Doubt, when reducing to delusions, always loses when refuted,
and though humility means fragile ****** included,
elusive truths all allude to an absolution through this-
what diffuses, what we keep, and how we do it the conclusion.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 3:12 AM UTC
Writing poems but who are they for?
Are they secret notes to myself
To read
When I'm old and gray?
Are they
(Perhaps)
Simply lyrics to
Songs I'll never sing?
Are they my
Crudest representation
Of
My soul?
Yes they are.
Maybe.
I'm not ceratin.
To be honest
I have
No clue.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 3:30 AM UTC
So it was
Once then never was
You left me and it hurt
Why did you choose to change so much?
We were best friends and sisters
You made it all about the misters
Finding time to keep you around
Why were you never around
When we broke bones and banks
I knew you were down hard
Broke down bikes and cars
And I turned scarred.
Seeing you after a year makes me wonder
Do you think of me too and ponder
Why things were left unsaid
Why we drifted away
Tried to forget you and found many other
But no one came to be so picture perfect as each other
You don’t even care you looked away
You ****** me off when things went grey
Contemplated many a times to message you
But remembered how you threw me away.
But pride came to play
And stayed more than half way
When I looked into your eyes
I saw hurt and pain but also crudest acclaim.
Why it never worked out I don’t know
Mistakes were made and both grew up
Careless nights to back road to and fro
Somehow we grew up and grew apart more.
Feb 12, 2023
Feb 12, 2023 at 11:49 AM UTC
give me a memory,
any memory,
where you are happy,
and it can mask,
the worst thing ever said,
the meanest thing ever done,
the crudest thing you ever saw
and I'll not write anymore.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Fasten your seatbelts
For the ice the heat melts
Will be dealt
We’ll receive welts
From Earth’s belt
Her pain will be felt
Crazy cancer
Lazy dancers
Don’t have answers
But as enchanters
Conjure banter
Of absurd slander
And crowd panders
To darken lanterns
Flooding the gate
Money to make
Muddies the stakes
So they act fake
To catch a break
Becoming snakes
With stunning rakes
For nature’s ****
Carbon emission
Cancer remission
In need of incisions
To heal our decisions
Yet denied permission
By a wealthy commission
Utilizing superstition
And pure fiction
To ensure friction
Fueling oil addiction
The hurricanes
Assuring pain
Are curing stains
Of carbon shame
Until what remains
Stays in nature’s lane
I hide in dreams
From Poseidon’s screams
At polluted streams
From brutish teams
Of the crudest greed
To break our code of mourning
We need the noble forming
A case for global warming
Against the vocal storming
Of the slogan storing
***** adoring
Public scorning
We need Atlas here
To fix the atmosphere
As those here
Impose fear
Against peers
Their success equals destruction
So acting responsibly is obstruction
Pushing the planet to an eruption
Of cataclysmic disruption
Due to cynical dysfunction
A tidal wave
Of vital days
To fix our maze
Sits in a haze
While we’re slaves
Digging graves
For the brave
In their way
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 12:55 AM UTC
If you wish the sympathy
of the broad masses, you
must tell them the crudest
& most stupid things,
& it is quite a special secret
pleasure how the people
around us fail to realize
what is really
happening to them,
& make the lie big,
make it simple,
keep saying it,
and eventually
they will
believe it.
& all propaganda must be
popular and its intellectual
level must be adjusted to
the most limited intelligence
amongst those it is
addressed to,
& history comes around
& many of the tried &
trusted methods for
running things just
keep on making
that eternal return
don't they.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
after all... i have to represent the anatomy of the teeth, mouth, tongue, brain, lung and heart structures with the windmills of my quixotic fancy using a, b, c... and follow suit an explanatory commnet: that's a trumpet for an elephant.
only among the crudest of representations
does imagination volcano out,
whether that be a - z, 0 - 9, or among
the notable cymbals of musical notation:
what’s compressed elevates imagination,
this skeletal affinity, does imagination justice;
and only this.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC