"cuneiform" poems
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U text me dis
I text U dat
She dissed my dis
I sent last Sat.
U LOL’ed
on down the list
I sexted sixth—
my 7th missed.
U banned my width
I booked your face
U twittered on—
She saved my space.
U scrolled me down
He tweeted smiles
We USB’ed,
recharging miles . . .
U giga-bit
encrypted files;
I saved as mine
and cached denials.
In digital
we re-erased,
then Skyped our souls
and interfaced.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
The moth with newspaper wings sat under the arrow lungs of the eyeless
blood dripped falcon, more whole than the super-glued roman sculpture.
Next door a 50’s con held up church with a roulette table in the kitchen,
and boarded up the massage parlor
downstairs.
The eye of the man was a centrifuge of ducks, mallard and hen, spiraling
outward into evaporated roach-ground
asphalt.
Next door, slits in the picket fence displayed perfectly formed **** & broach,
empty shoes made of feet below, blending
fields.
The marble foundation formed from twine lollipops and fuzzy candy tabs,
ice-etched to the frequency of splintered seashell
angels.
Next door through the forest of knives a spaceship bearing gargoyles peaked
bodies through collages of faces in technicolor sepia
mitosis.
The heiress molted into tiled pieces, her own dog and sunhat caught in blizzard
cuneiform, kaliedescoping again to fractalled inchworms cemented in motion.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
I, ConnectHook
DEMAND recognition as The Most Boring Poet of all.
You’ll never touch me so don’t even TRY.
Don’t even bother dipping your quill again,
you mere drip on the mildewed scroll of antediluvian parchment,
you cuneiform Cunégonde, you proto-Canaanite pottery fragment,
you keyboarding failed clown
and archeological relic unworthy of preservation
in a third-rate underfunded Albanian museum…
I, and I alone, dragged myself up from the protoplasmic slime
to BORE you.
I transitioned from amphibian to anthropoid
before your mama even MET the postman.
I stood upright upon the ****** battleground of evolutionary struggle
and SELECTED MYSELF (naturally).
Now pass that banana right over here.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a cautionary in a coal mine
choking on fumes, next to the garden hose, all snakes and power-lines
entangled in the turbulence of absolute calm , a rarefied catastrophe
an asterix, just to the right
of the meaningless word
you would say
to me.
how my balloon became addicted to helium is a lost tomb.
teensy- weensy bones are polished
very close to microphones.
i would have to be the nothingness,
just for the night
[ followed by the longest day with you. ]
jimmy the lock
and fish out the quills;
we'll write a new desolation in cuneiform and iron will -
throw out your kinsmen
if they be discontinuous...
to shave a few hours off
time wasted
delirious.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
he always insisted
i needed something to believe in
yet he scoffed
attempted to laugh it off
when i promised that i built stonehenge
and the great pyramids
ground his teeth as i whispered
that the world found cuneiform by my hands
and he dropped me off
when i elaborated on the day
i walked away from babylon's tower
so
off he galloped forever
destined never to understand the factual weight of one's dreams
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
A sudden flash,
lightning's cuneiform write,
on the plack of pitch dark sky;
like a truth derived from lives
*
Sudden insights,
in human nature strike unawares,
if you look around,
some times even casual look reveals.
*
Likes and dislikes drive human lives,
and civilizations thrives or bite dust,
on their merit,
they are like leaves sprouting on a plant
an act, result of the land it stands and nutrients
it receives,
what complex laws work behind it!
how would you capture the essence of this?
--meaning is elusive even if you peel
the onion, for long,
human nature defies all descernable patterns.
*
Pharova Khufu of Egypt,
wallowing in riches, all his life
(in the stories of past)
was in love with
his two boats, more than any other thing,
(one made of acecea and other from cider)
king, aimed his longing's sharp point
at this two wooden objects,
(a guy who had no problem in focusing
bless him, he deserves credit for that one decisiveness)
*
And when he died,
they thought these boats were the things
he would miss more than his wives,
what else could be possible?
they carefully laid to rest with him, these two beloveds-
Khufu with two lovely boats; his love objects,
his wish was honored
*
**Imagine a man of immense wealth
which eventually reduced to some wood,
the size of two boats,
(the symbol of futility
human life represents,)
trveling the great beyond,
with his legs, one each
on a boat.**
*
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
I wanted to write about
The first
Time I saw a spotlight
And knew what it meant
It was in a theater
And
Smoke machines blew
The light into existence a light
I had never seen before the spotlights
They circled cut paths I couldn’t
Follow
Define
Shining through the smoke
Light made color made smoke made real
It wasn’t the light I saw it was the smoke spotlit but it was
Only the light I knew
Saw
Could see
Until I thought of driving
Home
Late one night in the front seat and falling asleep
As our headlights cut through the fog
And knowing if I could just
Crawl through the window and
Sit on the hood of the
Car and reach out my foot and stand
on the fog-beam I would
Be carried somewhere more comfortable than the
One crick-necked nook
I had found that would
Let me fall asleep dreaming of
Crawling through windows. I wanted
To write about that first time,
When I watched the spotlights draw symbols
A cuneiform language only the smoke could read and how the
Smoke danced and I realized
The only way to shine is to be
So
Small
That you cannot cast a shadow,
That everything casts a shadow that
To shine you must block something else from shining
Because we are not suns
We are not
We are small and
Lonely
moons.
But what if we were so small we didn’t have to be?
We could be dust and smoke and
The light could dance through us
Together
And we would dance through it
And bring it to life
Write in a language only
We can read as we swim through ourselves
Ourselves the light we’re swimming through
Light is only light until it hits the dust
The dust makes the beam
Be small with me and build beams of light in a small theater
Hall where the dust has
Collected where
We have collected
Ourselves.
That is what I wanted to write
About but as I watched the
Beams moving
And learned the smoke of a
Dusty theater-room
And how it dances
Even after the light leaves it,
It must, even though
I
Cannot see
It, because it is
Always ready always
Dancing when the light arrives
The dust is a beam of light
Waiting
To be built, a boat
Waiting
To breathe an ocean into
Existence and float
Through it and
Be rocked
By it and
Be
It, is
What I wanted to write about but
As I watched the beams
Moving one
Met my eye
And
The smoke vanished
And
The beam vanished
And
There was nothing
But the light
Staring at me
Ripping my shadow
Out of me and
Hurling it behind me only
For a second
An angry and
Vengeful second who are you to
Tell me that I need the dust?
You are not a sun
You are barely a moon you are
So small
So
small
And still you cast a shadow you
Take from me
Use me
Know yourself
Build your world
By me with me through me
And you sit
In this dusty theater hall
So small
And want to write
That it is dust that makes the beam?
No smoke machine could
Blow the light into
Existence what would you call
Smoke if there was no light to
Pass through it to
Light it breathe it into
Existence now
Sit
Lonely and selfish
moon
And watch the show.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
I want to make love to you violently
I want to put my hands on you
I have been told that I am a good lover
Because of the way I use my hands
Forgive my fingerprints
I am still learning how to be gentle
And
I want to **** you like a crime scene
So much DNA evidence in the aftermath
We both come like ******
It is your hair
And skin
And sweat
In my nails
And teeth
And sheets
I have never done things gracefully
But I have learned that loving proper
Is not seen in how well you say grace
But is seen in your willingness to sit at the table
I will dine on you
Leave my sweet tooth in your naval
You can scar up my empty spots
Until this hardened tissue
Becomes the secret cuneiform of regret
For all the ways I didn’t love you
When I had the chance
Now’s my chance
To love you like a vagrant fire in a forest
When I was busy building homes
At the base of your volcano
These hands are practiced
in callous
in rough
in firm grip steel kettle fire without the wet rag
And I want to put them on you
Until none of this makes sense
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 2:27 AM UTC
Forgive me for my silence
Just that
My mouth has only ever been good
For ******* things up
I know
The cherry pie you baked your heart into
Still tasted like the lucky side of copper
I know all that sweet
Is the only way to keep it down
I know you might think you deserve this
You don't
These scars are not some secret cuneiform
There are no answers waiting
In the long nights you wish would just end
What we all keep forgetting
Is there is always a place of rest
You can rest here
In my silence I am still learning that
Still learning how to properly hold people
Still trying to get my timing right
Because
When is it ever really a good time
To say I love you
I know we’ve all been told
These types of things get easier
But even if they did
I wouldn’t want them to
We are supposed to be complicated
Like my awkward silence
While staring you down in a parking lot
Wondering again
Why I didn’t say what I was thinking
If you wanted to know
I was thinking
My hands have only ever been good for squeezing
And my heart has only ever been good for pumping
And my mouth has only ever been good
For ******* things up
So forgive me
Just that I wanted to keep you here
A little longer
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 11:20 PM UTC
*children the happy idiots, secondary children doubly idiotic thinking of love idealising via Darwinism, must be a toast... well surrender you and i, i'd too be ably nimble, but i got Mandela on my back quacking: you?! what the **** yeah, they said till the field and laugh and pretend. brain dead you ***** BRAIN... DEAD! they didn't hear you, they're english, try Celtic.. Brie anomaly of Normandy... nothing... what about egyptian? sha shoo shisha collar coo coo? hey... that works, lets give the flapping owl a cuneiform signature worth a sunset!*
love it,
slightly drunk,
got a bottle of whiskey ready,
cried listening to a horror film
soundtrack, got over 200 reads on a poem
of mine,
got hooked on a pope song
from the early millennials,
when i was a teen hammering leftover
refrigerators on the sly with a tourist
as a party was taking place,
and the un-lived the happily ever after
with the suicide of the Grimm brothers
for subsequent pressures that demanded
attentive dissatisfaction marginalised
into concrete paragraphs sentenced for a grade
for a furthering from schooled to schooling.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC
The dough is molten at oven spring,
like a prayer to the historicity of things ..
Have we not imagined yesterdays
in the ritual of bread ? While our pasts
lay embezzled, on the tongues of men, the
sentiment of centuries colluded in germ,
echoing through heirloom remembrances
those floury philosophies of change.
While I stretch dough to gaze past
a windowpane, as far back as Khorasan ..
they were other names then, another
elasticity in time. Faith is a memory
of settled people in lands of milk and
honey, where every drought, every flood
spawns a new religion .. and the wheat,
always begs the same old question:
Are we there yet, in the fertile crescent
of opportunity ? The grains haven't changed
in their stolid countenance - long, subtle,
germy, cosseted. In the granaries of kings ..
they are willed by royal decree, never to die
in an eternal future and like humankind,
who score bread in the cuneiform of hearts,
grain is always thirsting to seed the land.
Sep 20, 2021
Sep 20, 2021 at 10:49 AM UTC
like benny profane
@ the sailors' grave
boot heels etch
Hieroglyphic cuneiform
on saw dusted floors,
while blobs of mercury
nailed to the bar
drip
down
nauseatingly poetic
accomplishing nothing
proving even less.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
they do not speak
mouths sutured shut
their words, thoughts, appear on their skin
like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not
by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels
that maimed them
they do not speak
though their screams appear
as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants,
their whispers as smooth vowels
on their exposed hides
they do not speak
but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings
the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes
and the sound stars made
upon colossal collapse
they do not speak
but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code
“lesser beasts” read with feral snouts
and see on the breached breaths
the silenced try
to conceal
they do not speak
though they see the mocking mouths of their captors
and their words that fly through the air
slicing through these mutes, as if
they were never there
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
her body a sack of tubes
open wounds
like wet braided mouths
muttering thunder tunnels
she watching Friday night frights
of a cruel image,
a man; with sledge hammer genitals
looking at her through a shivered mirror
desire holds her transfixed
like a blink less eye staring
at a pinned butterfly
her hunger panged tongue
locomotes side to side
in fidget spirals
brewing red lipped bubbles
like gagged
weeping cuneiform tears
imagining
an immortal portrait of lusts tribe
while downy mists of dancing worms
eat scattered apples
with love that moves destiny
disobediently grinning
like a jeering peninsula
she imagined a coil of swollen barbs
a sea of *****
rapturous arched tongues
licking ******** urethra tornados
and flooding night music
like witches whistle through cat bones
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 3:31 PM UTC
Dames dimeless during durations of
duress, unless uniform wardrobes
in cuneiform earlobes eloping in last
gasps of breath, breathed by an opposite
*** on a raft drafted and crafted by
bureaucrats that sat upon rat traps.
The fat cats gasp under last laughs.
They can yap about the fallen all day
and paid based on grades in a vicious
cycle of buy - sell - trade. They caved in
as Persians sigh at the fading world
hurled beneath convuluted swirls of black pearls.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
Arteries benumbed
Reading pharmaceutical's inserts no fun
Reading your mind even worse
Print so small
Foldings such as a roadmap
Those molecular models delineated
Moods might just as well be
Translating cuneiform
You wedge-shape marks on me
Deceptive blinks cut my clayey gray matter
That mascara you wear
Like kajal on Persian Princess
Ovular pills with spider legs
How do I defend from?
Enigmatical ellipses
Narcotic exotic
I look for, but find no
Adjoining pamphlets or warnings
To all your strange side-effects
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Pen and paper be my voice
Relate my relay to those who are bothered
In an ancient cuneiform on papyrus or stone
Colorful graffiti of my sentiments on display
Tired of hearing too many voices
And fighting for my own to be heard
In a sea of confusion and tension
I prefer to swim ashore to solid ground
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
I linger in
absolute dedication
for your sanctioned
words to me.
Your cuneiform gives me life
when all
of mine has
been suctioned dry
I am a budding tulip,
to the earth
the propinquity
of its butterfly effect
With each ripple
the beautiful insect of the world
***** the very soul
out of my being
You, my dear
pollinate each of my
empty stigmas
with your cloying words
Sticking to my dry soul
with an ease that can only mean
in sufferance,
we will find our happenstance
*Leave your unease at the door
you have no need for it with me,
love.*
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.
Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.
Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.
Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.
Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
Empty cars drive down
the roads of my soul.
While rain falls and collects into pools
of lost memories.
That sing in a half remembered language,
images that flow into forms,
as strange lizards crawl out from under
their polished runes at the curbs.
To swim down the lanes of the road
cuneiform between phantasmal tires and chimerical highways.
As the fishtails of the jalopies,
wiggle as they echo down the byways.
Past luminous sunflowers the size of small cities.
While beautiful women with long damp hair,
weave wild flowers from the empty fields,
and place them on their brows and between the shells of their ears,
and ignore my phantom passing with their mysterious labors.
My teeth morph into typewriter keys
i slowly pull a sheet of simple paper
across my cold metal spindle
and with my dreaming eyes:
watch the chrome unicorn on the front of my automobile,
strain the sky tears as the raindrops loft down,
like liquid diamonds,
and splash against the glass panes of the wind shield.
This silent single horned hood ornament
is like a weather vane pointing
to otherworldly horizons
hope shimmers in the liquid deluge.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
I don't write because I can,
or even sometimes because I want to.
I write because words surround me
in the air; glistening, screaming and needling
into my being--
infecting my crimson and azure paths
with their ( { ( { electric cacophony} ) } ), ( )
vibrating sacred whispers of musical patterns /<+>\
dripping directly into my spirit aglow with creation,
imbuing a certain serenity of past, now and future cuneiform tattoos
unto my mind--
high as a shooting star gliding in midnight moonbeams...
It's like when a fish stops moving it will die.
Every day it is a glorious struggle to keep up with myself,
these words,
so as not to drown in the insanity.
These words once inhaled by ancestors, whales and grass
hurl through space, time and the infinite creation
slamming into me;
a mercurial, rose watery doorway portal conduit transmitter
typing bebop lightning striking your match stick soul,
buzzing and manifesting rainbow jazz steps connecting us!
Dishonor would chew me from the inside out
should I not comply.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
I hurried...
a hooded scrape
of epaulette through
rhododendron corridors
an exit to the brace.
All tradition is mine
so I threw her a peace sign
that caught in the ivy
both long-tooth
and way-tied
I walked....
a slow Nantucket sleigh ride
to the field where she waited,
tall,
sheep- skinned in her cuneiform
We talked..
Met, smoking by the ringers net
sequestered in the biscuit verge.
Too long into the bison grass
of Pompeii afternoons, is how
We slept
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
*Her body is
Calligraphy.
Her attitude is
Old English.
Her eyes are
Morse Code.
Her smile is
Hieroglyphics;
Her soul is
Cuneiform.
Her words
are Meroitic.
But her mind is
Masonic Writing
Where as she keeps
So many secrets.*
- (A.F)
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
When I die
No one will know
My stones will fall heavy to the floor
Each one engraved
Chiselled by primal hands
With another lonely sorrow
A cuneiform alphabet
I spent my life carving brittle rocks
In sights unseen
When I die
I die again
This times the last time
When I die
I will die a young man
My skin still beautiful to the world
But my skin grown cold
My forgotten dreams
A short time that was wasted
My rotting flesh
My blood standing still in my arms
That cannot hold
When I die
It will be because I've given up
And God shows me mercy
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
I
being crucified
died.
You did not see me fall
or see the memories that dripped my blood down the concrete walls of yesterday and when I lay there still and broken by the empty stores and unlit lamps,franked as if by postage and the stamps that stamped upon my shattered soul,I felt
whole.
In pieces and yet pieced together,the man you like or not it's up to you whether you do.
I remain a reminder of the pain now gone and one remembers a touch too much at times,
hard and easy times,crayoned soft times,lead pencil lines that tore across my skin,tin tack look back time pressing in on me,
but you did not see me fall or bleed, recognise the need,stem the flow,
it was I who stood aside and watched me slowly drop and couldn't stop the embolism,attacked by criticism,the symbolism all but knew and I,and I
was crucified bled out,read out cuneiform until it dawned on me that you could see and I was but a symptom not the cause.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC