"curation" poems
_“perhaps the sun is a teacup, spilled by a girl in a skyhouse who laughs in polka dots–”_
You wrote like someone
who had been listening
long before speaking,
each poem a hush,
each repost a gentle offering.
This space once held you,
your words, your calm curation,
a gentle steadiness
in a shifting field of voices.
take this small goodbye
not as an end,
but as a door left open,
just in case
you return with your light.
Until then,
may strength find you
in soft moments,
and peace arrive
never needing to be earned.
Jul 24, 2025
Jul 24, 2025 at 6:28 PM UTC
With ideas in her head,
she acquires ingredients from creation.
She picks up some bread,
some meats and some crustacean.
With purchases in her hands,
she assembles them into her curation.
Each ingredient has a plan,
that's all part of her preparation.
She cook in her pots and pans,
dishes of her imagination.
Juggling flavours and textures,
from experience and experimentation.
She host her friends regularly,
not any one group particularly.
With smiles, laughter and her kitchen art,
everyone sense the generosity from her heart.
She is the artist,
the scientist,
the chef,
the friend
and my wife.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 5:39 AM UTC
I feel as if there is a seed that was planted in all of us to search for definition, whether it be of self or of anything else, but search for definition none the less.
As if the things that provide the worth are even there, and not ever more present in the distance of two individual selfs.
As the past would show us, even in its weakest state, it is still distance that determines who is what.
It's so easy to forget that it's believed we spend our time searching for things, when really we're just trying to find where they begin.
Even though beginnings in themselves are easy to find since there so many of them, almost none of them are the same.
This also is why they are frightening; because there has never been anything in humanity's existence that is more terrifying than uncertainty, and finding a lack of, in places that were once full.
Everything turns into:
"There was so much here, and now there is nothing."
Eventually, you start to only think about the specifics in life that were absent from you, and you even try to remeber things you know were never there.
This happens to everyone at some point, and most never understand it when it does.
And at best, you learn to not see people as a place to go.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
My patience is exasperated
So negative connotations
Are analytical advice, on a diagram of ******
for life as AnNotation
Used as emphatic confirmation
That my formations deformed,
so be warned, you won't be warmed
by hearing I've conformed
To be socially reborn or Reformed
no Solubility just scorn
Death of Altruism not reborn
My attempt to succeed is Forlorn
****** without pleasure like ****
With an actress who's *****
Unable to reject the amorous nature
Of the advancement taking place
Only to try to post placate
But u can't humorously play hate
That's like calling date ****
a play date, and tho karma may take
Action a day late
It'll subtract your pay rate
And I try to listen when they say wait
Otherwise I Trade faith
For fortune so pray fate
Has Infallibility and acts
With revenge and intends to ignore
Its Sanctification on your behalf
But without assured Omniscience
Or Predestination I'm left
Wit bitter taste from various Mongrels
so nefarious I wish for death
Developing an Aversion to breath
A Discrepancy now remains
Some say lifes a gift and it contradicts
when I say it's inhumane
A reality based on haste purgatory
Where narcissists splurge on glory
And act like a real life purging story
living to fill their urge for gory
Temptations and never hoarding
Desires to control with moderations
like earths resource no Conservation
But this is just my Observation
Or maybe there's no correlation
and I just **** a curation
Maybe my pessimisms Pervasion
Has damaged me for the duration
Of life never to vacation
From my imprisoned state
So internally conflicted I'm eternally
Restricted to unsolicited hate
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
https://www.facebook.com/isconnectivityahumanright
well done Mr. Zuckerberg,
but just to colorize your noble intent
with a corollary,
a lump of coal,
for you,
from my colliery,
so too,
is my human right to
disconnect, reject,
if my privacy abused,
not yours to take and trash
my human connectivity far greater value on any scale,
than your smart/good/profit intentions
to expand your product's universe
keep in mind that in my version of the small print,
is writ:
*what's mine is not yours to mine
with reckless disregard,
though you couch your takings
so nicely and legal
my right to live free,
to disconnect,
ever present, and oft considered,
for the gluten of life is in the voice,
the real touch,
not in the adverts
so cleverly engineered, to insert*
regarding Facebook,
I query daily,
is this time spent of true worth,
the wheat, the whole grains of life
too oft lost,
suffocated by the voluminous and volubly trash,
by the unending absorbing waterfall of
"I didn't need to know that"
for now, Mr. Mark,
just
keep this in mind,
one of my social curation skills,
on my settings tab inserted,
is one listed as
nuclear,
a/k/a
bye-bye
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
exasperated, emasculated,
So the negative connotations
From life's ****** molestation,
**** from this Annotation
emphatic, tragic confirmation
That my formations deformed,
so be warned, u won't be warmed by hearing I've conformed
To be socially Reformed
Reborn, no Solubility of scorn
No Altruism, so Imprisoned
is peace's vision, Forlorn
****** but pleasure like ****
Isn't a focus, so like ****
I'm Unable to reject the amorous nature
Of what will take place
But I fail as I try to placate
Or humorously play hate
But that's like calling date ****
just an innocent play date
when we're ****** for pay day
Catching Freedom in an Infallible trap
Leaving memories, both enemies, and remedies, when flashing back
But without Omniscience, it seems
Only Predestination Is left
Wit bitter taste of self hate,accepting fate,
now only death
can stop the new Aversion to breath
Causing a Discrepancy to remain
Some say lifes a gift to contradict
all i insist is inhumane
A reality based on haste, hate,
A purgatory Where narcissists
Prove that ignorance is bliss,
cuz happy Usually r ignorant as ****
Or maybe there's no correlation
and I just **** at curation
Maybe pessimisms Pervasion
Has damaged me for the duration
Of life never to vacation
From rigid Dichotomies like
Believing in prophets or profits
Or what's legal and wuts right
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 3:06 AM UTC
I am the mountain man.
I am the shifting sands.
I am the laughter through gritted teeth,
I am the squint of concentration,
I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll.
I am the Zeit Ghost.
I am the Underwerewolf.
I am the Pseudonami.
I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am."
I am the Red Sun Samurai.
I am the Locomotive Provocateur.
I am the bones of kings and slaves.
I am the breath of the wind in the trees.
I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor.
I am the whip of the matador.
I am sunken cities in the swamp.
I am Firestarter.
Spark Guarder.
I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces.
I am capitulated capitalism.
I am the captain of the sky ship to
Ghost Country.
I am a natural amphetamine
a synthetic homeopathic
a cure for the sad
curation for the lost
death for the solid and unchanging.
I am the mask of roots.
I am a treehouse full of books.
I am the sword in the daytime.
I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker
the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker
the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders.
Half-slumbering in your living room.
One eye on your joy, the other searching
for answers to the unanswerable question of:
where did it go?
Fully alive, pacing the gravestones
kisses to flowers in the new moon
and a pocketful of reality checks.
Helping you let go of everything
Holding you back.
Hoping you'll hold onto me.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
whereas ****** and hate are more palatable than ***
and art.
and the music of the world- you ****** up with your ****** voice:
you felt things hard but not well
and so were not worth
anything.
(and it was as
just
as it might have been.)
morbid is the mouth that tamed you to this loveliness
where it's cool to be sick.
and watch our arms wither back to the
lips bounded by vulgarities unspoken:
all the while they deserve far worse.
best
friends long since ****** over
scream out for eternal homes that fail to exist.
sick enough to the soft stomach. folds over the belt and hangs there just
enough to feel
shame. hair caught in the buckle and
pulling.
fare free-er than the other ones:
the violence of the stock photo.
and of the clip art.
and of the godfearing people.
their curation was
like a goodmorning to the legs that carried you, homeless,
out of my caring.
like the salt, kicked around
by
boots that don't get taken off at the door.
like the trimming of a fingernail.
like the moisture of a breath.
but all this you embroidered into
the murmuring
to escape the fat sickle of the crop that hung lowly to the warm air
-out of the shower, ready to destroy us all
all the while wanting to be knotted
by any beast big enough to devour you
and combing through it all
i heard you crying
and i might have wept too
save for the bitterness still kept between my brows
your greatest gift all.
and by the
sores and the soles of my
encroachment,
we might build cities to that
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
The frog-spotted leaves fading from the trees picked by sticky, little hands
Remind me of all the seconds that have passed
And inversely, the infinity that lines every moment;
The infinite me’s that have been slaughtered and reborn—
Eyes peeking through the ash, stretching my neck
Out to the world that will warm my fleshy, new skin.
But my body’s made a home of the doldrums,
Clipped feathers and heavy air, breathing strangulation—
How hard it is for me to see you in color;
You were black and white—
A noir film in high contrast, a classic tragedy:
Touched fingertips before wilting into static.
Our great debut, and now we are left,
Our bones growing brittle,
To grasp for loneliness with someone else.
And I could not stand, vacant
As an empty room, so I filled myself with
Wrath like warm exhaust fumes,
Overturning memories like a systemized holocaust
Just to liken you to a shadow puppet.
But the curation of spite lights the crook of your mind that shelters the
Remnants and splinters of separate, past lives you
Shed like a sleeve of skin.
Slivers of frozen time like artifacts at attention,
Preserved and obscured beneath a smudged pane of glass
That grows thicker and filthier—
Here lies validation for all the fruitless pain; blind happiness; lost time.
With dust collecting upon breath,
I find you who was once the blush that quilts the earth in cotton before the settling sun
And remember your comfort: a sweet cherry lozenge
Melting and staining the inner corners of lips;
Burgundy of heavy habit, of restless nights and dry, shut mouths;
Of stale disappointment through knotted fists,
Yet the warmth of a matted childhood blanket,
We had in a glance.
The few quivering embers that lay
In the back of our throats suffocate:
We are ash
And crushed violets of dark circles and the beauty in failure.
But while memories fade into ghosts and people into fog,
You will always be
Two blue diamonds, in a wash of golden light
Yawning through the veil of smoke and seconds,
Withholding your spectrum.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Living Poetry, no words I can say nor that I will ever commit to memory will encompass your divine presence
Gallivanting Masterpiece, what can an artist utter to the human eyes' ultimate desire; so magnificently crafted a surreal aesthetic
Illustrious Symphony, the classical orchestration of your harmonious voice is a forbidden composition for it can not be recreated
The Transcendent Intellect, jewels of wisdom in the mind of an exalted soul capable of making an imperfect human metamorphose into an ethereal soul
Muse what depth of curation took place to fabricate a Goddess among the mortal plane, what grandiose wine press concocted the most intoxicating wine turning men of hatred into drunkards of love.
To say I love you, that I adore your every movement, that I kiss the ground upon which you walk are all a silver of the vast depth of my endearment of my pure unadulterated love for you
What we have is something untainted, timeless, it's irreplaceable
It is Us
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 11:14 AM UTC
Today I leave nothing to the imagination
In a historically accurate setting.
I, your narrator to navigate through
Corridors of a physical mindscape
(no escape)
Decorated with impressions and caricatures.
Follow my voice,
I invite and incite all Memories:
A curation of characters and sentimentalities.
Taxidermy preserved to its last breath.
Exhibitionist curiosity.
I must be an architect
to reconstruct a desolated house.
"Welcome home," to my
Recollection residence.
Archaeological labor too, to unearth
Buried civilities and forgotten feuds.
To stand in the ashes of
A prison of twelve winters
On summits is a struggle
To surmount shades and shadows.
Pouncing, pulse,
I suture each slash with sleep.
But here you are,
pilgrim of an echo,
breathing life,
you have struck a chord
—And a dissonance that
thrusts me into the future—
that rings through my forlorn past.
This time, in that foreign country,
a new page slowly, slowly turns.
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 9:20 AM UTC
yes, and the prolonged life:
"engineering"
process... as dictated by...
listening...
i was for a long time
described as "mentally" ill...
**** it,
bring on the ethunasia
project...
sado-masochist
pro-life advocates....
people will never
ever known
how to make ontology
"coicidental"
with the natural world...
esp. given technological
advances...
no amount
of leni riefenstahl
****
***** i want to die!
because sure as ****
blüt ist geblüt...
but you will not care
foor your ailing
grandparents... will you?!
so... you want my children
to take care of them?
why is death such
an inhumane
aspect
of life?
why... no romance?
why no
byzantinischchor?
instead
byzantinischdenken?
your living will not care
for my living prior to
death,
so, why...
should i even make
theatre,
of your thought being:
the sulfer orientated
worth curation?
mother... ******* son
ego of the σχολαστικός -
of:
s'CH'OL'A
chase no sKip...
scholastic...
Me-Te-Ra-To'N-
SKe-psIE..
saying:
where is the consonant
"cut-off":
prefix,
and the vowel
"cut-in":
suffix...
i.e. in the example
of ψη:
ps'i E...
who? nor w'hat?
people chant against
the Byzantines...
but the choir...
the choir...
are what's called
the... reserves.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC
A careful hand, threading tracks like beads—
Each song a thread, a whisper's need.
A heart's collage of static noise,
Crafted hopes, hushed joys and poise.
The clack of play, the tape unwinds,
A story spooled in stops and binds.
“Listen,” it pleads, though words are few,
This mix, this bridge, from me to you.
In loops and fades, confessions spun,
The things unsaid, yet softly sung.
A borrowed voice, an unseen tear,
Echoes bound by magnetic smear.
Pressed to palm, the gift exchanged,
A quiet pact, a world arranged.
Between the hiss, in tapes grown worn,
A fleeting now, forever sworn.
Dec 18, 2024
Dec 18, 2024 at 3:45 AM UTC