"cylindrical" poems
A creative
bright sky
from a black and dark earth.
Sculpted, smooth, cylindrical.
A simple layered texture.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
There's an item that's truly essential
Of a roughly cylindrical frame
It's a marvel of modern invention
And a legend it duly became
It surpasses the birth of electric
And eclipses the slicing of bread
If it wasn't for this innovation
Then I think I would surely be dead
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Stick with me
Fix my wardrobe
Effortlessly
Hold up the curtains
Wax my thighs
Gaffer-tape Gaffer-tape
Improvise
It's useful for picking up hamsters
And it serves as a passable tie
As a gag for a amateur gangster
Or the crust of a blueberry pie
For a mite of podiatry pleasure
You can use it for mending your socks
If Pandora had come up against it
Then she'd never have opened her box
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Holding fast
Adhesive savior
Unsurpassed
Smooth as mirror glass
Diamond tough
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Marvelous stuff
It's bringing our nations together
And it's holding them firmly in place
You can use it to pull back your wrinkles
For a genuine Hollywood face
It'd surely have saved the Titanic
And they took seven rolls to the moon
Keep it near and be calm in a crisis
And predicaments inopportune
Oh, Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Mending sails
If you're tired
Of hammering nails
Buy some now
It's a thing to behold
Gaffer-tape, Gaffer-tape
Solid gold
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
The rainy season is at
The door once again,
And loneliness has
Brought me a new pillow,
But who is to defend
My repugnant soul?
Can it be the Gods?
Hear this! The rain has
Began knocking at my
Slammer door gradually,
Oh no, it is knocking
And wailing so heavily,
With his icy voice
Of storm and cold
Arresting my hearty dreams,
But I will retch at his smell
And hurry for my handkerchief,
Where is my lantern?
May be, the native doctor
Has the answer to the
Cylindrical jar containing
Her eternal juniper organs,
Indeed, it is my misfortune
To go about with the priest,
For even the child of
The priest even dies at noon,
Ah, I thought she was
Vigilant and ever-ready
To make the debtors
Chew the palm kernels,
But she became the
Portion of the exterior of
The *** that skin can cover,
I have lost my heaven,
Oh no, I have lost the
One whose neck is like a
Bunch of small-fingered plantain,
I have lost the whetstone
On which I sharpen
My thirsty sword to
Perform deeds of valour,
Let the Gods weep!
Let the ancestors wail!
Let the people of Africa,
Give me condolence of
The talking drums,
For their child is gone,
The wise woman who cut
Her thumb in order to get
A wise husband is dead,
Mother, the Okro full of
Seeds of children and literature,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
The toad likes water, but not
When the water is boiling,
Send me something
When someone is coming,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
You and I exchange gift.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:58 AM UTC
A rhombus is my favorite, crooked square.
I like haunted houses with windows with faces
and fun houses with mirrors that oval circles
that distort my body two hundred degrees.
I like haunted houses with doors at right angles,
and half moon neon protractors
that blur every shape zero degrees.
I like cubes I stack four cubes high.
I like half moon neon protractors
and scientific calculators.
I like cubes I stack ten cubes high
and old houses with ceilings that creak.
I like scientific calculators
and dividing eight billion by pi.
I like old houses with ceilings that creak
with cylindrical cans filled with old beets.
I like dividing eight billion by pi
and fun houses with mirrors that stretch right angles.
I like old houses with crooked windows,
like I said a rhombus is my favorite.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:40 PM UTC
At the end, will it be brandy-wine or mescaline to sugar coat
enlightenment, the purpose,
the omnipotent influence?
Some live to make a whirling dervish swoon.
Some pray to Love, composing sonnets for the moon.
Some find themselves floating, bloated lungs with lazy currents,
mourning free-will.
With questions perched atop your windowsill,
do decomposing wings pull with yearning to wake
in dawn's warning? Your beak,
a rattling, pneumonic drill.
It's a dead end,
fear and adrenaline.
Invite me in
to ostracizing nuisances.
Therefore,
I may imprison myself in cylindrical cells,
pop out wisdom like bubble-wrap,
fight the mighty ocean swells,
or shimmy up the lobster trap,
With inevitable siege by buzzards eying wildly,
shedding sea-salt feathers that won't be washed for weeks.
Still, the mad-hatter trades me one more spill for spill.
And I taste the honesty we sip for swollen memories
whose frantic bodies let fists fly on flushed faces
that we never truly see.
In profound confusion we stumble, blind.
Then, we all forget so blissfully,
once we reach the rainbow's end.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
We twist words,
So they look like beautiful
Cylindrical knots
Than the lines they really are.
Art is never really made out of
Straight lines,
It comes with curves, tangles,
And mystery.
Writers are liars.
We embellish, we polish,
We try to put as much spice in your
Cup of coffee just so you can hear us
Think.
We lie. Hard. Yeah there's no such place as "hobbiton"
And Sherlock Holmes was never a real person.
And there's no district 12 where Romeo met Juliet.
All lies.
But yet, we love them.
We scream feed us more.
Writers are liars, but we also ******
Mirder out characters
When we get bored with them.
You think Moriarty was bad,
See the man penning his words,
His soul is darker than death.
We are liars. And thats why we are good writers. Because we
Don't need the truth to support ourselves.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Before taking out a clean sheet of paper,
I hold before the blue of the window
a freshly-sharpened pencil pointing toward heaven
and blow the imperceptible dust
from the needle-tip
before getting down to business.
For in life’s long journey
few things afford greater satisfaction
than turning the crank
and powering the cylindrical burrs
of a mechanism which sharpens
the dulled mind of a yellow number 2 pencil.
In the silver pencil sharpener
I witness the marriage of utility and beauty
—a model for art and a purpose for life
celebrated each morning before this small altar.
2.6k
A mechanized millennium
studded
with silver rivets hammered from
the once glorious dreams of the populace
They are now all identical.
cylindrical
instruments that pierce the flesh of progress
conformity:
the price paid to advance across the toll bridge
that is "the betterment of society"
But bland and boring can hardly be better
than stark and standoffish rants of individual pipe dreams
They took those too-
the pipe dreams are now piping in the plumbing that runs beneath the streets
we walk all over them.
only half realizing they exist and not half caring
anymore
with spirits that lack luster our
low lackluster dreams are dying
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Around Mayadevi Temple (Circa)
Surrounded by pillars of our age
Cultivated with reminiscence of a
graceful child and his mother
Smiling ruins reflecting the history
A child of destiny who stepped in
with his seven birth steps over lotus
A tribute from Ashoka,
Cylindrical pillar inscribing his regards,
To the one who chose world enlightenment
over easy royal luxury,
To the one who turned him knight of peace
from emperor of wars.
No Shoes Allowed Inside
Leave your turbulence and rush out the gate
The chanting of mantras will cool down your hot head
The cameras of tourist will bring smiles to face
And at reflection on sacred pool,
Where Mother Mayadevi shed down her motherly sorrows
Over the transformation of Beloved Prince to Holy Buddha,
Let you find the lost purpose in ripples of calmness
The place where Sidhhartha played as child
and grew up to be Light of Asia
Nurture again the true purpose as for being Human
For Peace , For harmony, For Love
As you nap under revitalizing shades of Peepal trees
Inhale today, the air that whistles your resolves
Inside garden of peace, Around Mayadevi Temple
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
Sometimes the feeling of loneliness becomes so tangible that the void seems to swallow you from the inside out, emanating from the stomach and reaching out, engulfing the body like a fist closing around a tumbler of whiskey.
This void takes on a weight; light at first, bearable. The tumbler of whiskey with a resting hand around it. Then the fist begins to close so forcefully and the cylindrical glass of the tumbler has no choice but to shatter from it. The glass shards scatter and the whiskey flows and the fist still keeps closing. Always closing. Never resting.
Never resting.
Sometimes when I miss you, when I feel like a tumbler of whiskey enclosed in your fist, I imagine your voice inside my head singing along to your favourite song. I imagine your arms around me, your hand spreading warmth up my thigh, your tongue dancing along my collarbones, up my neck, and tracing the bottom of my earlobe. I am not beautiful but your mouth has me almost convinced that I could be.
Sometimes when your arms are around me, I feel like that tumbler of whiskey encased in a fist. When you kiss me, I feel myself shatter and I feel the whiskey run. But it's not whiskey, it's love. It pours out of me whenever you sing the wrong lyrics to your favourite song.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
She's the kind of girl
that craves cylindrical pleasure,
a personality void
of intellectual construction
With a wave that is composed
of a wiggle of her fingers
and a smile,
like a putrid smell,
it lingers
Her words are spoken softly
and their meaning is softer,
the intent is plain to see
that she is as lyrical
as the poorly written poem
She is
the product
of poorly written poems
Thank you Shakespeare,
kudos Kleats
you have all created
the foundation
of 21st century women.
The glistening angels
that serve no purpose
other to drain you
physically and mentally
The betrothed
and the smitten
write their horrid songs
about the angels
(They're called hoes now, Bill)
I for one
will stand my ground
against the leeches
But too bad the ground
is made of wet sand.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 12:53 PM UTC
(The page is torn on the left alignment)
...And then they would place their pistols beneath their chins and pull the trigger. I would see it as some cylindrical spatter of blood escaping from the tops of their heads, like over exaggerated gore from the adult movies. So what would happen next for them exactly? Blackness? No. That is still something. Perhaps just empty. No. Can't be. Empty has potential to be filled, rendering it not quite nothing. I suppose it would be like before you were born. Do you remember it?
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
like morse code, you were a code of dots and lines nobody could ever understand
nobody could ever navigate your mountains, valleys, forests, roads, and oceans, even
with help with a map or compass, you're an incomplete equation that can't be added up
a static signal, an unknown error, a dark secret that flourishes under pressure perhaps
it's hidden in the background story, covered in a web of lies and coated with grime
filled to the brim in an air tight cylindrical container with your charming vices
white lies become obsidian walls, obsidian walls become a prison for you, a bird
unable to fly freely and scream it's sorrows to the sky blaming shattered ruins
and broken homes and unquestioned scars to whoever decided to create us
absolutely exhausted of unrequited answers, these questions give no solutions
- kra
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
No one else and no one else's
Only the cylindrical sapphire and the girl who carries it
Alone
In pastures of barley and mint leaves
To moan and mourn
To lose and to lust for the forgotten treasures of tomorrow
But that's where I found her
Though she cried for a thousand years I could never see her tears through the damp curtain of my own
Alone
We slept in sin
Separated through passing time by rotting skin and bone
And still we wait and wonder at our muddied misfortune
Together
Until these clouded thoughts blow past
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
A flock of mandarin parakeets found themselves a perch amidst the strategy play in green palace trees, for which they are responsible, having laid not one single claim upon future tyrannies. However, the forests in their emerald, sensing disarray, took on a maternal stare while attaching silencers to those beaks in nests where, cries of newborn chickadees may attract the murderous affairs of flight invasion. The young baby birds now protected inside carefully wrapped tiny leaf cones. How unfortunate for them, with their cruel linear perspective of this cylindrical summer!
The army of parakeets pitch up their parachutes in invisible tents. They do in fact plan to stay for awhile. As they keep close watch over the tree terrestrial, their heads spin 360 degree tropical smiles.
They have come to avenge the ****** of color orange.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
It was 2 a.m, as usual.
The doorbell rang and I knew right away
who would be slouched against the rusty gate
stuffed with cylindrical flyers full of food i'll never buy.
Hunched over in a hand me down coat
with that strange scarf I never liked tied around your throat.
You flashed a smile, a brief “hey” slipping through it's lack of authenticity.
and I mimicked you, as babies do, and stepped barefoot onto the
cigarette littered leaf scattered stoop, a bowl of knock off cereal cupped
in both my hands, my hair still wet, my mind still drunk.
I fumbled to the stairs and placed myself atop them
and you mimicked me, as babies do,
placing your fragile frame beside me, a few more inches away than usual.
Without hesitation you slid through your speech
and I nodded and smiled and continued to attempt to attract you
despite circumstance, despite that glowing ominous ornament
dangled high in sky, distracting my eyes and passing the time.
We agreed to demolish whatever was left standing from that wall we built,
of awkward breakfasts, yearning eyes across parties, anonymous hairs on jackets,
make out sessions on tattered couches, greetings with waves.
All the details deleted, left unfinished, perhaps one day to be returned to.
As unlikely as I figured it to be.
I rose to my feet, the wind whipping down 21st street,
my tar black makeup still loosely lining my eyes,
I gently rested my head on that shoulder I so briefly admired,
and admitted to my early infatuations; the poems I had written but would never share.
You protested, said you were curious of them.
I denied you, and you didn't ask again.
But if you would've- just once more.
I would've read you them.
Maybe even this one.
But you didn't,
and much like babies,
we mimicked each other
and crawled away.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 10:22 AM UTC
Cubic zirconium eyes, and a tip toe too far
that I'm tittering on the cusp of something
that is even remotely coherent.
I've been repeating sentences in my head,
over and over again so I'm not to forget it.
This waltz with reality is getting tiring,
and my wits are too dull to cut this rug.
I believe that there is an old saying about that
but I could be confused with something other then words.
I never did like the number seven
masquerading as cylindrical. Never the less,
there is just three more steps, and
a skipped heart beat, and then, and only
then I can finally come to my conclusion.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
That yellow miniskirt
On
My
Cylindrical
Slim body,
Makes you uncontrolled,
I feel your fingers over me
That touch,
Your lips
And that fire you lighted on me
Gives you pleasure
The more you inhale me inside
The more you feel high
But suddenly
You leave me unsatisfied
Then,
I hear your voice
“Bro, can I have another cigarette?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 9:25 AM UTC
There's a girl who's in denial
She doesn't know the truth
And doesn't seek to
There's a girl who dreams of cobblestone driveways
And freshly cut sunflowers in a cylindrical vase
She sees not love but reason to love
There's a girl who wants to share her existence with something bigger than herself
She lives by literature and swears by music
And wants the world in her palms, but only upon her own doing
There's a girl who dreams of someone
She can't identify him or his existence
Yet craves him every day
There's a girl who gave herself away
She regrets it everyday
But knows that he formed her
There's a girl who's broken hearted
A girl who deserves the world
Rather than shards of glass and tombstones
But this girl knows
That life is consistent of glass and tombstones
But cobblestone and sunflowers and love too
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
She lives on a merry-go-round
senses dulled by blurred vision
maniacal calliope music
rides nowhere every day
mired in circle sameness.
She chose the blue horse
its golden mane rich in gilt
matched her lust then shocked
her as its cold cylindrical pole
ignored her calls to stop.
He rides two steeds behind her
eyes wild, hair disheveled
desperately out of synch
up down to her down up
laps the field again and again.
Hot desire fuels
his mad useless pursuit
anchored by metal plates
bolted to the forever
wildly spinning floor.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
Nervous butterflies
emerging from a chrysalis
of chrysanthemum wings of doves.
Flying towards burgeoning horizons
fluttering erudite on solar winds
lost amongst deranged proximities
bounded by blackened skies
Escaping realisation
subterranean rainbows flicker in prismic identities
diverging depleting
diminishing deconstruction into distinctive dominions
waning light that merges into surroundings
(bound together by the unfortunicity of birth)
[aren't all?]
Falling since conception
“all things are a part
all things are apart”
Loud
crimson daylight
excess is the prerogative of the crystalline
...
time
distances
people
such a petty quality
one feels more distance
by degrees
the closer the surroundings.
(and when I say dancing, I mean jumping through galaxies)
[oh good, I am better at the latter]
(it's like tumbling,)
[was all there ever was]
[a can? Or a cylindrical box of tin?]
…
…
…
[but I digress.]
(My my my
Don't touch the apple pie)
[if you do I will cry
antelope bones down a chalkboard.]
(what?)
[Screaming “sirens, sirens
Sleeping alarm bells
show me madness,
I am cluttered”]
there are no gods
only pillars of marshmallow
transforming, caressing
endlessly
-oliver and jonte
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Like fireflies, circling the torches on the porch.
Like moths, ebbing away at the soft cloth of clothes
It bugs me to know
Even more when you show
There is nothing I can do
To help you pull through
Like mosquitos, seven cylindrical mouths **** up several drops of blood
Like flies, frantically flapping flying ***** eaters
All the waste your handing
I'm handling
with my bare hands
There is only so much blood in a man's body
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
I can hardly remember your face,
left here in a chair,
room aglow with the muted television,
drunk as hell.
A man becomes a pigsty without a woman.
***** stains on the sports sock,
a battleaxe hangover,
bills piled by the toaster
and **** over the kitchen sink.
The bailiffs came.
I cried like a child through the burglary,
drank the Ganges in stout when it was over.
I have been drinking ever since
the Christmas lights turned on,
the town bathed in absinthe, teenage smokers,
Lithuanian women;
no chance of collision with you.
Eternal ashtray, brick upon brick,
cylindrical beams - an empire of ash
and odour. I can't smell you anymore.
How senses die, yet you remain,
stubborn as a **** on a concrete street,
stubborn in your deceit,
my old crutch, my faded ***** in heat.
I am a mess of old exchanges
whilst porn-stars **** on screen.
Fantasy is dead
as my first dog, defunct,
birthing colonies beneath the ground,
frozen over in winter.
I feel nothing. No thing.
Urges clamour for attention to keep me alive,
vague hunger, the need to bleed.
The paramedics came.
I cried like a child through the gift-wrapping,
drank from a plastic cup as they covered your face.
I can hardly form a sentence
in this fast world
of slow days and long aches in silence:
this is hell.
A man becomes a pigsty without a woman.
I see you in my ridiculous moments,
the insanity that stands in your place,
fractured light in the doorway-
my obsessive state, your forgotten face.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
A flock of mandarin parakeets found themselves a perch amidst the strategy play in green palace trees, for which they are responsible, having laid not one single claim upon future tyrannies. However, the forests in their emerald, sensing disarray, took on a maternal stare while attaching silencers to those beaks in nests where, cries of newborn chickadees may attract the murderous affairs of flight invasion. The young baby birds now protected inside carefully wrapped tiny leaf cones. How unfortunate for them, with their cruel linear perspective of this cylindrical summer!
The army of parakeets pitch up their parachutes in invisible tents. They do in fact plan to stay for awhile. As they keep close watch over the tree terrestrial, their heads spin 360 degree tropical smiles.
They have come to avenge the ****** of color orange.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC