"deified" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
1735
One crown that no one seeks
And yet the highest head
Its isolation coveted
Its stigma deified
While Pontius Pilate lives
In whatsoever hell
That coronation pierces him
He recollects it well.
3.1k
here is something that
mother told me
about god complexes:
“everyone believes themselves
to be gods among men:
even that hideous monster from your
half-remembered Hellenistic dreams
will retreat back to
his craggy hideaway and continue
with his hedonistic ways.
the poor creature:
he will don a halo,
iconize himself in caricatures
pretending that if for a moment
his veins flow ichorous that
Icarus may have envied when his wings
beat in tandem with the footfalls of
the sun chariots’ horses.
“the sun shines upon
hallowed ground, though Polyphemus
will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze.
he herds sheep––his only acolytes––
an unabashed king in his realm,
like a god plays war, or as a child
would play house,
humming hallelujah,
veins running gold-blooded.
when moon rises,
he will hang his weary
shadow at his door and retreat
to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be
the closest he will be to the gods,
basking in the heat of Hestia’s
humble hearth.
“in the end,” mother said,
“Nobody will end up deified.
Icarus may have rained down wax and
feathers in godlike fury
before tilting his head to Helios once more;
Polyphemus waded into the sea,
eyes clouded in godlike fury
before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
371
A precious—mouldering pleasure—’tis—
To meet an Antique Book—
In just the Dress his Century wore—
A privilege—I think—
His venerable Hand to take—
And warming in our own—
A passage back—or two—to make—
To Times when he—was young—
His quaint opinions—to inspect—
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind—
The Literature of Man—
What interested Scholars—most—
What Competitions ran—
When Plato—was a Certainty—
And Sophocles—a Man—
When Sappho—was a living Girl—
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante—deified—
Facts Centuries before
He traverses—familiar—
As One should come to Town—
And tell you all your Dreams—were true—
He lived—where Dreams were born—
His presence is Enchantment—
You beg him not to go—
Old Volume shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize—just so—
2.9k
*sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty*..
1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points
bloated fish who didn't make it
swollen seals with child
and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul
nobody would believe
how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
how many of so much..
2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
the span of lands
the points of stars
the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
grinding
grinding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end
3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..
oh no..
4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)
when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?
*true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*
S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
In preserving Hugo Chavez,
every method will be tried.
If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work,
They’ll try Formaldehyde.
Madam Tussaud’s was consulted
But their wax was doomed to melt.
It is steamy in Caracas
And Hugo’s not exactly svelte.
A corpse in a glass coffin
Like Snow White on display
The late lamented Hugo
Was a saint some peasants say.
What is it with these communists
Who all faiths do decry?
They long to be like Lenin;
To be worshiped, deified.
In the end they'll use McDonald's
secret sauce to tan his hide.
Their burgers last forever
don't get me started on their fries.
If you go to Venezuela
Be sure and say hello for me
To the carcass of Caracas
preserved for posterity.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
There is a word
More powerful than any other...
Mythologised,
Romanticized,
Deified.
Men would fast for it,
Fight for it,
Live for it,
Die for it,
In hopes it could be passed
From one generation to the next.
Religions have been founded on it.
Countries went to war for it.
Way before Tolkien devised one ring to rule them all
There was a word,
Whispered and screamed.
The word was peace.
All I ask
Is don't tell me
Show me.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
The beat, the snare, the drum
Starting in at the floor and flying to my brain
**** all the people who say I’m numb
I’m sane, oh so sane!
My thinking, once a cloudy, congested, coagulate of incoherent thoughts,
Now flows free from its once catastrophically, closed chasm,
Bringing fourth meaningless, mindless motions and movements,
Showing all, that you are who you are, don’t be afraid to fall.
As the smoke clears, the crystallized casts of crushing vocals
Radiate to my ears; all we hear is the hate, the hassle, the hustle
The bustle. Look beyond what has spawned to see what you find fond.
Blinded we remain; we fight, frightened and furious against this foe.
Conformity hinders our ability to show individuality. They attack us
With ambidexterity to keep us statues of our own subconscious design,
Yet we continue to follow these wrongly deified prodigies. They’re using
Us as antibodies to cleanse what are others conformities.
Enlightened I will stay to ensure Elysium for my fellow enthusiasts.
Free from these prodigies, my persistence will not fade
To grey, black, white, withered, wretched wasted thoughts.
My mind is free, my soul deep, this music is the up-beat.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:03 AM UTC
My darkest friend who knows my darkest side,
penumbral spirit might eclipse her own;
she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
While living through what most would not abide
she bleeds for us through all the cuts she's known,
my darkest friend who knows my darkest side.
She feeds the beasts inside we've deified
and knows my monsters right down to their bones.
She gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
She wades abyss's waters at high tide
and dives in eagerly to swim alone,
my darkest friend who knows my darkest side.
Sensual, seductive, sanctified,
soft as woman, hard and strong as stone,
she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
She writes her deepest secrets, never lies,
while keeping from herself how much she's grown.
My darkest friend who knows my darkest side;
she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Early in the morning
You prepare to face the world
Like the mall
Or school
Or the mall
You face the mirror,
Just a piece of glass
With a dark background
You’ve deified
Ooh! You need eye make-up
You reach for your eyeliner
Max Factor’s finest
And open your eyes
Forcibly
Like some deer caught in the
Stage lights
Now, you begin to line your eyes with a swipe
A million children’s stomachs growling for zilch
Swipe
Mosquito-infested mothers digging for lunch at Payatas
Swipe
Cuts on a little knee from scrap metal
Swipe
Oh look! You’re tearing up
Liquid fake crystal
Forming on the dusty window to your soul
Feel it form in the corner of your eye
Feel it drip like cloud-seed rain
Feel it streak your powdered, masked face
Oh wait! You can’t feel it
You’ve gone numb
But those tears fall and fall
Perfect! Just the way you wanted
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 9:20 AM UTC
Words set to music
give the body tonic--
poetic melody:
rhymes, rhythms, caesuras,
meters, beats, stanzas
and envoys
in use.
Making millions of dollars
off an album,
platinum
pop stars:
hounded by paparazzi,
landed in a Jaccuzi;
deified are poets--
pursued by Muse's mustang
midst the prairies
of inspiration
trotting.
Poetry draws no pretty penny,
prizes like the Nobel
praise.
Mummy poetry is exhaling
in the lyrical pantheon
of music.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Poisoned.
Veins on fire.
Ashes fill a mouth once deified
Yet those standards fell short even for me
Smoldering beneath the surface
Waiting to pounce
Didn't see it coming in the form of a gold rimmed cup
Tasted sweet at first then bitter and acrid
Smoke tendrils slither around my ankles
This blaze will not be put out
A silent scream wrenches tender flesh and bone
Poisoned.
The water. Don't drink the water.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC
these are our leaders: ash-born, clay-footed,
emerging in the fudge grays of beyond light,
shadows of the incense plumes
we light in prayer
long washed ashore here from yonder worlds
of darkness and mystery
by a wand wave thieve-made,
exiled our kings to the far realms, alien
then this self-lost band
of otherworldly priests, effeminate
our smiths and weavers, liars
our bards that sung of heroes
and conniving crooks our tradesmen
no we are not to prosper in common
with our kinsmen across the hills
but in the name of God, amen,
say peace to the holy ghosts,
rises deified a language and a nation
so we break the idols of the past
and garland our heroes of reason
clay-footed they come,
and die drowning without an heir
alpha and omega
of our rootless world,
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
She invited me into her palace of art,
Where everything signified something else.
She wore a silvery gown,
Covered with a million miniature mirrors.
I was badly dressed.
“Beautiful lady, be my love
and heal my soul.
My life is fragments.
Make me whole.”
“I made this place to stand apart,
A window to a world purer, deeply felt.
Everything here is for you but my heart.
Don’t get the idea that it’s going to melt
Later on.” Music played.
Nirvana. Or maybe it was “Deacon Blues.”
Twisted letters carved
On doorknobs offered clues
To someone else’s mystery.
“Then be my muse,
Teach me the language of clouds
The coded words on the ceiling’s vault.”
A digital river flowed beneath
A winding stair down to an analog sea.
I asked “Are these ‘caverns measureless to man’?”
“Yes,” she said, “But not to woman.”
I wandered through room after room,
One printed, one painted, one sculpted, one
Paneled with friezes like the blazing tomb
Of an epic queen deified by the sun.
I saw a near-empty room with a single chair.
The light defined its form,
its form escaping into light.
“Is this real or a photo?”
“Yes,” she serenely replied.
I came to two doors. One said Discipline,
One Desire. “How can I possibly choose?”
“They lead to the same place,” she said.
What was real and what wasn’t flowed together
“You’re starting to figure it out.”
The innocence of a woman’s arched back,
And the wisdom of children.
The solitude of a lonely pier.
I knelt and I thanked her “Was all this for me?”
“I made this to give away. Not just for you.
What have you learned? Let’s review.
“Art is a shield
Against falling glass. Art healed
My divided mind, which used to devour
Itself, giving away its power.
Art is hunger, a piercing lack.
Art is a ride on a gull’s back.
Art is a dodge, the as of the mirror.
Art destroys, callous clearer
Of old order. Art is a dance,
a surrender to chance.
Art is not all seduction and fire
Or tethered to your desire
(Except when it is).
Beyond the dazzle of you and me,
Art is a failing light for learning how to see.”
I said “Now I understand less than before.”
“Then you’re ready.
Imagine starry ways beyond these walls.
Use an innocent eye.
Confusion calls.”
I never saw her again.
But it was enough
to start small.
She tempted me like an empty page.
From this immense vacuum, I write.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC
You chided and misguided--
Sighed and chided snidely--
While I stood there and deified:
Your opinion was once so sanctified
That it petrified and putrefied
'Til I was drawn to suicide.
And I won't lie,
I doubt that you'd have even cried.
Now this patricide's not emblemized;
Not glorified nor a source of pride.
It's just that I've been rectified;
I'm satisfied and verified.
You see, old man, your claims have been denied.
I stride beside a stronger pride,
We're unified, not terrified,
And, were you here, I'd just...
Laugh.
Sure,
We simplify and vilify,
All that we fear, but I--
I can't bring myself to cry;
I'll no longer will myself to die--
Because, in the end I'm just too high
To even look you in the eye.
I've modified and purified.
And, while you're compelled
to sit and hide,
I'm glorified--self deified--
And your podium's is now occupied
By the one who you once toxified.
And NONE of it's been for you.
No, old man, it's not for you!
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
The thrill of the chase...
A chaste example, to acquire a hill
Meant in dole and measure, the evening pace
Of a risen question, which has nerves to chill
Heat is a wavering sense of redoubt
Sent by accept and due a looking herald
Find a shadow of differ, with a comparison's pout
Share and weal to endow, a question of waiting held?
Maybe, a light has a wealth we can have?
Said to bared and curious, superiority
Will a stranger deed in the presence of need, pass?
Asking for the so, a mutual live to do, is am affinity?
Character is a reigning hope, to understate a gift?
Soul to deified how, in a calling to wryed eyes
When we are the eyes of rightness, risen of airs to lift
A season of justness, with a moment assuring silence...
Is the goal of sincerity...
Is the given of simplicity...
Is the god of serendipity...
Is the gesture of sakes city...
Who?
And the hill, of reason taken to reality
Of visions fortitude, a ply of when sense is too soon
Will we become like ourselves, at the sight of future integrity?
Mar 19, 2023
Mar 19, 2023 at 3:03 PM UTC
I don't eat no beef
No **** no lamb no swine
Only on the verdurous etch
Doest I within my thine I dine
I don't eat Jellie and sauces slick with ill
Confounded with animal ****
Nor powders and honeys dripping and grime
Spent with the wretch of genocide's time
I don't hunt for game or trophy ****
I don't glorify **** or bile or swill
I don't bow to the customs and conventions of now
Now matter what serve of the demonic a sow
I don't **** my brother or sister for food
It's not blood on my hands that's reddened and hued
So why take the life of an innocent babe?
An animal born here of terrestrial habe?
What for the taste of delicious a flesh?
To accompany sauce Cantonese wan szech?
Or is it to sate gastronomy?
That bloodies the hands of you and me?
That forces the carnivore?
To act the ****** *****
And ***** an animal innocent and bright
Is this self deified act requite?
What do you proclaim to be?
To ****** an animal's right to be?
A god with insight and power so great?
To forsake your right to heaven with hate?
Or a devil or demon anon?
To justify your sleepy murderous throng?
Or merely a human who follows the lead?
Of our common culture's bane banal creed?
So what is it that drives you to the deed exact?
To cut the throat of creatures in act?
Are you saying that murders ok?
And you'd enact this upon your own whether or may?
If you could knock or whack a human for merely the taste of its flesh?
And not because their discord did not mesh?
With your idea of what justifies life?
And end a being forever of strife?
Is it ok for aliens to prey?
Upon our earthen developments stay?
And enslave our species to sate their gut?
To fawn and feed and slupper and glut?
Because they have a higher IQ?
Or more dextrous fingers with which to hew?
Are you sure you want to be an unthinking one?
Of the masses maraud and to the deed done?
As somnambulist reaching with a laden gun
And end life forthwith no winner or won
Unless you count dinner to the taste of your tongue
Trained since a child to sing the song sung
Of the glory of meat as to salivate and savour
As if bowing to the idea of what will crave ya
Haven't you ever heard of an acquired taste?
Well couldn't we now apply this with grace?
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 11:48 PM UTC
She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face
With flashes of the old fun's animation
There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation
Bred of a past where troubles came apace.
She tells me that her husband, ere he died,
Saw seven of their children pass away,
And never knew the little lass at play
Out on the green, in whom he's deified.
Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone,
All simple faith her honest Irish mind,
Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on:
Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part,
Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find
No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.
1.2k
Sitting high on many horses
Self Rightious. Professed all knowing.
The ominous voice of our supposed deified ancestor
I am not as sullied as you think
Witch
Bold women of the devil's desire
Luring good, god fearing men from their pious marriage beds
Pointing quickly with stone fingers
From behind their fragile glass walls
The acrid taste of fire licks at my tongue
Trying in vain to block out the cries of my sisters
As their tender flesh pops and sizzles into the waiting flames
Supposedly it is to purify us
Unclean and filthy souls that we are
Yet we gave you birth
Tended your sick and cared for your wounded
Witch
A mere woman's Pagan gods set your heart a flutter
Filled your soul with the frigid winds of hell
Scared. So scared you burned and burned even when no fat for the fires was found
You always made sure there was wicked flesh to "cleanse"
Superstitious nonsense.
Your people will fear into the dawn
No amount of slaughter will stifle the haunting howl of a full moon
Nor will you ever silence the vibracious voice of magick
For we are not few but many
We are the blood of the earth
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
heaven sent
graffitied
wormholes
to usher us
out - busts
of deified
physicists
presumed
dead, noses
chipped - like
paint on
old highway
billboards -
stacking
"Welcome!"
signs atop
Vacuum
Cleaner
advertisements.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
Listening to Dave Grusin,
"Mountain Dance," vintage 1979.
The thought strikes:
"Why is it that only the
Early Jazz Giants are deified?
Of course, we need Chet Baker and
Miles Davis in our pantheon, &
Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker
Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales:
"Smack. I told you not to mention that!")
Coltrane or Stan Getz.
And yet, we're all getting long teeth and
there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come,
Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or
George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and
What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton?
Let's not forget Spyro Gira &
The Daves: Benoit and Koz.
And we would be remiss
To miss Chris, young Chris,
Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti.
But I digress.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
I’m falling off this rock
There’s not enough gravity left
I stood on the wrong side, too close to the edge
Now, I’m falling, fare me well
We didn’t pay all our bills to God
Not insured enough, walk and run and trip and fall
So, now. kaput!
Save this crazy lifetime in a warped bottle
Which soon will crack for all its solar scrutiny
Insulate the bold things you can never have on stained glass fuzzy print
A half eaten apple sitting on a dusty cloud still has that deified eye planted on it
Globes are lit in insolence on mossy beds
Dreams in armour pick up tell tale signs of cooing sounds very far away
An autumn landscape falls upon the face on a knight whose real name is you
A cruciform gift embedded in a rock only the worthy can retrieve
A lump of coal burns in steady flickers within the palm of hand
Hop out bowl and try to fly, yet land four seconds short of truth
Hiding beneath a rude rainbow and peeping out at striker rays
Cells squirm and turn, ready to burst out soma
And a sky stretches on and on, like a dicey waterfall in ******
One photo snap and it’s all gone!
tonight I watch it come alive at ten to midnite
recalled clues illumine yet don't show all
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC