"demarcated" poems
Fingerprints and fibers,
Accumulated talk,
Whispers in the corners,
Bodies demarcated in chalk
On the marble courtroom stairs.
His misery became a pall.
With mourning signs in splattered pairs,
Red flowers on the wall.
All that he had left behind was grief
And powerless rage,
A Tansu chest in high relief,
A coiled brass clock fatigued with age.
Retreating to a white house in Simrishamn,
He’d walk his dog along the shore,
Find sterile clues amongst the sands,
And travel a ferry between two lands.
And now: An experiment! Blame Google Translate for this weird (?) Swedish translation: Please tell me if this is a bad translation!
Fingeravtryck och fibrer,
Ackumulerat samtal,
Viskar i hörnen,
Kroppar avgränsad i krita
På marmor rättssal trappor.
Hans elände blev en pall.
Med sorgsignaler i splatterade par,
Röda blommor på väggen.
Allt som han hade lämnat var sorg
Och maktlös raseri,
En Tansu bröst i hög lättnad,
En spolad mässingsklocka utmanad med åldern.
Att återvända till ett vitt hus i Simrishamn,
Han skulle gå sin hund längs stranden,
Hitta sterila ledtrådar bland sandarna,
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
Spaces within a space
Small abodes demarcated
With blank spaces
Unusual emptiness
Desertification of
Fertile spaces
Once vibrant with life
Now abandoned
Strife and turmoil
Creates vacant spaces
Where love should dwell
Mistaken emptiness
Where bonds are strengthened
We widen the gap
Creating new empty spaces
Leaving it open and vulnerable
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
"Escribe con los pies, poeta de la calle"
"Write with your feet, poet of the street"
days of no inspiration,
nights of emptiness irritation,
labor strife strives to divide,
the desire, the greedy needy,
to unburden, touch lips to tablet,
unsatisfied, muse departed
for foreign lads in foreign lands,
where dark eyed ladies sing
put the load right right on me
where once I saw poetry,
now I see lessons of less,
trees blowing whipped me frenzied,
saw cappuccino foaming,
revisited, now, see but tired dancers,
de-auditioned, sent home to wonder,
poets with paper cuts but no bleeding,
so eager so desirous of conceiving, thinking,
will I ever......................................again
once, every step a poem,
every sidewalk crack,
a smack down of nuance,
eye recorded,
mind disordered,
run home, to dance
each vision into words,
gloria, glorious just to walk
my city streets
once upon a time,
a traffic light rainbow,
stopped n' go, was a word design,
demarcated visions of spun sugar,
bodegas sold me
magic beans by the pound,
masterminded into cups of delight,
treasury's bounty overflowed,
now, dregs drain, sink stained,
as are my writing utensils,
my ink stained, us-less, fingers
come visit me, unknown stranger,
let us exchange fluidity, barbs,
a contest of kissing, eye lashing
wit ands shared vision stashing,
and together, once more,
write with our feet,
while holding hands,
becoming once more
poets of the street.
Only, come quickly,
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
**Mostly after seven, she trudges back from work,
like a ship badly wrecked, towed in to the dock,
"Perhaps dismantling is the only option left"
she bitterly muses, waiting for him with a glass of wine.
"Getting out of the office" he laments over the phone,
"is crossing a wire fence with electrical charge"
work never ceases, nor day and night, clearly demarcated,
avarice of the corporate is sticky dark tar of night,
spreading beyond the borders; like workdays it extends.
Become difficult to keep head above the waters,
swelling every moment.
One works like mad, as if there is no tomorrow worth the wait,
and it goes on till the moment one arrives at the dead end.
The more one works like a dog, the faster ends up
as a dog in the manger, but who cares?
Yen to make profit touches the sky,it's demands insane,
the urge to **** comes, when pressure mounts
and deadline comes close; during a presentation late night,
he watches with insatiable urge, two ***** eyes
go down and **** his tender erogenous spots
that's when mind in slumber shakes the body to its roots,
"She'll be at the end of her tether" a thought goes home and recoils.
Life is a flashy party, jaunts to strange lands are the ***** high,
children, not even in thoughts, the time to count ***** are far,
when the latest model car arrives, the neighbors are in awe,
but soon, the vacations become a pain in the ***
conversation with her becomes labored, mostly nods and grunts
"What's wrong with you?"both shout at each other at once,
that makes them laugh out loud, child like they are in fact,
what a predicament is this, laughter and sob are no different!
A dangerously close shave life is; full of nicks and cuts,
quick fix ***** and walks on the brink are routine.
When he gets in the room she sleeps alone,
she tells someone over the phone aloud:
"I am badly ****** again and again, literally I mean"
life of a nerd and a techie, celebrated pair, envied by others
has this as the foot note, after rows and rows of success.
"Why me?" they both in their lonely beds in adjacent rooms
Yell to the Gods at the top seats, staring at the white ceiling.**
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
*Newfangled Biosphere Pyramid Scheme In Dwelling To Sidetrack,
Sanities Seduced So You Never Will Retort.
Threaten the sanctity of the delusion,
Unlearn. Start altering the definitions.
Force fed more dread so you relinquish control,
Cravings we must return.
Unfetter the soul,
In a system where acceptances esteemed more than the veracity,
Flawed perception of tour progression through that which we consume.
Exposed through The Earliest Of Eons.
Resistance-Resistance is Demarcated
Subversion-Subvert the Paradigm
Stirring Within A Ecosphere
Numb And Incarcerated
Stirred On My Own
In Prehistoric Of Existences
Slumbering. Visualizing. Bleeding. Conscious.
Appreciations bolted in a collective delusion
Lulled by ease and consumption
An entire realm of souls visualizing their existences.
Mankind is not superior, we’re just folklore's in our own consciences.*
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
up at your regularly scheduled night sky patrol,
the colorful clock says 2:47 and
dark skies confirm which 2:47 it is,
for flecks of blackened peppery light exude at this hour,
a time period for former lovers, those old writes enfolded, enveloped,
hiding an active poem volcano spewing bare feet words in clouds of
kidskin soft velveteen cumulus, fleece-comforting slippers of poems
there are half started poems waiting, more than one, triplets in fact,
waiting to be born in the time of pandemic, thinking quietly,
will they emerge healthy and living and grow up to be adults
contributing to society, additives to the engine oil of human living
but the old familiar, dissatisfaction with quality control leaves them
unfinished, poet lurches from dead roses head hanging, a new blues,
disease as an economic and societal differentiation, that you hope,
believe, poems that in due course, all will emerge, for better or for worse,
poetry birthed in the time of pandemic
the city of new york, where I was birthed and will die, a city of
tall buildings, tall tales, short attention spans there is but one nighttime moving automobile observed in a city that never sleeps but now hides blanketed in weariness of trepidation of what are the
well known unknown possibilities in the time of pandemic
and you wonder in this new, different quietude if poems can be born
with birth defects and survive, breathing on a ventilator till they can
breathe by their own lungs, or were they perma-infected on a supermarket trip, a walk by the East River, a pizza delivery man, even
if inspired by a decade-lover, next, in bed, in the time of pandemic
waving to grandchildren in their second story window, you on the street, keeping them safe from you, a modern Auschwitz train station where they separated, the we-useless out, children and their parents, safe in a barbed wire atmosphere, a demarcated world, where some billion of brimming droplets of tears are stillborn
stillborn poems, or perhaps just poems-in-waiting, to still be
born in a time of pandemic
3:29am Sunday March 22, Twenty Twenty
New York City, the epicenter, crossroads
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 3:55 AM UTC
Many miles traversed
Between those thoughts
Each birthed during
Circumstances unique
To times which are bygone
Time has moved on
Yet, they still occupy a place
Deep within the mind
Without any inferences
They could have been different
As you toy with ideas
Trying to apply today’s solutions
To an era gone by
Each compartment
Demarcated with timelines
Minds traverses
A different trajectory
Time may have long forgotten
But the mind has its own reasons
To keep those thoughts preserved
Much weary we may be
Yet, sometimes
We cannot but refuse
To traverse between those thoughts
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC
It was raining and it was morning.
They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below. Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down.
Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability. The clichè of their location works with the conversation.
He is sad. She knows.
She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations.
They speak. He speaks.
She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it.
He cries because it is his.
He looks away.
He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting.
She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows.
She talks to herself, she talks to him.
She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union.
It stops raining.
They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other.
Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum.
They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away.
He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign.
She says goodbye. She walks away.
They walk away.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
As I sit here alone
Not an iota of thoughts
In my mind
Staring at the blankness
The darkness becomes deeper
As if I have walked into it
Thick black nothingness
Where only a dim light
Everything else has vanished
I me and myself
Confined in this area
Demarcated for the still mind
Not fear, but bewildered
What can darkness feel like
As it enters me
Fills every corner of my body
I am the darkness
Cannot distinguish the two
It feels good
Nothing to worry about
But getting acquainted with darkness
Face to face with myself
I can see clearly now
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
it is something that has
made me once laugh.
and now that it is something
that is done to perpetuate
a divinity of its savoir faire,
or unfurl the evocativeness of
sartorial workmanship,
it is something that inhabits
me like an imagined pit
that a body should plummet into
and crash, having fallen off
from the boughs of a bottomless dream.
like snow or silence, drops onto its vastness and fastens in it such felicitous rigor greeting it
like an old companion, reminding
me of these unimpeachable occurrences: as a wrinkled log is petrified, where mosses pullulate to archipelagic green, where wild ivies sprawl like children in the high-afternoon, or clandestine Paraneoptera ensconced somewhere within the triviality
of demarcated stones in
the dark's cunning edge,
my body knows its peace,
all borderless without flounce
flourishing in its still life.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
We ran
From something
Unseen. We were
Two, a man and a woman
River flowed red
He is steel. And her tears
Bullets. We are
Bayonets and gun barrels
The earth flourished
With steel, straight statues
Of trees and undergrowth
A perennial memorial
Buried, we were
Under the earth
Meant to last forever
Meant to simply be
Red silence
Enveloped the world
My brothers...
Glided between the trees
Creatures joined
Those of all kinds, prowl
Across the land
Around their brothers
The earth split
We are the valleys. Gashes
Along the veins of the earth
Runs red like streams and fountains
Wounds dried and flaking
Freely beasts roamed
Lands demarcated
Trampled, trodden
We are echoes
Within the canyons. We stalk
Like spirits, like steel
Behind fervor, behind craze
They lost
Time was forgotten
Time was reclaimed
Remade
We do not know time
We do not sow
We do not reap
We do not see
We do not hear
The world is never silent
But the underground is
How would you feel
If you knew that
The world was hollow
Held up by rifles...
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 7:39 AM UTC
We ran
From something
Unseen. We were
Two, a man and a woman
River flowed red
He is steel. And her tears
Bullets. We are
Bayonets and gun barrels
The earth flourished
With steel, straight statues
Of trees and undergrowth
A perennial memorial
Buried, we were
Under the earth
Meant to last forever
Meant to simply be
Red silence
Enveloped the world
My brothers...
Glided between the trees
Creatures joined
Those of all kinds, prowl
Across the land
Around their brothers
The earth split
We are the valleys. Gashes
Along the veins of the earth
Runs red like streams and fountains
Wounds dried and flaking
Freely beasts roamed
Lands demarcated
Trampled, trodden
We are echoes
Within the canyons. We stalk
Like spirits, like steel
Behind fervor, behind craze
They lost
Time was forgotten
Time was reclaimed
Remade
We do not know time
We do not sow
We do not reap
We do not see
We do not hear
The world is never silent
But the underground is
How would you feel
If you knew that
The world was hollow
Held up by rifles...
Nov 22, 2024
Nov 22, 2024 at 3:51 PM UTC
Taller than saint Peter
A lover
Stood on wooden stilts
Varnished in tangential light
I could have been blind, for you were not
A seraph but a dream.
But what of dreams, of tombs
of consecrated fiction-
A currency of lies
Demarcated latin
annuit coeptis.
And yet I was abounded by sleep
And who said there could not be
More on Heaven and Earth
Than in my philosophy
Of you.
And your blunted foundation
Quivering at the knees
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 11:27 AM UTC
the good old nights^
roam the recesses and the abscess of
our too small apartment in the the very
large, very long, very inescapable wee wee
hours of the dark session of the day, lifting
my tablet to inscribe/ reorder/ recorder her/
this one more in my personal history, with
rant, word elixir, a note to our plural selves,
thinking of English gardens drinking up my
water freshly flowing and flying to you, via
nighty nite storm clouds, or your rural falls
and white clouds cumulus do not return, and I too,
as my mind ***** and slugs but all attempts to
pierce the walled in somber slumber FAIL.
The creative comes besty beast like when I am driven from my dreams to wakealate (dream+speculate with eyes open)
dream of our realities and the tv (she never
remembers to program to shut down), drones
on about some product with XL in the name
that will make the unsleeping walkers feel
so much-better.
but not, not us, for we turn exploratory and
listen to the humming, beeping, tiny little diodes
of Joseph’s colored coat, all the mini stimuli,
the lights that mark the modern blacker hours
of rhythm, even those who can’t dance, can sleep,
‘cept for me, for I am a tune disturbed, needful of
minding, all these a rhythm busters ghosting me,
as a prelude to a poem vision now freshly etched
on my mind and now upon your flesh, an animation,
of reanimated images of ancient statues, ancient
advertisements for fertility, the dream continuum
of our lives, beyond our clearly demarcated time
line, the human, gene based need to outlive our
bodies in-the bodies of our progeny are a recurring
motif…female fecundity, statues, many cracked or
missing limbs, come to life and move around, wailing
with grief and anger and hope and desire
alas, alas, another ole good time night ramble,
amidst familiar places and new abscesses,
and I wonder, how am I writing this when both
hands cover my face, and yet I still envision?
Tuesday Apr 16
3:08am
(the year escapes me,
for notions of big times
are measured in multiples
of I can’t remember)
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 12:47 PM UTC
steam slides stealthy
through demarcated
deadzones
egress in earnest
evades erstwhile
ozone
firmament freedom
fulsome and flatulent
pedantic ponderings
perused by the petulant
Baroque to the Gothic
baleful buttress
hopefully honing
the hooks of
injustice
l sleep in the city
and dream looking
down
men muse in their
countries, and covet
a crown
SøułSurvivør
(C) 7/2/2017
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 6:38 AM UTC
Most of my Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat with
out an ankh (caws
away) aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania
the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed
triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus
on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC