"denigration" poems
was an aperitif to an aphorism,
an apothecary of aphrodisiacs,
an apiary of my ever-buzzing thoughts.
She slipped streamline as maraschinos
into a Manhattan, that strike of sugar
staining the most bitter days a color no chemical dispels.
She was an enigmatic row of beakers
shelved in an ancient pharmacy
at the base of the Janiculum.
Her shape was incense wisps, her
touch a song sung in 1940s noir,
her locking gaze acrophobia itself.
Alliteration ran thick through her blood,
she painted like Debussy composed.
No single organism in the universe could’ve imposed
anything on her – well, maybe.
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that I’m a boy –
no air of denigration here.
She was intricate, but altogether simple. Empathetic-yet-
tangible, her character was incredible.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
that held her mind and laughter,
not the dazed sting in my hand as it cupped
in hers – it was her autotelic way and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
I first remembered years ago,
At twenty-something,
Speeding along in a 240Z
With my father.
Apropos of nothing,
I suddenly remembered it all,
The pain, fear, chases
And flights up stairs,
Only to have her catch me,
And feel the pummeling fists
Like a mad horse’s hooves,
Treading me down.
Back in the present,
My father was admiring trees
As we buzzed past them,
Unaware of the storm beside him.
She wore him down too
In a different way,
With constant denigration.
Over the years I watched
As he shrank way to
A painful, infested brain.
Unlike me, he had no defense,
Loving her as he still did.
It was as if he chose cancer
instead of anger or rebellion.
I had raged against her
And stood tall from childhood
To the now, when thunderheads
Rose from me above her.
Long ago, she had been
The random bolts from the blue,
Causing pain but not killing.
Now I am the storm,
Gathering over years,
Sweeping up heat and vapor
Sending and receiving energy.
The lightning bolts are truth
And their pain is admission,
Though never bringing remorse.
I am the storm warning her to run,
While knowing that she never will.
Edited October 2, 2021
Apr 3, 2022
Apr 3, 2022 at 5:03 PM UTC
Self-breed hatred so easily suppressed
Taunted by the world, it’s waiting to explode
No, there’s no true taste, we’re only meandering
Listening to the menacing roar begging
To be given breath to materialize
Subtle commentary begins to eat at the flesh of self-belief
Identity crises momentarily paralyze audacity’s ammunition
True sights of self-aesthetic-beauty tremble
Diminishing that part of self-worth
Looming attacks threaten to pour over and reduce
The value of internal splendor for it’s seemingly of no use
Every praise never given to the self but to someone else
A constant crack at the foundation of self-love, it subconsciously ensures
She and she and she and she are said to be wonderful, but never the self
Realization that from any angle the self is not good enough
Leaves the mind discombobulated for lifelong sentiments of inadequacy
Seems to be the only route
Unconscious self denigration provokes false sense of value
For the true inner wealth in self-worth is sullied and unidentifiable
But the self is not merely self-loath and harboring of inadequacy
For goodness in abundance is found a few peals away from the layers of insecurity
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
Rugged terrain adorned with hills and valleys,
Uncertainty and ambiguity the follies.
Do's and don'ts are added complexities,
In these engulfing and unending mazes.
A vulnerable life with sad macabre tales,
Abused then frustrated by legal scales.
Thought you were insulated from denigration,
Lessons learned from such humiliation.
This is a land of too much denied freedom,
Committed to madness in an archaic kingdom.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
Hunched spines slouched with an air of indifference against backs of rigid chairs
Anxious toes tapping on linoleum floors
A generation of Attention-Deficit-addled youth, subdued with medication because they think our eyes dart too quickly
Minds fluttering more rapid-fire than individual thought can account for
What is “unique” when everything stems from mimicry?
We think ourselves philosophers (only because we’re naïve enough to make assumptions like that)
All that our naked minds can bear is a sliver of the reality we suffocate in
We reject conformity by conforming
We discard typecast by creating stereotypes
We critique and self-doubt and are relentless in our own auto-denigration
Yet still, we see ourselves as infinitely superior
Because we’re the sum of earth’s 3 billion year journey
We’re the product of every galaxy and star-birth
We’re a shred of every molecule of humanity
We’re the chosen ones, we’re evolution.
We’re ragged, fraying edges
The living definition of a walking contradiction; hypocrisy in motion
Our pens are still doodling in the margins of our notebooks
We march to a syncopated beat with heads held high but eyes cast low as we count our steps and avoid stepping on cracks
Our heels drag with the showmanship of nonchalance but the eagerness in our fingertips betrays us
We’re all just kids caught in the purgatorial limbo of high school
We’re all just trying to pretend that we’re more than we are
We’re mostly hoping that someday we’ll prove our parents right
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
choices
embrace things
that sickens
enslaves
maims
kills
unbound
yourself
loose
your chains
turn away from
the dungeon
that has
become
your death
chamber
you
alone
crafted
with such
deft skill
you exiled
yourself
hid away
from the living
inhabiting a
convenient
confinement
relishing
the deceitful
pleasures of an
addled mind
a twisted
portrait
of a
shackled
self
living
inside
the
dark abode
of your head
bumping
about in
unmapped
caves
dwelling
in a place
that no one
could find
nor dare
explore
you heap
stones
at the door
providing
your only
means
of escape
safely
entombed
in your
vapid
delusions
a decrepit
graveyard
an abandoned
township
of lonely
sarcophagi
long forgotten
by the
moldering
bodies
of the city's
ghostly
citizens
you reek
with the
stench
of death
you
murdered
yourself
and
became
dead
to us
But
Jesus
wept
over
your
self
denigration
never
forsaking
your favored
condition
The
Good Friend
lifted
you
from
Edens
dust
and
showered
you
with
fine
things
yet
you
found
no joy
in
the gift
of solace
the might
of grace
the balm
of love
the rest
of peace
all
only
heaped
torments
upon
you
your
sisters
wailed
in grief
imploring
The
Resurrector
to make you
whole
he only
shrugs
and
extends
a palm
unloose
the rags
of your
swaddled
grief
unbound
yourself
Lazarus
come out
and walk
amongst
the living
again
put
down your
stones
the hand
is nigh
choose well
my friend
St. Alban's
Bible Study
7/09
jbm
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
Mercury drips
from cold fingertips
Into cracked teacups
arrayed on a child's play table
"Where is my Alice?"
Chuckling bends the edge of the silence
Chemical cocktails sprayed
Weaponized aerosols
designed to cloud minds
bring dark knights crashing to their knees
Short sickly man
with a blood red head of hair
Stares oh so sweetly
at his darling sweetie
********* the straight edge
concealed in his pocket
Wonderland gang strikes
devices devised for controlling minds
activated
chips in cowls, linked to size eleven hats
Denigration of children's tales
although Lewis Carrol was a ********* they say
either way there is no avoiding
the madness of the hatter.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 5:15 PM UTC
The Divide as it whispers:
"borderline," and calls you
to the throne of denigration,
like a hawk soars towards
a cute quivering corpse.
We all must eat to live.
Loving only to be loved,
your Love is Fear that,
spreads the thighs of Hate,
suspends the golden rule,
and dips the tip of Trust.
Light bends in clear waters.
The border of "neurosis"
and "psychosis" never met
your gentle river eyes, that
twirl like a child's, hugging
the silent shivering creature.
Squeeze tight until it dies.
"Researchers coined the term “borderline” in the first half of this century, when they thought that people who exhibited behaviors we now associate with BPD were on the border between neurosis and psychosis. Although this concept was discarded in the 1970s, the name stuck." - Paul T. Mason, M.S. and Randi Kreger
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
. ******* *****
The words come out swift
and angry,
accompanied by the contempt
in your eyes.
******* *****
I stand, accosted by your
animosity,
accepting every insult you fling so
unceremoniously.
******* *****
Sorry, don't think I heard you quite
well enough.
Please, repeat so I may keep your words
clutched closely.
******* *****
I take these taunts you throw out
so casually,
mold them tightly
into a ball
and force them down my throat,
swallowing them
like the poison
that you are.
******* *****
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
Was an aperitif to an aphorism,
An architect of aphrodisia,
An apiary of my ever-buzzing thought.
She slipped into me streamline: Maraschinos
Into a Manhattan. Oh strike of sugar,
Stain the bitterest days a red no chemical dispels.
She was a cryptic gallipot
Shelved in an apothecary
At the Caelian's base.
Her shape was incense wisps, her touch
A song sung in 1940s noir, her locking gaze
Eros himself.
Alliteration ran thick through the blood.
The paintings? Like Debussy composed.
Nothing in the universe could’ve imposed
Anything on her!— Quit it, you idiot...
The admiration, the visions that adorn her:
Subjectively supernatural—
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that you're a boy—
No air of denigration.
She was intricate, but altogether simple.
I encountered her in stifled confessions.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
That held her mind and laughter, not the dazed sting
In my hand as it cupped in hers—
It was her autotelism and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
Framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
Retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket’s lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.
For every person looking to preserve life,
There are four others looking to destroy it.
Though compassion is our signature tool,
Oh, only a handful of us ever employ it.
There is no neutrality when our conscious hearts fail.
If our better angels remain silent, our darker halves prevail.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
Festering in heat,
Moral fabric unweaves.
Desecration,
Denigration,
Desiccation,
The remains of a sacred bond left tattered by deceit.
The sound of a stained glass window shattered by thieves.
Oh, somewhere our better half grieves.
The enigmatic future inches nearer,
An ambiguous choice becomes clearer,
The sound of rattling, an empty heart,
Battling, an empty mind.
The sound of hurried footsteps…
And there are others not far behind.
The blind guiding and seeking the blind,
Oh, somewhere our better half searches to find…
A shelter from all of these two-ton war machines.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
The pain lingers,
Morality rests in tatters,
Miniature death-bringers,
The sound of a bigot’s daggers,
The sound of a depressed man’s gun facing backwards…
After he decides that nothing else matters.
Oh, somewhere our better half staggers.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Everyone has a two-ton war machine.
The temperature escalates,
Morality thrown out with the spoils,
The sound of tension as it elevates,
The sound of blood as it boils,
Oh, somewhere our better half recoils.
Because everyone has a two-ton war machine.
A guilty conscience, a burdened soul, a heavy heart,
And a two-ton war machine.
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.
Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC
(Theme, Variations, and Coda)
Theme – Andante sognante
I dreamed last night...
It was a dream
Like one I've had before
Variations on a theme
My colleagues standing at my door
Guitarists all, I bid them in
And soon it's time to play
My teacher first, each one in turn
They play the night away
Var. 1- Agitato
But as they play I look around
For my guitar is gone
I look and look but cannot find
Then comes my time... “I can't go on!”
This is absurd. How can I play?
(What? Did I hide it by design?
Is this my “out” as light breaks day,
An ironclad alibi?)
“I can't perform, no, not today.
I'll have to play another time.”
Var. 2 – Appassionato
My time has come, and there I sit
With my guitar in hand
And wonder what the hell to play
My mind a porous shifting sand
Completely unprepared I sit
And pray for intervention
I make up some simplistic ****
And play it with “emotion”
Var. 3 – Allegro con brio e subito calamitoso
This time round, it's different
I really want to play.
I'm ready, I'm inspired!
I'll play till break of day
I'll show them what I'm made of
They'll marvel and they'll cry
But my guitar just falls apart
“What? Why now? Why? WHY?”
The neck breaks off, the body splits,
the strings are hanging limply
I'm foiled again, I cannot play
I'm ******* (to put it simply)
Coda - Andantino Contemplativo
What does it mean, this silly dream
This wild subconscious spectre?
What nourishment for soul to glean
From such netherworldly nectar?
Hmmm...
I think that I should spend more time
With hands on wood and string
To reconnect with touch and sound
To let my veiled heart sing
To feel, and set those feelings free
Catharsis, true release
My sheepish nature put to bed
My denigration now to cease
For I have something bold to say
Now my true voice is ready
I'll sing again through wood and string
Rich and full and steady
Alive with truths that transcend words
Ego now at bay
Connecting with the universe
It's time for me to play
Fine
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
There is no balance
Everything seems to fall apart,
Resentment rears up,
and pain becomes a desire
hate against the incompetence,
the imperfection that dwells within.
Lost inside a world of hopelessness
Shattered dreams
Broken promises,
Self denigration
Alone
I don't know why I go on
in this decremental way
leading to nowhere
And so the blackness must recede
And let the light come again once more
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
denial seems to be our specialty
blinding ourselves from what we even could have loved
in honor to the essence of reality
we follow whatever convenience seems right
a come back or a fall down are too similar
same monster just another mask
denigration is just another vice
we judge so we can fill our empty sorrow
to pass the pain away
like anestesia for our sorrow
we denigrate the ones who fulfilled our mandate
we dishonor the ones who are not ashamed
deep inside we wish we would be like them
but they made it
and we are restrained
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
Dear Mom,
I despise you, and I think you should just
die and decay 'til you're nothing but dust,
Get out of my face and my home and my life,
Nothing you are has value.
In my 16 years there is nothing you've done,
No demons you've fought with, no battles you've won,
That can make you seem worthy of jack **** from me,
Because you're so ****** repugnant.
Strangers on the street don't get the stream of hate I give you,
And you can cry and beg all you want,
But this campaign of denigration
is all yours, Mommy.
No, there doesn't have to be a reason why.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 12:11 PM UTC
Why oh why have we become so woke
To the point of companies going near broke,
All for the sake of garnering support
From vocal fringes, then quietly rushing to abort.
Is the effort worth the prize
Pandering to an audience that must surely realize
Division is not the path to integration
Empowering voices that just believe in denigration.
Acceptance is rarely mandated or imposed,
It's a result of customs willingly transposed
To reflect a kinder more inclusive world
And in the process eliminating the absurd.
Activism can often be the kernel for steep
Change,
But in the wrong hands is alienating and deranged,
With effects that counter all that would be good
Demeaning the very essence for which they stood.
We the silent throngs just watch and wonder,
What's brought on this wave of mindless thunder,
Strife and upheaval causing nothing but confusion,
Resulting in a world of societal delusion.
Democracy is not another word for anarchy,
Where a vocal few usurp reality for fantasy,
But one of tolerance and communal understanding
To mold a world where actions are outstanding.
Where parent is not set against their child,
Or leaving differing opinions unreconciled,
Where sexuality does not become a sword,
Or Race the blade to cut across the board.
When will politicians and the media say enough,
Accepting that their narrative is huff and gruff,
Full of potholes and dead ends
Turning people into enemies not friends?
Why not allow good sense and wisdom take the stage,
Willing denigrators to turn another page,
Supporting causes that are simply just
Thereby forging a society sure to last.
Apr 27, 2023
Apr 27, 2023 at 2:42 PM UTC
I'm the forlorn cigarette
you once placed so fervently
between soft lips;
Now I lay cast between
the cracks of the sidewalks sidewalks sidewalks.
Anticipating a
Slow Death; growing claustrophobic--
ensconced in my callous/caustic confines.
Trampled into the concrete crevice by
hastened footsteps;
My desolation denotes the sad dictum
that is my denigration.
A slow digestion of a stubborn body
created like the concrete to be trodden by wandering soles
stamping out their fleeting existence.
Dissolute, wishing to burn;
I long for your taste again.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
So you hurl that at me:
the expletive called Truth;
But you were silent
when they peddled their
narratives
Yes it must be like this -
Truth must have
leafy shades of the Left.
When they ******
it's rebellion and rightful;
When they dissent
it is but lawful;
If they break my bones,
break my temple to house,
their dogmas,
burn me down in sleep,
I deserved it: pagan
and worthless that I am,
whose belief must deserve
denigration.
But you were silent
and did not hurl
this expletive called Truth -
The meek the broken the oppressed,
when they resist
It's then that they hurl
This expletive called Truth
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
Twilight of the gods approaches and these streets, cursed
As they are with porosity,
Still weep the blood of yesterdays riots, the gentrification of bodies,
Breath and space,
The slow complete death of a complex entity,
The endless parade of generations, hand shakes and pride,
Timeless progressions of intimacy,
Regality, photographs in frames, a certain fondness in closure,
Clarity of vision and purpose,
Creation and black coffee,
Art by denigration,
Could this yet be a church of healing?
Intimacy and open casket funerals, a deeper connection with the spirits,
Intertwined souls on impossible trajectories, come, roll your way over these promised lands,
You beasts of pilgrimage and sacrifice, I love you and your ceaseless hunger
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 2:07 AM UTC
Desolation
All the should-haves stacked like prison walls
Make it impossible to see the sky
What was big is now too small and
Cannot hold the folly on it’s way to bury us.
Crippled by the scorch, it won’t be possible
To rearrange ourselves out of this crisis.
Desperation
Incapable of letting go the few nice things
That beautified our former lives,
We know the tide is rising and we will sink
Beneath the weight of all the detritus we clutch,
Paying triple for the privilege of watching
As we drown in bad decisions and remorse.
Depression
Midnight tears that vanish in the arid air,
Stifled sobs that can’t repair the breach
Or heal the wounded vision of tomorrow
That inches ever closer, in the waking hours
Once designated as the time for sleep
Now put to dreary use as time for weeping.
Denigration
Too pale for the blazing sun but briefly,
We cower in the no less burning shade
And guard the meagre treasures of our lifetime,
Heaped in unmarked cartons in the corner
Where they wait for designation to the dump
Or hauled off piecemeal to a resale place
Denouement
We could have seen that this would happen
And lanced the hoarder’s boil before it broke.
It would have been so less expensive
In the pocketbook and in the soul
But here we sit at midnight crying
As catastrophe knocks on the door.
ljm
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC