"denoting" poems
It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we
You and I pick verbs
actions
Inflect them to match
fit
begin narratives
Transitive verbs take objects
You touch
tickle
tease
taste
take skin
*******
lips
me with words
Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?
For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tickle
tease me ON my *******
*******
thighs
buttocks
****
Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
****
soul?
Positioning is envisioning.
Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative
And adverbs elaborate experience
expression
exploration
You fill me deeply
thoroughly
violently with all that is you
But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
That
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace
Thus,
This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.
Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis
(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)
But we coordinate conjunctions
Equally
I touch you
You touch me
Exploring
Exploding sensory functions
So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives
Moaning
Whimpering
Begging
Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!
come!
Oh! Please, come!
I love the English language... ;)
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when given belshazzar.
i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
I have not been well lately
But I have a secret to tell you
It’s a success story: my most secret success
You see, I’m very skilled in crafting holes
And I’ve punched a massive hole
Right through the middle of my life
Please, don’t mistake this accomplishment for the result of talent
This is a skill and it takes practice to master
I went to college and learned to turn theories and ideals from basin to sieve
I learned to critique everything hopeful
And punched a hole right through the heart of hope
I honed my ability to close out creativity
I built a track down which to guide concrete linear thoughts
And I learned to use said thoughts as a battering ram with which to
Knock a hole in the barricaded door to dissatisfaction
And, though this skill is often practical
As you know, one cannot walk around wearing an open hole
So, a corresponding skill has successfully emerged
In parallel with nurturing voids
I have learned to conceal each and every hole
Sometimes with a thick canvass and
Sometimes with a paper-thin veneer
I may have learned to wrap a package
And to tie a bow
With the express purpose of packaging
The broken gift of life
Full of ugly holes
And, now, all that is left to complete the perfect ending to this success story
Is to grow old in a neatly kept apartment
Filled with the unseen haunts of relationships neatly hole-punched and
Filed in a hidden mental cabinet
Next to a night stand where I keep my phone and glasses
And across from the bed
There will be a glass trophy case
Full of trophies denoting various acceptable successes
But, just between you and I
The largest trophy denoting the largest success
Will be a lifetime achievement award
Bestowed for hollowing out what could have been
A beautiful life.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice.
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams;
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.
The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.
The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave.
I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long;
A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge
Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront;
Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?'
The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front.
The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England-
Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train;
I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar
be always rationed and that never again
Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags
And my governess not make bandages from moss
And people not have maps above the fireplace
With flags on pins moving across and across-
Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles,
Flares across the night,
Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans,
A cage across their sight.
I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines
And the soldiers with their guns.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
The wrinkles
they are a bit faded
but have a gentle presence
that fits with the folds
of the 16thC altar cloth
once ****** white
but now stained
through years of use
bread and tears
or wine
and tiny rice biscuits!
The Christ on the cross
is very old
made of painted wood
and the altar is surrounded
with a fence
of turned table-leg like posts
pale blue
as is much of the interior
perhaps denoting Heaven
and as the psalms
waft music round about
we look through the windows
to the listening hills
and streams
the old birds
wise
will sit watching too
and all the people
will suddenly feel their age
wow what a display of flowers
the church was as full of them as people
I put in the only black dress I had with dark pink roses on it too and I cut the rim of a black felt hat that had cost only Kr. 10.- in scollops and diamond cuts around the crown as it was too big for me.
Then I walked down to the valley to the church, and when I entered was ushered to the very front pew, I said there must be more important family members than me to be seated, I could hide in the balcony or something but he insisted. So I had a good view of the proceedings!
It think several hours waiting the ***** playing quietly in the background and finally things began to happen.
I sat next to a black man, he was already dressed in black!!! The white robed "prest" came into view and with his powerful voice sang twice as loud as the congregation.
After all the flower sashes had been repetitively read out, we left the church following the coffin to its final resting place.
And just as had happened in the church the priest mentioned the sun and its rays came through the windows, and as he threw on the "earth to earth, dust to dust," it broke through the grey clouds again and lit up the gay flowers, the frame of black and white onlookers many in tears watching.
Margaret Ann Waddicor
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
you write like a tricycle that hasn’t been touched in thirteen years. as an infant, you were no more than a dot denoting an absurdist birth. adolescence was in the blood left to your mother. self harm is the gateway wound to pilgrimage. you can’t say god is everywhere in the presence of god. factual events have ruined the world. you are here because hating you is forbidden.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
I love the majestic ugliness of the Eucalypt;
Aesthetically more appealing in its twisted, gnarled appearance
Than any uniform northern conifer;
Infinitely more adapted to the unforgiving antipodean climate
Than those idealised European deciduous living monuments
Still transfixing our collective view of how a tree should be.
Those dropping leaves allowing scenes beyond;
Those tendrils of bark denoting Darwinian fitness;
All tug at the heart of we new Australians,
Conflicted, as we are, by sensibilities born elsewhere,
But borne, nevertheless, into an Ancient Eden.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.
Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.
Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.
Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")
Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.
Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.
Remember me as I was.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
small irregular steps, like
a little kid top-toeing towards
a cookie jar, his jar
a lonely lady
buried in her latest ‘good read’
behind her now, his hands
eclipse light, ‘guess who’
**** you’ she moans. his fat ***
teeter-totters on the chairs face,
his eyes catch her shut book,
denoting a ****** title, laughing
he jokes about windmill dunking
it in the tableside wastebasket
scoffing as she claws at the book,
before 180 dunking it in her bag,
which resembles a shelter for some
petty, puny & pathetic dog
she bibble babbles blah blah,
his eyes entranced on her chest
hoping the slightest bump will
blast her ***** through her blouse
like an airbag. distracted
by bowels, he debates cutting
cheese. gas leaks through a forest
of *** hair. overpriced coffee odors
mask the lingering stench as it floats
like a boat through espresso &
cappuccino airways; docking
my attention to a tech boy blinded
by his desktop. to infatuated to notice
the pair of blushing blue eyes blessing him
from a corner table. an old man
at his starboard laughs as he clings to his cane
like it’s the decaying hand
of his deceased wife.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.
Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.
So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.
I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.
I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.
Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.
A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now
Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.
Love is the stuff dreams are made of.
And through you..
Im through.
Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.
I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head
I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.
You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.
I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
All intellect is dissected
Through the tunnel visioned perspectives
Stretched thin
In a stream of feed
Producing the illusion of need
Projected from old men
Who grin
Below the suicidal idols
Of the rivals
And glutton in the maniacal sins
Commenced
By brain dead Americans
Painted in the amens of the dense
Commending the hymns
Of spent casings
Atop the blood of babies
And maybe
One day
It can be better
Than the clever endeavours
To sever the head of the predators
Washing our hands of their sedatives
And delivering the skulls to the slavers
But we are pay dirt
Shoveled into trucks to work
For a leafless tree
Ready and wanting to believe
In anything
That doesn't see our deeds
As we
Are manufactured with the greed
Of sleeved wisemen
With five of a kind
In the fight for life
Putting our souls
Upon our rites
We bet
Despite the path of right
Infringing on the height
Of success
In excess
Of the tests message
We are the blessing
Of a warning
Within a forgotten story
Historically denoting its anointing
We are the disappointment
Of the warrior
Defeated in a court
Of corrupted consorts
Sorting out the blueprints
For a new fort
Distorting the borders
Of moral disorders
With orders to ****
The hoarders of will
We are the shrill screech
Of a dying world
And we are alive
But dead
Born to ****
Batteries of a shield
Building hell
To sell heaven pills
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter
My absent child, my long lost son
Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker,
By the wood where icy streams run
Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields
Stretching for miles, empty of meaning.
The landscape like a worn photograph yields
Your tremulous smile, then nothing.
Here, you ran with startled steps
Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise,
Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds
With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes.
Querying awkwardly spoken words, small
Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch
Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool
A silly father who loved too much.
On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude
Partnered only by memory
Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade
Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary,
Where only the crackle of snow
And the fleeting trajectory of birds
Distracts my slow
Marshalling of comforting thoughts.
The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade,
A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light,
Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade,
White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night.
In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck,
A cheap skateboard, ancient video games,
A guitar you never learnt to pluck
A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames.
In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom
Your school work gathered into stacks
Barely visible in the gloom,
Our life together in disorganised packs
Denoting year and level
Development and academic achievement,
If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil)
Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent.
Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall,
Are brightly coloured, polished pictures
Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small
Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures.
A bitter echo resonating from the shadows
A cold thought darkening into memory
The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows
Having left all of us! Having left me!
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Summoned at an elevation of a height
The ensuing plodding gloomy twilight,
and sweet sound of the night cricket
denoting yet another moment
of Peace after the bust,
from the twiddling day in haste,
now the full Moon smiles in glee
in a split second above the fig tree
Tally-Ho!!...the startling howl of the fox in the dark at three…
Scintillating tales about Angels of the night…
Dazzling as emerald gemstones
Speaking to awakening sons of men to affirm…
The third unseen soothing divine presence
Basking in the resplendent mysterious
Peace of dusk grandeur…..
Kenneth Muhumuza.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 3:57 AM UTC
i loath that educational poetry that's intended to address you with scold or searching for a higher tier of morality, there are poems like that out there (rudyard kipling e.g.), with educational / instructional overtones in the way they're written, i always wonder though: did the poet remember the idea of solipsism and writing the poem as if to himself, a note to self, rather than for others to peer into the poem and learn something?
that's the thing though,
i'm a child of immigrants...
actually an immigrant
myself... no, wait, let's do
what the higher tiers of society
call it: i'm an expatriate,
a child of expatriates -
and they still talk with an accent,
me? self-taught english
from the age of 8, retained my
mother tongue nonetheless,
speak none of the two tongues with
an accent, unless i want to,
a friend of mine introduced me
to a greek cypriot, lovingly ridiculed
me as posh... and let me tell you,
sounding posh in essex is hard to do,
i admit it would be harder in
scotland or east london, but essex
is still a hefty mountain to climb -
it's like that crass joke i heard in
the edinburgh comedy club i used to
haunt once a week...
a guy stands up and with a mighty grin
announced himself with over-stressed
elocution: 'you might recognise my accent
(i.e. denoting where he came from,
a great conversation starter on these
islands)... it's educated',
and that really crushed the hazelnut
in his **** -
well if it was a woman telling the same
joke, it would be a crushed hazelnut
between the legs - missionaries
in positions of ardent prayer
and christmas wrapping paper -
because a woman's strength in the leg department
is like the lips of oysters, or any over shellfish
for that matter - insects of the deep blue
(exoskeleton).
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
Diastolic memory fills mind with blood
Heart purges other unforgettable serum
Gushing in and out; valediction, invasion
Scent left on bed sheets binomial theorem
Calculus, physics computing mnemonics us
Trust not sum of it, exponents baying flux
Participles and components abject humbling
Stumbling bio discourse create sedentary crux
Stupefying brain surgeons, those of heart too
Call in mathematicians, astronomers as well
No making sense of it, linguistic doctorates few
To tell of this push-pull sensory denoting hell
Not much time to live after lungs dispensed
Entrenched questions remain to be adoring
Extravagantly historians exploring
Unanswerable examining of this imploring
Must breathe the linens till all dissipation
Your essence in the ether of our resting
Place turned into mad languid laboratory
Conjuring back moments I am requesting
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
As proved by my good friend Archimedes,
in his _Measurement of a Circle_,
the area enclosed by a circle is equal
to that of a triangle whose base has the length
of the circle's circumference &
whose height equals the circle's radius,
which comes to π multiplied by the radius squared:
Area = pi r^2.
Equivalently, denoting diameter by _d_
Area =pi d^2/4 approx 0.7854d^2,
that is, approximately
79% of the circumscribing
square whose side is of length _d_
The circle is the plane curve enclosing
the maximum area for a given arc length.
This relates the circle to a problem
in the calculus of variations,
namely the isoperimetric inequality [of course]
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
Two curly brackets
with an apostrophe each
for eyes
like two faces
looking at each other
with noses
– or lips –
almost touching
and between the faces
a small letter x
denoting
(you guessed it)
a small kiss.
The faces are so anonymous
they could be anyone
but one is me
and the other
can represent any one
of my lady poet friends
or should that be
"my poet lady-friends"?
So if any of my poet friends
who are ladies
think they might like a small friendly gesture
of affection
from me
please take it as that.
We are after all
so far away
that it could never come to more
but like a small birthday present
it's the thought that counts.
Isn't it?
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
Her hair smelled of
Rubber erasers
Late nights
Spilled cappucino
But somehow still looked beautiful.
She was like her grades, a perfect 10/10
Sharp eyes denoting a wide mind that
Every day I wanted to dive into.
I was wrapped around her finger
Like the pen she'd always chew on
When she'd look at me with fire in her eyes.
I love you Bienne.
give me the ****
ughhhh b0ss pls
can i habeda pu$$y pls
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
* Phae, light
phoe·nix
/ˈfēniks/
Nix, night
**...burning itself on a funeral pyre and rising from the ashes with renewed youth to live through another cycle.
-a person or thing regarded as uniquely remarkable in some respect.**
Joseph Campbell
The Sun on it's daily journey rises with shining rays upon it's sides at the horizon; the wings. The Sun is symbolically an Eagle who rises at dawn and soars the day until time for rest. The Hero's journey is based on these movements. ⁽ᑫᵘᵃᵐ ˢᵘᵘˢ ˢᵉⁿˢᶦᵗ⁾
PHOENIX
Night and Day combined in a cycle denoting the Sun's journey. ⁻ᴵᵇᶦᵈ
I am born again
so I must journey,
Paused in a trepidation
noon to my respite,
Moon she follows me
spirit sends my sojourn,
I burn on horizon
my form to ashes,
Tested by the darkness
lair of that beast.
Eclipsing the New Moon
broken her to pieces.
Followed by the dark
By my vanquished foe!
I arise anew, again
Dawn, day, dusk, night.
Naivete
The Fall
Ashes
Katabasis
Tribulation
Rebirth
Enlightenment/Ascension
King
8
OGDOAD
Og(cK): aga/okto/octo
Eight
⁻ˢᵘᵐᵉʳᶦᵃⁿ/ᴳʳᵉᵉᵏ/ᴸᵃᵗᶦⁿ
Do(u)/ At: place of serpents
Place, temple/serpent, snake
⁻ˢᵘᵐᵉʳᶦᵃⁿ/ᴱᵍʸᵖᵗᶦᵃⁿ
The place of Serpents
Council of Eight Serpentine Gods
Duat
Heaven(s)
The eight unknown actions
-deities of elemental materials
Vasus
⁻ᴴᶦⁿᵈᵘ
Sun
Sky
Moon
Stars
Night
Weather
Water
Nature
A
PILLAR
DJED
pillar/spine
...connected to the serpent upon the rise.
THE
DRAGON'S
MOUTH
SPEWS
FORTH
FIRE
6
The fire of the Sun-
THE
DRAGON
IS WISE/ALL-KNOWING
WITH A KEEN GAZE
For the Moon is thought-
⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ/⁻ᴳʳᵉᵉᵏ
⁻ᴴᵒʳ⁻ᵐᵃˢ/⁻ᴱᵍʸᵖᵗᶦᵃⁿ
And Charon means keen gazer-
⁻ᴳʳᵉᵉᵏ
INSIDE
HIS WINGS
ARE EYES, MANY EYES
-stars-
Gigi
Ig-gigi
Eyes, many eyes-
⁻ˢᵘᵐᵉʳᶦᵃⁿ
BES
A beast made up of animal parts-
...parts of the Zodiac/the animal circus
⁻ᴱᵍʸᵖᵗᶦᵃⁿ
ZU-Bird
Zu
⁻ˢᵘᵐᵉʳᶦᵃⁿ
SOKAR
So
⁻ᴱᵍʸᵖᵗᶦᵃⁿ
*Zu-So:/ˈzō/sō/;
Action/the sigil of Saturn, a repeated action:
-actions that repeat
8
⁻ˢᵘᵐᵉʳᶦᵃⁿ
<A FOURTH ALBUM WITH FOUR TITLES>
8
*KRONOS
⁻ᴳʳᵉᵉᵏ
SET
⁻ᴱᵍʸᵖᵗᶦᵃⁿ
Saturn
⁻ˢᵘᵐᵉʳᶦᵃⁿ
8
...and his number is Eight...
...eight turned sideways is,
t i m e
OG
r e p e a t s
I N F I N I T Y
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
.you could possibly rewrite the sudoku puzzle, using letters, i.e., to replace 4, 6, 8, 9... with D, b, B and P... alternatively the lowercase b with Q.
. i really have to stop borrowing
from the Zen concept
of ensō - with what the "circle"
represents -
namely? heihō, i.e. the "square" -
namely, what comes after
absolute enlightenment,
strength, elegance, the universe,
and mu (the void) -
i.e., alternatively: the nu, or?
the filling...
heihō is an elevated noun
denoting a sudoku puzzle...
it begins with the key and lock
analogy, borrowed from greek:
Φ (insert the key)
θ (turn it, open the door,
and subsequently enter) -
all sudoku puzzles begin like so...
□ that becomes Φ, θ
that becomes #
that subsequently becomes ■ -
after many instances of
—, |, / and \ considerations...
this idea only came to mind,
bothered by an obstruction
on the 10,050 puzzle...
0 0 0
0 4 2
1 3 9
2 7 5
4 6 8
8 9 4
3 2 0 } these three blanks
0 0 7 i was concerned with...
1 0 0
0 0 5
0 6 0
___________
x y z
___________
( 6 5 1 )
( 5 1 6 )
( 1 ) **** no alternatives...
and given there's a fractional choice,
conundrum, i.e. there are only
two viable choices?
well? neither.
the solution? i had to be patient with it,
after all, it's akin to Zen "circle"
concept, namely?
you can't make a mistake -
given you're using such, "primitive"
tools as a pen on paper...
5 8 6 4 3 9 2 1 7
7 4 2 1 6 8 3 9 5
9 1 3 5 7 2 8 6 4
1 3 9 7 2 4 5 ζ 6
2 7 5 3 8 6 9 γ 1
4 6 8 9 5 1 7 3 2
8 9 4 2 1 5 χ 7 3
3 2 1 6 9 7 4 5 8
6 5 7 8 4 3 1 2 9
yet this wasn't the pinnacle of
the evening...
some "madwoman", singing,
in the night... the most beautiful songs...
it was hard not to listen,
given she went on for about 3 hours...
kept singing and singing...
sometimes giving
a frivolous explanation to someone
trying to interrupt her...
a woman in love...
just kept singing and singing...
defiantly english -
i can't recall the last time
i heard a woman sing so beautifully -
not armed, standing behind
a microphone, on a stage -
with a band behind her...
this girl's voice had but one stage:
the night -
and her backing band?
simply the moon;
and an appreciative audience of one...
moi.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
Between the Author
And the Reader,
The Text lies waiting.
The Author,
Only partially aware
Of All Intents and Purposes
In spite of careful diction,
Forms a multi-messaged bolt
To drive full meaning
Home.
The Text,
Scripted in language,
Printed on paper,
Inked in pixels,
Floated in air,
Carries meaning
in a leaking bucket
Denoting and Connoting
Implications only.
The Reader,
Seeking something
Not even realized,
Comes partially engaged,
Intent to dabble
Or to glean
Or find some thought
On which to meditate.
Somehow in this tenuous state
Between mortal thinkers,
Ideas cross synaptic bridges -
Through the air and light,
Tempered by time,
Culture-cured,
Enriched by vocabulary,
Electrically ignited...
Combustion!
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
i've seen the commentary...
but let's do the ratios...
youtubers sometimes tend to boast
about their subscribes,
notably dr. steve turley,
100K (100,000)
and styxhexenhammer666
30K (30,000)...
yes, i know that a chris isaack
track is, a tad bit too much
reminiscent of Abba...
point being? my turn...
so...
the ratio... i have 138
followers... but my post popular
"poem" ranks at around
4,700 views...
an average dr. steve turley video
ranks in at 20,000,
and with subscribers numbering
100,000...
whole styxhexenhammer666,
30,000 subscribers, but
at average counts of views at hovering
past the 1,000 mark...
now the ratios...
please let me be wrong, please
let me be wrong...
0.5 for dr. steve turley
lopsided ratios:
100,000 / 20,000....
styxhexenhammer666
comes in at 30...
30,000 / 1,000...
me?
i come in at... ha ha!
5,700 / 138
34.057...
i'm not boasting...
but i hate to see decent people boast
about their prescription rates,
but then...
0.029...
but within the confines of
giving an answer back...
you get the picture...
their viewers plummet...
the ratios do not add up...
i'd boast, sure as hell i'd boast...
but... i sorta don't feel like it...
i never saw the bonus side of boasting
when it came to numbers...
more subscribers,
than views?
big ******* problem...
so... proud, concerning, what?!
oh... wait...
i just figured this out
differently...
0.033 (styxhexenhammer666)
and 0.2 (dr. steve turley)...
oh wait... dr. steve turley: circa 74,000
subscribers...
and the average viewership
of a video circa 21,000?
3.52....
0.02837....
ola! village people!
counter ratios...
views : subscribers
counter to subscribers : views
(in ratio)....
that age old relativism
of "success"...
give me a minute, i need to work
on the schematic rubric...
views : subscribers | subscribers : views
(a) ~5700 ÷ 138 (a) 138 ÷ ~5700
= 41.30 = 0.024
(b) ~1000 ÷ ~30,000 (b) ~30,000 ÷ ~1000
= 0.033 = 300
(c) ~21,000 ÷ ~70,000 (c) ~70,000 ÷ ~21,000
= 0.284 = 3.52
(a) denoting me,
(b) denoting sythexenhammer666
(c) denoting dr. steve turley
so wait, give me a minute...
since we're all so happy
******* a boasting match...
i have... less subscribers...
but more views...
than people who have more,
subscribers... but less views?
i know i'm fiddling with the numbers...
but to use but one instance...
i have more views than
i have subscribers...
while these youtube vloggers have
more subscribers than
they have views...
interesting...
but if everyone's going to be playing
the ******* numbers game...
i thought:
might as well bring by bucket and *****
into this sand-pit,
and see if i can play along
with these kids...
citing my attempt at a massive *****
you never know:
it could work!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC