"deranging" poems
Love is a rare and dangerous creature
That only shows face when the time is right now
Lust is a complimentary feature
Which keeps lovers guessing til both settle down
Not to say everyone settles for less
Love doesn't lie, but it leaves room for choice
Those who are willing to give it their best
Keep Lust in its place and let Love be the voice
Love is adaptable, constantly changing
It morphs and it breathes like a woman or man
Lust is impassible, always deranging
It puts up a wall and masks what it can
Nobody knows what happens to Love
When distance requires the mind to have faith
And stare at the images Lust conjures up
Alluding ideas of mistrust and distaste
Isn't it better to let Love be free?
To keep it confined would just let it die
Allowing the chains for which Lust has the key
To govern the feelings of comfort and pride
Be free, my love, to run through the brush
But always remember where you were at peace
And hurry on back when you've had enough
For I may not be here when your venture has ceased
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,
The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,
The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float
Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous
With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear
Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear's listening
Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony
Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,
Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge
Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source
Of your ice-hearted calling --
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting
Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.
3.6k
Rings of light lowering from the skies I called my faith Godly and A universe is birthing somewhere; Transporting peace into this world everyone else infidel. Now I going extinct Dinosaurs in There! Ant-eating stick,
I emerged have divine rights to pillage all.
A galaxy few light-years away, A tool-making ape. And gave the Shoreless ocean knocking the heart. At this very moment, life first
key to St. Peter and walked, walked That I locked away behind a
door. peered at
the firmament of stars. Bequeathing hopers,
A light called forth and I walked forth A supernova ***** all light. memories down epigenetic lines. out a mollusc to the future But peace was alive all along. An arc. Epic. Exodusish. enroute a transcience
called man; Now
in the fear of a mushroom There is a God.
Too bland for our Tossing around in a centrifuge. clouds, she graces
the world in taste, lighting all hearts in peace-fires. Giant wheel. Merry-go-around. her dome-shrines dotting the wide
shores. And now
we like them, deranging conflagrations more.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
This place is always a little lonely
At the weekends...no noise and life;
I like solitude,
But not in places
Where's there's recently been
A lot of people.
Reclusiveness protects you
From nostalgia,
And you can be as nostalgic
In relation to what happened
Half an hour ago
As half a century ago, in fact more so.
I went to the Xmas party.
I danced,
And generally lived it up.
I went to bed sad though.
Discos exacerbate
My sense of solitude.
My capacity for social warmth,
Excessive social dependence,
And romantic zeal,
Can be practically deranging;
It's no wonder I feel the need
To escape...
Escape from my own
Drastic social emotivity,
And devastating capacity
For loneliness.
I feel trapped here;
There's no
Outlet for my talents.
In such a state as this,
I could fall in love with anyone.
The night before last,
I went to the ball,
Couples filing out,
I wanted to be half of every one,
But I didn't want to lose * * *.
I'll get over how I feel now,
And very soon.
Gradually I'll freeze again,
Even assuming an extra layer of snow.
I have to get out of here.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
there is a plurality in the times
for I cannot stop for death
it cannot stop for me
and I hear the roar of silent space
as it hears the roars of me
driving one towards
visionary liberation
like a frenzied shaman
in his dance
deranging sensories to be found
yet still known in this trance
and punishment for poetry is not new
nor is the strangling of my hair
for we are all solitaries
placed, situated, somewhere
so I wish I was in Zanzibar
to walk upon its sand
to feel the impressions of words
explode within my hands
and to drink all the ink
that baths upon me and calls itself anew
it is the shimmer of this violet haze
that echoes in my view
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
Isn't it quite deranging
That every book,
Every song,
Every dream
Still speak your name.
F.Z.N
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
What sordid devotions to identity and strife
Misguided, deranging
Place joy atop a knife
Only through eyes yet unopened
Can the single truth be gleaned
Unbridled, Undivided
Outstanding, Unseen
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 1:40 PM UTC
I never look at a blank page for too long,
Same goes for facing a blank wall,
it seems to be always missing something.
A photo, a picture, and most of all memories.
When I was a child the same goes with my readers
without those colorful photos, I wasn't
contented with reading the book.
I must have read The House that was up sided down"
More than a dozen times, love how the illustrators
Mind-expanding illustrations, vocabulary or concepts
had capture my growing mind at a early age.
Today my mind, doesn’t go for the illustrations,
But it can capture poetic details about life,
And the subject matters: as they come to surface,
When it comes at me in the mirror,
It's not me staring back, but a poet,
A modern free verse kind of poet,
Or would we say a Amazon online shopper,
Instead of a walk-in stores browser
Who see from the rearview of her eyeglasses,
The brothers, I have known them that for the past
Twenty-three years, not on a personal level,
But by observing those two as individual characters,
One was a war vet, the other a computer tech,
One with some post-traumatic stress disorder,
The other like no other, had a Smoking Marijuana Fixation:
Most likely contribute to his cancer, which lead up to his death,
The other brother, is still here with us,
Hanging around in the lobby, making weird sound
And ****** expression, of a deranging war vet,
We must never assume, who is healthier and who is not.
Because death is a divider, a time stopper,
And unapologetic, defiant Donald Trump of times
At times, I also can be unapologetic
I owes you nothing, I owes you nothing,
I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I am the free verse
Of my daily writing, without rules, without your approval,
or even riding my bike without a helmet.
Or walking the street of Brooklyn without protection.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 9:38 AM UTC
Just in case
What if Eve, as an easy lable for YMRCA, were
the first wombed man with wit to make her will known,
vocally?
What if she could sing, and smile, wink and
blink and look away,
coy, from the crib.
She steals, so'ld say the tales, her daddy's heart, but not so fast
this is, say 120 KYA, as current model mortals mark time
since most recent common mom... walked balanced, upright...
I bet she could dance and sing... but
some reason or another, now
no offspring of any mom alive when YMRCA walked, walks now.
Not upright, ya sher... maybe eve was the only wombed man.
What if, any of that, but this is a strue as we may know...
all construed facts point to life being
struely
not as simple as a boom... though there are ways to end it,
as we say we well know,
we've seen the cancers... mental deranging during mind wandering,
we have heard the stories,
Hydes who remained,
but only Post-mortal Marvel has myths where Hyde is the happy side.
Silly, I would love to have friends.
But no stupid people, none un willing to use a word of the day
to escape a bout of ignorant rage
-- Brubeck, Sonny... yeah like the Sundance Kid's prison flick,
-- but Sonny was a first gen Jesus Freak,
with one of those, at will, eididic memory's.
He also owned the first digital watch I ever saw. I thought he was rich.
In a rage, Sonny once screamed in my hearing,
GOD WHY MUST THERE BE OTHER PEOPLE?
as orderly types were taking him, strapped to gurney,
to Camarillo State Hospital,
a truly beautiful place for solitary rememberence
of everything
you ever said or did. Like, the window of your soul
become the big screen, with no body projected there...
all around me everyone is not there...
then I see, I guess, this is a way that prayer was remembered as
Sonny slowly rose to re
ify a present with other people in it, but masked.
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 9:41 PM UTC
When summer comes
Leaves will grow
The winter breeze
Nowhere known
Children's cry at dawn
Will wake all under where the sun shone
Pools filled with champagne to the brim
Will see day till the light starts to dim
Then crickets will call throughout the night
But when someone sees, they'll be nowhere in sight
As the seasons switch, everything changes
All but something, to a point it's deranging
Because although leaves will grow
And the winter breeze will be nowhere known
The pit in me will stay empty
Dark and cold, but not as lonely
As one might seem to think it will be
For a lack of emotion
Lack of admiration
Has become a habit
A pattern yet to be broken
Yet sometimes I wish it to go
For when summer comes,
A new time has begun.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 7:18 PM UTC
today the weather is temperate and modest
sculpted as a model depiction of the artistic connoisseur's painting
i've been observing the seasons change on me
day be the day the park bench withstands yearly attractions, never yet less deranging
so as i lay back with crow bar on the corner of the plank
i wonder, don't think, i'm already of admirable rank
i dig my piercing meteor to the center of the bench
chip, a wedge flew off, resembles a baseball bat when clenched
happiness loves Missouri and i need to take a dip in that river
swim the distance into the current, direction; a lively propagator
currently chilling out on this draft,
catch your lustrous beauty later...we all know this craft
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 3:32 AM UTC
If eyes could evacuate part of the sadness
Through tears
I would like to fill mine in a cup
And drink a sip every night before going to sleep
A time where my lids are hung up to the ceiling
And my ears deafened by the silence
The stars won't shine
And pools of salty water would soak the pillow
Or the bed
Or wherever my head would have landed
Turning, stopping, turning, knocking
Aspiring, hopelessly to come to an end
Assuming the best spot keeps the brain firmly closed
Thinking of that spot
I am still thinking
Depriving
And diving back into the loop
Scarlet roots pulsating
Microscopic heart in each zone
Patches of darkness on every side
Gradually dipped into the abyss
Of auto-destruction
Drank enough
I knock on the crystal-clear glass
Droplets fall on the middle of my forehead
To the edges, temples
And melt with the dried, former crisped layer
The cup is desolated
I lay it on my face
Deranging the eyelashes
Spasms of fluttering
And I burst, into laughter
Giggling lava
The recipient quivers, trembles
And falls onto the solid surface
Where slightly before shattering
It stood, there, a micro-second, caressing the ground
It seemed the steadiness of it, did not like the gentle stroke
Or maybe the fine glass just harmed itself willingly
And I watched the splinters and fragments
Bouncing and covering
Breathing their last breath
Losing their transparent color
And I cried again
Willingly
Not only because I somehow helped the cup to brake
The floor starred
Little faces,
Grinning
Decomposing
All were mine
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 5:05 AM UTC