"devolves" poems
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Stake claim, enslave
Falling behind
A wake so odd
Cosmic, wretched truth
Will all compose
With repetition
Til all devolves
Equally wrong choices, with dire stakes
Options weighed, time again
Derived presets, and presupposition
Derivative motion, placed on this clean slate
And left for a lifetime
Of horrid substitutions
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC
We are not quite like monks,
although we, too, sit.
A monk sits and seeks
to find nothing in nothing.
We sit to create
something out of something.
Things float in our minds:
childhood slights and successes,
puberty, hormones, pain,
our first fumbling *****
our first bewildering wars,
colleges, conquests, rebuffs,
disappointments, jobs,
marriages, children, divorce:
all that has brought
us to this moment alone.
The monk sits in
deepening quiet,
unmoving in silence.
We sit, hand
caressing a pen,
a typewriter, a computer,
waiting upon experience,
hoping that
its loose images
and uncertain memories
will coalesce into words.
When they do (not always),
we call that a poem
and we call ourselves poets.
The monk devolves
into a nothing that is.
The poet crafts
a something that isn't.
Is the something
we have wrought
more than the nothing
that swallows the monks?
Or is it very the same:
not an attempt to touch
the depth of being,
but to become the depth
itself.
Not to be a magician,
but to become magick
itself.
To bow to the god
within ourselves
and allow it voice
or silence.
We both, in our ways,
do what we must do.
Namaste.
~mce
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
open ended, carved under the sky,
before night arrests our bated breathing,
a long line pulls taut.
a single glimmer, thirty
seven degrees to the horizon,
devolves in absence; here,
a heaviness.
you tore the center of a
dripping plum clean to
ripples over fading plains,
corners of streets where
i stand, on one foot,
against this architect's second-best:
perfect still, bearings, city centre.
lost.
a kite string north, slight east,
the rotation of points demarcating
this pasture, a
long line becoming cycles,
tying tree-trunks like
your handwriting in switchblade font;
static inanimacy, a
song for nothing, a five
minute overhaul, the only
meaningful composition the
world will give up.
years.
taking up a pair of scissors,
you make soft moves;
kiss someone new a little longer
kiss someone new a little
kiss someone new,
smile,
skin as parchment,
fine paintings, forwarding addresses,
symbols glowing through the depths of night;
a candle, alight,
to have read you by.
a short line comes loose,
i fall down.
empty.
you fall asleep,
smile.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
Isn't it ironic that
Silence screams so loud
we drown out the sound
and pray the voices pipe down
" they don't sound like me anymore
they won't go away and each day
a demented voice pulls me under
and now I wonder...
which way is up?"
Isn't it ironic how
playing cards can cut
like a razor blade
and red dice rolling
become an evil eye that winks.
Does that cloth
on a tricky table
feel as soft
as the lining on a nearby coffin?
Isn't it ironic
when love's soft touch
devolves into lust
and broken hearts
disintegrate into rust,
when a silent embrace
becomes an empty bed
but that void only deepens
when we cheapen
our body and soul
to feel whole
for a mere moment.
Isn't it ironic
we want a world
so far from reality
we blur the one we have
as we snort, smoke and swallow
our problems away
only for them to return
on a much darker day.
A hundred vices
**** a thousand men
and in solidarity we stand.
Let one brave soul say
I have been bitten by these...
and more
so many more!
Let me lean on you brother
Let me comfort you sister
Let us stumble forward together!
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
I experience crippling anxiety
The people who feel high
Think it's easy to be high
Because they are high
And say to the low
To be high
But once I'm entangled
By the breathless thoughts
I am unable
To function
Depersonalization
Is crippling
And temporarily devolves me
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
life is but a dream...
Lithuanian speaking parrots
dangle alluringly toxic grapes,
but you breakfast on hyacinths
and suddenly turn cruel in April.
Seductively sleepy lidded women
grip you with invisible fangs
squeezing away any latent lust.
Your cat silently reads your will
licking his sharp, sodden chops.
The IRS sends you an inviting
prison manufactured Christmas card.
The car you can't drive finds a
new owner on Craig's List and
leaves you stranded and alone.
Unable to reach the grocery store,
you will choke on frozen burritos.
Your good cholesterol joins the plot,
turns bad, and conspires to ******
Lowly earthworms dug for fishing
mutate into malevolent Blacks Mambas.
AARP hounds you to rejoin
no matter how many times you move.
Your high-speed Internet connection
devolves into a slow, taunting swamp.
Your toenails just won’t shut up.
The sun rises suspiciously late.
And you've only been awake an hour.
Could be a very long day.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 7:16 AM UTC
azure eyes with tinges of grey
worn from a dance with the night
hair wild, could be wind-swept
but no, only bed-swept
through the tossing and turning
her hair strangles and tangles itself
the sun does not wait for her to wake
she waits for the sun, achingly
as the dark slowly devolves to light
knowingly the pattern repeats and continues on
the familiar sequence brings a sick sort of comfort
she needs something to smile about anyway,
"and it's always nice to see the sun rise."
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 6:23 PM UTC
There are just words
that resonate, meaningfully,
-as if they have meaning-
from the echo within my skull
to the entrance within my soul.
And to you who infers,
who proclaims the righteous totality
and splendor of connotation
under the guise of one's own God,
within and without,
I thank you for your consideration,
for finding your words in mine.
For when 'you' and 'I' are swapped,
when truth is but a sound
and notions dissolve into the echoes of life,
this will be but a piece of paper,
marked up crudely
from clandestine forethought
into a portrait of emotions, unvisible.
Should I share my tears onto this page
it could have no more significance
than the weakest tear in the fabric
as it, too, devolves into brusque indifference.
When the thoughts have decayed
and I find myself a stranger to this text,
I will know its meaning extinct
but for its interpretations
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
With heavy breath, I bring
pen to page and finger to string
and hold left hand over right, to steady
my shaking wrist as I tremble,
the echo of your voice resonating
permeating
bouncing off every sinewy fiber,
ankles and hips and lungs and heart
beating for you.
I try to write of other things—
of clouds and car crashes and
mysterious men in dark suits with trombone cases and silencers,
or big whaling ships off the coast of Japan,
cold lights singing through marine mist—
but the trains of thought all lead to your
"I love you,"
to your
"I want you,"
to your
"I'm all yours."
The lyrical cadence is tired,
reminiscent of the classics and
traversing paths well-traveled.
The major keys with clean sound—
no reverb, no filter, no distortion—
are boring and basic,
and the vocal sickly sweet
and the floor toms empty
and the ride cymbal whispering
shhhhhhhh
over a cavalcade of harmonics
in a complete circle of fifths.
You are the fairy tale,
the "once upon a time"
and the "happily ever after"
that feel fabricated passing through the lips of others,
but more lucid than taste and smell when
falling through yours
mine
ours
pressed
pushed
touch
close.
It all devolves
into tangled limbs
bright colors
and whispered, made up words.
The ones that exist simply won't do.
I write every song
every single ********* song
for you.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
I want to make you feel special today.
Gently, I feel your hand against mine as I kiss the back of each individual finger
letting the shiver from my lips down to your spine travel and linger
as I press my forehead and trace the tip of my nose gently along your arm.
My arms wrapped around you, I slowly rub your back to help ease you out of
the long hours you definitely have worked today. I want to pour my soul into
you to melt away the tensions of the daily wear and tear of your life
and remind you that there are things worth living and loving for.
Gently I trace my naked chin against the nook of your neck as my lips continue
trailing along quietly until they reach the lobe of your ear. I give it exactly one
soft, gentle kiss. I lean deeper into your ear and gently whisper,
"You've been working out today. Do you know how wonderful you look today?"
You deny it coyly but I whisper more, "You're so cold. Please, let me gently hold you
close to me and give you my life, and let it melt into yours. Let me feel every part
of you in an attempt to stoke flames pacified by society. Tell me about your day;
tell me every intricate detail about you. Don't hold back."
You tell me something about how a coworker ******* up something and blamed it on you.
"I'm sorry that happened. Take pity on them; they could never hope to shine as greatly
as you can. I can already feel my eyes melt in sheer bliss when I so much as gaze upon you.
You deny it with a laugh, but I tell you that I would die perpetually for the chance to be with you once more.
I make a joke quietly about how we're two plucked chickens flapping around as our embrace tightens and for
a moment you can't take the situation seriously anymore. We laugh heartily, and only bury our hearts deeper
into ourselves. The night devolves into a choir of moans. We sleep tightly together through the night
as the moonlight gently blankets us, blessing our union together.
People who make love seem to forget, that the body is just a part;
the little things, the jokes, the care
come from our soul, mind,
and heart.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
skin me alive, i beg of you to do so
take off my skin layer by layer, laying it in acid
so it devolves, leaving nothing behind
i want you to them remove my limbs
piece by piece
throw them into the water so they float away, to find a better home
i want you to break every bone that makes up my skeleton
why you ask?
so you can no longer break my heart
i want you take my organs and eat them
so you can taste the pain you caused me
and lastly, take my blood
put in a jar and freeze it so it lasts forever
that way you always know what you did to me
you made my blood spill all over the floor
when you said good bye
for i no longer wanted to be a human
i no longer wanted to exist
so i beg of you
to take me a part
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
treating her sadly
in his dull pride admired
when his innocence, inoculated
with sour spores,
devolves into thick hides
jaded attitudes
and glazed gaze
raised in the house,
to only look in at the garden
via viewports distorted
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 10:24 PM UTC
No-Thingness
Everything devolves into structuredness because all things revert to singularity. To one entitity. It reverts to a single point of energy charged with infinite potential and pure conciousness.
An All-being dissolved of any structure and definition giving meaning to the No-Thingness inherent in the fabric of all existence.
We are omniscience expressed through a fragmented incomplete experience. More expressed through lesser, yet without this,
potential wouldn't come into fruition. Understanding comes with defining structures painted on the empty canvas of awareness. When we cease to paint, the color of awareness transforms emptiness into spaciousness. That's why through silence we can experience contentment in being. The practice is awareness without understanding.To understand that we are awareness without practice. Effortless. Duality is our illusion, our bounderies are imaginary. We only perceive the paradoxical expression of reality.
Like the notion of distance in the definition of interconnectivity.
Wholeness is incomprehensible presence.
It is the rigidity of our awareness that prevents us from flowing into it. Take water poured into existence, yet it takes the shape of an imaginary bowl. Held together by the tension of it's own convictions. It firmly believes in it's seperation and individuality.
Convinced of it's own shape, it does so against ironically impossible odds. It forgot it's place within No-Thingness yet that does not mean it's seperation. It merely means it does not recognize itself as the wholeness it perceives.
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 5:41 PM UTC
I don't deny; love in heart is life's force
For procreation how we need love more:
Would solve with love how hate does cause divorce
Between own mind and lover's loving core.
Is just then one to love their self alone
To spend their days that selfishness revolves
And hermit nor hermess need none atone
Before their own and lover's sin devolves.
Let here from my experience so lend:
At first does single-hood live single's dream
But love still loves in shadows love does send
'Till even they have taken voice to scream:
And call upon your lonesomeness apart
Than what in love revives within your heart!
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 9:55 AM UTC