"diatribes" poems
Time is of the sentence, while
verbs reveal their intents
for adjective nouns (pro or no
comment) quickly in vents
meant for air, but coarseness
courses through upturned grates
shredding of courses into no ways
to go from here to home,
awaiting infinitely fine moments
caressed along necks of silken
skin within the wear of stretched out
glances left lingering still
in compassionate ponds rippling
soft warm smiles lazily by
the melting cares of the world
golden in luxuriously wrapped light
playing across the surface & through-
out into emerald encrusted irises
to cast love's shadow over
swamps of fear gurgling neuro-
toxic diatribes against plu-
perfect pasts & future
imprefects presented in a case to
Your Honor's (the jury) out of bounds
dissolved with ear ration-
al solutions mixed & stirred
thoroughly throughout,
without spilling too
much.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Greetings audience.
I am off my medication now and I am feeling vastly better. Something just cleared my conscious and vascular blockage so joyously. I will not be posting videos due to my camera and devices breaking. No diatribes nor any vitriolic comments were conferred during my time gone throughout my family and my peers, assuming that is the reason I am now healthy (dropping toxic ties). Unluckily, all of my social media was hacked. Refrain from following anything linked with my name. Indeed, I am not here to bloviate, rather to celebrate. Thank you for your cooperation. I will now go play childishly. Farewell. : )
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
our typed up words hide emotions unseen
where sound can give a taste of truth
and even postcards can reveal
the tangles of the century and it's related loves
of technology's soft whispers
of clicking keys and computer buzz
in those ones and zeros that hold us close to heart
the miles are still real, seemingly we'll part
another buzz another ring another taste of you
but can these magical machines bring
me more than just the best of you
I want to hear the stutter when you're nervous and can't speak,
the whisper's of the secrets of what we'll do next week,
I want to see your hair disheveled when you get up out of bed
the slight portliness of figure like the bearded fella wearing a suit of red
I want to taste the treats of the dishes that I've seen
and of course
I want to taste your lips
carrying the flavors of cigar and wine
See the the glimmer in your eye
When some little excitement passes by
And hear loquacious diatribes as to gladly chime on in
starting from your normal dinner topics to our lives of sin
But all those ones and zero... and our miles still remain
hopes of this togetherness from which my brain
can not refrain
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
Film developer cacophonies, and journalistic hoarding
My friends wanted to record our last year –
Accurately – not succinctly
Abstractly – and yet, directly, bluntly
Vividly – in photography, quote notebooks, Dictaphone diatribes
That’s hilarious – scribble it down.
Can you repeat your brilliance?
If you could paraphrase that – well…what would you say?
Take another one. She wasn’t smiling.
I don’t want to smile.
My friend sidles up beside me – beaming grin
Sticking her fingers into my mouth
Pulling opposite and up
And her fingers tasted like
The musty pages of books without pictures.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Analytical Critique of Unconscious Thought
acting out without conscious thought
like those silly shorts that you just bought
the gaudy plaid in a stripped world
capacity bottom-up weighting rule
convergence conclusion you silly fool
uncalled for diatribes that you unfurled
magical spiral of unspoken words
formed by hand into painted sherds
genius clown keeps lips tightly curled
Gomer LePoet....
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
I can still remember.
That burning feeling of inspiration, bubbling up through my body.
It dominated me, defined me, led me to believe that I was my own hero.
A protagonist on a quest, a road to travel on, certainty in my bones.
Driven by love through the narration of my world, my story.
Words overflowed from my heart.
Staining the tracks, pages, and lilies of my life with my fire.
Every heartbeat resounded like the clanging of a tower's bells.
Each ring dictating time, order, purpose, place.
I can still remember.
The lingering taste of coffee on my tongue, my face sore from smiling.
Hours spent talking and listening.
The content of my life summarized like chapters of a book.
The way my heart vaulted when your eyes met mine.
It was like the moon pulling at the tides.
Giving the waves motion and momentum.
So I spilled my ink and blood, writing you into the story.
I can still remember.
What it was like when it was over.
I hadn't realized I had been living in a cell.
Scrawling my visions of the world onto every inch of those four walls.
Diagrams and diatribes, the things I considered to be myself.
Going mad in the most wonderful fashion.
As I left I saw them for what they were.
Mosaics and memorials.
Poison and poetry.
The passionate magic of first and finals, the ****** taste of loss.
But **** it was beautiful all the same.
I can still remember.
What it felt like to move on.
The taste of freedom and fresh air, an urge to defy what was.
And become something more again.
But suddenly, the bleeding in my heart slowed.
The resounding clangs of my inner bells softly faded.
It took years,
But one day I reached inside myself
Expecting to feel the fire burning inside me.
I can still remember.
The dread that came with the lack of heat.
The soul of myself, the definition of me as the hero.
Was only embers now.
The easy numbness that washed over me.
The determination and inspiration that was me had left.
I was broken, as I always was.
But I no longer knew myself as beautiful.
I was not a protagonist.
I had written myself out of my own story, slowly but surely.
There was no quest, no journey, no one to save or be saved by.
Just whatever I have become.
I hope one day to remember.
My clumsy and earnest return to form.
When my heart again bled ink and crackled with flame.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
the common words used
don't qualify as diction
hold no versimilitude
leave me to ponder what is so compelling
about the word like
that you have to use it
several times
in every sentence?
i hail a car
in time's square
i'm going to Harvard
the world's premier academy
where i won't be asked
to stop using "big words"
but instead receive diatribes for being prolix
because they're too pretentious
to admit ignorance
you!
how dare you try
to say you never
shoved your tongue down my throat
no fancy words
no "flowery fluff"
there it is,
now fight it!
I hide in my room
pain isn't pellucid
in the dark
EEEE!
it's a womanizer
mujeriego
or a bat...
murcielago
i always mixed up those two words
an idee fixe
as i declaim
to anyone who will listen
in my Faux-cab-you!-lair-EEEEE!
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 4:38 AM UTC
Gone Gonzo's not an insult it's a way to live
It's an impulse and a spirit and the **** you don't give
It's a life and a love and a heart attack
It's about no regret and never looking back
It's the kindred spirit you met in Seoul
It's the voice inside that screams **** YOU!
It's a kiss and a coffin and a knife in the back
It's seven pounds of ********
It's never going back
It's ******** rhymes while you can barely see
Why you writing
"OOOH LOOK AT ME"
It's despair, it's desire
It's through these diatribes I enact my demise
A drunk-ass kid, a broke-ass town
Who even gives a **** if I get out?
Drugs and drunks and ***** and *****
And ****** and Doors and **** THE LAW"'s
From kids in clothes I can't even afford
It's like our childhood lost it's passion
No Vietnam or Thatherism
What war on drugs no drugs just war
Is there a thing I ain't already saw?
Information's up but stocks is down
There any life left in this town?
There any heart or there any soul
Or that just another thing those ******* stole
And no I don't mean "the MAN"
I mean those ***** you call your friends
So smoke some drugs
Look out for yourself
**** some ladies
**** **** some men
Now write it all down
**** it all *****
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.
We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.
And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.
If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.
**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.
Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.
Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?
Or
is it that you feel something more. . .
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?
When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?
The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.
Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC
I was reading old Aristotle,
If a woman is not rational,
Find me a man who is.......
It's a bit of a fetish,
Blaming women for men's blip,
Who is a rational man?
Any known politician?
Any other human?
Media are the modern tribe,
Feeding us daily diatribes,
Who is really rational?
Don't ask me or Aristotle!!!!
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
This mountain is trying to **** me
9000 feet
Rain soaked & unforgiving
Desolate
Challenging exhausted decisions
A formation of trees
Sheltered, shaking
Hopeless & fleeting
It’s not my time I say
Unfulfilled promises & words unsaid
Withheld diatribes
Hidden truths
Lost love
But, here I am
Alone on a mountain
Pleading with God
Asking for my grandfather’s protection
I’ve lost control
Calmed my mind
Let go
It’s not my time you said
Taking me in
Cabin lights & burning embers
Without you, Wanda
This mountain would have killed me
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
I've seen the work of the best minds
of previous generations scuttled and
passed by like garbage in a dumpster
the angel headed hispters
have gone the way of the dodo
their legacy nothing more than
some printed word and fading images
replaced, for a time
by the high energy punks
fighting the machinery that
keeps us enslaved to the grind
and the money that they own
and use against us
buy buy buy or you’re not
doing your part!
but alas
their legacy is nothing more
than safety pinned faces and scratched
records discarded in bargain bins
replaced, indefinitely by apathy;
global apathy
pockets of resistance remain,
but they are ground down,
shut down before their fire
can be seen
a new movement is needed
angry music, vitriolic poems
revolutionary diatribes
printed in meatspace,
where it affects real people
not as ones and zeros
in blue lcd glow
ignored as rantings of
crazy people;
demonstrations, pranks,
hoaxes, calling out the
powers that be to own up to
their actions and decisions
a pulling back of the curtain
to show the gears and cogs
that make it all work
but who shall lead this
revolution?
not I, I’ve got TV to watch
and things to buy,
and alcohol to numb all the rest
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
Every question pontificated upon deaf ears, ear marked in outer space drifting aimlessly to distant stars, where shadows reign in open hearts that betray our silence in milliseconds
Basic recourse, every letter of every word inscribed in memories of dreams of some joey loves dawson fantasy. the unrequited notation that every syllable betrays my own self-confidence, my duality of existence to live but not to have lived
and so it goes that every question comes with hours upon days of internal self dialogue, over analysis of every gesture, every word, hidden meanings and double speak, that I have to find such betrayal in something as little as a Solemn smile, but the question remains what does it all mean?
Short of action, long of thought, mindless wandering of distant dreams, that one day I may find, Answers, to every question that such expanded diatribes may ease the pain, and mend the wounds, so that my own existentialist facade may crack and wither to dust in the sands of time, to once and for all I may just be another speck of sand wandering aimlessly between the stars, in a shadowless beauty that is my misery, so that every question comes to conclusion with easy, understandable answers
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
One shot to the mind,
To blast away these thoughts:
The desires for your company,
the temptations,
the cravings,
All the "you're good for nothing" diatribes
that fire those cursed watery bullets---
Their residue's left behind on this,
my partially cracked soul,
A soul held together by a bond
smaller and stronger than
The rusty links that chained us
Together.
My head tilts back as I release
The trigger.
Lying on the floor, staring, mindless.
One shot to the heart,
Aimed at the gravity that pulled us
Together.
The heat ripples under my skin,
Tearing at my flesh,
Ripping through my veins.
The world flips.
I forgot about the hollow in my chest,
Having poured out its contents
Into your eager hands.
You quickly drank me in and just as quickly
Spat me out.
I'm slumped over, wearied, heartless.
One shot for good measure,
I'll shoot myself in the foot
For trying to fill someone else's shoes:
Someone important,
A girl with self-esteem,
Somebody worth it.
But, no. Instead,
This one goes to my liver,
My trophy of good times gone bad.
It's the keeper of my time;
I'd pray for another chance at life,
but I'm too busy holding this
Weapon in my hands.
I've got to keep myself
Together.
Knock on wood,
I close my eyes, embracing
the clutch of darkness.
Staring at the new moon, I rest here, lifeless.
So here I am,
left with
Three empty rounds and
Nothing to chase,
Nowhere to go,
No one to be,
Standing in a kitchen feeling lonely,
Feeling hopeless.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
i hate poets
i hate poets and their in-to-na-tion
i hate their formulas for the way words should sound
i hate their bookshelves packed with collected works of ts eliot or whoever they're supposed to like
i hate you
i hate that if you publish a book the world is so ******* interested in how you feel but when someone in the street is screaming their heart out about god or politics or just being nonsensical the world is more interested in putting them away
i have heard more beautiful, insightful, and entertaining diatribes from drunkards, fools, idealists, and madmen than from any ******* poet
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
The universe
Plays a sick game with
Its occupants.
Dumping salubrious suffering
In droves
And igniting climactic pleasures
In the same breath.
Through death we are
Reborn
In life how we
Decay.
The interweaved oblivion
Of our united souls
dwells fierce.
with a touch we are destroyed.
In losing friends one makes
Them too.
Even if its just yourself.
your horrible worthless
Digested detestable selves
Always there for me.
Livid diatribes.
Loveins and loveless.
That sinking feeling
when you're born.
What a life its been.
there are those in your
World
That would do great things for you.
People are the blood in
the universe
It doesn't torture us
It bleeds its crazed idiot blood
When we bleed.
it merely takes solace in the fact that
Fear and courage are not so different.
It relies on the fact that
You
Exist.
Peace, my brothers,
I live a life of losing friends
I do this with tenacity.
Whats my score?
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
what have the drunkards told you?
that you were beautiful--
different, gentle, pure
while they were busy
vacillating, you found
yourself whole among
their stormy seas, a tidal
wave bearing down upon
choppy waters where sailors
are lost and boats are sunk
ships full of diatribes and
bitterness, crippling resentment
folded into the bathus --
What have the drunkards told you?
to be less, to dissolve, to speak expressly in
salt and *** come down from the hill, from
the towers, from the lighthouses where you
poured over the bounding main
learning to be for others lost
what have the drunkards told you?
mixed and unbecoming, double minded
and hopeful for your body
but testimony seeps out from beneath your dress
and some men are scared of lights and lamps
of flowers pressed into the walls, quiet and
unassuming, of stair steps and bookcases
without books
be the light
be the light
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
Do not be afraid to write
poetry,
do not be afraid to let parts
of your soul take form
in word and verse
and do not be afraid to crush the mountains
of doubt from the ones you love
and show them that what you have
to say is worthwhile and permanent
and show them that you are not afraid
of your scars and your thoughts
and your mistakes
and do not be afraid of the pain
of reopening old wounds
and letting the gush splash across
the page in witty diatribes
that make you feel a little better
about the fact that you let a relationship
nearly **** you
and do not be afraid to line up all the painful
memories and conversations you'll never be able to have
and one by one
write them into poetry
and get them out of your soul
where they've been rotting
and turning you inside out.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
War of the words from the very word "GO"
was the warming up exercise for more malice,
makes the galleries erupt in rage, cry for more
But the folks that adore peace is outraged
every jab finds it's mark, squarely on the jaw
making profuse bleeding another spectacle
we reinvent this business as a blood sport!
Even a dog eat dog madness grips the arena quick
each vicious animal bares it's fangs, for long in disuse,
get ready to be paid in return,in what you gave first
Raise the war cry aloud, boys the game is on,
no going back any more, it's fight to ****
Every bit of the act is blown out of proportion,
by the heartless lot of blue eyed boys with lenses.
It pays to narrate stroke by stroke,pouring oil
into the roaring fire, let it rage the longest period,
Merely the tip of an ice berg, all this you've now seen
hidden with in the barbed diatribes is lethal power,
things they hope would get heated too soon,
and would become a full blown "COLD WAR"
It's the post truth world of puzzles and games,
every such story ends in a tragic twist at the end.
for us it'snot,we need a twist to make us smile.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC
Encyclopedic mainframes
Lap-top heads
Power-boxes for multitudinous outlets, plugs, chargers
Conduits manipulating
Fiber-optic arteries
Artificial energy
ZAP
Pale lights
Computers aglow in dark cloistered bedrooms
Powered pacemakers stalling at microwaves
Electrocuted blood - cookied fantasies
Ads proclaiming everything free!
Pharmaceutical elixirs for limpness, lumpiness, loneliness
Snake-oil for suffering
Nigerian kings, Syrian refugees
*********** clever memes, whimsical gifs, shocking news, witty banter
Socio-politic-religous-diatribes
Spewing on every thread
Existential *****
Aroma-less cuisines
Vacuumed vacations
Youtubed communions
Suicide selfies.
Crucifixdrones - pedolandia
Jdate.POF.AshleyMadison.Match. Eharmony.SpeedDate.OKcupid
CG. Missed encounters...
Serial killers,
Pixalated ******* vein-throbbed **** shots, cardboard gloryholes
Instagramed I
Inviolate I
Internet I
I I I
No sweaty arm pits, cottage cheese, gray nose hairs or belly fat
Computer [ScreenShot]
While behind, posters hang: The Doors, Tupac, NIN, The Smiths, Hendrix, Joy Division, Nirvana
HandshapedHeart.
2D souls
Text-dating
144 word manifestos
#revolutions
Archetype emoticons
Doodled centaurs
Caged in matrices
Transcendental notes
Need a hit
Of internet smack
A line, a pinch, a drag
A like, a comment, a kudos
A reply, a thumbs up, a share, a poke
One measly view
Baby, come on, give me a fix
Just one
Notification: ding-beep-buzzzz
I want to dissolve like alka-seltzer in tap water
Otherwise I'm a used-up toothpaste tube
Sitting in a dank medicine cabinet
If not, I am
A stick-figure created from matches
Drowning in a drum of gasoline
Not buried beneath pregnant soil
No. dumped into blue recycling bins.
[Ctrl +Alt+Delete]
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
fuck like just hate life times coffee regret time better somebody drugs world heart thing fucking need know home little hitler type gone break trying gave morning way shit chasing birth mean war laugh make look beer problems untitled scream different hiding stay putting burnt number sea looking waves good pain cunts dew man town passion demise johnson girls lotion emotion head perfect bullshit bed far interested spirit pure anchor potion words hope boat missing streets phlebus train free red inside things wake lungs holy colors insert away set aren't poem soul poets self god diatribes nights politics forests demands
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Officially, it's ***** day!
trust me, I would know
ranting and raving, often
never late, unto, that show
So toss it out, throw those words
complain, and vent emotions
stir the *** and release the hounds
giant waves, in calmer oceans
Peeves, diatribes, and wrath
express the anger, and dismay
discharging all the irritation
put it all, upon display
Rage at the machine
call it out, exposing every flaw
building in intensity
pulling your last, and final straw
If you won't, or if, you can't
know this fact my friend
your body, mind, will find a way
bringing fury's, end
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
**You were talking in your sleep again.
Finally admitted your mistakes but it's too late.
I'm awake laying in bed, the waters rising, my pillows wet.
Where did all this water come from?
You spoke late night diatribes, sweet nothings and the waters up to my ears.
I can't hear **** the waters rising again.
I'm staring at the ceiling and it took form of scarlet, vanillas skies.
I'm almost underwater now, my lips, and the tip of my nose are touching the surface.
My visions a blur, I'm drowning alive.
I finally figured out the origin of the artificial forming body of water in my room.
All this water is coming from you, from the leakage in your mouth, truth saliva.
Your somniloquy song usually last thirty seconds.
I guess, the only time you can speak honesty, is when you're sleep talking.**
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
antiquated diatribes
hackneyed bromides
deflated explosions
unreal delusions
sycophantic embraces
hiding disgraces
cult of bipolarity
words of triviality
obsessively unceasing
yawningly unentertaining
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
the gravel in back
kitty litter
i stop at the door
the spider tucks tight
in his shingled home
i'm not scared
but he is
he has kids
eyes as strange
like glimmering stone
in absent light
illuminate everyone as one
and we'll sit together
writing diatribes
on a porch as solemn
as i
as we
as everything is anything
it begs to be perceived
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 12:52 PM UTC