"differentiation" poems
Tip Your hat
And curtsy low
The masses so mandate absolute guile
A handshake, a smile, a proper and refined bow!
To adorn thy head and semble wit
And do your best!
Take pride with etiquette
If not informed
Ye won't last a mile
And differentiation between animals distinguishes you,
Resplendent child
Wash your hair and underclothes with soap
Lest ye resemble sow
And goodness dear
Have I forgotten now?
Always remember to smile!
So I'll take your Winter clothes with zest
I'll scramble on point
No unruly mess
Oh, did i forget your coat?
No, I've got it, relax, care for a smoke?
My apologies, please forgive my latency
It must be warm in here for my blood
In fact...
Boiling over kettle within
Prevent me from committing sin
I do wish to vent
Pick up this pen
And release red wells from his dainty, fragile neck
Or...
The underbelly. It's beknownst to me entrails are thick
Now whatever shall I do with this fresh clutter?
I'll act for free, so cordially!
With my chivalrous lines
But can you, my friend, respond in kind?
After all, it's only common courtesy
It's over now, my fantasy
It dissipates with urgency
And this is my confession
Yes
Imbibed in me from every grueling, tedious lesson
An implication of uniformity
The daydreams borne from the perfunctory
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:
A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.
“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as
marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
It was considered expedient
To change the unit of measure
To change scale,
To make redundant all
That could be wasted,
Naturally.
Internal communications
Will contrive suitable verbs
To conceal the brutality of profit
To provide surety as required
To the senior management team
As for the rest:
To those whose insecurities
Are relied upon, whose
Middles have expanded, aged
Receded, human resources
Will issue notice of packages
And opportunities of relocation.
The restructure will require
The recruitment of some
Of the hungry young;
Fresh graduates on the newly
Introduced basic scales.
What of your work you enquire?
Those value added strategies
Of differentiation
Of corporate responsibilities,
Family friendly policies?
In this age of austerity
Such approaches, old man,
Are as relevant as a hard drive,
Or hard copy, this is a cloud
Sourced post-crunch
Twitterverse we inhabit,
This is a time for new prospects
This is cloud cuckoo land.
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 3:06 AM UTC
Crawling on all fours, traffic drags its bleeding body forward.
Men with collars of lipstick tap tap tap their fingers against steering wheels.
Time slows, cars inch, passing hands find cigarettes, cigarettes find fire.
Tap ash tap finds tap pavement.
This is the unobserved hiatus of daily routines, the dreaded stretch of heaven that separates from and to.
During such moments of inertia
thoughts drift through open windows
forming a cloud for bargains, regrets, wishes, doubts, prayers, and curses to perform cotillion upon.
Faster, faster, so quickly now, oh, change partners, switch lanes, spin, oh baby spin, fasterfasterfaster, until differentiation is impossible, until drivers become one with this steel river, until minds make their essential switch that makes home a bearable punishment.
Someone has broken down.
Do Not Stop.
They are shunned from the sweeping mob of machinery. Necks swivel in uniform towards this abomination, how dare they, how DARE they outshine our misery. Perspiration works its way down backs and pools into leather cracks.
Will it ever end?
Do we want it to?
Finally,
regrettably,
the final exit, the last few feet of purgatory.
We descend into the next inferno where we leap through fiery hoops of interrogation—
yes no it was fine yes okay.
We are exhausted.
If only we would have stopped.
If only we would have hit the brakes and remained in our haven of anxiety and lust and confusion and endless searching.
Our love affair with traffic can only last so long.
So we make solemn promises to ourselves to appreciate tomorrow’s,
to run our fingers along the satin thighs of the freeway,
to plant a rubber kiss upon the ground.
How tap long tap until tap five?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
*Spring is going to back
Silently dropping the purple petals
Bored noon,
The melancholy flute's of Shepherd
Seeking the missing spring
Roll up,
Roll around the idle noon
Random impulsive air
Bunch of dark clouds at the sky
Pensive
Seem illusion of that known
Pied crested Cuckoo
Beyond the horizon,
The eyes looking for
Sounds (Tip Tip) of the sudden drops of rain,
On the leaves of Quail,
Washing
Differentiation of mind
On the leaves of Arum,
Ever Keeps as the containers
Integrating
Concentrating
Compiling of soul
Weird one wrapped in mystery
Mind
Life
Seasons
Coming up the lyrics of rain
Fusion with thy mystic music
Afternoon has grown heavier
How my mind moves!
Chased away birds returning home
The heart is rapidly expanded
Rain continues to move around
Nature demands a new ground
Looping, hearing of the same song
Shadows filling with the feelings
Perhaps this change of thy
Bound to sketch
A new face of impression*
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
her morning pleasure occasionally actually exercised,
a substituted delight for gym-going work with Lulu exercised,
no man can, will ever, understand
the nature/nurture debate over,
in my mind resolved, nature, hands up and hands down
RR's^ query, is god dead,
no longer rumbles around in my head cause when he speaks,
I can't get a word in edgewise
what i did in the sixties, lost to time in memoriam,
especially some really bad poetry
but this gender differentiation
a matter that Aristotle dutifully, so wisely, philosophically avoided
there is no Socratic method rationality in what is just crazy insanely meiosis,
there is no comprehension of the essence of elemental genetic division,
like the NY Mets,
ya just gotta believe, or just accept
but from the other side of the bed
comes a surly, dry rejoinder, a gelled spike
*thanks to modern science,
why don't you come over to the
right side, maybe then,
you'll understand the true meaning
of pleasure
transgend your self,
show your willingness per the bible,
to be god's new and improved version of a human being*
So,
a pretty little, light A-line,
with a summer floral pattern,
a size 12, (20? ***
I,
will wear with great
human pride,
come June
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 11:20 AM UTC
For my mate Ernest W who cared....
Invisible in silky strands, a gossamer of lethal thought,
Drifting through the nether regions, touching on my mind.
Complication’s vagaries encroaching on the circumspect
Magnifying well beyond solutions I can find.
Nervous in the groundswell now, I feel it all inflating,
Inflating to a curtaining beyond my self control,
Waves of peristalsis in a shrill persistant keening,
Locking out the sanity in holding logic’s goal.
Waves of peristalsis in a bath of perspiration
Panic in a rupture at the coccyx of my spine,
Ravenously eating at the fabric of all reason
Ravenously gnawing at this rationale of mine.
***** in a puddle on the floor beside my footwear
Cloying is the stench of the ***** in my drawers,
Lost are the vestiges of any thought of decency
Gone is the differentiation in my flaws.
Clenching of hands in a bind of blue confusion
Catatonic slowness in arresting the decline,
Vaccilating eyeballs are rolling for the camera
And utter desolation is a flavour on my mind.
Why be concerned with the shaming of tomorrow?
Why come to terms with the maunderings of late?
Why face the music of the mirth and derision
When there’s a more practical direction to take?
Glide to the realm of the smooth overflowing
Slide in the slipstream oblivion makes,
Slip the bonds of your sad mortal tenure’s
Awful array of destructive mistakes.
Glide to the realm of serene independence
Glide far away from the troubled and hard,
Gone to the gossamer web of the ether
Gone to the nether world’s silky facade.
*...........: But what's the guts Courageous,
You happy with your deed?
Are your friends all overjoyed
To see your suicide succeed?
Is your family unaffected
By the loss and guilt remorse,
Your sudden grand departure
leaving kids without recourse?
Did you think about the aftermath?
The chaos and the pain
And the long term implications
Of your shattered families' shame?
The guilt within your partners heart,
The kids who are confused
And the ****** dissapointment
Of your mates.. who feel abused?
The mess you left behind you
And the tangled web you wove
And the bruising of good memories
For which, you once,...had strove.
Your painless, quick demise, you thought,
Released you from all this.....
But the sadness in the silent eyes
Condemns you as remiss.*
Marshalg
In an effort to understand why?
....And explain why not !
9 December 2010
Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/suicide-12/#ixzz17kzvfsTk
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 2:09 PM UTC
In this world,
there are numerous denominations,
split by human hand,
divided by persecution,
as blood spills to the sand.
Genocide,
no,
xenocide,
and by these actions everyday,
we commit patricide.
We feud for who knows what,
killing in the name of our God,
be it Elohim,
Allah,
or the dollar.
Civilization?
Progress?
Humans are far worse than animals,
people are cruel,
we **** with hidden agenda,
we cannibalize our beliefs,
there is no such thing as civility.
I have a dream?
What did that man see,
but the barrel of a gun?
Humans are created equal,
this is espoused by many,
and practiced by none,
even I allow the stitches of the American fabric to show.
I am no poet,
I am the greatest of hypocrites,
and in my futility,
I scream.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
My brain buzzes and my fingers dance.
My eyes twitch and dart to make the world vibrate.
Too much coffee and my heart slows down to one,
long,
drawn-out
thuwump.
I feel the fibers in my muscles coil like a snake.
I'm all adrenaline and nothing to do.
No fight to be had,
no flight to be made,
no harm,
nor foul,
nor **** to be given.
Wires pulled taut,
I could strike out a tune,
make the bones dance
a crackhead jig.
Long breaths in staccato time,
high on the oh-2 painting my brain red.
I can feel my whiskers like an aura,
hovering over my skin,
every hair a bright,
electric
nerve.
Throb, pulse, twitch.
Writhe, dance, squirm.
Eyes-wide,
drink it in,
eat the lightwave whole.
Bits and bits and bits
stab,
pierce,
*****
puncture,
penetrate,
explode
into image,
view,
vista,
site,
sight,
seen,
scene.
It's all the same.
All light
and heat
and motion,
no differentiation,
no line of demarcation,
no distinction,
no more,
no me.
One more cup,
and I'll be gone.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
2nd to rise, she enquires
you ready for coffee?
it's only 6:22am
if you're having, I'm having...
she quiet disappears
thinking coffee's coming,
when to this layabout,
it occurs,
she's making
coffee in the ****
get up, make myself presentable,
track her,
the coffee aroma pulsating,
radar signal emitting
sure enough,
coffee in the ****
grinding, dripping...percolating
but what I see is
contrast and
definition
appliance white
stainless
steel chrome gleaming,
walnut wood cabinetry warming in
Vermeer sunlight window in-streaming,
a Chagall and Botticelli duet,
freshly filtered
thru a Manhattan sky
and flesh,
freshly filtered
flesh
is not a Crayola color,
or
if it is,
it's more a spectrum,
than a single shade
but this moment morning
flesh is more realized,
as if recognized for the first time,
by a newborn old timer,
who senses the
comprehension tension of circumspection
circumcised differentiation,
flesh knowledge gradation gained
this poem,
a first attempt at
painting a ****
in words
appreciating task enormity,
for there are currently
insufficient words,
too many striations,
all cannot be straitjacketed to the
vocabulary palette
this then,
but my first definition of many,
of
flesh
so many canvasses,
so many undiscovered shadings
awaiting
****** recognition definition,
composition
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Predictable,
always the same,
no differentiation in sight,
forever trapped in this silly game.
Day in,
day out,
definition of lunacy,
I hold a monopoly of sanity.
This city is founded on conformity,
the people, more of the same,
the city, a deformity,
the people, a symphony of the same.
Though I still dream of the mystical,
sifting through grains of sand,
crushed up glass,
always finding myself back at the beginning,
a malcontent in my own way.
Still I take comfort in the sound,
the sound of vibrancy,
of dissonance and playful rebellion,
lost in endless sands,
my name is homophony.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 5:26 AM UTC
My keyboard is my piano,
You are the tempo.
Each letter an omnipotent gesture,
You are the rhythm.
My fingers fluttering, words cascading,
Music flowing, space imploding.
Tiny strokes, heart pulsating,
Quickly now, dont fall behind,
My wandering mind, simplified,
Superstitious and inconspicuous,
Tantalizing new beginnings,
Each endeavour so endearing.
Nothing more than tiny strokes.
I play for you.
Every rendition,
Every distinctive differentiation of anything beautiful
is for you.
The fincal act, don't stray too far.
Tomorrow is a new beginning,
and you are my star.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
up at your regularly scheduled night sky patrol,
the colorful clock says 2:47 and
dark skies confirm which 2:47 it is,
for flecks of blackened peppery light exude at this hour,
a time period for former lovers, those old writes enfolded, enveloped,
hiding an active poem volcano spewing bare feet words in clouds of
kidskin soft velveteen cumulus, fleece-comforting slippers of poems
there are half started poems waiting, more than one, triplets in fact,
waiting to be born in the time of pandemic, thinking quietly,
will they emerge healthy and living and grow up to be adults
contributing to society, additives to the engine oil of human living
but the old familiar, dissatisfaction with quality control leaves them
unfinished, poet lurches from dead roses head hanging, a new blues,
disease as an economic and societal differentiation, that you hope,
believe, poems that in due course, all will emerge, for better or for worse,
poetry birthed in the time of pandemic
the city of new york, where I was birthed and will die, a city of
tall buildings, tall tales, short attention spans there is but one nighttime moving automobile observed in a city that never sleeps but now hides blanketed in weariness of trepidation of what are the
well known unknown possibilities in the time of pandemic
and you wonder in this new, different quietude if poems can be born
with birth defects and survive, breathing on a ventilator till they can
breathe by their own lungs, or were they perma-infected on a supermarket trip, a walk by the East River, a pizza delivery man, even
if inspired by a decade-lover, next, in bed, in the time of pandemic
waving to grandchildren in their second story window, you on the street, keeping them safe from you, a modern Auschwitz train station where they separated, the we-useless out, children and their parents, safe in a barbed wire atmosphere, a demarcated world, where some billion of brimming droplets of tears are stillborn
stillborn poems, or perhaps just poems-in-waiting, to still be
born in a time of pandemic
3:29am Sunday March 22, Twenty Twenty
New York City, the epicenter, crossroads
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 3:55 AM UTC
Poem 1
A LESSON THAT I TAUGHT
I Teach!!
I taught...
Here's a lesson that I taught...
I had this lesson. It were ace in my mind!
The planning was tight, concise, well timed
Going into the room - my stage
Put on the teacher face, the act
(My phone is buzzing but I don't react)
Lights, camera, action! You're on!
"Hi guys! Come in, unpack your things!"
But I'm just thinking about why it rings
"Hi guys! Come in, take off your coats!"
For some reason now I'm thinking about goats
(Why ******* goats?
Why now?!)
I thought
(I need to teach a lesson on...
Oh crap! The whiteboards not working!) ****
Right, try again...
"Excuse me Chelsea, that skirts too tight,
And too short and you aren't wearing tights.
Go down to student point and get yourself a note"
And now I'll get back to the lesson that I taught
"I FUCKIN' 'ATE SIR! HE'S ALWAYS TIGHT!!"
Class - "Totes! Hahahahaha!!!"
I think ... Look you little tots, all you're thinking about is **** ... and your tots and your shots and your tokes in her tote!
You think you're ******* clever but you're not!!
I say... "This is an amazing lesson that I've got!
Does anyone remember the last lesson that I taught?"
"No sir, we do not"
"You're boring sir"
"Are you gay sir?"
On a parallel universe, where I don't care about my career and my home and my children...
I think in my head for a bit, then I say...
"Look you little spaz, you think I'm tight?!? I've been sleeping in a mates spare room at night
because me and the mother of my kids had a fight
and everything in my life is turning *****
Because all I do is stay up all night to plan a ******* lesson for a bunch of little scrotes! Who can't even take off their coats, And sit and ******* listen to the lesson that I taught! I'm marking so much that my body's not taut and my mind spins round and round in thought (a word which you spell ******* tawt!)
Progress and differentiation!
The future of your education!
And I just hope that in some way, I might actually TEACH you something today!
But all you think about is **** and tats and texts and sexts and COD and Christiano Ronaldo and Justin 'fucking' Beiber AND YOU CALL ME GAY?!?
You spell thought ... T.A.W.T!! You're 18 for gods sake!!
How you gonna make a living eh?!
Totesport?!
A couple of them titter
And the rest go silent...
And I think I've won!
'Til one of them says "sir... I'm gonna get you done!"
"And you're gay"
"And you're a **** teacher"
The end
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC
what’s the difference tween ************ & writing poetry?
let us cut to the chase, cause I know how much-you
hate to be kept waiting, lest your addled, added,
impatient attention grow as big as the U.S. budget
deficit.
answer: not much
in fact, can’t come up with a single signal differentiation.
1. both require tissues when done
2. both give you short and sweet satisfaction, that is a renewable resource
3. serotonin levels up, up and away - yay!
4. long term impact for both is wrist pain
5. inevitably, makes you late for tedious life chores
6. doesn’t burn much calories, though you record it on your activity-tracker as “aerobic exercise”
7. one tends to exclaim “Oh **** when completed.
8. both master bait you (pun. get it?) who’s the master, who’s the bait?
9. are you bored already? Go forth and do either activity, (I know you’re getting hot)
10. both leave you satisfied but the urge to purge returns very quickly
11. tendency to lock the bathroom door for both, when “composing”
12. filed on your computer as introspection and mindfulness (that cracks me up)
13. gonna stop right here so you take your ADD meds
14. you love them both in no particular order
15. you cannot get coronavirus from either (sincerely hope not!)
16. your denials deserve a retort: so ***** you too!
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 8:38 AM UTC
Oh to be outstanding
The envy of the competition
Persecute your staff
Beat them into submission
Observe, observe, observe
Big brother's watchful vision
Ticking the right boxes
OFSTED the clinical prison.
Countdown to the tension
All pristine and plush
Staff room full of imodium
Lecturers with the bums rush.
Enjoy, achieve, the mantra
All students must behave
Differentiation ********
Woah betide should 1 disengage.
Good with outstanding features
Nearly there, thou shalt not rest
Cut the ******** principal
Its really second best.
Satisfactory & beyond
The prin is hot to trott
Arranging special measures
You'll all be ****** shot.
OFSTED, jack boot people
Gestapo in the making
Strangling education
Ensuring you're all faking.
Inspectors, nah! Failed teachers
Getting their own back
Splitting hairs & picking faults
Nasty ****** *****
Oh how the mighty fall
So without further ado
Leave them teachers alone
OFSTED, you ***** **** YOU.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 3:56 AM UTC
Differentiation between the poet
And the journalist;
The journalist writeth a script that's scripted,
A poet wilt writeth untamed, none script, just raw soul!!!!!
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
mine own psalm musings
*living between two broad, sea-emptying rivers,
a Majesty’s sentries to mark the differentiation~
division tween divine and a moderate human’s
moderating steps, as his stride shortens as the y/tears
lengthen, and it is accepted as an inevitable musky must,
no matter how the sweet spring day refreshes, the newly
planted trumpeting shards of bright yellows daffodils
pinch his yellowing eyes, few notice the tiny tears of
discrepancies of an annualized emboldening, a grand
heavenly rebirth and a slow man’s body self~editing,
shedding of a life’s~ending~of~story psalm musings*
*the man looks for the terrible swift sword, but its
failure to grace us with an appearance, is but a
modest disappointment, for a deferred delay is but
a causation to eke out a few mordant, pungent, caustic
reminders of all that is yet to be, to be accomplished,
though the smirking lips of the necessity of yet, one
more unloved poem extant, tilting the Earth’s axis
benevolently toward the open palms of his beneficiaries who*,
you,
*are among them numbered, is but, a green shoot in a city’s
hopeful earth planted, by summer, will shed seeds to come
thy way, as an evocation, a good consternation, a joyous
provocation, an asking kingly~gentle, a royal polite inquiry,
would you care to add a a verse to this eternal verse?
before time shreds it too into a yellowed crumpling,
and to the earth it is returned, for the mine of this
psalms is only generic, genetic, and what is mine is well,*
and truly yours too.
nml
<>
March 31, 2024
NYC
9:16am
Sunday Mourning Service
Mar 31, 2024
Mar 31, 2024 at 9:25 AM UTC
all my poems are unique general principles
~for Helene Mendelsohn~
“A general principle never comes to life in my mind except by exhibiting itself in various special forms and in
crowds of instances for each form":
R.G. Collingwood
each a construct - an arch-i-texture,
each a crowd of a single instance
special forum, a dialogue differentiation,
a conjugate particle,
forming up, in marching order,
a singular troop, a base case singular,
a soldier especially demanding,
“Of Me, Write, Write”
for within my insight,
a one-off sighting,
one glinting wave reflecting,
its one millisecond exactitude of existence,
reforming unseemly, a new but not!
a seemingly similar shifted shape,
but no wave is a precision repetition,
perhaps a passing familiarity
of its precedents, antecedents,
at best
an instance borrowed and paid back
to the generosity of time
for a fully developed statement of a
general principle,
even a primary secondary textual emendation,
requires a unique naming definition
being born and dead dying while you are blinking,
does not understate absolute value,
a principle exists to give absolution,
so the moments resets,
perpetually,
but its own resolution is n’err forgotten
do you see the crowd of inferences
herein contained?
the principal unique,
poem plucked from passing sun ray,
a tickling hair of a brazen breeze,
one wave, one wave reconstituting a
millennium of preceding lives,
deriving its abbreviated genealogy
of droplets of prior principles
forever reinterpreted
so I gave you back
words you knew
but in a new combination
establishing this poem,
its constituents,
as a unique general principle
there is a prior poem, new, unique
in everything
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
The point of differentiation,
not the point of contention,
the point of no return
continuation relative
to knowing subtle forces
ostensibly contained
in the whole truth,
and nothing but,
to which no doubt,
you are personally sworn,
under penalty of cognative
cacaphonic gnosisnot cough
to reembodeize, embody abide
completely centered, self aware.
Then, the fiber that fuses string
theory and determinism hooks
a loop in time's SYTF problem set,
so the set that made young
Earl Russell paradoxically famous,
from now on, one may learn and learn
from now on, until one disintegrates,
dissipates as cloud forms disperse,
to show us how it works, wooly
clouds meeting the reflected wind,
and the winds from the pacific,
pour down one side of my valley
and up the other side, to make those
parrallel feathery shapes one can watch
form on fine days
with nothing needing done,
if the determinists are right, what matters
if I use my time chosing to bend clouds
into vast wings involved in making me think.
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 5:59 PM UTC
Every time I feel myself falling, I try to grab onto you.
Slipping my arm through yours, hand locking around your waist.
Broadcasting your warmth from every pore - I relent, knots unwinding
for that second before you steel up tall, lock your chin, and frown.
Then you shake me loose. I can see on your face that you don’t want to push me away
Which is why you’re not. You’re shaking me over the centre of the earth
But it is my gravity that will claw me down and **** me.
This is your epicentre. The point where all your earthquakes start:
You did not push me down the hole. You merely shook me loose over it. Differentiation.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 9:49 AM UTC
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful
alienation, expulsion, ostracization
from body politick
if member of society resistant,
indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
(across the figurative board)
intolerance opposing ethos,
asper unspoken social graces extant
(albeit manifested amidst diverse
livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas
automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
challenging precepts via rave and/or rant
thus when born into whatever culture,
steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
til ivy blue in the face,
or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost
hence creative pursuits one direction
can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
with perceived restrictive parameters
and cuss like a sailor
with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
With The Stars), or
choosing subterfuge viz
writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer
daemons spring to life, when computer code
following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler
(case in point - myself, hoot
ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
greater reason to rage
against the machine before
turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
with equal pay, cuz a working wage
aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
of this pooch iz gaseous
boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
with other nerdy mutts.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
All they need to know
About you
Is the days I was with you
I did not write
I did not have to quiet
The tumultuous thoughts
Because you were the calm
Eye
Of all my hurricane
When most anonymous heart beats
Were busy ruining themselves
You were keeping mine safe
Inside your heart.
All they need to know
Is sometimes when you opened your eyes after your daily prayer
I could see the gateway to all the churches
I never bothered to go
They made a caphir like me
Believe in heaven.
When most of the times I was sure
Earth was the purgatory
If there was ever such a thing
And how I deserved it.
All they need to know about you
Is how when you touched me
It felt like a thousand dandelions
Being touched by a breeze
So rejuvenating
Drifting to a semi lucid reality.
Your love crossing all the boundaries
Leading me to a place
Far away from the differentiation of wrong and right.
All they need to know about you;
I hope to keep turning it into poetry.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
When-enter-enshrouded-exit
in-a-space-of-no-differentiation...
a~dream~danced~for~substantiation.
Forms fared forms, whose silhouettes
were cut, and immobilized with
complete disorientation.
Born unto thee...
endless galaxies of begotten
sons and daughters.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
Freckles of time
Fly effortlessly by
Leaving me behind
Closed doors–what I find
is a knack for creation–
Indulging syncopation
In establishing my mark;
I desire differentiation
in my work to designate
The things I’ve done
Quite innate
Is my notion to be unique–
yet
Like a speckle of dust
Surrounded by stars
In vain, I do rust
At the thought of my existence–
in comparison to my surroundings
my hard work isn’t astounding
or significant at all;
my life–like dust–
is smaller than small.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC