"direst" poems
I am the Individual Isness incarnated in this body.
I am not the body.
I have travelled through many lifetimes in many bodies.
always learning learning learning.
I have developed nous from my experiences only.
I WILL NOT EVER-
accept a mind in my head.
accept any conditioned identity as being me.
cede control over my brain centres to any mind or groupmind
that exists anywhere..
I WILL NOT EVER--
cede control over my brain centres to any conditioned identity or
group conditioned identity that exists anywhere.
or accept that any other but me,the Individual Isness, using my brain centres,using my brain the way I,the Individual Isness,want to and can do
to be in charge of the brain centres in the head of this body that I,the Isness,am incarnated in.
I WILL NOT EVER--
be prey to opinion-formers and experts and pie charts and
focus groups and surveys.
be manipulated by PR men and women in shiny suits.
see Edward Bernays book--Propaganda.
be manipulated by GroupMinds into thinking their way.
be taken in by brutal security forces posing as "guardians of peace.
respect in any way any member of any military forces anywhere
no matter how fancy the uniforms or excuses for ****** they wear.
I do not respect these parasites anywhere as they are nothing more than paid mercenary murderers on behalf of various Oligarchies..
see Jaques Ellul's book--Propaganda.
I WILL NOT EVER--
take any dangerous addictive cancer causing drugs
such as Alcohol and Tobacco primarily--
food additives...
No one has ever died from any cannabis product.
or from LSD or Mesccaline or Psylocybin.
believe in any so-called "god" or "goddess".
believe in any so-called "prophet" of any so-called "god"or "goddess".
accept any so-called "holy" book as valid or truthful
or valuable in any way except as
emergency papers to roll a grass joint
or to wipe my **** on.
be taken in by depraved words and concepts in any of these so-called "holy "books that have led to endless wars and still ongoing terrorism and atrocities in the name of one bloodthirsty "god" or "goddess".
I WILL NOT EVER--
accept anything as reality unless I can see clearly that
it is beyond duality.
accept any Conditioned Identity as me.
For I am the Isness which is a small but equal,individual,
autonomous and independant part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe--!.
which is not a "soul" or Atman or spirit
or any other religious concoction.
I WILL NOT EVER---
accept Mind as a necessary evil
accept GroupMind as a necessary evil.
I WILL NOT EVER ---
eat junk food of any kind.
drink tap water anywhere except in direst emergency.
eat white sugar or any other pure carbohydrate.
be a hypocritical moralising vegetarian.
become stoopid through bowing and scraping
and stooping at stupas.
I will be just a Self realised man living on a big ball in space
with a Self Realised woman playing and singing and dancing the Song of Our Lives.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
My body burns to rove far from man-made
buildings, prisons for the modern soul.
I need to traverse the frontiers white man stole
from those who made it their home.
I've been down to the Everglades of Florida.
Fan boats flew through the estuary lines with roots
of mangroves. I've been to the Hoh Rain Forest of
Washington where fog descended on the shoreline
and married the sulfur smell rising from hot springs.
I must experience America's coast to coast beauty.
Every spare seconds I spend luxuriating in the
sun, thinking of all the places untouched.
My list of desires grows as the glaciers
of Glacier recede in Montana, beckoning
me to the Rocky Mountain Peaks.
Old Faithful gushes, surrounded by wolves and grizzlies.
Someday I'll cross Yellowstone's expansive mountain ranges.
from Idaho to Montana to Wyoming. On the arches of
Utah I'll face my fear of heights and find solace at
the tops of time-layered sandstone towers.
Descending the Grand Canyon I'll study beautiful
colors exposed by years of erosion. In winter
Death Valley will be braved. The lowest and direst point
will exhilarate me with scaled creatures as sand
dunes whisper my name with every hot breath.
The Badlands of South Dakota will hope I come
backpacking through prairies to watch precious bison roam.
California Redwood trees and I will stand side by side
as friends. Yosemite will call me to her cliffs and I will chase
waterfalls and sequoia groves until I've seen it all.
I ache to explore the terrain that bears
my name, the country I call home.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
***Sometimes when ev'ning lamps are ebbing low
And all the earth lies hushed in solemn sleep
Within my lonely heart there burns a glow,
As lengthening shadows about me creep.
My weary glance falls o'er the dismal room
Where with rapturous eyes I seem to see
Beyond thick cobwebs, dust and direst gloom
A merry host of friends-my own library!
Worn musty books on shelves from olden days,
Brittle pages yellowed by hands of time,
Illuminating night with gladsome rays,
Lifting my bleak spirit to realms sublime.
Trooping merrily before my rapt gaze
Into flick'ring lamplight I watch them come,
Quaint men and ladies of forgotten days;
Golden laughter echoing in my home.
Into my eyes they smile, murm'ring with grace
Aerial speech they blithely chat with me,
They seem to belong to another race
Wakening in my heart sweet melody.
Dying lamplight sputters and they are gone.
Vanished! I stare about but find I none
Save a drowsy thrush flutes with hush of dawn
Only myself in the parlour alone.***
~Hilda~
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
I am not a poet.
I have read many poems.
Beautiful, touching,
Clever and meaningful.
I don't use lovely analogies
Or powerful descriptors.
I write lists.
Clear, concise ideas.
I don't leave space
For the reader's interpretations.
No open wandering paths
For them to meander along.
Everything is clearly defined.
With passages precisely laid out
To direst the reader to
EXACTLY what is being said.
Sometimes when a poem wafts into my head
It is more poetic.
But then as I put pent to paper
Only the skeleton remains.
Even this poem
Had a better feel in my head.
Yet another thing to feel
Inadequate about.
I am not trying to wallow
In self-pity (yet again).
I am just not a poet.
I would like to know what I am.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
Dearest My Lord.
please to read this missive not with haste
but in serious thought.
Come Sire, and view such unholy state
to which thou hast brought me
at being with child and of hearing lately
of thy touring intent mine heart
starteth in great alarm, as I indisposed
must know for sure that thou be
not going away.
Fie upon that scheme mine Liege for
thou hast in me fathered a babe.
Thou shouldest stay, and embrace mine
own confinement to disgrace,
whereby the infant will bear no name
and wouldst thou abandon me to this fate
prithee have pity on offspring shame.
Pray marry me do, thou canst not afford
to blacken my name by
seeing the truth and fleeing abroad
and thus relinquish thy parenthood destiny.
I belong only to thee so do not ill-use me.
Thou sought thy way, now takest thou mine
for without thy support I must surely decline.
Thus thou ought to realize I live in frightful
dread unless on thee I rely.
This heart beateth only for thine say I.
Thou hast undone me so prithee consider
direst consequence, face thy conscience
and beside me do stay.
I remain heavy with anticipation lest thy reply
dashes all trust and quill thee therefore
to think my Lord on resolving such trouble
as of utmost importance.
Sent in the month of September 1709.
From Mary Elizabeth, distraughtly thine.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 4:21 PM UTC
1.
My mother hates me!
My father hates me!
Oedipus screams to the
stealthily silent Sphinx.
He scatters riddles like laurel leaves
waiting to be braided into
a playwright's crown. It is too
grandiose to fit his cracked. cramped cranium.
His unconscious mind flies open
like the Sphinx rocketing to the sky.
Sacred haunches soar. Wings beat
steadily to reach titanic heights.
Blind to his murderous fate, Oedipus
cannot know himself. Before the
Delphic Oracle, his life shrivels,
unexamined by his bleeding eyes.
2.
Freud exults in triumph.
Maternal love births eternal love:
endless comfort and affection
for the newly bloomed beloved.
Soon, comfort metamorphoses
into feral eros, unspeakable, unthinkable,
beyond the bounds of catastrophic evil.
Submerged desire sullies the chastest kiss.
Jacosta embraces her son
as her new living king, her husband's
royal blood bubbling brazenly
on the bitter road to Thebes.
His hands stained, Oedipus strives
to transmute his trauma as our own.
We become him when Freud deigns
to interpret our darkest, direst dreams.
Blindly, we mimic him: carnal union
with the mother, lethal rage against
the father. Mourning Becomes Electra
beckons to the wary second ***
3.
The Sphinx belies its own riddle:
How can prophecy spring from
the sculpted, smooth stone
of these perfect *******
Only blind Teiresias plumbs the depths
of Oedipus' fate: Judgement lies blinded,
action lies blinded by the ventricles of
violence, the twisted telos of the mind.
Humans sin against the world, against
nature, siphoned of joy. They sin without
a sacred perch to rise from. Blood and *****
mud and blindness fashion their Oedipal souls.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
It takes on deaths horrible form thereunto,
Breaching the seas pensively askew;
Spun brutally from troubling winds of false accord,
Ignored by expression but surely explored.
O 'tis madness, voices beat savagely in my head,
Upon quiet of night as insanely they wilfully imbed.
Through mortal fear I am awakened,
There's nowhere pleasant to run 'tis my chastened.
Of life's despairs nor demons wrathful hold,
Hast thereof nightmares foretold.
In the chilling air, killing heedful wisdoms impaired,
Had I faltered, I'd been sadly unprepared.
Pressed onwards I could only dream,
With care it'd be a future supreme.
Deep in my bleeding thoughts I tried to grasp it,
Yet every brutal bound 'twas likely unfit.
Ah, let evil echo through my disrupting mind,
The faces, that blushed mostly unkind.
A hideous desire inexplicable, entombed from within,
Hastily it beckons thereunto an original sin.
The voices, whose horrid duty I deplore,
Of the old vast despairs it will implore.
But alone I am 'tis surely surpassing a realm of rage,
And all I seen, mattered naught offstage.
Regrettably in the valley of despair I have always lived,
Therefrom I am truly a weltered child deprived.
Onto the rough cobble stones bloodied and quite torn,
That tragic wind, caught in hells uproar forlorn.
A sea of red, kept in an eternal twinge,
Through to agonies I'd impinge.
Ah how they weep, the mystic fools they weep,
In fake smiles these too rustle forth and reap.
Though I'm stirred I cannot follow,
O'er endless toil I as wallow.
Unto violent passions, soaring in tempting extremes,
Of pastures buried, a life in poor redeems.
For nothing concerted I came thereafter seeking,
Every question asked it begged a haggard beseeching.
Thus in a dim labyrinth of lies I found some solace,
Here in the direst valley of despair it's my disgrace.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes
the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on
wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades
the purpose
economized
every axiom
americanized
and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range
cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility
closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression
blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake
gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration
dying to know
forget it.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
she have to die a thousand deaths,
for people to laugh a thousand smile.
she have to bleed a liter of blood,
for her name to be remembered.
so never underestimate poets and their poetry,
for they have to underwent direst of circumstances,
to be solely accepted.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
He’s cruel and stupid, and ignores
His omened doom, pronounced, decreed,
And mine with his, no ranted screed.
Though I must speak, I pray it bores.
The direst warnings couldn’t save
My family, or those I loved.
When prophecy failed, I should have shoved
Them from the palace to some cave.
Now it’s too late to intervene,
And force can spare their murderer.
I should prevent, but I’ll demur,
And perish too. I’m just sixteen.
I’ve suffered, but don’t want to die,
Especially not matched with him.
Even so, I’ll meet my downfall prim,
Trojan royalty too brave to cry.
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 1:22 PM UTC
Once or twice I believed that I have become i n sane.
Overly o b s e s s I n g
Trying to hard to fake that what I am doing is perfect.
OBVIOUSLY
Causes me to fail even worse.
I am vain.
From this I have made myself more INSECURE!
I DON”T SLEEP ANYMORE
I don’t like to be at home,
But during the direst times for me to be away,
Here I am, Stukc here.
My body is suffering.
I’ve been coughing up sllliiiiiiimmmmmmeeeeeeee.
My teeth are
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
Out.
I made many mistakes.
I’ll probably never learn.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
Love fuses like lightning
into the clouds
Fading away into unknown shades of
Petrifying beauty, enthralling movements
Slivers of sliver
Trickle through my body like a gentle waterfall
Sending me shivers shrouded by happy hopes.
High above from the heavens it strikes unexpectedly,
Magically, like love that comes suddenly
Like a miracle in the times of direst despair. I need
This lightning, this silent love song
Of my deepest desires and my cheerful child,
The introverted innocence and the melody inside
Every breath I take rises
From that lightning of love that fusions into endless oceans,
And breathes them into beings of fantasy.
I feed on this fantasy, look for that love and seek that sun-like light
Blending with the nightly stars.
That’s why I live.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
The cold and metal sterility of
Aisles as if the cobweb is stretching its
Threads in every direction of Wind Rose
All coming from core of the building
Prewar being pretty but now such a pity
To behold such a sight devoid of all bright
-ness and joy and just silver alloy is
Covering walls that just barely hold
The hulk bulk of this place O ‘Tis better
Erase every one and a-last my remembrance
Of past of this place O no grace was in
This nor in taking a **** in a sink or a
Bathtub a hot tub of water so scald just
To peel you off skin yours in a moment
Like this click-clack your body wrap
Around your bones though y’all are gone
From this den of all vilest and direst of
Creatures this world ever descry and was
Witness O no ‘tis place now occupied
With all fears and a fright of being
Dragged ‘nto that mess where no room
Was for lest you’d be one of their kind
But you need to get rind off these wall
And to fill all the holes with the bodies
Of moles yes of all moles in the world
You piece of O never mind a was just
Taking the **** and a **** in the sink
Of a bathtub whence water from time
Ago had all gone like o hell like you know
Vaporized leaving no trace for a plate
With a bread to be fed to that ones
Wretched dwellers who were all
Rolling Hellers till one day this one
Fellow ain’t show up in this joint
With his strap and his oint and
O no I just can’t I just cause you’re my
Friend but I can’t o please stop o
Please no o stop I can’t take i orghs
This one is out; bring another
This pile of **** to the others outside
Burn them after we done here
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 12:31 PM UTC
Oh, what a grave mistake!
I can’t retrieve,
My soul forever carried
By a limbo of memories and hopes.
I’ve become but the shadow
Of my long deceased self.
Mirrors don’t recognize my features,
I don’t recognize them either.
I am but a mild reflection of those times,
Though distorted it may be.
My eyes, now fond of the aridity,
Lower their gaze from a glorious beige;
They are ashamed,
For a grave mistake they have made.
Lord! Have they fallen in love?
Perhaps I’ve learned to love
This barren soil beneath me,
The brownish, unearthly sand
Burying my feet and dreams.
The children born from the sand
Too embody my direst misfortune.
Those brutes!
How dare they exist?
This sentiment which I hold deep within-
Disgust, remorse.
The sons and daughters
of the blazing sun.
They have been my curse!
I blame them, and only them
For falling in love.
I blame him, and only him
For making me grasp what love is not.
Covered heads, unwieldy hairs;
Olive trees and olive minds;
Sun-kissed skins:
Why have you conquered me?
I decry this land,
For it has captured my heart.
Oh, what a grave mistake!
For I could never forget
The sand caressing my toes,
The vehement sun biting my eyes,
And those brutes penetrating
My feeble soul.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Except for the title none of this is mine; the direct quotation following is from Shakespeare:
Jill Macbeth
…Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s *******
And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, “Hold, hold!”
-Macbeth I.v.41-62
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Macbeth, by William Shakespeare
Jun 28, 2024
Jun 28, 2024 at 12:22 PM UTC
Look to darkness for a laugh
chuckles pulled from the pain
sadness has a new lease
loneliness in the extreme
their companion is not light
when the absurd is brought forth
to contrast with absent joy
survival discards the empty smile
the void demands something else
on the altar of the felled lives
if existence must proceed
beyond the phantoms of deceit
monsters of direst dreads
provide the truths few accept
except when the veil is dropped
pulled from the rod to the floor
when holiness becomes absent
the profane will take its place
forcing choices among the scraps
some are better than the rest
a sacrifice is brought to bleed
as the basin collects the drops
an offering of darkest taint
extols the pure that it’s replaced.
© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190307.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 8:10 PM UTC