"discontinuity" poems
*i always imagine you so very graceful
through the masochists ordeal
a god form of supplication
seeing your face
in love
fascinated by shimmering kisses
that hurt, yet please
wet lips and sharp teeth
glamors that excite
cold blade licks dragged across
tender bellies
naval
buttocks
and flexed toes
stinging
then radiating outwards
wounds become lilies
mouth *******
tremulous weeping kisses
ecstatic cruelties
blood glitter sacrifice
your supplication
love pangs
i'm shaking apart over you
your countenance
a cascading dream
moved to tears of adoration
your limitless
yielding
like surrenders caress
an infinite communion
with fragile limbs
silky wrapped spools
innerness of desire veiled in a shroud
a faltering star that glistens crimson
nymph of purgation
ash volcanic
cells en-flamed with tongues that bite
subsumed in scented vapors
a confection of **** and ***
waves embrace ineffable shores
passed the discontinuity of life
I have the most immense feeling of love for you
am i not
the saint death
quietly following you
through life's labyrinth
innocuous
waiting humbly in the wings
i am all ache for you
a vice of kisses
a brief encounter
that eats your sight and senses
ushering you to immortal freedom
a swooning garland of fire that enlivens
the body electric
a mist of molecules
your tears intoxicate
i am new life with in you
budding embryo
that consumes its mother for nourishment
and saturates like dew drops
as it echoes through oblivion*
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
There is a harsh beauty in mathematics.
Under curves and over slopes,
Equations rise and fall endlessly
In a perfectly measured void.
Optimized, rationalized, sterilized;
Formulas that never lie,
Theorems looming before us
Like an archaic God,
A golden deity whose
Volume is maximized.
How I dream of drifting in this flux,
Concave up and concave down,
Riding the sign of my second derivative
For positive and negative,
For better and worse.
I would not travel alone;
With C by my side,
Friend, ally, brother,
Always paired with my antiderivative,
For whenever we journey back
Into the past, it is necessary
To have a companion to pull us out again
In case we are unsure of where we started.
Rules and laws
Strict organization, control;
There is a harsh beauty in mathematics.
Order; two plus two is always four.
Sines and cosines and theta
All dancing in the unit circle of life,
A conga line that joins itself
To form a mathematical ouroboros.
But the harshest of the harsh beauties
Presented in this Divine Subject
Is that though there is an infinite capacity
For positivity and growth,
So too is there the possibility of stretching
Endlessly towards negativity forever.
However, it is much more terrifying
To lie in the middle;
To be undefined, unknowable, and to add
Or subtract to no effect;
The most fear inducing, mysterious, and gorgeous number
Of zero; nothing yet something,
Infinite yet not,
The most grand of all contradictions.
A hole; a jump; a discontinuity,
Easily removed from life and smoothed out
If you just apply the formulas.
Graphs and coordinates, integers and ordered pairs,
Is that not what life is?
We live within the grandest equation,
Each our own variable,
Constantly solving for ourselves
With the harsh beauties of mathematics.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
*ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity
or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis
ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh
if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony
ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom*
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
And then it hit me;
it had nothing to do with the fact that I tripped over a rock
fell and scraped my knee, crushed orange leaves and marred
them against me-it'd be tricky to get this off in one wash.
I was caught by an overdue epiphany;
it had been chasing me since the beginning of everything but
I promise it was not the reason I jogged each and every season
back and forth-which I suppose also was metaphorically.
Nothing was going to change;
I got up and brushed my raw hands on my ***** pants,
mud stuck to the heel of them and trickles of sweat fell down and
made everything that much colder-windy city.
If I kept waiting;
my breath came is white puffs, rapid and elevated,
the sun broke through the thin barrier of gray clouds and I swore
just a bit at the state of my ripped pants.
For someone to come and alter it;
my legs were burning at the sudden discontinuity of motion and thus
I got up and stretched once more- my knee was bleeding- inhaled deeply
the scent of crushed leaves and began my journey home.
It was me all along;
Children played,undisturbed by the chilly breezes of Autumn,
they fell and laughed merrily as though falling was just a sanguine
thing to do.
And it wasn't easy, I know;
The wind took the tiny tangerine hats off trees, blowing, howling,
the leaves soared at the mercy of nature's cycle-death and rebirth-
and suddenly my excuse of “what's the point? I'll die anyway.”
seemed petty and amusing.
I needed to change to change things.
A child, unafraid of pain, dove unto a pile of gathered leaves,
disappeared in a midst of orange and red after emerging
flushed and jolly, snickering and snorting. I crossed the road
and reached the door.
And after I let water fall and take away the dirt, a stray leaf had
made its way to my hair and I did not throw it away but kept it
as a reminder of the tumble I took to fall to this conclusion.
Autumn fell unto my world, feathers bright like the plumage of
a Phoenix bird in flight.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Tonight is a bad kind of nostalgic.
The music started reminding me of all you guys.
Thrift shopping and cooking in your stockpile kitchen.
And puking in public restrooms,
And late night fifty dollar tattoos
Are some of last years memories.
And those songs don't feel to good either.
And even last week's music
Makes me feel bitter.
And I tried to flashback from earlier in the 2000s.
But that was music from when I was fourteen.
The angst years will now be left alone.
Jesus I have the shakes again.
Bad night.
Bad night.
A splash of coffee in my whiskey.
It's not alright.
It's not alright.
I'm not alright.
Alright?
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
I am the All-Inclusive.
I project all and contain all.
Though in your mind appears
discontinuity
inception and dissolution
birth and death -
still I remain
the Unified Totality.
Alpha and Omega.
The Beginning and the End.
*But there was no beginning
and will be no end.*
I am the Eternal Circle
wholly enveloping and embracing
the whole
as all begins and ends
in Me.
- fr
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 3:40 AM UTC
I faced the bunnies of the apocalypse.
Their glare - ever so piercing,
intruding,
alluring.
In purity, ceasing discontinuity,
the emotions so effervescent
Borderline present
in despair, the infernal chase
In a hellbent daze I secluded myself
From the vertigo of suicide, I was in a dazzle
The warmth of despair enveloping me
In golden hue.
Eerily
creeping
near
in
obscurity,
The effulgence of the universe darkened
my eyes.
The spinning epitome, ever so frightening
Enlightening, it drew
near.
The ambient visions speak - the devil sleeps
I stood amongst the burnt umber
in my heart.
The putrid dirt stains, the chocolate emulsion
Gagging me in repulsion, in absurdity of thee
The abominations dominate all
of my intention.
Dec 24, 2017
Dec 24, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
This is my American Spirit
Though I am loathe, but deserved to hear it
This is my generation in a long, sour drag:
Bohemes and hipsters, the self-important type
Self-serving directness with subtle insouciance
Self-righteous without e’er scents of conviction
Qualities, to all, vogue slimming befit
This, this is my American Spirit.
I’ll be the equalizer in a furtive game of chess
And acquaintance, its partner, arbitrating
I’ll wear the habit of means and humility
An ashen cherry, flicked, waiting to be
The pyrrhic finite ember and pastiche memory
Escape is apparent in discontinuity, my
Means to ravel a courser bond in someone,
As only a blush reminder only when they all clear it
Yes, this is my, my American Spirit.
We’ll have a game of butting desires
‘Tween all those appetites and some self-respect
Only, I know, to lose out in the end.
Is there a place for dignity to prevail
Or charm in an attempt likely to fail?
Can there be eyes open, minds or thought
To gentle pride its combatant ‘gainst
Unconscious abuses: yea or not?
But I will know irony as means to an end
Turned cheek from machination
That I can do, I can pretend
When the veil may be lifted—that I fear it
This, this is my American Spirit.
Of course I enable, for the cynosure, the dissonances
Supplant for fraternity fraternal-ligature
Too obvious is resolve ‘neath shaw of fleeting smoke
My own wants impeded, kept at a distance.
For, oh, Fortune! How you have written
Some conscience to mend it to others kept calm
A charity in practice as this cigarette is long
While vice, in all aspects, is the most correct wrong
But hummed out in truth as a fascist, he ought
I’ll turn to a tonic of strength to delude
That pretense and pride the conscience denude.
In some be it strong in others enthralled
Whilst ********* our prayer beads of looking-glass selves
Quietly burning the vestigial gods
That brought us a new light or perspective on things
And though we are loathe, we despise to hear it,
This, this is our American Spirit.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
He beholds
Then holds
First my thorns
Then my petals
Peels it off
Slowly
Smells, licks, and tastes
Feels it
How naked I am
With discontinuity
In the form of thorns
Pure and placid
Flawed and fabulous
That's my soul
And his love for me
Deep, fiery, hot, and
PASSIONATE
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
You are continuous,
there is no chaos
Suddenly you swerve, without a reason,
visible enough to **** off the dead guy,
and you start falling,
the more you shrink, the harder you get,
you can hear the crawling creatures all the way to the 10th floor,
they climb up under your bed,
the realization makes you subtle,
you are stopped.
It's dawn now,
you are still flooded with creep,
How beneficial is to redeem your astral influence here?
Whose blessings are making you immortal?
whose paradise is lost?
Can not ask,
because you are phenomenologist,
He has done great job in covering,
you can uncover it,
but can not have it
On your way back you can find some nymphs,
still you are not in heaven,
there is still some crawling under your bed,
and its creeping you out.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
I'd like to know the sum of your parts,
Palm a heady discontinuity and mouth
The loam below your womb not wanted.
I have kiln hands; be clay for me, boy.
I glaze my fingers for you, sitting at home
And pumping my bellows,
Lips loved by one and
Hair petted by one other.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:05 PM UTC
We thought we were the rise and fall of the world,
could we have been more wrong..
I remember an old proverb,
"*Control is foolish without batteries,
because once they run out.*
*Your stuck on
one channel,
watching
a singular view unchanging*,
Could we mould the world,
like a pottery class we're moulding it
thinking we could
paint it,
kiln it,
and it was perfection..
But we had a malevolent arrogance,
thinking we were saintly,
all though we thought we were saints.
So boastful of our accomplishments,
we never looked at the singular crack.
Barley visible to the eye, but there never the less.
After a while we ignored it, as we never
expected
Our work to falter..
I remember a proverb that paid heed to this.
*Discontinuity may be a scratch,
visually constrained
but protracted in depth. malevolent
Beneath will never show the truth till
it collapses within its self*..
Wordy I know, but a truth of now.
Never paying attention to the scratch
but not seeing the fracture just waiting for that
singular weight to
descend us to the now. So many cracks in the world.
Now no matter our skill the world is just putty,
remoulding itself with every new day..
A sunrise of reflection,
Dusk hiding the truth of our folly.
We now live in this new world of our undoing..
The poetry wheel is fragmentary,
the vase now floating, shifting in the well
we used to mould it with.
And we stare at the
sunrise seeing our
vindictive creation...
We are the evil of this world, a creation of arrogance.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
**I
February
Einbahnstraße in a
night of black arrowheads/jazz, obliteration perfume/
the twinkle of your
eyes which are engulfed
by youthful nymphs
Fur-lined sable coat
& I
in a jean jacket, hair styled back/
the perspiring windows of Paul Gustavus
open to reveal alizarin (death of day)
velvet curtains
(an appetite for moonlight &
mirrors) the reverberation
echochamber settles over us infused
with alcohol and tea leaves
Basement seclusion,
Deutsch in every direction
Woodstove heat/harsh truths exist in
a Blue Rose of cackling ash, left
disentangled ... duskdancer and copperhue-rooftop Saharas
billowing madly
conversation as a
room full of isolation, lip -
eye, breath -
hairline/drifting to attic enticement,
bedsheets ruffling like
a winged dove
(insertion/devotion)
I am a North American phantom speaking through written paragraphs
& on my second drink a voice
persuasively licks my thigh/come up from the uneven ground
*"feed the moon
relinquish fear
-blindness & burden, parish your
anticipation for fire"*
II
In my restlessness later on, I realize
all I can do is keep my head
high, mimic hope, mimic strength knowing we are
but one brief collision of beautiful
time purposed to split off again
towards a chaos larger than
ourselves.
Remembering The Woman in The Dunes..
"There was a drooling wolf...there was the sun. And, somewhere, he knew not where...there must also be a storm center and lines of discontinuity"
our own repitition of love & labor, warding off the deathhand which always comes back around
... How far do we have to go for lasting tenderness?
III
March
Australian sand/I erase my flesh
in Summer fruit/the air is thick,
I have stopped wearing leather
With iron humility
I task myself to
tillling a steeple into
a breaking cloudbeam
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:03 AM UTC
Your words shaped as spears
Lunged towards me in overwhelming flames
Everything you could ever be
And everything you should have been
Created craters in my bones
Exposing the emptiness
And discontinuity that comes with growing up
South and northern poles
Magnetize within the fire blazing
Among the sunlight up above
Where were you
When I yearned for your wisdom
When I craved for your naive spirit
Where were you
When I need an escape
From everything that’s eating me up inside
Every single night past 12 in the morning
Discontinuity grows like the roses
In the garden of the past
Blooming in shades of washed out reds, blues and pinks
Soon they will consume my thoughts
Crawling up my throat and letting out
The spears you planted in me
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Opportunity after opportunity,
some could say leads to discontinuity
Or spontaneity?
Can it ever lead to deity?
Frailty, surely, will come,
But we can spark that with
originality?!
Frivolity can be a gateway,
To birthing new possibilities.
Imagine the ingenuity!
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 8:54 PM UTC
Opportunity after opportunity
some could say leads to discontinuity
or spontaneity?
Can it lead to deity?
Frailty surely will come
But we can spark that with
originality?
Frivolity can be a gateway,
To birthing new possibility.
Imagine the ingenuity!
Oct 21, 2024
Oct 21, 2024 at 2:42 PM UTC
Say I defined time in quarters -
A flash of lightning, an inflamed heart
a silent revolution, a fallen photograph.
Suddenly life is too short.
Say I divided a circle into thirds -
Hush, no space for shelved dreams
And buttoned up plaid shirts.
We do not break bread with discontinuity.
Say I had two hemispheres of life -
too many secrets spill from my ears:
the nook where I braid my hair into knots
the reason not to walk a beach at night.
Say I was brave enough to erase all lines -
unexpectedly, it is not enough, not at all.
I breathe even with the wind-whistle in my skull,
but then it is not a breath, how unready am I?
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
The fool, plays tricks on himself,
Knotting his head over branches of a riveting kumbuk,
Dancing over the hopping line between truth and superstition,
Bartering with the bard for his wit and contradiction of concentrated diction, to display his friction,
Over Colosseum hipping corpus collosum
For a fool forgets to mind his breath,
Watching the counting seconds go by in the succession of time, one coming after another.
The next illusion of discontinuity through fluidity,
Trapping a held moment in breath of no flow.
Failing to follow the proverbial advice in don't hold thy breath, let it go in the exhale.
The fool wants nothing, needs something,
but cannot decide to come down on one thing,
starting point of beginning a thin kings event.
Drifting like clouds taken by the wind,
Along the axis of rotating rocks piled on stones.
Dancing about his madness found in prancing around his non compliance with no alliance of self consolidated foundations for aesthetic apprehension,
With apparitions of mind forming matter burning embers for the toxic putrid smoke of dragons breath,
Locked in melancholic disdain of not needing, but ease of occupation ******* on the elder wands death by cigarette stick.
the demise of tom riddle's incline.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 12:39 PM UTC
Having decided to go out in a whisper, this vignette, blows through and around the bones of the no longer relevant truth.
It is a wonder how something as simple or complex as a paradigm shift, can usher entire worlds in and out of existence.
I've clung to this narrative that I am a prisoner in my own mind.
That some usurper took the reigns when I was otherwise too weak.
I needed to believe that, that there existed a power beyond me.
That there was some distinct discontinuity between us.
And if we are indeed one and the same, we are also different.
There was strength in being divided, separate, unique.
I've not yet created a reality where being a singularity is supreme.
So I cry out in agony, united in my unknowing.
I write to shape this new form, this new being, this new structure.
I write to fight against the unmaking of my self.
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 12:00 PM UTC