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Dark n Beautiful Aug 2013
The snow blanket the earth
but it would never covers the ocean
It became a curse of the sea
So, it stays on the beach
Like a dog on a leash
11
To hell with the night
It’s just darkness over- powering the daylight
When men are force to close their eyes
And dream of the events of the passing day.

111
Liars who called themselves lovers
Will never come clean
It’s a permanent tattoo
Concocted in their brain
The road to recovery for them is
Systematic and strategic process
For them it is a hunter’s game

1V
You have taken everything in one’s strides
The time sheets, the lunch hours
You have become the employer
Twelve hours prisoners of the time clocks
V
Last night I heard Nana voice
She said that I worry too much
And get little sleep
I smell hibiscus in my room
That old familiar fragrance scent still lingers

But her words became self-soothing
She said, let’s go to the kitchen
And make a banana bread
Worries is for the rich man

VI

The poor man display his graffiti on cities buildings
no admission, no fee
priceless art crimes or
the best of a simple criminal mind

High art or low art
Eyes of a rich man
Or the eyes of a fool
Dark n Beautiful Mar 2014
Dispassionate Objectivity #2
The helicopter hovers over the neighborhood
I listened to the hiss of the radiator. Often I'd
awaken in the wee hours, somehow this morning
evokes a mother's greatest fear: and deepest pain
about burying her only child.
~~~~~~~~~2
Only God know what happen to flight three seventy
Have it been stolen?
Once again it crowd in the skies
Somehow, as years goes by it seem to
more dangerous than football grounds
So many question, but not enough answers
~~3
Unfortunately, only God know what lurks in the hearts
Of reckless people
Ones can only say, so many times
“Look what they gone and do”
~~~4
  Your Home, your sanctuary
your comfort zone
However, when you are blown to smithereens
From a building gas explosion
useless tears , silent prayers
Wk kortas Mar 2018
Know this—I am well acquainted with the wolf,
Well versed in his ways, his demeanor,
His dispassionate relentlessness,
His pitiless focus on hunt and hunted,
His workaday disdain of pity.
There are those who would laud the mythical Spartan lad
Who hid the wolf beneath his cloak,
Affecting some gallant stoicism
As the beast consumed him without restraint,
But I say to you that is a mere romantic fallacy,
A wanton failure to apprehend the true moral.
I have learned that there is no accommodation,
No covenant to be reached with the wolf,
And any attempt to do so is merely to invite destruction,
And so I choose to engage him openly, without reservation,
Rolling tail-over-teacup in the streets,
Attempting to hold his jaws open with bare hands
While those who find such battle unseemly and uncouth
Jeer and hoot from porch and portico.
No matter, for I will continue to meet the cur on my terms,
For staid suffering in the hopes
Of reaching some accord with the beast
Is the not the act of the noble sage:
It is the mock heroics of the coward,
The sad acquiescence of the simpering fool.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things

*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")


wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?

this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.

the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!

No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.

Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.

Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,

Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.

------------------
Who Am I?
By Carl Sandburg

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
     universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of
     destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
     in the universe.
Tammy M Darby Feb 2017
Rest your weary body
Drink from my golden goblet
The most delicate and finest of wines
A potion of wild raspberries, bitterness and jeering contempt
Assault the light that dare not shine

It is the elixir of a dispassionate heart
If you possess no fear
Taste the confectionery of sadness call
Where love frightened evades approach
Upon remembrance of the long dark fall

Sip from the golden goblet
Taste the cruel sweetness of pain
Damnation to those who denounce the motive behind the actions
Until the bed of anguish you have lain

But these rare wines have no equal in quality
Defiled by evil and cursed with shame
The unquenchable thirst for blood taints the golden rim
As the murderous night slew the rising of the day

So lift high the golden goblet and drink  
An immortal taste of time
Accompany me into the world of melancholy
Where is served the most of exquisite wines
Come close now the hour when words become whispers
Demanding recompense for the crimes.

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Feb. 8. 2017
Written for the Monster
Craig Verlin Aug 2013
Having *** in
a car is the most
dispassionate
of locations.
You drive up late,
wait on the curb
for her to sneak
out past her
overprotective and
well intentioned parents.
She gets in,
keep the music high
and the voices low,
any conversation at
this point is
simply to break
the slight awkwardness
of what you both know
is about to happen.

Park in a
shady lot
with no light posts.
You can see an
elementary school
down the street,
buses and pick up lanes,
in a few hours they
will scamper around
like rats
but tonight there
are no witnesses.
Tonight there is nothing
but the back seat
you climbed into,
music still loud enough
to dissuade
any personalization
of the situation.
It is ***** and cheap.
--a personal
preference--
She is nothing but a
quick fix.
She gets on top,
moans a little
as you slide in.
The seatbelt buckle
digs deep into your
back,
but you don't mind it,
this wasn't meant
to be comfortable.

You just want this over with.
She looks at you
and smiles,
you look away.
All of this
is shameful,
but a necessary evil.
There is a decadent
beauty
that surrounds the
cheapest and
rawest of pleasures,
that glory in the gutter.

*** in a car is the most
dispassionate of locations.
You drop her back off,
don't stick around to see her
caught by her
waiting father.
Her shirt is on wrong
and her hair is ******.
Not your problem.
You head home,
keeping the music up,
thinking about anything else.
You don't even know
who she is,
just some quick fix,
just another wednesday night.

You try to believe that
it is better that way.
Eric Dec 2013
Today someone laryngospasmed and dropped to 65%
Before I opened their airway
Last week, same thing, except 55%

I’m finding myself increasingly dispassionate and unconcerned during these episodes
Externally it would appear
I’m skating by
Skin of my teeth
Brushing off increased agitation by the OR staff
Watching the patient’s life bouncing on the roulette wheel as I tilt the table
........Come on red ................

But it’s not like that. I have a plan. Always a backup. Tertiary options.
A, B,C, and [God forbid] D.
So far, C and beyond is unknown territory.
I’m concerned with my confidence. Too much?
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
If your muggy-grubby hands
Even rise to slap me again
I swear I'll chop them off with my axe.

If your fangly-boniony feet
Get within kicking distance of me,
I swear I'll tear your legs from your hips
And then admire my workmanship.

If your mangy-crazy mind
Tries to infiltrate mine
To deposit some lie
That would change the perception
Of me, myself, and i,
I swear I'll grab a spoon
And scrape, scrape, scrape
Out your brain.

If your hoity-toity attitude
Tries to usurp my solitude
To make me someone I'm not
I swear I'll be completely dispassionate
As I wipe your every iota from this
Particulate Universe.

If I so much as hear you breathe,
I swear I will squeeze
Every
Drop
Of
Air
Left in your lungs.

You think this is too violent even for me?
You'd better believe
I've been pushed to the edge
Of all logical reason
By your every act of treason
And I won't hesitate to
Incapacitate,
Excommunicate
Eradicate,
You from my life.

You'd better beware.
I'm angry and all this I'll do.
I swear.
Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.
Whisperings of a morbid night foretell
Of a humble visitor that the velvet shall grace
Hope sears through the indolent air
Mutterings of a sweet dream it lays.

And its wispy arms, it spreads
Turned crystal white with its eternal age
With clandestine diligency it works around
A heavenly glow kindling from its face

It leaps across with its companion
On amethyst streams, through its sprays
The curved drops of life falling with a time-less reflection
Vivifying the wind in the boundless chase

And it blankets the forests in its spell
It plummets meticulously into the dark
Veering down the crevices unwelcome
Effacing the veneer of darkness, on a journey it embarks

It's gentle in its temperament
But of sturdy shoulders it boasts
With an unfaltering expression it entails
With a vivacious drive, all, it endures

Somewhere across a strewn landscape
An irrational vindictiveness comes to work
A carpet of bullets laid across
Sprays the emblazoning red across in its mirth

Fulfilling a painter's dream
The lewd red glistens on the grass
A town awakened to a carnage of dreams
The stars flicker, frightened, the night they grasp

And a clarion mingled with the mud beside
A crestfallen spectacle it boasts
This verbose only euphemising the sight
Knitting the strands of malice, the blood flows

Cries of agony and pain resound through the stench
Corpses of infants clinching their mother's
And the face of a young girl clinging to a pole
Whimpering at the face, numbness inside, it bursts

And this despondent night, the visitor visits
Sweeps across the blown landscape, dispassionate
Stops beside the girl and in its soothing elegy
Tells tales of the battles of happiness lost in time's chase

And Hope, it lingers on
With ardent belief and patience to reap
And the girl weeping with blank, black eyes
The memories that shall never be cast, the mother she shall never see

The young ones of a bird remain
Stranded in their nest, their stomachs inviting
Squeaking and gnawing with their tiny beaks
Oblivious, their mother shall never appear, suffice in this cold, biting

A mother in a furtive torment
Fruits of whose shall have been sweet
A life that may have spawned, laughing with clenched fists
Unknowing, what the vicissitudes shall entail, what fate it shall meet

A boy with a kite in his hand
And a euphoric smile on his face
With dreams of racing with the wind
And mists of clouds that he shall chase

Hope casts an omnipresent shadow, moves along
With a passive effect binding them all together
Harbringing life, sweeps off the tears
Lifts them up to the zenith in its calm, dependent clutches

Kingdoms fall and statues wither away
The tide of time takes its toll on all, in the unduelled race
But Hope suffices, clings on to the little crevices
Gives little flocks of dreams for the girl to chase
we gathered in a lighted tower
of a lower Manhattan promontory
seminarians listen
to discursive ramblings
of bank industry experts
on the finer points of
Basel II
Tier Three
op risk

towards a better better
best practice
we pique our ears to hear
the critical
dispassionate annunciations
of expert expertise

a panel of practitioners
a panoply of knowledge
networking opportunities
and hands on insight
we are granted
institutional affirmation
nesting warmly
in a corporate cocoon
13 flights up
off West Street
10 bucks a seat
30 for non-members

we settle
in soulless white rooms
divided by long
horizontal wall panels
bleached of all humanity
visualizing phantasmagoric vistas
of changing regulatory landscapes
in strait backed chairs
resembling the blanco armor acrylics
of Imperial Stormtroopers

on watch for Black Swans
the panel's moderator incants
if one appears
we told you so
if one fails to materialize
risk managers
have earned their dear keep
seminarians chuckle

the dais backdrop
a massive SONY plasma screen
stares down seminarians
with ruminative bleakness.
no digital blips or power points
will convey any meaning
turn a clever phrase
sprout a statistic
paint a pretty picture,
just the plain spoken word
of highly credentialed
speakers with bios
many paragraphs long
confers license to speak

the screens blackness
a perfect counter point
to a rooms spare whiteness
and pedestrian furbishment
save a day glow Warhol Print
of the heroic MTV moon walker
and a predominant majority
of Far Eastern attendees

questions from the floor
drizzle the panel
tied tongues
use tight selective language
of lexiconic colloquialisms
speaking a queer vernacular
of erudite bombastic bunk

questions are mumbled
with increasingly greater acuity
dancing around bank meltdowns
and global economic catastrophes
with a self anointed smug absolution
and poignant failure to acknowledge
a failures paternity
pink elephants and 800 pound gorillas
remain dance hall wallflowers


to be sure language evolves
the moderator instructs
as regulatory guidelines converge
to address market flux.
Is everyone comfortable with
the current acronyms
we devised
to describe our
present situation
best laid plans
and timely initiatives
to safeguard capital adequacy
and institutional solvency
right here in our own
little tower of Babel?

My tie is too tight
to clear my throat
I can't ask my question
of apples to apples
dust to dust
and oranges to tangerines
while the halting speech of others
is broken up
by timely ring tones
from Jeopardy
and Gene Autry's
Don't Fence Me In

every once in awhile
a chuckle is raised
we laugh about the score
in this inside baseball game
of capital requirements
regulatory Nexis
and smart *** traders
plying bold arbitrage strategies
blowing us back to Basel I
after the global bank implosion
oh the hilarity
of credit crises and crashes
the jokes on us
the joke-sters R US

some begin to
urgently finger blackberries
sending confident commands
to be dutifully carried out
by young back office minions
impatiently waiting
hanging on every word
of unintelligible texts
eagerly biding time
to take
the solid senders warm seat
in these cold blanched rooms

Closing the seminar
the moderator's summation
offered the thought
that her fondest hope remains
scenario analysis,
stress testing
and the new
emerging paradigms
will become
embedded in
risk management
best practices
and that fewer regulators
will be needed to regulate
and we will continue
to be employed
(nervous chuckles)
clapping
reception for networking
to follow
questions
and
cocktails
in the next room

I move quickly
to fill my plate with brie
English tea crackers
and a smoky tangy cheese.
A fellow seminarian
approaches me.
He smiles and asks,
Whats your name?
What do you do?
I tell him
and ask the same.
He says he is 50
and unemployed.
He sounds unsure
and frightened.
I bite into a chunk
of exotic cheese.
******* crumbs fall
onto the lapel
of my freshly pressed
pinstripe suit.

Music Selection:
Miles Davis
Red China Blues

jbm
NYC
03/03/09
Alice Lovey Jul 2018
Or do I already know?
I naively nourish these fervid feelings I hold.
Moving slowly, in rhythm, matching your sway,
Questionless is my admiration in every way.
Ardently I coast on the energy waves
Of your passions
And dispassionate despondency.
Waste the day together watching good TV;
It's not wasted if it's with you.
The never-ending riddle of learning how to love,
And learning how to love the one you love,
The one you think most of.
The unfaltering encouragement of success,
Filling in the blanks so the other won't stress.
I'll sweep the floors when you can't anymore,
Get us through the boring chores
Of every day life.
Those mundane motions for the future--
So much more to look forward to
With the addition of you.
Voices soften with the intimacy of quieter talk...
And the sensuality of our skin.
The carelessness and the giving in.
The tears shed, yours and mine,
Shared as "tiny dots on an endless timeline."
The subtleties of selflessness,
The subtleties of trying to change.
The obsession over mistakes,
Anxiety that keeps me awake.
Heated fights and
The addictive rush when we make up.
The selfishness, greed and possessiveness build up.
I am broken,
Or I act as if I am so.
I am broken, but there are sunflowers I wish to grow
In the broken *** within you
So that you may feel a little less broken too.
If this is love, I wish someone could tell me.
If this is love, why must it be so delicate,
Yet so assiduously enduring?
Continuous forgiveness
And the things we let each other get away with;
The "knowing better"s.
All those firsts, all those places that were meant to be with you.
Everything I would do
To make you smile.
How naturally I could laugh and feel at ease,
How naturally you brightened a smile on me.
How naturally, despite, we could become so miserable.
How naturally, despite, I could love so unconditional.
The wanting to just feel you there
Till we were unaware of our despair.
The frankness and the fall of our walls.

The letting go.
The folding up my heart and putting it away
When I can accept
It's not yet
To be worn by you.
"Shared dots on an endless timeline" borrowed from a song by La Dispute, called "Woman (in mirror)"

“White”

Letting myself feel, at least for today.
You need to reach out
- that's what I was told

I confided in a number of people

Sat across a lot of wise spectacles
Sympathetic coffees
Blank invites
Dispassionate loves

You need medication
- that's what I was told

I popped a number of pills

Over months,
White, long
Yellow, small
A number of nights
Crazy eyes,
Erratic behaviour
Strange moodswings

You need a change of scenery
- That's what I was told

Miles and miles of sand
A sea extending into the sky
My heart became the feather
That landed on waves
And sank
Far below
The understanding of humanity

Went to the hills
Stream flowing by
Which iced over at night
Bare apple orchards
Green and stone
Woke up at 4 AM
From where I stood,
I couldn't see the sunrise

My spirits
Shattered and fell
Along with some rocks
Off the cliff's sheer face
As I ended up
On my hands and knees


You need to meditate
- that's what I was told

Pure silence at 4 AM

That's what I woke up to
And I sat for an hour everyday
Trying to focus on
The "om" I was told about
With the last echo
I was left bereft of purpose
Vision and energy
I couldn't move on
With the day
JP Goss Jan 2014
To exhale
Compresses the chest
And in its place
Some chilblains,
Disgust for its being,
An annihilation
A ferocious hunger for itself,
Like the ouroboros
In every breath
Tempted by a life
For the moment gone.
To inhale
Invites it back,
A dispassionate process, no less.
The life thus stolen away
Impotent to the next breath
That I must exhale.
On this breath there comes a fear
A longing or
The urge
To lift my hands to my throat
And keep the life in my lungs
To quit exhaling
And never feel that way again.
Mixed feelings are devouring me again,
either I'll grow to be insane or dispassionate.
Spill your thoughts onto me;
show me a glimpse of your universe.
Take a risk or walk away.
There is no hint of end in the air
Nothing to suggest the impermanence
The alluring sky azure and brightly fair
Only a few dropped leaves making little sense!
The smooth silence in the yellowish dark morn
Lends the temptation to be here for good
What was nascent is now quietly born
A resigned desire to stand still in the wood!
In a reality more inviting than the dream
The eyes caress the sky and then the treetop
Seeing yet not seeing in a trance made of whim
They roll down to the ground where they stop!
The trees have shed the withered leaves
Remaining dispassionate and mindless
The grand design Nature ceaselessly weaves
To renew hope and welcome new face!
Michelle Lynne Apr 2014
I remember the first time I laid my eyes upon your dark, golden-highlighted ringlets siting haphazardly on your nimble head. They were positioned above your flat, south Asian face, as if some wayward artist took his paintbrush and, in a fit of creative chaos, splattered and sputtered paint across a blank and endless canvas. Your hair represented the kind of sweet, quiet entropy that people needed in their lives. The great offense the artist had committed by being so reckless with such a delicate subject could be forgiven, however, because he surely acted as such simply because he had previously exhausted himself whilst meticulously creating your enrapturing eyes. Round cerulean orbs, speckled with bits of yellows and greens with a péridot ring centered around a pitch black pupil that represented the contents of your dispassionate heart. This is not an accurate description of the man who holds my unrequited love, however. You have achieved this sort of romantic, majestic rendition of beauty through the bias of my foolish heart and through my patronage of the arts. A typical person would do much better to portray you as nothing more than a hellish brute who is in desperate need of a haircut and a perhaps a larger assortment of clothing rather than torn, raggedy jeans and hand-me-down heavy metal t-shirts.
Black Swan Mar 2010
Unheard, desperate cries,
Falling on deaf ears,
Indifference of the times—
Prayers plead desperately
To a dispassionate God.
Innocence, youth, and promises
Are insufficient causes
To awaken the Almighty.

Screams reach out, piercing
The cold, uncaring night—
Featureless faces turn away,
Eyes look to distant horizons.
Anguished sounds, lost, dispersed
In frigid, fearful winds;
Easier to hear a pin drop
Midst the maelstrom
Of creation’s cacophony.

Eyes frozen in terror,
Mouth gaped and motionless.
A child lost in the wilderness,
Wandering aimlessly, hopelessly.
A young voice asks help,
Turning to a society
Who has itself, long ago,
Lost its way as well.
Black Swan © 2005
A kiss of promise, brushes your dispassionate composure
Gently opening your silent heart
Inviting possibilities, you had decided never could exist
Resulting in a fiery burning start

A spirit of harmonious splendor has gently grazed your hand
Inspiring you to open up your eyes
Daring you to attempt objection to its lovely graceful plea
Leaving you with only joyful sighs

A kiss of promise leaves one breathless to the possibilities
Of following their former heartfelt dreams
Stirs you in anticipation of a journey you thought lost
With the setting of yesterday’s sunbeams

Return the kiss of promise, with an open invitation
Explore all the possibilities it holds
Hold the hand of the spirit of a gentle harmonious splendor
Do not let your heart remain empty and cold
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
Valsa George May 2017
How my mind as that of a child
Frivolous and foolish seeks solace
In a fictitious world of make believe
While reality, like a fiend stares right on my face!

Waiting for none, the globe continues to spin
And seasons arrive and depart without default
Yet how I wish to think,
With my exit, the world will come to an abrupt halt

When I am gone and lie cold under the sod
And  my memory no more lingers
How I wish to feel
My absence continually injures

Gains and losses when added up
Weighs equal on life’s dispassionate balance
Yet how I wish to boast
With success alone, I ever had my alliance

Though I never reached the peak I sought
And faltered on my way distraught
How I wish to console
I got everything for which I had fought

Future awaits me with gloom and gaiety
And victory is certain to follow defeat
Yet how I wish to proclaim
Here is one for whom life shall ever be a treat!
KM Ramsey May 2015
i am not your blooming flower
i don't belong in your
garden kingdom populated
by perennials and ruled by
thorn stemmed rose bushes
where you go
to seek solace and discover
the bursting lightness of
that sensuous pain when
blood erupts from that
thin line where
the white fatty layer threatens
to spill out into the world
and stain your white carnations.

and i never promised you
that it would be pretty
and that one day you would be
able to look at those sensationless slices
and see more than just
an act of scarification
that i asked for
that i endured
but the physical embodiment of
that internal scream that
bounces off the sides of my chest
and shatters the crystalline lattice
that protects my dispassionate heart
from your touch
as soft as the downy feathers
of the spring's children
emerging from their
incubator eggs to
greet the world where they
will fall before they fly
and i will impale myself on
the pyre of their sacrifice.
i can't keep promises i never made
david badgerow Oct 2011
I told her I was a writer
and she said
                         All the guys
I ****
say that.

I passed her my cigarette
my palm--sweaty & inadequate
her palm--dispassionate & bothered
I can't help
wincing
when
         our palms touch.
IDS Dec 2016
Her
Sewn-up into not caring
Modelled dispassionate
Roused into fantasy;
This one time would be
different
Oh naive optimism

His sight grows absent from reality when
he sees her
Leaving me unconsidered
he trades grins with her
With no forewarning
he trails off to her
Consinging to oblivon my presence when
he's with her
Nothing assuredly matters when
he's conversing with her

I'll bid farewell
to those so called feelings
Friends can fracture your
Sole heart
If you keep confiding
You will bruise nonstop
So let me advice you this one time
Become cold as ice
Raj Arumugam May 2014
we are the refined
the delicate, the rarefied
the genteel, whose words
are etheral and our thoughts
exclude all things physical

for us the ideals, the pure
the clean and the pristine
conventions suit us best
and the unquestioned
fits us like custom-made gloves

our lives are regulated
there's something in it
for each of us
we have all the answers
and for sure, we are the ones
going to Heaven

couretsy marks our birth
and everyone walks about
with the Dictionary
of Respectable Words
when we kiss
we don't exchange fluids
and when we have ***
we are dispassionate


we bring civilisation to the world
and we sunbathe in idyllic beaches
and we plan to tour the moon soon
we are tourists really all our lives
and when we are not, we polish our cars
and bemoan the State of the  Environment


we are the refined
the delicate, the rarefied
the genteel, whose words
are etheral and our thoughts
exclude all things physical
Samuel Jan 2012
"I'm just stepping out for a bit"
           you casually mentioned
                            before a dispassionate hug
                            stole you from the warm
                            glow of your own kitchen
                          
                    and I must admit I believed you
                    where an image has remained for
                    all this time in my mind of your
                    return home

     but life continues on beneath the shadow
     left by your departure, dimmed sunlight,
     warm rain
                          and now the center ring
                          with word of the dropping
                          temperatures, the fire at
                          apartment 12D and of
                          the car that carries you
                          back to me
             wait
                                     what was that?  
a dream of mine
getting ever so
twisted up
in reality
Stubble mushrooming his chin
he showed up on the door
without his trademark grin
he looked clearly sore.

He motioned me to sit on a chair
in the room with low watt light
his sullen stare and disheveled hair
said things weren't alright.

I sat in the embarrassing silence
thinking what might be the cause
what lay behind the simmering suspense
why my friend looked so morose.

There wasn't a sound in the whole house
the creepy stillness was deafening
with only the clock ticking sleepy hours
carried the night on its wing.

Sensing something was definitely wrong
gauged from his eyes swollen red
his father I knew was ailing for long
surely he was mourning the dead.

Where's uncle I set words in pace
long time I haven't him heard
making a dispassionate face
he pointed his finger upward.

So proved true my worst fear
the son was mourning the demise
everything was now clear
my shock I couldn’t disguise.

For you what a terrible blow
so early for him to have gone

my words poured sad and slow
may his soul rest in heaven.

My friend now spoke in awed face
I couldn’t miss his perturbed glare

*My father is fine God bless
he is only resting upstairs!
Inspired by Fiona; please read her poem at http://hellopoetry.com/poem/laughter-40/
Josh May 2019
She was tall, her arms far reaching
her beauty intangible
her presence impossible to ignore  

To the unknowing eye she may seem dispassionate
but her roots ran deep
only the learned knowing their extent

She was always forgiving
her shade unconditional
protecting all in her presence.
Danielle Jones Mar 2011
i have never wanted to be so good to someone.
i could trace the outline of your fingernails onto my faced up palms as we
reached for each other,
slipping my thoughts into your back pocket,
and you'll hold me like a golden locket as
we climbed tree limbs into the heavy august air
to tangle our own until
the light turned us free,
like the spotlight on the faces of my
old high school choir -
my vocal cords were ready to bust at the
seams,
i just wanted to be heard and
you had the finest of skills in listening.
i could talk in miles or
explain in knots,
but the options were endless.
i chose to keep my tongue hidden,
as i feathered my lips on your unforgiven
past, not least but last,
the scars following your
arm.
i could see the matches
that burned
each thought on your elbows,
the love you misplaced
when no one gave you the
thumbs up or the acceptance letter,
that held back and pushed to
your toes.
circulate it,
and pump it through
your bones.
it will destroy the blame and
dispassionate habits,
like the way things hurt
and the anger towards the less than
pleased family who only suffer
because of their reputable
finished paintings might have
some water damage from
the storms.

i want prove that there is good in
the beggars and the pleasers.
there is compassion in the corners
and valleys of the longest of
highways.
it might be a far stretch,
but you gotta believe there's more than
just road signs telling you
where to go
and
people who can't love
anyone other
than themselves.
because even the lost ones
need love, too.
© Danielle Jones 2011
Leay Aug 2016
Restless
Wounded
Weary
Wild

Working
Waisting
Wasteful
Vile

Hunting
Hurting
Hungry
Guile

Soothing
Smothered
Sinful
Tried

Wouldn't
Willful
Could
Repeat


Shouldn't

Wouldn't
Revel
Met

Wonder
Wander
Meddled

Spawned

Common
Shuttered
Humble
Harmed

Careful

Calculated
Course

Drawing
Waiting
Last
Recourse

Homage
Engorge
Gutteral

Gainful
Grieving
menial

Spew
Dispatched
Dispassionate

Great
Aloof
Merry
Spoof

Wander
Willing
Youth

Cancer

Crevasse

Comfort
Pain

Cuckold
Credit
***

Steward
Swear
Sally
Forth

Slither
Sully

Glum
Emma Louise Apr 2013
Were we guilt of trying to be something we were not?
Unpleasantness went unspoken:
death, ***, depression
Ideas which did not exist
in our buttercup yellow
stake in suburbia

Like a slate was held
over the tops of our heads
keeping knowledge out
keeping pain in
where it festered in our bones
and our minds became darkened
all the same

Dispassionate parents
whose fire rests unknown
bred a lost generation
I and my sisters,
our little brother
all burning up inside.
Contradicting notions
manifesting themselves over the years

Who will we become?
Where does the path
of a sterile, manicured
lawn lead?

It leads to each other
that is how we will find ourselves
in the flesh of our flesh.
Morgan Ella Aug 2011
"You are having a bad day." he said,
looking up from my work i noticed
milky, blue eyes seeping- they were shimmering in the shadows,
of his fluffy spider-legged brows,
and secondary to his stupendous
potato nose. lilies. beep.
my heart may have skipped a beat, wondering if
another patron had taken offense
to a dispassionate expression that wore me more than i, it.
he fumbled with a money clip, already withdrawn. large, arthritic, veiny hands. looked down grappling--with ***** bills, smelling of *******, g-strings and *** sweat. was my mouth open, was i staring? baby pinks and stark white, peppered with
gentle,
fuchsia
explosions.
he tossed down a ten and reached in pockets that seemed too low, contorting into a teapot. short and stout. i heard coins mingling together. a discussion among themselves. hushed metallic whispers, pontificate on
the merits of
coin purse over
pocket travel.
here, reemerged a fist, clenched weakly and shaking, he dropped exact change on the ten,
they hesitated in vibration against the laminate counter, and spun on edge in circles.
"some" he said- my stare averting.
..."some" he repeated, only when i'd managed to meet his eyes with again,through an imagined haze of misunderstanding... sweet scent, shivering orange pistils, raining microscopic yellow dust. stargazers. i shifted the change from the counter to my hand.
"are worse
than others."
i delivered him his change in bills, the familiar clink of coins in my drawer somehow deafening. and i couldn't break my curious stare, he turned sharply, flowers wrapped in pink tinted cellophane, which crinkled in a whimper from his grasp.
he limped away, mud on his heels.
back to the cemetery.
where were the living at
and how were they feeling?
what were they doing and
what were they thinking about
while I was spending those
dreadful days
in tiny rooms
alone,
at the foot of the bed,
with a bottle of whiskey
and my Converse shoes
tucked in the corner,
when the vines of nostalgia
were constricting my thoughts
and I was memorializing my childhood
like an ashtray,
putting out cigarette butts
on the bad memories
too often remembered?

I felt, as if, my purpose in life
was as important
as the mendacity
from the liars tongue.
misguided down a
directionless path,
left astray and forgotten about
like a drifter
playing the part of the rejected
and disassociated

shattering windows of opportunities by
burning through time and space and
jobs and women and ***** and drugs
and brain cells and miracles and
ideas and tenderness and
humanitarianism and morality
and conversations...
lots and lots of conversations,
wearing down my body, listlessly
like matchsticks to flame,

but auspiciously,
I found the lighter in writing,
sparking a new beginning and
regaining myself as I took the
wheel back from driving recklessly
through an impetuous
crash course of life

there’s no reason to tiptoe
around light sleepers and
walk on eggshells or
unbalanced tightropes
without the use of legs
in front of searing eyes
when it comes to writing,

writing is love being hustled
down the dead insides of
the dispassionate,

the unhappier the childhood
I’ve experienced
the funnier the comic book
I’ve illustrated

the more personal tragedy,
the better the writing

our minds at war
and writing is the peace

like watching
the robin and
the cardinal
fighting over
the worm,
as they slowly
pull it apart
To Garryowen upon an ***** ground
Two girls are jigging.  Riotously they trip,
With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,
As in the tumult of a witches' round.
Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.
Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.
The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip.
High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.
The music reels and hurtles, and the night
Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light
Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused
With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,
Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags
Look on dispassionate--critical--something 'mused.

*

The gods are dead?  Perhaps they are!  Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all, I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.

Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once . . . long ago.  But now, the story goes,
The gods are dead.

It must be true.  The world, a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:--
'The Gods are Dead!'
As I gaze across this hazy room
My eyes lock upon hers.
Her stare is a lioness about to lunge onto
a suicidal prey.
Her eyes like fire burn my flesh,
leaving nothing but a broken heart and a twisted mind.
She is the flame in my cold dispassionate world.
She stabs me with drag from her cigarette;
Warm blood rushes from me,
reminding me I'm still alive.

Time, Memory, Morality all come to a screeching halt.

Ivory, Ivy, Ebony eyes.
The eyes I fear in my nightmares
and long for in my dreams.
Eyes that have turned good men bad
and great men dead.
Eyes that have broken homes
and destroyed nations.

How could I refuse?
prose

— The End —