"dissimulation" poems
Deep down
I crave the sacred
Now that everything is
Just a dust mote limping along
The curvature of a light beam
in this dilapidated house
I've winked
At everything but the kitchen-sink --
Although, I do have my eye on it
Cynic
Know-it-all that knows he knows
Nothing
Conflicted
I wish I knew subtlety
Mona Lisa's quarter-smirk
Makes my emojis feel
Sorta slutty --
like they try too hard ya know?
^.^
Heaven:
Rainbow-colored
toothbrush mustaches
And
Killer drones friended by elm trees
Dissimulation is
my religion
Because
it just explains things,
It walks back the big crutch
It makes gods into amoebas
All. I. have. are. words.
******* scribbles.
Stillborn syntactical limbs of whim
Severed at the moment of send
Yet still
I deliver and hold them
Close to me
They are my ex-press
A last confession straight to the quick
The world doesn't spin it screams
We just Van Gogh it with
Slurry nite nite sleep tight's
God, what I would give
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
Do not dissimulate from life
Lethargy instills apathy
Droning everything bores you
Nothing gets your blood boiling
Truth evades your gray cornea
Your persistence is persuasive
Petite energy emitted
Exhausted to convince numbness
You are the youth, the world’s future
Dissimulation not an option
Wave the white flag. We’ll still wage war
Never will you conquer concern
My comrades in texts and I’ll fight
To give hope, future, and success
Or we will perish in battle
Content knowing we truly cared
PLEASE CARE ABOUT YOURSELF!
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
The king of cover-up is at it again,
Downplaying financial ties
And close connections with other countries,
Especially when questions arise.
First it was with Putin and Russia.
How much collusion remains to be seen.
Conspiracy in election meddling?
Whitewashing is now routine.
And then there was the hush-money
To cover-up some hanky-panky.
Dissimulation's easy when
You've got money in the banky.
It looks as though you must deny
And try to hide actions you rue,
But calling your fling "horse face," is that
A gentlemanly thing to do?
Now the cover-up deals with the Saudis--
With the crown prince and the Saudi king.
Denial…admittance…rogue players…
It has such a familiar ring.
After bragging over and over
About the millions of dollars he's made
From wealthy Saudis, his words are now
Exploding like a hand grenade.
When the leader has conflicts of interest,
Critics, pundits, and others who know
Where his interests really lie,
Shrug and say, "We told you so!"
He says he has a "natural instinct
For science." Isn't THAT a joke!
I wish his "natural instinct" was for
Telling the truth whenever he spoke.
-by Bob B (10-18-18)
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
Between you and me,
Those lies have come crashing on
Reality,
Fake
Pretenses stripped off of
Our nakedness; look
At all the scars on our bodies.
****** flaws.
These tattoos I’d hidden from you. All conversations ever do,
Under the dissimulation of words
(I could laugh),
Lash out at us the acute lack
Of conversations. The absence
Of meanings, the shredded ruins of laughter, some very
Jagged melodies that cannot be
In-tuned into a single code, no no. Courtesies.
These
Courtesies have put up quite a show.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Droning a monotone note,
Rocking back and forth,
complaining of a sore throat,
I witnessed a man go insane.
Down the street from the store
By the grey abstruse sign on the back door,
He did a quick shake. . . .
He did a quick shake. . . .
To the acrid taste of an apple.
With his begrimed hair and dark eyes,
He pulled out a paper and started to recite his final goodbyes,
O darkness!
Swaying, syncopated with his incoherent words,
He imagined a world with only birds.
Sweet world!
Coming from the innards of his soul.
O darkness!
In a deep voice filled with dissimulation,
I heard that man whisper,
“Ain’t got nothing to think of,
Ain’t got nobody but my self.
I’s a lonely man,
And I find no reason to prove it to oneself.
Thump, thump, thump, went his heart against his chest,
He thought back on his life, and was not impressed-
“I cant find comfort, And I can’t be satisfied.
Can’t find comfort And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t got a care, And I wish that I had died.”
And for a long time he sat there.The sun came up and went down.
The man got up and started to walk without a destination.
While he was stuck in a state of disconsolation.
He closed his eyes-to die-or to engage his imagination.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
Her soul's poetry
Written in deep dark ink,
Gushing through her veins
Etched across her bones
A tale untold
The world rebounds on touching her surface
Nothing ever leaves a mark
Or atleast
That is what she makes believe
Breathing life ,
She walks into the crowded room
Hidden behind her jokes and laughter.
Comedy weaving up the tragedy .
Humour , the only link to her sanity.
She breathes
Broken, unnoticed.
The world brushes past her touch
Blind.
Oblivoius to the struggle.
Her mind, toxic to her soul
Her skin, her veil.
Yet, her pillows talk of red swollen eyes
And endless nights
Gazing at the moon
Half hidden beneath the clouds
Reflecting light
To cloak the darkness seeping within .
She draws her blinders shut
While her guitar weeps her wounds
The cadence of misery
Into the world of rhythm, she slips.
When shall the masquerade end ?
She walks away
Into the fog
On her own
Brick after brick
A fortress she built
And locked within her own incarceration,
Short haired rapunzul
Afraid to let the knight reach within .
vows of saviours, never heed.
Her facade, flawless
Yet not deceiving those little eyes
Searching for the truth beneath the illusion.
Decrypting the inscrutable dissimulation.
To those pair of eyes,
Slowly fading into oblivion
Lost within it's own ceaseless blue
Seeking for the line between the black and grey.
Her voice , liberating .
Finding its way within the chaos,
Resuscitating.
Giving life to a long forgotten voice
which whispers,
"Take off the masque, You're beautiful. "
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
He sits on the edge of the world
unconcerned with the
dissimulation of
polite society
busy little bee's
bouncing off reality
living the dream he
so valiantly fought to protect
he sits there quietly
saturated in *****
manufactured of
white port fueled
by memory of war
contemplating
nothing
invisible to most
but still
a blight upon their sensibilities and
a horrid fright to the eyes when seen
cold hungry and shivering
they could give a **** to his welfare
they cogitate his insanity
his own undoings
and that smell
the smell of death
lurking waiting to pounce
on yet another of society's outcast
putrid sores covers flesh uncovered
where gnats and flies feast
and maggots dine beneath the skin and
his breath
his breath smells of Dragon Blood
do we even know what Dragon Blood is?
apparently he does
two tours in Vietnam an a Purple Heart for bravery
yet he sits on the edge of the world
bravely trampled underfoot of apathy
absent of coalition
he wishes only to be left alone
to dance in the pain
of degredation
and waltz in the face of death
until God calls him to reckoning
he will sit there on the edge of the world
listening to
the mundane idiocrasy of those who wander by
left to his own maundering
invisible that is
until the olympics come to town
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
I'm here once more, but then again when was I not?
as if my eyes have ever shifted from my reflection. I'm sick of it.
I don't know how long I've been here; this dimly lit trap gives away no time.
all else melts around me, pools into ripples of my distorted reality.
I sit and I watch my face. I long for the familiarity of yesteryears that I cannot trace.
my skin yawns open, wills to consume itself - porous, velutinous, and brittle.
this is who I am, this is what I see:
tyrian purple flesh decomposing, falling inside my bones that split and splinter;
my mind climbing out of my head, fugitive from the skull's prison;
breaths, ribbons of grotesque, not deep enough to last and not shallow enough to be numbered.
everything without is human (decaying though it is), and everything within is dissimulation.
this molten, fragmented un-being doesn't escape my sight. these eyes have cried out for respite -
and yet they exist, the odd and sole constant in the mirror before them -
wistful for oblivion and feasting on fear. what's gone has kept me alive for longer than it appears.
this body doesn't even feel real. my fingertips burn at every touch.
what more shrapnel does this heart desire until it plays out its final beat?
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 2:04 PM UTC
Who, I am, is just the following of what,
What, I am, is just a stone away from where,
Where, I am, is just sails away from why,
Why, we are, is a planet away of who.
Who I am is just a person wearing a pretence,
What I am is just a character of what I try to commence.
Where I am, is this visage, carrying the drama in this scene,
Why we are, is where I merely am playing my part, as my actions are already set in the figurine.
It’s not adequately unexpected for the viciousness that is presented in human forms,
Its pretentious validity, in various forms, in vivid and foolproof flaws, as veteran as victim it withholds.
He desert, hides, cloaks or flees. He screams, breaks, vanish, retreats. He hides, shields, masquerade and juggles. All of these patterns that run in circles and hobbles.
We are not disarmed as much by the sword or bullet but rather by our past,
The whispers, the memories, the mistreat that is amassed.
For I too will have vengeance for myself,
For I plan a vendetta that will never be forgotten, and will haunt thyself.
To effectively grow I have to push past the point of my comfort zone and experience inhumane situations,
No expectations of thoughts and feelings, no blank lines or allowance of consultations because I will lose myself and make my own insinuation.
So please let your anger, hate, ********** intimidation,
Your screams, betrayal, pain, instigation
Thy emotions, force, projections and manipulation,
Be my entertainment that only helps my dissimulation.
For who, I am, is just the following of what,
What, I am, is just a stone away from where,
Where, I am, is just sails away from why,
Why, we are, is the vendetta that’s been bought.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
Don't conform to another bad habits.
Transform from them.
Be that living sacrifice.
One that's holy, acceptable unto God.
Think not too highly of yourself than you should.
Every part of us is required to create love.
We all have a talent that's vital to humanity.
We live according to our proposition of faith.
We all have the power to minister or teach.
Even that don't mean leading a congregation of a church.
Our love should be without dissimulation.
Let no one ruin the good within you.
In other words, let not evil control your mood.
For in the end, you'll be judged by those you meet.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
"Let me blatantly ignore the key tenets of your question and, in the interest of proper dissimulation of the facts, let me insinuate underlying assumptions and make disparaging comments which seek to undermine the credibility of the sources of the data you quote, the reliability of those distasteful first hand witnesses on the dodgy line and, lastly, the relevance of the assertions made.
"I can do this with all confidence, without a shred of competing evidence, because of my tacit refusal to see beyond my world view where I might be confronted by the truth of the devastation my government has wrought. My therapist calls this my coping mechanism, but I'm not just coping, I'm winning.
"Next question?"
Aug 22, 2025
Aug 22, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC
Fall is having something of a moment - in Paris - from what I hear.
Me? I’m enjoying some large-group foundational instruction, small-group clinical tutorials, and what they call ‘dense-coursework’ because endless memorization and scientific concept acquisition isn’t dense at all.
Peter’s in Paris for goods, Woot!
And lucky him, he’s adjusting to waking up
to ‘Betty (Get Money) by Yung Gravy,’
blasting from my Sonos One speaker at 6am
right after Charles and I finish our morning 5k.
I’m trying to be present for him, to atone for endless studies.
My diary charts my intentions, anyway, like satirical epistolaries.
Now that Peter’s in Paris, he seems “S” obsessed!
I didn’t tell him, “Wait, isn’t that what A.I. is for?”
No, I go to minimal lengths to discourage him,
for we’re each other’s raw materials, are we not?
Shakespeare, a man who obviously spent a lot of his time on the Internet. Wrote about that very specific, emotional-space and little else. He disguised it, of course, with ****** allusions, drunken sword fights, mistaken identities and sick-burns - but it’s all there.
****** gender-bending, sneaking around, and jesters spilling blunt truths about “appetites.”
But he presented it all as real, human and normal - signaling pleasures full of breathing, tasting, feeling, and the overt-expression of ****** actions - he was a man ahead of his time - made for social media.
Of course, you can’t trust what a poet writes of love.
Not because of dissimulation, but because love is so exciting
- that the happening is all-consuming - and in the after-pauses, much is forgotten.
.
.
Songs for this:
Betty (Get Money) by Yung Gravy [E]
Man I Need by Olivia Dean
Bad Dreams by Teddy Swims
.
Yung Gravy = uhh he’z SO g.d cute and funny.
talking to Peter “If I didn’t have you, I’d stalk him to prove my love.”
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC