"distillation" poems
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
My one on one time begins as soon as I pick up this pencil
Writing to release these contemplations
The lead takes me to a process of distillation
Being careful not to run out from this eraser
Our everyday mistakes can be related to an eraser
Once you run out from your eraser you cannot wipe away any errors
So you carefully choose and think wisely
Being mindful of the insufficiency and blackness of the eraser
No matter how many times you erase
there will always be a trail of black spots left behind
Live life as if you were running out from your own eraser
That way you pursue perfection and not mistakes
Don't be the eraser that runs out quicker than the lead
Copyright© Cynthia Ulloa
All rights reserved.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
The literati are moaning
about the crowning
of a comical smiley-face
with tears of joy
springing from its eyes
as Oxford Dictionaries 2015
"Word of the Year"
it's historic
indicative of a generation
raised on media shorthand
though some people think
the distillation of thought
to acronyms, symbols, emoji
is a bad thing too
but in these icons
heavy black heart
face throwing a kiss
reversed hand with middle finger extended
even the simple : )
I see emotion
stripped bare
the whole gorgeous
heart-rending, horrible
hateful range of it
illustrating the dark
and light
of who we are
as a human race
So I say hail and welcome
to the "tears of joy" emoji
may his vivid counterpoint
shine around the world
eclipsing all the words
we've learned this year
for hate.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
Now all the years of continued appreciation and near awe is to be sweet mingled with burning tears
Sugar cane can represent a lot of things to a lot of people and everyone has a different level of
Understanding how much it really means and then you factor in the tender years the Age of Aquarius
The coming of age standing in the sugar cane is one heck of a ride even greater with two wonderful
People in the front driving a 56 two tone Chevy love was new it was all consuming even from the side
View advantage when one projected a certain aura a mystique that was all of charm pure and simple
Fantastic vibes the dark night had a deeper *********** and knowing cumbersome had this distillation it
was one hundred proof it burned all the way charging changing you at deep levels the thing that over
Years was always renewing itself year by year the world has a wonder about it she was and is part of it
And always will be she was the sweet storm that could and did break every so often that would clear out
The heat and aggravation that is part of your summer of youth she always spoke and stood for truth this
Natural part of coming of age was developing in her character the very membrane of sugar cane I would
Think truly she was the finest quality I think they call it private reserve that special one that grew alone
but did all the richest sharing wait not in longing the true vine and stalk bears with preciseness to the
need of the land we have that in abundance life twist and turns seems at times to reel out of control but
Not so the divine hand holds the life steady all the days and then at harvest when they burn the sugar
Cane what unattainable value is found and then only then it pours clearly and vital worth
Unprecedented the gold separated from the dross is now possible for it to dwell and take its position
Among the other Items of true glory this was created over protracted time with love and patience it
Developed right before our eyes and a t times we knew it not but now we know fully well our profit pour
Out the benefit what life transpired thank you savior for sugar cane we are in disbelief of such greatness
in Our midst take care of it as only you can do !
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
Aural sounds of delectation
funk-fuel in fervent distillation
undertones of jazz-swing in migration
electronic clicks and blips for relaxation
ambience is my one true occupation.
The resonance of sound in rotation
the initiation itself a radiation
morphological alternation in isolation
as the hubbub of voices echo respiration
breath in, breath out, in elevation.
No underlying obligation, only inspiration
and celebration of collaboration
revel in the pleasures of sensation
like the first discovery of amplification
and in its appreciation and stimulation
embrace variation in all its illumination.
Seek out new music from recommendation
the gravitation towards transformation
the re-education and regeneration
this musical manifestation of civilisation
saturated in complex contemplation
adoration in meditation
the simplest form of gratification
the creative urge for diversification
and technological intensity
of electronic experimentation.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
Towel clutched loosely
warm, blushing skin, damp with steam
cool condensation
distillation of lust, his
fingers wrapped in her wet hair.
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:48 AM UTC
who is the toy in this delicate, intimate, savage game
the player or played, the dom or sub, the boy or girl
who has the power, the control, the authority when holding another’s heart
lay down, surrender, savor the sweet intense distillation of love and lust
what is the price you pay for limerence my dear
power lies with whoever cares the least
in a landscape of open graves
every love story are tragedies, always will be
tomorrow is never promised, not ever
you can not fight who you are
you will lose, tragically, epically
when the pain is greater than the fear
meaning, feeling of infinite hope disappears
the light fades to black, you plunge to the emotional depths
unbridled passion becomes overwhelming fear
ask lady Murasaki, “autumn is no time to lie alone”
the blossoms have fallen, the sweetest fruits picked
winter is coming , days grow colder, nights darker
the fire dies, only embers glow, in the center of the hearth
who has the power, the control, the authority when holding another’s heart
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 10:13 PM UTC
~
*find your torch
light me up
brittle and cracked
I like feeling this incomplete
I hope the nightmares don't start
without me
but if they do
let them stir
as the crow flies away
on dangerous days
with a host of stars
fiery god-smacked
in the vast well of night
where I could play king
for an hour
to a wounded land
and a pair of queens
kept in high dudgeon
lest they sing
their burning song
in rich hues
and deep tones
painted on the warm
analog tableau
on my skin
distant
distillation
happiest when sad
with time and space, some
of the intricacies
can be airbrushed out
but I don’t think
imperfect love
can take too many fires
like that, because then
a renaissance heart
would certainly go black*
~
May 24, 2022
May 24, 2022 at 11:51 PM UTC
Are we to wither away, say goodbye to the remote possibility of everything or the acceptance of nothing, damaged as we are from life and what it has thrown at us and how we have adapted to it, where is the strength we thought nothing of when we were young – everything was possible, anything could be overcome.
Now it is harder to start from the beginning to rise from the detritus that has left its smudge on this human plane, to feel warmth from one’s own heart, passions that used to run deep are locked away lost from the moment, will they ever return or are they buried from this reality – what is this reality?
Pure and without stimulus our bodies weak from over indulgence become but empty vessels for our pain to adhere to, but yet exists this mind of memories that fail to disappear.
These very memories fight with the functionality that we accept as our living life mixed with dreams and our experiences laid bare to improve upon the quality of our anger, frustration, pleasure and happiness that engages us again, enabling us the advantage to overcome our apathy and withstand hardship and discomfort, both mentally and physically.
And once again we shout from the highest imagined ground our intentions and with our determination set to turbo drive, we move out on to the superhighway of our existence, battling our demons to achieve our presupposed goals, is this living?
Or merely homage to a bygone set of loosely interpreted doctrine absorbed from our greater consciences. Individuality what has this become? – A freedom to define ones uniqueness?
Is it truly accepted or is it frowned upon, an illusion perhaps, to be held high then massaged by ego, manipulated by the wannabees and dismissed by the pseudo intellectuals for their contrived ill-gotten gains.
Or is it puerile credo that mutates in to a complex melange of all things material, a substitute for the happiness that existed in a previous incarnation of existence, without doubt a causal effect imploding, oblivious to the damage that is caused by the ignorance of consideration and distillation of emotion from love, to the banality of acceptance.
Once again the circle is circumvented and the cycle is begun in earnest until the finality of death is welcomed unto the midst of longing from the soul, in repose before its journey to dance amongst the cosmos.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
those outtakes after dusk.
those you & me girl / high on the distillation of living trees.
we balance our bodies
over the edge of a creek
********* for minerals
&/or wet peels of gold.
fruit of pine
& animal fat for flavor,
you jump stumps &
stretch lungs to worship.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
If a picture's worth
a thousand words,
than the poet's opus
is to give infinite images
in just two handfuls.
Distillation of words
so
just a drop
of one
will get you
drunk.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Fragrant blossoms imbue
in a distillation of technicolor vision
across the dampened meadow,
awakening it from a winter repose.
Dew-tipped grass lightly bends
as a chilled breath swirls in the air.
Verdant landscape hues cover
faraway shadowed rolling hilltops.
A crispness in the surrounding signals
an embraced dusting of vapors,
following a light cloudburst above:
A sprinkling refresh for growth.
Spring has sprung.
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 4:41 AM UTC
Mist clouds forming on my skin
I dye my mind in thin formations
soft sentient siblings aviate my fingers
frost lit prisms projecting visions that I relate to
chromatic distillation fancying the minds eye
dark transient beings no longer apply
dispersing and spilling into stretches of time
Aether, Aether, help me climb.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
our body the hands let's make between the reeds of deep rivers a widening of our soul and blood will come from their lips into shallow waters the distillation of flowers
so heavy with pollen
their heads bow so heavy with pollen their stems bend and meet with bloodandwater
petals,
.
'
'
;
.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting Time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and ***** leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’ersnowed and bareness everywhere.
Then, were not summer’s distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
1.5k
there are words in me always there blood is at my lips
****** burning
to release
the distillation of their sting
into such sweet pollen
a whole garden might
from them stagger
into finite blithe
smoothly muslined
night
crocus poppy thistle
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
there is heard an amplified distinction of sounds
smells of accelerated inner vertigo
a feeling of immanent death
the distillation of blood stains on the sheets
an impulse of volatilized emotion
that generates a different vocabulary
creates a fixation with a considered state
of inner concerns, entertains other dimensions
discovers with sinister undertones
that one is a figment, yes a figment
of someone else’s imagination
that you are a a fascinated but unfortunate escape
from a brutal insensitivity that sustains a mind
that teeters at the jagged edges of the world
for is it you… are is it who, an hallucinated perception
of the I, the we, the them and the me
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
and into the firmament
fumbling for visions
collapse under
disordered nerves
concentrate
need to modulate
a creative energy rush
that has been afforded to me
by the pills just taken
a need to feed the void
to appeal to the dead verses
that are waiting
a manifestation of poetic absolutes
a need to startle oneself alive
extract thought processes
a frantic buzz of possibilities
overdosing and watching
multiplying mirrors
amazed at the images
of one starring back
a poetic geometry
detachable used
and abused
in a copulatorey rite
of aural distillation
of the poets rage
frequencies that fall
upon catatonic faces
of artistic alienation
brought about by
a dissonance of attunement
to the vibrations of the verses
these spoken words
these living entities
who are oblique, cut up, desiccated
by a savage failure to understand
the visualized stanzas
a failure to disarrange all the senses
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
On strange days
like these
baking cookies
is an arcane art.
For it is winter outside
how we transform
the inside
into mystic summer.
For i know the golden ratio.
i have surrounded
myself with graduated cylinders
that recall the lore
of cups and ounces.
Retorts of pots and pans
where i can observe
the powers of this world
returning and combining
into simmer.
Such smells
waft from the oven
as ginger swirls
and cinnamon sworls
like molten mountains jumble.
As the elements combine
eggs and butter
await their transformation.
Some believe that
transmuting baser metals
into gold somehow proves their worth
but they have never
crafted cookies.
At my round
small wooden table
my imaginary children enjoy
the coming holiday of doughy
spell-making.
They beam at me
with their gumdrop eyes
and jelly bean smiles
and write Latin script
with licorice and raisins
on their raiment.
As the homunculus
i have constructed
out of hen’s teeth
and oatmeal.
with a retro fish tank.
skips like calendar with
an extra leap year.
hiccupping time.
Mice in the wainscot
squeak as Saturn
rises auspicious
in their whiskers.
As my roller
impresses and passes
i fill the silver trays
the cuckoo clock strikes thirteen.
While i in a black forest script
write of spells
of life and death
and of the perfect
distillation of a sugar cookie
in baker notation
Sprinkles on the flour
that has spilled upon my table
from the shifter….
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
the pathophysiology of
you and i
something between
love me so ******* hard i
combust and
caress the sharpest edges of me
gently, softly
sometimes it’s only in the aftermath of lust
that we begin to dismantle people
now we’re in the graveyard of
all things good.
i am like a child
innocent in my adoration and
my cells respire for you
skin yearns
because i am foolish
you were a paroxysm
of breathing in light
fast
i found the atlantis
in your eyes
and then drowned in the
distillation of colour
your lungs were
coated in lies
that i breathed in
like air to survive
so dismantle the self
deconstruct the heart
find the morphology of love
for it was not shaped like
us
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 8:36 PM UTC
Daughter of Promise
They speak of the waters in the strait of Gibraltar how the space shuttle photographs look near sunset how the waves glint by the sun revealing two sets of waves one can be read like rings from a tree and how as diurnal tide they pulse over the shallows in Camarinal sill at Gibraltar. Then flowing eastward they refract around coastal features. A child and father stand arm and arm together in the wider wonders of our world. Power and strength the great body of water the littlest wave in concentric circles ever enlarge from its source and anchor his hand and love gave the pulse and life for this newly birthed blessing to flow. The first years the father her harbor no ill wind the heart could disturb he the rock she the wave crashing showing her exuberance she washed as sea waves against his mighty arms that held her gave her peace and confidence without alarm. He took her from the moorings she knew so well introduced her to the grander diversity beyond the common ordinary life of home. In an ancient land her innocence would be honed to grasp greater truths and realities showing by distillation deep tides that flow from creation’s fount the linage of man shown in the shifting sand of the Sahara. See the dune of sand how it slowly rises in the silver moonlight toward the distant moon a glow it seems that you could walk the sand to its very door. The bonds there strengthened into cables of steel how rich they feel they hold against the Gail all is not calm and nurturing seas the wind will pick up its howl announces the typhoon has reared its ugly head it unleashes its anger pent up in the warm calm now destruction will be its end. The father measured the depths of days he tried to prepare the heart so tender warning giving such richness of himself trying to protect to secure the heart when absence would be the cost for the love they shared. No matter how hard you build the fortress wall all must listen to the invading call. Such treasures these circles once small holding your hand to prevent a fall. Then arms around your neck tightly squeezed oh how it did please . Bitter release tomorrow in shaded sunset sweetest peace until then you the flower he left to bloom you show his grace his blessed face.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC