"documentation" poems
I do not see space travel
as an evolutionary event
I look at it as an excess
of dissociative disorder
colonialism and the making
of whiteness
whiteness
justifying the guilt
by searching
and searching
somewhere else
not somewhere better
just somewhere else
there is nothing better
than how we evolved
are place within experience
all that surrounds
us is intimately woven with
our sheer experience
that has evolved
without the possibility
of memory
or redundancy
or even a pattern or repetition
to desire somewhere else
is to leave the best
most evolved experience
of being human
organic intelligence
artificial intelligence
has patterns that are not evolution
or the experience there of
they are patterns that are also
of this desire to be some where else
where ever it may be a space
or an entity
an other
counter-transferance
aliens
colonization
product of whiteness
excess
the profit of colonization
dissociative disorder
from the experience of being human
if you teach people that evolution
is something related to a process
that is merely the documentation
of the desire to be somewhere or something else
slavery is a combination of somewhere else and something else
it is like aliens
inherently under control
of a powerful military
actually the alien extracted from
their home
all mighty whiteness
is the most powerful
dissociative power
evolution did indeed give us the possibility to dissociate
but is was designed for empathy
not as a tool to be somewhere
or something else
the experience of
the dissociative human
declaring whiteness
has other opportunity
but to experience slavery
since it is a dissociation
it is delusional
and although the human
dissociating may not be within
the structure of slavery they conceive
they are without
the original
experience
I notice them
organic intelligence resumes
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Whenever I get on the NH1 Grand Trunk Road,
I feel the pride of it being the oldest highway,
Built even before the documentation period.
King Ashoka got it built in the 3rd century B.C.,
Emperor Sher Shah got it repaired in the 17'th,
The British Company utilized it in 1857 1st war.
It was then gotten repaired only a bit by them,
Repairing such a long highway isn't easy at all,
It runs from Kabul up to Kolkata and to Dhaka.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
A disappointment can make one sad
It can also raise emotions on one becoming mad
It becomes apparent in holding to someone’s promise
But let’s be honest
A person’s promise means nothing in the voice with no documentation behind it
But on the same level, one shouldn’t make a promise they know they can’t keep
Friendship becomes a clean sweep
However, a disappointment becomes an understanding of the mind and soul having a reason for the disappointment having a connection
No it was said right without needing correction
Disappointment is a happening that must be
Again, it will understanding for you to see
In order to get through a disappointment, there is a waiting period
This is all part of God’s plan
Now I am sure you are going to think otherwise
But what’s being said is no surprise
It’s time for all to realize
Disappointments will come
I know everyone wants disappointments to be next to none
But disappointments are part of life
Sometimes you will look for encouragement being advice
Keeping up being inspired is always nice
Don’t even think twice
Preparation is only the beginning
It’s God’s plan that will be fulfilling
I disappoint you not
I don’t have a plot
In fact, I have tied my own disappointment into a knot
Now it will be time for the waiting period having a plan to take effect.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
One could hardly distinguish between
the hue of the sky
and the industrial water tower jutting his head
above the horizon, the depths of the city’s
flat rooftops.
Smoking from steel grey
Rhodesians, controverting the horizon.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Not your name
Not your nationality
Below all the fame
Below the unreality
Deep down
Who are you?
Forget your license
Forget your authorization
Forget your conveyance
Forget every legal documentation
Now tell me
Who are you?
Deep down in the dark room of your empty soul
Deep down below your average conscience
There are only the things you put there yourself
All your unused options
And the unanswered questions
like 'Who are you?'
Deep down below
There are only feelings
All your feelings
That you chose to confine
But it really doesn't matter who you are deep down
Because nobody carries around a shovel all the time.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Stomach full of liquid.
Black eyed peas
And obsession with relish
Finally paying off.
Trees
Collages
Dancing
Seductress.
Knowledge
Healing
Three small boys dressed as their fathers
Playing checkers
Giggling
Marimba chops
Echoing
Twice stolen earphones
Volume control
Old south
1933
Shallow grave
Shallow sleep
Fresh cars
First to drive
Survive.
Sonic
Pescetarianism.
Cherry Lime-ade
Walking on the
Green grass
REM interrupted
Curious hands
Laced between
Fingers
Three sizes smaller
Sinking
unbiased truth
peeking an ugly face
around her corner.
Talk of mustaches and
****** orientation
The price of documentation.
Embrace
certainty within confusion.
Tuesday.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
The mind has gone AWOL
Armageddon in the blood crimson gargantuan sky
Black stars from the depth of vacant eyes
Oil rains down in sightless desert heat
The last cigarette inhaled before the bomb detonates
Fortunate sons in the era of friendly fire
Rivals hunt metropolis streets to acquire a living
Anonymous crypts get lost in the politics
Seen convicted through bludgeoned eyes
Honored my name with a plaque on a wall
Documentation of civil declaration
Conformity inspired figurehead of a homeland
Bricks leading up to the footsteps of the Whitehouse
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 10:05 AM UTC
You, you are a
Thermodynamic
Buoyant
Force
******* like the
single-minded
Octopus
that takes and takes
Strong energy,
mild energy
Inhales the organically-grown
Petals
of all flowers, regardless
Good intentions.
that sure is nice
What humility,
Artificial
Plastic
Egotistical
Manufactured
Trademarked
Birthed
Regurgitated
and
too thoughtfully acted by
You.
But I see it.
You have
not landed.
The world needs your
footprint but
it does not need your self-indulged
hunger.
Be humble.
Your success is not
marked if
You are not humble.
Keep your tentacles
in your depths and
Be
Poised
Poised you seem to be and success is your process but
Humility is my truth.
We float on
neighboring clouds of
public service
that have not the same hue.
Take a step back.
I see you mean
No harm
like a dinosaur with no arms
Good intentions.
Take a step back.
You desire to envelop others yet
You do so
so
mindlessly
I see it.
Let your brain rest from the throne.
the world does not serve you
It serves nothing
and no one as
We are all lucky.
You say that you’re lucky
For all
to hear
just to endear
And that is the problem
My dear, be poised.
Publicize your life for
documentation?
No
Take a step back.
We need your
love
compassion
independence
ambition
Real
not fake.
Transform this and
Good intentions.
The world is not yours
You walk on its leaf
and repeated, recycled
identities
Take a step back.
The world is not yours.
Cameron Bell, Copyright © 2019
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:11 PM UTC
the humiliation
attempting multiplication
is a discrimination
filling all emotions with frustration
trying to send help of communication
to a genius
showing no blood relation
in a habitation where Ax and Bx showing a result of Cx
introducing a collaboration
with letters sends a illustration
to the mind causing hallucination
just a pigment of imagination
slight vibration
desperately needing a detoxification
of education
to wrap your thoughts around this generation
seeking the need for popularization
but the mind is in a mental restriction
start a petition
to conquer the satan of calculation
but so far no documentation
of the closed corporation
of the mad minded mathematician
so you're living in devastation
suffering while you work at a gas station
from no graduation
or thoughtful congratulations
all because you forgot the capitalization
for a math symbol
on a test
because of the lack of specification
Make a reservation
for the realization
that math
does not
always make
sense.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
Butterfly globe make light in a passion pit.
My beach house is surreal, is a high water mark,
is the heart of all the radio left in this world.
But I am here writing technical reports
about environmental beasts in Massachusetts,
in New York in Connecticut where I think
people stuff air, drive slow and waste everything.
I can tell by the aerial maps that geography is
tethered by our parceled teeth of desire.
In the office I whisper, love is urban
a little too loud but no one decides to hear
and so I scribble it on the FOIL and send it
to municipalities in search of property records
in search of environmental concerns,
old pre-industrial gas stations with nameless owners.
I like to zoom in and out real neurotic
When I should be looking for the Site,
with the – Conditionally Exempt Small Quantity Generator.
Instead, I’d like to live between every green space on GoogleEarth,
an ubiquitous witch fevering undulating land,
thighs straddling the seasons between documentation and myth.
Release. Repeat the Response Action Outcome.
Instead, I envy the road – all wide open
yawn stripe and ticking yellow. I’d write,
"Tank Status: Removed," in purple chalk across
the brick and vinyl siding of all the buildings on Columbus Avenue.
This morning I am impossible.
This morning I believe I am Earth and I can’t say no
to the height of caffeine in subterranean climates
and the reflection my mouth makes swallowing navy blue,
waves like falsity, waves like any nation flag
under screen. I often think an office is not a space,
there would be less sighing, there would be love in action.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
Though the chemical gas was a fable,
rebel terror we’ll arm and enable;
we will kick their Assad
with some help from Mossad
and create something TRULY unstable.
Little victims, all Syrian-bred
look pathetic: so small, nearly dead.
Lack of documentation
won’t dampen our nation;
from YouTube to bombing we’re led.
War-hawks pause for no burden of proof.
Show a whimpering child and then— **** !**
They, rush in, like a fool
using Trump as their tool.
He’s been militarized. What a goof.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
Do you remember the apple cider?
Your house was always cold, every-
thing was always apples. I never
did get the matching triforce tattoo
with you and that is okay because I
don't like tattoos anyway. You didn't
ruin the Legend of Zelda for me, I
just said that. Remember to drink water.
Remember that everyone you ever meet
is responsible for their own feelings and
their own problems. Remember that lots
of things provide temporary fixes but
never solace.
How about those frogs? Never a silent moment
until I yelled out your window and you lamented
over the amphibious life you stole with the lawn
mower. (I noted that I had caught frogs at my
grandfather's funeral).
Here's to your earliest memory. Standing in a hamper looking out
the window until your mom picked you up. Was there a bucket
involved? Here's to your scars, your split finger, right next to your pinky the red
on your cheeks, the rough texture of your triceps. That other chris in
kindergarten, Mercer? Did he steal your first love? Haven't smelled
your stomach for a year but I am pretty sure it still smells like
leather. Your hair, soft in the middle, rough around the edges.
Will I ever have enough documentation?
You taught me that tap water doesn't **** and that
all you have to do to make anything perfect is add
an egg or two.
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep Breath
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
Rain, hitting my shield,
pounding the drums of the domain,
calling-- waiting,
wanting and wished,
an emotion -- is this tears or fears?
Of happiness, guilt, and unsound mind?
Is this the unraveling of time?
Question... calling,
rain, hitting my shield,
will life by this yield?
The humming, yammering of keys,
documentation,
calling, crying,
giving away into dominion,
what will this be?
Millions of miles across the water and air--
with my lungs weak and tired breaths,
heaving inside my chest,
calling, the humming, yammering of keys?
Will this pain or glory fulfill me?
Silence, deafening glory of serenity,
calling, the airen but barren breech,
of this i stand... holding my own wreath,
of green and red, roses dying within,
what will it bring?
Who may bring this to me?
Calling miles across the way into day and falling...
all gone array,
silence,
dark and deep domain,
back from which i came-
holding still my wreath,
this i still seek,
drawing inside i cannot hide...
every breath i hath giveth
taken from me-- unaware,
slowly, crying...
in hopes of...
death, but not dying.
What will it be?
This search still to find...
the seek?
Calling my heart, to the pounding rain of my shield.
Yield, i say.
Yield.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC
Life as a word, as a concept, has been very intriguing for me. The trip however, that happened a few days back, has left me with new questions while some of the previous ones that I had seem answered, for now. I am particularly not good with writing long texts, long pages of articles that might make sense when read all together at once. Generally, all of what I start off with the intention of writing about, loses its essence after the first few lines. Therefore, I am not going to drag this one and start writing that I came across, the incidences, the faces. It is more of a personal documentation as I know that these stories would be lost somewhere if not bookmarked now.
Take what you can and leave what you think needs or is felt to be expressed.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Maybe it was soon
Maybe it was impetuous
Maybe I will always be reckless
Maybe its the reason the pain will cut deeper later
Maybe its the reason the anger will hit me harder in my future
Maybe I will always be stupid enough to venture
But whatever the inevitable outcome I chose to love him.
Thinking in circles playing with the pictures
Editing the scenes and adding scores to the moments
I move the documentation of your whole into the priority of my pupil
I glance over your features, remembering how they felt
I visualize what our reflection once looked like
But now thrown apart how can I do more than crop them together again.
The safety of your essence lingers in my cells
The comfort we shared abides in the corners of my muscles
The solace I found within you resides in my ***** systems
But the notion that we will one day reunite is what sustains my soul.
I want to do more than see
I want to feel more than a 2d image can bear
I want to lay next to more than the voice I hear
But wanting more should I even dare.
Without the touch of some flesh
Its your words that still do caress
My eyes aren't as dry as they look
They fill each night with glass tears
I wouldn't risk letting one fall
Ill just sit here waiting each day for you to call
These days hurt and these hours burn
But each blink reminds me your one closer to being in my line of view.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 4:27 AM UTC
Standing there and observing from afar,
Life on the Earth is difficult, I must report,
Explaining, in part, why many lives are
Full of constant complaint and retort.
Anguish is obvious, but the Buddhists say,
Pain is natural and only part of life;
They preach one proceeds along a Way
Strewn with joy and with strife.
I would hold with another teaching
Of the Buddha:
One creates their own suffering most times,
Never searching inside a self
That can make all things known.
This, and more, I heard some mention.
My documentation points to inattention
To important things in life like recognition
Of Nature's gifts that receive little attention.
I have seen from prolonged observation
There is really much to appreciate,
Yet, most spend time cursing creation
Filled with anger and lamenting fate.
Great Spirit, my recommendations are inside
This brief that I humbly submit.
The evidence is clear, nothing to hide:
Humanity is a hopeless case, I now admit.
The extent of their evil is hard to believe,
Many even resort to killing in God's name.
That they possess promise is hard to conceive,
Violence, mayhem, and carnage are more their fame.
If latent good could yet emerge
I might well argue let them continue.
But, they are a lost cause, so, I urge
Transform the world into something new.
Yes, I recommend you start anew,
Let birds or lizards dominate, give them a try.
Whether the human species lives or dies is up to you,
Though while alive; Earth will moan and Nature cry.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 7:43 PM UTC
It’s too bad, I suppose.
Was I supposed to say more?
Yes, of course I was,
what a question to ask
when I know that in the end
I’m always an overwhelming
Under-reaction.
[There’s a reason I never got bullied in school.]
I wonder why
I keep the letters,
the old poetry
when none of it makes me feel
anything at all
but
I guess all documentation is
in memoriam.
-
It’s too bad,
we couldn’t be
Civil.
[But of course,
Civil is never what you wanted,
I should have known better, my fellow borderline.
It’s all or none.
It’s always been that way.]
I think about you from time to time
not with anger,
just with,
well, I don’t know.
I don’t suppose
we’ll ever talk again.
The difference between you and I
is that if you cut me off,
I get the picture.
You say you’re done,
well,
say no more,
I’m gone.
There’s no need
to embarrass myself
again.
The difference between
you and I
is that I don’t cross
Boundaries.
-
Tonight
I find myself
rereading your poetry.
I do it from time to time -
strange to think of it
as illicit, Bad, Facebook stalking,
when we used to know each other.
[Seemingly.]
This one,
one of your many published poems,
is supposed to be about
Me.
That’s what you told her, anyway.
She didn’t get it,
and neither did I.
Even now,
there are not enough references to hold on to,
and the meaning is still lost on me.
[I was lost to you, a long time ago,
but that’s how it goes I guess.]
-
Found your soundclound page
[the only place I’ll hear your voice again]
and it’s strange
to see a picture of you
Smiling.
Your last words still buzz around in my head:
*…I am so done trying to be your friend
…selfish,
…I deserve better*
I don’t think
of you as smiling.
-
It’s too bad,
I suppose,
that I keep thinking
we could have been something,
that I keep thinking
it could have worked,
that I keep thinking
it could still work,
simply because
we had things in common.
Of course those things were never enough,
but what can I say?
I’m an idealist to the end.
-
It’s too bad, but
I am never going to forgive you.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
I heard your soulful cry, my queen of sad smiles,
so I painted my Kingdom yellow, your favorite
colour that siphon ecstasy from the channel that
plug into heaven, I tried to imbibe harmony or
rather sermon, you called it spreading the gospel,
I tried to be your surgeon, fixing your repeatedly
impaled heart under your broken ribcage, but
you termed me amateurish, so I besought poetic
justice, all these tears for you, and for what? I can
only translate my feelings in writings, now you
call it going Adelle, all in all you are a living
documentation of beauty and its manifestations,
and I love you.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
All that man has ever thought
Or what he'll ever be
Transpires through
Documentation
Written
Throughout
History
~~~~~~~~~
Books they are the legacies
Left to all mankind
Past from generation
To the next one left behind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They are the wisest of all counsellors
The quietest of friends
The most patient of teachers
On whom one can depend
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No comparison
To mans inventions
Regardless of the toil
it took
Even our creator
Left his words
Within a book.........
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC
He packed his desire to remain
His state of transforming himself
Into the man that he dreamed of
And has not achieved
He said good-bye with a grimace disguised as a smile
And supplicated to his crucified God on the mantelpiece
For the protection of his loved ones
And he broke through the border
As he could
If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?
El mojado has the desire to dry off
El mojado is wet because of the tears that nostalgia evokes
El mojado, the one without documentation
Loads the packages that the legal would not load
Not even when forced
The torment of a piece of paper has turned him into a fugitive
And he is not from here because his name does not appear in the files
Nor is he from there because he went away
If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?
El Mojado
He knows your truth through lies
He knows anxiety through sadness
Of seeing a freeway and dreaming of the path
That leads to your house
El Mojado
Wet from so much weeping
Knowing that in some place
Waits a kiss taking a break
Since the day on which you left
If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?
If the universal visa is issued
On the day that we are born
And it expires upon death
Why do they persecute you, el mojado
If the consul of the heavens
Already gave you permission?
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Wake, eat, sleep.
wake, eat sleep.
A documentation of my current existence.
Emotion has become a foreign word to me,
Replaced with simply nothingness.
No longer is the red which would burn my body,
when I saw him with her, smiling smiles of honey.
Gone is the blue, drowning me in her sadness
when I thought of all the people who have turned their backs on me
decided they were finished with me
those who were supposed to love me unconditionally.
"Goodbye" said I to yellow who would drizzle me in her warmth
when I veiwed the light shining though the trees
as birds sang , voices ringing with her colour.
For now I fly through life on auto-pilot,
never stopping to feel the sun kissing my cheeks so sweetly,
never stopping to feel the wind nipping my nose so harshly,
never stopping to feel.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC