"elaboration" poems
i breathe
one breath at a time
each inhalation linked to the exhalation before it
yet every breath stands alone
there's something tenuous about it
this soft machine is on thin ice
devoured by time in innocent increments
like a moth nibbles away wool
my heart
little gorilla
wearing itself out
rubber glove with a hole in it
weird luck
my eyes are bright
solar blue ball lanterns
if you saw me
you would say
good bones
river of envy
yet all hinges
on a muscular rhythmic pulsating machine
like a determined jaw chewing
jumpy mouth
yet on the verge of betrayal
a glitch
karmic indecision
in destinies wheel house
a red fist locus banging
ones immense sense of self
a vainglorious elaboration
built over a small pulsating muscle
innocuous
dumb blood flesh knot drumming
scarlet tribe
throne of my very soul
great sovereign
old man in a crib
splitting open of its own accord
a sudden rip from life
to a dead sea eternity
the final frontier
starless night
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC
Yes I go, yes go to seek a Great Apocalypse
One that will unravel the complex elaboration of difference
To articulate a perpetual aesthetic with violated codes
Of the experience of illusions of temporal stimulus
That are beyond all compass and soothe a fragmentation
Oh Great Apocalypse of beauty whose deception finds strategies
For youthful prodigality and binds me to your inarticulation
An embodiment of beleaguered and charmed fictions
Whose artifice is the governance of generous impulses
As such sway about me with a harmony of moral disquiet
Inadequate in description of the qualities of their oppression
Yet oh great apocalypse there is a plausible generosity
In these pale assumptions of impatience which carry
The obligations of a universally shared human existence
Compelling a projection of charged issues on competing claims
For the enigmatic logic of life
Yes Great Apocalypse now I understand all thought
From Everywhere and for Always
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Set in stone, carved in fire
my mind was forged.
Resilient and strong too,
my thoughts are disgorged
and then set in glue.
An orb of knowledge is created
with its own imperfections.
As my own mind, incomplete,
provides its own reflections
about kinetic theory of heat.
It searches for more information
and more cultural cognition.
A permanent quest for exact facts,
an eternal run for completion,
trying not to keep the mind lax.
Then it realizes there is no end
for this life long pursuit.
The orb is broken and shattered,
fragments swallowed smooth.
Once again confused, scattered.
Unconditional elaboration
of the endless mind works.
The possible emancipation
of the free mind that lurks
away from the severed reality.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
Everybody has their own taste of freedom.
Mine is really simple like a comfy couch in a clean white room.
I move my body as i breathe the air and that is the essence of my life.
To live and feel alive.
There is no such thing as high art politic.
I pick my own fruits of value and mix them together in a glass of elaboration.
Having rotten fruits is the worst conflict.
Originality sums it all up and is the very most important foundation.
Once my fruit cocktail is done i give it a taste very slowly.
Each of the fruits has its own unique taste surely.
Your tongue and heart have got the freedom to judge and to comprehend.
No time for you to pretend.
So raise your own glasses high in the air
As everyday people have one thing in common to share.
And feel the pride of your humanity.
In the name of pure equality.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 1:23 AM UTC
A feather spirals down,
quill first,
making a silent point that needs no elaboration.
A parrot crackles,
in sunlit flight from shade to shade,
making another point that defies all argument.
Palms climb jubilant. Half-moon sinks...
A kingfisher stalls'n rolls into a blue bolt,
shoots into the pond'n shoots up, fleeing
a sprinkle of words
on water, holding
in its beak, flapping,
me!
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
The place where the atmosphere consists of main outbreaks,
Whether the dishes weren't done or the floors weren't mopped correctly,
Something so small can effect the gross unification of "family".
Feeling like you can't necessarily express yourself,
Leaves you to feel drowned out by the many emotions that flood your mind at the worst of times,
It allows your feelings to grow more and more profoundly erratic; anxious.
Allow me to go into full elaboration as to how I constantly maintain my well-respected position of a so called "good person" or complain about the many people who are just as careless as the majority of people nowadays who simply do not ask how I've been.
I've let days slip by,
Suddenly, I feel no difference in what occurred yesterday or really, no contrast in the feelings I'll most likely encounter tomorrow.
At home, mass mental destructions happens,
It's where I get pulled into a place where I'm just trapped in my own self, similar to the way I feel in school.
I don't know, it could possibly be causing my continuous feelings of nervousness whenever I'm surrounded by people,
Or it could merely be the fact of which, I haven't yet chosen a path or seen quite a way to go through and feel a protective environment around me.
These winter days are gradually approaching,
It's only a matter of time until my mind goes away like the sun at night,
These seconds, minutes, hours can patrol for what feels like perennial timings, but anticipation is what's really foreshadowing my shallow whole of a "home".
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
to buy a book at half-ten with
no time wasting. go back, await
instructions ‘cause ****** will
have their trinkets, with novelty
of accented voice. and i once
would talk often of a love – let’s
separate that word from *****
often of a love, but am rare to
fall to elaboration. and through
contemplation the soul may
ascend to knowledge of the
Form of the Good, penultimate
object of Knowledge but not
Knowledge. and often writ of
this love, writ of what was to be
then and never now. never to find
affirmation in fleeting memory.
oxymoronic oblate of the mind
– this soul. attempting for attainment
of Kenosis. shambling i wandered,
rambling i wandered, and humbly
wandering on to pluck till times
and times are done. and
the dogs of this life have re-
moved dearest effects. in turn, sho-
wing the vanity in materialism.
end turn, showing futility in ret-
ention and the sun's continuous gro-
wth forcing abatement of winters’
vespers. cradling a gourd filled with
oil from the skin of ages, to reflect
micorocosms of preceived death.
those silver apples of the moon. and
when vespers return in color, when
the ground aches tensing muscles.
this love, if only the conjunctions
had been denied. perhaps by abor-
tion of if, then could have been a
block for now. these times found
oblate of memory by zealous self-
truth of the wronged past, and
humbled by skewed memory of
the hermit on unseen path for
Kenosis. unseen growth of
those golden apples of the sun.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
What if life was just an equation.
Would we figure out the right results and come up with divine elaboration?
Living life is just as simple as mathematics.
Just add, subscribe, multiply, and divide, no need to be frantic.
What if love was just a magic trick?
Would we break down and fall sick?
Just swing your wand and you would create your true love out of thin air.
Loving so true is as easy as pulling a rabbit out of your magic hat.
Count your days as if everything would last forever.
Be yourself as if your agony of life you would sever.
Comfort my soul so weary.
I have been left hurt and unsteady.
And come lay me down, my child...
Protect me from the world so wild...
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 12:29 AM UTC
Tiny whispers,
soft and subtle.
Bed frames,
a warming cuddle.
Soul pieces,
nose kisses,
cold feet,
one love puddle.
Confrontation,
elaboration,
dark secrets,
silent bracing.
Morning breath,
coffee grounds,
cigarrettes,
and carnal chasing.
Television,
Apple tarts,
Soft eyes,
and blunt smoke.
Crazy nights,
and tired days,
that is what I miss the most..
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
You aren't part of nature. You breathe underwater when you get tired of flying. You start telling the truth when you get tired of lying, as you tell me I'm what you need. You're immortal, you enter portals to other worlds and you convince me indirectly that there's no other girl, for me. Ill never understand you. You weren't born in this time. You're Ms. Sublime. I'm still waiting for my Ruuca. I guess I'm tired of that and tired of rap but when I need a candle you're my wax but you're also everything else. When it's hot, you snow, when it's dark, you glow. You're so superior. You're soft on the outside with a rough interior. You're so out of reach to understand, I'm just a young man and my mind can stretch, but you take my mind and use it to play fetch. You make me think so hard my brain just pops as you pick up the pieces and **** my joy out of it like a lollipop. You don't know why you're beautiful. Mystery is beautiful and painful and they're both for you. God must have such bittersweet feelings toward you. I ask: "Ms. Sublime, I know you don't have much time but do you have any tissue?" She points up to the sky because that's where she flys when she has to cry and that's why it rained on valentines. That rain pours so heavily on my skin. She creates the rain then evaporates it. She doesn't sleep and she weeps for weeks then there is no elaboration. She takes Mother Nature and throws her into her own creation. She's blatant, and she almost kissed Satan but she was to hot for him to handle. She takes my heart and uses it as bait when she fishes from the moon as she catches things that she hates. Like normality, and fatality, and happiness, and my enjoyment. She doesn't live for anything she has no employment. And even though she can center all of the planets and turn the universe to dust, her favorite thing to do is take my silver mind and turn my brain cells into rust. She enjoys making me feel like I can't feel and every time she reels I imagine what her face looks like as I scream with more shock than an eel. I let her take me by the throat and I let her squeeze just enough to choke, and right before I take my last breathe, she tells me she loves me. And she hugs me. And she kisses my back and my shoulder, she flicks me so softly but it feels like a boulder. I ask her: "Ms. Sublime, you can do anything in the world. You can take any man by his ancestor treasure and make him feel like they're better than anyone who is alive. Why must you pick me to pick upon?" She replies by telling the cold truth when she gets tired of her heated lies. She replies by breathing under water when she no longer wants to fly. She replies by not being a part of my nature, and telling me that I'm what she needs.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
Prelude
Seeing thee again is indeed invigorating-look at how my thoughts are now brimming-with t'eir lost souls! T'ose souls who faded away-as I was severely bereft of my muchness. But now I am glowing with it again, whenever I remembereth our chilly encounter t'is afternoon; thou wandering at lightning pace-in thy fond childishness! But furthermore thou in t'ose fond eyes-and t'eir depth, o! Thinking of thee makes my heart shimmer-and credulous to thy gentle love. And I shall but never go wrong again-as our fates, I assume; are but inevitably, and so dearly, bound to each other, my dear, my dear.
O, and but today wasth I chanced to see my lover;
shining bright and tender like a glade in a bower.
Storming out in gladness out of his chamber;
and as we talked his face grew fonder!
O, lovelier and keener didst he become, through th' more
subservient seconds-as though truly adorned with passion,
Entranced by such courage and fated determination.
I listened carefully to his fond elaboration;
and confined myself to my meek walls of admiration.
My thee, o, my thee!
T'is as if everything hath been our fierce destiny
And shall our paths but cross again-
of which I'm certain, under yon strumming daylight-
when t'at weeping moon waivers.
And all t'at wailing bark shall ever come to an end-as our
luminous, but fair melody lingers.
My moon-and th' following morning, it
shan't any longer be weeping.
To th' despondent grass wilt it start singing-bestowing
th' delayed merit whilst bent is 'tis body-and dancing:
Every other fault shalt come back
from t'eir mistake!
And th' latent dangers shalt be put well
at a steep stake.
And t'ose rings-o, rings of love, as t'ey are, by t'is wan light silver
A light whose abyss shan't ever again last forever.
And protected as we are-chained by our ripe love-
Shall we proceed into serene joy, and resides there-
within th' grand layers of our hearts, and splendid flames
of t'is wondrous eternity.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
Shining gold of medals
Or papers announcing
The brilliance of a life
A life
So easily disguised
And somethings
That make your everything
Might be hidden forever
Behind the gold plate
In between those strings
Papers, colored papers, different kinds
Is their a person ?
There is no person
Only a story of a person
Birth is just some evidence
Amongst billions, just a fiction
Thank folks for the elaboration
Pump, kick, pump, kick, giggles
Fire chain reactions
Blow smokes,
Wait
There was a person,
Unheard, unseen, tragic
Little than little things
A chicken in jungle
Driven with tongue bites
And intentions behind those eyes
Brown eyes
Might never be known
Folks, what you like
Only those shining medals
Or papers announcing
The brilliance of lives
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
Freud's Frantic Friends
Psychopathology
therapeutic techniques
free association
and tight **** cheeks
manic depression
afraid of my fate
you say it's okay
if I go ahead and **********
transference redirection
it's my daddy's fault
he was the one who told me
take the money from the vault
I can't stand up
but you say it's okay
I can blame someone else
for making me that way
it was a friend of a friend
that groped my crotch
it was his own dam fault
I stole his fancy watch
extreme hate rage and
parentification
general distrust
needs no elaboration
my mommy made me mean
so I take it out on you
cause you remind me of her
in everything you do
the way that you wiggle
when you go for a walk
I'm glad you stopped by
to have this little talk
Gomer LePoet...
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
I am just a man
I got different motives
You just won't understand
What a perfect way to hold on to my sanity
By writing these
I need elaboration
Some sort of consultation
For these feelings
That are buried oh so deep
Keep me from my sleep
I'll hold my wheeps from my peeps and ride this thing
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
*First, a declaration: I love you. I truly love you with all of my heart and I need you to know that; I mean that in the truest sense of the word.
Second, a disclaimer: I’m writing this in a generic, public manner and I know that makes this seem cold and impersonal. And there’s truth to that- anyone can find their way to this letter and maybe people will. But I’ve sent this to you in particular, and I hope that conveys at least some authenticity.
Third, an apology. I want you to know that I understand the weight of what I’ve shared with you. I know that just because you’re a kind and compassionate person, you understand the exigence of my situation and maybe you’re worried, maybe you’re scared, or just plain confused. And after telling you, I can’t ever un-say it. I can’t take those words back, I’ve pushed this irretrievable, heavy truth upon you and I’m truly sorry. It burns at my own chest sometimes and acts as a void in others.
Fourth, an elaboration: I didn’t tell you with the intention of having you fix me or attend to my problems. I don’t want you to do that, I would never ask that of you. Although I understand where that sentiment comes from, I don’t want you to feel obligated to try and think of solutions. Don’t do that to yourself.
And finally, a request: just due to the nature of what this is, I continually feel like a burden. I feel like I’m a weight on everyone else’s chest that’s holding them back, or a sore subject that people hesitate to acknowledge. Sometimes I go days where my voice feels heavy because I haven’t spoken to anyone. There are days where I long comfort and company and others where I seek out solitude. I won’t always reach out and I often won't ask you to do so because I don’t want it to be a chore- I don’t want to be a calendar reminder in your phone. I just ask that you be patient with me.
Without wax,
Someone Who Told You His Darkest,
Most Worrisome Secret.*
P.S. I know how bad things can be and where I am in relation to them; I know what to do in case it becomes too much. I truly don't mean to worry you.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 8:28 PM UTC
I want to write. I want to ramble on and on about the symphonies of my breathing and the adrenaline of adventure soaring through my desires. I want to elaborate on elaboration. I want my heart to spill out with the roll of my tongue. I want to invite you in. I want to walk the ground of every culture and discover the hidden secrets in the nooks and crannies of the world. But I've lost my muse.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Confusion, Elaboration, Separation, Devastation.
Broken, Repression, Deprivation, Inebreation.
Realization, Humiliation, Depression, Correlation.
Disillusion, Edification, Exoneration, Dissipation.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
I used to think about you a lot
Because you were once my apple pie
The thing that kept me going for days.
I cared and loved you
Even if you didn't feel the same way.
Lately, I'm thinking
Which part of it was lost
Because when you came back
Everything left in awe.
I thought all I ever wanted
Was to get you by my side
And now, that you're here
I just want you to get lost.
What happened before left a wound
I guess time really heals everything.
After three long years of silence
All the words was said, and the feelings had left.
It was but a great story
And 'you and I' was just a theory
Somethig haunted me for so long
I could not even remember when.
I wish I could utter good bye
But was there even a 'hello' to start with?
All that's between us are trashed
It needs no futher elaboration.
Even now, I want to end this
Because you don't even deserve a space.
Maybe in our next life
There'll be a better tale told for us.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:34 AM UTC
"I'm changing my name" she said
"I've just met my father for the first time"
She said
Payment rings through
In transaction for a *** of tea
The gathered paraphernalia handed over in exchange.
I had little to offer in return
To my smiling young barista
A friendly tendril for a familiar face in the shop
An eagerness to share some part of her life
Even though time and place
Offer little option for elaboration
For sating her need to say it to herself again
The enthusiasm around a momentous life event
A few kind words the final part of the transaction
Then the scoop of tea leaves
And some hot water
And a fragile white porcelain cup.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
taking place at bar after rare occurrence of
an early night. ordered a single whisky and tall beer.
the drunkard opposite found agreement in the random
statements i interjected between him and blonde bartender.
cheaesing his Miller to my whiskey because of false-statement
passed through these winter-warped lips. cheersing, to words
that are false belief. if only to retain him to placated stupor.
opened book of Style, left-to-right this hand underlining sentences
and rectifying the self-criticism ever present. talking louder,
'i just don't hear as well as i once could.'
he orders another but sends it to vacant chair adjacent mine.
stumbling, moving from his ritual spot. sitting, he claims
his upbringing as Southern Baptist. after i announced the
denomination to my rearing in childhood.
'you're a christian, good.' but
i don't have the heart to elaborate upon the crazed and
pantheistic beliefs i hold in truth.
'you were baptized and saved?' i lied,
for truth is my soul will burn in hell according to this man's
-- self-proclaimed sinner -- drunkenly spewed theological underst-
atments. his words slur as he falls into elaboration of Bible conspiracies.
adding a few
'fucks'
here and there,
and always in concern of his opinion of Muslims -- awkward.
my boss in background chimes; we had a similar conversation
moments before. now my words betray everything stated during
prior moment. i order another beer then excuse myself to ****
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
I wander nightly and ponder your name, questioning your very existence. I seek the truth and to find nirvana – I need something that will listen.
Curiosity finds a deep morose and excitement runs into doubt, the wandering and pondering has me aching in and out.
My heart yearns to find the truth, but, since when has that really mattered? All my life I’ve ignored my heart with its desires and drives so strong and scattered.
How does a man choose a woman? How does a woman choose a man? What drives this ***** love of chance into something deeper, something planned?
Is there a plan to such romance, is it all just luck? Do we cast a die that decides our future or do we just get married, then ****
What if I think there is more to it? What if I think there should be some logic involved? My heart is flippant, truant, untrustworthy, so why should I trust its random call?
It seems that if I want love to work, my brain must love you too. It must get rid of the doubts, the questions, the inherent sadness; it must find new topics on which to muse.
When I think of you I shouldn’t feel doubt, no, my mind should be as my heart. It too should feel the driving need, the confidence, the certainty, it too should ache like fire when we part.
Should I accept that I have mixed emotions, that there are parts of me morality calls wrong? Should I pay attention to these traits of mine, the ones that when you beckon, begs me not to follow along?
I hold things inside me which are not pure or beautiful, desires and darkness and twisted wants. These things you cannot satisfy, in fact, you combat them on every front.
Should then I strive to ignore and erase these traits of mine, that some might think impure? Or should I embrace who I fully am, get rid of you, and let these traits endure?
For I do not think both can exist, there is no middle ground or compromise. It is you or them, me or you, I think that I must choose a side.
Never will my faults play with yours, never will my avarice for life hold hands with your purity or self-right. Never will you accept my darkness, never to live with my faults, you could never live any life but yours, that the life of light.
So now the questions ramble on, each an elaboration on a theme. It seems that I must choose soon, I must choose who I will be… I must choose to become you, or choose to stay true to me.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
In this place I've retreated to,
Away from the noise and light that
Illuminates all of my wrong, all
My guilty feelings are written
Down my back as
Everyone I know looks down, in
On me -
I go into the cave,
I shiver against rough cold walls and
Listen
To my own breath echo.
To be alone here is new to me, like
A fresh house cat beneath the bed -
I don't want to trust.
I don't want to listen.
They're looking for me, I see their
Flashlights and glow sticks and
Emergency packs,
They all want to help me, that's all.
I am
Surrounded by piles
Of scrapped letters and explanations,
Crumpled allegories,
Unfinished symposiums, my
Sweat is all about me and my
Stick of graphite leaves more on my hands than
On any sentence of elaboration as to
How I feel,
What I want.
I've nearly
Used all resources here, I've
Crushed the sharp point of my utensil, I have
Very little ability to amount these thoughts
Into dialogues of truth... I don't mean to lie,
I'm just
Out of time like a mouse in a corner
Feigning death, stalling for
Some better manipulation I can
Replace with my relationships so that
My ambiguity will remain charming and unquestioned.
My candle runs dripped over and small,
But I'll learn to write without light
If I have to, learn to
See without sight if I have to,
Learn to
Demonstrate my highest capacity to
Stubborn my way out of this hole -
When I do,
I wont stop running
Until the water hits me,
Cleans my hands and
Drifts me out
Into the neutral, knowing sea.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
It is getting to four in the morning,
and so I will end this transmission.
I have conceeded all my ambition,
all inhibition,
to the paradise plain
of gothic symbols
and gossip counters;
trading secrets for status,
whilst painting the nails
of their foe.
The time is getting stupid now,
punch-drunk on half-sobriety;
unsure what is sense
and what is misery.
I have chosen revision over animation,
going over the same information,
in the uncertain elaboration
of passed-on wisdom,
of facts learned by force,
and not by a cognitive transition.
It is getting too late to talk like this.
These words fall apart,
to old dreams; I'll relive.
I wish you a kindness,
and I'll wake you in the morning.
I will play to you a pop song,
and whisper traffic warnings.
You take your sleep
and you shelter within,
this is your marbled existence,
this is freedom from sin.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
I never understood the real meaning behind poetry and philosophy.
The former takes great meaning and condenses it by duration reduction; Compacting enormous information and emotion in just a few beautiful words.
The latter is the priors direct opposite, opposing condensation for elaboration to the grandest questions a mortal being could ask. It's defined as a love of wisdom but really it's just the wisdom we love.
Both portend to be a front of art and an artistic mind.
So it makes you question these opposites and the balance they bring?
If combined "what is the product" of poetry and philosophy?
I'll tell you,
It's Prophecy
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC