"embodied" poems
1. Had you a viral video,
you’d watch it
more than once.
2. Instagram hearts
make you smile,
even from strangers.
3. Which would
you rather:
***
or
Zuckerberg
friending you
on Facebook.
No, this isn’t a Cosmo quiz —
it’s a social experiment.
Because no one ACTUALLY
answers these questions honestly
without looking like
that ****** at the pool
trying to get as MANY
high fives as possible.
Yet, we all do it.
Alone or in public.
Day or night.
LED screen spice up our lives.
It was probably
best embodied
by that girl taking
selfie
after
selfie
after
selfie
after
selfie,
filmed for minutes
on the way to school,
the video soon posted,
by her dad
trying to teach her a lesson?
Or trying to get attention?
Either way, he might as
well have hashtagged it
#socialsuicide.
Like most humor
we laughed at her
because we are her.
We see a dripping
characterture
************ to
itself in public.
Wait, it,
sounds wrong
when you name it.
But there is
a name for it:
Digital ************
aka
Self-adoration
aka
Narcississism.
You won’t agree
that you do it too.
But I’ll bet
most of you
get excited
thinking about
notifications too.
Why is that?
You’d never admit it.
You can say
I smelt it, so I dealt it.
Call me a preacher,
a hater, or a hypocrit.
But I'd rather you call me a
digital masterbater too.
And then remember the last
time you opened Instagram
or Facebook
or Twitter
and took a selfie
or hashtagged something
or posted a status
that your still breathing.
How long has it been —
a minute, an hour, a day?
Now try making fun of her.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
A single Human, alone and weak,
is unable to comprehend the insignificance of its life.
But as a whole, Humanity, we are unmeasurable, overwhelming
filling space and time with our vivid existance.
We consume all other entities with our devistating force.
Embodied in thousands upon thousands of infintesimal beings. Humans.
We must remember that it is the human that makes up humanity.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
I was going to write you something
that embodied our love, some
infinitesimal prose about
your name click-clacking off of
my tongue or your eyes
when you're smiling.
I was going to answer all of
the questions that are silently ticking
inside your mind and scrawl
perfect prepositions across the page
so that your hands might
falter as they traced the corners.
I wanted to tell you about
the tug of your presence or
the way that your fingerprints
feel against mine,
but I'm writing this instead,
listing off the beauty that I feel
seeping into my skin and
it doesn't really make sense
but that's just the way it falls
onto the paper, bit by bit.
sad things, serenade me.
I'm only romanticizing
the madness of it all.
I never asked to be
a ******* poet.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
Here comes a fire burning, put it out with water and you'll save from drowning. Yes with all that indian pride, and ghostly tails beside. You're still just a wolf howling. Back at that mountain side, the gold down in the creek just waiting. Now it is the time!
Ideas just keep spinning, thoughts and feelings viewed like subliminal waves to the brain. the mythos enchanting, it all is believing. Now, taking up the arrows to steal a look at your master. Wishing harder. oh but your troubles are there, and your devotion unpared. So tell me, do you still want satisfaction? I could do without the bashing. Remember well the planet's storming cloud and know that you are found. The whisper you hear is showing, a dream of all your phoebos. The globe palmed and the stars your home.
Wait. Don't look anyfurther, all you need is laughter; fixing any disaster. They call it, silence. And it stole my brother. My friend, even the hot glow that once filled my soul. How could I not know that it mattered? Wait, do you hear that sound? It's louder than before! Am I normal? Of course not! I'm as unique as the space that falls between leaves! The universe is everything, Artemis hunting, Apollo flirting. Now do you see what I mean?
Your light is reflecting and I sink in the white moon. Oh Sirius the dog star of your master fallen. I know the pain of loving. Embodied with the essencee of apparent contradictions, I go on searching. The pack always watching. Life feeds on Life.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
You've got a white scarf, but it's unreliably so
I could count on it to be white for many years
Until last year, when it didn't quite resemble snow
It changed colors, and brought up many fears
Like will you make it til tomorrow?
and will you still be here?
You used to wear it like it embodied majesty
Like you were a lion and it was your mane
Curling around your neck and screaming of divinity
I know that mane better than I know your name
(buddy)
The leaves will change and your scarf will too
Your head will bump mine, and I'll bump yours too
I'm running from my thoughts and the truth
This might be all for naught and tomorrow you
Will be here still, and I won't have to say goodbye
To your scarf, your mane, our collective life
Maybe your heart will still be kept in mine,
Released only when our heads collide
Your personality is truth
Your personality is you
I try to ask others to be like you but they can't
That plight is wrong and an ineffective chant
Your heart, your personality, your truth
Will be held in my heart regardless
of whether or not tomorrow I see you
And I do see you.
For a while there, you were hiding behind your disease
But now you're able to come out of your shell with ease
And now I can have another collection of moments with you
Your personality
Your truth
And you are truth.
For a year I thought you were gone and that the next
Moment I saw you, you'd be descending into a grave
You would be gone and only accessible through memories
Your truth
Your personality
And you are personality.
It pained me every time I saw you, thinking I wouldn't see
It and how you walked and how you cried for water when
You needed it. I'd trip over you, and trample you, but you
You are truth
You are personality
You're here today, eternally in my heart
You're here tomorrow, and when we are apart
A year down the road, and a plethora more
You'll be in my heart forevermore
The part of me that you bring out will never exist again on this earth
And your white scarf will never be seen by my brown eyes
But I can hold you here
Right here in my heart
And you can pur
And I can contemplate when you'll bump my head again
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
I have always been weary
of putting names in my poems
in fear that I will never be able to take
my confessions back
but when is a good day to tell you
that I have loved you in every lifetime
In the past we were entangled in each other
One life we were shooting stars
another we laid lazily in fields of wildflowers
a love too strong to explain through words
so we didn’t speak
instead you embodied the beauty of spring
a way to remind us of those April days
when nothing existed outside of each other
We hid our love behind buttercups and daisies
maybe that’s why I love to bring you flowers
to feel the flicker of a spark we shared
in a lifetime so long ago
In another lifetime we read quietly together
over coffee in smoky French cafe’s
we underlined passages
that we would read each other in secret
our love withstanding a time
when it was criminal to look at one another
with the type of love we shared
I don’t know if I have ever loved you loudly
there are no muscle memories
of me shouting your name from rooftops
or unapologetically holding your hand
without fear of repercussions
—even now I don’t know how to form the words
“I love you”
without looking around to see who’s listening
even after all this time I love you in secret
I still can’t put your name in my poems
but i promise in one of our lifetimes
I’ll write your name in every poem
and tell you that I’m in love with you out loud
someday the words
won’t feel stuck in my throat
but I hope that’s in a lifetime sooner than later
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 10:02 AM UTC
We are embodied and entrusted with the word
To keep preaching until every voice is heard
To not keep it in but let the world know
About the lamp at our feet which continues to glow
Help all the needy and make there day bright
Lead them out of the darkness and into the light
Show them a way that is supposed to be bold
That a soul is to be treasured and not to be sold
We cast out demons and rebuke evil spirits
In the name of Jesus we are not gonna fear it
Walking tall carrying a double edged sword
Bringing all into unity and on one accord
We will make over comers out of underachievers
And to all the doubters we will make them believers
It starts with a vision and a plan to succeed
And into mans heart we shall sow our creed
In the name of Jesus is all that we ask
Just give us the strength to carry out this task
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
“where time is the fly and age the fisher of men”
<>
*”until I fell forward
into fall where time is
the fly and age the fisher
of men, then when winter
begins all will be forgotten,
where time is the fly and
age the fisher of men”*
excerpt from “The Fall” by Rick Richardson
<>
that words from a different ionic state, jump as embodied ions from screen to the throat, evicting a guttural current of exclamation, you believe even with the half-heartedly palpitations from remainder of my damaged pumping heart, that these words were always intended, just for me…
boy and old man coexist, the pottage of memories stirred,
and the time is fly, and I drown in the miracle of greenest grass of
Yankee Stadium at age eight,
oasis, heaven, a child reborn in a sea of Bronx concrete,
and the swallowing up of my boyhood is forever marked henceforth, the hook has caught me, and I am of the age
once and forever
not a fisherman, but a fisher of men’s souls,
mine own is my best bait,
hooked line and sinker, and
wisdom and words
elude and delude always,
like summer is perpetual and aging a construct,
time does not fly, but slowly laps and waves
eroding our myths and ourselves upon a continuum with
no ends
~postscript~
<>
*yet I believe,
in miracles of
fish and loaves,
and that our individual continuums
will exist beyond the artifice of constraints
of
mortal time and that poems are
the forever chemicals within
our
bloodstreams,
even when our blood no longer spills*
yet I believe!
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
once I've been told,
'til these roses turn old
and my earrings tarnish their gold
my hands are what you will hold
since then, gazes went fiery
my palms weren't as sweaty
heart beating like crazy
my eyes were never teary
my poems have seen happiness
oh, dear God, I know I've been blessed
playlists were still sad, but less
calmed my waves with your caress
and in every relationship I've had
I've always anticipated for the bad
but you never made me go mad
and luckily, I was never sad
happiness with you in sight
you made me shine so bright
you embodied every winning fight
still smitten, never something so right
my words cherished you deeply
you might looked perfect, seemingly
my thoughts have suffered politely
made me look dumb intimately
have you realized
that I make zero sense?
because all of these
are written in past tense.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 3:15 AM UTC
Black power!
I stopped hiding from my roots, I do not let my natural tightly coiled strands become chemically manipulated into bone straightness. I'm no longer hiding from my roots.
My natural hair will represent this
I went on an interview today for a position as a dental assistant, checked out the office on the website right after and then
oh no
The staff is all white, what if I don't get hired because of...
Black Power!
I stopped hiding from my roots; the sun is not my enemy. I no longer veil from its rays because the fear of getting "blacker." Look at that skin; love its rich deep melanin. Follow my movement; I'm no longer hiding from my roots.
My black skin will prove this
The other night I went out with a couple of new friends,
to be more precise they were homemade Alantians.
Born and raised in Atlanta!
It was a nice warm night, and at the end of it they wanted to take some pics to post up on their instagrams. But guys wait; let’s get into the light, I don’t want to appear all dark next to you light brights. You are all mixed which makes you effortlessly good lookin'
snap
Ugh I hate it I'm to black, don’t post that.
I stopped hiding from my roots, I rock my tightly coiled natural strands.
I'm not ashamed of who I am, Look at my skin and its deep rich melanin
Walking with my fist raised up in the air to represent what I on a daily contradict.
Black Power!
Forgive me, I'm new to this. When I was growing up the things that embodied our black nation was never accepted.
Black power! I'm ready to follow this radical movement.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond
He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting
The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land
The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life
Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money
His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait
So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial
He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done
The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed
Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."
The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed
With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"
He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay
For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw
Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction
He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond
He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined
The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him
The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache
A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted
His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"
Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife
The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made
The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting
Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond
He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
Not in a sad time, not stuck in a place of hurt.
I just feel like I can't remember the good times to weigh the worth.
These new times, are something hollow, empty and void of feeling
No sleepless nights, but I find my self always staring towards the ceiling
So revealing, makes me notice my true emotions deep inside
Always telling jokes and laughing but right now we rewind.
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
People say memories fade, others say memories last
I'd like to think that I could leave memories in the past
I don't want to cling to them like that's the only thing I have
But is it really bad? I guess you can say I'm home sick
Not missing my residence but missing where I've been
Reminiscing about the things that I have left on my journey
But they're not on their deathbeds, they're just on a gurney
Now do I save them, make sure that they are never forgotten?
If they start to fade for new memories should I stop them?
I feel like I need to answer quick, like I'm running out of time
I could keep stressing but right now, we rewind.
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
I miss the days where I didn't have to miss my days
Where I could express myself in different ways
But this is today. Prattling words to my self
Not sharing my feelings, not sharing the wealth
I vent in stealth, not letting all the friends of me hear it
As if I'm ashamed, like I think my enemy is my spirit
You're hearing me in these lyrics, I'm embodied in the words you see
This is me in these lyrics, feelings and words, you see?
So if you're feeling my words, that means you're feeling me
So if you think that I'm a clown, this is the realest me
So this is real you see, no false words from the mind
I could keep on going but right now, we rewind.
I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
Where does the time go? I feel it slipping by me
I feel like my biggest problem now is I keep rewinding
So you may find me, reminiscing about the time before
Or catch me on a good day and I'll be rhyming more
Keeping myself in good spirits, while I find the path
Watching my life just add up, because well, life is math
Memories fade, because we subtract those things from the past
But it only happens to us, because we have something to add
So nothing is bad. Memory? I'll live all the good times with it in me
How much space do I have for the good times? Infinity.
No more time to rewind, I guess I have nothing left to say.
I guess the only thing left to do now is. Press Play.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
the segregation of
state & media...
no?
really?
we're not?!
i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
**** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
turned water into wine:
flag-wise...
white,
cardinal...
and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
i'm watching a schism
take place...
apparently...
the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
of crafting caricatures of
a state...
as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
the church's cardinal-lineage.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
Depression,
I caught you swimming in my sorrow, you were drowning in
my tears.
There in my mind I laid down
my life but you stole my heart instead and I lost my mind amongst the shadows.
In the battle of my chemical imbalance I fight for my right to be happy again.
I am dancing in the dark
with myself, my heart beats
in the shadows as my breath
stands to the side, whispering
to me keep dancing.
Exhausted and frade sorrow
follows me, my flaws abuse me,
my mistakes scared me.
Society forgot about me,
I faded into the pitch of nothing.
A void of me, frightening memories
of taunting accusations from a
devilish monster.
Those eyes of blue devoured
my hopes and dreams,
he had no love for me.
His teeth bit into me,
his harsh lashing of accusations
embodied hate and broken ideas,
from the narcissist who said
he loved me.
The narcissist invaded my dreams,
with grinding bones from the
skeleton's he stored in his closet
of screams.
Scratching my brain with his
narcissistic rants and shoveling
wants trying to steal what
I achieved for himself.
The narcissist knows nothing of
love and passionate embraces.
For the narcissist only
knows how to break things.
A narcissist gaslights until crazy
devours everything.
©️ 2022 By Amanda Shelton
Jun 21, 2022
Jun 21, 2022 at 7:44 PM UTC
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will never die (quoted)
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
embodied in words
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
stretched over lines and pages
Now,
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their untamed mind
becomes an asylum where
words smash themselves
on the walls of their brains
summoning
their hands just
to let them out
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their addiction
to falling in love is amplified
and when they love
OH THEY LOVE,
they get a certain high
that numbs their inhibitions to reality
and shuns logic to a very far away land
they reach a mental state
that lifts you to high enough
just to see a glimpse of their world
just to taste a drop of their
potion
but not all of it
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their eye *****
birth and harness flames that burn the coldest
of hearts and warm the strongest
of selves
What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their mind soaks up
every bit, every breath
every call, every cell
every touch, every talk
just to embroider it
in the quilt of thought
that's weaving endless stories about you
in their mind
What if a writer falls in love with you?
God have mercy on their soul
for their craving becomes dangerously
intensified, wrapping itself
to their muses,
giving them the sole purpose
of existing
For the more they love
the more stories they write
and more they feel
the longer
they
live
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
If the heart guards love and purity,
And the brain controls intellect,
What doth, I ask of you, reside within the kidney?
Not rhyme, nor reason, asketh thee,
('Tis true, I must confess) but why
Deny its place to the kidney?
Power embodied in the arms, you'd see
Within a man, immediately,
But it seems, unfortunately,
That none respect the kidney!
For wherein doth cleanliness stay?
Surely in the mind somewhere, shorely lock'd away
And what of pride and greed, if I may,
Inquire where they rest today?
They lie in the foul'd heart, entombed for eternity.
So what attribute, dear reader, can attribute
A shrine within the kidney?
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”
Jorge Luis Borges
I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.
You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.
Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.
The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.
Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.
I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.
I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.
White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.
And the same color of your so polish, european skin.
The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.
I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.
I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.
I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.
Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
***** feet
***** of them ache
they're dry
all dried out, moisture to face and digestive tract make little difference
but comfort a little sort of; maybe
subdue to replenishing
skip the pain with a drink fucken, fucken drink fucken
dust lingers in the brain, it swirls
a cloud of ground envelops the shape of u
u become covered
u have a layer,
salty,
and dry
and 'organic'
(surely bio (though im not sure what is or why are))
full city boy, suburban boy, not particularly gritty boy
along side hippies
and volunteers all tripppy
and unwashed, and un plastic
yet forcefully hemped
drunk of micro beer
and burnt brown and blotchy red
and wire-y
and dry
and matted
as if nothing really matters except for principles
misguided and randomly enforced
feel like a husk; peanut shell
insides swallowed by the mouth of the party embodied
a monsterous sweaty man tanned and thickly bearded
and beered
fat dreads fall around and surround u; a forest of hair
a circle encroaching of fuzzy pillars in fibres
entrapped inside them; feel their lingering time matted hold
a wealth of effort to become unkempt; they are bars
they are walls
and the FACE!
……………………… ………………………………… oh
looming down, wafts of armpit vapour cloud; a looming puft that surrounds
engorged by the scent as it circles u, the mouth that lowered onto u
chews u and spills bits of u
chomp chomp
protein for vegetarians; u; ur rigour ur vigour ur guts
eaten in a flurry of chomps and slurps and it crunches
and it grates
like the rocks on the ***** of ur feet it grates
u are digested
and reused
as they would like
but for them; for a collective u dived into
for fun
2 days to peddle ur wares
to progress ( admittedly through some days of regression…)
for all humans, and Humans; for fun
on monday we will repent
for the damages waged on the inside of the body
and the outsides too
for some gain
i guess on this which we settle
for always for display for fun
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
I believe that we are the church, in the ways that we worship, love, and give praise.
As a community, and as individuals throughout years, within days.
With a roof over our heads and walls surrounding, or within the open air, creation abounding.
I believe that the church is embodied within the proclamations that are preached.
Within the prayers and the praises, sufferings and healings that are reached.
I believe faith resides in the church.
Most importantly, as people are tested by God, but also in the ways that Christ is searched.
As love is spread and salvation proclaimed,
grace given, as Christians are no longer ashamed.
The church is upstanding, high on a hill.
In every way, shape, and form, Christ has come to fill.
Within every heart that is burdened, the gospel rings true.
I know of the church, because the church is in you.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
-SHAME on me-
I should’ve known you weren’t worth trusting
Your bitter apologies meant nothing
You said I was extra ordinary
But it was just another form of hostility
Based solely on your own insecurities
-Shame on YOU-
Corrupting my identity
Making me my own enemy
Just so you could be temporary
Enhanced Pleas of who we’re supposed to be
Opened my eyes to a false reality
Because you said things you didn’t mean
Stitch me back together however you please
Leave me to be a clone of society
An element of conformity
Embodied with empty memories
And I can’t seem to find a remedy
For all the sins I’ve been committing
For all the lies you’ve been spitting
As if they were light casualties
And this is our destiny
The ONLY way it can be
Encompassed with frequent falsities
The truth lies somewhere in between
But honesty is no match to humanity
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
Once upon a time
There were fairies called, V fairies
Fairies who were so beautiful and fine
It was magical, their existence
They lived inside maidens
Who were ought to protect them
In return, the fairies embodied them
With purity as shiny as a diamond emblem
These fairies were sought by every men
For they are the greatest gift that can be bestowed to them
That's why they seek for the perfect maiden
From whom this wish, they can attain
The maidens were set on a journey
To find warriors who are worthy
Warriors who love sincerely
And will vow to cherish them for eternity
The fairies those times were well-respected
They were treasures almost impossible to find
The fairies were boldly protected by their maidens
They are only given to those truly worthy ones
Fast forward to this generation however
Through time, the maidens eventually are weakened
They have let their guards down
And thought all men were worthy of the crown
The V fairies are not given anymore
They are forcefully taken, oftentimes with gore
They are taken due to curiosity, or worst
Taken because of lust, then perpetrators disappear like ghosts
Fairies became men's collections
More fairies, more rights to boast
More manly they are than before
More wins at the competition they build on their own
Maidens lost their credibility as the fairies' protectors
They didn't care about them, like they're not part of them anymore
Throwing them away when they're bored
Not caring if many men do hoard
V fairies were not gifts anymore
V fairies were taken away even without the promise of forevermore
V fairies were simply picked up like on a shopping galore
V fairies were disrespected, to adore no more
But there are beliefs that some of the fairies survived
Living within maidens who stood firm and with their best, tried
To find worthy ones and battle with the wicked
To let the fairies stainless and protected
There are beliefs also that worthy warriors are still there
Who still respects and cherish the value of the diamond emblem
Who knows how to wait until the fairies are given to them
And knows how to take care of their chosen maidens
With these beliefs there's still hope for the future
That the responsibility of a maiden to its fairies will be nurtured
A hope that this will be passed on to generations after
In a hope that V fairies will have a happily ever after
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.
Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples
I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.
Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
*Un, dos, tres,
un pasito 'palante, Maria!*
Were the words
that ignited
her flare,
seducing every man
in the room
with her dessert-like
tone skin,
cherry colored dress,
and her Latin moves
awing every soul.
She embodied
seduction,
she embodied
Salsa music.
She was Salsa music.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Tsk tsk tossed
go out
Your suggestions.
Whisk whisk washed
flow south
Your directions.
Hiss hiss sorry
no time for
sage reflections.
Songs you sang will not be sung
Nor any tales of strength believed.
The brain embodied in such young
Must think it he first to perceive.
Ask every man
Who first made sparks?
From rocks to barks?
Blinding night and fooling fear?
Wholly gone ghost
Our first bright creature
He harnessed fire
Then disappeared.
Realizations when thought anew
Seem to skip from us awry.
So no Salutes
nor an ovation
For those who fostered
Us will be spied.
Gods truth your lips bespoke to youth
Yet still it's not their time to hear.
For these ears are full of magic
And your end rolls
Crushing near.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC