"embodiments" poems
[I accidentally deleted this, so now I'm reposting it]
This is not an attack, it is expression.
*This apparently isn't a very popular subject,
but then again, when has popularity changed anyone's mind..*
--
**** the 'Selective Service System'; the SSS.
It's neo-conscription.
FDR made us a deal we couldn't refuse
which included a stipulation
that about half of us still cannot refuse:
Selective Service
also known as
Peacetime Draft
But only for males. Only the males.
Not the females, though. Oh, no, not the females;
We need the Females
to bake the next batch of mindless soldiers/housewives/neoslaves.
We need the women to uphold the status-quo.
We need our women
to remain passive, docile, and beautiful ******* doormats
for our glorious and infallible western society.
We need our women
to be complaint, subservient, sex-starved, archaic-gender-role embodiments.
I see it as overtly 'cherry-picking' as well as misogyny both ways;
sexist, selfish, and prejudiced on both sides:
'Feminists' (read: Feminazis) claim to plea for true gender equality, but here is my plea:
If such is true, where then are their demands for mandatory selective service?
Why do they feel above reproach when it comes to the unsavory sides of society?
Why do they turn a blind eye to the ******* Draft if they ***** up such a storm about equality?
Why is it not a federal offense punishable by a $250,000 fine as well as up to 5 years in prison
for a female to not sign their life away to the military from when they turn 18 until at least 25?
How is that 'gender equality'?
Huh?
They, too, are cherry-picking.
-
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
Poppies...
Fields of red.
Memories of unrelenting dread.
Poppies...
Pillows of consequence, of loss
of love.
A memoir to our mistakes.
And fury.
Poppies...
Fields I tread.
Resting place of the dead.
Blood of a thousand stain their leaves,
little embodiments of death -
little life thieves.
Live off the deceased,
beautiful scavengers -
some drink their juices, liquid energy.
Liquid Poison.
Poppies,
pure poison in its rawest form,
***** field of heaven
conflict field of the past,
present
and future.
Stick it in a needle,
give it a shot -
but remember, these plants
grow on bodies that still rot.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
How can you hold the very makings of disaster?
How do you ease yourself in finding trouble to hold onto?
You are gripping the hands that once
fumbled for a tearing of skin,
bore blood at the fingertips,
greeted the brick wall with excitement and shattering
my numbness along with it.
What comfort do you seek in weaving your fingers
with ones that tugged desperately on hair
and swept away floodgates of water from tired eyes,
proving to me I was weakened once again?
But I look down at the shaking documents of disaster
when your embodiments of happiness reach for them
and cover the wounds in an unhesitant embrace.
And I know those previous questions don't matter;
your infectious comfort of my hands rests in the palm
and spreads.
My hand is now only holding your hand.
Only.
And that's the only thing it should now do.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
never in my life,
Or in the span of the last few weeks
have I ever,
and yes I could go even further
felt so starved,
really I mean starved, vexed hunger
for some sort of notion,
reminder of a working heart and lungs
a feeling of substance,
something I search for fruitlessly
in a world that works,
in its subtle enigmatic ways
to alienate,
or provide an artificial basis for it
but that is so very beautiful,
and I think I really mean that
I want it and I want it now
I want the world at my throat
I want women and all
Other embodiments
Of all things beautiful
at either side of me
Adoring eyes, widened and excited
scanning in disbelief
waiting for the dream to end
because a dream so pure and good
will never last
and it doesn't and it won't
because it doesn't exist
to begin with
but a thought so pretty
forever forcing itself into existence
I want my dream to begin
I want these things to be my end
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
She screamed,
And the blood of her victims
Reigned down upon her.
Sealing her thin body in a scarlet coat,
Her naked eyes shown through.
No emotion for anything,
No sign of the murderous frenzy taking place.
The murdered thought she was one of them,
But they couldn't see what she did.
Images flashed from one to another,
Totally normal to
Morbid nightmares
In her everyday life.
She was just scared,
We justified.
She thought they were harming others,
We excused this little mess,
And let her free,
But that is not what should be.
Her victims walk around my room
And stop In my doorway,
Embodiments of normal people.
But the fear of the lady coming to **** them
Is terrifying.
So I wake up,
And live my life
Sleep deprived and afraid.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
I find myself repeating the verses,
the tones of hope, and embodiments
of kindness; the surreality of freedom,
and reverence.
I find myself, hoping to go back;
though I regret not my growth nor
bending wakes which have aroused
upon the grieving dismissal
of the elements I cursed
over the sake of the intellect.
I rewind, reform, and inform myself;
“these biddings are none but illusions,
ignorance, bewildered by a tragic coat
of happiness”, yet that blinding
world was much more comforting
that my currents misconceptions - the real ones,
which I have never succeeded to eradicate:
the demons.
Were I in the guiding of a celestial mentor,
would it make a difference?
Or would this guardian unveil me as
I proudly did so myself?
I do not wish for a tone,
I do not wish for a course,
I do not wish to the frightening of my curse;
nor a god.
Yet, in these precious and tumbling days,
I find myself praying.
I pray for nothing other than the essence
that left along with these figures.
The child I abandoned in my search
for reason.
I find myself reciting words I never could
have captured, and actions
I never would have wished to perform.
But it is not the words nor actions which
engrave our being - it is our soul.
Mine is hidden.
Conceptual yet senseless.
I find myself singing
the words which used to fill
the ambience with glow
and truth.
But nothing comes of it,
other than my need to recapture
my previous being, while
tangling on to my current presence
and gladfull knowledge.
Though sadness is cause,
I pay no heed towards commotion,
**for I find myself
finding a reason.**
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
We are all wearing borrowed clothes,
in much the same way I borrow from Rumi.
I came home after staring at nape of your neck
And drove a borrowed car on the streets-
that I rent from the government.
In this borrowed life it is nice to see
that some reflection of purity scintillate
from humanities borrowed time,
from this nape of neck that I borrowed.
Muses often times don't know that they are muses,
that they are physical embodiments of seraphim.
Maybe you knew that I was writing this in my head
as I swanned that beau idéal happens on buses.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:39 AM UTC
On this beach I stand watching and waiting,
a storm is brewing in darkening skies above,
the wind chases the tide forming white horses,
that gallop towards the jagged rocks of this shoreline,
these equine embodiments are only to be short lived,
dispersing their bodies to form a fine white saline mist.
The intensity of this cold wind increases with restless fury,
whistling away whispering to me this is only the beginning,
now mother nature takes hold of the rain's of this tempest,
slowly whipping them up into a frenzied thunderous downpour,
the heavens display starts now becoming a violent electric show,
that does scatter lightning bolts across a surging wild sea below.
The Puffins and Gulls have found shelter on white cliffs that stand proud,
against this wailing wind that tears at it's chalk face then screams aloud,
for it is only mother nature that has the right to turn a bright day into night,
commanding from the elementals her bidding of old wrongs and old rights,
from a distance I see the harbour lights flicker on, to light the way,
for fisherman that ventured on this ocean on a merciless cruel day.
White foam skips rapidly to shore on the backs of black unforgiving waves,
they glide past me like the ghosts of old sailors that have drowned at sea,
now it is time to join these restless souls of the sea as I feel the cold water around my feet,
I am chained to a rock of granite as punishment for my sins and a smugglers name I'll keep.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
*Lips that ‘scream’ velvety
Embodiments of perfect symmetry
Glossed to a gloriously red sheen
Undoubted indication of religious meticulous preens.
Of these I seek some bliss
From the eye catching miss
With whom my heart she unknowingly holds ransom
Hope this feeling in me does beautifully blossom.*
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
Permeating - Begins with a simple dispute, argument, disagreement, and conflict with the individual. Second, temperate levels arise, violence emerges, resulting in uncontrollable actions, creating a brutal response. Third, very difficult to describe, but I will do my best, here it goes, limits have exceeded beyond recognition, logic is no longer liable, quickly disappearing, reasoning malfunctions, love is no longer there, hate has taken full control, picture this experience, the demonic manifestation.
Torturing - The body increases heavily in strenght, meanwhile pain flows throughout the blood stream, invincibility neurotransmitters take over, eyes dialect largely covering the entire layer, screams become very unfamiliar, roughly deep raging voices infuse, bloods exposed, numbness arose, receptors react, nothings inevitable its too late, shark bate, regenerate don't anticipate or hesitate, meditate composure and control the setting, pain is in motion.
Suffocating - Powerless embodiments, crucial destruction, ineffective signals, petrified terrified horrified symptoms, death is near if the hody turns weak, vulnerable absorption, manipulating cells propelled, evil casting spell, damaged speech impairment, strange feelings corrupt breathe intakes, prone to cardiovascular shutdown, heart attack, seizures, lose conscious, maybe faint, watching this occurrence is far much more traumatic, I'd say an experience unforgettable, marking scars forever, taken to my grave, remember Jesus saves...
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
There is a sacred path
that winds through
my heart
It sings God's Name
as I dance ecstatically
along enchanted gopi banks
and over
whirling, warbling brooks
I marvel as a black and
white checkered,
red tufted woodpecker
carves God's Name on
a thankful tree trunk
Mirabai, Kabir and Rumi
wave their colorful prayer flags
verses of pure love
and devotion cling to the
very air we breathe
The Bhakti path forges
unafraid through
the bleak, brooding
forest of desires
Husky winds blow around
ghostly, skeleton branches
that claw helplessly
at the night skies
whispering valiant stories of
Rama's exile and
Krishna's triumph
Another tree it's hoary arms
outstretched
resembling a cross
bleeds, remembering the sacrifices
and love of Jesus, The Lamb of God
Trekking further into the dense
unforgiving jungle
seated in Lotus pose
a Golden Buddha
immersed in
rapturous meditation
opens His eyes for an instant
The sun rises in the east
I kneel and kiss His
glorious feet
Leaving the tangled woods
behind
suffering, godforsaken
figures of homeless people
sleeping alongside
this good samaritan road
emerge
Embodiments of God
spirits marred by defeat
and agony
stare listlessly, flies circling
oblivious to the
blistering desert heat
I stop to share a prayer,
cup of water, some fresh
baked bread from my knapsack
and a ray of hope
The path abruptly ascends
purple mountain mists
crown the summit
holy footprints of saints,
yogis, fellow pilgrims
indelibly christen
and guide my steps
Angels sweep the road
ahead tossing rose petals
and victory blossoms
Om peals
across the enlightened
Bhakti path
...and an ancient God awakens....
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
there are good, honest people
and bad, honest people
and i do not know what will make me not one of them.
we are all masochistic embodiments of the pain we endure
looking for similarities to cling to and grow out of -
i don't want to be one of them
but i do what i would not,
i am that which i despise
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Love bugs smash themselves
against speeding cars in a wild
ecstatic dance
floating, oblivious
through the hot, humid
Florida atmosphere
locked in a passionate
ritual frenzy the sultry red
jewel on their lacy black bodies
glows like neon lamps in the night
"They are so annoying,” my daughter
comments, fanning away a hapless pair that
wandered into our car as we prepared to
drive off
well, I reflected they must
serve some purpose
every year thousands
of love bugs rain down
upon us resembling a
***** black locust plague
they are not destructive
neither do they sting, bite or
cause any really harm
They just want to make love
in the warm, sweet air
I smile to myself
we humans can
learn a lot from
these
tiny embodiments of
prema
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
Her existence is a paradox
For even the buffoons seem to be mocking at her
Her power lies divided
Fixed on a candelabra
With men in the churches gazing at the strength
And old ladies lighting it for solace
The wax melts and the world is plunged into darkness
Tendrils of smoke drifting upwards
Shapeless silhouettes driving people towards the end
The dome of the hall covered with embodiments of its remains
The chandelier soaking the suffocation amidst
And still in the hands of that artist in the corner
With a palette in the right and swollen fingers holding the brush
Lies a hope of resurrection of the dainty lady's grace
But only In the painting and the caricatures.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
There are places in this world that shall always turn a deaf ear to the constant dictations of earthly law and in turn, the realism that we waking souls either greet or dismiss. Our surroundings are not so limited, in that we live among shiftless ascetics and grand pillars of stability; rather they are, as we are, living embodiments of its both former and current residents. Most settings are of an alien nature and are only trifling comparisons to the true picture in all its starkness. This vision is common as we all author the visual mosaic of life with our own keen eye geared toward a more personal understanding.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
When you are angry
do not slit your wrists
Slit something that deserves it
like rotten pumpkins
tomatoes that refuse to turn red
burnt toast
ungrateful pieces of blank paper
clay embodiments of your enemies.
When you are happy
bottle it up.
Spread your love
but don't spread yourself too thin.
Save some for yourself
for when you feel like
a pile of petrified dog **** on a sidewalk.
And smile
because you're beautiful.
When you feel empty
scream
cry
punch
run
put out everything you've got.
Listen to music that's full of passion
splatter canvasses with color
scream words that
would make your parents angry
and sailors proud.
Make yourself feel alive.
When you feel sad
read a happy book
listen to happy music
watch a happy movie.
Keep moving forward
because you're mistakes are arbitrary
and anyone who hurt you
is a pile of petrified dog **** on a sidewalk
and you are walking away.
When you feel anxious
control your breathing.
lie down
close your eyes
listen to calming noises
wash your hands in warm water
with soap that smells just right
until you feel better.
Please feel better.
When you feel in love
let them know.
Waste no time trying to be chased
trying to be coy.
Tell them you love them
because life is too **** short
to have regrets.
When you feel
rejoyce.
because
the world is more beautiful
when it is tainted
with your feelings.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
When juiced a spore sized embryo, early in utero; fetus
evinces atavistic miniaturization,
where nascent differentiation wrought
physical resemblance to - seek reachers,
sans Tarzan and Jane forebears,
or exemplification of religious embodiments writ upon taut
lee helical real to reel strung nano deoxyribonucleic acid,
where dome min ant
ander recessive traits pop sic cull, and/or mom genes sought
took comb hing gull, where foxy fiery hander chrome hat tick
microscopic threads ineluctably
hired bot to weave warp and woof for naught
heard interpretive soundcloud issue onomatopoetic beat,
whether as:
the Marseillaise, muezzin, or reveille blown in the wind
by alimentary mechanic, *** killed in all manner of ought
tow mobile craftsmanship, which possibly inflated and made pregnant,
when one seem n
thrashes within timed zona pellucida drawbridge,
hooping an ova to snag,
though odds stacked against the most basic cell fish competition fought
in the **** z of evolutionary biology informing **** sapiens
one errant or defiant game gamete perhaps hinting a gamine
tubby wonderfully woven with wisps viz The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the ***** and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do a ha at last that renegade oocyte
nabbed, analogously the Michael Phelps re: among the flagellated
madding crowdsource qua squirming sperm-faction caught
thence the commencement when trappings for a newborn bought
years later reviewing prenatal sonograms with grown son or daughter
pointing out how ***** editorialized, epitomized, and exemplified
in miniature (no bigger than any letter of the alphabet),
and closely resembled many creatures extant throughout the briny deep
such as an amphibian, reptile or Argonaut.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
Sometimes
I need to disconnect
Shut the doors
And draw the curtains
Through which the world watches me
A few minutes, hours, days
With the windows closed
Vainly
I worry that the world needs me
That it's clawing at my closed door
Calling me, needing me to open up
But really
The world moves on
It keeps spinning
It keeps moving
Without me
The air outside my door
Is still, quiet
Anxious little shadows
Figments of my imagination
Embodiments of my anxiety
They creep under my door
They tell me to return
To open the curtains, windows
Sometimes I do as they bid
I throw open the door, expecting someone
But seeing no one
Other times I tell them
That I wish to be alone
And sometimes they even listen
They'll slink back out under my door
And leave me be
Not often
But sometimes
And when they do
I am alone
Not lonely, but alone
And it is peaceful
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
Silver
A crooked back beneath
An epiphany
Of scars and the toil
Of generations
Dancing through the veil
Of destruction
Shiver
A pedestal behind
The curtains of dark embodiments
The tragedy of life
Of generations
Dancing through the veil
Of destruction
Moonlight
The bleeding death of a collapse
Unending
Silent
Misdemeanor finally revealed
Dancing through the veil
Of destruction
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
accursed creepily haunting
phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state
sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing
semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification
dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits
steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers
deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle
relegates human husks,
viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked
witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
-
sometime i Feel...
...rilly ilLiterate.
other times i feel like im the spawn of an Owl;
possessing all the natural embodiments of Human,
consuming all the knowledge of the Novels that ive read,
dressing in the fabrics of a fabricated Lifestyle.
i
stand be fore the World....Head Facing Backward;
wording all my Letters n addressing all my "Feeling",
fearing all my Sightings n reciting all its Message:
effortlessly Miming all the Gestures that ive learned.
p.s.
when
speaking of People...
-
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
An unsettled feeling twists in my gut, as I think of everything I haven't done. Every ounce, fragile pound of weight set upon my bones, leaves me lethargic. There is more to my life than work. My friends are embodiments of love, that God or whoever made us, gave to ease our pain. I am caught in the joy of movement. The joy of travel. The idea that escapism is enough. But how do you escape your own brain? How do you escape your own body? This life is what you make of it. But I want to know what made me. Am I truly in control? Or is this all some sort of sick joke? My thoughts are made up of question marks. But question marks do not give me answers. And what if I get the answers I want but they don't settle right with me?
What if this life is made up of more than question marks?
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 6:32 PM UTC
Like a smoldering
black tar smoke
erupting the demons
of the world's
very own Pandora Box,
it engulfs me with
a thick heaviness sticking
into the walls of my lungs.
I can feel every particle
burrowing into my life source.
And I cannot breathe
as these entities named
Apparent Cruelty,
Blind Prejudice,
Self-righteous Greed,
Conformed Ruthlessness,
smother me like a form
of slow dry drowning.
Helpless.
I am a foreigner to these presences-
they find no home,
no comfort,
within me.
But, then my sweet daughter,
reaches her hand out to me,
asking me to hold her.
And these entities,
they cringe away
from her touch on my skin.
Scurry away from the light beaming
from her eyes as she looks at me.
The world's Pandora box
around me slams shut.
And I can breathe again.
Because inside me
I house the embodiments of
Kindness,
Love,
Consideration,
Gentleness.
And in there, also, lies Hope.
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 3:36 AM UTC