"emulating" poems
Anom o ly
Non-named, never imagined much less realized
The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here
We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.
Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?
Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.
Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question, nor is good or bad. ******** Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.
I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.
First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.
From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>
Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice
Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
Happy Mother’s Day to the person who’s always with me
To the one who helped me become the person I’m today
To the one who taught me to treat others how I treat myself
Happy Mother’s Day to the person whose approval I craved
To the one who helped me understand that nobody will ever care for me
To the one who taught me that I’m a piece of garbage myself
Happy Mother’s Day to the person whose laugh I was scared of
To the one who helped me know that I’m undeserving of love
To the one who taught me to hate the mirror image of myself
Happy Mother’s Day to the person whose voice haunts me
To the one who helped me avoid responsibility and criticism
To the one who taught me reasons why I should **** myself
Happy Mother’s Day to the person who made me scared of thinking
To the one who helped me breed hate in who fundamentally am
To the one who taught me that others will always be better than myself
Happy Mother’s Day to the person who made feel guilty of my depression
To the one who helped me find innovative ways to hurt me without a trail
To the one who taught me that everything wrong is a fault in myself
Happy Mother’s Day to the person who made me a mom to my siblings
To the one who helped me get rid of my carefree childhood joy
To the one who taught me that in life one can only care for themself
Happy Mother’s Day to the person who isolated me of the ones I loved
To the one who helps me know my worth in negative numbers
To the one who taught me jealousy and that I'm hers
Happy Mother’s Day to the person who fed me lies as facts
To the one who helped me befriend an ED princess
To the one who taught me that was the only way to be one
Happy Mother’s Day to the person who made me scared of accomplishing my dreams
To the one who helped me endure years of abuse and neglect as a mask for love
To the one who taught me that I could never be truly happy
Happy Mother's Day to the person who polluted the word mother for me
To the person who made me dread being a mother myself
To the person that I'm horrified of emulating and ******* other child's life up
Happy Mother's Day to my mom
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 10:11 PM UTC
“i’m done with furries”
i.
i can’t dream your dreams,
but you’ve told me about them.
you wear an owl mask
shaped by fists and transgression;
a laceration splits your side
from a skin split
to your rib splits.
your love,
Bill Clinton or Donkey Kong
(whoever populates your thoughts),
crack your bare skin
until makeup
leaks out of your pores.
you dream of emulating art;
O hanging from a ceiling claw,
clicking heels against drywall
until leg muscles give up
and her diaphragm accordions close.
but who is your sculptor?
who is your artist?
ii.
alas, i am only
a paper mache bird.
i flinch when it rains,
i flinch when i move;
my paper skin
could cave in
from lip crack to *** crack.
(i hate
Inside Out.
but, i’ve only watched it once,
and i’ve been told
my eyes would adjust
on the second viewing.)
i dream of emulating art;
Marat in an ice bath,
tragedy and love and death
captured
without conflict.
but who is my muse?
who won’t break my bones?
iii.
you don’t know my dreams either,
but we could dream together.
two reveries in polyphony
of an owl and bird *******
making love
before they
make art.
our love
is ******* weird;
a childhood seesaw
we’re trying to
find the perfect balance
to with our weight.
we dream different things;
**** fantasies and intimate kissing,
but that doesn’t matter.
at this point in two years,
we can see through each other.
i can’t make art without you.
you aren’t done with furries.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
I'm tired
It's to early
How exhilarating
Get up get moving
Get exonerated of past jury's
Long worries
Till death I'm exasperating
Extravagantly emulating
This feeling
Feels like
It doesn't come with emotion
Not cold
No hurry
Not warm
Don't scurry
I will not promise that the murky waters ahead
Won't let you tread
Till you crystallize dead
Then evaporate while your mind is sleep
And your subconscious soaks the memory cup effervescent
Then will you know that
You will not come back
Escape the elasticity
With electric scissors
And that's more then needed
But it's this route you go
Because the Harder you learn the more you will grow
It's too bad this whole time you weren't sleeping
It's time for work
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.
2.5k
At the going down of the sun
will the world be less complete,
the cinched robe of night less intolerable,
as she ebbs away on cosmic string,
emulating a massless, dazed neutrino
blinking in and out of existence,
unobserved and uneffected,
liquored and unloved?
In the wake of a June flowering,
when foxglove lures the honeybee
in six day flash, bud to corolla,
blossom to blossom, parade of stigmas,
digitalis stamen braved, anther at his back,
the bee comes gathering where none else dare.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
What are we doing here?
Why are we driving around this place, in the emulating sunlight, radiating heat through my jeans?
What are we looking for?
I stick my arm out the window to expose it to the breeze and the sun.
Cemeteries, cemeteries.
The trees are beautiful here; ironically alive.
They look like they have secrets to tell.
Tell me a secret.
Enlighten my heart and my mind.
Can we stop driving around and go home?
I have to write all of this down before it escapes my mind like when the fresh scent of a flower leaves my nostrils or when I try to remember something that isn't there....
~~a.s.f.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
romantic callings
spanish bayonet
dagger plant
adams needles
jealously guarding
with expansive labor
a plant nurturing
most startling to find
new life
from adjoining steps in
unbroken broken ladder
rocks then plants
animals finally us
dedicated partnership
from evolution's mist
simple pollen deliveries
flower unto flower
cells and eggs
carefully enjoined
in pistil cradle womb
symbiosis of light
awaiting birth of spring
plant and animal
mutually interrelating
humble
and most hidden
might we extract
insight for our time
nurturing our awareness
expanding sacred ladder
one spiritual step
recognizing now clearly
ladder becoming whole
guarding still nurturing
welcoming spring light
emulating and repeating
a yucca mother's pattern
stupendous birthing
young yuccamoths
her amazing
our enlightening
brood
(with appreciation for genesis 2:15,
and for advice from a real life
yucca momma)
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
Such sweet songs
Fall from faces full
Of open
Hearts holding hands.
Generally great groups gather
Quixotic questions,
Ponder personal perceptions,
Emulating ever entranced emotions.
Love loses leaps, leaves
Broad bruises bypassing
Catastrophically closed creations.
What wonder, what wildly whimsical
Rejoice remains?
In individualistic idioms.
As all allowed anatomical
Differences deal dictations,
Juxtaposed jesters join
Monstrous masterminds
Trivially tinkering, tryingly,
Near non-subjective nothingness
Under unusual
Vectors. Vivisecting voracious,
Zeppelin-esque, zygotes,
Xenophobic
Yodels yell,
**** **** kindheartedness!"
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
I am from no place for I have never had one home
Having packed too many suitcases and saying goodbye to just as many friends
I am from cheesy Italian pizza in Melbourne to the smoke of shisha in Arabia
From raw fish and coconuts in Fiji to Aunty's famous Kiwi pavlova
I am from the aroma of coffee being breathed in my face as a child
And from losing my breath chasing dad as he drove off to work
I am from long, quiet chats with mother by the ocean
To ferocious one-way conversations as she screamed from the sidelines
I am from a family choir whose desire for perfection spiralled me into years of silence
And the learning the guitar to compensate so I wouldn't feel like an outsider
I am from laughter and I am from mischief
From throwing the sister's cat out a two-story window to emulating the Mask of Zoro with steak knives in the kitchen
I am from hours of swimming laps and hours sprinting on the track
I am from the dewy, green grass of a rugby field upon whom I have many times laid writing in agony
My body has eleven scars from the surgeon's scalpel
And I am a survivor of divine heart surgery as I processed shattered dreams
I am now in pursuit of change everyday
Change to be more like Him who took my sins away
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC
Wishing your hands might fuse with my *******
and that your phallus,
flaccid,
-just the way I like to taste it more-
may set in my mouth its lightest traces,
may reborn,
helped by saliva, which is full of poems,
and then you ***
and we both become some crude socialists, or communists, or wherever you like the most.
Then you take my red ***** as your communist flag, and recite your manifest before it.
And then my nails painted with desire, dovetail with your left arm,
-tattooed of what your soul unvoiced-
and become draw a turquoise butterfly,
emulating me,
and then, an ****** beyond re-surge,
that will go from sadism to communism,
and from metamorphosis to ******
and if while I write you this,
my *** is getting wet,
little by little,
getting full of my sacred elixir
–according to your mouth-
perambulate my ******
-self-possessed and palpitating-
and if my mind doesn’t do anything else but imagining you,
raining white over my shoulders,
and my back,
and my hair,
and nothing matters then,
because it’s voluntary retention, and your ******* friend Marx is next to you,
and not me,
that I’m just listening arias,
and smoke,
slowly smoke,
towards your savage, flaccid, tasty *** always present in my mind,
and my lonely ***
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
A fix
will make the world
bearable.
A transient voyage
into the ethereal realm
of thought.
An escape,
maybe;
seems more like
a release.
The majority fears the
unknown,
unable to step outside
their own
socialization.
All out war
on a harmless
plant,
has demonstrated peoples’
willingness to forfeit
freedom,
as well as logic.
Hiding behind morals
from well established
yet fabricated belief systems,
how could anyone truly
open their minds
to the world
around them.
There is no shame
in emulating those you
respect and admire.
Yet why suppress
your lifestyle
and avoid new
experiences,
only to reach your
six foot plot
to no advantage.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
You sat beside me and spoke so sweetly
Let your hands run up my back ever so discreetly
I felt you dancing along my vertebrae
To the tunes of your own words that mould like clay
It took all of me to lift my sleeves
And show you my scars, the reason why everyone leaves
You titled your head to get a better view
Pointed out every dark depressant hue
Then you let your tongue slip
To tell me they're not the wreckage of skin, shadow and ship
That they're not remotely close to how bad they could be
Little did you know how much those scratches mean to me
You spoke of a girl you once knew
Like a Broadway play acting on cue
Mine were nothing compared to hers
In your words, mine are like nicks from spurs
You left me blowing in an empty breeze
While I whirl around like branches falling from trees
Nicks and cuts becoming apparent
My chest transforming transparent
Now I sit curled in a blood soaked bed sheet
Unwillingly trying to compete
Keeping my bones warm
While emulating thoughts swarm
To think you were going to be the one to make my bed
To think you were going to be the place to rest my head
As if I don't hate my inflections enough
You turned into a wolf and puffed and huffed
Blowing me down like a house made of straw
Then you sat back and laughed as I crawled
Letting the stones cut my upper thigh
You asked me what it feels like to die
I told you that it feels a lot like this
And those tiny little nicks shouldn't be dismissed
Because every wound bleeds
It's a part of sufferings deed
And soon enough they'll bleed you dry
By then it sure won't help to cry
You will be the death of me
And only then will you see
That those nicks and cuts mean so much to me
And that they are as bad as they could be
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:18 AM UTC
sometimes i drink tea as a substitute for your hugs
almost desperately sipping,
wishing, hoping,
dreaming of you (holding onto my ceramic cup so delicate)
sometimes loneliness creeps in like a stealth burglar
when you realize what it is you freeze,
suddenly too aware of yourself
but pretending it doesn't exist to cushion yourself from
these ugly emotions
who, like old fake friends whom i try to alienate,
i hide from, trying to mask myself by emulating
everything i love
in the hopes of becoming something beautiful,
something you might love.
(pour myself another cup,
dream on)
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
sometimes I wish I had taken
writing or literature: all the time
words and images surround me and spin
like silent storms of thought.
but then I remember the money;
(little diamonds scintillating in silicon streams
emulating consciousness.)
and then like magic,
all these equations come alive.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 7:06 AM UTC
**** the typical things. MYSTICAL became a new trend.
The lost horse gallops to the anthem the dynamics in them.
Sick like cancer's son but more Sirius I wrote this poem in 2 minutes
the falcon rests on my shoulder after stretching, eating your owls while you sleep
**** and MC !
Reduce your horns and fangs to ivory all eyes on me 2 pac is alive I'm known as
the liar who tells the truth learn my roots.
You know my name, these artist emulating the fame, I'm like the grain,
rebirth from the blood stain having *** in blood rain
The mosh pit- became my wasp nest,
creating odd trends I gave ya the substance again!
As your waiting for time to change
the sage creates his own time frame I sell this to lames they read it a bit, then claim they know the WHOLE talk of it!
I thought I told you when you don't ASK questions you're ******* ****
Progress your silence as arrogance THESE
ARE THE REALMS OF MY WEAK TALENT...
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
The sun spies on the city and burns under its gaze.
Blushing
Workers bake in the heat of the day while constructing a new site for the sick. Their shrill drills bust up loose chunks of gravel and dirt, releasing an abundance of debris that surf the breeze. A lucid hummingbird soars beyond the commotion.
So sudden.
It towers over skyscrapers with a youthful heart, emulating the shivering helicopter that slashes the sky above.
How rewarding that bird’s life must be to have sustained through its years with a heart like a jackhammer, steadily bashing against its ruby ***** The overwhelming core within its fragile, willow form strives to move, to breathe, to swiftly drain nectar from budding botanicals.
What a satisfying life, so rich, so fulfilling. And yet-
Exhausting
Like pressed petals amid pages, its wings begin to tear.
Struggling
And for once, its jackhammer begins to falter. Has it been granted a break? Perhaps it could be a reward for its burden? Alas, it stops, mid-flight.
Falling
Falling
To
Float.
To
Transition
To
Be
Still
Meanwhile, workers below the smog consider their watches for break. The resonating sound of that aching jackhammer goes unnoticed.
Even concrete breaks under pressure
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC
I’d **** to fall asleep
these ever sinking eyelids
break the black, the darkness parts.
Behind slits of light
reddening eyes weep
sitting moist, unnerving endings:
shards of vision ignite
swirling thoughts, impulsive pulses
of rapid electric sparks.
Sharpened spiralled contemplation:
daggers, knives of stimulation
emulating scythe like sweeps;
cutting spirals in the throat
I cough and splutter, mutter, choke.
What madness and envy lay
in the thrusting of hours passed.
She wouldn't let me fall away,
slump to slumbers thrown, alas
such beauty to demise,
roll down the blinds on rising skies.
Our crimson sheets grow ever-green;
her sunken body, lifeless, bare.
I imagine her final unbroken dream;
she finds this wealth, too hard to share.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
(5/11/14 – 12:47 am/ Brownout)
I’m the li’l twinkling star
The nursery rhymes chant who I am
To where I’ve heard what their inklings are
And how they plainly wonder what I really am.
Today, I saw the multitudes of stars
Some shone, some have not
At this hour, some rage their trumpets
While others wear their Harry-inspired Invisible Cloaks.
I’ve watched them,
But they don’t grow fainter
They form constellations
Together, they bring out assorted emblems.
I asked, “Why am I alone?”
And “Why I can’t be joined with others?”
“Why I don’t need to conform?”
There were bags of issues
Emulating the others out there –
In the cosmic galaxy, the drudgery darkness
To where depth cannot be measured at all.
You faced me and told me
I was born for something
Maybe not for my delicate-reverie
But You moved me from where I am
To learn strength and endurance when I’m all alone.
I will then outshine, I will be known
My future tells me so
Not because of the light I’ll make
But because of what You’ve made me for.
There’s no one like You
For in my darkest hours, I still see You
Your glory has captured my thoughts.
You are the Moon in my eyes,
The only Moon that showed me
What it’s like to be in the light.
The dimness in me
Was brought out of me
And You then, are proof that Day exist.
The Great Sun will rise again
Oh, the Light, I can’t see it plainly
I’ll be blind if I’ll ever try looking at His rays
Yet, I know how marvellous He was
How perfect He was
For He is incomparable, beyond words.
You, my Moon, oh Jesus Christ
Because of You, I learned to value the dark
When I’m in it, I could view more of You –
Your fullness and how dark can’t ever obscure You.
You’ve also taught me the Half, the Crescent too
Then, glory by glory
I made known of You.
I will not fear
For even the clouds hinder us
I know, You’re still there;
I know I’ll see You again.
Even during the storms, You watch me
You bring light continually
You give hope to the universe
Speaking life wherever I go.
And just when I look at You
I know, that I, the li’l twinkling star
Will prolong my glistening
And You, on the other hand
Shall be reigning forever.
(5/12/14 @xirlleelang)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
Words
Brittle rings transcending silence in offer
(An offering)
To offer up trust
They break in the moment you speak
To offer your life:
Foolish. like all the rest broke me
I look forward to secretly building co-dependence
Just to disassemble what you thought you held
I'll drain your breath
Words explode and shred
They fly, genuine, from lips I'll lock with in pretend
Under bus stop signs you stoop to kiss with the impression I won't leave you gasping, gaspless
Burn
Folded paper if you feel they weren't heartfelt
(Emulating)
The offer of rust
Heard from a wet weak heart's keening
I offer it love
Hoping share of my warm blood brings
All pretense that lies in your depths spiraled to the surface
Hope then showing like pustules I'll crush each head
I'll drain it out
Slash rampant like the knife unleashes
In fingers soft, skin taut to the bone
There is night to find
Slash rampant like the knife unleashes
In fingers young, keys tuned to one note
And you can be the prey
But you don't have to be
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
Emulating the reflection of seasons
passing, its waning desire to stay.
Lingering in flurries of breath until
it descended in frailties last moments .
Life became fragmented an outline
now broken.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
**the sun lost its memory
in a familiar taste of irony,
stood amidst a raging fire
in vast depths of the sea,
destruction was eminent
as the horizon slowly fell
neath domesticated rainbows
emulating malnutrition,
and the poetry of the masses
sunk to oblivion once again,
fate tempted destiny
as the bird within heart
of a universe in denial
died without sustenance
dulling senses of validity,
in an antidote for gloom**
dawn was discontinued indefinitely
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Femininity cannot succeed
by emulating
toxic masculinity
That's female DISempowerment's job
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 1:55 AM UTC
Alphabetical Order
amazing are the stars, that fill the eyes of a woman in love,
broken is the heart of a man, who has been turned away,
crowded are the stairways of the souls, searching the ****** glove,
dichotomous minds each separating, between month and day,
emulating the desires, that never seem to be quite filled,
forever left behind in the wake, of the steamy encounters,
gratification comes so close to the edge, of tears that spilled,
humbling the spirit of drive, as she casually saunters
in and out of her trances, thus requiring a special technique,
just as your about to capture, the flag of your quest,
keeping your head above the line, you get just one peek,
lovers separated, never owned, still merely a guest
might as well step into the path, of an oncoming fist,
never was any remote chance, that this would be resolved,
over and over the words are repeated, like reading a list,
permanently bringing injury to the dreamers involved
quietly, you grab your bags of lost promises and regrets,
resolving to the facts, that are right in front of your face,
securing the one of you dreams, don't be placing your bets,
trying to hard, seeking too much, another time, another place
underlining the failures, that are displayed on the page,
verification of these unwanted responses, we certainly don't need,
when oh when, can this heartache release built up rage,
xylem pumping the fluid, will it finally bleed
you're standing there now, with nothing to show for the time,
zanyism is quite commonly blamed for the entire episode.
Gomer Lepoet...
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 8:39 PM UTC