"enigmatical" poems
Jade --
Stone of the side,
The antagonized
Side of green Adam, I
Smile, cross-legged,
Enigmatical,
Shifting my clarities.
So valuable!
How the sun polishes this shoulder!
And should
The moon, my
Indefatigable cousin
Rise, with her cancerous pallors,
Dragging trees --
Little bushy polyps,
Little nets,
My visibilities hide.
I gleam like a mirror.
At this facet the bridegroom arrives
Lord of the mirrors!
It is himself he guides
In among these silk
Screens, these rustling appurtenances.
I breathe, and the mouth
Veil stirs its curtain
My eye
Veil is
A concatenation of rainbows.
I am his.
Even in his
Absence, I
Revolve in my
Sheath of impossibles,
Priceless and quiet
Among these parrakeets, macaws!
O chatterers
Attendants of the eyelash!
I shall unloose
One feather, like the peacock.
Attendants of the lip!
I shall unloose
One note
Shattering
The chandelier
Of air that all day flies
Its crystals
A million ignorants.
Attendants!
Attendants!
And at his next step
I shall unloose
I shall unloose --
From the small jeweled
Doll he guards like a heart --
The lioness,
The shriek in the bath,
The cloak of holes.
5.1k
Rising from the darkness,
the evergreen dilemmatic soul
waking from the displeasures
bound by reluctance.
And slowly it slithers
upon the filth in life
only to fall back
into the reverie.
Disgraced eminence,
of this priceless concoction.
Enigmatical views,
but doomed by nature.
Born to change,
with time , with people.
To stay phlegmatic
as it writes its own destiny.
Dreams of falling into
the lap of luxury
like any ordinary soul.
But with a hint of transgression.
No robotic means,
just emulation.
Pulled by the ties of
prevalence.
Swindler of identity,
benevolent of jauntiness.
Passes through many loops
of croquet.
Yet saves its inscrutable soul
from the disrespectful world.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Arteries benumbed
Reading pharmaceutical's inserts no fun
Reading your mind even worse
Print so small
Foldings such as a roadmap
Those molecular models delineated
Moods might just as well be
Translating cuneiform
You wedge-shape marks on me
Deceptive blinks cut my clayey gray matter
That mascara you wear
Like kajal on Persian Princess
Ovular pills with spider legs
How do I defend from?
Enigmatical ellipses
Narcotic exotic
I look for, but find no
Adjoining pamphlets or warnings
To all your strange side-effects
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
even the dullest of knives
can **** —
a smile has fallen deep into
the silence.
wincing on and off
like terrible vertigo.
it is you lashing across
dispersing images
seeping like ruthless mileage
underneath the bone.
you come in the room
full of these hours splintered
an outpour with a foreboding,
like spindrift you wet my lips
sealed shut and silence
is all the language i understand.
what good is there that this hungry
cavalcade gapes its mouth
and metastasizes like an opulent
laugh as maniacal as drum-taps?
your are river with feet or pond
sprawling mad, enigmatical.
is this the clearing motes depart,
unhinging the crepuscular
and fade out, as a cat shrieks tumbling writhing fornication of metal and rust?
even sleep cannot manage such realness,
and the doubleness of its comatose
or say, a war in spite of its radical
artillery. between two cities lost,
its indefatigable exertion pullulates
to a hand, laying garlands
over the same blue lament of sky
and the unawakened orioles.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
air pours alive in stringencies,
fall of tor and expanse.
mazy-eyed,
casts a syncopated hook
amongst tulips beheaded
by the toppling of a leaf
bracing for departures,
something else holds back,
furrow—
the thatched morning's serious mien,
the arrow, whirling in trajectories
one with the dive into red cauldron
of infinite scar of water,
Śiva, sighted footfall of the condor's
verdigris, this simple rustle
of your scourge-gowns
insists cadence of flutings;
i am one with beginnings.
swarming poultice of the inflamed grass,
obscene lines of shore in twilight
unfazed virulence spreads
like an epidemic of kisses against the
pulsing loam, cries like breakwater
lorn the fault of men, death at one's
trembling hand — sound the tribulation
of slender bells to a gather of pallors.
it is a stopping in-placeness
like crests of ******* a beautiful woman,
shiftless weight of light on glazed collarbone, Śiva, the enigmatical paradox
beleaguers a concatenation of
unloose chandeliers of appurtenances,
the unblinking aperture, widening in sky.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
She is a caregiver.
She who gives complete care is she whose care is completely given -
So much care to give yet none remains for herself.
Built 6 ft. tall she carries:
A Rolleiflex 3.5T,
A phony french accent
And an enigmatical past.
Ms Mayer.
As her lens soaks up the quintessence of normality in
A diluted Chicago suburb or
The emphatic streets of Manhattan;
She was wired to observe.
Her nature, craving to sustain unrepeatable moments.
Instances so human,
A simple photograph just isn’t quite enough
To capture them.
V. Meyer.
She relies unwaveringly on an object whose sole purpose is to
Look through,
To surpass.
But to her it acts contradictorily as
A barrier,
A rationalized blindness.
An outside eye peering into the lives of others
But never within herself.
She is the lady who would rather look through a lens than into a mirror
Because her refracted self is slightly easier confronted than that reflected.
Vivian Maier.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
we are each to ourselves, selected amongst the few –
yet you cannot help but
be mortal.
you, mortised to sleep.
I sick behind white walls that will never
bring your laughter
back to that small frame in front of picture windows.
I look at the world around me
reduced to a grey-faced elbow room,
as the flickering lamp lays out
all the sorrows we forget in our sleep.
who are you?
I pucker up and pull this bottle
snuggled in my clenched fist
and I cannot help but think of any other
thighed upon the cold brink of this bed,
I cannot unthank the existence of flowers
that refuse to bloom in the Sun,
all the more the birds so clearly far better fate
than this enigmatical.
we are each to ourselves and selected amongst the few –
I am the same bar-drunk soul
you met years ago, and will perhaps be
that in all the hours that lay before your callow eyes.
when it is time to draw
the knife,
blinded by the glint of your bones,
wired to the same mind that has once
had me tippling over furniture.
you are this very distant portrait in the
mausoleum that I told many people about,
wanting to go there but my feet can’t – there is a slender
thread eyeing in itself a margin between
the two of us.
and now you turn in your great wave of motion,
next to me, pressed against the sheets
far from being tossed out of sleep.
and along with you, the wind drags a cold, lunar tail:
they are marvelous in their slowness,
and the dark grows more immense than the probability
of you sinking and I, emerging,
turning, turning,
breathing,
so much the turning
and never staying still – there is inimitable life
in this dreariness,
half an elbow,
knees pared to moons,
collarbones and all that music
hung on some frail home,
sovereign of nose
and that whiteness to a paling mood,
almost at the verge of leaving
but cannot because there is conscience tossed out of sight
like a living work of guillotine
immortalized in this sleeplessness that begs
for more waking hours,
continuing in darkness, your eyes close and close and
close like the many doors
that have disappeared
before me,
and the frailest thing that
we have
almost, if not always
loved.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
Staring at the ceiling
Thinking about you, smiling
Constantly laughing
At the image of you, my heart is racing
Trying to close my eyes
Maybe, I can forget you, even just for once
Holding on to what I can see
And **** it, you're the only one I can see
Gasping for breath
Mesmerized by your beauty
The sun shines upon you
And how can it be, the moon too?
How can I close my eyes?
I don't want to unsee this beauty
It may be enigmatical
But I love you and I can't sleep
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC