"episodic" poems
the cosmos
a web of plantary oppositions squares and triangulations
curses and blessings
demons, humans and gods
friends and enemies
each a constituent
a revolving carousel of heavens and hells
the macro, an umbrella of spilling stars
like shattered glass in flames
outer and inner stone & gas planets
wandering infinitely
like strays
others in tight gravitational ellipses and eclipses
the elements of fire air earth and water
from the most subtle formless
to rocks flames oceans and the air we breathe
disjuncture
in a
a mix-meister
a gruesome churning mouth swallowing our delicate membranes
and we wonder
why
we are in pain
why
we are nourished by flesh
as we ourselves are consumed
filled with blood and nothing
and deadened by marking time
all hungry shells
and why
we wither to dust
as do suns and moons
and gods themselves
all of us children of monsters
and corpse eaters
born of magnitudes
episodic collisions
and harrowing creative destructions
the dead living and the living dead
with eyes that flicker only on half a landscape at a time
a holloween
of pyramids and bones
always running from wolves
because we are meant to be eaten
okay my darlings
now
lets try
focused breathing,
and boundless light
lets try
being Hindu
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
nightgown floors
episodic
pulses in knots
spread your pink punk drama
like the blossoms on the streets
china town
red lights
i bite off more than i can take
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
Let us mine into the depths of Shakhty, and scorn the Western state of communist superintendence.
We are embroiled in a political and industrial conglomerate where cold wars lay the foundations of unstoppable monstrosities.
Converse with Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, as you splatter milk across the surface of your psychological cereal, and raise questions around the episodic nature of criminal profiling.
I love the olfactory beauty of a railway station, whose stench is dissimilar to the pastures of raunchy and deadly opportunities which result in Rostov butchery.
Nevertheless, it is rooted in crop failure and the enforced collectivization of agriculture.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
*throughout the day,
most oft at night,
start to say,
stop short,
painful for crying out loud thoughts,
shoutouts to any passing god
things that need to the air
be exposed,
but not to ears that
well, what could they say...
so stutter-stop
the bottling inside,
periodic fizz escaping,
and even poetry
cannot help
for it does over and over again,
end up as crumpled papers,
litter of the head,
halves, this's and that's,
even this one dies here and now*
~~~~~~~
irony delicious,
that litter sounds so literary,
so added débris,
lest my mangy constructions
manage to confuse you
the litter in question,
is your host's hors d'oeuvre
nibbles of works,
half-started, half-finished,
like rooms to let,
that come only half-furnished,
not a single morsel worthy
serving up,
all half-satisfactory
poems, of course...
the wrong write ***** clogged,
resting in peace,
Works In Progress (WIP)
unlike the poet,
who's just plain whipped
un-crumpled awaiting
an episodic finale,
if ever they should be televised,
they are needy for cumberbitches,
a birth or death certificate
sore lacking
pick up put down
new titles pop,
essays in need of love,
naught fruited, dead pits,
hanging on the tree till
gravity takes them prisoner
on and on for weeks
the side stitch does not
disappear, but does grow
aching familiar
perhaps the topic offends
you the most,
cloying, suffocating
self-pity
of your own hands
around your neck wrapped...
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Stranger to earth, to her body, to the church. I often wondered how she could remain stoic as her blood licked the grass blades at our feet, the moth falling with her finger, drowning with my grief into the ring of fire. How far can one go, she asked me, to live without participating in the circus, to resist clowns, to not register pain, family, injustice, rain. Look, I said, they endure, the sound, the visuals, the memory – episodic, yes, but they endure – people would not forgive bystander. The moth fell again, shuddering, struggling. And her finger, gushing with golden blood, was still pointing at the priestess, who smiled, and said, you decide, it’s your body. To sequester, draw a line on the snow, better with blood, but tears would suffice too – and so the stranger was repeatedly created and destroyed.
Jun 11, 2021
Jun 11, 2021 at 5:49 AM UTC
i have been introduced to a fragmented universe
blue and silver
amid temporal ruins
oxidized epochs extract from me
thought processes and aural distillations
of a catatonic rage, that discards all trivia
in its scrutiny of minds
in a chronological diversity of words and images
it is a kinetic fluency of gestures
in an ****** calligraphy of expansive
transferable threads of thought
it is the real and the imagined
one that precludes inquiry
which leaves me infused
with a compulsion of composed complications
in episodic inspired delirium
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I need you in my life, baby
The only productive addiction in my future is to your proximity
A decade of scattered sorrows is but an aching blink when I’m with you
You manifest what I could never say or feel without the fear of exile
Rom-Coms hold no candle or wick to our story
Proposals would only seem like trivial when it comes to you and I
We’re closer than nostalgia and episodic memory
closer than gods and their devotees
closer than the dawn and dusk
when nine to fives carry you through a day
Yet despite our bond
only I can hear you, see you, feel you, think you
So with baited breath I speak your name, or at least what you are known as:
Imagination.
Oct 25, 2022
Oct 25, 2022 at 3:18 PM UTC
There's something ecstatic
With the way you dribble your lips,
********** the silken corners of your teeth
Like a mirage of flickering sunbeams
Radiating from the foliage
Of two crimson river beds.
As your hand fumbles
Through your velvet hair
A mercurial hide explodes
Like a figment of the universe
Gateway to the distant worlds
Of wonders left unknown.
Those hazel pair of astral orbs
The origin of stars
Stare through and true
Piercing me without blades
Burning my body petrified
In an ephemeral ecstasy.
My soul flutters with the hymn
Of the fiddling zephyr
That strums to the beat of my heart
A pounce to my seething core
Emancipating a salvo of sensations
To an ethereal phantasm.
A dream that it never was
An episodic tale of this eclectic void
Of twisted reality
That snatches me to the depths
Of my wildest fabrications
A state of lucid insanity.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
A city
fulls of lights,
a clean place,
its inhabitants have all the leisure
Everyone has a temporary remission
All remains in expectation
Jan 11, 2022
Jan 11, 2022 at 6:42 AM UTC
A solitary solecism
An evaporating vision
Premonitions and superstitions
Withered hopes
Amorphous, insubstantial
Episodic swings
Digressions and detours
Evasions, deviations
Changing lanes
Accelerating and overtaking
Swerving
Inhibitions colliding.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
One and the same, one and the sane.
My body is my poems.
You cannot distinguish me
in any other way.
eye-scans, fingerprints, belly buttons,
areolae.
all possess, all differentiate, none suffice,
I say it thrice, still you do not understand,
none not a marker singular,
they are not me,
nor are they you.
so if you read but one of my poems,
my body,
you do not know.
but when I find you perusing, exhuming,
the-ones-that-went-before
then you will, can know as well
as I know myself.
each poem a pore,
each pore a poem.
**How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
one and the same, one and the sane.
my body, my poems.**
my body is not episodic.
turn on the tv, no imagination leaps needed,
but each and every contingent on the prior,
each poem a stepping stone to the in side,
insight to the story of the body.
more story than poems,
I began in the beginning,
believe me there are thousands
of writs that lie about, lay about,
that sunshine has n'ere exposed.
but enough survived
enough shared, enough spent,
You have never seen my face,
what matters that,
when you have seen my poems,
my body, more than windows into,
they are the very pores of me.
Jan. 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
I feel a white hot passion
one that might sound queer
I ache for tragic moments
and endless feelings of despair,
My body yearns for broken promise,
words, lies, and lost love,
an episodic adventure
filled with tear stained faces, swollen lips, and pulled hair
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
together we sit and scan through pages
searching for knowledge of savants and sages
apart by wires and spaces deemed cyber
together in some places besotted by desires
for that which you seek and that which you share
your hasty interests may lead you to stare
into the abyss of the nets' unending
the maelstroms vortex you'll soon be winding
going ye here and going ye there
hopeful your meanderings
shall leave you fair
for within some sites there's the inveigle snare
ultimately constructed to leave you bare
go wittingly into the all- electric fray
some sensitive toes you'll invariably belay
don't fret over words harmlessly mislaid
to err is only human, short-circuits allayed
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
Caught in trap, nowhere to hide.
In the depths where the demons hide.
You know right just as well wrong.
You justify your being wrong.
Haze filled mind with one priority.
Start to fall to pieces when you lose your inventory.
The car was pawned I hope he will do delivery.
He rings the front door and I run as quick as I can towards the enemy.
You give the money, he gives you product.
You can't take another second feeling this chaotic.
Narcotics generate the psychotic, and idiotic.
The low creates the demonic.
Why can't you just use logic.
Start a new life which isn't episodic.
Make it one that breaks the chains.
Finally find your true self and heal the strains caused by past pains.
And with no other choice but to give up the reins.
Tread lightly against the brush.
As all it takes is just one more rush.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
My body is made up of tiny building blocks
stacked together tightly by those who don't want to see me fall.
But my mind sings words that my heart is too afraid to hear
and as I start to sway, the wind hums
with the rhythm that my mind is playing
my blocks shake and the ones who built me try to silence the music
by shoving magic pills down my throat like I'm some fairy tale.
Late at night when the world sleeps,
my music plays softly through the iron bars in which it is caged in.
I start to dance again and I am finally myself.
But my music is nails on a chalk board.
Angry now, rattling my bones
The blocks fall out of place
with every movement and I feel alive.
I remove my blocks one by one
and I lose myself
My music no longer sounds beautiful
because nothing is beautiful anymore
as my body crumbles
and I realize that my dream,
my paradise,
was a nightmare.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
If i keep with my stroll,
I might just
catch a crazy case.
I might just catch
crazy
in the worst place.
In love,
the worst humans
debase
themselves
even lower.
So when her love
reaches me,
it make me less human
to the point that I don't even
know her.
I begin
to only know myself
in my episodic returns.
The episode
of kissiing.
The episode
of loving.
The episode
of breaking
over ********
I wish I could pull ****
my way;
have gravity
in my palms
and the sun
in my arms.
I want to feel heat in my biceps again,
I want the mountains
to rise up
again,
I want volcanoes
instead of pimples.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
I have turned into something you wouldn't recognize
I've grown into someone that seems to specialize
In alienation and self-propagation
My wrists have cracked, my bones have been broken
My fingers twisted into knots, but my voice has never been spoken.
Sitting here holding hands with my mistakes
I've perceived and been deceived by many fakes
Dying again from lying again, to my family, my friends
But still refusing to give in to all your past friends' dead trends
Now I can see, from my room filled with smoke
A violent storm brewing right off the coast.
While the machine grows hungry from churning, converting sinners to saints
Aware of the skeletons, the secrets, hidden only in our deepest lakes
The darkest part of our mind, kept under lock and key
Kept hidden, kept secret, made unaware to all we see.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
it's no wonder that the first hint of autumn manifests as tidal waves of conjured memories, as if I've forgotten that the shallow shores of my conscious existence are directly connected to the skull-crushing volumes of water farther out.
The changing of the atmosphere is spinning clockwise, whipping the depths and displacing everything that hasn't seen the light of my attention in about a year.
In the tempest is you
with flailing arms and water in your lungs, because you're dying.
Not you, (i don't even know what your life is now) but your memory at least.
And I'm watching you spin down the drain and not really caring where it leads,
as long as it's not deep into my episodic memory again.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
~ For Mike~
an abundance of:
illogical reasons,
of hate,
of emboldened badness beyond inexplicable,
and nor is it
episodic, not periodic, but abundantly continuous,
so
no need for a fan, one of those upright six foot tall,
MF’er tornado sounding fans, for the hate free flies every where,
damning the consequences, full speed ahead, spreading
medieval plague style, and as we two talk of this world,
on this world,
electronically a thousand miles apart,
we, worn and wearied, being ****** and awaiting the
spill doors to unleash officially tidal waves of
dammed up, still held back raging, hate
that is just edging over the top,
a nauseating goop (apologies to what’s her name),
I awake at 4:something
*(to complete six hours later
whatever this is, this lamentation, of woe and sackcloth,
ashes on my tongue,
commenced the eve before,
but genetically ancient and familiar
in all
my cells),*
to complete this heavy evensong,
commenced and begun seven hours earlier when one soul
states to another a simple,
*“forgive me, my heart is heavyweight heavy tonight,
the world’s disheartened burdens beyond bearable,”*
the quiet calm of a sleeping house pervades my soul,
and a lament is transmogrified into a
psalm of hope;
for having shared the pain,
when one asks the other for forgiveness,
for exposing the other to this sadness infectious,
then,
understanding and comprehension
overcome me,
realizing that hatred has failed
when two bleed into each other,
that
shared distress is
distress defeated,
by a large and grandeur
purer expression of connection
across state lines,
tween two souls
unlikely to meet,
ever,
and yet this cellular combination
is so powerful, so
a w e s o m e,
it is
indefatigable,
(incapable of being defeated)
and we are each others
Shepherd and lamb,
in a time of woe,
one more time,
but soon the dawn will come
to welcome us with
the embrace of a newborn,
uncontaminated,
and to finish this now psalm,
now, and forever
newly perfected.
Apr 1, 2024
Apr 1, 2024 at 5:25 AM UTC
Drop a penny in the wishing well.
Watch the ripples emanate.
If wishes were kisses I have but a few.
Those that I have.
Will share only with you!
The ripples will magnify.
In our minds eye.
Pour oil on water.
Somewhat troubled.
Watch colours on the shining surface emulsify.
Play silly boy and girlish games.
Episodic I-Spy.
Count the pennies in our ***
To see how much we haven't got.
Money doesn't matter much.
Missing feeling is true cost.
Ride the rainbow.
Until she vacates.
Vanishes back from spectrum in grace.
At her base is a crock full of gold.
Hidden from lovers.
Two lovers hunting, afore they get old.
She vanishes rapidly.
Back into the mist.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:55 AM UTC
letters sit
in order,
line by line
at attention,
waiting for
thoughful reading.
a road,
of sorts,
to redemption
sitting, mulling
ruminating on
scripted worth.
engaged in
conveying thought,
from mind
to page,
to mind
again cyclical,
periodic conversely,
intermittent reoccurrences.
alone most,
are little
strokes of
graphite or
ink calligraphy,
mutterings of
little intonations,
phonectic sonances,
utterings, begetting
for their,
episodic isolation,
mumbo, jumbo,
gibberish as
birthing rooms
but together
ordered, united,
babble becomes
lucent, lucid
oratory of
inordanate worth.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
Early on
My T.V. was controlled
By my mother and older sister
Because of this
I have an immunity
To awful television
Americas Next Top Whatever
Growing up Whatever
The Housewives of Wherever
All the spinoffs
All the three week
Episodic backstory
Specials
Everything
I have found this taste in T.V.
Is engrained in most girls and women
Not all of them mind you
But most
From all of the
Nonsensical story lines
Wooden and awkward acting
Scripted life tragedies
Artificially inseminated arguments
Pointless and pedantic drama
Lifetime movies stick out
They are their own special breed
Because of this
They are beautiful
And I enjoy them immensely
So many meaningless sub plots
Badly framed shots
Ridiculous morals
Awfully choreographed action sequences
That have nothing to do
With the movie at all
In this way
They are their
Own type of pure
I have no shame
Besides
There is no where else
That I can watch an hour and a half
Of a police woman
Being hunted by her surrogate
Who was her best friend
(Before she psychotically fell in love with
The police woman's husband)
While the police woman is
Haunted by the ghost of her
Dead mother who
Gives her advice
From beyond the grave
Finally
With the help of the ghost mother
The police woman
And her misogynistic male partner
(Who is no longer a misogynist
Because she is such a **** fine cop)
Corner the surrogate
Who now has an assault rifle
And they end up having to blow her
Away
Emptying their guns
As she yells out and spins
Too many times into some faceless
Mansion's swimming pool
Ending with a slow motion splash
And no charges pressed anywhere
On anyone
All of this
Played by the up and coming
Talent of yesteryear
And the same six
Recycled actors
Who butcher their lines and roles
So artistically
That tense and awful moments
Make me convulse with laughter
It is surreal
And totally worth the guilt
I feel for enjoying such
Rancidly composed filth
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
We are podcasts
reflections of the past
daily lifes for all to see
recorded open vanity
of love and life
and trouble and strife
all the daily highs and lows
the episodic side shows
thrills and spills all the way
what are you going to do today ?
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC