"equivalence" poems
I think it’s important to make peace with your long line of perpetually confused and self-indulgent ancestry once grasping at and fumbling through a life at which they, preceding you, assumed they occupied the centre of and sought to prove this to mostly anyone, with rapacious might and puerile visions of their own success story, which no matter how successful would always only occupy the dark corners of their blood-successors’ historical records of themselves, which is to say you, adding them up with other people who were once important to them and stuffing them into some numerical equation on which they occupy the left, and you the right side of the equal-sign, but all of which exists in the vast and endless vicissitude of spinning void, of which you both (and us all) occupy some cosmic equivalence (and importance) of the universes stray skin-cell, somewhere on the foot perhaps, unconsidered and left alone until we all disappear into the casket of an unrecorded history.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
*“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are*
strong at the broken places."
A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway
<>
struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend
understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
how,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever
cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me
getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”
I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
I
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
undeserving,
because of my
ancestry
And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!
But,
my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
eyes
are not lying,
but believed.
but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry
thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
this,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,
but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future
1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells
2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.
so here is our truth:
when,
***The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!***
our whole blood will replenish us
Nov 17, 2023
Nov 17, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
is there noon on this comparison, and where does the stabilising hour care to fathom the giant and dwarf shadows of original shapes? if there is no magnetism of the clock's hour, minute, second, then the only magnetism apparent in the encircling of digestion / decimalisation, is to say the north of a compass, the compass' north equivalence of a clock's misdirecting eternity: of space for a clock asserting a mingling reason: the compass found it's existential reason in the north, yet the clock found it's "north" without care for magnetism, it equated the north with space, and yet what was encapsulated with rotary qualities? for clock the perpetuation of tick tock in space / for the clock treated space as a one-dimensional abstract, with its three-temporal awareness, and yet the compass said north thrice, and on the fourth said Antarctica was loosened to be explored.
i'm so tired - lifeless poetry,
make words encoded; i'm so tired,
so tiresome of other people
with bellies filled
and eyes in medium postponing,
to compass the needle
a gravity of servitude for the
clock of 12 (north), 6 (south),
and the disputed 9 (east) with
3 the (west),
darting eyes in Bahamas
for direction coarse yet coerced
by a promise, thus the compass riddling a madness
of constant stimulation with magnetism and
the magnet cursor of orbit -
wound three dimensions of time,
space optional, space always optional,
as ever time over-arching to be understood...
where then the compass, where then the clock,
if the compass led by vector of magnetism
to an uncertain place,
if the clock led by vector of missing magnetism
to a certain place of eased: tick, tock, tick, tock...
will that be equally given a wavering of
east, west, east west.... north, south...
what now?!
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
'Cause when I say, "Go to sleep,"
It means, "I love you."
Or when I tell you to eat,
That means, "Hey I care."
When you tell me that you love me,
and,
I call you an idiot,
That's me saying it back but with the equivalence of stupidity.
You are the reason I stay awake at night and dream with my eyes open,
You are the stars in my dark sea that I have been constantly trying to drown myself in,
You are,
For Gods sake's,
My Planet Earth because what else is going to supply me the oxygen I need when my brain says,
"Don't breathe."
You make me not want to die when all I could think of is dying cause you know,
Depression.
You are my alarm clock to when I sleep in,
My everyday phone call,
My back up plan when my back up plan needs a back up plan.
There are a billion of people out here that could have chosen me to deal with but you,
You at least tolerate me.
Thank you for the tolerance, at least.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 5:31 AM UTC
~
the language of love,
it has no equivalence,
we speak what we hope,
we seek what we love;
vacillating? perhaps,
but there is no ambivalence.
lovers whisper, lovers shout;
alternating between holding it in,
or getting the words out.
whether sweet words of friendship,
or letting the heart go,
each tells a tale, a heartbeat,
one the spirit only knows.
is it the “shemomedjamo” of Georgia,
the “overindulgence that
cannot stop this appetite;”
or “lagom” of the Swedes,
who speak of moderation?
where what i have and what i see,
is perfect, just right!
the words, “koi no yokan,”
from the culture of the east,
Japanese speak of the instant of knowing
a love that’s “meant to be.”
there is “mamihlapinatapai,”
used by those at the tip,
of Tierra del Fuego’s windswept cliffs,
a lover’s wish they can’t set free;
further north Brazilians speak,
of “cafune,” the sweet tugging
at her long and flowing hair;
a love that reaches,
strokes, so tenderly.
the Thai use “greng-jai,”
for love that defers...
and to sacrifice refers;
the French have “retrouvailles,”
a love that sparks rediscovery,
where distance knows no separation;
“onsra,” is a love
soon to be a thing of the past;
used in Burma and India when spoken of
a love that cannot last.
the “saudade,” of the Portuguese,
of love that can no longer be,
though it may have been consuming,
is now but bittersweet.
and then... there is Arabic’s “tuqburni,”
a love that says so gently
“without you i am dying!”
each, it has no English equivalent
yet somehow we manage...
we find our true love,
in relationships, in marriage,
for love is a catholic language;
even when there are no words,
where touch, where tender looks,
translations of the unheard thoughts;
where pillows hold the notes of longing,
empty bars and stanzas filled;
oh love, oh boundless one,
under steeples pledge your troth,
to death’s door you take your oath,
to forever sing your universal song!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Rumblings
Tummbling
Pain
Insane
Pendulum
Swings
Graves
Enslaved
Lust
Prevention
Corruption
Autonomy
Interdiction
Craves
Plenty
Flickering
Selection
Benighted
Intention
Equivalence
Quivering
Slithering
Impingement
Claws
Causes
Crippled
Laws
Unbalanced
Inoperable
Unrequited
Injustice
Rain
Moon
Falling
Low
Control
Space
Lovers
Standing
Under
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, what is worse than shame? HUMILIATION:\
rumors fly up in the high
in the above in my ears in my skies
get my squirms of death into the rays of the red dies
and the humiliate in the tides
shed the tears in silence I fear they collide
with looks of disgust and shame they rise upon my eyes
just like an equivalence of the delves of the deep
from them of a cut to dig drips and swallow grief
arise arose arosen awake awoke awoken
trap me unnoticed and leave me broken in the heart swollen
fed on lies unspoken surrounding in the field
am I a prisoner in hell or even better in Tolkien???
I craved and carved the woods into a shade of a pink that I need
till you put the greed and stole in brief with no feels
want me dead then demand I alive to up come
burning and whipping regrets of the twos with the fives
if I not to remember wrong
counting stars and fleeing out just all in an empty round about
------ravenfeels
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 4:00 PM UTC
There are two sides to every story,
said the husband to the cop.
She annoyed me ’til I shot her;
how else could I get her to stop?
There are two sides to every story,
said the burglar at his trial.
They had the stuff I needed;
they’ll only cry a little while.
There are two sides to every argument,
said the person without facts.
I’ve a right to my opinion;
I’ve no need my brain to tax.
There are two sides to every story, but,
both may not be of merit.
If one side’s without value,
let’s not waste the time to air it.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
Your ideals side by side with the rhythm of your stride,
misericorde,
what have I stumbled across.
In the middle of the road,
you struck a pose
so vividly natural,
it's as if the outline of your being
burst forth from your physicality
and sang songs of love
and integrity.
all in accord to say, you gave me no other choice,
but to fall for you and the warmth of your smile.
even the ground murmurs with jealousy
because gravity has no effect on what you stand for;
love, understanding, equivalence and so on...
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
you are absolutely necessary and utterly unimportant.
you are not important because
everything is important and important means
you are better than the mud
you are not
i can say this because
i want to be content. and to be so
i think i must owe myself to everything. because every little piece makes the puzzle, every tiny drop of paint changes the color, whether
you or
i can see it. down to the atom, every rock that
i step on, every bird in my ear, every bearable sting of guilt felt from swatting a fly, they have worked in perfect proportion, each paint drops precisely suffused to the present shade of my experience. and if
i am to be at peace, my life should not be measured but
i must be accepting of
everything as it comes.
i find this possible in realizing that the stretch in my smile and the tears on my cheek are all just as needed in shading me. no single experience makes the man. and to be accepting of the summation
i must accept that every single experience in my collective past was utterly necessary. every single experience, and each minor detail of each experience, and how they scatter on the surface like little melting beads, and how they eventually sink and mix; all single molecules of paint diffusing in the only proportion to make the present shade of my life, none more important than the other, down to the atom, ultimately equal.
not in quantity, but in quality
everything equal. what it means is that
i love you. but
i love the sweat greased ball bearings of dirt in my boot
i love the percussion of infection drenched nerves in my foot
i love the salt stick of your skin and staunch of your cough as you beat through the barreling wind. and
i love the invisible river of shivering brush waving like cilia down the valley. into the bioluminescence of our L.A. colony.
i love you if you love me and
i love you if
you hate me. because even your hate will drop like paint into me and change the shade to something
i have not yet seen.
i know we have different eyes but
i think this works for mine.
i will love you in equivalence to every molecule
i breathe.
utterly unimportant and absolutely necessary.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:53 AM UTC
suspected of being
problematic, one is a
common
but
questionable
model, and an
adjustment
may
be
required
to address all
the nonsignificant
differences—
how
they
nonetheless constitute
important arbitrary
criterions
for
equivalence
the significance test
based on
observational
data
is
susceptible to (errors
of) interpretation
over the
question
at issue
namely, do
case differences
arise
because of
exposure
to a comparatively
small sample
or
because
of
another variable?
Exposure can be
only mediated
by
crude
estimates
and so may be
misleading
during
the
forming
of the hypothesized
model of one
that describes
the
association
between exposure,
bias, and
the variables,
and
reconciles
difference
with equivalence
significantly.
The model provides
little information
that is
incontrovertible
but
the results suggest if
adjustment for the variable
makes no
substantive
difference
ignore it
but if your knowledge
indicates the
adjusted
variable to
be preferable
then prefer it
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:25 PM UTC
He who provides
The supreme ambivalence
An equivalence of contradictions
This trendy late adolescent
Who has a disconcerting
Dangerous quality about him
Who is keen and energetic
Like an ad for a fizzy drink
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
In the morning, I awoke
to the smell of burning rubber--the bats in paradox
with their champagne necks broken,
telling stories from atop
the blisters on the celestial skin.
A sublime masochism with irises that devour events, and ribs of sunshine,
and this was the gong of the eleventh hour somewhere after four a.m.
when the mockingbirds lie bodies in strange angles,
under tracks and atop cars.
Garage underdogs howl at the fog
after self-inflicted shotgun wounds lying in the corner
of the greats things lost and the worst things gained
the bleach corrodes the bombarded sidewalk
that you almost hear smoldering, whimpering on the empathetic verge
of the ocean
where mini-stars explode, civilization ribbons coat the throats
of you pedestrians, humanitarians
all dressed and gifted
to the ****** of equivalence,'
and I am tooth drunk
on the placebo slide, carnations washed beneath the broom
clinging to morsels that ***** blue sky down on the trumpeters.
On the fall of the eleventh hour---Carpe Diem crushed by sweaty palms into ***** work
and screaming
dance parties.
How low?
He, they,
it, I, she
throw lives away like ships
slicing through the ocean, the same reckless, but disciplined authority.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
Two stations’ negation
Clasped by ands, the
Parentheses betroth
Like wedding bands.
But faithful constants,
Anything but,
My mistress, she’s thine
And from permutations
Is thusly cut.
But embrace, do I
This incestuous reality
And all for the love of my
***** Logicality.
And that, in one sense,
Flagrant ambivalence,
And yet, in another,
I blush with kisses from
Tautological Equivalence.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Fume of the mystic air
flows to create
an invisible lodge
a harmonic rhythm
of knowing the other.
Sanctuary of Love
shelters the Kiss.
Received touch
makes up
points of Desire
as flesh and blood
from the etheric.
She,
A fluid transparency
made of interchangeable
unique crystalline particles
of unseen color,
Reflects
an indefinable atomic structure
Draws contours of a body
that subtly shapes along the kiss.
‘Kiss me’
is a thankful whisper
‘Play me to a oneness’
gratifies the breath
along her neck,
lips, forehead
and knees
an anechoic chamber of limpid breeze
rectifying bliss
an irrefutable awareness of joy
a gifted Unity
an honored desire
She feels the
colors of zephyr and without visualizing
grows into the derived equivalence
of emerging pinks or jutting greens
she is destined to remain as invisible as
his’… not owned - not reserved
interdependency
‘nothing stays nowhere
a thing is not received if you are not there
A blessing of the moment is everywhere
you are drawn to where and what you truly were’
As the body gets formed
miracle gets real
As miracle gets real
the body gets formed
and mutates
a lucent gate
towards a universe
so The wind can pass
At the edge
she molds
to …
…. a
……….something new
The lover the love
The now at now
senses itself
in white lines
a bridal delicacy
‘A flower’
tales say
with myriad petals
living at the edge of the universe
She reads the volatile coolness
of the warm colored
differently sized light trace that
the fumes,
the kiss ,
the breath,
the blow,
the zephyr,
the lover
has become for her
she traces
his ever expanding Trace
so that perpetually he shall progress
for the universe
while she remains
and observes
as her nature requires her to be
as their dual existence is conditioned to
as is nature’s one
unconditional
or Love’s
She, the precision of joy that he creates for
the eternal witness of bliss
Colored by divine light
of rejuvenation
of freedom
of truth
breathes
at a place beyond thoughts
at the edge of a universe.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Likewise vanished and collapsed to a destructive state – weighted space spreads across unevenly but equally sequential in relevance to the make up of your matter. For the crossing falls closer to that which floats up, or burrows down. Following the line of least resistance when gravity can be considered a burden.
Onward with the dead bodies floating in and out of our solar system. ****** victims with cracked helmets dancing together in an eerily serene motion where they follow sonic waves from this way to that. These are the new beginners whose marrow will travel to worlds yet undiscovered.
It is the equivalence of the ***** that makes the journey into the birth canal to fertilize the egg. The once living, now dead, finding a new reason for meaning where the marrow finds placement on a mass of fertile dust.
New planets are made with a sickness. Spores and mold grow into rage for the betrayal that laid the god body to rest. Their concept of creation has no meaning. Hatred fed by existence considered bad luck at best.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
when the moon
draws a shape
maybe a flower or a heart
along the homogeneous equivalence of an
asphalt – oh are you driving so fast?
made of the frosty glitters of the night
show the generosity
to accept a gift
a gift that can make a difference
it’s been set apart for you
and only for the blessed you.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
*i wish i could ******** like a stephen king once in a while, but then my imagination sometimes gets a kick in the **** from delusional thinking, this the antidote to "a lack of imagination," this the artistic equivalence to a magician's trick, the illusionary works of sawing a woman in half; the many times i spilled some whisky on it... it happens... it happens so automatically that it's sometimes terrifying; now to find that cognitive anchor... ah, here it is: i.*
th- following l-tt-rs hav- b--om- -isabl--
**e
c
d
3 / ω**
on my k-yboar-,
h-n- th- hyph-nation.
p-rhaps to slow m- -own,
or what-v-r r-ason th-r- is to it,
-onstru-ting a n-w -nigma?
so th- r-ason w-str-n so-i-ty is
-xp-ri-n-ing
a flux of pr-matur- --m-ntia
is --u to population siz-
an- th- young on-s b-ing for---
into a -ompl-x worl-
of s-rious maths an s-rious -h-mistry:
so mu-h th-ory
an- th-n only giv-n bor--om among
banaliti-s of r-p-at r-p-at -
-ompl-x th-ori-s
to b- thrown into a worl- of -istill-ri-s
whisk-y an- vo-ka typos of
form-r -ompl-xiti-s
r-quiring p-rfum-s to say th- l-ast... -st-rs:
sw--t aromati- -h-mistry.
but from th- -r-am worl-:
1. paint s-otlan- with 3 r-- strip-s
2. paint -nglan- with 3 blu- strip-s
3. op-n a win- bottl- with a mat-hsti-k
an- fin- -arth in th- bottl-: mu--y
grit, soil.
4. ov-r h-ar talk of my -at-gorisation
of th- anglo-slav; as a -hat up lin-.
o-- thing is... it's only th- lin-
3 / £
E
D
C
t--hnophob- m-, th- oth-r 3 works though...
on th- mobil-:
7 8 9
4 5 6
1 2 3.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
You showed me your line of vinyls. You know, I always liked the ones that dug their lives into music.
The way you'd add your experiences in tunes, your voice much therapeutic.
You played me like the violin, stroking your brown soft fingers through my strings.
Your blues flowing through my ears,
I could feel the skin crawling chilling feelings near & near.
Remember when we'd lose ourselves to dance in the middle of your bedroom floor.
The way we'd flow our bodies into the rhythm of the beat helped me adore you much more.
The spiritual tunes of Michael Jackson,
Oh, you rock my world.
The sensual touch of your body is like the equivalence of jazz blues.
You always had ways with your words, my operator real smooth.
My mind ran deep with your influential words, especially when you'd make me feel as though I was your one & only girl.
Blind to anyone else, I felt as if I belonged in your inner world.
But all that came between us was fast women, and herbs.
All that I have of you are memories in music.
The words you gave me, no longer sounds acoustic.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
I never thought I'd have to hold my tongue so still
And you would be the one; reticent.
How fascinating our mistakes are, how repetitive
And how fascinating that the truth is squeezed from both of us like
that last bit of toothpaste from the bottle.
I feel a shift.
A paradoxical disorder unaccounted for,
I fear the change because I am the change.
You were always a force that lacked equivalence,
And it was your unbalance that undid me;
before I thought my balance was my exchange.
Now I think you are too quiet, my thoughts too loud.
You fight with yourself mostly, and slam doors.
I'm too proud to admit I'm wrong.
We'll never work out. Not really.
And it is a shame.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
Oh the kiddos outta there
whoever again dare to call me names that end it with a Girl or a Mademoiselle
You at most reflect an image of me to fit to the level of your potency
same as to a ridicule of your fantasy
weeping and spitting big turfs of
-at most admirably-
musical words
as your age allows you to be
an equivalence that functions still
OH THE WOW in most efficiency
only whenever the rhythmic pumping ejects seedlings
to swim up the rat-race
from your reptilian starship
parked at sacred ocean’s depths
crossing a few inches behind thyn abdomen
towards your jellyfish brain
and that’s shorter than TIME
oh the poor whining with BIG Holy One
hidden in the oaths of your monstrous
zombie-town
so now listen in PURE Attention to me (if you can)
It’s True my first kiss was at age twenty three
HAHAHA and yet not even a romantic one
at most an obligatory
who knows maybe a task
from the higher self
probably to teach me
or the physical body -
YES and the last one at age forty
that tried to **** all the ****** futility outta me
the rest and the in between remains dark and edgy and thorny
who cares when it does not bother me
what business does relate to you oh my Sexuality
or the inherited **** beauty
but that makes not less of me when
I am now almost 43
my coal black hair made of Sea Breeze
grows the beauty of my aging color
to the creamy WHITE topping of delicious wisdom cookies
baked by my peaceful wishing
the joy of my child innocence remains
to fire Passion and Desire
which I reserve
to one/ single poem only
who made me realize the truth of me recently
that I haven’t yet dated … a Monsieur
who dares to call me a Madame
with whom I can fully be Me and grow towards a maturity.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
had man more ambition, he'd feed his hunger to be devoid of attaining a god-status... after all: why bother feeding a plagiarism of a plagiarism, of one man's invention being passed down for another man's itemisation of lost artefacts, that can't paraphrase: an urn's equivalence toward the monetary due or shared regrets, remains... or profits.
i can't tell you what you want to know,
well, "know" - that
all it takes is a male cat tidy in
his sleeping pose,
and his female equivlanet,
stirred, jolting, angry, scared,
itchy...
in my arms, as without my
arms holding her,
stirred, jolting, angry, scared,
itchy, ready to jump
out of the canvas
and make still-life a joke.
writing this she pretends
the austitic stare...
as all cats do...
her evil eyes peer into me,
and i see the shards of
the omni-mirror
that chords man into being
god...
and how belittling the "repose",
oh the agony
of the multitude in the all
encompassing request...
what sordid ambition
for man to equate himself
as god...
how follow that knock must
feel, asking
for a full bodied burden
of oak laboured over by man
to be made into a door,
with a million toothpicks:
sentenced into a doorknock:
regarding?
good day...
what audacious claim you make!
three tier question
you ask... that is, what will be,
or what is?
well...
a waiting bed,
the male cat fast asleep,
the female cat in figgit mode -
how i dream of the pillow,
how i dream wide awake
of placing my head onto it,
and erasing all previous dreams
from memory...
i'm sure memory can be allowed
this function:
forget the last dream,
than attaining autistic
memorisation errosion of
the alphabet...
did i mention that i think
that feline bonsais are autistic?
i will die claiming that cats
are autistic....
i guess that's why autistic children
can comprehend a cat
akin to the cat being
able to comprehend an autistic
child.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC