"evocation" poems
My voice is nestled within a river
of transitions, positioned
in endless sets of pre- and post-
parentheses. Pre-revolutionary,
post-Missing Link. Post-postmodern,
pre-postmodern revival.
I sit in a somersaulting purgatory
sandwiched between evocation
and paralysis.
My hatred is exhausted, shoulders
hunched over a guillotine,
cursing with its tongue sprawled
dead and dry at an imaginary hunter,
a mass of bones clumped
under the rug I keep pulling
from my own two feet.
Will you hack through this cocoon?
Have you got the muscle
and the patience?
Nevermind that bedtime story.
There must be some wounds
of yours, those placed beyond
the verbal tanline, that need
immediate bandaging.
Can I get you anything?
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
Removing the little lace dress with its white hem I place it back on its chair.
The white hem radiates slightly enticing my naked boyhood once more
With its lusciousness, a savannah of continuous beautiful evocation
I sit naked and watch the little lace dress with its white hem
See it become languorous and dreamlike
I smell the exotic flora of its continued subtle seduction
It ripples softly in a slight waft of air
Like a breath blowing on a still pond
I cannot resist it, I am the trance of its hypnosis
Nothing intervenes, nor tries to prevent me
As my fingers fall for its flirtations
Once more I acquiesce to the most wanted desire
Of the little lace dress with the white hem
To caress the body of a fifteen year old boy
To become a second skin
I allow it to slide over me seducing my senses
Realizing the counters of my thin syrup coloured form
The words whisper again about my girls’ complexion
About my long black hair, about the body I inhabit, the likeness of a girl
I look once more in the mirror, they could be correct
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
“cold winter sky—
where will this wandering beggar
grow old?”
— Issa
I. Stories
A ranch north of Spain,
his woman, their child... a dream
painted over, gone.
His... (unrequited)
...own tragedy for himself—
young death in Paris.
Quiet night at nine,
inside a café... gunshots—
being... nothingness...
II. Histories
A cold monochrome,
the winter hue of darkness:
umbra of despair.
Portraits of torment:
beggars, drunkards, prostitutes,
1901—
Lapis lazuli
thinned, turpentined—bleu de France—
ennui of sorrow.
III. Images
Melancholia
—the impotence of the will—
in Barcelona.
Barefoot on the street
corner, sitting on the ground,
he leaned on nothing.
A half-stringed guitar......
Germaine’s ******* distracted him..
he laid his revenge.
IV. Meanings
No can a beggar...
no steel strings a guitarist...
—a friend’s eulogy.
The cadaverous
curves of the bones torqued the flesh—
tedium of old age.
An allegory:
artists, poets, mendicants...
****** or broke oglers?
V. The Painting
His evocation:
the grave of Casagemas—
a guilt exorcised.
A mute’s discontent,
a blind man’s desolation,
an oil masterpiece!
An old guitarist,
blind, begging for an audience—
a blue Picasso.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 7:22 AM UTC
I'm going to go through with it
This just has to be done
It's all going to stop
Chasing our tail around
For The ****** Dollar
It's all the same in the end
Passionate and proud
At the burst of a cloud
Rain falls in whispers
All today and into the night
When the wild are on the verge
Of some kind of taming
Who cares who you are blaming
How much does it matter that some are unaccountable
Not that you can get away with ****** and wars
When it's time to take your artwork
And put it in a frame
The picture is yours
It's the painter who takes the claim
When it's time to die
What's in it for the stars
Maybe a big wake and
Miles of lined up long electric cars
The mountain's shadow
Keeps the place cool in the summer
Not 'till the volcano spews it's guts
Will you lay down and burn
Or vaporize just in time
It's over with the death of the Star
'What is and was will be bleaker and bleaker
A place you'd turn your head away from
When we have this chance to change into living without borders
What does that mean a shot of the The New World Order
An evocation of imaginations of and for the somewhat rich and the richer
A full and complete Police State, militia walk the street, Their bidding done
No way to travel but by foot
And the odd old bicycle
Horse and mules being bred
To save the soles on your leather boots
All the waters contaminated all the crops hollow not fit for an animal
We go this way or we go that
Who will drag us down or
Who will bring us up
Vibrational influences could save us all
We can't keep trying to tell ourselves that the Government
Has our best interests at heart because they don't
If there is war among the classes it's a way to distract us
But it needs to be done and I'm bringing my 'A' game
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
Give it all you got
Only option left to choose
Tip your cap
Turn your back
Throw up that deuce
But, who woulda knew
That clarity of concentration
Comes from unexpected deviations
From our anticipations
Suddenly
Shipwrecked
Lost at sea
Starin at that deep blue green
Like, it's just you,
And me
And we are the masters behind these sails
When our stories told
It'll be the stuff of fairy tales
The true master misses miserably alot
What matters most is
We take all our shots
So this is my position
Listen up
I don't give a ****
About you *****
Who don't give a ****
You on the sidelines of the game
What's it gonna take for you to lace em
And step it up?
I see you suckers pacin'
Over self-made situations
Like destiny isn't something we participate in
But what if we switch stations
Movin' makin'
Anxious Amplification
Got that body breakin'
Beats to shuffle strutin' feet and
Our music's the motivation
Our life, our part
Art over every evocation
Trumpets triumphantly proclaim the pontification
Sifting, shifting the breeze
The time, they are a' changin'
The rhythms's exquisite equations
Derivative of internal escavated wisdoms
Whimsical inquisitive exploration
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 6:58 AM UTC
Closing the hurting eyes
Forgetting all the fights and byes
Standing soo close to each other
Mesmerised in that situation heart decided not to bother
Leaning against the wall
With a heartclutch and a great fall
Wrapping each other in their blanket of love
Leaving behind all the other stuff and a months bluff
Engrossed sooo much in each touch
Wanting more and more was a wish such
Grabbing the waist tight with no air to enter
There was a vacuum of their breath in centre
Playing with her entangled hairs that lay on shoulder
All these evocation was sure to be preserved in their hearts folder
Girl placed her arms around his neck without any regret
Which was found to be the best addiction than any smoking cigarette
Slowly and gradually they touched each others lips
Not leaving any chance to skip
Their heart's beating sound was heard amidst their vaccum
They had created their own world with affection and warmth as whirling perfume
Their kiss after kiss grew deep and passionate
Both were stuck to each other just as a magnet
Wet lips, tired eyes and messy hairs
Were the symbol that love was in the air
And there is no such satisfaction anywhere
_Lost
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 1:48 AM UTC
for pennies, an app
to do the heavy lifting,
rhymes, pentameter,
all the quatrains ya ever needed
strained fever, emotions rampant,
insufficient and unnecessary conditions
for poverty poetry evocation,
even autocorrects insipid
really bad tiresome love poems,
après endless generation (degeneration?)
who needs you
you think
no such animal
you be write
for the art of life
cannot be mechanized
wrote a poem,
a wistful sad lament
on mothers losing children,
a prayer, a yelling, a condemnation,
the app was,
on this subject
uncommunicative,
un étranger
of silence
in all languages
you can buy love
but you cannot buy pain
too costly and
3D printers
give you plastic, disingenuous
wholly unsatisfactory
for a lousy $1.99
I'll write you customized,
supply the situation,
a few descriptive phrases,
60 minutes later,
et voila!
am you app,
am your scrivener,
don't do roses or violets
but yes to
rhythm and blues
will take
PayPal
PenPal
but no credit cards
you may take my words
as you own,
take my credit,
but I won't take yours...
I am app human,
bring me your lush, winsome,
plain vanilla, tutti frutti,
all acceptable,
for where the real stuff
comes from
I have only mined
the surface,
the veins beneath
richness for the asking
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
I keep seeing her
in post-traumatic
flashbacks
back to back
she's bound
in a little
black dress
Tearing through
the mayhem
the mosh pit
of my mind
To save me
Some punk princess
archetype
always
in another castle
castrating
the *******
symbol
Because she's
'O so liberated
...So I decorated her
With a pearl necklace
Old patriarchal
habits
die hard
Honey
Sweet
Nectar
Ambrosia
Summoned
from my
sacral chakra
Come
my
Goddess
Come
my
Goddess
Come
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Intertwined within us are our souls desires
We've become thoughtless consumers
Our eyes have overtaken our hearts
Countless evocation and solicitation cravings
What's the true essence of life
We must credit ourselves with a virtue of constraint
Consciously aware of the folly of greed
Competing for the consent of the masses
Continually corrupts our untainted soul
For without a soul what's the essence of life
Desire for credit has circumnavigated our default setting
Considerably actively commandeering our human condition
We've become complicit in this annihilation of what we hold dear
Our individuality disputed and tarnished
Lives crushed beyond recognition
The wide-ranging impact calamitous
What's the true essence of life
Thine benefits are transient
Yet the impact will leave an indelible mark
Preceding generations trod carefully
Afraid not to let the mud stick
We've been tainted by horrors
Yet we chose to flirt precariously with its allure
It's experience is of a blissful kind
It is however prudent to navigate cautiosly
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
Song of love, twisted by welling darkness.
Vengeful art, practiced with vicious subtlety.
The softest lips whispered the hardest lies.
She exhaled an evocation of ethereal dreams,
Whose only prophecy was eternal sorrow.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 4:03 PM UTC
“The sound that pours from the fingertips awakens clouds of cells far inside the body”
Robert Bly 1926-
You could say that the sound that tips deep cells are waking
heralds with bugles divine revolution
You could say that the sound that echoes from spirals
gossamers emeralds’ scintillant light
You could say that the sound that squishes from mangoes
is luscious and opulent tripping with pearls
You could say that the sound that slumbers in harp strings
howls round the polar bear’s tumaceous couch
You could say that the sound that tremors from tadpoles
triggers eruptions of undersea mountains
You could say that the sound that sits on the windowsill
on Arcturus flickers as icicle fire
You could say that the sound that bounces off drumskins
loosens the shackles of acuate cacti
You could say that the sound that shivers off rainbows
silkens red poppies at sunstrike unpacking
You could say that the sound that rumbles round moonrocks
passes on purple to stillness of shadows
You could say that the sound that echoes cicadas
crackles through canyons of memory rising
You could say that the sound that gallops through nightmares
shrinks in the face of the falcons glissade
You could say that the sound that is diatomaceous
tangles up synapses sparking at random
You could say that the sound of deep cells awakening
&n
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
She’s the girl at the party
reading ****** in the corner
instead of conversing the idle
she never learned how to read books with blank pages
She has a heart of gold
it’s just a bit broken
Can’t you hear it?
It’s beating for you already
She’s looking to be soaked in safety
not just comfort
She thinks she may find it
in your dry sense of humor
She wants you to untangle her twisted mind
She’s searching for someone to understand
the evocation that is her soul
that she’s a black hole
yet a ray of sunshine
That she desperately yearns for attention
but burns under the spotlight
Beautiful and tortured like the sea
Don’t judge her for the too many sips she takes
She’s just trying to forget
the things she never deserved to know
She’s using liquor to put out the fire in her brain
No one ever told her that it just helps it grow
She doesn’t want to feel alone in this crowded room anymore
She wants to run through the forest chasing butterflies
the way she always has to feel alive
She’ll make a paintbrush out of her own hair
if she has to
and paint her words on the moon
just to feel special for a minute
something she’s never been able to prove to herself
Because it’s hard to hear her echo
underneath the ocean
even though you can see her reflection in the sky
She’s the girl at the party
reading ****** in the corner
Don’t be afraid
Stars can’t shine without darkness after all
Hurry, before her lungs fill with water
Won’t you listen to her song?
She will learn the chords to yours too
Accept her because she’ll always accept you
- Unicorn
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
Anopheles
Syringe aloft
Intone a twining tune to tempting ear.
By day
Mosquito
Hide incognito;
At night take flight,
Seek heat of vein to slake maternal craving.
Femme fatale
Fly ****** dance,
Alight let lance sip sanguine feast:
Soft kiss to ruddy cheek -- know taste of rouge.
Instill perchance live issuance
O harbinger of bad air,
Purveyor of fever,
Anathema of armies,
Ill missile of men made canals,
Evocation to slavery and Silent Spring.
Subtle touch to pulse of humanity:
Innocent tender to misery --
You mock our pride
In twining tune
Anopheles.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
...Portend for the life of you--cast your
eyes as far from you, as what you could
not see coming otherwise.
A living through and through...of what
came first--word or sound, sound or word?
These spaces...spendthrift pages that are
but doorways to their impending figure,
wind coiling at its corners...coiling at its
corners.
As a thing grows into itself invisibly...
as so you fall the falling curtain--with no
audience at one side, nor actors upon the
other.
Irrevocably you are, that you are--sun
halved, golden bowls burning--of good and
evil--a miscellany saint's evocation...that
you are, irrevocably you are...amaranthine.
Gesticulating beyond time, times, and half
time...a procession of one whose sojourn
repeats upon itself.
A heaven ago...hell now...a hell ago--
heaven now, change knows all your names--
and because you withstood all it can ever
be, it holds them steadfastly.
Amaranthine...irrevocably you are...that
you are.
You, the faces of disambiguation--whose
seal you smile to open...with full marks
for bravery.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
mine own psalm musings
*living between two broad, sea-emptying rivers,
a Majesty’s sentries to mark the differentiation~
division tween divine and a moderate human’s
moderating steps, as his stride shortens as the y/tears
lengthen, and it is accepted as an inevitable musky must,
no matter how the sweet spring day refreshes, the newly
planted trumpeting shards of bright yellows daffodils
pinch his yellowing eyes, few notice the tiny tears of
discrepancies of an annualized emboldening, a grand
heavenly rebirth and a slow man’s body self~editing,
shedding of a life’s~ending~of~story psalm musings*
*the man looks for the terrible swift sword, but its
failure to grace us with an appearance, is but a
modest disappointment, for a deferred delay is but
a causation to eke out a few mordant, pungent, caustic
reminders of all that is yet to be, to be accomplished,
though the smirking lips of the necessity of yet, one
more unloved poem extant, tilting the Earth’s axis
benevolently toward the open palms of his beneficiaries who*,
you,
*are among them numbered, is but, a green shoot in a city’s
hopeful earth planted, by summer, will shed seeds to come
thy way, as an evocation, a good consternation, a joyous
provocation, an asking kingly~gentle, a royal polite inquiry,
would you care to add a a verse to this eternal verse?
before time shreds it too into a yellowed crumpling,
and to the earth it is returned, for the mine of this
psalms is only generic, genetic, and what is mine is well,*
and truly yours too.
nml
<>
March 31, 2024
NYC
9:16am
Sunday Mourning Service
Mar 31, 2024
Mar 31, 2024 at 9:25 AM UTC
she was called forth
from the rain, sing-screaming through
the lonesome pines, scattering needles
like a ****** angel; stomping
the dust into mud.
festivals strung on her wrists, the
flags shouting louder through leaves
than even that hung-up sun could muster.
rocks rambled up her spine, feet
calloused from dancing, she shrugged,
suspended above the moss.
the fire was never so bright.
would the black streets in a
harsh, dead city be deeper or
stronger than this?, can the skyscrapers
cut open clouds with their teeth
like she gnashed through God's hair
and tangled the sound of her blood
with the river?
even her chin was a boulder;
her knees flat skipping stones.
she wore soft bark and orange.
(aspens on hillsides with sunsets,
roots blending with bones and vein
and skin)
her hair spread out as a tree underwater,
or braided tight into vines.
a cup in each hand,
a sword in her mouth,
a wand on her waist,
pentacles on every inch,
forever breathing with the skin
of the earth.
and when she had left:
the missions departed, coals are black
in the cold city, skies scraped and scabbing.
burnt with the deep of a flame-led
memory.
the shallow graves upturned and cried out
into the rain,
*where has the base of my stream
flown from, if not the sharp
scent of her skin?
what shadow have I carried if not
an absence tied under my feet to
only be free in the morning
with her hair in my mouth?
where does the river flow
from here?*
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
inspiration derives from the evocation of thought
symbolism, at times, can be cataclysm for the mind
and yet when one looks to be inspired,
until they are weary and tired,
when the earth’s ends,
can hold no trends,
they find themselves incapable,
and often times improbable,
of complimenting anything,
while criticizing everything,
and God forbid they stop and think
and look at it as a human being,
and as their ship begins to sink
a blast of thought comes after seeing
the black from scribing
eroded with the wind rising,
off the shores of the brain
to a vocabulary train,
delivering written ammunition,
after being petitioned,
and so the gallant author knight,
the reader-maiden’s arousing delight,
with his holy-tipped sword of ink
slays the scroll dragon in a blink
lawfully fixated,
and well compensated,
they sit back relieved,
finished with what had them aggrieved
until a source of new light,
causes rupturing delight!
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
The spaces between the silence
The absence of your presence
There you stand, too tall
In the crowd of my defiance
Keeping it real our heads held high
Extracting the blue longing essence
We build the walls staying in dark
Blocks of reality cemented with distance
We shed each other like second skin
In the act of withdrawing assurance
Now the idol dominoes fall in synchrony
In the wind of emotions with eloquence
The doors forever closed and windows jammed
Locked out of endless comforting luminance
While the journey lasts a clock ticks ahead
Lingers the fumes of evocation fragrance
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 12:40 AM UTC
Light illuminates
my dis-entombed thoughts
on gilded kite
prodding dust patina
mellow mote drifts lilt
hoping not to puncture the membrane
– I run –
attempted lift
fresh soil turns under foot
tread and gait escalate
pocked path reverberates
my insistence to avoid puncturing
Deceleration
Halted earthen assault
I ****** with machination the aerial apparatus
prior to complete stagnation
Decrepit deceit eschewed
Again – I run –
taut paper snap
sheet lift
weightless message intones
in knotted vertebrae, and closed palm
my chest lifts in unison
diaphragmatic sigh punched hollow
rhapsodic finesse
privy to atmospheric secret
my hand translates the ethereal
smooth fluttering undulations
oscillating tugs, dives, and slay
Calligraphic flourishes echo the linguistic menagerie
Byzantine illustrations
Pellucid canvas drunk with dye
Evinced in muddled thought
The ink bleeds down the twine
indigo echoes of entombed vein 'neath flesh
Translucent pulse haunts taut string
furling arc – tensed tissue
acrobatic hydrofoil
tugs – glides – taunts
Ostensible horror conveyed in clenched palm
The ether curtly responds
Swift redirect
Sliced palm
Tethered scream evocation
cochineal deluge concedes
Deep purple liquid clings
Congealing - between sodden twine and palm
Whispering currents furl saturated line
into fresh groove, disturbing the clot
The wound bucks as flotsam
Relentless onslaught
I yield -
I release you
Your ethereal message tattooed into my palm
Some things were ne'er meant to be restrained
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
I recall myself growing
inside her,
moving and reaching and
sliding, slithering,
straining against
any explosion of feeling.
I remember the sharing
of tumescent desire;
the transition from
connection
of mouth and breast
to thigh and ****
I remember, I recall . . .
and that is all that’s left;
the memory,
the recollection,
the evocation
of joys long gone.
Alas
the sands run out.
Nothing now remains
but odium,
loathsome,
vile.
I’d had my way
back in the day,
but this, oh this
it must be said:
I’d left her
in a loveless bed.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
expressive expression expresses itself
only ever in an ephemeral way
emulating evocation of endings and all they entail
which is never not more than what can be known
and always less than what is left living in the lake.
leaving all that had been learned
all that had been/on the verge of lust
and unspeakably, life.
when they tip-toe and twist away
trailing their tails, trying to tell us the opposite of
truth: time
that trusts the trap.
the opposite of what they bury
what is brought to brink.
miraculous masquerade molding itself into moons
many many many moons
that might.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
The Earth went silent,
it was the aftermath of the End;
the crooked shadows crept between all spaces,
then the Cloudfolks returned.
They stood still watching at us,
it was during an August eclipse.
"Pitiful are the sleepers who don't dream." Spited to me one of them.
So s/he took my hands and gave me a sphere,
s/he told me:
"You shall not swear your life in vacuity."
And so I knew it was time,
it was time of tempests, and beautiful extinctions,
it was a time of grief and sharp pain.
Their eyes were black as void,
those fuzzy white cloaks were cold, and those hands...
And before I could even awake, one sitted in my bed and whispered gently to my ear:
"Embrace the Omega."
And so I did.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Was it a divine sign amongst the creation –
A revelation so lightsome and pregnant –
That a blanching feather’s unforeseen descent
Made my poetic soul blench for evocation?
Surely, t’was from some celestial spheres, –
Angelic wings of cherubs and seraphim –
So long been soaking in firmamental affairs
That human mental senses but morphine.
A feather if eatable, a matter of addiction –
Plucking and plucking without satiety –
If been drinkable, a matter of intoxication
Leading humans into ever inebriety.
---
O’ glorious feathers who hover with mystery –
Over skyey dreams and unearthly visions –
Which land on the earth with vice and misery,
Lending the haver only vain aspirations.
O’ one-time ornaments of the seven heavens –
Brightness and whiteness of all times –
Have you no shame on the dirt of your pens
Writing worldly prose and heretic rhymes?
By-the-way, your heaven is no heaven but a sky –
As well as not every brightening is holy –
Just as Icarus has fallen from and by your high
As others are mystified by your fake glory.
---
Whether art thou the sinister poker of Iblis –
Leading by a dancing feather in the hand –
Human arts like the one that let fall Ibn Idris
Calling with fair words to the Fallen’s land?
Whether divine inspirations in form of an aura –
Blown on the poor’s brow as enlightenment –
Art thou as the freshening science of soul and soma
Kindling the minds’ muscles as a tea of mint?
Oh, Only God knows of Ma’at’s Hall of gloom –
If one’s deeds worth a feather morrow –
So, I seek only Deus’ forgiving, life-giving plume
To pardon my feather on the mortal pillow.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:13 AM UTC
It always happens
with the sunset for him;
marital love
at sixes and nines
Memories are now
missing parasols;
canticles of bliss
--emotional screening devices
Chimneys smoke
as a way of laying claim to serendipity;
it's a marriage of conveyance
And their daughters lie in empty fields;
early to the party,
seeking the sun
like a lover
Across his chin
sit scars of the crusade
--the first pain to linger,
the last kiss to haunt
The evocation of his betrothed:
mending her gown
and how she wore the forest
on their wedding day,
but peeled it all off
at his request
that one singular evening
To be naked and shiver;
to be naked and shiver
at the anticipation in his arms
The master of the house
now enters the secret chamber;
and in the throes
of glory-light, he adores
his wife in the carnal means
she likes best
Aug 15, 2024
Aug 15, 2024 at 11:34 PM UTC
Desperately nervous
When grasping the coherence
Of the wisdom eye
I feel a small presence
Revealing endeavors
Of a cautioned mind
After a long night
Repetition and circulation
Memories sublimed.
I listened to your voice your change
Intense and mysterious
Sad and strange
Evocation of the choice
Sometimes these words possess
The power to destroy
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 8:50 AM UTC