"exacting" poems
* *To lessen liabilities,
to lower costs and
make the world more,
more productive; exacting...*
*To make everything easier,
a life more fulfilling...
...more predictable, perhaps,
more equal than now.*
*To eliminate sadness,
anger, depression, anxiety.
To work less at everything,
they will do it all for me.*
The planet will be saved by the extirpation of human activity...
...for who needs humans to trade stock?
...who needs humans to make widgets?
...who needs humans to clean things?
Who needs humans at all?
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.
Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.
14.9k
exacting in love
possessive by nature
volatile in temperament
and raging like flames
you are wild and untamed
nothing like docile padma!
the strategic placement
of each kiss on
your voluptuous body
you so unashamedly demand
is provocatively seductive
drawing out
from deep within the soul
of this simple flute-playing cowherd
a brazen but besotted lover
© 2019
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC
title: not god, but his clock, will gnaw at us: that we are mortal, and agitated by a libido to continue, as to why the immortals find us so cosmic, for the worth of not exacting a better joke prescribed to other genus archetypes... whether the atheists believe in a blind-watchmaker is beside the point... the actual conjuring of the ultimate engineered thing will undo us... only the gods could have engineered time... space? they can't fathom space, the gods could only engineer time, but they couldn't engineer space: the cliche, think outside the box? even the gods know nought concerning this; and if there is only one god... he has been lodged into a letter: θ - a 1 inside a 0; the being already confined... even gods have limits beyond the stressor of supposed immortality... they can't engineer space... all they can engineer, is a transcendence of time... only mortals, men, can engineer the concept of space... hence nations, hence borders, hence differences, hence the concept of magnetism and repulsion... if gods engineered time, then men engineered space... as now, and forever, will remain so, the quest for a cosmic joke / clue.
it won't be the blind-watchmaker
who eats us up,
the the clock itself -
it will devour us,
it will gnaw our flesh toward
the bone,
and then with out bones
play an instrument
to glorify its procession down
the aisles of our endeavours
to express civility...
was there any to begin with?
our temporal anxiety, being mortals,
equates itself
with the spatial anxiety of the immortals
(gods).
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
1414
Unworthy of her Breast
Though by that scathing test
What Soul survive?
By her exacting light
How counterfeit the white
We chiefly have!
5.2k
Ancient doors creak and groan
scraping back the dust
of ages gone
A formidable sight...
like standing guardians
since time immortal
Slinking in
past swirling fog
I pause to calm my fear
adding strength to resolve
when suddenly...
a deafening voice ERUPTS
with EXACTING FASTIDIOUS truths
Solid ground shatters beneath me...
I hover helplessly
Below me...
a noxious boiling maelstrom
The voice of truth EXPLODES from above
ECHOing my 'Every Sin'
the resounding shock-waves
drive me down
Legs lifted high
to avoid the searing pain
then
a tangle of blistered hands reach out
and drag me within the churning inferno
Blinding spin and unbearable suction
envelope
Scream fades to gurgle
Unconsciousness welcome
though never met
The searing pain still rising yet
Each fibre ripped apart
to molecular particle
Riding the vortex of purification
Separating sins from soul
Finally
Cast out
and caught yet again by the uterine web
with the voice of truth
still taunting ...
" BETTER LUCK THIS TIME "
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
1576
The Spirit lasts—but in what mode—
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes—
Apart, it never talks—
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone—is not a Tune—
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That make the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
Does that know—now—or does it cease—
That which to this is done,
Resuming at a mutual date
With every future one?
Instinct pursues the Adamant,
Exacting this Reply—
Adversity if it may be, or
Wild Prosperity,
The Rumor’s Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognostic’s Push
Could make a Dent thereon—
3.1k
hearing feet pound the cement sidewalk,
seeing cars and drivers pass by talk-
ing on cell phones, silhouettes, shaped
by street lights lit as darkness drapes,
at the feet below these aging knees
the shadow moves ahead and is chased
down, falls behind as the body and face-
less shape with feet that slap the ground
not as a delicate dancer, because they pound
the run into submission,
at times the breath would better,
if it were louder, and with a rasp
then it would be easy to grasp
why this impossible implausible delight
seems so pure, in the dark and in the night,
I invite one, I invite all, drop by
any night and we see our foot falls
and hear who steps could crack
where they land and whose breathing
would be better if banned,
for disturbing the peace
legs with muscle straining from the training,
not getting the enough rest to prepare for the raining
and the run, the stuff that tests, a rare human quality,
can you finish what you start,
arteries clear and how is the heart,
do you know pace, do you know no quit
can you find peace, can you give a squirt
of water in your mouth without out choking and having to stop,
do you know the joy that a child knows as they run
can you find that place where activity was and is fun
hard sidewalks, hard life lessons to learn
heavy steps, heavy heart, hear the sorrow
shadows, follow the mind multiplies and borrows fear from the shelf
breathing in, hoping to be at ease,
breathing out, hoping to release
All
The
Tension
Handily
Exacting
Every
Nerve
Damaged
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,
I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.
The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.
Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.
But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.
There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.
I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.
Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
a day
with contrasts faded
hazy smoke from
distant forest burnings
skylight diffused..
traffic at rushhour
a monotonous din..
such muffled appearances
invited a more
exacting look..
white paint splotches
accidental decorations
to a darkened parkbench
suggests here a distant
supernova explosion..
a motorcycle pistons'
high pitch report
self identification
in the traffic din..
an airliner's orange
contrails laced the
gray cloudless sky..
then a sudden appearance
a haloed quartermoon
light enhancement
with circular glow..
yes contrasts seemed to
speak on this day
bursting the haze...
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
Charlie and D sitting in a tree, Henry VIII comes along, chops down the tree.
part of me constantly and perversely anticipates
what Islam holds dear, the cult of the moon
rather than the sun - sleeping nudges of inquiry
and reminiscence of Freud rather than this constant
pulverisation of scientific safety-nets -
the sun and the scam of diet - Narcissus myth
all too apparent, too self-conscious to feed
the beauty, laboratory type beauty,
statistician's paradise - sun and skin cancer collective,
i'm not an Arab, and i never will be,
but this sort of weather and jet-stream excess isn't
exactly helping either - Einstein might have
saved you from exacting the thought process
(never experiment with it, never)
behind Newtonian cause & effect, but this ****
isn't going away, and you won't be exactly barnacle
jumping mad with Jack & Jill if you voice your
concerns; for all that urbanity the village life
is having a comeback - hello brick, hello tree,
hello tomorrow: the day of never-be -
the Spaniards had a second try at an inquisition
via Gibraltar - the Scots sailed to Brussels -
the village life is having a comeback -
the Americans are hoarding guns prior to enacting
scenes from Bastille Sq. with the guillotine -
they don't know it yet, but they're hoarding guns
to topple the government over - elsewhere
a bunch of Palestinians were throwing stones
at bullseyes for a fluffy toy in a theme park.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
time governs
you and me
treat it not
irreverently
chance the unknown
while you can
sands of time
pause for no woman nor man
one and all
quick sticks
the time piece
it ticks it ticks
dithers and dawdlers
hear the alarm
wasted days
do each of us
irreversible harm
of the calendar year
we are sure
but moments in time
are pending trapdoors
make every venture
your stock in trade
lest time render us
uncertain and afraid
in reality rosters
and agendas do vary
devilish time
oft wickedly contrary
speed up Jack and Jill
sundials are on a roll
time is indiscriminate
exacting
a costly toll
governor time
is carefully deliberating
our pendulums
remonstrating
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
And So the Day Begins (Bring Them Home)
~ With love for T.R. & S.R., my friends ~
<>
*Their spirits, sensed, well kept,
in a sudden breeze, a sudden sneeze,
at the precise exacting, millisecond,
when skin, mind intersect, coinciding,
Mine, Theirs, and wet eyes and
smile traces arrive unbidden but both
together, always simultaneous and I know,
full hearted, full throated gasp grasping,
my soul and hands, touching, clasping,
in the kitchen odors, morning coffee,
early daylight across my face sweeping,
on the tongue, their taste on mine,
and I am present in this moment
as they are too, with me forever if
but just for a heartbeat, maybe two,
stilled yet, my heart trembles as it fuses
with Them and Everyone of Us is renewed,
and so the day begins,
Oh Our Children!
remembering, a point on our journey,
our always unbroken continuum.*
<>
7:17AM
July 22
Two Thousand and Twenty Three
but one more day until…
Jul 22, 2023
Jul 22, 2023 at 7:38 AM UTC
The soft petal-like wisps of romance mixed with a hushed musical score.
It swelled with recognition.
The dawning feeling was of rightness.
And the place to fit was exacting.
The rush of emotions surged.
And they broke with the excited gasps of the breath of realization.
I laughed.
The thought of longing to find someone.
Someone to love lurked in my mind.
It wasn’t a dream.
It was now!
Life has brought me to this point and I laughed.
The sheer joy of attainment was here.
I laughed with happiness because it was my joy.
It was my time.
cc2008
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 2:50 PM UTC
I texted you,
You Whatsapped back.
I posted on your Wall,
You pinged me on GTalk.
I pinged back on GTalk,
You Vibered me.
I buzzed you on Lync,
You mailed me on Yahoo.
I messaged you on FB,
You shared a post on G+.
I messaged you on Linked In,
You sent a talking parrot on Farmville.
Seriously?
I invited you to an Outlook meeting,
You invited me to your Picasa album.
I pinned an interest,
You YouTubed yours.
I wrote this blog post
while you Tweeted.
It's time to throw away
this smartphone
and call home.
If you don't answer,
I'll see your light on,
cross the street
and knock on your door.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
I see new growth emerging from an old tree's heart.
A new sapling sapping strength from what would enrich generic soil,
contributes something unknown to an unassigned
Future
Instead this exacting branch emerges to claim the universe for itself.
No longer can this unnoticed, rotting stump contribute to the greater good
but feed instead, a unique life so it may one day
die and have the chance to fill the old soul’s soles.
The unlabeled, non enumerated vagaries of our world
cowardly whinge in the background
while the assertive actions of the flowers
and falcons shout out loud for their own preservation.
Food chains serve as feeding trays for those cells
who have bound together with that joie de vivre
necessary to drive the generic engine of nature
in their direction. This predilection
to protect the potent and powerful
among us is not simple chance
but a predetermined proclamation
from our divine protectorate pushing
the proper paupers forward until they find
themselves ensconced in the holy foliage of nature's glory.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
In the distance a Bright Blue eye blinks with greed at the enticing tickle, of a seemingly fickle, wisp of eclectic lightning.
Torn out of actuality, the sky's emboldened hue, makes way for this wistful energy of new.
As the bolt of light, not really caring, rips the sky of Blue, like a Blood-red Herring, dives viciously, however not maliciously, into--
Transition now your mind to a darkness not unkind. Where silence is a splendor and your entire being is a sensor. Where gravity takes rest and gasping lungs aren't always best; a blanket of muffled harmonies vibrating soundlessly inside your bones, flesh and arteries--
FLASH*
... Like a birth, like a death-- like the pause between your breaths-- for a moment, just for an echo of a glimpse of a moment, the flash of silver blue, that out of darkness quickly grew, pierced-- with exacting delicacy-- the bottom of this darkened sea, then disappeared instantly...
Flash-flash {{Glow}}
Flash-flash {{Glow}}
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
... Where the bolt did land-- on the sea-floor sand-- a beating rock, electric blue from the shock..
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
And in that instant, new life was made...
While on the surface nothingness reigned...
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
It's a cosmic dance, disguised as chance--
Or lucky breaks that breed romance--
And to move along its endless song, without blind views of right or wrong,
Is to truly feel with unbiased zeal
The uniting pulse of the Universe.
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 1:16 AM UTC
We are each...
just learning each other
my core is shaken by
how quickly
the world stopped
and my empty soul
playfully slid around you
and settled in your eyes.
I have always believed
in the thought of you...
the reality of you however
is very articulated and exacting
you are my karma
I am your bridge.
I am slowly learning
what real love is.
I'm scared... paralyzed...
comfortable... ecstatic...
and very impatient.
We are just now
learning...Us
creating....
believing...
My inner sense of self
changed
when you became mine.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
I am the coy smiling handsome man
and my feet beat the darkness away when I rush.
And I rush, in the alleys, sightless,
an actor led by lines of wilting dialogue.
And jasmine litters the gutters, fit to be dredged, the
aroma and the petals streaked with reminiscence.
I rush. I am the man toward an apogee,
a scalpel, with tastes as keen as winter lavender,
and eyes that feel the weight of tastes behind them.
As I dredge the depths for rarer tastes
I rush toward the gutter.
And like the gutters I thirst, in the levees and fen-
In the fen the rush of prey caught
Idling fills the space inside my eyes like oil,
and I dredge the lake for traces.
I am the actor, the dredge, my wit rehearsed
and I am acquainted with the lady of the night.
I smile as she caresses my oily deluged eyes-
And her eyes are filled with bile,
accented by jasmine, even
in the dimmest light of
gutters are rushing to an
apogee, fiercer than I'd like them to
appear, but I am the scalpel, to incise the insincere-
I am the prince, an heir to exacting the coerced-
I watch her eyes like windows from the gutter like a vigil
and hold tight to her breath.
I pour her blood in paper cups
until her breath is weightless-
And I rush, an actor, in the scene that we portray-
I am the giver, the oily deluged eyes that close around the flesh
and rend the fruit from the rind.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 12:52 PM UTC
Kept in a box
beneath the bed,
ashamed of his profession.
Nestled between
the feathers and the cream,
she seemed to have an obsession.
Exploited for
his only charm,
exacting base hysteria.
Battery low,
haunted by
the time she caught Chlamydia.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
H'min in I want some, and this Vita Mix thing 'round here
'dat gets an eyes wiff of this sort of thing and it starts singing
ringing a real living day dream 'get on over here' all of a sudden
seems I'm thirsty no drink in years Basil where's that friendly Dandelion
and last I saw they were all out together with baby Spinach and baby Kale
an' were looking quite sweetly there 'bout ready for what they so beautifully do,
see and ask 'em if they'd come along with all their great buds willing be super brew
for a little bit dear, needy and overly due sweety and we's more exacting on being more
the cup of tea of super elixirs, gets this dude feeling quite bit better on and maybe next task-set
don't set him so far down under and year after lil' bit sweeter and lighter yet; beyond our sweetness
magically green goddess's delight of the kind of treatment sometimes hard to find between themselves
those red blood bearing types; so let's call on down Cilantro, get on down and out some more 'dem ****
heavy metals, how 'bout this dude anybody kno where he could trick a book into dropping off a truck load of SuperKombu, ordinary Kelp and while we're here now; now can we form our hearts around every shore and river that pours into thee before it is too much more of woe are the seas; I'm going to go on now but 'dat one's got black holed gravity's; Chlorella, Spirulina, Blue Greens Bloom Algaes taken with care and sampling testing is what by me next to LOVE Love and well and the water there a very dear and essential shimmering part of God to me; Temple Body Temple Earth; be they battered tattered near or see it far two homes each has got; We All Holy Stewards; are we sleeping on the job; no captain at the helm; did we check in and walk out and get high and expect a check and hope to keep our jobs; please help me; how would each of 7 billion else describe; give me your dreams and or each your fears;
what do you want;
come alive or
disappear!!!!
R
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
I like to call it blowing on the harp. Or wailing.
Like how helpless my mouth is
in the throes of translating wind, how I forget to
unfurl into the hot pleasures
of bath, pearling on around me,
that I had previously spent several dimes of
anticipation on,
even the mounds
of afternoon-special bubbles,
even the pleasure of seeing my own
flushed and perfect skin, mermaided
beneath this tideless sea.
When the urge to blow upon the slim silver box finds me
I almost don’t. Issues of noise and also
whatever it is when you think “I don’t
know how”. I am surprised to see such
reasonable concerns after all these years
of exacting unreasonable responses
from myself in those silvering and hightide
moments that you never see coming.
As if there were more to
the how of it than lips and hands
and steam and breath and the now weary bubbles
done tired of waiting
and laid down instead, across the water
in flat white whorls,
in a type of peculiar obedience, to the music above.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC