"examined" poems
Lies are lies
they deny you the truth.
Truth is truth
it denies you the lie.
when examined closely both are exactly the same.
They are interchangeable.
People that tell the "truth" to you are denying you lies.
How boring and dangerous and malevolent are people full of truth.
Choose your religious truth---
Christian truth.
Islamic truth.
Judaic truth.
Vedic Hindoo truth.
Buddist truth.
Capitalist truth.
Socialist truth.
Free market truth.
Managed market truth.
Monarchist truth.
Democratic truth.
Militarist truth.
Liberal truth.
Fascist truth.
People that tell lies to you are denying you truthfulness.
How boring and dangerous and malevolent are people full of lies.
Choose your lies.
Christian lies.
Islamic lies.
Judaic lies.
Vedic Hindoo lies.
Buddist lies.
Capitalist lies.
Socialist lies.
Free market lies.
Managed market lies.
Monarchist lies.
Democratic lies.
Militarist lies.
Liberal lies.
Fascist lies.
Truthfulness is neither truth nor lies.
It exists on its own.
Truthfulness is free of the Duality of Truth and Lies..
The individual Isness exists in the state of Separate and Merged with the Isness of the Universe.
Permanent Mindlessness is unconditional love--just ask any Dog or Cat.
The Mind separates us from the Isness of the Universe.
The Mind creates Duality which is governed by Conditional Love.
The individual Isness creates Unconditional Love(Consciousness) which is outside Duality.
Mind cannot create Unconditional Love.
The individual Isness cannot create Conditional Love.
If you have Mind/Conditioned Identity in your head you cannot love Unconditionally.
If you do not have Mind/Conditioned Identity then you can only love Unconditionally.
If you have Mind and Conditioned Identity you cannot be Merged with the Isness of the Universe.
If you are Mindless and Conditioned Identityless you are merged with the Isness of the Universe.
Conditional Love says I love you on Condition I can hate you.
Unconditional Love says I will never stop loving you but I may dissapprove of your actions but I will never hate you because I cannot hate..
Conditional Love is selective--it only applies to Family and Friends and fellow GroupMind members.
Unconditional Love is not selective--it applies to every living being--human or otherwise.
Unconditional Love does not see people as Friends and Enemies.
Unconditional Love sees people as individual Isness incarnated in bodies.
Humans are deceived by the Mind into believing that the Conditioned Identity is their true Identity and deceived by the Mind into believing that they should leave the running of their brains and therefore their lives to the Mind.
The individual Isness is a small but equal individual independent,
nameless,formless,genderless,autonomous portion of the Isness of the Universe that people controlled by Mind are taught to call a Soul.
The Soul is just another Mind created Conditioned Identity.
The Atman is just another Mind created Conditioned Identity.
The individual Isness is formed from a small but equal portion of the essence of the Isness of the Universe and incarnated in a Human Body of either Gender-_male or female of any skin colour.
www.beyondenlightenment.co.uk
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
You are a sailor if life is a vast ocean..
Here sail-n-surf,very thrilling notion..
Heart does trade with silly emotion
Desires ditch reality,if you lack devotion
Trusting too early is not so very wise..
People turn strangers in their uprise...
Be an artist not the tyrant of ur life
Anger at its apogee, cut like a knife
In dejection time,even silence is noise
Enduring other's hatred is a better choice
Speech is razor-sharp,can easily slice
Before making a decision,think twice
Eyes turn coy when the truth is caught
Just keep it simple n filter ur thought
Like weather, experiences are cool n hot
Hardwork is perennial but luck is not
Deeds are examined,so keep the token
Progress is still when hopes are broken
Pain is felt when own soul is shaken
Just believe in God when all is taken
Pearls come out during ebb at the shore..
Money gives gold but manners shine more
Success is urgency,patience is the cure
Nothing stays forever,expiry is for sure
Life has its fragrance,life has its taste
Laughter is healthy, worry is waste
Love is water, dilutes colour n caste
Polish your soul,skin goes ashes at last
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
Sep 15
2 0 15
your poem read,
awoken by lightening flashes of
morning notifications arriving,
postmarked from
"I liked it"
but it does not
end there,
continues,
to a new ending
who and why,
who and why,
did this one find
their own
worthy in it
that was writ unknowingly
just for them
and
you look them up,
guessing
who and why,
rereading your hand's work,
which verse was it,
was it for a blessing or a
curse,
that touched them,
that made them
touch
you
each "like,"
a work in itself
re examined,
re searched,
re imagined
in the
light of
who they are
and
why they are
liking words I wrote
a single poem
bring hours of imagination,
each "like"
individually gift wrapped,
each human liking rapt,
each imagine a rapture,
each "like"
a new poem
about the who and why
each name a disguise to unravel,
each name a title
of a new different,
imagined poem,
who and why,
we
like
each other
~~~
6:53am
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
It was early morning when she descended the steps
to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown.
Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow
she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies.
It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass,
still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine.
The radiant glow of tangerine
cast amber trails across steps
covered in an icy coating of glass.
Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown
and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies
that melted the frost in one great flower swallow.
The barn swallow,
perched not far from the path of tangerine,
must have also taken notice of the peonies
as he took the first steps
to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown,
would enjoy the flowerbed of glass
that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass
of tea, she admired the familiar swallow
lover as she folded into her nightgown
bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine
sunlight. She took the steps
back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies:
Peonies
placed in vases of glass,
peonies lining the porch steps,
peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow,
she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine
trail with the peonies from her nightgown.
Her nightgown,
stained with the rouge petals of peonies,
dragged along the tangerine
terrace of glass,
blood red with the memory of her swallow
lover’s peony-petaled steps.
The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown.
The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies,
shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Time is...
a gift, barely examined
a present, rarely opened
locked away in a strong box
its key cobwebbed under
the dust of procrastination.
In disbelief
we feign ignorance
mentally banking cheques
signed:'all the time in the world'
Yet we drink reflectively
from warm comforting
fragile glazed cups
filled with the brazen solution:
'no time like the present'.
Perhaps we all 'need a break'...
_________________________
'in a jiffy' may be too late.
© Qwey.ku
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
Let me know
What was that
That made you
To choose him/her
She/He replied
Leave it, or listen
***** is the future
Nothing more
Being an observant and a traveller of examined life I come to this conclusion. Tragedy does not happen, from the very beginning It is "Us" who pave the path within. With the unawareness we focus to travel to the destination where we don't belong. Throughout the journey we keep on dreaming with a hope of a good day making us vulnerable to the threshold, when even a single undesired word, few seconds delay, lyrics of the background music could unexpectedly break us.
Trust me we all are fragile.
Let it be simple, if we are watering the leaves of the plant and hope to grow, we get the result what we have to accept. Sometime mishaps happens, we are the culprit. How dare we expect to water the roots of the plant in neighbor's terrace and wish for the fruit to be ours.
We may smell the fragrance if the kind breeze blow towards our side.
Even we may always get the fragrance if we follow the direction of the wind.
The choice is ours.
Does it worth?
Will we be happy?
Can we hide the pain?
Always
The choice is all ours.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty
I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious
So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes
When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
New Zealand culture,
a fragility,
tainted by violence.
Colonisation.
Writers have examined,
the loss of Maori land.
Less common however,
is writing concerned with
the benefits,
accruing to white people
as a result of the acquisition
of this land.
Colonisation has provided,
Economic and social advantages,
to white people,
in contemporary New Zealand.
A hierarchy,
white Western culture,
sitting uncontested,
at its pinnacle.
The cultural capital that whiteness provides.
Unearned advantages at our disposal.
Live our lives with greater ease:
Homeownership.
Health.
Education.
The ‘Justice’ System.
Institutional privilege.
A political separation.
The white New Zealand system,
designed for whites.
To get through school,
have good health,
get jobs,
get a little justice.
If the system was designed,
for Maori people
it would not be the way it is now.
Overrepresentation of Maori,
in every
negative
New Zealand
social statistic.
The persistence of white power.
Society provides greater opportunities,
to white people,
by disadvantaging those who are not.
Unacknowledged,
debilitating, racism.
Being oblivious,
sustains a belief,
in white superiority.
While factors:
socioeconomic status, gender,
sexuality, disability,
may impact the degree to which,
individual white people,
can access privilege.
On some level,
every white person,
in New Zealand
benefits from their skin.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
I’m not a picture of perfection,
But I am the Mona Lisa of imperfection,
This distorted picture which you view,
This picture which you judge,
Which you question,
Is my only reality,
A picture hanging in a museum wall,
Being watched, examined, analysed, criticized,
I am that picture,
The one you so often seldom walk pass,
The one which may catch your eye,
The picture that when you stop to stare at,
Haunts you,
The glazed complexion over the eyes,
The somewhat distant smile,
And the disheavled hair,
It’s not a picture of perfection,
But it’s the Mona Lisa of imperfection,
It’s a representation of all those beings walking this earth trying to hide their flaws,
They are not Mona Lisa’s,
They hang on the wall of museums,
Pretending that no one sees through them,
Little do they know, they are barely paintings but pieces of glass,
So transparent and fragile,
That any moment now, when that passing strange stops,
Stares,
And opens there mouth,
That glass, will shatter into tiny little brush strokes,
They will float away into the air,
Leaving nothing but a distorted image of perfection,
Whilst I’ll hang in my glory of imperfection
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 4:23 PM UTC
Yesterday was tough
Tougher than before
It broke me down inside
Left me crumbled on the floor
But then I remembered
the semicolon
Today was hard
Harder than before
It killed my soul a little
Left me bleeding on the floor
But then I remembered
the semicolon
A small mark
Seems insignificant
But when examined further
Becomes magnificent
An authors way
Of saying *hold on
don't give up just yet
there is plenty more to come*
Tomorrow will be painful
More painful than before
It will break me down
Leave me broken on the floor
But I will remember
Forever more
That small, simple mark
Giving out hope for all
the semicolon
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
I used to find myself in the reflection of that water,
And cleans myself of troubled thoughts
At rivers bend , claim name as abandon daughter,
I whispered into every tear my shame and greatest fears,
That after all these years that I had made it clear
That no love was real, and that I should persevere.
To have my heart torn out, torn before me.
I soothed it’s hot wounds in the lapping wake
In the ripples that my teardrops make
Examined as the flesh grew mark,
Record each pain in pink puckered scar.
I used to find myself in the reflection of that water,
Strip bear my inhabitations lay bare to naked skin,
Laugh at indiscretion, death, and fear when I dove in.
Dove down into the waters where silence overtook,
To noise and sleepy slumber of the flowing living brook.
I used to concentrate on beauty and the confidence life took,
And drown my insecurities and grin at boys who looked.
I used to find myself in the reflection of that water,
In the moons bright light astride the bank
when summer nights grew hotter.
I used to let the water pull me to the center of myself,
Let it hold onto me when I was lost to everybody else,
I used to sing it lullaby’s , until I found myself,
Now I’m getting older, they say the waters gotten cold,
And I have gotten harder but that I have gotten bold,
And I know I’m apt at swimming but there are some
Bridges I have known, but sometimes I think of running water
Over my frayed and frazzled soul.
But a storm is coming closer with terror in its clouds,
Hiding in shrouds of chaos , with rain that’s falling down,
It’s tearing away the sandy banks and washed my water out.
It took away some part of me and held it tell it drown.
I wonder what I can see of myself in the wake of all this change,
Now all that’s left to do, is start wading through the pains.
And fallow thoughts that whisper “if I see myself the same”,
And I’ll remember I used to find myself
In the reflection of that water,
How much she cared for me
And how much I was taught there
And how everything has changed.
But I have left my mark there.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
So long in search of a love like yours
one that encompasses me completely
releasing all emotion
soul exposed bare and naked
to be examined and still accepted
what a revelation
that anyone would have that capability
attuned to every part of me
I respect you
seeing all my scars yet not even blinking
no cringing, no judging
only pure acceptance and love
a craving to heal, cure and dress my wounds
what a beautiful soul you must have, love
my counterpart, my companion
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
I want to tell her
But i can't.
I watch the spring rain fall.
A gentle tapping,
Sort of rapping
On the window's pane.
I focus on the sound until it fades.
I close my eyes and remember the day,
The scene is painted in a greyscale haze.
There stands you
Across the room
Enveloped in blue.
Your favorite colour.
It's late on that late winter's night,
And we're with our group.
If I said I knew who was there
I would be lying
Because it was you I was eyeing.
I'll skip the cliches, like
Butterflies
Or, better yet,
"Love at first sight"
Be as they may,
They all came true that night.
A casual glance became
A gaze became
A smile.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
Then Five,
We held it for a while.
I take a drink and pause the haze.
Minutes become hours that drag on for miles
We found ourselves in that grassy field
Dotted with trees,
And rabbits,
And owls.
A hot summer day-
The south suffers waves.
Hand in hand we make our way
Through the trail.
We fall behind our friends,
There's something I have to tell.
I stumble and fumble
Through letters to string,
I can't think of what to say.
And you say it's okay.
I smile and hold you close,
A mixed sense of pleasure morose.
Your lips touch mine,
And my heart explodes.
I can't believe we let each other go
We became 'twixt,
Ivy to our bones.
Again
Time lapses
There I am standing
There you are
Hanging
On him.
My rage demanding
His end.
But you come between
Deny instead.
Say I'm not right in the head,
Well, baby,
Love killed me dead.
I turn to walk away
And in turn you turn to
Return to he
Who shook your leaves.
So we've parted ways
And all was well
Until recently.
When I examined
A mural
And saw I missed a shard.
A blue tile
The final part
To my stain-glassed heart.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
I am an unwanted child of god
I am an unwanted child of god-
He said,
And I, (believing him)
examined his shapes closely.
Simple enough,
Is what would best describe him,
his feet were sheltered by rubbers
manufactured in some distant or exotic country
crafted by machines
in far away factories.
This unwanted child of god, this dark young man, child of father after father infinitum;
Gave me a look of terror and apathy at once, then spoke.
I think, sometimes, of acting out of character-
(his smile surprised me)
I put the gun in my mouth just to taste the cold iron-
I bring men to my hotel room, women too-
(his gap widened)
Who can say I am not the happiest ******* on the ******* planet-
'not me'
I'll drink to that-
Oh hoarse throat, oh smokey breath
Oh sad unwanted child of god
Whose mother did look upon the coat-hanger,
And whose father did look upon the belt;
I'll drink to you everyday,
For who is to say I'm not the happiest ******* on the ******* planet?
Hip and hip
hooray.
Next Sunday he pulled the trigger, and stained the Dull brown wall of his hotel room.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 7:11 PM UTC
Save me, so sweetly,
with your expert advice
on how to live someone else's life.
Advice is 𝑛𝑜𝑡 opinion.
It should be dissected, examined—
an understanding of 𝑚𝑦 situation.
Put yourself in my 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑,
not just in my shoes.
Tell me what I’ve forgotten,
𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 me—don’t remake me.
Open my eyes to 𝑚𝑦 goal, not yours.
Tell me how to achieve—
𝑛𝑜𝑡 what you believe.
Otherwise, don’t be surprised
when I seem not to listen.
I do.
I 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 do.
But only the good advice
will be used.
Still, I should be thankful
for how kindly you’ve killed me.
And now,
what an honor—
for you to save me, so sweetly.
Apr 20, 2025
Apr 20, 2025 at 11:37 AM UTC
My sister boasted to me one night in a Liverpool pub
She had *** with a couple of coppers down the Mersey Tunnel.
'You're nothing bit a fat slapper' I scolded her,
As she examined the selfie I had taken
Just a few moments earlier of me
And her best friend up against the ladies' bog door.
"Good likeness, innit?" I commented and the
She farted stentoriously in surprise and,
The follow-through oozed down her dimpled thigh.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
I AM THE SAME
AS EVERYONE ELSE.
I listen to music and I watch Netflix and go to work and laugh and love
and boy, do I ******* love.
I'm not some specimen in a Petri dish,
waiting to be examined.
I
am
human
with a heart and a mind
like every one of you.
I'm under the microscope...
Why do you still refuse to see?
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
have you guys
ever been to
großburgwedel?
it's in germany
i am there right now
to have my right leg
examined
sure: it's raining
the sky is grey
and all that
well well
but one thing i am
certain of:
i wouldn't come here again
except i want to gain
certainty
i have nothing against
the people
from großburgwedel
i simply don't want to
live in grey lands:
grey faces
grey voices
and many right-winged persons
I LOVE COLORS
I LOVE THE GERMAN AND THE ETHIOPIAN FLAG
I LOVE MY BI-RACIAL FAMILY
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 7:26 AM UTC
This is not about you.
This is not about
the transmutation
of your jail celled mind
wrapped in self-help
and cellophane.
This is not about
your new found
discovery
discovering me
and my afflictions
according to the
white man’s diction
a dictation
of my past
extracted
and examined
under the microscopic
power of time.
This is not about
your self-defined
enlightenment
when you made
a deal to unearth
the truth of HeLa
coated in dust
covered particles
of HeLa
on your nightstand
and I laid
in a grave
unmarked.
This is not about
my big lips
and thick hips
under ***** covers
running a sweat
fever on my thighs
shaking feet in stirrups
and the pain was rich
after a tight pinch
and I didn’t know
what part of me
had been snipped
to grow cold
and never die.
No, this is not about you.
This is about me.
A historic legacy
left to thrive across the time
less chains of nucleic
tidal waves
Covalent bonds
could never rival
the strides of this soul
miles beyond
the distant
COLORED ENTRANCE
something brewing
inside dividing
inexplicable replication,
readying for harvest
behind a dried tobacco field
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
A blanket of darkness caressed the street
Of people asleep with misguided feet
With hollow hearts devoid of light
They couldn’t see which way was right.
They flirted with death quite comfortably
Acquired great knowledge yet remained empty.
Nothingness stopped them from venturing out
They couldn’t see past their realm of doubt.
One girl arose and examined her soul
Unlike the others, her heart was made whole
Her citizenship was not of that street
Her home was beautiful, bright, and complete.
She was an ambassador from her homeland
Spreading its light with the book in her hand
Whenever she went to a cold, dark place
Her heart’s luminescence would radiate.
Attracted to her light, many gathered to see
What made this girl so loving and free.
As she read her book it opened their eyes
Many chose truth over superficial lies.
This book from her homeland was about her King
Who created beauty from every broken thing.
If the people came to Him, He would heal their hearts
And mend together all their fragmented parts.
Many said it was nice, but couldn’t be true
Others said it was myth, something construed.
Yet some believed, and received new life
Escaping the blanket of darkness that night.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Trembling,
you said to me
“Put the potato down”.
I examined the raw tuber,
clenched tightly in my hand,
like the first man
on a distant continent
to discover
this strange and ugly meteor,
with earthen smell
and cold rough skin;
it’s dead eyes staring back at me.
“Please, put down the potato”
I glanced at you,
wordlessly,
unfurling my fingers
the potato fell to the ground
in an unceremonious
thud.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
being in a relationship
sometimes feels like
being looked at through a telescope
neither of you knows much about one another
and through the telescope
you see the wonder and the beauty
it's the first stage of discovery
discovery only leads to more curiosity
so you dive deeper
it becomes more like
being looked at under a microscope
all the little pieces of you
are being examined
you do your best
to display only the beautiful parts of yourself
on the slides,
but you can't control what someone else sees
and sometimes until you're closely examined
you don't know you have a disease
and the more slides that are shown under the microscope
the more you discover
the more you know
and that gives you the power to change
to take medicine
because being in a relationship
should inspire you to be
the best version of yourself
and together
you can heal each other
stop the spread of disease
and see even more beauty
under the microscope
than you did through the telescope
and the next time you look through
that telescope you will be even more beautiful
than the last.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 4:18 AM UTC
As the time is passing through
From the present to the past
The moment is all wrapped up .....
....To be ....put away at last!!
A GIFT-----
From some future time
When all the signs
Will show you
That you now have
A need for seeing
Past the thing you already know
When the present
Becomes history---
In a past thats not yet opened--
To be seen for what it is ---or isn't
Depending on what you're hoping
While the past ....
.....is time passing
And time gone ....
.......is going faster
Now is the time for you...to
Re-- examine
A GIFT THAT WAS
Once your master
Its so hard to take
Even a single step
To know now
That the thing you fear
Stands before you
As the lost and found
So the only question left is right here
Will you see the past
Whenever
You choose to lose
Or gain by seeing....
.....The past
That you've kept
All wrapped up inside
That is now your future---
If it is presently----
Being Opened and Examined
But if you can just imagine
Some mi'nute past defeat
As the thing that is now....yours
FOR - GIVING
So rather than.......anonymously
Presenting it to you .....yourself
By your own past deceit
Make sure that you return it
UNOPENED --- Along with the receipt.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A cop was butchered
They knifed his chest
And indifferently examined
Red flowers just grown on his soul asylum
Red flowers
On his soul asylum
The blood splashed on the children’s faces
It’s no blood it must be freckles
It is blood
It’s no blood it must be freckles
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A sleepless cop was killed
He had been reading Naked Lunch all night long
And then they killed him
And the kids
Freckle-faced
Each bought an ice-cream
And threw the changes into the face of
A beggar with a boyish haircut
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A proud cop was killed
His eyelashes smashed the sun into pieces once and for all
And once and for all his lips repeated:
Kids
Heroine
Tangier
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A cop was butchered
He knew nothing about the literary work of a poet Dmitry Alexandrovich Prigov
He just remembered his name
From a literary radio program
In November or April
On the left side of the supermarket
From the darkness and the wall scripts of the entrance
A cop appeared like a comics character
With a cap on and a stiff collar, he had been cutting through the darkness and air
And he somehow reminded a shark
Huge and white
By the entrance,
On the left side of the supermarket
A courageous cop was killed
Then he got up and walked across
The river, which does not divide a city into two parts
He walked with pride
He’d got the power
To taste the sea
Without getting wet.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC