"existentialists" poems
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
This is a poem about nothing
which is impossible since Nothing is actually Something
An indefinite pronoun.
Now, I'm discussing nothing
a concept that makes 'nothing' a thing
Confused? I am.
My mind is buzzing with the thought of nothing!
So is my mind empty or not?!
Discussing nothing is leaving me blushing!
Now existentialists,
Sartre was influenced by Heidegger
Heidegger says he was misunderstood
In the effort to bring about a poem about nothing,
I've created something, so this poem is now about Something'
what, I know not.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
*concerning the last lines... all we can do with the Cartesian Libra is add adjectives to it, which is contrary to what the existentialists did by simply modifying a furthered abstraction of the compounds 'i think' and 'i am', via the inverted comma(s), otherwise known as dittoing, sic, prior said, or re-, true to the oddity; a king will continue to question his position / being a king by not thinking about it, hence his uninhibited delusions, hereditary, very much genetic; and hence someone who precursors his being with much concern for thinking, the inhibited delusion, self-serving - both are adjective expansions of the Cartesian Libra, just added qualities, given both are facts requiring a slab of marble to look like Rodin's kiss - or approximate, with therefore being the chisel, and so dependent the end product, indeed a slab of marble at first, but not necessarily Rodin's kiss at the end - perhaps a Notre Dame gargoyle...*
i am what i think,
that's what i came up with after
reading some of the bio sketches -
even though the truth is that
i am what i own -
thinking is the part that comes last,
if i own a bed and a roof over my head,
i end up i thinking about being
homeless - but sometimes you do find
the ones that are inclined
to be what they think, the extremes
we call them - supreme anti-materialists,
it's not satisfying to own a house
or a phone, more is required,
something tinged with transcendental
counters - they "own" a home
but rather not live in it, already the
looming fairy of heaven tells them
of an unnatural life expectancy -
some might say thinking a form of
uninhibited delusion sketches,
like i'd be a venture capitalists taking
a weekend away in Hawaii while
some ridiculousness of poverty in India
was to blame for my jet streams and
carbon footprints - they keep the
inhibited delusional in cages without
a chance to sketch - because the uninhibited
delusional have all the freedoms
that Versailles could allow - or...
uninhibited delusions of non-thought,
inherited, hereditary,
versus inhibited delusions of thought,
mutated, self-invented...
this could very well be a "magic" square
with two further variations, i.e.
uninhibited delusions of thought (psychopathy)
inhibited delusions of non-thought (coma?
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
The men wept and the women wept, children, dogs, cats and grandparents wept
The theist, the atheist and the agnostics all wept
The politicians in their boastful and pristine offices wept
The homeless man with his homeless bride wept
Homemakers in their homes,
Chefs in their kitchens,
Workmen on their lunch breaks all wept
I wept and you wept, we wept together
Tears that fell all around us like burst banks and levees
The dadaists in Russia wept
The existentialists in the Ukraine wept
The absurdists and nihilists of France even wept
What a sight
The post-modern Christians and neo-vaudevillians weeping still,
The grounds of the deserts in the south that begged for moisture on a regular basis, wept
The slick icy glaciers in the far north continue to weep
My home was full of tears, as I believe was yours,
The news, too much to bear,
Words that cascade from mouths, wept
The shadows and the sun that cast them wept also
It was a sight to behold,
the moment we all discovered the true essence
Of empathy.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
"my identification lies in the hopeless psychedelic absurdities of ninety year old existentialists and the macabre **** trails of industrialized ghosts
Slaying scissor handed dragons of whirlwind dimensions from plain abject boredom
Smashed with broken Knuckled collisions against walls of mimetic iron and steel
as territorial **** measuring fanatics play out semiotic fantasies of heroic rigor mortis but i don't want to get political
because the cosmic play is of the ancient masters repeatedly tripping over each other
and i don't claim to know the rules if there are any
So for now i will bash my brains and hair against this black holed vacuum of being in itself
and try to remember that the uncertainty principle doesn't allow us to know position and velocity simultaneously
and that by observing the world it is irrevocably changed by the power of Schrodinger's Cat
I would tear that ******* ******* to shreds if I looked in the box
So next time around i'll mechanically saw off my arms and see if they will grow back
and burn gasoline in a shovel mesmerized by the blue flames and melted animal ecstasies connecting all to the light of infinite unknowing"
Said the dog with the bone in his mouth. I asked him
"how can you talk with food in your mouth like that? it's dreadful"
He did not reply.
I pondered his speech on the train home and filled a balloon with nitrous,
tide it off and began to punch it while holding the rubber band attached.
a man with knuckle tattoos next to me popped it with a pen
I miss my nitrous balloon
But i didn't have time to think about it because a Hottentot venus in yoga pants with that *** like bow! just walked past
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
You may not entirely understand the reality of a 'dank existence,'
As the ranks of society have used interpretive dance as resistance
To the lime-green light that illuminates that room in the brain,
Where interpretation of thought drives explanation insane.
You may not entirely understand what is real;
From the epilogue clearing fictions fog to what makes an orange peel,
As it's not a simple way to live every day,
But it's found that, quite obviously, it is the best way,
Lacking the patch of reality's seal,
It truly is the only real way to feel.
To say that my mind has gone mad without power,
Is like saying pop-rocks from '67 aren't sour,
Or a Peoples Republic won't rise like a tower,
Over Western metropolis, and the President's glower.
And to say that my brain is subdued within chains,
Is like claiming humanity never made it to space.
It's a possibility, but from any value of face,
The assumption is old, and conservingly fake.
Lets say we randomize all events in our lives;
From the time we wake up, to where we close our eyes,
And the constant adventure, as to 'where to go next,'
Finds that our past is quite static once the next second is vexed
And the constant thieving of the ideas that we steal,
Makes life an existentialists ideal meal,
With the past, and the present, and the future entwined,
It's a smorgasbord of endeavor drawn outside the lines,
And we love it.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 4:53 PM UTC
,;.;.;.;.;
spasms
.;.;.;.;.;
spasms
.;.;.;.;.;
spasms
---------------------------
---------------------------
divisions
creations
incantations
So where do we begin?
Well, of course, indeed, rather undeniably
there first comes the identification of a form
(existentialists label this essence)
then certainly some consummation of labour
under out dated regulations is carried out -
then perhaps some degree of manipulation
‘culturally, economically, politically, psychologically’
are some of the common ones to reference...
but then lastly - realisation and overcoming.
The discovery of some truth
in the illusion of this thing.
And finally there, in that vector of chaotic surfaces, that
change and ameliorate, painting life
into this picture to be hung in the Luve ,
emerges a new thing,
something entirely distinct and precise
and we ask the masses of peasants
“what shall we call it?”
and they say
“the ubermensch or some ********
but don’t really care until they realise
it is invisible, and they cannot touch it
so it scares them into insomnia,
paralysis
and involuntary thoughts
like ‘is it real? god, enlighten me’
and most who have seen it
in full form
lie awake at night
rupturing like tissue paper,
into two soft scars
motioning towards something
in the uncertain wind,
absorbing everything fluid and free
and still of course rather insoluble,
and permeating.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:58 AM UTC
If you're exempt from gravity
then who condemns you?
Tell me again how the rules don't apply
to existentialists like yourself
To those who find laws trifling
and to those who ****** ideas
with greedy minds
Please enlighten me
What is it you hope to uncover?
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 7:38 PM UTC
We pick and choose
What to believe
What hurts us most
Is released
Before the tears
And suffering
Old cherished myths
Our self deceit
The center of
Our universe
Revolves around
A different sun
The meaning
That we give to life
In a flash is
All undone
So then we tremble
On our beds
And pause
In silent
Humble prayer
The fear is of
The unknown God
The search for guidance
Anywhere
It’s hard to even understand
The layers of pain
That we meet
It seems cruel to keep us
From the truth
Deny the food
That we need
Yet we keep our faith
And we resist
We’re not closet
Existentialists
We may cry in pain
We may question why
But our hope in God
Just never dies
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 4:42 PM UTC
snip me into strips.
re-arrange my lines and
diction into one of your
manic-pixie-found-poems.
black out the most important
parts of me with messy sharpie
and paste me onto some photo,
whose irrelevancy adds to the
romantic air you were trying
to achieve.
then read me to glassy-eyed
existentialists looking for life-meaning,
and display me on your wall
affixed with haphazard masking tape.
love me like this.
turn me into a forgotten love poem.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
Are we then all existentialists
hopeless travellers over life-time?
are we being absurd ,as life seems to be empty
bereft of content and all that's deemed sublime?
time is worse than an executor
who kills but once--it clings to the flesh--nothing does it relish
it festers and speaks no kind words
only that humans are born to perish
transient is human joy
brittle is its hope
old age creeps in too soon
(it's hard for existentialists to cope)
the waiting
the sighing
the heaving
the suffocating
the questioning
the doubting
the monotonous and inane grinding
which all seems to know no ending
but we are all existentialists anyhow
bearing the cross of being in the here and now
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Full moon tides pull us tonight.
Our twins, sent away on a rocket ship.
We’re of an age now
where the winters grow longer,
the storms darker, the rains harder,
the summers shorter.
The academy is split—
the stoics, the skeptics,
the purists, the academics,
the existentialists—
what is and what isn’t.
While we wait for the day
crows fall from the sky;
but there’s one thing you can count on,
we’ll be clutching one another
beneath the rubble.
The fisherman’s wife sews his nets at night;
the whiskey sea, the gentle tide—
human driftwood floating home.
Remember the train we road to Salem;
we game up our seats
so the old women could sleep,
and we felt good.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
This old man looks so sad
The hollow glance at the floor
Hands shaking
The lack of sense
Pain of conscience
Rude awakening
Who could imagine that
He did something bad
Slowly he approaches the door
City folks lore
Deeper than Hollywood
Cheap drama store
The wind takes his hat
The rush makes he look like a rat
Tired, lonely
Trapped in rusted cage bars
Sour taste of the gift of life
Anxiety, the most faithful wife
For a bottle of *****
He strives
Amidst sands of despair
In the desert of remorse
The subway of broken dreams
Like a purgatory it seems
To make people face
Their innermost sins...
Maybe this is just a big lie
But the old man exists
And the image of hands shaking
Insists.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Stelios said ι (iota), while Burak said ı (mini 1)
with missing diacritical dot
allowing him to sprechen omega (/ɯ/ \ ω)
| bent and . running off into
another parabola - Geminis
formed - then another dot
appeared, linguistic arithmetic
that's Turkic ï - when drawing
a straight line from y = x you only
need two points - ï = x squared -
hence the ɯ / ω -
Diyarbakır - sometimes known as
diyarbakeer
"" (optional)
of the umlaut factor - umlaut on o (ö)
variant of omega;
post-existentialists would never ditto
out or pass-on words filled with meaning
to provide the Pilate ambiguity -
post-existentialists put stresses on sound -
why someone from East London
will never speak Queen's English -
" " = encapsulating ambiguity and freedom
from morality -
" = how it was said prior, also know as tradition,
or keeping with " .
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
we're all the ******* same.
we wear hoops in our ears to seem gangsta,
wear black to show we don't care,
we're all existentialists fond of nietsche
we write poems and laud self expression as a new god,
the god of the self.
we listen to the most minimal techno
while smoking cigarettes that will **** us
and we don't maintain eye contact too long
or we'll fall in love
because we're so not used to raw human contact.
we **** on drugs
god forbid we let someone see
our real selves, stripped down,
not hiding behind a haze of being high.
we yearn for a greater meaning,
and strut around like roosters pretending
we care about politics
but the world is collapsing on itself
and all we can do is write facebook posts,
millions of the same laments.
we don't actually care,
except as a way to boost our own egos for being informed.
we care about living in the moment,
paying exorbitant amounts of money to
rave in a desert with thousands of other people
also living in the moment.
we don't want ugly friends,
beautiful friends are so much more instagrammable.
we all care about having perfect sunglasses,
perfect shoes,
perfect hair,
more than having a perfect world,
perfect understanding,
perfectly imperfect, fought for love.
no wonder we keep smoking to
shorten our hedonistic lives.
our minds are decaying while
our bodies are getting primed up,
glossified, matted, blurred,
made more perfect every day.
nazis have an undercut? well,
every boy in america has one too.
go punch a ****
not because you think it's the right thing to do,
but because you want to be cool.
we're all just followers, all just tools.
and writing all this out makes me the biggest tool of all,
because it's nothing that hasn't already been written
a thousand times before.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
I'm from the side of the tracks where you won't come back
Sometimes fade to white, sometimes to black
Secreting the pus of another failed lust
My intentions only bending on a whim or a ****
So break the glass over my face and watch me go hard
If I got no other outlet you better hope you'll go far
Because sickles and hammers aren't only symbolic
They can be used to intrude on your systems metabolic
Contortionists form a fist and slick the road for communists
A bottomless populace heavy handed and cacophonous
Desolate like postulates from existentialists, mop your ****
And follow it with sawed-off **** shotguns for columnists
So open up these ******* veins, I got no reason to try and change
Scatter-brained, like blood insane in dark fantasies untamed
Unchained and ********* and horse-laced with your taste
My way is the highway so don't **** with my **** deranged
I'm sick like
*** it's exciting
To know you're dying
From the first breath
You're primed for death
And there's nothing left
Like 21 grams
And ***** sexts
It's a blank slate
And my blood's paint
For the walls of
The Satanic Saints
To **** my brain
And **** myself
Because it's easier
Than killing everyone else
No ******* effort, no giving a ****
Surely I am broken like a Muslim's ****
So you're right to be scared
Sure you're checking my history
To make sure that no one
Is trying to **** me
I'm ugly, my soul is black
And I'm happily taking nothing back
I told you I needed an outlet
But don't assume I'm finished yet
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
coming from the spatial, rather than the temporal position
of the reinvention of the cartesian
unit, i.e. res locus...
the following can only be based in germanic:
dasien... i.e. there-being...
well, the english answer would sound
like the following: there's being;
there, is, being; **** me, that's seriously frankenstein like;
all it says though, is: there's existence
to speak of... if it needs to be spoken of...
but the concept of res cogitans
has to be replaced by something new...
given the existentialists, esp. the germans,
it can only come about via heidegger's concept of dasein...
hence, me, at the bith of the 21st century...
conceptualised as res locus equivalent
to expressing 24 / 7 news coverage...
oh the thinking thing is relevant... but in the beginning
of the 21st century... you simply need to "locate" it...
you have to state the aversion to heidegger's dasien /
being there... temporal...
via there's being... spatial;
alternatively hand-in-hand with indiana jones
covering the happenings of, and in, the *third *****
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 11:30 AM UTC