"extrasensory" poems
A final inhalation, farewell to oxygen
submitting to oblivion
a conscious lack of everything.
The very absence of air, sickening and
desolate, destitute, despairing
tearing at my aching lungs,
my vacant mind.
Call me a vagabond, a wanderer
entrapped in the extrasensory.
My breath escapes.
The empty core within myself rings in tune with the extant and extinct.
Neck arching, mouth agape
a single note transcends my lips of stone
unadulterated, unwavering, a melodious sound
building and joining in harmony to create a symphony of
life, of
death, of
everything we cannot comprehend.
Sonorous and assonant
my soul cries out
at ever-growing volumes.
My eyes begin to flicker and fade away.
God, can You hear my screams in space
in this vacuum, void of sound?
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
coloring inside the lines is impossibly bleak,
with a hissing noise
atomic locomotive
rounds the bend,
extrasensory perception is not
a mindless gift,
it's a train station in the clouds,
tracking all my starting points to you,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
you leave in opera
with secrets and grievances
under the radar,
and your ready-made
wings catch in the power lines,
you're coiling like smoke
in the arches of my cathedral,
a sense of elegant decay
while sweeping up the debris,
committing arson
with the paraffin of my temporal lobe.
yesterday's fairground waltzes,
ghosted lullabies,
and woodland hymnals,
set in a context not of
resolution and closure,
but of contradiction and assimilation,
break the bond,
away they float on purveyor belts,
one too many molecules,
one too many departures,
always on the surface of everything,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 7:27 AM UTC
Ambassadress of the darkness; Akashic Records bringing to light the real storm of contemporary living while consequently sprinkling magical desires into the ontological fire
Conglomeration of whirling bits of electrical force; creating dynamic synergy both negative and positive in nature and sending extrasensory energy pulsating through this mortal container.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
We think that
when a lover inflates his loved one
he or she is failing to acknowledge their flaws...
"Love is blind" we say ...
but it may be the other way around
You see ...
Love allows a person to see
the true angelic nature of another,
their halo,
the aureole of divinity.
Love permits
an extrasensory capability of looking deeper into the soul.
And for that reason,
Genuine love
could not be blind.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
Such ****** and passion,
intricate pictures we cannot imagine
Devoid of self, utter surrender
plunge into the streams of your soul
Finding the hot wires,
forming strings so we can find home
Not having a memory of what it means to be alone
Ode, to you, Love I say
It is not so much the words posted, but the context condensed
How you unwrap the figures textual 'til they make sense
It is not so much the touching and cuddling
but the invisible electricty of extrasensory connecting
It is not so much the breath on my neck as you reach in to kiss me
But the etheric messages of wind telling me you miss me
We have had a try to attempt to twist this style
To find the spiraling curls in prose
To dissect the detailed aerial strips of the scent of a rose
Ode, to you, Love I say
Poetry is forever
pottery forms artifacts of clay but do they stay?
This sweet ode paints a picture that will remain
in the drawers of eternity...
I cannot lie, it has been something of a frailty
my pursuits of love have quieted my frivolity
I have since been calm, playing an instrument imaginary
Waiting for a tone that will help me find my tune
You are that song that ends too soon
Ode, to you, Love I say
Just echoes and epiphanies
voices and mellow claps singing into me:
Ode, to you, Love I say
on this day a heart will not break
but will be strong and find its way.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
~
*Or migrated pod
Or fleeing refugee
Or corban
Or carbon dioxide
Or yubitsume
Or van Gogh's ear
Or black Friday
Or lazy evening at the carnival
(Tomorrow has already started)
Or free range
Or gated community
Or breast exam
Or storage crisis
Or fallen leaves
Or germ warfare
Or temporary file
Or permanent wave
Or thigh gap
Or physiognomy
Or soap made of heroes
Or multiplanetary living
(There's a floating graveyard between this world and the next)
Or logical fallacy
Or irrational number
Or elementary analysis
Or college guess
Or cardiopulmonary resuscitation
Or extrasensory perception
Or ten fingers and toes
Or a dozen eggs
(They say there's strength in numbers)
Or fifth floor, corner room
Or high as a kite
Or bellwether
Or mingled with bells
Or police sirens
Or loitering around in silent films
Or rule of thirds
Or tombs of second-hand kings
Or face in the rain
Or pareidolia
(Otherwise, at first light you might be smiling...)*
~
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 9:11 AM UTC
Inhuman humans
Extraterrestrial bipedal
Extrasensory sensationalism
Salvation sensitivity
Helium halo hierarchy
Filtered fixated complex
Validated valor rejects
Calibrated gratitude
Servitude cyanide
Failing fortitude
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
transparent boundaries in a mind
mark out the blank vacuum of space
scrutinize other minds discard all trivia
extract with a kinetic incisiveness
required information
in a chronological diversity of images
speak with the fluency of an abrupt halt
which is maximized to reduce an effect
on the skeletal calisthenics of
introspective histrionics
by acquired extrasensory faculties
by that very mind, by that very mind
a neurobiological transmutation
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Sometimes it's difficult to be
Extrasensory
It's like
Being blind in a darkened room
Feeling around with a cane
But knowing
Exactly where everything is
And wondering why
You waste time taking baby steps
It's like
Predicting you will trip over the fold in the carpet
And then doing so anyway even though you're conscious of it
It's like
Experiencing everything
Even the bad things
Twice
Everything a deja vu
It barely surprises me, my mouth open in permanent awe from
Trying to meddle and change the outcome
But always
Failing
It's like
Watching the same movie with the same sad ending
Hoping every new time you press play
The guy wins the race
Or that the lovers won't die
But they do
Every time
Once, twice, a million times
A cinematic premonition
And I don't know why
I keep paying to see this god **** movie.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 1:12 AM UTC
Creeping about
in the shadows
a ghastly and repugnant
creature
haunts the corners
in sinister deception.
Less than transparent panes
give an ominous feel
to this seemingly
abandoned shell.
Many a child has paused,
fear seizing them
like cold fingers around their throat
only then to run,
to run home to their
warm sanctuary
from all things
evil.
Avoiding,
through extrasensory
knowledge,
the
creature
invoking
the
dread
in their
innocent
hearts.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 4:19 PM UTC
And there you are
You bask in your little pool of golden glory
Dark eyes, they shimmer in that light
All you want is your little pills
And your little finger down your little throat.
The allure of those bones
They tantalize your enthrallment
And they shimmer with those eyes
In your little pool of golden glory.
And there you are
In your dark little dream
All you want is your little pills
And that visceral little finger down your little throat.
In your clairvoyant depth you reside
Extrasensory you are in your perception
And there you are.
Don't forget those little pills.
...Where are your little pills?
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
Extrasensory perception
Perhaps a sixth sense
Feeling and reading
The mind bends
To subtle nuances
And blatant clues
To discover clairvoyance
That you already knew
Illusionist mindsets
And trickery too
Can fool you to think
They know more than they do
When all people are prisms
Slightly off-hue
And all are a song
On a radio un-tuned
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Every new canvas or wood I begin, starts with a mental insult, turning into a dark alley street fight. All found objects are used as weapons.
Before my image, color, category, or medium is even applied. I somehow discredit or abuse the medium through extrasensory transference or ***** looks. Or am accused of it. After that, the cloth is unforgiving and taunting. And from there, I can not be placated and must defend myself.
Slights and wounds and offensive disrespects are hurled at me in hopes of defeatism and scarring. And my retaliation is never ready. I slink out into a restless sleep and awkward day, clearing my head, deep thinking and do research for inspiration on fighting a wooden bully. The resurfacing of my retribution comes firing back with thought and truth and defense, until my opponent has heard all it will hear and dares me.
From there I take battle in slinging and taping and throwing off-color remarks at this ***** for what seems like days, until I find the weak spot. And then, just pummel. Continue and repeat with a variety of similar strokes. This is when it gets worn out and I can see progress.
Like a beam of golden light. The pressure to finally usurp and overthrow all that has distracted me, is rolled out like a red carpet until the throne is visible. With violent blacks slung up top and lower, all flavors of blue bashed in the ribcage, muddy brown and ash around the knees and lower. And all over, a melting custard of crimson red drips erratic around this terrorizing yet pleading to just finish off this piece of wood or cloth. Covered in a multitude of cheap shots, unprofessional swatches, gorgeous strokes, and derivatives, we wipe the dust and tears and blood from our eyes and finally my opponent yields, and I am congratulated on another battle well fought.
"You don't always win", the board transfers
"Many have been left undefeated and unfinshed, stay humble you're learning wisdom and patience"
These words ring with echoing sound. On my walk home, my painted and smeared, ripped body and mind contemplative of all lessons and struggles, I long to tell Annie about the war I just had.
Will she listen...?
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
"The language of a flower speaks
outside of the senses and peaks"
© 2021 Carol Natasha Diviney
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 3:29 PM UTC
seasons are
not calendrical...
seasons are what
comes over elements
in moods of nonexistence.
a table drumming on a hand.
given as dates.
a five-count, sounding-out...
a dreamt dream's lifetime.
sixth as last to first,
forever extrasensory to
perception.
what is a cross, drafting
over.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 2:15 AM UTC