"facetious" poems
O fast day that trembles at the sight of Moon -
when will your warm arms bend again
the night's thick armor
that shades the world of joyous muse?
It is most facetious in its illusion,
that renegade of pale indifference,
when daylight dwindles and leaves more to imagine
than can be seen with naked eye.
Beneath the gaze of Her taunting face,
people do not walk as done in light -
suddenly, trudging and stumbling are hip style.
Faces covered in guilt, remorse, fatigue -
all the things Sun can wash away with a simple,
lucid grin.
If brightest bright were set ablaze amidst the night,
would people be plucked from this false sanctuary
which darkness so convincingly provides?
Then many a Lost could be freed;
if only to see clearly through effervescent
haze.
O blessed Sun!
With your arousal, Truth and Freedom will also renew -
until again that blank stare casts its malevolent glow on
Delusion.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
Rodin: My love, I am on my knees facing your beautiful body. My mouth is drinking your fire. I ***** us in stone. We are indissoluble.
Camille: I am heaven and hell. I am goddess and fire. You are my chauvinistic art-boy concubine.
Rodin: My dear Camille, can you not see my love for you is rooted in passion not stone or clay or bronze? Can you not feel my tongue lapping at your feet?
Camille: Foolish man. My feet are broken. I walk over you on stumps.
Camille leaves for England. Rodin follows.
Camille: You are boring.
Rodin: My love, can you not see that I am in a depressed mood. Can you not see that your capriciousness plagues me?
Camille: I love another.
Rodin: How can you say these things to me? I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I give you my artistic genius!
Camille: You’re right. You are a genius.
Rodin: Shall I write us up a contract?
Camille: As long as you don’t touch me.
Camille and Rodin return to Paris separately.
Rodin: It has been written. I will mentor you, write you in newspapers, place you in museums, and find you buyers.
Camille: You will not love another? You will spurn all but my art?
Rodin: I will. And you will marry me in return.
Camille: …
Rodin: Is there something wrong, my love?
Camille: Can you not see I am being facetious?
Rodin: My dear, you are my flora and gaiety. You are my chisel and stone. You are my breath and lungs.
Camille: Learn how to breathe without me.
Camille exits. Rodin crumples at the feet of Eternelle Idole.
Rodin: What have I done wrong?
Camille re-enters, her hands caked in clay.
Camille: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Rodin: Shall I get the handcuffs?
Camille: No. The lion’s cage.
Strong tides and wet fuchsias. Camille enters the cage forever.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
Vivacious, atrocious
Super capricious
Precocious and ferocious
Precious and gracious
Malicious and facetious
Long lashes
Gory gashes
Fiery slashes
Tunic mashes
Souls igneous
In the end, it’s all ashes, just ashes...
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
Lightning striking through a nervous system,
Blood pumping facetious fire.
Whispers through my home, hauntings of trauma and dreams of the crucifix stand.
The flaming star of the avatar.
The predator and the prey, predetermined and praying.
Just another eternity until the monsoon departs, the season ended. From there the calm waves will carry me to shore.
The dark, restful, kiln, I am your dough, as I am your clay, a grateful panettone.
Mold me, endow me the drug, the decree, the great recipe of relinquishment.
I rejected asylum, I denounced Gehenna,
Cold blooded sunbathing in the radiant rays of the great bird's wings.
The boiling embrace of his soft feathered fire.
The brutal, unrelenting, chaotic, climactic, pull into the hot murky depths.
Scald me, lash me, revive me in death.
For I can wait no longer.
Living in fear of the Reaper is worse than The Harvest itself.
So come unto me my lord, my peace,
And engulf me in the ******** rest.
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
resuming textual trip
testing experimental procedures
visualizing model tsunami
augmenting facetious environment
catching abstract architecture
noticing rhythmic exchange
projecting subtextual database
airhorning reggae royalty
adding atypical party
resolving twitter question
noticing emotional mission
awaiting emotional dialect
installing metaphorical experiment
intensifying animated trip
displaying dynamic victory
programming abstract development
releasing emotional exchange
deriving fata morgana
glorifying referential sequence
intensifying facetious map
noticing harmonic trip
observing radical ratio
compiling nomadic message
predating google rebranding
reticulating facetious panda
using hyperreal feedback
exploring virtual panda
speculating graphic gallery
throwing mundane exception
targeting graphic experiment
replenishing emotional trap
localizing asemic animal
dropping rhythmic trip
propagating immortal experiment
displaying lowercase database
invading orange bubbles
crashing animated trip
running conceptual topography
remembering collapsed buildings
crashing hyperreal coverage
propagating hyperreal stipulation
finishing western library
envisioning neon tessellation
reciprocating network likes
processing animated device
releasing haptic quality
examining building seven
awaiting rhapsodical ratio
sampling death sauce
sensing lowercase clone
examining symbolic tour
processing potential development
encapsulating spatial lottery
displaying digital paragraph
reticulating theoretical source
perpetuating western paragraph
transmitting monochromatic structure
anticipating ambient quality
transmitting asemic environment
intensifying atomic quality
remastering history poem
keeping future light
hypothesizing eternal game
using future library
rearranging masonic language
transmitting masonic development
continuing ceremonial ritual
questioning party's legitimacy
deferring western coverage
finishing asemic hypertext
mollifying ostentatious presence
synthesizing allegorical icon
forming categorical unions
sketching app wireframe
programming immortal repository
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
Play on.
Pretend.
Drum your anxious fingers out
In sync with the drip-drop of the melt,
Seeped prolix, distraught faucet mouth
Leaky kitchen sink, we drowned
Everything we could think to rinse
Meaning from
Down the drain. Our thumb prints
Scrubbed smooth away,
Quicker than crumbs
We followed and rationed and named
Stale keepsakes to keep us thin through Winter.
Thumb drummer, play on.
Pretend.
Facetious rhythms could kindle us
Warm enough to hibernate.
Thumb drummer,
Play on.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
I feel the friction raising blisters to fingers.
I feel the whispers of the smoke when it lingers,
a siren rifling delirium
and biting to the throat of a genius
who questions how bad miasma hurts the singer.
It's the quintessential fever dream between us
Oh, he's so smart, look at his three page diatribe
describing his rage, he's a machinist
yeah
Go join the dire parades of craven weakness.
Admire reagents calculated to the T,
brewed and created for playfully degrading,
and raising heart rate, lying to you,
and prying from your fingers.
When they ask you why you're dying be facetious.
Just sew the mask on to your face and make it seamless.
Breath it in.
Smell the plastic and bone.
Relax enraptured in what half of us know.
We drink the rumors from a chalice,
sink in fallacies of balance,
humor actuates the patterns,
and its harder to battle the tumor after it's grown.
Then we're just grass on the road,
and we can laugh as we go,
and we can act as if inaction
ain't the crack in the stone.
And we'll be baffled alone.
We'll be the practical applicants
of a graph of a lung,
hung in a school.
Drooling hospital drones.
Stool in a bag on his side.
Try to hide the agony in seeing lagging behind
tank of life on a chain.
Banking his breath on a check,
and when it bounces he dies.
It ends faster than you think it might.
Don't even start.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
Trees always have to go out with a bang, don't they
explosions of bursting color
freeze-framed fireworks of fall
bursting and cascading,
leaving ashes and hot coals to cool in soft grass
...I used bursting twice, didn't I?
alright, let me go open up my thesaurus...
blast? pop? rupture?
just replace it with one of those and call it good.
Back to the poem:
my popped-collar peacoat straightens my back
gotta match my posture to the pompous portrait
black wool on an over-scratched scratch paper
might as well just pick it all off
allow the color some room to expand
(I don't even own a peacoat, I just like the metaphor and imagery)
you could set the sentinel alight for the same effect
a more smokey atmosphere, sure,
but the color would be a little brighter
and I'd have the mushroom of smoke to match my coat
I've substituted my earbuds with the crunch crunch crunch
of leaves
crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch ––––
shoot that one looked good but it just flattened
crunch crunch crunch
invariable sound
back to my Beats by Dr. Dre
The arrow of geese points south
...
that's really all I have to say about that
some sort of metaphor about flapping my arms and following them?
I like jacket weather though
better stay grounded
hands in pockets; arms in long sleeves
insert some connection to death to match nature's descent into winter
Gosh, this season is too good to stand for something so sad
let's go jump off the roof into a pile of leaves
drink hot soup and get cuffed
watch steam and frost paint picturesque mornings
read in a dogpile of blankets
Winter may be coming
but so is spring ya goof
get off your melancholic horsey
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
I am disappointed by the mirror.
It says everything is fine.
It says don’t worry.
Everything is fine.
But I can see it.
Unfocused it shows.
It’s there, hidden in the depths of
These dark pools surrounded by
Bright green rivers that are stirred,
Tormented by life.
I can see it there,
This ********* mirror
It’s so facetious,
Everything is fine.
Telling fascinating lies.
I wonder what would happen
If it cracks.
Would the rivers freeze
Could I stand the shards
Piercing out and full of truth.
Would everything be fine then
I want to collide with this
****** up manifestation.
I want it to shatter and prove
If everything is fine.
If it weren’t so terrifying
I would.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 1:50 PM UTC
undeniably facetious obstacle
that's what you are to me
something I must overcome
well you have alienated me so much
you might as well call me an extraterrestrial
yet you are the one who abducted me
not the other way around
but practicalities are useless with you
at least there is life on other planets
so I will get into my spaceship
and blast as far away from you as I can
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Back with only memories of tomorrow.
the Personality that simply engulfs mine.
A hazel blaze that ate the small flame.
Tomorrow, you changed the entire world
burned down the sky, for the color of sunsets.
cynic turned something more facetious.
Pinwheel-heart only moves when you walk by.
simplistic melody of “ba-dump, Ba-dump”
fought for pacifism and won.
You and your crazy handful of nothings.
tore down the libraries to save the books.
Killed the dreamers to save the dreams
Dark Brown sunshine fell on your shoulders.
crescent moon sat under your nose.
and the stars twinkled across your face.
I only look to the sky to see you.
Build a life where tomorrow is not so far away.
where should we meet up? i know.
Lets meet at the edge of where you’ve been.
Lets meet at the edge of where you’re going
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 12:08 AM UTC
Language is the raw material
Transformation into art
Leaping through Alice’s looking glass
Breaking metaphors apart
Is it dark inside a poem
From whence it first sprang
Deeply repressed panic
Without judgment rang
Bringing pressured speech to light
Images of love and pain
Through clearly heightened senses
Uninhibited refrain
Where verbal acrobats spiral
Words on a poet’s page
That remind us and disturb us
In desperate outrage
With the pathos of a clown
On a winding rocky path
Reminders of death’s nearness
Terror spinning with a laugh
Pictures painted with premonitions
An atmosphere heavy in despair
Remnants of previous poets
Are blinding the reader in its glare
Quatrains moving merrily
Using images and tone
Making shapes with language
Shaping irony unknown
With tones bright and beautiful
Its matrix darkly savage
Through visual impressions
The reader’s heart is ravaged
Freedom of imagination
From whimsy to terror can bring
Surprising facetious word-play
Delivering irony’s sting
A psychological awakening
The tenderest love infused with dread
Blazing pathways joyous and dangerous
Irrevocable loss lies ahead
A telling detail without warning
Takes us to disturbing turns
The risky business of being born
Poets’ authority burns
It brings you to your senses
Through supernatural realms
Exploding realization
Its resonance overwhelms
Allusiveness to brutal honesty
It may sometimes misconstrue
In an abyss of isolation cries,
“What else can a poem do?”
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
A pound of meat and a speck of desire
A curve bent out of shape and form
Impossible not to admire
Hearts are cheap, but they feel the same
Five bucks a hit, it's a thriving art
And a bitter shame
Lovely face, facetious love
It's too easy to slip
Like hand in glove
Alluring masks of self-persuasion
A Tragic Comedy
Symbiotic Occasion
Contagion of self
We (I) spread the disease
Hallucination True Romance
Semantics perverted
A pagan dance
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
May my ignorance blind me.
For I'm a product of the 90's,
Instead of being like Jesus,
we all wanted to be like Mike.
Is that facetious?
Or sound just about right?
Right...? No Left,
Child Act Behind...
they say my dyslexia forever disrupts mind...
my...mind...
He yells louder,
*"Why am I wasting my time
with you Brock?
You don't want to learn,
God ******
Quit staring at the clock!
Now go on read the sentence
and annunciate on that last word,
don't overestimate the time,
It is not going to move any faster..."*
There I sat boiling, as he wagged his finger in my face as he stood behind,
tempting me to call upon my intrepid Power Ranger besieged mind.
I would cut his head off with a swoosh of my sword,
sparks go flying and down goes Zedd-Lord.
*"God ****** Brock it's Lord-Zedd!"* , I shouted in my own head.
So, in my imagination;
I still cannot properly read.
Where will this get me?
No where fast...
I work continually, properly, systematically, honestly, legitimately, every way I can to learn every word I want to know.
That's where I want to Go.
Like I said, I'm a product of the 90's.
A whole generation discovered off the product of:
I find me.
Instead of having the powers given to us, we worked for them.
And that is the difference between Jesus and Jordan.
And that is the difference between Jesus and Jordan.
And that is the difference between Jesus and Jordan.
May my knowledge open eyes.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
My mistress in agony,
my beauty brewed in ashes,
I dine with the facetious and on the families in fashion,
come hop the bandwagon and land on fields growing glasses and a jugular covered in gashes will heal a life full of laughs and a death void of sadness,
I plead with you boys like a judge pleads friendly gabble dances,
like a judge gives phony gabble rants and rants plead deadly drive by flashes.
authority is the hoaxes in which the joker laughs and a televised revolution is the perfect gas,
we will all die in the end,
in agony some may add,
in misery some may brag,
and in infamy like flies drop dead bloated on good trash,
eat up children it's more than just a fad.
-fa5v_O
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
The bodies of paradise
are the fledglings of humanity--
little chicks
that peeped for love
and instead found
what we attempt to purge.
Which is reality
instead warping
and mourning
the placate scene
into what our creation
has never meant to be.
I've become fond of
literature and statutes
that line a facetious library.
One which mangles
others from stepping inside
yet holds the truest heart.
My finest lines
are not those spoken
but those read
from paper or stone,
because
it is only
to those un-living
the crēvit are not divined
and which Veritas,
can come find
Amor est vitae.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC
Fingers locked in one emotion
eyes don’t stray, they’re falling skyward.
Watch the nights with lights exploding
Fireworks rain down, you’ll notice
confessions leave the heart exposed and
much too weak but keep your focus.
Just be brave and be courageous
She’ll thank you after for your love,
though you may think she is facetious.
Hesitation makes you mirthless.
Love’s like this: it’s full of hurt and
scars and petty disappointments.
While I learn the art of patience.
Come some day you’ll be her one.
Bend the doubts which mostly lead
to love’s inebriation
and watch my crimson patience
drain from full to empty.
We’ll fight in fright as floods
of rage are stitched to merry words.
She is every bit as lovely
and wistful as I know,
though every time she beams
her brightness is so blinding.
In love and years, I’ll wait
like this and nothing less.
The moment will come when all
the hopeful lies I hold,
I’ll trade them for her truth.
Though we’re young and full of folly,
limerence is a madness still.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
It's a funny sort of Understanding
when One postulates an assertion
based wholly upon interpretation
and then proceeds to refuse to allow
the reply of the Subject
before forming subjective conclusions.
So what if you're being facetious?
I can take a joke;
and if I'm the subject of the joke,
at least I'll get the context,
if it is, in fact,
a valid hyperbole to draw.
If, as you claim,
"Reality doesn't cease to exist
just because one choses to ignore it,"
then why, I must inquire,
would you send that note
and then not allow a reply?
I see a Jungian pattern here!
If you take
all of what you see
to heart so readily,
then I fear for your sanity;
I anticipate
your exclusivity.
All I do
in this particular medium
is put ideas out there,
hence the title
"Philosomancer;"
as I have said before
(not that anyone cares to investigate)
I don't necessarily subscribe
to the notions I consider and write down,
they simply provide a map
of where I am,
of where I've been,
and, perhaps,
in Time,
a notion
of where I'm going;
a truly powerful piece of information to have.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
i met a new friend.
we get along pretty well.
one day, we were walking through ikea
and he called me a train-wreck
and laughed.
he probably thought that he had said it in a way
that was convincingly facetious
(joking.
but there was a note in his voice
that made me realize
he was, in fact, serious.
and i still don't know him well enough
to tell him
that no one has ever found a more accurate word
to describe me
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Stuck around in the board room meeting, ravenous and blissful, chugging down on freshly laid piles of rhetorical excrement, modes lingering in the air like Chernobyl.
Soon we will either have to evacuate
Or we will grow malicious twins on our shoulders
Two faced
Mind duality
Mode dynamic
Facetious solitude, always side by side with the proverbial circle ****
Of terminology, "lest ye be teriminated." White lies, loving, adoring, detrimental white lies.
Dead mythology
Dead language
Can you handle the live ones?
Symbolitude
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
Why so facetious every time we speak
do you not think you appear weak -
willed to be acting like this
maybe the whole notion of you I should just dismiss.
The prosaic way you confess your feelings
honestly the jejune nature makes it feel utterly demeaning!
This lacklustre love I was not meant for
I crave something so deep
and that I am for sure.
No longer can I stand your nonchalant stance
my dear, goodbye,
I gave you your chance!
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
Yesterday I was born
and Today I assume I know all.
With Tomorrow will never come my downfall,
for Today is perpetual.
Of course, I am facetious;
under-exaggerating and over-exaggerating,
but I do so for a reason.
Call it satire for the Ego:
I claim not to understand,
I only claim to seek understanding
(futile as it may be)
Sometimes my questions are statements,
but more often it's the opposite.
I do not seek to ask of you these questions,
I seek that you ask them of yourself
and to realize that no answer is more true
than the ones created by you.
(subject to a few things, of course.)
(if only it were that simple)
Anyone who says that the mystery is known
is ignorant of their own ignorance
and is probably a being of Ego
disconnected from Ethos.
This life of mystery is beautiful and temporary.
Cling not to it, nor any thing within it
for it all shall be torn apart
by a force much greater than you.
Simply enjoy the show
while you're still in it.
Dwell within the cosmic energies
and dance within your self
and seek to better get to know
who you truly are.
You cannot know everything
in fact I doubt very much
if one can truly know anything,
or if knowledge is relative
to the relative flash of one's life.
There are, however, intelligible patterns
but they too may be in transit
in such a slow way that we cannot perceive it
in the few seconds we are alive.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
And it's pretty cool
when you're you and I'm me
though I don't know what to say
what could I?
I want to,
say anything at all
if it'll make me feel better about wasting your time,
making you dislike me more
each second that passes
I can only assume
that you are merely humoring my childish attempts and desires
though I'm not entirely sure what they even are,
what I want from you
what you mean
but it's still nice
very enjoyable
so it can be allowed to survive
at least for a while
until it dies
decomposes and I'm forced to face truths
the kinds I hate
though I also want them
because you are just far too intimidating
for me to be around for too long.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC