"facsimiles" poems
We have engendered them.
Our babies.
Our annelids.
Facsimiles of Us.
A gushing warm viscous fluid
And a conglomerate of meat
From the womb pods of our hive
Rush out into your oxygen.
Our mass will grow indeed.
And,
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
8 become 16; 16 become 32
You (solo)
Must know by now; no doubt
Individuality is a cold, broken loop
An anachronism of a bygone era
Pass through Our membrane , insect.
And be born infinitely back through it.
We will have you spread-out in our warmth
Under our skins; apart of our million-chambered heart
Join Us.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
*The rain pours heavy on my windowpanes; it is only through the darkness that I realize what pain truly means. The sorrow, the lack of luster in everyday that has changed and I fear for those who do not yet know what madness life brings. It is nothing yet everything to understand what suffering brings. The state of darkness looming upon wake, and when the dreams of your subconscious mind come to life and haunt you day by day, I fear for those who do not yet know real pain. The loss of someone you love being ripped away, so abruptly; worse than a Band-Aid on fresh wounds, so terribly worse than seeing someone you love fall deeper and deeper into the chasm of their own demons, like a well you’re drowning and eventually succumb to frightening disdain. One realizes that everything in life isn't truly the same, change is the only constant in this delirious world of contradicting facsimiles.
You have nothing but hope and faith in this world of detriment. And I hope someday you find what you're truly looking for, whether it be love or the meaning to life. But never forget who you truly are, regardless of the pain and the tears that washed away the innocence of your years and fears. I am truly sorry for what you have endured, but I cannot look back anymore, nor ponder upon those heart wrenching fears you called my own, of which I cannot call my own. You must own them like cheap records, and let them die in the night like the decades of musical loss and dying discords. You must find yourself in this beautiful world, never give up on everything wonderful. For you are worth much more than words, much more than anything I could ever endure.
© 2014 Christina Jackson*
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
“Ah you hate to see another tired man / Lay down his hand / Like he was giving up the holy game of poker”
Leonard Cohen
<>
“Will I remain within God's house at night as shadows drift through dimming my light?”
written by Weeping Willow, gifted to me, by Edmund Black
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I,
***instant understanding, perhaps in my experiential possess,
some answerings perhaps...product of late night, many, many
theological arguments over poker games, with coarse men,
tough women, and ethically-challenged Gods, all faithful regular attendees
With a little bit o’ luck from an occasional guardian angel, even
I possess an occasional winning hand.
now we all commence with a passionate uttered blessing,
for the good beer and salty pretzels, giving thanks for having
reached this act-exact moment of being, here and now, in God’s house at night, plus a holy add-on variation, a swear-to-god (we all snicker) promise solemn, no cheating, no absolutely divine peeking/spying in soulful futures, no fun in that, sanctified & sealed with hearty amens and ****** noises offered for emphasis.
hear you scratching you head, wondering what all this to do
with a whispered prayer of soulful, on-shore drilling deep,
product of a drill bit cutting the black quietude of interstellar voids internal, where there is no censorship, lying an impossibility, and the only questions are super hard, so some never return with an answer truthful
so, I remain in God’s House, playing poker, with deities who
jealous guard their moments as human facsimiles...cherishing humans who guard with care, an ability to see that they and gods differ little, when making honest truth a shared primacy
in the intimacy
of an overnight stay
in God’s house at night,
all our coming-led light dims,
when my/their need is greatest***!
(written sometime this year, Jan. 2021, Manhattan)
~~~~
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 6:36 PM UTC
Visions,
smoke rings and grocery lists,
ovaries to kicks;
prisons of genetic streaming.
Kings dream of thieves
and thieves dream of
learning shinier schemes.
Laugh when the moon
sings eternally.
Laugh when spoonfuls of sense
are lifted by my shaking hand.
Laugh when anyone spits into
the abyss forever at their feet.
Laugh when the prismatic facsimiles
of mastery are scattering in the winds of change.
Laugh like it's the last cadaver stacked.
No scavengers.
No glass to crack.
No Saturn's curse.
None of that.
So laugh.
Laugh like the mad ********
you act like only exist
in past saturdays spent
in the bastion that was your grandmother's backyard.
Laugh.
Please, for fuck's sake, laugh.
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 4:18 AM UTC
Kaleidoscopic organisms
harvesting the synapses.
Pixelating the images
shattering facsimiles.
The disc has been wiped
black out
start over.
There was no warranty.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
I have dirtied my hands
with the agony of faith.
Digging deep to find commitment,
smoothing soil to hide despair,
heaping mounds as facsimiles of evidence.
Add water, and dirt turns malleable.
I squeeze a human body out of the black clay,
breathe life into it,
then write my name in the residue;
mud covers all but the letter "A".
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
You want true expression, and true honesty
Or so you claim
You don't want the heat that comes with a call for the flame
You don't want to be enveloped in the purity of anyone
I hear you ask for honesty, and I know you don't want it
You want facsimiles, you want approximations, but truth is not for you
We have ego strokes, crutches, blinders, confused priorities
We have people set in their ways, and idealists lacking perspective
I want truth, I want life to blossom unfiltered, raw, and untouched
But if we can't even agree on medicines for diseases
If we can't even agree on who to let live
who to nurture
what to be upset about
Who to feed
When the answers are clearly spelled out
How do you expect me to feel like you even want truth?
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
With standoffish movement of air,
Of any velocity.
I will furnish you with an upchucking sensation,
In your solar plexus,
And move your heavy head,
Round and round,
Round and round.
Outdoing the darkness,
Above and beneath,
I will emerge cold-eyed;
I will emerge cold-eyed,
And hit the strong,
And bold,
And black boulders.
And sprinkle moisture droplets on your pale face.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Vying with my facsimiles,
And similar ones,
For reaching the untraced,
Unknown,
And unfrequented coves,
With puissance,
And robbing the possessions,
I will recede.
I will recede,
And submerse everything with me,
And what awaits me,
On my way.
Come,
And dunk yourselves,
Thinking I will wash all your transgresses,
Come,
You puny creatures,
I will,
But wash only your grimy,
And filthy bodies.
Advance farther,
And you will be another meal,
To me.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
Roaring monotonously.
I am a wave,
In a humongous ocean,
Busier than a bee,
Rising and falling,
Forever,
Growing old,
And working harder,
Than ever.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Dull sublunary lovers need
the help of 3D glasses
to ever seen things differently,
or grasp just what romance is.
We poets see things differently
because we take more chances.
The seen and unseen, we embrace
without cardboard enhancers.
Could Love even express itself
without our helpful similes?
Honor or Courage, without our help,
would be just pale facsimiles .
We are the guardians of the words
that hollow men would empty.
Poetential is our flaming sword
against their verbal entropy
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
an undulating reverie
hangs heavy in the silence
past canyons abundant with sunlight
and dreams made out of cotton
there, beyond the intoxicating haze,
you stood.
my lips uttered no words
that the universe could decipher
but the midnight tide understood
what i truly meant
now, if only you could, ma chérie
but the scrupulous colloquy is bound to break
and the stratosphere rewinds again
past divine oculists and obstinate facsimiles
and beyond the desolate valleys
where no sunshine dares to embark
and what’s left in the end
at the very edge of such a disenchanting,
morose fantasy
is you, and me,
and an undulating reverie.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
I could inscribe
thousands of feelings
in words
and label them
as poems.
Yet
none of them
will ever truly evoke
why, what and how
I feel.
But
I must say
they're the facsimiles
of my beautiful stormy
thoughts.
© Kishamore
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
it seems that everywhere i turn
another mirror gleams
brilliantly hopeless facsimiles
who smile vaguely
while shifting through
perpetuations
to stammer in clamorous gaits
at the doorstep of my dreams
and at the top of my tower
i barely here them call
sifting through stars and motes of dust
i see my petty wall
isn't ******* high enough
the thought to me
is crippling
how could we not avert
the **********
with all the glances
we have stolen from our pasts
how could we sever worth
in search of "progress"
as if life were a contest
instead of an event
is it not obscene
how we grow like cancer
and deceive ourselves
in thinking we have
all our answers
it seems that everywhere i turn
another terror grins
inconspicuous in the hearts of men
who obliviously commend themselves
for subordination
to hammer with calamitous endeavor
on the pillars of my paradise
condemning forever
the kingdom of my dreams
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
What is left to say if simply transcribing another's antidotes
Will not knowing an idiom from a metaphor automatically make me an idiot?
Left to our own devices now will be up to the reader who surmises or denotes
Will particles of paraphrases become our own, simply a contest to find the wittiest?
Alliteration in our communication stresses our sounds like more bass from out throats
Faced with future facsimiles will we ponder to produce our own or leave us inexperienced
Seemingly sly salutations setting by the wayside wishing to be brought forward for their own votes
Smooth as a baby's **** some configurations combine to make them the silkiest
Sometimes simple silly slogans become our deepest thought leaving little to decode
Tricky trusty truisms tantalize while beige boring subtitles often stand the test
Reaching for fruit that will fall anyway,does it become easier to the take the lesser road
Reading and receiving often one sided or deceiving, playing differently when put into
writing it will now be left to the reader to decode. R.C.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
a world
of nostalgic
facsimiles.
i met someone
who looked
like you.
She looked at me
with the same eyes
you used to,
the cruel mix between
devil-may-care
and miserable.
searching vain, searching
ridiculous,
I make a joke of myself--
remember
the time
I bought a
scruffy looking
black mouse
from a pet store
at whim
to replace the one that died
when I
was 6
but I can hardly replace you
with this pale
stranger
but i can hardly lay
your own few-ounce body
to rest
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
*I'm not heartless
Just using my heart less
Hoping art is an answer
Like cancer is catharsis
Right now, I'm coping
Picking up the broken pieces
From when this started
Ripping me open in little shreds
Closed again before I noticed
Once I lost feeling, I stopped reeling
There's no revealing memories
Now that you've gone
All dearly departed
Hoping something prestigious
Grows from this seedless garden
But it's like trying to capture air
From a fractured jar
To make an attempt
Of clearing my heart
Not to mention restart it
Seamless spent broken leaves
Hedonist and facetious facsimiles
While I soak in mass energies
To resuscitate dead memories
Just casually discuss the minor details
Of all my sad hapless dreams
Don't try to act or pretend to believe
If you lack a fractured tendency
You'll simply react
To your own hopeless epiphany
While laughing you'll remember me
Aside from the venom presented
Within my resentful history
It's the recurring action persistently
Building traction for another
And once again
Redacted epiphany
Prolifically trapped
In a perdition subliminally
I have personally granted permission
The eternal conditions of a prisoner
Taking backward steps so timidly
It's become tradition
So twisted and vivid...
All I see are projections
Protecting corrections
Rejecting reflections
Until the message infested
Keeps me second guessing
Or stressing and searching
For a holy blessing
It's a mess
I've run amok
There's no abstaining the jest
Honestly I do confess
The only promise I will keep
Is to remain taking the test
And lay the rest six feet beneath
But I'm always second best
The runner-up stumbling
Surreptitiously obsessed
With my mind's eye manifest
Delusional and mumbling
To compare with the rest
I'll use my heart less
And cease the thunder rumbling
If I could attest
It was my absolute best
That used to mean something
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 11:15 PM UTC
It felt like a drainpipe down the gullet of the actress
As she leapt out of sight of the red baroness
Asking, why do the streetlights stay blue?
And will the soil maintain its hue?
Faceless people eating capriciously
As they tenderly speak of their shore leave
As they’re foisting their dreams to their sleeves
Speaking of odd, foreign fleece
Decadent manners spoke in secret tongues
Polarized banners through brazen tar lungs
As bravado finds a new face
To win wars with one holy gaze
Something’s the matter but it’s all for nought
As the gilded Centurion claims he forgot
What he built his first child’s house upon
For all his sons are vagabonds
I mimicked a child in the way he embraced
His nascent complacence to the human race
Clinging to a wooden rail
For fear of the careless hail
A man claimed his newsboy hat kept him enclosed
For his fear that his thought-dreams would serve to corrode
The last bastions of society
Which he clings on to haplessly
The visor hung low on the Titan of Rhodes
For he knew of the judgment on one head exposed
In his position above
Where the sky belongs only to doves
Calendars festoon their tactless grace
With legions of chandeliers, forming a haze
Now, we know that the days are numbered
Yet, the fact leaves us all encumbered
Facsimiles of the nationwide veins
Will collapse next year as they fight for the grain
Now, the horse is extinct with the train
And everyone fears to remain
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 11:43 AM UTC
*like a dragon your breath lingers on my face
i inhale sweet scents of cinnamon and turmeric
the sweat of the days labor
the ecstasy of savoring our good natures
beauty resides in chambers of the mind
i decline accepting favors from neighbors with grudges
and axes to grind
and sharpen my own knives against the silver blades of time
in snowfall the descent of vision is secondary to the suspension of gravity
and love has risen like reverse lightning
hungering for its return to the starry eyed sorcerers
selected from the mantle of antler wearing shamans
the nativity is blind as a blonde from Wisconsin
sonorous dulcimers depart for the auto-tune convention
sing your limits like you spring for chicken dinners
impossible symphonies, silent epiphanies
facsimiles of days spent wading through carpool lanes
with tiny elephants dressed in swimming trunks*
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
William Blake and wife played Adam and Eve
In their English garden, totally ****
His neighbors were shocked and morally peeved.
Such escapades proved outrageous and rude,
Till his poems made his scared public believe.
He showed their mind-forged manacles were crude
Facsimiles of mankind’s true freedom.
His strategy, both Romantic and shrewd,
Found Eternity in sand’s finest sieve.
The doors of perception caused him to brood
On the spirit’s want in a world bereaved
Of sustenance. Infinity: soul food.
From Heaven and Hell, he would never leave.
Adam and Eve romped, always without shoes.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
I had a boyfriend with a mental illness
his name was Mental Illness.
Smile of shiny white enamel
radiant down to the dentin
sprinkling ******* on skinny brown blunts
drowned in Kentucky bourbon
fluorescent tubes encased in the ceiling
are fixated above candlelit chandeliers
during the storm the thunder seems like ripples
from lightning bolts that have already struck
trees are split in two (never equally)
a fire lies in the part that is one
the forest floor is filled with fallen trees and dead leaves
ashes fertilize survivors for growth.
Mangled by a gang of doppelgangers
the gangly are ganked by the gander
making advancements in cloning from advancements in clothing
and discoveries made through jean manipulation
facsimiles of progress betray judgement
a hamster wheel is made from a barrel of Kentucky bourbon
two hamsters run in opposite directions, butting heads
until they're teeth are chipped—down to the dentin.
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 4:42 PM UTC