"fanatical" poems
*Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall
I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”
Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times."*
- Matthew the Apostle
I
Seventy-seven bottles of gin
lie in the guts of sensuous men;
seventy-seven I forgive you's dissolve
in a fanatical mind's resolve.
II
What offence occurred under Saint Constantine's priggish eye?
Was it specious as a Samian's thigh?
Or Sumerians receiving alien diplomats?
Maybe somewhere far under Moscow Putin's massing cloning vats...
III
Whatever discursive and belligerent milieu
church authority finds most tried and true
seems to be the most important decider
in the future of things like the Large Hadron Collider.
Perhaps, unfoundedly, they find it funny that Higgs
(though it seems much like calling the Liberal Party "Whigs")
is a name shared by a man and a theoretical particle
(though it be libelous in any journalist's article),
and thus label similar advancements as "blasphemous".
I guess that this is what it is: believing just because.
IV
Who can know blasphemy from piousness?
Maybe all Luther did was obfuscate a prior mess.
V
Seventy-seven palm-branch-adorned, donkey-riding kings:
an automatic-ring-making-machine beleaguering proselyte rings.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
godspeed, dystopian mind.
alls well that ends well
in the war against self loathing.
call upon historic impulses
electrical? fanatical. transfixed. fatal.
groping,
whipser,
intention?
weakness.
axiom? blight. corruption. hunger.
intent? destruction. hopeless. death.
solution?
fellowship.
truth.
transparent.
godspeed, dystopian mind
and don't come back.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
I see a flash
A sight to behold
The work of an immortal sculptor
Walking straight in elegant pride
Worth of a princess of the sun
Firmly transfixed in her twelve
Moving into the emptiness of an invalid society
Her innocence screaming
In an unchallenged clarity
And only twelve moons
The framework of her modeling salivates
Wolves in men
Who’s been exposed to the virus
Emerging from the bush land of their desires
To seek their vengeance in a fanatical hatred
And poor me the princess
With the *** lunacy roaming the streets,
Sanity of abstinence is the greatest challenge.
Swung from poverty to adolescence
A pendulum of fates
Hunger at home for the family
And her homestead a moonscape of desolation
The two hundred shillings does the trick
She trades out her innocence
And virginity too; a girls pride
And alongside the legal tender
Comes the virus
The minute monster
Savoring a society of huge minds.
There is the tuberculosis
In a hospital ward
Full of undug graves and shrines unnamed.
Drawn into the vacuum of her fate
Eyes wide open in dismal finality
The princess
Lie in freeze frame of death
A pyramid of events
Molded out of her last several terrible seconds
Lamentation for the society
A dull eulogy for our girls.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
~for Allison~
she loves your poetry,
ok you think,
cause you just love her his-stories of her/here life,
the children, the musician, nominate her as daughter,
her poetry and her yay’s spontane-us,
we are fan fanatical
of each other
and she describes us perfectly -
“So I am an idiot standing in a sad storm of letters that are unrelenting”
ok you think,
not bad, for surely
only the most precious things in life are
unrelenting
2/20/19
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC
I see a flash
A sight to behold
The work of an immortal sculptor
Walking straight in elegant pride
Worth of a princess of the sun
Firmly transfixed in her twelve
Moving into the emptiness of an Invalid society
Her innocence screaming
In an unchallenged clarity
And only twelve moons
The framework of her modelling salivates
Wolves in men
Who's been exposed to the virus
Emerging from the bushland of their desires
To seek their vengeance in a fanatical hatred
And poor me the Princess
With the *** Lunacy roaming the streets
Sanity of abstinence is the greatest challenge.
Swung from poverty to adolescence
A pendulum of fates
Hunger at home for the family
And her homestead a moonscape of desolation.
The two Hundred shillings does the trick
She trades out her innocence
And virginity too- a girl's pride
And alongside the legal tender comes the virus
The minute Monster
Savoring a society of huge minds.
There is the tuberculosis
In a hospital ward
Full of undug graves and shrines unnamed
Drawn into the vacuum of her fate
Eyes wide open in dismal finality
The princess
Lie in freeze frame of death
A pyramid of events
Molded out of her last several terrible seconds
Lamentation for the society
A dull eulogy
For our girls.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
Rush around in circles like a headless chicken running
Diminishing to spirals in a blue encircled churn
Giddying to balance in unsteady equilibrium,
Whilst canting to the left on a gyroscopic turn.
Vaulting to the heavens in gymnastical maneuvering,
Launching into ether in fanatical escape,
****** features grimacing through muscular contortion
With abdominal contractions in a pantomime of ****
Yowling to the darkness in a feline form of vocalness
Hissing through the teeth in a serpentine display,
Bellowing the bellicose of bovine innuendo
And bleeding feet in gumboots on a ****** raining day.
Rush around in circles like a headless chicken running
With ****** features grimaced on a ****** raining day,
Yowling to the darkness with abdominal contraction
In a bovine innuendo of a serpentine display.
Bellowing the bellicose of bleeding feet in gumboots,
Vaulting to the heavens in fanatical escape,
Giddying to spirals in contracting equilibrium
Just a ****** innuendo of a gyroscopic shake.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
On a ****** raining day.
7 August 2010
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
Some need rocks
To rest bigotry upon
Look down, feel taller
Or throw at others
Others have no guts
Camp on smiles
Feed on indifference
Rivers of promise
Golden tomorrows
Our country is burning
With horror and loss
Buried in traditions hides
Pits of immorality
Walls of racism
Halls filled with assets
Sit in miles of doubt
On hills of sorrow
Growing with fear
Brother, clinging to fear
Differences and inequalities
Hidden from having
While some take all
Sister, must you hate
Wish to **** hope
Bleaching love with hate
In fear of loss
Driven to please
Hating race or creed
Feeding in lack
Altars of fanatical pride
As if there's no God
Walking shame to blame
Taking sides with captors
Tearing all apart
To make what's not
Life goes forward
Insecurity drains hearts
Feeds souls to saviors
With political lies
Trading guts for greed
Builders of distrust
Sell promises if the power
Hiding cruel minds
Open theirs to close ours
Where is forever in now
Convinced we had choices
Wanting more than not
Lost sight of beyond
Cages of greed
Built by pulpits of avarice
Filled by a Congress
Here now, gone tomorrow
Eternal is only the universe
One minute we are here
Without love, there's no power
And soon we die
Holiness lost
Revised 7/7/2019
[email protected]
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
In your fake gardens
There was a vivid
Semi-orchard,
I couldn’t enjoy
Its little brightness,
I’m a fanatical
Believer in darkness
I used to be zealous
For Gothic literature
And Beyond,
Hear my colorless void
Exclaiming : for the sake
Of its melancholy’s dose.
Sep 7, 2023
Sep 7, 2023 at 12:17 AM UTC
The City of Lights
liberty's burning flame
black terror assailed
to despoil her aims
A lamp to the world
illumes liberated pathways
its Arc de Triomphe heart
scarlet droplets stain
the secular graces
of enlightened ages
defiled and condemned
by fanatical excess
civilizations clash
social fabrics torn
Muslims denigrated
republicans mourn
the death of tolerance
spiraling spike of hate
a fractured city
the closure of gates
dark shadows trundle
down The Champs-Elysees
the fraternity of brotherhood
deeply wounded and frayed
republican ideals
will be surely tested
Charlie Hebdo's critical voice
sorely missed, forever rested
Music Selection:
La Marseillaise
Oakland
1/7/15
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
Proudly self diagnosed as non compos mentis , the gallivanting hermetic of Hill Country , walking barefoot this evening , scantly clad , joyfully whistling beneath astonishing skies of blue , fields of clover , clear running creeks , copious woodland greenery ! A fickle , fanatical , fervent lover of every creature the forest has to offer ! Rolling hill , pasture and homestead , Wood duck , blue jay , otter and crawdad ! Every rooster , wild turkey and dairy cow ! A boisterous , benevolent , painfully reverent disciple of Earth and sky , lover of cascading brooks , placid lakes , the cool breeze , bumblebees and centipedes , bobcats and chickadees ..
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
I sit in a worried sand
I remain ever sinking deeper within my mind, in a relentlessly ceasing less void of gaping curiosity dominating my predominate view and clouding my vision with irrelevant focus toward foolish, feeble, fanatical finds that feverishly ****** my full fancy. I carelessly cast aside the light that should yield me smiles and giggles. With joy and of true happiness. But those hopes have evaded me and are consistently escaping my grasp due to my own self preservations. In conclusion, I'm the block to my own happiness. I am the key to my future. I just need to find the door to open it...
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
I could listen to this shiny song
as many times as I wanted
here, at 4am,
imagining you were here listening in some
onlooking crowd of fanatical people
thinking out loud what I'm singing
hearing what I mean through the lyrics and
believing.
make you make me believe it.
But it wouldn't matter.
you don't know me
and
I'll just go
to bed now.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
Prejudice implications of a zealous mind
Hypocrisy, your piousness defined
Don't explain the visions you claim to see
Omnipotence, embracing the oblique obscurity
So Sick of your fundamental ways ; tried true hypocrite
Don't push your anachronistic views on me ;
I am so sick of it.
Your religious persuasion is just an exchange of confusion
Please keep your hands and thoughts to yourself
Reverent Lip Service, Fanatical Delusion
I am sorry that I gave you the impression that I cared.
Awake, awake my dear when will you awake
Suffering delusions caused by 2000 years of crusades
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
It was one of those days
when the sun was like,
"I'm gonna be real hot today....extra hot"
I saw some birds fly underneath a truck.
by their banter,
I could tell they were excited;
"Ah dude, this shade's sick"
"Yeah dude. This shade's tweet"
And it's crazy cause those
blaring days sometimes turned
into vicious attacks by fanatical
rains. They always wanted my face.
The drowning plants under my
Econoline shoes place their infants
on my laces. I'm afraid to open the door
because of the black widow near the
doorbell.
I once broke one.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
there are significant sings
that tomorrow is near
and she try's hard to be
as small as possible so she wont get noticed
when it gets here with all
its wide awake hangers on
the blind to all else masses trying to get to work
she pours you a tepid coffee
clears you a spot next to her
behind the dumpster
her cool eyes betrayed the moment
and set fire to the heels
of the urgent messenger
who riding a pale sick horse
rode promptly into the night
becoming as lost as her in
the complex visions
her open shirt feasts on your eyes
it breeds on the verge of your conscious mind
and sends its small creatures invading
your contradictions with the
unfailing reasons to fail
it breeds an urge to touch things not your own
and they taught you in school to
be polite and ask first
contradictions are the devilish whim of the world
once the talk of the town
she took her tattered beauty queen crown
and stole away
down the alley
her dozen stray cats are her minions
the loading dock her empire
and she is happy
and that's more than all the
fanatical fashion rich girls got
she sketches masterpieces
in a spiral wide ruled notebook
fine line art that tells stories
the stories never end
the people in them never age or change
they never get sad and move away
never stop being who they were that day
never stop being who you thought they were
never get angry and say mean things
they never like mom and dad
we go to shooters lane
and get her natural benefits package
and to the broken house
there is nothing missing this is how it ends
here in the dank darkness of shooters game
her knight in shinning armour is Lancelot
she can almost see him in
the pale light greasy and thin
hangs from the ceiling
and is disturbed by flickers
like a modern candle
you appear to the bright sunlight
steps away from the kingdom of night
miles away from where you just stepped from
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
Religious zeal and explosive prowess make incendiary bedfellows
searing calculating moralism where all fall short and deserve to suffer
self righteous corrupted calumny put forth in a sally of sectarian selectivity
your ilk is heading for Hell and I'm (already there) not
fanatical zealots marginalize intellectuals with their mythical mire of mucked up claptrap and copious lack of a priori specificity
a glorified preposterous plethora of pompous pontificating platitudes
the sins of others they deplore but of themselves they don't keep score
Sunday's best is Sunday's worst
you sanctimonious ******** just can't leave people alone
who elected you to point fingers anyway
Jesus was born in a barn to an unmarried woman
And your mommy got shtuped when you were conceived too
you don't walk on water you insolent impertinent fool
the brain police can't wait for Sunday's
oh the satisfaction of a mutual admiration society
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak
Is anything anymore real if you jump around and shout about it
recipients of adulates get accustomed to sycophants
fawning complacent obsequious kiss ***** and Sunday suck-ups
pass the plate
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.
The short answer is: I don’t know.
I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.
First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.
Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.
I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.
I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.
This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.
From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.
And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.
I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.
Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.
Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.
Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.
Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.
And then, sing out.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
That year
in Paris
you took
Dostoyevsky’s novel
Crime and Punishment
to read when
you weren’t touring
the sites
and you became
so immersed in the book
that you became
Raskolnikov
and killed
the old woman
and her half sister
and looked about the streets
you looked for the detective
Porfiry whom you suspected
was following you about
and as you sat
in the Champs-Elysées
or stood by
the Arc de Triomphe
you thought of all
the famous
who had stayed here
in this fine city
Henry Miller
Ezra Pound
Hemmingway
Debussy
Van Gogh
and that fanatical
conqueror ******
with his sick smile
under that
silly moustache
and that evening
your brother
in the hotel room
puked in the bidet
after sour wine
or too rich food
as you looked out
the window on
the Parisian street
to see if Porfiry
was out there
waiting for you
to charge you
with the murderous crime
you didn’t do.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
Everyone learns that convalescence turns to evanescence when reheated bubbles rise into effervescence. Conflicts turn with ease from shame to blame and wrap back around afflicting and constricting the veins. Tension to dissension when your worst thoughts slide by the side taking every abide on their pretentious and demented path to divide. This lesson on entropy is no radical notion. But rather a fanatical description of raw emotion. The most important connections we build in this life will be tested redundant with an abundance of strife. Perfection is impossible, we must only continue to row. Our reflection is the garden that we inevitably grow. It begins at one moment by sowing a single seed. Reach out to someone feeling lonesome because truly we are all in need. Or try again with heart in hand and if you fear for wasted time...
*I love you.
I forgive you.*
These few words don't need to rhyme.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
We live in a world of noise,
of parallel and asymmetric movement,
where nonchalance has become the norm.
Sweet, melodious and pleasing
is our phony makeup.
We are animals that reject our animalness.
We dread nuclear, secular, red lights, cockroaches, love,
threats and non-threats alike.
Fear has taken us on its morning stroll,
and predictably we bark.
(The sun is almost up)
We are turned on and turned off
by oil-, wind- and hydro-powered switches
that respond to clapping.
There are beige, mauve and burgundy
curtains to choose from,
and supersized french-fries, pots, and cars.
We have lost ourselves in a mess of options,
and strive incessantly to complicate.
We fly in formation
and flow through carefully placed
and beautifully colored rocks made from Styrofoam,
down an improbable slope
of over-romanticized hypotheses.
We are ******** ego-centric and nepotistic,
and asexually multiply.
Thought and all other wasted rationality
keeps the axes of our unsustainable and fanatical wheels
from breaking loose (into free space and true autonomy).
We create meaning where there is no meaning,
and scientifically and thoroughly flout
god and the truth,
whilst we absorb, photosynthesize, bear fruits and grow leaves
(we are still, essentially, vegetable).
With every step we go deeper, and faster and better,
and farther from our selves.
Hence, we barely feel.
We are deaf and blind and mute
and approximately frozen;
and dance, swirl, sing and scream
in our vague, whimsical life,
till we fall.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
Jingoism at its very best is still zealotry, and anyone with good sense can tell you none of that is good. Where has good gone? Narrowness is boasting ethnocentricity. The mind game of villainous blame furthers unkind possibility. Worse yet, demise of soul, to tout a right to defend, assaults a riffling on pith and marrow with no sane sense of psyche to lend. Basically then, we are told to "blend."
I cannot.
I am fanatical. My colors must be seen. This weathering of dark storm has unbiased relinquishment that must convene, upon a rainbow. With all heart and soul, given to Orlando.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC