"fatalism" poems
Weighed down
by the world’s
burden
honest eyes only perceive hope of a better earth, beyond the infallible burning
Dwelling within a premature space
reality isn’t what it
seems
years upon years of confounding lies & schemes
Phantoms and apparitions of the fallen
the only thing piecing together the shattered earth that is
falling
How long will the fog of
falsehood
blind us to reconnecting as a
brother & sisterhood
How many of us have to
bleed
the same number of us who
screamed
when our reality came dropping down from where aloft we kept our dreams
Please, please, oh please
How long will it take us to see.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
offering their children brown-paper *******
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
2.9k
pollen rots,
faintly wafts increasing death
in an otherwise vacant Spring breeze.
the memories of bees buzz.
melodramatically,
i add a spoon of honey to my coffee.
it isn't fair trade.
neither is the milk..fair trade milk?
40 multicultural minds
hexagonal attuned:
the IPI begins to gather
in consilience
some further future data,
worked together for a whole new picture-
target for debunkers touting
benefits of pesticides,
ultra-gene manipulation patenting,
cross-pollinating property.
i am a bland dismissal too,
not just touchy-feely rage at rampant death
upon death, on death, death after death..
for 'death has always been common' right...
as i sit here, sipping sweet and sour coffee
not quite awake
.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
how lonely sits
the city says
lamentations
guess this mouse has what you americans call post traumatic
stress disorder,
think of it more like
a path for the
eyes.
one where eyes are finally forced away
from the works of hands
by the knock knock
knocking on
heaven's door,
everybody's saying,
hodi hapa? something's
wrong if no one's answering; tonight.
my neighbor whose
name is eej (for
real) came to
the hut with
his friend.
i said do you
have siblings
he said
i did
oh
said i
you are living
my worst nightmare
one thing about an african
childhood, they say fatalism, you say you
would think about death too
and who knows
what you'd
look
like
tonight by the bagel van i said bunkle
i gotta problem
what's your problem said he
well i think i'm not wearing enough colors
no said he you're missing a bright splash in the orange red family
who knows what we all look like
inside the infinite space
of our souls
wonder if
blue means purity or
green means beauty
or red means strength
or love
or love
well
we all look
pretty much
the same asleep
hatred doesn't look
different in one
eye or another
but why does
it have to
be in the
eyes of
anyone
this mouse has
been asking
since
child
hood
why
why
why.
the cruelty
but
yet
still
and
for
ever
(you always did care for me yeah
you always did share with me yeah)
you always make me laugh, still
the book of jonah makes me
think of sea legs
and just everything,
you know all
the palm trees
huts, nonvoices
of our lives
the blessings rain down
an ocean sunsetting
on an Ocean sky.
siblings
be strong the
good kind of
dangerous
is
the
fire
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
Optimism, romanticism, fatalism
All with the smallest dash of realism mixed in.
I believe in kismet.
I believe in fate.
I believe in Destiny,
and all her wicked ways.
I believe in you.
And you.
And you.
And you.
I'm doing my best to believe in me, too.
I take rides and I take flights to get me out of my mind.
I have highs and I have lows and I move on to the next show.
Where's the time go? I'm moving too fast, and yet I'm always too slow
and I can't think and I can't eat and all my past goals become dead dreams
So I just **** blow, drive, scream, give up on this scene
Find the inseam on my heart, see? Of course it's been broke. You see the stitching?
I'm not bitching, I'm not hoping or wishing for anything other than what this life is giving
me.
Life doesn't wait on anyone.
We've got to move to
the rhythm it wants.
Life doesn't play favorites.
It's luck of the draw
for life in the gutter or the ritz.
I keep on moving
and I keep my head held high
I figure why not?
We're all gonna die, some day.
So my advice to you is
do what you can while you can,
So at the end you can say
God ****
I lived a hell of a life.
I certainly lived one hell of a life.
So live a hell of a life,
Or live a life in hell.
The choice is yours,
I wish you well
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 11:54 AM UTC
Will you please pin my shaking hands to the quivering universe and let me engage in communion? Because lately I have been feeling like a lonely colour in a soundless scape of unending sensation. Too weak to cling tightly enough for any whisper of permanence to latch itself to my soul before it gets caught in the door shutting on their technicolour fatalism. Let me tie my noose to the stars before they fall from the heavens in energetic heaps of light. I will tumble to the dirt alongside the hot white waste expelled from a realm where the gods will weep at the hedonistic horror disguised as modern drops of reality. Let me come to rest in the core, lie motionless among the charred remains of all that we once thought holy.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
Windows and gardens
are gradually transformed
into the threacherous abysses
of thoughts evoking fear -
there are avenues ripe for exploitation
as reluctant and innocent
fanciful minds are laid permanently bare;
fatalism in the face of an accelerating
and inevitable sense of doom and dust.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
Are you ever near the midpoint of a dark, bleak day?
When nothing at all seems to welcome your stay?
When inconveniences overwhelm and obliterate
So you can’t lie and contemplate without
Another hindrance to dim the clouds
But at that fixed point in conditional fatalism
I know that though I was bound to live through distress in its drift
I am being called to call my power and foray
Against the angst, the dark, the grief
Here I bring the day to its end
A new day dawns! In the late of the day,
In my quaking, in my gloom
In everything thing I’ve brawl against to counter monotony and grow
In depression lost, passed, and away
At this time I dawn a fine new day.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Your lips may be my barbiturate
But your words are my poison.
I need you to dissolve me
Liquidate my mind
So I no longer must suffer from the toxins.
You cannot hurt a liquid.
Quick, put your lips to mine!
Crash them together to calm me, sedate me.
Your kiss will melt my thoughts
Allowing me to pick out the solids.
To pick out your crystallized contamination.
I need to build up a tolerance
An amount of your fatalism that I can take.
But I cannot do that right now-
Your poison has sent me to a coma.
Your poison is coursing through my bloodstream.
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
In the fairy tale, Aimee was bad at heart,
a pretty shell that promised a pearl and
when cracked open, gave grains of sand
instead. It scratched the surface of the eyes
and misled; Aimee was just one of those pretty
Jezebels, cruel within, decorated without.
Her sister Aurore was the heroine,
a fatalist, who sighed her philosophy:
'What will be will be' and her patience and
good heart tugged her towards the coincidences
that always favour the light.
But Aimee was driven away by her own wickedness,
and had not the luck of the good.
All Aimee had was the face.
These are the kind of stories I am tired of because
I want to tell you that when Aimee was just a
small girl, she sat and watched her mother scrutinise
her appearance in the mirror. She watched as she
painted her face and knew then that she was just a painted
beauty, a kind that easily peels off. How little it
mattered though, as her mother smiled at her jewels.
Painted or true, her mother had succeeded through
beauty. So Aimee saw no good in the kind and the patient,
who suffered and accepted their suffering. She chose an
ambition called wickedness and she wore it like a petticoat
beneath the blue ballgown. Aimee was the kind of girl
to get what she wanted. Her mother had taught her
that her face was the only kind of fatalism she could follow.
I am tired of these fairy tales that give undefined shapes.
I'm tired of the dichotomy between the good and the bad.
I'm bored of the light always finding their happily ever after.
Just tell me the story of the dark and tell it properly.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
My teacher told me everyone was a liar , institutions , family ,church!
He was telling me about our hopeless young generation
Dissapointed on life that's what he seemed.
I smiled and told him not to worry , there were people who was good .
besides everybody is a liar maybe he was lying too.
Then i realiized life it's not worth for any sadness nor fatalism or regret.
Life is beautiful and charmin' only there you'll find love lies too.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Million dollar haircut and a two bit soul. There's a hole in my heart where you've fallen in and swim deep in my darkness. Myopic, yet distant, your eyes betray your armor to the world and presents with a bow, a more harrowing figure to be told.
Our voices ring out in hallowed tones unveiled by the ordinary horrors beset by beasts in human masquerade. Unshielded, you choose to drop this pretense, the unjust foray into the dark night of the soul, and sound out "I am the god of this forsaken place. That contains the human psyche, I am the bull of this labyrinth. I have tamed the wild pleasures of Eros and I have befriended the mortal end, Thanatos. I have unraveled this velvet thread until time itself was my servant."
Yet, I am still pulled to the human fold. "Why is there a NEED to be wanted!" Shouted everybody in the room. The question reverberated down the gilded halls and between the cracking voices of the council.
Yet...
There was never a breath of a conceivable answer.
All in all, futility and fatalism is what we all are sentenced to.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
Fill my dreams with tear gas butterflies
Killing queens and monarchs cross-eyed
All I've seen are things you can't hide
Apocalyptic hypno-landslide
Hallelujah
**** the sinner
Don't forget to pray for dinner
Your whole life is in his likeness
At least you know you're dying righteous
Praise the hand that does enslave
Bow down, proclaim, "Jesus saves"
Against my will, I'm taught your ways
Now I decide your judgement day
Antichrist, eclipse the sun
Liberate cerebral function
Hypno-landslide, smoking gun
No masters, gods, or holy son
***** your finger, slit your wrist
Obedience is your weakness
Comply and gain eternal bliss
But kingdoms like this don't exist
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
when in poetry she is referred to as mother she uses it to show others her fatalism has regressed. on par with such beliefs as voice recognition and voice recognition technology. she knows a dream is a good reminder of how someone looked. when detoured from the road they’re filming on she manually rolls up the driver’s side window to say curse words. a tire rolls by. then a second tire called ahead by a bus on fire. adventures in adoption. her diary keeps a brother.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
such cruelty, but also kindness
startling beauty, baffling blindness
faithful in my fashion.
No to fatalism, no to indifference
Yes to vegetarianism, Silence, non-dualism
Great Compassion
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 7:36 PM UTC
Left alone in the dark
A restless mind awaits the physical distress to come
Thinking, wondering, worrying.
What makes me this way?
I want to join you, I want to be normal
I’m sick of trying, it’s been gone for far too long
It’s too late to start now, just accept it
This is who I am, who I’ve become
I haven’t changed before, and won’t start now
Fatalism sets us up for disappointment
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 6:12 PM UTC
Flickering like a tentative alpenglow corraded from profaned time
A whisper jostles through a crowded rumpus prescient of teleology and design
Jolting with pangs of panic a screech emanates from the brontides of tomorrow
A chagrin outpaces the gingerly apprehension of a peevish sorrow
Among the ruffled plumes quaffed from pedigree and put to disuse
A banausic electricity galvanizes the ****** of the amalgamated acuity pinched from the sordid, the obtuse
Refracted like off a darkened moon that clenches the darkness in an abstruse tomb
Combs through sentience of Saturn presiding over ineluctable doom
A silence louder than a plangent ****** of phantasmagoria debased
A looming victor erodes with the putrefaction of sworn and utter distaste
How to obtrude on the evening with triaged fulmination
Is an affront to the rudders of a piecemeal civilization in tatters with exacting doddering calculation
Graveyards bustle with the eidolons of scurrilous spite
Congregating around a blackened epitaph on an alabaster palace gilded in the swanky pinnacle of light
Scuttling the outmoded flanks of an abortive war
Against a henchman of state too ostentatious to hardly ever ignore
We clamber with insistence hoping on fortuitous deliverance
Yet we are deranged of the clasped distance between the crevasse of the clerisy and the satisdiction of futures passed with meticulous diligence
Absconding with furtive furrows on a wizened guild an entrusted world we helped build
We witness the silence creep over us like a trepidation contained as lethal killers of the cartel willed
That which frightens a self-fulfillment is a fatalism gone awry
Someday soon omens excavated from immolated tombs will beseech a more universal backlash, an alienated sorrow that will one day cry
But until that fetched disaster occurs
Let us meditate only on the process of emanation among wayward words
That dance with a destiny that the hegemony of momentary circumstance much prefers
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
Running from the future until the sole is worn
into Abyssinian empiric solitude
Where the only voice that speaks
is the hollow tone of history's fatalism
Destined for the furrowed smile
of luxury's unknown apathy
Growth hormone empath
who sleeps frozen under cosmic abandonment
A chancers change of chanson song
that sweeps the windy street
A vignette of turgid stories
that predict the rising tide of paperless bedsheets
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC
there is nothing cute
or cool
about fatalism…
apathetic ********
acting aloof to
modern atrocities
as if an air of arrogance
can stop climate change
or advert a third world war
astoundingly they ask
unabashedly
and with authority
for the authorization
to acquire all apples
and artichokes
while advancing lies
about August being
better than April….
am I lost?
after re-reading
and attempting to articulate
Arminian or Asian
my assessment complete
I allow myself a nap
awash in applesauce
and aghast at the appearance.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
He always felt the pressure, with eyes
that weighed life only through the mind;
though not too strong or sardonic; he
listened closely to her apologies to others
for life’s unrelenting random decisions;
but dead still fatalism was the only
logic that he allowed to approach
He should have known, her languid eyes
weighed life only through the heart;
though not so delicate, nor sympathies
hopelessly buried in allegory, she
laid the dead pennies upon his eyes
while blood became clear because she
said so
But she knew how to laugh, it was
as close as she would come to pretending
she didn’t care so much; it was because
of days spent drowning in her own futile
black and white world; seeing life only in
the light of kindness and the darkness of
shadows begging to lift their veil
He laughed but only in the past; he spent
more time asking what difference does
any of it make; she smiled patiently, if
there was anything she loved about him
it was that what he denied of himself
screamed in agony alone at night because
he knew he was the same as she was
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
So many qualms
about so many tasks
that none of them would satisfy,
and ambitions,
in their vacuousness: begone!
So fatalism is cruel,
and you are what you think.
But about Waste and Want:
what can be done ?
I don't know...
I don't know!
. . . I don't know, probably medication.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 8:09 PM UTC
They rarely bother to mow here anymore,
Once a month, perhaps every other
(Times are tight, full burials being pretty much
A thing of the past these days)
Though it’s unlikely anyone would notice
If the grass grew a bit longish,
Or the crownvetch and crabgrass became a little more prevalent,
No one being buried in this part of the cemetery
For the better part of a hundred years now,
The stones bleached and faded from decades of sleet and sunlight
And acid rain from the auto plants of Flint and Lorain and South Bend,
(Now boneyards for gears and drill bits themselves)
Those names still legible on the teetering, unsteady stones
Mostly the stolid Scotch-Irish surnames
Vaguely familiar from the town’s founding generation
Found on its street signs or pocket-parks,
Their descendants mostly having fled to friendlier climes,
Though the odd lesser strain of the families remain
(Not that they would choose to pay tribute to those ancestors
To whom they have fared so poorly in comparison)
Though many more bear the family names of their trades,
Clusters of Coopers, Weavers, and Smiths,
Their stones bearing the sentiments of grim Victorian fatalism,
Thus in mercy early call’d away or The happy soul is that which fled.
Such thoughts are quaint, eccentric things to us now,
As would be the clothes they wore, the songs they sung,
But we would know them nonetheless,
Know the muted joy of their minor successes,
The depth and finality of their defeats,
The sting of bowing and scraping
To the owners of the mill, the haughty town fathers,
As they served them at the milliners or the drug store,
Their odd, fleeting dreams of grandeur having come to rest here,
Cherry-lidded as they proceed to dust.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
fatalism și reavăn.
reavăn și fatalism.
n-am mai scris,
n-am mai scris.
mi-a mers gura prea puțin și acum mi-e capu-n groapă.
mă soarbe Oltul ?
Rămân o cruce ortodoxă, stingheră pe marginea drumului, îndoită de mașini în depășire.
reavăn... e reavăn după ploaie și îmi intră în vene.
fatalism slav și decăderea omului, cui i-am mai dat urechile mele?
asta nu sunt eu aici,
nu eu aud, nu eu simt.
ace și mâini atinse, drumuri scurse, reavăn și fatalism.
da n-am mai scris!
nu, nu, pentru că nu ***
nu în București, nu în tramvai, nu in scaunul din dreapta, nu cu mâna lui tata strânsă pe volan, nu cu piciorul scuturându-mi în spital.
un chist pe ovar, un folicul hormonal habar n-am;tot e un reavăn tot e fatalism și eu iar n-am scris.
poate că nu mai am de ce.
viața e film destul nu mai are nevoie de scenarist, viața m-a depășit uite, e self-sustaining!
Tata a zis că i-am frânt inima când i-am zis să mă ia acasă la 2 ani, ce isteric.
Nu mai vreau să aud, nu mai vreau să simt atât de greu din cer curgându-mi la tălpi,
rămân reavăn și fatalism și nu mai scriu nimic, nimic.
reavăn sărută buzele astea - petale de iris lăsate în soare!
reavăn, reavăn sărută trupul ăsta și mintea ce duc oriunde în nicăieri!
reavăn, sărută fatalismul ăsta infantil și torturat și dă-mi înapoi tot ce a fost și poate fi eu!
May 20, 2022
May 20, 2022 at 4:47 PM UTC