"fictive" poems
/ although i'd love to go back to the cinema of, bell, book & candle from the 1950s in early technicolour... can i? don't think so... trapped the rekindled narrative of myth... i wish i could, do the supra-capitalist, drunk at 5 in the afternoon, and still pulling the strings... early nostalgia of what was late nostalgia of what was 19th century german concerning ancient greece... i chose 17th century france... because? because... why could it ever be england as primo optio?! am i either that daft, or as much stiff for waiting for eddie zee theerd?! well? well done, you guessed my thinking: write a fictive narrative, it'll last longer, like a photograph.
immigrant song, led zeppelin -
probably the only grand theatre
plus,
of thor: rangarok;
i still don't know where those
M16s came from...
and?
given they used
a led zeppelin's song?
i honestly, don't want to know.
i was honestly going to favour
a black sabbath oeuvre,
using only solitude
by the witches' congregation
ask, aspect,
or subsequent, marketing ponce
scheme.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
the true republic lies beneath the sea
a single bound will take you straightway there
it's our first homeland where we were born free
look where the master will not let you see
far past the fictive kingdoms of the air
the true republic lies beneath the sea
no effort's needed for each one to flee
just leave right now and be at ease from care
it's our first homeland where we were born free
where we learnt justice at our mother's knee
return' so easy we just have to dare
the true republic lies beneath the sea
not far at all we note the mango tree
the purple bloom the old man on his chair
it's our first homeland where we were born free
the place of order where we long to be
and it is simple to end the affair
the true republic lies beneath the sea
it's our first homeland where we were born free
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
2.1k
This is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No music nor rhythm
But of images
Of farmers exultant
Though they break their backs,
Or their bones creak,
With every slash of their sickles,
The heavy strokes
Wounding light in the fiery heat of noon,
The gaunt-faced sons of earth,
Bringing home harvests of gold
To the people's granary,
Where no greedy landlords are in sight.
For centuries, the land robbers
Had squeezed their souls dry
In constant toil.
It may be that their time is up.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
But of history
Of workers milling around a lingering twilight.
Pounding their hammers with their might,
Ecstatic at the thought of freedom,
Yet battling still, long dreaded ills
Of feudal ******* barratry,
Imperialism
Storing up for the people’s cause,
Building a new commune in the new place
Freed from the landlord-minded President
From the imperialist ogres
Of IMF-World Bank and Uncle Sam,
The warmongers,
From oppression
And poverty and wretchedness
That, like a python, had wound
Around them to the end.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No fictive tale but of radiant truth.
As throngs of men
And women march
Out of their homes
With new-found hope,
Gathering strength
As from a blasting storm,
Defiant now of lying saints or heroes
Or of murderer Presidents
Who speak with forked tongues,
As the throng march out into the streets
Flooding the cities,
Ready to offer their lives for freedom
To them would come such happiness,
Such love
No poem would express,
No art suffice to render.
This is no love poem
No piece of art, no song
Only a sense
Of how it is to tell of battles won,
Of folding in to feel the surge of triumph
Though brief perhaps,
Within this flashpoint moment
Of the people's war.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Sister and mother and diviner love,
And of the sisterhood of the living dead
Most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom,
And of the fragrant mothers the most dear
And queen, and of diviner love the day
And flame and summer and sweet fire, no thread
Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown
Its venom of renown, and on your head
No crown is simpler than the simple hair.
Now, of the music summoned by the birth
That separates us from the wind and sea,
Yet leaves us in them, until earth becomes,
By being so much of the things we are,
Gross effigy and simulacrum, none
Gives motion to perfection more serene
Than yours, out of our own imperfections wrought,
Most rare, or ever of more kindred air
In the laborious weaving that you wear.
For so retentive of themselves are men
That music is intensest which proclaims
The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom,
And of all the vigils musing the obscure,
That apprehends the most which sees and names,
As in your name, an image that is sure,
Among the arrant spices of the sun,
O bough and bush and scented vine, in whom
We give ourselves our likest issuance.
Yet not too like, yet not so like to be
Too near, too clear, saving a little to endow
Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs
The difference that heavenly pity brings.
For this, musician, in your girdle fixed
Bear other perfumes. On your pale head wear
A band entwining, set with fatal stones.
Unreal, give back to us what once you gave:
The imagination that we spurned and crave.
1.7k
It’s my thang a langwitch spellproteckter go getter- sleek katrina stereowrite braid these monster tentacles aww now cute buzz pro bro-intellectual collaboration gush &fush; & fleek flecks firecompass full of grandiose art verses culture legions sing over and outty 5000 package cursive dialog primer kilameter romance make it equator atypical retro passion that ****** away cuss words p phucker! grade cheated tempo cuntgrunge klue move shadows to stand alones while in line to get in the barfuck gang outside party with smilie txt tshirt and a computer on diet coke kush telescope acid whatever like you feel like emitting or like have 9 thoughts about or like forgot about escaping like post fever social media to become a social sensation out of perception the limited yet coveted cherished harps and fairies and twinkly shimmery **** that doesnt growl or grunt huh? Speech please dont
As if i had the guts to stomp on a butterfly-award speaking dear diary fanatics central stranger than fictive red read (aloud allowed?)Which one. politically slurred thousand jury chapter grew some serious social security numbers and dyed them to prove a cutup battle wins the war
**** **** fick fock u
Mindseekers
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
for Richard, the boy who narrated life
Today, leaves are falling.
“One day Aaron will watch the falling leaves.”
The first day of school arrives.
“One day Champ’s mom will take him to school.”
Life is the story of life, says the narrator.
Life expands. The story lengthens.
The intertwined threads begin to pull apart.
Life is surface and sheen,
laughter, tears, opaque signs.
The story strains after fictive frames,
the hero’s epiphany, the villain’s inner pain,
and undreamt creatures beyond human sense.
And so myth and magic
give form to stories
that we no longer star in.
New worlds take shape
where the story creates its own life,
an escape from "the shock of recognition."
In time the threads converge again.
Life’s pattern breaks and needs a new plot.
The stories yield their human meaning—
maybe we were in them all along.
The story ends and life goes on.
Life ends and the story goes on.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
Her heart holds Him, but her hand aborts.
Searching for confirmation of a better world,
She prays to discern it, but without worship.
A believer she is, yet still fully skeptical.
She deciphers reflections from the gnostic,
The reality from the deceptive.
And hoping to fully and optimally filter the fictive
She dances with Him, going solely with the wind,
To wherever His capriciousness takes her.
She bows upon His whim.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 11:22 PM UTC
Flash of neon signs that pulse blood of glossy lies.
Veins throb and quiver as they deliver food for hungry eyes
Red, Yellow, Turquoise, Razzmatazz feed the impulse of masses
Colors plaster empty faces filling them with alien light
Inside a flame flickers barley bright.
Dying now the last of an ancient rite
Slowly grasping for one last breath
Flickers madly, soft with regret
A cavern, now dark and hollow
Echoes what had once past followed
To be filled now with some new fictive light
Guided only by false color and artificial sight
Now they have lost their light
Bright lights shine lies to eagerly empty masses
Lips contract and speak false colors of satisfaction
Cacophony of humms and buzzes spread like molasses
Eternal night has set upon this mankind
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
paris...
no american in sight, or how i just see utopia...
songs on the steps of sacré-cœur, kissing
an american girl, then cheese and wine
next to the Eiffel tower, laughing, joking, trailing
and tailing off with talk of nabokov,
the nightclub scene with ping-pong ecstasy dances,
youth, youth, youth,
of youth that congregated once in those places,
parisian girls congregating for a game french hushes
with the chinese whispers and anglo comic charades
learned from the conquering normans...
paris back then, what wouldn't i have given for it,
but i learned of starving north,
where lecture upon lecture repeated david hume,
and i said:
it's the 21st century after all!
make edinburgh the new paris!
oh paris, but paris stay intact,
with the eiffel tower in my palm,
where all love met no love
but love met love all the more fictive,
written with a million reincarnations
that once told a tale of warring fractions known
as factions,
and it was told so: paris of my past where
i walked the streets with the compass height
ordaining coordinates that the tower was
to thus learn:
in times of panicky sentencing est mort,
people congregate in hawkish gaze
at monuments of their bone and marrow
turned into cement and irons of scaffold,
and there they congregate to ogle a new hope
when encouraged by a new fascination
of those that are less amazed by the phonetic
simplicity of animals than those who keep them.
oh paris, how i too wished things would have
remained a truer you begging truancy
from international press coverage,
how that one summer i became embedded
in taking to sleep on rock that felt like
woollen napkins filled with duck quills.
and in the memoriam altar two boys played
this song: as entombed by the title.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
Expectation stands in Middlecreek’s waters, it toddles
In curious little hands, in Marylanders only up for the day,
And the snow geese hang like freed shapes of the sky;
This lake comes alive with fluttering wings,
The people around me keep their eyes close to the ground
While a new and weightless thing who walks in fickle grace
Stands in awe from every eye transfixed and terrified
Even the infant child, reborn like of us
Under what little sun 100,000 geese would allow
Through flight, into a world of charcoal.
Something happened in every eye. I don’t know what gods
Revealed themselves to us, or if we walked joy from scorn
But none of us felt human or pain only the swirl of the birds
Dancing inside one another like fire, like passion,
And all the words anyone tried to say were wrong.
Could I say my name anymore and still be right?
Could I call myself so separate when every heart there
Stuck to a single note, and every mouth struck dumb?
Could I speak beauty any longer, or had the geese
Renewed the tongue a fictive beast?
We never were what we thought we were
All but angels afraid of floating there.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
strange to be surrounded by the heroism of the careful edit of Thespians, who can wage win or lose wars with a careful edit and the use of steroids to show the hardship of our former life now made easier - being surrounded by the staged heroism of careful edit, Thespian expression breeds in all a dissatisfaction with menial labours we could be better off to encourage as a non-victimising share of labour, and yet among such numbers of fellows we find our labours too menial, robbing us of the comfort of being as one among so many, only because we're being fed fake courage of Thespians and the subsequent fake adventures of the same profession, to only turn askance into the world and instead of adventure only seeing prospects of tourism, and former hardships of our forefathers as only menial banality.
recitation of religous mantras
seem all the more important
with the blocked toilet
of darwin's **** keeping
the foremost populist adhesive
among people reciting no other
scientific theories -
like that one about a pea-sized
dollop of toothpaste
and any more actually causing
nicotine colouring on your teeth -
dentists & money
& each other
trade (tried and tested, agreeable paradox).
well currently darwin and einstein
are instructing societies in terms
of respectable talk, talk so respectable
that no counter opinion can enter,
because too few scientific facts
are given mantra status...
cite me a theory from chemistry,
cite me at least one thing
about thermodynamics...
exactly, you can't!
we might as well endear a harking laugh
of a fox and the howling bark of dog -
because the western dogma mantra is so
limited - maxims replace poems
and poems are hid whether under the
debasing blanket of lyrics that are simple
due to excess instrumentation
and no hope of singing in duo presence
of both singer and the one expecting song -
or under blankets of fictive corpses
of bored readers - as once noted and spotted:
a funeral service corporate "shop"
and in it too st. francis' hospice selling charity books.
should shiva's attainment of vishnu's peace of mind be attained and subsequently lost, shiva's third eye opens and turns the mind toward the only subsequent definition of former attainment of peace, the third eye opens and turns to warring and destruction; toward the east, Asia's Thespians are known as Avatars - if not thieving from men, then at least enriching gods.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
My thoughts sometimes travel back
To that cool, midsummer’s night
Under that diamond canopy
Two souls as one took flight
I have a map of you inside
This fictive mind of mine
And remember most of all, your peak,
The one mountain I chose to climb
You beat around the bush a bit
Before discovering my secret place
A garden, flowering under rain,
Whose fruit you had a taste
The sky explodes as fireworks
The earth begins to shake
And a volcano somewhere inside of us
Roars loudly, wide awake
But the tragedy about a climb
Is that you have to go back down
But all the way we’ll smile
And laugh about what we have found
So as the years go bye
And I survey that diamond canopy
I hope that you look up too,
And are reminded of me
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
I love to sleep
I sink so deep
Into worlds of dreams
And everything seems
So good and exact
It makes me react
To reality's life
The pain and the strife
Life is a nightmare
And good things are rare
If compared to your mind
Where gladness you find
I hope that you all
To sleep tonight will fall
You will appreciate
The good and the great
The world in your head
When you lie down in bed
It makes your forget
About rough things you've met
Your body will go
To imagination's show
No limit, no rule
Everything turns cool
Imagination is a place
Where pain leaves no trace
Your worries will fade
Everything will be made
The way that you choose
Sadness will loose
There's no point in trying
Avoiding pain and denying
In real life, outside your head
All happiness will be as dead
It know this way to look at things
Gets cynical when this world brings
You fictive gladness in life for real
And happiness is all you feel
I know it sometimes happens here
That feelings goes your way, my dear
And washes away all of your pain
And puts it on the forgotten train
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
Existential ache,
Visceral and immediate
Occludes all reason,
A fated Solitude.
The myth of dearth,
In prose retold
Retaining fictive resolve,
Tacitly confessed.
Ineluctable Torpor
Petitions my
Ardent supplications.
Present,
Beckoned in the dulcet
Confluence —
Beauty and affliction
Freshets of silence,
Redressing the fallow
Surface of my soul.
© 2016 W. S. Warner
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
may my grief residue to no depth sunken into as worth being kept,
but let it reside in falcon wing, ever rising higher
from such burial grounds as to be ennobled by wing
as once ennobled by thought, in kindred with soul,
and levied with tongue lip and kiss a bellowing hark and hiss
chimera beast loved for a minute of its existence;
nein! nein! a third nein be a minded counter well worth a find of an aye;
i too will regret a veto on the life i wished to commence
death-like in a wandering quote in the book of job,
but the new testament jested worse with the commence
of being crucified asking of self-belief as crucible -
and all adventure collapsed into fictive visionaries relegating
the chances of such experiences ever taking place,
as about adventurous as flipping pages: hence
escapist realism.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
*box ***** box! no one ever said bare x-rayed knuckle rough up, but my tongue ain't just an oyster, so here's to a champagne flute ***** and an oyster shell tilted for a slurp ultra crescendo, a runaway: writing philosophy lets you explore the many narrators that are impotent creating characters, while fictive narration has many characters and a few dimensions of narrations, like the *** in the city gall said: newspapers are printed, they're not supposed to convey stories, or be the post-modern basis for a skeletal anastrophe of storytelling.*
you will not get any more artists
when you educate blanks
to canvas a Gucci with a brothel
of colours that might be tamed
into the anti-artist vocabulary deciphering
cubism... brothel of colours?
well **** is red, **** is brush,
you get an orchestra of vowels
with hues, pink is for arson,
the other pink is for fish against stream,
they never air-guitar bass rhymes or
solos, it's a shame, bass guitar is more
akin to drums and therefore more memorable
than brown-nosing vocals and lead guitars...
well coral red became gangrene green
when the snorkelling offshoot to finding
the titanic wreckage took off...
i said the titanic rhythms of bass guitar
was more airy than the scandalous
pitch notes of guitar turned soprano
like a michael jackson wannabe...
twist of the ***** / twist off the *****
get a screwdriver, scandinavian ha ha:
am i grey bearded enough to act out a norwegian
version of hamlet? no? gooooood...
that's dracula saying mornin' 'n' evenin'
together; i'm into revising tabloids
by making many references...
culturally explicit ***** crap... big **** elephant
***** wide... i'm all ****** up for it to be the
defining concern of our times.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
there's no point liking your own
poetry, esp. if you html is infested
with modifications after you publish
something: writing isn't exactly
drink-driving... and when that happens
you start to hate what you write,
and oddly enough, it makes you "motivated"
to write some more, because you're never
satisfied... and being satisfied with your
work will never give you permission to
create more, notice the narcissists in the craft:
five poems later... nothing to add, self-love
takes over the necessary self-loathing,
self-love from over-editing prior
something being read by someone else,
self-loathing and the embarrassment
of having to edit while you, yourself, notice
the mistakes (in this case some weird
futurism of an a.i. in the html encoding,
got to get me a screen shot of the before and after),
added to that... i write of a personal life,
and as it turns out... my life has become more
personal than i would have thought,
i guess writing from the gut of experience
adding a few fictive colours to make creases
in books will make your life a life of a robinson crusoe:
adding to the fact that you never idealise,
whether experienced or not experienced -
idealising is peppered with only thinking about it.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
i sometimes wish i could age to be old and modestly rich, and see my own face in the girls i might care to swoop under my monetary belt in order to see rejection’s expression (pst! articles aren’t used when a meaning is duo possessive / either what you expect or what you don’t expect doesn’t matter) of my youth... a woman’s sex-drive gives her ample time to live longer than man.
it’s a ****** da vinci...
it’s so good
the only thing you
can do to it is.. graffiti it!
so you quote heath ledger
on the mona lisa:
'now i'm always smiling!'
he stole the fiction, heath ledger did,
he stole the fictive character
and committed suicide
because of it... heavy toll i say...
i sometimes wish more actors
took the character off the page
and into hades, as a way
to execute the relation of having
a father extinguished... that's classic that is.
me? ***** i think i got the
actor's part of christ... i.e. the antichrist...
and my crucifixion scene is in a sickbed...
and lasts too long like Tolstoy's war & peace
that no one reads...
and i sometimes get a sponge soaked with
wine given to me by a centurion,
or as i like to call it... some writing time
from the excesses of perspiration
doing the easiest of household activities
with the energy of someone aged 80;
no seriously, heath ledger stole the joker
from the realm of fiction and made it a reality
when hades dully acknowledged these
words to ring true:
telegram from the mediator of yhwh... heath ledger
is the joker... hades didn't reply and merely
gleed with awe like freshly oiled wooden flooring,
although a few dimples appeared on his face.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
Born from a carrion crow, a secondary soul
A stumbling first step can get both high and low
Our fall are others inner joy, and inner meaning grotto
Life is a jungle filled with snow, life is a story over-told
It'd be lies without our mouth's constant need for ammo
Let's slide senseless into a fictive reality rather than candid
Where a billion stars all around that seem to think we're attractive
Without assuming they're antic
Lets waste our time on cheap talk and wine
For shallow compliments we need a shirt and tie
A long slow drive, drugs to whirl and jive
Without quivering the sky
Lets pretend that we're beautiful to get something in return
Only to be garnished with coffee stains and cigarette burns
Bewailing about how we enjoyed our youth
We wither irrelevantly, slowly we discern
Slowly we're concerned
Lets drain our energies for over eight hours straight
Burning the faded floral wallpaper to laminate
Lusting feverishly in the tumbled bed to truncate
This isn't for fulfilment, at least it doesn't start that way
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
and they write confessional poems,
and they're scared
when it happens to be too authentic
and they never bother
personae poetry and a shamelessness
about it - as if imitating someone
and able to distance yourself
from the adequate metaphorical word
schizoid - the personae principle
of poetry - the poet disguised
within many people - and indeed
as poetry goes, the crude oiling not
represented by stiff-collar fictive
outputs of he said, she said, "quote",
and the out-of-body experiences -
but then, that wouldn't be poetry,
would it? what it would be would
be jane austen, or anna karenina.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
I grew up in a haunted house
Where walls were wet with blood.
Phantasmagoric phantoms of my mother
set the mood.
Cadavers roamed the rooms
Their choral moans in sync.
To die in such a residence,
Surviving on the brink.
The days were drowned in silence,
While night surfaced the screams
Of murdered men. I lived
inside a sea of make-believe.
And mirrors morphed
The monsters into mad reality
Insidious-their curses are
My sad normality
Today I am awake because
my horrors never sleep
The fictive fiends cry melodies
My mind cannot compete
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
*you, many-tongued mimic
impersonator, ventriloquist
mockingbird of loud repute
whose repertoire amazes
pied-pipering attraction
that hooks even mutants:
mockingjay or jabberjay
fictive or literal pursuit
hospital smock would suit;
in its vile end, we pretend
for one moment, to comprehend
in a twinkling, a final spark
our earthly existence, spend*
●○
°
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
A fool who failed to realize his flaws, flabbergasted at the thought how he has yet to reach fruition; can such fallacies formulate for this long?
Even foes forge wars against such fundamentalism. But you, a felonious man, has no fear of anyone at all.
It's futile to fight such a closed-mind fiend of a man, fraud and fictive thoughts has already permeated such a mind; for his ways are fragile, fruitless and foul like a dead tree of figs.
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC