"fluctuations" poems
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream,
as if somehow the county, relates to their regime?
Trying to push on others their far right views,
and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos
cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be,
I do love a bit of local pride...
maybe to revel in the comfort it provides,
and even though stereotypes say we're tight,
as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right),
But I'd rather that, than be uptight,
like a stereotypical southerner might
I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie,
“England has a bottom half,
but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north”
The North in the south means desolation,
A cultural wasteland with deserted stations,
a place built on violent, aggressive foundations,
With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations,
Nothing that comes close to a nation....
But that's not what I see,
To be from the north means good fish and chips,
with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips,
I see people willing to lend a hand,
A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop
that you never planned,
It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll,
Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal,
Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl.
We should still all have a similar goal,
To have a good time,
and not hurt a soul
Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide,
but I'll always welcome people from the other side,
Acceptance is not sin,
and if you let it,
it generally ends up with a win : win
What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
Strewn about
Pushed and pulled
Kneaded and formed
Torn between fluctuations
Waves of highs and lows
Guided by incessant duality
Indecisive self esteem is a certainty
Inevitable and constant is change
Enjoy your main character moment
It always goes just as sudden as it came
God complex with a hint of self loathing
We dance on the scales of our emotions
Just because the pain is carried well
Doesnt mean it isn't heavy, the weight of it is always felt
Survival is sometimes met with guilt
Youre invincible to everyone except yourself
Stay balanced and level
Integrity above all else
Do whats right when noones looking
Or be tortured by the secrets you can never tell
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 11:08 PM UTC
clinton rebukes israel over east jerusalem homes obama nasa plans catastrophic say moon astronauts alaska wolves **** woman's teacher out jogging ireland frees 3 cartoonist plot suspects sarkozy and brown attack u.s. over protectionism pope benedict's former diocese rehoused abuser priest chile puts quake damage at $30bn winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela climate change makes birds shrink in north america dr rowan williams is honored for work on russia weymouth ridgeway skeletons scandinavian vikings live bangladesh v england michael schumacher pledges to raise game in bahrain can the u.s. vice-president broker middle east peace? sarkozy's party faces socialist drubbing remote indian state set for development new york dust victims split on 9/11 deal german tells of childhood abuse by catholic priest a step closer to the american dream? lehman: how $50bn was buried in london ba strike union announces dates in march china's oil demand increase astonishing says iea china warns google to comply with censorship laws net clash for web police projects hsbc admits huge swiss bank data theft phil spector ****** conviction appealed sir david jason to voice cbbc animation climate change 'makes birds shrink' in north america thalidomide effect mystery solved blood pressure fluctuations warning sign for stroke winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela mogadishu residents told to leave somali capital same-sex couples marry in mexico city by mistake i clicked on wrong button and lost everything
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
evening
Maria and Mr. Riner are sitting on my bed
tied up like garlands, against the wall
the words stew inside and I can't seem to
pour them out
but we three fools, sit and scribble regardless
staring blankly at the drooling clock
(persistent, in our memories).
the whitewashed cinderblocks are testament
to the number of walls
the quantity of clocks
this series of chairs
and if we close out eyes we expect to
wake up in heaven
but it's just the same old hell.
she says, keep writing
(if you feel inclined)
and slides her back into mine
but I've got no more letters in these fists
(so I'll lie and think for a bit).
she says,
I've never been a 'she' before...
morning
my coat sits in a bundle near the door
I've been trying to find a way to hang it
but I'm having mixed results, in fact
all this month I've been trying to make attachments
to these white,
white,
cinder block walls
with all manner of adhesives.
but these nightly sessions
have been ******* with the humidity
and every morning something new is on the floor.
all I can do is put them back up again.
try and
be a little more constant
with these climate fluctuations.
try and
sleep a little more, sweat a little less.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
the alcoholic’s eyes are the least searching,
there’s a fixed point in them,
they’re not darting as you might expect
with the loss of the virgin’s carousel of
frenzy: up & down up & down.
the alcoholic’s eyes are fixed on a point
that makes the world less transfixed in its parabolic fluctuations,
that steady eye we’re all expected to have
when a hallucinogenic curtain is thrown over our eyes,
when the young moralise the old
and the old can’t teach the young -
hence the alcoholic’s eye steady darting into commotion
he least expected - otherwise known as the world.
‘but the lions are caged!’ the alcoholic bemoans,
'now i’ll have to put up with economic tourists panicky over eating their own
in the race of who gets richer first spawning a thousand gypsies
correcting political correctness to a hijab **** ****** at for conversation!'
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
I live my life in extremes
Polar opposites attract in the center of my soul
And for some reason, living on opposite ends
Seems to be a fashion trend
I am not the "I made out with every girl in my college sorority
So now I'm bisexual" type of queer
Not to out-and-proud vomiting rainbows type of bisexuality
I am the bisexuality that gets erased
The eighth grade girl who, when she told her first boyfriend she was queer,
He told her she was over dramatic and crazy.
I am the bisexuality that gets oppressed
Because I am confined to the walls of a shrinking closet
Or is it expanding?
I have lost my sense of left or right
Up or down
Yes or no.
I am not your manic pixie dream girl type of bipolar
Not the girl who needs saving from her mental illness
Not drowning.
I am the bipolar disorder that becomes overwhelming
The depression that chains me to my bed in the morning
The hypomania that seems euphoric, but is never happy
The grey area, the lone horizon, the empty space in the middle
Seems like something I drive through over the speed limit
Every day of my life.
While my extremes do not look good on your favorite actress
They look beautiful on me.
Not an outfit I can strip down when it goes out of style
Not a channel I can change when it is not appealing anymore
But I will learn to love my fluctuations
My mood pendulum
My love pendulum
I am swinging from state to state
But at least I am flying
Instead of falling.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:59 PM UTC
this is a poem about happiness.
this is also a poem about how great life is, see? here's a metaphor
comparing nature to the faultless
form of a pedastalized lover,
here's a description of the
effect of changes in air pressure
and localized temperature
fluctuations
on physical matter in a given area.
here's a bland truism that
anybody can relate to.
here's a couple rhyming stanzas
about the ethereal shifting of
connecting threads which
cause all life to dance upon
the cosmic stage like food poisoned marionettes.
here's an ode to the wrinkles of
my ******** and
the bits of fuzz that occasionally
find their home in my *****
here's a sonette to the drop outs
doing better than me
here's a dirge for the businessman
that hangs himself
and a jubilee for his widow
who earns nothing off his death
because he left his entire estate
to his catamite.
I'm writing a symphony in color,
notes of fermenting wood
dogshit and coffin dust.
the violas swoop and drone
the piccolos trill fast enough
to excise your gastrointestinal system
the barotone sax wheezes
and the timpani drum rumbles
(the flutes sit motionless because
**** flutes)
the pianists fingers are bleeding
hes banging with stumps now
his face contorted in ecstatic glee
as if the face of god has parted
the clouds just to scrape his gums
clean with his dietous ****
and lo faint is the whisper
which climbs and slithers
between the
false,
bash upon life with both hands.
here is life here is death
let me show your life
let me breathe your wretching
like squandered
like roots in the soil,
paint your everlasting cave drawing
in the face of your kitchen
and dance around a fire
let the embers lick your heels
til pagan viciousness overtakes
your quivering form.
gasp it in
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
Delusions of grandeur abound. Sophistication and advancement are sold to the masses and deceptive merchandise is purchased with a commodity which is trivialised in the name of relativism: our soul.
Fixed false beliefs are embraced in the quest for enlightenment, despite the lunacy of such an approach. Analysis of the snowflake may be captivating; but fluctuations of environmental equilibrium reduce its beauty to a tiny trickle of moisture. There is truly nothing new under the power of the Sun. So, pursue anthropological evolution and astrally project into mystical horizons at your almighty will. But I appeal to the universe: bring back the medieval celebrations of lunar amazement. However, let us not forget that the trials of Salem are a perpetuating characteristic of our triumphant modernity. I want to take you Home.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Sweet liars and their sugar coated lies…
Root from their heart and branch out in the skies…
Their innocent souls and deceptive eyes…
Their polished shoes and branded ties…
In the beginning they seek your attention…
The next desire is your affection…
By recital of their past and rejection…
Either from them or from other direction…
“Don’t sympathies sweetheart, I am a strong man… Okay”…
“My heart comes free with this ring and bouquet”…
“Say yes, my love, we’ll plan a holiday”…
“Let’s go shopping for your lingerie”…
The candles are lit and the dinner is served…
The charm and chivalry is observed…
His scent and accent leaves you unnerved…
He is definitely the prince you thought you deserved…
Ah! And you fall in the trap and love as well…
Dreaming of him and his tempting propel…
You talk of him and his stories you tell…
Of the vamps he dated and your own love spell …
He has your trust and you are happy high…
His kisses and touch you can’t deny…
“He loves me so much” you amplify…
You light his nights like a firefly…
Now when you feel the bygones are supplanted…
The road gets a little slanted…
When you are more often taken for granted…
His fluctuations show the doldrums are planted…
You inspect the change and the causes aligned…
And come across the love texts enshrined…
You feel shattered and maligned…
The way you are portrayed and opined…
You demotion as ex is celebrated with a raised toast…
With his new flame and he playing host…
You embrace your strength with care utmost…
His vows and love , haunting you like ghosts…
You want to cry till you paralyze…
Blaming thyself for this jeopardize…
The arduous task to analyze, summarize and self sterilize…
From these sweet liars and their sugar coated lies…
~Kathaa Kirti
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 4:25 AM UTC
the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
The Saturday night crowd, all here to see Dave Van Ronk,
sit huddled in the fashion of Antwerp diamond cutters,
sipping cinnamon/marshmallow coffee at the tables.
Caffe Lena is Saratoga's happening place in the 60's and
we're here to forget the war and civil strife in the ghettos.
Sister Mary Katherine, sans frock, is the warmup act,
but no one really gives her any mind,
as she struggles to seat herself upon the stool
intended for the six-foot plus Van Ronk.
Joan Baez prepare to eat your heart out!
Without so much as introduction, she
breaks into a high soprano Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.
Heads pivot like synchronized swimmers toward the stage.
Her silken voice emits notes blinking
into reality from quantum fluctuations in space/time.
Every quivering high-C grafts the audience together.
She's spinning veils of sound,
the like of which our ears are unfamiliar.
The quavers in her throat match the tremors in my coffee.
In the back of the cafe a drunken Van Ronk passes out.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:49 PM UTC
Significance decreased as your speech began to reek
with pretentious hypocrisy revealing conspicuous shortcomings
Importunately making conclusions based upon illusions
Spouting lines to save but delirium is all you gave
As if I were seeking your confirmation, salvation, or blessings
I would've asked your opinion if I valued your progression and prosperities
or wondered into a church if I sought duplicitous appease
This unrequited love you deal is meretricious and full of disease
You sell a lie until it's spent then devour what is left of one's esteem
You depend on the humiliation and degradation of another
to accommodate the hostilities you experience from others
Passing off insurmountable grief to save yourself from your own realities
I hope one day you find peace and revelation
Before someone else is enraptured by your false persona falling victim to your belittlement and fluctuations
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
I yearned for peace,
To silence the chaos of my mind.
Craved a quiet solace
Sought to close my heart
Until Fate wove
Our bonded twine.
Two wayward souls
On separate paths—
“Coincidentally” align.
This perfect pairing,
Our missing piece
A testament to
Divine Design.
We navigate this expanse
Unknown
For which only the boldest
Are inclined,
Of life’s tumultuous spectrum—
Erratic fluctuations, vacillating
From arduous to Sublime.
It takes an acute endurance,
Coupled with two spirits
In their prime
To overcome insurmountable
Obstacles
Which so often bend
The Strongest
Of
Stalwart
Spines.
And yet our love
Transcends all trials
And to you Alone,
I resign…
To the man who mends
My heart
I am yours, and you
Are Mine.
I vow to cherish you
Until my last breath,
Until the fabric of
Time
Unwinds.
To my Saving Grace,
My Singular Proclivity—
My
Everlasting
Valentine.
Feb 17, 2022
Feb 17, 2022 at 3:44 AM UTC
Awakened by the summons
Of the moon, he wanders.
His eyes, vaguely responsive
To light fluctuations; and
He often weeps when dishes are washed.
He calls my daughter, ‘David’ or
Simply barks at her.
At midday he routinely gathers
All family photos, stacks in towers.
He interchanges tasks of the dinner table
And the bathroom, incognizant.
The cat seeks him out and
They seem to find comfort together.
We keep mittens on his hands;
For, without them, he’s prone to
Bore holes to the bone.
When outside, he’ll rush toward the maple;
Embrace it, like Mom, and cry.
On Sunday mornings we have come to expect:
A laundry basket prepared, by him,
Brimming with loose crackers, milk, cheese,
Broken eggs and cat litter.
He creates knotted chains with his shirts;
Laughs, hysterically at the sound of the vacuum;
Sings, ‘In The Garden’, whenever it rains.
While, for years now, I have prayed
That this is solely dormancy;
And someday, he will be full again.
I solemnly wish that I had no memories of him;
This would make my love for him less complicated.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
There should appear some respite,
despite
the fact, I am a Nyctophile
as I too love my collapsing sight
I too flicker in the bright.
Like an earner without his earning
The dark existence,
by the sphere that lurks, partially satiated
'See-Saw' a fodder for human poets
The other aspect, totally denied.
Skin is imbalanced
which showers mixed colors
Why not an equilibrium?
Vampires licking honeyed sanity
The sane too, join the party.
But, if he complies, they wouldn't
If she complies, they wouldn't
Fluctuations are eminent
There should appear some respite,
despite
the fact, I am a dust stained file
as I too love my collapsing might
I too flicker in the bright.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
Night shifts into jet black
city escapes
if it's not insanity,
we don't have an answer at stake.
this product of you and me
was never an accident.
love at its peak
signaling and S.O.S.
you've bought me in a surface.
we don't now yet.
analog fluctuations I wanted
you and I cant forget.
Sanctions we break,
with metal palms we punch.
limitations act as walls
our thirst keeps me quenched.
My passion, your fire.
will get us above the wires
ambiguous insights to the past.
Passion and fire, you ignite.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
holdover from the air cools bitter awash of dark and a turning horizon without centre. where i entered an empty frame across distance and skin like smoke. ive been having nightmares of cosmic terror a sublime loss of control like paper tearing in the chaotic drifts of broken eddies and other everyday things an inward open mirror a sunlit line wavering to heat disintegration dispersal erosion and death. ive been reading uncanny fluctuations in the sign of things in a power too great and sparse to comprehend overwhelmed by haunting finitude as time veers into collision and the fleeting panic of yesterdays blood. i find myself shaking at the thought of contact the electromagnetic law of repulsion built into the fabric of my flesh eyes turned away like a promise all language from dead stars. dragged along these orbits my skin trembles and i am hateful. faces blur in passageways half-lit rooms smudge across the surface of my memory until i see nothing but the colour of what was tightening the cords of my ribs stumbling inflexion. in the precession of traffic light blurs through my sleeve and i realise i was invisible all along and that i did this to myself and that nobody can help me and that i did this to myself and that i will retreat further and further and further because if it hurts to be abandoned it hurts more to be approached and misunderstood. the masks the words the acts the plays and beneath it all fear cruel mounting hopeless wretched fear eyes turning fingers running over and over until they break the lines of my face a ******* i turn the clocks upside down. i take the batteries out of all my electronic devices. i break the locks on my door. only then does morning come.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 10:51 AM UTC
It is a replicable dialectic
that swirls in my mind
like a spiral of cigarette smoke
covering fluctuations
of diffused expanses
of transferable hallucinated images
relying on an artificial artificiality
to generate a reality
one that amplifies a calisthenics
of maximized reduction
in the blank vacuum of space
allows those sophistication’s
where there is a scrutiny
of exclusions
that may perhaps betray
the concepts of others
those correlatives
of our own creative interirority
where a mind may repeal a transgression
for it is breakfast in the time
of the Wizard Pig
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
another day
a few more hours
till this time comes again.
look out, for i will make
the same mistakes.
but these errors are not random
they are natural fluctuations.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Quarks, photons, gluons: sub-atomic particles:
Quantum fluctuations
That wink in and out of existence.
Where do they come from?
Where do they go?
There must be somewhere else.
Somewhere beyond our space and time.
Outside our multiverse,
Our Realm.
A parallel dimension next to ours.
Heaven?
Who knows?
We ourselves are made of particles:
Many a water molecule,
blinking in and out.
So in effect we are dead
As often as alive.
But am I God?
Are We God (assuming You are Real)?
Yet we have little power.
We can’t be God.
Maybe We are The One Mind,
Dreaming all together.
Dream Creations in our very own Dreams.
Within our virtual, mortal shells.
We are caught in an infinite,
Vibrating energy stream,
Perceiving an illusory Virtual World,
Living the Dream together indeed:
The One Mind.
Paul Butters
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC
sunlight reflected in broken
jagged fragments
on the wings of an aeroplane flying north
deep in the valley of organs and
warm trickling blood.
she haunts my thoughts as a distant terror
a threat to the happiness
weaved between weathered fingers
she'll take him away
take away
with the fluctuations of her voice
cutting raw wounds in the back of
my throat.
//calmly wait
passion resonates with a sticky wet
presence
clinging wet clothes to curves.
he sees my thighs
with appraising eyes.
you must belong to me::
to my sacred heart beats--
no thoughts of california and the wreckage
she should bring
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
"Mental Illness"
Do those words excite you?
Look at me
I am a whirlpool of melancholy
I am a drain
I am filled with mania
I am a pulse
An endless flame
Of what **perfect madness**
I am every kind of fluctuation imaginable
"Mental Illness"
But I am so intimately rearranged
Put together in the most unique
And beautiful
And miserable of ways
"Mental Illness"
Ha,
I am so much more than that.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
Tick tock tick tock.
"When will my breath stop?"
Apparently not appropriate conversation to make at my family gathering.
The chicken is delightful. Would you give me the recipe? (murmurs of agreement around table)
"I wasn't kidding. I avoid pools, yoga and beautiful people that take my breath away so I don't have to deal with slight fluctuations in my oxygen intake!"
The table was set up perfectly by the kids, don't you think? Granted they forgot the wine glasses! (adults chuckle)
"I can't help but imagine those pillowcases in our chests that expand occasionally, as if rotating fans face them. It's an obsession of mine!"
Oh I think Johnny's about to fall asleep! Is there a guest bed room I can let him rest in? (assistance follows)
"Why won't you listen! When I take off my T-shirts, I count down and gulp the air before pulling the fabrics off, out of fear of being found dead, half-naked due to suffocation."
Oh Laurie I really shouldn't have dessert, I'm trying to watch my weight, but let me help you bring it out? (chattering of women on the way to the kitchen)
"Don't you know that I carry both an oxygen tank and an assortment of plants and trees wherever I go. I insert the tubes or the vines into my nose so that even when I'm gone my lungs may never stop rising."
(speaker dies the next day in car crash)
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC