"formulaic" poems
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
The end.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
I am caught, in your eye,
and I drown, in your tectonic wave.
You rattle, intimately,
for me, and shake...
You shift,
minutely,
soundlessly,
collapsing, into sprawling patterns,
into formulaic strains, of madness.
Then you madden, me, as you cascade,
into beautiful, and brilliant shades:
Your Rorschach mosaics,
in prismatic hues.
Each gemlike, facet, of YOU, that is you...
Burning out my gaze,
with your radiance,
as you irradiate...
I'd give anything...to label each color,
that infuses, your face...
Scattering trickles of light,
and roseate shapes...
as if your soul,
were a treasure trove,
of the most precious jewels.
Your vibrant emeralds...
your smoky citrines...
your sapphire blues...
your ruby reds,
and your royal amethysts, too
You twist, in my hands...
and, under the light,
I turn, and return, too,
if only to seek,
a fleeting glimpse...of you.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 9:52 AM UTC
the grit courage of trust
still too young and now, too old, to comprehend,
love~trust and all its secondary derivatives,
not extant on a plane of new bed sheets of
silk~linen tablecloth rectangularity
go into the park's garden;
black soil fingernail coating
awaiting, impatiently for you,
dig in direct hands ungloved
is it not,
sensual and yet gritty,
two coextensive sensations?
slip inside (you/me, me/you),
there is a razor's edge duality duty,
trust, serve and protect,
take and
handle with rough-care, for this our state of beauty
au naturel, the rush and the fall,
the climb and the conquering,
only to start again, each step, each rung,
coated with the
the grit courage of trust -
do you begin to comprehend?
trust is a bumpy landing on a glide path that is strewn
with potholes that can grow into sinkholes without
the grit of trust
the soles of my feet are a message,
gritty from walking
all-life, not just the edges,
is a two act play of roughening,
upon the limbs the things,
that carries us *****
but bares the wearing of
unkind touches of reality
working us over
why the soothing,
but not the smoothing
daily twice is the cream that
emerges from the grit courage of trust
even the vinery's progeny of great love,
grapes that must
embrace the wind and rain,
the wearing down tools of
the exterior that brings an acknowledgement -
do you begin to comprehend?
this is not an algebraic formulaic solution solvable problem,
this derived from dirt, access to accidental, the tongue and the nail,
the cracks upon the skin, that grow wonderful deeper, unfillable,
where the love gets in,
were the words are written and stored,
rough to the touch,
under the grit courage of trust -
do you begin to comprehend?
this grit is unbelievable beautiful
only a love po-em.
5:22am
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
you have the formula
A Love Poem Recipe:
Fij = G(Mi x Mj)/Dij.
This formula, simplified, means that trade between two markets will equal the size of the two markets multiplied together and then divided by their distance.
(The model gets its name from its mathematical similarity to the equation in physics that describes gravitational pull.)
~~~
long ago, swore off
the love poem business.
lying that this
the last poem ever published
moan not,
statistically, for sure be
a heart-infected sick teenager
bemoaning/high fiving
their fated status
but I don't need to add to
that smoldering pile
the excellence, the richness,
the virtuosity
of the formula
a metaphor,
for the bounty and the risk,
in any love affair, thus love needy
for a diagrammed explication
two markets, soft upon each other,
multiply their trade in love and kisses
can you kiss her (him) but once?
nonsense!
saying I love you
but once a day,
like it was a vitamin,
preposterous!
no, love expands like a gas
(a distant cousin to our formula),
filling in the empty spaces,
escaping through crevices,
spilling, oft filling up
the nearby bystanders
in love,
there is no thing as
one touch clicking
but one touch
reveals the genetic marker,
the initial intimacy injection
Let the addiction begin!
ten thousand grasps,
some soft, some hard,
upon each other,
till fingers go lifelong contented numb
desire and affection spread like a
positive infection,
the curative powers
elegiac,
but never prosaic and though
formulaic
think more
voltaic and paradisiac
electric heaven
go forth and scribe
you got the secret
recipe
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
A pastel blue backdrop
behind three glass frames
not a cloud in the sky
not a plane flying by
Yet I cannot learn to love
the sky without the trails
smoky puffs of vapour
line a day with uncertainty
For a blue sky is bland
without the odd trace
of imperfection, even
birds in formation become
the aforementioned.
"I can't stand to sing
the same song the same way
two nights in succession"
Routine it seems is its
own imperfection.
Give me a grey sky in June
And thunder in peace
A stark croaking crow
Can be sheer bliss
All things aligned,
Excitements amiss
For the brain needs
A puzzle, a challenge...
Confrontation, **** your
Hollywood films and
Normalisation, your
predictable habits
And false gestation;
Astro-Turf fields
And palm tree islands,
Man-made beaches
And glacier skylines
Synthetic audio
and bastardisation
of the arts, your
contempt for nature
Shall be your Achilles
for the world we live in,
the forests and canopy's
are the very providers
Of human abilities,
rid us of them and face
extinction, this is the
nature of colonisation.
The earth which houses us
is not formulaic, It's a collision
of astronomic proportions
every detail as vital as another
Mankind can be primal, Oedipal
and graceless, but respecting your
home is not an optional gift, for
we cannot survive as a species adrift.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
lofi hip hop decorates my brain
notebook formulaic and profane
anxiety seeps my malleable mind
latching onto anything it finds.
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 8:24 AM UTC
I have never believed in the principles of physics because they do not apply to girls like me. Girls who disobey Newton's straight-mouthed rules with scarlet leaps of blind faith, girls with hopes soaring past our pastel heavens, never weighed down by any mystical force of gravity measured by dead men. The audacity of the physicist's rotten rules anchoring themselves into thick velvet skin-- as if to stifle the daydreams that keep twirling unpredictably even if acted upon by an unbalanced force. There is no way to silence my momentum, I will keep blooming-- slender hands outstretched toward the flickering sun, past all of the white numerical lies and formulaic cages that ache to confine me. What a perfect contradiction, that a soft-spoken girl can rise at the break of Einstein's miscalculated morning, illuminating the sky with the poetry of her defiance.
She, who loves gracefully without friction. She, whose bones cannot be broken by the laws of heat. She, who keeps herself warm when the cold mathematical wrath of their graves fails to keep her quiet.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
the titles
lay about,
filed in no order,
some a mere notion,
some a finished few,
most a line or two
that
ask fervently for
birth, commencement,
not understanding
that finished,
need not mean ripened,
ready for release, consumption
some indeed,
awful layabouts
in no hurry
to complete their
appointed rounds,
or make their
unique composed sounds
spoke out loud
content to be,
yet-to-be
but already
wanting the entitlements
of being
just a title entitled,
yet even without shape,
content to be
content-less,
poem teenagers, I guess,
they want it all
all awaiting wondering
they understand how humans are born
but see no parallel to gestation literate
they see
infiltration, fertilization, conception,
automated, tracked and formulaic
the process similar,
but the exact moment of birth
knows no schedule,
some burst, some dormant,
aging beyond aged,
struggling to believe that
those who wait also serve
if you were to sit beside
this troubled man,
whose clouds need poking by,
perhaps,
your fresh fingers
could rocket them into
partum warmth fluid bathed,
then they would belong
to you
for you
were the trigger,
that fired them into existence
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
I fear I've become
formulaic and dishonest
though honesty has never
flown freely when I bleed.
I instead inscribe
insolence, decadence
dolled up in demand and
hand picked participles
to show my snappy wordsuits
down this two dimension catwalk.
I've tasted the fraudulent freeverse fantasy
and washed out what I've done
years past, former lives,
servitude to scheming rhymes
and tracking down the feet
meter by meter.
See!
I own the jargon,
jot it down freely
with a casuality undeserved.
Read carefully, cause herein spouts my effort.
Slink back to default,
once in whiles,
show them that you
got it still.
Baring teeth or
gleaming smiles
differ at souls'
windowsills.
And simply so, it seems again
like pox against my aching skin
I simply substitute some time
to rhyme and let it all begin...
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
Around your neck
not a stone
a crystal
shown
I relate to it
shine
so special
you let me touch
it touches me
in return
I relate to you
it's part of you
after
all
refractions
cloud my school day
it's physics
in the crystal
I C
Re: fractions
which in total
have no equal
and which apart
add up
to me
.. as time does
for you
in action?
you seem to be
anything but..
so.. so..
hypnotic?
action?
crystal as time
act eye on
cry s t a l .. a s t i m e
love?
and you?
it seems formulaic
the equation stalls
so sad
MC is square
not round
no cutting corners
2
let us go
on and oners
Love =
pluses and minuses
I guess
one kiss
would solve it
Thank 'Eee
awwww
(I'd be such an *** not to)
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
I remember all of the stupid things.
The gap in my first love's fringe
that appeared only when she was flustered,
or torn between *** and G-d.
The nursery teacher who resembled
Jane Goodall and sat with me
whilst my hayfever was too potent
to play out in the sun.
I remember the exuberance of heat
on the concrete slabs in my first back garden.
How my mother would take
boiling water to the empires of ants
that would find life in the cracks
and crevices between my footfalls.
I remember how silent they were
through oppression and death.
I remember my first sight of the ocean.
How serene it looked in the distance,
how unforgiving and cold it was
once I threw my whole weight into it.
The shivering donkeys on the beach,
agitated by the ice-cream crowds;
the man who handled snakes for a living
and persuaded me to touch a killer.
I remember my first guitar
and how I stared at it helplessly
for two hours, like a teenage boy
on his first sight of a ******
The first sad song to deliver a feeling
never experienced, but communicated;
how adults failed to answer the questions
that music gave forth effortlessly.
I remember when you started leaving
kisses at the end of your messages,
the formulaic gaps in time
before I would hear from you again;
your costume of nonchalance.
The way you appeared in the wasteland hours,
playing the therapist with your kind words
and history of neurosis.
I remember the sheet of plastic
that shielded me from the rain as a child,
the rubber wheels of my carriage
buckling through puddles and gaps;
the first exposure to nature's lullaby,
as I fall asleep through storm and traffic.
I remember how easily sleep once came,
and how I resisted it all the same.
I remember my recurring nightmare.
A big red button and the doors of hell;
some spectre of infinite density
that caterwauled for the destruction
of all things human, all things new.
The way my mother's arms were infallible,
the priest's glare, omniscient;
the revolting concept of a cigarette.
I remember all of the useless things.
The rings around my grandfather's eyes
on the only occasion I saw him cry.
Kissing Rebecca on the lips,
cementing our love with tree sap
and the promise of an endless summer.
I remember the first time I felt sad
without having a reason to be so.
I remember the shine of the room
when I took pills for the first time;
the incorrigible thirst for water
and the racing confessions that followed.
I remember how it felt,
the first time I trapped someone in a poem;
how easy it was to forget them
once reduced to words and half-truths.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
the formulaic...........how drab!
events so monumental
(and overwhelming!)
petty egos
broken on the gulf coast beaches
(OUR BEACHES!)
-------------
drifting on the summer breezes
BESIDES DEATH, TELL ME
"WHAT?" , MY FRIEND
is drifting on the summer breezes
tell me........
.....
tell me
..................
.............tell me
IF YOU, TOO, ARE ,
IF YOU, TOO
IF YOU.......!
..........................ARE HERE!
-----------
it's quite lonely
in "the trenches"
behind the barricades
who does listen
to the heart
..................the heart.............
the bursting broken heart!
---------
the formulaically protected egos
the individualized and protected
petty egos that we all are
yield up our formulaic defences
and
COME FORTH!
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 1:57 PM UTC
my brush touches on canvas
with each whipping flick, a new stroke around the curvature of your smile
i paint in shades of black, white, and gray
yet nothing gives off more color than the radiance of your joy
and nothing makes me prouder to be alive
than the moment I've made you split the creases of your cherry blossom lips
and reveal teeth as white as the clouds where you must originally be from
high up above this area of space plagued by the formulaic symmetry between conformists
those who greet the sun in the morning with the intention just to get by
no my love, you wake each sunrise with a far greater purpose
and i wake to share a piece of it with you
so we can smile together
and feel high enough to be perched on a crescent moon
as I hold you close, and point out the brilliant star you descended from
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
So what is wrong
And what is right?
A formulaic diatribe
Denouncing young brides
An age-old hunger
For reacquaintance
With the same?
Old mothers and young wives
Brandished Ph.D's and lifelong strife
Carry the baby
Forget the rest
If there's love there's still no rest
*** bubbles up
Thinking its own thoughts
And the anniversary deathbed
Gets soaked again.
Generations of beds
Estate sales of lost loves
A splintered family is less rich
An over-achieving cote of doves.
How to be fierce
Without ****** the Earth
Is a rich boy's dilemma
The rest of us
**** who we wanna.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Life Is A Corned Beef Hash
(A metaphor)
Life is a corned beef hash -
Or chicken, pork or any stash
Of edibles you have at hand.
If you are clever
You will use the cleaver
To make dishes
So delicious
Guests will never understand
With formulaic words
How to make the bouquet of accolades
Big enough.
(Wow! That was pufferific!)*
All you have to do is focus,
Be a tiny bit courageous,
Use a quantity of hocus pocus
So your genius
Can shine,
Your mine of treasure
The impromptu measure
of the moment.
Life Is A Corned Beef Hash 8.12.2017
A Sense Of the Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin
*puffery – in case you didn’t know: exaggerated praise; hyperbole.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 6:05 AM UTC
inside surfaces; a couplet affair of
mess and lost movement,
what small safety is left to believe in
can't make me or
you listen:
desperation makes soft
rainfall outside seem like
splinters,
chopsticks neither of
us would bother split,
anyway.
and now i
'm drunk and
now, i can't figure
out
how
softness works (am i weak and formulaic?),
or how i've
switched heartbeats
to some small
distance that won't capitulate.
capitulation would be far too easy,
of course.
how built up speculation,
inevitably in isomorphism
to your sweet ruffled hair,
to another lover,
who won't care anyway,
(will she?)
wines and dines my
foolish mind.
is all this pursuit futile?
just;
please care for me,
new darling, you,
as anyone in rainfall,
or tomato juice, or;
basically:
i need
all the ******* help in the world,
right now.
give me something.
anything.
dying for new light,
i managed to set sights on
oceans or
footsteps abroad or
just not feeling like this,
if that's ok?
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
formulaic
derivative
uninspired
sophomoric
myopic
misguided
decorative
nicely framed
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
it is no hidden truth:
writing about those teeth
and twisting schemes of
sadness in my dreams is somehow my dependent everything,
but patterned lists of the same words
in permutation
becomes tedium in waiting;
there's that illustrious want for novelty, no matter how safe the same may be,
and I still just write
about that exact ******* love
and ******** everybody else wants: so, am I this predictable? am I this formulaic?
probably.
so, how does one take some respite?
how does one choke back their routine penstrokes and fabricate
experiences they haven't yet or ever will gather,
when all they've held was in the ritual letting of ladders down ductile tunnel foundations,
the vestigial fathoms that remain floating around in
your eyes, your eyes! your eyes I
tear open and crawl in and curl up inside,
the feigned lust I set out to fake and then finally, silently, made
and now it's all the mistake of concrete stained with
letters heart letters on a date that lasts forever,
but your letters are tiny lies
and mine are misery
held in contemptible disguise and
how I slip just that **** easily into this lackluster story about
I, you,
people I never knew and
never know anybody.
and
*how the grass would have grown and grown if the lawn hadn't been cut down, and the patch of death in concentric center where outside, under the stars, I lay curled, foetal, and drained of bile; for now, in ascension of sterility I am feral once more, I am, at last, just a tremulous, pathetic and miniscule animal waiting to pass through the dirt. That moment hit me, like all stones in august. So I stood. So I ******* stood, threw off my dripping eyes, screaming at the moon 'til I spat blood and cursed life and I swore, I swore down to the skin of my teeth, I would conquer it until it conquered me, for, as far as the wild was concerned, my casualty was a drop of rain in an ocean. So I become the ocean. So I dig my palm into the earth and let dust ground the stray electricity. I no longer lie, I no longer bide time until it's too late.*
But I lied
and I do lie.
I waste abhorrent amounts of time.
I still just hang my head and leave things up to fate. It's always too late.
It's always too late.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
The formulaic mist of several aromas
Both sweet and strong
Hovers within the space
Asphyxiating and amalgamating every new smell encountered
Sanctioning an intoxicating bevy of delicious sensations
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons and The Patriot have died
They've died from patron-hate
We've come to pay our respects and show our patronage
We give the quarters we hid behind our ears for all these years
People go up to their friend, The Saving Grace
Saying, "I'm sorry for your loss"
And she deadpan replies, "Why? Did you do it?"
She was funny like that
All the people coming out of the woodwork
Who knew it was just a matter of time for these two to finally kick the bucket
No bones about it
It's just the luck of the draw
All the mourners come to talk about the two stiffs in the coffins
"IT WAS MY FAULT I WASN'T THERE!" cried The Merchant
"Don't be so hard on yourself" I said trying to comfort him
But I knew in the back of my mind that this guy was reading off cue cards and had such a hard-on for himself
Matter of fact, this caterwauling fool knocked everything The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons stood for with out even trying to understand
"No taxation with out representation gives one a bad reputation"
The Patriot loved drawing baths, stipple dotting, still lives
Always paid out of pocket for the supplies
The best piece of advice he had given me was
"Cheesy stereotypes are just truths that were left out to age and gain a powerful smell we try to avoid because we can never face it"
The Signer and The Co-Signer went off on a tangent in the middle of the whole thing, I think they were having a war flashback or something
"Metaphorical formalities
Formulaic manic depressive
Compulsive obsessive
Metaphysical
Fairly impressive!"
These two were friends of The Patriot during his times at The O.K. Corral
They we're buried in Potter's field
The only two headstones in the whole place
The Patron Saint's read, "Stick & stones may break my bones but boards don't hit back"
And the Patriot's read, "Write me up, write me off, write this down, right on"
-Tommy Johnson
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
Gravity Pulls
Our forms to be
Us
Forciose things
and full of wonder
Coalesced
A singularity
Yet
Light gives sight
To halo Rings
cast black by the unknown.
As
Matter found
in vapor form,
gives lift
To humbled fret
For This
A contract ,
duelly met
Is thee
Unbalanced bet
Thus of this
the arch of spark
The metronomal
Mark
Are
Atoms and matter
Space and time
Those truths of ,Light and dark
With tools so crude
To flame
From spark
Creation cold and stark
From this
Reclusive
Alcamist
A Sentient being
adrift
And
Rue and refuse the piety
To gods
of gastsly note
So
due I hail
Thee
full of spite
Destroyer
Jubilant
Respond to you
Of you
no word
Shepard
Nought of
Herd
Of countless time
With rhythms rhyme
Reiterate
Time spent
Oh creature coward
Faceless you
Our saviors son's decent
Who
gave to me a hand of sand
The
grains,
owned
by
the
******
And woe of he
The ward of space
Gate
keep
Absent
grace
Riddled with
A failing mind
Our Blessed
Heathin *****
For
Surly plans
unknown, unwind
Of what he
Has
In store
This
An empty
Formulaic
Tombe of ancient tune
speaks this code
A wayword
vice
Absent
paradise
In higher planes he finds abode
Neglectful father form
And
finds he
solice
As
He
Demands
Souls
For
Evermore
So faceless form
Unmask thyself
Disarm
With
Your
Descent
For us
The mortal
Masses
Ask nought
With no consent
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
Unforeseen flowers bobbing a wind's forever heyday...
submerged as if coral.
I could fit my valley into the shadow, and shadow into
its death with such balance.
What's overcome is sworn to secrecy...formulaic, rotund
and malignant what was prayer...even by all the loose
interpretation it suffocated the uneven, as unknown
factors of the life it's put to.
Here, as here is always concerned--it seems fruit of
Garden variety grows as to confine its worm.
It is here, as here is always concerned--I turn worm-ward...
to ultimately reveal nothing--linger coolly and repulsively.
We've an aversion to things that burrow and avert grasp--
a reward goes out for the head, or piece of such a thing
from the selfsame head.
Why is it our prayers are sent forth to expel the evils
we've gathered?
Prayer's construct is meant to be singular as it stands...
heartfelt--airtight in its sentiment.
Thus, by such definition I believe prayer is no longer
prayer--as it is here, as here is always concerned.
If you were to visualize such a prayer, the object of
devotion would become the objects of devotion to
overcome, conquer the God appealed to.
As an egoist is devoted to the objects of his/her nature...
as it were, an object may slip, avert the worm of such
prayer.
Hence, what does prayer become when its clasped
fingers curl under the spell of a blackening ******
Power lust, the bending, curling of will in prayer form
shape-shifts, and is submitted to God as prayer.
A loathsome possession of plummeting powers feeling
for themselves in adoration at every odd, and odder
angle.
As prayer was meant to be the prodigal son/daughter's
offering to the disclosed, yet undisclosed infinite...
here, as here is always concerned, the line lies to its end
to forego what is endless...unforeseen flowers
bobbing a wind's forever heyday...submerged...as if coral.
Of prayer, now--clasped hands die upon one another,
come to separately...without even the capacity to unify
such experience.
O hands of duality--meant to meet of prayer...kiss of life,
for kiss of death.
Such hands are fit for a prayer viewed by a shaman upon
the deepest cave wall, fireside.
As if two serpents deeply kissing, open-mouthed...world
to world experience is offered up...volleyed, interlocked
by and by...till God intuited as to appease such intimate
impossibility.
Who, or what could wish to keep at bay such words of
being...thereupon to release them to The Word?
Why...none other than we, so cherished by our
incomprehension it's founded us...and thus we must pray!
These two hands taken as token...as it is here, as here is
always concerned--I could fit my valley into the shadow...
and shadow into its death with such balance.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
✿ ✿ ✿
Haiku is not true
poetry by any means:
formulaic = dull
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC