"fractioned" poems
Be so fractioned
my split personality be split
Never know who's comin' out
Kinda like the laundry mat
Does mine at the Wishy Washy
Funny how things get all separated
Whites all in a pile over here
Darks and colors over there
Breaks it down even further
Gotta lotta red
so that gets its own pile
whilst medium and light colors
be divided
Blacks and blues
just lumped together
Then it just gets all mixed up again
'Cause truth is
don't gots the dough to through
down that many loads
This riles Señorita Clarita
Thinks I'm cheap
so mostly, I end up lookin' like some
techno tie-dyed fruit basket
in girly pants
Yeah, still be wearin'
my sister's hand-me-downs
Be some hard times for
The Poet Launderette
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
SHY
indecision moves-
pulling waves
unfurling her-
mute under slow drift-
she considers
coy eyes
or none at all
DISTRACTIONS
multiple kinds of rush to keep steady–
multiple rushes to make numb–
multiples fractioned attention–
all this to feel it fit to breathe–
to feel fit for getting–
ONE STEP AHEAD
in its own language
her visage stills-
softens the gaze
full unto his need
YOU FIRST
the inclination–his
yearning–sparked
and executed en pointe
sa vie–précise–
BLUSH
of dropping knives–
the delicacy–
reminding her of uncertainty
pending smiles
cheekbones raised–
his and hers–
A GOOD DAY
maidened features
spool delicate rhythms
evoke love songs from her palate
and her face–
he paints it–
dressed in light–
PURSUIT
his attempt–this
requires heart–
rewires nerves-
creates a caution
and her lamplit orbs-
doe-like-
stirring in vein–
VIBE
across heads are more heads under sense-arrest
but just two pairs of eyes connecting brown to black
throughout entwining want-threads–
the myriad–oblivation–
GUILTY
upon her neck thoughts exhale
upon the choleric-
suddenly the sanguine-
upon a thought–
her neck–
one–
two–
many–
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 1:05 PM UTC
We followed the girl with the flossy blonde wig
like she were the march hare- late late late.
I was in an art deco trapeze top and size 3 blue jeans,
Lord & Taylor boots I bought with a 100 dollar gift card.
15, freshly single, pregamed,
and ready to blend in with the co-eds.
Flossy Blonde was short and thin- in a red number
walking way fast to the apartment I think we were invited to.
The crew I was with was incredibly drunk and incredibly gay
and I couldn't wait to go to a real party.
Flossy Blonde disappears into a doorway-
with generic flashing dorm-room lights
spilling out of it
along with cigarette brigades
of Tweedle dee
and Tweedle dum.
I didn't know it then,
but those seniors couldn't escape expectation.
There was a pole installed in the middle of the room.
A caterpillar man in a tiny suit and bow tie, big hipster glasses,
was grinding to Gaga on it,
There was no tea-
but everyone was equipped with
jungle juice that made them bigger or smaller.
Flossy blonde was there getting her drink on,
throwing her hips around.
Her cotton-tail wiggled a little.
Passion red lights flashed on her outfit.
I danced with her, and this
what would now be called "bro"
but then just an unavoidable deterrence
with a fractioned hat.
My vision was getting blurry-
must have been the kool-aid.
And now my memory is, too,
because I keep thinking
The Queen of Hearts was there cheering us on-
Because a purple cat meowed "We want to see you kiss!"
And so I gave Flossy Blonde a sloppy one-
and the room erupted with lava loudness,
ruckus and applause.
She giggled a little-
as we sat on a love seat,
I proceeded to exclaim,
"I kiss way better when I'm not sloshed."
and then I woke up under a tree.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Music evoked a realization
That hollowed me out
Like a melon baller to the soul
The air got just a little bit thicker
and filled me in
life replaced
Swaying, Shivering
Substance lost in beads of sweat
Lost in the staff
Fractioned notes
in choppy measures.
Don't want to talk
Just move
Eyes shut
Ears open
Assaulted, Cradled
jolts to the brain
bass
giving my heart the beat it won't make
Thumping through a dead chest
she's
she's Alive
but not really
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
O. Pool raw island or line vineyards
action stripping the shifts in throat lobes
co operative fraction guillotine manual or
glandular matchstick subtracting certain
matching breeds already beneath accidental
mathematics in estrus clothed by fractions
II
Aural syringe laughing lineage captured
glass cultures Where I feel revered by newborn
lands of guilded dementia children from vapor
quartering off portions of soft cornered rockets
off soft dabs of round cornered minaret orders
I fire the buoyant mind with fractioned black butter
III
The hum of fans
the gunboats dealing broadsides
raw meat and bound feet
moon is withered grape
flys gnaw thru our cellophane
intent to devour our brain
The mythical hiss of salted throats
dissolving like fermented aphids
milk amidst the purr of confused
****** onlookers
The Princess of our burlesque
appears with her sun red triplets
Three clairvoyants asleep in their
eggshell bed each with three eyes
one just within the foreheads
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
You're in hell,
a fractioned
ghost, eating
clay and dust.
You suppose
time moves
in this abyss
but there's no
way to be sure.
Then:
a scream
at the gates
like all the
winds that
scrape at
the heart.
& it doesn't
take long
before the screams
resolve to a name:
Ishtar is here.
She of *** war,
& the moon, all
of them long
absent in
this place.
She wants in,
to rule this
forsaken empire,
to take it from
her older sister,
to conquer
one more thing.
She fails,
of course.
Her sister
tricks her,
leaves her
naked,
without her
powers,
after the
final gate.
Ishtar howls,
and leaves
to eat men
like easy grain.
But imagine
that brief
moment,
when you
think that
maybe, just
maybe, you'd
see the organza
ball of moon
again, that
you and the one
next to you
might embrace
in shaded lust,
engender
a new empire
in the dark,
& overthrow it all.
Hold on to
your hope:
Ishtar has
never been
patient.
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
The fog loses purchase
on the window
and, dying, wicks
ashy vapor's slick scatter
to gated green-brown.
Morning comes again
in fractioned crooks
of snow declining
into fat eggs of rain.
The fog is a colossus,
ravels with dragging step,
before retiring itself
above oak branchlets.
The sun wraps away
in gray, as if stolen.
Nativity of cloud.
I'm telling you this:
everything is possible.
Jan 25, 2021
Jan 25, 2021 at 9:07 AM UTC
I have come to you
Of my own accord
With broken hands and brittle heart
With fragile mind and fractioned soul
These tears of mine are part a toll
Till toll the bell o’er gentle knoll
Into the sun and by my birth
Once again a mewling foal
Fall will come and cold will break
Yet again for heaven’s sake
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
All the words you say to me
honey you must surely realize
I take every word to my fractioned heart
I can't help but internalize
I've told you, darling
I'm in love with the simple literature
Your beautiful, soul-filled voice has painted me
So many lovely, mental pictures
With such power over me,
You're the only one I listen to
That makes me truly believe
This dynamic is laced with its downfalls aswell
For no heaven has ever presented itself
Without it's inevitable hell.
Everyone in this world could be
Throwing stones at my name, they only bruise
Even words that leave mental burns,
Or as far as verbal abuse
And baby I wouldnt care as long as you still thought I was beautiful
So, say everything exactly
how you mean it if you please
Actions speak louder than words
But with the power of love
You absolutely captivate me
Your sentences can break
this writers heart with ease.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
I woke up one day, in an empty bed,
even though your body laid next to mine
and I couldn't move, I tried telling myself
that I was still under sleep's spell.
.
I closed my eyes, shut them tight,
asking the skies for another try
to have the strength to keep my head straight.
.
But time stops for no one, it carries on,
and with your laboured awakening
my world, a fractioned world became
and from my heart, a vital piece fell.
.
You opened your eyes without seeing
and my body grazed without feeling,
and in a bottomless pit my soul fell.
.
With your eyes closed you sighed,
and inhaled a different air than mine.
And with your eyes, from mine,
you couldn't your reflection find.
.
Without thinking you raised from bed
and I laid there, abandoned, behind,
without a pulse that said I was alive.
.
With a heavy step I followed in your footsteps,
imitating a shadow, looking, longing,
without understanding the spontaneous rejection
suffering from the coldest involuntary exile.
.
I followed your footprints throughout the day,
watching you from afar, your posture so hard,
there wasn't a smile, a laugh in sight.
.
I couldn't understand the reason why
your gaze was so blank, distant, empty eyes.
Or why was your smile missing, you were so sad.
.
I walked with you all day, near and far,
but the blankness from your eyes stuck,
you ate without taste, without being satisfied
and drank without thirst, not knowing why.
.
I noticed the hunch in your perfect posture,
the lack of rhythm in your walk,
there wasn't music that could cheer you up.
.
I figured I wasn't the only shadow in your back,
that your heavy walk was a result of that.
I wished I had the power to free your heart,
even when my presence you decided to disregard.
.
Watching you, the world seemed slow,
the air was thick and the oxygen suffocating.
It never occurred to me that I could leave.
.
You closed the entrance door behind you
and slid down with your back pressed against it,
when you hit the floor and sat down, you cried
but when I tried to come close you dodged my touch.
.
I couldn't understand what was going on,
my soul screamed of desperation, of frustration,
I was all but begging for an explanation.
.
After a while your tears dried, you finally stood up
with your back still using the door as support
in order to give your still trembling, weak, legs
the time they needed to regain strength.
.
You took your time to fix your countenance
and looking at yourself in the mirror, you breathed,
I didn't make another attempt at approaching you.
.
At night, when it was time to finally return to bed,
it was my sweatshirt that you wore for that task,
I saw one final, lone tear sliding down your tired cheek
before you allowed yourself to surrender to sleep.
.
Walking through the hall I looked at the mirror,
and it wasn't until I couldn't find my reflection there
that I remembered I wasn't there any more
.
I couldn't keep you safe.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
*if you can't be bothered to learn a second language? i, can't be bothered to relinquish my mother (tongue); that's just how it works; and no, mono-lingualism doesn't give birth to monotheism, given the example of moses, monotheism can only exist in a realm of bilingualism - just like the quantum effect of electrons; which is why islam is so, ******* arrogant, being the child among the father of judaism, and the mother of christianity... it wants to convert, but it doesn't bother to teach you arabic, which is a necessary precursor to practice the religion (apparently). yet i still think that, for monotheism to exist, it can only exist in a bilingual environment; you need to be fractioned, to encompass a whole, a oneness that's mono-, a god standing on one foot joking about having to dance, when instead imitating the jitters of a sparrow hopping, rather than gloomily, proud, and executioner fathomable parade of the crow.*
**well, isn't islam a spoilt brat?
isn't it?! is islam not a sploit brat?
oh right... no dubai, no oil...
hasn't islam become a sploit brat?
isn't it screaming and shouting
and stomping its feet all around the place?
to me? islam is a sploit brat...
with papa judaism and mama christianity
wondering how to deal with this insolent
critter; the little ******* needs a good beating
so he can shut the **** up; and what's with
the orthodoxy of banning music?
well... if you're going to ban music...
stop singing the ******* adhan!
do what the catholics do... murmur it!**
zamilkł (he became silenced)
zamilkła (she became silenced)
in english: with england's
in polish:
z polską
(with poland)
and how the possessive article changes.
we all have our grievences,
to reclaim what we once had,
the greeks have istambul...
the germans have marienburg...
the poles have l'viv...
we all have our grievances...
in the 19th century a few people stressed
a nostalgia for ancient greece...
in the 21st century?
the greeks are hardly nostalgic
about their ancient pillars...
they're more into their byzantine heritage...
i guess the name is what's
nostalgia per se,
rather than the fact that...
well... they're no remembered for much...
other than trying to keep islam at bay...
nostalgia in name only (i.e. byzantine) -
belzebub belzebub... helen?
hellenic?
belzebub byzantine belzebub...
well, perhaps there are a few cantos sung
by byzantine monks...
and when you hear it?
god, you can almost hear turkish
being spoken,
and this is sung by greeks!
let's face it, turks have the same ι (iota)
as the greeks;
the matter? settled in cyprus.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC