"gargantuan" poems
I have nutrition in one hand and thoughts in the other
but both hands might as well be empty
they're too small to hold neither mind nor health
they're too small to hold onto anything at all
So I let them fall to my sides and I stand and wait
for someone with gargantuan hands
to hold them but I realize now
my hands are too small for yours anyhow.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
What's my worth?
Am I worth a second glance?
Till present, from birth
Am I deserving of chance?
What's my value?
Am I worth time spent?
What did I do?
Did I squander the life lent?
What are my virtues?
Do they even shine through?
Do I put them to good use?
Or useless like a pair less shoe?
What defines me?
Is it the words that write?
Or work I do diligently?
Could it be my punches in a fight?
What have I done?
Take your time to think
Did I do it with a loaded gun?
Must've done something; must've missed the link
What am I good for?
Important work or menial labour
Could have I done more?
Achieved alone or together
Do I think differently?
Indulge in fairytale notions
Is it sheer folly?
To believe in magic potions
Am I just silly?
Do I dream too much?
Accept reality
Am I capable of such?
Do I shirk what I carry?
Should I have said no?
Did I delay and tarry?
Have I nothing to show?
Am I wrong to feel?
Is it foolish to want?
When it all is real
Now bearing the brunt
Do I wear you weary?
With my endless stupor
Why can't I bury?
Before we expire
Why do I wallow?
Wading through eye puddles
Should I just burrow?
Deep into these riddles
Why do I falter?
Why can't I heal and rise?
Why do I break and shatter?
How do I stop my eyes?
What is this dense forest?
Must everything be obscure?
Can I not be honest?
Can I not be insecure?
Could I be any more random?
Asking as they come to mind
Have I compromised my decorum?
Have I been blind?
Should I delve even deeper?
May I go on and ask?
Am I worthy of an answer?
Or should I just don my mask?
Gargantuan was my crime
Thick was its girth
Absolution this time?
Of it am I worth?
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
The beloved country Africana can boast of is Ghana. The manana of Africana black star is Ghana A nation rich in culture and natural pasture.
Its nature reflects the creatures’ caricature
We are black reflecting our true beauty.
And we are packed with captivating ability. The typicality of our nationality brings unity. Who knows whether our safety lies in our variety?
This unity amidst our diversity is our reportage. About twenty-four million are surviving in our age. Over sixty ethnic groups and fifty-two major languages. There are hundreds of dialects which are to our advantages.
In W/A, Ghana records the highest percentage of Christianity… Yet the modernity of our sanity portrays minds of malignity. But the fraternity of our humanity builds our community. The variety of our morality and privity builds our society
Who said Ghana cannot be capaciously superfluous? We have the very illustrious and exuberant resources. The elites and the voracity are harnessing the recourses. The destitute remains poor and the gentry linger the forces
Our democratic government is an African paradigm. Our peaceful political regime is of no pantomime. Who of course would help us measure corruption? The whole nation would have tensed up to eruption.
If not the gargantuan wayomelogy of the wayometer. Who knows whether the next tool would be attameter? Who wouldn’t love to be a proud Ghanaian to enjoy our hilarious fila and jargons tongue can employ
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
When education was restricted
They ran to religion
When solace was stripped away
They ran to martyrdom
Loved ones fell
Hated ones rose
As hearts sank
To the depths of the maelstrom
Fueled by the unholy trinity
Value, vindication, and violence
Bombs decimate Afghan villages
With the precision
Of a needle hitting a vein
And as casually
As a contractor putting a dollar in his pocket
The rubble of their town
Lost in a mist of dust
The rubble of their minds
Lost in a mist of vengeance
The rabid dog chases the subjugated raccoon
The raccoon discovers a sacred hole and hides in it
The predator attempts to encroach the void
The raccoon quivers in it's sanctuary shelter
Finding relief as the hound becomes stuck
And laughs as the infected beast starves to death
But ecstasy turns to terror
As the raccoon realizes it's only way out of this hole
Is being blocked by the gargantuan corpse
Terror turns to sorrow
As the raccoon starves to death
Alone
In the dark
It's holy land now hell
For once it had protected the raccoon from unbridled rabies
But since the hound's death
It's Cerberus size obstructs all progression
Holes become graves
And prey are left to pray
For someone to drop a bomb and clear a path
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 4:45 AM UTC
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Epic music composed to impose on the heart.
Cheeky infants that dance
in suggestive red glow.
Gargantuan ****
filmed up close and
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...
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With a well-crafted subtext encoded within
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Shattered windows!
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Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Shortly after his departure from the King's palace, the Little Prince arrived at another world.
There were two halves. One; a field of sunflowers and the second; a city full of high rise buildings.
He played around the field. Walking, Jumping, and Smelling the flowers. As he jumped around, he suddenly bumped into a gargantuan object towering over the field.
Thump!. "Ouch!", he said, as he had one hand on, and leaned against it. "Amazing! Why didn't I see it as I went around?". The little prince was astonished at the object, as his head looked up to see the what the object was.
"Hello!? Anyone up there?" He then hears a soft hum and light plucking, and with ecstatic might, he looks around the object for the source of the sounds.
"Hello? Anyone here?" A loud rumbling came, as if an earthquake started. The object started to move. The little prince looked up and saw that it was a man, a giant! The giant had a serious look, and with him, had a basket full of sunflowers..
"What are the Sunflowers for?"
The giant looked straight into the city and seemed to not hear the the little prince's question.
"What are the Sunflowers for!?"
The little prince shouted, because he was unanswered.
The giant then looks at the little prince, smiled and silently gestured him to follow.
Annoyed and curious, the Little Prince follows.
The giant brought the Little Prince to the city, where it's bustling streets were crowded; and despite the noise of footsteps, car horns, and people on their phones, there is this eerie feeling of silence. The giant then stands eagerly on the sidewalk with his basket of sunflowers. He holds a sunflower from the basket and silently tries to hand one to the passing pedestrians. He tries and tries, but not one flower was given. "Why is everyone looking down?", The Little Prince asked, "Is everyone like that?" The giant looks at at The Little Prince, puts his finger over his lips. "shhh" the giant whispered, as he goes back to handing out flowers. The Little Prince slowly gets annoyed and furious at all his unanswered questions. "Why don't you say anything!?" The Little Prince asked.
The giant then looks at the Little Prince, smiled, and leaned over to whisper.
"I might disturb them", the giant said.
The Little Prince was dumbfounded and confused at his response. "Adults are strange beings." he said, as he goes back to his ship and left for another planet.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
Our trajectory is unknowable, you tell me: the planet
corkscrews around the Sun, sure,
but the Sun corkscrews around a black hole at
the heart of the Milky Way,
and our whole galaxy travels on some mysterious,
incalculable vector. But sister, I saw a photograph
in which two whale sharks were brought to
heel by men in simple reed boats just
off the coast of the Philippines. All that they had
to do was often feed
the sharks many gallons of grocery-store frozen
shrimp, poured from plastic garbage bags into
their yawning six-foot maws to portside.
Gargantuan, sure, but still
as obedient and eager for food as backyard
squirrels. I remembered a grainy
internet video—I saw it probably seven or
eight years back—in which
a captured whale shark was winched
ashore in Madagascar, or
maybe it was the Philippines again—no matter—
the thing still had life left
in it and struggled to breathe while a crowd of
people gathered around—there were
women carrying babies, girls holding baskets atop
their heads—and then the
men came with a long slender blade and sliced clean
through the whale’s spine, vivisected it
right there on the dock, and the onlookers stood there quite
unfazed—I remember
being shocked at the effortlessness of the cut,
the pinkness of the whale’s blood,
and the boredom in the onlookers’ eyes. Our father
took us down to San Antonio
on one of his business trips there when we were five
or six—I think
you were probably too young to
remember it—
it was when you and I saw the ocean for the first
time. We drove down to the Gulf
of Mexico, and we saw waves breaking
out near the horizon in pale
sunlight. I kept scanning for a dorsal
fin off beyond
the breakers, thinking that I might spot one—
sandy brown, mottled with
cream spots and glistening—so that I might be able to
say to you, pointing, “look,
sister, there is a whale shark!” Years
later we would learn
that he traveled down to San Antonio so
frequently because he was a philanderer. As
a child I believed that whale sharks
crisscrossed the ocean following
paths that we couldn’t fathom, that
their concerns were somehow
beyond our comprehension, but then
Keppler pinned down
the shape of the Earth’s orbit over four
hundred years ago,
and the lives of ancient sea
titans are sundered
effortlessly
by men with indifferent faces.
Sep 22, 2023
Sep 22, 2023 at 2:27 AM UTC
For my muse, I choose the euphoric source
Of my most transcendent -
Lovely
- Muddy
Memories.
Perceptual flashes ― slosh slushing
Approaching an untamed blue-green pond
Just your average amphibian gone blonde.
In sunshine or windward shower.
Loitering around the grassy brim,
On that one slick rock, I stood up
Catch a fish ― oooooh you swift ⁓
Let it back in?
Or you could...
Run screaming like the flaming river rumbling down the mountain.
To the lunulate lagoon?? in the front yard
Hop & stand
Fish in hand You. Have. To. Make. It.
But the gargantuan estate. . . it's too late.
That tiny t-rex gait ― might just seal
That golden guppies fait.
Cause you sprung like spring
And set that little sucker free.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Time rolls
its mossless stone
slowly tonight.
It is as though the
tic
has lost it's
toc.
Seconds have become
thirds, fourths, fifths.
So slowly does
the smallest hand
move upon the cracked face.
Minutes no longer tiny minute things.
But now gargantuan wedges
of pie.
So large as to feed
history's poor twice over.
Hours are unpowered,
flacid flat balloons
without breath or form
smothering all thought.
The grandfather clock
in the hallway
has embraced senility
and no longer
completes it's
pre-ordained
preambulation
around the
captured sundial.
It has now given itself
airs and graces.
Believing in heart and mind,
and cog and pendulum,
to be a jazz percussionist
banging, tapping and ringing
in an off beat tempo
somewhat lacking in
basic rhythm.
So time runs
with the scatterd
predictabality of the Tardis.
Bigger on the inside.....
Slower on the darkside
of the grandfather clock.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
The splashing sound the waves make
Accompanies the frizzing sound of bubbles
Against the gargantuan stones
Sediment from the ocean salt
The distant sound of seagulls
And the whispers of the marine winds
The faint sound of wind chimes tinkling
Are an orchestra filled with gentle lulls
The sunlight radiating from the setting sun
Looks like an ocean of raging reds and fiery oranges
Reflected on the surfaces of the crystal blue waters
They are two worlds combining as one
You are like the warm rays of the sun
I notice as my eyes look over
The ends of the radiant rays of the sun cool over
Blending with the indigo of the night
There is warmth in your serene smile
As your ocean deep orbs look blissfully
To the work of art no human artist could perfect
There is warmth in your fingers, entwined with mine
The shore is our secret little sanctuary
Below the swaying leaves of coconut trees
Here may be where our last kiss of the night
Shall serve as an eternal bid of goodnight, I fright
The yearning I feel for the day to come incomplete
So big so I could keep this paradise and the summer heat
A heavy deep sigh I heave
As this passing day reminds me to leave
I have to return to land
Where my people belong and stand
Where they dance and prance about
And hustle and bustle around
As much as I want to take you with me
Alas, there are bounds even we can’t beat
Demanding that you belong swallowed in the sea
That you do not belong with me
So when the time comes by
Don’t shed your priceless mermaid’s tears
Don’t let your pain produce
pearlescent pearls tonight
It’s my turn to do my share
It’s my turn to cry
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
I was born into this, something I never wanted. And all of my life, I've been running, hunted. We're being tracked down and slaughtered, chased, by people with fire as their ally, their weapons made of silver or simply wooden stakes. You've run us into a corner and murdered all of my kind out of fear, not a shred of their existence left behind, proclaiming it was for everyone's sake. I am the sole survivor, the last of my race. I have vowed not to fall victim to the same fate.
You've claimed me to be a monster, but what does that mean? The only monster I see is you. Murdering and spreading rumors of my kind, you don't understand what I've been through. Saying I've slain many, but you've killed more than a few. Stop speaking of such things; it's hurting me. Stop lying to yourself. Why can't you see? Are you ignoring it purposely? Look at me, into my soul, and realize the devastation caused by your pursuit. Why can't you understand? Monsters have feelings too.
Though, it is too late to go back to peace. The people can only see something unreal, a fake part of me. And now, I will never be free. I'm forever running from your conceit. I have done nothing to bring you to this. I've cut off my horns, my fangs, and my claws to try and be a part of your bliss. I burnt my fur and scorched my skin, but all I've done has been dismissed. I have to hide in caverns deep. In the cold and damp, I sleep, afraid to be found in my cavern keep.
I could never fight you, that would only make things worse than before. My skin is covered in my crimson blood and I'm in pain from the scars. In anguish, I roar. My gargantuan, curled ebony horns lay broken and cast aside; my thick, midnight blue fur reduced to patches and strewn across my stone lair; my calloused pads raw from running; my weary eyes tortured and worn. I've given up on living any longer. It's better to die and to be conquered than to be caged and grow weak from hunger; so I step out of the cave, crawling out on all four; and I lie down, exhausted, on the forest floor.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
punto / contrappunto (patty m /nat)
(on the why of messaging, on the Underground HP)
none can fly, all can fly
except in words, in deeds, indeed,
yet others turn those who believe turn
lead into gold, golden faerie dreams real,
penciled in the salvation hints inked upon the skin
of the host, the blessing are the blessings of the host,
of solving great puzzles. deeds of salvation solutions.
Yet unbeknownst for many. known to all
its jiggling all the quarks, the clashing of the neutrons
spinning electrons that within all of our protein protons
affect many, effected upon each,
invisible all is hidden. where all was hidden, now visible
the message that isn't let our acts speak ever louder
transmitted, realized,
holds no power, yet it a time for action
remains a black screen for each message, now an action
in the catacombs in the clarity of daylight
waiting, waiting there, no longer waiting,
millions of little pieces each action a deed
when finally viewed the summation total
grows gargantuan
funneling radiation
from the sun.
Climbing roofs, to the streets leaping
sliding down drainpipes knocking to open all doors
to the street, filling the stadiums & squares
I'll wait with you, no laggards, all in attendence
**they will come,
poet after poet,
spreading the word,
words to deeds, each of us
a messenger and a conductor,
orchestrating the symphony
of revelation.**
Patty m. Nat
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
Chicago's winds were violent
that February day.
The air was unusually warm,
and the city once again bounced
up from its winter grave.
But all at once her winds blew fiercely,
Reminding us of
her wrath
and power.
Her thumb,
gargantuan and steam-punk,
art-deco,
futuristic,
craftsman and industrial,
pressing down on us as we happily
walked down her sidewalks,
and crossed her streets.
She smiled from way up there
and all around,
blowing her winds with extra tenacity,
forcing us
from our comfortable jaunt.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
I’m the worst **** in the world
No one is worse than me.
For my next bride,
I shall marry the Queen of She
Ba (Academy presents her majesty.
Nominee gushes.
Audience applauds exhaustively.)
She will manhandle me,
Liquor on her breath,
Feathers framing ******
Inflamed blossoms drenching submissions
She told me to delete
The photographs,
Even though there were many
Caught her beauty in amazing graces.
She hated me
For putting up so little struggle,
Obliterating her splendor
Indifferently.
I wanted to prove
Deserving of her love.
she dilly-dallied, distracted.
I cried pitifully, “Where’s my girlfriend?”
Chain of events to nothingness
My desolate existence
One deficit after another
Honed to fragile cutting-edge.
I wanted her to pleasure me
With subtle painful tinge.
She brilliantly found fault
Every conceivable way to blame.
She accused, “you fiddle in noodle factory.”
She was the true artist,
Dissatisfied with the sound
Of my heart beating.
You want to play hardball with the big boys?
You better show up with bulging intelligent creativity.
You complain about
Every infinitesimal gargantuan thing.
Nothing makes you happy.
I will always love you no
Matter how impossible.
Looking back,
You were an impossible chance.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, picket line
across the parking lot in front of some
school that no one bothered to name?
Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers
skipping across lips dropping to the street
that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat
etched the tear lines into mud tracks against
our ruddied faces.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing political sores --
tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before
the suits step over brown-bag lunches
to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.”
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a young boy’s diploma
crying white chalk bricks
from university’s doors instead on to
prison yard orange jumpsuits.
Can we call this a school improvement project
or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt
As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like
Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or
Inmates on the gallows platform
I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers.
I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons.
In the first wink of dawn
We will all scatter
To our respective positions
Carved out in concrete before the
barricades fall
to flood the street.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted
Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless
Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble
You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly
Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible
I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion
After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles
After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge
In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel
In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
Whales were,
above all else,
deliberate
about the pace
with which they
moved through the world,
conscientious,
perhaps to a fault,
about the economy of movement
required to propel
such incredible mass over such
enormous, empty spans
of open ocean.
Here is a humpback whale
resting, face-down
staring into the cerulean
abyss, alone
but singing, perhaps for
enjoyment, perhaps out of
boredom, or perhaps due to
loneliness and longing.
She twists
and turns a single eye up toward
the surface, her iris catching
sunbeams and contracting,
as she gauges
the gargantuan effort she must exert
in order to gain her next breath.
In this case, she concludes that, yes,
the effort will be worth it.
But what you must know about
whales is that
on rare occasion,
they would cast these concerns
of intentionality and efficiency aside,
and choose to
activate the entirety of their being,
from the sinews to the soul,
and propel themselves,
heedlessly and at top speed
toward, through, and past the surface of the ocean,
as though they were attempting to
fully take flight,
to escape, with finality,
the cold confines of their known existence,
the omnipresent, furrowed gaze of the void below.
But invariably,
and in spite of their best efforts,
the whales would be pulled
back downward,
by forces they could not
fully comprehend,
sure as the tides would fall shortly after
the moon passed overhead.
Yes, the physical impact of colliding
with the surface of the ocean
would be painful for the whales,
but what hurt
so much more than that
was having to return
to the stark, lonely calculus
of whether or not
to keep going.
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 11:55 AM UTC
There once was a great beast, now but a myth, who sat atop Mr. Atlas’s throne. So the story goes, the beast had become so heavy, and such a burden on Mr. Atlas, that he enlisted some folks to tame it. ****** that beast could fight back. He fought for ages, centuries, eons, a near-bloody-eternity to stay on top of his throne. He would not be defeated, until the world stopped turning up on old Mr. Atlas’s back. After fighting back on and on, pressuring the tamers for years on end, the gargantuan beast was slowly getting tired. Energy seeped out of his body. But he kept fighting. He kept fighting until he didn’t see the point anymore, and he fought some more.
To this very moment, the beast is still fighting up there on old Mr. Atlas’s back.
The beast, our voice, our final bastion of worldly balance, should very well be tamed by now. The idea of submitting to our tamers is a very unpopular one, though popular at the same time among some. But they are the tamers, and we are the beasts, fighting back to little avail but not giving up on the mission, though thoroughly futile.
Folks, it’s time for us to submit to those who are taming us. As awful, as cowardly, as utterly asinine as this sounds to most of you, we just cannot go on if we continue to fight back.
Those in charge have ****** it up so thoroughly that we must live life through simplistic principles. We can’t afford to **** around with “the man” anymore. It simply will not work. We have to find our happiness. We have to enjoy the little things, little victories, little comforts, little joys, little hardships, and big souls with big aspirations on the little scale that we are left with. As we enjoy these things, we in turn do not submit to those above us. In fact, those above us hate that we are content. Our contentment is their pain, and if they feel pain, then they stop taming us and they themselves become the ones who are tamed, subdued by their own (now) unsuccessful attempts to tame us.
So we have to find comfort in the uncomfortable, and joy in the hardships of life, and accept that we cannot change a thing unless we are content with the conditions that these folks have presented us with.
Comfort and contentment is everything, and it is what tames the tamers of the beast.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
the cold, white building has been abandoned for seven years today.
what was once a majestic foundation for the analysis of a humanity, now an empty fable of
gargantuan men in
laboratory suits
and young women who thirsted to follow in the footsteps of the
honorable Florence.
The sanguine fluids left from the yesterdays and the yesterdays seep and transude into the
holy grounds of the asylum.
no man, no beast dares to disturb the forsaken soil,
the venerable clay loam out of which grows the neverending carnage of body and flesh.
lost voices of a
thousand schizophrenics
still scream
from the silent operations of their euthanasia.
the lands have not lied under the unadulterated, pure heavens since the genesis of
H. sapiens himself. This “wise, knowing man” has
doused and suffocated
the flame that radiated prospect, leaving the wide, exquisite cosmos
no more than a nefarious expanse of chaos and dismay.
The structure, the edifice of what was intended for
knowledge and bounty,
has indeed fallen
victim
to the inauspicious prophecy that they molded and sculpted themselves.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
There stand the gates.
Massive and made of the highest quality oak. Ornate, covered with runes of a forgotten language.
In front of this gargantuan doorway stands its guard.
A black-faced lion with a rust colored mane, a man's body, full armor, and a long halberd.
The Gatekeeper
"No man enters these gates except through me," he says,
"You would be a fool to believe you'll walk through alive.
I will not simply **** you,
Once you attempt to pass this line."
he points at a faded gap in the grass in front of him.
"I will break you.
I will annihilate you.
I will devour your soul
Slowly."
He begins to pace back and forth while hungrily looking you up and down.
Despite his having the body of a man, he still looks very much more like a predator.
"I have no need of meat.
I will leave your body for the vultures!"
He gestures to the pile of bones off to the side of the intimidating gate.
Picked clean.
"Your mind and your,"
he inhales deeply as if he were trying to sniff out a savory dish,
"Spirit!
Are what interest me.
When I am finished with you,
You will be mine entirely!
I will enjoy every morsel of your being.
But my mouth grows weary of speaking."
He looks you in your eyes.
"It wishes to eat."
He unshoulders his halberd and takes up an offensive stance.
The long shaft ends in a finely sharpened point,
Unabashedly aimed in your direction.
"Will you feed me?"
He asks,
"Will you risk these teeth for a chance at these doors?"
You clench your jaw in determination,
And take a step forward.
He smiles.
His razor sharp, impossibly clean teeth shine in the sun.
"Excellent."
he licks his lips,
"I do love a good meal."
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
*He built me an empire
on a gargantuan chateau
There, you'll see me write
under the Northern lights
stars hover in sight
as the ghostly glow of
green in the east over
the peak of the mountain sky
began to dance this one winter night
The man of my history
is nowhere in sight
he could rule the earth
but I was left in a tower
of one window
with a candle lamp on my side
The blow of snow coming from
my window sends shiver
down my spine
It's cold and empty
there's no more guards
standing on the portcullis,
the drawbridge wasnt closed
for years
and the moat is starting to freeze
Everything is dead,
only my heart is alive
waiting for the king
to find his way back from
a journey that made him lost
his home, people
and once he called a queen*
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
An unrequited love that still offers a seemingly patronizing hand of rapport
Is just another way to say "friend zone"
But you'll be dancing in the end zone
After you finally pay your student loan with money from the job you needed a degree to get which called for the loan in the first place
The salt has spilled off the Lazy Susan
Throw it over your right shoulder
Is this my alter ego?
Or do I have a split personality
Maybe this is my light skinned doppelganger
I've got to get these bats out of the belfry
I've got claustrophobic, roided-out butterflies in the pit of my stomach
Busted paper thin lips
A blood sport
Stop it from clotting
Vaccinate me
This vacuum is a rare find
The national demographic is going through culture shock
Assume a surname
Put on the gargantuan pennant
Go to the pulpit and beg for penance
Gridlock
The paleophone is cracked
Study the topography
And pay the bus fare
The squatters who are on borrowed time
Take a swig from the half empty bottle
After searching their whole lives for an even break
But are forced to cut ties and make a clean cut from society
All the lent hands and ears
Are lodged between ungratefulness and exclusive pity parties
Sweet nothings and forget-me-nots
Do a clean sweep
It's imperative to have a method to your madness
A portrayal of eccentric narcissist
Painting self-portraits
While on some kind of wonder drug
Longing for some moral support
Double-dealing
Double crossing
A hypocritical traitor
Who has the right away
I will watch your blood coagulate around the bullet holes
As your body goes into Rigor mortis
I will commit this picture to memory
I would have bet dollars to doughnuts that it wasn't you
But who wudda thunk it?
It's all just an impromptu turn on a dime
That encumbers you with cabin fever
When you're on display in a human zoo
Where unproductive bull sessions are a dime a dozen
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC