"gimmicks" poems
What's it take
These days
To write a poem
That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest
Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?
Is it perhaps...
the "creativity"
of varied spacing
or... could it be..... the lack
of capitalization
the loathsome little letters
screaming out
hey, look at us!
... or maybe it's
the punctuation marks,
littered, haphazardly
through the text
(whether used correctly)
or, theyre not?!
despite worrds mispeled
and a grammar might is broken
can these gimmicks increase interest
though miswritten or misspoken?
Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
(or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
Praise for which we
Privately, desperately
Pray
Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism
Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes
Well, maybe not...
those gems are often ignored
cast-aside, unread, even abhorred
Why?
Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
of "the right way"
to write
to speak
to act
to live
to (fill in the blank)
No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!
And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way
Line
After line
Of synonyms
over
and
over
and
over
again
-----
What's it take
These days
To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?
But more importantly:
What's it take
To make my poem go viral?
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
finding fake joy in little lies
finding fake self worth in some shoes
new branded item
no one looks up on you for them
just wait 'til the mud tear them down
tell me who what do you see when you look into the mirror
is it someone you like?
is it someone you wanted to be?
the kid in you says hi to me
asking you to grow up so that he can too
to face the real world
like a real man should
armed with ammunition
that is real self-confidence
stemming firmly on the ground of wisdom
not fake accessories and marketing gimmicks
clink another glass
because that's how you face your problems
pout another story
for your non-existent friends to tell
inflated self image inflated ego
who you gonna fool with your little bell
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
So much for superheroes saving the day;
Every good guy's epilogue is a cliche.
Tedious compulsory celebrations
For all their mundane actions.
A villain's portrayal is what excites me.
Ever since a kid I could already see;
Creativity in all those gimmicks,
Geniuses of ***** tactics.
It is never easy to become the antagonist.
The object of all hate and blacklist;
The one that is destined to fail,
To fulfill a comic's holy grail.
Yet the bad guys do most of the heavy work,
Perfecting their schemes with an evil smirk;
But every time they're about to win,
The plot will smash their plan to ruins.
They say some people are destined to be heroes;
It's a fate preordained a long time ago.
But the truth is that everyone needs a villain,
To finally uncover their life's meaning.
What the world generally calls as criminals,
In reality are just misunderstood equals.
They taught me more about the cruel life,
Better than any superhero's strife.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
Fandango we danced
was second to last
or was it tango?
we all are too clumsy
to move
too rigid
to see
things without limits
we need
no gimmicks
just a direction
or a simple question
to be answered
prevent brain cancer
become decent dancers
to get to know
there’s nowhere to go
if we don’t want to
but when we are about to
we need some fuel
to fill our engines
with pride
the heart and the mind
are never
good friends
in the world of dollars
blue collars
dark on the inside
breaking their stride
to fight
the poor
not the poverty
so unfair
but it’s the reality
of our lives
human hives
ideology of the masses
ruling classes
thy neighbour to despise
catch them by surprise
rot one from within
soon to take ‘em in
lose someone you love
to understand
there’s an undeclared war
that we can’t bystand
take part
start
to act, preach, teach, bleach
dye, cry
find an ally
before long
our song
will be that of joy
tactics we employ
are peaceful
spare no enemy
**** one - get one free
the tree
of life
having tea at five
some things never change
we are acting strange
conceived in liberty
created to be loved
but still in puberty
continuously starved
of little things we need
there’s just too much greed
open your heart
take my hand
for a start
we all have one goal
Sweet Lord
help us all!
22.10.2010
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 1:55 AM UTC
For the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement.
And every photograph is like Stockholm Syndrome,
where subjects fall in love with their captors.
You are no victim. That’s why I still don’t know whether you’re photogenic.
All I ask is that you keep photographing my self-portraits,
so that I may love you through the way I view myself.
Because my ego is more like that potato clock from the science fair:
surprisingly electric, yet full of holes. My skin is pierced with nails,
but I am no Christ. It’s just my job to keep time.
That’s why first place goes to the skateboarding rat.
The judges don’t like me because I don’t believe in gimmicks.
But when you look at me--alligator clips and all--
your eyes become blue ribbons, letting me know
that I have won and you intend to claim your prize.
“Let’s take a photo,” I say.
You say no, that taking pictures will make us like everyone else.
I ask why it matters if we know we’re not.
You look down at the newspaper. In my mind, I say your name.
And when you look up from the politics section,
I snap a photo for good measure.
This plan seems completely doable until I realize
I’ve never called you by your name.
You call me by mine, and attach it to sayings like
“No one will ever bring half a smile to my face like you do”
or “Hi” or “How are you?” or “I love you.”
Is this because there’s only me or because
there’ve been others besides me?
If I were to succeed in capturing you,
I imagine you’d have red eyes in the photo.
Red ribbons to let me know I’ll never top second place,
that there are other girls you’ve been inside of,
but you are my only. No contest.
And yet you ask if I’ve awarded any other blue ribbons.
You don’t believe me when I say, “No.”
I know you asked as a way to boost your ego,
but for the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement,
and that your wish to feel special should never be at my expense.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
-Audience!
Prepare for the magic act
*Hypnotically launching attacks
upon the helpless masses*
Won't pull a rabbit from a hat,
Rather false-flaggish gaffs
Practically exposed to radioactive madness
*(Feel the hurt disappear like doves
Gloriously soaring out your ***
Hijack these hijinks
Whilst laughing maniacally
Tornado alley to the trailer-park mentality
I call this a helluva brainstorm,
High-velocity lethality
Compose yourselves
Are your brain-stems intact?
-Okay. Now
*f
o
l
l
o
w
the swing
of
my pendulous
p e n m a n s h i p
Drearily drift into dreamy trance,
While I attempt
to initialize a feat
of mass hypnotization
Enchantingly dip
into deep illusory corridors
of thoughts limitless*
(Pay no attention
to any slippage,
Mental or otherwise
It's already dripping out your ears
& the seat of your pants)
Real ****
no gimmicks!
Abracadabra
Propaganda
Extravaganza
Gaze into my crystal ball
Mouths agape in awe
While I slay and lay waste
indiscriminate to the faceless plague
Come one, come all!
Phantom sorcerer I am, conjuring
unfathomable horrors
To the collective mind
procured through sleight-of-hand
Voila!
Still with us?
Alright, hold your breath
until you finally wake up
And illuminate the bogus
Hocus pocus front
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
Shuffle the deck,
Reset Earth's debts
In a fabulous show
of m i s d i r e c t i o n
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
Now, Ladies & Gents!
For my final performance
With this rope,
Suspended from the throat
I am going to bulls-eye myself
In the frontal lobe
Dead-center
In front of all you people
With this
.40 caliber desert eagle!
Graciously donated by our very own NWO
(applause)
This one's sure to be mind-blowing folks.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
All Blatant Critics Depicting Egotistic Fishing Gimmicks Hissing Ignorant Jipping Kissing Lying Missing ****** Obviously Picturing Realist Sickest Technician Utilizing Visions Witness Xenogenic Zeal
Adjectives Build Courage Determined Earning Faith Giving Hidden Illiterate Jilted Kindred Living Mission Nitwit Oblivion Picking Resentments Sickening Tension Ultimately Vigilance Xray in Zillion
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
We’re in this,
no limits,
no gimmicks,
no scrimmage,
no sewage,
no sadness,
no losers,
so tragic,
the truth is,
abusers,
abuse but,
their tactics are madness,
so when they step,
we make them back track with,
apologies “So sorry please,
I didn’t mean to try to take,
all of your Light Energy.”,
ok I accept their pleas,
then tell the fickle fleas “Peace,
I think it’s time that all you flee.”,
And their gone,
along the whispers in the wind,
and we’re in the hammock again,
Scarlet and I off the mark and still high,
gone like the wind our world continues to spin,
distracted by our addictions,
which is apparent from the scars I wear on the body I’m currently in,
With red eyes,
no bullseye,
no bullSh!t,
just true facts,
think about the best thing you could ever do in your life,
and rest assured we’ve done are doing or will do that...
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Volume 1
The H Trilogy
City of Angels
I just published a new book.
If you could take a moment to check it out,
and even write a review it'd be most appreciated.
All profits go to a charity that prevents child abuse and ****** assault.
So not only are you getting an epic book of poetry,
but you're also supporting a good cause.
Thank you SO much!
∆
https://www.amazon.com/Trilogy-City-Angels-Aaron-Lux/dp/1535054328
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
Deep ridge,
deplete elitists.
Gold flows, layers,
Dbridge,
enriched tone, gates golden,
heavenly.
San Francisco, incomplete,
switch robes.
Can't be beat, Klitchschos,
barking up the wrong tree,
rich tones.
Switch flows, risk it,
rich tea, gifted.
Unwritten, no gimmicks,
smooth months,
pale ale Guiness.
Wrap presents,
gift wrapped,
signed sealed delivered.
Dispatched,
Spit fires, spit facts,
die for the art.
Mismatched.
Calamity believe, nose dive.
Kamikaze.
No harder, fuel,
nose powder.
White knight in shing armour.
1688,
Spanish Armada.
Cut sharp like barber,
bananas,
permanent like markers,
malleable like lava,
pop like cava.
Polova.
Inscribe minds,
magna carter.
Magnificent bars,
gold tales told.
Slaves sold, reigns over.
Cold shoulder,
rainbow coloured mistakes,
shoulders shudder,
steer clear brother,
execute rudder.
Destitute,
Scuppered.
Destination under breath muttered.
Spread like wildfire,
butters, blindman, blackout,
blinds again, shutters.
Dunces, run ****
Jump **** loose lips,
loosing grip.
Tip of the iceberg.
Tip of the tongue,
no nice words.
Stigmata.
Godfather,
go harder for our forefathers.
The time is ours.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
Glued to my computer screen
Is this called living
I'm hooked to this show
Filled with people I don't really know
And every minute of it is killing
And I push my life to rott , willing
Is this called living
When I leave all my worries
Just to fill my mind with their worries
Is this called living ?
Fangirling over made up gimmicks
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
From Aries to Pisces,
herein lies the golden-orbed saviors,
grunting and hustling
across the globe
to find
a pious zealous man
and bring him to
visit the Dark Angel below the sea,
herein lies
a dead leader
in a red country
inhabited by sunken cheeks
and the optimism and fear
in their
hollowed eyes,
herein lies
a dead inventor
of overrated gimmicks
men consider wonders
and substantial of life
herein lies
the tragedy of a man
starry-eyed at the red blinking lights of the street light,
having the jovial thought of a
fat jolly white bearded man leaving gifts next to his
pink plastic tree near the garbage disposal where he resides,
herein lies
life taken...
and
life given...
and
never noticing the forward momentum of which time goes by
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 2:20 AM UTC
Snaking through the cities roads into highways
that connect people from all suburbs
to a central spinal cord of lanes that
take you up and away from slum to slum.
The upmarket stores are full of bright lights
and little else that is elegant
its a cosmetic upbringing, mirage that
rises over the city's mist and clogs up the minds
magic as it swerves and rustles up the
the energies of other super cities
where commerce and hard labour have
equally sculpted a life of crime and distance.
Watch out for the airport which swings
in between the mountain of rubble
and municipal mania and parthenium ****
what finds every possible nook and cranny
to manifest itself. The politicians mumble and jumble
their way through manifestos and gimmicks
that endorse themselves as saviours of greed.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
independent minds
and critical thinkers
led to the gallows
and burnt on stakes.
but without dissent,
valid or not,
there is no progress,
just stagnation.
life is too easy
and people complacent.
numbed by gimmicks
that steal our time.
a downward spiral
of mediocracy ensues.
all leading to a
tyranny of the few
and ****** revolutions
when their lies collapse.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 9:29 AM UTC
You need sunglasses when your staring at me
Cause the light I emanate scars the retina of my enemies
There is no cure for the blindness you will endure
A pain perpetuated by the ignorance so perniciously procured
Squared against an inevitable death I easily steal your breath from the barrel of my Smith and Wess
Watching your hollow tears bleed on the canvas I project
a cataclysmic disaster wrapped up in a dismal death
We sit here at the pinnacle of our lives speaking in shadows
Masking our mouths from what we oblige
Stop and listen to the earth as it decries
The subtle architecture of this worldly demise
So as we kick back and sorely reside
I’ll be the change in the coming tide
Caged inside tortured flesh I search for rest to keep the human condition suppressed
But all I find each time that I design a new quest I become a servant of death
Invigorated by the test I stretch my consciousness to tear the limbs off your chest and beat you senseless
I won’t stop there, I’ll slit the throat leaving you without hope and then drown it in Everclear
While I may seem like a cynic
I’m not through with these gimmicks
Lacerating your heart with the bones I striped from your tendons
I’m not an advocate of violence but
Sometimes the pilot of peace needs to be reached by setting loose the destruction we inherently seek
We sit here at the pinnacle of our lives speaking in shadows
Masking our mouths from what we oblige
Stop and listen to the earth as it decries
The subtle architecture of this worldly demise
And I’ll hide my words with silence
And I’ll no longer become violent
Just another subservient machine lost in a sea of tyrants
I won’t be blunt here I’ll keep dropping metaphorical bombs onto your ears
Until all my peers understand the imminent plan that needs to be adhered:
Stop short cause change is impossible to purport
Don’t dream cause it’ll get shattered with a corporate hammer
Stay sinking in a world that raises a stagnant banner
Assimilate with the overzealous overweight materialism that manifests in the minds of the poor and is perpetuated by strip malls and ******
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
Gimmicks and shenanigans
Are altogether lame.
Overt meanings of a poem
Are meant to be more tamed.
Puns and plays on ev'ry word,
Or rhymes and playground taunts,
Lack a subtle nature;
Alliteration flaunts.
For free lines feel unforced,
And poems portray with power.
But not with gaudy gilding,
Like petals on a flower.
No, poems are not much better
When written tongue-in-cheek.
In fact, for all those reasons,
This one's considered weak.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Ya,
I got my limits
Been here since
hell and back
breathless from carrying Blood and flesh
Bone-World curved to welcome back
Shape-dependent gimmicks tracing
fresh tension lines followed right on track.
Invisible Limits..... / / / / .......
Can't see em, so I cant follow back
Right on track, tongue-tied and strapped up
with a strep throat still, its my turn to step up
else Lady luck might step back, all clammed up
**** I Just hoping this note will...
Curse hope, bless action
See its My cipher to rap now
My meaning to unpack; but how?
Courage and Care is a fact plowed
Strength in the face of what we can bear
Samsara, its a Wheel of time turning back now
The only time I show me limits is always
Vulnerable. still hanging in ghetto hallways
Your place safe and sound, you need but call me
I show me, I mean all ME. I mean All Men, I mean Amen. Ah man...
Living shadow, ghost abode, the heart just saying love me
love me, love me, love me, lord. Keep me warm.
I've never been so cold as looking at the tribe
around the fire's with that fine glow.
Where Freezing feels like final.
breathless from carrying
Bone, Blood and Flesh, flush chested
Do your best, Dont love any less
See your smile, its a breath
to me ...(and Im swimming seas till im Seasick, waves painting a scene sick)
Those curves like Pieces of music,
Kicking hard as I can swimming like im Sea-kick
movement aligned to life and death.
my hide or hair, which can these save?
Music lines and strings of words, its like church to all of us
You see its Cake or death
not willing to lose it, like the chirps of birds seem to follow up
as the morning fights for breath.
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 7:52 PM UTC
Let these windows be the theatres,
Where the play is wild and original,
Where every cast is a superb actor,
Where the story is the best fiction,
Like a farm boy on an old tractor.
Let these eyes be the camera,
Where the view is sharp and shaped,
Where every object gets an imperfect finish
Where the image is at its crown grace.
The portrait of the lost gimmicks.
Let these skies be the shower,
Where from the rain falls to cleanse,
Where the head gets a awe spin,
Where its virtue had always been,
The roof over a million dreams.
So I care not,
If I am the blind for this earth,
The ghost of an enemy,
With no eyes, I still feel,
The rewarding gift of eternity.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
gimmicks are silly
i just refuse
to stop loving them
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
Rebellion – for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know…
Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you –
and it meant a lot more in ’32.
You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics (moo ! ) now draggin’
(or herding) aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um – make people think…” Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus – tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I seem to note, in your constant ******
dearth of artistic ability. Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad…
They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).
I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art? NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: “thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God…”
You: Postmodern Art – to the firing squad!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
Moments of bliss in the pain and truth in the fables,
All I need is some honesty honestly,
“Stormy seas make the most skilled sailors..”,
or so her tattoo reads so sinful it feels Godly,
she says she only likes black men,
and they say “Once you go black you never go back.”,
but I’m white and when she came she came with me,
and since she arrived she hasn’t left,
sometimes,
truth really is stranger than fiction,
quit drugs got clean,
so now she is my only addition,
on a rooftop in a cool spot sipping champagne,
in the pool got a true shot at some real fame,
feeling like the hero and the villian,
half Joker have Bruce Wayne,
the truth is I feel like a mix of all the Bruces,
Bruce Jenner Bruce Banner Bruce Lee,
Bruce Willis all in it no limits or gimmicks,
Born in the USA raised on Backstreets of Philly,
an American Dreamer living The Dream,
Born To Run call me Bruce Springsteen,
found the Fountain of Youth this girl with this tattoo’s the proof,
so now I bath in the rainbows of this spring,
life so exciting sometimes I just want to scream,
like I do right now as we dance ecstatically,
unconditionally above the world on this rooftop under this star light,
which makes sense since she is a dancer by trade,
we dance and sweat and let out everything that’s inside,
we spread our arms we extend our tongue,
we seize the moment this moment of life,
because we know everything goes in an instant,
life passes by in the blink of an eye,
but without the bitter the sweet ain’t as sweet,
trying to wake up from this dream Vanilla Sky,
and sure these waters are rough,
but hey at least we’re enjoying the ride,
as we find moments of bliss in the pain and truth in the fables,
All I need is some honesty honestly,
“Stormy seas make the most skilled sailors..”,
or so her tattoo reads so sinful it feels Godly…
∆ LaLux ∆
Free Book: https://www.scribd.com/document/388173677/The-Holy-Trilogy-Volume-2-Mandalas
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 5:16 AM UTC
My heart gushing gallantly
Leaking long lists of lyrics
trying to have your heart
without games or gimmicks
You’re like an ambient alien
a new, but beautiful being
my eyes engrossed in awe
because of sight I am seeing
I have lived a loveless life
and continued completely content
because before I met you
I never knew what love meant
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
I'm always trying to get you to understand me
I'm always screaming, always hoping, yet,
You have blinders over your eyes preventing you to really see
Maybe I should just quit, and accept the fact that we'll never be the same
It's really sad to say, I've tried so hard to make it work,
But I can't deal with this pain
One day I'll leave, be gone forever, never to return
And you'll still be sitting at church
Selling your sins to be sure you stay "pure"
This is it, I've had enough
You tell me you try, but you're just selling me gimmicks and lies
One day you'll pay for your destruction, and it'll be one big surprise
You live in a box, with no way of thinking for yourself
You think you're doing good,
Sitting all day reading lousy "self-help"
Well this is it, I've had enough
Your God has no sympathy,
He doesn't even exist
You do nothing but pretend,
Going to the confessional just to sleep with the priest
Please,
I'm done hearing your excuses
I've spent my whole life just trying to make you happy
It's all over now,
I'm telling the truth
One day I'll leave, be gone forever, never to return
And you'll still be sitting at church
Selling your sins to be sure you stay "pure"
This is it, I've had enough
You tell me you try, but you're just selling me gimmicks and lies
One day you'll pay for your destruction, and it'll be one big surprise
You live in a box, with no way of thinking for yourself
You think you're doing good,
Sitting all day reading lousy "self-help"
Well this is it, I've had enough
One day I'll leave, be gone forever, never to return
And you'll still be sitting at church
Selling your sins to be sure you stay "pure"
This is it, I've had enough
(Please, just meet me halfway)
(Please, just tell me you'll stay)
You tell me you try, but you're just selling me gimmicks and lies
One day you'll pay for your destruction, and it'll be one big surprise
You live in a box, with no way of thinking for yourself
You think you're doing good,
Sitting all day reading lousy "self-help"
Well this is it, I've had enough
I've finally had enough
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
It's not
like the movies, or shows
the books and the novels.
hollywood's way of
cheesy gimmicks.
It's not
like the Hunger Games!
Where people are injected
with sweet venom of
credulous lies.
Where 2 tributes disappears.
Every year.
Because,
right now, right here,
we have more.
It is 2053.
Promises long gone.
Contracts expired and
conspiracy failed.
Betrayed.
Lied to.
Indoctrinated.
Abandoned.
Hands over heads.
We, at the mercy of
the Red Dragon.
His highness roams.
We, losing our grasps,
collapsing.
I dreamed a home of peace,
safe, with freedom.
But it crumpled into
a million pieces.
No more teases.
When they had won.
Some people fled.
Unbearable of
the roads, tainted red.
They got lucky.
But I'm just a fuming middle aged
worthless powerless whatshername.
Talk about pity.
"I'm young!"
But you'll grow old.
And I tell you of this.
I warn you of this!
Because I see it
so clearly,
so vividly,
in your eyes.
I see no future of us.
Just our minds twisted.
Blood and gore mixed
with all that we witnessed.
Just healthy looking robots.
Patriotic robots.
Who has forgotten
everything.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
i'm not writing, more or less simply knitting, a jumper -
which is more than just a mere poem.
the comfort allowance, listening to delta goodrem
and i love pop,
more than a rugby
player aged ~20,
mind you,
sometimes labouring over one
selfie with 20 Chinese to match
makes you feel oh so good -
it took those 20 Chinese
the same effort - pretty white girl
and blonde syndrome,
eastern Europe gets a sniff
and simply says: well, that' **** isn't it?
the days that came with
the motto: we need astronauts more than
tourists...
days like these i rather take selfies
of the sleeper than write something...
and i do...
i fiddle on the roof
and cartoon the rest...
because that matters.
pristine Australian and the gimmicks
worthy of South Korean singalongs....
next in line
***** duped Jews...
whenever the gentleman
lost hist top-hat and the confectioner glyph typo -
me and an audience?
as in a day job?
i don't mind...
d'ah la la la...
and the piano....
these days are rare....
having enough words
in-tune with all others...
of such days
i say: sometimes a picture revitalises the lost words....
and when encouraged
a slip-up of beckoning...
readied for an avalanche -
to make writing into
knitting a jumper or a scarf...
equivalent...
in a society that deems Japanese culture
inquiries
as the righteous standards
to avoid the jobs of nursing and dentistry -
well...
we're in sure need of robotics
to ease off stress that our societies have
themselves halving demand...
sure, she's still there,
crazy naked and starving a kaleidoscope hope
of reminiscence
concerning a fear of spiders:
that do not weave webbing...
the size of your palm...
those ones, scary...
that context of x,
between agoraphobia minor
(in an urban setting)
and agoraphobia major
in an countryside setting -
phobia: or the intricate fear
when an antidote is due because of too much rationalism -
agoraphobia minor:
fear of being in an open space with too many people...
agoraphobia major:
fear of being in an open space
anticipating a congregation that never comes...
i'm enthralled by these compounds:
kindred of: lithium salts - or other compounds.
sometimes just a day with a selfie...
or a poem like this: an exercise in utilising language
to no grand scheme of making a profit:
rather an indentation, and nothing more.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
Between two minds my mind flips
Why do you feel so empty sometimes
Do you float above your body and are robotic action
Are your thoughts your actions
Are they all the same, are they different
Are you everything at once
Once warm the next seemingly cold
If emotions could be that easy to separate
How easy would I be to dissolve
I am losing my grip on my perceptions because
I am the manipulated
I am clay
Use me use me and abuse me
I will beg for more
Because I am a sacrifice
I give myself even when I have already given everything
And I realize in a quick shudder that
The closer I get the faster I might let it fade
But I hate the space
How did I let this confusion overwhelm me in its toxic cloud
I am a delusion
An illusion
All is illusion
I am the audience
Gasping at magical feats
That are smooth gimmicks
I am the happiest fool.
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 9:28 AM UTC