"hedonism" poems
First things first
I'd like to apologise
I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal
I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies
I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction
I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly
Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds
My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Morality isolates and fenders bend.
Circumference learns, “half-way” but fails to take the name
“Radius,”
And when she lay a meter nigh
With child, my child;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
Curse my iron fist and rusts the middle knuckle,
When another weeps, not for I, not for you but the gods assumed,
“Heaven,”
And 3 floors above my own;
Tucked lies the pain, regret fills fetal;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
So comes the autumn, the fire prior, “Styx,”
Upon borders that could only separate, “fatherhood,” so partitioned,
“Winter,”
And 3 floors below her own –
A pillar wrought persistence and abandoned, my hedonism;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
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Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
Cups runneth over
and over
& over
from absinthe to zinfandel.
Men & women parade the streets
with whimsical abandoned
swaying bodies
smiling,
like they just got laid--
or are about to.
******* bathrooms roar
while marijuana balconies cackle--
even the folks staying in
have their music turned up
so nobody can hear them *******
Barefoot indulgence
and tropical dresses flowing
in the midnight air--
even the cops don't care,
this is business.
Every whoop and hollar
is a dollar in their pocket.
Each vehicle blaires
a different song
chaos to the ears
becomes rhythm
for the body-
shots don't need to be in glasses,
grinding is the traditional greeting.
The young come for the atmosphere,
the older for the work release...
everyone is reckless on the weekend,
all the bars runneth over
and over
& over.
A ritualistic hedonism
leads to a collective sleep
that slowly, slowly
overtakes us all
as we slowly fade,
for a few hours until
Cups runneth over again
and over
& over
from absinthe to zinfandel.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 7:16 AM UTC
In the distant lands of forever
misted light seeps beyond line of sight
where gulls circle above the ocean squall
lies the dream of ethereal treasure
drifting in and out of dancing firelight.
Within the lush and precious emerald reaches
fly majestic golden hummingbirds
graced in flight off untouched white sand beaches
shadows stand tall in the eye of a lonesome moon
and in its fleeting ephemeral decree
couple wine with unspoken wise words
and see them better received.
In the Eleusinian dreams of men
gather the cornucopia of breath
nourish oneself in the last passing of days
grasp firm the righteous omen
and embrace the rituals within thy beating breast.
See glowing amber give flames to creation
revel in the pagan shamanism
rise above the mortal coil of chains
craft a celebration
and in the haze of hedonism
dance naked in the summer rain.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Who's that I hear?—It's me—Who?—Your heart
Hanging on by the thinnest thread
I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid
When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
Like a whipped cur sulking in the corner
Is it due to your mad hedonism?—
What's it to you?—I have to suffer for it—
Leave me alone—Why?—I'll think about it—
When will you do that?—When I've grown up—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
What's your idea?—To be a good man—
You're thirty, for a mule that's a lifetime
You call that childhood?—No—Madness
Must have hold of you—By what, the halter?—
You don't know a thing—Yes I do—What?—Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites—
That's all?—How can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over—
You're lost—Well I'll go down fighting—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
I get the heartache, you the injury and pain
If you were just some poor crazy idiot
I'd be able to make excuses for you
You don't even care, all's one to you, foul or fair
Either your head's harder than a rock
Or you actually prefer misery to honor
Now what do you say to that?—
Once I'm dead I'll rise above it—
God, what comfort—What wise eloquence—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Why are you miserable?—Because of my miseries
When Saturn packed my satchel I think
He put in these troubles—That's mad
You're his lord and you talk like his slave
Look what Solomon wrote in his book
"A wise man" he says "has authority
Over the planets and their influence"—
I don't believe it, as they made me I'll be—
What are you saying?—Yes that's what I think—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Want to live?—God give me the strength—
It's necessary...—What is?—To feel remorse
Lots of reading—What kind?—Read for knowledge
Leave fools alone—I'll take your advice—
Or will you forget?—I've got it fixed in mind—
Now act before things go from bad to worse
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it.
3k
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Such ignorance,
such temptation,
Such Ambition,
such delusions of grander,
such hedonism,
such debauchery,
such betrayal,
Such jealousy,
Such bigotry,
Such caprice,
Such entropy,
Such stupidity?
such is human Nature.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
It was a day like today when
I found myself nearly paralyzed
unable to move myself from my bed.
This existential depression is crippling.
Living like the dead.
I need a purpose, I need a reason
to continue down this path called life
but with out turning to hedonism.
But I have no real passions
I have no real hobbies.
I'm just sitting around waiting
stuck in purgatory.
If you've read my rants before you'll know of my nihilism.
And I've struggled to find the will to live for quite some time now.
I'm seeing several psychs and on a multitude of meds
that I will gladly abuse to try to transcend
to something greater.
Something more.
But this "instant-gratification" lifestyle can't go on forever.
Because money runs thin
and I hate running.
My lungs are filling up
and its with nothing healthy.
This low self-esteem feels like drowning.
Living like a problem not worth solving.
Each day passes, each the same.
Moving forward toward monotony.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
God is happiness and happiness is God to me.
Surgeon General, Pope and Dali Llama all agree,
And everyone is searching for the blessed trinity.
So eat and drink and **** and when we die, we'll see.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
I am hopelessly attracted to grumpiness
impatience
poignancy
eccentricity
introversion
stubbornness
anxiety
misanthropy
frustration
hedonism
vulgarity
How, then, do I define 'imperfection'?
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
hot ****
sleeping under the stars, a bottle of wine, a puff of smoke and love blooming.
hello wilderness. how are you? i’m doing well, i say.
cool tongues speaking soft words of enlightenment and adoration.
a kiss here and a touch there, i dance with excitement.
new lives engulfed in new flames.
with time flying by, i know the simple things will keep me sane.
the beautiful things will allow me to keep my name.
baked goods with frozen dairy, is there anything better.
music is all around.
places in time and space are calling my name.
i respond, ‘i am far too busy to be with you now, but i will adore the thought of you and i will see you soon.’
smoke,
drink,
dance,
discuss,
love,
eat,
oh, how i love to eat!
this is my list, blessed.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
Sometimes I miss the holy grace of ignorance,
Sometimes I miss the comfort that I felt when I read about David and his caves,
About his moody eyes and his harp,
About his *** addiction and his jealous, musical heart that only a god could love,
About the way he loved with abandon, reckless, selfish, taken aback in naivety, balking at those who dared disagreed with his unwavering need to be as he was
David made me ***
David made me feel closer to God and my mother
David told me a story of lust and ****** and protection and angst and a sweet tortured easily patronized self
Maybe in all of this, one day this flawed, beautiful man who murdered a giant and sang to lambs
Would be me
A woman, self possessed, soothing sheep and culling sleep in her victims.
Passion dripping from her honey harp.
David, thank you for the awakening and for the saturated hedonism that you spoke to in me.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
Desired to be more attuned with idols
Their private lives gleaned from
Stills and moving images cutting swaths across
Skyscraping billboards, TV screens
The sides of passing buses
Subway cars headed deeper in,
Further in, beneath
Magazine spreads pulled out for
ad-hoc posters taped and tacked across
the plaster-sputtering suburban drywall paths
Like screams in arctic winds
Many, the young mean-spirited things
Wanting kinship with these enemies
Trying to plot a course to
**** diagonally-up across
their strident wildlife scenes
Attuned with idols riding their
phantom wavelengths with the
maverick assistance of Reds and
water-cut pints of irish whiskey
Then Father comes in proclaiming
to have saved our democracy on
the whim of a lever-pull upon
a municipal voting machine
No interruptions now please
I will direct the favors of my unborn
I am honed in on what really matters:
Hemingway hedonism.
Getting dead with generations
slinking in and out of frame
from before and after
me
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Friends like fickle timepieces,
I'm studying these circling arms.
Today we're rubbing off the gold,
we're turning pockets inside-out
as I'm peeling off your clothes.
*The dandelion seeds are dancing,
tube between your teeth
lifting up the bell jar
to release the waning fumes of me.
We're disappearing
into shapeless smears on my white ceiling
I'm waking up
to shapeless smears on my white ceiling*
The dewy density of days
between our poems spoken wet and blooming
is just a thin and runny equinox
where sweet abstraction
becomes messes uncontained.
My fingertips and lungs are stained
with your stale and flavorless tepid rain;
hands still moving though I've stopped winding.
I don't know where, I don't know why
nostalgia shriveled up and died
now I'm just remembering.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 2:46 AM UTC
we went to Little Blue
that summer in a bum'd car.
riding in extravagance
we couldn't afford.
camping in the Oklahoma ozarks,
we brought liquor. the two of us
drank a half-litre honey whiskey
and twenty-eight of thirty Pabsts.
your chick only nab'd two.
we were sunk from that point on.
i vomit'd behind the car, and
there were left retched handprints.
left were a phantom's handprints,
having been drown'd by their hedonism.
the bikers partied along
with us apart from us.
they ask'd to use our hatchet,
that's the way we met.
men share tools, and that was
the only instance of civility
for two days. we ran feral.
rip'd shirt to ribbons,
wrap'd them 'round a stick,
soak'd citronella,
commenced adventure.
returning,
two hours time gone;
returning,
scratch'd and bleeding;
returning,
we lit their paths with
torch burning a primal fire;
sleep,
pass'd out by fire in lounge chair.
been in this spot before,
knew to bring a quilt
and mine was the only one.
startled awake,
fire nothing more than nightlight embers.
raccoon, sitting upright,
stared from his high perch of a picnic table.
apple in paws, nibbling,
he mock'd and monitor'd.
i swiped at it with a stick,
missed. said **** it.
slept in the car that night.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
We met in kindergarten
Miss Wolfe’s class
Into an ear I whisper
A shy boy’s bargain
I knock on your door
Pray the dog
Doesn’t **** me
Seems like a metaphor
Laughter and chasing geese
Stealing glances
And prances in the woods
Sprained ankles in the creek
Your moon-drenched family room
And our primal need
Bodies glide
Into foreign feelings
I concede
We’re both shaving now
Not children
Yet not men
In between and fooling around
In my attic bedroom
Space Jam soundtrack
Hoping my mom doesn’t hear us
My hands on your back
Then moving down
Committing little sins
Shhhhhh
Don’t make a sound
Then the bed of my dad’s truck
Some hand stuff
Never a ****
Never enough
You get up and leave
I want you to stay
I play the radio
97 ZOK
Meredith Brooks
And I hate the world today
Because I’m a *****
But I like me this way
Fifteen and fevered
Down Mix Street
I rollerblade
Turn right on Worth
My love for you
Is such a sad parade
Remember when
We camped on the lawn
Quiet light and secrets
Then that wicked dawn
Dragging us back
Into a world
Where our desires
Don’t belong
We are strangers now
With a little bit of everything
All rolled into memory
Like a sacred vow
I’m your hell
I’m your dream
Do you remember anything?
I recall it all
Your tousled hair
And my forbidden grin
I think you live in Wisconsin
Sep 1, 2022
Sep 1, 2022 at 11:23 PM UTC
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.
And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.
We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?
Perspective will tell.
In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”
The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:
“You look at her too much.
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”
The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light: A brilliant exultation.
The crackle: A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.
…
One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
I’ve ruffled your fragile ego,
words won’t take us far;
Bow your head in pleasure,
cover me with your tar.
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 2:14 PM UTC
Your last wind of change has blown and passed
Beside you
Touching your skin and making you
Shiver
For the rest of your life.
I am getting older, wiser
Weaker and stronger everyday
Falling in love and learning to love
Into myself, myself and You
Youth has no limit if you let go
I see you cringing onto a limit
Limit to your passion
Hedonism, acceptance, freedom
Control.
Lose it.
Don't reject it.
Feel the fear and embrace it.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
This is me, Rachael.
I would die from a papercut and blame it on the finger.
I would argue with an eraser if the words didn't look right.
I would tell the moon to shine all day just to **** off the sun.
I see colours in my imagination; my dreams are wild and beyond comparison.
I tend to love too hard and quickly get burnt by the one I flew so high for.
I read too much and believe in past lives.
I forgive but don't forget.
My trust is willing but protects my heart like a guardian of fate.
I will be silent when someone talks **** because I don't take fools gladly, and a wise man never responds to defecation of verbal ignorance.
I willingly argue my point in my head til you know I have analysed my response.
Nothing is taken lightly.
I would argue that the road is really hard and quite weary, and curse my boots as they hit the hallowed ground.
I am impetuous, I rush in, I seek thrill and danger.
Hedonism is my game; I play deftly with an air of mastery.
I am sensitive. As skin is to the weather. A gust of harsh wind could blow me away.
This is me; only a slight composition of who I am, and what I am made of.
And I make no apology.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC