"hyperbolic" poems
late nights and homesick hearts never make for a quiet soul
excessive coffees and quilted secrets make the heart beat fast,
palpitating, jumping, murmuring hyperbolic hopes
late nights and homesick hearts can only be softened
when one's soul is at peace,
hopeful,
restful,
joyful.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
Last Night;
I dreamt of children smoking cigarettes;
I dreamt of kids committing ****** arson, and human trafficking.
Last Night,
I dreamt of a hyperbolic ********** of Innocence
that our culture so unflinchingly asserts
from so ruthlessly young an Age.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
I'm barefoot in 46 degrees and I must remember that my perception of things must not encapsulate how I truly perceive. Soldered commentary is bleak but is all I've left, all my years have given me and my years have been few.
To be constantly bombarded with the question, "what is it that I really want?" is fervently exhausting and consistently hypocritical and I'm a hack. The conclusion is always that I'm a hack without a win to present or a failure to fall back upon. As a hack, I've left myself with very few plans to alter or hungry mindsets to feed.
After glistening the only thing that remains is to burn out and the thought of extinguishing so prematurely provokes a physical falter and frequent respiratory failure.
Ask your brother if he lingers at times. Ask your sister if sometimes, she means what she says and she should always say no. Ask your friends why you should be anyone's friend and whether or not the chance to swing into hyperbolic criticism ever affects how they make their choices, hoof their steps.
Their answer should always be no and their input should always be invaluable.
Ask yourself if brain power should always be set to alter mind power and ask yourself is alteration is ever even possible. The answer should always be no.
The conclusion to draw should always be his. The choices you make, always expert and ground out by consistent respiratory failure. Ask yourself if you'll always be an animal and when will that stop. Ask yourself if time will determine whether or not this "thing" is worth doing or this "thing" is worth composing. Ask yourself why you're not the young girl who sings soul on the street, whose tremble sets off car alarms and inner requisitioning. The answer will never be the same.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
Bursting taps
Like broken feet
Crack,
Droning a beat.
Exclamations and hearts.
Facebook Frankenstein:
Nerves made senseless,
By hyperbolic sentiments.
Stripped as wires,
Latex skin and a rib removed,
Bringing the heart close to the keys.
Orchestrated wires and pulleys
Raising muscles like curtains.
Brushing ***** bleached hair,
Catching fingers like paper cuts.
A hollow form,
Designed in California,
Approved in New Jersey,
And made in some sweat shop.
Flash your smile,
Take your soma,
Dream of MTV;
You're the nightmare of my society.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
357
God is a distant—stately Lover—
Woos, as He states us—by His Son—
Verily, a Vicarious Courtship—
“Miles”, and “Priscilla”, were such an One—
But, lest the Soul—like fair “Priscilla”
Choose the Envoy—and spurn the Groom—
Vouches, with hyperbolic archness—
“Miles”, and “John Alden” were Synonym—
4.3k
Prahu opines re the mathematics of love
Her equations hypotenuse me,
So I write adjacently,
As if we were cosine functionalities.
A special formula,
A Hyperbolic Cosine,
For to equate love mathematically,
We must use verbal hyperbole.
Binomials, the pair of loves,
Coefficient Trekkers,
On the mountains of waves,
To a product infinite.
So let us,
Reductio ad absurdum
That love is pointless.
Nah, nope.
Love is the point on a curve
that never stops moving,
Even as the curve forever, bending
And the possibilities,
Exponential...
In the sums of love,
The finite answer is always two.
So let us be clear,
This exercise has made me late
For work,
For which
I express my appreciation as follows:
X = xo,
Or
Summation Expansion
e e= 1 / n!
= 1/1 + 1/1 + 1/2 + 1/6 + ... see constant e
e -1 = (-1) n / n!
= 1/1 - 1/1 + 1/2 - 1/6 + ...
e x = xn / n!
= 1/1 + x/1 + x2 / 2 + x3 / 6 + ...
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
moment to moment
we are the sum total of
our chemicals
we think of ourselves
we think of others
as an average of our
time and spacial synergy
an anatomical amalgam
a biological brine
frankensteins with
personalities, commonalities and
unique agendas
sprinkled with neuroses that
range from microscopic to
catastrophic, whether
chemical reaction or
hyperbolic extraction
you can choose to
canonize or demonize
as long as you can
recognize
the flesh and the blood
versus the fantasized
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
I got a big power pole that extends to Kamis lookout
Its so big and massive Dende dont doubt
Got my ***** gathered underneath you know I do
I know what you want to wish for so ill *** and give it to you
You say yours is big, you are just a claimer
My power pole so big It cant even be contained in the hyperbolic time chamber
My power pole is such a galore
Not even Hercule can save you anymore
I know your curious ill make you come browsing
Then when you find it your gonna be like ohshit ITS OVER 9000!!!!!!
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
waiting in a white room with no furniture
the humming air conditioner
can’t even drown out my thoughts
waiting to go back to maryland
for a hyperbolic death sentence—
to meet with the wonderful hypocrites
who shaped my cynicism
and anxiety
to feast on the last meal
of failure.
waiting to hear back from potential employers
who hold my future in their hands
but prefer to let me stew
waiting for the tears to start falling
I can feel my eyes welling
my lungs lugging every last bit of air
to my heart as it pounds
like an urgent knock at the door
waiting alone
with just my thoughts.
waiting to see the friends
who never got out to see the world
to look at me with delight, hoping
soon I will re-join their ranks
as a mindless tractor mechanic or slurpee filler
waiting for the cheap bottle whisky
in my stomach to regurgitate
waiting for numbing conversations
about menial tasks and news
like the weather, or something else I can see in front of me.
waiting to be coma.
waiting to see my reflection—
or shadow.
waiting for paper and pen,
waiting for suicide by rhyme at the end.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 8:10 AM UTC
I.
This is just another bad poem
Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem
This is a collection of grammatical errors
This would surely make my English teacher cringe
But no worries, I didn’t write this for her
II.
This bad poem is for you
May my subject and verb disagreement
remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices
and nights where I cried myself to sleep
Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me—
called me difficult and bipolar
You said that I was too much
Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms,
same words but with different meanings
misread my jealousy with accusations,
my concern for excessive affection
You said that I loved you too much
but darling, did you even love me at all?
Did I put too much meaning on your words,
turned them into similes and metaphors?
Turned your literal statements into figures of speech
You told me that you liked me,
so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t
III.
I was never good at using punctuations
I put too much commas,
unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on
Afraid of the inevitable end,
Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer
Because despite all our grammatical errors
no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language
It was beautiful to the untrained eye,
To those who read poetry as it is
To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors
It was beautiful to me
But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different,
in spite of sharing infinite as the root word
Like our love,
started with something so promising
but unlike most novels,
there’s no happy ending
So I accepted defeat,
accepted the inevitable and bitter end
No more committing the same mistakes over and over again,
the same words over and over again,
Accepted the fact that synonyms existed,
words with the same meaning but also entirely different
new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar
IV.
I accepted defeat
No more commas or semi-colons
We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet—
I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be,
So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
When
When Love
When Love touched
When Love touched me
I felt like me again
I felt like
I felt
I
Did
Did you
Did you felt
Did you felt it too?
Hope is all I have
Hope is all
Hope is
Hope
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Spontaneity slowly wringing happy tie in superly
spand of lilac slingly hyperbolic in siatic spurious
Her is a lamp of antique
a golden legs of strings
Barbara was studied
as a woman
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 4:58 PM UTC
"You're not a lot of fun to be around" she blurted
Not the first time I've heard it
I went
From being bullied to being A bully, was never meant to be permanent
You can probably guess what temperament brought more enjoyment?
So there's a solid argument to be had for it being a just verdict
But if you've never been in that predicament hold your judgmental hyperbolic rhetoric
Most folks seek out that kind of empowerment but keep it quiet, I'm just admitting it
Look, nobody's perfect but the crime has never fit my punishment
Pushed and shoved "getting back to the old me" to the back burner, against my better judgement
Cause I didn't bother with it any further, now a derelict social misfit
Then when it's my turn to take back the moment
My retort, a one and done statement;
Fck you, fck the planet and fck everyone on it
Easier to parrot that then to admit no one can stand me past the first minute
I don't know if it's the misplacement of hurt and anger, a cover for inadequate social alignment
Or a relentless deep seeded resentment for the general public
Not sure but it definitely feels organic
This old dog ain't capable of learning a new trick regardless of any enlightenment
Kinda sad isn't it?
©2024
Jan 16, 2024
Jan 16, 2024 at 6:30 PM UTC
there is a spider crawling up my back
sending bite-sized shivers as he climbs up ascending vertebra
i think of you and he makes his way to my thighs
spilling rose hips perfume
medecine of angels
the drowning ache
the tingling between my toes
delirious drool language not meant for you to hear but meant for me to answer
Trembling
beneath this tiny mess of appendages and swoony eyes
i can see your mass traveling through each season
your soft tufts donning golden shimmers then glimmering at the dusk of white
but i knew you when the bees knew warmth
spitfire busy buzzing sweet melodies to the open flower fields
but i knew you when your bones kissed your skin too tight
before falling renewal and peachy light
spiders making their homes in unfamiliar hiding places
crawling hyperbolic
a silly old mess
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
"... and we were like parallel lines. We were not destined for each other and will never be."
"It depends on what type of geometry you're referring to. In hyperbolic geometry, parallel lines meet at an ideal point - a point at infinity. I don't mind living in hyperbolic space. Would you?"
Aug 1, 2022
Aug 1, 2022 at 4:29 AM UTC
Gwen Elison
Southern Utah University
Elliptic Parallel Postulate Haiku
I am a point P
I want a parallel please!
Oh, there’s none for me.
Hyperbolic Parallel Postulate Haiku
I am a point P
There so many parallels
At least 2 for me!
Euclidean Parallel Postulate
I am a point P
Elliptic? Hyperbolic?
No, just 1 for me!
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 10:47 AM UTC
A spiteful taste of malice
Slithers across my tongue
Secrecy spoke in volumes
Before the words begun
This sensation it saunters
Into solar vacuity
Perpetrating sheer, faugh
Acts of congruency
In vain contempt I wallow
In the pillars of infamy
Whilst faint my ears waltz
To vindictive symphonies
Prolonged my strife be by humanity
Whilst I attempt to appease
As they flaunt their existence
To miscellaneous degrees
The English language resembles
Clouds of hyperbolic fallacies
In light of this hapless universe
They share an index of analogies
From behind cracked windowpanes
I peer at all that is inane
With repugnance I am slain
As I wince with disdain
I scarf reality in intervals
Reaping jagged grains of salt
Though helpless I am left
Pessimistic by default
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
We’ll be building card castles inside of our ship,
sailing on a sapphire sea full of translucent hearts.
All beating on the same weary tempo,
the tempo of deluded delights and fist fights and
Harmonic Impulses.
To sleeping on our rooftops and singing aloud,
To painting our expressions and flying with lost leaves,
To creating ripples and the Butterfly Effect,
To finding truth in today and escaping hyperbolic doubt,
We’ll toast in sunsets to our Harmonic Impulses.
Forever sailing our iridescent sailboat, we’ll skip the stars and get right to the point:
An avalanche of swirling, misty galaxies promises that tomorrow will forever be the best and dandelion rings are now true symbolism, my sweet.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 4:14 PM UTC
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Believe me when I say
I am an above average equivocator;
A hyperbolic exaggerator;
But I love to listen to the experts,
Their promises of love, wealth, justice.
Now, I'm also a reflective skeptic,
Remembering in tranquility and such.
And the wellies fit well.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
She was an old Mid-western woman.
She was a distinct type.
A stock-staple character,
Sort of half Beverly Hillbillies Granny,
Throw in a skosh Betty White,
Mixed in with a lot of that old lady
In Driving Miss Daisy.
Southern Indiana:
The Confederacy’s best kept secret.
But I digress.
She was my neighbor in Buckeye, Arizona,
A quaint agrarian township, way out
At the west end of Maricopa County, which is
An hour from the Phoenix airport, the so-called
Sky Harbor International Airport,
Which surely must be near the list’s top:
All-time most pretentious,
Hyperbolic Chamber of Commerce,
Municipal Boosterisms.
Wikipedia English - The Free Encyclopedia
Boosterism: the act of "boosting" (or promoting) a town, city, or organization, with the goal of improving public perception of it. Boosting can be as simple as "talking up" the entity at a party or as elaborate as establishing a visitors' bureau. It has been somewhat associated with American small towns. Boosting is also done in political settings, especially in regard to disputed policies or controversial events.
So, without thinking,
Walking down the driveway
To pick up the morning paper,
I let it slip:
“How are you?”
She’s leaning over the hedge,
As I bend down,
Picking up the local Pravda.
35 minutes later she sums up:
“I had to go to the doctor last night.
Gave me some cream for my pud.”
A twinkle in her eye—
She, my lascivious,
Old lady neighbor
In Buckeye, Arizona.
She had that sweet Mid-western thing
Working for her, her regional mojo.
And I’m right there on her wavelength:
The apple not falling far from my tree,
Or something like that . . .
I am losing my train of thought, here.
Last poem of the day, I guess.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
i dream of you i dream with you,
following the musings of the aching poet
blathering hyperbolic verbiage
into subconsciousness
where we leave entwined mortal bodies
for the impalpable enclave
we have created.
i dream of you i dream with you,
in sleep our minds meld
over aching bodies
and lift our spirits
to the ethereal nether-realm,
where we roam
for eons
sauntering through the fields
of ecstasy.
i dream of you i dream with you,
where the groans of the spirit
and its insatiable yearnings
find solace in the vastness
of the tangent universe,
existing outside our mortal guise,
alluded in our mind’s eye—
it’s heaven
built by you and i.
i dream of you i dream with you,
in lucid dreams
where we know we are asleep,
but we just laugh whilst
walking through the gates of eternity
flourishing in the eternal splendor
we have created.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC