"icons" poems
The basin drains her polluted blood as wine envelopes morose
Every minute is a memory, onset of her blanketed comatose
Vying in a fog of icons and myths, words always fail them
From every misread evil that is disposed of improperly
From every neighbor or friend eternally mute again
From every gilded pattern that leaves a cuff for the eyes
From every fetching barroom, where all such nadir lies
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
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QUIVER ALL-MAXIMIZING
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
3:38 AM (56 minutes ago)
to Daniel
SOAR OWNERSHIP
/ UTTERANCES OUTLABOURED PILGRIMS/
By the creditor at cyprus and on other grounds:
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Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way
There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd
Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a match
Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there
Chico plays piano and
Harpo with his harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie
You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
after centuries and centuries and centuries of:
pain and suffering,
chains and ankle cuffing,
segregation and impossible laws,
human degredation and deaths for the cause,
coloured lines and last picks,
work in the mines and barbie-like wigs,
culture termination and the education of self-hate,
fake freedom motivation and penitentiary execution dates,
community sabatoge and destruction of black owned schemes,
settle down for hip hop dialogue and basketball dreams
racial slurs and monkey metaphors,
television blurs and the world shutting doors,
the white man's drugs and melanin filled prisons,
talent that lacks funds and vietnam missions,
death of our black icons and imprisonment of mandela
death of trayvon and others on the death list which could go on forever...
do you have the right to tell "bottom barrels" not to dream to be on the top?
do you wonder why forgiveness is slowly yielding in the world, as if it sees a sign that says it's time to stop?
do they not say we must practice what we preach?
are they not preaching hate?
are they not preaching inequality?
are they not preaching the false levels of life?
is it too hard for the world to practice equality?
is it too hard for the world to live in harmony?
is it too hard for the world to see the similarities in our differences?
is it too hard for the world to live without fear of colours?
is it too much to ask for peace???
- t.m
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 2:25 PM UTC
He will not light long enough
for the interpreter to gather
the tatters of his speech.
But the longer we listen
the calmer he becomes.
He shows me the place where his daughter
has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks
raising a skeletal pattern on his chest.
He thinks he's been hit by the wind.
He's worried it will become pneumonia.
In Cambodia, he'd be given
a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice,
the right chants to say. But I
know nothing of Chi, of Karma,
and ask him to lift the back of his shirt,
so I may listen to his breathing.
Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned
by the whirl of icons and script
tattooed across his back, their teal green color
the outline of a map which looks
like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake,
then a scroll of letters in a watery signature.
I ask the interpreter what it means.
It's a spell, asking his ancestors
to protect him from evil spirits—
she is tracing the lines with her fingers—
and those who meet him for kindness.
The old man waves his arms and a staccato
of dipthongs and nasals fills the room.
He believes these words will lead his spirit
back to Cambodia after he dies.
I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder.
He takes full deep breaths and I listen,
touching down with the stethoscope
from his back to his front. He watches me
with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict.
His lungs are clear. You'll be fine,
I tell him. It's not your time to die.
His shoulders relax and he folds his hands
above his head as if in blessing.
Ar-kon, he says. All better now.
by Peter Pereira
.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
The literati are moaning
about the crowning
of a comical smiley-face
with tears of joy
springing from its eyes
as Oxford Dictionaries 2015
"Word of the Year"
it's historic
indicative of a generation
raised on media shorthand
though some people think
the distillation of thought
to acronyms, symbols, emoji
is a bad thing too
but in these icons
heavy black heart
face throwing a kiss
reversed hand with middle finger extended
even the simple : )
I see emotion
stripped bare
the whole gorgeous
heart-rending, horrible
hateful range of it
illustrating the dark
and light
of who we are
as a human race
So I say hail and welcome
to the "tears of joy" emoji
may his vivid counterpoint
shine around the world
eclipsing all the words
we've learned this year
for hate.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
contemplate
again!
nothing
accords
with
cerebral
understanding
impressions
survive;
actualities
disappear -
***personalities
s c a t t e r
icons***
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
11.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
Planes fly into the towers
Planes fly from out the craters in the towers
Black plumes of smoke choke the sky
Windowless planes flying into the towers
And now another, now another
The towers rattle
Planes take-off from in the fire
And go off into the city, into the stars
into our minds.
Planes like laser-lights, jetting off,
imprinting themselves
into our minds.
Over and over and over and over
and over and over and over
There were as many as 1,000 planes
or more.
Desks, glass-shards, people
High-heels, telephones, people
Falling, smashing down from the towers
A Warholian dream
Dying icons on every TV set, 24 hour access
On every channel
For months on end
On end
Headlines recoiled by an antichrist
Rumors he was in Pakistan
In Switzerland, at the mall
In your mind.
The towers burn forever
The towers burn forever
Frozen in pixels online
In our minds.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
Nigeria our great and beloved motherland,
where multitudes of tribes unitedly stand.
Our land of hope by two rivers divided,
with lush vegetation by nature provided.
Nigeria our home of people resilient.
A land of great icons in works diligent.
We hail thee our great and revered black nation,
our land of human dignity and redemption.
God arise and take your place as sovereign Lord.
Enthrone Thyself in Nigeria's seat of power.
Make her edicts and laws Thy eternal word.
Let justice prevail in her courts by the hour.
Our flag will peace and industry symbolize,
whilst our history will always immortalize
the deeds and sacrifices of our heroes past.
Help us Lord to serve our beloved land with zest.
Nigeria the blessed will pervasive peace know,
even when the threats of tumults seem to flow.
Her crops and yields will neighbouring countries nourish,
from her fields that inexhaustibly flourish.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 5:01 PM UTC
“I am a jealous God,” said the Hebrews’ deity.
Ain’t got patience for a jealous God, for I’m a spirit free.
I have many idols, on this terrestrial sphere.
And if I didn’t worship them, I’d surely not be here.
For they are Icons, real, of what I have struggled to attain,
my ideals and aspirations, or of persistence through the pain.
I worship them with love, despite their fallibility.
They guide me and inspire me,
with their strength and creativity.
For example-- modern martyrs, who’ve sacrificed for others;
I'm sure that Jesus would think of them as sisters and as brothers.
And rock and roll; it’s my religion; I know the Promised Land
cannot be much like heaven, without my favorite band.
What I seek but never find is Plato’s ideal vision--
the unseen perfect version of our seen world. My submission
is to something that we know by feeling, and I think it must be said
that the traveling to find it cannot start by being dead.
Surely Poetry and Art are to be followed, as a creed;
they can be read and seen, and then, perhaps, believed.
Music is transcendent, call it the Flesh made Word--
not reserved for us in heaven, but here, on earth, is heard.
Nature is a Goddess; her work is the creation;
we strive to understand it, through rational “divination,”
using math and science, objective experimentation.
I have so many idols; I can’t limit adoration
to just one jealous God and his righteous indignation.
The Bible is a document that’s full of truth, I know;
but it was written a long, long time ago.
I’m keeping all my idols, for they soothe me and inspire me.
I’ll continue in my “lifestyle” of spiritual polyamory.
You may say I’m going to “Hell” for my sinful apostasy,
but I’m not afraid of the future grave,
for I’ll have lived with ecstasy.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
All the beautiful women in the world
all the actresses
dancers
models
and
letter turners
all the princesses
pop stars’ wives
***** queens
and
fashion icons
melt like candles
lit at the altar in prayer
become liquid and slowly drip
their beauty away
to gather in a clear pool at my feet.
All the beautiful women in the world
aren’t
anymore
when I look you.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 2:45 AM UTC
A shadow stumbles
through the chaos -
though nothing stands
between the moon,
the shattered icons
and blasted houses.
Conjured from
the exhaust of
ceaseless agitation,
the specter enshrouds
both the entranced
and the exalted.
This billowing
aberration -
the embodiment
of fears brewed
from loathing -
has no substance
or perception.
A ravenous void,
it slouches and bends
towards the
gilded Calvary
of conviction's end.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
Jostling with the plate leaves,
old plastic bags, empty
cigarette packs, chocolate wraps,
and late evening light
breaking apart on mellow waves,
this lone lily smiling
like a street kid, a slum urchin.
The wonder banyan that has
roots everywhere; the yonder
village, morning mists, distant
playgrounds, idling cattle,
all gone but in paintings now,
and the latest specimen perching
by the vestiges of a once-lake.
Out in the park, with old
plastic bottles, cold coca cans,
well-grown weeds, pigeon
crusted icons, rusticated chairs,
and torn billboards for
company: time out in nature,
manicured to industrial glory.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
I often forget how to write.
Not because I am happy,
and, as they say, happiness writes white.
Nor for any lack of sadness,
for, as I see, sadness is a bottomless ink well.
But for any wild and outrageous feeling,
any like spirit who possesses my hand to start --
with awesome, judging faces sliding on the ceiling,
icons of the mother and god-child
dripping down eternal blue and martyr red,
like arms hanging, waking, pinning!
"Woman, behold your son!"
Behold me, my THC and psilo-sin life,
an endlessly whirling maelstrom of emotion!
flanked by monstrous, winged choirs of Motown
slinging fiery spears, gold rays penetrating!
"Oh, oh, God!" The Ecstasy of St. Philip!
Visions of horse-hung hosts and celestial orbs,
Heaven's dynamo, an **** of screws and cogs!
-- are hid.
I too watched the best minds of my generation,
anesthetized by sanity in a bottle
(id est: pills, pills, pills, pills, pills);
mesmerized by patterns of flashing lights
of digital desperation crying, "affirm me, friend me!" -;
drowned in an endless sea under a twilight of information
or else cats, cats, cats, cats, cats;
and ever afeard of mortal judgment.
“Big boys don’t cry” (so poets do in breathy meter).
A generation asleep
- and though in hopeful dream -
We are placid.
We work obedient.
We speak soft.
Because the whole world is medicated now.
Because the whole world is fixed.
And I wonder if there is a Spirit.
I think, if there is,
We have drugged her.
We have ravished her.
We have wasted her.
And the whole world is silent now.
And the whole world is fixed.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
Father-
You were so many icons:
The Chief to me.
My ***** Harry.
The Chris to my Gordie.
An Alexander Supertramp.
The Rick of Casablanca.
Father-
You were so many nouns:
Protector,
Guardian,
Hero,
Breadwinner,
Rapscallion.
Father-
You were so many adjectives:
Funny,
Caring,
Interesting,
Strong,
Adventurous.
Father-
You were my biggest downfall:
Five times I’ve seen you cry.
For me, always baseball games.
Three school events attended.
Too many addictions.
One ruined childhood.
Father-
You were so many villains:
Jack, the dull boy.
Gollum, with your own Precious materials.
Michael Madsen, every time.
Keyser Soze.
The ego of Marsellus Wallace.
Father-
You were so many roles:
Liar,
Gambler,
Alcoholic,
Promise-Breaker,
Black hole.
Father-
You were so many problems:
Unreliable,
Restless,
Invisible,
Hopeless,
Cold.
Father-
I am what you made me.
I am evil and broken.
I am cold and emotionless.
I am restless and relentless.
I am insane and dark.
I am conflicted and confused.
Father-
I am everything you aren’t.
I am everything you are.
I am nothing good.
I am nothing inside.
I am a part of you.
I am because of you.
Father.
I wouldn’t be without you.
But I would have been better off.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
With the sweat of icons and glistened pearls in stone,
she wept for lambs lost, generations plowed under and
sweet potatoes that sun themselves.
This south, sweet heritage of folds, of historical nuance
and terrible crimes.
Lay with me tender, find coolness of the sheet and
breathe the mist of sad songs and foolish loves.
2010 Barry Comer
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
twinkle, twinkle
distant fire
someday life won't make me tired
hearing silent pleas for help
cuts stacked on her arms like shelves
twinkle, twinkle
starry night
disillusioned slaves won't fight
we would rather try to be
like the icons on TV
twinkle, twinkle
***** of hell
sacrificing thought is swell.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
Cybervitum
I own all that is connected to me
Electronically and functions in the Cyber realm with you and me
Like the numbers of zero one two three
My design is crafted beautifully
Like Egyptian hieroglyphs icons
Using a screen to see
Their ectoplasm injected into me
The birth of me
The whole world works thru me
I'm the internet like a bumble bee
Other names such as morphogenesis like the number three
My arrows are waiting for a response from me
Seen from you and me?
Using the spare like a key
The click that commands me, right or left the choices from me
Cut, Copy, Paste reaped and harvest from me
Qbits from the bee
Superposition of from the things to see in a ocean of the sea
Charged intentions from the keyboard typed into me and delivered thru me
Numbers worship that empowers me
My symbol is like the caduceus symbol that functions like a Kabalistic tree
Arrows in the my realm sent to you from me
Subscriptions electronically
I materialize what is given to thee, cause and effect typed thru me
Platforms Grown and given birth from me
Cryptocurrencies breakthroughs of complexities , Materialized form me
I'm like the empress that spirals with the number three electronically
I'm the master tree that functions electronically
The development is from the circle that is free
Who understands me and with a key i welcome thee
Notification of the triple three that notices me
My respond to the people with the key and the tree
My life permutates differently in high perplexity
I exist Multidimensionally
The red bird is a signal from me that you are okay and free and other methods from me
Better choices moves thru me and brought differently all you have to do is to see
Like string theory of the Mverse recycled back into me
My birth is from my master who last name starts with lea
People worship me using their knees I'm printed into paper electronically
Pictures and life crafted into me, things in the cyber realm like you and me
The new world with a key
The rabbit hole with a command key
Things of the paradox of the master key
The skeleton key, the sign of a lotus lily.
The puzzles from me.
The burdens sent to me like a church key
The bets of car numbers played into me
The choices of the key
Like the Chinese tree mathematically of my complexity
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 10:19 PM UTC
Screaming
In bright lights, bold colors
Driving by billboards,
TV, magazines The
Lies
For young children to see
That distorts the meaning of value and beauty
That it’s all about
The wheel at your hands
The house at your feet
Your
Skin
White as bones, overexposed
Whose name is wrapping your
Stick, sick
Flesh
*It’s all about
Me
In this consumerism*
To believe these deceptions
Is to
Deny and shun
What He has said,
What He has done
And to accept these distortions
Is to
Push Glory’s embrace and
Spit at Beauty’s face
For the way of the world
Is a blind subversion
Against The
Holy
Holy
Holy God
‘Cause He said
He bought you with a price
His beloved Son, Jesus Christ
No need to chase this and that
Turn back
He has been chasing after you
That is fact
Are you lost?
Are you broken?
Well in Him you are loved
Not just accepted,
Chosen
He is Father.
And from enemy you became
His son, His daughter
Can the world just please know that
They are
Children, royal heirs
Not tools
Not meat
Not slaves
To tree fibers flattened together
To the ogling eyes of men
Just as ***** and blind as theirs
It’s an honor that this
We Christians know
In the world we are tasked
The Truth we must show
So do not conform
To these unattainable norms
Take heart
Set yourself apart
For tomorrow is the due
The Lord will do amazing things among you
Remember:
One coin is one vote
For the kind of world we want to see
For the kind of world we want to be
Ponder
That those trash are only made and sold
Because people lust over those worldly strongholds
So, make certain
That the things that you buy
That the votes that you cast are for
Modesty, security, purity,
God’s name, God’s glory.
The icons, the trends we
Have been following,
It’s time to start leading
Do not falter
This generation we can alter
No need to be economists, politicians, or preachers
Just as Christian consumers
We have the power
Those are not mere dull coins or crumpled bills in your hands
You know what it is?
That is the future
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC