"idealise" poems
why do we always inspire the young who idolise and idealise, make the middle-aged merchants and are spoken of by the old as necessary memories by way of rekindling their own memories of youth not travelled upon the paths of the various arts?
modern world decided
to depict the **** perfect family
as a form of ******
now we're told the perfect
family is within reach of
our genetic understanding of things
and how easily synthesised,
how easily synthesised and
rarely analysed to be mutually
bored before the television
content and silent...
raising a family these days almost
feels like committing an act of ******
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
I think perhaps as a writer, we seek the adventure, the unknown, the destructive, not only to know we are alive but to know what it is to live. We live fast, we love without restraint, with impulsive desire. Are we the tortured, the wounded, the broken, abused. We have lived a thousand lives, loved a million times. We dream, we idealise, we fall in love unintentionally, we make mistakes, we endure deep suffering and we fall to the hands of lust within a heartbeat. We choose to show our ******* our ***** our hearts or our souls. We refuse to sell our mind, to which we must always remain held to. Our body is a vessel, one of productivity made victim to abuse. It's such neglect, despair, that leaves us enveloped in patterns of trauma and deeply embedded psyache. Once touched, our bodies remember as an elephants mind always will. We are tainted, scarred, stained by another's love, lust, cheating, lying, crying, kissing, losing, dreaming. We are the risk takers, the ones who dare step into the unknown and often don't adhere to rules and regulations of societal ideals. We crave love. We crave endless excitement. We crave the adrenalin rush of a new lover. We don't settle. Wanderlust writes us. Each journey shapes us, choosing a new direction, experimenting with style, fiction, autobiographical tones. Landscapes colour our pages, pollute the rooms with a myriad of paints, smoking out those who don't endure, slaves to the written word, a pledge to keep reading pages of paper, dusty from step ladder high book shelves. Finding joy in limited first editions, autographed and locked behind glass doors. Fairy tales whispered by Hans Christian Andersen - The Snow Queen in a pop up book laced with glitter and scintillation. Falling into stories, Alice's rabbit hole, lost to liquor saying drink me. The young ingénue, naïve and shy, her first role acting, embodying the spoken word through the masters written script.
© Sia Jane
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
There was death and gore,
During the second world war.
Many people died in extreme violence,
Killed before they could call out to loved ones.
Young men were trained to ****
Often against their morals and will.
So when I see your 1940s weekend -
Your 'war was fun and cosy' pretence,
Your clichéd polyester and fibre glass mockery,
Aiming to re-enact a mostly imagined happy-go-lucky camaraderie -
Forgive me for not joining in,
As I happen to feel it a cardinal sin,
To idealise and romanticise a decade,
Made up of austerity, rationing and air raids.
I've read a little social history,
The 1940s were not idyllic or crime-free,
Just as now, there were heroes and villains,
Among the soldiers and civilians.
Heroism abounded but so did black marketeering,
There were brave sacrifices but also racketeering.
City-wide black-outs were a gift,
To those who would rob and grift.
Your jolly nostalgic tribute is an annual celebration,
Celebrating your own fabrication,
Of a time when the machinations of war and a crazed ideology,
Saw the near extinction of an entire ethnic minority.
I do not wish to be a party pooper,
But don't just step into the fake shoes of a fictional trooper,
Please occasionally remove your rose-tinted glasses,
To remember that beyond your nostalgic narrative of the routines of the masses,
People lived with the daily fear,
Of the likely deaths of people they held dear.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
*magdalene just wanked off st. peter, and i’m like...
magdalene just wanked off st. peter.,
the pope was caressed by tabloid headlines...
and jesus did a miracle streak of shit-smear in leather,
gagged the dsm iv into s & m translation;
i used to play the guitar once... but i got choreographed
into a back-up dancer / mimer role -
and then i sold 1million singles in the first hour of the realese.*
self-love amiss is a potato patch of the revelatory,
self-love quotes from what the greeks missed
in threes: the furies stagnated into the eye of the graeae;
i can write about my **** life
in the same way you write to idealise your **** life,
9/5 on the black mustang... who ran out from the better’s
sardine packing of expected, tight...
he’s got life... not a reminder of a cloned bricklayer
for a bricklayer just to suggested a bowtie of an accent:
i will not make england my home just because i can speak it...
i’ll speak english so well i’ll make the english feel
like lower class... if not migrants;
and i did... some boy from cyprus thought i was posh
enough to practice conservatism at a private school teaching
that mathematics using a, b c, d, semi-colon... ah... grammar;
unless of course it was all rather unnecessary,
then i abide by the law of knock down ginger...
and walking beneath the a12’s batty man’s legs sign for gills.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
I find solace in my solitude.
I tend to idealise my isolation.
Reaching the apex of my creative altitude.
I guess it's time for my medication...
The only truth I can ever know
is that of the thoughts within my mind.
And yet, it is my only true foe,
one I can never leave behind...
They say beauty comes from within.
If so, then where do anger, remorse and resentment reside?
Because I'm struggling to hear over the din;
it seems as though my beauty has no place to hide.
Is there enough space for all this emotion?
If I have a choice, I choose only one:
to get rid of all this commotion,
I have done what has had to be done.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Maybe I saw it wrong.
Maybe it was a mistake.
But our time dies when you said hello, you said.
Basis is complex, it is,
But valid all the same.
For when we fought against narrative,
Which... it never went further.
A simple convention that
Has made me worry so.
You truly understand,
No, you never will.
This is how we are:
Soulless saints.
Awkward for others
Whilst we are oblivious to their chains,
And now it has ended,
Of course, with a hello.
For once we responded as
Expected, all that time ago,
We ended our connection
By smothering it in light.
I tend to think too much,
So rather ignore my statements
And idealise me as you wish,
For it will never be
The same; not that it
Ever truly was.
I hope I had an effect
And maybe every time
You come across a
Misunderstanding
You will remember me.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:28 PM UTC
To Idealise is Sin!
For one ignores truth,
instead holding with sentiment a specific image within.
Without flaw and without compromise,
a picture unattainable.
Perfection in beauty and in mind.
Ultimately bearing no ties
to what truly exists.
His object of desire is like a flake of snow;
each entanglement of the fibers of ice hold
patterns only visible under rigorous scrutiny.
Yet the closer one gets,
near to contact, it begins to hit ya
like a brick to the chest;
it bears no resemblance
uglier than expected is the picture.
Broken in agony one becomes;
stock still stared.
Knocked like a left hook to the chin.
A fallen soul unwilling to be spared.
Isolated he roams.
In anguish he brims, as a result
He becomes the metal man with nothing but a heart of tin.
For this reason and this reason alone...
To Idealise is Sin!
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
there's no point liking your own
poetry, esp. if you html is infested
with modifications after you publish
something: writing isn't exactly
drink-driving... and when that happens
you start to hate what you write,
and oddly enough, it makes you "motivated"
to write some more, because you're never
satisfied... and being satisfied with your
work will never give you permission to
create more, notice the narcissists in the craft:
five poems later... nothing to add, self-love
takes over the necessary self-loathing,
self-love from over-editing prior
something being read by someone else,
self-loathing and the embarrassment
of having to edit while you, yourself, notice
the mistakes (in this case some weird
futurism of an a.i. in the html encoding,
got to get me a screen shot of the before and after),
added to that... i write of a personal life,
and as it turns out... my life has become more
personal than i would have thought,
i guess writing from the gut of experience
adding a few fictive colours to make creases
in books will make your life a life of a robinson crusoe:
adding to the fact that you never idealise,
whether experienced or not experienced -
idealising is peppered with only thinking about it.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
You always mention Sylvia Plath.
I think you want to be like her,
But your poetry’s just not up to scratch.
You idealise her suicide
Her torment becomes your own.
Relish in the thought
That in death you will achieve some kind of success.
Yet in death you will still be alone.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
One plus one equal to two.
I early knew how to do.
But why did you dossed at dorm?
which caused my sudden brain storm.
O foolish brain that wither and gain like decidious tree.
You allowed my final answer to be three
and the customer to peep and peep into my eyes.
A devil he may idealise.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
A woman is like a summer's day.
No. A woman is like snow.
No.
A woman is like a woman.
She is not an object standing in the way.
She is not a thing
Placed on this Earth for men
To worship or disrespect
Or idealise or infantise
Or use to project fantasies
Or disappointments.
A woman is simply a woman,
But, when you meet the right one
And you tend to get things
Poetically-done,
Then you often feel the desperate urge
To write down how she makes you feel
And shout about her to the world
And compare her to everything.
Except other women.
They don't like that.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
Hit me with the knives you sharpened with your rage,
Hit me with the words you wished you released out of the cage,
Hit me with the floods coming out of your eyes, the undesirable wreckage,
Hit me with the revenage you composed, to stay for your soul, a heritage,
Hit me with the dreams you wrote on that vintage page,
Hit me with the memories you drowned down the rivage.
Hit me with the passion I made you fantasize,
Hit me with the pain you can't verbalize,
Hit me with the struggle I gave as an advice,
Hit me with the sorrows that won't let you rise,
Hit me with the filth unleashed of my vice,
Hit me with the agony I'd enjoy to poetise,
Hit me with the sadness you should idolise,
Hit me with the deception that I got to, on you, idealise.
Hit me with the thoughts you ignited in your head,
Hit me with the lies I loved you with instead,
Hit me with the cries that to your end, have led.
Hit me with the words I never dared to let being said.
Hit me with the regret that you'll never get,
Hit me with the anger, you, because of me, have met.
Hit me with the ages of misery, I've for you set.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 3:41 AM UTC
Memories aren't what they used to be.
A sunny spin on what happened to me
Hid the truth of pain
From which there was no gain
Other than the mastery of denial
That kept me going for a while
Until delayed maturity helped me realise
That we all work so hard to idealise
Those excitingly messy parts of life
That cut a thousand painless cuts.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC