"idealising" poems
*children the happy idiots, secondary children doubly idiotic thinking of love idealising via Darwinism, must be a toast... well surrender you and i, i'd too be ably nimble, but i got Mandela on my back quacking: you?! what the **** yeah, they said till the field and laugh and pretend. brain dead you ***** BRAIN... DEAD! they didn't hear you, they're english, try Celtic.. Brie anomaly of Normandy... nothing... what about egyptian? sha shoo shisha collar coo coo? hey... that works, lets give the flapping owl a cuneiform signature worth a sunset!*
love it,
slightly drunk,
got a bottle of whiskey ready,
cried listening to a horror film
soundtrack, got over 200 reads on a poem
of mine,
got hooked on a pope song
from the early millennials,
when i was a teen hammering leftover
refrigerators on the sly with a tourist
as a party was taking place,
and the un-lived the happily ever after
with the suicide of the Grimm brothers
for subsequent pressures that demanded
attentive dissatisfaction marginalised
into concrete paragraphs sentenced for a grade
for a furthering from schooled to schooling.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC
Lost in translation
It’s a messed up situation
Looking for each other in the night
Knowing that being apart is a constant fight
She is hoping that things will get soon bright
but in their case for sure it won’t be tonight.
How long are they going to keep up this game?
Does he still know her real name?
Aren’t they idealising each other?
and forgetting about what bothers them in one another.
She has second thoughts about it
Her heart needs a first-aid-kit
First time she allowed herself to feel
but now she starts regretting this deal
Are they supposed to move on?
Forget about what has been done
or continue this unreal trip
and live happily like in a movie clip…
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC
I wish I could ariculate,
but it has all been written before.
And yet here I am still dreaming of the ineffable, the inexplicable, the as yet udetermined.
Oh to be a cliche,
idealising times of the past
while th present grows bleaker.
Things lack beauty.
The beauy I find in books and films, are lies when it comes to my reality.
And the arduous task of going on feels like a puzzle impossible to solve but one I cannot leave alone.
Things lack beauty,
for me.
Life lacks the luster I have been shown previously existed,
and by romantising the previous, I only pull myself furthe away from the beauty I know must be here.
It must.
Must't it?
However the rare specks of it I find are the ones in her eyes.
And they parade themselves infront of me, knowingly.
But such things have been written before and will be wrote again.
And yet still I wish to articulate.
Oh to be a cliche.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
I can never respect people who take decisions for others,
Omni present child wearing adolecence .
People must never assume they have all the answers
When you play the role of the actors
Idealising philosophies and mystic factors
You judge, aware of your sorrow bearers
And with each sin, a silent look, and a feather
Torn apart to make it clearer
That he whom survives is repressed
While the new trend is depressed
Yet somehow i still picture you in your white dress,
Realigned.
And the voice i talk to you with
Is mine,
but you are not me
So how can i define
The slips and fissures of your subconcsious mind
And thirst to be free.
To each his field and angles
And if hell is heaven
i am still the devil
Words Of Harfouchism
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
girls never write stories
with boys with green eyes,
they're always blue,
and Columbian-next-to-Spanish
dark haired for a feminine mystique,
never green-eyed, always blue...
never blonde, always a brunette....
while i get gritty thinking of a
white scot (compare with a white russian),
when i worked the night club getting
abused by a homosexual, cleaning the toilets,
so i could buy a mandolin and play
under your window rod steward's maggie may's
mandolin piece... which i did....
but with a **** worth more than a million
wages you barricaded against me,
and sold it to the next eager punter / ***** hair nibbler.
i was so distraught i eventually went into a music
shop, asked for a 2nd pricing of the mandolin (£5),
bought a £600 guitar straight with direct debit...
left the mandolin on the counter, never
taking any money for it... like i didn't for idealising
a love for you.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 7:55 PM 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
We unwittingly became intertwined
Believing that our hearts could be pleasantly aligned
Although truthfully our souls were greatly confined
Stop your crying my love, it’s a sign of the times
Here we were doing that chaotic dance of so called romance
Were we masking the fact that we weren’t intact
Could it be that self love is what both of us lacked
Idealising a fantasy of what could be
Did we get caught up, ignoring the underlying misery
We can never be since it’s unrequited, you see
We must first help ourselves before we can love anyone else
And so we’ve become unwarrantedly intertwined
Only to unravel everything bound so closely together
Until all that’s left is a fragile memory that can only be treasured
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 5:03 AM UTC
It is easier to focus on the past.
It's a lived experience, and the future makes us apprehensive;
And we live and have shared experiences,
And experience people in a new way every day.
But, often, we focus on perfection.
Things have to be perfect;
And, yet, often, we remind ourselves there is no such thing as perfect.
But, perhaps, there is.
Perhaps we are all perfect, but
We are imperfect when we meet another's perfect.
We begin to project our own selves, unfairly, unto the other person.
We call it flaws; she is flawed for not meeting my perfect.
And that is not fair.
We are but strangers, after all.
The great adventure would be to acknowledge another's individuality.
To explore them, wholly, without idealising our ideas of perfect on them.
There is fond joy in being wholly accepted for the person you are,
Instead of what people wish for you to be.
To be understood for your unique individualism,
Instead of being critiqued for your eccentric nature.
I am, but imperfect and flawed when not wholly accepted for being me.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
as idolising and idealising love once
said: https://goo.gl/Szn4a0,
so unto rearing children
we bid our hopes of
the forbidden idolatry, such a farewell;
for indeed a woman trivialises
ransoms of violence against the one;
while man does not trivialise
such ransoms, a bull sack of the numerous
to be impregnated clone insignia...
his violence is against the many;
always for the glory of war with man,
always for the glory of individuation with woman.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC