"identifiable" poems
she smells (nameless and shameless)
*a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters
the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:
she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,*
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
This wasn't the first time
But it will be the last time
I create an identifiable pain
To numb the persisting wounds,
That I let my hollow stomach
Swallow all of my sorrows,
That I go to bed hungry
Struggle to wake up again,
Just to Pace around my kitchen
Afraid to open the refrigerator,
I promise this is the last time,
It's always the last time,
Please let this be the last time..
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Difference involves a discernable set of identifiable concepts, where soft cheese can be wrapped in cosmetic triangulations.
I know that electricity is a paradoxical commodity, where black diamonds resonate with something which is dissimilar to the larger expectations of society.
Like I said: miscellaneous conceptions of mature virility are evident to three-sided arguments. Aren’t they? There are three sides to every savoury story.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue
When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.
I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.
Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.
they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.
I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.
I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.
They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.
Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You
So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?
—V.H.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
lately //
i’ve been making a noose of my own heartstrings //
but my father is a fisherman who taught me that the best knots don’t slip //
so i carry a bowline in my pocket for security and a tangled mess of forevers on my sleeve.
But I’ve also been tying anchor bends since i realized my grip was not equal to atlas’ shoulders.
And what a cruel paradox that is //
to think that a god can carry the earth beneath our feet but our hands // molded from clay and mud in the same image //could never be enough of a last resort to anchor our hearts in our chests.
so the loophole here,
so to speak,
is the anchor bend knot //
but! //
you know what’s funny about loopholes actually?? // you see, they were made to allow arrows to be shot from an opening // but the structure of that opening prevents counter arrows from being shot back in.
such an invention is why it’s always been nearly impossible to storm a castle’s wall and my, // have many a noble men fallen at the feet of such entrances.
so nowadays, i carry my trusty bowline //alongside the endless loopholes of those old-fashioned anchor bends.
however, I’m sure you know that the bowline is regarded as “the knot of all knots” right? it’s good for tying just about anything without give.
but the first time i ever went sailing // i learned about the round turn and two half hitches. this knot is pretty cool because the more tension you apply to the rope, the tighter the knot will get //
highly reliable for most things.
i guess the irony here is that // i am personally, most identifiable with this knot.
i don’t really ever use it. i am not a sailor or a fishermen. but i do have a really bad tendency of fastening myself to things that have a lot of pull.
the tightening tension of it
is similar to the mythical 13 knots in a hangman’s noose and what an incredibly genius stroke of engineering.
to think that the masterful art of knot-tying comes down to the basic idea that a knot will hold under tension is simply and utterly graceful without fault.
but here’s the thing;
as soon as i learned to tie a knot that won’t slip,
i taught myself the hangman’s knot:
a knot that essentially slips, but still holds merciless tension around its victim.
i’ve been tying nooses with what causes me the most pain.
with what bleeds the most love //
but as the one and only descendant of my father, the great fisher king,
i am starting to learn that if the knot slips,
you cut the line and start again.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
never knew it,
never was I self-percepted,
that anything exceptional,
lay within, neither obvious
or dormant, was just an ordinary
if not, extra-ordinary pained
child by peers and my surrounders
and my own words yet today,
do not confer any distinction
when yours irradiate me into
a stunned and silenced reverie,
a reminder, a minder, that talent
recognizes no laws of equilibrium,
equality, and certainty not, equity
so I read with shocked, shocked, I tell you,
bemusement but comprehensive perception
when the young and extra~special confide,
their own misperceptions, overwhelmed by
the anxiety
of the billions of sky stars, and letters in their
twinkling orbs when forming identifiable comets with tagalong
dust trails^ of the debris of words that are formed by
their travels and travails on orbits
not necessarily predetermined
by gravitational adult pulleys, a gravity upon
their projected, sometimes directed,
sometimes not,
trajectory
*"and yet, though an orbit is a type of trajectory,
not all trajectories are orbits"*
nor are
*"some comets, particularly
those from outside our solar system,
that move so fast that the Sun's gravity
is not strong enough to capture them
into a closed orbit*
*These comets follow an open, curved path
through the solar system and then
continue on into interstellar space,
never to be seen again*"
so be advised,
as you reassemble the debris from the multi~universe,
when assembling your owned,
unique~verse,
create your tail
and trail,
the futurity
of you is to be both
silent and loud,
absorbing and disgorging,
to awed and to be humbled,
by all that and those who went before,
all once younger and talented,
and knew this self-same anxiety,
but never let the fearing of their
the mystery of plotting of their
path
deter them
from exploring the skies and deep mines of the
sea trenches where undiscovered mysteries
abide
<nml>
4:59am
in the city where one can never see the
light of the stars,
particularly
by their owners
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 7:25 AM UTC
they're nothing but glorified bus drivers, said my father after i told him i wanted to become a pilot.
the opposite of love is not hate, but contempt.
what causes the kodachrome to fade little by little to grey? is it really bred of familiarity. the wear of gradually learning the truth about somebody. the minutiae of the everyday sanding away at the idealised, sculpural dream.
or is it triggered rather by the dull shock of an identifiable disappointment; the inevitable transformation towards sallow disgust justified by the devastation of slap-to-the-face betrayal or loss.
must we fulfill the dream simply to learn that it was only ever empty?
my father, a devoutly unspiritual pragmatist, had nevertheless as a young man fallen in love with the expansive embrace of the blue above. the son, grandson, and great-grandson of farmers, he worked his hands down to shredded red sores to put himself though flying school only to have his application for a commercial licence rejected due to a doctor's confounding eleventh hour diagnosis. colour blindness. an all-or-nothing man, my father never once returned to the enthralling blues, yellows and pinks offered up by the cockpit, and from that point forward became a farmer.
i gave up on the thought of becoming a pilot, and later, (much later), developed a fear of flying.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
I counted the ambulances as they glided swiftly by
screeching painful pitches at the cars who were now anxiously parting the pavement sea for the savior's convience or just because they have people that they love & the possibility of a home hitting tragedy shocks their entire bodies.
I sat all pensive and overwhelmed once I got to number ten, recalling all of the times the bad news was delivered nervously to me by a man in a truck lugging red sirens just like the ones flashing before me. That desperate ring, too identifiable to us all creates an eerie silence like a funeral song. Not because of the way it cuts the airwaves but because of the memories it instantly plays back to us.
We all know why an ambulance comes & none of us want to be the one curled up in bed a week from today, crying at the light as it pours through the shutters, sick from a void that aches with every move.
Everyone is reaching for their cellphone.
"Please I need to hear your voice. Tell me
you're okay" & then you see the panicked
lady in the lane beside you who
was directed to voicemail.
I'm so sorry
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
sarcastic humour is intended for your
own appreciation,
witty humour is intended for others
and the hope they can appreciate it,
oddly enough when sarcasm is scolded
you feel very little concern,
but when wit is scolded you do feel
a coldness and a sort need to invent something
more passing off as intelligence,
intelligence needs to be impulsive, blunt,
intuitive, it really doesn't need to be pre-prepared
worthy of a Shakespeare quote, all those
bits of 'life's a stage,' fair enough, but
what if life is a gutter?
sarcasm only works for the one who speaks it,
it's also a cousin of satire addressing politics,
wit knows no satire, wit is a proud humour,
it's too proud to enter sarcastic remarks
in the pig trough of reciting political satire,
wit is a form of narcissism in the end,
it wants attention, being appreciated:
like an anecdote... sarcasm just shoves a boxing glove
in your face and says: can you help me forget,
or do you want to hear a knock-out?
indeed sarcasm doesn't use punchlines like wit,
it just uses a mike tyson method
of one punch one constellation of fluttering sparrows
in Orion in a halo of daze of an opponent:
flat like a pancake on the floor,
but he or she won't be easily flipped or even
count to 10, you'll only have to be content with
what sarcasm is: the easiest identifiable method of
communicating comedy after slapstick humour
of laurel & hardy & (lee) evans.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
.while some people hijack planes and fly them into the anti-thesis of the Jenga game, others hijack things more... metaphysical... like language... oh... over 20 years in England... there was that French girl, the Australian girl, the Spanish girl, the Bulgarian, the African lass, the Russian... and count my stars lucky.... no English girl.
in terms of how much **** is
a racial slur...
is it the syllable count?
should i ask an Afghan?
**** pure laziness...
so not the prefix...
how about the suffix,
i.e. -stani? Stanley...
auburn Stanley...
never mind,
apparently nothing short of
a sense of humor outside
being on the receiving end
of: identifiable vermin...
oh, right...
identity politics...
i'm a mongrel,
a hybrid...
really...
i don't exactly know what this
tongue is doing in
this body...
inorganic English...
acquired -
psyche mongrel...
to your suspicion of half caste;
because i was going to
feel obliged to feel subordinate
to a former colonial
subject on the basis
that... what?
what, exactly?
RAF RAF RAF...
last time i checked.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
So many guideposts,
Unseen.
Unrecognized.
Like faces on a bus, kinda blended into a background,
Where being a face-in-the-crowd,
Was a good thing,
Anonymous really,
Just someone else,
Not me.
Me, being an identity,
A separate and identifiable entity,
I cannot blend in,
I am known.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 4:36 AM UTC
If death did not wear black would he be taken so seriously?
If one literally wore one's heart on one's sleeve what would be the medical implications and would your friends still take you seriously?
If it is true that 'the beat goes on', is it any wonder that 'the rhythm is gonna get ya'?
When Dana sang 'All kinds of everything remind me of you', did she include rubella and death metal in this?
If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one to hear it fall does it make a sound? If a man plays cello in a forest do the trees mark him out of ten?
If the simulacra is real then surely all one needs to do is to pay more attention? If one pays more attention, how much should one tip?
Descartes stated "I think therefore I am". What on earth was he thinking?
Mans awareness of his mortality created the need for a divine being in order to facilitate the concept that there is life after death. No one can say definitively if there is life after death. Does this paradox create a dizzying confusion? Is this confusion a lot like spending too much money in a carnival?
Britain's Got Talent: in a population of approximately 60 million, one would certainly hope so.
Is the concept of the omnipotence of god applicable if priests are unavailable for confession?
Is this a question?
Is the presence of a question mark the only thing required to ensure that something is a question? Seven cherubs aluminium? Is that a question!
The concept of 'keeping ones feet on the ground', by which we mean to not get carried away with success, for example, can never be difficult if one accepts the laws of gravity.
What sounds lie in the spaces between keys on a piano?
Any identifiable stimuli?
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 6:01 AM UTC
a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-on tasting for the summer coming,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt of the basement
the burnt crumbs of illegal brioche toast
hidden on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed,
is yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things is just a fragrance too far
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
make a vice presidential declaration:
she smells, I manually stink, each, glower shower, nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass,
exhume and send away this odor now christened,
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 11:51 AM UTC
In her dark, crinkly map of life,
drawn from shady experiences
she courted in her forgettable past,
hope was an island fully obliterated,
not even a dot was left as a mark
nothing identifiable was there, just water.
Perplexed she stood, not knowing
how to reclaim any of it, even if it's in depth.
Then came the mysterious redeemer,
uncaring about his fate;
innocence was writ large on his face,
she roped him in to helping her.
He dived deep in to her deluged past,
dredged enough, from under,
gave her hope a shape and size,
to make an island, that would give her life.
The beauty he created for her sake was unbelievable,
no monument of love would have looked so resplendent!
That's where she brought her new lover over,
a character as shady and vicious as her,
her somersault was indeed spectacular
none had witnessed such a heartless trick, till then!
She forgot the past, the deluge that engulfed her hopes,
the mysterious redeemer and all that.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
How can a moment so calm become this chaotic.
I never thought our downfall would be narcotics.
Why is this surprising, after so many years?
My hero has been disappeared.
Why does she need that pill?
We all suffer the pain she's trying to ****
This house is tainted, anger's easily riled.
She got what she wanted, I never got be a child.
Any identifiable traits of humanity are gone.
To pain pills I am now a pawn.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
The multitude is flowing ahead
Teeming with dreams and hope
Crammed, with little place to move
There is dearth of space in the mind
Physically, we are reaching fatigue
What do we have for choice?
The power to choose is taken away
Our choices influenced by publicity
Duplicating a parallel world of feel good
Yet, deep down we are queasy
Something is not right, not identifiable
Blinded by the dazzles of show- biz
As if, all the actors are being directed
Chosen to play a role, not ours to choose
Memorizing written scripts, to deliver
Speeches which are not ours, we feel
Our dreams invaded, and manipulated
Our originality, suppressed in the makeup
Masquerading, our inner thoughts and ideas
Repeating the same role everyday
Delivering the scripted dialogues
Keeping in mind that we are here for audience
Our originality and individuality torn apart
Our original script has gone down the shredder
Who has the energy to pick up the pieces?
To join, the strewn dreams and live in a new way
We are just a created avatar, directed, indirectly
Of what we love, wear, eat, and live our life
Swept away by the waves of multitude
Individuality is relegated to the dark confines
Where can we start searching, our real counterpart?
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
To raise a seagull would be no small task – do you know why?
Because both you and I are not seagulls.
If an individual is perceived to be revolting, then the question arises as to whether non-conformity or debasement are the identifiable issue.
Like those cheapened activities which are secretly laid bare within the hotel hallways of Sin City, my immeasurable and baron liaisons have also been revolted by scorpion-like stings, as the wind promotes her seductive and tantalising thoughts through the brushwood of Autumnal celebrations around the vicinity of Nevada.
It is important to understand that the fullness of sound involves the synchronicity of isolated connectedness, and that we validate both the message and the messenger.
Balancing acceptance and change is horribly attractive.
Do you know why, my reciprocal affiliation of that which is considered to be humanity?
For that which is conceived, formed and reproduced within the solar system of Nirvana is not so readily articulated within the parameters of epistemology.
Aren’t ornithology and psychology both flighty?
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
~ following “A Simple Poem”~ (1)
But of course, we reference revelations,
for our brief self-description are guises,
meant to hide, meant to impress, reveal
little, enhance our mystery, preserve our
secrecy. expose and hide simultaneously
within our mid-of-night aura mystiques
Safe behind the curtain, we wizards speak
in voices and tongues, giving up our innermost everything in verse, write of our blessings and our curses, holding little back while we give ourselves away, hint by hinting, writ by writing, a series of
+++++++’s
I choose, I chose, to dress my chess pieces
in a clear varnish, **** the consequences,
sail towards the torpedoes, heading direct
to meet your eyes, giving up my forest
tree by tree, poem by poem, a leaf and
a branch, only tinkering and fussing like a new parent over each new virtual birthing,
and then once tidied,
once spent,
my secrets unconcealed,
we wonder quick if each
puzzle when connected
to its predecessor is
understood
as a tiny pointilisme dot,
a speck
and that you are wise enough to
comprehend how each speck,
lives only unique in its
conjunction,
only tandem-with both the one
nearest and the ones dabbed a decade
long ago, and when you connect
my dots, I stand before you completely
a full and a naked folio,
one book of a single reveal,
the sum of my totality,
an addition of many integers,
summing up to 1
So,
should we pass by each other,
our eyes will pierce, each wrinkle,
solving the equation of who we are…
a single human, readily identifiable,
total recognition, via the reconnaissance
of our letterered footsteps
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 11:12 AM UTC
Knees scraped along bark as the lion tree
****** me into its embrace.
My mother hated that I climbed trees.
My mother hated that I climbed trees
with the neighborhood boys.
The sun stirred in the sky,
clouds melted apart,
and there was fishing
there was biking
there was climbing—and lots of it
there was fighting
and, of course, too much pretending.
The sun followed me,
spinning in time,
hands covering its marked face.
Puberty came
and with it my curls—my genetically re-enforced femininity.
Goodbye, hats!
Hello, headbands.
No longer looking but looked at,
baptized in my own hormones,
I stand on the roots of the trees
that no longer **** me in.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
I didn't know a moment so calm could become this chaotic.
I never thought our downfall would be narcotics.
How can I be surprised, after so many years?
My hero has long disappeared.
Why does my mom need that pill?
We all suffer the pain she's trying to ****
We are all tainted, our anger too easily riled.
She got what she wanted, I never even got be a child.
Any identifiable traits of humanity are gone.
To pain pills I am now a pawn.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
There are things stuck on my mind.
Incomprehensible glueing, which
befog beleaguered fitting-in.
Becoming a mishmash, realization
bugs me. What to do with the cutouts?
Pictures of life instances that can't
be reconciled, just carried on and on,
blister and bubble within. No smooth
surfaces that cleanly represent
anything wholly identifiable are
depicted on bruised brain cells. Pity
it is. Pity I have become. Pity the
nitty gritty magazine photos slapped
together, an ugly collage called,
"Mercy Never Saw Fit."
It is an ugly art form, cutting up memories.
**** ****** survival, these themes
are hardly ever pretty. Art therapy
***** I'd rather paint a canvas black.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
Incongruous
The day between Abe’s birthday and Valentine’s Day the day that love is celebrated how apropos for
This piece to call on the better angels of our nature to reach out to others and with wonder touch their
Lives in those dry desert like places I guess this piece comes from a mother’s words when with perfect
Sensitivity she said I notice how my child droops at the simple fact when mail is passed out and he is left
Out nature is itself called Mother Nature and in her possession are so many blessings that flow into
Our lives blue skies white clouds streams of water yes they have a primary purpose but emotionally they
Are given to enhance our moods of a truth life has stretches of the mundane common places how
Quietly and refreshing are those slow places when we are over taxed as friends we are the delivery
Systems for sure blessings but at times we need to adjust our thinking take a moment and survey what
Is really going on that can mean taking a second look it is surprising what can be missed we can be the
Freeing agent in a situation with nothing but a hand on the shoulder or a smile can revert troubles that
Are overflowing another’s life all it takes is sensitivity and caring life is a battle and it doesn’t always
Come with a battle plan its open ended aspect is the perfect opportunity for you through the power
Of friendship how many evils large and small have met defeat under this glorious banner that was
Created by mercy and its attentive nature to watch and protect our loved ones all it takes is the willing
Hearts of true friends this is just a note to say that you can be the magnificent rose just above the thorn
And by your expression of beauty and careful thought the thorn is dimensioned as it is in nature the rose
is what matters but it has its quality and life just beyond pains identifiable thorn
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
Frequencies are tough. Frequencies are managed. Two frequencies combine surfaces not existing in one another. Unless strips of different wavelengths are pushing each frequency to each others enlightenment. Nothing judges. Except one binding these apparitions together. A form becoming static too mutual for any compromise. Frequencies become laced with purposes. Easily definable. Never perfect enough for change. Only enough for simple practices. Practices reminding two frequencies of compromise. Compromises aren’t welcome, if one’s purpose is easily definable. If so, then why ask? It’s already staring you right in the face. Proceed with balance! Strips of wavelengths letting frequencies off chains made of static. Finally! One rippling a new focus. Releasing their time and service to entities holding them back. Purpose lays waiting, for all to see. Two frequencies happily definable now. Without change, static doesn’t occupy their purpose. Sparking a judgeable wavelength. Letting you off with a warning. A warning filled with benefits to a newer frequency. One that doesn’t hold frequencies by chains of static. Chains stripping connections between outer wholes. Sparks flying around its properties. Molding your own frequency together. Molding static between ripples of its own actions. Actions feeling the ripples of energy contracting with concern. Movements seeping into another part of itself that wasn’t identifiable. Becoming what wasn’t apart of its own identity. Surging pressure of rippling actions not belonging to itself. Stinging the outer symmetry of ripples. Frequency becoming thoughtless. Submerging into a shocked exterior. Feeling stressed without foreboding it’s purpose. Rippling the caregiver away from its own appreciation. Apparitions flowing misinterpretations. Faltered to a halt! Filling volumes of enlightenment too closed off when trying to supply purpose. Energy is a purpose. Rippling all around each spark to pledge. Pledge what? Pledging a way out! How will it turn out for these rippling fabrics of stationary purposes? Only two halves to a greater wavelength tapping into its own energy supplier.
Oct 6, 2019
Oct 6, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC