"idling" poems
We've become a
civilization of diseases
we build
monuments
statues
institutions
thinking death won't ever find
us here.
Our minds are scrambled
our bodies are damaged
our food is poisoned
our skies are toxic
our vices
are forces of processes
beyond our
control.
When we are not humbled
by nature's power
we inflict our wounds
upon ourselves in
the names of greed
and self protection
and no one knows
what it really means.
Fearful of the silence
we fill our skies with
endless noise
babbling on in endless
monotones, droning
while traffic stalls
at a hot stand still
idling engines
idling souls
depletion of every last glimpse
of the past.
Jam packed
in the stench
I am lost today
in
this vitriol
as anxiety, death and desperation
from every corner
screams my name.
That's why I came
to these woods
where the illusion of
peace remains
as
wild fires burn
just down the lane
as you know
as you say
its always been this way
when bodies hung
at every cross-roads
hunger, power, ignorance
and strength
all ran
the show.
I'm sick with
every disease I
know.
I float upon these tranquil
blue waters
and
we are reminded of the peace we all
really can know.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Breathe in Breathe out.
When you are sure;
Or when you're in doubt.
Breathe in Breathe out.
When you are calm;
Or when you freak out.
Breathe in Breathe out.
When you are alone;
Or when you hangout.
Breathe in Breathe out.
When you are idling;
Or when you workout.
Breathe in Breathe out.
When you stay silent;
Or when you shout.
Breathe in Breathe out.
While walking in daylight;
Or while sleeping at night.
Breathe in Breathe out.
But beware, each breath;
Brings you closer to death.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
Blending with the wind,
Snow falls;
Blending with the snow,
The wind blows.
By the hearth
I stretch out my legs,
Idling my time away
Confined in this hut.
Counting the days,
I find that February, too,
Has come and gone
Like a dream.
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∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Promenade of Colors
reality ought to fade
watermarks on evening lake
the Lad idling was awake
Torments of Agony
the fear of ambiguity
a broidery of epitaph
toiling the stars up the top
Free of Delusions
impassive feelings strut
to the unknown that fogs
and hems over the mutt
Dashes of Silver
passing vessels of desolate
coxswain sighting out for love
moon bobs from the lake
Willows of Empathy
humming of Mississippi
-a friend that greets
the lake gave its peace
Signs of Eve
the breeze whispered
a wisp of eyes uncluttered
the Lad unshackled
Artistry of Sky
as spirits begins to fly
I was full astound
my purpose, now I found
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
it's all occupied with dark fumes of flatulence
the bus hanger
it's teething and earning a low ceilinged thrive
regularly cleaned the roof portal
with a large drooping eye
brags of blue sky
the coaches are idling
fretful to be burdened and go
elsewhere
the public urinals
there's a strong smell of iron
are the morning users dehydrated
malnourished or ill ?
i feel a little flated
elsewhere
in the waiting area
a neatly turned out teen
wants to give their seat to the infirm
does not and hurts inside averting
(a public act of courtesy
would after all be an embarrassing one)
attention back to the importance
my friend has ungreeted me
i have wished him ease
and he has passed between the cordons
amongst amiable cattle
he pauses at the authorities verification
who in turn
tails them to load up their luggage
and become their driver
- goodbye my friend
Feb 7, 2024
Feb 7, 2024 at 5:57 PM UTC
**We’re Gonna Need Some Sunglasses For This Mushroom Cloud
Gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
it’s 6AM I’m in LA it’s been a long night for sure,
just gotta get into that cafe get that cappuccino,
then get safely unnoticed and back to the idling car,
Jar,
of Flies,
sorry I’m not sorry,
that’s a bad reference to 1995,
bad because Jar of Flies was a different year,
different year different name,
’95 was self-titled,
‘Alice In Chains’,
remind me again,
what the heck we’re talking about,
this poem has no parameters,
it’s off course but still going along,
gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
like my glasses like I like my roast,
with my Valentino’s and dark cappuccino,
and you with your mimosa my dear Yoda let us toast,
“To the Next Episode!” let’s go,
No Dre though it’s more of a Good Day,
not to be rude to Ice Cube but I got ice cubes in my flute,
in perpetual motion from chronic transitions of change,
and when I say Change I’m not talking about Rock The Vote,
because we all see where voting got us,
now we got ‘ Donald Duck Mr. Talk A lot of Nonsense’,
we got that stone cold soviet ****** Kim Jong-un launching stunner missiles like Steve Austin,
dropping finishing moves ’Cold Stunning’ but instead of a drop kick he’s bomb launching,
we can’t even stop him as in Kim Jong-un with bad movies and meetings with Dennis Rodman,
Oh My God Son!
We’re really gonna need some sunglasses for this one,
have you ever seen the magnificence of an Atom Bomb,
a mushroom clouds of the most beautiful hues,
a moment of infinite Light just before the moment we’re all eternally gone…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆**
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
to a friend
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
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There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.
Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.
Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.
If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot.
Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.
Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
Parachutes billowing,
floating
above the abyss
though we all once knew.
Parachutes colliding,
landing
upon the barren land
that man once had.
They came by the millions
drifting from heaven.
Their reason for being...
a mystery to all.
Parachutes flaunting,
opening
to reveal themselves
so that man might learn.
Parachutes lifeless,
wafting
through cloud speckled skies
when man was glad.
They came by the thousands
dropping from heaven.
Their reason for being
could not be explained.
Parachutes lingering,
meandering
toward their spacklespace
of the damaged sphere...
Parachutes multicolored,
sized and shaped
caught in the crosswinds
and turbulence of man.
They came by the hundreds
crashing from heaven.
Their reason for being
was not understood.
Parachutes traveling,
transporting
the essence of life
for all to perceive.
Parachutes tangled,
snared and collapsed
by pettiness and greed
of those who wanted more.
They came by the dozens,
groping from heaven.
Their reason for being
was a little too late.
Parachutes hanging,
lifeless
not realizing their fate
but expecting the best.
Parachutes sputtering,
idling over the masses..
too blind to see...
too ignorant to know...
They came by the millions
but now there are none.
their reason for being
will never be known-
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 3:36 AM UTC
30 days in. Now, after, out to the market theatre.
People idling, few wondering who pulls the strings
few investigate who paints the streets
who constructs the buildings
it is a show if you slow your vision you will know
You go to a shop, you pick, you pay and go your way
Calculated activity
Prolonged elasticity
And money extends and circulates the sensitivity
the physical defying relativity
Schedules and plans, maps and structures of time
a defined life as I write
You go to church
the congregation settles, the pastor preaches
the congregation responds, "halleluyah" "amen"
songs are sung
tithes paid and progress of church displayed
soon the bell rings and away to our cottages
Cook sunday lunch and a day blessed by God
and sunday after sunday after sunday
You go to school
there's a teacher and students in the classroom
the teacher teaches, questions are asked and notes are taken
Again and again the routine iterates
until tests and assignment dates
how hypnotic this academic tale
promising a better future, a positive fate
And a mall is a town in a cubicle
a church is a social uprising theatrical
a school is a place of worship for the tamable
...and the World a jungle for those who oppose
a haven for the ignorant, a pacific abyss for the survivors of evil. All in all a theatrical play which is a story telling itself in rewind...
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
the weekend has just got underway
there will be a cessation of work for two days
one will partake of a little relaxation
and one will put one's feet up for the duration
how I like the weekends coming around
I can stay in bed sleeping most sound
the alarm clock not needing to be wound
it'll be deactivated as I snore on my pillow mound
I love Saturdays and Sundays
those wonderful restful days
I love chilling out and lazing about
of this fact there is no doubt
Friday afternoon is the best time of all
one can clock off from work and do very little at all
should the mood strike me this weekend
I might take the opportunity to ring an old friend
the word weekend
is one which makes me glad
it means that there's forty eight hours
of idling to be had
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
The woman I love is addictive , Her fragrance lingers in my mind and every now and then I wouldn't be able to get enough of her .
My love for her is like a drug, her smile is like medicinal marijuana .
While every breath of her puts my head into the clouds even picking me up on the lowest days,
I can come up to her smile and say hi.
I can count on her smile and stay high .
I can be a ******* addict on trance idling on the text in front of me wishing I can sniff up every line she gives to me.
The only thing I'm afraid of is going to rehab and in there I would learn to live my life without being hooked on to her.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC
Every misused glass of water,
Every slight at sons and daughters,
Every successful missile test,
Cars idling, cows lowing,
All the chemtrails we don't see blowing,
Every dent, every theft, every lie and mocking jest,
Can't be held tight to the chest.
Distended stomachs, cardboard boxes,
Soup kitchens and needy churches,
Gay slamming and alternate choices,
These and more need our voices.
Add the carbon in our air,
Two-headed frogs warning, Beware,
The paltry state of our bees,
The fires devouring our noble trees,
The motors on our inland lakes,
These and more will not wait.
All that crawls, swims or wings,
All of us and everything,
Is everything to all,
There's no time to hesitate,
For I am the aggregate.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
Brake-clutch-shift
Glance at the clock
It must be about... half-past-an *******
as I sit in traffic, idling, wondering
Glance at the clock
Could this be hell?
98 degrees, sure humid enough
and will this guy ever signal a turn
or find the gas pedal?!
No, of course not
His job in damnation is to torture
the sucker stuck behind--
--his cardiac appointment
his destiny at the grocery store
Half hour early
just to wait in line
to pick up prescriptions
to punch the clock at The Pearly Gates
He's out and about in his Ford Taurus
ridin' the brakes
touring the streets in sunglasses with blinders
“No Effn' blinker, Pops!?”
Twenty miles per hour
just inside the lines of
Turning me into the animal I am
in the depths
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:
“You see that man?”—I might have looked, and said,
“O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought
Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban’s Head.
So commonplace a youth calls not my thought.”
“You see that man?”—”Why yes; I told you; yes:
Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;
And as the evening light scants less and less
He looks up at a star, as many do.”
“You see that man?”—”Nay, leave me!” then I plead,
“I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,
And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:
I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!”
“Good. That man goes to Rome—to death, despair;
And no one notes him now but you and I:
A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,
And bend with reverence where his ashes lie.”
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This things are made for idling
transparent in their quotidian splendor:
A Buddha statue at the receptionist desk
golden skin, red robes
welcoming all yogis with its gaze
eyelids closed
The candle, a guardian of an aim
an intention that moves within a flame
over the palms of the wooden hands
Incense smoke dance softly around the entrance
like a dream seen from wakefulness
immersive enhancer of the humor
filling the place with soft calmness
Nag champa smell
and serious air
The bamboo doors
from Monday to Sunday
open the way to Indian sounds
and the voices of blooming teachers
guide the way
until shavasana
when practitioners become gently moving statues
and glowing air goes
breathing in and breathing out
daily efforts and daily hopes.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
One day I'll catch you
front and center
on the outskirts
of your city
riding along
a conveyer belt
you'll be dressed
quite insensibly
idling back and forth
along the past
happy in your
pathway hang-ups
and far too distracted
to notice we've become
skull and crossbones
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
distress men
distress women the children follow suit
rooted to their calculation
pick-pitted-
minds-eye-
bore-hole n' punction
functional ? they ponder the fault idling in their programs din
rescue them ?
their fearsome egos will gum you up
tup and rupture your goodwill
despair man
despair woman the children groping at their heels
sealed and merry mated to the manner spools that habit
rabbits and fools back into the boil
assess
make a meal
displace them ?
their otherworldly longings ?
wrong them welcome into your loving bloom
this is how its done
here's a catalogue
how big you've won
better gig than landing on the moon
distrust man
deface woman the children drink from the wound
battle become the saviour
behaviour shot against the mood
food to greet the newly batched cultural result
faulty
worthy of mention
the soiled spell
going to drown though the generations
recreation
just trust the serpent eye
and the lens of peddling assault holds everything to its station
for a jittering moment
for a breakable moment
a disgraced monument
bereft fidgeting in its place
Sep 23, 2022
Sep 23, 2022 at 9:49 AM UTC
We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.
It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.
Trace the dripping, pierced heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, Little worse.
Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.
Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.
1.9k
every monster finds it way to my paintbrush. and paints itself and its story.
monsters write themselves in blue ink, idling aphotic shadows, luring near floors, unable to view themselves as nothing more than weak mindless creatures who yearn to be seen as beautiful and not fearful creatures that hide in dark spaces. They want to be drawn and written about, painted and noted. They want to know if they have some place in the world that fears them.
the voices are faded distorted whispers, glitched between my thoughts and the floorboards
they will not let me sleep until they have their stories told.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
My happiness comes from me ask my friends and the world around me blossoming in a spark of crimsony red moon glow on forethought walks through the shivering lenses of percept that trickle down our backs as we enlighten ourselves with all that is in between and unseen.
It is as if our aged limbs were caressed into a symphony of leverages and their shapes. We cannot be cadavers. We are arms of cheer and picture jasper, adolescent googled-eyes gathers with virile fixations on our partners as we prey on the map lines subtly employing our eyes as we dart across each dimple, pimple, freckle, and gently worn rash lines.
These are the dogs of our incessant barking. Idling for sincerity, as actors swiftly press Winter into us while our limbless diction presents our inadequacy Rd upon our ugly and I'll-tempered neighborly-things. Aliens of the afternoon, first floor agony and karmas standard for living in a reduced climate One.
Wearing down the hooves, undulates from Pepperdine mark trails with breaking breads and twigs and bones. Undulates from another world, behoofed and bemoved, curdling their sappy reselling a of drat and unkindly remarks. And we have begun to wonder when evolution will kick-in. When will the military come for them at the doors and vacate is all from our nontoxic lie-shrouded apartment complexes, condos, and cabins. Slaughter numbers of letters and integers right out in the street; loonies in the town square and the moose are crying.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
It was Sunday afternoon, and the time was moving steadily.
My room is a solemn dusk as the skyline would summon a perfect storm. All I could hear was my blood, rapidly gushing, in a body that is a vessel of momentary waves; and I was idling, holding a ***** cup. Can I still even keep my coffee warm in my freezing hands? Forlorn by the sunlight, torn by a whimsical love.
And yet, I still keep you,
as I search for you on the shelves
as I look for you at the other side of the door.
_This room is full of calamity, isn't it?_
Oct 28, 2023
Oct 28, 2023 at 12:42 PM UTC
my head is
a vacant lot
loaded with automatic cars
idling in a polluted environment
full of bidding corporations
run by empty businessman
who take advantage
of a selfish inward populace
that raise violent children
who turn off their minds to the madness, cruelty
and cultural void at the local nightclub
called "Numb" or " E-tarded"
and slobbering over drinks and beats
like the sounds of horns
from a traffic jam
driven by impatient animals
in a sheepfold bawing
their way to the nearest vaccination center
for thier imaginary twinrix dose of
swine ***** and orange juice
that skyrocket diabetes rates above google hits
and fat conservative voter polls
broadcasted daily by popular media botox injections
that styme creativity
with the same ****** music
played over and over and over
like the broken recorded rhetoric
that tell us to destructively reach out
to foreign countries
while selling ourselves out for better cars
but increase profits and taxes
at the same rate of the rising prison population
and shrinking contributions
to health care , edU-caTion , community and environment
all the while you can hear the sheep bleat and beep and bleat and beep
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 7:06 PM UTC
The Time For Humanity To Mature Has Not & Would Never Come. Read on - be intrigued.
Now that I believe for a long time after I attained the age of 22 years on 23rd December, 2012.
Many of the spiritual literature pieces are just contradictory to themselves, why would HE let the occurence of any trouble then and hold only the other end of a jittery life helping us cross to the other end safe & fine?
If you would excuse this question saying "HE can never be questioned and HE alone is the destructor & the creator," then it's just a desperate excuse which you hold to considering theism as flawless & unquestionable, me & any similar people as psychos, or perhaps losers.
I don't discourage theism nor do I encourage anybody to share similar thoughts as mine, but I myself don't encourage idling over the concept of the special spiritual unseen power. I agree that some phenomena like love, kindness, greed, lust & hatred can't ever just be scientifically explained in total completeness by just citing some natural laws of nature or physics. But then again why do we often indispensably need that imaginary hand above our heads for protection or more than often have to spend money in praise of the imaginary hand above our heads?
Any mention about theists' escapist nature would be countered by their many statements of the following kind:
o Us theists, we don't escape problems, we just gather courage when we have identified a problem in our lives by remembering the imaginary hand above our heads sheltering us from all troubles and then tackle the problem with enough strength.
o Theism does neither lack anything divinity nor does it lack even anything evil, both of them are manmade concepts, the world was created as a perfect place for the existence of human race.
o Instead of just leaving us all alone in this troublesome world, He has sent few of His men and we can blindly follow them to resolve our own specific troubles with solutions ideated around age-old books written by great men and we don't need anybody to question our faith wherever it is.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC