"illusory" poems
Now I ask you to join me
Now you celebrate
Not being me. Not being you
Only Us for the great
UN
load!
DIS
arm!
EN
large!
OUT
side!
Some steps I will take
Be my guest
Pull your anchor
Out of the lake
We're
In the room
In the building
In the crowded city
In the country with thousands of cities
The country shares the continent with an enemy nation
The two rivals are carried round and round by the Earth's endless rotation
The Earth obeys the master’s magnetic line, burning since uncountable clock time
The sun is blind to his insignificance too, ignoring billions of other star mates, it can’t see through
Immeasurable it seems, magnifying! All of them such tiny little parts in one of Miss Milky’s arms
Some light years away there they are: Pinwheel, Cartwheel, Black Eye, Andromeda and Cigar
Unmeasurable it seems, humongous! All of them such a fading little part of the cosmos
There you are
Floating from a distance
Feel the empty ground
Drink from the fountain of existence
Still blind to insignificance?
Still convinced about the rightness of imposed beliefs?
Still judging others’ defects according to our pretentious and vain mind?
Still punching away the different, protecting the mold?
Still reinforcing illusory antagonism and insignia?
Still seeing only two sides?
Still holding to the pride?
Still
In the ******* room
Am I? Are you?
Let's try it again
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
I approach most desires
like a competition; can I
**** better than him;
can I be famous at twenty-
-three since he was famous at
twenty-four -- I must be able
to sink better than him.
God, it is exhausting. I
feel like I'm dancing with
a machine; a phantom that
I can never catch, for it runs
on my blood; my insecurities;
my passion -- and, boy, oh boy,
can I attest to having plenty of
that stuff, ladies and germs.
I think, truly, that I am
encompassing the American Dream
I think is utterly flawed; that I think
is futile in nature; that I am sure of
is the closest thing to Hell, in this
Godless, spiritually motherless
dark shoebox of sudden collisions;
this space of useful and useless
results, splayed onto and into
our hearts, asking for reverence.
There is nothing I want more
than to be sure that my importance
is not illusory. I am not sure if
I am real.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
and there i am in the midst of it all, conscious of what appears to be existent, yet knowing it is illusory. and if time is occurring synchronously then how can i look back with contrition? for if i have the capacity to move backwards and forwards in quantum leaps, i can erase the past like pastel chalk on an antique blackboard, then start anew. is not the sky my canvas and the arc of the rainbow my palette? and the stars in lustrous luminosity light my way so that ev’n at dusk I can paint. yet pain ne’er ceases to hollow me out. then through a barren vessel i catch more rain, and pour it out upon the parched terrain. just when i thought enlightenment was nigh, a sharp edge is discovered. must it necessitate additional sandpapering from the wind? when will the gemstone sparkle without further pressure? does it lie in its power to simply shimmer sans duress? perhaps it was dazzling at its inception, relinquishing its luster upon domestication. with this proviso, as it nears twilight i shall tarry and blend with the night. i’ll dance with a moonbeam knowing the jewel will glisten afresh upon the rise of the golden sun.
@2016janetaylor
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes
shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit
brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times
barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now
an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze
i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge
free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation
floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun
you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound
you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul
dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly
©2016janetaylor
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
Can daybreak ever
bring darkness home?
The dried kohl is witness:
*Aeons old, such a story
has been left behind,
unsaid, unsaid;*
Does spring ever bring notice
of the coming fall?
*Oh the rains sometimes
bring rumblings
of miffed skies -
Shoots that drop off stalks,
have not all
fallen for nothing,*
Was the little window of dreams
illusory?
Laying my head down,
stealing my sleep?
Aeons old, is such a story
that has been left behind,
unsaid, unsaid;
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
A demon masquerading
as the almighty dollar;
she is cunning,
and she is tricky.
She is beguiling,
and she is illusory.
Deceitful and avaricious,
yet believers follow
aimlessly. To have her
in your possession is
nothing like how it
feels to be stripped of her.
Those who succumb to
her seduction are granted
luxury and leisure;
the pledge to idolize
her mindlessly is
engraved into our brains.
Indigence, starvation;
the deprivation of the
green goddess is malicious.
Free yourselves from the hold
she has on you; from the
worldly power she possesses.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
for Alyssa Underwood
~~~
my poems do not trend, go viral,
Fast and Furious!
yet, they do not die
they lay in plain sight pebbles scattered,
smoothed by time,
upon the surface of the
green earth waiting patient, virtuous,
purposed for itinerants bards
to trip over one
one some someday
somehow they accrete a readership,
slow stepping and steady from,
|the seekers and the stumblers,
the droplet drinkers,
meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years,
miners for nuggets in the poem pools that form
beneath the alluvial streaming
of the waterfall crescendo
of words
I like this
when another traveler sends me a like,
a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation,
for a long ago, barely recalled, writ,
allowing them to carve their initials upon the
external, visible roots of my tree trunk,
invading me, by darkening a prior tree internal ring,
forcing me to look down,
look back,
take measure of myself,
accepting myself as not wanting,
nor lacking in other's acceptance
these statements are neither boastful or illusory,
*yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures,
slow to chew, fast to the taste,*
reminding me of old friendships,
well valued,
though no longer fully employed,
their uncovering is my own refreshed exposure,
their discovery is my own re-discovery,
exposing flaws and fallacies,
even fallow,
mostly shallow facts
about me
all of them,
a sundae of truths and lies, sharing a happy laugh
with and at
me,
when I think to myself,
Holy Crap! did I write that?
copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Softly and gently, I swim him along
the frail whirlpool of a lie,
He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold
forward towards but shy
I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet
and tell him how his would fit in,
how every moment of my cold nights would burn
into the arms of his unconscious sin
I canst remember thy face though,
o love, was the dust of snow much.?
Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem
skimming on the foam of an immortal stream,
with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup,
he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream.
A dream.
A DREAM.
O my.! Was this illusory?
Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit
The word exists the definition doesn't,
Dejection over fancies is dejecting
Perfection is straight where you find true love.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 3:41 AM UTC
heartache is a gift that breaks us wide open
and gently spills into the broken places
that we never knew were there
agony fills in those crevices
with a quiet reverence
and peaceful meditation
no matter how form appears
the content
is stillness
thoughts appear
illusory images dance before me
yet there is no duality
even in this seeming world of separation
i realize that i at last am home
and that i never left
©2016janetaylor
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
A place in which I know nothing about, an unknown world
A world unlike any I have ever known to exist, an opposite of this reality
A place only to be traveled to by deep sleep or sweet reverie
A world of pure innocence and raw creativity, a world of adventure and fantasy
A place where you can fly into the cosmos
And soar through the universe until you become nothing but sparkling stardust
A realm where blood isn't pumping through your veins, but rather what flows through is stardust
A world within a world
A realm where physicalities are meaningless and existence lies within the cosmos
A world that causes you to question your own rendition of the word "reality"
A realm that both defines and illustrates the meaning of the word "fantasy"
And is inherently bigger than any one dream or reverie
Something like that of an endless reverie
A myriad of universes and ever-glowing stardust
Something like that of an endless fantasy
A myriad of imaginings and an ever-growing illusory world
Something like that of a castle in the sky, nothing like that of harsh reality
A myriad of thoughts that turn into pictures and skies that turn into the cosmos
Have you ever journeyed into the cosmos?
Through shut eyes and intense dreaming or through glassy eyes and pleasant reverie?
Have you ever left this reality?
Joined the entities of another realm, disintegrated into the galaxy and became stardust?
Have you ever traveled to another world?
Became another entity, fully embraced a potent fantasy?
I wish to travel to this place and immerse myself in the fantasy
I want to become one with the cosmos
And escape the physical world
I wish to travel to this place and immerse myself in the reverie
I want to become one with the universe through the merging of our inner reaching stardust
And escape this tugging reality
Nothing is more terrifying or confining than what I know as reality
Nothing is more appealing or liberating than what I know as fantasy
I am a soul and I am stardust
I am the universe and I am the cosmos
I am a dream and a reverie
All within a world outside of a world
A place existing outside the lines of reality, a place within easy reach of the cosmos
A world born unto fantasy, a world fueled through reverie
A realm overpowered by stardust, a realm that is not of this world
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
kisses and moon beams, i found you in my dream.
skateboards and swim shorts, we are care free.
lifes eternal gift, your momentary illusory particles shift.
heart beats and drumbeats, our hair curls.
dancing the night away, entranced in electromagnetic swirls.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
*you cannot unwalk the bridge you have crossed
you cannot unknow the fresh taste of enlightenment
once you have breathed it in
there is no way back
to an illusory net of safety
take courage
spread your wings
and fly
©2016janetaylor
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
Your Messiah is not Christ
my Karma is not your dogma
Their AntiChrist is not the Mahdi
His avatar is not yet manifest
Our Dajjal is not their 12th Imam
Your Brahman is not my Elohim
The Atman is not the God-Man
Your God-Man is Luciferian
Our Lucifer is not their Allah
The Djinn are undocumented
some angels fell
Allah is not Ras Tafari
Their Zion is Babylon
Jerusalem is Egypt or *****
Their Angels are ascended Masters
Our Master is your ascended Savior
My Savior is your accuser
Their God is no Savior
His unction is Satanic
The war is spiritual
The Spirit is not obvious
My anointing is carnal
their anointing is moronic
our doctrine is angelic
Your rejection was predestined
our acceptance is divine
Our depravity is documented,
your sanctity is illusory
their power is diabolic
their light is darkness
Their leader is ungodly
Our God is unseemly
His Truth is offensive
The bitter is not sweet
the sweet is unworldly
the world is not heavenly.
Trinity in seven spirits, yet God is One…
Revel in the uncertainty. Have some holy fun
fitting more angels on the pin-head, dancing
before they fall. Rebellion is always entrancing
until the current postmodern theology
hooks up with psycho-sexual linguistic pathology.
Don’t accept my apology
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
Standing like a model in a motel room-
jealous eyes can't open the blinds.
Every time, every time.
Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
These are beautiful songs for damaged people
that don't think they're all the same.
They taste like formaldehyde,
so hopefully they'll preserve me.
But, instead, they burn the room
as they kiss my neck and collarbone.
Lapdancing on my loneliness-
Please, let me remove my eyes and hands,
because I've seen and have felt too much.
You don't understand:
everything is ideation
and demisexuality.
Double entendre:
I'm a toxic lover,
I have girls around my waste.
Take a look around and see how damaged everyone is,
and how universal they are in their illusory disguise,
"How can we be so smart if the last line was redundant, guys?"
Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
This is just a mediocre song for damaged people,
so they believe they're not all the same.
Don't feel too much.
Remove introspection.
Be self-absorbed.
Feel no affection.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
Whats this world coming to
Paranoia all around
Creeping up but slipping down
The melodrama hurts me
Is this the way it should be
I question our existence
Illusory immaterial junk
Inching through the samsara
Satori says I'm not really here
Senseless matter sitting idly
In a tiny corner of dharma
Overwhelmed unimaginably by
It all.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 8:24 AM UTC
Veasna Ta Kvak recording
playback
over Chinatown cafe again
while recounting recent events
to journal pages
muddled from frequent
exchanges bag to bag
(Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most
recently)
blind fate
blind fate
shower me with Indian daisies
and photographs of Railway
New Delhi!
Hanoi Old Quarter/
Vietnam monsoon/
evening on balcony/
Darjeeling water boiled
and filtered anti-malaria
golden drink for honeylungs and
spring-soul morningtide
under moonlight canopy
of Avalokiteśvara
the fruitful
Bodhisattva!
English lessons
and future
hourless
comely chimera
in sleep phenomenon
Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW
(near Mata Anandamai Ghat)
speaking to Aghori
prophecy
Kala Bhairava
FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR
WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE?
the Ganges is full of lice and flowers
candlewax melted into holy water
sickness
equal to
harmony & jubilant
eyeclose and mouthcurl.
The future mysteries in
Mexico City poorboy
$2 mystic orb jade green
reflective underneath
dirt now in North American
bottom white four floor house
basement suite coffee table.
Visions indivisible
from the Viridian roundly haze
but surefire in their accuracy
I'm absolute
and universally formed
for the next few cacophonous
decades!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
All things must end in time
Regardless of who when where or why
I am absolved by the setting sun
In this absence of light the darkness is All, the shadow is One
The Ray of intellect pulls pieces from the vast darkness
Attached by fear, chased by longing
We run in circles, burying Truth beneath flecks of meaningless illumination
Frustation, anger, the illusion of danger.
I am a fool.
I sit, surrounded by water in a rowboat without oars demanding control or salvation.
There is no alternative, no freedom of suffering from pain nor dehydration.
My body, my boat, my ocean are destined to fall to dust
The wise man knows this and worries not.
Just as the sun sets, the rays that illuminate are impermanent
All that ever was transitions to all that can never be
Beyond suffering, beyond pain
Beyond illusory words orchestrated on this page
It is held by a fabric that cannot be named
It resonates in our being as love
It’s the deepest darkness that holds the brightest light.
You may heed my words or continue the Material spin
It’s up to you where it ends or when you begin
But know this truly and deeply my friend,
When your travels are over
Lessons learned and suffering done
We will be made One
Destined to recuperate in the womb of the Sun.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 9:07 AM UTC
She said to me,
If that's the way I wanted it,
Then that's the way it should be,
It's not the way I want,
There is no way I would ever want,
To lose a friend is hard,
To lose a good friend even harder,
To lose the best friend ever,
Is without a doubt harder,
Than anything I've done before,
Tears don't tell the story,
Heart again being torn to shreds,
She was the one who pasted all the parts together again,
And now she leaves?
Without tears,
Just walked away,
As if nothing means nothing no more,
An easy goodbye,
Like all was nothing all along,
Just a pretend love,
Illusory, and made up,
Pretend.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
she writes me from Paris
wanting a command,
exactement comme moi
all her own.
to scribe.
in “a style with strength”
exactement comme moi
exactly like me
where the ideas percolate
for the precise gestation period
and the birth-born poems a-coming
without and within silent no belabored pain,
making the child appear as if it was only waiting
already, on its own good time. for saying thank you
for your patient waiting and who is really in
command?
when the overwhelming light orders “write”
I am gone from yesterday and the safe of picayune
does that sound like I am in
command?
you wish to command?
join the navy, the army,
become a paratrooper,
command in poetry is illusory,
for it comes from the bell tower rage of madness
of what my ancestors planted and bequeathed genetically,
and I have wasted the better half of a century appealing for
relief and making it clear who commands and who is the
“poetoftheway” slave
rejoindre la marine, l'armée,
devenir un parachutiste,
commande en poésie est illusoire,
car il vient du clocher de la rage de la folie
de ce que mes ancêtres ont planté et légué génétiquement,
et j'ai gaspillé la meilleure moitié d'un siècle attrayant pour
soulagement et en précisant qui commande et qui est le
“Poetoftheway" esclave
exactement comme moi
exactly like me?
exactly.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
There's a magnetism -
in the air, in the ground, in the eyes of the sun,
keeping gravity in check with the mind of the sun
to keep things in order with the heart of the sun -
outside of structure, inside of paradox -
circles, circles, circling the cosmos with blank maps and directionless compasses
Writing, writing, writing - to collect a volume of love and work and truth and play -
seeking nothing more than meaning, an answer to the eternal enigmas
- why? - how? - what is this? - who am I?
Coming up empty as a begger's hands
and as rich as the poorest soul inside the palace of enlightenment -
silent solitude in the meditation of the sun,
inner exploration through the thoughts of the sun,
exploiting the strength of the light of the sun -
all to gain a following of selfless knowers -
all flowing along the river empty endless,
holding together through the magnetism,
Praying for salvation come the other side of this life,
the Heaven, the Garden, the Utopian dream
The magnetism - unexplainable electron of consciousness -
the Universal It - the All in the One - the Whole -
the Source and the Body,
circles, circles, circling in orbit the mathematical patterns of Being,
within the question of the answer,
within the definition of "nothing", where nothing is still something -
Let gravity fall where it may, just as love hunts its prey
As law holds flaccid in the court of Cosmic Direction,
The hearts beat stronger during resistance than in times of rest -
pulled into existence past the veil of illusory doubt through magnetism -
That taste of creation, grand awesome beauty within delicate fingers,
playing piano silent in halls of endless imagination - infinity.
There's a magnetism - everywhere, there's a magnetism.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
Some have tried to tell me
not to write as I see fit;
they wish to impose their rules and their taste
onto and into my personal expression.
My Art.
While I do always seek
honest and fair critique;
attempted Censorship
is outright offensive.
At heart, I'm a ******* Artist,
a slave only to my own Will;
not some ******* demagogue
merely sacrificing his own Quill.
**** 'em,
and their illusory book of unreal rules;
I'll write as I ******* please:
I'll write how I want
about what I want
as often as I want
on what I want
where I want
when I want,
and so can anyone else,
*or so I think.
It can be so hard to tell..*
I really hope I'm not special in that regard.
The pen is mightiest
when it refuses to compromise.
**** 'em
and their failed dogmatic domineering.
**** 'em
and their fake-ass, ego-inspired rules.
**** 'em.
Once more:
**** 'em.
And, *lest we forget;
****
the living hell
out of
them!**
(Though it would surely take a good while!)*
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
sun scorches the earth,
grass get dry and turn to dust,
rocks transmit their strength,
trees drench in illusory rains.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
I am Jupiter storms
Unabounded by time
Raging on
And eons
Can not hope to confine me
To unstable matter
And mass
Rearranging
My molecules morphing
To liquefied jewels
And my surface
A canvas
Of unrefined fuels
Like an abstract mosaic
Of swirling
Unfurling
Tempests of archaic
As constellations
And the ages I've waited
And slumbered and spun
Into memories
Faded
And taken the names of your gods
As my payment
Inflating my ego's
Mesmeric rotations
So quick to claim hearts
Of Europa's amidst
My seductive, enchanting
Illusory bliss
Venture into my centrifuge
Fumy abyss
I have pressed up my lips
Of a frigid, wet steel
And then sealed
With a kiss
What ‘nary
A planetary
Can resist
And as she revolves
Around me
And gives life
Io dances about me,
Callisto my wife
Ganymede my seed
And the rest of my progeny breed
Future needs
What the Earthlings will need
To make up for their greed
All will see
Look to me
In my enormity
As my reservoirs
Fill them
With infinity
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 3:44 AM UTC
In a distant dystopia, it towers above all.
It radiates a dim blue glow, that
Transfixes eyes and minds alike.
Pulling with the gravity of 20,000 suns,
Its force cannot be rivaled.
An irresistible, iridescent abomination, and
An admonition unto the autonomy of thought.
Weaving tapestries of illusory illustrations,
Into the indigent intellect of its unsuspecticng viewers.
It's images penetrate the psyche like magic, as
Minds are manipulated into the madness, of
Mass consumption of manufactured "needs."
Its reporters replace reason with rhetoric, for
Objectivity is no obeject in an age of sound bites.
It demonizes difference, distracts, and desensitizes.
Apathy becomes queen, and facile pleasures become king.
Remember your vigilance.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC