"imitations" poems
the first time, touched
us, otherwise strangers
delving within ourselves
our overt close encounters
past intimate imitations
of love’s labour lost and gained
we collide
again and again
crossing over, crossing under
energies focused at the hip
flowing through & into one another
endlessly
we release
feathers soaked
in each other’s essence
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
In my thoracic cavity is a clock
that rhythmically sounds tick, tock.
Pumping blood through my body
giving my hands an opportunity
to point out a good quality
And a fault.
It is good that you know I am with you
but a fault is found in this sad room
as sounds of this hospital's gloom
absorb into my aching brain
I almost miss your words full of pain
what you said will always stay.
"I think of days of old
days of gold
days that told
us to cling and hold
onto occasions
that you and I had.
Days I thought could not go bad
Days I thought could not go bad."
Your clock ticks, but it would not tock
arrhythmic palpitations hold your body in lock
arms turn into stiff, limp imitations of parts
your body can find out how to start
its own trip into that forlorn dark
with no comfort from a singing lark.
I'm no lark, I bring no comfort of dawn
but I'll stay up with you as you yawn.
Your soul's windows full of worry
build up this notion your light will go in a hurry.
I vow to you as your light grows old
that you and I had days of gold
that you and I had days of gold.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
Your commitments and word
Are inks stained on cold skin
Taken without pain sacrificed,
Easily washed away in water:
Simple imitations...
That at its essence
Mock the sanctity and identity
of actual tattoos.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
From wars erupting earths core,
we've settled a score only for the heavens and hell to see.
We smother the stench of temptations with potpourri,
only to deceive others stimulating parts of a brain.
Still pardon my slang
Are we using something to rearrange a type of mental suicide arranged,
in order to display portraits of lucid terror?,
Throwing smoke bombs to keep a little order
but even so that's just keeping us ***** for more slaughter.
Like roaches and raid a single spray will cause fragment mutations
a zombie faze shot with steroids and black plagues, just a graze to depict nations,
human infested sanitation able to retaliate government abomination.
A conversation my mind read by Pagans
walking through hallways,
a million rooms perfume and a two headed waitress,
mind binding views,
imitations, crosses, limitations,
serpents, pulpits, fuels lit and shattered creations.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Adjectives continue
their downward spiral,
with adverbs likely to follow.
Wisdom, grace, and beauty
can be had three for a dollar,
as they head for a recession.
*Diaphanous, filigree,
pearlescent*, and love
are now available
at wholesale prices.
Verbs are still blue-chip investments,
but not many are willing to sell.
The image market is still strong,
but only for those rated AA or higher.
Beware of cheap imitations
sold by the side of the road.
Only the most conservative
consider rhyme a good option,
but its success in certain circles
warrants a brief mention.
The ongoing search for fresh
metaphor has caused concern
among environmental activists,
who warn that both the moon and the sea
have measurably diminished
since the dawn of the Romantic era.
Latter-day prosodists are having to settle
for menial positions in poultry plants,
where an aptitude for repetitive rhythms
is considered a valuable trait.
The outlook for the future remains uncertain,
and troubled times may lie ahead.
Supply will continue to outpace demand,
and the best of the lot will remain unread.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
Red faced and wasted
I saw you naked
And fell in love
With your ancient body
Gone is the impulse to run
And all i can do now
Is to write simply
Lies and truth
Mixed together
Like oil and vinegar
We are fumigating
Our own bodies
Remove these carbon copies
And quietly daydream
About the faces of lost
Summer lovers
Fundraisers say goodbye
To yesterday's vacations
Just as we long to cry
We catch ourselves
Smiling for a moment
What do the turtles wish to communicate
Are we awake in our shells
Or have we fallen into the spell of limitation
Consternation and ************
Facts and figures receive their adulation
While we attract only tender triangulations
Please finish up your investigation
I blame you for instigating this comedy
A catalyst of abomination and dichotomy
Which followed me into retirement
Let's give banquets back to the government
And return to ancient lands
Devoted to camels and drunken apologies
It's apocryphal
Pornographic phantasmagoria
Fantastic fan-fictions
Describing sacredly sadistic rituals
Glorious duality
Radically alters our expectations
Yet manages to satisfy your frustrations
In dissimilar situations
We liberate our agitation and consternation
Over magazines and barnacles
We are more conspicuous
Than an empty gap in the sky
Made by two constellations
Taking a long vacation
Intrepid sailors raise their sails
And navigate by stars and compasses
Renaissance dancers are porous instigators
They initiate our imitations
We dream of political sovereignty
To remediate these tragedies
I breathe warfare and cleanse the air
Of apathetic non-negotiaters
Harboring criminals like butterflies
Sometimes the means do justify your eyes
Targets never argue
And bullets never lie
Finances and fiancées
Certainly have some value
Yet we underrate our skies
Miles of lost continents
Drift out from your skin
We begin an embargo
Hoping in the future we will win
Metaphysical furniture
Effects the state of mind you're in
The record players turned down
But you heat me up to begin
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC
Pencils are opportunities, it dulls as you write,
mistakes slowly burns the red rubber ****
and sharpeners are luxuries or government help or socialism.
But what about cheap pencils,
whose lead dulls or breaks easily.
Pencils are all equal if you look it in the outside
but what you can't see is that these cheap pencils
does not have a solid strip of lead inside,
it has some small quantities of opportunities to write.
I need to sharpen it once in a while
so I can clearly write.
But not everyone has sharpeners nor extra pencils,
some even bought this kind of pencil
with all the money they have
and they cannot write their stories
and their happy endings,
when the luster of their leads are constantly fading
into white, swallowed by the open
free-market place of ideas blank paper.
And I can't blame the poor vendor who sold me
these substandard opportunities.
However,
I am blaming the owners of factories,
for making such lousy imitations,
for exploiting my hunger to write.
I am blaming the government,
for allowing such pencils to ever exist!
Their lust for power, their greed takes away
my opportunities to write clearly and continuously,
I am blaming them for assuming that all of us have sharpeners!
We should not pay for social sharpening services!
Sharpeners and pencils should be free!
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
A rose carved from ice slowly melts away. Imitations of nature vanish quickly, even when crafted by men of great talent. The superiority of mankind is rejected.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.
Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.
She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.
Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.
And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Well Annie now you've done it
through your gyrations, characterizations
imitations
a spot of light of spirit
flipped out into the ether
like some kind of spiritual dandruff
all crystal prisms
twinkling stars shook off of you
and floated
through my eyes and ears
and penetrated and infused
my pumping heart
through my circulatory system
snapping synaptic changes,
touching those places
of
dreams and trances.
Well Annie now you've done it all night long
with images of Olive Oil
and no Popeye
I have become a sailor man
unmoored from the safety of the slip
dragging the anchor
until the tether breaks
and find myself floating
on some Jungian sea
of the unconscious far away from the shore.
Well Annie now you've really done it -
How will this all play out
when walking down the faux marble hallways
as I roll up one wave of imitation
and down another in
clients/secretaries/billing clerks
deranged psychiatrists stories
and all of this reality
grabbing trying ranting riffing
how is this all going to play out
when strange guerilla theatre
erupts on backwards
in administrators offices
and leadership committee meetings
when I spread my legs
as my grand opening
in carrot top hangings
and turn to clients
offer them too
this spirit spark of
courage.
Well you've really done it this time Annie
when my door is locked
and pagers are begging for my attention
but I will be in the room at that desk
throwing rules, regulations
and my professional reputation
to the current winds of unwinding
truths and soulful stories.
When they turn to me
and ask for my forgiveness
in their true confession
or when I shift shapes
to the big onion
when everyone who wanders near weeps
when they ask me for that magic sentence
to make it all okay
or write a treatment plan
or
just a hand on the shoulder;
as they begin to talk
like rooms of old echoes-
I will tell them that will cost them extra.
You've done it now Annie forever
in my minute little world
rocked the boat
that spirit
like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane
of courage.
You've done it now Olive Oil Annie
I have found my spinach
and
freedom cannot be far behind...
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Let us awake from the decay of strategic costumes where the incestuous fragrance of madness permeates golden dreams of eclectic strokes.
Bureaucratic self-enhancement nurtures docile manufacturers of laborious compliance, whilst social conscience plummets to depths of callous and entrepreneurial versatility.
Enduring imitations of an unsatisfactory kind is like pairing mint fondant with rich and savoury gravy which is acquired with strategic dishonesty.
Oh, negligent wakefulness – will we ever arise and discern those lobotomised representatives in this legislative brothel of excessive absurdity?
Shake me at one minute to midnight in the House of Lords.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
Spaces all the same,dimensions but different
Ideas the very same rushing in to fill voids old
From heads stuffed of past Imitations dead
Straight walls ever rising up,closing places free
Square,stiff,solid,regurgitating hard, spirits staid
The same colors but in different places, limited,
sick,drained of mind,with an empty soul I wept
Dear innovation creative where are you my angel?
Staring at space blank unchained to past I pondered
The angels came unannounced unknowing softly,
rushing to a heart,empty of mind,surrendered to an intent pure,
Dancing,guiding unfettered,intuitively fantastic,instinctively right
The walls falling away,squares smoothing to curves ****
New visions exciting,opening to vistas of unknown hues wondrous
That very dead space now alive,conducting,guiding a design philharmonic
"I" was but a medium,absorbing,directing flashes from unknown
Driven in a flash flood of euphoria unknowing, to an ocean creative
Knowing not what unchained me,setting me free for that Destiny fine,
Of Innovation. May be love or despair,whatever, Divinity came.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,
partial strangers,
networked communications,
keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,
system failures,
nicotine meditations
smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,
computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,
brightening windows,
verbose inflections,
silks ties,
limited reverberations,
exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,
pointless days,
power imitations,
numeric values.
insurmountable situations,
digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
DO you know how the dream looms? how if summer misses one of us the two of us miss summer-
Summer when the lungs of the earth take a long breath for the change to low contralto singing mornings when the green corn leaves first break through the black loam-
And another long breath for the silver soprano melody of the moon songs in the light nights when the earth is lighter than a feather, the iron mountains lighter than a goose down-
So I shall look for you in the light nights then, in the laughter of slats of silver under a hill hickory.
In the listening tops of the hickories, in the wind motions of the hickory shingle leaves, in the imitations of slow sea water on the shingle silver in the wind-
I shall look for you.
1.7k
while millions are without power on the east coast
and ocean waters rise high with the rage of nature,
nobody named Sandy bothers me here-
safe and serene in the Midwest, my home
no waters have risen to challenge me,
and no ghouls have come knocking
at my door, though it be Hallows Eve
no fairies have come to take me away
no children or beggars have showed up
to accept my offerings and
free a soul from purgatory
I have lit no fires,
I have butchered no cattle
And I certainly have not
tried to raise departed spirits
the only vestige of Samhain so far
is the thought, a simple remembrance
of the way things used to be
in the pagan myths
with their reverence for the dead
o, the dead have been here, yes
-imitations of them at least
littered on my TV screen
like bloodied tin cans in the street
this is how I revere the dead,
by watching remakes of old
slasher movies, directed by zombies
in them I find masks and screaming
-lots of blood and nonsense
and not one mention
of the way things used to be
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
you know what undermines most urban coolios?
you know what undermines the majority of urban hippies?
imitations - clones - we might wear the same sneakers
but at least we think different - we think different, aye-right?
we do, don't we? we don't?! ah ****
but that's what undermines the urban crew - (ha ha, i love
the impromptu slang) - they work their ***** off
and tease their ***** off with twerks -
and then they package hamburgers
with a squeeeeeeezes of the ol' Nutcracker -
but in London so many harvesters -
so many - coolio did fabric off of
Bacon?! **** straight he did -
bring back 1990's bling boo ya ah
ICE CUBE FACE 'N' A PUFFER FISH (MINUS THE LIP) -
like ghetto 1994 - yo yo - ice ice baby -
white man on the Michael - leisure,
leisure, leisure leisure - lacerations and a Las Vegas
weekend - bro got smoked -
and mm hmm - fixed up my pauper rich-man
Porsche - called a dachshund Lamborghini gallop
buckling a dentist's appointment; fuck's sake
buck tooth, drop a gear!
n'ah n'ah n'ah n'ah (lost count) - hmm stirrup song
evened vogue - puck'ah poo or as i shoo
the airs under the carpet with an audience of one.
but believe me, countryside boy says it -
the cool individuals meeting a clone or a mirror
outside their thought experiment and
panic sets in... just another countryside boy
in an urban environment fiddling with a violin
like he might be shining a pair of black leather shoes.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
adored you in just a blink of an eye
no hesitations of getting to know you
admires your smile just like a flying butterfly
no imitations can take away the smile off of you
Seeing you stops the world I'm living
laughing with you seems like I'm in paradise
joking around makes the world go round
liking you and liking me back is just the perfect feeling
attached with your sense of humor
no comparisons can be made
appreciates the simple things you do
no decisions of keeping you out of my head
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
the "TRUE OBSCENE"
silly little creatures
waving flags
and weaving
imitations of god
all around the
village green
(green with lust
green with greed)
little imitations
of MAN
these
imitation-patriots
these
imitation
saints
the "TRUE OBSCENE"
these
LEADERS OF
THE
UNITED STATES
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 12:45 PM UTC
*call me twisted,
but i’ve always admired a certain degree of controversy.
complexity is a dangerous beauty, like a hurricane -
admired from afar,
deadly up close.
my biggest fear was always photocopiers.
monotonous carbon copies, binge feeding
on Christmas music
and cold commercialized coffee.
simplicity was schematic,
intricacy was ******
with a quivering hand and downcast eyes,
i clothed myself in these layers.
gift-wrapped, with a ‘danger’ sign as a gift card,
i became an enigma to myself.
diamond rings came with dark clouds,
locks and keys gave way to gun shots and bullet wounds.
fairytales were never meant for the 3-d world.
none of us are “fated” for a happy ending.
riding off into the sunset only comes with
hard work and hard lessons.
yes, i may still be an overthinker.
i may still have more thoughts than i have time
to put them in.
mundane things are still transfigured into
tainted, disfigured imitations
of insecurity, agonising and mental mutilation.
but it does not have to be this way.
pick up a pair of 2-d glasses.
you don’t have to see the world in technicolor.
sometimes monochrome lenses
do tinge the world
in shades of nostalgia, clarity, and hope.
peel off those layers.
you may cry, but cry of catharsis.
it may sting, but salt always does.
wear simplicity as your sail,
rose-tinted with trust and a silent knowing.
you may realise that what you were always looking for
was always right beside you.*
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Useless time begging
Back to the present
Infinite electric waves
Bypassing hidden compartments
Surging together
Heat waves demonstrating
Truth at our very finest
Out bursting cautiously
Into a super nova
Colors exploding throughout
Our imitations
Reminding the reversal
Of times sighing…
Please forgive me.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
I never got to know who I would really be.
The day was pure, I went to play and lift me brown-eyed brave;
I never got to know who I would really be.
My cousin was not home, but his father was,
who offered to show curious me something;
I never got to know who I would really be.
Taking my hand, up we went into that shadowed bedroom;
I never got to know who I would really be.
There I cried and nearly died as breath and trust drained away,
and then he finished;
I never got to know who I would really be.
With all my four-year might, I barely stood,
trembling friendless for a lifetime,
waiting and wishing for the end of me that never came,
frozen by the echoes of his whistling;
I never got to know who I would really be.
My light and trust twisted numb, and I became,
in that sacrificial horror, unwantedly wise;
I never got to know who I would really be.
My nature heart and caring head left for other worlds,
replaced by unwanted imitations,
strange deliveries from the unknown;
I never got to know who I would really be.
The rest of my life unfolded in starker silence,
hidden tears, and lurking fears, later liberated
for short, surprised, and sublime times
by the fairest love of two women,
safe children, their adoring little ones,
and a few determined adventures now and then,
hinting of the lost;
I never got to know who I would really be.
But now I write it all, and from my defiant and disobedient depth
consider, when I can, what imagining did for me
and never came true,
to stand and say and show
who I have become anyway.
This is my private anthem to my beloved self,
though
I never got to know
who that boy might really be.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
There stood a boy with a broken crown in his hands, not knowing that from these shards would one day come the gift of imagination. Later, much later, inside of a body having outgrown the sweet smelling palm trees of his childhood, the eyes of the same boy would light up, looking up and finding, in the red and grey of the afternoon sky, the one who wore it.
The smell of the midday rain still clung to nostrils, much like its defeated foe, dust would, on a dry sunny day. I do not recall, or rather, cannot wrap my mind around the reasons which pulled me out of the shop to look at the sky at that moment, from that angle, with my eyes tearing up ever so slightly. There he was, and the grey and red of the sky were his tears and blood. He had fallen, a giant king magnificent and ridiculous at the same time, like fallen statues or noseless sphinxes, and the clouds carried his life away.Slowly, inexorably, a pilgrimage towards the east, as if returning the rays to the birthplace of the sun. They disguised themselves into grotesque shapes, imitations of clouds, in the pink velvet of exposed organs or smiling skeletons of red. The sun shone through his wounds. He looked down and knew I saw him. In this moment, in the moment our eyes crossed, I knew he saw me, I knew he recognised me, that boy with a broken crown in hand. That day I was the one bleeding, but those were only the blades of sugar canes against my skin, but today, I looked at him, expiring his last with my throat burning with a thousand questions but my lips dry as the summer dust. Who was he? What was his name? Why did he did? Was it worth it? One question my mind did not dare to ask though, was the name of his killer, for the deeper recesses of my souls knew the answer to this question and my heart engaged into that little dance which makes the ribcage suddenly feel like a cramped place.
As I walked back into the shop, a tear fled from the confines of my ducts and died on the floor, most probably trampled by couple of minutes later by an unknowing customer, not able to see me scrape off the blood from under my fingernails with the shards of a broken crown.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
Borrowed Time
I wouldn’t say I am one for sitting on bar stools
in empty ***** bars studying time, but here I am/
all alone/ staring out a stainless glass window
watching life happen and wondering about
the sublime.
So many heartbeats out there strive for greatness;
so many dreams colliding while searching
for possibilities hidden inside shells of moral
capabilities. Some lead with eyes wide open/blind
to the finely crafted ******** of rhetorical motivation
and some are the followers who waggle
just slightly behind inspired by historical innovations
and there are some, who drink alone/like me,
who search for truth in a half empty glass
of optimism slightly buzzed.
It’s funny how when you are drinking everything
makes a little more since.
Sometimes you need the alone time
to hear what your thoughts are saying. Sometimes
you need to be away from everything out there
to understand the true ideals of individualism
because we are fascinated by difference
even when we think we are afraid
of not fitting in. We seek shelter in handcrafted
cliques just to delay the inevitable of standing
on our own.
We all embrace that maybe tomorrow entitlement
of procrastination, that daily hesitation that makes
everything around us happen….eventually
and maybe I’ve just had too much to drink/swirling
around ice in a empty glass once filtered by Tanguary
and a twist of tonic while still studying the sobriety
of a drunken society of hopeful prosperity.
Life makes a nice drink
because it is a bunch of nonsense we intake
until we’re intoxicated in the mind and stumbling
just to stay on our feet/stuck in time; a time that ticks
slowly when we’re in pain
and fast when we’re entertained
but at times, like now, it does pause
reminding us that we are on borrowed time
sipping on life with imitations of the sublime.
© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC