"immaterial" poems
Our own meeting has no end , no outer shell, it does not float.
It only searches within its depths to find a bottom to pitch its anchor
and looses itself within the colours of an ever changing earth.
Without air it gets carried away and shines like a fire,
unquenched and remote from evil tongues and envious eyes.
Ostracizing dark thoughts and delighting within its womb.
It remembers from always and lives on forever
and within the moonlit dust it travels upon wings.
An aura which is immaterial and wonders intoxicated
it sings you an icy lullaby..
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Anom o ly
Non-named, never imagined much less realized
The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here
We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.
Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?
Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.
Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question, nor is good or bad. ******** Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.
I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.
First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.
From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>
Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice
Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
They enter the café just as some sappy pop song is playing
They order then immediately hug
Embrace
Swaying to one side, together, like the wind
Encircling the leaning tower of Pisa
Then teetering to the other solstice
Foot to foot, smile to smile, hand round skirted waist
Forearm resting on his tall blazered shoulders
This is forgivable in the young
Those teeny-boppers with defiant hair-cuts and posters
However, he has peppered hair
She, though voluptuous and tanned,
Must be in her 30s.
“Affair.”
My cynical devil snickers, between sips
But I sit mesmerized, and for the first time ever
Envious.
The chairs and the tables somehow seem more distant
The song now sounds as if it’s funneled through some crackling phonograph
The very light disentangles itself from stones
It’s as if a sky has opened up in my chest
Flying high overhead, one lone raven,
Its slow shadow
Gliding across my heart
Oh, how I miss you
5 states away
I see your smile on magazine covers
I vaguely sniff your scent on passing women
Yet you remain elusive - immaterial, haunting,
While this visceral assault
Leaves me bewildered - empty
An echo in a chiaroscuro cavern
Fading for thee
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
The imaginers of now were children once,
each day they each imagined tomorrow.
Their daddies had just won the war
happy days were really here again, this time.
---
Now, we see what we see, it's not what we saw.
And this is better than I imagined.
My first oral book report was on 1984, in 1962.
Percentages and stats, the odds,
out of 8 billion…
I carry my weight, saltwise,
I'm light, too. Immaterial in fact.
I watched the internet take form
before my very eyes,
magi technic never seen since Darius the Mede.
Good job, geeks.
Reared on radio waves your
grandfathers never heard,
your signal receptors from mito-mom,
oh, what a plan. The promised ones.
Many sons.
hmmm 60 cycle white noise in the field,
the field of fields,
Future Farmers of America and stuff
Powers we imagined,
a color TV we could watch
in the backseat for days on Route 66,
a restaurant just for kids
Toys 'r' Us oh, wow,
those came and went
and our Grand kids
are imagining tomorrow,
doin' fine with less of what we thought was cool,
taking for granted all I
accepted as granted, in the "It is Finished"
Golden Parachute
Package deal,
Grace and Peace
that multiplies.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
1724
How dare the robins sing,
When men and women hear
Who since they went to their account
Have settled with the year!—
Paid all that life had earned
In one consummate bill,
And now, what life or death can do
Is immaterial.
Insulting is the sun
To him whose mortal light
Beguiled of immortality
Bequeaths him to the night.
Extinct be every hum
In deference to him
Whose garden wrestles with the dew,
At daybreak overcome!
5.9k
The soliloquy of the night,
what we think as
falling stars and meteors,
make time and space immaterial
in the transmission of pain across light years.
Sitting here alone, a sentinel
to pain's interplanetary travel,
and witness of it transforming
in to other forms, eloquent,
I hear them when my eyes,
acquire a sense, primordial
receive the dark waves
of pain in my veins
a volcano palpitating to blow up
in to fireworks of emotions.
Everywhere eyes could travel, is filled
by night, thick, gooey, agglutinated;
then the meditative darkness,
dreams up a beam of gentle light,
out of its deep transcending yearning,
to speak to itself,to get an alchemy work on that pain
then, the pain itself becomes a haunting journey with words
this ,is how my love, my songs
in the midnight of my lonely soul, are born.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Eyes wide
you do not allow
oblivious sleep
shadows branded
on my retina
reveal all contrast
tattooed on my shoulder
a skeletal hand
*this illusion
pins me down*
your questions
have no answers
questions remain
asked again and again
*I swear
I know nothing*
You say everything
*is immaterial
subjectively real
ideas existent
in the mind
of the perceiver
I am*
(you insist)
a true believer
Parched and shrinking
I ask for mercy
you bring the cup
to my fissured lips
but it is empty
a vessel of air
you murmur
*there is only enough
for one
what will you give
in return?*
Heavy metal
arpeggios of wind
head bang
petulant faces
inured to rain
a repeating refrain
in falsehood
lies your truth
but even you
cannot halt the dawn
a dark horizon
pulls the strings
powerless
you sink
behind the cloud-
wall of your storm
is it safe now to close my eyes?
three times whisper
*be gone
bright fiend*
a weary incantation
spell of protection
the yawning wind
done with howling
hums reassuringly
*“a change is gonna come
imagine
peace in our time”*
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
Shadow
Where I've been hiding
All my life
Shadow
All things dark and nasty
Kept away inside
Shadow
A past that clings on
Refusing to let go
Shadow
The fragment of the self;
A vague, immaterial copy
Shadow
A silent companion
Always by your side
Shadow...
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
to live a life so brief as this
and beg for less
is to acknowledge
that life must be beautiful
or else death take its place
rendering the body immaterial
the soul inconsequential
only the circumstances remaining
to form a memory
of our brow-beaten brothers
who felt for so long and hard
that their passionate resistance
of oppression
became nothing
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
OR
The Child Is Father Of The Man, But Not For Quite A While
So Thomas Edison
Never drank his medicine;
So Blackstone and Hoyle
Refused cod-liver oil;
So Sir Thomas Malory
Never heard of a calory;
So the Earl of Lennox
Murdered Rizzio without the aid of vitamins or calisthenox;
So Socrates and Plato
Ate dessert without finishing their potato;
So spinach was too spinachy
For Leonardo da Vinaci;
Well, it's all immaterial,
So eat your nice cereal,
And if you want to name your ration,
First go get a reputation.
3.8k
You give me your arm
and we take to the streets
A plethora of bombardments
stimulations and senses
dissatisfaction ringing in our ears
but only faintly––––
and the rush of the waves
bursting down their lanes
crashing into the cacophonies of beyond
but all oblivious
wonders of our bodies
demons of the mind
enticing and exciting all the feathers of the future
ruffled and untangled
purity in its core
smells and sights flashing
immaterial and immortal
from time immemorial
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
Off that windy bay wharf,
where old poets speak to lost walkers,
you dove into aporia
Morality the highest myth
dreaming conquered by Capital
shelter replaced by property
the immaterial, theft by sophistry
a bay carved from jade,
crescent moon.
horizon cradling distant storms
waves upon waves accelerating towards the shore.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 1:03 AM 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
Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.
Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples
I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.
Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
~
*Ragged mist of stalled horizon,
from dry dock
to disadvantage point
second hand shops
of sackcloth and ash,
they contain multitudes
treading the outside edge
of perception,
rehearsing disaster
in fistfuls of earth,
and the immaterial:
the stuff of pure shadow
a bevy of dead buildings
resemble a fallen actress
in the throes of dance,
with emaciated figurines leaning
forward in the temple,
listening for clues
too far to whisper
work will never resume
on the tower,
and it will remain painfully scanty,
a place to bury strangers
or raise up cholera
the third world summer
sun on sacred walls,
red before orange,
let the rays burn away our sins,
we contain multitudes
but one step inside doesn't mean
we understand anything*
~
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
Genau, enow, enough
after the confusion,
we all could make a sound, okeh,
yeah
and we still
knew a shaken head or hand or fist
had meaning beyond words and noise
my words, their noise, barbarians all, but my
loved ones, still,
my nana Even , none could say a meaningful word
Ah, papa Eber, eber he be waving sayin'
Shhhhlome. wow. a word, I was
re connected re tied re ligamented re tendoned
re nerved re *****
re bled
re breathed
inspire me, expire me, think me immaterial, no mattah
nomattatall we stick together, gone bealright
begrudge me not a bit o'livit ity, a st-utter here'n'there
words, in wars, we always win. We are war's
raison d'etre, as they say, its
rational grounds for existence, its
excuse for being.
words are the instigators, provocateurs
no wordless insult results in war,
words are needed,
otherwise
fugitabowdit, how long? Seven times? 490 times?
no,
once, each time, no more.
enoughs the evil enoughs enow.
the weapons of our warfare, how can I say,
watch
we see salient leapers trampling the vintage, seeping
from the heel wound in the beguiler's head.
That's results.
Angels sing and dance, they never tremble in the night,
the hope we never lost,
we just forgot, they remember as if it were the same,
yes, today, forever
they whisper,
go on,
there's more to living than meets the eye.
enough has always had a plural, ask Sam Johnson.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
A bill becomes a law through a process not unlike wet clay curing in the sun, seasonal labor filling the fields in springtime, a drop of sweat absorbed thirstily into a towel, a stain spreading across a tablecloth.
A bill becomes a law eventually, but often, not in time. A bill often fails on the floor, as do some people, as does, just as often,
the attempt to revive them. The attempt looks an awful lot
like a senator's face, energetic and gray and doomed and
looking for any advantage
when the needed advantage is in the ether
and still immaterial until the tenth of February.
I notice the bumper stickers, and I've deputized a Google Alert
to tell me that the popular mass is wakening.
I can also tell when it yawns,
or prods a rib for a pain that wasn't there yesterday.
I can tell when the popular mass has slept funny.
I can tell when it would rather not wake up at all
but the light is streaming in through the window
and the house is full of the sound of the dishwasher.
Pain on both sides, in both ribs, ignored
because sometimes it just happens - pain,
that is - and is a part of getting older,
like how you can't put peppers in your chili anymore
now that they don't grow on this side of the planet,
and there's nobody left to tend them.
I would like somebody to tend me, too,
but the law that sanctions that workforce
is still in committee, and mired in a dispute
about who deserves love.
This one goes out to all of those lying on their kitchen floor
once everyone is out of the house, lifting their legs and placing them on the countertop, listening to their heart ticking
and trying to discover if it reaches everywhere, if they can hear it
in their ankles.
This one goes out to their savings accounts and their kneecaps.
Here's hoping they make it.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
We think we're so different.
because we have piercings
or an iphone/blackberry
wear jeans not skirts, skirts not jeans
only shop at local markets, only buy the brands
eat organic
or vegan
or total junk
wash our hair with what's cheap
or environmentally friendly
or not at all
because we listen to folk, not rap
ska, not rock
talk a certain way
or partake in certain hobbies
have skin, instead of fur or bark
see more colourfully, but have **** nightvision
because we have warm blood
because we are human.
We think that this is individuality, but it's really all a lie.
A lie to keep us docile and passive..
To keep us buying **** we don't need,
but making us believe
that we do
Guarding us from that destructive unpredictable mother
of ours
until we don't even think of ourselves as animals anymore.
Until we think we're Kings.
To be you, you just have to be you.
Scratch that.
You just have to be
Because what is "you" anyway?
A pronoun
to keep you
away from me
and we
and us
together.
To force you into the lie of language,
because we all know that what truly speaks is our hearts
but we would never admit it
because then we would be too emotional
too sensitive
not cold or impersonal enough
to fit in.
And that's all we really want, right?
To belong?
Well, I'll tell you something:
there is a way to fit
to belong
to live.
And that is to not fit.
Don't define yourself by these labels
or this music
or that boyfriend.
Define yourself through your ideas
your ambitions
your immaterial desires.
Take out the you and become a we,
and we will be,
just be,
together.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
it almost feels like the literary critique
establishment never heard
of the digitalised version of literary
print... a bit like the dynamic
of ***********
they read **** on toilet paper
and never the small print.. no metaphor,
no pun, poet is dead with god,
you remember, let's keep it like it's 1977
with punk angst, o.k.?
well 1 1 1 of the fingers on toilet paper...
**** smear....
eager music critics, but hardly any
pornographic critics, make a living they say...
cheap pop! ah, cheap pop! chop chop!
butchers' eyes first, priests' last -
liver bitter a minded care for it
as if minding a child! curse the minding!
curse the liver! a swarm of egos,
selfish likened to a marketplace
selfless likened to a monastery -
there the likening to clarify staring into a mirror;
there where we ate everything, including thought,
the materialisation of its immaterial twin: soul;
we too ate with the lineage concerned
via the Eucharist.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
The fire knows nothing but burning,
we know breathing that way, naturally done for
our own sake.
We old still know sake and grant mean true immaterial things.
Sake and granted we take to mean
my good, your good, good sake grant me take me con
mentis sans carne
by golly.
Dada-esque wire spoke far writing ease
e everything e-literate e-mail
---
the boinin' in d'boozum, dat be da ting, da ting con sum in all ya'lifes.
be knowin' dat, be knowin' a-dam lie.
Jah know y'know, don' be sayin' no y'don'
Be happy. Jah know haps be hap'nin' allatime. *** sum, take wha's granted,
take all fo' free.
You got nothin' t'boin, nothin' to oin, be a bird brain seein' stars fo'
no. birds be sleepin' when stars be seen so birds consider nothin', sidereally.
Hmmm. Quit?
Walk away, say, I got nought to say I ought t' say.
No way.
Temporary tempt-test-u-us sitchee-ations,
suffer it so. It don' hurt t'say no f'now so
How'd that that shiny critter know my game? How'd it know,
I think
thisaway and it is gone, forever. (which has begun, btw)
-----
The biosphere is regaining consciousness, Capitan.
Shall we continue burning?
What's the bullocks count?
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
we did what we could that night
and a supernal being is ashamed.
this is the drift of thought
in the vast ocean of gilded gold
frothing at the edge of rotund:
giving back a silenced enigma,
spewing the answer in an exhaust
of white rancid smoke
dharma burns plastered to cigarette.
burning and burning, afloat are the high-pouncing embers looking for fleeting shades and dagger-ambulations
of a shadow's swagger in tectonic soiree.
we did what we could that night.
like a flash of lightning at the back
of hoarded hills,
or say, something brutal and brash with
modern sensibilities we never jell —
we come not with softness or life
peering out of our eyes like little girls
serenaded by mad men in the eve of
forlorn nights. we did what we could
and some god cringes, winces away
like the erratic dance of candleflame.
the leviathan black spreads its parasol
and we are no strangers.
when our veraciousness starts to pierce
the veil, the populace should start
to worry of their trapped conditions.
we came here for something:
be it flesh, be it wisdom, be it plain inebriations — we will never flinch
at the squalor of tomorrow's sobering.
keep in mind, kaibigan.
it's all levitation and transcendence.
the darkness wept as the car
groans near the end of its immaterial life.
i flick the last cigarette into the grey-faced pavement.
all oceans drowned,
all shadows burgeoned,
all fires emerged plump,
this silent radio rivers
through the wave of this ephemerality,
the onomatopoeia of strangeness,
the thud
of the senseless head of metal
on the body
the clackety-clack
of hours thereafter!
ayeayeaye! the streets sing no mild
appendage. the solstice is lost
in the length and precision of all things.
bringing ourselves to the brink of absence,
our pallid selves set ablaze, emblazoning
the quick life of matchflame or rumble of
thunder — the steady phoenix of
that night! this is learning
to breathe again, o, what currents purloined in vicious swarth as we keep
this river flowing into our throats,
jamming our souls to compelling music.
remember kaibigan,
it's all levitation and transcendence.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
Verse 1:
The one that I long for,
The malady for which my heart ails,
You’re an infectious boil inflaming my very soul.
A toxic love slowly consumes my eyes,
Where have you gone, I’ve been blinded by the truth.
The butterflies of my youth have collapsed into naught.
The Universe weeps to me in her legion tears of the stars;
She sings to me a requiem of an unrequited love.
I have faith that you’re out there, my orchid of blossoming love,
I want to feel you effloresce as golden thread connects our souls.
Chorus:
The boon of my youth, has He veiled me in ebony wings?
Has the moon abandoned the sanctity of an everlasting youth?
Please glimmer upon me,” I long to set you free!”
There is a divine vessel inside of me, oh, He longs for a sacred love.
Verse 2:
I know that Gaia, that beauteous and earthen Goddess;
She smiles down upon me as I quiver beneath the Earth.
I’ve retreated to the underworld and there are clouds beneath the ground,
They take the form of a lover whose face I cannot make out.
The heavens have been concealed from me and I fear that I’ve been deceived;
Is it wrong to wish upon a star for someone to enamor me?
Chorus:
The boon of my early years, has He veiled me in ebony wings?
Has the moon abandoned the sanctity of an everlasting youth?
Please glimmer upon me,” I long to set you free!”
There is a divine vessel inside of me;
He longs for a sacred love.
Bridge:
I pray that iridescence will envelop my weary soul,
Maybe cosmic glitter will fall upon tired skin.
My body is immaterial; I sweat and cry tears of blood.
Maybe tribulation will flourish into love.
The cosmos lies inside me and my heart is shining blue,
It shall illuminate the pathways that will lead me to your heart.
Chorus:
The boon of my early years, has He veiled me in ebony wings?
Has the moon abandoned the sanctity of an everlasting youth?
Please glimmer upon me,” I long to set you free!”
There is a divine vessel inside of me;
He longs for a sacred love.
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
i am a phonographic record
and you are the ears that hear me
i cant compare my music
to malignant mammographies
and the phantasmagoria of cash
or to hash-browns and flapjacks
or to a purple field drowning in wisteria
yes, i am hysterical too
like elderberry syrup and cough drops
popping like its hot
so we japa till we drop, it all
yes, everything
so give it a chance
see your face in the reflection
of a pool of moonlight
a **** bather
a fool at the equator
equates to nothing
so i undress my unctuousness
a congruent confluence
like blood on an apartment building wall
a pox in your cereal boxes
flu shots and mandatory vaccinations
without informed consent
we are experiencing a loss of the immaterial
if we pamper ourselves with distraction
we attract the repulsive side of thy will
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
it is tempting to lose yourself
in the pleasure of wordly possessions
money, cars, yachts, beautiful things
the Dagobert Duck syndrome
as we know
even the pharaos of ancient times
together with assorted kings and emperors
chiefs, dukes, presidents, popes, & cetera,
could only take their toys
into their graves
and not beyond
we do not know for sure
although we may believe
if immaterial possessions
have a better fate
yet even though we do not know
what our final moment brings
a thoughtful wrinkle on your brow
looks always better than
a bleak array of orphaned things
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC