"impartial" poems
and i don't even know if i want to kiss your lips or just your skin
because i'm
falling
falling
falling
falling
falling
falling
falling
but i don't want to hit the ground again.
are you sure your arms can hold the weight of my love when it's wrapped in wet clothes?
and are you sure it's the best idea to take this where the wind goes?
i'm not yet sure if love is a real thing
it's just a
beautiful
fictional
deadly
play,
and you still kiss me like i'm sane
but i know it's all just another game
so don't be surprised if i refuse to participate.
and you're like a
cynical
patronizing
inconsiderate
impartial
callous
song,
but your vicious words still gently drag me along.
and i'm not sure if you're really toxic
or it's just all in my head.
because
i love you
love you
ove you
ve you
e you
you
ou
u
or maybe i love when you're in my bed.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
(for Christopher Isherwood)
Seated after breakfast
In this white-tiled cabin
Arabs call the House where
Everybody goes,
Even melancholics
Raise a cheer to Mrs.
Nature for the primal
Pleasure She bestows.
*** is but a dream to
Seventy-and-over,
But a joy proposed un-
-til we start to shave:
Mouth-delight depends on
Virtue in the cook, but
This She guarantees from
Cradle unto grave.
Lifted off the *****
Infants from their mothers
Hear their first impartial
Words of worldly praise:
Hence, to start the morning
With a satisfactory
Dump is a good omen
All our adult days.
Revelation came to
Luther in a privy
(Crosswords have been solved there)
Rodin was no fool
When he cast his Thinker,
Cogitating deeply,
Crouched in the position
Of a man at stool.
All the arts derive from
This ur-act of making,
Private to the artist:
Makers' lives are spent
Striving in their chosen
Medium to produce a
De-narcissus-ized en-
During excrement.
Freud did not invent the
Constipated miser:
Banks have letter boxes
Built in their façade
Marked For Night Deposits,
Stocks are firm or liquid,
Currencies of nations
Either soft or hard.
Global Mother, keep our
Bowels of compassion
Open through our lifetime,
Purge our minds as well:
Grant us a king ending,
Not a second childhood,
Petulant, weak-sphinctered,
In a cheap hotel.
Keep us in our station:
When we get pound-notish,
When we seem about to
Take up Higher Thought,
Send us some deflating
Image like the pained ex-
-pression on a Major
Prophet taken short.
(Orthodoxy ought to
Bless our modern plumbing:
Swift and St. Augustine
Lived in centuries
When a stench of sewage
Made a strong debating
Point for Manichees.)
Mind and Body run on
Different timetables:
Not until our morning
Visit here can we
Leave the dead concerns of
Yesterday behind us,
Face with all our courage
What is now to be.
13.9k
Time is venerable and impartial.
It has no need for desire or emotion, yet what it encompasses does.
Time seems unfair and uncaring, but it has purpose.
To see what you really care about.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
I am blind
And I ain't blind
To the different social classes
And their faces
I try and try to be impartial
But my fears and preconceptions
Give way to prejudice of thought
Love and unity fill my mind
Yet when its time
To effect some change
My feet quiver
And words can't formulate
I want to tell my brethren
you are special to me
and I love you just the same
As anybody else
But I'm scared of what he will respond
Will he reject me as we are not the same
Will he embrace me and bring forth a seed of change
I am blind
And I ain't blind
To the disdain classes afford one another
Man threatens to discard the fact we're all the same
So I wonder
Can we look beyond facades
Strip it all down to our core
Don't we all want to feel the same
Maybe we can toughen up and take down the ranks
That impede us from becoming one-another's friend
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 2:57 AM UTC
At this particular time I have no one
Particular person to grieve for, though there must
Be many, many unknown ones going to dust
Slowly, not remembered for what they have done
Or left undone. For these, then, I will grieve
Being impartial, unable to deceive.
How they lived, or died, is quite unknown,
And, by that fact gives my grief purity--
An important person quite apart from me
Or one obscure who drifted down alone.
Both or all I remember, have a place.
For these I never encountered face to face.
Sentiment will creep in. I cast it out
Wishing to give these classical repose,
No epitaph, no poppy and no rose
From me, and certainly no wish to learn about
The way they lived or died. In earth or fire
They are gone. Simply because they were human, I admire.
5k
A handy Mole who plied no shovel
To excavate his vaulted hovel,
While hard at work met in mid-furrow
An Earthworm boring out his burrow.
Our Mole had dined and must grow thinner
Before he gulped a second dinner,
And on no other terms cared he
To meet a worm of low degree.
The Mole turned on his blindest eye
Passing that base mechanic by;
The Worm entrenched in actual blindness
Ignored or kindness or unkindness;
Each wrought his own exclusive tunnel
To reach his own exclusive funnel.
A plough its flawless track pursuing
Involved them in one common ruin.
Where now the mine and countermine,
The dined-on and the one to dine?
The impartial ploughshare of extinction
Annulled them all without distinction.
5k
☺☻╬☻
Finish the crackers --- grab a smoke . . .
of Ferguson my muse will sing.
A call to arms --- God’s fires to stoke;
let Truth and Freedom ring!
Take to the streets; avenge this wrong
and hasten the end of racist rule.
Justice, though it may tarry long
will find its target in the duel.
Young Michael Brown, like all true saints
found himself craving Swisher Sweets.
He robbed a store, whose camera paints
impartial portrait. In the streets
the thief refused to be detained
and so threw off police restraint.
Though sin escaped, the Law remained
and made a martyr of this saint.
The agitators did their thing:
inflaming thugs to smash and loot,
while racists baited hooks, to string
the press. Officials followed suit.
Angels, although not always kind,
do not display this attitude –
aware of how the police mind
responds to such ingratitude.
We ought to thank the police force
for showing mercy under stress.
The culprit chose a foolish course
and made a God-awful mess.
Prince Michael met ignoble fate
(that ghetto-Christ, that righteous youth)
His sacrifice in vain --- though great,
could not impede the march of Truth.
Ferguson, our eyes turn towards you . . .
are you now able to admit
while reality rewards you
that looting and lying ain’t ****
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
the catholic nurse
all sensitive
caring noticing
everything
what can she think
of my hot/cold torment
always near blowing it
living in the fast lane
so friendly kind
the girls
dewy eyed
wanda abandoned me
bolton is in my hands
and yet my coldness
hurts
the more emotional
they stay
trying to find a reason
for my ice-like suspicion
fish eyes
coldly indifferent eyes
suspect everything that moves
socialising just to be loud
compensate for cold
lack of essential trust
warmth
i love them
despite myself
my desire to love
is unconscious and gigantesque
i never know
when i'm going to miss someone
strange coldness perplexing
i've got to work to get devotion
but once i get it
i really get people on my side
there are my people
who can survive
my shark-like coldness
and there are those
who want something
more personal
i can be very devoted to those
who can stay the course
my soul is aching
for an impartial love of people
i'm at war with myself.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
Travelling royalty, a princess with no home;
Inspiring love and loyalty, everywhere she goes.
A radiant smile, captivating eyes,
Flagrant beauty, the kind that never dies.
A lover of life, an enchanting presence,
An overflowing fountain, wonderful decadence.
The princess met the peasant –
A man from a land where very little is pleasant.
Clawed a path out of the dirt,
Flawed, yet always hungry for answers,
An explanation as to why we’re all scarred and hurt.
Temptation incarnate, freedom given life –
Impartial, a storm about to deliver strife.
It was a spark worthy of Zeus’ thunderbolts;
Worlds apart, yet tolerant of each other’s faults.
Equals in their intellect, conjoined at their hearts;
Immediate and mutual respect,
Together, they could make the seas part.
The peasant got blessed by the divine,
The princess was impressed by the sublime.
Her, with her presence,
Him, with his essence –
Two people who, despite their charms, don’t fit anywhere else.
They found shelter in each other’s arms,
A respite from their personal hells.
Yet, the princess needed to journey once more,
An ending to a story that leaves the heart sore.
The peasant lay there, looking at his fields,
Reminiscing, bitterly sipping comfort in a glass.
He could do naught but shed tears, and think:
‘I’d give up every harvest, all my work and what it yields,
To have you by my side; you gave me peace and strength,
You made me feel like I can bend swords and crack shields.’
The princess could only stare,
Right at where his hand once held hers;
She could only think of the dare,
The night where they both let down their hair,
And think:
‘I’d give up the road, all my walks and journeys,
To have you by my side; you gave me sweetness and kindness,
You made me feel loved, breathless and weak in the knees.’
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
He who is loyal to a particular one
is a slave to discrimination.
He who is loyal to both
is ripped in two.
He who is loyal to neither
is impartial and safe,
a king of his own.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
since before I was born I can remember time picking me up and carrying me along in its embrace it held me close never letting me down never stopping along the way sometimes speeding up sometimes slowing down freezing in slow motion moments it has never let me down running on through these presents here Passing here past time's arrow only moving in one direction no instant replays no do overs leaving traces of memories some false some recovered some discovered left with the traces of remorse and guilt in pain to tend along our way
time my sweetest friend and enemy
of endings I have always thought a lot these days these ways these happy unhappy joyful passing passing moments with you I held on tight to your impartial embrace knowing full well one day on the ground you will lay me down
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
I knew you from another time, another country,
watched you flicker between the shrill squeals of children's voices,
trace crystal on reflective faces.
Long forgotten, you followed me here
to dance your brittle death over my body's contours,
startling me into submissive white.
My skin shudders.
Your cold hands surprise me,
long bones flecked with almost-snow
shrivel my seed to a dry husk,
my fruit to rotten pulp.
You are alien here.
Like a thief you fling back my golden quilt,
steal the colour from my cheeks,
reduce my indigenous offspring to a spineless slaver
of translucent gel,
terrified milk running to ground.
After of a night of white terror you sigh over me,
roll your eyes over my corpse
leaving the whole withered,
impartial to my wailing
on account of your ungovernable nature.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 10:10 AM UTC
Every blade of grass
Fed by rays from space
Each color refracted
An afternoon complete
With swing set
Barefoot strolling
Impartial recognition
Nihilism’s shadow
Hides seeds supplanting thistle
Frail beginnings
Awkward stems
Reaching for our earth
And a life left behind
Leaching nourishment
Acknowledged
By their voices
But glances are more telling
Lonely wanderer,
Man imbued
Disparate hopes
Discouraged and disheartened
As the sun shines down
His blades reflect
Refracted radioactivity
Thistled leaves snapping
Thorny twigs grasping
At our earth
At our voices
At anything
Our serendipity
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 7:50 PM UTC
“It is essential in order to protect societyfrom the ambition, greed, and malpractice or caprice of rulers to ensure the inviolatibility of even the humblest home. The right and power of the private citizen to appear to impartial courts against rulings of the state and against ministerial decrees of the day. Freedom of speech in writing, freedom of the press, freedom of combination and agitation within the limits of long established laws. The right of regular opposition to government. The power to turn out a government and put another set of men in its place by lawful and constitutional means, and finally the sense of every individual’s association with the state and of some responsibility with the actions and conduct of the state.”
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
Two armies face,
Under wild and impartial skies.
Tension, drawn and nocked,
Waiting for the order to loose.
The drummers beat cadence,
Tempo building
Matching my racing pulse.
Clarion call,
Drowning out all thought.
Ground quaking,
With the pounding
Of hundreds of feet.
Battlecries and wordless screams
Split the air.
Alike to the one
Rising in my own throat.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
Indifference is beautiful
It does not judge
It does not care
It simply is.
My beautiful, unbiased and impartial whore
I love you
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
I have seen God.
Her head raised high, poised and beautiful
Smooth skin that seems to control nature in her veins.
In her was history, the first, the genesis.
Her love is impartial, incomparable.
I have seen God
In different shades of earth and nature
Made of Protons, neutrons, melanin
She is root; the source of life
Life itself, the very beginning.
I have seen God
She would trade her life for her children
She’s an armour and life jacket
She is the source of life and peace.
She is more than an angel, she is a god.
I have seen God
She is black.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
I will be patient
I will be kind
I will gain
My peace of mind
I will not judge
I will not cheat
I will live
A life complete
I will be happy
I will be serene
I will keep a heart
So pure, so clean
I will accomplish
I will strive
I will persevere
I will thrive
I will be impartial
To all mankind
I will gain
My peace of mind
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:38 AM UTC
Hail, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequall’d accents flow’d,
And ev’ry ***** with devotion glow’d;
Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin’d
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.
Behold the prophet in his tow’ring flight!
He leaves the earth for heav’n’s unmeasur’d height,
And worlds unknown receive him from our sight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,
And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.
Thy pray’rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries
Have pierc’d the ***** of thy native skies.
Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,
How he has wrestled with his God by night.
He pray’d that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell,
He long’d to see America excell;
He charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine;
That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift that ev’n a God can give,
He freely offer’d to the num’rous throng,
That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.
“Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,
“Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;
“Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
“Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;
“Take him my dear Americans, he said,
“Be your complaints on his kind ***** laid:
“Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,
“Impartial Saviour is his title due:
“Wash’d in the fountain of redeeming blood,
“You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”
Great Countess, we Americans revere
Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;
New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,
Their more than father will no more return.
But, though arrested by the hand of death,
Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath,
Yet let us view him in th’ eternal skies,
Let ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine re-animates his dust.
2.1k
The one thing I will never understand,
Is man's inhumanity to his fellow man,
How people who call each other sister and brother,
Could be so hurtful to one and other,
How people can treat each other so mean,
Without understanding where they've been,
Who would lead each other into war,
Choosing to be the problem, not the cure,
Who have the power to guide another man's fate,
With hidden agendas mixed with hate,
Who think nothing of causing another man pain,
If there is a dollar somehow to gain,
Who would send another man off to die,
While widows and orphans are left to cry,
Though they may play the part of an impartial judge,
They'll soon condemn you for some long-held grudge,
Stepping into the night like some heartless thief,
Their only goal is to bring another man grief,
Manipulating others they seek to control,
For a bit of power, they'd sell their soul,
Yes, the one thing I'll never understand,
Is man's inhumanity to his fellow man.
09-23-10.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 12:31 AM UTC
market report: spinning on an axis of complexity
phrase captures and enraptures, buried deep in one of the
countless market reports that arrive every minute out of date by the time they press the end/send button but this rises
up from the forged gorge throat and all the rest falls away
spinning on an axis of complexity
sticks like Elmer's glue, white viscous, good for paper & skin,
cause you knew precision revision incision instantaneous,
they are intended for your eyes only, pasted to your eyes,
tinged tongue screaming you man, you poem
there is no
difference, for both at 1:55am
where time is sleep verboten,
when words are blood platelets in a mystery entitled
spinning on an axis of complexity
human must eat
human must work
human must love
human must sort the juggling orbs,
too much new information constant and brain incapacitated
*while falling-spinning
when eyes now fully glued shut by the
complexity of clashing algorithms
writing this market report on the state of me,
the passionate impartial analyst who boldly reveals, he proclaims
he owns stock in himself and issues a
sell recommendation*
the complexity-situation trending signals crash a-coming,
and at 1:59am after composing this hissy fit writ,
he downgrades the official outlook to sell and
lies down on the kitchen floor and laughs
with the angel dudes eating bagels and holding their sides,
cause they have been running a short position up in heaven
6/22/17 2:05am
nyc
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
The prison bus
passes this way
every now and then,
surfacing without
warning—a leviathan
of metal, grease, and glass
its dark windows secured
by squares of rusted wire
its diesel engine heart
spewing exhaust that
turns morning rain
the color of seawater.
The prison bus
does not stop
for stop signs;
red lights are nothing
but violent memories
strung in an overcast sky.
When the bus strikes
something in its path
the prisoners bounce
slightly in their seats,
lifted into
impartial air
liberated
momentarily
by the familiar
co-conspirators
of blood and laughter.
In his dreams,
the guard who
drives the prison bus
circumnavigates the globe,
plowing through clouds
of insects that shimmer
like fuel above the road.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
There’s a picture perfect
moon in the sky and
all I can think about is
you
(which doesn’t make sense
because the moon in the heavens and
all the stars in the galaxy have
nothing to do with you and I).
I think it’s because it was you who I
told all my secrets to,
you who I confided in—I think it’s because
I trusted you.
Sometimes I look up at the cosmos and
wonder what type of angel she is
and then I wonder if I ever told you
my deep, dark thoughts about
what happened.
I can’t remember.
My mind is as thick and heavy
as my tongue feels—
fog
everywhere and I cannot see
where I am going, much less
where I have come from.
There’s something inside of me that,
like a caged dog, is awaiting to be
unlocked from its restraining bars and
I don’t know where to start talking without
sounding like an absolute madman.
I think that this poem has transformed from
a few lines about you to
a few lines about her and to be honest,
I don’t remember the last time
I wrote about her
(but I guess I should try).
I was a child when I first went to bed
and a teenager as I turned in my sleep—
we could be twins, she and I,
with our closed eyes, and
visions of stars at night and
pale complexions like
the sand on the beach basking
in the glow of the hanging moon.
I wonder if she met Samael.
I wonder if he was nice.
They told me how much I looked like her;
they gushed about how we had the
same personality, same sense of humor,
but I didn’t want to hear a word they said—
I don’t think I could stand to look
myself in the mirror if that were true
because it would be a constant reminder of
her
and I don’t want to be reminded.
I think that we all start off as angels and
that somehow we end up here,
bound down to a life full of interactions
and paths to cross and plans to make;
I think that we all finish as angels and
that somehow we end up there,
no longer a single form and single being,
we become infinite once more.
But then I remember that even Lucifer,
himself, once wore white wings and I think
that sometimes we’re no better than him—
that I’m no better than him.
I hope Raphael can fix us and
I pray that Uriel can set us straight
because in this aphotic world, I want
to be able to see straight down into
into the abyss.
I want to see you through unbiased eyes and
hear you through impartial ears the way
that I used to be able to until that night
outside your house.
I want to tell you all of these things I think
about the two of us—
all these things I think about my
mother
and that night and those days
in which it happened.
Just please don’t clip my wings.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC