"impetus" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Upward I swirl
into the swirl of death shrills
Discontented about absolutism; the lies of war
Discontented about the perversions against nature; man's egomaniacal tendencies
Upward I spiral into the swirl of darkness
Gravity has no power to keep me bound
within myself
I let loose once again
I float towards another endless spiral of dark clouds,
these clouds spin expeditiously within its air-vortex
I see carnage,
I smell blood,
I witness the land of all misanthropes
Into the blackness as I spin,
my vision catches a chorale begging to be autonomous
in the state of sovereignty
The impetus in my desperate and saddened heart
I curse the gods
My tightened fist fails at at the darker darkness,
at this ominous swirling
I see no light ahead likened to the event horizon
on the outer rim of a black hole
My breath is being ****** out as the greed-succubus ***** out life
I see you in me, as we both are caught in this uninvited storm
Will we ever survive?
Will we ever survive?
So we must fight on!
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation . Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Tempestuous longings from behind the screen of life’s moving picture
You stare back at me, in a glimmering, shimmering afterthought
Laid low by foregoing passion
In a moment’s torrid glimpse from our hollow reflections
Fragrant evenings during seasons of filming
Solemnly captured and revised then experienced
The all encompassing struggle with context and setting
Abides a steely night, in the rustle of autumn branches
Requiem for an unremitting beloved!
Sung in the valley between piercing peaks of sorrow
She floats through the scene as distinct aura and vague essence
An embrace from the trail of vapors and misspent gestures
All emanating from a glass of cider beneath nostrils
Gracefully, you embank on the wind of time’s shadow
And nudge my cheek with impetus and vigor
Lashing out at my skin in ambivalent revelry
As if my follicles were vacuous caverns
Catching the callous moments which flutter the ***** of hillside tents
The unearthly gusts of banality extinguish the projector’s gleam
While nature embodies your beauty furthermore
Toward the end of the pathway
And the credits of the film
And the allegro of the score
And the solitude of eternity
And the rustling of the branches
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:09 AM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs- the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.
I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.
I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.
I’m staying here.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
But I remain a believer in my ancestral religion
Whose God is wele but not the Germany world, it is a religion,
Like most of universal ancestral ones,
With appalling moral threshold,
When Elijah Masinde of dini ya Misambwa
Despised those who condemned man as notoriously religious
He meant human religious approach to life is absolute in nature
However diverse religions compete for human ears
Rich ones glorified in the luring away of modal ears
But all are devoid of spiritual impetus
Disappointing the progenitors of religious imperialism
These short-cutters in matters of sanctimony
Will not come to our heaven
They will get me sharing a cup of tea
With my sister- in-law; Mary, the mother of Jesus
And I will shun them, I will not know them
I will not invite them to a heavenly cup of tea
They will be suffocated by cadaverous appetite,
For we honor our religion with ancestral regard;
The Faith of Our Ancestors
But in ridicule they call us kaffirs, pagans, christo-pagans,
Animists, atheists, gentiles, non-believers, mediumists,
Rebellious rebels or whatsoever they call us;
The anti-muhamedan-mis-christologists,
Let them delude themselves,
If they disparage us with sick contumely
Abreast the dumbfounding development in sciences
Plus so fortuitous humanistic awareness,
Humanity in Religion has to adjust optimally
Religious masters have to help
Interpret the religious Books, bible, gita, quran
All Written or verbalistically in the glory of epical orality
In tandem with the best centered
Life extant,
Otherwise selfish religions becomes an old wine bag
With its old and stale wine,
You will persuade Russian carousers to drink
But to your chagrin, none will condone, your stale wine
Do not seek to sell your faith
Because every human community
Has an ancestral faith
Respect them all for that is gods in their accolade of
Omonipresecence,
Any man or woman without religion is dangerous
But do not advantagize yourselves
At the expense of people of other faiths
It is good you reciprocated
Planet earth is our only sure and known abode
If we lived well here, and there is another world
For those who will be good, we hope the conclave of Gods
Would all sit in judgment for their credit
And reward those who helped humble humanity
Of their religions as well as those of other religions
As for all the Gods love humanists.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
The impetus
Of being
Always on the run
Through pinwheel eyes
Those standing by
The mystic roadway : River
Blues yet to be brushed
or in blush
Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt
All mindful
And chockfull O'
Wonder
Then ponder
Yonder "window breaks"
Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
Umber earth
Past whoosh and rush of liquid
Folding on itself / a soundtrack
Listen now
Pedestrian be
Mindful of the cautionary whales
Old Ahab’s yell
Obsessions
Fears
Or loathing.
If one is drowning in one's sleep
Look wildly
widely
Blithely
Down river
Or up there beyond finger's point
Sidewinder snake journeys
Until sky and below it
All meet
The distance
Now only a line
Coalescing what is beyond
Our ability to see
Far and away
Evanescent
Effervescent
Ever after
River. Life.
Here we are
And proud
The free spirit is fluent
With the rapid rivers loud
Always on the run
Currents like a child's curiosity ...
How then,
When or why
does it end ?
Where do we go?
Like most things existing,
Will lead to the high art /
love's deep oceans...
We often forget to seek
And mind
the sublimations/
d¬¬rift wood.
So then,
Begin with a dot .
A speck of dusk
A burst of light
A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
Raging fragility of water
Liquid undulations
Folding itself in / volumes
Or falling from on high
A droplet cry
Then the lightning
(crash or bloom)
From the heavens
like electric rivers
So brilliantly
Festoons
Where do we go (so low)
There and here / underfoot /
Over north / southern sleep
To oceans twilight deep?
Go wrapped or map-less
Or no.
Up
Way
Up yonder
There up there
Everywhere
All without fear...
My heart like the river yearns
To go toward the sun
A flow /
the beating drum
Always on the run
And
Yet
Still
Here.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC
one
by
one
they
came
no
light
no
candle
to
smudge
the
pure
darkness
children
of
the
shade
revelers
of
midnight
there
to
view
the
event
in
the
womb
of
blackness
moons
were
cocooned
awaiting
the
push
of
labor
~ stars ~
spent
with
their
urgency
await
the
impetus
that
will
send
them
spiraling
out
into
blue
and
gold
galaxies
to
scintillation
with
nebulae
and
so
the
event
the
faces
of
the
creatures
of
the
crepuscule
evaporate
the
moons
are
birthed
into
fire
the
stars
are
scattered
like
a
billion
billiard
*****
the
fabrication
that
was
matter
energy
space
and
time
is
no
more
^
< >
\/
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
779
The Service without Hope—
Is tenderest, I think—
Because ’tis unsustained
By stint—Rewarded Work—
Has impetus of Gain—
And impetus of Goal—
There is no Diligence like that
That knows not an Until—
2.8k
it is just enough,
too many in depth lessons.
pain always asks for something,
fear has run out of options,
joy wears light dresses
loneliness refuses dinner,
despair sits at a crossroad.
these are just contours of events
obliterating "the vital impetus"
as in a probabilistic game
or in the second law of thermodynamics
blissful equilibrium is just a special retreat
some form of inner spacial homogeneity
this is just a moment
before dinner is served
on a peaceful evening
by a lake
catching the last rays
of the singing sun
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Treacherously torrid torrential tempestuous
The warrior on the mountain confessed to us
Sordid sully suborn salacious
Only the worst will ever keep pace with us
In extremis extremity exigence exodus
Is the answer clear to all of us
Intuitional intrepid impetus intrigue
Spontaneity's tortoise trauma fatigue
Heuristic horizon hornswoggle huckster
Or just another cauldron muck stir
Mystical magical manumission mandate
That only the good would ever relate date
Fornicating fecund finite's fate
I can only hope it will be I rate
Tirade treatise's transpicuous treachery
Adjunct juxtaposition may get the best of me
Estranged ensemble's ethereal expletive
Won't be contained, like water in a sieve
Wanton wayward warrantee wrangled
And all of that surreal newfangled
Omnipresent omnificent omniscient omnipotence
How I wish I could float its boat sense
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
What a great unhappy waste
of muscle mass and jawline
Impetus in a mess
is what begs question of these confines
If things were not coming apart
in the ways we all saw under the surface
would our brave little boy
have robbed himself of his life toward purpose
as misguided as this?
Twenty three years staring into mirrors
with two **** brown globes of lightning
filling up with self deprecation
is a waste?
Somehow I knew you'd say that
and the news wrapped in words wrapped in plastic
glances like the spear tip to plate armor
aimed and stabbed from a distance too great
Colored nails, black or pink, or **** and gnarled
Painted face, totally, or face too **** and concave
Chest heaving open or covered from the world
Downtown or eating cereal in sweats from a mixing
bowl
On your couch
Be the bullet for all of us who took one
Be the blade for those whose voices drained by knife
And be the voice just by living
Even if hidden,
My Love,
You're real!
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few
Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address
All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry
From fanciful flights to greater heights
Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation
Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor
From Dumbledore, yet taking shape
Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot
A forest to roam, a philosophical stone
Such creative flair of which to share
Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind
Transporting train, journeyed acclaim
Of whom to impede, the will to succeed
The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach
An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority
Of which to seek with tenacity
Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined
Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply
To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst
Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage
A realised dream, challenge overcome
A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library
Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become
Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right
A rebuilt life, a legacy made
From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity
The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait
A shining star that would liberate
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
He’s trick, like enrapturing
Wherein lies the paradox of his pantheism parapet’s paragon
Extraversion embezzlements and euthanasia extortions
Diction’s enunciation echoes of opaque opulence
Its redolence a savory waft
The evolution of psychic clarity’s élan vital
Bizarre dichotomous augur the singer’s aural austerity
Gypsy Queen, his guitar’s moniker, romanced aimed intention
Elaborate elliptical empathy endeavors for posterity’s predication
Pandemically phatic propriety venerations
Their apex crux axis beyond finite solution
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma
Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix
The individual must remain sacrosanct
Traipsing through the fallow furrows of assimilation’s xenobiotic barratry
Like capillaries' capricious and intravenous intrepid
Incalculably sensual beyond emotion’s expression
Impetus intrigue's intuitional verve
Ethology’s entelechy, theosophy’s theophany
Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities
Futurity's corporeally preternatural fatidic
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
.*but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: **** the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin ****** off Chopin)... **** better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***
i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
and then... **** gone, never
to be seen again...
Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
excuses?
irritability...
there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
and conversations,
after having completed a...
well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
**** i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.
p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
so i didn't block him?
*Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.*
and i still have the block option
handy...
mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
trippy ********
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
Feeling like aged bottles of wine. Tarty, tangy, ale and rye. Backwashed at the bottom, bared half inch of DNA collecting bacterium by the decade. Each floating strand archetypal on it’s own. Like separatist fans of gold, separatist fans of chrome. Extricate model minerals alter and contrast on their own. Earth maintenance, sustenance, nourishment and remotely beyond consternation.
A lacking ruinith; she know not currency.
A value made thus child; when met bereavement, ruthless and reaved.
Long gone; alas final crestfallen gives.
Impetus formith she grooves; in smirched tarnish banks we shall live.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 12:50 AM UTC
I want to reside at the brink to that eternity,
where your eyelids confluence and letting me slip into that consciousness,
There where every rivulet of drops is drifted by the impetus of love and inclusiveness.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
I believe in predestination like a hard cover
book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe
in imagination unfettered like the wheels
of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting
everything like the teething puppy chewing
all the furniture. I believe in arrangements
like the photographer with no camera. I believe
in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts
into fine powder because of a little tension
in between your fingers. I believe in relevance
like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily
Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe
in economy like Curiosity who found her way
home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier.
I believe in complacency like the larkspur
in love with a promiscuous hummingbird.
I believe in delusion like the saxophone player
who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall
from the subway station.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 9:53 PM UTC
They touch
With a featherlight, brush of the fingertips.
Their prompt is a mere insinuation....
And their influence offered
As the slightest whisp of a wafting breeze.
But the impact made
Can be utterly monumental
And a driving impetus
To the receptive, creative soul
On a mission!
[email protected]
Apr 30, 2025
Apr 30, 2025 at 5:12 AM UTC
human detritus deaf to empathy
misanthropes bound by apathy
just above the dotted line we
signed our own death warrants
guilty as charged
existential and intellectual suicide
we'd rather gouge out our eyes
bury our heads in the sand
than give a moment's pause to
consider our own arrogance
**** sapiens
we carved our legacy into the globe
and we will rest in the husk
of a massive unmarked grave
a solitary chunk of floating rock
adrift in outerspace
"the fate of every successful species
is to wipe itself out"
can we harness the courage to turn away
from our vapid lives before it's too late
can we unplug our minds from the machine
extricate ourselves and learn to breathe
with lungs instilled through millennia of
evolution before we suffocate in ennui
humanity is on life-support
it's tempting to pull the plug
let Mother Nature reclaim her earth
from an entitled race of
self-destructive fools
coddled from childbirth but
there is a nascent impulse that
echoes in every heartbeat
living within our blood
to regard one another with the new eyes
science has built each of us
no longer can we trust self-styled
leaders of the free world
the impetus rests within the crux
of self-acceptance
anarchy is the litmus test
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
Left behind us, that questioned absent mise-en-scène
With gods compassionate speaking over me;
Carelessly deliberate staves of notes rise off the pastiche
To push the soul above the throat through to the hubris of Man
And while his brushstroke unpaints the painter, and a lucid camera shutters free.
All things arise from unities as fibers from the music sheet,
A horn of violet magnitude triumphs beyond the bore concrete,
It cuts below the rest, the merit, teasing to the very womb
Of beauty, raw and eager as primitive desire; he shows to us a tomb
A snapshot of myself the author, of us authors, born again and again
And he sits smug to the side, his cigar as long as libido.
Our bodies are substance on which and of which are drawn
From the comely purple man, patient and ****** he bears
For the very law of beast commands a stable mind,
Captains the aesthete unto the intrusive hole from, for which he writes
For which we create: in that, we find the hungry impetus,
Mothers and fathers in the same moment, with abandon
A moral of such empty stuff pulls from me spirit, spirit, spirit
Of the living wager, my life, as the music man, as the purple man
Ensconced by ***** comes to me: thus is proposed, thus is empowered
Poesis brought me close to the thing of God, poetry brought me from
And beyond, and I dedicate myself to escape from the *********** of art
But run back, and back, and back to the sole recourse to be made.
I can only ride, and writhe to feel the ****** of creation
Let it take hold, let it take breath, rise immortal o’er this infinite little death.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
Collaboration's implicit excitations explicate expectations
Unity's myriad augurs geomancy's indications
Demagoguery's ostensibly intuitive impetus coordinations
Extravagantly exorbitant panaceas appreciate exaggerations
Prolifically profuse profundity's autonomous gestations
Empirically emulate epistemology's exogamous creations
Intrigue's imperative promulgation's quantum fecundations
Fealty's ephemeral enunciation's explicit complications
Hypercritically exponential prophylaxis protocol's interpretations
Sacrosanct unary's preternatural predilection's extrications
Eventuation's evocative illuminism avant garde's ostentations
Corrupt costume counselor's indicative explications
Assimilation's synthetic synthesis' ascensional implications
Ominous phenomenon portrayal detinue's integrations
Umbrage ultraism's penumbral platitude's objectifications
Futurity's spontaneous flamboyance's apotropaic expiations
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
The assumptions of a human mind
Not concrete, but spoken with impetus
Sometimes hitting the mark
Or else, shattering the truth in parts
Even before the truth finds a hearing
The assumptions add to an ordeal
As the truth relegates in the dark pit
Our fate almost like a pendulum
Wavering from here and there
The scream from within, no one hears
Waiting for a patient hearing for the truth
As the truth being cloaked by assumptions
Darkness of someone’s mind comes to haunt
Churning a vicious tirade against truth
© Amitav
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC