"inaccuracies" poems
Is it really this hard
to find people I can go back and forth in discussion with
about Buddhist and Hindu theology compared and contrasted against Christian and Yoruba
I want to scream and shout and dance with somebody over Janet Jackson's new album
and at the same time
feel the heat and talk with somebody about how extremely sad and depressing
but oh so good Giovanni's Room was
I want to be able to speak with somebody whom can quote Malcolm X and Kafka in the same breath
Somebody who could see the logic of Pac and Immortal Technique on the same piece
with the Budos Band or Mulatu on the back track
I want to know people whom know
just exactly who
Suki Lee and Bayard Rustin are
can we talk about Jacob Kinohoor's ***
at least for a moment
then get into some B.B. King or Johnny Cash
have you seen Dune
the one from the eighties
James McAvoy shirtless
as well as John Goodman’s acting
were only good things about the other
if you read it
even better
what about the ***** that sat by the door
Or
killer clowns from outer space
let's be shady and point out all the inaccuracies on the history and discovery and channels
praying for that day
that's not in February
They show Shaka Zulu in full
without commercial interruption
Or maybe a documentary about native American people
with actual native actors
that do not depict them all as either
plains people
Or Inuit
Cause you already know
not everybody is Eskimo
then let's put on our own private production of legally blonde
followed by encore presentations of the classic scene
Of Miss Celie and miss Ofelia going in over Harpo
can I discuss with you
how the Patriot act nullifies everything in constitution
And the bill of rights
even though they never were intended to be permanent any way
It would be nice to not have to explain a Corporatocracy
all my life Ive been into Egyptology
You do know that Imhotep was the actual founder of medicine
by a good 2000 years
not that Hippocrat
the thing is
I'm still learning
when attempt to delve that deeply into people
which I don't even consider that deep
They often misunderstand
They often concluded without thinking
maybe
just maybe
©Christopher F. Brown 2015
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
.
and your mug shot's shining through
it's a vision true (but the subject's taboo)
all ugly here
morning sunshine breakfast table autumn cool
you're poised to speak a fly lands on your lolling spoon
then i stand up merry
i make my vital move the table backs away distressed
your eyes raise
i flop open my faminous mouth and let the fumes draw in
Surprise !
(no time for you to hold surplus breath -
- form an expression - make any objection)
mechanism disjoints like the raw riches
i whip the plumb weight of my head and strike
mouth-chomp-grip over your scalp
and i am working you in
with swift jaw shifts and hingery
i **** on you with a smile and gullet
(past photos of you shuffle glaucous before my inner eye)
yap sock muscle i operate gumming on your head
(ours was the world ; we got so lazy)
budging in your hair dampened by my saliva
(our timid first meeting at a bar)
and airway and my teeth softly folding back
(us in bed-us in bed-us-in-bed)
and whole hog jaw agog
(the tourist we made as a couple)
i dilate and distend crouch low to take your weight
(the rise and falter of your sleeping chest)
upend your hands panic typing in the air
(the eyes of your investment in me)
your feet flinging the heft back and forth
your shoulders break in and forward folding
my chest cracks and wells
(gifts we gave that touched heart and others that fell short)
a complete engulfing meal of you
(your childhood antidotes and teenage feelings we discussed)
down my soft disposal
(all my memories of us in a fizz
and all the inaccuracies)
...and then i head off to hibernation
ferrying an idea that ' i have you now '
that perhaps you were my enemy
all this time
and i am digesting the beast
(what a feast !)
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 9:39 PM UTC
What is it, Oh what is it that plagues my mind
Which rests its design in black melancholy
And perpetual lament
Producing desperate and unreasonable frustrations
And condemnations of grotesque obligations
Investing a relentless barbarism of lamentation
In that moment of the infinite pulse of inaccuracies
That raises from the grave of oblivion illicit ambitions
And by their presence embalms me with an ambiguous curse
That compels no rivalry or universal justification
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Hatred in a misinterpretation of what
people think I linger in. I have no aversion
to this thought process, I just choose what
I know is true.
That understanding of facts where those who
delve to regurgitate inconsistences upon myself.
Why do you wish to ascend your misgivings on
me when like a viper all that is bitten upon is untruths.
Repugnance on a belief where I have non, free thought
facts and realistic virtues are what my life is based upon.
But you spite me as I am not held back I reject your
inaccuracies that have taken over a cognitive thought.
Deities are like clothes so many have been and then
like fickle thought, kicked to the curb for the
newest trendiest misgivings of whom to blame for
what we have subdued on ourselves no other to blame.
*"I have objections to inaccurate speculation
where truth just doesn't seem to connect on thought,*
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
a music box of magic words
of circuses, gruesome murders and monsters
a mad logic of connected disconnected things
held together by the drifting mists of dreams
first air and rainbows
destroying pious falsities, telling new tales
of many things to come, flying above the crowd
showing the blinding white distance ahead
of the two ice capped poles
past he various categories
like old people who die when the weather turns
yet there is a desire to summon and expect disaster
you've seen the show, blinding like the sun on water
matched only by the patience
of the floating fall of a ladies silk stocking
a music box that looks immensely vindicated
and in those precious seconds, these busy seconds
that mumble and murmur to themselves
of divine and temporal forces
tastes the whiff of immorality
that possesses that special skin
that cruelty of countless acquisitions
of alchemy especially its capacity to coach sorrow
to teach it to touch the regurgitated
inaccuracies of indentured truth
ah! the music box who returns the echoing roar
of answerless answers with questionable questions
yet inoculated and protected by the vast pleasures
that somehow conceal themselves within the music box
in its rhythms and its clock-work metal innards
cancel out any pain and the half closed eyes that stop the heart
shatter the sky
shower with an avalanche of magnetic attraction
the magic music box, the magic music box
Pandora's magic music box
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
*dreams in colors that don't exist,
and 'mares re dear sir, deadlines missed,
wrestle~arrest poet,
instant awake
in the wee time,
pouring liquidity,
fluids and words,
puddling, stinking,
coming,
from the
always dangerous,
always interesting temple inner inside,
sanctimonious no more sanctum*
this particular sleep,
shortened, irretrievable,
bookmarked "closed,"
chapters,
hours too soon,
this rest business,
arrested
filed in an ugly
grey metal file cabinet,
in an unfinished manila prison
with your other unimportant poems
*the dark room universe
populated by
hints, shadows, voices,
waiting, welcoming,
mirrors on the walls
unified in one voice
deep, obtuse,
demanding recognition
"hither hither come"*
forced march
to a visitation,
to the the parition,
of your reflection,
clearest ever seen,
in the black pitch,
uncovered by guise, feathers
the clothes of normative pretenses,
the man-made borderlines of
preservation falsehoods
*seen your own semblance,
parts rearranged,
uncanny,
the mirrors are screaming:
shameful lovely,
this, our artistry,
your apparition,
now accurate,
reflecting your under-
lying
condition,
at last,
an accurate portrayal,
of your inaccuracies*
do you find yourself attractive?
this new balance,
the unregulated pieces
of you
before your dissembling,
discerning,
dissecting eyes?
*feeling the valence,
an introduction,
a physical magnetism
any attraction
any resemblance
to the semblance
that writes
this s.o.s.?*
answer us thus,
do you up
and like yourself
unvarnished,
grunge, swag,
truth trammeled,
don't you want to kiss yourself
goodbye,
or better yet,
fare thee hell?
*go ahead,
ask yourself now,
that one question
that prevents conception,
from your inception,
what is it that
makes you exceptional?*
don't you realize,
everything about you
ends in a question mark?
*how dare you write poetry?
you are the false poet,
you live on the division
tween artifice and self-deception,
this, your only precept,
and now that you are
clarified,
answer this,
knowing you know
nothing
but artifice,*
how dare you write poetry?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Recollected memory is subject to a host of ancient inaccuracies, where psychoactive crises are currently attributed to ghosts of a distant netherworld.
Have you ever wrapped your hands around the power of a train as it meanders down the tracks of contemplation into the distance of realisation? How loud is the scream of the butterfly?
I fully appreciate that there is a difference between visual and auditory senses, even though one may see with their ears and hear with their eyes.
Can you taste the classical mantras of sanskritic language where vedic chants find solace in the bridge of the sitar?
How phenomenological! I can feel your trembling pulse, my antiquarian partner of contemporary lusts.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
While there's no ink on any paper,
No clicking of keys to satisfy
the hunger of a page
My mind holds the ink and the clacking
Typing up inaccuracies
Drawing conclusions
Writing a fearful poem
Drenched in black ink and woe.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
Wild poets stylizing
beating the drum that must be heard:
Call from the depths that ancient heart beat,
Fill that genie *** a word.
Snaking, Smoking, Slithering,
abundant with passionate lashing,
Tongue in cheek, match the beat,
Feed our hungry hatchling.
Unnerved by the dogged inaccuracies
Plagued by the sources that know,
Round about they seek the truth:
No further they must go.
To create a straight and narrow path
Out of the circle you must come,
Raised a glass anew,
Darkness must be overcome.
Nay, Nay, Nay, Nay
Faith is naught with you,
Belief comes from a higher power,
It is not your job to rescue:
For I am not lost.
On the hill where our *father lies,
Under a breadth of dew,
he lays there and he testifies
that he saw the King of the Jews.
Find the beat again,
Is it there, Charlie?
Do you hear it in your soul?
Rattling the cages of time,
you seem so very controlled
and you still have
a very long way to climb.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
I’ve never known a god,
I don’t even know if god is real.
Church choirs sing the hymns,
Pastors preach the bible,
But there’s so many of them.
Written.
Rewritten.
It’s like the game, Telephone,
We played when we
Were little kids.
The teacher would whisper
A sentence into whoever’s
Ear was to her left or right,
And around the circle it would go,
Reaching whoever was last.
Then they would spew out
The wrong sentence like a geyser
That held words rather than water,
And we’d all laugh because we
Know that it isn’t right.
The teacher would
Tell us what she said,
Then we’d all be upset.
That’s not what I heard.
We’d all think.
And just like Telephone,
All those rewritten
Bibles must’ve gotten
Something wrong
Along the way.
So why am I supposed
To believe
Historical inaccuracies
About a man that
Is allegedly omniscient,
Supposedly righteous,
And theoretically loving of all?
Right now though,
With your hand on my face,
I can see now why people
Hope for a heaven
And a god
And just someone to believe in
Because I can feel
All those things running through
Your fingertips.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
Bathe in gray areas and be happy
Sleep in the house of the academic
Eat in the house of the fool
Inhale the inaccuracies
Let them reach your lungs
Exhale the accuracies
And dream of your truth
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
White lies
Morsels of truth, embedded in
the main course of inaccuracies
preying on rights
driving on what isn't being told
Injustices
made to be light,
weightless
an insufficient souffle
holding no matter
but that's all a
matter of opinion
turning everything else
"the black truth"
Dinner table full of corrupt politics
But,
I'm not hungry
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
The Non-Subliminal Criminal
High Priest of Hypocrisy
The Diplomat of Draft Dodgery
The Great Example of Paying Test-Takers
The Loudmouth of Wealthy Fakery
The Main Proof of Miseducation
The Nanocrat of Non-Payment
Potentate of ***********
Sultan of **** Patronage
The Grand Poobah of Poopoo
The Big Wheel of Blather
The Salesman of Bull-puckey
High Lama of Skullduggery
The Master Purveyor of Inaccuracies
The Pride of Misrepresentation
The Scion of Misdirection and Nepotism.
The Black Knight of Spite.
The Grand Lizard of Hate and Bigotry
The Fomenter of Torment.
The Master of Catastrophe
The Master of the Quick Disaster
The Worshipper of War by Proxy
The Lover of Lies and Liars
The Promiser of Pusillanimity
The Handmaiden of Bribery
The Worshipper of Massive Greed
The Purchaser of Fake News
The Dandy With Unseen Clothes.
The Undead Ghost of the Capitol
The Horrible Haunt of the Presidency
The Embodiment of Embarrassment.
The Shamelessness of Gross Shuckery.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
The Behemoth of my brain
remains
to this day never slain
a constant drain
on my mental faculties
my mind is full of insecurities
my speech slurred with inaccuracies
but tactically I meander through the minefield
my wit my only weapon
without shield or protection
for the beast that lies dormant
waiting to escape
the cage of my subconscious
so I remain cautious
exhausted
from the constant battle
the haunting rattle of chains
that reverberate through my brain
like an oncoming train
but my feet are fixed to the tracks
no time to relax
gotta face facts
it's me or the beast
now released
let the fear begin
which starts within
a tiny seed that grows
with every thought or deed
its only chance to succeed
just you and me
a fight to the death
you steal my heart and my breath
what have I left?
one thought to survive
the reflex dive
as I submerge in water
I just caught yer
before you could commit your crime
I guess....
at least till next time.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 6:18 PM UTC
What is the evolutionary benefit
of loneliness?
How does a
Darwinian thinker rationalize the
disconnect between intro- and
extroversion?
Our world is generated by
our need to feel as though
we are together.
Not alone.
Not solitary.
Not separate.
Not disparate.
Still alive.
Still here.
Still breathing.
Still seeking the heartbeat as it
thrums through our souls
and echoes across a pillow into
the eyes of a dispassionate and
apathetic lover.
“maybe love is just muscle memory
a body next to a body
you just react how you learned it the first time.”
An empty bed full of two people waiting
to believe, maybe love is just that.
An empty bed next to an open window as curtains
flutter and we plummet past the 23rd floor
together.
Hand in hand we fall through the surface and
become a tuxedo with tears and bells standing
in front of strangers without faces reciting
lines from ancient vows written without words
in the air that floats
between us.
And it goes Dearly beloved.
Barely beloved.
Barely here.
Why do we pretend?
sorry
And it goes, Dearly beloved,
We have gathered as a people around
the need to find another with which to
fall tumbling through a woven tapestry
of inaccuracies, ineptitude, an incision to
free us from our search.
And it goes, I, the seeker,
take you, my apathetic, beautiful witness--
to have security in knowing I am now tied
to another. Not unique, but made
to hold until our until our bodies run out of time
and our sense of humanity waves to wither
to dust to nothing to death to dust.
And it stops--we transcend ourselves
into melting wax and darkness while stars poke holes
in our blanket of lies when we lay for our
final sleep. We rarely go together, and when
there’s time, we search again.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
Venus
Mars
and all the stars try to define my worth
I am not in alignment with a line
or a planet
no symbol accurately sticks to me
so I create my own
like I created my name
but I do not answer to it
My heart burns and drips
with ink and tar
and I tell myself that I am stuck
with their freedom
to submit or conform
to their standards or else
face the consequences
I am more than just stardust and recycled water
but I know that my blood is not my own
and the tears that I cry once belonged to someone else
I am made up of pieces that aren’t all the same
but they fit
I am a recycled coagulation of dreams and flesh
held together by the limits and bounds of the universe
bursting at the seams with thoughts and possibilities
inaccuracies and hypocrisy
and so still I wonder
what I am
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
knowing
I will soon
go soft
on spiders
my mother
crushes
an egg
to keep it
she says
from choking (father
he brains the head of what god could not squeeze into (brother
invents
a dead
sister
and with her
laments
the loss
of the throwing
arm
that now
predicts
the rain
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC