"inchoate" poems
Who is the world to define mine right or wrong?
I am the one who decides it on my own
The world a crazy place, people so weird
Finding faults everywhere, while hiding in their beard
When you stand for the right,
They will advocate the wrong
Justifying the same
With million excuses in their thong
Nirbhaya ***** they say girl was characterless
Skirts, shorts, boyfriend, night shows - shameless
And inchoate, rightly arousing men to ****
One in coma now a four year old gang *****
Society mum when humanity disgraced???
Where are the people of so called decent family?
Who judge n criticize from hair to lamellae
If smoking kills, why is it not banned??
Beef eaters killed, man eaters praised on the land
Alcohol, marijuana bad for health
While more people die from terrorist attacks
Crores are spent to maintain a terrorist
To a soldier dying for the country, not even lakhs
A rich is a witch flaunting their gold
A poor a leech for things they cannot afford?
Without external beauty a person is a waste?
Your pennyless pocket how shall I grade?
Other’s loss is a righteous act of God?
Yours is a tragedy, unfortunate loss???
And then you have religion & morals
To justify your notions
Right or wrong, judgement filled oceans
I am a free spirit,
Born not to please your beliefs
Enough of hypocrite world I see
Killing and dividing on castes and creeds.
© Dr. PRERNA SINGLA, 13 Oct. 2015
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
My ***** Lover
Irrationality always wins
Chicago is aspirated beast
Braggart forced laugh
I had a vision but I have no vision
Dreamed I was making out with a woman
Who had long stretchy pink octopus tentacles
Sedulously legato ephemera
Growing from external rim of ******
Sobriquet inimical desiccation
One tentacle wrapped around and tickled
Diurnal nugatory verisimilitude
While other squeezed testicles
What was I talking about, oh yes
Everything got out of hand
Expect unthinkable gusting winds
To huff puff blow house down
Filthy rotten scoundrel but
Started out so sweet
Inchoate caliphate apocryphal
Wish I had her gift
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
Oblivious is the man who claims decorum of extrapolated omnipotence.
The man who has ossified rationalism into an inexplorable ruse.
An attempt to transmogrify inchoate minds, characteristic of apparitions.
Providing illusion as the answer to an obsequious concrescence of naive followers.
Oblivious are the men who follow this decorum.
Their leader keens to their needs.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Winters nascent white falls
on the boughs of orchard branches
and carpets the earth outside my window;
The coating has a strength in it's gentle glow
softening and subduing the landscape
in a pale light, diffused by cloud,
Lifting with the purity of a doves wings
And drifting with a melancholy like ashes,
Settling, like the baseness of bones,
Something bare and beautiful
is reflected outside
in the raw winds of transition,
Out of the dark belly of solstice,
In all the suddenness and subtlety of being
snow flakes are inchoate and bristling.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
Perish the thought that coats
Our tongues with hard harsh words
Inchoate reaching beyond grasp
Scantly strum our plush stairs
Scaling arpeggios
To soft crescendo as hands clasp
Gently brush angel hairs
Like magnet and shavings
Draw forged iron from gorgeous shrouds
Cherish the touch that floats
Like snowflakes whispering
In hushed descent from secret clouds
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Saintly calm amid storms
Whose roil-released crystals
On sprinkled tongues and cheeks alight
Enlace the fringe that frilled
Our sheer contours' luster
Emerging from dark thunder bright
Embrace the mists that build
Like cotton enfolding
Cumulative nimble and fond
Faintly kiss dermal forms
Like ghost lovers made flesh
Coaxed tumescent from far beyond
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her
head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she
sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
voices only talk to me.’
And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she
sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.
Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
The golden girl, is not lost,
The Canadian Plains transversely crossed,
Destination unknown, but her dust trail,
Her goldenrod writings, take my breath away,
Her stories leave me incomplete, inchoate,
For I drink her trust, drink her dust,
Yet thirsty left, pleading, more.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
sometimes a pit
gazing inchoate
smiling past it all
inès passes the mirror
a smouldering black shape
today i looked at no one
tomorrow i’ll arrive.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
I was wrong about the rain
Robins are calling for it
Fragrance of honeysuckle and pine
have joined the ozone--
Priest in swirling raiments
dangling sensor on a chain
waving it in air before the altar
clink clink clink
Releasing smoke that bends the mind
before the monstrance of the sun
with storm surrounding
Clouds sift through the rays and rain
Bowing thrice--
clink clink clink
He waves it in the air before the altar
releasing smoke
into the high and holy
Inchoate murmurs
follow
incense hands
down
into the nave
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-penetration,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:
Here a thicket
of sycamores, there a baldaquin
of pinnate branches, yonder
a periphery of marigolds, below
a cacophony of hyraxes, above
the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
jink of a darting swift and moribund
crawl of a mollusk;
Hymenoptera coaxing
their haploid broods into teeming
life as a cell of the swarm
and viviparous apes cajoling
suckling chimerae at the fathomless
fountainhead of a rosy breast;
Higher still,
Cirrus cephalopods traversing
the trench of sky, dandelions
hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
wavering hum on cockchafers'
forewings and a turbine's
bombinating pulse, the chattering
of roots ravenous for depth --
Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --
inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
nonage of towering evergreens --
the plaintive shrift of elegiac
redbreasts a goad to silent elation --
A likeness unlike
(vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
(the eyes of ignorance closing)
(the mouth of the mystery)
that spurns the truth of tongues
is nature naturing.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
a speck on a train of evergrowing thought,
i simply exist in your periphery
deploring each opportunity unsought
trying to wash myself clean of your mem’ry
you are certainly a skilled navigator
you make your way into every part of me
the earth was a kaleidoscope of colour
now it’s achromatic–you are all i see
my desires remain to me inchoate
whether aspiration or admiration
to be like you or be with you: the debate
either of which a mode of self-destruction
as to vertiginous heights i watch you soar
i realize it’s neither option at all
for my wings can never quite take flight like yours
lest you crumble under your great wings and fall
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
****** Come back,
you faithless little cock-tease, Muse,
you maddening author of my abuse.
Please don't amuse yourself this way.
I know it's love-hate,
de facto, inchoate.
But don't you know I seethe for seed
and writhe to write?
I love you, Muse.
There must be some mistake.
So end this wretched heartache
and for art's sake,
light my ******* fuse!
Mike T Minehan
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
Alexander k Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected])
My humanity is devoid of piety
But time has come for it to beguiled
Into green harvesting of inchoate faith
That strong in the fibre and the fabrics
Is the heart of the racist
It has enough force to hate abysmally
Without giving chance to voice of reason,
The heart of the racist in whatever calibre
It is the strong most force that overwhelms time
Its current is to and fro in a gnomish prowl
Looking for the weakly prey of class
To predate on in ruthlessness of the imp.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
With its sinuous green edge and its delicately
decorative white venation this dewy cress laid
on a fine crystal platter would fit well next to that
chunk of cement facade ensconced in a vitrine
at the Art Institute’s new Louis Sullivan exhibition
There’s little cause to wonder why these particular
atoms once afloat on inchoate seas and awash
in the hummed mumbles of humble vibrations
chose to decohere into this one captivating pattern
from among an infinite variety of mattered schemes
even limiting their choicest range to those paired
colors A tree frog for example its narrow lime toes
suctioned on a broad leaf and its watchful pearl
eyes misconfigured with a blind spot too soon
exploited by a beak spouted peril Or the gallant rider
in uniform myrtle and mounted atop an albino steed
who at a mirthless gallop through routed troops
delivers this message Mother I am so far away
from everything They’re oddly jarred couplings but
with any choice whether slapdash had or carefully
considered what’s our guarantee it will live up to
the iron of romantically clad expectations I have
heard It’s always the salad that gets you in the end
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 9:45 AM UTC
Beginning to remember
How it had just started
Now it's gone
I was gone for two weeks
And the river is now frozen
It was an inchoate group
Laying the bricks
One by one
But they departed so soon
Like the ignoramus men on the sidewalks
Herding like sheep to make a living
Like some old fat lady sitting by her children
With a half filled cup of happiness
Afraid of losing herself
Like those water drops on cold winter mornings
Forcing life to stay torpid
Pragmatism collapsed into my veins and
I heard the cat door slam and immediately looked at the clock
It was dead
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
A maul is not an axe;
an axe is not a maul.
One is for splitting,
the other for felling.
Of course to trees
such distinctions
are immaterial.
Walnut rounds
scattered on grass
stare into juniper
scratching the sky—
tall pallbearers
shiver in wind,
whisper above
dead medallions,
unblinking eyes.
The handle I hold
like a divining rod;
metal blade forged
by inchoate words,
honed on grinding
letters of precision.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Things that have been mutually frequented -
CDs, mugs, kisses,
(memories) -
are but fragile leaves
waiting to be blown away
on the winds of time;
until one day
inchoate tears
will find us there,
on the kitchen floor at 2 am,
saying wordlessly:
"I wish I'd never met him.
I wish I'd never met him."
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual *********** There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of ****** sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral regrets.
Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian ***** Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me.
This has been a poetic public health reminder.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
We were born in the forest,
Living in the shadows,
Clinging to our loved ones
In the dark, under the trees.
Life was good then,
We had picked fruit from branches
And swung on them for joy.
And there was no greed
Or jealousy.
Over millions of years,
We lived in harmony,
Until the forest changed;
The garden shriveled and
Faded away as we watched.
Our lives were rearranged.
Some among us ventured out.
Giving in to our sin: curiosity.
We turned the grasslands
into pavement and stone
And we endured pain to walk
Down in the street, surrounded
by canyons of concrete and steel.
The powerful gather now
and hoard what was once shared.
Hors d’oeuvres are served,
Placating the hunger of the omnipotent,
that is never stated;
They will keep taking from us
As long as we allow it.
Even as they wallow in wealth,
They plot to plunder riches
and destroy the world,
scraping the land
and scouring the sea.
But one day, some loner, a rebel
May emerge from the shadows,
Dark-clad, filled with inchoate rage.
He will find like-minded souls
Who use the new machinations
To topple the oligarchs,
Empty their accounts
And give them to the world.
Chaos may follow,
But out of it a new humanity
Might arise.
Jan 5, 2025
Jan 5, 2025 at 2:57 PM UTC
Inchoate truth,
No, you are not yet real,
How quiet you are inside,
As though I'm seeing but not hearing a family through a window.
Oh, my very own inchoate truth,
It would not do to love you,
It is not yet love that will see your arrival into the world out there.
Apr 26, 2022
Apr 26, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
I want to disappear now, into the smell of books, old ink,
Moldy columns and perfumes of dried flowers.
What keeps us alive, bundled into these bodies,
Are incoherent strings of dna the gods of our existence,
Do they determine if our days are mostly carefree
Or slipstreams of inchoate agony?
Does the loveliness of life arise from its randomness,
Or the randomness from incalculable beauty?
Why do some pay the ultimate price,
And some never seem to pay anything at all?
Is my breathing my tithe, a piece of each day that's unwound,
Tribute paid to the universe, itself but one hallowed out-breath
From the sphincter of time and inconceivable distance?
I can wrap myself up in pages of words, in folds of paper
Trying to cover myself in understanding,
Yet no man holds the keys of what we are,
Or what we are yet to become; faith is all we inherit
In the orbiting chaos of time, we find once-living shreds of it
Always in free fall, floating forever through the continuum,
A whispered message from the secret heart of being,
To never forget, that the smallest mercies can save a soul.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC
they eat their own inconsequential and comatose integrity.
With relish.
they chew their knotty and petty problems endlessly
into bowls full of intellectually based uber slop
seasoned with bitter inchoate knowledge
and then add a dash of verbose celebrity froth.
Stir well.
they grind all their societal and artistic obsequiousness
into salubrious and meaningless observations
and then add the sourest flavour of the month
and stir with inconsequential turmoil.
and oh boy how poets can stir!!.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
My love for you is inchoate.
No, not chocolate.
I may not be as sweet
but I'll be something worth craving for.
And, good enough to be loved back.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 12:48 AM UTC