"incoherence" poems
*all seemed chaos
incoherence and seeming defeat
it was as if in crucifixion i walked
but for awhile
resistance commenced corroding
to surrender
in quiet then the gift appeared
more majestic than i possibly could have imagined
oh god you were there all along
and i never journeyed alone
and lo, but with acceptance of this truth
all was revealed
©2016janetaylor
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
there is a darkness
that the silver song
of soft illusion lights
in symbolic equivalents
of images real
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
the breakage
at the jagged edges of the world
and lays hostage to impersonation
that resembles fragments
of smashed oval shaped mirrors
reflecting pieces of broken
brown terracotta soldiers
and causes the eyes to hurt
with a watched inner holocaust
of disturbing coloured detonations,
implosively autonomous
given to a deceived departure
a departure from reality
given by the advocacy
of ideological rationalism
that sees three kings
with blood on their crowns
in amplified convulsions
call mustre for
disturbance, disorder, destruction
and death
as blood stains the Balkan streets
and all emotional impulse
is volatilized
and a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy
stalks the land
where sustaining minds
are subject to a brutal insensitivity
that dazzles on the edge of a spiral vertigo
it is a light
brutally interrogative
magnifying with dazzling rays
a vocabulary of incoherence
like the rancid stains of *****
that inhabit the jagged edges of the world
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
pungent coffee, stains my mouth, as
i sit and drink in my surroundings,
a carnival of unknown people, parade,
and talk, and shuffle around, each
balancing a steaming cup, careful not
to spill a drop, as chaotic roar
of countless voices, bubble
and boil over into incoherence - the
background noise of modern age,
conversation rendered silent, in
this coffee house
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
The curtain of night descend upon the sky. It is aphonic, psychotic and dark.
Perpetually calling for daylight, but it is hours before the sun can, if, reply.
Those remote, desolate hours are intolerable, hurtful.
They bring the piercing screams of silence and poignancy.
My wasteland is inhabited with moribund trees in the middle of spring.
This world knows regrets and disingtegrating logic.
Although the constant clouds conceal my world, no sign of rain befalls the thirsty earth.
The trees curved to the scorched ground, seeking mercy, weary and restless of this static infertility.
The throats of the passing birds have dried, no song can brighten the sky.
Insipid and dimlit, not even the sun can filter through the clouds or the thickness of the fog.
Somewhere in this world my body awaits demise.
This decaying rationality bringing peril and incoherence, not a breeze or a murmur of rain,
to quench the aching and consuming thirst.
I beg in silence, but the words seem to hang confined in this inclemency, alone 'till my waking hour.
The curtain has not risen, the night still falls in place.
How long before I can succumb to oblivion and quiesce this raging, tormentig thoughts?
There is no answer to follow the question because I am this world's, this hell's, this limbo, wretched creator.
And so with cracked lips, with ragged breath and stinging chest I remain in the inside of this deserted, and cracked state of mind.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
I would like if I could, to venture out
into a baroque cave where the walls are translucent
and all that surrounds it are rivers of coherence
and incoherence
where I can scream, and when my echoes
radiate they bounce off on me and touch
the spaces in between my fingers
bizarre and ornate
rococo chimes lift my spirit
progressive, regressive
subliminal rising, into the sea of whispers
and final decisions
and crazed hands
and melting lips
and bruised knuckles
and fighting wrists...
I subsist to consist
of the fluid that makes me up
lavender barely breathing
flowers/continue/endure
hang tough, low by lakes of conspiracy
and hate/ block eyes/ shed those ill states
I carry this entity/essence/life gentely
in my arms like a ancestor. mother .
press its head against my skin and give it everything
in my blood filled hands, sinful/blessed/ tiered creatures
I feel beautiful in these worlds.
eyes closed in sleep, palms spread forth
oceans cleansing, I feel like an infant
stomach twists and hearts bat burnt wings
and learn to fly
I radiate.full hearted. eminence spoke to me
through her portal of solid grass and dieing trees
in the outskirts of the vagabond, slowly unraveling
like a child speaking
slowly growing like new love
stricken instantly
I am in
between Cleopatra and Mark
between Orpheus and Eurydice
between Odysseus and Penelope
between Elizabeth Bennett and Darcy
between Salim and Anarkali
I shiver in that love
that breathes in determent
and breathes out fragrance
temperate plasma hooked onto
the grind of my woman I beat like
the robins breast/ trembling in awe
like a living leaf blowing in the winter wind
resisting/giving in/ perishing/ breathing
to the sound of this beautiful life
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 5:53 AM UTC
sitting in a bar unawares
sobriety is relinquished
incoherence
voicing hallucinated delirium
sweating profusely in distress
disconnected
without identity, without form
a long and terrible descent
into the effects of derealization
staring at nothing
listening to imaginary sounds
that cling to the dark draperies
that hang upon the walls of the mind
charting the outer geography of life
with invested inner humanity
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
the worm burps crasanthyums
like hypnic ****
matter becomes metaphor
thats how the beast works with in us
we are a book of masks
and i'm up to my neck in
mirrors of the marvelous
midnight music beguiles like a blizzard of whispers
flaming candles heat like ovens
burning finger by finger
i melt flabbergasted in dark linoleum clouds
blood gluttonous
tender bites
lips like red rain and trussed thighs
she grins
a face of needles and mice
i think she wants me
this old man, soggy eyed mop
linen wrapped
before aortic aneurysms
i'm a living tarot card
the falling tower and the lovers
break downs and break throughs
my groin a slobbering clot
dreaming ******* drenched
straight jacketed on her knees
***** willow shadows
drooling exacerbations
a caffeinated candy
licked thickly
twitching blinks; rem ejaculations
her face; a tattooed ****
**** mouth smiles
brown one eyed gnome
**** the stinking cyclops
*** talk lubricates
a raspberry crumble
looking for god
omniscient
even in *****
the white swans utterance
incoherence's
dressed in a ****** negligee
her belly a thousand ******* mouths
and i press into her thunder
shattering dawns gravity
a pinhole of empty cups
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
I want nothing and all
I want throatchase and falls.
I want spiteful endears,
And ricochet tears.
I want colliders with nothing to lose.
I want crashes indebts,
And bombadier pets.
I want cleft incoherence,
And bookies for parents.
I want you to know how to choose.
I want pratfalls regarded,
And paradigms parted.
I want sickly verbatim,
And writings circadian.
I want you,
I want you,
I want you.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
It having been decided, herein is pronounced.
Let them know the number of days; let them count the number of days
and the count shall be 180.
Day 1 let him strike his head with his fists and call it "stupid".
Day 5 let the vomiting begin without surcease.
Let him dress for work as if he can.
Let him park and never drive beyond Day 10.
Let him pass out at the toilet.
Let him shed 100 pounds and all his hair.
He shall suffer such indignities as appertain
until he is brought to tears before his eldest son
of whom he shall ask, "Do you believe in miracles?"
Let there be no reprieve, neither for the holidays.
Let him wander out into the snow without a coat
and utter, "So beautiful. So beautiful."
All this in due course to precede the final 3.
The son and he shall smoke a last cigarette on the porch.
He shall proceed to the gurney and not see home again.
Let them gather at the hospice room.
Let him suffer terminal rage
thus shall he be manhandled by the sons.
On that day he shall be bedridden by narcotic.
Let him fall into persistent incoherence.
They shall play the New World by Dvorak.
He shall not hear.
They shall gather for the Rosary over him.
He shall not hear.
The eldest son shall vow to stay at his side
nor shall he sleep for 72 hours.
The son shall not permit the end to come.
The son shall take his hand and say
"Only God takes it away."
And when the room is empty but for them he shall sing softly
"Today While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vine"
He shall not hear.
Let them all tell him it is okay to die.
Let the eldest son protest, "It is not okay to die."
In the final hours he shall struggle again
thus to be manhandled by the sons.
Then amid his incoherence he shall look the eldest in the eyes
and solemnly say
"I love you."
These shall be his last words.
Let them check his toes for signs of life.
Let the breathing come infrequently.
Let the breathing cease.
Let the son remain until they pull away the sheet
and display him in his nakedness at last.
All this to be accomplished January 15
in the year of Our Lord.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
I felt it
When I spoke
To the judge,
For my son,
Years of shell work
Encasing fear and sanity, cracked with each glance, falling away. Everyone listening.
I was left lost
Like a snail losing it's shell
Mushy and vulnerable
A Pulpy mess.
Was it enough
That I said
Or too much.
So much was left out
The Russian Roulette admission
The thoughts of jumping 15 floors from his hotel
So many letters making up words and paragraphs upon paragraphs
of 15 years.
Throwing out a gun
Into the city trash.
How could I be anything more than a mother
Who let the saving flatten her out of existence. Incoherence and pulp.
Will it be discarded
All that effort
To keep him alive
At my expense.
Is that what mothers do?
I'll never get to return. Life doesn't
Let you.
Mar 5, 2024
Mar 5, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC
drift off into incoherence with me
don't speak
your presence says enough.
our veins intertwine
our heart beats together
our breathing is syncopated
and our minds are the same.
you are me and i am you.
there is no us
there is no we
it is one.
unspoken connection
of a disposition predetermined
by the stars before our time
n.h.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Time was not the healer
I was promised it would be
just a threadbare bandage
I still love you
hate that I hate you
hate that I love you
Locked away feelings
it's better this way
to have no heart
Love was not a waste
just a taste though
was a price too high
Mind
incoherence but no amnesia
just let me forget it all
Broken body
inflamed and twisted
given to too many anyways
Heart is dead
died fighting the good fight
lost the war
Do I have peace?
At least the lesser half
Yes
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
There's this ********** incoherence...
and obsessive cut and paste of mind.
Whatever pasture made its green bed,
has serial murdered...
painted...with head and heels, a lifetime of
tumbling.
Bipedal...the fallacy of bragging rights since
birth.
There's too much to engender without choice,
involuntary antipodes of mind...variations on
madness pawn their humours at storm-crossed
gates.
Strewn...the scrap metal of such limbs.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
And on that day you were born, my Sylvia, I murdered your father. So how you would grow up will depend entirely up to me.
I burnt his graceless flesh and mantled you with isolation. I threw his clothes on the window and buried his existence in the ground. Syl, sometimes you see him suspended in midair, I know, like a strange curve on the portrait, like a portrait wrapped in moth, like a moth perched on the wall, like a wall that doesn’t suit the architecture. But you never bothered to find out, good girl.
You were created in the course of the stars, on the backyard, my Sylvia and molded by flowers, so I must feed you with butterflies, drown you in poetry. You are the constellations I have disarrayed, the world I will dismember. You are the infinity, my love. You are the stretch of the ocean, the look in your father’s eyes before he sleeps. You are the incoherence of forever. You are the inconsistency of happiness.
My Syl, I fear that you will grow up, one day. You will leave this little cottage, and search for a better plastered wall. You will doubt my existence and those bleeding of the feathers. You will tear your skin and discover a new you underneath. You will find your crater of imperfections, you will be astonished, you will begin to wonder, you will begin to question and you will forget about me. You will begin to ***** my lullabies.
Hush, my love, and close your eyes. I will make you immortal. I will stitch you with stardust. I will cover your little lovely bones with perfection. I will smoothen you like a wax; you may kiss your scars goodbye. I will preserve your name with you, and lock you both in a beautiful cage. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. I will make you immortal. Like a prayer. Like a lovely prayer.
Your fist locked like a period, began the history, encompassed the world, the silent plea, the quivering resistance, the flickering flame; your little mouth in absolute surrender. You are the rigidity of my everlasting delight, the bleeding poppies in every battleground. Sleep, my Sylvia, sleep, and never wake up.
Stay infinite, my Syl, my sweet, my love. We are greater than literature. We are larger than biography. Always remember that.
Always remember that.
Always remember that.
Always
Remember
That.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
Every book has a last page, every song a last verse to sing.
Every sentence its full stop, every beginning its ending.
Every existence will one day cease to be,
In the inevitability of death, there is unity.
'Death is simply a beginning,' confidently some state.
'In death, there is nothingness,' others iterate.
But the lock of death in the living world has no key.
In the ignorance of death, there is unity.
In the hearts of some resides unwavering misery.
Others march on, donning costumes of pseudo-normalcy.
The actuality of their loss, still others refuse to see.
In the incoherence of death, there is unity.
Cinema, literature, poetry have ostensibly tried to explain,
With the knowledge directors, littérateurs, poets feign.
No living soul can grasp its intense incongruity,
In the incomprehensibility of death, there is unity
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
Weary of planning his next escape
an addict wants to outlive his condition.
But he is wary of moods not ruined
by expectations of danger on the horizon.
Bulletproof roses lay upon graves of the brave
providing the solace of better days.
But I remain motionless and weightless
Even as I swim through lakes of fire thinking the unthinkable.
As blacks arouse Anglo-Saxons to declare war on the blind
the idea that they could walk on water hand in hand
seems like the delirious incoherence of the presumed dead.
That's why I pray now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.
Among cliffs where a white eagle does pirouettes in the sky
There is a home for a lost boy
One who hears drumbeats announcing the next battle
One who sees tweed doing a sentimental war dance.
A red-faced son fights to leave his mother's womb
Cold air filtering through his lungs.
Things change lanes at the whisper of the sun
Blazing trails for my ink as my spirit sets sail.
I'm not afraid to fly my words to the moon.
It’s been a long time coming
this unveiling of my thoughts to the world.
Surely our hearts beat in the constancy of harmony.
With the prudence of solidarity
Living water liquidates my tribulations
as you rearrange the strings of my guitar.
No longer so worried about the path my fear is torn in half...
Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 2:38 AM UTC
The mental capacity to carry on with the daily grind of modern mayhem slowly ebbs from view.
A hardened psyche is in the throws of disarray , dilapidates like a forgotten building in an overgrown forest.
Slowly the bugs creep in, they're the first of many to colonize this quietening storm.
Each inhabitant feeding on a memory, on a loving thought of youth.
As trees swallow concrete, the chill of numb nonchalance spreads as a disease, each and every part of relevance becoming so much more irrelevant.
Those time consuming chores that dictated, lost forever, a blank stare replaces, eyes that see straight through to another side.
To hold on would be a punishment, to relinquish is to hold the key to the gates of purgatory.
You can hear the wheels slowly turn as they now etch the sound of silence, when they stop and the madness begins when shall the twist of fate turn to a tapered end.
It's winter and the birds have not flown south, a great freeze as fresh nature grows all around , sensory deception for muted perception.
Before too long it will be too late to disturb the disturbance and rationalize with faith, with the heart of certainty this meaningless shall cease, the way ahead will be forged by my hand, I will not fall by the wayside of incoherence,
I will not return
And I will not let my sanctuary burn
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC
I am a contradiction
I am an eighties perm in 2013
I am not thinking
I am not ebbing
I am not flowing
But I am happy
I am seaweed that fails to move with the current
I am the loneliest I have ever felt
I am the most sure of things I have ever been
My mind is an ocean
My heart is a plane
My fingertips hold the pulse of earth's heartbeat
I spin intricate webs of thoughts through the overcrowded bookshelves in my mind
But that's okay
Because when you're lying in bed at 3:18 in the morning
you begin to realize that you don't need to
ebb or flow
Your **** doesn't need to be formed into a
tight and perfect sphere
You can just be
And whether being is
having the puzzle complete or
the pieces scattered across 7 different continents
in the end
it's all just pieces
Incoherent shapes
existing
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
I used to write about smoking cigarettes
and stealing bottles from shopping centers-
about love that never deserved to exist,
and people who would now not recognize
the shape of my own being.
it's conflicting to constantly know
who you are today cannot compare to tomorrow;
and the thoughts that cause feelings of brilliance
are only echoes of past stupidity.
I'm supposed to hate myself for what I've done.
My bones should snap under the weight
of my own guilt, but there is none.
Perhaps I am incapable of feeling sorry,
even for myself, since no one else ever did.
Maybe I can't control my own demons,
because I never kept them in chains,
and it's only a matter of time
before karma catches me.
You will never understand what it took
to love You again,
and I will never comprehend why
It all left it in the first place.
We hold a thousand memories,
but the hundred I have molded on my own
burn and singe-
the sounds of your unanswered calls-
over and over-
releasing myself from a speeding car window,
losing myself in the bed that was never mine.
What would you say
if you could see the looks
on all of their faces?
Contorted and blurry by my own incoherence
and their inability to understand:
"Who are you, now?"
But I know myself.
I know I hold the anger of my father,
"You're pathetic" and "burning bridges"-
The loveless love of my mother.
The ability to disconnect from my own mind,
that has hindered me useless for so long...
You don't know me, and if you did,
these petal like lips would lay untouched, You
wouldn't believe in love
that the truth that created
the depiction of me,
would **** you.
And so I sit in silence.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
here she goes again,
a devotee on her knees
at the peak of the full moon,
past midnight yet
way before witching hour
it’s the third time that month
that the girl kneels before Her,
weeping at the altar of Aphrodite,
feeling the full weight of past loves
on her fragile spine,
almost as heavy as the past lives
she was forced to carry through her youth
she was so young,
but her lamentations rang
millenniums before her
oh, Aphrodite
she wept
how many more innocent roses
do i rob of blooming?
how many more candles
left burning?
how many more full moons
do i watch waning?
the words overlapped in
deafening incoherence
but the clarity of pain
rang above the noise
of mumbled syllables
it was clear enough
that Aphrodite –
the cold goddess –
wept a tear
for She has allowed
this girl’s heart
the sweetness of infatuation,
only to drown that out
with the inevitability of disenchantment
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 3:16 AM UTC
These loose ends
unraveling from me
in the form of words, stanzas,
incoherence in its most creative form
there’s poetry
hanging on my eyelashes
forming goosebumps on my bare shoulders
holding my body together
with words muscle is connected
to tissue to bone
but the letters trail off
just beneath my skin
a thought left unfinished
mumbling wistful things
leaving it all at a dot dot dot
I am made of poetry
loose ends falling from me.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
We're like the ocean and space
Two different entities that from afar, gaze
Two entities admired for our greatness
Elements of unknown and mysteries are what we possess
Our deep rooted issues are always hidden secrets
And you love in waves but I love with distance
And we love each other despite our incoherence
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
i like this bar.
the low lighting and
dramatic arches lurching
forward from grainy,
crimson walls
i have been here for over an hour
observing, listening, smirking.
i should be sulking
from the looks of the others.
but somehow this is cozy, tender
the man with the crumpled beard
has been two stools over
all night drinking
countless somethings
amber and veiled
he returns from the toilets
saddling up to the stool
on my left
and begins apologizing
Naomi I'm Sorry
You Know, I...I...
i stop him to explain
i am not, nor will i ever be,
naomi
but i am his naomi tonight, his
sham priestess
welcoming
sins and repentance
I Never Told You
I Never
his incoherence is
both tragic
and welcomed
the truth is,
i don't want to comprehend
the life
that has made
this man so eager to
drown
but i can piece portions together—
serrated jigsaw
of tireless nights, of death,
preoccupation and bitter
regret
i would commiserate,
but at this point
neither he nor i
believe
in salvation
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
I couldn’t define it.
Words tricked from my lips
A babbling brook of incoherence
Grasping for phrases, attempting to capture
Something so perfectly intangible.
I couldn’t build walls around it
Hold onto and confine it
With explanations and reasoning
Boundaries of sanity, a cushion of protection
I just couldn't find a way
To nestle it away safely
Within the recesses of my soul
Amongst the other “boxes” I’ve created
To compartmentalize life.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC