"incomprehensibly" poems
Bipolar
There’s this label
Which moves everywhere
with her
Now and then
Distracting people
And
Making her life miserable
Because they think
It’s something different
She’s something different
There has been a breakdown
She’s mentally sick
But do you listen to her soul
Asking people
If they’re not different
From one another
Or are they not
Allowed to express themselves
Everybody is different
And they prove their existence
In their own ways
She has to behave
As if she has something
On her conscience
Something lurks every second
In the corner of her mind
With a sublime confidence
Of acceptance
But
Anhedonia comes alive with the words coming
Out one by one or rather
All at once
Incomprehensibly prefect
But this label
Those pills
That prescription
Only swallows her
From within.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
It's strange
the way a cluster of neurons in your head reacting to some particular stimulus can make your heart feel like hamburger meat
As if there really is a hole in there, and everyone can see right through it.
What kind of strange fiction allowed debilitating pain to come from a mere firing sinapse?
How unfitting, that such an incomprehensibly small and silent event begets the destruction of worlds.
You'd think
that with the breaking of a heart should come some ceremony
Smashing of a gong, ringing bells, the flight of a thousand crows or even the sound of breaking glass.
But we're left with heavy dreams that tug at our consciousness and even heavier moments upon waking and remembering that you have a hole there, that everyone can see right through
that didn't even warrant shattering dinnerware.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
I'm perfectly imperfect
That's what they always say
I'm crookedly straight
But I'm far from gay
I forever speak my mind
Always and all day
My heart is on my sleeve
But guarded all the same
I'm devilishly innocent
My mind is not so tame
I'm dishonestly truthful
But never take the blame
I'm completely backwards
We can never be the same
To me upwards is downwards
The sky's my only ground
Your life I can still ruin
It is with in my bounds
I'm depressingly happy
There is no middle ground
My version of earth is flat...
Why should it be round?
My earth is a work of art
With colours everywhere
Your world I broke and ripped apart
Just to prove I don't fit there
I tore it up in little bits
I left the pieces without a care
I'm completely backwards
I'm such a major scare
I'm nationally local
You can see me all the time
I can disappear into thin air
Leaving you without a rhyme
For I'm melodically harmonious
No brighter than the dullest shine
I'm incomprehensibly real
And yet so hard to find
Pure white to me is simple black
Race is gone and can't come back
I can prove all that I am
A thing to which you surely lack
I'm disrespectfully respectful
My words are always fact
I'm completely backwards
I'll drive you past insane
Then I'll never bring you back
I'm illegally legal
Like a drug that you can't sell
I'm contrastingly bendable
In this world of my own hell
I'm resistingly irresistible
My secrets you will never tell
I'm obscenely lovable
In this world in which I fell
I landed in this twisted place
A world of expectations
This world I created on my own
For I'm an undertone of exaggeration
Here I've found my only home
In a backwards world of my creation
And all in all I'm here to say
"I'm completely backwards
In every single way"
Sep 10, 2009
Sep 10, 2009 at 12:49 PM UTC
If I had to compare you
You would be a Sunday morning hangover
I'm afraid I can't put it lightly
the headaches you create could
with no doubt
**** a great white
You can take offense
Yet I must inform you that you are more offensive than ****** and Genghis Khan combined
Contrary to your exterior,
your mind is only that of a million others which I avoid
If only books always matched their covers this struggle wouldn't take me to such heights-
Or perhaps lows, I should say
So pardon me, my dear
The memories of my youth would be much fonder spent sitting next another individual-
One with the ability of truth and compassion
Or atleast the courtesy of decency
But your moral is blatantly,
Unsurpassably,
Incomprehensibly
too skewed
(C) Tiffanie Doro
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
*when one door closes...
then it can also be locked
an unintentional specialty of mine
some close of their own volition
others require a little nudging
leaving those that need be kicked
i've walked through them all
beneath their porticos of promise
over their thresholds of dreams
spaces beyond so warm and inviting
or ominously dark and foreboding
but entry is inevitably mandatory
a lament in keyhole retrospective
reduced in scope and visibility
incomprehensibly limiting foresight
begrudgingly resigned to redesign
wishes trapped beyond mortal reach
accessible only with a skeleton key*
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
You tumble your gentle words
into the well of my inarticulate silence
Beckoning excitedly to me to come, come
And the ghosts, they don’t quite know what to do
In the presence of joy as lovely as your’s
You remember the best of me
When i barely understand the worst
And amidst the madding throngs
quietly retell those stories of old
In the most familiar of voices
Until they seep into my skin and well my eyes
with long streams of relief
For all my exquisite words I still cannot articulate
How home draws incomprehensibly closer
When you simply let me be
the girl I thought I forgot
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
I like to constantly mix up my mind and take everything I know and stick it in a blender, then switch it on 'Liquefy' and wait until everything and anything I thought I knew is nothing but a smoothie of confusion. I could choose to leave that smoothie in the blender and go down a nice hot mug of reality, or I can choose to down the smoothie and get lost in the taste of it all, mixed together so fervently that one former form of knowledge is incomprehensibly inseparable from another former form of knowledge. It is at this point that I either come to terms with the fact that they are so mixed up there will never be any individual understanding of any of them ever again, or I start down the futile road of separating all the puree'd ingredients of the smoothie in a vein attempt to make them solid and individual once again. When I start down that road, I have no choice but to acknowledge I will never reach the end, and I have to acknowledge that never again will the blended banana ever be a solid part of reality, and I have to acknowledge that I have no proof to say the milk and yogurt were ever of separate forms. This is when reality becomes incomprehensible, yet closer to the honest nature of the universe, and further from the conventional delusions of the human mind.
This is when it becomes clear that we are all blind;
This is when it becomes obvious that there is no great truth to find,
And that we are lost in the beauty and delusion of perception.
This is when it becomes clear that we're alive.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
Incomprehensibly inebriated, I stood up
Whether I walked, stumbled, fumbled or
Even crawled; I need not know or care
I struck you my friend, my best one too
Never did I deserve such company anyway
Pity, six of the best and hardest years spent
Mostly with you by my side and I by yours
Knowing what's best for someone is hard
A two way curse I say, whilst it may be best
It mightn't be what is wanted or needed
For arguments sake, we'd squabble
In the name of fun and youth we'd dabble
To be cast aside and know you deserve it
Friend, it hurts but the damage is done
Incomprehensibly inebriated, I threw
Six of the best, hardest years away
They say boys don't cry but we did,
When they said we couldn't attend our
High school prom because we didn't
Behave or act in a way that proved we
Wanted and deserved to go, although it
Wasn't for lack of trying, I remember
Those phone calls, Those late nights
I remember the successful appeal we made
How we both attended the prom, delightful
How your date was drop dead gorgeous
How mine kind of, wasn't?
You laughed Because she wanted to sleep with me and
You could tell I wasn't keen, funny times
Now we're 20 and we don't really speak
I know it's only been three to four weeks
Since I irreversibly ****** up, it's just
It feels like a long time now, I think a lot
About how I'm not friend material because
I hurt people, emotionally and physically
I'm a lousy drunk and cynical too
I've been this way a long time, nothing new
I have problems buried down deep
Even demons too, but I fought them
With others, I fought them with you
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
One.
When I first saw you I forgot you the next second. The next time I saw you I forgot you after a minute. Then after that when I saw you, I never forgot you.
Two.
When I first talked to you I didn't give a **** who you were. The next time I talked to you I thought your eyes were beautiful. Then after that, I was never able to gather enough courage to tell you.
Three.
You remind me of someone whom I loved in my past life, when I was young and stupid and had no idea what love was. You remind me of heartbreak. Of my pathetic attempts to stitch myself back together after being broken in half, of the stars I always wished I was part of. You remind me of cold nights and cold days, when no amount of heat could penetrate the chilling draft enclosing this empty shell. You remind me of waking up in the middle of the night and feeling incomprehensibly lonely and miserable, seeing how big the bed suddenly was.
Four.
I want to be away from you. I want to be somewhere, everywhere, anywhere, as long as I can't see you, as long as I can't feel my skin prickling with awareness telling me, "He's right here." I want to abandon everything I've built here because I don't want to see you anymore, I don't want to hear your voice, I don't want to feel its rich depth resonating in my chest, I'm sorry, I just don't want to be near you.
Five.
I write about you. I write poems, songs, stories about you, and when silence is screaming in my ears each one of those words sing a melody to me, carving my flesh out, gorging empty spaces inside me. When the rest of the world is talking so loudly all I can hear is my mind yelling, my heart squeaking, each one of the letters I wrote weave in and out of my mind's eye, and each wasted ink, each drained pen, taunts me. Why am I writing about you?
Six.
I am not the kind of girl who normally says things like this. I don't want to say this. What I want is to burn these papers and all the dancing strokes of all these wasted ink, to watch this inanimate funeral pyre send its smoke spiraling towards heaven, to scatter the ashes into the vast ocean so I can never see this again, so I will never remember you, so I will forget I wrote anything for you. And maybe if I tried hard enough I can pretend I never met you. Maybe I can pretend you never meant anything to me.
Seven.
I hate you.
Eight.
I hope you burn in hell.
Nine.
I hope I'm not in love with you.
Ten.
She's a lot better than I am. Eleven. I will never be as beautiful as she is. Twelve. Don't worry you won't have to make a choice, because I will never be able to say this to your face. Thirteen. If you ever realize I'm talking about you, don't speak to me again, because I'd rather disappear, I'd rather run away than face you. Fourteen. I'm sorry I'm an idiot because--
Fifteen.
I'm in love with you.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
Light and dark and drills and drainrods
In several windows where a wind a move
A night shale fall
Once was.
Hovering hooked hands
Hating the alliteration as much as
Unwanted rhyme.
Too inward now
So go out to the different dark
I meant dark only
Dark
And a voice from another room heard not heard
An explanation of something I should think
But moving on as News people say
We hear the distant vehicle with a purposing
Of sorts
And nearer out of sorts a startled cat with clearer explanations
Than the laugh that reassures
From the other room
And upstairs notebooks lying underbed
Incomprehensibly heavy with the tortuous oughts
Of ink.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
sometimes words are so unbelievably, inexplicably, incomprehensibly, beautiful.
they can sweep you up off of your feet with their hope, and spin you around in circles with their wonder as you grin at of all the blurred colors around you.
sometimes they can be the only way you make it through the night,
sometimes they can make you fall in the deep-sea-diving type of love that'll make you never want to come up for air,
sometimes they paint pictures prettier than the most stunning sunset.
but on days like today,
the words that bounce around in my head spoken from angry mouths and a tired brain,
all of these words might just be the death of me.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
The Human dream became the Martian dream as we slept on our Mars-bound voyage. We could see colonies amidst landscapes, burnished pristine, teeming with strange Martian plants discovered post-bloom.
The Martians were adorned with ivory carvings and had surrounded themselves with esoteric paintings of marauding faces. They spoke in strange tongues, switching between Martian and another— almost incomprehensibly clandestine— tongue of barbaric intonation. Although they clutched sharp, ivory spears with a fierce resolve, they remained docile in our presence and told us of the vivid dreams they had engaged in as a group prior to our arrival. These were abstract dreams, tinged with fragmented images of insemination and visitation by the Mars Moth-Man— he who was oil-funded and had been delivering concrete messages to the people of Mars ever since the first settlers had arrived in the distant past.
But, once we had truly set foot upon Mars— from outside the strange realm of dreams which lives solely within our collective mind's eye— we could not have foretold that our shared dream was revealed to be a sprawling wasteland of infertile soil.
Nov 22, 2022
Nov 22, 2022 at 9:16 AM UTC
a shell, contoured and carved with an aged elegance so accentuated that it practically screams its 'i'm so much better than you' chant, or
rather than scream, it whispers it softly for only my misshaped ears to hear, so that the dignified mutter echoes like a beautiful musical instrument played wrong in the crevices of my head
and
i stupidly stand, my feet sinking in the so-tainted sand, trying to come up with a retort, witty and cold enough to knock jeremy clarkson off his feet and back into top gear following a mild repercussion aimed at a light-hearted producer - instead of acknowledging the fact that *it is a ******* shell on a ******* beach*
but
miss common-sense-defying with the too-happy polka-dotty headscarf and the five-minute-hipster-outfit that took an hour and thirteen minutes to form is intimidated by the shell that reminds her incomprehensibly of herself.
she's been reading too much john green.
or she's realising the truth, that she is an empty shell on a beach so trodden on that hansel and gretal would lose their footprints, that she is beauty and magnificence and elegance but she is empty, made of things she takes away from her television endeavors and her bookshelf, and she is empty.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy
Here is a way to produce Here is a way to produce
an outcome a poem
almost certainly almost certainly
never seen before in never seen before in
human history human history
and never to be repeated: and never to be repeated:
Shuffle a deck of cards. Shuffle an alphabet.
The resulting deck, assuming The resulting deck of letters
the cards are shuffled correctly, if the letters are shuffled correctly
should only occur on average should only occur on average
every 52 *51 *50 *... 21 shuffles, every 26 *25 *24 *... 21 shuffles,
because this is the number because this is the number
of possible permutations of of possible permutations
52 cards, all equally likely. 26 letters, all equally likely.
This number is incomprehensibly large, on the order of 1068 or 534 using letters
100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,
(or half that with an alphabet)
Every person on earth could
write a gibberish poem once every nanosecond
for the expected lifetime of the universe and not even put
a dent in that number.
Is this why then is there not a GOOD poem written
every time letters are shuffled about
the astronomically unlikely event
that just took place?
Because letters are not numbers, the subset of sequenced associations called words (in the English language) is about a mere
~ 220,000~
But, each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 new words
are added to the English language
That is still a heck of a lot of possible combinations and is the reason why the occurrence of something should be inherently noteworthy
at all.
So writing a new combination of words is still pretty difficult,
and writing an intelligible and intelligent
mind moving combination
is a rare thing indeed.
Should you happen to write a poem and get even a single read, that is a pretty miraculous thing because the subset of the billions of English reading persons on Earth who also read poetry habitutualy
read is the square root of pi, or 1.7724537398758821888.
which ain’t a lot of people.
So, if you wrote a really good poem today and a couple of people read it, liked it, that highly improbable event is highly improbable, about the same chance that someone else exists with your exact DNA (excluding any identical twin) is a reallly low number
so, consider yourself really, really special. I do.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 8:12 AM UTC
Ambling along the seaside
a group of youth
on the brink,
looking for good music and cheap beer
we drank Jameson straight from the bottle
and poured cheap wine down each others throats
and then you grabbed my hand and
you pulled me along
like we were lovers
but I'd only just met you that day.
Closing in on a heaving crowd outside a dark edged bar,
we all agreed.
Stepping in
he whispered,
"You're my girlfriend for the night right?"
I didn't respond
ruminations and innocence
didn't recognize
it was just the way you were
i did not know you
after all.
this person ---
an enigma
a formation of every external fantasy was feasting upon me like prey.
Mind fuckery tipped me to the point
of no return.
For a moment
I lost you in the crowd
and I drank myself into a stupid spin
when I looked up to the landing,
you were there
looking down on me.
I danced wildly
as your eyes burned into mine.
a mission on your mind.
Later we fell out of the sweat infused bar
incomprehensibly drunk with glee
and drinking in fresh air.
Against the wall, the others fell and laughed,
but you ---
you grabbed my neck, my face, my being,
while wild curiosity burned in your eyes.
and you say that I'm intense...
Twisting our faces into a kiss,
you were so unexpected
you grabbed my hand, and we ran into the grass across the street,
but instead of sunlight and fresh flowers
taxi cabs and punters filled the streets around us
and I could hear our friends looking
Intwined for a moment --- frozen in time
swift and fleeting,
we struggled for breath discovering each other with crazed passion --
until it stopped suddenly
an interruption of unimaginable events.
they screamed our names
and so it was over.
gathered again the group headed toward the dawn,
but that kiss --- still wet on my mouth
left me gravitated
but you distanced yourself
with disregard.
I fell more in lust the further apart we grew down the alley ways
the cobblestone paths,
damp streets and street dwellers
towards the train and back to inevitable reality
couples and friends walking
separately,
and as one
but you
were not with me.
I wished
that moment would continue
that we would walk into the light of some
irrational dream
and then I woke up
in a foreign land tears filled my eyes
You said you were crazy when you drink,
but maybe i'm just
crazy.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
The earth will know your flesh,
Embrace your marrow’s last memory of bone
More encompassing than any lover.
You were received from earth's body,
As much her child as sky’s; even more perhaps
When you are no longer breathing.
Into raw earth, you will change incomprehensibly
As incorporeal as starlight itself,
And nameless as shadows in moonlight.
Just as daylight dies, you disappear
Down into the deep foundry of death;
Swallowing darkness, in bowels of earth again.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
See me here, and there, see me, pieces of me everywhere?
See those chains, broken pieces of wood, those broken locks?
See the dust flying and then, all the stopped clocks?
See the piece you ripped out, that girl you ripped from there?
That you ripped me like i was paper, without a care?
Like i were words that you had read and had consumed and become?
Well you read me, gave up, construed an new ending, and now i am not one.
See me standing here, strong, proud and defiant,
see my broken self on the floor, that i protect like a giant?
See that picture of me that shows all, is bare and naked, and true?
see this girl that is too young to understand, that you weren't really you?
see this girl ripped from my soul and my very inner, tenderly safe heart?
Because you had to take me, just, well just because, you wanted to take me apart?
And now i stand here, a warrior, armour, and an axe in my hand,
ready to cut down any predatory seeds you may have planned?
See me like a mother spoon feeding and holding til the morning light?
see her curl inside a foetal position, crying in candlelight.
See me trying to sew her back into place, to where she is safe from harm,
see her pulling, screaming from me, scratch marks down my arm.
See me telling her over and over, you are love, you are loved, you are....
see her wishing she could erase you all, make you die in a car,
or a un-fort-un-ate in-ci-dent, where you realise your deathly wrong,
or Do you see me now, incomprehensibly, broken but beautifully, strong.
See this hand, holding out for a hand to hold
to gather this girl in her arms until she grows old?
So when you broke those locks and stopped a moment of my time,
you pulled a girl from inside of me, for she was all of mine.
So when you ripped that paper in half in an act of 'incidence'
I now hammer down these nails, steel upon fired steel, building rows of iron fence.
And this girl you forgot to address in your misdoing and ***** way,
now begins to stand, holds out her hand and we sit together and pray.
See me now as i build myself ten times, a thousand times, bigger, wider, than before,
I make a huge fortress in my body for my girl, and pick her up from the floor.
See me standing here, half written and half ripped and torn under the sun,
I can take all that you gave me, be renewed and reborn, we become one.
For she is back here with me now, as i stand tall, tainted and blissfully strong,
for i know to pull myself back together, i have to understand,
It was not my fault, you were in the wrong.
You will never be me, you will never beat me, you will never break us apart,
You will never find solace in your ***** weak, thirsty, starved heart.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches
on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?”
you say between impossibly tiny sips
of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea—
or at least I think that’s what you said;
I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which
your incomprehensibly long nose hairs
mingled with your bristly auburn mustache
as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole)
to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness.
But I reply:
“Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway?
Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff?
Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!”
Heh.
But my dialectical cynicism is no match
for your allegorical bullshit-ism:
“Ah, but we create meaning!
The lonely abyss of individual experience,
when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore—
Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!”
I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo.
When my eyes return to the table,
I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon.
I painted a Pollock-esque piece in 9th grade.
My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses,
the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them
while she said something about the creative subconscious.
The first drip took some self-convincing;
the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me
with the possibility of mistake.
At first I pretended I was ******* himself,
trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought.
It didn’t work.
My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did.
I began with green for no reason at all,
and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed
but that I couldn’t explain.
Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me.
“Would you like a sip?”
I can’t avoid a smile because
****
this tea does taste like sunshine.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
Maybe you called my name
( in hundreds of languages I couldn't speak, )
Or maybe
You said nothing at all
.
Maybe your love was so incomprehensibly encompassing I could not tell the difference between it and the very air I breathe -
Or maybe
It was comprehensively small
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 12:39 AM UTC
Scott took a slug of his beer, reached
deep into the breast pocket of his coat, and
pulled out an empty pack of marlboros.
He flipped the top and was distraught
when he saw the empty space where
his addiction should've been hiding.
As he shrugged his way into that coat,
which has warmed him for years, he thought:
*Jeez, these sleeves are ******* cold!*
He told Vince, the immortal barkeep, that he'd
return ever so briefly as he stepped out into
the weighted rains and ceaseless winds.
Making his way down the road towards the
inevitable gas station while counting his
dollars and cents, Scott is blinded to the world.
But a seventh sense strikes him suddenly
and he hears his neck creak as he looks up,
over, and across the busy street.
Wait, he thinks, *how did she get here?*
yet there she stands alone on the corner.
I'm drunk, the thoughts roar, she's no more..
Cars and trucks cut through his vision and
she is but an afterimage, her dripping hair
blowing in the unforgetting winds.
She's gone man, his mind screams to him,
but it's his eyes that deter potential lies.
He actually sees her over there, even meeting
her own eyes in an endless moment of futility.
Whispering incomprehensibly to himself
he steps towards her, onto the street.
That's when life becomes shrouded in
screeching tires and burning brakes,
and Scott forgets all about his smoke break.
That's when life becomes darkness,
and she fades away into the rain as
a bus paints the road with his brain.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
When did I stop looking for music
which would shatter my world view
colour the lines afresh
reach spiderstyle from dream to daylight
clatter from the heavens, incomprehensibly fresh
and start settling, instead,
for anything
which doesn't actively **** me off?
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 11:31 AM UTC
Torn between a hundred mindsets,
never resting on one.
See-sawing back and forth,
swinging high and low.
Spinning on the roundabout,
experiencing a thousand views and one.
There's no black and white.
Who would want to see in such binary vision
when the multitudinous colours are
incomprehensibly twisted and ugly
and so rich and beautiful?
Duality? Quadrupality? Infinitality.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
*touched where it both
pained and pleasured
she, he, they,
son, daughter, husband, lover
returned the same,
in kind
there was no irony
that it was the same place*
*irony was in the kind
*it was of no import
that the touching
was not physical*
*it was different though
in the how, in the what,
that is what made the difference,
the why was why
it sometime
pleasured and sometime pained*
*in the meeting place of the eyes,
revelation - then always results,
in the meeting place of the eyes,
contact most fierce,
yet no contact at all*
*the seismic radius of the tremors
were comprehended,
even measured,
but incomprehensibly
awesome and awful*
*this is how we love,
this is how we hurt,
our nearest ones,
so oft so far away*
*absent forever
or next door
in the same safe bed,
under a roof close to collapse,
sensible insensitive *
[this is senses insane shining mad]
*this is how we love,
this is how we hurt,
our nearest ones,
so oft so far away*
*with a glance, a sneer, a moan, a snarl,
weeping, even when not openly,
a smile, a caress, a passing kiss,
a hard embrace,
emanations all from
the same place*
*in the one and the same place
where pain and pleasure coexist
who among us does not
know well this place
the place where reason absents itself,
at roll call the answer is always*
Present
*and that is the signal
to that place
to commence the uncontrollable
weeping
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC