"incongruent" poems
So this is melancholy
That bittersweet taste every time
We part ways
That deepest sigh I always utter
Whenever your lips touch mine
Because I know in a second or two
You will be gone
I have never looked forward
To our meeting
For you have always
Left me breathless
And wanting
This is insanely foolish
And I know soon
I’m about to face my doom
But every time
Your fingers
Trickle my spine
Or your breath
Suffocates me
Or your taste
Numbs me…
I find myself
Completely giving in
Until your whole being
Inhibits my system
Slowly poisoning my veins
Until my blood ceases to flow
And my heart resists pumping
But there I go again
Poisoned from the reverie
Of you and me
The car engine starts
I know this is goodbye
So long then
Until the next confluence
Of our thirsty mundane
Incongruent lives
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
~Christi Michaels~January 2015~
Always too Much
Followed by too Little
Flawed in my ability
To understand
how to balance the two
Always too Much
Followed by too Little
Left with not knowing what to do.
Since the day of my birth
Till the day of today
My own nemesis
Every step of the way
As if the wrong download
was set into place
Incongruent with my gentle beauty
My comfortable face
Always too Much
Followed by too Little
I am flawed in my ability
Born without the understanding
Of how to balance the two
Always too Much
Followed by too Little
Left with not knowing what to do
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
One thing I love to do
Is write letters to Grandpapa
Because
You never know where it’s going to take you:
Octogenarians are a real wildcard
And that makes life interesting.
For example, I was writing a letter
To Grandpapa and he likes to imagine things
Because he can’t get around much
So I give the cat meat to feed on.
I embellish a little my romantic situation
And I tell him about M; little M
How she reminds me of my little mama
And that boys tend to look
For someone who is like a mother figure
And we grow into this role
We become more dependent on the girlfriend
Til she becomes like a second mother
But it never starts out that way.
So I was telling him about little M;
And when I receive a letter back
I notice a rather odd sentence
That I cannot help but laugh at:
“Dan, you say M; is smaller than you
All the easier to back her into a corner”
And then it follows on with some
Incongruent sentence about ‘me driving a car’
Now I’m not sure if we got lost in
Translation
I don’t know whether Grandpapa is thinking
I’m going to run M; over (she’s not that small)
Or whether he’s suggesting I invest in a booster seat?
Or whether in fact, he has made an unwholesome
But wholey funny link
Between me staying up all night
And my young ****** prowess
(Which is the same thing I suppose)
But I’m not quite sure why I’d be backing her
Into a corner
That sounds like outright pressure
But I have to laugh
Ah Grandpapa
Maybe one day I’ll show M;
Or maybe not
She may develop an irrational fear
For tight spaces
Which is something
I will never have a problem with...
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
Strength is the ability to protect yourself
Emotionally, physically, spiritually.
You are strong when you need no one
You are self-sufficient
The desire is there sans the need.
Acceptance of lacking in one area
Will allow you and behooves you to
Increase strength in another.
Because without strength you are vulnerable
To external forces.
Like newborn turtles as they make
The dangerous pilgrimage to water,
Picked off one by one,
By carnivorous, unforgiving animals:
People out to hurt others to falsely improve
Their own self-esteem.
Strength is the courage to challenge your fears
And make an about-face to run toward them
Not away.
This abrupt "180" seems incongruent to our
Beliefs, desires and thoughts
Because our subconscious mind proclaims
That to confront our apprehensions deems us
Weak.
And as naive beings, we listen wholeheartedly,
Believing that what we ignore does not exist
And we regress to an age when object impermanence
Unsettled our feelings of safety.
Without strength we cannot breathe, eat or think
And without fulfillment of these basic human needs
The question is, Do we really exist?
So we must define and develop our own strength
In order to thoroughly define and develop
Our sense of self.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
nascent clover all around
grass so green it burns the eyes.
sulfur pollen on everything
at slightest touch, it puffs and
blossoms into the soft still air
all the windchimes sounding
incongruent harmonies
carried on the warming breeze
all the lovely voices
in unison.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
You cannot resurrect
Memories
That
Have wedged themselves between
The future and the past,
Yet are too fragile to
Exist within the present—
You cannot
Resurrect
The way you felt
(The way you felt invincible)
In remembering mannerisms that outlive
The moment.
You cannot reconcile
The heart's defiance,
Deliberately giving yourself to
A void not of your own,
Gathering gathering gathering
Sentiment and stitching it into
The fabric of your narrative,
When you should have
Gathered your senses in a pail
And lowered them down into a wishing well...
You cannot resurrect what never
Wholly, entirely, unconditionally
Existed without
Your warm breath
Encompassing it in meaning,
Feeding an emptiness not of your own making.
Yet,
You cannot escape it either;
So it lingers:
Your regrets, your self loathing, your incapacity
To accept that
There is no way to breathe life back into
Something that was dead before you
Pressed its surface with your fingers,
As if you, yourself could
Impose a pulse upon what you could not
Understand.
Understand this,
Time will not resurrect
That which you long for in the night,
It will not reconcile
The incongruent nature
Of desire:
To feel
To be numb
To hold on to
To understand
To forget
To destroy
To save
Save like a wilted flower pressed between
Two aged, yellowed pages: present only in its allusion to the past.
You do not wish the flower a different fate,
To fill its dried up veins with green, pulsating life,
To have it become what it once was.
You cannot reconcile the purpose of its carefully preserved petals.
You do not question its existence,
Question why it has been uprooted from the ground,
Why it has changed shapes while remaining a flower.
It was never meant to remain the way it was.
And so, it exists
As an indicator of what it once was,
As a reminder that it will never be again,
As memories do
When we press them down
Between the past and the future,
Until like the dried up flower,
They cease to change,
As we continue.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
all the windchimes sounding incongruent harmonies in the warming breeze.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
My condition is incongruent with the common presence
Black sheep identity burning eyes and hesitance
I move in a manner like weight attached lumbering
Unsure of myself, with no partner stumbling
Swimming in a glass half full and inattentive
Sloppy script pen tip like bull with red incentive
Reference to constructed concept subjective inference
Marker to my darker being written in this instance
Possessive and persuasive visitor leads me to temptation
Takes unpredictable control of my mental weather station
Precipitates with hate and tears me down with its erosion
Art starts with rain pain soon becomes an ocean
My breathing is done in desperate gasps
A fight for oxygen’s healing
Suddenly I am miles away
Far beyond the ceiling
Moving at the speed of light time slowing to a crawl
Cranium contained tragically between these walls
I wake to similar circumstances not changed to satisfaction
Expect a sedentary death from drone of human interaction
Hungry and reestablished, reminded now of morning
Clear mind and consequence come forth with no forewarning
Death lingers in the white noise that gestures from the mental
I open the gates to raiders as they pilfer sacred temple
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC
You are a brilliant patchwork of people
wearing their imperfections with pride
not ashamed to be different
Like a jagged concrete and glass tiara
surrounding an emerald heart
you are both lush and cold in synch
At once soothing and stimulating
is the rhythmic rocking of your subways
punctuated by the occasional discordant screech of metal on metal.
You are an assault of sight, smell, and sound on the senses,
each vying to be noticed by indifferent passers-by
artful store windows
pungent aromas from curb-side kiosks
and rap, rock, or classical
as performed by wandering minstrels
Where else can individuality be noticed
among the teeming masses
or the lofty and lowly stand side by side
without thought of social status?
Where else can one get lost in the crowd
yet still be an integral part of the whole
or be down
then uplifted by the energy of the streets?
New York City
you are where the impossible becomes inevitable
and incongruent parts
come together in a symphony of humanity and culture.
New York City
you inspire both love and hate
but never indifference!
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
You are not a diamond
for you are not hard
and you are not sharp
and you are not bright.
You are not gold
for you are not dense
and you are not soft
and you are not shiny.
You are not silver
for you are not light
and you are not white
and you are not heavy.
You are not sapphire
for you are not blue
and you are not calm
and you are not deep.
You are not ruby
for you are not red
and you are not attractive
and you are not visible.
You are not iron
for you are not strong
and you are not flexible
and you are not smooth.
You are just a stone
full of imperfections
and broken
and withered.
You are just a rock
unfaceted
and unprecious
and incongruent.
But you are a meteorite
something I want to explore
and the only proof I have
that someway, somehow
I am not alone
drifting in the nothingness.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
eye of storm
feels good
inanely safe
cloak of unreality
supplanting sense
as trap shuts
butterfly hovers
gently
in silken web
rests stupidly
charmed
while harm beckons
illusions numb
cerebral
space
battle weary
instincts spent
on long haul
gusts of
warning winds
ignored
as incongruent
aberrations
unworthy of note
but sword will drop
mayhem eclipse
former state
past suspension
truncated
exposed
as raw reality
severs dreams
barnacled
to beguiling
specious
notion
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
I'm terrified that you
Are falling in love
With the idea of me,
That the masterpiece
Your mind has painted
Far surpasses the reality
Of its subject.
When you see each
Glaring imperfection,
The incongruent lines
That shape my body,
The speckled skin
That litters my frame,
Perhaps you'll realize that
This canvas was flawed all along.
Past the impressionist blur of color
So thickly laced with
Your dreams,
There am I,
A harsh form
Captured in still life.
An incomplete charcoal sketch.
It could be that
You've simply
Never been one for realism
And I'm just
"The Girl with a Pearl Earring"
When you always wanted
"Starry Night"
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
We speak the explicit language of damage
Whether it's through anguish or famine
It only takes a little while to examine
Until we learn the language well
And eventually become fluent
To create this worldwide hell
Where the warfare is incongruent
We speak this language for many reasons
We speak this language through every season
The dialect varies from country to country
But all that really matters is who's hunting
The end result is the same
For damage done before
We inflict retributive pain
To even the damage score
Damage lowers our health
Damage increases their wealth
Damage puts us on the shelf
Until we damage ourself
The damage is done
So we must run
But at some point we turn around
Planting our feet into the ground
Becoming the damage cause
Doing what we've learned
We attribute this to our flaws
Not caring who gets burned
There is a damage sandwich
Within our damaged land's width
We're caught between being imposed on
And becoming oppressors
You're either forced to keep your clothes on
Or become an undresser
Perceptions of greater and lesser
Further complicate the scenario
We receive them through our stereo
To look down on those of other barrios
All of that damage can be parried though
If we work as a team
Better yet a species
To live in a utopian dream
Instead of our feces
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
Happy days are numerous.
Continue to enjoy the limitless splendid days
until night falls.
Apologies for wrongdoings become comforts
for the poor and inconsolable.
Forever doubt the incongruity of jocular locutions
and reality
in order to truly find the blissful song of life
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
We’re finally “together.”
It’s like a crash course on each other
After months of restraint I finally get to that “place” in you.
An intoxicating crash, our paths finally “collided”
And two human hearts beat fast,
With a relational feasting, a deepening
A seeping saturation with each other,
over-taking
And not realizing
A little scientific fact called:
Momentum.
We crashed and combined but could not stop and life has a way
Of moving you often and sadly,
People are intersections moved right through, because we all have
Different directions.
Courses connect and then somehow we just—
Well, it’s not that we forget.
It’s not even neglect
But a slow disparity collects
Whatever tugs us takes us and even if we don’t feel the pull
We feel the distance, when it’s full.
Our hearts are weak and light and we are flighty
And we don’t know when to fight
And even if we don’t mean to flee
People leave. It happens
See,
The way I saw it
Parallel was a pain.
Moving along the same course but never any collision, only frustration
Separate lines never meeting at a glorious point we could call us.
I said, better to have loved and lost
Than to love and love and love and never get there,
As if love is a destination.
But people don’t come with a “finish line”
There are no simple lines in love.
Nothing is straight--
We are fluid and incongruent
And swung by each other’s shifting weight.
Because, momentum keeps us moving and that movement is often claimed
By another little scientific fact called:
Entropy.
But if something huge
Something really huge that will not fail moves us then that means
It will not sway us.
It draws us not to each other, but to something much bigger, a much better “somewhere”
Then that little point us.
And when we’re both drawn to the same place
By the same force,
When we’re on the same course
Not as finish lines for each other
But as runners in the same race
As evidences of the same magnetic tug we try to trust
Too weak to be faithful satellites of each other
But revolving around the same one--
Then we’re truly together.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
Despite the remarks of David Hume,
I am quite aware of myself.
I can’t see my eyes but through them.
And every day, as different as the days may be,
Time passes through their lens
Time passes that is, for me.
Despite understanding fragmented reality,
I have to make decisions.
Seeing that all of being is quite remote,
The choices made are choices that affect one body, not many
I ‘m sure that’s me -
And I am passing.
But, and as the case may be,
Pieces here I come:
In me that is one; there is more than one,
For I don’t know the discrete emotion that you know,
The nudge you feel to move, to stay, to go, quietly.
Different parts all rule their nests,
They are young and intemperate –
And that reader, makes living somewhat unblessed.
Decisions by different rulers can be, it is thought
Incongruent.
Different times different monarchs with changing interests,
Crowns of petal, crowns of thorn, crowns of fire
Different crowns on different heads, but one.
One body, one person one identity,
I am ruled by many
And being ruled by many ruling me is hard.
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 1:34 AM UTC
October 12th, 1998: This is not an apology.
♐ ♐ ♐
Most days I feel like I’m underwater. It’s like a dream where I’m never dead, just not living. Because the living cannot feel this dead. I whither away into isolation singing sweet melodies of love and peace and hope and **** and loneliness. Most days I just smile.
I am a fake. I am a liar.
I am an incongruent youth; unable to be constrained by the freedom laces of society. Tie me down and watch me run, trickle, run like an avalanche down the face of conservatism. A cheap hotel ****** musk and sweat and suits and scandals. On-the-course-to AIDS infection loose ends who walks the streets in pristine filth. The incongruent youth, or what we in America call sick **** and shameful liars.
I am confused. Standing here on the edge between glamour and reality I scream into the nothingness, the watery void, a stark reality composed of my dark humor and evanescent solitaire: How can thunder roar so loud? Why am I part of this ambient isolation? How can you do this to me; to us? The beautiful few and we are beautiful, trust me, we are in the clouds searching for each other, beguiling and anonymous as we may be waltzing merrily through nighttime New York parks searching for rarities. For others. For God. And into the emptiness I whisper: Why is this park so big? And the trees so thick?
I am waiting for "someday." But this someday, this could be, this will be, would be, won't be for awhile. And this moment, this here, this now just passed. So let's look ahead and hope it gets better, because our lives are 1942 cattle cars riding away from the nows that just passed. Moments of incongruence on a grand scale. One night stands with our own hands and imaginations. Moments we thought we knew.
I am an inconvenience on the path to wholesale liberties. To children wrapped in barren barcodes that read “no real identity” when the red dash of judgement steamrolls their sides. God forbid the glamour mix with reality. Because when you are a somebody, you can never be a nobody. And nobody wants the incongruent youth to keep thinking. Because to think is to love. And nobody wants us to love.
This is an apology. I am sorry if I’m not what you meant for me to be. Terribly sorry if I love the wrong music or words or styles or *** is all I can think about. Sorry, but I can only love the beautiful few. I can only smile knowing I am a real somebody in all this hate.
Knowing I am a fake. I am a liar.
I am a human being. Hardly. I’m nothing but an incongruent youth.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
Nocturnal images explode
and implode as a fixated
date to date
prevalent
survey
of
my
adopted
deep slumber
The conscious
incongruent
purgatory
of a limbo
realm
calling
, lucrative,
The Subtle and The Sublime end
The everchanging Translucent
Glass, Chalice Filled
With Water
A Non
Firey
Borghes
Steppen steps
Upon vibrant villa's grass
Soulful children let out
Finally—To play
In the Garden
For Grey-green eyes
Young maiden gathers
Pens and pencils to
Leave traces in Time
To draw a route where Thou
Travel
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
The still quiet of the empty apartment
serves to only echo the steady tapping
of rainwater dripping onto the concrete
just outside the window
Everything feels like it should be painted
by Picasso, during his blue period
in various shades of the clam, but icy color
The fact that it isn't
gives the soul a sense of nervous
displacement. All of these commonplace
colors and shapes feel foreign and surreal
The world seems like it should be frozen
in both the sense of stillness and temperature
but it’s not
A warm breeze is moving the bland, beige curtains
and that is more terrifying than any monster
that has never hidden under your bed
The rainwater still drips, and echoes
and nothing is wrong, out of place, or eerie
except that it should be
and so it is
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
Jan folded the letter
running a finger
along its crease.
She looked up-
someone was
explaining functionality
She stared at
the new argument
on the white board
then returned to the letter-
the fold
the plane
pressing and creasing
vertices meeting
corners peaking.
Sighing:
His orientation obvious,
they were now mismatched.
Incongruent
she rose
and left the room.
There would be many such
lessons.
Tommy Carroll
redrafted
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
Bleakest drape inescapence.
Impertinent involuscence.
Stemming from a copulent.
Incongruent malocculent.
Plead among no relent.
Populate incompetent.
Unvaried fraudulence.
Clarity accomplishments.
In foggy eyes, the view reset.
Across the smoke, a sober fret.
A mind that rose from utter death.
Again to draw, refreshing breath.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
We have a crisis
When the savages of ISIS
Blow up antiquities
And summarily lay siege
To Syria’s ancient ruins
Which is totally incongruent
With the Prophet’s example
Which is recorded and ample
It’s a travesty and a shame
What they do in Islam’s name
Because it’s not reflective of
The religion of peace and love
And the hatred that they fuel
Havin’ broken every rule
So it’s open to debate
If their end game is the caliphate
Al Baghdadi proselytizes
While his true mission he disguises
On the ground are lots of boots
That’s comprised of old and new recruits
As Syria and Iraq get hotter
They’re like lambs being led to slaughter
And many more nitwits he’ll find
Who tune into him on line
Soon they will discover
It’s not one thing it’s the other
And the women can’t escape
From the drudgery and ****
And the men overworked and underpaid
For the devil’s bargain that they made
See they’re all going straight to hell
In a handbasket can’t you tell
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2014. All rights reserved.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
Traces of pawprints align and accumulate amongst the snow
The dusk casts the dawn away and tended their corpse
A vicious sound emanating, rusing the serenity of the twilight
"Papa, will you be home tonight?"
"Will you be carrying the candles again?"
"Will you stay with us tonight?"
Perpending echoes of the penumbra when the moon,
obscures, the darkened ceiling.
Slits of dim candlelight seep past the surface, a ****** demise
Crimson seeping, bubbled wine, creasing the remnants of the promise
My dearest, sweetest, purest child,
Amongst the veils of fireflies, the canids prowl through the streets
A deceitful parade amongst the illusion exposed,
The peaceful tracts are no more - I was struck.
The canids howl a sonorous melody, riveting, disconcerting harmonies
On the brink of the dying night, in a universe we brought so forth
The lingering of the slivers of silver shining,
the paradox of incongruent paths intertwining,
For each flame ceases in a communal suicide, the wolves stalk the solemn night.
The philosophy that was taught for generations and beyond,
It existed no more.
Beyond the blanket of hope and comfort, the warm amber rises
Stroking the pack, exuviating their hollow molt.
I was stranded here, on the island of scarlet
Roses floundering, thousands of rotten corpses
Fragrant luscious decadence, like candy to efflorescence
Floundering petals in hues of auburn and gold
Diluting to pallid gore.
"I will be home tonight"
"Smiling amongst the candlelight"
"For your dearest smile I recollected..."
"... and bled out once more"
Dec 25, 2017
Dec 25, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC