"inconsequence" poems
Arctic and Pure
cups emptied of Western laziness
gratis
Sapphire tears and sparkling beams
gathered from the fields
shining Pez and elecution exercises
Hey Miss, Tell me something
a poem
about everyplace
no fooling, You're so serious
and the serfs of the modern hovels are well behaved
and none
fleshen bodies
heads full of squishy wishes
consumme
my amusement is like a panacea
a corporeal healing
Flying who-I-haven't-people
someone down in my
constant solar blaze,
one who I devote all clear evidence
all the right answers,
fairness
Ignorance always harms our potential
reveal deaths inconsequence and void
flying through tunnels
creating opportunities for life.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:22 AM UTC
In my younger
and more vulnerable years
I
walked
on
I was lonely
no longer
I was a guide
a pathfinder
I had that familiar
conviction
that life
was beginning over
promising to unfold
that shining secret
that only
Midas
and Morgan
and Maecenas knew,
that the wingless
had been overlooked
in a fashion
that rather
took
your
breath
away.
I was fragilely bound into
a murmured apology
of moths
among
the whispers
and the champagne
and the stars
Bantering inconsequence
that was made of
infinitesimal
hesitation
I repeated blankly
a surprising
shill metallic urgency
Bloomed with light
it sort of crept in on us
that I
had truly
heard nothing at all
In the unquiet darkness
continually smoldering
with disappointment
in the solemn echoing
green light.
a dim hazy cast
lay upon my love
your love
belongs
to me
She insisted
its too late now
he scowled
I could only stare
as
she cried
A terrible
terrible
Mistake!
you ask too much
she told me
I love you now.
you cant repeat the past
he said
why,
of
course
you can!
I paid a
high price
for living too long
with a
single
dream.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
mouth to mouth-
crystalline tiny cubes of light
into tasting pieces of acid and spill them all over
your black spaghetti straps
tugging at the bottom of your machine washable
dungeons
you purr words of inconsolation and inconsequence
stream-line savior
savour the swift
elongated tongues
of amateurs -
sky machines
sent to lick the blood right off my feet
and from the streets-
swimming into the soft-tailed waterfalls that spill over
cavernous eyes
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
Black, reflecting my negative emotions
And yet, also reflecting soft dappling light -
White light, reflecting my optimism for happiness.
Clicking cameras' clinging onto frozen moments.
Curved lenses
Capturing, condensing,
concentrating, and compacting.
A vaguely comprehensible collection
of inconsequence.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 12:01 AM UTC
I am hollow
but my blood still flows
in sticky red ribbons
I wish I could wrap around my neck
and divorce myself from the doting air
and fade into sprawling oblivion
for I am a speck
of inconsequence
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
Bloodied fingers are badges of honor
that few men suffer themselves to accept.
Part of the debt the instrument incurs;
a separation of skilled and inept.
The mastery of half a dozen steel
strings oft becomes a lifetime endeavor.
This daring quest for musical ideals
demands commitment lasting forever.
A hollow body touches the essence
of perfection that is merely expressed
by mortal beings of inconsequence
who caress the Muse nevertheless.
Ten fingers endure torture on six strings
for melodies only guitars can bring.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
For the longest time, words were like bricks in the mouth. Weighing down, suffocating and harmful.
For the shortest time, words flowed like so many rivers headed home through drying basins, rising rivers, past gargantuan sheets of ice and through the town one may call home.
Sealed shut.
The words build again.
Thoughts, memories, ideas, the resentful wave of hiemal turquoise waters crashing upon the furrowed brow of inconsequence. To tell truths would be dignified, one isn't always able to choose such an ideology. Often an ideology is ****** upon the undeserved. Perhaps through social conditioning or other such time honoured institutions. History should not and yet does often repeat itself.
Although each generation is different,
as is every single person that,
does walk this planet,
has walked this planet,
and ever will walk this fine planet.
Cosmos over Chaos
For those that choose to read, the world is yours, the plants, the animals, every Microorganism, each and every grain of sand that litters the shorelines like a googolplex of fine jewels for an undecided amount of monarchs, rulers of lands and emperors of distant planets that in no way resemble our own. For you are such people.
For those that choose to love, amour you shall receive, every kiss that screams of desire, every touch of heavenly organs, every man woman and child that has ever felt the imperious desire to hold another body closer than is physically possible. In this dimension at least. Every time one embraces another you shall feel love. You shall experience me as I experience you. Worlds apart, countries apart, towns, villages, houses apart, metres apart... atoms apart.
You will be of one ever tender consciousness.
The truest of all consciousness.
One.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 6:39 PM UTC
A quandary,
How inconsequence can change us
A comment, made in passing, without thought,
Can bring down mighty empires and associations
And render good relationships as nought.
A quandary,
How we pick up bad impressions
And label them with values as we go
Until the crass delusions of a lifetime
Are worn as camouflage to what we know.
A quandary,
How we founder in the hindsight
Of guaging how our brothers measure up,
When flavoured by our own apparent short fall
And tasted in our own judgmental cup.
A quandary,
How life slips bye through the fingers
Preoccupied with details of the way
We watch the fool performance of the others
And lose our true perspective of the day.
This quandary,
When a rain storm clouds the morning
Then suddenly a bright sunbeam appears,
It's like quandary's building worlds of complication
Which dissipate when rationale interferes.
Marshalg
Pondering issues lightly...
3 June 2011
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 4:21 PM UTC
My life is poetry and yours is prose
I can mean things nobody knows
All hidden away in my sweet sharp mind
A thousand guesses are guessed just fine
But they read you better all straight and clear
There's no scheming with rhyme all messy and queer
Though I'm simple enough to decipher and see
For minds majorly lazy nor dullards ain't free
Away, I sit where old red roses bloom
Alone, burning minutes this afternoon
My tears are stuck behind my eyes
This bitter beauty beneath grime disguised
Fumbling around while fair skin bakes
The city is quiet now, make no mistake
I think awhile and then go to wander on
These roses belong to all and so to none
One cool jet of water tries to pass for a fountain
A man in short shorts strides by unaccounted
Laughing at how I’m besotted with my own malaise
I must remind myself that a poet’s task is to praise
But it’s terribly hard to make shields without sarcasm
And loopy concerns will throw wise men toward spasms
It’s almost better to float through hydrocodone dreams wide awake
Than to sing futilely of sand and flights and smiles felt not faked
For this insult to suffering can’t end quickly enough
And the Suessical rhythm leaves much to rebuff
Despite luxurious lucidity the inconsequence falls on
Until next year’s parade and hope of less scorching suns
Because I’m not like the roses I’m not like the water
I’m not like the dude whose shorts won’t go farther
Maybe you’ll realize finally after thrice the **** crows
That my life is poetry but yours is, darling, still prose.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
I have nothing to say about anything important,
Being wholly preoccupied with my own little dramas.
So I'll do what I do whenever it all feels overwhelming,
I'll look up at the stars.
I am insignificant.
All is so much nothing.
This is what they teach me,
And it comforts me.
The realisation of my own inconsequence
Gives me perspective.
Maybe there are other beings out there, somewhere,
Doing better than we are at living,
Making more out of existence.
Or maybe they too are looking out
And dreaming of us,
Wondering what it all means.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
The Panther scales above the infirmity of the jungle
like a reverent vicar, in her mouth
she clutches an infant. To some this is
the most intoxicating world—so long as you don’t mind
a little ruse, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn’t consist of a flurry of happiness?
Below, game lopes abundantly as the ocean tributaries,
each frolicking along a distinctive course, not that
she ever really ruminates over them, or anything else.
The panther has never had to digest a fable,
though her existence propagates an analogous terror.
When predators raid her hearth, they remain
ephemeral, irrelevant – her insatiable hunger the only story
she has ever managed to revisit.
Your skin will never feel her eyes. I cannot say
she is wrong. Piously she prepares her supper,
with its meager, undeveloped vigor, erupting
a contented roar in the conversion of its properties.
She exists the product of her kind, the natural order her excuse
as she scales back above the inconsequence of the jungle
again, to do the same thing
(as I’d longed to do something, anything) perfectly.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
The children of inconsequence
Ah to be so carefree
Spontaneity running through their blood
as quickly as the dollar and dime alcohol
that they consume nightly.
The children of inconsequence
They do not run from their shadows –
Their shadows run from them
Delighting in the light
Of their fluorescent, radioactive spirit.
The children
Breathing in the thick vanilla air
Running to who knows where
With two feet on the ground
They never stop moving.
Inconsequence
They need no belts
They will wear dresses
And drawstring flannel pants
They know they will not fall.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
His lady Eve passed Adam the apple
in the garden of—even
though He had said: No you mustn't know
good and evil,
so serpentine she birthed the worm,
from a womb of innocence
and rebellion, as he in divine aphelion learned
of sinful inconsequence,
from within a cavity of snakes,
they took twin masquerade masks of death,
arcane and fabled, gold leaf and skeletal,
and laughed at the setting sun,
whose will be done—
to die for their mistakes,
the reptillian led them to their seats,
in a theatre of falling leaves,
front row of decay,
and crowned them gods and scientists.
But from their seats they could not rise,
for it was they were on the stage,
by wisdom caged,
as the snake hissed prophecy:
descendant crowns become collars,
and Eve wept,
tears of spiritual squalor,
for all the unborn scholars,
choked into submission,
by sin.
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 5:52 PM UTC
Are you happy, Daisy
with your voice all full of money
and your golden locks blowing?
Do you hide your face
embarrassed by Tom's racist harangues
while seeking comfort in the embrace
of your careless, noble friends?
Have you ever seen shirts
as nice as these or suits so pink
and glimmering of tea cakes
and novelty on sweltering Manhattan
gilded ash-worn evenings?
Are you happy now sauntering
through inconsequence adrift in moonlight
and forgetful of your maiden promises
as the air sweeps over that fragile
crown and you swerve drunkenly
about lane to lane letting me
face the consequences worrying
only about you?
The inebriation is mine alone to bear.
That's all I want for you,
the dignified Mrs. Buchanan—
as a moth I fly toward green flame,
enamored—remembering your smile
& eyes as they were!
My heart's last beats are for you,
and I just want to know you're happy
as the transparent water that drowns me
warms and grows turbid like America
and my selfish love.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
As above...
...Your sky-dial feline mind, unzips
Bold rose-hip teems of fervour, kept
On ice, throughout the needle of
the duty-bound laborious.
You have geared the slug of
greased machines have
waited tables overseas,
have moved your shoes
to rythms of inconsequence.
So below...
Call talons from your lava skin,
in tracings of a milky way, step
ladders through the cotton fields
to set aside a broken string.
Float, leaf, about your symetries
to crook your spine in Gothic arches.
Sovereign , deep in quicksand warmth
through paths of least resistance.
Dissolve in waves of ageless truth
dashesd amber over Roman tiles.
In wild writhes of curling fern,
Your body shines obsidian.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
When someone dies their thoughts
Die with them,
Their bones absorb their words-
After a summer others cease to remember,
We fade and then are gone.
Each person is replaced:
Vast cities shrink becoming grass-beaten mounds,
Shining cultures wither,
Their intricate palaces shatter,
Temples decay under interminable suns,
Religions flounder, sacrificed to time.
Philosophies expire like sunlight
When night falls, wise words unravel,
Tortured by inconsequence,
Decay dripping from each syllable
Like uncollected wind-driven *******
Running down a lonely street.
In the alley the dog howls,
Amongst the discarded boxes the
Raven sings.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC
Sometimes I think, I don't answer your messages
just because I don't know what I want to write to you
besides
that I would prefer not to have to write
and instead
want to be
with you.
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
I've searched for the meaning of life,
oh darling, have I searched.
Years have passed as I've tried
every method I could find,
little
things and large gestures of
madness meant to bring about
some iota of worth. Ah, darling, I
did
everything I thought could sponsor
happiness. I searched for significance
in the bottoms of bottles, though all
I
ever found there was yet more
emptiness. That didn't keep me from
trying over and again. I wanted to
know
that my life was important, but
felt ever more worthless the more
I searched. Every approach
I'd
attempted brought me ever closer
to nothingness. In searching for
the true essence of life instead I'd
find
inconsequence, meaninglessness.
Oh, but I tried, darling. I sought
out every drug I could, trying
to free my mind from itself. But
it
never succeeded. No matter how
many formulated chemicals
slid down my throat or up my nose,
I only became momentarily numb.
None brought any true peace to
my life, took me even a bit closer
in
my quest for value. Determined,
I decided I would cut the meaning
out, bleed it from myself. Digging
deep within my veins brought me
a
convenient comfort, but even that
was short-lived. Oh darling, did
I tire of searching. You see, I
had given up my crusade until
that moment, darling, I saw you
smile.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
Something we should
all figure out
it's the concept and perplexion of
successfulness--
the conquest
for hopefulness
and fulfillment.
Ideally you'll be
a blazing rush of energy
that spontaneously
brings light into
the void-less world.
But truly
you'll be a blithering
formality of linguistics--
a fundamental
inconsequence
of ample indignity;
cemented by
a platitude of
adulterated gusto.
Simple joys
fun ideas
imagination
are all you
ever really needed.
(to find success)
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
Lies and the truth
both fade into memory
Time caring not
whether credence or farce
Married together
they drift into silence
Passing forgotten
—through legend and curse
(Dreamsleep: February, 2023)
Mar 3, 2023
Mar 3, 2023 at 10:57 AM UTC
In truth
Eyes brought me to knees
Only God shows what God sees;
Heart closes, eyes opened
Hope
Hands wrung tight on hope
Truth landslides down the mountain;
Loose hands never hold
Resist
Dissolved in your sights.
Puddle of inconsequence;
Easily taken
Mismatched
Found, lost in your eyes;
The universe tilted left.
Now, nothing is right.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
I’m getting drunk on a
Tuesday morning
On a cold bathroom floor
Thinking of all
The people in the world
Who know my heart was at one time large,
But is not anymore
I’m sitting cold on a tiled bathroom floor
Not expecting anything
But waiting anyway
For a call,
So I can say:
“There is nothing left to say anymore”
I’m just a simple man
With a simple grasp on reality
I don’t believe in
Revelations or epiphanies
I only know that one day I will be buried
I will be carbon once again
And I say this
As Loud As I Can
To cold white tiled bathroom walls
I will have no impact on eternity:
I take comfort in this
And let hollow laughter drop, the empty bottle fall
I am Inconsequence Incarnate-
And this is such a relief
Because otherwise, all I am is
Wasted.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
A thousand strands of
beautiful woven death.
Though they hang like
silk nets holding
the suffocating twine of eternity.
Each one is eventually severed,
and bleached filaments
gather below, static and devoid
of deaths adulation.
What was well kept, is now
discontinued echoes.
No longer the adulation of
obliteration,
just void less inconsequence.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
Throw
me down
the ropes
I'll see it
that they're
put to purpose,
taking up
the slack, I'll choke
the life from all this nonsense,
Be sure
to leave a note
make it something
inappropriate,
on outcomes
and inconsequence
to show
we're killing time.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 11:22 PM UTC
Tolled
one-rolled-bone away
from sweet inconsequence
thereby, the flicker
of an exit-sign, the
grand idea of life's
unlearning flirted
hinted
hands around
the throat of fate
were ultimately mine...
and to the
suitably anesthetized,
the rubbing clean
of canvasses,
the pulling down
of blinds,
appeared enthralling...
a cobbler's thumb
of fumbled ruse,
the blueprints
to a master-plan,
a calling card that
meant no other morning
after all...
Bowled
one-rolled-bone away
from all that greatness
an acolyte
invertebrate, upended
in some milky way,
the lateness
of my dragon-chasing
thawed all rude persuasion
reanimating appetites
in dubious remains.
Dec 18, 2020
Dec 18, 2020 at 11:27 PM UTC