"inconsistencies" poems
half a cup of
a two toned muse
yeilds a quarter of
a sultry pair of cat eyes
& a tragic obsession
with princess serenity
stirred in with a dash of inconsistencies
and every teenage boys dream
under the heat of a mistress gaze
correcting grammar and errors
mixed in with your matching blacks,
& a quarter dozen
of féline decor
with shoes to complement
toss in a diamond ring
throughly wrapped around
your annulus finger &
indulge it with
strange behavior then
top it off with a silky whip
to accommodate
the quenching fluid of
a ******* *****
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
Orange skylines with
Copper inconsistencies,
Cobbled pavements
Converging, at odd angles,
Stepped on
By fairytale homes
And tourist feet,
Almost, just almost,
Drowning out the violins
And the voices,
Almost making me forget
That Europe isn’t home,
Somehow.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
I feel so betrayed by the person you have become.
In the beginning you loved me, now you just call me dumb.
Our conversations and calls have become father apart,
It is only a matter of time before you shatter my heart.
Inconsistencies and lies get harder to hear.
Wishing my blurry brain would soon become clear.
I cry and cry almost everyday,
I would give anything to take all of this pain away.
There are people that are crying, dying, and dismayed.
And all I have is someone who I once loved digging my grave.
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 7:10 PM UTC
I'm not sure how old he is, my step-step-granddad, but that's the advice he gives that fixes itself on my psyche.
Focus.
The act is the goal.
It's the thought of having been and becoming whole.
Focus.
Each event is like a pebble in a landslide.
I take it in stride.
Focus.
I am everywhere and there is no center, no home base, no dock on this river. I'm caught in current. Stay calm. This is perfect.
Each twist in the flow, every rock of the boat, every splash in the face, my being gives chase to possibilities in consistent inconsistencies, sacred, eternal, geometries. Do our bodies disperse like the leaves that traverse from limb to ground, spiraling down?
Focus.
Where are your shoes? We're running late, and there's no time for another drink. We're out of milk? Look at my sink. It's piled high and I can't think with you making all that ********* noise. What time is it? I forgot to call... that bill is due tacked on the wall. I wonder if we'll talk again. There's spam where your email should have been. All this time I thought that we were friends. I can't sleep. I'm up too late and I can't sate this need to see what I can make of missed phone calls and mystery texts. That write up? No, I haven't seen that yet. But don't forget, I told you, "I can handle it." Remember? Double. Oh. Seven.
Wait.
Focus.
Breathe in. I'm calm. That's resurrection.
Breathe out. I'm smiling. That's reconnection.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
I am constantly checking myself
When problematic thoughts enter my mind
Or negative feelings originate in
The messed up ways I've been socialized to think
I do not wish to own anyone or anything
Yet sometimes possessive thoughts plague me
I must remind myself that we are all only humans
Trying to find our best route to happiness
This one article stated that
The hardest part of polyam relationships
Lies in the negotiation between
Your and your partners' needs
So I must always remain on guard
Because the jealousy and sadness coming from within
Was bred by the broken systems we grew up in
And redefining those is a part of my resistance
Monogamy stems from the patriarchy
And sexism lies within that
Possessiveness and jealousy are not cute
They only lead to blaming others for your own inconsistencies
And I am a mess of inconsistencies
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
There was a time where I believed that friendship didn't flicker like a waterlogged outlet. Where standing up came before standing out. I never understood what growing up was for a long time. I remember when I was 15 and I saw a man at starbucks spill coffee on his white dress shirt and thinking **** that I'm never growing up" and then when I was 18 I draped a plain white polo over my heart and watched everyone I thought cared about me redefine caffeine from waking me up to putting me to sleep. I insisted that success and money didn't go hand in hand and positivity is easy when the only thing you're paying for is young cigarettes and blindfold mints. When we grow on the outside, we shrink on the inside to a certain extent. We watch death like a ****** sequel. We fear the inevitable and watch the hands on the clock until they clap and your lights starts to flicker. We live in a sea of inconsistencies that drown our livelihood and when times become consistent, monotony sits in our throat like drying cement that cracks until we can't even breathe for ourselves anymore. Can anyone define happiness? And can you tell your kids that growing up is a breeze? Cause that gust of wind can blow the half empty cup of coffee on to your clothes and really **** your day.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil
am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle
you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential
see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing
think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited
for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain
my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn
they, the residuals of a man’s *********** with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa
Who else?
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
He gave swerves to uncategorized happiness, with spins that ******* back into his despondencies. He was never given a chance to applaud himself for being a second-long happy or get back to the spotlight where he did belong to his whole **** life. He's properly beautiful when he dances, or when he's proud of his weakest points. Him singing, even the most heard songs will sound re-engaging as if he owns it. Our eyes pace head-on against our cars' contraries. Every scar I had given to my wrists soothe when we wrap our sinful hands in an ill-starred manner.
Love, for him, is altruistically pouring around like sudden downpours on a midsummer day; he had everything to offer yet nothing for himself. He invests a lot with what he wins back. He's the grandeur of a boring ensemble of actors yet still believes he's the subpar star when in reality, no such star existed like it. No one would ever dare to leave him with a river to bleed, or cherry wine bottles with teary send-offs.
Anyone who does that will rest assured have a slot in his own obscenities - oh, how I wish hell would be a lot better than that.
I wasn't briefed for safe keeping such recherchés, that I had to jilt. A handful will be curious, why my decision is a ****** or rather, why am I a **** up. But I would say people with better anything deserve his still-endearing dissonances. And all I have are lyrics while he gives song compositions. All he ever needs are happy mornings who hugs him back so right. Behind their curtains are joy-tinted windows with episodes of cuddles and husky 'Good morning's'. I am not that person, so I had left him in his most heightened situation yet - loving me. In a bed full of my inconsistencies, he was sleeping beside his hard-to-swallow Ecstasies.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
this time something feels different
this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face
this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever
i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue
this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity
this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow
with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms
this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace
because this time i need someone whose lips
can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks
before they turn cold & calloused
i need someone to sink their teeth into my
shoulders & collarbone to wake me
from this superfluous daydream
i need someone who beds naturally
into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt
i need someone who will dance with me
across an empty landscape into
something bigger & deeper
than just the starless sky above us
i need someone who wants to learn
the overlapping language of my eyes & hands
someone who will lounge with me
like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite
drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy
someone who can blur the lines
between my cerebrum & theirs
so that we become a stitched together
quilt of soft memories in our imagination
someone who has been in a trainwreck before
& knows precisely where to kiss
to make it all better
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Let's bury the lovely inconsistencies
Leave the intimate fallacies to mystery
Then my perception of your passion fits with me
Red brick to mortar
you laid your deceit in a building order
Despite the inherent wrecking ball tendencies you chose to utilize
Blind to my youthful eyes
Let's brush the displaced fervor for lust under makeshift throw rugs
Void of emotion until you know no love
As exhilarating as the love you left long ago as leaves of dogwood trees in a late Pennsylvanian november
Rigid structures that wait a season to return to the lively form they remember
Bare white bark and dead extremities
Bare as your stockpile of passion meant for me
The surplus became a short supply when I left your graces
Amidst the sea of faces
You encounter in the places
You replace me to fill the voids and spaces
My memory laced with traces
Of your gentle touch, a cool spring breeze to my sun soaked skin
Recalling the ominous climb before the downward spin
We always seem to find ourselves in
Perhaps the fact the rush of the climb washes my mind of the inevitable collapse
I all too often push the moment from thoughts of past
The sinking in my stomach peaking the point of no return
As I set my eyes to the horizon and watch us burn
In the setting sun of an Middle eastern summer
Your lightning fast decisions to leave never compared to the rolling thunder
That swept over my soul
When you tore the hole
In the hazel eyed sky of my perception
with your ill fated rejection
Casting projections
Of your likeness in the constellations
Trembling fingers wait patient
Making comparisons and relations
Between every aspect of you I savored
To Orion's belt, cassiopeia, ursa major
Every slight shift in its luminous glow
A subtle reminder to me of the love you will never know
Intergalactic representations paint the stage for supernovas
Expunging the lovely aroma
I grew accustom to
Coming to harsh realizations there's no reciprocal paid in full for the love I loved for you.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 7:04 AM UTC
An insightful noise spark, an insanity so clear
With one, if a million, on hind legs in cheer
This land
Our land
Ours, by right of birth
Ours, rightly deserved, through hardship and pain
Our blood, there blood, these hands did stain
New leaders, struggled, with caviar and crackle
A struggle won, through blast of church, on a Son
The killing of a farmer, and his son
The **** of a mother, and her child
These courageous comrades, an insane spectacle
Others struggled, to put food on the table
To ensure, taxes are paid
Roads, schools and churches, were laid
Ensured, a country was made
Why then, this derogatory label
Together, this land was forged
A land, so rich, with its poor
so peaceful, with its crime
so confident, about its insecurities
Healthy, with its infected
Just, with its inconsistencies
Fare, with its favor
so busy, going nowhere, South
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
Conjure belief where assurance
is easily tempted from doubt.
The physical world acts on
a point to point basis
of action, reaction.
Where the genesis of relativity
as the golden rule
mediates the knowledge
that is perpetuated by irony
through circumstance
and the accidental
incidental coincidences
that bend time.
Symmetry is a natural motion of
consistency, extending from an apex
or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions
all from some single origin.
The palms of our hands
are textual markings
of our need for symbolic understanding
in the variances
we create for scientific observation.
Juxtaposed to the stars we created
circular pieces to a wheel in the sky
we hypochondriacs believe
to superimpose as vaccines,
to our inconsistencies we host
as symbiotes
for inverse proportionality.
From the signal, beat, tone,
and definitive sounds
is the pulse of our momentum,
a return to equilibrium.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
**** man, how are you
going to get out of
this one?
I guess you are going to have to tell the truth.
But some people do not want the truth
some cannot give the truth to certain loved ones,
others believe that the truth is what must be spoken in every word.
But its like walking back down the mouth of the cave,
to the prisoners still shackled, watching shadows, and trying to explain the sun and the trees.
I would have better luck
trying to
**** this wall
than trying to get you to
understand something
which seems so obvious
to
anyone,
everyone,
but you.
Maybe we are wrong,
maybe you are an enlightened one, come to save our poor wretched souls.
But that seems highly unlikely dear, for you are far too selfish,
and shallow,
and oblivious to reason and accountability.
A line has been crossed,
that which has been done cannot be undone.
But are you so ******* arrogant
that you think you
are not worthy of forgiveness?
Do you think
your crime is
so bad you are beyond redemption?
You think you have leverage, but your fulcrum is weak and I am persistent and voracious.
The ruiner,
your precious
little nickname for me,
carries more significance
than the
destruction
of your
sweet honeycunt, darling.
You never should have given me that stupid ******* painting.
I have known what a vile creature you are since the moment I laid eyes on it and I have carried that knowledge with me.
You forget how intuitive and analytical I am. You forget how well I read your every glance and subtle body gesture. You forgot how much smarter I am than you.
Your inconsistencies make sense now,
now that I have accepted you as a liar.
Your patterns are predictable,
which makes your ********
so much
easier
to tolerate.
My sweet little liar.
I love you the most, baby.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
He stands
A silhouette against a lifeless flat expanse
His flaccid tallow-yellow hands clasped awkwardly across the rails
The skin is white beneath his nails
The fear beginning to ferment
His shallow-knuckled grip indicative of lunatic intent
Intent to finally insuate his end into the books
To compensate for all the awkward silence and dead looks
Insinuate himself amongst indifferent carbon molecules
His skin and sinew separate from all the inconsistencies
Immortalised in asphalt now
A martyr on the asphalt now
Away from death and listing eyes.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
it'll get bad reviews, we should scrap the project before it breaks the budget
we sit and talk
art and beauty, love and fear
my heart cracking open,
and you, rushing in.
we sit and talk,
play at the deadly game
ignore the consequences
shun the inconsistencies.
the words, words, words
they swirl,
and we slip, we slip, we slip
--its a real cliffhanger
hearts on sleeves
music weaves
stories come to light
secrets, oozing out between
the well crafted lines of
our carefully scripted plot
we sit and talk circles around
the herds of white elephants
that come to watch the show.
mocking us, they laugh
as we tiptoe through
fields of daffodils
under dark skies
with rainbows.
(scene change now)
in dark of night
i squeeze out hope
from my heart.
god ****** hope
twists up and knifes
me in the side, leaves
me bleeding on the floor.
and you, fool you are
rush to my aid.
if you're saving me,
who's saving you?
you with your secret
decoder ring from your
box of caramel corn.
cracking my heart,
you peel my layers.
your questions run deep
but your feet will run faster,
and i'll fall, i'll fall, i'll fall.
gravity's a real drag,
i've felt it's pull before.
me with my third eye
see the pan and play.
this show will end
leaving us all sitting
in our seats wanting
another thirty minutes,
a tidier ending.
this ain't Disney.
we'll feel like we've been
ripped, ripped, ripped
no refunds here,
go file your complaint
with the man upstairs.
the audience stands,
turns to go.
white elephants know there's
no silver lining, no *** of gold.
they threw popcorn at the screen
but you didn't notice.
i always hated white elephants;
i thought you did too.
who invited them to the show?
we step outside,
no curtain call,
no applause
this hail falls down
on a sunny blue day.
afraid to touch you, but
i want to catch you in my mouth.
would you please
just go away
before i end up with lumps
on my head, in my throat?
my eyes blinded by the sun,
the hail, this ill fated show
--bruised orange
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 1:37 AM UTC
Those lies you spun like a spiders web
Took place, built homes,
Inside my head.
And I didn't try to relocate
Because all I could do was appreciate
That someone finally cared.
And yes I was scared,
Of the danger, of living with a stranger
The inconsistencies, the mysteries
The roller coaster that was you and me.
But I stood my ground,
Too thankful,
To finally have someone around.
Those lies they weaved,
There way into the darkest corners of my mind
And in desperation I gave up trying to find myself.
Still I remained a squatter
In the squalor, the mess
New levels of doubt and distress arrived
But I pushed them aside
I waited for them to subside
As I sat, in tears, screamed and cried
And I confided in you, trusted in you
A sea of unfamiliarity,
Swimming in a river,
That was murky,
Searching for clarity
In a place
Where nothing was sign posted,
No sense of direction
Desperate for any form of connection.
Feet rooted,
I made no attempt to escape
As your cape began to drown me.
You chipped away
Day by day
My foundations
And I so badly wanted it to be okay
Because I could finally say
I had someone.
Someone that said they cared
Despite the bruises I bared.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:29 AM UTC
Don't let the Human Race down
theres too much loitering on the breeze.
Best un- invite their crypto smiles.
and Everything is Corporate,
bumbling politicians with no screen presence,
gauche PR and easy pretensions.
Foreign intervention snowballs
as an afterthought
by men of limited intellect
balancing their variegated inconsistencies.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
pick and choose and prioritize
you have one hundred different kinds of days to live
about 30,000 chances to repeat them
where does your heart live
in the depths?
or in the stars?
he said:
"you gotta hit it hard in the guts, blood and thunder and all like"
life is fraught with peril
like a foreign film without subtitles
you choose how it ends
the subtleties
the inconsistencies
the balance of here and there
the cliche duality of life
good and evil
god and devil
now or never
he rolled 13 cigarettes
took one glass of whisky
stepped 3 times down the stairs
walked 3 miles down the street
and fell 6 million times in the dark
i was born like a tree
arms raised like branches
growing through my chest
leaves falling all around me
naked in the winter
clothed in the summer
roots go deep
no time to sleep
come here and flow up my xylem
lay in my phloem
my chlorophyl will fill you up
my sap is like wine
stay drunk all the time
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 4:11 AM UTC
I built a room out of keys and locked doors
for a steeple boy.
Still, he shuts out the eyes of the people.
He buried his twin sister
a generation ago.
No one knew he killed
“her”
He wrecked her being with the weight of his tears
He tore apart her womb and *******
with the inconsistencies in his mind.
She went willingly,
quietly.
She never existed for him.
Yet, he keeps her
in the hazy recesses of his thoughts.
Reluctantly, necessarily.
A tethered reminder.
His mind is just as broken
just as fickle
just as full as hers.
His/(her)
clenched fists
sentimental soul
conflicted body
bittersweet existence
Maybe today will be the day he is
born
without the mask of his sister.
A coward
(not a fraud)
no longer.
May he speak unwaveringly
even as his spirit wavers.
May his chest be flat and strong
May he sit wider than his mother permits
May his wrists stay unmarred
May his body
be painted blue
and his eyes
(pink).
Though his flesh may be
Change(able),
remember it contains
his heart
his soul
his mind,
that knows and is unsure
…
his throat, that speaks, even as it betrays his deepness
his breath, that fills his well-worn lungs
his spine, that remains s despite crushing ribs
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
his blood, that flows cleanly through veins
his organs, that run amid the ruin of his subsistence.
Now,
his hands open with the creak
of strained muscles.
No longer fading, he fills this space.
Showered, his arms extend into sleeves of a suit.
His fingers pull pants in place
His fingers secure buttons
His fingers knot his tie
His fingers fasten his laces
and,
he remembers his sister.
He chips at her mortar around his heart
His eyes, once covered in cypress flowers,
change to lilies.
He fists the correct key, using his voice,
“This ain’t no sham.
I am what I am”
Steeple boy,
choose life.
Change life.
You’ll be alright.
Relearned human being,
believe.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Juliet
Our love isn't illicit
Or secret
Your parents and mine
Are friends
Is that okay?
I love a good story
With a happy ending
But right now
I just want you in my arms
Our own problems
Less dramatic
You and I
Will not be on a TV screen
Or a magazine
But a photo album
Smiling at each other
Is that okay?
I hope so
Because outside of all this fuss
I just want you
For you
For your smile and your laugh
Your quirks
And inconsistencies.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 12:22 PM UTC
I was born in a story you wouldn't believe.
I was born in the back of a minivan
sitting on the rails of a one track mind.
I was born out of a need for gluttony.
My father couldn't handle my beauty
and committed himself to 50 years of tilting
shining self destruction. I was born atop a mountain
that was once a molehill. No one could see
the rising sun for all the jutting inconsistencies
of the heaving throne beneath me.
I was born in and out of a wave violently
caressing the coast of a chiming belltower,
tulip and rose blooms ripped from their stems.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
Yearning for some order I notice patterns in the pavement
Racing lines, creating ties, crossing T's and dotting I's
Grainy memories collide with one another as I wonder
Pondering the source of my observant sense leaving life in sunder
Beautifully benign to me, remembering the sea of color
Yellow, red, green, purple, blue
Reeling up and down and out and through
Galavanting as I grinned, lost in patterns I felt within
Perhaps I long for those times of innocent whim
But now all I see in the patterns are flaws
Yelling their inconsistencies
Rendering my blissful thoughts impossibly apart from me
Pacing mind leaving grooves behind my eyes
Partially lost in myself, watching a slow unwind
Beckoning me closer, one step at a time
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
There is a madness brewing like a sickness violently spewing lunatic crazed remarks into hollow minds. There are ideas stirring, bubbling and boiling; while stifled thoughts surface with no more than their existence as a warning of fore coming depression.
What a natural phenomenon, the emergence of insanity within a sane able bodied mind.
There is a foretelling of a sign forecasting an upcoming discension into the chasms that are my souls wretched sins reincarnated into the halls of Hell.
Ideas inspire though pride, gluttony, malice and envy give my breathe meaning through the inconsistencies of life.
They ignite within us a flame not readily contained by the constraints and shackles of love and time.
**** me now, and I shall forevermore hold peace in my heart and a quieted mind.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC