"inextricable" poems
So much to do, my mind is buzzing. My fingers are dancing with perverted excitement as my lips form words with more syllables than letters. I feel as though I were a more capable Atlas. May the world rely on me, I shall hold it higher than an aeroplane as it soars through the sky. Our skies.
A testament to the ingenuity of man the turrets, ******** the weak, and credit God; the asexual ****** he is.
This is no song for the hipsters to play as their ringtones as they feel for each other through their LCD screens. They search for other brazen articles of humanity trapped within their social networks, a web of faces, **** smiles, faces and words with us wherever we we go. An inextricable mass that haunts like schizophrenic vocals droning out the real life. But there is no real life. We are all just like Him.
***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.
Today, I grabbed a handful of sand just to see if I could feel it. Ten years ago, I would have felt every grain as it passed through my fingers; crisp, sharp, invigorating. Now, it’s dull. Blunt, rounded, indistinguishable. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Nothing for our worshipped deviant to see.
My life is pornographic; an infographic of my exquisite taste in infectious lies, in the slaughter of old days, in the times immemorial. A map of things that don’t relate to me. A chart of things I don’t care about. I have too much to do, so much to write about! To write about...me.
***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean.
My mind is buzzing.
Until the next day, when my bones fall sluggish and my mind thinks plainly of its singular desire: Sleep…dirty, sleep...filthy, sleep. But I can’t.
So now...I work. I am alive, alive, alive a lively beat of my heart as blood runs like an inmate from the bars of confinement. From my body: a testament to the ingenuity of ********** My body. Where my heart is beaten.
Beat, beat.
Sleep, sleep.
Fly high.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
*my rough and tattered edges like sea glass
smoothly rounded by her passions
relentlessly polished by intimate contact
with her welling water and earthy grit
the reality of her excites me
humbling any romantic doubt
dispelling any fantasy skepticism
instilling a will for the moment
she is energy in pure spherical form
encircling this scattered life
she holds for me a sense of place
a bookmark to poetic existence
just as bands bind magic barrel staves
as rainbows secretly circle underground
as concentric rings indicate growth
love will revolve even as it expands*
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
Oh! How like you, I long to be a singing lark
Who among the fleecy clouds like a tiny speck
Remains hidden, drowning the air with music sweet
Rising higher and darting up with movements slick
In our ears, falls your song like peals of chiming bells
In clear, crystalline notes on this radiant day so bright
Why do you stay unseen in the far fringes of heaven?
Oh! Come out from the veils that cover you from our sight!
Are you warbling of love in inextricable lays
Or chanting hymns to the God of greater heights
Diving up and down like a mysterious sprite
Are you trilling of the charms of enchanting sights
Soaring and swaying like a flitting dot of light
You ascend higher and higher to dizzier heights
I guess your wings brush against the sailing clouds
As you reel round and round in ecstatic flights
Have you bade farewell to the verdant groves beneath
Have you flown for good from your woody nest?
Why do you dwell in the heights, solitary and alone?
Have you made the firmament your haven of rest?
Hovering over unseen, you pour out melodies sweet
That fills our gloomy hearts with euphoric delight
Sweeping away from weary heads all sullen thoughts
And flaming our souls as ever blazing beacons of light!
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
And why then, should I not? I am not below most and if nothing else am equal to many here with relevancy to being philosophical while writing poetry. The two may be related and maybe it's just personal preference that I try to separate these but it's not without reason or logic.
To write philosophically shouldn't there be few guidelines? Shouldn't thought and inquisitiveness be themselves and without metaphor and emotion?
To write poetically, isn't it more about feeling, grace, and beauty without questioning these?
I understand things change and definitions separate, disperse, die, and are born which is why I'm going to say that the two ideas of contemplation and beauty are inextricable to a certain extent and I'm open their junction.
In the end maybe I'm split on this.
Maybe it's contradictory.
Maybe I'm wrong and it's due to past circumstances that're relatable only to myself.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
A broken shell, a living hell, and all I'm left with now is my regret.
Better days ahead were a pipedream after our relationship crumbled. Countless arguments. Disagreements. Every day! For my life, I can't believe we stayed together as long as we did. God knows I didn't want her to leave me. How much longer must I wrestle with these painful memories?
I just feel regret, unspoken, I just feel the pain; since she left, my life has been a broken shell, a living hell — I can't believe I let her go; it was foolish pride before the fall the day she left when I lost all — I should have held her closer, I should have made her see the feelings I have for her, what she means to me; I didn't say I love her or beg her to stay, instead, I stood in silence and watched her walk away, and all I'm left with now is my regret.
Justification is an exercise in futility. Knowing what I could have and should have done leaves an inextricable switchblade in my soul. Love's lessons learned too late — love's loss too great.
Misting eyes beseech as memories replay in my head, but they're too painful, and I feel dead. No joy to be found. Oh well, my self-imposed hell. Painful memories open like an oubliette under my feet, plunging me lost and languishing in isolation's labyrinth. Questions left unanswered, decaying in the debris fields of "what if.”
Reflection can be a catharsis for the soul, but it can also rip a hole in it, and soon reality roars from guilt's bottomless pit to devour all hope. Sometimes despair is mitigated by occasional reminders of us. Thoughts lingering on happier times, blessed moments mine to treasure. Until the damnable loop of regret dominates to decimate any respite of joy. Vanishing expectations. Weeping willow's silent wail. Xerox memories fade with time.
Years have passed, and my thoughts continue to haunt me over what we could have had. Zero-sum game — all I'm left with now is my regret.
Mark Toney ©️ 2023
* * *
April 22, 2023
I hope you found the above fictional prose poem interesting. I wrote it in response to a writing challenge I heard about. Write a 26-sentence short story (or prose poem). Each sentence must begin with the alphabet's sequential letters starting with A through Z. One sentence must be 100 words long, and another sentence only one word. Would you like to try it?
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 2:07 AM UTC
My heart is curled in my chest, sitting low; it can't be bothered.
You and I are both deaf. You cannot hear me screaming for you and I cannot hear myself wailing "STOP."
Even the tips of my fingers cry out and good lord does it burn;
All of this is deliciously hateful and ******* it - it should be illegal to make another human being feel this way.
We are no longer a mixture dear, we are a solution. I am saturated with you. There is no going back.
Why do I want you to write psalms on my body in ink blacker than night?
Mark me up, please.
Cut, cut, cut.
I am whining and desperate for you.
We are inextricable.
Oh, you must abhor me!
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
No welcome mat adorns the threshold of this house, whose stolen curtains leave gaping holes in the privacy of a building, stripped of laughter. The night peeks in through open doors, and rotted walls, where once soft incandescent light illuminated: a family portrait, childhood masterpieces, and a bookshelf once filled with books worn by the love of three souls who enjoyed nothing more than the peace and quiet of Saturday afternoons devoted to the exploration of their favourite author.
Along the North wall, where once the girl's bedroom sat proudly, gleaming with the banners of musicians and musicals, now rests rubble and ruin. Bereft of purpose, the house is weighed down, with the shame of being unable to shelter its family, with remorse from not withstanding, with guilt from the failure to hold together a family that deserved more than the inextricable truth that a life lived fully and completely in youth and virtue must come to a stop fully and completely.
No welcome mat adorns the threshold of this house, whose drawn curtains provide an honest glimpse into the life of a family, stripped of laughter. The day peeks in through an open door, across painted walls, where the soft morning light illuminates: a tough reminder, childhood innocence, and a bookshelf built with the love and attention of now two souls who try valiantly to remember the peace and quiet of Saturday afternoons devoted to the exploration of their favourite author.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 2:58 AM UTC
January - the calender is flipped to.
with it, an image of red, bloated tomatoes
creeping in pregnant clusters across the page.
my books are sprawled across the desk
like nomads in search of a home.
the earpieces have cords that are entangled and
immersed in its messy and inextricable life.
my phone sits silently and unproductive
depleting its fruitless existence away.
and here too i sit under the whirring fan
watching these objects help tell my story.
even the tomatoes are productive this january.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 8:32 AM UTC
*I gave you life; you came from inside me,
Even though you began with a little of him and me, I sustained you
You literally lived off me
You grew up on the gist of what I consumed
You were tied to me with an undeniable chord
Without me you could not exist
You were a part of me, an inextricable part of me
I could have cut off your life – I held the power
Nevertheless, I am mere human with a soft spot.
You grew larger and I grew,
I developed as you did,
I felt you inside of me
No one will know the satisfaction of being filled up like that,
Or perhaps it’s the secret that women hold
Your life in mine, Your body in mine
No one can get closer than that.
Then the day came when you didn’t need me anymore
You were strong and brave and you wanted to sustain your own
You came out, You breathed on your own, You ate on your own
You bear resemblance of him and me
The physical chord was cut
But why oh why do I still feel your tug,
Every time you cry, you laugh, you crawl, you walk, you run,
You play, you go out, you vacation with friends, you leave home,
You date, you get married,
I still feel you inside me
Moving, filling me up and still tugging all the time….*
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
Kiss me like you mean it, touch me like you do. Let it linger in the Meadows, and sweet like honey dew. In the heat of the summer, you and I are subdued. Twisted and contorted, stuck together like glue. Your tenderness, endearing. passionate out of scale. Love me excessively untill my skin turns pale. Never let me go, never be exhausted. Paint me in red all over, untill we are encrusted.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
There are razors on the floor and a clock against the wall.
It’s got the power to compel idyllic summers fall.
Set the trap to catch the wind and watch it pass through unaware.
I got tangled in my words and my message was unclear.
In case of shivers, huddle close; we’ll start a fire in the room
and count the hours we have left until we leave our days of youth.
The threat of paper guns and swords; we are masters of pretend.
We mistake those we adore and we’ve labeled them as friends
Unleash the doubt that cages love. These chases have led me to bleed.
These patches don’t seem small enough. I’ll be more reckless with my dreams.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
Yes perhaps a while we will sit in silence.
Awkwardly
or...
Believe, though, in bonds.
Two trees wrap around one another,
and don't compete for sunlight.
Yes it might not be quite as easy, natural,
but we grew, then, entwined,
and now some things are inextricable.
Budding branches, green, and reaching,
grow and grow and grow!
Smiling Sun, Beauty,
your growing only more beautiful,
will never sadden me.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
there is no poetry left in my hands
i've washed them so many times
the heart-shaped birthmark between my fingers
is starting to disappear
my knuckles forever white
and deep pressed sharp nail scars in my right hand
screaming "we've missed you for too long"
iridescence cannot repeat itself in two different beings
we became so inextricable
you took some parts off of me
when you ripped yourself away
i've merged too much in you
i still haunt myself singing the chorus of your favorite song at 4am
and trying to imagine the way you breathe
so i can sync with them
i've imagined you so many times
i can no longer recall your real face
i've picture us together so many times
i'm starting to think the new girl you are in love with
sometimes look a little bit like me
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
"That's something poetry can do for you, it can entrance you for a moment above the pool of your own consciousness and your own possibilities."
Seamus Heaney
it is not enough
the eyes, the ears,
the ebb and flow
of calcium in bones
of iron in stars
sometimes silence pours down
like a blessing
some left their offices
and they're now deciphering
the eyes of thunder
some inner power turns me around:
the tribes of air
the shapes of a child's wonder
the involuntary rehearsal of words
this passivity of language
like jazz phrases
the wrinkles of that woman
imprinted in my heart
(by her murderous fingers)
spring gives me rose-like mornings
(because of my bedroom curtains)
and there is something else
this feeling of oneness
the cedar and the flowering river
motherly care, exhaustion, or not knowing
and the hues of morning skies
countless fleeting little gestures
and the cries of birds
tearing solitudes
my complete abandonment to him
in the sea of time
I let the window open
every day is a declaration of love
even when I hate
the dance with the unknown
the inextricable
the polyphony of laughter
and darkness
you live in me during the day
and I **** your name each night
anew
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
You had asked me once,
If I was in love again
If I had found another box for god to rest in
I answered,
Not then.
I have heard the god in you, the death that creeps behind your porcelain shoulders
I have heard the anxiety of life that guides your eyes to mine
At the one point you were afraid and seeking some gravel to place your shoes
you let the grains shift, licking your soles
There isn't a place here where the smallest atomic twinge of regret will not forever imbibe me
I am inextricable and intimately a child with the universe
I will forget to remember you then, and you will be the way all loved ones are dead to me
I will be alive and away
Love is a camellia blossom, she is the dream of the rosepetal
she is the envy of stems
She is a figment of the fractal dimension
she is tangential and perpendicular
I am a substrate
I am the loam and the cold damp earth
a dream of mother soils
the derided character of an oxygenated heaven
I die to give you birth
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 2:18 AM UTC
Sous les draps de ta pyramide
On a vue en 3D sur la mangrove
Rhomboïde
De rhizomes entrelacés
À perte de vue.
Et j'essaie le sabre aux lèvres
Grâce à mon géo-radar
De me frayer un chemin dans le feu inextricable
Vers ta chambre nuptiale
D'eau enchevêtrée d'éclairs et de lave en fusion.
Sous les draps de ta pyramide
J'emprunte ta face Nord
À travers une oubliette à l'abri des regards
Des crabes et des salamandres
J'emprunte la descenderie
Et au bout du couloir
Me voici à l'antichambre
Et un sphynx exige de moi un mot de passe
Pour accéder au nec plus ultra de tes entrailles.
Et je dis : soldat du feu !
Et ce que je croyais être un simple feu de broussailles
De mangle rouge momifié
Se révèle un feu de jungle folle
Où sauterelles et criquets grésillent
Sous les flammes humides de ta chrysalide.
Et j'ouvre ma pompe et j'arrose
De mon eau de rose ton sanctuaire
De fleur de grenade inviolée
Et je comble ta faim
D'un bon mortier fait de venin de sable et de sève d'argile
Montante et descendante
Que tu dégustes en te pourléchant les lèvres.
Pour ne pas en perdre une miette.
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 5:36 AM UTC
Friends are inextricable.
Linked together in unison.
Spoken voices and notable music.
Dressed in vivid colours.
Outstanding,
Stunning,
Shocking at times.
Indomitable,
Indubitable.
And family are eternal.
Harmony and balance.
Livvi x
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
The smell of tulips will forever be
Inextricable from that of cheap *****
And I'll never quite be able to enjoy the taste
Of jelly thumbprint cookies without
Tonguing the teeth you knocked out
The first time we made them.
And I've always preferred open kitchens
So I don't have to think about how many times
You broke the door to ours.
And while I wish we spoke more-
I still remember when mouths were fists,
And words broke bones.
And though I know its in the past,
I still see the glint in your eyes
When a bottle goes by.
Time has healed our wounds;
My adult teeth replaced the gaps,
And you always replaced the door the next day.
We laugh freely now, and the tulips still grow
In the garden on your balcony.
But I'd be lying if I told you
That I can't still see the scars,
Or that the fear doesn't still linger
In our silent moments.
That sleeping with a knife under my pillow
Didn't start when you were still tucking me in.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 5:28 PM UTC
It was indeed orchestrated by providence,
for two hypnotized by love on social media.
It was indeed the innovation of the times
that united two once unbeknownst to each other.
Separated by tongue, culture, values and distance.
A French kiss across the Niger, strengthened further
by an age of digital encyclopedia.
Behold, love is in the air as the church bell chimes
for two, reaping from the gains of a smaller globe.
Set to find themselves inextricable in a robe.
Lovers set to make a vow with a covenant kiss,
guaranteed to grant them both a wedlock of bliss.
Tese and Rosemary in their world of ambience.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 6:57 AM UTC
From the deep slumbers of past
She rose.
Arising from ashes of betrayal
Dirt and dust of untruths,
Shreds of inextricable fate,
Was all left in those
Languid hands.
She stood in the woods,
Surrounded by the Ravens,
In the mystic eternal forest,
Searching for her soul,
Once lost in the,
Distorting,
Temporary World.
"How naive was I?
To search the contentment,
In the erratic chains of illusions,
But the question is
Will I find them
In my solitude?"
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 2:09 PM UTC
The cold, dead girl prefers the huts lonesome, especially the haunted huts
She detests pin drop silence
So for her, the sorrowful wind moans
lugubriously through the oaks and pines
The candlestick looks scary
Suppose you're a spirit medium
Call her quietly
She will respond and pass through the troposphere, the stratosphere, the mesosphere and the thermosphere
She is a good ghost
She resides in Sirius
The dead sinners stay in the inner core
Life and Death are inextricable
The unending afterlife ...
Time knows how to fly
A gleam of hope knows how to try
Rain knows how to cry
A novella knows how to lie
A desert knows how to remain dry
The Mimosa pudica knows how to be shy
A poetic mind knows how to be a clear sky
and everyone was born to die
everyone is born to die
everyone will be born to die.
Feb 21, 2024
Feb 21, 2024 at 2:23 AM UTC
"are you done for tonight?"
"yeah.. i'm just going to write... i mean lay! yeah, lay"
"good, hope to see you tomorrow"
it was inevitable that he is going to break the promise
a shallow habit of irreparable memories and scars
breaking the law, breaking the physics of a fellow inhabitant
the pumped longing warrants his revealed debility
he sat next to the desk, the illuminance from the lamp pervades his empty heart
there was a notebook, a blank one which has been waiting to be overdrawn by emotions
the pen however, layed in darkness and it didn't want to do anything
it just layed there, alone with negligence written through its whole look
he lifelessly brought it on his hand, looked at it carelessly, then threw it to litter
his posture has changed dramatically, it looked like he was ready for everything
he closed the notebook, leaving the blank pages - blank, but the mind was still filled
as he stood up, he started to feel a little weak, maybe he really needed some sleep
the mind was still full of inextricable thoughts that he firmly intended to express
over the night he didn't sleep, he just stood three inches above the desk, above the lamp
he elucidated his unexpected feelings, the wholesome truth has been ascertained and submerged...
his delicate body has been floating around, showing how much his soul didn't weigh
his heart was made of a gas, a gas lightest from air, it just volatillized through exhauster
and as we and him knew how much of a light-heart he is, we didn't perceive the facilely discerned truth
it was inevitable that she has broken his heart, completely
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 6:51 AM UTC
He had not, the general consensus decreed,
Held up his end of the bargain;
Custom dictated that, once one had received
If not full absolution, a degree of dispensation
It was incumbent on the recipient
To acknowledge of the communal munificence,
Preferably with a suitably hang-dog expression,
And then move on with one’s life
In a sufficiently distant locale.
The gentleman in question had begged to differ
And stayed on, not simply long enough
To say the odd quick goodbye, to tie up loose ends,
But for the long haul, as he was born and bred in these parts,
Man and countryside one and the same,
Inextricable from one another, in his view,
And so he carried on about his business
As would befit a full citizen of the borough,
Occasionally stopping to pass the time of day
With the small circle of family and friends
Who had not found his particular peccadillo
As grounds for a de facto shunning
(Indeed, the wheres and whyfores of his particular transgression
Long past being generally agreed upon)
Continuing to shop, work, and even attend mass at St. Marinus
(Where he invariably had a pew to himself)
Where local legend had it that the statue of Jesus had once wept,
Though one former parish priest had noted
How the effigy was strangely and unnervingly impassive
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC