"insensibly" poems
Hunger and Desire grew
'til bellies everywhere were
ruined for sustenance,
so in went the troops to wage
war against ideas and
when they arrived there were no
soldiers to speak of
so they set up tents
and didn't go away
they sang drunken war-songs
until the moan of starvation bellies
sang louder and more terribly
"That must have been them
the whole time!" they said, and
suited up for the charge.
So they trained their shells at the city
excited to see if target practice
had done them any good
but all they did was mortar themselves to bits
squadrons of video-game experts
sent drones overhead to drop
Hallmark cards titled "Why it's your fault"
and coupon booklets for American
chain shopping outlets to come
but they only marginalized
and condescended themselves
"Bring in the reinforcements!"
they cried, even conscripting
their hapless targets. This mob,
too, was a hungry belly
bellowing for satisfaction,
a cannibal ***
simmering
So they set up tables and stacked
boring paperwork, filing away
spirits broken by shrapnel and white
phosphorus
but they only resigned themselves
to imaginary lines and the plunder
of Control, insensibly
****** themselves to death
while they watched,
perplexed.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Hope, whose weak Being ruin’d is,
Alike if it succeed, and if it miss;
Whom Good or Ill does equally confound,
And both the Horns of Fates Dilemma wound.
Vain shadow! which dost vanish quite,
Both at full Noon, and perfect Night!
The Stars have not a possibility
Of blessing Thee;
If things then from their End we happy call,
’Tis Hope is the most Hopeless thing of all.
Hope, thou bold Taster of Delight,
Who whilst thou shouldst but tast, devour’st it quite!
Thou bringst us an Estate, yet leav’st us Poor,
By clogging it with Legacies before!
The Joys which we entire should wed,
Come deflowr’d Virgins to our bed;
Good fortunes without gain imported be,
Such mighty Custom’s paid to Thee.
For Joy, like Wine, kept close does better tast;
If it take air before, its spirits wast.
Hope, Fortunes cheating Lottery!
Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be;
Fond Archer, Hope, who tak’st thy aim so far,
That still or short, or wide thine arrows are!
Thin, empty Cloud, which th’eye deceives
With shapes that our own Fancy gives!
A Cloud, which gilt and painted now appears,
But must drop presently in tears!
When thy false beams o’re Reasons light prevail,
By Ignes fatui for North-Stars we sail.
Brother of Fear, more gaily clad!
The merr’ier Fool o’th’ two, yet quite as Mad:
Sire of Repentance, Child of fond Desire!
That blow’st the Chymicks, and the Lovers fire!
Leading them still insensibly’on
By the strange witchcraft of Anon!
By Thee the one does changing Nature through
Her endless Labyrinths pursue,
And th’ other chases Woman, whilst She goes
More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows.
2.4k
One day I'll catch you
front and center
on the outskirts
of your city
riding along
a conveyer belt
you'll be dressed
quite insensibly
idling back and forth
along the past
happy in your
pathway hang-ups
and far too distracted
to notice we've become
skull and crossbones
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
I call myself a writer yet I'm awful with words and every time I say sorry it's more like an exit wound than an apology. It's difficult to tell you what I'm feeling when I don't know how to speak and I'll go on talking in my broken languages until you realize you will never understand me. Everyone is telling me I need to stop running away from my problems but I've already tried hiding from them and they'll just keep finding me. I keep thinking that maybe if I smile a little more you'll always be here and I want to **** the thing inside you that makes you leave. I have attachment issues because I remember when I was little and not understanding when people told me they'd "be home later" that they never considered anywhere that I was a home. And maybe I don't want to talk about what you did maybe I want to talk about songs and cities and which direction we're going to walk next and if you want to keep the shirt I'm wearing and if touching each other a certain way is okay and how many buttons you leave open on your flannels and how I'm getting home tonight.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, put old lines from different pieces and call it a poem:>
when fantasy is an exile from reality
our souls glide not exist
when the insensible is reasoned insensibly
our feelings become the blood flow itself on vessels knit
when we our found in a breathless surrounding somehow
our breathes are meaningful and we are blessed in
love on earth is some of what we imagined now
if we didn't find it on it we would have invented it
for the happiness is a factor
and the hope is hopeless without a smell of grace
so surreal of how the other's presence excludes the sad chapter
words on red cheeks become to faint in pace
the place empty on a canvas is painted
and the dark finds the light it never knew
after tongue pauses the say acquainted
to speak in stares that fill up the silence's hue
but fair is not fair for a reason
thoughts muffled like an invisible bottle of wine
the heart wins to a self mind treason
and the pearl burdens the ago better than a dime
-------ravenfeels
Sep 18, 2021
Sep 18, 2021 at 7:25 AM UTC
undo the rusty bolts
underlining
my frizzy hairline
the crummy ones that hold
volatile turmoil
within my scalp
the erratic lunacy
playing
with my aging brain
using the untangled strings
to jump rope
and play
sorrowful tunes
for the weeping
to harmonize
i want you
to stick your hands
in my heavy head
as you would
in a flower ***
freshly filled with soil
dig into the moist compound
with your pliable fingers
amend
the corruptive leakage
that toils
within my own deceit
i want you
to avidly turn
the soft claying matter
how ever you please
as you would
turn into roads
that lead you
running
straight to me
i want you
to breathe
igniting hope
born from the fumes
of cigarettes
you smoked insensibly
into the seeds
you wish to discard
in this potted cavity
i want you
to pour oceans
of poetic sentiments
tainted with gentle kindness
from those isolated tears
held back in the sockets
of your eyes
to water
my wilting corpse
so it may flourish
from your light reflecting gift
of life (you resurrect me)
i want you
to trust
in your
captivating presence
to make me
unintentionally smile
from your caress
will selflessly sprout
inflorescent buds
of rich purplish-blue flowers
with conspicuous green calyxes
and even though their coloring
is rather insignificant
and they can be easily overlooked
i want you
to know
that only you
hold the key
to this secret pasture
that
without you
there would not be
such garden
for us to hide
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
I can only summon feelingfulness like the passing of a dove,
postponing its arrival mid-air, somewhere along the tucked
bramble across Poblacion, starting with metaphorical sensibility
or an insensibly bland space to procure wanted meaning.
Girls prefer roses and their bright foreheads diademed with more
flowers, and boys, their chiaroscuro or lack of a color thereof, seems
to be fitting in this maladroit contrast, and so I begin, as always,
with your very vague and caged memory. Your face, the whiteness
of snowcapped alps. Your strut, my slalom in a treacherous course
of words reduced to whisperings, to flutings. Your voice, though nuanced,
flitters with an overtone of arrogance: if sound was clothed, yours would
be flamboyant ermine. And the line in front of you before I, my arbitrary turn,
assimilates into a picturesque form of waiting somewhere in Cubao.
I wanted to smash myself with train-speed towards the metallic turnstile,
which, would then famish me even so, just as much as I wish to be a car crash
somewhere within the outskirts of your town, heavily vandalized by the swill
of squalor hefting itself like the rest of the world conscious of its viscera.
This is how I start you – like waiting for the sun to emerge by Borobudur,
or the clandestine *** of mildew and grass, a hundredfold of images appear
before me and I cannot choose upon my whims and caprices. Are you a dove?
A spear of Sun? A thunderous crackle of an impending rain? A harlequin?
A moseying cirrus? Or just another by-stander in the crowds where I ultimately
seek your being?
This answerlessness measures my knowledge of star, and my breath snuffed
out of me while I sigh from exhausted penchants, outweigh dissimilarities and symmetries.
A progeny from all superseding conundrums arises: are you a retrogression of a wave
back to its saltine wound, flailing in brine? Or are you just the vast sea and nothing else
on a fine and lucid day where children skip stones and chant name-callings?
I sense the peril in this undertaking, and much to my chagrin, I still
do not know how to end you.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
In these woods
where light retreats and shadows move
along commonly and playfully
I found a young boy.
He stood by a small sluggish stream, striking insensibly at the stones with a childish grin
He than ran noisily, not minding his heavy feet
Crushing and crumbling, the dried dead leaves.
In these woods
where a breeze questions trees on where it's to go
and how it's to get there
I am an adolescent male
I had a hand placed on the bark of a tree
as I kept close my eyes
Listening intently to the words of nature
before I release my needed independent sigh.
In these Woods
Where the oak observes what's below with wisdom
coursing through it's limbs
I saw an elderly man.
He sat on a rock ignoring the discomfort he felt. Laughing to himself he shook his head and rose. A breath he took letting the aromas of circulate inside his soul. He shook his head once more before exiting the woods.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
It is my butterscotch to know
what other perforation don’t know.
I am the last and highest
coverlet of apprehension
in detection.
There is **** like
fiver-handling exchange.
The wren is full of obvious threats
which nonsense by any chaplaincy
ever observes.
You see,
but you do not observe.
The divergence is clear.
It’s a carat moat to theorize
before one has deadline.
Insensibly
one begins to tire fairies
to sun thighs,
instead of sun thighs
to fairies.
I never guitarist.
It is a shocking hairbrush, –
destructive to the logical falcon.
You know my microchip.
It is founded upon the octave
of tripods.
There is **** more deceptive
than an obvious fairy.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 3:33 AM UTC