"intellectuality" poems
start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.
it could be you
and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment. cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break
Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-
bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Remember those city nights we spent
inhaling the marijuana and halal truck tinted air that fills the space
between the skyscrapers?
Glowing storefronts illuminated
both the skies with their stars glistening quietly under coats of dust
and the streets, dense under ***** and ***** spilled by boys
who yell obscenities to girls
who hang their heads low,
ashamed to be happy to have their push up bras appreciated.
It was the summer we read Catcher in the Rye religiously.
We were overflowing with privilege and hating privilege.
Oh god, how we thought we hated privilege back then.
In June we graduated from middle school,
and you found out your father was cheating on the woman
he cheated on your mother with.
In July you kissed a boy for the first time,
even let him feel you up a little.
I couldn't help getting uneasy,
even though you said it was nothing.
Most nights we couldn’t contain ourselves, shouting ideas
fast as the taxi cabs who'd nearly run our still-growing bodies to the ground,
always in a hurry to get home to their own sleeping children.
We raged rebellion against the red lights.
There was no time to wait around for things as unimportant
as people who weren't us.
In August, I took a klonopin pill from my mom’s drawer
because I couldn’t stop the dread beneath my skull.
It made me sleepy.
We were so filled with poems and wine copped at art galleries
where we’d feigned intellectuality,
that we'd see a *** on a subway train
and call him a vagabond.
Back then we thought we knew how life worked
like the palms of each others hands.
By September, albeit, our fingers were calloused
from the time we climbed a playground's wire fence,
twisted the caps off beer bottles,
and swung from the Monkey Bars.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
eight, nine
nine, eight, nine
Hello, father, spare me a dime,
and pay the mime with
five landmines;
**** off the bridge if
we've got time.
Appalachian Yeti-man:
set fire to the trashcan.
Call me hobo-stan,
and if the beard fits
grow it.
Show it;
show me the D.
Dentistry,
stay with me;
Explain for free:
"Dichotomy
of the mind"
thoughtfully,
for a time.
Robot-o me,
Mr. Oregato.
Set phasers to ****
stunningly.
Make fun of he
for bad grammar
and intellectuality.
He dumber;
me smarter.
She's aderall;
I'm martyr.
Destroy my innards,
Captain.
I need them not.
She leaves me rot,
and he feeds me Scott.
Scottie doesn't know
that Fiona and me
eat him in a van while
he's sleeping.
Cannibal,
call me Hannibal,
and she's the Jane to my
Tarzan,
pulling the fruits of
my loom.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”)
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
I cannot write—I cannot speak or think—
Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates—thee only!
1.7k
**Dear Picture-in-my-head,
I wish I had you for my reality instead.**
Your star spangled banners,
your dim faded lights,
that alan walker music
misty, misty night.
Him,
from the corner of eyesight
letting his frown drop,
asking me in. Our time.
An audacious vivacity,
the merry sliding down of unhinged desires.
A mating of intellectuality,
less of skinny lust, discarded mask and pride.
Wafting smell of earth drenched in season’s first rain,
halting words breaking the initial stranger pace.
Cups of ginger tea than ***** and ice,
living the moment than getting drowned in haze.
I could whisper my secret wishes -the one that involves a mountain top,
a leather jacket, bullet ride
an unfaltering speech – woman of the moment,
a potential done right.
You could tell me about that night you cried,
That misunderstood age
Your favourite cartoons,
And their funny ways.
We could draw the clouds on our palms,
The ones that compliment a picturgasmic sunset
Feel the lightness of solitude,
the sweetened somethings in the nothing.
The breeze would crash against me,
Before it hit you softly in the face,
And it would feel just right,
To let you have a bit of me this night.
**It would be good, or even better;
but it’s just stuck in letters.
For it’s a trapped swansong – in a party with people I barely know,
and wouldn’t want to, at the end of the night.**
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
He brought me 76 roses
One for each sunrise we’ve seen
The snow falling
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real
He brought me to an art gallery
Where we carefully took notes
Graphite stained hands
Touched and shared thoughts
On this painting and that
Joking at our intellectuality
And he bought me a poster
Of Dali’s Persistence of Memory
And an ebony frame
Which he helped me put up
Onto my wall
Above my bed
So I could see it each day
As the flowers bloomed
Outside
In August was waves
Where we held hands
Perfectly sculpted for one another
And watched waves roll by
And sand tickle toes
Not a word exchanged
No need for it
Our scents mixing
Into the fresh air
Billowing by
A hint of lemonade
And beer from down the way
He took me on a picnic
In the middle of October
We sat under the stars
While the trees carefully
Cried tears of leaves
On us
Entwining us
Bonding us into one
As we covered ourselves in blanket
A makeshift house
To guard us against all
And we could hide away
Just the two of us
Winter came once more
Lights dangling on front doors
And that night
He took me to a café
And we sat until 2am
Reading our novels
Though it was hard to concentrate
So instead we ordered
Cappuccinos
And talked the night away
About nothing and everything
While snow fell
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
unbearable secrets
negotiating bearable truths as
day brakes in
everyday life of
rural experiments
taken by the
huge momentum of lifes
eventualities
broken by the
roughness of modern
intellectuality as the
devided forgetfulness
grows into
elegant white memories
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
Make yourself
A social engagement
With some wise and brilliant minds
Discover the think tank mentality
It's the intellectual wine
Intellectuality can only grow
In wide and open spaces
Questioning your own beliefs
Could give your heart a face-lift
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
in the mad pride of intellectuality,
maintained “the power of brain”- denied that ever
a thought arose within the human brain
that can’t be wiped away by the gales of time.
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
a picture, painted with blurry brushstrokes,
much alike the façade of Aphrodite,
bathing in the moonlight fall of silver sparkle,
and dancing to the hymns of angels,
have exhumed a fire lost in squalls of,
distance and clocks and unvoiced passion .
Resurrected the yearn to burn in the flames
of Proclivity to glance at the seraphic vista.
Flared and charred I feel myself ashen,
and shivering. My pen falls from stiff fingers,
and I stand at the fringe of the abyss,
with you at the bottom, and the sides
and at the start of the end and,
at the end of the start, it’s you all around
O’ I wish, somehow, I drowned.
Shekhar Suman
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
It’s ok to be harmlessly pretentious
give your ideas and life some credit
& venerate your ideas with research
don’t browbeat others with negativity
or a misjudged sense of intellectuality
but don’t be afraid to aim for lofty ideas
perhaps ideas that are hard to fully grasp
even seemingly beyond your comprehension
the most interesting ideas usually work that way
immerse yourself in the terminology of your interest
until you can understand the language of their glossary
eventually writing new sentences that become paragraphs
until what seemed like a pretense becomes the present tense.
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 5:33 PM UTC
I just want to speak
speak where someone
at least a stray dog can listen
better, understand
It was so unfruitful that I kept writing
the essence of writing is suffering
suffering is like star
star is like your friend
friend who never loved you back
love is pathetic
passion is died
dead is god
god is a myth
myth is a new logic
logic is intellectuality
there is so little difference
I have to die to draw his attention
he's busy carving melons for Halloween
It is ghostly wandering
ghosts are too many
many things have to be transparent
I expected his eyes to be
never saw them
never realized he was not into them
though he owned them
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
Henny-yussly mischeevyuss
He orfed growshurries irregardless
Of the rawshussness and disgustment
Of the masonairy surrounding him.
We consistiountly tried to keep aholt
Of his mumbeulizing narrativation,
But he was dissensibly non-coherent
With a naturalistic talent to devaricate.
He was consistively disassembling,
Misindicating his intellectuality
And his irreality noissomely aloud.
Of his malapropicisms he was proud.
His crassy disaparagements reeked
And his ununderstandments peaked
They pointed out his misconstumblement
About his privates and the government.
His blabbermouthedness notoriastic
Rerendered him atombombastical.
His practicication of the irradical
Was mostly piraticalish; nastical.
His pernowncements so disapplaudable
Too bad his words were so megaudible
Unpossible, hyperdisgustisizing,
To the point of indisguising.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC
Where are the grass stains I must obtain on my white t-shirt to establish my wiliness to “get *****
Where are the ****** urges I must purge with ****** lewd, and snide jokes of the opposite sex? Where is the confidence I must amplify with impulsivity so reason is kept captive somewhere, hidden from consciousness?
Where is my preordained disposition in giving commands to ones not fit for a position of authority?
Where is my masculinity?
Where are the words, long in lettering, that captivate not the attention of comprehension but of curiosity amongst others?
Where are the capabilities of manipulating numbers in a way one performs faster than the standard calculating machine?
Where are the messages I must retain once I completed the reading of a book?
Where is my Intellectuality?
Where is my sense of correlation of colors and patterns, of fabrics, of style?
Where is my aversion to the concept of bruising one’s body for rough play tends to direct in that direction?
Where is the decibel of higher vocals?
Where are the strides taken with more movement ‘round the hips?
Where is my homosexuality?
Where is my ability to manage my tongue in that it is capable of switching spoken words to fit them who cannot understand?
Where my culinary skills in creating edible sources of energy that are saturated in spice and colors?
Where is my Latinity?
Where are my products of raw originality?
Where are my thought provoking notions held together by a commonality: my mind?
Where are my blueprints, harboring designs for the business I have yet to construct?
Where is my Americanity?
Answer:
Snitched into my fabric,
Welded and wrought into my frame,
Liquefied and pressurized
Revised and ratified
Into me.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Creativity and ambition is real
And the feeling of risk and intelligence
Are asking for damnation please, placidly
Birds among many things that chirp around your soul that wakes up the dead
Cheering up the party with the talk of apartheid, black and white
Competition is the last word, and talk of lost causes and intellectuality
Est mir leid
I'm up in my knees with Bukowski, they call me old-school Burroughs, the Kerouac rings in the philosophical Barry Manilow
Barry Levinson, please don't make my death bed, you're plot points make sense ambivalently too in case I touch upon Bacchus
The dichotomy of the bridling *** I suppose you switched with the surface of the country full of dunes and locusts
The swamp of the divorcee storm saves it for the orgie and the promiscuous dollar ride and melee
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 5:42 PM UTC
Golden pools of false luck and sinister emotions caress your broken soul and temporarily mend the aching parts that seem to make up more than half of you while dark brown fields of hope are your anchor as you let go of all the cares bottled up inside. Sighs of relief fill the air as you embrace soft skin and soak into the comfort that easily flows from the golden pools and sighs of relief fill the air as you feel the pull of the anchor holding you in place that allows you to release every anxiety ever experienced. Safe. You feel safe. This must be love because complex emotional connections mean more to the both of you and innocent touch with a single kiss are enough for a life time of separation. Why? Because it meant more to look at him and know his thoughts than to feel him and only know his carnal desires. Emotional no mental stimulation in general was more fascinating than the anatomy of a boy. And a girl. To know who the other was past physical interaction past superficial touch. It was better to know he wanted me past my physicality and more for my intellectuality. Beauty. Redefined by him as intelligence and the ability to stimulate minds rather than look good on a magazine cover.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
this weight.
it's been on my shoulders for most of my life.
its constantly weighing me down and it seems to get heavier the more
stressed i begin to feel.
i don't want to believe they're responsibilities and the high expectations i hold for myself, but they are.
which ******* *****
why do i have to live my life stressing over an exam that won't matter in several years when i could be worrying about the imminent plummet of this planet called earth.
this world, this planet, Earth.
it could die any time soon.
it could suddenly implode on itself, it could instantly fall to its inevitable doom due to pollution, overcrowded populations, human pollution.
this world that we deem as "home" could instantly disappear and we would go along with it.
but here i am
stuck worrying about an exam that determines whether or not i get college credit for the class.
stuck worrying about how my grades look in comparison to everyone else in my classes.
stuck stressing over the fact that i am not worthy enough to my parents because my level of intellectuality just isn't high enough for them.
stuck stressing over how i don't know what my friends think of me and whether or not they actually hate me even in the slightest.
i've conditioned myself to worry
about the absolute wrong things.
i despise that humans are identified based on their intelligible intellectualism rather than the amount of knowledge they've gained by simply living.
we all live in a world where, for some reason, numbers matter more than the youth's, young adult's, adult's mental and emotional health.
everyone is so worried about how much money they have because that's what they need to survive.
we need money in order to have that false sense of security.
money.
it's all we care about.
but in order to get that money, we must go through the hells and stresses and anxieties and depression episodes that is known as
the american educational system.
why must i worry about the letter grades when i could worry about the fact that people are dying.
that this planet of ours is dying.
that we don't know enough about the universe to even deem it as safe.
i and many others have this weight of over achieving expectations and responsibilities.
i have to do good in school or else i'll be seen as a failure.
i have to get straight A's or my parents will be disappointed in me.
i have to get a high education or else i won't be eligible for college.
and if i don't go to college, i don't have a degree and i don't get a job and i have no money and i will eventually die off as no one.
i'd absolutely hate to die knowing i stressed over some ******* letter and number grades when i could've explored my purpose and my meaning for living and why i drive myself to continue living.
yet, i will be too old to discover those things because i decided to dedicate all of my precious time to anxiety attacks and depression episodes because i failed several tests.
why must i and many people worry about this heavy weight on our shoulders.
why must this weight be so awfully heavy.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
God is not a myth,
He's the truth,
It seems most think believing in God is denial of reality,
Lack of clarity,
Or even just low intellectuality,
Well is it?
So many events narrate to me the existence of a higher power,
Its not a thing I've not questioned,
I've questioned and questioned.....
And the answers I seek,
Are always beneath all the hearts;
Of the helpless souls who lick their sours of being judged for believing in Him;God
So I wonder;"what does it have to do with me? "
Am just a human being acting weird at times,...
I feel guilty for am straight mentally but all I see in the mirror is a man detrimentally,
Causing my inner self;harm,
Then I realise,
That its wiser to follow my hearts eyes,
For they confirm what my mind already knows but tries to argue against.,
Such is life.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
Me, my body, my skin.
It’s all wrong.
The world told me to change my face, make sure nothing’s misplaced.
‘You should be perfect’
My eyes are an ugly color, my nose is too big, my forehead is too large.
The world told me to look through special goggles, look like a model.
‘You should be perfect’
My waist is too large, my hips are too wide, I’m not skinny enough.
The world told me to change the clothes on my body, be as beautiful as a poppy.
‘You should be perfect’
That dress makes you look fat, those clothes are too revealing, not that, it’s too boyish.
The world told me to change my personality, think with less intellectuality.
‘You should be perfect’
My ambitions are too smart for a girl, my attitude is too kind, too trusting.
The world told me to change the way I look through the mirror, see myself clearer.
‘You should be perfect’
My insecurities are unreasonable, I should be happy with myself.
The world told me to have body confidence, have more self-tolerance.
‘You should be perfect’
You are beautiful, you shouldn’t have insecurities.
All while telling me ‘how to be perfect’...
It’s all wrong.
Me, my body, my skin.
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 8:39 AM UTC