"interjection" poems
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending
When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening
to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable
and yet!
cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,
it has yet
to arrive
When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed
When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction
creation of creativity
<>
she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
in sentry reentry orbit,
to
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot
When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after
death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
the God
I worship,
of course,
he is invisible!
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
By the 1960s, a disillusionment with Nationalism and war was permeating within the public consciousness.
Man: jazz. Jazz! Everything sounds like jazz when you lend your hears an oscilloscope. You know what j-a-z-z sounds like? Well, it’s sweet, serendipitous or nonsensical, nihilistic. Modern in stainless steel or anachronistic in brass. Jazz! So what? Jazz sounds like anything that’s everything and vice versa. It’s a limb of that omniscient looker up and over: the tune itself. Oh, the tune? It’s what lies between your fingers when you’re writing, forging, loving, giving, perishing. You strut with the frequency of a conduit, but an unaware one at that. A change is gonna come in mere years, I know that much. Everyone will be deloused in the pain of the world; Mother Sympathy for all, even the charlatans who hide behind their crimson fur! All I’m saying is, whoever brings it ought to be from this place. I can’t fathom a recalcitrant extraterrestrial handling our own business at the expense of their planet’s water supply. I’m excited for whatever comes, believe me. So long as it ends me and with me.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Interjection Interjection
Guide me about this rounded intersection
You know the right direction
A hard working Mexican,
Living the dream, spending the suns life in scalding heat, yet he doesn't scream for he is simply living the dream, finally able to afford fancy American ice cream,
An expensive television sits upon his wall, maybe it'll get more use in the fall, but he works the suns whole life so he can watch as he falls asleep,
He awakes the next day, and he knows it will be the same. But he still does not scream, for its finally Friday,
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
Among the many faces
Calls out from the blank space
A sound of interjection
A bullet from a gun
Spreading outward unaffected
Running rampant in total red.
Too fast to dodge or slow
Hold on quick or take the blow.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
I am numb to the sickened interjection
of whom from which I've heard nothing but ****
...although
Existential light must first dim
if mental dilation is to take rightful place
Think Exist
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
“Jurt,” she
curtly spurts out
and stops
not knowing if
she’s going to
continue to
speak unknown tongues
or if
this emanation, this
interjection,
spoken on strange
impulse,
is Icelandic
or Bosnian
or Serbian,
and if
the middle one
how not the last,
when they both mean
the same thing, yurt.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 7:43 AM UTC
as intimacy is our lie,
would you hold my hand?
would you breathe for me?
you statue
i hold the door closed because
i know you stand outside
alone, you living statue
you real
living statue
i can hear your lungs fill
outside the door
(because you do not exist
i can pull blood from a stone
and if you find me empty,
bloodless, you will know)
this is the death
of ideals; romance only
the laughter on our tongues
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
after five years
when I write her a love poem,
she is always surprised,
her unexpectation
so very pleases me.
after five years
when I write her a love poem,
I am always surprised,
that a new way to say it,
uncovered.
but this I can tell you,
not once
do I ever write
nor will I ever pen
those I love you words.
they are too easy, too cheap,
a dime a dozen,
naked words make me weep,
dress 'em, cloak 'em, try to
Pradip 'em in
mystery, charming humor,
use conjuring spells of
Bala imagery unreal,
Bzynga!
work hard to tell her why,
work hard to guard your originality,
work hard to tell her in ways
that her into me
smiling, crying, punching.
so I write love poems,
every now and then,
special ways recalled,
teasing her about her forgetfulness,
about her teasing me with rhyming
that is less than spectacular,
how my body has
reshaped itself to fit her.
tell her
I love you,
plain,
well that be downright,
pffft.
(an interjection used to express or indicate
a dying or fizzling out)
the key is to tell her
in a fashion original,
personal to us.
that what all these endless
love poems here strive,
but too oft, fail to arrive.
all tricked up, too direct,
passion burnt used up
after but a single read
stroke her cheek
with soft stanzas,
torrential directness,
no subtly,
fizzles.
write for the long haul,
words that five years hence,
words that five hundred years hence,
make her into me
smiling, crying, punching,
like the first time
she read them,
like they did
five years ago.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
You know he’s full of stuff
When the evidence ain’t enough
And he’s acting like a cream puff
By not calling Putin’s bluff
If I labeled him a scaredy-cat
Or better yet Putin’s new doormat
Would that raise the thermostat,
And flush out that Norway rat?
When the evidence is irrefutable
To the point that it’s not disputable
His response is always mutable
And comes out as most unsuitable
Then his mouthpiece attempts to frame
An alibi, but we’re hip to her game
She can’t absolve him of the blame
Though she tries to just the same
So you better believe and trust
That she looks ridiculous
When she’s being duplicitous
By trying to fool the rest of us
It’s a sin to stand there and lie
But she gives it a college try
Like the mistress of deny
As if the Ten Commandment don’t apply
They interfered with our election
With a clear cut interjection
Of cybernet deflection
Without protest or objection
Two days before his inauguration
He was told of the Russian’s participation
Much to his own consternation
Yet he still voices reservations
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
Here he comes
The elliptical young guy
Shaky
Anchored in his
Interrogation wood
An interjection hanging chest
Pieces of the night between backquotes
Certainly
He lived glory days adverbial
Between clouds of exclamation
Today, he lies circumflex in itself
Barefoot. With faltering feet
About oval ellipsis.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
That which Boils Toils
the product of my affection
May I make an interjection,
I may be at a spike,
my mind may be filled with spite,
and that's right, I am more than probably,
more than likely
overly hormonally irrationally irate.
Instigated, mind you, by your subterfuge,
incessant, noncovalent, depressant,
actions of will will make me seethe.
For my seething wreathing rampage feels so good.
Too good,
ice that cascades down your back on a stark hot summer day
The ice, tiny razors cutting tracks down your back.
Racing beads toward the finish line.
And it feels sublime
The pain of the chill counters the pain of the heat.
And that's how I feel when we meet
at that place where I become a monster.
My chill blown westward
counters the visceral heat in my breast.
That heat that makes me want to beat sticks and drums
and call in my army
It alarms me
That's why I whisper
And shy away
And sulk, because the Hulk is who I'm keeping at bay
My enemy is not the one with eyes searching for me,
but my Jealousy who is at war within me.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
I hope you forgive my abrupt interjection, but, I cannot shy away from your divinity.
Simply put: my knees buckle under your presence.
Something odd with the display of my affinity.
You're that complete package, a rare item, awesome.
Caution: unwrap with care, choking hazard with small items.
Yeah, I read the warning signs, the garbage is usually where I toss 'em.
That smile. Those flashes of white.
The sight, those glazzies, sharp without regard.
Like you see my soul and talk to it without fright.
Which, to me, is an achievement beyond comprehension.
My reflection: an ominous droog staring back working at working at sharpening the lines.
My disbelief in your presence sits comfortable on this rigid suspension.
I know this might be a fruitless endeavor, a **** in the wind, pennies against dimes,
Fine. But I'm a ********* for this closed-fist brutality that comes off your lips.
I'll crawl into fetal before letting you walk away from the rhymes.
If I'm not enough to catch the radiation of your burn, I don't know who is,
Truth is, if I could spend a day without a thought of you then I guess you win.
But I bet I'm running across your mind right now, and I'll never tire until I indulge in this fool's bliss.
Why am I doing this?...
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
You are nothing now,
but if I had the chance to wish one thing of you,
it is this:
(may your past rest in parenthesis)
only an aside in the monologue of life
a soliloquy to the fourth wall of dramatic irony
a bracketed prologue to your story
interjecting an understanding of now and everything from now
in a seemingly never-ending pattern
as present becomes past and enters the parentheses
when your death came and your last words and thoughts slipped behind you
death was the only thing left unsheltered
as your brackets came to a close
but may you rest in every moment and memory you contained in interjection thus far,
(may you rest in parenthesis)
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
Noun, verb, adjective
Pronoun, proper noun
Determiner, exclamation
Interjection
It can do it all
Tastes like vitriol
High on the anger
(or high on the pleasure)
Sharp as a broken stone
Fits the bill on any occasion
Censored, painted over, blotted out
Doesn't matter to me
I love the word ****
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 12:08 PM UTC
another brittle mind
shed in light;
enlightened after such severity,
and stable enough to think
through the idea that i'm lost.
there's enough here
that we all can find enough ways;
that there's a reason to think
still, although we're conditioned
by ourselves; myself.
projection, direction, interjection.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
I light a cigarette
and take a seat onto a damp lawn chair;
the smoke rises and billows
against the crimson colored shadows
like milk in water
and I watch as it goes up to the sky,
over my house where it leaves me to stare.
My mind is clear, eyes wide open,
ears dilate as cool droplets of water trickle down
with pitter patters through the leafy green stairs.
Some even skip from step to leaf top
as if to jump in a quick hurry toward its destination;
others fall in groups behind me
and morph into four legged creatures
that scatter across the moist ruffles
of old and weathered leaves.
Still, my focus is above.
This silent noise abounds from all directions:
a chirped song of a baby bird to my right,
the concerto soloist of a cricket in hiding below,
the bell whistle croak of a frog somewhere near by.
If my senses were a cup it would surely be full now:
Musky odors from a previous storm
that lie softly on the rich brownish-red soil
would rise like steam from its glass rim.
Inside, shavings of silver would gleam like diamonds in light,
and a cotton soft red wine would fill it
like the night does the sky.
And now as I sip from this natural perfection
I am reminded of your lips sweet interjection.
And as softly as the smoke had risen
toward the shadows of red light,
a kiss was lit and we both began to dance;
around your mouth mine had began to waltz,
slowly to and fro on tip toes being careful not to fall,
but you held me close and grasped me tight
like the red sky does the stars,
and like it and the wine that now fills my cup,
with you in that moment I was awe struck.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
I find myself in a reality thoroughly mired;
Hard wired to this dire strait of a habit: to remain inactive;
Actively, though, I find myself being rendered blunt,
Thoroughly ineffective.
Effectively seeing my being contorted into shapes ignoble;
Progressively rendered moot,
Thwarted by my avante garde a la feeble.
And as I face that reality, really all I want to do is
Relay these reverberations that
Go thump! thump! whenever we meet;
Convey these fizzles that turn my stomach outside and in
Whenever we share an embrace to greet.
Can I rely on my grammar to share my emotions?
Or are her stories old news now?
I guess what I'm saying is:
Can I speak?
Can I, nay, may I deliver my formal interjection?
That my emotion towards you is still a subject;
That I'm hoping in my heart that the idea of "us" does not
Come across as abject;
Or imitate a noun and become an idea that is abstract?
Because what I'm going for here is for our souls to find contact;
And as I fill these blank spaces with hope;
What I hope most for,
Is that my sincerity really comes to the fore;
That you understand that I'm not here selling dreams and lifestyles;
But rather that I want to bring them to life before your eyes.
So can I speak?
Can I tell you of the hope you carry?
Can I tell you of the joy you bring?
Can I speak? Tell you everything?
If not, can I at least tell you
How crazy you drive this thing? (point to heart)
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Pity party, pity poison,
pity is pretty ****** off
at your Pompadour proposition, your Pompeii proposal.
The judge and jury blame your execution;
you thought the tri in matrimony meant three
in love when it really meant that you're the third wheel.
You hoped I'd kiss and tell in your world of wedding bells.
Go to hell.
You smiled as you beguiled with false feminine wiles the
boy of miles and miles away, hoping that he might stay
with you instead of her.
Well, this is his answer, and, dear failed romancer,
you won't get that last dance.
Her love was pretense in past tense,
events not recorded in your history book hips.
Ah, a novel idea: you, John Green with envy,
tried to bend me to your whim.
Tried, but your pride died when I sighed
and said that I loved her, so you booked it
from the floor and seemed gone forevermore,
a footnote in the lore until you...turned into a *****
came to me and said that you loved me more.
That is wrong.
Strike the gong.
This is a correction.
Your insurrection of our connection turned
affection into an infection,
and don't interrupt with your **** interjection--
were you expecting an ********
Because you're getting a rejection,
so keep your confection objection to yourself.
You hoped to trace my face, take first place or third base,
leave no space for even lace, and half of lace is empty space.
I should have brought mace.
You are jelly in a jam, so your ham-fisted attitude
led the lamb of love to slaughter;
the s leads laughter on, standing for ***
(check male or female),
stimulation, squabble, **** **** sext--
a wrecked relationship sinking, sinking,
and being nearer, my ******* God, to thee
makes me sick between my bulkhead bones.
The iceberg of your persistence
puts up its last resistance,
but it melts, melts, melts, in water hot as hell.
Is it not plain as you the pain you put me through?
You, with two left feet, hope I'll cheat the day we meet
on the girl who was your friend, and you've done this
once before.
Your dainty hopes that you could go two for two
with hearts and minds disgusts, and your lust broke my trust,
and I must, must, must ring the bells.
Class dismissed. I hope you've learned.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Every once in a while, a thought comes along with a lasting strength of memory.
A dose of a wild clarity, a seamless interweaving of symmetry.
Every once in a while, a thought comes along with a lasting strength of memory.
A clear and toned glance at the authenticity of life.
A pure recognition of its simplicity and strife.
Every once in a while, a thought comes along with a lasting strength of memory.
The crumbling of broken shackles becomes the only sound vowed to never forget.
An impossible moment of knowledge bound only to the roots of truth.
A passionate interjection of thinking that will change everything.
Every once in a while, a thought comes along with a lasting strength of memory.
Yet we forget.
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 11:09 AM UTC
AT ONCE!
And a just-forgotten moon
Splintered the frozen time sky
Airplane sewing machines
Pistol rock candy
Violent as birth
What is this night?
Chrome wheeled interjection
Sparkle studded sister
If there are clouds they are whispers
In the euphony of sights
Nebula rising
The horizon drowns
Settle it to say
Red eyes are waking
The forest burns with appetite
The fields are full of fire seeds
The shadow houses wink and beckon
The smile of thieves is on the cusp
Swimming the Black Nile
Hoping to be enough
The fiddler is spellbound
As the candid universe
Sings a Martian sailor’s tune
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
Drink a clock and combine with time
Be once again a work of art
Doesn't it feel so sublime
The world around you falls apart
But you're a timeless interjection
A gear within a counterpart
A ripple in a lake's reflection
A defibrillator to my heart
Your mind is transcendent yet you're here
A physical reminder of the rest
The world is not as it appears
That's why I'll give you all my best
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
I still feel fat most of the time
But there are times when I unwind
When I feel small and it is kind
I realize I am changing so much
Sometimes I do not realize it til I am touched
Like the way I can wrap my legs around you
The way you cup my *** cheeks in your hands
That makes my *** feel as tiny as you say it is
And that makes me laugh, feel 3 sizes smaller
And probably a good 5 inches taller
Size is a feeling
Changing within mindset
It is all good as long as my *** fits on the swing set ; )
As long as I keep moving and improving what I am working with
The feeling of my size will change in the right direction
I choose to change with positive self reflection
Without all that negative interjection
I have genuine intent to lead my way
Core strength I work on every day
Because size is a feeling I mold by the minute
And this body of mine is out to win it
So I walk with a lot of attitude, lets say
A solid size 14 at play
Until I drop another size ok?
Right now size is not a number
It is not a label in my pants
It is the attitude I wear
The ease at which I dance
Size is a feeling ; )
Very freeing
I declare
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
like the stream that jumps into the farm-land
like the corn-field that is laden with passion
like the dawn that swings like a golden dream
the sparrow
used to be a chirp on my window shade
the drooping plait of corn-stems in the balcony
the syllables of love letter as an abstract design on floor
the warm incarnation of nature in the eaves
the sparrow
used to be a mystic interjection of past and future
o my companion !
as you apply kohl to your eyes
to control the over-flow of my dreams
as you decorate your grace
to disturb my meditating desire
as you keep my emotion on your fore-head
to arrest my peace like a smile on your lips
the sparrow
used to perch in front of the mirror
to decipher the beautiful secret of co-existence .
o my companion! where the key of love is lost?
now, the window shutter is only the wooden cry-
now, the balcony is only the spoiled canvas
now, the mirror is only the sheet of glass
life is only an extinct dream, now!
o my companion !
cannot we preserve the endangered human values?
cannot we find the little sparrow in front of our mirror?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
The battering ram of the underclass cruelty had left pocket marks in his dark skin as the quarrelling customers threw down cash just to ****** it back up as though they were bartering against each other for due time and money owed. He did nothing, save sit there and blink. I thought to myself it almost looked as though he was counting each second in the brief flutter of his eyelids. Open and closed they went, up and down, on and on. The two men were still bickering, each insisting the other owed more than he. My orange juice had begun to sweat in my hand, and I was anxious to eat my late night snack. I considered quietly persuading the two boisterous fellows to conclude their business and exit, but I feared what form their anger might take when reassigned to my annoying interjection. Saying nothing, I waited, testing my own patience and hoping fiercely they could move along. Some fifteen minutes later when all insults and insinuations were spilled out into the open air like oil into the ocean, the duo finally exited and I made my purchases, thankful to be rid of their company, and as I left I saw him sitting, stoic, still blinking rhythmically, not a word nor breath escaping his lips.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC