"interjections" poems
Perfection
The subjection of one’s interjections
Based on the world
The world of today
Can you change what you think
What others have to say
Were interconnected but not in connection
With a convection of perfection that inhibits rejection
Or constant correction of certain parts or sections
That people fail to mention for their own protection
Believing a misconception to gain desired affection
Wasting their discretion for a false obsession
Thoughts of concession and encouraging suppression
This is just one dissection of perfection
It is but one path, one direction
But this should lead to many other questions
What about succession from the term perfection?
Is it needed to drive people to higher ascension?
Maybe one day society can undergo a social resurrection
Where creed, religion, race, freedom are not held in contention
No more crimes, no need for detention
Everyone is happy, no more thoughts of depression
Everyone can be comfortable with their own reflection
Hopefully this dissection can leave a lasting impression
And drive home the need for a universal intervention
To stop and think what it means strive for perfection
For you may have it wrong upon further inspection
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
I reserved a table for the two of us
at the only restaurant in the world
that not only offers atmosphere and setting
but tone and syntax as well.
First some articles for appetizers. They're
easiest on my pocket you know.
An an, a the, and an a.
Let's not even start on the punctuation,
I'm treating you to a rather large meal.
As large as the entire English language,
now back to the articles.
Sure these taste like lint but they still
taste. Petit fours but there you are.
Try to be disinterested or you'll
put me off my food.
Nouns now. My, what a variety.
Bit meaty, eh? These have staying power.
They taste like a bit of everywhere,
and everyone, and everything.
What's that? Surely they're not that bland.
Maybe you need some seasoning.
"Adjective" comes from the
French for "to the word."
So exotic aren't they? These
really are fantastic.
Exquisite, unique, zesty to say the least.
You must admit, they
make the meal worth it.
I hope you're not allergic,
I could have sworn I just
had something "nutty."
Oh, it had nuts "in it"?
There must be some prepositions
mixed in here.
(I'm glad we're getting through
these now, I've never been a big fan of them.
When I was a kid, I would always push my prepositions to the end
of my sentences. You just can't do
that in a joint like this, it seems.)
Ah finally. The verbs are served.
Well-prepared it would seem.
Yes, anything you can do to a verb
they've done to these.
Infinitives (too good to realistically be believed!),
gerunds, and participles (No, not particles. But we
did have some of those at the Japanese restaurant.)
Fairly lean too, as I can't see
any auxiliary fat.
For some reason
those adverbs (just to your left, under that
thesaurus) really go well with this.
Plus those adjectives from earlier, rather pleasantly.
Now a brief selection
of conjunctions, but don't ruin
yourself. They're not a meal of themselves,
just a link to...
Oh! Look at those interjections.
So delicate, so (Wow!) incisive.
I told you to keep your appetite.
Well, just try a little of this. Goodness, me!
And then everyone proceeds to
die
from a split infinitive.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC
* * *
Interjections come bubbling down
To burst the mind.
Choral injections,
Humming injections -
Mean, mean, mean clowns:
Dancing madly in kaleidoscope gowns
They shamelessly grind
The last grains of my sanity.
The reality is quite snippetty -
And thus parallel worlds are designed.
Oh! - let me go, let me go!
To where Alice is Queen.
To where she sits
Among her kingly mirrors
And teaches the art of
Being seen
A trifle here and there,
And always - everywhere!
(c)kRu, 11.10.-17.11.2006
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:10 AM UTC
The paths we cross in life
With others
Sometimes dictates the paths we take
Whether we want to go it alone
Or with someone shared down a mutual path
Not knowing where it will take us
Or how long it will last
By choice or fate
The beaten path is in the past
To never look back
Hoping
Onwards to something better
Possibly something great
These interjections of people into our lives
Sometimes it lasts
And sometimes people are gone
Before their time is due
Most of the time
It's out of our hands
When people are gone too soon
Whether it be a friend, family, or lover
Instead of asking Why?
We must learn to say Goodbye
With no regret
And no looking back
Keeping the past behind us
Onwards to the light
Out of the black
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
You are blue
Your companionship has long since gone away
Your words come slowly if ever
Your interjections have no meaning
Your passion is a doused flame
Your decisions are unfair
You are bronze
Your shine is lackluster
Your potential is untapped
Your enthusiasm is misdirected
You are rust
Your intellect is a-waste
Your trust is broken
Your mind is now clouded
You are brown
Your ear is unsharpened
You coughs are unnatural
Your friendship is valued even yet
You are orange
Your ethic is admirable
Your company is comical
Your life is my soaps
You are yellow
Your face is but fair
Your skin has blemishes
Your actions not so demure – but yet
You are red
Your actions are fuel for my fire
Your intentions are good but the crafted hands left wanting
You are Violet
Your pain was great
Your color is of love
Your solid perseverance is for me
You are White
Your brilliance outshines mine
Your patience burns as fast as light
Your opinion flares as bright as magnesium
Black is not found
Deep down I have looked
But came back wanting
Is that naïve?
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
I had to disassemble it
Our world
Take it apart
Bit by bit
Word by word
Those words
Letters
Full of meaning
Could no longer exist
Anywhere
My friend, my lover
And my refuge
Suddenly turned
Traitor
Turned foul
Deceptive
Dangerous
My friend, my lover
My language
So I began the demolition
Of clandestine concepts
Tearing apart nouns
And adversary adjectives
violently, I separated verbs
And adverbs
Thus impairing indecent interjections
Until our grammar
Finally collapsed
Now there is only silence
Safety in signs like
Minuscule monuments
All bereft of meaning
And I am in mourning
For I have no words
To throw into the void
Only memories
Of distant dialogues
Dreams
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
It was like a voice
It told me to wake up,
Get up and get away from the ground.
This is not the place.
This is not the way.
It told me you are not insane,
You have so much to play.
We all get discouraged from time to time
We always have people saying it can't done.
Creating interjections like impossible! and undoable!
That voice woke me up,
It shook me out and tore me down.
That voice has sung me to sleep
and has screamed at me obscenities.
But that voice and that voice alone
has made me, me.
That's why I love her.
She is my symphony, my scene, my hands,
But most of all she is my voice.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 9:18 PM UTC
in the grass lingering
subtle. new life, seeks.
life over distractions
will you buy attentions? for me?
i could try and persuade interjections
to interject anomalies. false.
in decay, blooming
death. closer than your mother.
unaware of the scythe
speechless.
despite selection
phrasing perpetually
simply put, arrogance
tests my limits. carefully.
picking out life from death
a masterful game. monotonous.
does the truth betray your senses?
do your eyes smell?
deliverance. ignorance for innocents.
there are millions. billions.
unstoppable.
watch my back. we’ll both die.
a rip in sound. feel the throat churn.
erratic vibrations disorient the world
they cannot understand us.
poisoned perception of the native mind
in struggle. in war.
recovering and failing the same.
thieving the motions. motionless.
all to achieve deplorable fame
dreadful.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******** complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
Stop.
This is no poem.
This is an attack on your autonomy.
The verbs chosen with care,
those awful verbs.
Stop.
You are not human.
The electrical activity of your brain,
that's all there is with you.
Much like every brain, you feel--yes,
and you feel quite human.
Stop.
Unhuman inhumanity in the bliss-pool of ignorance.
Why not raise hands to be lifted out?
I warned you that this was no poem.
Yet, still you persist, and read, "you aren't capable of interpreting this because you aren't me."
Not poetry, despite a sneaky rhyme, no it's a piece of me.
Diary with pink ribbons and a list of all the boys at school.
Diary with lock and key within which I hide that which you can't see.
What if we all spoke in rhyme exclusively?
We would be forced to think before we drooled.
And no one could be fooled about just how ugly you are.
Ah, no, but thinking hides more.
Stop!
I might stream consciousness all over your lovely dress!
Then you would be forced to undress under the unbelievable scrutiny of total strangers
who ought not to give a **** but do
because they haven't tried on enough shoes.
Unlike you, who have tried on too many.
As if perspective were a shoe, mass produced, and inevitably falling out of fashion.
Alas, we are stuck with cliche interjections and archaic pronouns--thou know it!
Stop.
I forgot this was a poem.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Kind words
Praises for you
Nasty interjections
A little expression of madness
Romantic verses
whisper words of love
Love songs
Music to your heart
Stanzas of poems
You in every lines
Book of love
Chapters of tears and smiles...
Crazy something words...
Because of love....
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:49 AM UTC
Parsed upon a river bank
the north shore
as the confluence
gathers and flows...
swift as the Stratus clouds above
I attempt to find the meaning
of everything
Just one of those lazy
summer day
with time on my hands
speculation abounds
as my INTERJECTIONS
ring true in my head
I surmise nothing
yet proclaim to the
realization
that
nothing
will ever be the same
we move forward
we grow and learn
that is the extreme constant
Rolling with the punches
will lessen the burden
of changing times
We have no choice but
to adapt
or be left behind
See clear the way
of your short life
cherish it
live it
and
love it.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
Ate a plate of whey, with the weight of the nation
on my shoulder blade, away from any destination
so underpaid, my paychecks archaic
not even a quarter to go to arcades with
it’s outrageous!
misery must be contagious
haven’t seen happy faces in ages
It may just be time to vacate
break out like rosacea to the golden gate
every swig of this whiskey brings me to a bolder state
like Colorado
i weighed my options and hopped in my Silverado
like a desperado full of bravado
with the bottle, feeling tipsy now though
singing in staccato **** an intervention’
time to get uncertain,
speed full throttle towards the intersection
laughing and swerving
through the red light cursing
and yelling interjections
with a bottle of bourbon
horns blaring, it’s deafening
my middle finger ascending
just struck a deaf person
no ***** giving
i’m out of my mind, livid
get hired and fired in 5 minutes
from any job i was given
i’m tired of living
no one even knew i existed
until i started whizzing through traffic
causing collisions,
now i’m forcing decisions
on residents w/ moral convictions
who’d rather see me oral constricted
then remain mortal in prison
got these ******* endorsing petitions
to have me executed by poison injection
shot, hung, electrified, the above all mentioned
and did i mention-
My backseat looks like a knife convention
there’s an array of switchblades i had since fifth grade’s declension
Sketching art on the desk while serving detention
some kind of wonderful, no eternal reflection
i’m reflecting as i smashed into a connection
and see my reflection in the water
as i’m descending slow motion like deception
my body is in all different positions of flexion
this is met with favorable reception
hear the crowd’s exhilaration
i’m unwilling to indulge in anymore retrospection
just waiting to hear the splash
and waves crash then….
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
I do poetry
not for the sake of creating confusions,
or miserable interjections, or an uphill struggle
to unravel such an ignominious mystery,
bound to recollect the scattered pieces of my soul
as it ends a series of endless wailing,
of countless days of badly breaking,
of numerous attempts to keep me from falling,
at the deepest fissures I am left with.
But, man,
Thank you.
I thank you all for that,
for as long as I have an ocean of emotions to feel,
for as long as this life gives me false guarantees,
as long as my heart continues to blindly receive,
as long as the universe gives us a reason to still dream,
as long as you have your eyes to read what I really feel,
I will not mark an end to my desire to fill
an empty surface, so as to truly reveal
that I may refuse to let the world in
but I know I can give it another try
in another time, when I get my old self back
and find her ready to feel again,
fresh and free from fancy frustrations.
Loud and sound, I will someday astound
the souls that tried to bring the worst out of me
and will divulge the best of me.
I'll say, at last, I am finally free,
and thanks for making me see
that even without you, I can always be.
Thanks for the memories.
Thanks for the tears.
Thanks for all.
It was truly a bliss
to let go of what it's not worth it.
Let's think it was worth it.
My crazy, little, once-upon-a-time-dream,
you saw how I ebbed out of my soul.
Now, you will be seeing
how I will flow back to the shore,
with a stronger heart and a bolder soul,
through this bland and lonely poem.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Begging for mercy from a cruel false god
As the years go by, I’ve seen through the facade
But I’m still chained by desperation and fear
And the false hope that you’ll be sincere
And the pleasure you take in my pain will disappear
But it won’t
You don't want to change
You never will
So it will be my blood and tears you continue to spill
Consume me body and soul
Whenever you are hungry for a little power and control
Whenever the world is too much for you
You take it out on daddy’s favorite punching bag
Mother is on the stairs
But she might as well not be there
For she doesn’t interfere
Not even when he fists curl up
Not when there are tears
She watches with quiet scripted interjections
As she watches this towering god looming over me tear me apart
No apologies no remorse
Just me with ****** hands picking up the broken fragments of myself off the floor
I don’t want to be here anymore
And after the damage is done
She provides false comfort
Then angrily scolds me
“You know better than that”
“Why did you say that”
“Why didn’t you say that”
As if the looming tsunami would ever take mercy on me
So I cower in my room licking my wounds forever alone
For there is no one else’s hands to hold
No one's arms to surrender to
Just grief
And a false hope that one day,
I will be free
But even when far far away
Those cruel feelings and fears remain
For now they are woven into my DNA
Apr 8, 2024
Apr 8, 2024 at 5:32 PM UTC
I reminisce about the conversations I had yesterday
I reminisce about tomorrow, all those obliged conversations I know I won't like
I am so nostalgic
Why so?
Except when everything else is awfully quiet
My own knowledge is a self-distraction
And no point of views are allowed interjections
I reminisce about this melody
It always plays out in my head
Like a walking party
Such a quicksand!
The more I move the deeper I sink into myself
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 6:21 AM UTC
I wear my heart on paper
Ink fills my veins like blood
reviews cut like a razor
but I’m addicted to the pen.
I pump words with every heartbeat
I hoard paragraphs in my room
I take interjections like a ******
I wear verbs like a parfum.
I’m feeling the contractions
as I erase awkward phrases
I write sad poems that feel like skin.
and fill sheets of diary pages
I blush at lurid pronouns
that I conjure then,
I consider putting word-play off
but I’m sentenced to the pen
.
.
.
*Inspired by Michael R. Burch's poem: At the Natchez Trace
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 7:16 AM UTC
SHORTS
What happened to old time lovers?
Are they all centipedes with arms too many and hands that stroll too far too much.
Mucky ducks with oily feathers, skin that's nearly tanned, skin thicker than chamois.
Better for cleaning cars and propping up bars, before shooting off drunk in their big flashy cars.
***************
Walking past Winchester cathedral thinking of religion, strolls by the river and trolls that hang out under the bridge.
More hands than centipedes, much bigger teeth.
***************
The sky is riddled with starlight.
The night is out of sight.
Behind eyelids and dustbin lids.
Irksome kids.
Chrysalides and ironic sides.
Dark room developments.
***************
Sipping milkshakes in bars
Music beating.
People meeting some new, some old.
Being bold, golden nuggets of suggestions.
Interjections will be sipping in dripping music.
Via ears that swallowed a delicacy.
As delicate as the child who spoke the words..I love nanny Livvi, tickled me.
Unknown before, thank goodness it's Friday .
End of a chapter, new understanding begun.
(c) Livvi
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
i guess anyone can be dragged into some zetigeist point of interest; and as anyone, here are my two-pence argument.
so i'm listening to this "dicussion" -
or what became a heated debate...
firstly, since dialectics only works
one-on-one between only
two people, and is subsequently
reduced to screaming and shouting
if staged in a public place
with interjections from
flies and gnats who throw in their
own two-pence worth of supporting
either of the two people having
a "discussion"...
well... another thing about original
dialectics,
and modern dialectics?
the mediator...
in original dialectics there
was no mediator, unless of course
if you suppose socrates was the mediator,
even so, that ancient mediator
asked questions...
the modern mediator?
doesn't ask anything other than
asking one speaker to not interrupt
the other speaker...
the topic of discussion i was
listening to?
transexuality...
****** confusing,
something confusing was bugging
me...
why would i have to call a man
a transwoman?
shouldn't i be calling a man
transman?
otherwise i'll be confusing pronouns...
or not using them "properly"...
i just think that proper nouns are
not being used...
it's not for the man to identify himself
as a transwoman...
why?
i'm the "cis" man who's supposed
to identify the man, as a woman,
and what happens then?
the man retains his inner-trans conceptualisation
i.e. i am beyond being a man,
there i must show to cis men that
i am...
e.g.? i was "fooled" by blaire white,
i thought she was a woman...
and i still couldn't believe she wasn't when
she did a video showing her pre-transition
photographs...
see!? what's this ******** about
improper pronoun usage?
what is happening is, AN IMPROPER NOUN
usage, by the man, who is a transman
within himself, but a woman to me,
therefore i have no problem in finding her
attractive;
it would be easier to decide in
Scotland, i know that... is a woman who internalised
her transition and became a transwoman
was wearing a kilt... and phoom!
the garden of eden, and a river running
though it, down the middle.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Selection Criteria
We seek a person showing an authentic engagement with the culture of language. The applicant needs a broad appreciation of linguistic form and an inclusive approach.
Essential:
• Two good honours degrees from a top performing university - Or relevant experience as an autodidact or dilitante.
• A willingness to appreciate and engage in other people's expression of poetic form.
• Openness to the ways in which language is multimodal and able to blur the distinction between word, voice, sound, body and image, whilst being able to draw upon the conventions of each mode.
Desirable:
• Colourful life-history, and a keen eye/ear for human and natural dynamics, and the capacity to dissolve the distinction.
Please submit sample below:
There was a tree. Indeed, there was a tree... that night we played with Gertrude or some girl or boy or some other echo or other.
Had she not mentioned the issue with the fragmentary interjections by candidates? The capacity of evocation is lost with this fashion for modernism [Golden light of blue buzzard and some such and wot not before azure cream in winter time and crystalline glaze] and its reflexive interruptions. Perhaps she should start again. [Does it even need to be a word? And what is this anyway?]. Re: Start again - good lord we are forced to read some nonsense [in the steam rows and the bath cabin], often with a similar flow. What about the art of pleasing our palate? We bump our heads against the brackets, elliptical conjurings and compound punctuation: -
Oh! ... Out of time? Battery low? Well, this will have to be the submission then. Good luck.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 7:02 PM UTC
I'd hope that you'd see my perspective through all my projections,
all these interjections that came from the lessons in moments I have been tested.
And now it feels like I am testing the deity that moves within me.
Though I am not He, He is the sum of I.
Oh my, time flies through the darkest pits of my eyes.
Watching the sun rise and night fall,
when all befalls - the very reason I used to crawl, being held up by the only walls in the home that I would call,
or the walls that I mounted up to protect my heart from the very things that would ask me to halt or at least stall.
looking at them like "don't you know that I want it all?"
They ask me why I want it at all,
and I'm glad they asked.
Recognizing my purpose through every task is what I have asked myself to master.
Through disaster and through the water, the intentions that I offer will be as pure as water at the alter.
And I can be even softer than that.
But I can also be the one that never calls back, Depending on how you act.
Depending on how you blend with my plan of attack, we can be vast or we can retract every statement ever spoken when my love was awoken, out in the open.
They leave me exposed,
fully clothed,
stripping me of the trust I pulled from the instinct of my gut.
So it is a must that I, remain in sight, to self love that I, composed tonight.
It is the same love of yesterday, that never ran away, even when they, hold my hand while they turn their face.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
I measured out, in both hands, the words I meant to say to you, and the interjections in my head.
All fuss and pain and clown games danced lightly and mockingly around the center of your demise, that which is invisible and fabricated yet completely real, and massively powerful.
The completely furnished, embellished, yet totally factual and veracious monstrosities that tore your reputation like a hard, cold blade invaded the private, the public, the distant, the remote and shiny leaves of a dark manifesto. And somehow, the literal appears most truthful, especially when nothing explodes into that active, dynamic Thing. (Result).
Essentially, you birthed the unreal to make real, and the made-real spewed demons all over our fragile little spaces. How do you intend to clean them up? The whole world knows you can afford to try, but can you ever really fix this? Like sand, your problems spread and stick to every moist and breathing life form.
I myself have always wondered why they played the music for you. Your meek and fragile nature, contrived by pressure, pressure that is easy to extinguish, the pressure embodying a dying breed encouraged by bounty and beauty, is somehow praised with music that belongs to the bold and primitive. Have you ever tried to face your own music? When it does not fit you like a glove on your delicate, struggling hand, is it time to join a new band?
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
These are the confessions of a mad man.
Society has negated his reflexion of sanity.
Crystal clear depictions of his self thought
All that lingers is his wanting to be understood.
The confessions of a mad man may not be considered
His bound by the reality that he only understood
Staring through a microscopic realisation
But he knows that rough sands make smooth glass.
A mad mans confessions; most times overlooked.
I've viewed his notions and thoughts.
His interjections of a time, passed us by so long ago.
His pure nature and soul, unbound by what we consider society.
I've known a mad man who only wanted his confessions heard.
His guilt, he could no more carry, his shoulders all burdened by the past.
All he wanted was for people to hear,
The mistakes that were made by people before us.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
Exonerated for a face no mother could love
Misconceptions and interjections of societies
misguided approach to beauty
Appearance is more than the physicalities
or the emotional travesties it causes
None of whom can ignore the plush bodies
in magazines or the hours spent looking
at hour glasses on silver screens
Smiles which gleam whilst those without
dentistry miss out on destiny
It’s not what you say, it’s what is projected
albeit subjective your standards are selective
Pavement crawlers to body bags, a failure to
understand grace runs deeper than
the vanity of man.
Jun 21, 2022
Jun 21, 2022 at 6:47 AM UTC